Archive for Snub Pollard

Clip Joint

Posted in FILM, MUSIC with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 9, 2021 by dcairns

Essanay released TRIPLE TROUBLE in 1918, over two years after Chaplin had left the studio, and they claimed in advertisements that it was a complete Chaplin film they’d been hanging on to. In fact, it’s a couple of sequences from the abandoned feature LIFE, a few bits of POLICE, and the last shot of WORK, patched together with new footage specially filmed by Leo White.

Chaplin sued, arguing that this fraudulent Frankenstein of a film would damage his professional standing. Essanay successfully argued that critics, many of whom reviewed the film favourably, couldn’t tell the difference, and so neither could the public. So much for newspaper reviewers.

I’m writing about the film now since all the Chaplin footage in it was shot in 1915. I’m writing about it at all because it does include material, the LIFE outtakes, which is not available elsewhere. (Cutting together the scenes Chaplin himself repurposed for POLICE with the scenes here would give us a stronger idea of the unfinished movie’s narrative.)

The film begins with a chaotic series of random shots of context-free characters — a mad scientist, a count, a butler, a cook, Charlie and Edna as a skivvies. Which is pretty much how it continues. In the fuzzy print on YouTube, few intertitles seem to survive, so White’s plan, if he had one, is obscured. He himself is playing a count, though, and he’s trying to buy the radio-controlled explosives from the scientist. The scientist is refusing — we can imagine him saying “I intended my radio-controlled explosive to be used for peaceful means!” (credit to Simon Kane for this joke) — and so White seems to send hired thug Wesley Ruggles to achieve something or other.

As David Robinson says, some of White’s scene matching is quite clever — Charlie exits carrying a bin, and White cuts to new footage of himself in typical silk hat mode, walking down the street, only for the bin to rise over a high fence and tip its contents over him. The montage makes us believe Charlie is wielding the second bin, and that there’s in fact only one bin. As with his mangling of A BURLESQUE ON CARMEN, White is also reasonably adept at match-cutting entrances and exits filmed some time (two years?) apart. He doesn’t have much of the original cast to play with, but Billy Armstrong, extravagantly moustached, matches his own exits with new entrances and ties the various separately-shot sequences together, bodily. The trouble is, White — as we know from ABOC, is really shit at narrative.

Oh, he’s helped by something else — Wesley Ruggles apparently was to appear in LIFE as a thug, wearing the same costume he has on in POLICE, but with bigger fake eyebrows. And his trousers don’t seem to be torn yet in LIFE. Curiously, Chaplin shelved all the Ruggles material from LIFE, but kept other footage for use in POLICE, along with Ruggles and his pinstripes. So White is able to use film of Ruggles in both LIFE and POLICE (optically flipping the latter into Looking Glass Land, which shows a certain scrupulousness about disguising his perfidy) along with new material of Ruggles running around firing his gun indoors, which he cuts together with Charlie reacting in unflipped POLICE shots.

Actually, this may not even be Ruggles in the LIFE footage, just a guy wearing his suit.

None of this micro-cunning matters because on a macro level the film is a mess. But let’s look at the Chaplin bits.

The stuff in the house which isn’t from POLICE shows Charlie being incompetent with a bin, which he tips on Edna through carelessness. It’s not particularly inspired, and is interestingly mainly because we discover that, in LIFE, Charlie was to have worn a top with striped sleeves, revealed whenever he removed his tiny jacket. Why this insignificant change in the customary costume? We may never know.

The flophouse scenes, a different batch from POLICE’s, are much more interesting. In LIFE, there were apparently to have been two flophouse nights, a contrasting set. TT uses the second sequence, in which Charlie arrives with a cigar, probably filched from his new employer. He was penniless in the scene that appeared in POLICE, now he has money to hide from a thief who’s robbing the snoring schnorrers.

The IMDb mentions Snub Pollard, who’s evidently too well-disguised for me to identify, and also Albert Austin, in what would be his only Chaplin Essanay appearance, as “man.” Didn’t clock him either.

Ruggles’ motivation here is opaque, but he’s evidently a bad guy. No sympathetic character could sport such caterpillarish eyebrows.

Charlie is pretty nasty too, using one drunk’s mouth as an ashtray, and later silencing the fellow with one of Essanay’s sugar-glass beer bottles. It’s a return to the viciousness of THE PROPERTY MAN — interestingly, both derive from Chaplin’s early life experiences — the workhouse dormitory and backstage life. This seems to bring out his sadism.

“A laugh is an elegy for the death of an emotion” ~ Nietzsche.

“Chaplin is a very simple case. He is compelled to endlessly reenact the humiliations of poverty” ~ Freud.

There are more extravagantly outlandish rags being worn in this sequence — Chaplin could give Terry Gilliam a run for his money when it comes to using the homeless as set decoration.

I’m not 100% sure than Chaplin intended LIFE to be a feature, but that’s what the sources say. What survives looks like maybe half a two-reeler. Charlie struggles to get a place in the flophouse, then gets a job emptying bins at a house where Mabel works, returns to the flophouse (comparatively) flush with money.

The scientist thing is entirely White’s invention, but forms an interesting antecedent to Laurel & Hardy’s DIRTY WORK, where the boys are chimney cleaners arriving at the home of a mad scientist, an odd juxtaposition of story elements which may have been inspired by White’s desperately improvisations here.

The scientist’s invention is accidentally detanated at the “climax” of TRIPLE TROUBLE, a sequence which, for obvious reasons, barely involves Charlie. The most interesting shot in the film shows the kops (of course there are kops) apparently tumbling through the air, having been blasted skywards by the almighty boom. The crummy print and video interlacing render the image almost incoherent, but it seems like an interesting effect.

And then Charlie pokes his head from an oven, stolen from the end of WORK. Ruggles, in a new shot, lobs a brick at him — a callback to Keystone days — White cuts back to Charlie reacting to random rubble in WORK, and the thing ends.

I find repurposed footage movies sort of interesting, from WHAT’S NEW, TIGER LILY? to HERCULES UNCHAINED to DEAD MEN DON’T WEAR PLAID and TRAIL OF THE PINK PANTHER. They never really work, though. You would think that those which have the luxury of being able to shoot new material with some of the same actors would be the most coherent, but Blake Edwards and Leo White can prove the contrary.

On Sunday, we begin Chaplin’s Mutual period — I’m excited! These are the Charlie Chaplin films I grew up with, or failed to grow up with, on BBC2, accompanied by the Goed Nieuws Orkest. Alas, their lovely Chaplin violin theme is nowhere to be found today…

The Sunday Intertitle: Convict 999

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 6, 2021 by dcairns

POLICE was Chaplin’s last “real” film for Essanay, and they hung onto it for a few months, releasing it after THE FLOORWALKER, his first film at Mutual, in May 1916.

The cast list, which is a bit more fulsome than usual, gives us usual suspects Edna Purviance, Wesley Ruggles, Billy Armstrong and John Rand, along with CC himself. Confusingly, Armstrong is listed as “The Miser” but no such character appears, I think it’s a typo for “The Minister.”

After two films where he’s played a relatively high-status character, Charlie starts this film being released from prison, and this is the first film to position him as a convict — in THE ADVENTURER and THE PILGRIM he’d play an escapee, and MODERN TIMES uses repeated arrests and releases as a structuring device (almost the only one it has, you might argue). The two Chaplins of THE GREAT DICTATOR exchange arrests, and MONSIEUR VERDOUX is caught, tried and executed.

The real Chaplin — or maybe I should say the real-world Chaplin, since I don’t think the Tramp is NOT real — would have his own legal troubles.

Two things: Charlie STRETCHES as he’s released, because prison is confining. It makes no logical sense but feels right. And it’s been raining, or, more likely, this being L.A., someone has hosed the sidewalk. To make the outside world seem more uninviting. The intertitle characterises the world as the sort of place people commit suicide out of.

A sinister personage is already watching our hero. Chaplin, who had played sinister personages with glee on stage and in a couple of early Keystones, gives him a great entrance:

This lurker proves to be a phony preacher who pretends to reform Charlie. Now, in THE TRAMP there was a minister too, and Charlie dropped a rotten egg in his Bible. This throwaway gag wasn’t ABOUT anything, but it did seem to express an unformed anti-clerical or anyhow disrespectful attitude. Here, Chaplin has actually worked out a philosophy. ..

The holy platitudes move Charlie to tears. True, he wipes his eyes with the minister’s (patently false) beard, but this is not conscious lack of respect, it’s just that people and objects are interchangeable to Charlie. Inspired by the good word, he passes up a golden opportunity to relieve a drunk of his fob watch. And then he discovers his pocket’s been picked and sees the crooked minister is rolling the drunk he’d spared. (I’ve been reading William Burroughs’ Junkie which is a magnificent primer on how to roll drunks, among other things. The minister’s technique lacks finesse, but he did manage to rob Charlie without any of us seeing it.) The next (apparently sincere) priest to attempt saving Charlie’s soul gets seen off with threats of violence.

Maybe Chaplin’s anti-clerical impulses already derive from leftist sympathies, I don’t know. But the message seems clear: there are honest and dishonest preachers in the world: avoid both kinds.

Determinedly pursuing the hapless cleric, Charlie collides with and bowls over John Rand as a kop, who does a great fall and then gives chase. Surprisingly, the chase fades out just as it’s getting started, and we next see Charlie checking into a flophouse for the night. This is footage taken from LIFE, the Essanay feature project Chaplin had begun and abandoned, thus proving that you don’t have to be Leo White to recycle Chaplin footage. It doesn’t even help to be Leo White.

The dosshouse tenants are an extraordinary bunch — the look like pirates who have come from an explosion. This kind of scene and setting are quite unusual for silent comedy, but Chaplin is trying to find the common ground. His later movies that delve into poverty would portray the world with a kind of slightly softened realism. Here, we’re almost in the Emmett Kelly “hobo clown” domain. One of these guys is Snub Pollard.

Leo White plays the landlord/proprietor as a Jewish emigré type in a filthy waistcoat. A hint of kindliness — he allows a consumptive customer to bed down free. Charlie, having been relieved of his change earlier, spontaneously acquires a racking cough. Leo boots him out, but not before Charlie has given his beard a cruel yank.

Another strange transition as Charlie provokes a policeman, starts a chase… and strolls into the next scene, apparently unpursued. Then he’s mugged at gunpoint but manages to stealthily rob the pinstriped goon that’s doing it. This is apparently Wesley Ruggles, unrecognisable from his bit as Edna’s dad in SHANGHAIED. Ruggles proves to be Charlie’s old cell mate, and enlists him in a burglary. Armed with pistol and fatal mallet, they approach the target house, and Chaplin throws in an expressionist touch, four years before German expressionism was a thing in movies ~

Well, if you have the most recognisable silhouette in movies, might as well use it.

Kop John Rand has overheard the criminous scheme and is keeping watch, in another remarkable shot:

Lots of creeping and lurking in this one, and it brings out Chaplin’s compositional ideas.

Despite his prior conviction, whatever it may have been for, Charlie is a rank amateur at b&e, more liable to damage Wesley Ruggles than the window he’s charged with jimmying. Never ask a Charlie to jimmy for you, or vice versa. Now Rand’s kop pounced, and there’s one of those slow-burn things where Charlie doesn’t seem to have recognised he’s about to be arrested, until suddenly he wallops Rand with the fatal m. and Rand does a great stiffen-and-collapse, legs flying up as he hits the ground flat (a good friend knows how to do this and it’s a regret that I’ve never asked him to teach me. But I would be rubbish at it and smash my skull in).

Jimmying has no effect on this window, but luckily the door was open all along. Sophisticated bit of cutting inside — the two crooks creep to a curtain — Chaplin cuts to a wide of the room beyond, with Charlie peering into it, then back to the hall as Ruggles bumps into Charlie, then back to the big room as they burst into it. We haven’t seen that kind of cutting in Chaplin before, I don’t think. The days when each room was a single shot have imperceptibly faded away to a new kind of fluid treatment of space.

Of course we probably all guess this was going to be Edna’s house, and here she comes now, awakened by Charlie accidentally pulling over a unit full of metallic ornaments with his cane (startled, he dives under a rug, which becomes a bedsheet from which he says his prayers).

Ruggles produces a drill from somewhere. These two incompetents don’t have a toolkit or a swag bag, but it seems not to matter because Ruggles has, it seems, extraordinarily capacious pockets. I bet Charlie does too, judging from his pants. Charlie attempts to drill his way into the piano, for reasons unknown. If you were going burgling and you had the choice of Charlie or Harpo… well, probably going it alone would be your best option.

Edna calls the kops, who are all daintily drinking tea, a nice, strange touch.

This whole situation is great: Charlie is stuck in a situation demanding stealth, wile and ruthlessness, but all he can offer is inane fumbling. A bungler not a burglar. Plus he has a short-tempered associate more competent but also more dangerous than he, to intimidate and shove him about. This kind of thing would become standard for CC.

Lots of mileage is gotten from unlikely objects. He falls in a wicker basket and it becomes momentarily a turtle’s shell, then he steps in it, and simply by raising the wrong foot to get free, traps himself in a deteriorating spiral, leglocked and disorientated.

Using elaborate safecracker pantomime, Charlie breaks into the icebox. It’s not even certain if this is a mistake or mere whimsy. Objects are so easily transposed, there’s really only one all-purpose object in the world, and it’s all people and animals too.

Nonsensically, Charlie steals an alarm clock, and moments later Chaplin offers us the first ever view INSIDE the baggy pants, as the clock goes off. This provokes a frantic, electroconvulsive dance from Charlie, surely an exaggeration. Handed the basket, Charlie fills it with flowers and discards the valuable containers.

Sixteen mintes into a twenty-six minute film, Charlie runs into Edna, and immediately flees, leaping into Ruggles’ arms and then surrendering to an empty room. Ruggles covers Edna with his revolver, but she’s made of sterner stuff. She tells Ruggles to be quiet as her father is very ill. She invites them to dine — she knows the kops are coming — like men in a dream, the housebreakers fall in with their hostess’ request.

Chaplin has fun with the domesticity of the kops too. While they are indeed motoring at speed to the rescue, they’re also smoking cigars and looking very relaxed about it. This is much more characterful clowning than the Keystone variety of frenetic stagger, which does have character in it but, through its rampant disunity and hyperactivity, presents a singular aspect of chaos rather than individual reactions.

This short has more stylistic devices and sheer filmmaking imagination than Chaplin’s whole career to date! A sudden Sergio Leone closeup (but in vignette) shows Ruggles reacting to Edna’s jewellery. We tilt suspensefully up from her beringed fingers to her anxious face.

While Ruggles is off burglarizing, Charlie again shows himself a sucker for reformists, as Edna sweet-talks him into yielding to his better side. Priests is one thing, pretty girls another. But when she utters the exact same words as the film’s opening man of the cloth, Charlie checks his pockets. Good stuff — sentimentality at this stage of Chaplin’s career is mainly a set-up for a deflating punchline, it’s a spice that adds flavour.

Laden with Edna’s property, Charlie tips his hat and shakes hands as he and Ruggles prepare to make their getaway. Charlie has mostly grabbed not particularly valuable furnishings and impedimenta. But Ruggles still wants to try upstairs — Edna protests — now it’s her mother who’s sick — a struggle, as they say, ensues. Charlie is impatient with this sort of ungentlemanliness, and when Ruggles makes to haul off and slap Edna, he instinctively comes to her defence. Like a Jean-Pierre Melville heister, he has a code of honour which does not, however, prevent him from kicking Ruggles in the breadbasket when his dander us up. Ruggles throughout has a small, distracting tear in the seta of his pants, which now enlarges like an iris.

The kop, John Rand, now shows himself to be a subject worthy of continued study, as he awakens from his earlier concussion at the front door, enters the fray, and is at once reconcussed by a swung swag bag not even aimed at him. Staggering out again, he makes an “Oh sod it” gesture and lies down as if to sleep, then as an afterthought sits up and loudly mouths “Help! Help!” then lies back down again, so far as he’s concerned, unconscious.

Fiona asks is this is a Rand improv or if he’s following direction. We can’t know. All we can say is that Chaplin liked it enough to include it when he could have cut it. Rand was an ex-circus clown and presumably had considerable experience working up comedy business. I wasn’t really familiar with him before this trawl through the Essanays, but Chaplin kept him around for decades — I’d seen him a lot without knowing it.

The rescuing kops now arrive. Ruggles exudes via the back window. Rand runs behind the house and Charlie rereconcusses him with his own truncheon. Grabbed by the fuzz, he’s saved by Edna pretending he’s her husband. The following routine was hugely admired by Walter Kerr, who wrote:

“It is at this point that a virtual miracle takes place. With no transition at all, Charlie becomes Edna’s husband. Affable, outgoing, utterly at home, digging his hands into his pockets and flexing his knees as though he were master of his own domain and ready to get out the humidor, he is all bourgeoise bonhomie, the host par excellence, eager to show his guests about and have them back again soon. Nobody has ever been more completely the confident man of the house.

“The impersonation lasts only for a moment or two, but, for me, its implications are immense. It is entirely clear that Charlie could have been this man at any time he chose to adopt the role. He is no born underdog, deprived of opportunity by an unfeeling society. He is not inept, uneducated, uninformed, socially unacceptable. There is nothing in his natural equipment or in his background, nothing cruelly unjust in the society around him to keep him from most acceptably playing for a full twenty-four hours a day the part he is playing now. He might have married Edna, might have run a house, might have had children, might have gone to church, might have worked and become rich, might have done anything he cared to put his mind to. The competence is there, in plain view. The posture is believed in, even by the police. Nothing stands between his talents and the assumption of a role in which they might be exercised. He is no natural tramp.”

Of course the great Kerr is never wrong, but here he may be slightly wrong. Maybe he’s influenced by a greater belief in the American success story than I enjoy. In my estimation, Chaplin himself, who was the supreme example of the American success story, didn’t much believe in it either. Look at him looking at Lady Liberty askance in THE IMMIGRANT. His success was too freakish and tremendous to be believed in. So I think the tramp is (a) a natural aristocrat trapped in a tramp’s trappings, and (b) most definitely imprisoned by an unfeeling society, often literally. The reason he can’t become what he’s clearly capable of, respectable, is the way society is constructed.

I note also that Charlie’s hubby act enables him to bite off the end of a cigar and spit it in a kop’s eye.

Kerr is correct to state that there’s no visible transition, Charlie doesn’t even have to think. He’s a frozen culprit, and when he unfreezes he’s the householder. Charlie is always liquid, he fills whatever mould you put him in. The reason he’s not a homeowner the rest of the time is he doesn’t get put in that situation.

The kops, incidentally, are Leo White again, George Cleethorpe and Fred Goodwins.

Chaplin makes a mistake — the Little Fellow is gifted a coin by Edna — she apparently sleeps with lucre in her stockings — and he bites it to be sure it’s legit. Then he exits, and bites it again. I think either one is a good laugh, but the first one invalidates the second.

But then we’re into a classic closing shot, the long road, and Charlie walking off, this time with many a sidelong glance at the noble woman he’s leaving behind. And then, in a superb touch, he stretches again — a callback to the opening shot.

POLICE is a fitting climax to the Essanay period, probably Chaplin’s most achieved and interesting film to date.

And then, wait! Topping the topped, a furious Officer Rand enters frame and chases Charlie back past the camera.

Prom Prom Prom

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 29, 2021 by dcairns

The first character we meet in Chaplin’s BY THE SEA is Billy Armstrong, a somewhat bland clown who really needs his walrus moustache to project any character. He seems the equivalent of the later Albert Austin type. Funnily enough, when regular antagonist Bud Jamison appears, his painted eyebrows and top hat make him seem, with his burly, surly aspect, even more of a proto-Eric Campbell than before.

(Incidentally, David Robinson remarks that this film is a mere nine set-ups. I count more like sixteen, though many are mere variations in shot size. Robinson doesn’t make mistakes so I’m assuming restoration has rendered the film longer than the print he saw, or else he’s not counting slight push-ins.)

But long before we see Bud, Charlie has slipped on cinema’s first banana skin, at least so far as anyone has been able to trace. It’s his own banana skin, which is good. But it’s doubtful if the banana skin will ever have anything like the shock of the new that enabled it to get laughs. Buster Keaton experimented with NOT slipping on one, in THE HIGH SIGN, but seemed to be dissatisfied with the un-gag. In SHERLOCK JR. he has the villain not slip, and then Buster slips on his own banana skin, as if discovering the Chaplin variation all over again.

Chaplin’s banana bit is a standalone moment, easily excisable, and in fact pretty much ALL of the film is standalone bits. He first gets into a quarrel with Armstrong, both men having tied strings to their hats as a defense against the sea breeze, and their tangling inevitably leads to a punch-up.

Chaplin does manage a more sophisticated bit — having dazed Armstrong with repeated slaps, he forages for fleas in the punchy man’s thick hair (Armstrong is the same size and shape as Charlie, which seems wrong — both Conklin and Turpin had radically different aspects from the star despite being fellow short-arses). It’s mildly impressive that Chaplin manages to make us “see” the leaping insects, but even more impressive that, filming himself in a close medium shot with his stunned opponent, he makes us imagine other, unseen promenaders, whose pseudo-presence compels him to keep up a pretense of civility with his victim.

Charlie isn’t necessarily a tramp in this, but he’s devoid of any social ties — Armstrong has his “wifie” and his rags betoken poverty. When Charlie has a wife or job in the shorts, it always feels like a contrivance for the sake of the film, one from which Charlie will be free by the time we see him again. Some of these films have aspects of the sitcom, but the “sit” is ever-changing, the one constant being Charlie’s freedom to abscond to a whole new scenario at the end of the two reels. This, of course, was standard for all the silent clowns. In Charlie’s case it happens to support his status as eternally at least somewhat of a tramp.

Having rendered Armstrong vegetative, Charlie now does what he always does, uses the other fellow as a convenient object. He sits on him. When Edna passes, the unconscious victim becomes a prop for Charlie’s flirtation. He poses like a hunter with one foot on his kill. His smiles seem to suggest that his having pummeled this man into submission ought to excite the object of his desires. At the same time, he can’t touch the man’s (usually upthrust) arse. All very strange. Finally he leaves the fellow leaning insensate against a lifebelt stand, a grotesque parody of the crucifixion.

Kurt Vonnegut’s definition of slapstick — “grotesque situational poetry” — always seemed odd to me because it leaves out the funny part. But it has rarely seemed more accurate.

Charlie does some more flirting, going so far as to sidle into Edna’s shot. His cane gets out of control, flying around saucily, whacking Edna’s backside and then hitting Charlie in the face. It’s the jester’s bladder and stick all right. I’m almost sure that’s what it is.

Armstrong recovers somewhat — his movements are staggering, his eyes crossed — and attacks Charlie with the lifesaver. Edna moves away, meeting the dyspeptic Bud, hitherto a mere convenient cutaway, now apparently an acquaintance.

A cop — oh hell, I’m just going to call him a kop, what’s he going to do, arrest me? — shows up, but is laid flat by a blow from Armstrong aimed at Charlie. Glass jaws, these kops. Charlie and Billy bond over this shared love of police brutality. Armstrong may not have any special personality but I admit he does play with with Charlie. No doubt Chaplin could get a decent performance out of most people, by showing them what to do, but sustained interactive clowning takes real skill.

Charlie and Billy go for ice cream, Billy offering to pay, but apparently all that brain damage has made him forgetful, as the offer is rescinded the moment the ice cream seller asks money. An ice cream fight ensues, culminating in Billy biting Charlie’s arse — this may be one of the most arse-centric of all the Chaplin shorts, and they’re a pretty butt-obsessed lot.

Meanwhile, a slung bit of vanilla has splurched Bud, who now steps out of his own little sub-film and enters the plot. While he’s strangling Billy, Charlie renews his flirtation with Edna, who is Bud’s paramour evidently, from the way she’s been stroking his knee. He really is a diabolical little sex pest in this one. (In later films, he’s romantic but not overly sexual, except for his fit of nut-tightening madness in MODERN TIMES, which sees Charlie the Imp back in full swing).

A kop drags Billy off. Bud shoves the ice cream man to the ground, for no good reason other than malign temper and to show off that Snub Pollard, for it is he — though unrecognisable sans horseshoe moustache — can take a fall like a pro.

Driven off by a fuming Bud, Charlie has brief encounters with the rest of the cast, then espies Billy’s “wifie” (Margie Reiger) — I think her lips are calling “Billy!” — and of course has to make the moves on her.

His moves:

Billy escapes the clutches of kop Paddy McGuire and flees back to the beach.

Everybody winds up ganging up on Charlie on a bench, improbably positioned in the path of the tide. Charlie is using his bowler to play peekaboo so doesn’t notice the encroaching enemies. The natural solution, after a slow-burn realisation, is to upturn the bench and everyone on it.

Which is the end of the film. Well, it’s not any less satisfying than most Keystone climaxes, and BY THE SEA is maybe a little more together than most Keystones. It knows how to be simple. That may be all it knows, but that’s not nothing.

The fox knows many things, but the hedgehog knows one big thing. Old Russian proverb.