Son of the Sheik (1926)

No question, Valentino was dead-sexy in a turban.

I'll admit I have decidedly mixed feelings about Valentino. At his best, he radiates a raw sex appeal like no one else. However, his films usually rely more on his charismatic good looks than his acting ability, which is never his strongest quality. In The Sheik in particular his brand of acting usually involves a manic grin and fierce, wide-eyed stare that makes me want to pass him some eye drops. And then there was the frightful mockery that was Moran of the Lady Letty, a film the producers thought would improve his image among male viewers by putting him in a story driven by action rather than sex. A great idea, perhaps, but in execution Moran comes across like an attempt to prove you're a man's man by joining the badminton team. The big action finale, I kid you not, pits Valentino, along with the entire crew of a smuggling ship, against two men in a rowboat.

The Thief of Bagdad (1924)

A publicity image which, like the film itself, combines realism with expressive
artifice to create a vibrant fantasy world.

The Thief of Bagdad is, by far and away, the most visually impressive of Fairbanks' films. Massive sets, elaborate costumes, state of the art special effects, and a cast of thousands make for one of the biggest and most spectacular films of its day. Visually, it is a veritable feast of loveliness, although its creative effects never for an instant look real. When Fairbanks slays a dragon, flies through the air on a winged horse, or visits mermaids at the ocean floor, it is evident that these feats are achieved through a composite of models and camera tricks. But then, this is fantasy. The point is to look beautiful, not real.

The Love Light (1921)

Mary Pickford as Angela

Certain films, no matter how far removed we may be from the time and culture that created them, never lose their immediate appeal. A thousand years from now, if people are still watching movies, they'll still be laughing at the Little Tramp.  Others, however, require us to calibrate our expectations somewhat, to place the work in the context of its time and intended audience. Most likely, the creators of these films never intended them to be viewed this way. The majority of movies, even as late as the 1970's, were meant to be enjoyed by a contemporary audience only. It wasn't until the video age that filmmakers really started to think about making films for posterity. To accuse a film like The Love Light of ridiculous overacting and stomach-turning melodrama, then, is not really fair. After all, we are not the film's intended audience and are likely judging it by a set of standards no one in 1921 could have anticipated.

Speedy (1928)

Harold Lloyd and Ann Christy

If you're having a bad day--your dog died, you lost your job, or for whatever reason you're just feeling blue--then find a copy of Speedy, Harold Lloyd's final silent film, get yourself a hot dog and some cracker jacks, and settle in for the ride of your life. I can't think of another film that can match it for its excitement, fun, and, well, love of trolley cars.

The Penalty (1920)

Lon Chaney as Blizzard.

Before there was Tom Savini, there was "The Man of a Thousand Faces," Lon Chaney, the great silent horror actor who quite literally wrote the book on movie make up techniques--among other contributions, Chaney wrote the first edition on film make up for the Encyclopedia Brittanica in 1929. In addition to the usual array of powder and grease paint, Chaney used most anything he could find to achieve the results he wanted, and never shied away from possibilities that would be too dangerous or uncomfortable for most anyone else. In The Phantom of the Opera alone, he put a film of egg white over his eyeballs to make them appear cloudy, and stretched a piece of fish skin over his face in order to reshape its basic contours. While the claim that an inhaled grain of artificial snow from a film set caused the throat cancer that killed him is likely false, he did cause irreparable damage to his health through make up and effects used in at least two films, The Hunchback of Notre Dame and The Penalty.

His Picture in the Papers (1916)

Douglas Fairbanks as Pete Prindle, looking for his name in the paper. It isn't there.

I generally find that I know more or less what to expect from a film before I see it. I may not know if I will like it or not, although I usually have a pretty good idea of that too, but seldom does a film surprise me as much as this one did. His Picture in the Papers is clever and original (what movie wasn't at least a little original in 1916?); it is quirky, unpredictable, and utterly charming, a tale of love, advertising, and vegetarian cooking. What more could you ask?

Doctor Jack (1922)

Harold Lloyd as Dr. Jack, with a monkey

A lot of people don't remember (or, considering that pretty much none of us were alive at the time, never knew) that there was a third slapstick comedian of the silent era who, if not of the same caliber artistically as Chaplin and Keaton, was far more successful financially. I'm talking, of course, of Harold Lloyd, the gangly, bespectacled man-boy who always seemed to be tripping over his own feet and yet, when push came to shove, could scale the side of an twelve floor department store with the best of them. Lloyd's movies were so successful that although he was virtually retired by 1935, he was still able to comfortably live out his remaining thirty-six years in quiet retirement at his Hollywood mansion, complete with 44 bedrooms, 26 bathrooms, and a nine-hole golf course. Not a bad life, eh?

Wild and Woolly (1917)

Douglas Fairbanks as Jeff Hillington in his New York City apartment.

In Wild and Woolly, Douglas Fairbanks plays Jeff Hillington, the son of a New York railroad magnate. He is obsessed with the Old West. Certifiably obsessed. His home and office have been turned into vast playgrounds for his hobby. He has tee-pees, six-shooters, model horses, and enough campy wild west paraphernalia to fill the Fort Worth stockyards twice over. Everyone around him simply accepts that he's a bit of a nut, and they humor his fantasies enough to get by (he is the boss's son, and those six-shooters are loaded, after all).

The Gaucho (1927)

Douglas Fairbanks as The Gaucho, perched on his horse.

The Gaucho is Fairbanks at his very finest. He was in the best shape of his life. His stunt sequences had been getting progressively more elaborate throughout his career, and by 1927 were just dazzling. Raw athleticism combined with his rugged good looks and boyish charm made Fairbanks a joy to watch. It is not that he is stronger or more agile than other performers. Impressive as his work is, it would not be hard to find a dozen performers who could duplicate any of his on-screen acrobatics. No, it is not the technical difficulty of his performance that makes him legendary but the grace and pizazz he brings to his feats of skill. It almost seems, at times, that extra tables surely are put into every film set just so Fairbanks will have more props to leap over effortlessly, a wide grin on his face the whole time.

The Films of Douglas Fairbanks: Introduction

Douglas Fairbanks

In the 1920's, Douglas Fairbanks was the biggest action star the world had ever known, but he got there in a round about sort of way. He started out in comedy, making simple “boy-meets-girl-but-then-something-gets-in-the-way-so-he-has-to-get-chased-all-over-town-and-perform-outlandish-stunts-before-he-can-marry-her” films, not unlike the Harold Lloyd thrill-seekers of the 1920's. Fairbanks’ comedies are all but forgotten today in favor of his better-known adventure films, but it was in comedy that he first established himself as one of the three most successful stars in Hollywood, along with Charlie Chaplin and Fairbanks’ own future wife, Mary Pickford. For several years, Fairbanks had become increasingly involved in the practical side of filmmaking, leading up to his co-founding of United Artists with Chaplin, Pickford, and director D.W. Griffith in 1919. When he made his first foray into serious action films with 1920’s The Mark of Zorro, Fairbanks was a well-established star of thirty-seven, and a full career reboot was the last thing anyone could have expected, particularly when this meant taking on projects of a scale and complexity that made them phenomenally more expensive than his earlier works. The Mark of Zorro was a hit, however, and Fairbanks never looked back. Over the next nine years he made a total of eight more costumed adventure films, cementing his reputation as cinema’s first (and arguably greatest) swashbuckler.