Why So Silent?

Alicia

I suppose one reason I have no aversion to silent films, or even black-and-white films as some of my friends do, is that I was raised on them. I can only vaguely remember being introduced to Charlie Chaplin and his tramp antics—it was really that long ago. I even dressed up as Chaplin for Halloween in fifth grade. I realize this is a unique childhood, to be watching silent shorts instead of Disney Channel, but that’s just how it went down for me. Of course, I “grew out” of it (question: now that I think about it, how can you grow out of something that’s at least ten times as old as you?), but recently I went back to them, this time to the feature-length films. One reason I really like them, to be honest, is that I like to laugh at the ridiculousness of some of them. It was really the same situation back then as it is now; every now and then you got a gem, but a good number of them were pretty crappy plots. The thing about the gems is that they really were good. They make me laugh and they make me cry. There’s something so universal about anything conveyed without words that it could reach anyone if they give it a chance.

One very common mistake, one that I had done as well until a few months ago, was making the assumption that “talking” films and silents are virtually the same thing. This is not true. It’s like the difference between figure skating and ballet. It’s basically the same thing . . . but then again it’s not. Yes, it’s a film, but it requires so much more audience participation. No one ate popcorn in movie theaters; it would detract from their concentration. Seeing a film in the early 1900s was making a commitment to “listening” to the telling of a story. Today, all of us know we can do our homework and watch a movie at the same time while still getting the main storyline of the film and understanding the main concepts of our homework. I personally was shocked to find that sound films were not greeted with open arms; many silent film actors couldn’t make the switch and grieved for the passing of their art form. They felt it, being the silent film, was the ultimate expression of human emotion because it could reach so many people, regardless of the language they spoke. Another surprise: silent films had unbelievable affects on their viewers. One in particular, the infamous Birth of a Nation, made in 1915, sparked a number of race riots resulting in a few deaths and actually brought on a revival of the dying Klu Klux Klan. However, one actress who acted in the film went to see the picture in an audience of mostly grown men; she later commented that by the end of the show the row of seats was shaking with their sobs. This specific film had more of a reaction, and so many different reactions, than perhaps any film since.

I love how this medium constantly surprises me with its power and its innovation. When I was a child it was more of, “Look at the funny man eating his shoes!” More recently, I’ve been noticing how they play with the level of subtly they can use while still getting the message across without the power of words, and how they play with light and shadows to emphasize an image or idea. It’s a bit like our visual essays. They just take it to the next level. They push every shot to the limit, every story—often they pushed the production code, which limited what sort content they could have in their stories. Many silent films are much racier than the films of the ‘40s and ‘50s, when that famous rule of a husband and wife sleeping in different beds was enforced. The concept of a film telling a story, in the 1910s and ‘20s, was not even thirty years old, and yet there was so much imagination and experimentation at work. It amazes me and it surprises me nearly every time I see one of those “gems”. And, truth be told, I love being surprised.