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Cult Review
Senior Film Conservator
Imagine, if you will, a postcard stained by saffron dusk and pinned to the corner of cinema history where most passers-by never glance. On that postcard: a creature that looks like a doodle Dalí might have sketched on a café napkin—long tail, polka-dot fur, eyes polished from obsidian. The Genet is that postcard, flickering, perfumed with thyme and barn dust, and once you lean close enough it exhales a warm breath of early color film stock that smells faintly of lanolin and mouse musk.
There are no intertitles to hold your hand, no heroic violinists riding to the rescue; instead, the movie trusts the chromatic grammar of its own pigments. A shot of terracotta tiles receives a wash of molten orange, the same hue that later spills across the genet’s flanks when lamplight grazes its coat. The editorial logic is musical rather than narrative: each tint change behaves like a chord modulation, cueing us to read emotion rather than plot. Consequently, we experience domestication not as a linear sequence but as a slow saturation, the way tea stains water.
Scholars routinely celebrate From the Manger to the Cross for its “holy” blues and ochres, yet The Genet achieves something more primal: it weaponizes color as behaviorist reinforcement. When the animal first ventures from a crumbling stone wall, the frame is steeped in a glacial sea-blue that makes its fur appear almost ultraviolet—an alien in its own habitat. Each successful rodent kill is followed by a flash of yellow, a dopamine spike rendered celluloid. By the time the genet curls asleep beside the farmer’s daughter, the spectrum has mellowed into a honeyed sepia, suggesting that both creature and audience have been conditioned by associative hues.
This Pavlovian palette predates Technicolor’s triumph by a baker’s dozen years, proving that even without three-strip rainbows, silent-era artisans could weaponize dye for psychological ends. The short becomes a laboratory: the barn a Skinner box, the audience unwitting pigeons pecking at emotional levers.
Unlike later wildlife actualities—say, Paul J. Rainey’s African Hunt—which gloat over conquest and cartridge, The Genet inverts the colonial gaze. Here the human is peripheral, a supporting player in the animal’s bildungsroman. Camera angles crouch at floor height; knees and hems invade the mise-en-scène like misplaced columns in a temple otherwise devoted to whisker and claw. The resulting tension feels almost Ovidian: will the gods (us) swipe down and transform this delicate metamorphosis into a static trophy?
Yet the film refuses both melodrama and massacre. Instead, it lands in a liminal sweet spot reminiscent of The Redemption of White Hawk, where cultural collision yields fragile equilibrium rather than tragedy. The genet’s final pact with the farmer is less domination than détente, a treaty signed in spilled grain and shared warmth.
No edge codes, no trade-press bragging—only a single sprocket hole burn that looks like a solar flare frozen mid-eruption. Yet cinematheque sleuths have placed the reel circa 1920 based on the perforation profile and the telltale ferric ochre of Pathé’s early stencils. The scarcity feeds its mystique: fewer than eight prints surface globally, one of which survives solely because an itinerant showman repurposed it as packing material for a shipment of communion wafers. (Divinity nested inside vermin cinema—Flaherty would grin.)
Compare that to the glut of boxing films from the same epoch—The Corbett-Fitzsimmons Fight, Jeffries-Sharkey Contest—whose prints multiply like rabbits in archival vaults. The Genet’s near-extinction makes each viewing feel like séance rather than screening, a chance to petition the celluloid dead for one more twitch of the tail.
Because the short runs a scant seven minutes, modern curators often sandwich it between text-heavy epics—perhaps Les Misérables or Oliver Twist—to cleanse the palate. When experienced that way, its silence becomes almost stereophonic: you hear the rustle of your own sleeves, the faint ammonia of guano drifting from the rafters of the auditorium. The absence of score invites proprioception; your heartbeat syncs with the genet’s ribcage until the boundary between species feels porous, like wet paper.
Contemporary audiences, marinated in Dolby Atmos, sometimes forget that early film demanded this bodily investment. The Genet restores that muscle memory. You do not merely watch; you scent-track, you ear-muscle, you breathe along.
Zoom out and the fable gains political bite: a diminutive carnivore, historically demonized as a hen-house terrorist, rebranded into civic utility. Sounds suspiciously like the human narrative of “useful” species—wolf becomes dog, lynx becomes mouser, forest becomes lumberyard. Yet the film’s final tableau undercuts utilitarian triumph. The child strokes the sleeping genet, but outside the doorway moonlight reveals a scorpion scuttling past—an irreducible wildness that refuses recruitment. One senses that tomorrow the genet might elect to forsake the barn for thorn scrub, contract nullified by moon-whim.
Thus The Genet whispers a post-human moral: domestication is not destiny but ongoing negotiation, a nightly referendum in which either party may defect. In era of climate anxiety, when every species transaction feels like potential extinction pre-nup, this 1920 miniature feels prophetic.
Recent 2K scanning, bankrolled by a French eco-foundation, exposes previously invisible subtleties: individual guard hairs shimmer like struck matches; flea dirt resembles pepper flecks on parchment. The digital cleanup paradoxically heightens the film’s tactility, reminding us that cinema began as skin—gelatin emulsion on nitrate hide. One practically smells the musky secretion genets use to mark territory, a scent somewhere between burnt sugar and barnyard.
Purists cry sacrilege at the removal of gate-weave, arguing that instability equals authenticity. Yet even scrubbed, the short retains its patina of impermanence, like a fresco flaking in slow motion. Each viewing rubs away a pigment atom, making spectators complicit in its entropy—a fitting metaphor for the tenuous truce it depicts.
Should you mortgage your house to acquire a festival pass where The Genet screens? Probably not—mortgages are for Cleopatra budgets. But if the title appears in a sidebar program, bump it to tier-one priority. Bring children; let them learn that cinematic wonder can arrive without CGI, without dialogue, without even a protagonist larger than a house-cat. Then walk home under streetlamps and notice how urban foxes, those genets of the North, negotiate the liminal glow between wild and welcome.
In a media biosphere choked on bloated franchises, seven minutes of feral quiet feels like oxygen. Inhale before the projector bulb snaps off.
Verdict: 9.2/10 — A pocket-sized miracle that rewrites domestication as two-way seduction.
IMDb —
1917
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