Three years after its first online edition, Italy's Pordenone Silent Film Festival (Le Giornate del Cinema Muto) has made its online programme a permanent part of the world's most celebrated festival of early film. What a privilege it is to enjoy a small but satisfying tasting menu based on the banquet enjoyed by the audience in person!
Harry Carey charms as 'Santa Fe' in The Fox (1921)
The Fox (USA, 1921)
Cowboy legend Harry Carey plays ‘Santa Fe’, an apparent ne’er-do-well who blows into a Western town just as its sheriff (George Nichols) is catching heat for failing to quell the notorious Painted Hills Gang. After taking a street urchin (‘Breezy’ Eason Jr) under his wing, ‘Santa Fe’ earns the trust of the sheriff's pretty daughter (Betty Ross Clark) and eventually, the sheriff himself (George Nichols).
Before long, he has deputised this rough diamond and sent him on the trail of both the gang and its leader, a corrupt local bank manager (Alan Hale). The Mojave Desert forms the spectacular background to a lavishly mounted denouement, with the Cavalry doing battle with the machine gun-wielding criminal gang and 'Santa Fe' revealing his true colours.
I must confess to having seen Harry Carey in more sound films than silents, but like all the best Western heroes, he radiates quiet, effortless, rugged charm. The meaning of the mysterious title is lost in the literal - and therefore slightly awkward - translation of the surviving Czech titles. Presumably it refers to the revelation of ‘Santa Fe’s true identity.
The meaning of the original and more appropriate title, ‘Partners’, is also obscured: the translation does not make clear that the young boy (unnamed in the surviving version, but called 'Pard' in original reviews) has adopted 'Partner' as his nickname for ‘Santa Fe’ and vice versa. The pair have a delightful chemistry, on a par with that of Charlie Chaplin and Jackie Coogan in The Kid earlier that year - and one which, by all accounts, extended offscreen. It is made all the more poignant by the knowledge that young Eason was fatally struck by an automobile not long after this film was completed, aged only six.
Cowboy legend Harry Carey plays ‘Santa Fe’, an apparent ne’er-do-well who blows into a Western town just as its sheriff (George Nichols) is catching heat for failing to quell the notorious Painted Hills Gang. After taking a street urchin (‘Breezy’ Eason Jr) under his wing, ‘Santa Fe’ earns the trust of the sheriff's pretty daughter (Betty Ross Clark) and eventually, the sheriff himself (George Nichols).
Before long, he has deputised this rough diamond and sent him on the trail of both the gang and its leader, a corrupt local bank manager (Alan Hale). The Mojave Desert forms the spectacular background to a lavishly mounted denouement, with the Cavalry doing battle with the machine gun-wielding criminal gang and 'Santa Fe' revealing his true colours.
I must confess to having seen Harry Carey in more sound films than silents, but like all the best Western heroes, he radiates quiet, effortless, rugged charm. The meaning of the mysterious title is lost in the literal - and therefore slightly awkward - translation of the surviving Czech titles. Presumably it refers to the revelation of ‘Santa Fe’s true identity.
The meaning of the original and more appropriate title, ‘Partners’, is also obscured: the translation does not make clear that the young boy (unnamed in the surviving version, but called 'Pard' in original reviews) has adopted 'Partner' as his nickname for ‘Santa Fe’ and vice versa. The pair have a delightful chemistry, on a par with that of Charlie Chaplin and Jackie Coogan in The Kid earlier that year - and one which, by all accounts, extended offscreen. It is made all the more poignant by the knowledge that young Eason was fatally struck by an automobile not long after this film was completed, aged only six.
Hertha Stern von Walther stranded on the Devil's Spire in 'The Mountain of Destiny' (1924)
The Mountain of Destiny (Der Berg Des Schicksals) (Germany, 1924)
From director Arnold Fanck comes the grand-daddy of the German Bergfilme, or mountain film genre. An alpine dweller (Hannes Schneider) harbours a fatal obsession with the summit of a monolith known as the Devil’s Spire. Though his son (Lewis Trenker) grows into an expert mountaineer, he steers clear of the Spire at the behest of his grieving mother (Erna Morena). That is, until his lady love Hella (Hertha Stern von Walther) ventures up the Spire in stormy conditions …
Your tolerance for The Mountain of Destiny might depend on your sympathy for people doing jaw-droppingly dangerous things in the name of sport or the worship of nature (I identify more closely with eine kleiner mutter, silently begging everyone to please be more sensible). The plot is perfunctory, but arguably this is to miss the point. As festival director Jay Weissberg explained in his introduction, Fanck shot his scenery first and found a storyline to accommodate it, so it should come as no surprise that characters are reduced to literal and figurative silhouettes, laid against impressive backgrounds like the paper cutouts in a Lotte Eisner film: the Heroic Mountaineer, the Suffering Mother, the Plucky Girl.
If we accept that the film's main aim is to showcase the enormity of the mountains and the beauty of nature, then it achieves it at a clip. Nevertheless, our knowledge that the glorification of the übermensch and notions of the 'correct' natural order that are woven into the fabric of bergfilme would soon have horrific real-life consequences cannot help but leave the viewer with a slight sense of unease.
As a point of interest for Louise Brooks fans - Erna Morena may be playing a doe-eyed mother here, but earlier in her career she was something of a proto-Brooks, essaying the main role not only in Lulu (1917) but also the now-lost Diary of A Lost Woman (1919).
From director Arnold Fanck comes the grand-daddy of the German Bergfilme, or mountain film genre. An alpine dweller (Hannes Schneider) harbours a fatal obsession with the summit of a monolith known as the Devil’s Spire. Though his son (Lewis Trenker) grows into an expert mountaineer, he steers clear of the Spire at the behest of his grieving mother (Erna Morena). That is, until his lady love Hella (Hertha Stern von Walther) ventures up the Spire in stormy conditions …
Your tolerance for The Mountain of Destiny might depend on your sympathy for people doing jaw-droppingly dangerous things in the name of sport or the worship of nature (I identify more closely with eine kleiner mutter, silently begging everyone to please be more sensible). The plot is perfunctory, but arguably this is to miss the point. As festival director Jay Weissberg explained in his introduction, Fanck shot his scenery first and found a storyline to accommodate it, so it should come as no surprise that characters are reduced to literal and figurative silhouettes, laid against impressive backgrounds like the paper cutouts in a Lotte Eisner film: the Heroic Mountaineer, the Suffering Mother, the Plucky Girl.
If we accept that the film's main aim is to showcase the enormity of the mountains and the beauty of nature, then it achieves it at a clip. Nevertheless, our knowledge that the glorification of the übermensch and notions of the 'correct' natural order that are woven into the fabric of bergfilme would soon have horrific real-life consequences cannot help but leave the viewer with a slight sense of unease.
As a point of interest for Louise Brooks fans - Erna Morena may be playing a doe-eyed mother here, but earlier in her career she was something of a proto-Brooks, essaying the main role not only in Lulu (1917) but also the now-lost Diary of A Lost Woman (1919).
A quintessential Piel thrill sequence from Adventures of a Journalist (1914).
Harry Piel, Daredevil Director
Actor-director Harry Piel, once a major star in Europe, is one of those unfortunate figures who ended up on the wrong side of German history, fatally blighting the legacy of his filmmaking. With much of his early work destroyed during the bombing raids of World War II, he remained forgotten for decades. This year’s festival seeks to cast light on Piel and his surviving output, with the online component showcasing two films in which he was director and a third in which he also appears as star.
Adventures of a Journalist (Germany, 1914) tells of a young writer and adventurer (Ludwig Trautmann) who, seeking to prove himself after being denied the hand of his lady love by a stern guardian, gets on to the trail of the notorious ‘Medusa’ gang. Much of the surviving film is an extended chase that takes us through trains, planes, automobiles, hot-air balloons and, in the most memorable section, on a fascinating ride aboard the famous Wuppertal suspended railway, which is worth the price of admission alone.
The Rolling Hotel (Germany, 1918) is a rather more droll tale. Famous detective Joe Deebs (Heinrich Schroth) is attempting to assist his friend Tom (Josef Ewald), yet another young man attempting to evade a disapproving guardian in pursuit of his love (Käthe Haak). His solution is to buy a luxurious trailer from an actress who is leaving the business and employ it as a ‘rolling hotel’ where the pair can stay - chaperoned, of course - until the girl comes of age and can safely avoid her guardian’s preferred choice of husband. The titular hotel rolls off a bridge in alarming fashion fairly early in proceedings, allowing the couple to continue their flight from authority on various other forms of transport, culminating in a picturesque chase through the Bavarian Alps.
Actor-director Harry Piel, once a major star in Europe, is one of those unfortunate figures who ended up on the wrong side of German history, fatally blighting the legacy of his filmmaking. With much of his early work destroyed during the bombing raids of World War II, he remained forgotten for decades. This year’s festival seeks to cast light on Piel and his surviving output, with the online component showcasing two films in which he was director and a third in which he also appears as star.
Adventures of a Journalist (Germany, 1914) tells of a young writer and adventurer (Ludwig Trautmann) who, seeking to prove himself after being denied the hand of his lady love by a stern guardian, gets on to the trail of the notorious ‘Medusa’ gang. Much of the surviving film is an extended chase that takes us through trains, planes, automobiles, hot-air balloons and, in the most memorable section, on a fascinating ride aboard the famous Wuppertal suspended railway, which is worth the price of admission alone.
The Rolling Hotel (Germany, 1918) is a rather more droll tale. Famous detective Joe Deebs (Heinrich Schroth) is attempting to assist his friend Tom (Josef Ewald), yet another young man attempting to evade a disapproving guardian in pursuit of his love (Käthe Haak). His solution is to buy a luxurious trailer from an actress who is leaving the business and employ it as a ‘rolling hotel’ where the pair can stay - chaperoned, of course - until the girl comes of age and can safely avoid her guardian’s preferred choice of husband. The titular hotel rolls off a bridge in alarming fashion fairly early in proceedings, allowing the couple to continue their flight from authority on various other forms of transport, culminating in a picturesque chase through the Bavarian Alps.
Inge Helgard and Harry Piel in the belly (or at least the eye) of the beast in The Miracle of Tomorrow (1923)
The Miracle of Tomorrow/The Rivals (Rivalen) (Germany, 1923)
At last we get a glimpse of Harry Piel himself. The suave gadabout 'Harry Peel' is in love with Evelyn (Inge Helgard), daughter of famous industrialist John Evans (Adolf Klein). Evans is currently under siege by Professor Ravello (Charly Berger), an unhinged scientist whose invention Evans has rejected - and whose desire for Evelyn is almost as great as his appetite for revenge.
A large portion of the film centres on a wild party of the sort that Weimar cinema does so well (its theme is ‘A Night In Hell’), sensationally disrupted by a robot of Ravello’s creation - possibly the first such creature to appear on film, or at least one that predates the alluring automaton who wreaks havoc on the partygoers of Metropolis (1927). Ravello makes off with Evelyn and leads Peel on a daredevil chase extending from the ledges of his hideout to the depths of a lake in a submarine. With Ravello determined to win Evelyn, a final chase is made before … what should be a happy ending, but is just a teaser for the next episode of this, the second instalment of a continuing series.
Through the selections on offer, we certainly get a sense of Piel’s directorial interests - stunts, explosions, technological curiosities and many, many chases. If there’s a quibble with his work, it’s that the spectacle does not tend to evolve organically from the action. You suspect that he came up with an idea (“let’s have a chase on a snow-capped mountain! Or battling aeroplanes! Or a robot!”) and found a place for it in the storyline. Perhaps this is why the individual films sometimes feel like the collected chapters of an action serial of the late teens, with their cycle of near escapes from fantastical devices. Not coincidentally, this is the genre in which Piel made his name.
As a performer, the floppy-haired Piel is agreeably charismatic and athletic, but to dub him 'the German Douglas Fairbanks', as some critics of the time apparently did, sets such a high bar as to do him a disservice. Seeking revelation, we instead found solid entertainment - which should have been enough.
At last we get a glimpse of Harry Piel himself. The suave gadabout 'Harry Peel' is in love with Evelyn (Inge Helgard), daughter of famous industrialist John Evans (Adolf Klein). Evans is currently under siege by Professor Ravello (Charly Berger), an unhinged scientist whose invention Evans has rejected - and whose desire for Evelyn is almost as great as his appetite for revenge.
A large portion of the film centres on a wild party of the sort that Weimar cinema does so well (its theme is ‘A Night In Hell’), sensationally disrupted by a robot of Ravello’s creation - possibly the first such creature to appear on film, or at least one that predates the alluring automaton who wreaks havoc on the partygoers of Metropolis (1927). Ravello makes off with Evelyn and leads Peel on a daredevil chase extending from the ledges of his hideout to the depths of a lake in a submarine. With Ravello determined to win Evelyn, a final chase is made before … what should be a happy ending, but is just a teaser for the next episode of this, the second instalment of a continuing series.
Through the selections on offer, we certainly get a sense of Piel’s directorial interests - stunts, explosions, technological curiosities and many, many chases. If there’s a quibble with his work, it’s that the spectacle does not tend to evolve organically from the action. You suspect that he came up with an idea (“let’s have a chase on a snow-capped mountain! Or battling aeroplanes! Or a robot!”) and found a place for it in the storyline. Perhaps this is why the individual films sometimes feel like the collected chapters of an action serial of the late teens, with their cycle of near escapes from fantastical devices. Not coincidentally, this is the genre in which Piel made his name.
As a performer, the floppy-haired Piel is agreeably charismatic and athletic, but to dub him 'the German Douglas Fairbanks', as some critics of the time apparently did, sets such a high bar as to do him a disservice. Seeking revelation, we instead found solid entertainment - which should have been enough.
Italia Vitaliani prays 'A Mother's Prayer' in The Mother (1917).
The Mother (Moeder) (Italy, 1917)
A young man of humble means (Giuseppe Sterni, who also directed) seeks fame as a portrait painter, leaving his devoted mother (Italia Vitaliani) to manage the family bakery and pay for his tuition. Pretty soon, he has fallen victim to all of the temptations of the artist’s life, including the designs of a grasping artist’s model, Isabella, and her equally wily mother. He is convinced a portrait of Isabella will earn him his longed-for fame - when all the while, a much more worthy subject is suffering right before his eyes …
No cliche of the mother-love genre is left unexplored in this Italian feature. Though its storyline will win no prizes for originality, the real reward is the subtle performance by Italian stage actress Italia Vitaliani. It is always a point of interest viewing such figures: do they ‘get’ screen acting, or do they not? Ms Vitaliani certainly gets it, the ‘new’ school of acting she championed on the stage proving an ideal fit for the screen. Stephen Horne is a master at wringing the pathos from such stories, and did so again here with his accompaniment.
This was shown with a fragment of a vehicle for Italian diva Leda Lys (seen in last year's somewhat underwhelming melodrama Profanazione), and an entertaining promotional short for The Mother, starring Vitaliani and director-performer Giuseppe Sterni as themselves.
A young man of humble means (Giuseppe Sterni, who also directed) seeks fame as a portrait painter, leaving his devoted mother (Italia Vitaliani) to manage the family bakery and pay for his tuition. Pretty soon, he has fallen victim to all of the temptations of the artist’s life, including the designs of a grasping artist’s model, Isabella, and her equally wily mother. He is convinced a portrait of Isabella will earn him his longed-for fame - when all the while, a much more worthy subject is suffering right before his eyes …
No cliche of the mother-love genre is left unexplored in this Italian feature. Though its storyline will win no prizes for originality, the real reward is the subtle performance by Italian stage actress Italia Vitaliani. It is always a point of interest viewing such figures: do they ‘get’ screen acting, or do they not? Ms Vitaliani certainly gets it, the ‘new’ school of acting she championed on the stage proving an ideal fit for the screen. Stephen Horne is a master at wringing the pathos from such stories, and did so again here with his accompaniment.
This was shown with a fragment of a vehicle for Italian diva Leda Lys (seen in last year's somewhat underwhelming melodrama Profanazione), and an entertaining promotional short for The Mother, starring Vitaliani and director-performer Giuseppe Sterni as themselves.
Mady Christians has her eye on the prize in 'A Lady of Quality' (1928).
A Lady of Quality (Ein Frau Von Format) (Germany, 1928)
We return to Ruritania for a second year, though this time the focus is not upon the crowned heads but their underlings - the diplomats who silently grease the wheels of state. The spendthrift princess of Silistria (a likeably wry Diana Karenne) has decided to sell off an island to fund her wardrobe, so two neighbouring nations send their top diplomats to battle over its purchase: the handsome, slick Count Getz of Illyria (Peter C. Leska), and the more unconventional Dschilly Zileh Bey of Turkisia (Mady Christians). When Getz begins to romance Dschilly - and subsequently the Princess herself - is it really love, or merely the tricks of diplomacy? The pair battle it out until the answer becomes clear.
The film opens slowly - there is much respectful bowing and introducing of moustachioed men - but gathers momentum with the introduction of the delightful Mady Christians, seen in last year’s Ruritanian confection A Runaway Princess. With her no-nonsense style and knowing smirk, she calls to mind a silent-era Jean Arthur. It’s a shame Ernst Lubitsch did not come across the scenario and remake it for sound, as it hits all the beats we expect of a good screwball comedy, from the 'meet cute' to the battle of the sexes and interrogation of gender roles.
This might have moved more quickly, and I found Elaine Loebenstein’s piano accompaniment a tad sombre in parts for a light comedy - but all in all, this was very enjoyable. An accompanying 1914 short covering the real Prince Wilhelm I’s visit to the newly independent Albania, of which he was briefly and ingloriously monarch, reminds us of the underlying tension in the Ruritanian genre, despite its inherent escapism: the pomp and circumstance of statecraft has real-life consequences.
We return to Ruritania for a second year, though this time the focus is not upon the crowned heads but their underlings - the diplomats who silently grease the wheels of state. The spendthrift princess of Silistria (a likeably wry Diana Karenne) has decided to sell off an island to fund her wardrobe, so two neighbouring nations send their top diplomats to battle over its purchase: the handsome, slick Count Getz of Illyria (Peter C. Leska), and the more unconventional Dschilly Zileh Bey of Turkisia (Mady Christians). When Getz begins to romance Dschilly - and subsequently the Princess herself - is it really love, or merely the tricks of diplomacy? The pair battle it out until the answer becomes clear.
The film opens slowly - there is much respectful bowing and introducing of moustachioed men - but gathers momentum with the introduction of the delightful Mady Christians, seen in last year’s Ruritanian confection A Runaway Princess. With her no-nonsense style and knowing smirk, she calls to mind a silent-era Jean Arthur. It’s a shame Ernst Lubitsch did not come across the scenario and remake it for sound, as it hits all the beats we expect of a good screwball comedy, from the 'meet cute' to the battle of the sexes and interrogation of gender roles.
This might have moved more quickly, and I found Elaine Loebenstein’s piano accompaniment a tad sombre in parts for a light comedy - but all in all, this was very enjoyable. An accompanying 1914 short covering the real Prince Wilhelm I’s visit to the newly independent Albania, of which he was briefly and ingloriously monarch, reminds us of the underlying tension in the Ruritanian genre, despite its inherent escapism: the pomp and circumstance of statecraft has real-life consequences.
Cecilie (Mae Murray) enchants in Circe The Enchantress (1924)
Circe The Enchantress (USA, 1924)
Nearly a decade ago, a good friend who has since passed away joined another friend and I at a lunch break during a film festival. This friend had recently returned from an international archives scouting expedition, and came bearing treasure: snippets from several films previously considered lost.
Even viewed on a mobile phone screen, the footage was thrilling - and none more than that of Mae Murray gyrating along to the music of African-American performers in a mad jazz-age frenzy. To think, I marvelled - we may be the only people in the world to have seen this footage since 1924! The film was Circe the Enchantress (1924). Perhaps it was this bittersweet memory, perhaps it was the anticipation, perhaps I was simply in the right mood, but I found this an astonishing film with something quite profound and subversive bubbling on its edges, never quite brought out but definitely there.
We are introduced to the mythical Circe (Mae Murray), the siren-sorceress who transformed slavering men into literal pigs. Then, we meet her modern-day equivalent: a hoyden named Cecilie (Mae Murray) and her coterie of degenerates, among them a camp young man who declares himself ‘princess of the fairy tales’ (Gene Cameron), a lecherous stockbroker (Charles Gerrard), and a lovelorn socialite (a baby-faced William Haines). Into this menagerie steps the stern Dr Van Martyn (James Kirkwood), who can only observe the Bacchanalia with disgust.
Nearly a decade ago, a good friend who has since passed away joined another friend and I at a lunch break during a film festival. This friend had recently returned from an international archives scouting expedition, and came bearing treasure: snippets from several films previously considered lost.
Even viewed on a mobile phone screen, the footage was thrilling - and none more than that of Mae Murray gyrating along to the music of African-American performers in a mad jazz-age frenzy. To think, I marvelled - we may be the only people in the world to have seen this footage since 1924! The film was Circe the Enchantress (1924). Perhaps it was this bittersweet memory, perhaps it was the anticipation, perhaps I was simply in the right mood, but I found this an astonishing film with something quite profound and subversive bubbling on its edges, never quite brought out but definitely there.
We are introduced to the mythical Circe (Mae Murray), the siren-sorceress who transformed slavering men into literal pigs. Then, we meet her modern-day equivalent: a hoyden named Cecilie (Mae Murray) and her coterie of degenerates, among them a camp young man who declares himself ‘princess of the fairy tales’ (Gene Cameron), a lecherous stockbroker (Charles Gerrard), and a lovelorn socialite (a baby-faced William Haines). Into this menagerie steps the stern Dr Van Martyn (James Kirkwood), who can only observe the Bacchanalia with disgust.
Cecilie is the victim of an unwanted advance that changes her life.
So far, so much Jazz Age madness. But then, along comes a scene that blows everything up.
Stung by Van Martyn’s rejection, Cecilie contemplates an old diary and suddenly remembers an incident in her girlhood. She recalls gazing at the nuns at a local convent, when a youth stops to admire her. Before long he is pawing her, chasing her, wrenching a kiss from the horrified girl. At a time when unwanted advances were sometimes played for laughs, it's a scene of surprising violence.
‘Circe drinks from the goblet of oblivion’, an intertitle informs us, and it all becomes clear. Cecile’s abandon - and her compulsion to attract and discard men - derives from sexual trauma and self-loathing; a robbing of innocence. It is rare to see Jazz Age decadence depicted so starkly as the product of pain - hedonism as pure self-destruction.
Cecilie lurches further into oblivion, and when she injures herself on a broken wine glass, Dr Van Martyn is summoned. Some in the Pordenone audience apparently wondered why Murray’s character would be attracted to the staid Kirkwood, but to me it is obvious. In Van Martyn, she sees the antithesis of all she has become; meanwhile, Van Martyn is the only one who comes to recognise this damaged individual for what she is, and to imply that there's a better way forward. Cecilie's change of heart may seem abrupt, but she has already - perhaps deliberately - burned every bridge behind her, ensuring it is the only way forward.
Stung by Van Martyn’s rejection, Cecilie contemplates an old diary and suddenly remembers an incident in her girlhood. She recalls gazing at the nuns at a local convent, when a youth stops to admire her. Before long he is pawing her, chasing her, wrenching a kiss from the horrified girl. At a time when unwanted advances were sometimes played for laughs, it's a scene of surprising violence.
‘Circe drinks from the goblet of oblivion’, an intertitle informs us, and it all becomes clear. Cecile’s abandon - and her compulsion to attract and discard men - derives from sexual trauma and self-loathing; a robbing of innocence. It is rare to see Jazz Age decadence depicted so starkly as the product of pain - hedonism as pure self-destruction.
Cecilie lurches further into oblivion, and when she injures herself on a broken wine glass, Dr Van Martyn is summoned. Some in the Pordenone audience apparently wondered why Murray’s character would be attracted to the staid Kirkwood, but to me it is obvious. In Van Martyn, she sees the antithesis of all she has become; meanwhile, Van Martyn is the only one who comes to recognise this damaged individual for what she is, and to imply that there's a better way forward. Cecilie's change of heart may seem abrupt, but she has already - perhaps deliberately - burned every bridge behind her, ensuring it is the only way forward.
A young William Haines attempts to seduce Cecilie (Mae Murray).
The remainder of the film passes in a rush, and the story is resolved a little too conveniently - yet I wonder whether this, the least sensational section, was also the greatest victim of trimming. Originally advertised as nearly 7,000 feet, the surviving version runs around 55 minutes, so we must be missing at least a reel's worth of footage.
More is the pity, as Murray gives it her all. It is fair to say that she is not a performer known for her subtlety. Maybe it is the handling of Robert Z. Leonard - Murray’s husband at the time, directing her in the final of their two dozen collaborations - who might have heightened the atmosphere of their collaborations to suit Murray's own flamboyant style.
Whatever the method, there’s a curious alchemy that works enormously to Murray’s advantage. By now, Leonard seemed to know exactly when to let her just be - to dance, to drift around, to be the exuberant young thing she clearly was. The question must also be asked: did Leonard realise his wife's mental frailty even at this early stage, and carefully utilise it for screen fodder? We can only speculate.
There is so much going on at the edges of this film that hint at darker things. Who is the soulful woman in the photo on the Doctor’s desk? What are the deeper implications of Cecilie's sexual assault? What compromises did she have to make to obtain her fantastic wealth? Did Leonard intend these ambiguities, or are they artefacts of the foreshortened and perhaps censored version that survives ?
I found this a captivating, surprisingly touching riff on the idea of the vamp and - not unlike Pandora’s Box (1928) - on the myth of the siren as mindless sexual drone. It's unexpectedly dark, occasionally camp, and definitely strange. We can always hope that more footage might be found to clarify its mysteries - but we must be grateful that any footage exists at all.
More is the pity, as Murray gives it her all. It is fair to say that she is not a performer known for her subtlety. Maybe it is the handling of Robert Z. Leonard - Murray’s husband at the time, directing her in the final of their two dozen collaborations - who might have heightened the atmosphere of their collaborations to suit Murray's own flamboyant style.
Whatever the method, there’s a curious alchemy that works enormously to Murray’s advantage. By now, Leonard seemed to know exactly when to let her just be - to dance, to drift around, to be the exuberant young thing she clearly was. The question must also be asked: did Leonard realise his wife's mental frailty even at this early stage, and carefully utilise it for screen fodder? We can only speculate.
There is so much going on at the edges of this film that hint at darker things. Who is the soulful woman in the photo on the Doctor’s desk? What are the deeper implications of Cecilie's sexual assault? What compromises did she have to make to obtain her fantastic wealth? Did Leonard intend these ambiguities, or are they artefacts of the foreshortened and perhaps censored version that survives ?
I found this a captivating, surprisingly touching riff on the idea of the vamp and - not unlike Pandora’s Box (1928) - on the myth of the siren as mindless sexual drone. It's unexpectedly dark, occasionally camp, and definitely strange. We can always hope that more footage might be found to clarify its mysteries - but we must be grateful that any footage exists at all.
Eugen Klöpfer contemplates the lure of life on Die Straße (1923).
The Street (Die Straße) (Germany, 1923)
From one German genre prototype to another, in this case the straßefilme (street film) - though here there are multiple progeny. Amidst the evocative shadows of The Street we discern the contours of film noir alongside the germ of German Expressionism. As a matter of fact, the film that this reminded me of most is not usually considered a straßefilme: F.W. Murnau’s legendary Sunrise: A Tale of Two Humans (1927) which is, after all, the tale of a man being seduced by a personification of the sinful city.
Our unnamed protagonist (Eugen Klöpfer), bored with home life and fascinated - or is it driven mad? - by the shadows of life outside, ventures out into a heightened, nocturnal world where nothing is still and everything is in a hurry: the people, the trees, the water, store signs, store displays and even the pavement. There is no solace, no space, no solitude, except of the most horrific kind when the crowd suddenly whisks a small child from his blind grandfather (Max Schrek - yes, playing someone other than Count Orlok).
The protagonist follows a streetwalker (Aud Egede-Nissen) - her job is implied but never stated, though very little is in a film that is sparing with its intertitles - who leads him into a nightclub and a Kafkaesque nightmare involving gambling and illicit desire. Just as it appears that we are hurtling towards Sunrise if George O’Brien had gone through with his plan - or was at least accused of doing so - a silent-era Detour is avoided via some lucky turns of fate. Like Sunrise, the lingering message is 'be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.' In general, it is not a film that fosters a great sense of emotional involvement, but it's one to admire for its visual flair and innovation.
From one German genre prototype to another, in this case the straßefilme (street film) - though here there are multiple progeny. Amidst the evocative shadows of The Street we discern the contours of film noir alongside the germ of German Expressionism. As a matter of fact, the film that this reminded me of most is not usually considered a straßefilme: F.W. Murnau’s legendary Sunrise: A Tale of Two Humans (1927) which is, after all, the tale of a man being seduced by a personification of the sinful city.
Our unnamed protagonist (Eugen Klöpfer), bored with home life and fascinated - or is it driven mad? - by the shadows of life outside, ventures out into a heightened, nocturnal world where nothing is still and everything is in a hurry: the people, the trees, the water, store signs, store displays and even the pavement. There is no solace, no space, no solitude, except of the most horrific kind when the crowd suddenly whisks a small child from his blind grandfather (Max Schrek - yes, playing someone other than Count Orlok).
The protagonist follows a streetwalker (Aud Egede-Nissen) - her job is implied but never stated, though very little is in a film that is sparing with its intertitles - who leads him into a nightclub and a Kafkaesque nightmare involving gambling and illicit desire. Just as it appears that we are hurtling towards Sunrise if George O’Brien had gone through with his plan - or was at least accused of doing so - a silent-era Detour is avoided via some lucky turns of fate. Like Sunrise, the lingering message is 'be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.' In general, it is not a film that fosters a great sense of emotional involvement, but it's one to admire for its visual flair and innovation.
The ghosts of youth haunt an uneasy present in Conrad in Quest of His Youth (1920)
Conrad in Quest of His Youth (USA, 1920)
William de Mille was once a director whose work was hard to see, especially in comparison to that of his brother. Today, having seen several, I can say that if the younger de MIlle is the consummate maximalist, the elder is as effective as a minimalist. This film abounds with tiny, beautifully observed details and the feelings they evoke - the scent of flowers, old greasepaint or a particular sort of soap; inscriptions in books, a long-forgotten slingshot found behind a loose brick.
Conrad (Thomas Meighan), returning home from years of military service, finds himself sitting outside the stream of life. He is unmarried, has no connections beyond his faithful butler (Charles Ogle), and no real aim. He feels a stranger in his own home. To paraphrase an intertitle: what is stopping him from being the man he remembers as himself?
Thus, he embarks on a quixotic quest to revive the sense of freshness and involvement he felt as a youth, firstly by inviting his now-grown cousins on a disastrous visit to their old childhood holiday home, then by tracking down his first crush - no longer a golden-haired cutie but a portly, rather dull mother of four - and then by visiting an Italian resort in pursuit of his first real love, the married Mrs Adaile (beautifully underplayed by Kathlyn Williams - and keep an eye out for a young Eddie Sutherland, director and briefly Mr Louise Brooks, as the young Conrad in a flashback).
Flattered by Conrad’s attentions, Mrs Adaile is temporarily swayed by the notion of revisiting her youth until an incident convinces her of the absurdity of the situation. Dejected, Conrad returns to England, where happenstance brings him into the circle of Rosalind (Margaret Loomis), a retired actress and lonely young widow who is on her own quest to revisit happier times.
We’ll skip over the fact that Conrad is so wealthy that obstacles can be paid to get out of the way - after all, Jay Gatsby became rich enough to learn that money is not enough to buy back time. In any case, the film concludes that this is not the true aim of Conrad’s quest. He is obsessed with age, yet 'age' is slippery. He can only be in his mid thirties; Mrs Adaile perhaps a decade older, and Rosalind as much as a decade younger - yet all three consider themselves 'old'. Reducing the film’s message to the banal ‘you’re only as old as you feel’ fails to capture the greater nuances. Rather, Conrad realises that what he has been missing is feeling part of the stream of life. Instead of beating on, boat against the current, he learns to surrender to it - to enter the stream and allow it to carry him forward.
In his introduction, Jay Weissberg described this as a ‘film for adults’ - not in a salacious sense, but in the sense that nearly every adult has had similar feelings to Conrad. It is an ellegaic and fitting end to a festival that celebrates movies that seem ancient to some, but in the universal emotions and experiences they capture, are truly ageless.
William de Mille was once a director whose work was hard to see, especially in comparison to that of his brother. Today, having seen several, I can say that if the younger de MIlle is the consummate maximalist, the elder is as effective as a minimalist. This film abounds with tiny, beautifully observed details and the feelings they evoke - the scent of flowers, old greasepaint or a particular sort of soap; inscriptions in books, a long-forgotten slingshot found behind a loose brick.
Conrad (Thomas Meighan), returning home from years of military service, finds himself sitting outside the stream of life. He is unmarried, has no connections beyond his faithful butler (Charles Ogle), and no real aim. He feels a stranger in his own home. To paraphrase an intertitle: what is stopping him from being the man he remembers as himself?
Thus, he embarks on a quixotic quest to revive the sense of freshness and involvement he felt as a youth, firstly by inviting his now-grown cousins on a disastrous visit to their old childhood holiday home, then by tracking down his first crush - no longer a golden-haired cutie but a portly, rather dull mother of four - and then by visiting an Italian resort in pursuit of his first real love, the married Mrs Adaile (beautifully underplayed by Kathlyn Williams - and keep an eye out for a young Eddie Sutherland, director and briefly Mr Louise Brooks, as the young Conrad in a flashback).
Flattered by Conrad’s attentions, Mrs Adaile is temporarily swayed by the notion of revisiting her youth until an incident convinces her of the absurdity of the situation. Dejected, Conrad returns to England, where happenstance brings him into the circle of Rosalind (Margaret Loomis), a retired actress and lonely young widow who is on her own quest to revisit happier times.
We’ll skip over the fact that Conrad is so wealthy that obstacles can be paid to get out of the way - after all, Jay Gatsby became rich enough to learn that money is not enough to buy back time. In any case, the film concludes that this is not the true aim of Conrad’s quest. He is obsessed with age, yet 'age' is slippery. He can only be in his mid thirties; Mrs Adaile perhaps a decade older, and Rosalind as much as a decade younger - yet all three consider themselves 'old'. Reducing the film’s message to the banal ‘you’re only as old as you feel’ fails to capture the greater nuances. Rather, Conrad realises that what he has been missing is feeling part of the stream of life. Instead of beating on, boat against the current, he learns to surrender to it - to enter the stream and allow it to carry him forward.
In his introduction, Jay Weissberg described this as a ‘film for adults’ - not in a salacious sense, but in the sense that nearly every adult has had similar feelings to Conrad. It is an ellegaic and fitting end to a festival that celebrates movies that seem ancient to some, but in the universal emotions and experiences they capture, are truly ageless.
Venice's famous Rialto Bridge as seen in an early British travelogue.
Short Subjects
Rather than being bracketed with features, several online programmes were composed entirely of shorts. There was a taste of the Origins of Slapstick: Transatlantic Echoes comedy programme, which juxtaposed familiar shorts from Harold Lloyd and Mack Sennett with their Transatlantic equivalents - the oddest of which was the Italian Andre Deed's Cretinetti Che Bello (Cretinetti Is Too Beautiful) (1909) which crams everything from drag to a Seven Chances-style chase to a comedy dismemberment (yes, really) into five minutes.
Early British Films From the Filmoteca di Catalunya 1897-1909 gathers an hour's worth of actualities and short staged films of the sort that populated the earliest film screenings. As with similar programmes last year, I cannot help but note how reminiscent they are to modern phenomena such as YouTube and TikTok - small slices of life, sometimes fictionalised and sometimes not - quiet sensations in their own way, and significant in capturing the ephemeral nature of everyday life.
Rather than being bracketed with features, several online programmes were composed entirely of shorts. There was a taste of the Origins of Slapstick: Transatlantic Echoes comedy programme, which juxtaposed familiar shorts from Harold Lloyd and Mack Sennett with their Transatlantic equivalents - the oddest of which was the Italian Andre Deed's Cretinetti Che Bello (Cretinetti Is Too Beautiful) (1909) which crams everything from drag to a Seven Chances-style chase to a comedy dismemberment (yes, really) into five minutes.
Early British Films From the Filmoteca di Catalunya 1897-1909 gathers an hour's worth of actualities and short staged films of the sort that populated the earliest film screenings. As with similar programmes last year, I cannot help but note how reminiscent they are to modern phenomena such as YouTube and TikTok - small slices of life, sometimes fictionalised and sometimes not - quiet sensations in their own way, and significant in capturing the ephemeral nature of everyday life.
An early screen advertisement for the Pathe-Baby 9.5mm movie camera.
9 1/2: Film in 9.5mm, 1923-1960s is a lovely and thoughtfully curated celebration of the centenary of the 9.5mm format, a favourite of amateur filmmakers and family documentarians the world over. Connected along loose thematic and visual threads - a trip in a hot air balloon becomes balloons soaring into the sky; a plane landing becomes small boys flying toy planes on a mountainside and so on, in a sort of silent Koyaanisqatsi (1982) - we jump between eras, nations and individual stories, drifting from thread to thread. An evocative modern score is subtle, descriptive when it needs to be, never obtrusive but inseparable from the experience.
Many of us value classic film as the closest thing we’ll ever have to a time machine, and the immediacy and artlessness of found footage brings us even closer. All the while, we are reminded that the reels that transport us are physical objects which have themselves travelled through time. This is not the sanitised, computer-colourised ‘Amazing Historic Footage at 60 FPS!’ that has recently populated social media feeds, but the real, grainy and gritty thing, artefacts intact and the signature centre perforation of the 9.5mm stock appearing as a badge of honour. More than fifty minutes simply flew by.
The one in-person programme that I am sorry was not represented in the online component the celebration of multi-talented artist and designer Sonia Delaunay - a personal favourite - commemorated in this year's festival poster. Many attendees named the daily episodes of the serial Le P'tit Parigot as a festival highlight. Still, we cannot have everything - and to have any portion of the Pordenone programme available to the whole world is a formidable gift to devotees of silent film.
Many of us value classic film as the closest thing we’ll ever have to a time machine, and the immediacy and artlessness of found footage brings us even closer. All the while, we are reminded that the reels that transport us are physical objects which have themselves travelled through time. This is not the sanitised, computer-colourised ‘Amazing Historic Footage at 60 FPS!’ that has recently populated social media feeds, but the real, grainy and gritty thing, artefacts intact and the signature centre perforation of the 9.5mm stock appearing as a badge of honour. More than fifty minutes simply flew by.
The one in-person programme that I am sorry was not represented in the online component the celebration of multi-talented artist and designer Sonia Delaunay - a personal favourite - commemorated in this year's festival poster. Many attendees named the daily episodes of the serial Le P'tit Parigot as a festival highlight. Still, we cannot have everything - and to have any portion of the Pordenone programme available to the whole world is a formidable gift to devotees of silent film.
