Langdon*

    and the asterisk next to his name


By Dave Stevenson – Editor of Slapstick! Magazine













The process of discounting the relevance of Harry Langdon begins with the assumption that he is to be either liked or disliked with equal amounts of enthusiasm.  This is the essence of misunderstanding, for Langdon is far too subtle and deliberate a comedian to be evaluated by such criteria.  The calculated difficulty with which Langdon moves through the world may often evoke in us a sense of embarrassment, but that’s okay – we’re adults who have learned a great many more of life’s lessons than he.  After all, fully evolved comedic Harry is just a twelve-year-old boy who will never become thirteen.  We like heroes, however, and hold high expectations for them – even the twelve-year-old-boy variety.  In the end success does come to him, even if it is hurled upon him in the same fashion as the preceding reel-and-two-thirds of woe.  Accordingly, Langdon can be a difficult protagonist but not an impossible one.  Most of his contemporaries are unquestionably adults – ambitious, fleet of foot, and wily.  Harry Langdon is none of those things; his awkward nature and seemingly hopeless shortcomings can appear as character deficiencies rather than intended comedic devices.











When Roger Marris broke Babe Ruth’s single-season homerun record in 1961, he did so during a season in which the league played more games than they had in 1927 when Ruth hit his sixty.  Thusly, there has been an asterix attached to Marris’s name in the record books.  There are many film historians, critics, and fans who feel that Langdon’s inclusion in the primary tier of silent clowns is similarly conditional.  His spot as the fourth immortal figure of silent comedy is often thrown into flux with the mere mention of names like Larry Semon, Lloyd Hamilton, and the team of Laurel and Hardy.  You could make the argument that no other clown in the pantheon of silent comedians has been more under-appreciated or misunderstood.  In short, there appears to be an asterix next to his name in the comedic honor roll.

When all is said and done, the world of silent comedy is governed by its own rules of physics.  Gravity is turned on its ear, violence can result from any simple act, and improbabilities are heaped mercilessly upon clowns by the gods.  We reserve the top tier of honors for those comedians who seem to have negotiated this environment in the best manner possible.  Langdon stands alone in stark contrast to his contemporaries as something of an incongruity.  He is little more than a boy in a man’s outfit and ill equipped for the journey.  Harry Langdon, however, has the ability to reach beyond the shadows of his rivals, tap us gently upon the shoulder, and remind our souls that the world isn’t made up entirely of heroic figures.

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Lloyd Hamilton

Tramp, Tramp, Tramp 1926

Harry
Langdon
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