To Be or Not to Be: Ernst Lubitsch

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7/10

Broken Lullaby: Ernst Lubitsch

To read this review, go to: http://www.theblackmaria.org/2015/08/27/b-roll-ernst-lubitschs-broken-lullaby-1932/.

6/10

The Doll: Ernst Lubitsch

In a tight black room, a svelt young man gently removes the lid from a chest. Placing it upside-down on the table, a verdant field sprinkled with flowers and split by a wandering road is revealed. Reaching into the chest, the young man pulls out a number of figurines and models which he assembles on the lid: a dollhouse, paper trees, a sky, and finally two dolls. With a cut, we are transported inside a life-size reconstruction of the tableau. From the dollhouse door the two dolls emerge as humans: a stringy youth who tumbles down the curved road into a pond and his plump caretaker who pulls him out with an umbrella. From this opening begins Ernst Lubitsch’s The Doll, a fantastical romantic comedy that seems more at home in the realm of postwar German Expressionism than with his later genial American productions. Never has Lubitsch’s artifice been so pronounced. And never has he been more joyfully delightful.

The Doll follows Lancelot, the effete youth from the opening sequence, who schemes to marry a life-like doll in order to placate his uncle, the Baron of Chanterelle, who is desperate for an heir. The local doll-maker Hilarius constructs him a mechanical replica of his high-spirited daughter Ossi that is capable of actions as complex as autonomous dancing. But Hilarius’ careless young assistant accidentally breaks it. To spare the boy her father’s wrath, the real Ossi takes the doll’s place. And so begins her strange and wonderful journey through villages, castles, and monasteries; to parties, suppers, and even a wedding. She dutifully keeps up the illusion (breaking now and then to flirt and dance with others while Lancelot’s attention is diverted) until one night the sight of a mouse causes her to scream. Ossi’s secret is revealed to Lancelot. But another revelation is due for the young man: she has fallen in love with him.

Here is a story that can only inhabit the realm of fairy tales. To tell it, Lubitsch creates a diegetic world of playful artificiality: sets of hyperbolic caricature (the sun has a face and carriages are drawn by men in horse costumes), serendipitous coincidences (Hilarius literally drops from the sky at the end to give his blessing to the newly married couple), and just a touch of white magic (Hilarius’ hair literally stands on end and turns white when he learns of his daughter’s deception).

As so many historians have pointed out, The Doll was released mere months before the debut of Robert Wiene’s The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920). While they both feature similar themes concerning people being physically controlled by forces outside of their own will, what is most astounding is how similar their visual language is. But where one film covets shadows and gloom, the other cherishes bright, open spaces and jubilation. If The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari is the nightmare of German Expressionism, The Doll is its daydream.

But one of the key elements of The Doll’s success was the casting of Ossi Oswalda as Hilarius’ daughter, the eponymous doll. Trained as a ballet dancer, Ossi made her screen debut in Lubitsch’s Shoe Palace Pinkus in 1916. From there she would go on to become one of Germany’s great silent film stars, appearing in numerous comedies (many of which were also helmed by Lubitsch). Film historians Hans-Michael Bock and Tim Bergfelder described her as having a “cinematic alter ego of a hyperactive, coquettish, spoilt Lolita whose anarchic antics caused havoc amid the films’ sedate and ordered Prussian surroundings, but who invariably got tamed in time for the happy end.” In some of her earlier films, Ossi’s persona bordered on the childishly petulant and infantile.

But she hit the right balance in The Doll: playful without being irresponsible, flirtatious without seeming puerile, and just kind enough that we can believe that she is a woman who would actually volunteer to act like a doll. The genius in Ossi’s performance is that we never get the sense that she isn’t in control of her situation. She could easily escape her predicament, but she chooses not to. At first it’s because it’s an adventure and she’s just having too much fun playing along. But then, unexpectedly, her feelings evolve into love.

The Doll was made during a period of explosive creativity for Lubitsch. In just a few years he would direct, in addition to a number of straight dramas, a group of excellent romantic comedies that pushed the boundaries of gender norms and sexual ethics. Three of the best were also collaborations with Ossi. I Don’t Want to Be a Man (1918) featured her as a woman who cross-dresses to escape the boring life and societal expectations of a young lady. The Oyster Princess (1919) saw her as a bratty American heiress whose father “buys” her a prince to marry. And finally, The Wild Cat (1921) saw her at her most anarchic as the leader of a group of mountain bandits who falls in love with a lothario lieutenant assigned to a nearby border fortress.

Along with The Doll, these films were stylistically audacious and featured tightly knit endings where Ossi was neatly paired off with the character she was most meant to be with (don’t let her affections for the lieutenant in The Wild Cat fool you). But the romantic intrigue in The Doll is the most convincing by merit of the film’s deliberate evocation of the fairy tale.

A closing word, then, about the Lubitsch Touch. The elusive Touch is a much discussed je ne sais quoi that permeates Lubitsch’s work. Nobody can seem to agree just what the Touch is. But it exists. And I see it displayed in a marvelous scene near the end of The Doll. When Lancelot takes Ossi to the monastery where he has been staying, he leaves her in the dining room with a group of gluttonous monks. They peer over at her and she begins to dance. The monks gleefully join her until their abbot comes in and chases them away. Close-up on the abbot’s face. Cut to a close-up on Ossi’s bare ankles. We fear the worst. But then he positions himself next to her and begins to mimic her movements. It wasn’t sex he wanted, but to join in the dance.

9/10

The Wildcat: Ernst Lubitsch

For good melodrama to work, the audience has to emphasize with the characters. Ernst Lubitsch's The Wildcat is a wildly inventive romantic comedy that hurts itself by forgetting this important rule. The film follows the romantic entanglements of the occupants of a military border fortress and the eponymous "wildcat," the de facto leader of a group of bandits named Rischka. There is some impress visual gymnastics involved in Lubitsch's lampooning of military life: the foolhardy commander sending out an armed force to defeat the bandits of which around 70% of the troops are musicians, a bandit wedding where the participants treat the proceedings with all of the reserved pomp of a royal ceremony, and the ubiquitous use of outrageous camera masks which seem to lampoon the works of D.W. Griffith. But where the film fails is in its unrepentantly repugnant male lead, Lieutenant Alexis. He impenitently abandons a literal army of bastard children and their mothers to their fates before becoming the toast of the border fortress. Every woman who meets him falls madly in love with him. And here's the kicker: we are never explained why he is so attractive. He never has to woo anybody, either. He just goes about with a smarmy grin as everything falls into his lap. There is no charisma to his character. So when Rischka, an anarchic spirit of liberation, falls so madly in love with him that she desires marriage, we can't help but feel it is unaccountably inexplicable. So the tragic moments where Rischka must abandon her beloved ring hollow. This film apes the mechanics of melodrama without capturing a bit of its pathos. Still, the film's visuals are unique enough to warrant a viewing...and even subsequent admiration.

7/10

The Oyster Princess: Ernst Lubitsch

Ernst Lubitsch's The Oyster Princess is a sweet and silly story about love, wealth, and mistaken identities. By 1919, the year it was released, Lubitsch had begun to develop his own visual style of storytelling seeped in sophistication. Eventually this would come to be known as the "Lubitsch Touch." The film follows an almost love triangle between a spoiled American heiress, a down-on-his-luck prince, and his long-suffering friend/assistant. The assistant, ordered to vet the heiress, ends up marrying her under the assumed identity of the prince. And from there things go humorously awry. There are two very interesting things about The Oyster Princess. First is Lubitsch's aforementioned visual style. He portrays the household of the American heiress like a mechanized factory: lines of servants robotically carry out commands, the mansion is much too big for its few inhabitants, and everything is mercilessly sterile. I read one observation online that astutely compared a scene where the heiress is bathed by several maids to an automated assembly line. This leads to the second area of interest in The Oyster Princess: the portrayal of Americans. Lubitsch's Old World sensibilities perhaps made it impossible for him to resist poking fun at the New World nouveau riche. At times it is almost impossible to tell whether he is being light-hearted or genuinely malicious towards his American characters. I'm still not sure. Perhaps both. Remember, The Oyster Princess was made one year after America helped defeat Germany in World War One. You make the call.

7/10

I Don’t Want to Be a Man: Ernst Lubitsch

Ernst Lubitsch's I Don't Want to Be a Man is a film ripe for scholastic rediscovery: it is a subtly subversive gender-bender about a young woman who poses as a man in order to live a more libertine life but falls in love with her caretaker. That the caretaker is male is not surprising. That they share a "same-sex" kiss is shocking (for the year it was released, I mean). That the film and its characters don't seem to pass judgment on the "same-sex" couple is downright stunning. The humor in their relationship comes less from their gender hijinks and more from the fact that a free-spirited young woman and an uptight, prissy man fall in love. And then, after getting fabulously drunk, the two are accidentally deposited in the other person's house by their carriage-driver. Honestly, the film could have worked perfectly fine without the last minute reveal of the young woman's gender. But though the film is potentially fascinating for historians, I fear that it would try the patience of modern viewers. Setting aside the obviously ludicrous moral that men have a harsher lot in life than women, Ossi Oswalda plays the part of the female lead so childishly that it borders on infantilism. The way she responds to and provokes people in the first third of the film is akin to a toddler knocking over their baby bottle just to get a reaction from their mother. Although this does lead to one funny scene where she throws treats from her second-story window into the outstretched mouths of nearly a dozen young suitors, their faces wide and expectant like seals begging for fish from their trainers.

6/10

Meyer from Berlin: Ernst Lubitsch

Ignoring its rampant antisemitism, Ernst Lubitsch's Meyer from Berlin is not a very good film. It is, in a word, quaint. Much of the humor is dry and depends on dialogue and not body language. One of the main reasons why the silent comedies of Chaplin, Keaton, and Lloyd are still so fresh and entertaining almost 100 years later is that physical comedy is universal. But Meyer from Berlin relies too much on what the characters are saying instead of what they are doing. For silent cinema, that is a death knell. The film itself follows a Jewish Berliner named Sally Meyer (played by director Lubitsch) who fakes an illness to his wife so he can be "prescribed" a trip to the Alps "for his health." While there, Sally immediately starts to romantically pursue a young woman. Their courtship climaxes with a nearly disastrous climb to the top of Mount Watzmann. Visually, the film is plain and unimpressive. Unlike some of his other silent films, Meyer from Berlin merely looks like a movie serial that managed to snag a half-way decent shooting location in the Bavarian Alps.

5/10

Monte Carlo: Ernst Lubitsch

It occurs to me that Ernst Lubitsch's Monte Carlo would make a great companion piece with Rouben Mamoulian's Love Me Tonight (1932). Both films are charming American musicals by European directors that feature plots revolving around romance between members of different social classes. Both film feature a prominent reversal wherein the male protagonist "switches classes" in order to get closer to the object of his desire. But whereas in Love Me Tonight a tailor poses as an aristocrat, in Monte Carlo a count named Rudolph Falliere poses as a hairdresser to be with the Countess Helene Mara, a naive, temperamental young woman who fled to Monte Carlo after leaving her fiancé, Prince Otto Von Liebenheim, at the altar. Both films end with their respective couples confirming their love despite different social classes (although Monte Carlo's anti-class narrative is damaged somewhat be the inevitable revelation that Rudolph is an aristocrat and therefore suitable marriage material for Helene). And both films represent meteoric advancements in the evolution of the cinematic musical. The difference between Monte Carlo and The Broadway Melody (1929), billed as the first feature-length musical, is almost as stark as the difference between The Great Train Robbery (1903) and Stagecoach (1939). Musical numbers flow organically from the dialogue, entire crowds join in the singing, and the audience feels like they are transported to the world of the Movie Musical where people spontaneously sing and dance to express their feelings (contrary to The Broadway Melody which ostensibly takes place in "reality" where performers, for the most part, save the singing and dancing for the stage). The sophisticated grace of the "Lubitsch Touch" is on full display here with its delicate, mannered humor. I'm reminded of one scene where Rudolph storms out of a room after an argument. Instead of going around a couch in his way, he steps on top of it. There is even an insert shot where his foot is shown in extreme close-up stepping on top of the fabric. It lasts for only a fraction of a second, but it is as characteristically Lubitsch as anything he ever did in his films: only a man truly at wit's end would dare step on top of a couch. Lubitsch knows this and he makes sure that his audience appreciates this faux pas of bad manners.

8/10

The Shop Around the Corner: Ernst Lubitsch

When I was growing up, one of my father's favorite movies was Nora Ephron's You've Got Mail (1998). He saw it seven times in the theaters on seven consecutive Mondays (his day off). He was one of the first people who bought it when it was eventually released on VHS. And let me tell you...he watched it all the time. Consequently, I also watched it all the time. The film was based on the play Parfumerie by Miklós László. It turns out that another film released several decades earlier was also based on that play. That film was Ernst Lubitsch's The Shop Around the Corner. The film's basic story revolves around two employees at a gift shop in Budapest who unwittingly fall in love with each other via anonymous letters. The only problem is that in real life they hate each other. The man, played by James Stewart, is Alfred Kralik, a salesman who desperately wants more out of life. The woman, played by Margaret Sullavan, is Klara Novak. She is repulsed by Kralik. Their relationship is only one part of an over-arching milieu concerning the gift shop. It's charming to watch Lubitsch create a little microcosm within the gift shop. There's the anxious owner, the precocious delivery boy, the crass womanizer, and so on and so on.  Perhaps that's the "Lubitsch Touch" at work. The Shop Around the Corner isn't my favorite Lubitsch film. But I enjoyed it. Now to just get my dad to watch it. I'll bet I can trick him into thinking that somehow Lubitsch ripped Nora Ephron off.

7/10

Design for Living: Ernst Lubitsch

Here's a film that I firmly believe wouldn't have been popular or memorable if not for the risque plot and central character dynamic.  Quite simply, it is about a trio of Americans who initiate a ménage-à-trois in France.  The two men, one an artist and the other a playwright, are smitten by Gilda, a young woman who works for an advertising executive.  She can't decide between the two of them, so she chooses to live with both.  She then gleefully bounces from one bed to the other, oblivious to how her affairs torture the two of them.  This was a film by the legendary Ernst Lubitsch.  But with the exception of a few scenes, it feels absent of the infamous "Lubitsch touch."  It feels dry, formulaic, and contrived.  Not to mention that by the end, we aren't cheering for the three of them, but for the two men to leave Gilda.

6/10