If Clash of the Wolves

Silent film acting was hyper-expressive. I don’t think the criticism of over-acting really applies to many of these performances. Deprived of the resource of language, silent movie stars developed an elaborate grammar of gestures, facial expressions, and posture, often coupled with balletic acrobatics. Their histrionic performances reveal philosophical dimensions to human character and emotion that language doesn’t express or, indeed, conceals. Silent film acting, to the extent, that it discloses essential aspects of human existence neglected by mere words, accordingly, must be accounted as Expressionistic. If Clash of the Wolves (1925) is characteristic, Rin Tin Tin was one of the great silent film actors. The picture is trite and, of course, wildly contrived and the human actors are broadly drawn caricatures: there is an earnest, romantic “tenderfoot” youth – he’s a borax prospector! – a shy, virginal maiden with unexpected reserves of gumption, a comic sidekick with a face like a Kabuki actor, a gruff papa, and, of course, a moustache-twirling villain. The plot is essentially a series of chases featuring Rin Tin Tin’s courage and remarkable cleverness intercut with some romantic interludes and a lot of sub-Vaudevillian humor. What elevates the picture beyond the ordinary is the dog’s charisma, charm, and melodramatic acting. Characteristic of many silent films from the era of the twenties, the movie is pictorially spectacular. The opening shot depicts a raging waterfall plunging from a mountain slope entirely engulfed in flame – it’s a forest fire in the High Sierra requiring Rinty to save some pups and, then, lead his pack of wolves down into the desert, apparently the Alabama Hills in the Owens Valley near Lone Pine. In the first couple reels, Rinty is fierce, dirty, a violent outlaw and vagabond slaughtering local cattle. After being wounded (a cactus thorn through the paw), his character, called Lobo in the movie, staggers into the desert to die – these scenes caused much consternation to the ASPCA when the film was released until the director assured animal rights’ advocates that Rinty was just acting. (The canine thespian’s impersonation of an injured and abject dog is persuasively heart-rending; Rinty never does anything by half-measures: called upon to play dead, he not only rolls over on his belly and droops his tongue to the side of his muzzle but also indulges in impressive spasms and twitches.) The movie is a Western and, in effect, Rin Tin Tin plays the part that William S. Hart always acted – the outlaw redeemed by love who becomes a scourge to evildoers. The picture is fast-moving and contains many exciting action sequences. Rin Tin Tin never merely attacks a bad guy – most frequently, he climbs into a tree or gets himself atop a house to launch an aerial assault, hurling himself down like a furry cannonball to smite the villains. In many ways, Rinty’s film persona seems like that of Douglas Fairbanks – he’s a jovial, avuncular presence, husky and a bit rough around the edges, and, whenever, possible, he climbs walls, leaps from great heights, or dives over abysmal canyons. Unlike Lassie (or Flipper) for that matter, the film and its lead character is not sentimentally anthropomorphized – throughout the film Rin Tin Tin behaves in a recognizably canine manner – he’s a big, tough, two-fisted galoot of a dog, but he has a kind heart. There’s a lot of kitsch in the film – for instance, Rinty with his mate Nanette and their pups – but the 74 minute feature is enjoyable throughout. (Rin Tin Tin was seven when the film was made – he lived until 1932 and made several sound pictures, as well as a dozen or so silents. He is credited with saving Paramount Studios from bankruptcy. All of his pictures were wildly successful at the box office and, at the height of his fame, he made $6000 dollars a week. He collapsed while playing with his trainer, Lewis Duncan, the man who rescued him from the trenches of the Western Front when he was a puppy, and is said to have died in Jean Harlow’s arms.)