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 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.
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. |
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.
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.
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