One century ago this week, the May 20, 1922 edition of “Exhibitors Trade Review” carried this news item:
Producer G.M. Anderson had been impressed with the work of Stan Laurel and felt he had a promising future as a screen comic. As we know all too well with hindsight, this assessment was absolutely correct, but at this point the fruition of that success was still some years away. The ads that Anderson took out in the trade papers essentially treated Laurel as a newcomer to the screen, waiting to be revealed to the public, by coyly hiding his face:
In fact, Laurel had appeared on the screen before, but without much distinction. It was Anderson’s hope to change that.
Anderson had gotten in on the ground floor of the emerging movie industry, having appeared as an actor in Edison’s 1903 short subject, THE GREAT TRAIN ROBBERY, which was instrumental in prompting the transition from early “actuality” films lasting only a couple of minutes to one-reel productions that told a fictional story. In 1907 he had partnered with George K. Spoor to found the Essanay Company (named for their initials, S. and A.), one of the earliest successful production companies. The announcement that their business was up and running appeared in the July 17, 1907 edition of the trade paper “Moving Picture World”:
(During this very early phase of the industry, the terms “production company” and “studio” had not yet come into common usage. Not knowing what else to call themselves, such enterprises would sometimes refer to themselves as “film manufacturing companies,” which sounds like a company that manufactures the film stock on which the movies were shot rather than the movies themselves. This nomenclature would soon change.)
Anderson was at first content to be a presence behind the camera, producing and directing Essanay product, but an experience with a truculent leading man while directing a western picture soon enough led him to step in front of the camera, as reported by the “San Francisco Chronicle” in its January 6, 1914 edition:
(The “pose your own pictures” comment quoted in this article is a reflection of the fact that in those early days it was not uncommon to see performing for moving pictures referred to as “posing” rather than acting. Appearing in the “flickers” was not yet considered an entirely respectable undertaking for a performer who had trod the boards of the “legitimate” stage, so they were loath to dignify movie performance by granting that it qualified as acting.) As you may surmise from the reference to Anderson as “king of the movies,” his work as an actor in his own films met with considerable success. In short order, he had become not just a part owner of a studio, but also an example of the newest phenomenon in the fledgling industry – a movie “star.” His on-screen persona was christened “Broncho Billy,” and soon his name and likeness in Essanay’s advertising was sufficient to guarantee box office success:
The ”New York Clipper,” in its July 6, 1912 edition, somewhat breathlessly refers to Anderson as “the photoplay star of two hemispheres” in noting the ongoing success of Essanay’s releases:
Note, however, that the article acknowledges that Essanay’s success was not based entirely on western pictures. They were also known for their comedy releases, in which Anderson also took an interest. In fact, it was at Essanay that Anderson would first seek to promote the career of a comic actor.
Ben Turpin, whose most immediately apparent comic attribute was that his eyes were permanently crossed, had been knocking around the theatrical circuits doing a stage routine as a character called “Happy Hooligan.” A chance encounter with Anderson led to his being employed with Essanay as a comic actor. In addition to looking the part of a comedian, Turpin was a skilled acrobat, very adept at taking comic pratfalls, which made him well-suited for the knockabout comedy that was popular at the time.
Turpin’s comedies were generally well-received, but his tenure with Essanay never really brought him the level of stardom that Anderson had hoped for. Eventually they came to a parting of the ways. Turpin’s departure from Essanay was noted in a small item in the May 29, 1909 edition of “Variety”:
(Here again we see movie acting referred to as “posing.”)
This is not to say that Anderson’s efforts in promoting comedy talent prior to Stan Laurel were entirely fruitless. To the contrary, the December 26, 1914 edition of “Moving Picture World” brought the news that Essanay had landed the biggest fish of all:
Chaplin, after a year at Keystone, had grown weary of the limitations imposed on him by the strictly-enforced Keystone formula. Mack Sennett insisted that all films bearing the Keystone imprint must be filled to the brim with pratfalls, mayhem, vulgarity, and chases. The immutable Keystone formula was all about speed, the utter eradication of dignity, and gags on top of gags in rapid-fire fashion. There was no room for subtlety, no room for nuanced characterization, and certainly no room for the delicate pantomime of which Chaplin was a past master. Anderson and Spoor offered him the one thing that Sennett would never permit: creative freedom. At Essanay, Chaplin was able to slow down the pace, build his “little tramp” into a dimensional character, and even introduce elements of pathos to win the audience’s sympathy.
But Chaplin remained with Essanay only a year before moving on to a staggeringly lucrative contract with Mutual. Turpin had left because his career wasn’t taking off; Chaplin left because his career had taken off like a rocket. Anderson, for his part, was left without a premiere comedy star, having nurtured one comic’s career not well enough and another’s all too well. Ultimately, the time came for Anderson and Spoor to part ways. “Motion Picture News” published the announcement in its February 26, 1916 edition:
Following his departure from Essanay, Anderson invested in a number of business ventures with limited success, ranging from producing plays to owning a taxicab company to a part ownership in the Boston Red Sox baseball team, which at the time included Babe Ruth as the star of its lineup. He even dabbled in film production here and there. But by late 1921 he decided to attempt a full-scale return to the movie business. The December 10, 1921 edition of “Motion Picture News” carried an announcement of his new organization, the Amalgamated Producing Company:
So it was as an independent producer that Anderson hired Stan Laurel in 1922, perhaps thinking that here was another chance to develop a significant comedy talent under his own aegis. And indeed, Laurel’s films for Anderson did enjoy a success that significantly exceeded that of his earlier efforts. In particular, a Laurel comedy called MUD AND SAND, a spoof of the popular Rudolph Valentino vehicle BLOOD AND SAND, was extremely well-received. Unfortunately for Anderson, his association with Laurel was destined to be short-lived. As with Chaplin, Laurel’s career prospered under Anderson’s wing to such a degree that he was ultimately worth more than Anderson could afford to pay him. The March 3, 1923 edition of “Exhibitors Herald” noted that Laurel had been lured away from Amalgamated by the deeper pockets of Hal Roach:
And, of course, it was with Roach that Laurel’s career really took off, particularly after he was paired with Oliver Hardy. Similar success awaited Ben Turpin, who became a major comedy star with Keystone after parting ways with Anderson.
For all his success as an actor in western films, Anderson’s contribution to comedy was, in the end, more modest. His role was as an incubator for comic talent; a launching pad for the likes of Chaplin, Turpin, and Laurel. But at one point, all unaware, he came tantalizingly close to striking true comedy gold. One of his first films with Laurel, produced even before the Amalgamated name had been formalized (it was officially a “Sun-Lite comedy”), was a two-reel comedy called THE LUCKY DOG. A couple of scenes called for Laurel’s character to be victimized by a hold-up man, played by an actor who specialized in playing “heavies,” as menacing characters of this type were called. The actor’s name was Oliver Norvell Hardy. There is no special on-screen chemistry between the two in their brief scenes together in THE LUCKY DOG, and the pair would not work together again until 1927, by which time both were with the Hal Roach studio, where they would go on to become one of the most beloved comedy teams ever to grace the screen. But for a fleeting moment, G.M. Anderson, for the first time since Chaplin’s Essanay tenure, had a comedy tiger by the tail, if only he had been able to recognize it.