Reflecting on my favorite version of A Christmas Carol

‘Tis the season to binge your holiday favorites! And few Christmas stories are as beloved as Charles Dickens’ enduring classic, A Christmas Carol. You might dread dealing with cranky relatives at Christmas, yet we all seem to look forward to revisiting fiction’s favorite misanthrope Ebeneezer Scrooge.

Pretty much everyone has a go-to adaptation of A Christmas Carol. God knows, there’s one for every taste. Want A Christmas Carol with a large dollop of Old Hollywood gloss? Here’s the Reginald Owen version! Enjoy warm sentiment and meta comedy? Here’s The Muppet Christmas Carol! Like your Dickens extra dark and moody? Here’s the George C. Scott movie! Want musical numbers and a campy as hell Jacob Marley? Here’s the Albert Finney version!

To name the 1951 Alastair Sim adaptation as my favorite isn’t going to score me any originality points. It’s one of the most popular versions, tied with the Scott movie as the definitive cinematic Carol. I watch at least three or four versions of this story a year when December rolls around, but the Sim version is the only one I put on without fail.

What sets the Sim version apart for me is its masterful tone. A great many Carols are too sentimental or sweet, taking the bite out of Dickens’ social criticism and blunting Scrooge’s redemption. And as admirable as I find a great many elements in the much-loved Scott version, I always thought it had the opposite problem, becoming so excessively grim that it undercuts Dickens’ palpable sense of holiday cheer and communal joy (that’s my unpopular opinion for the day—in the name of Christmas, please don’t put a stake of holly through my heart for it!).

Dickens’ original story is so beloved because of its multi-faceted nature. It’s a scary ghost story with a gloriously joyful conclusion. It criticizes society’s callousness towards the unfortunate while affirming that even the worst people can change. The Sim version achieves all of this perfectly and I think the key to that success is Sim in the lead. His characterization is so rich and dynamic. Some Scrooges are such monsters that we don’t want to see them redeemed, so it’s important that Scrooge not be 100% off-putting in his earliest scenes. The best Scrooges infuse their crotchety callousness with a grim sense of humor, and I think Sim managed that best of all.

Humor aside, what defines Sim’s approach to the character is its palpable vulnerability. To put it bluntly, this Scrooge is a sad man who hides his pain behind a hostile front. The most heartbreaking moment in the film is when the aged Scrooge realizes he ran out on his dying sister right before he could listen to her request that he take care of her newborn son. Scrooge’s body trembles with waves of regret and self-loathing. He sees firsthand just how hardened he became, even towards the one person who loved him most.

Fan’s early death and the absorption of Fezziwig’s company leave indelible wounds on Scrooge’s psyche. These avatars of love and warmth being utterly destroyed, Scrooge is left with the conclusion that money will be the sole means of protecting himself from pain. The young Scrooge’s line to Jacob Marley during their first meeting is telling:

“I think the world is becoming a very hard and cruel place, Mr. Marley. One must steel oneself to survive it and not be crushed under with the weak and the infirm.”

On that note, few other versions make Scrooge’s subsequent rejection of his fiancée (here renamed Alice) more credible than here. Contemptuous of weakness and poverty, his once-beloved Alice holds little allure for a man obsessed with “gain.”

Sim’s Scrooge also boasts a wonderfully credible transformation. This isn’t a case of some mean old man being scared into reformation through hellfire—this Scrooge is a man on the verge of total despair. It’s not that he just does not want to change: he also believes it’s too late. He’s already immured himself in the deceased Marley’s miserable, dilapidated house (a set which eerily resembles the Bates house from Psycho… or is it just me that thinks that?), treating himself with no more kindness than anyone else. Scrooge’s inner gloom is also reflected in the shadowy, filthy Victorian London sets, lit very much like any hard-nosed noir of the period.

And then Dr. Pretorious himself shows up.

Contemporary reviewers slammed the movie for its darkness, but this willingness to show emotional trauma, poverty, and despair only heightens the story’s moments of compassion and joy. They are no longer taken for granted. It is hard to do good in a seemingly unjust and hopeless world. It is hard to face the day— even Christmas Day— with a heart weighed down by grief and resentment. And yet, when we see the weary but good-hearted Alice comforting the poor at a shelter or the put-upon Cratchits making the best of their meager holiday feast, these moments hit the viewer that much harder because we understand their greater significance. These people have been beaten down by life. By all means, they should be as bitter as Scrooge and yet they choose compassion over self-isolation.

This too is why Scrooge’s awakening on Christmas morning gets me in the Sim version the way no other adaptation does. He’s EARNED it. His giddiness is palpable after so much inner struggle and reflection. I’ve got about every frame and line from this movie committed to memory, and yet this scene never fails to lift my spirits and make me smile like an eggnog-addled fool. It’s truly the perfect finale to a movie I would consider as close to perfect as movies can get.

Bernard Herrmann blogathon: On Dangerous Ground (1951)

This post is for the Bernard Herrmann blogathon hosted by the Classic Movie Muse. Check out the listings for more Herrmann-related material. The blogathan lasts from October 29th to October 31st.

Image source: Wikipedia.

On Dangerous Ground had a famously muddled production and has enjoyed an equally muddled critical afterlife. Director Nicholas Ray considered the movie a failure and producer John Houseman found it “sort of a mess… but awfully good.” Now that the passage of time elevated this once minor work to cult status, generations of critics and movie geeks have argued its merits. Is the story structure, severing the film into two tonally disparate halves, merely uneven or is it bold? Do the romantic elements complement the gritty noir elements or do they declare open war upon them?

The movie starts like any typical noir. Jim Wilson is a big-city cop who’s been hardened by constant exposure to corruption and criminality. His ordinary world encompasses darkened alleys and shabby apartments populated by every kind of scumbag. Not above beating the hell out of suspects to get confessions, Jim is too much even for the police force. His captain opts to send Jim to the snow-covered countryside where there’s a murderer on the loose, hoping the assignment will cool Jim off literally and metaphorically.

Depending on your perspective, this is either where the movie loses its way or gets interesting. Jim encounters a reflection of his own anger in the victim’s father, who swears bloody vengeance on the killer. During the search, he also comes across the lonely Mary Malden, a sensitive young blind woman who knows the killer’s whereabouts but is not willing to reveal him. It turns out Mary is the killer’s sister and she’s hoping he’ll agree to be hospitalized for his mental illness rather than continue to run from the law.

Image source: The Signal Watch.

On Dangerous Ground is definitely a film of two halves. While most people prefer the gritty urban fare in the beginning, I take more to the latter section. The desolate beauty of the wintry countryside sets the film apart from your typical city-bound noir, createing an atmosphere both dreadful and romantic. The black-and-white visuals make the sense of cold palpable, especially when the film goes inside Mary’s cabin, dominated by deep shadows and the intense white fire of the hearth.

What stands out the most in the story is the fragile relationship between Jim and Mary. Ryan and Lupino could both channel hardboiled toughness and soulful yearning, making them an ideal screen pairing. Their characters are desperately, even ontologically lonely people, lending a desperate quality to their budding romance. Not everyone likes this part of the script, feeling any love that doesn’t end in disillusionment or death has no place in noir. However, I think there’s room in film noir for movies that show some glimmer of hope in an otherwise corrupt world. Murder, My Sweet has a similarly romantic subplot between Philip Marlowe and a fresh-faced ingenue, and no one ever contests its noir status.

“The Death Hunt”

The one element of the film everyone agrees upon is the quality of Bernard Herrmann’s score. For his part, Herrmann liked the movie and claimed he was “very partial to it” in a 1971 interview. Herrmann’s score brings together the contrasting elements of menace and romance in a chocolate/peanut butter style combination. This contrast is especially clear in two pieces from the score: “Death Hunt,” an intense, brassy composition which plays while the men are pursuing the killer, and the gentle, romantic theme associated with Mary. The gentler music is soulful and moving, perfectly complimenting the central romance and the quiet, desperate yearnings of both lovers.

The suite

Whether you see On Dangerous Ground as a truncated curiosity or an underrated gem, there’s no denying the power of the film’s many parts. Herrmann’s contribution might just be the glue that holds everything together.


A Heart at Fire’s Center: The Life and Music of Bernard Herrmann by Steven C. Smith

“If you thought you knew what terror was,” or that time Tarantino was a Broadway star

Poster advertisement for the ill-fated 1998 Wait Until Dark. Image source: Pinterest.

The inevitable reaction to learning Quentin Tarantino once graced the Broadway stage is a hearty, “The hell?,” probably followed by a potpourri of more colorful expletives if you’re feeling especially Tarantinoesque. But it’s true: for a few months in 1998, Tarantino was the star attraction of a revival of Wait Until Dark, a 1960s home invasion thriller penned by Frederick Knott of Dial M for Murder fame.

For those aware of this pop culture anomaly but who did not see it live, it is an event shrouded in a thick fog of mystery. Press photos show Tarantino dressed in grunge fashion and snarling beneath unkempt hair. Ads for the show promised audiences a night of unmitigated terror. If the critics are to be believed, what they got instead was unintentional hilarity.

Let me just sample a few of the revival’s notoriously bad reviews for you—or rather, Tarantino’s bad reviews:

New York Amsterdam News: “Tarantino as the cold-blooded, mean killer was hilarious. He couldn’t scare a fly. In fact, when he spoke dramatic, threatening lines, the audience responded with laughter.”

New York Daily News: “As a movie director Tarantino may be the new Alfred Hitchcock, but as a stage actor he is the new Ed Wood. He has the vocal modulation of a railway station announcer, the expressive power of a fence post and the charisma of a week-old head of lettuce.”

The New York Times: “Mr. Tarantino seems menacing to nothing except possibly [the] script. Whether raising his voice in deranged fury or softly promising to commit unspeakable tortures, he registers at best as merely petulant, like a suburban teenager who has been denied the use of his father’s Lexus for the night.”

Totally unrelated image of Rick Dalton putting the burn on someone. Image source: Slash Film.

But for me, there’s more interest in this revival than mere celebrity schadenfreude. The more you research it, the more questions begin to emerge. Like in the first place, why was a 32-year-old thriller revived on Broadway in an era where stage thrillers were unfashionable? Did Tarantino seek out the producers or did the producers seek out Tarantino? Was Tarantino put to poor advantage by dated material or was a classic play sabotaged by Tarantino’s presence? And what was so bad about the experience that none of the cast and crew want to discuss it even years later?


Lee Remick was the terrorized lead during Wait Until Dark‘s original Broadway run. Image source: New York Public Library Digital Collections.

The history of the 1998 Wait Until Dark starts with a revival of another Frederick Knott play. A new production of Dial M for Murder starring Roddy McDowall and Nancy Allen toured the United States during the 1995-1996 season. While critics were concerned those rascally boomers and Gen X-ers would find the show too talk-heavy and quaint (one review mentions an audience member standing up during intermission to shout, “Who cares?!”), it was enough of a modest success for the octogenarian Knott to ask the show’s producer Robert Young if he would help him bring another work of his back to the Broadway stage after 32 years: Wait Until Dark.

Knott’s second-biggest hit, Wait Until Dark is about a drug deal gone wrong. After a plane ride from Canada, Greenwich Village photographer Sam Hendrix is handed a child’s doll by a mysterious woman named Lisa. She claims she will pick it up from him at a later time. Turns out the doll is packed with heroin and Lisa is a drug mule hoping to wheedle her partners-in-crime out of the profits. Unfortunately, Sam claims to have mislaid the doll in his apartment when she asks for it back. Now three criminals connected to Lisa have targeted the Hendrix domicile, intent on procuring the heroin.

The leader, a suave psychopath who calls himself Harry Roat Jr., devises an elaborate plan to get the drugs back without violence: luring the husband away with a phony assignment, the men will pull a con on Sam’s blind wife Susy to terrorize her to giving them the doll without knowing its true contents. Little do they know that Susy has no idea where the doll is either—or that her other senses are sharp enough to sniff out their games. By the time the jig is up, it becomes clear the conflict will end in violence, famously climaxing with Susy fending off the homicidal Roat by smashing all the light sources in the apartment. Their showdown, one of the most celebrated sequences in thriller history, literally left audiences screaming in the aisles.

A press photo for the 1967 film adaptation starring Audrey Hepburn and Alan Arkin. Image source: Cinephilia and Beyond.

Running for 373 performances, Wait Until Dark was the sleeper hit of 1966 with Lee Remick and Robert Duvall heading the show, and it would be even more successful on the West End with Honor Blackman, where it ran for almost two years. A film version starring Audrey Hepburn and Alan Arkin swiftly followed in 1967, raking in over five times its budget. While the critics complained about plot holes and the middle section being convoluted, ticket sales revealed the property was critic-proof.

Regardless of this previous success, bringing the show back to Broadway was risky. Stage thrillers were common enough between the 1920s and the 1950s with hits like The Bat and Night Must Fall, but their presence began to wane in the 1960s and 1970s. Ira Levin’s satirical Deathtrap was the genre’s last hurrah, both homaging and deconstructing the old thriller masters like Knott. However, even if thrillers were not common on 1990s Broadway, regional theaters were another matter. To this day, Wait Until Dark is a staple of community theater with its single set, cat-and-mouse games, and famous showdown in absolute darkness. The 1967 film is a classic in its own right, benefiting from marvelous performances and tight direction. With all that in mind, why shouldn’t a Broadway revival have had a decent shot at success?

Gathering the cast and crew

The main cast clockwise from the top: Quentin Tarantino, Marisa Tomei, Stephen Lang, and Juan Carlos Hernandez. Image source: Playbill.

Considering Knott had not written a play since the 1960s, I was surprised to find he was so involved in the revival, to the point where he modified his own script. There is no copy of this revised script available anywhere, so I had to comb through reviews to find out what he changed. The most significant addition is a brand-new prologue in which Lisa (a character kept off-stage in the original play) desperately searches the half-lit apartment for the doll. The scene ends with the lights going out and the audience hearing her scream before being murdered by Roat. Despite this added scene, the running time was shorter than the original by about 20-30 minutes, in part because the intermission was snipped. Finally, the setting was changed from Greenwich Village in the 1960s to the Lower East Side in the present day.

Leonard Foglia was hired as director. He’d recent success with Master Class and a pre-existing attachment to Wait Until Dark, which had been his senior thesis when getting a theater degree. Feeling that earlier production was lousy, Foglia wished to redeem himself with the revival. His direction would incorporate cinematic touches, such as scene transitions that emulated jump cuts with clicking noises and flashing lights.

Marisa Tomei was cast in the lead and received the best critical notices of the entire cast. Image source: Playbill.

Of course, there was no getting a 32-year-old show produced without celebrity wattage to draw audiences. Dial M benefitted from Roddy McDowall and Nancy Allen’s combined presence, so Wait Until Dark would have to procure similar star power, a feat easier said than done. In an interview with Indianapolis Monthly magazine, Young and fellow producer Allen Lichtenstein bemoaned the difficulty of getting movie stars to commit to weeks-spanning Broadway runs. While most celebs liked the idea of having a Broadway show on their resume, few were willing to pass up more lucrative movie deals in exchange.

Though Jennifer Jason Leigh was originally cast as Susy Hendrix in late 1997, she backed out by the new year, leaving it open for Marisa Tomei, then most known for her award-winning turn in My Cousin Vinny. No doubt for the producers, she represented the best of both worlds, bringing both movie star allure and a decent amount of stage experience with her. The two subordinate criminals were played by Stephen Lang and Juan Carlos Hernandez. Long before committing himself to Avatar‘s proposed 999 sequels and playing a (very, very different) blind character himself in Don’t Breathe, Lang racked up stage credits throughout the 80s and 90s, even playing Hamlet in 1992. Hernandez brought plenty of stage experience as well, though Wait Until Dark proved to be his only Broadway engagement. Rounding out the main cast was Imani Parks as Susy’s bratty kid neighbor Gloria, her previous stage experience including a revival of Show Boat and The Lion King musical.

Of course, the most memorable casting choice was for the chief villain… though memorable for all the wrong reasons.

Enter Tarantino

Tarantino’s biggest acting role before Broadway: the homicidal rapist Ritchie Gecko in From Dusk Till Dawn. Image source: The Spool.

If one director encompasses the attitude of the 1990s, I can think of no one more appropriate than Tarantino. The one-two punch of Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction made Tarantino the new Orson Welles. Adored and despised, Tarantino represented the zeitgeist: irreverent, brutal, and ironic. His sharp features and six-foot-one height made him imposing on sight, perfect for a heavy. With all that in mind, casting a young celebrity du jour famous for his violent movies as your knife-wielding, bloodthirsty villain makes perfect sense if you’re the one managing the money.

For his part, Tarantino was excited to take the role. Not content with just writing and directing, he wanted to be a triple threat by adding acting to his accomplishments. He’d done small parts in his own movies and even played a raping, killing nutjob opposite George Clooney in 1996’s From Dusk Till Dawn, but he craved more. Proud of his work in From Dusk Till Dawn and feeling his thespian skills went unappreciated, the chance to play an even bigger part on Broadway proved too great a temptation to resist. It was a wish come true… perhaps come true while he had a monkey’s paw in his pocket.

Tarantino’s limited stage experience (and by limited experience, I mean he did some community theater in his teens) does not seem to have worried anyone. He was a big name, he was willing to put other projects on hold to commit to the production, and he was not required to carry the show since Roat only appears sporadically between the first scene and the climactic showdown. Tomei and Lang were the ones with the lion’s share of the script, so Tarantino could rest easy and just look threatening when his time came to stalk on-stage. Hopes were certainly high, as the show made three million dollars in advance ticket sales alone.

The show

An animated Quentin Tarantino blackmails Stephen Lang. Image source: Playbill Vault .

The revival’s first night before an audience was at the Wilbur Theater in Boston on March 5, 1998. Tickets were a hot item with many eager to see Tarantino and Tomei in the flesh. After 11 previews, the show finally opened on April 5 at Broadway’s Brooks Atkinson Theater, where it played for the remainder of its run.

Critical reaction was almost universally negative, as everyone knows. Consistently, Tomei and the set design tended to receive the most praise: Tomei was sympathetic and convincing, and the rotating set was meticulously designed to go down a bit into the audience, involving them more in the action. Parks merited a few good notices and Hernandez was deemed competent, but no one else proved so lucky. Lang was dismissed as a bore. Foglia’s direction was accused of being too rushed, disrupting the slow simmering of suspense.

Being the most high-profile member of the cast, Tarantino naturally received the most vitriol. Tarantino was deeply hurt by the reviews, his legendary confidence sustaining blow after blow with each nasty word put down in black and white as he mentioned in an interview with Variety: “I tried not to take it personally, but it was personal. It was not about the play—it was about me, and at a certain point I started getting too thin a skin about the constant criticism. It started getting to me. It’s fucked up when people make fun of you.”

Tarantino did get one thing wrong there: in some of the critical notices, there was quite a lot of complaining about the play. Barring only Tarantino, Knott’s writing received the most scorn. While Wait Until Dark was criticized as contrived when it first premiered, the passage of time added another adjective to the critics’ arsenal: dated. Characterized as slow and musty, many critics argued the show was past its expiration date. The New York Times reviewer Ben Brantley’s words about the play best reflect the general sentiment: “today [the play] comes across as a tediously contrived wind-up toy that yells ‘Boo!’ just before it runs down.”

The Brooks Atkinson Theatre during the revival’s run. Image source: Pinterest.

Audience reaction was more mixed. The 2018 Adam White article on the revival samples both positive and negative comments from normal theatergoers. One spectator called the production “weird and excruciating,” while another was spellbound by the sound design and Tomei’s performance. Going through this Broadway forum thread on the topic is much the same. Some claimed the play was the scariest experience they ever had in the theater, vividly recalling thousands of audience members screaming in unison during the play’s famous jump scare, while others claimed there was laughter throughout and that the revival came off as a slapdash effort.

Bad reviews or not, the show did maintain good attendance for a time, buoyed by Tarantino’s presence. Unfortunately, other issues plagued the run, such as Tarantino getting arrested after hitting a photographer. There were rumors that Michael Richards of Seinfeld fame might take over Tarantino’s role come June, either because Tarantino wasn’t interested in continuing the show or because the producers thought that Tarantino was just that awful depending upon the source. This recasting never happened because the show did not last long enough. It closed after 97 performances and was swiftly forgotten as though it were a bad dream.

Aftermath—What went wrong?

It’s easy to blame everything on Tarantino, but many poor decisions were made in trying to revive this play for a 1990s audience. Obviously, I cannot say for sure whether or not the revival was bad as I was too busy playing with Rugrats toys back in 1998. No recording of the production exists either, so all I have to go on are the reviews and recollections of theater goers. Even so, I still have my theory as to why this revival failed. My hypothesis comes down to two factors.

1. Tarantino was miscast—or at the very least, he was not experienced enough to do the role justice.

Image source: Playbill.

Now obviously, I cannot judge the performance properly as I did not see it. That being said, given my exposure to Tarantino’s movie roles, I can easily imagine him struggling with Knott’s verbose dialogue (decidedly void of his beloved f-bomb or any curse words for that matter) and substituting loud-mouthed swagger for chilling menace. An actor playing Roat has the challenge of combining genuine threat with humor and reptilian charm. Perhaps Tarantino was not experienced enough to go beyond one of those notes at a time.

Still, I have to take the critics with a grain of salt because there is a common willingness to get nasty in these “professional” reviews, almost as though they just wanted a chance to dump on a famous person they didn’t like. Tarantino was then, as he is now, a controversial figure. Not everyone enjoyed the hyper-violent style of his films or his brash, arrogant manner off-screen. Take this unwarranted comment on Tarantino’s weight from the Entertainment Weekly review: “Tarantino, out of his overcoat, appears to have prepared for this role primarily by hitting the dessert cart. If only his acting were half as substantial.”

Of course, not everyone hated Tarantino’s performance either. Ain’t It Cool News found Tarantino “deliciously evil.” A staff reporter for the MIT newspaper claimed Tarantino and the show as a whole were not as bad as the media had them out to be in what might be the revival’s most positive notice:

“[Tarantino’s] character was quite believable: well suited to Quentin’s pre-existing image, yet different enough so that you knew it wasn’t just him being himself. His best moments were during the blackout scene towards the end, where he and Tomei exchange dialogue in the dark. Their interplay was quite natural, and helped bring the show over the top.”

I’ll conclude this section with a comment from actor David Carradine, who Tarantino asked point blank about his chances on Broadway years after the revival closed. Carradine is reserved but thoughtful on the matter:

“I think your experiment came too soon, and you used too much of your clout to get the part. […] You …understand violent people. What’s inside them. I think, while you were suffering on Broadway, you might have forgotten that that guy you were playing, at least one of him anyway, was such a person. You seemed to be apologizing for him.”

2. Putting “the chief avatar of the desensitized 90s” into an old-fashioned thriller was not the best idea.

I will admit my bias: I like this play and don’t agree with the critics’ harsh assessment of it. When done right, Wait Until Dark is a buffet of dramatic irony. The audience holds the most information, privy to the full truth of the situation whereas the characters only know different bits of the big picture. The fun comes in seeing how the blind woman and the criminals try to deceive one another. The men prey on Susy’s insecurities while Susy eventually preys on their arrogant underestimation of her competence.

That being said, the play is not perfect. The first act is quite slow and the charade plot can be confusing if you aren’t already familiar with the story. And, yes, there is one big plot glitch. These issues perturbed critics in the 1960s—it isn’t a shock that it would only get more ire from sophisticated NYC critics decades later, though ideally presented, it might have proven itself a crowd-pleaser.

A still from the Geffen Playhouse’s 2013 production of Jeffrey Hatcher’s new take on the play. The 2013 rewrite moves the story to WWII but does an admirable job adapting the story for modern tastes by improving the pacing and embracing its old-school charms. Image source: Geffen Playhouse.

And then there’s the problem of trying to update the story to the late 90s. Obviously, when Wait Until Dark debuted, it was presented with a contemporary setting. While it wasn’t uncommon for subsequent productions to keep it in the then-present, even by the 1970s some directors chose to make the play a period piece due to its sheer 60s-ness. The more successful 2003 London revival went all-out with groovy Swinging Sixties atmosphere and the 2013 Jeffrey Hatcher re-adaptation moves the story even farther back to the thick of World War II. Ironically, the Hatcher version does a great job modernizing the story by embracing the old-fashioned elements while also giving the play snappier pacing (and filling in some of the aforementioned plot holes).

The kind of deal audiences expect when Tarantino is involved.

Young joked that had Tarantino written Wait Until Dark, the play would be over in seconds because his Roat would just shove a gun in Susy’s mouth and demand the doll. While this was said in jest, it actually foreshadows a serious problem regarding audience expectations. When putting Quentin Tarantino, master of ultraviolent, postmodern cinema as a drug-dealing psychopath in your play, audiences drawn to the production by his presence alone likely had a certain idea of what to expect… and it wasn’t an old-fashioned mystery-thriller with only two on-stage killings.

The anonymous writer for the Harvard Crimson put it the best when s/he said:

“…Wait Until Dark is a period piece, a clever, understand brew of Hitchcockian suspense and late-’60s proto feminism. It hearkens back to the good old days, when drug dealers carried knives, not guns, and when West Side Story was still considered gritty.

Suddenly, in walks the chief avatar of the desensitized ’90s and POOF! the spell is broken. On press night, when Tarantino opened a closet door to reveal the body of one of his victims, some people actually laughed. And can you blame them? I mean, this is Quentin Tarantino! They were probably expecting him to kill her on-stage and toss off a twisted one-liner before her body hit the floor. They were probably expecting him to actually shoot heroin, not just talk about it.”

Exactly. If anything, the combination of Knott’s old school style and the hip 90s aesthetics probably just felt like a theatrical version of the “Hello fellow kids” meme.

Lights out

Al Hirschfeld’s caricature of the cast. Image source: Al Hirschfeld Foundation.

The best that can be said of the revival is that it did not permanently hurt anyone’s career. After the show closed, Tarantino began writing the script that would one day be Inglorious Basterds. Lang and Hernandez never returned to Broadway, but Lang’s seen plenty of cinematic success and Hernandez has recently appeared in shows like Tell Hector I Miss Him and Thunderbodies. Tomei and Foglia’s stage careers bounced back, and Parks went on to become a prolific audiobook narrator. About the only sour note is that this revival marked Knott’s last real involvement with the theater, a dismal note on which to end a largely successful playwriting career.

It’s easy for us with the benefit of hindsight to mock this revival’s creative decisions, but as cynical as most get about the motives of producers, you have to remember these people were not out to make a flop. Considering they thought an extended run was a major possibility, I’m going to surmise this revival was not intended to be a hit-and-run exploitation of a celebrity-mad public (at least, not exclusively an exploitation of a celebrity-mad public), but an honest attempt at a solid, crowd-pleasing potboiler. People forget how often great entertainment comes with an element of risk. Still, the unfortunate truth about risks is that they don’t always pay off. This revival is a textbook example.

I’ve got to give Tarantino this, he hasn’t let failure scare him away from future risk-taking. After The Hateful Eight premiered in 2015, Tarantino expressed interest in adapting the film for the Broadway stage and even said that he wanted to try directing plays once he bows out from filmmaking. After researching the Wait Until Dark saga of misery, I hope he does it. It would be nice to see him try again, the critics be damned.


Down and Dirty Pictures: Miramax, Sundance, and the Rise of Independent Film by Peter Biskind

The Kill Bill Diary by David Carradine

Quentin Tarantino FAQ: Everything to Know About the Original Reservoir Dog by Dale Sherman

Quentin Tarantino: Interviews, Revised and Updated edited by Gerald Peary

“Tarantino misses his Q” by Jack Kroll for Newsweek

“Wait Until Dark is No Thriller” by Linda Armstrong for New York Amsterdam News

What Is The Greatest Silent Film?

I don’t usually like “what is the greatest X” questions, but this article is a fun discussion of what might be the silent film most representative of the medium’s strengths. (For my money, it’s either The General or The Passion of Joan of Arc, but we each have our own pick.)


This is my own post in honor of the Silent Movie Day Blogathon. Hope you enjoy!

When it comes to talking about great movies (in the Roger Ebert sense of the word), I’ve always loved making and sharing lists: top tens, top fives, your “essential threes”–they always seems to prompt interesting discussions. Face it, you’re asked to list what you think are the Top 10 Best Movies Ever Made and it’s hard to resist, isn’t it? Even the top film critics and directors in the world famously contribute to Sight & Sound‘s “Top 10 Greatest Films” lists once every decade. It’s enlightening to see how certain films will fall a bit out of favor while others remain universally praised–often for generations.

The greatest films of all time- a list compiled from multiple sources –  OWEN TEMPLE
Image credit: Owen Temple

But your average carefully-compiled lists, hard as they can be to put together, are one thing. Trickiest of all is picking a…

View original post 1,089 more words

Silent Movie Day blogathon: The greatest hits of 1921

This post is part of the Silent Movie Day blogathon hosted by Silentology and In the Good Old Days of Classic Hollywood. Today is National Silent Movie Day, a great chance to celebrate early film history! Check out the roster on their blogs to indulge in more silent movie themed goodness!

For this blogathon, I originally considered covering a single film; however, I wanted to do something a bit different from my usual reviews. I got to thinking about box office and what audiences were eating up one-hundred years ago.

The top-grossers of 1921 are largely escapist in nature: an idyllic Victorian past, the glittering mansions of high society, the burning sands of an Arabian desert. And yet, these big hits also contain elements of the zeitgeist, such as the lingering aftershock of World War One and the changing roles of women in society. By this time, Hollywood was also taking its place as the moviemaking center of the world, entering its decades-spanning classic period.

Fun stuff. Let’s get to it!

NOTE: I based my top-grossing films list on the data collected for the “1921 in film” Wikipedia article; however, not being one to take Wikipedia at its word, I went and did my own research, looking up box office numbers in a variety of silent film history books and such. The farther back in time you go, the harder it is to get EXACT box office numbers for any movie, so keep in mind that this list is probably more approximate than exact. I’ve concluded each section with a list of references in case you want to know where I pulled the information from.


Release date: September 15, 1921
Box office (est.): 900,000 – 1.1 million

Summary: Young Cedric Errol and his mother “Dearest” live a content existence in 1880s New York City. One day, they receive a message  from Cedric’s estranged English grandfather: Cedric is to inherit the family title and must come to England to be trained for the aristocratic life. While Dearest is despised by her father-in-law as a suspected gold digger, Cedric’s precociousness is able to penetrate into the old man’s cold heart.

Doesn’t the very title Little Lord Fauntleroy put you on edge? It’s a triumvirate of words destined to make your teeth rot with Victorian sentimentality! A bit unfairly, I’d say—the book is cleverer than you’d expect with its themes of class conflict and culture shock. The ringlet-laden Fauntleroy (called Cedric Errol in the novel) might be precocious and pure, but his character is presented with a disarming humor that makes the book go down easily.

Of course, Victorian readers took less issue with sentimentality and pure-hearted child heroes than subsequent generations. According to the Polly Horvath introduction to the novel, Little Lord Fauntleroy was the Harry Potter of its era, popular on stage as well as on the page (fun bit of trivia: Buster Keaton got to don the curls when he was a child—he claimed to have enlivened his performances with “accidental” pratfalls). By the early 1920s, it attracted the attention of Mary Pickford, undoubtedly one of the most powerful individuals in Hollywood. Already associated with the child roles that continue to define her screen legacy to this day, “Little Mary” seemed an obvious choice to headline a movie production, even though she was pushing thirty.

No one seems to agree whether or not she fits the part. In 1921, the performance earned nothing but raves from critics and the public. Later in life, Pickford regretted doing it, even going as far as to say no woman should ever essay a male role for realism’s sake. Her stepson Douglas Fairbanks Jr. felt it was her best role, while biographer Eileen Whitfield was unimpressed. Me? If you can buy Betty Bronson or Mary Martin as Peter Pan, then suspending enough disbelief to accept Pickford as a young boy is no biggie. She also has the benefit of forced perspective and camera trickery to complete the illusion that she’s much smaller than the adult characters, including herself as Dearest, Cedric’s long-suffering mother.

As in Stella Maris, one gets the sense that the Cedric-Dearest dual role allowed Pickford to partially break free from the demands of her public, who loved seeing her play children. Pickford could successfully play a great variety of characters and often played young women in her 1910s work, but she was at heart an astute businesswoman with a deep desire to please her public and so she would continue to take on child roles well into the 1920s.

But what about the film itself? Of the 1921 top-grossers, I confess I enjoyed this one the least even though it is a charming enough piece of work. Pickford is good in both roles. The sets are big and lavish. The direction is competent. The book is faithfully adapted, the only additions being some slapstick business and a more action-packed climax (Cedric gets into a round of fisticuffs with the kid imposter out to seize his title). Pickford biographer Scott Eyman claims one can see the influence of Pickford’s husband Douglas Fairbanks all over the film. Just as Fairbanks became more enamored of grand historical settings and spectacle in his own work, Pickford inserted that same grand scale into her own productions.

Little Lord Fauntleroy is an ideal example of a star vehicle, taking a hot property and tailoring it to the popular persona of its lead player. However, I find it mid-tier Pickford, a bit too stately to be as engaging as her other popular films like Little Annie Rooney or The Poor Little Rich Girl.


Mary Pickford: America’s Sweetheart by Scott Eyman

Mary Pickford Rediscovered by Kevin Brownlow

Pickford: The Woman Who Made Hollywood by Eileen Whitfield

Polly Havroth’s foreword for Little Lord Fauntleroy (2004 Simon and Schuester edition)


Release date: December 28, 1921
Box office (est.): 1 million


In eighteenth-century France, adopted sisters Henriette and Louise (Lillian and Dorothy Gish) are drawn to Paris in the wake of a plague that has left the latter blinded. They hope to find a famous oculist—instead, Henriette is kidnapped by a lecherous aristocrat and the abandoned Louise is taken in by a family of beggar-thieves headed by the ruthless Mother Frochard (Lucille La Verne). After Henriette is rescued by the dashing Chevalier de Vaudrey (Joseph Schildkraut), she makes it her mission to find her sister in the thick of the bustling, dangerous city. If only there wasn’t a revolution brewing…

DW Griffith was always one to go big. The mammoth Intolerance grew from a single contemporary domestic story and the rural stage melodrama of Way Down East became a veritable epic under Griffith’s direction. When presented with the long-running theatrical chestnut The Two Orphans for his next project, Griffith had lost none of his preference for a large canvas.

The original play is set in pre-revolutionary France, following the titular orphans as they are torn apart by malicious outside forces. Griffith’s treatment moves the action to the beginnings of the French Revolution, throwing the likes of Georges Danton, Louis XVI, and Maximilien Robespierre into the mix. The orphaned sisters are prey to overwhelming historical forces, giving the story a more epic scope than originally intended. Retitled Orphans of the Storm, the movie also marks the end of an era for Griffith: depending on your perspective, it’s either his final great movie or the beginning of a creative slump.

Whatever one thinks, the film did mark the beginning of Griffith’s box office descent. The movie made quite a sum and proved popular with the critics, but the production was so expensive that it took a long time for Griffith to profit off it. At the very least, every penny is on the screen, from the recreations of eighteenth-century Paris to the massive crowd scenes. The costuming isn’t always faithful (as the delightful Frock Flicks blog puts it, many of the outfits are “The Great Gatsby Goes 18th Century”), but it’s never anything less than stunning.

Most would concede with William K. Everson that Orphans is more representative of “Griffith the Artist-Showman” than “Griffith the Artist-Innovator.” The revolutionary vigor that animates earlier Griffith epics isn’t present this time around and would come in only fits and starts throughout his 1920s work—but does that really matter? Here we have Griffith at the top of his game, mixing melodrama and suspense into a delicious concoction.

But even there, some would disagree. In his biography of Griffith, Richard Schickel argues the movie isn’t a true epic because it does not have a traditionally heroic lead character who engages with historical forces. Both the sisters and Henriette’s love interest are caught up in the revolution and ultimately need to be rescued by Danton, therefore the movie is dramatically unbalanced, granting more agency to a historical cameo than its leading figures. I initially agreed with Schickel’s assessment, even though I enjoy the movie far more than he does. However, perusing comments from Griffith scholar William Drew and The Hollywood Epic author Foster Hirsch made me reconsider my opinion.

Schickel’s problem is that he believes epic heroes are only like Beowulf or King Arthur, people who go out, fight, and shape history themselves. Because he takes that for granted, he calls Griffith’s epic a failure. However, both Drew and Hirrsch argue this is not the only model for an epic hero. They mark Henriette as a heroine in her own right, elevated not by heroic deeds but by heroic suffering—endurance in the face of her antagonists, which range from the selfish ancien regime to the overzealous revolutionaries.

Throughout history, most people are not grand movers and shakers. They are caught up in the “storms” of revolutions and epidemics and wars and witch hunts and other disasters, things which disrupt their modest lives. Henriette is no leader, warrior, or general, but she is a likeable individual we root for, someone who just wants a peaceful life with her loved ones. She cannot change the storm or even avoid it—she must endure it and survive.

Much has been made of Griffith’s bizarre attempts to link his film to then-contemporary problems. He compares the revolutionaries to bolshevists and then calls Danton “the Abraham Lincoln of France” in what might be the movie’s most baffling intertitle. As in Intolerance, Griffith isn’t so much interested in the exact details of history (even though historical research was very much part of his pre-production) as he is in expressing great moral themes with distant times as a backdrop. Just like in the earlier epic, all of humanity’s problems come down to people being unable to embrace Love and cast out Hatred.

And that brings us back to the original accusation that Orphans is just treading old ground. Orphans may not be Griffith’s masterpiece, but I’m with Lea Stans of Silentology on one point: we probably would rate it much better if it were earlier in the Griffith canon or maybe if a younger, greener director had helmed the production. As entertainment, it’s still stunning work, perhaps more accessible to silent film newbies than Griffith’s more critically-acclaimed epics. As for me, I’ve grown to like it the more I watch it.


DW Griffith: An American Life by Richard Schickel

“DW Griffith’s ‘Orphans of the Storm’” by William M. Drew

Frock Flicks review –

The Hollywood Epic by Foster Hirsch

Lea Stans’ review of Orphans

William K. Everson’s program notes –


Release date: September 21, 1921
Box office (est.): 1.1 million


Young, attractive, and wealthy married couple Vivian (Gloria Swanson) and Anatol De Witt Spencer (Wallace Reid) would appear to have everything, but their marriage is bordering troubled water. Vivian is obsessed with good clothes and a good time, while the fiercely romantic Anatol longs to indulge in heroic fantasy. He spies a potential damsel-in-distress in every woman he meets, first with the gold-digging flapper Emilie (Wanda Hawley) and then with Annie, a suicidal farmer’s wife (Agnes Ayres). Alienating his wife with his naïve “experiments,” Anatol comes close to losing her forever when he starts wondering if she’s gone onto greener pastures with one of his close friends (Elliott Dexter). Will both suspicions and an attempt at a fling with the notorious “Satan Synne” (Bebe Daniels) put an end to their marriage?

The movies—particularly Hollywood movies—have never been shy about indulging in lifestyle porn. Think of those beautifully gowned screwball socialites sipping martinis in Art Deco mansions or James Bond traveling through exotic locations in his smart suits. Cecil B. DeMille is perhaps the first filmmaker to really put lifestyle porn out there as a serious selling point, clothing his leading ladies in the latest fashions and placing his immaculately groomed sophisticate characters on ornate sets.

It’s easy to dismiss these movies as pointless fluff. Contemporary critics certainly did, saving particular ire for The Affairs of Anatol, a loose adaptation of Arthur Schnitzler’s 1893 play. Sidestepping the censors, DeMille cleaned up the titular hero’s behavior and lightened the play’s cynical tone. He apparently had no qualms doing so, not holding his source material in high regard and only filming the story at the request of Famous-Players head Jesse Lasky.

Schnitzler is hardly a household name nowadays. Most movie buffs only know him as the author of Dream Story, the source material for Stanley Kubrick’s Eyes Wide Shut, with which Affairs shares some key points. Both are about an affluent couple dissatisfied with their marriages, and both plots are episodic. One cannot help but see a kinship between Anatol’s jealousy-inspired attempt at adultery and the sexual insecurity which fuels Bill Harford’s surreal odyssey through 1990s New York. The DeMille movie lacks Kubrick’s cynicism and surrealism overall—Kubrick was less interested in the luxurious lifestyle of his anti-hero, whereas DeMille stresses it, to the point where the story almost seems swallowed by the fancy bathrooms, cars, and headgear.

But there is a great deal of intelligence and feeling beneath the glossy opulence. DeMille biographer Scott Eyman has gone to bat for the film, calling it an astute portrait of postwar ideas regarding women and consumerism. Swanson’s character represents the “new wife,” if you will: someone who is just as much a playmate as a helpmate within marriage. Traditionally, married women dedicated themselves to hearth and home; the new wife is allowed to enjoy herself, buying attractive clothes and going out to parties, without being demonized.

The relationship between Anatol and Vivian is most strained by a mismatch of expectations. Anatol’s romanticism is old-fashioned: he longs for a helpless damsel to rescue, the total opposite of his feisty modern-minded wife. The “damsels” in question only turn out to be opportunists: Emilie just wants jewelry and Annie needs to replenish the money she accidentally took from her community’s church funds. Ironically, when Anatol goes for a blatant femme fatale, the deliciously named “Satan Synne,” her wickedness turns out to be a pretense: she sells herself to support her husband, a war veteran still suffering from lingering injuries. Anatol’s “virginal innocent in peril” fantasy is punctured again and again by reality since he can never understand nor predict what’s going on with any of these women.

Actually, even the opportunistic women have softer sides: Emilie seems fond of her original sugar daddy, even accepting a marriage proposal from him once she’s done with Anatol, and the preacher’s wife wants to do right by her husband. In a story that could easily go into “good versus bad woman” territory, all of the women are rather complicated, never evil and sometimes even well-intentioned. When Anatol returns to Vivian and declines to really find out if she has been unfaithful to him, it’s a touching moment of trust and respect. The De Witt Spencers are able to resume their marriage on equal footing and free of illusions.

I have to go with Eyman: Affairs might glisten, but the gold isn’t only on the surface. Unlike some of DeMille’s other hit films, there’s a beating heart beneath the lifestyle porn. In a way, this is Hollywood entertainment at its best: simultaneously vicarious fantasy and emotionally involving.


Empire of Dreams: The Epic Life of Cecil B. DeMille by Scott Eyman


Release date: November 20, 1921
Box office (est.): 1.5 million


Lady Diana Mayo (Agnes Ayres) is a “madcap” English aristocrat who insists marriage is captivity, rejecting suitors and venturing out into Middle Eastern deserts without a chaperone. Unfortunately for her, her blonde beauty attracts the attention of Sheik Ahmed Ben Hassan (Rudolph Valentino). Carried away by hormones, Ahmed kidnaps Diana and holds her captive in his tent, hoping to make a conquest of her. But the proud Diana won’t budge, even when she starts developing feelings for her wily kidnapper. Will these crazy kids ever find love?

The Sheik was pretty much a guaranteed profit. The 1919 novel of the same name was a smash, titillating and scandalizing its massive readership in equal measure with its tale of a macho, glowering sheik kidnapping and ravishing a “liberated” modern Englishwoman. The question was how would Hollywood manage to adapt it without provoking the snip of censor shears.

I’m reminded of the ad campaign for Stanley Kubrick’s 1962 adaptation of Nabokov’s Lolita. Posters beckoned with the question, “How did they ever make a movie out of Lolita?” When the movie was finally released, critic Bowsley Crowther answered, “They didn’t.” The same applies to the movie version of The Sheik. The explicit (for the time) sex was all but cut from the script, keeping it extremely vague as to whether or not the central relationship involves any kind of hanky-panky. The domineering titular character (a charmer who says things like, “We teach our women obedience with the whip” or “Better me than my men”) is made into a rather affable fellow whose looks of lust are famously reaction-image worthy. No one on the set seems to have taken the project seriously: director George Melford went for a more theatrical style, staging scenes and directing the actors accordingly.

No one flocked to The Sheik because they wanted a masterpiece of cinema. As film historian Jeanine Basigner once said, they went to get “sexed up.” Women went crazy for Valentino, nostril flares and all. He represented the ultimate sadomasochistic fantasy, an uncompromising bad boy with no qualms taking what he wants. In an era where the sexual double standard was firmly in place, the Valentino phenomena fascinates—his image was clearly curated for a “female gaze.”

It can be easy to discredit Valentino as a performer. He’s often accused of being little more than a good-looking guy who knew how to pose attractively with a cigarette. However, as much as I enjoy making fun of this movie, I have to give Valentino his due—he’s honestly more at the mercy of the material and his director than anything. As Valentino lamented, “I was forced… to play this wild Arabian charmer as though he were an associate professor of the history of English literature at Oxford.” (I would say it’s more like Melford told Valentino to pretend he was a stoner with a rabid case of the munchies and that Ayres was a giant bag of potato chips, but I digress.) Regardless, a few scenes allow him to show off a more restrained acting style and easy grace, like the moment he takes pity on a weeping Diana and sends a servant to comfort her.

Even though Valentino was basically at least 50% the reason people bought their tickets, Paramount top-billed Agnes Ayres, who you might remember from The Affairs of Anatol. To put it bluntly, she was much better there. For a sharp-shootin’ daredevil madcap, Ayres’ Diana sure lacks fire. Combine that with her almost matronly looks and it can be hard to figure out just what’s driving Ahmed crazy about her. Maybe it’s because she held her own in that staring contest they had by the casino? I don’t know. As Howard the Duck once said, love is strange.

Love may be strange, but the box office results aren’t. Even if the critics complained that the book’s sexual frankness had been neutered, the audience didn’t care. A bowdlerized version of a bodice-ripper could still be shocking—in fact, the film was banned in Kansas City for being too smutty for local tastes.

Even if The Sheik is not the best silent film by a long shot, it’s goofy fun, a delight because of its unashamed silliness. And don’t congratulate us moderns for being more sophisticated—the Twilight movies were big hits and they often trend on Netflix. We still love hokum.


Dark Lover: The Life and Death of Rudolph Valentino by Emily Leider

Empire of Dreams: The Epic Life of Cecil B. DeMille by Scott Eyman

Silent Stars by Jeanine Basinger


Release date: August 28, 1921
Box office (est.): 1.5 million

Summary: In seventeenth-century France, young D’Artagnan (Douglas Fairbanks) seeks adventure as one of the king’s musketeers. Initial rejection does not deter him and he soon finds himself embroiled in court intrigue. The honor of the queen (Mary MacLaren) is at stake due to the machinations of the nefarious Cardinal Richelieu (Nigel De Brulier) and Milady de Winter (Barbara La Marr). Allying himself with musketeers Athos (Leon Barry), Porthos (George Siegmann), and Aramis (Eugene Pallette), D’Artagnan must reclaim the queen’s diamond brooch from her lover before the king (Adolphe Menjou) discovers the affair.

The 1920s would mark a shift in the career of Douglas Fairbanks. Previously a star of light comedies, in 1920 he fulfilled his ambition to create a swashbuckling adventure in the form of The Mark of Zorro. The film was a success, so naturally a follow-up was in order. Fairbanks had long adored Alexandre Dumas’ adventure classic, The Three Musketeers. For whatever reason, Hollywood producers felt the general public had no use for costume dramas. Fairbanks didn’t care. He was emboldened by Zorro’s profits and embarked on a Dumas adaptation, exhibitors’ anxieties be damned. He imported several alumni from Zorro to his new project, including director Fred Niblo and leading lady Marguertie de la Motte as D’Artagnan’s love interest Constance.

Needless to say, the movie was a hit, its New York City premiere a thing of legend. Patrons lined the streets hoping for a seat and a glimpse of both Fairbanks and Mary Pickford. The additional appearance of Charlie Chaplin only added more glamor to the event. Neither the two-dollar admission fee nor the dreaded “costume picture” label could keep the crowds away.

Though beloved in its day, this movie has gotten a tepid reputation over time. Silent film historian William K. Everson never failed to call it “turgid” whenever it was screened. It might also suffer from direct comparison with its 1929 sequel, The Iron Mask, which is a much slicker production. However, the lukewarm reputation baffles me—I find Fairbanks’ Three Musketeers one of his most satisfying movies. Like Zorro, it has a breeziness that keeps the grand historical elements from overwhelming the fun. Sure, it’s slow in places, but it moves along at a better pace than his more regarded costume movies like Robin Hood or The Thief of Bagdad, hitting a happy median between spectacle, story, and humor.

Fairbanks is also fantastic in his dream role, the high-spirited D’Artagnan. While it takes a while for him to appear on-screen, he is worth the wait. Some actors can handle being much older than the intended ages of their characters and Doug was so packed with joie de vivre himself that he is the ideal D’Artagnan. He so identified with the role that he kept the mustache he grew for it until the end of his life.

If I have any big problem with the movie, it’s that the other musketeers don’t leave much of an impact. George Siegmann and Eugene Palette are fantastic actors, and Leon Barry is no slouch in the part. However, they are denied any major developments, their individual personalities a bit sidelined in this adaptation. The same applies to Barbara La Marr, given precious little to do as Milady de Winter.

Luckily, the same cannot be said for the rest of the supporting cast. Adolphe Menjou is great as the frivolous but jealous Louis XIII, Mary MacLaren generates a great deal of sympathy for her adulterous Queen Anne, and Marguerite De La Motte is sweetly likeable as Constance (even if they take some of the bite out of her relationship with D’Artagnan by making her an unmarried ingenue rather than a married woman). But it is Nigel De Brulier who most stands out. His Richelieu is cold-blooded and intelligent yet not without a wry sense of humor. He is so fantastic in the part that he would return to the role three more times in The Iron Mask, the 1935 talkie version of The Three Musketeers, and the 1939 James Whale adaptation of The Man in the Iron Mask.

Overall, Fairbanks’ Three Musketeers avoids any pretense, which might be why some audiences avoided costume pictures. The film never tries to be “good for you” since it is wholly uninterested in actual history or Grand Weighty Themes. It’s a classic adventure story and a perfect vehicle for its star.


United artists: the company that built the stars by Tino Balio

The First King of Hollywood by Tracy Goessel

#2 – THE KID

Release date: January 21, 1921 (premiere), February 6, 1921 (general release)
Box office (est.): 2.5 million


When an unwed mother (Edna Purviance) abandons her child, the Tramp (Charlie Chaplin) reluctantly adopts the little tyke. Five years later, he and the Kid (Jackie Coogan) make a hand-to-mouth living repairing windows (after the Kid busts them first, of course), but outside forces threaten their bond. The boy’s mother, now a wealthy stage star, yearns for her lost child and the local social workers feel the Tramp is not a suitable father. Will the father-son pair be split up?

The Kid is representative of the biggest leap forward in Chaplin’s art by the early 1920s. Chaplin’s shorts had been dabbling with dramatic stakes for a while, most boldly in A Dog’s Life from 1918, but The Kid goes into pure tear jerker territory with its sentimental story of a tramp and an orphaned child almost torn apart by society’s meddling. The story definitely hit a chord with worldwide audiences (according to Chaplin biographer David Robinson, by 1924, only the Soviet Union, Yugoslavia, and Colombia had not screened the film). It sealed Chaplin’s reputation as one of the great geniuses of cinema and made Jackie Coogan a top-tier child star.

Chaplin never had a better screen partner than Jackie Coogan nor perhaps an actor as ideally suited to his direction. His directorial style was more about getting the other actors to mimic his conception of their roles than to let them loose with their own interpretations, and it seems he never found a better mimic than Coogan, who could replicate Chaplin’s movements down to the least detail. Something in Coogan struck Chaplin to the heart: he argued Coogan’s character embodied all the orphans created by the Great War, but it might be more apt to say he saw something of his child self in the little guy.

Along with Limelight, The Kid is Chaplin’s most autobiographical work. Most know the project was sparked by the loss of Chaplin’s first child, but one can also see echoes of his mother, the tragic Hannah Chaplin, in Edna Purviance’s unwed mother (though there is, admittedly, some poignant wish fulfillment in her fate as a successful actress—Hannah wanted to be a stage star but mental illness and a lack of support would interfere). The threatened workhouse sentence for the boy calls back to Chaplin’s own miserable childhood stint there. Even little details, like the attic apartment where the tramp and the kid live, is a reference to Chaplin’s living situation at 3 Pownall Terrace, where he slept under a slanted ceiling and hit his head when getting out of bed every morning.

The autobiographical elements are filtered through Dickensian whimsy and sentiment. The poverty and the child of the slums who does not know his true identity could have come right out of Oliver Twist. Still, there’s a fairy tale timelessness to the film’s setting: the setting is a blend of the Victorian world of Chaplin’s childhood and the sensibility of early 20th century America. This is a story that could conceivably take place anytime and anywhere, which might be why it has held up so well.

The Kid might not be Chaplin’s funniest movie, though it does have some earthy gags that scandalized critics at the time (particularly the potty humor—one can only imagine how they’d react to the abundant fart jokes in modern comedies). The bittersweet elements are more potent here than even in City Lights—the threat of separation and subsequent loneliness suffuses the film. Even the ending is ambiguous: mother and child may have reunited, but is there a place for the tramp in that equation? Overall, the film certainly lives up to the description in the opening title cards: “A picture with a laugh—and perhaps a tear.”


Chaplin: His Life and Art by David Robinson


Release date: March 6, 1921
Box office (est.): 4.5 million


In pre-war Argentina, powerful landowner Madriaga openly favors his French-descended grandson, the libertine Julio Desonyers (Rudolph Valentino) over the offspring of his German son-in-law. When Madriaga dies, halving his wealth between his two daughters, Julio’s family returns to France and his cousins go back to Germany. Julio spends time teaching socialites the tango and pursuing an affair with the unhappily married Marguerite (Alice Terry), but rumors of encroaching war begin to disrupt his fancy-free lifestyle.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse’s success is a classic underdog story. No one expected it to be the hit of the year when it debuted in 1921. While it was based on a blockbuster of a novel, conventional Hollywood wisdom dictated that the public was burned out on anything to do with the Great War. Not only that, but the movie didn’t even have guaranteed star power behind it—the hero was played by some Italian bit player with a name a mile long and the leading lady was hardly in the same league as a Norma Talmadge. And yet, this movie proved to be not only the biggest money-earner of 1921, but one of the most successful movies of the entire silent era and a true zeitgeist hit.

What made Four Horsemen such a success? At the time of release, critics compared it to The Birth of a Nation, only more modern in both style and subject matter. It was definitely sexier than Griffith’s movie, what with Valentino’s tango or the ardent way he handles his leading lady (in one decidedly pre-code moment, he actually cups her breast). Pictorially, Four Horsemen is gorgeous: director Rex Ingram was heavily influenced by painting and sculpture, and these instincts leaked into his compositions and lighting.

However, none of this is satisfactory in answering the question what made this blockbuster such a hit? Later Ingram films move more quickly and feature even more stunning imagery. Later Valentino films are sexier and more exciting. Later WWI movies are more nuanced in their treatment of the war. And yet few left as much of a cultural impact. Certainly, none made as much money.

The best answer I can muster is that Four Horsemen was made at the perfect time: the public was far away enough from the war to be willing to engage with it on-screen again and society was just shifting to the faster, looser Roaring Twenties, making Four Horsemen a natural step in the evolution of the Hollywood Epic, picking up where the more Edwardian Birth left off.

If a movie must have an “auteur,” then Four Horsemen has two: June Mathis and Rex Ingram. Ingram brought his artist’s eye to the film and Mathis was the executive producer in all but name. She played up the original story’s spiritual bent (the bearded mystic Tcherkoff gets more of a Christlike presence here) and made the decision to cast Valentino in the lead after being impressed by his brief but memorable role as a heartless gigolo in the 1919 Clara Kimball Young melodrama The Eyes of Youth.

You can’t discuss Four Horsemen without mentioning Valentino. His turn as Julio is often considered the best performance of his short career, the most dramatic and least encumbered by Hollywoodisms. Comparing his performance here to his coked-up antics in The Sheik is a revelation for those who think he was just a pretty face sans acting skills. Hell, comparing it to his performance in Eyes of Youth is interesting—there, his character is marked by bold sensuality and danger, traditional signs of 1910s Hollywood villainy. Julio shares these qualities, but he’s a diamond-in-the-rough. By the 1920s, the dangerous lover was a far more popular fantasy, outplacing the clean-cut screen heroes of the previous decade.

Julio’s introduction might be the most perfect example of a star-making moment I can name. Author KM Weiland often talks of what she calls “the characteristic moment,” a scene which introduces the protagonist in a strong, immediate way, showing the audience why we should bother investing in them emotionally. The tango scene is a perfect characteristic moment. We get the sense that Julio is a handsome libertine, a bit selfish and entitled but loyal enough to those he loves (he ditches his newly-won conquest when she mocks his aged grandfather). That he’s so likeable is a quality I attest to Valentino’s innate charisma—in the book, Julio comes off as far more callow and childish before his eventual redemption.

Being a war story, this redemption naturally comes via military service. Though the story takes place during WWI, Four Horsemen is quite unlike later treatments of that conflict. When WWI is brought up at all, people tend to see it as a tragic waste of life. Unlike its sequel, there are no definite “good guys” or “bad guys.” But perhaps that was still too new a viewpoint in 1921, because Four Horsemen paints the war in definite good versus evil terms: the French are noble and good, the Germans are goose-stepping authoritarians who must be stopped.

Even within the Madriaga family, the Germans are pure evil, presented with no moral greyness. When Julio comes face-to-face with a German cousin on the battlefield, the moment is no equivalent to that heartbreaking scene in All Quiet on the Western Front where Paul recognizes the humanity of the enemy in the French soldier he killed—the Germans are never allowed humanity, not even the slightest, which is why I have always been puzzled by Four Horsemen’s anti-war reputation.

I am not, however, puzzled by its popularity with audiences of the time. It feels in some ways like the Ultimate Hollywood Epic, big in the same way Ben-Hur and Gone with the Wind and hell, even the Infinity Stone saga of the Marvel Cinematic Universe are big. There’s family drama, forbidden love, attractive heroes and heroines, sweeping battles, world-shattering events, everything people still love about blockbuster movies. That it was so in tune with the zeitgeist also made it lightning in a bottle, as evidenced by the lesser reception to the film’s 1962 remake. The old adage once more proves true: you can only get lightning in a bottle once.


Dark Lover: The Life and Death of Rudolph Valentino by Emily Leider

Rex Ingram: Visionary Director of the Silent Screen by Ruth Barton

Whimsy and suspense in Buster Keaton’s Our Hospitality (warning – spoilers for 98 year old movie)

It’s intriguing how during the 1920s, Buster Keaton’s features tended to be seen as less dramatic than Chaplin’s. I recall one critic of the period claiming Keaton (and Harold Lloyd) “openly tickle” the audience while only Chaplin was interested in providing an emotional experience.

That sentiment is total nonsense when you think about Our Hospitality. Only Keaton’s second feature film, it represents a major evolution in his storytelling. Three Ages was episodic, essentially three shorts strung together. In contrast, Our Hospitality is a fully developed narrative with dramatic stakes that would not be out of place in a Hitchcock movie.

Strangely, it makes me think of Chaplin’s The Kid—not in terms of tone, as the two movies are nothing alike, but in terms of the way it blends comedy with other genres. The Kid features heavy melodrama that induces more tears than laughter for me. Our Hospitality keeps me on the edge of my seat from the sheer suspense.

This mood comes on strong from the first scene. For those who think Keaton is only a “tickler,” this opening can be shocking, since there is no humor in it at all, not even a twinkle of irony. During a stormy night, two men locked in a generations-spanning feud shoot one another dead. Their families grieve both their lost loved ones and the sad fact that these killings will only extend the vengeance into perpetuity.

Keaton’s plucky, modest persona isn’t a relief from the tension. It makes the audience fear more for his life when he’s cornered by the physically imposing, revenge-obsessed Canfield family. The feud is no laughing matter and the movie makes it clear that Buster isn’t going to be able to walk off a bullet in this storyverse. If he gets shot, he’s dead. Movie over.

It’s amazing how the movie juggles so many tones. It’s got humor and suspense, which as we’ve seen in other films often do go hand in hand, but there is also a gentle whimsy augmenting these elements. The prolonged train scene offers more than gags about how quaint and rural America used to be before mass industrialization—it also provides the sense that the refined Willie McKay is moving to unfamiliar territory where his guilelessness will be a liability.

In the end, love wins the day. Willie outwits his would-be killers (attacking them back seems to be only a last resort judging by that last gag), rescues the girl, and makes peace with the Canfields. In a great many stories, the hero has to beat up, kill, or even just humiliate the villain. I’m not saying that’s an unacceptable approach, but it is always refreshing to see a story where reconciliation is the answer. That might be why I go back to Our Hospitality so often. Its gentleness is all the more appealing in a landscape where so many film “comedies” rely on vulgarity and mean-spiritedness to entertain the audience.

“Dreams may come true, but so do nightmares.”

This. This is the long-form analysis of the Disney Pinocchio I have always wanted. Few people have ever appreciated the movie’s themes about the nature of good and evil at the heart of this film, maybe because most are too traumatized from childhood viewings to want to revisit it or maybe because– as always– people underestimate so-called “kid’s movies.”

As the three-part video argues, Pinocchio is undoubtedly the darkest work in the Disney canon. It has no contest, despite the superficial trappings of darkness in The Black Cauldron or Frollo’s homicidal horniness in The Hunchback of Notre Dame. After all, in those movies, the bad guy dies and the community is symbolically exorcised of his evil (even in the more serious-minded Hunchback, medieval Paris is suddenly tolerant of both the disfigured Quasimodo and racial “others” like Esmeralda)– you get no such comfort in Pinocchio, where at worst the villains are inconvenienced but hardly no longer a threat to society. This video also goes into why Pinocchio is more immediately frightening for children, who can understand the nature of the threats Pinocchio faces unlike in Hunchback, where the threats are more likely to click with teens and adults.

It makes me a bit sad that most American family entertainment isn’t willing to go so dark anymore. Sure, there are glimpses of it (Dr. Facilier getting literally dragged off to hell at the end of The Princess and the Frog comes to mind), but Pinocchio‘s darkness is almost all-encompassing, even ontological. The only thing that saves the movie from unpleasantness are its likable characters, humor, and that cathartic ending. Otherwise, it has a view of evil that wouldn’t be out of place in a 1970s New Hollywood movie.

Happy birthday, Frederick Knott!

Frederick Knott and Grace Kelly on the set of Hitchcock’s Dial M for Murder. I appreciate the pun on the back of Knott’s chair.

Playwright Frederick Knott was born 105 years ago today.

The son of Quaker missionaries, he had a distinguished resume by all accounts: he studied law and played tennis before serving in the British Army during World War II, attaining the rank of major by the time he left the service in 1946. But it is primarily for his theater work that Knott is remembered today, even if he did not write many plays.

Exposure to Gilbert and Sullivan’s comic operas instilled a fascination with the stage from a young age. The child Knott was so enamored with them that he staged his own versions in the family garden. Though he would make his name as a playwright, his first play would not be produced until he was in his thirties. Initially, he tried to make it as a screenwriter, most notably adapting material for horror legend Terence Fisher’s first Hammer project, The Last Page.

Knott’s breakout hit Dial M for Murder struggled to be realized—it was rejected repeatedly as having little box office potential. Frustrated, Knott managed to get the play produced for television by the BBC in 1952, where it made enough of a splash to garner the interest of the West End. The play would become an unexpected smash, quickly moving to Broadway and then attracting the attention of Hollywood. Alfred Hitchcock’s film version also proved a great success with Ray Milland and Grace Kelly headlining the project.

Dial M for Murder has been adapted for television multiple times over the years. The above image is from a 1958 production starring John Williams (who was also in Hitchcock’s famous version), Maurice Evans (a veteran of the Broadway production, and Rosemary Harris.

Like the later Columbo series, Dial M is less a “whodunit” than a “how will they be caught.” It follows the sociopathic and greedy Tony Wendice as he plots to have his unfaithful heiress wife murdered before she leaves him for her lover, taking her millions along. The plan is meticulous with seemingly no detail overlooked, but small errors during the execution make big problems and Tony has to improvise while his wife’s paramour (who just happens to be a crime fiction novelist) and a meddling detective wait in the wings.

From then on, Knott was most associated with thrilling potboilers, though he was hardly a prolific writer. There were years-long gaps between his plays: nine between Dial M and Write Me a Murder, and then five between Write and Wait Until Dark. In a sense, Knott became a victim of Dial M’s success: he expressed fears about getting into a “rut” by writing thriller after thriller, but his one attempt at dark comedy (Mr. Fox of Venice) failed to garner interest and so a master of twisty thrillers he has remained.

Knott’s two 1960s thrillers: Write Me a Murder and Wait Until Dark.

Write Me a Murder is an underrated piece of work following mystery authors David and Julie, a pair of illicit lovers who try to enact the perfect murder on the latter’s loathed husband. It had a respectable run, but would be overshadowed by Knott’s next and final play, Wait Until Dark, a sinister home invasion thriller. New York native Susy Hendrix is a blind woman targeted by a trio of cunning drug smugglers, their struggle culminating in a showdown that put both the characters and the audience in near-total darkness. Like Dial M, Wait Until Dark received a popular Hollywood adaptation, with Audrey Hepburn giving the final performance of her superstar heyday in the lead role.

Like Dial M, Wait Until Dark was enormously successful and has been revived often over the years, though never more infamously than the 1998 Broadway production with Quentin Tarantino as the villain. How I wish there was video of it.

Wait Until Dark’s success on stage and screen closed out Knott’s career. Though many an advance was thrown his way, Knott was content to coast off the continued success of his thrillers for the remaining decades of his life, even though he still had ideas for other stage work running through his brain. He would pass away in 2002 at the age of 86.

Knott has left an indelible impact, even if his name is only known to theater geeks and classic film buffs. His thrillers could almost be considered a trilogy on the myth of the perfect crime. All feature a criminal mastermind with a major case of hubris, his plans undermined by overlooked details and unexpected behavior from the potential victims.

Knott also had a good handle on witty dialogue and concise characterization. He had a particular talent for creating memorable villains, each unique and menacing in their own way, but his sympathetic characters like the meek but unrelenting Julie of Write Me a Murder or the vulnerable yet tough-minded Susy of Wait Until Dark are also well-drawn on the page, parts any actress would be proud to take on.

Knott’s writing is most remembered in the form of major Hollywood versions of his plays, like the 1954 Alfred Hitchcock Dial M for Murder. These films in turn have been ripped off or unofficially remade many times ever after, such as 1998’s A Perfect Murder, a sexed up reimagining of Dial M.

Knott’s wife Ann claimed he did not enjoy writing and only did so for the big, big money. If so, I’m glad he got past his dislike of writing to give us what he did.

So, happy birthday Frederick Knott—because of you, I haven’t opened a fridge or picked up a pair of scissors without thinking of murder ever since.


“Thrill to the same idol who made your mothers’ hearts flutter wildly” – Revivals of the sheik movies in the 1930s

William Drew’s The Last Silent Picture Show really is a treasure of a book. Way too many people get their film history from (admittedly delightful) movies like Singin’ in the Rain, where it’s made to look like the talkie revolution occurred overnight. Most might even assume the American moviegoing public was content to let their silent favorites rot by 1930.

The actual history is far more complicated. In truth, silent films would sometimes get revived for Depression-era audiences, even after all theaters converted to sound. (Not to mention, silent films would still be produced in some Asian and European countries until the mid-1930s.)

Silent comedies were usually revived and given some level of respect– after all, you were supposed to laugh at them. Silent dramas were not so fortunate, at best treated as nostalgia items and at worst openly mocked as outmoded camp. However, there is an interesting case of silent drama revival I just have to share from Drew’s book.

“Show it– and machine guns wouldn’t keep the people away.”

It might surprise some that the two Rudolph Valentino sheik movies were revived throughout the 1930s. The popularity of the original Edith Hull novel and the 1921 movie adaptation had sparked a craze for desert romance in the 1920s, inspiring fashion trends and slang words like “sheik” and “sheba.”

By the time the talkies arrived, this fad mostly died out, though there were a few humorous treatments of the “sheik” theme, such as 1937’s The Sheik Steps Out with Ramon Novarro, a low-budget affair that converted the Hull novel from a racy melodrama to a screwball comedy and replaced the trembling Lady Diana with a wisecracking American heiress.

When Depression-era exhibitors put The Sheik on the bill, it was usually a bid for nostalgia. These showings did draw patrons, though The Sheik was mostly mocked as a “typical” silent film, what with Valentino’s bug-eyed antics and Agnes Ayres’ imitation of a fainting goat. Apparently forgetting that critics in the 1920s had the same issues with the film, it was held up as yet another example of how unquestionably, absolutely superior sound films were in terms of realism (for what that’s worth).

The hell with realism– realism would deny me fantastic reaction images like this!

Not everyone reacted this way, of course: Valentino still had a devoted cult fanbase and they did not appreciate snickers from fellow audience members or the accompaniment playing “The Sheik of Araby” to camp up the screening.

While The Sheik might have been enjoyed as a guilty and nostalgic pleasure (not unlike the reaction some have to Twilight these days), The Son of the Sheik was another matter. When a Washington DC theater revived that one in 1938, people rushed for seats.

Yes, you read that right! The “sophisticated” 1930s audience lined around the block to see a silent movie to the point where hundreds of patrons had to be turned away at the box office.  Inspired by this success, over five hundred theaters across the United States would revive Son and always to the same bewildered reaction that an “old movie” could be good. Not so bad it’s good, but genuinely well-made, entertaining, and holding its own against current releases. Even skeptical youngsters who had been kids when Valentino died were entranced.

A surprise success (all over again).

What won over an audience of people hostile to silent films? Comments from both critics and ordinary film-goers emphasized the film’s blend of hot-blooded drama and self-aware humor as the main ingredient for its continued appeal. Unlike the first movie, the sequel is aware it’s dealing in hokum. The actors are all in on the joke while still preserving the sense that vital things are at stake for the characters, a magnificent achievement.

And then there was the silver image of Valentino in his prime. Girls and women too young to have experienced Valentino mania thought he was just as appealing as Hollywood heartthrobs of the day. And of course, those who had loved him long ago felt that fangirlish fervor all over again. As one patron explained, “I loved him, I loved him, I loved him– I still love him.”

If there’s something to be gleaned from this anecdote, it’s that many people– even in the thick of the Golden Age of Hollywood– have turned their noses up at anything older than them or just perceived as “old” in general. This isn’t unique to millennials or Gen Z. Even during the silent era, audiences mocked the stage melodramas of their grandparents’ time.

Everyone thinks themselves more sophisticated then the storytellers who came before them, that their tastes are less “cringey” than the audiences of yesteryear. Sad, but seemingly inevitable. However, there are plenty of treasures from the past in every medium, waiting to be appreciated for those willing to take a chance on anything not made in the past five minutes.

On that note, read Drew’s book! It really is fascinating and filled with other interesting stories like this. In a way, silent films are given more love and attention now than they were immediately after sound arrived.

I’m baaack– kind of

Well, it’s been half a decade since I’ve haunted WordPress, hasn’t it?

What a wild five years it’s been.

To be honest, I’ve been cutting back on social media in general, both for my mental health and so I can concentrate on other interests. However, I still enjoy posting about old movies, so I don’t plan on totally jumping ship, either here or on that dreaded hellsite Tumblr.

So what does that mean for this blog? Well, I plan on posting blogathon posts here. Let’s face it: WordPress is better suited than Tumblr for longer-form content. Easier on the eyes.

So yep, look for my upcoming contribution to the Silent Movie Day blogathan here! I plan on writing about the top-grossing movies of 1921. Check out Silentology and In the Good Old Days of Classic Hollywood blogs for the full line-up– or to sign up yourself!