You Cannot Escape Destiny By Running Away: Nosferatu (1922)

I had originally slated an adaptation of F.W. Murnau's magnificent silent horror film in that I had intended to look at Werner Herzog's work, but when a local up and coming independent film screening group in my town decided to do a Halloween film double feature I knew where my loyalties lay.  Beginning with Carnival of Souls, one of my top five favorite horror films, and following the screening up with Nosferatu, accompanied by a live scoring made me look back and realize that while I had certainly seen the film before, it had never graced the pages of my blog, although Murnau had certainly received love.  I would have lovingly written an entirely new blog post about Carnival of Souls, but, unfortunately, school kept me from attending the full screening and I am trying to commit to a rule of never repeating posts here, after all, there is a ton of cinema I still need to encounter and hopefully, blog about, regardless of whether or not it receives a ton of hits.  All this introspection and reflection on my previous posts aside, seeing this decidedly cleaned up and stunning looking copy of Nosferatu was a wonderful experience and a great reminder of the ways in which Murnau's film, released in 1922 was, and in many ways still is, ahead of its time.  Between some clever use of film cutting and stop motion and negative prints, Nosferatu takes on a considerable degree of otherworldliness which is at times quite haunting.  Of course, it fails to possess the same sense of cinematic dread and fear induced by The Phantom of the Oprea, but where it is lesser in this aspect, Nosferatu manages to make up in one of the more narratively engaging of the era's films, even composing itself in such away to contain moments that are quite humorous and clever.  Max Schreck's disturbing turn as Nosferatu, combined with Murnau's mastery of the cinematic technique make for one of the most significant of horror figures, despite Nosferatu remaining one of the most criminally under seen films of the German expression movement.

Nosferatu, very much falls in the same narrative vein as Dracula, for which the opening credits note its story originating.  In this version, however, Hutter (Gustav von Wagenheim) an up and coming expert in the field of estates is expected by his employer Knock (Alexander Granach) to travel to Transylvania to meet with one Count Orlok (Max Schreck).  Doing so despite the concerns of his wife Ellen (Greta Schröder), Hutter travels to Transylvania and quickly discover that the space of Count Orlok's mansion does not necessarily follow the rules of logic, whether it be the bizarrely fast speed by which Orlok is able to transport himself about the roads on his land, or the intensely vivid dreams which haunt his nights.  Writing back to Helen, Hutter even notes the odd symmetrical nature of two mosquito bites on his neck.  Overarching these events, is the rhetoric of the emergence of a plague in the area leading to the locking of Hutter's hometown down from incoming ship traffic.  This realization leads to Hutter realizing that he must spend considerably more time at Orlok's castle, a fact that becomes highly troubling when Hutter catches Orlok in the evening transformed into the scary creature known as Nosferatu, a vampire intent on devouring individuals' livelihood through a sucking of their blood. When Nosferatu becomes aware of Ellen, he notes her particularly tantalizing qualities and takes it about himself to mount a ship ride to Hutter's town to find Ellen.  Using a series of crates, masked as vessels of dirt used in scientific studies, the elusive Nosferatu is able to live off of the crew members destroying them one by one sustaining himself through the travels, all the while the distraught Hutter attempting to stay a few steps ahead of the vampire whose feverish pace leaves little time for side stepping or hestiation.  When Nosferatu arrives in the town his presence comes simultaneously, if not purposefully, with a new layer of the plague, almost taking the lives of Ellen and others, yet when a maddened Knock reveals the secrets of Nosferatu's life power, Hutter and others are able to exploit his desires as a means to tempt him into the sunlight and destroy himself in the process.

I can only imagine the various literature that has been written on Nosferatu both from a historical production and film theorist viewpoint, which is appropriate considering that the film is not solely a technical marvel, but also one that exudes points of well-reasoned critique, whether it be on the nature of power and desire or more intricate philosophical endeavors if not the semiotics and signifiers associated with a notion of good and evil and how such descriptions can change with new information or situation relationships.  These are all things to be applied to the film, as well as constant reconsiderations of the ways in which the production of the film is key to its understanding.  What is perhaps the most interesting to me, however, is the possibility to read this film as a queer text, even if doing so requires one to do an anachronistic, against the grain, consideration of the film.  There is a rather clear element of this occurring in the initial longing desire for Hutter on the part of Nosferatu while he is still passing as Count Orlok, wherein his very act of passing can double as his attempting to negate any associations with his queerness through appropriating a socially normative identity in the count, leading to the somewhat socially oblivious Hutter seeing him as a non-threatening figure despite the signs evident in haunting dreams and the generally emaciated look of Nosferatu.  Indeed, his desire is something that is to be repressed and when Nosferatu does act it out upon Hutter through the neck biting, Hutter's perceptions of him change considerably, or to be more specific his associations with queerness emerge and he is now a literal monster to be feared for such attributes.  This leads to Nosferatu becoming a vengeful figure, one who feels it necessary to violently enact his frustrations upon the figures around him, either by purposeful attacks, particularly regarding the men on the boat, or his constant carrying of a large coffin, despite its undoubtedly heavy nature. This means that Nosferatu's ill-fated attempt to consume Ellen takes on another layer of the problematic, since it is the heterosexual figures who use Ellen as a ruse for the queer Nosferatu, one that leads to his ultimate death through repressed homosexual shame.  A too in-depth reading of the film, perhaps, but not one that is entirely impossible .

Key Scene:  The carriage ride sets up a tonal shift in the film that might be one of the most marked in all of early cinema history.

Often times patience can be a huge pay off, it is certainly the case with the bluray impending release for this film.  As it is from Kino it should prove excellent.

Thousands of M. Hulot’s And No Single Person: Playtime (1967)

Only one Jacques Tati film managed to find its way on to the TIFF Essential 100 list, which is great considering that besides being credited with the script for The Illusionist I had no prior experience with the prolific comedy director.  Playtime is Tati’s fourth work as a director and is a film that barely made the cut, at #100 on the previously mentioned list.  While it would have probably eluded me for many more years had it not been on the list, I am extremely excited that it did make the list, because my experience with this cinematic achievement was more than wonderful.  Playtime, arguably, lacks a narrative structure and appears to be a series of lengthy vignettes and despite this manages to tap into a very cynical and disparaging commentary on human interactions in a world that is becoming increasingly dependent on the advances of technology around them, a pretty hefty commentary for a film that was made decades before the introduction of cellular phones or even the internet.  Tati’s film, is nothing less than a fully realized condemnation about everything he witnessed destroying Paris, mostly an unstoppable globalization that was causing mass conformity and disillusionment and every line of dialogue and each subtle filming choice reflects this notion completely.  Playtime, yet another great film that suffered from unreasonable editing demands, will likely prove to be my favorite Tati film, as well as one of the best commentaries on modernity to date.

Playtime, while certainly not traditional in its narrative, nonetheless has some semblance of a plot.  Viewers are introduced to an incredibly modernized Paris with high symmetrical skyscrapers and seemingly formulaic individuals.  People are passing through what appears to be a airport terminal, although it is hard to determine whether or not this is the case.  In this terminal, viewers see everyone from regular citizens, to religious figures, as well as a slew of foreign tourists, most of whom are German and American.  Peppered into these interactions are Tati’s most well known character Monsieur Hulot, a fumbling man whose attempts to be a gentleman, always end up in quixiotic absurdity.  However, while Hulot is usually the center of attention within Tati’s work, he merely interacts with the environment in this narrative, often falling into the back of scenes and being ignored entirely, individuals even go so far as to mistake other extras for him.  After this interaction Hulot wanders into a trade expo that includes superfluous luxuries such as soundless doors and wastebins fashioned to look like Greek columns, Tati in a stroke of genius makes sure that the American characters find particular joy in messing with these inventions.  Hulot then finds himself wandering Paris in the evening stopping at an old war friend’s apartment, which is shot from outside so we can see the going-ons of  those in the other rooms.  After this brief interaction, the rest of the film centers on the opening of a new restaurant in Paris that is clearly rushed to completion, considering that the workers are literally pushed into the back in order to open the restaurant to American tourists.  However, the inability to properly run the restaurant causes the place to fall to shambles and the metaphorical glass of social performance literally breaks.  The film then closes at a Parisian roundabout that clearly intends to reflect a carousel, one that is a circle of inescapability, which leads the vast cast of characters to an inevitable darkness, a rather grim film, from one of France’s funniest directors.

Tati’s film is absolutely and undeniably about the problems of society attempting to place rigid, but clear masks of conformity and normalcy onto something that is clearly random and illogical.  Tati, who is by no means confused about the inherently problematic nature of human existence, throws caution to the wind when depicting modern France, a place that attempts to emit symmetrical perfection and uniform existence amongst its citizens.  As the film begins, it appears as though the only character who has not adhered to this near military rigidness is Hulot, who fumbles through the scenes only to be overlooked by each individual that simply attempts to adhere to the demands of perfection.  It is clear, with this in mind, that windows play a huge part to Tati’s assumption of conformity, the windows provide a transparency between the private and public world for the characters within the film, one which provides a point of references as two when it is acceptable to be an individual and when it is demanded that one must follow social norms.  This is most evident in the scene in which we watch Hulot interact with his former military pal, whilst also watching another woman become irate with her television, amongst other unusual circumstances.   It is because she is disengaged from the public that she finds herself not following the regulations of performance.  The glass then becomes a point of concern for the rest of the film, particularly in the restaurant.  As the mask of control slips from the hands of the restaurant owners it becomes clear that they can no longer pretend that everything is all right and by no coincidence things completely fall apart when the glass door to the restaurant’s entrance is broken, after this nothing is safe and the entire group of individuals become wild, employees and customers alike, which is brilliantly signaled by the emergence of some diagetic jazz music.  Ultimately, the window returns in one last scene involving the roundabout in which women riding a bus are shot through the reflection of a window being cleaned.  As the window rises and their reflection raises, they react with screams of exhilaration, as though they realize the fading nature of mirroring conformity.  Perhaps in one of the films most sobering moments, Tati briefly shows us a reflection of the Eiffel Tower through a glass door, reminding us that somewhere behind this vain performance is a rich and vibrant history that is slowly risking falling into obscurity.

Key Scene: The “carousel” scene.

Criterion’s bluray upgrade of this is phenomenal and has some of the best extras I have ever come across.  Do yourself a favor and get a copy immediate

That's A Whole Lifetime Of Nightmares: Equinox (1970)

I remember watching a TED presentation by J.J. Abrams in which he discusses the magic of illusions and how many of these illusions are created through cinematic trickery.  He cites old school horror monster films as his inspiration and certainly showed this inspiration in his recent film Super 8.  When watching the low budget monster fiesta that was Equinox, I could not help recalling this presentation.  Equinox will never win an award for acting, and while its narrative is impressive, it is not terribly innovative.  I was, however, constantly impressed and surprised by the special effects of this film, which used camera trickery and the craziest most awesome claymation I have ever seen in a film.  I had more "what the..." moments with this than any other special effects heavy movie I have seen to date.  It is not a masterpiece of storytelling, but Equinox is a cinematic achievement in its existence alone.

Equinox as a film is your traditional teen horror film.  A group of good-looking white kids decide to visit their geology professor Dr. Waterman (Fritz Leiber, Jr) who has taken up prolonged residence in the hills of rural California.  The group includes the two All-American young men David (Edward Connell) and Jim (Frank Bonner), and their blonde lady friends Susan (Barbara Hewitt) and Vicki (Barbara Hewitt).  The group decides that along with visiting Dr. Waterman they will also enjoy a nice picnic.  However, their arrival to the woods and Dr. Waterman's house leads them to realize that everything is not sound in the forest.  In fact, Dr. Waterman is nowhere to be found and his house is burned down.  This leads the group to attempt to discover the whereabouts of Dr. Waterman.  This quest leads them to meat Asmodeus a sketchy forest ranger who demands that they group leave and forget about everything they witnessed.  The group, headed by David and Jim, refuse and enter into a dark cave in an attempt to find their professor.  After an awkward encounter with an old unnamed man, the group comes into possession of a cryptic book with images and signs of various monsters and mythologies.  Things begin to go abysmally wrong for the group after they obtain the book.  The group encounters alternate realities, a multi-colored squid, a gigantic caveman and a possessed Asmodeus.  Ultimately, the group's attempts at survival fail and they are overtaken by evil, thus ending the film darkly and brilliantly.

It is hard to critique the film with theory, aside from some passing mentions at issues of environmental protection and a stab or two at world religions, however, it is fully acceptable to praise this film as a masterpiece of low-budget filmmaking.  The DVD includes an intro by horror film extraordinaire Forrest J Ackerman, in which he discusses how common low budget horror films were during the mid to late sixties in the United States.  He also notes how many of them were terrible in their execution and rarely expressed anything inspirational in special effects.  He notes how these flaws are nonexistent in Equinox and that it is a truly impressive.  One example of how well the tricks work in Equinox is during the crossing to the alternate reality in which a split frame is paired to make the characters and items disappear when they cross the halfway point of the frame.  It is a simple trick in theory, but the application of it in Equinox is one of the best uses I have ever seen.  I was even more taken back by how incredibly menacing the caveman looked in the film.  The individual cast to the play the part was obviously larger, but the camera angles and framing of the shots added to its David versus Goliath feel.  Furthermore, I am not completely sure how it all worked and am alright with that because the magic of the moment remains mysterious and in cinema that means everything.

Another great delivery from Criterion, Equinox is a hidden film gem.  If you like slosh cinema or b-movies, you will love this film.  If you love technological advances, you will love this film.  Hell, if you love movies, you will love this film.  Buy a copy from Criterion, it will be worth it for the supplements alone.