This new reconstruction of the film is based on the comparison of all existing materials, and particularly on the 5 existing nitrate materials: a print from the estate of Raymond Rohauer (now deposited at the Library of Congress); the Cinémathèque Française tinted print; a print from the Cineteca di Milano with French intertitles, which had apparently been cut together from two different versions; the Russian print from Gosfilmofond, which had two different typographies in the intertitles, leading to the belief that the original version had later been reworked; a 59-minute version from the George Eastman House. These five different versions originated from two different negatives, which had been cut differently and also used different shots, so that it was impossible to cut materials from the two negatives together in a single scene without losing the films elegance. Without censorship cards or a complete print, the long work of reconstruction carried out by the Münchner Filmmuseum is based on the comparison and the analysis of all elements, and it is thoroughly described by Jan-Christopher Horak in an article published on the current issue of Cinegrafie (n. 10, 1997).

“There was a lot of money available, as it happened sometimes in those days, and we could afford an all-star cast. For each role we chose the best interpreter, without minding the cost. There were great ones such as Asta Nielsen and Werner Krauss, and other gifted actors who at the time were very popular, but still the leading actress was missing: a young innocent-looking girl, the daughter of an old and impoverished former councillor at the Court of Vienna. This girl, by virtue of her peerless innocence, passed unscathed through the most evident risks of moral corruption, without even realising it.

We racked our brains: at the time in Berlin there was every sort of new-comers, but a sincere, innocent-looking girl, and the more so without the conventional forget-me-not blue eyes, was not so easy to come by.

One evening we were again at Pabst’s house to have a drink and to rack our brains. All of a sudden Pabst asked me: ‘Have you seen Gösta Berling by Mauritz Stiller?’ Of course I had seen the great Swedish director’s masterpiece, just recently distributed in Berlin. ‘Do you recall the actress playing the role of Countess Dohna?’.

In reality Contess Dohna’s part was a minor one, but it would have been rather difficult to forget the very young and blond actress, a fair butterfly. ‘Now she is available. A new project with Mauritz Stller in Costantinople has failed miserably for financial reasons and she is now in Berlin without any work. What do you think about it?’.

‘Fine, Fine. But how will you manage to convince your capitalists that you want to assign the role of protagonist in a film full of stars to a young totally unknown beginner?’.

‘Leave it to me. Do you agree?’. ‘Completely’.

I took my leave. In the hallway I put my coat on and I left, but on the landing I turned around.

‘What did you say her name was?’. I asked: ‘Greta Garbo’.

I heard the name but probably I forgot it five minutes later […] But soon after that that name would be unforgettable.

An unforeseen circumstance – in those days it was not so uncommon in cinema – found us in a rather bizarre situation: we were shooting in the studio, while I was still working night and day on the unfinished script. One morning I brought to Pabst the new scenes I had just completed. All of a sudden I asked him: ‘So, how is the girl doing?’. ‘She is really quite strange’, he replied. ‘Very unusual. Stay here for an hour and just watch!’. ‘You know quite well that I have no time, I must continue working. I’ll see you tomorrow!’. The next day Pabst made me stop there.

‘You ought to really see her! To hell with your pedantry – now you stay here. It’s her turn now, stay for just half an hour!’. So I stayed. A second later Greta Garbo made her entrance on the set, wearing a plain dark blue dress, almost without any make-up. The rest was just a dream. At nineteen she was already indescribable, a peerless tragic actress. All could see that she acted too rapidly, and nervously, her lines were almost a flood. Some scenes had to be shot in slow-motion, which was not totally devoid of technical problems, but truly she was a marvel…

I stayed in the studio for half a day instead of just half an hour, and I completely forgot my script. When I left, still light-headed like a drunkard, I could not come back home right away. I sat in the café nearby and I wrote her a letter:

‘Dear Miss Garbo, I am the one who has written the script of the film you are now acting in. I hope that you are satisfied with the role. Had I seen you act before starting my effort, I would have wrote a film with you as the only interpreter’.

Then I wrote the words which I will always be proud of:

‘I am telling you that you will become the greatest star in the world’.

Willy Haas, Die literarische Welt. Erinnerungen, München, Paul List, 1960