The iconic Photoplay cover encapsulating the microphone anxiety that gripped Hollywood in the late 1920s. Image source: Wikipedia
Norma Talmadge is arguably the most elusive of the great silent film stars, even with more of her films becoming available in the last twenty years. In the 1910s and 1920s, her fame rivaled Charlie Chaplin and Mary Pickford. Her dramatic talents were heralded by the critics, her fashion sense emulated by the public. Her film career was so lucrative she never wanted for money for the rest of her life.
Contrary to the long-standing myth, Talmadge did not have a comical Brooklyn accent a la Lina Lamont. Her first talkie, New York Nights, is competent but forgettable, and her last, Du Barry, Woman of Passion, is pretty bad but Talmadge’s voice certainly is less the problem than a rotten script. It’s easy to say neither film did well because the talkies killed off Talmadge’s appeal, but this does not take into account that her late silents– The Dove and The Woman Disputed— also failed at the box office. Her career peaked in the early 1920s. Perhaps even without the talkie revolution, her star would have faded by 1930.
Poster for Talmadge’s final silent movie, The Woman Disputed. Image source: Wikipedia
I bring this up because I came across an interesting bit from a 1935 issue of Picture Play magazine while doing unrelated research a few days ago. The article was titled “Men Can’t Take It.” Its hypothesis was that women stars have more longevity with the public than male stars. Later in the piece, the author claims no female romantic idol has ever been taken from the public by a premature death, as opposed to the likes of Wallace Reid or Rudolph Valentino (I guess Florence La Badie doesn’t count?). Listing several silent film actresses and how their careers fared over time, what they have to say about Norma Talmadge is interesting:
No mention of a Brooklyn accent. Apparently, Talmadge’s crown slipped due to her own laziness and declining standards of quality, or so this writer says. I’m a bit skeptical. The Woman Disputed is a handsomely shot melodrama and Talmadge’s performance is good. I see no evidence of phoning it in there. New York Nights and Du Barry are less spectacular, but their problems don’t stem from Talmadge’s acting. If anything, she seems to be trying very hard in both to make the jump to sound.
This is why I wish someone would write a proper, in-depth Talmadge biography. It would be interesting to examine why Talmadge connected so with the public and why they gradually left her behind, even before Jolson told them they “ain’t heard nothing yet.”
When I started doing these “greatest hits of X year” posts in 2021, I expected to only make one a year going forward. However, these are so much fun. I just love looking at what movies drew audiences in the past and looking into how they hold up over time. By this year’s end, I might have several of these on the blog. I can’t hold myself back.
This time, we’re looking at 1924, the year in which Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer came into being. Often considered the most glamorous of the Golden Age studios, in 1924 it was still a ramshackle operation and its days of dominance would not kick into high gear until the start of the talkie era. Regardless, they scored two major hits in 1924, one of which cemented the stardom of Lon Chaney Sr. and the other which launched the stardom of matinee idol John Gilbert.
Some familiar faces will be present on this list. Cecil B. DeMille continues to dazzle Jazz Age audiences with his tales of bad behavior and moral redemption among the young and beautiful. Harold Lloyd continues to be the most lucrative screen comedian, landing two hit features. Douglas Fairbanks’ landmark fantasy epic The Thief of Bagdad is also a big hit, though numbers don’t quite match up to his previous effort, Robin Hood.
New faces appear as well. John Gilbert’s steady rise to legendary sex symbol begins in earnest here. Young Mary Astor appears opposite John Barrymore at the start of her own stardom. Norma Shearer appears in He Who Gets Slapped, the first MGM film put into release– an oddly fitting detail since for much of the 1930s, she would be dubbed the Queen of the MGM lot.
Let’s waste no more time. Onto the post!
My usual note: It is difficult to get 100% accurate box office information from the silent era and this list is based on the top ten films offered up by Wikipedia as the big hits of 1924. Box office numbers can vary depending on the source (and here, I just stuck to the Wikipedia numbers for consistency’s sake), so just keep that in mind as we forge ahead.
#10 – HIS HOUR
Image source: IMDB
Release date: September 29, 1924
Box office (est.): $197,000
Summary: Prim British noblewoman Tamara Loraine (Aileen Pringle) is drawn to wildPrince Gritzko (John Gilbert), a dashing Russian with a long list of conquests. However, she has enough self-control to hold off his advances. Circumstances propel Tamara to Gritzko’s lodge, where he aggressively tries to get her to submit. Can these crazy kids find love despite Gritzko’s caveman ways?
Elinor Glyn is a key figure in early 20th century pop culture. A novelist who specialized in torrid, exotic romance, her books were equally controversial and popular for their sexual content. Her most famous novel was Three Weeks, the passionate tale of a love affair between a British youth and a mysterious temptress who turns out to be royalty. The masses saw the Glyn universe as one of glamorous, racy escapism. Allegedly more discerning readers sniffed at Glyn’s work as trash.
Actor John Gilbert was among the critics, but he was roped into making a film version of Glyn’s novel When the Hour Came by fledgling studio Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. Producer Irving Thalberg concurred with Gilbert that the material was trash– but the public had a taste for trash and were willing to pay good money for it. Gilbert’s reluctance to take the lead was not allayed when he met Glyn in person. A powerful force in Hollywood (several of her books were turned into films and she was given a lot of sway over casting decisions), Glyn was a celebrity in her own right, her bright red hair wrapped in elaborate turbans and her demeanor the height of Jazz Age camp. When she was introduced to Gilbert, she is said to have called him “the black stallion,” much to his embarrassment.
At the time, Gilbert was not the superstar he would become by the mid-1920s and his name was overshadowed by Aileen Pringle. Pringle had just come off her lead part in an adaptation of the more famous Three Weeks, which catapulted her to stardom and made her a natural casting choice for His Hour. Pringle is only remembered in silent film buff circles today, but she appears to have led a fascinating life. While a bit snobby and aloof with her co-stars, her wit and intelligence made her popular with intellectuals like HL Mencken, and would later marry crime novelist James M. Cain of The Postman Always Rings Twice fame, though the union lasted only two years.
Whatever its stars thought, His Hour was a hit and King Vidor’s lush direction singled out for praise. However, the eroticism was apparently too hot to handle for many moral watchdogs, particularly a scene in which Gilbert caresses, kisses, and bites Pringle’s hand while she feigns sleep. Regardless of the pearl clutchers, the film was Gilbert’s first for MGM and helped cement his reputation as one of the great silent screen lovers.
His Hour exists in a print with Czech intertitles but is currently unavailable to view anywhere. Gilbert biographer Eve Golden claims it’s unimpressive, hampered by Gilbert and Pringle’s lack of chemistry, and Gilbert’s Russian prince being “little more than a stalker and rapist.” Ouch.
Sources:
Dark Star: The Untold Story of the Meteoric Rise and Fall of Legendary Silent Screen Star John Gilbert by Leatrice Gilbert Fountain
John Gilbert: The Last of the Silent Film Stars by Eve Golden
#9 – BEAU BRUMMEL
Image source: TCM
Release date:March 30, 1924
Box office (est.): $453,000
Summary: George “Beau” Brummel (John Barrymore) and tradesman’s daughter Margery (Mary Astor) are madly in love, but her parents oppose the union due to Beau’s lack of money or title. Margery is compelled to marry a lord, embittering her former love. Beau intends to have his vengeance upon high society by becoming one of the most popular members of the smart set, befriending the dissolute Prince of Wales (Willard Louis) and seducing many a married lady. However, through it all, Beau is haunted by his love for Margery and his simmering anger at the elites eventually compromises his good standing with the prince. Will he and Margery ever find a way to be together, or are they destined to forever be apart?
While John Gilbert was just getting in his footing as a contender for top Hollywood matinee idol, John Barrymore was still enjoying plenty of success as a swoon-worthy thespian. During the 1900s and 1910s, Barrymore fangirls packed the theaters to hear his lovely voice and see his handsome face. While the medium of silent film could not capture Barrymore’s voice, his acting chops and good looks still came through.
The 1924 Beau Brummel was among Barrymore’s greatest hits of the 1920s. Based loosely on the life of the infamous 19th century dandy of the same name, Beau Brummel is a tragic romance. George “Beau” Brummel is unable to be with the noblewoman he loves due to class interests, so he plunges himself into a life of hedonistic dissolution, seducing married women, spending hours on perfecting his appearance, and partying it up with the equally amoral Prince of Wales. Much of the movie covers Beau’s society balancing act, charming the elite while covertly treating them with contempt. However, his enduring love for Margery gives his character considerable sympathy.
Margery was the first major role of Mary Astor, who is absolutely, hauntingly beautiful throughout the film. She looks like a fairy tale princess come to life. Her relationship with Barrymore was as intense offscreen as it was on. The two had a sexual relationship during filming, even though Barrymore was over 40 and Mary Astor was only 17. Though she viewed Barrymore through rose-tinted lens during this time, Astor later said learned a lot about acting from observing Barrymore’s methods onset:
“I was impressed by the keenness of his analysis and interpretation of character. He was the first actor I ever heard speak of a character in the third person. Instead of saying ‘I will do this’ or ‘I will make my entrance when a certain event occurs,’ Jack would say, ‘I don’t think the guy would do that. I think he’s so mad he wouldn’t even bow to the king.’ He was thinking of the character as a real being, with an intrinsic character that would cause him to react in ways quite different from the way he, as John Barrymore, would react.”
The part of Lady Margery isn’t terribly complicated, but Astor’s expressive face elevates what is otherwise a standard ingenue role. Her real life feelings for her co-star shine through all their scenes, intense and all-consuming.
I have to say the most interesting dynamic in the film is between Beau and the Prince. The jovial energy between Barrymore and Willard Louis is palpable. According to Astor, the two told dirty jokes in their scenes together, believing that since they were making a silent film, no one in the audience would be the wiser. Alas, deaf patrons and others adept at lip-reading caught every nasty line and sent in their complaints to Warner Bros.
As far as Barrymore goes, the film is as much a showcase for his versatility as the more famous Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. We get to see Beau progress from besotted soldier to witty rake to disgraced old man living in madness and poverty. The gradual transformation is heartbreaking, making the film’s famous final scene all the more touching. I won’t spoil that ending in case you haven’t seen the film, but it does allow the film to conclude on a sentimental but powerful note.
Sources:
My Story: An Autobiography by Mary Astor
This Mad Masquerade: Stardom and Masculinity in the Jazz Age by Gaylyn Studlar
#8 – HE WHO GETS SLAPPED
Image source: TCM
Release date: November 9, 1924
Box office (est.): $493,000
Summary:Scientist Paul Beaumont (Lon Chaney) sees his life fall apart when his wealthy patron, the Baron Regnard (Marc McDermott), plagiarizes his work and steals away his wife Marie (Ruth King). Humiliated before a panel of academics and spurned by Marie, Paul begins to see the world as cruel and absurd. He leaves his former identity behind when he joins a circus as a clown named HE. Gaining fame for his masochistic comedy act, HE finds love anew for the circus’ gentle bareback rider Consuelo (Norma Shearer), even though her heart belongs to her handsome co-performer Benzano (John Gilbert). But when Consuelo’s impoverished father Count Mancini (Tully Marshall) seeks to use her beauty to curry finances and favor with Baron Regnard, HE plots a dastardly revenge to defend the woman he loves.
I’ve always found it hilarious that He Who Gets Slapped—a grim drama about a masochistic clown bent on revenge against the lecherous aristocrat who cuckolded him—was the first work wholly produced by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, the one classic era studio you’d think most likely to shy away from such material. This is one perverse film in which humanity is marked out as collectively predatory and cruel. There are some glimmers of hope, true, but they are oh so faint.
He Who Gets Slapped is based on a 1915 Russian play still much revered in its country of origin. The film takes only the most basic ingredients from its source—the bitter clown, the impoverished Count Mancini’s desire to wed Consuelo to the Baron, the downbeat view of the human condition—but otherwise changes it from a talky, philosophical piece to something like a Jacobean revenge tragedy. The blend of the tragic and the ridiculous reminds me a bit of something like Oldboy, to be honest.
The sinister tone, circus setting, and presence of Lon Chaney might lead one to assume this is a Tod Browning project, but the director was Victor Sjostrom (billed Seastrom in the film itself), a Swedish filmmaker and actor enticed to Hollywood by Louis B. Mayer. He Who Gets Slapped was his second American project and he would go on to direct several great silent classics, like The Scarlet Letter and The Wind. After the talkie revolution, Sjostrom returned to his native Sweden and stuck to acting exclusively, becoming a mentor to a young Ingmar Bergman and starring in one of Bergman’s greatest pictures, Wild Strawberries. During the 1920s, Sjostrom relished his time with Chaney (the two would make two films together), calling him the greatest actor working on screen or stage.
Chaney was certainly on the up and up in 1924. He’d become a bonafide star after the success of The Hunchback of Notre Dame in 1923 and his celebrity would remain undimmed until his untimely death in 1930. Chaney’s performance as HE is among his finest work. The way he channels his pain and rage into his bitter clown act is downright chilling. And yet, flickers of compassion pulse through the performance, allowing one to hope that perhaps something of HE’s faith in humanity can be renewed.
At its heart, He Who Gets Slapped is about how unfeeling people can be when it comes to the pain of others. HE’s act is a recreation of the worst day of his life in which he was humiliated before a scientific committee by the Baron: he announces basic facts only to be slapped repeatedly by his fellow performers. The skit culminates in HE having a felt heart ripped from his chest by another clown, who proceeds to stomp it into the ground before giving HE an irreverent clown funeral. I doubt anyone who’s ever watched this film has ever found this “comic” act funny, yet the onscreen audience howls with sadistic mirth. They look positively obnoxious in those crowd shots, and one wonders what HE gets out of his act. Is it his way of exercising control over a situation in which he was so powerless? Is it an undetected gesture of contempt towards all humanity?
Even the kindhearted Consuelo, played by a luminous Norma Shearer, is guilty of a certain level of thoughtlessness. When HE confesses his love to her, Consuelo reacts with disgust then laughs, the very thought of this middle-aged clown being enamored with her too absurd a concept to be true. She even slaps him for good measure—a gesture that’s intended to be playful, but only devastates HE. On one hand, it’s hard to blame Consuelo’s reaction—I don’t know how I would react if a co-worker I viewed as a casual friend randomly and passionately swore their love for me—but because we understand HE’s alienation and pain so keenly, it’s hard not to empathize with his rejection.
The dynamic between HE and Consuelo is more fascinating than the usual Chaney/Unrequited Love Interest deal because HE isn’t just in love with Consuelo. He arguably sees her as a double, for both of them have been objectified by the wealthy. Consuelo’s father treats her as a commodity that can be used to buy his way back into aristocratic society. When we first see her, she’s being appraised by the ringmaster as though she were a thoroughbred horse. She turns in a circle, eyes downcast, utterly dehumanized. But one of the most chilling scenes in the film occurs when Count Mancini is trying to convince the Baron to marry Consuelo. Disgusted by Consuelo’s show business profession, the Baron initially refuses. However, Mancini begins to spin his sales pitch, asking the Baron to “Imagine what a bride she will make.” We don’t get any more intertitles specifying what else the Count is saying, but his leering manner and the Count’s suggestive fondling of a set of pearls tell us everything. When HE moves in to save Consuelo from being used as a sexualized bargaining chip, it isn’t because he thinks he’ll win her heart. At that point, she’s already rejected him. Instead, it becomes a means of making sure history does not repeat itself and the Baron will no longer be able to use other humans as his playthings.
For all its nastiness, He Who Gets Slapped is not so much a nihilistic horror show as a cathartic call to compassion. The ending scenes are among the most moving in all film. I always find my heart aching when the drama ends, no matter how many times I’ve seen it and it remains one of my all-time favorites of the entire silent era.
Summary: King Garnet (Rod La Roque) is a no-good wastrel, ignoring the canning factory he inherited and shirking every responsibility he can. Anna Land (Leatrice Joy) works in the factory to support her struggling family, but dreams of a singing career. Both characters face trials a-plenty, particularly King when he learns that due to a secret will, he has to take direct control of the factory or else he’ll lose his ample inheritance to his illegitimate brother William Silver (Victor Varconi), who happens to be the factory manager. Also, there’s a Romeo and Juliet flashback somewhere in there because this is a silent DeMille film after all and we need our period costumes, damn it!
Cecil B. DeMille followed up his mammoth production of The Ten Commandments with more modest (at least, by DeMille epic standards) Jazz Age potboilers, but they seem to have pleased 1920s audiences. The first film in a three-picture contract DeMille signed for Famous Players-Lasky, Triumph brought back DeMille favorites Leatrice Joy and Rod La Roque for the lead roles. Zasu Pitts, fresh off Von Stroheim’s Greed, is in a supporting comic relief part. Like the modern story of The Ten Commandments, Triumph was designed as a Jazz Age morality play about the idle rich and the importance of hard work, putting its flawed leading man through the ringer so he could earn his happiness.
I don’t have much to say about this one. Prints of Triumph survive, but like His Hour, it remains unavailable for viewing. Contemporary reviewers seemed to universally concur it was good enough if a bit too long for what it was and certainly nothing that would make you forget The Ten Commandments anytime soon. On the flip side, DeMille biographer Scott Eyman has seen the film and his impression isn’t so favorable: “The setting is outlandish, the plot defies synopsis let alone rational analysis, and DeMille’s filmmaking carries authority but no energy until the end, when he puts together a rousing fire sequence that looks dangerous and probably was.”
Sources:
Cecil B. DeMille’s Hollywood by Robert S. Birchard
Empire of Dreams: The Epic Life of Cecil B. DeMille by Scott Eyman
The Films of Cecil B. DeMille by Gene Ringgold
#6 – FEET OF CLAY
Image source: IMDB
Release date: September 28, 1924
Box office (est.): $904,383
Summary: Kerry Harlan (Rod La Roque) is a poor boy. Amy Loring (Vera Reynolds) is a rich girl. After he saves her from drowning, the two marry, but complications ensue. Firstly, Kerry has to stay off his feet due to a shark bite that occurred while he was rescuing Amy. Secondly, his married sister-in-law Bertha (Julia Faye) wants him as her boy toy and aggressively pursues him. When Bertha dies due to an accidental fall from a balcony, scandal haunts the young couple, who decide to form a suicide pact. However, their subsequent trip to the afterlife is cut short when they’re brought back to life and then…uh… yeah, the plot synopsis kind of confuses me.
Feet of Clay was DeMille’s second picture for Famous Players-Lasky, though it was a project for which he had little enthusiasm. Jesse Lasky insisted DeMille make a film from Margaretta Tuttle’s novel (originally a magazine serial) of the same name, but DeMille wanted to make an adaptation of the Sutton Vane play Outward Bound. Outward Bound is about a group of passengers on a ship who slowly realize they are all dead and en route to the afterlife. The spiritual angle suited DeMille’s interests, but Lasky was insistent on Feet of Clay and so DeMille decided to make the best of it by combining Tuttle’s story with elements from a 1914 play called Across the Border, which involves out-of-body experiences.
DeMille tried subtly inserting elements from Outward Bound into Feet of Clay‘s script, but Vane sniffed them out and sued Famous Players-Lasky. The studio ended up settling with Vane out of court and the whole affair soured their view of DeMille, though Adolph Zukor was already felt somewhat threatened by DeMille, whose loyal staff viewed themselves as more beholden to the director than to the studio. Lasky and Zukor flaunted an upcoming contract with DW Griffith as a means of putting DeMille in his place– he wouldn’t be the only prestige director on their payroll now. Ultimately, DeMille finished out his contract with The Golden Bed in 1925, then left to start up his own studio.
Regardless of the behind the scenes misery involved, Feet of Clay was a profitable film, grossing three times its budget. Reviews were favorable too. Writing for The Motion Picture News, Frank Elliott claimed, “The plot packs a good moral and swings the observer along through moments of the wildest jazz, the strongest drama, real heart appeal, and passionate lovemaking.” Alas, Feet of Clay is a lost film, so I cannot offer any opinions of my own.
Sources:
Cecil B. DeMille’s Hollywood by Robert S. Birchard
Empire of Dreams: The Epic Life of Cecil B. DeMille by Scott Eyman
The Films of Cecil B. DeMille by Gene Ringgold
#5 – HOT WATER
Image source: IMDB
Release date: October 26, 1924
Box office (est.): $1,350,000
Summary: This movie takes place during a brief period in the life of Hubby (Harold Lloyd) and Wifey (Jobyna Ralston), joyful newlyweds living in a cute little home. That home is about to be invaded by Wifey’s relations: the domineering pro-Prohibition moralist mother Winnifred (Josephine Crowell), and her two sons, the grown-up deadbeat Charley (Charles Stevenson) and the underage brat Bobby (Mickey McBan). As much as Hubby tries to make the best of things, the trio are an unholy pain and the sooner Hubby can get rid of them, the better.
Harold Lloyd’s features come in two flavors: “character pictures” with more developed emotional throughlines and “gag pictures” with loose plots and a laugh a minute. Nineteen-twenty-four saw Lloyd offer up one of each: Girl Shy would be the character picture and Hot Water the gag picture. In fact, Hot Water was designed as a response to critics of Girl Shy (which we’ll discuss later in this post), a “character film” deemed overlong. So, Hot Water only runs for an hour and consists of three episodic vignettes following a young newlywed’s day from hell when his insufferable in-laws come to visit.
The first vignette concerns his trip to the grocery store, where he wins a prize turkey in a raffle drawing and has to try to carry it home without causing a riot on the public transport. The second introduces the annoying in-laws. They come by for a visit, usurping Hubby’s house and his attempt at a romantic drive in his new car with Wifey. Their family outing goes about as well as any attempt at a peaceful drive in a silent comedy. The final vignette involves Hubby trying to shut Winnifred up through a discreet use of chloroform, only for him to believe he’s killed her. When her “ghost” starts stalking through the house and the police appear outside the door, hijinks ensue.
Critics and fans often find Hot Water lacking compared to Lloyd’s other features. It’s not uncommon to see it deemed “a weaker effort.” I beg to differ: Hot Water is damn funny and one of my go-to silent comedies when I want to laugh out loud. I love the dysfunctional family element, maybe because it’s just more relatable the older I get.
The visual storytelling is also brilliant. My favorite example is when Hubby slowly realizes his in-laws are in the house. He gets hit by a spitball—a sign that Bobby is there. He sees cigarette smoke rising above the back of an armchair—a sign that Charley is there. And then he sees his own pipe in a trash can—a sign that Winnifred is on the prowl for vices to cure.
Lloyd’s expressions throughout are what kills me most. Anytime he realizes he has to deal with his irritating relations, the light dies in his eyes and his jaw becomes firm, an excellent and accurate manifestation of everyday misery. Though a master of mugging when a scene called for it, these subtle reactions are hilarious and show how wonderfully expressive Lloyd was as an actor.
If I have a complaint about Hot Water, it’s that these characters are all so good that I wish they were in a more developed film story. Like, imagine irritated Harold Lloyd having to lug his wife and her awful family to some vacation spot—Harold Lloyd goes to Wally World! Man, I would have LOVED to see that. Such a shame silent comedians didn’t really go for sequels. These characters just begged for it.
Sources:
The Harold Lloyd Encyclopedia by Annette M. D’Agostino
#4 – THE THIEF OF BAGDAD
Image source: Letterboxd
Release date: March 18, 1924
Box office (est.): $1,490,419
Summary: Set in a mythical Bagdad, the story follows Ahmed (Douglas Fairbanks), a cocky young thief with no compunctions about taking what he wants, be it a piece of bread or a beautiful princess (Julanne Johnston). Disguising himself as a prince, Ahmed plans to kidnap the Princess, but instead falls mutually in love with her. His charade discovered by the Princess’ enraged father, Ahmed must win his lady love’s hand by finding a priceless treasure. In time, he will also have to save both princess and Bagdad itself from a conniving Mongolian prince (Sojin Kamiyama).
Douglas Fairbanks was riding high after the smash success of his Robin Hood, which was the number one box office attraction of 1922. A grand epic colored by romantic chivalry and good-humored action, what could possibly top it? During the pre-production phase, Fairbanks jumped from project to project with his usual creative abandon. Maybe he’d make a pirate movie? Or an epic set in Ancient Rome? Or an adaptation of Monsieur Beaucaire?
Ultimately, Fairbanks set his heart on an epic mash-up of the stories of The Arabian Nights, intending to outdo himself with an array of action, romance, and immersive fantasy. As a result, The Thief of Bagdad is undoubtedly the artiest film of Fairbanks’ career. The Three Musketeers and Robin Hood were elaborate spectacles, but their visuals still had some grounded qualities. The Thief continually leaves any sense of realism behind in just about every facet of its creation, conjuring an uncompromised storybook world in which rippling fabric stands in for a raging ocean and the William Cameron Menzies sets are an Art Deco dream of the dangerous yet wondrous world of The Arabian Nights.
Boldest of all is arguably Fairbanks’ performance. He was always ebullient and energetic, but here, his acting takes on balletic dimensions. Influenced by Vaslav Nijinskiy and the Ballets Russes, Fairbanks all but dances through this part, throwing both arms up when surprised, hopping from place to place like a Mario Brother, or rubbing his belly in large circles when intoxicated by the aroma of fresh bread. Non silent film afficionados will assume this is just silent movie overacting with no artistic thought put into it (“hur, hur, people couldn’t act before Brando hur hur”). Fairbanks biographer Tracey Goessel is more on the mark when she says, “[Fairbanks] was trying to make a film as universal, as primarily symbolic, as dance.”
The Thief was a box office success and most of the critical notices were positive, but this triumph would be mixed. For one thing, the movie was so expensive that its profits were not as substantial as previous Fairbanks spectaculars. The Thief also wasn’t as popularly received as Robin Hood. While it played well in the cities, small town exhibitors claimed their patrons were less keen on this artier Fairbanks. In a few years, the critics would concur, calling the film a pretentious misfire. It’s clear Fairbanks had succumbed to the desire to make ART! How dare he!
Years ago, I was with these critics, finding the film beautiful but ponderous, but my most recent viewing of The Thief changed my mind. As opposed to watching Fairbanks’ opus on a tiny laptop in crappy YouTube quality, I had on the latest bluray release, splashed across my sizeable flat screen with Carl Davis’ gorgeous Rimsy-Korsakov-inspired score blaring. Presented in good quality (while my phone was in another room), The Thief became an engrossing experience, a competitor with Fritz Lang’s two-part Die Niebelungen as the greatest fantasy film of the 1920s.
Sources:
The First King of Hollywood: The Life of Douglas Fairbanks by Tracey Goessel
#3 – SECRETS
Image source: IMDB
Release date:March 24, 1924
Box office (est.): $1,500,000
Summary:Sitting patiently by the sickbed of her husband John (Eugene O’Brien), elderly Mary Carlton (Norma Talmadge) looks back on their life together. In her teens, Mary abandoned a life of ease and wealth to elope with penniless John. They made a life in the American West, facing physical danger and heartbreak together. In middle age, John’s infidelity threatens the union, but the relationship survives due to Mary’s patience. However, can it survive John’s illness?
Secrets presents superstar Norma Talmadge at the height of her illustrious career. Her part is an actor’s dream come true: a single character we see over different phases of a long life. In this movie’s case, four phases. And I have to say, Talmadge’s work in differentiating the different versions of the same character is masterful. I would not be shy calling this her best performance– at least, among the scant Talmadge oeuvre readily available for viewing.
A frame story in which the elderly Mary Carlton (Talmadge) sits beside her ill husband’s bedside as she remembers their long marriage bookends three flashbacks showing the evolution of their relationship. What’s most striking is how convincing the old age makeup on Talmadge is in these scenes. Even now, it’s difficult to age up younger actors without making them look abominable…
I swear to God, whoever did the makeup on Hermione wasn’t even trying. Image source: Hollywood Reporter
…Ahem. But the make-up here is fantastic, as it remains throughout the film as we go through this woman’s long life and marriage. The old age make-up alone is great.
Each section feels like its own mini-movie, each with a different genre and tone. The first of the flashbacks takes place in 1865 when Mary was a young, lovestruck girl. John is a penniless employee of her father’s, making him an unsuitable option for Mary’s hand. Her parents desire a more socially advantageous match for their daughter, but Mary’s unmarried aunt– who was forced to give up the man she loved due to his low standing– urges the girl to follow her heart. This first section is slow but charming, playing almost like farce towards the end when Mary has to hide John in her room. While the visual metaphor of elaborate undergarments representing the limited social standing of Victorian women is a cliche by now, it works well here, with Mary almost laughing at the ridiculous amounts of layers she asked to put on for her first ball.
The second section sees the movie morph into a western. Mary is now a frontier wife with an infant son. She and John live in a humble house, but are happy. However, John runs afoul of a murderous gang and they ambush his house. We get a big shoot-out scene, in which the couple defend their home and Mary tries to console their ill baby. The sequence is both exciting and sentimental, once again emphasizing Mary’s devotion to the relationship and her iron will.
The third section is the weakest. Mary is now a comely matron and John a successful politician. They’ve two grown children and a beautiful home. Even Mary’s parents are no longer estranged from their daughter, coming by to visit her. However, Mary’s contentment is destroyed when she learns John is having an affair with Estelle, a gorgeous widow intent on breaking up the marriage. What makes this section suffer is John’s weak motivation. He tells Mary the affair was only born of short-lived lust and he has no plans on divorce. And right away, crisis averted, as Mary takes the repentant lug back, even though he also admits they’re penniless again. The adultery is treated like a minor inconvenience.
Is this poor writing or the result of missing footage? Indeed, it’s hard to properly evaluate Secrets, as it exists in incomplete condition. As it stands, the film’s success largely relies on Talmadge’s virtuoso performance. If I have a major issue, it’s that the husband character is underdrawn and colorless, making you wonder what makes him worth so much devotion and sacrifice. For me, this prevents the movie from having the emotional impact it should have, but regardless, it’s still an entertaining melodrama, one I wish was in better, more complete condition.
Summary: Tailor’s apprentice Harold Meadows (Harold Lloyd) is hardly a ladies’ man. He stutters around women and has never had a girlfriend. This does not prevent him from writing a how-to book about wooing all the different sorts of women out there, from flappers to vamps. During his quest for publication, he meets Mary Buckingham (Jobyna Ralston), a Los Angeles heiress. The two fall mutually in love, though Harold only wants to ask for her hand if he can make a good living from his book. When the book is rejected as too absurd, Harold breaks off the relationship… that is, until he learns the nefarious secret of Mary’s other suitor, the greedy and callous Ronald DeVore (Carlton Griffin), and becomes determined to save Mary from him.
It’s difficult for me to pinpoint the “best” Harold Lloyd film. Safety Last! is the most iconic, sure, and The Freshman is truly masterful, but Girl Shy is an astonishing piece of work. Of all the silent Lloyd features, I find it the most satisfying. It’s very funny. It has satire. It has sweet romance. It has one of the most action-packed climactic chases in all silent comedy. All around, it might be Lloyd’s best career-best effort.
Lloyd’s first independent production, Girl Shy is a landmark in other ways as well. Some consider it a key title in the development of the cinematic romantic comedy. The last third involving Harold’s chase to stop his beloved’s wedding to another man, inspired two other major films. The first was the 1925 Ben-Hur. Director Fred Niblo was inspired by the shot in which the camera appears to be run over by the horses Harold utilizes to rush to the rescue. Niblo used a similar device during the chariot race in Ben-Hur. The second film is Mike Nichols’ The Graduate. There’s a direct link between Harold rescuing Mary from her unwanted nupitals and Dustin Hoffman crashing Katharine Ross’ would-be wedding, as Nichols was inspired by the earlier film.
All this aside, what sticks out most to me about Girl Shy is how it walks the fine line between genuine sentiment and broad comedy, but without devolving into sappy goo or mood whiplash. The romance between Harold and Mary is very touching. They’re both in situations in which they are not fully appreciated by the other people in their life: Harold is mocked as a joke and Mary is valued only for her money. With any movie, it is vital that the audience intensely care for the characters and desire their happiness. I am not a big fan of romantic comedy, but Girl Shy is so special to me because Lloyd and Ralston are both so likable and so sweet together. It would be a kind of death if their characters did not end up together.
The satire of Jazz Age lovemaking also plays well still. The excerpts from Harold’s book show him assuming the roles of masculine indifference or total dominance when dealing with a “vampire” and a “flapper.” These scenes lampoon conventions of romantic drama so prevalent in popular culture at the time, particularly the idea of the “cave man” who takes what he wants and won’t be ordered about. Even if the stereotypes of “vampire” and “flapper” are dated to the 1920s, terrible romantic advice based on goofy perceptions of women sure isn’t and these scenes remain highly amusing.
Girl Shy is just such a pure lark of a film. It moves quickly, it makes you feel for the characters, it leaves you feel so, so good. It’s easy to see why audiences so readily took to both it and Lloyd himself.
Sources:
The Harold Lloyd Encyclopedia by Annette M. D’Agostino
#1 – THE SEA HAWK
Image source: IMDB
Release date: June 14, 1924
Box office (est.): $2,000,000
Summary: English baronet Oliver Tressilian (Milton Sills) is a decent man with a bit of a temper. Knowing it bothers his intended Rosamund Godolphin (Enid Bennett), he promises to cool it down, even if her brother Peter (Wallace MacDonald) is an antagonistic moron who wants to pick a fight with the Tressilian family any chance he can. Unfortunately, self-control comes far less easily to Oliver’s half-brother Lionel (Lloyd Hughes), who kills Peter during a duel. Afraid of being executed for murder, Lionel pins the blame on Oliver and has him kidnapped by the wily Captain Jasper Leigh (Wallace Beery), who takes the baronet to sea. When Jasper’s ship is captured by the Spanish, Oliver is forced to become a galley slave, but he escapes with the aid of the Moors. Converting to Islam and taking on a new name, Sakr-el-Bahr, he swears vengeance on those who wronged him, making his swift way back to English shores…
Though a massive hit in its day, The Sea Hawk is among the most underrated silent films, often overshadowed by its talkie remake with Errol Flynn. (Though “remake” is a bit inaccurate in relation to the talkie version since other than the title and Elizabethan setting, the two stories have nothing in common.) Adapted from a 1915 novel of the same name by Rafael Sabitani (also responsible for Captain Blood and Scaramouche), this is the kind of rip-roaring adventure story Hollywood doesn’t make anymore. Family betrayal! Romance! Kidnapping! Daring escapes! Naval battles! Pirates! Faraway lands! With the exception of some orientalist stereotyping, the film has held up very well.
The spectacle on display is still breathtaking now, maybe even more so in an age saturated with green screens and CG. You see, director Frank Lloyd didn’t want to use miniatures to stage the naval battles since 1920s audiences were sophisticated enough to sniff out silver screen fakery. He insisted on full-scale ships, which he got with the aid of Fred Gabourie, a technical director who helped construct props and sets for Buster Keaton’s films. The effort more than pays off and the battle footage was considered so impressive that it was repurposed for other movies even into the 1930s and 1940s. Combined with rich historical atmosphere, this is one good-looking film.
The Sea Hawk also benefits from a great leading actor. Milton Sills is one of those movie stars whose name only rings a bell with silent movie geeks, largely because he died at the dawn of the talkie era, yet he is a revelation in this. I heard Rudolph Valentino was considered for this role. Given the antagonistic romance between Oliver and Rosamund for much of the film, I can imagine him in the part (particularly when Oliver kidnaps Rosamund and carries her away to his ship bridal style). Being older and less smoldering, 42-year-old Sills brings a wholly different quality than the 29-year-old Valentino would have. There’s a different sense of drama to a mature man having his world turned upside down compared to a much younger man’s. With Valentino, Oliver’s reversal of fortune might have come off like a coming-of-age adventure in the vein of Moran of the Lady Letty. With Sills, it comes off like a settled man having to reinvent himself amidst adversity and a new culture.
(This isn’t to say Sills lacks erotic appeal. There’s a scene where he strips down before a judge to prove he couldn’t have killed Peter Godolphin since he hasn’t any injury, and what we see is pretty impressive, if I’m going to be objectifying about it.)
By and large, this is an adventure yarn with all the trimmings and a wonderful supporting cast. Enid Bennett just came off a big hit with Douglas Fairbanks’ 1922 Robin Hood, where she played Maid Marian. She gets more to chew on with Rosamund, who struggles to despise Oliver after she believes he killed her brother. For his part, Beery comes close to stealing the show from everyone. He is hilarious as Jasper Leigh, willing to promise anything to save his own skin and promoting himself in a rather Falstaffian fashion. Altogether, this is a great, great movie. If you haven’t seen it, then you’re in for a real treat.
The early sound period is awash in nonsense tall tales. “John Gilbert sounded like a castrated Mickey Mouse lmao” is the most infamous of these myths, but Norma Talmadge was subject to another: that this queen of the silent drama had a cartoonishly thick Brooklyn accent.
Watching both of the talkies Talmadge made (1929’s New York Nights and 1930’s Du Barry, Woman of Passion), it’s clear this is not the case. As with Gilbert, part of the issue was she just didn’t sound the elegant way her fans might have imagined– which is funny, considering in both movies she plays women of humble backgrounds rather than high-born, well-bred ladies. In the first, she’s a chorus girl and in the second, she plays the infamous Madame Du Barry, commoner turned mistress of King Louis XV. If anything, her earthy voice fits what she was playing in these projects. The real question is, were the films themselves any good? New York Nights is a solid if unexceptional crime drama. Du Barry, Woman of Passion is… um, well, less solid.
Du Barry, Woman of Passion has a rotten reputation and… yeah, it kind of deserves it. The pacing is comically rushed and the story is more a series of lavish, melodramatic episodes than a coherent plot. Talmadge is at her absolute worst when given declamatory speeches about passion and frivolity and fidelity and whatever. Her work with those speeches is like a parody of early talkie performance, so stilted and over-the-top all at once.
And yet, in the quieter moments, Talmadge is charming, showcasing the appeal that made her such a success in silent movies. I particularly like her introduction. Conrad Nagel’s innocent young guardsman sees her stuck in a pond (her ankle is caught in the rocks below). She’s only visible from the chin up and nude beneath the water’s surface. Instead of brimming with embarrassment, she’s chatty and jovial, while aware enough to understand how uncomfortable the situation is making Nagel. Though remembered as the star of weepy melodramas, Talmadge could be very funny when she got the chance to show off her comic chops, as she does here. One wishes the movie were more of a frivolous comedy because it works best in that mode.
Du Barry is a strange film like that, a blend of early talkie awkwardness and moments of charm. It’s worth seeing and could make for a fun drinking game for French Revolution buffs. Take a shot anytime they get anything wrong… actually, don’t do that because you’ll be dead before the half hour mark! (To be fair to the film, the opening title card admits just about nothing in the movie is accurate to the historical record, so that’s nice.)
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