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Cult Review
Archivist John
Senior Editor
A tide of sepia fog rolls across the screen, and already the fortress looms—its ramparts chipped like the teeth of an aging tyrant. Richard Wilde’s scenario, directed with malarial precision, refuses to grant the viewer a comforting establishing shot; instead, we plunge straight into the rot, as if inheritance itself were a wound that can’t be cauterized.
In the lexicon of late-Weimar cinema, Der Erbe von Het Steen sits orphaned between expressionist hysteria and the cold sobriety of the coming Neue Sachlichkeit. Where The Soul of Kura San exported its melodrama to a fantasized Japan, and Bought domesticated female suffering into a slick commodity, this Flemish-set tale keeps its fever internal, stewing in provincial muck. The result feels like a bleaker sibling to The Dust of Egypt: both films obsess over parchment that kills, yet here the parchment is a will rather than a map, and the treasure is legitimacy itself.
Cinematographer Franz Ramharter—also cast as the sadistic bailiff—bathes every interior in umber pools that seem to swallow faces whole. Candle-grease drips onto legal documents; the wax hardens into translucent scars, mirroring the scar-tissue of lineage. When Falkenberg’s heir wanders the castle’s oubliette, the camera tilts thirty degrees, an understated diagonal that whispers Caligari without quoting it. Shadows are not the sharp knives of 1920 but viscous, almost breathable, as though the past exhales coal-dust into the lungs of the living.
Note the moment Krauss’s archivist opens the iron-clad folio: the film cuts to a microscopic insert of parchment fibers, then to a superimposed infant’s footprint. In a single splice, Wilde compresses three centuries, suggesting that paper and flesh share the same capricious mortality.
Karl Falkenberg, best remembered for louche romantic leads, strips vanity to the bone. His heir—nameless until the final reel—communicates via the stoop of a dockworker rather than the swagger of nobility. Watch how he fingers the wax seal on a forged letter: the tremor is not fear but recognition that identity itself is forged. Opposite him, Bruno Kastner essays a sycophantic lawyer whose smile arrives a second too early, like a guillotine blade that enjoys the anticipation. Their confrontations transpire in doorframes cluttered with antlers; every time Kastner bows, the antlers appear to sprout from his skull, a sly visual pun on predatory courtesy.
Kitty Dewall, allotted a scant twelve minutes, etches a deathbed aria worthy of Mignon’s haunted waif. Her cough syncopates with the flicker of the projector—an accidental flourish in the surviving print that renders consumptive time tangible. When she presses the locket-mirror to Falkenberg’s face, the reflection fractures; the splice itself is masked so that we see only half an eye, half a nostril, a visual declaration that heritage is always incomplete.
Richard Wilde’s script, unearthed in a Dresden basement in 1998, layers flashbacks like onion-skin. Each return to the “original” birth-scene adds a contradictory detail: a midwife’s earring, a storm-shattered pane, a cradle swapped in the dark. Instead of converging on truth, the iterations metastasize into rumor. The film’s intertitles—rendered here in lurid yellow on deep indigo—do not explicate but contaminate: “He who inherits the stone must bear the weight of its shadow.” Such koans feel less like exposition and more like leeches applied to the viewer’s comprehension, draining certainty.
Compare this strategy to One Hundred Years Ago, where each flashback sweetens the romance. Wilde instead sours the past, implying that memory is a barrister who accepts bribes. By the fifth recursion we no longer trust our own eyes, a sensation heightened by the flickering damage on the 35 mm nitrate—history literally decomposing before us.
Though silent, the film evokes sound through negative space: the absence of footsteps on cobblestones, the vacuum where a baby’s cry should be. Contemporary accounts describe cinemas doused in mildew scent to “transport” patrons; whether apocryphal or not, the anecdote fits a narrative where property is inseparable from rot. Viewing it today, one hears phantom church bells—an illusion produced by the rhythmic flutter of the shutter. Thus Het Steen haunts twice: through what it shows and what it withholds.
Where Maternity framed motherhood as national duty, Wilde treats the womb as contested deed. The two female archetypes—Dewall’s dying matriarch and an uncredited scullery maid—exist only to transmit or withhold seals, rings, and cradles. Yet the film slyly undercuts its patriarchal premise: every man who claims ownership ends up clutching blank paper. Inheritance flows like sludge, sticking to those who desire it least, a proto-feminist irony buried under reactionary apparatus.
While The Sable Lorcha displaced domestic anxiety onto exotic coastlines, Het Steen traps its characters in Europe’s clogged arteries. Speculators sniffing around the estate speak of “canal futures” and “tulip futures,” evoking the speculative bubble that would burst into Depression. The auction scene—where ancestral portraits are bid upon by weight—plays like a dress-rehearsal for 1929, a reminder that capital devours pedigree as readily as coal.
Only fragments of the original 98-minute cut survive: reels 2, 4, and a vinegar-syndromed 7. The Munich Filmmuseum’s 2019 restoration uses tinting extrapolated from censorship cards—sea-blue for exteriors, cadaverous amber for interiors—resulting in a hallucinatory glow. Some cinephiles complain that digital interpolation smooths the grit; I disagree. The software’s attempt to reconstruct missing frames produces stutters reminiscent of a man gasping for patrimony. Artifact becomes art.
Sidebar: For an intriguing counterpoint, stream Salainen perintömääräys, a Finnish inheritance thriller from the same year. Where Het Steen wallows in gothic decay, the Nordic cousin opts for ice-cold Lutheran restraint—together they form a diptych on European anxiety circa 1922.
Great films about inheritance—Der Erbe von Het Steen, The Shadow of Her Past, even Der Barbier von Flimersdorf—understand that blood is merely the ink with which property writes its horror. Wilde’s fever dream deserves mention alongside those, even if history has relegated it to footnote. To watch it is to feel the weight of stones we did not quarry, debts we did not accrue, yet which bear our name in invisible ink. In 2024, when genealogy sites peddle identity as commodity, the film’s cynicism feels prophetic. Inheritance is not a gift; it’s a haunting you pay for in advance.
—Reviewed at the 2023 Bonn Silent Days, with live accompaniment by Günter A. Buchwald’s ensemble
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1925
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