Introduction: From Paradise Lost to Paradise

In May of 1929, famed German director Friedrich Wilhelm Murnau set sail on board his newly purchased yacht, the Bali, and headed for the South Pacific island of Tahiti, intent on revitalizing a career stagnating in Hollywood consumerism (Eyman 1).  Murnau had recently signed a contract with another Hollywood exile, Robert Flaherty, forming “Flaherty-Murnau Productions,” a union that was to specialize in “pictures with the South Sea Islands, or other islands of foreign locale, as a background” (Langer 50).  Both men agreed their first project would be, Turia, a South Sea tale that pitted island purity and romance against European corruption, ultimately culminating in a heart wrenching fall from paradise.  Nearly two years later, the friendship and working relationship between the two men would deteriorate into a heated standoff that would leave Flaherty on the outside looking in, Turia would be abandoned for copy-right reasons, and Murnau would die in a tragic car accident.  All that would remain of the once promising partnership would be the controversial, Academy Award winning masterpiece, Tabu.

Synopsis:

At the heart of Tabu’s story are Matahi and Reri, two young islanders innocently torn between their own romantic involvement and a tribal dictate rendering Reri sacred and therefore “tabu”.  Unable to accept the mandate of the Gods, the two lovers tempt fate and flee their island paradise (the film’s opening proclaims the island to be yet “untouched by the hand of civilization”), and escape to another island inhabited by westerners where they must adjust to a radically different lifestyle.  Their innocence becomes a liability as the two are duped into financial obligations that they are unable to meet, despite Matahi finding work as a pearl diver.  Eventually Hitu, an ancient warrior in charge of delivering Reri to the Lord of all Islands, catches up with the two lovers, threatening Reri with Matahi’s death if she doesn’t give in and return with him.  While Matahi secretly plans their financial escape by braving a dangerous pearl dive in tabooed waters that are protected by a giant shark, Reri arranges for her silent departure with Hitu.  As Matahi succeeds in his quest for the ultimate pearl, Reri is led into a sailboat by Hitu.  Matahi returns to their hut to find Reri missing and a goodbye note.  A chase ensues.  Matahi swims frantically, closing in on the sailboat, only to have Hitu cut away the trailing rope Matahi finally manages to gain hold of, and the lovers are forever parted.  The film closes with a shot of Matahi slowly being enveloped by a dark ocean.

Tabu Takes Form Under Murnau’s Direction:

Tabu is generally regarded as the first great film to capture the European fantasy of the Polynesian wonderland.  Paramount marketed the premier with taglines like “Uncivilized Love!” and “Rapturous Romance!” (Eyman 4).  Indeed, Murnau’s expressionist style appears to be a perfect match for the sultry landscape of Bora-Bora.  He certainly seems content relying on extended shots of majestic waterfalls and radiant ocean fronts to carry the brunt of the storytelling workload.  Adding to the films exotic marketability, Tabu was shot entirely on location in Tahiti (with the exception of one underwater image of a shark, filmed after Murnau’s return to the United States), and even flaunted in its opening credits: “Only native born South Sea islanders appear in this picture with a few half caste and Chinese” (Langer 57).  But if Tahitian authenticity and sexually provocative language were to be the key selling points for the film’s advertising campaign, it was Murnau’s ability to project the vintage white beaches and lush foliage of the shoreline as a virginal oasis of adolescent love that ultimately wowed audiences.  Critically, this shouldn’t imply that all Murnau aimed to accomplish was an exhibition of ideal climates and perfectly tanned natives, rather these simple, yet sensual images functioned as an expressionist means of projecting the greater complexities of Tabu; that even in the natural paradise of Tahiti, paradise is fleeting. 

While it is generally accepted that the decision to shoot Tabu as a silent film two years after the invention of sound was one of aesthetic preference, after all the lack of sound seemed to enhance Murnau’s ability to effectively meld together the sensuous bodies of his young lovers with the romantic setting, evidence exists that the decision may have been strongly influence by a financial shortfall (57).  Indeed, the initial plans for Turia indicate that Colorart, the company pledging financial support to Murnau and Flaherty, expected both a color and sound film (50).  However, the stock market crash of 1929 heavily strained finances and Colorart could not afford to supply sound or color film equipment (51-52).  At this point Murnau and Flaherty appeared hesitant to shoot a silent film, though they readily agreed to the black and white format (52).  In a political maneuver that most likely doomed Turia, Colorart demanded Murnau and Flaherty consent to a distribution deal prior to filming that would not only surrender a hefty percentage of the film’s gross, but demanded a piece of the European rights originally promised to Murnau and Flaherty (52) .  The two sides bickered for several months, and unpaid salaries and expenses for the film gradually approached twenty-thousand dollars.  On November 16, 1929 Murnau and Flaherty sent Colorart an ultimatum: “If you have not fulfilled all your contract obligations toward us by 22^nd November you have forfeited contract” (54).  When there was no answer, the equipment and film stock were signed over to Flaherty-Murnau and Murnau took over financial and production responsibilities.

As a result, financially Murnau had no other choice but to shoot Tabu as a silent film.  However under Murnau’s control, it seems unlikely that Tabu was ever conceived to be anything but a silent film.  Keeping with his German expressionist roots, Murnau’s vision for Tabu is not so much about the external interaction of his characters with one another as it is about projecting their internal conflict on screen.  For example, understanding the exact details of why Matahi loves Reri is no where near as important as feeling the serene innocence inspired by their love.  Likewise, feeling this tranquility is nowhere near as important as realizing that there is no difference between the tropical Tahitian paradise and the innocence of love.  Thus, all things natural, and therefore harmonious (the beach, the sky, the falling water), speak for Matahi and Reri.  To hear a character actually talk would be to muddle the much louder and more revealing visual voice of the film. 

Thus as Turia begins to transform into Tabu, and Murnau suddenly sees the movie as his own financial investment, the expressionist in Murnau surfaces.  Unfortunately for Flaherty, the very nature of the German expressionist requires a meticulous control over every aspect of direction, meaning Murnau no longer had any need for a second director (56).  Eventually, Murnau reduced Flaherty’s contribution on the project to lab work, hiring Floyd Crosby to replace Flaherty as cinematographer (56).  Despite the developing differences between Murnau and Flaherty, which eventually led to Murnau buying out Flaherty’s financial interest in the film for 25,000 dollars, script credit is split between the two men.  As mentioned by Mark J. Langer in his essay, “Tabu: The Making of a Film”, the plot of Tabu is strikingly similar to that of Turia, a Tahitian story originally heard by Flaherty while filming Southern Skies (54). 

 Taboo, or not Taboo?

Unlike Turia, which relied solely on the tainting of a pristine island culture with the debauchery of Western Civilization as a source of conflict, Tabu added the complexity of the taboo itself, painting the transition from “Paradise” to “Paradise Lost” as a double edged sword.  On the one hand island life could be a teenage romp through a tropical playground, on the other hand tribal customs could seem arbitrarily cruel, or at the very least reluctant to sacrifice communal goals for individual comfort.  Likewise, “civilization” allowed for greater individual freedom, yet abandoned the individual to the mercy of fast talking merchants and gold digging friendships.  Ultimately, the idea of European encroachment appears to be more of a means of motivating plot than anything else in Tabu. 

A similar ambiguity surfaces in the presence of the aged warrior Hitu.  When he arrives and declares Reri to be taboo she becomes a symbol of communal sanctity, a highly honored position within her society (the other women even congratulate her on being selected), but only at the expense of her own happiness.  She is chosen for her beauty, virtue, and royal blood, all of which are so great that no individual may appreciate them.  In this instance the taboo both celebrates and sacrifices her life.  So long as she conforms to the taboo, Reri is the walking dead, much like Hitu himself appears to be later in the film.  She cannot be touched or desired, and therefore cannot outwardly embody the symbol of beauty that makes her worthy of the taboo.  Should any person threaten this law, Hitu must pay with his own life.  Consequently, as the physical manifestation of the taboo, Hitu becomes every bit as imposing as the taboo itself.  When Reri flees her dreams are haunted by menacing visions of Hitu, who possesses a supernatural ability to track her; an ability he has in common with another of Murnau’s famed villains, the vampire of Nosferatu.  Similarly, the vampire in Nosferatu also haunts the dreams of the sinless wife Ellen, which is important because only a sinless woman can successfully defeat the vampire, much like only the virginal Reri can successfully satisfy the taboo.  Hence, both Hitu and the vampire are represented on screen as being shadow stalkers, though this is more representative of both films being of similar expressionist styles than it is of lengthy connections between the two characters.  In Nosferatu, there is no ambiguity regarding the vampire’s motives and agenda, he is self serving, whereas Hitu clearly aims to serve a purpose greater than himself. 

If one assumes that the power of the taboo is in fact manifesting its revenge through Hitu, then Reri’s fate is truly inescapable.  Of course, if one assumes that Hitu is simply acting on the taboo because he feels obligated to his tribe, meaning Matahi will not die if Reri does not return, then the power of the taboo only exists as a social construct.  For Murnau’s purposes, distinguishing between the two is not important.  What is important is conveying this turmoil, this ambiguity that constantly threatens the existence of paradise. And despite conflicting reports regarding who originally initiated the taboo theme, the juxtaposition of an intervening supernatural force with a noble romantic alliance seems much more ripe for Murnau’s expressionist sensibilities than it does Flaherty’s social consciousness (44).  After all, Tabu isn’t really concerned with preserving a natural Tahitian state; it’s only pretending to be.

Expressionism Gives Way to Romanticism: Ode to a Tahitian Dance

Heralded for its cinematography, Tabu appears intent on allowing the Eden-like setting of Bora Bora to amplify the innate purity and serene beauty of its two lovers.  Matahi is introduced putting on a master display of spear fishing for his brethren.  The opening shot of Matahi standing on the beach holding up a spear spans the entire length of the screen, and foregrounds a sweeping skyline, complete with tranquil, fluffy, pristine white clouds.  Here, Matahi’s dominating presence and near nakedness highly suggest a sort of statuesque or godly natural perfection, emphasizing the monumental quality of his body.  Clearly Matahi represents the masculine manifestation of the ideal mate; powerful yet kind, virile yet playful.  He is immediately both physically and spiritually cleansed in a natural spring, where the presence of a drifting lei instinctually draws him upstream towards female companionship.  No doubt he is the perfect match for the equally beautiful Reri, who is literally introduced hiding between the leaves of a tropical fern.  And after fighting off another island beauty for Matahi’s attention, it is Matahi that bathes Reri in the purifying spring water.  In fact, there is very little distinction between the natural movement of the Bora Bora topography, water falling, waves rolling, palm trees rocking gently in the wind, and the passionate swaying back and forth of Reri’s hips during the provocative dance scenes of the film.  And here is when Tabu stops being about the natural Tahitian state and starts pretending.  Because generally speaking, ethnicity and/or race are essentially meaningless to a medium intent on solely projecting an internal depth of character, except when that particular ethnicity/race embodies the western stereotype of sensuality.  That is, Murnau understands a natural western desire to see Polynesian bodies and think of passion, warmth, and desire.  He’s using an expressionist’s form but he’s sticking with a romanticist’s agenda.  Thus Tabu is not so much about the natural Tahitian state as it is about the image of perfection inspired by the natural Tahitian state.  This is the reality that Murnau is after.

For example, when Murnau shows Reri and Matahi embracing surrounded by the shadows of the rich foliage he wants it all—beaches, palms, young lovers, setting suns—to be one and the same.  What he doesn’t want is for his Tahitians to be multi-dimensional; he just wants them to be in love.  Again, this doesn’t imply that Tabu lacks depth, what is complex to Murnau isn’t exactly the love story itself, it’s the movement towards peace and paradise and impossibility of maintaining this perfect moment.  This is most evident in the first dance scene of the film.  Other than loosely explaining it as a taboo ritual, Murnau never really delves into political, religious, or even cultural significance of the dance.  Visually, the dance is the climactic revelation of paradise, a union of sexual fervor and fantastical spectacle embodying the most natural existence of the two lover’s passion.  Matahi and Reri are finally capable of projecting their internal passion by acting out, and in doing so they momentarily transcend the taboo, and Tahiti, and the conventions of Hollywood film making.  In fact, the entire film can be summed up in this one dance scene: two lovers meet, their movements are beautiful and organic and spectacular, they cannot dance forever.  This moment of perfection can never be duplicated, and the remainder of the film is Murnau’s attempts to prove this.  Thus in the second dance scene, we are constantly reminded of the element of corruption, such as incoming ships, and the need for manufactured stimulants such as champagne and money.  Likewise, no matter which path Reri and Matahi opt for, there appears to be some obstacle preventing them from achieving happiness.    

The Formality of Expressionism

Some of the obvious affects of blurring the distinction between actors and setting within the film include Tabu managing an organic fluidity that really does seem like the daily interaction of native islander, as opposed to say, actors acting out a plot.  Again, Murnau’s vision isn’t just to imitate the Polynesian landscape, he’s more interested in projecting the western fantasy of the Polynesian landscape.  In addition, as the taboo’s power to control Reri and Matahi’s fate becomes increasingly linked to an intangible natural order, it is the same bond with nature that at one time purified their love that inevitably holds them hostage.  Indeed, both characters seem eternally linked to their natural surroundings by the various wreathes worn on their heads and the matching floral patterns displayed on their clothing throughout the film.  Again, rather than have the two characters act out their passion and love, Murnau blends them into the scenery, allowing them to embody the passion and sensuality of their relationship.  Of course, this careful manipulation of mise-en-scène (the positioning of actors and careful selection of props and scenery), coupled with the gradual invasion of darkness and shadow into the film, are trademarks of Murnau’s expressionist style.

For example, Matahi and Reri’s playful frolicking in the natural spring is interrupted by an alarm sounded by a village sentry warning of an incoming ship.  Murnau implements a gradual shift in emphasis from the peacefulness of the natural setting to the distressing intrusion of the outside influence by cutting several times between shots of villagers rushing for their canoes and back again to an increasingly closer shot of the sentry, until eventually the sentry’s face fills the entire screen and the palm trees and tropical backdrop are completely excluded from view.  In doing so, Murnau infuses the first signs of the subtle tension that will eventually charge the entire story of Tabu.  As villagers charge across the ocean in their canoes to meet the ship, Murnau reminds us of the fate of innocence, as a young child cries alone on the shore, forgotten by his village.  Of course, as a testament to the immaculate character of Matahi, he returns to shore and rescues the boy, even if he can’t rescue himself. 

Perhaps this is best demonstrated in scenes of Reri and Matahi asleep in their hut, coiled together on a floral patterned blanket while the shadows of palm fronds sway across their bodies.  Here, Murnau accomplishes a divinely romantic image of natural beauty; their love is as bold and pure as the light of the full moon breaking through the flora.  It’s a purity that empowers them, bonds them together, and yet by submerging the lovers in shadow Murnau essentially traps them within their own innocence.  As Jo Leslie Collier states in her book, From Wagner to Murnau; the Transposition of Romanticism from Stage to Screen: “In Murnau, shadows do not anticipate the threat; they are the threat.  Their very immateriality makes them inescapable” (147).  Again, much like the lush paradise seemed the optimal canvas for Murnau’s expressionist form, the taboo itself is exactly the sort of ambiguous threat that makes for true expressionistic peril.  The audience watches the two lovers dream and is dazzled by the their magnificent coupling.  The audience watches them dream and is saddened by their impending doom.  And herein lies the true identity of Murnau’s vision and the real genius of his film:  the intangible Tabu.  Protector or tormentor?  Real or make believe?  Good, bad, or perhaps neither?  The considerate anthropologist says Reri and Matahi have an obligation to island lore and therefore returning Reri to her god-given position as “the chosen one” is the responsible, if not happy, ending.  But the romantic, and no doubt Tabu is a romantic’s romance, sees the bitter irony of Reri succumbing to the power of the tabu, just as Matahi seemingly transcends its control over their fate, as the ultimate tragedy. 

The Sun Sets

Consequently, while the final chase scene provides an adequate dramatic conclusion, it is by no means melodramatic (Eyman 6).  Murnau refuses to pander to the Hollywood prerequisite of dangling hope.  Reri is never seen during the chase sequence, we know only that she has been placed somewhere below the deck of the sailboat, sealed in her coffin as some critics have suggested (Sragow 4).  Instead, her suffering is portrayed through the cataclysmic music and the violent breaking of the ocean waves as they effectively toss the sailboat out to sea.  Neither is Matahi given a face of anguish.  His torment is also mirrored by the music and the turbulent sea.  The gracefulness of his once fluid motion gives way to a desperate battering of the water’s surface as he swims from reef to reef; having to struggle up and over each one, and for the first time in the film Matahi appears at odds with his natural surroundings.  As the moment of closure approaches the camera seems to lose Matahi, focusing instead on the bobbing up and down of the sailboat’s nose, again reflecting a continuity of movement and feeling.  Briefly Matahi flashes in and out of the screen, he is nearly lost, and then Murnau cuts to a shot of Matahi grabbing hold of a rope, which Hitu simultaneously cuts away, the music climaxing and then settling, and Matahi rapidly disappears out of the picture.  The only face ever seen during the chase is that of Hitu, stoic and reserved, neither good nor evil, he is merely the patient messenger of fate.  Again, Hitu is not so much cutting in two a strand of hope as he is parting Matahi’s life line.  And once the tabu has been honored, once order has been restored, the sea quietly calms itself, enveloping Matahi in the process.  It is a moment of lingering depression and wretched splendor; satisfying in a way only a true master can satisfy an audience by breaking its collective heart.

Bibliography

Collier, Jo Leslie.  From Wagner to Murnau; The Transposition of Romanticism from Stage to Screen.  Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1988.

Eyman, Scott.  “Sunrise in Bora Bora.”  Milestone Films.  1990 <http://www.milestonefilms.com/articles/borabora1.html>

Fell, John L.  A History of Films.  New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1979.

Langer, Mark J.  “Tabu: The Making of a Film.” Cinema Journal 24 (1985): 43-61.

Murnau, Friedrich Wilhelm, dir. Nosferatu; A Symphony of Horror. Based on Dracula by Bram Stoker.  Blackhawk Films Collection, Film Preservation Associates, 1991.

Murnau, Friedrich Wilhelm, dir. Tabu; A South Sea Tale. Paramount Publix Corporation, 1931.

Sragow, Michael.  “We Three Kings.” Salon.Com. 2001 <http://www.salon.com/ent/col/srag/2001/01/25/2004.print.html>