It
is easy to assume that all films made in Nazi Germany were overtly
propagandistic. In fact, apart from Leni
Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will and
Olympia, even avid filmgoers outside
Germany will be hard put to think of other films made under the regime, so
effectively have they been airbrushed from world cinema (in marked contrast to
those of the Weimer era). Yet propaganda
films constituted a small proportion of production during the Third Reich. On the contrary, as Roger Manvell and
Heinrich Fraenkel say in their 1971 book The
German Cinema, in general ‘German films became escapist and politically
harmless’, so a bit like most films made anywhere. Manvell and Fraenkel add that they were ‘technically
impeccable,’ and ‘notable for the absence, rather than the presence, of a
swastika.’ This was a policy that Joseph
Goebbels, Minister of Propaganda, was keen to pursue in order to fill cinemas;
it was generally the newsreels and documentaries supporting the main features which
carried overtly ideological messages.
The Man Who Was Sherlock Holmes (also known as
Zwei Lustige Abenteurer, Two Merry Adventurers), directed by Karl
Hartl, was released in 1937, the year the studio that made it, Ufa, fell under
state control. It completely conforms to
Goebbels’ template of escapism and political harmlessness. What is more intriguing than the complete
absence of Nazi references is the affectionate take on the British figure of
Sherlock Holmes, a familiar presence in German culture, as Siegfried Kracauer
in From Caligari to Hitler (1947)
notes. The project was designed to show
‘that Germany can produce a detective comedy that can hold its own with the best
American films of this kind,’ as a contemporary newspaper had it (quoted in The Ufa Story: A History of Germany's
Greatest Film Company, 1918-1945, by Klaus Kreimeier, 1999).
However,
despite the title, this is not a Sherlock Holmes film. It is the story of two apparent chancers,
Morris Flint (played by Hans Albers, whom Kracauer called ‘the embodiment of
popular daydreams’) and Macky McPherson (Heinz Rühmann). The film opens with them flagging down a
passenger train at night in the rain. Showing
considerable authority, Flint immediately starts to interrogate the staff. Word goes round that Holmes is on board, a
rumour the penniless newcomers do nothing to dispel, though as Flint later points
out, they are careful never to refer to themselves as Holmes and Watson. Instead they call each other ‘Master’ and
‘Doctor.’ It is other people who make
the assumption that they are the famous consulting detective and his assistant,
an assumption aided by their clothing, manner and accessories, notably a violin
case. By telling people not to say who
they are, they reinforce the impression that they really are Holmes and Watson
working under cover.
Having
met two attractive sisters on the train, a commission to recover some rare
stamps that have been stolen leads them to a nasty gang of forgers, and it
transpires that the castle the sisters have just inherited from their uncle is
significantly involved in the case. The
fast-paced action is punctuated by an incredibly catchy song composed by Hans
Sommer, Jawohl, meine Herr'n (Yes Indeed, Gentlemen), which Morris and
Macky sing in the bath – not the same bath of course, but separate ones
flanking the enormous suite they have occupied in a smart hotel.
At
the end of the film Flint and McPherson find themselves on trial charged with
impersonating Holmes and Watson. As the
police had requested the pair to work on their behalf, assuming natürlich that
they were asking Mr Holmes, this leads to some red faces. A large man in an extremely loud checked overcoat
who was at the hotel and found the idea of Holmes and Watson staying there
uproarious is also present, still laughing like a drain, and he reveals
himself to be none other than … Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The reason for his amusement, he tells the court,
is that Holmes and Watson are not real people at all, but are his creations! It is hard to see how you can illegally
impersonate somebody who does not exist, so the case is dismissed. Things are brought to a satisfying conclusion
as Flint wraps up the mystery of the stolen stamps and demonstrates that he and
Macky are not actually confidence tricksters, but real detectives who had been
trying to drum up business. Still amused
at the duo’s audacity, ‘Conan Doyle’ offers to write their story with a 50:50
split, to be called The Man Who Was
Sherlock Holmes, perhaps the very film we have been watching.
Labelling
a film as having been made during the Nazi period might not be considered a
sound marketing strategy, and the packaging of the film for the 2012 Cornerstone
Media DVD release nowhere alludes to its context; in fact the information on
the back gives the release date as 1957, perhaps a clerical error, perhaps an
attempt to distract attention from its background.
True, one might feel guilty watching a film produced under such a
barbarous regime, as if it is somehow a tacit endorsement of totalitarianism,
while Manvell and Fraenkel were sniffy about German films made when the Nazis
were in power, considering the results ‘empty’ of human values. Those made during the Thousand-Year Reich are
not unique in that regard, and on its own terms The Man Who Was Sherlock Holmes has a warmth and energy that belie
its origins.
