Laurel and Hardy

Meeting Stan Laurel

In 1959, I was 18 years old living in Detroit, and was heading to  art school in Los Angeles. Shortly before I left I read in the newspaper that Stan Laurel was alive and well living in Santa Monica.

American TV in the 50s was full of Laurel & Hardy movies and I watched them all. They were the very pablum that fed my bones.

Once settled in LA I grabbed the phone book and there he was! Knowing no fear, I called him up and guess what, he answered the phone! “Hello Mr. Laurel? My name is Leonard Pitt. I’ve been a fan of yours all my life and I wondered if I could come out and visit you.” “Sure,” he said. “Let’s make it Saturday morning. How about 10 o’clock?”

To get myself in the mood I went to the Silent Movie House on Fairfax Ave. the night before to see some Laurel & Hardy shorts.

Mr. Laurel gave me his address, 849 Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica. On the phone he told me that he had suffered a small stroke not long ago and couldn’t walk that well, so his wife would leave the door ajar for me. I walked up to the second floor and saw the door slightly open. I peered through and softly said, “Hello, Mr. Laurel?” Then I heard, “Is that you Lenny? Come in, come in.”

I walked in and found him sitting at his desk in a sport jacket and tie. We shook hands. He apologized for not being able to stand up. His wife Ida peeked in from the kitchen to say hi and disappeared. The apartment was small and modestly furnished compared to what one would expect for a man of his reknown!

I sat down on the couch next to his desk. As we talked I had to look hard to see the Stan Laurel I knew. That Stan was in his 20s or 30s. Here I was sitting with a man in his 60s. He looked more like Stan Laurel’s father. I told him of the films I had seen the night before at The Silent Movie House, and how I cracked up at a bit he did with Jimmy Finlayson.

It was World War I and they were rookie soldiers going through a drill. Sergeant Finlayson was putting them through rifle maneuvers that Laurel kept messing up, fumbling his rifle, etc. I loved it. I described the bit and he tried hard to recall the film, but couldn’t. “You know, it’s been almost 50 years,” he said wistfully. So I jumped up and mimed the bit from the movie. In a second he remembered and cracked up laughing. “Of yes, yes, that one, that was funny!” And he did the same moves from the film sitting down. One’s laugh never changes and that’s when I knew hey, I’m with Stan Laurel! And, best of all, I made him laugh!

I visited Stan Laurel three times while in Los Angeles. He always greeted me most graciously, like we were old friends. We sat on the couch and chatted. He told me about the great fun of making movies in the early days. They’d go out to a location with no idea of a story, take advantage of what was going on, who was there, and make it up on the spot. When things became more “produced” it was less fun.

I told him how lucky I was that their movies played so much on TV when I was a kid. Wistfully, he told me how they never got a penny for all that TV exposure.

Few people know that Stan was the more creative of the pair and contributed most to the making of their films. Hardy loved golf. Whenever the studio asked him what he thought of this or that for a film, grabbing his clubs he’d say, “Whatever Stan says is fine with me!”

Laurel also told me how one day he received a package in the mail addressed to Charlie Chaplin. The two of them came to the US together in 1910 in the Fred Karno Pantomime Company, but as their careers took off they rarely saw each other any more. Here was an opportunity to reconnect. Laurel called Charlie up and went over to give him the package. They spent the whole day laughing, reminiscing about the old days and having a great old time. After this visit, Stan called Chaplin numerous times, but Chaplin never returned his calls. This was a disappointment.

One day I asked Laurel if there was a recording of their theme music that I could find. He told me that he and “Babe” were in London in 1939 and recorded a 78 at Columbia studios. One side was all gags. The other began with a couple of gags then went on to a medley of their theme music, The Dance of the Cuckoos. But tragically, the building was destroyed during the Blitz and all copies were lost including the master recordings. He had one of the surviving copies. “Would you like to hear it?” he said. He opened up the phonograph and put the record on. They begin with a bit of patter and then their theme began. Can you get the picture? I’m sitting with Stan Laurel in is living room listening to The Dance of the Cuckoos. My brain has never recovered.

When the record was over he said, “Would you like a copy?” Calmly, I said, “Sure.” He fished out a mini cassette from a drawer, put it onto a tape recorder, played the record again, made the tape and handed me the gem of a lifetime. I never hesitated to play it for my friends..

The tape has degraded over time, but I went online, and wow! Here for your enjoyment is a pristine recording of that very 78. Now imagine yourself listening to this with Stan Laurel in his living room. The thrill lives on!
Listen Here
One day I was visiting Laurel and a package arrived in the mail from Jerry Lewis. They were great friends and Lewis idolized Stan. The package contained a small reel of film with a note. “Stan, have a look at this.” So Stan pulled out a 16 mm Bell & Howell movie projector, set it up on the kitchen table and projected the film onto, of all places, the refrigerator. The kitchen was small so the throw for the image was no more than 5 or 6 feet.

With the clicking sound of the movie projector, and a heavenly sound it was, Jerry Lewis bounced onto the screen. “Hi Stan, I’m here in the studio shooting The Bellboy and have Bill Richmond doing an imitation of you, etc, etc. Tell me what you think!” We watched the short clip. Richmond enters, does a look, a move, does the hand gesture on the top of the head and It’s over. Stan turns off the projector, looks at me and shakes his head. He didn’t like it much. Me neither. Then something extraordinary.

With us sitting practically elbow to elbow at this small kitchen table he does his classic gesture of hand on the top of the head with the smile and tells me, get this, that he never liked doing it. He only did it because he knew audiences liked it.

Then, extraordinarily, he tells me he was never a huge fan of Lewis’s comedy. “Too much like a pack of wild horses running off in different directions.” Those were his very words. For decades, I never told this to anyone. Lewis would never have known, sure, but I just didn’t want this to be out in the ether. When Lewis died in 2017, I was finally free.

Once when I called Laurel about visiting again he said, “I’m having a few friends over this Saturday. Why don’t you join us?” So there I was, spending an evening with Stan Laurel and friends at his place. One was a young film buff who hoped to make a movie some day. In the meantime he made a living by working in the movies as a stand-in for Tab Hunter! He bore a strong resemblance. Yes, my friends, I met Tab Hunter’s stand-in!

But there was another guest too. Ah!!!! The one and only Babe London. This name will not ring many bells, but she was in a number of Laurel & Hardy movies, namely, Our Wife. But she also worked with Charlie Chaplin, Harry Langdon and W. C. Fields. What the heck happened that night, conversation, etc? I don’t remember a thing other than the sheer fun of being there with Laurel and friends.

One of the most pleasant things of being with Stan Laurel was the sound of his voice and the pattern of his speech. The quality was very soothing. He had a slowness to how he spoke that matched how he moved. When you said something, his responses were slow, like he was winding up before saying anything. This put an ease in the air and made it supremely pleasurable to be with him in a casual setting.

One day on a visit, Stan told me about the most touching moment of their entire career when they went on a performing tour of Ireland and England. Their ship left from New York and docked in Cobh, Ireland, a small hilly village about 7 miles east of Cork with a wonderful cathedral on its highest hill, Saint Colmans.

Because they figured they were mostly forgotten they expected no great crowds. As the boat pulled into harbor though, they were surprised to see the dock full of hundreds of people cheering. Small boats filled the water with people waving. They had no idea what was going on. “I thought the bloody Pope was there!” Laurel said with a chuckle.

Saint Colmans is well known for its fine set of carillon bells. Now get this. As our two friends looked on in puzzlement the cathedral bells suddenly began ringing out with their theme music, The Song of the Cuckoos. “This is all for us?” Tears filled their eyes. Forever after, Stan told me, that moment stood out as the most memorable of their entire career.

It turns out, when the local newspaper, The Cork Examiner, ran a small article reporting that Laurel & Hardy would be passing through Cobh to begin a tour of Ireland and England, the school kids descended upon their teachers. “We’re not going to school that day! We’re going to meet Laurel & Hardy! Things snowballed and before you know it, the whole town planned to close down to meet the adored comics.

Once on shore the boys were met by the Lord Mayor of Cork and hundreds of cheering children. Thoroughly moved, they wanted to go to a bakery to buy some pies to do some slapstick for the kids but couldn’t, Laurel told me, because all the bakeries were closed for them! With the formalities over, they waved good-bye to all the children and left for Dublin.

Their one regret? Laurel told me wistfully how with their hasty departure they never saw any of the news articles or photos of that most cherished day.

In the spring of 1962, I gave up on my budding career in the advertising design business and planned to go to Europe for several months to clean out my brain for a while. Planning my trip, I thought, why not go to Ireland and get the press photos Laurel never saw? That’s the least I could do.

I sailed out of New York harbor in October of 1962. After a 5 day crossing we docked at Southampton, England and somehow I found my way to a train, then a ferry, then another train, and arrived in Cork, or “Cark” as they say. A grand adventure was about to begin.

I arrived in Cork in late October, 1962. There was no real tourism in those days so I actually stood out and aroused curiosity. It didn’t take long for someone to ask, “So what brings y’a to Cark?” “I’m here to do a favor for Stan Laurel.” The air exploded. “Yer bein’ a friend of Mr. Laurel’s! Oh, I remember it perfectly, And a fine day it was!” It was 9 years ago and everyone acted like it was yesterday.

One man was particularly excited. “Have you met Dr. Gebruers? He played the bells that day! He’d love to meechya.” He got on the phone and rang him up. Before I knew it I had an appointment to meet the good Dr. at the cathedral on Sunday night at 7pm after Mass.

I took a train the seven miles to Cobh, trudged my way up the hill and found myself at the doors of Saint Colmans Cathedral right on time as people filed out after Mass. It was November – dark and chilly. I stood there alone wondering, what now? Just then a man poked his head around the corner of the cathedral. “Are you bein’ Mr. Pitt?” “That’s me!” I said. The man introduced himself as Charlie and lead me to the side of the cathedral.

I entered a small door and found Dr. Gebruers beaming. He extended his arm for a hearty handshake and went on about how nice it was to meet a friend of Mr. Laurel’s and what a special day it was back then. He was a huge fan of the comics and took great delight in playing their music on his bells.

Then he told me something Laurel & Hardy never knew. Because Laurel had been married something like seven times, more than once to the same woman, the British press cooked up a great scandal. The good Dr. almost lost his job.

At first he feared that I was an American journalist who had come to fan the flames of controversy. But seeing this young kid, he was reassured. “Bein’ that you’re a friend of Mr. Laurel’s,” he said, “would you like me to play the bells for you tonight?” I couldn’t say yes fast enough.

“Ok. You go with Charlie to that hill across the way and stand next to those buildings. The bells sound best coming off those walls. Then he’ll lead you through town. Make sure to notice how everyone’s goin’ to open up their windows cause no one’s expectin’ the bells tonight and everyone loves ’em so much. You understand now, I can’t play you their music, but I’ll play you something nice nevertheless. You give me a couple of minutes to get to my keyboard then we’ll get goin’.’”

As Charlie and I walked up the hill it started to drizzle. We stood there for just a moment under our umbrellas and the bells began to ring out filling the night air. We walked along the narrow streets of Cobh as the music began with Danny Boy.

We came to a terrace overlooking the harbor and stopped. Charlie went into an enthusiastic description of that day long ago. “Mr. Laurel and Mr. Hardy were standing there,” he said, pointing down to the dock. “The Lord Mayor was right there, and the children, oh, they were everywhere . . . “ It was all like yesterday.

We walked back to the cathedral and met the Dr. at the little door. I thanked him profusely for the gift of the music. “Please send my best regards to Mr. Laurel,” he said, “and ask him if he could be so kind as to send me an autographed photo of Laurel and Hardy so I can put it in the church sacristy.” I wrote Laurel, sent him my copy of the Examiner news article, the press photos, along with the Dr.’s request. Sometime later I got a letter from the Dr. and he did get the photo and it did go into the church sacristy.

The link below is an article written in 2008 by Dr. Staf Gebruers’ son, Adrian Patrick, who, as a little boy, was there for the big day and gives a first-hand account.
Read Article
I got in touch with him in 2020. His father had passed away and when I told him of the autographed photo in the church sacristy he searched every inch to no success and was surprised because his father was so neat and orderly about everything. Who knows? Maybe this little gem will mysteriously show up one day.

Oh, here’s a link to Marvin Hatley talking about how he composed the Dance of the Cuckoos for the boys.
Listen to Marvin Hatley