Nosferatu at 90: Florence Stoker, Vampire Hunter

The year is 1912. Bram Stoker, author of Dracula, has passed away. Some attribute the cause to syphilis. Left behind is his beautiful wife, Florence Anne Lemon Stoker, née Balcombe, a demure and striking stage actress when she married the Irish theatrical agent in 1878 at the age of 20. Now a widow in her 50s, with one grown son starting a family of his own, Florence finds herself struggling financially--a sad burden compounded no doubt by the rumors surrounding her husband's death. Ironically, the one thing that remained to her as far as financial means was the copyright to her late husband's famous vampire novel.

Fast forward a decade. A relatively new entertainment medium, cinema, is finally hitting its full stride and one of the epicenters of the explosion is Germany, where an Expressionist movement is taking the country by storm. A small art collective known as Prana Films, spearheaded by artist and spiritualist Albin Grau, produces a vampire film called Nosferatu, Eine Symphonie des Grauens, whose screenplay, penned by Henrik Galeen, has taken for its direct inspiration Stoker's Dracula. However, to avoid having to pay anything for intellectual rights, Prana Films never seeks permission from Florence Stoker, still alive and well in Britain. The names and places in the silent film are all changed from the novel in a naive attempt to avoid infringement. Count Dracula becomes Count Orlock.

Florence Balcombe, sketched by her former
love interest, Oscar Wilde.

On March 4, 1922, Nosferatu enjoys a lavish premiere at Marble Hall of the Berlin Zoological Gardens, complete with live musical accompaniment and sound effects. The following month, Florence Stoker receives an anonymous letter from Berlin, containing a program from the premiere. The program directly states that Nosferatu has been "freely adapted from Bram Stoker's Dracula". Having received no permission requests, nor even being aware of the film's existence up to this point, the 62-year-old widow, still depending on whatever income she can get from the novel's copyright, is outraged.

What follows is a one-woman crusade the likes of which has never been seen in film history, before or since. Represented by the British Incorporated Society of Authors, Florence Stoker, as literary executor for the estate of her late husband, files a sweeping lawsuit against Prana Films which calls not only for financial compensation for the use of her intellectual property, but also the complete and total destruction of the film itself.

The legal battle would rage for over three years. Prana Films declared bankruptcy due to legal costs, and also in an attempt to avoid making payments to Mrs. Stoker.  Meanwhile, the company's lone production, Nosferatu, continued to play throughout Germany and Hungary, but nowhere else, its international distribution halted by the litigious ruckus. Ironically, the success of the film in its homeland had made Stoker's copyright even more valuable than before. Prana would even try to make a deal with her, offering to cut her in on the film's profits if she would allow them to expand the release and use the Dracula name. She refused, insisting again on the torching of the film.

Hamilton Deane

While the suit took its course, Stoker was simultaneously negotiating with producer and Dublin neighbor Hamilton Deane, who sought to bring the novel to the stage. His officially licensed theatrical production of Dracula would premiere in Derby in 1924. It was an immediate hit, and its success helped boost the fortunes of Florence Stoker, who was also on the verge of winning her lawsuit with the doomed Prana Films.

In July 1925, the court ruled that Prana Films was in direct copyright infringement of the intellectual property of Florence Stoker. Financial reparations were ordered, but the failed company was unable to pay. The court also ordered that the negative of Nosferatu, as well as all known prints, be rounded up and promptly destroyed--the only known case of a "capital punishment" ruling on a major motion picture. It would be the only movie ever made by Prana, and had not been seen by anyone outside of Germany and Hungary--including Florence Stoker.

With Nosferatu seemingly destroyed, Stoker continued to reap the rewards of Deane's official stage adaptation. In fact, she granted the American stage rights to producer Horace Liveright in 1927 and Liveright hired John L. Balderston to adapt the play for U.S. audiences. It premiered on Broadway with virtually unknown Hungarian actor (had he seen Nosferatu during its release?) Bela Lugosi as Count Dracula, and ran for a year on Broadway and two more on tour. However, in another case of intellectual property shenanigans, it turned out that Bram Stoker had never properly seen to the U.S. rights for his novel, and so it was in the public domain. This meant that Florence Stoker never received her full payment for the American production from Liveright, who was no longer even alive by the end of the play's run.

Meanwhile, it turned out that much like a vampire itself, Nosferatu the film was not exactly dead. Somehow, there were prints that survived the court-ordered obliteration. One of these made it to America in 1929, and it was then that the film finally made its US debut, against Stoker's direct wishes, screening in New York and Detroit. And when budding Hollywood movie studio Universal, nearly a decade after the film's release, sought to make their own talkie adaptation of Dracula based on the stage play, they also studied Nosferatu closely, and the influence can be seen in their 1931 film version, also starring Lugosi.

Florence Anne Lemon Balcombe Stoker died in London on May 25, 1937 at the age of 78, survived by her son Irving Noel, granddaughter Ann Elizabeth, and newborn great-grandson Richard Noel. In her later years, she no doubt enjoyed greater financial prosperity thanks to the stage production of Dracula, as well as other licensed properties like Universal's film and it's 1936 sequel, Dracula's Daughter. It's unknown whether she was aware of Nosferatu's survival, or how she felt about it if she did know.

The film remained an obscurity for decades, playing here and there, but never being fully embraced by audiences. It finally reached a wider audience in the 1960s, when it found its way to late-night television, along with whatever other public domain films were available at the time. Renewed interest in the film finally led to the resurfacing in 1984 of a complete print--the first found since its attempted destruction nearly 60 years prior. The uncut version played at Berlin's Film Festival that year, a stone's throw from where it had debuted in 1922. Free at last from the shadow of Florence Stoker's wrath, Nosferatu took its rightful place as the seminal vampire film that it is. It was released to home video for the first time in 1992, and the 2007 DVD release is the very first home video version to include the original music, all original scenes, plus the original color film tints.

Florence Stoker and son Noel,
circa 1882.

Whatever its merits, justification, or lack thereof, Florence Stoker's crusade had failed in the end. Nosferatu the film, in true Dracula fashion, could not be completely destroyed. And it's thankful for us that it wasn't--for as horror scholar David J. Skal wrote in his 1990 book Hollywood Gothic: The Tangled Web of Dracula from Novel to Stage to Screen, "Nosferatu mined Dracula's metaphors and focused its meaning into visual poetry. It had achieved for the material what Florence Stoker herself would never achieve: artistic legitimacy."

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Nosferatu at 90: Who Was Max Schreck?

His very name is the German word for "terror". Perhaps this was one of the reasons why many believed it to be a pseudonym--surely no actor known for playing such a terrifying role could really have a name like that. Or perhaps it was not a pseudonym after all--perhaps, as some fancied for years, the man himself was no mere actor at all, but actually was what he portrayed onscreen--a bloodsucking member of the undead.

The legend of his mysterious nature was so persistent that it even formed the basis of the 2000 mock biopic Shadow of the Vampire, in which director E. Elias Merhige postulates that the man who played Count Orlock, a.k.a. Nosferatu--truly was a vampire himself. A testament, if nothing else, to his iconic, thoroughly convincing performance as the silver screen's first such creature.

Schreck sans vamp makeup...

But nevertheless, to the disappointment of goths everywhere, Max Schreck was a mere mortal after all.

He was born Friedrich Gustav Max Schreck on September 6, 1879 in the Friedenau section of Berlin, Germany--although the details of his early life are admittedly sparse, we know this much is true. And he was most certainly an actor--one, in fact, who was quite passionate about his calling, heading directly to the State Theatre of Berlin for instruction as soon as his regular schooling was complete.

It was in 1902 that a 22-year-old Schreck finished his training and emerged on to the German dramatic scene during a time when motion pictures were still in their earliest infancy and the stage was still really the only place for a young performer to make his name. Seeking to learn his craft, he toured his native country for a few years with various troupes until finally settling in with the highly prestigious company of Max Reinhardt--then one of the world's leading stage impresarios and a producer responsible for launching the careers of many of a future film star.

Schreck would turn out to be one of these, as the actor approached the prime of his career just at the moment that Germany was exploding onto the cinematic scene as one of the leaders in the burgeoning technological art form. Expressionism was taking root in a big way, and in the wake of the first World War, Germany was reestablishing itself as a hotbed for the new medium.

It was while appearing in the Drums in the Night, the debut production of soon-to-be acclaimed German playwright Bertolt Brecht, that Schreck was approached to be in his first motion picture--Der Richter von Zalamea. The gaunt, almost otherwordly actor was a natural for the movies, especially during the silent era, when the face was everything. This was doubly true of the Expressionist era, during which stage histrionics of the sort used by Schreck and others were all the more grandiose when projected on to a giant screen.

The role that immortalized him...

That first role would lead to the part that would eventually make him famous--or infamous--throughout the world. F.W. Murnau, one of the leaders of the German Expressionist film movement, was busy adapting--unofficially--Bram Stoker's novel Dracula into the world's first feature-length vampire film, and Schreck seemed the perfect fit for the lead role of the monster. Specifically in Murnau's vision of the story, the Count--here called Orlock to avoid a lawsuit from Stoker's widow that would come anyway--was to be vastly different from the furry aristocrat the Irish author had envisioned.

Rather, in line with Expressionistic aesthetics, Murnau wanted a hideous, demonic-looking vampire--one who closely resembled the rodents he carted across Europe with him. We'll never know if Schreck was insulted the director wanted him for the part, but we do know that he took it, and it would go on to become the single thing he would become known for, to the exclusion of all else.

So thorough was his immersion in the part that, combined with the relatively nothing that was known about him by the world at large, it came to be assumed by some that he might actually be the thing they saw on screen. Even for those too well-grounded to believe in such stuff, there was no denying the man's thick aura of mystery. Here was this strange German actor, who seemed to just appear out of the blue to play this nightmarish villain on screen, and then promptly return to obscurity afterward.

Add to that the notoriously tortuous path the film took to the general public--getting banned by a German court due to copyright infringement, and having nearly all copies destroyed to the point that it would take decades for the silent gem to finally emerge as a rare cult classic--and it's easy to understand why Schreck became such a fascinating character to movie buffs.

A totally un-Nosferatu-like role in 1927's Dona Juana...

But despite the fact that the world at large would only know him decades later as the first filmic vampire, Max Schreck did not actually vanish into a puff of smoke following the release of Nosferatu in 1922. Rather, he continued to have a busy career in the German cinema. He did some slapstick comedy work for Brecht in the playwright's own one-reeler short, Mysteries of a Barbershop. He rejoined Murnau for the 1924 comedy The Grand Duke's Finances, and appeared in many other films such as The Street and Dona Juana. His career even survived the advent of talkies, as Schreck continued to appear in movies well into the 1930s, and well into his 50s.

After making a return to the stage at the age of 56 to play the Grand Inquisitor in the play Don Carlos, Schreck was taken to the hospital on February 19, 1936. He died early the next morning of a heart attack--a most un-vampiric way to go if ever there was one. He was buried March 14, 1936 in an unmarked grave at the Wilmersdorfer Waldfriedhof cemetery in Berlin, and as far as we know, has remained there ever since.

The actor late in life...

There's no denying Schreck was a strange fellow, and even his own contemporaries described him as such. A born loner with a reportedly unique sense of humor, he didn't do much to endear anyone to him, except perhaps his wife, fellow German silent film performer Fanny Normann (the couple had no children). He was said to enjoy walking through dark forests alone, and lived metaphorically in a "remote, strange world", according to his 2008 biography, Max Schreck: Ghost Theatre.

He was also an actor of great skill and versatility, who never quite got his due, especially outside of his home country. Not even Nosferatu made him a star, as that film was all but lost to the moviegoing public for many years after its release. Today, his name is literally synonymous with cinematic horror, and deservedly so. He gave us one of the first great movie monsters--and perhaps still the most frightening.

He may have been just a man after all--but thanks to Nosferatu, his legacy is now as undying as the rumors once held him to be.

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Nosferatu at 90: Still the Greatest Vampire Film Ever Made

Greetings, and welcome to the first edition of a brand new year-long series here in The Vault of Horror. For me, dear readers, the year 2012 means only one thing--and that's the 90th anniversary of one of horror cinema's true unassailable classics, F.W. Murnau's Nosferatu. It's hard to fathom that this film is almost a century old, and even more impressive is its continued ability to shock and terrify no matter how much time passes. Just as I did in years past with A Nightmare on Elm Street, Psycho and An American Werewolf in London, I'll be posting throughout the next 12 months on this, the first and greatest of all Dracula adaptations.

How is it that this film still can effect us so profoundly, when so much of horror's power is drawn from the unexpected? One would think that age would be the death knell of a great horror movie, and yet films like Nosferatu prove this to be dead wrong. Whether you're discovering it for the first time all these decades later, or watching it for the 90th time, Nosferatu has the power to utterly creep you out. Personally, I credit it to the merits of German Expressionism.

And Murnau was undoubtedly one of the pioneers of this form of cinema, cutting edge for its time and a far cry from the American, Hollywood style that would soon dominate filmmaking in the years to come. Make no mistake, the silent era of film belonged to the Europeans, and the Germans, in particular, in addition to the Russians and the French, certainly left their mark. Like the best of his peers, Murnau achieved that defining goal of Expressionism in all its forms, namely to evoke pure emotion through the visual medium. Expressionistic works are in a sense dreams brought to life, and in the case of Nosferatu, that dream is most decidedly a nightmare.

The film oozes atmosphere from beginning to end, and is jam-packed with iconic imagery that has stood the test of time for a reason. Interestingly enough, it also set a standard for vampire films, and Dracula adaptations in particular, that was not really followed (at least not for many years). Nosferatu stands out on its own as a unique and truly cinematic retelling of the Dracula story, with liberal license taken, of course. It is vastly different from the Hamilton Deane and John Balderston play that would first be staged two years after its release--the version which inspired Universal's famous talkie version with Bela Lugosi at the start of the next decade.

Nosferatu chooses a different path, eschewing the nascent sex appeal of the vampire to take a more traditional, folkloric approach. The vampire here is still in his repulsive, pre-modern form--there is nothing at all sexy or alluring about Count Orlok (Unless you're into that sort of thing. Who am I to judge?) If anything, the vampire here is a metaphor for plague, and even possesses certain undeniable anti-Semitic overtones (but that's a post for another day).

Still, the story is undeniably Bram Stoker's. So much so that Stoker's widow and her crack legal team nearly had the film eradicated from the face of the earth (another post for a later day). Thankfully for film lovers everywhere, Ms. Stoker was not successful in her efforts, and the movie remains extant to this day for new generations of horror fans to discover and relish. There are many horror classics that stand the test of time, but few are as truly timeless as this one, defying changing filmmaking styles and changing filmgoing tastes to remain a favorite of genre fans. It is just as fresh now as it was when it emerged from a Germany still reeling from the First World War.

In addition to its Expressionistic roots, or perhaps in connection to them, I have always found that the film retains so much power largely because it is so visual in nature. Of course, this was very much necessary due to the limitations (or some might say advantages) of silent cinema, in that the visual was the easiest and most effective way to get your message across. Later versions of Dracula--and indeed horror films in general of the next couple of decades--would rely less on imagery and more on dialogue and cerebral scares. This is not to say that Nosferatu is not a psychologically frightening film, but I would submit that more of the terror it inspires is derived from the direct impact of what we see on screen. It is not so much suspenseful as it is downright terrifying to look at.

As has been the case throughout most of film history, America has been resistant to foreign films, and so this film did not even have a chance to be released here when it first was made in 1922. In fact, it wasn't until the 1960s, many years after a single surviving print had made its way to these shores in defiance of a court order, that it began to attain the cult following in the U.S. that it now enjoys. I have had the privilege of witnessing Nosferatu on the big screen with live musical accompaniment not once, but twice. And although I had my gripes with both viewings (an ironic, snarky crowd the first time out; and wholly inappropriate music the second time), I still consider myself fortunate to have had the experience.

At the time, Nosferatu was largely overshadowed by the Universal Dracula, and later the Hammer Dracula of the 1950s-70s, and yet its interesting to note that nowadays, most horror fans would place Max Schreck right alongside Bela Lugosi and Christopher Lee as one of the screen's iconic Counts. In fact, many vampire aficionados--including this one--will still argue that Nosferatu, the original vampire film, remains the very best to this day. A puzzling notion maybe, in that nobody has been able to top it in 90 years; and yet instead of bemoaning the state of vampire cinema for the past century, I will choose instead to celebrate the fact of Nosferatu's existence. And if it so pleases you, I invite you to join me in doing so for the remainder of 2012.

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Retro Review: The Cat and the Canary (1927)

I recently had the opportunity to truly step back in time and take in a piece of horror history--even film history, for that matter. Universal's The Cat and the Canary is truly an underrated marvel, and an influential piece of work that you owe it to yourself to see, if you haven't. Especially if you're someone who enjoys films like Nosferatu, Lon Chaney's The Phantom of the Opera, and Barrymore's Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde (and really, if you're not, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be surfing Texts from Last Night or something?)

It gives one pause to think that not a single member of the cast and credited crew of The Cat and the Canary is still alive. This contributes to giving the film the feel of a genuine relic of a bygone age. This is a motion picture made literally a lifetime ago, and this only adds to the rich, thick atmosphere already layered upon it by the deft direction of the German-born Paul Leni (who would do The Man Who Laughs for Universal the following year), and especially the camera work of cinematographer Gilbert Warrenton.

I say "especially", because one of the things that most recommends The Cat and the Canary is the endlessly fascinating cinematography. During a time when film-makers were still discovering their art, and learning how to use the new medium to its fullest advantage, The Cat and the Canary emerges as a lot more than simply a filmed play--which technically it was, since it was based on the very successful early 1920s stage production by John Willard. The movement of the camera is brilliant, vibrant and only further enhanced by the expert use of tinted color film stock.

In fact, in order to fully appreciate the film with the colors in place, I'd recommend the excellent Kino DVD edition of the film, since many public domain prints of silent movies don't include them. The Kino edition also replicates the original score, as composed by Hugo Reisenfeld. Yes, for those who don't know, many silent films had specifically composed scores, written to be played lived when the film was shown.

While the epitome of the classic "old, dark house" horror movie trope, The Cat and the Canary also typifies the manner in which American horror cinema was not yet ready to embrace the supernatural--that would come just a couple years later with Tod Browning's Dracula. This is more of a murder mystery than anything else, but it is so stylized and has such delicious ambiance, that it crosses confidently over into terror territory.

Yet there's also comedy, and plenty of it. The whodunit-style cast is populated by actors and actresses who defy the very unfair stereotype of the silent film actor, emoting both broadly when needed, and subtlely when the moment calls for it. The intoxicating ingenue Laura La Plante is our put-upon protagonist Annabelle West; Creighton Hale nearly steals the proceedings as her cousin Paul, bringing an irresistible pathos and comic presence to the role; Flora Finch is the stuffy Aunt Susan; Martha Mattox plays the inappropriately named Mammy Pleasant. It's an ensemble cast that comes alive on screen in a way that may surprise those not so well acquainted with silent cinema.

Yes, the storyline, with all its twists and turns, is the stuff of genre cliche. But the thing to note here, is that these devices were already cliche in 1927. The fun of the movie is the way it plays with them, the way it takes all the ingredients we're familiar with, and can still dazzle us with something unique. It's a visually beautiful film, which is only enriched by the intervening 83 years, allowing it to be further appreciated as a snapshot of a time and place in genre film history.

The Cat and the Canary is an important film. I'm extremely glad I stumbled across it and gave it a chance. And I strongly encourage you to do the same.

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The Many Faces of Max Schreck

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Heeding The Call of Cthulhu...

Earlier this week, little Zombelina and myself had the opportunity to take part in something really fun and special, thanks to the incredible Avon Theatre in Stamford, Connecticut. We got to witness, on the big screen, the unusual and stunning silent film The Call of Cthulhu, based on the seminal short story by H.P. Lovecraft.

It was all part of the impressive lineup at the Avon which I blogged about a few weeks ago. And as for The Call of Cthulhu, this was a film that had originally been brought to my attention by friend and Lovecraft fanatic RayRay. Although made in 2005, it is a silent, black and white feature, painstakingly made to resemble the films of the 1920s--the idea being, what if someone had adapted Lovecraft's story when it was first published?

The result is an enthralling 45 minute movie, with some astonishing 1920s-era special effects, and makeup and lighting that would make F.W. Murnau proud. To top it all off, the film was introduced by noted film critic and writer Maitland McDonagh (one of the Cyber-Horror Elite, incidentally), who also took questions afterward. She was terrific, and I look forward to more of her Critic's Choice selections at the Avon.

I encourage you to seek out The Call of Cthulhu on DVD, it's worth it for any Lovecraft enthusiast. As for me, I'm gearing up for next Wednesday at the Avon, when I'll be watching Friday the 13th with Betsy Palmer!

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I don't usually take the time out to mention my other blogs, but I'd like to direct your attention to an interview I was honored to give to the amazing singer/songwriter/musician Emma Wallace over at her blog, Emma's Music. The interview is in connection to my music blog Standard of the Day, and is all about the great American songbook. It's a subject I'm passionate about (yes, I do like more than just horror stuff), and that I rarely get an opportunity to talk about. I'm quite proud of how it turned out, so please check it out!

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The Tuesday Top 10: Favorite Horror Movies of the 1920s

Although there certainly were a handful of fine horror films made prior to 1920, this list can essentially also be called, "My Favorite Silent Horror Movies". The problem with the 1920s, however, is that there is such a significantly smaller amount of movies surviving than in later decades, which results in this becoming more of a "usual suspects" list than anything else, since there is a more limited selection from which to choose.

Did you know that 90% of all the movies made in the silent era are lost? Yes, I was shocked to learn this statistic as well. What's also telling about this list is that a full six of the ten come from non-English speaking countries, demonstrating that the U.S. had not yet established itself as the center of the cinematic world. Anyway, take it for what it is, and behold the finest horrors the silent era had to offer...

10. The Man Who Laughs (1928)
Based on the Victor Hugo novel, this is not quite horror per se, but the classic Jack Pierce makeup from this early Universal gem still inspires terror. In fact, as most probably know, it was Bill Finger's inspiration for the creation of Batman's archnemesis the Joker a dozen years later.

9. Dr. Mabuse (1922)
The original Dr. Mabuse film, this tense crime thriller from Metropolis-director Fritz Lang contains elements of mystery, fantasy and suspense, all set in a bizarre gangland environment. An often copied film--in fact, the latest version of Dr. Mabuse is set to come out next year.

8. Haxan (1922)
Arguably the finest horror-themed documentary ever made, chronicling the "history of witchcraft through the ages". This history is depicted via illustration, as well as a series of dramatizations, resulting in some truly indelible images. A 1960s re-issue was narrated by William S. Burroughs.

7. The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1923)
Another genre-bending entry from the pen of Victor Hugo, and although it is not a horror film in the true sense, the involvement of the great Lon Chaney, and that unforgettable makeup, make it difficult to omit. Easily one of the most underrated movie "monsters" of them all. The whipping scene in particular is something that stays with you.

6. The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920)
Considered by some to be the finest horror film ever made, this classic early piece of German expressionism features some of the most mind-bending set design you'll ever see--reminiscent of some of the best of '30s Universal. It also has a young Conrad Veidt (the Nazi from Casablanca) as the uber-creepy Cesare.

5. Faust (1926)
Otherwise known as F.W. Murnau's other horror classic, Faust is his adaptation of Goethe's play, itself based on much older tales of the epic war between God and Satan over the soul of a powerful alchemist. Amazing visuals, particularly for its time. Expressionism at its best.

4. The Phantom of the Opera (1925)
Perhaps the silent horror flick best known by mainstream audiences and casual fans, this is also the finest hour for Chaney, the genre's first megastar. As Erik the Phantom, he is an icon, and the makeup he created for himself will live forever in horror immortality.

3. The Golem (1920)
A take on the classic bit of folklore about a rabbi in 16th century Europe who conjures up a creature to exact his vengeance, this is quite simply a gothic masterpiece, dripping with atmosphere.

2. Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde (1920)
I've recently come to appreciate this as the finest adaptation of Robert Louis Stephenson's famous novella--better even than the revered 1931 version starring Fredrich March. Barrymore is jaw-dropping, conjuring up the evil Hyde with minimal makup and maximum acting chops. Put plainly, the finest American silent horror film.

1. Nosferatu (1922)
Not only the greatest horror film of the 1920s, but I believe an argument could be made that it might be the finest horror film ever (although I personally will not make that argument). Pure joy for any true horror fan, from beginning to end, Max Schrek's exploits as the demonic Count Orlock make up an almost transcendent experience of movie viewing. It might be easy and predictable to choose this as number one, but I choose it for a reason--it is the most frightening movie of its era, and still the most rewarding to watch. Not to mention the best screen adaptation of Dracula.

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Retro Review: Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde (1920)

Welcome back one and all, to the one and only, the real, the original Retro Review, right here in The Vault of Horror. Accept no substitutes!

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When asked what is my favorite silent horror film, I always went the tried-and-true route of most horror fans and chose F.W. Murnau's Nosferatu. But now, after viewing the 1920 version of Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde starring John Barrymore for the first time, I may just have to change my tune. Maybe.

I'm also torn, because I always have had a special spot in my heart for the 1931 version starring Fredrich March. However, in a lot of ways, I found myself liking this silent version even better.

To my mind, it's all about Barrymore's performance. What's incredible is the fact that very little makeup is used--rather, the actor effects the transformation almost entirely through his bearing and facial expressions. It sounds hard to believe unless you've seen it, but I can assure you, it's brilliant to watch. Clearly, Barrymore's stage training came in handy in helping him communicate so much with body language and facial movement.

The 1931 version opted to go the heavy makeup route, and dazzle with transformative special effects, resulting in a simian, truly monstrous Hyde. But in a lot of ways, what Barrymore did was more challenging. Aside from a greasy fright wig, some shadowing, and fake teeth, he pretty much had to sell you on this transformation through his dramatic power. In this respect, it's actually more similar to the 1941 version starring Spencer Tracy. However, as much as Tracy is one of my all-time favorite actors, he was hopelessly miscast in the role, whereas Barrymore is right on the money.

Maybe it's because I know a thing or two about Barrymore's matinee idol status and personal demons, but it's very easy for me to buy him as both Jekyll and Hyde. Much like March, he pulls off both excellently, effecting the moralism and earnestness of the good doctor just as well as the barbarity and lasciviousness of his repulsive "friend".

And while we're on the subject of lasciviousness, I think no other cinematic version of Robert Louis Stevenson's tale that I've seen deals as frankly with the sexual subtext as this one. Jekyll & Hyde is very much about Victorian sexual repression and its consequences, and in this particular version, there is none of the vague, genteel beating-around-the-bush that we get in later versions. Jekyll's temptation into a world of sin is made quite plain, as is his creation of Hyde as a way of letting loose his carnal impulses.

In Dr. Jekyll's 19th century world, a man of his stature had to to maintain certain levels of decorum to function in polite society, wed, and prosper. But as Hyde, he is free to descend into a depraved underworld of sex, drugs and murder. March pulls this off quite well in Rouben Mamoulian's '30s version, but I'm tempted to say that Barrymore does it even better.

The only drawback in comparing the two performances, in which March inevitably wins out, naturally, is the fact that Barrymore's performance is without sound. Nevertheless, it is even more of a testament to his chops as a world-class thespian that he can mesmerize you from beginning to end without uttering a single recorded word.

Thanks to the marvelous Kino Video, they of the equally excellent Nosferatu special edition DVD, I was able to experience the film with the original color tinting restored, as well as the original score pieced back together and performed by the Mont Alto Motion Picture Orchestra. And what a powerful score it is, proving that, strictly speaking, silent movies were never really silent.

In addition to the masterful Barrymore, veteran supporting player Brandon Hurst shines devilishly as the father of Jekyll's lady love, who initially leads him into temptation. Also memorable is Nita Naldi (above) in a star-making turn as the doomed Italian club singer who becomes the target/victim of Henry Hyde's appetites.

While the Europeans were doing their thing, this was the flick that put horror on the Hollywood map, and with good reason. A bona fide treat for fans of classic terror, as well as for fans of great acting.

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Anita Page 1910-2008

There are very, very few major pre-World War II movie stars still around, let alone silent movie stars. But yesterday, we lost one of the most popular American actresses of the late 1920s, when Anita Page passed away at age 98. In recent years, she had made a low key return to the screen, acting in a bunch of horror B-movies in her 80s and 90s.

She was born Anita Pomares in Flushing, Queens, but went Hollywood early, breaking into movies as a teenager toward the end of the silent era. Most notable among her early pictures was While the City Sleeps, in which she was the leading lady of none other than the king of the silents, Lon Chaney Sr. When sound movies came in at the end of the decade, she went right along with it, starring in the early musical The Broadway Melody, as well as the rare Buster Keaton talkies Free & Easy and Sidewalks of New York.

Although not well remembered today, at the height of her popularity in 1929, she received some 10,000 fan letters per week--second only to Greta Garbo--and was actively pursued by Italian dictator Benito Mussolini. But her time at the top did not last long. According to her own statements later in life, the reason for her abrupt and early retirement in the mid 1930s was her refusal to abide by the notorious "casting couch" system employed by some studio heads at the time.

Aside from one role in the 1960s, Page stayed in retirement for 60 years. Amazingly, she was bit by the acting bug again at the age of 86, when she started discovering that she still had a following among early film aficionados. Over the past dozen years, she took to appearing in primarily low-budget, low-profile productions. Among these were Witchcraft XI: Sisters in Blood and The Crawling Brain, abysmal trash to which she lent more class than was deserved in supporting roles. Due out later this year, her last movie was Frankenstein Rising, in which she plays Elizabeth Frankenstein.

"I am so honored," she recently said. "I sign autographs and the people are so kind. This is one of the most wonderful moments of my career, and to experience it at this time in my life, and at my age, I never would have dreamed."

Here's to you, doll. In the parlance of the day, you were the cat's pajamas.

* For more on Anita Page, check out my other blog, Standard of the Day.

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Has London After Midnight Been Found??

I'm hesitant to report on this, but on the chance that it might be the real deal, I felt compelled to spread the word. Someone out there is claiming to have actually discovered an honest-to-goodness print of the 1927 Lon Chaney vampire film London After Midnight--perhaps the most notorious lost film of all time.

Believed lost in a 1967 warehouse fire, the movie was supposedly found in a massive MGM warehouse under its British release title of The Hypnotist. A gentleman calling himself Sid Terror has posted the entire exhaustive tale on The Horror Drunx message board, where he claims to have first come across it ten years ago.

According to Mr. Terror, his pleas that something be done about it fell on deaf ears amongst ignorant studio execs. Then, in 2004, he got in touch with someone else who had allegedly spotted the exact same print. He then goes on to say that the print has been lost again, since the warehouse he originally found it in has been sold, and the old nitrate prints were transferred to several different holding locations.

A lot of people are doubtful, and for a number of reasons. Firstly, this wouldn't be the first time a hoax was perpetrated in which someone claimed to have found this movie. Also, one would think that if this guy--who claims to be a rabid film buff--really did find the thing a full ten years ago, he wouldn't have waited until now to post the story on some message board.

Nevertheless, the story made its way to the "Head Geek" himself, Harry Knowles of Ain't It Cool News, who is now fully championing Terror's cause, and calling for someone within Time-Warner to do something about it. Thickening the plot further, Harry went on to post a correspondence today from a trusted source who corroborates the story.

Can it be? Is London After Midnight--the "holy grail" of horror films--close to seeing the light of day for the first time in 80 years? Time will tell, I suppose. In the meantime, judge for yourself.

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Who Was Max Schreck?

That's the question posed by German writer Stefan Eickhoff, whose book Max Schreck: Gespenstertheater (Ghost Theatre) is set to be published in English later this year. Despite delivering many fascinating details about Schreck's public body of work, Eickhoff freely admits he was unable to satisfactorally answer the question, since information on Schreck's private life was extremely difficult to come by.

The mystery surrounding the man who played the screen's first Count Dracula in F.W. Murnau's 1922 masterpiece Nosferatu is one of the things that led to the long-running urban legend of Schreck's real-life vampirism--a legend Eickhoff reports was first jokingly popularized in a French book on surrealism in cinema published in 1953. But myths aside, the real man provides more than enough fodder for a
biographer, of which Eickhoff--who first published his book in German last December--is the first.

"Whoever hopes to discover a vampire will be disappointed, but they will find an actor of real skill and versatility," said Eickhoff in a Reuters interview yesterday.

Eickhoff's book focuses mainly on Schreck's films, making the case that Nosferatu has unjustly overshadowed the rest of what was an impressive body of work consisting of more than 800 stage and screen roles. As for personal anecdotes and recollections from colleagues, Eickhoff eerily found almost none. One rare and fascinating remembrance describes him as living in "a remote and strange world," and being fond of long walks in deep, dark forests.

This book is sure to be snatched up by many an old-school horror fan looking to learn more about one of the genre's most enigmatic actors of all time. If you spreken ze deutch, you can buy the book right now in its original form at Amazon.com's German site.

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Lon Chaney Shall Not Die

Today The Vault of Horror marks the 125th anniversary of the birth of the great Lon Chaney Sr. How fitting indeed that April Fool's Day would be the birthday of Hollywood's greatest illusionist.

Born Leonidas Frank Chaney on April 1, 1883, he would go on to become the single greatest celebrity of the silent film era, with only Charles Chaplin being a possible exception. He was best known for his incredible skill with makeup--so much so that he even wrote an entry on the subject for the Encyclopedia Brittanica.

Always doing his own work, Chaney was able to dramatically transform himself for a wide variety of roles, most memorably including Fagin in Oliver Twist (1922), Quasimodo in The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1923), Prof. Echo in The Unholy Three (1925), Erik in The Phantom of the Opera (1925), Alonzo the Armless in The Unknown (1927), Prof. Edward C. Burke in London After Midnight (1927) and Tito Beppi in Laugh, Clown, Laugh (1928). In those early days of movie makeup, Chaney suffered greatly under painful applications, and even lost some of his vision due to his work on The Hunchback Of Notre Dame.

Many have attributed his fascination with unusual, often deformed roles to the fact that he grew up the son of parents who were both deaf and a mother who was an invalid. His ability to communicate so effectively without words and under heavy makeup might also be attributed to this.

His career was confined almost entirely to the silents, and in fact he made only one talkie, a 1930 remake of The Unholy Three, in which he performed the voices of five different characters. He was in line to portray Dracula in Tod Browning's 1931 production when he became ill with lung cancer brought on by heavy smoking and aggravated by a piece of artificial snow that became accidentally lodged in his throat while working on his final silent film, Thunder (1929). Lon Chaney passed away on August 26, 1930 at the age of 47.

Although known primarily for his work in horror, Chaney was also an accomplished dramatic stage actor, as well as a gifted comedian, dancer and singer. He was played by James Cagney in a 1957 biopic, The Man of a Thousand Faces. His son, born Creighton Chaney but using the screen name Lon Chaney Jr., became a prominent horror actor in his own right, but never quite escaped the awesome shadow of his legendary father.

(Special thanks for the animated GIF go to LonChaney.com, the family's official website.)

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Dr. Caligari Never Sounded Like This

All I can say is, I never thought I'd be jealous of people who live in Ohio (sorry Ohioans, you know I love you). But if you happen to be anywhere near the Springfield area, you would do well to get yourself to the State Theater for tonight's one-time-only screening of 1919 German Expressionist classic The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari
with musical accompaniment by the unorthodox trio known as Equinox.

Tickets are only five bucks, and you can't beat that with a bat, to quote the Black Sheep. Equinox has previously accompanied State screenings of two other silent gems, Nosferatu and Metropolis. Next October, they will travel to Dayton for a reprise of Nosferatu, as well as a ballet interpretation of Dracula. When it comes to horror as art, it would appear that the Buckeye State is the place to be.

I realize this is a very localized item, but it captures my imagination simply because it's such a rare treat in the year 2008 to be able to view a silent film the way it was intended to be viewed--with a live score. Hopefully we see more of this kind of thing. I'll never forget attending a similar showing of Nosferatu in NYC about 15 years ago. It was an amazing experience, in spite of a too-hip-for-the-room audience that laughed throughout the picture. Hey, that's New York, folks--you take the good with the bad.

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The Lost Frankenstein

Some readers may remember a while back when I provided a link to a site that allowed you to watch the Vincent Price classic The Last Man on Earth in its entirety, thanks to the fact that the film is in the public domain. Well, today, I'm proud to present another, much rarer horror classic, which you can view in its entirety without leaving this page. Below, broken up into two parts, is the original, 1910 Frankenstein, a production of Thomas Edison's movie studio. Believed lost for decades, the silent short was discovered in a private collection in the 1970s. So if you have about 15 minutes to kill and are in the mood for a genuinely creepy old flick, have a look:
Part 1:

Part 2:

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The Silent Dead: A History of Horror Movies, Part 1

For as long as humans have been sophisticated enough to desire entertainment, we've had an innate fascination with being horrified. Perhaps the last vestigal remants of the "fight or flight" instinct give us this visceral thrill, which we can enjoy freely with the knowledge that what we are seeing is not real.
As ingrained as the love of being scared is in the human psyche, it's suprising that horror took a while to establish itself as a major genre in the motion picture business. In the earliest days of the movies, they were not very common, particularly in America, where religious groups still held great sway over public opinion.
At the beginning of the industry, it was in Europe that horror films first took root. Pioneering French filmmaker Georges Melies (best known for 1902's A Trip to the Moon) is credited with creating the earliest examples with his two short films, The House of the Devil (1896) and The Cave of the Demons (1898).
At the start of the 20th century, the epicenter of the motion picture biz was in Germany, and horror pictures were no different. A wave of Expressionistic films emerged there in the '10s and '20s, the impact of which continues to be felt to this day. Chief among them were Paul Wegener's The Golem (1920), Robert Wiene's The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920) and of course, F.W. Murnau's 1922 masterpiece, Nosferatu--the first of countless Dracula adaptations.
Meanwhile, in the States, it was actually Thomas Edison, who had invented motion picture technology in the first place, whose production company put out what may be America's first horror movie and the first in another long tradition, 1910's short film Frankenstein.
In Hollywood, the 1920s produced the first horror movie megastar, the one and only Lon Chaney. Known as "The Man of a Thousand Faces," Chaney achieved notoriety in large part due to his uncanny ability to transform himself through make-up. Chief among his notable roles are The Monster (1925), lost film London After Midnight (1927) and his iconic turn in The Phantom of the Opera (1925), which gave rise to Universal's classic monster movie series the following decade.
The end of the 1920s saw the rise of a revolution in filmmaking thanks to arguably the greatest innovation the industry has ever seen: sound. The effects would be profound, and horror movies would lead the way.
Other major releases:

• Dr. Jeckyll & Mr. Hyde (1920)
• The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1923)

Soon to come: Part 2 - Gods and Monsters

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