Imogene Follies

the footlights would catch her eye
and that glance,
that half-smile, coy and sweet
as she'd dance -
every arrow-collared chap thought
it for him
but she did little that wasn't on
a whim

to Germany, forced into a new life
(she was to blame)
then Hollywood when it was safe
(with a new name)

a short-lived starlet, keen and bright
before her troubles
brought her to an unkind end
and burst our Bubbles

Mary Nolan

Gilbert-o-Rama #5: Desert Nights (1929)

Ah, Jack, how we've missed thee!

"The diamonds are mine...and you'll be mine when I want you."

When this film was released, in 1929, the world had already been taken over by talkies, and as such, Jack Gilbert's last silent was instantly regarded as outdated.  Jeanine Basinger recounts in Silent Stars that most reviews consisted of "No Dialogue!"  It's a damn shame because this is one of the most spirited and fun of Jack's films.   The storyline is simple:  thieves (Ernest Torrence and Mary Nolan), posing as visiting arisocrats, kidnap the manager of a diamond mine (Gilbert) and take him along as hostage.  Deep into their trek through the desert, they realize they are lost and out of water - and suddenly are dependant upon their hostage to show them the way to survival.

Jack plays it to the hilt in this picture, and I don't believe he ever looked better: virile, devil-may-care, a downright handsome and amusing bastard.  When he gazes at Mary Nolan he practically devours her with his eyes.  For her own part, Nolan is a lovely and amiable costar - and quite beautiful; if you know nothing of her backstory, it's definitely worth a read.  Ernest Torrence is the rock of so many silent movies - his performance is solid and downright menacing at times.

Desert Nights (also known as Thirst) is a briskly paced picture with a satisfying (if expected) ending, and I definitely recommend catching it.  This kind of work is what Jack deserves to be remembered for, not the disaster that followed (His Glorious Night was looming on the horizon).

I give this one: 

Madame

there once was
a little girl
with violet eyes and a violin

who grew up to be
a celluloid Scheherazade
telling a thousand tales

of queens and fallen women
Camille
Salome

she was a peacock
a d-minor chord
a crushed velvet shawl

she was chypre
incense as dark and thick
as her hair

madame
you were the most important flower
in the garden

even when it dwindled to one
solitary
blossom

a child of the streets
who still lingers there
like the fading strains of your violin

Alla Nazimova

Oy, this winter!

This winter is doing nothing for productivity.  Every week we've been getting snowstorms; I spend most of my free time shoveling and drinking tea!  I am currently working on a poem for Nazimova, and I promise to have it up as soon as possible - it needs to be as epic as she was, so I'm taking my time with it.

Those of you in the same boat - be safe and stay warm!

Intolerance (1916)

Happy New Year everyone!  It's time we get back in the swing of things, and what better to start with than one of Griffith's epics?

First, a disclaimer:  I've never seen Birth of a Nation.  Now I know what you're thinking: "Jen, how can you call yourself a film buff - a silent film buff - and still not have this one under your belt?"  My reply would be "My good reader, I don't wear belts." 

*ba-dum ching*

This was my introduction to the world of Griffith, and I enjoyed it for the most part; the main drawback for me was the film's length.  I found myself on the edge of my seat for the Babylonian and Modern Day sequences, but when the French Renaissance sections came on I was - to be blunt - bored out of my skull.  I realize how each part was necessary to tell his story in whole, but I can't help but feel Griffith could've left out the French part entirely and still have had a wonderful film.  Having said that, Intolerance is beautifully shot, with an ageless story to tell, punctuated by Lillian Gish's endless rocking.

I also discovered the revelation that is Mae Marsh.  I have rarely seen - especially in a picture this early on - someone with such natural skill.  She becomes the Dear One: innocently effervescent, then heartrendingly sad; a quiet, gentle soul who becomes the fires of Hell itself when her child is threatened.  Her scenes with Bobby Harron are so frank and intimate you almost forget it's a movie.

Constance Talmadge is the Mountain Girl, and I don't think I've cheered that hard for someone in a long time.  Her tough and spunky portrayal rescues the Babylonian story from being a one-dimensional condemnation of decadence. 

Definitely see this one - it is considered a masterpiece, and for good reason.  Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to buy a belt.

I give this one:

Zephyr

I sat down to write a poem
about Mae Marsh
and her name took my mind
to a warm, soft, natural place,
sun-dappled and fresh
with the breezes of spring;

then I realized
that Mae herself
was all of that,
her gaze, her manner
as clear and gentle
as the balmiest day -
Spring itself.

Mae Marsh

Belated Holiday Wishes

Colleen is ready for the weather.

It hit me on Christmas Night that I'd neglected to wish all my readers a very happy holiday!   My apologies and I hope you had a lovely one!

Did any of you get socked by the blizzard?  We're still trying to dig out the house!