My Wonderful World of Slapstick (1960)

This is Buster Keaton’s autobiography, co-written with Charles Samuels in the last decade of his life.  I think I might prefer Buster Keaton Remembered (largely written by Buster’s third wife,) but My Wonderful World of Slapstick is a great, funny, engaging read filled with terrific anecdotes and the strength of Buster’s personality.

First off, this isn’t a tell-all.  While it addresses the struggles and rough years, it doesn’t dwell on them, and it doesn’t dig through salacious details.  In dealing with the low points, I’d wager it softens the truth to a certain extent (which is why I’m more apt to take Buster Keaton Remembered at its word,) but overall, I don’t mind.  Buster doesn’t owe me any explanation for his troubles, and he can relate them any way he likes.  And ultimately, he doesn’t make excuses or point fingers.  (In fact, from everything I’ve read about Buster’s first marriage, the book seems much more understanding toward his first wife than it probably needed to be.)

But I like that the MGM years and the drinking aren’t major focal points.  As per the title, that’s not why we’re here, and most of the book is an entertaining romp through Buster’s career.  Much is devoted to his vaudeville childhood, including Keaton family legends that may or may not be true (like Harry Houdini giving Buster his nickname,) descriptions of Three Keatons routines, and the attempts of the Gerry Society, a child protection organization, to nail the act for child labor or endangerment – more than once, young Buster has to disrobe to prove he doesn’t have any bruises, and his one day of public education is a disaster that ends in expulsion by noon. 

The many years in film and TV are chronicled as well, everything from Fatty Arbuckle on.  There are great tidbits here, too, like dangerously botched stunts and a particularly fun story from Go West, wherein Buster’s specially-trained cow goes into heat right as they’re about to start shooting, and Buster explains his assorted troubleshooting efforts.  I like how much we get of Buster’s philosophy of filmmaking, neatly woven in among the stats and stories.  He tells of his only professional disagreement with Arbuckle, who, unlike Buster, thinks movies should be aimed at a 12-year-old mind.  He theorizes why the humor of the popular comedians who followed him seems to stagnate – in his estimation, comics like the Marx Brothers or Abbott and Costello made “their first million” too early and grew complacent in their pursuit of original comedy.  He demonstrates, time and again, how films can be ruined by too many cooks in the kitchen, and he recounts the danger of trying to make movies for big-time execs who don’t understand slapstick.  What we get here is great, although if I have one complaint about the book, it’s that I wish there was more about the making of his classic independent works.

The anecdotes are awesome, especially the pranks – backstage, onstage, in Bluffton, in the army, on set, among friends, on the ball field – but most of all, I love seeing Buster’s resilience.  Over and over, he stresses that he’s not bitter about the rough patches:  the loss of creative control, the marital troubles, the debts, the period of obscurity, none of it.  Instead, he says he never expected life to be easy, and he’s been far too fortunate to complain about any bumps in the road along the way.  He tells how he was able to make a career doing something he loved, use his frozen face to put smiles on others, and create works of fantastic humor, skill, and imagination.  Just as his characters brush themselves off and lean into the wind no matter what, Buster, it seems, lived his life with a determination that could never be defeated.  How could I not admire that?