A personally inscribed photograph I
received from Ben himself many years ago.
"c/o Ben Turpin, Genius": A Tribute
By William Thomas Sherman
Of great movie actors there have been many, but none can be said to have matched the motion picture grandeur or thespian virtuosity of Ben Turpin. Here was a player who could take on all the big parts: Desert chieftain, Prussian nobleman, Frontier lawman, or traditional defender of hearth and home. No film historian who knows the true story can ignore the many houses brought down by oceans of tears so tenderly lifted from audience's eyes. In those days, as the saying goes, movies were movies. But with Ben there was always something more. We are talking not four star, not five star, but eight star performances! With so many of his films now gone unseen, has not perhaps the time come to address the matter of "The Unknown Turpin?"
For who made a more imposing figure in the saddle, rescued gals in peril, or brought justice to a troubled land better then old Ben? Who fought the hard fight, climbed the highest mountain, braved the stormiest household? Who outfoxed crafty outlaws, man-handled toughs, wrestled wild bears, made all the women swoon better then Ben? Who saw past the deceiver's bluff, catching the deluded cheat in his own execrable snare? And who well but he, when the light shone through in that fleeting moment of epiphany, would have the boldness to realize the window might need fixing? Of these and other sundry things, there can be no mystery. Only one man ~ and only one man ~ could fit these descriptions.
He played with all the best and later in his career had his pick of parts. Surrounded by Bathing Beauties and strumming the trusty uke, here was a ready model for manly youth. Here was a performer who played his heart out with every paycheck -- and Ben never let the fans down.
The films? They read like chiseled inscriptions on Cinema's most granite mounment. "Yukon Jake," "A Small Town Idol," "The Eyes Have It," "Pride of Pikeville," "The Shriek of Araby," are just a few of the many milestones one could name.
Oh, pie-throwing you say? Ben could hold his own with the very best - face to the front. Many today could still learn a thing or two from this titan of celluloid who never flinched whenever the flung pastry of psychosocio-respectability traversed the numbing eternity of physical and ontological space. The mordant insight effused through his character portrayals perhaps most epitomized the neo-existential inanition of rural/industrial man. At the same time, let it not be overlooked, his photochronographic incunabulum is visual testimony to twentieth century ocular syncretism. Not that Ben, were he alive to day, would agree or even understand what all this means. Nevertheless, the intelligent character of such way of speaking certainly no truly sophisticated reader will dispute.
Mack Sennett would later recall: "Ben Turpin died rich and having fun. After his retirement it was his hobby to direct traffic at the intersection of Santa Monica Boulevard and Western Avenue. With eyes crossed and arms flailing he engineered some of the most outrageous automotive jams in the history of congested Los Angeles.
"He yelled to every motorist, 'Ben Turpin, three thousand dollars a week!'"
Sifting through the remnants of the now hallowed record, it's easy to see why he drew this kind of figure, and why his place is ever set in the highest attic of the pantheon of screen immortals.
Yet is his birthday set aside as a contemplative day off from work? His statue standing somewhere along the gilded walks of Hollywood Boulevard? His bust proudly and conspicuously adorning the haven of a city park?
No, but Ben Turpin is among us; here in spirit; here in mind. His incomparable and unparalleled vision lives (and will continue to) for many generations to come.
