Annabelle Serpentine Dance (1895)

In the flickers of this bygone moment
Annabelle fair undulates her serpent’s dance;
and I, by but another press of Play
do toy with her, and new joy in her sway.

But oh, what’s ‘fifty feet’ of film today—
but fifteen seconds? Brutal brevity,
dear Belle, when you’re the one upon the stage,
or through the scope; though your looks mute your age.

My Annabelle, ’gainst your backing of black:
your alabaster face and arms glow strong, and
’gainst their white, your flaming, styled curls
pulse hot, and top your timeless act’s unfurling.

By steps precisely stepped a century past,
with flowing robes old generations sewed,
your grace evokes the twist and torque of Snake;
but by your pace a bright-lit beast it’s made.

Sweet-gentle, slight-built Annabelle, your sleeves
the spectrum-wide traverse, from orange-ish bursts,
to white, then from your shoes, quick-rising blue;
dead painters’ dabs evoke five colours true.

Another turn, and sweep, and cocky step;
another silken, rippling column rolls; then,
arms held high you start your dance’s end,
you prancing Angel; with a prideful Sun in your wake.








Where to find Annabelle Serpentine Dance:
The hand-tinted Annabelle Serpentine Dance is one of many brief, 19th century films found Disc One of Kino International’s must-have, four-disc set, Edison: The Invention of the Movies. The film is preceded by a short commentary from several film scholars. Look for it here. A grainier version of this serpentine dance (as well as many others like it) can also be downloaded from YouTube.

Vacay and a note of thanks

A little time off--partly anticipated, partly not--means no real update today. However, I'm hoping to get a new film article posted this weekend. If I do, it'll be something a little different. And next week, I'm hoping to feature TWO new films, one of them based on a live viewing.

Speaking of twos (and terrible segues): I'm proud to report that Silent Volume received its 2000th visit not long ago. For a blog this young, covering a subject like silent film, I think that's pretty good. And of course, I owe it to all of you. Many thanks.

--Chris

Tramp, Tramp, Tramp (1926)

I don’t know what kind of man Harry Logan’s supposed to be in Tramp, Tramp, Tramp. Whatever techniques his father used to raise him did not work, as Harry (Harry Langdon) is a profoundly maladjusted young fellow. On the other hand, the world portrayed in this movie makes no sense, either. When a man can defy social, then rational, and finally physical bounds, what value is there in being normal at all?

Harry is a typical Langdon character: an awkward little creature who responds to challenges with bewildered, dissembling blinks and gestures, moments of hesitation and bursts of bashful circular motion. Everything is new and puzzling to Harry, who is not so much a man-child as a man-infant. If he were left to his own devices he would, we suspect, be destroyed.

This view is challenged by Amos Logan, Harry’s wheelchair-bound father. Amos (Alec B. Francis) is founder and proprietor of Amos Logan & Son, a Burton, Mass.-based purveyor of hand-made shoes. Unfortunately, Burton is also home to the colossal Burton Shoes factory, which is why Amos Logan & Sons resembles a shack. Burton’s buying power is bolstered by its lovely billboards, featuring Betty Burton (Joan Crawford), daughter of the founder. Her tagline: ‘Walk with me.’

Harry loves that girl in the poster with his whole heart. Nothing else in life seems important to him. Decide for yourself whether that makes him indifferent to his circumstances, or simply unaware of them; for indeed, his circumstances aren’t great.

Amos is facing eviction, says his John L. Sullivan-like landlord, Nick Kargas. Amos calls Harry into the room, and explains to him that in fact, they do not own Amos Logan & Son; they’re renters, and they’ve got three months to pay their debt. Harry blinks. "Does this mean I don’t get my new bike?"

Harry is thrust into the world. A chance meeting nets him work as Kargas’ gofer; we learn that Kargas is also a world champion long-distance walker, and intends to compete in a walking race to California, sponsored by Burton Shoes. Harry’s help invariably proves dangerous, and he is soon fired by his barrel-chested boss. But Betty takes pity on Harry and enters him in the race as a consolation.

Too bad we never learn the rules of the race. We do see walkers march from the starting line in Burton, Mass., wearing short trousers, backpacks and sweatshirts emblazoned with ‘Burton Shoes.’ Walking to California takes a while, so we’ll assume they’ve got three months—Harry’s deadline to get the money. But as to the path the walkers take, we’re never given a clue. Nor do we see them eat or sleep, and so the enormous comic potential of the walking race is frittered away.

Perhaps Langdon’s heart wasn’t in it. Buster Keaton, with his superior athleticism, could have made more of the race itself. The spectacle-minded Harold Lloyd might have devoted the film’s entire second half to it, mimicking his format in Safety Last! (1923) and Speedy (1928). But Langdon’s comedy shone brightest when things were quiet.

Tramp, Tramp, Tramp’s best scene is no stunt, but the sublime first meeting between Harry and Betty. He’s staring longingly at one of her posters when she spies him, then sneaks up behind him. Betty knows exactly what drives Harry, and still she expresses warm pity toward this weird little man--it tells us just as much about her as it does him.

When Harry turns around, it’s, well, remarkable. He doesn’t overreact, at least in the manic sense; he simply wanders the little patch of park they’re standing in, sitting down, standing up again when she joins him; half-talking to her, half-talking to himself. Langdon’s reaction, a single take lasting more than a minute, confirms the man’s pantomime chops. And the pacing of the scene is almost modern. If Langdon has a successor today, it is Will Ferrell, who has also built his career on meandering scenes that are funny, in part, because we’re aware they are overly long.


Harry is convinced he’ll be marrying Betty soon. We’re not so sure, but Betty is certainly a good soul. With her best wishes to power him, Harry proves a formidable walk-racer, narrowing the field to him and Kargas alone. This, despite being incarcerated for at least two days in the middle of the race.

Harry ate berries, you see; fruit belonging to a farmer near the race-route. He’s placed in a chain-gang to pay his debt, and ordered to break rocks. Unable to lift any of the available tools, Harry tries to break a large stone with a tiny ball-peen hammer, which makes no sense. He tries to be more industrious by switching to smaller stones, but the ones he smashes are already small enough, and so his labour is worthless. Finally, one of the prisoners uncovers a cache of weapons and stages a (gang?)-break; Harry is handed a loaded pistol, which he looks at clearly before using the butt-end in place of the hammer.

How could anyone be so stupid? Are we to assume Harry has never seen a pistol before? If he has, why doesn’t it bother him? Gags like this were common enough in slapstick, but usually, the comic would be handed the gun without seeing what it was. The gag works because the man’s unaware of the danger he’s in. Yet Harry is both aware of the gun, and seemingly unaware that guns are dangerous. This man is not credible. And the most unlikely scene is still to come.

Weeks later, Harry and Kargas reach the western town of Sand City, where Betty and the Burton executive team are waiting to greet them. Before long, a cyclone strikes the town, sending the residents to their storm cellars. Harry, however, seems not to notice the storm for what it is. “Ah!—at last a breeze.” he declares, and fights the obviously gale-force winds to make it to a nearby barbershop. His top priority is a shave after that trek through the desert. When he finally does face the mighty funnel, Harry defeats it (literally driving it away) by hitting it with a brick.

The intertitle following this sequence seems to acknowledge its foolishness, reading:

“David slew Goliath; Daniel tamed the lions; Joshua stopped the sun—and Harry made a cyclone take the air.”

But two of those examples, far-fetched though they are, can at least occur. Harry’s outcome so untethers Tramp, Tramp, Tramp from reality that it would only make sense if the hero were someone like... Harry.

Oh. Well then, what’s left to say? An irrational creation finds fame, fortune and beauty in a world built, it seems, by an irrational creator? If your only rule is that there are no rules, I guess Harry Logan is, indeed, the man to call. And Tramp, Tramp, Tramp is the film to watch.

Where to find Tramp, Tramp, Tramp:
Kino International’s Harry Langdon... The Forgotten Clown includes Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, along with two of Langdon’s other feature films, The Strong Man (1926) and Long Pants (1927). Look for it here.

Reflections: Approval ex nihilo

Today I’m going to devote a few lines to one of my least favourite words: Cute.

Why here? Because ‘that was cute’ is the phrase I hear most often from non-silent film fans after I’ve introduced/subjected them to some piece of soundless brilliance they mustn’t live without. Some gem I just can’t imagine them sliding into their graves having missed. Oh, this movie is sublime, I’ll tell them, and sure enough, they’ll enjoy it, I guess, sort of—do you enjoy something when the corners of your smile only reach the bottom of your earlobe?

‘Cute’ is never meant as an insult, but it is the damnation of faint praise, most assuredly. It is a quiet compliment with omissions that bellow. And while it’s pointless to bitch about what other people don’t like, or why they don’t like it, or how express their dislike, let me say that I never describe anything as ‘cute,’ even if I like it, especially if I love it, and I don’t think you should either. Consider other applications of ‘cute’ in daily life, and ask yourself how praiseworthy it really is:

1. “OMG, SO CUTE!!!”
Usually found in the comments field, directly beneath your Facebook friend’s newest batch of posted baby pictures. Usually written by a female, to the mother. The baby/babies may be doing something or nothing. If doing something, it may be succeeding or failing. And the baby may, in fact, be homely. Not all babies are cute, though we never admit that, and even very cute babies take silly, unflattering or boring pictures once in awhile. Miracle of life, beauty of first steps, etc.... the fact remains that the picture is ‘cute’ because babies are cute, and this picture contains a baby.

2. “Your [dog, cat, rabbit, hamster, gerbil, ferret, seal] is so cute!”
The baby rule mostly holds for beasts, too. ‘Cute’ is rarely applied outside the realm of the juvenile animal, and almost never to an animal without fur (tarantulas are a separate matter). I don’t know why birds aren’t ‘cute’—maybe they look too reptilian. When adult animals are cute, it’s usually because they’re doing something vaguely human (cowardly dog covering his eyes just like your cowardly uncle does, for example). In other words, they’re cute because they’re trying to resemble, by means of their limited faculties, us.

3. “She’s a cute girl.”
Better than being homely, sure, but I don’t know many women who appreciate being called ‘cute,’ even when a guy’s complimenting her features directly. ‘Cute’ usually means ‘short,’ and it does not mean ‘sexy,’ even though petite women can be very sexy. I’d argue that when a guy calls a girl cute, he’s mostly saying she’s not ugly. And notice how no one ever says ‘cute woman.’

4. “You’re a cute guy.”
Even I’ve received this one a few times, and I’m nothing special. That’s part of the problem. For a man, as for a woman, ‘cute’ does not equate to hot, must-have human real estate. Nor does it mean ‘masculine,’ and most guys like to think they can rely on the masculinity they project. A man shouldn’t be cute. Teddy bears are cute; fat, fuzzy things that make ladies smile and encourage them to dole out hugs aplenty, but probably no more than that.

So what is ‘cute’? I argue ‘cute’ is an adjective that opens more doors than it closes—a way to end a sentence without ending it at all. Call a silent film ‘cute’ and you’re complimenting it for managing to entertain you despite its limitations—like a cat wearing your sunglasses. A cute silent movie isn’t necessarily something you liked at all; it’s just something you think is likeable. But what, then, are you really saying? That it’s not ‘un-cute’? That it’s interesting, but cannot reach your vital self, take hold, and keep holding?

I can live with silent film being an acquired taste, really I can. I’m no better than anyone else anyway—take me to the ballet and watch my eyes wander to the orchestra pit to observe the tuba. Just please, when someone calls a movie ‘cute,’ ask him or her to be more specific. It’ll be better for us all.

He Did and He Didn't (1916)

Roscoe ‘Fatty’ Arbuckle had a story to tell, I think. That he got only a few chapters into it before scandal destroyed him is tragic; not just for his fans, but for his medium. Where Arbuckle’s work ends, so stops a peculiar vein of slapstick comedy that was never revived.

The ‘chapters’ are his short films; they were made mostly between 1912 and 1921 and cover, I’d argue, the maximum breadth of knockabout comedy. Arbuckle pushed the envelope as much as he could, getting more out of every Keystone chase and harmless gunshot to the bum than anyone else could have. Yet his restrictions clearly got to him, and if you doubt that, please watch He Did and He Didn’t today.

He Did and He Didn’t is a taste of might have (and ought to have) come from Arbuckle’s thwarted feature-length career. It’s not very funny, at least by the standards Arbuckle set in films like Fatty Joins the Force (1913), The Rounders (1914), and Coney Island (1917). But it is a bold comedic short, describing darker conflicts than even most dramas of the time. And when slapstick can’t get it done, Arbuckle happily looks elsewhere.

We can tell something’s wrong from the opening minute. Arbuckle’s billed not as a righteous farmhand or a wealthy drunk—he’s a successful doctor. Usually, characters like that are foils or plot-drivers for the comic, who is not, himself, socially powerful. The first intertitle reads: ‘Their Usual Evening’ and we see Arbuckle the Doctor fumbling with his tuxedo collar while his wife, Mabel (Mabel Normand) brushes her hair. The husband is clearly fond of himself, and treats his wife more like an irritant than a lover. When she gets in his way, he lifts her off her feet like a piece of furniture and sets her elsewhere. When she asks him to help her adjust her dress, he fixes the clasp with a slight punch. It hurts her.

Arbuckle’s physicality always had an undertone of menace, but only in this film is it fully realized. In other shorts, he tempered his characters’ strength and size with either cowardice or simple-minded righteousness, as befit the circumstance. This Doctor, though—he might be a real abuser. We have reason to wonder after the arrival of Mabel’s old flame, Jack (William Jefferson). He and Mabel dated once; based on a photo Jack produces, it must have been when she was about thirteen. No matter; the moment Jack leaves the room, the Doctor rips the photo to pieces.

What a cruel thing to do. Yes, Mabel was fawning over Jack a bit, but we suspect that simple joys are rare for her. To his credit, the Doctor instantly regrets his action, but how like an abusive spouse to make his point and only afterward ask forgiveness.

He’s a lousy host, too. He laughs at Jack’s jokes but the smile leaves his face awfully quickly. He makes sure to be between—literally between—Jack and Mabel whenever possible. The scenes are truly uncomfortable, and they drift farther from farce than any Arbuckle film I know of. You see, Jack’s not a cad, nor is he oblivious to the image he projects. He’s simply caught between a wife who is thrilled to see him and a husband who clearly hates him. And it is hate. The film’s pivotal early scene, in which Jack and the Doctor face each other across the dinner table with Mabel in the middle, makes the Doctor’s feelings very clear.

Consider the effect of Arbuckle’s bloodless, boiling stare, absent of any humour and aimed right at you, the viewer. Could a man of his size make good on his violent wishes? How should that make you feel? For comparison’s sake, watch Buster Keaton’s atypical short film, The Frozen North (1922), in which the comic plays a murderous bandit. Keaton, a giant of cinema, was puny in body; his portraying a thug of any kind is funny, because he doesn’t look big enough to threaten your grandmother. But what if the thug was this guy?

How mad could he get... and what could Mabel do about it? In a telling follow-up scene, the worried wife returns to her makeup table, tries to lean on it with her elbow and misses, smacking her head against the table’s edge. It is a typical slapstick spot, but Mabel’s only reaction is annoyance. She pulls the table closer and continues to brood. This is no time to goof around.

The Doctor is eventually led away by a phony housecall, set up by a pair of thieves looking to rob his home. One of them is played by Al St. John, a jumping-jack of a comedian whose taste I’ve never acquired. Arbuckle worked with St. John many times (they were related), but his role in this film is especially interesting, as Arbuckle seems intent on letting his nephew shoulder almost all of He Did and He Didn’t’s knockabout action sequence—the obligatory closing minutes of any Keystone film. With the Doctor away, pistol-packing Jack must chase St. John through the house, firing wildly as the robber bounces off furniture, a chandelier and various servants.

St. John’s defeat is not the end of the film—in fact, he’s pitched out the window by Jack with several minutes to spare. Only then does the Doctor return to the house, even angrier than before; convinced the housecall was a ruse on his wife’s part. He discovers Jack comforting a frightened Mabel, and tries to kill him. With Jack dispatched, he strangles his wife, and walks calmly off-camera.

No, he doesn’t wring her neck in exaggerated fashion; he just chokes her down to the floor and exits. And when we discover, to our relief, that Mabel is not dead, we are soon shocked again at the retribution she takes on the Doctor. Just what are we watching here?

Arbuckle does pull back from pure melodrama in the end—quite creatively, too. However, you won’t remember his tidy summation so much as the fearsome anger his character contains in this film. Fatty could act, and I’ll always wonder to what different, darker place he might have taken his artform, if he’d been given the chance.

Where to find He Did and He Didn’t:
It’s not even on YouTube. However, it is available on the excellent Forgotten Films of Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle, a four-disc set that includes more than 20 of the comedian’s other silent shorts, plus several films he directed (under the pseudonym ‘William Goodrich’) following his blacklisting. The set is distributed by Mackinac Media.