The Return of Silent Cinema

For The Lonedale Operator, D. W. Griffith mounted?his camera on the front of a speeding train in order to better capture the rush; for A Girl and Her Trust, he placed?it onboard a car that was racing alongside a racing train, with another car in hot pursuit. His mastery of intercutting between parallel action reached its apogee in the chase sequence of The Birth of a Nation. When that film was released, in 1916, the film?s cinematographer, Karl Brown, noted ?bigger and better, bigger and better became the constantly chanted watchwords of the year. Soon the two words became one. Bigger meant better, and a sort of giganticism overwhelmed the world, especially the world of motion pictures.??In many ways, this whiz-bang landscape of thrill rides, cheap scares, and teen kicks feels closer to us than the Golden Age of the 1940s and 1950s or even the 1960s and 1970s, when Hollywood, high on a mixture of the French new wave, auteurism, and pot, enjoyed an unparalleled creative growth spurt, one cut cruelly short by the kerr-ching of the cash registers for Jaws, and the boom of the laser cannons in Star Wars. As we all know by heart now, those two blockbusters flushed delicate arthouse sensitivities down the garbage chute and ?pioneered the cinema of moments, of images, of sensory stimuli increasingly divorced from story? in Peter Biskind?s formulation.

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