Tag Archives: comedy

Seek to Hide, Hide to Seek

This post revives an earlier debate about dramatic activity/passivity in slapstick.

Here’re two titans of the silent screen telling jokes with movie-making itself, yet the two gags are achieved through opposing performances. The first is Chaplin in 1914 from Kid Auto Races:

This clip is an abridged version of what drives the whole short: a man can’t help but flirt with the camera. Or is he courting with the audience he anticipates. Or is he in lovestruck with the cameraman? It’s hilarious, and you can extrapolate Chaplin’s entire cinema based on the few clownish emotions and dramatic ideas it presents.

However, here’s the same set-up (public event, large crowd, film-within-a-film) but the comedy comes from a much deeper subversion of our expectations:

This bit from Tramp, Tramp, Tramp (1926), especially when looked at after Chaplin, is spinning with ideas about spectral identity and other Hegelian/psychological head-busters: Can activity (action) operate as passivity (inaction)? More mysteriously, can inaction ever NOT be a type of action (NOTE: the outgoing U.S. Congress, the 112th, earned the moniker “D0-Nothing Congress” but this is of course a misnomer; if the press were more analytical they would have more accurately named it the “Do-Everything-We-Can-Prevent-Action Congress”), as the only achievable passivity is in a thing’s non-existence, which then can’t be discussed in terms like “achievable” so why are we even talking about it?

This is why Langdon’s gag is so phenomenal (NOTE: the joke may or may not have been written by Frank Capra). A movie star playing camera shy running from a camera is first hilarious, secondly thought-provoking, (both of these are apt to describe KAR) but third, it’s twisted, inserting a bit of tragedy into the tomfoolery. There’s an element of the nightmare, of terror, of the uncanny.

In general, what is uncanny can not be entertaining, which is why Chaplin always framed (and in some cases masked) disturbing or uncomfortable subjects like war or poverty or Fascism in moral righteousness and divine/poetic justice, aka: a happy ending (despite his Tramp’s ambiguous future at the end of most of the features).

Langdon however is not a sentimentalist. If anything he’s a surrealist, upending our ideas about story and narrative by withdrawing from reality and, through slapstick logic, guiding us somewhere strange.


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Monkey Business

It would be easy to over-intellectualize the following images, to perform a kind of existentialist, Hamlet-looking-at-the-skull kind of observation about the life of comedy, specifically the life of a comic. But I think that this is the danger. That is to say, this is the monkey, for that is what the monkey is: danger. See for yourself:


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The Economics of Pratfalls

Slapstick, like Noir, is a film genre tethered to the industrialized modern world. The most famous jokes involve enormous buildings (Harry Lloyd), coal-powered trains (Buster Keaton), unforgiving factories/nations (Charlie Chaplin), etc. There is further evidence of this link throughout the 20’s and 30’s in Hal Roach productions, early Capra, and on and on. Those of you following along at home can perform a pratfall as such:

What is it? It’s a wide shot, confirmed by Chaplin and Keaton. Why? Because we have to see the entire fall, the whole fall, uninterrupted, uncorrupted, unadulterated. It is a beautiful thing and therefore can speak for itself.

But as sound enters into films – 29-ish – the pratfall begins to obscure and fragment, as though filmmakers (except Hitchcock) have forgotten how to use them. We see by end of the twentieth century they have all but disappeared from movie houses.

There is the simple explanation: since sound and picture have integrated in narrative film production, the need for a purely visual spectacle is obsolete. So in comedy, physicality no longer takes primacy. Look at the masters of comedy since the pratfall: writer-directors Sturges, Wilder, Allen; actors Sellars, Martin, Allen. We see the transition so early with the downturns of Keaton, Langdon and Lloyd and the emergence of the Marx Brothers, W.C. Fields and more of those singing-types.

In the scene below, from Easy Living (1933), we see an opera of pratfalls, they being a predilection of screenwriter and soon-to-be-director Preston Sturges. But also in this scene we can draw a direct parallel between this post-silent era exaltation of the pratfall and the economics of the Depression:

The pratfall is the Icarus myth told in less than two seconds but with all its complexity left intact. Pratsfalls are about the possibility of freedom, for, at least in North America, freedom is synonymous with two functions. The first is Choice, and the second is Success. Without freedom one cannot make decisions, which is an extension of responsibility to self and others. Nor without freedom can one be able to attempt at success. Contrary to the prevailing perversity of the ‘success story,’ in order to attempt at success one needs to be allowed to fail. This is one of the ways advanced, modern societies are desirous and humane: they allow for the possibility of, expect and accommodate human failure.

So what if the pratfall’s gradual extinction from cinema were a symptom of diminishing possibilities within society? If that were the case, society would act largely outside the guidelines of responsibility or, its sons and daughters, their consequences. And, more dire than privileging success over failure, the very opportunity to fail would be denied, the very cornerstone of a society that respects the privileges of success in areas of human achievement. This doubly make sense when we observe that the only time in modern cinema (with the occasional exception of some animated features) when bodies fly through the air is when they are reduced to corpses.

To a prude, writing a comedy about the Depression at its inception – and Preston Sturges would go on to write more than a couple – would seem exploitative and insensitive, even perverse. But comedy protects the right of failure in times of economic disparity and defends against the general harshness that accompanies tight-belt eras. And it’s during these that the act of falling down needs to be not only protected but practiced.


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Spelling Lessons #3 and #4

Both are from 1934’s It’s A Gift starring W.C. Fields:


A kumquat is not an orange though it wants to be one, especially when they’re around other kumquats.

Next, later that same film …

Carl La Fong

Carl La Fong is a fictitious neighbor that salesmen cook up to confuse average Joes long enough to get their foot in the door.

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“Suds” Redux

The best female-lead slapstick ever made, 1920’s Suds, is based on a popular one act by Frederick Fenn and Richard Pryce called ‘Op O’ Me Thumb. It’s also a great example of both how obligatory happy endings can nearly ruin a picture and how the function of comedy, slapstick included, is the total embrace of failure, death and pain.

In the should-be final scene, the pseudo-Cinderella Amanda Afflick, derided as “Sudsie” and played by Tinseltown’s first self-made millionaire, Mary Pickford, delivers a profoundly funny line when answering her own question wondering whether anyone will ever fall in love with her:

A triple negative. Not only, either – a triple negative spoken by a penniless, heart-broken, sobbing young woman:

This is the epicenter of comedy.

Look at how the triply negative intertitle mirrors the comical structure of the scene. The levels of Sudsie’s misery are so thoroughly so that they begin to crumble and fall within their very articulation. This blend of pathos and comedy is typically called Chaplin-esque, but this is less tragicomic than it is using tragedy as the baseline for humor.

The scene is actually Fields-esque. James Curtis, quotes W.C. Fields in his biography: “I never saw anything funny that wasn’t terrible. If it causes pain, it’s funny; if it doesn’t, it isn’t.”

See? She’s done for. Get it?

Of course things are only half as bad / twice as worse as they seem.

First, the half-as-bad: Before Sudsie concludes that nobody never won’t love her, the man of here dreams – a man who wants nothing to do with her – reluctantly pecks her cheek and then high-tails it out of the laundromat where the film finds its title. But, the scene is intercut with action happening just outside the door of the laundromat, where a delivery man who’s grown attached to Susdie because of a horse they both care for holds flowers in his hands and peers inside to look for the woman of his fancy. Once he gets a whiff of the jerk – whom he doesn’t know to be jerk per se – he backs off, not quite as upset as Sudsie will be moments later but nevertheless upset.

So “Nobody never won’t” is unambiguously foreshadowing the eventual reconciliation of the failed pair, Sudsie and the delivery man. Connecting through a break, positing a positive in a triple negative.

Now for the twice as worse: This is not the last frame of the film, as it so hilariously, proudly and beautifully should be.

After some cliche proverb about bumps in the road comes an obligatory last scene:

This is an interesting mirroring of the sense of shock and betrayal felt upon seeing this final scene of the film, only by the characters in the scene itself.

A close reading of the outcomes, from right to left: Sudsie is literally not Sudsie but instead some confused poster child for bourgeois ideals; her horse, Lavender, that previously mirrored Sudsie and her deeply-held conviction that scrawny, worthless, runts deserved to be loved as though they were your own self, is now a fat, boring, majestic-looking thing – Yucklph!; Finally, she winds up with … THE DAMN JERK! and not the delivery man after all.

He looks as confused as anyone, doesn’t he?

The whole charade – as cliche of a Hollywood-forced happily-ever-after as any – is a far, far cry from Fenn and Pryce’s original play, which ends as such:

She crouches in a shabby little heap in the middle of the empty room as the CURTAIN FALLS

See? She’s done for. Get it?

The only – and only slightly because this is just apologizing for what’s shown – saving grace to the disaster is that the fantasy/delusion operates in the Lynchian structure of it-could-all-be-a-dream. Let’s not remember that before all this disastrous bump-in-the-road business, Sudsie was falling asleep on the step:

Ay, there’s the heap.

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Spelling Lesson #1

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring’l-ding’l-ding’l-ding’l-O-ding’l-ding’l ding’l-O-O-boom-boom-boom-[cough]-ding

This is Harry Langdon as a human doorbell in 1933’s The Stage Hand. Besides Chaplin, who in the early sound films uses the new technology as just another prop in his comedies instead of embracing realist verisimilitude (that is until 1947’s Monsieur Verdoux), Langdon is far and away the best silent clown to deliver hilarious lines. For instance, see the above. Of course just how funny this scene is is ironic because these sound shorts are produced near the end of a precipitous fall from popularity that began five years earlier by ticking off Frank Capra. Add this to the fact that most people who’ve heard of Keaton, Chaplin and who squint a little when you mention Harold Lloyd, shake their heads and change the subject altogether if you bring up Harry Langdon.

Langdon is another figure in slapstick that expands on the issue of spoken word with particular genre of comedy, using idiosyncratic language so particular the jokes remain funny but also embrace something weird and unfathomable.

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