Kafka the Actor?

Is this a heretofore unknown photograph of Franz Kafka?



Damn skippy.

How did I chance across a discovery likely to shake the foundations of literature's Ivory Tower? My neighbor, Mack Liebrod. Mack's a bit of an oddball. He wears the same t-shirt every day, winter or summer. A plain pink number that stretches tightly across his gut. On it are the words "I Got the Steely Dan Tee Shirt" printed in Franklin Gothic typeface. He's also a bit of a hoarder. I say a "bit" because Mack occasionally divests himself of crap by putting it on his front stoop for anyone to take. It's often cool shit -- Daguerrotypes; Roman coins; Tijuana bibles; shards of ancient pottery; vintage Blue Oyster Cult lapel pins; and so on and so forth.

Yesterday morning I was on my way to get my daily bialy with soy cream cheese and Mock Lox when I espied Mack placing an overflowing box of black and white photographs outside.

-- What are those? I said to Mack.
-- I meant well enough, Mack said.
-- Yes, but what are those? This time I pointed at the photographs.
-- No, said Mack. We are not authorized to tell you that. (Mack speaks like that. Weird fucker.) You will be informed of everything in due course. I am exceeding my instructions in speaking freely to you. But you will continue to have good luck in your choice of neighbors.

Mack then rapidly shuffled through the photographs and handed the photograph you see above to me. Much better to give these things to you than to hand them over to the depot, he said. I turned the photograph over. Written on the back were the words, "Franz Kafka, Screen Test, 1919."

Could it be?

I was determined to find out. Luckily, a friend and former lover, Lora Diamante, is in employ of I.R.K., or IRK -- the Institute for Research on Kafka. I called her at her office in Glendale, California.

She asked me to scan the photograph and email it to her as "jpeg". This I did. She said she would call me back upon inspecting the image. I hung up, cracked open a bottle of Diet Black Cherry soda, and anxiously awaited Lora's reply.

I'd taken but two sips when my cellie began vibrating.

-- David, said Lora.
-- Hit me, I told her, not for the first time.
-- This. Just. Happened.

Lora directed my attention to the faded words at the bottom right hand of the photograph: "Der Lebende Leichnam".

My German isn't what it used to be, but I knew well enough that those words translated to "The Living Corpse," also, and I apologize if I'm stating the obvious here, the title of a posthumously published play written by Tolstoy.

-- Yes, yes, so what? I said to Lora.
-- You KNOW Kafka was a great admirer of Tolstoy's, don't you?
-- Of course, of course, I said to Lora while making a handjob gesture.
-- And you do know that Kafka's final years were spent trying to film a version of Der Lebende, don't you? One in which he was to star?

Oh shit.

I made a splooj gesture.

The rest of the day was spent in furious cross-research. Googling this; Lexis-Nexising that. Calls were made to Kafka scholars in Praha and Pardubice. Kafka's desire to become a film actor was little-known, but known nonetheless. There had been rumors of images pertaining to that desire being in circulation. But legend has it that The Writer had systematically destroyed the headshots after concluding "Sie lassen mich fett aussehen." (Loosely: "They make me look fat.") Here, though, for the first time was proof.

The headshots did make K look a tad puffy.

As I pondered the benefit that modern retouching techniques could've bestowed upon Franzie Wanzie's photo, my Blackberry again began to throb in my shoulder holster.

It was Lora. She been in touch with the archivists at Neumann, the august German microphone manufacturers. The company had been one of the stronger presences in the budding Czech film industry at the time Kafka would've been making the audition rounds. In order to help test the sound technology the company hoped to apply to then-silent films, Neumann, as a practice, recorded all screen tests conducted by their talent scouts. Lora had engaged the archivist, Titorelli, in examining any and all tapes that might have related to Der Lebende Leichman.

In so doing, Titorelli found the following (translated from the German):

-- You're going too big with your gestures. Can you, like, dial everything down per cent?
-- Shit. Sorry. I can totally do that. [Vigorous exhalation noises] Look, one minute. That's it. I should feel better about this. I'm sure of it. I'm usually not so weak about this kinda thing. I'm more of a words guy, frankly. But gimme one sec. I can definitely give you what you want. I only need a little support. Not much. I don't usually get so nervous. I'm having a panic attack or something. Can I take a seat? I feel dizzy.
-- Get a hold of yourself, you feeble fellow.
-- I fucked this up, didn't I?
[No response]
-- Fair enough. I'm a writer anyway, you knew that, right?
-- Many thanks to you.
-- Hey, while I have you, I've got an idea for a film that I think would be great for you guys.
-- Louder.
-- It's about a guy who wakes up one morning and realizes he's turned into a cockroach.
-- Jesus. You think we're RKO? You know the budgets we're working with. We can't pay for special effects like that. Why do you think we're making a fucking movie based on some Tolstoy shit?
-- Marketing. Think marketing. Kids love bugs.
[Tape ends]

Der Lebende Leichnam was never filmed. Kafka was never cast, the role of Fyodor Protasov going instead to Vsevolod Pudovkin, "The Tatar Valentino." Cinematic justice was finally served when Jeremy Irons played The Writer in a 1991 biopic directed by Steven Soderbergh.

That was the only evidence we had of Kafka as a screen presence. Until now. Just look at those eyes.