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RALPH, ALBERT & SYDNEY Ralph
McTell remembers Laurel & Hardy Stan and
Ollie first entered my life in 1951.
My next door neighbour and friend, Charlie Ranger, had found
himself with an extra sixpence in his pocket and had treated me to
Saturday morning pictures at the Croydon Hippodrome – which for some
reason was always known as the Odeon.
I was an instant convert. In
my absence my mum had reported me missing to the Police, but I was so high
after the adventure that my ration of ‘coating’ didn’t deter me from
thinking up ways and means of going back on a regular basis.
I was six years old. The
‘Odeon’ was a lovely old cinema with a balcony and boxes.
It was sixpence downstairs, ninepence upstairs and on Saturday
morning pictures it was packed with highly charged pre-teen kids.
The noise was already cacophonous, but somehow got even louder as
the lights were dimmed for The Chief’s entrance.
I suppose he was the manager and it was his job simultaneously to
keep us under control and whip us up to a high pitch of feverish
excitement. First of all, he
told us to shut up, and then persuaded us to join in the communal singing
of songs like Jerusalem (Blake)
and Alouette, Gentille Alouette. Next came
the birthdays, and after the embarrassed and fortunate few (you got in
free on your birthday) had returned to their seats after having Happy
Birthday sung to them on stage, the place would darken.
The noise level would explode again, and the show would begin. After a
cartoon, a comedy short and a serial, came the main feature.
Of all the films I saw, I remember the comedies best, and Laurel
and Hardy best of all. I can’t remember if I laughed out loud or even if I grinned
in the dark, but Stan and Ollie touched me with their eternal optimism and
genteel, impoverished charm. Sometimes
I would get annoyed when Ollie acknowledged the presence of the camera,
but only because I wanted to keep the magic intact and feel that I was the
only one to see a way out of their predicaments.
Although Ollie was looking at me from the screen, I couldn’t help
knowing that he was really looking at a camera. It was at
the Odeon that I first became aware of my own mortality.
As kids, we assumed that all our favourites - Laurel and Hardy, The
Bowery Boys, Abbott and Costello – were roughly contemporary, and when a
newsreel announced that Laurel and Hardy were coming to tour the UK, it
really shocked me to see them as lined-faced old men.
The footage was all the more frightening – sinister, even –
because they were wearing their little trademark bowler hats and smiling.
Ollie, as usual, had his little finger held out, as if he were
holding a porcelain tea-cup. It
was a horror and an awakening I’d never forget. In spite of
being a big man, Ollie had tremendous grace. As slapstick comedians, Laurel and Hardy’s incredible
timing had more to do with dance than with knockabout comedy. It came as no surprise to discover that Ollie (or Babe, as
all his real friends called him) was a marvellous ballroom dancer and
among the first male Hollywood stars to be invited to showbiz parties.
His services as a dancing partner were always in high demand, and
even though he often tired as the night wore on, it is said that gallant
Ollie never refused a lady’s request.
This gallantry was a part of his Southern upbringing:
Babe was raised in Georgia by his mother and great aunt, whom he
always addressed in the French manner as “Tante”.
When Babe flaps his tie in diversionary shyness, places the tips of
his fingers together parson-like, or screws up his face in embarrassment
when addressing the ladies, I see Tante’s influence.
Not only would he have absorbed all these mannerisms from his
family, he would also have been aware of the values of true Southern
hospitality and know the kind of behaviour expected of a Georgian
gentleman. This graciousness
came naturally to him, and because of the distressed circumstances of his
screen roles, it added poignancy to his performance. English-born
Stan, on the other hand, was simply a genius.
He was also an amazing craftsman who often spent hours working on a
particular few moments in a scene. Stan
had learned his stage craft in England and was already well-versed in the
arts of pantomime and music hall long before he arrived in the States in
the same troupe as Chaplin. Babe’s
film career was well established before he and Stan were teamed up by Hal
Roach. They had appeared in
the same two-reeler as early as 1918 (The
Lucky Dog), but it took nine more years for Should
Married Men Go Home? to be credited as the first Laurel and Hardy
short. Ollie soon recognised
Stan’s superb comic talent and for the rest of their time together was
content to let Stan make all the artistic decisions. ‘Whatever Stan says
is okay with me,’ Ollie would reply when asked for a directorial or
comedy decision. I believe
that the complete trust Hardy had in Stan’s ability was the key to their
success. There is not the
slightest hint of rivalry or upstaging in their films, and – unlike many
comic partnerships – they actually enjoyed each other’s company away
from the studio lot. Theirs
was not a ‘straight-man and funny-man’ relationship, they were both
funny men. The fat pompous one and the thin stupid one were both capable
of making us laugh. Even as a
kid I realised that their child-like understanding of the world really was
child-like, and we loved them all the more for their innocence.
Stan would offer up a ridiculous solution to a problem only to have
Ollie (who had apparently seen its pitfalls) counter with an even sillier
one. Until
Laurel and Hardy’s teaming, American comedy was very broad, very
slapstick and very fast. And
although there is an undoubted slapstick element to the boys’ work,
their ‘business’ was positively graceful compared to what others were
up to: it was ballet as distinct from the rest’s Charleston.
The pace of their comedy was also much slower (Stan took what must
have seemed terrible risks to the studio bosses with his long silences)
and even today, I am hard-pressed to think of anyone who dares leave such
long gaps between lines. Did Stan
invent the comic close-up? I
think of those marvellous moments as the camera scrutinises Stan’s face
as he ponders a problem. He
almost arrives at a solution and opens his mouth to speak, only to stop
and scratch his ‘just got out of bed’ sticking-up hair.
While Stan’s close-ups portray him lost in a world he doesn’t
fathom, Ollie’s invite us in. We
are offered the chance to share in his frustration at the numbskull he is
required to take care of. The
irony being, of course, that he is barely able to take care of himself. I have
often noted the contrast in their eyes.
Just how did Stan achieve that totally dead-eyed look, when
‘straight’ photos show his eyes full of life and vitality? And in close-up, no one could fail to be moved by the
softness and great humanity in Babe’s eyes.
What is so wonderful about these two is that in real life they were
every bit as warm and kind as you would expect from their on-screen roles,
as countless contemporaries have testified.
I was particularly moved to read the accounts in John McCabe’s
biography, Babe, of supporting
artists on a late English tour describing how big Ollie climbed several
flights of stairs in order to collect their autographs as souvenirs. Yes, Laurel and Hardy as autograph hunters. We saw
dozens of Laurel and Hardy shorts at the flicks – silents as well as
talkies – and occasionally full length features. These ranged from the brilliant Way Out West to their last, and truly dreadful Robinson Crusoe Land (aka Atoll K), which was filmed in three
languages with as many directors. Although
many of their best films are credited to Hal Roach, Stan actually did most
of the directing. Professional
jealousy might explain why Roach found it necessary to tamper with so many
of their films after the event. Two of the most irrational interferences appear in Swiss
Miss, with the insertion of the gorilla in the end scene, and the
ruining of the piano gag. Roach
removed the scene where we see the piano key of ‘middle C’ being
connected to a bomb, and so makes the ensuing close-ups of the boys’
hands almost hitting it completely pointless.
Luckily, this didn’t stop the movie from being a great success:
it would have taken more than a spot of shoddy editing to do that. My
favourite Laurel and Hardy movie – after much soul-searching – is
probably Way Out West. It could have been a success with any pair of competent comic
actors in the lead roles, but with the boys, it is superb.
The plot of Way Out West is pure melodrama: the rightful heiress is deprived of
her inheritance by her villainous boss and his floozy.
The twist is that well-intentioned Ollie and Stan are the cause of
her problem, even if they do eventually come to her rescue and – by
default – save the day. From
the moment we see our heroes’ carefree gait as they walk over the hill
with their mule, all our cares begin to vanish. A favourite scene is the one where the floozy tries to tickle
the map out of Stan’s grasp in her boudoir.
It appeared as if the director had to abandon any hope of a
‘clean take’, the actress is laughing hysterically, and so,
apparently, is Stan. For a
Laurel and Hardy film, I think this scene is incredibly sexy. Stan and
Ollie are often caught in bed together, but there is no thought of any
naughtiness. Our only
concerns are to do with who has the lion’s share of the blankets, who
has to get up to turn out the light, and which of them is going to
investigate the mysterious noise. When
Stan and Ollie appear with wives in films, their partners are usually
harridans of the first order. We
wonder why on earth they married the boys in the first place, and as far
as sex is concerned, the very idea that the marriage might ever have been
consummated is too ridiculous to contemplate.
The wives are there either as additional authority figures or else
(and more dangerously) to draw the boys away from us and in to the real,
adult world of complex, sexual politics and proper responsibilities.
But, thank goodness, they are never allowed to succeed. It’s
strange to see what still makes us laugh from the old films.
Stan and Ollie’s gentle art was replaced by the likes of Abbott
and Costello, The Three Stooges and Martin and Lewis, and double acts
continue to be big box office. But
these later comics had a different and more predictable format: straight
man / funny man, handsome / plain, clever / stupid.
I enjoyed them all in their different ways, but looking back,
they’ve all dated badly. Chaplin
is a link to the humour of the Victorians, Abbott and Costello represent
the fast-talking ’40s, Martin and Lewis the ’50s and early ’60s, but
Stan and Ollie are timeless. Children
love them because they are at least as smart as they are, and as we grow
older, their innocence and child-like optimism has the power to lift our
jaded spirits. Those of us
who are even remotely connected with the entertainment business can only
marvel at their skill, humanity, and timing.
Their catchphrases are still with us, and let’s face it, when it
comes to character-led comedy, Laurel and Hardy wrote the book. Whenever I
am appearing at a theatre I know they performed in, I get an added buzz.
Towards the end of their career, they toured Britain quite
extensively; I often wonder if I might be sharing their dressing room, and
try and guess as to what they would have said to each other.
Somehow, I can’t believe that they would ever have run out of
things to discuss. Some bands
I know only get through the grind and repetition of life on the road by
playing cards and trying to win money from each other, but that doesn’t
sound like Laurel and Hardy to me. I
can tell that they were pals to the end. Their last
scene together was in 1957 and was held in private.
I can only guess at the script, Babe had suffered a series of
strokes that had left him paralysed and unable to speak.
But somehow he was able to indicate that he wanted to see his old
friend and partner one last time. Stan
never talked about that last scene but we know that he was greatly
distressed by it. In my mind
I can see Ollie’s eyes looking imploringly up at Stan from the bed. Another
fine mess? I see Stan
turning his hands palms upwards and raising his eyebrows and looking
nowhere in particular for inspiration.
Perhaps he scratches his head, starts as if to speak, and then
pauses to think again. He
repeats these familiar gestures as if in a film.
Ollie indicates a smile, Stan’s bottom lip begins to quiver, his
eyes screw up and real tears begin to fall.
He looks at his friend and partner once more.
Ollie indicates a smile but real tears fall too.
Stan makes one last attempt to speak, but nothing comes out.
With eyebrows raised, he lifts his hand to his face and, moving his
fingers in a downward flick beginning with the little finger, he mouths
the word ‘bye’. He walks
to the door and leaves the room. It
ends, as it began in the silents, in silence. Cue: The
March of the Cuckoos… |
