Instead of studying this theme—our own people—and exploiting it day in and day out, the German has scoured the whole world for themes. His historical films have been prepared with marvelous accuracy; not a detail has been neglected which might add in even the slightest way to historical reality: loyalty to history has been preserved and observed with touching constancy. I have my very serious doubt, however, whether this has been wholly necessary, for such films are not shown exclusively to historical seminars in the universities.
The German is almost universally successful in digging up a theme of crushing weight and power. He is never at a loss to create an action of either gruesome or exalted greatness. We have but to think of Golem, Madame Dubarry, Dr. Mabuse, and Dr. Caligari. These are most powerful films. Another is the Nibelungs. So far so good. But it is rare indeed that the German succeeds in endowing such films as these with the light and easy, the inspiring and inspiriting wings of humor. For a time, indeed, there was only one type of film that was regarded as a success: the film with the tragic ending. The German so frequently forgets, or he at least overlooks, the fact that it is not the business of the motion picture to play into the hands of hard, rigid, classical art, and to follow the canons of such art in so doing. It is the business, rather, of the motion picture to amuse people, to cheer them up, and to stimulate them.
Latterly, the German has shown a marked tendency to turn away from the film based on the masses. He has not done this however voluntarily; the extreme cost of producing such films has made them prohibitive. Nor is this all: the German has not looked with favor recently on the film that has to do with huge crowds of human beings for spiritual reasons. At present there is decided preference for the film that depicts a strong fervor of some sort; for a film that is impressive from the point of view of individuals; for a film that delineates a logical development of the adventures of the soul. And it must be conceded that the best artists are gradually finding a way by which they can unite delicacy of soul with grace of experience and thereby create what all the world must regard as beauty.
For a long while, the German, like the Swede, neglected the real art of decoration and photography. Within recent years, however, our better ateliers have made remarkable progress in this direction. Some of our films that have been created since the making of this progress, such as Suvarin or The Stone Rider need not hesitate to stand comparison with the best of any country. The small film companies have been obliged to close owing to the unprecedented depreciation in German currency. This, however, is not a matter for profound regret, for their quality could never be said to be the outstanding feature of their creations. Nothing but quality can ever make the trouble that has to be taken a matter of eventual gain. In the art of motion picture, genius is its own reward, but pains are well paid.
The German film will come once the chaos that reigns supreme at present has been eradicated, and the situation becomes brighter all around and everywhere. To-day, Bolshevism raises its ugly head in the East; in the West, heavy artillery is in position while fleets of bombing planes whirr through the air. The atmosphere is thick; so thick, indeed, that it casts a heavy shadow over the country.
CHAPTER VIII
FILM ADAPTATION
The mad search of the motion picture for appropriate material created a unique caricature: second-hand art. In general, it is regarded as a sign of unoriginality, if not of actual sterility, when a work, which speaks a different language in the domain of art, is translated into the language of the motion picture. It is not dissimilar to the situation that obtains when a given individual, unable to write anything on his own account, translates from the writings of others.
But the languages of words, words that act as the hand-maidens of thought, are all members of the same great family of the human mind. When languages of this kind are translated, the only change that is made is a change in sound. The meaning remains the same. The essential traits, the underlying faculties of a poet remain quite intact if translated cleverly, knowingly, and modestly.
It is the spiritual soul that shines forth in poetry. The motion picture “is not of this confectionery,” the Swiss Carl Spitteler would say. All that can come to light in the film, and particularly in film adaptations, is the sensual soul of an action. From this it is evident that when a bit of literature is adapted to the screen, the adapter is obliged to set up a quite different objective from that which the original poet had in mind.
Attempts have been made to refute the necessity of this change of purpose. The desire so to adapt a great piece of literature to the screen that it will be in every way worthy of the original poet in that it is a faithful reflection of his aims, is in itself altogether praiseworthy. But no poet has thus far ever had his renown increased by such an effort. All that was the most tender of beauty in the poem as it originally stood became a soft sweet pap and nothing more when transferred to the literal words of the film text. Attempts of this kind have not only been unsuccessful with regard to the poet that was to be honored; the truth is, no good motion picture has ever been made in such a way and with such an aim in view. The result has invariably been a surrogate that afforded nothing more than a glassy tedium.