And to all that he had to add the for-him-unprecedented difficulties of collaboration. One of the world’s great geniuses of romantic illusion, at least if his American press clippings were to be believed, had thrown in with the pre-eminent cinematic practitioner of the real. NOSFERATU MEETS NANOOK, Variety had teased. In this case, both maestros were wary. Murnau had never worked with a partner, however collaborative his early experience in Germany had been; and Robert Flaherty’s only partner had been his wife. Occasionally he’d take a suggestion from his long-suffering cameraman.

They had agreed on the concept of an epic shot in spectacular natural locations, which was, after all, the Grail of nearly every national cinema. Flaherty’s Nanook of the North, they further agreed, was the closest anyone had come to date. So they wanted to transport their audience, and involve it in an exotic and endangered way of life. But after that?

After That, they’d decided to put off until their arrival in Tahiti.

Flaherty’s younger brother, David, was traveling with Murnau. Eight weeks out of Mazatlán, they were reveling in the good weather after a week of uninterrupted rain. That week they had all been insomniacs. Their hands had turned white and wrinkled; their feet, when they undressed, looked like dead sea creatures. Only the caviar, preserved on ice, had raised their spirits. Each evening they’d huddled around warm tea and cold caviar, giving thanks for the French consulate in Mazatlán.

Murnau and Flaherty were both unhappy refugees from FOX. Flaherty’s film on Mexican Indians had collapsed when Fox himself had taken it over. Murnau’s Four Devils and Our Daily Bread had the same sorry history. David had joked that they should’ve pooled their catastrophes and cut the release prints together to make Indian Bread.

For three straight weeks, Murnau had watched despondently while the undercooked meat was pulled from the bones of his picture. He met with Fox and his Brain Trust in their private screening room, where they indulged in a ritual of mutilation and humiliation. He was unable to eat and suffered spells of dizziness. Faces he’d never seen before offered advice and made insulting remarks about his work. He held his tongue. What was wrong with it? Everything was wrong. He was doing the same old thing again; the film was too long; the peasants weren’t American; the story had no “zing.” The whole thing was too ponderous, Fox himself said; it was as though everyone was walking around in heavy boots.

Murnau’s responses were not appreciated. He and Fox each took a turn with some invective. Then Fox suggested that his overworked artiste take a break and let the boys fiddle with a few things. Murnau remarked that he’d seen enough of the boys’ fiddling. He was banned from the screening room.