The harder they fall... The Last Laugh (1924) with Jonny Best, BFI

This film has always been on my “ticket list” for watching on the big screen and with a live score: it’s an extraordinary achievement from one of Weimer’s finest actors, possibly it’s greatest director whose images are brought to life by one of the most phenomenal of cameramen.

The Last Laugh, original entitled, Der letzte Mann (The Last Man) was a break out success across the cinema world at the time with the New York Times critic Mordaunt Hall describing it as an “highly artistic film masterpiece…” and it has grown in stature subsequently with critic Paul Rotha saying that it "… was cine-fiction in its purest form…” It gave director FW Murnau, the budget and artistic freedom to make Tartuffe (1925) and Faust (1926) before departing for Hollywood and Sunrise.

Murnau exerts almost complete visual control over this film which was, like Sunrise, filmed mostly in studio with massive sets replicating the hotel where the chief protagonist works, the run-down tenements of his home and the streets in between. Karl Freund’s camera zooms around from balcony to window ledge, choreographing the focus on different character’s reactions. It’s technically brilliant and quite unlike almost anything else at this stage of cinema; lurking in the shadows then suddenly zooming towards or past its targets, as quick as thought and giving the action a curious dreamlike quality.

But then Emil Jannings’ main character is living in constant unreality. He works as a doorman in a swish uptown hotel – The Atlantic – were he helps the prestigious guests to pass from the grimy outside world to its pristine opulence. The hotel is its own fantasy in which appearance is all and status is vital: it has to be a place worthy of the patronage of the guests and this sense of splendour rubs off on those who work there.

To be a visual representation of the hotel “brand” is an honour and source of pride for those fortunate to work front of house. The older and less attractive are kept behind the scenes, cleaning and otherwise maintaining the “front”. Our doorman is however on the cusp with his age starting to tell and his strength on the wane. As one slippery trunk proves too much and he sits recovering his calculating manager spots his weakness and relegates him to a below stairs role in the washroom. He is devastated and, almost immediately, begins to shrink in front of our eyes, an amazingly impressive, protean display of physical acting from Jannings all accentuated by Murnau and Freunds’ angles and lighting.

Spotting his replacement standing younger and taller.

Unable to face the humiliation of this demotion, the doorman steals his uniform and puts it on when he returns to his tenement for his niece’s wedding party (she's played by Maly Delschaft). He carries off the deception for the night and a drunken good time is had by all and yet he has the most vivid of inebriated dreams in which his strength and position are restored with some superb imagery from Murnau.

The next day it’s back to his new reality and his humbling is compounded by the careless humiliation of the guests and, when he is discovered, from his neighbours and even his own family. He creeps home a mere shadow only to be laughed at and scorned. The schadenfreude is open and relentless… everyone seemingly happy to see him brought down to earth and even hi niece ashamed of him.

The doorman returns his coat to the hotel and is discovered by a friendly night-watchman who is the first person there to show him any real kindness. As the watchman helps him to his chair in the washroom his torch illuminates a broken heart and a man at the end of his tether.

Down the drain

There’s surely only one way this story can go… or is there? The ending is controversial or possibly a work of genius… and I’m starting to be convinced it’s the latter as I reach the stage when lifting those metaphorical trunks myself is getting a bit harder.

Jannings gives one of the best performances of the Weimar years. He is a physically powerful actor, yet he is able to expand and reduce his size in proportion to the character’s fortunes. He is supported by a superbly expressive moustache and expert make up and the film, with so many close ups and, no dialogue, makes the most of his range.

The Last Laugh is a testament to the unchanging truths of capitalism, mortality and, in the end, love. It also shows cinema pushed to the very limits, an almost completely “silent” film in terms of specific “commentary” and one that is reliant on the expression of its performers as well as Murnau’s editorial control.

Jonny Best’s accompaniment followed the rhythms of the film and he had Jannings’ back throughout. This must be a challenging film to play with as the music needs to leave as much “unsaid” as the film and allow the audience to weave the emotional warp and weft themselves.

Already a highlight among the Weimar Season with so much more to come… details on the BFI website.