#sam taylor

🐸 WILSON 🐸 one of my favourite character designs from my work for @phish at @spherevegas ⭕️🦎 KING OF LIZARDS with @runwiththegoldenwolf 🫡🌀

🐸 WILSON 🐸 one of my favourite character designs from my work for @phish at @spherevegas ⭕️🦎 KING OF LIZARDS with @runwiththegoldenwolf 🫡🌀 there’s so much good photography out there that I am going to keep posting forever 🤝 Surreal seeing a drawing that I originally did on A4 paper on the worlds biggest screen 🤯

🦎 Gamehendge 🦎 from @phish at @spherevegas ⭕️ 🏰 with the legendary @runwiththegoldenwolf 🤝 lizards, goblets, McGrupp, we got it 🐸 photo by @richfury 🌀

The scene in which Harold Lloyd, aka The Boy, dangles from a clock has been included countless times in compilations of great movie moments. But this great film is more than that moment, or even the extended sequence in which The Boy climbs the façade and encounters that treacherous timepiece. Getting to that moment involves byzantine, almost Rube Goldberg plotting. Because The Boy is not even supposed to be climbing the building: It’s a task meant for The Pal (Bill Strother), who instead is fleeing from The Law (Noah Young), racing through the building from floor to floor inside, intending to swap places with The Boy at some perpetually receding moment. And The Pal is in trouble with The Law because of a run-in that resulted from The Boy mistaking The Law for an old buddy of his, a different cop, and involving The Pal in a prank played by mistake on The Law. And the reason The Boy is involved in climbing the building is that he wants to win The Girl (Mildred Davis), who thinks he’s actually the general manager of the department store where he’s actually a lowly clerk in danger of getting fired. And the reason The Girl thinks that is … oh, hell, watch the movie yourself. The point is that Safety Last! is an intricately worked piece of art. By contrast, even the best film of Charles Chaplin or Buster Keaton, let’s say The Gold Rush (1925) or The General (1926), is a comparatively simple affair, with a story line that doesn’t tax the summarizer. Which may be a clue to why Lloyd is not as highly regarded or as fondly remembered as Chaplin or Keaton. He doesn’t have the former’s balletic gracefulness or the latter’s athletic control. The delight of Lloyd’s films doesn’t come from watching Lloyd himself so much as from watching the situations he gets himself into, from watching him fail upward, so to speak, in Safety Last! Chaplin or Keaton would devise clever ways to climb that façade, whereas Lloyd bumbles and flounders, beset by clocks and pigeons and badminton nets, only to recover by luck and pluck. We don’t think “What will he do next?” so much as “What will happen to him next?” This, mind you, is comic genius in itself, a shrewd devising of hilarious situations, but it’s comedy imposed on the character, not emerging from within. Which doesn’t make it less comic or less genius.

Is Mary Pickford’s performance in Coquette the worst ever to win a best actress Oscar? It’s certainly a bad performance, full of cute mannerisms and telegraphed emotions, along with a terrible attempt at a Southern accent. At 37, Pickford was about 20 years too old to play the flirtatious young Norma Besant, a fact that becomes especially clear when she sits on the lap of Louise Beavers, who plays her “mammy,” the black servant who raised her; Beavers was ten years younger than Pickford. But this was Pickford’s first talkie after 20 years in silent films in which she become the movies’ first superstar, and unlike some silent stars, she demonstrates a perfectly fine speaking voice. Still, after three more features that did only passable box office, she took the hint and retired. The main problem with Coquette is not Pickford but the creakiness of the vehicle, which had been a stage hit for Helen Hayes. The melodrama, about a flirtatious girl whose carelessness brings about disaster for both the man she loves (Johnny Mack Brown) and her father (John St. Polis) who objects to their love, is stagebound, largely because of the limitations of early sound technology, but also because screenwriter-director Sam Taylor had not made a sound film before. Pickford appears game throughout, and she’s certainly a better actor than Brown or St. Polis, not to mention the callow William Janney, who plays Pickford’s younger brother. (In one scene Janney wears one of the most eye-offending outfits ever seen on-screen: a plaid sweater tucked into deep-pleated striped pants. My retinas have yet to recover.) There were no official Oscar nominations that year, but Academy records show that Ruth Chatterton in Madame X (Lionel Barrymore), Betty Compson in The Barker (George Fitzmaurice), Jeanne Eagels in The Letter (Jean de Limur), Corinne Griffith in The Divine Lady (Frank Lloyd), and Bessie Love in The Broadway Melody (Harry Beaumont) were also under consideration for the award. I’ve been unable to see the performances by Chatterton and Compson, but my pick so far would be Eagels.

Wouldn’t it be great if all silent films could be as lovingly restored as Harold Lloyd’s The Freshman has been? Though not as excitingly hilarious as his Safety Last! (Fred C. Newmeyer and Sam Taylor, 1923), this is probably Lloyd’s most polished feature, a good-natured take on the mythos of American college football. It was made in an era when the word “college” meant raccoon coats and hip flasks at places like “Tate University – a large football stadium, with a college attached,” as the intertitle sardonically puts it. The era came to an end with World War II and the consequent GI Bill, which democratized higher education – and also turned college football into the pseudo-professional sport that it is today. This was an era in which the myth of the gridiron hero could still inspire a schlub like Lloyd’s Harold Lamb, infatuated with the idea of becoming a big man on campus. Tellingly, a movie gives Lamb the idea and the mannerisms he naively takes with him as he matriculates at Tate. The Freshman is essentially a send-up of the movie-made myth, cheerfully furthering the myth with Lamb’s own unlikely heroism.