When TCM airs "The Wind," the film is preceded by an introduction by Lillian Gish filmed in 1988 when she was 85 years old. (She passed away in 1993 at age 90.) Her remarks not only put the film in context, but allow modern audiences to see that the passage of 60 years had not dimmed her beauty or charm. Miss Gish is predictably modest about the power she wielded in Hollywood in the late 1920s, but without her considerable clout this film would most likely not have been made.
To be effective, silent films require imagination, creativity and the eye of an artist in order to tell a story without words. Many great silent films have very few title cards; the visuals tell the story. Different prints of the same film may have different music scores, some better than others, so it is what's on film that really matters. It took the eye of faith to visualize a force of nature, the wind, as a living, breathing character. Thanks to the ingenuity of director Victor Sjöström and his crew, that happened here.
More effective than any tricks the camera can play is the beautiful, winsome face of Lillian Gish as Letty. To paraphrase Norma Desmond in "Sunset Boulevard," Gish could say anything she wanted to with her eyes. Equally dramatic are the wild stallion superimposed on the clouds to represent the dread "norther'", (the most powerful wind of all); the corpse that will not stay buried in the shifting sands, and the twister that threatens the town during a big dance.
Most unforgettable is the set piece which occurs before the forced "happy ending." Letty and her dog are trapped in their tiny cabin at the mercy of the wind. The Thames Silent Orchestra plays discordant, wild sounds that not only mimic the wailing wind, but mirror the spiraling madness that threatens to engulf Letty. There is seemingly no let-up. Table lanterns overturn, the storm shatters the window panes. Letty remedies these small calamities purely on instinct as the dog cowers, and an oil lantern suspended from the ceiling glides back and forth in a slow-moving arc.
Several of these images are so haunting and so emblematic of the silent era that they are used in TCM's montage that introduces its "Silent Sunday Nights."
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I worry that the audience for silent films is dying out. Watching a silent requires patience and a full attention span, neither of which is commonplace any more. When you watch a silent you can't really do anything else, and with the most involving silent films, you don't want to. Silent movie acting may seem hopelessly old-fashioned and title cards annoying to those seeing these movies for the first time in the 21st century. It's helpful to remember that moving pictures were still a technical marvel in the late 1920s, about thirty years after their inception. Filmmakers were still creating the language of film, e.g., how to indicate the passage of time, how to demonstrate that events were occurring simultaneously, how to "make" audible things that could not be heard and on and on. So much movie shorthand was devised and employed so rapidly it quickly became commonplace, and moviegoers quickly forgot that the movies had ever told stories any other way.
There is something magical about the great silent films. Whether they are American or foreign films, silents present no language barrier. The stories they tell and the people who populate and propel the stories are universal, and can be understood by audiences the world over. As with sound-era movies, many more poor silent films were made than good ones. Many silents, good and bad, are lost forever. But the good ones that are still with us—and some are extraordinary—deserve a wider audience. "The Wind" is certainly one of them.
To be effective, silent films require imagination, creativity and the eye of an artist in order to tell a story without words. Many great silent films have very few title cards; the visuals tell the story. Different prints of the same film may have different music scores, some better than others, so it is what's on film that really matters. It took the eye of faith to visualize a force of nature, the wind, as a living, breathing character. Thanks to the ingenuity of director Victor Sjöström and his crew, that happened here.
More effective than any tricks the camera can play is the beautiful, winsome face of Lillian Gish as Letty. To paraphrase Norma Desmond in "Sunset Boulevard," Gish could say anything she wanted to with her eyes. Equally dramatic are the wild stallion superimposed on the clouds to represent the dread "norther'", (the most powerful wind of all); the corpse that will not stay buried in the shifting sands, and the twister that threatens the town during a big dance.
Most unforgettable is the set piece which occurs before the forced "happy ending." Letty and her dog are trapped in their tiny cabin at the mercy of the wind. The Thames Silent Orchestra plays discordant, wild sounds that not only mimic the wailing wind, but mirror the spiraling madness that threatens to engulf Letty. There is seemingly no let-up. Table lanterns overturn, the storm shatters the window panes. Letty remedies these small calamities purely on instinct as the dog cowers, and an oil lantern suspended from the ceiling glides back and forth in a slow-moving arc.
Several of these images are so haunting and so emblematic of the silent era that they are used in TCM's montage that introduces its "Silent Sunday Nights."
* * *
I worry that the audience for silent films is dying out. Watching a silent requires patience and a full attention span, neither of which is commonplace any more. When you watch a silent you can't really do anything else, and with the most involving silent films, you don't want to. Silent movie acting may seem hopelessly old-fashioned and title cards annoying to those seeing these movies for the first time in the 21st century. It's helpful to remember that moving pictures were still a technical marvel in the late 1920s, about thirty years after their inception. Filmmakers were still creating the language of film, e.g., how to indicate the passage of time, how to demonstrate that events were occurring simultaneously, how to "make" audible things that could not be heard and on and on. So much movie shorthand was devised and employed so rapidly it quickly became commonplace, and moviegoers quickly forgot that the movies had ever told stories any other way.
There is something magical about the great silent films. Whether they are American or foreign films, silents present no language barrier. The stories they tell and the people who populate and propel the stories are universal, and can be understood by audiences the world over. As with sound-era movies, many more poor silent films were made than good ones. Many silents, good and bad, are lost forever. But the good ones that are still with us—and some are extraordinary—deserve a wider audience. "The Wind" is certainly one of them.