
From: Soviet Montage
1924 · Directed by Yakov Protazanov
The Soviet Union's first science fiction film — and one of the most visually extravagant productions of early Soviet cinema. An engineer in Moscow, consumed by jealousy over his wife and frustrated by the drudgery of post-revolutionary life, builds a rocket ship and travels to Mars, where he finds an oppressed worker class ruled by a beautiful but tyrannical queen and leads them in revolution. The Martian sequences, designed by the Constructivist artist Alexandra Exter, are stunning: geometric costumes, angular sets, and a visual language unlike anything else in 1920s cinema. The earthbound scenes offer a fascinatingly candid portrait of everyday life in the early USSR. A wild hybrid of agitprop, domestic melodrama, and interplanetary spectacle that feels genuinely ahead of its time.
1897

The silent era spans roughly three decades — from the Lumière brothers' first public screening in 1895 to the arrival of synchronized sound in the late 1920s — and contains some of the most inventive, visually stunning, and emotionally powerful filmmaking ever produced. These twenty films offer an introduction to the period's essential works and movements: the trick films that first revealed cinema's capacity for magic, the rise of narrative storytelling, the explosive creativity of German Expressionism and Soviet montage, the golden age of screen comedy, and the artistic peaks that still define what the medium can achieve. If you're new to silent film, start anywhere — every one of these will change your understanding of what early cinema was.
20 films





Tod Browning ran away from his Kentucky home as a teenager to join the circus, and he never really left. He worked as a contortionist, a clown, and a sideshow barker before drifting into the film industry, and the world of traveling performers, carnival grifters, and criminal outcasts became the subject of virtually everything he directed. His films are populated by people who live on the margins: thieves, con artists, sideshow acts, and men so consumed by obsession that they will mutilate themselves rather than abandon it. No other director of the period returned so consistently to the same territory, and no one else made that territory feel so authentic. Browning's greatest creative partnership was with Lon Chaney, and five of the nine films here were made together. Chaney gave physical form to the damaged, driven characters Browning imagined, enduring extraordinary discomfort to play legless crime lords, armless circus performers, and paralyzed magicians plotting revenge from the swamps of East Africa. But even without Chaney, Browning's films share a distinctive atmosphere: a fascination with deception and disguise, a sympathy for people the respectable world considers monstrous, and a willingness to push melodrama into territory so extreme it becomes something like poetry. These nine films represent Browning's silent and early sound work. His most famous productions, Dracula and Freaks, came later and are not yet in the catalog, but the creative sensibility that produced them is fully visible here. The underworld Browning built on screen was drawn from the one he had lived in, and that firsthand knowledge gives his films a texture that studio-bound directors could never replicate.
10 films





Japanese cinema developed along a path unlike any other national tradition. While the rest of the world embraced intertitles, Japan retained the benshi, live narrators who stood beside the screen and performed all the characters' voices, provided commentary, and shaped the audience's emotional response to the images. This practice, rooted in centuries of theatrical storytelling, meant that Japanese filmmakers thought about the relationship between image and voice differently from their Western counterparts, and it helps explain why the transition to sound happened later in Japan than almost anywhere else. The films in this collection span from 1921, when Minoru Murata made what is often cited as the first significant Japanese art film, to 1936, when Kenji Mizoguchi produced the work that announced him as one of cinema's great artists. Between those dates, Japanese filmmakers created a body of work that encompassed radical avant-garde experimentation, swashbuckling period adventure, and a tradition of quiet domestic observation that has no real equivalent in Western cinema. Yasujirō Ozu was already developing the understated family dramas that would eventually make him one of the most revered directors in film history. Teinosuke Kinugasa was pushing formal boundaries as aggressively as anything happening in Europe. And Sadao Yamanaka, killed in the war at twenty-eight, was reinventing the samurai genre with a humanist wit that anticipated decades of later filmmaking. What strikes a modern viewer about these films is how little they conform to Western assumptions about what early cinema looks like. The pacing, the compositions, the emotional register all reflect a distinct cultural sensibility. These are not imitations of European or American models; they are the products of a cinematic tradition that was, from the beginning, fully its own.
12 films





Lillian Gish is the greatest actress of the silent era, and a serious case can be made that she is the greatest screen actress of any era. She began performing on stage as a child to support her family, entered films in 1912 at the invitation of her friend Mary Pickford, and immediately became D.W. Griffith's most important collaborator — not merely his leading lady but his creative partner in developing the grammar of cinematic storytelling. She understood instinctively what the camera required: performances of radical interiority, stripped of theatrical exaggeration, built from the smallest gestures of the face and hands. Her range was extraordinary. She could play fragile innocence in True Heart Susie and ferocious maternal protectiveness in Way Down East, where she performed the famous ice-floe sequence herself in conditions that permanently damaged her hand. She brought aristocratic composure to La Bohème and The Scarlet Letter, and in The Wind she delivered what many consider the finest performance in all of silent cinema: a woman driven to madness by isolation, wind, and the violence of men, rendered with a psychological precision that anticipates the best work of the sound era by decades. Gish outlived nearly every other figure from the silent period, working steadily into her nineties, and she never stopped advocating for the art form that she had helped create. The twelve films collected here span her entire silent career, from the early Griffith one-reelers through the late MGM productions, and they constitute an unmatched record of screen acting at its highest level.
12 films



