Tag Archives: Franklin Pangborn

Clang Consciousness – Part I

Here’s a perfect slapstick linguist paradigm: sound as a physical gag. And here’s a clip from W.C. Fields’ Never Give A Sucker An Even Break to demonstrate the point:

The clip treks far beyond the mere exemplar of a new category of mass produced silliness. Yes, sound is being used as a gag, for what’s stopping sound’s elemental physicality from being adopted into the fold of slapstick? But moreover, the scene is a strong critical manifestation of class consciousness, that pesky Marxist tract that rings truer the longer you live. The whole funny business is mired in an entrenched pitting of working-class sound against the sound of the bourgeoisie (catch the younger kid’s daze?), and ambiguously proceeds with no clear winners.

It’s also an aesthetic drawing-a-line-in-the-sand as well. Mid-thirties Hollywood saw an influx of singing-and-dancing idiots into otherwise purist slapstick routines, including the very best of the Marx Brothers, Chaplin, and W. C. Fields. Thank God the whole mess got under the skin of at least Fields who laments its inclusion in the slapstick feature format on more than one occasion than the clip above.

More on this to come. Is that alright with you, Mr. Pangborn?

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Pangborn (adj; noun)

 

The terms FUBAR, Clusterf&@k, and WTF can be consolidated into a single signifier: Pangborn. Named so after the fussiest fusser who ever fussed, Franklin Pangborn, ex-Hal Roach, ex-W.C. Fields (above) and later, ex-Sturges. The man was cast in dozens of the world’s funniest films solely to look as like he’s being slowly encircled by loudly flatulating members of deeply moneyed families; everyone around him is socially rude, physically confusing, and morally upheld to know better.

This shit is totally Pangborn.

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Sturges and Neologisms

Preston Sturges – that’s Tinseltown’s Shakespeare to you –  shouldn’t be considered just a sillier version of Ben Hecht or a craftier version of the Brackett-Wilder team. He, and his successful flock and fold (notably both Coen Brothers), produce cinematic scenarios where the written word can’t be stripped in any way from its visual dramatization. Dialogue after Sturges is no longer just a creative flare and flourish, or something to be seen as creative independently from the visual design of the film like two parallel lines moving left to right and that – no matter how exquisitely crafted or extremely pleasurable the two are drawn – have damned little to do with each other. Instead, the spoken word is grafted into the picture in a way that radically transforms and complicates cinema as a dramatic art.

Like the best of the Marx Brothers, Sturges not only played with Freudian parapraxes – those telling puns that let repressed or concealed meanings slip out like sore thumbs – but also linguistic constructions that have more to do with Joycean neologisms – finely conceived puns based on playing with words which have different but metonymically related definitions to produce new words that although made-up have a ring of insight and sometimes even epiphany.

Take for instance the character of Mr. Louis Louis (“Louie Louie”) in the Sturges-penned, Mitchel Leisen-helmed 1937 hit screwball, Easy Living, played by real life Louie, Luis Alberni:

Scenes with one character and one line are always amazing achievements, but rarely is the line this fantastic: “How can such a phenonument be a flop?”

There are converging ideas here. The first is the common idiom of a “phenomenal flop”. Hotel Louis is just that and the man is drowning in debt. A second idea concerns opposing ideas: that of a “monument” – a towering one at that – and that of a “flop”, which besides meaning a colossal failure is also slang for a bed, which the building is filled with. So in this combination of opposites we have also have a visual contrast between the vertical buildings and the flattened Louis, reiterated by the simple shot-reverse construction of the solitary hotel from a low angle hinting at a POV, and the POV’s source from a high angle of the worried Louis.

The puns continue as he enters into the hotel chased down by the ever-aghast Franklin Pangborn playing Mr. Van Buren, this time through the two exchanging mismatched signifiers “Bull”,”Broad”, and “Ball”, which along with “Chicken” carry latent but unqualified sexual double-meanings, which is what the scene is explicitly about: hinting at perversity. So again here the dialogue operates as a structural double to the drama.

Then we have the final pun, that seemingly of a traditional comically conceived parapraxis: “Mr. Van Buren, with a little corruption from you…”

Yet, even here we have another of Sturges’s structural doubles – or to be more precise, a structural onomatopoeia, where the concept that being is conveyed is being conveyed as an example of that very concept. This is because “Corruption” is another name for a parapraxis. The Oxford English Dictionary defines corruption as “the unconscious or accidental alteration of a word or passage so altered,” and cites the following passage from C. K. Chesterton, with some pretty Sturges-esque surnames: “It is not for me to settle the question between two such men as Professor Hugg and Sir William Whisky as to whether Notting Hill means Nutting Hill (in allusion to the rich woods which no longer cover it), or whether it is a corruption of Nothing-ill, referring to its reputation among the ancients as an Earthly Paradise.”

Corruption is, after all, a major theme in Sturges’ work. Unlike W.C. Fields’ obsession with suckers and cons, Sturges was interested in corruption as it underscores how fragile and impermanent life’s ideals truly are. How does his active corruption of language relate to this theme? The goal of neologisms as a literary tactic is for insight and epiphany, not ad hoc manipulation for manipulation’s sake. Like Fields, too, Sturges’ warmest characters came up with the most cockamamie schemes. He was corrupt through and through.

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