Stan, Ollie, and the Universe

» BOOKS -ARTS: MANNERS<« Stan, Ollie, and the Universe HUGH KENNER There’s a still at the back of Mr. Everson’s book that almost stops the breath when we come upon it: a rare, rare glimpse as it were into the joyous heart of the sun. It’s not a still from a film: Laurel and Hardy, oblivious of the camera, haven’t thought to assume the stares of idiot hopefulness or fathomless exasperation that constituted their public critique of the universe. Bathed in the nearly horizontal light of early morning, the boys look fresh: the day is all before them. Creation has sprung forth anew, pianos once more unwrecked, cars undemolished, hats unbattered, suits unrumpled. Ollie lounges against a Ford that . looks spry as a grasshopper, his bulk so poised as to seem weightless, feet nonchalantly crossed. Stan’s hands are clasped in ecstasy. They bend toward each other in communion. Soundless laughter convulses them; their closed eyes savor some invisible bit of business, newly invented, that will soon bring Arcadia down once more in ruins: but not yet. Charlie Hall leans upon the car be- side them, a meditative straight man, savoring peace. It deserves, all this, to be a timeless idyl, disaster a mere ideal mechanism, the prospect of its linkages contemplative joy. From the very edge of the picture space, in aggressive sharp focus, a directorial hand intrudes like a knout into a Watteau or the archangel’s sword into Eden: the summons to work. They worked and worked and worked in 99 films. It’s amazing that six or seven of these are classics, so bad was their luck. They weren’t teamed till 1927, on the brink of sound, and hadn’t therefore unhurried time together in the middle years of the golden decade, the years for in- stance of Keaton’s masterpieces. The teaming was apparently happen- stance; then a full seven films went by before their odd symbiosis was consummated, and a dozen films later its possibilities were still unnoticed by a studio that was concentrating the publicity (and production) money on Charley Chase and Our Gang. In 1927 they made fourteen films; the fourteenth (in which all civilization, it seems, grows infected with the urge The Films of Laurel and Hardy, by William K. Everson. Citadel, $7.95 to throw pies) is a classic. In

they made ten; the eighth of these (as much of. civilization as we can see caught up in an orgy of tearing fenders and wheels off cars) is a second classic. In

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Hugh Kenner

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» BOOKS -ARTS: MANNERS<« Stan, Ollie, and the Universe HUGH KENNER There’s a still at the back of Mr. Everson’s book that almost stops the breath when we come upon it: a rare, rare glimpse as it were into the joyous heart of the sun. It’s not a still from a film: Laurel and Hardy, oblivious of the camera, haven’t thought to assume the stares of idiot hopefulness or fathomless exasperation that constituted their public critique of the universe. Bathed in the nearly horizontal light of early morning, the boys look fresh: the day is all before them. Creation has sprung forth anew, pianos once more unwrecked, cars undemolished, hats unbattered, suits unrumpled. Ollie lounges against a Ford that . looks spry as a grasshopper, his bulk so poised as to seem weightless, feet nonchalantly crossed. Stan’s hands are clasped in ecstasy. They bend toward each other in communion. Soundless laughter convulses them; their closed eyes savor some invisible bit of business, newly invented, that will soon bring Arcadia down once more in ruins: but not yet. Charlie Hall leans upon the car be- side them, a meditative straight man, savoring peace. It deserves, all this, to be a timeless idyl, disaster a mere ideal mechanism, the prospect of its linkages contemplative joy. From the very edge of the picture space, in aggressive sharp focus, a directorial hand intrudes like a knout into a Watteau or the archangel’s sword into Eden: the summons to work. They worked and worked and worked in 99 films. It’s amazing that six or seven of these are classics, so bad was their luck. They weren’t teamed till 1927, on the brink of sound, and hadn’t therefore unhurried time together in the middle years of the golden decade, the years for in- stance of Keaton’s masterpieces. The teaming was apparently happen- stance; then a full seven films went by before their odd symbiosis was consummated, and a dozen films later its possibilities were still unnoticed by a studio that was concentrating the publicity (and production) money on Charley Chase and Our Gang. In 1927 they made fourteen films; the fourteenth (in which all civilization, it seems, grows infected with the urge The Films of Laurel and Hardy, by William K. Everson. Citadel, $7.95 to throw pies) is a classic. In

they made ten; the eighth of these (as much of. civilization as we can see caught up in an orgy of tearing fenders and wheels off cars) is a second classic. In