One of the most entertaining of all silent comedies is Pudovkin's short 'Chess Fever', a mad tale of how a rigorously intellectual board game could disrupt even the most carefully planned central economies. Such an unpromising comedic subject as chess found an earlier outlet in this delightful short. Two young men play the game earnestly against an artificial background, a painted set. This is in contrast to earlier Lumiere shorts such as 'L'Arrosseur Arrosse' or 'Repas du bebe', wherein the human activity was deliberately framed by a natural setting. The difference in activities (natural=feeding baby, watering garden; artificial=chess) is possibly significant.<br /><br />The main contrast in this film is between this immoveable background and the placid, serene game of chess, and the fierce passions this latter causes, as accusations of cheating lead to a most undignified melee. The intellectual game becomes a gross physical scrap, just as the pretensions of arty filmmakers are forever deflated by the 'cruder' demands of audiences.<br /><br />What is most amusing about the film is not neccessarily this descent into slapstick, but the way it is filmed, its prolonging long after the initial joke has been made; the way the camera refuses to dignify the fight with anything like attention, focusing instead on the set, while we catch glimpses of hurling feet and dislodged clothing. The film's refusal to edit is audacious, so that the humour seems to arise from something else other than the fight, reflecting our need for physical contact over intellectual stimulation, our unwillngness to let go.<br /><br />What is especially brilliant is the denouement, as these upper-class fops are caught by the valet, who picks them up like two errant schoolboys, as if he is about to box their ears. If masters can't be expected to keep their place with decorum, than somebody's going to have to do it for them.