To Cleveland and back: 3 days, 5 films, 1,650 miles—and Keaton's 'Butler' on Wednesday, 4/27

Buster shows off an old-time boxing stance in 'Battling Butler.' Get those gloves up, Keaton!

Ding!

Next up is Buster Keaton's boxing comedy 'Battling Butler' (1926), which I'm accompanying on Wednesday, April 27 at the Flying Monkey Moviehouse and Performance Center in Plymouth, N.H.

Hope you'll join us for this screening, part of a series of films released in 1926 that became public domain as of Jan. 1, 2022. 

You the public now own 'Battling Butler.' Aren't you interested in seeing it?

The complete press release with more info is at the bottom of this post. 

For now, a few thoughts about my recent three-day visit to Cleveland, Ohio. (I'd call it a "flying visit" but I actually drove out there and back—about 10 hours each way.)

The reason was the 47th annual sci-fi marathon at Case Western Reserve University, where I accompanied the early German film 'Der Golem' (1920). The festival usually takes place in January, but was postponed this year due to the Coronavirus spike at that time.

It got rescheduled to last weekend, and it worked out that I could get out there as planned. 

I then reached out to the folks at the Cleveland Cinematheque, where I've been privileged to accompany silents, with news that I'd be in town, and so they asked me to do 'Nanook of the North' (1922).

Thus I drove to Cleveland—out on Friday for shows that night at the Cinemathèque, then the next day at the sci-fi festival, then back east to arrive in time to accompany a 2 p.m. screening of the silent 'La Bohème' (1926) at the Somerville Theatre.

Why drive? Because I used my big-ass digital synthesizer at each of the venues, and it's really not practical to put that on a plane. 

Plus, even with gas more expensive and the absurdly high tolls on the New York State Thruway, it's cheaper to drive. That includes wear and tear on my Subaru Forester, which recently passed the 240,000 mile mark.

Plus, if I flew, I could not stop in Erie, Pennsylvania at the one Krispy Kreme donut franchise along the way. 

So it's silent film accompaniment, with a little bit of long haul trucking thrown in. Ah, the glamour of show biz!

The Cinematheque drew a respectable audience for 'Nanook,' for which I used a light texture (mostly harp) for the first 20 minutes but then switched to full orchestral sound for the sea lion hunt and then for the rest of the picture.

'Nanook' was preceded by a Buster Keaton short, 'The Frozen North,' thus creating a theme for the program. I wondered aloud if we should turn up the air conditioning.

As always, John Ewing and Genevieve Schwartz and everyone else at the Cinematheque were terrific hosts. As usual, I took the opportunity (as an outsider) to remind everyone how fortunate Cleveland was to have a theater committed to running such diverse programming all year round.

I had told John about 'Straight is the Way' (1921), the obscure Cosmopolitan Pictures comedy/drama set in my home state of New Hampshire and recently pried loose from the Library of Congress vaults via a Kickstarter project by Ed Lorusso.

So John decided to run it as an unofficial bonus feature following 'Nanook.' Only a few people stayed, but together we witnessed the "Midwest Re-Premiere" of a film that hasn't been seen anywhere for more than a century. 

An unknown film with no one famous in it does not make for great expectations. But once again, 'Straight is the Way' proved moderately entertaining, much to everyone's surprise. So I plan to keep programming it, and say thanks again to Ed L. for making the title available.

As for the sci-fi marathon: what a blast from the past! People getting together for a 36-hour shared experience—a real throwback to the era not just prior to the pandemic, but also before streaming and everything available at any time.

An attendee arrives at the sci-fi marathon with her Mystery Science Theatre 3000 companion. 

While I appreciate the convenience of digital-streaming-everything-on-demand-in-the-comfort-of-your-home-when-you-want-it, I remain a complete slave to cinema as a shared experience.

I think it's the best and most satisfying way to experience cinema, and especially films from the silent era. For me, it's certainly the most rewarding way to accompany them. And personally, I just like it better.  

So it did my heart good to see people fussing over film prints in a projection booth, setting up camp among the seats of Case Western's Strosacker Auditorium, and just generally being enthused at the idea of seeing favorite and not-so-favorite flicks on the big screen.

A peek inside the booth, with impromptu conference in progress.

Getting to be a rare sight: actual cans of actual film!

'Der Golem' was set for Saturday at 4:30 p.m., about halfway through the marathon. I arrived about halfway through the previous film. It was billed as a "surprise" and turned out to be an original 35mm release print of Star Wars (1977), now retitled "Episode 4: A New Hope."

So after readying all my stuff backstage for quick deployment, I went around and took a seat in back to catch the last 30 minutes of this film, which I hadn't seen in decades. Although the print was badly faded, people were into it. People were shouting comments and wisecracks, as often happens in this kind of setting, and which is all part of the fun. 

I then set up for 'Der Golem' and was once again thrilled to hear how good my beat-up Roland speakers sound when placed on the Strosacker's wooden stage. The music just leaps to life. After running through a few chord progressions, I heard someone behind me say, "Awesome!" 

After running through a Koko the Clown cartoon as a warm-up, we went straight into 'Der Golem' and I have to say, everything just fell into place. There was something about the silent image and the live music and that audience that gave everything a majesty and portentousness that otherwise would not have happened. 

Things got especially powerful during the amazing sequence when the Rabbi conjures up evil spirits to find the secret word to bring life to the inanimate. I used a steady 3/4 beat throughout, starting very simply, over which I wove increasingly frenetic figures until finally reaching something like the spirit of Ravel's "La Valse," described somewhere as a dance on the edge of a volcano. 

You could tell there was genuine audience engagement, especially when the creature begins to turn on its creators. Wow! You just can't experience tension, anticipation, and energy like that at home. And 'Der Golem' is a very satisfying film in that respect, as it all gets released in the film's climactic sequence. 

I was gratified to receive a hearty ovation, but gestured to the screen behind me, as that's what it's all about. 

A view of the auditorium Friday afternoon, before most attendees arrived.

Alas, attendance at the sci-fi festival was clearly down from my last appearance here, in January 2020, just before the pandemic took hold. Then, for a screening of 'Aelita, Queen of Mars' (1924), we had to move people (and their sleeping bags) around to make room for my keyboard. This time, there were acres of open space. 

Yes, the pandemic has had an effect. And yes, times are changing. 

A stuffed cat in the Strosacker Auditorium.

But I hope the spirit that's part of the DNA of this festival and similar ones—the sense of wonder and love of cinema that prompted people to create such communal events in the era before VCRs and DVDs and everything-on-demand—will persist as we all march forward. 

Afterwards, I pointed the Subaru Forester east towards Boston, arriving in time (with an overnight stay in Syracuse, N.Y.) for the matinee of 'La Bohème' at the Somerville Theatre.

Silent film on the Somerville's big marquee! 

The screening marked the return of the venue's 'Silents, Please!' series after a long pandemic-induced hiatus. In welcoming back the audience, I recalled how the last silent at the Somerville was on Sunday, March 15, 2020, when the theater screened Rin Tin Tin in 'Clash of the Wolves' (1925) to a smaller-than-usual crowd. 

"I remember at the time talking with Ian Judge, the Somerville's manager, and thinking that this pandemic thing might cause theaters to have to close for as much as two weeks, or maybe even a month," I said, to knowing laughter. 

I also got laughs with an off-the-cuff remark about the music.

"If you're expecting to hear Puccini's immortal music, I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed," I said. "What I do will be mostly improvised, and I'm not Italian, so it wouldn't sound like Puccini even if I tried. I'm Polish and Lithuanian, so I might be able to go for Witold Lutosławski."

Of course it's a real question: for a silent film version of a famous opera such as  'La Bohème,' what role should music play? My answer: same as always. The accompaniment should support the story, the characters, the action, the emotions, the changes of mood, and everything else happening on the screen.

At its best, the music helps a silent film cast a spell on an audience—and that's true for 'La Bohème' as much as any other story. In fact, I think if I did try to channel Puccini, that would only take people out of the on-screen narrative, which would be a distraction.

So I didn't channel Puccini, nor Lutosławski, nor anyone else. I just reached into my own reservoir of strong feelings and emotions and tried to conjure music that helped the film connect. 

As usual, it was a mix of deliberate calculation and in-the-moment reaction. 

Prior to the screening, I had decided an all strings texture was right for this kind of film, which gives audiences a chance to soak in a prolonged emotional bath. 

But for those big moments with Lillian Gish and John Gilbert filling up the screen—where the soaring melody over lush chords came from, I really couldn't tell you.

It certainly wasn't the hotel in Syracuse.

Okay, enough about the road trip. Here's all you need to know about 'Battling Butler' on Wednesday, April 27 at the Flying Monkey. Hope to see you there!

*   *   *

Buster gets physical in 'Battling Butler' (1926).

TUESDAY, APRIL 12, 2022 / FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Contact Jeff Rapsis • (603) 236-9237 • jeffrapsis@gmail.com

Buster Keaton's 'Battling Butler' at Flying Monkey Moviehouse on Wednesday, April 27

Silent film series continues with knockout boxing comedy focusing on the fight game, accompanied by live music

PLYMOUTH, N.H.—He never smiled on camera, earning him the nickname of "the Great Stone Face." But Buster Keaton's comedies rocked Hollywood's silent era with laughter throughout the 1920s.

Acclaimed for their originality, clever visual gags, and amazing stunts, Keaton's films remain popular crowd-pleasers today.

See for yourself with a screening of 'Battling Butler' (1926), one of Keaton's landmark feature films, on Wednesday, April 27 at 6:30 p.m. at the Flying Monkey Moviehouse and Performance Center, 39 Main St., Plymouth, N.H.

Admission is $10 per person. Live music will be provided by accompanist Jeff Rapsis, a New Hampshire-based performer who specializes in creating music for silent film presentations.

'Battling Butler' tells the story of pampered millionaire Alfred Butler (Keaton) who tries to impress the girl of his dreams (Sally O'Neil) by pretending to be a championship boxer with the same name.

The masquerade leads to knockout comedy both in and outside the ring, giving Keaton ample opportunity to display his gifts for physical and visual comedy.

The screening is the latest installment of the Flying Monkey's series showcasing the best films of 1926, all of which entered the public domain on Jan. 1, 2022.

In the 1920s, boxing rivaled baseball as the nation's most popular sport. Neighborhoods, communities, and ethnic groups all rooted for their favorite fighters, and heavyweight champion Jack Dempsey ranked as an international celebrity.

Because of this, boxing stories were popular with early movie audiences as well.

"As an elemental contest between two opponents, boxing inspired early filmmakers to do some great work," Rapsis said. "It's a visual sport that doesn't require a lot of dialogue or commentary to understand, and so was perfect for silent movies."

Keaton, along with Charlie Chaplin and Harold Lloyd, stands as one of the silent screen's three great clowns.

Many critics regard Keaton as the best of all; Roger Ebert wrote in 2002 that "in an extraordinary period from 1920 to 1929, (Keaton) worked without interruption on a series of films that make him, arguably, the greatest actor-director in the history of the movies." But while making films, Keaton never thought he was an artist, but an entertainer trying to use the then-new art of motion pictures to tell stories and create laughter.

All those talents are on display in 'Battling Butler,' which holds the distinction of being the top-grossing title of Keaton's silent features.

Buster on the ropes—literally—in 'Battling Butler' (1926).

The Flying Monkey's silent film screenings provide local audiences the opportunity to experience silent film as it was intended to be shown: on the big screen, in restored prints, with live music, and with an audience.

“These films are still exciting experiences if you can watch them as they were designed to be shown,” said Rapsis, accompanist for the screenings.

“There’s a reason people first fell in love with the movies, and we hope to recreate that spirit. At their best, silent films were communal experiences in which the presence of a large audience intensifies everyone’s reactions.”

The screening of 'Battling Butler' is the latest in the Flying Monkey's series celebrating films that recently entered the public domain.

Copyright protection for all U.S. films released in 1926 expired on Jan. 1, 2022.

To mark the occasion, the Flying Monkey is showcasing vintage 1926 comedies, dramas, and adventure films, all with live music, and all now in the public domain.

Upcoming screenings in the Flying Monkey's "Public Domain Extravaganza" series include:

• Wednesday, May 11, 2022, 6:30 p.m.: "Bardelys the Magnificent" (1926) starring John Gilbert. Gilbert tries his hand at swashbuckling in this big-budget MGM historical extravaganza about exploits of an unjustly disgraced French nobleman. A major film long thought lost until a single print was recently discovered in France.

• Wednesday, June 8, 2022, 6:30 p.m.: "The Black Pirate" (1926) starring Douglas Fairbanks, Sr. The original pirate swashbuckler, with Fairbanks sword-fighting his way through a period adventure tale set during the age of sailing ships.

"By 1926, the movies had matured enough to offer a wide range of great entertainment that still holds up today," Rapsis said. "Come see for yourself as we screen some of the year's best flicks, all of which recently entered the public domain and now belong to us all."

Buster Keaton stars in 'Battling Butler,' to be shown on Wednesday, April 27 at 6:30 p.m. at the Flying Monkey Moviehouse and Performance Center, 39 South Main St., Plymouth, N.H.

Admission is $10 per person. For more info, call (603) 536-2551 or visit www.flyingmonkeynh.com.

Up next: 'Underworld' on 1/23 in Plymouth; plus reports from three unusual recent shows

Evelyn Brent and Clive Brook in 'Underworld.' (1927).

It's one of the great silent dramas: 'Underworld' (1927), the gangster saga directed by Josef von Sternberg.

And I'm accompanying it on Thursday, Jan. 23 at 6:30 p.m. at the Flying Monkey Movie House in Plymouth, N.H.

Besides a small dramatic role by comedian Larry Semon (who would die just one year later), the film features a major part for Clive Brook, one of my favorite silent-era actors.

Brook plays 'Rolls Royce' Wentsel, an alcoholic attorney who becomes sidekick to gangster Bull Weed, played by George Bancroft.

It's a juicy role: a cultured, educated man who finds himself swept up in the world of hitmen and holdups.

It's kind of like the character of Tom Hagan, the "consigliere," that Robert Duvall played to Marlon Brando's Don Corleone in 'The Godfather' (1972).

More about 'Underworld' is in the press release below.

Here's a report on a trio of unusual silent film screenings that filled the recent three-day weekend:

Air mattresses being set up on stage for the 45th Annual Sci-Fi Marathon at Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland, Ohio.

• Saturday, Jan. 18: I don't know what you were doing at 7:15 a.m., but I was trying to find a place to park in a snowstorm in the University Heights area of Cleveland, Ohio.

How did I get here? Mostly by Interstate 90 the day before, all in a single gulp from New Hampshire to Ohio. (It's about 10 hours.)

But the larger answer to that question was found in the Case Western Reserve University Film Society's 45th Annual Sci-Fi Marathon, which ran from Friday night into early Sunday morning.

I was there to do music for 'Aelita, Queen of Mars' (1924), an early Soviet fantasy film with sci-fi elements.

I arrived the night before, ending up on completely the wrong end of the beautifully maintained (and vehicle-free) Case Western campus.

But organizer Samuel Ramos was able to guide me by phone through security barriers to Strosacker Auditorium, where regulars were already packing the lobby waiting to get in and claim their turf for the 30-hour event.

Early-bird attendees about to enter Strosacker Auditorium for the sci-fi marathon. Passing through a security check, many with rolling luggage in tow, it was they were boarding an aircraft!

With the house due to open soon, we loaded in and set up my gear in record time. Because I wasn't playing until the next morning, we had to stow the keyboard and speakers backstage, but the trio of projectionists were able to tape down my cabling in place so we'd be ready to go quickly.

I was honored to find a young woman using painter's tape to mark the spot where my keyboard would go, including a big NO for emphasis.

I didn't get her name, but she was a CWRU grad who flew in from Texas each year to join in the marathon.

That's one thing I love about these types of events: they inspire a kind of fanatical devotion and spirit of community among attendees that's very special. No matter what else one does the year-round, when it's time for the CWRU Sci-Fi Marathon (or any other similar event), you know where you belong.

Here's a panorama shot from the stage as attendees began to enter and set up shop. Click to enlarge!

I woke up the next morning to find Cleveland enveloped in snow and sleet. I drove through deserted streets to find the Case Western campus shuttered, with no security people to open the gates. So I parked in a nearby hospital garage (FOR PATIENTS AND STAFF ONLY!) and trudged through the slush to arrive just in time for the 7:30 a.m. screening of 'Aelita,' which is the earliest start time I've ever played.

It was weird to return to an auditorium filled with people who'd been there all night. The sun hadn't actually come up yet, and people asked me not to refer to the actual time or the weather outside because they were still running on the illusion that it was just still kind of a late night.

But off we went, first with a surprise screening of a 'A Trip to Mars,' a 1924 Koko the Clown short cartoon, which got a nice reaction.

An example of Martian fashion in 'Aelita, Queen of Mars' (1924).

Then came Aelita, and when I saw from the titles it was a version that runs a little slow (almost two hours!), I braced myself. Would it be possible to keep a fatigued audience engaged in this esoteric early drama for that length of time?

I'd decided earlier to resist the temptation to use the synthesizer to make "space age" sounds. Instead, I went into my "Rachmaninoff/Shostakovich" mode, which I thought was only appropriate for a Russian film.

The only recognizable tune that got used was the old Czarist national anthem (the one heard in Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture), which turned out to be exactly right, I felt, for the allegorical rulers/oppressed sequences set on Mars.

For the main character, a radio engineer obsessed with a mysterious signal that might just be from the Red Planet, I came up with a "signal" motif or repeated notes that kept recurring: two notes, three notes, and then four notes. DAH da. Da DAH da. Da DAH da da.

This, and a bunch of other stock themes for characters and situations, all came together to make a very effective score, I thought.

Audience reaction was strong throughout, with lots of shouted comments about the wild plot and strange images. I even got heckled at one big missed cue: a soldier character plays a small accordion on screen a couple of times, and at one point I misjudged when to have that sound ready—and he instead went over and hit a few notes on a piano!

"That's a funny sounding piano!" someone shouted. It sure was! I quickly went back to orchestra.

Gusev the soldier serenades a Martian gal with his pesky accordion late in 'Aelita.' (This time I was ready!)

To my surprise, people really did stay with it, and the film (as often happens) seemed to make a lot more sense in a theater with an audience. It holds up really well, with the only explanatory note necessary for modern audiences is to note that at the time, people with larger homes were compelled by the government to take in other people. All part of the glorious revolution, comrade!

The film ended with a rousing ovation for the accompanist, who couldn't stay because he was due back in New Hampshire the next day for a screening.

With the campus still closed and the snow still flying, I had to finally drive my car down some pedestrian walkways (sorry!) to get the service alley behind the auditorium to load in my gear.

Then off I went for the drive back to New Hampshire, only to find slow going due to the weather, which had shut down portions of the N.Y. State Thruway.

So an unexpected night in Syracuse, N.Y. and then an early morning departure put me back in the Granite State on Sunday in time for a 2 p.m. screening in Warner, N.H.

Warner (N.H.) Town Hall, which doubles as a movie theater.

• Sunday, Jan. 19: This event was on behalf of the New Hampshire Telephone Museum ("Where History Talks!"), which this year is pursuing a "Telephone Goes To The Movies" theme.

Sunday's program was a nod to silent comedies that somehow feature the telephone: Harold Lloyd's short 'Number, Please' (1920) and Buster Keaton's feature 'Seven Chances; (1925).

Why 'Seven Chances?' Because the whole plot of the film depends on a missed phone call, plus it has several fun scenes in phone booths and with telephone switchboard operators.

The screening was held in Warner Town Hall, which I'd never been in before but which proved ideal for silent film screenings: wooden floors, great acoustics, a big built-in screen, big but not too big.

Laura French, executive director of the Telephone Museum, greets the audience.

And with the Patriots out of the playoffs, our Sunday afternoon start time attracted a full house, which surprised me for this kind of one-off screening.

One other surprise: as I drove into town on Route 103, a large portable sign used for highway directions had been commandeered to promote "SILENT FILM AND LIVE MUSIC WITH JEFF RAPSIS"' Wow, my name in lights, New Hampshire style! (Also, when I went back afterwards to get a photo, it had already been turned off. Frugality, New Hampshire style!)

Great response to both films, with lots of big laughs in all the right places. Thanks for Laura French and Graham Gifford of the Telephone Museum for organizing a stellar program!

Buster times an egg in 'The Navigator' (1924).

• Monday, Jan. 20: And this was followed on Monday night with a screening of two nautical-themed comedies to benefit the Custom House Maritime Museum in Newburyport, Mass.

A silent film program there last year was popular enough for us to try another, this time moved to the nearby (and more spacious) Firehouse Center for the Arts.

On tap (a water reference!) was Buster Keaton's 'The Boat' (1921) followed by 'The Navigator' (1924).

Alas, when we booked this date some time ago, no one realized it was the third day of the three-day weekend caused by the observance of Martin Luther King Jr.'s birthday.

This might have cut into attendance somewhat. But still, about 40 people braved cold temperatures to see Buster on the high seas.

I had a good time doing music for 'The Navigator.' Using a handful of obvious sea-faring melodies (such as "Anchors Aweigh") to set the tone, I was able to build an entire score mostly out of variations of a simple tune that I've been developing as an all-purpose Keaton theme.

For the better part of an hour, the basic material of this melody was transformed in different ways into material that helped underline Buster's routines. Sometimes a graceful waltz, sometimes a steady march, sometimes arrhythmic doodlings — whatever seemed to suit the comedy on screen.

Afterwards, I received the highest complement possible: the museum's director told me for awhile she was so absorbed in the movie, she forgot the music was being made live.

So three days, three screenings in three very different settings, but which all seemed to hold the screen. Accompaniment in the year 2020 is so far off to a good start!

Next up is 'Underworld.' Here's the press release. Hope to see you there in Plymouth, N.H.!

* * *

Original promotional art for 'Underworld' (1927).

TUESDAY, JAN. 7, 2019 / FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Contact Jeff Rapsis • (603) 236-9237 • jeffrapsis@gmail.com

'Underworld' to screen with live music at Plymouth's Flying Monkey on Thursday, Jan. 23

Oscar-winning silent crime drama directed by Josef von Sternberg was forerunner of Hollywood 'gangster' movies

PLYMOUTH, N.H.—'Underworld' (1927), a silent drama that spurred a boom in 'gangster' movies, will be screened with live music on Thursday, Jan. 23 at 6:30 p.m. at the Flying Monkey Moviehouse and Performance Center, 39 South Main St., Plymouth, N.H.

The film will be accompanied live by silent film musician Jeff Rapsis. General admission is $10 per person.

'Underworld,' directed by Josef von Sternberg and starring George Bancroft, is notable for being the first major motion picture to portray a criminal in a sympathetic light instead of as a villain. Its popularity touched off a Prohibition-era boom in Hollywood gangster pictures that reached its peak following the stock market crash of 1929.

The story of 'Underworld' follows gangster Bull Weed (George Bancroft), who becomes entangled in a love triangle involving a reformed drunkard, “Rolls Royce” (Clive Brook) whom he takes on as his right-hand man, and Bull’s girlfriend “Feathers” (Evelyn Brent). Bull Weed's imprisonment leads to a dramatic climax.

Bancroft's performance in 'Underworld' set the stage for memorable characterizations of gangster protagonists by Jimmy Cagney ('Public Enemy,' 1931), Paul Muni ('Scarface,' 1932), and Edward G. Robinson ('Little Caesar,' 1930), which all follow directly on from the model created by 'Underworld.'

The film's script, by Chicago newspaperman Ben Hecht, earned an Oscar for Best Screenwriting at the first-ever Academy Awards. The film is also noted for director von Sternberg's innovative use of black-and-white photography, which presaged many film noir techniques in following decades.

Director Von Sternberg was obsessed by light, and developed methods of “painting” his compositions with the arrangements of lamps, scrims, and reflectors on the set. Today he is remembered most for having used that skill in a series of films he made with Marlene Dietrich, starting with 'The Blue Angel' (1930) and continuing in six more star vehicles made in Hollywood, including 'Morocco' (1930) and 'Shanghai Express' (1932).

A promotional poster for 'Underworld' (1927).

'Underworld' will be accompanied by live music by Jeff Rapsis, a New Hampshire-based silent film accompanist who performs at venues across the region and beyond.

Using a digital synthesizer to reproduce the texture of the full orchestra, Rapsis will improvise the score on the spot during the screening.

"Films such as 'Underworld' were created to be shown on the big screen and in a theater as a shared experience," Rapsis said. "With an audience and live music, they still come to life in the way their makers intended them to.

"So silent film screenings at the Flying Monkey are a great chance for people to experience films that caused people to first fall in love with the movies," he said.

'Underworld' is the latest in an monthly series of great silent films with live music at the Flying Monkey. Upcoming programs include:

• Wednesday, Feb. 12, 2020: 'The Navigator' (1924). Buster Keaton sets sail in his classic sea-faring comedy about a spoiled rich couple marooned all alone on a drifting ocean liner.

• Wednesday, March 11, 2020: 'Wild Horse Mesa' (1925). Adaptation of Zane Grey novel about a bankrupt rancher who tries trapping wild horses using barbed wire, with unforeseen consequences.

• Thursday, April 9, 2020: 'Ben Hur' (1925). In the Holy Land, a Jewish prince is enslaved by the occupying Romans; one of the great early Bibical epics, just in time for Easter!

• Thursday, May 7, 2020: 'Why Worry?' (1923). Rich hypochondriac Harold Lloyd gets more than he bargained for on a recuperative visit to a banana republic undergoing revolution.

• Thursday, June 18, 2020: Harry Houdini Double Feature. Rare surviving films from the great illusionist's brief movie career: 'Terror Island' (1920) and 'The Man From Beyond' (1922).

'Underworld' (1927) will be shown on Thursday, Jan. 23 at 6:30 p.m. at the Flying Monkey Moviehouse and Performance Center, 39 South Main St., Plymouth, N.H. Admission is $10 per person; for more info, call (603) 536-2551 or visit www.flyingmonkeynh.com.

Catching the train that never left: A report on my excellent on-the-road adventure

The glamorous Alicia Fletcher and yours truly at the Revue Cinema in Toronto.

Okay, I'm back from my "Pre-Holiday Midwest & Canada Silent Film Tour." And here's all the dirt I know you've been waiting for.

First, I want to thank the people who made this excellent adventure possible.

Too many to name every single one, but kudos to:

• Maggie Perrino and Bleu Pellman of the Carnegie Center in Covington, Ky.

• John Ewing and Tim Harry of the Cleveland Cinemateque.

• Alicia Fletcher, Craig Caron and Eric Veillette of the Revue Cinema in Toronto.

I came away impressed by all that they do, and inspired by their support of silent film with live music.

The good news is that each venue put on a first-class show for its patrons, from promotion to presentation.

And the bad news...well, there isn't any bad news. All screenings went off without a hitch.

Even the weather, which in this part of the world is a real roll of the dice in mid-December, was mild and pleasant throughout.

And no car trouble in 2,149 miles of driving. Heck, I even found gas for $1.67 a gallon in Ohio!

So it truly was an excellent adventure. Here's a day-by-day round-up for the record books:

• Wednesday, Dec. 9: Sometimes my double life as newspaper publisher and silent film accompanist merges into one. Like with this tour: it starts at noon with me bombing down I-93 for a couple of client visits in the Boston area prior to heading west. I promptly get stuck on the Southeast Expressway. Not a fast start.

Then it's out on the Mass. Pike (argh, now during rush hour!) to I-84, through Connecticut and New York and into Pennsylvania by evening. Dramatic arrival into downtown Pittsburgh at midnight via I-376 and the Squirrel Hill Tunnel. Finally pull into hotel (outside Pittsburgh Airport) sometime before 1 a.m.

Look at those elevation lines. What was I thinking?

• Thursday, Dec. 10: An early morning run of 7 miles through the streets for Coraopolis, Penn. allows me to claim Pennsylvania in my quest to run at least 10K in all 50 states.

Then it's onto the Carnegie, via I-70 through a sliver of West Virginia and finally into Ohio, where I find gas that $1.67-a-gallon gas.

I also find lunch at this place:

When in Rome...I had a "Schlepp Burger," which features Thousand Island dressing and costs $4.25. Why not?

Pulled into Cincinnati exactly on time for easy 4:30 p.m. load-in and set-up with Bleu Pellman, a veteran of my prior Carnegie appearance in 2013.

The Carnegie is across across the Ohio River from Cincinnati, so it's in Covington, Ky. Hence my accommodations at the Extended Stay in Covington, where I get to witness police intervene in a family squabble in a White Castle parking lot. Why do people need reality television when plain old reality is more than enough?

Just over 100 people attend the evening's "holiday" program, which includes extremely short early version of seasonal classics ("A Christmas Carol" in nine minutes!) and then the much more substantial 'Tess of the Storm Country' (1922), a Mary Pickford melodrama with a great Yuletide ending.

Introducing the films, I encouraged audience members not to hold back in reacting to the on-screen characters and action. And they sure didn't!

The two Edison holiday shorts (the other was 'Twas the Night Before Christmas') were greeted with a lot of hearty laughter, and cheers for the amazingly low-tech special effects used to bring Santa's sleigh ride to the screen in 1905. All this served to loosen things up for a truly epic response to "Tess."

There was hooting, hollering, cheering, booing, and laughter throughout. And as the film's story intensified, so did the response, to the point where I heard people openly sobbing during the final 20 minutes.

So it was one of those great silent film experiences where an audience gets absorbed by a story and characters, and then gets swept along as the drama deepens and the stakes rise.

All this was enhanced by the Carnegie's first-class presentation: a robust house A/V system, robust acoustics, and just the right size for silent film, I think: just big enough but not too big.

What the set-up at the Carnegie looks like; simple but effective. The keyboard is a little too prominent for my taste, but once the lights go down...

So it was one of those times where I played with an increasing sense that the audience was completely buying the whole experience.

Also, I had chosen some good material to work with, and the score came together in a way that punched up both the humor and the drama, I felt.

And so, after two hours of intense emotion, we all experienced the film's cathartic Christmastime ending with a kind of collective sigh of relief, me included.

Barefoot but not pregnant: Mary Pickford in 'Tess.'

It was one of those times where I think people weren't prepared for how absorbing a silent film can be, and were surprised to find out.

What a treat to do music to help this whole process come about. At the end, I found the big ovation gratifying, and can only hope Mary would have approved.

Afterwards, a nice group of people stayed in the theater to talk shop. Some big silent film fans in the Cincinnati area! So I hope to return again to this wonderful venue.

Covington: blocks and blocks of 19th century charm.

• Friday, Dec. 11: I awake to find it's still dark at 7 a.m., as we're in the far west of the Eastern Time Zone.

Still, I go out for a longish two-hour run through the scenic streets of Covington and Newport, Kentucky. It's in the 40s—mild but overcast, perfect for jogging.

While not the wealthiest part of Greater Cincinnati, this region has considerable charm. The area escaped urban renewal in prior generations, meaning it's still full of unique and older structures in various states of repair.

And "downtown" Covington—the area just across the river from Cincinnati's office towers—is funky enough to remind me of funky North Topeka, but about 20 times larger.

After adding Kentucky to my list of states in which I've run at least 10K, I hit the road for the Cleveland Cinematheque, which is on the other side of Ohio and about four hours away.

Along I-71, I get to see my favorite billboard: a huge sign right next to the road with the three words HELL IS REAL. "Yes," I think, "And depending on how people drive, I sometimes think we're in it."

I'm due in Cleveland at 3:30 p.m. My usually trusty GPS guides me there right on time, but it turns out to be the Cinematheque's former home, which it vacated this past summer for new digs.

Fortunately, the new home isn't far away, and long-time director John Ewing is waiting outside for me.

A local legend among cinephiles, Ewing has led the Cinematheque since its founding in 1985. Under his guidance, the Cleveland area has enjoyed three decades of sustained access to a wide range of pictures that aren't likely to play at your local multiplex anytime soon.

We're talking foreign films, documentaries, classics and cult films, and independent features that often struggle to find theatrical venues or an audience. But not in Cleveland, where the eclectic tastes of Ewing and his staff keep the screen lit up year in and year out with compelling cinema.

That includes silent films, and Ewing was kind enough to invite me to accompany two programs over two days: first a holiday program featuring Laurel & Hardy's 'Big Business' (1929) and Harry Langdon's seldom-seen feature 'Three's A Crowd' (1927) on Friday, Dec. 11, followed by 'Passing Fancy' (1933), the final silent film from Japanese director Yasujiro Ozu.

These were packed into a crowded bill of other fare, all shown at the Cinematheque's very spiffy new 300-seat theater at the Cleveland Institute of Art, its parent organization.

The place has its own very nice grand piano (I forget the make), but I had planned synthesizer scores for both programs, so opted for that. There was no way to plug into the house sound, but my pair of trusty Rolands were up to the task of filling the room when necessary.

A rather low-light cell phone pic of the set-up at the Cleveland Cinematheque.

We had a good house on hand for the Langdon program, and reaction was huge for Laurel & Hardy's 'Big Business' (1929), shown from a 16mm print and accompanied by a farrago of variations on "O Christmas Tree," with a little "Take Me Out To The Ballgame" thrown in when Ollie begin hitting hurled crockery with a shovel.

The Langdon film seemed to puzzle the audience, which wasn't a surprise. He was really stretching for Chaplinesque pathos in 'Three's A Crowd,' but in surviving versions (including the 35mm print from the Rohauer collection we were running) there's enough disjointed material to throw people off and keep the movie from jelling.

For instance: near the beginning, what's all the business about that note delivered by a bird? Either something's missing, or Langdon (who directed and supervised this release) missed the mark by a country mile and was content to release the film as is.

Langdon stranded on his metaphorical staircase in 'Three's A Crowd' (1928).

Still, I did what I could with music to keep the film glued together so what really does work had a chance to connect. Once a newborn child enters his life, Langdon does some of his best pantomime ever, and I hoped very deliberate underscoring would help bring it out.

It worked, somewhat. But there's one sequence where Langdon is so caught up in gazing at the child and mother that he absent-mindedly fashions a diaper into a complete fruit pie ready for baking. I set this as the test: if it didn't get a big reaction, I had somehow missed something.

Well, the moment came. And it earned at most a polite chortle, not the belly laugh I was hoping for. Well, maybe that's Langdon after all.

Although not a conventional film, Langdon did amp things up for a final "dream/nightmare" sequence, which allowed me to push the score into big and busy territory. I was pleased with how I was able to keep the different melodic cues under control as I cranked up the pace.

It all came together quite effectively, I think, giving 'Three's A Crowd' at least a fighting chance—an apt metaphor considering the boxing ring that features so prominently in the dream/nightmare.

Lots of thoughtful comments from people afterwards in the lobby, where a giant tin of hard candy encourages patrons to linger.

Afterwards, John was kind enough to join me in strolling over to Cleveland's Little Italy, right behind the Cinematheque along Mayfield Road. I enjoyed my first beer of the trip, a Peroni, at Mamma Santa's (how appropriate with Christmas two weeks away) while John had Piselli, a curious dish made with peas that I'd never heard of before. (But then how many people in Cleveland have had gorton?)

I was staying in the Indigo, a place out by I-271 about a half-hour from the theater. This meant leisurely drives through some of Cleveland's ritziest neighborhoods, with home after home looking more like it belonged in Beverly Hills, not in a city famous for the river once catching fire. (I know, that was long ago.)

L'Albatros Brasserie in the University Circle neighborhood of Cleveland.

• Saturday, Dec. 12: Although the weather continued mild, fear of overdoing it plus a strong wireless signal led me to cancel another long run in favor of actually getting some work done while on the road. My other life leads to such situations as an hour-long conference call with the office in New Hampshire while I'm looking for Interstate 70 in Pennsylvania.

And after days of quick meals (including one at the White Castle in Covington, a rare treat), I thought it was time for some serious food. Turns out Cleveland's best French restaurant is L'Albatros Brasserie, located in an old carriage house within easy walking distance of the Cinematheque.

I arrived at 3 p.m., and for the next 90 minutes I just could not believe the food that came out of that kitchen. The main dish was a shoulder of lamb served in a bowl over polenta with about a half-dozen different vegetables mixed in. But I couldn't resist trying the braised leeks with mustard, or the roasted red pepper potage, or...well, you get the idea.

Since this blog is about movies, you might understand how I began thinking of what happened to Mr. Creosote in Monty Python's 'The Meaning of Life' (1983). I dreaded the idea of a server resembling John Cleese offering me one "way-fair thin mint" for dessert.

A picture of me at L'Albatros.

But instead, I had the mixed berries with cream fraiche, and waddled out of there under my own power. I hope John invites me back just so I can eat there again and again!

Prior to the Ozu, the Cinematheque was running 'Tokyo Ga' (1984) a documentary about Ozu's Tokyo that German filmmaker Wim Wenders made in 1984. Little known but recently restored, I thought it proved a terrific lead-in to 'Passing Fancy.' Ewing and his team put together a program with all the finesse at the nearby Albatross. (There I go again.)

Speaking of food: in a sequence worthy of Ozu, Wenders devoted extended footage to visiting a shop where artisans create the astonishingly real fake food shown in glass cases outside virtually all Japanese restaurants. Even after over-eating, I felt like having a bowl of ramen.

But what really caught my eye in his documentary was how it opened with him on the plane to Japan. Wenders admitted he didn't like watching movies on airplanes (I feel the same way), but then he couldn't take his eyes off the film that was playing at the front of the cabin. (This was in the days before seatback video.)

So he filmed a small bit of the film right there in the plane, making it look ridiculous, and pointing out how inferior it was to the magical view out the window. (Without, however, bringing up the point that we all can't get window seats.)

Me, I couldn't help but notice that the in-flight movie we glimpsed only briefly was 'On Golden Pond,' filmed at Squam Lake in New Hampshire. Wow—I drive all the way to Cleveland to see a German documentary from 30 years ago in which there's a glimpse of where I came from.

For the Ozu film, I used the same harp-and-plucked-strings synthesizer setting I employed for another Ozu film, 'I Was Born, But...' at the Harvard Film Archive last year, and also some of the same melodic material, too. I felt it went well with Ozu's world, and this was a chance to develop it further. Plus recycling is good for the environment.

A scene from Yasujiro Ozu's 'Passing Fancy' (1933).

Somewhat like the Langdon, I feel it's really important with Ozu not to overplay. His films are all about character nuance, and about weaving a story into the patterns of daily life: getting up, eating, going to work or school, and so on.

So you can't come in with a Japanese version of the 'Star Wars' main title theme or anything like that.

And for that matter, you really can't come in with something too obviously "Eastern" sounding, either, I think.

Otherwise you risk putting the film in a box (the "old Japanese film that has nothing in common with my life today" box) instead of letting an audience get absorbed by the movie's more timeless qualities, of which there are many if you allow them in.

So I didn't employ the stereotypical pentatonic scale, either, nor did I limit myself to modal Asian-sounding cadences.

Instead, I took a Mozartian approach, using many very simple chord progressions with a slowed-down "Alberti" bass. Melodies were diatonic, though spiced with sharped fourths and flatted sevenths to create a kind of impish quality, I hope.

Long-time Cleveland Cinematheque director John Ewing and I after the Ozu screening and prior to ice cream.

Attendance was less than Langdon, but the room was strongly pro-Ozu, you could tell. So I was really pleased afterwards to receive compliments on the music, including the much-sought-after "I forgot someone was playing the music live" remark. Thank you, Cleveland!

And to top it off, John and wife Kathy brought me across the street for ice cream. Picking out a flavor, I felt like their overgrown teenage kid. Not bad for 51 years old!

"All out for the Revue Cinema of Toronto, Canada!"

• Sunday, Dec. 13: To make up for yesterday's massive indulgence at L'Albatross, I began the day with a somewhat shorter run (just an hour) through the suburban office parks of Beachwood, Ohio, which to my surprise have sidewalks!

They also have hermetically sealed glass office buildings set amid enormous parking lots and acres of open grass "landscaping," with eateries such as PIADA attached to them.

Piada is "Italian Street Food," the sign says. I look around the boulevards, deserted on a bleak Sunday morning, and wonder if any street in Italy looks like where I am.

But then it's a mad dash to the Canadian border, as today I'm scheduled to make my INTERNATIONAL DEBUT at 4 p.m. at the Revue Cinema in Toronto.

So I point the Subaru Forester northeast, and prepared to zig-zag my way through the Niagara Falls area and engage in a cross-border raid on Toronto, allowing 90 minutes for the chronically clogged international crossing.

My route takes me through industrial Buffalo and then over the Peace Bridge, which to my surprise is almost as deserted as the office park outside Cleveland.

Here's what I expected at the border, which I found much quieter than expected.

After waiting for just one car ahead of me, I pull up to the Canadian customs kiosk, where a friendly officer seems ready to wave me through.

And he almost does, but then suddenly turns serious and asks in all capital letters, "DO YOU HAVE A HANDGUN IN THE CAR WITH YOU?"

I say no, and he says, "ARE YOU SURE?" with the last word in bold.

I again say no, which prompts him to revert to the person he was and say "Have a nice day, then."

And I am in Canada, where the highway is named for the Queen and the speed limits are much higher than in the states.

(Yes, I know about kilometers. Just practicing my dumb American act in case I get stopped. My wife would tell me I don't really need to practice.)

I cruise into Toronto about three hours early (amazing!), the car radio tuned to all-news 680 AM. Yes, AM radio. Hey, I'm a silent film guy, so I tend to be behind the curve in a lot of things.

The forecaster on duty is soft-spoken Harold Hosein, the most Canadian meteorologist I ever expect to hear. He sounds like a guy who would spend time in a cabin in Labrador checking the temperature every hour and writing it down, which is exactly what I want in a Canadian meteorologist.

I find the Revue Cinema in the midst of a tightly packed neighborhood that wouldn't need to change much to be the setting for a movie in the 1940s. Streetcars already in place and ready for their cue.

A classic moviehouse that first opened in 1911, the Revue has been recently rescued and rehabbed and revitalized by a dedicated crew of cinephiles. They run it as a non-profit and program a little bit of everything.

In addition to contemporary flicks, the current brochure also outlines programs such as the "Drunk Feminist" film series, which I'd like to attend one of these days.

And they're also crazy enough to run silent films with live music, a series curated by local experts/fanatics Alicia Fletcher and Craig Caron.

Alicia happened to be in Boston earlier this year when I accompanied Abel Gance's 'J'Accuse' (1919) at the Harvard Film Archive. We didn't meet then, but it led to her interest in having me stop by Toronto sometime if accompaniment was called for.

Today's program is Fritz Lang's 'Woman in the Moon' (1929), and this is why I'm now cruising for a parking space on a side street and hoping I can use their bathroom even though I'm three hours early.

Strolling on the lunar surface in Fritz Lang's 'Woman in the Moon' (1929).

At the Revue, I meet Eric Veillette, who describes himself as a "recovering journalist" and who manages the place.

About which: with more than a century of movie-going to its credit, the Revue has character. It's all you'd ever want in a movie theater, I think: just imagine the opposite of everything you'd find at a chain-owned multiplex, and you'll probably come up with something close to the Revue.

What the inside of the Revue Cinema looks like, courtesy the theater's Web site.

I don't know what it says about me, but I can somehow sense when a theater has been well-loved. Somehow, there's something about decades of movie screenings that accumulates over time. (And I'm not talking about the sticky floors.) There's a kind of magic that slowly takes hold, and eventually becomes palpable.

I felt that in the lobby of the Revue. Or maybe it was just that I had to use the bathroom. (Which, by the way, also had character.)

Being part of a dense cityscape, the Revue is not blessed with plenty o'free parking. To load in, I had to navigate up a narrow dead-end alley used by restaurants that do a lot of frying, judging from the grease barrels out back. Ah, the glamour of show biz!

But Eric and Alicia helped muscle my gear down the steep concrete slope into the theater, and set-up went quickly. It had to, as there wasn't too much time between films.

I began playing to warm up, and the next thing I knew, Alicia was on stage welcoming everyone. And boom, off we went!

The version of 'Woman in the Moon' was a 16mm print of the abridged version, which runs a little over two hours.

Basically, a great deal of the "conspiracy" plot is missing, and we get right to Lang's impressive launch sequence.

It all seemed to go well. But having played for the longer version many times now, I can see how viewers of the condensed version might not understand what Lang and his collaborator Thea von Harbou were trying to achieve.

Still, you could tell the audience was into it, and things really came together once the cast made their ton-of-bricks landing on the lunar surface, where the air is breathable and gold is there for the taking, of course.

Despite the lack of exposition, it seemed logical (and perhaps helpful) to use distinctive themes for each of the characters. And I was able to layer it all into a grand symphonic texture that held together pretty well in the big moments, I thought.

Great ending, big ovation, thank you very much. And the next thing I knew, we were out among the grease barrels loading out my equipment. And then, after a quick dinner at a place next to the theater, I was walking Alicia to her streetcar stop before hitting the road myself. Bye!

It was 8 p.m. in Toronto, and I was due back at work in New Hampshire first thing Monday morning. Who planned this, anyway? (I know the answer.)

So off I went, crossing back into the U.S. without any problem ("Sure, sure, you're a silent film musician.") and driving as far as Syracuse before stopping for some shuteye at a Super 8 motel one exit away from the long-time home of Cinefest, where I've been fortunate enough to play many times.

Weird to have come so far, and to still have so far to go, but to be so familiar with the area.

As I crashed, I thought about something I mentioned to Alicia after the movie.

In thanking her for the engagement, I wanted her to know that at this point in my life, I never expected to be making music in this way, and for it to be heard and enjoyed (I hope) by so many people.

I once felt that for me, the music train had left the station a long, long time ago.

But it hadn't. The train was there all the time. I had just wandered out of the station for awhile, that's all.

And now that I am making music in places like Covington, Cleveland, and Toronto, and so many other places, I can't help but be grateful for the support and encouragement of everyone who made it possible.

That includes the people who arranged these shows, and the people who read this blog, and all the audiences I've played for.

It's been a great year. And I'm really looking forward to more excellent adventures in 2016 and beyond.