Sodom and Gomorrah

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.

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.

This film shows in form some influence of the United States, apparently at the instance of producer Sascha Kolowrat-Krakowsky who had visited the US and developed an enthusiasm for the films of Griffith. Kertész, himself, one suspects was more interested in the films of Cecil B. DeMille. In any case, what he does is take the idea of parallel stories from Intolerance, although there is also a clear influence of the equally an influence of the equally but differently complex use of multiple locales from Pastrone's Cabiria, which allows Kertész to introduce scenes of revolution, war and retribution that do not form any part of the biblical story. These "Syrian" scenes are important because they most closely reflect the 1919 experience in Kertész' native Hungary, where a Romanian army (backed by the West) had invaded to suppress the revolution.

He then combines this with the alluring idea of a "fantasy" dream-scenario featuring the same actors as in the "real-life" frame-story (a gimmick that DeMille did not originate but which he used particularly effectively in Male and Female in 1918). Interestingly the idea as adapted by Kertész (parallel stories) was then itself borrowed back by DeMille and Jeannie MacPherson for The Ten Commandments (1923) - originally intended as a kind of sketch film with each episode devoted to a commandment - but without the doubling that Kertész had borrowed from them and it was then reused (parallel stories and doubling) by Kertész himself (now Curtiz) shortly after his arrival in the US for Noah's Ark (1928).

In fairness Thanhouser had done something rather similar in their interesting and much under-rated version of A Man Without a Country in 1917 where a modern story is parallelled with the original Edward Everett Hale story.

Stylistically, on the other hand, as other reviewers have rightly pointed out, with its symbolism, its chiaroscuro and magnificent art nouveau décors, it is much closer to the stylised expressionistic vision to be found in other contemporary German films. This makes it a great deal more powerful as a film (if less grandiose) than either DeMille's The Ten Commandments or Curtiz' own later Noah's Ark.

As satire (both social and political), it is again closer to German models and has far more bite than the later films. Kertész had himself only recently arrived in Austria as a refugee from 'the White Terror" that had followed the defeat of the Communist Revolution there in 1919. Although it is not a certain indication of his own political views (he was more than a shade opportunistic by nature), he had made one short film before leaving Hungary (Jön az öcsém) which was quite explicit propaganda on behalf of the Communist regime. Here the association of the cities of the plain with the excesses of capitalism (as they appeared to many in the twenties) has the air of being genuinely felt.

The sense of a crisis of capitalism was at the heart of both Communist and Fascist movements in Europe. It is a mistake to judge this film entirely by the standards of DeMille and assume that the effect intended is purely one of titillation. The "existential hell" noted by another reviewer is no "mistake". The situation seen from Europe was a more serious one and he darker tone of many films reflected this.

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.