It’s a gift

As much as I adore Metrograph, the repertory cinema at 7 Ludlow Street celebrating the first anniversary of its opening this month, they really must stop dropping films into the schedule that they’re not telling anybody about. Poking around on its web site this morning, I found that they’ll be showing a 35mm print of the W.C. Fields 1934 masterpiece It’s a Gift next week — on Wednesday, March 15, at 5.30pm, to be precise. This after screening another great Fields comedy, The Man on the Flying Trapeze, just a few months ago, and at the same time as they’re running this Buster Keaton retrospective.

“In the more enlightened days of the 1930s, W.C. Fields became a household name by playing a cranky alcoholic who detested children,” says Metrograph. What more do you need to know? These comedies are rarely revived on the big screen, so I suggest you make your way down there (and enjoy a drink at the Metrograph bar before or after the show — Fields would). I wrote about the comedian himself here and here.

Burglars singing in the cellar

Redeemed by the love of a daughter: Mary Brian as Hope and W.C. Fields as her father Ambrose in Man on the Flying Trapeze

Christmas Day 2016 will be the 70th anniversary of W.C. Fields‘ death, and to mark the occasion Metrograph will present a screening of one of his best films, the 1935 Man on the Flying Trapeze, on Thursday, December 29, at 7.00pm (with special guests to be announced; it’s a part of the FieldsFest that’s been going on for the past few months, spearheaded by popular entertainment expert Trav S.D.). Trapeze, according to Metrograph, is “a pure poem of domestic desperation,” as are two other films that Fields made around the same period, You’re Telling Me and It’s a Gift. (We’ll take the plot details of Trapeze as read.) The latter has come to be regarded as one of Fields’ greatest films, but all three together form an informal trilogy of satires about small-town American life that must be considered Fields’ greatest achievement.

It’s hard to imagine Albert Brooks, Fawlty Towers, or Curb Your Enthusiasm without Fields’ influence and example. He seems to have single-handedly established the Comedy of Discomfort: a combination of muttered complaints and insults, cynicism and general misanthropy, and embarrassing physical situations turned often enough against the comedian himself as well as the world. In contrast to those others, though, there’s a vein of melancholy that also runs through Fields’ work. The domestic comedies present Fields’ characters as trapped in small-town mediocrity, with unhappy personal and professional lives; every attempt that Sam Bisbee, Ambrose Wolfinger, or Harold Bissonette makes to break free of this mediocrity, even (as in Trapeze) just to play hooky from work to attend the fights one afternoon or (as in It’s a Gift) to catch just a little extra sleep before the day begins, ends in comic chaos.

There’s also a touch of tragedy associated with each of these characters. In the aftermath of a professional disaster, You’re Telling Me‘s Bisbee seriously considers suicide; Trapeze‘s Wolfinger is on his second marriage, his first having ended with his wife’s early death, leaving him with a daughter to raise on his own; and, in the penultimate scene of It’s a Gift, Bissonette is left in a landscape of astonishing devastation, abandoned by his entire family except for his dog, bereft of comfort or even a future, his dreams destroyed. After the raucous comedy of the previous 60 minutes, the scene is still something of a shock. These being comedies, there’s always a deus ex machina (in the form of a princess, a real estate speculator, or a job offer) to save the character at the end, and more often then not Fields’ failed father figures are redeemed by the love of a daughter. But in real life, deus ex machinas are all too rare, a realization that occurs only a few minutes after the credits roll.

Fields came to the movies rather late in his career, appearing in his first major film, D.W. Griffith’s Sally of the Sawdust, in 1925 at the age of 45; it wasn’t until his mid-50s, with the three films I mentioned above, that he hit his cinematic stride. Before that he had risen from vaudeville’s backwaters as a comic juggler to some considerable fame on Broadway, reaching the top of his profession as a stage comedian in 1923’s Poppy, which ran for over a year at the Apollo Theatre and provided the basis for Griffith’s film. After that, the movies came calling, and Fields appeared in a variety of silent features before his sound debut in the short The Golf Specialist, an adaptation of a sketch Fields created for the stage Follies, which was released in 1930. The rest, as they say, is history.

Fields’ films can be grouped into three different categories: the middle-class domestic comedies; the period pieces (like Poppy, remade in 1936, often set in the late 19th-century or turn-of-the-century) such as The Old Fashioned Way — the best of these, in which Fields plays the leader of a theatre troupe travelling through the small towns of middle America, performing the melodrama The Drunkard; and here and there a few absurdist essays, from 1932’s Million Dollar Legs and 1941’s Never Give a Sucker an Even Break. It was in the first two groups, though, that Fields really shone. While the absurdist films have their moments (and nearly all of Fields’ films have an absurdist moment or two), his comic studies of Americana retain the most interest for us now.

After 1936, Fields began to suffer from a variety of physical ailments, some of which were exacerbated by his heavy drinking, and though he returned to the Paramount studio in 1938 he was never the same. While 1940’s The Bank Dick, made for Universal, is often cited as the quintessential Fields movie, I find his performance and the comedy there somewhat forced; compared to his appearance in Trapeze, Fields looks physically bloated and slow, and the deft grace of his movements in those earlier films has deteriorated.

I’m not sure whether the work of the great comedians like Fields, Chaplin, and Laurel and Hardy still appeals. While it may be thought that we live in a more cynical age, seeing Man on the Flying Trapeze may prove to you that, on the contrary, our age might not be cynical enough. You’ll have the chance to find out for yourself at Metrograph on December 29. (The film — along with most of Fields’ other work — is also available on this DVD set from Universal.)


The standard biography these days is W.C. Fields: A Biography by James Curtis. This can be supplemented by W.C. Fields by Himself, a substantial collection of Fields’ letters, scripts, and other writings, recently republished by Taylor Trade Publishing, and the still essential 1967 study of his films by William K. Everson, The Art of W.C. Fields.

Remembering the Great Man

12-Sober-Comments-About-Alcohol-By-W.C.-Fields-620x355In a review for the New York Times, Richard Schickel called W.C. Fields “the most tragic of our great clowns”:

Unlike Charles Chaplin, to whom he was frequently and often enough favorably compared, Fields had no worldview. About the great issues of the day — modernism, capitalism, fascism, matters that particularly preoccupied Chaplin at this time — he had nothing to say. His comedy remained specific and highly situational. He was ever the bleakly beleaguered victim of a relentlessly hostile, petty and uncomprehending world. Misunderstood and abused, he might, in the final moments of a film, be accidentally rewarded by the fates, but that did not soften his fundamentally dyspeptic view of human nature, fighting back with what weapons came to hand — a sotto voce wisecrack, a patently false endearment, even an act of physical vengeance that usually failed to land definitively on target. His was essentially the comedy of entrapment. The open road, fresh with optimistic possibilities, which Chaplin’s Tramp so often found at the final shot, was never available to Fields.

Over the past few days I’ve been rekindling my youthful enthusiasm for FIelds with James Curtis’ fine biography (the book that Schickel was reviewing). I was never drawn to the self-caricature of the late Fields — the alcoholic con man and snake-oil salesman of movies like You Can’t Cheat an Honest Man or My Little Chickadee. These movies, made when he was sixty or more, were produced following a bitter year-long illness from which, it seems to me, he never fully recovered.

At his best, Fields was an excellent comic actor, and I treasure the films of his mid-period (about 1933 to 1936) more. In his caustic satires of middle-class America, Fields often played a small businessman, an inept garage tinkerer, or a back-office toady who sought temporary escapes from familial and professional tedium and stress (the purchase of a Florida orange grove or, less ambitiously, just an afternoon at the fights) and was roundly punished by circumstance or something somewhat more malignant for his attempts to find escape. Surprisingly, Fields was also at home in period comedies like The Old Fashioned Way (about a disheveled traveling theatrical troupe in 1897), Poppy (about a petty grifter and his adopted daughter in the late 19th century), and an adaptation of Dickens’ David Copperfield (in which he played a most effective Micawber without even attempting a British accent). In these films there was always an underlying melancholy to his character, never quite resigned to failure but accepting it, believing, perhaps, that it was his fate. Fields could also be quite touching, and the affection his father figures exhibited — especially to his characters’ daughters (Fields’ relationship to his own real-life son was fraught with frustration and dismay) — is profound and moving.

The time is ripe for a critical reassessment of Fields’ career, which hasn’t been attempted since William K. Everson’s 1967 The Art of W.C. Fields. Just this month, Taylor Trade Publishing reissued W.C. Fields by Himself, a 1973 collection of essays, ephemera, and letters by Fields and edited by his grandson, Ronald J. Fields (I devoured this book when it was first published), and last October Universal issued a five-DVD set, the W.C. Fields Comedy Essentials Collection, which collects 18 of Fields’ films from Paramount and Universal, most of them classics (among which I would place You’re Telling Me, The Man on the Flying Trapeze, and It’s a Gift, an unintended trilogy of small-town America satires) and all of them necessary to an understanding of his career. In addition, many of Fields’ silent features, unavailable for years and some previously considered lost, have finally been unearthed and are being restored and distributed.

Fields may not have had the influence on American comedy of other great clowns. He was never as frantic and absurd as the Marx Brothers, never as sentimental or balletic as Chaplin (though Fields, who spent his early career in vaudeville and burlesque as a mute juggler, could demonstrate an elegant physical grace when he had to), and not as slow-witted as Laurel and Hardy. He was not a great, innovative filmmaker like Chaplin or Keaton. On the other hand, without Fields there would be no Basil Fawlty or Larry David, his most obvious descendants. David’s Curb Your Enthusiasm character may be a resident of a much higher income bracket, but he is also buffeted by the same cosmic, metaphysical indifference to his comfort and happiness as was Fields.

But Fields was, in many ways, the most mature, most adult, most linguistically creative of them all. It was recognized as far back as 1935, when Andre Sennwald wrote the below perspicacious appreciation of him for the New York Times. Sennwald’s tongue, admittedly, may have been lightly in his cheek, but not entirely. It ran under the headline “W.C. Fields, Buffoon: Timidly Suggesting That an Affection for Him Is a Form of Confessional” in the January 13, 1935, issue of the newspaper and is reproduced below; below that is this week’s video, the “Mr. Muckle” scene from It’s a Gift, one of Fields’ masterpieces. If I raise this afternoon’s glass of zweigelt at Cafe Katja to Fields, his work, and his memory, it’s no less than appropriate.

The impediment to a sober appraisal of a master buffoon like W.C. Fields resides in the reviewer’s compulsion to be ponderously witty in his discussions of the comedian’s work. Let us drop the elephantine irony this morning and approach a great man with becoming humility and awe. Since it is the function of the funny man to massage the tortured ego of his auditors by showing himself to be even more witless and subhuman in his deportment than they are in theirs, it is natural for his hearers to adopt toward him a falsely inflated sense of superiority. Thus the clown fulfills his divine mission at the moment that his public regards him with amused aloofness. Mr. Fields is a great comedian because he traffics in high and cosmic matters relating to man’s eternal helplessness, frustration and defeat. It is a fitting tribute to his eminence that most of the filmgoers who are privileged to observe him are content to laugh at his brilliantly conceived and subtly executed jocosities. A few, sensing the parable of man’s eternal disillusion which Mr. Fields manages to suggest even when he is most painfully lunatic, are sometimes a little sad in the midst of their laughter, knowing suddenly that they are mocking themselves. Not to be aware of the tragic overtones in the work of this middle-aged, whisky-nosed, fumbling and wistfully incompetent gentleman is to be ignorant of the same tragic overtones in the comedy of Don Quijote de la Mancha. To be of the belief that Mr. Fields is no more than a funny man is to hold the opinion that Gulliver’s Travels is a book for children and that the Spanish bullfight is planned as a contest between a man and a beast.

An applicant for membership in the society of ardent admirers of Mr. Fields is entitled to know that several of the sober items in the master’s career bear a gratifying resemblance to the lunacies in which he deals professionally. There is, for example, the curious situation which persuaded him, at age 11, to flee the family homestead in Philadelphia. It appears that the young William Claude Fields carelessly left a shovel lying on the front walk of the house in such a location that his father, returning home from work, stepped on it and was smitten upon the shin by the handle. It turned out to be the identical shin which had recently been aggravated in an altercation with a buggy. William Claude, without tarrying to discover the extent of the damage, set out immediately for distant parts. The initiate in the cult of Fields worship is also entitled to the information that the master, according to the newspaper files for 1928, found himself embroiled in an impasse which is equally aromatic of the kind of low comedy which Mr. Fields has been known to employ in his fictions. Being teamed on the vaudeville stage with a bearded comedian, he invented a happy gag in which he was to release a canary from his partner’s muff. It happened, though, that the confused canary bumped its head so energetically against the scenery in its efforts to escape that several members of the Humane Society forthwith arrested the innocent Mr. Fields for violation of the cruelty statutes. You are invited to draw your own conclusions.

Even when, as in his new work It’s a Gift, Mr. Fields traverses the screen with not much more in the way of technical assistance than the presence of a camera and a camera man, he is somehow able to illuminate the universal truths with unerring accuracy of intuition and with lavish comic results. In It’s a Gift he presents for our amusement that part of the human composition which is plagued by persistent frustrations, bullied by an inescapable sense of inadequacy, and tormented by the problems involved in complex associations with other human beings. His sufferings at the hands of a nagging wife compose an allegory which, in bewildered and halting moments or revelation, celebrates the misfortunes of the meek, the spineless, the awkward and the spiritually disinherited. When the befuddled griefs of Mr. Fields are submitted to the inspection of the dominant and proud ones, the assured and the successful and the enviably correct ones, they seem to be merely the flattering antics of a fool, who intends you to laugh and to preen yourself in the contemplation of him. But to those who love him best Mr. Fields is the great healer, taking unto himself grievous human burdens and in the same breath teaching his disciples to crucify him with laughter as his reward for purging them of their futilities. His sad and patient conduct as he is harassed by his spouse comes to have a special meaning for all of us who are condemned to be the shamefaced victims of our fellows and the mockery of our friends as a result of persistent lapses from what the world esteems to be sanity and correctness.

This, approximately, is the skeleton portrait of the Fields devotee. Born into a world which is in the habit of shouldering him contemptuously into the gutter, he finds himself the aggrieved and innocent object of assault from every side. He lacks a nice talent for evading the importunities of insurance agents, haberdashery salesmen, panhandlers and magazine subscription salesmen. He is unversed in the art of hanging up the telephone receiver on the shimsical conversations of strangers who desire him to guess who this is. Buttonholed by long-winded bores in corridors and elevators, he is without the audacity to escape. Approached at public bars by unhandsome ladies in their cups, he becomes a patient victim out of cowardice rather than from the absence of a sense of discretion. He wilts before the overbearing and unmannered puling of office tyrants and is unversed in the technique of stifling the outpourings of the braggart. Hastily he adds a nickel to his tip in a restaurant when the waiter skulks ominously nearby, and he is without the moral fiber to resist offering a gratuity to the boy in the barber shop whose meager service is the brushing of his hat. Briefly, he is present in every man and dominant in many. When Mr. Fields cringes before the rage of a bullying wife, scrapes the floor in his hasty salaams to some one who is his superior only in lung power, or asserts his stunted ego in cautious admonitions to unarmed babies, he is distorting a universal characteristic so meagerly that only the fool in his audience is deceived. In short, this sublimated Caspar Milquetoast is holding the mirror up to nature.

A modest grace

W.C. Fields as Micawber in "David Copperfield."
W.C. Fields as Micawber in “David Copperfield.”

Over the past few days I’ve been remembering how much pleasure the films of W.C. Fields and Stan Laurel & Oliver Hardy gave me when I was younger — more pleasure than those of Charlie Chaplin and the Marx Brothers, although the reputations of the latter have far outstripped the former in recent years. My favorite Fields films were those of his mid-period, in which Fields played a down-trodden member of the American middle class (You’re Telling Me!, It’s a Gift, The Man on the Flying Trapeze) or, in a few very fine period pieces, raconteurs of one sort or another (the leader of a ragged turn-of-the-century travelling theater group in The Old Fashioned Way, a con artist responsible for an adopted daughter in Poppy). He didn’t start in motion pictures until he was in his early fifties, so there’s a surprising amount of physical and emotional maturity in his work that sets him apart from other comedians of the period.

Laurel and Hardy were a slightly different matter. At the center of their films is a strange but heartwarming friendship — “Two minds without a single thought,” as Laurel once described them, and especially in the Hal Roach films there’s a surprising sense of the absurd. But both Fields and Laurel and Hardy disdained the freneticism of the Three Stooges and other comedians of the time. More, they both emerged, unlike Chaplin, Keaton, and the other silent comedians, in an America in the midst of a crippling economic depression. Their comedy is much more slowly paced, more considered, and the absurdity when it comes (and it does come, especially in the Laurel and Hardy films) is that much more comic. And as Dave Kehr wrote in the New York Times in 2011:

[U]ltimately these are comedies of character, not of pratfalls and physical destruction. During a spat in “Towed in a Hole” (1932) Ollie experiences a sudden (and well-known) moment of self-consciousness. “Isn’t this silly?” he says to Stan, who is about to douse him with a bucket of water, “Here we are, two grown-up men, acting like a couple of children.” …

Maturity remains a fluid and frequently elusive concept in Laurel and Hardy, which is certainly one of the reasons they appeal so much to children and remain a favorite of adults, who know how thin such facades can be. But what remains constant at every phase is the unbreakable bond of affection between the two friends, who seem at first so radically mismatched, both physically and temperamentally, but are ultimately inconceivable without each other.

So, just for fun and a moment of surprising grace today, below is a short excerpt from their 1937 feature Way Out West. I find it unutterably charming; maybe you will too.