We've all had dreams in which we find ourselves in a public place—at school, or at work, or perhaps at a shopping center—in our underwear, or pajamas, or perhaps entirely undressed. When I have those dreams it's usually not a pleasant sensation, and I find it a great relief to wake up. But in the movies, this scenario is almost always played for laughs, and depending on the skill of the filmmakers, it can sometimes be quite funny. In this short comedy, made in France just over a century ago, the actors have fun with the situation, and the result is still amusing today.
Le Gendarme est sans Culotte (or, "The Policeman is Without Trousers") concerns a dim-witted cop named Foezel, who is played by Marcel Lévesque, best remembered as Mazamette in the great crime serial Les Vampires. Lévesque, whose comic relief character practically stole the show in that series, also starred in his own short comedies. To my way of thinking he suggests a Gallic version of Jimmy Finlayson, Laurel & Hardy's familiar nemesis, not only in appearance but in his vigorous, over the top performance style. Both comedians were prone to break the fourth wall, and direct their wild-eyed facial reactions directly at the viewer, or rather, into the camera lens. This kind of mugging may not suit all tastes, but I've always loved Finlayson, and have also developed a fondness for Lévesque, who for me is a comparatively recent discovery.
The story begins as Foezel finishes his breakfast, bids a fond farewell to his loving wife and mother, and sets forth to walk his beat, blissfully unaware that he is embarking on a monumentally lousy day. Meanwhile, a group of filmmakers have arrived in town and are preparing to film a scene. Several police uniforms are required, but they find that they need one more pair of trousers. They observe as Foezel strolls past, and, correctly assessing him as a likely sucker, select an attractive young actress from their troupe to vamp him. She lures him into a bar located in the hotel where the troupe is staying, and the fun is on! For everyone except Foezel, that is.
The cop and the actress drink and flirt, and then, rather abruptly, she asks him point blank for his trousers. Of course Foezel is shocked and indignant, but after a bit of additional persuasion he relents, retires to a dressing room, and hands over his pants. Before you can count to "trois," the actress has fled with the trousers, and our hapless cop has locked himself out of the room in his underwear. Next thing you know, he's wearing a lady's dress, then he's fleeing an angry mob, and then he's hiding in a barrel, which gets knocked over and rolls down a hill and through the village. He has a violent confrontation with those pesky filmmakers, and, in a touch of poetic justice, ruins the scene they're shooting. By the end of the day, Foezel's wife are mother are half convinced that he's turned transvestite, albeit all in the line of duty, of course.
This amusing short plays very much like the kind of comedies Mack Sennett was concurrently cranking out for his Keystone Studio in California—comedies which, as Sennett himself was always quick to admit, were themselves heavily influenced by the French farces made a few years earlier, by Max Linder and his colleagues. (As it happens, the Foezel comedies were directed by Louis Feuillade, best known for his crime serials such as Fantomas and Les Vampires, which also featured Lévesque.) It's all part of the silent comedy continuum, and inspires me to wonder if Jimmy Finlayson happened to catch Marcel Lévesque's act at some point. Fin was an original, a performer with a style all his own, and yet the comedians of his day frequently borrowed techniques and gags from one another. He may very well have learned a thing or two from this under-appreciated French comic.
Le Gendarme est sans Culotte (or, "The Policeman is Without Trousers") concerns a dim-witted cop named Foezel, who is played by Marcel Lévesque, best remembered as Mazamette in the great crime serial Les Vampires. Lévesque, whose comic relief character practically stole the show in that series, also starred in his own short comedies. To my way of thinking he suggests a Gallic version of Jimmy Finlayson, Laurel & Hardy's familiar nemesis, not only in appearance but in his vigorous, over the top performance style. Both comedians were prone to break the fourth wall, and direct their wild-eyed facial reactions directly at the viewer, or rather, into the camera lens. This kind of mugging may not suit all tastes, but I've always loved Finlayson, and have also developed a fondness for Lévesque, who for me is a comparatively recent discovery.
The story begins as Foezel finishes his breakfast, bids a fond farewell to his loving wife and mother, and sets forth to walk his beat, blissfully unaware that he is embarking on a monumentally lousy day. Meanwhile, a group of filmmakers have arrived in town and are preparing to film a scene. Several police uniforms are required, but they find that they need one more pair of trousers. They observe as Foezel strolls past, and, correctly assessing him as a likely sucker, select an attractive young actress from their troupe to vamp him. She lures him into a bar located in the hotel where the troupe is staying, and the fun is on! For everyone except Foezel, that is.
The cop and the actress drink and flirt, and then, rather abruptly, she asks him point blank for his trousers. Of course Foezel is shocked and indignant, but after a bit of additional persuasion he relents, retires to a dressing room, and hands over his pants. Before you can count to "trois," the actress has fled with the trousers, and our hapless cop has locked himself out of the room in his underwear. Next thing you know, he's wearing a lady's dress, then he's fleeing an angry mob, and then he's hiding in a barrel, which gets knocked over and rolls down a hill and through the village. He has a violent confrontation with those pesky filmmakers, and, in a touch of poetic justice, ruins the scene they're shooting. By the end of the day, Foezel's wife are mother are half convinced that he's turned transvestite, albeit all in the line of duty, of course.
This amusing short plays very much like the kind of comedies Mack Sennett was concurrently cranking out for his Keystone Studio in California—comedies which, as Sennett himself was always quick to admit, were themselves heavily influenced by the French farces made a few years earlier, by Max Linder and his colleagues. (As it happens, the Foezel comedies were directed by Louis Feuillade, best known for his crime serials such as Fantomas and Les Vampires, which also featured Lévesque.) It's all part of the silent comedy continuum, and inspires me to wonder if Jimmy Finlayson happened to catch Marcel Lévesque's act at some point. Fin was an original, a performer with a style all his own, and yet the comedians of his day frequently borrowed techniques and gags from one another. He may very well have learned a thing or two from this under-appreciated French comic.
