retro movie review: The Man who Laughs

I ended up watching The Man who Laughs -- a 1928 melodrama often erroneously remembered as as horror film -- through a rather round-about manner. When Heath Ledger won his posthumous, well-deserved Oscar for his performance as the Joker in The Dark Knight, formerly trivial knowledge about the Joker started to creep into the mainstream. One of these little tidbits is that two out of the three people who created the character of the Joker attribute their inspiration to the main character in The Man who Laughs. For a long time, my reaction to this bit of information was the same as yours probably is: a half-interested nod, followed by a complete dismissal. At best, this information is good for answering a question in "Trivia Pursuit" (and yes, that question actually does appear in the classic version of the game) but be honest, does the knowledge that this is the movie that led to the creation of the Joker make you want to bother with this movie?

Well, it should. Because The Man who Laughs is a fine piece of cinema. Granted, if you are the type to be automatically bored by old movies, no amount of quality in the world will be able to sway your personal tastes. I am not here to try to change your mind, nor will I attempt to persuade you to make an exception. But if you, like me, love good movies regardless of the era, The Man who Laughs will not disappoint.

In the prologue, we meet Gwynplaine, a little boy who (through an unnecessarily convoluted series of events) has been abandoned in the wilderness of 17th Century England. (If this movie is to be believed, the English wilderness is apparently an arctic glacier. But nevermind.) The boy rescues an infant whose homeless mother has perished in the cold, and the two are taken in by a traveling showman named "Ursus the Philosopher." The infant grows up to be the beautiful but blind Dea, while the boy, whose face is permanently in a disturbingly wide grin, grows up to be played by Conrad Veidt, whose involuntary, permanent smile is outright maniacal. Both work as performers for Ursus, who markets Gwynplaine as a famous clown known as "Gwynplaine the Laughing Clown," or, more commonly, as simply "the Laughing Man."

Dea and Gwynplaine are very much in love (and the movie sidesteps the incestuous fact that, although not related by blood, the two characters have been raised as siblings) but Gwynplaine, because of his deformity, feels unworthy of Dea's love -- despite the fact that, because she is blind, she is not bothered by it. (The story, by the way, was written by Victor Hugo, who also wrote of a deformed man falling in love in The Hunchback of Notre Dame.)

The story is set in motion when Gwynplaine starts to earn fame at a massive festival. His fame attracts the attention of Duchess Josiana, who attempts to seduce him -- apparently for no other reason than because she has either flirted with or slept with every other man in England, and she just wants to complete her record. Gwynplaine sincerely loves Dea, but feels a sort of vindication in the Duchess's attraction, since, unlike Dea, the Duchess can actually see Gwynplaine's deformity, and is attracted to him anyway. (He is unaware of the fact that the Duchess is attracted to every man in the kingdom.) Gwynplaine agrees to meet with the Duchess in her room, but at the last minute, decides he loves Dea too much to go through with making love to the Duchess. Unfortunately for all concerned, it is at this very moment that Gwynplaine's true heritage -- he turns out to be the rightful heir to the wealth that the Duchess currently enjoys -- is revealed, thrusting Gwynplaine into a mess of royal intrigue.

I haven't seen Conrad Veidt in that many things. I really only know him as Cesare the Somnambulist in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and as the head Nazi officer in Casablanca, and while he delivered adequate performances in both films, I'd hardly describe either role as especially challenging. But his performance in The Man who Laughs is a revelation. He exhibits a full range of emotion -- some of those emotions quite complex -- throughout the film, and while that may seem like faint praise -- it is, after all, an actor's job -- keep in mind that he does all of this without the use of either his voice or even half of his face! After all, this is a silent film, and he can't move his face because the plot requires the character to be permanently stuck in that creepy grin. Yet Veidt illustrates fear, joy, sorrow, and countless other emotions, often mixed in various combinations, with little more than his eyes alone. I refuse to devalue my praise for his performance by allowing any consideration that I am merely projecting my own interpretation onto him because of narrative context. This is a performance that has to be seen to be believed.

One quibble, not about Veidt's performance, but about the movie itself: Through no fault of the makers of this masterpiece, it is obviously dated. This is most evident in the form of the animal character, Homo the Wolf -- a name laughable not only because of what the word "homo" has come to mean (I dare you to not laugh when, during a dramatic moment, Dea says, "where are you leading me, Homo?") but also because this "wolf" is clearly played by a common household dog that doesn't resemble a wolf in any way.

One final note: This movie is just dripping with sexuality. It's not uncommon for movies to use sexuality to contrast the devious "bad girl" with the purity of the "good girl," but in this pre-Code flick, the Duchess is one sensuous figure. Now, some know-it-alls who are familiar with the term "pre-Code" know that it refers to a time when Hollywood didn't yet have any form of censorship, and so they might feel like launching into a lecture along the lines of "oh, pre-Code, well, what do you expect?" But the fact of the matter is, even pre-Code films -- at least those in the mainstream, like The Man who Laughs -- were generally prudish compared to films of our time. Their version of "scandalous" sexuality meant scantily clad women, and talk of sexual activity. Well, friends and neighbors, the Duchess -- played by the very attractive Olga Baklanova -- does a lot more than talk, and wears a lot less than scanties. There is a bathing scene in which she appears in all her glory, and even if the shot is from behind, it's still a shock to see in a movie from that era. But it's really the explicit depiction of the Duchess's behavior which made my jaw drop, simply because it seemed wildly out of place for a 1920s movie (and yet perfectly right for the character). We see her allow men to fondle her breasts (over her clothing, but still, this is something that would never be seen in the days of, say, Clark Gable) and at one point, she gleefully gives the villain a peek up her dress (we don't see it ourselves, but it's been established that she's not wearing any underwear) in exchange for information. Yes, she has an ulterior motive, but she's clearly enjoying herself! Now, I'm not reporting all of this because I'm a horn-dog, or to complain, or to prudishly "warn" you about the sexuality, but at the risk of repeating myself, it's just so unexpected for a movie from this era, that it simply must be addressed.

That being said, sexuality aside (or maybe not putting the sexuality aside) The Man who Laughs is a very good movie. It boasts an interesting storyline, excellent performances, and atmospheric direction -- and deserves to be remembered as more than the answer to a trivia question.