Archive for Henrik Galeen

Dispelling the Shadows

Posted in FILM, literature, Mythology, Politics with tags , , , , , , , on December 20, 2013 by dcairns


As part of something called “symposium” — in which students at Edinburgh College of Art’s School of Visual Communications are shuffled together, first and second year, and students of Film, Animation, Graphic Design, Illustration, Performance Costume, Interior Design and Product Design — I had to give a ten-minute talk on “light.”

This involved talking to the biggest assemblage of students I’d ever faced. It wasn’t that I was intimidated, so much, as slightly overwhelmed. By the barrage of scent. As the students filed into the main lecture theatre, the predominance of young women who study art had an olfactory impact. The ladies of Film & Television don’t perfume to such a dizzying extent. It was like walking into Lush. A kind of claustrophobia of the nose set in. It was like drowning under waves of pong.

“Ah, the lovelies,” said my boss, Emma, when I mentioned this. “We don’t tend to get them in Film & TV.” Lest that be thought a slur, I should clarify that while the balance of sexes in the department swings erratically from male to female and back, the girls don’t tend to be of the very girly sort that you might get in the more arts-and-crafts areas of study.

Anyway, mainly what I discovered that day was that a ten minute talk is harder than a two-hour talk, and you’d better have an ending prepared. My subject was “light,” as I mentioned, and so I chose NOSFERATU as my subject.

To begin with, I remarked upon the odd fact that produced Albin Grau had set up his company, Prana Film, to make “spiritual movies.” Grau (like Murnau) was really into astrology and magic and so on. Still, a vampire movie would seem a strange project for such a seemingly idealistic enterprise (unless you’re a born-again who considers all other spiritual beliefs to be Satanic in origin).

My half-arsed theory is that Grau and Murnau wanted to coalesce an evil force into filmic form — and then exorcise it.

Graf Orlok, the vampire who isn’t Dracula for copyright reasons, played by Max Schreck, is identified from the first with shadows.


The coachman, who is Schreck/Orlok/Dracula, takes the doofus hero, the enthusiastic Gustav Von Wangeheim, for a ride through a strip of negative. During this sequence, Murnau substitutes the black horse and carriage for white ones, so they will look the same when all the toher tones are reversed. The carriage also moves as if photographed at about 8fps. The tricks of cinema are deployed in a forceful, weird and obvious way around this character. Also, Orlok’s castle is separated from reality by a strange interstitial hyperspace of negative footage, as if it were not part of the same movie, but an invading force from beyond celluloid. The negative comes before the printed film. And before the negative? Reality.

At other times, Orlok shows an affinity with cinema — he passes through a closed door by means of a dissolve, and later opens the doors by a series of jump cuts. Unlike every other character in the film, Orlok seems able to influence people appearing in different scenes from himself, via parallel montage. It’s suggested that perhaps Wangenheim is psychically connected to his fiancée Greta Schroeder, but this only reveals itself when Orlok is advancing upon him to drain his juices.

While the mythic vampire casts no shadow, Orlok casts a giant one — he is often represented solely by his shadow. And by the film’s climax, his shadow virtually supplants him. In climbs the stair to Schroeder’s room, and it is his shadow’s hand that reaches for the doorknob — his shadow apparently opens the door! And then his shadow reaches for Schroeder’s bosom, and clenches into a fist — the suggestion is that he has somehow seized hold of her heart within her rib cage, as if this shadow-hand were simultaneously intangible enough to pass through flesh, and corporeal enough to grab ahold. Of course the action is photographed to suggest he might also be clasping her breast, but I think her reaction leans more to a cardiac seizure (the word is oddly appropriate here).

And finally, being a creature of shadow, Orlok is destroyed by light. In this major departure from the source novel, screenwriter Henrik Galeen sidelines the buffoonish Wangenheim completely (to, I think, everyone’s relief) and uses the Van Helsing character, Professor Bulwer (John Gottowt), only as an excuse to get him out the way. The vampire is defeated by Schroeder, who has lured him to stay out after cock-crow. Also unlike the book, she apparently sacrifices herself for the greater good.


(Note the silhouette on the wall — note also Bulwer’s ominous gaze outwards, into the audience.)

But what happens to those who perish at the hands of the vampire? Why, they become vampires too. And it is this unfortunate loophole in Galeen’s scenario that I’m afraid has caused the spell crafted by Grau — drawing evil into the film’s substance, embodying it in a character personified as shadow, and destroying him with light — a plan to purge evil from the world and to cleanse the medium of cinema of its darkest impulses — ultimately to fail. For fail it clearly did. Look at the world. Look at cinema.

Intertitle of the Week: Feet of Clay

Posted in FILM, Mythology with tags , , , , , on July 19, 2009 by dcairns



This is from a recently rediscovered fragment of the lost original version of DER GOLEM. Many of you will have seen the famous 1920 film, with its expressionistic studio recreation of old Prague. But none of us have seen Henrik Galeen’s 1915 movie, which is filmed mainly on location and in modern dress. Paul Wegener creates the role of the clay giant with whom he is now irrevocably associated, and Galeen himself plays the Rabbi who reanimates the ancient statue.

So, the 1920 GOLEM, subtitles OR HOW HE CAME INTO THE WORLD, is a prequel, showing the monster’s creation. It’s also a more sophisticated piece of cinema, although perhaps it’s unfair to judge the Galeen, only a few minutes of which survive. But we can definitely say that the stiff, Frankensteinian tread of the Golem is already in place, although he moves pretty quick, and Wegener looks positively baby-faced compared to his 1920 self — it’s strange to look at a murderous ambulatory statue and find oneself going “Awww…”


Alas, the first sequel to this movie, THE GOLEM AND THE DANCER, is also a lost film. (I hate the fact that films are lost, but I love the concept of the “lost film” — it has a certain romance. And I love fragments too.) In that one, Wegener played a satiric version of himself, an actor famous for playing a Golem, who attends a party in clay-face fancy dress and meets a girl — well, they say there’s someone for everybody. I can’t quite visualize the hulking Wegener in light comedy mode, but who can say what the results were like? 80 years after the film was made, author F. Gwynplaine MacIntyre blessed it with the world’s greatest advertising copy: “Her muddy buddy is no fuddy-duddy.”