Ted Healy and his 3 Stooges, Howard Fine and Howard...
...filmed scenes together for 1933's "Stage Mother" but they were cut. All that survived...
...was this one brief glimpse of Larry on his own for the only time without Moe.
Video by Porfle Popnecker. I neither own nor claim any rights to this material. Just having some fun with it. Thanks for watching!
One of the earliest screen appearances of The Three Stooges was a substantial role in the 1933 comedy-musical "Myrt and Marge."
They were still being billed as "Howard, Fine, and Howard."
And they were still the "stooges" of top banana Ted Healy.
Video by Porfle Popnecker. I neither own nor claim any rights to this material. Just having some fun with it. Thanks for watching!
"Love Happy" was conceived as a solo vehicle for Harpo.
But, as usual, Chico needed the money. And Groucho got lured into it too.
Before it was over, the producers were short on cash as well... ...and sold ad-space in the movie.
Thus, the big chase finale is wall-to-wall product placement.
(See if you can spot the blooper in the Mobilgas shot at 1:15.)
I neither own nor claim any rights to this material. Just having some fun with it. Thanks for watching!
You expect to see things flying around in a Three Stooges comedy.
But sometimes those things didn't really "fly" as much as they...floated? Anyway, it just sorta adds to the comedy!
Here are the Three Stooges shorts used in this video and their release years:
Pardon My Scotch – 1935
Yes, We Have No Bonanza – 1939
Spooks! – 1953
Pardon My Backfire – 1953
Video by Porfle Popnecker. I neither own nor claim any rights to this material. Just having some fun with it. Thanks for watching!
Here are the times when old footage of Curly and Shemp (and their stand-ins) was used in later Joe Besser remakes. They're in order of the Joe shorts. Can you think of any I missed? The ones used are: Oily To Bed, Oily To Rise (1939) Oil's Well That Ends Well (1958) He Cooked His Goose (1952) Triple Crossed (1959) What's The Matador? (1942) Sappy Bullfighters (1959) Video by Porfle Popnecker. I neither own nor claim any rights to this material. Just having some fun with it. Thanks for watching!
Three Stooges' remakes often used the same footage for their endings...
...but sometimes unrelated non-remakes did too.
And in at least one case the ending was identical!
Video by Porfle Popnecker. I neither own nor claim any rights to this material. Just having some fun with it. Thanks for watching!
This scene from the 2008 comedy "Coopers' Christmas" teaches a valuable lesson: if you're Poppy, you should never let your guard down around Dougie.
(Caution: something violent happens)
Video by Porfle Popnecker. I neither own nor claim any rights to this material. Just having some fun with it. Thanks for watching!
Originally posted on 10/5/11
Here's the bottom line--if you have the same sense of humor that I do, you'll love SNUFF BOX: THE COMPLETE SERIES, the six-episode sketch comedy series starring British comedian Matt Berry and American comedian Rich Fulcher. However, if you don't have the same sense of humor that I do, then this review is probably the closest you'll ever want to ever get to it, ever ever ever.
Another condition--it will help if you're a fan of things like "Monty Python's Flying Circus", "Mr. Show", "Kids in the Hall", and various other showcases for surrealistic silliness and illogical irreverence. But since this show isn't taped in front of a live audience and uses cinema-style photography and editing, Berry and Fulcher are able to let their imaginations drift through the same kind of demented mental landscape from which things like "Alice in Wonderland" emerge.
As a framing device, the boys live in a posh gentlemen's club started by Matt's great-uncle Sir Charles Berry and carry on his family business of hanging people at the local prison. Most episodes, in fact, begin with a humorous hanging (Condition #3: must enjoy humorous hangings, Russian roulette, and other lighthearted but graphic violence) after which we join Matt and Rich in the club's lounge, establishing the storyline from which the various comedy sketches are, if you'll pardon the expression, hung.
(I wrote this short story way back in 2008. While entirely fictional, I like to think that it could have happened, or perhaps even should have happened.)
Back when I was Christopher Walken's personal chef, I never knew
what random horrors each day would bring. I remember one day in
particular, in which Mr. Walken sat in his darkened study, lost in one of
his strange, pensive moods. He summoned me just as the grandfather clock
in the drafty hallway struck noon.
I stood there, awaiting his orders, for quite a long time. He sat in a
large leather-bound chair, hands pressed together under his chin, as
though pondering his options with grave consideration. Finally, in his
familiar low, halting voice, he spoke.
"I would like...the Buggles," he said. "For lunch."
"The Buggles?" I repeated, not sure I'd understood. "You mean, the 80s 'new wave' musical duo?"
"Yes, exactly," he said, relieved that I was familiar with them. A
slight smile played upon his lips as he nodded, relishing some mental
image that I daren't even imagine.
I wasn't sure what to say. Where the hell had this idea come from? "The
Buggles broke up a long time ago," I informed him. "They're, uh, not a
duo anymore."
"Then..." he said thoughtfully, "you could get...the ingredients for the Buggles...and make some new ones."
I thought about this seemingly nonsensical request for a moment, when
suddenly the horrifying truth dawned on me. By "ingredients", he meant
that he wanted me to kidnap Trevor Horn and Geoffrey Downes, the
original members of the Buggles, and cook them for lunch. His lunch.
"I can't do that," I said firmly. "I...I won't do that. They're human
beings, not just 'ingredients' for some ghastly lunch for you." I
cringed, waiting for him to explode in a fit of anger, or at least send
me packing.
"Oh," he said softly, as though my words had actually made some kind of
sense to him. "Okay. Well, then...I'm not sure what other...lunch
options...are available to me. Let's go into the kitchen and...explore
them. Shall we?" He rose from his chair and waited for me to lead him
into the kitchen, since he had no idea where it was. So I did.
When we got there, he gazed around in silent wonder at all the utensils
and appliances. Finally, he spoke. "Where do you keep...the people?" he
asked, gesturing with his hands.
"The people? What people?" I inquired, baffled.
"The people that you cook," he explained. "Where...do you store them
before preparing them...for my meals?" He asked this as though it were
the most normal thing in the world.
Forcing back a retching wave of hot bile, I contained my revulsion long
enough to respond. "I don't cook people!" I exclaimed. "I cook food!
FOOD! Nobody cooks PEOPLE! That's HORRIBLE!"
He looked at me with a sort of serene puzzlement for a moment, then
shrugged. He noticed something on the counter. "What is that?"
"That," I said, grateful for the change of subject, "is a sandwich that I made for my own lunch."
"Ah," he said, amazed. "A...sandwich. Could you make one of those...for me?"
"Sure," I said, relieved. "What kind of sandwich would you like?
"Are there...different kinds?"
"Oh, yes," I said. "You can put whatever you want in a sandwich. Any
kind of meat, in addition to things like tomatoes, lettuce, cheese,
pickles--"
"Make me," he said with growing excitement, "a Buggles sandwich."
I slapped my forehead. "No...no, you don't understand," I said, exasperated. "You can't--"
"With some of that pickles and...er, cheese things that you indicated,"
he added. "And I...I really am hungry today, so...make me two of these
Buggles sandwiches. Each of them containing half...of each separate
Buggle. With cheese." He took a deep breath and stood back with his
mouth open, eagerly waiting for me to confirm my understanding of his
instructions.
"Look, Mr. Walken," I said, finally tiring of this charade and spelling
it out for him, slowly and plainly. "I cannot and WILL not cook people
for you to eat for lunch, or for any other meal. You're asking me to
commit MURDER, for heaven's sake...so that YOU can indulge in
cannibalism, one of the most utterly HEINOUS acts a person can commit.
Why, the very notion of this fills me with an inutterable HORROR which I
can scant express with mere words!" I leaned wearily against the
counter, drained by my emotional turmoil.
He thought about this for a long time, then held up his index finger and
began to speak. "Are you...trying to tell me..." he said slowly, a look
of concern on his face, "that we...are out of cheese?"
"NO!" I screamed. "WE'RE OUT OF BUGGLES! YOU'LL HAVE TO EAT SOMETHING ELSE!"
"Ah," he nodded, appearing to understand me at last. I waited anxiously,
fearfully, for his next words. He extended his arm so that his sleeve
would retract and reveal his wristwatch. He looked at it, furrowing his
brow. "It's five minutes after twelve," he announced. "Is my lunch ready
yet?"
"No," I said. "You told me you wanted the Buggles for lunch, and I told
you I could not and would not kidnap and cook them for you. Therefore,
you have yet to present me with a viable alternative meal to prepare for
you."
"I understand," he affirmed. "Well, then," he said breezily, "I'll just
invite some friends over for lunch, and you can cook some of them." He
pulled an address book out of his pocket, went over to the phone, and
began calling people while I simply stared at him in disbelief. Thirty
minutes later, the livingroom was filled with guests milling around
drinking cocktails.
"There's Meryl Streep," he said to me in a low voice, pointing. "I'd
like some spaghetti and Streep balls as an appetizer. And over there,"
he added, indicating a gentleman standing next to the Picasso, "is
Dennis Hopper. As an entree, I'd like some thick, juicy Dennis Hopper
steaks. Ribeyes, of course."
"Of course," I said wearily.
"And to snack on...umm, who's left...oh, just do something fun with
Steven Spielberg. Maybe a sort of festive meatloaf. Or some jerky. But
you'd better hurry, because he never stays long."
"So...I just slaughter them now?" I asked.
"Yes, yes, just slaughter them now," he urged. "I'm famished."
Steeling myself, I clutched the meat cleaver and began to inch forward.
Suddenly a wave of hysteria swept through me and I screamed at the top
of my lungs: "NO! NO! I WON'T DO IT! I WON'T SLAUGHTER AND COOK
HOLLYWOOD'S ELITE FOR YOUR LUNCH!"
With that, I flung the meat cleaver aside and ran shrieking from the
room. On my way out, I could hear Mr. Walken explain to his guests,
"Well, you just can't get good help these days."
Later, he found me hiding in the kitchen, trembling. He noticed my
sandwich sitting uneaten on the counter. "Are you...going to eat that?"
he asked.
"No, you can have it," I said in a quavering voice. "I couldn't bear to eat anything right now."
He picked up half of the sandwich and took a bite. "Mmm, this is very good," he appraised. "Who is it?"
It was Underwood Chicken Spread, but I lied. "It's Tom Cruise. I got a good deal on the cast of TOP GUN at the meat market."
And so, for the next several weeks, I gave Christopher Walken chicken
spread sandwiches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and told him that we
were working our way through the entire cast of TOP GUN. When that was
over, I switched to deviled ham and told him we were starting in on PULP
FICTION. This eventually presented a problem, since I'd forgotten that
he was in it. So one day, two weeks into PULP FICTION, he asked, "When
do I get to eat me for lunch?" Thinking fast, I opened up a can of Spam
and pointed at it. "This is you," I said. "Oh...I look good," he
drooled.
