Almost five years ago I wrote enthusiastically about the release of Universal Studio’s Monsters – The Essential Collection, a boxset of eight of its most famous golden age horror movies from the 1930s and 1940s. It was the first time these iconic movies had been officially released in the UK on Blu-ray in newly remastered high definition versions, and they were a glorious sight to behold
At the time I penned gushing reviews of Dracula and Phantom of the Opera. As it happens I recently rewatched the original 1931 Frankenstein film and was astounded all over again – both by the flawless and beautiful monochrome restoration of a film that’s now nearly 90 years old, and also by how terrific the film itself still is, and how brilliant Boris Karloff’s portrayal of the monster remains to this day. My only criticism is that it’s so short and over all too quickly, the Monster no sooner brought to life than he is running amok and being hunted by a pitchfork-wielding mob of angry villagers. The clarity is so vivid, you can clearly see the folds and creases in the cloth backdrops used for the sky and clouds.
The Monsters – The Essential Collection boxset was one of my favourite purchases of 2012, and the only drawback to it was that several of the later movies from the Universal horror franchise were not included, among them some of my favourite if lesser-known genre films of the period. I confidently predicted that it surely wouldn’t be long before a second volume took care of that omission; alas, I waited in vain for years for such a boxset to materialise here in the UK, and it never happened. Until now. Well, sort of. Read the rest of this entry »
Apparently The Blacklist has brought NBC its highest ratings for a freshman drama series since the turn of the century, and just ten episodes into its run it’s not only been given a full-season order it’s also been given a very early renewal for a second year as well. I’m surprised by this, not because the show isn’t any good (it’s one of the best of the Class of 2013 so far) but because it’s such early days and the show is still so clearly finding its feet by trying on a succession of different borrowed sets of attire as it seeks to find out what it wants to be when it grows up and becomes a proper TV show.
The high-concept premise is that notorious former high-level government agent turned elusive most-wanted fugitive called Raymond “Red” Reddington suddenly walks into the FBI building in Washington DC to calmly turn himself in. He offers to help them capture some of the most evil and dangerous criminal threats in the world – many so successful the FBI doesn’t even know about them – but on one condition: he will work only with rookie profiler Elizabeth Keen. A special task force is green-lit with the sort of alacrity only ever seen in time-starved television pilots desperate to lay out their format for the studio execs, and away we go: only it’s soon clear that not only is Red playing a very different game, he is also ten steps ahead of the plodding FBI staff at every turn to entirely his own unknown ends. Read the rest of this entry »
Longtime readers of this blog will not be shocked to hear that I’m besotted with the silver screen monster movies of the 1920s, 30s and 40s, and I freely admit that the release this week of the Universal Classic Monsters: The Essential Collection Blu-ray boxset was one of the most anticipated of 2012 as far as I was concerned.
I’ve only had a chance to watch two of the eight iconic films from the boxset, but here’s the story so far … Read the rest of this entry »
I like to think that there are few other blogs that snap from reviews of lighter-than-air family CGI fun fests like Rio straight into articles on 1922 silent German expressionist horror films. It’s this blog’s USP – sadly, a USP that also this implies the lack of focus that is surely the reason why this blog will never be a breakout hit that will make me millions!
The overlap in audience between Rio and the 1922 “first” vampire film Nosferatu, eine Symphonie des Grauens (“Nosferatu, A Symphony of Horror”, to give it its full name) may well be so narrow as to consist of just one person, i.e. me. Certainly this 1922 landmark won’t be of much interest to the mainstream that delighted in Rio: these days, Nosferatu‘s appeal is limited to historians of silent film, fans of German expressionistic movies, and lovers of horror fare down the ages. I happily claim to be in all three of those camps, albeit in the amateur/dilettante capacity and by no means an expert.
As a little background history: this film is the earliest screen version of Bram Stoker’s novel Dracula and was directed in Germany by FW Murnau. The only problem was that the Prana-Film studio couldn’t afford the rights to the book, so they thought that they could get away with it purely by making a few cosmetic name changes to the source novel: vampire becomes Nosferatu, Count Dracula becomes Count Orlok, Jonathan Harker becomes Thomas Hutter and his wife Mina is now Ellen; Renfield is rechristened Knock and Professor Van Helsing is Professor Bulwer, and so on. The studio was proved to be very wrong in its assumption that this would keep them out of trouble, and Stoker’s widow pursued them through the courts and won – the end result being an order to destroy all copies of the film for good. Thank goodness that a few slipped through the net, sufficient to be pieced back together 75 years later.
Changed names aside, the film is remarkably faithful to the book (undoubtedly the reason for its legal downfall): in many ways it is more accurate than the film versions that followed for the next six decades, since most of them got ‘hijacked’ by the influence of the 1931 legal version from Universal starring Bela Lugosi, which largely stemmed from adaptations of a stage play that perforce dumped a lot of the more ‘expensive’ elements of the novel in favour of a one-set drawing room setting in order to make it more affordable and suitable for theatrical staging.
For modern audiences, there’s precious little ‘horror’ to be found here: no blood or gore, few special effects other than some dissolves, ghostly overlays and some negative-image stop-motion eeriness. Any time that things start to get too unsettling, such as when the vampire feeds on Hutter/Harker or approaches the bed of Ellen/Mina, Murnau switches to using the vampire’s shadow rather than the actual actor, which both lessens the direct ‘horror’ while leaving a much more artistic and unsettling effect in its place and providing us with the film’s most iconic moments (such as the moment Orlok’s silhouette stalks up the stairs, and the shadow clenches its fist around Ellen’s heart.)
Orlok is without question the film’s pivotal strength and the source of much of the film’s enduring reputation. He’s an extraordinary physical presence here, so outlandish, inhuman and nightmarish in appearance that literally hundreds of movie monsters have paid a debt to it down the ages ever since. It’s even more remarkable how he dominates the film given that he’s in only around 12 of the 94 minutes of the running time (but then, that’s just as true of how a largely absent Dracula dominants the original book that bears his name.)
As well as his makeup and basic appearance, it’s his strange gait and stance that are so extraordinary, so much so that it’s even more jarring and disappointing when the actor Max Schreck lapses into anything more contemporary in terms of performance. His final scene, as he tries to tip-toe away from Ellen/Mina before daybreak, recalls the high camp ‘tip toeing’ that you’ll see in pantomimes today, but that’s simply the style of acting in these early days of cinema – just as much as Gustav von Wangenheim’s over-the-top early scenes as a “happy, carefree, lovestruck Hutter” that resemble a two-year-old who has just devoured two pounds of raw sugar. Later on, von Wangenheim gets to play a haggard, crushed Hutter after his escape from Castle Orlok, and demonstrates that whether good or bad, the earlier scenes were most definitely an intentional performance.
While this is undoubtedly Schreck’s film as Orlok, there is one role and performance that comes close to stealing large portions: Alexander Granach as Knock. The role of the insane Renfield has always been one of the juiciest in the Dracula story (think Dwight Frye’s marvellous performance in the 1931 version of the book, or Pablo Alvarez Rubio’s arguably better one in the simultaneous Spanish version shot on the same sets by night; or Tom Waits in the Francis Ford Coppola 1992 film) and Granach has great fun with the role here in expanded screen time, ranging from impish and malevolent, to crazy and playful, to sly and cunning.
With an absence of ‘horror’, the film turns instead to making use of the natural world to provide some of its more gruesome sequences: there’s an explicit link between vampirism and the Black Death, just as vampires would later become popular again in the era of AIDS; there are several scenes of packs of rats swarming around rotting and ruined castles and ship holds; there’s an interesting sequence where Bulwer/van Helsing shows his students two carnivorous plants (including the inevitable Venus flytrap) that he compares to vampires and phantoms, which while completely real must have been like something out of science fiction for most audience members watching in the 1920s.
It’s a good job Bulwer has this sequence because otherwise he’s almost irrelevant to the film. Unlike the usual van Helsing, he’s no vampire expert and in fact no real use at all. Instead, it’s Ellen/Mina who reads up on the subject from a book on superstitions inadvertently brought back by her husband from Transylvania and who works out how to defeat the nosferatu, by offering herself up as bait so that the Count is caught out in the open when the morning sun comes up.
I started watching this on Sky Arts (it was part of their Halloween offering), the satellite channel that exists to ‘prove’ Rupert Murdoch’s assertion that you can do away with the BBC now because Sky will do it all for you at five times the subscription price. However, the last 35 minutes I ended up watching off a DVD I had of the same 2000 restored version that I believe is no longer in print, and was surprised by how much better it was on the disc – the colour tints signifying daylight/indoor light/nighttime were more complete, the brighter areas of the film far less blown out than the broadcast version. Considering the film’s age and history, it’s remarkable that it looks as good as it does – obviously there’s a lot of noise and dirt, and some clearly missing frames now and again, but even in its worst state there’s nothing here to prevent perfectly aceptable viewing.
This version features an original score which is … Interesting. At times it’s very good and effective in making the film feel creepy where it needs to, or pumps up the tension or explodes into action with some chase music as Hutter and Orlok race to return to the (fictional) city of Wisborg before the other via different routes. Other times, though, it’s just a very weird mix – ranging from some dated synthesiser music of the 90s, through to abstract atonal percussion weirdness, and then moments which are just ‘noise’ like a high-pitched buzzing that goes on far too long and lapses from effective to outright annoyance. Still, for the most part the score does match the on-screen action and hence does what a good silent movie score should do. The one place it seems oddly caught out and lets things down is in the iconic scene when the Count rises from his coffin in a strikingly unnatural way: the score is completely oblivious to this stunning moment for some reason.
There’s a later, ‘definitive’ restoration out these days with a proper orchestral score from the original premiere that I must get around to trying out and comparing one of these days. It’s certainly a film that despite its age and its obvious flaws proves to be remarkably compelling and rewatchable time and again for students of the era, style and genre of which Nosferatu is such a striking example.