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.
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.
Brandie your own lyrical prose is perfectly wed to your subject, one of the cinema’s greatest masterpieces. Your passionate discussion of the film’s themes, metaphors and artistry adds another chapter to the scholarship of the most famous silent film ever made, and the crowing jewel of Murnau’s brief but celebrated career. Few films have moved me as much as this one, and frankly just to ponder it brings a tear or two. The passage I highlighted above is truly poetry in motion.
Thank you very much, Sam. I’m glad I ended up writing about this one, because it gave me the chance to watch it again (twice, in fact), reminding me just how much I truly love this film.
This is an exceptional review of a film that more than any other can be described as pure cinema. Well deserving of the top 5 finish in this countdown too.
Many thanks, Frank–and let me add how glad I am for its high placing as well.
Brandie,
Excellent review of the themes in this work and how Murnau weaves it all together. I’ve always preferred Murnau’s work when he doesn’t rely too heavily on melodrama as I don’t think he was adept at it as Borzage was. I prefer Nosferatu, and The Last Laugh for overall tone and content above Sunrise. Sunrise shines very brightly when it comes to filmmaking techniques though. I feel like Gaynor gets a bit shortchanged here. I think of her performances in 7th Heaven and Street Angel (both Borzage films) from this era and it seems like her role in Sunrise isn’t quite as well rounded as written. She’s playing an archetype, as are the other characters as well so her relationship with her husband is kind of broad and generalized. Still, it’s hard to beat this film for how Murnau films it. Absolutely unforgettable shots and scenes that do add up for a memorable and iconic film, despite some of my nit picking.
Thank you, Jon. You bring up some interesting points, so I appreciate your “nit picking,” as you call it! I don’t know that I agree with you so much re: the comparison between Murnau and Borzage, but I do heartily agree that Sunrise is a masterfully-shot film–watching it this past weekend, I found myself pausing and rewinding certain scenes just to admire the camera’s movements (those beautiful, long tracking shots) and the set design, which with all its odd angles and forced perspectives really adds to the atmosphere of the movie.
I am love and I have never seen or even heard of this film! Sorry guys my film watching back in the days was generally mainstream…
From your prose Brandi you seem to have a full grasp of this film. Lovely Thank you!
Thank you!
A lovely essay, Brandie, that beautifully evokes the magic of Sunrise.
Thank you for your kind words!
This is a truly masterful essay Brandie which brilliantly covers the film. In fact, I really want to revisit the film now as I have learned some new ways to interpret the film. Thank you.
Thank you very much! I do hope you get the chance to watch it again soon. FYI, I can heartily recommend the Blu-ray edition released by Fox earlier this year–it’s a fantastic presentation.
Brandie – I always enjoy your posts, but this one in a particular is a triumph. You offer so many wonderful insights; I think my favorite is this: Sunrise, as its name suggests, is a play in light and dark,. A wonderful and comprehensive appreciation of the film to which I gave my #1 vote. I’ve always believed the second act of this film should be required viewing for anyone wishing to write a romantic comedy. Just about perfect in every way (except, as you note, for Janet Gaynor’s hideous wig!) Well done.
Pat, thank you so much! This is one film that I wish more people were familiar with, because it is so multi-layered and open to interpretation. And I wholeheartedly agree with your mention of the second act: the scenes in the city are practically a master class in constructing emotionally honest and genuinely funny romantic comedy.
The use of light is in fact strictly textbook, and probably hasn’t been equaled. Outstanding review of a lyrical, shattering film.
Thanks, Peter!