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Cult Review
Senior Film Conservator
There is a peculiar, almost ghostly quality to the way we consume early 20th-century travelogues. When I sat down to watch Strange Sights in the Pacific Islands, I wasn't just watching a film; I was peering through a tear in the fabric of time. Released in 1918, a year dominated by the harrowing echoes of the Great War, this film offered an escape—not into fiction, but into a reality so far removed from the trenches of Europe that it might as well have been another dimension. It lacks the melodramatic artifice found in The Scarlet Road, opting instead for a raw, flickering honesty that only hand-cranked cameras can provide.
The film opens with a shot of the horizon that feels endless. The grain of the film stock creates a shimmering haze, making the Pacific waters look like molten silver. It’s a visual texture that modern digital restoration can barely replicate without losing the soul of the original capture. Unlike the gritty, grounded realism of The Lady of the Dugout, which sought to demystify the American West, this Pacific odyssey leans into the 'strange,' leaning heavily on the curiosity of a Western audience hungry for the exotic. Yet, beneath the surface-level voyeurism, there is a profound respect for the topography and the people inhabiting it.
The nameless cinematographers of this era were true pioneers, lugging heavy equipment through tropical humidity and over jagged volcanic rock. In Strange Sights in the Pacific Islands, we see the fruits of that labor in the way light interacts with the indigenous architecture. There are sequences of communal longhouses where the shadows are deep and rich, reminiscent of the chiaroscuro lighting found in more formal dramas like Maternità. The way the sun filters through palm fronds creates a natural strobe effect that feels rhythmic, almost musical, despite the silence of the medium.
What strikes me most is the lack of a traditional 'hero' narrative. In many films of this period, such as Big Jim Garrity, the focus is squarely on the individual’s struggle against circumstance. Here, the 'hero' is the collective—the village, the crew, the ocean itself. The film captures the communal effort of fishing and navigation with a level of detail that suggests the filmmakers were genuinely captivated by the technical skill of the islanders. It’s a far cry from the domestic squabbles and social posturing of Let's Get a Divorce, providing a refreshing, if imperialistic, look at a different way of being.
We cannot discuss a film like this without acknowledging the elephant in the room: the colonial lens. The 'strange sights' promised by the title are only strange from a Eurocentric perspective. There is an inherent tension in the frame. You see it in the eyes of the subjects—men and women who look back at the camera with a mixture of amusement and wariness. While The Daughter of the People dealt with social hierarchies within a Western context, this film explores the hierarchy of the observer and the observed.
However, there are moments where the human element breaks through the ethnographic veneer. A child laughing at the camera, a fleeting glance between elders—these are the moments that bridge the century-long gap. It reminds me of the spiritual yearning in Vera, the Medium, where the camera tries to capture something intangible. In this case, it’s not spirits, but the essence of a culture that the filmmakers likely believed was destined to fade. The tragic irony, of course, is that the film itself became the fading object, now a fragile relic of a bygone era.
When we look at the broader landscape of 1918 cinema, Strange Sights in the Pacific Islands occupies a unique niche. It lacks the comedic timing of A Bunch of Keys or the polished satire of Ruggles of Red Gap. Instead, it shares a certain somber beauty with Daybreak. Both films utilize the environment as a primary character. In Daybreak, the landscape is a psychological mirror; in Strange Sights, it is an overwhelming physical presence that dictates the pace of the edit.
The pacing of the film is leisurely, almost meditative. It doesn't rush to a climax like The Beckoning Trail. Instead, it lingers on the movement of the tides and the preparation of food. This 'slow cinema' approach, long before the term was coined, allows the viewer to absorb the atmosphere. It’s a similar feeling to watching the pastoral beauty of The Girl from the Marsh Croft, where the setting is inextricably linked to the narrative's soul. In the Pacific Islands, the narrative is survival and tradition, and the camera respects that by not cutting away too soon.
Technically, the film is a marvel of endurance. The preservation of the negative is surprisingly good, though the inevitable nitrate decay adds a layer of 'visual noise' that, paradoxically, enhances the experience. It feels like watching a memory. The lack of artificial lighting means the filmmakers had to rely entirely on the harsh tropical sun, leading to high-contrast images that would make a modern cinematographer weep with envy. The deep blacks of the shadows and the blown-out whites of the sandy beaches create a graphic quality that is almost abstract at times.
Compare this to the controlled studio environments of Her Sister's Rival or The Woman. In those films, every shadow is placed with intent. In Strange Sights, the shadows are wild and unpredictable. There is a sequence involving a ritual dance at dusk where the silhouettes of the dancers against the darkening sky create a primal, visceral energy that no stage-managed production could ever hope to capture. It’s raw, it’s unpolished, and it’s utterly captivating.
In the final reel, the film moves away from the villages and back toward the sea. There’s a sense of melancholy here—a realization that the camera is a temporary visitor. This isn’t the flowery sentimentality of Hearts and Flowers; it’s a more profound, existential sadness. The ocean remains, but the specific moment in time—the 1918 Pacific—is gone forever, captured only in these silver halide crystals.
For the modern viewer, Strange Sights in the Pacific Islands serves as a crucial historical document, but it’s also a work of accidental art. It challenges our perceptions of what 'discovery' means and forces us to confront the history of the cinematic lens as a tool of both preservation and intrusion. It’s a film that demands to be seen not just for what it shows, but for what it represents: the beginning of a global visual language that would eventually shrink the world, for better or worse.
As the final frame flickers out, leaving us in the dark, the impact of those 'strange sights' lingers. We are left with the realization that the strangeness was never in the islands themselves, but in our own distance from them. This film, in all its grainy, silent glory, remains a bridge across that distance—a testament to the enduring power of the moving image to capture the fleeting beauty of our world.
IMDb —
1920
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