mosquitodragon’s review published on Letterboxd:
How odd it is (huh, "odd") that numbers are something we associate with limiting ourselves and our possibilities (especially numbers prefixed by a $ or a £ and their relative lack thereof in our lives) and yet mathematics is the closest science we have for understanding the infinite. It's our literal yardstick for quantifying everything.
Why am I going on about numbers? Because unless you're a particularly eccentric mathematician, you will think of numbers in a base 10 system, meaning every number imaginable exists in our mind somewhere in a continuum between 1 and 10 or as a multiple of 10, and that, my friends, is because we are born with two hands with five fingers each. In other words, a massive proportion of your brain's effort to understand the world around you is based on an analogy of counting the fingers on your hand. This accident of evolution has been our first anchoring point in making our way in the external environment. Eyes may be the windows to the world, but our hands are conversely the windows from the soul to everything outside. They are our interface, our primary tools, our method of making a mark on the universe and on the face of time.
Basically, hands are real important.
So hands make a wonderful symbol for narrative horror. The monster threatening normality is one thing, but the monster threatening normality via our hands is a deeper incursion. It plays to deep seated psychological models of deviance like the creation of virtual dichotomies between "I" - the true me, the one inside my brain, my "soul" - and the "I" that acts upon the world - my deeds as opposed to my thoughts. Who among us behave and do what we believe to be right? Who even maintains a 100% record between words and deed? In a certain sense, all of us already regard a part of ourselves as other - the impulsive fool, the drunkard, the overeater, the berserker, the nymphomaniac, the addict.
The Hands of Orlac meshes the Frankenstein mythos, with its motivating fear of our own cleverness (ie technology and science), with a certain aspect of the werewolf mythos, which is driven by our fear of this innate duality - our inability to control the other within ourselves. Except rather than a literal possession by some sort of demonic animal consciousness, here we have a possession by a literal other person, notably facilitated by advanced medical science. And when you think of it that way, you can see how closely this resembles Jekyll and Hyde - science inadvertently splintering us into our component psychological archetypes and making discrete personalities of them. For Dr Jekyll, it's a time share arrangement - the individual is either Jekyll or Hyde depending on when you happen to meet him in a dark alleyway. For poor old Orlac, it's a permanent cohabitation. Worst roommate EVAR!!!
The great Conrad Veidt gets most of the plaudits for his physically tortured performance (it's impossible not to see him stalking around with his clawed hands outstretched, agonisingly trying to keep himself away from his wife, and not think "That man is SO HORNY!!!"). But I was taken aback by the sheer melodrama of Alexandra Sorina as Yvonne Orlac. Somewhere between her performance and the eye make-up, she projects heightened reactions which are so deeply demonstrative that she almost looks like a supernatural being herself - a shock banshee, a grief harpy, a sadness witch. She's amazing.
Fairly dialled-back by German Expressionist standards, but stick with this movie because it whips itself up into a hell of a fury before it tires itself out - but in a very deliberate, measured way. Totally gripping entertainment - the archaic conventions of silent movies just require getting used to - by the second half of a great film like this you won't even notice them.
The other fun thing with silent movies is ditching whatever soundtrack comes with the film and choosing your own musical accompaniment. My experience of The Hands of Orlac was enhanced by a sudden whim to listen to The Cure through the second half - and their more gothic, doomchord stuff at that, not their radio-friendly pop mode. Get this on and let tracks like "Fascination Street", "Disintegration", "From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea", "Cold", "One Hundred Years" and "All Cats Are Grey" pump out at high volume over it - really adds an epic dread to the film! Haven't listened to The Cure in forever.
