(Ape caricature art by Richard Smith)
By Lucas Hardwick, Contributing Writer, in Collaboration with ATLRetro
Welcome to Apes on Film! This column exists to scratch your retro-film-in-high-definition itch. We’ll be reviewing new releases of vintage cinema and television on disc of all genres, finding gems, and letting you know the skinny on what to avoid. Here at Apes on Film, our aim is to uncover the best in retro film. As we dig for artifacts, we’ll do our best not to bury our reputation. What will we find out here? Our destiny.
THE CABINET OF DR. CALIGARI – 1920
5 out of 5 Bananas
Starring: Werner Krauss, Conrad Veidt, Friedrich Feher, Lil Dagover
Director: Robert Wiene
Rated: Not rated
Studio: Eureka Entertainment
Region: Region Free
BRD Release Date: December 5, 2022
Audio Formats: DTS-HD Master Audio 5.1, LPCM 2.0
Video Codec: HEVC / H.265
Resolution: Native 4K (2160p)
Aspect Ratio: 1.33:1
Run Time: 78 minutes
In the last decade, it seems like anything in film that’s a little weird or unsettling gets slapped with the label of being “Lynchian,” as in David Lynch-ian. But if you do your homework, you’ll find out that what those people really mean to say is “expressionistic,” which not only sounds less like someone trying to be the coolest person in the room, but is also closer to the actual truth.
While German Expressionism only has a short tenure in the timeline of art history (lasting from around 1910 until the mid-1920s), filmmakers continue to refer to it today, constantly finding new and exciting ways to disturb us. The reality is that anything in film that’s given us the wim-wams in the past century or so most likely has the psychological frustration of a socio-economically battered war-torn country to thank. And those films that so adequately evoke troubling nightmarish moods are particularly indebted to Robert Wiene’s 1920 expressionist masterpiece, named by Roger Ebert as the first horror film, Das Cabinet des Dr. Caligari (The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari).
What Caligari (Werner Krauss) is a doctor of, we don’t really know at first. His title suggests a level of expertise beyond the common man that permits him to do things like set up at the local fair with his somnambulist sideshow partner Cesare (Conrad Veidt) and solicit people to ask the sleepwalker spooky questions like “How long will I live?” only to receive frightening answers like, “Till the break of dawn.” According to Caligari, Cesare is twenty-three years old and has been asleep for his entire life, awakened only in short spells to exhibit his clairvoyant proclivities to the morbidly curious masses. Oddly enough, Caligari and Cesare’s arrival in the German town of Holstenwall, where our story takes place, conveniently coincides with a string of mysterious murders that include one victim who had been particularly inquisitive about his own fate.
The story unravels in a bit of a cat-and-mouse fashion that culminates in the lead character Franzis (Friedrich Feher) following Caligari to an insane asylum where it is revealed that the doctor is a madman executing a grand experiment in murder. Or is he? The narrative is made all the more refreshingly grim by the framing story that sets up Franzis as the narrator, subsequently suggesting that the account of Dr. Caligari is Franzis’ own mad ravings. This insinuation is fortified by the wild, dreamlike sets and makeup that form the world Franzis speaks of, tying the film up with a big expressionistic bow.
Franzis may be the one telling the story, but it’s Caligari who is in charge of what happens. Whether Caligari is the maniacal mad scientist experimenting with the extremely pliable will of a somnambulist, or the seemingly benevolent asylum director, the film’s conclusion belongs to the doctor either way. And whatever audiences choose to believe about the movie’s final seconds, the doctor — and in this case, the authority — is never held accountable for the actions of which he is accused. Although film scholars throughout history theorize that The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari is a reflection and a comment on the authoritarianism that ran rampant in Germany through World War I, screenwriters Carl Mayer and Hans Janowitz claimed no conscious parallel was made to the context of the sociopolitical state of Germany at that time.
Whatever the contextual case may be, a kind of statement on the abuse of authority is apparent, imparting upon audiences the dire consequences inflicted upon those in its wake — in this case, a state of unbalance and disorder as reflected in the movie’s expressionistic style. The people are at the mercy of their leadership, and some are “Cesares” that are manipulated into enacting the questionable will of those in charge, and some are “Alans” and “Franzises” who wind up dead or insane as a result of unhinged corruption and desire for control.
When Franzis is first seen telling his account of Dr. Caligari, his audience is an elderly man who appears half awake as his eyelids droop and his eyes roll back in his head. A case can be made that the story we see unfold in the expressionistic realm isn’t from inside Franzis’ head but rather the dreams of the man to which he’s telling the story. The thematic implications are the same, but the idea that the story seen could be from either man’s mind provides the audience with a maddened experience shared with the characters in the film. We are as baffled by how the story is told as by the story itself. The entire narrative becomes fluid by the end of the movie, as multiple resolutions from multiple perspectives become possible. It is pure subjectivity and the experience is as unsettling as the imagery of the film itself. And of all art movements, expressionism arguably relies the most on the subjectivity of its participants.
The film’s striking imagery and unnerving narrative combine in a moment of ghastly perfection when Cesare eerily creeps into the home of Jane Olsen (Lil Dagover) — Franzis’ love interest — as she sleeps. Cesare, in a strange bit of action with his gaunt, ghostlike performance, removes part of Jane’s window pane and stalks through her bedroom with a knife in his hand, intent on murdering her as she sleeps. The sequence plays out at an ominous and lengthy pace, and is the most haunting and immediately threatening moment in the film. The scene is a sublime instance of the beauty and beast dynamic that will drive the motivations of monsters for decades to come.
Eureka Entertainment’s Masters of Cinema imprint presents The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari on 4K UHD. This presentation is the same as the Blu-ray release from 2014, with a few notable new features. Eureka’s limited edition set includes a 100-page booklet, exclusive box art, a new commentary by film historians Jonathan Rigby and Kevin Lyons, and a new score by composer Uwe Dierksen and Hermann Kretzschmar. And for anyone needing a crash course in Weimar Era art history, look no further than the 52-minute documentary Caligari: The Birth of Horror in the First World War included in this set. Other features include a video essay by film critic David Cairns and an interview with film critic and author Kim Newman.
The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari is so influential and continues to be, that to see it for the first time now presents nothing “new.” Its tropes and imagery have been referenced for over a century in films. And whether filmmakers realize they’re cribbing this movie or borrowing from some other influence, the truth is that all roads lead to Caligari. Expressionism, Impressionism, post-punk, goth, Lynchian, whatever you want to call it, this film is more than the result of an art movement, it is a movement in and of itself inspiring multiple genres across generations. It is ground zero for filmmakers like Christopher Nolan and David Lynch, and punk rock would be remiss to not acknowledge appropriating elements of its disjointed, gloomy aesthetic.
Caligari’s timeless effect is the result of our response to it. It burrows into our brains and knows right where to hit us. It knows how to trick us in the ways we want to be tricked without ever cannibalizing its narrative. Caligari, rather grows its narrative with the questions it conjures within us. It knows unanimously what gives us the willies, suggesting its moral superiority, and alleging our own proclivities for depravity. It never tells us what to think, but rather infers what we might. Through its audience, the film perpetuates its own existence, and over a hundred years later, we remain astounded by its purity and perplexed by its moral accuracy.
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