What I've Been Watching

Silent Film Edition: Part III

      D.W. Griffith and F.W. Murnau, two names featured prominently in my blog, are titans of cinema's past. The purpose of highlighting their work; therefore, is to underline their importance, to inspire an interest however mild in their exceptional work. Any film buff could comfortably laud their accomplishments. Such a statement presupposes that every consumer of film is desirous of the "buff" distinction. The box office receipts for films like Jack and Jill and New Year's Eve confirm my suspicions that a voracious awareness of film history, for the average moviegoer, is unnecessary. Well, I am not the average moviegoer. And I'm here to tell you, loyal readers who frequent my blog, neither are you. My commentary presumes your attentiveness for, yes, cinema's history. Presumptuous as it may be, this Silent Film segment, which will continue in perpetuity, is designed to fulfill your curiosities. Well, mine, too. So please enjoy. By the way, any paragraph that manages to invoke the names of Griffith and Murnau whilst identifying cockamamie cinema, for which Adam Sandler is routinely a fixture, is a paragraph that is about as inessential, as well, Sandler's next terrorizing tour through planet boredom. 

Broken Blossoms (1919) - D.W. Griffith

I've already sufficiently extolled the virtues of Mr. Griffith. But something I've not done was draw attention to one of his lesser-known masterpieces. Enter Broken Blossoms. This is a story of interracial love, truly the first of its kind. Lilian Gish, the foremost actress of the silent era, portrays Lucy, the abused daughter of a pugnacious brute, Battling Burrows. Griffith intercuts their familial story with the meanderings of Cheng Huan, a Buddhist who, at first, champions a message of peace, then, following the travails of prejudice and hatred, succumbs to a tragic, drug-ridden life. Their disparate journeys, Lucy's and Cheng's, fortuitously intersect. Fostering hope and exemplifying beauty, the two diametric wanderers find solace with each other's company: "the beauty [Lucy] which all Limehouse missed smote him [Cheng] to the heart." 
      Evincing the conventions found in today's melodrama, at the time a nascent child of cinema, Griffith cultivates a weary atmosphere. The primary mood evoked is one of desperation. Melodramas dwell prominently in the sinewy fields of base emotion. Those who adorn the skin of despondency imbue their stringy surroundings with grim disillusionment. But, as Griffith intricately understood this axiom of humanity, in every dark corner, in the recesses of anguish, light yearns to be free. His principal characters, Lucy and Cheng, embody this resilient spirit. Emotive purity, personified by light, is their savior. While their journeys are blemished by fear, their spirits dismayed, the vigorous spirit of contentment still teeters in the periphery. Man and woman strive to be happy. It is this eternal struggle, happiness vs. despair, that enshrines Griffith's prescient tale of love forlorn. His technical mastery, visual command, and stupendous direction serve only to invigorate the screen.
      Riddled with juvenile stereotypes, trite characterizations, and the occasional detour into drab simplicity, Broken Blossoms is imperfect. But, as an earnest examination of injustice, imagined and idealized, it is ingenious. A monument of inspiration for future auteurs—chiefly Federico Fellini whose La Strada is somewhat of a modern retelling—D.W. Griffith's Broken Blossoms remains a hallmark of melodrama. The tonal, atmospheric, and thematic achievements may not satiate your carnal appetite for entertainment. But the evocative subject matter and painterly care will certainly enrapture your mind, perhaps even tug at your heartstrings. 

8 out of 10

The Last Laugh (1924) - F.W. Murnau

The language of film is visual. Lettered inscriptions, known as intertitles, are meant as narrative enhancements; a degree in literacy should be insignificant. No other silent film director understood this creative precept more than F.W. Murnau, perhaps the most adept visual tactician of his era. What Murnau could convey through adroit angles, daring shots, and character performances was astounding. George Lucas famously said Steven Spielberg was put on this Earth to make movies. This statement, the highest of peer adoration, could apply to Murnau as well. His direction, drawn from a reservoir of immense skill, was peerless. His work on The Last Laugh emblazoned his inimitable feats, stylistic and technical, for eternity. 
      The Last Laugh is one of the most famous silent films. It is also, literally, the most silent of silent films. Only one sardonic intertile, some suggest to be superfluous, adorns the screen during the final act. Beyond the lack of dialogue though, the crucial element that separates Laugh from most other silent films is Murnau's impeccable camera movement. A moving camera, so revolutionary at the time, is ingrained in modern moviegoers as an indispensable function. Murnau's technical brilliance, it can be argued quite easily, precipitated this evolution. 
      Unlike Nosferatu and Sunrise, The Last Laugh follows a rather traditional narrative; a doorman in the twilight of his career is fired and forced to confront a community without his uniform to shield his identity. Eschewing fantastical imagery and an affinity for the supernatural, Murnau orchestrates a style that is acutely vertical. German Expressionism catapulted Murnau's legacy into the stratosphere. Rightly so. But in Laugh, he simply abides by the pursuits of a straightforward expressionist. The crucial enabler of his vision is Emil Jennings, a man whose legacy would come to be tainted by a highly questionable political allegiance. Jennings' performance, as generously humanistic as it is mesmerizing, is distinguished by his steadfast pantomime, a variety of expressions that incites a variety of emotions. Emboldened by dramatic pathos, Jennings' character insinuates a journey that is both pitiful and endearing. One poignant scene involves a tense walk home that encapsulates his inability, perhaps presaging the identic rise of Nazism, to function without his uniform. The bitter emotion registered in his face is stark. Murnau's choice of a montage sequence; however, spells even greater nightmare.  
      Murnau's audacious camerawork revealed a skill-set that could flourish today. Propelled by an artistic vision, guided by a versatile repertoire, rivaling any auteur, and enchanted by the qualms of humanity, F.W. Murnau established a standard for excellence, which every aspiring filmmaker merely hopes to justify. His imprint, immortalized fittingly with The Last Laugh, is indicative of an incalculable determination, a relentless desire to both entertain and enlighten.  

10 out of 10