John Bunny was a fat man comedian who was
celebrity's first flowering among fun-makers, his a most meaningful name in the
category until early death came calling in 1915. An always flushed look and
burning bulbous nose suggested a man whose heart was ready to explode, and
indeed, I'd suppose it was. Bunny wasn't for slapstick, his humor more
situational and personality-based. Besides, the wild and wooly stuff patented
by Mack Sennett was still in offing when Bunny hopped mostprominently. His
clowning partner was stick-thin and woebegone Flora Finch, her clock-stopping
face a comic contrast to his rotundity. They did oodles of films together
(called "Bunnyfinches" by an admiring trade), few surviving today,
but ones that do are mirrors of what amused nickel viewers. In an era when so
many players were expressionless clouds, Bunny registered strong; you'd not
mistake his entrance for anyone else's. Her Crowning Glory has JB's bratty kid
(Helene Costello, spawn of a distinguished acting family) laying torment, and
sharp pins, onto Finch's beleaguered backside. Hurt seemed as funny then as
now, I suppose. Everything occurs in a Victorian sitting parlor. You expect
someone any minute to bring in news of the Titanic sinking. Part of Treasures
Of American Film Archives: Volume One, and a splendid job of reclaiming a short
that might just as easily have been lost with so many of the rest. And here was Amazon sticker shock: Volume One is now out of print and going for $100 and up (mostly up) for used sets. Lesson from all this? Strike while iron is hot when silents are released.
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