It refuses to fly. The whole thing constitutes 90 minutes of parasitic drag.
General MacLellan might have directed this. It has "a case of the slows." It begins with Abraham Lincoln's birth. There are extensive scenes of Lincoln (Walter Huston) tentatively courting Ann Rutledge (Una Merkel). They both move and speak slowly. The flirtation drags along. Merkel gets sick and dies with Huston by her side. She has long slow last words -- many long slow last words. Nine years later, John Ford zipped through all this in a few minutes. We didn't even see Ann Rutledge die, just a half frozen river accompanied by a few tragic chords in Al Newman's score.
I understand that D. W. Griffith practically invented the grammar of the moving picture -- the cross-cutting, the invisible editing, the close up -- but he couldn't do a thing with this Steven Vincent Benet script, nor with the images we see on the screen.
The close ups are an embarrassment. The actors are made up so emphatically that their lips and eyes might be seen from the most distant row of the balcony.
One wonders whether Griffith really believed that Abraham Lincoln was such a great president. After all, from the director's point of view, Lincoln was on the wrong side of the Civil War. But maybe Griffith did admire Lincoln. Maybe he thought, "Well, at least Lincoln gave us Thanksgiving." But nothing can excuse a film that seems to have been shot in a vast tank of molasses.
There's something to be said for quitting while you're ahead.
General MacLellan might have directed this. It has "a case of the slows." It begins with Abraham Lincoln's birth. There are extensive scenes of Lincoln (Walter Huston) tentatively courting Ann Rutledge (Una Merkel). They both move and speak slowly. The flirtation drags along. Merkel gets sick and dies with Huston by her side. She has long slow last words -- many long slow last words. Nine years later, John Ford zipped through all this in a few minutes. We didn't even see Ann Rutledge die, just a half frozen river accompanied by a few tragic chords in Al Newman's score.
I understand that D. W. Griffith practically invented the grammar of the moving picture -- the cross-cutting, the invisible editing, the close up -- but he couldn't do a thing with this Steven Vincent Benet script, nor with the images we see on the screen.
The close ups are an embarrassment. The actors are made up so emphatically that their lips and eyes might be seen from the most distant row of the balcony.
One wonders whether Griffith really believed that Abraham Lincoln was such a great president. After all, from the director's point of view, Lincoln was on the wrong side of the Civil War. But maybe Griffith did admire Lincoln. Maybe he thought, "Well, at least Lincoln gave us Thanksgiving." But nothing can excuse a film that seems to have been shot in a vast tank of molasses.
There's something to be said for quitting while you're ahead.