One Week (1920)

Buster Keaton | 19min

The wedding bells that open One Week have a “sweet sound but a sour echo”, and those reverberations continue to ring out through the following struggles between Buster Keaton’s deadpan groom and his wife. Together they aspire to build a new house and life for themselves from scratch, though the instructions they are given have been tampered with. One of the bride’s old, rejected suitors interferes, changing the numbers on the packing crates so that the finished product turns out more like a bizarre carnival attraction than a liveable home. As it turns out, marriage is not a one-size-fits-all package. It is only when this absurd monstrosity is razed to the ground that these young lovers can discover the sweet, simple authenticity in their relationship.

With such an eccentric piece of architecture to bounce his bold stunts and physical gags off, Buster Keaton constructs a brilliantly creative silent comedy in 19 minutes that would set a standard for his feature films to follow. Corners stick out at peculiar angles, walls flip and rotate, floors sag, and doors open up into thin air, creating a funhouse of sorts that sends Keaton his co-star, Sybil Seely, flying across great distances at dangerously high speeds and odd trajectories.

Keaton milks this architectural oddity for all its comedic value, flipping this wall and then letting it topple over directly on top of him.

In the toppling wall that lands a window perfectly around Keaton and the hurricane that complicates his ordeal, One Week often looks to be a rehearsal for his work in Steamboat Bill Jr., though the genius in his execution remains inventively singular all the same. Traces of formal experimentation even manifest in one scene in which he playfully covers the lens with his hand to conceal Seely’s nudity, recognising the unique comedic potential of cinematic form by pushing it beyond the vaudeville stage and directly inviting the audience into its world.

Hilariously inventive in the early days of film, creating visual gags unique to the form of cinema.

It is just as much the framing of his gags as it is his staging that is integral to Keaton’s comedy, as his neutral wide shots maintain the same deadpan demeanour as his stoic facial expressions. This is the visual foundation for many of his set pieces, though it is in the tension of his final scene which sees the house wind up on the path of an oncoming train that the impact of his intelligent camera placement is fully revealed. Keaton recognises that in the precise moment the train misses, his audience is doubting his commitment to the magnificent gag – it would be a level of ambitious destruction on a different level to anything else he has done up until now. And then, just as we let our guard down, a train from the other side of the tracks suddenly appears and demolishes the house in one swift motion. It is the power of this perfectly placed wide shot that makes all the difference between suspense and surprise, keeping the second train outside the frame until it delivers its crushing blow. A short film it may be, but with its architectural inventiveness, creative framing, and dedication to boundary-pushing gags, One Week possesses the same comedic genius as any of Keaton’s features.

One of the great stunts of the silent era, immaculately executed by the camera angle and Keaton’s wild dedication to the spectacle.

One Week is in the public domain, and available to watch on many free video sharing sites including YouTube.

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920)

Robert Wiene | 1hr 15min | Spoiler Warning

For what becomes such a violently expressionist film, The Cabinet of Dr Caligari opens rather softly with the introduction of Francis, our narrator, sitting in a garden. We observe as a woman dressed in white glides by like an ethereal spectre, mysteriously vacant in her expression. He tells us that this is Jane, his lover, and from there he unravels the tragic tale which bound them together. 

Suddenly, we find ourselves flashing back to a warped, sinister village sitting upon a sloping hill, its buildings and streets made up of dark, twisted shapes and shadows splashed all across its scenery. Still in the early days of cinema, Wiene takes inspiration from George Méliès himself in his breath-taking matte paintings, while simultaneously lifting the artistic use of such backdrops to a whole new level in their gothic imagery. One may convince themselves that this use of painted backgrounds brings a certain flatness to these shots, and yet they would quickly find themselves lost for words when they witness characters move from the foreground to the background of the cluttered mise-en-scène, revealing the true depth of such images. At the town fair where spinning carousels jut out at strange angles and oddballs congregate to share their eccentric acts, Wiene creates the look of a demented, Edvard Munch-like painting brought horrifically to life.

Maddening production design, always looking as if it is on the brink of collapse.
Painted shadows and warped proportions, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari is a nightmare manifested.

It is also at this carnival where Francis first encounters the mysterious travelling showman Dr Caligari and Cesare, his somnambulist – that is, a sleepwalking man who is under his master’s control. Inspired by the story of an 18th-century mystic who used a somnambulist to commit murders, the asylum director turned madman absorbs himself in his newfound power, and begins using Cesare to carry out his own homicides. 

Tim Burton would pick up on this terrifying character design and keep running with it many decades later.

Or at least, so it would seem, as in one final twist we discover that Francis’ first-person recount is not as reliable as we initially suspected, with him being an asylum inmate who has incorporated his fellow patients into his tale. His imagined lover, Jane, is a deluded patient, and Cesare, the murderous somnambulist, is a quiet, gentle man. As it turns out, Dr Caligari is indeed an asylum director, and yet even he is far from the evil villain Francis perceives him to be. On this final note of ambiguity, Wiene leaves us to ponder what sort of terrors Francis has experienced that have given birth to such distorted refractions of reality. 

In his structure of flashbacks within flashbacks, Wiene filters reality through the eyes of madness, letting the narrative grow a little more unhinged with each progressive jump until, at its deepest point, we reach Dr Caligari’s immersion into a European legend. The film is deeply concerned with the tales we tell ourselves to make sense of our environment, but on a broader scope it is looking into the grand narratives that cultures pass down to make sense of their own national identities. In repurposing the tradition of sharing legends, Wiene didactically frightens viewers away from the evil actions carried out by those wielding immense psychological power, rather than inspiring them with tales of heroism and bravery.

Werner Krauss is frighteningly unhinged as the madman Dr. Caligari, delivering one of the great performances of the silent era.

As a Jewish filmmaker who struggled with the oppression of a government looking to gag its boundary-pushing artists, and who would flee Nazi Germany little over a decade later, Wiene’s cinematic rebellion is evident, and yet there is also a reflection of his own nightmarish disorientation here. From the clerk who sits in an unusually high, Dr Seuss-like chair, to the heavy, dark makeup dabbed around Cesare’s tired eyes, everything about The Cabinet of Dr Caligari appears a few dream layers removed from reality. There are sick, twisted minds somewhere polluting the goodness of Francis’ world, but in Wiene’s delirious evocation of such invasive, omnipresent evil, he forces upon us the most unsettling horror of all: the uncertainty of where this evil truly comes from, and the disturbing consideration that it may come from within.

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari is in the public domain, and available to watch on many free video sharing sites including YouTube.