High Contrast: My Time at The 4th Nitrate Picture Show

A water-damaged nitrate print of F.W. Murnau's Sunrise.

I've had sufficient time (and sleep!) to absorb the proceedings of this year's Nitrate Picture Show at the George Eastman Museum's Dryden Theatre, which for me is a short drive away. The festival gathers a unique mix of industry professionals, film students and fans from places near and far, all for a program that is kept under wraps until the Friday morning of the Show. The Dryden Theatre has the distinction of being one of the few movie houses in the world with the capability to project nitrate film, a notoriously volatile medium. Nitrate film reels are also surprisingly durable and can last many years provided that they're stored in a tightly controlled environment to curb further deterioration. As a relative novice to classic film, the Nitrate Picture Show is a great opportunity for me to explore works both popular and obscure, most of which I've never heard of or seen.

My "initiation" to nitrate film was in 2017, three months before the 3rd Nitrate Picture Show. Another new-to-me film, 1937's A Star Is Born, boasted both strong lead performances and a soft, warm-toned Technicolor print. A long-term relationship came to an abrupt end that April, and I was ready to try something new. Having never been to a film festival, looking for a distraction, and realizing the NPS wasn't out of reach as I had previously thought, I secured my pass at the last minute. Unsure how to pace myself for an event like this, I attended two screenings on Saturday, with a lecture in between. Sunday was a one-screening day for me, but unforgettable: the traditional Blind Date with Nitrate that caps off each Show was a wild ride, Teuvo Tulio's Levoton veri (Restless Blood). Regina Linnanheimo took cues from Bette Davis' performance in Dark Victory and added a heaping helping of intensity; the film dragged in parts and was saddled with a loathsome love interest, but you couldn't pull away from Linnanheimo's Sylvi, slowly unfurling as her life descends into madness. I've seen dozens of movies since, but her performance sticks with me to this day.

Jump ahead to this year, and I knew what I was getting myself into. I blocked off a four-day weekend (you need at least one day to recover!), though I had to miss most of Friday's programming to attend an out-of-town memorial service. My first film of this year's festival was well worth the wait: a late screening of a rare sepia-toned print of 1938's Holiday, a charming, underrated Katherine Hepburn/Cary Grant vehicle. It's the only film I had seen prior to the NPS, and not only was it great fun as expected, the nitrate print brought lush textures to the forefront: the sunlight streaming through the windows, the glow of a solitary reading lamp, the plush velvet of a settee, the sparkle and flash of a diamond necklace. I wished it were possible to wrap myself in their warmth; I expect they'll reappear on my next viewing, if only in memory.

Saturday: an early start with insufficient sleep to recover from the previous night, the struggle was compounded by a 2 1/2+ hour Somerset Maugham drama, The Razor's Edge. I wanted to sympathize with Larry Darrell's internal conflict and his search for fulfillment. Especially through tired eyes, Edge steeped too long in its own message, aiming for profundity that wasn't quite there, and at the cost of reasonable pacing and a truly believable Tyrone Power performance. To keep interest I waited anxiously for the next scene with Herbert Marshall's Maugham (a self-insert I can get behind) or for Clifton Webb's Elliott's next cutting remark, and wondered why the great Elsa Lanchester got so little screen time (as ever, she made the most of it). Would it have been less of a slog had it been programmed for midday?

The next feature, Mlhy na blatech (Mist Over The Moors) was a glimpse into rural life; it was an easier sit than fellow Czech film Sirena (The Strike) from last year's NPS, but should have taken more advantage of its stunning natural setting to elevate it above standard drama. The titular mist danced above gently rippling water and mingled with rays of sunlight streaming through the trees in a brief, dreamy sequence. Winchester '73 was my "skip" of the day so I could stop home for a catnap and dinner before the final program, The Red Shoes. Having seen only a few short clips, I was pleasantly surprised that it lived up to the hype, beautifully orchestrated with lush Technicolor to match. Moira Shearer lures you in with her subtlety off-stage, but is startlingly intense in her dance sequences. After drying my tears (that ending!), I headed to the after-party with every intention of being social. Fatigue and anxiety got the better of me, though, so it was back home until...

Sunday: Not as late a night as Friday, which allowed for more sleep, thankfully. The first film of the day was Robert Siodmak's Cry of the City. I was somewhat familiar with Siodmak from his 1931 production, Voruntersuchung (featuring blog favorite Edith Meinhard), but a film noir on nitrate is a must-see no matter who's in the director's chair. In stark contrast to The Razor's Edge, City was the perfect first program of the day! Solid acting all around (especially Shelley Winters, cracking wise in a fabulous leopard-print coat), and the best showcase of the "nitrate effect": deep black shadows and gleaming highlights working in tandem to enhance the angular cinematography. A great addition to my slowly-growing noir vocabulary. The craving for a bowl of Mama Rome's piping hot minestrone lingering through the lunch break, it was on to the penultimate film. Vesyolye rebyata (Moscow Laughs), my first Soviet cinematic experience, was an off-the-wall musical comedy. Interspersed with slapstick reminiscent of early Marx Brothers features, the highlight of the chaos was a mob of farm animals crashing an elegant dinner party. Rounding out the 4th Nitrate Picture Show, the Blind Date with Nitrate brought us to the Aran Islands west of Ireland, with 1934's Man of Aran. A quasi-documentary, the film depicted the islands' inhabitants enduring crashing waves and turbulent storms to subsist on and around the rocky soil. I took away a deeper appreciation for the labor of the farmers and fishers, even if the shark hunting sequence was fabricated for box office gains.

All in all, my first "full" Nitrate Picture Show was an experience to treasure. I made it to 7 out of 10 film programs, one lecture, a tour of the projection booth (the Monday after the festival), several demonstrations of nitrate film reels, and I got to rub elbows with interesting people from all corners of the globe. Admittedly, as a beginner to the film festival grind, I at first felt out of place. It can be difficult to navigate a situation where you're surrounded by professionals from several film archives, as well as colleagues or students from the Eastman Museum's Selznick School of Film Preservation, and you want to learn more about them and the work that they do without feeling like too much of an outsider; anxiety in any form makes the task that much more daunting. Persistence does pay off, as I was able to connect with another attendee (via Twitter) and we conversed for hours; with any luck we'll meet up again for next year's show.

If you're new to classic film and/or film festivals and considering attending the Nitrate Picture Show, I recommend it wholeheartedly. Getting out of my comfort zone has helped to build my confidence and better handle unfamiliar situations, in addition to seeing some beautiful prints and learning more about the history of nitrate film and the efforts towards its preservation. Even if I didn't love the films that were being projected, there's always something to appreciate in the process. I'm grateful to the George Eastman Museum and the numerous museums and film archives the world over for their continued collaboration, for the opportunity to experience a rare and fleeting beauty.

Stray Dog at the Dryden Theatre, 8.5.10

Another fine evening at the Dryden, spent viewing an Akira Kurosawa classic, 1949's Stray Dog. The plot is centered around a fairly green cop, Murakami (Toshiro Mifune), whose gun is stolen while riding on an overcrowded bus. Sparing a rundown of the entire plotline, the film utilized several beautiful angles and shots, many of which would feel right at home in a film made tomorrow. Kurosawa particularly favored asymmetrically-framed shots, an aesthetic consistent with traditional Japanese woodblock prints. The interchanging forced perspective close-ups and long-range shots allowed for beautiful, subtle storytelling to unfold, keeping the dialogue at a bare minimum. There was a sense that you were amidst the action, conveniently tucked behind a sheer curtain or thrust against a wall in a narrow alley as the story came to life before your eyes. Another item of note: it seems that posturing and attitude denote superiority of will and/or intelligence (at least in the Kurosawa realm). The characters with the most knowledge or experience were often leaning comfortably against a railing or table, legs folded casually beneath them. Compare Murakami's stiff stance, signaling unfamiliarity and novice status, with Sato's (Takashi Shimura, another wonderful actor) eased slouch and cool attitude.

Though there was a great deal of beauty to behold in Kurosawa's cinematography, in equal measure there was a sense of despair and dismay looming through the streets and homes of postwar Japan, culminating in a moment that will surely linger in my consciousness for the coming days and nights...(after the jump, in case you'd like to remain unspoiled by the plot)


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Murakami has at long last reunited with his Colt, though not without seeing the damage that it had inflicted upon several innocent people. Collapsed from exhaustion and blood loss, he is relieved but far too weary to celebrate. Lying next to him, in handcuffs, is the equally weary Yusa, the culprit. Worn down by a lost war and his own social inadequacies, among other factors, he is particularly sensitive. In the distance, a group of small children marches along the fields, cheerfully singing the praises of the cherry blossoms; it is at this moment, as he notices the blooms hovering above him, recalling the criminal nature that has set forth from his own hands, that his soul completely shatters. He releases a scream so primal and blood-curdling that will stun anyone and everyone in its wake. A devastating, wordless expression of humanity's unbelievable power, used alternately for better and for worse. Stark, pure, undeniably humbling.

An evening at the Dryden Theatre with Ira Resnick...and Brooksie.

What a whirlwind of a Friday, particularly in the realm of all things Louise Brooks. I went out to Holy Sepulchre this morning to pay my respects (though it always takes me a while to actually find her grave...the written directions are no good when you've gotten yourself spun around so that you can't tell left from right), as I like to do from time to time. Bright sunshine and a gentle breeze made for ideal conditions, and her gravestone was flanked with lovely pink flowers, including snapdragons, a personal favorite of mine. It may seem strange to some, but I truly enjoy going to visit her. It gives me a feeling of ease and comfort beyond compare, and I could only hope that it would do the same for her. I'd like to believe that her spirit is still in Rochester, silly as that may be, but it's a thought that keeps me light.

On to the evening: there was a steady crowd in wait at the Dryden Theatre, anticipating the screening of The Canary Murder Case; the film was preceded by a discussion with Ira Resnick, author of Starstruck: Vintage Movie Posters from Classic Hollywood. Resnick, who has been collecting memorabilia since the late '60s, has invested a great deal of time and money into his collection, though a few of his pieces were acquired for as low as $35 each. As he showcased some of his personal favorites, I reflected on an interview he gave the day before on WXXI radio, and I came to realize that movie poster design is truly a lost art. Resnick voiced his disappointment (on both occasions) with MGM's promotion, citing that they placed the stars and names above all else, including the film's content. Many modern films do much the same; they seek to sell names and pretty faces, when technology and special effects are absent, and that is precisely where promotion ends. The variety of designs, techniques, and styles employed throughout Resnick's collection is astonishing, and it certainly tugs at the heartstrings. Where has the artistry gone, in the movies themselves and in their advertising? I have only owned the book for a few hours, so I have yet to fully explore and digest its contents, but I am greatly looking forward to the opportunity. (On a side note, as I was exploring the museum shop before the showing, I noticed that they are now reprinting T-shirts with Louise's iconic pearl necklace image from the Richee photo session...which I had spent years wishing for and had only come across on eBay several months before. Tempted to buy a second shirt, but only because I am certifiably nuts when it comes to such matters.)

As for the film itself, it was an enjoyable, somewhat lighthearted and campy mystery. Knowing beforehand that Louise's voice was going to be dubbed over, I had set myself up for some disappointment, and to be honest, the film took its time in building steam. It seems that the first portion of the film consisted largely of salvaged material from having been shot as a silent feature, evident in the uncomfortably long pauses between (sometimes poorly) dubbed dialogue. The editing also showcased some weaknesses in the decision to create a "part-talker", particularly with Louise's scenes. Margaret Livingston (wife of famed bandleader Paul Whiteman) not only dubbed Louise's voice, but acted as a stand-in when necessary, and this was very apparent in scenes shot from the rear or side views. The hairline was distinctly different, as was her movement...however, there was one scene where the "Canary" approached her apartment door, shot from the rear, and I could tell that it was in fact Louise. Her movement is so graceful and distinctive that it cannot be missed, and G.W. Pabst was (in my humble opinion) the only director to fully appreciate and utilize her dancing background. While I am quite familiar with Louise at this point, I wanted to get to know William Powell, whose Philo Vance largely kept this film afloat with his unique suaveness, sleek intelligence, and hushed charm; Powell is an actor I'd definitely like to see more often, and if it were possible, I'd wish to chat over a drink. The supporting cast's performances were often comical, whether intentional or not, but that made the experience, with crowd and all, that much more fun.


I know now that I want to attend screenings at the Dryden on a fairly regular basis, taking in a wide variety of films, though silents will continue to be a soft spot. Just as I was a late bloomer to music, so it is with the movies. Signed book in hand, looking up at the clear night sky, I couldn't have felt more alive and full of joy, having realized just what my new mission in life must be. Call me starstruck.