The Mexican novelist Pitol once remarked the challenge and paradox of making a silent movie after a Wilde play, transferring an action-less witty stage play, all speech and no action, no outer movement, all verbal dynamism and witty virtuosity, into a masterpiece of images and montage, visual syntax; that's pretty challenging, and it took an quite early auteur, liked by the Hispanic buffs (Pitol and Borges both register as Lubitsch buffs), to be delicious, using a Wildean partition and idea, in a way Wilde himself never was—no spoken words, all play.
I do not know the play, but the movie is common—sensed, with a sense of rational bonhomie that I liked and approved of, the way Mrs. E. was about to leave the party, then suddenly gets lucky and wins the evening, charms everybody at the Lady's birthday reception, etc.—those scenes are, how should I say, humane—also those in the labyrinthine, dreamlike garden—they are also the ones in which Margaret looks best—as a matter of fact, I believe that Colman and Irene Rich seem the most conspicuous because of their parts, not the other way around, which is a way of saying that the other actors are also as good. The plot is quite dry, quite austere, no fanciness or lyricism, mere social play, rather bleak at core, one might say, quite illusion-less—but, as I said, also common—sensed and earthy.
There's enough of Wilde in this old silent comedy. The very template of his comedies—and of his writings, generally—is peculiar, intriguing and instructive. You can sense this in 'Windermere'. Lubitsch sensed this display, I wished there was a better word, less reprobating, but what can you do about a melodramatic comedy, what choice of words do you really have—so, on with what I termed the display–I was about to say, showcasing—of compassion. Because this template, for a comedy, is peculiar, unusual. It's not heartless, on the contrary, it's presumably heartfelt, basically melodramatic, anyway the template dictates this, melodramatic with touching moments. Thus, it can serve to illustrate both the bleakness and 19th century sadness—and the Russian tendency of Wilde, his interest in—and maybe feeling of—compassion, etc..
Lubitsch at his most charming and lively, a lot of frames of unusual beauty; the version I saw ran for 86 minutes. Being without score, it felt a bit awkward. When I was a bit younger, I used to pick a score for these movies, but it was quite at random, and sometimes it's better silently.
It has been claimed that Lubitsch translated ideally Wilde's dialogs into a silent format; I disagree. On the contrary, the movie is cleaved between the pointlessness and almost flatness of the attempted transferal, and the usual brio of Lubitsch's own accuracy. As a Wilde equivalent, it only spells the failure of attempts at a too literal rendering—because a genuine translation would mean a minimum of Wildean stuff or content, but the charm of the wit. Lubitsch might of found an equivalent for something Wildean—but not here, where he's almost enslaved by literalism, by a literal rending of the play's plot—and, in silence, that plot means melodrama, with the extra sentimentalism and delusions of Russian grandeur, peculiar to Wilde.
That's why I call it a not very good movie. In Wilde's hands, the plot has been redeemed by the dialogs; in Lubitsch's, too much of the ooze of cheap sentimentalism remained, with little of the intended wit and charm. It follows Wilde too much into the irrelevance and cheapness of an essentially disappointing plot. A good amount of craft exists, though. I enjoyed some ideas—the maze, etc.—and the actors, and Colman is awesome, his funny walk notwithstanding. Anyway, the tag—line would be: not the best of Lubitsch, but likable. The melodrama feels of creepy because you sense Wilde really invested in it, he strove to make it seem deep, he cared about it, and that's creepy, almost morbid .
I do not know the play, but the movie is common—sensed, with a sense of rational bonhomie that I liked and approved of, the way Mrs. E. was about to leave the party, then suddenly gets lucky and wins the evening, charms everybody at the Lady's birthday reception, etc.—those scenes are, how should I say, humane—also those in the labyrinthine, dreamlike garden—they are also the ones in which Margaret looks best—as a matter of fact, I believe that Colman and Irene Rich seem the most conspicuous because of their parts, not the other way around, which is a way of saying that the other actors are also as good. The plot is quite dry, quite austere, no fanciness or lyricism, mere social play, rather bleak at core, one might say, quite illusion-less—but, as I said, also common—sensed and earthy.
There's enough of Wilde in this old silent comedy. The very template of his comedies—and of his writings, generally—is peculiar, intriguing and instructive. You can sense this in 'Windermere'. Lubitsch sensed this display, I wished there was a better word, less reprobating, but what can you do about a melodramatic comedy, what choice of words do you really have—so, on with what I termed the display–I was about to say, showcasing—of compassion. Because this template, for a comedy, is peculiar, unusual. It's not heartless, on the contrary, it's presumably heartfelt, basically melodramatic, anyway the template dictates this, melodramatic with touching moments. Thus, it can serve to illustrate both the bleakness and 19th century sadness—and the Russian tendency of Wilde, his interest in—and maybe feeling of—compassion, etc..
Lubitsch at his most charming and lively, a lot of frames of unusual beauty; the version I saw ran for 86 minutes. Being without score, it felt a bit awkward. When I was a bit younger, I used to pick a score for these movies, but it was quite at random, and sometimes it's better silently.
It has been claimed that Lubitsch translated ideally Wilde's dialogs into a silent format; I disagree. On the contrary, the movie is cleaved between the pointlessness and almost flatness of the attempted transferal, and the usual brio of Lubitsch's own accuracy. As a Wilde equivalent, it only spells the failure of attempts at a too literal rendering—because a genuine translation would mean a minimum of Wildean stuff or content, but the charm of the wit. Lubitsch might of found an equivalent for something Wildean—but not here, where he's almost enslaved by literalism, by a literal rending of the play's plot—and, in silence, that plot means melodrama, with the extra sentimentalism and delusions of Russian grandeur, peculiar to Wilde.
That's why I call it a not very good movie. In Wilde's hands, the plot has been redeemed by the dialogs; in Lubitsch's, too much of the ooze of cheap sentimentalism remained, with little of the intended wit and charm. It follows Wilde too much into the irrelevance and cheapness of an essentially disappointing plot. A good amount of craft exists, though. I enjoyed some ideas—the maze, etc.—and the actors, and Colman is awesome, his funny walk notwithstanding. Anyway, the tag—line would be: not the best of Lubitsch, but likable. The melodrama feels of creepy because you sense Wilde really invested in it, he strove to make it seem deep, he cared about it, and that's creepy, almost morbid .