Ernst Lubitsch's Mephistophela Project from 1920 and the Joys of Counterfactual Feminist Cinema

Ossi against God and Goethe

There's a scene early in Ernst Lubitsch's Die Austernprinzessin (The Oyster Princess, 1919) when Ossi (Oswalda) is enthusiastically demolishing a room. She decapitates a statue and shatters the base against the floor. Her father, Herr Quaker (a.k.a. "The Oyster King") storms in just in time for her to heave a stack of newspapers at his head. "Why exactly are you throwing all these newspapers at my head?", he protests. "Well, the vases have already all been broken!", Ossi responds logically. Devastated that her rival (daughter of the "Shoe Polish King") has wedded a count, Ossi unleashes her fury in a whirlwind of escalating destruction. That her father promises to "buy [her] a prince" only emboldens her demonic energy: "I'm so happy I could smash the whole house to pieces!" Toward that end, she crashes an antique chair against a desk littered with disheveled papers and books, smiling rapturously at the camera.

Like the fragile objects in the Oyster King's mansion, relatively few films by Ossi Oswalda (1898-1947) have survived intact and can still be seen today. According to the crucial filmography compiled by Molly Harrabin and Mary Hennessy for the Women Film Pioneers Project, only 23 of the 54 films in which Oswalda appeared between 1916 and 1933 still exist.¹ Two are fragments, four feature brief cameos, and all but the Lubitsch titles remain difficult to access. When the Nazis came to power, Oswalda fled to Czechoslovakia. This marked the end of her acting career. She did write a screenplay for the Czech detective comedy Čtrnáctý u stolu (The Fourteenth at the Table, 1943), about a man named Čtrnáctý ("Fourteenth") who happens to be the fourteenth guest at a gathering of people who suffer from triskaidekaphobia, i.e., a fear of the number 13. If I could choose one more film in addition to those that have survived the ravages of Oswalda's filmography, my emphatic selection would be Mephistophela (1920).

A feminist Faust parody

What happened to Mephistophela? In June 1920, almost exactly one year after the Berlin premiere of The Oyster Princess, the trade journal Der Kinematograph reported: "Hanns Kräly and Ernst Lubitsch are working on a grand fantasy comedy, Mephistophela, which humorously spins out the old Faust legend. The authors based the main character on Mephistophela from Heinrich Heine's ballet Doktor Faust. Ossi Oswalda plays the title role, Ernst Lubitsch directs."²

In Heine's ”dance poem" from 1846, Faust conjures up the devil – and a female Mephisto named Mephistophela appears before him. Faust lets her teach him to dance, falls in love with her, elopes with her, and goes on wild adventures, only to be strangled by Mephistophela in the end and disappear into hell.

The film, unfortunately, was never made.³ If it had been, it would have starred Ossi Oswalda as a female Mephisto in a feminist parody of Goethe's Faust, directed by Lubitsch, beating F.W. Murnau to the punch by six years. Why did Lubitsch pull back from the brink of an adaptation that undoubtedly would have changed the course of Weimar film history, if not world history?

Lubitsch was absolutely obsessed with the idea of satirizing Faust, according to his biographer Joseph McBride. His ambition fell by the wayside not once but twice. When he left Germany for Hollywood in 1922, Mary Pickford rejected his "pet project" to make a farcical adaptation of Goethe. Initial screen tests of Marguerite and Faust have been preserved by the Library of Congress and exhibited in 2023 at Il Cinema Ritrovato in Bologna.⁴ Watch them: they are truly ridiculous!⁵ Unlike Charles King, Lew Cody, Lester Cuneo, and the other Hollywood actors who auditioned for the role of Mephisto, Oswalda would never have dreamed of playing it straight.

Instead, Lubitsch and Pickford made Rosita (1923), a historical comedy adapted from Adolphe d'Ennery and Phillippe Dumanoir's 1872 opera Don César de Bazan. In Rosita, Pickford plays against type as an adult woman, a poor street singer who catches the eye of the King of Spain. Despite the film's commercial success, Pickford renounced Rosita and decided to let every copy of the print decay. (It was eventually restored by the Museum of Modern Art using a Russian dupe print.) Perhaps Oswalda would have been a better fit; she herself was widely hailed as the "German Mary Pickford." Their acting styles, however, could not have been more different. A "doll divine," as Gaylyn Studlar maligns Pickford's "child-woman" appeals, her nostalgic age-drag was a far cry from Oswalda's slapstick automaton pratfalls.⁶

Let's give our imagination free rein. As Mephistophela, Oswalda's role would have encompassed the cross-dressing mischief, house-destroying tantrums, and post-human erotica of her extant Lubitsch trifecta, Ich möchte kein Mann sein [I Don't Want to Be a Man] (1918), Die Austernprinzessin, and Die Puppe (The Doll, 1919), respectively. In fact, I cannot resist my own imperative to try to imagine. Therefore, I will do just that, drawing on the treasure trove of archival images from Oswalda's Weimar film comedies.

I am further inspired by the speculative turn in feminist media historiography. In response to the absences, silences, and missing links that haunt the archives of feminist media writ large, scholars have cultivated speculative approaches to cast off the shackles of empiricism. "To an overwhelming extent," as Allyson Nadia Field rallies her readers in Feminist Media Histories, "the field of cinema and media studies has been organized around extant material, with histories closely tethered to surviving evidence."⁷ This approach is epitomized by Saidiya Hartman's evocative praxis of "critical fabulation," Samantha Sheppard's conjuring of "phantom cinema" (which interweaves "real and imagined histories"), and Alix Beeston and Stefan Solomon's affirmation of incomplete and unfinished projects.⁸ The speculative turn holds radical implications for feminist archives of Weimar German cinema (1918 to 1933), especially lost and unrealized films.⁹ Simply put, we can still write about films even if we can no longer see them.

Wild, scattered, lost

Ossi Oswalda's extant films give us glimpses of historical paths not taken (or compulsively diverted). Die Puppe, for example, suggests how Expressionist cinema might have unfolded if the movement had been dominated by slapstick anarchy instead of psychological horror.¹⁰ Theatrical set designs, sharply fragmented aesthetics, and relentless reflexivity animate the spirit of play, nonsense, and topsy-turvy tomfoolery in The Doll. Released just two months before The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, The Doll explores strikingly similar themes of automatism and the uncanny doppelgänger. Whereas Caligari has become a touchstone of Weimar historiography, The Doll's slapstick Expressionism has been sidelined to the dustbins of zany, one-off experiments.

It is only in the context of Lubitsch's farcical inventions that Oswalda's filmography remains even partially accessible. Her comedic leading roles live on, compiled on physical media editions such as "Lubitsch in Berlin" and curated retrospectives. A few other works from her career exist in digital form, such as the obscure comedy Gräfin Plättmamsell (Countess Kitchen Maid, 1926), set in the world of variety theater, the farcical Eine tolle Nacht (A Crazy Night, 1927), and the military send-up Es zogen drei Burschen ... (Three Souls, One Idea, 1927).¹¹ Die Kleine vom Varieté (The Little Variety Star, 1926) has been preserved in 35mm by the Bundesarchiv, and screened at various retrospectives including the Giornate del Cinema Muto in Pordenone in 2009. (It is tenuously available as an English-language reduction copy, digitally scanned from a 9.5mm Pathéscope print and shortened from about 90 minutes to 23 minutes.) Die Kleine features Oswalda as a cross-dressing and "knife-throwing vaudeville artiste," as Philipp Stiasny describes her, who becomes the romantic rival of a libertine musician performing in an all-female jazz band.¹²

Between 1921 and 1924, Oswalda produced five films herself through her own Berlin company Ossi Oswalda-Film. All five are now tragically lost: Amor am Steuer (Cupid at the Wheel, 1921), Das Mädel mit der Maske (The Girl with the Mask, 1922), Der blinde Passagier (The Stowaway, 1922), Das Milliardensouper (The Billion Dollar Supper, 1923), and Colibri (1924). At the time of their release, they were exported internationally and earned her a reputation as "one of the best German actresses," who was particularly good "in roles where she has to be mischievous, malicious, and cunning," as the American trade journal Motion Picture Classic opined.¹³

Yes to Mephistophela

Unlike Das Milliardensouper, Der blinde Passagier, and several other intriguing Oswalda titles—from Das Valutamädel (The Valuta Girl, 1919) to Ossi hat die Hosen an (Ossi Wears the Pants, 1928)—Mephistophela is not a lost film. It was never realized.

Mephistophela is a missing link in Oswalda's potential filmography. This makes it all the more irresistible as an object of speculative imagination. In this article, I say yes to the counterfactual temptations of Mephistophela.

Ernst Lubitsch first told Oswalda about his plan for Mephistophela during the shooting of Die Puppe, his adaptation of Edmond Audran's operetta La poupée (1896). The operetta goes back to Léo Delibes' ballet Coppélia (1870), which in turn was inspired by E.T.A. Hoffmann's darkly romantic story Der Sandmann (1816). The story centers on a man who falls madly in love with an automaton doll. Lubitsch's version pulses with Expressionist slapstick style, featuring Oswalda as a woman impersonating a doll substituting for a woman so that an avowed gynophobe named Lancelot (Hermann Thimig) can avoid marrying an actual human.

"If you can play the triple role of a woman, a machine, and a being that is neither one nor the other, but both," Lubitsch allegedly remarked, "then you can certainly take on the dual role of Mephisto and Faust." Oswalda agreed but insisted on renaming the characters Mephistophela and Ossi. Lubitsch was enthusiastic about Oswalda's idea, but he was overwhelmed by other projects. When he informed her that the film would be postponed indefinitely, he suggested that they make a short picture together instead. Die Wohnungsnot (The Housing Shortage, 1920) depicts a taxi driver (Victor Janson) and a taxi dancer (Oswalda) who initially detest each other but then fall hopelessly in love when they discover that they share the same bed in a flophouse. The film was a flop, which enraged Oswalda. According to rumors, she secretly burned a draft of Anna Boleyn, a farce penned by Lubitsch, which had to be completely rewritten by Norbert Falk and Hanns Kräly.

Oswalda announced that she would direct Mephistophela herself while playing both Mephisto and Ossi. Not to be outdone, Lubitsch cast Henny Porten in the double role of the sisters Liesel and Gretel in Kohlhiesels Töchter (Kohlhiesel's Daughters, 1920), based on Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew. Kräly, however, put his foot down when Lubitsch tried to insist that Lotte Neumann should play both Romeo and Julia in Romeo and Juliet in the Snow (1920). While Lubitsch took liberties with Shakespeare, Oswalda absolutely travestied Goethe.¹⁴

Satan drives a Zeppelin

The film opens in heaven, which consists of a cardboard backdrop splashed with jagged-edge clouds and paintings of naked babies. God (Emil Jannings) paces around anxiously awaiting his meeting with Mephistophela (Oswalda), who arrives in a puff of black smoke piloting a Zeppelin. The two make their infamous wager that if Mephistophela can seduce and corrupt God’s favorite human, Ossi (Oswalda), then she shall rule over the earth for all eternity. She exits, polluting the celestial clouds with her aviation exhaust. The holy barber appears to attend to God’s soiled toilette.

Cut to Ossi’s home library, which she is ransacking in a feverish attack of existential malaise about the utter uselessness of the sciences, arts, and humanities. She pulls books off the shelves, rips out their pages, and scatters them all over the floor—evoking her slapstick tantrums in The Oyster Princess. A miniature poodle jumps through the open window and then metamorphoses into Mephistophela, who proposes marriage to Ossi on the spot. Ossi refuses but gradually reconsiders. If Mephistophela can explain to her the meaning of artistic endeavor beyond material wealth, she will consent to the marriage. To seal the agreement, they shake hands, but Mephistophela wants Ossi to sign the contract on parchment with her blood. Ossi only pretends to comply, then tears the contract into millions of pieces and dances on the scraps.

With a flick of her tail, Mephistophela magically reassembles the parchment along with all the ransacked books and papers in Ossi's library. She then flies away in her Zeppelin. Ossi scratches her head but is soon distracted. It is time to make preparations for a local amateur competition in comical face-making. In addition to her scientific work, Ossi greatly enjoys the sport of face-making, known in England as “gurning.” This pastime involves grinding your teeth, contorting your face in hideous ways, and demonstrating the improbable mobility of your facial muscles. A close-up of Ossi gurning fades into a medium shot of a prison cell where she is serving time for public indecency; a police officer has interpreted her grotesque facial contortions as evidence of demonic possession. Mephistophela arrives and tries to get Ossi out on bail, but is also imprisoned because of her Satanic tail and illegally parked Zeppelin.

Alone in the cold cell, Ossi and Mephistophela fall in love that night and hatch a plan to lure God, who they suspect of being a closet mercantilist, into a trap. Together, they will prove the ineffable value of art over the accumulation of material wealth by organizing an international face-making competition. They know that God secretly indulges in the sport and will not be able to resist. Indeed, God takes the bait. Disguised as a shepherd, he reaches the final round, where he must compete against Ossi in a championship showdown. She forces him to reveal his true identity, as only face-making can. God tries to escape in Mephistophela's Zeppelin, but the engine overheats and explodes. The sky bursts into flames: heaven turns out to have been hell all along.

Ossi and Mephistophela celebrate their wedding with a debaucherous party. They decide to donate all of God’s ill-gotten gains to the arts and sciences. The end.

Anti-fascist laughter

Ossi Oswalda never made Mephistophela. After fleeing Hitlerism, she died penniless in Prague in 1947. Although most of her films remain lost or unfinished, the few that survive testify to her unwavering charisma and infectious comedic power. Every gesture she performs is fueled by a will to pleasure that escalates into an act of social liberation.

At the beginning of Ich möchte kein Mann sein (I Don't Want to Be a Man), Ossi eats grapes with ecstatic gusto, plays poker with strange men, and defiantly smokes cigarettes, eliciting the disapproval of her uncle and her governess, who reprimand her inappropriate behavior. Ossi's cross-dressing and gender-play reinforce her desire for absolute freedom from the narrow constraints of passive femininity. In Die Puppe (The Doll), in which she moonlights as a matrimonial automaton, the theme of disguise again serves as a lifeline for her energetic pranks and unbridled self-expression. It is easy to imagine Ossi romping and dancing around as Mephistophela in a film that was never made.

Comedy turns the world upside down. As a genre of temporary freedom and irresistible possibility, it poses a vital exception to the recurring attacks of fascism, capitalist crisis, and humorless patriarchy. No one embodied that spirit of rapturous anarchy more suggestively than Ossi Oswalda, whose laughter dares us to snatch at glimmers of pleasure, even if we know they cannot last for long.

*This online, open-access essay expands on a print version of my text in German, which will appear in Filmblatt, no. 10 (2025). I would like to thank Philipp Stiasny for his thoughtful feedback and incisive contributions to the essay. I am further grateful to Anton Kaes for his generous feedback, and to Ivo Blom whose beautiful collection of archival film postcards is an invaluable resource.

Maggie Hennefeld is Professor of Cultural Studies & Comparative Literature at the University of Minnesota, Twin Cities. She is author of Death by Laughter: Female Hysteria and Early Cinema (Columbia UP, 2024) and Specters of Slapstick and Silent Film Comediennes (Columbia UP, 2018), co-editor of the journal Cultural Critique (UMN Press), and co-editor of two volumes: Unwatchable (Rutgers UP, 2019) and Abjection Incorporated: Mediating the Politics of Pleasure and Violence (Duke UP, 2020). She is co-director of Archives on Screen, Twin Cities and co-curator of the DVD/Blu-ray set, Cinema's First Nasty Women (Kino Lorber, 2022), which includes 99 feminist silent films.