Two Versions of The Student of Prague
“I haven’t a penny to my name – O Academia!”
The Student of Prague, the novel, was written in 1913 by Hanns Heinz Ewers, the writer and philosopher of ethics, and it has appeared in film at least four times since it was published. My personal advocacy on the part of silent pictures as an art form is no secret, and, given my friend Amanda’s recent foray into silent films, I have chosen the two German silent versions, both classics in their own ways, for my review this week.
Generally speaking, North Americans today do not have adequate opportunity to explore silent pictures. This is a shame, as the variety and rich skill poured into many of these works can be astounding and arresting.
However, there are also dangers in collecting silent pictures in terms of the availability of quality prints. Unfortunately, most affordable copies of these silent pictures leave something to be desired in their watchability, and the murky, jumpy or scratchy visual quality (and generic or unexciting audio tracks) of these films may harm your enjoyment of silent pictures. But rest assured that not all silent picture prints were created equal, and do not allow one or two sketchy prints turn you off this film form altogether!
This is part of why I have elected to review two versions of The Student of Prague. The first one, from 1913, stars the famed Paul Wegener (of The Golem, 1920), and the second, from 1926, stars Conrad Veidt (best known for his appearance as the somnambulant Cesare in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, 1920, and as the Nazi Major Strasser in Casablanca, 1942). Both of these versions are currently only available on DVD in North America through the Alpha Video editions, which were both released in 2004.
Alpha Video is one of my favourite companies, in some ways. On the one hand, this company produces extraordinarily cheap DVDs, and they make it possible for film students to fill their collections with affordable and rare films, many of which cannot be easily obtained elsewhere. For the often impoverished student, Alpha is possibly his or her best friend.
However, the basic logic is that you do, indeed, get what you pay for.
The cheap price they maintain is done at the expense of the quality control done with, say, Kino Video (the more expensive student’s best friend). Whereas Kino restores, cleans and transfers their editions, Alpha transfers them, with various results, from old VHS copies (this is how they keep their cost down). These VHS copies are usually transferred at odd speeds, may have continuity problems (hence the “jump” that tends to appear on such prints), and often have focus issues. Naturally, they often do not compare with the crisp restorations done by Kino, such as with the excellent quality of their editions of 1924’s Die Nibelungen, or with the superior Criterion Collection series (which is often prohibitively priced), such as their wonderful edition of Häxan (1922).
Therefore, one usually has a choice. $5 with Alpha for a watchable, but not ideal, print, or $35 to $40 with Kino (or even more with Criterion) for a very good or excellent print. For many students, the decision is pre-made by our wallets.
However, with The Student of Prague, we do not have such a choice. Alpha is currently the only company with full versions of these movies available for North American sale. Both with the price tag of around $7 American, via Amazon, they are very affordable, but does the respective quality (of both the films and the prints) make them worth the purchase?
The general plot of The Student of Prague is fairly simple. A young student and fencing champion, Balduin, is poor and frustrated in his poverty (a state in which society views him as middle class or higher because of his education, but in which he will never have as much money as such a class rank requires). He falls in love with a countess after rescuing her, and fails to recognize the love of the simple flower girl who adores him from afar. His obsession with the countess and his lowly class inspire him to enter into a pact with the sorcerer Scapinelli, in which the student will become richer than his wildest dreams and Scapinelli may chose and take any one thing in the student’s room. Being poor, the student sees nothing that would be more valuable than the gold coins Scapinelli promises, so he agrees. However, the sorcerer astounds him by choosing and taking possession of Balduin’s reflection.
The rest is a downward spiral, as most re-tellings of the basic “selling your soul to the devil” stories are. Balduin loses the countess because of the jilted love of her fiancé, the trampled heart of the flower girl, and the machinations of his possessed reflection. He descends into madness and debauchery, and finally dies in a (literally) dis-graced state.
The 1913 version of this film is tremendously important, historically speaking. Until quite recently a “lost film,” students and scholars were understandably excited when it turned up. It is considered one of the root works in the influential “German Expressionist” movements, in which inner turmoil and societal unrest are expressed through contrasted light and dark scenes, and through the massively innovative and bizarre set designs. Other famous Expressionist pieces include Nosferatu (1922), Metropolis (1927), and, most especially, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920). This Expressionist tendency spread from Germany to North America, and can be seen in Chaplin’s short The Bond (1918) and in the John Barrymore talkie, Svengali (1931), but that is another subject.
However, despite its historical significance, this film is a general disappointment. Wegener, who was a major dramatic force in his day, appears hammy and heavily dated in this film. While the film does have some extraordinarily beautiful external camera work, and some wonderful depth of shadow, it is also clumsy in places, and glosses over all but the most cursory of character motivations. Further, the Alpha print, although watchable, is slightly murky and lacks definition. Finally, the worst part of this film on DVD is the annoying and tacky faux-organ soundtrack composed by Paul David Bergel for this edition.
In comparison, the 1926 version is both a stronger film, and, in some places, a worse print. This version, at 91 minutes (compared to the 1913 version’s 41 minutes), is almost luxurious in the time it spends lingering over scenes and character development. The flower girl is tender and passionate, whereas in the 1913 version she was two-dimensional and unlikable. Likewise, in this version the sorcerer Scapinelli is given more of a grander, orchestrating role in the entirety of the narrative, giving his character a greater feel of horror. Granted, I enjoyed the performance of the 1913 Scapinelli (John Gottowt) better than the 1926 one (Werner Krauss), but the role is vastly improved. The countess is also more interesting, and far more sympathetic, moving the role of Balduin from greedy social climber to a young man genuinely in love. Having said this, however, he does not really sell himself out for love, but because of the massive frustration born of poverty (which is a very different thing than greed). In addition, the psychological ramifications of class struggle, which are not really drawn out adequately in the original, are palpable here. In turn, even the stolen reflection is given a gravitas of his own, turning not evil eyes on Balduin, but accusatory eyes of a younger self that has been abandoned and betrayed. The narrative becomes one of what each of us must do for success, and the ideological younger selves we must all destroy or wound in the process. Therefore, the 1926 version carries a symbolic moral significance lacking in the more cut and dry first version.
Overall, the story is better in the re-make version, motives are clearer, and the emotional impact is stronger, and I found this version to be the best viewing experience.
The print, however, bothered me more than the earlier version. Perhaps this is because the film was better and I wished I could see it more clearly. In general, the title cards were harder to read and the print had far more scratches. However, the score is vastly better than the 1913 version, even though it is also composed by Paul David Bergel. Instead of the unremitting synth-organ screech of the 1913 version, the 1926 version, though nothing spectacular, is at least broken by strings and guitar, and the emotional cues are better placed and more effective.
I do recommend both these films for film students, as they are both important and both have specific joys contained within them. However, for an evening in, I am more inclined to suggest the 1926 version for pure entertainment value. Finally, however, if you are unused to silent pictures altogether, you can find easier and cleaner films to start with (drop me a line, and I would be pleased to suggest a few), and you may be well advised to wait until better prints become available.
The Student of Prague, the novel, was written in 1913 by Hanns Heinz Ewers, the writer and philosopher of ethics, and it has appeared in film at least four times since it was published. My personal advocacy on the part of silent pictures as an art form is no secret, and, given my friend Amanda’s recent foray into silent films, I have chosen the two German silent versions, both classics in their own ways, for my review this week.
Generally speaking, North Americans today do not have adequate opportunity to explore silent pictures. This is a shame, as the variety and rich skill poured into many of these works can be astounding and arresting.
However, there are also dangers in collecting silent pictures in terms of the availability of quality prints. Unfortunately, most affordable copies of these silent pictures leave something to be desired in their watchability, and the murky, jumpy or scratchy visual quality (and generic or unexciting audio tracks) of these films may harm your enjoyment of silent pictures. But rest assured that not all silent picture prints were created equal, and do not allow one or two sketchy prints turn you off this film form altogether!
This is part of why I have elected to review two versions of The Student of Prague. The first one, from 1913, stars the famed Paul Wegener (of The Golem, 1920), and the second, from 1926, stars Conrad Veidt (best known for his appearance as the somnambulant Cesare in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, 1920, and as the Nazi Major Strasser in Casablanca, 1942). Both of these versions are currently only available on DVD in North America through the Alpha Video editions, which were both released in 2004.
Alpha Video is one of my favourite companies, in some ways. On the one hand, this company produces extraordinarily cheap DVDs, and they make it possible for film students to fill their collections with affordable and rare films, many of which cannot be easily obtained elsewhere. For the often impoverished student, Alpha is possibly his or her best friend.
However, the basic logic is that you do, indeed, get what you pay for.
The cheap price they maintain is done at the expense of the quality control done with, say, Kino Video (the more expensive student’s best friend). Whereas Kino restores, cleans and transfers their editions, Alpha transfers them, with various results, from old VHS copies (this is how they keep their cost down). These VHS copies are usually transferred at odd speeds, may have continuity problems (hence the “jump” that tends to appear on such prints), and often have focus issues. Naturally, they often do not compare with the crisp restorations done by Kino, such as with the excellent quality of their editions of 1924’s Die Nibelungen, or with the superior Criterion Collection series (which is often prohibitively priced), such as their wonderful edition of Häxan (1922).
Therefore, one usually has a choice. $5 with Alpha for a watchable, but not ideal, print, or $35 to $40 with Kino (or even more with Criterion) for a very good or excellent print. For many students, the decision is pre-made by our wallets.
However, with The Student of Prague, we do not have such a choice. Alpha is currently the only company with full versions of these movies available for North American sale. Both with the price tag of around $7 American, via Amazon, they are very affordable, but does the respective quality (of both the films and the prints) make them worth the purchase?
The general plot of The Student of Prague is fairly simple. A young student and fencing champion, Balduin, is poor and frustrated in his poverty (a state in which society views him as middle class or higher because of his education, but in which he will never have as much money as such a class rank requires). He falls in love with a countess after rescuing her, and fails to recognize the love of the simple flower girl who adores him from afar. His obsession with the countess and his lowly class inspire him to enter into a pact with the sorcerer Scapinelli, in which the student will become richer than his wildest dreams and Scapinelli may chose and take any one thing in the student’s room. Being poor, the student sees nothing that would be more valuable than the gold coins Scapinelli promises, so he agrees. However, the sorcerer astounds him by choosing and taking possession of Balduin’s reflection.
The rest is a downward spiral, as most re-tellings of the basic “selling your soul to the devil” stories are. Balduin loses the countess because of the jilted love of her fiancé, the trampled heart of the flower girl, and the machinations of his possessed reflection. He descends into madness and debauchery, and finally dies in a (literally) dis-graced state.
The 1913 version of this film is tremendously important, historically speaking. Until quite recently a “lost film,” students and scholars were understandably excited when it turned up. It is considered one of the root works in the influential “German Expressionist” movements, in which inner turmoil and societal unrest are expressed through contrasted light and dark scenes, and through the massively innovative and bizarre set designs. Other famous Expressionist pieces include Nosferatu (1922), Metropolis (1927), and, most especially, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920). This Expressionist tendency spread from Germany to North America, and can be seen in Chaplin’s short The Bond (1918) and in the John Barrymore talkie, Svengali (1931), but that is another subject.
However, despite its historical significance, this film is a general disappointment. Wegener, who was a major dramatic force in his day, appears hammy and heavily dated in this film. While the film does have some extraordinarily beautiful external camera work, and some wonderful depth of shadow, it is also clumsy in places, and glosses over all but the most cursory of character motivations. Further, the Alpha print, although watchable, is slightly murky and lacks definition. Finally, the worst part of this film on DVD is the annoying and tacky faux-organ soundtrack composed by Paul David Bergel for this edition.
In comparison, the 1926 version is both a stronger film, and, in some places, a worse print. This version, at 91 minutes (compared to the 1913 version’s 41 minutes), is almost luxurious in the time it spends lingering over scenes and character development. The flower girl is tender and passionate, whereas in the 1913 version she was two-dimensional and unlikable. Likewise, in this version the sorcerer Scapinelli is given more of a grander, orchestrating role in the entirety of the narrative, giving his character a greater feel of horror. Granted, I enjoyed the performance of the 1913 Scapinelli (John Gottowt) better than the 1926 one (Werner Krauss), but the role is vastly improved. The countess is also more interesting, and far more sympathetic, moving the role of Balduin from greedy social climber to a young man genuinely in love. Having said this, however, he does not really sell himself out for love, but because of the massive frustration born of poverty (which is a very different thing than greed). In addition, the psychological ramifications of class struggle, which are not really drawn out adequately in the original, are palpable here. In turn, even the stolen reflection is given a gravitas of his own, turning not evil eyes on Balduin, but accusatory eyes of a younger self that has been abandoned and betrayed. The narrative becomes one of what each of us must do for success, and the ideological younger selves we must all destroy or wound in the process. Therefore, the 1926 version carries a symbolic moral significance lacking in the more cut and dry first version.
Overall, the story is better in the re-make version, motives are clearer, and the emotional impact is stronger, and I found this version to be the best viewing experience.
The print, however, bothered me more than the earlier version. Perhaps this is because the film was better and I wished I could see it more clearly. In general, the title cards were harder to read and the print had far more scratches. However, the score is vastly better than the 1913 version, even though it is also composed by Paul David Bergel. Instead of the unremitting synth-organ screech of the 1913 version, the 1926 version, though nothing spectacular, is at least broken by strings and guitar, and the emotional cues are better placed and more effective.
I do recommend both these films for film students, as they are both important and both have specific joys contained within them. However, for an evening in, I am more inclined to suggest the 1926 version for pure entertainment value. Finally, however, if you are unused to silent pictures altogether, you can find easier and cleaner films to start with (drop me a line, and I would be pleased to suggest a few), and you may be well advised to wait until better prints become available.
posted by H. at 9:25 p.m.
2 Comments:
Silent movies are so intriguing to me all of the sudden.
Ha Ha! Another conquest!
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