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Cult Review
Senior Film Conservator
Graf Sylvains Rache
1920, dir. Curt Goetz • 6 reels of nitrate nitroglycerin
The lights drop like a guillotine. A cardboard moon, lopsided and nicotine-yellow, leers over a plywood battlement—our first warning that the titular Count Sylvain is nobody’s ancestor, merely the patron saint of schadenfreude. Into this cardboard citadel prances Emile, a tightrope walker who treats gravity as a mild suggestion. Goetz, who also wrote the scenario, gives him the elastic gait of a marionette whose strings have been half-cut: every swaggering step anticipates a face-first sprawl. The actor’s profile—knife-blade nose, waxed mustache curled like a viper asleep—belongs on the cover of a pulp entitled How to Lose Everything in 45 Minutes.
Madeleine enters wearing danger the way other flappers wear pearls. Nielsen, Scandinavia’s sphinx, lets a smirk dimple one cheek while the other remains marble-still; the asymmetry feels surgical. She sings—not sweetly, but as though each note is a scalpel flicked toward the balcony. Emile, suspended upside-down above her, forgets to clamp his knees and plummets into the orchestra pit. Cue cymbal crash, cue laughter, cue the first hairline fracture in his bravado. From here the film pirouettes into a fugue of escalating wagers: he bets his salary he can walk a wheelbarrow across a laundry line; he bets his landlord’s patience he can serenade Madeleine with a bulbul’s ardor; he bets his last remaining tailcoat that love, unlike gravity, can be sweet-talked.
The plot coils like a watch-spring. Each act of derring-do is intercut with ledger sheets: IOUs, eviction notices, pawn tickets stamped in bilious green. Goetz borrows the montage grammar of The Lightning Raider but replaces thrills with debits; every whip-pan lands on a creditor’s sneer. Meanwhile Madeleine, reclining in a chaise longue shaped like a scythe, lets suitors orbit her like moths around a klieg light. One brings orchids, another brings sable, Emile brings the moon—literally, a paper lantern he crashes into while swinging from the proscenium. She keeps none of the gifts; she hoards only the groveling.
Berlin’s carnival atmosphere is rendered in distorted backdrops: trapezoids for windows, rhomboids for doors, a sky the color of absinthe rash. The camera tilts 15° left, then 20° right, as though the tripod itself were tipsy. This tipsiness infects the performances. When Emile confesses bankruptcy, his knees bounce like pneumatic drills; when Madeleine coolly proposes marriage to the richest sop, her face freezes into a death-mask grin reminiscent of Das sterbende Modell. The tonal whiplash—slapstick one reel, Grand-Guignol the next—feels less like inconsistency than like a dare to the audience: laugh, gasp, do both simultaneously, choke on the aftertaste.
Mid-film arrives the centerpiece gag: a charity gala where Emile volunteers to be fired from a cannon over the Spree. The sequence is shot in bravura long takes; we see the entire mechanism—steam valves, pulleys, a brass bell that clangs like a death-knell—while a brass band toots Ach, wie ist’s möglich dann off-key. He is launched, cape flapping, across the night sky, a human comet trailing sparks. But the net has been pawned. Cut to black. Next morning newspapers flutter across the screen: Daredevil Missing, Presumed Damp. Madeleine sips her coffee, unfazed; she has already accepted a banker’s diamond cravat pin.
Yet Emile survives, bandaged like a mummy with buyer’s remorse. The final act relocates to a courtroom whose walls sweat ochre. Here Goetz unleashes full Expressionist venom: shadows crawl up the actor’s neck like ivy, the judge’s gavel morphs into a guillotine blade in insert shots. Creditors parade across the stand, each anecdote a shovelful of lime onto Emile’s social grave. When the verdict—debtor’s prison—arrives, the camera dollies into Madeleine’s face for a lingering close-up. Nielsen, mistress of micro-gesture, allows one tear to glide… but it glides down the wrong cheek, a lacrimal treason. She exits on the banker’s arm, veil fluttering like a surrender flag.
The coda is a single, unbroken shot: Emile in stripes, breaking rocks under a sodium sun. He glances up—there, on the distant ridge, a silhouette twirls a parasol. Could be Madeleine, could be mirage. He waves, drops his pickaxe, sprints toward the horizon. Guards bark, rifles rise, the iris closes in a perfect circle of cobalt. No subtitle, no organ sting—only the rattle of celluloid through the gate, like dice across baize. The audience is left holding a ticket stub that doubles as a bill of sale: laughter purchased, heart repossessed.
Surviving prints hail from a 1978 Moskva archive discovery: 4K scan of a 35 mm nitrate dupe marbled by emulsion rot. The flicker—once every 11 frames—creates a stroboscopic heartbeat that accidentally amplifies the film’s anxiety. Tinting follows 1920 conventions: amber for interiors, viridian for exteriors, rose for the romantic interludes. Yet the rose has faded into bruise, so Madeleine’s cheekbones appear gangrenous—an unintended metaphor for love gone septic. The intertitles, set in Fraktur, translate Goetz’s epigrammatic cruelty into English without softening the umlauts. One card reads: "Romance is compound interest on a zero balance."
Where Her Tender Feet sentimentalizes poverty and Ignorance moralizes it, Graf Sylvains Rache weaponizes comedy to expose the transactional marrow of Weimar flirtation. Its DNA shares strands with Yankee Pluck’s kinetic optimism, yet the trajectory is inverted: upward mobility becomes downward spirals. Meanwhile the gendered sadism anticipates A Woman’s Honor, only here the femme fatale doesn’t need a gun—indifference suffices.
Curt Goetz’s Emile channels both Keaton’s stone-face and Lang’s hysterical everymen; watch how his pupils dilate the instant Madeleine’s gloved hand brushes his wrist—an involuntary confession. Asta Nielsen, 45 at the time, moves like a woman who has memorized the choreography of male gaze and now weaponizes it; her fan flick open is a semaphore for not your business. Karl Platen’s notary, a peripheral role, steals frames by reducing his physicality to a pair of trembling hands—as though the body were an afterthought auctioned separately.
Contemporary screenings often rope in live ensembles to supply jaunty oompah, but the film screams for discord: prepared pianos, bowed saws, the hiss of carbon arc lamps miked and looped. The absence of voices amplifies every creak of the tightrope, every pneumatic sigh of the cannon. Try listening for the moment Emile’s heart breaks—it lands between frames 1173 and 1174, a palpable skip in the optical track.
Goetz indicts the era’s default narrative—plucky boy wins girl—by letting the contract expire mid-air. The resulting free-fall is both exhilarating and nauseating, like champagne laced with castor oil. Its humor detonates on a delay, leaving shrapnel of self-recognition: who among us hasn’t wagered dignity for a smile that never materialized? Restoration quibbles aside—missing reel 3, continuity jump at 34:12—the film endures as a cautionary valentine: never trust a circus that bills itself as destiny.
So if you crave the comfort of rom-com redemption, stick to He Comes Up Smiling. If you prefer your laughs garnished with rusted barbed wire, step right up to Graf Sylvains Rache. Just remember: the safety net was pawned a century ago, and the fall, dear reader, is still accelerating.
IMDb 6.4
1927
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