Sergei Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin (1925)

We entitle this accompaniment to our screenings “Why We Picked This Film,” but we really want to call this one “Why You Should Watch More Silent Films.” The reasons we hear not to watch silent films are legion and often non sequitor – they’re old (?), they’re boring, they didn’t know how to make “real” movies back then, they might be hard to understand because they don’t have words, etc.

But really there’s only one thing keeping people from seeing some really great films from the silent era – they’re different – and that’s not really a good reason to skip what might be a very fun experience. So here are three reasons why you should jump at the chance to see silent films, not that those chances materialize very often.

1. Silent films have retro cool potential. In an era when most of us are wearing ‘70s t-shirts, listening to early rock-and-roll music, and letting “Mad Men” return us to the style and sexism of the 1960s, there’s caché in exploring the style and stand-out examples of film-making dominant at the beginning of the form. Now, it’s not like folks are dipping into the silent era and stealing techniques, looks, or content for modern “retro” silent films. But “coolness” is a state of mind. If we are excitedly reliving the patriarchal oiliness and style-over-substance vibe of the ‘60s, why shouldn’t we celebrate the kooky human-as-clown comedies of Max Sennett or revel in our knowledge of the first filmed versions of vampire flicks (Nosferatu, 1922) or westerns (The Great Train Robbery, 1903) or animated cartoons (Humorous Phases of Funny Faces, 1906). If we don’t think of silent film as a archaic technology but more as a style of film-making, then, seeing Battleship Potemkin becomes a social interaction, the establishment of a certain kind of cultural cred, and you’re only “in” if you’ve seen a few.

2. Silent films are wacky. We won’t go into the history of the form, but very little in a silent film looks like movies today. There’s a certain goofiness – part technology, part style of the time, part viewer’s unfamiliarity – that comes off the screen. So in that sense, watching a silent film, from the comedies of Buster Keaton to the historic epics of D.W.Griffith, is not like going to the a movie but like going to a completely different visual experience, and because it is an unfamiliar one, it’s weird. But weird is often fun. Think about the strangest food you’ve ever eaten, or when you and your fiends jumped into a hole in the ice at Widji, or maybe the first time you heard a Tom Waits song, and you thought, “okay, that was weird ... but fun.” Weird + fun = wacky, really, and many of the things we do for the first time, if we’ve never thought about doing them before or they don’t conform to our conventional expectations, are wacky. That’s the silent film experience. So you get home from Battleship Potemkin, and your parents ask “what have you been doing?” You say, “I’ve been watching this wacky movie where people don’t speak out loud, so they do a lot acting with their faces and gesturing with their arms. It was pretty cool.”

3. Silent films are fun because they’re different; it’s all the other stuff that becomes boring. We suspect that this summer you are likely to watch only movies that are made only in 2011, and not only that but maybe only movies made in 2011 about male superheroes (Green Lantern, Thor, Captain America, X-Men: First Class). There’s a certain sameness to the American film-going experience. Then every once in a while a movie comes along that’s a lot different from what we’re used to seeing, something like Blair Witch Project, or Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, or anything written by Charlie Kaufman, and we celebrate its difference, its breath-of-fresh-air-ness. The fact that silent films are different, that they give us a moment to cleanse our palette and to rethink what it is that we get from the other films we go to, that they’re wacky, is their value to us. While people do like familiarity (the only reason MacDonald’s exists), failure to experience “the different” traps us in a culture of mediocrity. Difference is experience; difference is life. And life is better if you’re becoming more experienced, trying new things: ice hole baths, grasshopper tacos, muy Thai martial arts films, Tom Waits’ cover of “Heigh Ho,” Snakefinger, black lighting, hot dog eating contests, Tiny Tim and his ukelele ... well, you get the picture.

In some ways, Battleship Potemkin is neither that cool, nor that wacky, nor that different. It tells a simple story of a group of sailors, fed up at mistreatment, protesting their condition, and the resulting revolt against authoritarian rule. We hope, though, that viewers set aside any fear of the no-longer-conventional techniques and style and enjoy one of the best films ever made.

R. Findlay
Film Club Adviser

Chen Kaige’s Farewell, My Concubine (1993)

To the Chinese, history is the most important teacher. There is a Chinese saying: 前事不忘后事之师 (qiánshì bú wàng hòushì zhī shī) or “The past not forgotten is a guide for the future.” In order to understand the present and predict the future, one must look to the past. Some of the most well-known Chinese novels, plays, and movies illustrate the importance of history to the Chinese. Farewell, My Concubine is no exception. The film is an exploration of Chinese history and the place of the individual who is caught up in its epic sweep.

2011 marks the completion of the first century of a Chinese republic. The overthrow of the Qing Dynasty was the end of two-thousand years of imperial rule. China was thrown into chaos as warlords and imperialist powers divided it up. Growing up, I always heard stories of my grandfather’s childhood in China, before his migration to Jamaica, West Indies. He was born in the last years of the Guangxu Emperor, and was a young boy when Puyi, himself only three years old, was crowned the Xuantong Emperor. He was to be the last emperor of China. My grandfather’s youth in early republican China was marked by battles between warlords and bandit raids. Indeed, China had been thrown into turmoil. My grandfather chose to emigrate and left his ancestral land for the stability found in the British Empire, of which Jamaica was a colony.

My grandfather’s story is not unusual for those of his generation. Born in the Qing Dynasty, millions of Chinese were thrust into the brutal twentieth century. They suffered through civil and world war, as well as political and social upheaval. This film shows in stark realism and even brutality the revolutionary nature of recent Chinese history.

Throughout the film, we follow two actors, childhood friends, as they are caught-up in the traumatic events of twentieth-century China: the period of the warlords, the rise of the Republic of China, the second Sino-Japanese War, the rise of the Communists and the foundation of the People’s Republic of China in 1949, and finally the tumultuous Cultural Revolution (1966-1976). The commitment of the actors to the Beijing Opera, a Chinese art form rooted in traditional Chinese history and culture brings them into conflict with a rapidly changing China. They become confused and disheartened as Chinese history comes crashing into their lives.

Because actors, alongside prostitutes, fell at the bottom of the traditional Chinese social ladder, the film is able to capture Chinese history through the lens of the marginalized. This includes not only actors, but homosexuals as well. There are no proscriptions against homosexuality in Confucian philosophy, and it has a long history in China. As long as a son or daughter married and produced grandchildren, they were fulfilling their filial duty. However, with the rise of Communism in China, with its emphasis on conformity, homosexuality was suspect. This stark treatment of homosexuality and its realistic and horrifying depiction of the Cultural Revolution led to the film being banned in China.

In 1966, Mao Zedong declared the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution in an effort to expand his personal power. He came to believe that there must be a perpetual revolution in order to usher in the Communist utopian society. Mao declared the removal of all that was traditional in Chinese society. Writers, artists, filmmakers, teachers, religious leaders, and intellectuals had to conform to strict revolutionary norms. Those who did not demonstrate proper revolutionary enthusiasm were persecuted. Thousands of families were torn apart. Schools closed down. Teachers and parents were turned in by their own students and children. “Struggle sessions” were held in order to accuse and mock counter-revolutionaries. Palaces, temples, libraries and churches were turned into storage places or destroyed. Thousands died at the hands of others, or at their own. The Cultural Revolution was ten years of social turmoil from which China is now only beginning to recover.

Farewell, My Concubine not only explores Chinese history, but also the interplay between art and life. The Beijing opera Farewell, My Concubine is itself quite short; about fifteen minutes. Its protagonist is the concubine of the King of Han, whose kingdom is about to fall. As soldiers surround the city, his favorite concubine offers him wine and asks for his sword so she can dance with it. Fearful of the troops who will soon storm the city, the concubine commits suicide with the king’s sword. Surrounded by animosity, and fearful of being outcast, the concubine dies. In the movie, the play becomes a timeless depiction of fierce loyalty in the face of adversity. Parts of the play echo events in the actors’ lives. Art and real life become intertwined until it becomes hard to discern where one begins and the other ends.

Farewell, My Concubine is ultimately about the decision of ordinary people to survive and adapt or to recoil from the events around them. In the end, the film leaves us with these questions: how do we treat those who differ from us, how do we remain loyal to our friends, what is the relationship between art and life, and how do we shape our own destiny in the midst of history’s grand sweep?

Mr. Aaron Bohr
Guest Commentator