Not yet, Balaoo!

THIS TRAGEDY OF THE FOOTPRINTS ON THE CEILING WILL JAM ANY THEATRE

A long time ago — a million years BC — I resolved to watch every film illustrated in Denis Gifford’s Pictorial History of the Horror Movie, a big green book (though some editions are purple) which loomed large in my childhood. I named this quixotic quest See Reptilicus and Die, and I blogged about my progress until there wasn’t any to blog about. The problem is that some of the films are lost — that’s OK, I discount those, though the idea of remaking them has some appeal — and some were unavailable. The project kind of fizzled after I finally saw REPTILICUS, and failed to die.

BALAOO, THE DEMON BABOON was one of these inaccessible items — and also one of the lost ones. Only fragments survive, and they’re in some cinematheque somewhere. I vaguely thought about travelling there. But YouTube has obviated that requirement!

Excitingly, BALAOO is directed by Victorin-Hyppolite Jasset, director of the evocative and delightful PROTEA, a kind of LES VAMPIRES knock-off which has been entrancing unsuspecting punters since its recentish rediscovery. An amazing work. I see that there’s quite a lot more Jasset out there, and I ought to consume all of it, he seems one of the figures to preserve the charm of the cinema of attractions into the age of sustained narrative. A poet, in other words. I’ve only seen some of his ZIGOMAR films but he also made something called THE MAGIC SACK. What’s not to like there?

Just as PROTEA seems like the start of a serial that never develops or ends, the surviving bits of BALAOO have an evocative quality potentially in excess of the original, complete version’s, though it would have been nice to see those footsteps on the ceiling. Here’s a still purporting to show how they got there.

Doesn’t really make sense, since primitive man is not known for his arachnoid adhesion ability, especially while wearing shoes. Never mind, we’re not here to relitigate Balaoo’s gravity-defying feats, but to praise them.

Although we must first admit that 1913 punters may have felt like they’d bought sea monkeys after seeing an ad, when they Lucien Bataille’s screen makeup, which owes more to minstrelsy or the circus than Jack Pierce or John Chambers. But his physical performance more than makes up for it, and is so athletic and expressively convincing that the makeup comes to seem an exciting alienation effect, there to stop us getting TOO INVOLVED and thereby winding up dead from exhaustion.

I also like that the actor is called Bataille — he’s not the syphilitic tax collector father of Georges Bataille, though it would be lovely if he were.

Based on a mad scientist novel by Gaston Leroux which later became the affecting and underrated DR. RENAULT’S SECRET, the movie-selection features predictive text intertitles, leaping, and some green tinting on both titles and imagery which relates it in a chance yet psychologically evocative way to the front cover of the Gifford. It’s all more than good enough to make you want more, although it’s hard to say how much the movie is enhanced by its frustrating lacunae. Even, say, ALIEN COVENANT might turn into an evocative work if you deleted, say, 90% of it. Although maybe that’s too much to hope for.

Now I plan to finally watch THE MAN IN HALF MOON STREET, which will take me an appreciable distance closer to completion of the See Reptilicus and Die project.

The Dia de los Muertos Intertitle

EYES OF THE MUMMY (1922) is a film in many ways a disappointment — we have Lubitsch, we have Emil Jannings, and we have Pola Negri, but we don’t have a great film. In his Lubitsch biography, Laughter in Paradise, Scott Eyman focuses harshly on a single moment when Jannings has considerable difficulties with his horse, wondering why on earth the shot wasn’t retaken or just excised. The conclusion is that Lubitsch didn’t care, that he lost heart at some point during this film.

The prospect of a Lubitsch horror movie is enticing, but this isn’t really it — the one uncanny image, the titular mummy eyes, is quickly revealed as a Scooby Doo plot to hoodwink gullible tourists. From then on, Jannings’ menacing blackface Arab is the only dramatic threat, and he’s of a wholly corporeal nature.

I did get a brief frisson when I first watched this, when the image below appeared ~

Whoops, now it’s the image above. The pic appears in Denis Gifford’s Pictorial History of Horror Movies, and I realized I’d just inadvertently checked off a movie from my quest to see every film depicted therein, a quest I have called See Reptilicus and Die (a quest that has been more or less moribund lately as the few films left available to me are so very, very unappealing).

As lacklustre as the film is, it doesn’t deserve Alpha Video’s shoddy rendition, which replaces the German intertitles with cheesily-designed and semi-literate English ones. As the film goes on, these become fewer, as if the Alpha Video titling department (I’m picturing an intern with photoshop) had lost its enthusiasm even more markedly than Herr Lubitsch. By the end, you pretty much have to guess what’s going on, which does add a bit of entertainment value.

Hey, Alpha Video, what the heck is a sejour?

Aaaand… the whole thing’s on YouTube.

Benshi in my Ear

The sensation of having an Italian lady piped into my ear while I watch a film was entirely unknown to me a week ago. Now it’s second nature. I’m slightly discomfited when she’s NOT there. I would welcome her ministrations even when watching a film in English (OKLAHOMA! on the big screen — digitally restored — the only  50 30 fps DCP in the world? – yum! But surely an Italianate female voice repeating the lyrics after Duncan Gordon McRae would enhance it).

We nearly had a simultaneous audio translation in Cannes once, but arrived at the gala moments too late, had to wait for the cast and crew to pose for snaps on the steps, then got let in after the movie had started. A tinny voice could dimly be heard from the arm of my chair, but I had no technical means to connect the arm of my chair to my head. So THE IDIOTS was experienced untranslated, and seemed quite enjoyable. It wasn’t until I saw it with subtitles that I realised I hated it.

My first visit from the ear-fairy was with THE EXPLOITS OF ELAINE (aka LES MYSTERES DE NEW YORK, an even better title). They ran two episodes that had been preserved in Belgium, with French and Dutch intertitles. I came to imagine Pearl White, the star, as a hesitant Italian, and enjoyed the improvisatory nature of her performance. Directed George Seitz and Louis Gasnier (see elsewhere on Shadowplay) for Pathe a hundred years ago, this follow-up to THE PERILS OF PAULINE was great entertainment. The whole serial survives, but in hideous dupes from 28mm, so this was a unique event — even Kevin Brownlow had never seen it look like this. (A bit chipped off as it passed through the projector, and for a full minute stayed stuck to the image, a fragment of celluloid, sprocket-holes and all, pasted over the action. Never seen that before.) Yes, I introduced myself to Kevin Brownlow, who pronounced NATAN “terrific.” My chest swelled as if an alien was trying to get out.

“You are responsible for my becoming a filmmaker.”

“You must be broke.”

“I am!”

“Join the club!”

The screening was also significant for me because THE EXPLOITS OF ELAINE is one of the few films left illustrated in Denis Gifford’s A Pictorial History of Horror Movies. Regular readers will be aware of my quest to see every film depicted in that tome, a quest entitled See Reptilicus and Die. I saw REPTILICUS, I didn’t die, and now I only have a few left.

Mr. Brownlow pointed out that a very young Creighton Hale appears in THE E OF E. I told him that Professor Joseph Slade, one of the antagonists in our film NATAN, wrote me that he believes, not only that Bernard Natan had sex with a duck onscreen, but, along with Kenneth Anger, that Creighton Hale had sex with a goat in a twenties porno, a rumour systematically discredited here.

KB: “You know someone asked Kenneth Anger how he did his research, and he replied, ‘Mental telepathy, mainly.'”

Denis Gifford’s book reproduces an image of a Jekyll-Hyde transformation. The episodes we saw included The Vampire, in which masked, hunchbacked villain The Clutching Hand attempts to drain Elaine of blood to transfuse into one of his accomplices. Though Elaine spent most of her time unconscious and getting rescued, she did start that episode by plugging said accomplice three times as he appeared at her bedroom window (the program notes observed that many of the serial’s dramatic situations implied some thinly-veiled sexual threat, and that the films were particularly successful with female audiences — back when thiny v’d sexual t. was just about the only kind of acceptable sex). The other episode had Elaine revived from a death-like trance (accompanist Stephen Horne switched to accordion to suggest lung-wheeze). All these jumbled horror elements (see poster above) suggest the serial was the Penny Dreadful of its day — but of course John Logan’s series and Seitz/Gasnier’s serial both take nineteenth-century sensational literature as their starting point.