Charlot #7: Tango Tangles

Keystone comedies directed by Sennett are perhaps the best examples of the studio’s true vision. Tango Tangles is particularly boorish and violent, while the characters are merely one-dimensional caricatures. Oddly enough, this is precisely the brilliance behind many of the best Keystone comedies.

James Neibaur, Early Charlie Chaplin: The Artist as Apprentice at Keystone Studios

Keystone Smash Bros. brings together all the stars, and Charlie forgot his mustache! How embarrassing.

I would in fact argue this character is not our beloved Tramp at all. While Chaplin retains some of his mannerisms, the costume and makeup bear no resemblance. Also significant: He’s drunk! The Tramp is certainly seen to drink now and then, but instances of him fully intoxicated are rarer. As we’ll see in The Cure, Chaplin develops an aversion to depicting the Tramp character as drunk. At least, that’s what a professor of silent film once told me in college. I’m curious to find out how strong that aversion actually becomes in practice. Regardless, Chaplin excels at portraying comic drunkenness, a skill undoubtedly honed from his time with the Karno troupe.

The only word I can come up with to describe this short is “chaos,” perhaps a reflection of Keystone itself—and Mack Sennett as director. The reactions of the guests in the background betray that this was improvised in a real dance hall. The floorboards take a beating from pratfalls, rears are kicked (timeless!), and… is that a clown? I’m not sure what his deal is. If the instruction was to bring together the studio’s comedic talent in one place and let them have at it, well, what other result do you expect? Surely not a meaningful plot. Spoilers: They’re competing for a woman.

There’s honestly not much of note in this one, so it’s as good a time as any to talk about Roscoe Arbuckle, one of silent Hollywood’s most significant and tragic figures. In addition to mentoring Chaplin and Normand at Keystone, his career crossed paths with Buster Keaton and even Bob Hope. If you don’t recognize him, he’s the man this very short identifies in a title as “The Fat Musician,” hence the other name you probably do recognize: “Fatty Arbuckle.” I try to avoid using that nickname in these posts. He was extremely self-conscious about his weight, and it was a battle to make comedies that didn’t rely on his size as a source for jokes. The films are better for it. Arbuckle’s capable of going toe-to-toe with Chaplin on his own terms, not stuck wedged in a door frame. Of course, there’s much more to his story than weight-shaming—but let’s save that for another time. Today we’re dancing.

Programming note: Obviously, this series won’t get done in a year. I’m going to take the pressure off myself and just try to get these out with a little consistency. It’s better than nothing at all.