Only essential props were needed along with suitable costumes and some clever lighting to emphasise the contrast with deep chiaroscuro shadows, thus concealing a multitude of shortcomings. Letting go of the pretense of realism and embracing the Expressionistic approach meant that painting windows, doors, objects, in an exaggerated manner, with dramatic distortions created some striking sets. Thing is, they’d look cheap unless something inventive was done with them. To meet the demand, studios welcomed any measures that could cut costs.
For a time, theatres were banned from showing foreign films, and yet the public were flocking to the picture houses as a cheap form of entertainment as the value of their Deutschemarks rapidly declined. It wasn’t long after the dawn of cinema, so there were no established conventions anyhow and filmmakers were creatively unfettered. Sadly, the reactionary Nazi Regime were on the rise and would deem it ‘degenerate’, but not before the style had left its indelible mark on world cinema.Įarly German Expressionist films grew from a spirited response to miniscule budgets. It was the art of the nascent Weimar Republic, attempting to map-out a new German identity before the nation’s economic failure. It embodied an ideal of social equality, whilst addressing the problems that had led Germany into World War I and its dire aftermath. German Expressionism was a product of a national aspiration. The busy, neo-cubist compositions of George Grosz or Otto Dix, perhaps? The opening shots of carousels, drumming clowns, top-hatted gents, and bustling punters, are dreamlike yet dynamic-created with an overlay of imagery reminiscent of contemporary German Expressionist painters. That’s quite a cast for the time! Those with an enthusiasm for silent horror will know John Gottowt as Professor Bulwer, the Van Helsing character in F.W Murnau’s Nosferatu (1922), and Werner Krauss as the titular mesmerist in The Cabinet of Dr Caligari (1920), which also starred Conrad Veidt as his zombie ‘somnambulist’, and Emil Jannings appeared in Murnau’s Faust (1926). Observant viewers may note his pedestal is labelled ‘Jack the Ripper’. We’re introduced to Haroun-al-Rashid (Emil Jannings), Ivan the Terrible (Conrad Veidt), and a figure introduced by caption as Spring-Heeled Jack (Werner Krauss). The job entails writing “startling stories” about three (or four) historic figures immortalised as wax statues-so real that they’re actually played by actors.
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