Aug 261930
 

The new owners of the Paris Opera House are told, after the sale, that there is a ghostly phantom haunting the place. The Phantom sends a threatening note, insisting that young, pretty singer Christine (Mary Phibin) be given the lead part that currently belongs to prima donna Carlotta (Mary Fabian; yes, two actresses with similar names). Christine is
naive. She thinks the voice behind her mirror—that has been teaching her to sing—belongs to a holy spirit. Even when he says he’ll be coming for her in the flesh, she sees it as some kind of spiritual joining as opposed to sex. The spirit is, of course, Erik, the Phantom of the Opera (Lon Chaney), a deformed artist who wants her for himself, and away from her fiancĂ©, Vicomte Raoul de Chagny (Norman Kerry). After terrorizing the audience at a performance, he kidnaps Christine, taking her into the labyrinth under the opera house where he plans to keep her forever. She is dismayed to discover who he is, and horrified when she sees his visage. She begs to be allowed to sing on the stage again, and he allows her to return to the world for a final performance. Once free, she plots with Raoul, and Erik plans his revenge.

You might reasonably ask, “What the Hell is the 1930 The Phantom of the Opera?” Well, I can only partially answer as it’s mostly lost. But then so is the 1925 version. You think you’ve seen the silent version? You haven’t. Let’s look at a bit of history to get this all in place.

The silent version, directed by Rupert Julian and starring Lon Chaney, had its initial test screening in early 1925. It wasn’t received well, so it was massively re-shot by director Edward Sedgwick, who was known for cheap westerns. This version didn’t do well at test screenings either, so a third version was made, keeping the ending of the second, but made up mostly of shots from the first, though overall trimmed and tightened a great deal. The biggest plot differences between the first and third was the character of The Persian becoming a policeman, and with that, Erik’s Middle Eastern background was changed to make him an escaped convict, and the ending was altered such that Erik no longer died of a broken heart, but by the actions of a mob. This is what was released and became a huge hit. Judging it from what has survived, it was exciting and frightening. It also made clever use of tinting to indicate where and when events were happenings. And it used Technicolor in a few scenes, bringing a beauty previously unknown in film; really, the masked ball is breathtaking. Julian was not a great director, but the production had love and money lavished upon it resulting in some amazing moments.

Then came talkies. It was not uncommon to attempt to re-purpose silent films, either by looping sound for a re-release, or by combing the silent sections with newly shot scenes. The 1930 Phantom is a case of the second. While the story was kept the same, roughly 40% of the film was re-shot, with Mary Phibin and Norman Kerry brought back for new versions of their old scenes. Unfortunately, the few years showed on them, particularly on Phibin who looks much different. Virgina Pearson, who’d played Carlotta, couldn’t sing, so she was recast with Mary Fabian. However, they still wanted to use Pearson’s scenes where Carlotta interacted with the managers, so in those cases Pearson was now said to be playing Carlotta’s mother, speaking for Carlotta. But they had a big problem. Lon Chaney had left Universal for MGM, and his  contract dictated he couldn’t be dubbed, so they were stuck. So while scenes without Chaney now had voices, as well as music and sound effects, those with Chaney used the old intertitle cards, along with the music and sound effects. Their workaround was to add a new character—Erik’s servant—who could now speak for him, at least when he was off screen. So the voice coming through the mirror was no longer The Phantom’s.

This mostly-sound version was released in early 1930 (though it’s often called the 1929 version, perhaps because that’s when the new material was shot) and did very well at the box office.

Enough history? Not yet, as that doesn’t explain what we’ve got now. The filming of the silent The Phantom of the Opera was odd by current standards. In order to have two negatives, they set up two cameras next to each other, so every scene has two versions from slightly different angles. And when they shot Technicolor, they had a separate camera nearby recording the scene in B&W.

Over the years the sound version, as a whole, was lost (I’ll return to this in a moment). And at the end of the ‘40s, in an act that seems insane now, Universal destroyed all of their silent films. So all the original negatives are gone. So how do we have any cut of The Phantom of the Opera? Several ways. First, Universal would sell 16mm prints of films back in the ‘30s for home use. The construction of these prints wasn’t given much care and they didn’t always match the theatrical versions, as in this case. The tinting and color weren’t included. Scenes would be missing and the shots from the second camera sometimes replaced the ones used for the theatrical cut. The home prints deteriorated over the years, so film preservationist John Hampton gathered as many copies as he could and spliced the best bits together. The result also has a few minutes that seem to be from the sound version. It’s faded and filled with scratches, but it is considered close to the 1925 version.

The second source comes from the George Eastman museum which had been given a 35mm print in 1950. This is a high quality version, and with some cleaning up, looks beautiful today. But it’s a strange hodgepodge of bits from the 1925 theatrical cut, alternate shots from 1925, and sections from the sound version but missing the sound—for example Fabian is Carlotta and Pearson is her mother. It’s also entirely in B&W, meaning the tinting and Technicolor scenes are missing.

And we’re not quite done yet. The Bal Masque scene, in glorious Technicolor, was discovered separately, and has been spiced into place in the Eastman cut (as well as a poorer version of it sometimes appearing in the videos made from the Hampton source). Re-tinting the film is easy now, and a scene where the Phantom appears in color while the rest of the scene is still B&W (actually blue & white) has been recreated via computer.

Which gives us a poor print of something close to the silent 1925 version, and a very good print of something less close.

As for the 1930 sound version, the sound disks for the whole film were rediscovered, though without the images except for one reel, where we have it all. Outside of that one reel, the sound can’t be directly synced to any surviving rendition of the film.

So, how do I review the 1930 version? Well, I can’t, but I can speculate. The Eastman version of the silent film is a masterpiece. Scenes are gorgeous, the pace is rapid, the metaphors are thoughtful, and Chaney is truly unique. His Phantom make-up is wonderfully ghastly, yet he’s so expressive in it. And oh, the masquerade ball, in color is a thing to behold. I think less of the Hampton version, partly because the lower quality saps away much of the beauty of the images, but also because the pacing isn’t as good. A few nips and tucks help the picture.

But this is about the 1930 version, not the ’25. I’ve heard the sound from the ’30, and while the sound effects and music are nice (really nice—I wish someone would add sound effects to the Eastman cut), the voices are less so. These are not great voice actors, and it shows. As for the visuals, I can say less, but from what little exists, the changes in Mary Phibin’s appearance is distracting. And the switch from dialog scenes to intertitles whenever Chaney appears is even more distracting. Finally, the silent The Phantom of the Opera is a very stylized film. No one is trying for reality. The acting is exaggerated and subterranean sets are there to invoke visions of Hades more than to suggest anything that could actually exist. Attaching voices—more or less realistic voices—to something so far from reality just doesn’t work. You need that dreamlike otherness or the whole story comes off as rather silly, and spoken dialog punctures the dream.

You can’t see the 1930 cut, and I don’t think that’s a problem. Just watch a silent version. As it’s fallen into public domain, multiple videos have been released of various quality and with dozens of different soundtracks, each giving the film a different feeling. I recommend one based on the Eastman source and using the Carl Davis symphonic score from 1996, which flows with the film, raising the tension when needed. It’s a solid score. The Gavriel Thibaudeau score is good enough, though a step down. I am not impressed with any of the organ or piano ones I’ve heard, nor those made up of well known classical works.

Still, the talkie version is important. Universal was looking at making horror films, and while it’s easy to think of The Phantom of the Opera as outside of that genre (the book is pulp, the feel is melodrama, and since Andrew Lloyd Webber it’s a teen-girl romance), the silent version is meant to illicit screams, and apparently did. The Phantom lives in an impossibly complex underworld that includes a torture chamber and an analog for the river Styx. He can strike anywhere, invokes fear in all, sleeps in a coffin, and of course, has a skull-like face. So yes, this is horror, and its box office success in 1930 gave them the confidence to produce Dracula, making The Phantom of the Opera the first Classic Universal Monster.

Jan 291930
 
two reels

The arch-criminal The Bat has just finished his most daring robbery and heads off to the country to a mansion rented by elderly but fierce Cornelia Van Gorder. The house is soon filled with an array of strange characters, including Van Gorder’s niece, a suspected bank robber, a suspicious doctor, a stern police detective, a comical PI, the nasty nephew of the owner of the house, and cowardly servants. It is likely that the proceeds from a bank robbery is hidden in the house which means we get a murder and lots of spooky goings on. Which of the guests is actually The Bat?

The Bat Whispers is a remake of the silent film—entitled The Bat—that started the Dark House genre in film. The genre puts a bunch of eccentric characters into a secluded haunted house, but where the haunting is almost always a Scooby-Do situation. Lightning flashes and strange sounds come from the walls but it is all background. While some of these films are comedies (The Ghost Breakers), more often “quirky” is a better description (The Old Dark House). That’s the case here, as nothing is funny but quite a bit is peculiar. Everyone’s behavior is loud and broad. This is no place for subtlety.

For 1930 the camera work is impressive, with several techniques and technologies developed for the project. Still, there’s no mistaking that The Bat Whispers/The Bat came from a stage play. Generally we keep on one side of a room, with characters moving left and right. I ‘m pretty sure I could block the play after watching this. And while those techniques and technologies were new, that doesn’t mean they were used in an exciting way. For the historical development, The Bat Whispers might get a cinematographers blood pumping, but for me, it’s not pulse pounding.

The story is a basic thriller with an easy to determine mystery. The story progresses by having a number of characters hear some sound and then go rushing into a room where they spend time trying to determine what caused the sound. Rinse and repeat. It’s not a bad time, nor is it memorable.

Bob Kane said that this was his inspiration for Batman. Apparently he had a wide ranging imagination as there isn’t much here to base a superhero upon.

It was remade as The Bat in 1959 with Vincent Price.

Jan 171930
 
two reels

Peter Foley (Rex Lease) is deeply in dept to G.W. Parker (Sam Hardy), and needs his inheritance to pay him off. His problem is that he needs a wife to get it, and his intended bride Alice Blake (Vera Reynolds) has been delayed. So Parker supplies him with a fake wife for the night, Julia (Nita Martan), who happens to be the girlfriend of jealous cop Bull Morgan (Paul Hurst), as well as several others—she’s a popular girl. Peter, G.W., and Julia head to the ghostly home of Peter’s Uncle Henry, who will inherit if Peter can’t prove he’s married, where they are supposed to meet with the lawyer. Joe Blair (Robert Livingston) also wants to marry Alice, so brings her to the old house to see that Peter is married, and thus turn to him. Morgan shows up too and hijacks ensue.

This is an Old Dark House movie mixed with a bedroom farce. Sure, the expected elements are here: there’s a spooky old house filled with secret passageways, an inheritance, a storm that maroons everyone there, an exterior threat, moans and screams, and people disappearing. But all that is, for the most part, just the setting. The storm isn’t to keep everyone trapped with a killer, but to force everyone to hide from each other by jumping in and out of beds.

Borrowed Wives is yet another Poverty Row flick from Frank R. Stayer, who made a career from the edges of the Old Dark House subgenre. This is one of his better works. It recycles old jokes and old situations, but does so in a reasonably amusing fashion. There’s plenty of mistaken identities, ducking under blankets, crawling under furniture, and slipping from room to room, observed only by the elderly woman who is shocked by the morals of the young. It all works out the way you’d expect, but then no one is looking for a big surprise at the end of a farce.

Other Poverty Row horror films from director Frank R. Stayer: Tangled Destinies (1932), The Monster Walks (1932), The Vampire Bat (1933), The Ghost Walks (1934), and Condemned to Live (1935).

Jan 011930
 
one reel
Alraune1030

Crooked Privy Councillor ten Brinken (Albert Bassermann) has had some success with his experiments with artificially inseminating rats, and wants to take it to the next level: inseminating a prostitute with the sperm from a dead murderer. Seems like that shouldn’t be the next level, but hey, I’m not a mad scientist, so what do I know? He enlists the aid of his nephew, Frank Braun (Harald Paulsen), who leaves after they kidnap a local loose woman. Frank is as close to a good guy as the film gets. I thought I’d mention that as usually kidnapping takes you out of the running to be the good guy. Anyway, seventeen years later, the result of the experiment, Alraune (Brigitte Helm), returns from boarding school, with no knowledge of her conception and thinking she’s ten Brinken’s niece. She’s a bit of a wild child, and has an enchanting effect on every man she meets, which leads to deaths and an upsetting of the social order. While everything is falling apart, Frank returns, because, as I mentioned, he’s the good guy, and Alraune takes an immediate interest in him.

Novelist Hanns Heinz Ewers REALLY didn’t like artificial insemination
A lot
In the running around waving his arms in the air and yelling “fire” way. He also wasn’t fond of women not keeping to their place. But he did think eugenics was pretty cool. I think it’s fair to call him a reactionary. Of course him becoming a Nazi is the cherry on top.

Director Richard Oswald wasn’t any of those things. He was Jewish and progressive, and while never a great artist, and more interested with cranking out films than quality (he averaged 25 a year during the silent era), he wanted to make statements about how it wasn’t birth, but society that was to blame for the nation’s woes. The problem is you can’t take a work of fanatical right-wing, religious gobbledegook and swap the themes, not without a lot more skill than Oswald had.

Alraune was a very hot property in Germany. This is the fourth (or fifth—the records are unclear and several films have been lost) cinematic version, and there would be another in ’52, long after artificial insemination became socially acceptable which makes its premise feel a bit silly. Alraune’s the first female movie monster and the only one to support a series in the classic and pre-classic days. That the story is so regressive doesn’t say anything good about how women were (are) viewed.

The 1928 version was a hit, diving into the murky morality, but mainly shining due to the performance of Brigitte Helm a year after her star-making turn in Fritz Lang’s Metropolis. Her Alraune was the ultimate femme fatale, oozing sex and evil, yet still sympathetic. You like her, and you want her to win. People bought tickets to see her vamp about silently, so producers, being what they are, thought hey, why not do it again just two years later, but now with talking. They even re-hired Helm, though everyone else was new.

Putting eugenics and artificial insemination and the role of women in society on the backburner (but don’t forget them as they fill this story), Alraune is a variant on Frankenstein. We’ve got a mad scientist, obsessed with creating life for questionable reasons. He does so, but then his creation doesn’t turn out the way intended, and when it’s treated poorly, it strikes back. Alraune is soulless due to the nature of her birth, and as she’s a woman, her strength is in her sexuality. She doesn’t, for the most part, feel, and has no notion of right and wrong. OK, even with all that stuff on the backburner, this sounds pretty terrible. And philosophically, it is. The film versions that more-or-less work do so either from the power of the characterization (1928’s) or on style and design (1952’s – My review). This version has neither of those. Oswald, in his failed attempt to fix the message, sucks the energy out of the story.

Oswald moved the time period to the then-modern era. That means gone is the Gothic, fairytale feel and the expressionism, and in comes the mundane world. Gone as well is any hint of magic, and when you are dealing with soulless, sex-crazed unnatural women, magic really helps. But then it’s no longer clear that she is soulless, and she isn’t presented as sex-crazed but instead surrounded by comically inept men (she asks the guy to pick her a flower and he flops into the water and drowns). With those shifts, Alraune ceases to be a horror movie, becoming a melodrama, and a rather dull one. Since this time Alraune isn’t a succubus, Brigitte Helm’s smokin’ routine wouldn’t work, so she tones it down to the point I wouldn’t have recognized her without the credits. We get no sultry glances, no jerking mannerisms. Before she’d been mesmerizing and unreal. Here she’s conventionally attractive and ordinary. Helm isn’t to blame as no one is memorable except for Bassermann, who seems to relish his grumpy, thieving, incestuous role as the mad scientist. But one living character isn’t enough.

Alraune is morally repugnant. Far worse, it’s boring. Choose a different version.

Sep 091901
 

This site reviews the best in genre film (where genre is taken very broadly). Reviews are grouped into lists so you can compare films with similar subjects.

Foster on Film has three parts:

  • The Important Films: Here I will look at the films that changed the art form and our society. I have selected my favorite genres and picked the films that are required viewing to understand those genres.
  • The Great Films: My look at the masterpieces of cinema. Here you’ll find lists of the top films by the greatest directors and actors. This is also the home of my Foscar project, where I attempt to fix the Oscar’s Best Picture awards.
  • Film Review Lists: Reviews of films grouped by genre and sub-genre; a guide to anyone who gets into one of the “what are the 10 best X films” discussions. These are reviews, not critiques, so aimed more toward “is it good?” than “why is it good?”
  • Rankings/Lists: A collection of all my other lists of the best films.