Serge Bromberg of Lobster Films introduces 'King of the Circus' (1924). Photo by Camille Scaysbrook
After two years of a global pandemic, it did not seem quite real to be back inside the Castro Theatre - possibly for the last time for the San Francisco Film Festival, given imminent changes to the venue. My festival was necessarily a truncated one, but to spend any amount of time inside a theatre, watching silent films with a big audience and quality accompaniments, was something I had not experienced for far too long.
Friday 6 May
Photo by Camille Scaysbrook
Amazing Tales From The Archive
This year's instalment had three years' worth of restorations to cover - some delayed by the pandemic, but others actually facilitated by the changed working conditions that it brought about - and three major projects were discussed.
The first presentation, by San Francisco Silent Film Festival preservationist Kathy Rose O'Regan, was a fascinating glimpse into Irish history, aptly subtitled 'The Accidental Anthropologist'. When photographer Benjamin T. Gault visited Ireland in the late 1920s to document the behaviour of local seabirds, he also captured incredibly rare scenes of ordinary life in rural areas - places so impoverished that the mere sight of a movie camera was sufficiently novel to prompt memories that one participant recalled decades afterward. This in turn led to the rediscovery and ongoing restoration of this very significant footage.
The Fire Brigade (1926), subject of our second presentation from Heather Linville of the Library of Congress, was an ambitious MGM production of the late silent era which failed critically and commercially at the time of its release. Today, it is probably best known for forming Kevin Brownlow's initial argument for silent film in the opening scenes of his iconic documentary series Hollywood (1980). By juxtaposing footage from this sophisticated late silent with that of an early film on a similar theme, Brownlow very effectively demonstrated the evolution of the art form from simple actuality-style scenarios shot from a single vantage point, to fully fleshed out action sequences, replete with complex film grammar and untethered cameras.
Though the footage more than made Brownlow's argument, it was lacking the additional colour effects that made it even more striking in its initial release, including tinted stock, flames coloured via the Handschliegl process, and a seven minute sequence of two-strip Technicolor, of which approximately one minute survives.
All but the last of these missing effects have been recreated in a recent photochemical restoration, which made its debut later in the festival. The exclusion of the third, which was described as a decision based on ethics, asks some interesting questions. We accept many things in silent film restoration as 'ethical', or at least acceptable if we are to get as close as possible to the filmmaker's vision: various methods for bridging gaps between lost footage, the recreation of intertitles (including approximations, when only foreign intertitles survive and are re-translated to English); even the shooting of new insert shots in some cases. When the technology exists to do it, and enough Technicolor footage survives to know the look and feel the filmmakers were aiming for - why does recreation of 'lost' Technicolor remain ethically off-limits? Especially as technology continues to evolve, I suspect this is an area that will be revisited by preservationists.
The final presentation, from Martin Koerber and Julia Wallmüller of the Deutsche Kinemathek, covered the restoration (again presented at this year's festivals, and again one I was unable to attend) of the German film Sylvester (1924), directed by Lupu Pick - better known to local audiences through his onscreen appearances in films such as Fritz Lang's Spione (1925). Pick's Sylvester was heavily cut after a disastrous debut screening, with a custom-composed score by Klaus Pringsheim dropped as a result. The rediscovery of this score in an American archive not only permitted it to be reunited with the film for which it was written, but allowed preservationists to correctly reassemble the order of shots from a jumbled foreign print - no easy task in a film with no intertitles - and ultimately to reconstruct a version of Sylvester as close as possible to the original cut. Through such amazing discoveries do great acts of preservation come!
Below the Surface (1920)
Hobart Bosworth, playing an expert diver in a rural New England village, risks his life to rescue the occupants of a stricken submarine. His heroism doesn't go unnoticed - especially by a moustache-twirling scam artist (James Arnold) and his gold-digging accomplice (Grace Darmond). A very young Lloyd Hughes, as Bosworth's naïve and none-too-bright son, falls instantly (and I mean instantly) for the gold-digger and unwisely agrees to her self-serving plan to dive for sunken treasure.
This is one of those pictures where the basic narrative trajectory is pretty clear early on, and despite an exciting opening and multiple dramatic developments, it never quite works up a head of steam until the final reel. Though not as gruesome as its predecessor Behind the Door, there is something macabre about its later scenes, which contemporary reviewers picked up on. I heard someone describe it as 'a goofy film', and they weren't wrong - but it's also an entertaining one. This restoration from an original camera negative includes the film's original tints, with a deep green glow making the under-sea sequences especially effective. The excellent Philip Carli provided a suitably dramatic piano accompaniment.
Photo by Camille Scaysbrook
The Primrose Path (1925)
Films survive for many reasons, and do not survive for many others. As recounted in Clara Bow biographer David Stenn's introduction, The Primrose Path (1925) seemed destined for oblivion on several occasions, yet Fate ultimately rescued not one but several copies of this previously missing film. This new restoration, derived from a 35mm print that was purchased online by a collector, sight unseen, is undoubtedly the best the film has looked since its release.
Wallace Macdonald plays recovering libertine Bruce who, in attempting to extricate himself from the wrong crowd, agrees to take part in a diamond smuggling ring for the benefit of a shady Broadway producer (Tom Canfield). When Bruce ends up on charges of murder, it is left to his younger brother Jimmy (Pat Moore) - the only witness to the incident - to exonerate or condemn the feckless brother whom he nevertheless worships. Will Bruce go to the electric chair, or will he and his lady love, Broadway headliner Marilyn Merrill (Clara Bow), be permitted to depart the 'primrose path' for the straight and narrow?
This is a B-movie, to be sure - most of them were at this stage of Clara's career - but it's one of unusually high quality, full of personnel who would go on to greater things, including screenwriter Leah Baird, future MGM producer-director Hunt Stromberg and director Harry O'Hoyt - later to helm the lost lamented Flaming Youth (1925) - who brings a snappy pace and great visual élan to what might otherwise have been a humdrum crime tale.
Then, there is the incandescent Clara Bow, who can always can be relied upon to elevate whatever material she is in. No matter the situation, she is always expertly in the moment, changes of emotion washing over her face in waves. It is impossible to tear your eyes away from her. And if that isn't 'It', then I don't know what 'It' is.
Blind Husbands (1919)
It occurred to me when I saw it at Cinecon in 2015, and it occurred to me again in this viewing, how startling and modern Blind Husbands must have appeared to its original audiences. Unlike many directors, Erich von Stroheim bolted out of the gate in this, his directorial debut, as a fully-formed artistic entity, his idiosyncratic directorial flair and love for the grotesque already well in evidence.
In addition to writing and directing, Von Stroheim plays Lieutenant von Steuben, the twisted antagonist in this tale of a neglectful scientist husband Dr Armstrong (Sam de Grasse) and his dutiful but bored wife (Francelia Billington), thrown together with Stroheim's vain and predatory cavalry officer, who amuses himself by seducing the female denizens of an alpine holiday retreat. The snow-capped alps on which von Steuben and Armstrong have their reckoning are an apt metaphor for the chilly isolation of the neglected wife.
Much as in the festival opener Foolish Wives (1922) - another I was sorry to miss - romance interests von Stroheim not for its expected outcome of love and marriage, but for the way it may be deployed in games of high emotional and erotic stakes, in which the dice are often loaded. Who loads the dice, who wins, who suffers - all of this is grist for his narrative mill.
This new restoration reveals von Stroheim's visual style in its full splendour, and the Mont Alto Motion Picture, as always provided a reliably high quality score.
Saturday 7th May
Photo by Camille Scaysbrook
King of the Circus (1924)
Legendary French comic Max Linder plays a dissolute nobleman, the Comte de Pompadour, whose father is attempting to steer him away from drinking and carousing in favour of settling down with an appropriate wife. These plans are thrown into disarray when a new woman (Vilma Banky) literally stumbles into his life. It turns out she is an acrobat. What choice does the Comte have but to prove himself in her family's own peculiar brand of aristocracy: that of the circus?
It's a film of two rather disparate parts, with many of the plot points of the first (a requirement that Max marry one of three pre-approved sisters or be disinherited, for example) simply disappearing in the second. Both halves yield a number of very funny set pieces, as Max studies to become a trapeze artist, loses a flea circus amongst a soon itchy audience, and battles what he believes to be a fake lion - but a feeling of discontinuity and incompleteness remains.
This is possibly a result of the turmoil behind the scenes, as an increasingly troubled Linder wrestled his demons with results which were ultimately tragic. The following year would end with the suicide of Linder, and either the murder or suicide of his young wife.
As Linder's final film before this tragedy, there is an inescapable poignance that is only emphasised by some particularly black humour (I can't think of too many other 'meet cutes' that end with an accidental shooting). Still, I felt this comedy deserved some more laughs than it received. Sometimes, the early hour acts as a liability when a comedy is programmed first thing in the day.
Long lost and virtually forgotten after Linder's death, King of the Circus was painstakingly pieced together from at least twelve surviving prints by Serge Bromberg's Lobster Films.
Photo by Camille Scaysbrook
The Great Victorian Moving Picture Show
If we can thank Thomas Edison's patent wars for anything, it is the 68mm format that dominated this screening, hosted by the BFI's Bryony Dixon. Rarely do we see footage that is so old - in all cases, pre-1902 - in such breathtaking clarity.
Shot mainly by Biograph's W.K.L. Dickson, the footage was grouped into themes - celebrities, animals, sporting events, advertisements, and so on. Aside from the candid views of people who lived a century ago, the travel sequences were the most diverting, and we can certainly see why Hale's Tours proved so popular amongst early cinemagoers. Having been trapped in our houses for the best part of two years, we can feel a greater than normal affinity with audiences who considered travelling the world from the comfort of a theatre to be the ultimate in excitement.
Marking the moment that cinema-going was transformed from a solitary to a collective experience, this session was also a potent reminder of the extent to which technology and commerce have always dictated the future of film and the way we watch it. Because it was more profitable to charge dozens of people to look at images projected in an auditorium, the Kinetoscope gave way to the Nickelodeon and thus, the unique phenomenon of the communal film experience was born. It is a mode of watching that encourages us to participate, through our shared laughter at the amusing, our mutual horror at scenes of war, our simple wonder at animals going about their business or children gawking at the camera. To my mind, it is a way of watching that fosters a sense of empathy, both with the images onscreen and our fellow filmgoers.
It is ironic that the segments shown in this programme sometimes felt like browsing through YouTube, or short videos posted on a social media feed - a reminder that the very notion of watching film seems to be undergoing a regression. Today, we stare alone and in silence at our laptops or iPads, much as people once squinted into the eyepiece of a Kinetoscope. Silent films were made to be enjoyed in a communal manner. Undoubtedly, more films will now be made to be enjoyed in a solitary manner - or worse, to be glanced at occasionally while doing other things (witness the rise of so-called 'ambient television'). Silent films, relying as they do on the alchemy between accompaniment, audience and the image on the screen, will inevitably suffer more than any other form of cinema from this changed mode of watching.
Steamboat Bill, Jr (1928)
Buster Keaton returns from college to meet his father, crusty old salt Ernest Torrence, for the first time. It's fair to say that the reunion doesn't go well, for college has apparently made Buster a soft city slicker, completely unsuited to life as a riverboat captain. He must prove himself worthy to his father, save the family business from a rival boat operator, win the girl - and perhaps, save the whole town from some wild weather!
In some ways, Steamboat Bill, Jr feels more like a Harold Lloyd picture, with its folksy setting and emphasis on family relationships. As recent Keaton biographer Dana Stevens pointed out in her introduction, there is perhaps something autobiographical to Steamboat Bill, Jr. For once, the plot is driven not the pursuit of a girl (rather a shame, given that the girl here is Marion Byron, probably the most talented comedienne ever to play Buster's female foil in a silent, but also the most under-utilised) - but by the idea of a father's approval, something Keaton himself seems to have quested after.
In our rush to highlight the famous falling-facade gag in this film and the spectacular destruction of The General, we sometimes forget the greater tour de force that ends Steamboat Bill, Jr. Sending a train off a burning bridge is an amazing feat, but the systematic destruction of an entire townis here nothing less than balletic, and an incredible exercise in technical complexity. As Buster's last fully independent film, it is hard not to regard the sequence as a metaphor for the headwinds approaching his career and personal life.
To watch a silent comedy with a large and receptive audience is always a particular privilege, and this was no exception. The Mont Alto Motion Picture Orchestra provided a hugely enjoyable accompaniment. This is silent film as it was meant to be seen.
Photo by Camille Scaysbrook
Salomé (1922)
How does one approach a film as singular as Alla Nazimova's Salomé? With its stylised visuals, exaggerated performances and Nazimova's whippet-thin androgyny, we can view it as a camp masterpiece in the purest Susan Sontag definition of the term. Or, we can approach it as a scion of a rarefied artistic era when the avant garde spilled into the mainstream; of Serge Diaghilev's groundbreaking Ballets Russes, of European modernism, Cubism and early Art Deco. A rather extraneous introduction leant heavily on the former interpretation, but the accompaniment by the Matti Bye Orchestra emphasised the latter, and it was much to the film's benefit that it did so.
It was a hypnotic, sparse accompaniment which sometimes seemed incidental to the plot; but then, the plot also seemed incidental to the movie. It is something closer in nature to a ballet or opera than a conventional narrative, a visual tone-poem laid along the meridians of the famous story of the Biblical vamp. There are no emotional high points to emphasise - even the beheading of John the Baptist is treated as an aesthetic rather than emotional apex - but what a gorgeous poem it is. Much like Natacha Rambova's sumptuous, highly fantastical costumes, it is built not for practicality but for spectacle.
Is it emotionally engaging? Is it narratively compelling? Does it 'work' as a film? No, no and arguably no - yet there was something extraordinary about this screening that made me grateful that such a fey, perplexing film had ever been made. To quote silent film accompanist Gaylord Carter, again in Brownlow's Hollywood: “You take the image of the picture, the reaction of the audience to this image, tie it together with the music, and you really have a kind of a happening.” Salomé was undoubtedly a 'happening'. It may not have much to do with Oscar Wilde's play, but it is the embodiment of his belief in art for art's sake.
The Castro Theatre and the Future of Repertory Cinema
Photo by Camille Scaysbrook
A short public service announcement is due here. One thing the introduction to Salomé did was to make a case for Castro Theatre's future as a cinema venue. The Castro was built for film, and has been showing film for nearly a century. It will shortly be reconfigured as a venue mainly intended for live performance. Film screenings, if they continue at all, will be taking a back seat.
This is necessary to ensure its survival - a local told me some repertory screenings were attracting as few as 20 patrons - and in this, it is no outlier. The Castro is one of many victims of trends that call the very future of repertory cinema - and by extensions, events such as the San Francisco Silent Film Festival - into question.
If such events are continue - if silent film is to be valued as a unique art form and seen as it was intended to be seen; if we are to continue to find the resources to locate, preserve and restore the films that form the basis of festivals and special screenings - it is incumbent upon us, the cinephiles, to ensure that such venues remain, and that the increasingly endangered notion of repertory screenings is maintained in some form. If we are to preserve cinephilia as a pursuit, we cannot sit idly by. We must be evangelists for the medium. Like Kevin Brownlow did with his immeasurably influential Hollywood and The Parade's Gone By, we must continually make the case for silent film.
In Portland, I am immensely encouraged by organisations such as the Hollywood Theatre, the Clinton Street Theater and Cinema 21, all of whom have taken up the battle for repertory cinema. The challenges are myriad, from the growth of streaming services, the shrinking of release windows to the increasing market dominance of Disney and its restrictive policies regarding older properties. The only way to meet them is to go out and watch films.
But back to the festival which, for me, had to end after only two days. The screenings I was particularly sorry to miss later in the week were Smouldering Fires (1925), in a new restoration derived from Kevin Brownlow's personal 16mm print; The Fire Brigade (1926), and The Street of Forgotten Men (1925) featuring Louise Brooks in her screen debut and by all reports an excellent film. I was overjoyed to meet up with a number of friends, including Valentino expert Donna Hill of Strictly Vintage Hollywood, the indefatigable Jane Bartholomew of the Kansas Silent Film Festival; Lara Gabrielle, author of the upcoming biography Captain of Her Soul: The Life of Marion Davies, author and historian Mary Mallory of the LA Daily Mirror, and Karie Bible, tour guide extraordinaire at Hollywood Forever Cemetery. All of us agreed that the experience of film - in person, in a cinema - felt like an even greater privilege than ever, after so much time away.