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The Weimar Shuffle |
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Dedicated
to the memory of Thomas Elsaesser (1943-2019)
German
art in the 1919 to 1933 period circumscribed by the exhibition The Mad
Square (Art Gallery of New South Wales, August-November 2011) – and
certainly German cinema, which we usually refer to as Weimar cinema – is not
just one thing. Take a look at the
dizzying array of styles, movements, art ideologies: Expressionism,
Objectivism, Dada, Bauhaus … all of them overlapping and sometimes contesting each
other. This is a crucial way to enter into German culture of this period, and particularly
Weimar cinema. This era is marked by the names of great directors such as Fritz
Lang (Metropolis, 1926), Friedrich W.
Murnau (Nosferatu, 1922), G.W. Pabst
(Pandora’s Box, 1929) and Josef von
Sternberg of The Blue Angel (1930) fame. But big names and great artists are not all
that should concern us; a cultural view is also needed to understand these
classics, as well as many lesser films from the same time and place.
The
path-breaking German film critic Frieda Grafe (1996) once said that a useful
way to think of individual films, as of cinema as a medium, is in terms of transition points. She referred to
movies as passageways or corridors that mediate between historical periods. They
are made in their present moment and reflect that moment. whether they want to
or not; but they are also in a dialogue with past period, historical movements
and traditions. They are also pointed towards the future: sometimes films have
a prophetic power, a prescient power – as Jean-Luc Godard demonstrates so
lyrically in his video series Histoire(s) du cinéma (1988-98). This is
particularly true, I think, of the art and culture gathered in The Mad Square. All this time-switching
is, for my purposes here, the first “Weimar shuffle”.
I
am especially fascinated by today’s fascination with Weimar – the contemporary
take-up on its historic legacy – which takes many, many forms. Bob Fosse’s
popular and ever-studied Cabaret (1972) is only the most visible manifestation of this tendency; although I
would not personally classify it as a great film, its status as a cultural
symptom needs to be acknowledged and taken seriously. Like many of us,
When
we talk about decadence, we often give it a moral pall, a dark shadow:
decadence as decline, moral corruption and so on. On the other hand, decadence
can just as easily – if our minds are open – refer to freedom, experimentation
and play, especially in the realms of sex and gender. It is a question of how
we choose to write history – and whether we choose to lock Weimar history
within the particularly grim and tragic fate sealed by the rise of Nazism,
World War II and the Holocaust. The central argument that scholars and viewers
have had concerning the Weimar films takes the following interrogative form:
are they in the shadow of Nazism, and do they, in an awful way, predict what
Nazism would do to the world?
This
was, for instance, the position of the great freelance scholar Siegfried
Kracauer, who in 1947 completed his book with the marvellous title From Caligari to Hitler – meaning, from The Cabinet of Dr Caligari (the classic
1920 Expressionist film) to the rise of Adolf Hitler. It was as simple as that
for Kracauer – as simple and as complex as that. The films held in themselves
the seed of this horrible, historical reality that was to come – something he
read on many levels of the texts, from their generally depressive mood to the
obsessive scenarios of weak fathers needing to be overturned by brave sons.
On
the other hand, there’s today a whole revival of Weimar culture in cinema, but
also in music video – Madonna, Queen, every second video music artist has
pillaged (in a properly postmodern way) the classic films of Weimar culture.
David Bowie’s romance with Berlin triggered an entire neo-Weimar dimension in
his career, including a part in a 1982 television production of Bertolt
Brecht’s 1923 play Baal. Such pop artists choose to emphasise not the
moral gloom but the playfulness and possibility of Weimar. They follow the
advice of the anthemic Foster the People song of 2011: call it what you want! In a related vein, Thomas Elsaesser (2000)
refers to going back to Weimar films as the process of giving them the future they
never had – because that future was snuffed out by the historical reality
of World War II and the Holocaust.
So
now we can, as it were, liberate the decadence, take it beyond always talking
about the dark side and moral corruption. When Grafe talked about films being
passageways or transition points, she meant that they refer not only to the
past, the present and the future; they also take into themselves every art form
and every medium: theatre, painting, music, design. And more: fashion and
shopping are just as much a part of Weimar culture as painting or literature.
But what we see in this culture is not the seamless fusion of all art forms and
aesthetic periods. What we witness, instead, are the true “culture wars” (to
use a contemporary term), the conflicts and constant struggles between (for
example) the avant-garde and the mainstream, or between high art and popular
culture. It is not a question of adjudicating which of these cultural forms is
better or more authentic; rather, it is the struggle between them that forms
any society. (As the German media theorist Friedrich Kittler [Bickenbach 2011]
suggested, our models of culture should always be conceptualised in light of
wartime, not peacetime.) In all of this, it’s crucial to see these various
issues as not just reflected in
Weimar films but actually dramatised in them. The movies embody or allegorise the fight between these cultural forms, often in an explicit and powerful way.
One
of the great plot devices of Weimar cinema is social mobility – moving up or down the lines of class. So many
Weimar stories are about the politician or the professor who falls in love with
the showgirl, the prostitute who marries into the aristocrat’s family, the
parents who dislike the person that their son or daughter is marrying because
he or she is an artist, and so on. These social slippages don’t just happen
once in a given film; they happen over and over again. They constitute what I
call a degrading. I don’t mean
morally degrading but, literally, a de-grading or shuffling of the characters.
Another Weimar shuffle! You see people in their social positions and then they
are moved around, up and down the social ladder, taken through all sorts of different
positions and interrelations.
Cinema
is absolutely at the heart of Weimar culture and, indeed, I would say – this is
something of a mild provocation in the artworld context – that Photo Art is, in
all its forms, more central to Weimar culture than painting. Of course the
paintings are fantastic, but … It was amusing to walk through the exhibition at
the Art Gallery of New South Wales on its lavish opening night, and overhear
somebody remark: “Gee, a lot of these works are so small!” They’re small because
they’re photos, postcards, posters for films, photos of architecture – and,
finally, films (when not projected on a big screen, but customised on LED
screens for a museum space).
The
photographic forms that were coming to life in this period are a crucial part
of the modernity as well as the Modernism of this time. When I make that
distinction, I mean that Modernism is an art movement, while modernity is the
whole revolution going on in the world of industrialisation, the machine age,
architecture and urban planning – but also transportation (train, tram, car)
and telecommunication (telephone, radio, film). Many Weimar films are, in fact,
reflections on all these things; again, they are cinematic embodiments,
allegories, dramatisations. They embed these devices of modernity into the film
itself – cinema being, of course, the 20th Century’s supreme
Modernist medium! (Martin 2010)
In The Blue Angel, Marlene Dietrich
plays the immortal character of Lola Lola. You don’t meet Lola as a real,
physical person at the outset of the movie. Firstly you see her as a poster,
then as a postcard, and then finally in flesh and blood. So this is a world, in
this moment in modernity, involved with how reality – including your and my
flesh and blood reality – is mediated through images. And mediated through
Photo Art, or photographic culture of any and every kind.
I
am intrigued by the questions of sex and death, as well as the many bizarre
combinations of these to things, in Weimar culture. Jill Lloyd spoke, at the Art
Gallery of New South Wales seminar on The
Mad Square, about a memorable real-life detail: prostitutes who wore
mourning veils to give a “macabre frisson” to their sexual services. This relates
to an issue that became very important to Weimar intellectuals such as Kracauer,
Walter Benjamin, Wilhelm Reich and many other German thinkers of the time. They
were trying to deal with sexuality, the kind of sexuality that Freud had
brought to the fore in thought: sexuality as an energy – an energy not just of the individual self but in the
world, in society, an energy that can go wildly out of control. Remember, the
people have just come out of World War I and are about to go into World War II;
as we all know, male sexuality goes insane during wartime – rape in war and so
many other terrible things. Weimar Culture is an attempt to map, both
consciously and unconsciously, what is happening to this unleashed, decadent
energy. Where’s it going? What kind of strange alliances is it forming, out
there (and in here) in the new, social world?
This
relates to modernity – to the changing world of the metropolis, this social
space in which energy is circulating in strange ways. Fritz Lang was intensely
obsessed by this. Totally obsessed with new technology: he wanted to include it
in all of his films in one way or another. He was drawn to the questions of the
crowd, of telecommunications, of these new spaces of the modern world and the
new kinds of experiences of (precisely) sex and death that they bring up.
There’s a striking painting in The Mad
Square called Sex Murder: it
shows a prostitute under the bed with a guy hiding there about to kill her. Sex
murder becomes almost a generic, True Crime obsession of Weimar culture, and no
wonder – coming out of the wars and dealing with this strange, new, modern
world!
The
question of sex crime or sex murder – today we’d likely say serial killing – is
exactly bound up with the beginning, the invention, of the modern world. Edgar
Allan Poe wrote about it, so did Baudelaire: the crowd on the street, which is
the subject of so much Weimar culture. What happens on the street? On the one
hand, you’re anonymous out on the street, in the crowd; and, on the other hand,
this means that somebody is looking at you and you don’t know who they are, or just
when they’re doing their sinister surveillance of you. The murderer will follow
you through the crowd and no one will see that happen. In Pandora’s Box, Louise Brooks playing the main character. Lulu
throws herself at any man she likes – and the last man happens to be Jack the
Ripper. Bad choice: but it’s a choice enabled by this new world, the world of
circulation, of permeation, of endless telecommunication, which allows
precisely these kinds of sexual encounters that can be ecstatic or can be deadly.
Take your pick! Remember that Lang’s M (1931)
is really, historically, the first serial killer film, and still the template
for so many made all over the world today.
But
let us turn from the very well known M or Metropolis to a Lang film that is far
less known, Spione (Spies, 1928). This fantastic movie is
one of Lang’s greatest because it is, in its own zany way, a celebration of
modernity (see Gunning 2000) – modernity in cinema and modernity literally in
the streets and on the expressways of transport. Take the very beginning of the
film. Lang always starts in on something very close, a detail, and then, very
quickly, you’ll get a whole social panorama. So, at the start of Spies, a secret government document is
stolen. We don’t know who’s done that, or even why. As eager spectators, we
fill in the blanks of what the French critic Serge Daney (1992) called the
“clever rubric” offered to us by filmmakers like Lang, Alfred Hitchcock or Jacques
Tati. Straight away, we’re into the joy of the motorcycle. Telecommunication:
waves of energy, spiralling out into a new, electronic space. News: an event
happens, and already it’s news. Welcome to the modern world! Someone’s getting
shot, and instantly someone’s on a telephone to talk about it. A bumbling government
official – well, some things never change. In the extremely abridged, American
edit they cut out that part, because they thought the comedy was too broad, too
vulgar; Lang encountered this kind of resistance all the time. Everybody wanted
him to be a high artist but he loved the low, vulgar stuff as well – and none
of us should ever tear this combo asunder.
A
fantastic moment in the opening sequence of Spione:
a driver gets out of his racing car and is about to hand over the secret. Who
is it, what’s the answer? Sudden bullet through the window: say goodbye to that
guy. And the official left behind as a hapless, impotent witness asks the
immortal question, “Who? Almighty God, what power is at play here? What is
behind this?” The answer is shown to us by the film itself, via its power of
montage: Haghi (played by Rudolf Klein-Rogge), the villain. “I – it’s me”. All
of this has just happened in little over two minutes of screen time. Films of
the 21st Century, 85 years later, are slow and laborious compared to
this!
There’s
much more we could say about this segment from Spione. One point is that the figure of Haghi, the mastermind, is
actually crippled, dwelling in the middle of an amazing bank/fortress that he
has built around himself. Everything he does is through telecommunications; he
has an army of people that he manipulates all over the city. Haghi is a
descendant of another Lang character, Dr Mabuse. There’s a series of Mabuse
films – indeed, the last film that Lang made is The Thousand Eyes of Dr Mabuse (1960), an incredibly prescient work
about the age of the Internet. But Lang, in a weird way – and this is part of
the perversity and the decadence of Weimar culture – identifies with Mabuse and
with Haghi, because these sinister figures behind the scenes who manipulate
things … well, they might as well be film directors. That’s the type of
metaphor or analogy at work here; Lang wasn’t afraid of the self-implication.
Spione was part
of a genre called the sensation film;
Lang himself said – and he meant this totally positively – “There is only pure
sensation, character development does not exist” (see Martin 2006 for further
discussion). I agree; more films everywhere should be made on that principle
today! However, Spione was criticised
in its time for being sensational in exactly the way it intended to be.
Kracauer himself said that in the entire plot (which goes on for something like
three hours): “One party spies on another and soon you forget who is who and
why they’re doing it. As an end in itself, the endless process is meaningless”
(Kracauer 1960: 275-6). Siggy couldn’t get into the fun of this film, clearly.
But the fun aspect, the pulp fiction aspect of Weimar culture is something we must never forget; Lang himself was
deeply into it.
I
wouldn’t call Lang camp in the way
that we talk about camp comedy or camp culture these days – because there’s a
lot of real, tender feeling in Spies for sentimental love and suchlike. But that’s what’s interesting about Lang:
like all the key Weimar directors, he forms, in his sensibility and his
practice, an unusual transition point between many things: between sentimental
German Romanticism and cynicism; between playing with stereotypes as a pure
game and then investing real energy and vitality into them.
The Blue Angel by Sternberg
is the film that made Marlene Dietrich a star. What’s interesting about
Dietrich as Lola Lola in The Blue Angel and Louise Brooks in Pandora’s Box alike is (according to movie lore) that they are the prototypes of the femme fatale, the deadly woman – which
also exists as a figure long before Weimar, in the history of art, drama,
mythology, and so on. Then, in Hollywood cinema of the 1940s, in what we call
the film noir, the femme fatale lures men to their doom in
her spider web … and that is the way we picture her role, her function, all the
way to postmodern revisions like Kiss of
the Spider Woman (novel 1976, film 1985). But, in the Weimar films, these
figures are not yet the complete femme
fatale as we have come to type her. Franz Hessel (quoted in Petro 2007)
noted this at the time: “Those dangerous women incarnated by Marlene Dietrich
do not give one the feeling that they mean too much harm”. Louise Brooks
herself said a wonderful, profound thing about her character in Pandora’s Box: “I was [Pabst’s]
unaffected Lulu with the childish simpleness of vice”.
The
childish simpleness of vice: that’s Weimar culture in a nutshell – this
incredible mixture of innocence and perversity, sophistication and childish
play. And similarly in The Blue Angel,
the character whom Dietrich plays is most famous for singing the song “Falling
in Love Again”, which boasts these lyrics: “Falling in love again. What am I to
do? I can’t help it”. There’s a sense that you love this character, or at least
have some positive, sympathetic feelings for her, because she’s just being
herself; the same goes for Lulu in Pandora’s
Box. This is an intriguing, transitional moment in the history of Western
culture. The Czech surrealist poet of a much later generation, Petr Král, once
wrote a touching tribute to Dietrich in which he essentially observed – and
what a terrific thing for a grown man to say in public – “In Marlene Dietrich I
see the sexuality of my mother” (I am paraphrasing). In Dietrich you have the
fascinating mixture of a motherly quality and a completely sexual, erotic
quality; they’re among the volatile ingredients in play here. You are starting
to see why we are still attracted today to the aura of Weimar!
Sternberg
was drawing on the theatre and Expressionism, but he was transforming the
theatrical influence that came from The
Cabinet of Dr Caligari. There was a movement named after Caligari – Caligarism, no less – but
Sternberg wanted to move away from theatre, while still using the form that’s
called the kammerspiel (chamber
theatre or chamber drama). His films are often referred to as hothouses where
you have these sets, these places, these spaces in which, basically, sexual
energy circulates – often in devious and perverse ways. He was obsessed with
this idea right throughout his entire career; he made a film set in a gambling
casino, The Shanghai Gesture (1942);
he made another, his final masterwork The
Saga of Anatahan (1953), set on an island where many men and one woman are
stranded after World War II. What extraordinary topics that he gravitated to,
always to achieve this hothouse effect! But the way Sternberg made theatre into
cinema – and this was a major achievement of Weimar cinema – is that he would
put spaces or places next to each other, in a dynamic transformation.
Here
is the way The Blue Angel starts:
Caligarism, an Expressionist moment of set design. But you will see very little
of this in the rest of the film. It functions as a reference to, or citation
of, the then-recent past of German art and culture. So we – by that I mean the
German or European viewers of the day – we start with what we know. But the
film is a passageway. It’s saying, “Here’s where we come from – Caligarism –
now we are going to go somewhere else”. Next comes (as I’ve already mentioned)
the introduction of Lola Lola in a poster. Look at the wonderful moment that
Sternberg contrives, it contains the whole film: the washer woman who not only
unfussily cleans the image of Lola Lola, but also decides to start comparing
herself to that feminine ideal. In a mock-ironic way, naturally – to de-grade
the ideal image. We’ll never see this washer woman again – it would take us a
lot of research to even find out the actress’ or extra’s name! – but her single
on-screen moment is indelible.
Here
is what I mean about places and spaces. We transit to a classroom. These
well-dressed kids are meant to be fifteen years old, even though they look like
they’re thirty. This place, this space, is where the main male character,
Professor Rath (Emil Jannings), has his domain. It’s where he literally
controls and commands the space. Everyone looks at him. He looks at everyone.
He commands who speaks and who will remain silent; this is his authority. In
the 1905 novel by Heinrich Mann (part of the famous Mann family), the good
Professor is teaching Schiller, a figure from German Romanticism – Schiller’s
dramatisation of Joan of Arc. He’s trying to teach high culture to these kids
who would rather be watching Lola Lola in the nightclub. It’s already a
cultural war, the kind of war we see often in Weimar cinema. Later, Professor
Rath’s students change his name to “Unrath”, meaning garbage, once he starts going
out with Lola Lola – the teacher going out with the showgirl. Of course, he is
no great elevated Professor of Literature, to begin with; the film is
constantly on about the slippery, sliding scale that takes us from slightly
high or pretentious culture to very low, murky, decadent culture. Sound
familiar?
Keep
this space of the classroom in your mind, because now we are going to the club.
Lola Lola wears an amazing dress in this first club scene: if you ever wondered
what fetishism is, this film will
give you the answer, because everything Dietrich wears offers an exaggerated
way to get you to stare at her sex! The sex you will never literally see,
naturally. Incredible things are done with this in Sternberg’s staging, his mise en scène. The whole film is based,
on the one hand, on the fantasy image of Lola, which the Professor himself
falls for; and, on the other hand, that tawdry reality of the washer woman – or
the reality of this absolutely seedy club, the Blue Angel. As soon as Professor
Rath enters the club, everything changes. The place of the club is compared to
the place of the classroom, but everything is inverted. The Professor becomes a
lowly figure in this space. He is compared, all the way through, to another
character: the clown. And the clown is basically the lowest person possible in
the status system of the nightclub. The entire film is about this degrading,
this bringing Rath down to a level – at which point, finally, Lola Lola will
just move on. What is she to do? She can’t help it!
Pandora’s Box stars
Louise Brooks. I want to give some sense of Brooks and her relation to decadence.
German art (in its “higher” sense) has been through some difficult times over
the past century, in favour and out of favour (for obvious historical reasons)
in different countries at different times: Brooks suffered this, too. Her
career was virtually over by the end of the 1930s. She actually lived in
poverty for much of her life but then, slowly, Cinémathèque programmers and
critics rediscovered her and her films. She eventually wrote an autobiography,
an extraordinary book called Lulu in
Hollywood (1982), in which she said she could have written a lot more but
(as she sums up in a marvellous phrase) because she was living in America
during its writing, “I am unable to unbuckle the Bible belt of America” –
something she surely did want to do! In this book she describes the years of
1927/8 in Berlin, when she starred in Pandora’s
Box. The very thought of an American actress in a classic German film based
on a classic play by Frank Wedekind – that caused an outcry. At the premiere of
the film, audience members were spitting on her: “How can an American play our
great German character?” And so the film itself dramatises, through the choice
of an actress, this modernisation and Americanisation of German national
culture – at the precise moment that it is becoming porous or open to the
world, which is the (necessary) fate of all cultures.
Brooks
did fit in quite well with Weimar decadence, it seems. Here is her portrait of
Berlin in 1927:
At the Eden Hotel, where I lived in
Berlin, the café bar was lined with the higher-priced trollops. The economy
girls walked the streets outside. On the corner stood the girls in boots,
advertising flagellation. Actors’ agents pimped for the ladies in luxury
apartments in the Bavarian Quarter. Race-track touts at the Hoppegarten
arranged orgies for groups of sportsmen. The nightclub Eldorado displayed an
enticing line of homosexuals dressed as women. At the Maly there was a choice
of feminine or collar-and-tie lesbians. Collective lust roared unashamed at the
theatre. In the review Chocolate Kiddies […] Josephine Baker appeared naked except for a girdle of bananas.
What
an amazing panorama of the sexual life of Berlin in the period of the late ‘20s!
And with some strange, prescient resonances for us today: as well as the
problem of male sexuality in wartime, we also have the very timely problem of
the unbridled male sexuality of our sports heroes! Not to mention “lust roaring
unashamed” in the arts, if and when we’re so lucky …
Pandora’s Box starts
with an ambiguous figure. He’s actually a meter reader, the meter man. But you
don’t think that straight away. You might imagine he’s some middle class
gentleman. Introduction to Lulu: the main thing about her is that she’s
completely guileless. Her desire goes anywhere, regardless of the class or
social position of the person she fancies. She can have a desire for this guy,
she can have a desire for any guy – it’s nothing ever to do with their wealth
or their lack of it. That’s the central provocation, the central transgression
of this figure. It’s also the reason why she’s not a femme fatale in the more contemporary film noir sense – she’s not out to fleece, manipulate or betray
anyone. So, we have a fascinating erotic byplay. Look at the intriguing things
Pabst does with eye-lines, where the characters are looking in the frame –
because he takes that system apart. Elsaesser discusses all this brilliantly,
and in depth. It’s not like a smooth Hollywood film of the time. They’re
looking in unusual directions; Pabst puts a vignette ring around it to make you
aware of your own gaze – both spectator and spectacle combined in the one
image, many times over. Now this rather shabby, noticeably older guy appears
and the meter man tells him: “Get out of here! I’ll give you a buck. Get lost!”
But have a look at Lulu’s response: it’s her friend – indeed, rather more than
a friend, as we quickly discover. Off to the bedroom with this guy!
Immediately
we have an interplay of men in two social positions. The guy who’s a meter man,
and then, as it were, the shabby bum below him. She’s attracted to both, and
she follows her whim in any way she wants to. The meter man, feeling a bit
disgruntled, leaves. And this sets up the narrative mystery of which man would
want to kill her – which turns out to be quite a few guys, for one reason or
another. Men and their problems! Weimar culture was right onto that.
Elsaesser’s
wonderful book Weimar Cinema and After is interested not only in the complexity of this piece of cinema history, but
also the legacy that has taken it up in contemporary culture around the world.
He emphasises the notions of play, the mask, people who wear masks and their
unmasking – and particularly the sliding levels of social mobility. He writes:
“For a decadent society of show and mimicking status, the sliding social scale
of inversion and grades of identity is potentially limitless”.
There
you have it: the inverting of roles and the grading, moving and swapping of
identities are potentially limitless. I believe that one of the great, enduring
appeals of Weimar culture and Weimar cinema is that, now in the 21st century, in the age of the Internet, it is once again a time where this sliding
scale of identity-play seems potentially limitless. What we make of that
development, the story we choose to tell of it – morally, aesthetically,
politically, culturally – is up to us. Call it what you want! But Weimar
culture offers us many rich clues as to our renewed, complex destiny. Let’s try
to create for ourselves the future that the Weimar Republic never had.
This is a lightly rewritten version of a talk given at a symposium on The Mad Square, 6 August 2011 at the Art Gallery of New South Wales, and repeated 3 March 2012 at the National Gallery of Victoria. Some of the ideas here are developed in my audio commentary tracks supplied for the DVD releases by Madman (Australia) of Dr Mabuse, the Gambler and The Blue Angel, and in the text on Spione listed below. See also the subsequent audiovisual essay on The Blue Angel made by Cristina Álvarez López and me in 2017.
REFERENCES
Matthias
Bickenbach, “Blindness or Insight? Kittler on Culture”, Thesis Eleven, no. 107 (November 2011): 39-46.
Louise
Brooks, Lulu in Hollywood (New York:
Praeger, 1982).
Serge
Daney, “Falling Out of Love”, Sight and
Sound, Vol 2 No 3 (July 1992).
Thomas
Elsaesser, Weimar Cinema and After:
Germany’s Historical Imaginary (London: Routledge, 2000).
Frieda
Grafe, The Ghost and Mrs Muir (London: British Film Institute, 1996).
Tom
Gunning, The Films of Fritz Lang:
Allegories of Vision and Modernity (London: British Film Institute, 2000).
Siegfried
Kracauer, From Caligari to Hitler (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1947).
Siegfried
Kracauer, Theory of Film (London:
Oxford University Press, 1960).
Adrian Martin, “What is Modern Cinema?”, 16:9, no. 38 (September 2010). Adrian Martin, “Machinations of an Incoherent, Malevolent Universe: Fritz Lang’s Spione”, Rouge, no. 9 (2006). Patrice
Petro, “The Blue Angel in
Multiple-Language Versions: The Inner Thighs of Miss Dietrich”, in Gerd
Gemünden & Mary J. Desjardins (eds.), Dietrich
Icon (New York: Duke University Press, 2007).
© Adrian Martin May 2012 |
