5. Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans (1927)

by Brandie Ashe

“This song of the Man and his Wife is of no place and every place; you might hear it anywhere, at any time. […] For wherever the sun rises and sets … in the city’s turmoil and under the open sky on the farm … life is much the same: sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet.”

Dubbing F.W. Murnau’s 1927 silent opus, Sunrise, a “song” is an understatement. It is a grand aria of the human condition, with a distinct lyricism that is reflected in practically every aspect of the film’s production, from the performances to the German expressionist-inspired staging to the work of the camera itself. Sunrise is an elaborate, orchestrated dance that shows us what it is to love and to be loved, to be strong and frail and conflicted and certain all at the same time–to be human, with all that it means. The anonymous characters and undefined location lend an air of universality to the movie; as the title card excerpted above indicates, Sunrise could ostensibly be about any people, anywhere in the world.

Out of context, the idea of ranking a film in which a man is seduced into plotting to kill his wife as one of the most “romantic” films of all time may seem puzzling (to say the least). But that is the beauty of Sunrise: it is at once a moving and confounding film, one that challenges us to look beyond the surface at the very human motivations that drive the characters. Yes, the Man (played ably by George O’Brien) considers drowning his Wife (an angelic and poorly bewigged Janet Gaynor) at the encouragement of the devious Woman from the City (Margaret Livingston). But if that plot point is all you can focus on in this film, you’re kind of missing Murnau’s broader point.

The movie is a study in redemption and the regenerative power of love. It is an allegory, one that does not rely overmuch on title cards to relay dialogue between the characters, and as such, it deals in familiar tropes and archetypes to set the stage for the story to come. The characters are crafted with deceptively broad strokes: the Madonna-esque Wife, the devilish temptress from the city, the Gothic hero of a Man who escapes the clutches of the femme fatale and earns absolution for his sins. Indeed, the entire film is one overarching archetypal journey, from the depths of despair to a rebirth, of sorts, as the Man and the Wife eventually find their way back to one another, greeting the sunrise joined together once more.

Sunrise, as its name suggests, is a play in light and dark, and the emergence from the latter into the former. This is underscored by the many ways in which Murnau uses light in the film; shades of gloom and gray punctuate the warm glows of cleverly-positioned lighting throughout the picture, sometimes in truly inspired ways. In the first third of the film, the Man returns from a clandestine meeting with the Woman, entering the bedroom where the Wife sleeps soundly. Light from a nearby window casts the image of a cross on the Woman’s bed–a visual metaphor that functions to not only underscore her innate innocence, but to foreshadow the potential for her death at the Man’s hands should he go through with the plot.

Indeed, Murnau relies quite heavily on such visual metaphors throughout Sunrise, and to great effect. In the wake of the tryst between the Man and the Woman from the City, the camera slowly pans over the deep footprints the pair have left in the muddy earth behind them–an exquisite and understated metaphor for the couple’s dirty deeds. Even the movements of the characters serve as metaphors for their inner thoughts: the Wife moves with decided heaviness, the weight of her unhappiness an almost physical burden, and her leaden walk is mirrored in that of the Man, whose heaviness comes not from unhappiness so much as utter and complete guilt, the dire nature of his inner conflict giving him a shuffling, lumbering gait that is both menacing and morose.

Sunrise draws a distinct line between lust and love. The Man’s interactions with the Woman are marked by violence (he attempts to throttle her twice; she physically restrains him from leaving and forces him to kiss her), while the rekindled relationship between the Man and the Wife is far gentler, marked by sweet gestures (he gives her flowers, which she clutches like a wedding bouquet) and laughter (the incident with the photographer’s statue; the infamous pig chase through the dance hall). Lust fuels rage and mistrust; love heals those wounds and replaces them with life and light.

The couple’s reconciliation in the church, as they silently reaffirm their vows to one another, is a rediscovery. The Man and the Wife emerge from the church in a romantic haze–literally, as the camera shifts to a gauzy background, the traffic swirling around the two forgotten as they embrace. The return of the romance brings a lightheartedness to the film, hearkening back to an earlier comment from one of the couple’s neighbors that they used to be “like children,” so in love. Here, they are children once more, tripping blissfully through the city in celebration, drunk on love–literally and figuratively–dancing in their quaint country style with abandon. It’s romance, in its simplest and perhaps purest form, and it’s emotionally satisfying on every level.

Of course, it’s not all sweetness and light, because the oncoming night brings danger with it, and the Man and the Wife come close to losing one another to nature’s wrath. But in the end, the stormy night also brings with it a restoration of faith. And more than anything, Sunrise is a paean to such faith–not just faith in love, but faith in our fellow man, and in the belief that good will always triumph over evil, and the light of the rising sun will always dispel the darkness.