The New Henrietta with Douglas Fairbanks becomes
The Saphead with Buster Keaton. Despite their shared athleticism, the two are certainly cut from different cloths—with Keaton the odder remnant, as it were. And his Bertie is more than "passing strange," with the quality of—I don't know what—a solemn, self-possessed toddler?—his movements (such as they are—he is often all but inert) precise, mechanical—and his passivity almost philosophical. It's funny, but like nothing else. I did not laugh out loud even once, and felt always off-kilter inside, as though my laughter had turned inward, like a sudden gulp of solid air, thick inside and heavy.
Do I exaggerate? I'm not sure; all I can write with certainty is that, with his bland demeanor, his near-tragic stance—thwarted on his marriage-day, standing in the Stock Exchange with his morning coat and cane, his beloved boutonniere (attached by his fiancée) clinging to his breast, buffeted by the traders—he becomes, for a space, the idiot rag-doll of Wall Street, ignorant of its double-dealings—so much so that, in true cinema fashion, he prevails, his greatness not so much
thrust upon as
pummeled into him. Keaton always promises (threatens?) such characterizations; here, despite the usual over-cooked story, he reveals without apology his freakish approach to—I must, I suppose, call it "comedy," although again it does not allow me to respond with any normal sign of having been amused.
In short, Keaton is a kind of genius—like Chaplin in his rubber-framed capacity to take a severe beating—but all the screen comics are boneless wonders. No, Keaton's greatness (and I know others note this—but I cannot note anything else) is his sad-Buddha serenity, tattered and bloody as he literally is by the end—but driven by the urge to survive, and the will to love. —And oh that last sentence itself seems over-cooked; but Keaton engenders such outbursts. It is slapstick administered with distress and pity, driving him to do the right thing and reclaim his due. Of course, he gets his girl—but with Keaton it seems more a necessity than a surrender to form. I feared for his life, he looked so love-sick, unblinking amid the tumult of commerce. He is an acrobat-invalid, seemingly doomed until in the climax he springs, shouting "I'll take it!" over and over. And he does take it, over and over. Funny business.
The New Henrietta with Douglas Fairbanks becomes The Saphead with Buster Keaton. Despite their shared athleticism, the two are certainly cut from different cloths—with Keaton the odder remnant, as it were. And his Bertie is more than "passing strange," with the quality of—I don't know what—a solemn, self-possessed toddler?—his movements (such as they are—he is often all but inert) precise, mechanical—and his passivity almost philosophical. It's funny, but like nothing else. I did not laugh out loud even once, and felt always off-kilter inside, as though my laughter had turned inward, like a sudden gulp of solid air, thick inside and heavy.
Do I exaggerate? I'm not sure; all I can write with certainty is that, with his bland demeanor, his near-tragic stance—thwarted on his marriage-day, standing in the Stock Exchange with his morning coat and cane, his beloved boutonniere (attached by his fiancée) clinging to his breast, buffeted by the traders—he becomes, for a space, the idiot rag-doll of Wall Street, ignorant of its double-dealings—so much so that, in true cinema fashion, he prevails, his greatness not so much thrust upon as pummeled into him. Keaton always promises (threatens?) such characterizations; here, despite the usual over-cooked story, he reveals without apology his freakish approach to—I must, I suppose, call it "comedy," although again it does not allow me to respond with any normal sign of having been amused.
In short, Keaton is a kind of genius—like Chaplin in his rubber-framed capacity to take a severe beating—but all the screen comics are boneless wonders. No, Keaton's greatness (and I know others note this—but I cannot note anything else) is his sad-Buddha serenity, tattered and bloody as he literally is by the end—but driven by the urge to survive, and the will to love. —And oh that last sentence itself seems over-cooked; but Keaton engenders such outbursts. It is slapstick administered with distress and pity, driving him to do the right thing and reclaim his due. Of course, he gets his girl—but with Keaton it seems more a necessity than a surrender to form. I feared for his life, he looked so love-sick, unblinking amid the tumult of commerce. He is an acrobat-invalid, seemingly doomed until in the climax he springs, shouting "I'll take it!" over and over. And he does take it, over and over. Funny business.
Fantastic! "Sad-Buddha serenity" is such a wonderful turn of phrase, I want to steal it.
ReplyDeleteI don't know if it matters, but the photo you've included is actually from Keaton's 1922 short "Daydreams." Although it does nicely capture the wide-eyed innocence mingled with world-weariness that is the classic Keaton persona.
Well, it's been three years, but thanks for the kind words--and the heads-up about the image. I'm in the process of turning this into an ebook, so I'm happy for all the warnings and corrections I can get.
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