If within a lifetime a man changes his skin an infinite number of times, almost as often as his suits, he still does not change his heart; he has but one.
Ilya Ehrenburg, Memoirs
1.
Even before the publication of Daniel Kehlmann’s novel The Director, a fictional account of G. W. Pabst’s life and work between 1934 and his death in 1967, the Austrian filmmaker was perceived as fatally compromised by his return to Nazi Germany and the movies he made under that regime. Kehlmann’s book, however, is decisive in its representation of Pabst as an artist who lost his way, made a Faustian deal with the National Socialists, and, thereby, sold his soul to Fascism. None of this is exactly true or fair – but Art has its own logic and makes mythology from the raw evidence of biography and history.
Pabst’s problem was that he left Germany and the film industry in Berlin for Hollywood, failed to thrive in la-la-land, and, after an inconsequential sojourn in Paris, returned to Nazi Germany where he worked under the supervision of Josef Goebbels. Most of the other great figures active in the Weimar Republic film industry fled Germany never to return. Fritz Lang escaped in 1933, allegedly on the eve of an interview with Goebbels about his role in the National Socialist film industry – Lang didn’t return to West Germany until the early sixties, after a successful career in Hollywood. F. W. Murnau left Berlin for Hollywood before the storm, working for Fox Studios, on his masterpiece Sunrise, released in 1927, the same year that The Love of Jeanne Ney premiered. (Murnau avoided further compromise by the simplest and most decisive of expedients – he died in a car crash near Santa Barbara in 1931.) Ernst Lubitsch, who was Jewish, had emigrated to Hollywood in 1922 and never looked back. Max Ophuls and Douglas Sirk (Detlev Sierck) fled to Los Angeles and established themselves in the German emigre film community. Thousands of actors and technicians also left Germany after the collapse of the Weimar Republic. The genre of the horror film, particularly as practiced at Universal Studios, is largely the invention of German film workers living in self-imposed exile in Los Angeles. The situation was similar in the other arts: Brecht found himself collaborating on screenplays in Hollywood, Schoenberg and other composers from the German-speaking world also took up residence in Los Angeles. Thomas Mann and Franz Werfel both ended-up, with numerous other refugees, in southern California. Many of these figures, if they survived the War and the worst of the post-war reconstruction of Germany, returned ultimately to Europe. Pabst’s infamy resides in the fact that a mixture of vanity and accident stranded him in Germany or, more accurately stated, his home country of Austria (called Ostmark under the Nazis) where he remained for the duration of the war and, even, lent his talents to the fascist regime.
Pabst’s work in the Nazi film industry is imbued with a particularly sinister irony because the director had been known as a man of the Left, indeed, a filmmaker with pronounced Communist inclinations. Just before making The Love of Jeanne Ney, Pabst had joined two Leftist groups, including the radical Bund, an avowedly Marxist league of film professionals. The Love of Jeanne Ney adapts a novel by the Bolshevik writer Ilya Ehrenburg and contains many Soviet elements, including instances of dialectical montage in the style of Eisenstein. Pabst later collaborated with Bertolt Brecht on The Three Penny Opera, a work with an explicit Communist moral. Indeed, Pabst’s commitment to Left-wing causes was such that he was nicknamed Der Rote Pabst (“the Red Pope” – the name Pabst means “Pope” in German).
Pabst’s admiration of Soviet cinema led him to propose a German re-make of Eisenstein’s The Battleship Potemkin. In Pabst’s scenario, the proposed film depicts a revolt among Communist-inspired sailors in the harbor city of Kiel. (Eisenstein’s Potemkin concerns a sailor’s mutiny in the port of Odessa; a mutiny of sailors in the German navy on November 1 and 2, 1918 led to a Leftist revolt that spread from Kiel throughout northern Germany and triggering the abdication of the Kaiser and the formation of the Weimar Republic.) The movie was a bridge too far and never was made. But allusions to Potemkin and the events in November 1918 abound in the first part of Jeanne Ney. The film’s hero is a Bolshevik agitator, a leader in a revolt against the White Russians in Odessa and the Crimea. A scene in the film is actually staged on a part of what seems to be the famous Odessa steps that feature in the climactic massacre in Potemkin. And, later, in the film, the Bolshevik, Andreas, is dispatched from Paris to Toulon to lead Communist revolutionary activity in that military harbor city where, probably not coincidentally, Leftist sailors later participated in a bloody rebellion in August 1935.
Pabst’s Bolshevik sympathies are evident, as well, in his selection of Ilya Ehrenburg’s novel The Love of Jeanne Ney for his 1927 film. Ehrenburg, born in Kiev in 1891, was a Communist writer with impeccable revolutionary credentials. When he was 17, the Tsarist secret police detained him and knocked out half of his teeth. He was exiled to Paris for his Leftist political activities where he met Lenin as well as Picasso, Cocteau, and Diego Rivera. Ehrenburg returned to Russia during the October Revolution but was appalled by the street fighting. It is said that he spent most of his time there cowering in his hotel room. Later, he covered the Russian civil war between the Whites and the Reds, the subject of the opening scenes in the movie. Although initially anti-Bolshevik, Ehrenburg drifted toward the Soviet Communists. Living in Berlin in 1923, he published three novels including The Love of Jeanne Ney. The book, a popular success, concerned the love of French bourgeois girl (Jeanne Ney) for a dashing Communist subversive, assigned to lead a revolt in Toulon. The provocateur (Andreas) is framed for a crime and arrested; he chooses to die rather than reveal his mission. (Doubleday published the book in America in an English translation in 1930.) Ehrenburg turned out to be a clever and opportunistic political chameleon – he survived Stalin’s terror and World War Two in which he called for the extermination of all Germans. (Photographs show him with Malraux and Hemingway as well as people like Cocteau – Ehrenburg, who detested Americans, said that the only contributions to civilization made by America were Hemingway and Chesterfield cigarettes.) He wrote an important novel after Stalin’s death called The Thaw, signifying the relaxation of the repression in the Soviet Union in the mid-1950's. Ehrenburg died in 1967 and is buried in Moscow under a tombstone bearing a replica of Picasso’s sketch of his face.
As it happened, Ehrenburg and Pabst quarreled bitterly over the script for Jeanne Ney. Ehrenburg disliked and disavowed the “happy ending” Pabst imposed on the material – love reigns supreme with Andreas, the Bolshevik terrorist, cleared of the crime for which he has been framed and free to continue his romance with Jeanne Ney. Even more offensive to Ehrenburg, a non-religious Jew, was the scene in the film in which Andreas and Jeanne enter a church and the Communist revolutionary is depicted kneeling with his girlfriend before an image of the Virgin Mary.
The Love of Jeanne Ney isn’t mentioned by name in Kehlmann’s novel. However, after the War, Soviet agents visit Pabst who is, then, living in Austria at his family estate (Dreiturm) and making schlock commercial films, in particular Geheimnessvolle Tiefen (“The Mysterious Depths”), a romance about cave explorers in the Alps. Pabst, who is depressed and a shadow of his former self, impresses the Soviet police by alluding to his work with the famous Russian novelist Ilya Ehrenburg:
“Once some Soviet officers appeared following up on a tip: Someone had anonymously informed the occupation authorities that the lord of Dreiturm castle (Pabst) had been a creator of Nazi films, a member of the Reichsfilmkammer (Reich Film Commission) and a favorite of the Minister of Propaganda – but, when this happened, for an hour, Pabst’s old personality was back in evidence. He graciously provided the men with vodka and told them that, once, people had called him the Roten Pabst and that he had filmed works by the Soviet author Ehrenburg and Brecht as well. He had been so charming and convincing that the officer embraced him when they departed.”
2.
Georg Wilhelm Pabst was born in Raudnitz, Bohemia, then, part of Austria-Hungary in August 1885. His father was a railroad official. Pabst studied drama in Vienna and, when he was 25, traveled to the United States as an actor and director of a German-language theater group in New York City. Returning to Germany after a couple years, he was swept up in World War One, almost immediately captured, and spent the rest of the war in a POW camp on an island off the coast near Brest in Normandy. While interned as a prisoner, Pabst directed several plays produced in French by the POWs. After the war, Pabst returned to Vienna where he directed plays in an avant-garde theater, beginning around 1919. After a brief apprenticeship as an assistant director, Pabst made his first feature film, The Treasure, in 1923. The movie can be seen on the internet. It is a somewhat slow-moving and thoroughly expressionistic picture with elaborate set decoration, gloomy chiaroscuro camera-work, painted shadows, and medieval/gothic stylings. (The Treasure is the only purely expressionistic film that Pabst made.)
Pabst’s breakthrough pictures is The Joyless Street (1925). In that film, a study of a young woman forced into prostitution by economic conditions (one woman exchanges sex for meat at a Viennese butcher shop), Pabst presents as an ingenue, the Swedish actress Greta Garbo. (The film also stars Asta Nielsen). Due in part to Garbo’s luminous presence, the film was a box-office success. Although lit expressionistically, the film is generally described as an example of die Neue Sachlichkeit (“the new Objectivity”) in film. Pabst followed The Joyless Street with a succession of films that are regarded as landmarks in Weimar Cinema. Secrets of a Soul (1926) is a precise, and frightening, attempt to dramatize Freudian psychological theory – it’s remarkably good. The Love of Jeanne Ney (1927) is said to be a “culminating” work in silent cinema, a sort of compendium of different approaches to filmmaking as it had evolved just prior to the inception of sound films. Pabst, then, made two final silent pictures starring the American actress (she was Ziegfeld girl who hailed from Kansas City), Louise Brooks – these are Pandora’s Box and The Diary of a Lost Girl. Working with Bertolt Brecht, Pabst directed his first sound film, The Threepenny Opera, 1931. (This film is notable for preserving the performance of the great Berlin singer and cabaret performer, Lotte Lenya). West Front 1918 is a harrowing anti-war picture – it was also released with sound, although most of the footage was shot in silent format; the picture reached the public in 1930. Also heavily inflected with internationalist, anti-war sentiment is Pabst’s Kameradschaft (“Cameraderie”) first shown in 1931. Kameradschaft, a very impressive and spectacular film, is about a coal dust explosion in a mine near the border between France and Germany; when French miners are trapped underground, German workers tunnel under the border between the two countries to rescue their “comrades.” (Although inspiring, the film is clear-sighted about national borders – after the rescue mission, the respective governments of France and Germany install a barrier underground, a wall in the tunnel between the two countries.) Pabst, then, made a version of Don Quixote (1933) starring the famous Russian opera singer, the bass Feodor Chaliapin. (These pictures were international co-productions, made with American money and shot with French, German, and Russian crews.) During this same time, Pabst also worked as co-director with Arnold Fanck to made The White Hell of Pitz Palu, a classic “mountain film” (Bergfilm) with young lovers stranded in a blizzard on the glaciers of the might peak, Pitz Palu. (The film features the World War One ace fighter pilot, Ernst Udet, who lands his biplane on an ice-field to rescue the stranded climbers. Leni Riefenstahl plays the romantic interest in the film – this was the movie that catapulted her to success.) This picture is very spectacular and exciting and holds up well today as an adventure movie. The film’s production was arduous – it was all shot on location and Pabst,who suffered acrophobia (fear of heights), almost froze to death.
With the Nazi ascent to power Pabst (known then as “the Red Pabst) thought it prudent to leave the imploding Weimar Republic. He went to Hollywood where he made A Modern Hero (1934), a failure. Unable to secure directing positions in Los Angeles, Pabst moved to Paris where he made several films, none of them particularly impressive. Pabst’s mother remained in Austria and was in ill-health. Accordingly, Pabst returned with his family to Vienna and its environs, planning to put his elderly mother in a nursing home. But war was declared and Pabst found himself trapped in Austria at that time re-named Ostmark after the Anschluss with the Nazi regime. Joseph Goebbels summoned Pabst to Berlin. The Propaganda and Culture Minister persuaded Pabst to work in Berlin under his direction. In Nazi Germany, Pabst made The Comedians, a lavishly produced period piece released in 1941. In 1943, he directed another spectacular period piece Paracelsus about the early renaissance magician, occultist, and healer. During this time, Pabst was also recruited to help with Leni Riefenstahl’s massive and expensive production of Tiefland, a picture that was never fully completed. As the noose was tightening around the Third Reich, bombing raids closed the studios as UFA in Neu Babelsberg, a Berlin suburb, and forced Pabst to work on his film Der Fall Molander (“The Molander Case”) at Barradanov Studios in Prague. This film was also lavishly produced, an adaptation of a crime novel by one of the Reich’s pet authors, but its final cut has been wholly lost – notwithstanding rumors about elements from the film being retained by either the Russian army or a film archive in Prague.
Post-war, Pabst was regarded with suspicion because of his work for Goebbels. However, Pabst’s Nazi-era pictures are relatively subtle and propaganda elements in the films are mostly concealed, a matter of sub rosa implications. Pabst made several virtuous anti-Fascist films in the late forties and early fifties including a depiction of the Stauffenberg attempt to assassinate Hitler, a picture about the persecution of Jews (The Trial), and a bunker movie released in English as The Last Ten Days. Here is where Pabst’s filmography in English-language accounts comes to an end. But, in fact, Pabst made another eight or nine films, including a spelunking adventure picture written by his wife Gertrude Pabst – this film, called Geheimnisvolle Tiefen (“Mysterious Depths”) was shot in difficult circumstances in an Alpine ice cave and seems similar in form and plot to The White Hell of Pitz Palu – young lovers go astray underground and have to be saved. Pabst directed some operas, including a notable 1953 version of Aida with Maria Callas. He lived until 1967 when he died in Vienna.
3.
The critic Jim Hoberman, formerly the movie reviewer for the Village Voice, describes The Love of Jeanne Ney as a “culminating work in the silent cinema.” By this Hoberman means that The Love of Jeanne Ney incorporates various aspects and styles of silent filmmaking in their fully evolved form. Pabst’s commitment seems to be to maximizing the expressive force of the narrative that he presents. In just about every shot, therefore, Pabst provides not only the minimum information necessary to drive the plot forward but, also, additional and surprising details that are excessive, that augment and, even, call into question the narrative. In addition, Pabst is a great curator of faces and human expressions; he freights the movie with beautiful, striking, and grotesque faces and animates them with lust or anger or fear. Pabst seems to combine realistic modes of representation with histrionic melodrama. The effect is that the film presents a montage of imagery that seems unstable, swinging between comedy, even farce, documentary objectivity, and operatic melodrama.
Consider as an example a scene in which the cell of Communist provocateurs is raided by the police. The Bolsheviks, including Andreas, seem to be in some sort of underground corridor – it looks like a beer cave. Warned at the last moment that the cops are advancing, the Communists try to exit a basement window. One of them is grabbed by his legs and yanked down from the window through which he is trying to wriggle free. (These shots have a vaguely slapstick tone to them.) The sequence, then, cuts to an exterior, seemingly an alley above the underground passage through which the agents have escaped. We see a figure fleeing through the alley. This shot, mundane in its subject – a man flees along the street – however, contains strange, inexplicable overtones. The alleyway emerges from some sort of dark shelter with a very high, pointed (pitched) roof. The interior of this shelter is shadowy – we can’t see into it. The steep, pitched roof and the heavy timber that seems to comprise this inexplicable structure (what is it?) imparts to the image a curious Gothic aspect, raising questions in the viewer’s mind as to what exactly we are seeing. And those questions, which are largely subliminal, are never answered – Pabst doesn’t dispatch his camera into the dark grotto-like enclosure and we are not shown anything that assists in deciphering the image.
In its “culminating” collage of styles and modes of representation, The Love of Jeanne Ney combines Hollywood mise-en-scene, chiefly in narrative scenes involving the detective agency and the subplot about the stolen diamond with Soviet dialectical montage – for instance, a close-up of a crown and imperial eagle suddenly dissolves into a large portrait of Vladimir Lenin posted on a wall. Pabst films glimpses of the revolution after the manner of Eisenstein: workers heroically framed in muscular, densely edited tableaux. But these idealized propaganda images are offset by realistically depicted imagery of war-torn Crimea, vistas of ruined villages and desolate streets. When the revolutionaries are shown marching toward the camera, we see them trudging at double-time through a muddy puddle or stream. There are instances of broad comedy – for instance, the aggrieved husband being presented with evidence of his wife’s infidelity in the detective offices of Raymond Ney. Over-blown and, even, spectacular, documentary elements predominate in some sequences – Jeanne Ney and Andreas walk through vast Parisian squares teeming with commercial activity; these shots involve literally thousands of people – we have to engage in a “Where’s Waldo?” search with our eyes to pick out our protagonists among the commercial hubbub. (These shots are doubly incongruous because they have been preceded by vistas of Paris streets eerily empty at dawn – this is the episode in the picture in which Andreas and Jeanne leave the hotel where they have spent the night.) Pabst’s camera roams across the sets and urban landscapes to discover curious details – for instance, in the hotel scene, Jeanne and Andreas look across an air-shaft to a somewhat impoverished-looking suite where a wedding is underway; we see the groom pawing the bride and, then, there is an inexplicably moving close-up of her face, designed to show us tears flowing down her cheeks. The wedding and bride have nothing to do with the story; and, in fact, the imagery doesn’t really comment on anything happening in the scene between Jeanne and Andreas – it’s hard to make any neat interpretation of the images involving the wedding, the forlorn bride, and, at dawn, one of the revelers sprawled drunkenly against the window frame. Toward the end of the film, the picture develops into a chase of the sort perfected by D. W. Griffith, the action of the train interrupted suddenly with grotesque comedy involving the old couple with the booze and the big truncheon-shaped sausage. Pabst cuts on movement – he is one of the screen’s great editors. Since movies are about movement, Pabst imports motion into scenes that don’t really require it – this is a gratuitous sort of gift to the audience. When Andreas and Jeanne first meet in Paris, the sequence involves an elaborate ballet of big sedans moving on parallel tracks – the choreography suggests characters who belong in the same frame with one another but because of fences and the shape of Montmartre lanes, are held apart by the terrain. Some parts of the film are purely expressionistic, archaic in presentation, as if artifacts of an earlier phase in the history of film. When the repulsive Raymond Ney mimics receiving a fortune in reward money for the return of the diamond, the camera work, lighting and shadows, as well as the acting all become vividly and wildly expressionistic. It’s as if Pabst is channeling scenes from Erich von Stroheim’s Greed and these elements in the movie have the same frenzied and embittered character as some of the most extreme aspects in that earlier film – in fact, Pabst’s mixture of grotesquerie and savage realism often resembles von Stroheim’s imagery in films like Greed, Blind Husbands, and Foolish Wives. Like von Stroheim, Pabst also sometimes suggests various sorts of sexual perversity – some of the characters seems to be coded as gay in The Love of Jeanne Ney and, in the scene where Jeanne first encounters her bulbous-eyed leering uncle there is a strong suggestion that the man may have raped her at some earlier time. The scenes in which the lecherous Chalybjew tries to caress Jeanne while her blind sister, Gabrielle, is across the table have a startling, raw, and obscene energy.
It’s worth commenting on two of the performances in the film: Brigitte Helm as the blind and helpless Gabrielle and Fritz Rasp as the villainous Chalybjew. Brigitta Helm is most famous for the dual role that she played in Lang’s Metropolis (1926) – in that movie, she appears as a humble woman, Maria, who cares for the children of the enslaved workers in the city’s subterranean depths; seized by the evil sorcerer and mad scientist Rotwang, she is somehow cloned into a robot version of the saint-like Maria – the robot is a femme fatale, who winks lewdly at the camera, and poses half-naked in the debauched night clubs in Metropolis. Lang goes so far as to equate the vamp Maria with the Whore of Babylon in the Book of Revelation – in one spectacular scene, she rises out of the depths astride an apocalyptic beast. As the pious, masochistic Maria, Helm slumps her shoulders and stoops, demonstrating extreme (if irritating) humility by her posture – it is Expressionistic acting par excellence. She’s more compelling, if equally stylized as the lascivious robot-imposter. Helm specialized in vamp roles – she is particularly famous for appearing topless on posters for the 1928 horror/science fiction picture Alraune – she plays a prostitute inseminated with the semen of a hanged man. She also appears in Pabst’s strange 1932 Die Herrin von Atlantis (The Mistress of Atlantis) – in that film, she’s a nymphomaniacal man-slaying queen who rules over the subterranean kingdom of Atlantis, hidden beneath the sand dunes of the Sahara. (Pabst made the movie for international markets in three versions – German, French, and English; it’s not easy to find legible DVDs of Atlantis, but, I watched it and believe it to be very impressive, a surreal fantasia involving harem girls, in one scene, listening to Offenbach’s “Can-Can” from Orpheus in the Underworld.) During the Nazi era, Helm was one of Hitler’s favorite actresses – she made a number of comedies for the Fuehrer despite professing distaste for the regime. She was a bad driver, often drunk, and was involved in several serious motor vehicle accidents that were “fixed” by the Nazi ministry of culture. Later, she married an industrialist, retired to Sweden, and lived until 1996. She retired from the film industry when she was married and made no pictures after 1935.
Fritz Rasp, who plays the villain in The Love of Jeanne Ney, was one of the Expressionist era’s most successful character actors. Born in 1891, he first appeared in silent films in 1916 and specialized in playing evil characters. Pabst used him in Pandora’s Box, playing a bad guy again in The Diary of a Lost Girl, and cast him as Peachum, the villain in The Three Penny Opera (1930). He’s in Lang’s Spione (“Spies”, 1928). He continued to work as a heavy in German films for the rest of his career – he plays a murderer in The Murder of Dmitri Karamazov (1931) and even has the title role of Judas in the 1933 The Judas of Tyrol about a Swiss Passion Play. Pabst used him again in his 1943 Paracelsus where he plays another villain. Rasp continued to perform in German-language movies until the early seventies. He died in 1976. Rasp is one of the most instantly recognizable and dependably effectiveactors in German cinema.
4.
Charlotte Beradt (1907 - 1986) was a journalist born Jewish in Brandenberg. During the Weimar period, she wrote for women’s magazines and political periodicals. Both she and her first husband (Heinz Pollak or Pol) were members of the Communist party with Spartacist affiliations. She was a close friend to Hannah Arendt and may have shared a boyfriend with him. After the Nazi rise to power, Beradt was prohibited from working as a journalist. With her second husband, Martin Beradt, she emigrated to New York City via London, getting out of Germany just in the nick of time – she landed in New York harbor in 1940. In New York, Charlotte Beradt initially worked as a hair dresser, running a salon out of her apartment. In 1943, she published an English language essay about people’s dreams under the Nazi totalitarian regime. Later, she worked for public radio, producing scripts in support of the Civil Rights movement. She translated for publication four of Hannah Arendt’s war-time essays.
Beradt had begun to dream about Hitler and his cohort in 1933. She was interested in psychoanalysis and wrote down her dreams. Later, she collected dreams from various informants on the subject of the Nazi regime that were published with her analysis in a 1966 book written in German, Der Dritte Reich des Traums. This book, on which her fame depends, was published in English translation in 1985 and, then, largely forgotten. The German edition of the book was accompanied by a preface by the Freudian psychoanalyst Bruno Bettelheim who was himself a concentration camp survivor. Bettelheim’s introduction didn’t do the book any favors. He dismissed Beradt’s compilation as shallow and incomplete; he said that the book had no dreams reported by Nazi true believers and, further, documented only the so-called “manifest content” of the dreams and not the personally significant “latent content” necessary for full analysis. This sniffy and pedantic introduction demonstrates that Bettelheim didn’t understand Beradt’s intentions – she wasn’t interested in analyzing her informants but merely documenting how their dream imagery was affected by totalitarianism (“living in a world without walls,” as one of her sources told her). Trump’s second ascent to power has made the book relevant once more – it was published this Spring in a new English translation and praised by no less than Zadie Smith in The London Review of Books.
Beradt’s modest treatise is significant in the context of Kehlmann’s fictional account of Pabst’s fatal compromises with the Nazi power for which he worked as a filmmaker. In Beradt’s book, her subject is the transformation of Gegner (those in opposition or resistence to Hitler) into so-called Mitlaeufer (“fellow travelers”). Pabst never became a Nazi and expressed nothing but contempt for the regime both before returning to Germany and after the War. But it didn’t matter – his compromises turned him into a Mitlaeufer, someone willing to go along with the regime while never accepting its political premises. By not opposing the Nazis, he became complicit in their evil. This is the great theme of Kehlmann’s novel The Director and, also, the subject matter of Charlotte Beradt’s The Third Reich in Dreams.
5.
Because silent films didn’t require dubbing, these movies had become fully international by 1927 – only with the advent of sound did the industry splinter again into different linguistic markets. UFA suffered serious financial losses during the inflationary period of Weimar Republic. But the studio was bailed-out by American companies, Paramount and Metro-Goldwyn Mayer (MGM) who assumed a share in its enterprises. Both of these production firms infused millions of dollars into the ailing German film industry in 1926. It is for this reason that The Love of Jeanne Ney shows a title indicating that the picture was produced by Parufamet – that is, “Par” for Paramount, UFA for the German company with its studios at Berlin Babelsberg, and “Met” for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.
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