Category: 1979

Werner Herzog | 1hr 47min

The blood-sucking monster of Nosferatu the Vampyre is a far more tragic creature than F.W. Murnau’s silent, rat-like creation, though the terror it inspires is no less sickening. The original 1922 film is a very loose adaptation of the 1897 novel Dracula, and so it is no surprise that this remake distances itself even more from Bram Stoker’s writing. Werner Herzog takes complete ownership of this Gothic fable and all its supernatural metaphors, interrogating the Count’s curse as an extension of nature’s merciless, godless rule. Perhaps that is why this lonely vision of Dracula so desperately craves connection. “The absence of love is the most abject pain,” he laments to the beautiful Lucy Harker, giving voice to an immortal earth which only ever sees true beauty flit by with passing glances, and yet is never able to engage with it.

“Time is an abyss, profound as a thousand nights. Centuries come and go… to be unable to grow old is terrible. That is not the worst. There are things more horrible than that. Can you imagine enduring centuries experiencing the same futility each day?”

Life may wither away like the shrivelled corpses that the film opens on, but nature cannot die, endlessly feeding on those it kills and persisting into oblivion. The journey that estate agent Jonathan Harker sets out on to reach Dracula’s castle in Transylvania sets this connection up early, traversing craggy mountains, rushing rivers, and black crevices that no right-thinking person would venture near. Herzog though is in his element, pitching his camera at daunting low angles to revel in a harsh, foggy world untouched by man or God. In the distance, the ruins of a crumbling fortress stand silhouetted against a dark sky, inviting Jonathan into a sinister void that will inevitably corrupt his soul.

And within its nightmarish halls lurks Klaus Kinski’s bald, black-robed creature, blending perfectly into Herzog’s pools of shadows. He pierces the defences of his visitor with eyes that rarely break contact, and grasps at his open wound with long, sharp claws. Around the creature, Herzog constructs an impressive feat of Gothic production design, lighting rooms with elaborate candelabras which themselves are cast onto walls as shadows. Giant archways, ornately carved furniture, and grotesque statues populate these medieval interiors, and as Count Dracula loads up his carriage with dark wooden coffins, Herzog skews his overhead shot at an off-kilter angle in true expressionistic fashion. Jonathan’s hometown of Wismar in Germany is his destination, where he will prey on new victims and spread a deathly plague.

Perhaps it shouldn’t be terribly surprising that this adaptation of a silent film possesses such minimal dialogue, and yet the self-assurance with which Herzog teases out his slow-burn narrative is hypnotic. His pacing never wavers as mortal dread takes apocalyptic form, approaching the docks of Wismar at the same steady speed as the ship which carries Dracula and all his diseased rats. The sound design here consists merely of droning male vocals alternating between a pair of eerie notes, though elsewhere the ambient, eclectic score composed by electronic band Popol Vuh sounds naively light-hearted in its gentle guitars and piano.

These are the uneasy rhythms that Nosferatu the Vampyre drifts by on with trepidation, building tension in Herzog’s careful parallel editing. As Dracula slowly approaches the town, we also observe the increasing insanity of his servant Renfield, Jonathan’s race back home, and Lucy’s growing apprehension, thoroughly drawing each character closer together. Finally, as Dracula disembarks the ship and his pale rats begin swarming the city, Popol Vuh’s strings and horns take over with a restless, unsettling joy. It isn’t hard to see the inspiration that Bobby Krlic drew from this eerie musical exultation in composing his own dazzling score for Midsommar.

Rats frequently dominate Herzog’s imagery here, but with ordinary lives thrown into disarray by the Black Death, so too do the streets begin to fill with small fires, furniture, pigs, and crosses – remnants of the old bourgeoisie social order that has been properly undermined. Now, the townsfolk blithely dance in the streets, embracing the chaotic liberation of nature’s pestilent destruction.

Parallel to this reappreciation of life is Lucy’s own strange compulsion towards Dracula, who is equally drawn to her. Unlike so many other interpretations of vampires, Kinski’s animalistic depiction is not one which exudes sexuality, and yet as she lures him to her bedroom to kill him, a tragic passion emerges from their deathly embrace. He kneels beside her, a sorrowful look on his face, and laying her hands on him she guides him towards her neck. The tender love she has to offer comes with the intent of murder, and yet even that is wrapped up in selfless affection given his wish to die. Upon finding the release of love and death he has been pining after, the cock crows and the sun rises, ending his reign of terror at the cost of Lucy’s life.

And yet nature cannot die forever. It keeps on regenerating until all other earthly organisms extinguished, and therein lies Herzog’s curious twist on the previous versions of this tale. Weakened by Dracula’s attack early in the film, Jonathan is pushed to the sidelines, leaving Lucy to take over as our protagonist. Upon Dracula’s death, his transformation into a vampire is complete, beginning a whole new cycle of evil. He is infected with his assailant’s misery, and now he too is tasked with spreading that throughout human society, like a fruit bearing seeds of suffering. Nosferatu the Vampyre may emerge within a long lineage of Dracula adaptations, and yet is infused on every cinematic level with Herzog’s fear and awe at a godless world, pulling us into a tragic, mesmeric dread which simply longs for our love.

Nosferatu the Vampyre is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

Krzysztof Kieslowski | 1hr 52min

It isn’t that Krzysztof Kieslowski lacks a sense of humour, but it is surely no coincidence that whenever small pieces of comedy emerge in his films they are placed in the capable hands of his muse, Jerzy Stuhr. Camera Buff capitalises well on those talents, sending Stuhr’s amateur cameraman into inappropriate situations that he hopes might prove interesting to audiences. He doesn’t discriminate between subjects – when asked what he shoots, his reply is simply “Anything that moves.” Given the success Filip finds in competitions and inspiring others, there is no doubt he possesses the talent to back up his hobby. But there is also an insidiousness to his singularly focused obsession, throwing off his balance of responsibility and passion, and slowly disintegrating his once-happy family life into a fable of poignant tragedy.

Camera Buff remains firmly in the world of social realism that Kieslowski is very familiar with at this point in his career, though his political critiques aren’t immediately so overt. Filip first picks up his camera just before the birth of his daughter, intending to use it to document this precious time in his and wife’s life. If there is one thing that he never loses sight of throughout the film, it is the beauty of mundanity, and it is evident that his ability to preserve these moments in time and share them with others is a truly valuable gift. Problems arise when his camera turns away from his loved ones and towards others, thereby avoiding any opportunity for self-reflection. The lens is his portal into other lives, disconnecting him from his own “quiet life” to the point that it no longer feels like enough.

Kieslowski and Stuhr achieve a fine balance here in their sympathetic development of Filip, never distancing him so much from the audience that he becomes entirely repugnant, even when he acts purely in his own self-interest. His habit of framing his fingers like a camera viewfinder is an amusing mannerism we warm to, though when he is caught out imagining how he might shoot his wife storming out after an argument, it only worsens the situation. Even when he is happy to let his baby keep crying for the sake of a good shot, we still resist despising him too much when his excitement exudes such a genuine innocence.

There is also something of an underdog persona about Filip as well that ingratiates us to his cause. As a labourer working within the rigid structures of Communist Poland, the opportunity to seize on something creative and be recognised for it feels like a victory, and it is within this social context that Kieslowski begins to turn Camera Buff to more serious political critiques of censorship and control. At the factory where he works, the local Communist Party boss enlists him to film its jubilee, and besides a few requests that he cut shots considered too invasive, he does receive praise both from superiors and judges at a film festival. Later when he takes more initiative to capture subjects of his own interest, the pushback grows stronger. Given his value to the Party he is relatively safe from their threats, though his supporters are not so fortunate.

Even as Filip loses his family, Kieslowski still draws out an affecting beauty in his documentaries, suggesting that his obsessive efforts are not entirely fruitless. “It’s beautiful what you guys do. A person’s no longer alive… yet she’s still here,” contemplates one man upon seeing footage Filip shot of his late mother, overtaken with gratitude. Another man, a dwarf with whom he works, is similarly moved by seeing his humble life depicted on film and broadcast on Polish television.

It may be virtuous work, offering others the opportunity to reflect on their lives, though it is also a tool of distraction, letting Filip point the lens in every direction except towards himself. For Kieslowski, neglecting the personal aspect of creation is to disregard its most fundamental foundation, and so it is with that one mind that Filip finally steps in front of the camera to examine his own lonely life. In its dark lens, Kieslowski captures a faint reflection of his face, infused with the very instrument of his obsession. With the closing shot letting Filip dominate the frame in a close-up though, he becomes the independent centre of his own focus, prepared to take responsibility for his actions by finally his own story.

Camera Buff is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.