The Last Laugh may not necessarily be F.W. Murnau's greatest piece of cinema as a director; that claim would probably go to Sunrise, or depending on the mood Nosferatu. But it is an attempt at presenting a side of reality that is not very sympathetic, yet at the same time takes has a lot of heart in its core. Murnau and writer Carl Meyer make very clear what it is about this one specific man, in relation to his job, his co-workers, his close living quarters with his fellow tenants, and how dignity can be the make or break factor in living a worthwhile life.
Emil Jannings plays this man, and his total embodiment- nevermind performance- of the character of the porter, who gets stripped of his long, long-standing duties, as well as his impressionable uniform, is one big factor in making The Last Laugh as deep as it is. In terms of its essential story elements it's reminiscent of one of those working-class tragic tales out of 19th century Russian literature, or even from Dickens. But Murnau and Mayer make it specifically a story of dignity and a sense of entitlement as a double-edged sword, and that society is not very much one to turn the other cheek and not have a laugh at someone else's expense.
Simply put, the porter comes into work one day, and without any notice is told that his work as, essentially, the doorman to the Atlantic (a posh restaurant/hotel), will no longer be needed, and is downsized to being the washroom attendant in the downstairs bathroom. This crushes his ego and his spirit, and the uniform, which they strip away from him, becomes an immense point of merit, bringing it home with him still on (in one of the best scenes in the film, as Murnau glides his camera across quickly the lobby as the porter runs past the sleeping bellhops), even during a night-long wedding celebration.
He continues this into the next morning, however showing signs that he's already being mentally worn down to a nub. The woman who helps mend his uniform comes by to pay him a visit, thinking that he's still the doorman. It's someone else (a great, brief iris shot of the new doorman), and she suddenly sees a peek at him, horrified, as is he naturally to see her seeing himself in such a lowly position. Once word spreads in the tenement, it's one large notch lower when the porter heads back to his home, uniform still in tow.
There will be much read into, as it would be if it were a short story, to the symbolism of the uniform. I think it's not just a sign of status, but something that keeps this man's own mental stability and sense of self-worth- not just in a job position sense but in a kind of existential way too (if existentialism is what I think it is)- and at his old age and lack of family or many friends is what at the least marks him as a total shlub.
There's no middle ground in Mayer/Murnau's vision of society, and it's one of the more thought-provoking aspects to see the nature of the people living his tenement, and how they react to the porter's fall from grace (only one, the newlywed, shows some genuine sadness for what he's lost), and how they're not very much different from those who frequent the restroom the porter has to work at like a dog. And yet, there is at this point a complete reversal of fortune, literally and figuratively, for the porter, as he becomes a millionaire by the other side of the coin of luck that tossed into that low-level job in the first place. It ends on an ironically hopeful note, as he becomes like a jovial Santa Claus off duty, giving out money this way and that (not least of which to the new washroom attendant, in a very funny and poignant scene).
There is a level of cynicism however right in the one true-blue inter title in the film (it was studio pressure, not Murnau's original intention, to have the 'happy' ending), but it works in showing how the more important thing, not riches but dignity, becomes restored in spades. It's meant to be, after so much time spent in the bottomless pit of despair that the ex-doorman has been in, a big reprieve, and it is, yet it doesn't come off as being too cheap because of Murnau and Meyer still staying true to a certain reality in this environment. This has come after, of course, Murnau has emptied himself of many incredibly innovative cinematic tricks.
In The Last Laugh there are many memorable sequences; there's a dream, for example, with what might be the first hand-held camera, as it glides shakily and blurry-like past some people at a table. Or that there are the many instances of the point of view, by Karl Freund's unyielding camera movements, provoking the audience to feel the tension and inform the sense of moral dread, and in the most expressionist move in making the environment itself as an element dwarfing the characters (both the Atlantic and the tenement- the latter in one long, fantastic shot showing from night to day- are the key ones).
On the technical side of things, The Last Laugh, as what could be considered something of an anomaly, benefits from not having the usual inter-titles popping in at every other dialog exchange. By doing this, there's nothing in the way of something close to pure expression of cinema through pantomime, music, and mood through editing and the camera, and Murnau, Mayer, Freund and Jannings combine to make one of the greatest of silent films.
Emil Jannings plays this man, and his total embodiment- nevermind performance- of the character of the porter, who gets stripped of his long, long-standing duties, as well as his impressionable uniform, is one big factor in making The Last Laugh as deep as it is. In terms of its essential story elements it's reminiscent of one of those working-class tragic tales out of 19th century Russian literature, or even from Dickens. But Murnau and Mayer make it specifically a story of dignity and a sense of entitlement as a double-edged sword, and that society is not very much one to turn the other cheek and not have a laugh at someone else's expense.
Simply put, the porter comes into work one day, and without any notice is told that his work as, essentially, the doorman to the Atlantic (a posh restaurant/hotel), will no longer be needed, and is downsized to being the washroom attendant in the downstairs bathroom. This crushes his ego and his spirit, and the uniform, which they strip away from him, becomes an immense point of merit, bringing it home with him still on (in one of the best scenes in the film, as Murnau glides his camera across quickly the lobby as the porter runs past the sleeping bellhops), even during a night-long wedding celebration.
He continues this into the next morning, however showing signs that he's already being mentally worn down to a nub. The woman who helps mend his uniform comes by to pay him a visit, thinking that he's still the doorman. It's someone else (a great, brief iris shot of the new doorman), and she suddenly sees a peek at him, horrified, as is he naturally to see her seeing himself in such a lowly position. Once word spreads in the tenement, it's one large notch lower when the porter heads back to his home, uniform still in tow.
There will be much read into, as it would be if it were a short story, to the symbolism of the uniform. I think it's not just a sign of status, but something that keeps this man's own mental stability and sense of self-worth- not just in a job position sense but in a kind of existential way too (if existentialism is what I think it is)- and at his old age and lack of family or many friends is what at the least marks him as a total shlub.
There's no middle ground in Mayer/Murnau's vision of society, and it's one of the more thought-provoking aspects to see the nature of the people living his tenement, and how they react to the porter's fall from grace (only one, the newlywed, shows some genuine sadness for what he's lost), and how they're not very much different from those who frequent the restroom the porter has to work at like a dog. And yet, there is at this point a complete reversal of fortune, literally and figuratively, for the porter, as he becomes a millionaire by the other side of the coin of luck that tossed into that low-level job in the first place. It ends on an ironically hopeful note, as he becomes like a jovial Santa Claus off duty, giving out money this way and that (not least of which to the new washroom attendant, in a very funny and poignant scene).
There is a level of cynicism however right in the one true-blue inter title in the film (it was studio pressure, not Murnau's original intention, to have the 'happy' ending), but it works in showing how the more important thing, not riches but dignity, becomes restored in spades. It's meant to be, after so much time spent in the bottomless pit of despair that the ex-doorman has been in, a big reprieve, and it is, yet it doesn't come off as being too cheap because of Murnau and Meyer still staying true to a certain reality in this environment. This has come after, of course, Murnau has emptied himself of many incredibly innovative cinematic tricks.
In The Last Laugh there are many memorable sequences; there's a dream, for example, with what might be the first hand-held camera, as it glides shakily and blurry-like past some people at a table. Or that there are the many instances of the point of view, by Karl Freund's unyielding camera movements, provoking the audience to feel the tension and inform the sense of moral dread, and in the most expressionist move in making the environment itself as an element dwarfing the characters (both the Atlantic and the tenement- the latter in one long, fantastic shot showing from night to day- are the key ones).
On the technical side of things, The Last Laugh, as what could be considered something of an anomaly, benefits from not having the usual inter-titles popping in at every other dialog exchange. By doing this, there's nothing in the way of something close to pure expression of cinema through pantomime, music, and mood through editing and the camera, and Murnau, Mayer, Freund and Jannings combine to make one of the greatest of silent films.