“Buoyant Bobby”–A 1919 Interview With Robert Harron

Happy Friday, Silent-ology readers! As promised, I conducted the drawing for the hard copy of this year’s San Francisco Silent Film Festival program book (which also contains an article by yours truly!). These drawings are always conducted with the utmost rigor, otherwise known as me pulling a strip of paper from my 1920s-style cloche hat. And the winner is:

Congrats, Wally B.! Feel free to contact me on my “About” page so we can email each other. For my other readers, if you missed out on the hard copy, fear not–the SFSFF does have a free pdf on their website here.

Of the sensitive young actor Robert Harron, Lillian Gish remembered: “Something about him caught the heart.” As a fan of both Harron and great performances in general, I couldn’t agree more. His story of having risen to stardom after starting out as a simple errand boy for Biograph is certainly inspirational all by itself, seemingly “meant to be.” It’s harder to understand why his sudden death in 1920, from a purportedly accidental gunshot wound, was similarly “meant to be.” And yet, it occurred. And thus Harron remains an eternal star of the 1910s, his voice unrecorded, known primarily to fans of silent film…and the folks with a grim interest in Hollywood tragedies.

His iconic role in Intolerance (1916).

Personally, I always think about his talent above all, and especially his remarkable charisma with the camera. Recently I saw him in a supporting role in a Biograph two-reeler The School Teacher and the Waif (1912), starring Mary Pickford. Harron plays a schoolboy who teases Pickford, and since he’s quite a bit taller than the other young actors he does stand out. But I don’t think his height is the only reason he catches our eye. Even when the undeniably charismatic Pickford herself is onscreen, somehow my eye keeps wandering to Harron.

Ballyhoo!–The Colorful Era Of Early Movie Theater “Exploitation”

After writing about exploitation for Buster’s films I got the urge to dig up this older article of mine, a version of which originally appeared in a 2017 issue of Silent Film Quarterly. Hope you enjoy!

Moviegoing today is a pretty straightforward experience. A preview piques your curiosity. At the theater, you buy your ticket at the counter–or maybe you skip the counter and swipe your credit card at a computer. As you walk through the lobby you pass a couple cardboard displays for the latest blockbusters, filling a bit of space. Simple and expected, just like you’ve always known.

But what if I told you that your great-grandparents might’ve heard about the latest film by seeing a Model T drive by covered in ads? Or by watching a parade march down the street in the film’s honor? Or by seeing a whole theater facade decked out in cowboy decorations for the latest Western picture, or sporting palm tree and camel cutouts for the newest “sheik” romance?

Exhibitor’s Herald, Sept. 8 1923.

Today’s theater displays are arguably small, modest remnants of the grand displays of the 1910s and 1920s. And previews? They were but one of a thousand ways that overly-creative theater owners attracted their customers. Welcome to the age of crazy publicity stunts–or, as exhibitors called them back then, “ballyhoo” and “exploitation”! 

“But Are The Shadows Painted?”–Some Thoughts On “True” German Expressionism

October being the prime time of the year to rewatch The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (and write about it here on Silent-ology!), while soaking it in recently I was struck again by how perfectly the story blends with its niche art design. Taking an avant-garde style from one medium–in this case mainly the stage–and translating it to a very different medium was no small feat. I’ve argued before that I’m not too sure about Caligari’s “bookend scenes,” since in my opinion, they imply the German Expressionism style is more of a gimmick than a style working hand-in-hand with the story. But whether you agree with that or not (and most people seem to like those scenes), the film as a whole just works.

And it’s such a beautiful film too, in its own strange way. The budget may have been small and the set materials just cardboard and paint, but good heavens they put a lot of thought into the details of each scene. The balance of dark and light surfaces, the creative use of perspective, even the way the actual lighting (less flat than other German Expressionist films) might play with the painted shadows in the background–it’s all such a treat for the eyes.

A History of the Iconic Vitagraph Studios

If you have even a passing interest in silent film, you’re no doubt familiar with the Keystone Film Company and Biograph–to say nothing of the Georges Méliès and Edison studios. But how well do you know Vitagraph Studios? 

Very prolific in its day and older than Hollywood itself, Vitagraph was not only one of the earliest film studios but it created one of the very first movie stars–and it’s usually credited with creating the very first animal star, too. It was also well respected by its contemporaries. In honor of the studio’s 21st anniversary in 1918, the film magazine Motography wrote: “The history of Vitagraph is largely the history of the motion picture industry, for the organization has never lost its place in the front rank of producers.”

Still from Vitagraph’s popular feature The Battle Cry of Peace (1915).

Lige Conley, The Bit-Of-Everything Comedian

Coming in fashionably late (*cough* not the first time for one of my theme months, but I digress), this is the last post for Forgotten Comedians Month 3, sponsored by Undercrank Productions! Thanks to everyone who read along during the past few weeks and left comments, it’s much appreciated and I’m glad you enjoyed it!

Lige Conley is among the sea of “lesser than Chaplin” silent comedy faces who worked steadily in slapstick shorts, hoped to cultivate a following while trying out various personas, and frequently risking life and limb for laughs. And yet, there’s something about his face that stands out to me…mainly because it somehow manages to look like a vague mixture of every famous comedian.

You’ve got a big dash of Chaplin and Stan Laurel, a touch of Buster Keaton…his smile could really channel Harold Lloyd at times, too.

Heck, he even looked a bit like Charley Bowers–so there’s minor comedians mixed up in there.

Even a touch of Roberto Benigni–how did he do it?

But while his screen character was never as distinct and charismatic as, say, Harry Langdon’s baby-faced innocent or Max Linder‘s manic-eyed boulevardier, Conley did manage to become a starring player in several comedy series. The secret to his success? One word: mayhem.

Alice Howell, The Plucky “Scream Of The Screen”

Any screen comedian in the 1910s and 1920s knew that there was no higher praise than to be compared to the Master Himself–Charlie Chaplin. You might say it was the goal in the back of every comic’s mind, whether it was a deliberate one or something that had seeped into their subconscious.

Some comedians, like Charlie Aplin, were…more deliberate than others.

And it wasn’t just the male comics bearing a passing resemblance to Charlie who were deemed “Chaplinesque.” Comediennes with their own funny styles of walking and pratfalling could get the plaudit as well. One of the prime examples is the frizzy-haired, anything-for-a-laugh 1910s slapstick performer Alice Howell, an L-KO star who is largely overlooked today.

No, This Isn’t Bebe Daniels From “The Wizard Of Oz” (1910)

Back when I first joined social media groups about silent films–to think other folks liked those films too!–a certain vintage photo would circulate every so often. Maybe you’ve seen it yourself:

Certainly a cute, memorable image, no? 99% of the time, its caption proclaimed it was a picture of young Bebe Daniels as Dorothy Gale in The Wizard of Oz (1910). Usually you’d scroll through the comments in vain, finding only an occasional comment or two that would spring to the rescue: “No, this is actually Lucille Hutton.” One fan made this Facebook page, probably hoping to counteract the flurry of mislabeled photos.

Since I pop into social media groups much more sparingly nowadays (gotta cut down on the scrolling!), it’s been awhile since I’ve seen a “This is Bebe Daniels!” post. Hmm, maybe the truth has finally won out by now. Maybe it was more of a mid-2010s thing. Maybe–oh, crud.

Now, why is this specific photo so frequently misidentified as a nine-year-old Bebe as Dorothy? And why do we take it for granted that a 13-minute 1910 film had some sort of photo shoot for one of its actors? And most important of all: Who is Lucille Hutton?

Joker Comedies, The Freewheeling–And Forgotten–Keystone Rival

Post #1 of Forgotten Comedians Month 3 is here! I’d like to also wish my fellow USA silent film fans a happy and relaxing Fourth of July–maybe this can be part of your vacation reading? Enjoy!

Still from Almost an Actress (1913).

If you were to read some of the cinema trade papers from the fall of 1913 (who doesn’t have these on their laptops at all times?), you might spy a few items like this one:

Motography vol 10, no 8, October 18, 1913.

And you’d probably come across a few ads like this:

Unless you’re a major silent comedy buff, you’ll be forgiven for not knowing about this little studio, which operated under the umbrella of Universal. The story of Joker is a bit melancholy, because despite a dizzyingly large filmography very few of its films survive today. But let’s get to know Joker and its creative, hardworking players and see if we can bring it back to life for us, if only for a bit.

Presenting…

Sessue Hayakawa, Elegant Idol Of The 1910s

The typical leading man of silent films was a strong, dependable, clean-cut type, with names like Harold Lockwood or Earle Williams. By the 1920s Rudolph Valentino’s popularity had initiated a craze for “exotic” Latin lovers. But modern moviegoers might be surprised to learn there was another matinee idol even earlier than Valentino who seemed “exotic” to white audiences: the Japanese actor Sessue Hayakawa, a major star of the 1910s.

Hayakawa’s early life was tinged by drama. He was born Kintaro Hayakawa on June 10, 1886 in the city of Minamiboso in Chiba, Japan. He had a wealthy family, his father being the provincial governor and his mother having aristocratic roots. At age eighteen Hayakawa attempted to join the Japanese naval academy in Etajima, planning on becoming an officer to fulfill his parents’ wishes. When he was rejected due to hearing problems (he had ruptured an eardrum while diving), he attempted to commit seppuku (ritual suicide) by repeatedly stabbing himself in the abdomen. Fortunately, his father discovered him in time and he managed to make a recovery.