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Cult Review
Senior Film Conservator
William Stoermer’s The Tidal Wave arrives like a nitrate hurricane swept straight from a vault nobody remembered locking. One instant you’re paging through brittle lobby cards; the next, the screen detonates into a chiaroscuro maelstrom where petticoats and pickelhaubes share the same suffocating frame.
Shot on the frayed edges of Los Angeles riverbeds doubling as Picardy, the picture premiered barely weeks before the Armistice, yet its DNA feels closer to the fever dreams of 1970s Herzog than to the moralizing tableau of its own year. Stoermer—star, scribe, and uncredited auteur—engineers a narrative that refuses the comfort of either patriotic balm or sentimental absolution. Instead, he gifts us a heroine who weaponizes her own disillusionment, then must confront the ricochet.
From the prologue’s iris-in on a moonlit Boston pier, the film’s visual lexicon is already gasoline awaiting spark. Stoermer and cinematographer Jules Cronjager eschew the stately medium shots common to 1918, favoring oblique angles that slant floorboards into ski-jumps of anxiety. Notice how the camera pirouettes atop a steamer trunk as our unnamed protagonist—credited only as Her—signs her exile in a ledger. The moment feels less like embarkation and more like autopsy.
Color tinting oscillates between bile-green for stateside sequences and bruised indigo once we reach France, a subconscious intimation that geography itself is a mood disorder. Intertitles, sparse and aphoristic, arrive like shrapnel: "To flee a man, she bartered her compass." The cadence echoes through later reels when German spies, leached of Teutonic caricature, speak of borders as "paper cuts on the skin of continents."
Stoermer’s dual duty could have capsized the picture; instead, his self-interrogation lends the sweetheart-turned-soldier a ghosted melancholy. Watch the way his shoulders telegraph shell-shock an entire reel before the first mortar blooms. Opposite him, Her—played by newcomer Lillian Harrow with the combustible grace of a lit fuse—never once begs for sympathy even as her villa mutates into a viper’s nest. Harrow’s eyes perform their own silent aria: pupils dilating from champagne flutes to cannon mouths the instant she deciphers an intercepted map.
Among the Teutonic intruders, Conrad von Etienne eschews monocled villainy, opting instead for a bureaucratic languor that chills deeper. His monocle is cracked, a hairline fracture that refracts candlelight into miniature trenches across his cheek—an accidental metaphor for a war that splinters even the observers.
Contemporary exhibitors received the film with a cue sheet recommending Debussy preludes warped to 3⁄4 speed, but modern restorations pair it with a new score—piano strings prepared with paperclips, generating a metallic respiration that syncs perfectly to hand-crank fluctuations. When the titular tidal wave—here a rumored German counter-offensive—finally breaks, the audio drops to a heartbeat-like throb, mimicking tinnitus experienced by frontline nurses. Silence becomes a character, stalking corridors in tandem with shadows.
Scholars often strand pre-suffrage cinema within damsel taxonomy; The Tidal Wave bludgeons such condescension. Our heroine’s agency isn’t a post-facto reclamation but the engine itself. She engineers her exile, negotiates with black-marketeers, and ultimately chooses complicity as a gambit for leverage, not from naïveté. The film’s most radical gesture arrives when she refuses last-act redemption, opting instead to vanish into a fogbank—leaving both armies grasping at vapor. Stoermer denies the era’s obligatory moral re-coding; the woman remains ungovernable, her silhouette swallowed by a future unwritten.
Where contemporaries like Under Two Flags romanticize colonial sacrifice, and The Love Route cushions trauma inside pastoral slapstick, Stoermer’s opus refuses palliative genre grafts. It shares spectral DNA with La falena’s femme fatale fatalism, yet swaps that film’s operatic excess for a granular nihilism closer to Civilization’s Child. The result is an artifact that feels temporally unmoored—neither 1918 nor 2023, but a perpetual yesterday that haunts the present tense.
The 2022 4K restoration by EYE Filmmuseum unearthed nearly twelve minutes presumed lost, including a hallucinatory sequence where Harrow’s shadow detaches and crawls across trench walls like an autonomous interrogator. Grain structure remains deliberately unruly; archivists retained scratches that resemble barbed wire, acknowledging damage as historiography. Projectionists report that the reel-change cue marks appear blood-red under xenon bulbs—a macabre Easter egg encoded by Cronjager’s original labwork.
Streaming on niche platforms, the film has spawned micro-cults among TikTok historians who superimpose its tidal imagery onto climate-change footage—an anachronistic yet eerily coherent remix. GIFs of Harrow’s final glance, looped ad infinitum, circulate as reaction memes for emotional overwhelm, proving Stoermer’s nihilist poetry speaks fluent algorithm.
Meanwhile, essayists detect pre-echoes of The Huntress of Men’s gendered predation, though Stoermer allows his protagonist to weaponize vulnerability rather than merely endure it. Cine-clubs in Tokyo project the film alongside live shō improvisations, finding in its discordant rhythms the genealogy of post-war mono-no-aware.
Great art seldom consoles; it displaces. The Tidal Wave displaces us into a moral no-man’s-land where love letters corrode into espionage and every embrace carries the metallic aftertaste of gunpowder. Stoermer’s alchemy transmutes melodrama into ontological earthquake, leaving the viewer stranded on a sandbank of self-interrogation long after the end card.
Seek it not for period curio but for the scalpel-sharp recognition that personal ruptures and planetary conflagrations share identical vascular systems. Then, when the credits evaporate, notice how your own pulse syncs to that distant artillery—proof that the film’s true tidal wave has already dragged you under without asking consent.
★★★★★ (5/5) — A molten lodestar of silent cinema, mandatory viewing for anyone professing allegiance to film history, gender discourse, or the poetics of annihilation.
IMDb —
1918
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