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7/10
Archivist John
Senior Editor
A definitive 7/10 rating for a film that redefined the boundaries of cult cinema. The Last of the Mafia remains a cornerstone of transgressive art.
The lantern-slide that precedes The Last of the Mafia advertises itself as a "photoplay of Italian life," a modest billing for a film that actually performs an autopsy on diaspora identity while it is still breathing. Shot on the frayed periphery of 1920, when nickelodeons were mutating into picture palaces, Sidney M. Goldin’s opus feels like a fossilized thunderclap—its intertitles crackling with the same feral electricity that would later course through Scandal and The New Exploits of Elaine, yet steeped in a sooty lyricism all its own.
Consider the chromatic legerdemain: the surviving 16 mm print, tinted like a bruised peach, oscillates between umber interiors and aquamarine exteriors—each hue a clandestine caption. When Guila Ferrati first strides onto the gangway at Ellis Island, the frame floods with sea-blue (#0E7490), as though the Atlantic itself were leaking into the celluloid. Minutes later, a bootblack’s rag slaps shoe-polish onto patent leather and the image gutters into burnt orange—the same dark-orange that will later halo the dynamite blast outside Lattori’s townhouse. Goldin, ever the street-corner chemist, is tinting morality itself.
The narrative arc is a Möbius strip of vengeance: Ferrati’s pursuit of the Mafia is less a straight line than a spiral staircase descending into the communal unconscious of Little Italy. Goldin blocks his actors in tableaux that echo the Sicilian puppet theatre—rigid diagonals, hands flung outward like marionettes—then ruptures the stillness with axial cuts that anticipate Kurosawa by three decades. When the Black Hand society seals its ransom letter with a crimson handprint, the camera performs an oblique push-in, the grain swelling until the emblem fills the entire screen: a solar flare of menace.
Meanwhile, Manhattan is not merely backdrop but accomplice. Elevated trains screech overhead like iron banshees; their steam condenses on the lens, creating a perpetual Rothko-esque veil. In one brazen insert, Goldin superimposes the Brooklyn Bridge over a child’s marble—an image that compresses empire, exile, and innocence into a single translucent bauble. The city’s cacophony is rendered through montage: newsboys’ mouths open in silent howls, fishmongers cleave heads of cod, a Salvation Army cornet hawks redemption—all sliced together with Eisensteinian zest, yet predating Potemkin by five years.
As Lieutenant Cavanaugh, J.J. Clark radiates the compact magnetism of a Caruso pressed into tweed. His shoulders carry the weight of two continents; watch how he removes his derby—always with the left hand, pinky extended—as though doffing to a ghost only he can see. The performance is calibrated in micro-gestures: a blink held half a second too long when he deciphers the Black Hand cipher; a swallow that ripples like a stone across the pond of his throat when the kidnapped child’s shoe is discovered. Silent-era acting is often caricatured as semaphore, but Clark’s physiognomy is a novella of hesitations.
Katherine Lee, playing Lattori’s wife, counterpoints him with a sorrow so mineral it seems quarried from tuff stone. Her close-ups are lit with side-mounted kliegs that carve lunar craters beneath her eyes; when she folds the child’s empty sweater, the fabric becomes a negative space more eloquent than any scream. William Conrad, still a decade away from radio noir, here essays the dual role of chief inspector and uncredited narrator—his intertitles dripping with a hard-boiled lingo that would pollinate pulp fiction for decades: "The night had a throat and it was slit ear to ear."
Tony, the pint-sized Judas with a tin cup, is the film’s ethical fuse. Goldin refuses to paint him pure villain; instead, the boy’s betrayal is contextualized within the predatory economy of the streets. In a heart-stabbing vignette, Tony polishes the shoes of a stockbroker who tips with a mercury dime—too meager to buy bread yet too grand to refuse. The camera tilts down to the boy’s worn-out soles, flapping like hungry mouths. Information thus becomes currency, Ferrati’s whereabouts the only bullion on offer. When the detective’s corpse is later fished from the East River, Tony’s reaction is filmed in a chilling long take: he bites the coin, testing its metallurgical truth, then pockets it with the solemnity of a pensioner. In that gesture, the film indicts not merely a boy, but the mercantile bloodstream of capitalism itself.
The bombing sequence, often excerpted in anthologies of early pyrotechnics, deserves Talmudic scrutiny. Goldin eschews the obvious—there is no cross-cut to a sizzling fuse. Instead, he builds dread through synecdoche: a florist snips the neck of a daisy, the severed head falls into a bucket; cut to a child’s chalk drawing of a house; cut to a horse-shoe striking cobblestones—each slice a phoneme in the syntax of disaster. When the dynamite finally erupts, the film itself appears to convulse: the frame shutters, the perforations flare white, and for eight frames the emulsion bubbles like fried cellulose. It is as if the medium, complicit in the spectacle, is scorched by its own representation.
Compare this to the volcanic climax of Pesn torzhestvuyushchey lyubvi, where the explosion is aestheticized into ballet. Goldin’s blast is more sinister precisely because it refuses beauty; it is a wound, not a waltz.
Cavanaugh’s rescue of the child unfolds inside an abandoned pasta factory—a mausoleum of mezzaluna blades and flour ghosts. Goldin stages the sequence as a chiaroscuro duel: the Lieutenant’s revolver glints once, twice, then disappears into darkness, its absence more terrifying than its presence. The child is discovered inside a grain silo, buried up to the waist in semolina—an image both biblical and gastronomic. As Cavanaugh hoists the boy, the flour cascades in slow motion (achieved by over-cranking the hand-cranked camera), creating a blizzard that erases ethnicity, class, guilt. For three seconds, the screen is almost pure white—a radical negation that prefigures the final snowfall of McCabe & Mrs. Miller.
The coda—Mafiosi manacled aboard a steamer bound for Palermo—plays less like triumph than requiem. Goldin overlays this with a reprise of the opening sea-blue tint, but now the water seems colder, depthless. The gangsters, reduced to silhouettes, could be anyone’s ancestors; their exile is our collective amnesia. A final intertitle, etched in the same dark-orange ink as the earlier threats, reads: "They sailed back to the mirror that had cracked them." It is a line so modernist it could have been penned by Cesare Pavese, and it reverberates like a funeral bell.
Cinephiles weaned on the kinetic sadism of Uncle Tom’s Cabin or the proto-feminist swagger of A Militant Suffragette may find Goldin’s tonal sobriety jarring. Yet that sobriety is strategic; it anticipates the neorealist gaze of De Sica, just as the film’s on-location guerrilla shooting in Mulberry Street predates Rossellini’s rubble tourism. Where The Idler aestheticized poverty into picaresque whimsy, The Last of the Mafia rubs our noses in the sulfur of lived fear.
Financially, the picture was a modest scalp for indie distributor Titanus-Amer, yet its DNA strands can be traced in everything from On the Waterfront’s dockside guilt to Coppola’s operatic sepulchers. The film’s true legacy lies in its refusal to grant the Mafia the velvet glamour later studio systems would bestow; here they are not corsaged dons but feral emigrés, their suits off-the-rack, their dialects raw as garlic.
For decades, the only extant print languished in a Palermo crypt mislabeled Donna Romanza. A 2018 4K restoration by Cineteca di Bologna and MoMA rescued 137 of the original 142 minutes, grafting replacement intertitles from a 1923 continuity script discovered in Rochester. The resulting Blu-ray, streaming on niche platform ShadowAlley, offers two scores: a traditional Neapolitan mandolin track and a brash jazz reimagining by Vince Giordano that turns every gun-cock into a muted trumpet bleat. Purists will prefer the mandolin, whose tremolo echoes the flicker of nitrate itself.
To watch The Last of the Mafia is to eavesdrop on the moment when American cinema first tasted the iron in its mouth. It is a film that survives not by clamoring for relevance but by insisting on its own bruised authenticity. In an age when every gangster saga feels algorithmically generated, Goldin’s artifact reminds us that true menace whispers—it does not stream in 4K HDR. Seek it out, preferably at midnight, with the windows open and the city’s own sirens for accompaniment. You will emerge blinking into the dawn half-convinced that your shadow has acquired a Sicilian accent.
Rating: 9.2/10 — a cracked marble masterpiece, sharper than a stiletto and twice as beautiful.
IMDb —
1921
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