I've seen two of Italian diva Lyda Borelli's films now, with her debut "Love Everlasting" (1913) and, now, this one, "Flower of Evil." I must see more. It's not that I'm fond of the dated diva style of acting with broad gestures and languidly staring into nothing with obvious expressions of anguish, but the way she's filmed is some of the more interesting work I've seen from the era even though in different ways for these two films. Cinema changed rapidly from 1913 to 1915. Nowadays, a movie from today will look more alike one from decades ago compared to how a film from 1913 stacks up beside one from 1915, such was how dramatic filmmaking was evolving then, which is probably why I find the period so fascinating. The early feature-length productions of 1913 tended to follow the tableau style of long scenes comprised of few shots and figures photographed from a distance, whereas there's a greatest emphasis on montage by 1915 as studios moved towards the classical style of continuity editing.
Thus, "Flower of Evil" features closer views of its diva than did its predecessor and moves at a quicker pace. "Love Everlasting," however, is a visually remarkable film for its great staging in depth and seeming deep-focus cinematography. In my review of it, I went so far as to compare it to "Citizen Kane" (1941). Very little of the sort appears in "Flower of Evil," although there is some deep exploration of depth of field here or there, such as the tellers in the background in the bank scene, or Borelli emerging from doors in the distance and passing a standing mirror as she moves towards and the film cuts to her looking at herself in a wall mirror. The most remarkable aspect of this feature, though, is the lighting, especially the considerable amount of the low-key, shadowy sort. This was even before the fantastic chiaroscuro effects in Cecil B. DeMille's studio-controlled "The Cheat" (1915).
Although scratchy in parts, the print presented at the International Bonn Silent Film Festival still looks quite good. The use of lighting through windows is another highlight, and even the outdoor scenes tend to be well photographed, including with characters beside foliage or bodies of water. There's a particularly nice shot of Borelli in silhouette as waves crash on the beach behind her. Later, there's considerable nighttime photography, some of which is accomplished by tinting, while a room is lit by a burglar's flashlight and other scenes by street lamps. Additionally, the narrative emphasizes clothes, with Borelli playing a prostitute turned seamstress turned Countess, all of which is apt given that the actress is said to have been a fashion icon. It's a lovely film.
It's also a tortuously contrived melodrama. A lot is going on in a plot that barely runs over an hour, which I don't necessarily consider a bad thing, as it does tend to move the pacing along, but it also has the tendency to require a good too many title cards to explain everything. Besides our diva protagonist, there's her one-time warden, the Count who adopts her, a banker suitor, an adopted daughter, a love-triangle-forming violinist, and a burglar--plus Borelli's character's search for the child she abandoned in her prostitution days. It all culminates in the usually tragic way, but there are a couple things I like even about the dated melodrama. One, Borelli's search leads her full circle to returning to her roots at a low-class tavern where she danced for customers. If it weren't all so overwrought, one might argue that there's some interesting investigation here regarding class and social mobility.
I'm also intrigued by the child having a distinctive birthmark, as I am whenever a character leaves a trace in some such form, as it plays into semiotics film theory. Not the nonsense about film being a language or any Christian Metz gobbledygook, but as regards C. S. Peirce's signs (i.e. Icon, index, symbol). "The Invisible Man" movies do a good job in this regard of focusing on traces left by an individual (especially the 1933, 1940 and 2020 versions), for obvious reasons. My favorite example, though, is probably the eponymous and reflexive "M" from Fritz Lang's 1931 masterpiece, but I digress. The point is that Borelli's character's child is marked in more than one sense, to be searched for by his mother and to be marked by her former life in crime and poverty. Inadvertently or not, it's also a nice allusion to cinema in general, which is nothing if not traces and shadows flickering on a screen.
The other thing I like has more to do with the festival's modern score by celloist-duo Cellophon. Even though the film never shows its violinist character playing, at least we get to hear some good music. I think it makes the ending scene, which I otherwise probably wouldn't care much for, but since it plays to Bach's No. 1 Prelude in G Major, I found it to be quite moving. Of course, it has played in a good many motion pictures, although the one that stuck in my mind is Josh Lyman's PTSD episode from "The West Wing" TV series. For a prelude, it's also reserved well for the ending here.
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