LEONARD MALTIN IN FOCUS—  September 1996
(The last weekend of September will mark the 10^th annual Buster Keaton Celebration in Iola, Kansas, so I thought I’d reprint the column I wrote after attending that wonderful event six years ago.  If you want info about this, or the Damfinos, the Keaton organization which is also celebrating its tenth anniversary, go to www.busterkeaton.com)

Buster Keaton was born in Piqua, Kansas in 1895.  Though he only lived there for about two weeks, the tiny town can still lay claim to having launched a bona fide genius on his way.  A short time ago, some folks in the neighboring town of Iola decided it was high time they celebrated this heritage; I've just returned from the 4th Annual Buster Keaton Celebration, which has grown in size and stature with each passing year. 

Iola, with a population approaching 7,000, is a lovely town several hours' drive from Kansas City.  Its major distinction, aside from some beautiful Victorian homes and an impressive stone church, is that it has a first-class auditorium, The Bowlus Fine Arts Center, which was endowed by one of the town's wealthy citizens many years ago.  A local attorney, Clyde Toland, and the center's director, Mary Martin, jointly run the Keaton weekend, with seed money from the Kansas Humanities Council, and the participation of scores of local citizens who pitch in to make their guests feel very, very welcome.  Two years ago they dedicated a plaque at the site of Buster's birthplace in Piqua, and installed a modest museum display in an adjacent waterworks building.

Buster off-screen, laughing (!) with his wife Eleanor in the 1950s.

Eleanor Keaton, Buster's widow, told the Iola Register how she and her husband were driving through the state in 1957, with Buster asleep in the passenger seat, when she slammed on the brakes.  "I said, 'Look!' and it was the depot and the sign said 'Piqua.'  He was so excited, and I was just lucky enough to have film in the camera.  That was very special to him.  He left there when he was two weeks old and didn't get back until he was in his 60s."   The depot is no longer in use, and the railroad tracks have been removed, but now, thanks to modern-day enthusiasts, anyone else who chances to wander through Piqua will know of its most famous citizen.

I should explain, with all due modesty, that this year I received the second annual Buster Award, a formidable bronze sculpture depicting Buster's famous porkpie hat resting on a vaudeville trunk, mounted on a hardwood base in the shape of Kansas.  I love it!  The award was presented to me by Patty Tobias, co-founder of The Damfinos, the international Keaton society, of which I'm a charter member.  Patty lives in Hoboken, New Jersey, where she edits The Keaton Chronicle, and though we'd corresponded and spoken on the phone, this trip to Kansas provided our first opportunity to meet face to face.

I'm not entirely sure what I did to deserve this award (unlike last year's recipient, David Shepard, who painstakingly restored all of Buster's silent films for video release), except to express my devotion to Keaton at every opportunity, in print and on television.  Most recently, I landed a story on Entertainment Tonight comparing Twister to Keaton's eye-popping tornado sequence in 1928's Steamboat Bill, Jr.  The response was gratifying.

Buster, in his trademark porkpie hat, signs autographs for onlookers as he films The Railrodder for the National Film Board of Canada in the 1960s.

I said to Louis, "This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity; let's try to meet him."  I grabbed some 8x10 stills, and we set off on our quest.  We took a subway to the Canal Street station, marched up the stairs, and looked around; sure enough, we spotted a reflector and a couple of klieg lights several blocks away.  We walked over, and there in the back seat of a car, reading a newspaper, was Buster Keaton.  His unmistakable hat was sitting on the seat alongside him. 

I was just a kid, and didn't know how to make easy conversation with a living legend, but I showed him one still I hadn't been able to identify.  This proved to be ideal conversation fodder, and Keaton was kind enough to sign it for me.  After a few minutes, other people started gathering around, and Louis and I backed away, content that we had had our moment.

Since that time, I've gathered Keaton anecdotes from everyone I've ever met who encountered him.  Just a few weeks ago I had occasion to talk to Sid Caesar, who worked with Keaton in It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World.  Being a great pantomimist himself, Caesar was naturally a great fan of Buster's.  I asked what he remembered most about meeting him, and he replied, "His handshake; it was very strong."  Coming from a man of fabled strength like Sid Caesar, this is significant.  It also reinforces my impression of Buster as rock-solid, and nearly indestructible. 

Buster looks remarkably fit--and remarkably like his silent-screen persona--in this publicity photo for his 1957 stage tour of Merton of the Movies.

The conclusion of this year's festivities, which included lectures, panel discussions, and workshops, was a screening of the 1925 Keaton feature Go West.  This has always been classified as one of Buster's lesser films, and I confess I hadn't seen it in its entirety in years and years.  Sitting there, in an auditorium full of like-minded people, laughing at offbeat and outlandish gags, and enjoying Buster's indelible and inimitable screen presence, I found it hard to think of this as "lesser" than anything.  Adding to my enjoyment was the fact that I was sitting with my lifelong friend Louis Black, now the editor and co-publisher of The Austin Chronicle, who traveled to Iola from Texas to join me.  He, too, has never lost his love for Keaton.  Once you get hooked on Buster, you stay hooked.