silent film Tagged Articles at Cinematical

The unthinkable has happened -- Steve Coogan treaded on William Shakespeare's grave and created the super-saucy Hamlet 2. But as the film continues to expand its screening reach, I thought I'd go back in time -- way, way back in time, beyond many of the Hamlet films that have graced our Shakespeare-insatiable eyes.

The above film was not meant to be a comedy, but you have got to see the silent version of Hamlet above. The music alone is peppy enough for a dance, and I keep expecting some comedy troupe to pop up and wreak havoc in the scene. But this is the ghost scene from the silent, 1913 adaptation, so it's serious. Really.

Personally, I just love the part where the ghost pops up. Special effects have come a long way, eh? And for all of those actors these days who talk about the struggles of acting when a special effects character isn't in the room -- pshaw, these guys were doing it long ago.

As a fresh 35mm print of Charlie Chaplin's quintessential 1947 thriller Monsieur Verdoux begins circulating through revival houses around the country, it seems like a good time to remind people that while the late actor is mainly known as a star of the silent screen, he definitely didn't die with it. Although the greatest slapstick artist of all time initially rejected the development of sound film, mocking it with hilariously exaggerated voices in City Lights, he eventually adopted it after realizing that resistance was futile. However, he refused to simply throw in a few lines of dialogue to accompany his beloved tramp shtick, choosing instead to take his career in a fresh direction. While Chaplin made many sound films over the course of several decades, only two of them really qualify as classic talkies (except for Limelight, which deserves a category of its own). Late flops like A King of New York don't really hold together, but Chaplin's initial forays into the world of sound film display his talent as a composer of distinctive prose.

His first work of this era, The Great Dictator, remains a masterpiece that broadened the potential of his tramp character with a modified Prince and the Pauper tale applied to World War II, and Chaplin doing double duty playing both a Jewish barber and an exaggerated Adolf Hitler (or "Hinkel," rather). Monsieur Verdoux, in which he plays a frustrated man whose losses during the Great Depression lead to a twisted scheme where he marries, murders and robs rich women, represented something else altogether: Chaplin's only brooding melodrama, the occasional laughs are almost incidental.

Japanese-born director Yasujiro Ozu (1903-1963) is one of the most satisfying, yet complex filmmakers in history, and also the simplest. Early on he learned to eliminate anything extraneous, such as camera movements, flashy editing, or even camera angles (everything is shot head-on, eye-level with the actors), in favor of composition and pacing. (He only reluctantly made the jumps to sound, and later, color.) His films have a peaceful, tranquil quality, that leave me feeling relaxed afterward, and yet -- as I discovered last summer while devouring the Criterion Eclipse Late Ozu box set -- there's a dark side to Ozu. If his characters eventually find happiness, they find it by letting go, or giving up their values. It's a harsh message for Americans reared on fighting for our ideals, which is perhaps why Ozu's films were deemed "too Japanese" to be released here during his lifetime. Yet the films still work, and here we have a perfect example in Ozu's I Was Born, But... (1932), released as part of the Criterion Eclipse Box Set #10: Silent Ozu: Three Family Comedies. (The Eclipse series offers no-frills box sets of films that may otherwise never see the light of day.)

It's not a job that garners instant sympathy, like coal miner or bomb-squad cop or personal assistant to Harvey Weinstein, but pause for a second to contemplate the plight of the modern film festival programmer: Every three days, somewhere in the world, there's a film festival. There are not, however, a hundred and sixty-odd brand new films that would allow every fest to be a wall-to-wall blanket of world premieres. Many festivals offer revival screenings of classic material in a new light (I have happy memories of Don McKellar introducing a brand-new uncut print of Cronenberg's The Brood at Toronto a few years ago) as a way of offering something new. Many combine musical talents with older films to create unique experiences in viewing that, unlike some festival circuit films, can't go from town to town because they're unique live experiences. At this year's San Francisco International Film Festival, audiences had a chance to see one of those signature experiences – a screening of the Swedish 1921 horror-folktale The Phantom Carriage, with an original live score by local resident and pop music legend Jonathan Richman.

Richman's most familiar to mainstream audiences for his work as the singing narrator in There's Something About Mary – a tragedy on the same scale, and of the same nature, as if people only recognized Marlon Brando from his sleepwalking work in Superman. Richman's work – with his first band and as a solo artist – has gone from pretty much helping invent American post-punk with The Modern Lovers to raucous children's music to more gentle (but never banal) ventures into folk- and European-influenced acoustic songwriting. He seemed, at first blush, like an odd choice to compose a score for a 80-year old film; watching Richman lead an 8-piece orchestra on the stage of San Francisco's historic Castro Theater, however, any possible concerns about stylistic whiplash were washed away by the shimmer and grace of the score as it unfolded before the audience.

At the Elgin Theater last Friday, Guy Maddin's newest film, Brand Upon the Brain, started 20 minutes late. The delay was, in fact, understandable: The Toronto world premiere of the film involved an 11-piece orchestra, live foley artists, a narrator and a singer. Introducing the film, Maddin summed it up: "... everything you hear tonight will be originating from these four walls." Catnip to film aficionados and proud Canadians both -- an audacious recreation of the silent film experience for a modern audience.

And there were still problems: The first few minutes of the film ran without music, a false start that had to be backed up. It was a mistake, but it was a welcome one. Without Jason Staczeky's score, Maddin's cuts and images were discordant, elusive, aggravating; with the weighty sweep of strings and the heartbeat of percussion accompanying the second try, the same scenes played much differently. What had jumped now glided; what was shattered, part of a whole. Having the chance to watch art explain itself -- to see the point of a piece happen in front of you -- was a singular experience. It was, in fact, what everyone who was there was hoping for -- a film unique and impermanent, one that would never be seen like this again.

I'm not sure how to start this post, so I'm just going to jump right in. Somebody -- or rather, several somebodies who refer to themselves by the rather dubious moniker Team Tiger Awesome -- has turned the mid-eighties hit Top Gun into a traditional-looking silent film. The approximately five minute fan flick comes complete with wonderfully selected organ music, flicker lines and title cards to provide dialogue. If you've ever seen the Tom Cruise flick I highly suggest you watch this little gem, it packs a good amount of funny into a clever delivery. Not only is it stylistically entertaining, the title cards provide such gems as:

• Take a peak at that Sheeba across the speak-easy, she has misplaced feelings of love.
• That Jester didn't have a flapper's chance against us Protestants.
• Quiet down, Rubes. There is a homoerotic volleyball game to play.
• I must retire for the evening. My blonde quiff and I are going to engage in sexual congress.
• Maverick, only you can stop the Kaiser.

Not to mention you'll see a pre-crazy Tom Cruise in some wild aviator sunglasses, a fashion which seems to be currently making an inexplicable comeback.

Directed by Giovanni Pastrone, Cabiria has long been considered the greatest film of Italy's silent era. When it was originally released in 1914, the movie was an international success, and is believed to have inspired "the Babylonian sequences" in D. W. Griffith's 1916 epic, Intolerance.

Previously only available in a two hour version, the film has now been restored from rushes found in basement in Turin (or, as the American Sports Dictators who still say "Italy" and "Rome" like to called it, Turino) to something very close to its original appearance and running time. The restored version, which runs 190 minutes, will have a new world premiere in Italy next Monday, accompanied by an introductory video from Martin Scorsese. After the premiere, the movie will be shipped off to Cannes, where it will screen out of competition.

[via Alternative Film Guide]