Ella Cinders is one marvelous silent film and Colleen Moore is great in it

Review by Doug Gibson

My initial reason for watching Ella Cinders, a 1926 comedy take on Cinderella from First National Pictures, was because I knew that my favorite silent comedy screen star, Harry Langdon, had a cameo with the actor who starred as Ella Cinders, Colleen Moore.

The cameo was great, very funny; but the movie is even better. It's a comedy classic and it's understandable that the winsome -- timid-but-determined heroine with the expressive countenance and bobbed hair -- Moore became a star.

Ella Cinders was a cartoon strip for decades in the prior century. It involved a beautiful step-child bullied and virtually enslaved by her widowed step-mother and her two far less attractive (and that's being kind) step-sisters. That's a familiar tale, of course. The setting is Colorado. Besides her screen-presence beauty, Moore is a genuine comedian who inspires pathos. I'm not scholar enough to analyze her talents next to other women silent stars, but with her pluckiness I do feel comfortable comparing her to Mabel Normand in two films, Mickey and The Extra Girl. (One of the Ella Cinder comic strips is below.)

So, Ella is pretty friendless except for one champion, the delightfully named Waite Lifter, the local iceman. (He's as handsome as a prince, by the way). One day, while cleaning up at a local get-together at her home she discovers news of a photo contest. The winner gets a screen contract in Hollywood. Ella sees it as an escape. To get the $3 needed to enter she babysits. She lifts a magazine from her sister on eye movement while acting. Watching her practice is very funny and special effects -- impressive for that time -- are used to have eyeballs move from side to side in the sockets.

(In the two stills below Moore's Ella is seen with her step-mother, Ma Cinders, played by Vera Lewis, and with her "prince," Waite Lifter, played by Lloyd Hughes).

Ella gets her photos taken and wins the trip. She won not for her beauty but because her eyes crossed while a fly was on her nose. The judges loved the comic effect. Her family shuns her but Waite sees her off on the train to Hollywood.

In the train, Moore shines in a scene where Ella takes a nap while alone on the train and wakes up with the car filled with Native American men in traditional garb. They are smoking cigars and Ella, wanting to be a good sport, tries puffing on one with comic results. Her acting in the scene is on par with Lucille Ball.

Once the train arrives in Hollywood Ella is hit with another major setback. The contest was a scam; the promoters are in jail. She's urged to go home but realizing how dire her prospects are there and the derision she'd receive, Ella musters the courage and determination to go it alone in the movie world and try to get a foot in the door.

This eventually leads to a funny sequence of scenes where she attempts to get past the guard at a studio's gates and is eventually chased through the lot by him. This includes the laugh-out-loud funny scene where Ella encounters Harry Langdon and mistakes him for another studio gate-crasher. Langdon, in complete "Little Elf" mode, listens quietly, using his facial expressions to provide encouragement. To avoid detection, he advises her to contort her body so he can place a tablecloth over her so she can hide as a table. It's clear that Harry was filming "Tramp, Tramp, Tramp" at the time based on the clothes he was wearing. (1)

Ella is eventually discovered and caught. But she so impresses the director, played by Ella Cinders director Alfred E. Green, that she gets a film contract and favorable press notices in her hometown announcing she's a star.

I'll stop with the plot recap here except to mention we learn that iceman Waite Lifter is actually a national sports hero with a wealthy family. In a short scene we see him arguing with his father, who doesn't want him to marry Ella.

The film I watched clocks at 51 minutes. However, I believe the film is 74 or 75 minutes. Perhaps part of the film is lost and this is a shorter re-release print. It's still very enjoyable and with overall good pacing. The climax of the film involving a reunion of Ella and Waite seems a bit too abrupt and perhaps that is where cuts were made. I also wonder if a final resolution scene with Ella and her wicked step-family might be missing.

Colleen Moore had a long fascinating life. She retired from acting after starring in The Scarlet Letter in 1934. She was a shrewd investor, so much so that she was partner later in life with Merrill Lynch. Besides writing an autobiography, she also wrote a book on how to invest in the stock market. Born in 1899, she died in 1988.

Moore preserved her films through the Museum of Modern Art but was persuaded by Warner Brothers to give the nitrate films to the studio for preservation. Once there the films were ignored and not maintained. When Moore inquired about the films years later, she was deeply disappointed to learn that many had deteriorated beyond repair. She searched to replace the now-lost films with a little success.

As for Ella Cinders, it can be viewed at Amazon Prime and at EPIX network. However, neither of those prints have music. I recommend watching the YouTube print embedded below. Despite one odd scene of Moore "talking," it's an OK print with music that provides a fun 51 minutes for viewers. We can only hope that TCM Sunday Silents will provide a strong print, with Ben Model-quality music, in the future. If the longer version exists, that would be a treat to view as well.

1) During Ella Cinders, on a few occasions Moore brings her fingers to her mouth to express confusion or discomfort. The gesture is so much like Langdon that I can't help but wonder if he suggested to Moore that she use the gesture.

A fun time was had at the Harry Langdon Film Festival

Forgive the selfie-like atmosphere of the photos on the blog. It's me preening for the camera, but I made them for social media. This past weekend, Saturday and Sunday, I was at The Niles Essanay Silent Film Museum (see photo below) for the Harry Langdon Film Festival. It was great.

I'm kneeling in front of a re-creation of the backdrop of Harry's famous vaudeville routine, Johnny's New Car, which was done by the very talented Nicole Arciola, a leader in the Harry fan societies. Nicole, Tim Greer, Frances Anchenta Becker, and Langdon  biographer Gabriella Oldham, were all at the museum for the film festival. Also, I was able to meet persons I knew only from social media, Trav SD, Bill Cassara, and Paul F. Etcheverry. Many others were there enjoying a weekend of Langdon films, from several early silents including "Smile Please" "All Night Long," and "Saturday Afternoon," two silent features, "Tramp Tramp Tramp," and "The Strong Man," a couple of his Roach sound shorts, including "The Shrimp," several of his Educational Shorts, including "The Hitch Hiker,' and a sample of later Columbia shorts.

Trav SD spoke of Langdon's vaudeville days. Oldham did an excellent recap of his life. Cassara introduced a couple of films. The Vernon Dent biographer also provided interesting details on Langdon's frequent co-star, Dent. Genre experts who introduced films included James Neibaur, Steve Massa, Langdon biographer Michael Hayde and Ben Model.

I spoke at the festival on Langdon's final film, "Pistol Packin' Nitwits." My address was not captured in video or audio. In order to preserve it, I am presenting it below. It was my final working draft. I improvised some but all the details in it were addressed.

Finally, the wonderful staff at the Niles Essanay Silent Film Museum were wonderful, and hard working, particularly Rena Kiehn and Paul Mular, both of whom seem to have an unlimited source of positive energy!

--

Here are my remarks:

“Pistol Packin’ Nitwits” is my favorite Harry Langdon comedy short. I know it’s not his best comedy short, but it has such a delirious, chaotic completeness to it. And I love the co-stars, El Brendel, Christine McIntyre, Dick Curtis as the villain, Rawhide Pete, Brad King as the hero.

And it’s bittersweet to watch. This is the last work on film Harry Langdon performed. Returning from the studio, he complained of a headache, and eventually was diagnosed with the cerebral hemorrhage that killed him. At times I have tears in my eyes watching Harry dance in the film.

“Pistol Packin’ Nitwits” still has a healthy dose of the old vaudeville. Semi-scrupulous salesmen Harry and El Brendel pitch “high-quality” soap to clean tough stains like “axle grease.” Christine McIntryre sings. And there’s the soft-shoe dance routine with Langdon and Brendel.

“Pistol Packin’ Nitwits” blends several film genres to create something unique. In literature, there’s a term called slipstream. It’s defined as non-realistic fiction that crosses conventional genre boundaries to create a new piece of art.

This applies to film as well. Gary Rhodes and Robert Guffey, in their book “Bela Lugosi and the Monogram Nine,” argue that the hastily made, deadline-intensive, low-budget film world created chaotic, unique slipstream film art. The result often created surrealism.

One description of surrealism, as described by the scholar Andre Breton, cited in the book, is to “write quickly, … fast enough that you will not remember what you’re writing …”

Many of the Columbia comedy shorts are examples of slipstream plots with surrealism. “Pistol Packin’ Nitwits” as noted, is part vaudeville. It’s also part western film. It is also an old “’penny-dreadful” film of a young lovely, the saloon keeper, being terrorized by a boorish, threatening villain. It is also part musical, with McIntyre belting out the weepy song, “Father, Dear Father.” Finally, “Pistol Packin’ Nitwits” is part superhero film with the cowboy hero smiling as bullets fired by the villain bounce off his chest.

“Pistol Packin’ Nitwits” was released in 1945. The Captain America serial was released in 1944. No coincidence there, I’m sure.

Let’s talk more about surrealism. Andre Breton also described surrealism as the real meeting the fantastic to create an alternate reality. There’s a lot of alternate reality in “Pistol Packin’ Nitwits.” In one scene a cowboy is moved to tears by the song “Father, Dear Father.” But his tears fall in bizarre fashion, more as a stream than drops. Another alternate reality: villain Dick Curtis shoots constantly into our hero’s chest. Despite the impossibility of bullets bouncing of a chest, Curtis doesn’t seem surprised that his gun doesn’t work like it should.

And I consider surreal a sequence of quick-cut scenes where the hero is on his horse, racing back to the saloon to the tune of the William Tell Overture. Each interlude is brief to the point of surreal absurdity, lasting about a second.

Finally, in closing, let me stress that director Harry Edwards, the writers, and Harry Langdon and cast didn’t huddle together and say, ‘hey, let’s blend genres to create a work of art that’s both unique and surreal!’

Just like a cult film can’t be intentionally planned and crafted as such, neither was “Pistol Packin’ Nitwits.” They made a film. They had to do it quickly. They were on very tight budgets. They had to be super creative and super innovative. The creators used all their talents, genre knowledge and experience. To get the film finished on time, they threw everything into the pot, and created something unique and wonderful.

Three's a Crowd is Harry Langdon's costly masterpiece

Review by Doug Gibson

(This is our third original Plan9Crunch review this month of a Harry Langdon film. We are presenting these posts in recognition of the Harry Langdon Film Festival next weekend a the silent film history, Niles Film Museum in Fremont, Calif.)

There is a scene near the very end of "Three's A Crowd," 1927, that I find both heartbreaking and beautiful. Harry Langdon (No. 3) is about to lose No. 1, a beautiful young woman he has long pined for, and through a set of extraordinary events, managed to save the life of her and her newborn baby. For days she and the infant have recuperated at his meager tenement home up high above a long set of stairs. No. 3 (Harry) wishes for a fantasy. A charlatan has assured him that the young woman, who left an errant husband, will stay with Harry and both will raise the baby. But No. 2 (the prodigal husband) has returned, and No. 1 still loves him. They are leaving No. 3, and crushing a fantasy that deep down, he knows was impossible.

The minimalist comedian Harry Langdon, who ironically thrived in an era of slapstick, knockabout comedies, displays emotional chaos with his eyes, facial expressions, movements and other gestures. Once he looks down at the palm of his hand. The attentive viewer understands that is the palm the charlatan read before promising Harry romantic happiness with No. 2. Getting back to the crux of my point, just as the happy, reunited couple is leaving, with airy promises that No. 3 can visit them anytime, Harry clutches the sleeve of an overcoat draped over the woman. For just a moment, No. 3 caresses the wrist area of the sleeves. It's a fleeting moment, not noticed at all by the departing couple. But it's powerful, as it captures the deep reluctance and despair No. 3 has at losing what is literally his heart's desire.

Watch Three's a Crowd here.

I consider "Three's a Crowd" to be Harry Langdon's masterpiece silent film feature. He evolved his minimalist comic character -- who quietly through perhaps dumb luck and God's providence wins happiness and the girl in movies -- to a comic cipher who doesn't get the girl of his dreams, who doesn't find a place in the world, doesn't improve his financial means. In short, he is a survivor, who gets up every day and gets through it with a stoicism that only reveals emotion, and comedy appreciation, though gestures, both facial and body, and stubborn determination to both endure trials and create facsimiles of what he would like to have. (An example of this is found early in the film where Harry encounters a doll that looks a lot like him. Observing his boorish, bullying, and insecure, boss - Harry is an assistant to a trucker - playing with his young son, Harry imitates this by playing with his doll in the same manner.)

"Three's a Crowd" has a simple plot. No. 3, Harry, has a crush on a girl, No. 2, he has observed. Because she left her husband, No. 2, Harry is placed in a situation where he can both save her, get help for her when she gives birth, and provide her and baby space to recuperate. That leads to the climax previously discussed. There are greats bits of comedy in the film. Examples include Harry trying to get back through a trap door with a large curtain . Every time Harry tries to open the door to climb in, more curtain falls and he has to start over. More great comedy is Harry preparing a diaper for the infant. Daydreaming causes him to prepare it as a pie. There is a finale, epilogue scene that involves Harry returning to the false hypnotist's office. I won't give it away but it is laugh out loud comedy.

"Three's a Crowd" is a beautiful film to watch. The camera work of the surrounding area is perfect. As Gabriella Oldham notes in her biography, Harry Langdon: King of Silent Cinema, the star and director recreated a tenement neighborhood of three or four blocks on the studio, with 300 extras. Snow was realistically created in 90-degree California heat! The sights of tenement life, morning to evening, are captivating. I love the "snowstorm" scenes and individuals braving their way through the winds, bumping into poles, or the early-morning milk wagons, the busy late-morning afternoon streets, the lonely, steep staircase that leads to Harry's home.

I call "Three's a Crowd" a costly masterpiece. I acknowledge it has many detractors. It lost money and basically was the genesis of Harry Langdon's end as a leading features actor. Honestly, one can't blame First National Pictures for being angry with Langdon delivering a film so different from box office winners such as "Tramp, Tramp, Tramp," and "The Strong Man." And who can blame audiences, long accustomed to Langdon "Little Elfing-ing" his way to winning the girl and success, being nonplussed that the protagonist's lonely, dour life stays that way at the end?

But Langdon was evolving his character, and I think he succeeded. I urge readers to buy the KINO DVD release of "Three's a Crowd," paired with "The Chaser," and listen to David Kalat's commentary. He makes a strong case against the fabulist (when it came to Langdon) Frank Capra's criticisms that were, unfortunately, picked up by scholars like Leonard Maltin and others. "Three's a Crowd" was a financial bomb, but so was "The General," "Duck Soup" and many other films appropriately revered today. The late James Agee tabbed Langdon as one of the four comedy greats, along with Chaplin, Keaton and Lloyd. He merits that. Unfortunately, Langdon's silent features are virtually ignored by Turner Classic Movies. I've never seen a silent feature aired. Occasionally the Sennett shorts are aired, and some of his Hal Roach early talkie shorts. That indifference is a sin of omission by TCM that needs to be repented of.

"Three's a Crowd" is often described as a cloying attempt to duplicate Chaplin's "The Kid." I disagree. Langdon is not Chaplin's Tramp. He is a silent, ignored working-class cipher, with a dream that falls into his lap. Unlike Chaplin's Tramp, who is perceptive enough to understand the kid needs his mom, Harry assumes a fantasy -- with a palm reader's urging -- that can't realistically occur. Chaplin's Tramp also ends "The Kid" with a clear guarantee that he can have a relationship in the future. Despite promises from the reunited couple in "Three's a Crowd," there is no sense that No. 3 has a rewarding future with the couple and their baby. How can he? He's No. 3.

Also, despite Harry's hopes, there's an entertaining dream sequence by Harry where he is fighting the husband to protect the woman and child. Despite encouragement from the woman, Harry loses the bout. In his own dream, No. 3 loses. It underscores that "Three's a Crowd" is a sad tale of unrequited desires with comedy. It's hard to please audiences expecting slapstick to dominate.

Please watch "Three's a Crowd" above. Watch it more than once. Enjoy Harry Langdon providing great comedy in an understated, minimalist manner. And then e-mail TCM and urge them to show "Three's a Crowd" or another Langdon silent feature on a Sunday night. It's about time. As much as I love "The Kid," "The General" or "The Freshman" on TCM, they've probably played 100 times the past generation. Audiences merit a chance to sample Langdon's genius.

Long Pants – Harry Langdon Dreams of Romance

Review by Steve D. Stones

Long Pants, also known as Johnny Newcomer, is a 1927 silent era comedy directed by Frank Capra and starring comic genius Harry Langdon. This is the second and final collaboration between Capra and Langdon. (This is Plan9Crunch's second original Harry Langdon post this month, in recognition of the upcoming Harry Langdon Film Festival later this month in Fremont, Calif.)

In the film, Langdon plays baby faced Harry Shelby, a youngster who dreams of romance by going to the Oak Grove Public Library to check out reading material, such as Desire Under The Elms, to read in the privacy of his house attic. His parents hope that he will get married one day. His mother (Gladys Brockwell) says to his father (Alan Roscoe) “Short pants are keeping him off the street.” Young Shelby eventually grows out of the short pants and his life changes when he starts to wear longer pants.

One day, a beautiful femme fatale named Bebe Blair (Alma Bennett) gets a flat tire in front of Shelby's home. The driver of the car leaves to get help with the flat tire. Shelby sees Blair in the car and immediately falls in love with her. Shelby rides his bike around Blair's car in an attempt to get her attention and impress her. Eventually the two have a long kiss in the car just before the driver returns.

After Blair and the driver leave, Shelby finds a note on the ground that mentions getting married. Shelby assumes it is addressed to him from Blair and starts to dance happily in the street. Little does he know that Blair has no interest in him even though they both kissed. Blair has a boyfriend in the mob.

Although Shelby is to be married to his childhood sweetheart - Priscilla (Priscilla Bonner) and attend a Egg Festival with her, he dreams of being with Blair. On his wedding day to Priscilla, Shelby sees a front page headline in the local newspaper that Blair has been arrested. Apparently Blair is mixed up in a big crime racket.

Watch Long Pants here.

On that same day of his wedding, Shelby asks his bride-to-be to take a walk with him out into the woods. He takes a gun with him in order to murder Priscilla. Some of the funniest sequences can be seen during this part of the film. He asks Priscilla to close her eyes and count to five hundred as he slowly backs away from her in the forest to pull out the gun and shoot her. The problem is, however, that the gun keeps sliding down his pant leg, and he eventually backs into a barbed wire fence, then steps into a bear trap. Great comic, slap stick sequences during this part of the film.

The wedding is called off as Shelby comes to Blair's aide to help her escape from jail. After the escape, Shelby carries Blair around in a large crate on his back. A basket of light bulbs placed on the crate by a street worker begin to slide off the crate one by one as Shelby and Blair think gun shots are being fired at them. Some more great comedy sequences.

I find some of the more subtle images in the opening sequences to be the most interesting in the film, such as a shot of a swinging wood gate in front of a house, wrinkled long pants blowing in the wind on a clothes line, and the closing of an attic opening as young Shelby retires to the attic to read romance novels. These images help to symbolize Shelby's fate in the film.

Although Long Pants was a box office flop and signaled a downward spiral for the career of Harry Langdon, it is still required viewing for any Langdon fan. Kino Video released a DVD of Long Pants in 2000 with two other Langdon films included on the DVD – The Strong Man and Tramp, Tramp, Tramp with Joan Crawford. Don't miss this release if you're a Langdon fan. Happy viewing.

The W.C. Fields Films provides solid account of comic's career

Review by Doug Gibson

Genre author James L. Neibaur has done his usual, solid, well-researched, enjoyable recap of a film great with "The W.C. Fields Films," (here) recently published by McFarland, http://www.mcfarlandbooks.com/ (800-253-2187).

Harry Langdon and Buster Keaton are among performers whom Neibaur has assessed. As with the others, the Fields book covers his films, chapter by chapter. Serving as bookends are an opening chapter on Fields' early life and work in vaudeville, and the final chapter covers his last years.

Neibaur is a talented enough researcher and writer to have the film chapters also provide a chronology of Fields' life. The plots, filmmaking intrigues, reviews, box office fates, cast reminiscing, also includes snippets of Fields' personal life, including his frequent health problems as he aged.

If you are a casual fan of Fields, like myself prior to reading this volume, you'll learn that he was a major vaudeville star who dipped his toes into films a little and then several years later, made the full leap, astutely realizing that was where the future, and money was. Some of the early silent films were remade in the sound era. A couple, both remade, that are on my list to see are "Running Wild" and "Sally of the Sawdust." (Remade as "Man on the Flying Trapeze" and "Poppy.")

Neibaur also notes that Fields struggled at times with silent films. Regretfully, some are lost, including all three of an ill-fated attempt to team Fields with comedian Chester Conklin. Ultimately, it was sound that moved Fields to higher stardom. Neibaur correctly points out that Fields' understated delivery of his lines became very popular with audiences. In fact, aside lines like Fields (in "The Bank Dick") muttering that he loves daughters, particularly those between 16 and 18, is dialogue that I don't think censors would have allowed less subtle actors to utter.

Fields' glory days were with Paramount, his shorts, including 'The Dentist" and films such as "It's' a Gift" and "Man on the Flying Trapeze," are classic gems. He had the ability to play a put-upon father, a conniving boozer father, a con man father and guardian, and still provide sympathy with audiences. Also, pairing Fields with a loud, overbearing spouse prone to overly loud proclamations was usually comic gold. Neibaur also notes Fields's care in determining the plots and dialogues of his films; a demand that perceptive directors usually followed.

Fields' is also an actor whose health deterioration one can track through his two decades of stardom. In "The Dentist," he's still relatively trim. By his last film, the offbeat, eccentric, original "Never Give a Sucker an Even Break," he's a bloated, obese man with a large, alcoholic red nose. His Paramount and Universal tenures were cut short by bad health and poor health practices. Tragedy always affected his health adversely, from friends' deaths to a toddler drowning in a pond on his property.

In his book, Neibaur includes Fields successful comeback with Universal, with films such as "My Little Chickadee," a must-see with Mae West (The two egos survived peacefully long enough to make a great film), "The Bank Dick," and "Never Give a Sucker an Even Break," a brilliant satire that Universal failed to understand, and played as a second-feature.

Prior to reading this book, I'd only seen Fields in "International House," which I bought to see Bela Lugosi," "The Dentist," "My Little  Chickadee," and "It's a Gift," a film I've seen at least 20 times. The "W.C. Fields Films" has a lot of company with other great books about Fields. It serves however as a great source to learn more about the unique vintage comedy star, one of the few silent veterans to prosper in the sound era.

Since I read this book, I've seen several more films with Fields. Some of my favorites include "It's a Gift," "Man on the Flying Trapeze," "The Bank Dick" and "Never Give a Sucker an Even Break."

The prolific Mr. Neibaur, by the way, will soon have a book out on the Universal monster films.

The Harry Langdon Scrapbook captures the feel of vintage comedy

Review by Doug Gibson

Harry Langdon Jr., whose father, film comedian Harry Langdon will be dead 73 years this December, recalls as a very young child visiting the set of "Zenobia," (1939)  in which his dad starred with Oliver Hardy. As Langdon Jr. recounts, he was given a handful of double-headed nails by a stage worker. Perplexed at the oddly shaped nails, his father explained to Junior that they were used to make it easier to tear down sets.

"Nothing on a stage is permanent," Langdon senior told his son.

That phrase is the title of a book released last year from Walker-Anthony Books, "Nothing On a Stage is Permanent: The Harry Langdon Scrapbook." It's available from Amazon, and you can buy it from the publisher here.

The stage anecdote is from the book's introduction. Langdon Jr. is the narrator of a scrapbook that offers photos, artwork, press clippings, promotional clippings, film posters, letters, pay stubs, and more.

The narration is appropriately understated; the scrapbook is what the book's about, but it appropriately moves the reader through the life of Langdon and his career. The book serves as a well-done illustrated history of his life.

Some of the early photos, when Langdon was in vaudeville, in blackface, with "lightning sketches" he performed on the stage, and scrapbook items from his later hits "Johnny's New Car" and "After the Ball ..." will be priceless to fans. The recent publications of photos capturing Langdon's vaudeville days finally draw to a deserved close the Capra-inspired myth that he was a simpleton who had to be taught to be a film star.

I love the scrapbook additions of the Principle Pictures films that are mostly lost, as well as the contract. We learn in the book that one unreleased film, and lost, his very first, "The Skyscraper," was in a Pathe catalog in 1925 under a different title, "Mail and Female."

The book is full of tidbits that are of great interest to Langdon fans and all vintage comedy fans. There is a two-page promotional sheet for the lost film, "Heart Trouble," that is worth the cost of the Scrapbook.

Langdon Jr. notes that his mother, Mabel Langdon, carefully preserved these items. She survived her husband's death for well over 50 years. Langdon's highly talented art is in the scrapbook, including newspaper comic strips he did.

His personal life has a role in the book too. One pay stub for a film, "Hallelujah, I'm a Bum," shows that two thirds of Langdon's about $20,000 salary went for alimony. Another pay stub shows Langdon, in his own handwriting, noting a portion that goes to alimony.

The book is divided into sections, taking the reader through Langdon's life. His death is as sadly abrupt in the Scrapbook as it must have been in December of 1944. It's ultimately pointless to ponder how a Langdon in his late 60s, 70s, and later may have fared in TV. But it's hard not to.

Fortunately, his reputation was installed by critic James Agee, who in the late 1940s, tabbed him as one of the Big Four of silent comedy, along with Charles Chaplin, Buster Keaton and Harold Lloyd.

In regards to Capra, the book doesn't shy away from that fact that Capra was correct that Langdon's move into more personal films, after "The Strong Man," hurt his career. It would be silly to refute the obvious. Also, Langdon took responsibility for those box office failures, and even criticized the later First National films.

I find beauty in "Three's A Crowd" and "The Chaser," but understand why they may have perplexed audiences 90 years ago. In his narration, Langdon Jr. doesn't flinch from pointing out the disaster Langdon's second marriage to Helen Walton was. The Scrapbook takes us through the lean years of the 1930s, when work was scarce, and trips around the world were required to make money. It also captures the happiness of Mabel and Harry's union, and Harry's joy to have a family with a son. Langdon Jr. notes that one reason he remembers his father so well is because the family revolved around Harry's life.

I hope this scrapbook sells well. It's a gem, easily worth its cost. I like that fans and others were involved in its creation. Film historian and author Ed Watz is credited for his contributions, as is former magazine publisher and writer Michael Copner. So is Cologne-based artist Birgit Kreps, who provides absolutely gorgeous hand coloring to many of the Scrapbook items. Finally, two of my dearest Facebook friends, super Langdon fans, Jessica Carlson and Nicole Arciola, are among those credited for their assistance.

It;s been a good year for Harry Langdon, heck a good decade-plus, with three biographies, some DVD releases, and this Scrapbook. What can we do to get Turner Classic Movies to air a Langdon First National Feature. How about accompanying it with an interview with his son featuring this scrapbook?

Sounds like a great idea to me.

Harry Langdon: King of Silent Comedy best as a familial biography

Review by Doug Gibson

It's been a long wait for a new biography, "Harry Langdon: King of Silent Comedy," (University Press of Kentucky, 2017). Author Gabriella Oldham began work on the project generations ago, with Langdon's wife, Mabel, who died in 2001. There was always talk of a biography from Mabel -- and indeed she is listed as a co-author, although the writing belongs to Oldham, a researcher of the silent film genre.

As noted early in the biography, an attempt is made to go beyond Langdon the showman and explore the businessman, the artist, the family man. And also his more "mature" years, after a career fall, that Oldham tells us produced a more humble man, able to plead for loans from friends, be closer to his family, and still thrill over a steady paycheck in front of or behind the camera. As Oldham notes, the book cover photo of Langdon (above) underscores her wish to present him in this serious light.

To be frank, the biography's main strength is in its familial tale of Harry and Mabel. The best parts of the book start when the pair are matched for a date. Their life anecdotes, clearly garnered from Mabel's recollections, convey a tale of two people who needed each other. He, impoverished by two divorces, worked hard for her and she, without a yen for the film industry, offered her husband a happy home and eventually a son, Harry Langdon Jr., who writes forward to the biography. (Harry Langdon Jr., now in his 80s, has enjoyed a successful career as a photographer.)

It's bittersweet that Langdon had to die with his son only 10 years old. As Oldham notes, having a wife and a son together with him was probably the happiest era of his life. Particularly enjoyable are accounts of Langdon, Mabel and baby Harry heading across to Australia where Langdon appeared in the play "Anything Goes." From there the family would eventually arrive in England where Langdon would act in one film and direct another.

There was a cheerful spontaneity to the family. When Harry wanted to make an effort to be on the stage in the  East Coast, Mabel quickly agreed to sell the house and leave, even if it meant leaving the piano with the new owners. The best parts of the book are accounts like this, including the very early years of Harry as a youngster in Council Bluffs, Iowa, where he would put on plays, try to get into playhouses for adults and eventually, by his early teens, be a traveling performer.

Although I've read often of Langdon's death at age 60 in 1944 -- he suffered a cerebral hemorrhage after a long day of soft shoe dancing for his final Columbia short, "Pistol Packin' Nitwits," the drama of the lingering days before his death is captured. As Oldham notes, he first thought he had a toothache. His descent must have been rapid because he was soon bedridden and unable to speak to his son or wife. Even then, as director Ed Bernds' notes reveal, his contemporaries were surprised he died.

I rarely am moved to tears, but Mabel's recollection of telling Harry Jr. that his father had died deeply touched this father of two sons, one deceased, the other 12. "He turned around, went to his room for over an hour, then came out as if I hadn't said anything at all." My heart breaks for the boy who began processing deep grief in that hour.

So, how does "Harry Langdon: King of Comedy" compare with two other biographies of Langdon, "Little Elf," by Chuck Harter and Michael Hayde, and William Schelly's "Harry Langdon: His Life and Films." This new book finishes third. There is, however, valuable information. The vaudeville years and his life with first wife, and acting partner, Rose, are covered quickly, but success with Mack Sennett and First National, followed by the fall, and the on-again off-again successes in sound cinema are not ignored.

The Frank Capra/Langdon  drama is interesting because Oldham, while certainly appropriately critical of Capra's less-than-truthful later observations of Langdon (the guy never seemed to get over being fired), also seems to infer that Langdon did indeed disrespect his gag man-turned-director. Anecdotes include Langdon's future second wife, Helen Walton, arrogantly sitting in Capra's director's chair, and an unpleasant scene where Langdon humiliates Capra for trying to get the star out for an extra shot in a scene.

Langdon had a swift fall at First National, and apparently it was ugly enough that Hal Roach verbally told Langdon he'd take none of the First National nonsense at his studio. Indeed, Langdon only lasted a season with Roach before moving to movies and shorts at other studios. He later worked a lot with Roach's studio behind the scenes and even starred with Oliver Hardy in "Zenobia."

Oldham is very critical of the Langdon-directed "Three's A Crowd" and "The Chaser," both flops. Langdon was also critical of "The Chaser" and the lost "Heart Trouble," his final First National film (and one film I dearly, desperately want found). Personally, I think the films Langdon had control over, "Long Pants," "Three's A Crowd," and "The Chaser" are more unique, cultish films than the hits, Harry Edwards' "Tramp, Tramp, Tramp" and Capra's "The Strong Man." But there's no denying that the first two films, fine movies, were more appealing to audiences.

Langdon was trying to take risks, to explore facets of his Little Elf character. Certainly a darker perspective was influenced by collaborator Arthur Ripley, but Langdon was the star, the director, the man responsible for the money. He lost First National several hundred thousand dollars with the final four films. I do agree with the assessment that Langdon was trying too hard to perfect individual parts of his movies at the expense of the overall success of the whole film. Audiences wanted underdog stories of the Elf overcoming adversity and getting the girl. They didn't want tragic and loveless endings for the Elf. Neverthless, "Three's A Crowd" is a surreal, dreamlike set masterpiece and it's an outrage that it's never aired on Turner Classic Movies.

Langdon was far more successful professionally than many might be aware of in the sound era. He made at least 30 shorts (several are lost), a lot of movies, including the big-budget "Zenobia" and "Hallelujah I'm a Bum," was on the stage a lot (as was Buster Keaton, another sound-era success), was a gag man with Roach, worked overseas, and was still headlining shorts and appearing in B movies until he died. Though most of his shorts were with Columbia, his best overall work was with Educational Pictures, with independent producer/director Arvid E. Gillstrom, of Mermaid Pictures.

These shorts, and some can be found at YouTube, are very strong. They often co-feature Langdon's close friend, Vernon Dent, who had worked with him since his silent Sennett days. Two I highly recommend are "The Hitchhiker" and "Knight Duty," but about all the Gillstrom films are great. (One can see Charles Chaplin's "City Lights" street sets in Gillstrom/Langdon/Dent's "The Big Flash.") Eventually Paramount released Gillstrom's shorts, which was a boon for Harry and Dent, who were almost becoming a team. But Gillstrom died, so the series ended and alas, today the Paramount Gillstrom shorts are lost. Most feature Harry and Vernon in roles similar to what Laurel and Hardy might do. One can only hope these Paramount shorts are one day discovered. What we do know is that there were no serious future efforts to co-star the two stars, although they appeared in films together often.

Late in his life, Harry, with good humor referred to his Columbia shorts, heavy on slapstick, as 'O Ouch O" comedies. Some are still pretty good. I enjoy "Tireman Spare My Tires," with Louise Currie, "To Heir is Human" with Una Merkel, and "Pistol Packin' Nitwits," with El Brendel, with whom Harry made several shorts. Harry also starred in a few low-budget comedy programmers for Monogram and PRC, the best of which is "Misbehaving Husbands," produced by Jed Buell, who ironically was the first filmmaker to sign vaudeville star Langdon almost 20 years earlier.

I've spoken very positively of the new biography. Overall, I like it. But there is one flaw that must be corrected in a Kindle version or future editions. I discovered several factual errors that are embarrassing. I'll mention a few here. (The fact I found several just through my read of the book worries me that there are other errors I did not catch). I urge University Press of Kentucky to fix this. Errors include:

Writing that Vernon Dent was a co-star in "Three's A Crowd." It was Arthur Thalasso.

Claiming that Raymond Rohauer, the admirable film scholar, bought and restored "Plain Clothes." He didn't.

Writing that "His New Mamma" is a lost film. It is not. I watched it yesterday.

Writing that "Hallelujah I'm a Bum" was a big monetary hit. It was not. It's a fine film but it went way over budget. The film was a major financial flop.

The Langdon short "Skirt Shy" is compared to "Saturday Afternoon" because Harry is dressed as a woman. I believe the author intended to use "The Chaser" and not "Saturday Afternoon."

These are errors easily corrected, like typos in a newspaper, and they shouldn't take away from what is an enjoyable biography worthy of a spot in a bookcase. Like my other Langdon books, I'll read it often, but I hope the errors are corrected.

Langdon was a marvel of an actor; a minimalist genius, able to bring laughter and pathos to the smallest gestures and eye glances. He appropriately joins Chaplin, Keaton and Harold Lloyd as the four greatest silent comedy stars. His silent shorts, with Dent, "Saturday Afternoon," and "All Night Long," are among the best made. This biography has many photos of Langdon, his family and peers, as well as much of his artwork; he was a talented artist. (In fact, I just got a copy of The Harry Langdon Scrapbook, with lots of photos and text from Langdon Jr. It was released last fall and we will review it soon at Plan9Crunch).

Who was Larry Semon? New bio details silent clown's life

Review by Doug Gibson

When ever the subject of Larry Semon turns, I unconsciously think of that also-forgotten movie, “The Comic,” that Dick Van Dyke starred in almost 50 years ago. It dealt with a silent comedian, who after years of hard work attained fame, let his ego intrude, fell hard and lived out his life forgotten. Except that Larry Semon didn’t spend decades forgotten. He died soon after his fall, still making films, still trying to seduce a bemused public — who no longer cared for his talents — into returning him his fame and fortune.

Semon literally worked himself to death, dying in 1928 after about two months of convalescence, a body worn down by over-work, stress and failure. He was still a “movie star,” with a beautiful wife, and lived well, although he could no longer afford it. Film historian Claudia Sassen, a cartoonist and member of the faculty at Technical University of Dortmund, Germany, has done a commendable job with “Larry Semon: Daredevil Comedian of the Silent Screen,” McFarland, 2015. (800-253-2187) That a biography of Semon would come from Germany is no surprise as his popularity has endured there.

Sassen’s biography shows a lot of research, a valuable addition to serious scholarship of silent cinema. It provides insight into Semon’s family, his early upbringing in a traveling show business family (his father was a magician), Semon’s success as a newspaperman cartoonist and writer (he wrote an expose, learned from his dad, of how magicians did their levitating tricks, etc.), and his tension-filled relationships with studios, such as Vitagraph. He attained stardom in one- and two-reel shorts working with future stars such as Stan Laurel, Oliver Hardy, and sturdy slapstick veterans like Hughie Mack, Patsy DeForest, and Frank Alexander.

Semon was a perfectionist; his two-reelers usually cost far more in money and time than others of that era. This indirectly led to his career downfall as legal battles with Vitagraph hampered the box office potential of his feature films. Sassen describes an entertainer who was single-minded, aloof to most of the cast and crew, and downright cold to his first wife and only child, whom he essentially abandoned with an increasingly modest stipend. 

As Sassen notes, he thrived in the early era of slapstick, with daredevil stunts, fast-paced action and little drama or romance. He was good at it. Watch his early silents on YouTube or other sources; some of the stunts are amazing. But this was a subgenre that didn’t require a star with pathos. And to be very frank, Larry Semon cannot generate pathos; the audience does not feel sorry for this funny-faced jokester. But he is funny. “The Saw Mill” from 1922, shows Semon, along with Oliver Hardy, at his best in crazy comedy.

A chief strength of the biography is its insight into the film world that Semon helped shape, how films were made, the value placed on actors and crew. And the drama of Semon’s life can entertain. particularly his ill-fated affair with co-star Lucille Carlisle, and his battles with studio executives.

Like many other two-reel comedians, Semon’s fortunes turned south when he moved in features. If anyone has seen a Larry Semon feature, it tends to be the 1925 “Wizard of Oz,” which is an extra on “The Wizard of Oz,” 1939, disc, pops up on Turner Classic Movies and online sources, including Amazon Prime. The film is, and I’m not exaggerating, jaw-droppingly bad. It doesn’t even have the ability to improve on repeat viewings. Every so often, I watch the film again, hoping to like it even a little, to no avail. It still stinks.

"Wizard of Oz” is an ego-trip film. One from a director/star so self-absorbed that he thought he could tamper with a classic, turn it into a tedious melodrama with Dorothy as a supporting player, a passive participant to the silly pratfalls of Semon’s “Scarecrow,” Hardy’s “Tin Man,” and an of-the-times racist caricature (“G. Howe Black”) as the cowardly lion. Characters switch roles so often ones gets a headache trying to decipher an indecipherable plot. “Uncle Henry” is a morbidly obese domestic abuser (Alexander)!

This review, provided in Sasser’s biography, appropriately summarizes the film: “Mr. Semon, How Could You? Listen folks, if you want to see something that will make you sick, see The Wizard of Oz played by our eminent comedian, Larry Semon. ... But I surely wasn’t prepared for what I got — a regular Semon comedy under the disguise of The Wizard of Oz. ... When you are transferring a well-known and well-loved story to the screen, is it necessary needlessly to butcher the plot?” ... Larry Semon, you owe an apology to the people who have read the Oz books, and do humble beg the pardon of Frank Baum’s memory for the wrong you have done this story.“

As Sassen notes, ”Wizard of Oz“ was eagerly awaited by many, and its first week of release, in Los Angeles, broke records. However, the film more or less bombed elsewhere.

Semon was sage enough financially to avoid much responsibility for the ’Wizard” fiasco. But, trying to turn failure into success, he made himself personally financially responsible for other films, including the now-forgotten ’Spuds.“ This broke Semon’s finances and the situation only worsened. As the biography notes, near the end of his life he couldn’t afford routine domestic costs, and had to rely financially on his last wife, actress Dorothy Dwan, who besides playing Dorothy in ”Wizard“ was having success in silent cowboy films.

Semon tried hard to change his career fortunes. He directed films, was frequently in vaudeville, massaged his character to be more subtle, like fellow comedian Harry Langdon, and even played a straight drama role in a crime drama, ”Underworld,“ which I’d love to see (Sassen writes highly of it). But he couldn’t shake the public perception that he represented a category of silent comedy, high-action slapstick, that was already antiquated by the latter 1920s. It would be resurrected in sound comedy shorts several years later, but Semon was dead.

It was officially pneumonia and tuberculosis that ended Semon’s life at 39 on Oct. 8, 1928. From reading Sassen’s biography, though, it seems stress and hard work, and perhaps bad health habits, had worn him out. His death, as Hollywood deaths sometimes do, have spawned myths that he really didn’t die, that he might have done a runner to avoid all those stresses. But that’s nonsense. Semon had a loyal wife, Dwan, who loved him and was working hard to maintain their household. And Semon was a driven, committed entertainer, not one to give up.

It would have been interesting to see if sound would have resurrected Semon nearer the top. We’ll never know; his wife, tired of show business, retired soon after his death. Sasson’s book is unlikely to bring Semon greater acclaim, but it is a valuable resource for fans of the genre.

DVD Review: 'The Mishaps of Musty Suffer': Why is Harry Watson, Jr. so unknown?

For this post, we thank Joe Gandelman and hi wonderful blog, The Moderate Voice, for this review of classic, silent comedy. "The Mishaps of Musty Suffer" is cross-posted here. We urge readers to check out Joe's blog.

By JOE GANDELMAN

Let’s say it now: generations of film historians and the media OWE a too-belated apology to one Harry Watson, Jr., a comedy genius who starred in a 1916-1917 series of comedies way — and, oh, do I mean w-a-y – ahead of their time.

How many of you ever heard of him?

YOU SHOULD HAVE.

In the case of poor Fatty Arbuckle, Arbuckle was a huge (figuratively and literally) silent comedy star who most historians now agree was a)framed in massive scandal b)eventually exonerated by a jury c)made a political scapegoat by being blacklisted by an industry caving to government and public pressure to set an example to those rich, indulgent Hollywood entertainer types. His work was almost lost but some of it has been brilliantly reassembled, remastered and preserved so that fans of comedy, students of comedy, film historians, and aspiring comedians can “discover” his shamelessly suppressed genius. In other words: no matter what, many people have at least HEARD of him.

Which takes us back to Watson, Jr.

How you do you describe these comedies? The DVD’s website says:

The Mishaps of Musty Suffer is a cartoony and surreal silent comedy film series produced in 1916 and 1917. Wildly popular during its release it has been oddly overlooked and neglected ever since. Chronicling the misadventures of put-upon tramp Musty Suffer, who lives a slapstick version of the Story of Job in which he bears the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, the series was an American descendant of the zany and anarchic early European comedies of Pathé and Gaumont. Its star is the equally forgotten Harry Watson, Jr., a very popular stage clown and who had graduated from vaudeville and Ringling Brothers’ Circus to become a headliner of the early Ziegfeld Follies, where he rubbed elbows with legends like Fanny Brice, Bert Williams and Leon Errol.

But that still doesn’t explain what you see.

You see impeccably restored copies, preserved by the Library of Congress, with utterly wonderful new piano scores by silent film accompanist Ben Model, painstakingly pegged to the action on the screen.

You see special effects including a foreshadowing of Mary Poppins’ magically putting all the toys away. You see dark humor: an arm getting cut off — even one comedy ending with the hero committing suicide.

It’s a foreshadowing of the zany Max Fleischer, Tex Avery and Warner Brothers animated cartoons that emerged during the sound era — and of late 20th century and early 21st century dark humor. You also see early silents that clearly relied at least partially on a script. Unlike the Mack Sennett comedies where the silent comedy master decreed lots of action action and action and ad libbing, many of the Musty Suffer comedies with their zany set of superb actors were clearly carefully thought out in terms of the gags and story line.

The fact these DVDs are being released is due to some highly dedicated folks. The website again: “The DVD was curated by Steve Massa and Ben Model, and was produced for video by Ben Model/Undercrank Productions. The project was funded by a Kickstarter campaign of 126 backers.”

Reviews on Amazon and other sites show people hugely impressed and surprised, who find these comedies hard to describe. No they aren’t. The humor is WAY ahead of most of what was produced in 1916-1917 in terms of scope, gags, scripting and special effects (realize they had severe limitations in that department). Watson, Jr. is an incredible role model for those interested in clowning, physical comedy, and how to communicate smoothly and visually.

Here’s the trailer for the release of this disgracefully unknown comedy genius’ work and the work of his extremely talented filmmakers:

And here’s one short from the DVD posted on You Tube from 1917:

Sadly, having worked in the media and being a vacuum cleaner of books on entertainment, I doubt if film historians and others will give Watson, Jr. the credit he deserves. Historians read other historians. And guess who isn’t mentioned in most of these accounts?

History often perpetuates the work of future historians — even incomplete history.

But make no mistake about it: many of the 8 shorts on this DVD (a total of 30 were produced) show someone who should have been mentioned along with the greats of his era.
Could film historians kindly now give Harry Watson, Jr. the respect he most assuredly deserved??

Available at Amazon here. And Volume 2 is here.

ALSO RECOMMENDED: The definitive Fatty Arbuckle collection. Since his films were left to rot, a major worldwide effort ended in this collection — finding bits and pieces from collectors, or restoring old prints. It starts with the chaotic Sennett comedies, then you see him develop in shorts with more plot and character. He brings in his protege Buster Keaton and the two became a superb, early film comedy team. Then, sadly, at the end, you see a film never released in the U.S due to the scandal — one that ran in Europe, which indicates he had nailed the concepts of character and pathos and could possibly have achieved his dream of being mentioned in the same breath as Charlie Chaplin: Buy here.

A review of the definitive Ben Turpin biography, 'For Art's Sake'

Review by Doug Gibson

There's a passage in "For Art's Sake," Steve Rydzewski's biography and compilation of silent film comedy star Ben Turpin's life (BearManor Media), in which actor Wallace Beery roughs up his co-star Turpin while making a comedy short. The somewhat sadistic encounter takes place just before Turpin, a literal pioneer of slapstick silent cinema, becomes a major star for producer Mack Sennett, earning more than $3,000 a week in his heyday.

Now flash 20-plus a few years, the elderly Sennett, getting close to 70, provides a bittersweet rational as to why he is rarely in the "talkies" cinema --no one has asked. Turpin is still active, whether on the stage or for other publicity endeavors. But he's proud of what he has accomplished, and doesn't want to go hat in the hand, begging for screen work.

Rydzewski's book is a dash of biography (much of it in his subject's early years) and a whole lot of research that is shared with readers, mainly in the form of newspaper clipping and press releases. The format works. The subject's life and events flow well and the information, which must have taken thousands of hours to gather, is fascinating.This is a treasure trove of history. (Just the accounts of obscure stage performances are fascinating) It's unlikely that another book will ever improve on detailing Turpin's life. Given that most readers of this genre book will be searching for details of the subject's life, the format is successful

There's a lot of pathos in these life anecdotes, clipping and biography, but Turpin's life was not a tragedy. He was a very successful man, who saved and invested his earnings so he didn't have to work all his life. He enjoyed two successful marriages that were only ended by death. Rydzewski has done an impressive job of detailing the comic performer's life about as well as anyone has done and will be able to do. As for myself, prior to reading "For Art's Sake, " I knew little about Turpin's life, other than recognizing his iconic cross-eyed countenance. Several years ago, I read an enjoyable feature article on Turpin in Cult Movies Magazine, where I learned that Ben as a teen was given a small bounty by his dad and told to seek his fortune. After Ben, born in 1869, lost the bounty gambling, he hit the rails as a hobo. In the book, Rydzewski quotes Turpin as saying that "Mulligan stew was my bread" in those days.

"For Art's Sake" provides lots of information on Turpin's early life. His father managed candy shops in New Orleans and New York City, where Turpin learned the art of taffy pulling, a skill he was paid for as an adult performer. Living a nomadic life for several years after leaving home, Ben gravitated to carnivals and theater work, particularly physical comedy. A brief first marriage hardly slowed him down. Although he traveled widely, working for very low wages, Chicago eventually became an early hub of his career.

In the first decade of the 20th century, Turpin gained notoriety for his "Happy Hooligan" performance. These types of characters required intense physical skill, including throwing one's legs up high in the air and falling on the back and quickly rising. These moves, as well as comedy acts that required climbing and hard knocks, would frequently send Turpin over the years to hospitals. (Although there are many "explanations" as to why Turpin developed crossed-eyes, Rydzeswki's research points toward the cumulative effect of Ben having to intentionally cross his eyes for long stretches to play Happy Hooligan as a likely reason.

In 1907, Ben married Carrie Le Mieux, a fellow performer and they settled in Chicago. It was a happy union that would last until her death in 1925. About this time, Ben started making silent comedy films for Essanay, a Chicago-based company. As Rydzewski explains, film was not as respected as the stage in that period. Scripts were not a part of short comedy films. It was go to the scene, stay away from the cops, and improvise your movie. In fact, as Rydzewski's book notes, Ben was once arrested, and spent several hours in jail shivering, for entering public waters in Chicago while filming. (Here is a look at Ben, a legitimate pioneer of slapstick silent cinema -- he was literally the first -- in a portion of the Essanay 1909 short "Mr. Flip.")

Although he was only paid $20 to $30 a week for several years, Ben stayed with Essanay for a long time, even heading with his wife, Carrie, when Essanay made the move to Hollywood. Most of his early films are lost but enough survive remain to fully appreciate Ben's talent for physical comedy timing as well as his facial expressions and aggressive persistence that demands that viewers pay attention to him. Frankly, Essanay exploited his talent, making a fortune with the peanuts they paid him. As Rydzewski notes, once Ben tried to quit Essanay, but lost, and came back to the same miserable pay.

It was Charlie Chaplin, hired by Essanay, who finally started to move Ben's career into well-paid stardom. Instantly noting Turpin's star power, Chaplin worked with him and then refused to work with him again -- as a compliment -- correctly noting Turpin was a star. When Chaplin left Essanay, it likely helped provide Ben the resolve to find better earnings. He signed with Sennett, amazed that they accepted his demand of $100 a week. (An interesting anecdote in Rydzewski's book is Turpin recounting how his accountant urged him to live on far less and save a lot. That likely underscores his frugal lifestyle, which kept the Turpins financially secure after the top-earning years were over.)

As mentioned, Ben sailed to super-stardom with Sennett, earning $3K-plus a week. Many of his Sennett shorts survive and they are a pleasure to watch. As his wife Carrie's life neared its end, Ben, a very devout Catholic, took her to religious shrines hoping for a cure. He suspended his career to care for her in her final months. After her death, there are several news clipping that capture how big the story was in the mid-1920 entertainment media of star Ben Turpin shucking off his career to care for his loved spouse.

Although very witty in his public appearances, Turpin lived a quiet life with Carrie. There were no children, evidently a life disappointment. (Rydzewski includes an odd tale of Ben and Carrie asking a poor man if they could raise his daughter -- the man declined). In any event, it's not a surprise Ben eventually married Babette Dietz in the summer of 1926. Their union lasted until Ben's death in 1940 at age 70.

Ben went back to comedies but did not make the change to talky comedies. He was financially secure. At age 60 he could still do stage work and add to his secure living. He had invested well. I'm just guessing but he may have looked at the artistic difficulties some of his peers (Langdon, Lloyd, Keaton and even Chaplin) were having making the transition. In the early '30s, comedy cinema was moving toward dialogue comedy, either battle of the sexes or the fast repartee of the Marx Brothers. Slapstick was popular in shorts, but the budgets were tiny, and the films less recognized than in the Sennett era.

The best chance to see Ben in a film is the 1940 Laurel and Hardy film, "Saps at Sea," where he plays -- in a quick cameo -- a cross-eyed plumber. Ben Turpin died of a heart attack on July 1, 1940. Born in 1869, he was a literal first in his class of silent slapstick. Rydzewski has done a tremendous service, both to fans and film historians, with this comprehensive work. The book also includes scores and scores of pages of photos.

Review of "For Art's Sake: The Biography and Filmography of Ben Turpin"

Review by Doug Gibson

There's a passage in "For Art's Sake," Steve Rydzewski's biography and compilation of silent film comedy star Ben Turpin's life (BearManor Media), in which actor Wallace Beery roughs up his co-star Turpin while making a comedy short. The somewhat sadistic encounter takes place just before Turpin, a literal pioneer of slapstick silent cinema, becomes a major star for producer Mack Sennett, earning more than $3,000 a week in his heyday.

Now flash 20-plus a few years, the elderly Sennett, getting close to 70, provides a bittersweet rational as to why he is rarely in the "talkies" cinema --no one has asked. Turpin is still active, whether on the stage or for other publicity endeavors. But he's proud of what he has accomplished, and doesn't want to go hat in the hand, begging for screen work.

Rydzewski's book is a dash of biography (much of it in his subject's early years) and a whole lot of research that is shared with readers, mainly in the form of newspaper clipping and press releases. The format works. The subject's life and events flow well and the information, which must have taken thousands of hours to gather, is fascinating.This is a treasure trove of history. (Just the accounts of obscure stage performances are fascinating) It's unlikely that another book will ever improve on detailing Turpin's life. Given that most readers of this genre book will be searching for details of the subject's life, the format is successful

There's a lot of pathos in these life anecdotes, clipping and biography, but Turpin's life was not a tragedy. He was a very successful man, who saved and invested his earnings so he didn't have to work all his life. He enjoyed two successful marriages that were only ended by death. Rydzewski has done an impressive job of detailing the comic performer's life about as well as anyone has done and will be able to do. As for myself, prior to reading "For Art's Sake, " I knew little about Turpin's life, other than recognizing his iconic cross-eyed countenance. Several years ago, I read an enjoyable feature article on Turpin in Cult Movies Magazine, where I learned that Ben as a teen was given a small bounty by his dad and told to seek his fortune. After Ben, born in 1869, lost the bounty gambling, he hit the rails as a hobo. In the book, Rydzewski quotes Turpin as saying that "Mulligan stew was my bread" in those days.

"For Art's Sake" provides lots of information on Turpin's early life. His father managed candy shops in New Orleans and New York City, where Turpin learned the art of taffy pulling, a skill he was paid for as an adult performer. Living a nomadic life for several years after leaving home, Ben gravitated to carnivals and theater work, particularly physical comedy. A brief first marriage hardly slowed him down. Although he traveled widely, working for very low wages, Chicago eventually became an early hub of his career.

In the first decade of the 20th century, Turpin gained notoriety for his "Happy Hooligan" performance. These types of characters required intense physical skill, including throwing one's legs up high in the air and falling on the back and quickly rising. These moves, as well as comedy acts that required climbing and hard knocks, would frequently send Turpin over the years to hospitals. (Although there are many "explanations" as to why Turpin developed crossed-eyes, Rydzeswki's research points toward the cumulative effect of Ben having to intentionally cross his eyes for long stretches to play Happy Hooligan as a likely reason.

In 1907, Ben married Carrie Le Mieux, a fellow performer and they settled in Chicago. It was a happy union that would last until her death in 1925. About this time, Ben started making silent comedy films for Essanay, a Chicago-based company. As Rydzewski explains, film was not as respected as the stage in that period. Scripts were not a part of short comedy films. It was go to the scene, stay away from the cops, and improvise your movie. In fact, as Rydzewski's book notes, Ben was once arrested, and spent several hours in jail shivering, for entering public waters in Chicago while filming. (Here is a look at Ben, a legitimate pioneer of slapstick silent cinema -- he was literally the first -- in a portion of the Essanay 1909 short "Mr. Flip.")

Although he was only paid $20 to $30 a week for several years, Ben stayed with Essanay for a long time, even heading with his wife, Carrie, when Essanay made the move to Hollywood. Most of his early films are lost but enough survive remain to fully appreciate Ben's talent for physical comedy timing as well as his facial expressions and aggressive persistence that demands that viewers pay attention to him. Frankly, Essanay exploited his talent, making a fortune with the peanuts they paid him. As Rydzewski notes, once Ben tried to quit Essanay, but lost, and came back to the same miserable pay.

It was Charlie Chaplin, hired by Essanay, who finally started to move Ben's career into well-paid stardom. Instantly noting Turpin's star power, Chaplin worked with him and then refused to work with him again -- as a compliment -- correctly noting Turpin was a star. When Chaplin left Essanay, it likely helped provide Ben the resolve to find better earnings. He signed with Sennett, amazed that they accepted his demand of $100 a week. (An interesting anecdote in Rydzewski's book is Turpin recounting how his accountant urged him to live on far less and save a lot. That likely underscores his frugal lifestyle, which kept the Turpins financially secure after the top-earning years were over.)

As mentioned, Ben sailed to super-stardom with Sennett, earning $3K-plus a week. Many of his Sennett shorts survive and they are a pleasure to watch. As his wife Carrie's life neared its end, Ben, a very devout Catholic, took her to religious shrines hoping for a cure. He suspended his career to care for her in her final months. After her death, there are several news clipping that capture how big the story was in the mid-1920 entertainment media of star Ben Turpin shucking off his career to care for his loved spouse.

Although very witty in his public appearances, Turpin lived a quiet life with Carrie. There were no children, evidently a life disappointment. (Rydzewski includes an odd tale of Ben and Carrie asking a poor man if they could raise his daughter -- the man declined). In any event, it's not a surprise Ben eventually married Babette Dietz in the summer of 1926. Their union lasted until Ben's death in 1940 at age 70.

Ben went back to comedies but did not make the change to talky comedies. He was financially secure. At age 60 he could still do stage work and add to his secure living. He had invested well. I'm just guessing but he may have looked at the artistic difficulties some of his peers (Langdon, Lloyd, Keaton and even Chaplin) were having making the transition. In the early '30s, comedy cinema was moving toward dialogue comedy, either battle of the sexes or the fast repartee of the Marx Brothers. Slapstick was popular in shorts, but the budgets were tiny, and the films less recognized than in the Sennett era.

The best chance to see Ben in a film is the 1940 Laurel and Hardy film, "Saps at Sea," where he plays -- in a quick cameo -- a cross-eyed plumber. Ben Turpin died of a heart attack on July 1, 1940. Born in 1869, he was a literal first in his class of silent slapstick. Rydzewski has done a tremendous service, both to fans and film historians, with this comprehensive work. The book also includes scores and scores of pages of photos.