La chatte des montagne

What a remarkable film! Within minutes one immediately gets the impression that if 'The wildcat' were made in the modern era, it would be a bombastic, proverbial Technicolor nightmare of a farce. Though there's no color or sound here, Ernst Lubitsch's feature is no less of a spectacle of frivolity. The consideration given to hair, makeup - and even more so imaginative costume design, and stupendous set design and decoration - is only of the utmost playful grandiosity, fetching sights by all accounts and nigh fantastical. This rather goes as well for the framing of each scene, as most of the footage presents to us through cut-outs of wildly varying shape and size. And so it is down the line, including sharp editing: from start to finish, this movie is filled a jovial air of comedy on par with the most robust nonsense of silent stars like Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd, or Charlie Chaplin. And it's so much fun!

In his direction, and in his screenplay co-written with Hanns Kräly, Lubitsch has a mind for lighthearted silliness that makes the picture a true joy to behold. This is reflected in the (reconstructed) intertitles, the characters, the writing and orchestration of each scene, the overall narrative, and in the guidance of the cast. There are some familiar themes at the core of the story, yet every element is marked with such a sense of caricature and exaggeration as to ensure that no one steps away from 'The wildcat' without having a good time. The assembled actors lean wholeheartedly into that slant, each giving performances of strong physicality and personality - with body language and facial expression heightened well beyond even what is characteristic of the silent era. The nearest approximation that readily comes to mind is in the most enthusiastically madcap moments of 2001 musical 'Moulin Rouge!' - but even that comparison fails to wholly account for the charming gaiety on hand. I'm loathe to single out only one or two figures, but it must be said that Pola Negri is fabulous, a marvel as untamed Rischka - stealing the spotlight with her every appearance on the screen. Only just shy of Negri's terrific display, Paul Heidemann's performance as Lieutenant Alexis is a slick show of flippant impertinence that's gratifying to witness.

Among other things, the movie is built on physical comedy, sight gags, satirical foolishness, and turnabout and upended expectations. Through it all we're treated to a veritable feast of visual bedazzlement, not just in the arrangement of scenes and the fastidious work of the crew but also in the very filming locations. This is nothing if not a labor of the greatest passion and care, and love for film-making; all due commendations as well to composer Marco Dalpane and the Ensemble Playground, whose contemporary score is a wonderful match for the feature. In all sincerity, I find it hard to believe that 'The wild cat' isn't more well known in the years since, alongside those select few silent titles that are most memorably acclaimed: I think this easily stands shoulder to shoulder with the very best of early cinema, as a comedy but also on its own merits broadly. It's clear how much hard work went into the production, and the result speaks for itself as an outstanding, highly enjoyable romp that easily holds up and entertains even 100 years later. So heartily carefree and mirthful is this feature that I'd have no qualms recommending it even to viewers who generally have difficulty abiding titles of the era. Hats off to Lubitsch and all involved: Wherever you can watch it, 'The wildcat' lives up to its name as a rowdy ride of rollicking wit and good cheer - and gets my highest recommendation!

It really is obvious at this point that Ernst Lubitsch needed dialogue to shine. I don't think he'd made a bad film yet (well, except for The Eyes of the Mummy which I've mostly pushed out of my brain), but he was consistently held back by the silent film medium's inherently different approach to building character than sound films or stage plays. His best films are comedies that take a broader approach to things, which The Wildcat tries to fit in, but, at the same time, this film embraces a level of character complexity that Lubitsch can't quite justify through the actual narrative. The film's focus, though, ends up being zany comic antics, which is where the film is easily at its best and most entertaining, but I feel like if Lubitsch wasn't going to figure out how to write more rounded characters in the silent film space, he should have simplified the storytelling, especially in the final act.

Lieutenant Alexis (Paul Heidemann) is a ladies' man who is sent to the remote outpost run by a fat, mustachioed commander (Victor Janson). The commander has a wife (Marge Kohler) who lords over him and a daughter Lilli (Edith Meller) whom the commander decides should marry Alexis when he comes. On his way to the fortress, Alexis is waylaid by bandits led by the titular wildcat, Rischka (Pola Negri) who becomes completely enraptured by this gentleman soldier who manages to get away from his captors through a series of caves that he just kind of wanders through. It's a comedy, so it's slightly amusing, at least. These first two acts (like most of Lubitsch's early films, there are explicit acts) are the weakest of the five and they are really just about setting up the characters (borderline caricatures) and overall situation.

With news of the bandits, the commander sends Alexis and the men out to punish the attackers, but Rischka and the men under her are easily able to embarrass the soldiers with snowballs and superior placement, sending Alexis back defeated. However, the commander just assumes a victory and decides to marry Alexis to Lilli as a reward. The soldiers deciding to not correct their commander is honestly pretty funny. What follows is the central comic set piece of the film, the celebratory dance in honor of the betrothed. Reminiscent of the foxtrot epidemic in The Oyster Princess, it's a party that steadily grows out of control as people get into the music, including two guards outside the fortress's main gate. It's a raucous affair that gets intertwined with Rischka leading a small raiding party into the fortress, stealing some clothes, running into the drunk commander who salutes them, and, ultimately, with Alexis and Rischka chasing after each other through the large, unreal sets.

There's a moment where both Rischka and Alexis are spinning on a pole as they chase after each other that's completely unreal but highly entertaining and just part of the escalating comic and manic energy of the sequence. There's no effort to make it connect from an editing perspective to what comes before and after, with a quick cut to Rischka running in another room being the next shot, but it's kind of perfect with the silly quality that the film is embracing.

The actual dramatics of the film don't work quite as well. It's a situation where Alexis has to choose between Lilli and Rischka but also where Rischka has to choose between Alexis and the bandit Pepo (Hermann Thimig). This sort of two-sided question really needs strong character work, even in a silly movie like this one, to work. Why does Alexis ultimately choose Lilli? Is it his duty? It's kind of hard to figure out. The harder side is Rischka deciding to let Alexis go and return to Pepo, willingly just walking away from the man she was consumed with having for herself. Even in a silly film that embraces some early form of cartoon logic, if these dramatic turns come up they need to be supported, and I don't think they are.

Does that sink the film? Not at all. It just limits my appreciation. This isn't the top tier of Lubitsch's early comic work in the German film industry. It's second tier behind The Doll and The Oyster Princess, but it's certainly funnier than the Sally Meyer stuff.

Essentially, I really look forward to sound coming into Lubitsch's toolbox.

Die Bergkatze brings us poignantly yet triumphantly to the end of an era, being the last of Ernst Lubitsch's German comedies. The director, best known for his "sophisticated" bedroom farces from the 1930s, carved out these little gems in his youth, and while rather different in tone and pace from his Hollywood work, they provide a unique and hilarious experience that should not go overlooked.

As if in anticipation of his forthcoming change in style, Die Bergkatze was Lubitsch's most riotous and stylised to date. Whereas he often based gags around a large group of people doing something (such as falling over or running away) simultaneously, he now takes the trick to the level of hyperbole, playing around with the largest horde of extras to be seen outside of an epic. Lubitsch has also turned his sense of the absurd up to eleven, and the picture is flavoured with dozens of wonderfully silly touches, such as the fort commander's exaggerated uniform having an extra pair of shoulder pads for the elbows.

Of course, Lubitsch was still to make a couple of straight dramas before receiving his invite to Hollywood. I'm sure he didn't know this was to be his comedic last hurrah in Berlin. So why is Die Bergkatze such a ridiculously extrovert production? The answer is almost certainly the director's confidence. Lubitsch was by now the most prestigious filmmaker in his home country, and his bizarre comic genius had gone down a treat with the public. Having more or less Carte Blanche from the studio, it seems that with Die Bergkatze he was seeing just how much he could get away with. He was also getting bigger budgets than ever before (prior to this he had helmed Anna Boleyn, Germany's most expensive production to date), it should come as no surprise to those familiar with the earlier comedies directed by Lubitsch and with sets designed by Kurt Richter (perhaps the most important collaborator during this part of Lubitsch's career), that if you unite these two with a large sum of money, you are bound to get something as gloriously demented as a fort that looks like a giant wedding cake covered in cannons.

Even in post-production, Lubitsch is playing around more than ever before, giving us those crazy frame shapes which look almost like a deliberate attempt to poke fun at the masking technique pioneered by DW Griffith five years earlier. Lubitsch was always a real aesthete when it came to shot composition, often delicately framing his actors with the luxurious curtains, window panes and assorted ornamentation that tended to make up the exquisite sets, both here and in Hollywood. In Die Bergkatze he has just literalised the process, treating the image as a work of art that could be either landscape or portrait, and once in a while mucking about and turning the screen into a squiggle or a pair of jaws.

And does Lubitsch get away with what he is doing? Yes, by the skin of his teeth! Why? Because Die Bergkatze is all of a piece. Considered individually, each of its exaggerations would be daft and distracting, but because Lubitsch has created a seamless world in which every idea is stretched to breaking point, it works. Every shot has some kind of oddity in it, not necessarily thrust in your face, but simply keeping the surreal tone going. No character is immune. In silent comedy in the US, women (at least the young women) tended to be treated with tender respect, and were often the only completely straight characters. But in Die Bergkatze we have a straggle-haired Pola Negri up to her neck in undignified antics alongside the boys, and doing a fine job of it, although I have to say I find myself missing the divine Ossi Oswalda, star of many earlier Lubitsch pictures.

Lubitsch's comedies after this were contrastingly sedate in pace and comparatively sensible in tone. This was not a regression, but neither was it an advance on these earlier chaotic creations. It was simply a case of a genius taking his talent in a different direction. And despite the neglect and underrating of pictures like Die Bergkatze, Sumurun, Die Puppe and Die Austernprinzessin, they are nevertheless inspired masterpieces, and every bit as worthy of our attention as The Marriage Circle, The Smiling Lieutenant and Trouble in Paradise.

One thing that strikes you as you watch the early Lubitsch comedies recently released on DVD in the US by Kino is-- how did Lubitsch come to have such an extravagant visual style, only to give it up a few years later? The later Lubitsch movies are certainly handsome, coming as they mostly do from Paramount and MGM, the chicest of the Hollywood studios. But for all the exotic places depicted in his films, it never occurs to him in later years to depict them with wild curlicues of plaster, fortresses that look like birthday cakes, staircases that descend a quarter-mile amid running water, as he does the European fantasy-land in The Wildcat.

The Wildcat is a sort of burlesque on a genre of military romances buried so deeply in the mists of memory that they still seem familiar even when it's hard to think of an actual example of what's being parodied (The Desert Song?). There's a fortress on the edge of mountainous wilds, and there's a handsome young officer who's been exiled there because of his love life. And then there's a tribe of wild mountain people including a tempestuous daughter, played by Pola Negri, with whom the officer will fall in love.

As with the mistaken identity plot in The Oyster Princess, you can imagine the 30s comedy this would be the setup for, but it's nothing like this-- which mainly consists of running around and clowning broadly. Only a few bits here and there-- a hilariously exaggerated depiction of the results of the officer's Casanova-like behavior, a delightful bit of comedy on the quarter-mile staircase that plays out with the purity and visual grace of Buster Keaton's single-take descent down six flights of stairs in The Cameraman-- are actually especially funny. (There's also a quite racy "Lubitsch Touch" moment involving his photo, a pair of pants, and where she happens to kiss.)

You wish in vain for Negri and her inamorato to sit down and actually share a scene, heat up the chemistry set, show us some real one-on-one Lubitsch Touch worthy of Billy Wilder's line that "Lubitsch could do more with a closed door than most directors could do with an open fly." But at least in Negri you have a recognizable comic human being, full of life and randiness-- and the ending, though still half-cartoon, has an emotional effect well beyond anything in The Oyster Princess just three years earlier.

One of the better of Lubitsch's rough mountain comedies, with Pola Negri as the wild daughter of the bandit chief (all of the the bandits' possessions are festooned with skulls, to show how dangerous they are) who falls in love with the handsome lieutenant brought in to marry the daughter of the corpulent and ineffectual colonel of the fort. Like his other mountain comedies -- MEYER FROM BERLIN, ROMEO AND JULIET IN THE SNOW and KOHLHEISEL'S DAUGHTER -- it is a very broad comedy, with much falling down in the snow.

In those days, Lubitsch would shoot half a dozen films a year for UFA, and one would always be a mountain comedy shot on site in Bavaria, where he liked to take a working vacation every winter. They were not polished and witty pieces like The Oyster Princess and The Doll, but they were very popular.