Strange New Worlds: Science Fiction at DEFA (1960 to 1976) Socialism Among the Stars

Eureka have scored another tremendous success with their “Strange New Worlds: Science Fiction at DEFA” boxset that brings four fascinating glimpses at a Socialist approach to the genre beyond the traditional USSR output of On the Silver Globe, Dead Mountaineer’s Hotel or Stalker.

The first entry, Silent Star, was one I had seen prior to this boxset’s release. The uncut German original has been circulating since 2004 thanks to the DEFA Film Library of the University of Massachusetts Amherst, but this is the first time the 2K scan of the 35mm negative has been sold in the UK, and frankly it’s not a moment too soon. Based on a Stanisław Lem novel, it follows the discovery of a mysterious spool that soon reveals itself to be from Venus. On decoding a message inside the spool, it is discovered that an invasion of Earth is planned by the Venusians, prompting an international effort to be mounted to send a craft to investigate its origins. Originally a book for young people, Silent Star receives a heavy dosage of political message-making by its screenwriters, especially around the threat of the atom bomb, that turns it into a very adult drama. Said politicking is precisely why Lem hated the film, actively lobbying to have his name removed from the credits, but what comes from this interference is a fascinating, thoughtful piece of science fiction cinema.

The references to the atom bomb are prominent. Yoko Tani’s doctor is a survivor of Hiroshima who married the man that helped her mother’s radiation sickness; when she goes into space, she gives a speech about how surviving the bombing was the moment that led her to becoming a doctor. The Venusians themselves were masters of such weaponry, which they would have used to eradicate the Earth, only for it to go catastrophically wrong. Any form of atomic power, especially in weaponised form is painted as fundamentally dangerous, too unsafe for any race on Earth or beyond to ever use. The film feels constantly aware of this threat, in no small part thanks to Andrzej Markowski’s nerve-jangling score that mixes strong brass with dissonant electronic tones, undercutting even the lighter moments (such as they are) with a profound menace. 

Indeed, if there’s one thing that Maetzig’s film shares strongest with the rest of the boxset, obvious genre elements aside, it’s the sense of melancholy that permeates every interaction. Tani’s doctor and the German pilot of the craft to Venus seem to share a respect that is overshadow by personal grief, and several of the conversations on the landing pad revolve around the very real possibility that people may not come back from their journey. What science can do, including spaceflight, is exciting, but it does not come with the unvarnished guarantee of safety, as the final moments of the film attest. It’s easy to see why American distributors would have prized the impressive special effects and junked everything else in their re-dubbed release First Spaceship on Venus back in 1962, but they missed the depth of sadness that Maetzig’s original created.

The incredible quality, sadly, cannot be found in Signals, the second in this quarter of space voyages. Gottfried Kolditz’s first film in the set is informed by the-then recent success of Kubrick’s legendary 2001: A Space Odyssey. Both take a slow and contemplative approach to pondering the possibility of alien life in the universe, accompanied by detailed model work of ships docking in space. The length of the model shots here would make Gerry Anderson go “that’s a bit much,” but considering the sheer cost of the spaceships at hand (this was a co-production with a Polish company), one can’t help but wondering if this was Koldtiz and co. trying to get enough bang for their buck- sorry, marks.

However, Signals is severely bogged down by everything that comes between those delightful dockings; it’s far too verbal for its own good. It lacks a fundamental trust in the visual medium of film to communicate its mysteries; just what happened to spaceship Ikaros? Are its crew alive and did they encounter a new civilisation? Instead, of answering them, characters spend their time discussing the minutiae of space exploration. Kubrick saw the grander picture of human life in the vastness of space and understood, innately, its poetry. Kolditz is too bogged down in debate club to achieve any celestial majesty. That this turgid travel narrative is broken up by an apparently comical animated sequence about the male libido only serves to underline how much Signals misses the point of 2001.

For all these gripes, it does have a charming optimism about life in the year 3000. This is, like Silent Star, a future where racial prejudice is entirely absent, the crew sent to find the Ikarus very notably containing Black and Asian crew members. Women stand alongside men in the race to space, albeit with some eye-rollingly patronising comments about “girl’s first spacewalk!” and some prominent miniskirts. And the opening and closing scenes at the beach, men and women frolicking in the sand and surf, is a simplistic, if quite sweet glimpse of an idealised Communist society, one where physical health and happiness are intimately linked. 

More successful is Eolomea, in no small part because it opts for a far more intimate focus instead of a broad cosmic sweep. There are grand questions about humanity’s place in the vastness of space, mind, namely the titular planet that promises a perfect symmetry of Earth. But what is more important is the connection between the scientist Maria and the scruffy navigator Dan. That relationship gradually unfolds through flashbacks that appear in the narrative like jagged slivers of memory, fractured moments that suggest a relationship of a depth considerable to Kris Kelvin and Hari in Solaris, but in truth is something far more sweetly innocent and new. 

It does mean that Eolomea, at least from a straightforward narrative perspective, may seem a frustratingly obtuse experience, but director Herrmann Zschoche and screenwriter Willi Brückner somehow manage to craft a coherent emotional arc that structures the film in a surprisingly coherent manner. What it creates is a very profound feeling of wistfulness at missed connections, where the demands of duty and distance force people to sacrifice their personal happiness in the name of the greater good; in this case, a longshot journey to a mysterious planet that will last some 160 years. It’s in keeping with the communal spirit that underpins all four of the films on the set, but the individual ramifications are brought to the surface here in gently sad terms. All that, and a cute robot that wobbles around a deserted space station. Never let it be said the DDR didn’t know how to appeal to every demographic.

Rounding out the set is In The Dust of the Stars, again by Kolditz. A riotous piece of quasi-psychedelia pitched between family friendly, and R rated, the overriding influence seems to be Star Trek, both in its narrative structure and the visual style. The cavernous sets and diaphanous native costumes that feel like offcuts from an underground paranoia episode of TOS like “I, Mudd” and “Dagger of the Mind”. If that all sounds like high potential for kitsch, you’d be half right; certainly, the Popol Vuh-esque soundtrack and Kraftwerk computer voice instantly dates the film, but it’s thematically consistent with both the rest of the boxset and the Eastern Bloc’s line on the capitalist West in such a way that it’s far more interesting than the moniker would suggest.

The spaceship Cynro has received a distress call from the planet TEM 4 and has been dispatched to investigate. On arriving, they are forcibly grounded by Ronk, the ostensible leader of the planet, who brusquely assert that no distress call was ever sent and that they should leave as soon as possible. Yet a signal from his superior has our bearded menace instantly change his demeanour, offering the astronauts a trippy party that they’ll never forget, in no small part because five sixths of the crew are subjected to a curious brainwashing that makes them very sympathetic to their sinister hosts. They even get a little Manchurian Candidate-esque tell about how “fun but a little bit crazy” they are. The remaining astronaut, frustrated by the orgiastic revelry of his otherwise strait-laced colleagues (including a silhouetted naked dance that Joe Sarno would be proud of) goes to investigate just what is going on, he finds a sinister truth about the origins of the planet’s apparent wealth. 

The origins are unsurprising for anyone who’s seen enough classic science fiction, but it’s how they’re explored that makes them interesting. Case in point is the Chief, Ronk’s superior, a fey individual first introduced to us having his hair sprayed blue to complement his outfit. This is a feat that he will repeat another two times in the remaining thirty minutes of runtime, culminating in a snazzy orange cloak with matching buzzcut. His rampant greed is directly linked to TEM 4’s decadence, in stark contrast to the relative restraint of the Cynro astronauts. Po-faced it may sound, but there’s a ring of truth to the ways that unfettered wealth, ill-gotten, produces aimless hedonism. If you’re looking for ways Western science fiction cinema and science fiction of the Eastern Bloc differ, then look no further than how they treat intergalactic amusement and the mechanics of profit behind it. And in no small part, their analysis is often far more trenchant. 

That’s likely why these four films maintain their appeal. For all their potential for camp, they envisage a future where humanity has come together to search beyond Earth for something greater. So many Western science fiction films are about aliens coming to Earth and withdrawing because they are disappointed by the human capacity for war, greed and selfishness; a disappointment that the films don’t offer any solutions to, instead wallowing in fashionable pessimism about our failings. This set boldly assert that humanity has the capacity to grow, to become worthy of meeting new species. And the first way that can be achieved, in DDR Sci-Fi at least, is by overthrowing the capitalist system that enslaves so many. Utopian, yes, but it resonates long beyond the fall of the Berlin Wall.

While all these films have been available in good quality for a long time, it’s the quality of the package that elevates Eureka’s latest output. As well as Stereo and 5.1 sound options for listening pleasure, there are informative audio commentary for all films and clearly written subtitles for those non-German speakers amongst us that makes the watching experience extremely pleasurable. The extras, however, are worth the price of admission though. Every disk has at least one archival documentary, a short film and a video essay that explores one or more of the films and its relationship to science fiction cinema or East German history, the highlight of the latter category being Claire Knight’s thirty-minute essay on science fiction’s relationship to East German socialism. All of that, combined with the 60-page collector’s book included as part of the first 2000 copies, makes this not only a brilliant introduction to a previously under-appreciated part of film history, but an informative and thorough one at that.

Ethan’s Archive – Strange New Worlds