Lost Transmissions

by Desirina Boskovich

  The original film is silent, though when shown to contemporaneous audiences, it was usually accompanied by a narrator as well as live music and other sound effects. In the century since, many composers have tried their hands at creating music for it. The French band Air (see this page) created a composition for it that offers a great accompaniment to the 2011 color-restored version.

  Méliès made hundreds of short films over his career, leaving an indelible mark on the history and art of the cinema. Wildly popular at the time of its release, Le Voyage Dans la Lune remains his best known work today. The film can be seen in its entirety online, and at just twelve minutes, it’s a worthwhile and enjoyable watch for anyone who is interested in the history of SFF cinema!

  Metropolis: The Long Shadow of the Never Seen

  Film historian David Bordwell calls Metropolis (1927) “one of the great sacred monsters of the cinema.” As one of the seminal texts of science fiction, Fritz Lang’s famous silent film is both holy and profane. Visually, it’s a groundbreaking work whose production set standards in the still-youthful medium of film, and whose arresting aesthetic has been one of the most influential in shaping our conception of the future. Narratively, its story has been almost wholly incoherent for most of its ninety-year history, thanks to a botched editing job and lost footage. Politically, the film’s story can never be fully disentangled from its disturbing connections to the Third Reich.

  Metropolis premiered in Berlin in 1927, a collaboration between Fritz Lang (1890–1976) and his wife, Thea von Harbou (1888–1954). The screenplay was written by von Harbou, developed in tandem with a novel by the same name. Lang and von Harbou had been co-writing all of Lang’s movies since the beginning of their partnership in 1921, and the collaboration had already proved creatively fruitful with popular hits, including a five-hour retelling of the folklore epic Die Nibelungen (taking place over two films). Adolf Hitler called the film his favorite, a more damning recommendation than it probably deserves.

  But Metropolis was Lang and von Harbou’s most ambitious collaboration yet. It was a big, expensive production—the most expensive in Germany at the time—encompassing hundreds of extras, extensive set design, and pioneering special effects. Metropolis, for all its expense, was also a commercial flop. Its failure was the final straw for the already struggling film studio UFA, which declared bankruptcy. UFA was then purchased by Alfred Hugenberg, a powerful German nationalist and eventual Hitler supporter. As the Nazis came to power, UFA films became vehicles for Nazi propaganda. More on that later—but first, back to the film.

  Fritz Lang and Thea von Harbou at work together in their Berlin apartment. This picture was taken in 1923 or 1924 for Die Dame magazine.

  Metropolis’s story centers on a futuristic city that’s a frenzy of inequity; the capitalists frolic on the surface in opulence and luxury while the workers labor in a subterranean factory, serving a machine. The ruler’s son Freder discovers the bleak slums below his pleasure gardens and is horrified; he volunteers for a stint with the machine, the better to relate to the common people. He falls in love with Maria, a saintly woman from below, who serves as the people’s prophet, preaching patience and submission. Meanwhile Freder’s father, the ruler of Metropolis, conspires with an evil scientist named Rotwang to replace Maria with a look-alike robot (presaging replicants, Cylons, and synths). According to her programming, robot Maria spurs the proles toward revolt—and chaos ensues. If this seems confusing to you, you’re not alone.

  In a contemporaneous review, H. G. Wells called it “unimaginative, incoherent, sentimentalizing, and make-believe.” These were far from his only unkind words for the film, which he also termed “immensely and strangely dull,” “ignorant, old-fashioned balderdash,” a “soupy whirlpool,” “with a sort of malignant stupidity.” It was a long review.

  Never especially airtight to begin with, the film’s plot was rendered even more incoherent by aggressive editing within months of its release. The Berlin original premiered at 153 minutes. The version U.S. audiences saw was only 115 minutes—with a whole new script created by American distributors for American audiences. In 1936, an even shorter ninety-one-minute version was released. Then Fritz Lang’s original cut was lost—and with it, a full hour of footage.

  For eighty years, Metropolis fans lamented the loss; for a time, almost no one alive had even seen the original cut, only the badly mutilated version often played at silent film festivals. As journalist Larry Rohter wrote in the New York Times, “For fans and scholars of the silent-film era, the search for a copy of the original version of Fritz Lang’s ‘Metropolis’ has become a sort of holy grail.”

  The story of how the missing footage was eventually located is a fascinating piece of history in and of itself. It was discovered by Fernando Peña, an Argentine film archivist, in the archives of Buenos Aires’s Museo del Cine. He did not stumble upon it by accident; in fact, he’d heard rumors of its existence for twenty years, but his attempts to unearth it were ever thwarted by bureaucracy. In 2008, when his ex-wife and fellow film archivist Paula Félix-Didier became director of the Museo del Cine, she invited him over to have a look. They got to searching and discovered the full-length cut. Some of it was damaged beyond repair, but plenty was salvageable, adding another twenty-six minutes to the film. (How did a German film end up in an Argentinian archive? Sheer coincidence. It was purchased soon after the premiere by Argentine film distributor Adolfo Wilson, who just happened to be visiting Berlin. He brought the 35mm reels back home with him. Eventually it became part of a private collection and then a government archive.)

  The newly discovered material helps clarify the story considerably, making it a little easier to offer a plot summary. But the power of Metropolis has never been its story; it’s always been the visuals. In a review for Tor.com, science fiction author Kage Baker wrote, “Yes, the visuals are brilliant . . . It’s a seminal film. Certain images are unforgettable. You should certainly watch it if you get the chance. It still stinks.” Kinder words than H. G. Wells might have used, certainly, but her conclusions were much the same: as a work of science fiction, it is extremely bad.

  As an aesthetic, though? Metropolis really is stunning, in its rendering of a city somehow both decadent and drab, a double-edged future both luxurious and nightmarish. “Even if you’ve never seen Metropolis, you’ve seen a film, a dress, a building, or a pop video that was inspired by it,” wrote journalist and film critic Pamela Hutchinson in the Guardian. “The film’s look—the teetering architecture, the lever-and-dial mechanisms, the round-shouldered workers marching in unison, and of course, the robot . . . This silent film fires the imagination of everyone who sees it.”

  The gold robot that graces the Metropolis poster might seem especially familiar. Legendary Star Wars artist and concept designer Ralph McQuarrie later based his vision of C-3PO on Metropolis’s robot, before she’s transformed into the Maria look-alike. (See this page for more on McQuarrie.) And the story itself, in which a ruler father and a socially conscious son butt heads, might also have served as a Star Wars influence.

  Roger Ebert also noted the film’s vast influence on the genre, listing many other science fiction classics: Dark City, Blade Runner, The Fifth Element, Alphaville, Escape from L.A., Gattaca, and even Batman’s Gotham City. Ebert also mentioned that “the laboratory of its evil genius, Rotwang, created the visual look of mad scientists for decades to come, especially after it was so closely mirrored in Bride of Frankenstein.” Those decades continue; in its artfully self-aware depiction of Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory, the recent television show Penny Dreadful (2014–2016) casts its mad scientist in surroundings that bear a striking similarity to Rotwang’s, and remain as recognizable to us as ever.

  Though the film was a commercial failure in Germany, it did find some unwelcome supporters: Hitler and his minister of propaganda, Joseph Goebbels. In 1933, Goebbels invited Lang to his office and offered him a position as head producer of Nazi propaganda films for the now stat
e-controlled UFA. According to Lang’s account, Goebbels told him, “The Führer and I have seen your films, and the Führer made clear that ‘this is the man who will give us the national socialist film.’” In Lang’s telling, he immediately went home, packed his bags, and fled to Paris, leaving with such haste that he was unable to even stop at the bank. The story is probably apocryphal—a bit of self-mythologizing on Lang’s part—as the evidence suggests he left Berlin within a few months, not a few hours. He also divorced von Harbou.

  While Lang chose to leave Germany, von Harbou did not. Instead, she joined the Nazis and worked on propaganda films. The extent of von Harbou’s own commitment to Nazi ideology remains an open question, although not a particularly relevant one. Whatever her personal beliefs, her role in the party’s PR wing is simply indefensible. Perhaps von Harbou’s Nazi affiliation is why her contributions to Lang’s films from that period have been minimized. Perhaps, in the tradition of co-creator husbands and wives, they would have been minimized regardless; it’s hard to say. Surfacing the contributions of unsung creators can also unearth some secret histories we’d prefer to forget.

  THX 1138: A Decidedly Un-Lucas-Like Production

  Long before George Lucas forever revolutionized science-fiction cinema with Star Wars, he wrote and directed a slow-burning, visually arresting film titled THX 1138. Though certainly not as commercially successful as Lucas’s later endeavors, THX 1138 is a dystopian classic, massively influential on the genre. In fact, it’s one of those works that actually suffers from its own impact; you’ve probably already seen a dozen later films that drew on this one as inspiration, making the original feel oddly derivative. (To be fair, the plot is pretty derivative itself, drawing on classics of mid-century dystopian literature such as George Orwell’s 1984 and Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World. But the film’s coldly oppressive atmosphere and stunningly bleak visuals have influenced many later visions of a high-tech dystopia.)

  George Lucas paid tribute to his debut film with numerous references hidden in the Star Wars saga, particularly the number “1138,” which is linked to cell blocks, battle droids, and more.

  THX 1138 began as a student film for George Lucas. He later reshot it as a feature film under the mentorship of Francis Ford Coppola, who had pitched it to Warner Bros.—with a tiny though bizarrely specific budget of $777,777.77. (Perhaps you can guess at Coppola’s lucky number.) Meanwhile, Lucas was paid only $15,000 to write and direct the film. Not much, but also not bad for a twenty-three-year-old.

  The film is set in a repressive underground society where technology reigns supreme, sex has been eliminated, and the drug-sedated populace labors emotionlessly to increase production. Constant surveillance and impassive robot-policemen enforce the law. The titular character, THX 1138 (played by Robert Duvall), falls in love with his female roommate. They stop taking their drugs and begin a sexual relationship, falling afoul of the law. Though not without its share of action sequences, the film suggests that freedom from oppression must first be found in the mind.

  “THX was perceived as a bleak, depressing film upon its release,” writes film professor and producer Dale Pollock in Skywalking: The Life and Films of George Lucas. “Even its admirers consider the movie to be austere and unemotional.”

  Honestly, it’s difficult to imagine how this film could have come from the same director as an action-filled, big-hearted adventure like the Star Wars saga. Pollock suggests that audience reactions to THX 1138 may have altered Lucas’s perspective. “Lucas learned from the critical and popular reaction to THX that if he wanted to change the world, showing how stupid and awful society could be was not the way to proceed. It was a mistake he wouldn’t repeat.”

  Instead, Lucas decided to make feel-good films with an aspirational vision. In Star Wars, rebels still risk everything to fight oppression—but good can triumph over evil. And unlike the bleak vision of THX 1138, which offers no alternate way of living for its characters, the Star Wars rebels are very clear on the world they want to build: a kinder galaxy where diversity is celebrated, life is cherished, and all planets deserve a right to self-determination. In the (much later) words of one Rose Tico: “Not fighting what we hate, but saving what we love.”*

  The Enduring Creations of Ralph McQuarrie

  You don’t often hear his name spoken with the same reverence as George Lucas, but in his own way, Ralph McQuarrie (1929–2012) was equally instrumental in the making of Star Wars. The concept artist was the first person Lucas recruited to his design team—and his exacting, vibrant illustrations were crucial to obtaining funding for the film. With the paintings on hand, 20th Century Fox executives could really picture what Lucas was going for with Star Wars—and how groundbreaking it would be. McQuarrie continued to hold this pivotal role as visual designer of the Star Wars universe. In a tribute to McQuarrie’s contributions—and their role in motivating and inspiring the whole Star Wars cast and crew—Lucas said, “When words could not convey my ideas, I could always point to one of Ralph’s fabulous illustrations and say ‘Do it like this.’”

  Doug Chiang, who served as design director on Star Wars Episodes I and II, concept artist for The Force Awakens, and production designer for Rogue One, paid tribute to Ralph McQuarrie’s immense influence on his own work and the look of Star Wars overall. Chiang stated, “Since I didn’t go to art school, I learned to paint and draw through Ralph’s work. The Art of Star Wars books and McQuarrie portfolios became my textbooks.”

  Elsewhere, Lucas wrote, “His imaginary lands had history and his weirder inventions looked plausible.” Indeed, like the best science–fiction artists, every one of McQuarrie’s paintings was imbued with a sense of narrative, an inherent drama hinting at a story you’d like to know. McQuarrie envisioned Tatooine, the dusty desert planet of Luke Skywalker’s childhood. He also designed our beloved characters: Darth Vader, Chewbacca, R2-D2, C-3PO. Darth Vader’s infamous and character-defining mask, for instance, was McQuarrie’s idea: “In the script, Vader had to jump from one ship to another and, in order to survive the vacuum of space, I felt he needed some sort of breathing mask,” McQuarrie told the Daily Telegraph in one of his last interviews. He added a samurai helmet to complement Vader’s flowing black robes, and the iconic character was born.

  McQuarrie found the ubiquity of his famous character quite satisfying. (Even people who haven’t seen Star Wars—yes, such people exist—can identify Darth Vader. Vader is even recognizable in flat silhouette!) “It’s interesting to have done something out in the world that everyone looks at all the time,” he said. “You become part of the public happening.”

  He also played a significant role in the creation of everyone’s favorite anxious android, C-3PO. His design drew liberal amounts of inspiration from Fritz Lang’s Metropolis and the art deco aesthetic, and this early painting was one of the first that Fox executives saw. It also inspired Anthony Daniels, the actor who voiced C-3PO. According to Daniels, he’d been intending to turn down the role, but the evocative painting changed his mind: “He had painted a face and a figure that had a very wistful, rather yearning, rather bereft quality, which I found very appealing.”

  In a charming tribute to McQuarrie’s influential role, he was given a cameo in The Empire Strikes Back—briefly portraying Rebel General Pharl McQuarrie. He was uncredited and had no dialogue, but in 2007, Hasbro issued an action figure in General Pharl’s image . . . a must-have for any true McQuarrie fan.

  His work continues to inspire and influence the makers of today’s Star Wars. The settings and environments he created—places that lived and breathed their own alien history—still serve as the background to the galaxy, shaping the look of the recent blockbusters The Force Awakens, Rogue One, and The Last Jedi. For instance, his original concept art helped shape the look of the farm where we encounter a very young Jyn Erso in the opening sequence of Rogue One.

  Though he is best known for his Star Wars work, McQuarrie created concept art for many beloved science fiction
properties. He worked on the 1978 Battlestar Galactica series; he worked with Steven Spielberg to design the alien ships in Close Encounters of the Third Kind and E.T.; and in 1985 he won an Academy Award for visual effects for his work on Cocoon. *

  The Death Star’s Architect: Concept Artist John Berkey

  Though far from a household name, John Berkey (1932–2008) conceptualized one of science fiction’s best-known symbols, familiar to just about anyone with even a passing interest in pop culture: the Death Star of Star Wars fame.

  His role in developing the visuals of Star Wars was an early one, as he was one of the first artists to influence George Lucas. Lucas commissioned several paintings from Berkey during the stage where he was still trying to get studio funding to make Star Wars, and Berkey’s conceptualizations of futuristic spacecraft helped Lucas bring his science fantasy to life. Berkey laid the visual groundwork for spacecraft such as the B-wings, Imperial Shuttles, and Mon Calamari ships.