Adrian Brunel's silent movie is a lush, richly acted version of the story of how Ivor Novello, a rising young composer, marries Frances Doble, only to realize too late that she is not the wife for him; she is a staid and society-bound woman, who thinks it would be wonderful to be the wife of a great composer, but who would keep him, in the words of the title cards, in a silver sty; he realizes he actually loves Mabel Poulton, the wild daughter of his deceased friend and fellow composer, Georg Henrich.
Gaumont-British spared no expense in shooting this movie, with location photography in the Tyrolean Alps and impressive credits behind the camera -- not only avant-garde director Brunel, but Basil Dean and Alma Reville as screenplay writers. Novello is superb in his role, moving easily from comedy to tragedy in a way that reminded me of Fredric March a decade later. Poulton is also beautifully nuanced, and even Miss Doble performs her semi-villainous role with an air that made me sympathize with her.
What the beautifully tinted print I saw lacked, I realized, as I watched the final quarter hour, was a score. Perhaps there was one composed and played live in the major houses when this premiered ninety years ago. If so, I can find no record of it. For a movie about a symphonic composer -- two composers, actually -- to be presented with a piano or a drop-needle score is almost a burlesque. A movie like this requires a major score, and watching it without one is like watching a ghost; no matter how used to battered prints and poor presentation a longtime fan of silent movies may be, it eats away at the pleasure of watching what so obviously was a great movie to see it presented without the score it requires.
Gaumont-British spared no expense in shooting this movie, with location photography in the Tyrolean Alps and impressive credits behind the camera -- not only avant-garde director Brunel, but Basil Dean and Alma Reville as screenplay writers. Novello is superb in his role, moving easily from comedy to tragedy in a way that reminded me of Fredric March a decade later. Poulton is also beautifully nuanced, and even Miss Doble performs her semi-villainous role with an air that made me sympathize with her.
What the beautifully tinted print I saw lacked, I realized, as I watched the final quarter hour, was a score. Perhaps there was one composed and played live in the major houses when this premiered ninety years ago. If so, I can find no record of it. For a movie about a symphonic composer -- two composers, actually -- to be presented with a piano or a drop-needle score is almost a burlesque. A movie like this requires a major score, and watching it without one is like watching a ghost; no matter how used to battered prints and poor presentation a longtime fan of silent movies may be, it eats away at the pleasure of watching what so obviously was a great movie to see it presented without the score it requires.