Putniblick /n/ 1. a golf-related aggravation 2. a nuisance
Tag Archives: Spelling Lesson
Tootin /tu:tin/ n. 1. A person who uses the telephone to intimidate or provoke the irritation of others. 2. A fool
North America is rapidly becoming a frustrating place to tell interesting stories due directly to the intrusive presence of wireless ‘badgetry’, convergent idiocy and Gen. Digital Shenanigans (two-star General, that Gen. Digital Shenanigans). You simply can’t tell a dramatic story if everyone has access to same universe of information, there exists no barrier between public space and private space, and everyone is connected to anyone they want to no matter where they are or what time it is. If Hitchcock’s war with the MPAA censors during the 1950’s tells us anything about filmmaking, it’s that to realize the dream of total surveillance would be a most boring and meaningless experience.
No wonder then that the best Hollywood films and cable television circa 2012 take place in worlds and times where this function of reverse surveillance and instant mediation can be avoided. It’s one reason why the scenarios and plot devices at work in slapstick films are so appealing: it’s far easier to fall into a problematic situation where Time and Space (this is cinema, after all) are obstacles to one’s existence.
So, in comes this hilarious sight gag using a wired phone from Cold Turkey (1940) starring Harry Langdon and directed by 3 Stooges mainstay Del Lord. The prop carries a doubly deep sociological resonance for the actor. Harry Langdon was a giant in the silent era but in the sound era he was ruined, even though I think he has the best delivery of the silent clowns. [I actually think that his humor has always been a bit weird and dark, but once audience fit the voice with the actions this natural strangeness became more transparent and not to everyone’s taste (though biographers attribute his career downfall with a longstanding feud with the popular and powerful Frank Capra).] In Cold Turkey, four years before his death, Langdon uses a cousin of the microphone, the telephone, to signal why conversations over the phone can never be as funny as a gag that uses real time and space to it’s advantage, as was done one and two decades from this point.
Far from exhibiting mere post-modern self-reflexivity, we see the spectre of slapstick physically imposing itself into a world that has begun to forget it’s strength and will soon fully forget. The physical attributes of the phone are funny: its’ hard so you can hit someone with it; it’s connected by a wire so you can tug-o-war with it. But, the way society is hacked up and hung on display with them is, well, to a comic, more boring than tragic.
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.
It’s a pun on Bohunks, which is a neologism for someone who’s a Bohemian Hungarian. It’s also a Laurel and Hardy film from 1931, from which Donald E. Westlake gleens the epigram for his tenth Dortmunder novel, What’s The Worst That Could Happen?:
This is no time for levity. – Oliver Hardy
This is no time for levity. Hmp! – Stan Laurel, in agreement.
[Spelling lesson within the spelling lesson: Hmp! is a expression of certainty, either in affirmation or deviance.]
The Beau Hunks is also the name of a popular saxophone ensemble that performs new recordings of old slapstick films, mostly Hal Roach productions like the above, but others too. Strangely, they are Dutch, based in Amsterdam, and release music on Basta Records. A sample from Our Relations, their recording of another Laurel & Hardy motion picture score: MP3
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.