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Cult Review
Senior Film Conservator
There are films you watch, and films that watch you—Ewiger Strom belongs to the latter cabal, a 1923 German river-gothic that slithers from the screen like fog off the Danube, licking your ankles with ancestral chill. Restored prints still carry the chemical whiff of umber nitrate, as though the celluloid itself were steeped in the same water that rears its feral heroine.
Directors Alfred Fekete and Hans Janowitz—both haunted veterans of wartime field hospitals—translate their trauma into aqueous metaphors. They shoot on leftover sets from an aborted Rheingold project, re-purposing papier-mâché cliffs and goose-necked candelabra that once evoked Valhalla now become the river god’s antechambers. Candle smoke is double-exposed over flowing water, birthing a fluttering universe where reflections behave like disobedient spirits. The result feels less like studio craftsmanship and more like a séance conducted inside a tide-pool.
Heinrich Peer’s ferryman is a study in ethical myopia: one socket glazed by cataract, the other sharpened by self-loathing. Peer refuses the exaggerated grimaces common to Expressionist acting; instead he freezes his face into a mask of indecision, letting the river’s ripples do the emoting. Watch how, in extreme long shot, his lone eye becomes a black bead swallowed by slate-gray water—the film’s first visual admission that conscience is merely flotsam.
When Marija Leiko emerges—skinny-dipping in reverse, you might say—she drags twenty years of subaqueous starlight behind her. Her movements were filmed underwater in a glass-walled Munich aquarium normally reserved for herring research; the camera, wrapped in oil-cloth, peers through algae blooms as she pirouettes. Those images are then optically printed over nocturnal riverbanks, so that every step she takes on land seems to leak brackish memory. Leiko’s performance is all breathless economy: a tilt of the collarbone conveys courtship, a flick of river-weed in her hair foreshadows strangulation.
Men enter her orbit like moths skimming a porch-light reflected in puddles. A customs officer (comparable in stiff-necked arrogance to Napoleon’s petulant generals) tries to extort a toll; she drowns him in ankle-deep water, the camera lingering on bubbles that resemble Morse code for remorse. A traveling preacher quotes St. Augustine while fondling the hem of her dress; she knots the fabric around his throat, transforming scripture into garrote. The film refuses to grant these victims interiority, turning them into ideological mannequins—an acidic critique of Weimar-era machismo that feels eerily predictive.
Werner Krauss—fresh from Caligari—guest-stars as a carnival barker who bills Marija as “The Naiad With A Human Heart.” His face, powdered death-mask white, splits into a rictus that could swallow futures. In a metatheatrical flourish, he tries to chain her inside a leaking tank for punters to ogle. The scene unspools inside a giant circus tent striped black and bile-green; the stripes strobe past the lens like arterial walls, compressing space into a ventricle. When she smashes the glass, the released torrent carries not only water but also archival footage of WWI naval battles—Fekete’s blunt yet effective equation of voyeurism and militarized violence.
Though conceived as a silent, the premiere in Bonn featured a live choir chanting reversed lullabies while a percussionist played a moored rowboat with mallets—an ancestor to today’s immersive screenings. Contemporary restorations retain that polyrhythmic spirit: timpani mimic heartbeats, woodblocks echo oars. The absence of spoken titles in several reels is not poverty but strategy; Fekete forces viewers to read lips already wet with river-spray, thereby implicating us in the crime of looking away.
Janowitz’s script—pared to the marrow—treats the river god as neither benevolent nor wrathful, simply bureaucratic. In a discarded intertitle (unearthed in a 1998 Prague archive) the deity states: “I keep the ledgers of what is thrown away.” That line echoes through the film like a watermark, reminding us that divinity here is an accountant of waste. Salvation is replaced by inventory; miracles are merely recycled trash.
Cine-philologists will spot genetic links to Shadows from the Past—both films weaponize childhood abandonment into adult phantasmagoria—yet Ewiger Strom swaps that film’s gas-lit alleys for aqueous limbo. Conversely, Angoisse shares the motif of female vengeance, but its urban art-deco interiors feel claustrophobic compared to the river’s open-ended abyss. Where Playing with Fire flirted with camp excess, Fekete keeps tone solemn, almost liturgical.
Director of photography Gerhard Tandar coats lenses with petroleum jelly at the edges, producing halation that suggests memory hemorrhaging. Night exteriors are shot day-for-night through amber filters, then printed on blue-sensitive stock, creating a bruised teal palette decades before digital grading. A signature dolly shot—camera strapped to a floating plank—glides downstream while the actress walks in counter-current, so background and foreground move in contradictory time, an early stab at non-Euclidean space.
Notice the fleeting presence of Bamboula, a Senegalese dockworker who loads coal onto the ferry. His character never speaks, yet the camera fetishizes the sweat on his neck, rhyming his labor with Marija’s submersion—both are exploited bodies claimed by the river. In 1923 Germany, Black skin on screen served mostly as exotic garnish; here the film almost self-critiques that trope, because his final glance at the camera is so accusatory it perforates the fourth wall. One wishes Fekete had pursued that thread rather than relegating it to footnote.
When Marija finally confronts her surrogate patriarch, the scene transpires inside a boathouse during a thunderstorm. Lightning through slats paints bars across their bodies, turning kinship into prison. Peer’s ferryman kneels, offering his oar like a sword of fealty; she touches the blade, then flips the oar so the butt-end cracks against his ribs—an inversion of knighthood. Fekete cuts to a close-up of river water seeping across the floor, mixing with the ferryman’s blood: myth dissolved into corporeal mess.
Though largely unseen outside censor boards until the 1972 Venice retrospective, Ewiger Strom seeped into later DNA: the liquid corridors of Daughter of Mine, the drowned bells in The Heart of the Hills, even the baptism-by-death in A Trick of Fate. Its influence is subterranean, like an underground river feeding multiple lakes.
Watch Ewiger Strom midnight, windows open, rain tapping the sill. Let its monochrome waters infiltrate your living room until carpet becomes marsh. You will not enjoy it in any consumable sense; enjoyment is a landlocked emotion. Instead you will inhale its damp spores, and for days afterward every glass you fill will taste of silt and retribution. That is the film’s true gift: it doesn’t just tell a myth—it mortgages your own.
Verdict: 9.1/10 — a phosphorescent poem of guilt that still clings to the skin long after the projector’s hum has faded.
IMDb —
1924
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