“You’re wanted on the ‘phone…’
From 1927
through till 1935, the much-beloved movie comedy duo of Stan Laurel and Oliver
Hardy produced around 72 short films, from the silent era through sound, a run
that for me represents most of their greatest work (other than the few later
feature films such as Way Out West that
weren’t weakened by padding). Their slap-stick and more subtle visual gags were
perfect for the silent cinema, and they came equipped with amusing title
dialogue cards whose humour translated seamlessly when turned into scripts for
the ‘talkies’.
Together,
Stan and Ollie’s personas as the ‘Fiddle and the Bow’ as they were gracefully
nicknamed, would dovetail beautifully on screen. Ollie’s slow-burn reactions to
camera gave the audience time to laugh and to share in his incredulity at his
partner’s dimittedness. Stan could simply sit and do almost nothing yet be as
fascinating as a cat. When not fiddling idly with something to occupy his
two-watt brain, ideas processed in that
cavernous space before coming out in a stream that makes sense initially but
unravels like wool the more they are examined. If ever they seem to be in
opposition, for every devious plan that Ollie constructs to secretly benefit
himself, Stan will assuredly wreck it like a one-man cyclone of unwitting destruction.
As actors, they were as harmonious in their division of labour off-screen as they were in front of the camera. Stanley was obsessed with gag construction and timing, working long hours as very much a film-maker, whereas Oliver was happy to be a talented co-worker spending his free time on the golf course. Stanley was known to mischievously save up Oliver’s reaction shots to the end of the day so he’d be that little bit more frustrated (to get on the green). To Oliver, Stanley’s greater share of the earnings in their joint contract with studio head Hal Roach was entirely fitting. His friend did more of the work.
As actors, they were as harmonious in their division of labour off-screen as they were in front of the camera. Stanley was obsessed with gag construction and timing, working long hours as very much a film-maker, whereas Oliver was happy to be a talented co-worker spending his free time on the golf course. Stanley was known to mischievously save up Oliver’s reaction shots to the end of the day so he’d be that little bit more frustrated (to get on the green). To Oliver, Stanley’s greater share of the earnings in their joint contract with studio head Hal Roach was entirely fitting. His friend did more of the work.
Their wonderful short subject plots could be based around any single idea no matter how outlandish, from the sophisticated body-swap of playing each other’s wives in Twice Two and devilish baby versions of themselves in Brats, to a ‘simple’ premise like leaving home on time for a wedding or just leaving home, period, in Perfect Day. One of their best ideas was to play on the concept of henpecked husbands forever trying to hide innocent free-time activities from their tyrannical and suspicious wives. Their most memorable casting for this was Mae Busch, who could play the scorned harpie to perfection, giving genuine chills out of fear of her wrath. She had already made great use of a hardened streetwise gal image in horror feature films as we have seen in The Unholy Three and would go on to appear in Doctor X. In between, she was Laurel and Hardy’s favourite battle-axe and her unholy retribution serves as a marvellous bridge connecting their mainstream films with horror possibilities – in her later ideal casting in Oliver the Eighth.
But before
they could match wits and knives with Busch, the twosome made their version of
the now-familiar Cat and the Canary
plot in The Laurel-Hardy Murder Case.
This begins with the boys in their usual hard-up state fishing none too
productively on a dock-side before Ollie sees a newspaper advert announcing the
reading of the will of Ebeneezer Laurel. One of the bonus pleasures of seeing
their films is in considering the child-like naivete and eccentricity not just
within them but also in their world. Where else would lawyers publicly advertise
a $3,000,000 will reading and expect only genuine respondents? Ollie is on this
like a tramp on a hot-dog, but is continually scuppered by Stan who is a
virtual tabula rasa of genealogical uselessness. There’s an undeniable logic in
not knowing where he was born because “Well,
I was too young to remember”. Ollie prompts Stan’s only memory of an uncle who
fell through a trap-door but this proves a literal dead-end as they were
hanging him. He doesn’t make Ollie’s master-plan any easier as he has difficulty
in computing the value of three million dollars. “Is that as much as a thousand?”
Thankfully, despite
Ollie being none too great an economist himself, he has the presence of enough mind
to get them to the house of the aforementioned reading. The scene that awaits
them is pre-set as a classic Agatha Christie murder-mystery, a drawing-room
full of potentially suspects with much to gain and a group of distinctly Damon
Runyonesque detectives (including the Chaplin and L & H regular Tiny Sandford) led
by Fred Kelsey who suspends the reading, barking: “Ebeneezeer Laurel didn’t die a natural death, He was murdered!” His
finger point causes a hatchet-faced Frau Bluecher lookalike to collapse in
hysterics. The enjoyably stagey creakiness
of the plot is amplified by the (theatrically-rendered?) wind and thunder effects on
the soundtrack.
Frank Austin
makes a marvellous butler, having a craggy rubber face contorted for maximum
macabre gurning from the moment he opens the door to Stan and Ollie.
Immediately on entering, there is tension between the duo when it appears that Stan
fails to appreciate Ollie’s assumption of an equal share of the inheritance (a
situation neatly reversed in Oliver the
Eighth). The resolution of this restores their closeness. Nothing, not even
money, can ultimately divide them. The
Cat and the Canary aspect is strengthened by the device of forcing all the
suspects to stay the night, which is bad news for the boys as they have to sleep
in the same room in which Ebeneezer died, a fact the Butler relishes. Although
Ollie tries to use a disarming logic in return on the easily-frightened Stan, “Dead men can’t hurt you”, they both
huddle together in bed, fearful of being bumped off by an avaricious relative.
Even the glowing eyes of the house cat terrify them.
After a bad rubber
bat and a more convincing levitating sheet effect, Stan is interrogated about his alibi
by the detective which the police-man will soon regret. Our numbskull suspect counts through the
last few months: “Septober, Octember,
Nowonder…” Eventually, the cops work out that the butler, in league with a relative
cross-dressing as a gypsy (don’t ask), have been systematically wiping out the
cast by politely telling them: “You’re
wanted on the ‘phone…”. They are then dispatched, Sweeney Todd style, by a ‘phone receiver-activated trap-door. This
then match-cuts to a rushed and perplexing finish where for some reason Laurel
and Hardy are now wrestling back on the dock-side. This makes no sense. If it
was all a dream, shouldn’t this be made clear? If so, whose? And why?
This
slapdash finish to a sporadically fun two-reeler may be partly explained by terrible
news that Stan received as he was preparing the film. It’s a tragic coincidence
(and please dear conspiracy theorists, let’s leave it as such) that both times
Laurel and Hardy ventured into mixing slapstick with spine-tingling horror,
Stan suffered awful personal losses in real life. Here, his wife Lois suffered
a very difficult second pregnancy in May 1930 resulting in their son Stanley
Robert Jefferson being born two months premature and dying only eight days
later. Stan had to try and bring the funny whilst being utterly traumatised
with grief.
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