THERE IS A prevailing fear among cinephiles that future generations will be unwilling to explore Golden Age cinema. My students, many of whom see their first black-and-white film in my classes, are pleasantly surprised at the power of Citizen Kane (1941) or the prophecy of A Face in the Crowd (1957). To their surprise, I often begin my introductory cinema class with Buster Keaton’s Sherlock Jr. (1924). Though most of these students have never seen a silent movie, Sherlock Jr. provokes laughter as if it were a brand-new comedy. Students are shocked at how much fun an “old” film can be. While I grew up watching black-and-white film and television (I’m of the Nick at Nite generation), I was first exposed to silent film in a high school humanities class. Watching an old VHS copy of Sherlock Jr. during my senior year (thanks Eric Beltmann!), I was transfixed and forever taken by Keaton, just as many of my own students are today.
Buster Keaton is the stuff legends are made of. The house falling in Steamboat Bill, Jr. (1928). The amazing stunts in Sherlock Jr., during one of which Keaton broke his neck (and kept on working). Before stunt doubles were commonplace, Keaton performed some of the most dangerous stunts ever captured on film. His athleticism was as epic as his knack for comedy. His deadpan face, gaining him the nickname the “boy with the funeral expression,” brilliantly contradicted the outrageous situations in which his characters found themselves.
Fans of Keaton, as well as classic cinema, will be delighted to read James Curtis’s new book, Buster Keaton: A Filmmaker’s Life. The biography is a massive undertaking, offering over 800 pages on Keaton’s life and work. The idea of tackling Keaton’s life was suggested by storied editor Victoria Wilson, who has written her own tour-de-force biography of Barbara Stanwyck. Curtis himself is an old hand to the genre, having penned award-winning biographies of W. C. Fields and Spencer Tracy.
