The Godfather, Seven Samuri, The Third Man: all fantastic, but after messing around for many years pondering over what is "the best film ever made" I find that I need look no further than this abominable piece of piffle that conceals within its two creaky reels, the quintessence of the art. It is perfect.
The Fatal Glass of Beer turns not only the Hollywood film but also American drama inside-out. All its workings are on full display in every second, wriggling wretchedly.
Bill Fields was a world-class juggler of inanimate objects on the Vuadeville stage but here we see him, having progressed to the movies, juggling with the censor, the studio, the box office, his company, the very edge of reason itself and, more than usual, sobriety. His lamp is never lit but he certainly is.
This is the only picture in which Fields plays the Hero. He is neither The 'Great Man' nor the down-trodden husband; he is very much the head of his household. This gives him the sense of freedom to do what he likes. And he does.
Fields was famous for rehearsing lines verbatim, only to throw in an ad-lib on a take, I wonder if the line " My uncle Ichabod said (speaking of the city) 'T'ain't no place for women gal, but pretty men goo thar.'" was an on the spot invention? Certainly at hearing this the already weeping Constable appears inconsolable; is he covering his laughing with crying? I think so, as Fields adds " Comical old gentleman he waas... alwiz said somthin te make yer split yer sides a-laffinn..." It's certainly a brave line censor-wise. But then who could pitch such a missable curve better?
It is difficult to sum up the sublimity of the thing by just mentioning a few bits of business - many reviewers have waded through practically all of it - but of all that sticks in my mind and bursts out as laughter (sometimes in the most unfortunate situations) is the plain fact that included in Field's essential equipment for surviving the conditions in nineteenth century Alaska is an electric fan.
See it once and you'll see it forever.
They don't make 'em like that. (At all.)
The Fatal Glass of Beer turns not only the Hollywood film but also American drama inside-out. All its workings are on full display in every second, wriggling wretchedly.
Bill Fields was a world-class juggler of inanimate objects on the Vuadeville stage but here we see him, having progressed to the movies, juggling with the censor, the studio, the box office, his company, the very edge of reason itself and, more than usual, sobriety. His lamp is never lit but he certainly is.
This is the only picture in which Fields plays the Hero. He is neither The 'Great Man' nor the down-trodden husband; he is very much the head of his household. This gives him the sense of freedom to do what he likes. And he does.
Fields was famous for rehearsing lines verbatim, only to throw in an ad-lib on a take, I wonder if the line " My uncle Ichabod said (speaking of the city) 'T'ain't no place for women gal, but pretty men goo thar.'" was an on the spot invention? Certainly at hearing this the already weeping Constable appears inconsolable; is he covering his laughing with crying? I think so, as Fields adds " Comical old gentleman he waas... alwiz said somthin te make yer split yer sides a-laffinn..." It's certainly a brave line censor-wise. But then who could pitch such a missable curve better?
It is difficult to sum up the sublimity of the thing by just mentioning a few bits of business - many reviewers have waded through practically all of it - but of all that sticks in my mind and bursts out as laughter (sometimes in the most unfortunate situations) is the plain fact that included in Field's essential equipment for surviving the conditions in nineteenth century Alaska is an electric fan.
See it once and you'll see it forever.
They don't make 'em like that. (At all.)