Caught In The Discord: Cinematic Portrayals Of Women In Weimar Germany

Emery Coxe Professor Gerd Gemünden German 7, Fall 2008 December 2, 2008 Caught in the Discord: An Examination of the Dialectic Surrounding the Changing Role of Women in Weimar Germany through Cinema As the young men of Germany paraded towards Belgium on August 4, 1914, marching for purported honor and glory, the rhythmic cadence of their footsteps, like the beating of a drum, sounded out the call of a new era, full of radical change and upheaval of societal norms. One of the most marked of these changes was the progression of the woman in German society: when World War I began and women fled the farms, filing into the factories to support the German war machine, so too began the dramatic expansion of the female’s rights and status. Over the following nineteen years, liberal-minded women – the forefront of this group earning the label “New Woman” – and men alike fought vehemently to erase the démodé notion that women were subservient to men, and to bring women socially into the 20th century, winning civil, professional, sexual, and flaneuristic freedoms previously unknown to women of the time. Yet, the metamorphosis of the woman from a mere matron to an autonomous individual was met with an array of divergent opinions. Complete advocacy of the ideals of the women’s movement, indifferent acceptance of the newly acquired freedoms, pained lamentation about the increased hardships and burdens facing the woman in society following WWI, modest quibbling about particular demands of the women’s movement, vitriolic backlash against the degenerate and corruptive influence of the New Woman on German culture – all and more comprised the collective psyche in regards to the modernization of women in Weimar and pervaded the mass media of the time. Particularly, the cinema of Weimar Germany provides a comprehensive frame through which the viewer can glimpse many of these variegated perspectives on the New Woman, and their subsequent commentary on how she affected German culture and society.

Through analysis of the female characters – their actions, circumstances, and overall portrayal – Coxe, 2 in the films Metropolis, Pandora’s Box, and The Downfall, this ambivalence can be captured and evaluated, evidencing the complexity of the crisis of women in Weimar and the extent to which Weimar citizens debated the issue of women and modernity. To better discuss the controversy surrounding the New Woman, it is incumbent to first understand whom precisely the term “New Woman” describes. Whereas the woman of yesterday lived each day with the future always in mind, the New Woman freed herself from the fetters of futuristic forethought and lived “for today and for herself” (Weitz, 307). Additionally, shirking the matronly position of housewife, the New Woman strove for fiscal independence, and “[she] set herself the goal of proving in her work and deeds that the representatives of the female sex are not second-class persons existing only in dependence and obedience but are fully capable of satisfying the demands of their positions in life” (Herrman, 206). Slender, sensual, adorned in the fashion du jour (which, occasionally, was male attire), and donning the trendy “Bubikopf”, she went out alone and idled the city streets, shopping, smoking, having casual sex, and enjoying her life (Weitz, 305-7). Although this depiction of the New Woman is idealistic in that the majority of women in Weimar would never attain enough financial independence to achieve this alluring stereotype, the New Woman image did manage to “trickle down the social hierarchy” and served as the standard cited time and again in contemporary analyses of the New Woman (Weitz, 307Coxe, 3 8). And it is this portrayal of the New Woman that abounds in Weimar cinema, perpetuating the stereotype and commenting on her societal influence. With this image of the New Woman in mind, Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1927) can be viewed as a condemnation of the New Woman for her corruptive and destructive influences on society. To begin, the film’s two primary female characters – the “good” Maria, a devout, beautiful lady who champions the cause of the workers and is first introduced in an almost saint-

like fashion, caring for a pack of young children; and the “evil” Maria (the “Maschinenmensch”), a robot-woman, conceived through a combination of science and the occult, irresistibly erotic and intent on destroying the city of Metropolis – epitomize the diametric contrast between the maternal woman of yesterday and the New Woman of today. In addition to her initial introduction, in which she is surrounded by a pack of children, the good Maria molds to the archetype of a mother in that she captivates the workers not through sexuality but rather through her benevolent concern for their living conditions, and as she speaks, they listen attentively, as a child listens to a mother. Certainly, this aligns with Herrmann’s description of the woman of yesterday: “Her primary task…she naturally saw to be caring for the well-being of her children, the ultimate carriers of her thoughts on the future” (p. 207). Maria further intertwines herself with the woman of yesterday through her avowal that the “mediator” – the one to bridge the gap between management and laborer – will come in the future and right the wrongs plaguing the workers. This emphasis on waiting for another day recalls Herrmann and Weitz’s affirmation that the woman of yesterday focused primarily on the future. Lastly, Freder’s infatuation and subsequent romantic pursuit of Maria solidifies her as matriarch: “The references to Hel…make

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the real Maria the symbolic double of Freder’s mother” (Kaes, 54). Having never known his mother, Freder’s fascination with Maria is thus a manifestation of the Oedipal complex. Conversely, the “Maschinenmensch” embodies the primary characteristics of the New Woman. Brimming with carnal eroticism, she dances seductively in a cabaret at night, driving the leisure-class men of Metropolis wild with lust for her tight, sensuous body. She taunts, tempts, and teases the men for her own personal gratification, infecting them with a “kind of poison” – concupiscence – and pitting them against each other for her affections, causing chaos and savagery that ultimately threatens the foundation of the city (Weitz, 311). This overt sexuality, and the pleasure she derives from manipulating men through said sexuality, corresponds with the

public image of the New Woman’s eroticism at the time in Weimar Germany. Furthermore, the “Maschinenmensch” models the New Woman in that she is a creature of the present: unlike Maria, the “Maschinenmensch” urges the workers to immediate violence rather than waiting for an unknown, possibly non-existent mediator to come and solve their problems, aligning once more with Herrmann and Weitz’s assessments that the New Woman lived for today. This polar contrast between Maria and the robot, and thus the old and new woman, establishes the

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foundation for the ensuing dialectic about women and modernity. First, the robot’s intent to destroy the city, her ability to incite the upper-class males to riot, and her instigation of a worker’s rebellion – each an act of savagery that threatens the social order – affirms the widely-held belief that the New Woman will ruin German culture and society. Moreover, it is not just that the New Woman will defile society: because the “Maschinenmensch” employs her overwhelming sexuality to provoke this discord, it can be argued that director Fritz Lang intimates that the sexual freedom of the New Woman is the basis of this societal degradation. Indeed, this sentiment was shared by social critics of the time: “What we all perceive wide-eyed and everyday anew is the corruption of the bourgeois woman, the young girls from so-called good families who are turning into whores” (Wehrling, 698). Pairing this excerpt with the essay’s title – “Berlin is Becoming a Whore” – it becomes readily apparent that Wehrling too worried about the perversion of German society due to the sexual promiscuity that ensued the changing status of women in Weimar. Likewise, by immolating the “Maschinenmensch” and by heeding Maria’s exhortation to mediate the “head” of management and the “hands” of labor through the “heart”, subsequently restoring order to Metropolis, Lang champions the woman of yesterday as a panacea to society’s woes. For when Metropolis is free from the “Maschinenmensch’s” reign of terror, the maternal Maria mends the torn social fabric of the city. The symbolic rejection of the New Woman from the city, and the implicit expulsion

of sexual degeneracy, which leads to the elimination of societal infighting through the guidance of the woman of yesterday, resonates with contemporary claims that the sexual shrewdness of the old German woman will help restore German culture: “Let us return to the customs of our forefathers: they sufficed to keep German culture alive for one and a half millennia. Let us reeducate our girls to a full understanding of the German concept of Züchtigkeit [chastity]” (Darré, 136). On a final note, the absence of reaction from the German media, a predominantly maleoriented profession, to the role of the “Maschinenmensch” in Metropolis betrays another facet of the collective psyche in relation to their attitude toward the progression of women in society: “The subservient position of women despite her omnivorous technosexual representation is reflected in the relative silence regarding the film’s representation of women in the immediate press reception of Metropolis” (Lungstrum, 132). Despite the well-supported and overt argument against the New Woman in Metropolis, the contemporary press’ silence in regard to this theme suggests the view that the female role in the film did not even merit analysis; hence, this silence indicates an inherent disbelief of some Weimar citizens in the equality of men and women, and consequently, a disbelief in the progression of women in society. Similarly, G. W. Pabst’s Pandora’s Box (1929) argues that the New Woman destructively influences her social environment. The film follows the descent of Lulu, played by Louise Brooks, a veritable incarnation of the New Woman, from a hedonistic lifestyle in Weimar’s leisure class to a wretched, miserable, exiled existence only surpassed in melancholy by her tragic death at the hands of Jack the Ripper. But to better understand this commentary on the New Woman, it is exigent to first analyze how the film portrays the New Woman. Lulu, the film’s primary representation of this notion, is the quintessential New Woman in appearance, attitude, and romance. An entertainer, Lulu personifies the uninhibited and pleasure-driven attitude of the New Woman, living not by sense but rather by sensation. Dressed in haute couture

and sporting Brook’s famed “black helmet” hairstyle, Lulu cannot help but emanate raw

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sexuality, the basis of her irresistible allure. Her casual attitude with respect to sexual and romantic relationships – she has several throughout the film – further typifies the promiscuity of the New Woman. Indeed, Lulu is a product of the erotic revolution, guided by the principle, “everything existing is based on eroticism” (Bettauer, 699). Additionally, Countess Anna Geschwitz exemplifies the New Woman in dress and demeanor: donning men’s clothing, the Countess – a genuine flaneur – spends her free time around Lulu, even fleeing Germany to be with her. The unconventional relationship between these two women, coupled with the Countess’ masculine attire, suggests that the Countess is a lesbian in love with Lulu, and that the relationship between these two is more than platonic. This sexual orientation aligns the Countess with many women of the sexual revolution in Weimar who defied social mores and criminal laws to pursue their desires; combating popular opinion, these dissenting ladies endeavored to show

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that “moral condemnation of homosexuality can only be regarded as an injustice and Paragraph 175 of the criminal code as a remnant of medieval conceptions” (Hirschfeld, 701). Through these depictions of the New Woman, Pabst enables himself to discuss the issue of women and modernity, alleging that the New Woman is a harmful force on her environment. To begin, nearly every person who encounters Lulu ultimately suffers some form of downfall. For Dr. Schön, this downfall is social humiliation and subsequently death; for Schön’s fiancé, a lost lover; for Alwa, the death of his father and, ultimately, a life of poverty and sorrow; for Rodrigo, once more, death; for the Countess, fiscal erosion and presumed incarceration; and lastly, for Lulu herself, murder at the hands of Jack the Ripper. However, it must be noted that Lulu is only directly responsible for one of these downfalls – that of Schön’s fiancé, in which she seduced Schön and physically kissed him, an action for which she cannot escape responsibility. In every other case, the downfall occurs circumstantially rather than directly from Lulu’s

involvement. Often, it is her baggage – Schigolch and his companion Rodrigo – who catalyze theCoxe, 8 downfall. For example, the impetus for Schön’s death occurs when he enters his bedroom to find Schigolch and Rodrigo inside with Lulu; likewise, Rodrigo’s death comes not at the behest of Lulu, but rather at the hands of Schigolch. Although not directly responsible, Lulu – more specifically, her uninhibited sexuality – is still the primary reason for these misfortunes, and by removing her a degree from these catastrophes, Pabst can relate “the exuberance of instinctive life to the deterioration” of her environment (Kracauer, 178). Interestingly, Pabst’s New Woman, unlike Lang’s in Metropolis, does not bring ruin to all of society – only her personal realm. Thus, it can be argued that Pabst contends that the sheer sexuality of the New Woman shatters her social network, but restricts his assertion solely to the lives of these New Women and not to society as a whole. And because she corrupts her surroundings indirectly, without attempting to do so, the destruction of her social circle is portrayed as inevitable, like an elemental force intent on deterioration. Additionally, Lulu’s personal downfall – a tragic murder that occurred while propositioning a man – can be seen as a condemnation of prostitution, a problem that plagued Weimar Germany throughout its existence. By killing the harlot in his film, Pabst admonishes against the immoral act of prostitution, linking it with death and danger. Pabst’s secondary representation of the New Woman – Countess Geschwitz – provides a curiously different aspect of the question of women and modernity, and it is thus fitting that Pabst’s commentary in regards to her differs from his thoughts on Lulu. Throughout the film, Countess Geschwitz follows Lulu faithfully, submitting to her every request. She funds Lulu’s exile on the ship, and she seduces Rodrigo, a ruffian, at Lulu’s bidding. And throughout this period, the Countess quietly suffers an extreme decline in living conditions – whereas before she presumably lived luxuriously (evidenced by her wealth), she is last seen in poverty on the ship with Lulu. Moreover, while seducing Rodrigo, Schigolch murders the brute, and before Countess

Geschwitz can fully grasp the situation, Lulu, Schigolch, and Alwa have all fled the ship,

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escaping the commotion that ensued Alwa’s failed attempt to cheat at cards; with nowhere to turn, the Countess is left at the hands of the police and, in all likelihood, convicted of Rodrigo’s murder. For these reasons, the Countess sacrifices more than any other character in the film, ultimately sacrificing her life – albeit against her own will – for Lulu’s freedom. These constant sacrifices, made in order to pursue her relationship with Lulu, can be interpreted as personifications of the sacrifices made by homosexual women in Weimar who, though generally unprosecuted for their sexual orientation and actions, lived in a society where their personal lifestyle was illegal and necessitated a certain degree of discreteness and privacy, and where the specter of incarceration hung menacingly over their heads due to their sexual inclination. Here, Pabst sympathizes with the New Woman, criticizing the repression of her freedom to choose a sexual partner, and “[speaking] out for the elimination of an injustice that already produces more victims and claims by the hour” (Hirschfeld, 701). This contrast between the former interpretation of the New Woman’s sexuality as a destructive force and the latter interpretation of the anti-homosexuality laws of Weimar as unjust only begins to intimate the ambivalence of the collective psyche towards the New Woman. Lastly, Ludwig Wolff’s The Downfall, starring the renowned Asta Nielsen, traces the downfall of Kaja in a manner similar to Pandora’s Box, from famed cabaret singer to lower-class drudge and concomitantly laments the hardships of modern life on the New Woman. As in Metropolis and Pandora’s Box, so too does The Downfall succeed in presenting an archetypal New Woman: Kaja, the former cabaret singer, is chic, sensual, and self-indulgent. And again, as in Pandora’s Box, Kaja’s misfortunes spawn not from her own doing but rather that of her baggage, a man aptly titled the “Vampire”. Notably, the film is divided into two disparate settings: the quaint and isolated coast, and the modern, bustling city. Kaja takes to the coast in

order to escape the Vampire for reasons unknown to the viewer; however, during her refuge

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there, Kaja discovers happiness when she meets Peter, a simple and caring fisherman. This happiness is significant in that only when removed from the bustle of city life – be it physically, during her exile, or mentally, while dreaming about Peter to escape the misery that is her quotidian life with the Vampire – is Kaja truly satisfied. Consequently, Wolff suggests that contentment comes not from the confines of modernity; instead, it is found in the most plain and basic of lifestyles. This glorification of the rustic lifestyle was common among many German citizens shocked by the pressures of modernity: “The soul of Germany rests in the countryside, in the grace of its rolling hills where man is still part of the land which instills him with the strength to defend himself against the developments of our time that are infringing on our lives” (Ankum, I). Interestingly, despite the pleasure and happiness each derive from the relationship, Wolff concurrently condemns the affair between Peter and Kaja: through the accidental death of Kaja’s host, subsequently earning a ten year jail sentence for Peter, and the threat Kaja poses to Peter’s marriage, Wolff charges that the sexual promiscuity of the New Woman threatens the fabric of society. Again, this ambivalence towards the New Woman only begins to convey the many opinions in Weimar with respect to the quandary of women and modernity. Throughout the remainder of the film, Kaja never again attains the level of happiness she had while at the coast; rather, she suffers repeatedly, as the Vampire leeches from her everything she possesses. He destroys her relationship with Peter; he tries to extort her vocal talent to support his indolent and pitiful existence, but the pain his actions had already caused her robbed her of any previous singing capabilities; ultimately, he drags her to the lowest strata of life, forcing her to scrape a living by any means possible. The toll such agony and suffering takes on Kaja is evident by the extent to which Kaja ages during Peter’s incarceration – so much so that Peter fails to recognize her upon his release, and thus returns to his faithful wife. Likewise,

Kaja’s dolorous tears betray the misery in her heart instilled by the Vampire. Through this anguish, it can be argued that Wolff protests the hardship and stress placed on the New Woman in Weimar Germany. Though Kaja does not work to the extent of many women of the time, she nevertheless embodies their plight because she supports herself and the Vampire financially. Consequently, the Vampire symbolizes the negative societal influences – be it the demands of the factory or anything else – that impact the life of the self-sustaining female. Like Kaja, who suffered silently, the New Woman’s pain was rarely acknowledged: “Often I sit there and howl like a child, for no reason; I’m so tired, my nerves just go” (Textile Workers, 209). Accepting the hand fate dealt her, she simply pressed on. Though the image painted by these three films – Metropolis, Pandora’s Box, and The Downfall – of the contemporary dialectic surrounding the status of women in Weimar offers an extremely limited glimpse of the spectrum of opinions concerning this issue, it is nevertheless useful in displaying the ambivalence towards the New Woman. Each film approaches the topic of women and modernity in a unique fashion, and each film presents differing conclusions to the question, some similar, some nuanced, and some quite opposed. Such exhaustive debate and selfreflection was not indigenous to the gender issue; rather, this introspection and discourse was symptomatic of Weimar Germany, a society in which every step was an issue and every juncture an existential crisis. This inability to progress without conflict mired Weimar with what would ultimately become meaningless issues following the Nazi usurpation of power in 1933, begging the question: had Weimar Germany found a way to circumvent the infighting that so plagued the nation throughout its ephemeral existence, would the Nazis still have seized control of the nascent Republic?

Works Cited

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Bettauer, Hugo. “The Erotic Revolution.” The Weimar Republic Sourcebook. Eds. Anton Kaes, Martin Jay and Edward Dimendberg. Berkeley: University of California P, 1995. 698699. Darré, R. W. “Marriage Laws and the Principles of Breeding.” The Weimar Republic Sourcebook. Eds. Anton Kaes, Martin Jay and Edward Dimendberg. Berkeley: University of California P, 1995. 133-136. Elsaesser, Thomas. Metropolis. Grand Rapids: BFI, 2000. Herrmann, Elsa. “This is the New Woman.” The Weimar Republic Sourcebook. Eds. Anton Kaes, Martin Jay and Edward Dimendberg. Berkeley: University of California P, 1995. 206-207. Hirschfeld, Magnus. “Sexual Catastrophes.” The Weimar Republic Sourcebook. Eds. Anton Kaes, Martin Jay and Edward Dimendberg. Berkeley: University of California P, 1995. 700-701. Kracauer, Siegfried. From Caligari to Hitler - A Psychological History of the German Film. Ed. Leonardo Quaresima. Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP, 2004. Lungstrum, Janet. “Metropolis and the Technosexual Woman of German Modernity.” Women in the Metropolis: Gender and Modernity in Weimar Culture. Ed. Katharina von Ankum. Berkeley, CA: University of California P, 1997. 128-44. Textile Workers. “My Workday, My Weekend.” The Weimar Republic Sourcebook. Eds. Anton Kaes, Martin Jay and Edward Dimendberg. New York: University of California P, 1995. 208-209. Von Ankum, Katharina, ed. Women in the Metropolis: Gender and Modernity in Weimar Culture. Berkeley: University of California P, 1997.

Wehrling, Thomas. “Berlin is Becoming a Whore.” The Weimar Republic Sourcebook. By Anton Kaes, Martin Jay and Edward Dimendberg. Berkeley: University of California P, 1995. 721-722. Weitz, Eric D. Weimar Germany: Promise and Tragedy. Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP, 2007.