For his second "talkie," pioneering filmmaker Fritz Lang crafted a sequel to one of his early silent pictures. It sees the titular villain, once a brilliant criminal mastermind, now reduced to an empty, twitching husk in an asylum bed. Although most of his capabilities have left him, Mabuse's right hand still follows orders and, provided with pen and paper, he's able to sightlessly scrawl a steady stream of evil plots from the abyss. Soon enough, a mysterious figure steps forward to assemble a posse and enact the madman's schemes, while a police inspector and a lovesick turncoat rush to crack the case before a broader anarchic manifesto can be realized.
In a purely technical sense, this film was years ahead of the curve. During his prime, Lang was one of cinema's first true masters, pushing the envelope in ways that his contemporaries hadn't even dreamed about. Mabuse is dense, dark and atmospheric, cynical like a film noir, with a dazzling capacity for grandiose scenery and an unrivaled cinematic eye. In such respects, its influence can't be denied. Decades of nascent auteurs took notes on these experiments and applied them to their own works. I appreciate it far more in that sense than I do as a narrative. At two hours and change, it's fatty and sluggish, trading essential tempo beats for a few extra moments' gaze at the scenery. In this sense, it falls into the same trap that snared many contemporaries. There isn't enough story to justify this long a telling, and the climactic home stretch feels dated and hollow.
While it's noteworthy for its cinematic innovations, the film also marked a turning point in Lang's career. During production of Testament, the Nazi party claimed national power and made an effort to recruit the director for official propaganda purposes. Lang told them he'd think about it, packed his bags, fled the country and never went back. Joseph Goebbels soon deemed the film subversive and banned it from German theaters, though he kept a copy for himself and allegedly screened it in private for certain guests.
In a purely technical sense, this film was years ahead of the curve. During his prime, Lang was one of cinema's first true masters, pushing the envelope in ways that his contemporaries hadn't even dreamed about. Mabuse is dense, dark and atmospheric, cynical like a film noir, with a dazzling capacity for grandiose scenery and an unrivaled cinematic eye. In such respects, its influence can't be denied. Decades of nascent auteurs took notes on these experiments and applied them to their own works. I appreciate it far more in that sense than I do as a narrative. At two hours and change, it's fatty and sluggish, trading essential tempo beats for a few extra moments' gaze at the scenery. In this sense, it falls into the same trap that snared many contemporaries. There isn't enough story to justify this long a telling, and the climactic home stretch feels dated and hollow.
While it's noteworthy for its cinematic innovations, the film also marked a turning point in Lang's career. During production of Testament, the Nazi party claimed national power and made an effort to recruit the director for official propaganda purposes. Lang told them he'd think about it, packed his bags, fled the country and never went back. Joseph Goebbels soon deemed the film subversive and banned it from German theaters, though he kept a copy for himself and allegedly screened it in private for certain guests.