The Civil Servants Of Film Comedy

Press, Volume C, Issue 29474, 28 March 1961, Page 11

The Civil Servants Of Film Comedy

[By a Special Correspondent of -The Ttme«"J The cinema has produced many talented comedians in its history, especially daring the silent era, that It is difficult to place them in any order of merit. Chaplin, of course, must come first because he was the complete artist—a master of mime as well as of comic invention, and the one film down above all others who understood exactly, as if by instinct, the proportions in which laughter and pathos should be mixed. But if Chaplin Is unquestionably first, who should be placed second? If the silent period of the cinema is. accepted as its golden era, at least in so far as comedy is concerned, then it is the comedians of this silent period who would seem to merit chief attention. They learnt to develop their humour visually, without the aid of dialogue, and they practised their exacting craft in a series of short comedies which demanded discipline, speed, and unflagging inventiveness. Most of them, when at their peak, were faced with two major obstacles—the first being the transition from silent films to those that' talked, the second the expansion of their style from the short comedy to the fulllength film. These two changes brought disaster to many, and even those that overcame them often lost stature as a result. Chaplin’s Rivals Chaplin’s chief rivals in the twenties were generally considered to be Harry Langdon, Buster Keaton, and Harold Lloyd. Langdon, the white and sad-faced dreamer, Ik was perhaps the nearest to I - Chaplin in style, but he never ~ fulfilled his early promise. His full-length films were not successful, and he had largely lost his popularity before the talkies arrived. Buster Keaton and Harold Lloyd enjoyed a much longer run, but they were primarily gag comedians, who relied a great deal upon the creation of ingenious situations and the employment of clever props, with the whole topped by an extravagant climax—usually, in the case of Lloyd, with the hero finding himself suspended agonisingly from the top of a very high building.

Their pathos was limited, for Lloyd, although typifying the well-meaning incompetent, was a presentable and well-built young man who did not often look pathetic, while Buster Keaton, although woebegone enough with his solemn and inscrutable face, was yet limited in range by its very immobility. Each, at his best, could be nearly as funny as Chaplin, but neither could sustain a story as Chaplin could, by relying on the simplest situations; and neither of them ever contrived a full-length film of the quality of “City Lights.” But during this silent period of the cinema there did emerge two comedians who gradually achieved in partnership something of the Chaplin touch. Singly, they were not remarkable, but as a foil, one to the other, they were outstanding. This pair were Laurel and Hardy. They came together in the middle of the 1920’5, each having previously served a long apprenticeship in the music halls, the circus, and on the stage.

Stan Laurel, of the vacant expression and bewildered look, was an Englishman, born in Lancashire, who had first come to the United States in 1910 as an understudy to Chaplin in his stage sketch, “A Night in an English Music Hall,” and had started filming with Hal Roach in 1917.

Oliver Hardy, a large and ponderous man whose speciality was his look of long - suffering resignation, was a Southerner, born in Atlanta, Georgia. He had diverse talents, the most unexpected of which was a professional standard in golf. At first Stan Laurel was considered to be the senior partner, and the major absurdities of their earlier films were developed around him, but gradually Hardy’s exasperation at his colleague’s incompetence, and his own bland although slightly apologetic self-assurance, brought to their union a perfect balance. Disaster loomed whichever was in command of a situation, but whereas the mournful Laurel looked upon it as inevitable. Hardy did at least arouse a certain momentary expectation that chaos might not, after all, be the final outcome of their efforts.

There was something very endearing about this incongruous pair. One was always wishing that things mightjust for once—go well with them. “They are perhaps the civil servants of comedy,” wrote John Grierson. “Nothing on earth would please them better than a quiet permanence in all things.” It is significant that so shrewd a judge of the cinema as Grierson should have recognised their talents, for the critics of the period were ready to dismiss them as no more than routine slapstick comedians, and histories of the cinema seldom accord them more than a brief mention. International Appeal

This was because their comedy was so simple. They did indulge in slapstick and they did throw custard pies. But they were always visual in their work, and their comedy like that of Chaplin, was international. They represented to the world the frustrations and disappointments which daily confront the ordinary, ineffectual man. They were two men of peace, helpful and sympathetic—but they were also martyrs to incompetence. In each there was a strong streak of pathos. Laurel could look as dejected as a whipped mongrel. Hardy, so large, so magnanimous, so expansive, could have his self-esteem punctured as easily and as rapidly as a toy balloon. “Mr Hardy is conscious of the Grand Passion,” ran the opening caption to one of their films. “Mr Laurel is not even conscious of the Grand Canyon.” It was ever thus. Hardy was the romantic, an easy prey for every adventuress, a knight without armour and without sense. Laurel, on the other hand, found life complicated enough without the intrusion of women. It was his good fortune to have been born into the world before the 11-plus. There was shown in London not long ago an American film anthology of comedy, called "When Comedy was King.” It contained a short Laurel and Hardy film which was, in its way, a little masterpiece in the art of developing a single, simple situation.

In the beginning the pair are discovered selling Christmas trees. (Again the note of simple-hearted good will. They leave their old but much treasured car outside a house and ring the bell expectantly. But the owner of the house is in an unchristian frame of znind. He does not want a Christmas tree, and he slams the door in their faces. Hardy, piqued and hurt, aims a kick at a prize plant as he goes down the drive. The owner emerges in fury, advances upon their car and kicks in a headlamp. By way of retaliation, they pull up a shrub. He replies by tearing off a mudguard. And so the battle is waged. Not a word is spoken, but

by the end of the film they have wrecked his house, and he has strewn their precious car in little pieces all overj the road. All three are finallyleft broken-hearted and aghast at what they have: done. Everything Went Wrong Simplicity was always the key-note, and unlike Chaplin, they were seldom vulgar. Their strength lay in -their team-work, each in his turn playing his king, so that his partner might trump it with an ace. Their faces, seen in close-up, could mirror a wide range of emotions, so that it became unnecessary for them to rely upon elaborate gags or complicated situations. They merely attempted to do something, and it went wrong. In perhaps their most memorable short they did no more than try to push a heavy I piano up a long, long flight of stone steps. Their pathos was not as profound as Chaplin’s, and although they represented the under-dog, as he did. they never quite contrived his inimitable defiance in the face of adversity. There were many occasions when Fate got the better of Laurel and Hardy, but it was never the complete master of Chaplin. The little tramp had his daydreams and visions of glory, but Laurel and Hardy remained the Civil Servants of Comedy—two simple characters in search of a fool-proof occupation.