Nosferatu the Vampyre (Werner Herzog, 1979)

Isabelle Adjani and Klaus Kinski in Nosferatu the Vampyre

Cast: Klaus Kinski, Isabelle Adjani, Bruno Ganz, Roland Topor, Walter Ladengast, Dan van Husen, Jan Groth, Carsten Bodinus, Martje Grohmann. Screenplay: Werner Herzog, based on a novel by Bram Stoker and a film by F.W. Murnau. Cinematography: Jörg Schmidt-Reitwein. Production design: Henning von Gierke. Film editing: Beate Mainka-Jellinghaus. Music: Florian Fricke, Popol Vuh. 

Werner Herzog's Nosferatu gets a little choppy in its efforts to blend both Bram Stoker's novel Dracula and F.W. Murnau's 1922 film Nosferatu. The latter was an "unofficial" version of the novel, which the producers neglected to obtain the rights to film, and it was almost suppressed. But the potency of Max Schreck's embodiment of Dracula (called "Count Orlok" in the Murnau film) remained, and it informs Klaus Kinski's makeup and manner in Herzog's version. Herzog did a lot of tinkering with the Stoker version -- Jonathan Harker's wife is Lucy, not Mina as in the novel, and Dr. Von Helsing is not the vampirologist of the book but rather an elderly scientific skeptic -- but he stayed generally faithful to it almost to the end, when he switched to the denouement of the Murnau film and then added his own shocker twist. The homage to Murnau is apparent not only in Kinski's imitation of Schreck, but also in Isabelle Adjani's performance as Lucy, which is built on silent-movie mannerisms, including effective use of her great haunted eyes. Even though it's full of images designed to shock and disgust, including a plethora of rats, Herzog's film is often quite beautiful, especially in the scenes set in the Carpathian Mountains (actually filmed in Slovakia and the Bavarian Alps) and the views of the quaint town called Wismar in the film, but actually shot in the town of Delft and several other villages in the Netherlands. The performances are all that they should be, including Bruno Ganz's determined Harker, whose character twist at the film's end seems organic to the performance, and Roland Topor's giggly Renfield, which often seems to parody Peter Lorre. Dracula is so familiar and fertile a source for movies that it probably will never receive a definitive version, but Herzog's makes a good bid for it.  

The Reader (Stephen Daldry, 2008)

The Reader (Stephen Daldry, 2008)

Cast: Kate Winslet, Ralph Fiennes, David Kross, Bruno Ganz, Lena Olin, Matthias Habich, Hannah Herzsprung, Susanne Lothar. Screenplay: David Hare, based on a novel by Bernhard Schlink. Cinematography: Roger Deakins, Chris Menges. Production design: Brigitte Broch. Film editing: Claire Simpson. Music: Nico Muhly.

I haven't read the novel by Bernhard Schlink, but it seems to have presented the filmmakers with two problems they never quite solved. One is technical: How do you deal with the structuring of the story as the reminiscences of a middle-aged man about his youthful affair with an older woman? Do you cast one actor and make him younger or older with makeup? (Digital aging or de-aging, despite its use in films like Peyton Reed's 2015 film Ant-Man, in which Michael Douglas was "youthened," hasn't quite reached the level needed for a film like The Reader, in which Michael Berg ranges from his mid-teens to his 50s.) Or do you cast two actors, even though the audience knows that 18-year-old David Kross could never grow up to look like Ralph Fiennes? The solution reached by the producers of The Reader was to trust in an audience's suspension of disbelief and the skill of the actors. Thanks to the latter, it almost works. But a more serious obstacle is how to deal with the moral complexities presented by any story that involves the Holocaust. In The Reader, we're presented with the problem faced by Michael Berg: reacting to the revelation that the woman who provided his sexual initiation was a war criminal. On the page, such an ethical dilemma can be explored in many ways because the reader has time to reflect on its implications. But movies demand a more immediate and visceral reaction, and the film version of The Reader runs the risk of trivializing the moral issues it raises. Are we to excuse Hanna Schmitz's heinous actions because she was struggling with her own insecurities? Are we to think that literacy is a cure for moral blindness? David Hare's screenplay is too intelligent and Stephen Daldry's direction too sure-footed to keep us from veering off into such reductions to absurdity, but nevertheless the filmmakers seem to me to have bitten off more than they can chew in taking on a story that can't be summed up glibly. Fortunately, the acting is uniformly fine, and the film earned Kate Winslet the Oscar that had eluded her on five previous nominations. Kross is exceptionally good as well, convincingly moving from love-smitten adolescent to conscience-stricken young adult. Fiennes does what he can with the thankless role of vehicle for an extended flashback.

Downfall (Oliver Hirschbiegel, 2004)

Ulrich Matthes and Bruno Ganz in Downfall

Adolf Hitler: Bruno Ganz
Traudl Junge: Alexandra Maria Laga
Magda Goebbels: Corinna Harfouch
Joseph Goebbels: Ulrich Matthes
Eva Braun: Juliane Köhler
Albert Speer: Heino Ferch
Ernst-Günter Schenk: Christian Berkel
Werner Haase: Matthias Habich
Hermann Fegelein: Thomas Kretschmann
Gen. Weidling: Michael Mendl
Heinrich Himmler: Ulrich Noethen

Director: Oliver Hirschbiegel
Screenplay: Bernd Eichinger
Based on books by Joachim Fest and Traudl Junge and Melissa Müller
Cinematography: Rainer Klausmann
Production design: Bernd Lepel
Film editing: Hans Funck
Music: Stephan Zacharias

Downfall may be best known today for memes: the video parodies that take parts of the film, particularly the ranting of Bruno Ganz's Hitler, and supply new subtitles that spoof everything from contemporary politics to the efforts of the producers to suppress the parodies on YouTube because of copyright concerns. The producers were misguided: The parodies probably led more people to watch the actual film than would have without their notoriety. It's a well-made film, particularly because it manages to deal with an inherent problem: Would a dramatization of the last days of Hitler and his coterie tend to glamorize their futile struggle to survive, turning it into something like heroism? Ganz's superb performance helps the film sidestep that danger: His Hitler is humanized, to be sure, even to the point of once shedding a tear, but ultimately it's a portrait of repellent fanaticism and megalomania. He's a twitchy old man, one hand held behind his back in a palsied claw, but it's easy to see how the rather beleaguered men and women who surround him could be filled with a terrified awe of the man. I'm not particularly happy with the framing of Downfall, however. I think the decision to see much of the story through the eyes of Hitler's pretty secretary, Traudl Junge, shifts the focus away from the desperate horror of the final days, using a somewhat glossy survival story to keep the audience entertained. The footage of the real Traudl Junge that begins and ends the film doesn't much help illuminate why the "ordinary" German could be hoodwinked by Nazism, and her insistence that she didn't know of the true horrors of the Reich feels a little specious. There are, however, some moments of genuine drama in the film that emphasize how foul a spell Hitler cast over his followers, particularly the hysterical collapse of the otherwise icy Magda Goebbels at Hitler's feet when she realize the end is at hand. She pulls herself together and then proceeds to systematically murder her five children. I also liked the depiction of the cynicism of the Nazis who, when someone reminds them of the plight of the German people, sneeringly retort that it was their fault for bringing them to power in the first place. There's a lesson in the film somewhere for contemporary Americans, but I don't want to be the one to spell it out. Kudos to Stephan Zacharias for avoiding Wagnerian clichés in his score, although I thought the quotation from Purcell's aria "When I Am Laid in Earth" might have been a touch too sentimental.

The American Friend (Wim Wenders, 1977)

Bruno Ganz and Dennis Hopper in The American Friend

Tom Ripley: Dennis Hopper
Jonathan Zimmermann: Bruno Ganz
Marianne Zimmermann: Lisa Kreuzer
Raoul Minot: Gérard Blain
Derwatt: Nicholas Ray
The American: Samuel Fuller
Marcangelo: Peter Lilienthal
Ingraham: Daniel Schmidt
Rodolphe: Lou Castel

Director: Wim Wenders
Screenplay: Wim Wenders
Based on a novel by Patricia Highsmith
Cinematography: Robby Müller
Music: Jürgen Knieper
Film editing: Peter Przygodda

When I called Point Blank (John Boorman, 1967) "stoner noir" yesterday, I thought I had pretty much exhausted the genre with the exception of Robert Altman's The Long Goodbye (1973). But then I watched The American Friend and realized my error. Actually, the plot and milieu of The American Friend, loosely adapted from Patricia Highsmith's Ripley's Game, is material more for a thriller than for film noir's brooding exploration of the lower depths of criminality. Here we are in what might be called the upper depths: art fraud and murder for hire. But mostly The American Friend is an exercise in watching the phenomenon that was Dennis Hopper, who came to the set fresh from the horrors, the horrors of working on Apocalypse Now (Francis Ford Coppola, 1979). It is, as most of Hopper's performances were, an exercise in self-destruction. And perfectly cast against him, in what was his first important film, is Bruno Ganz, struggling to keep his head. Ganz and Hopper eventually came to blows off-set, and then spent a night drinking their way into a fast friendship and an entertaining tandem performance. There is a blink-and-you'll-miss-it character to the film's set-up exposition about why mild-mannered picture framer Jonathan Zimmermann gets caught up in the manipulations of Tom Ripley and Raul Minot, but it doesn't matter much. Zimmermann's first job for Minot is beautifully staged, with just enough eccentric touches -- Zimmermann colliding with a dumpster and a stranger (Jean Eustache, one of the director cronies Wenders cast in his film) offering him a Band-Aid -- to make it more than routine thriller stalking. And the sequence on the train is a classic of cutting between on-location and studio set filming, culminating in Zimmerman's exhilarated scream from the view port on the engine. To my taste, The American Friend is a little too loosey-goosey in exposition and a little too self-indulgent in its director cameos, making it catnip for cinéastes but maybe not solid enough for mainstream viewers. The thriller bones show through, making me want to see the material done a little more slickly and conventionally. But as personal filmmaking goes, it's fascinating.

Watched on Filmstruck Criterion Channel  

Wings of Desire (Wim Wenders, 1987)

Angels are usually a tiresome element in movies. I loathe the stickiness of the way they're conceived in movies like It's a Wonderful Life (Frank Capra, 1946), and even actors of the caliber of Cary Grant and Denzel Washington can't do much with playing them in films like The Bishop's Wife (Henry Koster, 1947) and its remake, The Preacher's Wife (Penny Marshall, 1996). Maybe it's because I subscribe to Rilke's dictum, Ein jeder Engel ist schrecklich -- every angel is terrible. Only a filmmaker of genius like Wim Wenders can transcend the essential cheesiness of their presence in a plot -- a cheesiness that lingers in the American remake of Wings of Desire, City of Angels (Brad Silberberg, 1988). The idea that there are angels watching over our lives, reading our thoughts, but unseen except by other angels and sometimes by children, is not a very original one. But what distinguishes the working out of this idea by Wenders and scenarists Peter Handke and Richard Reitlinger is the empathetic approach to them as beings who have been around since Creation, watching the course of humankind and unable to alter it, and occasionally so moved by what they see that they choose to give up immortality and become human. And that these angels have a specific territory to cover, in this case the city of Berlin, a nexus of human cruelty and human suffering. Even so, the concept could easily slip into banality without the blend of humor and melancholy that Wenders brings to it, without performers of the caliber of Bruno Ganz and Otto Sander as the angels Damiel and Cassiel, and without the poetic cinematography of Henri Alekan. It was also an inspired choice to cast Peter Falk as himself, an actor shooting a movie set in the Nazi era who is often stopped on the Berlin streets by people who know him as Columbo, the detective he played on television. It's also a witty touch to have Falk turn out to be an ex-angel, able to sense but not see the presence of Damiel and Cassiel. In many ways, however, the real star of the film is the city of Berlin itself -- although Wenders was prevented from shooting in the eastern sector of the city, he uses the Wall as a kind of correlative to the division between angels and humans. Almost everything works in the film, including the shifts from monochrome (the angels' point of view) to color (the humans'), the shabby little bankrupt circus whose star (Solveig Dommartin) Damiel literally falls for, and the score by Jürgen Knieper. I'm not hip enough to appreciate Nick Cave's songs, but their melancholy eccentricity is an essential part of the texture of the film.