There’s an old truism that creativity can’t be learned, that one must be born with talent, that attempts to force inspiration where none exists will inevitably ring hollow. Beyond the common sense aspect, there is a certain level of comfort in this line of thinking, especially for creative types: it conjures an air of mysticism around the creative process, and reinforces the idea that art is something greater than ourselves. Yet, as with most cultural theories, there are bound to be some outliers, and one of them comes in the gangly, affable frame of Harold Lloyd.

Of the cinematic genres that came into prominence in the silent era, slapstick comedy is perhaps the least surprising: unlike most dramatic forms, physical humor uses silence as a virtue rather than a handicap. It also helps that, of the creative minds who took to Hollywood’s first waves, two of the greatest geniuses were working within the genre: Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton. Chaplin and Keaton were capital-A Artists, who had taken to the screen (and the stage before that) to fulfill an inner, driving need. As their stars rose, both men took a greater creative interest in their craft, eventually writing, directing, producing, editing, and, in Chaplin’s case, even composing the scores for their own vehicles.They were comedians, in short, because they were born to do it.

Harold Lloyd, on the other hand, was not. When Lloyd made the jump from stage to screen, he was an actor, and principally a dramatic one. Where Chaplin and Keaton became clowns to answer the call of their souls, Lloyd was answering the call of his agent, who insisted (not unreasonably) that comedy was where the money was. Lloyd complied, and committed to teach himself how to be funny. Lloyd was not a natural funnyman (a fact which reportedly tortured him), but he was a professional, and watched hours upon hours of slapstick to try to internalize its rhythms. In an attempt to create his own brand, in the vein of Chaplin’s mustache and Keaton’s porkpie hat, Lloyd took to wearing round glasses, a straw boater, and a genially bewildered expression. Muses be damned, Harold Lloyd was going to become an artist. And here’s the thing: it worked.

While Lloyd never quite made it to the heights of his inspirations, he laid a solid claim on the #3 spot – no small feat given the crowded playing field. What he lacked in innate artistry, he made up for in sheer death-defying bravado. That’s him dangling off the clock in Safety Last, an iconic shot that still ranks as one of the most breathtaking stunts in film history. One could almost see these stunts as a manifestation of Lloyd’s desperation: he was going to be funny if it literally killed him.

As part of their Silents, Please series, the Somerville Theatre will be showing Speedy, Lloyd’s final silent comedy, with organ accompaniment by Jeff Rapsis. In it, Lloyd’s hapless everyman finds himself defending the last horse-drawn streetcar in New York City from police and gangsters alike. While there is some early use of rear-projection, most of the action is, of course, achieved by actually sending a horse-drawn streetcar careening through the streets of New York. While the film is today best known for its cameo by Babe Ruth and its pioneering use of the middle finger, it serves as a fitting capstone for Lloyd’s career: breakneck, likable, and, against all odds, successful.

https://youtu.be/XvPR4Z-9nC0

Speedy
1928
dir. Ted Wilde
85 min.

Part of the ongoing series: Silents, Please!
Live organ accompaniment by Jeff Rapsis!

Click here for screening info