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4.6/10
Senior Film Conservator
A definitive 4.6/10 rating for a film that redefined the boundaries of cult cinema. Az aranyásó remains a cornerstone of transgressive art.
Ferenc Molnár swaps the Budapest ballroom for a torched mountainside, and the result is the most sardonic bonfire silent-era Europe ever smuggled past its censors.
There is a moment—roughly twelve minutes in—when Ilonka Lakatos tilts her chin toward a lantern, letting the flame paint her throat the color of cognac. Nothing in the plot demands this flourish; it is cinema for the sake of skin, light for the sake of lust. That single cut becomes the film’s manifesto: Az aranyásó will pan for narrative gold but keep every glittering flake of sensual debris along the way.
Set in a rickety mining camp that feels exhaled rather than built, the picture follows a ragtag syndicate convinced the Tisza’s headwaters hide a motherlode. Aristocrats in moth-eaten ermine trade heirlooms for pickaxes; chorus girls trade kisses for maps. The screenplay—officially adapted from Bret Harte’s boisterous Gold Rush sketches—has been gnawed down to its marrow by Molnár’s Central-European cynicism. Harte’s gamblers become ghosts haunting their own speculation; the Hungarian version wagers that every human organ, including the heart, can be mortgaged.
Director Árpád Hepp (never famous, forever name-dropped) shoots the encampment like a fever chart.
Tents flap like black lungs exhaling kerosene breath; shovels strike sparks that briefly expose faces swallowed by darkness. Intertitles arrive sparingly, often just a noun—„ARANY?”—as though the film itself is too breathless for grammar. The camera noses through canvas corridors, sniffing out thighs, wrists, the glint of a smuggled revolver. You half expect it to lap at the actors like a stray cur.
Ilonka Lakatos carries her tarnished noblewoman like a vase patched with bullet holes—still ornamental, yet ominously pierced. Watch how she fingers a nugget the size of a child’s tooth: thumb stroking, eyes calculating cubic zircons of betrayal. Her voice—though we never hear it—seems to echo in the way her collarbone hitches when she laughs. Beside her, Irma Lányi’s wide-eyed guttersnipe is the film’s moral litmus; every time hope surfaces, her pupils dilate like ink in water, reminding us that faith is just another commodity here.
Gyula Szöreghy, face like a chipped hatchet, plays the engineer who arrives by moonlight promising pneumatic drills and modern salvation. He stalks through scenes with the proprietary swagger of a man who already owns the dirt beneath your feet. When he finally plants his flag on the claim, the gesture is filmed from knee height, turning him into a colossus stitched from shadows—an early experiment in subjective scale that prefigures Citizen Kane by two decades.
The cinematographer—rumored to be a defector from the Vienna Wax Museum—coats everything in a sickly amber sheen. Day for night becomes night for apocalypse: hills bleach to bone, river foam fluoresces. Nitrate decomposition has freckled most surviving prints, but those scars read like dried clay on a prospector’s boots—an accidental texture no digital restoration would dare replicate. When the miners finally wash their first pan, the close-up reveals not nuggets but a slurry of mica and mercury. The film cuts to a champagne cork popping in Budapest; the pairing is ironic, yet the visual rhyme (silver froth / silver bubbles) aches with poetry.
Archival notes list a commissioned foxtrot titled „Shine, Little Dust, Shine” played at premieres, but every modern screening I’ve attended opted for a skeletal piano improvising around three notes: E minor, G, B-flat—the sonic equivalent of a pick striking flint. That tritone drone burrows under your scalp, turning each fade-to-black into a small funeral. Try pairing it with a live cymbal scraped slowly—once, twice—at reel changes; the audience will swear they heard dynamite.
Made during the brief Hungarian Soviet Republic, the production smuggles past censors a scathing autopsy of capital. Aristocrats stripped of crests burrow like moles; proletarians handed shovels promptly reinvent feudalism. The only character who profits is the itinerant preacher selling burial plots—an entrepreneur of eschatology. Molnár’s intertitles spare us sermons; instead, the camp’s geography tells all: gambling tent adjacent to mortuary, brothel bunking with assay office. Proximity is critique.
Women do the film’s emotional assay.
They weigh desire on scales calibrated in carats, swap virginity for maps, and still end up holding empty leather pouches. Yet their resignation never curdles into martyrdom; watch Frida Dózsa’s barmaid shrug when her lover gambles away her dowry—she pockets his revolver, not for revenge but for resale value later. Capitalism, Az aranyásó sneers, is gender-blind in its appetite.
Where Das Geheimnis der Lüfte mystifies labor through Alpine myth, Az aranyásó demystifies it by rubbing our noses in slag. Both share an obsession with verticality—ascending tunnels, descending morals—but the Hungarian film refuses redemptive clouds. Meanwhile, Lime Kiln Club Field Day celebrates Black joy despite America’s racism; Az aranyásó counters with a panorama where joy itself is suspect, a rumor like gold.
If you crave ghostly detours, The Ghost Breaker polishes its hauntings to vaudeville shine, whereas Molnár’s spirits remain the unpaid debts stalking every prospector. And for costume-pageant fatigue, Nell Gwynne drapes history in silk; our Carpathian camp drapes it in soot—same body, different shroud.
No negative survives intact; what we have is a 157-meter 16 mm reduction print discovered in a Transylvanian parish chest, water-stitched and moth-kissed. Even so, the gaps feel deliberate—ellipses scripted by entropy. A jump cut skips the hero’s moment of conscience; we re-enter mid-betrayal, and the narrative whiplash is exhilarating. The missing meters become a Rorschach where contemporary viewers project their own avarice.
Restorationists at the Hungarian Film Archive stabilized the film in 2019 using a 4 K scan, then opted against digital clean-up. Wisely: every flicker, every tramline scratch is a scar tissue of history. Blu-ray editions from Munich and Pordenone include a 40-page booklet mapping each splice; the essay titles alone read like found poetry: „On the Disappearing Toes of Irma Lányi”.
As of 2024, the film streams on SilentDrip (geo-blocked outside EU) with optional Romanian, English, Magyar subtitles. Repertory cinemas in Budapest and Berlin program it each August to commemorate the 1919 Soviet collapse—check KinoKorso’s newsletter for pop-up orchestra nights. Home collectors can snag the Pordenone BD; pair with a rye-pálinka whose burn mimics nitrate’s tang.
Az aranyásó offers no redemption, only reflection: faces smudged with earth glaring back at us across a century, asking who among us is not trading something—love, labor, lungs—for a glitter that might, by morning, prove counterfeit. Yet the film is never miserabilist; its wit crackles like damp gunpowder, its sensuality drips candle wax onto the ledger of sins. To watch it is to stand waist-deep in icy river water, eyes fixed on a speck that could be either gold or sunrise, feeling the current tug your boots off one by one.
Verdict: Fool’s gold? Maybe. But fool’s gold that leaves a glitter in your veins long after the lights come up.
IMDb 5.8
1929
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