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Could Silent Films Woo Non-Classic Movie Fans?

05/22/2015 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com 6 Comments

I recently caught It at a theater with live music, and am still buzzing from it. I liked the film before. With live music, it was a revelation. The talented composer, Jeff Rapsis, used the term “moving picture” rather than film to discuss silents. This term and my exposure to multimedia this year have me thinking: Could silents reach otherwise classic movie-averse folks like my sister?

Could Silents Silence Typical Classic Film Objections?
Resistance to classic film, especially black and whites, comes in the form of comparison: The production values are better now. The acting is better now. Directors have learned from their predecessors, so why go back? We classic film enthusiasts may scoff at these claims, offering as Exhibit A Michael Bay, but the fact remains that the films of the 30s-50s and today are considered similar enough to be directly compared. Yet silent film is a different art form than the movies we know, with different restrictions, different demands. We can no more compare the two than we could stage and television productions.

My mother has been studying art, and keeps referring to the departure from representational art once photography advanced. Movies took the opposite route: moving from figurative (silent) to representational (today). There are exceptions, of course–Terrence Malick comes to mind. But just as we can’t compare Vermeer to Picasso, we can’t go point for point with Metropolis and Star Wars. Avoiding comparisons is crucial since we’re all guilty of using the worst example from the opponent’s camp (i.e., Bay), and the best from our own. With no comparisons, with fewer best-of lists, perhaps there can be less quickness to judgment.

Could Instagram Pave the Way to Silents?
For a culture obsessed with Instagram, silents seem a natural. Incredible concision? Check. A story delivered with visuals rather than sound/many words? Check. Silent film directors didn’t have the luxury of lengthy speeches; they had to distill emotion to a few gestures, drama to a few actions. What could be more compelling to our tweet-obsessed, quick-pic world? And as for our love for cat videos, also sans words, could a Buster Keaton action shot resemble a cat video more? The silliness, the athleticism, the grace–all without special effects? His DNA was clearly more feline than human.

Will Our Media-Savvy Youth Prove Less Resistant to Classics?
This year my students produced radio and visual essays for a creative nonfiction class. They were nervous about unfamiliar technology, just as we older folks are. But they were never resistant to other art forms, as we can be. When I showed them silent film sequences, they didn’t complain. They took ideas from them. When a guest speaker demonstrated his digital memoir, which included silent film clips, they expressed admiration. One student started adding black and white footage to his profile. Another used images of classic film stars primping and mooning to illustrate her preparations for a date. And lest you think they were budding film directors, I should point out that most were science majors.

Perhaps this flexibility bodes well for classic movie fans. When I entered the theater to watch It, I noticed an older audience, as expected. But back in the corner was a line of twenty-somethings, looking vaguely hipsterish and far too serious. Afterward, they were grinning, just like I was. Is it silly of me, to find this hopeful?

Of course, anyone watching a silent with live music would more fully appreciate the art form as it was meant to be experienced. (For those of you with sisters like mine, who rant about classic film sucking, see if you can find a silent with a composer. My husband, who dragged me to Transformers 2, agreed to a romantic comedy once he heard the details.)

But even in a room, on the computer screen, perhaps a silent can reach our resistant friends if a 30s or 40s masterpiece does not. It’s worth a try.

*For anyone interested, my bet with Rachel is ongoing. She’s using her new job, home, and move as excuses for the delay in her fulfillment of the deal. I will keep you posted on developments.

Edward G. Robinson and My Cat

03/19/2015 by leah@carygrantwonteatyou.com Leave a Comment

“Suave,” the receptionist at my vet’s office said the other day, reacting to my cat’s name. “Sorry,” she added quickly. “I couldn’t resist.” I laughed, having forgotten that Gerardo’s infamous 1990 song is the first association most people have with the name Rico. My cat does share some traits with the character described by that one-hit wonder, but “suave?” Not so much.

My husband and I had seen Little Caesar a few months before adopting our cat. We’d wavered over a name, and then started noticing some familiar traits. Like our cat’s ego, which seemed to be vastly disproportionate to his size.

A head so big they'd need a "special sized noose" for him.

Cops say they’ll need a “special noose” to fit his “swelled head.”

We discovered that our newcomer wasn’t exactly sane, and that he felt entitled to what wasn’t his. He wanted our food as well as his own, and jumped up on the counter to paw some while we were eating it. That’s when we realized his actions reminded us of something, and that something was Edward G. Robinson’s breakout role.

Increasing acquaintance with my cat’s past and behavior has proven that those traits are just the beginning of his resemblance to Edward G. Robinson’s antihero. He was returned once to the shelter because he couldn’t handle associating with other dominant male cats. Sound familiar, Edward G. Robinson fans?

And then there’s his survival instinct. My cat is scrappy. He was discovered outside a dumpster in a New England winter he somehow survived. As if to prove his history, he has knocked over the trash can so many times seeking leftovers that we’re considering the metal tamper-proof kind others purchase to keep out collies and labs. And if a jalapeno potato chip, a piece of broccoli is dropped, he devours it before we can retrieve it. Rico never takes anything for granted, assumes he has to fight for everything he gets. Just like Little Caesar.

And like Robinson’s character, my cat is always voracious (despite a now hefty belly). Little Caesar hungered to be part of the “big time.” He begins the film envying Diamond Pete Montana, a successful gangster, not a nobody like himself, ripping off gas stations. “Money’s alright,” he says to his partner, who admits he’d quit crime if he had enough, “but it ain’t everything. Yeah, be somebody. Look hard at a bunch of guys and know that they’ll do anything you tell them.” He even expresses his longing with a butter knife.

As Little Caesar begins to rise, he can’t help eying others’ pins, diamond rings…

Of course when you think of Robinson, you can’t forget that voice, and how much he liked to use it. My cat too has a great desire for self-expression, and sees no reason to ever cease meowing. Maybe that’s why my husband and I started referring to him as “the Rico,” recalling Robinson’s famous line when he talks of himself in third person: “Is this the end of Rico?”

I think one of the reasons Robinson’s role made his career is because in spite of all of his criminal acts in the film, in spite of his arrogance, there’s something haunting and sympathetic about Little Caesar’s need to prove himself, to be envied.

He is in so many ways the embodiment of the American Dream filtered through a shaky understanding. He’s hardly the first—in fiction or real life—to be destroyed by his belief in it. Because he’s played by Edward G. Robinson, we are enthralled by Rico even as we condemn his actions. And in spite of everything, his loyalty to his best pal is always there, even when he most wants to lose it.

Perhaps Little Caesar’s real tragedy is that he was born into the wrong species. In feline form, the ambition, ego, hunger would all be endearing. We’d smile, hug, and pet him for those characteristics, and acknowledge his superiority without any need for proof. After all, it was the thirst for that recognition that inspired Little Caesar’s crimes. Poor man. He should have been a cat.