Langdon & Laurel & Hardy & Hal (Part 1)

Baby. Elf. Strutting little jerk. Hugely influential. All of the above?

Harry Langdon. He’s been called The Baby.  The Little Elf.  An alien.  The critic James Agee likened him to a baby dope fiend. In his acclaimed book The Silent Clowns, Walter Kerr compared him to “a comma”. One title card simply christened his character “the Odd Fellow”.  Of the man himself, Frank Capra branded him – perhaps permanently – as “an impossible, opinionated, conceited, strutting little jerk” and “the only real honest-to-goodness human tragedy that I have personally seen from start to finish”.  Call him what you will, Harry Langdon remains one of the most enigmatic – both as a comic creation and as a man – performers in the history of cinema comedy.  During his 20-year maelstrom of a film career, Langdon found himself in and out of the Hal Roach Studios more than once, and served as friend, collaborator, confidant and hugely influential inspiration to Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy.

But, before we go too far, let's take a brief look at Harry’s meteoric rise (and equally meteoric fall), and the radical change he brought to silent comedy in the mid-20's – so radical that it caused Stan Laurel to completely re-examine his decade-long approach to film comedy, slam on the brakes, and turn it 180 degrees.

Harry in a Nutshell

In 1923 Hal Roach, on the advice of Harold Lloyd, tried to talk long-time vaudevillian Harry Langdon into a screen career.  At the time Lloyd was departing Roach to pursue a distribution deal with Paramount, leaving Roach with Snub Pollard and Paul Parrott as his big comedy stars.[1]  Apparently the money wasn’t there, and Langdon signed with producer Sol Lesser (whose big star at the time was a post-"The Kid" Jackie Coogan).  Harry filmed a handful of shorts for Lesser – at least two, maybe more.  Lesser then turned around and sold the films and Langdon’s contract to Mack Sennett.

The slam-bam Sennett studios seemed like the worst place in the world for a meticulous pantomimist like Langdon, and at first the Sennett style seemed to get the best of Harry.  Eventually Langdon, with the help of writer-director team Frank Capra, Arthur Ripley and Harry Edwards, solidified the character that set him apart from every other comedian on the planet: an inexplicable man-child baffled and bewildered by virtually everything he encounters; a helpless innocent whose only ally, according to Capra, was God.

Soon, flushed with success, Harry Langdon Productions signed a contract with First National Pictures for a series of features.  The first two, "Tramp, Tramp, Tramp" and "The Strong Man", were huge critical and financial hits.  But if God was Harry-on-celluloid’s only ally, he wasn’t on Harry Langdon’s side in real life.  Langdon’s artistic aspirations led to darker journeys into his character’s psyche – and to the departure of Capra and Edwards, along with a large share of his audience.  First National craved films like his earlier, funny comedies.  Meanwhile, Sennett saturated the market with Langdon releases he had held in reserve, cashing in on First National’s publicity machine. This rapid one-two-three punch decimated Harry’s career and helped forge what became the legend of Harry Langdon: an overgrown egomaniac whose ambition far outranked his talent and his understanding of his own character; whose own blindness to his limitations and insatiable desire to out-Chaplin Chaplin deservedly destroyed his career.

The Langdon Influence

In the all-too-short span of Harry’s superstardom, his influence was everywhere.  Keaton, Larry Semon, even Chaplin. They all seemed to pick up a little bit of Langdon. So it was inevitable that it would touch Stan Laurel.  Stan had been struggling for years to define his comic persona, which jumped from hyperactive dumbbell to low-key, dead-on (and frankly, much funnier) parodies of Rudolph Valentino, Milton Sills and John Barrymore.

Ultimately, Stan did learn from Harry.  Here’s what he learned: To take it slow.  Slooooooooow.  This seemed to be the trigger Laurel required to reevaluate his comic style – and it would change everything.

It didn’t happen right away.  Laurel’s 1926 Joe Rock comedy "Half A Man" is usually cited as a turning point in his career; a prime example of Stan in full Langdon-mode.  But it’s not really there. It’s more like Stan Laurel imitating Lupino Lane imitating Harry Langdon.  Stan’s screen character by this time had developed into a prissy, petulant, easily agitated fop (often with a pince-nez versus Lane’s trademark monocle) that he would carry through his first co-starring films with Oliver Hardy.

Stan Laurel, pre-Hardy. Half child / Half fop.

Stan in "Half A Man" has his moments of childlike innocence, but he’s really nothing like Harry. There's a scene where he’s walking along the beach and taken by surprise by the oncoming surf.  Stan chases the waves back into the sea, chastising them, emphatically stomping on the ground to make his point. Just like Langdon would do. But the scene has no subtlety or grace.  It comes from nowhere and goes nowhere. He’s just a silly child, spanking the ocean and licking his lollipop.

A more persuasive link to the future Stan Laurel is "Saturday Afternoon", a 1925 Sennett three-reeler teaming Harry with husky Vernon Dent in an embryonic version of Laurel & Hardy, in a plot that anticipates "Their Purple Moment", "Blotto" and "Sons Of The Desert".  Harry is a hapless husband lured into stepping out with a couple of cuties by a burly, worldly friend.  Of course big/little, smart/dumb comedy teams were nothing new – Lloyd Hamilton and Bud Duncan were “Ham & Bud”, and Babe Hardy himself had been paired with Billy Ruge as “Plump & Runt” and with Bobby Ray in a trio of shorts in the mid-20s.  But "Saturday Afternoon" has all the hallmarks of a classic Laurel & Hardy film: a domineering wife, a secretive plan to sneak out, and one friend all too willing to lead the other astray.

There’s a wonderful scene in "Saturday Afternoon" where Vernon and his girlfriend chat over a picket fence.  They’re positioned to the left- and right-hand sides of the frame, with Harry smack in the middle, watching curiously.  He momentarily looks away, and the lovebirds share a quick smooch… startling and confusing Harry.  This is very strange…  He’s never seen anything so perplexing in his life.  He watches carefully as they kiss again – what exactly are they doing? – and when they lean in for a long, long kiss, Harry studies it with wide-eyed fascination: this is information he can use on his own girlfriend.  Putting his plan into action, he whistles for his girl – and is chased away by an angry dog.

Harry baffled by kisses.
WATCH THE SCENE

Determined to put his newfound knowledge of the ways of romance to good use, Harry confronts his wife. Fortunately, she’s not in the room (or so he thinks) as Harry lays down the law: “—after this you’re gonna wind the clock, fix the cat and poison the ants – ”. Catching him in the act, his wife slyly yields and permits Harry his afternoon out, even giving him a dime to buy his girlfriend a soda.

Harry and Vernon arrive late, and their girls aren’t there.  Harry, ever helpful, fetches two other dates.  Unfortunately, it’s a pair of obvious streetwalkers.  Vernon informs him“They won’t do” and Harry passes on the message.  The girls turn violent.  What does Harry do?  What would Stan Laurel do?  What else – he hurls a brick at them.  Because there’s chivalry… and there’s self preservation.  Harry’s no fool.

As Stan & Ollie Rise, Harry Falls

Over the course of 1927, Stan Laurel’s character and the team of Laurel & Hardy were gelling. The evolution from something like "Slipping Wives" to the fully formed Stan & Ollie of "Leave ‘Em Laughing" and "From Soup To Nuts" was rapid and massive.

The “Stan” of Stan & Ollie is often compared to Harry; the similarities were strong enough that Hal Roach would one day consider Langdon as a natural replacement for Laurel.  But what’s interesting is, on deeper examination, how very different Stan Laurel and Harry Langdon are.  Yes, both are childlike innocents unprepared for the big, scary world out there.  Both are easily frightened and confused, and can barely function without the guidance and protection of others.  Both get sleepy when bonked on the head.

But let’s begin with a simple example – food – and go from there.  In "County Hospital", Stan brings Ollie a bag of hard-boiled eggs and nuts.  He unpeels an egg and eats it.  That’s all he does, as Ollie watches.  For a full minute-and-a-half.  Then he reaches for another one.

In Harry’s 1925 Sennett comedy "Remember When?", Harry is a wandering hobo who happens upon a picnic table loaded with sandwiches.  Each looks more delicious than the first, and every time Harry reaches for a sandwich he’s distracted by a potentially yummier one.  Inevitably he’s shooed away before he gets his pudgy fingers on a single sandwich.  But for Stan Laurel, one hard boiled egg after another is fine.

Laurel stares blankly and snoozes blissfully. As does Harry.

Now let’s consider the Laurel stare.  Blank and beautiful, impenetrable, and perfect for timing out laughs. Langdon has a blank stare too… but there’s more to it. Harry’s mind was always working. Behind his blinking eyes you could see curiosity, apprehension, bewilderment, terror, mischief, anger, anxiety as he tries to process whatever information he’s presented with.

The actual impact of Langdon’s influence on Laurel – our first view of the full-fledged Stanley we would come to know – doesn’t arrive until the opening of "The Battle Of The Century", when the camera catches pugilist Canvasback Clump in the corner of the ring, awaiting slaughter… his brain betraying nothing and a slight, vague smile on his face.  This would set the tone for every Laurel & Hardy film for the next 20-plus years, and finally bring Stan Laurel (alongside his friend, Mr. Hardy) the unique personality that would gain him fame, fortune, and universal comic immortality.

As Laurel & Hardy’s star was rising, Harry Langdon’s was descending… fast.  1928 was a very good year for Stan & Ollie, a very bad one for Harry.  His films were failing, one by one. First National was in dire straits, selling out to the Warner Brothers who were distracted – like Harry with a plateful of sandwiches – by the talkies.  Everything seemed to gang up to ensure Langdon’s downfall.  In the Exhibitors Herald-World, M.A. Manning, operator of the Opera House in Baldwin, Wisconsin said of Harry’s final silent feature, "Heart Trouble": “The first Langdon ever played here and the last.”   The last. Mr. Manning spoke for all of Hollywood with that one.

TO BE CONTINUED.

NOTES

[1] Stan Laurel’s return to the Roach lot in 1923 coincided with this timing, so it’s quite possible that Stan was brought in to fill the void that Harry ultimately didn’t fill.

An early version of this blog post was originally published in Nieuwe Blotto Magazine. 

When did Laurel & Hardy 'jump the shark'?

jump the shark:

(verb) the moment an area of pop culture (TV or movie series, music or performer) is considered to have passed its peak – referring to a scene in the TV series Happy Days when its popular character, Fonzie, is on water skis and literally jumps over a shark.

Ask anyone who loves Laurel & Hardy: What was the turning point  in Stan & Babe’s career? The unanimous answer would be the moment they signed with 20th Century Fox. And, of course, they’d be right – to a point. Because, once that contract was signed, there was no turning back.  But the truth is Laurel & Hardy’s films, careers and on-screen personalities were spiralling into decline before they left Roach, and one has to wonder if the downward trend was irreversible.

Now don’t get me wrong. There are things I love about every Roach-produced Laurel & Hardy film, even the ones I’ll seem­ingly be criticizing shortly. And I’ll be the first to admit the above theory isn’t exactly an original observation. Charles Barr, in his 1967 book Lau­rel & Hardy, describes Stan & Babe’s final Roach films as: ‘…getting away from the real Laurel and Hardy into a more nebulous ‘gag’ cinema, the kind of comedy which it was their distinction a dozen years earlier to transform from within.’

He’s right. Starting in 1937 or so, Laurel & Hardy start to evolve from likable, not-very-bright but very-real people into broad, slapstick clowns. The Mr. Laurel & Mr. Hardy of, say, "We Faw Down" and the Stan & Ollie of "Saps At Sea" are from two completely different planets.

So what is the exact moment Laurel & Hardy ‘jumped the shark’?

Well, technically, the act of jumping involves hit­ting a peak. And when you think of all the great moments in Laurel & Hardy-dom, perhaps the greatest is the song-and-dance to ‘At The Ball’ in "Way Out West". For two magnificent min­utes, Stan & Babe stop everything to perform a charming musical number, with very obvious rear projection setting the stage.

Genius and magic collide in this scene from "Way Out West". 
But was this the beginning of the end for Laurel & Hardy?

I think the operative word here is perform. Up until this moment, Stan & Ollie had always been somewhat eccentric innocents in a slightly off-kilter world – not counting the occasional sidetrip to Toyland or neck-twisting, belly-ballooning freak ending. But with "Way Out West" a different tone starts to seep in. ‘White magic’ makes its debut, and the slapstick becomes broader (body parts are stretched and snapped not once, but twice: Stan’s big toe and Ollie’s neck). They are beginning to define themselves as clowns. Yet "Way Out West" is undeniably a Laurel & Hardy film, maybe even their best. Now, however, the jump begins its inevitable descent…

Next stop, the Alps. And downhill from here.

What happened here? Did Hal Roach commission 20th Century Fox to produce this film for him? Because "Swiss Miss" has all the trademarks of a Fox film, with a slightly larger budget – present­ing Stan & Ollie as stupid dolts in comedy un­suited to their characters (when did they become so aggressive??), providing them with unfamiliar, unfunny co-stars and an irritating love interest, and the pièce de résistance: dressing them up in funny costumes. All that’s missing are the gangsters and/or Nazis.

So with one film Laurel & Hardy lose their grip on reality, tossed into a grand, glorious, musical comedy where peasants burst into spon­taneous song and gorillas roam the mountains. The boys try to get into the spirit, even sing-songing a few words in rhyme – the remnants of a longer, deleted musical sequence. And while it’s intriguing to think of Stan & Ollie performing (there’s that word again!) in a full-scale produc­tion number, that’s really Wheeler & Woolsey’s domain. When Ollie is given the chance to sing in "Swiss Miss", he sings badly. That’s a first.

Just what everyone wanted: A Big, Lavish, Musical Superfeature! 

Sure, you can blame Roach – "Swiss Miss" was his idea. But the comedy within is strangely…wrong. And you can't necessarily blame Hal for that. Six years earlier in "The Music Box", Stan & Ollie carried a piano up a long flight of stairs. Their ob­stacles included a disrespectful nursemaid and a pompous professor. They carry a piano in "Swiss Miss", too. To a treehouse. Across a rickety rope bridge. Over a mountain chasm. With a drunken Stan. Where they meet the aforementioned go­rilla. Oh, one more thing, there’s supposed to be a bomb in the piano. (A bomb? Yep. Stan shot the footage, Roach cut it out. I know whose side I'm on.) This kind of hey-why-not? gagging is straight out of Sennett – or worse, Larry Semon. Even the uninspired chase finale through the kitchen cupboards was done in three previous Laurel solos. They’ll recover somewhat in their next film, but the delicate balance of their personalities has been tipped.

The Mad Kuku: Block-Heads

"Block-Heads" is generally regarded to be the last of the clas­sic Laurel & Hardy films, and in a lot of ways it is. The first 20 minutes set up Stan & Ollie as inseparable, warm-hearted friends, reunited in one of the finest set pieces ever conceived for them. Ollie mistakenly believes his long-lost pal has lost his leg in the war… a situation that’s not entirely plausible, but definitely possible. It’s perfect old-school Stan & Ollie. But after that? Out come the wacky, ‘white magic’ gags (Stan yanks down a window shade’s shadow. Stan pulls a glass of water – with ice! – from his pants pocket. Stan smokes his fist like a pipe.) – fol­lowed by a breakneck remake of "Unaccustomed As We Are". The music cue for this shift in reality is a new Marvin Hatley composition, 'The Mad Kuku'. It’s loud and frenetic, everything that Lau­rel & Hardy never were but were quickly becom­ing. Compare the last half of "Block-Heads" to its earlier incarnation. Even though "Unaccustomed As We Are" was the team’s first sound film, it’s "Block-Heads" that’s full of shouting, funny noises, and hyperactive music. Who ever thought Laurel & Hardy could be so loud?

A break from Roach: Flying Deuces

There’s a shark. And jumping. ‘Nuff said. (See "Swiss Miss" piano/bridge/gorilla/bomb.)

Oh Gaston, are you really necessary?
WATCH THE SCENE

Streamlined, screamlined comedy.

Hal Roach’s 1938 switch from MGM to United Artists also marked a change in Laurel & Hardy’s Holly­wood status: from A-list stars to second-feature stalwarts.

Roach had long been toying with the idea of four-reel streamliners to battle the double-feature trend plaguing the big studios. The guinea pigs for his experiment would be Laurel & Hardy. As early as 1935 Roach had announced a four-reel Laurel & Hardy featurette, "The Honesty Racket". It wasn’t until May 1939 that the boys willingly signed a contract calling for four featurettes for 1939-40 release. Why they agreed to this is a mystery – certainly appearing on the bottom half of the bill would lead to a loss of prestige for Stan & Babe. Maybe the boys felt it would bring them closer to their two-reel roots. Or perhaps Stan saw it as a way to escape the love interests and clumsy stories Roach kept saddling them with. Either way, with "A Chump At Oxford", Laurel & Hardy relegated themselves to Hollywood’s B-list. Lavish, musical superfeatures would be re­placed by streamlined, screamlined comedies.

But exhibitors, audiences and foreign mar­kets weren’t interested in Stan & Ollie in four-reel form. So Roach had Laurel & Hardy flesh out "Chump" to feature length with a prologue re-enacting "From Soup To Nuts" (their third remake in a row – Laurel & Hardy started cannibalizing their past long before the Fox writers did). Like their recent do-over of "Unaccustomed As We Are", this lacks the charm, elegant pace, and warm characterization of the original. Ollie, as butler at the Vander Veer’s society soiree, upsets dignity through his ignorance. Not the naïve ignorance we’ve come to expect… just plain stupidity. This isn’t the Ollie we know, trying desperately to maintain decorum at all costs. Here Ollie cre­ates chaos through his own idiocy and belligerence. He tells the guests ‘you sit over there and you sit over there’. He laughs in Finlayson’s face and calls him ‘Pops’ and ‘the old guy’. He says dopey things like ‘bring yer eats with ya’. Who is this stupid man? To me, this is the least funny scene Laurel & Hardy ever filmed – if only because it’s the first time I actually felt embarrassed for Mr. Hardy. He should know better than this.

Ollie as Curly Howard: Saps At Sea

There’s a story about "Saps At Sea": Supposedly Stan walked onto the set on the first day of shooting and tore up the script. Knowing how Stan worked, this seems unlikely. Watching the film, to quote Stan in "Going Bye-Bye", ‘It could happen’. "Saps At Sea" is often said to have been inspired by Chaplin’s "Modern Times". (Assembly line = nervous breakdown.) But take a closer look, and "Saps At Sea" may be the best Three Stooges mov­ie that Laurel & Hardy ever made. The inspira­tion here isn’t Chaplin but the Stooges’ "Punch Drunks" (and "Horse’s Collars" and "Grips, Grunts and Groans" AND "Tassels In The Air"), where ex­ternal stimuli (‘Pop Goes The Weasel’, mice, Wild Hyacinth perfume, tassels) makes Curly ‘fight­ing mad’.

But Oliver Hardy isn’t Curly Howard. Hardy’s work should be subtle, genteel and sym­pathetic. In "Saps At Sea" it’s none of that. His hornophobia-provoked rages lack Curly’s energy and pure comic dementia. He just spends half the film yelling. Everything about "Saps At Sea" is pure Larry, Moe & Curly – right down to the boys chowing down on a synthetic meal, a gag performed with feather pillows substituting for angel cake in the Stooges’ "Uncivil Warriors". The characters are broad, the noise level is high, the plot is non-existent, and the two main sets (boarding house and rickety boat) are unbeliev­ably cheap. The one thing that isn’t Stooge-like: their thick white makeup is as obvious and unre­alistic as Groucho Marx’ greasepaint moustache. They are now officially clowns.

So if you ever wanted to speculate on what would have happened if Laurel & Hardy had gone to Jules White’s two-reel unit at Columbia Studios instead of Fox, look no further than "Saps At Sea". I’m not saying "Saps At Sea" isn’t a very funny film. There's little stuff Stan does in that first half that really makes me laugh. But, for me, the big difference is this: Anyone can eat a banana with three layers of peels. It takes someone special to charm me by eating hard boiled eggs and nuts.

The trailers kept insisting "They're back!". But somehow they always
came back differently. And not necessarily for the better.

‘They’re back’ – or are they?

So it’s obvious that by 1940 Laurel & Hardy were at a crossroads in their career. "Flying Deuc­es" was a one-shot quickie troubled by unfamiliar production. "A Chump At Oxford" is two films slapped together as one. And "Saps At Sea" screams let’s-get-this-over-with-and-move-on. Could Stan & Babe have recalibrated themselves, returning to the humanity that helped them redefine screen comedy in the late 20’s? In essence, return to their roots? That certainly seemed to be the idea when they signed with 20th Century Fox. A press release for "Great Guns" hailed the ‘new Laurel & Hardy’ as ‘a funny and oddly-assorted pair, but not completely beyond what a person might find in real life’.

We all know the final outcome of that phi­losophy. But, in theory, it’s exactly the right idea. After all, doesn’t that describe the two gentlemen we met in "The Battle Of The Century", "Wrong Again", "Men O’War", etc.?

Where did they go?

An early version of this blog post was originally published in Nieuwe Blotto Magazine. 

Buster, Italian Style (or "Due Marines e un Maestro")

Having recently posted about Laurel & Hardy’s much maligned (and highly underappreciated) cinematic swan song, "Atoll K", it made sense to follow up with another musing on another comedy great’s final* film – Buster Keaton’s "Due Marines e un Generale" (aka "War Italian Style"). 

Buster gets his name above the title one last time.

Like “Atoll K”, this Italian-American co-production sees an icon of classic comedy far, far away from their familiar turf, shooting in a European location where all the other actors deliver their lines in one language while the American “star(s)” speaks their mother tongue – in Buster’s case, silence.

Like “Atoll K”, it received a delayed U.S. theatrical release with an atrociously dubbed English soundtrack.

Unlike “Atoll K”, people pretty much just pretend it never happened. Here it is, Buster’s final star billing in a feature-length theatrical film (20 years since his last top-billed feature), and it’s barely treated as a footnote in his filmography. 

In his book The Fall of Buster Keaton, author Jim Neibaur dismisses the film with the phrase “After playing a German general, of all things…”. Historian Kevin Brownlow just barely acknowledges it in his book, The Search for Buster Keaton.

Why is this? Why? Why?? Two words: Franco and Ciccio.

Damn you, Franco and Ciccio and your strident antics (fist shake)…you blinded everybody to the joys of Buster Keaton in this film.

Okay, so, Franco & Ciccio. Let's put them in perspective. Yes, sure, they’re like two feces-flinging monkeys on the loose throughout the film. But like herrings & cream or chicken & waffles, the Sicilian comedy team of Franco Franchi & Ciccio Ingrassia seem to appeal to certain geo-cultural tastes – primarily rural southern Italy. (Think of Larry the Cable Guy in the southern U.S.A. Does that help?). Heck, they were popular enough in their native Italy to make as many as 15 features a year in their heyday. Ultimately, they would work with such masters of cinema as Pasolini and Fellini. So, who am I to argue with audience and auteur appreciation on that level? Besides, they have their own cartoonish appeal. An example: When a mortar explosion blows away all of Franco’s hair in one scene, only to have it magically reappear in the next, it’s pretty funny. And when viewed in the original Italian (vs. that really awful English dubbing), it’s easier to go “yeah, I get it, that’s pretty funny”.

Now let’s focus on Buster. If Franco & Ciccio are all mania, Buster is nothing but subtle nuance. He’s the calm of this cinematic storm, and his work stands in stark contrast to all the noise and nonsense surrounding him. When Buster’s on screen he owns the film, and “War Italian Style” is stuffed with the sort of memorable bits that defined his style in the mid-1960s: throwaway sight gags that require little physical effort, but succeed on Keaton’s pantomimic abilities and sublime facial reactions. Buster’s General Von Kassler (“of all things”) is a masterpiece of stoicism, distinguished by the occasional raised eyebrow, curious glance and shrug of acceptance. He’s compelling even in the scenes in which he’s unconscious.

Franco chews the scenery while Buster quietly dines.
WATCH THE SCENE.

Witness the formal dinner scene shared with the Italian comics. As bombs fall around them and ceilings and walls collapse, Franco quakes, mugs, sweats, squeals, bugs his eyes out and furiously chews on broken glass. What’s Buster doing? Well, Buster being Buster, when a mortar shell blasts a hole in the floor next to him, it becomes the perfect repository for a nonchalantly disposed-of chicken bone. (Well, really, it’s the only sensible thing to do.) “War Italian Style” is full of stuff like that… little pantomime pieces dotted throughout the film, adding up to a good 40 minutes throughout the film’s 74 minute running time. So that’s lots of Buster to enjoy (about 10x more Buster than you’ll find in “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum”, and 100x more than "It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad World”), all of it good enough to merit him having his name above the title one last time.

Still, when it’s discussed at all, “War Italian Style” is generally bucketed with the rest of Buster’s AIP efforts of the mid-60’s – just another pitiful, embarrassing mistake cranked out by Buster to pad his bank account while chipping away at his reputation. His beer commercials get more respect. But listen to what director Luigi Scattini had to say of the situation:

“Franco and Ciccio had a great fear of being run with Buster Keaton, and he praised them continuously for their skill and their comic timing. Lo osservava, ne studiava ogni gesto e movimento.They observed, we studied every gesture and movement. E Keaton era molto lusingato di questo.And Keaton was very flattered by this.” Franco Franchi, in modo particolare, era presissimo da Keaton.

Luigi Scattini (centre) directs Ciccio Ingrassia. 
Buster gives the photographer the side eye. 

So are Franco & Ciccio any more annoying than, say, Jimmy Durante or Harvey Lembeck when sharing the screen with Buster? Yeh, sure, maybe, of course…okay, lots. But here’s the difference: Unlike things like “How to Stuff a Wild Bikini” or even the MGM efforts of the ‘30s, “War Italian Style” projects the sense that the Italians are genuinely honored to be working with Buster. Director Scattini even went out of his way to pay homage to Keaton in the film’s final fade out – with the two Italian comics bidding a truly poignant farewell to Buster, as he trudges off into the future in his traditional suit and porkpie hat after delivering his one word of dialogue in the film: “Grazie”.

Arrividerci, Buster. And grazie.
WATCH THE SCENE.

None of this is to say that “War Italian Style” is a neglected masterpiece. It’s just neglected. And that's too bad. “War Italian Style” is a fine showcase for elderly Buster in full mastery of his pantomimic and comedy skills. Watch it, and watch it carefully – for Buster’s scenes alone if you must – and you’ll see it for what it is: a highly respectable and very funny effort, and definitely the most interesting feature film appearance of Buster’s final decade.

And it’s a heckuva lot funnier than “Film”.

Grazie, Buster.

* Final released film. “War Italian Style” was released in the U.S. on January 18, 1967, a year and a half after it was filmed. So technically, yep, Buster's last.