The Golf Specialist: Slapstick, Swindlers – and Slices

I watched *The Golf Specialist* (1930) again last night, balancing a kanelbulle in one hand and, honestly, thinking about the time my uncle tried to teach me golf in Skåne. Pretty sure we broke some local windows. This film always reminds me how golf attracts chaos – and WC Fields, who plays the classic con man J. Effingham Bellweather, is really the king of mischief here. Bit of a rascal, that guy.

Directed by Monte Brice, who maybe doesn’t get talked about enough, the film runs just over 20 minutes, but for me it always manages to serve up more laughs than some full-length comedies from Hollywood’s so-called golden age. I mean, the way Fields mutters under his breath, struggling with golf instructions, it’s like watching your farfar get tangled in his own fishing line. I almost spilled my coffee during the “find the golf ball” routine – seagulls in Malmö have more coordination.

The supporting cast throws in a few gems too. I always spot Jan Duggan as the hotel detective’s wife – she’s a bit like the woman in the kiosk at Lidingö I used to buy surströmming from, suspicious but weirdly charming. And of course, producer is Mack Sennett, known for his madcap slapstick – bit of a legend.

Sometimes the jokes feel a bit old-timey, like that friend who still tells Göteborgs-vitsar from 1993, but who cares really? The physical comedy still works; it’s almost impossible *not* to laugh when Fields pretends to be an expert and everything goes spectacularly wrong.

Honestly, maybe it’s not “deep cinema” but somedays you need a laugh and a reminder that golf – and life, actually – is mostly just about rolling with your mis-hits. Perfect for a blek afternoon when nothing goes right and you just need to see someone else shank worse than you ever could.

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