The on-going restoration of Fritz Lang’s 1927 melodramatic allegory now sees a further twenty minutes added to the running time following the discovery of yet more footage in Brazil a few years ago. Almost begins to sound like a Terry Gilliam moment in and of itself – only it might have been Argentina where the canisters were discovered; I should pay attention or bother to read a press release. Anyhoo, new bits unseen since the twenties or thirties add length and shape to this grand, invigorating piece of cinema history. So go see this film as the restored prints tour – even though it’ll expose just how shit almost all contemporary mass-market cinema really is.
Variously a celebration of socialism or wildly proto-Fascist (Hitler loved Lang (no, not that way) but Lang hated Hitler – sounds like most of my relationships, really) it set the basis for many a great and many, many more shit examples of utopic/dystopic futuristic scenarios. Overground, underground (good grief I almost followed that with Wombling Free) the archetypal narrative of true love across the class divide, the strained father-son relationship, the ego of achievement and control, the demand for duty set against the cry for humanity, the Hoffmann-like creation of the automaton, the sexual attraction of the hero to the doppelganger, the hero chased by an ominous Sandman-like character – honestly, Mr Freud would have a field day. Come to think of it, it’s bizarre old Sigmund didn’t pass comment on this little number (Metropolis that is, he famously had a go at Hoffmann) – though perhaps some erudite psychoanalyst amongst you can point out the reference.
Not to worry, Metropolis is a film that serves as the touchstone for a host of cinematic treats. There’re the obvious, of course, like Bladerunner (the urban metropolis, replicants, barely concealed symbolic and allegorical meaning, so on and so forth) and most high-camp futuristic cinematic cities owe something to Metropolis’ ground-breaking envisaging of the new Jerusalem – from The Fifth Element to Minority Report (both rather good I’ve always thought). So, rather than these almost self-apparent comparisons, I thought it might be rather more amusing to plumb the depths of a diverse set of little moments of film that might bare some more interesting hint of resemblance. The more perverse the better, yes?
1. Star Wars, 1977
But let’s start with the obvious, shall we? That fey, simpering, limey bastard C-3PO is modeled on Lang’s magnificent robot. Simple, clear and almost amusing – hence quite unlike the rest of these turgid, empty crimes against cinema (excluding The Empire Strikes Back, of course).
2. Westworld, 1973
Only we know too well how good robots will go bad (except for the Terminator, of course who reverses the trend). So the notion of the service droid who goes rogue underpins this sorely under-rated piece of mid seventies genius. Yul Brunner as The Gunslinger overturns his particular brand of slightly deranged likeability (The King and I, The Magnificent Seven) for this deeply and disturbingly sexy, swaggering, relentless, psychotic robot. The premise is superb: rich executives or other social parasites take idealized historical holidays in one of Roman or Westworld – where they can indulge in all sorts of morally questionable behavior by assuming the roles of law unto themselves as plutocrats or willing participants in the lawless old west. Terrific fun – unbridled sex (well fairly bridled, it’s restricted to 16 and above), odd spot of killing, lots of fights and drinking – not too dissimilar to Paramatta of an evening. Anyhoo, in the film all this is permissible because those they screw, kill or otherwise mistreat are machines. But (oh chirst) the controlling computer (the Heart Machine if we’re thinking about Lang) malfunctions and the slave units unleash their own murderous mechanized tendencies on the unsuspecting holiday-makers. Brilliant. Often unintentionally funny. But menacing Yul maintains his tremendous cool throughout as the most charismatic baddie since Robert Mitchum (in practically anything) and until Hannibal popped round for toast. Of course, it’s all a metaphor of human behavior and its motivations not just a dystopic sci-fi bloodfest but you can take it on either level – I know which I prefer.
3.The Bodyguard, 1992
I’d always thought that the costuming here was all about Josephine Baker – Whitey err Whitney Houston (no Steve Williams here, folks) seemed very certain about her place in history and has a very keen sense of her over-arching, sometimes coked-up ego. Nevertheless, I read somewhere that this particular outfit was a response to bad Maria – the machine woman in Metropolis. Then again, it’s all that late-twenties cabaret styling is it not? Perhaps that rather weird nightclub sequence in Metropolis is intended as Lang’s version of the licentious Ms Baker and her favoured hang-outs. Fair enough and so long as there’s a spot of slap ‘n’ tickle I’m always happy. If only The Bodyguard were a silent movie too then we’d all be pleased. That and could all the reels in which the flaccid, hideous Kevin Costner appears somehow be lost somewhere up the Amazon or out on the Pampas? Actually, if his acting is anything to go by, perhaps Mr Costner is the robot of the piece.
5. Norma Rae, 1979
The first of Sally Field’s two (I know!) Oscars (up my arse) – this before the voters famously and cringingly gave her reason to gush “you like me, you really, really like me”. Huuurrrlll. Working class prophet giving hope to the factory masses – just like good Maria – Lang’s working class human heroine, the prophet. Can’t imagine this film being made now, now that we actually need unionized labour or its post global financial crisis equivalent. Time to retrieve a sense of political necessity and engagement.
5. Titanic, 1997
Triumph of engineering and technology astride the globe like a Colossus (or a Titan for etymological tidiness). Could be the central tower of the Metropolis or the doomed ocean liner. Conspicuous distinction between the classes – the airy upper decks contrasted with the cramped, not pleasant lower regions that, nevertheless, bustle with bonhomie. Could be the factory level supplying power to the surface or steerage. Likewise the prescient metaphor of the city/ship all lit up, the young rich hero/heroine and his/her proletarian lover, the suited lacky of the authoritative male figure as a despotic agent set to thwart that happiness, the kindly and sympathetic (but ultimately culpable) city mastermind/engineer, the doomed cataclysmic flooding, the necessitated revolt of the working classes… In many ways James Cameron’s overblown confection is closest in terms of the avowed promise and tragic destruction of an idealised technological marvel and it’s encapsulation of the struggle of pre-Fascist industrial society. Plus it’s pure melodrama. You’d have to say it’s almost a perfect match, even a spot of jewellery thrown in.
6. Charlie’s Angels II: Full Throttle, 2003
So many layers of subversive delight in the Angel’s franchise. I mean, what’s not to like about the audacity of naming the freighter that’s part of the Irish gang’s dockside perfidy the SS Merkin? A name is also at the heart of this, perhaps my favourite Metropolis homage. Sometimes you get scriptwriters of Hollywood crap like this who reveal they’re game for a bit of cheek and are not only not disdainful of their audiences but realize that we’re all of us capable of a joke, a reference or a wry aside. So it is here with Crispin Glover’s disturbing screaming hair fetishist. Looming, sharply featured and even more sharply tailored Glover is a dead ringer for Metropolis’ nefarious major domo cum agent of repression (the gloriously named actor Fritz Rasp – if this were a talkie you’d know it was onomatopoeic). And both of these unsettling gentlemen go by the title The Thin Man – thank you very much, the multiplex remains a site of potential erudition after all.
It’s all very post-modern, of course. Contemporary directors scrambling to stand on the giant shoulders of Lang in this instance. But, at the same time, that look back at its own history is one of the particular (if rare) pleasures of mainstream cinema. Bugger all the art house self-importance. Lang might be a bit of posh now (cue civic orchestras lining up to make live accompaniments to current screenings) but this was spectacular, popularist entertainment back in the day. Sigh. If only current purveyors of cinema for the masses were half as inventive or even had one iota of Lang’s artistic vision and courage.
Perhaps like the unwashed masses of the Metropolis we need to rise up and demand better offerings from our cinematic overlords. Occupy Wall Street – waste of fucking time. Occupy the Multiplex – the new form of purposeful social action. Who’s with me?
