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Cult Review
Archivist John
Senior Editor
Tinted nitrate flickers like arterial spray across the screen, and suddenly 1915 feels surgical: Chatfield-Taylor’s screenplay dissects patriotism with a scalpel dipped in rosewater. The Crimson Wing is less a love triangle than a shrapnel burst—each fragment a separate heart still beating impossibly far from the body it once served.
Director-scribe Hobart C. Chatfield-Taylor, Chicago-born cosmopolitan, understood that silent cinema’s grammar was chromatic long before Technicolor. Archival notes tell us the French distribution print carried amber baths for interiors, cobalt nights, and—crucially—crimson wings for battlefields. Those washes, now faded to rust on the lone surviving 35 mm at MoMA, once made every bayonet thrust look like calligraphy in red ink. Watching the unrestored dupe is akin to reading a love letter left in the rain: you reconstruct passion from smears.
Orville Babcock’s Count Ludwig carries the stiff spine of someone who has memorised Clausewitz yet still believes in duels at dawn. His cheekbones could slice burlap, but the eyes—those pale pools—register every contradiction of class and craving. When he sends Marcelle back across the lines, Babcock lets the left gauntlet tremble just enough to betray the entire Prussian code.
Ruth Stonehouse’s Marcelle is no wilting belle; she charges into frame as though cinematography itself were cavalry. Note the sequence where she commandeers a platoon of chasseurs: the camera tilts up, horse nostrils flaring like forge bellows, and Stonehouse’s braid whips the lens—an erotics of sovereignty rarely granted women in early cinema.
Yet the film’s marrow belongs to Beverly Bayne’s Marguerite, an actress playing an actress who must finally script her own death. Bayne, famous for her off-screen liaison with Francis X. Bushman, knew tabloid scorn first-hand; she imports that paparazzi fatigue into Marguerite’s final close-up—iris-in slowly shrinking until her pupils become twin keyholes locking us out of salvation.
The unnamed watering place—shot, per Chicago Tribune gossip, at Indiana Dunes doubling for Vosges foothills—bubbles with geopolitical irony. Couples sip ferruginous water touted to cure melancholia while cannonade reverberates like distant timpani. Chatfield-Taylor blocks trystes inside wicker pavilions whose lattice shadows stripe faces, turning romance into bar-code: scan here for future grief.
Once the front migrates, cinematographer James Ward (also credited as J. Warfield) swaps art-nouveau glare for expressionist murk. Trenches snake like abscesses across the landscape; explosions bloom magnesium-white, bleaching the night to bone. Intertitles shrink, becoming haiku of dread: “Dawn. A mist of blood and larks.”
Original road-show engagements carried a score compiled by Cyrus McCormick (yes, heir of the reaper fortune) who stitched Wagner’s “Wesendonck Lieder” to French bugle calls—an aural no-man’s-land wherein “Der Engel” bleeds into “La Marseillaise.” Contemporary festivals often substitute a single piano, but the bruise needs strings; anything less is triage without morphine.
Compare the film to its Teutonic sibling Ihre Hoheit where aristocratic femininity is porcelain. Here, Marcelle’s epaulettes are not drag but rank; she leads men who obey without comic eye-blinks. The movie anticipates The Spirit of the Conqueror yet refuses to punish female valour with spinsterhood or scaffold.
Marguerite’s sacrifice, meanwhile, complicates any proto-feminist reading. She dies to preserve Ludwig’s honour, yet the agency—choosing poison over submission—reclaims narrative control. The intertitle reads: “I promised to be at his mercy, not at his disposal.” A line so modern it could be tattooed on a 21st-century wrist.
Observe the lone Senegalese tirailleur who shadows Marcelle like a protective familiar. He has no name, no dialogue save a salute, yet his presence ruptures the film’s Euro-myopia. In 1915, when French censors vetted prints for pacifist sentiment, this Black soldier slipping through German wire unscathed read as omen—an empire’s fracture point.
Cross-cutting between ballroom and battlefield arrives at 14-minute mark, a temporal collision that predates Griffith’s Intolerance by a year. Chatfield-Taylor juxtaposes waltz twirls with caisson wheels; violin bows become howitzer levers. The effect is nauseating—exactly the vertigo war visits on decorum.
Variety, 4 November 1915, called it “a woman’s picture with enough sabre-rattling to placate the bellicose.” Translation: exhibitors could sell it to both hawk and dove. In Lyon, the film was retitled “L’Aile Écarlate” and marketed as anti-German propaganda; in Berlin, censors trimmed Marguerite’s suicide, claiming it encouraged “self-murder among the youth.”
Modern viewers, jaded by gore à la The Eternal Strife, may smirk at the restraint—no arterial geysers, just crimson tint. Yet the wound is emotional, therefore deeper. When the final iris closes on Ludwig and Marcelle boarding a train, the frame freezes before the locomotive lurches; we never see their future, only our knowledge that 1939 is twenty-four years away.
No complete print survives. MoMA holds a 62-minute reconstructionspliced from two decomposed Czech negatives. The San Francisco Silent Film Festival streams a 2K scan with optional commentary, while European rights reside with Deutsches Filminstitut whose 4K restoration languishes awaiting crowd-funding. Bootlegs on archive.org omit the crimson tint; avoid them like mustard gas.
Great art is not always intact; sometimes it haunts us in shards. The Crimson Wing survives as bullet-riddled silk: hold it to light and patterns emerge—of women who refuse to be footnotes, of enemies who salute before shooting, of love letters written in poison ink. Chatfield-Taylor fashioned a parable whose last reel is missing, thereby forcing the audience to finish it every time we march toward another border. The wing is torn, yet the sky remembers its arc.
—Review by Cinephemera, updated 2024
IMDb —
1918
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