A child molester-murderer is on the loose. A city is terrified, and mothers are keeping children close. Police, who are too many times lazy and distracted, finally focus on the case. The underground syndicate also wants to find the murderer, not because of his crimes but to get the policemen back to a previous level of ineffectiveness. A dedicated manhunt ensues, with the police, the populace, and the underground all wanting him found.
Paranoia grips the streets. Anyone speaking to a young girl, even innocently, is suspect. Suspicions abound. Modern technologies are used as much as possible, with—eventually—a narrowing down of who he could be and where he might be found. A good deal of time is spent on his planning his capture, while we also find him still looking for prey.
The criminal underground grabs him first and put him in front of a makeshift tribunal of angry men and women. After first declaring his innocence, he has to face conclusive evidence of his actions. But while the crowd screams for his death, things take a dramatic turn. He breaks down emotionally, not only because things have come to this point for him, but because he cries and rages, credibly, that he is under a compulsion to do these heinous deeds, and that he simply can’t help it. It’s clear that this is not an evasive tactic, but a declaration of a man with demonic urges that are no longer under his control.
Then the film winds down and comes a devastating conclusion.
This is a serial killer movie, a family drama in miniature, a police procedural, a suspense thriller of the highest order, an indictment of policemen, a stunning looking film noir, an exploration of psychiatric illness, a look at mob mentality, and a springboard for one of the greatest film performances of all time.
The film is German, it was made nearly 100 years ago, and it feels as current as anything produced today, but with greater artistry. It’s 1931’s M, by director Fritz Lang, and it’s as thrilling and exciting a piece of entertainment and art as you will find.
I’ve been aware of this film for decades, saw it first a long time ago, and have used the opening sequence in my film class for years as a demonstration of the use of sound and space. That sequence is an amazing, gut-wrenching piece of work, and that’s just the beginning. It sets the tone for the rest of the film: it starts off surprisingly dark (children recite a gruesome nursery rhyme while playing), introduces a moment of black humor, then turns emotional and ends up with one of the most powerful shots I’ve ever seen—not because of what it shows, but because of what it doesn’t.
Reams could be written about its use of lighting, staircases, camera angles, camera movement, and use of slick streets. There is also an incredible use of space, not just to establish location, but to advance the mood as well as the story. The first sequence itself demonstrates this: We see that group of singing children from above as they sing their grisly song, obviously incapable of understanding the import of their words. Then the camera moves up to bring us to the first level of an apartment building. Then there are stairs, stairs that bring a challenge to anyone carrying laundry. Then we are inside the apartment of the Mother preparing lunch for her daughter. When the Mother begins to worry about her daughter not coming home for lunch when the rest of her friends do, she looks down the central staircase in the apartment in a pre-Vertigo shot that is almost as dizzying as Hitchcock’s backtracking/zooming in shot.
The film cuts to few shots of a young girl being spoken to on the street, then being gifted a ball and balloon by this same man. As Mother continues to grow in concern and shout her daughter’s name out of the window, we first see the emotionally charged staircase. Then, while Mother continues to shout, the camera takes us to what is obviously an open attic space where folks hang their laundry. That open space should have her daughter playing there, but no. Then we have one of the best one-two punches in all of cinema. We are shown a space in the apartment that is tragically empty, and then, using two visual representations of the young girl, we are indirectly shown outdoors what happened to her. Masterful filmmaking.
Even though this was Lang’s first sound film, it’s as creative in its use of sound as any Hitchcock film. From the sound that continues to establish space even while the camera is moving away (opening shot) to the all-important whistling leitmotiv of the murderer to the early use of overlapping dialogue, Lang uses sound better than most current directors. His camerawork is masterful, from tracking shots to deeply meaningful camera angle—including the film’s jarring and controversial “crotch shot”. And unlike American films of the same era, Lang doesn’t fill the movie with talk, talk, talk, but allows silences that ratchet up the tension while using still shots that simultaneously expand the film’s spaces and continue his use of negative space. (Perhaps the best modern comparison is No Country for Old Men.) M also sets the standard for intelligent sound and production design, which is better enjoyed than described here.
There is all most too much to write about with M. It sets the standard for this kind of film. It’s one of the first German sound films, following the Depression and coming right as the Nazi’s are rising in power. In hindsight, one can almost hear the raspy and high-pitched shouting of the Fuhrer in the way so many characters speak in the film. It’s as if Lang were lighting a long use that would eventually explode in Germany and then all over the world.
The highlight in an already great film is the stellar performance of lead Peter Lorre, best remembered as Ugarte in Casablanca and as a regularly caricatured actor in the Looney Tunes shorts. This is a great performance by an actor of immense talent. Lorre was limited by his accent, his bulging eyes, multiple health and drug issues, and the disturbing persona that M gave him; he never found the opportunity again to demonstrate his talent on this scope. The Academy has generally given scant attention to foreign actors—the first Oscar for a foreign-language performance didn’t come for another 30 years when it was given to Sophia Loren won for 1962’s The Women. But as good as Lionel Barrymore’s Oscar-winning performance is in 1931’s A Free Soul, Lorre’s performance is one for the ages and would have/could have won that first Oscar for a foreign-language performance. It’s agonizing to watch him try to tamp down his compulsions in the middle of the film, and even more heartbreaking to experience his bravura demonstration of anger, angst, regret, internal torture, and accusation that comes near the end. It’s a multifaceted scene that folds in confession with accusations that raise the issue of how and under what conditions we judge others, personally and as a society. The scene also includes one of the most arresting reverse shots—combined with a devastating pan—that you’ll ever see.
M is a treasure that everyone interested in making films should see; there is almost too much to learn. And if psychological thrillers are something that folks find interesting, I defy them to start watching and then giving up because there isn’t enough noise and color. That would be almost impossible.
M is for “murderer”. But it’s also for masterpiece.
Film stuff by Mark 