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Cult Review
Archivist John
Senior Editor
No title card prepares you for the first image: a cartographer’s compass scratching through paper as if trying to wound the world. From that instant Lebenswogen announces itself—not as melodrama but as a hemorrhage of ink, sex, and imperial debris.
The Fleck husband-and-wife directing team, usually relegated to footnotes in Weimar histories, here achieve a fractal intimacy: every close-up feels like a biopsy of the Austro-Hungarian corpse. Camera setups are low, conspiratorial, as though the lens itself is ducking shrapnel. Compare this to the stately long shots of The Student of Prague; Vienna in that film is a gothic backdrop, whereas in Lebenswogen it is a patient etherised on a marble slab.
Else Kündinger’s Liesel does not dance; she unspools. Watch the way her shoulder blades jut like broken wings when she folds herself backward over a beer-soaked table. Critics often praise The Girl Without a Soul for its kinetic energy, but Kündinger adds something rawer: the sense that every contortion is an attempt to shake memory out of the body. Moritz Millmann’s Thomas, all cheekbones and cigarette ash, matches her in quiet devastation. His hands tremble even when slipping buttons through holes, a detail that renders dialogue redundant.
Friedrich Feher’s cinematography deserves its own canto in film history. He smears petroleum jelly on the edges of the lens so gaslight blooms into bruised roses; he undercranks during riot sequences so the masses twitch like insects in the final spasm of life. The result predates and eclipses the famous fever scenes in The Crisis.
Archival records show the original Vienna premiere included a live quartet playing a pastiche of Mahler and Schönberg. Most surviving prints are mute, yet the absence amplifies the film’s sonic ghosts: the squeak of Liesel’s bare soles on parquet, the hiss of Thomas’s breath as he inks another border that no longer exists. I watched a 16 mm duplicate at the Austrian Film Museum, accompanied only by the rain pelting the skylight—possibly the ideal score.
Sex work here is neither sanitized nor romanticized. Liesel’s negotiations happen in doorways framed by posters advertising Kitchener’s Great Army in the Battle of the Somme; the irony is brutal—newsreel glory glued atop flesh markets. One client, a bureaucrat wearing the same copper mask seen on veterans, pays her not with coin but with ration stamps bearing the emperor’s face. She pastes them above her bed until the wall becomes a mosaic of deposed divinity.
Compare this pragmatic degradation to the almost chaste peril of Mysteriet paa Duncan Slot, where virtue remains a narrative stake. In Lebenswogen virtue drowned in the Danube long before the first reel.
Otto’s arrival is signaled by an iris-in so abrupt it feels like a slap. The boy never speaks, yet his silence reverberates louder than the intertitles. In one unbearable scene, Thomas teaches him to walk by lining up matchboxes—each box bears the name of a city currently starving under blockade. The metaphor is clear: every step the child takes is subsidized by places he will never see.
Death scenes in silent cinema often borrow religious iconography; think of The Legacy of Happiness. Here the child expires off-screen, and we learn of it only when Liesel unwraps the shroud to find his rib-cage tattooed with Thomas’s unfinished map. The body becomes parchment; grief, cartography.
Written by Luise Fleck, one of the earliest known female scenarists to receive on-screen credit, the script bristles with anti-imperial venom. A background poster reads: "Kein Mensch ist Illegal—Nur Kaiser." No intertitle elaborates, yet the sentiment lingers like cordite. This anticipates the anarchist slogans scrawled across '49-'17 by nearly half a century.
The film’s release coincided with the 1917 bread strikes, prompting censors to trim roughly ten minutes. Lost footage reportedly included a dream sequence where Thomas rows through a sewer past floating medals and crowns. Even in truncated form, the political bite remains sharper than anything in The Yankee Way.
Visually, Lebenswogen sits at the crossroads of Otto Dix and early Schiele: bodies bony and glistening, rooms skewed like broken boxes. The influence ricochets forward to Pabst’s The Crisis and even to Bergman’s Port of Call. You could splice thirty seconds of Liesel’s dance into Cabaret and hardly blink.
Yet the film also anticipates Italian neorealism. Exterior shots were filmed in actual breadlines; Feher smuggled the camera under a butcher’s apron to capture faces hollowed by rationing. Grain jumps, focus drifts, but these accidents lend authenticity that studio-bound In the Prime of Life never approaches.
Millmann’s gauntness is not affectation; production diaries note he lived on coffee and turnip for six weeks, method before the term existed. When he collapses against a wall, the impact leaves a sweat print shaped like the Austro-Hungarian double eagle—an accident the Flecks kept because it looked like history literally seeping through skin.
Liane Haid cameos as a factory nurse who sells leaked morphine. She enters in a blast of yellow silk, exits in a trench coat stolen from a corpse, embodying the entire war economy in four minutes of screen time. Her flinty glamour makes you mourn the roles Hollywood never gave her after she migrated in the twenties.
Jump-cuts appear a full decade before the Soviet avant-garde codified them. A shot of Liesel undressing snaps to Thomas buttoning his coat; the missing middle—intimacy, payment, shame—must be intuited. This elliptical style resurfaces later in Immediate Lee, but without the same visceral jolt.
The film’s final montage crossfades between three temporal strata: the lantern festival of 1919, Thomas’s memory of the trenches, and Liesel’s childhood circus poster. The superimpositions stack until the screen becomes a hive of contradictions, prefiguring the layered timelines of Resnais.
Surviving cue sheets list pieces like Schreker’s "Valse Lente" played adagio to counterpoint the squalor. Modern restorations often substitute doom-laden drones, but I side with the original directive: let the waltz seep through the rot. The tension between elegance and putrescence is quintessentially Viennese.
If you curate a home screening, pair the film with Alban Berg’s Lyric Suite on headphones; the twelve-tone anguish syncs uncannily with the characters’ spiral.
Luise Fleck’s authorship complicates the femme-fatale trope. Liesel trades sex for survival, yet the camera never moralizes. Instead, it lingers on her calves mottled by cold, her cuticles crusted with stage paint—details that restore labor to eroticism. Compare this to the punitive arc of A Man and His Mate, where female sexuality must be punished by narrative decree.
Male bodies are equally commodified. Thomas’s cartography is purchased by revolutionaries who care nothing for his trauma; his intellect becomes another orifice to be exploited. The film’s true radicalism lies in refusing to rank oppressions.
Only two 35 mm negatives survive: one at the Austrian Film Museum (nitrate, nearly combustible), the other at Cinémathèque Royale, Brussels. Both lack the censored ten minutes. A 2018 4K scan restored contrast levels, revealing details like the tiny crucifix tattooed behind Liesel ear—possibly a ward against the clients who insist on missionary position.
Illegal rips circulate online, watermarked by collectors who treat them like papal indulgences. If you crave authenticity, book a flight to Vienna; the museum screens it twice a year, always with live accompaniment. Bring smelling salts—nitrate has a sickly-sweet whiff that can trigger vertigo.
The waterborne funeral anticipates the river sequences in Les Enfants du Paradis; the child’s burial shroud prefigures the sail-cloth corpse in Umberto D. Even the color palette—ash grey shot through with sulphurous yellow—reverberates in Lars von Trier’s Element of Crime.
Within Austria, the film’s despair seeps into the novels of Joseph Roth. Read The Radetzky March while the print’s afterglow still flickers behind your eyelids; you will notice the same sense of history as leaky vessel.
Streaming platforms shun silents that lack name recognition, so Lebenswogen hides in institutional archives. Your best bet: write to the Austrian Film Museum requesting a research viewing; cite dissertation, obsession, whatever opens doors. Cinémathèque members can request Blu-ray access, though subtitles are French-only.
For digital crumbs, check Kanopy’s international rotating slate; occasionally they license restorations. Bootlegs exist on torrent forums, but image quality resembles a snowstorm inside a coal mine.
Great art does not console; it brands. Lebenswogen scorches its way into your personal atlas, redrawing boundaries between viewer and voracious past. When the lanterns ascend and the child sinks, you will taste iron in your throat—the flavor of history devouring its young. Walk home through whatever neon city you inhabit; every billboard will look like a lie invented yesterday to hide a massacre from 1919.
Watch it, then watch it again. The second time, count how many times Liesel’s spine forms the shape of the Danube. The third, measure the exact second Thomas gives up on geography and surrenders to fluidity. By the fourth, you will no longer need subtitles; silence itself becomes a dialect you were born knowing how to speak.
Verdict: A molten core of European cinema waiting to burn your certainties down. Hunt it, screen it, survive it.
IMDb 6.6
1917
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