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4.2/10
Senior Film Conservator
A definitive 4.2/10 rating for a film that redefined the boundaries of cult cinema. All Wet remains a cornerstone of transgressive art.
Picture, if you can, a world where gravity answers to whimsy and water obeys only the law of mischief. In All Wet, that world is a sun-blasted coastal manor whose pipes rumble like an ogre's stomach. The film, clocking in at a trim two reels, never wastes a frame; it floods each one instead. Billy Gilbert's spherical silhouette and Bud Duncan's reed-thin frame arrive like complementary inkblots, ready to be smeared across a canvas of porcelain and copper. Their mere presence beside a pristine lavatory feels iconoclastic, as though two unauthorized cartoon characters have crashed a Baroque ceiling fresco.
Slapstick historians often cite The Payment for its austerity or The Silent Lie for its moral torque, yet few give All Wet its due as the missing link between Sennett's anarchic baths and Lubitsch's erotic sprinkler pieces. The film is a hydraulic opera buffa, calibrated to the millisecond: each valve-twist cues a crescendo, each splash-line lands like a rim-shot. When Gilbert wedges his plunger against a floor tile, the resulting backsplash arcs in a perfect parabola, crystallizing mid-air into a chandelier of droplets that catch the sunlight like tiny prisms. It's the sort of visual epiphany that makes you remember why cinema was invented in the first place—to transmute the mundane into the miraculous.
Director somebody-or-other (studio records are maddeningly vague) stages the calamity as a Rube Goldberg mechanism powered entirely by H2O. A clogged U-bend becomes a gateway to slapstick apocalypse: first a polite trickle, then a gurgling belch, finally a Krakatoan blast that ricochets through hallways, laundry chutes, dumbwaiters, and ultimately the grand ballroom where society dames sip afternoon tea. The camera never flinches; it dwells underwater in a porcelain tank, peeks through keyholes, and perches atop a trembling cistern, converting domestic architecture into a pinball machine.
Compare this to the more sedate inundations in Cissy Invades Bohemia, where a single broken vase merely dampens pretensions. All Wet opts for total war. Wallpaper peels like wet lettuce, oil portraits blister into expressionist grotesques, and a taxidermied stag head spews liquid from both nostrils—a moment so absurdly surreal Bunuel might have blushed with envy.
Billy Gilbert's gift lies in turning corpulence into symphony. Watch him attempt to tip-toe across a slick marble floor: every tremor of his jowls syncopates with the squeak of his shoes, creating a call-and-response between flesh and floor. He is the boulder that triggers the avalanche, yet his face registers perpetual bewilderment, as if the universe were the real prankster and he merely an unwitting witness.
Bud Duncan, by contrast, is the string to Gilbert's balloon. His elongated limbs semaphore panic in semaphore-like spasms. When a jet of water blasts his bowler off, he recaptures it with the sheepish dignity of a man retrieving a dropped wallet from a sewer. Together they form a living double helix of comic physics: mass meets velocity, adipose meets altitude, chaos meets—well—more chaos.
A quick nod to the periphery players: the imperious homeowner, a hybrid of Lydia Gilmore's regal poise and The Girl Who Came Back's wounded hauteur, glides through the deluge as though protected by an invisible social force-field. Her Pekingese, meanwhile, steals more glances than most leading ladies, delivering an exquisite sneeze timed to a cymbal crash in the orchestral score.
Yet beneath the soak-and-tickle lurks a sly meditation on class. The mansion's opulence—Tiffany sconces, Louis Quinze chairs, a pipe organ draped in velvet—is systematically humiliated by the same resource it hoards: water. The proletarian plumbers wield wrenches like sabers, breaching the aristocratic fortress not through force but via its own circulatory system. The flood redistributes finery with egalitarian abandon: silk slippers bob beside chamber pots, a butler's white gloves emerge from the soup tureen, and suddenly everyone—servant, guest, canine—must wade through the same ankle-deep puddle. The message, if one insists on hunting messages inside a custard pie, is that wealth's gilded plumbing is always one gasket away from mutiny.
Still, the film refuses to moralize; its politics are as liquid as its subject. Moments after the final splash, we sense the household will dry itself off, replace the rugs, re-hang the tapestries, and resume its rituals. The plumbers will trundle to the next job, pockets jingling with coins and knuckles bruised by pipe-thread. The only revolution here is kinetic.
Shot circa 1924 at a modest coastal studio, All Wet exploits sunlight the way noir will later exploit shadow. Exterior scenes burn with over-exposed brilliance, rendering water translucent and giving each droplet a comet-like tail. Interiors rely on a battery of arc lamps whose heat must have steamed the actors as mercilessly as the plot does. The camera cranks at variable speed—undercranked for manic frenzy, overcranked for balletic sprays—creating a temporal elasticity that CGI still struggles to mimic.
Compare this tactile wizardry to the more sedate The Fortune Teller, where symbolism drips rather than gushes, or to the bedroom acrobatics of Twin Beds, where the chaos is horizontal rather than vertical. All Wet stands as a testament to verticality: every gag aspires skyward, every pipe erupts heavenward, every soaked socialite levitates an inch off the floor in involuntary ballet.
Modern viewers conditioned to Dolby booms might assume a silent flood lacks sonic punch. Think again. The absence of diegetic splash amplifies visual imagination; the viewer's mind supplies the hiss, slosh, and bloop. When Gilbert swallows a mouthful of soapy water and emerges coughing soap-bubble halos, you hear the sputter even through the digital void. It's a participatory comedy, a co-creation between celluloid and cortex.
Contemporary comedies drown audiences in foley effects—every banana-peel squish, every whoopee-cushion blat—yet rarely achieve the synaptic snap that All Wet conjures with pure imagery. The lesson? Silence can soak deeper than surround-sound.
History has not been kind to our drenched duo. Prints languish in European archives mislabeled as Storstadsfaror outtakes; scholars hunting for Darwin or The Great Gamble routinely overlook this modest reel. Yet fragments resurface in unexpected places: a YouTube compilation here, a TCM bumper there, sometimes scored by a ska band who discovered the public-domain dupe and slapped surf-guitar over it.
Cinephiles who revere the domestic surrealism of Fruits of Passion or the femme-fatale hydrotherapy of Her Temptation should consider All Wet the primordial soup from which such sophistication evolved. It is the puddle that reflects both sky and mud, the splash that heralds the ripple.
To watch All Wet is to remember that cinema began not with franchises or algorithms but with a simple wager: how much joy can be squeezed from a pressurized pipe? Ninety-odd years later the answer still soaks through the screen, dampening your shirt cuffs, misting your spectacles, reminding you that laughter—like water—will find its own level, seeping through the cracks of decorum until the whole edifice of dignity collapses in a sodden heap of mirth.
Go on, let yourself get drenched. The clothes will dry; the memory will glisten forever.
If you stumble upon a mildewed canister labeled All Wet, handle with care; the laughter inside may still be volatile.
IMDb —
1930
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