One of the less obvious differences between sound and silent pictures, is that whereas in a sound picture the director will set up a scene, prep the actors and then call action, in a silent the director could (and usually would) continue to direct even while the cameras were rolling. Of course it's hard to tell how much this difference affected the finished product in real terms. However, with a director like Joseph "von" Sternberg, who demanded a complete (and indeed tyrannical) control over every aspect of the image, the ability to carry on shouting at his cast and crew right through the take was probably a considerable bonus in fine-tuning his elaborate visual style.

With Docks of New York being a late silent, it has more or less as much fluidity of movement and camera angle as your average sound flick. However there is an extreme complexity in the movement of a kind that you only really saw in Sternberg's silents. Take for example those lengthy dolly shots through the bar, with extras moving across the shot as the camera goes in or out. Those movements across the screen look haphazard, but they are carefully timed to complement the camera movement and give a rising tide of franticness. To arrange everyone so precisely there must have been almost as much activity behind the camera as in front of it. You could do a shot like that in a talkie, but it would require copious reheasing, and I don't think that's something they tended to bother with in the early sound era, what with the all the other obstacles they had to overcome. It's certainly true that Sternberg used to spend most of his set-up time sorting out the lighting schemes, rather than giving any detailed priming to his cast.

Sternberg's layered patterns of movement not only add to the aesthetic quality of this picture, but they enhance its atmosphere. The barroom scenes in particular have a spectacularly chaotic feel to them. The fact that every edge of the room is filled by a mass of moving bodies makes it impossible to figure out the size and layout of the place. But for all his visual lavishness, Sternberg himself admitted to caring little about stories, and as a result the narrative gets a little lost amidst all the shadows. This is even given the fact that Docks of New York is overburdened by intertitles.

Sternberg had also yet to fully develop his stylised and dappled lighting patterns that can be seen in his talkies. Here that's a good thing, because it means his camera shows the actors up a little better. And there are some fine performances here worth capturing. George Bancroft gives a superbly realist turn, looking every inch the rough but basically good-hearted stoker. Betty Compson is also nicely subtle, in a slow and measured performance with plenty of under-the-surface emoting. An honourable mention should go to Clyde Cook, who plays Bancroft's buddy Steve. Cook was an Australian slapstick comic, once the star of his own shorts but by this time doing supporting work in features. He is perhaps a little too clownish for the sombre tone of Docks of New York, but entertaining to watch and capable of a spot of straight acting when the occasion demands.

The oevre of Herr Sternberg can generally be summed up as pretty to look at but dramatically unengaging. As a silent picture, where the director can put his all into the image without having to worry about the business of dialogue, Docks of New York is just that little bit prettier to look at. And yet as one lacking in a strong narrative drive it is also that little bit more dramatically unengaging. It's a shame, because this is potentially one of the most poignant tales he ever dealt with. Bancroft and Compson recognise this, and play it appropriately, but the director remains a hard-boiled cynic who knows a few camera tricks.