The first thing you notice is the breath—yes, breath—in a 105-year-old film. A giddy huff as Monty Banks scampers across an icy clothesline twelve stories above Herald Square, suspenders flapping like surrender flags. It’s 1918, influenza stalks every alley, yet here is a comedy that inhales the epoch’s panic and exh...
Comparing the cinematic DNA and archive impact of two defining moments in cult history.
Herman C. Raymaker
Edgar Jones
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" The first thing you notice is the breath—yes, breath—in a 105-year-old film. A giddy huff as Monty Banks scampers across an icy clothesline twelve stories above Herald Square, suspenders flapping like surrender flags. It’s 1918, influenza stalks every alley, yet here is a comedy that inhales the epoch’s panic and exhales pure helium. His Naughty Night was dumped into the boiler of history, melted down for its silver nitrate, presumed lost until a single 28-mm nitré roll surfaced in a Ljubljan..."
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