I WAS BORN, BUT...(Yasujiro Ozu, 1932).
The sound film came late to Japan, and in at least one instance that
was good fortune, for the world now has this amazing little silent gem
from Ozu, his first major success. The story follows two young boys
adjusting to their new neighborhood. They are opposed by a group of
kids with a bully at their head, and the games and power struggles between
these children are gone into in sharp detail. Ozu draws parallels, with
a light, humorous touch but without condescension, between the behavior
of the kids and the social relationships of adults. Everything that
is taken for granted - passively acquiesced to - in the adult world,
is acted out with an almost grotesque explicitness by the children.
There are even little rituals of domination and submission that become
part of the initiation of the kids' group. When the two sons realize
that their father, whom they think of as a great man, has to kowtow
to his boss, the father of a kid that they look down on, the satiric
implications of the story become marvelously complex. I Was Born,
But... is an odd, moving mixture of farce and intriguing social
comment. On the surface it seems to affirm the status quo. On a deeper
level it suggests that people need to go beyond the rigid, competitive
structures of class and social standing if they want to be happy - an
unusual point of view for its time and place, and - sadly - a message
that was largely ignored, as Japan continued its descent into militarism.
The release of this film on VHS by New Yorker Video is a welcome event.
The print is wonderful. Only one complaint from me - no music! Every
silent film should have accompaniment. (I guess the folks at New Yorker
needed to cut costs.) I had to make due with some Debussy piano music,
which actually seemed to fit pretty well.
THE OLD DARK HOUSE (James Whale, 1932).
The horror film was well-established as a genre, even at this early
date, so the horror spoof was not far behind. In fact, Universal had
done it before with The Cat and the Canary. Here we have three
travellers - husband and wife Raymond Massey and Gloria Stuart, along
with their friend Melvyn Douglas, getting stranded in a thunderstorm
and of course seeking shelter in a spooky old mansion. The hosts are
a timid old man with bizarre mannerisms (Ernest Thesiger), his rude,
menacing wife (Eva Moore), and a mute drunken monster of a butler (Boris
Karloff).
The first forty minutes or so are very funny indeed. Thesiger and Moore
are a hoot - the contrast between the civilized air of the guests and
the insanity of the hosts is played to the hilt. Whale is in his element,
with deft use of the moving camera and sudden close-up. The photography
(Whale regular Arthur Edeson) is wonderful. The script is based on a
J.B. Priestley book, and it has a certain wit and breeziness. However,
when two more travellers arrive at the house (Charles Laughton and Lillian
Bond), the movie starts trying to be a romance as well as a comedy,
with Douglas and Bond pairing up as lovebirds, and the movie skids off
into an uneasy mixture of horse-play and serious drama. The picture
fails to live up to its promise, with a weak resolution involving some
other mad relatives who live in the house.
It's interesting that Karloff, with a minimal, non-speaking part, gets
top-billing over all these other big names. Well, everyone was really
just getting started in their careers at that point. But beyond that
is the fact that Karloff was Universal's one home-grown star in the
picture. All the rest were imported from other studios, which was Universal's
method. My, but Gloria Stuart (yes, that one) was very lovely.
The Old Dark House isn't quite the treat I had hoped for. The
second half of the movie feels forced. But mid-level Whale is still
worth a look, and this picture is a fun diversion for a stormy night.
THE OUTLAW AND HIS WIFE
(Victor Sjöström, 1918).
A man who stole in order to feed his family hides out on a farm. The
rich widow who owns the farm falls in love with him and marries him.
When his identity is discovered, she gives up everything to run off
with him to the mountains.
Swedish film was in the forefront of innovation in cinema's early years,
largely due to the genius of pioneer director Sjostrom. This film is
impressive for several reasons. The acting is natural. The performers
(Sjöström himself plays the outlaw) do not grimace or gesticulate
theatrically, as was all too common in film of those days. Their gestures
are quietly expressive and restrained. Also, the director has found
a pace which is appropriate to film - the editing is crisp and moves
the story along without dragging. Finally, the film's use of landscape
is very striking. A great deal of the film's second half was shot on
location in the mountains of northern Sweden, and Sjöström
created stunning pictorial effects that in terms of beauty had never
been approached before. If they seem less amazing now, it is of course
because the art of cinematography has advanced so far in eighty years.
The themes of The Outlaw and His Wife are characteristic of Swedish
film: the inexorable power of fate and the law of love. Humanity cannot
escape the tragedies of life, but they have resort to love to get through
them. Glimmering through the story's trappings of 19th century melodrama
is a stark, clear-eyed quality that preserves the film's interest.
UNDER THE ROOFS OF PARIS
(Rene Clair, 1930).
Rene Clair was one of the great directors of French silent cinema, and
he did not have good things to say about the advent of sound. But when
sound did come, Clair was in the vanguard again. From the first moment,
when we hear a street singer in Paris as the camera descends from above
the buildings to a little neighborhood below, we know we are experiencing
a film by a master. The story, as it turns out, is rather slight. The
singer (Albert Prejean) falls in love with a young woman (Pola Illery).
But he gets mixed up with some street criminals and ends up in jail
for a crime he didn't commit. While he's in there, his girlfriend finds
herself drawn to his best friend (Edmond Greville). The picture's charm
lies in its frank portrayal of working class life, and Clair's inventive
use of sound. The dialogue is brisk and brief, always used sparingly
with information being imparted whenever possible by the visuals. Mood
is established by little songs and background tunes - it's not really
a musical the way we think of it, but a comedy with incidental music.
The tone is unsentimental, with that refreshing attitude towards sex,
completely free of moralism, which is so characteristic of the best
French movies of that time, and such a contrast to the grotesquely affected
squeamishness of American pictures. Still, there is still something
tentative here, the sense that Clair hasn't quite found his rhythm in
talkies. He was to attain much greater success with the madcap vitality
of Le Million and the delicious satire of A Nous la Liberte.
But Under the Roofs of Paris was a fine beginning - the first
artistic triumph of the French sound film.
Chris Dashiell
