Catalogo Giornate del Cinema Muto 2012 - La Cineteca del Friuli

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Anna Sten in Provokator, Viktor Turin, 1928. per quanto riguardava il copione: una storia importante dal punto di vista “psicologico”, che descrive la trasformazione dello studente rivoluzionario in inforamtore della polizia con una ricostruzione originale e rispettosa dei “dettagli d’epoca”. Si mostrò tuttavia molto scettico nei confronti della regia di Turin che, a suo dire, si inseriva nella tradizione del “dramma psicologico alla tedesca” (immaginiamo che uno dei motivi del rimprovero fosse in primis la scena della prigione in cui lo studente Viktor è ossessionato dalla visione di se stesso – come è ora, come sarà da forzato e poi da vecchio ergastolano – tre immagini che appaiono in split screen e che lo spaventano al punto di accettare la collaborazione con la polizia). È tuttavia interessante notare come i due critici, pur non mostrandosi molto soddisfatti della recitazione, elogino entrambi Anna Sten. L’autore dell’articolo di Zhizn iskusstva scrive: “Nonostante ciò, Anna Sten è magnifica. Riesce a creare un’immagine straordinaria, dolce e toccante nel piccolo ruolo della studentessa, a quanto pare, il suo primo ruolo cinematografico”. Il severo critico di Kino si spinge oltre: “Gli attori di questo film sono molto diversi, dal rispettabile Panov all’eterno mascalzone Koutouzov, e infine Anna Sten, che è giovanissima, ma già molto divertente e accattivante nelle sue movenze. Ma questa attrice è solo una piccola macchia brillante, 72 che si perde sullo sfondo grigio del film. Ecco perché il calcolo fatto dai distributori del VUFKU – lanciare un vecchio film sfruttando il nome oggi molto popolare della Sten – non pare molto fondato.” Così la prima particina della giovane debuttante Anna Sten diventa un atout della Sten diva per richiamare gli spettatori russi alla première di un film ucraino diretto da un regista sovietico formatosi a Hollywood e realizzato imitando i film tedeschi. NATALIA NUSSINOVA The student Lipa in Agent provocateur seems to have been Anna Sten’s first role in the cinema. It was probably in 1926 that Viktor Turin offered to the very pretty beginner the part of a character who seems marginal to the story, and does not even figure in the synopsis of the film that he had been shooting since 1923. Lipa, the girlfriend of the revolutionary terrorist, is a little student, a young girl from a good, honest but not rich family, a delicate young lady in the old style, who blushes and faints, and whose character bears the surname Khromova, like the heroines played by Vera Kholodnaya and Lidia Koreneva, rival sisters in the famous melodrama Zhizn’ za Zhizn’ (A Life for a Life). Bauer’s 1916 masterpiece could surely not have been unknown in the VUFKU studios, established in the Ukraine in 1922 on the basis of the old pre-revolutionary studios of Khanzhonkov, Ermoliev, Kharitonov, etc., and giving shelter to such directors from the Tsarist cinema as Vladimir Gardin and subsequently Piotr Tchardynin. But the marginal character played by Sten comes out of the shadows to assume an important place in the structure of the film. The police arrest the girl, using blackmail, aggression, and even money to try to make her become an agent provocatrice. Fragile though she seems, she nevertheless finds the strength to refuse, and it is thus that she becomes the antithesis of the agent provocateur Viktor, the main hero, a student from a well-off family, inspired by the romantic and clandestine, who readily cracks under police pressure and becomes a traitor and informer, resulting in the death of his friends. It is in this counterpoint of characters that Sten found the opportunity to show the evolution of her heroine, who passes from timidity to extreme courage, to the point of throwing an inkwell in the face of the policeman and threatening him with a pistol. And of course her courage costs her dear: three days later the newspapers tell us that the body of Miss Khromova has been fished out of the river. The official explanation of the “suicide” is quite in keeping with the traditions of Russian melodrama of the 1910s – a case of unhappy love. Work on the film lasted 4 years, owing to conflicts between the director and the management of VUFKU studios. For Viktor Turin (1895-1945) this marked his debut as a director, following his return to the USSR; he had lived in the United States (1912-22), been educated at M.I.T. (Massachusetts Institute of Technology), and had worked in Hollywood as an actor and synopsis writer. But he took the liberty of criticizing the scenario by Oles’ Dosvitnyi (Aleksandr Skripal-Mischenko, 1891-1934), a Ukrainian writer who was editor-inchief at VUFKU and one of the founders of the Yalta studios where the film was made. Turin blamed the scenario for many ideological errors, but the VUFKU bosses insisted on the production. Turin delayed the shooting on the pretext that the facilities given him were unsatisfactory. Accused in his turn of ideological errors, he called for a control commission at which he offered his justification. But finally, just as the film was finished, the presidential council of VUFKU was renewed, and the new heads criticized him, demanding re-editing involving serious cuts which affected the very heart of the story. For Turin this was not very worrying, because he had meanwhile made another film, Struggle of Giants (1926), also for VUFKU, and then acheived fame thanks to the documentary Turksib (1929), with its scenario by Yakov Aron and Viktor Shklovsky. But Dosvitnyi’s ending was to be much different. The Party Congress on Cinema in March 1928 accused the heads of VUFKU of nostalgia for Tsarist cinema and of having employed “old reactionary directors”. As a result of the purges that followed, Dosvitnyi lost his post as chief editor at VUFKU in 1929; four years later he was accused of counterrevolutionary activity, arrested, and shot. Since the distribution of Ukrainian films in the USSR took time, Agent provocateur was not released in Russia until October 1928, when it provoked very opposing reviews. The Moscow newspaper Kino reproached this “screen novelty” for being banal, old-fashioned, and naïve, and using the images to illustrate the intertitles. Kino’s critic went on to complain of the uninteresting interiors: “It is very badly staged, and so badly lit that it takes some effort to recognize the actors at the start of every shot.” The critic of the revue Zhizn Iskusstva was much more tolerant, especially with regard to the scenario – in his view, it was an important story from the “psychological” viewpoint, demonstrating the transformation of the revolutionary student into an agent provocateur for the police, with a precise and original representation of “details of the period”. However, he was more sceptical regarding Turin’s direction, which he considered reproduced the tradition of the “German psychological genre” (we can assume that the reason for this was the scene in the prison where the student Viktor is obsessed by visions of himself, as he is now, as a future prisoner, and as an old convict, all three images appearing in split-screen and making him so fearful that he agrees to collaborate with the police). 73 It is notable that though neither critic is very satisfied with the acting, both appreciate Anna Sten. The author of the article in Zhizn Iskusstva writes: “And yet Anna Sten is magnificent. She has succeeded in creating a remarkable image, sweet and touching, for the quite small role as the student, which is, it appears, the first part she has played.” The severe critic of Kino goes even further: “The actors in the film are very different; here is the respectable Panov, the eternal scoundrel Kutuzov, and finally Anna Sten, who is very young, but already very amusing and piquant in her movements. But this actress is only one very small bright spot, lost in the gray background of the film. … This is why the calculation of VUFKU’s distributors, to launch an old film taking advantage of the name of Sten, which is now in vogue, has little chance of succeeding.” Thus it was that the first small role of the young novice Anna Sten, making her film debut, became a trump card for Sten the Star, which was to attract Russian spectators to the premiere of a Ukrainian film, made by a Soviet director formed in Hollywood and imitating German films. – NATALIA NUSSINOVA MOI SYN (Syn / Staroe derzhit) [Mio figlio / My Son; Son; The Old Keeps] (Sovkino, Leningrad, USSR 1928) Regia/dir: Yevgenii Cherviakov; scen: Aleksandr Macheret, Viktor Turin, Yuri Gromov, Yevgenii Cherviakov, dal racconto/from the story “Caso n. 3576”/“Case No. 3576” di/by Dmitrii Sverchkov; f./ ph: Sviatoslav Beliayev; scg./des: Semion Meinkin; aiuto regia/asst. dir: Nikolai Dirin; asst: Mikhail Gavronskii, Pavel Morozov; cast: Anna Sten (Olga Surina), Gennadii Michurin (Andrei Surin), Piotr Beriozov (Trofim), Olga Trofimova (vicina grassa/fat neighbour), Yelena Volyntseva (vicina magra/skinny neighbour), N. Mikhailova (vecchia vicina/old neighbour), Ursula Krug (madre del bambino morto/mother of the dead child), Nadezhda Yermakovich (prostituta/prostitute), Nikolai Cherkasov (“Pat”), Boris Chirkov (“Patachon”), Piotr Beriozov (“Charlie Chaplin”), Yevgenii Cherviakov (ubriaco/drunk), Vladimir Stukachenko (capo commissione locale/Head of the local committee), Boris Feodosiev (comandante dei pompieri/Head of the fire brigade), Gleb Bushtuev, Piotr Kuznetsov, Sergei Yegorov-Bystrov (pompieri/ firemen), Mark Cherviakov (bambino/child); data uscita/rel: 21.8.1928; orig. l. (35mm): 1900 m.; DVD (da/from 16mm), 49'; fonte copia/print source: Museo del Cine Pablo Ducrós Hicken, Buenos Aires. Didascalie in russo, con sottotitoli in inglese / Russian intertitles, with English subtitles. La riscoperta da parte di Fernando Martin Peña e Paula Félix-Didier nel Museo del Cine Pablo Ducrós Hicken di Buenos Aires (la stessa fonte del recente ritrovamento del Metropolis integrale) di 5 dei 7 rulli di Moi syn di Yevgenii Cherviakov può essere considerata la più importante riapparizione in ambito sovietico della seconda metà del secolo scorso. Il film rappresenta uno dei rari casi in cui i testi di storia del cinema andrebbero riveduti, se non addirittura riscritti. Ma ciò richiederà probabilmente ancora molto tempo: i film di Cherviakov (1899-1942) sono stati completamente dimenticati, perfino nel suo ANNA STEN
Paese natale. Per almeno sette decenni i suoi tre lavori principali sono stati ritenuti perduti. Fino alla fine dei loro giorni, i colleghi ed amici di Cherviakov, tra cui Leonid Trauberg, Sergei Yutkevich e Sergei Vasiliev, considerarono un punto d’onore di mantenerne viva la memoria – ma ora sono morti e i loro ricordi sono ricordo con loro. In Russia i film di Cherviakov furono lodati come un modello di cinema poetico solo per un breve periodo, che coincise però con il biennio 1928-29, in altre parole con gli anni di massima produttività del cinema sovietico. Era opinione comune che Cherviakov, insieme con Vsevolod Pudovkin e Aleksandr Dovzhenko, rappresentasse il ramo “personale” e “soggettivo” del cinema d’avanguardia, mentre Eisenstein e Vertov formavano quello “oggettivo” e “globale”. Peraltro, Cherviakov non si limitò solo a polemizzare con l’estetica della “tipizzazione” e del montaggio, ma si dissociò apertamente dal “cinema intellettuale” alla Eisenstein. Nei tardi anni ’20 il problema del nuovo stile di vita sovietico era ritenuto un tema di vitale importanza per l’arte del cinema, e vi fu perfino uno specifico filone: i cosiddetti film “di vita quotidiana” (bytovye), realizzati da registi importanti quali Fridrikh Ermler, Boris Barnet e Abram Room. Pur facendo anch’egli nominalmente parte di questo gruppo, Cherviakov meriterebbe qualche distinguo. Come ebbe a scrivere lui stesso in uno dei suoi rari saggi: “Il mio scopo principale era quello di mostrare, attraverso il mezzo del cinema, la rabbia, l’amore, la disperazione, la gelosia – in breve, l’intera gamma dei fenomeni emotivi comunemente chiamati ‘passioni umane’. E di mostrarli al di fuori da ogni elemento accessorio storico, di vita quotidiana (bytovye), industriale o altro.” In altri termini, Moi syn di Cherviakov può essere definito l’antitesi di Tretya Meshkanskaya di Room. Moi syn fu il secondo e il più importante film di Cherviakov. Non fu lodato solo dai critici e dagli altri cineasti, ma piacque molto anche al pubblico – in Germania (dove fu distribuito col titolo di Das Kind des Anderen) e anche in Russia. Il regista era riuscito a soddisfare tutti nascondendo il suo manifesto di cinema soggettivo, o, come sarebbe stato definito 20 anni dopo, esistenzialista, sotto la forma esteriore di un melodramma classico. La trama è estremamente semplice. Una moglie dice al marito che il loro bambino appena nato non è suo figlio. E questo è in sostanza l’unico evento del film. Fino alla fine il marito è ossessionato dalle proprie emozioni ed angosce. Scopre chi è il vero padre, ma non è questo a turbarlo. E neanche la moglie. Perché ciò che lo scombussola di più non è la scoperta del figlio di un altro uomo, né l’infedeltà della moglie e neppure le chiacchiere o lo scherno dei vicini: qualcosa nella sua routine è cambiata per sempre – non importa cosa, esattamente – ed è questo che lo frastorna. “Non oggetti, masse, bei panorami o elaborati trucchi di montaggio, ma la gente. Il conflitto psicologico che nasce tra due persone qualunque, oggi, in un ambiente grigio e monotono in mezzo ad altre persone altrettanto ordinarie e con i loro stessi difetti e virtù”, scriveva Cherviakov nel medesimo saggio. Questo farebbe pensare a un’attitudine per il Kammerspiele. Nondimeno, lo stile di Moi syn è molto più vicino all’impressionismo che all’espressionismo, e presenta 74 molti tratti comuni coi lavori di Jean Epstein (coi quali è peraltro abbastanza improbabile che Cherviakov avesse molta familiarità). La critica occidentale rilevò “l’invidiabile misuratezza” dello stile di Cherviakov. Che in effetti non serba alcuno dei febbrili sperimentalismi tipici dell’avanguardia sovietica degli anni ’20, quali sovraimpressioni, dissolvenze, movimenti di macchina bizzarri o effetti di luce troppo “facili”. Cherviakov considerava il volto umano non solo “il vero centro di ogni film lirico” ma anche “il più perfetto degli ‘strumenti’ di produzione”. I primi piani di Moi syn sono così dilatati e i suoi campi medi (e i pochi campi lunghi) così ascetici, che lo spettatore è costretto ad osservare ogni segno di vita da un punto di vista molto ravvicinato, per cui anche il minimo movimento diventa significante. Questi lunghissimi primi piani disorientavano lo spettatore più o meno alla stessa stregua del montaggio rapido del cinema classico sovietico. D’altronde, questo non sarebbe stato possibile senza lo svuotamento (o, per meglio dire, la purificazione) dell’inquadratura e senza le sottili sfumature tonali dei ritratti: il cameraman Sviatoslav Beliayev e il set designer Semion Meinkin furono gli abili coadiutori di Cherviakov per tutto il periodo del muto. Anna Sten fu l’attrice preferita di Cherviakov, e lei, a sua volta, lo considerava uno dei migliori registi al mondo: anche a svariati decenni di distanza e dopo aver lavorato con E.A. Dupont, Robert Siodmak, Rouben Mamoulian e King Vidor. I due avevano già fatto un paio di film insieme e stavano per girarne un terzo quando la Sten partì per la Germania. All’epoca in cui iniziò la lavorazione di Moi syn lei era già una star, ma fu proprio questo film a imporla come una delle migliori attrici del cinema sovietico. Il suo partner nel film, Gennadii Michurin ricordava: “Anna Sten era un’attrice sicura di sé, intelligente, volitiva e molto interessante, ma non aveva una forma mentis russa. Era troppo razionale”. Forse fu proprio questa razionalità a permettere alla Sten e a Michurin (anch’egli di temperamento piuttosto moderato) di assecondare le nebulose richieste del regista, il quale pretendeva che trasmettessero le loro emozioni solo attraverso gli occhi, senza l’aiuto della mimica o della gestualità. Anche i critici più benevoli rilevarono che “le tecniche liriche di Cherviakov appaiono meramente individualistiche”, e posero l’accento sulla sua “attitudine ad annacquare i contenuti sociali del soggetto”. Nel 1928 questo poteva ancora essere visto come una peculiarità; pochi anni dopo sarebbe stato considerato un crimine. Cherviakov ebbe non di meno il tempo di influenzare quei pochi tra i suoi contemporanei che aspiravano ad allontanarsi dalla linea generale della cinematografia sovietica, in primis Aleksandr Dovzhenko (a quanto pare, Cherviakov era l’unico regista di cui Dovzhenko ammettesse pubblicamente l’influenza). Ma l’opinione più diffusa fu quella espressa da un funzionario della cultura: “Credo che si tratti di un lavoro ricercato ma al contempo abbastanza prematuro oggi per la nostra cultura cinematografica e anche per la cultura del nostro pubblico. Dubito fortemente che sia auspicabile proseguire con iniziative analoghe. In questo momento il cinema sovietico deve affrontare problematiche di ben altra importanza e significato”. – PETER BAGROV The rediscovery by Fernando Martin Peña and Paula Félix-Didier in the Museo del Cine Pablo Ducrós Hicken in Buenos Aires (the source of the recently found complete Metropolis) of 5 out of the 7 reels of Yevgenii Cherviakov’s My Son can be considered the most important Soviet resurrection in the last half century. Here is the rare case when film history books should be not re-written perhaps, but re-edited. Though it will probably take a long time: the films of Cherviakov (1899-1942) are completely forgotten, even in his native country. For seven decades all three of his major works have been considered lost. Until the end of their days, his colleagues and friends, such as Leonid Trauberg, Sergei Yutkevich, and Sergei Vasiliev, regarded it as a point of honour to keep his memory alive – but now they are dead, and so is the memory. Cherviakov’s films were proclaimed a model of poetic cinema in Russia for only a short period: but that period happened to be 1928-29, the peak of Soviet silent filmmaking. The general view was that together with Vsevolod Pudovkin and Aleksandr Dovzhenko he represented the “personal” and “subjective” branch of avant-garde cinema, while Eisenstein and Vertov formed the “objective” and “global” one. But Cherviakov did not only polemicize against typage-montage aesthetics (he directly dissociated himself from Eisenstein’s “intellectual cinema”). In the late 1920s the problem of a new Soviet lifestyle was considered a theme of vital importance for the art of film, and there was even a special category of so-called “everyday life” (bytovye) films, made by such major directors as Fridrikh Ermler, Boris Barnet, and Abram Room. Nominally belonging to this group, Cherviakov should be distinguished from it. As he wrote in one of his few essays: “My main task was to show, by means of cinema, anger, love, despair, jealousy – in short, the entire complex of emotional phenomena that is called ‘human passions’. To show it outside any historical, everyday life (bytovye), industrial or any other accessories.” In a way, Cherviakov’s My Son may be called the antithesis of Room’s Bed and Sofa. My Son was Cherviakov’s second and most important film. Not only was it praised by critics and fellow filmmakers, but it was well received by the audience, too – in Germany (where it was released as Das Kind des Anderen) as well as in Russia. The director was able to satisfy everyone by hiding his manifesto of subjective, and, as it would be called 20 years later, existentialist cinema in the shell of a classical melodrama. The plot is as simple as can be. The wife tells her husband that their newborn son is not his. And this is practically the only event in the film. Until the very end the husband is obsessed with his own emotions and anxieties. He discovers who the father is, but that does not worry him. And neither does the wife. For it is not another man’s child, nor his wife’s infidelity, nor even the gossip and sneers of the neighbours which unsettle him. Something in his routine has changed – it doesn’t really matter what, exactly – and that is what stuns him. “Not objects, masses, beautiful views, and elaborate tricks of montage, but people. A psychological collision of two common people of today, in a dull, grey environment among other equally ordinary people with 75 all their virtues and defects,” Cherviakov wrote in the same essay. This dictates a Kammerspiele-like attitude. Yet, the style of My Son is much closer to Impressionism than to Expressionism, resembling the works of Jean Epstein (with which Cherviakov was unlikely to have been very familiar). Western critics noted the “enviable restraint” of Cherviakov’s style. There are none of the hectic experiments typical of the Soviet avantgarde of the 1920s, such as multiple exposures, dissolves, extravagant camera movement, or “obvious” lighting effects. Cherviakov considered the human face not only “the true centre of any lyric picture” but also “the most perfect ‘instrument’ of production”. So extensive are the close-ups in My Son and so ascetic are the medium shots and the few long shots, that the viewer is forced to observe every sign of life as closely as possible, and the slightest movement becomes significant. These lengthy close-ups were assaults on the viewer, no less than the rapid cutting in classic Soviet films. This wouldn’t have been possible without the emptied (or, should we say, purified) frame or the subtle tonal nuances in the portraits: the cameraman Sviatoslav Beliayev and the set designer Semion Meinkin were Cherviakov’s competent coauthors throughout the silent era. Anna Sten was Cherviakov’s favourite actress, and she, in turn, considered him one of the most talented directors in the world – even decades later, having worked with E.A. Dupont, Robert Siodmak, Rouben Mamoulian, and King Vidor. They had made two films together and were about to make a third when she left for Germany. She was already a star by the time they started to work on My Son, but it was this picture that earned her reputation as one of the best actresses of the Soviet screen. Her co-star Gennadii Michurin recalled: “Anna Sten was a self-reliant, intelligent, strong-willed, and very interesting actress, but not of a Russian cast of mind. She had too much rationality.” Perhaps it is just this rationality that made it possible for Sten and Michurin (himself possessing a rather moderate temperament) to fulfil the director’s nebulous demands. He wanted them to convey their emotional state solely through their eyes, without the aid of mime or gesture. Even sympathetic critics noted that “Cherviakov’s lyrical techniques seem to be merely individualistic”, and pointed out his “ability to emasculate the social matter of the subject”. In 1928 this could still be regarded as a peculiarity; a few years later it would be considered almost a crime. He had time to affect those few of his contemporaries who were willing to step aside from the general line of Soviet filmmaking, among them Aleksandr Dovzhenko (it seems that Cherviakov was the only director whose influence Dovzhenko openly admitted). But the general opinion was expressed by one of the culture officials, who wrote: “I think that here we have a refined work that is today somewhat premature for the culture of our film as well as for the culture of our audience. I doubt it is necessary to persist and continue moving in this direction. At the moment problems of greater importance and significance are facing the Soviet cinema.” – PETER BAGROV ANNA STEN
Page 3 and 4: ASSOCIAZIONE CULTURALE “LE GIORNA
Page 5 and 6: Sostenitori / Donors 20 1 Le Giorna
Page 7 and 8: Our Fair Lady La Sara Moranduzzo 19
Page 9 and 10: Introduzioni e schede di / Introduc
Page 11 and 12: Premio Jean Mitry / The Jean Mitry
Page 13 and 14: Collegium 2012 Giunto alla quattord
Page 15 and 16: temporale sono una riproduzione fed
Page 17 and 18: Nel corso della mia ricerca, ho rit
Page 19 and 20: sconosciuti che li sorprendono ment
Page 21 and 22: tecniche digitali. Nondimeno, resta
Page 23 and 24: in an eerie coincidence, was involv
Page 25 and 26: annunciò con orgoglio che i tre ep
Page 27 and 28: lui fino al 1923), e Flora Morris:
Page 29 and 30: strange to find the New York Times
Page 31 and 32: y McDermott, with Scrooge’s frost
Page 33 and 34: Williams (1870-1961) was the predom
Page 35 and 36: di Frank Lloyd la affronta in modo
Page 37 and 38: Nielsen (Orlick), Egill Rostrup (Ja
Page 39 and 40: to his father’s dust-heap fortune
Page 41 and 42: DEVUSHKA S KOROBKOI (When Moscow La
Page 43: un dramma sul cinismo umano e la de
Page 47 and 48: Andrei Petrovskii, who was himself
Page 49 and 50: charm, at the same time mastering t
Page 51 and 52: “Men who go down to sea in ships
Page 53 and 54: cuoco come l’erede e legittimo pr
Page 55 and 56: Prog. 1: Francis Boggs and Californ
Page 57 and 58: Thor: Lord of the Jungle, 1913. (Ac
Page 59 and 60: Uno degli effetti più immediati de
Page 61 and 62: parte all’elaborazione creativa d
Page 63 and 64: Fischinger; 35mm, 186 m., 9'02" (18
Page 65 and 66: KÜCHENREBELLEN [Ribelli in cucina
Page 67 and 68: cui corpi servivano come oggetti di
Page 69 and 70: invece che il suo amico era “un b
Page 71 and 72: Renée Falconetti in La Passion de
Page 73 and 74: Die Weber, Friedrich Zelnik, 1927.
Page 75 and 76: ucraina, l’atteggiamento sentimen
Page 77 and 78: una bellezza stellare a intraprende
Page 79 and 80: Royal Show svoltosi nel 1909 a Clar
Page 81 and 82: film apparentemente realizzato a so
Page 83 and 84: deliberatamente a fuoco certi suoi
Page 85 and 86: new Law for Combating Venereal Dise
Page 87 and 88: del 1923. Lo sfarzo spettacolare de
Page 89 and 90: il negativo non esiste più. All’
Page 91 and 92: l’episodio della vendita di Manha
Page 93 and 94: a favourite stock theme of early si
Page 95 and 96:
lontani dall’incisività e dalla
Page 97 and 98:
I suoceri, Cines, 1912. (EYE Film I
Page 99 and 100:
le amiche la sottopongono a un rigo
Page 101 and 102:
A Woman of A� airs, Clarence Brow
Page 103:
FREUDLOSE GASSE, DIE, 115; 12V GAR
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Catalogo Giornate del Cinema Muto 2012 - La Cineteca del Friuli

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