Metropolis
Revisiting this film after a long time brought to mind a book I read some time ago, which explored a frequently overlooked aspect of the creation of this monumental work: Thea von Harbou. A prolific writer, skilled screenwriter, and inseparable collaborator of Fritz Lang for many years (as well as his wife at the time), Harbou conceived the book Metropolis in 1925 already as a “pre-cinematographic” work — that is, something conceived simultaneously as a literary narrative and as a structural foundation for its cinematic adaptation. Lang and Harbou became this creative duo where story, symbolism, and myth just clicked — and Metropolis was where it all came together perfectly.
The film is set in a futuristic megalopolis where the splendid, towering city above thrives off the life force drained from the underground city — where workers, in a semi-slave regime, keep the gears turning. The story follows Freder, the son of the autocratic ruler Joh Fredersen, who, upon discovering the misery of the proletariat, seeks reconciliation between the classes.
What this film represents in the history of cinema goes far beyond its plot. It's a formal and symbolic revolution. The fusion of multiple aesthetic currents — German Expressionism, with its stark contrasts and angular geometries; Art Deco, with its celebration of luxury and geometric futurism; Gothic architecture, with its cathedrals of steel and shadow; and early Modernism, fascinated by machinery and industrial rhythm — everything makes the film a visual perfection of the twentieth century. It’s worth noting that Lang found inspiration for this splendid city after visiting New York in 1924. Fascinated by the vertical lines and electric pulse of Manhattan, he transposed that awe into the film, reimagining the urban skyline not as a promise of progress, but as a warning — because the technical future, if not guided by humanity, becomes oppression.
This is the first great dystopia in cinema. Even before Orwell, Huxley, or Bradbury drew the literary contours of future totalitarianism, Lang and Harbou had already envisioned the inner workings of an automated world where the human is reduced to a mechanism. The film’s famous line — “The mediator between the head and the hands must be the heart” — might sound simplistic to some, but it's the soul of the entire film: the belief that without empathy, without feeling, technological progress devolves into tyranny.
Its critique of the class system is quite explicit, to the point that it was criticized at the time for its supposed communist undertones. The lower city, where workers live in isolation, evokes some kind of Dante’s infernal vision. The images of workers marching mechanically, the brutal shift work, the accidents caused by elite negligence — all evoke a merciless exploitation that reflects the labor struggles of the early twentieth century. The film suggests a solution — a ‘redemption’ through love, empathy, and unity between the classes. Some have called this idea naïve, but it works more as a moral lesson than a political plan.
It’s no exaggeration to say the film established an iconography that still influences us today. Sci-fi robots, claustrophobic giant buildings, and the conflict between technology and spirituality all come from this film. The figure of the Maschinenmensch, the female robot created by the scientist Rotwang, predicts many of today’s discussions around artificial intelligence, identity, and gender.
It’s deeply gratifying that, despite all the cuts, censorship, and fragmentation the film suffered over the decades, it survived. The discovery of an almost complete print in 2008 allowed for the restoration of the closest version to the original, revealing crucial scenes that had been lost to distributor cuts.
Truly, a colossal film — a monument of the modern imagination. It captures both the fear and fascination of industrial modernity, translating into architecture, movement, and light the eternal drama between power and conscience.