One hundred or more years later, some titles of early cinema come off very differently than they would have upon release in an era of different values. Well regarded as it accordingly was in 1916, in my opinion this is absolutely one of those titles. "Reverend" Robert Henley is greatly sympathetic at the very beginning, a man goaded by well-meaning but ignorant and overbearing relations into a life he never wanted in the first place. When a turn comes for his character later in the picture, the shift is so complete, and oversimplified without any real progression, that the contrivance is overwhelming. The missionary mindset of the "god-fearing" characters to whom we're initially introduced, upheld in the narrative as paragons of virtue - praising the idea of evangelizing to far-flung populations and poo-pooing Capital "C" Cities as dens of iniquity - reeks of stunning naiveté at best and awful colonialist privilege and arrogance at worst. This is to say nothing of the terribly gauche, dubious trope of an antagonistic figure abruptly and wholly changing their ways in the instant that they fall in love and/or witness vague, bland "goodness" "for the first time." Factor in the unremittingly hokey, unconvincing, gag-worthy, brow-beating Bible-thumping represented throughout C. Gardner Sullivan's screenplay, and it takes no time at all for the high esteem of 'Hell's Hinges' to start to look decidedly questionable several decades later.
It is sometimes said, not unreasonably so, and especially by those who have a harder time engaging with silent films, that this period in the medium is characterized by "simpler entertainment for a simpler time." I find myself agreeing with that sentiment in some cases; while some of the greatest features ever made hail from before the advent of talkies, there are nevertheless many other contemporaries that are more middling and unremarkable. More than that, where this is concerned, I'm unsure if to date I've ever seen another example of early cinematic storytelling that was so thoroughly reduced to unrefined, simple-minded notions that they can't possibly hold up unless one is already perfectly sold hook, line, and sinker on the core underlying messaging.
There are actually some great story ideas on hand which, if treated with all due care, could have been the foundation for a deeply compelling, riveting viewing experience. Manipulation, seduction, corruption, and madness, the weapons of unbridled immoderation and wickedness, clash against the less outwardly noteworthy figures that are upheld as positive influences, or protagonists, resulting in conflict and abject violence. Unfortunately, neither screenwriter Sullivan nor director Charles Swickard possessed the delicate hand necessary to render these concepts with tact and impactful gravity. No, "the rowdies" aren't relatable or sympathetic, and they are very distinctly and surely the antagonists here. Yet those portrayed as righteous and honorable aren't exactly the most relatable or sympathetic characters, either. Meanwhile, every step along the path in the narrative is blocky and unwieldy, represented in its most gawkily crude form - not just unpolished, but not even fully chiseled into a commendable, consequential shape - and as such I find it difficult even as an avid cinephile, and as someone who generally loves the silent era, to extend particular favor to this flick. From early exposition, to the sudden lightbulb going off in Blaze Tracy's head and the introduction of an obligatory (read: tiresome) romantic element; from the change that Henley undergoes, to the clunky, quizzical parable Blaze attempts to relate about "Arizona Frank"; from the eruption of violence, to the outrageously heavy-handed, rash warpath our chief "hero" subsequently embarks on, a storm of vengeance so ham-fisted as to be goofy: all the best thoughts poured into 'Hell's Hinges' are served poorly by writing and direction that are handled with club feet, leaden hands, and dull minds. If a modern superhero film were marked with the same sensibilities it would be laughed into the memory hole of mediocrity. Why should we treat this any differently?
In fairness, putting aside the storytelling (including a last couple minutes that feel utterly superfluous), there really is much to admire in these sixty-four minutes. Troubled as the writing is, and its realization, Swickard's direction is technically sound, and were the entirety given all due consideration, each scene in turn really would be a veritable thunderclap in its potency. It's not the fault of the cast that the ultimate arrangement of the movie would reduce their performances to expressions of schlock. On the contrary: at a time when acting in cinema was typified by exaggerated body language and facial expressions, William S. Hart, Clara Williams, Louise Glaum, Jack Standing, and Alfred Hollingsworth break through those constraints, along with those in smaller parts, to deliver acting of meaningful range and emotional depth; we can feel the power of their scenes despite the ends to which those scenes are subsequently twisted. Joseph H. August's cinematography strikes me as especially smart, with some superb shots scattered throughout the runtime, and even the tinting here makes a little mark of its own. The costume design, hair, and makeup are gorgeous, and the sets are highly laudable. The stunts, effects, and action sequences are excellent and exciting, and as they define the last act, almost help to give the picture an extra boost that it needed. Why, I don't know if Sullivan himself penned the intertitles or if an uncredited person behind the scenes did, but even as the specifics leave much to be desired, there's a poetry and finesse to the language being employed that is wonderful. And unfortunately, all these appreciable facets are undercut by storytelling that blunt and forced, and when you get down to it, kind of oafish. If the ideal form of what 'Hell's Hinges' could have been is Michaelangelo's David, 'Hell's Hinges' as it presents is the almost totally unworked slab of marble to which tools had scarcely yet been taken.
I'm unimpressed, and I'm disappointed. I recognize that this movie was regarded well upon release, and even still it holds a special place in the annals of cinema. I recognize what it does well, and why it most certainly deserves such respect. I also recognize where it falls short, and how much significantly better it could have been. We can't even wave off the overt simplicity of the storytelling with indifferent remarks of "it was a different time," because there's no small amount of contemporary fare that is not marked by such issues. I'm glad (I think) for those who get more out of the flick than I do; I'm put out by the artlessness with which this tale was crafted, a bouquet of deficiencies that diminish the lasting value of the other contributions. I don't altogether dislike 'Hell's Hinges,' but it falls well short of my expectations, and the sad fact of the matter is that it just doesn't hold up all that well in retrospect.
It is sometimes said, not unreasonably so, and especially by those who have a harder time engaging with silent films, that this period in the medium is characterized by "simpler entertainment for a simpler time." I find myself agreeing with that sentiment in some cases; while some of the greatest features ever made hail from before the advent of talkies, there are nevertheless many other contemporaries that are more middling and unremarkable. More than that, where this is concerned, I'm unsure if to date I've ever seen another example of early cinematic storytelling that was so thoroughly reduced to unrefined, simple-minded notions that they can't possibly hold up unless one is already perfectly sold hook, line, and sinker on the core underlying messaging.
There are actually some great story ideas on hand which, if treated with all due care, could have been the foundation for a deeply compelling, riveting viewing experience. Manipulation, seduction, corruption, and madness, the weapons of unbridled immoderation and wickedness, clash against the less outwardly noteworthy figures that are upheld as positive influences, or protagonists, resulting in conflict and abject violence. Unfortunately, neither screenwriter Sullivan nor director Charles Swickard possessed the delicate hand necessary to render these concepts with tact and impactful gravity. No, "the rowdies" aren't relatable or sympathetic, and they are very distinctly and surely the antagonists here. Yet those portrayed as righteous and honorable aren't exactly the most relatable or sympathetic characters, either. Meanwhile, every step along the path in the narrative is blocky and unwieldy, represented in its most gawkily crude form - not just unpolished, but not even fully chiseled into a commendable, consequential shape - and as such I find it difficult even as an avid cinephile, and as someone who generally loves the silent era, to extend particular favor to this flick. From early exposition, to the sudden lightbulb going off in Blaze Tracy's head and the introduction of an obligatory (read: tiresome) romantic element; from the change that Henley undergoes, to the clunky, quizzical parable Blaze attempts to relate about "Arizona Frank"; from the eruption of violence, to the outrageously heavy-handed, rash warpath our chief "hero" subsequently embarks on, a storm of vengeance so ham-fisted as to be goofy: all the best thoughts poured into 'Hell's Hinges' are served poorly by writing and direction that are handled with club feet, leaden hands, and dull minds. If a modern superhero film were marked with the same sensibilities it would be laughed into the memory hole of mediocrity. Why should we treat this any differently?
In fairness, putting aside the storytelling (including a last couple minutes that feel utterly superfluous), there really is much to admire in these sixty-four minutes. Troubled as the writing is, and its realization, Swickard's direction is technically sound, and were the entirety given all due consideration, each scene in turn really would be a veritable thunderclap in its potency. It's not the fault of the cast that the ultimate arrangement of the movie would reduce their performances to expressions of schlock. On the contrary: at a time when acting in cinema was typified by exaggerated body language and facial expressions, William S. Hart, Clara Williams, Louise Glaum, Jack Standing, and Alfred Hollingsworth break through those constraints, along with those in smaller parts, to deliver acting of meaningful range and emotional depth; we can feel the power of their scenes despite the ends to which those scenes are subsequently twisted. Joseph H. August's cinematography strikes me as especially smart, with some superb shots scattered throughout the runtime, and even the tinting here makes a little mark of its own. The costume design, hair, and makeup are gorgeous, and the sets are highly laudable. The stunts, effects, and action sequences are excellent and exciting, and as they define the last act, almost help to give the picture an extra boost that it needed. Why, I don't know if Sullivan himself penned the intertitles or if an uncredited person behind the scenes did, but even as the specifics leave much to be desired, there's a poetry and finesse to the language being employed that is wonderful. And unfortunately, all these appreciable facets are undercut by storytelling that blunt and forced, and when you get down to it, kind of oafish. If the ideal form of what 'Hell's Hinges' could have been is Michaelangelo's David, 'Hell's Hinges' as it presents is the almost totally unworked slab of marble to which tools had scarcely yet been taken.
I'm unimpressed, and I'm disappointed. I recognize that this movie was regarded well upon release, and even still it holds a special place in the annals of cinema. I recognize what it does well, and why it most certainly deserves such respect. I also recognize where it falls short, and how much significantly better it could have been. We can't even wave off the overt simplicity of the storytelling with indifferent remarks of "it was a different time," because there's no small amount of contemporary fare that is not marked by such issues. I'm glad (I think) for those who get more out of the flick than I do; I'm put out by the artlessness with which this tale was crafted, a bouquet of deficiencies that diminish the lasting value of the other contributions. I don't altogether dislike 'Hell's Hinges,' but it falls well short of my expectations, and the sad fact of the matter is that it just doesn't hold up all that well in retrospect.