Pygmalion (1938)

People often say that there is no original work, that something had to stem from somewhere and everything is based off of something that came before it. OK, this is true a lot of times, but there are some instances where someone really used their imagination to take some original material and transform it into a great story set in then-modern times. Take the mythological story Pygmalion: it tells of a sculptor who had no interest in women, but carved sculptures of them, until one day he fell in love with one of his own sculptures. Praying to Aphrodite, or Venus, depending on which way you look at it, she took pity on him and brought the statue to life.

Henry Higgins (Leslie Howard) is obviously drawn to be comparable to Pygmalion: he seems to have no interest in women, yet obsesses over dialects and proper speech. He takes on the challenge of turning the lowly Eliza Doolittle (Wendy Hiller) into a lady, with proper speech and accent and all. And, of course, he comes to love her.

Movies back in the day liked to spell out their themes or references for the audience; after all, people didn't have access to the Internet and its wide bank of knowledge. The story of Pygmalion is told to us through text, at the beginning, so that we may know exactly what the filmmakers are aiming for and what their true intentions are. Today, no such scroll would precede the movie, and audiences would be forced to look up Pygmalion and discover the title's source.

The movie is exceptionally well made and is better, I think, then the musical My Fair Lady that came out 27 years later (the film version, anyways). For one, it's an hour shorter, and while I have no problems with long movies, I didn't feel that the plot supported the length. Here too the movie seems to meander, and it is only slightly over 90 minutes!

But the performances are also very good. Wendy Hiller and Leslie Howard may be no Audrey Hepburn or Rex Harrison, but they still deliver thoughtful performances and their chemistry lights up the screen. As we watch Eliza progress, we care about what happens to her. There is a hilarious scene where she tries out her new dialect, and speaks in tongue twisters as if they were normal conversation. The subsequent reactions to this are priceless.

Part of what drags the story of Pygmalion down, for me, is everything that happens after the ball scene. The whole movie builds up to that point, and then continues for an extra thirty minutes (My Fair Lady goes on for another hour). It's such a great scene, and the buildup is worth it. The Queen employs a former pupil of Higgins to find out where Ms. Doolittle is from, and he makes the astute observation that "...only people who are taught English can speak it well."

The movie delivers an important message of women being just more then objects, as evidenced by Higgins' treatment of Ms. Doolittle. Early on Higgins' assistant refers to her as "Ms. Doolittle," and that level of respect makes her smile. Of course, Henry sees her only as Pygmalion saw his creations: as statues. Until she comes to life and fights for herself, he continues to disrespect her.

All versions have a particularly odd ending, as Eliza returns to Henry after leaving him, and he really realizes he is in love with her. Upon her return, he simply states, "Where the devil are my slippers, Eliza?" I accept that as a game that they are playing with each other, by the end, and that Higgins really does have newfound respect for Eliza.

One note: David Lean, the acclaimed director of Lawrence of Arabia and several other epics, was the editor on this film. One should note he was an editor for several films before he broke out into the directing world, and didn't edit again until his final movie, A Passage to India. Just a fun note. I spotted his name in the credits.

Die Büchse der Pandora (1929) (Pandora's Box)

It is curious how, back in the day, some directors (particularly German ones) structured their films into Acts. There is not set number of acts, it was just how many you needed and what fit. The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920) has six acts, and Pandora's Box (1929) has eight. Why? No reason really, it was just what director Georg Wilhelm (G.W.) Pabst required for his film.

Pandora's Box is a curious little film. Twice I have now seen it, and I will not deny that through many of the first six acts I became a little wearisome of it, waiting for it to pick up its pace and continue on. But the last two acts are so engaging and full of drama that they make up for some of the slower moments in the earlier parts.

What really magnetizes the film together, though, is Louise Brooks, who stars as the main character Lulu. She has a presence that I do not think I have seen equaled by any other silent screen actress. When she is on screen, she is magnetic, transfixing you with her odd haircut that seems to accentuate her soft features (made possible through soft focus, of course). She is absent for most of the film's second act, and it suffers without her.

The plot can not really be summarized in a sensible way, but essentially it is about Lulu, her seductive power over men, and how she sinks deeper and deeper into despair. She begins by seeing "clients", and her most reliable is an old man who at one point claims to be her father, but you are sure he could not be.

She is put into a show and, through a series of events becomes involved in an accidental murder, goes on the run, and ends in one of the best scenes of silent cinema as she unwittingly invites Jack the Ripper into her run down living place. Her beauty stops the Ripper from using his knife, but soon he succumbs, and Lulu's hand goes limp.

Whenever I watch a silent movie, I find I usually tune out the track that Criterion or whomever has composed specifically for it. Of course the music effects my perception of what is happening on screen in a purely visceral level, but in my head I usually create other atmospheres to go along with what is happening. In act seven, in a scene at a bar I imagine glasses clinking and people cheerily talking, or when Lulu succumbs to Jack the Ripper I imagine her last breath escaping her lips.

That is probably the most interesting aspect of silent movies: they are the most pure form of film there is, because without the noisy scores, they are just film. And they seem the most fitting version of the format because film is in and of itself an illusion of rapid images creating fluid movement. Sound, of course, has made films better and a great sound design will enhance and enrich the movie. But there is something about letting the movie tell its own story, and silent movies are challenging for any person in today's society.

And Pandora's Box is a film that would only work in silence. If these characters spoke, the situations would be come ridiculous, outrageous, and downright silly. But here, melodrama is straight drama. Few films would only work in silence, and here is one of them. Anything by the silent clowns Buster Keaton, Charlie Chaplain, and Harold Lloyd I would also include in that category.

The title of the film refers to a Greek myth, about a woman named Pandora who like Lulu was beautiful and happy. The gods gave her a box, and told her never to open it up. Sadly the curious thing did, and unleashed greed, sadness, anger, and a bevy of ill feelings upon our world. That Lulu mirrors this character is without saying, and that she unwittingly spreads lust and greed makes this one of the most unique adaptations of Greek Mythology.

This film, while dull in a few areas, is ultimately a beautiful work of silent filmmaking at its peak, when sound films were permeating every inch of American cinema. Louise Brooks alone makes the movie worthwhile, and stands out for me as one of the most unique films from the silent era.