Return of Slapstick

Is Man's Mind Drifting Backwards?

Where are the checkered pantaloons ? Where is the long red putty nose ? Where are the feet that were not mates ?

The Serious Scholar will recognize these accessories as relating to an earlier epoch. He will recall the ancient musical show when the comedian's ear, properly punched, burst into full cauliflower. He will, in short, remember the days when musical comedy humor depended essentially on the comedian's ability to fall on his face.

If this same Scholar will unbend so far as to slide 50 cents under the box office grating the next time a burlesque troupe settles in the local auditorium he will suddenly feel younger. The rising curtain will reveal: first a pair of feet that are not mates, next a pair of checkered pantaloons merging into a green vest, finally a long and astonishingly rubric nasal organ. The comedian is suddenly struck violently in the stomach. He gyrates neatly, and falls flat upon his face. The memories involved may provoke a smile. More probably they will give the aged Scholar a pain in the portion of his person immediately below the ears.

Musing wearily on the futility of funny men, the Scholar drags himself to Broadway to inspect the latest models in professional hilarity. He takes his post in the Winter Garden where the current Passing Show unrolls its gorgeous length. The screaming point is reached when one Roy Cummin gs, in the manner of a concert tenor, walks slowly from the wings, heaving with the impending agony of solemn singing. He opens his mouth for the first rush of song--and falls on his face. The audience dissolves in tears of frantic delight.

The point of wildest merriment in the Scandals is reached when the comedian's right buttock absorbs several inches of bayonet wielded by a jealous Romeo. A moment later the balcony collapses, Juliet and all. The house goes mad.

The Scholar attends the Follies, the Vanities and the Music Box. On every stage he finds comedians prostrate on their faces.

When he has seen them all, the Scholar emerges into Broadway and plods desperately to the adjacent saloon. Bending wearily over his beer for hours he thinks the whole thing through.

He concludes true humor to be dead. Man's mind is drifting backward. Another age of slapstick is upon us. W. R.