Robert Wiene’s The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari is regarded by many to be the first horror film in terms of how we recognize the genre today. Released just two years later, F. W. Marnau’s Nosferatu barrowed some of Caligari‘s style to help construct what were to become the basic features of the horror genre that would continue to present day. Converting expressionism from the medium of painting and sculpture to the medium of cinema, Caligari‘s style would prove to be even more influential than what following 1920s German films would indicate. Not only would these films set the standard for critical and popular success in their genres in Germany, but the entire field of cinema as well (particularly with America’s Dracula (1931) and Frankenstein (1931), and Italy’s 1960s and ’70s horror).

In the very early years of silent cinema (1890s-1910s), horror sometimes crept to the surface. Hepworth’s early silent short Explosion of a Motor Car could possibly be considered one of the first horror films as it displays a car spontaneously combusting and its passengers falling back down to the ground from up above, one severed limb at a time. However, the film’s incorporation of an obvious comical undertone keeps it from claiming that title with any seriousness. Being that Caligari has influenced the horror genre for nearly a century, it is a far more defensible title owner. Caligari, as well as Nosferatu, has a foot firmly set in both the expressionist and horror genres because the two (genres) share a common foundational characteristic. That characteristic is the desire to impress a dark mood by way of exaggerating and/or hyperbolizing a film’s aesthetic. The result of this is a similarity in style. However, being that Caligari would not be considered the first horror film without its incorporation of an exclusively expressionistic style, it is important to explore what cinematic expressionism actually is.

Caligari was the first of many 1920s post WWI German expressionist films. German film critic and theorist Siegfried Kracaur comments on the period’s use of expressionism by stating that, “there is no expert who would not acknowledge the organizational power operative in these [expressionist] films – a collective discipline which accounts for the unity of narrative as well as for the perfect integration of lights, settings and actors” (Caligari to Hitler, p.3,4). Continuing, he says, “Owing to such unique values, the German screen exerted world-wide influence, especially after the total evolution of its studio and camera devices” (those camera devices being the practice of a completely mobile camera). Expressionist cinema is essentially aesthetic, if not almost completely so. Kracaur invested much thought into expressionism’s rise from the psychological state of Germany at the time of its conception. He points out that, “it will be seen that the technique, the story content, and the evolution of the films of a nation [pertaining to 1920s German cinema] are fully understandable only in relation to the actual psychological pattern of that nation.” According to Kracaur, German cinema of this time was firmly rooted in a middle-class mentality, which, “competed with the political aspirations of the Left and also filled the voids of the upper-class mind.” Post WWI Germany was in economic shambles (due to the Social Democratic party and Allied chastisement) and political discombobulation (due to the unsuccessful 1918 revolution and ensuing Weimar Republic). “The dissolution of political systems results in the decomposition of psychological systems, and in the ensuing turmoil traditional inner attitudes, now released, are bound to become conspicuous, whether they are challenged or endorsed” (C to H, p.9). Expressionist cinema did just that – express the psychological state of the country through the vessel that was/is experimentally communicative cinematography. It just so happened that the psychological state of Germany was one of “mental forlornness” (C to H, p.11). Now, being that we recognize Germany’s psychological pattern at this time, we can then begin to understand its use of expressionism by way of its technique and story content.

Expressionist cinema deals mainly with aesthetics, but it also deals with artistic intentions. Being that experimental cinema is a relative of expressionism, it is fair to argue that it calls into discussion what Kracaur identifies as the three basic, related intentions of an experimental artist. Those intentions are, “(1) to organize whatever material [the artist] chose to work on according to rhythms which were a product of [their] inner impulses rather than an imitation of the patterns found in nature, (2) to invent shapes rather than record or discover them, (3) and to convey through [their] images contents which were an outward projection of [their] visions rather than an implication of those images themselves” (Theory of Film, p.181). Using Caligari as an example, it is easy to see all three of these intentions by way of the film’s aesthetic qualities (setting, shadows, altered perceptions, etc.), as well as its content.

Caligari‘s content, that is, its plot, was intended by the film’s writers (Hans Janowitz and Carl Mayer) to be a “modern pacifist parable, with Cesare as the symbol of the people and Dr. Caligari as the state, seemingly benign and respected but in fact ordering people to kill (in wars). The meaning of the ending, in which Dr. Caligari is unmasked and overthrown, is therefore clearly anti-authoritarian” (Richards, p.90,91). However, the addition of the film’s framing narrative, in which we the audience discover that the main character is a mental patient that fabricated the whole story, strips the film of much of that political weight. So then, let us shift the focus onto the bare skeleton of the film’s content. Disregarding for the moment the contextualizing bookend segments, the story is about a mad doctor, a monster (for lack of a better word), and death. With regarding the inclusion of the bookends, it then also becomes about madness and the fear of uncertainty; perhaps even the betrayal of trust (in the character of Francis). Caligari is horror sure, and, “for whatever else it was, the film also represented the latest manifestation of German Romanticism with a pedigree stretching back to the novelist E. T. A. Hoffman, the folklorists Jakob and Wilhelm Grimm, and the dramatist-poet Schiller. It is from these roots that the themes of death, tyranny, fate and disorder, and the subjects of mad doctors, vampires, and somnambulists spring” (Richards, p.90). It is these roots that also helped Caligari set the blueprint for cinematic horror to come.

That blueprint or, even more precisely, founding of conventions is a simple and short list of standard elements that can be found in almost every subsequent horror film: the monster (whether literal or metaphorical), which must be integral to the conflict, and the disadvantaged, usually unsuspecting protagonist. The somnambulist in Caligari, Cesare, serves as the monster which, depending on your point of view, could be literal or metaphorical (being that he is both a phenomenon and supposedly normal human being). The monster in a horror film must qualify to be as such by causing the death of innocents, or at the very least somehow proving to be a significant and constant threat to life. Looking at Nosferatu, these basic principles apply, qualifying it as a definite horror film. The story is based roughly on the tale of Dracula as written in the book of the same name by author Bram Stoker. It contains a monster (in this case literally) in vampire Count Orlok (Max Schreck), who through narrative devices like character testimony is given a threatening persona, as well as innocent, unsuspecting, disadvantaged victims. The film also incorporates an expressionistic form, though nothing to the extent of what Caligari displays. In parts of this film, it uses an expressionistic setting to impress an apprehensive mood, no examples of which are better than Count Orlok’s castle. Marnau uses gothic architecture (arches specifically), geometric patterns, and a copious amount of shadow to elicit an ominous feeling. With regards to shadows, instead of implementing painted shadows that do not aim to follow natural law for the sake of expressionistic purposes, Marnau decided to use real shadows that are hyperbolized in order to emphasize the expression of the film’s dreary disposition. Heavy shadows hide the corners in almost every room, as well as the ceilings so that even though the rooms may be small, they feel larger; which gives the setting a mysterious, archaizing power (worth noting: Kracaur, along with fellow German cinema historian Lotte Eisner, believed the use of shadow in German films was, “a metaphor for evil or for the dark threatening forces that allegedly lurked in the pre-Hitler German psyche or soul” (Franklin, p.4)). Also important to note are the grotesque features and make-up of Count Orlok. Exaggerated facial features (pointed ears, nose, chin, and teeth) and stature (a noticeable hunch and very thin frame), as well as darkly shaded eyes and deplorably long fingernails do well to adhere to expressionistic depictions of villains, or more generally, simply the typical animalistic physicality of monsters.

"Dr. Caligari" and "Nosferatu" helped lay the groundwork for all of horror cinema to come

Marnau appears to pay much homage to Wiene’s Caligari in Nosferatu, which could indicate an acknowledgement by Marnau of the film’s strong influence on German cinema, or any number of things. One narrating intertitle describes the sleepwalking trance that the character Nina is in at one point as “somnambulistic”. The character of Nina herself, as she is depicted, looks strikingly similar to how the character of Jane looks in Caligari. And perhaps as a lesser homage, the asylum cell in which Renfeild (Orlok’s servant) is placed later in the film is positioned towards the camera in a similar way to that of Dr. Caligari’s/Francis’s asylum cell. These homages serve to represent the relationship between expressionism and horror. Both the fact that Nosferatu is an undisputed horror film and that it is acknowledging an influence by a quintessentially expressionist film gives solid foundation to this argument. As said before, both genres share the goal of impressing dark, morbid atmospheres through aesthetics, and since these homages are paid primarily through aesthetics, the connection between the genres is strengthened even further.

An important exercise is taking the conventions that build the foundation for horror and applying them to films of other genres, even ones that you may have already seen and categorized as belonging to a genre that is completely different. This helps to engage these films in a different perspective that usually leads to a different textual reading of those films. Let us use Fritz Lang’s Metropolis as an example. The film’s story involves an executive that runs an entire city that is built and dependant on the back-breaking labor of the lower class population. Looking at the film in various ways can lead to different readings of that basic context, not the least of which is the most common one of anti-authoritarianism. The fact that the film’s main antagonist, Jon Frederson, is knowledgeable of the peasantry’s working conditions but shows no sympathy, and that he even manipulates them into putting their families in danger because they are secretly receiving council from a peacekeeper named Maria, is enough to consider him a monster in at least the metaphorical sense. The innocent (but in this case not unsuspecting) victims are the workers. It is important to delve deeper into the anti-authoritarian reading with these identifications in mind. The workers/victims, as the protagonists, do nothing but work to keep modern machines functional and are burdened by them physically, emotionally, and spiritually (the fact that they seek Maria’s counsel is indicative of this in particular). This can be seen as a literalizing of a concept; that modernity is in fact a privilege and benefit for a select few but a burdening danger to many others. The city itself, as it is portrayed with beautiful architecture that cannot help but be marveled, is a representation of modernity. When the workers attempt to destroy the machines that keep the city functioning, and thus attempt to destroy the emblems of modernity that they feel are suppressing them, that act can be seen as akin to the desires of the Underground Man in Dostoevsky’s Notes from the Underground. First published in 1864, the story’s narrator (the Underground Man) expresses an affinity for individualism, speaking out against anthill-like societies. Dostoevsky confronts this character with what is the story’s most blatant symbol for science and modernity, the Crystal Palace. A real building constructed out of glass and iron in 1851 London, the Underground Man sees the Crystal Palace as representative of logicians’ “obstinate faith in reason, ignoring the importance of individuality and personal freedom.” He wished that the Crystal Palace be destroyed, as it represented the ideal structure for a utopian society based on reason and natural laws; meanwhile considering the idea of a utopian society as a fallacy and lacking personal identity.

So, we can then say that the city in Metropolis is analogous to the Crystal Palace in Notes from the Underground, and the workers represent the Underground Man. With this correspondence, we can then formulate a reading that the workers seek to destroy the machines, and by association the city, because of the desire to break free from the utopian bonds of their society and seek individualism. How does this all fit into the confines of the horror genre? Aside from the incorporation of monsters (with Jon Frederson being the metaphorical one and the robot Maria being the literal one, all too similar to Frankenstein‘s monster), and innocent, disadvantaged victims (workers), the Crystal Palace analogy reading dictates that the society in Metropolis is one that seeks utopianism, but in so doing becomes dystopian. The collective efforts to modernize their society, which all but explicitly implies an intention of improving it, have resulted in the creation of an oppressive civilization that is reliant on constant, unforgiving labor that yields no worthy dividends. A dystopian society such as this can only be considered nightmarish; it just simply uses alternative stylistic conventions of cinema to portray itself. Also, this reading allows for a more thorough interpretation of expressionism, insofar as that it builds on what is already conveyed through the film’s form (specifically its cinematographic and physical style).

Horror does not rely on expressionism, nor does expressionism rely on horror. The two genres are separate, but can often be meshed together within the same film. Films that helped define horror, like Caligari and Nosferatu, used a combination of these two in order to enhance the qualities of each. And being that, as described before, they both have common ground in their desires and intentions, both in terms of style and, according to Kracaur, content, a fusion of the two within the boundaries of the same film seems almost too appropriate. And as Metropolis shows, that fusion is not always flagrant or center stage, but still proves significant towards the efforts of the artist’s/director’s communicative motives. Caligari and Nosferatu deserve their dues for their achievements in pioneering, or at least perfecting, this kind of cinema, and more precisely deserve to be recognized for their instigation of what we now identify as cinema’s horror genre.

Kracaur, Siegfried. From Caligari to Hitler; pp.3-11. Course Reader.

Kracaur, Siegfried. Theory of Film as quoted in The Major Film Theories. J. Dudley

Andrew. 1976.

Richards, Jeffrey. The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. Movies of the Silent Years; pp.90-91.

Edited by Ann Lloyd and David Robinson. 1984.

Franklin, James C. Metamorphosis of a Metaphor: The Shadow in Early German

Cinema. The German Quarterly; vol. 53. 1980

Dostoevsky, Fyodor. Notes from the Underground. 1864.

www.SparkNotes.com. Study Guide-Notes from Underground; Dostoevsky.