Romantic Inversions in Herzog's Nosferatu

by Kent Casper, Susan Linville
Romantic Inversions in Herzog's Nosferatu
Kent Casper, Susan Linville
The German Quarterly
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University of Colorado, Denver SUSANLINVILLE University of Colorado, Boulder
Romantic Inversions in Herzog's Nosferatu

Despite Werner Herzog's disclaimers, his critics persist in using the designation "ro- mantic" to characterize the emphasis in his films on the individual rebevquester figure, his fetishizing of danger and adventure, his predilection for bizarre fringe characters and mysterious landscapes, his search for the au- ratically unique image, and his encouragement of a mystifying auteur-worship (Peucker; Rentschler; Horak). The genealogy of Nosfe- ratu, a remake of and an homage to Murnau's 1922 film of the same name, points beyond these more generalized notions to a specific German romantic legacy. Lotte Eisner's widely accepted view (in The Haunted Screen) that early German expressionist cinema (and Murnau in particular) represents a reformula- tion of German literary romanticism, plus her championing of Herzog as the most conspicu- ous modern heir to expressionism, lends cre- dence to such a lineage. Though her analysis of expressionist film is outdated and often disappointingly superficial, Eisner is accurate in pointing toward the work of writers like Tieck, Eichendorff, and Hoffmann as thematic models for expressionism's obsession with what she calls the "demoniac": Doppelghgers, the interfusion of drearn/fantasy/illusion with reality, and the psychic precariousness of bourgeois identity confronted by the super- natural.

In turn, the genre of the horror film in general has devolved substantially from Ger- man expressionist figurations. The constant motifs of the horror film-normality is threatened by the monster; the nocturnal world intervenes in the diurnal; the familiar

The German Quarterly 64.1 (1991) 17

suddenly becomes uncanny; the "monster" must be acknowledged and confronted, which often requires use of magic or forms of preter- natural power that are denigrated by the sci- entific establishment-these motifs are all prefigured by both cinematic expressionism and German literary romanticism, as is the attempt to represent psychic distortions through technical-formal means.

Herzog's film is thus located within an his- torical tradition that is densely intertextual. He draws (through Murnau) upon motifs and a narrative structure derived from the roman- tic tale, while simultaneously including allu- sions to painterly codes of the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries, to the Flying Dutch- man myth, to horror film topoi, and to ele- ments of his own previous films. Herzog man- ipulates the romantic narrative code in ways that collapse the dualistic framework of roman- ticism and foreground ironic reversals of the patterns he invokes; intertextual markers are often extradiegetic punctuations serving to make explicit Herzog's representational de- vices within a filmic text that ultimately, in Alan Singer's words, constitutes a "complex refusal of the supersensible realm" (Singer 193).

These considerations might seem to ignore the more obvious intertextual context that would include Bram Stoker's Dracula and/or myriad other vampire texts and films- as in the analyses by Todd, Mayne, and Waller. Yet, as Gregory Waller points out, the filmic revi- sionings of the vampire myth by Murnau and Herzog constitute a separate and "vastly dif- ferent" kind of adaptation (177).


At first glance, that difference consists mainly of a shift in story and character em- phasis that highlights the devastation of a bourgeois town by Dracula and his plague- bringing rats and that presents Lucy (Nina in Murnau's film) as a figure of redemptive, sac- rificial love who alone vanquishes the vampire. Herzog follows the Murnau story line with a few sigmficant changes, the most obvious of which is the transformation of Jonathan Harker into the "new" Nosferatu at the conclu- sion of the film. Both filmmakers recast the story within patterns familiar to readers of German romantic tales. In varying degrees works such as Tieck's Der Runenberg, Eichendorff's Das Marmorbild, and Arnim's Der Tolle Invalide auf dem Fort Ratonneau provide sug- gestive models. It may be useful at this point to sketch out some of the relevant aspects of the German romantic "project" and the cor- responding representational mode of the ro- mantic tale before continuing the discussion of Herzog's film.

The central ideas of early German roman- ticism, which evolved in the nexus of Fichte- Friedrich Schlegel-Novalis around 1797-1800, were concentrated in the regulative ideal of self-Bildungas the autoproduction of "world" through the imaginative work, driven by Sehnsucht toward an ever-elusive transcendent completion (Lacoue-LabartheNancy 47-51). In narrative form (the paradigmatic model being Novalis's Heinrich von Ofterdingen), it is presented as quest-romance, the dialectical movement of the hero's striving imagination toward individuation in a series of conscious- ness-expanding epiphanic moments that ap- propriate and "spiritualize" nature. The ob- jects of nature are hieroglyphs sigrufying a numinous sphere that carries normative value and implies theodicy, though this is finally un- attainable. The narrative representation of this process of desire remains necessarily a fragment but can be figured, in Novalis's ideal- istic and optimistic narrative, as the endless "upward" spiral of consciousness (Kuzniar 72-80).

In the Kunstmarchen of romantics like Tieck and Hoffmann the quest becomes prob- lematized in that the schema of idealist phi- losophy is subverted by an emphasis on the psychological ambiguities and pitfalls of imag- ination. The objects of nature (and desire) be- come Janus-faced, revealing a demonic aspect that can lead the hero into the abyss of illusion and madness, into a phantom reality that thwarts and mocks the quester's movement. Erotic fantasy is especially dangerous. In these tales, the trajectory of narrative desire tends toward an ironic circle, either trapping the hero in solipsistic self-imaging or "saving" him through restoration of traditional bour- geois-Christian values. It is this romantic mode of representation, paralleling in many respects the patterns of English Gothic tales, that so fascinated cinematic expressionism and that can be seen as constituting a narrative model for Nosferatu.

Tieck's The Rune Mountain is particularly illuminating. His hero Christian becomes rest- less in the realm of the all-too-familiar flatland with its domesticity and routine, its enclosure of family and community. Responding to an inner call that is alien and yet urgently familiar, he leaves for the loneliness of the mountain forest. In Tieck's binary scheme Christian for- sakes the role of "gardner" for that of "hunt- er"; in this context the "garden" represents simultaneously the cultivated connectedness of bourgeois order as well as desire constrained within what Tieck calls the "circles of repetitive habituation." The "forest" consti- tutes a site of confrontation with the images of the isolated self's longing. The transition from one state to the other is marked by nature- images of rupture and imminent chaos: dizzy- ing precipices, rushing mountain streams ac- companying an ascent into disorienting wilder- ness. This part of the journey culminates in a meeting with the "stranger," who henceforth figures as a shape-shifting avatar of the hero's desire. The encounter is characterized by a form of erotic fantasy that is Illicit in the bourgeois flatlands; in the case of Christian it is the (voyeuristic) fascination with the seductive black-haired Amazon who resides in the imaginary rune castle. Like the castle itself, which alternates in Christian's modes

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of seeing between ruin and resplendent pal- ace, the Amazon woman can appear (later) in Christian's "flatland imagination only as a hideous hag.

This device of inversion, deployed as dialec- tical movement between representations of reality and fantasy throughout the narrative, is central to German romanticism and is repro- duced with great frequency by expressionist filmmakers fascinated with the cinema's magic capabilities in this regard. In Eichendorff's The Marble Statue the hero Florian is repeatedly lured away from the daytime context of a Christian community and civilized festivities into solitary nocturnal auto-imaging at an iso- lated forest site where the ancient ruin of a temple of Venus, together with its statue of the love goddess, "comes alive." The seduc- tive illusion constitutes a powerful residue from an "alien" pagan culture, awakening se- cret desire that can be exorcised only by the reassertion of communal faith and the promise of marriage to a "real" bourgeois maiden.

Here the characteristic quality of the inver- sion should be underscored: in both tales, the object of desire as well as the site of fantasy production (the castle or temple) alternate between the lifeless (or decrepit), subject to temporality, and the (erotically) vivified, fig- ured as inhabiting an archetypal, atemporal realm. The alluring image then reveals itself, ironically, as a figure of death-in-life, of steril- ity, of artifice posing as life- but can be seen as such only by a return to those "circles of repetitive habituation" that, because of their constraints upon desire, drive the hero re- peatedly back into the forest fantasy. In many romantic tales -particularly Hoffmann's the infection from the fantasy realm is incura- ble, "stranding the hero in a dream," to use Bruce Kawin's apt formulation on Nosferatu (45). This is true of Christian in The Rune Mountain: he attempts to eschew the mad- ness of "Waldeinsamkeit" through a return to the garden community and its domesticizing structures. But the "stranger" reappears as a guest in the household, carrying with him a bag of gold coins whose sparkle is an inces- sant reminder to Christian of the Amazon and her &t to him of a bejeweled tablet. Christian drifts again into forest and madness, finally leaving family and flatland community for good in a delusionary search for the fiery sparkle of gold in common stones that he collects (again implying the binary inversion discussed above). Meanwhile, the bourgeois garden it- self cannot withstand the curse that Christian brings back with him; the household disinte- grates, broken apart by death, fire, and gen- eral decline.

The superior force of feminine love, often aligned with courageous religious faith, can act as a counterforce to the male quester's demonic fantasy and can restore the ruptured communal/domestic order. In Arnim's Mad In- valid, it is Francoeur's wife Rosalie who, un- like the caricatured, impotent priest, exorcises her husband's "possession by the devil" through her unflinching ascent into the for- tress of his delirium. One of the popular romantic variants of this motif that finds reso- nance with the MurnaulHerzog vampire films is the legend of the Flying Dutchman, made famous in the versions of Heine and Wagner: the curse of immortality resting upon the cap- tain of the phantom ship can be lifted only by a woman's pure love.

That Murnau and Herzog reproduce many of these patterns in their films seems clear enough. In the first part of both films the narrative presents Jonathan Harker's passage from flatland community and comfortable domesticity into the mountain realm of Tran- sylvania, a journey that is simultaneously an entrance into a psychic realm of dangerous phantoms and of illusions. Murnau signals this through the use of cinematic devices: inser- tion of negative footage to make the forest seem white and ghostly; a stop-motion se- quence that renders the movement of the phantom coach unnaturally rapid and jerky. Herzog avoids such devices, choosing instead to accompany Harker's passage with the ornin- ous two-chord chant that functions throughout the film as a leitmotif of the living dead. He does, however, "quote" Murnau's final shot of a hilltop castle ruin, an echo of early roman- tic inversion. In both portrayals Jonathan Harker's initial meeting with Count Dracula is followed by imprisonment and victimization, with strong homoerotic implications in the blood-sucking scene in Jonathan's room. Her- zog recapitulates the gardner~hunter dichoto- my in the vampire's melancholy reflection that "city dwellers will never understand the soul of the hunter." Jonathan's subsequent escape and headlong return to Bremen~Wismar is too late; Dracula, drawn to the city by the pros- pect of Nina/LucyJs delicate white neck, has already ravaged the community. To the degree that Dracula can be interpreted as a Doppel- ganger figure for Jonathan, one could say that Jonathan himself has loosed the curse of the vampire upon wife and town. In both films the vampire's death involves a romantic inversion: the transformation of a figure of supernatural force and erotic magnetism into nothingness (Murnau) or into a grotesquely contorted shell

(Herzog), brought about by the power of Nina/ Lucy's self-sacrificing love.

Though Herzog's film sounds many notes along the register of the romantic tale, his discourse in fact accomplishes something rather different. The older romantic tale oper- ates on the philosophical basis of idealistic dualism and an implied theodicy; even when the dualism is blurred and the theodicy is thwarted, the longed-for transcendent realm carries normative value as a "postulated or intuited ideal unity," and the striving toward its realization is itself made into a virtue (Brown 46). For Herzog there is no other- wordy reality and no dualism that would point toward a numinous sphere; there is consequently no dialectic of narrative desire within the diegesis of the film. The narrative spiral is flattened out, made static, and its most apt symbol is the well known Herzogian circle of futility.

Furthermore, Herzog's discourse, despite the recurring illusion of immediacy and spon- taneity, consistently reveals the problematics of portrayal through the foregrounding of his representational devices and thereby produces spectator awareness of even his most mysterious nature scenes as "artifactual" (Singer 194). To a degree this problematizing can itself be interpreted as a form of modern "romantic irony" insofar as it tends to limn the exigencies of narrative as an ever-becom- ing process and to make explicit representa- tion as construct and as auto-production (Lacoue-LabartheNancy 39-58).

In Herzog's fithere is no demarcation between natural and supernatural. Herzog's nature scenes are mysterious, but they are so in their sheer physicality and are not emblematic. For example, in the sequence showing Jonathan's ascent to the summit of the Borgo pass there are no markers suggest- ing a "demonic" nature, no phantoms, ghostly forest, or wolves. To be sure, there are the rushing streams and steep cliffs that in the early romantic tale marked the quester's transition, but there is no enchantment. The sequence alludes to the romantic context, and it does so in specific intertextual ways, such as the evocation of a C. D. Friedrich painting, a shot that silhouttes Jonathan at dusk, his back to the camera, looking out upon what we assume to be a sublime mountain vista. But the medium low-angle shot does not allow us to see what Jonathan sees. Similarly, when the camera tracks upslope to the accompani- ment of Wagner's Rheingold and shows the ruins of a castle, we recognize the quotation of Murnau's final shot, but Herzog gives us no reaction shot. Harker moves passively, as if benumbed, through this landscape of beauty and always imminent illusion; indeed, from the beginning of the film he is presented as one who is "blind." Despite the ominous por- tents of the "chant of the dead" and the majesty of the Rheingold, Herzog resolutely seals off Jonathan from any interaction with or awareness of an environment filled with romantic suggestiveness. Thus the "passage" is ironic; the quester's identity is deflated. The scene that conveys this perhaps most acutely is the one in which, after Jonathan's fall from the castle window, a little gypsy boy scratches out a repetitive refrain on his fiddle over the unconscious Jonathan- a "musical" mockery that, when taken as ironic counter- point to the preceding "sublime" music, has an effect similar to the shot of castle ruins.

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The entire Jonathan narrative can be seen as repetitions of futile attempts to escape from diverse forms of enclosure that are, in actual- ity, variations of self-enclosure. Jonathan un- dertakes the journey to Transylvania in the desire to "get away for once from these canals that circle back on themselves," a stagnation that mirrors his own solipsism; his meeting with Dracula and his subsequent vampirization and imprisonment constitute a merger of simi- lar sterile identities, and his "escape" from the castle back to Wismar merely reverses his ear- lier "escape" from the town on foot, on horse- back, by carriage. The apparent linear move- ment -and the corresponding spectatorial expectation of some kind of teleology-in these transitional scenes is revealed as circu- lar futility. And while Herzog's ending appears to suggest a reading of Jonathan as a demonic man of action, this, too, is illusory. At the film's end, Jonathan once again "escapes," this time from Lucy's crumbled sacrament wafer. "I have much to do now," he says as he rides off on his horse across an apocalyptic tundra accompanied by the strains of Gounod's Sanctus. This is a highly ironic mise en sckne, no less so than the megalomaniac Aguirre circled by the camera on his monkey-laden raft. Jona- than has now taken on the burden of parasitical deathlessness lamented by Count Dracula in their earlier conversation. "Can you imagine," Klaus Kinski's weary, enervated Dracula says to his visitor, "enduring centuries and each day experiencing the same futilities?" There is no evidence that the "new" Dracula will be different from the old.

Herzog collapses the dichotomy between city dweller and hunter, flatlands and moun- tains. It is not Jonathan alone who seems to be leading a programmed, sterile life; the en- tire town of Wismar appears always on the verge of becoming static and immobile (Waller 200). Herzog has said that he chose the town of Delft as his major location because of its bourgeois respectability and orderliness. In the first part of the fi, shot selection in the town tends toward the light, white, and mono- chromatic, but at the same time it conveys a sense of stagnation, of life sacrificed to rou- tine. The "canals that circle back on them- selves" typify this enclosed, conventionalized world: it is "still lifev-or, to use the even more apt French telm, "nature morte." In other words, Wismar is already the virtual land of the living dead; the arrival of Dracula and his rats concretize this potential. Jonathan moves between the stagnation of Wismar and the stagnation of Castle Dracula; both the site and figure of the vampire are revealed to be not the alien demonic other but rather forms of doubled sameness.

Judith Mayne misses this point when she asserts that "Herzog shows us the journey as a definitive crossing-over of boundaries. In Herzog's journey, one leaves the 'self' behind to embrace an identity founded on 'otherness' . . . this is a world where the lines between dream and waking, between passion and reason, between mysticism and materialism, are absolutely drawn" (123).

What Mayne attributes to Herzog is pre- cisely what he does not do. Rather, he shows us "narratives of circularity" and "time as deg- radation" (Elsaesser 156). He allows the circu- lar trap of the symbolic world (in the Lacanian sense) to subsume the quester's movement so that the hero is always returned to the absurdity of routine. Thus Herzog's "quest" appears to be the exact opposite of the roman- tic quest, if Bloom's definition is accurate: "The goal of all Romantic quest is the over- coming of Selfhood [Blake's category], the turning away from falsely raised gods and numinous powers and the transcendence of alienation through imagination and love" (Kip- permann 116). In Herzog's work any moments of sublation are either missing or illusory. His narrative sensibility comes closer to what

W. F! Day describes as the "circles of fear and desire" of the English Gothic, in which any sense of the supernatural is "the manifes- tation, not of transcendent order, but of chaos and disruption," i.e., a distorted mirror of our own temporal reality. Gothic narrative form, Day argues, subverts the notion that "action may result in progress or even bring about change . . . Action can never be progressive, only circular" (44).

Even if the quest is negated as futility, Her- zog-following Murnau- still offers a form of romantic redemption through the figure of Lucy. She draws Count Dracula to Wismar. As in Murnau's film, the vampire signs the real estate agreement and undertakes the sea journey only after he has seen Jonathan's lock- et containing a picture of his wife. For both Murnau and Herzog there is an erotic connec- tion between the vampire and NinaLucy. However, in Herzog's film it is not just Lucy's body and blood that arouse the Count's desire. Even more, it is her love, portrayed by Herzog as a strong vitalizing energy, an emotion of force and fearlessness. It is this vitality that Dracula wishes to share and that he has al- ready felt telepathically while in the act of sucking Jonathan's blood in his castle. Thus the relationship between Dracula and Lucy (and between Jonathan and Lucy as well) is that between lack and abundance, sterility and vitality. Herzog's film deconstructs the psy- choanalytic notion of phallic priority and plenitude, which is associated with Dracula's erotic domination of females in other vampire texts.

With the arrival of Dracula and the return of Jonathan to Wismar, Lucy becomes the axis round which everything turns. She is the actor and the mover, the knowing one who con- founds both the vampire and Dr. Van Helsing's "enlightened" pedantic science with her "be- lief." What constitutes this belief? It is not a belief "in" anything at all, certainly not in a god, whom she sees as always "far away when we need him." It has little to do with religion and even very little to do with Jonathan. It is, in Lucy's paradoxical words (taken almost ver- batim from Stoker) "the amazing human ca- pacity that makes it possible for us to see things that we know are untrue." The state- ment constitutes a kind of modern credo quia absurdurn. The earlier romantics would have called it the capacity for creative fantasy nec- essary for the redemption of the prosaic world. Within Herzog's discourse Lucy's "see- ing" what is "untrue" ("untrue," that is, ac- cording to rationalist ideology) involves fist dreaming the collective nightmare of the threat of the undead, then- as the single per- son who "knows the source of all this evil"- acknowledging and confronting the vampire. She follows the instructions in the book of vampires and keeps Dracula at her side until dawn. Here Herzog emulates Munau in a gesture that resonates simultaneously with romantic motifs of female redemption and with familiar horror movie closures: the "monster" is defeated not by official scientific mentality but by the lone initiate or believer in "super- stition." In psychoanalytic terms, the spec- tator of the horror movie participates in a cathartic process in which killing the monster or exorcizing the demon can mean vicariously confronting an unacknowleged wish or fear symbolically represented by the nightmare on the screen (Kawin, 1984 [131). What does Lucy actually accomplish? Her act does indeed bring about a release-but not of her husband from the curse, not of the town from the plague, and not of the spectator from the nightmare. Rather, it releases Dracula from the curse of immortality and propels him into a painfully human death, with the Count's face mirroring the contortions of some of the mum- mies seen in the beginning of the film.

Lucy's sacrificial death is not the instru- ment of a theodicy; unlike that of her counter- part, Murnau's Nina, her act does not restore the communal bourgeois order, nor does it function for the spectator as a cathartic resolu- tion. Still, Herzog's Lucy offers a model of sheer stubborn vitality, the kind that Herzog so often celebrates. Her emotional integrity and her capacity for persevering in her imagi- native belief in the midst of death and chaos are never diminished. Toward the end of the film, as Lucy is walking through plague-stricken Wismar surrounded by the dying and drunken citizens, she comes upon a group of people dressed in elegant finery seated at a table laid out with a sumptuous banquet. Impervious to the hundreds of rats milling about their feet, they ask Lucy to join them, explaining, "We all have the plague. Now, for the first time, we rejoice in every day that remains for us." This existential celebration of life, nourish- ment, and temporality in the face of full aware-

CASPERand LINVILLE:Werner Herzog

ness of imminent death, with its overtones of memento muri and carpe diem, is an arch- Herzogian gesture.

The banquet scene in the town square is set in contrast to an earlier shot in Dracula's castle: on the morning after his arrival, Jona- than awakes to an empty and locked-up castle; he finds, in place of the Count who is now snoozing in his native earth, a table seduc- tively laid out with various foods and fresh fruits. While the camera pans slowly across it, we recognize another of Herzog's "painter- ly" compositions, a replica of seventeenth- century still-life painting.

Herzog crowns the table with an upright stuffed rooster, a perfect taxidermic imitation of life that is itself an intertextual echo from within the idiosyncratic Herzogian oeuvre: the chicken as Mte noire. In a 1976 interview with Kraft Wetzel, Herzog explains, "Chickens frighten me. I was the first to show that chick- ens are cannibalistic and horrible. What is most frightening about them is when you look directly into their eyes: what looks back at you is dullness, death and dullness. It's so terrifying because it's such a totally unfathom- able dullness. I don't believe in the devil, I believe only in dullness" (113).

"Dullness" ("Durnmheit") is the pervasive evil that haunts Herzog's world, an emptiness at the heart of things, embodied for him in the blank eyes of the chicken. The horrific fowl shows up in Signs of Life, Even Dwarves, Started Small, Caspar Hauser, Heart of Glass and, in what is no doubt its most excruciating appearance, as the perfectly programmed ar- cade chicken toward the end of Stroszek. While the hundreds of rats that Herzog imported into the alarmed town of Delft provided him a scenario for his obsession with physically present, "real life" confrontations that repro- duce his filmic vision (recounted by Walker), still it is the stuffed rooster that figures as the more appropriate metaphor of that perverse atemporality represented by the vampire. "Death is not the worst," says Dracula. Worse is the life lived in "dullness" and daily futility, without love; "the absence of love is the most abject pain," Dracula tells Lucy. Death itself is at its most appalling when it suddenly strikes the life that is yet unlived. It is this existential- ist motif that is sounded in the chorale of the dead and that links catacomb mummies, the townspeople of Wisrnar, and Dracula. The hor- ror and pain expressed in the muled fig- ures at the beginning of the film is that of people caught unawares, without preparation, as in a natural catastrophe-or in a sudden outbreak of the plague. Dracula's own death is an intensified version of the same phenome- non, violently transforming someone who has just engaged in a sterile, repetitious imitation of love-making into a grotesque shell. From this perspective one could interpret the "chant of the dead" as a kind of musical analogue to Munch's famous painting "The Screamu-a leitmotif for what Lucy calls "nameless, deadening fear" (or, in the famous lines from Caspar Hauser, "that screaming that people call silence"). This, for Herzog, is the "curse of Nosferatu that lies upon man- kind"; it is his version of the state of the "undead." What J. I? Telotte says about horror movies is particularly fitting here: the horror we feel toward the monstrous world depicted is, after all, a revulsion toward lifelessness, a reaction against inertia and sterility, against life drained of value, against humans reduced to objects (Telotte 25). This notion, in turn, links us again with Hoffmann's automata, with Tieck's isolated, solipsistic figures, and with the cold marble and inert matter always lurk- ing behind the bewitching projections of Ger- man romantic heroes.

In this film at least, Herzog's "romanti- cism" does not consist of a glorification of the lone male iconoclast, as Timothy Corrigan has asserted. Herzog presents romantic "striv- ing" as a form of self-delusion; he invokes the quester pattern while he simultaneously ex- poses its desire as blindness and its movement as stasis. The frequent allusions to romantic motifs serve to place spectator awareness in a terrain of ironically undercut anticipations. This unmasking of the supernatural and the demonic is itself a German romantic gesture, with the crucial distinction that Herzog's inver- sions involve no alternative idealistic sigmfica- tions. Rather, they are aimed at a celebration of temporal, absurd reality. There remains, finally, only the stubborn quixotic vitality of Lucy's will to act on the exigencies of personal vision within the precariousness of a world in which, as she says, we may all one day wake up to find ourselves in straightjackets.
Works Cited

Brown, Marshall. The Sh@e of German Romanticism. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1979. Day, Wiiarn Patrick. In the Circles of Fear and Desire. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1985. Eisner, Lotte. The Haunted Screen. Berkeley: U of California P, 1952; 1973.

Elsaesser, Thomas. "An Anthropologist's Eye: Where the Green Ants Dream." The Films of Werner Herzog. Ed. Timothy Corrigan. New York: Methuen, 1986. 133-

56. Horak, Jan-Christopher. "W. H. or the Mysteries of Walk- ing on Ice.'' The Films of Werner Herzog. 23-42. Kawin, Bruce. "Nosferatu." Film Quarterly (Spring 1980): 45-47.

. "The Mummy's Pool.'' Planks of Reason: Essays on the Hmr Film. Ed. Barry Keith Grant. Metuchen: Scarecrow, 1984. 3-20.

Winter 1991

Kipperman, Mark. Beyond Enchantment: German Idealism and English Romantic Poetry. Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 1986. Kuzniar, Alice. Delayed Endings: Nrmclosure in Novalis and Holderlin. Athens: U of Georgia P; 1987. Lacoue-Labarthe, Phillipe, and Jean-Luc Nancy. The Literary Absolute. Albany: State U of New York P, 1978; 1980.

Mayne, Judith. "Herzog, Murnau and the Vampire." The Films of Werner Herzog. 119-32.

Peucker, Brigitte. "Werner Herzog: in Quest of the Sub- lime." New German Filmmakers. Ed. Klaus Phillips. New York: Ungar, 19a. 168-94.

Rentschler, Eric. "The Politics of Vision: Herzog's Heart of Glass." The Films of Werner Herzog. 159-82.

Singer, Alan. "Comprehending Appearances: Werner Herzog's Ironic Sublime." The Films of WernerHerzog. 183-205.

Telotte, J. I? "Faith and Idolatry in the Horror Film." Planks of Reason. 21-37.

Todd, Janet. "The Classic Vampire." The English Novel and the Movies. Ed. Michael Klein and Gi Parker. New York: Ungar, 1981. 197-210.

Walker, Beverly. "Werner Herzog's Nosferatu." Sight and Sound (Autumn 1970): 202-05.

Waller, Gregory A. The Living and the Undead. Urbana: U of Illinois P, 1986.

Wetzel, Kraft. "Interview." HerzogIKlugelStraub. Ed. Peter W. Jansen and Wolfram Schiitte. Munich: Hanser, 1976. 113-30.

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