I’m bored... let’s do something evil.
It is occasionally nice to be reminded that even geniuses have their off days.
You’ve seen F. W. Murnau’s 1922 horror classic Nosferatu, right? Hopefully in the restored edition from Kino? A brilliant creepfest from its opening frames. You would think, wouldn’t you, that his Haunted Castle (aka Schloss Vogeloed) from just a year earlier would be full of signs of budding talent? Especially with the great Fritz Arno Wagner (Nosferatu, Der mude Tod, the Dr. Mabuse films) as cinematographer?
Not so much, actually. In fact, hardly at all. In fact... Haunted Castle will have you shaking your head at the bitter irony that this film survived the ravages of time while Der Januskopf, Murnau’s celebrated Jekyll-and-Hyde knockoff, is lost.
Why, yes—this IS a new look for me!
Everyone knows this story. Or thinks so...
You may have first encountered the Phantom in one of his modern incarnations, which have become increasingly swoony and romantic. Claude Rains’ battered old musician sported a mask to hide the acid-burned side of a normal face; the mask shrank even further for Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Phantom, to enable him to sing all those passionate pleas to Christine Daae. By the time the musical was filmed in 2004, there seemed barely any reason for Gerard Butler’s buff Phantom to wear a mask at all. All of which undermines the logic of the story, because when your facial booboos could be fixed by a couple of trips to a good dermatologist, why bother with the whole hiding-in-the-cellars and pretending-to-be-a- ghost bit?
Boris! Hang in there, I’m calling a lawyer!
This week we’re looking at Waxworks, from 1924. We’re back with the German Expressionists and look who’s here! Conrad Veidt, Werner Krauss, Emil Jannings and William Dieterle, to name but a few. Waxworks is an anthology film like Der mude Tod, three stories set within a framing device, and while less profound is spooky, playful, and fun to watch, especially if you’ve grown to appreciate the acting ranges of the principal players. If it misfires in the end, it’s pretty plain it only did so because the filmmakers ran out of money. This is one of those occasions when a time machine would be useful: I’d love to go back, write out a check for however many marks they needed, and see what the director, Paul Leni, might have done with it.
Am I feeling strange? Now, why would you ask that?
In honor of the season and as a tip of the hat to S. J. Chambers’ ongoing articles about the first American master of horror and suspense, we’re looking at a pair of silent films based on Edgar Allan Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher.
It was filmed twice in 1928, once by French avant-garde filmmaker Jean Epstein and once by American experimental filmmakers James Sibley Watson and Melville Webber. The American version is short, clocking in at just over 13 minutes, without any title cards to let you know what’s going on. Unless you’ve read the original Poe story upon which it is based, you’ll find it a bewildering series of dreamlike images. If you have read Poe’s original, though, you’ll find that Watson and Melville’s film nicely pantomimes the essence of the story. Never read The Fall of the House of Usher? It’s short and available online. Go read it now. I’ll wait.
George hear twig snap...
“NEYAAAAAAHHH! NYAH! NYAH!”
That sound, my friends, is a man’s acting career in its death throes. The culprit was Tarzan the Tiger, the year was 1929, and Frank Merrill was the unfortunate who happened to be playing the Lord of the Apes at the moment cinema sound technology was making its first experimental squeaks and gurgles.
Tarzan the Tiger is one of those late silent films marketed as a sound picture, something like the “Simulated Stereo” recordings of the early ’60s: the film was shot in silence, but a recorded musical score with some sound effects at appropriate moments was supposed to create the illusion of a talkie. You hear cocoanut shells impersonating hoofbeats, primitive noisemakers impersonating lions and gorillas, and—oh, dear—Frank Merrill’s actual human voice, in his best effort at the Victory Cry of the Bull Ape.
Nyaaaaahhhhhh.
You came in that thing? You’re braver than I thought.
1927’s Tarzan and the Golden Lion ought to have been one of the more notable Ape Man epics. Loosely adapted from Edgar Rice Burroughs’ novel of the same name, it had Burroughs’ own enthusiastic support, largely because James Pierce, the actor cast as Tarzan, was hand-selected by Burroughs as most closely resembling his creation. Alas, Golden Lion failed to wow the critics, and we’ll let Mr. Pierce himself explain why: “Because of poor direction, terrible story treatment and putrid acting, the opus was a stinkeroo.” His rancor was no doubt sharpened by the fact that, at Burroughs’ request, Pierce dropped out of another film to play Tarzan. The film was Wings and Pierce’s part was filled by a young unknown named Gary Cooper. Cooper’s career went straight up, and Pierce never starred in another vehicle in his life. He did, however, marry Burroughs’ daughter Joan. One hopes the alcohol did not flow freely at family dinners.
Whaddya mean - “No shirt, no shoes, no service?”
Next up on our list of Strong and Silent Survivors is 1921’s The Adventures of Tarzan. Even so, what we have here is a fragmentary work. It was originally a 15-part serial and has come down to us as a neatly re-edited 10-parter. It opens with a replay of many of the events in 1918’s Tarzan of the Apes and most of the first chapter is spent bringing the audience up to speed, just in case there was still anyone out there who wasn’t familiar with the Origins of Tarzan. Since this serial also features the return of Elmo Lincoln as a spectacularly beefy Ape Man, this makes for a nice sense of continuity. The plot is primarily derived from two of Edgar Rice Burroughs’ novels, The Return of Tarzan and Tarzan and the Jewels of Opar.
I better go get the school nurse! Oh... that’s right, we’re in the jungle...
The Son of Tarzan, from 1920, is a pleasant surprise—even if it is a fifteen-part serial with the necessary cliffhanger ending every half hour or so, and endless artificial crises and padded-out scenes. There is a lot to mock in this film, coming as it did from a Poverty Row studio and being shot on the cheap. How cheap? Check out the Arab Sheikhs with painted-on beards and mustaches, wearing obvious bathrobes. At the same time, though, there is a lot to praise.
If you’ve read all the Edgar Rice Burroughs books, you’ll be pleased to know that this is a pretty faithful adaptation of the novel on which it is based. If you’ve only ever seen the Weissmuller movies, you may be thinking that Son of Tarzan refers to Boy, the kid Tarzan and Jane found and adopted—because of course they never married in the Weissmuller continuum, and therefore (since it was the 1930s) Never Had Sex. Surprise! In the Burroughs books they did marry and produce a real live baby of their own.
And I’ll buy you a silk dress, Mama, and all the bananas you can eat...
When a Grand Master like Fritz Leiber writes an authorized adventure featuring Tarzan (AKA Lord Greystoke), and no less an authority than Philip Jose Farmer connects everyone’s favorite Ape Man with the Wold Newton universe, we can justifiably consider his films in this space. The original 1912 novel by Edgar Rice Burroughs reads at times like a silent film plot; it’s no wonder that the Lord of the Apes leaped onto the silver screen early and often.
Perhaps the first filmed version of Tarzan’s story was the best; it’s certainly the most faithful to Burroughs’ original book. Tarzan of the Apes, from 1918, and where it diverges it only makes the plot more plausible than Burroughs’ original, with an interesting racial subtext.
One and two and con-ga!
While 1925’s Paris Qui Dort is not, as some exceptionally forgetful film historians have claimed, the first French science fiction film (Hello—Georges Méliès?), it’s certainly a seminal work. Its descendants include a couple of classic Twilight Zone episodes and its imagery is echoed in later end-of-the-world films like On the Beach. Yet Paris Qui Dort is short and sweet, a surreal little confection, slapstick frosting over a disturbing center. It’s a remarkable maiden effort for a young filmmaker, even one as talented as René Clair.
As the film opens it’s dawn in the City of Light, and a young night watchman emerges, yawning, from his shelter up on the third level of the Eiffel Tower. A vast silence greets him; this is a silent film anyway, of course, but Clair still manages to convey the immense unnatural absence of the sounds of a living city. Albert, the watchman, rubs his eyes and stares down in disbelief. The streets and parks are all deserted; there isn’t a soul moving anywhere below him in the brilliant morning light. Bewildered, he descends through the labyrinth of the tower and emerges at last at ground level.
Why, no need to get upthet, thir... jutht take two athpirinth and call me in the morning.
The Bells (1926) is an early example of films-claiming-to-be-based-on-a-work-by-Edgar-Allan-Poe-but-not-actually. Universal cranked out a few in the 1930s, generally pairing up Boris Karloff and Bela Lugosi; Hammer turned out several in the 1950s, with Vincent Price as various tortured protagonists or villains. Of all of these, The Bells has possibly the most tenuous connection with Poe, since it’s really a film treatment of a fairly famous turn-of-the-century play, Le Juif Polonaise, and Poe’s titular poem is simply a rhythmic tour de force about bells ringing. There’s a properly Poe-like theme of agonizing remorse following gruesome murder, though, complete with spectral accusers, so it rates a decent four out of five ravens on the Poe-o-meter.
It’s still one strange kettle of fish...
Another one where any caption would be wasted...
It was Alfred Hitchcock’s favorite film. It inspired Luis Buñuel to become a filmmaker. And, unless you’re a dedicated silent film buff, I’ll bet you’ve never even heard of it.
I refer to Fritz Lang’s 1921 masterpiece, Der müde Tod, known where English is spoken as Destiny. "Weary Death" is a much better title, but if you’re planning to buy or rent this one, look under the English name. And, thank all the cinematic gods, you can buy or rent it, because Destiny has survived the ravages of time intact and reasonably pristine. Since its story is told with the utter simplicity of a folktale, it has survived changes in taste as well.
If supernatural romance is your thing—and I’m not just talking to you little gothgirls or Twilight fans, but also to anyone of my generation who used to stay up late to catch the 1947 The Ghost and Mrs. Muir or Portrait of Jennie—then Destiny is for you.
And, gentlemen, before you run for the exits, consider my opening lines. Hitchcock’s favorite film. Buñuel’s inspiration. Sure you don’t want to stick around and find out why? And were you at all impressed by Bergman’s The Seventh Seal, by the way? You were? I thought so. Sit down.
Forget the gag caption this week. Look at the composition! The lighting!
For those of you who thought F. W. Murnau’s Nosferatu was his greatest film, I have news for you: his Faust blows it out of the water.
A little background: the Faust legend dates back as far as the 16th century, and may have its roots in even earlier tales about the dangers of doing business with devils. Once codified as the Faust legend, though, its subject matter proved to be immensely popular. Like Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Tale of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Faust was a new archetype, a story that could be told and re-told with endless variations to make different points. Depending on the version, Faust might be an old fool, a fearless seeker after truth, a heretic, or a romantic hero. Faust has inspired a number of operas, one of which, Gounod’s Faust, was once the most-performed opera anywhere. Time has dimmed its charms a bit, but Mephistopheles’ serenade Vous qui faites l’endormie is still one of the most creepily romantic things I’ve ever heard. Like Jekyll and Hyde too, Faust was a favorite subject for early filmmakers. Several versions were made prior to Murnau’s 1926 film, but the only one I have been able to locate is a very brief trick film from 1911, viewable on YouTube if you’re interested. It will not impress you.
So Murnau was not selecting a particularly original subject for his last German film when he decided to adapt Goethe’s version of the Faust legend. What he did with it, however, broke new ground in filmmaking.
I can show you the—oh, look, I can see your house from up here...
Okay, this one you have got to see. But first, a word about... Orientalism.
You will hear Orientalism condemned as a racist, patronizing, colonial way of looking at certain other cultures, in which the men are weak and treacherous because fundamentally inferior to the clear-eyed Aryan hero and the women are all exotic beauties with no morals. Pull a harmless little prank like stealing the ruby eye out of some heathen idol and some heathen devil will come crawling into your tent at night, dagger gripped between his filthy teeth, what?
Appalling, of course, and today any writer who even attempts to write a parody of this kind of thing had better be damned careful. But...
All right, all right, I’m sorry I called you a Brontosaur...
Canadian cartoonist Winsor McCay (1867-1934) deserves a chapter of his own in animation history. He wasn’t the first artist to complete and exhibit an animated film; his best-known cinematic work Gertie the Dinosaurus wasn’t even his first effort. He did, however, invent keyframe animation, and Gertie holds a place of honor as the first dinosaur on film.
McCay was a well-known newspaper cartoonist at the turn of the century, creating Dream of the Rarebit Fiend for the Evening Telegram and Little Nemo in Slumberland for the New York Herald. Both strips were surreal dreamscapes, beautifully drawn, in which dream-logic was played out against shifting monumental architecture. (Go Google either strip, and look at some of the detailed pages; I’ll wait here. Awesome, ain’t they?) Rarebit Fiend’s protagonist changed with each strip, the unifying thread for the series being that each dreamer had overindulged in Welsh Rarebit before sleeping and consequently suffered digestive upsets that brought on bizarre and funny nightmares. Little Nemo’s protagonist, on the other hand, was on a nocturnal quest: summoned by King Morpheus, he had to reach the gates of Slumberland, where he was to become the playmate of the king’s daughter.
Oh, cripes, everyone’s in formal dress! You told me this was a costume party!
Ahhh, Shakespeare. Name me any other 16th-century writer who has managed to influence modern fantasy and science fiction. Take his fairy extravaganza, A Midsummer Night’s Dream: urban fantasy riffs endlessly on the machinations of various fairy courts, and most owe a debt to Shakespeare in the way their fairy politics and rivalries play out. Emma Bull, Charles de Lint and Mercedes Lackey, to name but a few, have all produced notable work in the genre.
And one of the great classic science fiction films, Forbidden Planet, is a retelling of Shakespeare’s The Tempest, with Robbie the Robot standing in for both Ariel and Caliban. The retread works admirably, even if Forbidden Planet’s writers did decide to punish Dr. Morbius (the Prospero figure) for meddling with alien technology. Shakespeare, by contrast, lets Prospero practice magic without any Calvinist penalties and gives him a happy ending. Interesting to consider that audiences in 1610 were a bit less distrustful of magic/technology than they were in 1956.
Dorothy can’t believe what she’s watching. Neither will you.
Mike Myers or Roberto Benigni would understand, I guess. Take a beloved children’s classic and make it a star vehicle for a popular comedian! If the role isn’t really appropriate for the comedian, change the story, which doesn’t matter anyway because who cares what kids think? Put in plenty of leering gags to appeal to “adults,” the way they did in The Cat in the Hat, or pretend there’s nothing deeply disturbing in a fifty-year-old man playing a little wooden boy.
But long before kiddy lit was outraged by the moderns, it was violated without so much as a kiss or a box of chocolates by Larry Semon, in his 1925 adaption of The Wizard of Oz.
On July 20, 1969 I had been seventeen for a month and ten days, and my life was fraught with misery because of my parents. There was just no reasoning with my dad, who was, like, on another planet or something, but it was my mother who really made my world a living hell. She never seemed to notice I had, like, this personality of my very own? That I wasn’t just this extension of her life? She loved science fiction and I didn’t, for example. When she used to read to me when I was sick, she was always picking stories about flying saucers and Mushroom Planets and visitors from outer space. When I got older and she’d drive me to the library every Saturday, she was always suggesting books by people like Bradbury and Heinlein. That wasn’t me! I was into Narnia and hobbits and Wuthering Heights and she knew that, but oh, no, she had to keep pushing her UFO agenda to brainwash me. And it only got worse once there was a lot of science fiction on TV. You know how the announcer on Outer Limits claimed he controlled your TV? Ha! My mom controlled the TV in our house. One Step Beyond, Twilight Zone, Lost in Space, Star Trek—that was all that was ever on. And since it was generally accepted in our family that I was going to be a writer, she laid this big guilt trip on me by telling me she hoped I’d write science fiction. As if! I was going to write a fantasy trilogy, just like Tolkien. Or maybe Mervyn Peake. But like Charlotte Brontë.
So anyway, on the 20th of July I knew we were about to land on the Moon and blah blah blah, but I was more concerned with getting permission to go to a midnight marathon of Beatles movies. My mother, for some reason, didn’t feel I was old enough to be spending a night in a seedy art house theater in a bad section of Hollywood. I was SEVENTEEN! So we had this raging fight which I did not win, of course, and I stormed up to my room, climbed out the window onto the roof and lay up there staring into the blue infinity, brooding on the way my mother never understood me ever, and fell asleep. I was only roused by my mother sticking her head out the window and screaming “What on earth are you doing out there? They’re just about to land on the Goddamn moon!”
I scrambled inside and downstairs into the living room and everyone was sitting around the TV, glaring at me. But there, on the 13" black and white screen, was the surface of the moon scrolling past, the silver alien world with its craters and dunes of stardust. All about to come to pass, that moment prefigured by Verne and Wells and Munchausen, the capsule not splashing into the Moon’s eye but floating down so slowly, so steadily, as the bright desert rolled by under the Eagle’s outstretched legs… and then the Eagle had landed. We were witnesses to History. My mother wept.
I was sure she was only doing it to embarrass me.
Kage Baker is an American science fiction and fantasy author, perhaps most notable for her novels in the Company series. Her novella “The Empress of Mars” was nominated for a 2003 Hugo Award. She is a regular blogger here at Tor.com.
Oil can what?
With His Majesty, the Scarecrow of Oz we come to the last of the films made by the Oz Film Manufacturing Company. If Baum had chosen to send this one up to bat first, rather than The Patchwork Girl of Oz, Paramount might have been more receptive to releasing the other two films. Even so, Scarecrow was the best received by critics of the day and did even better at the box office when it was briefly retitled The New Wizard of Oz and re-released in 1915. Unfortunately its success was too little too late for Baum’s film venture. To make matters worse, the first reel was thought lost for a number of years. Several generations missed out on a chance to see His Majesty, the Scarecrow of Oz, but we are luckier.
Anyone interested in the creative process and the way writers revise and recycle their work to suit expedience will find Scarecrow fascinating. Baum had, at this point, lost the rights to his original Wizard of Oz story. With the screenplay for Scarecrow he indulged in a sort of alternate universe retelling of the same tale, but with some new characters, new origins for his old characters, and perhaps a neat idea or two that had occurred to him too late to include in the original. Not only is Scarecrow the closest thing we’ll ever have to Baum’s original story as he might have filmed it, but he even mined the new ideas in the screenplay for his ninth Oz book, The Scarecrow of Oz.
Besides, there are neat special effects, dancing witches, and... a panto mule, of course.
So... um... call me?
The Magic Cloak of Oz is not, in fact, set in Oz at all. It’s an adaptation of Baum’s own favorite among his books, Queen Zixi of Ix. The Oz books being the commercial success that they were, however, someone in the Oz Film Manufacturing Company must have decided that repackaging Ix as Oz was a smart move. It didn’t help, unfortunately.
Filmed in 1914, using the same locations and many of the same cast members as The Patchwork Girl of Oz, The Magic Cloak of Oz was originally scheduled for release at the end of September 1914. So badly was Patchwork Girl received, however, that Paramount declined to distribute any other Oz films. Magic Cloak wasn’t released until 1917, when a British film distributor picked it up. It may have been at this point that it was cut down from one five-reeler to two two-reel films, released in the UK as The Magic Cloak and The Witch Queen respectively. All the original title cards are missing as well. Unfortunately these two prints constitute all we have had of the original version, and though they were cobbled back together for the 1996 video release, obviously a lot of footage was missing.
What survived holds together pretty well, plot-wise. The Fairies of the forest of Burzee, dancing in the moonlight, decide to weave a magic cloak that will grant one wish to its owner and to any subsequent owner, assuming the new owner hasn’t stolen it. Being transparent camera effects, however, the Fairies haven’t an idea in their pretty little heads what to do with the cloak, so they ask the Man in the Moon. He (scarily played by someone made up as the Joker peering through a cutout Moon, in what might be a tip of the cinematic hat to Méliès) tells them to give the cloak to the unhappiest person they can find.
