Woman in the Moon (1929)

Woman in the Moon (aka Die Frau in Mond, Fritz Lang, 1929) It's the 52nd anniversary of the first Moon Landing by humans (and yes, it did happen and it happened five more times—which brings up the question "why would you fake it six times?"), but movie-makers had been imagining such a scenario for almost as long as there have been movies. There is, of course, A Trip to the Moon, made in 1902 by Georges Méliès, but another one—at least the one that survives—is Fritz Lang's fanciful adaptation of his then-wife's novel "Die Frau in Mond" which was produced two years after his landmark work, Metropolis.

The story tells of an industrialist, Wolf Helius (Willy Fritsch), who visits a scientist, Professor George Manfedt (Klaus Pohl), living in decrepitude after being laughed out of academia by his vision of traveling to the Moon. Manfredt speculates that there is valuable mineral deposits on the Moon, including gold, which would make such a journey economically advantageous—no need for any sort of political one-ups-manship to stimulate such a reckless adventure. Helius begins plans for such a journey. But, there are complications.

A cadre of rival industrialists have been following Manfredt's work, and they dispatch a spy (Fritz Rasp), using the name "Walter Turner", to gain access to the plans. They rob Helius, gaining access to the research, and demand to be part of it, or else they will make attempts to sabotage the project. With so much at stake, Helius agrees to their demands and the man named "Turner" is allowed to accompany the flight.

Also on board will be Helius' two assistants, engineer Hans Windegger (Gustav von Wangenheim) and Friede Velten (Gerda Maurus)—for whom the moon-ship, Friede, is named. The two have recently announced their engagement, a proposal that Helius privately disapproves of, as he is also in love with Frieda. The ship is launched, but, unbeknownst to the vital but conflicted crew, there is a stowaway on board, the youngster Gustav (Gustl Gstettenbaur), who is an avid collection of pulp science fiction magazines.

Now, look. The thing about science fiction, however the media it is presented in, is that it is actually "Prescience"-fiction—a leap of imagination that takes a look at the world and pre-cognitions what it will be in the future. This is always a bit problematic, for there is more than a chance, as we advance through the years, with ever more diverse discoveries and technologies, that the imagineer will get as much wrong as they can get right. When the year 2001 arrived, it was ruefully noted that the movie 2001: a Space Odyssey—as strenuously researched as it was—was wildly off the mark. Not only were there no manned flights to Jupiter, but we were decades from its achieving its vision of Pan-Am shuttles routinely flitting into space (and, in fact, by 2001, Pan-American had gone out of business!). It did get I-pads right, though...

So, one can look at The Woman in the Moon and chortle with the advantage of hindsight about there being gold, or water (found with a divining rod?), or a breathable atmosphere on the Moon, or that the gravity might be equal to Earth's, or that such a primitive craft could make it there.*

But, look at what they got right: The flight would have to be achieved with a multi-stage rocket; the launch vehicle is constructed in an industrial building and then tracked to a launch-pad; they get "G"-forces right, putting the passengers in horizontal beds; although technically wrong, when the rockets are shut off, the crew experience micro-gravity—at one point, the engineer flicks a bottle so he can drink the floating water "bubbles" as has been so often demonstrated on space-flights—using foot-straps to negotiate around the craft; it's the first instance of a "countdown" to launch (a minor point, but still...).

It's eerily prescient. And one is struck by such scenes as the crew reacting visibly to their first "Earth-set." 

Or maybe not so prescient. Maybe, it's cause and effect. Scientists Hermann Oberth and Willy Ley were advisers to the film, and it was very popular at the German VfR, which counted among its members a young student named Wernher von Braun.

Director Fritz Lang lived long enough to see the first Moon landing in 1969. For real, this time.

* Uh-huh. One of the conspiracy theories I "love" is that we couldn't have gone to the Moon in the 1960's because the technology was so primitive back in those days. By today's standards, sure, but, also, these days out more intricate technologies are much more fragile—go ahead, drop your I-phone, which has more computing power than the Apollo computers had bolted into their control panels. What is true is that, today, we might have the technology to fake a moon landing—but we didn't in the time they occurred.

City Lights (1931)

City Lights (Charlie Chaplin, 1931) If there is one film that is the Masterpiece of Charlie Chaplin's career, it is City Lights, combining comedy and melancholy in a nearly seamless flow of images. In 2007, the American Film Institute voted it the 11th greatest movie ever made, while a 2008 poll instituted by Cahiers du Cinema voted it the 17th, and it was voted into the National Film Registry in 1991. Depending on the day he was interviewed, Orson Welles would say it was his favorite film, but Stanley Kubrick voted it his 5th, an appraisal—and ranking—agreed upon by Andrei Tarkovsky.

In 1949, James Agee said that the final scene was "the single greatest piece of acting ever committed to celluloid" and it has been cribbed by both Federico Fellini (The Nights of Cabiria) and Woody Allen (Manhattan) in their work.

The first thing one should know about City Lights is that it is a silent film...with sound. Chaplin wasn't ready to fully commit to "The Talkies" which came into public favor with 1927's The Jazz Singer) when he began work on the film in 1928, and the film compromises, somewhat, with music, sound effects, while maintaining interstitial titles and a predominantly visual narrative. Some of the sound is unnecessary—during an opening unveiling of a statue-tableau, the speaking gas-bags have their voices replaced by Chaplin quacking through a kazoo—but in other sequences, there is a toe-dab into making it essential as, at one point, The Little Tramp swallows a whistle and his resulting hiccups produce a chirping interruption to a pretentious recital. The gag wouldn't work without sound, and the sequence wouldn't work without the sound of the whistle off-screen and the frustrated soloists' reaction to it. Sound, in this instance, becomes essential to Chaplin's silent comedy.

It is also essential to the plot, unusual for a silent film.

The Little Tramp (Chaplin, of course) is going about his day—after being rousted from his sleeping place of a tented statue that has just been unveiled in a pompous civic ceremony—and comes across a blind girl (Virginia Cherrill) selling flowers. She can hear—but not see—the bustle of traffic going by, including a very expensive car with a valet who lets out his rich employer. At this time, the Tramp passes her, and she mistakes him for the rich man who has gone off to his destination, oblivious to the girl. She strikes up a conversation with the Tramp and gives him a flower for his lapel, which moves the Tramp as he realizes she is blind. His instinct is to help, even when she dumps a pail of water on him as he observes her.

Still thinking of the girl that evening, he makes his way to the river, where he encounters a drunk millionaire (Harry Myers) who has gone to the river to kill himself. The Tramp convinces the man not to take his life, and inadvertently gets dumped in the water while trying to intervene. The two take turns trying to save each others' life, and the millionaire declares the Tramp his best friend and takes him into town to reward him with a big swanky dinner at a nightclub.

All well and good while the party lasts. But, when the millionaire sobers up, the Little Tramp is forgotten and tossed out on his ear. So, there are periods when Mr. Millions gets depressed, gets in his cups and the Tramp is back in his favor. This allows the Tramp to be in the glow of his generosity enough that he is able to pay the Girl's rent so that she and her elderly mother won't be tossed out of their walk-up. The Girl, of course, is grateful to her unseen benefactor and her affections are returned by the Tramp. He'll do anything for her.

That includes taking a job as a street-sweeper. That includes being coerced to a boxing match with the promise that the purse will be split 50/50. Even when the original boxer goes on the lam when the police catch up with him, leaving the Tramp to go into the ring with a more able-bodied opponent, who looks like he could use the Tramp for a sweat-towel. But, the Tramp persists. If there's a chance that he can help the Girl—especially with a new treatment for blindness they've discovered in Europe—he will do what he has to do. Love, after all, is blind.

One's sympathies, of course, are with the Tramp. And it is from the moment he's uncovered in the town square, negotiating with the intricacies of his statuesque perch—a moment that has him skewered by an upraised sword or inadvertently having his nose thumbed by an upraised marble hand—that we get an encapsulation of the Tramp's character, making us laugh but also gaining our understanding and sympathies. That sequence, and the film's running attitude, reflects The Little Tramp's rather harmless rebellions—is it rebellion if it's your very nature?—against polite society. The Tramp reflects the downtrodden and hapless among all of us and we see, in him, all our best intentions and our own struggles and mishaps, negotiating with an all too-stolid society.

It's part of Chaplin's comedic conspiracy with the audience—show the situation and let the audience anticipate, combining the tension with the frequent pleasures that come from Chaplin's quick surprises and athleticism. He may be a Tramp, but he's an adept one, a flexible, dexterous soul who does what needs be done (here, quite unselfishly), taking advantage of the situation presented (both character and director/actor share that quality) and making the most of it, teasing the audience with the situations and the larger story, and hoping for the best. The Tramp is an eternal optimist.

But, he's still a Tramp. And there will have to be an inevitable resolution between him and the blind girl. That step carries all the hope, anticipation and irony of a good O. Henry story. And, yes, it may be "the single greatest piece of acting ever committed to celluloid"—on the part of both Cherrill and Chaplin—as its nuanced expressions reflect a depth that's as deep as the heart of its viewer. Read into them what you will—shyness, regret, disappointment, happiness, gratitude, humility, heart-break, joy—they're all true.

And Chaplin stops there, fading to black. It is not the usual, unequivocal "happy ending" one has come to expect from the "Silents." The scene will go on (maybe happily, but probably not) leaving us with our own ideas of love, commitment, and pangs of the unrequited. To go farther would spoil it, one way or another. Orson Welles said "If you want a happy ending, that, of course, depends on where you stop your story", a line that is informed by his knowledge of Shakespeare as much as his knowledge of this film. This ending is as daring as stepping backwards towards an elevator shaft, or approaching an abyss on roller-skates. It promises disaster, like so many of Chaplin's stunts of comedic intent. But Chaplin leaves us there, suspended, but thrilled, nonetheless.

Our Hospitality (1923)

Our Hospitality (Buster Keaton and Jack Blystone, 1923)
"Once upon a time in certain sections of the United States there were feuds that lasted from generation to generation. Men of one family grew up killing men of another family for no other reason except that their fathers had done so."

It's 1810 and the bitter feud between the Canfield's and the McKay's has been going on for some time. One night, Jim Canfield goes to the house of John McKay to kill him, but the confrontation leaves both men dead: McKay's wife takes his infant son away from the city of Rockville to New York to raise him in peace; Canfield's brother Joe (Joe Roberts) vows vengeance for his sibling's death. Trouble is there are no more Canfield's on which to take that revenge. Yet.

Twenty years later, young Willie McKay (Keaton) receives a cable from Rockville to claim his late father's property. Willie decides to go back to Rockville on a rudimentary proto-train that has none of the considerations of grading, geography or, for that matter, comfort. The bumping and jostling makes it very difficult to wear a top hat.

This was Keaton's second feature film (and his first with a feature-length story) and it does have some pacing issues, as well as a prologue that is dark in photography and subject matter, making one wonder if it's actually a comedy. Keaton's humor could be dark—darker than most of the silent comedians—but his humor usually centers on the absurd, and murderous multi-generational family feuds is the height of absurdity. Still, its murderous conclusion, ending with the death of one Canfield and one McKay, isn't funny. It's tragedy. But, out of that tragedy comes danger and threat, and a comedian can do a lot with that.

Keaton makes the most of it. And as it is set in the past with limited means of carrying out any murderous activities, the attempts can be rather tortured and frustratingly inept. And the comedy is built around Willie McKay's return to Rockville, where, first, he becomes quite infatuated with the elder Canfield's only daughter (played by Keaton's wife Natalie Talmadge*) and he makes himself attractively useful. Then, when he gets there, he saunters around town, coming into contact with Canfield sons—who have no idea that he is one of the hated McKay's.

For awhile, Keaton's McKay can walk around town without fear, but soon, he is recognized and the Canfield males take turns trying to shoot him with single-shot pistols, which need to be loaded before they can be shot again, and their range is limited, as shown in a sequence where McKay is shot at repeatedly, but nothing comes close, and McKay can only wonder what it might be that is hitting a nearby tree trunk.

But, the central absurdity is the core at the majority of the movie. Virginia Canfield invites Willie to dinner at her house to meet her family—she has no idea that he's a McKay. This complicates things. The Canfields are nothing if not traditional. Though they are surprised—and slightly appalled—to be hosting the young McKay for dinner, they would not think of trying to kill him while he is in their house. That's no way to treat a guest. However, should he step out of the house, he is an easy—and handy—target. This conceit inspires McKay to draw out his stay under the Canfield roof for as long as possible and avoid crossing the Canfield threshold. Despite this, there are many opportunities, either planned or accidental, to get McKay out of the house.

The other source of comedy is that Virginia, smitten with McKay, has no idea that her family wants to murder him, and all the males under the Canfield roof are united in the common deceit of who he really is. And when McKay does escape under disguise from the Canfields there begins a wild chase with a lot of stunts that involve sheer cliffs, dangerous rapids, and a precipitous water-fall, which becomes the setting for one of the best-timed and most dangerous stunts Keaton ever pulled off. 

The transition from short to feature did nothing except show more Keaton—the gags and sequences are just as fast, just as dense, and just as entertaining. But, Keaton found that he could sustain a feature with a layered story-line, while maintaining his flexible every-man character, despite where he placed him. 

Out Hospitality also has bit of the inspiration for Keaton's eventual masterpiece, The General. Buster Keaton, the director, was just getting started.

* Our Hospitality, centered around family, is a bit of a family affair. Not only is Keaton's wife featured as the romantic interest, but his father, Joe, plays the train engineer. And who plays Keaton's character as a baby? Buster and Natalie's son, Buster Jr.

The Great Buster: A Celebration

All the World's a Landing Pad

I could have kicked myself (with an appropriately spiraling prat-fall with legs propellering) when I missed the limited theatrical run of The Great Buster: A Celebration, the new documentary stitched together by Peter Bogdanovich. The life-work of Joseph Frank "Buster" Keaton has long been my movie-equivalent of comfort food. Precise, extraordinary and slightly melancholy (with only a dash of sentiment), his are the rare silent movies that do not "date" and seem extraordinary even by today's sophisticated standards.  That's due, in large part, because so many of today's films borrow the presentation and seek the comic timing that Keaton imbued in his films.* The testimony of many of those interviewed in the film attest to that.

Fortunately, TCM presented it as part of their day-long tribute to Keaton for a day in their annual "Summer Under the Stars" fest. Narrated by Bogdanovich himself, it contains a lot of what's come before in films about Keaton—the best of which is still Kevin Brownlow's Buster Keaton: A Hard Act to Follow (1987)—but also a lot of little-seen material that had to be dug for. And it has an interesting way to tell Keaton's story, one that is, indeed, a celebration, rather than the usual peak-valley-re-discovery arc presentation that follows the path his career took.

The story of Keaton (ironically for a comedian) is a sad one: after enjoying success with his own productions, Keaton—at the suggestion of his father-in-law—signed a deal with M-G-M, the lousiest studio to do a comedy at the time as the Marx Brothers and Laurel and Hardy found out for themselves, and found himself a square peg in M-G-M's restrictive round hole.

But, Bogdanovich switches it out a bit to ensure that his Keaton overview ends on a high note. In the first part of film he goes over Keaton's entire career—from his days as a precocious vaudeville performer in his parents' act (starting at the age of three!) where he first got the taste for performing for an audience, through his entry into film as a writer and performer for comedian Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle at the height of his career. Then (when Arbuckle was charged with manslaughter after the death of actress Virginia Rappe) stepped from his supporting roles to starring in comedy two-reelers, building on Arbuckle's mentorship—while he was working for Arbuckle, Keaton took one of the film cameras, took it apart and put it back together again—making his own short films, and then features.

Keaton's films were always popular, but his masterpiece, The General, was expensive and not a success, so he took his father-in-law's advice and signed with M-G-M to his detriment and everlasting regret. Then came his dry-spell, doing the occasional writing, even directing scenes, and punching up the films of other performers (like Red Skelton) losing two marriages and sinking into alcoholism and depression, even briefly being institutionalized after a nervous breakdown. Then, in the 1950's, his activity increased, showing up in Billy Wilder's Sunset Boulevard and Charlie Chaplin's Limelight,* appearing in shorts, television, and commercials, and guesting in movies in the 1960's.

Bogdanovich ends the section with Keaton's loving reception at the 1965 Venice Film Festival, which showed all of his features—Bogdnovich then does a "greatest hits" review, ending the film with the best of Keaton's lifetime of work.

It's a sublime choice—leaving a viewer wanting more from the master of the comedic landing without the pain of his fall.

*

* My experience watching Limelight was that Keaton was given short-shrift by Chaplin in their scenes together. But, in The Great Buster, comedian Richard Lewis, who was friends with Keaton's widow, said that Chaplin treated Keaton "like a king." And Norman Lloyd, who appeared in Limelight says that Chaplin had Keaton direct his death scene, so that he could concentrate on his performance. Now, that's a lot of trust, generosity, and respect reflected in that. 

The History of John Ford: The Iron Horse (1924)

When Orson Welles was asked what movies he studied before embarking on directing Citizen Kane he replied, "I studied the Old Masters, by which I mean John Ford, John Ford, and John Ford." 

Running parallel with our series about Akira Kurosawa ("Walking Kurosawa's Road"), we're running a series of pieces about the closest thing America has to Kurosawa in artistry—director John Ford. Ford rarely made films set in the present day, but (usually) made them about the past...and about America's past, specifically (when he wasn't fulfilling a passion for his Irish roots). 

 In "The History of John Ford" we'll be gazing fondly at the work of this American Master, who started in the Silent Era, learning his craft, refining his director's eye, and continuing to work deep into the 1960's (and his 70's) to produce the greatest body of work of any American "picture-maker," America's storied film-maker, the irascible, painterly, domineering, sentimental puzzle that was John Ford, John Ford, and John Ford.

The Iron Horse (John Ford, 1924) "Accurate and faithful in every particular of fact and atmosphere is this pictorial history of the building of the first transcontinental railroad" says the opening title card of The Iron Horse, John Ford's epic 2 1/2 hour silent epic about the building of the first transcontinental railroad. Well, that might be a stretch, but it certainly "becomes" truth, so "cut...print" this legend that manages to cram a large swath of American history into its story of cowboys, Indians, cattle-drives, the Pony Express, murder, ethnic conflicts, ethnics, situational ethics, love lost and found, men (lost and found), the transitory nature of railroad towns, a nice little bar-room brawl, and the consideration of what passed as frontier justice, as well as appearances by Buffalo Bill Cody, Wild Bill Hickok and Abraham Lincoln. That's a lot of track to put down and Ford and his writers Charles Kenyon and John Russell manage to link it all with the stories of a disparate group of people all linked together to try to unite the country after its fractious Civil War.

They just have to keep from killing each other first.

It starts with a man and a dream. David Brandom (James Gordon) is commiserating with two of his friends in Springfield, Illinois, contractor Thomas Marsh (Will Walling) and Abraham Lincoln (Charles Edward Bull) as he prepares a journey West with his son to survey a better path across the U.S. for a future rail transportation system than the Indian trail that is the expected route.

Three months later, Brandom finds a pass that will cut the trip a good two hundred miles, but before he can alert anyone to the fact, he is attacked and killed by a raiding party of Cherokees, and killed by a white renegade who only has two fingers on his right hand. Davey Jr., hiding from the attack is left alive and is found by trappers.

Cut to June, 1862 and now-President Abraham Lincoln signs a bill to build two railways, the Union Pacific and Central Pacific, simultaneously to meet mid-way and construction, forming a continuous route from East to West, despite protests from the military not to divert funds from the Civil War. To watch the signing is contractor Marsh as well as his daughter Miriam (Madge Bellamy)—who had been sweet on young Davey in their youth, but is now engaged to her father's engineer, Jesson (Cyril Chadwick).

The project gets underway, but soon runs into difficulty, both internally and externally. Cheyenne warrior attacks plague the construction (led by frequent Ford actor Chief John Big Tree), disrupting payrolls and killing workers, requiring law enforcement to be constantly on-site. Those attacks could be at the instigation of a land-owner, Deroux (Fred Kohler), who wants the train to be built on his holdings—and he's aided by the fact that Jesson is taking bribes to maintain Deroux's interests over Marsh's'. It puts the project in a financial bind, forcing Marsh to start looking for a shorter, more efficient route that over Jesson and Deroux's objections. 

In the nick of time reappears young Davey (George O'Brien) who encounters the train while delivering mail via the Pony Express. Davey re-unites with Marsh, who tells him of the troubles he's having, and Davey tells him of the pass he and his father discovered on their doomed surveying expedition all those many years ago. Marsh tasks Davey to re-trace the steps of the trip as the discovery may save the project from ruin.

But, Davey can't go alone. Jesson insists on going to verify the viability of the route. This is bad news for Davey, who's suspicious of the engineer, not only because he distrusts him on first sight, but also as he's engaged to Miriam, his boyhood love. He has good reason to distrust Jesson, as the crooked engineer has been tasked by Deroux to kill Davey and scuttle any plans to scuttle the route that would not benefit him.

Sure enough, once they find the fabled pass, while Davey starts to descend the side of the bluff to check conditions of the passage, Jesson cuts his rope, sending the young man tumbling into the valley. Without so much as a backward glance, Jesson goes back to Marsh to report the route is unsafe, Davey having been killed in a typical rock-fall.

Of course, he hasn't. That wouldn't be right. And how Davey gets back to the train is just one of the many sub-plots and incidences in Ford's massive epic—it would have been called a 15-reeler in its day (10 minutes a reel). And those reels are jammed with happenstance. Despite the plight of Davey, there's so much going on because...well, building a locomotive track across virginal country is a complicated thing...because of the remoteness and the man-hours needed and the supplies needed to feed and house those producers of man-hours, and that's fine if everybody agrees it's a good idea. If they don't, that's drama. And The Iron Horse carries a lot of drama.

So, yeah, there's all that stuff in the film I listed in the first paragraph of the post-proper. Davey's is just one story, but his story is contained in the entire movie, even pre-dating the building of the railroad. There's a call-back to the earlier murder of Davey's father, the perpetrator being one of the dramatis personæ in the latter-day proceedings. To anyone who's experienced the bubble-universe of movies, it won't be any surprise who the scoundrel is (actions beget character), despite that individual's ability to cross cultures.

As insular as the story is, it does take advantage of the scope inherent in such a massive project as the transcontinental railroad, an attempt by settlers to unite both shores of the continent and create a line between such far-flung expanses and peoples. Ford's histories of the U.S. are all about world-building, the particulars of the individuals finding common ground, despite their differences, and making a better world for themselves through the efforts of the dedicated and despite the desires of the self-interested. Community is all in Ford's films, even in such early efforts as this silent epic that stretched the boundaries of subject matter, location filming, and the art of film-making.

It's an epic tale of an epic task, a milestone in building a future and cementing the "United" in the "United" States.

Ford's The Iron Horse was voted into The National Film Registry in 2011. How could it not? So far, 11 of Ford's films have been voted in, more than any other director (aside Howard Hawks' 11). I'm sure there will be more to come in the future.

The Iron Horse will enter the U.S. public domain in 2020. It can be seen on YouTube and Daily Motion—for free—now.

The General (1926)

The General (Clyde Bruckman/Buster Keaton, 1926) In April 1862, during the Civil War, a train, "The General," was stolen by a collection of Union soldiers who went hundreds of miles behind enemy lines on a sabotage mission to destroy rail-lines, snap telegraph communications, burn bridges, and generally disrupt supply and communication infrastructure for the Confederate Army by tearing up the tracks of the Atlantic and Western railroad from the town of Big Shanty (just north of Atlanta) to Chattanooga. The story is that when the Blue-legs stole the train, its conductor, one William Fuller (age merely 25), and the engineer pursued the hijackers on foot and track, by hand-car, and speeding backwards train—in other words, by any dogged means necessary—to try and stop the train-jackers, which they did for 87 miles before alerting the Confederacy of the raid. It became legendary as "The Great Locomotive Chase," when an account of the circumstances was published soon after in 1863. 

A scant 64 years later, director Bruckman had read the account and reminded film-comedian Buster Keaton about it, sparking a remembrance Keaton had of reading the story as a youth and the two began elaborate plans to tell the story as a silent feature, even going so far as trying to rent the original locomotive at that time on display in Chattanooga, for the film (they were turned down when the train's owners heard Keaton's plans for their relic was going to be a comedy).

Keaton was undeterred and found a section of the United States where vintage trains were still running—Oregon. Twenty miles south of the city of Eugene, Keaton set up shop in the town of Cottage Grove and, with a budget of $400,000, began what would many (including myself) regard to be his masterpiece, but also his greatest financial failure, which ultimately led to his selling his studio to M-G-M and being folded into their system and derailing his directing, and even his starring, career. 

It is 1861, and Johnny Gray (Keaton) is an engineer on "The General", a train of the Western and Atlantic Railroad. He pulls into Marietta, Georgia to see his sweetheart, Annabelle (Mack Sennett comedienne Marion Mack). On his visit, it's announced that war has broken out between the North and South, and Annabelle's father and brothers head into town to enlist. Johnny takes a short-cut, and gets there to be first in line, but is deeply disappointed when he is turned away—it is determined that his job as an engineer is more important to the war effort, but he isn't informed of that. All he knows is that he has been rejected, despite his repeated efforts. This makes him the subject of disdain in Annabelle's family and she tells him she will never look upon him again until he is in uniform. 

It is a year later, the war is raging, and Annabelle's father has been wounded in the war. As she goes to see him in Chattanooga, she, ironically, is taken aboard Johnny's train "The General" and, seeing him not fighting for the South, she treats him coldly. But, fate steps in. At the breakfast stop in Big Shanty, Union soldiers board the train and hijack it, taking with them a luckless Annabelle who has gone to retrieve money for breakfast from her trunk. Johnny sees the two loves of his life being stolen from the station and he gives chase, urging others to help. But, they all fall to the wayside as Johnny single-mindedly pursues, taking a hand-cart onto the tracks to try and catch up. Then, a bicycle, then another train. 

With a train that has less weight to haul, he's actually able to gain on the Union forces, but, they, fearing an army pursuing them by train—which, due to an unfortunate linkage failure is no longer true—they decide to tear their train apart to toss in the way of the pursuing train, and with which Johnny must deal as he moves along. As in the following memorably well-timed and potentially noggin'-clonking gesture:

When Orson Welles was making Citizen Kane at RKO, he stated that it was liking playing with the biggest, grandest train-set in the world. Now, imagine Keaton doing exactly the same thing with an actual train, mining the situation for every joke and "bit" he could muster as his engineer must play offense, defense and find ways to keep the train running with a limited supply of fuel and every additional structure that passes—a water tower, a large mortar (with cannonballs)—becomes the inspiration for a series of ingenious gags that alternately threaten and thrill, the two responses not being all that dissimilar. It was nothing Keaton hadn't already been doing for a decade, but, here, the work seems all the more inspired.

The General is also a movie about progress. Even as he pursues his quarry, there is a war going on in the background. In fact, he has been pursuing so long, that at some point (which he doesn't notice), Johnny crosses enemy lines. As he moves forward, Southern forces are retreating from an advancing Northern Army, but so concentrated is he in chopping firewood to stoke the engine, that he doesn't even notice. It's a joke that wouldn't work in a sound film (despite the masking thundering that a train makes while travelling, you would still probably hear a battle going on). But, in the world of silents, it's perfectly plausible and might even escape the notice of some viewers. It's here Keaton leaves History behind (the actual hijackers never made it to Chattanooga) and makes his own tracks of story, as once Johnny crosses enemy territory, he is no longer the pursuer, he is the pursued. He beats a hasty retreat.

At Chattanooga, Johnny is able to infiltrate Union headquarters without detection, and manages in his time there to rescue both Annabelle and his precious engine, heading back along the same tracks he had previously traveled—in the other direction. Only this second chase has a different dynamic: this time he and Annabelle are the ones being chased, followed by the Union soldiers on-board the very train he used to pursue them. The priority becomes keeping The General up to speed, supplying wood for the engine, while also keeping an eye on Annabelle, who has a propensity for getting in peril, or being charmingly useless, given the circumstances. 

Her priorities seem to be sweeping—not very helpful—and she's a poor judge of fire-wood, tossing away larger pieces if they have a knot in them and offering twigs as compensation. This evokes a response from Johnny where he first tries to strangle her in frustration and then kisses her for her efforts, marking a point where he loses his hapless love-sickness for her, but regains it as a stronger, more mature love, despite his frustrations with her. The character has grown, lost some of his innocence, but also deepens his feelings for her. In a microcosm, the moment is a small skirmish in The War Between Men and Women, far richer than most examples during the silent era where women were either Madonnas or Victims (but never whores) and where Men vacillated between apes and angels. It is truer than most of Keaton's romantic relationships in movies—women were either Madonnas or Frustrations, and eventually become comic props—but Keaton's protagonist, for the momentary baring of both sides of his id, seems far more transparent and far truer.

The single most expensive shot in the silent movie era.

The two are able to make it back to the Southern lines in time to warn the gray-coats and set up a trap that results in the most spectacular stunt that Keaton has ever staged—the scuttling of the Yankee locomotive by blowing up the bridge over which it is travelling. Scrupulously co-ordinated and filmed with multiple cameras, it was carried out in one unrepeatable "take." The entire production, including construction, began on May 27, 1926 and wrapped the following September 18th. By the end of it, it was rumored that the budget had grown to $1 million (some of which went to paying off local farmers for fires caused on their farms by embers from explosions and the trains), employed some 1500 locals (including 500 from the Oregon National Guard playing Union and Southern troops) and generated some 200,000 feet of film (reminiscent of the Civil War photography of Matthew Brady, as achieved by Keaton, Bruckman, and their cinematographers Bert Haines and Dev Jennings), which he edited over three months for a late December release.

The reviews were brutal at the time and the film lost money, changing Keaton's fortunes and earning him a reputation that prompted closer scrutiny of his film-making and budgets. But, posterity has been far kinder and more generous, and the film has been watched—or "scrutinized" far more than other films of the Silent Era. In 1971, Orson Welles called it "the greatest movie ever made about the Civil War."* In 1972, it was ranked #8 in the BFI's Sight & Sound Magazine poll of the greatest movies ever made (it was ranked #12 in 1982 and #32 in 2012). In 1989, the first year of its inception, it was voted into the United States Film Registry by the Library of Congress. It was the first silent era film to be issued in the HD format of Blu-Ray, and its legacy lingers on influencing the works of Chuck Jones, Blake Edwards, Steven Spielberg, Gore Verbinski, and anybody else who aspires to the gracefulness of visual comedy on film.

*