| The Ladies' Man (1961): Another Movie That Makes Me Laugh |
| Part 2: Jerry's Mentor, Frank Tashlin |
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Lewis' filmmaking mentor was Frank Tashlin, the veteran animation director whose best remembered pencil-work helped evolve the early Porky Pig shorts at Warner Bros. Though quite successful, Tashlin followed his dream and turned to live action features, eventually making comedies with Bob Hope (Son of Paleface), Jayne Mansfield (The Girl Can't Help It, Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter?), Danny Kaye (The Man from the Diners' Club), and Doris Day (The Glass Bottom Boat), among others.
It was with Jerry Lewis, however, that he would find the perfect lump of clown to mold into his outrageous human cartoon visions. Tashlin gave Jerry's screen persona its surreal edges. The comedian's "nine-year-old kid" character became increasingly equipped with witty, often laugh out loud visual concepts. Plots stopped mid-movie to accommodate wacky sketches, much to the displeasure of critics, many of whom probably applauded the antics of Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck, two performers not exactly known for logical or linear storytelling.
Lewis and Tashlin's early pictures together (Artists and Models, Hollywood or Bust, The Geisha Boy, Rock-a-bye Baby, and Cinderfella) encompassed much of both men's work at their most inventive, and, obviously, provided the star with terrific preparation for his directorial career. They would go on to make It's Only Money, The Disorderly Orderly, and their most cartoonish lark, Who's Minding the Store?
The Ladies' Man is definitely from the Tashlin school, but Jerry makes it his own with striking camera angles and edits, improvisational acting, innovative use of sounds and focus, weird realities, and those famous Lewis self-indulgences.
It's these self-indulgences that separate his fans from the loathers; nevertheless, I find little in our rich movie heritage more pleasurable than the thought of Herbert H. Heebert crashing a live television broadcast.
In The Ladies' Man, his employer, retired opera diva Helen Welenmelon (Helen Traubel), is to be interviewed on Up Your Street, a partial spoof of Edward R. Murrow's 1950s Q&A programs. At the exact instant the TV camera is to switch to Mrs. Welenmelon's face, Herbert manages to bumble his way into the picture and millions of home viewers are treated to a tight close-up portrait of his rump. To complicate matters, his suit sleeve snags onto the dowager's apparel, becoming entangled. During Mrs. Welenmelon's awkward responses to the host's questions, Herbert poses toothily for the camera in-between his manic fumbling to get loose from her gown.
"My button is stuck on your carnation,"
he whispers loudly into her ear, as she struggles with her televised conversation, perplexed by this lunatic's inexplicable wrist attached to her chest.
Herbert smoothes over his gaffe with more volatile, futile attacks on her dress, enthusiastically smiling at the lens, and interrupting her dialogue to announce to the world,
"My button is stuck on her flower."
Finally, the two are freed and Herbert steps away, only to miraculously inhabit all subsequent camera angles of Mrs. Welenmelon by being caught in the wrong places at the wrong time. He's unaware he's on the air; he's too busy squinting, lurching, and jockeying helter-skelter for the best position to see the live action. Up Your Street is a shambles due to Herbert's childlike excitement.
Then, there's a funny tap dance that puts me away.
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Images from The Ladies' Man Merchandising Manual and Pressbook
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