Keaton - My Wonderful World of Slapstick

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Text originally published in 1960 under the same title.

Pickle Partners Publishing 2015, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publishers Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Authors original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern readers benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

MY WONDERFUL WORLD OF SLAPSTICK

BUSTER KEATON

WITH CHARLES SAMUELS

Contents

For Eleanor

Down through the years my face has been called a sour puss, a dead pan, a frozen face, The Great Stone Face, and, believe it or not, a tragic mask. On the other hand that kindly critic, the late James Agee, described my face as ranking almost with Lincolns as an early American archetype, it was haunting, handsome, almost beautiful. I cant imagine what the great rail splitters reaction would have been to this, though I sure was pleased.

People may talk it up or talk it down, but my face has been a valuable trade-mark for me during my sixty years in show business. Sixty years is right, for it was in 1899, when I was not quite four years old, that I officially joined my parents vaudeville act.

And if you think sixty years is a long time in your life you should be in show business. Last Wednesday is a long time ago to most actors. The young ones talk of the great vaudeville days at the Palace as though these came at the dawn of theatrical history. When I started, vaudeville was just beginning to replace the minstrel show as the countrys favorite entertainment. The Palace was not even built.

If I say I officially joined my folks act in 1899 it is because my father always insisted that Id been trying to get into the family act unofficiallymeaning unasked, unwanted, and unbilledpractically from the day I was born.

Having no baby sitter, my mother parked me in the till of a wardrobe trunk while she worked on the stage with Pop. According to him, the moment I could crawl I headed for the footlights. And when Buster learned to walk, he always proudly explained to all who were interested and many who werent, there was no holding him. He would jump up and down in the wings, make plenty of noise, and get in everyones way. It seemed easier to let him come out with us on the stage where we could keep an eye on him.

At first I told him not to move. He was to lean against the side wall and stay there. But one day I got the idea of dressing him up like myself as a stage Irishman with a fright wig, slugger whiskers, fancy vest, and over-size pants. Soon he was imitating everything I did, and getting laughs.

But he got nothing at all at the first Monday show we played at Bill Dockstaders Theatre in Wilmington, Delaware. Dockstader told me to leave him out of the act. But he had a special matinee for kiddies on Wednesday and suggested that children, knowing no better, might be amused by Busters antics.

On Wednesday Bill noticed that their parents also seemed amused and suggested I go on at all performances. Pop said he didnt want to use me in the night show as I had to get my rest like any small child. Dockstader then offered to pay the act ten dollars a week extra. My father agreed to try it. I had no trouble sleeping through the morning and played night and day with the act from then on.

Even in my early days our turn established a reputation for being the roughest in vaudeville. This was the result of a series of interesting experiments Pop made with me. He began these by carrying me out on the stage and dropping me on the floor. Next he started wiping up the floor with me. When I gave no sign of minding this he began throwing me through the scenery, out into the wings, and dropping me down on the bass drum in the orchestra pit.

The people out front were amazed because I did not cry. There was nothing mysterious about this. I did not cry because I wasnt hurt. All little boys like to be roughhoused by their fathers. They are also natural tumblers and acrobats. Because I was also a born hambone, I ignored any bumps or bruises I may have got at first on hearing audiences gasp, laugh, and applaud. There is one more thing: little kids when they fall havent very far to go. I suppose a psychologist would call it a case of self-hypnosis.

Before I was much bigger than a gumdrop I was being featured in our act, The Three Keatons, as The Human Mop. One of the first things I noticed was that whenever I smiled or let the audience suspect how much I was enjoying myself they didnt seem to laugh as much as usual.

I guess people just never do expect any human mop, dishrag, beanbag, or football to be pleased by what is being done to him. At any rate it was on purpose that I started looking miserable, humiliated, hounded, and haunted, bedeviled, bewildered, and at my wits end. Some other comedians can get away with laughing at their own gags. Not me. The public just will not stand for it. And that is all right with me. All of my life I have been happiest when the folks watching me said to each other, Look at the poor dope, wilya?

Because of the way I looked on the stage and screen the public naturally assumed that I felt hopeless and unloved in my personal life. Nothing could be farther from the fact. As long back as I can remember I have considered myself a fabulously lucky man. From the beginning I was surrounded by interesting people who loved fun and knew how to create it. Ive had few dull moments and not too many sad and defeated ones.

In saying this I am by no means overlooking the rough and rocky years Ive lived through. But I was not brought up thinking life would be easy. I always expected to work hard for my money and to get nothing I did not earn. And the bad years, it seems to me, were so few that only a dyed-in-the-wool grouch who enjoys feeling sorry for himself would complain of them.

My parents were my first bit of great luck. I cannot recall one argument that they had about money or anything else during the years I was growing up. Yet both were rugged individualists. I was their partner, however, as well as their child. And from the time I was ten both they and the other actors on the bill treated me not as a little boy, but as an adult and a full-fledged performer. Isnt that what most children want: to be accepted, to be allowed to share in their parents concerns and problems? It is difficult, of course, for a man of my age to say with certainty what he felt and thought and wanted as a little kid. But it seems to me that I enjoyed both the freedom and privileges of childhood, certainly most of them, and also the thrill of being treated as full grown years before other boys and girls.