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FRITZ LANG IN AMERICA

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series edited and designed by Ian Cameron

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FRIITZ lkéi-‘§.'§.'..,@.

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PETER

BOGDANOVICH 1

PRAEGER

BOOKS THAT MATTER Published in the United Status 0/ America in I969 by Frederick A. Praeger, lm:., Publislturs Fourth A't‘c'tttte, 1\'en' York, N. Y. 10003

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1967 by Movie Magazine

Limited

rights reserved

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number:

7"9'693 Produced by Design Yearbook

Printed in England

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Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, 8".”-Y by 1-'W"¢-W RK_O Radio, Republic, Twentieth Century-Fox,

UnttedAmsts, Universal. CCC, Paramount.

Columbia, Warner.

Several people deserve my thanks for their work on this book: Polly Platt, for transcribing the interview and ‘coordinating the lmography; Mae Woods, for typing the entire ntanuscript; Christa Lang (nu relation of the director's) /or helping with French and German translations; Milton Luboviski, owner 0] the Larry Edmunds Bookshop in Hollywood, and ]ames Silke, for loaning us mast of the stills; and Mr Lang, for his time.

P.B.

Frumispiece: e.\‘patriates—Marlenc Dietrich -visits Fritz Lang on the set of Fury (1936).

For Borislav Bogdanouich, my father, who also came to America.

CONTENTS FATE, MURDER

AND

REVENGE

NO COPYRIGHT FOR THE DIRECTOR

l.ANG'S cmzesn FILMOGRAPHY

FATE, MURDER

AND

REVENGE ‘.

Listen In the legend 0/ C]Ill£k>A-LIlCk, Clint-L--A~Luck— .

.

Lismi m the it-lice! of Fate; Ar round and mund rt-ilh a

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Ir xpins Ilia old, nld xmry of HATE, MURDER AND REVE.'\'(iE . . .' ‘The Legend of Chuck-A-Luck‘ (lrom Ranelm l\'mnn'ous). Except in France, very little of value has been written about Fritz Lang's American lms, though they make up over half of his work. The conventional opinion (as voiced by Gavin Lambert‘s r955 Sight £1‘ Sound articles) is that after his rst two pictures in Hollywood (Fury, You Onlv Lire Once), Lang went into decline, with only occasional ashes of his fonner talent and personality. This is as tedious and inaccurate a cliche as the theory that Hitchcock's British lms are better than his American ones, that John Ford never made another movie quite as good as The Informer, or that Orson Welles hasn’t done anything worth discussing since Citizen Kane. Whereas Lang's American work is generally accessible, his German lms are extremely 6

and most criticism is based on opinions formed years ago; the German lms therefore are enriched by the tricks of memory, and the more ‘common’ American ones simply don't stand a chance. That something made noru could possibly be better than something made than also seems inconceivable to most ‘liberal’ critics. (Lang's own preferences are strongly influenced—as he admits-— by the circumstances surrounding the making of the lms, and on their success or lack of it.) There is oneupmanship operating here too: if a reader is told that Spiune (I928) is much better than The Big Heat (1953), the critic isn‘t likely to be challenged, because the reader's chances of seeing Spione are poor. But that's how values in lm history are set. One wonders how long it has been since the

difficult to get to

see

critic saw Spione. More informative and to the point is Andrew Sarris’ observation that ‘both Metrnpulir [1927] and Mooneer [r955] . . . share the same bleak

view of the universe where man grapples with his personal destiny, and inevitably loses.‘ (Film Culture, No. 28, Spring r963). Lang's work has been remarkably consistent over the years, both in theme and outlook: the ght against fate continues from Der Mlide Tod (his

rst success in Germany) lo Bsynnd u Rm.mnable Daub! (his last American piciurc). And the ‘Chucl._ \\'c arc auiumaiically making ihcm for all ihc \\'urld—hi:causi: Amuricn is full ut'l1»rcigncrs.' "l'hc Cll"lL‘l'1'\ of Alfrud Hitchcock", i963). i\lun.- succinctly, he advised 'l'i'u'iiul \\'hhu\\. In the lll’>l [\\\\ American hlim. Lung clcurl_\' phrascd lllh mum ihcmcs. on \\'hi\:h lic was to play \';ir1:1n\\n~ iliruugli mm! ml" lhc lwunly other picturcs he mudc hcrc. I"ur_\'dc;1l> as much with lhc >xcl~:nc_~.~ of rcvcngu. of l\1l\\.‘. as ll duc> with the inlquincs nl' .lu~uny—!l\u murcilc>.\— ncss of \\'l\lCl‘| gl\'u\ Ynu (Jnlv Luv (hlcc I93?" Hcnr_\' its nczir-cl:!s~1\;:il llunun~iun; Ekl\llC Fonda . lhc llll'L'U—lll1lL‘ l\\.~ an \l\\\\l1‘lL'Ll from ihc mm u_\ Uullipm; but fur Lang. ll i.~ no! the nuicmm ilmi in-um-r> in .i hlfllgglt against llnu, ii i.~ ihu ght iiwll’. Lung ucr the social aspccls nflynch mob l11CnlLIlll_\'. suuiuyk 1niu>uc\- [H exCon\'icls—:\rc lhrizutlcri. ihc muru univursul qualiuus will mniinuu l\\ h;\\'u .~ircng1h and poignancy. Their smcial \.'\\l‘|\II‘llll‘HCn[. l1 \"i"P\'\-l h.\' llli\'~ and

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‘-'\'iPPl\I\5—Pl1l'5\\i11ll)'- \'m\"i""i11l§'—1"'L‘ Ling? truc méticr. Thc lincsl scenes in 'I'/:1‘ BI}; Hcu!— in all his piclurus—.irc the uncs that dual with lhh‘ lml-\llL‘\-l 1171*-l lnllll'L'*l-

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,.v_,.» Lang remarked once in enn\'ersuliun that he considers Yul: and .\lt' 1938) his \\'\\l'SK lm. Certainly it is the least successful considering its ambitiuns; UH the other liantl. it is much more personal and interesting in its failings than The Relum lgf Fr-Ink _7dlIlt'_\‘ iiq4o1 or Anicrictzri Guerrilla in Ill: I’/ii'/ippnit-x t\\'eethe;1rt ii-as been raped and murdered Ii:-as for his revenge; unce it has he-en C|‘|ig'\'g'd‘ lifq hecumes nieaninglessz hate. which drove him ‘like a whip‘, has burned out hi.\ >oul. Despite budgetary limiralium tre>ulling in wme un-

l’i1i:1:

fortunate backdrops), it is among Lang's nest pictures. With Man HIIIII (1941), Lang began a series of four anti-Nazi lms (Hangman Also Die]. The .'llin|':!r_\' of Fear, 1944, Clnak and Dagger, 1945), each characterized by an intense personal involvement, a vivid awareness of the fascist mind, missing from other similar movies of the period. Not only had Lang known these types in Germany, but several of his early lms l,Dr illabuse tier Spider, I922, Spimte, even I)ic Spirmen, 1919-20), had lnrecast the Hitler calamity in their portraits of diabnlical supercriminals planning wnrld dnminatiun. Lang's last lm in pre-war Germany, Dar 'l'ex!an:eril dz: Dr .\labu. u

hunt.

And I thought. hurt‘ t~ .t ktntl of \tgtt ttl .t ticttttwrttcy. ln Gt-rttt.ttty. ttntlur thc tttlhlcncu ufttttlttttry pnxwr-—I'ttt nut qwuktttg nt’Httlcr_ hut u\'un hcfnrc. ttndur thu ttttlttttry pn\\'cr of tho untpt-r\\r— thuru t~ .t Phl’;L\U ytttt yttnnnt

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tr-.ttt.~l;ttc. I\'tt.1.t:ur ;'t'Imr.t.t1n.\\'htttpct'mun. ln tt tutttlttttrmtt >t.ttc. ttr tn at stalk‘ t: \\';t> >\\ntt-thing 1 lcttrttcd hcn: for the rst ltntc. and I thtnk tt's ;tb>ulut\'ly currcct, Dtti _\'nu /t-1:1‘ t'twtf1/an twttrnl tvzvr the t'u.\ltItt: hf the /i/nt?

When you arc under cunrrucl m :1 mu|ur American siudiu, _\'nu have nu cunlplcrc cun~ rm]. Yuu are asked fur, and cmillcd m, your npinmn. For example, Spencer Tracy and S)'l\*\a Sldnuy \\'»:rc can by the Front Oicc_ wilhuut uvcn lhc O.K. of [juscph L.] .'\‘lankiuwicz, because it was his rst job [as u pmdum:r]. In those days, zhc pmducliun and di>rrihuriun dcpurlmcnls wcrc not scparulc >0 nalurull_\' they worked l\und-in-gluvc. Now when it cumc lu casting the >ccundnr_\' purh, Ihu aclurs >ho\\'n to mc had rst bccn pruposcd by the

(I;1slingDcp;\rlmcnl. Ag:1in.lhi>1s \'crydiL-r-

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.-hm 1-:..:. Fun. :-uh ll'}1l1¢r (.'.|!~n! .m./ L-/I .\'/~.‘u.;r 'l‘m.\‘.

um !'n\n1 I{urupu~—;| L.l\llH}1\1U[\.|rlII1Ul d\\c,\n'I uxi\'t lhurc. Lutcr nn. whcn I \\'cm b;\ck—|n lhc lulu 'lil'l1u>;—l lulkcd (H u lul of producers in Germany, and I ~.ud. '\Y'h_\' dun‘: yuu hun;\ kind of casting dup;|rl1m'nt?“ ll 1\ luu much fur thcm. they dnn'l \\'.lnl to do lh;|I. But hcru you really could clwmc [rum ;| In-;|.~uru nf ;u.'turs. A cmnng vicc 1\ :1 grml ;|d\';|nl.|gu hccuusc lhurc may bu \'cr\' gmnl nctnrx m Z3

11

Chicago, in San Francisco, in New York, and I cannot know about them all. So it's the casting directur‘s ioh to say. ‘Look, Frill. l saw this and this inan.' and we work together. Did _\'t7|l Iimi :i'nrl.'i'ui: rnmli'!i'mi.\' tnnl tee/iriicul /ucili!i'ex better ur 1:-one I/ltlll in tiermurit-P The technical end was indeaerihcihly hetter. l remember for .\i ll‘t‘I}' rst talkie). I needed a buurri. There ::u.\" no hitnl. t\'ohotl_\‘ had ever /ward about ii boom in Gerinany. l explained it to a very intelligent tvnrker, ii er:il't>nian whn had great arti>tic qualities the had huilt. by himself. the dragon in Die .\’ibeli11ii'm). Sn, for i\i. he took a kind oi‘ eh:issi>—un Your wheels —and put a 2 x 4 on it twenty feet long. On one end stood the camera. and on the other end sat four or ve liea\'_\‘-bellied workers. And that was my boom! Also in those d;i_\'s—l even had a picture of it—-the l1‘|iL'l't\|'\li\\t‘|C\ in Germany were almost a cube. made of ll iiialeriul like marble; the sound inan had 1| wooden mallet, and whenever sutiielliing \\'ent wrong \\'lIl‘l the microphone. he eaine over and ‘puni>hed' it by hitting it with the mallet! Lighting and everything was ten thuuaund tinie> hetter here. But then the lighting \\‘1lhillM>qUlI\' different. Here. aeainerainanlit a woman for beauty; he didn't give a damn if the .\oui't.‘e~light came from left or right. ll‘ she is sitting \\'ith a \\'indt\\\' on the right hut he \\'antetl light from the lellt. he stir: her light from the left. ln Germany. \\'e were. you know, very nietieulotu: if the light eoines {rom the right. you cannot light the \\'oinan froin the lelt. lt gives more atmosphere t‘l'|;l_\‘l\L'. hut . 'l'liere was something el~e too. l made a picture called Der ,\lm1e Tull [l7t:\im_\']_ which .

.

mean» ‘The \Ve;ir_\' l)e.ith' ‘Death is \\-eary of killing people.) l7\\ti;gla~ l":iirh;iiik~. the old man, hotiglit it for ve ihoiisaiid dollar.~ and

Sn/I:

/rt-in ‘.1 .'r..i~m. wl .i.!.>r~'— I:'.i:;m'.i If/In. ll".iI!.-r' Ii‘nmi.iu HI I-'ur\'. ./in.-~//1-4

25

copied everything--but naturally fty thousand times bettet—in The '1‘/tit;/of Bagdad [Raoul Walsh, i924]. They had trick departments. They had money. We had to make all our tricks ourselves—in the camera, on the set— nothing in the lab. So we were constantly trying to nd new ways to express ourselves. We had no big conipanies—~e\'en Ufa was not as big as, say, M-G-M, or Paramount; in a big studio, experimenting costs money. But when you only have a small statf, no labour rules, no unions, it doesn't cost very much. Here it is always a question of money. For example, in Die .\'|'beltutge:z. we wanted to make a rainbow. My cameraman said, ‘Fritz, you cannot photograph a rainbow.‘ Why, l don't know. So how to main.‘ a rainbow? We finally came to a very simple Solution: we drew a rainl\o\\' with chalk on black paper, and then double-printed it over the landscape. But today, if l were to come to the people who are, supposedly, responsible for the money, and say, ‘Look, I \\'ould like to make a rainbow—I'm not quite sure how to do it, but . . .' they would gi\'e me the answer, ‘Do you think it will bring us one extra penny into the box oice? Make the landscape ::'i!/mu! the rainbow!‘ And that was the ditference at the beginning. 'I'rut‘_\'".< tiuul .v[1eet‘l: in Fury mu/J be inter/1r,.~lcti as a [vemvtal slulcmcnl of _\'o|4r tlixerte/tartlrliettl teilli (t'ermt1nv\',' aux it? lt‘s very hard to say. I would say, not knowingly. Look. it would be very unfair to a dead man if l were now to say, ‘That's mine.‘ Honestly, I couldn't tell you, but l would suppose that was a speech written by Cormack. Did)-mt like the kiss at the cu-1? .\'o, I holed the kiss, because l think it wasn't necessary. A man gives a speech that, as you said, is very well written and extremely well 'r:itt.m'~ /mt‘ t'llI|\tlt'!l\t' I1/IUII I/It‘\' are Inectltt"r'-tlormmy I/It‘ mt! m Fury. .S‘!t'//X.‘

26

,,.

17

in Div .\'il\t‘/rlltgm. lover and heloved are sitting under at hlossoming tree—muny. many blossoms. t.\'o\\'. don't forget. every German knows the Saga of the .\'ihelungen us \\-ell HS every kid tn the United Stutes knows Cu.ster's end. The lovers are doomed—e\'eryhody knows it.) So after they leave the tree. she looks down from her \\'indo\\' and suddenly these hlossoms fade only and there is at skull. This is at symbol to \hO\\' danger ahead, forhoding. In Fury I had rt scene of gossiping: one wotnun starts to talk. then another one and another one—und then I dissolved into some geese. who made the same sounds. The same executive who had told me about joe Doe .s'.\ld. ‘Fritz_ American people don't like symbols. They're not so dumb that they don"! understand without them." And he is right. I don't know |l' I cut ll out or not— hut heis absolutely correct. I-Iveryone knows what gossiping women tire doing. You dun‘! mean thu! the .-lmurfnzn people are

1-. delivered. and then suddenly. for no reason \\'hatsuever—in front of the judge and the audience and God knows \\'ho—the_\' turn around and kiss each other. For me. u perfect ending was \\'hen he suid. ‘Here I stand. I cannot do otherwise. God help me.‘ You eould have shown a close-up of Sylvia Sidney—she's very happy—he could look at her—period. It‘s such a coy ending now. You used eerluin kirtdx of .\',\'mbnI.\ tn Fury fl’/11¢"! you t1:'t=|'t1etI|'rt_\'our later .»ln|er|'t't1n /ilm.\'. ll"/1)‘? ln Germany, \\'e worked \\'tth symbols. .-\ symbol has to explain something. For example. 28

nmrc |':ttvl!:};en! I/ttm the (irnmtn people? Let's say. it is n question of edueution. I really couldn't tell you. But there are different kinds of symbols. In .\I, when the child is killed, a ball rolls out from the hush and stops; camera pans up and, at the same time, the balloon which the murderer had bought the child,

Ilqfl .'\'\-It M .\'|.lnc\‘ Illa I_\-nc/1 um!‘ urlur/.-in;' hur 1'a1'Inl/lmiuml ulmcw in I"ur_\‘. Sli/I.>. II"/|‘\' Jnyuu I/un/c 'I‘m._\‘ cl: n /z|nn(// up?

I'vu uflun bu.-n asked 11' 'l‘r:u\' _1_'x\'c\ hlmsclf up lwc-uu>c of \m'1.|I mn~c1 started a riul. The eruwd became a mob. The fun heeanm :1 btg riut that had tu he stopped by the poltce. All >!;1rleJ with n casual, ‘Oh, lel'> have sume funf Masses lose cunscience when they are together; they become a muh and they have nu personal conscience any nmre. Things that happen

dunng

riot are the expremun of at mass fceltng, they are nu longer the feehng of tndivtdunls.

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Fury? Uh. (ind, Let's he hunest—yes. 1-‘|rsl of all. they cnnndered it ‘(T picture. Alstt. I was sumethmg that ts ul\\'t1_\'~. hated |n Hu]ly\\'nud— u perfeetttvnm. \‘uht>d_\‘ hkes u perfectmnist, you know: ‘He is so thlheult In work \\'ith'— because he knmva exactly \\'h:tt he wants! ‘\\"ho nu

11

cures for the ttudtence? The uudtenee are tdints.' Which. h_\- the \\'.t_\', I thtnk they are nut. But 31

most motion picture producers think the audience are idiots. While I was shooting Fury at the studio, I had some trouble. For example, in Europe I was accustomed to nishing a scene no matter how much time \\'as needed. Still, I was very considerate of my crew, and the crew always loved me. Nobody told me that here in America there's a law that you have to send your crew to eat after a certain time. As a matter of fact, there’s a law in California that every ve or ve and a half hours, all the extras have to be fed I didn‘t know that. So when I came to a scene I wanted to nish, I didn’t even ask if they wanted to stay. One of my greatest enemies in this matter was Mr Spencer Tracy. If somebody would have said, ‘Fritz, look, in America it's important—so-and-so,‘ l would have done it. But no one told me any-. thing and so in this case it was very disagreeable work. Then came some rivalry between Cormack and Mankie\vicz—who had said, ‘Well, the dialogue isn't always good, I will rewrite it.' That became a kind of diicult situation, naturally. Tense. Now, before I go on, let me make something clear. Ifa picture is to he made about lynching, one should have a white woman raped by a

coloured man, and with this as a basis, still prove that lynching is wrong. Not make a lynching picture about a kidnapping that never happened, about an innocent man. But look, I went to libraries and tried to inform myself, and I sa\v the possibility of saying something against lynching-—-even if it was not as it should be done. 1 had various scenes with Negroes in them. One I remember had Sylvia Sidney looking out ofawindow; she sees a coloured girl hanging laundry in the back yard and singing a song‘When all the darkies are free . . .‘ This scene was cut out. Because it was not necessary . Then, when the District Attorney, who accuses the lynchers, makes his speech to the jury: ‘So and so many lynchings in this many years, meaning every third day a lynching‘ (I don't know the exact quotation), I hatl a shot of some Negroes in the South, sitting in a dilapidated old Ford, and from the car radio came the voice of this District Attorney. There was an old Negro with white hair, and a very goodlooking couple—a buxom coloured girl and a boy-—and I think there were also two children; there was not a word spoken, and only the old man was nodding to himself, as if to say, ‘Yes.’ This scene was cut out. I don‘t know why they let me Shoal it—that’s the peculiar thing. Later, I was told that the late L. B. Mayer allegedly had said, ‘Coloured people can only be used as shoeshine people or as porters in a railroad car.‘ Also cut was a scene in a barber's shop, in which no coloured people were involved; somebody said something like ‘What’s going on in Washington,’ or some such remarkthe scene was invented entirely by Bart Cormack. After the picture was nished, I was called Stills.‘ ‘casl by I/le From ()it't'"—Sy/1'It1 Sidm'_\', Spencer Truc_\' (rig/ll) in Fury.‘ left, ‘i1/t't'lin_|ruk of a chime u a clock rower at midmghr. Thcrc Shu has rcad the hunk uf Sulumonz '. stands lovc as strung as dcuth . .' And in her dcsiru. >hc Ihlks luvs is alrnngcr llmn death. >0 >11: lighu. and the picture Kcll\ lhu .\I\Yl'_\' of Xhc lhrcu candle» Evcrything l|1L‘ ;:|rl docs In >'.1\'c >pcc1c

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Sli//J: ‘Illa /lull! .|1_u||r|~!_7uIu‘ Ill Yuu Unl\' l.1\'c Once. .\'yl:m .$'il[nc\' :1‘:/I1 ‘rlj/II Bllrmn ,\!acLum- ml-1(bulurz‘ ‘1‘P["|"|!=‘» I-'/1

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her lover ert-tites his death—;i tight against fate. against tlestiny. I nnee \\'n\te in an intrt\ttnettnn tn it hituk that the huh! is |mptittttnt— nut the result must respnnsihle fur You tmtl i\lt'. and fur a very peculiar reason. In my opintun, Brecht ts. up to nt\\\', the greatest talent of lhl.\ century in Gerinany. He invented the epic theatre anti something else—l.t'Iimiii/:~;i phi)‘ lhlll teaehes sutttetliing. .\"!m'L-. the play. lt‘I1t't-Ii: tn teach.‘ And l wanted tn make a picture that teaches

38

something in an entertaining way, with stings. It starts with ‘You cannot get something for nothing." i'l"he music was by Kurt Weill.) Then I prove that xi shoplifter \\'ill—generally—he caught. In it sung with Bmld link‘! and BOW‘ music, you can teach snntethingz ‘You eannut get something for ntithing, You have gut it» lay it un the line. You‘d like tu have this lovely bracelet. \\'uuldn‘t ytiu? Or perhaps this sparkling gem? Remember they eanntvt belong tu you. Until you pay for them. You cannot get something for ntithing . I and so on. ‘The \\-int» tr; thrive tin, we hat-g in pay for, The t-tit-5 \\-¢ titjt; in, “-t- haw tn pay (Qt-, The fnotj \\'Q ]i\'¢ tin, \\'q have tti but-, Ytiu must , t‘ And supply thq tjtiugh, thn do-ray-ntq has ti vgty fur ,_-\-t;t-ything_1ift~ that goqg pgculiaf way nf making ynti pay ftit \\-hatt-en _\-tin get, Sn the sting is constantly preaching something, but it is done, I hope, in such tt way that it amuses. That was the thing I tried

'

to achieve. But You and Me was an unfortunate affair from the beginning—you know, sometimes things are iinxed. In the middle of the picture, Weill left—he didn‘t want to stay any longer, so he went to New York. It was very unfortunate. I thought it could have been a funny scene, for example, when the ex-convicts sit together on Christmas Eve and are nostalgic for prison. And one says, ‘In prison, I started as early as October to enjoy the idea that I would get turkey for Christmas. Now I can buy turkey every Saturday, every Thursday, so the fun has gone out of life.’ Which, again, is teaching something in Brecht’s way—saying a seemingly funny thing, but having a deeper meaning. The convicts are all sitting around and thinking about prison, how wonderful it was, and one starts to tap with his nger, then another one hits something with a spoon, and out of this noise came the idea to create a song. It was done afterwards, not by Weill, but by Boris Morros, and it didn‘t turn out. (I experimented once with Miklos Rozsa—running music backwards—and I had the feeling he could have

done it.) You and Me 1: the only L'!!lL'J_\' you lulu‘ made. It was a fairy tale. Is it believable for a depart~ ment store owner to give jobs to ex-convicts? No! But I have always tried to have comedy touches in my pictures. I mean no comparison with Shakespeare, for Christ's sake, but you can learn from him: every time something happens that is too strong for an audience, Shakespeare has a comedy scene. I had an English edition of ‘Othello’ once, and suddenly I nd, in parenthesis, after a very tragic scene: ‘Enter the bear.‘ I shook my head. What did it mean? Finally I found somebody who ex-

Stills: ‘u llury m/I" lI|_\/’IVt‘\l by Ii‘m'Iu—\'uu and Me :t'i!l1 S_\'/t iu .\'Itlm'\' I/J!) L1.\ e\'—nw .\t|l:.‘.\l_'lVl; abm't',::|ll1(iulml ll"!//mun.

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plained it to me. It was a left-over from a very old edition which had not been caught when the proofs were read. In this moment, Shakespeare felt the audience needed something light. so ‘enter the bear‘ with his tamer and probably some dancing people; they made some fun and the tension was broken so that he could build it up again. He couldn't start from one line and go up, up, up; you ruuld do it, but it‘s a question of whether your audience could stand it.

THE RE'l'L'RN OF FRANK JAMES (1940) It was an assignment, hut I was interested; it

was my rst

\Vestern. For a director like me, it is always interesting to do something you have never done. (I read some pages today in an astrological book: I am a Sagittarius, and they have a kind of an adventurous trait, a desire to explore, an enjoyment of adventure.) There were some scenes in 3 theam; of the period—the 'eighties of the 1351 C;-mu,-3-_

39

which I didn't know, As I told you, I was constantly driving my car around the country, especially in the Southwest. I came to Tombstone; in those days an old theatre was still there, and I went in. I had some old copies of the Tombstone Gazette, or whatever it \\'a5 called, and being in this theatre (maybe this is a gift—otherwise perhaps I wouldn't have become a director), I caught the atmosphere of it. \\'/hen I saw how the boxes looked gtoday a box is very comfortable, but not then), I could imagine a bar girl sitting with a gold miner and you ask yourself, for example, Can they make love? Is it hidden enough from the audience? Then you go up and see only benches, so you answer, Hardly. That is given as a very crude example, not that I wanted to do it. And don‘: forget the Western is not only the history of this country, it is what the Saga of the Nibelungen is for the European. I think the development of this country is unimaginable without the days of the wild \Vest—when a dance hall girl was placed on a pedestal because she was the only woman among a hundred gold miners. t'l'he American woman today is still on a pedestal—I don't think she likes it. I once said. ‘In America sex is preached, in France it is done'.) Did you fl'i.'1t.'t7I!l:.‘ ming colour for Il1t'_/trsl lime? In a certain way, yes. I remember Zanuck was very sweet to me on that picture—cuntrary to later on. tliveryhody had great respect for him—not a respect that I would like or acceptbut fear. I was new there and I said, ‘Well. let's change this scene.‘ And the writer said. ‘Oh, no, Mr Zanuck has approved it.‘ So l talked with Zanuck and discovered that in those days—afterwards I'm afraid he changedZanuck was very responsible.) Anyway, he said to me. ‘Lang you cannot make close-ups

Still: l.unt".\ /tn! Hem‘_v Ivritio

40

ll"t'.\!c1'r1—_Itic/cit‘ (.'t-iv/ter am!

in The Return

of Frank James.

?

-:1

in colour.‘ I said, ‘\Vhy not?‘ He said, ‘I don't know but vou cannot.‘ Now I started to think about it; Lanuck, at least in those days, was not a fool. And I found out the following: as an example, let's say it is night, and a woman lies in hed with her head against a white pillow, and a man stands against a dark wall. You have a close-up of this woman, who is well-lit by a lamp on the night tahle and, with the white pillow, you have a bright hackground. Now you cut to the man against a dark wall. \\"'hite— hlack. Shocks you. Therefore. with a little thought and experinientation. l learned that 42

Still: ‘im \l\\lJYlIlltJII, Ivu I .",I\ I!llt‘Y't'\!Ci[‘— Foniiti. [lt'Ill'\‘ Iliill in Return ol l:|'.\I‘|l€ l1ll‘|1L'\.

ifyou

had eonseetitive Cli\hc~LlP\ \\'l[l'l the l11lCl(— §l’l\llLl\' lit in a \itiiilar way your eyes \\'eren't shocked. Another thing which heeaiiie especially important Liter when you were shooting in Cinem:iSeopeJ was that if you have a shot in subdued eolotir of, say. ii woiiiiin with an apple in her h;irid—e\'er_\' painter can tell you that your eye \\'lll ll11l1\L‘Ll|iA[L'l}' he attracted to the red apple. So I learned to avoid points of

bright light, of retleetiniz f.!l;l\\ or hright colour.

A gnnd cameraman will always light in such a way that yuu are forced to see only what the director wants you tu sec. The moment your eyes start to wander, and you think, ‘What is that in the background?’ I have lost my audience. »

\\'.’ES'l'ER\' UNION

~‘

1941

Was lI|i.t ]n'cItm' nmrc In your t'I1tmm|_g than Frank James? Well, I wouldn't say ‘ch00>.ing'—tcmen1her. I was under term-contract to zoth Century—

Fox—thuugh,

as u

matter of fact, I like to make

I’Imrqqn1/1/1: ‘t1 gt/'1 I]-r tiH't‘tIt'f1tl/ 1m1.-Im'Lang ::‘1!I:_‘]n/m Ctirmtlmu nu \Y'e.~tern L'n1un.

\Y'estern>. But 1 um much l1]\\l’C fund of l\"t'.vtt'rr| L7m'nn, because, number one. 'l'/zc Rumm n_/ Frank _7t1r1Ic.< \\';1s a sequel to a picture I hadn't dune culled ].a\,\.- Jutnus [Henry King, I939]. with Tyrone Pu\\'er. Also, after i\"t'.tlcrr1 L'n|'nn was releawti wmething happened that I liked very. very much—\".1in as every man is. I got

letter from ti cluh of Old Timers in Flagstaff |Arizunu] which said, ‘Dear Mr Lang, We have seen Wcslerri Union and this picture describes a

43

§

the West much hetter than the heat pictures that have been iiiade about the \\'e.~t . . .' For a liurupeiin directur tn get such ii thing l‘ri\n'i Old Timers who I~'rte::' the \Y'e.\t—l was. naturally. \'er_\‘ flattered: hut l mppivse what these gentlemen \\'rnte \\';l.\ not quite correct. Because l tlun't think ll‘ll.\ picture really depicted the \\'e>t as it Il'tL\'§ inayhe it lived up tu certain dreanis, illu>iuns——\\'li;it the Old Timers rmiiiuil to rememher nl‘ the nltl \\'e>t. And. \\'l[l‘l all humilit_\'. l have ti eerttiin gift fur \\'h:it is usually L';lllL‘\l klirecturiiil tutiehe>'. For exuinple. there l.\ one .~eene in which R;intl_\‘

-H

_ P/iiimi,-nip/i.- iiire.-rim; It’.-Ii.-i-1 l't'l!l!;', l\’tm.iu//-Ii Sci-11 it/\ilH! xnll. riglil III \\'e~tern L'niun.

Scott—\\'hu has had his hands burned in u forest re and has them l1andugetl—gue§ tn the traditional ‘lust ght‘. where he ltretehe.s lll\ ngers, ynu know. tn see ll the_\' are u.~uhle fur the tlr;i\\'. This i.~ the kind

of much that makes people helieve in things. They are very small but I found, in every

direemriul job, these touches are \\'hul people remember (after they see the lm for the rst time, ufcnurse, nut after they see it repeatedly). These things give them the feeling that the lm is honest and true. lI5'crc I/acre mulI_\' melt !Iu'ng.t_\-mt |'r|1rut1ut':ti mm I/It‘ fvieltmt?

Well, I hnpe >0, but I Couldn't do everything I wanted tu dn. I had found, fnr example, that there \\'ere eu\\'boys in lhttse days \\‘l1o wore bowler hats. But this was already ton much

for the Studin. Nut that they didn't believe it, but they always preferred to give an audience the same nltl thing—\\'ith some new trimming. The lm was made after rt lmuk by Zane Grey, but nothing ("mm it \\-u> tlstti in the picture except the title. Then Zztnuek said (probably it was :1 \'er_\* clever tuueh fur at prudutch and Zurk \\‘z\s in thew days :1 very gnnd producer}: ‘\\'e.~tern L'niun Ix _\'ell\\\\' and \'i0let.' in yellow ttntl vinlet. I doubt unyhtvdv ever ettuttht tin.

—

.--,_ '_,.. I. .. __

45

You know. the real hem—the man who actually built the telegraph line from Siuux City tn San FranCi5C0—\\‘a5 married and had seven children. Naturally. in the lm, he had to be a hachelnr. O.K. But fur me the funniest thing was the t'ollu\ving: I forget \\'hu wrote the script but they had to invent many things because, in reality, nothing happened during the entire huilding of the line except that they ran out of wand fur the telegraph poles. Su they had tu nd some canyons, where there was timber. which they put into the ground (I did a lot of research on what kind of instru-

46

ments they used. tn give it authenticity). and the only other thing that disturbed the laying of the line was the ticks \\ the bualues: the hulfalnes gut itchy and rubbed themselves against the poles, and the poles tumbled. And that was til! that happened. Naturally, much more happened in the pieture—and much mure interesting things. .-\ny\\'ay, when the lm was nished. l fuund out that the laying of the line did not take half as lung as the shooting of the

picture! ll"en‘ _\'nu ut_IIuem'etl h_\' an_\‘nm' cl.n:'.t ll"e.th:rm'.> .\'o. On the euntrary. Up tu that time, you

1 > _

knuw, ynu had ncvur >ccn .-\muric;m Imlruns in \\'ur paint in cnluur. I \\';\\ \'cr_\' clmc lu Kunnclh Macgn\\';|n [pruducur]. \\'hu n duznl nn\\', and through hun l mct cxpunx on lndmn fulklurc ‘I knc\\' u lilllc |ny>clI' und. ;|.\ l ~.ud. had hvcd l1app\l)'\\'ill1 lhu N;|\';\1\\.~ and Hup|.~ and I put \'ur_\‘ uulhcmic war puml un lhc Ind1;1n.\.'l'huru'> um‘ shut not lnvcnlud by mu. ~ bul by [hd\\'urd] (Junjugur. an cxlrcmclv pond canlcrnmun \\'hu unl'nrtunu1\\mc-llnng. Su I

would hc vcry >u1p1d lo lcll lhcm. ‘No. I don‘! wan! In hear unyllungf I\cc.1u~u :1‘ I can only Iuarn somutlung and Iv ll‘ I nd \\\mc good nlca, il'~ :1 l‘cu1l1cr m my cup. Al'1\\lI\\‘I' 1h|m:—I llkc my .~cnp:~ ;1h>olulcI_\' ready to shoot. In lhc u.u'l\' \l.|y_~, when you could >omcIi1uc.~ mkc 1| II\In\II'k'LI ¢Iny\ lo mnku piclurc ‘us I ylul, for cxmnplc. m (}crmun_\' . you could cnmc to the ~(u\lio II"I the murmuand bll {In-ru and ~;\\'. ‘\Y'h;u >h.|ll I do un.l.\)r an

mean, the sel was ready but you would gure uur huw to shout, and by thinking I/wry yuu were Iusing a Int uf time. \\'/hen the pressure wen! up in HuIIy\\'uud (and in a certain way. rightly so), the shaming schedules \\'enl down and down. I was forced in §I1nul u picture on schedule in. say, 36 days. So ihink ahnul u very simple piece of aritlimctic: if I work two hours ai home each evening ufler I have seen the rushes—3!> times um nukes 72 hour_~—div|ded by {en working hours IL‘IgI‘lI plus overtime’equals seven shouting days than I can gain by my work at home. Therefore, I always ask tn have exact sketches of the sets, and I sit there and work out my angIes—and whether I need a 35 Icns. or a 40 or a 25. This has another advantage I00. I know exactly how I think the scene should he shut (I was a painter in Paris and have a gi fur visualizing things) then I know how the scene should move, generally speaking. So I say In my set designer, ‘I.uok. you have a desk here and a \\'indo\\' hero, and you have a twelve-yard \\‘alI-4 no the exit. I have I

If

Snllr: I\"il/Iur

/Inn rllc

A\.d:|>\ /q/I1 an-i ::'/lure he l'cmnm HIV zin/red ::'i!/1 ‘a III!/1: slrevlrra/L'cr' p!l|_\'l'lI by Ivan

arr|'1'es

Bcmlclr

l’:J_;'c-vii

in Lnmlnn

~'1'w:In::'\

vigil!) in Man Hunt‘

sccrclary coming in and shc cannot yell from hcrc m the dc>k—l\> nuke it natural shc would cum: over. 'I‘I\urv:l\>rc. cllhur \\'c have In nuke this distance shnncr ur we have lo pu! the dusk a

§umL‘pI;lCC ulsc.‘

In the siudiu. I rst rcln:;1rsc the whole sccnc >0 that cwry ncuvr kn\\\\'s exactly what hc has to do and hn\\' he will act; lhcn I shun! c\'cr)'thing in nnu llircction, fur \\-hich the liglus havc been Sci. Thcn I throw the whulc (hing S2

l’lm1m_'n:[>l/.-

I§1.‘rm|‘II. I‘nIuunu JIIKIIIIIYIIJ ri-_'/nl; l’il1g.wz, lfmm-H.

l.lmy.

Mun IIllnL Sn/I

uround—t$o Llcgruk->.—.|nll slmm an llw urhcr dirccliun. l ~;\\-u lul ul‘ time lhis way. and i1'> only pussihlu \\‘h\:n I lmvu c\'cr)'lh1ng already wriucn uul l Ihc script. I dnn"t muun c\'\:r}' '>I10[ ur closu-up but thu main lnuvulncnls. l maku nu[uS for n1ysclf—‘Ll\is lmu is imporum.‘ ‘this is :1 clu>c-up.‘ l u>unlly say, ‘I'm 11

through with the picture when I am through with the work at my desk.’ I

Do you ever I‘/mug’: I/:|'r1_i3.\‘ on I/I1.‘ rel? happens tery olten is that SUI‘l‘lLli‘\ll"|g has been written that's hard for the aetor to say in exactly the same words. So I sit with him and ask. ‘How would you like to say it?' But this is not what I would call u change. If there is a big monologue that is necessary in the picture and the nclor tries to put another idea

\\., hat

A

into it—that is impossible. \\"hut I do changerather 0ften—is eumeru angles. I3ee;iu>e when

you see u set. you .\4¥II1L‘Il|‘I1L'§ notice something you hadn t visualized. and you decide nmyhe ;t shot from u l‘rog'§ perspective or u do\\'n—shut would be better. Or. 5:1)’ I don‘! get u certain line as I think it should he read. Before I would torture an actor to say ll my way (or if he cannot deliver it—\\'hieh lmppem). I would say, ‘No, wait :1 moment. I \\'lii have this line V

l

.

ss

Front Oice. Do we have enough money? Do we have a set on the lot which could be San

Francisco? With San Francisco buses? Can we a'ord it from the time standpoint? If you really want to work rationally, it should not he done. Have you ulteays controlled llie xclx umi cnstiintes iii, your lms? es, absolutely. Of t/is tuariniis lilnes _\’I7I1 malte Ihe film, ruliic/I one do you i:Iijn_\' I/ie niotl? That's very hard to say. l love motion pictures and I love to work on motion pictures, and everything is very pleasant for me. even if I am terribly tired and worn out. I will never forget one night, while I was still married and working in Germany, it was two days after I had nished a very hard picture—\'ery, very hard in every way—and I passed 2| glass lm studio in the middle of Berlin. I saw they were shooting night scenes, and I turned to my wife and said, ‘You see those happy people—they are shooting your. . .' And you damn yourself, you curse self—but if you are in love with something . . . The _']oan Bemielr cliurtzcler in lan Hunt tea: 1'07)‘ mitcliing. Juan Bennett was wonderful to work with and I enjoyed it very much; I think at the beginning [they made three other lms] she enjoyed it

\

1,,‘ over a close-up of the guy who is listening to you.’ Then I have time to work with the actor later on when we are dubbing the picture; maybe we’ll get it better then. These are things you can do, but to change something drastically could spoil the whole picture. Every lm has its rhythm and you must have this rhythm from the beginning. And look, rst I make a picture together with the writer; then I sit with the architect and talk about sets and how they are to be furnished; when I sit at my desk alone I make it a third time from the standpoint of the camera, of the director. And then I always have time with the actors. When I nally come to what is usually called ‘the director's work,‘ there is nothing left any more. For example, take the scene with the San Francisco buses which I was sorry 1 couldn‘t get into Fi1r_v. Let's say I would have had the idea during shooting; it would have involved a conversation with the 54

(Go.

Everybody knows I like women very, very much and I resent any man who treats women as though they were lower than he. I usually say, ‘If you think a woman is something like an animal, then when you make love to her. aren't you committing sodomy?‘ So I do not look at the oldest profession in the world with a wagging nger, as if to say, ‘That is a horrible thing . . .‘ And this part Joan Bennett played, Plmlngrapllr Lang with Roddy /\It'D0rt-all on Man Hunt. Still: jahn Carmdim: (riglit) as 1| fnscisl in Lmzdmi, on l’idgemi‘.r trail.

I

I

i

qw-

/P(I

._/ZI'_

56

of thc little strccl\\*ulkur who tltlls in lnvc \\'ith Ptdgg-nn—t1

luvs that t~ duutttcd frotn thu lu-ginning—l must udnttt httd all my huttrt. l think I undcntttnd her and I think jttun ttndcrattmd hcr \'cr_\' \\'cll. Thts lnvu ttt1';tir—tn thtuc tints _\'mt uvttltl sttl] my ltwu \\'llh\t\lI hctng lattghutl ttt——thu tu‘ndct't'tc\\ of tt 'l‘hi> girl crtm ltkc tt chtld ltucttttw thc tttatn \\'h\>nt shu \\';tnt\ su \'cr_\' tttttch tint-\tt‘t >1;-up with hut’. Thurs t~ >n tnttch tn tt' \h;ttttc— ‘tnuyhc Tttttttttgtmd unuuglt t1»rlttttt?' I7c>trc— ‘why t:;tn't tt bu t'tt]tillct1?'.~\tttt I thtnk tt \\.t\ hcuuttl'ull_\' wrtttcn. But. nttturttlly, lhu H;ty\ Ulltyc ttt>t\tcd th.tt .

.

cnuldtft \h\\'ing hur purse husk and I'tvl'th.t Yutt knn\\ ht>\\' \\'c uvcrcutttc tt? \\'u h.td In prttttttttcntly ~hn\\' scwtng tntttlttnu tn hur ztpztrttttunt’ thu~ xhu \\';t~ nut tt wltttrc. ~ht- \\':t~ tt ‘~c.tttt\tru~~'Y Talk tthnut ;ttttltuttttytt_\'. .\'hn\\' yutt wtttc nu\\ thtng\_' \ut'|tct]ltt1\I ltkc thztt. And the lttthlw ~;t\\. ‘(Tutttu nn, uttttc ttn. .\lt>~. dttn't lmtltcr thv t:ctttlunt.ttt.' ;\nt! \hv mtrts tn t.tlk tn thu p0. _\'e\. Nun’. luuk. what really happened if we don't take the .stt\r_\' ;|\ it tlrettm? :\ Hlll l> \'et'y ttnltuppy because htx \\'it'e .tnt.l ehtltlren. \\'ltnm he luvew very much. have lelt In gu tan \'acuttnn; he i\ alone tn New York ttntl it t~ very hut. lle [.zue~ to ht.~ (iluh. tlrinlu Ll little mo much. and gets tn\'nl\'ed with ;| girl \\'ht» asks him tn CHIHL‘ tn her place. Xuthing h(tppens—l don't think they even kt“ each nther—\\-hen >utltlenl_\' an L‘nt’;|ged ltwer l1ttt'.\\' tht~ t\ nut tnurtler. tt l\ killing tn seltltlelenee. 'l'het'e t~ nu real guilt. The guilt l\egtt1~ perhttp.~ when he tries tn get rttl uf the hutl_\'—\\'lt|elt \\';t.\ \'er\' plausible fur at tnttn who t\ >e;tretl and \.lue.\n't know \'er_\' tnuclt ztlmttt life. 'l'hen Dztn Duryett mime» tn 41> the hlztcktntttler. and there tire t\\' yuu here I1\r u picture. I said. \\hut piuure?‘ And he said, .A‘I‘]l]>\I'.-‘l nfFuar.‘ I udnnred the nmlmr, Gruhani Greene. very much, and I said. ‘Finef I signed :1 lenweek cunlruel. hut when I came hack here and

saw what had been dune \\'Ill1 the .\Cl'IpI, I was terribly .\l1uekeiI uml I >Jl\.I. ‘I \\‘:ll'1l In get out of this e\\nlruet.' 'I‘he iigenl said I e\\uIdn'l~ maybe he \\';!.\ iust um lazy—I dun‘! knuw. :\ny\\'uy, I had signed u eonlruei and I had lu full il, lli'.1l'.~ ull. I >u\\' II reeenlly un ielevisin. where II was \.'llI Iu pieces. and I fell asleep.

Slillijnan U:.'I!Ih.‘II

‘Cn'VlIl';‘rillhl/I1.‘!'PI:.‘IL'/IIIUIIFXIN

The \'\"omun in the \Y'inII\>\\',

65

SCARLET S'l‘RliE'l‘ ‘I945 The original \\';\s a lilm by ]c-an Renoir culled

Lu C/rivnrn: [t93t]; naturally. here it's imp\\>sihle in cull a picture ‘The Bitch‘. :\n_\'\\';l}', Lubitsch very much wanted t\\ make ll1l\ picture in :\m=:ric;1. so l’:ir'.1muunt lmnglit it for him and he and um other men tried t\\ Adapt it lmt cuultl never get at .~cript. l \\'u.~ furtunate m have une idea: where in the United States |~ there :1 place .\ltt‘lll;lt' to the l\\untmurtre vi I930? Green\\'|ch Village (not any longer. Sn we bought it very cheap. and l think Dudley Niclmls tr:1n_\puse¢l it l\eaut|-

l

66

really :1 wonderful picture, hut Nichul\' and l purposely never lnnlled at it. \\"e had seen it years ugu. hut we wanted tnl1C2\l\\\\lU[\:l}‘Ull'\llllCl'lCCL.l by it. In my npimun. Rnhinsun'> fate In the picture ls the lute of an artist who cares much inure fur l\lS p;1inting> than fur gaining nwney. There was Ll scene in \\'l\ich he gives Juan Bennett the right m sign her name nn hlh paintings. and l1_\‘ the end he has lwcunie Ll hum; e\'er_\'l\\>tly ha» forgotten nlmut him and \\'e knu\\' that all l1l\ |‘lL'l\ll'\:\ have >n;ired up tn price. An unknown genius. He ~leep>' un Ll Tull)‘. The Renoir lm

is

hunch 1n (1;-nlrul Park, he's cold; :1 pnhccmun comcs and hm him on the sulc of his \h\\L‘. And hc 15 an old man. unshzlvcn. h1~ mxml will gumg around Juan Bcnncu. \\'h\\m he lulled. whom he really lovcd and c;m'l forget. Hc gmm duwn :1 sire;-1 and yuu hcur ‘]ing:lc Bulls‘. jinglv Bulls . . .'. c\'cryhud_\' i\ happy. And nut of an art gallery cun1u.\' h\.~ lust picl\1rc—!hu purlrui! hc paxnlcd 1'(h\'!'—1ld xunlcunc saw. 'll'~ ;| very h\\\' price. only .w—:1m|».~n m;m_\' lhtn:ct. with hur \‘1>lL'C ringmg l his cars. Did \'nu /mcc any rmm:-\/11/1 zrnublu 1:1!/1 Illa! unll1!;:..w'r1u-Rnlwmnn. .1 umnlcn-r. |,\ nu! uiciull_\' p11r11'..lf. I even had a scene ‘which I tnyself cut uut—it didn't click. il \\‘;ls enmic tn me]: the evening Dan Duryeu was to he eleetmeuted in Sing—Sing. l had Rubinmn climbing up a telegraph ptile on :1 hill uverltmking the prisnn to watch the glare of Il[1I‘|[ in the death house. It was tun much. But what you cull stylized i> something else. l’erl1up> it entnes front the fact that everything was slmt in the atutlin. '1‘/ie_/in! .t/ml nf the slreel, fur ctmnplc, . painter [lmlding up reproduction uf ti Rt\u>>e:iu] was the idea. The pictures were thine h_\' my very gtmtl friend. [john] Decker. who |~ tleatl now.

CLOAK AND I).-XGGER ‘I946! I/Ht /nclnrt-.5 \\'a> the stupid kintl: ‘\\“hy dn nu. It Yes and you give this man u l11\\ll.\[;1l.‘I‘lL'? Nu man in Switzerland Ililh a mt>u>tael1e.' I mean. it was just awfully >.tupid uf th|> prnducer anti therefore very ltnplettsunl \\-urk UHIII nally l .~aitl. ‘Look, as lung as you are on the >et. I will nut shoot.‘ I was \\'rng-—-I >I‘l\illii.I have had the intelligence to laugh uhuut it. But the n1>t >ignicant thing: in (Sltmk um] Dagger was the ending. It now end> with the Italian scientist being saved hy the Underground: the British airplane lund> and the American 0.5.5. man (wht: \\‘a> huilt arnund the characteristics of Oppenheimer‘. ha> cumpleted his missiun; the plane ies a\\'uy, the

Did

_\'m1

/|t|K‘t‘ much !'i1Ic1jIl'rt-rm.‘ nu

Slills: Scarlet Street. Rnb|n_\nn mimien Brunet! (left); it-it/I Dur1\'eu imp rughll; tlcleml teem" (button: rif/1!) nn!.\t'tlc .S‘|'rw-Simg.

was a conversation and they decide. ‘Probably the plant is in Argentina n0w—or st\mewhere.'

A sergeant comes to report that 60.000 slave workers have been found dead underneath the cave. Gary Cooper walks outside and tit the entrance of the cave is ti par-.1ehutist—an American hoy chewing on u blade of grass. The sun is shining, hirds singing. And Cooper says sun:-:!hin_t' likei ‘This is the Year One oi the Atomic Age and God help us if we think we can keep this secret from the world, and keep it for ourselves.‘ And thi.\' was why I wanted to make the picture. The whole reel was cut out. I don't think it exists any more. D0 ynu /mutt‘ :t'h_\' il :t'a.v cut? You must ask \“arners, I don‘t know, Iayhe because it was after Hirosliimn and Nagasaki. The jig/it l‘;‘!2t't‘t'!t (fun/n'r and the _I't1.tct'.tI in the allqv is [ltlflliill/dTl_\' /fit’/1!‘-It:/in l"ecut1.n- II ts so silenl. yet ni :-inlettl. That was the whole idea til‘ it. l must say I am

girl waves.

he \\'-aves, and you know they

will

other again after the war. ln the original ending, the Italian scientist dies of n heart attack on the plane and all they have left to go un is an amateur photo of the scientist and his daughter with a very peculiar mountain formation in the background. The LI.S. and British secret services get together and they decide, ‘That can only he in Bavaria." So they go there (I .t/ml all these things, you know, a parachutists, everything) and they nd camouaged highway and then 1! hig electried barbed-wire fence. 'l‘he_v're very careful but the power has heen cut off. They nd pill boxes and everything—all cleserted—.ind nally they come to a big cave that is empty. All the machines are gone. rYou see. we already knew the Germans had experimented with heavy water to get Atomic po\ver—anel we knew there was a plant in Nor\vay~—but. remember, Los Alamos was still hush-hush.: Then there see each

70

very proud of that ght. I had the help oftwo O.S.S. people on the lm—Mike Burke and a man mmed Deihem. In those days very few people knew anything about karate—soniething was known about iuiitsu, nothing about karate. But because I had wanted to go into the O.S.S. (I couldn't get in because of my eyes), I knew they were trained in what we call dirty ghting. So I did it here for the rst time. And all ofit— I‘m very happy to say—was done by Cooper. He had a double hecause of a dislocated hip, but I asked him, ‘Look, Gary, I will be very careful—so and so—and then I can do it in close-ups.’ He was very cooperative and there is not one shot in the ght made with the double. Cooper was \vonderful—he tried very hard. I liked him very much. In general, h0:t' do _\‘n|1 rvnrk tvilh actors? It depends on the actor. I ask him how he feels about the scene, we talk back and forth: ‘Why don’t you play it like this‘—‘I don't like that for such and such a reason . . .' Maybe he convinces me, maybe I con\'ince him. If he is cast properly, he must have either the ability to play the role, or already have the characteristics of the part. I think a good director gets the best out of the actor. I don't want (as many directors do) to play the part for him and then have him copying me—because I don't want to have twent ' little Fritz Lan s nin amund the Scrzcm g run g ‘Wm! aha,” wnrkmg m-I,‘ "am; Thu big question is, what is 3 SH"? A Sn“, doesn’t have to be a great actor, yet there ix something. I know actors who are wonderful— like Arthur Kennedy, who I love to work with— hut who, for some damned reason, could never he stars, nor even leading men. There's something peculiar ahout a star, something that catches the imagination of an audience. Maybe they're associated with wish-fullments, I don‘t know. Personally, I think it is more interesting to work with young actors. But look.

Sli/Ix:

lhigger‘. (r'ur\- (.'mi/ier jar /t'/I I. rt-|l/i I’/tltimnr tS‘nIcti/vilft Lil/| Palmer fabmie), _(Yloak and

tltltll/It‘ lit:/mu

Rt'.\!.\!t|!It't‘ It-/1).

let's talk about Gary Cutiper; he has his limitalions, right? To cast him as a top scientist is already unusual. (When I cast Walter Brennan as a Czech professor in Hu1!g:|le'I1 /I/so Die.’ I am casting against image,which, by the way, 1 like to do. Look at Lorre in .H—a child murderer is supposed to have hig brows!) Gary Cooper has played in so many pictures, and he has certain things that are his alone. For example: 71

*

Q

F

\

V1 _

_

'

I, _7 i

__

’

i>

Q‘.l

_{_ _

_‘_

_

.

‘Yup.’ Now you don't have tu

use that, but you cannot destroy an actor by taking away his su» called personality. You have to we him, but you try .vl|'_qIi!ly tn change snnte things, which I hope I achieved in (.'/nu/c um! llugtwr. llut I was often very wrung. Fur example. Lilli Palmer in the same tilm. It was very dillieult tu work with her. l was very unhappy with her. the producer was very unhappy. tI had a big ght with him heiiatise I said. ‘You'll see— this girl will have the greatest success.') But when I saw this picture in \Va.sliingtun two or three months agu. I realized how extrenicly good she was in the picture. She has no heart‘ hut that is smnething else.

SECRET BEYOND TI-Ili DOOR @948, It wasn't my idea to make it—\\’anger [producer] had some uld seripts and it was jinxed frum the heginning—trt»uhle with cameraman, trnuhle with script. But I'll tell you what the

whule idea was. You remember that \\'t\nderl'ul scene in Rt‘1‘t‘t't'tI [.-\lt'red Hitchcock. I940] where Judith Andersun talks almut Rehecca and shows joan Fnntaine the clothes and fur coats and everything? \\'hen I saw this picture ll am a Very good audiencel. Reheeea was I/ten". I tar: her. It was a cumhinatiun of hrilliant

direction. brilliant writing and wunderful 8Ctin[.!. .-\nd—talk ahuut steahng—I had the feeling that mayhe I could du sotrtetliing similar in this picture when Redgrave talks about the ditferent runins. Xuw let's he \'er_\' frank—it iust didn"t enme through fur me. Also, I had an idea that the suheunscitius voice—\\'hen we hear Juan Bennett's thuughts —slmuld he spoken by another aetress. Because it I£‘tI.\' a ditferent persun—sumethin_iz in us we perhaps dun‘: knuw. llut jnan told me she

Sn/I: /tj/I tn m,'In—l)t1u .\'t'\'n1-nu-, 1\’ubvr! hlltiu. Lil/1 l’til1/rel". (iurv (.'t\t>/wt‘ IV! (ilnak and Dagger.

iii ::'1ltt'/1

the Id)! reel ‘:1 t1.\ en! t\n!.'

73

r ~‘

‘ Ir

_;* Q

~=’>a~r .,_tutliu—thu scents in thc struct .

78

\\'\: shut nn Rupul\lic‘.\ \'\"u~lurt1 Street.) Hut wc dit.ln"t h:t\'c cnutigh mnncy fur thc sct 01' at mountain [up u\'t:!'l\N>i. knew about huckdrupg and pt-rspcctivca, hut ll \\';\_~. nut good and it was badly ill any\\':i_v. Thu tmurtytirtl nf thu ranch h0u>c was may to mttkc but naturally it was iilTlilCti but-uti>c uf muncy, and limited in .\iz|:; it was built in thu studio. Originally. the picturu was culled (I/ttzck-/1»

which l\ vertical tuulette. I culled the raneh Chuck-A»Lt|ck and there was u sung throughuut the lm culled ‘Chuel:-A-Luck‘. Now, it's custmnury tn Hully\\'uud studtus to work only until noun on the 24th uf Decemher and then gt» from one utee to unnther and get drunk—'Merry (Il\ristn1us' and su on. The picture was nished, and I \\'ent intu the uice of the mun who ran the studio fur Howard Hughes (he was a hig executive, I think, for the Hughes Tuul Cumpany). ‘Oh. by the waxy. Mt Lang.’ he said, ‘you know Mr Hughes has changed the title nl'(II1|1ck—A—Lm'Ie.‘ Naturally, Lm.'lt',

.\'!1Il\.- ‘tm tiyrrm [ml \n/I ll.»/ml'lt' tltlrirclmll err!‘ —I)ie!r|'t/| III Ramehu .\'\\l\~r|nu_\.

l hnstled. ‘Tu what?‘ He said. ‘Tu Rim:/in .\'v!orinm?‘ I suid, ‘Oh. \Y'h_\'?' And he said, ‘Because Mr Hughes doesn't think they would knuw what (Ihuek-.-\-Luck is in Eumpe.‘1said, ‘Uh-huh. But they would knuw what Ranchu Xomriuus is?’ And walked out. [I.:1u[;hs.] ll :1-us arluully lhu /int ll"e.vm~u m rm a rlmne mr:g, :4-t1.\‘n'! ft? Yes. I had the idea and talked it u\'er \\'lII‘l the writer, Dan Tatadttsh ta man I admire very 79

\

much) and we decided to have a song through it. Personally, I love that song very much. re-cu! after you were I/lrtlllg/1.; H711: lhe/m Yes. Producer, again very stupid; he \\".1ntcd to prove something. According to my euntract he had no right to edit until after the preview, But there is no copyright for directors.

CLASH BY NIGHT l_lQ52l I got the job from Jerry Wald. who was

a

wonderful guy, really devoted to making motion pictures; it was a great pleasure working for him. Also Barbara Stan\\3*ck—whom I admire very 80

I’/mmigmplix Marilvu .\ItYIITtY|.‘ ll! the t'dPl!lC7‘|t‘S. Still: Rnberl Rh!!! trig/I!) in (‘.|ash by Night.

much as an actress and who behaved like an angeI—wantcd me. I ]i1.;¢d (bu play, I liked Ode-[5, (I “ ¢\'ety lm love story must have A sentimental rhythm. pace from a passionate love story a dierent A story about ‘hate, murder and revenge’ has a different pace from a story about some-

86

body running from house to house to get a job. In The Big Heat, we start out with a man committing suicide; his wife comes in and steals something; then she begins to blackmail someone. So the beginning is already rather violent and fast and this rst scene sets the tempo of the picture. As itt M, you don‘! ut'!uaIl_\' slum‘ I/ta nmst 1:ia!ent things in the picture. Suppose, in M, that I could show this horrible sexual crime. First of all, it's a question of taste—and tact. You eamwt show such a thing. I‘m not one who says motion pictures should entertain—they should not nnI_\' entertain. (I think if you put a problem into a picturethe so-called ‘message‘—it is also much better for the box oce because there is something you can talk about-—pro and con-with others. And the discussions lead people back to the theatre. I think that is the most stupid expression: ‘If you want a message, go to Western Union.‘ It's simply stupid.) Anyway, taste and tact. If I could show what is most horrible for me, it may not be horrible for somebody else. Ewrybml_\- in the audience—even the one who doesn't dare allow himself to understand what really happened to that poor child—has a horrible feeling that runs cold over his back. But everybody has a dferent feeling, because everybody |'ntagt'm'.t the most horrible thing that could happen to her. And that is something I could not have achieved by showing only one possibility—say. that he tears open the child, cuts her open. Now, in this way, I force the audience to become a collaborator of mine; by suggesting something I achieve a greater impression, a greater involvement than by showing it. To go down to a simple thing: a half-dressed girl is much more sexy than a nude one. And there is something else. In The Big Hm! Glenn Ford sits and plays with his child; the wife goes out to put the car into the garage. Explosion. By not showing it,

you rst have lhc >hincs> \\'u.~ in lhc hunk [Lcc Marvin di.~guru~ Gloria Uruliuniuhyiliruwing huiling mtfuc in hcr face]. The \\'h\\lc [hing wouldn't hu\'c hcun P\\\\IhIL' unlc» lhc uvffuu was ri hundred ilcgru->. Sn \\'I1lIk‘ lhu gimp: l.\ playing pnkcr in one runin~ii 15 one iii lhmc dunlnud n\u~;hc.\ nl’ n1inc—I >ho\\'cd ihiil lhc

coffee on lhc >u>\'u In .\lUl.\l1‘|ln},1, i-\l~i>—I di>n'i know why I hnulil L'I'1IlL‘lZL' my~ull'—hu! .\hu could huyc had [‘I;l\I]\,' \\lI'[.!L‘I')'.‘ In un¢ \\'u_\'. [hark the ikingcr of IIHg.\§ if you inukc 1! very convincing. puivplc Iwlic\'i.- ll. I wivndcr Imw many \\'i\'c~ h;i\'u II1I‘u\\'n hi-1 k-M11-¢ in ihqr husband>' I';1cc\ and \\'cru wry ;Il.\1lI'\P\YII‘|IL'\I with thc rcmli. and .\;ll\I. ‘Limp l\ ii li>u~y

dircclui'.'

I \\'l‘UlU1lI'| .irlicIu nnu: in

\,IL'I‘L'I'IkL'

\\l' \'iuli.~ncc.

Gcnurally spuiiking, I'\L‘L';lll_\L‘ nl iill thc wars in this Century. ccniiin !hini;~ hi|\'c dcluriurailcil. Du ynu think lhuru arc m.iiiy PCUPIU in uur R7

audience today who believe in punishment after death? No. So what are they afraid of? Only one thing—pain. For example, torture in a Nazi Camp; not so much death on a battleeld as being hurt, being mutilated. At this moment violence becomes an absolutely legitimate dramatic element. in order to make the audience a collahnmtor, to make them feel. I want to tell you an anecdote-—it has something to do with how much an audience can stand. During my last term-contract with a studio (I always loved my freedom too much and ne-tvrr wanted to have term -contracts), Harry Cohn [then head of Columbia Pictures] one day sent me a note: ‘Mr Cohn expects your presence in the projection room tomorrow morning at ten o‘clock.’ O.K. (By the way, I am one of the people who liked Harry Cohn— Plmmgra/1/1; :4-uh (I/nrm Umlmuze. Glenn Ford on The Big Heat—‘ace|1.mt:'nn uetnnrt rn'n|t'.' i '

he was always very nice to me—mostly he is

hated. very unreasonably.) Anyway, I had nothing to do, it wasn't my picture he was running, I didn't give a damn. Naturally, sitting over there were the direetor and the producer and the writer—I forget what picture it was. Of course. 3! 1°" o'clock, who doesn‘t come but Harry Cohn? \\"e Imnrv that-you always have to be a little late—every woman knows that when she has a date with her lover, she mustn't be on time. Finally he comes in and says, ‘O.l(.. run it.‘ He sits in the rst row, picture runs, not a word—not a breath. Picture i5 "\'¢l'~ lights, \!\'¢l'§'h0d)‘ Si“ lh¢\'L‘1 m°li0n1e$5You don’t hear a sound. Harry Cohn gcl5 "Pi walks to the screen—not saying a wordcomes back, stands in front of the rst row, turns around, goes back to the screen again. And I thought, ‘\\'fhat has this son-of-a-gun got on his mind?’ Suddenly he turned around and said, ‘This is a very good picture.’ Great sigh from the whole audience. ‘But . . .’ Everybody stops breathing. (I said to myself, ‘Now it comes.‘) ‘But,’ he said, ‘it is exactly nineteen minutes too long.’ Aha! You don't think the producer or the director would have dared to say anything—they were all under contract—but the writer was not, so nally he said, ‘Excuse me, Mr Cohn, why do you say “exactly nineteen minutes"? Why don‘t you

half-an-hour, quarter-of-an-hour, twenty minutes, about or around?‘ And Harry Cohn looked at him—he is very quiet—and says, ‘Young man, exactly nineteen minutes ago my ass started to itch and right there I know the audience would feel the same thing.‘ And he was right! The moment an audience starts to itch around, you know you have lost them. There is an unwritten law—it is something you have to feel—how long can you stress a scene, a situation, how long can the tension say

be held?

But 88

1'1‘/Id!

about the dierencc

in atldlbnccr?

Ofcourse, there are certain pictures that appeal more to an audience, others that appeal less. Naturally (let me use a stupid expression) a high»hrow picture \\'ill appeal more to a highbrow audience. But to give you an example out of my personal experience, let's come hack to .11. Ifthere is Something like a lower stratum in an audienee—there is rm such thing but m/vpnsc there were one—for them. .\l is simply a cops-and-robbers story. For a little higher stratum it is: what does the homicide department do to catch someone? For another [and this was actually the reason why I made the picture) it is: what danger does a child run in our society today? \Y'l'|at is done for the sex criminal (if there it a sex criminal—it‘ he is not iust :1 sick man)? And for the highest stratum (if you want to call it so). it is a discussion for

Still:

I/Ic /rIol\.t!er.\'—/Ida/it ll"|lI:ttm\. .~l/txtttmler Sl.'41IlY'[‘\‘. Les .\larz'|'u—m The Big Heat.

or against capital punishment. So in this case fortunately—it doesn't happen very often LI am not very humble hut here I am;—you have a picture that appeals to all strata. But. if possible, you should !r_\' to hit the different strata. The trouble with what is called ‘the industry‘ is that you don't iust have to convince an audience.Ilo\'e;iudienees—l1utbefore I am able to convince them. I have to convince the go-betweens. who don't know :1 damn thing. You nitun the /wrndiicerx? I didn't say it. you did. [LI1ugl1s.] Naturally. They have a job, they want to keep the job. they are not creative. .\lostl_\'. I know some creative producers, no question about it. but again I'm thinking about one who uses writer. director. actor. yust to do what he wants. Ile is a good producer. but in m_\' opinion. that is not the way our pictures should he done. I read an article somewhere in which I said

R0

that the theatre is gone because of this new arr. You knu\\'—onc uf those frmli_~l1 >lalen1em> in which I naturally I\elie\'e».l when I said it because I was rwbxuxxcti with lm.

Film

is I/zc

great love in my life. But motion picture» have been betrayed by those \\'l1n are only euncerned with how much money :1 lm nukes. It has become much more impurtunt tn iimke muney with pictures than tn make picture> that nuke money. Every gum! picture will make money. but >incc the hu>ine>.\ interests iuuk uver, the husine>s \\'enl down hill. A producer you/J he a guud friend of u director, but hu\\' many rcul

?_

_

11/ 90

prnducen have I met in my life? I-"uur or ve. Nut inure. Naturally I LII]! not saying une slmultl make PiCIll!'v:> that lose money; one due-~n'{ nuke picture> for the upper ten-tli\\u.~nntl_~, one mnke> them for the hig ziudienee, and it would he stupid to >11)‘. tu hell \\ith ihe money _~penl. I think it's uhanlulely PIn'\'n'.\.\llV\' fur u picture tn bring its money buck with ll certain prot. Bur in the uld days ll muuun pleiure emnpun_\', lel'.~ Sn//_' ‘lm /~r'|:.1!. n‘;tr1;'."—(i/tr:/1 I-'wv'.I >/m'~{mm [hm .\'¢\-mlmr m The lln: Hem.

SI://5 ‘I/In rum/I nl :1.»/u1.[—r{/m'z.: o many ‘li' In lhosc

Ccnlury-Fox, mudu 1ifl_\' piclurcx .| and 5o mun)‘ ‘.-Y pictllrm. so and xv piczurc>, so and so m:1n_\' ‘(T pnclurm. days, il wax ens)‘ lo dngnl op hccnusu if you had onc lug hlt you could alfoni 11

:\\‘ Hops. 'I'odu)'. \\'hcn they make \'cr_\' l_c\\ pictures, you do not have this ;|.\.~un|ncu. lk-uplc a

talk about box ol!n.'c, hut lhu producer or the nnncu.-r gum lo lhu box ollicu lo nd out if hc'> {.!Cllil‘|]1 Ins lnonuy luck, 11' hc'> gomg to rnukr n prol or nul, I go lo [hr box oicc loo, and I um h;|pp_\' \\'hcn 1| plclurc docs big lumnu», but in nu-an» sull1L'll11g dirll-run! lo mc. It muum I huvc rcucluml m;m_\'. many morn‘ puoplc \\'nh m_\' id;-u.\—l have really ruucllul [hu h|g zxudiuncu I \\'1l\ uimmg an! 'l‘hul\ lhc

big dllfcrcncu.

91

HUMAN DESIRE

-195.;

Ytt. Have you ever seen any other kind wt‘ de>ire? Ynu Jztlrft It/ct" I/h.‘ Ill/t‘. \Y'ell, let'> he honest. ]crr_\‘ Watltl very tttuelt |n\'\:d Ren\\ir's picture. La Iiilu H1nmn'm' [t\)3S\. Its ‘her in uml mud. ‘You are lmlh wrong.‘ l sand. ‘\\'hul h:|\'e \\'e dune {lIl.\ nmc.

5'11!/.\'.' ‘In u:cr\‘ /mm-In In"/11;’ n .1 /'.-a~!.' lbw!uric/: (§m::'/nr-/ um! (I/vY‘m (In:/|.ml;‘ Id! and

l1l~n:c\ 1!!

llumun l)e\1re.

]err}‘?' lle said. ‘l,unk, 'lhi~ 1\ called Lu Bile Hm/mmr. the hum.m In-am, Bu! ¢';'n{\'l'mi\~ IS had in your picture.‘ ‘\';|u:rall_\‘. because Zulu wanted In _\hn\\' that m every human hemg is ;| l\e;1~l.' He mull. ‘Yuu hnth llnn'l nm1ur.\mmi xt. The cw:/zlnl i> the human heu\l.' \Y'h:n can you lln ;l}2.\lIl\l lhe prudueer? H.|_\'e\ and I lU4|kCLl at eueh ulher um! med In cunvlnee him and then \\'c made .| enn1prunn~e nml algum ll 95

1

triangle story. It was a nice time. And you know a funny thing? I was very scared that the picture would get panned terribly in Paris because it‘s a falsication of Zola—either you do Zola or you don‘t—hut lgot very good reviews there;Idon'tknow why. ll"mt1d_\-an ha:-e prefermi Fort! to kill (.‘m:t;/‘on! became

a

at the end?

No. \\"hy clutter up the damn picture with so many corpses? I think there was no reason for him to kill Crawford. ll"'h_\' did you shun! so tutu"/1 of I/H.\ lust .\ei;tmtt'e from a high angle?

from one corner oi" the shot it from a high angle I street to another. so that you could see. The same as here: you shoot it straight and a big railroad car blocks everything; you shoot it from ii high angle so that you can see. ll"hat are your gt-tierul tInm,;ht.» on .-anteru

In M, when Lorre

goes

placement? I had many talks with my cameramen and we came to the conclusion that every scene has only one exact way it should be shot. So it would have been a very interesting experiment—if somebody had had the money-to

96

give the same picture to Ford, to Lubitsch, to Hawks, to Lang, and so on, to see how the different characters of each director would have affected the same subject, the same scenes. Probably each version would have been completely different. 1 think every director, subconsciously, imposes his character, his way of thinking, his way of life. his ]n:r. unl-\' one 1 know of that has lhis furinul. and |hui's ‘Thu Last $uppcr'. Bui Mr Zanuck lhnnghi he had lu have an answer In thruc-diim-nsiunal lm» sn uul came Cim-n1nSuipu. I think \'isiu\'ision was much hcucr. 97

T/mi

yam do Ii:/i'i':’c. ll.\ _\'uu

siiiii III Lc I\lupri.~

I/ml ‘(Ii'iii~/:itiSm/it‘ is Gill)‘ iiml ii/ii/;t‘. very hard in show somebody standing ill u iuhlc, bccumu cithcr you couldn't .\l\\\\\' Il‘|L' mblc or ilic pcrsun had to hc hack tun i';ir. And you hat! ciiipiy spuct-~ on both sidu> \\‘hicli you liiid in lill \\'lll\ ~i\iiiuthing. \Y'hun you have i\\'u puuplc _\'i\ii can lill it up with walking iiruuntl. taking wiiiciliing [sue _f|>lI)lilvL'I'tl[’/|_\’].

snmcplacc. an un. But \\'hcn yuu l\\'L‘ nnl_\' unc pcrsiin. ihcrc'> ll big licud anti right zind It-ft you haw noiliiiig. Alouncct is Illlllildill/_\‘ iwutiniit. Well, it is riiinnntii: wiry. laid in iliu p;i>i. Ditkcnsian. Ii‘s the iiiuud. iOnc thing in the picturc, l1_\' lhc \\';l}‘. i> cnpicil fniiii H\\g.\!‘ll\ painting: in ii l1\\'Cl'l1 wziiciiivtiy .\l;1n\l.\’ on Ll table and ihu lzililcuu is 2Il\>'\llLlIL‘l)' ll\L' .\ilH\< as in the Hug;irih.\ If yuu wnultl inukc L! c\\ntcmpurarj; liurrur slur)". yuii ivoiild u>c ii £1

11

98

dicrcnt

Biit ii’ thcrc arc |;l1\\.\l\ Lwhich tlicrc iiri: in ilii> l\L'C.llI\»: thc_\' think the Smugglurs air»: gl\\\\l.\i .intl it Pl;l_\'§ in Ll churchyard and Mi un. yuu l1'|\'L‘ li\ miiku ii ;l[l1‘|Pl\Cl'L'.

romantic. 'I'/mi you Him! /um‘ iilin [I/\‘t‘il I/It‘ mu-_\' L|\ . . Liked! I,uuk‘yuii >ign ll ci>nir.ici. 'l'hinking hack, I prh.il\l_\' .~i>i:nt-tl ilm uuiiiraici lwctiiiw: after Fmjv I \\';l.\ l‘\2lI‘lI1L‘Ll iirivni .\l-(i—.\l [hr l\\‘C!‘|[_\' _\'c h|.s dead hand still huld.\ thc Mill. That wus my ending. But the product-r cli-.\.~c an ending that had been shot hcfurc. and that he had prutttiacd mc ‘word of hnnuttt' \lll‘l-l‘|lllIl would ncvcr bu used.‘ thc boy cutm-> luck with thc ltttlu girl and says, "l‘hi> is my c~t-at».-.' \\"hich I think |~ hurriblu; and thi> \\'u> put in. The cnpyrtght of the director. But thv: \ltrc;t\>r is hlutnutl! ll"m' il .\'/ml on ln;.t!mu? All in H0ll)'\\‘uml. Thu cxt-.'r|nr~ on thtt hc.ith were ullhuiltuntl>l1ut1nth»: studit». th-: cxtcrinr .~c:| sccnus in.-ru nu-J; at O;u.in~1dt- [(i-1ltt‘urnia]. You >pnl nvmtmltc tnuud. and l \\'.int tn point nut that l\\:c.iu\c c\'crytlnn_i1 \\'J\ dun»; in the >tudiu \\'lll‘l thc cxcuptiun. ntttuntlly, of thc

0Ccnn) ynu cuultl gi\‘L‘ tcrn. whith

[7n_\'nu

tcquirus the upun spacc» But lct mu give you an example: for Ht1m_'1u;-n .-llm 1):‘-.' wc l‘|il\.l huilt :1 kind uf litlrupuzitt cit_\'—l’r.\gu\:—.vn thc lot whcrc Clmplm hzitl h|.~ .~tutli\\. untl l httd u shot of u puddle ml" w.itcr \\'|Il‘| the passing cars rcllcctcd and thun thu girl; I pzmnud up and saw her walking ttcru“ thu >tru\*t. Tv Ll!‘ this on u rctll strvcl \\'\\uld h;|\'c taken tun much time. and I dun‘! >0: tin)‘ ru.i~nn why you should. I had lung t;ilk> in l’;\n\ \\'IllI thc .\'».~w \\‘u\-Q director» l saw u pictttru I can't rutnutnlwr by whom» in which twu puuplu wuru .\luuptng tn u narrow pl:tcc—-I Iltntlgltt LII r>t the scene was playcd on u tru|n—l\ut nu. it turned out in I

99

,

_"'_s:a-\~-

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outside. This director believed that everything has to be as it really is——su you heard street noises, which was absolutely wrong. When I shot M in 1930, I came to one conclusion about sound and it is still correct: if you are sitting alone at a sidewalk cafe and you have nothing to do, you watch the street and you are aware of a thousand noises—a car passing by, a woman's heel on the pavement, the sound of glasses on the neighbouring table, a little dialogue here and there. But if you are sitting 100

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hear it any more; then he takes his hands away and grins because now another hurdy gurdy plays. That is, in my opinion, the correct way of using sound. Now, coming back to that French movie: when the Nouvelle Vague director shot the love scene in a real room and you heard all the noises from outside, I could only conclude that the man is iniable to make love to the girl. Sound——iust sound—is also a dramatic point. And in a studio you have

more control.

WHILE THE CITY SLEEPS (i956)

The producer called me and showed me the scenario. I saw great possibilities in it as well as some things in which I didn't believe. So I got together with the writer, Casey Robinson (it was very pleasant to work \vith him), and, because there was also a kind of psychotic sex murderer in this story, I told him about my experiences on M. And I remembered that real murder case in Chicago, where a man wrote on the mirror, ‘Please catch me before I kill , more.‘ (He was conned, I think, to an insane asylum for study.) I had the basic elements for these things collected from newspaper clippings, and we put them in. We really worked hand-in glove: sometimes I invented a scene, sometimes he invented a scene, sometimes I improved, sometimes he improved . . . Did you have a lot In do willi the caslirig? Yes. There were a lot of so-called stars in it-— Sanders, Andrews, Mitchell, Rhonda Fleming, Ida Lupino—you know why? Because the script \vas written so that with good planning, each star had no more than four or ve days shooting. Therefore it was possible—simply from a nancial standpoint—to put many stars in it; and every part was good. their roles 1.-ery rt-ell. 'I'Iii:_v t Well, I worked with the writer constantly, and after we knew who would be playing the parts, naturally we made them t a little more. And 102

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was iitYI!l]7l[Ci1 /min .'- R=l¢$¢d (with subtitle, Eirt Deutsches Heldenlied, and shown on consecutive evenings): JanuaryFebruary. With Paul Richter (Siegfried, 1), Margarete Schtin (Kriemhild, I and II), Rudolph Klein-Rogge (Etzcl, King of the Huns, II), Georg August Koch (Hildebrand, II), Theodor Loos (Gunther, I and II), Bernhard Goetzke (\’o|ker von Alzey, I and II), Hans Adalbert von Schlettow (Hagen Tronje, land II), Georg John (Mime Alberich, I Blaodel, II), Gertrude Arnold (Queen Ute, I), Hanna Ralph (Brunhild, I and ll), Rudolph Ritter (Riidiger, II), Fritz Albert (Dietrich, II), Hans Carl Miiller (Gerenot, I), Erwin Biswanger (Giselher, I), Hardy \'on Francois (Dankwart, I), Frieda Richard (lecturer, I), Georg Iurowski (priest, I), Iris Roberts (page, I), Grete Berger (Hun, II), Fritz Alberti (II), Rose Leiehtenstein (II). I: ln order to win l(riemhild‘s hand, Siegfried must get her brother Gunther married to Brunhild, a ferocious woman who has sworn the only man she will ever wed must rst defeat her in hand-to-hand combat. Through magic, Siegfried assumes Gunther‘s form, ghts Brunhild and wins, Before the double wedding can take place, Hagen (Gunther's one-eyed servant) exposes Siegfried‘s trick; Brunhild demands his life and, on Gunther’s orders, Hagen murders Siegfried. Kriemhild leaves her brother and his land. II: She marries Etzel the Hun, bears him a son, and, planning her revenge, invites Gunther and his servant to a great banquet, during which the Huns massacre her brother's soldiers. Hagen kills Kriemhild’s child and a terrible battle ensues, during which the banquet hall catches re and consumes them all. (Based in part mi

the great early I3!/i century German puem, it-hich alm irtspired Richard Wagner’: opera cycle, Der Ring des Nibclungen. Decla-Bioscap merged with U/a during the making of the lm.

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Siegfried was released in the U.S. by Ufa, in a 9,000-foot version with Wagner's music scored by Hugo Reisenfeld, on September I2, I925. in America until the They did not release Part Fall of I928; titled Kriemhild's Revenge, it was also shown in a shortened, 9,000-foot version. In I‘/33 L‘/a prepared a rttt (Z358 metro) zwrsitnt o] Siegfried teith sound and released it as Siegfrieds Tod. See pages 26, 28. In October, r924, Ufa sent Lang to the United States (see page I5); he stayed for little more than a month, looking over production techniques in New York and Hollywood. In December, he rctumed to Berlin. r927 METROPOLIS (Ufa). Director: Fritz Lang. Writers: Lang, Thea von Harbou. Photographers: Karl Frcund, Gunther Rittau; special photographic eects: Eugene Sehutan. Art directors: Qtto Hunte, Erich Kcttelhut, Karl Vollbrecht. Sculptures: Walter

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Schultze-Middendorf. Music: Gottfried l-luppertz. Shooting: 3to days, 60 nights, 1925 26 4189 metres. Released: January-February. Vi/ith Brigitte Helm (Maria), Alfred Abel (John Fredcrscn), Gustave Frolhich (Freder Fredersen),Rudolph Klein-Rogge(Rot\\'ang),Heinrich Georg (foreman), Fritz Rasp (Grot), Theodor Loos, Erwin Biswanger, Olaf Storm, Hans Leo Reich, Heinrich Gotho, Margarete Lanner, Max Dietze, Georg John, Walter Kuhle, Arthur Reinhard, Erwin Vater, Grete Berger, Olly Béheim, Ellen Frey, Lisa Gray, Rose Leichrerrstein, Helbrrc Weiggl, Beatrice Garga, Anny Hil'llZ¢, l‘lBl¢Il V0n Miir\Cl1hOten, Hilda \\'oitscheif, Fritz Alherti, and 750 secondary

roles, plus over 30.000 extras. Lang: ‘The story of the city of the year 2000, Thg wgrkgrs livc [err oor; underground and the Mayer lives on top-it was all very 5yrnbolic.‘ When a girl of the people threatens to lead a revolt against the leisure class, the Master creates a robot in her image to stop the rebellion; this backres when the robot turns against

l24

its maker, and only the love of the Master’s son for the girl prevents the city’s total annihilation. Lang: ‘At the end, having almost lost his son, the master realizes that everything he had done was wrong.‘ Mrs Von Harbou published a novel based an the lm. Ufa’s ntost expensi1.'e picture ta that date (over two million marks), it was released (10,400-foot version) in the U.S. on August I3, I927 by Paramount Famous Lasky Corp. ‘I dabbled in so many things in my life, and I also put dabbled in magic. Mrs Von Harbou and a battle between in the script of Metropolis

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modern science and occultism, the science of the medioe-val ages. The magician was the ez-il behind all the things that happened: in one scene all the bridges were falling down, there were ames, and out of a Gothic church came all these gltosts and ghouls and beasties. said, “No, cannot do this." Today would do it, but in those days didn't have the courage. Slowly we cut out all the magic and ntaybe for that reason had the feeling that Metropolis was patched together. But actually didn't like it very much becattse it was a picture in whiclt hutnan beings were nothing but part of a machine. The main thesis teas Mrs Von Harbou's, but am at least fty per cent responsible did it. was not so politically minded because in those days as ant now.-. You cannot make a social-conscious picture itt which you say that the intertttediary between the hand and the brain is the heart—I mean that’s a [airy tole—denitely. But was 't.'ery interested in machines. . . /1nyu'a_\' didn’t like the picture—thoug/it it was silly and sate the astronauts-tvhat stupid—then, when else are they but part of a machine? It's very hard say now that I to talk about pictures--should like Metropolis because something have seen in detested it my imagination comes trut.'—-'when after it was finished?’ (Sec page Ill.) 1928 SPIONE (Fritz-Lang Film G.M.B.H.-

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Ufa). Director-producer: Fritz Lang. Writers: Lang, Thea von Harbou. Photographer: Fritz Amo

Wagner. Art directors: Otto Hunte, Karl Vollbrecht. Music: Werner R. Heymann. Shooting: t5 weeks (at the Neubabelsberg Studios, Berlin). 436.; metres. \\"ith Rudolph KleinRogge (Haighi), Gerda Maurus (Sonia), Willy Fritsch (the detective), Lupu Pick (Masimoto),

FtitzRasp(IvanStepanov),LicnDeyers (Kitty),

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Craighall Sherry (Burton Jason), Julius Falkenstein (hotel manager), Georg John (train conductor), Paul Rehkopf (Strolch), Paul Horbiget (valet), Louis Ralph (Hans Morriera), Hermann Vallentin, Grete Berger, Hertha von Walther. Risen to power through the devastation of a \vorld war, the crippled super criminal, Haighi, cared for by his loyal nurse, mastermindsanetwork of international spies from his wheelchair; following his ingenious instructions. the spies commit destructive crimes all over the world. One of his girls falls in love with a government agent and, with her help, the authorities break up his organization. As Haighi goes to his death, the faithful nurse is revealed as his mother. N01.-clized by A/1rs Van Harbmt. Released in America as Spies, by Metr0Goldttgtn-Mn_\'er, Jannary /5, I929. 1929 FRAU IM MOND (Fritz Lang-Film G.M.B.H.-Ufa). Director-producer: Fritz

Lang. Writers: Lang, Thea von Harbou. Photographers: Curt Courant, Oskar Fischin» get, Otto Kanturek. Special effects: l thing is destroyed—mt this rut: rt-ill build the realtn of erinte." ll"lu'clt is e.\'actly rt-hat the .\'a:is said.‘ Because of this, both versions of the lm were banned by the Third Reich, and Lang was summoned to Goebbels‘ oice at the Ministry of Propaganda in Berlin. Lang: ‘He 127

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said to me, “Look, ’nt terribly sorry, but we had to confiscate this picture. It was just the ending we didn't like." He didn't say anything about the real reas0n—he new-r talked about it, newer said one word. He was much too clever. “ll"'e have to change the ending,” Ite said. “He shouldn't go t'nsane—he should be destroyed by the fury of the people.” But he knew exactly what it teas all about.’ Uncut footage for the French version of the lm was smuggled out of Gerrnany and assetnbled in France by an editor named Luther ll"oI, 1'4‘/I0!" Lang did not meet ttntil I943 when The Last

Will of Dr Mabuse was sltnzett itt the Uttitad States/or the rst time (tvith subtitles by Herman

G. Weinberg). For the New York opening, Lang wrote a special foreword explaittittg the picture’: background. ‘Out of the Mabuses,’ he wrote, ‘come the Heydrichs, the Hintmlers and the

Hitler: . . .‘ During his meeting with Goebbels, Lang was told that Hitler was an admirer of his lms—cspecially Metropo!t's—and was o'ered the post as head of the German lm industry. Lang ‘agreed to everything‘ and the same evening, unable to get to the bank in time, he ed Germany for Paris, leaving almost everything he owned behind. Soon afterward he was notied that all his money and possessions had been conscated. That same year, I933, Lang's wife and collaborator, Thea von Harbou, divorced him and joined the Nazi movement. I933 Die Legende vom Letztett ll7ietter Fiaker (Unrealized project). A fantasy, written by Lang, to have been made in Vienna: Only horsedrawn cabs are allowed in the Hauptallee until with the fall of the Hapsburgs. autos are permitted. The old coachman’s heart breaks, he dies and goes to heaven, where St Peter stops him from entering because of his horse nd carriage. But the coachman refuses to pass 128

through without his horse; God comes to hear his plea, and he is so eloquent that the Lord relents, telling the coachman that henceforth he will be His own cab driver. Inside the gates

of heaven, the carriage \\‘hccls become the stars of the Big Dipper. (Hinmtel iibcr Deutschland, another project Lang announced in Germany, was also not made because of Hitler.) 1934

LILIOM (S.A.F.-Fox

Europa).

Director: Fritz Lang. Producer: Erich Pommer. Scenarists: Lang, Robert Liebmann, Bernard Zimmcr, from play by Fercnc Molnar. Photographers: Rudolph Mate, Louis Nee. Art directors: Paul Colin, Rene Rcnoux. Music: Jean Lenoir, Franz Waxman. Assistant director: Jacques P. Feydeau. Shooting: 57 days (started December, 1933) at the St Maurice Studios, Paris. I20 minutes. Released: May t5. With

Charles Boyer (Liliom), Madeleine Ozeray (Julie), Florelle (Mme Muskat), Robert Amoux (Strong Arm), Roland T outain (sailor), Alexandre Rignault (Hollinger), Henri Richaud (Commissary), Richard Darencct (Purgatory cop), Antonin Artaud (knife grinder), Raoul Marco (detective), Alcover (Alfred), Leon Arnel (clerk), Rene Stern (cashier), Maximilienne, Mimmi Funes, Viviane Romance, Mila Parély, Rosa Valetti. A French adaptation of the popular stage fantasy, which had been lmed before by Fox in 1930, directed by Frank Borzage. Lang‘s version was released by Fox in America, premiering in New York on March t6, 1935. The play also served as the basis for Rodgers and Hammerstein's musical, Carousel (directed as a lm in 1956 by Henry King). Lang: ‘It rte-eer had success as a picture. It’: peculiar, you

know—I remember it as if it were today—it was shown in a French movie hause and the audience went along reitlt the picture in ateayyatt can only hope for—but the mtmtcrtt it started to be comicwhen the heaeenbt messengers came and brought

Lilio::: into l:::at.'e::—t/:::y turned against it. I made the ltea-rut, I think, 2'er_\' f::r::t_v.' I had a typist with naked breasts and tsen stars an the nipples; and the cop rt-ho i::ter1-ietrcd l:in: in I:r:a-uen seas e.\'aetI_v like the palicentart in life. except tI:at l:e had little tvittgs. But the a::die::cc— because tltcy really felt reitl: Lilian: and /:is :t~i/e—

teanted to hat-e a a tragi'/I.

YOU AND ME (Paramount). Director-producer: Fritz Lang. Scenarist: 1938

130

Virginia Van Upp, from story by Norman

Krasna. Photographer: Charles Lang, Jr. Art directors: Hans Dreier, Ernest Fegté. Set decorator: A. E. Freudeman. Music: Kurt Weill, Boris Morros. Songs, ‘The Right Guy for Me’ by Weill, Sam Coslow, ‘You and Me‘ by Ralph Freed, Frederick Hollander. Musical adviser: Phil Boutelie. Editor: Paul Weatherwax. Shooting: .15 days. 90 minutes. Released: June 3. With Sylvia Sidney (Helen Roberts), George Raft (Joe Dennis), Robert Cummings ,Jim), Barton MacLane (Mickey), Roscoe Karns tCu')‘), Harry Carey (Mr Morris), Warren Hymer (Gimpy), George E. Stone (Patsy), Guinn Williams (cab driver). Vera Gordon (Mrs Levine), Carol Paige (torch singer), Bernadene Hayes (Nellie), Egon Breecher (Mr Levine), Joyce Compton (Curly Blonde), Cecil Cunningham (Mrs Morris), Willard Robertson (Dayton), Roger Grey (Bath House), Adrian Morris (Knucks), Joe Gray, Jack Pennick, Kit Guard, Fern Emmet, Max Barwyn, James McNamara, Paul Newlan, Harlan Briggs, Blanca Viseher. Hetra Lynd, Jimmie Dundee, Terry Raye, Sheila Darcy, Margaret Randall, Jack Mulhall, Sam Ash, Ruth Rogers, Julia Faye, Arthur Hoyt. Mr Morris owns a large department store and makes it a policy to hire ex-convicts; in a weak moment, one of them (Joe Dennis) decides to rub the place and organizes the others to help. During the robbery, Joe's wife interrupts and mathematically proves to him (and the boys) that crime doesn't actually pay. Sn‘ [lager .13‘;-.'i"I.

.\Ie:| ll"illmu! A (,'vm|tr_\~ (unrealized project). A story by Lang and Jonathan Latimer, written for Paramount, about an international spy ring on the trail of a new secret \\'eapon—a ray that destroys one‘s sight. At the end, this weapon is used against the master spy by its in\'entor—\\'ho is blind. 1939

Although the project was shelved, the nal scene—in which the two blind men confront each other—was, according to one lmography, used by Paramount in another picture. 1939 Americana (Unrealized project). Lang did

considerable research for a Western that \\'ould tell one hundred years of the country‘s history through the story ofa lost mine. lt was this interest in the West that led Darryl Zanuck to offer him his next lm. 1940

THE RETURN Ol-' FRANK JAMES

(zoth Century-Fox). Director: Fritz Lang. Producer: Darryl F. Zanuck. Associate producer: Kenneth Maegowan. Writer: Sam Hellman. Photography (in colour): George Barnes, William \'. Skall. Art directors: Richard Day, Wiard B. lhnen. Set decorator: Thomas Little. Costumes: Travis Banton.Music: David Buttolph.Editor: Walter Thompson. Shooting: 46 days. 92 minutes. Released: August t6. With Henry Fonda (Frank James), Gene Tierney (Eleanor Stone), Jackie Cooper (Clem), Henry Hull (Major Rufus Todd), J. Edward Bromberg (George Rynyan), Donald Meek (McCoy), Eddie Collins (Station Agent), John Carradine (Bob Ford), George Barbier (judge). Ernest Whitman (Pinky), Charles Tannen .Charlie Ford), Lloyd Corrigan (Randolph Stone). Russell Hicks (agent), Victor Kilian (preacher). Edward MeWade (Colonel Jackson), George Chandler(Roy),lrving Bacon(bystander),Frank Shannon (sheriff), Barbara Papper (Nellie Blane), LouisMason (watchman), Stymie Beard (Muse), William Pawley. Frank Sully taetors). Davidson Clark (oicer). Frank James goes after Bob Ford, who shot his brother Jesse in the back—at the end of Henry King's jexse Junie: (t939)—to which this was the sequel. I.arl;."s /ir.\~t I/ll"! in rolnur. See pages .'i"I—I'»'.

I941

WESTERN UNION

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Century-

Fox).

Director: Fritz Lang. .'\ssu1.'iate producer: Harry Joe Brown. Scenarist: Robert Carson. from novel by Zane Grey. Photography (in colour): Edward Cronjager, Allen M. Davey. Art directors: Richard Day, Wiard B. Ihnen. Set director: Thomas Little. Costumes: Travis Banton. Music: Da\'id Buttolph. Editor: Robert Bischoff. Shooting: 56 days. 93 minutes. Released: February zt. With Robert Young (Richard Blake). Randolph Scott {Vance Shaw), Dean Jagger (F.dward Creighton), Virginia Gilmore (Sue Creighton). John Carradine (Doc Murdoch), Slim Summerville (Herman), Chill Wills (Homer), Barton MacLane (Jack Slade), Russell Hicks (governor). Victor Kilian (Charlie), Minor Watson (Pat Grogan), George Chandler (Herb), Chief Big Tree (Chief Spotted Horse), Chief Thundercloud (Indian leader). Diek Rich (Porky). Harry Strang (henchman). Charles Middleton (stagecoach rider), Addison Richards (Capt. Harlow), J. Edward Bromherg. lrving Bacon. The laying of the rst transcontinental telegraph wire in 186t is threatened by outlaws and Indians. Footage urcti in Buffalo Bill, 1.‘!-H. See pages I3--/9.

t9.tt MAN HU.\"l" (zoth Century-Fox). Director: Fritz Lang. Associate producer: Kenneth Macgowan. Scenarist: Dudley Nichols, from novel, ‘Rogue Male’. by Geoffrey

Household. Photography: Arthur Miller. Art directors: Richard Day, Wiard B. Ihnen. Set decorator: Thomas Little. Costumes: Travis Banton. Music: Alfred Newman. Editor: Allen McNeil.‘ to: minutes. Released: June 20. With Walter Pidgeon (Capt. Thorndike), Joan Bennett (Jenny), George Sanders (QuiveSmith), John Carradine (Mr Jones), Roddy McDo\\'all (Vaner), Ludwig Stossel (Doctor), Heather Thatcher (Lady Risborough), 131

Frederick Walock (Lord Risborough), Roger lmhof (Capt. Jensen), Egon Brecher (Whiskers), Lester Matthews (Major), Holmes Herbert (Farnsworthy), Eily Malyon (Postmistress), Arno Frey (police lieutenant), Fredrik Vogedink (Ambassador), Lucien Prival (man with umbrella), Herbert Evans (Reeves), Keith Hitchcock (Bobby). After missing his chance to kill Hitler at Berchtesgarten, an English big game hunter is caught and tortured by the Gestapo. Escaping, he makes his way back to London where he is always only one step ahead of the Nazis. Sec pages 4’)-lit).

know from the lms that Billy the Kid was a handsome, dashing nullare, and if somebody would make hint today as he really rt-ar,it teouldpmbably he so mueh against the grain of an audiettce that

t94t Conrm or Deny (zoth Century-Fox). Director: Archie Mayo (and uncredited: Fritz

before Mayo took over.

Lang). Producer: Len Hammond. Scenarist: Jo Swerling, from story by Samuel Fuller, Henry Wales. Photography: I.eon Shamroy. 73 minutes. Released: December 12. With D011 -‘\m¢¢l1=>l° Bcnll Rvddy McDo\\‘all. John Loder. Lang: ‘I directed practically not/ting. I tterer liked the picture, but I couldn't do anything was under term contract to Zllth because Century-Fox. Then, good God help rnc, I had a gall bladder attack-rehielt rt-am‘! t'ery strong. but it teas pain/ul—-and sate a way out, so . . . My doctor said, “It rt-ill take at least eight days." A picture didn't exist in those days tehere a director could take eight day: of/', so Archie Mayo took over.’

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the Kid (Unrealized project). Lang: have loved to make a picture about Billy ‘I would the Kid. You knore the original man? In the photos, he looked like a moron, rt-Itich he probably teas./lndi/I could have had the chance to maketlu: rst picture, reould hare mode a tnoron out of Ititn, not Bab Taylor [star of the I941 jilm, Billy the Kid]. But motion pictures hate spread the legend, and because an audience is educated, they 1942

Billy

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r942 Moontide (zoth Century-Fox). Director: Archie Mayo (and uncredited: Fritz Lang). Producer: Mark Hellinger. Scenarist: John O‘!-lara, from novel by Willard Robertson. Photography: Charles Clarke. 9.; minutes. Released:

May 29. With Jean Gabin, Ida

Lupino, Claude Rains, Jerome Cowan, Thomas Mitchell, Lang only worked four days on the picture i943 HANGMEN ALSO DIE! (Arnold Productions-United Artists). Director-producer: Fritz Lang. Executive producer: Arnold Pressburger. Associate producer: T. W. Baumeld. Scenarists: Lang, Bertolt Brecht, John We-xlcy, from story by Lang and Brecht. Photography: James Wong Ho\\'e. Art director: W'illiam Darling. Costumes: Julie Heron. Music: Hanns Eislcr. Song, ‘No Surrender‘, by Eisler, Sam Coslow. Editor: Gene Fowler, Jr. Production manager: Carl Harriman. Assistant directors: Walter Mayo, Fred Pressburger. Shooting: 52 days. I40 minutes. Released: March 26. With Brian Donlevy (Dr Franz Svoboda), Walter Brennan (Prof. Novotny), Anna Lee (Mascha Novotny), Gene Lockhart (Emil Czaka), Dennis O'Kecl'e (Jan Horek), Alexander Granach (Alois Gruber), Margaret \\'/ycherly (Aunt Ludmilla Novotny), Nana Bryant (Mrs Novotny), Billy Roy(Boda No\‘otn}'), Hans von Twardowski (Richard Heydrich), Tonio Stalwart (Gestapo Chief), Jonathan Hale (Dehege), Lionel Stander (Cabhy), Byron Fuulger (Bartos), Virginia Farmer (landlad)')1 Louis Donath (Shumer), Sarah Padden (Miss Dvorak), Edmund MacDonald (Dr Pilar), George Irving

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(Nezval the poet), James Bush (worker), Amo Frey (ltnut), Lester Sharpe (Rudy), Arthur Loft (Gen. Bertruba), William Famum (Viktorin), Reinhold Schiicnzel (Inspector Ritter),

Philip Merivale.

Czechoslovakia. 1942. The assassination of ‘Reichsprotektor’ Heydrich causes a reign of terror by the Gestapo. The citizens and the Resistance shield the real assassin (though several innocents die), and place suspicion on a collaborationist, who is ultimately executed by the Nazis just to save face. Working title: Uriconquered. Seepaguslill-/1'3. 1943

The Gal.-in (Unrealized project). Lang

planned a modem version of the old Jewish legend, to he set in France during the Nazi occupation, and based on an adaptation by Paul Falkcnberg and Henrik Galeen—who had made two German lms of Der (ioleni (in I915, co-directed by Paul Wegener, and in I920). Julien Duvivier did a French adaptation, Le Gulem, in 1936.

1944

THE WOMAN IN THE WINDOW

(Christie Corp.