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3.5/10
Archivist John
Senior Editor
A definitive 3.5/10 rating for a film that redefined the boundaries of cult cinema. Les chacals remains a cornerstone of transgressive art.
Stepping back into the flickering glow of early 20th-century cinema, one often encounters films that, despite their age, resonate with an astonishing vitality. André Hugon's Les chacals, a silent-era gem, stands as a testament to this enduring power. Released in 1917, a tumultuous year for the world, this picture offered audiences a thrilling escape into an exotic realm of high adventure, intricate betrayals, and the magnetic allure of its star, Musidora. It's a film that, even a century later, invites a deep dive into its narrative structure, its performances, and its place within the burgeoning art form of moving pictures.
At its core, Les chacals is a meticulously crafted tale of human ambition colliding with the unforgiving vastness of the desert. The plot, conceived by the collaborative genius of André Hugon, Albert Dieudonné, Arnold Day, and Armand du Plessy, centers on Professor Dubois, an archaeologist whose discovery of a fabled map sets the stage for a perilous expedition. This isn't merely a treasure hunt; it's a journey into the heart of ancient mystery, promising not just material wealth but a powerful, perhaps supernatural, artifact. His protector, Captain Armand Valois, portrayed with admirable stoicism by Louis Paglieri, embodies the classic hero archetype – brave, honorable, and ever-vigilant. However, the true narrative catalyst, and indeed the film's most captivating element, emerges with the introduction of Zoraïde, brought to life by the incomparable Musidora. Her character is a masterclass in ambiguity, a local guide whose profound desert lore and enigmatic beauty both aid and imperil the expedition.
The film cleverly establishes a sense of foreboding early on. The very title, "Les chacals" (The Jackals), immediately conjures images of opportunistic scavengers, lurking in the periphery, waiting for their moment to strike. This metaphorical menace quickly materializes into a tangible threat. As Dubois, Valois, and their dwindling retinue venture deeper into the arid expanse, a shadowy cabal begins its insidious work. Sabotage, 'accidents,' and thefts plague the journey, each incident ratcheting up the tension and deepening the mystery of who among them, or around them, can be trusted. René Carrère's portrayal of Sheikh Ben Ali, a seemingly benevolent tribal leader, adds another layer of intrigue, hinting at a network of deceit far more extensive than initially perceived. The writers masterfully weave a complex web of suspicion, ensuring that the audience, much like Valois, remains perpetually on edge, questioning every glance and every gesture.
The narrative arc of Les chacals is a classic adventure structure, yet it's elevated by its psychological undertones. The relationship between Valois and Zoraïde, in particular, is a fascinating study. There's an undeniable spark, a mutual attraction, yet it's constantly undercut by Valois's growing suspicion of her true motives. Is she merely a guide, or is she a key player in the machinations of the jackals? Musidora’s ability to convey this duality through subtle expressions and body language, without uttering a single word, is nothing short of brilliant. This emotional tightrope walk adds a sophisticated layer to what could otherwise have been a straightforward action narrative. The climactic confrontation within the tomb itself is a masterclass in silent film suspense, a frantic struggle where allegiances are finally revealed, and the true cost of avarice becomes terrifyingly clear. The resolution, rather than offering a simplistic happy ending, leaves the audience with a profound sense of the enduring power of ancient secrets and the perpetual struggle against human greed.
It is impossible to discuss Les chacals without dedicating significant attention to Musidora. Her portrayal of Zoraïde is nothing short of iconic, cementing her status as one of silent cinema's most compelling figures. Known for her captivating roles as vamps and mysterious women, Musidora brings an unparalleled intensity and allure to Zoraïde. She doesn't just act; she inhabits the character, using her expressive eyes, dramatic gestures, and striking presence to communicate volumes without the need for intertitles. Her performance transcends mere villainy or heroism; Zoraïde is a complex entity, driven by motivations that are only gradually revealed, making her a truly memorable figure in early cinematic history. One might draw parallels to the enigmatic female leads in films like Hendes fortid (Her Past), where the central female character's history and true nature drive much of the plot's intrigue, but Musidora's Zoraïde possesses a unique, almost primal magnetism.
The supporting cast, including Marc Gérard as Professor Dubois and André Nox and M. Byon as members of the nefarious 'jackals,' provides solid foundations for Musidora's towering performance. Louis Paglieri, as Captain Valois, offers a strong, grounded counterpoint to Zoraïde's mercurial nature. His steadfast heroism provides an anchor against the swirling currents of deception. Maggy Delval, as the loyal Leila, represents the moral compass, a character who, despite the surrounding treachery, remains true, offering a glimmer of hope in the arid landscape of betrayal. The ensemble works cohesively, each actor contributing to the film's immersive atmosphere, proving that even in the nascent years of cinema, the power of collective performance was well understood.
André Hugon's directorial vision for Les chacals is commendable, particularly in his ability to harness the vast, desolate beauty of the desert as a character in itself. The cinematography, though limited by the technology of the era, effectively conveys the oppressive heat, the endless horizons, and the isolating nature of the environment. These sweeping vistas are not merely backdrops; they amplify the characters' vulnerability and the immense scale of their undertaking. Hugon understands the power of the wide shot, allowing the audience to feel the insignificance of human endeavors against the backdrop of nature's grandeur. This use of expansive landscapes to mirror internal struggles can be seen in other epic films of the era, though perhaps not always with the same focus on psychological tension as in Hugon's work.
The pacing of Les chacals is another strong point. Hugon allows moments of quiet contemplation, letting the tension build organically, before unleashing bursts of action. The fight sequences, while perhaps less polished than modern choreography, possess a raw energy that is entirely fitting for the period and the desperate stakes involved. The use of close-ups, particularly on Musidora's face, is highly effective, drawing the audience into her internal world and allowing her to convey a spectrum of emotions without dialogue. This judicious application of cinematic language demonstrates Hugon's keen understanding of how to maximize the impact of the silent medium. It's a directorial approach that prioritizes character expression and environmental immersion, creating a deeply engaging experience.
To truly appreciate Les chacals, one must consider its historical context. Released during World War I, films like this offered a much-needed escape from the grim realities of the front. They transported audiences to exotic locales, presented clear-cut heroes and villains (though Musidora's Zoraïde complicates this), and ultimately affirmed a sense of order, even if achieved through arduous struggle. The fascination with ancient Egypt and North African adventures was prevalent in popular culture, fueled by archaeological discoveries and colonial narratives. Les chacals taps into this cultural zeitgeist, delivering a story that was both timely and timeless in its themes of exploration, greed, and moral ambiguity.
Comparing Les chacals to other films of its era provides valuable perspective. While not on the grand, sprawling scale of D.W. Griffith's Intolerance (1916), which tackled vast historical narratives, Les chacals excels in its focused intensity. It shares a thematic kinship with films like The Edge of the Law, which also explored themes of justice and lawlessness in challenging environments, albeit with a different geographic focus. The sense of creeping dread and hidden dangers might also evoke comparisons to thrillers like The Submarine Eye, which similarly played on suspense and the unknown, albeit in a technological context rather than an ancient one. The film's emphasis on a strong, complex female character, albeit one with questionable motives, places it in a lineage with other early films that challenged conventional gender roles, such as The Mummy and the Humming Bird, where female agency, even if subtly expressed, was a crucial plot driver.
The enduring appeal of Les chacals lies in its ability to transcend its technical limitations and deliver a compelling human drama. It reminds us that storytelling, at its heart, relies on universal themes: the allure of the unknown, the corrupting influence of greed, and the complex dance between trust and suspicion. The film's legacy is not just as a historical artifact but as a vibrant piece of early cinematic art that continues to captivate. It's a testament to the vision of its writers and director, and especially to the magnetic power of Musidora, whose presence alone elevates the film from a mere adventure to a haunting exploration of human nature. The film, like the desert itself, holds hidden depths, rewarding those who take the time to explore its contours and reflect on its powerful, timeless message. It's a journey well worth taking, a silent echo from a bygone era that still speaks volumes about the human condition, resonating with a raw, visceral intensity that modern blockbusters often struggle to replicate. In a world saturated with sound and fury, the quiet power of Les chacals remains a potent reminder of cinema's foundational magic.
IMDb 5.5
1921
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