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Here Comes the Shrimp
And then came the talkies! After a brief return to the stage, Langdon signed
with Hal Roach in 1929 to do short comedies. Ads for 
the
new Langdon series made much of Harry's voice, crediting him with "a
comic manner of speech that is irresistibly funny." For the most part,
he spoke in a kind of falsetto, possibly (according to his relatives) as
a result of having been treated by a horse doctor for a near-fatal childhood
illness; however, in films like The King, his last short for Roach,
he ranged from reedy squeak to booming bass.
For the rest of his life, Langdon continued in the movies, sometimes in
small parts, but much more often as a featured performer. Fully two-thirds
of all the films he appeared in were talking films: his career certainly
did not end with the Silent Era. He played in a number of feature films,
sometimes for major studios (Universal, Warner Bros., United Artists) and
other times for "poverty-row" companies (Monogram, Producers Releasing
Corp.). Between feature appearances, he starred in a great many short comedies,
primarily for Educational-Fox, Paramount, and Columbia. A few of these films
reprised some of the best bits from his silent-film heyday; however, the
great majority were fresh and original - and, frankly, a great deal better
than the critics have suggested.
There He Goes
One indisputable fact about Harry Langdon is that he died much too early
for his own good. In 1920 his father, William Worley Langdon, had collapsed
and died of a cerebral hemorrhage the day before the family, their bags
all packed, meant to move from Council Bluffs to sunny California. When
Harry suffered the same illness in 1944 - it's been published far and wide
that he collapsed while rehearsing a dance number for the Republic 
feature Swingin' on a Rainbow, but widow Mabel Langdon says he
fell ill during work on the Columbia short Pistol-Packin' Nitwits
- he displayed his dad's same bad timing, the worst mistake an old-time
vaudevillian could make: James Agee wrote his famous Life article,
Chaplin and Lloyd received belated Oscars, Keaton found new fans via television
and fresh renown at the Cannes Film Festival. Through it all, Harry lay
dead, struck down too soon to enjoy the renewed attention lavished on his
fellow clowns.
Sitting Pretty?
Now, at last, there are signs of a long-overdue renewed appreciation for
Harry. Not big, blinking neon signs, but subtle hints here and there. Over
the last few years, several of his great silent features have been reissued
on video. The Harry Langdon Society has emerged to promote greater appreciation
of Langdon's comic genius. And in 1997, his hometown of Council Bluffs celebrated
its first-ever official Harry Langdon Day, following up in 1999 with the
dedication of Harry Langdon Boulevard.
There's a long way to go before Harry Langdon regains the place in film
history, and in moviegoers' hearts, that his unique talents deserve. As
the narrator asked in one of Robert Youngson's silent-comedy compilation
films, "Who will replace Harry Langdon? Over the years, the answer
has become clear: Nobody."
Part IV |
