The L. & H. Cult

Two door-to-door salesmen give hard sell to homeowner. Homeowner objects, nonchalantly removes one salesman's watch, admires it, and then smashes it on doorstep. Salesman mulls, then casually breaks off section of door frame. Homeowner reflects, then rips off salesman's shirt. Other salesman blinks, frowns, and throws brick through window. Homeowner throws brick through windshield of salesmen's car. Salesmen attack homeowner's piano with axes, swat vases with spade handles. Homeowner tears off car headlights, doors, gas tank and sets auto ablaze. Salesmen demolish house, dig up lawn, hack down trees and shrubbery.

The scene is from a 1929 two-reeler starring, as the salesmen, those two heroes of the harebrained, Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy. To the uninitiated, the mayhem may seem just a grand exercise in slam-bang slapstick. But to a fan club called the Sons of the Desert, it is a classic example of the high comedic art of "reciprocal destruction" and worthy of scrutiny down to the last double take. Described as "an organization with scholarly overtones and heavily social undertones," the Sons of the Desert (named after an L. & H. film) was founded two years ago by a group of Manhattan literary and show-business people, now has chapters, or "tents," in seven cities, numbers among its members such modern-day gagmen as Jonathan Winters, Dick Cavett, Dick Van Dyke and Soupy Sales.

Hoot & Holler. "Laurel and Hardy did more funny stuff than Chaplin ever dreamed of," says Comic Orson Bean, vice sheik of the Manhattan tent. He finds that studying his collection of Laurel and Hardy two-reelers helps his own performances in the Broadway musical Illy a Darling. In Detroit, the 75 tent members draw on a collection of 35 Laurel and Hardy films owned by Eric Stroh, of the Stroh beer dynasty; annually, the Detroit tent awards a "Fine Mess" trophy (a phrase from a famous Hardy line)--a $15 black derby--to the man or men who have "contributed a fine mess to Detroit." (Current holders: the local weathermen.) The Minneapolis tent shelters 150 fans, including Harry Heltzer, president of the Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing Co.; members wear derbies to the meetings and hoot and holler in the best silent-film tradition. Johnny Carson prizes L. & H. for "their rapport, their genuine liking for each other." Mime Marcel Marceau calls Laurel the "maitre of all mimes in the world"; Author J. D. Salinger, who runs off old two-reelers for his children, refers to the pair as "two heaven-sent artists and men."

The Sons of the Desert is one of the latest manifestations of a growing cult. Primarily, the interest derives from reruns of L. & H. films on TV. In the past three years, moreover, two successful feature-length films composed of clips from old L. & H. shorts have been released, and a third is scheduled for this fall. The fever has spawned a cartoon series as well as TV tributes on CBS and NBC, and the mugging faces of L. & H. appear on everything from puppets and salt-and-pepper shakers to the jacket of the new Beatles album. In Paris, one moviehouse annually runs a two-month L. & H. Festival. Marshal Tito has a large collection of their films and, following the custom of L. & H. fans Stalin and Churchill, has regular private showings.

Off the set, the comedians relished their own distinctive pursuits. Georgia-born Hardy spent most of his leisure hours at the country club, where, despite his 350-lb. bulk, he was one of Hollywood's best golfers. Laurel, who was born in Britain (and had understudied Charlie Chaplin), once explained that he and Ollie "had different hobbies. He liked horses and golf. You know my hobby--and I married them all." He had, in fact, wed four women a total of eight times, and a fifth sued unsuccessfully to be declared his wife.

Unfortunately, the two men did not own their films, and thus did not reap any income from reruns. During their last years--Ollie died at 65 in 1957, Stan at 74 in 1965--neither was independently wealthy.

Tie Twiddle. The tributes, though, keep growing. Later this month, the L. & H. lore will be further enriched by the publication of The Films of Laurel and Hardy* by William Everson. Incisive, objective and generously illustrated, the book traces the development of the team from their first silent two-reeler, Putting Pants on Philip (1927)--a fast-paced trifle with elements of homosexual humor--through their hilarious, Oscar-winning The Music Box (1932), to the sad, tired, misconceived mishmash, Atoll K (1952). In all, the dim-witted duo made 90 films as a team, immortalizing such mannerisms as Ollie's blushing "tie twiddle" and exasperated slow burn and Stan's tearless, whimpering crying jag and flip-flopping walk (which he achieved by cutting the soles off his shoes). For some reason, women do not appreciate the humor as much as men do. Unlike Chaplin, who was ever the champion of the innocent heroine, Laurel and Hardy usually ran afoul of gold-digging coquettes or nagging wives. Typical is the scene in which an amorous Ollie kisses his pinkie and touches it to his wife's lips--whereupon she bites it with a crunch.

Rich with insights into the clowns' techniques, Films will undoubtedly add new dimensions to the L. & H. legend --a prospect that Everson contemplates with regret. "Overadulation," he warns, "can often build up a wall of resentment against its objects, who are usually wholly innocent of any involvement in a cult movement, often dislike it, and usually refuse to take it seriously." When he heard about the formation of the Sons of the Desert shortly before his death, Laurel suggested that the club should maintain only a halfway dignity, and that "everybody have a hell of a lot of fun." As Laurel liked to tell his disciples: "Don't sit around and tear comedy apart. It is like a fine watch, and you'll never get it together again. And don't ask me why people laugh--that is the mystery of it all."

*Citadel Press; 223 pages; $7.95.

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