January 30, 2014
The Bohemian Girl –
US, 1936
One of the many joys of a Laurel and Hardy film is to watch
as they strive for success. Whether they’re fish salesmen or dock workers or piano
deliverymen, they endeavor to succeed through circumstances more trying than they
should be. And in the midst of their often hilarious undertakings, their
friendship waxes and wanes, Oliver Hardy’s patience reaches its breaking point,
and Stan Laurel looks at the results of his unfortunate foibles and simply
shrugs - never verbally admitting fault, but always acknowledging it silently,
in only the way that Stan Laurel could. In short, in film after film, they play
good men pushed to their limit, justified in their occasional outrage, yet
often coming up with the short end of the stick. Their fourth film, 1936‘s The Bohemian Girl, is a departure from
this well-established pattern, and to be honest, it is one that they probably
want back.
In The Bohemian Girl,
Laurel and Hardy play gypsies, and if you know anything about Hollywood’s sad adherence
to stereotypes throughout the silent period and the early sound years (and some
would say to the present day), it will not be a surprise to hear that they are
portrayed in the worst possible way. In fact, the gypsies in the film are
perhaps the most narcissistic group of people you’ll ever lay eyes on. Their
lives seems to consist of nothing but singing about how great gypsy lives are,
dancing incessantly, and periodically wooing fellow gypsies with sweet-sounding
melodies that hammer home the message, “You’ll remember me.” The words are
sadly prophetic.
The film begins somewhat promising, as we get a variation of
that oft-repeated story of Oliver Hardy and one of his angry, prone-to-violence
wives, this time played by Laurel & Hardy regular Mae Busch. Mrs. Hardy is
quickly revealed to be having an affair, but Hardy, as a result of his romantic
naiveté, refuses to believe it, not even after witnessing her kissing the guy.
However, the film soon squanders whatever goodwill it had built up – and it
wasn’t much at that – when night comes. Time, we’re told, for the gypsies to
fill their coffers. And so viewers are “treated” to the unnatural sight of our
two heroes pickpocketing one poor soul after another – thereby reinforcing another
sad stereotype of gypsies. At one point, Laurel even enlists the help of a
good-natured, but ill-informed officer in their scheme, and he and Hardy rob a
man of practically everything he has.
As the film progresses, we’re treated to more ill-advised
attempts at humor involving, but not limited to, torture racks, whipping
sessions, and kidnappings. Laughing yet? In addition, the film asks you to
accept that a darling young child named Arline (Darla Hood), so lovingly doted
on by her ruthless aristocrat father, would reveal her name after she’s
kidnapped, yet say nothing of the identity of her father. In fact, why stop
there? The film asks you to believe that a little girl could be kidnapped and
then not only smile at her kidnapper, but also allow herself to be paraded
around as someone else’s daughter without so much of an attempt at protesting. That is a hard sell even in a comedy such as this one.
The film’s best bits are fleeting. There’s a short scene in
which Hardy arranges a pair of pajamas for his “daughter,” a clever scene in
which Laurel tries to find something hidden under Hardy’s mattress while Hardy is sleeping on it, and a
brief scene showing the sacrifices the two make for Arline as she grows up.
There’s also a rather sweet moment in which an adult Arline, now played by
Jacqueline Wells, sings about a wonderful dreams she had and Hardy sits
listening, all the while beaming like a proud papa would. His look is perfect,
and it is a reminder of the level of respect he must have had for fellow singers.
There is not much else to say about The Bohemian Girl. After all, it is a film so short on plot that it
breaks up the narrative time and time again with pointless song and dance
numbers involving characters that viewers have no reason to care about and rhythms
that hardly seem “gypsy.” Late in the film, Laurel and Hardy regular James
Finlayson makes an appearance as a dumbfounded guard, providing a temporary
lift in the film’s rather morbid storyline. The levity lasts until he himself
starts calling out the guards and ordering for the whipping of the film’s
heroine to begin. Again, Laurel and Hardy are better than this. They are at the
top of their game playing likeable, hardworking stiffs. They suffer when
playing against type, such as when they played two shipmates trying to dispose
of a body in the 1934 short The Live
Ghost. In a way, it is easy to see the appeal of a film like this one. For
some actors, the chance to play against type is rare and greatly appreciated,
and in many cases, familiarity with a particular kind of role does indeed lead
to contempt. However, as Chaplin discovered when audiences initially rejected
his expectation-breaking 1947 film Monsieur
Verdoux, sometimes going against expectations has a price. (on DVD as part
of Laurel & Hardy: The Essential
Collection)
2 stars
No comments:
Post a Comment