“The Kiss” and Chekhov’s Gun

The Kiss, from 1929, was the last silent movie for both MGM and Greta Garbo.

There’s no to watch it except for Garbo.  That’s because there’s just not much going on in it.  As the web site Silent Volume says:

I got the feeling that The Kiss, Garbo’s last silent film, was acted on the sly, as though everyone knew the Temptress had run its course and wanted to see how little they could build around the character and still make it work. For The Kiss is short: 62 minutes; without a subplot of any kind, one scant scene of comic relief; a barely resolved second act and no real third act at all.

A commenter on the site suggests that the studio just gave up on the film because it knew that talkies were the future and didn’t want to waste time and money on something no one would watch.

I’m always interested in plots that involve Chekhov’s gun, however, and The Kiss includes a very rudimentary implementation of the technique — every bit as rudimentary as the one in The Two Mrs. Carrolls.  In an early scene we see Garbo’s husband dropping some papers, and then opening the bottom drawer of a file cabinet to insert them into it.  Inside the drawer we and Garbo see — a gun!  Later on (spoiler alert!) Garbo is trying to stop her husband from beating up the callow young man he has seen her chastely kissing (Lew Ayres, appropriately awful). The husband thrusts Garbo aside.  She is on the floor — she suddenly recalls the gun in the file cabinet next to her — she takes it out — she shoots!

I don’t know the state of forensics back in the 20’s, but it seems odd that the jury lets Garbo off on the theory that her husband committed suicide.  The bullet, after all, was fired from a gun at least half a dozen feet away, held at the level of the husband’s kneecap.  Such details aren’t worth worrying about in this movie, however.  Better to just look at Garbo.

“Maine,” “Sunrise,” and Verisimilitude

Verisimilitude is tricky.  I find myself caring deeply about how realistic a work of art is in some contexts, not at all in others. A couple of evenings ago I watched the silent film Sunrise, then started the contemporary novel Maine, and I had completely opposite reactions to their lack of verisimilitude.

Sunrise, subtitled A Song of Two Humans, came in fifth in the recent poll of the greatest movies of all time.  It was made in 1927 by the director F. W. Murnau (working in Hollywood for the first time);  Murnau also directed the silent vampire film Nosferatu.  Sunrise is a sweet love story; it is also completely bonkers.

The characters have no names.  The man has fallen in love with the Woman from the City.  Following an unbelievably awesome tracking shot, he meets her by the shore.  She wants him to come to the City with her.  But what about his wife?  Well, you should drown her!

Drown your wife, already!

Er, isn’t there a less drastic approach?  Like, er, divorce?  And, er, what about the man’s baby?  No matter!  He must drown his wife!  So he trudges around thinking about drowning his wife.  Apparently Murnau made the actor wear lead weights in his shoes so he’d look like a man thinking about drowning his wife.  Not that his wife notices.  She tells her maid: “Yay!  We’re going out for a boat trip!  Don’t wait up for us!  Someone else will do the chores on the farm!”  And so on.

But, you know, it’s a great movie.  I wouldn’t put it in my top ten list, but many images from it are going to stay with me.  I haven’t watched a lot of silent movies, but Netflix and Turner Classic Movies are helping to remedy the gap in my education.  The ones I’ve seen seem much like grand opera — big emotions, very static, and completely unrealistic.  (I love it in opera when you get big arias from characters who have just been suffocated, as in Aida and Rigoletto.)  You just have to go with the flow.

And then there’s Maine.  It’s a big, realistic novel about three generations of an Irish-Catholic family with a summer home in Maine.  The structure is to alternate chapters from different points of view among four female characters representing each of these generations.  You see each character in the present, but their memories fill in seventy years or so of family history.  A reasonable structure.  And the characters draw you in–it doesn’t take long for you to want to find out how everything turns out, even though the point-of-view women characters are either jerks or idiots.  But in a novel like this, verisimilitude counts for a lot.  There isn’t much plot–there is just life as it is lived.  And here, the author makes enough mistakes in the parts of life that I know something about that it really interferes with my enjoyment of the novel.  I don’t know about vermiculture in California, or the life of young singles in Manhattan (two areas that the novel covers), but I do know about Irish-Catholic families around Boston, and here I think the author just doesn’t have things quite right.  A few examples:

  • She has the grandmother going to daily 10:00 Mass in her summer home.  But parishes don’t have daily 10:00 Masses anymore.  (And it just takes you a minute to look this up on the Internet.)
  • The grandmother’s parish in her hometown of Canton, MA has closed, so she goes to Mass in Milton, instead.  That’s nuts.  Why would she drive all the way to Milton to go to Mass?  There are plenty of Catholic churches closer to Canton than that.  (The church she would be attending in Milton was the church where I was married.)
  • The grandmother’s son is supposed to have graduated sixth in his class from Notre Dame.  But I’ve never heard of any university publishing a rank in class like that.
  • One of the daughters complains that the son got sent to an expensive private school, while they had to go to public school.  Presumably they went to Canton High–a pretty good school!  And the son went to B. C. High–also a good school!  But not that much better, and actually not that expensive–I happen to know that tuition was $400 per year in the time period when this took place.  Anyone who lived in Canton could easily afford it.

And so on.  OK, all this stuff is trivial.  But it’s more annoying than the more idiotic lack of verisimilitude in Sunrise, because Sunrise doesn’t even pretend to be realistic.  I don’t think these glitches make Maine a bad novel, but the author could have done a little more research and made it a much better one.