If watching Birth of a Nation could be likened to ordering soup at a restaurant, appreciating the fine china bowl it's contained in but nevertheless sending it back because it lacked any warmth, D.W. Giffith's so-called "apologetic" follow-up is akin to the waiter coming back with something far more appetising. Often hailed as a film "you must see once", Intolerance I argue is a film you should not only see once, and from a reputable source (I cannot recommend the blu-ray highly enough, most of all for the wonderful presentation of Carl Davis' rigorous 1989 score) but also then treasure for the rest of your movie-watching days.
Telling four simultaneous stories that interlock with a despairing narrative throughout, the film cuts back and forth with tension, action, suspense and spectacle like nothing that had been seen before. Yes, more-so even than the much more widely lauded Birth of a Nation. The weakest and most superfluous of the stories, featuring the rise and fall of Jesus of Nazareth, is tepid and never really gets going. You get the sense that Griffith merely wanted a biblical bow to tie around the trimmings of his movie to give it extra moralist oomph. While he never quite succeeds in doing so, the segments are thankfully given very little screen time for us to really get frustrated over. The second of the bunch, a French Renaissance piece revolving around the lead up to the St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre, has its moments, but again mostly plays second fiddle to the larger plays at hand.
The two centrepiece stories set in modern 1916 and Babylonian 539BC are where the film's real meat resides and exist to showcase the film's dualism in starkly contrasting two completely different eras of mankind's history which are plagued by all-too-familiar human flaws. Contrasting the huge sets of Babylonia with the small, claustrophobic rooms of modern 1916 whilst effectively telling the same story on different scales, Griffith strikes a firm balance between raw emotional storytelling and thrilling ideological battles fought with religion, money, power and morality. And while the two least interesting stories never really amount to anything revelatory on their own, in employing the same cross-cutting seen in Birth of a Nation's climactic sequences, Intolerance comes to a gripping and cohesive conclusion ripe with pathos and stark imagery thanks to their intricately interwoven nature.
While reports of Intolerance being Griffith's act of atonement for his previous effort are often regarded as folly, regardless there exists a warmth to it that was absent in Nation. Grander, more outward-looking in terms of scale and ideology, and most importantly presented with an artistry that propels the work further and with more lasting, readily- appreciated value. From the epic sets and casts of extras sprawling around each other in death and dance, to the smallest, most intricate moments of sorrow and inner-turmoil, Intolerance is not only the first truly great film in cinematic history, but to this day remains as a rare example of film existing as a form of classically-tuned art. Art with a pulse, a heart and a desire. See it once, sure, but I guarantee you'll be back for one more rock of the cradle.
Telling four simultaneous stories that interlock with a despairing narrative throughout, the film cuts back and forth with tension, action, suspense and spectacle like nothing that had been seen before. Yes, more-so even than the much more widely lauded Birth of a Nation. The weakest and most superfluous of the stories, featuring the rise and fall of Jesus of Nazareth, is tepid and never really gets going. You get the sense that Griffith merely wanted a biblical bow to tie around the trimmings of his movie to give it extra moralist oomph. While he never quite succeeds in doing so, the segments are thankfully given very little screen time for us to really get frustrated over. The second of the bunch, a French Renaissance piece revolving around the lead up to the St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre, has its moments, but again mostly plays second fiddle to the larger plays at hand.
The two centrepiece stories set in modern 1916 and Babylonian 539BC are where the film's real meat resides and exist to showcase the film's dualism in starkly contrasting two completely different eras of mankind's history which are plagued by all-too-familiar human flaws. Contrasting the huge sets of Babylonia with the small, claustrophobic rooms of modern 1916 whilst effectively telling the same story on different scales, Griffith strikes a firm balance between raw emotional storytelling and thrilling ideological battles fought with religion, money, power and morality. And while the two least interesting stories never really amount to anything revelatory on their own, in employing the same cross-cutting seen in Birth of a Nation's climactic sequences, Intolerance comes to a gripping and cohesive conclusion ripe with pathos and stark imagery thanks to their intricately interwoven nature.
While reports of Intolerance being Griffith's act of atonement for his previous effort are often regarded as folly, regardless there exists a warmth to it that was absent in Nation. Grander, more outward-looking in terms of scale and ideology, and most importantly presented with an artistry that propels the work further and with more lasting, readily- appreciated value. From the epic sets and casts of extras sprawling around each other in death and dance, to the smallest, most intricate moments of sorrow and inner-turmoil, Intolerance is not only the first truly great film in cinematic history, but to this day remains as a rare example of film existing as a form of classically-tuned art. Art with a pulse, a heart and a desire. See it once, sure, but I guarantee you'll be back for one more rock of the cradle.