Archive for Henry B Walthall

The Sunday Intertitle: Raven Mad

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , on September 13, 2015 by dcairns


Don’t chop the N off! The N is really important!

I’m a bit of a Charles Brabin fan, but until now I had really only seen his pre-code films. His career ended in 1934, as if he personally was unimaginable under the Hayes Code. Before then, he made THE MASK OF FU MANCHU with Boris Karloff and a nakedly sadistic Myrna Loy in yellowface; the best, grisly bits of RASPUTIN AND THE EMPRESS, which are still astonishingly extreme; and the vicious, fascistic BEAST OF THE CITY. Oh, I’ve seen a bit of TWINKLETOES from the silent era, and he did bits of the original BEN-HUR. But THE RAVEN is from 1915, way earlier. It’s interesting to see a filmmaker whose style I kind of know (Scouse maniac), working with material conducive to his dark talents, but in a much earlier period, when DW Griffith held illimitable dominion over all.


It’s a Poe biopic, following hard on the heels of Griffith’s EDGAR ALLAN POE (1909) and THE AVENGING CONSCIENCE (1914), which adapted The Telltale Heart (with a bit of The Black Cat). Here, Brabin attempts to create a hybrid life story and adaptation of The Raven, throwing in a bit of William Wilson and a lot of delirium tremens for good measure. It’s basically a classy temperance film, which sits awkwardly with its other ambitious since the poem The Raven is not, so far as I can see, about alcoholism per se. Still, fun to see Poe’s rather unsuitably short stories being fleshed out using the same tricks Roger Corman and his scenarists would deploy in the sixties — conflate, insert, absorb, extrapolate, invent! We’ll get a feature out of this thing somehow!


The movie begins with a weird history of Poe’s ancestors in little vignettes — a founding father comes up a beach while oars wave strangely in the background — are they drying them off? A revolutionary primes a pistol. Then the rot sets in: Poe’s immediate forebears are actors. A sad case of generational degeneration. What chance did the lad have?

Then we get a snippet of the Poe childhood, some shapeless excerpts from the admittedly somewhat shapeless life, and then the showstopper, the immortal poem hacked up into disconnected intertitles while star Henry B. Walthall (of BIRTH OF A NATION fame) staggers about bemoaning that fatal glass of beer. Good actor, Walthall — the only one in the cast to have absorbed Griffith’s ideas on underplaying, he seems shockingly modern compared to everyone he’s compelled to share scenes with. But left on his own, or with a confused corvid, he reverts to arm-waving a bit — who wouldn’t?


Still, Brabin serves up some striking images, and I liked the looseness with which he goes from location to theatrical set and back, uncaring as to consistency. There are a lot of tricks with multiple exposures so Walthall can be haunted by the ghosts of lost loves, or face off against his Doppelganger. A bit more plot and Brabin would have really had something here — unfortunately Poe’s life doesn’t really provide much plot — he saved that for his fiction, which has consistently provided better source material than his earthly existence.


The Sunday Intertitle: Sometimes a Great Notion

Posted in FILM, literature with tags , , , , , , , , on October 24, 2010 by dcairns


Seven days of Poe-try and eerie pleasures. We begin with DW Griffith’s THE AVENGING CONSCIENCE, his somewhat moralistic, yet often effective, adaptation of The Tell-Tale Heart. For another, lesser version, see here. Later, we can hopefully pay some attention to Jules Dassin’s magnificent short film version, which has some MGM-inspired moralism of its own.

Not that Poe’s story is immoral or amoral, it’s just that the “Thou Shalt Not Kill” side is contained within the action, so nobody has to preach, certainly not the author. Really, the avenging conscience of the story takes the form of a disembodied heartbeat coming from beneath the floorboards because it’s a disassociated part of the protagonist’s mind, something he doesn’t acknowledge the existence of, which finds an escape through this route.

Griffith is fairly faithful to this idea, so after the hero has made away with his guardian/uncle, he’s tormented by visions, including the double-exposed ghost of the old man, and later some nifty imps and spectres, including a lovely Halloween with, complete with broomstick (bristles forward, in the fashion of the time).

The star is Henry B. Walthall, who also played the hero of BIRTH OF A NATION, and Poe himself in Charles Brabin’s 1915 film THE RAVEN, one of several Poe biopics (Griffith made a ten-minute one). Walthall is sometimes startlingly contemporary, authentic and informal, sometimes he’s highly rhetorical and stylised. Which is fun to watch.

Griffith also throws in a blackmailing Italian, whose nationality is repeated so often, and is his sole identifying trait, that one suspects an unacknowledged further wrinkle on Griffith’s famed racism. But, given the film’s spider-and-fly motif, I dig the fact that a little insect alights on the Italian’s cap just as he witnesses the murder… (I could, and may, write an entire essay on the enhancement provided by unintended fly cameos in cinema history, from the buzzing witnesses who perch on Jack Gilford’s pillow in A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE FORUM, to the chitinous interloper whom Paul Freeman swallows in mid-speech, without even noticing, in RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK.)

Griffith also gives us a romantic interest, Annabel Lee (Blanche Sweet), her glamour slightly inhibited by her tendency to wear all of her clothes at once. But then, looking at the way all the curtains and tablecloths are madly billowing about in her house, one can’t blame her: it must be blowing a gale in there. This must be the result of the open air “studios” favoured in the nineteen-teens. Studios might be greenhouses, or they might simple be back-lots, where three walls could be erected with the sun shining in, unobstructed. That was the whole reason the movie industry went to Hollywood.

Emphasizing the oddly exterior nature of the Lee pad is the above shot, where a superimposed sky fills the window, but also eats up most of the wall. I love the double-exposures in this movie, because their technical imperfection always has poetic advantages. The see-through dead uncle persecuting the hero is always just the wrong size, his shrunken or overgrown cranium a sinister contrast with the normally-proportioned thesps around him. God knows, he’s disturbing enough in appearance at the best of times ~

And the actor’s name is Spottiswoode Aitken, which is just perfect.

Thanks to Arthur S for the recommendation.

The Avenging Conscience

Griffith Masterworks 2 (Way Down East / D.W. Griffith: Father of Film / The Avenging Conscience / Abraham Lincoln / The Struggle / Sally of the Sawdust)