The Mysterious Airman: A Glimpse into Early Serial Sillyness

Look, if you're not already into early cinema, especially silent serials, then The Mysterious Airman is probably not where you start. It's a relic, pure and simple, full of all the quirks and charms and frustrations that come with something nearly a century old. But if you have a soft spot for daring aviators, masked villains, and the kind of earnest, wide-eyed melodrama only the 1920s could deliver, you might actually have a pretty good time. Anyone expecting modern pacing or nuanced performances will bounce off it hard.

The premise itself is golden for a serial: an inventor, some cutting-edge airplane tech, a rival company, and a masked aerial villain called Pilot X. You just know there's going to be a lot of rope ladders, last-minute escapes, and probably some questionable special effects. And The Mysterious Airman delivers on most of that, in its own peculiar way.

One thing that immediately strikes you is the sheer earnestness of it all. The actors, particularly Hugh Blair as the inventor and Eugenia Gilbert as his aviatrix fiancée, are just so committed to the drama. Every glance is meaningful, every gesture broad. There’s a scene early on where Blair is showing off a new engine part, and he’s practically caressing it. It’s supposed to convey his passion, but it ends up looking a bit like he’s trying to sell a used car to a very skeptical customer.

The pacing, as with many serials, is a wild ride. Some sequences feel like they've been stretched thin, particularly any scene involving characters just talking in an office. They’ll stand there, hands clasped, nodding gravely, and the title cards will explain things you already gathered from the previous scene. Then, suddenly, someone's being chased across a rooftop, and the editing becomes a flurry of quick cuts that are almost too fast to follow. It’s like the film can’t decide if it wants to be a stage play or an action spectacle.

Pilot X himself is a highlight, mostly for the sheer audacity of his mask. It’s not particularly intimidating, more like something someone cobbled together for a Halloween party. But the character has this weird habit of showing up in the most inconvenient places, often just standing there, observing, before swooping in to cause trouble. There’s a moment in one of the later chapters where he’s just lurking in the background of a hanger, almost out of focus, and it takes a second to even register he’s there. It's a surprisingly subtle touch for a film that otherwise goes for broke.

The aerial sequences are, predictably, a mixed bag. You get some genuine footage of planes flying, which is cool for its historical value alone. Then you get the miniatures. Oh, the miniatures. There's a particular shot of two planes 'dogfighting' that just looks like someone shaking two model kits on strings. The scale is all off, and the 'explosions' are just puffs of smoke that seem to dissipate before they even reach the ground. It breaks the illusion completely, but honestly, it's part of the charm. You almost want to applaud the effort, even if the execution is a bit... wobbly.

And the dialogue, or rather, the title cards. They often state the obvious with such dramatic flair. “THE PERILOUS FLIGHT OF THE AIRMAN!” flashes across the screen, just as a plane is clearly, visibly flying. It’s less about conveying new information and more about shouting encouragement at the audience, reminding them that, yes, this is exciting, really!

Eugenia Gilbert's character, the aviatrix, is surprisingly active for the era. She’s not just waiting around to be rescued. She flies planes, she investigates, she even gets into a few scrapes herself. But even with her agency, there are moments where she just stares blankly, presumably processing some dramatic revelation, and the shot holds just a beat too long. You can feel the director trying to build tension, but it just creates this awkward pause where you wonder if the film reel got stuck.

The villainous rival company owners are exactly what you'd expect. Scowling, gesturing wildly, occasionally stroking a non-existent mustache. One of them, Robert Walker, has this nervous twitch he uses every time he's about to do something dastardly. It's a cheap acting trick, but it's consistent, and by the end, you're almost rooting for him to twitch more.

Overall, The Mysterious Airman is a fascinating watch, not necessarily for its narrative perfection, but for what it represents. It’s a snapshot of early cinematic storytelling, where the rules were still being written, and enthusiasm often trumped technical polish. You watch it and you can almost feel the audience in 1920, gasping at the cliffhangers, laughing at the melodrama, completely invested in the next installment. It's a historical artifact, a bit creaky, sometimes baffling, but never entirely dull for those willing to meet it on its own terms.