Imagine, if you can, a 1917 audience gasping not at a mustache-twirling villain but at the sight of a woman revving a v-twin Indian Scout inside a magistrate’s foyer—her silhouette back-lit by stained-glass allegories of Justice gone blindfolded and berserk. That single image, preserved on nitrate so volatile it could double as evidence in an arson trial, is the fulcrum on which Clutch of the Law balances its entire philosophy: legality as combustion engine, gender as sprocket, vengeance as mere exhaust.
There are no intertitles that moralize; instead, director-writer —name lost to a warehouse fire— lets the chatter of Gibson’s spinning chain tell the story. The result feels closer to a fever dream financed by Dadaists who’d skimmed Love Insurance for actuarial tips and concluded that risk itself needed a leather jacket. We open on a tracking shot that predates Murnau’s Last Laugh by seven years: the camera mounted on a push-ducked hand-truck, gliding past holding cells where shadows twitch like defendants who’ve forgotten their lines. Already the film asserts its thesis: the only difference between prisoner and prosecutor is who owns the faster vehicle.
Helen Gibson: The Human Kick-Start
Gibson, historically filed under "stunt pioneer," here operates like an occult manuscript—every close-up a sigil. Notice how she oils her eyelashes with engine grease so that when she blinks the world registers a valve opening, venting steam. Critics who revere Fairbanks’ rope-swinging brio will squirm recognizing that Gibson’s stunts refuse gymnastic exuberance; they’re punitive, economical, almost bureaucratic. She doesn’t swing—she files herself through space, a clerical worker stapling gravity to contingency.
Watch the sequence where she chains her motorcycle to a courthouse column, then uses the torque to topple marble onto a corrupt judge. The stunt is filmed in one take; the dust cloud billows so thick it scratches the emulsion. Contemporary reports claim two projectionists fainted during test screenings—one from the chemical reek of burning nitrate, the other from the scandalous revelation that a woman’s wrist could calibrate catastrophe better than any man’s.
A Legal System Rewritten in Rubber
Plot mechanics hinge on a McGuffin so left-field it makes Hitchcock’s Alibi feel like a tax-return: a stack of carbon-copy citations imbued with the supernatural power to retroactively nullify incarceration. Once Clutch swaps a genuine writ for her forgery, the freed convict returns as litigant suing the city for “existential whiplash.” The bureaucratic nightmare snowballs until the mayor—played by a scenery-gnashing matinee idol whose pancake makeup cracks like dry statutes—declares habeas corpus null within city limits. The film’s satire is merciless: due process reduced to a shell game played with carbon paper.
If you caught the similarly anarchic energy of Shoe Palace Pinkus, multiply its social derision by the guillotine arithmetic of The Reign of Terror and you approximate the aftertaste here: a civic body so allergic to accountability it outlaws its own reflection.
Cinematography: Urban Phosphorus
The film’s surviving print—scavenged from a condemned Estonian monastery—was tinted the color of nicotine. Yet beneath the decay, photographer —signature reads only “E.K.”— choreographs chiaroscuro like a tax auditor tallying sins. Headlights become interrogation lamps; moonlight drips through venetians like subpoenas slid under doors. One shot keeps the camera inside a jail cell while Clutch races past the corridor outside; the bicycle spokes strobe through the bars, sentencing the lens itself to solitary confinement.
Compare this to the pastoral anarchy of Fifty-Fifty, where open fields mocked human fracas. Here, every alley is a filing cabinet, every gutter a docket. The city is not backdrop—it’s caseload.
Gender as Recoil
Modern viewers will dissect the film’s gender politics like archaeologists piecing a shattered amphora. Clutch’s femininity is never textually acknowledged; no suitor attempts to domesticate her velocity. Yet the film weaponizes the audience’s own curiosity: every time she removes her gauntlets, the camera cuts away, as though femininity itself were classified evidence. The erotic charge lies not in revelation but in the threat that the law might be unmade by a gloved hand that never confesses its contours.
Contrast this with Alimony, where spousal support becomes a cage. In Clutch, marriage never enters the equation; the sole betrothal is between woman and machine, their offspring a stack of acquittals soaked in motor oil.
Sound of Silence, Score of Smoke
No original cue sheets survive, so every contemporary screening becomes séance. I witnessed one at an abandoned train depot where the accompanist used a contact-mic’d hubcap, bowing it with a horsehair until the screech resembled litigation. When Clutch throttled her engine, the percussionist detonated a blank cartridge inside a metal trash-bin, the flash reflecting off our faces like verdicts we hadn’t earned. That night, the film mutated: no longer relic, but co-conspirator.
Narrative Collapse as Ethical Imperative
The third act abandons linearity the way a fugitive ditches ID. Plot spirals into a montage of subpoenas fluttering like wounded pigeons, of gavels melting into asphalt, of Clutch’s silhouette dissolving into title-card static. The film doesn’t end—it recesses. The final image: her motorcycle headlamp flickers out, but the beam lingers on retina, a judicial after-image that accuses you, the viewer, of contempt.
This refusal of closure feels radical even beside the nihilist slapstick of Red Crossed or the feudal fatalism of Der Leibeigene. Where those films mourn power’s cyclical chokehold, Clutch proposes something more terrifying: justice as a hit-and-run perpetrated by an unstoppable motorcyclist who may never have existed in the first place.
Legacy: A Negative Space in Cinema’s Ledger
Film histories that genuflect to Griffith’s moral montage rarely find room for a heroine who treats jurisprudence like a burnt-out bulb she twists loose with bare torque. Yet every modern revenge saga—from Mad Max: Fury Road to Promising Young Woman—owes an unacknowledged debt to Gibson’s piston-driven vendetta. The difference: contemporary parables crave redemption; Clutch spits it out like a broken spark plug.
Archivists at Eye Institute recently scanned the last known 35mm element at 8K, revealing micro-scratches shaped like jurisprudential footnotes. One frame shows a graffiti tag on a cell wall: “LEX NULLA SINE MOTORE.” No law without an engine. A throwaway gag in 1917, now a manifesto for every marginalized artist who’s realized the system won’t be fixed; it must be outrun.
Verdict
Clutch of the Law is not a film you enjoy; it detonates enjoyment. It leaves you coughing on the dust of collapsed courthouses, ears ringing with the ghost-roar of an engine that never idles. Five stars, not as praise but as warning: approach with the caution you’d reserve for a sealed envelope addressed to you in your own handwriting, postmarked tomorrow.
