All silent films are part of a rich cultural heritage that's well worth preserving in and of themselves. This picture especially feels like a bit of a time capsule as it shows us the beautiful snow- and ice-laden landscapes of Alaska that almost 100 years later are at risk of all but vanishing owing to human mismanagement, and moreover a lifestyle and practice that is far removed from our modern experience. 'The chechahcos' also bears intertitles of dialogue with such colloquial slang and outdated language that some of it is almost a little hard to parse. All this is to say nothing, of course, of being another prime example of bygone sensibilities of film-making: exaggerated body language or facial expressions in lieu of sound or verbal dialogue, or of the more nuanced acting that would become dominant over time; hair and makeup work that gave the predominantly if not entirely white casts an uncanny, somewhat ghostly pallor, and made most men and most women, respectively, largely indistinguishable from one another; and still more, including discrete divisions between shots and scenes that amplify the sense of events having been staged for the camera. All these are reasons why, in one way or another, the silent era can be difficult to abide for some viewers, and this is unlikely to change anyone's mind in that regard. For those who appreciate older features, however, 'The chechahcos' is an enjoyable cinematic vestige that remains worth exploring on its own merits.
I commend the readily evident care put into the production in every regard, not least the sets and costume design. The use of lighting also seems gratifyingly thoughtful in any interior scenes, and the cinematography strikes me as especially swell in outdoor sequences, not least given some of the apparent conditions. Meanwhile, Lewis H. Moomaw demonstrates a firm command of the medium as director, with a strong guiding hand and some finely arranged shots. And Moomaw's writing, too, is splendid. In no small part the movie is simply a portrayal of the Yukon Gold Rush and all the challenges and types of people that came along with it. 'The chechahcos' also, however, boasts a distinct narrative to play out amidst a select few of those figures that are introduced to us - some virtuous and some less so, all transformed in one way or another by their relocation to the Yukon. To Moomaw's credit, I wasn't actually expecting an especially robust sense of story, but the feature undoubtedly claims a worthwhile plot that's compelling and satisfying.
Well, maybe I should say - Moomaw's writing is mostly splendid. One may well discern other faults with the picture: casually racist treatment of the one indigenous person to appear on-screen; a certain curtness to the scene writing that means one moment a little before the one-hour mark, that should carry suspense, thrills, and impact, is played out so brusquely that one risks missing it if they blink at the wrong time. More than anything else, however, there's one abject flaw that's glaring, and so downright awful as to significantly diminish the overall value. I don't generally like to betray spoilers, but since this one coincides with a content warning, I am only left to ask: What are we supposed to make of the fact that Ruth, having grown into a young woman, and Bob, one of the men who emphatically raised her like a father since she was a young child, are romantically invested in one another? This singular story beat is awkward, uncomfortable, and profoundly problematic to the point of being nonsensical. I don't know what Moomaw was thinking, but 'The chechahcos' would actually have been all but perfect if not for this astounding inclusion that defies all good reason. Few are those titles that have faltered in such a specific and significant way.
If we can put aside Moomaw's flummoxing fumble, by and large this is well made, entertaining, and far more worthwhile than I'd have given it credit for sights unseen. Substantial hard work, intelligence, and mindful craft went into the making of this movie in every regard, and all involved are to be congratulated for their contributions. So how did 'The chechahcos' go so wrong in the one way that should have been the easiest and most obvious to avoid, and surely the easiest to remedy? So sharply written and executed is this otherwise, including a genuinely fantastic climax, that I think the feature is still very much worth watching, a testament to the skill of filmmaker, cast, and crew and the enduring value of the silent era. So bewildering is its chief weakness that an asterisk must necessarily be appended to the production in the annals of cinema history, the overall value is reduced thusly, and however blithely and minimally the topic is approached, a content warning is required. 'The chechahcos' deserves remembrance and recognition, even almost a full century later - yet it also deserves to be discussed as a peculiar teachable moment when this shouldn't have been the case in the first place.
I want to like this more than I do, but that one character relationship is going to bug me for a long time.
I commend the readily evident care put into the production in every regard, not least the sets and costume design. The use of lighting also seems gratifyingly thoughtful in any interior scenes, and the cinematography strikes me as especially swell in outdoor sequences, not least given some of the apparent conditions. Meanwhile, Lewis H. Moomaw demonstrates a firm command of the medium as director, with a strong guiding hand and some finely arranged shots. And Moomaw's writing, too, is splendid. In no small part the movie is simply a portrayal of the Yukon Gold Rush and all the challenges and types of people that came along with it. 'The chechahcos' also, however, boasts a distinct narrative to play out amidst a select few of those figures that are introduced to us - some virtuous and some less so, all transformed in one way or another by their relocation to the Yukon. To Moomaw's credit, I wasn't actually expecting an especially robust sense of story, but the feature undoubtedly claims a worthwhile plot that's compelling and satisfying.
Well, maybe I should say - Moomaw's writing is mostly splendid. One may well discern other faults with the picture: casually racist treatment of the one indigenous person to appear on-screen; a certain curtness to the scene writing that means one moment a little before the one-hour mark, that should carry suspense, thrills, and impact, is played out so brusquely that one risks missing it if they blink at the wrong time. More than anything else, however, there's one abject flaw that's glaring, and so downright awful as to significantly diminish the overall value. I don't generally like to betray spoilers, but since this one coincides with a content warning, I am only left to ask: What are we supposed to make of the fact that Ruth, having grown into a young woman, and Bob, one of the men who emphatically raised her like a father since she was a young child, are romantically invested in one another? This singular story beat is awkward, uncomfortable, and profoundly problematic to the point of being nonsensical. I don't know what Moomaw was thinking, but 'The chechahcos' would actually have been all but perfect if not for this astounding inclusion that defies all good reason. Few are those titles that have faltered in such a specific and significant way.
If we can put aside Moomaw's flummoxing fumble, by and large this is well made, entertaining, and far more worthwhile than I'd have given it credit for sights unseen. Substantial hard work, intelligence, and mindful craft went into the making of this movie in every regard, and all involved are to be congratulated for their contributions. So how did 'The chechahcos' go so wrong in the one way that should have been the easiest and most obvious to avoid, and surely the easiest to remedy? So sharply written and executed is this otherwise, including a genuinely fantastic climax, that I think the feature is still very much worth watching, a testament to the skill of filmmaker, cast, and crew and the enduring value of the silent era. So bewildering is its chief weakness that an asterisk must necessarily be appended to the production in the annals of cinema history, the overall value is reduced thusly, and however blithely and minimally the topic is approached, a content warning is required. 'The chechahcos' deserves remembrance and recognition, even almost a full century later - yet it also deserves to be discussed as a peculiar teachable moment when this shouldn't have been the case in the first place.
I want to like this more than I do, but that one character relationship is going to bug me for a long time.
