No one made films like Ernst Lubitsch, and there is a reason why he is considered the person who inspired many of our greatest directors, with the likes of Billy Wilder and Preston Sturges swearing allegiance to the legacy of this master of cinema. Choosing his signature work is extremely challenging, and almost impossible, since when a director has a career that extends to the height of the silent era, right to the advent of sound cinema, they are nothing if not the embodiment of versatility, both narratively and artistically. While my taste veers towards naming To Be or Not To Be or The Shop Around the Corner as his greatest works, to deny the films he made in the 1930s is like overlooking one of the most influential sections of his career. Many cite The Merry Wudow as the best example of his work during this time, and it is difficult to argue with these assertions – a bitingly funny adaptation of the operetta of the same name by Franz Lehár, which tells the story of the residents in a small European country that finds themselves teetering dangerously close on bankruptcy when the nation’s wealthiest person, a widow undergoing an existential crisis, flirts with the idea of accepting the affections of any of the several suitors that set out to woo her, which would result in her country’s economy collapsing and the entire social system falling apart the moment she chooses to seek greener pastures, leading to a plot by the king to hire one of his guards to marry the widow, not realizing that this plan will have unexpected consequences when the love between them becomes stronger than ever before. It makes for a beautiful, earnest and hilariously funny comedy that showcases the absolute best of the director, who was continuously consolidating himself as one of the most integral voices in cinema at the time, this being yet another shining example of his uncontested genius.

The Merry Widow is notable for a lot of reasons, but I always associate it with being the film that Billy Wilder uses as an example of the proverbial “Lubitsch Touch”, that intangible quality that was present in every one of the director’s films, a trait that is difficult to describe, but very easy to recognize – it can’t be put directly into words but once you see it, you immediately know what it means and represents. It is the perfect collision between humour and emotional resonance, the small details in between the big moments that many filmmakers choose to overlook, but Lubitsch actively explores. Most of his films are constructed from these intimate details and usually use them as the foundation for the hilarious scenarios in which these characters find one another, as well as the more melancholy moments that are just as integral to the narratives. There are too many brilliant jokes scattered throughout The Merry Widow to even consider discussing them in detail, since it is essentially 100 minutes of pure bliss, a chance to explore the past with one of the most interesting filmmakers of any generation, who is fiercely committed to exploring the world in his own way, which comes about with incredible consistency, each moment being developed as a masterful and very funny depiction of this fictional country and its eccentric characters, each scene building on the last in terms of a range of emotions, each one profoundly moving and very charming, which is likely why The Merry Widow is one of the director’s most cherished works, and the one that has perhaps had the most direct influence on the development of Hollywood, since in multiple channels it proves to be quite a remarkable piece of cinema, a hilarious and irreverent comedy with a tender heart and an even more profound sense of identity that is difficult to ignore, especially in the moments where it feels like it could have easily dismissed the details in favour of the broad strokes, which was never a characteristic of any of Lubitsch’s films, and the precise reason his work has remained as timeless as it has over the decades.

While he always brought out the best in his actors, not every performer was able to fit perfectly into Lubitsch’s world, which he made very clear with this film, which is essentially built around its two stars, acting as a vehicle for their talents, which is as valid an approach as any other, and a perfectly appropriate reason for choosing to adopt this text. The cultural impact left by both Maurice Chevalier and Jeanette MacDonald may not be well-known by contemporary audiences, but they were amongst the most important performers of their generation, the kind of artists who could draw a major audience with just about anything, meaning that once they were on-board to play the roles in The Merry Widow, half the work was already done, since not only were they wildly popular, but they were consistently very committed to their roles, which is shown in every frame of this film. Chevalier in particular is worth noting – there have been few performers with a more magnetic presence than him, and his forthright dedication to every role made him such a fascinating figure. Much like his co-star, Chevalier was primarily known as a singer before he was an actor, and he managed to combine both brilliantly on several occasions, this being one of the very best. His charisma is unquestionable, and his presence alone adds layers of complexity to the film. The supporting cast also warrants some discussion, with one of Lubitsch’s favourite collaborators Edward Everett Horton being hilarious, while George Barbier takes on the scene-stealing role as the milquetoast king who is intent on maintaining power, even if it means crossing the moral code he swore to uphold. Everyone in The Merry Widow is tremendous, and adds so much wonderful nuance to roles that would have likely been far less three-dimensional and interesting had this film been helmed by just about any other director at the time.

However, the aspects of The Merry Widow that linger with the most intensity are those that are more related to the visual representation of this story – it was based on a theatrical production, so it was obvious that it was always going to be relatively successful in terms of how it visually commanded the screen, but very few of us would imagine this film to be capable of this scope of drama. Nearly a century since its release, The Merry Widow is a film that remains visually striking in a way that not even the most well-constructed modern films could achieve – whether in the achingly beautiful moments of romance between the main characters, the comedic interludes that navigate the thin boundary between darkly satirical and slapstick, or the expansive musical numbers that take the form of grandiose dance sequences in which every detail is captured vividly, there is something so extraordinarily compelling about this film and its perspective, a sense of enchanting realism that casts a spell over the story, bringing it to life with vibrancy and a sense of artistic complexity that is increasingly difficult to find being made by anyone else, at least at the same level that we found when Lubistsch stepped behind the camera. The production design and costuming bring to life the notion of Marshovia and its people and perfectly encapsulate both the mastery of Lehár’s operetta and Lubitsch’s masterful adaptation, which builds on the original rather than attempting to overtake it in genius, which was never something that particularly interested Lubitsch with any of his theatrical or literary adaptations, going back to his earliest years as a filmmaker. The screenplay he wrote alongside Samson Raphaelson (as well as the additional music by Lorenz Hart and Gus Kahn) adds so much rich, evocative complexity to this film, which is a masterful celebration of romance, showing in vivid detail by a director who understands the power of a single image, stringing together dozens of incredible scenes to create an unforgettable musical comedy.

Throughout his career, there weren’t many films that showcased Lubitsch’s extraordinary prowess in comedy, romance and melodrama, with different films representing one more than the other. There were a few that exist at the perfect intersection of all three, and The Merry Widow is one of the very best of this elite group and has been appropriately cited as being a wildly important work of early Hollywood filmmaking, which was especially important during this specific period. Wonderfully funny but deeply moving at the same time, the film has several layers, each one beautiful and poetic in a different way, intending to either make us laugh, swoon or think, the collision of the three occurring quite consistently and being one of the many tremendous elements that push this film forward and make it so incredibly poetic in ways that we may not have expected. It is undeniably very traditional, and its humour can feel quite dated – but once we look past these almost inconsequential details and instead start focusing on the more meaningful material, we begin to realize just how effortlessly brilliant this film is, with its sharp humour, a deep sense of joyfulness and overall wonderfully upbeat tone to both the political satire and romantic overtones making for a sumptuous, charming confection of a film, the kind of meaningful comedy that never leaves us without the answers, but still makes us want to continue exploring this world and its characters, with this being one of the many reasons why The Merry Widow is such a cherished work that remains as endearing today as it did ninety years ago when it was first produced, this remaining one of the definitive versions of the text.