“East Meets West”–An Interview With Sessue And Tsuru Hayakawa

As a follow up piece to my post about Hayakawa’s life and career, here’s a great interview with him and Tsuru from The Picturegoer, a U.K. fan magazine that was in print from 1911 until 1960. The writer, Viola McConnell, evidently travelled to Hollywood to get some in-person entertainment coverage and was invited to the Hayakawas’ mansion. She was clearly charmed by both of them and admired their beautiful, cultured home.

Sessue and Tsuru in an ad for Black Roses (1921).

We hear a lot about Sessue, but can definitely stand to have more of his interviews floating around. I thought this one fit the bill nicely, capturing both Sessue’s dignity and Tsuru’s liveliness. A couple things I found interesting: Sessue talking about his desire to bring more Shakespeare plays to Japan, where they apparently weren’t well known; and the couple’s mention of their dream to make an epic film telling the story of Japan. An epic silent film version of that country’s entire history–a pity that project was never realized.

I kept the British spellings and other old-timey details. Note the use of “Nippon”, the old, formal way of pronouncing Japan. In 1921, only a year earlier, the U.S. had started requiring that Japanese imports be marked “Japan” instead of “Nippon”, and the English-speaking world gradually stopped using it. Anyways, enjoy!

A Photoplay pic of the couple with their pup Dynomite.

The Picturegoer
Vol. 3, No. 14, February, 1922.

“EAST MEETS WEST”

“Nishiki Ware.”

“No, Satsuma. That’s a Satsuma vase.”

“Not that one. The taller one on the black stand is Satsuma.”

Thus we argued fiercely, a little bunch of guests in the corner our hostess devotes to Japanese curios. The vase in question was, as a matter of fact, Noritake ware. I hastened to tell them so, and was politely but persistently howled down.

Buster And “Big” Joe Roberts, A Lasting Friendship

This is my own post for the Ninth Buster Keaton Blogathon. Please enjoy, and don’t forget to check out all the other wonderful posts, too!

If there was an official “gentle giant” of silent comedy, in my book it would have to be “Big” Joe Roberts, of Buster Keaton film fame. The jowly, 6-foot-3-inches performer played a number of intimidating “heavies”–and at least one bashful farm hand–in nearly twenty of the famed (and more diminutive) comedian’s films.

But Buster and Big Joe weren’t just coworkers but long-time pals, vaudeville veterans who spent their summers in the same quiet neighborhood of Muskegon, Michigan and shared countless memories of lakeside fun and hijinks. In fact, Big Joe’s house was just down the hill from the Keaton family.

Thoughts On: “Underworld” (1927)

Better late than never, here’s the last post of Gangster Month! And the best film was saved for last, she declared. I always enjoy doing these theme months, and I hope you’ve enjoyed following along!

The sophisticated, moodily-lit crime drama Underworld (1927) is recognized by many as the “official” launching point of the gangster genre. But even if you removed it from that context, it would easily be considered a masterpiece all on its own. Funnily enough, director Josef von Sternberg himself would’ve probably appreciated it that way. “When I made Underworld I was not a gangster, nor did I know anything about gangsters,” he stated in Kevin Brownlow’s The Parade’s Gone By. “I do not value the fetish for authenticity. I have no regard for it. On the contrary, the illusion of reality is what I look for, not reality itself.”

But while Von Sternberg may have crafted his film first and foremost as a compelling story, that story melds perfectly with the dark setting of Roaring Twenties gangster culture–dark in both a figurative and literal sense. The opening title card establishes the mood: “A great city in the dead of night…streets lonely…moon clouded…buildings as empty as the cave dwellings of a forgotten age.” Many of Underworld‘s scenes take place at night, often hours after regular folks would’ve gone to bed. This alone helps the viewer sense the subversive nature of the criminal world.

Salvador Dali, Buster Keaton Fan

When we read about history, it’s easy to forget how often various worlds would collide. For example, Harold Lloyd’s Speedy and Dreyer’s The Passion of Joan of Arc came out the same year, and Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford once had Albert Einstein over for dinner (Chaplin was invited too, and Pickford remembered him and Doug listening to the famed professor in awed “befuddlement”). And an artist like, say, the iconic Salvador Dalí would have grown up with silent comedies, and would’ve had his favorite comedians like everyone else.

It’s fairly common knowledge among classic comedy fans that Dalí was a Marx Brothers fan–or rather, fanatic. Once he gifted Harpo a custom-made harp with barbed wire strings, covered with spoons (as historian Joe Adamson humorously explained, Harpo “didn’t drop spoons, he dropped knives, that’s why Dalí used spoons”). He also presented the Marx Brothers with a screenplay called Giraffes on Horseback Salad, basically a living series of his paintings but with Marx Brothers. (They somewhat respectfully declined.) But not everyone knows that Dalí was a Buster Keaton fan, too.

A Century Of “Nosferatu” (1922)

As you sit down to sometime this weekend to enjoy the great German Expressionist classic Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror (just a hunch, but something tells me you will!), keep in mind that 2022 has a special significance: it’s the 100th anniversary of this milestone piece of cinema!

Its “birthday” of sorts is technically March 4, 1922, when the studio Prana-Film hosted its grand premiere at the Marmorsaal (“marble hall”) of the Berlin Zoological Garden. It was released in German theaters on March 15, and then slowly made its way around the Netherlands, France, Estonia, a few other European countries…and that’s about it, until it was finally released in the U.K. in 1928 and the U.S. in 1929.

Thoughts On: “The White Sister” (1923)

I’ve sometimes thought that if Lillian Gish hadn’t become an actress, she would’ve made an excellent Catholic nun. That’s a sincere observation–Ms. Gish, a highly-disciplined woman of innate dignity and fine character, seemed like a good match for a contemplative life. But come to think of it, she did come pretty close when she starred in the 1923 drama The White Sister.

This was Gish’s first film after her long tenure under D.W. Griffith. They had parted on friendly terms after completing Orphans of the Storm (1922), with Griffith admitting he couldn’t pay her a high enough salary and encouraging her to strike out on her own. Fellow former Griffith actor Richard Barthelmess and talented director Henry King had started working for the new independent company Inspiration Pictures and had just made the Americana masterpiece Tol’able David (1921). Gish decided to join them, and after some thought decided the 1909 novel The White Sister would make a fine melodramatic film.

Repost: “The Passion of Joan of Arc” (1928)

A favorite film of mine to revisit every Lent, especially on this particular holy day, Good Friday, is this late 1920s masterpiece. So I thought I’d share my thoughts on it again this year. It’s a film so powerful that it can be difficult to describe, but back in 2017 I gave it my best shot. If you haven’t seen it yet, I truly hope this piques your interest!

Making most lists of the top ten greatest films ever made is Carl Theodor Dreyer’s The Passion of Joan of Arc (1928). And indeed, you suspect a spot had always been reserved for it. A critic from as far back as 1929 was moved to declare, “It makes worthy pictures of the past look like tinsel shams.”

DVD (And Obscure Film) Review: “Beverly of Graustark” (1926)

When it comes to finding crowd-pleasing silent films, you can’t go wrong with Marion Davies features. It’s pretty well known that her earlier features, financed by lover William Randolph Hearst, tended to be costume pictures that attracted more interest a century ago than today. But her charming mid- to late-Twenties films have aged beautifully. Blending light comedy, romance, a bit of tasteful slapstick and even satire, they still have universal appeal.

One of these crowd-pleasers is a film I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard of–Beverly of Graustark (1926). If we had to choose a film to mark the divide between Davies’s more sedate early features and her later comedies, it would probably be Beverly. And it’s a reminder that even obscure 1920s features can prove how darn good silent Hollywood could be.

100 Years Ago, Flapper Culture Officially Became A Phenomenon

2022 marks the centenary of a very specific social phenomenon–1920s flapper culture. That’s right, I’m saying “centenary,” because I propose that 1922 should be formally recognized as the “Birth Year of the Flapper.” I’ve spent, err, too much time exploring this fascinating era of the early 20th century (especially when I did Flapper Month here on Silent-ology a few years ago), and after awhile I started noticing a trend. While flapper culture had been brewing and evolving for quite some time, 1922 is truly the year when the quintessential bobbed-hair flapper burst into the public consciousness. Did she ever!

It was also the year The Flapper magazine debuted–“Not For Old Fogies.”

Two examples of what I mean: here’s the results you get when you search for “flapper flappers” (both words at the same time) in the years 1910-1929 on the Media History Digital Library:

And if you do the same search on Chronicling America, if you narrow the search results down to a single year at a time, you will see:

1919: 12 results
1920: 22
1921: 36
1922: 533 (!)

I dunno, that’s looking pretty clear cut to me!

(If you’re curious, on Chronicling America 1923 = 67 results, and 1924 = 64. After 1922, flappers seemed to be an accepted part of life–or maybe the public was tired of talking about them so much.)