Sherlock Jr. (1924, Buster Keaton) (Patreon)

96/100

Second viewing, last seen New Year's Day 1995. (Apparently I wanted to kick off the year with a certain winner.) My arbitrary definition of a feature-length film—no less than 45 minutes—was derived specifically from Sherlock Jr.'s length, as noted in Leonard Maltin's Movie Guide; it's the shortest film I found listed there, so that's where I drew my line. (Sorry, "A Day in the Country.") Doubly arbitrary, of course, in that projector speed hadn't yet been standardized in 1924, which means that Sherlock Jr.'s length is properly measured in feet/reels, not via the clock. (My ancient Kino DVD—a twofer with Our Hospitality—lists its runtime as 44 minutes.) And triply arbitrary given that in fact it took me well over an hour to reach "The End," because I kept replaying gags over and over in what was often a futile effort to work out how they were accomplished. When Keaton first walks into Hearts and Pearls, it's easy enough to comprehend that he's simply stepping onto a set that's been framed to look like a movie screen; when he does so the second time, however, discovering that the film-within-the film has just cut to a different scene, the edit in Sherlock Jr. itself is nearly impossible to spot unless you look at the audience, which shifts ever so slightly. Like an expert magician, Keaton misdirects your eye by gesturing at the crowd just before the cut, so that we're looking at him...and he's perfectly positioned before and after, making the action appear continuous and the effect seem impossible. Had to watch that at least a dozen times before finally confirming to my satisfaction that there is indeed a cut. 

There's no cut when Keaton leaps through a display case and a human being's torso and a wooden fence, though. Having been utterly flummoxed by this gag 25 years ago, I was determined to solve the mystery for myself this time. Failed miserably. Watched it probably 30 times. Could not figure out how it's done. It seems literally contrary to the laws of physics. (The accomplice walking away afterwards—with no cut that I could discern in this instance—is the sticking point.) I finally admitted defeat and looked it up, but confess that I still have trouble mentally picturing what happens, even after reading a detailed description. This film is nearly 100 years old. And its second half is pretty much a nonstop parade of How in the almighty fuck?!? Most of the trick shots Keaton performs in the pool scene are just that, merely requiring months of practice to pull off. When he first takes aim at the bomb (grenade?), however, it's not just that the 13 ball stays put. I'm assuming that ball was glued to the table. But he fires the cue ball into 12 other balls surrounding it, and not one of them strikes the 13 ball, though several miss it by inches. (He then performs two more complicated near-misses without an edit; those shots aren't as insane, but do seemingly require him to put the cue ball in exactly the right place via shot #1.) This doesn't seem like a feat that even the world's greatest pool shark could manage; I watched it—again—again and again and again, and cannot for the life of me see how it's possible to deliberately engineer that result. I can only assume that Keaton filmed it like 200 times and finally got a take that was miraculously perfect. But maybe it was akin to Sigourney Weaver nothin'-but-netting that no-look over-the-shoulder half-court shot in Alien Resurrection. 

I'm emphasizing the jaw-droppers because those make the strongest impression here, but it's not as if there aren't sublimely simple gags as well. No better example of three-part structure than the "money lost in the trash" bit, which uses recurring humor to set up the punchline for a third iteration (Keaton pre-emptively handing his last dollar bill to the behemoth), then trumps that joke with another, truly unexpected fillip. And even when it's perfectly obvious how an effect was achieved, e.g. Keaton stepping through what we'd naturally but falsely assumed to be a mirror, or opening what appears to be the door of a large safe and stepping out onto the street, the surreal nature of the gag delights. Seven Chances (which is one of my dozen or so favorites of all time) makes me laugh more consistently, and Sherlock Jr. "suffers," in a very negligible way (let's call it four points out of 100!), by coming across as more of a sizzle reel than a sustained comic narrative. It's almost too astonishing, with so many consecutive dazzlers that it's hard to believe you're watching an actual film and not a Buster Keaton best-of. But the reflexive ending, with our hero repeatedly consulting onscreen lovers for tips on how to woo his own paramour, ties a satisfying life vs. art bow onto the whole thing. Plus it's just plain silly to criticize a movie for relentless awesomeness. In terms of just plain awe, I'd say cinema peaked here, ludicrously early.