A Cabinet of Post-War Imbalance

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920)

Just two years after World War I (1914 - 1918), German Expressionism forerunner The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920) sought to convey the social imbalance felt in the wake of the great war. Peering through the window of Francis’ soul, German film director Robert Wiene blurs the lines between what is real and what is not in order to express the ambiguity of truth as it is distributed among varied perspectives.

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Sitting in a garden, Francis (Friedrich Feher) points to a woman—his alleged-fiancée Jane (Lil Dagover)—seemingly bewildered by an off-screen phenomena as she glides across the garden. Reinforced through the mise-en-scène, Wiene submits the scene’s pragmatism by grounding the landscape’s characteristics in reality thus imploring the audience to consider Francis’ truth to be the truth.

However, despite the implication, Wiene subtly proposes that the truth is more complex than Francis might suggest; through the limiting scope of the iris, the audience observes Francis informing the man sat next to him that he will divulge the strange events that led them to Jane’s apparent descent from reality as we are placed on parity with Francis via an eye-level angle in which bears the weight of establishing trust and empathy with Francis (The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, 4:20).

After establishing his appeal to the audience’s emotions, Wiene reminds the viewer that not all that glitters is gold and employs the Kuleshov effect by cutting to a shot of the town in which Francis was born (The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, 4:34). Hostenwall is a town unbound by reality—an apparition in appearance—conjuring the perception of spectral-like movement with its decorative, dynamic paint strokes.

Although Francis’ embellishment of Hostenwall is harmless, this minor deception breaks the façade and undermines his credibility with hyperbole as he enters the offensive. Based entirely on spectacle, Francis condemns Dr. Caligari (Werner Krauss), alleging the carnivalesque prediction conferred sufficient evidence to punish the director and further illustrates Francis willingness to stretch the truth for his narrative.

In a series of cross-cut shots between Francis and the sleeping director, Francis discovers a book on somnambulism in Dr. Caligari’s office—“His specialty” (The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, 58:58), he elucidates, subtly extending his interpretation.

Francis is incapable of forming accurate assessments due to cognitive bias, and would castigate a man based on preconceived misconceptions and the gleaning of “evidence.” Francis wears his ignorance on his sleeve as the Kuleshov effect demonstrates Francis’ displacement of emotions. Assembling the projection of his own guilt onto the symbolic somnambulist—the sleeping director—painted in tonal-dichotomy, the contrast in perspective is further reinforced through the chiaroscuro lighting and high-angle shot illustrating Dr. Caligari as small and vulnerable, despite Francis’ beliefs (The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, 59:06).

Finally, Francis imparts his position, formally asserting, the director, Dr. Caligari, via his somnambulist—Cesare (Conrad Veidt), is responsible for the murder and attempted murder of his best friend Alan (Hans Heinrich von Twardowski) and fiancée Jane, respectively. When confronted with he body of Cesare, Dr. Caligari becomes manic, thereby, committing him to his own hospital and restoring balance within the asylum.

Idealistic reasoning would suggest that a global conflict to the degree of World War I would lead to world peace. Nevertheless, the vacuum of power succeeding the Great War left nations without delegation—self-collapsing inwards—prompting political competition and violence that, at the hand of social imbalance, directly influenced the initiation of World War II shortly thereafter.

We return to the garden, the emotionally-charged atmosphere dissolves, and reality sets in: the garden is within the confines of the asylum in which Francis is a patient at. In due course, we enter the asylum’s lobby. In stark contrast to the perceived-restoration of social stability that was thought to be achieved within the hospital, the frame is filled with various patients acting in disarray—within the confines of their own realities.

Akin to post World War I, said chaos suggests the vacuum of power felt by the patients, despite a present authoritative figure—illustrated in Jane sitting upon a throne (even considering herself to be of royal blood), demonstrates a clear social imbalance in the wake of the director’s, albeit short, dismantling.

From the shadows, the director enters the lobby. He, as the victor and an asylum superpower, is given the opportunity to write history, bringing his assumed-justified reproach from secrecy and into the light, thus sentencing Francis for his imperious intent.

Given the narrative’s expressive absurdity, the film’s distortion of reality denies vindication for either character, but bookends the tale with elements of reality to imply balance had been restored in the hospital. However, in Francis’ room, the straight-edged decorum of reality-based mise-en-scène are fused with sweeping waves—blending fantasy with reality as Dr. Caligari, with resounding disjunction, states “Now I know exactly how to cure him” (The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, 1:16:00).