Archive for The Circus

The Sunday Intertitle: Kid Stuff

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , on May 15, 2016 by dcairns

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Fiona had never seen THE KID — I have been slowly trying to raise her appreciation of Chaplin, a decades-long project that reached its apogee with A DOG’S LIFE, which she found delightful. She also got quite a bit of pleasure out of MODERN TIMES and THE GREAT DICTATOR. Oh, and the monkeys in THE CIRCUS had her on the floor begging for mercy, tears rolling down her face, sideways (because she was on the floor). She’ll always be a Keaton girl, which is fine, but I think you’re missing out on something if you don’t check out Chaplin.

THE KID seemed like a good bet because Chaplin is bolstered by a strong co-star. Fiona liked the dog in A DOG’S LIFE and Edna Purviance even gets to be funny in that one. And Fiona likes Paulette Goddard on principle. So I was staking everything on Jackie Coogan and on Chaplin’s chemistry with him. It worked!

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Things didn’t start too great, as the intertitle “A picture with a smile — and perhaps, a tear,” provoked the response “Oh fuck off,” which Chaplin had neglected to list in his catalogue of responses. If he had written “a smile — and perhaps a tear — or possibly an Oh Fuck Off” he would have been bang on the money.

But once Charlie gets landed with an unwanted baby, her attitude changed. Chaplin can be brutally UNsentimental, which only Walter Kerr in his majestic The Silent Clowns really acknowledges. Here, the comedy comes from the defenseless baby becoming a threat. Like Stevenson’s The Bottle Imp, or Tex Avery’s Droopy, you can’t get rid of it. When Chaplin opens a drain and briefly looks thoughtful, Fiona practically screamed in shock and then laughed in relief. “No, I can’t really do THAT,” Chaplin seems to think at us, as he closes the drain again, baby still in his arms.

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The baby then scene-changes into Jackie Coogan, and we’re pretty much home free. The little blighter is adorable and hilarious — Chaplin has schooled him in every move, you think, until you see his astonishing crying scene, which comes straight from the heart and can’t be faked or produced by imitation.

Chaplin (and his gag-writers) manages the action of scenes marvelously, developing situations into crises and finding unexpected ways to solve them. A lot of the comedy follows the baby problem pattern, turning a helpless and appealing infant into a deadly threat. The kid gets in a fight and a bulbous pugilist turns out to be the opponents brother. He’s going to pummel Charlie if his brother loses the fight. Charlie is now trying to sabotage his adopted son’s efforts. Or when Charlie, a door-to-door glazier, feels the watchful eye of a policeman on him — now the kid, suspected of throwing stones, becomes an incriminating item. Charlie must deny the association, gently kicking Jackie away with his foot. A father rejecting his son, writes Kerr, is monstrous. But here, because of the crafting of the situation, it’s hilarious. The kid is oblivious, uncomprehending, so we’re not tempted to emote at the wrong point. The man in trouble is the father.

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Chaplin still wasn’t so good at developing the whole arc of a story, and this remained his biggest difficulty. Starting out with more of a plan might have helped him, but then you look at the talkies… This leads him to the heavenly dream sequence, a heavy slice of whimsy — pointless, unfunny and positioned to paste over the fact that the plot is going to resolve itself happily without the protagonist doing anything. It’s exactly like the massive ballet in AN AMERICAN IN PARIS, only that’s entertaining in its own right. Chaplin’s paradise is more boring than Dante’s, and seems longer. “What has this got to do with anything?” asked Fiona.

But sooner than you think, the ending comes, and the film seems sort of perfect again. The good bits are sublime. The one bad bit disappears from memory like… like a dream upon awaking.

Criterion’s Blu-ray makes the film look like it was shot yesterday. Uncanny. My images come from the earlier DVD.

The Sunday Intertitle: Monkey on Man on Wire

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , on September 20, 2015 by dcairns

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Fiona definitely prefers Keaton to Chaplin, which is fine, except I don’t see the need to compare them at all. Do we need to decide that Fred Astaire is better than Gene Kelly? In certain respects, no doubt he is, but the comparison is of little help, obscuring rather than revealing the individual merits of each, or making Kelly’s merits seem somehow trivial.

Anyway, I was hoping to get Fiona to watch THE CIRCUS this week so I could write about it here, but we didn’t get to it. But we saw the opening when Paul Merton did his silent movie show in Edinburgh with Neil Brand on piano, and I subsequently showed her the bit with the lion and the bit with the monkeys, which are highlights in a feature usually considered less than totally successful. Read Walter Kerr’s The Silent Clowns for a cogent analysis of the story’s conceptual flaws.

The point is, Fiona laughed harder at the bit with the monkeys than she’s ever laughed at Keaton, I suspect. She likes monkeys. And also, everything about the scene is really brilliant. The cute monkeys become a deadly threat, since Chaplin is on a high wire. The trivial, degrading things they do to him — pulling his trousers down, biting his nose, climbing all over him and sticking a tail in his mouth — are all potentially fatal in this scenario.

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(Exactly the same dynamic is at play when Chaplin finds himself trapped in a cage with a sleeping lion. A small dog outside starts yapping at him — apparently outraged that he should be in the cage where he doesn’t belong — and all his/our anxiety becomes focussed on the wee dog, which might waken the slumbering lion. Something small and cute becomes deadly — that’s always funny, like the Beast of Aargh in MONTY PYTHON AND THE HOLY GRAIL, a cute bunny that can bite your head off, or like Mr. Stay-Puft in GHOSTBUSTERS if you want to lower the tone.)

Anyhow, the monkey-tightrope scene got Fiona genuinely hysterical, which I always enjoy seeing. Losing control of her faculties, she started narrating the action like a Benshi on nitrous oxide — “It’s biting his nose! Its tail is in his mouth!” She couldn’t breathe for laughing, and so couldn’t speak for not being able to breath, and for laughing at the same time, but couldn’t stop herself doing it. It was as if she could stop the scene being so life-threateningly funny if she could just describe it accurately. The critical impulse at work!

All this and the best banana-peel joke ever.

I guess hardcore Chaplin-haters MIGHT be able to sit through this scene without laughing, which I think would be proof of rigor mortis, or they might argue that it’s only funny because monkeys are funny. But it’s not just cute funny animal time — the USE of monkeys in a scenario with an underlying threat of death is extremely clever, the work of a master of comedy. And Chaplin’s convincing terror in the scene enhances it greatly — he knows when it’s funniest to play it serious.

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“Comedy is a man in trouble.” Yeah. With a monkey in his mouth.

Silent Laughter

Posted in FILM, MUSIC with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 12, 2008 by dcairns

And so to The Silent Clowns, at Edinburgh Filmhouse. Comedian Paul Merton has been sharing his love of the silent comedians for a couple of years now, and this show is a pretty good format to introduce newcomers to the comedy greats, although from my lecturing experience I would suggest you really need about three hours to give people a proper grounding in any of it. But for the modest-by-Fringe-Festival ticket price you get Merton’s introductions, three or four clips, a Laurel and Hardy short and a main feature (Buster Keaton’s SHERLOCK JR.), with Neil Brand at the piano providing sensational live accompaniment.

I’m not sure what Merton really adds to the experience. Well, he adds his TV fame, which presumably draws in at least some of the punters who otherwise might go to their graves without ever seeing a silent feature, and he adds some good jokes and a bit of historical context. There’s no real analysis or anything like that: without the films to look at, you’d have no idea from Merton’s intros just what made Chaplin or Harold Lloyd great. Stressing Lloyd’s everyman persona is a strange way to introduce a scene from WHY WORRY?, where he plays a neurotic millionaire. Merton’s love and enthusiasm, and undoubted knowledge of these films is commendable, as is the fact that he’s proselytizing for them, but I wish he’d take a leaf from Walter Kerr’s magisterial book The Silent Clowns and actually give more of a sense of what makes them great, rather than just asserting that they are. It might seem redundant, when the films are their to be seen, with ample proof of their own greatness, but it’s less redundant than anything else you can say.

I don’t mean to be negative because it was a great afternoon’s viewing: punters in Edinburgh should forego the usual stand-up and see some eighty-year-old material that’s funnier and also more beautiful than most of the current comedy on show. You can laugh yourself sick and also emerge ennobled.

Wisdom gleaned:

My theory has always been that nobody’s funnier than Laurel and Hardy, but even a very good silent L&H like WE FAW DOWN does not show them at their absolute peak. It was very popular with the audience though, and the last shot, with its scores of erring husbands tumbling from windows in their underwear, drew a round of applause from the crowd before the final fadeout even started.

THE CIRCUS has some of Chaplin’s best NIGHTMARE SCENARIOS: trapped in a cage with sleeping lions, while a wee dog yips furiously at him outside, or here, on a high wire and assaulted, horribly, by monkeys.

Chaplin, in the first clip shown, maybe got the best laughs. Extracts from near the start of THE CIRCUS show him near the top of his form, even if the film as a whole doesn’t stack up as among his best. I’ve never seen any Chaplin on the big screen, come to think of it, and he seemed to benefit most from this exposure. Having a greater distance for the eye to traverse from one element to the next in the frame really seemed to boost the comedy. I don’t think there were specific crucial details that would have been lost on the small screen, but everything seemed heightened by enlargement.

And idiots who suggest that Chaplin “doesn’t work” for a modern audience should have been there to see how this very modern audience reacted.

With Keaton, I’d noticed before that the ensemble playing suddenly became more visible and enjoyable on the larger screen, and this seemed true of Chaplin too.

Snub Pollard scored numerous laughs, partly because he provided the most cartoonish material of the show. It was good stuff, though.

“Opening his garage, Snub rolled out a little bullet-shaped car and hopping in, calmly held out a large magnet. As another car passed by, Pollard aimed the magnet and his little car took off in hot pursuit. Various forms of catastrophe occurred en route as Snub’s attention was distracted […]”

~ from Clown Princes and Court Jesters, Some Great Comics of the Silent Screen, by Sam Gill and Kalton C. Lahue. Surely Kalton C. Lahue must be the inspiration for Horton Hears a Who.

The film was IT’S A GIFT (1923), made when Pollard was briefly a contender in two-reelers. His star faded, the Australian comic became a specialist in tiny bit-parts, and can be seen getting an umbrella in the most famous scene of SINGIN’ IN THE RAIN. What I liked most about his magnetmobile was the idea of him inflicting this level of mayhem of the city streets every time he left the house. Life was tough in the ’20s.

Louise Fazenda got one particularly strong laugh, as her fur stole resolved itself into a draped dog, but her clip was largely to showcase Neil Brand’s skill at the piano, as he talked us through his job as accompanist.

Harold Lloyd wasn’t as well-served by the scene chosen as he could have been, but got good laughs anyway. Part of the charm of the programme is that, with different combinations of films and clips each show, there may be a different “winner” on laughs each afternoon.

Buster Keaton is a special case. Long stretches of SHERLOCK JR. provoked silent admiration rather than loud laughter, and I usually find this to be the case. It is NOT a weakness: with Keaton, the ingenuity of the gags is often more striking than the hilarity, and so you’re too busy gasping in amazement at his brilliance, or in shock at his physical daring. You can’t get your breath in order to laugh. It’s ironic, since Keaton’s stated objective was always simply to get laughs, but he winds up doing far more.

Having said that, the climax of the film, a rip-roaring two-part chase, got HUGE laughs, as did this amazing sequence, which resulted in Keaton unknowingly breaking his neck falling from the water-tower. He got up and was fine (as you see in the clip).

If the show had an extra hour to it (which wouldn’t risk tiring anybody out: you have to have faith in this material!), I’d like to see more complete shorts, and maybe something illustrating the earliest stages of the gag film, which Merton mentioned but didn’t illustrate. Some Charley Bowers would be good, some Fatty Arbuckle would be useful, and some Max Linder should be essential. But as an introduction to silent Hollywood comedy delivered in less than two hours, Merton’s programme can’t seriously be faulted.

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