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Cult Review
Senior Film Conservator
When Carol Lockwood boards the luxury liner with David, the audience is immediately thrust into a tableau of marital disintegration. The script, penned by Dorian Neve and Leah Baird, does not merely present a divorce as a legal termination; it frames it as an existential crisis, a question of identity that reverberates through every subsequent scene. The film’s opening sequences, shot in lingering close‑ups, let us read the tremor in Carol’s eyes—an infatuation with Kelby Barton that feels less like lust and more like a desperate search for self‑validation.
Leah Baird, who also co‑wrote the screenplay, inhabits Carol with a measured poise that oscillates between vulnerability and resolve. Her performance is a study in restrained melodrama, echoing the subtlety found in It May Be Your Daughter where Baird also explored the tensions between personal desire and societal expectation. In contrast, Alec B. Francis as David embodies the stoic husband archetype, his gruff exterior masking a deep well of affection that surfaces dramatically when he dives into shark‑infested waters. The scene, rendered in stark chiaroscuro, underscores the film’s thematic preoccupation with sacrifice.
Kelcey, portrayed by Autumn Sims, is the catalyst that propels the narrative from domestic drama to survival thriller. His charisma is palpable, yet the film never lets him become a caricature. Instead, Sims imbues Kelcey with an undercurrent of insecurity, hinting that his allure is a façade built upon his own fear of irrelevance. This layered portrayal mirrors the complexity of the antagonist in The Other's Sins, where the villain’s motivations are as nuanced as the hero’s.
The catastrophic shipwreck is executed with a kinetic energy that feels ahead of its time. The camera whirls, the deck splinters, and the audience is thrust into a maelstrom of panic. Once ashore, the island becomes a crucible where civilized veneer erodes. The cinematography, saturated with muted blues and greys, creates a visual metaphor for the emotional desolation of the characters. Here, the film subtly references the survival motifs of Hurricane's Gal, yet it diverges by focusing less on external threats and more on internal machinations.
On the sand‑strewn beach, a silent power struggle unfolds. David’s rugged determination, Kelcey’s suave manipulation, and Smith’s quiet devotion (embodied by Richard Tucker) each vie for Carol’s elusive affection. The screenplay employs a series of tableau vivants—moments frozen in tension—to emphasize the psychological chess game. The audience is invited to decipher who, if anyone, truly understands Carol’s yearning. This narrative device recalls the intricate relational webs in Who Killed Simon Baird?, where each character’s motive is a piece of a larger puzzle.
David’s plunge into the shark‑laden lagoon is a visceral tableau of masculine heroism. The scene is underscored by a low, throbbing score that crescendos as he battles the unseen predators. The water, rendered in a sea‑blue hue (#0E7490) that glistens against the black backdrop, becomes a symbolic baptism. Upon resurfacing, his eyes meet Carol’s, and the narrative’s emotional axis pivots. The film suggests that love, when tested by danger, can be rekindled—an idea that resonates with the thematic core of The Test of Honor, where honor and affection intersect under duress.
In a moment of Machiavellian plotting, Kelcey and Smith conspire to eliminate David, believing that the removal of the husband will clear a path to Carol. Their scheming is portrayed with a tension‑laden dialogue that crackles with subtext. Yet nature intervenes: a volcanic eruption erupts without warning, spewing ash that obscures the sky, followed by a tornado that ravages the makeshift camp. These natural forces serve as narrative arbiters, reminding the characters—and the audience—that human ambition is fragile against the planet’s indifferent might.
The arrival of the rescue ship, a silhouette against the smoky horizon, offers a cathartic release. The crew’s lanterns flicker like distant hopes, illuminating the battered survivors. As they board the vessel, the camera lingers on Carol’s face, now softened, her earlier indecision replaced by a quiet certainty. The film closes without a melodramatic declaration; instead, it allows the audience to infer that the marriage, though battered, has endured. This understated resolution aligns with the narrative restraint found in Lucky Carson, where the ending is left to the viewer’s imagination rather than scripted sentimentality.
Leah Baird’s dual role as actress and co‑writer manifests in a performance that feels both intimate and meticulously crafted. Her eyes convey a spectrum of emotions without overt exposition. Alec B. Francis delivers a stoic yet tender portrayal of a husband confronting his own inadequacies, reminiscent of Walter McGrail’s performance in Der Geheimsekretär. Autumn Sims, while less seasoned, brings a magnetic presence to Kelcey, his flirtations laced with an undercurrent of desperation that hints at deeper insecurities.
The director, whose identity remains enigmatic, employs a visual palette that juxtaposes the stark black of the ocean night with splashes of dark orange (#C2410C) during moments of emotional intensity—particularly during the shipwreck and the volcanic eruption. These bursts of color punctuate the gloom, acting as visual exclamation points that draw the viewer’s attention to pivotal beats. The use of sea blue (#0E7490) for water scenes provides a calming counterbalance, reinforcing the thematic dichotomy of serenity versus chaos.
The film’s pacing oscillates deliberately: languid, contemplative sequences of the cruise give way to frantic, rapid cuts during the wreck and island survival. This rhythm mirrors the characters’ psychological states—calm before the storm, then frantic urgency. The editing, while occasionally abrupt, never feels disjointed; it serves the story’s emotional architecture. The final rescue sequence is edited with a measured tempo, allowing each character’s relief to breathe.
When placed alongside contemporaneous works such as The First Degree or A Light Woman, "Is Divorce a Failure?" stands out for its synthesis of romance, adventure, and existential inquiry. While many silent dramas of the 1920s leaned heavily on overt sentimentality, this film opts for a more nuanced exploration of marital fidelity, using the island setting as a metaphorical crucible. Its thematic concerns echo the moral dilemmas presented in The Avenging Conscience: or ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’, yet it does so with a lighter, more adventurous tone.
Although a silent film, the accompanying score—performed live during original screenings—leverages a blend of minor keys and occasional triumphant brass motifs. The music swells during David’s underwater rescue, underscoring his heroism, and recedes during the volcanic eruption, allowing the natural sounds of rumbling to dominate. This dynamic interplay between diegetic and non‑diegetic sound heightens the emotional resonance, a technique later emulated by directors of the early talkie era.
Beyond its period charm, "Is Divorce a Failure?" offers a timeless meditation on the fragility of relationships when confronted with external crises. Its portrayal of a woman torn between duty and desire prefigures modern narratives about marital strain in the face of temptation. The film’s resolution—affirming love through adversity—continues to resonate with contemporary audiences, making it a valuable study for scholars of gender dynamics and early cinematic storytelling.
The film’s craftsmanship—its judicious use of color accents, its layered performances, and its deft intertwining of romance with survival drama—cements its status as a hidden gem of the silent era. While it may lack the name recognition of a D.W. Griffith masterpiece, its artistic ambition and emotional depth merit renewed appreciation. For cinephiles seeking a work that balances melodramatic flair with thoughtful introspection, "Is Divorce a Failure?" provides an immersive experience that lingers long after the final frame fades.
IMDb 6.5
1915
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