Paramount, 1934. Director: Leo McCarey. Screenplay: Walter DeLeon and Harry Ruskin, based on a story by Keene Thompson and Douglas MacLean. Camera: Henry Sharp. Film editor: LeRoy Stone. Cast: Charlie Ruggles, Mary Boland, W.C. Fields, George Burns, Gracie Allen, Alison Skipworth, Bradley Page, Grace Bradley.
If I’ve never featured W.C. Fields in this space before, it’s largely because this column is devoted to obscure and little-known films, while Fields’ classic comedies—known and loved by a worldwide legion of fans—hardly qualify in that category. On the other hand, Fields’ filmography, like those of some other comedians, consists of more than just his established classics. Inevitably there are other titles, overshadowed for one reason or another, which nevertheless deserve a second look. For me, one such deserving curio is Six of a Kind, released by Paramount early in 1934. The reason for this film’s relative anonymity is obvious: as the title suggests, Fields is only one of six featured comedians in the cast, and not even the top-billed star at that. But the Fields devotee who seeks out this film will be rewarded with a fresh, delightful viewing experience, featuring at least two of the great comedian’s timeless set-pieces.
For me there are two other factors that set this little gem apart. One is strictly personal: Six of a Kind was the first Fields film I ever saw. The other factor: this film marked Fields’ one and only collaboration with director Leo McCarey. To the comedy fan, McCarey will need no introduction; he was the comedy genius who had made his mark at the Hal Roach studio in the 1920s with a string of brilliant shorts starring Charley Chase, then had gone on to perform a similar service for Laurel and Hardy, overseeing their teaming and supervising some of their formative classics. With the coming of sound, McCarey maintained his momentum, compiling a list of credits that included the Marx Brothers’ Duck Soup. As the 1930s continued, he shifted seamlessly to sophisticated romantic comedies, notably The Awful Truth, with Cary Grant and Irene Dunne, which earned McCarey his first Academy Award. In the midst of this series of successes, Six of a Kind is often overlooked. But in its quiet way it illustrates, not only Fields’ comic brilliance, but McCarey’s directorial strengths, including a healthy dose of inspired improvisation.
It’s not a coincidence that this inspired collaboration took place in the creative environment afforded by Paramount Pictures. I’ve commented before (including in last month’s column) that Paramount was the most comedy-friendly of all the major studios, and Six of a Kind offers an apt illustration. The scenario seems improvised simply as an excuse to round up six of the studio’s contract players in one picture. Here Charlie Ruggles is seen as a bank cashier who sets out with his wife, Mary Boland, on a cross-country trip for their second honeymoon, unaware that another bank employee has embezzled a large sum of cash and hidden it in their luggage. The embezzler hopes to catch up with the couple later and retrieve the money, but both his plans and theirs are upended when Ruggles and Boland unwisely arrange to save expenses by traveling with another couple. The couple: none other than George Burns and Gracie Allen, who were building on their radio success with a series of film appearances at Paramount. Driven by Gracie’s daffy illogic, the foursome’s itinerary rapidly goes off course, confounding the embezzler and leading the travelers to a small Western town where Fields presides as the sheriff and Alison Skipworth (who had been teamed with Fields in earlier films) is the hotel proprietor.
As a plot, this is clearly no more than an outline, a scaffolding on which each of the featured performers can construct vignettes of comedy.
And all of them acquit themselves well, but it is unquestionably Fields—third-billed and not even introduced until the fourth reel—who walks off with the show. A highlight of the film is one of his signature pool routines, during which he delivers a rambling discourse on how he acquired the nickname “Honest John.” Here Fields is in full control of the film, as the camera simply settles back and watches. Shortly afterward we get a droll, seemingly improvised scene between Fields and George Burns in a local haberdashery. These and other nuggets of comedy add up to a modest, unpretentious, but thoroughly enjoyable example of Paramount’s program comedies during the early 1930s.
It’s worth noting that Six of a Kind was produced by Douglas MacLean, who had himself been a successful movie comedian during the 1920s. By the early 1930s he was working behind the camera, putting his experience to use as a producer, and is also credited as one of the writers of this film. It’s also worth noting that Fields was unhappy with his limited screen time in Six of a Kind, and his biographer, James Curtis, has documented considerable friction between Fields and Leo McCarey. It’s disappointing to learn of these things, but we, as viewers, have the luxury of enjoying the resulting film, which is fresh and engaging and betrays nothing of tension behind the scenes. And, in any case, the experience turned out extremely well for Fields in the long run. Released early in 1934, Six of a Kind was a success, and audiences particularly responded to Fields’ scenes—which served to convince Paramount that he did merit starring vehicles and increased screen time. In fact, 1934 would prove to be arguably the peak year of Fields’ screen career, producing three of his essential classics: You’re Telling Me, The Old-Fashioned Way, and It’s a Gift.
