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Cult Review
Senior Film Conservator
In the pantheon of silent-era domestic dramas, few films possess the raw, jagged edges of 1919’s The Call of the Soul. Directed with a keen eye for psychological claustrophobia, this production serves as a blistering indictment of the double standards that permeated the post-Victorian landscape. While many contemporary films of the era, such as Till I Come Back to You, focused on the external heroics of the Great War, this Julia Burnham-penned script turns the camera inward, examining the wreckage left in the wake of masculine entitlement and the stoic resilience required of women navigating a world that demanded their silence.
The film opens not with grandiosity, but with a deceptive simplicity. Barbara Deming (portrayed with soul-crushing intensity by Gladys Brockwell) is a woman of agency—a nurse. Her profession is one of healing, yet she finds herself unable to suture the wounds inflicted by her superior, Dr. Clayton. The island sequence is filmed with a haunting sense of isolation. The vastness of the water serves as a metaphor for Barbara’s lack of escape. Unlike the more adventurous spirit found in Through Turbulent Waters, the 'turbulence' here is purely existential. Charles Clary’s portrayal of Clayton is a masterclass in the banality of evil; he does not twirl a mustache but operates with a chilling, bureaucratic coldness that makes his victimization of Barbara all the more visceral.
What follows is a narrative trajectory that mirrors the social anxieties of the time. The birth of Barbara’s daughter is treated with the gravity of a clandestine operation. The cinematography shifts here, utilizing heavy shadows and tight framing to emphasize Barbara’s entrapment. This isn't just a story about a secret child; it’s about the erasure of a woman’s identity to satisfy the dictates of respectability. Comparing this to The Waif, we see a more sophisticated handling of the 'unwed mother' trope, moving away from pure sentimentality toward a more grounded, albeit melodramatic, realism.
The middle act of the film introduces a fascinating tonal shift: the Arctic expedition. This is where the writing of Denison Clift shines, juxtaposing the literal freezing temperatures of the north with the emotional frost developing between the characters. Neil McClintock (William Scott) represents the idealized masculine figure—noble, adventurous, yet fundamentally oblivious to the trauma his wife carries. The expedition acts as a crucible, a place where men are tested by nature, while Barbara is tested by the far more treacherous landscape of domestic deception.
The tension reaches a fever pitch when Clayton enters the McClintock home. The use of space in these scenes is remarkable. Clayton is often positioned in the background, a looming shadow over the domestic bliss Neil believes he has secured. When Clayton reveals the truth, the film avoids the histrionics common in lesser works like Judy Forgot. Instead, it leans into the gravity of the situation. The 'Call of the Soul' is not a whisper; it is a scream for recognition and forgiveness.
Gladys Brockwell was often called the 'Woman of a Thousand Expressions,' and in this film, she utilizes every single one. Her transition from the youthful, optimistic nurse to the haunted, guarded wife is achieved with subtle shifts in posture and eye movement. There is a specific scene where she watches her daughter from a distance, her face a battlefield of maternal longing and social terror, that rivals the emotional depth found in The Soul of Buddha. Brockwell carries the film’s moral weight, ensuring that even when the plot veers into the improbable, the emotional core remains tethered to reality.
The supporting cast, particularly Lydia Yeamans Titus as the fellow nurse, provides the necessary warmth to counter the film’s darker impulses. Their relationship highlights a recurring theme in the work of Burnham and Clift: the necessity of female solidarity in a world governed by men who are either predatory like Clayton or blindly idealistic like McClintock. This dynamic is a sharp contrast to the more individualistic struggles seen in The Silent Master.
Visually, the film is a testament to the evolving sophistication of 1919 cinema. The lighting transitions between the high-contrast sunlight of the island and the soft, diffused lamp-light of the McClintock estate create a visual language of safety versus exposure. The editing, while following the standard linear progression of the era, employs effective cross-cutting during the climax. As the child falls ill, the urgency of the medical crisis is intercut with the psychological collapse of the marriage, creating a dual-layered suspense that is genuinely gripping.
The resolution—where Clayton is forced to save the very life he indirectly sought to ruin—is a complex piece of screenwriting. It doesn’t necessarily absolve him, but it provides a path for Barbara’s reintegration into her own life. It lacks the simplistic moralizing of The Conscience of John David or the overt propagandist tone of Crashing Through to Berlin. Instead, it offers a bittersweet resolution where the family is reunited, but the scars of the past remain visible beneath the surface.
Revisiting The Call of the Soul today reveals a film that was ahead of its time in its treatment of trauma. While modern audiences might find the 'secret child' trope a bit dated, the execution here is anything but. It shares a certain thematic DNA with Three Weeks in its exploration of forbidden or scandalous love, yet it feels more grounded in the harsh realities of class and gender. The film’s willingness to place its protagonist in such a compromised position—and then allow her to reclaim her dignity without the typical 'death as atonement' ending—is remarkably progressive.
In the broader context of 1910s cinema, including works like Young America or A Nine O'Clock Town, this film stands out for its somber tone and psychological depth. It doesn't seek to entertain with spectacle but to provoke with empathy. The Arctic voyage, often seen as a mere plot device for adventure, is utilized here as a grand stage for the revelation of truth, a stark white canvas upon which the black ink of Clayton’s sins is finally spilled.
Ultimately, The Call of the Soul is a film about the endurance of the human spirit under the weight of systemic oppression. It captures a moment in cinematic history where melodrama was beginning to experiment with more complex character studies. The interplay between Barbara, Clayton, and Neil forms a triad of conflicting interests that is resolved not through violence, but through the universal vulnerability of a sick child. It is a poignant reminder that while the 'soul' may be called to suffer, its ultimate vocation is to survive.
For those interested in the evolution of silent drama, this film is essential viewing. It lacks the frantic energy of The Kaiser's Shadow or the courtroom theatrics of Acquitted, opting instead for a slow-burn intensity that lingers long after the final intertitle fades. It is a testament to the power of the Fox Film Corporation during its golden era and a shining example of why Gladys Brockwell remains one of the most underrated stars of the silent screen. Whether you are analyzing it for its feminist undertones or its technical mastery, The Call of the Soul remains a resonant, albeit heartbreaking, piece of art.
IMDb 7.3
1918
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