Fyodor Dostoevsky's novel "Crime and Punishment" has been adapted to the screen many times, from the silent era to contemporary 21st-century teen drama and from Hollywood, Australia, Brazil, Britain, Finland, France, Germany, Kazakhstan, Mexico, Peru, the Philippines, Poland, Sweden and, of course, Russia, as well as elsewhere. Two of the more-studio-bound versions were released in 1935 from opposite sides of the Atlantic. While it seems that today the American one by renowned director Josef von Sternberg and star Peter Lorre is the better known (although still relatively little seen by non-classic-film buffs), this French film is superior in essentially every respect. Merely as a condensed transmutation of the novel's plot and selected scenes, it may be the best I've seen, and I've listed and reviewed 24 movies inspired by the book since reading it.
On the other hand, this one is hindered by the same sort of objective perspective of its 1935 American counterpart. I suppose this is an ordinary limitation of cinema, which is an inherently spectatorial or observational medium and so fails to internalize a character's stream of consciousness in the way prose may seem better suited. Indeed, few films succeed in sustaining an externalization of, the protagonist of the story, Raskolnikov's subjectivity. The German silent "Raskolnikow" (1923) did so visually with Expressionist set designs--reflecting the character's internal state of mind upon the objective world. Among talkies, "Pickpocket" (1959) handles voiceover narration the best for a similar purpose. Consequently, they're two of my favorite "Crime and Punishment" films. Simply for a traditional narrative adaptation, which is for the most part finely acted and well constructed, one might not do better than this one, though.
Especially compared to Lorre's disappointingly pugnacious performance (especially given his prior sensitive work as a murderer chased by police in "M" (1931)), Pierre Blanchar is more effective in displaying an unhinged Raskolnikov that more closely resembles the character Dostoevsky wrote: obsessive, rude, poor, sickly and wavering between fainting and pretending confidence to deflect his guilt and to go along with his grandiose philosophical pretensions of his own superiority. One of the best sequences here follows Raskolnikov, much as it happened in the book, when he goes out to murder the pawnbroker. It's somewhat Hitchcockian even in building suspense--coupling a tense score with effective editing and nice tracking shots to follow Blanchar's figure. We almost get a bit of the wry smile from him, too, as well as more good use of the music and montage, during the climactic confrontation with Sonya. Surprisingly, even the use of shadows here are more menacing, such as Raskolnikov's appearance being announced by his shadow through the glass plane of the door to the room with the axe, than in the version by von Sternberg, who is otherwise celebrated for his chiaroscuro compositions. While nothing exceptional, this version also does somewhat better to expand the photoplay beyond studio flats--although, of course, not through any novelistic exploration of Saint Petersburg. As in the 1923 picture, the architectural focus here on staircases is appropriate given the narrative. There are some nice dolly-forward close-ups. And even the continuity editing seems stronger here than in the Hollywood alternative.
Best of all, this version succeeds where the American one didn't in bringing drama out of the inspector Porfiry interrogating Raskolnikov. There are even a couple of genuinely humorous moments to come from their meetings, which is in stark contrast to some otherwise dreary adaptations of this novel. One of the best uses of dolly close-ups in this one features Harry Bauer, as Porfiry, comparing his suspect with a moth attracted to a flame. Yet, not everything here works well. The subplot involving Rasklnikov's sister, her suitors, and his mother especially suffers from the necessary shortening in the process of adapting a long book. Two exposition-heavy arguments between and among the group hardly renders this part of the story of any importance to the conservative theme bemoaning a loss of an aristocratic and religious order to new moneyed interests and new ways of thinking such as Russian nihilism. Nevertheless, this is the best 1935 "Crime and Punishment" film and one of the best adaptations of the celebrated novel overall.
On the other hand, this one is hindered by the same sort of objective perspective of its 1935 American counterpart. I suppose this is an ordinary limitation of cinema, which is an inherently spectatorial or observational medium and so fails to internalize a character's stream of consciousness in the way prose may seem better suited. Indeed, few films succeed in sustaining an externalization of, the protagonist of the story, Raskolnikov's subjectivity. The German silent "Raskolnikow" (1923) did so visually with Expressionist set designs--reflecting the character's internal state of mind upon the objective world. Among talkies, "Pickpocket" (1959) handles voiceover narration the best for a similar purpose. Consequently, they're two of my favorite "Crime and Punishment" films. Simply for a traditional narrative adaptation, which is for the most part finely acted and well constructed, one might not do better than this one, though.
Especially compared to Lorre's disappointingly pugnacious performance (especially given his prior sensitive work as a murderer chased by police in "M" (1931)), Pierre Blanchar is more effective in displaying an unhinged Raskolnikov that more closely resembles the character Dostoevsky wrote: obsessive, rude, poor, sickly and wavering between fainting and pretending confidence to deflect his guilt and to go along with his grandiose philosophical pretensions of his own superiority. One of the best sequences here follows Raskolnikov, much as it happened in the book, when he goes out to murder the pawnbroker. It's somewhat Hitchcockian even in building suspense--coupling a tense score with effective editing and nice tracking shots to follow Blanchar's figure. We almost get a bit of the wry smile from him, too, as well as more good use of the music and montage, during the climactic confrontation with Sonya. Surprisingly, even the use of shadows here are more menacing, such as Raskolnikov's appearance being announced by his shadow through the glass plane of the door to the room with the axe, than in the version by von Sternberg, who is otherwise celebrated for his chiaroscuro compositions. While nothing exceptional, this version also does somewhat better to expand the photoplay beyond studio flats--although, of course, not through any novelistic exploration of Saint Petersburg. As in the 1923 picture, the architectural focus here on staircases is appropriate given the narrative. There are some nice dolly-forward close-ups. And even the continuity editing seems stronger here than in the Hollywood alternative.
Best of all, this version succeeds where the American one didn't in bringing drama out of the inspector Porfiry interrogating Raskolnikov. There are even a couple of genuinely humorous moments to come from their meetings, which is in stark contrast to some otherwise dreary adaptations of this novel. One of the best uses of dolly close-ups in this one features Harry Bauer, as Porfiry, comparing his suspect with a moth attracted to a flame. Yet, not everything here works well. The subplot involving Rasklnikov's sister, her suitors, and his mother especially suffers from the necessary shortening in the process of adapting a long book. Two exposition-heavy arguments between and among the group hardly renders this part of the story of any importance to the conservative theme bemoaning a loss of an aristocratic and religious order to new moneyed interests and new ways of thinking such as Russian nihilism. Nevertheless, this is the best 1935 "Crime and Punishment" film and one of the best adaptations of the celebrated novel overall.