At the same time, it was his first picture made with mighty Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, who in 1928 had lured him out of the independent wilderness with a lucrative contract and promises of big budgets for production, advertising, and distribution. The Hollywood studio with “more stars than there are in heaven” sought to add a genius comedian to that celestial firmament, and who better to fill that role than the guy whom critic James Agee would later credit with bringing “pure physical comedy to its greatest heights”?

Keaton initially thought that his new deal, the richest in M-G-M history up to that time, would ensure his stardom for many years to come. “This was still before the stock market crash,” he said years later in an interview. “There was money everywhere. . . I was successful, I was famous, I was free. Hell, I was sitting pretty and didn’t have enough sense to know it.”

As it turned out, the rigid assembly-line strictures of working at M-G-M (front-office approved scripts only, generic Hollywood casts and crews, no improvisation or dangerous stunts allowed) — combined with the onset of the Great Depression, the blitzkrieg adaptation of sound, his own increasing age, and the debilitating alcoholism brought on by a failed marriage — conspired to rob him of the longstanding moviemaking methods which once enabled his spontaneous brand of physical comedy to thrive. By the mid-1930s, Buster Keaton was as anachronistic and out-of-style as disco was by the mid-1980s. Reduced to taking bit parts in movies and creating gags for the new crop of comedians behind-the-scenes, it would take film critic James Agee’s 1949 essay to spark a revival in his fortunes and reputation.

But back in 1928, during his initial honeymoon phase with M-G-M, he had no way of knowing any of that. All he saw was a glorious new phase of his career stretching out before him. In the past he often swung for the fences, ever trying to top himself with more outrageous gags. But The Cameraman was, in Keaton’s words, “one of my pet pictures. It’s the simplest story that you can find, which was always a great thing for us if we could find it.” That simplicity brought out an element in his work heretofore unseen, namely a romantic sentimentality and a more languorous pace, both stemming from the emotions and humanity of the characters.

In June, Buster provided M-G-M with the idea of a lovelorn New York photographer striving to become a movie cameraman in order to impress a kindly girl working at a local newsreel company. Months later, the studio proudly presented their new star with an enormous script compiled by over twenty writers and filled with a bewildering array of clichéd characters and tired Hollywood plot-twists. After a half-hearted try at filming the behemoth in New York, Keaton called the studio and begged them to “for God’s sake, authorize me to throw this cockeyed script in the ash can and shoot from the cuff from here on.”

Freed from the strictures of a screenplay, Keaton proceeded to engage in his usual method of working: boundless creativity borne of rigorous improvisation. At one point his character arrives at Yankee Stadium to film a newsreel, finds it empty, and proceeds to charmingly engage in every fan’s fantasy: miming a game on the renowned field, playing all the positions by himself with childlike enthusiasm. In another, his efforts to break open a simple piggy bank end up destroying half his apartment. In still another, he takes an exhausted staple of romantic movies — dropping a telephone and rushing off frantically down a busy street in pursuit of a loved one — and makes it hilarious by sprinting so fast that he reaches her apartment and skids to a stop right behind her before she’s realized he’s no longer on the other end of the line. The film’s big set-piece, an explosive tong war between rival gangs in Chinatown, features him inventing ingenious ways to dodge bullets, knives, and bodies while simultaneously filming the works, all while his pet monkey tags along and takes full part in the mayhem.

Among this cavalcade of comedic delights, Keaton later revealed that, “The sequence that furnished the longest laugh in the picture was found at Venice, California, which was dressed up — or down — to look like New York’s Coney Island. Its gags were invented on the spot by [director Edward] Sedgwick, myself, and our two writers, Lew Lipton and Clyde Bruckman.” At base, the idea was simple: Keaton takes his girl to a public swimming pool for their first date. But the number of titters, yowls, belly-laughs, and boffos he manages to wring out of that scenario is extraordinary. Each new development flows organically into the next, the laughs so earthbound and genuine that it comes as a surprise to learn how much hard work and inventive genius went into them.

Take the centerpiece of the scene: Keaton attempting to change into a swimsuit before his poolside date gets snapped up by one of the many muscular college jocks prowling the area like sharks. Looking over the dressing rooms at the real-live Venice location, Buster decided that his poor character would find himself forced to share one with a much burlier fellow. To make the predicament even more funny, he had an extra-small mock-up of the real room built, one that would force the two actors to squeeze, contort, and fumble with every attempt to remove their clothes. The seasoned comedian’s eagle-eye left no detail unexamined in his quest to build the scene into a comedic gem. “Each bathhouse had six hooks on its walls,” Keaton later remembered, so “we removed four hooks, because a couple of men struggling to hang all of their clothes on one hook apiece could be very funny.”

Initially, the director suggested that a hulking actor should be found to serve as Keaton’s dressing-room nemesis, but Buster saw that as too unrealistic. “What I wanted was a fellow about my size who looked like a grouch but not the sort who dares start a fight.” With such a character mentally improvised on the spot, and no time to go back to Hollywood to hunt down an appropriate actor, they turned to the balding, scowling unit manager on his crew. “He filled the bill on looks,” Keaton decided, “although he had never done any acting. . . As usual, we did not rehearse the scene. . . rehearsed scenes look mechanical on the screen.”

By rolling the camera and inventing as they went along, they were able to create something that audiences still remember eighty years later. “The scene ran for four minutes,” Keaton later marveled in an interview, “which is a very long time on the screen for a string of gags worked by just two men in a single ridiculous situation. [M-G-M Producer Irving] Thalberg almost had hysterics when he saw that day’s rushes in a projection room.” The unit manager who had acted in the scene alongside Keaton, Ed Brophy, generated so much laughter among audiences that it propelled him into a long Hollywood career as a crowd-pleasing grouch — you can see him in The Champ (1931), Freaks (1932), The Thin Man (1934), and the musicals Varsity Show (1937) and Gold Diggers in Paris (1938) among many others (you can even hear him as the mouse in Disney’s Dumbo).

As the famous “changing room scene” in The Cameraman shows, it wasn’t plot-twists or clever writing that drove a Keaton picture, but physical gags: spontaneous comedy derived from setting and characters, visual stuff more reminiscent of vaudeville than a theatrical play. For Buster Keaton was a product not of cinema, but of a lost stage art which cinema had destroyed decades earlier. . . .

Previous posts in the series “Buster Keaton and The Cameraman”

Part 1

FURTHER READING and VIEWING

A tour of the real-life locations for The Cameraman: See some of the still-existing and recognizable Los Angeles buildings that Buster Keaton used to film The Cameraman in 1928.

TCM notes on The Cameraman: Here’s TCM’s mini-essay on the film, written by James Steffen. Just like the standard TCM video introductions by Robert Osborne, these little written exposes on their website are always interesting and worth a read.

I understood when I took on this project that I could easily suffer severe trauma, mentally, emotionally, spiritually…and sexually, although depending on your proclivities, the latter could be considered a bonus. Be that as it may, I am writing to let you all know, that the trauma I anticipated did in fact materialize in a way that has profoundly affected me: I have developed a strong affinity for night blooming jasmine, I cry all the time, and I apologize incessantly for things for which I am not responsible.  Now I can tell you with no uncertainty, extensive knowledge of Cestrum Nocturnum accompanied by inexplicable outbursts of tears is no way to procure a date. My mojo has deteriorated, as if I didn’t pinch its foliage and cut back after flowering to maintain compact growth. What’s happening to me?

Note: In actuality, apologizing for that which you are not responsible is very effective with women, and more or less expected of you.

It’s almost as if the very fabric of me….every value, every experience, everything that has been a determining factor of who I have become over time, was slowly and stealthily being stripped away and rendered irrelevant with each encounter with a liberal. I was losing my identity. Not unlike our country.

I was almost positive that my behavioral changes were a result of these interactions, but I couldn’t be sure and didn’t want to pre-judge until I had all the facts. Plus, I had to take some personal responsibility. After all, this sociological experiment was my idea in the first place.

So I did what every member of my generation does when stuck in a deeply personal existential crisis: I blamed my parents. To provide you all with a brief family history, I grew up in an environment where I was groomed to question anything which might provide me even the smallest amount of self esteem and furthermore, to give significant consideration to anyone who might find fault with me. The adage: “If enough people tell you you’re drunk, sit down” was very popular in my family, except that one didn’t need multiple people to tell you you were drunk. One would suffice. The result was an ever present amount of self doubt, thus maximizing parental importance and influence.

I sat in the living room across from my parents. I hadn’t said a word and yet they were already judging. Nonetheless, I was excited to get to the bottom of this. I was ready and about to let it rain when I noticed outside the window that my mother’s night blooming jasmine was prematurely Deciduous for this early in June. I explained to her that if she had properly pruned in the spring, she would have increased the air flow such that she would have rejuvenated new growth and significantly increased flower production. Without a word, my father stood up and punched me in the face followed by repeated blows to my mid-section. As I lay writhing on the ground, he looked down at me and yelled “Are you dating Liberals?” I nodded, and managed to squeak out a “Yes, but…“ The pummeling continued. My mother even got in a few solid shots.

It was one of the more pleasant visits I’ve had with them in recent years.  When they were finished, I apologized to them for having to beat me so severely.

I had to respect the old man, though. He knew immediately what I had only suspected. He understood the dangers. I thought I had too.  Haunting questions arose in my mind: Why was I susceptible?  Was the task at hand too much for a single Republican man?  Was I failing all of you here at Big Hollywood?  Could I find my way back…to me? Why didn’t my mother prune in the spring?

To calm myself a bit, I did what I usually do when I need to relax; I strapped on a scuba tank and hopped in the Santa Monica Bay: one of the world’s top diving spots if you’re not concerned with visibility or seeing anything of interest whatsoever.

I sat pensively on the ocean floor, surrounded by bottom feeders I couldn’t see but could feel in the depths of my lost soul. It was dark, cold, and lonely. And then….it occurred to me…. this was the aquatic equivalent of dating a liberal. I followed the metaphor to its logical next step and things began to fall into place.

I, Jon David, was in fact a deep sea diver exploring the treacherous waters of the liberal dating pool in Los Angeles….and although the waters are shallow, the rules of diving still apply….and that means, if you resurface too quickly, and do not allow for the appropriate decompression time, serious mental and physical damage could result.

I was almost positive that this was the reason behind my recent behavioral changes, so I carefully surfaced through the 19 POC’s (pollutants of concern) which populate the Santa Monica waters and found a computer as quickly as possible.

The results of my research proved to be more accurate and terrifying than I had anticipated. I discovered that by dating liberals in such close temporal proximity, I was suffering from a scarcely known social version of The Bends…clinically known as Decompression Sickness, (DCS).  I was shocked to find that simply from dating liberals (some of which I have not reported) I was experiencing many, if not all of the symptoms of DCS.

After a little more research I discovered that to avoid the effects of DCS, the diver must rise slowly and/or make intermittent stops on the way up. These are called decompression stops. I call them dates with Republicans.

I hope this information will serve as a sufficient explanation as to why My Weekly Date with a Liberal is not exactly weekly. Onward.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Several weeks ago, an attractive liberal girlfriend of mine asked me to accompany her to a party for the sole purpose of making another man jealous.  Seemingly, the only traits she admired about this man were that he was Dominican and extremely well endowed.  Now a lot of men in my position might have felt threatened by these traits, but sometimes you have to be honest with yourself, know your limitations, not everyone is created equally…and if there was one thing I knew about me: I was not Dominican.

So I agreed. I asked her where the party was and she said Venice.  Now for those of you unfamiliar with Venice, California, it is a place where Liberals roam free.  Unattended. Unchecked. Unshowered. It was time to don my scuba suit. I was going down deep. I was fully pressurized and ready to secure my next date with a Liberal.

We arrived at the gate. My friend hesitated…and then looked at me. She knew I was a Republican. The look in her eye was a combination of gratitude and concern.

I said I’m cool. Now let’s go make that dude sorry he hasn’t paid you the proper attention.  She nodded. I liked her.

She opened the gate and what I saw made me less comfortable than if I had been running through the Swat valley screaming I’m a Jew.

They were everywhere. Liberals lounging around.  It looked like a front yard fully clothed no contact orgy. Patchouli wafted in the air battling body odor for the bragging rights to the air these liberals and one republican would be breathing this afternoon. I desperately searched for another person wearing a button down shirt, but there was none.

Just little groups of liberals scattered about, passing porn magazines back and forth to one another just a feet away from their little liberal children. At this point I gave a mental shout out to the makers of Purell and prayed that the half life of my last tetanus shot had not expired.

My friend appeared remorseful that she had brought me to such a bizarre scene. That remorse manifested itself by her abandoning me upon the first sight of the Dominican.

I was alone, but not for long. So, I hear you’re a Republican? I turned ironically to my left, and there she was: Caitlib. She was my friend’s roommate which is how I assumed she knew I was a Republican. I confirmed what she already knew. She smirked with all the smug she could muster. You must feel a little out of your element.

I said not really, sometimes I like to poke the bear in the zoo. I was pretty sure she wouldn’t get that….she didn’t. But she was perceptive enough to recognize sarcasm and that was enough to set her in motion. Not surprising. After all, she came over to me looking for a battle.

Her army consisted of a large metaphorical infantry of dunces, armed with so little knowledge that unknowingly their empty rifles were aimed at the very country they should have been defending. The only thing that made them dangerous was that there were a lot of them and they were angry and they were loud.

I want to say that again….there were a lot of them and they were angry and they were loud.

Angry and loud.

That doesn’t leave much room for another point of view.  And when I tried to politely make room, she interrupted me and said one of the most astounding things I’ve ever heard: Nothing anyone could ever say could change my position.

And then I realized something:  Beneath her pert 26-year-old exterior, she was hiding something…humility…and the priceless gift of her.  Because she was in fact the smartest individual in the history of mankind…and the smartest individual who ever will be. I say this because she was apparently equipped with every historical fact of every event that has ever taken place such that she had every possible piece of information necessary to formulate an opinion. Furthermore, she apparently was a master soothsayer who could see everything that could and would possibly ever happen in the future…forever. I’m convinced that if she had not ridiculed so blindly the concept of God, she probably would have embraced it, for she was in fact, God herself.

I decided it best to be quiet in the light of such brilliance. After all, better to be thought a fool, than to speak and remove all doubt: she, being a prime example. Plus I could learn so much. So I listened and did in fact learn amazing things about our country’s history. For example, apparently despite our victory in World War II, our strategy was flawed and incompetent. Why? She couldn’t say. I figured it was classified.  And the lessons continued: apparently Reagan really bungled things up when he bankrupted the Soviets to end the Cold War, and his demand to tear down the wall was preposterous. Why? You guessed it…classified. I learned that the United States was essentially responsible for most, if not all of the world’s problems. And for the majority of these, she felt apologies were not only justified, but any other policy would be inexcusable. My amusement slowly dissolved into sadness because shot after shot, her army of dunces blew hole after hole in Old Glory until my pride forced me to interrupt.

I said can I ask you a question?

What?

Do you like this country?

She didn’t hesitate.  No.

I thought about this.

Is there a better country?

Her answer: No.

So….we’re the best country?

No.

At that moment, I discovered two more symptoms of Decompression Sickness: Bewilderment and Disappointment.

You don’t like this country? I asked again.

No. Said this time with a hint of a smile.

I studied her for a beat. It was time for me to go. So I left.

Note:  My friend seemed to have captured the affections of the well-hung Dominican, so I felt that my presence had served her well.

I got in my car, doused my hands with Purell, and headed home. I thought about how much I love this country. I thought of my relationship with America like a marriage. For better, for worse, in sickness and in health, until death do us part. That’s how I feel about her.

When I got home, I wondered how I could accurately report this event to you all. How I could fully express how I felt after this encounter. Sometimes humor is the answer. It’s worked for me in the past as an effective diversion from painful truths. It wasn’t gonna be enough this time because there is one thing in this life for which I will not apologize: I love this country.

Don’t you?

“American Heart”

Written and performed by

Jon David

If you believe in the spirit of free enterprise, capitalism, and good old fashioned American entrepreneurship, please go to ITunes after you listen, download the song, and help spread the message that we live in the greatest country in the world. Not to mention, you will help finance my continued dating research which is currently being funded by the Chinese.

American Heart written by Jon David     c&p: J.David 2009

They say
Our reputation
Needs a new coat of paint and a delicate melody
But I say
I like the bruises
And a melody don’t mean a thing
If we don’t have the strength to sing

I won’t be made to ever feel ashamed…

…that I’m American made
I got American parts
Got American faith
In America’s heart

Go on raise the flag
I got stars in my eyes
I’m in love with her
And I won’t apologize

They say
That we need changin’
As if all the Founding Fathers seem to get it wrong
But I say
I still believe in
the greatest Liberator, Innovator, Cultivator
Freedom’s ever known

So I suggest you take a look inside
I think you changed already
You went and lost your pride

But I’m American made
I got American parts
Got American faith
In America’s heart

Go on raise the flag
I got stars in my eyes
I’m in love with her
And I won’t apologize

Dress her up so that you don’t recognize her
She’ll still be there if you wake up in the night
‘Cause a mother can always find her child
Even when that child don’t know he’s lost

I’m American made
I got American parts
Got American faith
In America’s heart

Go on raise the flag
I got stars in my eyes
I’m in love with her
And I won’t apologize
I’m in love with her
And I won’t apologize
I’m in love with her
And I won’t apologize

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