From early childhood I've been fascinated by American popular culture of the first half of the 20th century, that is, from the ragtime era to the Vietnam War, give or take a decade. By "popular culture" I refer not only to the movies of the period, but the music, live theater, comic art, fashions, and politics. And after a lifetime of learning and absorbing all I can about these subjects, I'd have to say that this film, an unfinished, never-released feature from 1913 starring the legendary comedian Bert Williams, is far and away one of the most amazing things I've ever seen.
It's amazing, first, that such a project was launched at all. Williams was a highly popular performer of the musical comedy stage and in vaudeville, but he was also a man of color in a deeply bigoted world. For a black man of his era to appear in anything but a brief, menial role in motion pictures was risky; to actually star in a feature- length movie, supported by a cast of mostly African-American players, was almost unimaginable. And on top of that, although he assumed his familiar stage persona for the film, complete with black-face makeup over his light complexion, Williams boldly portrayed not a servant or a lackey but an independent character, a clever and affable fellow (albeit something of a con artist) who credibly courts a beautiful young woman. I've seen many films of the silent era involving African Americans, but never have I encountered a romance involving black characters handled with such warmth and finesse. Come to think of it, I've never encountered anything remotely like this, handled any way whatsoever.
Others have written about the somewhat mysterious circumstances under which this film was made, and speculated about how and why the project collapsed. That the footage, now known as 'Lime Kiln Club Field Day,' can be viewed in the 21st century, and in such superb condition, is perhaps the most astonishing aspect of the whole story. The surviving material runs about 55 minutes or so, including alternate takes of the same scenes. Watching it today we can get a sense of how the feature, had it been finished and released, might have looked. The plot revolves around Bert, who belongs to a fraternal lodge called the Lime Kiln Club. Our hero is courting an attractive young lady (played by the very appealing Odessa Warren Grey), but he has two rivals for her favors. At the club's annual field day, a huge picnic with carnival-style attractions, Bert comes up with a moneymaking scheme: after he accidentally spills liquor into a well, he convinces his fellow citizens that this is in fact a "Gin Spring." He profits from his mistake, and uses the proceeds to court his lady love.
That's the gist of it, but, as with the great comedy features of Williams' friends and contemporaries, such as W.C. Fields and Eddie Cantor, plot is not what's important here. There are many highlights to savor, including a parade to the fairgrounds featuring a marching band, group activities such as a foot-race and a greased pig chase, a spirited cakewalk, and a ride on a merry-go-round. This last sequence, beautifully filmed, is perhaps my favorite. It consists of a nicely framed, extended shot of Bert and his lady, as the landscape sails past in the background. Bert produces a lollipop from his pocket, and peels off its paper wrapping, pantomiming "She loves me, she loves me not," before handing it over to her. They share it, and then he leans off the merry-go-round long enough to grab the brass ring! It's all in one take, and sweet as can be. Later, Bert walks the lady home, and they share a kiss at her doorstep. (Alternate takes suggest that the filmmakers might have chosen to edit the scene using a shot where she refrains from kissing Bert, and that the kiss is something he fantasizes about.) The cakewalk is also great fun, as we watch each couple promenade down the aisle and demonstrate various dance styles, from wildly athletic to sedate and dignified.
Until this footage was recovered, restored, and publicly screened, Bert Williams was something of a ghostly figure, remembered—if at all—through the reminiscences of those who saw him on stage during his heyday. Some of his phonograph recordings are still amusing, and give a sense of his style, but his movie career was truncated and unsatisfying; only a brief sequence at the end of A Natural Born Gambler was worthy of his reputation. Now, however, we have almost an hour of previously unknown material, which gives us a rich sense of the man's talent and charisma. When I saw this footage at the Museum of Modern Art last fall I was thrilled, and others there seemed to feel the same way. It was greeted at the end with prolonged, passionate applause.
What more can one say? One of Mr. Williams' best-known, funniest songs repeats the phrase "You're gonna get something you don't expect!" He could have been addressing posterity, and talking about this film. It's kind of sad to think about the people who put so much energy into making this movie, all of whom went to their graves thinking it was gone forever, nobody would ever see it, and all that effort was for nothing. Today we know otherwise, however, and posterity gets the last laugh. I am so grateful this film survives, finished or not. It provides us with a priceless look at a once renowned but unjustly forgotten comedian, his colleagues, and his vanished world.
