Genius Interrupted: Harry Langdon

Mack Sennett, the silent cinema's grand comic impresario, had an unofficial motto that he sometimes repeated in disgusted whispers – all from the time his two greatest discoveries – Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle, and then in turn, Charlie Chaplin – left him to become, respectively, the highest paid actors in the movies.

"Start at Sennett, get rich somewhere else."

Chaplin, Buster Keaton and Harold Lloyd comprised the golden triumvirate of comedy's silent era. Of the three, only Chaplin had been a Sennett property.

Lloyd began his career playing a painfully calculated character nicknamed "Lonesome Luke," who existed for only one reason, to compete directly with Charlie Chaplin. It was a long, hundred-plus film mission that would end in confusion and frustration for himself and his producer, Hal Roach – Sennett's chief rival.

Crestfallen, Lloyd blipped over to Sennett's company briefly, perhaps searching for himself, and after a season of languishing in small undercranked roles, straggled back home to Roach – where to finally discover that simply placing Lloyd behind a large pair of studious eyeglasses was an amazing formula for success. The rest is history, as they say.

Roach would hit the target again by pairing a wiry Englishman who'd come to America as Chaplin's understudy – Stan Laurel – with a large boyish Georgian who'd been a dependable character presence, but hardly anything remarkable until then – Oliver "Babe" Hardy.

Keaton yet again stands out as a great anomaly of the era, having belonged to neither comedy mogul, Sennett or Roach. All of Keaton's films were for the comedy wings of larger studios – chiefly Paramount and Metro, who never directly took credit for them, until a generation later when Keaton's work was accepted as bona fide "art."

There were others who could have stood on that elite pedestal. After the Virginia Rappe scandal took over his life, Arbuckle simply became famous for being famous – his career would never reboot. And when it finally stood on the precipice of renewed flight, the rotund funnyman drifted off to sleep in his fiancée's bed and never woke.

The majority of early top comedy stars like Ford Sterling, Ben Turpin, Billy Bevan, and the queen of silent film comediennes, Mabel Normand, had all been Sennett's. His stable of directors were kings of comedy in their own right behind the camera – men like Dick Jones, Harry Edwards, Larry Semon, and even Del Lord, who would become the Three Stooges' most predominant director, in the 40s. (Yes, the Stooges had direction.)

If you expand the triumvirate into a quatrefoil, in the opposite direction, post-Lloyd rather than pre-Chaplin, there is just one comedian that all aficionados and historians agree deserves that coveted fourth perch – Harry Langdon.

LANGDON'S EVOLUTION: CAPRA VS. LOUVISH

No one could deny Sennett's knack for spotting talent. The turn-over in the early years of film comedy demanded it – whether from burn-out, stress, overexposure (Ford Sterling was perhaps the most popular "one-note" comic) or the mounting physical injuries that took a dour toll in those noiseless phrenetic days.

But the loss of Chaplin had always lingered with Sennett. He spent considerable effort over the years afterward, trying to find another "Charlie." One night at a Vaudeville show, he came as close to hitting the jackpot as anyone could.

A prop-heavy skit (including a nearly full-size collapsable automobile) called "Johnny's New Car" starred an odd little soul, and his wife, as a couple set out on a motor trip. Sennett found the comedian strangely compelling and hired him.

Sennett wasn't sure yet exactly how to use his new employee, but threw him into the Funhouse with the rest of his pet comedians nonetheless. At this point in Harry's journey, we come to a much-disputed fork in the road.

One of Sennett's top "idea men" at the time was Frank Capra – the same Capra who would later become one of Hollywood's iconic directors, of "Mr. Smith Goes To Washington" and "It's A Wonderful Life" fame, to name just two of his masterpieces.

According to Capra – interviewed for the Thames Television documentary series "Hollywood" (1980) – Sennett hired Langdon almost out of desperation, over the lack of a central star at his company. Beloved, cross-eyed Ben Turpin was his current top commodity, who held his own in ticket sales during this period, but was no Chaplin. Unsure of what to do with Langdon, but determined not to lose a potential box office nickel, Sennett decreed an order to Capra and fellow writer Arthur Ripley: "make this guy into something."

Capra and Ripley saw a confused little Vaudevillian, surrounded by Sennett's army of explosive film comics who could run faster, mug sillier and pratfall harder than any others in the business... and immediately threw up their hands in futility. Or so Capra remembers.

The actual timeline of events, as recorded by Simon Louvish in his book, "Keystone: The Life and Clowns of Mack Sennett" (2003, Faber and Faber, New York), seems to contradict Capra's recollection.

Langdon, it seems, was already appearing in Sennett comedies, usually in supporting roles, as much as a year before Capra and Ripley were even hired by Sennett into his scenario department. Langdon's first film for Sennett was 1923's "Picking Peaches." Frank Capra does not enter the frame until March of 1925, as writer/gagman for "Plain Clothes."

In fact, one of Langdon's most splendid comedies, "Smile Please" (1924) was released prior to both Capra's and Ripley's employment at Keystone. It becomes apparent that Langdon wasn't exactly being overwhelmed by Sennett's masters of mayhem – but was in fact becoming one of them.

Langdon already possessed certain attributes that not only set him apart from the typical Sennett clowns, but on some levels, placed him beyond them. He was already a senior citizen among the ranks – the average life expectancy in the 1920s hovered near 46, and Langdon was nearly that, yet his eternally boyish face gracefully hid his "advanced" age from moviegoers. It was that very age difference that afforded Langdon a unique edge over his peers. He'd lived longer than anyone on the Keystone lot – except for "Papa Goose" himself – so he had more life experience to draw his "funny" from.

Like Keaton, and Chaplin, Langdon had been born into show business. He brought with him over 30 years of Vaudeville savvy – that translated onto film. He had at least 10 more years of stage experience than either Keaton or Chaplin. And most peculiar for a Sennett comic, he possessed a deliberate ability to be funny without resorting to mugging or tumbling.

His babyface was the infantile equivalent of Keaton's deadpan. His comic timing was otherworldly; different than Chaplin's, but in its own mysterious way, equally flawless. His on-screen countenance, a bewildered toddler enduring adult urges, literally subpoenaed laughter.

Yet Sennett's view was that Langdon just wasn't figuring out how to pull it all together when a camera was pointed at him, and so called in his "brain trust" (Capra and Ripley) to help the old fellow find his "lens legs," and give him one more chance before pulling the plug.

It is more realistic to imagine that Sennett indeed kept a close eye on Harry's progress playing in "typical" Keystone fare. He saw, but could not facilitate, the need for a "breakthrough" that would validate his baffling attraction to Langdon. Nothing would gel.

He possibly handed Langdon off to Capra and Ripley, out of frustration, as Capra said, but as the duo's first big assignment – not necessarily Langdon's last. Even Capra admitted that whenever they found themselves about to give up, Sennett kept prodding. "He's got SOMETHING. Keep working."

It was then that Arthur Ripley uttered the words that gave Capra a grand epiphany, and sparked Harry Langdon's comedy to its full potential. "Only God can help that twerp."

Capra's imagination lit up like Edison's lab. Chaplin was "The Tramp." So Langdon would be "The Twerp." A twerp whose only ally just might be God, if any.

Harry Langdon's "character" was born, fully formed straight from the womb of Capra's mind. And from the very first frame it was magic.

THE TWERP'S TEMPTATIONS

Here the narrative runs into trouble yet again.

When interviewed by Thames, Capra literally took full credit for "inventing" Langdon. To him that was probably fairly accurate. As Langdon's star rose to eventually touch point-to-point with Chaplin's, according to Capra, the proverbial heights became proverbially dizzying. Langdon was subconsciously overwhelmed by the magnitude of his own stardom, and gradually adopted a prima donna attitude that ultimately sank his career.

Capra claimed that Langdon suffered one crucial flaw that plagued neither Chaplin nor Keaton – a shortfall of "self-awareness" regarding his on-screen character. Chaplin had himself created The Tramp, and thus, knew exactly how the character would react, grow and evolve from film to film. Keaton too, had a "creator's insight" into the machinations and thinking of his pancake-hatted alter-ego.

Langdon lacked similar knowledge, Capra said, and thus was not his own man, on-screen. The Twerp had been created for Langdon – by Capra and Ripley – and they, not Langdon, had access to the Twerp's subconscious. Of course, Langdon believed otherwise.

Since Capra went on to become one of Hollywood's most beloved and revered directors, and Langdon's career faded after breaking ranks with Capra, it is quite easy to follow a conventional, convenient path of assumption that Capra was obviously correct.

But here we will explore the road least taken, and consider the alternate – Langdon-friendly – view that perhaps Capra overestimated his influence on Harry, and underestimated Harry's ability to grasp the concept behind the "character" he was bringing to life for the camera. Langdon, after all, was the one actually doing it.

One immediate "fact" regarding Langdon that we shall entertain as a potential myth, is his unorthodox comic timing. Not that he lacked any – he most certainly did not – but that his inner-barometer was not quite as unorthodox, or mysterious, as claimed by the Frank Capras of cinema history.

Sennett, Capra, Ripley – and everyone – reportedly marveled at Langdon's savant-like ability to make "slow" funny. This notion flew in the face of Sennett's every philosophy that faster was funnier – that comedy was frenzied and just a choreographed step above filmed chaos.

Langdon seemed the exception to every Keystone rule. The more methodical, the funnier he became. Capra never arrived at any better an explanation – Langdon belonged to an alternate comic universe – Alice's mirror-opposite Wonderland. No other clown, Keystone or otherwise, could duplicate Harry's comedy and make it work.

All the other cinema clowns painted on a broad canvass, but Langdon was, as author Kevin Brownlow described, a miniaturist. At Keystone, Langdon defied logic.

He walked the fine thread between comedy and tragedy like a tightrope, almost as if sleepwalking. It was not exactly the "pathos" that Chaplin pioneered and perfected, but the hark of a stiller, smaller voice – a deep far-off melancholy, faintly calling, that causes... laughter.

Langdon had no imitators – Chaplin had hundreds. Could Langdon articulate his talent? If so, it was perhaps never written down. Capra tried, but perhaps fell short, unbeknownst to himself.

What Capra and Sennett assumed was undefinable, may have been something much, much simpler. Langdon had the valuable lessons taught him by years of Vaudevillian struggle – a mental arsenal that he, like all cagey showbiz veterans, knew to keep mum about.

Age had taught Harry to conserve his energy, carefully pick and choose his bits, and improv efficiently in a tighter circle of motion than say, a newbie experimenter with boundless youth and a pain-free body. Harry developed his minimalist approach to comedy – using his expressive face, wasteless motion, and yes, a methodicalism – crafting a "slow" style that defied convention – as a means of survival. Could it be that neither Capra nor Ripley had considered that?

Langdon had simply figured out how to stay funny, given his autumn years. Being blessed with an eternally youthful face helped too. Most comedians never planned their retirement – Langdon had deliberated a way around it, shrewdly re-inventing himself for the time when he'd be competing against those much younger, faster, less-fragile. Maybe Capra didn't get it. Maybe Langdon wasn't about to explain it to him.

Capra's underestimation of Harry in this regard, and every other comedian's inability to share Harry's comedic methodology, essentially proves that Langdon was indeed "his own man" in ways that were unique to his own comprehension – the "self-awareness" that Capra believed was absent.

Whether it was Capra's supervision, Langdon's intuition, or mixtures of both, it was Harry Langdon who produced those incredible results before the camera. One either has a pulse or doesn't. Harry's priceless slow burns and perfectly timed "blank" blinky gazes were not flukes captured only after a hundred exhaustive takes. Harry Langdon was already "something" before Capra and Ripley supposedly made him into one.

When one watches a slew of Langdon comedies back-to-back, as can be done with the splendid DVD set, "Harry Langdon: Lost & Found" (All Day Entertainment/Facets Video), a surreal link can be observed, to Langdon's influence on Stan Laurel. For "Stanley" is most certainly a refined reincarnation of The Twerp, playing a divine comedic duet with "Ollie," the over-confident tubby kid grown-up, unaware of his own gooey center.

Capra did not gift Langdon with this quality, though he apparently wound up thinking he had. It was already present, molded by years of trial and error. The old story comes to mind of a portrait artist who toils for years without much success, until he gives a painting away, to someone who places it in a frame and manages to sell it for a large sum. The artist ponders this. "I never realized it was art until I saw it in a frame."

The frame was indeed Capra's, but he forgot that the paint was Langdon's.

Capra was right, however, about Langdon's downfall – stardom did cloud Harry's judgment eventually.

Langdon seemingly forgot that he already was a legitimate Chaplin rival. He embarked upon trying to transfigure the Twerp into a Tramp, to better "compete" against Chaplin, and eventually threw audiences off. He over-thought himself into becoming just another Chaplin imitator – a market already glutted. Along the way he grew weary of Capra's and Ripley's protests, and fired them – assuring that his trajectory would never be corrected by calmer navigators. Harry's star fell, but what heights it had reached in its brief flight.

LOOKING BACK, WITH A TEARY SMILE

Harry Langdon is perhaps the oddest, most compelling of the elite silent clowns. His career did last into the sound era, but by then he was merely a marginal presence. His skill as a performer never waned – and he apparently never fretted over the approach of the talkies, even when it was wholesale-demolishing established careers, like those of John Garfield and Clara Bow. The stage had toughened him.

On the above mentioned DVD set is preserved some of Langdon's sound work. His most visible speaking role was a supporting part in the Al Jolson musical "Hallelujah, I'm A Bum" (1933). Langdon displays a steady-handed ability to share a scene with the legendary crooner, and he can carry a lyric.

But Langdon mostly occupied the land of short subjects in the age of sound. Some were to promote other stars' upcoming productions.

His "improvised" dialogue is often somewhat off-planet. There are moments when Harry seems to utter phrases that make sense only to him – non-sequitur comments that roll off his tongue in some joyously eerie, context-free "word-jazz." He begins to bring to mind all of those strangely comical yet somehow dangerous interviews 40 years later between some hapless mic-jockey and Keith Moon.

If Harry Langdon was from another planet, is was a happier planet than ours. He departed back to it around Christmas of 1944, having never regained his lofty perch, but working behind the scenes for other comedians including Laurel & Hardy. Harry actually stepped before the camera one final time, to co-star with Oliver Hardy in "Zenobia" (1939) as Stan Laurel's de-facto replacement, during a contract dispute between Laurel and Hal Roach. The film was not remarkable, but on an invisibly cosmic level, quite fitting, given Langdon's role as Laurel's character's muse, earlier in the century.

His wings took him high enough to disorient him, and melt in the sudden heat of his own intense fame. Harry Langdon's rise to the summit, and tumble back to the valley, paints a portrait of the most human of the great silent clowns. His films, though not as sought after as those of Chaplin and Keaton, deserve preservation, and increased viewing. His absolute masterpiece, "The Strong Man," directed, yes, by Frank Capra, crops up now and again on late night/early morning cable. It's precisely the kind of film for which the VCR and TiVo were invented.

Could any "success story" be any more compelling than Langdon's? He'd have been merely a forgotten name on a tombstone had not a bored Mack Sennett, on a night among any of a thousand nights, purchased a Vaudville ticket... and merely another lost face on celluloid of a century ago, had not Arthur Ripley sighed the word "twerp."

Harold Lloyd's films, ironically, have waned somewhat through the years, and faded into history, perhaps because fewer and fewer people can identify with him as a source of comedy. His modern day equivalent would be too busy answering his cell phone, or texting on his Blackberry, to engage in any extracurricular shenanigans worthy of shooting a film about. Sadly, of his hundreds of films, only a small handful – his precarious "thrill" comedies like "Safety Last" (1923) – are regarded by today's audiences.

Maybe it is time for Harry Langdon to once again assume his place in the early cinema's universe – an ancient, odd little star, shining brightly.