David Wark Griffith was a hardscrabble, intuitive director, who never slowed down long enough with each new formal discovery to mine it entirely of potential (it would take the more systematic Bolshevik filmmakers to seize upon his innovations and spin theory out of them). And after years of pushing the boundaries of both scale and technique, including trying his hand with the Biblical Epic in Judith and Bethulia (1914), Griffith produced one of the most towering landmarks in the history of film in 1915, Birth of a Nation. The film dazzled audiences and filmmakers the world over for its showcase of the director's innovative camerawork, cutting, and sheer spectacle, and left a trail of controversy that tainted his reputation forever with a story that makes heroes of the Ku Klux Klan. The film was both the most important and profitable American silent film, and a breathless defense of the Southern Cause and its salvation by the Klan from a humiliating Reconstruction. It has been suggested that Griffith made his next film, Intolerance, in part to atone for Birth of a Nation, and in part to attack that film's many critics.

Intolerance was another groundbreaking marvel: four different stories, in four separate historical eras, each with its own characters and plots, lavish costumes and sets — epics in their own right — all tied together with shots of an old woman rocking a cradle, a symbol of our common humanity. The theme: our equally common inhumanity, especially in the form of religious hypocrites and do-gooders. Except for the occasional trademark Griffith lapses into hyper overacting, the sequences are breathtakingly naturalistic: not only do the Modern Story factory riot scenes seem documentary-like, but so do the battles in Ancient Babylon and Renaissance Paris, which, along with the Judean Story, parallel and contrast the Pharisees and martyrs of all the ages. Ultimately, however, the message is unfocussed and unconvincing, as any call to tolerate everything except intolerance inevitably tends to be.

In some ways, the Gospel section of this film seems just one more example of intolerance. The Crucifixion of Christ does, however, figure into a strange and melodramatic climax involving soldiers on the battlefield laying down their weapons as a choir of angels looks down from above. The Jesus episode gets the least screen time, unfortunate not least because this version is more free and natural than many a later rendition. The Wedding at Cana is especially realistic, and — given the heightened contrast with the Gnostic piety of the Pharisees — seems particularly human. Furthermore, because this is a silent film, there are no extended sermons (other than Griffith's own pompous subtitles). We dwell on images and action, and encounter thereby a more incarnated Christ than in tellings of the story which depend much more on Word than being made flesh.

The climactic sequence is a virtuoso performance of cutting within and between the narratives. The Boy (in the Modern Story) is framed for murder and goes on trial. Flashback to Christ before Pilate. The Boy is sentenced to death. Cut to smug Reformers celebrating. Meanwhile, back in France, it's the dawn of the St. Bartholomew's Day massacre: dissenters awake, soldiers prepare, Royals anticipate. Evidence surfaces proving The Boy's innocence: now the race to overtake the governor's train to stop the hanging. The Boy receives Last Rites from a priest. The train. The priest. The Mountain Girl rides back to Babylon with the warning of immanent attack, Cyrus and his Persians in hot pursuit. The train. The Persians. The Huguenots are massacred. Christ walks the Via Dolorosa. Mad dancing at the Feast of Belshazzar. The train. The horses. The Communion Host. Thus, all four stories climax simultaneously in tremendous battle scenes and fevered emotional struggle across the ages. The Babylonian sets were the most massive ever built: giant walls, towers, statues, casts of thousands, massed combat on horseback, dancing girls in all their pre-Code sensuality and surprising amount of skin. To have seen this film in a world not already sated with spectacle must have been a transformative experience.

Yet Intolerance didn't do as well at the box-office as Birth of a Nation. Perhaps it was the epic length, complexity, or heavy-handedness. Maybe it was just bad timing: American audiences might have been loathe to be reminded of the neverending cycle of human injustice as they were embarking on a War to End All Wars. This film did, along with Birth of a Nation did, however, have a transformative effect on filmmakers the world over, especially the Russians, as noted, and a former playwright lately turned filmmaker named Cecil B. De Mille.