The film’s restorer and our Patron, Kevin Brownlow offers an insight into this classic film that broke all the rules of Hollywood.

Despite my affection for Hollywood silent films, I can’t credit them with much concern for the vital issues of the day. Admittedly, entertainment for it’s own sake can be valuable, but there’s enough of the puritan in me to demand something more. And that’s one reason I love ‘The Crowd’. When a film of enormous social significance succeeds in being immensely entertaining, then as far as I’m concerned the director has achieved near perfection.

The Crowd is one of the most eloquent of all silent pictures. It came out just before the depression and yet it might have been made in the thick of it, so poignant is its picture of unemployment. It is surprising that it reached the public at all, for it broke all the rules of Hollywood. You weren’t supposed to show the casual use of liquor during Prohibition. You weren’t supposed to suggest that work, the great dignifier could be boring. You weren’t supposed to show a young man’s nerves on his wedding night, or a wife telling her husband she is pregnant. And you weren’t supposed to show that failure and poverty could exist in the Land of Opportunity.

Opportunity is all that Johnny Sims needs. Johnny is the hero of the film and ‘he is no hero’. He grows up with faith in the ‘American Dream’: he is going to be somebody big. But life follows its usual rut: he marries, has two children, and a $8 raise. He writes advertising slogans in his spare time. One wins a prize, but leads to tragedy. His small daughter is hit by a truck as she runs to see the present his has bought with the prize money. John goes to pieces; he loses job after job and considers suicide, but fails even in that. His wife decides to leave him, but when he gets a meagre job she decides not to go, just yet. They celebrate at a vaudeville show and forget their troubles by laughing with the crowd.

That’s all it is; ‘The Crowd’ is practically plotless. And yet every incident is so brilliantly directed and acted that the film blazes to life. One’s heart leaps with recognition at the behaviour of the characters. John, and his wife, Mary are getting up one morning in their poky little flat. The lavatory system goes wrong. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this was busted’ asks John. The bathroom door has always been defective, but he adds this to his catalogue of her crimes. ‘You’ve got this on the blink too’.

At breakfast, he stares at her, witheringly. ‘You’re hair looks like Kelcy’s cat.’ She adjusts it and tries to continue eating but his remarks wear her down and she leaves the table. ‘I’m getting sick and tired of you always criticising me.’ ‘Forget it Mary, I’ll overlook your faults.’ His heavy humour merely inflames her and he becomes more annoyed himself. He reaches for a milk bottle; as he opens it the milk squirts him full in the face. He turns on her again. ‘Why can’t you tell me when things are full?’

Most directors would be satisfied to leave the scene there, but where most directors stop, the director of this film, King Vidor, is just beginning. Mary has taken all she can from John and declares she is leaving. John seems glad. ‘Take it from me,’ he says as he storms out. ‘Marriage isn’t a word – it’s a sentence’. The door slams. Mary stares after him, full of self-pity and remorse. Vidor holds the shot of her without interruption, and it is one of the most brilliant examples of pure film acting I have ever seen. Mary begins to cry; what is she going to do? Where will she go? As if for security, she clutches her arms across her stomach, and this gesture reminds her of something important. We can see the realisation flash across her face; she forgot to tell him.

After an agonising delay she runs to the window and calls out. John stands in the street unwilling to return, but she gently persuades him. The only title in this part of the scene occurs when John runs upstairs and stands before her: ‘I didn’t get a chance to tell you.’ She pulls him closely and does up one of his coat buttons. We can lip-read her saying she is pregnant but there is no title. John’s mood changes; he slowly embraces her then becomes ridiculously considerate, sitting her down, putting the milk in her coffee, carefully wiping the plates. ‘From now on, I’m going to treat you differently.’ He goes to the door, and in contrast to the last time he left, he keeps popping back, grinning and miming the forthcoming events by cradling his hat.

The shots are simple yet full of emotional power; Vidor treats his characters so lovingly and with such understanding, that one cannot help but share his feelings. In a way, it’s odd that this portrait of failure should have such uncanny intensity, for it was created by a man for whom the American dream came true. Vidor had made MGM’s biggest moneymaker, ‘The Big Parade’ (1925), and it was thanks to this success that he was able to make ‘The Crowd’ with the large budget it needed. Impressed by the German experiments Vidor was able to weave into the picture moments of technical bravura – the camera travelling up the side of a skyscraper and moving into a vast office, where acres of desks attest to the deadly routine of John’s working life. I doubt if there is another film in cinema history combining the stunning artifice of the German film with documentary scenes snatched in the streets.

The extraordinary thing about this tragic film is how funny it is – it’s as. funny as it is sad. MGM however had not expected such strong stuff and they insisted Vidor change his tragic ending and film a scene in which John becomes wealthy from his advertising slogans. Vidor was horrified and fought as long as he could – shooting and previewing no less than seven endings. His inspired idea was the one that survives in all the existing prints but the front office had their ending sent out as well to give the exhibitors a choice. *(we don’t want to reveal the ending and spoil the film for many – so you’ll have to attend the screening!…Ed)

For a film of such social importance it was significant that Vidor paid such tribute in his last scene to the value of pure entertainment.

© Kevin Brownlow, 2004