Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy, described by J.D. Salinger as "two
Heaven-sent artists and men", described by Kurt Vonnegut as "two angels
of my time", are known the world over as the world's greatest comedy
team
and the most recognizable comic icons this side of Chaplin - more
importantly
though, Stan and Ollie are characters who have entered into the vast
mythology
of the world's good-humoured creations in the name of fun, along with
Punch
& Judy and Pop Goes the Weasel, along with Mickey Mouse and Oliver
Twist, Jack and the Beanstalk, Sir Arthur Aguecheek, Santa Claus, and
Popeye.
As we get further away from them in history we are better able to
appreciate
the immensity of this achievement - an achievement which would have
amazed,
befuddled, yes, gladdened, but perhaps also embarrassed the two
comedians
who for the most part regarded themselves as a couple of journeyman
workers
- far below the lofty heights of Chaplin, never knowing the
intellectual
critical acclaim of Keaton, Fields, or the Marx Brothers, they saw
their
star fade and diminish in their time, till they were cast-off from
Hollywood,
unwanted, passe - forced to mount arduous tours through drafty theatres
in the British provinces in their sixties and in ill health. Yet it is
this very lack of presumption and pretension which makes their art like
no others' in its simple purity, for there was a genuine humility about
the two men, by all accounts there was an unaffected sweetness about
them
(a deeply-rooted gentleness that can't be faked) which informs their
screen
creations - these being two bumbling nitwits undone by their
goodheartedness,
struggling through this world and flailing within its complexities as
if
enmeshed in an underwater net - setting chirpily off at the beginning
of
another two-reeler, beaming with innocent jubilation on a sunny black
and
white morning that could be the first morning of all the mornings of
the
world - then sitting dismally twenty minutes later within the reeking
confines
of another nice mess, Ollie's features pursed into an expression of
frustrated,
exasperated resignation, the dimples on his plump round cheeks
arranging
themselves into the quintessence of last-ditch despair, his tiny tired
eyes beseeching us and making their irresistible appeal for empathy and
sympathy and communion with us all in the shared understanding of the
mysterious
force which wanders the world undoing all our most prized plans and
hopeful
endeavours - and which leaves us sitting in the midst of the wreckage,
grimly staring into the distance as brick after brick plunges down the
chimney one after the other in a meticulous rhythm and with impeccable
timing bonking and clonking on our heads till we heave a sigh as the
cascade
of bricks ceases for a moment - we peer hesitantly, fearfully upwards,
hoping with a tenuous hope that the last brick has fallen (could it be
true?) - and get one more emphatic CLONK! square in the middle of the
forehead
for the effort (no, it is never for pity that Ollie stares at us, it is
for understanding, an understanding that we share the basic knowledge
of
how unendurable life can be). And Stan beside him, the architect of
this
disaster, the unthinking conduit of mayhem, this oblivious causer of
catastrophe
and insentient instigator of disharmony and disgrace, sitting there
with
his face screwed into a mask of horrified bewilderment, the corners of
the mouth pointing in the direction of his shoes, his eyes tiny slits
of
hysterical agony - gulping and weeping in his squeaky high-pitched
voice
- "Well, I couldn't help it!" - weeping not because he fears his
situation
but because he does not understand his situation and this makes him
feel
afraid - Stan weeps in confusion. How could it be that just a moment
ago
everything was going so fine and now all of a sudden we find ourselves
in this gigantic mud puddle/ridiculously misshapen car/sitting here
with
our legs wrapped around our necks? - how could it be and how did it
happen?
Oh, I don't understand - oh and now Ollie's mad at me - oh - "Well I
couldn't
help it!" |
| And yet, only
a few minutes
later in the next two-reeler we unspool, there's Stan and Ollie again,
their batteries apparently recharged, puttering down the road in their
Model T, setting off on a brand new endeavour with all the hope in the
world on their faces, with not one scintilla of doubt in the pure souls
of these two angels that fate will treat them kindly, that their
heartfelt
plan is destined for anything but the greatest possible success, that
the
future happiness which awaits them and which they believe in so
thoroughly
that they are already happy in its anticipation - is eminent and just
around
this very next corner. And in the sublime confidence of this
anticipation
they grin and beam with excited goodwill at their fellow creatures -
Stan
smiling idiotically, his dull eyes half-closed, his lips curling up at
either side of his nose, perhaps doffing his derby and scratching up
the
electrfied patch of sagebrush on the top of his head - Ollie at his
side,
coyly bowing his head down into the folds of his double chins, grinning
up at the world with coquettish embarrassment, delicately fingering his
necktie and perhaps hazarding a slight simpering chuckle (Hmmh! Hmmh!
Hmmh!)
of abashed friendliness (and if ladies are present, maybe even chancing
a bit of daring blushing flirtation!). In a moment Stan will say
"Ollie",
Ollie will say "What, Stan?", Stan will say "I've just had an idea . .
. "
|
| No-one
becomes more excited,
inspired, and industrious with the arrival of a good idea than Ollie,
and
no-one is left more crestfallen, disillusioned, and heartbroken than he
when it inevitably blows up in his face. Stan's far more resilient - if
their jalopy's dismembered he can at least receive comfort from the
fact
that the horn's still in good working condition. If one of their
misadventures
had culminated in them detonating an atom bomb and blowing up the
entire
world, Stan, floating weightless in the ether of the universe, would
likely
find some curious piece of unexploded matter wafting past him and begin
toying with it, giddily celebrating the fact that at least THIS has
survived.
In any case, Stan can walk away from any failure not too much the worse
for wear (chiefly because he does not comprehend the meaning of the
concept),
easily distracted by even the promise of his next meal, his flat
clown's
feet slapping against the floor, with that ridiculous arm-swinging
tread
he uses to hoist himself from one scene to the next. For Ollie there
are
no such consolations, no such distractions - the hurt goes deeper for
him.
Their
situations have
entered our collective memories like snatches of old songs, nursery
rhymes,
folk tales, like the remnants of a farcical dream we share that mirrors
the world we know and at the same time seems more real than that which
it mirrors - a chronicle of human aspiration in reverse, a world that
ends
with a bang AND a whimper as well as the seat of your pants set afire
into
the bargain. They move through a surly, miserable universe, trying only
to do their best and make everything better, but only making everything
worse - till someone clobbers them on the head and then the whole
film's
pace slows to a snail's crawl, they roll up their sleeves and enter
into
a leisurely round-robin of retribution, putting off their pretense of
middle
class decorum at last and drenching the interloper with a bucket of
water/ripping
his coat up the back/shoving a plate of cottage cheese up his nose -
all
done at an excruciatingly unhurried pace, with, one might say,
delicacy,
a stately, royal formality, a sombre politeness which one must assume
as
one has one's necktie amputated at one's collar while awaiting to
perform
the same action upon one's opponent - after all, as the world has its
Geneva
Convention to ensure that countries can blow each other to bits in a
civilized,
gentlemanly manner, so do the denizens of the world of Laurel and Hardy
have their codes and regulations to guarantee the civilized,
gentlemanly
manner by which acts of violence and humiliation will be exchanged.
Their
way is no crazier than ours - only seems to be, and laughably so,
through
the lens of comedy - in much the same way that our scuffles and
conflagrations
undoubtedly provide endless amusement for the Venusians.
|
| Stan and Ollie are our friends, our
brothers,
our helpmates, our fellow accident victims, our co-workers, companions,
and compatriots in this terrifying, out-of-control avalanche/mudslide
that
is called Life. They do not stand outside of society and thumb their
nose
at the cop like Charlie - no, like us, they try to appease the
psychopathic
cop in every way possible, they TRY to play the game again and again,
for
they believe in the game, but the game does not want them - it kicks
them
in the teeth every time. The game, lest we forget, is a rabid, insane,
gyrating, foaming-at-the- mouth beast that no-one can ride except the
beastly.
Stan and Ollie haven't received this information yet, they hasten
towards
the beast, still believing that good intentions, cordiality, and
impeccable
manners will win the day. Comedy is not tragedy plus time but rather
tragedy
taken to a level no- one would dare take it in a mere tragedy - it's
tragedy
taken to the place where one has to laugh, otherwise the weeping, once
begun, would never stop. Laurel and Hardy dance their intricate ballet
upon this precipice, they shuffle their tanglefooted minuet here upon
the
gravesite of our crushed ambitions, the trickling follies we indulge in
and are destroyed by, the delicate affectations and rituals which
comfort
us and make us all the more ridiculous, yes, Stan and Ollie are here,
they
live, and they are us. Here they are advancing towards the door, Stan
dumbly
striding ahead with his witless blank expression, for the hundredth
time
trying to enter the door before Ollie, only to be preeempted by a
pointed
tap on the shoulder by his portly friend, Ollie's wry and condescending
expression, the dismissive jerk of his thumb dispatching him back to
the
rear, his magisterial air, all freshly reminding Stan of his true and
rightful
place in the world, a place to which he repairs with meek submission
(and
perhaps relief), a place which is always and everywhere behind Ollie,
who
now can stride boldly ahead, having restored the proper balance and
order
of things, who now can draw himself up with sublime dignity and almost
unimaginable pomposity - can gather himself up imperially with the
knowledge
that all is right in his world and can lead his friend confidently
forward
- into disaster.
Yes, and though it is Stan who at first glance marshals our sympathies most directly, Stan the put-upon, Stan the beaten-down and pushed, Stan the silenced and the shoved, with his slight frail body and his sad face, though it is Stan in his timeless and obvious clownishness who most quickly tickles our funnybone, Stan, with the unimaginably blank mind and the bleak eyes echoing the desolate poverty of a hundred English bedsits, though it is Stanley who is the pixieish otherworldly bizarre alien (no more or less at home here than he would be on Mars), though it was the pulsing genius of Stan Laurel behind the scenes which gave such vivid life to these more- real-than-real characters, let it be put down here that it is always Ollie who in the end must break our hearts most completely, Ollie who commands our loyalty most fiercely, for it is Ollie who believes in happiness ahead most fervently, it is Ollie holding onto the tattered rags of his dignity amidst the onslaught of humiliation, it is Ollie who most earnestly, desperately yearns for just one solitary thing to go right in his world, Ollie whose appreciation and genuine thirst for order, symmetry, and, yes, beauty are themselves beautiful things to observe, Ollie who seeks to lift the cup of all worldly delicacy to his lips time and time again (with pinky finger extended) only to have it dashed shattering to the floot in the moment before he is able to imbibe (he looks balefully at us sideways and sighs), it is Ollie, with his wonderful trilling baroquely embroidered finger gestures, with his warm, winning voice, his lighter-than-air grace, it is that great actor and clown Oliver Hardy, it is Ollie who is the engine of despair and humanity in the act, the darker shadow that makes us look again, the counterpoint and counterweight to the airy hilarity of Stan, it is Ollie, the big heart. |
|
THE END |
Copyright © Kyp Harness, 2000. All Rights Reserved.
Kyp Harness is the author of several unpublished books and is
currently
working on a book about Laurel and Hardy. He is also a
singer-songwriter
who's released several independent CDs.
Copyright © John Larrabee, John V. Brennan
2003.
All Rights Reserved.
Like great folk and blues songs, the films of Laurel and Hardy
revolve
around one basic structural premise - (with the thudding and unvarying
inevitability of all great art) - Stan and Ollie attempt to do
something
- they fail to do it - repeatedly, noisily, and finally, irrevocably.
The
execution of the simplest of tasks can, in the hands of these two men,
lead to earth-shattering explosions, entire buildings being burnt to
the
ground, orgies of destructive chaos which are apt to engulf and
decimate
an entire city block - not to mention cars which get twisted and
deformed
into unspeakably bizarre perversions of their former utilitarian
selves.
Stan has never had an idea that has not flung them headlong into
catastrophe
- yet Ollie never fails to consider each of his ideas with the greatest
sobriety - his forefinger disappearing into the dimple in his chin as
his
face assumes the countenance of careful meditation: "That's a GOOD
idea!"
he concludes - and so it goes. That only a few frames prior to this,
Ollie
had been asking us to join in his vehement disgust at being saddled
with
the world's stupidest man as his partner is apparently of no concern to
Ollie - Stan now has an idea and it is only right that it be heard out
- and if the idea is acceptable, which it invariably proves to be, then
it is only right that it be acted upon with the greatest possible
alacrity.
Yet why divide them anyhow? They are united as one - and united
they fall. Born to be clowns, born to clown together, born to join and
mirror the world and make it laugh by doing so, so seamlessly do they
fit
together, like egg & yolk, yin and yang, each one entirely
complementary
to the other, perfectly formed, like a pistachio nut, one of God's good
works. They are bound inseverably by love - Ollie bemoans Stan's
stupidity
yet never thinks once of going without him, Stan suffers under Ollie's
bossiness, yet life beyond him is an incomprehension - each other is
all
they got, for better or worse, so they muddle on, thereby expressing
something
profound and tender about all human relationships. Their marvel and
their
miracle is the utter rightness and potency of their partnership - the
simple
fact that a comic from Ulverston, England and one from Georgia, U.S.A
would
come together to form a comic entity so complete and holistic to set
the
world awash in laughter - for as long as it has hearts and mouths to
laugh
with. If fate kept them unduly underappreciated in their lifetimes,
perhaps
it was just to preserve that sweetness in them as men and artists, the
sweetness of the genuinely humble and the thoughtful, the gentleness of
the ones who know better than to take anything for granted, who are so
very rarely heard from and who, like most of us, are more acquainted
with
failure than success, the patient and the kind ones who are always
being
asked by the world to wait (yet for whom no-one waits), the meek who
are
supposed to inherit the earth - and to transmit and express that
sweetness
into their films so as to make them sunny documents of that portion of
humanity for all time to come. Who knows? They are funny and endlessly
lovable - Stan and Ollie - who could doubt that these clowns are
angels?