Photographs of Fritz Lang always make me do a small mental vif. The films, with their guns and machinery, seem to stink of modernity and, even before he went there, America — or maybe Amerika, Kafka's dream version. Yet he looks so Alte Welt. (The monocle!)
Last Friday, at the British Museum, I heard Michael Wood lecture on "Fritz Lang and the Life of Crime"; I shan't say much about that — I'd probably get it wrong, and the text will be published in the London Review of Books a week or two from now. But it helped me to shape some recent thoughts — specifically, about the possible theological, eschatological dimensions of Lang.