DbcultAccessing Vault...
Cult Review
Senior Film Conservator
There are films you watch and films that watch you—Menschen im Rausch belongs to the latter, its gaze fixed like a predator that knows you crave the very poison it secretes. Director Artur Landsberger, working from his own scalpel-sharp scenario, engineers a Berlin that swings between chandeliered salons and spit-slick cabarets without a single optical fade; the transition is psychological, a blink that drags us from Mozart to muck.
Fritz Alberti’s Professor Munk enters in phosphorescent white tie, baton slicing the premiere air as if conducting fate itself. Notice the micro-tremor in his wrist—Alberti embeds hubris in sinew, a flaw that will widen into a canyon. The premiere’s afterglow is shot through amber gels, champagne flares haloing faces like gilt icons; yet the camera already tilts, subtly foreshadowing imbalance.
Enter Asta, embodied by Gussy Holl with the lazy precision of a panther who’s read Nietzsche. Her first close-up—kohl-smudged lids, mouth parted as if tasting the viewer—hits like a slug of Sturm und Drang straight to the carotid. Holl never overplays; instead she lets stillness metastasize, a negative space that sucks moral oxygen from every frame.
Production designer Robert Herlth turns the nightclub into a grotto of Expressionist ribs: sickle-shaped tables, spiral pillars, ceiling slung so low it compresses ambition. Brass instruments glint like dental tools; the band blares a foxtrot that sounds suspiciously like funeral ragtime played at 78 rpm. Here Munk debuts his new act—awkwardly crooning smutty couplets while Asta slinks atop a piano, legs scissoring the strobe-lit haze. The camera pirouettes in 360° pans, a vertiginous ballet that predates Scorsese’s Copacabana by six decades.
Landsberger structures the narrative like a crab canon: Asta’s ascend mirrors Munk’s skid, shot lengths elongate as success sprints and failure limps. Silent cinema rarely risked asynchronous temporalities, yet here montage detonates expectations—intercutting a champagne waterfall over Asta’s décolletage with creditors’ fists hammering Munk’s apartment door, the sonic suggestion supplied by jagged title cards that screech like brakes on cobblestone.
Conrad Veidt cameos as a morphine-addicted poet, pupils like bullet wounds, delivering epigrams that land like ice picks: "Talent is currency; spend it too fast and the bank of dawn forecloses." His presence is a meta-wink—Veidt, cinema’s patron saint of cadaverous elegance, sanctifying the film’s gothic pessimism.
Cinematographer Willy Hameister employs under-cranking during Munk’s binges: chandeliers drip light like molasses, cigarette smoke coils in reverse, faces smear into Munchian masks. Conversely, Asta’s triumphal montage is over-cranked, bestowing the lubricious glide of a dream she never doubts. The chiaroscuro is so tactile you could butter bread with it—shadows edged in ultramarine, highlights bruised with saffron.
Though released in 1920, the film anticipates the coming sound era by embedding musical cues directly into the visual text: a metronome appears in foreground, its pendulum slicing the frame; sheet-music fragments flutter across the screen like dying birds. When Munk attempts to compose in his garret, the notes literally slide off the staff, letters pooling into the shape of Asta’s profile—a visual leitmotif that replaces melody with migraine.
If you staggered out of Der Sprung ins Dunkle craving more bourgeois self-immolation, Landsberger’s opus offers twice the cyanide potency. Where The Gypsy Trail romanticizes bohemian drift, Menschen im Rausch disinfects the wound with sulfuric candor. Its DNA also reverberates through Triumph’s Faustian showbiz parable and The Light at Dusk’s chiaroscuro fatalism, though none match the caustic velocity of Landsberger’s descent.
Some label Asta a mere vamp, yet Holl complicates the archetype: her eyes flicker with the same terror she inspires, as though aware that beauty is a rent-controlled apartment—lease expires without warning. In a startling insert she studies herself in a fractured mirror, each shard reflecting a different age-spot of the soul, suggesting self-loathing beneath the lacquer. The film neither exonerates nor demonizes; it anatomizes transaction—sex for status, art for adulation, love for lucre—leaving viewers complicit in the ledger.
Century-old cinema can feel embalmed, yet Menschen im Rausch throbs with influencer-era resonance: followers equal stature, likes morph into coin, algorithms devour talent as ruthlessly as Asta. Replace Tingeltangel with Instagram Live, sheet-music with NFT drops, and the parable stays pristine. Landsberger’s cynicism, once avant-garde, now passes for documentary.
For decades only a 9.5 mm abridgement circulated among cine-masochists, but the 2023 Munich Film Museum 4-K reconstruction (from a Dutch print and an Argentinean nitrate roll) restores the amber tones and violet shadows, revealing textures previously smothered in vinegar syndrome. The tinting alternates between tobacco-sepia for domestic scenes and radioactive cyan for nightclub delirium, approximating the original hand-colored nitrates. The new electro-acoustic score by Ensemble Zeitkratzer replaces traditional accompaniment with detuned barrel-organ and feedback drones—an anachronism that somehow sharpens the film’s modernity.
Alberti’s final close-up—eyes blood-silted, lips attempting a smile that collapses into tremor—deserves textbook enshrinement alongside The Yellow Ticket’s Pola Negri and Roarin’ Dan’s lionized despair. He ages two decades in ninety seconds without prosthetics, conveying capitulation through the simple act of loosening a collar button as though releasing the last breath of dignity.
Holl, meanwhile, weaponizes ambivalence: watch her hand linger on Munk’s shoulder one second too long, fingers tapping a silent countdown. She never telegraphs villainy; instead she projects the weary impatience of someone forced to feast on the same soul twice.
Landsberger’s intertitles, often disparaged as verbose, function like a Greek chorus croaking from the orchestra pit. Example: "He bartered eternity for one bar of her rhythm—currency devalued the moment it was minted." The sentence coils upon itself, a Möbius strip condemning both buyer and merchandise. Such linguistic origami anticipates the staccato pessimism of later noir.
Unlike cautionary tales that clutch rosaries, Menschen im Rausch offers no redemption, no purifying death. Munk’s ruination feels transactional, Asta’s ascent merely opportunistic; both are particles in a thermodynamic universe where warmth flows one way—toward entropy. The film’s true horror lies in its refusal to blame; gravity needs no moral rationale.
You exit the screening room ears ringing with spectral jazz, pupils dilated as if you’d mainlined absinthe cut with celluloid. Later, when you scroll through glowing rectangles searching for the next dopamine hit, Asta’s laughter resurfaces—an auditory hallucination reminding you that every click, every flirty emoji, might be another rung on somebody else’s Tingeltangel ladder. Landsberger’s century-old shiver, it seems, has only grown colder.
IMDb 5.6
1926
Community
Log in to comment.
