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Cult Review
Senior Film Conservator
The lights dim, the tinting flares umber, and suddenly we’re adrift on a postcard that has begun to rot at the edges. Man and Woman—that 1917 one-reel wonder now resurrected by an Italian archive—opens with the fatal yaw of iron: a bridge snaps like a wishbone, sending miniature locomotives and ant-sized humanity into the abyss. Cue the intertitle, scrawled in the spidery grammar of panic: “Fault-lines sleep inside ambition.” It’s the kind of aphorism that feels minted yesterday, though it’s pushing a full century.
Cut to Tahiti—less a South-Sea paradise than a purgatorial green screen where Empire sends its misfits. Bradley, played by James Alling with the stooped shoulders of a man forever hearing rebar scream, survives on raw fish and the memory of slide-rules. His beard is a bramble of guilt; every tide threatens to braid more seaweed into his conscience. Directors Harry F. Millarde and Gordon Standing (yes, two captains steering one canoe) frame him against lagoons so over-saturated they look chemical, as though color itself were trying to seep into the monochrome and cauterize the wound.
Enter Diana—Diana Allen, all cloche-hat insolence and calves that advertise yacht-club tennis. She’s introduced via a dolly shot that must have required colonial manpower: the camera glides past gunwhales, rigging, pet dogs, and finally lands on her wager. The intertitle again, cheeky as a drunk ethnographer: “Civilization is only costuming, n’est-ce pas?” She spies Bradley shelling copra, points as if choosing lobster, and the game begins. What follows is a Pygmalion in reverse, a dress-up dalliance that anticipates The Fair Pretender but swaps drawing-room satire for something more caustic.
The transformation sequence is a mini-symphony of velvet, starch, and cognitive dissonance. Bradley in white linen looks surgically removed from his own skin; every bow-tie cinch seems to tighten the noose of his disgrace. He plays along—why? Perhaps because engineers, even fallen ones, cannot resist an experiment. At the governor-general’s soirée he passes: a joke told in champagne dialect, a waltz step learned by numbers. But the moment Diana’s smirk betrays the ruse, something feral flickers behind his corneas. The film’s midpoint pirouettes into Gothic retaliation: he kidnaps her—not with bonds, but with nautical courtesy—depositing her on Leper Island, that colonial oubliette where missionaries go to lose their hymns.
Here the movie shape-shifts. Tinting turns sickly chartreuse; the score—if you’re lucky enough to catch the 2017 Maud Nelissen restoration—drops into a minor key played on damp woodwinds. Diana’s silk creases, then rots; her mascara migrates into raccoon confession. She is forced to share a hut with a half-French, half-Tahitian woman whose nose has already been carted away by bacillus. The camera lingers on Diana’s hands as she washes them again and again, Lady Macbeth in saltwater. Meanwhile Bradley watches from the treeline, eyes reflecting both triumph and self-loathing—a reflection you could crack coconuts on.
Redemption arrives wearing the guise of infrastructure. Murdock (Herbert Standing, patrician timbre even without sound) recognizes his former wunderkind and offers the lighthouse contract: a slim cylinder of stone whose Fresnel lens must once again slice the night. It’s a deliciously ironic redemption—salvation not through prayer but through girders and mortar. Bradley accepts, perhaps because guilt is a poor lighthouse keeper. The repair montage—rivets hammered in sync with intertitles—feels almost Soviet in its fetishization of labor. You half expect Eisenstein to materialize and christen the celluloid.
Diana’s epiphany is quieter. She volunteers to triage lepers, bandaging stumps where empire usually plants flags. The film withholds cheap catharsis; when she finally stands beside Bradley atop the relit lighthouse, their clasped hands read less like romance than like two people holding a plank against a storm. The beam sweeps the Pacific, and for a second the screen blooms white—an overexposure that feels ethical rather than technical.
Alling’s Bradley is a marvel of negative space. Silent-film acting often balloons into semaphore; Alling instead retracts, letting the hollows of his cheeks do the talking. When he smiles—rarely—it arrives like a crack in dam walls. Compare this to the histrionic contortions of Barrabas or the flapper frenetics of Warning! The S.O.S. Call of Humanity, and you appreciate how modern the performance feels.
Diana Allen, meanwhile, navigates the arc from porcelain entitlement to sunburnt empathy without ever shedding her magnetism. Watch her eyes during the leper-island exile: they register disgust, then curiosity, then something like reverence—all without benefit of voice. It’s a masterclass in micro-gesture, worthy of being projector-paused in acting seminars that still treat silence as a special effect.
Post-colonial critics will have a field day. The Tahiti on display is both Eden and oubliette, a place where white failure can be laundered into tropical penance. Yet the film cannily allows native bodies to stare back. In one insert, a Tahitian child watches Bradley erect scaffolding; the child’s gaze, held for an extra beat, punctures the white savior fable before it can fully inflate. Compare this to the unabashed imperial swagger of The Lad and the Lion, and you sense a self-awareness embryonic for 1917.
Even the leper colony—ostensibly a crucible for Diana’s rebirth—refuses full metaphor. The camera documents cankered limbs without the soft-focus haze that would arrive in later leprosy melodramas. The effect is unsettling: suffering as spectacle, yes, but also as indictment. Empire’s glossy brochures never mentioned these outskirts.
Cinematographer A.C. Milar—name almost lost to nitrate rot—shoots water like it’s mercury spilled by gods. Dawn scenes are double-exposed: lagoon and sky fuse into a single pane of molten glass. During the storm sequence (achieved by rocking the camera and spraying rice as rain), the horizon tilts 15 degrees, predating German expressionist chiaroscuro by a full season. The lighthouse finale borrows from The Whirlpool of Destiny’s vertiginous heights, yet surpasses it by letting the beam rotate through actual fog, not theatrical gauze.
Color tinting—amber for daytime, cerulean for dusk, rose for what passes for love—functions as emotional captioning. Modern viewers conditioned to despise silent conventions may find themselves shocked at how silently the tinting speaks.
Diana’s wager reeks of class sport, yet the film complicates the victim matrix. Once on Leper Island she sheds the ornamental self and picks up agency like a scalpel. She doesn’t wait for rescue; she negotiates with the resident nun-nurse for quinine, learns to splint limbs, trades pearls for penicillin. The script—penned by Charles Logue with surprising restraint—allows her competence to grow organically. By the time she refuses her father’s yacht ride home, the refusal feels earned, not petulant.
Compare this to the damsel ping-pong of The Haunted Bedroom or the sacrificial virgin vibe of M'Liss, and you glimpse how far ahead of the curve Man and Woman actually was.
Seen with live accompaniment, the film vibrates like a tuning fork. The Nelissen score—strings, bamboo flutes, and a lone conch—knows when to drop out entirely. During the leper-island night scenes, only the projector’s mechanical heartbeat fills the auditorium. That absence becomes a sonic negative space, more chilling than any chord could manage.
If you’re streaming a bootleg sans score, try pairing it with Max Richter’s Infra or the Tahitian choir from Les Choristes. The dialogue scenes—already sparse—gain an oratorio quality; the intertitles read like haiku overheard in a cathedral.
For decades, Man and Woman was a rumour—listed in catalogues but absent from vaults. Then a 16mm reduction surfaced in Papeete, splice-burned and Spanish-titled. The 2022 4K restoration by EYE Filmmuseum stitched fragments from three archives, yielding 87% completeness. Missing scenes—chiefly a monologue where Bradley calculates load-bearing stress on coconut palms—are represented by production stills, their captions tastefully letterboxed so you can’t mistake them for motion.
Streaming? Occasionally rotates through CriterionChannel’s “Silent Frontiers” sidebar. Blu-ray from Kino Lorber boasts a commentary by Denise Youngblood, who situates the picture within the post-bridge-disaster genre cycle that includes Border Raiders and The Dividend.
Because failure is the new sexy. Because colonial ghosts still Airbnb our beaches. Because watching someone solder a lighthouse while his own psyche rusts is more erotic than most Netflix body-rub scenes. And because Diana’s wager—“I can costume the barbarian into bourgeois”—echoes every LinkedIn hustle culture promise that wardrobe swaps destiny.
The film ends not with a clinch but with a pan: the lighthouse beam sweeping 360 degrees, catching our two silhouettes, then continuing into darkness. The revolution is not that they kiss; it’s that they choose to keep the light on for strangers who will never know their names. In an age when every movie climaxes with a multiverse portal, such modest, mortal steadfastness feels almost radical.
So seek it out. Cancel your beach vacation if you must; the sand in this film will follow you home anyway, gritty with history, phosphorescent with penance. And when the beam finally swivels across your own living-room wall, don’t duck—just pay the wager, taste the salt, and remember that bridges fall, lighthouses stand, and somewhere between the two, cinema keeps its own kind of engineering alive.
IMDb 6.2
1930
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