The Testament of Dr. Mabuse (1933)

Fritz Lang's THE TESTAMENT OF DOCTOR MABUSE is a confounding film. It's thoroughly satisfying, even though its resolution resolves nothing. It provides the thrills and chills found in pulp fiction of the era, though it lacks the formulaic story structure (and quaint moralizing) of those tales. It's a mystery, of sorts, that is never adequately explained, and it's an adventure without traditional protagonists. Though the movie has its share of heroic figures, none of them accomplish anything more profound than saving their own necks.

I have to wonder what Lang hoped to accomplish with this story. It's a fascinating bit of film that can be as subtle as it is heavy handed. Despite the care and planning that went into constructing every scene in the film, one of its best moments happens to be one of its shortest: Professor Baum, played by Hungarian actor Oscar Beregi Sr., walks past a wall that's been covered in posters soliciting information for unsolved murders. Are they the work of the crime cult organized by Doctor Mabuse? Is Baum really the man pulling the strings of the cult? And, if so, is he even aware of it? Baum doesn't even spare a glance at the pageantry of death as he walks by the posters, which makes the scene all the more chilling.

As the movie begins, it's been a decade since Doctor Mabuse was arrested following string of violent, bizarre crimes. A resident of an insane asylum, Mabuse has kept himself busy despite his catatonia. Even though his mind is gone, his hand continues to write. When a pen is placed in his hand, it scrawls plans for murder, robbery, arson and blackmail. Those plans gradually find their way to the outside world where a new "Reign of Crime" begins.

The trail to Mabuse leads to an endless series of curtains, cutouts and brick walls. Mabuse, who becomes the prime suspect in the crime, promptly dies, all while a handful of seemingly unrelated crimes continue to point in his direction. Mabuse (whose name is rarely spoken aloud by his many followers) is treated with the sort of reverence usually reserved for gods. Even his henchmen engage in almost-theological discussions about their employer and his mysterious methods. And those who try to prove his existence are met with frustrsation, if not death.

It's hard not to see the similarities between the crime cult's thug-like behavior and those of the Nazis, who were still consolidating their power in Germany when the film was produced. Both the criminals and the Nazis answered to shadowy figureheads who prized obedience more than innovation, and it's no coincidence that the film's heroes are the ones who think and speak for themselves. Even though Lang makes no direct reference to the political climate in late 1930's Germany, its subtext was enough to keep the film from being screened in his homeland until several decades after World War II. Even then, it was shown with an abbreviated running time.

This commentary is tarted up as the kind of pulpy potboiler you'd find in a BATMAN comicbook, only minus the caped crusader. The closest thing the movie has to romantic leads find themselves trapped in a room with a ticking timebomb (a room that is also filling with water.) There are phantom voices, madmen, explosions and so many interlocking conspiracies that you'd swear the script was the work of Mabuse, himself, as he scribbled away in his asylum cell.

On this level, THE TESTAMENT OF DOCTOR MABUSE functions like a well-oiled, well-edited movie serial. If that were all the movie had to offer it would probably be enough, but it was made by a man who understood his craft like few directors ever would. Lang was the kind of filmmaker the world wouldn't see again until Steven Spielberg, a director who could make crowdpleasers with both heart and substance. There are a few scattered moments of outright horror in the movie, such as the huge, alien eyes that make up most of Mabuse's ghostly face. Generally, though, Lang created a fantasy grounded in a warped version of reality. Comparisons to 2008's THE DARK KNIGHT are appropriate.



Even though THE TESTAMENT OF DOCTOR MABUSE doesn't share the Old Testament morality of the pulps, the movie has an alarmingly accusatory tone. At times it's a little like having a conversation with someone who doesn't understand personal boundaries.  Lang's insistence on having the actors look into the camera for many of the film's more dramatic sequences forces a very quiet form of audience participation. There were times I wondered if Lang was intentionally screwing with his audience. Even the opening sequence is largely silent as the sound of a printing press drowns out all dialogue as it cranks out reams of counterfeit money. Almost ten minutes pass before a single word of dialogue is spoken. More to the point, Mabuse, himself, doesn't speak at any point in the film. The film is a sequel to Lang's silent DOCTOR MABUSE THE GAMBLER, released ten years earlier, and it appears Lang intended to cast his villain as a relic of the past. But that doesn't mean the villain doesn't have a thing or two to still teach the future.

(NOTE: Director ANSEL FARAJ  is currently in post production on a new film about DOCTOR MABUSE. Listen to my interview with Faraj in THE COLLINSPORT HISTORICAL SOCIETY podcast.)

Commentary: METROPOLIS (1927)

By WALLACE McBRIDE

Science fiction certainly existed before Fritz Lang’s METROPOLIS, but it had never before been rendered with such finality of vision on the silver screen. The movie is something more than ground breaking ... it is ground making, a cinematic equivalent of the Rosetta Stone for fantasy films.

Based on a novel by Thea von Harbou, the story is a not-too-subtle criticism of the “realities” of labor. The movie is about a class-struggle between the two populations of a mythic city: a class of people that toil endlessly underground, and the “Masters of Metropolis” who live in the peaks of the city’s vast skyline.


The meat of the tale concerns Johhan Frederson, a young master of Metropolis who begins to doubt the merit of his lifestyle. After a mysterious woman named Maria shows him some of the wretched youth of the city, Frederson ventures below to get a better look at how the other 99 percent live. The children he sees are as different from Frederson’s people as the living are from the dead, and the world below comes across as an industrial-strength Hieronymus Bosch painting.

During his visit, he watches as workers struggle to keep up with the vague demands of the city’s machinery. Disaster strikes and, as workers begin to die, Frederson takes the place of one and learns first-hand the rigors of hard labor.

Frederson doesn’t operate the machine as much as battle it, and barely survives the experience.
After the disaster, the city’s elite learn that the workers are planning a revolt, and Frederson’s father puts a plan into motion that he thinks will weed out the malcontents. Rotwang, a wizard/inventor, supplies him with a robot that merges man with machine. “Now we have no further use for living workers,” he proclaims and unveils the real star of the show: a decidedly feminine robot seated at the base of a giant, inverted pentagram.

Rotwang eventually replaces Maria with a humanized version of his robot, who stirs the workers to violent revolt rather than peaceful resolution. Frederson gets caught up in the revolt, trying to establish peaceful change as the masses threaten his own father and family.

If the setting doesn’t make much sense, it’s with good reason. “Metropolis” isn’t as much a movie as a window into the dreams and anxieties of a long-passed and foreign world. While the method is dated, the message is not. The threat of Rotwang’s vision of inhuman humanity, as well as the need for a careful balance between society and industry, is possibly more relevant today than it was in 1927.

For mostly external reasons, it’s a very difficult movie to evaluate. So much of it’s grace may be found in the quaint nature of silent films, with its broad pantomimes and exaggerated gesturing. But Lang created a world with an endless landscape ... not many people ever question the location of the story. Where is Metropolis? How big is the city, and does it have any boundaries? How can the majority of a city’s population be employed by a single entity, and what exactly are they producing? None of these questions have ever really mattered because Lang knew the story — as do all stories — takes place entirely in the heads of his audience.