This fondly remembered W.C. Fields comedy suffers from stiff, antiquated direction—except for a few deft slapstick sequences—by Clyde Bruckman (yes, a name later borrowed for a memorable X-Files horror episode). The film features an uncharacteristically subdued and submissive Fields (said to have partially directed the movie himself), and a plot that is at least more consistent, if practically freeform, compared to the legendary entertainer’s sketch-comedy shorts and features.
To give his cherished daughter Hope (Mary Brian) a proper family structure, widower Ambrose Wolfinger (Fields) unwisely remarried. Now he lives with a domineering matron of a wife and awful, parasitic in-laws. Unappreciated Ambrose seeks solace in his unlawful stash of homemade “applejack” and a plan to call off work for the first time in 25 years to attend one of his youthful passions, a wrestling match (yes, outsized WWE-type wrestling was a thing even in the Depression era).
Ambrose trudges through a chain of catastrophes and humiliations, beginning with burglars accidentally leading police to the contraband liquor. His fib to get a day off work also snowballs into a major disaster, and his rattletrap car inspires another ordeal with bullying law enforcement. Hope saves the day in the end. Fields researchers can point to classic traits of the comedian: mistrust of authority; horror at the petty emasculation and tyrannies of domestic life; loathing for any guy named Claude, and lovely and loyal young daughter figures as redeeming characters (watch also for a sympathetic role for Carlotta Monti, who would become Field’s intimate companion and, after his death, penned a famous memoir W.C. Fields and Me).
The difference between this and the more rascally Fields encountered elsewhere is Wolfinger’s browbeaten demeanor and sense of surrender to his fate—at least until the finale and some have seen the script reflecting Fields’ welcome back and lucrative re-signing with Paramount, allegorical to Wolfinger’s shabby treatment by his onscreen company.
Kino Lorber’s Blu-ray includes as an extra the hour-ish 1964 TV documentary Wayne and Shuster Take an Affectionate Look at W.C. Fields, a self-explanatory affair with Canadian sketch comics Johnny Wayne and Frank Shuster scrutinizing celluloid highlights from Field’s career (with a few bits of biography dropped in by guest scriptwriter/film historian Arthur Knight). One might notice how Man in the Flying Trapeze is not well represented, such as the untypically downtrodden hero it offers compared to the flamboyant showman who traded barbs with Mae West. Still, it is recommended that classic cinema and black and white comedy library shelves should give room for this Trapeze to swing again.
Discover more titles with our list of comedy movies.