NOTE: To see the screen captu…
NOTE: To see the screen captures of the new Criterion DVD of M compared
with the 1998 DVD release, click here.
There are a handful of examples from film’s first half-century that transcend any of
the usual individual pursuits of filmmakers (entertainment, innovation, statement) to combine
all that a film can be in one magnificent package. While working in the pre-World War
II German film industry during the exciting years of expressionist productivity, Fritz
Lang made two such films. His 1927 silent masterpiece Metropolis got the deluxe
treatment from Kino last year and M, his first foray into sound film gets its
second release from Criterion this year. This two-disc landmark release features a
newly restored, mind-bendingly beautiful transfer and more in-depth extra features
than most entire collections. For those who still wonder where Criterion got its
reputation, this is the release to answer that question once and for all.
It’s fitting that so much attention would be lavished on M. A touchstone for
numerous generations of subsequent filmmakers, it boldly mixes style and substance to
define how a film can tackle social issues and human stories in ways that make it
unique from other artforms. Using all the tools at his disposal (camera tricks, angles,
lighting, editing…) Lang builds a chilling atmosphere and plays with mysterious
pacing to create a truly unique film.
Taking inspiration from a series of grisly murders in Germany at the time, Lang
and then-wife and script writer Thea von Harbou fashioned a torn-from-the-headlines
story that must have seemed urgent and topical but that is constructed like a Grimm
fairy tale with allegorical qualities that can serve as a parable for many parts of the
human psyche. The film’s approach to characterization is bold and strange, with Lang’s
film techniques serving to tell the story of a mood and atmosphere as much as of a
specific situation.
M tells the story of a child murderer (and, by suggestion, pedophile) who haunts
the streets of Berlin. Hans Beckert (played by Peter Lorre) lures young girls with
promises of candy and balloons but once off-screen he takes their lives in horribly
violent ways. Lang doesn’t show the murders but indicates them with spare, lonely
images of empty streets and grieving mothers.
The film is also the story of the response of the public to the crimes: Mothers are
horrified, the police are mobilized to carpet the streets, and the criminal underground
is forced to form a vigilante mob in hopes of reclaiming their stalking grounds from
the overbearing police presence. Lang explores all these angles in a hyper-realistic
style that takes real-life and exaggerates it. Faces are ugly and contorted, characters
walk hunched over and tense.
The entire populace seems on edge. Their anger over
the crimes being committed allows them to expand their own outrage and direct it.
Innocent people are stopped on the street for chatting with children. Lang explores the
mob mentality, as when an elderly man stops to give a young girl the time. One bruiser
of a man sees this and confronts the mousy businessman. “He’s the murderer!” cries
another passerby as an empty street quickly turns into a roiling mob. Lang uses camera
angles and casting to emphasize the disconnect between a paranoid public.
The film’s bold structure doesn’t conform to our general sense of how a film is made:
There isn’t necessarily a central set of characters, other than the murderer and
Inspector Karl Lohmann (Otto Wernicke). The name said most often is probably Elsie
Beckmann, the little girl killed in the tense opening minutes. Instead, it’s a film
constructed like a mob: Countless nameless characters, often passing fleetingly before
the audience, who create a great character of public panic. This strange structure
might be off-putting to some viewers but it’s Lang’s deviation from the norm here that
makes this nearly surreal procedural stand-out.
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It’s not quite the multi-character style of Robert Altman, but rather something else,
something probably unfamiliar to modern audiences. I’m not sure if this storytelling
style is something Lang thought could become a standard or if he thought it would work
best for this particular film. But it does make for a strange viewing experience,
especially when compared with modern cookie-cutter police procedurals. When the mob
finally gets to put the murderer on trial in an impromptu kangaroo court it feels like
the whole of German society - or humanity - is speaking as one.
But for the public to be one mass character there needs to be one other character: The
murderer. And in this case there’s never any mystery as to the identity of the man.
Although he’s only seen in shadow at first, Beckert is always the killer. The journey
isn’t in anything as mundane as discovering his identity but in exploring his mind set
and the mind set of those hunting him.
As played by Peter Lorre, Hans Beckert is easily one of the most memorable film
characters ever created. His sniveling, confused, angry, scared psychopath is
over-the-top but passionately real. He’s a self-hating criminal who both desperately
wants to get caught and yet still tries to claw his way out of accepting responsibility
like an animal. Beckert wants to stop killing (he knows it’s wrong) but he feels
compelled to the point that his murderous urges are like another person, following him
everywhere he goes, demanding that he listen. This is an extraordinarily complex
portrayal of the diseased criminal mind.
Lorre twists his face in extreme ways, utilizing the tools of melodramatic
theater and silent film to become almost something other than human. But then with his
pudgy body and sad features, he also becomes an everyman, a shuffling misfit who could
wander through any crowd. If Hans Beckert and Travis Bickle passed each other on the
street barely anyone would notice.
Lorre, who later perfected the sneering character performance in Hollywood
masterpieces like Casablanca and The Maltese Falcon, delivers his most
fiery, emotional, twisted, passionate performance here. He’s riveting to watch and
really leaves you with an unforgettable impression afterwards.
Between Lang’s visuals and Lorre’s character work, M is already a masterpiece.
But among Lang’s many other innovations is his bold use of sound. Being that it was
Lang’s first sound film, he didn’t just tack dialog onto his usual style. Instead, he
uses sound in a very stylized, experimental way. Often dialog from one scene and the
next blend together in a shockingly modern style: Criminals and police officers with
similar goals (catching the murderer) might finish each other’s sentences thanks to
well-timed cuts and sound design. This ramps up the film’s pacing but also uses sound
not just to convey information but to make a point.
Similarly, Lang uses the absence of sound very tellingly. Often he’ll leave out
the street sounds entirely, leaving the film floating in a creepy silence. He uses this
technique to amplify the atmosphere and to force the viewer to remain engaged
throughout. It also gives him the opportunity to get into the heads of his characters,
who may want to block out distractions or who might be shocked by a sudden loud noise.
He tries to put the audience inside the heads of his characters with these simple,
effective techniques.
Lang’s curiosity and experimentation lend M a sense of invention. Even something
as simple as the voice of a mother calling her missing child’s name repeatedly over
desolate, lonely shots of empty streets and other urban views is powerful and
provocative, especially considering that Lang created this scene so early in the sound
film era. That attitude pervades every aspect of this ground-breaking film. That it’s
still so gripping over 70 years since its initial release really means something.
M is as fresh today in many respects as it was in its day.
Ernest Viera