Notes on Gloria Swanson's 'Manhandled' plus fried pickles at the Kansas Silent Film Festival

Promo art for 'Manhandled' starring Gloria Swanson.

We enjoyed a surprisingly strong turnout for Gloria Swanson in 'Manhandled' (1924) yesterday at the Town Hall Theatre in Wilton, N.H.

Something like 100 people came to see this rarely screened feature. It was the first time I've accompanied it.

I try to occasionally program lesser-known features just to give them a chance on the big screen, and to see how audiences react.

And 'Manhandled' was of particular interest because it figures quite prominently in an interview Gloria gave to a young Roger Ebert in 1967.

The result? Well, 'Manhandled' generated some laughs and held people's attention throughout. But alas, it's no 'Way Down East.'

Personally, I found it to be pretty weak tea—shop girl Gloria, propelled by misunderstandings with her beau Tom Moore, has misadventures in high society.

Yes, there's some tension between the once-happy couple, but no real drama until the film's final minutes.

And then it amounts to a simple misunderstanding which is promptly cleared up by a simple walk down the hall.

I think the story would have worked better if Gloria and Tom truly broke up at the beginning. Then the misadventures that followed, which enabled both to understand how much they truly meant to each other, would have resulted in a more satisfying experience. But that's just me.

Still, there's a lot to look at: the film was shot at Paramount's studios in Astoria, N.Y. (across the river from Manhattan), and Gloria's opening adventures on the 1920s NYC subway are a highlight.

Gloria's struggles with the subway are a highlight of 'Manhandled.'

Sequences in a big department store where Gloria works have a "look at how they did that!" quality similar to the scenes in Harold Lloyd's 'Safety Last,' made a year earlier. In fact, Gloria does some of the exact same business Lloyd did, such as cutting a garment in two to quell a pair of contentious customers.

But fair is fair: Lloyd's own N.Y.C. subway scenes in 'Speedy' (1928) have much the same feel as Gloria's in 'Manhandled.'

Next up for me: the Kansas Silent Film Festival this weekend in Topeka, Kansas. It's the 21st consecutive year I've attended this gathering, which remains a personal favorite and an annual performance calendar highlight.

Why? Mostly because of the people, I think.

By that, I mean the festival is geared toward the general public rather than the specialized cinema community, although people do travel from faraway places to attend. (Look at me!)

Because it's free, they attracts hundreds of people of all ages, most of whom are local folks ready to enjoy something different. So it's a rare chance to see films designed for the general public shown for exactly that same general audience all these years later. Think of how unusual that is.

But it's also about the people who stage the festival. From that first snowy morning in March 2000 when I wandered into Washburn University's White Concert Hall, I felt welcomed by everyone connected with this festival. Everyone was eager say hello and welcome a stranger, who at the time was thinking about writing a book set during the silent era. (It's something I'm still thinking about.

By the end of the day, I was carrying a pile of 16mm prints in my rental car to the afterglow at the old 'Holidome' on Fairlawn Boulevard.

And then there's this: I came to the Kansas festival at a time when my life was changing. It was a period of transition—a time when I was laying the groundwork to start what would become a successful business. And that became the foundation for a lot of other adventures.

So even now, two decades later, I continue to draw inspiration from visiting Topeka at this time of the year. Films from a century ago somehow kindle and rekindle a sense of future possibilities. And spring is not that far away.

That first year, on my own, I found the Hanover Pancake House in downtown Topeka. On a whim, I had the breaded fried pickle spears, a curious item I'd never had before. It made quite an impression. So the next year, I returned, and had the pickle spears again. And each year thereafter: breaded fried pickle spears.

The iconic Hanover Pancake House in downtown Topeka.

I came to think of it as my personal "Ritual of Creative Renewal." Somehow, breaded fried pickle spears at the Hanover Pancake House in downtown Topeka came to symbolize the promise and limitless possibilities of the future.

Alas, last year (on my 20th consecutive visit), I was crestfallen to find that after all this time and continuity, pickle spears been removed from the menu. Nooooo!

After recovering from the shock, I comforted myself with thoughts about the impermanence of life, and felt glad I still had the hot pickles at Porubsky's (another local delicacy) to carry on my ritual.

And on a larger scale, the Hanover Pancake House itself was the result of the great 1966 tornado that destroyed a large part of downtown Topeka. It, and its parking lot, sprouted from the rubble. How's that for a lesson in impermanence?

Well, this year, whaddaya know? Turns out the Hanover Pancake House has reinstated fried breaded pickle spears. After a one-year hiatus, I can renew my ritual of creative renewal. Hooray!

You know, it's true: sometimes you don't know what you've got until it's gone. But then that makes it all the sweeter if it returns.

Or, in the case of pickles, all the more sour!

Sunday, Sept. 29, 2013: Day 6 on the road / Topeka, Kansas

The Hanover Pancake House in Topeka, Kansas.

Here's a post that's not really about silent film. We'll see.

Driving back from the Keaton Celebration in Iola, Kansas to Kansas City, I stopped in Topeka for lunch at the Hanover Pancake House, a local restaurant to which I have a strange attachment.

This is where I came for lunch all by myself one rainy Saturday back in March, 2000, during my first visit to the Kansas Silent Film Festival.

I had just seen Buster Keaton's 'The Cameraman' (1928) with live music from the Mont Alto Motion Picture Orchestra, which I'd never heard live before.

The picture resonated with me profoundly for many reasons, but mostly because it reawakened me to the immense possibilities that are all around us if we're just creative enough to recognize them.

I was at a low ebb and it was exactly what I needed.

By the way, I've just read the most perceptive analysis of 'The Cameraman' I've ever encountered. It's by a young cinema enthusiast and blogger I met earlier this month in Brandon, Vt., and it's really, really worthwhile and filled with insightful comments. Check it out.

So there I was, sitting in a booth as rain pelted the window, a sense of optimism and even excitement about life growing within me thanks to the film I'd just come 1,000 miles to see.

I picked up the menu and saw something unexpected: fried and breaded pickle spears. Really? Why not?

And so they came: five of them, with a small dish of ranch dressing. I didn't know what to expect, just as I didn't know what to expect from the Kansas Silent Film Festival, but went anyway.

I found I really liked fried pickles. And ever since, they've been synonymous with rebirth and renewal. And not just any fried pickles, but the way they do them at the Hanover Pancake House, which is unusual: they serve complete spears, each breaded and fried, with the pickle inside often too hot to eat for a little while.

I went back to the festival, made new friends, and started on a fresh path that eventually led to founding a new business and so many other things. Somehow the Kansas Silent Film Festival and the Hanover Pancake House became tangible touchstones of renewal and positive energy for me.

So of course I went back, both to the festival and to the Hanover Pancake House, which hasn't changed (except there's now no smoking) and the fried pickles, which they continue to carry. And I went back not just once, but every since year since. (And sometimes in the off-season, such as this pit stop.) We all need our rituals, and this has become one of mine.

And it's odd that a restaurant that hasn't changed, seemingly, since it opened in 1969, would emerge as a personal symbol of renewal. But it did, and it felt right, and I just accepted that as one more random aspect of life that need not conform to some pattern or expectation. Why should it have to? Not everything needs to be explained, you know.

But a few years ago, I saw a photo of the the aftermath of the great F5 tornado that struck Topeka in 1966. It came at the city from the southwest, destroying a lot of Washburn University (home of the silent film festival) and carving a wide swath of devastation right up to the southern part of Topeka's downtown on Kansas Ave.

In fact, right up to where the Hanover Pancake House was.

The large cement water tower survived the tornado and still stands today. The Hanover Pancake House is located right across the street in the photo on the right.

And then it all made sense. I had wondered why Topeka's old downtown core just stopped on the south end, giving way to a random collection of low buildings and open spaces, including the Hanover Pancake House. Now I knew. It was because the whole area had been wiped off the map in 1966.

Talk about a place for renewal!

I pondered this during my off-season visit while the staff coped with a gigantic church group that arrived in two vans. It was Sunday, and the church-goers had already had their religious experience. As the fried pickles came out, I was just about to have mine.