Mikaël (1924) - film review

Claude Zoret is one of the greatest and wealthiest artists of his day.  His success derives from the source of his inspiration: a young man named Mikaël, who is both his model and his protégé.  The close relationship between the two men becomes strained when Zoret accepts a commission to paint a portrait of the Princess Zamikoff.  Whilst the artist embarks on a further painting, depicting the betrayal of César by Brutus, Mikaël begins a love affair with the princess.  Zoret is tormented when he learns that his adopted son has sold one of his masterpieces to pay off his lover’s debts.  Despite Mikaël’s increasingly wayward streak, Zoret cannot bear to let him go…

The complex relationship between an artist and his inspiration is a subject that has been explored ad nauseam in literature, theatre and cinema, but rarely as intensely and with such insight as in this silent film from the Danish film director Carl Theodor Dreyer.  Based on a 1902 novel of the same title by Danish writer Herman Bang, Mikaël treads new ground both technically and in terms of content – it presages Dreyer’s subsequent great masterpieces and also courts controversy by depicting what is quite unequivocally an intimate male-male relationship.

Visually, the film is a triumph, on a par with most of the landmark films of the silent era.  The expansive, sumptuous sets, decorated with genuine works of art, suggest a world of opulence, but one that is confining, reinforcing the message that Mikaël is a prisoner, being both financially and psychologically dependent on his master, Zoret.  Legendary cinematographer Karl Freund lends the film its striking expressionistic look.  His use of close-ups allow Dreyer to imbue his drama with a psychological intensity, conveying raw emotions to harrowing effect.  Freund also makes his one and only appearance in this film, playing a jovial art dealer.

Whilst aesthetically the film is not as satisfying and daring as some of Dreyer’s later works (for example, the ending lacks the dramatic punch it deserves), Mikaël is a compelling piece of silent cinema, and an indication of the kind of risks its director was prepared to take with potentially “difficult” subjects.  At the time, references to homosexuality in cinema were few and far between, and any overtly gay character would almost certainly ruin the film’s chances of making any money.  This is pretty much the fate that Mikaël suffered.  Having failed to sell in Europe, the film was played in America, where it was re-titled “The Story of the Third Sex” (as if its distributors wanted to dissociate themselves with the film’s content).  Branded as junk by some critics, the film quickly fell into obscurity, and has remained pretty well forgotten for the best part of eight decades.  Recently restored, and available to a more sympathetic audience than it had in the 1920s, Mikaël can finally be appreciated for its true artistic merits.

© James Travers 2006

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