Tag Archives: Larry Semon

Slapstick Signage #6 & #7

Both from The Show (1922) and both pretty much sum up the narrative ingredients needed for for a seminal Semon short (Seminal Semon shorts? That can’t be right!): goo, wild animals, and explosives.

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Sears and Robots

Though not technically a robot, great costume work from Larry Semon’s Her Boy Friend (1924):

More on robots from the old blog here , here , and here.

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Slapstick Signage #5

Label from Larry Semon’s The Dome Doctor (1925), which combines a variety of viscous hair products, an escaped circus monkey, and strong electrical currents! Frankly this is due for a Gilliam remake:

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Semon’s Anti-Rationalist Spirit

Like Herriman’s Krazy Kat universe and Langdon’s peculiar passivity, there is something extraterrestrial about Larry Semon’s chase sequences. An example culled from Dull Care (1919):

Here’s amazing angular photography work that’s refreshing for an early two-reel slapstick (typically filmed flat). This image is half comicstrip, half Duchamps; a grocery clerk walking on the surface of the moon:

Especially in masterworks like The Rent Collector (1921), The Saw Mill (1922), and the finale of  The Bellhop (1921) Semon’s daring sight gags and his incessant penchant for fallings, smashings and chasings are not simply crafty spectacle designed to surprise and thrill his audience. Though often plot-less, the stories are not tomfollery, or some inert loop of mania-for-mania’s-sake.

Instead, Semon plots are aggressively anti-rational: the internal logic of the narrative is constantly reversing itself, doubling over, and falling out its own windows. Who follows their pursuers? Why is the city next to the farm? What scientific property will be subverted in next frame? And while the visuals are clear, they’re not abundantly precise, a la Keaton, nor is the performance elevated above the setting, a la Chaplin. The settings are utter visual abstraction: high, low, up, down, big, small, busy, quiet, dark, light, etc., etc.

In the best of Semon there remains a dream-like distance to these visualizations, the effect of imagining stories that are half-real, half something else entirely. The timing is metaphysically perfect but physically impossible, provoking not only laughter but wonder and thought.

Here’s a triptych of diagonally composed thought bubbles. First, a horse looks on at a dubious attempt at murder:

Then the thugs replace the horse, finding themselves now on the other end of a gun:

But then the thugs’ mirrored threat of death manifests in a unmanned steamroller heading for their original target.

There is trickery, manipulation, and violence at work,  but there is also magic, awe, and a general spirit of unpredictability; both sides of the anarchy coin. The chase concludes with Semon’s signature maddash-on-air, a continuing visual motif in his anti-rational cinema:

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Conjunctions and Chases

Most of Larry Semon’s films, with the extremely notable exception of 1925’s The Wizard of Oz, have a these-and-those-other-things structure to them: Bombs and Blunders, Babes and Boobs, Big Bluffs and Bowling Balls (and these are just half the ones starting with ‘B’), etc. Eisenstein theory of collision montage comes to mind:

“By what, then, is montage characterized and, consequently its cell – the shot? By collision. By conflict of two pieces in opposition to each other. By conflict. By collision” (from “The Cinematographic Principle and the Ideogram” (1929) in Film Form, pg 37).

Memorably, however, such strict alliterated title structures rarely delineate any actual conflicts, characters or other signifiers in Semon’s short, two-reel films. In fact the title usually doesn’t mean anything except as a kind-of truncated haiku. But at their best, they detail ideas far far away from the story on the screen and come off as surreal tone poems, full of color and cultural irreverence. The best of these are Plans and Pajamas (anxious dreaming, perhaps), Rummies and Razors (a poetically fateful pairing, visually as much as anything), and Huns and Hyphens (as in: the long lost civilization of Hyphens).

Along with no mention of either Huns or hyphens (but featuring a young Stan Laurel), Semon’s 1918 film Huns and Hyphens contains one of the strangest most thrilling and complexly unpredictable chase sequences in all of cinema:

In the first instance, whom is chasing whom doesn’t seem to matter. Halfway in, Larry’s character (in overalls) preys on the antagonist wearing the apron. In the second place, spacial characteristics such as mass, weight, height – even geography! – are powerless to effect the outcome of this comedy. Not only do pillars and walls cave in like cheese and crackers, but notice, too, how the city scene becomes a rural scene in a span of two seconds, and then back just as fast.

And then, the insane idea: human flight with your nemesis on an unguided umbrella. The complexity of this moment is that for Semon the filmmaker, the scene is a slapstick artist’s F.U. to the world encumbered by rules and disappointments. True flight, by which is meant the dream of human flight, by which is meant fake-flight, is the ultimate anti-Realist fantasy, and here it is the cathartic moment of the film. But, the characters are scared witless like they haven’t been throughout the chase. So, amidst this fantastic moment is revealed a very realistic human vulnerability: fear of death. Here we can sense Semon’s love of the ‘and’ conjunction, combining unrelated, even opposing ideas together with a simple grammatical function.

On a historical note, this high-hanging display of acrobatics atop a building predates both of Harold Lloyd’s sweaty-palms films: Never Weaken (1921) and Safety Last (1923), as well as Buster Keaton’s aerial, The Balloonatic (1923). All three are heavily influenced by this early feat of absurdity, and predates Eisenstein’s essay “The Cinematographic Principle and the Ideogram” by 11 years.

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Slapstick and Race

The language of a failed U.S. Reconstruction after the Civil War is prevalent throughout slapstick. However, most successful comics of the era tell gags that use existing racial stereotypes in such a way that upend the absurdity of the existing social order. In other words, the contradictions are explicitly brought to light, and sometimes with unexpected – even unintentional – poignancy.

For instance, there’s this twist on the Oedipal complex shown between Larry Semon’s escaped prisoner and the pretty, well-to-do black woman on the bench in 1918’s Frauds and Frenzies (she’s uncredited):

On their face we have in these six frames a social taboo that is being challenged, only by an unwitting and oblivious challenger, who then is so frightened by the prospects of that which he initiated that he hauls ass, literally and figuratively. Herein lies the joke. And slightly underneath this edifice we have the literal “flirting” with taboos, and that adds to the depth of the narrative.

But, if attention is paid to the Oedipal mirroring going on in the scene, something much more subversive can be read in these frames. First we have the initial non sequitur where the sex-hungry convict is not allowed to be attracted to the all-but attractive woman because of her dark complexion. Within this dynamic we have the fact that it’s Larry who is the one escaped from prison, not the woman is free and, more than free, a member of the middle class. In other words, the fact that even though he’s morally deviant, this “man” is white and therefore exempt from anything wrong in comparison to this non-white non-“man.”

On top of this, we have the acknowledgment in frame No. 3 and No. 4 that his desire of her is not surprising, i.e. she all but expects white men to confront her with their “insistence”.

Then in frame No. 5, the most subversive of all, we have the true depiction of the social order, i.e we know who is the true monster on the bench. Larry transforms into a uncontrollable, sex-crazed aberration. He is the ex-con, but more importantly he represents the perverse white order that cannot own up to its own desires, and does not admit even to itself its own routinely practiced behavior. Instead, it would rather run, windmill-style, away from the truth of the scenario.

This running away carries with it another double meaning. On the surface, it’s fleeing from what has been established as untouchable. But the undercurrent is more powerful: the convict runs away because he realizes the very law he accepts as maintaining his social order is, at least at times, undesirable. So the question remains: Does Larry fall because he is too quick to leave or does he trip because his real desire is to stay?

[The entire Semon (with Stan Laurel) film can be viewed here.]

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