The Spanish Dancer, Restored, with an Original Score by Bill Ware

Maritana, the dancing Roma girl, and her lover, Don Cezar de Bazan, are characters created by Victor Hugo, who subsequently inspired works by Massenet, Mendelssohn, W.S. Gilbert, and a French stage adaptation by D’Ennery & Pinel, on which this film was also partly based. It further inspired a competing silent movie from Ernst Lubitsch that released around the same time, but to less acclaim. Despite its popularity at the time, the restored print had to be assembled from two 35mm nitrate prints and two 16mm prints. Fortunately, we now have every scene, representing almost the entire original running time. Yet, what really brings the restoration of Herbert Brenon’s silent The Spanish Dancer to life is the new score composed by jazz musician Bill Ware, which cineastes can hear when it releases on BluRay tomorrow, from Milestone Films.

Maritana is a wild spirit, who definitely never does anything the easy way. Perhaps that is why she falls in love with the wastrel Don Cezar de Bazan after reading his dreadful fortune. He does indeed lose his money and his social standing, but he finds allies among Maritana’s people. Don Cezar must keep moving to evade the sheriff determined to send him off to debtor’s prison, but he and Maritana arrange to meet in the Square of the Galloping Charger, when it will be thronged with people for the feast day festival.

Unfortunately, the cash-poor honor-rich Don cannot resist dueling despite the King’s decree to the contrary. That gets him sentenced to death. All is not lost, because the French-born Queen owes Maritana a favor. However, the deceitful Don Sallustre is working behind the scenes, to undermine everyone, for his own benefit. You know he is a devious snake-in-the-grass, because he is played by Adolphe Menjou.

Spanish Dancer is a rollicking swashbuckler comedy that almost feels like an early silent predecessor to the Richard Lester Musketeer movies, but probably nobody involved in their production had the opportunity to see Brenon’s film in its full glory. It actually turns into a deliciously ironic farce, albeit one that still holds life and death consequences.

Milestone’s Spanish Dancer really gallops along at a brisk tempo thanks to Ware’s original score. As you would expect from a vibraphonist and bassist, it has a strong rhythmic drive and a propulsive underlying beat. Ware’s percussive elements often evoke the vibe of flamenco and other forms of Spanish music, while the orchestration remains rooted in jazz forms. Regardless, it sounds great. In addition to the composer on vibes and bass, it also features Steven Bernstein on trumpet, Curtis Fowlkes on trombone, Bobby Previte on drums, and Rez Abbasi on electric guitar.

It is amazing what a fresh new score can do for a silent film. Suddenly, we are more receptive to the images, because we can better relate to the music (instead of an old timey-sounding piano). What looks exaggerated in isolation becomes passionate or “extreme” in a contemporary sense, when working in concert with the music. This is especially true for the generation that was raised on music videos, who are used to seeing music related only by theme or mood layered over an otherwise unassociated narrative. Ware’s score is a great example, even though he maintains some Spanish and Roma flavorings.

To Save and Project ’23: The Unknown (1927)

Tod Browning, the director of Freaks, was a longtime “friend of Stan Carlisle.” (David J. Skal’s Dark Carnival chronicled his connections with carnival sideshows in fascinating detail, but sadly it is only currently available in audio). Browning had the perfect leading man to be an amputee circus attraction in his frequent collaborator Lon Chaney (Sr.). Yet, ironically, this was one of the rare silent films in which Chaney appears without elaborate makeup. Long available in a moderately abbreviated cut, Browning’s fully restored The Unknown screens again during this year’s edition of MoMA’s To Save and Project.

Perhaps the only truly dated aspect of Browning’s film is the Romany (they say “Gypsy”) ethnicity of the Spanish circus troupe owned by Antonio Zanzi. However, the weird sexual issues feel years ahead of the film’s time. In this case, Zanzi’s daughter Nanon has such an aversion to the male touch, she recoils at the sight of mere arms. Somewhat logically, but misguidedly, she feels safe with Alonzo the Armless, the circus’s knife-thrower, who performs with his dexterous feet.

Unbeknownst to Nanon, Alonzo is a murderer, who has concealed his arms, to pass as an innocent-appearing circus performer. However, Alonzo has fallen hard for her. He will kill for her without hesitation, but he will also take more extreme measures.

The Unknown is not exactly a horror film, per se, but it definitely explores the dark side of human nature, much like the original Nightmare Alley and del Toro’s inferior remake. All three films also share an affinity for carnival geeks and human oddities. This would pear up nicely with the Tyrone Power classic and completely overshadow its remake.

Perhaps most importantly, it features a terrific performance from Chaney—arguably his best, because it does not rely on any makeup or prosthetics (but, evidently, some stunt feet were employed). You can definitely see his heart breaking and rage boiling. He looks a bit like Karloff, rather appropriately.

You can see it all much better in the restored print, because the previous cut (widely “available” online) was based on a European print that had shaved little bits here and there from the dramatic sequences, to shorten the running time. No scenes were cut in their entirety, but the dramatic build-ups were often truncated.

To Save and Project ’23: The Cat and the Canary (1927)

In the 1920s Broadway was the place for horror. It looks a lot like Scooby-Doo horror to us now, given its old dark houses and masked villains, but it was what they had at the time. John Willard’s 1922 play was the Hamilton of its era. Universal’s initial silent adaptation established their competitive advantage for horror, but their subsequent soundie remake, The Cat Creeps, is sadly considered lost. Even the familiar silent print consisted of the “B takes” edited together for the international market, rather than the “A takes” intended for the American release. (Early Hollywood was stunningly penny-wise, pound-foolish.) Happily, the A-cut has been fully restored and screens at MoMA as part of their annual To Save and Project film restoration series.

Old miserly Cyrus West was first driven insane by his greedy relatives and then driven to his grave by his paranoia. As part of his questionably sound last testament, all his potential heirs are assembled in his creaky old mansion, on the twentieth anniversary of his death, for the final reading of his will.

Only a motley collection of nephews and nieces still survive, including flapperish Annabelle West, the most distant relative. She also seems like the most decent, so it makes sense to viewers that old West leaves his fortune to her. However, there are a few stipulations. She must spend the night in the creepy house and pass a sanity test, because the crazy old codger was pretty defensive on the subject of mental health. Should she fail to uphold these terms, the estate will pass to the alternate heir mentioned in the sealed envelop in the possession of his trusted attorney, Roger Crosby.

Unfortunately, Crosby is murdered before he can warn the heiress whom she should look out for. Presumably, the murder was the escaped lunatic the guard from the asylum has been searching for. However, West should probably only trust her distant cousin Paul Jones. He is not a bad guy either and he clearly adores her, but he is total coward. For context, Bob Hope played in the 1939 Paramount remake, giving a performance that was not stylistically dissimilar from that of nebbish Creighton Hale.

While Hale’s Jones supplies somewhat shticky comic relief, Leni’s gorgeous, German Expressionistic visuals are a joy to behold. Leni’s approach is largely credited with shaping the aesthetic of the subsequent Universal monster movies—and fairly so. His use of perspective is extraordinary. The vanishing point of the mansion’s long, dark corridor is not unlike that of the split-rail fence in Invaders from Mars.

Japan Cuts ’21: To Sleep So as to Dream

It  was a retro silent movie about silent movie stars. How did this not get a big re-release push after Michel Hazanavicius’s The Artist won Best Picture (despite some subsequent blowback, it really is a great film)? Director-screenwriter Kaizo Hayashi’s vision is playfully twisty, in an almost Borgesian way. A crime has been committed that is surrounded in a greater mystery, but the Uotsuka Detective Agency is on the case in Hayashi’s To Sleep So as to Dream, which screens in its freshly restored glory as a classic selection of the 2021 Japan Cuts Festival of New Japanese Film, at the Japan Society.

Madame Cherryblossom, a Norma Desmond-like grand dame of Japanese silent cinema, hires Uotsuka and his apprentice Kobayashi to recover her kidnapped niece Bellfower. However, “M. Pathe and Co,” the criminal organization that abducted her is so cagey, they only leave a riddle as to where the ransom money should be delivered. Unfortunately, every time the Uotsuka Agency gets close to recovering Cherryblossom, the M. Pathe magicians snatch her away—and increase the ransom another one million yen.

Technically, TSSATD is not a true silent. There are plenty of foley effects and incidental music. We can also hear characters voices, when they have been pre-recorded, as with the kidnappers’ initial reel-to-reel ransom tape. However, when characters speak face-to-face, we must read it in the intertitles. This is a somewhat eccentric approach, but Hayashi makes it work.

His wonderfully nostalgic noir visual style is a major reason why. Aesthetically, TSSATD is perfect for admirers of Guy Maddin, because it has the same darkly dreamy vibe. It is a world where gumshoes and stage magicians rub shoulders, while watching samurai in the hazy film-within-a-film. Cinematographer Yuichi Nagata makes all look suitably mysterious and nocturnal, while the mise en abyme movie shimmers with mystery.

Richard Lyford’s As the Earth Turns

Pax is a lot like Superman in The Quest for Peace, except he is actually the super-villain. He intends to force the warring nations of the world to beat their arms into plowshares through his ability to unleash terrorizing storms and earthquakes. If he succeeds, they could call it Pax Pax, but the old European warmongers are skeptical. Intrepid reporter Julie Weston believes his powers are real and she intends to get the scoop in Richard Lyford’s long-lost silent film As the Earth Turns, which releases Thursday on DVD.

In the early 1930s, synch-sound was standard for Hollywood studio productions, but silent films were still widely produced internationally. By 1938, silent movies were pretty rare, but for twenty-year-old Lyford went soundless for his 45-minute ultra-indie-DIY adaptation of Arthur Train & Robert Williams Wood’s H.G. Wellsian novel, The Man Who Rocked the Earth. Before winning an Oscar for re-cutting an Italian Michelangelo documentary, Lyford had a successful career as a Disney animator, but it is really a shame he didn’t work for Toho, because he had a precocious talent for destroying scale models.

Needing s big break, Weston starts haunting an American intelligence listening station, where she overhears Pax’s initial threats. Shockingly, he then makes good on them, but all the political insiders insist it must be a coincidence. As Pax continues to batter the world with super-storms, Weston and her potential love-interest crony enlist the help of Prof. Lionel Banks, who shares Pax’s scientific mind and, as a veteran of WWI, his revulsion for war.

Eventually, the daring trio follow Pax’s sleek scifi-style airship to his Fortress of Solitude-like lair. Technically, Lyford’s film has been compared to Flash Gordon serials, which is actually quite apt. It is pretty amazing what he was able to render in his backyard and at the locations around his Seattle home. Frankly, ATET looks better than most sci-fi monster movies from the late 1950s and early 1960s. (I hate to say it, but he really makes Ed Wood look bad in comparison.)

OVID.tv: Silent Shakespeare

There was a time when playing the piano and reading Shakespeare were a typical evening’s entertainment for average families. A special night out might involve watching a traveling Shakespeare performer. It really wouldn’t have mattered if the earliest Shakespearean films were silent, because most of the audience would be familiar with the stories and a good deal of them would know the dialogue. These days, a lot of viewers don’t just need a soundtrack—they could also use Cliff Notes. At least most film lovers can appreciate the spectacle and inventiveness of the early Shakespeare films the BFI has assembled into an hour-long That’s Entertainment-style program, Silent Shakespeare (a.k.a. Play On!: Shakespeare in Silent Film), which premieres today on OVID.tv.

It seems weird the very first Shakespeare film was King John from 1899. Yet, even though it is not a contemporary favorite, it was one of the Bard’s biggest hits in his lifetime. “Gilding the Lily” sort of comes from it, via a lumped together paraphrase. Originally, it ran four minutes and consisted of four scenes, which was certainly economical filmmaking, but only the King’s death scene survives. Of course, it is grainy, but also rather spooky looking.

In addition, curator Bryony Davis scoured the BFI vaults for probably a dozen or so distinctive-looking Shakespeare silent films that editor Becci Jones stitched together for dramatic effect. Several are still quite striking looking. In fact, the Othello from 1922 looks stylistically and aesthetically similar to Orson Welles’ 1951 Othello. The visual trickery 1908’s The Tempest and 1909’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream are still amusingly mischievous. There is even the star-power of Sir John Gielgud appearing as the young Montague in the surreal one-minute Living Paintings (Romeo and Juliet).

Yet, the most intriguing clips hands-down come from Svend Gade & Heinz Schall’s Hamlet of 1920 (a.k.a. Hamlet: The Drama of Vengeance). Following in the tradition of Sarah Bernhardt, this Hamlet is played by Danish thesp Asta Nielsen as a woman secretly passing for a man, which really was a very Shakespearean twist.

Osten & Rai’s Shiraz: A Romance of India

When it comes to tragic epics, this one has all the elements. You have a foundling, a noble woman raised as a commoner, and most importantly, a love triangle. However, this is not Shakespeare. It is one of the three great Indian silent films produced by the collaboration of actor-producer Himansu Rai and expatriate German director Franz Osten. Restored to its full striking glory by the BFI, Osten’s Shiraz: A Romance of India is a visual feast for cineastes when it releases today on DVD/BluRay.

Selima was born a princess, but when the caravan taking her family north is ambushed by raiders, the abandoned girl is lucky to be adopted by a common tradesman. Initially, their son Shiraz considers her a sister, but overtime he develops an all-encompassing love for her. Unfortunately, just as Shiraz starts to get serious, Selima is kidnapped by slave traders. Shiraz follows them tenaciously, but he is powerless to intervene when she is auctioned at the slave market.

All is lost for Shiraz, but perhaps not Selima, since she is purchased by an agent of the Moghal court. In fact, Selima and Prince Khurram start to take a shine to each other, but he cannot pursue his feelings for her, because of class restrictions. Of course, that does not stop Dalia, an ambitious social-climbing noble, from growing increasingly jealous of Selima. When she notices Shiraz moping outside the palace, she starts scheming.

There is no question Shiraz is pure 100% melodrama, but it is epic in scale. The sets are big, the locations are sweepingly cinematic, and the cast of extras are worthy of Cecil B. DeMille. The clarity of the restoration makes the film really pop off the screen. Yet, what makes this edition of Shiraz so accessible is the propulsively rhythmic original score composed by Anoushka Shankar (Ravi Shankar’s daughter and Norah Jones’ half-sister).

It is amazing how a contemporary soundtrack can “open up” a classic silent film. Although Shankar is working within a classical Indian framework, her music still has a very modern sensibility. In fact, some sections are quite jazzy and it all has a killer groove. Shankar’s sitar is hypnotic, but contributions from jazz-world hybrid artists like Idris Raham on clarinet and Danny Keane on piano and cello really give the music a lush, full bodied sound.

As for the on-screen business, Rai is a woefully sad-eyed as the tragic title character, but his performance still holds up pretty well by modern standards. Charu Roy certainly looks like a dashing prince, but for contemporary viewers, it is hard to understand why he is so popular with the people when he buys slaves who were kidnapped from their homes and has people executed via elephant trampling. Regardless, Enakshi Rama Rau is appropriately delicate and sensitive, like greenhouse orchid, as Selima.

Spoiler alert: Selima will eventually be known as Mumtaz Mahal, which means the film will take an architectural turn down the stretch—as in that Mahal. Cinematographers Emil Schunemann and Henry Harris really made the Taj and the Moghul palace sparkle. Thanks to the restoration and new score, it all looks great and sounds terrific. Very highly recommended for fans of silent cinema and contemporary classical-crossover Indian music, Shiraz: A Romance of India releases today (8/13) in a DVD/BluRay combo pack.

Ozu’s A Straightforward Boy

In the history of cinema, probably no director had a finer touch when it came to working with child actors than Yasujiro Ozu. He became known for his mastery of domestic dramas, but he also made a few crime melodramas early in his career, because that was the work he could get. This silent short always sounded like a hybrid of the various types of Ozu films, but we didn’t know for sure because it was missing. Then a few years ago, sixteen minutes of the thirty-eight-minute film were re-discovered. Recently, another six minutes were uncovered. The resulting re-assembled and restored twenty-two-minute cut of Ozu’s A Straightforward Boy premieres today on Le Cinema Club.

Essentially, Straightforward Boy is a Japanese riff on O. Henry’s “The Ransom of Red Chief,” but in all honesty, Tetsubo does not seem like such a relentlessly punishing Helion. Nevertheless, he will prove to be too much for Bunkichi and his accomplice to handle. Basic math tells us there is still sixteen minutes missing from Straightforward Boy, but the latest restoration is quite cohesive in terms of narrative—especially by the standards of silent cinema, with no obvious gaps.

Still, it inevitably feels somewhat dated, particularly during the scenes in which Bunkichi tries to buy Tetsubo’s trust with toys and sweets. Frankly, his smarmy leering makes him look like a pedophile on the prowl to contemporary eyes, but that is not Ozu’s problem. It is a problem of our times.

Regardless, Tatsuo Saito definitely has a flamboyantly villainous, Snidely Whiplash kind of thing going on as Bunkichi. Tomio Aoki, who later starred in Ozu’s great classic silent feature I was Born, But… (in which Saito also appeared as his father), is suitably mischievous but not abrasively annoying as Tetsubo.

A Straightforward Boy is a perfectly nice little film, but the best way to see it is as part of a deep dive into Ozu’s collected filmography. In any event, it is great to have even more of it available, so hats off to Le Cinema Club for programming it. Recommended for all fans of Ozu and silent cinema, the freshly restored A Straightforward Boy streams 7/12-7/18.

Dreyer’s The Passion of Joan of Arc

It seems hugely ironic that arguably the greatest Joan of Arc film ever was twice thought lost to fires (just like its subject). After the first disaster, Carl Theodor Dreyer managed to reconstruct a second print from outtakes, but it too would meet a similar fate. However, an intact print of Dreyer’s original cut was discovered in the service closet of a Norwegian mental hospital. It is true, as Joan herself says: “the Lord works in mysterious ways.” The restoration of Dreyer’s uncensored original vision is indeed a blessing. Accompanied by Richard Einhorn’s eerily tragic-sounding Voices of Light score, Dreyer’s freshly restored silent classic The Passion of Joan of Arc opens this Friday at Film Forum.

Joan is a simple peasant girl, but she was visited by the Archangel Michael, who commanded her to take up arms against the English to preserve French sovereignty during the Hundred Years’ War. At least, that is what Joan believes with all her heart. However, the clergy of Rouen who remained loyal to the British are determined to force Joan to recant.

As the title suggests, Dreyer’s film dramatizes the trial and execution of Joan, drawing extensively (sometimes verbatim) from the surviving transcripts. Right from the start, it is clear Joan is ignorant of doctrinal controversies, but the innocent simplicity of her answers often exposes the cynical nature of the questions posed of her. As a result, several members of the tribunal will become disillusioned by the inquest’s Machiavellian motives. Unfortunately, Joan is already well past saving, especially when she naively trusts Bishop Pierre Cauchon when he pretends to be a protector dispatched by her revered King Charles VII.

Passion is one of those films whose illustrious reputation is probably far greater than its actual viewership, but for decades it was only circulated in inferior prints. In this case, all the hype is true, starting with Rudolph Maté’s dramatic cinematography, featuring low-angle shots filmed in trenches that predates Gregg Toland’s similar, supposedly revolutionary techniques employed on Welles’ Citizen Kane.

Yet, what really defines the film are the withering close-ups of its star, Maria Falconetti, born Renée Jeanne Falconetti and often billed simply as “Falconetti,” who is undeniably the source of the film’s mystique. It is a nakedly haunting, achingly vulnerable portrayal, captured in unforgiving tight-shots. Reportedly, it was also a physically painful performance, involving long stretches of time kneeling on stone floors. Preferring the stage over the screen, Falconetti only appeared in one prior feature and a short (both from 1917), which further heightens her aura of mystery.

Falconetti defines and personifies the film, but key supporting players hold up their end as well, which helps elevate Passion from a masterwork to a masterpiece. In fact, Eugène Silvain is nearly as remarkable as Falconetti playing the duplicitous Cauchon. We can see he is partially aware of his own damnation, but persists anyway out of misplaced fervor.

Over six-hundred years after her death, Joan remains one of France’s greatest military heroes, even though she was only a nineteen-year-old girl at the time of her execution. Likewise, Passion is still one of the greatest French films ever, even though it was directed by a Dane. Rather amazingly, Dreyer would helm what could be the first “post-horror” film four years later with Vampyr. Anyone who takes film seriously should witness the unadorned, makeup-free beauty of Passion—and Einhorn’s score deserves to be heard loud. Very highly recommended for all self-describing movie buffs, Dreyer’s The Passion of Joan of Arc opens this Friday (11/24) in New York, at Film Forum.

Restored: The Cave of the Silken Web

Is it too early to nominate persecuted human rights attorney Pu Zhiqiang for next year’s Nobel Peace Prize? Ai Weiwei’s former lawyer certainly would be a deserving recipient, but the Norwegian parliament might be a little gun shy about acknowledging another Chinese human rights activist given Beijing’s hyperventilating response to Liu Xiaobo’s 2010 Nobel honor. However, a 1927 silent “ghost-spirit” film previously considered lost might have rebuilt some diplomatic bridges (so why not burn them up again?). An incomplete but highly watchable print discovered in the National Library of Norway has since been restored and restituted to China, where hopefully they will keep better track of it this time. Fortunately, the entire world will now have opportunities to see Dan Duyu’s The Cave of the Silken Web, which screened during MoMA’s annual To Save and Project festival of film preservation.

Dan’s Web was one of the first partial adaptations of the mammoth epic The Journey to the West and a leading early example of the mystical ghost-spirit genre. Obviously, it was a hit. After all, the Shaw Brothers did not remake flops. It also encompasses a section of the novel that arguably parallels elements of Homer’s Odyssey, such as Calypso and the Sirens.

The legendary monk Xuanzang had commenced his pilgrimage to India in search of sacred Buddhist texts but he was waylaid by the Spider Queen and her six Spider Hotties in her titular cave. Ordinarily, they would just eat forlorn travelers, but since Xuanzang has the cachet of a monk, the queen intends to marry him. It will be up to his baffled companions, the Monkey King, Pigsty, and Friar Sand to save him from such an un-horrifying fate.

It is easy to laugh at Web’s effects in the post-Avatar era, but at the time it was probably really something to show a woman transforming into a spider. Reportedly, Web also featured nude scenes (that do not survive in the Norwegian print), so it must have been quite a spectacle indeed. Frankly, it is rather charming to see a major silent era filmmaker testing the limits of what film can do. It is also great to have another example of Chinese silent superstar Yin Mingzhu vamping it up as the Spider Queen. Eighty-seven years later, in a print that still carries the scars of time, we can still see her “It-Girl” presence.

Someone ought to program a sequential festival of films based on Wu Cheng’en’s Journey, encompassing the radical stylistic diversity of the animated Monkey King: Uproar in Heaven and Luo Li’s arthouse modernization, Emperor Visits the Hell. It would be great to add Web’s silent eccentricity into the mix. Yet, its vibe is not so very different from Stephen Chow & Derek Kwok’s gleeful cosmic beatdown, Journey to the West.

Web has enormous cultural significance, but it has the extra added bonus of being great popcorn fun. At MoMA, it was paired with China and the Chinese, Part 2, an eighteen minute Benjamin Brodsky newsreel from 1917. It is more of a historical curio, but the footage of the eight year-old acrobat-contortionist still draws an enthusiastic audience response. Highly recommended for fans of arachnid femme fatales and Journey to the West movies, The Web of the Silken Cave should hopefully have many more public screenings in the future at silent movie and Asian themed festivals.

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari: Restored in All Its Expressionist Glory

Never ask a sideshow somnambulist when you will die. It is simply too easy for him to make his prophecies come true, especially when he is commanded by a psychotic Svengali with advanced psychiatric training. It is a mistake people still repeat in horror movies. There are a great many such genre motifs that can be traced back to this silent German classic, but the inferiority of public domain prints made it difficult to fully appreciate its feverish vision. Happily, Robert Weine’s ground-breaking The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari has been digitally restored to its original German expressionist glory, or as close as humanly possible. After playing to a packed house as part of MoMA’s annual To Save and Project film series, Weine’s restored Caligari (trailer here) opens this Friday at Film Forum.

Like the Ancient Mariner, Francis has a story that will disturb his elderly listener, but it needs to be told. It involves his rather distraught-looking fiancée Jane Olsen, and his best friend Alan. Like the German equivalent of Jules and Jim, both men openly courted Olsen, but resolved to remain friends regardless whom she chooses. Unfortunately, the choice will be made for her when the two friends attend the annual fair.

This year, Dr. Caligari has been granted a permit to exhibit his somnambulist, Cesare, by the soon to be deceased city clerk. According to Caligari, Cesare exists in a state of uncanny slumber, but can be temporarily roused to predict the future. “When will I die,” asks Alan. “At first dawn,” replies the zombie-like Cesare. Late that evening, a hulking figure roughly Cesare’s shape makes the prediction come true. Distraught over the death of his friend, Francis starts pursuing his killer, quickly focusing his suspicions on Caligari and Cesare.

Hans Janowitz & Carl Mayer’s screenplay is considerably more sophisticated than most silent era potboilers, but the ironic framing device was not their idea. In fact, it is largely thought to subvert their ideological intentions. Nevertheless, it is hard to feel comfortable with the authority Caligari’s represents, despite the eleventh hour twist. Indeed, Cabinet can be seen as an early example of subjective reality achieving equal standing with objective reality.

Regardless, Cabinet is a thoroughly otherworldly environment that only vaguely approximates the forms of our world. Aside from that titular box, you will hardly find any right angles in this town out of time. Instead, everything is made out of jagged lines and slanting diagonals. Janowitz and Mayer’s screenplay was conceived out of aesthetic notions of film as a truly collaborative, inter-disciplinary endeavor, where set designers would be as creatively engaged as actors, writers, and directors. Cabinet might the greatest realization of their egalitarian ideal.

Visually, it is an absolute wonder—and a disorienting horror show. The 4K restoration went back to the incomplete camera negative and the best extant prints available, adding footage typically not seen in PD cuts. The original inter-titles have been reinserted and the seemingly abrupt cuts have been augmented with previously missing frames. Gone are the hiss and scratches, replaced by a close approximation of the 1920 color tints and washes. It all looks great on the big screen—and the bigger the better.

Rather inconveniently, it is Werner Krause’s performance as Caligari that holds up best for contemporary viewers. He chews the scenery with villainous relish, shifting gears on a dime when necessary. Despite Cabinet’s lineage, Krause would become an outspoken supporter of the National Socialists and star in Veit Harlan’s notoriously anti-Semitic Jew Süss. On the other hand, Conrad Veidt would play Major Strasser in Casablanca, but he sleepwalks (in a literal sense) through the picture as Cesare. Still, the physicality and theatricality of his work have helped make Cabinet so iconic.

This is a true classic film that has lost none of its power to mesmerize, but the restoration makes it a much smoother and more lucid viewing experience. Almost a century later it remains vastly influential, even though for years it has not been shown in its true glory. Very highly recommended, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari opens Halloween Friday (10/31) in New York at Film Forum.

Aesthetics of Shadow: Japanese Girls at the Harbor

For romantically inclined girls coming of age in the port city of Yokohama, the ocean liners cruising in and out inspire frustrated daydreams.  As they grow older, they become a cruel tease. Social mobility only works in one direction—downward—and geographical mobility never changes their underlying circumstances.  Life is practically Victorian in Hiroshi Shimizu’s silent 1933 classic, Japanese Girls at the Harbor, which screens during Aesthetics of Shadow, a retrospective survey of the striking black and white cinematography of pre- to post- war Japanese cinema and the Hollywood films that served as a guiding model.

Sunako Kurokawa and Dora Kennel are students at Yokohama’s Catholic school, who both have eyes for Henry, the bad boy biker.  Initially, it seems the more forward Sunako holds the advantage, but Henry is just toying with them both.  He has taken up with Yôko Sheridan, a scandalous woman better suited to the gangster life he has been flirting with.  Kurokawa does not respond well to this revelation.  In fact, things get out of hand, forcing her take flight.

Eventually, Kurokawa returns to Yokohama, plying her trade as an ambiguous bar hostess. Much to her surprise, Kennel has settled to down with Henry, living a life of married middleclass respectability.  This is not a time and place where social classes mix.  Nevertheless, Kurokawa cannot resist looking up her old intimate associates and they cannot bring themselves to turn her away.  There will be a lot of angst generated as a result, particularly from the artist Miura, who kind of sort of acts like Kurokawa’s common law husband.

Visually, the work of Shimizu and cinematographer Taro Sasaki is dramatically stylish.  It is clear from the outset why Harbor was selected for Aesthetics of Shadow.  At times, Shimizu’s camera work is quite bold, not unlike what you might find some of Scorsese’s better films.  In fact, the pivotal scene of Kurokawa’s downfall is downright mesmerizing, even by contemporary standards.  Yet, despite Shimizu’s modern technical approach, the film is surprisingly forceful in its defense of conventional middle class morality. Regardless of the circumstances, it argues Kurokawa should have known better and must assume responsibility for her actions.

Still, Kurokawa remains a sympathetic figure, thanks in large measure to Michiko Oikawa’s achingly vulnerable portrayal.  Yukiko Inoue also gives a subtly expressive performance as Kennel.  In contrast, it is hard to understand why they would make such a fuss over Ureo Egawa’s rather wooden Henry.  In truth, this is really a woman’s movie through and through, with Ranko Sawa scoring a death scene worthy of Ruan Lingyu. Yet, also Yasuo Nanjo earns props for his Adolphe Menjou-esque turn as Kurokawa’s natty gentleman “customer,” Harada.

Throughout Harbor, Shimizu gives viewers a vivid sense of the girls’ environment through still shots of Yokohama.  Often they appear closely akin to the “pillow shots” that would become a hallmark of Yasujiro Ozu’s later work, except they have a somewhat more noir flavor.  Like the partially westernized city itself, Shimizu’s film is a distinctive fusion of the innovative and the traditional.  A masterwork of the late Japanese silent era, Japanese Girls at the Harbor is highly recommended for all serious cineastes.  It screens this coming Tuesday (1/14) and Wednesday (1/15) as part of MoMA’s Aesthetics of Shadow and is also available in Criterion’s Shimizu Eclipse boxed set.

Orson Welles’ Too Much Johnson

It is not exactly the missing forty minutes of The Magnificent Ambersons, but for Orson Welles fans it is still quite significant.  Long considered lost to the ages, the silent short films Welles conceived for an ahead-of-its time stage production have been found (in Italy, as it happens) and restored by the film preservation department of the George Eastman House. Despite their strange genesis, the shorts known collectively as Too Much Johnson perfectly represent the Welles filmography—they are brash, innovative, and unfinished. Always fascinating and sometimes genuinely entertaining, Too Much Johnson, Welles' first stab at filmmaking, had its long awaited New York premiere last night, courtesy of the Eastman House (promo here).

William Gillette’s summer stock staple Too Much Johnson is not revived very often anymore—and the Mercury Theatre’s disastrous production probably deserves its share of the blame.  It literally bombed in New Haven. Welles’ original vision was rather ground-breaking.  Each act would be preceded by a short silent film in the Max Sennett tradition that would dramatize all the play’s exposition and backstories.  Of course, Welles never finished any of the shorts (and it is unclear whether the Stony Creek Theater could have accommodated them anyway), but since he had cut all the presumably redundant background information from the text, the production reportedly baffled critics and patrons alike.

To help contemporary viewers, the Eastman House’s preservation and curatorial staff provided running commentary throughout the New York screening, in addition to the requisite piano accompaniment.  Eastman House made no editorial decisions, preserving every frame that came in the can.  As a result, there are plenty of gaps, as well as repetitive takes of the same scene.  Yet, the finished restoration is a smoother audience experience than it might sound like. Serendipitously, the multiple versions are often madcap hi-jinks that when viewed continuously appear as if the characters are caught in a surreal loop.

The first act prelude is the most complete and easiest to follow. Joseph Cotten plays a man named Billings, who has been romancing another man’s wife under the assumed name of Johnson.  Coming home earlier than expected, the betrayed Dathis chases the man he thinks is Johnson across the future Meatpacking District, eventually ending on the ocean liner that will take both men’s families to Cuba for a dubious vacation.  (Once there, Billings looks up an old friend, only to find his plantation is now owned by a man who really is named Johnson.  Hilarity no doubt ensues.)

Frankly, Cotten’s prowess for Harold Lloyd comedy is quite impressive.  He shimmies across ledges and drags ladders over rooftops like a rubber-boned pro.  As if that were not enough, the first short also delivers Welles’ ever indulgent producer, John Houseman, as a bumbling beat cop.

The second and third constituent shorts are much more fragmentary, but there are some striking day-for-night shots of a Hudson Valley quarry, decked out with palm trees to resemble Cuba.  Periodically, one gets a glimmer of Welles’ developing eye for composition. Cotten also maintains his energetic good sportsmanship as the caddish anti-hero.

Johnson might be a bunch of odds and ends compared to Welles later masterpieces, but it is strangely compelling to watch the bedlam he unleashes with his co-conspirators.  The Eastman program also includes a three minute 16mm film documenting Welles directing Johnson that seems about as chaotic as you would imagine.  Yet, there is also something very poignant about the happy-go-lucky but incomplete work, prefiguring Welles later abortive attempts to produce his Don Quixote. 

Too Much Johnson is enormously important as cinematic history but also a good deal of fun.  The Eastman House intends to hold future screenings with live commentary, so cineastes should definitely keep an eye on their website.  They also hope to stage Welles' adaptation of the stage play incorporating excerpts of the shorts, which is impressively ambitious.

Blancanieves: Snow White in the Bull Ring

If often seems like the Academy’s rules for the best foreign language category are obscure and arbitrarily applied.  Frankly, the only language spoken in Spain’s official submission is body language.  Yet, Pablo Berger’s silent film qualified.  In fairness, it is about as Spanish as it gets, earning eighteen Goya nominations for combining the Snow White fairy tale with the rich tradition of bullfighting.  Unfortunately, Blancanieves (trailer here) will not repeat The Artist’s Oscar success, failing to even reach the foreign language shortlist.  However, it should still find considerable arthouse love when it opens this Friday in New York.

Antonio Villalta was a great matador, but one day he faced one bull too many.  As the paralyzed Villalta lies upon the operating table, his beloved sadly dies in child birth.  Recognizing a ticket to the easy life, the cold, calculating nurse Encarna sets her sites on the weakened widower.  Yes, you could say she is an evil stepmother to young Carmen.  Initially raised by her grandmother, Carmen is forced to become a servant on the Villalta estate after the kindly old woman’s death.  Though forbidden to see her father, she starts paying furtive visits to the equally miserable Villalta.  Even confined to his wheelchair, Villalta teaches her everything about the family business.  It will be a useful skill when things come to a head with Encarna.

Suffering from amnesia, Carmen falls in with an itinerant company of diminutive novelty bullfighters.  When her innate talent and extensive training are revealed, the troupe is quickly redubbed “Blancanieves and the Seven Dwarfs.”  They seem to be one dwarf short, but they are never sticklers for details in Spain.  Obviously, the act is a hit, which perturbs Encarna and you know what that means.

Blancanieves is the third Snow White adaptation in about a year’s time and by far the best.  Yet, it will draw far more comparisons to Michel Hazanavicius’s Artist than Kristen Stewart’s home-wrecking Huntsman.  Without question, Berger is a much richer visual stylist than the Oscar winning director.  On the other hand Hazanavicius’s elegantly light touch, flair for physical comedy, and old fashioned romanticism are ultimately a tad more satisfying.  Nonetheless, Berger frames some stunningly expressionistic tableaux and his transitions are a show unto themselves.  However, he embraces all of the tragic heaviness of the Brothers Grimm and almost none of their macabre fantasy.

The cast is also quite strong (but again The Artist’s ensemble would narrowly take the honors in a face-off).  Daniel Giménez Cacho’s work as Villalta is particularly poignant and the dwarfs stand head-and-shoulders above their more famous counterparts in Huntsman.  Sofía Oria is also quite touching as young Carmen (while Macarena García’s older incarnation is somewhat less so).

Watching Blancanieves one is struck by the painstaking composition of each shot and the care taken to perfectly match every note of Alfonso de Vilallonga’s score (featuring both sweeping orchestral pieces and some infectious flamenco-inspired songs).  Furthermore, the lack of award season recognition for Kiko de la Rica’s gorgeous black-and-white cinematography is nothing less than a crime.  A work of true cinematic artistry, Blancanieves is recommended for all real movie lovers when it opens this Friday (1/25) in New York.

Goddess: Daybreak

Like Ruan Lingyu, Li Lili was a true diva of silent Chinese cinema.  If you think former diva status would not be particularly convenient during the Cultural Revolution, your suspicions are correct. Having upstaged Madame Mao in the 1930’s hardly helped either.  Yet, there should have been no complaints with the ideological content of Sun Yu’s Daybreak, which screens this Tuesday as part of the Asia Society’s current film series, Goddess: Chinese Women on Screen.

Ling Ling is a fresh faced country girl, who comes to Shanghai with her man in search of employment.  Briefly, things look promising when they find work at a yarn factory.  Unfortunately, trouble with the law forces him to ship out as a merchant seaman, leaving her vulnerable to the city’s predatory elements.

First, Ling Ling is drugged and raped by the playboy factory owner.  Later, when wondering lost through the city, she is sold into a brothel by an ostensive protector.  It might be a bad business, but Ling Ling adapts to it, reasserting command of her illicit destiny as a high-priced prostitute, but with both a heart of gold and a raised political consciousness.  Dispensing aid to her struggling neighbors while conspiring with subversive elements, Ling Ling truly becomes a new woman.

Of course, it ends tragically.  All the best propaganda does.  Although Daybreak is not as stylishly realized as Wu Yonggang’s The Goddess, the revolutionary hooker is certainly a much more attractive radicalizing agent than the clenched-fist factory worker.  The camera absolutely loves her, and just like Ruan, she knew how to milk a death scene for all its worth.

It is not hard to see why Li was such a Diva of the silent era (in fact, she was once part of a theatrical tandem known as the Four Divas).  Her Ling Ling is cute, innocent, and eventually saucy, but nobody’s dummy.  Despite all the wrongs done to Ling Ling, she is never a mere victim in Daybreak, which is a major reason why it remains such a notable work.

A product of its time, Daybreak is an interesting but imperfect film, whereas Li’s story is absolutely fascinating.  China’s last living silent film star, she led an epic life ways both great and terrifying.  Indeed, it raises a great historical “what if” question.  In the way we wonder about Hitler’s artistic frustrations, perhaps if Lan Ping (a.k.a. Jiang Qing) had been a better actress, the suffering of millions might have been avoided.  Recommended in its own right mostly for Li Lili’s luminous presence, Daybreak screens this Tuesday night (11/20) at the Asia Society, as their can’t miss Goddess series continues.

Goddess: New Women

Could a woman have it all in 1930’s Shanghai?  Not even close.  Wei Ming will try, but a vindictive former lover and an exploitative press will cost her dearly.  An eerie case of art foreshadowing life, Cai Chusheng’s New Women became one of Ruan Lingyu’s best known films, partly for reasons of tragic symmetry.  Appropriately, it screens this Sunday as part of the Asia Society’s new film series Goddess: Chinese Women on Screen, largely inspired by Ruan herself.

Often called the “Chinese Greta Garbo” Ruan appears to be something like the Chinese Joan Crawford in New Women’s early scenes. A music teacher at a progressive women’s school, she has written a debut novel so promising, a publishing house actually buys it, even though she is a woman.  Her only problem is Dr. Wang, a well-heeled but unwelcomed suitor, who already happens to be married.  Stung by her rejection, Wang bribes Wei’s headmistress, hoping sudden unemployment will force her into his arms.  For Wei, it could not have come at a worse time.

Like anyone, Wei Ming made mistakes in her life.  Eloping with the wrong man was one of them.  When he abandoned her and their baby, Wei was forced to send Wei Xiaohong to live with her aunt.  After years apart, Wei is finally about to take custody of the daughter she loves but never met.  However, when the young girl arrives, she exhibits rather worrisome symptoms.  Though quickly diagnosed, Wei and her sister lack the funds to pay for her hospitalization.

It is hard to imagine anything as manipulative as dying child and Cai duly milks it for all it is worth.  He innocently abetted by Chen Sujuan, who is absolutely heartbreaking as the young girl.  Yet, it is Ruan’s extended final exit that truly dominates the film, ranking with Garbo’s famous scene in Camille.

In some ways, New Women is surprisingly modern for a silent film, employing some rather feverish montages and displaying an unmistakable sexual frankness.  Moreover, its unflattering depiction of scandal-mongering journalists is just as timely here and now as it was in Republican China, but this led the press to vociferously turn against New Women and Ruan, by extension.  It is also an example of one of Cai’s more overtly leftist films, ending with a Soviet style march of women workers, not so subtly warning of things to come.  Sadly, it would be co-star Zheng Junli, a lifetime progressive, who was most in need of that warning, considering how greatly he would suffer during the Cultural Revolution.

Ruan was a beautiful, hauntingly expressive artist, with a presence of orchid-like fragility.  While Goddess is a fuller, more satisfying film, her gifts are readily apparent throughout New Women.   Recommended for silent movie buffs, students of early feminist film, and those who just appreciate a good weepy tragedy, New Women screens this Sunday (11/11) at the Asia Society as part of their must-see Goddess series, which starts with the title film this Friday (11/9).

Goddess: Ruan Lingyu, a True Diva of Chinese Cinema

Ruan Lingyu was often called the “Chinese Greta Garbo,” but unfortunately Marilyn Monroe might be a more tragically apt comparison.  Dogged by scandal, the celebrated actress would take her own life in 1935.  Awareness of her fate adds even more poignancy to her work in Wu Yonggang’s The Goddess, a classic of silent Chinese cinema, which inspired the title of the Asia Society’s latest film series, Goddess: Chinese Women on Screen.  Fittingly, it launches their retrospective this Friday.

Ruan’s character has no name.  Nor does she have a husband, but she has Shuiping, a baby boy for whom she will do anything.  With no other resources, the woman is forced to sell herself on Shanghai’s predatory streets.  There are no codes or euphemisms here.  She is a prostitute, plain and simple.  Operating outside the law, she has no recourse when “the boss” appoints himself her pimp.  While she tries to escape his clutches, he threatens to take the only bright spot in her life: Shuiping.

Nevertheless, as Shuiping matures, his mother sets aside money at great risk to pay for his education, at great personal risk.  Unfortunately, intolerant parents complain to the progressive headmaster, claiming the presence of a prostitute’s son would threaten their children’s morals.

Released the year before Ruan’s sad demise, Goddess is arguably like an Oprah pick for 1930’s Shanghai.  It forthrightly deals with issues of gender victimization and class exploitation, working towards a bittersweet conclusion, with the emphasis on the bitter.  Yet, Ruan elevates the film well beyond the realm of social issue melodrama. 

While the appeal of some silent stars, like say Mary Pickford, is not always compatible with contemporary tastes, Ruan has a timeless beauty and projects a devastating vulnerability as the unnamed woman.  She also has heartbreakingly touching chemistry with young Li Keng as the sweet-tempered Shuiping.  Li Juunpan, a stage actor who crossed over to silent movies, also brings remarkable presence and dignity to the film as the John Dewey-esque headmaster, while Zhang Zhizhi personifies sweaty odiousness as “the Boss.”

Ruan’s work in Goddess is so honest and powerful, it transcends time and fashion.  In fact, there are none of the grossly exaggerated performances that often date silent cinema.  A true classic in any era, The Goddess will leave viewers deeply moved, in a fully satisfying way.  Highly recommended, it screens this Friday (11/9) at the Asia Society.  The touchstone figure for the series, Ruan also stars in New Women screening this Sunday (11/11) and is the subject of Stanley Kwan’s biopic Center Stage, which concludes the series on Saturday, December 8^th.

A Silent Contender: The Artist

Talking pictures were a truly Schumpeterian phenomenon for Hollywood. As any film lover knows from Singin’ in the Rain, some silent movie stars could weather the creative destruction wrought by the transition to sound, whereas some could not. Matinee idol George Valentin was one of those who could not “talk.” Fittingly, his story is a told silently (or nearly so) in The Artist (trailer here), Michel Hazanavicius’s glorious black-and-white homage to the golden age of Hollywood, which opens this Friday in New York.

It is 1927. George Valentin is at the height of his popularity as a Douglas Fairbanks style swashbuckler. He has just fought the red menace as an agent of free Georgia in The Russian Affair. However, studio mogul Al Zimmer has something disturbing to show him: synchronized sound. Dismissing the future, Valentin returns to work on his next picture, which will be only remembered as the brief screen debut of future superstar Peppy Miller. Obviously thrilled to have any screen time, Miller is particularly excited to share a scene with her favorite star, George Valentin.

When talkies become the standard, Miller’s career takes off like a rocket with frothy romantic comedies. Meanwhile, Valentin’s attempt to finance his own silent comeback vehicle proves disastrous. Yet, Miller’s feelings for yesterday’s leading man remain unchanged.

Hazanavicius consciously draws from dozens of classic films (both pre- and post-Jazz Singer), as well as numerous real larger-than-life Hollywood figures. What follows incorporates elements of A Star is Born, Sunset Boulevard, and Greta Garbo’s relationship with John Gilbert. (Sadly, many modern movie-goers will miss the allusions, but perhaps the notion of a film without diegetic sound might be a brand new novelty item for them.)

As the product of many artists’ work, the film is a visual splendor, beginning with Guillaume Schiffman’s lush and moody black-and-white cinematography (shot in color, but printed in fabulous shades of gray, as per today’s standard practice), which makes the elegant sets and costumes softly glow like a Cecil Beaton portrait. Still, it is the depth of Hazanavicius’s screenplay that really distinguishes The Artist.

Not merely a series of winks at TCM watchers, the film is quite a touching love story, completely free of irony. On the two occasions it breaks format, sound is used in creative ways that cleverly advance the film. Periodically, Hazanavicius also appears to indulge in a witty in-joke, yet in each case, their unexpected dramatic logic catches us by surprise. Likewise, while his inter-titles have a simplicity befitting the period, they convey a surprising richness of meaning.

Familiar to American audiences from Hazanavicius’s French OSS 117 spy spoofs, Jean Dujardin gives another very physical performance here, but the complexity and pathos of his Valentin is in a whole different league. Indeed, it is a tricky proposition to play a mugging actor without ever mugging for the camera, yet he is never overly broad or over the top, keeping the faded movie star acutely human throughout. He also develops some endearing romantic chemistry with Bérénice Bejo as Miller.

Frankly, the Argentine-French Bejo is about the only person working in film today who can approximate the glamorous look of Hollywood in its heyday (yes, this definitely includes Michelle Williams). Exquisite and vulnerable, she deserves a bit of award attention along with Dujardin, the best actor winner at this year’s Cannes. In contrast, the American supporting cast does not have much to do, but John Goodman’s cigar-chomping shtick works perfectly for Zimmer, even without sound.

After winning over all but the most jaded critics at this year’s New York Film Festival, The Artist has emerged as a major Oscar contender. Frankly, this is the film for the Weinsteins to put their chips on, not the Marilyn story or Madonna’s vanity project. It is a beautifully rendered valentine to movie-making, featuring two wildly charismatic romantic leads. Highly recommended, The Artist opens this Friday (11/25) in New York at the Paris Theater and Angelika Film Center.

NYFF ’11: The Artist

Talking pictures were a truly Schumpeterian phenomenon for Hollywood. As any film lover knows from Singin' in the Rain, some silent movie stars could weather the creative destruction wrought by the transition to sound, whereas some could not. Matinee idol George Valentin was one of those who could not “talk.” Fittingly, his story is a told silently (or nearly so) in The Artist (trailer here), Michel Hazanavicius’s glorious black-and-white homage to the golden age of Hollywood, which screens tonight at the 49th New York Film Festival.

It is 1927. George Valentin is at the height of his popularity as a Douglas Fairbanks style swashbuckler. He has just fought the red menace as an agent of free Georgia in The Russian Affair. However, studio mogul Al Zimmer has something disturbing to show him: synchronized sound. Dismissing the future, Valentin returns to work on his next picture, which will be remembered as the brief screen debut of future superstar Peppy Miller. Obviously thrilled to have any screen time, Miller is particularly excited to share a scene with her favorite star, George Valentin.

When talkies become the standard, Miller’s career takes off like a rocket with frothy romantic comedies. Meanwhile, Valentin’s attempt to finance his own silent comeback vehicle proves disastrous. Yet, Miller’s feelings for yesterday’s leading man remain unchanged.

Hazanavicius consciously draws from dozens of classic films (both pre- and post-Jazz Singer), as well as numerous real larger-than-life Hollywood figures. What follows incorporates elements of A Star is Born, Sunset Boulevard, and Greta Garbo’s relationship with John Gilbert. (Sadly, many modern movie-goers will miss the allusions, but perhaps the notion of a film without diegetic sound might be a brand new novelty item for them.)

The work of many artists, the film is a visual splendor, beginning with Guillaume Schiffman’s lush and moody black-and-white cinematography, which makes the elegant sets and costumes softly glow like a Cecil Beaton portrait. Still, it is the depth of Hazanavicius’s screenplay that really distinguishes The Artist.

Not merely a series of winks at TCM watchers, the film is quite a touching love story, completely free of irony. On the two occasions he breaks format, sound is used in creative ways that cleverly advance the film. Periodically, Hazanavicius also appears to indulge in a witty in-joke, yet in each case, their dramatic logic quickly catches us by surprise. Likewise, while his intertitles have a simplicity befitting the period, they convey a surprising richness of meaning.

Familiar to American audiences from the French OSS spy spoofs, Jean Dujardin gives another very physical performance here, but the complexity and pathos of his Valentin is in a whole different league. Indeed, it is a tricky proposition to play a mugging actor without ever mugging for the camera, yet he is never overly broad or over the top, keeping the faded movie star acutely human throughout. He also develops some endearing romantic chemistry with Bérénice Bejo as Miller.

Frankly, the Argentine-French Bejo is about the only person working in film today who can approximate the glamorous look of Hollywood in its heyday (yes, this definitely includes Michelle Williams). Exquisite and vulnerable, she deserves a bit of award attention along with Dujardin, the best actor winner at this year’s Cannes. In contrast, the American supporting cast does not have much to do, but John Goodman’s cigar-chomping shtick works perfectly for Zimmer, even without sound.

Right now, the Oscar prognosticators are focusing on Dujardin for best actor, but with a shrewd campaign behind it, The Artist might have a puncher’s chance at the top prize. It is a beautifully rendered valentine to movie-making, featuring two wildly charismatic romantic leads. Highly recommended, The Artist was one of the highlights of a very strong slate at this year’s NYFF. It screens again this afternoon (10/16) at Alice Tully Hall on the final day of the festival.