This is the one to watch, Riefenstahl's masterpiece. Das Blaue Licht is great but dares less. You know about Triumph; people being choreographed to embody a new identity, destructive and all that.
Olympia Part I had moments of beauty but it was constrained in key ways. It was constrained by Hitler being there. By nations parading and saluting. You could not fail to note that all of it, much more subtle than Triumph, in the end impressed as a show staged to promote a German image, much more subtle because the image was of normalcy and spontaneous celebration.
This is a different thing. You probably know that Riefenstahl was a dancer before making her transition to film, you can see her dance in one of her first films as an actress. All of her own films are about choreographed sculpted form, but this is the one most purely about cinematic dance and the body.
Eisenstein filmed active crowds in radical collision that creates a world (now his devices are every bit as commonplace as Riefenstahl's but in a different milieu). She films crowds as cheerful observers of vigor. Most of all, she films the body as the fulcrum of harmonious expression that seduces the camera that seduces us seeing and being affected by this. It doesn't matter if the world is changed, or maybe she trusted that it had a few years back, it only matters that the soul - theirs at the moment, ours cinematically - can brush against the heavens.
Each sport is a framework that dictates its own dance. Each dance is slightly different and calls for a different camera. The body is free but within confines of the sport. The camera is similarly free to draw its dynamic calligraphy within edges of the frame.
In the regatta for instance, white sails group and re-group in swanlike formations and contrast with sailors throwing their weight around the boats and pulling ropes. Cyclists and rowers pass one the other in horizontal forward-dashing and overlap. Boxers are locked in gristly tango. Horse-riders glide over mud as though skating inches above-ground. The gymnastics are all about eddy and suspension in mid-air. In the polo sequence, the dance is all between tracing the zigzag flow of the game and Kurosawa-like whip-pans of the riders smashing against vertical beams in the far background. Other sequences like swimming and football are less interesting.
Above all, of course, stand the celebrated divers. You can tell that Riefenstahl loved them (she counted an Olympic medalist diver among her lovers) by how imaginatively she filmed this bit and saving it for last. This notion is never more clear, of a camera that dances with and decides the weight of its partner. She achieves here pure weightlessness.
In light of this, the closing ceremony of fire and celestial light - now common tropes of Olympic shows - is on top of ludicrous simply redundant. Her explicit bits of Wagnerian worldview are the least interesting of her work, always were. Yes, Nazis must have been enormously pleased by her artistry of transcendent sensuality. It still looks dull-witted and overwrought.
On the flipside of that is her floating calligraphic eye that was unparalleled at this time.
