What's it about? The adventures of an orphan boy, living in the walls of a Paris train station, who crosses paths with a grumpy old toymaker with a fabulous secret.
But what's it about? Finding your purpose, or maybe rediscovering it. "Machines never come with any extra parts, you know. They always come with the exact amount they need. So I figured, if the entire world was one big machine, I couldn't be an extra part. I had to be here for some reason."
But what's it really about? Martin Scorsese's ongoing love affair with silent movies and the creative genius that made them possible.
And what did I get out of it? Aside from a pleasant afternoon with Katie-Bar-The-Door? Why, the pleasure of seeing dozens of silent film references on the big screen, including but not limited to:
Is there anything more heartbreaking than the disappointed face of a child who didn't find a silent movie in his or her Christmas stocking? Probably, but why risk it? If the little shavers on your shopping list are anything like me, they hunger and thirst after a working knowledge of the silent film era. Don't let them down!
"But Monkey," I can hear you say, "I don't know where to start. What movies would you recommend to help start my son's or daughter's (or even my) silent film collection?"
Glad you asked. Here are a baker's dozen guaranteed to make you an expert in no time. (And no, I have no financial stake in my recommendations or your choices.)
Landmarks of Early Film, Vol. 1 [Image Entertainment] With film pioneer Georges Méliès back in the popular consciousness thanks to Martin Scorsese's terrific new film Hugo, maybe it's time to figure out where he actually fits in the history of film. You could read about it here, but why waste valuable eyeball space on my yack and blather when you could fill your senses with the real thing? This DVD is a good way to dive into the work of film's earliest pioneers, including works by Méliès, Thomas Edison, D.W. Griffith and the Lumière brothers, among others.
(I understand there's a five-disc collection of Georges Melies's work from Flicker Alley which purports to include every Melies film in existence, 173 in all. Holy cats. But I haven't seen it and it's temporarily unavailable at Amazon.com.)
Chaplin at Keystone: An International Collaboration of 34 Original Films [Flicker Alley] A magnificent restoration of all 34 of the films Chaplin made at Mack Sennett's Keystone studios, including the first feature-length comedy ever made, Tillie's Punctured Romance. This is not only a nice introduction to Chaplin, but also includes terrific work by Roscoe Arbuckle, Mabel Normand and Marie Dressler. Start with The Rounders, move on to Tillie, then go back and see them all.
Intolerance [Kino] Are you a connoisseur of mind-blowing cinema? Then watch this D.W. Griffith epic and consider your mind blown. Still belonging on a short list of the most ambitious movies ever made, Intolerance (from the "Griffith Masterworks" series) weaves four storylines from different points in history together to examine and expose man's inhumanity to man. Its kaleidoscope of images influenced filmmakers such as Sergei Eisenstein, its depiction of the fall of Babylon and a woman racing a train to save an innocent man from the electric chair are unforgettable, and Constance Talmadge is a hoot. Also includes orgies, beheadings and the life of Christ—something for everybody!
Male and Female [Image Entertainment] What silent film collection wouldn't be complete without an entry from director Cecil B. DeMille and his favorite star, Gloria Swanson. Although DeMille would later become known for his turgid Bible epics, he really made his name with a series of sophisticated sex comedies, most starring Swanson. In this one, aristocrat Swanson winds up stranded on a desert island with her butler, and when the hired help are the only ones who know how to get things done, upstairs quickly becomes downstairs and vice versa. Norma Desmond was right—they didn't need dialogue; they had faces!
Nosferatu (The Ultimate Two-Disc Edition) [Kino] You're going to want at least one example of German Expressionism, one of the most influential artistic movements of the 20th century, and one film from F.W. Murnau, who directed some of the most beautiful films of the silent era. Why not kill two birds with one stone and go with the vampire classic, Nosferatu. Be careful, though—there are many versions of this film floating around, some virtually unwatchable. Me, I'd go with the two-disc edition from Kino.
The Black Pirate (Blu-Ray) [Kino] There never was a better movie pirate than Douglas Fairbanks—not Errol Flynn, not Tyrone Power, not Johnny Depp. And this early color film (using a primitive two-strip process) might be his best. With the graceful and athletic Fairbanks at its heart, The Black Pirate is as fluid as a ballet while at the same time serving up a rip-snorting yarn filled with all the swash you'd ever care to buckle. (Don't have a Blu-Ray player? Don't despair. Try The Thief of Bagdad from Kino instead.)
The General (Blu-Ray) [Kino] There are no wrong choices when it comes to Buster Keaton on Blu-Ray. So I'll just go with the best choice—The General. Not only is it one of the greatest comedies ever made, it's also an action film that puts most of its modern counterparts to shame. Based on an incident from the American Civil War, the story—about a lovelorn engineer who finds himself battling spies who hijack his train—features a spectacular chase involving two, then three speeding locomotives, daredevil stunts, explosions, burning bridges, comic mishaps, sight gags, split-second timing, all while Keaton woos the girl. Keaton's famously understated reaction to the chaos around him only adds to the modern feel of the production. (No Blu-Ray? No need to feel blue. It's also available from Kino in the "Ultimate Two-Disc Edition.")
The Complete Metropolis (Blu-Ray) [Kino] If The Black Pirate is a swashbuckling ballet, Fritz Lang's Metropolis is a science fiction opera, and in this newly restored edition, as close to Lang's original vision as we're likely to get. Its story of a world divided into haves and have-nots, with a populist political movement secretly controlled by the corporation it aims to topple, feels as up-to-date as anything you're likely to see at the theater this year. Oh, and it boasts a beautiful robot played by Brigette Helm. What more do you want? (Also available as a DVD.)
TCM Archives: The Garbo Silents Collection [Warner Home Video] Flesh and the Devil was the first pairing of Greta Garbo and John Gilbert, who would soon become one of movie history's most torrid, tempestuous couples. Garbo created a sensation with her ethereal beauty, cool, exotic manner and thoroughly modern characterization of an amoral woman who slept with whomever she wanted, while Gilbert further cemented his reputation as the screen's greatest lover. The collection also includes The Temptress and The Mysterious Lady. Considering it's going for $8.99 at Amazon.com, that's an exceptional bargain.
It [Kino] Prefer your sex symbols served hot? Then you don't want to miss It, starring the original "It" Girl, Clara Bow. This mischievous comedy catapulted Bow to superstardom—and tabloid notoriety, most of it, unfortunately, pure fiction. The disc also includes the documentary Clara Bow: Discovering the "It" Girl, which will give you insight not only into the troubled life and times of Clara Bow, but also into the transition from silents to talkies, the most pivotal event in Hollywood history since the invention of the camera. (Note: The DVD of another Bow picture, Wings, winner of the first Oscar for best picture, finally goes on sale January 24, 2012.)
TCM Archives: The Lon Chaney Collection [Warner Home Video] The obvious choices for an introductory Lon Chaney film would be The Hunchback of Notre Dame or The Phantom of the Opera (Image Entertainment just released a Blu-Ray of the latter in November), but I'm going with this collection that includes The Ace of Hearts, Laugh, Clown, Laugh and The Unknown. Laugh, Clown, Laugh shows off Chaney's acting chops at their finest, while The Unknown (from legendary horror director Tod Browning) captures Chaney at his creepy, crazy best.
The Passion of Joan of Arc [The Criterion Collection] The true story of the trial and execution of one of history's most famous leaders, The Passion of Joan of Arc is beautiful, engrossing and deeply moving. It's also startlingly fresh, telling truths about the self-serving, corrupting nature of power as current as today's headlines, proving once again that our forefathers were much more modern that we currently dream of being. That, I think, is one of the hallmarks of true art, an ability to speak across generations in a unique and unforgettable way. Or leaving all that aside, it's just a great, very watchable movie.
Pandora's Box [The Criterion Collection] Virtually unknown in her day, Louise Brooks today might be the silent era's most recognizable actress. Playing the prostitute Lulu with a unique combination of wide-eyed innocence and unabashed sexual appetite, Brooks created a character so unforgettable that twenty-five years later French film historian Henri Langlois declared "There is no Garbo, there is no Dietrich, there is only Louise Brooks!"
What? No Mary Pickford? Well, I'll tell you. There are some good ones from The Milestone Collection, but they're all out of print and going for $50 and more through third-party sellers on Amazon.com. If you want to spring for one of her films, I'd say go for Stella Maris—it's my favorite Pickford film.
Likewise, Harold Lloyd is out of print again. I have The Harold Lloyd Comedy Collection Vols. 1-3 myself—7 discs of absolutely wonderful comedy. If it ever shows up again, I'll let you know.
If Georges Méliès, the first truly great director in movie history, were alive today, he'd be celebrating his 150th birthday. Appropriately enough, Méliès is back in the national consciousness thanks to Martin Scorsese's latest film, Hugo, a 3D children's movie for adults, which I plan to see soon, maybe this weekend! In honor of the great Georges Méliès, here's a repost of my essay on the birth of cinema. Trying to say definitively who invented the movies is a little like trying to say who invented fire—the records are sketchy, everybody who knows for certain is dead, and what evidence that does remain comes largely from the self-serving accounts of Thomas Edison's patent lawyers.
And where do you start, which is to say, what was the first indispensable step toward what we now think of as motion pictures? If I knew his name, I'd say it was the first caveman who thought to entertain his neighbors with shadow puppets and firelight. In fact, two of the key elements of film, movement and representation, have been staples of art and entertainment since at least the ancient Greek stage.
Turner Classic Movie's recent documentary, Moguls and Movie Stars, began with seventeenth century Dutch mathematician Christiaan Huygens who in 1659 invented the magic lantern show—a process of projecting light through a painted slide onto a wall or screen—and in terms of being entertained while sitting in the dark looking at pictures on a wall, the magic lantern is a reasonable place to start a history of the movies. Over the course of the two hundred years that followed, these magic lantern shows became quite sophisticated—by stacking slides one in front of the other and manipulating them, a projectionist could create the illusion of movement—and were one of the most popular forms of entertainment during the 19th century.
And then there was Eadweard Muybridge, who on a bet took a series of photographs in 1872 of a galloping horse to prove that all four of its hooves leave the ground simultaneously when it runs. Strung together on a glass cylinder and spun quickly enough, this "magic lantern show gone mad" created the illusion of a horse in motion. Muybridge also had a fondness for photographing nude models performing mundane tasks and audiences had a fondness for paying to see them, proving once again that pornography often drives the acceptance of new media. (Also check out Étienne-Jules Marey who similarly used a "chronophotographic gun" to capture remarkable images of birds in flight.)
But if we think of movies as something involving a strip of film and a projector, then I think the history of movies starts with Louis Aimé Augustin Le Prince who in 1888 used a single-lens camera and paper film produced by George Eastman to film two seconds worth of fashionable men and women walking around a garden in Roundhay, England. Along with equally brief footage of horse and buggy traffic crossing a bridge in Leeds, Le Prince is generally credited with producing the first "films" in movie history.
Alas for Le Prince, while preparing for a cross-Atlantic trip to exhibit his invention in New York, he boarded a train bound for Paris in 1890 and literally vanished without a trace. Although theories abound—suicide, fratricide, assassination—his disappearance has never been explained. In fact, investigators turned up no leads at all and the case went cold until just seven years ago, when, while combing through its nineteenth century archives, Paris police found a photograph dating from 1890 of an unidentified drowning victim who bore a resemblance to Le Prince. But whether it was positively him or how he might have drowned on a moving train, no one can say.
After Le Prince, the story of film picks up with Charles-Émile Reynaud. A French science professor who directed and exhibited what may have been the world's first animated film, Pauvre Pierrot ("Poor Pete"), his most lasting contribution to film history was the invention of a camera that recorded images not on photographic plates but on perforated film advanced by sprockets, resulting in longer filmed sequences than a cylinder or drum would allow.
Reynaud demonstrated his camera-projector, which he called the Praxinoscope Théâtre, at the Paris Exposition Universelle in 1889 (the one with the Eiffel Tower). In the audience was the famed American inventor Thomas Alva Edison who had been struggling to come up with his own movie camera without much success. By his own admission, two of Edison's greatest inventions were credit stealing and patent lawyers, deploying armies of the latter to accomplish the former—along with the light bulb, his most lasting and influential contributions—but he later insisted that his epiphany that the future of motion pictures depended on perforated film on sprockets was purely coincidental. The U.S Patent Office agreed.
"Everyone steals in industry and commerce," he said later. "I've stolen a lot myself. The thing is to know how to steal." (An idea he no doubt stole from his attorneys.)
Reynaud died penniless, but Edison—or more precisely his assistant William K.L. Dickson—ran with Reynaud's ideas (and, I don't know, maybe some of his own), and by 1894 created what he called the Kinetoscope, essentially a "peepshow" housed in a bulky cabinet, whereby the bored and the curious could one at a time watch brief films for a nickle. The movies were neither artistic nor adventuresome—just brief scenes of men sneezing, couples dancing, Annie Oakley shooting—but for a time at least the paying public was enthralled.
It was two French brothers, however, Auguste and Louis Lumière, who first thought to exhibit movies not to one person at a time but to a theater full of paying customers. Starting their careers in film as assistants in their father's photographic firm, the brothers—Louis as the inventor, Auguste as the business manager—developed a new and improved camera-projector. Where Edison's Kinetoscope was bulky and hard to maintain, the Lumières' combination camera-projector, the cinématographe, was light and mobile and relatively easy to use. In December 1895, these two brothers rented a hall in Paris and charged the public admission to see their new invention—the first time in history an audience paid money to see a motion picture in a theater.
Here in its entirety is that groundbreaking film, Arrival of a Train at La Ciotat:
I've said it before and I'll say it again, the only proper way to study movie history is to watch movies, and when I sat down and watched a couple of dozen of the Lumière brothers' best-known movies (judging by the number of votes they've received on the Internet Movie Database), it quickly became clear that while the Lumières may have invented the camera, they didn't have a clue what to do with the camera. Their films never progressed beyond fifty-second home movies of whatever they happened to be standing near—trains entering a station, babies eating breakfast, etc.—audiences quickly grew jaded and early in the 20th century, the brothers famously concluded that "the cinema is an invention without any future." Instead, they turned their full attention to photography, finding their lasting success with a color photographic process, the Autochrome Lumière, which they patented in 1903.
It was instead another Frenchman, Georges Méliès, who was the first to grasp the unique potential of the new motion picture technology. A stage magician by trade, Méliès saw movies as a successor to the tradition of fanciful entertainments. Where Edison and the Lumière brothers used their cameras to record reality, Méliès realized that through editing and photographic trickery, film could be used to create a new reality, one that could never exist apart from film. It was perhaps the single greatest insight in movie history.
Among his many movies, one, Le Voyage Dans La Lune (A Trip To The Moon), from 1902, is perhaps the one indispensable film from the first quarter century of film history and gave us the single most famous movie image before Charlie Chaplin first donned his little tramp outfit.
I'll grant you, A Trip To The Moon is a relic by the standards even of the decade that followed it, but it was also wholly original, deriving from nothing before it, inspiring so much of what came after it, and containing images that are still unique and unforgettable despite the passage of a century's worth of filmmaking. Or to put it another way, that The Simpsons could spoof A Trip To The Moon as an Itchy and Scratchy cartoon (in French, no less) without the need to explain it, tells you all you need to know about how much a part of the culture Méliès really is.
Unfortunately, Méliès wasn't much of a businessman, and Edison and his lawyers were able to copy prints of A Voyage To The Moon and exhibit them in the United States without paying royalties. Too, Méliès stopped progressing as a filmmaker. His 1912 movie, The Conquest Of The Pole, for example, could have been made a decade earlier in terms of its sets, acting, storyline and editing, and while D.W. Griffith later said of Méliès "I owe him everything," Griffith and others quickly surpassed him in terms of artistry and technique.
Méliès went bankrupt in 1913 and wound up selling toys in Paris's Gare Montparnasse train station. He was awarded the Légion d'honneur in 1932 and died six years later.
Méliès's story is a none-too-subtle reminder that while movies are the greatest art form of the 20th century, they're also a business, and whatever else you can say about Thomas Edison, he did figure out how to make money from the movies and to popularize the medium. While men such as Le Prince and the Lumière brothers were more clever inventors and Méliès was a superior artist, it was Edison who made movies pay, and his realization that nobody was going to buy a film projector if there were no films to project on it may have been the second greatest insight in movie history. Certainly the most practical.
A variety of men made movies at Edison's behest, but the two most important were the aforementioned W.K.L Dickson and Edwin S. Porter. Dickson was primarily an inventor and his contributions as a filmmaker are largely those of a cinematographer recording his own experiments. His first works, the first American films, are simple scenes filmed in his own workshop—men blacksmithing, sneezing or shaking hands.
These snippets of life provided the content of Edison's peepshows and in the beginning were sufficient to satisfy the public's curiosity. But with more interesting films arriving from the Lumière brothers and especially Méliès, Edison realized he needed more substantial fare if his fledgling film company was to survive. Edison put Porter, who had formerly worked as a touring projectionist for a rival company, in charge of motion picture production at his New York studios, and there Porter set to work filming not just workplace scenes, but stories.
Porter directed more than one hundred eighty films between 1898 and 1915, but far away the most important and enduring of them is the 1903 western, The Great Train Robbery.
"In literature and music, as well as movies," Daniel Eagan wrote in America's Film Legacy, his collection of essays about the National Film Registry, "the past can seem slow, obvious and at times filled with odd, unexpected touches too far removed from our experiences to decipher easily—which makes The Great Train Robbery an even more remarkable achievement. The blockbuster of its time, it has lost none of its power to entertain over the past hundred years."
Put simply, The Great Train Robbery was the first great American film. Not only is the shot of Justus Barnes firing a Colt revolver directly at the camera one of the most indelible images in movie history, but Porter grasped that unlike with the stage, the "best seat in the house" was wherever the camera needed to be to show the action. Porter placed his camera on top of a movie train or riding along with the outlaws on horseback, a "conceptual leap" (Eagan again) that puts the film a decade ahead of its time.
Porter's use of jump-cuts, cross-cutting, matte shots and hand-tinted frames was equally cutting-edge, and that the film also established the narrative conventions for decades of westerns to come makes The Great Train Robbery the most important American film before The Birth Of A Nation a dozen years later.
Despite the commercial success of The Great Train Robbery, neither Porter nor his boss were comfortable with the film's technical and storytelling innovations, and thereafter, to the disappointment of the ticket-buying public, the studio's product reverted to more conventional forms. A Trip To The Moon notwithstanding, ultimately the one thing Thomas Edison couldn't steal was quality and within a few years, immigrant entrepreneurs such as Adolph Zukor and Carl Laemmle and directors such as D.W. Griffith equaled then surpassed Edison as a filmmaker. The company lost steam, Porter left Edison's employ in 1909 and an adverse ruling in an anti-monopoly case in 1915 exacerbated the decline. With the coming of World War I and the closing of the European market, Edison sold his studio and abandoned film altogether.
It was an ironic and somehow fitting end to the master inventor-thief's involvement in the history of motion pictures.
Remember the Great Citizen Kane Debate that True Classics hosted a couple of weeks back? The one with prizes, such as Citizen Kane on Blu-Ray, for the best essay?
I'll let the good people at True Classics speak for themselves:
The entries that we received for the Great Citizen Kane Debate were above and beyond our expectations. After quite a bit of reading (and re-reading) and discussion amongst ourselves, we have determined the prize winners!
The voting was quite close, particularly between first and second place, and we want to commend each and every blogger who participated for writing some truly thought-provoking, intriguing entries.
Without further ado …
First Place: The Mythical Monkey (A Mythical Monkey Writes About the Movies) for his insightful and humorous entry, Citizen Kane: Best Ever? Monkey raises some interesting questions about the film, and we felt that his approach to the debate was extremely well-written, refreshingly honest, logical, and heartfelt ...
As I told True Classics in an e.e. cummings style e-mail last night: "holy cow! i wasn't expecting that. considering the level of competition -- there were a lot of really well-written essays -- this is a genuine honor. thanks so very much."
That's not false modesty, just a simple statement of fact. But I'll take it. I make it a policy never to turn down free DVDs.
I'm working on a review of the classic Mary Pickford film Stella Maris, which if I work well this week, will be up by Friday. But the whole point of the review is to encourage you to see the movie, so why not cut out the middle man?
In terms of its narrative, Stella Maris has both feet planted firmly in the Charles Dickens tradition, with a rich girl (Pickford) crossing paths with a poor one (an unrecognizable Pickford in a dual role). Great, melodramatic stuff.
Whoever uploaded this to YouTube very cleverly left off the soundtrack. That's how they get you, in case you didn't know—the movie itself is in the public domain, but the soundtrack isn't and so the studio can reassert control of the movie through the music rights. That's why It's A Wonderful Life isn't on television twenty-eight hours a day during the Christmas season anymore—the film itself is in the public domain, but the score isn't.
Which is a real problem for a talkie, but a silent movie, well, I just provide my own soundtrack, probably Oscar Peterson's Night Train, which is what I've been listening to lately.
My latest post about "Shaving in Hollywood" is up and running at Sharpologist, the online magazine devoted to shaving and grooming for men. This month, I've picked a number of memorable shaving scenes from the history of movies, including clips from the likes of Buster Keaton, Bugs Bunny, Cary Grant and Clint Eastwood—videos and links to twenty-one movies in all.
Stealing is a time honored tradition among comedians, and God bless them, I say—thanks to their thieving ways, we can directly compare comedy acts with different styles and of different eras and get a sense of what each brings to the table.
This is especially true, I think, where as here, the players are not at the top of their games. Great work tends to transcend its source material, and even if it's still identifiably the work of its creator, largely becomes something unique. Merely good work, on the other hand, especially when done in a hurry for money, tends to reveal its creator's default tendencies.
In this case, Charlie Chaplin, Roscoe Arbuckle and the Three Stooges all check themselves in as patients in a sanitarium and in each case, you can see them race for the tried and true. Chaplin leans on repetition and rhythm, Arbuckle on pratfalls and cross-dressing, the Stooges on destructive ineptitude. All did better work, but none more typical.
Charles Chaplin in The Cure (1917).
Roscoe Arbuckle and Buster Keaton in Good Night, Nurse (1918).
The Three Stooges in Monkey Businessmen (1946) (in two parts).
Today is the 83rd anniversary of Steamboat Willie, the Walt Disney cartoon that introduced Mickey Mouse to the world. Here's what I previously wrote about it.
In the summer of 1928, around the time Buster Keaton's latest comedy, Steamboat Bill, Jr., hit theaters, a young animator named Walt Disney was looking for a vehicle to launch his struggling studio's latest creation, a cartoon mouse by the name of Mickey. On November 18, 1928, the animated short Steamboat Willie premiered at New York's 79th Street Theater.
The rest, as they say, is history. Mickey Mouse soon eclipsed Felix the Cat as the movies' most popular cartoon character, appearing in hundreds of shorts, feature-length films and television shows over the next eighty years, as well as serving as the corporate symbol of the largest media conglomerate in the world. But if Disney had had his way, the famous mouse would have been a rabbit and history's most beloved pants-wearing rodent might never have made it off the drawing board.
Disney had only just launched his own studio when he and his chief animator, Ub Iwerks, created a series of animated cartoons centered around a character named Oswald the Lucky Rabbit. The series was a smash hit but unfortunately for Disney, distributor Universal Studios wound up owning the character. Universal hired away most of Disney's animators (all but the loyal Iwerks), wrested control of Oswald from Disney and left his fledgling studio on the verge of bankruptcy.
Desperate for a new franchise to fill the gap, Disney and Iwerks quickly came up with an animated mouse they dubbed Mortimer—soon changed to Mickey at the insistence of Disney's wife, Lillian. After two silent Mickey Mouse shorts, Plane Crazy and The Gallopin' Gaucho, failed to find a buyer, Disney produced a short with sound, a loose parody of Keaton's latest film.
Steamboat Willie was an immediate hit and is still considered one of the most important cartoons ever produced. In 1994, a group of one thousand animators chose it as the thirteenth greatest cartoon of all time and four years later, the National Film Registry selected Steamboat Willie for preservation in the Library of Congress.
Walt Disney, by the way, was nominated for fifty-nine Oscars, winning twenty-six of them, including four in one year, all records. Ironically, though, he didn't win for Steamboat Willie, one of the most important works of his career—there simply was no category of "cartoon short" at that time.
We'll correct that oversight now. For creating Mickey Mouse in 1928, I'm giving Walt Disney and Ub Iwerks honorary Katie Awards.
Make a little more room on the mantlepiece, fellas.
Trivia: Maybe you knew this, but I didn't: Walt Disney himself provided the voice of Mickey Mouse until 1946.
Before Marlene Dietrich, before Ingrid Bergman, Sophia Loren or even Greta Garbo, Polish film star Pola Negri made the journey from Europe to Hollywood and found fame in America, the first European film actress to succeed on both sides of the Atlantic.
She was born Barbara Apolonia Chałupiec in what is now Poland in 1897, fashioning the name "Pola Negri" for herself (after Italian poet Ada Negri) during her confinement to a sanitarium for tuberculosis. After Russian authorities sent Negri's father to Siberia as a revolutionary, Negri and her mother moved to Warsaw where Negri studied ballet and eventually found success on the stage and screen.
During World War I, she moved to Berlin where she caught the attention of Ernst Lubitsch who signed her to a movie contract at Universum Film AG ("UFA"), Germany's best studio and, until the Nazis took power in 1933, one of the most influential in the world. After a half dozen low-budget films with other directors, Lubitsch in 1918 cast Negri as the lead in Die Augen der Mumie Ma—"The Eyes of the Mummy."
We remember Lubitsch now for his witty, sophisticated comedies, but during his early career in Germany, he alternated between broad farces and serious dramas. The former usually starred Ossi Oswalda, the latter, Negri. Despite its lurid title, The Eyes of the Mummy wasn't a horror picture but a tragic romance, the story of a young woman (Negri) rescued from the Egyptian tombs where her captor (Emil Jannings) has held her for years only to find him stalking her anew through the posh capitals of Europe.
The Eyes of the Mummy is a minor entry in the Lubitsch canon, and Negri is still a raw young actress (she was just twenty-one when filming began), but somebody connected with the film—the screenwriters, Lubitsch, Negri—knew something about the psychology of stalking from the point of view of both the stalker and the victim, and Negri is effective as a lusty child-woman slavishly devoted to whichever man possesses her at any given moment.
Better is Lubitsch's next collaboration with Negri, a film version of Prosper Mérimée's novel, Carmen. Adapted to film as early as 1907, the story of a soldier who throws over his family, his fiancee and his honor for a beautiful gypsy smuggler with tragic results has spawned dozens of versions over the years and was familiar enough to audiences that Charlie Chaplin could film a spoof of it, A Burlesque on Carmen, in 1915. Stripped of its Spanish setting, Carmen is essentially a retelling of Eve and the apple, and while I agree with Nero Wolfe's sidekick Archie Goodwin that "[n]o man was ever taken to hell by a woman unless he already had a ticket in his pocket, or at least had been fooling around with timetables," that doesn't mean this oft-repeated formula doesn't work; indeed, it forms the basis of much of literature, film noir and some of the more brutal aspects of many of the world's cultures.
The key to Carmen is, of course, the actress playing the title role. You have to believe that an honorable man would throw away his good name, a promising career and a faithful fiancee for a romp with a treacherous tramp. Although the print of Carmen has deteriorated beyond repair in places, it's still possible to see what both Don José and movie audiences saw in Pola Negri's Carmen—she's ripe and sensual, with large eyes full of promises she has no intention of keeping.
Better men than Don José have given up a whole lot more for a whole lot less.
"Love is disgusting," Negri herself later opined, "when you no longer possess yourself."
Negri and Lubitsch made a total of eight movies together, each better than the one before it. In addition to The Eyes of the Mummy and Carmen, they made Madame DuBarry (a.k.a Passion) and Rausch (both 1919), Sumurun (a.ka. One Arabian Night) (1920), Die Bergkatze ("The Wildcat") (1921), Die Flamme (1923) and Forbidden Paradise (made in Hollywood in 1924 for Paramount).
Negri's collaboration with Lubitsch made her an international star, and so great was her reputation that the U.S. finally dropped its embargo of German films (instituted during the war) just to satisfy popular curiosity. After the success of Carmen (released in the United States in 1921 as Gypsy Blood), Negri signed with Paramount and arrived in New York in September 1922.
She quickly supplanted Theda Bara as silent film's top sex symbol and while (thanks to the vagaries of film preservation) I can't compare Negri to Bara's most famous role, Cleopatra, if Bara's surviving film A Fool There Was is any indicator, Negri was lightyears beyond her in terms of projecting sexuality on the screen. Was Negri a great actress? I'm not sure. But judging from the reaction of audiences when her European films finally made their way to America, she was revolutionary.
The films with Lubitsch also represented Negri at the top of her popularity. Despite begging her to come to Hollywood, Paramount didn't really know what to do with Negri and as her star faded, she became even more theatrical and haughty, which poisoned her relationship to both the studio and her audience.
When in 1926, the press decided her engagement to the recently deceased Rudolph Valentino was a fabrication, the public was done with her. To her dying day, Negri insisted that the engagement was real and told the Los Angeles Times shortly before her death, "Rudy was the great love of my life. I remember him with great regret. Somehow, the fates changed what wasn't to be. You can't rage with anger against it, and even though you love someone, you like to be with them and want to marry them and hope that it will all work out this time ... but he died, just when we were engaged to be married."
She was also briefly engaged to Charlie Chaplin who jilted her soon after giving her a $15,000 engagement ring. Negri's revenge? She gave the ring to her Forbidden Paradise co-star, Rod La Rocque.
She later married a Georgian prince, Serge Mdivani, who left her for an opera singer after Negri lost her fortune in the stock market crash of 1929. After their divorce, Negri lived with Margaret West, a Texas oil heiress, until the latter's death in 1963.
"No one could believe that we were closest friends, that nothing sexual was involved," she wrote in her autobiography. "Yet it is true. She was as close a friend as I've ever had."
When talkies came in, Negri's thick accent relegated her to supporting roles. Despite a measure of success in such films as A Woman Commands—she had a hit with the song "Paradise"—she retreated to Europe and retired in 1943, making one last picture in 1964, The Moon-Spinners, at Walt Disney's personal behest. Her London press conference promoting the film was a sensation—she showed up with a live cheetah on a chain leash.
Negri died on August 1, 1987, in San Antonio, Texas. She was 90 years old.
Named for Katie-Bar-The-Door, the Katies are "alternate Oscars"—who should have been nominated, who should have won—but really they're just an excuse to write a history of the movies from the Silent Era to the present day.
To see a list of nominees and winners by decade, as well as links to my essays about them, click the highlighted links:
Remember: There are no wrong answers, only movies you haven't seen yet.
The Silent Oscars
And don't forget to check out the Silent Oscars—my year-by-year choices for best picture, director and all four acting categories for the pre-Oscar years, 1902-1927.
Look at me—Joe College, with a touch of arthritis. Are my eyes really brown? Uh, no, they're green. Would we have the nerve to dive into the icy water and save a person from drowning? That's a key question. I, of course, can't swim, so I never have to face it. Say, haven't you anything better to do than to keep popping in here early every morning and asking a lot of fool questions?
What's it about? The adventures of an orphan boy, living in the walls of a Paris train station, who crosses paths with a grumpy old toymaker with a fabulous secret.
And what did I get out of it? Aside from a pleasant afternoon with Katie-Bar-The-Door? Why, the pleasure of seeing dozens of silent film references on the big screen, including but not limited to:
My imdb rating: 8/10
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