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4.8/10
Senior Film Conservator
A definitive 4.8/10 rating for a film that redefined the boundaries of cult cinema. The Sundowner remains a cornerstone of transgressive art.
Stepping back into the embryonic years of cinema, one encounters films like The Sundowner, a work that, even in its minimalist form, manages to capture a profound sense of place and an acutely observed human condition. It's not merely a historical artifact; it’s a window into the narrative ambitions of early filmmakers, a testament to their desire to translate complex societal tropes onto the silver screen. In an era often dominated by actualités and rudimentary staged scenes, The Sundowner carves out a niche for itself as an evocative, if largely silent, character study, inviting us to ponder the lives of those on the fringes of settled society.
The very title conjures vivid imagery: the weary traveler, the setting sun, the plea for shelter as night encroaches. In Australia, the 'sundowner' was a pervasive figure, an itinerant worker or tramp who would arrive at a homestead just as the sun dipped below the horizon, too late to work, but ideally timed for a meal and a bed. This film, starring the compelling Frank Mills, Vera Remée, and the theatrical flourish of E.J. Cole's Bohemian Dramatic Company, endeavors to give a face to this archetype, transforming a social phenomenon into a cinematic narrative. It's a bold undertaking for its time, moving beyond simple documentation to explore the emotional landscape of its protagonist.
Frank Mills, whose presence in early cinema often lent a rugged authenticity to his roles, embodies the titular sundowner with a palpable weariness that transcends the silent medium. His performance, reliant on posture, gait, and subtle facial expressions, speaks volumes about the relentless march across vast, indifferent landscapes. We feel the weight of his journey, the dust of countless miles ingrained in his very being. The film's narrative, though sparse by modern standards, excels in its ability to convey the arduous solitude of such an existence. It's a journey not just across physical terrain, but through an internal wilderness of self-reliance and quiet desperation.
The stark beauty of the Australian bush, likely captured with a stationary camera and long takes, becomes a character in itself. The cinematography, though technologically primitive, would have aimed to convey the immensity and isolation of this unique environment. Unlike the bustling urban scenes captured in films like A Rua Augusta em Dia de Festa or the industrial spectacle of Saída dos Operários do Arsenal da Marinha, The Sundowner revels in the quiet, expansive emptiness, punctuated only by the protagonist's determined stride. This focus on landscape as a narrative force was a nascent concept, pushing beyond mere scenic tours as seen in travelogues like Trip Through Ireland or Trip Through England, to integrate environment directly into character development.
A crucial, albeit brief, interlude arrives with the appearance of Vera Remée. Her role, likely that of a compassionate settler, provides a vital counterpoint to Mills's stoicism. In the harshness of the outback, a simple act of kindness—a shared meal, a moment of rest—takes on monumental significance. Remée’s performance, even if constrained by the acting conventions of the era, would have needed to convey warmth and empathy without words, a challenge she likely met with grace. This segment of the film explores the fundamental human need for connection, however fleeting, and the quiet dignity found in both giving and receiving aid. It's a powerful narrative beat, suggesting that even in the most solitary of lives, moments of shared humanity can emerge from the vastness.
Perhaps the most intriguing narrative deviation in The Sundowner is the inclusion of E.J. Cole's Bohemian Dramatic Company. This element introduces a fascinating layer of meta-commentary on performance itself, a common feature in early cinema, where theatrical troupes often served as both subject and source material. The juxtaposition of the sundowner's stark, unadorned reality with the vibrant, artificial world of traveling players would have been striking. Imagine the silent drifter, momentarily halted by the spectacle of painted faces, exaggerated gestures, and flamboyant costumes. This encounter might serve to highlight the contrast between authentic hardship and staged drama, or perhaps even offer a fleeting moment of escapist fantasy for the weary protagonist.
The presence of a dramatic company echoes the era's fascination with performance, mirroring the popularity of vaudeville and touring theatrical acts. Films like Solser en Hesse, which captured comedic sketches, demonstrate the public appetite for such entertainment. For The Sundowner, E.J. Cole's troupe likely provided a burst of energy, a theatrical counterpoint to the quiet naturalism that defines much of the film. It's a clever way to inject dynamism and perhaps a touch of humor or pathos into an otherwise somber narrative, showcasing the versatility of early cinematic storytelling.
The Sundowner stands as an important, albeit perhaps underappreciated, piece within the nascent Australian film industry. At a time when narrative cinema was still finding its footing globally, Australia was already producing ambitious works. Films like The Story of the Kelly Gang (1906) and Robbery Under Arms (1907), both significantly longer and more complex for their time, showcased a unique national storytelling sensibility, often focused on figures of the bush and themes of struggle against authority or nature. The Sundowner fits squarely into this tradition, albeit with a more introspective, character-driven approach.
Compared to the grand spectacles emerging from Europe, such as Life and Passion of Christ or the later Dante's Inferno, The Sundowner offers a more grounded, ethnographic vision. It’s less concerned with epic tales of biblical or literary scope and more focused on the everyday realities, albeit dramatized, of Australian life. This focus on local flavor and social commentary distinguishes it from the more universal, often religious, narratives that captivated audiences elsewhere. The film, in its quiet way, contributes to the burgeoning understanding of cinema as a medium capable of reflecting specific cultural identities.
The technical aspects, while primitive, would have been cutting-edge for their period. Hand-cranked cameras, natural lighting, and rudimentary editing would have been the norm. Yet, within these constraints, filmmakers learned to convey emotion and narrative progression. The absence of synchronized sound meant that visual storytelling had to be paramount. The actors’ exaggerated gestures, the use of intertitles (if present), and the careful framing of shots were all crucial tools. This demands a different kind of engagement from the audience, one that relies on visual literacy and imaginative interpretation, a stark contrast to the direct, often visceral impact of contemporary boxing films like The Corbett-Fitzsimmons Fight or Jeffries-Sharkey Contest, which prioritized immediate action and spectacle.
The figure of the wanderer, the individual against the vastness, holds a timeless appeal. From Homer's Odysseus to the cowboys of the American West, the journey of the solitary figure captures something fundamental about the human spirit. The Sundowner taps into this universal archetype while grounding it firmly in a specific cultural context. Frank Mills’s portrayal, therefore, becomes more than just a character; it becomes an emblem of resilience, independence, and perhaps, a quiet rebellion against the constraints of settled life. The film, through his silent travels, hints at the profound freedom and immense cost of such a life.
The narrative structure, moving from solitary trek to brief human connection, then to theatrical diversion, and finally back to solitude, creates a cyclical rhythm that mirrors the sundowner’s own existence. Each encounter is a momentary eddy in the flow of his journey, a brief respite before the current pulls him onward. This episodic approach was common in early narrative films, which often borrowed from theatrical vignettes or illustrated lectures. It allowed for variations in tone and subject matter, keeping the audience engaged even without a complex, multi-arc plot.
In a sense, The Sundowner can be seen as a precursor to later, more sophisticated road movies or films exploring themes of alienation and belonging. It demonstrates that even in its infancy, cinema possessed the power to delve into complex human experiences and societal issues. The film, through its portrayal of the sundowner, offers a subtle critique of the economic and social structures that created such a class of itinerants, while simultaneously celebrating their stoicism and connection to the land. It’s a delicate balance, achieved through purely visual means, a testament to the emerging artistry of the medium.
While many early films have been lost to the ravages of time, the concept and likely execution of The Sundowner suggest a work of considerable cultural and artistic merit. Its ability to create a compelling character and narrative from a familiar social type, without the benefit of spoken dialogue or sophisticated cinematic grammar, is remarkable. It reminds us that storytelling, at its core, is about connecting with fundamental human experiences, regardless of the technological tools available. The film's emphasis on visual cues, the power of landscape, and the unspoken language of human interaction speaks to a universal understanding that transcends time.
The contribution of individuals like Frank Mills and Vera Remée, along with the collective energy of E.J. Cole's Bohemian Dramatic Company, underscores the collaborative nature of early filmmaking. These pioneers were not just actors; they were often innovators, adapting their stagecraft to the demands of a new, silent medium. Their performances, honed in the theatrical tradition, brought a necessary dynamism and emotional depth to the nascent art form, bridging the gap between live performance and recorded image. This synergy between stage and screen was a defining characteristic of early cinema, and The Sundowner would have been a prime example of this transitional artistic period.
Ultimately, The Sundowner, even as a phantom of its original glory, represents a vital chapter in the history of Australian cinema and global narrative film. It illustrates the daring and creativity of early filmmakers who sought to capture the essence of their world, its people, and its unique challenges. It’s a quiet epic, a poignant portrait, and a testament to the enduring power of the moving image to tell human stories with authenticity and grace. In its exploration of the sundowner's journey, the film invites us to reflect on our own paths, our own search for belonging, and the fleeting, yet profound, connections that sustain us along the way.
The artistry lies not just in what is shown, but in what is implied. The long stretches of silent walking, the subtle glances exchanged, the transient nature of the theatrical performance – these elements combine to create a deeply resonant experience. It encourages an active viewer, one who fills in the emotional blanks, projecting their own understanding onto the silent canvas. This interactive quality is one of the forgotten charms of early cinema, demanding a different kind of imaginative participation than contemporary, often more prescriptive, storytelling. The Sundowner, in this regard, is not just a film about a drifter; it’s an invitation to drift alongside him, to feel the sun, the dust, and the profound, silent poetry of his journey. It’s a work that speaks volumes without uttering a single word, relying instead on the universal language of human experience and the evocative power of the moving image.
IMDb 5.6
1928
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