Originally posted to Facebook on 6/19/2018
Chicago was our eighth film from 1927, and would be familiar to modern audiences because of the 2002 movie of the same name. There are actually several versions of Chicago, all based on the 1926 play, which was in turn loosely based on actual events. Fifteen years after this film, there was a 1942 version titled Roxie Hart starring Ginger Rogers. Then there was the 1975 Broadway musical, and its 1996 revival, which is the second longest running Broadway show ever. I haven't seen the 1942 movie (though perhaps we'll get a chance as part of this project if we ever make it out of the twenties), but I have seen the 2002 film and the Broadway version, and it is surprising how similar this film is to both of those.
The plot concerns Roxie Hart (played by Phyllis Haver), who kills a man presumed to be her boyfriend (played by Eugene Pallette, whom we saw way back in 1916's Gretchen the Greenhorn.) The subsequent trial becomes a media circus, and her husband (Victor Varconi) hires a shady lawyer to defend her (played by Robert Edeson) who thrives on the tabloid nature of the case, coaching Hart to exploit a gullible public and jury. This is also the outline of the other versions I've seen, perhaps the biggest difference being that the part of Velma Kelly, a defendant in a similar case, is much smaller in this movie. Additionally Hart's husband is a more sympathetic character than in the later versions.
But it is still quite cynical about the press, and the judicial system, and human nature in general -- though it does have a bit of a moralistic streak that is less prominent in the later versions. I'm not sure it has an exact analog among the American films we've seen, which as a group are generally more sincere, but its cynicism is also different than the cynicism of the German expressionists -- than Dr. Mabuse or The Last Laugh, for instance. Those films had a heavier hand, and usually a tinge of melancholy or even of anger. Chicago's cynicism is lighter and more buoyant, and definitely has a stronger comedic streak.
Excepting Pallette, who had a relatively small role, none of the main characters are played by actors we've seen before, nor have we previously seen anything by the director, Frank Urson. Despite that it gives every appearance of being a top-shelf studio picture, and Haver particularly gives an entertaining, showy star performance as the selfish, shallow Hart. I'm sure there is some story or other as to why Phyllis Haver did not have the career of some of her better-remembered contemporary actresses, like Clara Bow or Marion Davies, but I don't think you would have been able to guess it based upon this film. She also has the distinction of playing one of the leads in 1927's The Way of All Flesh, the only lost film with an Oscar winning performance (by Emil Jannings.)
Next week we'll see our ninth film from 1927, The Red Mill, directed by Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle under a pseudonym. It will also be the second film we've seen starring Marion Davies. The list, as always, is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
Sunday, June 2, 2019
The Unknown (1927)
Originally posted to Facebook on 6/15/2018
The Unknown was our seventh film from 1927, and our fourth starring Lon Chaney. It co-starred a very young Joan Crawford, and was directed by Todd Browning, later famous for directing Dracula and Freaks. After the relatively normal Tell It to the Marines (from 1926), Chaney again plays a bizarre protagonist in a film obsessed with disfigurement, revenge, and humiliation -- playing his role with characteristic charisma, serious but also vigorous. In this case he plays a supposedly armless circus performer who throws knives with his feet. In reality, though, he is not armless, and has somehow concealed that from the rest of the troupe, including Joan Crawford, with whom he is in love. She does not reciprocate, and in fact ends up falling in love with another circus performer played by Norman Kerry. Crawford holds up her corner of the love triangle well enough, though nothing about her performance particularly prefigured her subsequent long and successful career. She was, like almost every other actor in Chaney's movies, overshadowed by the man himself -- and in fact she later credited Chaney as an influence on her acting.
The plot takes a few bizarre twists that I won't spoil, but it is in keeping with Chaney's earlier movies in that it is surprisingly dark, and would probably be rated PG-13 even today. But the darkness is quite unlike, for instance, the dark cynicism of the German films we've seen, which usually at least gestured in the direction of having some sort of intellectual pedigree. Chaney's films are much more visceral, and make no apologies for showing the grotesque or fetishistic, and do so without suggesting that we are actually watching an allegory about the modern world, or anything so high-minded.
This film is a little pulpier and less polished than his other three films, and probably the least well-made, but they are all in the same neighborhood, quality-wise. The Unknown would probably appeal to the same audiences entertained by 1920's The Penalty or 1924's He Who Gets Slapped. I think Tell It to the Marines showed that he easily could have portrayed normal roles as well, had that been his desire, and perhaps had he lived we would have seen him in more of those types of parts. He died only three years later, though, at the age of 47, so it is impossible to know what he would have achieved (or not) in the sound era (outside of 1930's The Unholy Three, his only talkie), or under the Hays code.
Next week we'll see our eighth film from 1927, Chicago, which comes from the same source material as the stage and screen musical of the same name. The list, as always, is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
The Unknown was our seventh film from 1927, and our fourth starring Lon Chaney. It co-starred a very young Joan Crawford, and was directed by Todd Browning, later famous for directing Dracula and Freaks. After the relatively normal Tell It to the Marines (from 1926), Chaney again plays a bizarre protagonist in a film obsessed with disfigurement, revenge, and humiliation -- playing his role with characteristic charisma, serious but also vigorous. In this case he plays a supposedly armless circus performer who throws knives with his feet. In reality, though, he is not armless, and has somehow concealed that from the rest of the troupe, including Joan Crawford, with whom he is in love. She does not reciprocate, and in fact ends up falling in love with another circus performer played by Norman Kerry. Crawford holds up her corner of the love triangle well enough, though nothing about her performance particularly prefigured her subsequent long and successful career. She was, like almost every other actor in Chaney's movies, overshadowed by the man himself -- and in fact she later credited Chaney as an influence on her acting.
The plot takes a few bizarre twists that I won't spoil, but it is in keeping with Chaney's earlier movies in that it is surprisingly dark, and would probably be rated PG-13 even today. But the darkness is quite unlike, for instance, the dark cynicism of the German films we've seen, which usually at least gestured in the direction of having some sort of intellectual pedigree. Chaney's films are much more visceral, and make no apologies for showing the grotesque or fetishistic, and do so without suggesting that we are actually watching an allegory about the modern world, or anything so high-minded.
This film is a little pulpier and less polished than his other three films, and probably the least well-made, but they are all in the same neighborhood, quality-wise. The Unknown would probably appeal to the same audiences entertained by 1920's The Penalty or 1924's He Who Gets Slapped. I think Tell It to the Marines showed that he easily could have portrayed normal roles as well, had that been his desire, and perhaps had he lived we would have seen him in more of those types of parts. He died only three years later, though, at the age of 47, so it is impossible to know what he would have achieved (or not) in the sound era (outside of 1930's The Unholy Three, his only talkie), or under the Hays code.
Next week we'll see our eighth film from 1927, Chicago, which comes from the same source material as the stage and screen musical of the same name. The list, as always, is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
Sunrise (1927)
Originally posted to Facebook on 6/7/2018
Sunrise was our sixth film from 1927, and our fourth by F.W. Murnau. Along with a few other awards, it won the first Oscar for Best Unique and Artistic Picture, while Wings won the similarly-themed first Outstanding Picture Oscar. The former award was eliminated after the first Oscar ceremony in favor of the latter, so Sunrise remains the only winner of this strange pseudo-Best-Picture Oscar. The film's story concerns the male lead (George O'Brien) who lives in the country with his wife (Janet Gaynor) but is cheating on her with a woman from the city (Margaret Livingston.) Gaynor is probably the best remembered today, though O'Brien was a successful actor of the era as well. None of the three leads acted prominently beyond the late forties, but all three lived into the 1980s, dying in the space of a single year-long period in 1984-1985.
From a technological standpoint this was, I believe, the first Movietone feature we've seen, which means that, while it was still a silent film and did not have synced sound, the soundtrack was recorded on film, and we saw and heard essentially the same thing as audiences at the time. This included actual voices in crowd scenes and in background songs, but nothing synced to a particular actor or that was particularly important to the plot. Still, it is a tangible step towards the end of silent films, which we are rapidly approaching.
It is difficult to discuss the film without giving away some of the plot. Specifically, early in the film, Livingston advises O'Brien to kill his wife, and he reluctantly agrees. But at the crucial moment Gaynor realizes what is happening, and her terror and panic cause a change of heart in O'Brien, resulting in the two of them going into town and rekindling their love. It is a little bit like John Lennon's "Starting Over," if there had been an early stanza or two about the singer's adultery and plans to murder his wife. This was Murnau's first Hollywood movie after leaving Germany, and the film in some ways reflects that -- the adultery and attempted murder is filmed and performed expressionistically with grim Germanic foreboding -- while the scenes in the city are light-hearted and optimistic -- more stereotypically American. That they mesh together at all is a tribute to how well each of them work on their own. Gaynor won the first Best Actress Oscar for her roles in this and two other films during this time period -- acting Oscars not yet being tied to a specific film -- and she does give a strangely interesting performance in an essentially passive and reactive role. Her character, even after realizing that her husband in a weak moment may cheat on her and try to murder her, is remarkably accepting, and I think the movie's solution to this seemingly odd reaction is just that she loves and is willing to forgive him. I feel like the film might have been a little stronger -- without changing the overall plot -- if it had somehow acknowledged that this was not an entirely healthy attitude on her part. But the movie wants to portray Livingston as entirely bad, and Gaynor as entirely good, which gives it a certain strength and simplicity, but also means that the audience has to accept the two female leads as archetypes, rather than as psychologically realistic. It also has the result of largely absolving O'Brien of responsibility for his actions, leaving the blame on Livingston, in almost exactly the same way that John Gilbert's guilt was pinned on Greta Garbo in 1926's Flesh and the Devil. In fact, both films have a similar scene where the male lead turns on and attacks the woman that has, in the films' authorial view, lured him into behavior he now regrets.
But, even with these flaws, the movie is made up of many excellent moments and sequences that eclipse, for me, its larger problems. This movie was made with the polish and sure-handedness that marked the best silent films from the last half of the twenties. Although I am very much looking forward to sound, and to the films of the thirties, there's a part of me that wishes the silent film era had lasted just a little longer, perhaps five years. It feels as though the changeover happened just as the best filmmakers from the era had reached a certain level of mastery, and I strongly suspect that we lost a number of excellent movies as a result.
Next week we see our seventh film from 1927, and our fourth Lon Chaney film, The Unknown, which features a young Joan Crawford. The list, as always, is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
Sunrise was our sixth film from 1927, and our fourth by F.W. Murnau. Along with a few other awards, it won the first Oscar for Best Unique and Artistic Picture, while Wings won the similarly-themed first Outstanding Picture Oscar. The former award was eliminated after the first Oscar ceremony in favor of the latter, so Sunrise remains the only winner of this strange pseudo-Best-Picture Oscar. The film's story concerns the male lead (George O'Brien) who lives in the country with his wife (Janet Gaynor) but is cheating on her with a woman from the city (Margaret Livingston.) Gaynor is probably the best remembered today, though O'Brien was a successful actor of the era as well. None of the three leads acted prominently beyond the late forties, but all three lived into the 1980s, dying in the space of a single year-long period in 1984-1985.
From a technological standpoint this was, I believe, the first Movietone feature we've seen, which means that, while it was still a silent film and did not have synced sound, the soundtrack was recorded on film, and we saw and heard essentially the same thing as audiences at the time. This included actual voices in crowd scenes and in background songs, but nothing synced to a particular actor or that was particularly important to the plot. Still, it is a tangible step towards the end of silent films, which we are rapidly approaching.
It is difficult to discuss the film without giving away some of the plot. Specifically, early in the film, Livingston advises O'Brien to kill his wife, and he reluctantly agrees. But at the crucial moment Gaynor realizes what is happening, and her terror and panic cause a change of heart in O'Brien, resulting in the two of them going into town and rekindling their love. It is a little bit like John Lennon's "Starting Over," if there had been an early stanza or two about the singer's adultery and plans to murder his wife. This was Murnau's first Hollywood movie after leaving Germany, and the film in some ways reflects that -- the adultery and attempted murder is filmed and performed expressionistically with grim Germanic foreboding -- while the scenes in the city are light-hearted and optimistic -- more stereotypically American. That they mesh together at all is a tribute to how well each of them work on their own. Gaynor won the first Best Actress Oscar for her roles in this and two other films during this time period -- acting Oscars not yet being tied to a specific film -- and she does give a strangely interesting performance in an essentially passive and reactive role. Her character, even after realizing that her husband in a weak moment may cheat on her and try to murder her, is remarkably accepting, and I think the movie's solution to this seemingly odd reaction is just that she loves and is willing to forgive him. I feel like the film might have been a little stronger -- without changing the overall plot -- if it had somehow acknowledged that this was not an entirely healthy attitude on her part. But the movie wants to portray Livingston as entirely bad, and Gaynor as entirely good, which gives it a certain strength and simplicity, but also means that the audience has to accept the two female leads as archetypes, rather than as psychologically realistic. It also has the result of largely absolving O'Brien of responsibility for his actions, leaving the blame on Livingston, in almost exactly the same way that John Gilbert's guilt was pinned on Greta Garbo in 1926's Flesh and the Devil. In fact, both films have a similar scene where the male lead turns on and attacks the woman that has, in the films' authorial view, lured him into behavior he now regrets.
But, even with these flaws, the movie is made up of many excellent moments and sequences that eclipse, for me, its larger problems. This movie was made with the polish and sure-handedness that marked the best silent films from the last half of the twenties. Although I am very much looking forward to sound, and to the films of the thirties, there's a part of me that wishes the silent film era had lasted just a little longer, perhaps five years. It feels as though the changeover happened just as the best filmmakers from the era had reached a certain level of mastery, and I strongly suspect that we lost a number of excellent movies as a result.
Next week we see our seventh film from 1927, and our fourth Lon Chaney film, The Unknown, which features a young Joan Crawford. The list, as always, is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
Napoleon (1927)
Originally posted to Facebook on 5/20/2018
Napoleon was our fifth film from 1927, and was directed by Abel Gance. Clocking in at over five hours, it took us most of January to get through. It was divided into four parts, beginning with Napoleon's childhood and ending with him at age 26 -- well before he seized power and about 20% of the way through his Wikipedia page. This movie is at its strongest and most compelling during the portions that deal with the French Revolution, both because it is an inherently interesting story, and also because of the stylishness with which it is told. At this point in our project, we have seen all manner of innovative camera-work, so I can't say whether this film definitely invented any particular technique, but it does feature a wide variety of effects -- extremely quick cutting, division of the screen into quarters and ninths, the camera swinging through meeting halls, and most famously the triptych scenes near the end, with an aspect ratio of 4 to 1. The latter effect was impressive, but the kids, after being initially appreciative, began to complain as it wore on, since it resulted in a dramatically smaller picture on our normally-proportioned TV screen.
We had previously seen 1923's Scaramouche, also set during the French Revolution, but while that was a fictional (though intelligent) Hollywood entertainment, this movie aspires to historical accuracy. As a result, it loses focus on Napoleon periodically, and spends a fair amount of time with Marat, Danton, and Robespierre. Napoleon is at times as much a spectator as the viewer, a feeling perhaps best captured in a memorable scene during the storming of the Tuileries Palace, shown from the standpoint of Napoleon upstairs in his apartment or study, looking out at the mobbed streets, contemplating his future and the future of the Revolution.
I tried to sell the film to Allison as a bit of a sequel to Hamilton, since Lafayette had returned to France by this time, leaving room for the suspiciously similar-looking Jefferson to leave for America. I don't think Lafayette was ever actually portrayed on screen though. I also pointed out that Napoleon had been dead for just over a hundred years when this film was released -- as compared to almost two hundred years now, so he was somewhat less of a distant historical figure for Gance than for modern viewers.
Napoleon is played by Albert Dieudonne, who gives an intense and focused performance, though not a particularly varied one. There is a scene not long after Thermidor when Napoleon is at a party, and Josephine says of him "He is really charming, this Buono-parte." The kids and I remarked at the time how wildly off-base this seemed, because, whatever the other virtues of Dieudonne's performance, it is not charming. After Marat, Danton, and Robespierre disappear from the scene, both the inherent dramatic appeal and the fancy camera-work start to fade -- excepting the triptych mentioned above. An excellent film of normal length could be cut from the first two parts (though it could not sensibly be entitled "Napoleon.") I am not so sure that is true of the third and fourth part.
It is also notable how insanely hagiographically Napoleon is portrayed. I haven't read enough of the history of this period to weigh in definitively, but I think it is safe to say that any approach to Napoleon that regards him as a wholly admirable figure is not an entirely mainstream view -- though of course most assessments of Napoleon take into account the period after he turned 26.
Next week we return with Sunrise, our sixth film from 1927, and our fourth by Murnau, the first since he relocated to Hollywood. The list, as always, is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
Napoleon was our fifth film from 1927, and was directed by Abel Gance. Clocking in at over five hours, it took us most of January to get through. It was divided into four parts, beginning with Napoleon's childhood and ending with him at age 26 -- well before he seized power and about 20% of the way through his Wikipedia page. This movie is at its strongest and most compelling during the portions that deal with the French Revolution, both because it is an inherently interesting story, and also because of the stylishness with which it is told. At this point in our project, we have seen all manner of innovative camera-work, so I can't say whether this film definitely invented any particular technique, but it does feature a wide variety of effects -- extremely quick cutting, division of the screen into quarters and ninths, the camera swinging through meeting halls, and most famously the triptych scenes near the end, with an aspect ratio of 4 to 1. The latter effect was impressive, but the kids, after being initially appreciative, began to complain as it wore on, since it resulted in a dramatically smaller picture on our normally-proportioned TV screen.
We had previously seen 1923's Scaramouche, also set during the French Revolution, but while that was a fictional (though intelligent) Hollywood entertainment, this movie aspires to historical accuracy. As a result, it loses focus on Napoleon periodically, and spends a fair amount of time with Marat, Danton, and Robespierre. Napoleon is at times as much a spectator as the viewer, a feeling perhaps best captured in a memorable scene during the storming of the Tuileries Palace, shown from the standpoint of Napoleon upstairs in his apartment or study, looking out at the mobbed streets, contemplating his future and the future of the Revolution.
I tried to sell the film to Allison as a bit of a sequel to Hamilton, since Lafayette had returned to France by this time, leaving room for the suspiciously similar-looking Jefferson to leave for America. I don't think Lafayette was ever actually portrayed on screen though. I also pointed out that Napoleon had been dead for just over a hundred years when this film was released -- as compared to almost two hundred years now, so he was somewhat less of a distant historical figure for Gance than for modern viewers.
Napoleon is played by Albert Dieudonne, who gives an intense and focused performance, though not a particularly varied one. There is a scene not long after Thermidor when Napoleon is at a party, and Josephine says of him "He is really charming, this Buono-parte." The kids and I remarked at the time how wildly off-base this seemed, because, whatever the other virtues of Dieudonne's performance, it is not charming. After Marat, Danton, and Robespierre disappear from the scene, both the inherent dramatic appeal and the fancy camera-work start to fade -- excepting the triptych mentioned above. An excellent film of normal length could be cut from the first two parts (though it could not sensibly be entitled "Napoleon.") I am not so sure that is true of the third and fourth part.
It is also notable how insanely hagiographically Napoleon is portrayed. I haven't read enough of the history of this period to weigh in definitively, but I think it is safe to say that any approach to Napoleon that regards him as a wholly admirable figure is not an entirely mainstream view -- though of course most assessments of Napoleon take into account the period after he turned 26.
Next week we return with Sunrise, our sixth film from 1927, and our fourth by Murnau, the first since he relocated to Hollywood. The list, as always, is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
The Black Pirate (1926)
Originally posted to Facebook on 5/13/2018
The Black Pirate was our seventh and last film from 1926, and the fifth film we've seen starring Douglas Fairbanks -- the first since 1922's Robin Hood. It is a landmark of a sort, in that it is the first film we've seen that was filmed entirely in color. Color in this case means 2-strip Technicolor, which is the same process that was used for parts of 1925's Ben-Hur. As with that film, the color doesn't look completely natural, but it is obviously an early example of a coming change that would end up being almost as significant as the addition of sound. Unlike the switch-over to sound, though, which happened over just a few years, the industry change to producing almost exclusively color films took place over several decades. In fact, looking over my list of potential upcoming films, I'm not sure we'll start seeing full-color films on a regular basis until the late thirties.
The film itself is a straight adventure movie, not too different in style from Fairbanks' Robin Hood, but simpler and more focused. Fairbanks is in full swashbuckling mode here, perhaps a little less hyperactive than in Robin Hood, but still doing a lot of jumping and climbing and sword-fighting. He plays the victim of a pirate attack who, in order to survive and get back to civilization and avenge his father (who died in the attack), temporarily becomes the pirate leader -- an accomplishment that seems like it ought to be a little more difficult than portrayed. His main antagonist is another pirate, played by Sam De Grasse, who was also Prince John in Robin Hood. Billie Dove plays the love interest, but I imagine it was a rather unrewarding role for her, as she is given very little to do. This film holds up decently well as entertainment, but I'm not sure it would be terribly well-known today without the element of color. That novelty never quite wears off, and the sight of a blade dripping red with fake blood certainly has a kind of immediacy which has no exact parallel in the films that we've previously seen.
Next week we return to 1927, picking up with our fifth film from that year, the monumental Napoleon directed by Abel Gance. I have also updated the list (https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT) to add our planned films from 1928, including Speedy, which we saw at the Alamo in Winchester in 2016, and which I have decided retroactively was part of this project all along. Unfortunately I have once again exceeded pretty dramatically my goal of four films a year, but I am working on getting that back on track so we can maybe finish this project before Ben goes to college.
The Black Pirate was our seventh and last film from 1926, and the fifth film we've seen starring Douglas Fairbanks -- the first since 1922's Robin Hood. It is a landmark of a sort, in that it is the first film we've seen that was filmed entirely in color. Color in this case means 2-strip Technicolor, which is the same process that was used for parts of 1925's Ben-Hur. As with that film, the color doesn't look completely natural, but it is obviously an early example of a coming change that would end up being almost as significant as the addition of sound. Unlike the switch-over to sound, though, which happened over just a few years, the industry change to producing almost exclusively color films took place over several decades. In fact, looking over my list of potential upcoming films, I'm not sure we'll start seeing full-color films on a regular basis until the late thirties.
The film itself is a straight adventure movie, not too different in style from Fairbanks' Robin Hood, but simpler and more focused. Fairbanks is in full swashbuckling mode here, perhaps a little less hyperactive than in Robin Hood, but still doing a lot of jumping and climbing and sword-fighting. He plays the victim of a pirate attack who, in order to survive and get back to civilization and avenge his father (who died in the attack), temporarily becomes the pirate leader -- an accomplishment that seems like it ought to be a little more difficult than portrayed. His main antagonist is another pirate, played by Sam De Grasse, who was also Prince John in Robin Hood. Billie Dove plays the love interest, but I imagine it was a rather unrewarding role for her, as she is given very little to do. This film holds up decently well as entertainment, but I'm not sure it would be terribly well-known today without the element of color. That novelty never quite wears off, and the sight of a blade dripping red with fake blood certainly has a kind of immediacy which has no exact parallel in the films that we've previously seen.
Next week we return to 1927, picking up with our fifth film from that year, the monumental Napoleon directed by Abel Gance. I have also updated the list (https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT) to add our planned films from 1928, including Speedy, which we saw at the Alamo in Winchester in 2016, and which I have decided retroactively was part of this project all along. Unfortunately I have once again exceeded pretty dramatically my goal of four films a year, but I am working on getting that back on track so we can maybe finish this project before Ben goes to college.
Saturday, June 1, 2019
Faust (1926)
Originally posted to Facebook on 5/9/2018
Faust was our sixth film from 1926, and our third directed by F.W. Murnau. It was also our first German expressionist film since Metropolis, a few months earlier. Of course Metropolis was actually from 1927, but we had seen them out of order because we'd had the chance to see Metropolis on the big screen at the Alamo.
The movie stars Gösta Ekman as Faust, while Emil Jannings, whom we saw in Murnau's 1924 film The Last Laugh, plays the devil. Ekman would die in his forties in 1938, and Jannings would die in 1950 -- and make no movies during his final five years because of his Nazi affiliation during the war -- but the female lead Camilla Horn lived until 1996, and was appearing regularly in movies and TV up through the late eighties. (Bruce Springsteen also wrote a song about her, in a weird bit of trivia.)
In tone this film is probably closer to Murnau's 1922 film Nosferatu than The Last Laugh. It tells the familiar Faust story, with Jannings' devil granting Ekman his desires in exchange for his soul. The early parts of the film are dark and atmospheric, and the initial summoning scene in particular is quite strong and dramatic. Unfortunately not long after Faust signs his contract with the devil that intensity starts to seep away as Jannings becomes less threatening than comical. Ekman begins pursuing Horn, and Jannings in parallel pursues Horn's aunt as a distraction. Jannings' scenes in this section of the movie are broad and hammy and strangely light-hearted, given that Jannings is supposedly the incarnate force of ultimate evil. The movie rallies a bit in its final section, but overall it reminds me a bit of Lang's 1921 film Destiny, in that some striking scenes and images are undermined by stretches of not-terribly-amusing comedy.
Next week is our seventh and last film from 1926, The Black Pirate. It will be our first truly color film, and our fifth film starring Douglas Fairbanks. The list, as always, is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
Faust was our sixth film from 1926, and our third directed by F.W. Murnau. It was also our first German expressionist film since Metropolis, a few months earlier. Of course Metropolis was actually from 1927, but we had seen them out of order because we'd had the chance to see Metropolis on the big screen at the Alamo.
The movie stars Gösta Ekman as Faust, while Emil Jannings, whom we saw in Murnau's 1924 film The Last Laugh, plays the devil. Ekman would die in his forties in 1938, and Jannings would die in 1950 -- and make no movies during his final five years because of his Nazi affiliation during the war -- but the female lead Camilla Horn lived until 1996, and was appearing regularly in movies and TV up through the late eighties. (Bruce Springsteen also wrote a song about her, in a weird bit of trivia.)
In tone this film is probably closer to Murnau's 1922 film Nosferatu than The Last Laugh. It tells the familiar Faust story, with Jannings' devil granting Ekman his desires in exchange for his soul. The early parts of the film are dark and atmospheric, and the initial summoning scene in particular is quite strong and dramatic. Unfortunately not long after Faust signs his contract with the devil that intensity starts to seep away as Jannings becomes less threatening than comical. Ekman begins pursuing Horn, and Jannings in parallel pursues Horn's aunt as a distraction. Jannings' scenes in this section of the movie are broad and hammy and strangely light-hearted, given that Jannings is supposedly the incarnate force of ultimate evil. The movie rallies a bit in its final section, but overall it reminds me a bit of Lang's 1921 film Destiny, in that some striking scenes and images are undermined by stretches of not-terribly-amusing comedy.
Next week is our seventh and last film from 1926, The Black Pirate. It will be our first truly color film, and our fifth film starring Douglas Fairbanks. The list, as always, is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
Tell It to the Marines (1926)
Originally posted to Facebook on 4/25/2018
Tell It to the Marines was our fifth film from 1926, and our third starring Lon Chaney. He co-stars with William Haines -- Chaney playing a Marine drill sergeant and Haines playing a young recruit. The obligatory scenes of training camp and difficult postings are present, though overall the film paints a rather rosy picture of Marine life. The female lead is a Navy nurse played by Eleanor Boardman, who is the focus of a sort of a love triangle. Chaney, refreshingly, has enough self-awareness to see that he is a generation older than her, and his attraction is relatively friendly and platonic. This is by far the most normal character we've seen Chaney play, though he is as charismatic as always. Haines, maybe surprisingly, is able to hold his own, and their interplay is the strongest feature of the movie. Haines also tries to impress Boardman, and takes her on a date where he keeps her much longer than promised, and refuses to drive her home, and is otherwise generally obnoxious. Of course she is publicly furious with him, but the movie decides that she in fact likes him after all. This is not necessarily an impossible development, but the movie seems to think it altogether natural -- which sadly is only the first of several errors of judgment. The second is telegraphed by the credits, which list Warner Oland as "Chinese Bandit Leader." Oland, of course, was a Swede who later played Charlie Chan in a series of movies throughout the thirties. But even before that moment could unfold, Chaney and Haines ship out, and are stationed on an island, presumably in the Pacific. There Haines meets and becomes involved with Carmel Myers (whom we'd earlier seen in Ben-Hur as an Egyptian who attempted to seduce Ramon Navarro), appearing in darkening makeup as an islander. These scenes are even worse than the later scenes with Oland, which themselves are not so great.
The frustrating thing about this film is that it has some very strong sequences with Chaney and Haines that are weighed down by the flaws described above. Chaney is at times a boss, a mentor, a rival, and a friend to Haines -- and Haines matches Chaney with a well-calibrated initial irreverence that eventually matures into a certain amount of depth. In the end it is too flawed to recommend, but it certainly has some of the pieces of a good movie.
Our film next week is Faust, our sixth from 1926, and our third directed by F.W. Murnau. The list, as always, is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
Tell It to the Marines was our fifth film from 1926, and our third starring Lon Chaney. He co-stars with William Haines -- Chaney playing a Marine drill sergeant and Haines playing a young recruit. The obligatory scenes of training camp and difficult postings are present, though overall the film paints a rather rosy picture of Marine life. The female lead is a Navy nurse played by Eleanor Boardman, who is the focus of a sort of a love triangle. Chaney, refreshingly, has enough self-awareness to see that he is a generation older than her, and his attraction is relatively friendly and platonic. This is by far the most normal character we've seen Chaney play, though he is as charismatic as always. Haines, maybe surprisingly, is able to hold his own, and their interplay is the strongest feature of the movie. Haines also tries to impress Boardman, and takes her on a date where he keeps her much longer than promised, and refuses to drive her home, and is otherwise generally obnoxious. Of course she is publicly furious with him, but the movie decides that she in fact likes him after all. This is not necessarily an impossible development, but the movie seems to think it altogether natural -- which sadly is only the first of several errors of judgment. The second is telegraphed by the credits, which list Warner Oland as "Chinese Bandit Leader." Oland, of course, was a Swede who later played Charlie Chan in a series of movies throughout the thirties. But even before that moment could unfold, Chaney and Haines ship out, and are stationed on an island, presumably in the Pacific. There Haines meets and becomes involved with Carmel Myers (whom we'd earlier seen in Ben-Hur as an Egyptian who attempted to seduce Ramon Navarro), appearing in darkening makeup as an islander. These scenes are even worse than the later scenes with Oland, which themselves are not so great.
The frustrating thing about this film is that it has some very strong sequences with Chaney and Haines that are weighed down by the flaws described above. Chaney is at times a boss, a mentor, a rival, and a friend to Haines -- and Haines matches Chaney with a well-calibrated initial irreverence that eventually matures into a certain amount of depth. In the end it is too flawed to recommend, but it certainly has some of the pieces of a good movie.
Our film next week is Faust, our sixth from 1926, and our third directed by F.W. Murnau. The list, as always, is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
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