Originally posted to Facebook on 1/8/2018
Ben-Hur was our fourth film from 1925. It was directed by Fred Niblo, and is the second film we've seen starring Ramon Novarro. We'd previously seen a short version from 1907, and Ben and I saw the 2016 version when it was in the theaters, so we were somewhat familiar with the plot.
The story revolves around Judah Ben-Hur (Novarro), a Jewish resident of Jerusalem, who comes into conflict with his childhood friend, the Roman Messala (played by Francis X. Bushman) and ends up separated from his family as a slave on a Roman galley, trying to recover what he's lost and reunite with his family. In the 2016 version a significant amount of time was spent detailing the deteriorating relationship between Ben-Hur and Messala -- and indeed this was probably the most interesting part of that movie. In the 1925 movie that is all telescoped -- Messala is, from the start, a much more straightforward antagonist. The key sequences of this film (and the 2016 version as well) are the battle at sea, and the chariot race. Both were groundbreaking at the time, and still hold up as well as you would expect in a big-budget film of this kind -- and, consistent with the reputation for the general disregard for safety in silent films, both were rumored to have resulted in the deaths of stuntmen or extras.
Another element that would have captured the attention of contemporary audiences was the Technicolor sequences -- something I became aware of only in preparation for this viewing. I didn't tell the kids ahead of time, and they were suitably impressed ("How did they do that?" asked Alli) -- though it's questionable whether these sequences really add anything beyond spectacle to the movie. However that is in keeping with the spirit of the film, which too was largely spectacle, and it was certainly something we hadn't seen before during this project. We'd previously seen hand-colored movies from the early days of cinema, but this was the first film for us with color captured during filming -- in this case using two-strip Technicolor, which didn't register the full spectrum, but for a specific palette was bright and dramatic.
These color sequences were mainly used for the religious segments of the film (though a few other random sequences were in color as well), presumably to imbue those segments with an added significance, which was in tune with the film's general approach towards Christianity. The subtitle of the film (and the book) is A Tale of the Christ, and the filmmakers clearly intend the film to revolve around Ben-Hur's spiritual awakening, but from a purely storytelling perspective, many of the religious sequences seem extraneous, especially the recapitulation of biblical stories which don't involve Ben-Hur directly. Additionally, the decision was made to not show Jesus Christ directly, often only showing his hand reaching in from off-screen. I imagine this was done in order to be respectful, but it ends up reading as a bit odd, as if Jesus Christ is being played by Thing from the Addams family. It is also a different approach than had been used in previous movies, including, for example, 1916's Intolerance which we'd watched a year earlier, and which had an on-screen actor playing Jesus, including in the biblical 'cast the first stone' scene which is in both films.
But this film does succeed as a strong example of a big-budget action-focused blockbuster, perhaps the truest embodiment of that category that we have yet seen. Novarro carries the film quite capably, as he did in 1923's Scaramouche. I preferred that earlier film, because it filled out its characters better, and was a little more thoughtful, but Ben-Hur is on a larger scale and is much more of an epic, recalling some of the similar large-scale films we'd seen from a decade earlier (e.g. Cabiria, Intolerance, Last Days of Pompeii, etc.)
Our next film is Lazybones, our fifth film from 1925, and the first time we'll see Frank Borzage as director. The list, as always, is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
Wednesday, February 20, 2019
The Gold Rush (1925)
Originally posted to Facebook on 12/24/2017
The Gold Rush was our third film from 1925, and our fourth feature starring Charlie Chaplin -- the third which he directed. By this time Chaplin was deep into auteur mode, obsessively re-shooting scenes and pouring enormous resources into something that by design was going to be received as essentially light-hearted. This of course is not unique to Chaplin -- the same is true of the Marvel movies and many other films -- but it does sometimes intrude on the viewing experience when you realize that a joke which barely registers was the result of weeks of shooting and cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. Although, given the amount of care that was given to the film, it is a little surprising that the plot is as ramshackle as it is -- being basically an excuse for a series of set pieces. It involves a search for gold, a romance, and a story about surviving the elements -- but they are awkwardly integrated, and the romance -- if it even rises to that level -- seems particularly perfunctory. (Chaplin re-edited and re-released this film in 1942 -- and perhaps tightened things -- but in the spirit of this project, we watched the 1925 version.)
I think, too, that The Gold Rush is a victim of its own fame. Many of the bits have become so well-known and endlessly copied that it is difficult to see them fresh. It is impossible that Chaplin eating a shoe, or turning into a giant chicken in the eyes of his cabin-mate, or pantomiming dancing dinner rolls, would register in the same way as it did to an audience in 1925. One thing that I did learn on seeing this film for the first time, though, is that the dancing dinner rolls sequence literally occurs because Chaplin's character explicitly announces that he is now going to do a funny bit involving dinner rolls -- and in a dream sequence at that. This brazen approach seems worth copying; there's no need to invest in lengthy set-ups if a character can just announce, "Now here's a funny bit!"
The foregoing notwithstanding, I enjoyed the film -- and perhaps would have enjoyed it more if I'd seen it outside the context of its status as a classic. Alli remarked that a scene where the female lead, Georgia Hale, and her friends stood Chaplin up for dinner made her feel sad -- so I guess Chaplin's pathos still has some power, as manipulative as it can be. (Georgia Hale, BTW -- whose character's name is "Georgia" in this film, possibly for the same reason that Tony Danza's characters were often named Tony -- had a very short career, but, in addition to this film, also had a significant role in one of the missing silent-era films that I most hope is rediscovered: 1926's The Great Gatsby.)
Next week we see Ben Hur, our fourth film from 1925, and our second film starring Ramon Novarro. It is also the second time in this project we've seen an adaptation of this story, the first being a short from 1907. The list, as always, is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
The Gold Rush was our third film from 1925, and our fourth feature starring Charlie Chaplin -- the third which he directed. By this time Chaplin was deep into auteur mode, obsessively re-shooting scenes and pouring enormous resources into something that by design was going to be received as essentially light-hearted. This of course is not unique to Chaplin -- the same is true of the Marvel movies and many other films -- but it does sometimes intrude on the viewing experience when you realize that a joke which barely registers was the result of weeks of shooting and cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. Although, given the amount of care that was given to the film, it is a little surprising that the plot is as ramshackle as it is -- being basically an excuse for a series of set pieces. It involves a search for gold, a romance, and a story about surviving the elements -- but they are awkwardly integrated, and the romance -- if it even rises to that level -- seems particularly perfunctory. (Chaplin re-edited and re-released this film in 1942 -- and perhaps tightened things -- but in the spirit of this project, we watched the 1925 version.)
I think, too, that The Gold Rush is a victim of its own fame. Many of the bits have become so well-known and endlessly copied that it is difficult to see them fresh. It is impossible that Chaplin eating a shoe, or turning into a giant chicken in the eyes of his cabin-mate, or pantomiming dancing dinner rolls, would register in the same way as it did to an audience in 1925. One thing that I did learn on seeing this film for the first time, though, is that the dancing dinner rolls sequence literally occurs because Chaplin's character explicitly announces that he is now going to do a funny bit involving dinner rolls -- and in a dream sequence at that. This brazen approach seems worth copying; there's no need to invest in lengthy set-ups if a character can just announce, "Now here's a funny bit!"
The foregoing notwithstanding, I enjoyed the film -- and perhaps would have enjoyed it more if I'd seen it outside the context of its status as a classic. Alli remarked that a scene where the female lead, Georgia Hale, and her friends stood Chaplin up for dinner made her feel sad -- so I guess Chaplin's pathos still has some power, as manipulative as it can be. (Georgia Hale, BTW -- whose character's name is "Georgia" in this film, possibly for the same reason that Tony Danza's characters were often named Tony -- had a very short career, but, in addition to this film, also had a significant role in one of the missing silent-era films that I most hope is rediscovered: 1926's The Great Gatsby.)
Next week we see Ben Hur, our fourth film from 1925, and our second film starring Ramon Novarro. It is also the second time in this project we've seen an adaptation of this story, the first being a short from 1907. The list, as always, is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
The Big Parade (1925)
Originally posted to Facebook on 12/17/2017
The Big Parade was our second film from 1925, and the first time we have seen John Gilbert in a leading role. We'd seen him once before in a smaller part, behind Lon Chaney in He Who Gets Slapped (which just last week was added to the National Film Registry.) This is also the first film we've seen directed by King Vidor, who continued working up through the late fifties, and was nominated for five directing Oscars along the way.
This film follows a somewhat familiar arc as John Gilbert is introduced as a less-than-serious young man, and becomes battle-hardened and cynical as a result of his experiences during World War 1. Between the early scenes of him as a civilian and the later battle scenes, his character is stationed in a French village, where the main focus is the growing relationship between him and the female lead, played by Renée Adorée (who, like Gilbert, would be dead before the next decade was out.) This section, I think, is the most flawed portion of the film. It is not just that the film is not terribly convincing in portraying Gilbert and Adorée falling in love, but also that an hour is spent in the attempt. This delays the most effective portion of the film -- the depiction of the war -- which includes a tension-filled sequence during which Gilbert and the other soldiers slowly march through a forest filled with snipers whittling down their outfit, one by one. Following that there are also the series of trench warfare scenes that one would expect in a WW1 film. I strongly suspect that these latter scenes influenced 1930's All's Quiet on the Western Front, which has a similar kind of intensity. That film, though, depicted a lengthy campaign which helped to communicate how the attrition and constant state of fear weighed upon soldiers, whereas The Big Parade shows Gilbert's growth and alienation in a much more compacted time-frame. Also, unlike the later film, The Big Parade is less conspicuously anti-war, focusing much more on Gilbert's specific story.
This is the first true war film that we've seen (excepting Chaplin's Shoulder Arms), and the first to attempt to depict combat with any degree of verisimilitude, which made it a worthwhile viewing despite its other flaws. It is probably at least partially a result of the particular films that we've selected, but it does seem that Hollywood was a little slow to fully engage with WW1, which is a big contrast with, for instance, the approach during WW2 a couple of decades later.
Next week we move on to our third film from 1925, Chaplin's The Gold Rush -- the fourth feature of his we'll see. The list, as always, is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
The Big Parade was our second film from 1925, and the first time we have seen John Gilbert in a leading role. We'd seen him once before in a smaller part, behind Lon Chaney in He Who Gets Slapped (which just last week was added to the National Film Registry.) This is also the first film we've seen directed by King Vidor, who continued working up through the late fifties, and was nominated for five directing Oscars along the way.
This film follows a somewhat familiar arc as John Gilbert is introduced as a less-than-serious young man, and becomes battle-hardened and cynical as a result of his experiences during World War 1. Between the early scenes of him as a civilian and the later battle scenes, his character is stationed in a French village, where the main focus is the growing relationship between him and the female lead, played by Renée Adorée (who, like Gilbert, would be dead before the next decade was out.) This section, I think, is the most flawed portion of the film. It is not just that the film is not terribly convincing in portraying Gilbert and Adorée falling in love, but also that an hour is spent in the attempt. This delays the most effective portion of the film -- the depiction of the war -- which includes a tension-filled sequence during which Gilbert and the other soldiers slowly march through a forest filled with snipers whittling down their outfit, one by one. Following that there are also the series of trench warfare scenes that one would expect in a WW1 film. I strongly suspect that these latter scenes influenced 1930's All's Quiet on the Western Front, which has a similar kind of intensity. That film, though, depicted a lengthy campaign which helped to communicate how the attrition and constant state of fear weighed upon soldiers, whereas The Big Parade shows Gilbert's growth and alienation in a much more compacted time-frame. Also, unlike the later film, The Big Parade is less conspicuously anti-war, focusing much more on Gilbert's specific story.
This is the first true war film that we've seen (excepting Chaplin's Shoulder Arms), and the first to attempt to depict combat with any degree of verisimilitude, which made it a worthwhile viewing despite its other flaws. It is probably at least partially a result of the particular films that we've selected, but it does seem that Hollywood was a little slow to fully engage with WW1, which is a big contrast with, for instance, the approach during WW2 a couple of decades later.
Next week we move on to our third film from 1925, Chaplin's The Gold Rush -- the fourth feature of his we'll see. The list, as always, is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
Metropolis (1927)
Originally posted to Facebook on 12/12/2017
We skipped ahead with this film, seeing 1927's Metropolis a week after seeing our first film from 1925, because it happened to be showing on the big screen at the Alamo. Unlike the only previous silent film we'd seen in a theater (1928's Speedy), there was no live band, only a pre-recorded score.
Like last week's Battleship Potemkin, this film had been on my radar to see for half-a-lifetime -- and in this case it appears that it was actually a lucky thing that I held off, because, due to successive discoveries of old prints, only in the last decade has it been available in anything near its originally released length of two and a half hours.
I should say at the outset that it is immediately obvious why this is considered a classic. All four of the previous Lang / Harbou films we've seen have been innovative and imaginative in some fashion, but this one most strongly combines ambition and focus.
The plot pits those who dwell above ground against a working class living below ground. It seems as though some aspects of this might have been inspired by Wells' Time Machine, though the analogy is not exact. The protagonist, played by Gustav Fröhlich, is the city leader's son, and during the movie he gradually comes to understand the foundation of his and his father's position. Without giving away too much, he encounters a saintly spiritual leader of the underground workers, played by Brigitte Helm, an insane scientist played by Rudolf Klein-Rogge, and an evil robot that Klein-Rogge creates, which is given Helm's appearance.
I think I've used the phrase feverish to describe a number of silent films -- and I think that is indeed one of the few advantages the best silent films have over their sound counterparts -- the focused emotional intensity that can sometimes be invoked by music and images uninterrupted by dialog. In Metropolis that is played out in a literal fever dream that Fröhlich has midway through the film, which mixes a montage of actual plot events with fantastical images, including statues of the seven deadly sins coming to life. After this sequence, I whispered to Alli, "Now the crazy part begins." She laughed (or pretended to), but it is a testament to the film that there were indeed impressive and iconic set pieces yet to come.
One could nitpick individual scenes and choices, but there are only two things that I think are worth singling out. First, the tentative and muddled politics. The main thematic driver of the film is the separation between the working and managerial classes, which would, one would think, tilt it towards a Marxist viewpoint. But, if so, it lacks the courage of its convictions, and is as unlikely to please Marxists as capitalists, because, while it singles out class struggle as the city's key flaw, it suggests no need for any great structural changes -- but instead that there be -- somehow -- a bond of affection between the two classes. I would have preferred either less overt politics or politics I oppose rather than this kind of weak tea. The second flaw, is, I think, in the male lead. Fröhlich is not actively bad, but is a little muted and not quite charismatic enough to carry the film, and suffers by comparison to Helm and Klein-Rogge. We have of course seen Klein-Rogge's charisma in several films now, and Helm -- while she occasionally overplays the counterpoint between her dual roles -- is at least always interesting.
Next week we return to 1925, our second film from that year being The Big Parade, the WWI drama starring John Gilbert. The link, as always is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
We skipped ahead with this film, seeing 1927's Metropolis a week after seeing our first film from 1925, because it happened to be showing on the big screen at the Alamo. Unlike the only previous silent film we'd seen in a theater (1928's Speedy), there was no live band, only a pre-recorded score.
Like last week's Battleship Potemkin, this film had been on my radar to see for half-a-lifetime -- and in this case it appears that it was actually a lucky thing that I held off, because, due to successive discoveries of old prints, only in the last decade has it been available in anything near its originally released length of two and a half hours.
I should say at the outset that it is immediately obvious why this is considered a classic. All four of the previous Lang / Harbou films we've seen have been innovative and imaginative in some fashion, but this one most strongly combines ambition and focus.
The plot pits those who dwell above ground against a working class living below ground. It seems as though some aspects of this might have been inspired by Wells' Time Machine, though the analogy is not exact. The protagonist, played by Gustav Fröhlich, is the city leader's son, and during the movie he gradually comes to understand the foundation of his and his father's position. Without giving away too much, he encounters a saintly spiritual leader of the underground workers, played by Brigitte Helm, an insane scientist played by Rudolf Klein-Rogge, and an evil robot that Klein-Rogge creates, which is given Helm's appearance.
I think I've used the phrase feverish to describe a number of silent films -- and I think that is indeed one of the few advantages the best silent films have over their sound counterparts -- the focused emotional intensity that can sometimes be invoked by music and images uninterrupted by dialog. In Metropolis that is played out in a literal fever dream that Fröhlich has midway through the film, which mixes a montage of actual plot events with fantastical images, including statues of the seven deadly sins coming to life. After this sequence, I whispered to Alli, "Now the crazy part begins." She laughed (or pretended to), but it is a testament to the film that there were indeed impressive and iconic set pieces yet to come.
One could nitpick individual scenes and choices, but there are only two things that I think are worth singling out. First, the tentative and muddled politics. The main thematic driver of the film is the separation between the working and managerial classes, which would, one would think, tilt it towards a Marxist viewpoint. But, if so, it lacks the courage of its convictions, and is as unlikely to please Marxists as capitalists, because, while it singles out class struggle as the city's key flaw, it suggests no need for any great structural changes -- but instead that there be -- somehow -- a bond of affection between the two classes. I would have preferred either less overt politics or politics I oppose rather than this kind of weak tea. The second flaw, is, I think, in the male lead. Fröhlich is not actively bad, but is a little muted and not quite charismatic enough to carry the film, and suffers by comparison to Helm and Klein-Rogge. We have of course seen Klein-Rogge's charisma in several films now, and Helm -- while she occasionally overplays the counterpoint between her dual roles -- is at least always interesting.
Next week we return to 1925, our second film from that year being The Big Parade, the WWI drama starring John Gilbert. The link, as always is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
Monday, February 18, 2019
Battleship Potemkin (1925)
Originally posted to Facebook on 11/16/2017
Our first film from 1925 was the iconic Soviet silent film Battleship Potemkin, directed by Sergei Eisenstein. This is certainly one of those silent films that comes right off of a film-school syllabus, and it's been on my list to see for a long time -- probably since The Untouchables was in the theaters and I read in reviews about the origin of the baby carriage scene. The movie takes place during the failed revolution of 1905, and obviously is intended to link that revolution to the successful revolution of 1917, and propagandistically valorize the failed revolutionaries.
The film has three main sections -- starting with mounting dissatisfaction onboard ship and an eventual mutiny. Then the growing movement sparked by this mutiny and the subsequent crackdown on the Odessa steps, and lastly a showdown at sea. The characterization of most of the characters is very thin -- deliberately so -- but despite this being a clear choice, it does serve to distance one from the action -- and it is never really clear how poor conditions on-board ship are linked to a greater civilian movement. As the first section began to drag a bit, I began to wonder if this wasn't perhaps one of those classics that had aged poorly -- but the entire Odessa Steps sequence made it clear why this film has entered the canon. The scenes of the Russian military wading into civilian protesters without regard for casualties is not only dramatic (and sadly resonant with any number of similar instances that have played out on television over the last few decades), but also dramatically and innovatively shot. The third sequence returns to the medium-energy of the first section, and, as a result, is rather anti-climactic. I think in the end the lack of actual characters, and the enormous differences in tension and energy between the middle part of the film and the surrounding sections, make this a very flawed film -- certainly from an entertainment perspective -- and the politics of it are of course coming from a very dark place. But the middle section alone more than justifies a watch.
Next week, we skip ahead briefly to 1927 before returning to our second film from 1925. Our first film from 1927 is Metropolis, which we viewed slightly out of order because it happened to be playing on the big screen at the Alamo. Metropolis is of course another iconic film, and the fifth Fritz Lang film that we've seen, featuring a few of his regulars. The link, as always is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
Our first film from 1925 was the iconic Soviet silent film Battleship Potemkin, directed by Sergei Eisenstein. This is certainly one of those silent films that comes right off of a film-school syllabus, and it's been on my list to see for a long time -- probably since The Untouchables was in the theaters and I read in reviews about the origin of the baby carriage scene. The movie takes place during the failed revolution of 1905, and obviously is intended to link that revolution to the successful revolution of 1917, and propagandistically valorize the failed revolutionaries.
The film has three main sections -- starting with mounting dissatisfaction onboard ship and an eventual mutiny. Then the growing movement sparked by this mutiny and the subsequent crackdown on the Odessa steps, and lastly a showdown at sea. The characterization of most of the characters is very thin -- deliberately so -- but despite this being a clear choice, it does serve to distance one from the action -- and it is never really clear how poor conditions on-board ship are linked to a greater civilian movement. As the first section began to drag a bit, I began to wonder if this wasn't perhaps one of those classics that had aged poorly -- but the entire Odessa Steps sequence made it clear why this film has entered the canon. The scenes of the Russian military wading into civilian protesters without regard for casualties is not only dramatic (and sadly resonant with any number of similar instances that have played out on television over the last few decades), but also dramatically and innovatively shot. The third sequence returns to the medium-energy of the first section, and, as a result, is rather anti-climactic. I think in the end the lack of actual characters, and the enormous differences in tension and energy between the middle part of the film and the surrounding sections, make this a very flawed film -- certainly from an entertainment perspective -- and the politics of it are of course coming from a very dark place. But the middle section alone more than justifies a watch.
Next week, we skip ahead briefly to 1927 before returning to our second film from 1925. Our first film from 1927 is Metropolis, which we viewed slightly out of order because it happened to be playing on the big screen at the Alamo. Metropolis is of course another iconic film, and the fifth Fritz Lang film that we've seen, featuring a few of his regulars. The link, as always is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
He Who Gets Slapped (1924)
Originally posted to Facebook on 10/24/2017
Our fifth and final film from 1924 was He Who Gets Slapped, our second film starring Lon Chaney, and our fifth directed by Victor Sjöström, who had relocated to Hollywood since 1921's The Phantom Carriage. This is also the first film in which we've seen John Gilbert or Norma Shearer.
The premise of the film is that Chaney is a scientist, and his patron, Baron Regnard, conspires with Chaney's wife to take credit for his work, publicly slapping him when he confronts the Baron. Chaney then returns home, where his wife reveals her part in the plot, and slaps him as well. The film then jumps forward, and in the intervening time Chaney has become a circus clown, where he has developed a starring act in which he gets slapped repeatedly by other clowns to mass acclaim -- a bizarre development not just because of its fetishistic aspect, but also because of the vertiginous mid-career shift between research scientist and circus clown.
John Gilbert and Norma Shearer are stunt riders, apparently one of the rare non-clown positions in this particular circus. There is a slight love triangle, in that Chaney is in love with Shearer, but he recognizes that she loves Gilbert, who is closer to her in age, and, crucially, isn't a clown with severe and masochistic psychological problems. When the Baron reappears, however, and begins to pursue Shearer, it provokes in Chaney both a protective instinct, and also a desire for revenge. This revenge motive recalls the previous film in which we saw Lon Chaney, 1920's The Penalty, as does his acting style, which is forceful and charismatic in both films, though not exactly naturalistic in either (an approach that would have been difficult in full clown make-up in any case.)
And it is this performance that, I think, makes this more of a Lon Chaney film than a Victor Sjöström film. Sjöström's assured hand is still visible, but the over-the-top luridness feels much more like The Penalty than any of Sjöström's earlier films.
Next week we being 1925 with our first Russian film, a film I've been intending to watch since I saw The Untouchables more than a quarter-century ago: Battleship Potemkin. Additionally, since we are starting 1925, I've added our planned films for 1926. The list, as always, is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
Our fifth and final film from 1924 was He Who Gets Slapped, our second film starring Lon Chaney, and our fifth directed by Victor Sjöström, who had relocated to Hollywood since 1921's The Phantom Carriage. This is also the first film in which we've seen John Gilbert or Norma Shearer.
The premise of the film is that Chaney is a scientist, and his patron, Baron Regnard, conspires with Chaney's wife to take credit for his work, publicly slapping him when he confronts the Baron. Chaney then returns home, where his wife reveals her part in the plot, and slaps him as well. The film then jumps forward, and in the intervening time Chaney has become a circus clown, where he has developed a starring act in which he gets slapped repeatedly by other clowns to mass acclaim -- a bizarre development not just because of its fetishistic aspect, but also because of the vertiginous mid-career shift between research scientist and circus clown.
John Gilbert and Norma Shearer are stunt riders, apparently one of the rare non-clown positions in this particular circus. There is a slight love triangle, in that Chaney is in love with Shearer, but he recognizes that she loves Gilbert, who is closer to her in age, and, crucially, isn't a clown with severe and masochistic psychological problems. When the Baron reappears, however, and begins to pursue Shearer, it provokes in Chaney both a protective instinct, and also a desire for revenge. This revenge motive recalls the previous film in which we saw Lon Chaney, 1920's The Penalty, as does his acting style, which is forceful and charismatic in both films, though not exactly naturalistic in either (an approach that would have been difficult in full clown make-up in any case.)
And it is this performance that, I think, makes this more of a Lon Chaney film than a Victor Sjöström film. Sjöström's assured hand is still visible, but the over-the-top luridness feels much more like The Penalty than any of Sjöström's earlier films.
Next week we being 1925 with our first Russian film, a film I've been intending to watch since I saw The Untouchables more than a quarter-century ago: Battleship Potemkin. Additionally, since we are starting 1925, I've added our planned films for 1926. The list, as always, is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
When Knighthood Was in Flower (1922)
Originally posted to Facebook on 10/16/2017
As mentioned last week, our sixth and final film from 1922 arrived late, after we'd watched all of our other films from 1922 and 1923 and most of 1924. The reason for the late arrival was that the film, while not lost like so many other silent films, was not readily available streaming or via DVD, and the version we received was as a result of a Kickstarter project by Ben Model, funded by ~300 contributors, including me.
When Knighthood Was in Flower was similar in some ways to 1922's Robin Hood and also to 1923's Scaramouche, in that it was a big-budget historical entertainment, setting personal stories against the backdrop of some approximation of real events. It is probably a little more concerned with the historical side of things than Robin Hood, but not so much as Scaramouche, which seemed genuinely if fitfully interested in the events of the French Revolution.
Marion Davies stars as the sister of Henry VIII, played by Lyn Harding -- already portraying him as the overweight, capricious, man of appetites that is now, and may have been then, the standard depiction. Davies is set to be married off to the King of France, but falls in love with a captain of the royal guard, played by Forrest Stanley, who is well below her class. This and subsequent events are surprisingly not that far from the actual historical truth (based on my typically cursory Wikipedia research), but they are played very much in the vein of a romance, and the plot could easily have been transplanted a hundred years earlier or later. Marion Davies is charming and charismatic, and mostly eclipses her costars, though apparently Stanley, Davies, and the director (Robert G. Vignola) were a recurring trio at around this time, and collaborated on several movies.
Next week, we return to 1924 to see our fifth and final film from that year: He Who Gets Slapped. This will be the second film we've seen starring Lon Chaney, and the fifth directed by Victor Sjöström -- but the first after his move to Hollywood. The list, as always, is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
As mentioned last week, our sixth and final film from 1922 arrived late, after we'd watched all of our other films from 1922 and 1923 and most of 1924. The reason for the late arrival was that the film, while not lost like so many other silent films, was not readily available streaming or via DVD, and the version we received was as a result of a Kickstarter project by Ben Model, funded by ~300 contributors, including me.
When Knighthood Was in Flower was similar in some ways to 1922's Robin Hood and also to 1923's Scaramouche, in that it was a big-budget historical entertainment, setting personal stories against the backdrop of some approximation of real events. It is probably a little more concerned with the historical side of things than Robin Hood, but not so much as Scaramouche, which seemed genuinely if fitfully interested in the events of the French Revolution.
Marion Davies stars as the sister of Henry VIII, played by Lyn Harding -- already portraying him as the overweight, capricious, man of appetites that is now, and may have been then, the standard depiction. Davies is set to be married off to the King of France, but falls in love with a captain of the royal guard, played by Forrest Stanley, who is well below her class. This and subsequent events are surprisingly not that far from the actual historical truth (based on my typically cursory Wikipedia research), but they are played very much in the vein of a romance, and the plot could easily have been transplanted a hundred years earlier or later. Marion Davies is charming and charismatic, and mostly eclipses her costars, though apparently Stanley, Davies, and the director (Robert G. Vignola) were a recurring trio at around this time, and collaborated on several movies.
Next week, we return to 1924 to see our fifth and final film from that year: He Who Gets Slapped. This will be the second film we've seen starring Lon Chaney, and the fifth directed by Victor Sjöström -- but the first after his move to Hollywood. The list, as always, is here: https://bit.ly/2lZtfmT
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