This remarkable film has sometimes been described by historians as a movie about birth control, but it isn't, although birth control is presented as an alternative to abortion, which is the film's true subject. "Where Are My Children" is probably the most forthrightly anti-abortion movie ever made by a mainstream American studio, and how Lois Weber got away with it, I'll never know; a film like this couldn't possibly be made today.
I have no objections to a filmmaker using a movie as a vehicle for his or her convictions, as long as they're honest about it, and this movie is honest. Weber follows the logic of her plot, and her convictions, right to their end, without flinching from the logical and merciless conclusion. This is a gripping and powerful tragedy, well acted, written and directed. There is one unforgettable moment in which a quiet little gesture by Helen Riaume tells volumes; she has taken her friend to a doctor who performs abortions (and has done so for her), and while lingering in the waiting room, Helen yawns, as if terminating a pregnancy is a completely casual matter. It is a perfect, subtle sign about the depth of her corruption.
"Where Are My Children" isn't perfect; the scenes of souls in Heaven's antechamber, "waiting to be born," are a little heavy-handed, even if they give Weber the chance to use the trick photography she was so fond of. But the skill with which this movie is made is remarkable for 1916; this is a much more powerful movie than Griffith's "Intolerance," the most famous film of that year. I was amazed by "Where Are My Children," and I will never forget it.
I have no objections to a filmmaker using a movie as a vehicle for his or her convictions, as long as they're honest about it, and this movie is honest. Weber follows the logic of her plot, and her convictions, right to their end, without flinching from the logical and merciless conclusion. This is a gripping and powerful tragedy, well acted, written and directed. There is one unforgettable moment in which a quiet little gesture by Helen Riaume tells volumes; she has taken her friend to a doctor who performs abortions (and has done so for her), and while lingering in the waiting room, Helen yawns, as if terminating a pregnancy is a completely casual matter. It is a perfect, subtle sign about the depth of her corruption.
"Where Are My Children" isn't perfect; the scenes of souls in Heaven's antechamber, "waiting to be born," are a little heavy-handed, even if they give Weber the chance to use the trick photography she was so fond of. But the skill with which this movie is made is remarkable for 1916; this is a much more powerful movie than Griffith's "Intolerance," the most famous film of that year. I was amazed by "Where Are My Children," and I will never forget it.