The Cabinet of Dr Caligari with Minima's live score
The film is stunning to look at, a nightmarish vision of a claustrophobic world in which terrible things happen.
This is Minima's third appearance at the Norwich Film Festival, performing live accompaniment to a classic silent film. Shortly after last year's showing of Phantom, I idly suggested that Caligari should be next, but no prize is warranted for getting it right. Along with Nosferatu, shown two years ago, the three films represent the unholy trinity of influential silent film. Caligari is arguably the odd one out, a landmark of German Expressionist cinema and a potent political allegory. A psychological horror story about manipulation, madness, murder and the instability of reality. At least that's the generally accepted view. It wasn't the film I saw, but more of that later.
This was, after all, a live gig by the band Minima, who have all but cornered the market in live accompaniment of seminal films. They're not the only people at it – the Cornish Sound Unit accompanied Mark Jenkin's Rose of Nevada at this year's End of the Road festival – but no one does it better. Seated to the far right, most of the group were tucked away beyond my field of vision, but guitar, bass and cello could be heard to memorable effect. Much of the heavy lifting, however, was handled by Mick Frangou on percussion, on the other side of the stage, and fascinating to watch. This was, in large part, due to the frenetic energy of the screen.
In contrast to Nosferatu's shadowy menace or the Phantom's inappropriate crush, The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari featured all the fun of the fair, murderous intrigue and Conrad Veidt's vertiginous escape through a stylised, studio-bound landscape. The syntax of the images on screen seemed far more aligned to modern cinema. Its compositions, framing and visual storytelling felt surprisingly contemporary, allowing the accompanying music to slot – seemingly effortlessly – into place. Whereas in previous performances I'd been intrigued by Minima's choice of music, on this occasion – and I say this positively – I frequently forgot they were there.
So what to make of the film? Siegfried Kracauer argued that the film reflected a deep-seated German psychological tendency to submit to authoritarian power rather than embrace individual freedom and resist tyranny. It's also viewed as a seminal work of German Expressionism: its distorted sets, angular architecture, exaggerated shadows, unnatural perspectives and stylised performances reflect madness, anxiety and fear. It's certainly stunning to look at, a nightmarish vision of a claustrophobic world in which terrible things happen. It's also brilliantly paced, with a narrative that charges along relentlessly. And that twist ending – no spoilers here – serves as a template for everything from Don't Look Now to Shutter Island. But I'm less convinced by the grander claims made on its behalf.
German Expressionism had effectively peaked by the time Caligari was made, having been largely neutered by the Great War. I saw a film serendipitously using the motifs of the movement, rather than being a part of it. This was an experimental film, for sure, but that meant a limited budget. As the movie's producer, Erich Pommer, tellingly revealed:
“They wanted to experiment, and I wanted to keep the costs down.”
The writer Hans Janowitz claimed that he and Carl Mayer had intended their screenplay to be a critique of arbitrary, oppressive authority, but only years after the film had gained a reputation for subtext. This may have lined up with Siegfried Kracauer's theory, but here's the problem. Janowitz and Mayer strongly objected to the framing device imposed by director Robert Wiene, as they felt it undermined their anti-authoritarian message, yet Kracauer requires those bookends to make sense of the theory.
All in all, that seems an awful lot of baggage for the film to carry, ultimately diminishing its impact. The film I saw led me to conclude something quite different. I was struck by the protagonist's extraordinary powers of observation, deduction and persuasion, and by the way the other characters conveniently cooperate with his investigation. In essence, it's got issues. My thinking is that Wiene recognised the naivety of the screenplay and, rather than simply film an implausible adventure, introduced a psychological explanation. And here comes the spoiler, so reader beware. It turns out the implausible narrative is something Francis has constructed while locked in the asylum. It's a twist that Amicus Films would have been proud of. The writers understandably objected to a framing device that exposes the implausibility of their narrative, but it's actually the salvation of a movie that only subsequently has subtext projected onto it. That's what I think, anyway.
Does this make it a lesser film? I would argue the contrary. What it demonstrates is how the collaborative process, almost unique to cinema, can through alchemy and happenstance produce a hugely influential work, tempered by pragmatic decisions and commercial realities. Whatever the truth of the matter, now lost to time, the opportunity to see it as intended, on the big screen and accompanied by live music, was an unparalleled treat. What next for Minima at the festival? I've had a sneaky peek at their repertoire and it's not listed, but my vote would go to Benjamin Christensen's Häxan. If that happens, I really will claim it as my idea.
