For years I’d heard that Batman creators Bob Kane and Bob Finger drew their inspiration for the Joker from the title character, Gynplaine, in the silent film, The Man Who Laughs, although, as the Wikipedia article on the Dark Knight’s uber-villain states, another Batman pioneer, Jerry Robinson claimed the idea came more directly from the Joker playing card. So, I finally rented the movie from Netflix and it was a revelation. It didn’t resolve the Joker’s origin source but it did remind me how great silent Hollywood films could be and how under-appreciated that era is.
As the marvelous special features point out, Universal Studios, hoping to perpetuate their successful series of Lon Chaney horror films, which included an adaptation of Victor Hugo’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame, next chose another of the author’s books, The Man Who Laughs. The historical epic, set mostly in the early 1700s, concerns the son of a British nobleman, Gwynplaine, who is ordered by the king to be mutilated. Gypsies fulfill the king’s command by carving the boy’s mouth into a permanently gruesome grin. The abandoned boy trudges through the snow and discovers an enfant in the arms of his dead mother, Taking the baby in his arms the boy eventually comes upon some traveling performers whose leader, Ursus, adopts them both. He soon discovers that the girl, whom he names Dea, is blind. The children grow up under his care, joining the troupe with Gwynplaine (played by the great German actor Conrad Veidt) becoming the star of the show as “the Man Who Laughs,” a draw for the commoners who flock to his performances that includes Dea. She has fallen in love with Gwynplaine, who knows she would spurn him if she knew what he really looked like. This YouTube ten-minute segment, part of what appears to be the entire film, indicates the visual beauty of the production.
Things really get complicated when the Duchess who has been granted Gwynplaine’s father’s hereditary estate sees the deformed man’s performance and, perversely drawn to him, bids him meet her at what is actually his own family residence. In an horrendous scene, she tries to seduce him as Veidt acts entirely with his eyes, wide with terror, his fixed grin partially covered by a scarf. Things get only more difficult from here.
Universal poured all of its resources into a splendid production and integrated elements of German expressionism, with it’s use of emotional acting styles and shadowy sets. In 1928, sound recording on film had just arrived and the studio had to decide whether it would be a silent or talkie. The issue was resolved when the dental prosthesis that kept Veidt’s mouth in its hideous grin made it impossible for him to say his lines and dialogue was kept to the title cards but the musical accompaniment and some sound effects and crowd vocalizations went on the soundtrack. The film’s director Paul Leni, keeps the camera moving throughout the film to dramatic effect reminding us just how dynamic silent film was. The film is unforgettable and I can see why Batman’s creators could claim it inspired the Joker. This side by side comparison looks like pretty solid substantiation of the inspiration. If you’re looking for a high-class Hollywood horror film this Halloween season, I suggest you treat yourself to The Man Who Laughs.
I’ll certainly have to look for this film soon. It’s ironic that you should review a silent film here, as the last 4 films I’ve recently seen were all silents. I guess you could say I’ve been digging into that bygone era as of late, and am amazed at how good (and tragically under-appreciated) some of those films are.
First off, last week I snuck into a USC international cinema course at the invite of a friend who’s a student there and they’re covering the time of film history around 1927-1929, right at the advent of sound. Their main lecture was on Soviet Cinema and I found it thoroughly enjoyable considering that I wrote my largest paper in the honors program at PBA about the artistic restraints in Soviet Cinema under the reign of Stalin and Lenin, and how filmmakers like Sergei Eisenstein found their way around those barriers. I did extensive research on the theories and films of Eisenstein in particular, and so this lecture was a nice refresher and reminded me of the many long nights in the library devouring the theories and ideas of montage seen in early Soviet propaganda films. They showed clips from “Battleship Potemkin” of course, most notably the infamous Odessa Steps sequence that I had seen numerous times at PBA, and it continues to fascinate in it’s scale, execution, and editing. They then discussed the work of Dziga Vertov and showed clips from his film “Man With A Movie Camera,” a crazy travelogue/documentary/film-within-a-film experience that exercised his theories on film-as-truth and the uncensored view of the world presented by the lens of a movie camera.
Next thing you know, they wrap up the lecture on Soviet Cinema and move on their feature screening of the week that will lead into the following weeks discussion, and they proceed to dim the lights and show Carl Theodor Dreyer’s magnificent 1928 film “The Passion of Joan of Arc” in it’s entirety on the big screen. I had never seen this film before and I must admit it was a rather emotional journey, the mixture of intense close-ups and brilliant black and white cinematography along with strong performances from the central players is enough to chew on for hours after the images on the screen have faded.
From there it was back home to read more in my current Hollywood book-of-the-month, something I’ve tried to make a habit of as of late – picking up and reading a biography or history of a major cinema history figure or movement to continue my self-education out here. I’m making my way through Jeffrey Vance’s very well written and researched new biography on Douglas Fairbanks that is self-titled simply that, “Douglas Fairbanks”. I have a little under 100 pages left, and I strongly recommend getting a copy for yourself or for the library there at PBA, it’s a great read and has many rare behind-the-scenes production stills and archival photographs contained within as well. After this I’m waiting on a copy of the new biography of Victor Fleming to become available from the library for my next read – “Victor Fleming: An American Movie Master” by Michael Sragow. Reading the biography of the life and films of Douglas Fairbanks though has made me find a deeper appreciation for him as an industry forefather for American cinema and I’ve enjoyed screening both his 1920 film “The Mark of Zorro” and 1924 film “The Thief of Bagdad” within the last week. “Bagdad” in particular is quickly becoming a favorite of mine, with the amazing effects and photography emersed in the production design of William Cameron Menzies. You could see this film a hundred times and still see something new in the art direction and set design upon each screening. I’m trying to track down a copy of Fairbanks 1922 “Robin Hood” right now from the local library…
And finally, all this to say, I think this week I’m going to sit down and enjoy F.W. Murnau’s 1922 ode to horror and German Expressionism “Nosferatu”, they’re screening it this coming Monday the 26th of October on TCM in the wee hours of the morning (or late hours of the 25th depending on your time zone I suppose). Ah… so little time, so many great silent films left to discover.
It truly is a unique era of cinema history that is sadly all too often overlooked except for a small contingent of cinephiles, and I wish more people were aware of just how amazing and well crafted some of these classics are. Thanks for the review of “The Man Who Laughed”, I’ll have to add it to my list!
Comment by Benjamin Friday — October 23, 2009 @ 8:36 am |