The lost art of silent cinema: five must-see films from the 1920s

The flickering glow of black-and-white film stock, the dramatic swells of a live orchestra, and the exaggerated gestures of actors whose faces told stories without words: silent cinema remains one of the most beguiling chapters in film history. Though talkies took over by the end of the 1920s, the artistry of that decade produced visual treasures that still reward attentive viewing. From expressionist nightmares to comedic train wrecks, the period's output blended innovation with theatricality in ways modern blockbusters rarely match.

For Australian cinephiles, there is a particular thrill in tracking down pristine restorations of these works. Collectors swap notes at the Astor Theatre in Melbourne, browse the catalogue of Umbrella Entertainment, or queue for screenings at ACMI in Federation Square. A gift certificate from Sasquatch Video is an ideal way to bring these harder-to-find titles home, whether you are building a library of cult oddities or searching for that elusive boxed set.

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and the birth of German Expressionism

Few films announced a new visual language as forcefully as Robert Wiene's 1920 masterwork. Painted backdrops lean at impossible angles, shadows crawl across distorted walls, and the story unfolds through a frame narrative that questions sanity itself. The somnambulist Cesare remains one of the most haunting figures in early horror, gliding through painted forests with a stare that still unsettles viewers a century later.

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari is often cited as the first true horror film, and its influence runs through everything from Tim Burton to the Quay Brothers. In Australia, the title is a regular fixture of late-night revivals at heritage picture palaces, where its stylised sets look at home on the silver screen. Pair it with a quiet arvo at home and the right orchestral score on the stereo, and you have an experience no streaming algorithm can replicate.

Nosferatu: a vampire that still bites

F.W. Murnau's unauthorised adaptation of Bram Stoker's Dracula arrived in 1922 and instantly redefined the vampire myth. Max Schreck's Count Orlok is a rat-faced ghoul with elongated claws, a deathly pallor, and a shadow that creeps independently up the stairs. Every subsequent vampire, from Bela Lugosi to Gary Oldman, owes something to this uncanny silhouette.

Copies of the original negative were ordered burned by Stoker's estate, yet the work survives through countless bootlegs, restorations, and loving tributes. Australian distributor Madman Entertainment has championed the title locally, often bundling it with other Weimar-era oddities. With a Sasquatch Video gift certificate, you can chase down Werner Herzog's 1979 remake alongside Murnau's original and spend a long winter's evening comparing fangs.

Buster Keaton's The General and the romance of the rails

Buster Keaton's 1926 Civil War epic is widely regarded as one of the greatest comedies ever made, silent or otherwise. Built around a real locomotive and a genuine hijacking, the film balances slapstick precision with surprising emotional weight. Keaton performs his own stunts, including falling from a moving train onto a pile of wooden ties, and the result is a picture that feels both carefree and quietly melancholic.

The General rewards repeat viewings because every gag is meticulously engineered. Australians who grew up watching Buster Keaton on SBS or ABC late-night slots often speak of him with the same reverence reserved for local footy legends. The Union Pacific engine that stars in the film is a reminder of an industrial age that even outback towns once shared, and the picture plays beautifully on any self-respecting home theatre setup.

Metropolis and the dawn of science fiction spectacle

Fritz Lang's 1927 Metropolis is a towering achievement of early science fiction, depicting a future city divided between privileged intellectuals above and exhausted workers below. The film's machine-augmented Maria, its soaring Art Deco towers, and its choreographed floods have been copied so often that modern viewers may forget how startling they once were. Restored footage discovered in Buenos Aires in 2008 finally returned the work to something close to Lang's original vision.

In Australia, the NFSA in Canberra holds screenings and preserves related materials, while the Hayden Orpheum Picture Palace in Cremorne occasionally programs Lang's work alongside other Weimar marvels. Metropolis is the kind of film that justifies a hefty gift certificate: seek out the recent two-disc edition that includes the restored cut and the documentary about its rediscovery.

Sunrise and the poetry of light and shadow

F.W. Murnau returned with Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans in 1927, a film so visually sumptuous that it won the very first Academy Award for Best Picture for Unique and Artistic Production. The story is simple, a husband tempted to murder his wife and her redemptive forgiveness, yet Murnau and cinematographer Charles Rosher turn it into a symphony of light, water, and city fog. The famous travelling shot through the swamp is still a masterclass in early camera movement.

Sunrise rewards the patient viewer who lets its rhythms unfold. Curl up with a cuppa, dim the lights, and let Janet Gaynor and George O'Brien sweep you into a lost world. A Sasquatch Video gift certificate offers the perfect key to this and the other titles listed here, many of which arrive in collectible editions worth displaying on the shelf between brekkie and the morning paper.