Certainly one can apply the “method” test to W. C. Fields, but can we call Fields a method actor? Both the mouth mirror W.C. Fields uses in The Dentist and the glove fondled by Marlon Brando in On The Waterfront function as props—in one instance, a symbol of unrequited passion, and the other, used to induce laughter. Fields blows on the mouth mirror to clean it and after using it on a patient, he tucks it swiftly (almost unnoticeably) back into his pocket, ready for the next patient. Scripted? Probably, but nevertheless, he makes this motion his own. Quite similarly he appropriates unique gestures, grimaces, and winces. Startled by what he sees in the snooty patient’s mouth, he momentarily—in the blink of an eye—winces. Regardless of whether Brando planned the memorable glove scene or it occurred by happenstance, the action—one of many—cements him as a method actor. We don’t allow Fields this exalted title; Brando studied his “craft,” Fields merely learned a “trade.”

Lee Strasburg attempted to explain this undefinable “Method”: “The entire purpose of the ‘Method” or our technique or whatever you want to call it, is to find a way to start in each of us a creative process so that a good deal of the things we know but are not aware of will be used on the stage to create what the author sets for us to do” (Naremore 647). Terms like “creative process,” “stage,” and “author” reflect a certain syntagm: the job of “actor,” i.e. Brando—one who meditates on character, maybe taking lessons, and adapts from one role to another. Undoubtedly Fields was a gifted performer, but quite unlike Brando; instead of being trained by an acting coach, the comic learned his vocation out of sheer survival—which may make Fields more of an artiste than his counterpart. Apparently Fields, unable to dispense with his comedic persona, seldom performed in a “serious” manner: “When expected to sing in a role, Fields almost always made a complete farce of both the lyrics and his performance” (imdb.com). The one role in which Fields agreed to forego his usual antics was that of Wilkins Micawber in David Copperfield (ibid).

When he majority of James Naremore’s text on Marlon Brando’s performance in On the Waterfront concerns the particular school of acting endorsed by Brando, how does one approach an actor who received no formal acting training, such as W.C. Fields? One way to break down an actor like Fields is to examine the star image surrounding him as an actor.

In nearly every one of his well-known films, Fields was typecast as a “jolly, plump drunkard” with a short temper and childlike patience. However, some of his films took on a sweetly absurdist tinge, especially The Fatal Glass of Beer, made in 1933. Every aspect of the comedy is rehearsed precisely, from Fields’ plucking of a bizarre string instrument (as he laments the fate of his long-lost son) to his repeated warning call, “It ain't a fit night out for man nor beast,” after which he is repeatedly pelted with fake snow. The dialogue throughout the film is impeccably timed for maximum comic effect—when Fields and his “wife” sit down to eat soup, the ridiculousness of the situation is obvious as he dips a massive chunk of French bread into his soup, which he never gets to eat because of constant interruptions by his wife. The film is also completely dependent upon a constant building of comic tension, also known as the “bait and switch” technique. The film hinges on two instances of this: first, Fields’ son is viewed sympathetically by his parents through most of the film (although he’s viewed annoyingly by the audience), until he’s booted into a blizzard at the end of the film. Finally, the film ends with a final cry of “It ain't a fit night out for man nor beast,” after which he flinches (for the first time), yet is not pelted with snow.

However, The Fatal Glass of Beer was a departure from Fields’ usual star image. In The Dentist, Fields wanders through the sets without much direction at all, muttering under his breath and seemingly paying little attention to the other actors. He also certainly has a mean streak, which was amplified by Fields’ performance. Looking at a particular acting school would be a waste of time; simply taking Fields’ lazy performance at the surface-level is much more useful. Perhaps the best modern counterpart to Fields in this film is Rodney Dangerfield in Caddyshack (1980), and it is in that film where we find the key to Fields’ performance. In Caddyshack, Dangerfield is clearly not playing a character—he’s simply applying his stand-up comedy persona to a movie role. In much the same way, The Dentist captures Fields at his very best, and he is simply playing himself. Actually, more accurately, Fields plays his screen persona—a drunk, sometimes-jolly, sometimes-mean, oh-so-slightly-racist yet lovable lout, and he fulfills the requirements of the role perfectly; after all, he wrote it himself.

In his critical essay “Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront,” James Naremore analyzes the theory of “Method” acting as seen through one of its most prominent subjects, and in doing so attempts to isolate the particular intricacies of Brando’s acting technique that help bring his character to life, especially those actions which are absent from the script. Naremore summarizes Brando’s method by stating, “[It] consists of softly articulated, sometimes repetitive speech, an abstracted stroking of his body as he talks, a troubled reluctance to look anyone in the eye, and a series of relaxed poses that imply athletic grace and sexuality” (655). These subtle characteristics breathe life and elements of realism into Brando’s character, and thus contribute to the “naturalistic cinema’s love of verisimilitude” (653).

While Brando exemplifies a sort of graceful and delicate manliness through the Method, in his short film The Dentist, W.C. Fields similarly utilizes the Method (and de-prioritizes the script) to create a much different character: one who is bumbling, absent-minded, and holistically ridiculous. For example, in The Dentist, Fields plays the role of a scatterbrained dentist who cares more for his golf game than for his patients’ safety. At the beginning, when he forbids his daughter to date the ice man, he raises his voice to declare his disapproval and attempts to act as the epitome of authority. However, immediately after this, Fields begins mumbling incoherently, revealing the true nature of his character: a man who is unable to find his hat even when he holds it in his hand. Fields continues muttering in the short film, and does so whenever there is a lull in conversation—both adding humor to the scene and creating a more believable character. Fields also improvises his character when he begins to operate on the flapper-girl character. After she sits in the dentist’s chair, he asks her to open her mouth. She does so, but not wide enough, and so he starts repeating the instructions, telling her to open it wider and wider. Finally she complies, and when she opens her gaping mouth he quickly rears back, as if observing a grotesque sight. This subtle motion is certainly too minute to be included in the script, and Fields uses it to express shock and disgust, which both humors and delights the audience—what dentist could possibly be surprised at the sight of an open mouth?

Brando’s character traits in On the Waterfront help bring his character to life, and Fields uses alternate characteristics (harshly spoken language, clumsy and absurd movements, and subtle contradictions) to attain the same goal in a humorous fashion.

“It ain’t a fit night out for man nor beast.”
      —W.C. Fields in The Fatal Glass of Beer (1933)

W.C. Fields was a dynamic actor of his time. Before his death on Christmas Day, 1946, Fields enjoyed fruits from a career that spanned four decades—mostly comprised of comedic roles. In reflection upon the artist’s sterling reign on the silver screen, the question needing to be answered is, “Where does Fields’ personality end and where does the script begin?” By borrowing a critical perspective from James Naremore, based on the method actor Marlon Brando, this discourse will endeavor to address the aforementioned query.

First, it is necessary to understand James Naremore’s views on Marlon Brando in order to address Fields. Naremore states:

Critics often invoke Brando’s name as they do Picasso’s, to denote both an individual style and an artistic movement; yet Brando himself has disclaimed any significant influence form the Actor’s Studio, and no one has come forward with an explanation of Method acting that would allow us to recognize every instance of it on the screen. (647)

Cinematic history speaks similarly of Fields with respect to ownership of his unique form. The comedian was known certainly for his roles, but importantly was known for never going too far over the top in order to gain more mileage out of a single gag—unlike other comedians of his day (i.e. the Marx Brothers). Additionally, since Fields was not formally schooled in any form of entertainment, it is certain that the actor drew on his own talent and formed a self-reliance, derived from trusting his delivery of craft, through his famous dialect and his ability to be hilarious and yet distinguished at the same time.

Naremore states of Brando: “Among 'rebel' stars of his day, Brando always seemed the most gifted and intelligent, the least inclined to romantic excess or self-destruction” (646). Simply put, Brando was well admired for his ability to deliver a role without going too far over the top or being guilty of “overacting.” Naremore would say the same of Fields in this regard.

Style is a subject that is very difficult to explain. The style of an actor/actress is simply a nuance that can be hand-selected out of a plethora of scenes, demonstrating the true nature of the human being playing the role. Did Brando have style? According to Naremore, he did.

In The Wild One (1953), Johnny Strabler (Brando), goes inside a café. While inside, he finds a love interest, Kathy Bleeker (Mary Murphy), and begins a game of cat-and-mouse. The waitress cleans off the counter while Brando moves out of her way—only not just to clear a gain-way. Brando holds his hand up in the air long after love interest Kathy swipes past him. Such an action is done out of defiance, a sort of “I’ll move it when I’m ready,” response. Arguably, this is the moment that Brando’s persona comes out.

Former funnyman Fields had style as well—from his nasally accent to his knack for keeping a straight face while snow is thrown in his face every time he mentions, “It ain’t a fit night out for man nor beast,” as in The Fatal Glass of Beer (1933). Naremore would agree that these instances comprise the actor’s personality—therefore, the script ends and the man begins. However, should we have never been introduced to such a man, actor, and comedian, would comedy have ever evolved past the slapstick antics of The Three Stooges or The Marx Brothers? Many would argue either way.

W.C. Fields is W.C. Fields. He is not, for example, George Burns. A typical audience member of the 1930s might have seen them together in such films as International House (1933) and Six of a Kind (1934) but would have easily been able to tell the two apart, and for more reasons than just their physical appearances. Whereas Burns almost always dons his trademark cigar, Fields is an alcohol man. And while imdb.com describes Burns in his later years as “a remarkably active amiable old comedian,” Fields is and always has been less amiable and more distasteful. And what particularly makes up what it is to be W.C. Fields, according to Leonard Maltin’s Movie Encyclopedia, is “his snarling voice, bulbous nose, comical hats, and well-known penchant for liquid refreshment.” These, in effect, are signifiers of the signified: W.C. Fields.

At first, a contemporary viewer may compare Fields to an early archetype of Archie Bunker (played by Carroll O’Connor in the TV series “All in the Family”), or even a rude Mr. Magoo, sans blindness. Similar to Bunker’s anti-communist stance, in 1932’s The Dentist, Fields’ character makes a “dirty Jap” joke. And reminiscent of Mr. Magoo, this dentist cannot seem to see the things he demands even when they’re staring him in the face—he’s quick to yell but slow to know.

But, again, Fields is Fields, and that is most distinctive by paying close attention to his “snarling,” nasally, whiny voice. In both The Dentist and The Fatal Glass of Beer, Fields has a tendency to draw out the last syllable of the last word in each of his sentences. In both of these film shorts, his voice works to solidify his particular kind of character—the stuffy, angry, defensive, elitist dad character. He lacks feeling, and, according to Maltin, he was “an acquired taste, and his acerbic humor was not universally appreciated.” The snobbiness in his voice, too, combines with his stoic and stern facial expressions to make up the exact mix of ingredients it takes to express the star image of W.C. Fields.

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Last update: 10/23/2004