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The face stares out of the picture taken long ago, like that of an old gunfighter. The eyes are the most striking feature, baleful and quietly menacing as Owen Moran seems to challenge the camera to penetrate the shield of his tough countenance and guess his thoughts and innermost secrets. The dark hair that frames his face is defiant in itself, slightly dishevelled as it tumbles from his crown and flops casually across his forehead.
There is something haunting and oddly captivating about the less sophisticated photographs of the early twentieth century. People so often look like the living dead as their eyes meet yours and suck you into their fading and mysterious world. One instinctively looks for Boris Karloff in every family portrait. In a photographic studio of today, of course, the folks of that age would look no more mystical or threatening than you or I. [details]
There is something haunting and oddly captivating about the less sophisticated photographs of the early twentieth century. People so often look like the living dead as their eyes meet yours and suck you into their fading and mysterious world. One instinctively looks for Boris Karloff in every family portrait. In a photographic studio of today, of course, the folks of that age would look no more mystical or threatening than you or I. [details]