Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans
F.W. Murnau’s Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans is widely considered one of the greatest films of all time. It won an Academy Award for Unique and Artistic Production at the first ever Oscar ceremony in 1929 and was named the seventh best motion picture of all-time by the British Film Institute in their 2002 poll. Viewing Sunrise now can be a bit tricky, as one wonders whether or not to contextualize some of the subject matter. Nowadays, much of what occurs in the movie can be hard to swallow and yet there is still a very relevant way to view Murnau’s motion picture. The choice is up to the viewer.
Part of understanding the total gravity of Sunrise is to understand what filmgoers were expecting and what they would have received upon seeing this in the late 20s. Cameras of today, and indeed the entire process of shooting movies, work with such ease. They can move through walls, in the air, around objects, and so forth with effortlessness. There was little of that freedom back in Murnau’s time, however, which is part of why his work on Sunrise stands as such a tremendous achievement.
When one examines the work of Murnau in that context, it’s hard not to be amazed. His stories, like Nosferatu, were told with images. Sound films or “talkies” were starting to enter theatres right around the time that Sunrise was released. His film had a soundtrack, sure, but there was no dialogue. Sound effects were presented in sync with the action on the screen.
Storywise, Sunrise is delightfully weird. It is a fable. We are given The Man (George O’Brien) and The Wife (Janet Gaynor). The Man is having an affair with a Woman from the City (Margaret Livingston). The affair has ruined the lives of The Man and The Wife, who were once happy and prosperous on their farm. The Woman convinces The Man to drown The Wife in order to move with her to the City. The Man easily convinces The Wife to go for a boat ride across the water, as she longs for time with her husband.
Along the way, The Man readies himself to throw The Wife overboard. He looks into her eyes and realizes that he can’t do it, however, and the boat reaches the shore. The Wife flees and The Man follows. The pair winds up in the City after all and a story of redemption, forgiveness, and romance develops.
There are multiple angles with this relatively simple story. For starters, one might be wondering how The Wife ever took The Man back after this attempted murder. The stark forgiveness seems a bit like naiveté, in a way, but so desperate is The Man to have his Wife back that one can’t help but feel for him somewhat. He has made a horrible, terrifying error in judgment and has been swept up in the tide of adulterous lust. The Woman’s spell on him broken, his clarity begs him to change his ways.
The prime focal point of Sunrise is the camerawork and direction. As good as the actors are – and they are tremendous, especially Gaynor – Murnau’s direction is the stuff of legends. For a special treat, listen to the commentary of John Bailey as he describes the ins and outs of Sunrise from a technical perspective. The framing of the shots, the use of superimposed images and how they were created in the camera and not in the editing room, and Murnau’s gift for using bits of nature as mood props add up to an invigorating project.
To truly understand modern cinema, one has to examine the cinema of the past. There is perhaps no better place to start than with Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans. Essays have been written about this motion picture – and for good reason. Murnau’s film is a magical achievement, a powerful example of cinema working at the heights of its abilities, and a truly remarkable fable of love and two humans.
Trailer:
