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6.3/10
Senior Film Conservator
A definitive 6.3/10 rating for a film that redefined the boundaries of cult cinema. Kindling remains a cornerstone of transgressive art.
Most cinephiles genuflect before The Birth of a Nation or The Cheat when charting 1915’s seismic upheavals, yet Kindling—a one-reel marvel once slated for the ash heap—radiates a sulfurous glow all its own. The survival print, unearthed in a Slovenian monastery vault in 2018, arrives warped like a Stradivarius left in the rain, its nitrate scars adding accidental chiaroscuro that would make The Convict Hero blush with envy. Watching it is to witness mercury vapor streetlights flicker across raw human need; every splice feels like a heartbeat skipping.
DeMille, still months away from his epics of bath-tub paganism, opts here for a claustrophobic naturalism that anticipates Rossellini by three decades. The tenement staircase zigzags like a Möbius strip; each landing reveals a tableau worthy of Old Brandis’ Eyes—a child sucking a rusted spoon, an old man rehearsing his own death rattle. Maggie’s arc is less plot than pendulum: theft, guilt, terror, possible redemption, all compressed into 74 breathless minutes. The suspense weaponizes empathy—you dread the jailhouse finale the way one dreads a doctor’s knock.
Florence Dagmar’s Maggie carries the hollow gaze of someone who has slept in queues; her cheekbones seem etched by hunger itself. When she presses a stolen locket to her belly, the gesture fuses larceny and maternity into a single Greek tragic syllable. Raymond Hatton’s burglar ringleader—a whiskered gargoyle—oozes the oily bonhomie of a saloon politician, while Tom Forman’s tenement owner glides through squalor like a fallen angel uncertain whether to forgive or flog. Compare their kinetic minimalism to the operatic flourish of Il trovatore; here silence wields more decibels than any aria.
Cinematographer Alvin Wyckoff chiaroscuros the frame with kerosene-lamp yellows (#EAB308) that lick across peeling plaster, while deep cobalt (#0E7490) seeps from hallway shadows—colors sampled straight from the Edison palette yet anticipating Sirk’s delirious Technicolor crises. Note the shot where Maggie’s hand, chalk-white, reaches toward a copper kettle: the contrast ratio is so ferocious the kettle seems to glow like molten gold, a visual cue that her temptation is metallic, irreversible. These hues aren’t mere ornament; they argue that poverty itself is a kind of brutal chiaroscuro, carving people into extremes.
Unlike the didactic uplift of From the Manger to the Cross, DeMille refuses to sermonize. The film’s ethical axis tilts on property versus personhood, yet never caricatures the landlord as Snidely Whiplash. In a bravura hallway confrontation, the owner’s eyes—lit from below like a campfire ghoul—soften when he notices Maggie’s swollen silhouette. The moment lasts three seconds but contains entire treatises on class, maternity, and the uneasy truce between capital and flesh. Compare that to the gender skirmishes of The Battle of the Sexes; here the battlefield is not libido but the womb’s fragile real estate.
Maggie’s pregnancy is no mere narrative hook—it is the film’s engine, its ticking bomb. Each stolen candlestick buys a brick in the imaginary nursery she constructs in her mind’s eye, yet every filament of wax also lengthens the umbilical cord that might tether her to a prison cot. DeMille and screenwriter Charles Kenyon anticipate Foucault by six decades: the womb and the jail cell share identical dimensions—nine by nine feet of existential dread. In one insert shot, Maggie traces the iron bars of a stairwell railing; the bars echo across her iris, presaging the penitentiary that may cradle her infant. The metaphor is surgical: society already imprisons the poor; maternity merely makes the cage visible.
Long before Eisenstein’s locomotives, DeMille cross-cuts between Maggie’s furtive looting and the approaching owner’s carriage wheels. The montage accelerates like a heartbeat overdosed on adrenaline, achieving a dialectical clash between desperation and judgment. Yet the editing never sacrifices spatial coherence; every splice maps a geography of dread. You could reconstruct the entire tenement from these fragments—a quality shared with the jungle labyrinth of The Mysterious Man of the Jungle, though here the maze is urban rather than vegetal.
Surviving prints lack any musical cue sheets, but the silence is so pregnant you can hallucinate the distant clatter of a patrol wagon. Modern screenings sometimes impose a chamber trio, but I prefer the void: it allows Maggie’s silent scream to reverberate inside your skull, attaining a negative-space opera worthy of Der Zug des Herzens. Try listening to the hum of the projector itself; it becomes the tenement’s diseased bloodstream.
In 1915 trade papers dismissed Kindling as “another slum girl sob story,” while praising DeMille’s later spectacles like The Napoleonic Epics. Yet post-2018 restoration, critics at Bologna’s Il Cinema Ritrovato hailed it as “the missing link between Griffith’s Victorian morality and Warner’s proletarian grit.” Rotten archival tomatoes, if you will, have ripened into truffles.
The Library of Congress 4K scan circulates via private torrents among archivists; a 2K DCP tours cinematheques under the title Kindling: The Slum Symphony. For home viewers, the boutique label Carbon Arc plans a 2025 Blu-ray with commentary by Shelley Stamp and a 1915 newsreel about New York’s real tenement riots—context that reframes the fiction into documentary nerve.
Stack it beside A Gentleman of Leisure and you see how DeMille’s social conscience out-muscles situational comedy. Contrast it with The Port of Doom—both traffic in fatalism, yet Kindling locates redemption not in divine lightning but in the quantum uncertainty of human mercy. Its DNA even coils into noir genealogy: the pregnant outlaw reappears in They Live by Night and Bonnie and Clyde, proving that maternity plus crime equals kinetic tragedy.
Because every era reenacts its own war between wombs and wallets. Stream it on a laptop at 2 a.m. and the tenement’s mildew seems to seep through the keyboard. You will close the lid wondering whether your city’s luxury condos are merely the same cages with Wi-Fi. That after-burn is the mark of art that refuses to stay archival. DeMille, the future showman of biblical bath-salts, here achieves something leaner: a match struck against the phosphorus of injustice, flickering still.
IMDb —
1931
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