Category: 1928

The Wind (1928)

Victor Sjöström | 1hr 35min

Impoverished ingénue Letty is absolutely convinced that the Texan wasteland where she tries to plant her roots in The Wind is haunted, though not by any malevolent poltergeist or demon. High up in the sky, she envisions a ghostly white horse galloping among the clouds, stirring a gale which tears at the foundations of ranches down below. This invisible force of elemental chaos possesses no alliance to any greater good or evil, but exists of its natural accord. It is to be marvelled at, feared, and for those who are particularly susceptible to its maddening influence, hopelessly succumbed to in total resignation.

It is through this eerie visual motif that what would otherwise be a straightforward melodrama takes on dark psychological dimensions in The Wind, delivering a metaphor of profound, existential instability. Especially for a woman like Letty whose life is so consumed by turmoil, this restless tempest is a constant companion, blowing around debris just as she herself is helplessly tossed between homes and men. What she initially hopes will be a chance for a new life in Sweetwater offers little in the way of security, especially when she begins to realise how vulnerable she is at the hands of the local bachelors – not all of whom have honourable intentions.

California’s Mojave Desert stands in for the Texan badlands, showcasing some superb location shooting in Hollywood’s earliest days.
The winds take the form of a great white horse in the sky, galloping across clouds with ceaseless momentum.

It is an uncertain, ever-changing world that she inhabits, and as an early pioneer of location shooting, Victor Sjöström is powerfully in tune with capturing its raw elements. California’s Mojave Desert effectively stands in for the Texan wilderness, and airplane propellors are cleverly situated just out of shot to simulate the titular winds, buffeting the actors’ hair and clothes. When an advancing cyclone turns a carefree party into an accelerating stampede to safety, even his blocking adopts that perpetual, unidirectional momentum. Standing amid the rush, Letty fearfully clings to her most persistent suitor Wirt, before being whisked away into an underground bunker with the other patrons. Clearly if she is to find any sort of stability, then she must hitch herself to a man, regardless of whether she finds the available options particularly appealing.

Gish literally surrounded by suitors in this framing, pressing in from every side.
A rush of bodies flying past Letty, manifesting the winds in Sjöström’s blocking.

As D.W. Griffith’s muse, Lillian Gish was certainly no stranger to playing naïve, innocent women, though Sjöström makes even better use of her talents here to corrupt Hollywood’s paragon of virtue. Even when she is safe inside, her troubled gaze is constantly drawn to windows where views of the heavy gale slowly erode her sanity, and bitterness makes a home in her heart as she perseveres through a reluctant marriage to Sweetwater local Lige Hightower. Her adamant fury when he forces a kiss is strengthened by its contrast to her usually passive demeanour, and opens the door to a deeper mistrust of those men she once believed were meant to be protectors of women.

A landmark of acting in silent cinema, twisting and corrupting the paragon of virtue which Gish so frequently represents.
Our gaze is frequently drawn to window frames of the exterior view, establishing a thin barrier between safety and madness.

Wirt’s willingness to pursue her even after she marries Lige sets him apart as the worst of the bunch. She has already rejected him upon learning that he simply wants to make her his mistress, yet still he continues his advances, driving Letty mad with panicked terror. When he is brought to her place to recover from an injury one day, she can’t help but picture his leering eyes and creepy smile as he sleeps, rendered disconcertingly in a double exposure effect. With men like this hanging around, little can soothe her anxiety, which Sjöström soon builds to a fever pitch as the fabled North Wind plagues her home with howling, frenzied chaos.

A haunting double exposure effect layers Lige on top of himself, leering disconcertingly at the camera.

Gish too seems possessed by this invisible force, her eyes stretching wide with terror and drooping into a hypnotic trance as she rhythmically sways with the hanging lanterns and camera. Kitchen bowls rock on shelves as if enchanted by spirits, and soon even the glass windows give in to the piercing wind, knocking over an oil lamp and setting a blanket on fire. In the sky above, that great white horse continues to whip up violent flurries, but a pounding at the door heralds an even greater peril – an opportunistic Wirt, taking advantage of Letty’s vulnerability to force himself on her.

Remarkable montage editing as the wind enters the house, knocks over an oil lamp, and drives Letty mad.

The relative serenity of the following morning does not bring an end to Gish’s madness. She is deeply traumatised, and as she sits stiffly in a kitchen chair, the camera’s forward tracking shot directs our gaze towards the object of her attention – a pistol, lying atop a pile of debris. She seems prepared to defend herself, though later when she finally fires it into Wirt’s stomach, she can barely comprehend her own actions. Even after burying him, all she can do is watch in terror as the wind gradually re-exposes his body, convincing her that the pair of hands forcing open the front door belong to his vengeful spirit.

A steady camera movement inching forward from behind Gish and towards the pistol lying on the table.
Madness builds to another peak after Letty’s murder of Lige, the wind revealing his buried body.

That it is Lige who enters cabin instead comes as a great relief to Letty, though even more reassuring are his words of comfort. “Wind’s mighty odd – if you kill a man in justice – it allers covers him up!” he proclaims, pointing out the weather’s mysterious concealment of her murder. Contrary to the rest of Sweetwater’s foreboding mythologising, this is the first suggestion that there might be some semblance of moral order in an otherwise lawless cosmos. Even more importantly, it is also the first demonstration of Lige’s selfless, forgiving love. With a steadfast certainty like this, all other doubts and insecurities fall away, and not even the winds hold the same psychological influence anymore as Letty and Lige bask in the draught of the open doorway. Worldly elements may ravage material constructs in The Wind, yet there is still peace to be found in Sjöström’s allegory of life’s erratic movements, delicately revealed in our ability to face its ravaging, mercurial turbulence.

Finally embracing the elements and life’s uncertainty without fear, captured in this gorgeous frame.

The Wind is not currently streaming in Australia.

October: Ten Days That Shook the World (1928)

Sergei Eisenstein | 1hr 40min

Within the tumultuous Russia of October: Ten Days That Shook the World, statues ascend to a prominence beyond carved stone and moulded clay. They are icons of ideological resolve, seeing the grand effigy of Tsar Nicholas II torn down with his abdication of the throne in March 1917, and comparing the Provisional Government’s leader Alexander Kerensky to a dour-faced figurine of Napoleon. So too are idols of Christianity, Hinduism, and ancient mythology set against the advance of the Imperial Army on Petrograd, linking the tyranny of organised religion to its militaristic nationalism, and leading into the ominous, reverse-motion restoration of the Tsar’s statue.

Eisenstein uses statues throughout October as ideological icons, elevating them to a prominence beyond carved stone and moulded clay.

Freedom is fragile in Revolutionary Russia, and Sergei Eisenstein’s docudrama is pointed in its attacks upon those who threaten it. Having engaged with smaller-scale strikes and mutinies in his previous two films, he now turns his focus to the uprising which officially established the Soviet Union, stretching his narrative across a far wider scope. Although this leads to somewhat looser storytelling that lacks the formal rigour of Strike or Battleship Potemkin, October continues to demonstrate the pragmatism of his montage theory, particularly in its comparison of juxtaposed images to create fresh, symbolic connections. This is intellectual montage at its strongest, setting Russia’s tale of Bolshevik victory against its historic, deeply emblematic statues, both set equally in stone.

An avant-garde exercise in pure, intellectual montage – Eisenstein saw the potential to extend his craft beyond straightforward narrative convention, and creates abstract symbolism from religious and military icons.

As the Provisional Government takes control in the film’s opening minutes, it is clear through such comparisons that little has changed after the collapse of the Romanov dynasty. From the cutaways to laughing men in suits, church crosses, and the imperial eagle, it is plain to see that the bourgeoise are celebrating this new state of affairs, while the presence of flags in virtually every second shot at Lenin’s rally conversely defines the working class by their righteous anger.

Beyond Eisenstein’s intellectual montages though, the full expanse of all his editing techniques is not to be ignored, as he continues to experiment with the slicing and timing of images in action-heavy set pieces. When the army attacks Bolsheviks peacefully protesting in Nevsky Square, Eisenstein unleashes rapid-fire montages alternating between machine guns and artillerymen, with each shot lasting no more than a frame each. It is a novel development of metric montages which not only rhythmically cuts to the army’s barrage of bullets, but also disorientates us within the panic, as the masses frantically scurry back to the city centre.

Rapid-fire montage slices like bullets, flashing between the machine gun and the artilleryman.

Seeking to isolate the protestors from their destination though, the government orders Petrograd’s bridges to be raised – a sequence which Eisenstein grotesquely plays out with victims being forcefully split between both sides. There is no reverence for the dead here, as one slain woman’s hair and hand slowly slide into the widening gap, and a horse hangs from the scaffolding by its tangled reins. His imagery is visceral, finally ending the massacre with the bourgeoise tossing Bolshevik newspapers and flags into the river, and gratuitously ransacking their headquarters.

Montage in service of action as this bridge is raised, cutting the protestors off from the city centre. The hair of a dead woman slides off one side, a horse hangs from its tangled reins, and a wagon slowly begins to roll backwards.

October’s immediate shift into the vast, ornate Winter Palace where the Provisional Government operates from couldn’t be starker in comparison. Now empty of Tsars, these arched halls and grand stairways host meetings between Mensheviks, while its imposing statues watch on with unimpressed gazes. Passing by the Greek goddess Diana, Minister-Chairman Kerensky pauses to admire the laurel wreath she seems to bestow upon his head, yet he is ignorant to the fact that victory is not yet secured. As he preens and postures to his fellow officials, Eisenstein even cuts to a mechanical peacock as his stand-in, mocking his artificial attempts to impress the same people who snicker behind his back.

Kerensky is set against a dour-faced Napoleon, diminishing his historical stature.
Kerensky is also compared to a mechanical peacock, preening and posturing to his fellow Mensheviks.

It is no thanks to Kerensky that Petrograd is so well-defended against the attempted coup led by General Kornilov. The Bolsheviks alone are responsible for the successful counterattack here, expeditiously uniting their forces against the aspiring dictator. Low, canted angles of them trekking in lines against a dark sky give the impression of an uphill march, meeting their enemy with rifles while those who remain behind spread leaflets and arm citizens. Their triumph is swift, yet their temporary alliance with the Provisional Government is only fleeting. Emboldened by their solidarity, their vote to revolt against the country’s incompetent leaders passes in a landslide, and Eisenstein thus leads us into the final days of the October Revolution.

A low, canted angle as the Bolsheviks march to war, set against a dark sky.

Ten o’clock in the morning of October 25th is the time that the assault on the Winter Palace is to begin, but first the Bolsheviks must prepare their operational and political strategies. Eisenstein formally reiterates shots from earlier as the bridges are once again raised, although now it is the workers in control, allowing the warship Aurora safe passage into Petrograd. Elsewhere, delegates from across the nation gather to vote the Soviets into power, prompting the Bolsheviks to surround the Winter Palace where the Cossacks and Women’s Death Battalion weakly defend their government. Eisenstein particularly depicts the latter as frivolous layabouts, lounging on billiard tables and decorating statues with lingerie, while the Mensheviks are left to draft ineffective treaties declaring themselves Russia’s legitimate masters.

The Women’s Death Battalion lounge around on billiard tables and decorate statues with lingerie in the Winter Palace – the Provisional Government’s greatest defence.
Eisenstein mocks Kerensky’s pleading with a graphic match cut to this angel statue.
Eisenstein batters the Mensheviks with his intellectual montages as they literally ‘harp on.’

It is no wonder that both these military units surrender out of pure frustration before the assault is even launched. All the Provisional Government seems capable of is redundantly filibustering about sad misunderstandings and peaceful resolutions – and of course Eisenstein aims his editing towards this too with a mocking tone, undercutting their ‘harping on’ with a literal montage of harps.

The Mensheviks’ wishes for non-violence may be granted, but the coup d’état which follows is no less epic for it. The momentum building outside the palace is as unstoppable as the spinning wheels and roller chains intercut through the scene, finally reaching a breaking point when the signal to storm the building arrives with a cannon blast from the Aurora. As insurgents climb the opulent gates and wreak havoc on this relic of Tsarist splendour, Eisenstein’s vigorous editing races toward climactic victory, bringing each narrative thread together in these now-crowded halls of power. The courtyards outside are showered with sparks and smoke, while in the wine cellar a small group of Bolsheviks shatter bottles they see as icons of bourgeoise greed, stashed away to be hoarded but not consumed.

The wheels are in motion, their spinning unstoppable.
The storming of the Winter Palace plays out through a series of epic imagery, flooding the vast, ornate halls with Bolsheviks.

At 2:17am on 26th October 1917, the Soviets officially seize power from the Provisional Government, and Eisenstein does not let the significance of this historic moment escape us. A Petrograd clock bears this analogue timestamp right next to one in Moscow, and soon they are joined by New York, Berlin, London, and Paris among others in a circle, proudly placing the October Revolution on the world stage. The movement of clockfaces flying by the camera matches perfectly to the crowd’s applause, delivering one final montage that sets its sight on a much brighter future. Eisenstein makes no secret of his ideological biases when it comes to illustrating the past, yet rarely has history been instilled with as much lively effervescence as it is in October, immortalising that jolt of exhilaration once felt in 1917 through the eloquent arrangement of allusive, flickering images.

Clocks around the world mark this historic moment, spinning in concentric circles to the rhythm of the crowd’s applause.

October: Ten Days That Shook the World is currently streaming on Tubi.