The Monsters of The Unknown

This is a story they

tell in old Madrid…

it’s a story they say

is true.

Tod Browning’s The Unknown (1927) serves as a cautionary tale of an obsession gone awry (although it’s safe to say that is a commonality shared by most obsessions). The conventional romance, the child-like spectacle of the carnival, the disfigured ‘monster,’ and the mystique of the Roma performers create the illusion of a fairy tale. Nanon (Joan “No wire hangers” Crawford) and her prince charming, the handsome and strong Malabar (Norman Kerry), are oblivious to the danger imposed on them as they walk around a picturesque Spanish village. Their scenes together contain a gauze-like filter. Not being in my usual cynical frame of mind, I initially interpreted the filter as a metaphor for the couple being blind—or oblivious—to the world around them due to their intense love for one another. However, Worland’s assumption that Browning begrudgingly added the conventional romance scenes with a layer of artificiality seems to make more sense in this scenario than my naïve interpretation.

Alonzo (Lon Chaney) really doesn’t need any body disfigurements to be labeled a monster. He’s a criminal, a murderer, and he is a little too possessive of a woman who could pass as his daughter. From his treatment of his colleagues to his use of a corset to hide his arms to his decision to amputate his arms, it’s pretty evident that Alonzo is a sadomasochist, and his sadomasochism emanates in the overall tone of the film. Worland argues that the perverse nature of Alonzo and his amputation are an allegory for castration, and Cojo being an allegory for testicles, but I’m more intrigued by the spectator’s involvement in the film and where that involvement puts the spectator on the moral compass. We’re wishing for the worst, aren’t we?

The film opens with the carnival, which allows the spectator to divulge in all the sights taking place on screen. The carnival is meant for gawking eyes. The film welcomes the panoptic gaze of the spectator as the static camera peers from windows and doorways into the lives of these carnival performers. The spectator is also invited to gaze at the performers from the perspective from another character through the use of POV shots. The camera maintains a distance as it captures the performers in long and extreme long shots, unless a reaction shot is otherwise elicited. The spectator must also confront their similarities with the diegetic spectators, both the working-class spectators at the carnival and the wealthy spectators in the theatre, during the climax of the film. Despite their differences, these spectators are all anticipating a thrill driven by their morbid curiosity.  The film, and the reaction it creates, reflects that of the Grand Guignol Theater, where plays that contained shock and graphic displays of terror were a large attraction that drew in crowds.

Unfortunately, for those of us who are tickled by gory content, we don’t get to witness any shocking scenes. The lack of gore during the film’s climax teases us, similar to how the man in The Burlesque Suicide, No. 2 (1902) laughs at our desire to witness his suicide. Worland, quoting Michael Dempsey, argues that the film is an inversion of a Beauty and the Beast fairy tale. The purpose of fairy tales is to teach us lessons. Even though this isn’t truly a fairy tale, it shows that we’re all monsters.