General

Laurel and Hardy’s fascinating impressions are still with us, as instant deliverers from our own sense of ennui, over eighty years after they first got together as a two-man ensemble, the first great -- and, the last -- Hollywood motion-picture comedy team. Their funny side will live as long as laughter exists.

Most of us know that laughter is the best medicine -- a natural remedy for a host of ills, and moody blues. And, modern science testifies its acquaintance to such a credo, not just in terms of possibility constructs, but also sound precepts. So, what could be a better example of true laughter than the images of Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy -- comedians par excellence -- that laughed all their way through the Great Depression?

The moment their charming, immortal, faces were made by God, in Heaven, and launched on Earth, generations had been assured of deriving enormous pleasure by way of their timeless magic. Just because of one, unique, element called actual reality. If one of them made us laugh, with his child-like, innocent wails, in times of adversity, the other was equally at home with mirth, thanks to his straightforward, pure humour, stunning corpulence, a toothbrush moustache, and an infectious hypnotic grin. Fat people are, doubtless, winners in smile and champions in size. And, Hardy [1892-1957], without an iota of doubt, was the greatest of them all. He’s one of a kind; his natural "foil," Laurel [1890-1965], was another.

The duo was generous in sheer fun, thought, expression, intonation, and action, when it came to acting so naturally. Comedy was made for both, and vice versa. ‘Olly’ and Stan drew upon the ground springs of their own images and ideas that came spontaneously, without forced effort. In so doing, they fashioned their very own joyous, individualistic, character and nature on celluloid: of both slapstick and outright droll. Aside from this, they were awfully creative too. As a matter of fact, none of their roles or histrionic leanings had in it any predetermined solution to any given situation. It was improvisation at its best, not synthetic purpose of just sticking to the script... as it were.

Life was nasty, brutish, and short for most people, and the cinema, in particular, bound for travelling fairs and beer halls. Oliver and his frail friend had to reflect this grim reality, besides other forms of human behaviour that could make one laugh and even forget troubles. Not that life is any different, today! As the awesome duo achieved its apogee in grand style, impressively, articulately and forcefully, several of their admirers, in a host of climes, tried to imitate them in their own game, without ever achieving anything more than just mimicry. Olly and Stan were inimitable. There has been none like them before; there won’t be any in the future, too — even with cloning.

To cull, but just one example. The telephone rings. Hardy attends to the call. His friend, who is on the line, invites him and Stan, for a boisterous, fun-filled party. Hardy, enticed by the invite, holds back from committing himself since he’s promised his wife -- and, Laurel his -- that they would take them for an outing. Olly, therefore, tells his friend: “If a Hardy makes up his mind [to ignore the get-together], it’s as firm as the Rock of Gibraltar.” Just then, Hardy has second thoughts. The "rock" crumbles, when the caller tempts him with the names of the spirits etc., they would be entertained with. Hardy confirms his acceptance. The drama unfolds, with a "blinding" headache.

The departure time for the train approaches. Hardy, with a gloomy face, asks his wife to get going, along with Ms Laurel, assuring them that they would join them later. As the ladies leave, chaos reigns. In his urgency, one of Hardy’s feet gets jammed in Laurel’s boot, which he thinks is his. Annoyed with the result, Olly tells his mate: “Another fine mess...” The duo’s theme song. Soon, the ladies return home, because they’ve "missed" the train. The timeless orchestra of confusion worse confounded begins anew. And, the audience is taken on yet another glorious trip of unadulterated, rip-roaring, sizzling mirth.

When Hardy first studied law at the University of Georgia, he knew, sort of, that a career in law would not be his cup of tea. Not only that. At age 17, Hardy had even opened his home-town’s first movie theatre. Lured by the tinsel bug, and his love for acting, Hardy soon abandoned his project and joined the Lubin Motion Picture Company in Florida as a small-time actor. He started off by playing the villain. He didn’t look dangerous. It’s status quo for five years.

But, the instance Hardy would finish his work, at the studio, he’d be off to indulge in his other passion: golf. An avid golfer, Hardy was not in the big league, but he’s good enough to pursue his fancy with as much ease as was destined to portray his great talent, some time later. Yes, he may also not have moved much on the course. This is besides the point. Come 1913, life changed for Hardy as he made his major debut in films. The film’s name: Outwitting Dad.

Destiny was manifest, in 1926, when Hardy met his alter ego at Hal Roach’s Studio, where he’s now acting, and Laurel, an Englishman, was writing scripts. Shape of things to come? Yes. As their fantastic rapport seemed to click from the word go, Slipping Wives, their maiden film together, announced their arrival, juxtaposed by the outstanding success of yet another film, Putting Pants On Philip, the following year. As their popularity escalated, the two discovered that they had acted in as many as 24 films, in as many months, what with their professional contract with their first producer taking effect to last for the next 12 years. And, after that? Viola! The laughing pair never lost its magical form till its last act together: Robinson Crusoeland [1952].

As the awesome twosome conquered many a sad heart, the amazing success of their finest film, A Chum At Oxford, initiated a new process, a great idea -- novel in concept and practical in economics. The duo was featured in films consisting of sequences adapted from several movies. As many as eight were made, on the basis -- the most popular among them being, When Comedy Was King. It was a perfect shot, and great teamwork.

Aside from that, one ought to doff one’s hat for a host of Laurel and Hardy’s mirthful rallies, such as Leave ’em Laughing, The Battle Of The Century, The Music Box, Way Out West, and The March Of The Wooden Soldiers, among the 100-odd films they worked together in a grand partnership that lasted 26 glorious, fun-filled, years. It’s an outstanding achievement -- no more, no less.

The comedy template was made for them both, in letter and spirit. If Hardy got initiated into films through his movie house, Laurel’s baptism had only happened by way of his involvement as a stage comic with Levy & Cardwell’s Pantomime Company, which also had his father working as one of the stage managers. Laurel’s career was all set to move up the ladder of fame, sooner than later, when he arrived in the US, in 1910, with Fred Karno’s Vaudeville Company, which also had another recruit who’s to become comedy’s first knight. His name: Charlie Chaplin. No prizes for guessing!

So, a comparison, albeit odious, to use a cliché, would, therefore, be imminent. Chaplin came into films with his talent inherited from his parents, who were vaudevillians -- small-time entertainers who could sing popular songs with topical allusions, dance, or perform, humorous skits and spoofs. Having been subject to abject poverty, it was this Freudian impression that had the most profound effect on Chaplin. He could mime and dance superbly, and with consummate skill: qualities that were so essential for the era of silent films. Chaplin didn’t so much like sound. Music? Doubtless. It’s his forte, too.

More than all this, it was Chaplin’s highly imaginative creativity that had allowed him to mix sentiment, pathos, humour and lyricism, with a rare degree of subtle finesse and universal appeal. Hardy and Laurel were different. Theirs was a fine combined effort. Sound was very much their éminence grise. And, they made the transition to sound motion pictures, from silent films, quite effortlessly.

Two sides of the same coin, Laurel and Hardy were also never ever complete without the other. Their animated and ethereal presence on the screen tells it all: of their wonderful canvas, and their exquisitely coherent words. Their genii, or art, really knows no age. Not only that. They beam the lighter side of life, the child and the adult, wrapped within our psyche, automatically. Even naturally. One couldn’t have asked for anything more than that.

Laurel and Hardy’s breath-taking brilliance will hold its spell for the next hundred years, and more. Or, so long as laughter exists. That’s not all. Their spirit will live on, striking a special chord, as it were, by upholding that ubiquitous element of happiness in every human heart.