Tears of two clowns… Klovnen (1917) and Klovnen (1926), DFI online streaming

I believe it was Samuel Johnson who said that when a man is tired of films about sad clowns, he is tired of life; for there is in films about sad clowns, all that life can afford… Even if it wasn’t, whoever it was, is almost certainly correct. There’s simply no end of fascination in close ups of strained pasty made up faces, tears trickling slowly through layers of greasepaint as he who laughs last, last laughs, desiccated heart cracked by tragedy and lost love. You know.

 

Danish director AW Sandberg certainly agreed as he made this story twice, once in 1916 with Danish superstar Valdemar Psilander and again in 1926 with Swedish heartthrob, Gösta Ekman with the English title of The Golden Clown. Both are exceptional films and I’m not here to grade them because each is as equally impressive even if technique, story and length vary. Sandberg knew this was a pure and powerful tale and worked with major talents to present timeless tales of ambition, sexual distraction and love’s labour’s lost.

 

Valdemar Psilander

I watched 1926 first before turning back to 1917 and the fact it stood up so well is testament to how well it was made and also its extraordinary energy; this really feels like a passion project.  This script was co-written with Laurids Skands and features cinematography from Karl Storm Petersen who captures the thrills of the circus along with the emotional intensity from the performers. Sets are from Axel Bruun who worked with August Blom on Atlantis, The End of the World and Trip to Mars and presents the backstage dread and circus sawdust equally well.

 

Psilander plays Joe Higgins, a clown in a small regional circus run by ringmaster Bunding (Peter Fjelstrup) and his wife (Amanda Lund). Their daughter Daisy (Gudrun Houlberg) performs tricks whilst riding a horse and, is a wonderfully natural performer as well as, possibly, rider – it’s hard to tell whether she’s actually on the horse; great editing and stunt work combined. I particularly liked the off-stage excitement as the performers crowd around in preparation, clambering over themselves to watch the action in the ring; excitedly waiting their turn.

 

Excitement in the wings: Peter Fjelstrup, Valdemar Psilander and Gudrun Houlberg 

Having caught these moments, it’s easy to warm to Joe’s act, a singing clown who radiates good humour to the crowd as he follows his sweetheart’s horseplay. It’s a happy circus but, inevitably, this clown will have to run away as he’s talent spotted by showrunners from the big city. He doesn’t leave alone though as he insists that Daisy and her parents accompany him on his adventure, little realising that of the four of them, she will be changed the most.

 

Fast forward a year and Joe’s a huge success, delighting audiences in the major theatres but Daisy’s attention is being drawn by rich philanderer Count Henri (Robert Schmidt) who flatters her for his own amusement as Joe performs. Their dalliance in the wings of the hall is revealed as a section of scenery is removed revealing their embrace in a mirror as Joe sits in his changing room. He smashes the mirror and whilst he covers his devastation for the cast and crew, refuses to stand in the way of what he, tragically, believes is Daisy’s new love.

 

Robert Schmidt's Count tempts Gudrun Houlberg's Daisy

But the Count is less than impressed when Daisy arrives on his doorstep and is soon bored with her, she tries to return to the life she knew but her father’s pride stands in the way of allowing his disgraced daughter back. Has Daisy’s distraction ruined her and Joe’s life for nothing and what, if anything will be the revenge of a clown scorned?

 

The tragedy and most of the story remains the same for 1926 when Sandberg along with new co-writer Poul Knudsen, and a much bigger budget, produced a more elaborate film of twice the length. This time it’s Gösta Ekman ‘s turn, fresh from staring in Murnau’s Faust (1926) and many more, including Victor Sjostrom’s brilliant Vem dömer (1922) – with fellow Swedish genius Jenny Hasselqvist. Ekman was a hugely influential performer and whilst his looks and style are more recognisably “modern” than Psilander the latter, along with compatriot Asta Nielsen, played a key role in the development of cinematic acting, recognising that: “You can probably learn how to become an actor, but you can't learn how to stand in front of the camera… Cinema requires frankness and sincerity in a ruthless way.”

 

Valdemar played guitar...

Psilander tragically took his own life – Klovnen was released after his death - and so we didn’t get to see how his career progressed. No doubt Ekman learned from him how to translate his theatrical expertise on camera and here he gives an eye-wateringly powerful performance infusing his “Joe” with circus strangeness as well as an open-hearted brittleness – the honesty Psilander spoke of.

 

His Daisy is the rather fine Karina Bell who was in The House of Shadows (1924) as featured on this blog last year – also streaming from the DFI site. She’s a more intricate performer than the more robust Gudrun Houlberg, but then she has not only that decade of screen acting evolution but also technical and stylistic advances enabling the capture of her compellingly winsome emoting.

 

Karina Bell, always ready for her close-up

Christen Jørgensen is the cinematographer and he captures the stars in close ups as we as larger scale productions – Joe’s performances in the larger theatres are on a grand scale, with clowns stacked up around him as he sings, it’s enough to make Busby Berkley blush – whilst there’s also excellent footage of Paris, that gives a real sense of place and more substance to the difference between the bucolic world of country circus and the bigger business of show in the city.  

 

Daisy’s distraction by the wolfish Marcel Phillipe (Robert Schmidt), this time a fashion designer - is presented in subtler ways and just about her first surrender to his insistence at the theatre is the moment exposed, again, by the moving scenery – this time by a jealous stagehand – and revealed in Jim’s mirror. Jim takes Marcel and Daisy for a walk to discuss the infidelity and, with nothing really to say, the Count peels off to allow the couple’s romantic wires to cross and detach through moments of painfully sad reticence.

Gösta Ekman, funk to funky...

A moments weakness ends up costing them their happiness and Daisy is gradually disappointed by Marcel’s inability to commit as he humiliates her by flirting with one of his younger models, highlighting her mistake in ever trusting in his heart or fidelity. Meanwhile Joe’s focus and career nosedive as he drinks himself down the rungs of his profession little suspecting that he and Daisy had more to unite them than he ever realised.

 

There are good supporting performances from Maurice de Féraudy as Daisy’s father and Circus Director James Bunding as well as Kate Fabian as his wife. Both characters have more to do than space allowed in the first film all of which makes Daisy’s rejection all the more heart breaking. The finale plays out with more complexity and with an extra twist that I shall not reveal. Hopefully I’ve steered clear of too much spoiling and have encouraged you to watch both films.

Rural bliss

 

Klovnen (1917) is on the DFI site here and Klovnen/The Golden Clown (1926) is here… the latter has English title cards which will help you understand the former which has only danish. The 1926 film also has ace accompaniment from Ronen Thalmay which fits the emotional journey like a big red pair of clown shoes, weaving lovely sad lines across the scenario as delicately as Gosta’s tears transcribe his character’s misery.

 

Thank you DFI. So many films to see, and rather more time on our hands than we ever expected!

 

The woman always pays… The Gardener (1912), Victor Sjöström 1912-1917 (Part One)

We are lucky that almost all of the feature films Victor Sjöström made after A Man There Was (Terje Vigen) (1917) through to his last in Hollywood, A Lady to Love (1930) survive and that there are only two missing, one from the US and another, The House Surrounded (1922), from Sweden. Yet, of the thirty films he made from 1912 to 1917, only five survive… and even these are sometimes incomplete.

The main exception is, of course, Ingeborg Holm (1913) – reviewed elsewhere on this blog – along with the recently rediscovered and restored Judaspengar / The Price of Betrayal (1915), screened at last year’s Le Giornate del Cinema Muto in Pordenone. Most of the others were lost in a fire in the vaults of Svensk Filmindustri in 1941 although the damage was far worse for Mauritz Stiller’s work.

Half these films were shorts and the remainder were features of up to an hour or so in length – as with Ingeborg Holm and Terje Vigen -  and, whilst we can only wonder at the possibilities of the quality matching those two films, it is well worth viewing what remains.

Lili and Gösta go boating

The earliest survivor and, indeed, the director’s second film, is The Gardener (Trädgårdsmästaren) from 1912 also known as The Broken Spring Rose the first Swedish film to be banned for reasons that will become clear. This was the year when Svenska Bio’s Charles Magnusson hired theatrical actor-directors Sjöström and Stiller and the latter provides the script for this film as well as popping up as brief romantic interest for the lead character. The triumvirate of leading lights is completed by cameraman Julius Jaenzon, who captures some stunning locations and moves his camera with some assurance for 1912.

Originally three reels and some thirty minutes, what remains is just over 23 admittedly running a little fast on the YouTube copy I saw transferred from a VHS too; in these times it’s so difficult to pop over to Sweden isn’t it?

Lili Bech plays our young Spring Rose who is seen frolicking at the film’s start with Gösta Ekman (later to star in Faust, Intermezzo and many more) who is the son of a well-to-do gardener played by Victor Sjöström. The two are in love and a perfect pair only the grumpy gardener does not agree pulling them apart even after his son returns from college. He has designs of his own though and in still harrowing scenes, pursues the young woman through his greenhouse…

The Gardener (Victor Sjöström) takes an interest...

Next, we see Rose she is distraught and has a tear in her skirt, she has clearly been molested – hence the film’s ban. The gardener then throws her and her father off his land and they have to travel to the city to live in poverty. Luckily, an old General (John Ekman) Rose previously befriended at the café where she worked, lends them a hand and offers her work at his home. After her father dies, she is adopted by him but can’t cement her place in society so, when he too passes on, his family unite to kick her out and she is once again alone.

This is going to be another in the timeless strand of films in which the woman pays… there’s no doubt where the filmmakers’ sympathy lies and, pre-figuring the social concern of the following year’s Ingeborg Holm (1913), Sjöström is asking questions about a woman’s rights to live unmolested and secure in tenancy as well as providing a critique of class prejudice: she’s not good enough for the Gardener or his son and she’s not good enough for the General’s family or money.

Unable to fit in with polite society...

There’s a lot packed into the story and already Sjöström’s control of narrative is firm even allowing for the tableaux form and title cards that give away the action to come rather than reflect dialogue; it’s like an early “demo” with some rough edges but clearly leading up to the expertise of his first album, or at least the earliest left extant, Ingeborg Holm.

The scenes of rural life – the café, the boating and the marker gardening are also well captured and the director’s concern with these details prefigure cinema verité and neo-realism even with the technology and technique of 1912. Far more was to come of course but the including of these details allied to Jaenzon’s glorious sweeps of land and lake, add so much satisfying depth to the tale.

Mauritz is onboard!

Landscaped intimacies

Fire, walk with me… Love’s Crucible (1922), BFI with Stephen Horne

This was my third viewing of Victor Sjöström’s Love’s Crucible (aka Vem Dömer?), and there is more to see each time.

I watched the film in Pordenone last year and at the Giornate last month saw Körkarlen (The Phantom Carriage) (1921) another Sjöström film which may or may not have an overtly religious message: it was interesting to compare the two. Vem Dömer? is best translated as Who can judge? and, as with Körkarlen, it’s not simply about the gift of religious redemption; it’s more personal. As with the director’s Ingmarssönerna (1919) – featuring an actual stairway to heaven – and Körkarlen (1921) featuring a carriage driven by a phantom – this is a supernatural story rooted in very human faith, responsibility and the process of coming to terms with yourself.

Jenny Hasselqvist’s character Ursula has caused her older husband’s heart failure even though she doesn’t realise it at first: she has hated him throughout their arranged marriage and longs to be with her younger sweetheart, Bertram (Gösta Ekman). The marriage had been arranged by Bertram’s father, The Mayor (Tore Svennberg) and Ursula’s intended, Master Anton (Ivan Hedqvist) a sculptor considerably older than his intended. Their wedding takes place amongst civic joy – a lovely shot of the bride passing through a hall full of flowers - whilst Bertram looks on in misery as Ursula’s life seems to end.

Gösta Ekman and Jenny Hasselqvist

Anton sculpts a statue of Ursula as the Virgin Mary as she poses exhausted on a pedestal… which is exactly where he has put her.  Anton worships her but she can only reciprocate with hatred for lost opportunities their bond has cost her and yet, whilst Anton chip-chips away, she finds freedom reading in their garden where she is joined by Bertram. Ursula’s desperation is on the rise and the visit of a friar selling herbs and remedies (Waldemar Wohlström) provides her with a way out:  she will buy some rat poison and commit suicide with Bertram.

The Friar overhearing the young lover’s desperation, swaps harmless powder for the poison before inadvertently exposing their secret to Anton in the inn where he drinks. In a rage the artist flies home to confront Ursula, who momentarily gets the opportunity to use the “poison” to work a different solution to her troubles…

This sets up a dynamic conclusion that the actress responds to operatically but convincingly; the film has a feel of a folk story more than a character-driven thriller especially when an angry mob cry “burn the witch!” and quickly arm themselves with flaming torches. It’s superstition versus human reasoning and love versus self-loathing, all very twentieth century concerns and home turf for Sjöström and Hasselqvist.

Ivan Hedqvist

The film is blessed with sublime visuals from cinematographer Julius Jaenzon who seems to delight in capturing the, if-not-impossible then the certainly ill-advised. Time and again we see actors filmed with bright light on their shoulders and yet with their faces clearly in view or an image drenched more in shadow than light: he captures extraordinary action in realistic ways and none of this is more in evidence than in Ursula’s fire walk at the end which stands as a tour de force of silent cinematic art.

Victor Sjöström’s direction is emphatic and economic as he keeps the focus on character above costume. The wonderfully expressive set designs of Axis Esbensen and Alexander Bakó are perfectly aligned from the unforgiving cathedral to Ursula’s little garden of romantic solace and Jaenzon’s cinematography captures every dark moment and flutter of joy. The acting is also superb and  Sjöström always seems to get the most out of his performers: takes one to know one.

Chief amongst these is, of course, Jenny Hasselqvist who is, for me, pound-for-pound one of the best performers of the silent era in this and every other film I’ve seen her in: Stiller’s Gosta Berling (1924), Johan (1921) and Balettprimadonnan (1916), Lubitsch’s Sumurun, Sjöström’s Eld Ombord (1923) and even in less impressive fare such as Erich Waschneck’s Brennende Grenze (1927).

Jenny on a pedestal and crucified by guilt...

Hasselqvist’s pantomime is so deliberately physical from a forlorn looseness at her opening prayers in the shadows of the cathedral, to the love-lightness of her scenes with Bertram and the heavy-hanging misery of her sterile posing for Anton’s statue. Once the accusations fly she stands tall in defiance and after the contortions of recrimination her final brave steps towards redemption are taken with head held high resolution: she holds herself so well with a prima ballerina’s posture.

She also has an uncanny ability to hold the camera’s gaze whilst emoting with equal grace; her natural style still stands and – as I always say – reminds me of Isabelle Huppert. For details of her fan club, contact me at the address below…

Jenny’s not alone in making this narrative compelling there’s an impressively youthful Nils Asther playing one of Anton’s assistants and Gorgeous Gösta Ekman gives a grand account as Ursula’s lover, even if he’s never quite the centre of attention and is overshadowed by the film’s true star.

Julius Jaenzon photographs with so much shadow with faces haloed in sharp brightness

Ivan Hedqvist is quite masterful – ahem - as Master Anton. Hedqvist was multi-talented and I’d recently seen Dunungen (In Quest of Happiness) (1919) in which he starred, wrote and directed... and here he is the perfect emotional mirror to Hasselqvist’s cool; burning with creative love for his young wife and with his heart, quite literally, at the limits.

Stephen Horne accompanied with passionate restrain, having fun with many bells-a-tolling in the story as well as the old artist’s turn on the mandolin in the tavern. He perfectly judged the lengthy crescendo of the fire walk, adding his own subtleties of tension and style to Sjöström’s measured cuts and Hasselqvist’s quiet intensity.

A trial by fire that revealed the truth and an audience intent and eager to discuss – intimate and, yes, immersive cinema.

NFT 3 was sold out for this screening and you have to think that there could be demand for more Scandinavian silents: Stiller and Sjöström directing, Julius Jaenzon shooting, not to mention Jenny Hasselqvist acting and, if we’re very lucky, dancing…

Judging Jenny Hasselqvist … Vem Dömer (1922)

This is a film with many alternate titles Love's Crucible, Judging?, L'épreuve du feu, Who judges?, Mortal Clay, The Acid Test… God's Judgment… Maybe the distributors struggled with the precise meaning of a photo-play that is clearly more than it might seem.

Vem Dömer was Victor Sjöström’s follow up to The Phantom Carriage and was a lavish production premiered on New Year’s Day in 1922 accompanied by the Red Kvarn Orchestra and a publicity campaign including an illustrated book of Hjalmar Bergman’s story. Sjöström co-wrote the screenplay and whilst this tale of illicit period romance may appear atypical it has much in common with its predecessor and the director’s earlier work. Just as characters in There Was a Man and The Outlaw and His Wife must endure extremes in order to survive, so must Jenny Hasselqvist’s Ursula overcome not just a physical test but also a moral one:  she has to judge herself.

Gösta Ekman and Jenny Hasselqvist

I’ve raved about Jenny Hassselqvist before and she gives a great performance here with her ballet dancer’s physicality under-pining an energetic focus that draws the viewer in like few others. From the first moments when she is shown praying alone in the cathedral to her stunning appearance in silhouette mounting the wooden steps for her ordeal by fire, she holds herself so well and is able to convey so much just through posture – it’s remarkable. Then for her close ups, as she wrestles with the guilt of love and betrayal, she conveys a very modern, Huppert-esque intensity….

Interiors

The film is in dark contrast to Sjöström’s al fresco classics and is largely studio-based with the majority of exterior shots taking place at night. This puts the focus firmly on the main players… it’s dark and claustrophobic and you can count the smiles almost on one face. Given this delicate darkness, it’s a shame that there isn’t a restored version generally available:  the sections included in the Sjöström documentary on the Kino discs, reveal so much more of the lighting, set design and Hasselqvist’s expression than the copy I was able to view.

Gösta Ekman

But, even given the low-res limitations, Vem Dömer is gripping viewing. It’s an ostensibly Christian tale of faith in truth and love yet it’s also a meditation on self-doubt and guilt: redemption comes either through a kind of miracle or the realisation of truth… the choice is yours.

The plot: The film opens with Ursula praying alone, dwarfed in the dark mystery of a medieval cathedral. She is due to marry an older man she does not love and pleads with the statue of Christ at the alter for a way out so she can marry her true love Bertram (Gösta Ekman). She glances at a Latin inscription: “… and realises that she must do her duty.

The marriage has been arranged by Bertram’s father, The Mayor (Tore Svennberg) and Ursula’s intended, Master Anton (Ivan Hedqvist) a sculptor considerably older than his intended. Their wedding takes place amongst civic joy whilst Bertram looks on in misery.

Anton sculpts a statue of Ursula as the Virgin Mary a she poses exhausted on a pedestal… which is exactly where he has put her.  Anton worships her but she can only reciprocate with hatred for lost opportunities their bond has cost her yet, whilst Anton chip-chips away, she finds freedom reading in their garden where she is joined by Bertram.

Anton's work of worship

Anton and the Mayor head off to the ale house leaving the frustrated bookworms: two old men blind to the clear and present dangers of poetry... Ursula’s desperation is on the rise and the visit of a friar selling herbs and remedies (Waldemar Wohlström) provides her with a way out:  she will buy some rat poison and commit suicide with Bertram.

Hearing their plan, the Friar substitutes a harmless powder and heads off to spill the beans… and to get help.

No way out?

 The Mayor and Anton beat a hasty path with a large angry mob behind them… arriving at the house Anton confronts Ursula who, in misery, reaches for another solution; pouring what she thinks is poison into his drink. Seeing this in the mirror, Anton is crushed and his weak heart gives out as he reels from her betrayal.

Ursula is immediately suspected – as if the crowd needed much encouragement - but is saved after the friar’s story reveals the truth. Yet this is not a straightforward morality play: Ursula did have intention and, though she doesn’t yet know it, she was the cause of her husband’s apoplexy.

Soon the figure of Christ in the cathedral is seen to be weeping blood – by a young Nils Asther no less. Naturally… this is seen as divine evidence of Ursula’s guilt and the authorities waste no time in arranging a trial by fire to establish the truth.

Who judges? Nils second left.

Spoilers: The final set piece is a tour de force from Sjöström and I’ll try to avoid specifics… needless to say there are flames, fear and forgiveness and an emotional dénouement as powerful as it is unexpected.

The “modern” agnostic viewer might cringe at the non-secularity but I’m not so sure, as with The Phantom Carriage, that Sjöström has a straightforward Christian aim: these stories work on many levels and at their heart is the need to self-examine and to be true to one’s self.

Fire walk with me...

Jenny: The narrative is simple and could so easily encourage over-playing but Jenny Hasselqvist’s control enables her to play out Ursula’s whole story as if it were a ballet. Her pantomime is so impressive from a forlorn looseness at her opening prayers to the love-lightness of her scenes with Bertram and the heavy-hanging misery of her sterile posing for Anton’s statue. Once the accusations fly she stands tall in defiance and after the contortions of recrimination her final brave steps towards redemption are taken with head held high resolution.

Put this together with her ability to hold the camera’s gaze whilst emoting with equal grace and you have to my mind one of the most convincing dramatic actresses of the period. Her style still stands and, yes, there really should be a fan club!

Victor: Sjöström’s direction is powerfully economic and he keeps the focus on character above costume. The wonderfully expressive set designs of Axis Esbensen and Alexander Bakó are perfectly aligned from the unforgiving cathedral to Ursula’s little garden of romantic solace. J. Julius' cinematography captures every dark moment and flutter of joy – how good would this look on the big screen!?

Apart from the brief segment on the Kino DVD extra there’s no way to view Vem Dömer other than to wait for a rare screening or borrow someone’s VHS copy (merci Christine!) – it’s about time more of Sjostrom’s Swedish work was made available.

As for Jenny Hasselqvist, if you haven’t seen her performances in Sumurun, Johan and Gosta Berling then I recommend you go straight to Amazon right now: you will not be disappointed.

Gösta Werner's 1981 documentary is included as an extra on The Outlaw and His Wife - available direct from Kino Lorber.

Royal Festival Hall - Faust (1926)

The latest stage in my Murnau education took place at London’s Royal Festival Hall where I watched his 1926 classic, Faust, accompanied by a splendid new score composed by Aphrodite Raickopoulou . This was superbly performed by the Philharmonia Orchestra conducted by Benjamin Wallfisch and ably supported with some jaw-dropping piano improvisations from Gabriela Montero.

It was an evening that lifted the spirits and sent the audience away on a high…we didn’t trash the seats but we smiled our way home into the night, chattering and tweeting our satisfaction. Just what is it about silent films and live performance?

Having watched a good few silent films with live music this was my first full-blown orchestra and in the voluminous setting of the South Bank’s biggest venue, the big band worked exceptionally well. The audience was, how shall I put this, my friends … rather more… sartorially focused than your usual silent gig; more of a concert crowd perhaps?

But, even though the wife and I felt slightly under-dressed, it was a warm, friendly and highly-appreciative gathering.

The screening was introduced by Hugh Grant, a surprising choice perhaps (and one that helped lure my Catherine out on a Monday night) but one quickly explained by the fact that he’s a mate of Aphrodite’s as well as a fan of her music. He gave a typically bumbling yet humorous introduction, revealing a few fun wiki-facts on Murnau, Jannings’ unfortunate later choices of Nazi propaganda work and embarrassing the allegedly “flakey Julia on the cor anglais….”

There was also a round of applause, which I think I started, when Mr Grant made a reference to the “faustian pact” of Prime Minister David Cameron with former News of the World Editor Andy Coulson…

Apparently delighted that Aphrodite had at last been able to put out this music having “gone on about it for years”, he was gracious enough to reveal his own admiration after repeat viewings of the film.

I hadn’t seen the film before and, having viewed an excellent production of Marlowe’s play at The Globe Theatre last year, it was interesting to compare Murnau’s 1926 version of the legend. Mr Grant’s wiki-research had revealed that the story was based on a medieval alchemist who had tried to find a cure for the plague only to be accused of selling his soul…

Gösta Ekman played this Faust and gives an impressive performance as the man who surrenders all to ambition even if his road to Hell is initially paved with the good intention of curing the plague.

At the start, Faust is an old man but he reverts to his pretty youth for much of the film – an androgynous figure who’s layers of make-up reflect his misguided attempt to conceal his real self. It’s hard to feel sympathy for what looks like a refuge from Bolan or Bowie’s glam backing band but we do…there but for the grace of God…

Emil Jannings, who I last saw as the doorman in The Last Laugh – puffed out with pride one minute, literally diminished by failure the next - gives another extraordinary turn as Mephisto.

What a range he had, physically imposing and powerful yet capable of these quicksilver changes in stature and poise…all matched by his hugely expressive face: an operatic performance in all but name, complete with knowing laughs and grand gestures.

Mephisto sets the story in motion by betting the guardian angel that he can lure Faust’s soul away from God.

This he does with much alacrity sending a pestilence to Faust’s town and forcing the old man to risk his soul for a day’s “trial” of demonic power. He hopes to use this for good but he cannot cure those protected by crosses and his rejected by the god-fearing villagers.

Mephisto turns this to his advantage by offering Faust his youth and the old man buys it, setting off on a series of selfish adventures with his cunning “servant”.

But then Faust is thrown off course as he comes across the beauteous Gretchen and falls for the most innocent soul in the village.

Camilla Horn got the part of Gretchen that had been intended for Lillian Gish, the latter couldn’t make it and so Horn undertook not only her first film but also first full acting role (although her legs had been in a previous Murnau film, according to Hugh…).

She acts very well, in spite of what looks like a longer version of the hairpiece worn by Janet Gaynor in Murnau’s masterpiece Sunrise. It matters not, she’s great “very beautiful with a natural open smile” said Catherine and is particularly moving during the later scenes as Mephisto’s plan to ruin it all begins to come to fruition.

She makes the horror and the tragedy believable and her acting is a naturalistic counter weight to the pantomime villainy of Jannings and the foolishness of Faust. She’s the hero and not him.

The outline of the Faust story is familiar to most and quite clearly it isn’t going to end that well but Murnau moves the narrative in characteristically forceful manner towards the tragic denouement.

Yet, this is not quite the Faust that I saw in The Globe and there is a twist in the tale.

As you’d expect Faust is beautifully photographed by Murnau’s cinematographer Carl Hoffman, a major figure in expressionist cinema who also worked on Fritz Lang’s Metropolis. The set design from Robert Herlth and Walter Rohrig, is also amazing, another Murnau film shot entirely in studio?

The music was simply superb - very moving - and the Philharmonia Orchestra filled the huge space of the hall to the brim. This was maybe even louder than the Utley/Gregory Joan of Arc I saw last year and really suited what is an operatic and mightily expressive story.

It was another powerful example of the importance of music to silent film and the ways in which it can revitalise the creative existence of the latter bringing out new flavours, emphasising existing impressions and helping to re-connect audiences with the creative spirit of the film makers.

Music and Murnau worked in perfect tandem and to loud, sustained acclaim.

The Kino and Masters of Cinema Faust are available from Amazons all over, but I think I’ll wait until a version is available featuring this soundtrack. There's a sample here on YouTube.

Don't miss it if you get the chance to experience it live, clear and loud!