Waxworks (1924): An Iconic Display of German Expressionism (Review)

Released to Blu-ray by the Eureka Masters of Cinema label last month, Waxworks aka Das Wachsfigurenkabinett was the final film that director Paul Leni made in his native Germany, before forging an illustrious career in Hollywood with films such as The Cat and the Canary, The Man Who Laughs and The Last Warning in the years between 1927 and his death in 1929. It was written by Henrik Galeen, the screenwriter behind such Expressionist classics as 1914’s The Golem (which he also directed and starred in) and, most famously of all, Nosferatu in 1922.

Released in 1924, Waxworks is a seminal silent movie that effectively helped to originate a popular standard in the horror genre – the anthology or portmanteau movie. A triptych, the film tells the story of an out of work young poet (William Dieterle) who, upon seeing an advert for a writer in the situations vacant pages of a newspaper, heads out to the local carnival fair in the hope of securing suitable employment. Once there, the young poet meets the proprietor of the titular waxworks museum, played by John Gottowt, and his daughter Eva (Olga Belajeff). The proprietor is justly proud of his work and introduces the poet to his trio of prize exhibits; an effigy of Harun al-Rashid, the fifth Abbasid Caliph who is said to have ruled over his kingdom in the Middle East during the peak of the Islamic Golden Age of 786 to 809 and was later immortalised in the Arabian Nights; a figure of Ivan the Terrible, the Grand Prince of Moscow and the first Tsar of Russia whose despotic reign lasted from the mid to late 1500s; and lastly an amalgam of Spring-Heeled Jack, the folkloric bogeyman of Victorian England and Jack the Ripper, the elusive serial killer who terrorised the Whitechapel district of London. These three bloodthirsty and iconic terrors from the annals of history are portrayed by Emil Jannings, Conrad Veidt and Werner Krauss and so, rather pleasingly, the displays of the waxworks museum itself afford audiences the treat of a unique display from a stellar trio who were unquestionably the most popular stars of German cinema at that time. Indeed, Jannings, Veidt and Krauss remain the key actors to have graced the screen in German Expressionist Cinema.

The waxworks owner asks the poet to start work creating backstories to fit each figure and thus the narrative frame of Waxworks is established; the poet begins to scribble away at the parchment and audiences are taken into each vignette, a cinematic world that traverses the scorching Arabian deserts, the frozen Russian steppes and the thick peasouper fogs of London. Forging a link between each episode is the poet’s decision to cast himself and Eva in key romantic roles, thus they become a baker and his wife who, tired of their penury, hatch a scheme to rob the Caliph of his precious magical ring and later, a bride and groom whose wedding is interrupted and dominated by the sadistic Tsar who takes the bride as his own and banishes the groom to his notorious torture chamber. In the final story, the poet finds that both he and Eva are now the prey of the final effigy, Spring Heeled Jack/Jack the Ripper, who stalks them relentlessly through the dark and twisted halls of the museum.

Intriguingly, Leni had originally planned a fourth story in his portmanteau, evidence of which remains in the final print. As the waxwork owner proudly shows off his exhibits to the poet, a fourth effigy can clearly be seen and is indeed introduced (though a caption is not included). This figure was Rinaldo Rinaldini, an aristocratic highwayman who first appeared in author Christian August Vulpius’ 1797 ‘penny dreadful’ Rinaldo Rinaldini, the Robber Captain and was popular enough in Germany to subsequently be adapted into a 1927 movie. Rinaldini was set to be yet another role for Dieterle, though some say the vignette was abandoned due to budgetary constraints. Of the vignettes that we have, it is the first two which dominate the film’s duration, taking up around thirty-five minutes each of the eighty minutes or so running time. The first chapter, concerning Harun al-Rashid is a comic romp that may surprise viewers who expect a purely horror tone. It’s a disorientating and bold step to take for the first tale, though obviously greed, envy and monstrous petulance can be viewed as a key component of tyranny. In the role of the Caliph, Emil Jannings is seemingly having a ball, embracing the change of pace to mug spectacularly in the fat suit beneath his character’s robes. The bawdy rotundity of the Caliph is complimented by Leni’s stylised, plumply palatial Arabian sets as the poet, weaving a story that aims to explain away the fact that the waxwork effigy is missing an arm, recounts a tale concerning the Caliph’s desire to have a humble baker killed, firstly because the smoke from his kitchens causes him to lose at chess, and then because he sees that the man’s wife is beautiful. In contrast to the opening episode, the Ivan the Terrible chapter is suitably bleak and stark, making much use of Veidt’s ability to depict the manic. As the cruel Tsar, Veidt takes great pleasure in turning “cities into cemeteries”, poisoning his victims and marking their death throes with an hourglass. Knowing that he is next on the tyrant’s hit list, the poison mixer makes a lethal potion to be consumed by Ivan himself, whose final moments are a bitterly ironic echo of the fates he had taken sadistic delight in, repeatedly turning over an hourglass bearing his own name. Veidt’s Tsar is a more obviously recognisable evil than Jannings’ Caliph and the story is presented with a mannered, disturbing aura. It’s the final – and sadly all too brief – chapter that shows Leni has saved the expressionist best til last; a phantasmagorical spectacle of shifting realities and, in Krauss’ unflinching Jack, a foe so unstoppable as to make Halloween‘s Michael Myers or any of the modern era slasher figures feel envious. A chilling coda, the carnival atmosphere beyond the museum subverts to become an equally over-stimulated kaleidoscope of the poet’s internal anxieties.

With no surviving original print available, this newly restored Eureka release is the remarkable work of the Deutsche Kinemathek, Cinetica di Bologna and L’Immagine Ritrovata, who composed it of contemporary existing prints and archive film materials from all over the world. Included in the release is the option of two new scores, one by the Ensemble Musikfabrik and another by the composer Richard Siedhoff. An audio commentary by the Australian critic Adrian Martin and interviews with Julia Wallmuller from Deutsche Kinemathek on the restoration process and the inimitable Kim Newman on the film’s influences and lasting legacy make up the bulk of the Blu-ray’s extras, but best of all is the inclusion of Paul Leni’s Rebus-Film; a series of cinematic crossword puzzles created by Leni which were screened in German cinemas throughout the 1920s as supports which accompanied the main feature. Each of these animated shorts were split into two parts, clue and answer, and would appear both before and after the feature presentation.

Thank you for reading Mark’s Review of Waxworks

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