This blog will run through cinema's rich history in chronological order, starting with the films of the Lumiere Brothers in 1895 up to Avatar and beyond. With over 1500 titles to be viewed, it will provide a forum for all movie lovers to discuss film's gradual evolution.
Much has been made of the recent ‘discovery’ of a supposed time-traveller in the footage of the premiere of Chaplin's 1928 film the Circus. While the theory was swiftly debunked, it was undeniably exciting to see the internet abuzz with discussion about a silent film.
It is a great shame that this temporary mainstream interest in the silent era will not extend itself for a longer period, because the silent era achieved some remarkable time-bending feats. For example, Max Linder’s Les Débuts de Max au Cinématographe can stake a claim to be the first postmodern film. Now although postmodernism is one of those slippery terms which Harold Bloom would describe as over-determined in figuration and under-determined in meaning, my understanding of postmodernism in this context is the following:
Postmodernism is characterised by irony, appropriation and self-reference. In particular, the movement has uncovered the presence of source ideas, information and influences. It has therefore challenged the idea of ‘originality’. It has also made artworks resistant to straightforward assumptions about the place of the author and the interpreter.
Les Débuts de Max au Cinématographe is a film about the process of film-making. The film opens with a scene we might expect to see in Charlie Kaufmann’s Adaptation or even the television show Entourage, with Linder’s character visiting Charles Pathé.
Charles Pathé was one of the most powerful film moguls of the early silent era, and there is little doubt that any aspiring film maker in 1910 would have had to undertake a similar approach to getting his/her film made. The acute self-referential nature of this scene bears the hallmarks of a seminal postmodern work, yet it pre-dates this school of thought by around half a century! Examples of artists pre-empting major critical movements in such a manner deserve as much attention as mistaken time-travellers.
After Linder’s character has given the incredibly busy Pathé his recommendation letter and meets a few other industry men, he begins rehearsing a scene with another actor/director. It is only later on that we learn that Linder and his friend are rehearsing a scene that will be used in Linder’s film within a film towards the end of the movie. However, Linder’s desire to constantly remind the audience that they are watching a film that is about the process of making a film ‘breaks’ the fourth wall, which is another characteristic of a typical postmodern work:
The acceptance of the transparency of the fourth wall is part of the suspension of disbelief between a fictional work and an audience, allowing them to enjoy the fiction as if they were observing real events. Although the critic Vincent Canby described it in 1987 as "that invisible screen that forever separates the audience from the stage," postmodern art forms frequently either do away with it entirely, or make use of various framing devices to manipulate it in order to emphasize or de-emphasize certain aspects of the production, according to the artistic desires of the work's creator.
This self-awareness of form and subject matter is highlighted again before the ‘scene’ in the studio begins; Linder and the two female characters have a brief conversation where they appear amiable towards one another, before Linder’s character walks away from the camera and then returns ‘in character’. Linder’s constant inventiveness and playfulness illuminates this magnificent film and allows it to be both intellectually stimulating and extremely funny.
The latter point is crucial to emphasise as the film is perhaps the funniest Linder film the Film: Ab Initio list has observed to date. It manages to incorporate Linder’s earlier slapstick humour with an intellectual curiosity that deepens the humour of certain scenes. For example, when Linder is slapped by one of the female characters in the studio scene, the humour is amplified by the audience’s remembrance of Linder practising this slap with a male actor/director in an earlier scene.
The sophistication and dexterity of humour that Linder offers us in this film is worthy of any of the great comics of any era and fuels my belief Linder’s marginal reputation is unworthy of his considerable talents.
The final irony of the film’s postmodern nature is the fact that Les Débuts de Max au Cinématographe is the first Max Linder film on the Film: Ab Initio list where he is given a direction credit...
One of the unique characteristics of the great directors of the early silent era is the sheer breadth of material that their earliest films covered. Both Griffith and Feuillade spent the first few years of the second decade of the twentieth century honing their craft in a variety of genres and topics in order to allow them to both deliver their seminal works half a decade later.
Thus far, we have seen Griffith portray a parable on greed and the kidnapping of a young child. In Griffith’s third film on the Film: Ab Initio list, The House with Closed Shutters, Griffith now tackles the subject matter of his most famous film the Birth of a Nation: the Civil War.
The film tells the story of a confederate soldier who abandons his fellow soldiers in the midst of battle and returns home, only to be replaced by his sister (in what is the first example of cross dressing that we have seen on the Film: Ab Initio list). When she is killed in battle and the soldiers assume that he has died a heroic death, his mother closes her son off from the world to ensure that his cowardice does not shame their family.
Just from summarising the film’s brief plot, it is clear that film is gravitating towards the concept of a steam-lined linear narrative. Whereas in earlier films, the plot is often more dispersed and episodic (see early films like La Presa Di Roma, Alice in Wonderland and Ben Hur), whereas The House with Closed Shutters involves a more ‘straightforward’ story in the sense that we might expect from any mainstream Hollywood film of the last seventy years.
Griffith’s eye for iconic imagery that heightens the emotive intensity of his film making is apparent in The House with Closed Shutters. The strongest example of this is the relationship between the confederate flag and the heroic sister. The film opens with the emblematic image of the confederate flag being sewed by the soldier’s sister (see image above). She is next seen with the flag when she has taken the place of her brother on the battlefield, where she recklessly carries it beyond the soldiers in front of her and is shot down by the opposing forces (see image below).
Griffith’s perceived racism is well documented, but in this instance Griffith must be commended for allowing his female protagonist possess the valour and bravery that the male protagonist lacks. Given that in the US, women would not be permitted to join the military in roles other than nurses until 1940 when the Women's Army Auxiliary Corps (WAAC) was formed and that they would have to wait until 1978 to serve alongside their fellow male troops; Griffith deserves credit for making this bold move.
The film’s most impressive scenes involve the complex choreography of the battle scenes. Griffith portrays a carnage filled battlefield with great success; although smoke covers up much of the immediate image as the Confederate forces fire at their enemy, the image of the Yankees emerging from the smoke to viciously overrun their opposing forces is one of early cinema’s most iconic images.
For not only does this scene herald the charge of the Yankee forces, it also symbolises the imminent dominance of American cinema that would go on to be unchallenged for close to a century. Film allows America to indulge in mythopoesis in the newest of artistic mediums, thus allowing American national events of significance, such as the American Civil War, to have a resounding effect on the rest of the globe.
The film’s least enjoyable moments occur in the protagonist’s house; they allow the actors to indulge in overacting and often seem overly long when they are compared to the relentless pace of the battle scenes.
Overall, the film is essential viewing for anyone who is interested in the genesis of American cinema. It is clear that Griffith revels in telling stories about the Civil War, and the high quality of the best parts of The House with the Closed Shutters make it unsurprising that Griffith returned to the same subject matter almost half a decade later.
Unlike many of film’s early adaptations of literary works, the first cinematic adaptation of Frankenstein is the equal of its more famous successors. Rather than allowing the film’s limited reel time to limit its portrayal of Mary Shelley’s gothic novel, the film flourishes within the boundaries of its limitations. The filmmaker manages to translate the original text into the cinematic equivalent of a powerful Poe or Robert Louis Stevenson short story and concentrate the impact of the text’s fable.
The film makes a bold departure from its source by giving the viewer the impression that the Monster may in fact be a figment of Frankenstein’s imagination. As the film draws to a close, this uncertainty compounds the tension of the film’s climactic moments. As the viewer is unsure of the Monster’s existence, our confusion transforms into excitement as Frankenstein grapples with his creation while his wife lays unconscious on the floor; we cannot be sure if he is wrestling with his conscience or actually fighting with his creation.
One of the main reasons for the film’s power is its deliberate exploitation of the power of visual terror. Although Georges Mèliès consistently dabbled in the horror genre with his many incarnations of devils and monsters, they amused more than they frightened. The monster in Frankenstein, particularly when he is being created, is simultaneously grotesque and petrifying (particularly when it expands in Frankenstein’s cauldron (See image below)).
This groundbreaking horror film was presumed lost for close to half a century:
For many years, this film was believed to be a lost film. In 1963, a plot description (reprinted above) and stills were discovered published in the March 15, 1910 issue of an old Edison film catalog, The Edison Kinetogram.
In the early 1950s, a print of this film was purchased by a Wisconsin film collector, Alois F. Dettlaff, from his mother-in-law, who also collected films.He did not realize its rarity until many years later. Its existence was first revealed in the mid-1970s. Although somewhat deteriorated, the film was in viewable condition, complete with titles and tints as seen in 1910. Dettlaff had a 35 mm preservation copy made in the late 1970s. He also issued a DVD release of 1,000 copies.
BearManor Media released the public domain film in a restored edition on March 18, 2010, alongside with the novel Edison's Frankenstein, which was written by Frederick C. Wiebel, Jr.
Although we must be greatly appreciative of the rediscovery of this landmark movie, we cannot help be saddened by the knowledge that many of the other great films of the era will remain lost forever.
Interestingly, the film was also bannedafter its release:
This was the very first "creation" film. At the time, the religious zealots thought the film was making a mockery of God, so the film was banned very shortly after its release. After that, it was condemned to obscurity...
The film employs the use of a mirror with great success. Cinema’s obsession with the complex relationship between the voyeur and his/her subject(s) really takes off with this film. In the film’s most powerful sequence of events, several characters appear in the mirror in quick succession. In the second of these images, Frankenstein sees the Monster appear in the mirror and is startled by his presence as his fiancé is in the next room (see image below).
But after Frankenstein’s fiancé re-enters the room and he hurriedly attempts to lead her out of that same room, they are now trapped in the mirror’s frame as the Monster observes them from his hidden location (see image below).
The mirror and the camera lens share many similar properties; the complex interplay between these two reflective instruments deepens the allegorical framework of Shelley’s original text. And as the film comes to its gripping conclusion, the mirror plays a crucial role in ‘defeating’ the Monster and implicating that it was in fact a manifestation of the darker recesses of Frankenstein’s imagination.
This brilliant film demonstrates that early silent films are capable of both containing complex, allegorical narratives and frightening modern day audiences.
King Lear is the third Shakespeare film to be critiqued by Film: Ab Initio; it is also the third Shakespeare film to be produced by a different country (A Midsummer’s Night Dream was made in America and the Tempest was made in the UK). Therefore, in the early silent era of cinema, Shakespeare functions as a prism through which the various countries bend cinema’s white light.
The Italian film company which produced this version of King Lear, Film D’Arte Italiana, placed significant emphasis on both the cinematography and costume design. The stencilled colouring adds depth to both, providing the film with an extra layer of depth. The importance of such details in early cinema cannot be over-exaggerated; for example, when the film is contrasted with Vitagraph’s 1909 film A Midsummer’s Night Dream, the gulf in quality is apparent (unfortunately, the deterioration of the print of King Lear available online is more significant than that available on the Silent Shakespeare DVD) .
For example, just before Cordelia’s death, the camera focuses on both the gentleman in the foreground of the scene and the soldiers who are in the distance, standing underneath a stone bridge (see image below). This stunning image literally expands the space on the canvas the filmmaker has available to him and furthers the separation between film and theatre.
The colouring plays a significant role in establishing the film as a cinematic experience rather than a print recording of a play. The symbolism of the opening sequence, where the fool sits on Lear’s throne before Lear enters the courtyard himself, is enhanced by the contrast in colouring of their respective outfits (see image below).
As modern viewers, we are often surprised when we encounter colouring on such early film. However, according to the commentary on the Silent Shakespeare DVD: between 1895 and 1930, 80% of films were projected in something other than black and white. Although the DVD suggests that this figure may be slightly exaggerated, there is little doubt that much of this colouring has failed to survive. This is because the dyes used were highly mutable and prone to fade.
We have witnessed colouring before in early Méliès films and in Feuillade’s The Fairy of the Surf, but not to the extent that it is on show here. And given the pathos of the subject matter it is often richly evocative; for example, the barren wilderness of the trees behind Lear as he stumbles in his madness add a sense of desolation that make Lear’s pain even more acute.
The cast of the film were renowned theatrical actors, yet they avoid the pitfall of overplaying their roles to compensate for a lack of spoken word. Ermete Novelli’s portrayal of Lear is the largest performance we have seen on screen to date. There are moments when his performance is too grandiose, but such moments are few and far between. The brevity of the film forces a violent shift in his emotions, but his Lear is compassionate, overbearing and deeply endearing.
Perhaps the most tender moment we have witnessed in any film so far occurs when Cordelia is reunited with her father. It may be a moment embedded in the collective conscience of the English canon, but the scene is shot in a cinematic rather than theatrical manner. Novelli’s Lear lies silently as Francesca Bertini’s Cordelia glides towards her father and gently embraces him. The seamless of chemistry of these two actors exacerbates that most painful moment when Lear hold his dead daughter in his arms.
The film focuses solely on the main narrative strand of the play and strings together a more coherent narrative than any of the theatrical or literary adaptations we have witnessed thus far. This is all the more impressive given the difficulty of its source in comparison with much of the more comic material that was adapted to a lesser degree of success by earlier filmmakers.
The only precedent we have of film tackling tragedy is Nerone (another Italian film), which shared similar stellar production values and a compelling narrative too. It will be interesting to observe Italian cinema’s growth over the next decade and witness its tackling of similarly ambitious subject matter.
King Edward VII’s funeral, which took place on Friday 20 May 1910, was a one of the 20th Century’s first ‘global events’. Royalty from all over Europe (for a full list of the funeral’s royal attendees, click here) attended the event, in what would be one of the final flourishes of the European monarchical system before it was devoured by the cataclysmic events of the First World War.
It is also important to remember the global reach of the British Empire in 1910 (see map below for the territories (they are coloured in red on the map) the Empire contained in 1910). When King Edward VII died he was not only the King of England and the British Dominions, he was also the Emperor of India. The news of his death would have therefore been global news, and we must speculate whether this footage from his funeral would have made its way to the various corners of the globe.
The first impression I gathered from watching this brief film was just how much information there is on screen to digest. Even in the lavish production of early Italian films such La Presa Di Roma (1905) and Nerone (1909), a fiction film had not come close to portraying the sheer number of (mostly military) people who are visible throughout this film. As the screen becomes populated almost exclusively by military figures, I could not help but shudder at this unintentional cinematic prophesy of the forthcoming century.
The lavish opulence of the ceremony interweaves with its militaristic uniformity. Whereas the contemporary audience would have been immersed in national mourning, I could not help thinking of the forthcoming war – the relentless march of the various military men reminded of the historian A.J.P. Taylor’s ‘timetable theory’:
In his 1969 bookWar by Timetable, Taylor examined the origins of World War I. He concluded that though all of the great powers wished to increase their own power relative to the others, none consciously sought war before 1914. Instead, he argued that all of the great powers believed that if they possessed the ability to mobilise their armed forces faster than any of the others, this would serve as a sufficient deterrent to avoid war and allow them to achieve their foreign policy. Thus, the general staffs of the great powers developed elaborate timetables to mobilise faster than any of their rivals. When the crisis broke in 1914, though none of the statesmen of Europe wanted a world war, the need to mobilise faster than potential rivals created an inexorable movement towards war. Thus Taylor claimed that the leaders of 1914 became prisoners of the logic of the mobilisation timetables and the timetables that were meant to serve as deterrent to war instead relentlessly brought war.
In my over imaginative mind, as the troops march off screen they are walking towards the trenches of the Somme and Champagne.
The Acrobatic Fly is one of the more peculiar films I have encountered. Although it only lasts for three minutes, it is a film that has consistently perplexed me for the last week.
On its surface, The Acrobatic Fly is a simple trick film involving a housefly that balances various objects on its body. However, it appears that the ingenuity of the film is that there is no trickery involved (it is a real housefly balancing the various objects); although one wonders how Percy Stow managed to ‘convince’ the housefly to perform the various tricks it pulls off.
As the film begins, the viewer’s initial reaction is to delight at the gimmick of a fly lying on its back, juggling what appears to be a blade of grass. As the first few objects change, even 100 years later, the sense of novelty is tempered by an impression of disposability. It seems as though the film will be like many a gimmicky Youtube video that fascinates for a few seconds before drifting to the most distant backwaters of our memories.
But as the film transitions from the fly spinning a web around a plastic white cup to a fly lying at a different angle juggling a smaller fly, the film becomes both grotesque and deeply fascinating. The lighting of the initial shot allows us to see the fly’s transparent wings as well as suggesting its body is comprised of several colours. As the lighting and positioning of the fly shifts for the first time, the uniform blackness of both flies is accentuated. A few shots later, the two large flies weave a large black ball that the larger fly struggled to balance him/herself (see image below), and the allegorical nature of these images deepens.
It is a fruitless exercise speculating whether this was the directors’ intention, but there is no denying the effect this transition has a potent effect on the viewer; whereas before, the fly’s repugnant exterior was offset by how it was lit and the action it was partaking in, now its repulsiveness is accentuated by the fact that it is balancing another fly. Involuntarily, it is an image that has resonated and replayed in my mind for the last few days, as I could not shake the unerring feeling that this symbolism had significant depth and may in fact function as mirror for its audience.
Unable to word this scene’s effect on my mind, the best inclination I can give my reader of this sense of apprehension is to say that I feel there is a significant overlap between this scene in the film and the following short story by Borges (which can be found in this collection):
Inferno, I, 3
From the half-light of dawn to the half-light of evening, the eyes of a leopard, in the last few years of the twelfth century, looked upon a few wooden boards, some vertical iron bars, some varying men and women, a blank wall, and perhaps a stone gutter littered with dry leaves. The leopard did not know, could not know, that it yearned for love and cruelty and the hot pleasure of tearing flesh and a breeze with the scent of deer, but something inside it was suffocating and howling in rebellion, and God spoke to it in a dream: You shall live and die in this prison, so that a man that I have knowledge of may see you a certain number of times and never forget you and put your figure and symbol in a poem, which has its exact place in the weft of the universe. You suffer captivity, but you shall have given a word to the poem. In the dream, God illuminated the animal’s rude understanding and the animal grasped the reasons and accepted its fate, but when it awoke there was only an obscure resignation in it, a powerful ignorance, because the machine of the world is exceedingly complex for the simplicity of a savage beast.
Years later, Dante was to die in Ravenna, as unjustified and alone as any other man. God told him the secret purpose of his life and work; Dante, astonished, learnt at last who he was and what he was, and he blessed the bitterness of his life. Legend has it that when he awoke, he sensed that he had received and lost an infinite thing, something he would never be able to recover, or even to descry from afar, because the machine of the world is exceedingly complex for the simplicity of men.
Chinese
French
German
Italian
Japanese
Korean
Russian
Spanish
Posts
