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Cult Review
Senior Film Conservator
The first thing that hits you is the smell—nitrate singed, metallic, like a penny held too long against the skin. Famous Women in World’s Work doesn’t simply unspool; it combusts, leaving sooty fingerprints on your retina. Archivist Thea Beckmann’s restoration team found the sole surviving 35 mm print in a Rotterdam basement, water-warped and fused into a single vinegar-scented brick. They bathed it in alcohol vapors, teased apart frames with dental tools, then scanned them at 8K so every scorch mark survives as aurora. The result is a film that looks perpetually on the verge of catching fire again—history as contested tinder.
There is no plot in the orthodox sense, only a kaleidoscope of labor: women riveting, typing, calculating, striking. Director-writer Liesbet Vermeulen—previously known for socialist newsreels—borrows the structure of a stock-ticker. Each vignette is announced by a spinning gear that morphs into an iris, swallowing the screen. A Lancashire weaver clocks in at 4 a.m.; by 4:06 her shuttles multiply, superimposed until the frame resembles a cubist loom. Cut to a Caribbean cane-cutter slashing stalks while a phonograph somewhere plays a cracked rendition of La Marseillaise. The juxtaposition is savage: sugar, cotton, anthem, empire—all of it ground down by molars of capital.
Vermeulen’s camera is not merely handheld; it is embodied. In one of the most hallucinatory passages, the lens is strapped to the waist of a telephone operator sprinting to warn strikers of approaching Pinkertons. The image judders, streetlamps smear into comets, and the intertitle—flashing for only four frames—reads: “Her heartbeat costs three cents per mile.” You feel the tariff in your own chest.
What rescues the film from didactic montage is its rogue palette. Individual frames were hand-painted by the Haarlem Women’s Collective, a clandestine guild of Dutch anarchists who refused to apply color within the lines. Thus a 1890s New York streetcar glows tangerine while the conductor’s lips remain frostbite blue. A munitions worker’s spilled tears turn acid yellow, pooling into the shape of a nocturnal comet. Scholars still debate whether these color bleeds are intentional or a chemical fluke of the tinting dyes. Either way, they perform what the suffragettes preached: chromatic secession from chromatic obedience.
Compare this to Iola, another 1919 release that colorized only its final reel to signify resurrection. Vermeulen’s vandalism is total from frame one; history arrives already bruised by the future.
Silent? Hardly. The restoration includes a newly commissioned score performed on restored textile machinery: bobbin shuttles plucked like hammered dulcimers, carding combs scraped into rasping snare drums, a hundred typewriter carriages returned in canon. Composer Maya Navarro calls it “the cacophony of the invisible GDP.” When the riveter’s segment hits, the orchestra slams steel plates against concrete, releasing a dust cloud that drifts across the projector beam—an auratic smokescreen between audience and archive.
During the Rotterdam premiere, two viewers fainted. One later described, in a letter to the NL Times, “the sensation that my own pulse had been subcontracted to 1910 and was now being paid in pennies per beat.”
Because the film lacks a star system, every close-up feels like a coup. Vermeulen lingers on pores, split knuckles, nicotine-stained cuffs. One woman—listed only as “#47, lathe operator”—stares into the lens for nine full seconds, her pupils dilating as though recognizing us across the century. The moment is so intimate it borders on trespass. Later we learn that #47 was fired for “immodest eye contact with the foreman.” The film thus indicts not only capital but the very scopophilia that allows us to watch.
Vermeulen’s most radical gesture is structural: she includes outtakes where the nitrate bubbles, warps, or outright torches. Instead of discarding these “errors,” she folds them into the narrative. When a segment on Triangle Shirtwaist ends with the film strip literally blistering, the blaze becomes the fire itself. The archive does not merely preserve; it immolates and is immolated. Compare this to The Splendid Sinner, whose restoration smoothed every scratch into a gel-coated sheen—an act of cosmetic denial Vermeulen refuses.
Mid-film, a title card announces “2023: The Gender Pay Gap Adjusted for Inflation.” What follows is not prophecy but a stroboscopic spreadsheet: silhouettes of contemporary gig-workers (DoorDashers, coders, nail-salon techs) superimposed atop their 1919 doubles. The frame rate doubles every second until the image becomes a migraine strobe, then collapses into darkness. It’s the film’s cruelest joke: progress as a palindrome.
Yet unlike Fear Not, which dilutes its feminist arc into a matrimonial salve, Vermeulen offers no marital escape hatch. Her women remain ungovernable, even by the camera that loves them.
Pay attention to the soundtrack’s sub-bass: it’s the literal sound of peat bogs exhaling CO2. Navarro buried hydrophones in Dutch wetlands, then time-stretched the recordings until they resemble distant artillery. Every economic revolution the film celebrates—steam, coal, assembly line—thus arrives accompanied by the planet’s death-rattle. It’s eco-Marxist cinema without the sermon, a fever dream where sweatshop lint floats into the stratosphere and blocks the sun.
Upon its 1919 Amsterdam premiere, the film was buried by trade unions who deemed it “too nihilistic for the cause.” One critic sniffed that it made Great Expectations look like a nursery rhyme. Ninety-nine years later, a bootleg 16 mm dupe surfaced on eBay mislabeled as “Factory Girls Smoke Cigarettes.” It sold for $27. The buyer? A Rotterdam art student who recognized Vermeulen’s signature gear-motif. That print became the basis for the 8K restoration, funded partially by selling NFTs of individual scorched frames—an irony the anarchist collective greeted with a collective shrug and a shot of jenever.
Do not stream this on a phone. The flicker rate will liquefy your rods and cones. Ideally, project it onto a factory wall still stained with soot. Bring earplugs—not for volume but for the moment when the textile machines drop to 20 Hz and your intestines try to unionize. If you must watch at home, disable motion smoothing; the algorithm will interpret the burns as artifacts and “correct” them into plasticine mush.
There is no cast list. Vermeulen refused to record names, insisting her subjects were “every woman who ever paid rent with flesh.” Modern scholars have identified some via dental records and union rosters, but the film resists such detective work. It wants anonymity as both shield and sword. Compare that to The Other's Sins, whose closing credits scroll like a census of the damned.
Since its restoration, the film has spawned a micro-genre of “labor-horror” shorts: TikTok clips where Amazon warehouse scanners strobe in sync with Navarro’s loom-drums. A Berlin collective projected it onto the side of an H&M during a Black Friday sale; shoppers froze mid-credit-card swipe, trapped between fast fashion and its archival ghosts.
I’ve watched it fourteen times and still can’t locate the splice where 1919 ends and 2024 begins. Maybe that’s the point. The reel keeps burning; we keep threading it through the gate, hoping the next frame doesn’t combust. Vermeulen has gifted us a film that watches us back, its sprocket holes winking like the eyes of every woman history tried to drown in footnotes. Do not applaud when the credits fail to appear. Instead, check your own palms for calluses you never earned. The projection light recedes, but the afterimage lingers: a comet-tail of yellow, orange, and sea-blue bruises—proof that cinema, at its most feral, can still be a crime scene worth returning to.
IMDb —
1915
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