Laughter is no laughing matter

The film-concerts at Palazzetto Bru Zane have become a staple for Venetian audiences throughout the year, and a global event like Carnival certainly cannot be missed. Indeed, it offers the perfect occasion to give these performances an even deeper meaning, as shown by the three concerts dedicated to Buster Keaton’s cinema on February 6, 7, and 8. We spoke with professor, journalist, and film historian Marco Bellano, a key figure behind these events.

Silent cinema, in truth, was never truly “silent.”
Indeed, during the silent era, the link between music and film operated according to principles completely different from those we take for granted today. What English speakers call silent cinema was never actually silent: the spaces where films were shown were filled with noise: laughter, commentary, vendors calling out, children crying, applause, and even spontaneous singing. Yet the absence of spoken words brought about remarkable freedom: it allowed performers to create inventive and unexpected pairings between sound and image. In many cases, musicians simply drew on their personal repertoire, choosing pieces according to the atmosphere they perceived on screen. A tender scene might inspire a nocturne; a chase sequence might call for a lively march. Changes, transitions, or dramatic shifts were often handled through improvisation. This practice, however, was not always refined or carefully curated. We know from accounts (including those of Dmitri Shostakovich, who worked as a cinema pianist in his youth) that musicians often endured exhausting shifts. Under such conditions, mismatches between music and image became inevitable, sometimes producing unintentionally comic or jarring results. Around 1908, attempts to systematize the practice began. Journals started publishing musical “cue sheets,” suggesting specific pieces for particular films. During the 1910s and especially the 1920s, full catalogues dedicated to film accompaniment emerged. These were organized by character or mood: a “romantic” section for love scenes, a “mysterious” one for suspense, a “tragic” one for moments of grief. Original scores written expressly for films also appeared, such as Camille Saint Saëns’s music for L’Assassinat du duc de Guise (1908) and Gottfried Huppertz’s celebrated soundtrack for Metropolis (1927). Yet such works were exceptions. They were costly, ambitious projects created for prestigious screenings rather than everyday use.

Your collaboration with the Centre de musique romantique française.
It began in 2012, when I was invited to take part in Romantici in erba, an educational initiative aimed at younger students. My task was to prepare listening guides and pedagogical activities designed for primary and middle school classes visiting Palazzetto Bru Zane. These groups would attend concerts conceived expressly for them, performed by musicians and moderators with strong educational backgrounds. For the 2016–2017 season, I proposed a new project: an educational concert cantered on the shadow theatre of the iconic Parisian cabaret Le Chat Noir. Using videos created from original silhouettes and music by Georges Fragerolle, pianist Gabriele Dal Santo and vocalist Alberto Spadarotto brought the experience to life. This marked the first step toward what would become the cine concert series.

This year’s Carnival cine concerts are dedicated to Buster Keaton.
Just as we honoured Chaplin last year, we wished to pay tribute to another monumental figure of silent comedy. The connection with Carnival operates on several levels: laughter, the joy of play, the overturning of everyday norms, and the idea of the mask. Keaton’s face – impassive, stoic, unchanging – functions as a perfect mask, earning him nicknames such as “Great Stone Face.” Another practical reason is that the films chosen for the program have recently undergone major restorations, many overseen or guided by the Cineteca di Bologna, a global authority in this field.

Your shortlist.
We focused on Keaton’s golden period, between 1920 and 1928, when he enjoyed artistic freedom thanks to his collaboration with independent producer Joseph M. Schenck. Though he sometimes shared directing and writing credits with figures such as Edward Cline and Clyde Bruckman, Keaton was in essence the true author of these works. Our selection includes several of his finest two reelers: One Week (1920), Neighbors (1920), The Electric House (1922), The Balloonatic (1923), and one feature film, Sherlock Jr. (1924), known in Italy as La palla n. 13.

What relationship existed between Keaton’s legendary screen persona and music?
Keaton’s screen identity, especially in silent cinema, is fundamentally rhythmic. His body becomes an instrument in his uniquely mechanical style of humour. Buildings collapse, machines whir into motion, locomotives charge forward, yet Keaton remains unshaken, instinctively discovering the choreography that allows him to survive the chaos. This sensitivity to rhythm stems from his early career in vaudeville and music hall. Ever attentive to timing, he knew how to “play” his body like a percussive actor. It is no coincidence that one of his most memorable later performances is his role as a pianist alongside Chaplin in Limelight (1952).

Some of the films selected are less known to general audiences.
The program certainly includes major works such as Sherlock Jr. and One Week, but it also offers the chance to rediscover equally masterful yet less frequently screened films. The Electric House is a perfect example: it brilliantly anticipates debates about technology and automation that would become central decades later. Keaton humorously explores the gap between academic credentials and true competence, depicting a botany graduate who accidentally becomes the architect of a fully automated home. The story then takes a surprising turn toward the uncanny in moments when technology slips out of human control. Arthur C. Clarke famously wrote in Profiles of the Future (1962) that “any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” Marcel Mauss had gestured toward similar reflections as early as 1903. Keaton dramatizes this confusion beautifully. By openly revealing the mechanisms behind the “miracles” on screen, like a magician exposing his tricks, he offers a sharp, humorous commentary on the dangers of misinformation and the blurred line between science and pseudo magic. A message that, unfortunately, remains strikingly relevant today.

Featured image: The Electric House. Courtesy Cineteca di Bologna