One might be led to assume from the title that "Der lebende Leichnam" was another in the series of German horror classics like "Dr Caligari", "Nosferatu" or "The Hands of Orlac". In fact, this German/Soviet co-production turns out to be a passionate domestic drama that pivots around the difficulty in the Russian Orthodox Church of getting a divorce.
Our self-sacrificing hero wants to set his wife free from what has become an intolerable domestic situation so that she can marry her high-ranking, wealthy lover; he is told that the only grounds for the breakup of his marriage would be the adultery or death of one or other spouse. He is reduced to attempting to inflict upon himself first the one expedient, then the other. (The assumption is that he is too noble-minded to allow his wife to commit adultery with her lover before divorcing *her*!)
A group of comically grotesque crooks offer to fit him up with the usual hotel bedroom and 'hired nobody' to commit adultery with, but he finds himself unable to go through with the sordid act and bolts, leaving the girl in tears. This leaves him only one option; he resolves in cold blood that he will have to kill himself. But when the dreadful actuality of the moment arrives he cannot bring himself up to the mark to do this either. He is found in what amounts to a catatonic condition, which I took to be that of the 'living corpse' of the title.
When we next see him, however, he appears to be restored to health, and we learn that the 'living corpse' status refers to that of a man without identity papers -- a man who has in effect no legal existence. His death by drowning has been faked and his wife identifies the body (or at least faints at the sight of it). Henceforth he is legally dead and must eke out a miserable living among the underclass.
But some years later he runs across the girl from the hotel room, who is amazed to find him still alive -- and her gang immediately spot the potential for blackmail. When he refuses to cooperate, the ensuing rough-house attracts the attention of the authorities... and unmasks his wife, now remarried, as a bigamist, and her children as illegitimate. The trial offers no hope; everything he has undergone for her sake has only made matters worse. In a telling scene, he asks his lawyer what is the worst sentence they can hope for... and what is the best. The bitter irony of the answer leaves only one way out.
"Der lebende Leichnam" has many powerful moments; in particular I would pick out the performance of Vsevolod Pudovkin in the title role. In the hotel-room scenes, the hero's agonised repugnance at the act being asked of him is apparent from the manner in which he begins to undress, contrasted with the cheerful goodwill and vulgarity of the girl (a memorable portrayal by Vera Maretskaya). The scene in which he sits alone with the means of suicide on the table before him and tries to raise enough courage to use it struck home all too vividly.
The film is notable besides for the unusual style of its intertitles, which are arranged on the screen in varying sizes in an attempt to indicate the precise inflection of the words spoken -- an innovation that apparently didn't catch on. Notes for the original orchestral score survived in the collection of the Library of Congress, and it was re-recorded for the restoration of this film some years ago. While not as flexible as an improvised piano accompaniment (it contains a succession of separate, clearly defined 'mood pieces') the orchestral sound is melodious and effective; unfortunately there seemed to be synchronisation problems for our screening, with either a new piece of music starting a few moments before the previous scene ended or else a moment of silence between scenes as the previous piece 'ran out' before the action ended. Most seriously, a vital gunshot could only be deduced by the subsequent reaction of those on screen -- who apparently heard it even if we didn't!
The story is based on a Tolstoy play, and I wonder if cuts necessary for adaptation may account for some of the seeming unevenness in the plot. The character of the wife's younger sister, for example, vanishes from the story; the wife comes across as an inconsistent and somewhat unlikable character, the passionate devotion of the gypsy girl to the hero rather exceeds the amount of screen time they share to account for it, and the hero is given to intertitle pronouncements of a pompous grandiosity which tend to undermine the very human emotions suggested on screen. There is also a lengthy scene of some peasants beating a horse which doesn't seem to be connected to the main protagonists at all -- presumably some kind of allegorical reference?
The aspect of the film I found to be least effective was, ironically, the 'montage' element that aroused such contemporary admiration; shots of tolling bells, gilded crests, pastoral meadows etc. inter-cut with the action in order to provide a subliminal commentary. This sort of thing has its place in a purely abstract composition, but in the context of a human story I found it simply distracting.
However, despite these criticisms I found this film to be one of the more powerful experiences of this year's London Film festival. The ugly-attractive face of Pudovkin is highly expressive and memorable, and the picture conjures up vividly the stagnant oppression of its middle-class household, with discontented wife and unhappy husband. The lover, interestingly enough, is sympathetically portrayed, and we get the sense that the two men could have liked one another -- making the hero's actions more justified. Comic and ghastly elements are effectively juxtaposed, and the visual compositions are often striking. Definitely one worth seeking out.
Our self-sacrificing hero wants to set his wife free from what has become an intolerable domestic situation so that she can marry her high-ranking, wealthy lover; he is told that the only grounds for the breakup of his marriage would be the adultery or death of one or other spouse. He is reduced to attempting to inflict upon himself first the one expedient, then the other. (The assumption is that he is too noble-minded to allow his wife to commit adultery with her lover before divorcing *her*!)
A group of comically grotesque crooks offer to fit him up with the usual hotel bedroom and 'hired nobody' to commit adultery with, but he finds himself unable to go through with the sordid act and bolts, leaving the girl in tears. This leaves him only one option; he resolves in cold blood that he will have to kill himself. But when the dreadful actuality of the moment arrives he cannot bring himself up to the mark to do this either. He is found in what amounts to a catatonic condition, which I took to be that of the 'living corpse' of the title.
When we next see him, however, he appears to be restored to health, and we learn that the 'living corpse' status refers to that of a man without identity papers -- a man who has in effect no legal existence. His death by drowning has been faked and his wife identifies the body (or at least faints at the sight of it). Henceforth he is legally dead and must eke out a miserable living among the underclass.
But some years later he runs across the girl from the hotel room, who is amazed to find him still alive -- and her gang immediately spot the potential for blackmail. When he refuses to cooperate, the ensuing rough-house attracts the attention of the authorities... and unmasks his wife, now remarried, as a bigamist, and her children as illegitimate. The trial offers no hope; everything he has undergone for her sake has only made matters worse. In a telling scene, he asks his lawyer what is the worst sentence they can hope for... and what is the best. The bitter irony of the answer leaves only one way out.
"Der lebende Leichnam" has many powerful moments; in particular I would pick out the performance of Vsevolod Pudovkin in the title role. In the hotel-room scenes, the hero's agonised repugnance at the act being asked of him is apparent from the manner in which he begins to undress, contrasted with the cheerful goodwill and vulgarity of the girl (a memorable portrayal by Vera Maretskaya). The scene in which he sits alone with the means of suicide on the table before him and tries to raise enough courage to use it struck home all too vividly.
The film is notable besides for the unusual style of its intertitles, which are arranged on the screen in varying sizes in an attempt to indicate the precise inflection of the words spoken -- an innovation that apparently didn't catch on. Notes for the original orchestral score survived in the collection of the Library of Congress, and it was re-recorded for the restoration of this film some years ago. While not as flexible as an improvised piano accompaniment (it contains a succession of separate, clearly defined 'mood pieces') the orchestral sound is melodious and effective; unfortunately there seemed to be synchronisation problems for our screening, with either a new piece of music starting a few moments before the previous scene ended or else a moment of silence between scenes as the previous piece 'ran out' before the action ended. Most seriously, a vital gunshot could only be deduced by the subsequent reaction of those on screen -- who apparently heard it even if we didn't!
The story is based on a Tolstoy play, and I wonder if cuts necessary for adaptation may account for some of the seeming unevenness in the plot. The character of the wife's younger sister, for example, vanishes from the story; the wife comes across as an inconsistent and somewhat unlikable character, the passionate devotion of the gypsy girl to the hero rather exceeds the amount of screen time they share to account for it, and the hero is given to intertitle pronouncements of a pompous grandiosity which tend to undermine the very human emotions suggested on screen. There is also a lengthy scene of some peasants beating a horse which doesn't seem to be connected to the main protagonists at all -- presumably some kind of allegorical reference?
The aspect of the film I found to be least effective was, ironically, the 'montage' element that aroused such contemporary admiration; shots of tolling bells, gilded crests, pastoral meadows etc. inter-cut with the action in order to provide a subliminal commentary. This sort of thing has its place in a purely abstract composition, but in the context of a human story I found it simply distracting.
However, despite these criticisms I found this film to be one of the more powerful experiences of this year's London Film festival. The ugly-attractive face of Pudovkin is highly expressive and memorable, and the picture conjures up vividly the stagnant oppression of its middle-class household, with discontented wife and unhappy husband. The lover, interestingly enough, is sympathetically portrayed, and we get the sense that the two men could have liked one another -- making the hero's actions more justified. Comic and ghastly elements are effectively juxtaposed, and the visual compositions are often striking. Definitely one worth seeking out.
