Every time I hear someone refer to The Jazz Singer as the first talking film I wonder, once again, why more people don't know about the many talkie shorts that preceded it, or about the contributions made by pioneers such as Lee De Forest and Theodore Case. In the early 1920s these two men collaborated on the Phonofilm system, the first sound-on-film process. Unfortunately, they had a falling out when Case came to believe that De Forest was taking all the credit for their work. Even so, before the interpersonal trouble started, the men produced dozens of sound shorts at their mid-Manhattan Phonofilm studio between 1922 and 1926, well before the Warner Brothers introduced their Vitaphone process. And although it's true that De Forest and Case made only short films and no features, anyone who has seen The Jazz Singer knows that it's primarily a silent film with several song interludes, and one brief dialogue scene; basically, that is, it's a collection of Al Jolson musical shorts spliced into an Al Jolson silent feature.
Many Phonofilm shorts survive, and, happily, several of them capture performances by legendary Vaudeville veterans such as Weber & Fields, Eddie Cantor, Ben Bernie, etc., offering a real treasure trove for theater historians. Casey at the Bat gives us the opportunity to enjoy a spirited recitation of Ernest Thayer's popular poem by the man who made it famous, actor and Vaudeville headliner DeWolf Hopper. Hopper first recited the poem at a ballgame between the N.Y. Giants and the Chicago Cubs way back in August of 1888. He went on to recite the poem thousands of times on stage, on radio, in at least one early phonograph recording, and in this film.
The movie begins as Mr. Hopper, a tall gentleman in his mid-60s, steps out from behind a curtain. He's wearing a suit, bow-tie, and (so I gather) a toupee. He begins with a couple of low-key jokes, saying that he's glad this poem has been requested because he happens to be familiar with it, as he's been reciting it throughout his entire stage career of "almost six years"; actually, the man had been appearing on stage about forty-five years when the film was made. He adds that it's comforting to reflect that if he forgets a line -- not likely! -- almost anyone in the audience could prompt him. He then launches into his "mock heroic" recitation, as he calls it, with gusto that is amazing to witness, and almost alarming. The guy could have billed himself as the Man of a Thousand Voices, because he uses most of them here: his tone shifts from a throaty growl to a high squeak and then to a deep rasp as he assumes the various characters; he pops his eyes, flutters his hands, glares menacingly, and at one point strikes a pose that reminded me of Lon Chaney in The Phantom of the Opera, some three years ahead of Chaney. It's an astounding performance, histrionic in the extreme, and a real blast of 19th century showmanship. Just listen to Hopper's voice descend into the deepest basso imaginable on the line "and the multitude was awwwwwwwwed." You'll be awed, as well. (And amused, possibly, but definitely awed.) At the end, after he sobs his way through the last line announcing that mighty Casey has struck out, Hopper gives a modest little smile, bows, and steps back through the curtain.
It's too bad we don't have similar records of performances by 19th century luminaries such as Jenny Lind or Edwin Booth, etc., but we can be grateful that this film was made, and preserved. Absolutely fascinating for theater buffs.
Many Phonofilm shorts survive, and, happily, several of them capture performances by legendary Vaudeville veterans such as Weber & Fields, Eddie Cantor, Ben Bernie, etc., offering a real treasure trove for theater historians. Casey at the Bat gives us the opportunity to enjoy a spirited recitation of Ernest Thayer's popular poem by the man who made it famous, actor and Vaudeville headliner DeWolf Hopper. Hopper first recited the poem at a ballgame between the N.Y. Giants and the Chicago Cubs way back in August of 1888. He went on to recite the poem thousands of times on stage, on radio, in at least one early phonograph recording, and in this film.
The movie begins as Mr. Hopper, a tall gentleman in his mid-60s, steps out from behind a curtain. He's wearing a suit, bow-tie, and (so I gather) a toupee. He begins with a couple of low-key jokes, saying that he's glad this poem has been requested because he happens to be familiar with it, as he's been reciting it throughout his entire stage career of "almost six years"; actually, the man had been appearing on stage about forty-five years when the film was made. He adds that it's comforting to reflect that if he forgets a line -- not likely! -- almost anyone in the audience could prompt him. He then launches into his "mock heroic" recitation, as he calls it, with gusto that is amazing to witness, and almost alarming. The guy could have billed himself as the Man of a Thousand Voices, because he uses most of them here: his tone shifts from a throaty growl to a high squeak and then to a deep rasp as he assumes the various characters; he pops his eyes, flutters his hands, glares menacingly, and at one point strikes a pose that reminded me of Lon Chaney in The Phantom of the Opera, some three years ahead of Chaney. It's an astounding performance, histrionic in the extreme, and a real blast of 19th century showmanship. Just listen to Hopper's voice descend into the deepest basso imaginable on the line "and the multitude was awwwwwwwwed." You'll be awed, as well. (And amused, possibly, but definitely awed.) At the end, after he sobs his way through the last line announcing that mighty Casey has struck out, Hopper gives a modest little smile, bows, and steps back through the curtain.
It's too bad we don't have similar records of performances by 19th century luminaries such as Jenny Lind or Edwin Booth, etc., but we can be grateful that this film was made, and preserved. Absolutely fascinating for theater buffs.