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.
.png)
