The Last Command (Josef von Sternberg / U.S., 1928):

Hauteur and ruination of the grand Russian bear, Josef von Sternberg has it as reflexive epic and theory on filmmaking. Fate has a fierce pull and so do "the breadlines of Hollywood," the quivering old immigrant (Emil Jannings) is summoned from flophouse to studio, a decade earlier he was commanding general during the Bolshevik Revolution. Swathed in furs and smoke back in the Old World, he used to inspect the Czar's troops and interrogate rebels with riding crop and roving eye. The "fine patriotic service" of role-playing is a vital theme, "the most dangerous revolutionist in Russia" (Evelyn Brent) plays concubine in the government palace, a small tremor cracks the mask. The upheaval machine races at full steam and plunges into frigid waters like Eisenstein's horse carriage (October). The humbled martinet now at the Dream Factory is at the mercy of the prisoner turned vengeful auteur (William Powell), "a great shock" deserves another. Nabokov irony, Pirandello approach, Sternberg virtuosity. (Lateral pans at the clothing and props department give the medium's bare apparatus, European recreations illustrate its mighty artifice with tracking shots over multiple planes of movement.) History and relationships as revolving dances of oppressors and oppressed, with rituals along the way: "That sort of thing should always be done after caviar." A man and his uniform (Der Letzte Mann), the true medal on the ersatz coat, surfaces meticulously polished and then torn open. It builds to an imitation of an imitation—two rivals wrestling for control of the mise en scène, the tragicomedy of a bit player's flash of mad inspiration as the cameras roll. "Is that supposed to be Russian? It looks like an ad for cough drops!" Rossellini's General della Rovere pointedly reflects the finale, pearls and champagne for the comely tovarich and for Lubitsch (Ninotchka). With Jack Raymond, Nicholas Soussanin, Michael Visaroff, and Fritz Feld. In black and white.

--- Fernando F. Croce

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