Wednesday, September 12, 2007

The Userer

The Userer (1910) - This is a virtual remake of A Corner in Wheat, with the same cuts between rich and poor, the same ironic death of the greedy capitalist, and virtually none of the visual poetry that made the first film such a success. One gets the feeling that Griffith was just cranking them out here. Surely, he strongly maintained his moral indignation just as fully as before, but perhaps time was encroaching on him that particular week and little creative or distinctive content resulted.

Actually, there is some ambitious attempts here, particularly in the number of stories being told. The evil Userer (George Nichols, looking unsettlingly Jewish here, with a rotund figure and thick black moustache) has ordered his henchmen to confiscate property on all who cannot immediately pay back their loans. His men visit four separate homes, each of which cannot afford to pay. The jump cuts between the Userer living it up at his banquets (as in Wheat) and those who are suffering to pay for his indulgences, expands the cinematic space and requires the viewers, who must be becoming more sophisticated, to associate cause and effect with a wider world of associations.

There is nothing confusing about The Userer, but there is nothing really compelling about it either. The most poignant scene in the film is when a mother (credited as Kate Bruce, but looking to me very much like Linda Arvidson) is forced to surrender the bed in which her deathly ill daughter is lying. The bed removed, she helps the poor sick girl (a dark-haired Mary Pickford with nothing to do but look as though she is near death) unsteadily to a chair. This scene is nearly unbearable in its pathos, probably because we know that such things did (and continue to) occur.

Another dramatic sequence is a melodramatic jump cut in which one despondent money-ower holds out a gun to shoot himself in the chest. Griffith jumps to the gaiety of the banquet, then back to the man, who slumps to the floor, having pulled the trigger during the duration of the cut. The contrast is thus powerful, and the sense of cause and effect is firmly established.

Finally, though, the film cannot keep that many characters interesting, particularly as there is such repetition in the action. Griffith has expanded his mise-en-scene to over 40 shots here, but very little development of action is revealed - we simply need all these shots to contain all the participants and complete their stories.

Inevitably, the greedy Userer gets his deadly come-uppance by being accidently locked in his own vault overnight. We watch him suffer in his agonizing death throws, as we did the lovers in The Sealed Room (Griffith repeating himself again). But it has nowhere near the emotional impact of the violently unexpected fall of the Wheat King into his grainery. The image was still probably horrific to early movie goers, but for us, what once was dramatic has become dull hack work.

That is probably too harsh. Griffith was extraordinarily prolific, and with his schedule, there is no doubt that he had to resort frequently to self imitation.

As far as his social vision goes, there is no progression. The Userer’s sister (Grace Henderson), resolves after her brother’s horrific death to return all the property and cancel all the debts. That the answers to society’s problems reside in the human heart is nothing new to Griffith or his overly simplistic view of humanity. But shall we castigate him for naivety - or shall we have to conclude that while this view is presented in a hopelessly sentimental manner here, that the basic truth of his assertion rings obviously, clearly true?

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

The Unchanging Sea

The Unchanging Sea (1910) - This simple story is told by great economy of means and understated acting. "Suggested by" a poem by Charles Kingsley, "The Three Fishers," The Unchanging Sea tells the story of a poor fisherman (Arthur V. Johnson) and his wife (Linda Arvidson, nee Griffith). We see them first as a young couple, living among the shanty houses stretching across an edge of beach. We see them romping happily on the shoreline. In some manner I cannot tell, he either discerns, or she tells him, that she is pregnant, and they embrace. The next shot shows the happy couple racing through the small populace of the town as everyone shouts their congratulations. How they know the big news is difficult to understand, as the immediate cut from the beach to this scene suggests continuous action. The two of them return, laughing, to their small home.

Act 2 of the drama begins with the title card "OUT TO SEA." Another man knocks at the door, and the fisherman emerges, arrayed for his voyage. The wife follows him fearfully, and clings to him. (What, does she think he’s never going fishing?) Three fishermen kiss their wives good-bye and scramble down to a small boat, which is pushed off the shore by another group of men. The women all stand staring after them as they row out into the surf. The other two women depart, leaving Arvidson, framed alone on the left of the screen, her back to us, holding her hand aloft in a farewell gesture. As the boat pulls out of the frame, she slowly drops her arm and stands, passively staring at the ocean. Griffith shows a lovely touch of poetry here, as he allows the camera to linger on her for quite some time as the surf beats in, suggesting both her sadness and a sense of foreboding.

A title card asks "WILL THEY EVER RETURN?" A large, bearded man with his back to us stares impassively out to sea, as each of the three wives approach him in turn to ask if the boat has returned. He simply shakes his head no to each of them in turn. This repeated device seems superfluous, but it rings with the kind of repetition that one might find in an old folk tale or song - or in this case, in a poem.

Another title card announces "STILL HOPEFUL THEY MAY RETURN." Once again, we see a woman’s back staring out to sea, as Arvidson comes creeping slowly, diagonally into the frame, her body emoting anxiety and fear as she stares out at the empty waves. The repetition of imagery here creates a sense of time passing and fear mounting. How long has it been? Days? Weeks? Griffith’s strong sense of control communicates both the situation and the quiet anxiety of his characters very simply and effectively. Standing behind the women, looking over their shoulders, so to speak, we are placed in a psychological identification with them, and we share in their painful ordeal.

What is not effective, in my opinion, are the continuous interjections of Kingsley’s poem that are repeatedly interjected on these cards in between scenes. As a narrative device, it really does not enhance the story in any meaningful way - and if Griffith is self-consciously trying to elevate film to the level of poetry, he is quite mis-directed about his own medium and its inherent power. The film is much more powerful than the poem, which is merely distracting.

We see a corpse stretched out on the beach, pitching in the surf. Next we see men hauling in two corpses, while our fisherman rides in on a wave, clinging to a piece of debris. Two men haul his limp body ashore and then bring him to a house in their little village.

Here is one of the chief flaws of the film. The beach and the village look precisely like the one from which he came, and at this point, the first-time viewer is naturally going to think that the tragic boat has returned to its home. Rather, it is an entirely different place, which remains unclear until later in the picture. Griffith should have done something to distinguish the places - perhaps even simply swapping the camera angles - instead of fooling around with the stupid poem.

This is made even more confusing in the following shot, where the fisherman’s wife emerges from their little home, now carrying their baby. Okay, we now know how much time has passed, but we are spatially confused. Is her husband back home? Is he dead? What is going on here? I mention this because it seems exceptional that Griffith gets his cinematic time-space muddied so that the audience cannot follow it. I use it as an example of how easy it is to allow film narrative to become muddled, and the high skill at which Griffith generally operates in this regard.

Arvidson takes the little babe down to the beach, still staring out to sea, still waiting.

A title card informs us "RESTORED TO HEALTH BUT HIS MEMORY A BLANK." Our fisherman (Johnson) emerges from the small house where he has been recuperating, dressed like all the other fishermen in the village. He removes his hat and tries to think, but he cannot remember a thing. He’s still hale and hearty, though, and ready for work. The fishermen shake his hand to welcome him aboard. Another title card tells us, "YEARS ROLL BY," and perhaps some of the more perceptive viewers will begin to realize what the actual situation is.

Arvidson sits outside her house with a small girl (little Gladys Egan again!) The mother is getting progressively old, thanks to the Hollywood magic of makeup. Of course, makeup had long been used in theatre, but its application here shows the potential of incorporating another element in order to tell a story in "film time." Here, we can witness years of change by a simple edit. The woman and child are older. The title card is almost superfluous. This realization of the ability to "cut forward" in time advances the potential of filmic narrative enormously. I doubt that this was the first use of this technique, but it is an early and creative one.

Once again, the sad mother returns to the beach, while the little girl runs off to play. A grizzled fisherman approaches the wife and quite rationally explains that her husband isn’t coming back, and proposes that she get together with himself. She simply shakes her head ‘no’ and points back out to sea. The man disappointedly walks away, no doubt thinking she is crazy. (Actually, the viewer would like to know just how this woman and her child have been managing to live for these several years - this is never explained.)

Here is shown perhaps Griffith’s greatest ideal of the human race - constancy. To remain loyal against all odds, as we shall see, is an enduring and defining principle for him. Characters make bonds based on a "trust" of one sort or another, and their ability or inability to maintain it is the judge of their character. It is easy to point out that this is a chief instance of Griffith’s naivety, as he does not let moral ambiguities creep in as they actually would in life. It is this sort of naivety that is going to get him into trouble, and eventually drive him into obsolescence in the quickly changing modern world. But here, there is something still noble, though horribly old fashioned to our eyes, to the point of being simply irrational. But we can accept it here, I believe, due to the age of the film, and we will forgive it. The chief reason that Griffith’s sentimentality succeeds, however, is based on the strength and argument of his images.

We cut back to Johnson, now equally aged, sitting alone, still baffled by his past. A certain symmetry is thus established between the pair, both visually and situationally.

A title reads "THEIR CHILD NOW GROWN," and an even older Arvidson emerges from her house with her charmingly beautiful teenage daughter, embodied perfectly in the stunningly beautiful, full-of-life figure of Mary Pickford. This actor, one of the first true icons of American film stardom, had been appearing in movies since the previous year, but I do not know that she had received any special acclaim or attention as of yet. I tend to doubt it, as she does not appear as a "star" here, and there would have been so many shorts being released so quickly that it would have been difficult for her to have stood out as yet. But here she is, at the glorious age of eighteen, and the amazing sparkle of her screen presence is assuredly preserved in all its potential for the cinematic love cult with America.

Her smiles, her impulsive jumps, her kisses on the cheek of her mother, mark her out immediately as something new and fresh in cinema acting. And when her face makes a brief connection with the camera, there appears a knowing, joyous secret that she seems to be sharing completely with the audience. We are beginning to witness the emergence of that great mythic phenomenon of movie stardom.

She walks, happily supporting her aging mother through the town, when suddenly, she is bumped into by a young man (Charles West). They stop and stare at each other. Mary then moves on with her mother while West stares back at her, awestruck. Suddenly, Mary swishes her head around to gaze back at him, then returns with wide girlish grin, continuing on her way. It is an impetuous action, taken quite naturally and charmingly, and it expresses both her situation and her character in an instant. In just a few seconds, Mary Pickford has momentarily become the center of the film.

West gazes after her as they leave, then follows them, as though in a trance, back to their house. Standing outside their door, just as they enter, Pickford glances back his way again and laughs, both amused and delighted by this young man’s attention.

After standing and staring like a zombie at their closed door for about ten seconds, an unnecessary title informs us, "THE BOY PERSEVERES." As we see mother and daughter walking once again by the sea, mother moves inextricably onward, facing the waters of the past that hold her mesmerized. Daughter turn quickly, however, and sits coquettishly on a log, waiting for West to approach her. He sits next to her and offers here something, whilst she, being coy, turns her head away disdainfully. He continues his offer, though, and she rises slowly, moving toward him with an uncertain demeanor and sits down right next to him. He holds up what we see is a ring, and she smiles, shakes her head yes, then offers up her finger to be enwrapped by the band. Hence, Griffith makes short work of their courtship, but even with this strict economy, Pickord’s presence makes the entire proceeding credible.

Act III begins with the title card "AFTER MANY YEARS AGAIN TO SEA," after which we see the now-elder Johnson being once again called out to a boat. (What has he been doing all these years - just leaning against a wall?) As before, men push the fishing boat out into the surf.

We cut back to the now-married couple dressed in wedding clothes, bidding the old mother good bye. The parting is sad, but life must go on. Arvidson is left alone in front of her old house, attempts to remain calm, but then breaks down completely, crying into her apron.
A man watches the fishermen make their landing. They get out of their little boat and move towards him. As Johnson arrives fully into medium frame, he suddenly jerks off his hat in recognition of his environment. Ignoring the others, he rushes on, and out of the frame.

Griffith cuts once again to Arvidson walking alone down to the beach, still weeping and alone. She turns to gaze at the pitiless sea. Her life is over, all her dreams now empty.

"FAMILIAR SCENES RESTORE HIS MEMORY." A man stands gazing at the town, the surrounding cliffs. Johnson enters the shot in a daze, spinning about in shock and wonder. His long, stiff hair exaggerates his sense of disorientation. The man recognizes him and explains to him where and who he is. Excitedly, Johnson shakes the man’s hand, who then takes him off camera.

The cut is back to Arvidson, her head down, still facing the sea. She is framed on the left and left standing there for a few seconds. The man enters with Johnson from the right, then leaves him there. He stands staring at her, unbelievably, then thrusts out his arms to her, her back still to us. Slowly, she turns to look at him and gazes uncertainly into his eyes. As she recognizes her long-lost husband, she begins breathing heavily. She begins to make a rush to him, but stops herself and softly grabs his arm. He is desperately explaining who he is, and she shakes her head in recognition, stroking gently on his arm. Finally, she accepts the miraculous truth, and the couple embraces passionately. The end logo immediately appears.

This scene is played with such tenderness, such understatement, by both of the actors that it is truly moving, even to the most cynical modern-day viewer. Griffith, with his actors, are developing a new acting style for the medium - one less melodramatic and elegantly poetic. There seems to be a sharp realization that one can and even must do less on the big screen to get one’s point effectively across. This shot, like those of the noble farmers in A Corner in Wheat, takes its time and allows the actors to to take the time and dramatically underplay their roles, without wild gesticulations. The human content is thus rendered more realistic, and a genuine pathos is allowed to emanate from the characters.

The Unchanging Sea may not be a masterpiece, but Griffith is getting so much more out of his basic elements, that unquestionably he will be able to easily expand, based upon the strengths being worked out in these early shorts, that when his narratives begin to expand, he will be light years ahead of his contemporaries.

Aside from their historical significance, there is a charm to these early movies that has not yet been diluted from repetition, laziness and cynicism. There is an earnestness to films like The Unchanging Sea that give them a timelessness that holds a great sense of nobility. The simplicity of the scenarios, the unabashed dedication to produce something of value, and the rhythmic successes and discoveries of artistic ensembles who are becoming increasingly professionalized all combine to keep the content fresh.

And the ambition of the director is clearly shown, not from his misplaced notion to turn a moving picture into a poem, but rather, to have the vision to see a movie’s potential to function fully as art, like a poem, on its own terms. The poem is a piece of hackwork - the film is a flawed work of art that is genuinely moving and inspired.

There is a profundity in the title that is captured admirably in the work. Although the trope used to create the story may be contrived, the circular story of life is expressed in its own "unchanging" terms. Young lovers grow old and are replaced by their children, and the cycle continues. As seen in the farmers in A Corner in Wheat, the unending cycles of life are what appeals to D.W. Griffith’s highest aesthetic sensibility. And it is this sensitivity to the cycles (and disruptions) of eternal time that will inspire his greatest works.