The cinetrix is in love with Anna May Wong.
After two days home sick, I ventured out late this afternoon to see the restored 1929 silent film Piccadilly, and I'm so glad I did.
One of the pinnacles of British silent cinema, Piccadilly is a sumptuous showbiz melodrama seething with sexual and racial tension. Chinese-American screen goddess Anna May Wong stars as Shosho, a scullery maid in a fashionable London nightclub whose exotic dance routines catch the eye of suave club owner Valentine Wilmot. She rises to become the toast of London and the object of his erotic obsession - to the bitter jealousy of Mabel, his former lover and star dancer.
And how. The bfi did a bang-up job of restoring the film to its former splendor [or should that be splendour?]. You can read a full accounting of the project here.
You have to understand, the cinetrix has watched more than her fair share of silent films in overheated theatres. It comes with the territory. She has been lulled into slumber by the soporific plinky-plink of countless ye-olde-style soundtracks--added much later--that attempt to simulate early cinemagoers' experience of live, and often indifferent, accompaniment. Hell, she even sat through all zillion restored minutes of DW Griffith's Intolerance with live orchestra more than ten years ago in the Max Palevsky Theater. ["Out of the cradle, endlessly rocking" indeed.]
What I'm trying to say is that I've learned to fall asleep during silent films, but Piccadilly kept me wide awake and riveted, mostly because I was crushing so hard on Anna May Wong. You people have no idea how much time I've already squandered trying to find an image that captures her amused and contemptuous smirk. Or the very mod striped, belted sweater and box-pleat skirt with laddered stocking look she sports early in the film. There's something so beautifully scornful in the way she chews the inside of her mouth while looking at someone sidelong. And if I could just sit you down and make you watch her face as she reads the newspaper account of her dancing debut. So, so good. [Plus, much like Hattie McDaniel, this is one scullery maid with a beautiful manicure at all times.]
These days, the star of Piccadilly's star, Anna May Wong, is once again in the ascendent. This year's International Asian American Film Festival in San Francisco presented a retrospective of Wong's films, both silents and talkies. Not only are there some gorgeous photos, you can read a great overview of her life and career on the festival's Web site, too. There are three new biographies, as well as a documentary in the works. At tonight's screening, one of her biographers, Graham Hodges, made a few introductory remarks [and divulged some salacious details] before the film, an unexpected treat.
Some random thoughts on the restoration and the presentation. The print was tinted yellow, which seemed a little, well, you know, with a few nighttime scenes sporting a beautiful blue hue. The camerawork was unconventional and very active, isolating small details and lingering over rich textures and shadows in some sequences, trailing a few paces behind a character in others, making jokes and editorializing. Also, it was great to see how dancing duo Mabel and Vic were framed during their big number. There was a lot of panning down to check out their feet, but also plenty of surprisingly long takes that showed the two hoofers' entire bodies. [Fred Astaire really did revolutionize dance on celluloid.]
It was a little unsettling hearing a silent's soundtrack in stereo--the mismatched technologies were jarring in a way I can't quite describe. [The closest I can come is my first experience hearing Queen's A Night at the Opera on CD, having listened to it countless times on 8-track as a kid. It was just too clean, you know?] It was also an interesting decision on the part of the restorers not to match the music to the action when people dance in the nightclub. There are plenty of discordant shots of patrons applauding the bandleader at the end of a number, while the soundtrack surges on, undeterred. One other thing about the soundtrack was that on this print it was damaged in places and crackled or cut out all together for several frames at a stretch.
Projection fuck-ups during final few reels' worth of action, mostly frame alignment on the changeovers, somehow felt more authentic to the silent movie experience and less irksome than usual. Go figure. [I blame the wretched Cold-Eeze gum I've been chomping, which makes Nicorette seem like a taste sensation.]
A final note. I'll chalk this up to the cold medication, too, but I hadn't been to a cinemaphile event like this in so long that I forgot the local cinemaniacs were more apt to be a factor. Sure enough, one of the twins was ahead of me in line. The balcony one, as it turned out, who managed to stake out the front row right of center [which is where the cinetrix likes to sit and, no, she is not going to dwell upon what this might mean. She has social skills, sorta. You can ask anyone]. Then he set off for concessions. The urge to shift all his shit one seat to the left was almost overpowering. But I didn't want to risk a psychotic break--his or mine. Next time...
