"Metropolis raised her voice. The machines of Metropolis waiting to be fed."

Produced between the rise of the Twentieth Century's two most destructive social movements, Metropolis is a prophetic warning against the underlying materialism that defines both communism and fascism.  Metropolis is also silent-screen technique at its zenith.
 
Metropolis uses principally Judeo-Christian imagery to underscore the seriousness of its themes, but also to suggest that in rejecting the spiritual side of human nature, social movements ironically always end up taking on all of the trappings of religious fanaticism. The religious allegories run throughout the film: The hero is a clear Christ-figure, Freder, the Son of the father of Metropolis.  Born into a life of privilege, he descends to the realm of the workers, puts on their garb, and assumes a posture of crucifixion on one of the machines.  The heroine, who brings comfort and solace to the suffering masses is Maria.  The evil genius Rotwang, with a pentagram on his door, is shown as the light bearer in one scene, a clear allusion to Lucifer.

In an ironic contrast to the soot-covered, Soviet factory cinema of the same period, Metropolis shows the dark and dehumanizing side of the life of workers in a factory.  It also carries an anti-Nazi caution about the erroneous judgments of mob mentality. Ironically, writer Thea Von Harbou ended up joining the Nazi party, while her husband, director Fritz Lang, fled Germany for Hollywood after Hitler approached him to be the Third Reich's filmmaker.

Metropolis is not a utopian rejection of technology.  It is a plea for compassion and mercy in the use of the powerful forces of technology.  More ominous is the suggestion that people will become what they worship.  If we bow down to the work of our hands, we will lose our humanity.   

essay by Barbara Nicolosi
panel discussion following the screening: Sunta Izzacupo, Jed Dannenbaum, Laurie Hutzler