Le sixième commandement

Austria, part of the Axis powers defeated in World War One, was experiencing the economic trauma all the other European countries aligned with Germany were suffering. High unemployment and stagflation were making materials cheap to come by in Austria. Film producer Alexander Kolowrat-Krakowsky saw an opportunity to make a long-held dream a reality to create an epic motion picture with literally a cast of thousands. His October 1922 film, "Sodom and Gomorrah,' directed by Michael Curtiz (his Austrian name at the time was Mihaly Kertész), became Austria's largest and most expensive movie ever produced.

Kolowrat's film is a modern story with dreamy episodes of historic flashbacks, including the ancient Biblical story of the destruction of Sodom described in Genesis. These historical sequences are included within the framework of the movie to teach the film's main character, Mary, played by Curtiz's wife, actress Lucy Doraine, the lessons pertaining to her wayward, confused romantic life. The morality tale of a daughter who is persuaded by her poverty-ridden family to marry an older rich banker was a common theme in silent films. These plots invariably entail young women in love with a financially-strapped handsome young men, but are grudgingly steered towards unhappy marriages to older, pudgy rich millionaires who have a yen for young females. Although she agrees, Mary's lascivious personality sends her on a seductive frenzy aimed at her future fiancé's son and even at his guiding priest.

"Sodom and Gomorrah's" primary expense went into the construction-and destruction-of the reproduction of the Biblical city and temples of Sodom. Thousands of laborers working on the cheap, mainly because there were so few jobs to be found in Austria, spent close to three years constructing enormous sets in a muddy stretch of empty land. An estimated 10,000 to 14,000 extras, all clothed in ancient attire, were filmed worshipping their gods and scattering helter skelter when God decided to teach them a lesson. Thousands of skilled craftsmen, from sculptors to decorators, carpenters, painters, all collaborated to what one witness described the entire production scene as "prop madness." The original budget was blown up five times its estimate.

The final print, which premiered in Berlin, Germany, was three hours long. Because of censorship cuts and theater owners demanding brevity, the more common version seen today is a mere 98 minutes. But the movie proved to be an international success For Curtiz, a native Austrian-Hungarian helming films since 1912, "Sodom and Gomorrah" shed more light on his rising star. His expertise in filmmaking had made him by 1918 as one of Hungary's top directors with 45 films under his belt. Facing a nationalization of the Hungarian film industry after the Great War, he returned to Austria to secure more freedom of choice in his movie selection. He jumped at the chance to make "Sodom and Gomorrah," which added to Curtiz' already impressive resume.

It's a very strange, interesting and, at times, genial film. I've seen it in the 125-minutes-long restored version, which seems to be the one circulating nowadays (I don't know who restored it...). It could be viewed as a lenghty and partially boring epic movie, which it is, in a certain sense, but it's redeemed by a couple of very subtle tricks. The opening 45 minutes (about one-third of the film), along with a few final minutes, are set in contemporary times. That is, contemporary a hundred years ago (the film is from 1922). The remaining part is a dream, and dreams within a dream. The oniric atmosphere, which the audience hardly notices - being announced by a very ephemeral titlecard - is broken only at the end. And it's only in the last seconds of the movie that the full meaning of the plot is clarified. If you have a couple of hours left, go for it!

By the by, the film is not "biblical", as I read in some reviews: the history of Lot takes about ¼ of the movie. It can be indicized as a dramatic film, that's all.

I saw this at the London Film Festival in 1995 or 1996. The print had been lovingly restored from sections scattered around the world, including some from archives in Moscow. Somebody near me said "I'm really looking forward to this", which was understandable, since the director, as Michael Curtiz, later made some jolly swashbucklers and Casablanca, and the LFF had previously come up with several almost unknown silent masterpieces, including Jacques Feyder's Visage d'enfants.

Well, the pianist was superb and the voice-over translator (no time to translate the German titles) produced some splendid characterization. But about ten minutes in, people realised that the film was incredibly bad, and they didn't even know when it would be over as it hadn't been projected complete before. Watching it felt like existentialist hell. Which was fair enough as it's meant to be a study of sin and remorse. A young man is tempted by sex, drugs and stuff, but he falls asleep and dreams of the biblical story of the destruction of the cities of the plain, which are a bit like Vienna and populated by his low-life pals. When he wakes up, he repents. I think the sin stuff is meant to be alluring and you're meant to think that the director has been clever framing it in a moral tale. Instead, you get the idea that sin is a lot less interesting than, maybe, a novel by Jane Austen.

It's really a very substandard knockoff of Intolerance, possibly of interest to design specialists.

The print I saw was not the 150 minute film listed, it wasn't the original 3 hour version, and it was not the restored 98 minute version mentioned on the wiki. I watched a 124 minute Spanish translation. My Spanish is very bad so I had to rely on that and google translate to understand the intertitles. Between the language and differing lengths of prints I don't feel like I got a viewing that Curtiz would call appropriate but I think I can attempt to interpret this story of his.

This is only the second film I have seen from Mihály Kertész (the other being Labyrinth des Grauens from the previous year), later known as Michael Curtiz. This one is just a spectacle, and its legacy as the most expensive Austrian silent film is testament to that.

You can tell when watching this that Michael Curtiz understands the concept of visual storytelling, whereas with his previous work he relied very heavily on intertitles. His shot framing, lighting, mise-en-scène, set design, and scale of production are all on display in this one. Especially impressive is the thousands of extras and massive sets on display in the historical sequences, very clearly inspired by the pre-war Italian epics (and probably DW Griffith's Intolerance). I can see with this one why years later Curtiz claimed that Vienna was the most advanced film culture of this era. I don't agree but this definitely makes a strong argument.

The story really isn't too interesting, following the lead of Curtiz's previous outing. It again features flashbacks and dreams, only this time the majority of the film is dream sequences. A woman influenced by immoral vices learns morality through a premonition and a comparison to Biblical stories. I'm not a fan of Biblical morality and that is probably one reason why I found the story boring.

This film has obvious comparisons to the American epics of the time as well as the Italian epics from the previous decades. I don't think the Italian efforts are nearly as interesting cinematically as Curtiz's extravaganza, as the only reason they're relevant is because of their scale and their popularity in Europe at the time. I think this film has a better story and messaging than Intolerance (1916), which is a low bar. It's close between this one and The Ten Commandments (1923) over which is more bearable. Cecil B DeMille's is much more dogmatic in its messaging but his special effects are good and I did enjoy his historical sequence more.

Overall this film is notable as a stepping stone in the memorable career of Michael Curtis and for being a landmark in Austrian cinema. Not sure I'm going to revisit this one again but it wasn't bad considering it is a 2+ hour silent film.

In the late 1910s and early 1920s, the Hollywood biblical epic was going through a genre-non-gratis phase, and would not really make a comeback until Cecil B. DeMille's The Ten Commandments in 1923. However, over in Europe they were still reeling from the mighty splendour of Intolerance (1916), and a small yet prestigious Austrian company called Sascha-Film was planning a big, moral picture of its own.

Like Intolerance, Sodom and Gomorrah has a modern-day framing story, which may seem quite improbable for such a resolutely Old Testament-style fable. And yet, in a self-confident bid to give it relevance a line has been drawn between jazz age excess and the unmentionable sins of the Sodomites. Of course, a little pragmatism may have been at work here too – after all, it's not easy to translate about half a page of bible text into several hours of screen time, especially when the sensitivities of the day mean you can't paint too vivid a picture of those aforementioned sins. Still, the writers appear to have taken a few liberties with scripture too, with Lot's wife cast as some kind of Bronze Age vamp, in what is an incredibly misogynistic take on the tale.

The look of this picture owes more to the Expressionist movement of neighbouring Germany than it does to the epics of Hollywood. Designers Julius von Borsody and Emil Stepanek have created a world of bizarre, angular architecture with mazes of furniture and other props. Cinematographer Franz Planer (later of some standing in the US) does sterling work with contrast, framing close-ups "Rembrandt" style (bright faces, dark backgrounds) while shooting mid-shots so that as actors approach the foreground they become silhouettes. The director here is a young Hungarian named Mihály Kertész. Kertész endeavours to create a look of confinement, with the numerous props hemming the characters in at every angle making them, to paraphrase Henry Higgins, prisoners of the clutter. This creates a palpable feeling of fatefulness, but Kertész goes all out to cover ever base, shooting many scenes through peephole lenses or from a stark, objective distance. Kertész's use of depth is rather neat however, enclosing the frame at the sides but often having a doorway open at the back of the set to give an eerie tunnel effect. Generally however the tone is one of Expressionist overkill.

Amidst all the business of the set, the actors themselves become little more than mobile props. The acting is not that good anyway, with most of the cast limiting themselves to one facial expression only, even a young Walter Slezak who is incredibly bland here compared to his masterful turns in his portly Hollywood heyday. An also-youthful Victor Varconi isn't much better, but with his devilish good looks he doesn't really need to act here, and with his commanding presence he makes a great angel of the Lord. Slezak and Varconi would both go on to become strong supporting players in Hollywood. Kertész too would find work in the states, under the name of Michael Curtiz.

This distinctly European take on the moral epic is an odd thing for the Sascha-Film to have spent such a fortune upon. Compared to its nearest stylistic relatives, the work of epics and horrors of Ufa studios in Weimar Republic, it lacks the austere Germanic mythical quality of such highlights Caligari or Nibelungen. Compared to its nearest thematic relatives, the films of Cecil B. DeMille, well… The paradox of DeMille's pictures is he always made sin look like good fun even as he condemned it. He always revelled in the grandeur of ancient monuments whilst railing against idolatry and materialism. For the Austrians to portray the world of sinners as dark and grim, and view those magnificent Sodom sets as if through keyholes is in fact perhaps the more logical interpretation from a strictly moralist perspective. However, as anyone who has enjoyed the debauched delights of DeMille at his most hypocritical will know, that would be missing the point.