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* T A Y L O R O L O G Y *
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* A Continuing Exploration of the Life and Death of William Desmond Taylor *
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* *
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* Issue 72 -- December 1998 Editor: Bruce Long bruce@asu.edu *
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* TAYLOROLOGY may be freely distributed *
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CONTENTS OF THIS ISSUE:
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Flashes of Charlie Chaplin, Part II
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What is TAYLOROLOGY?
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TAYLOROLOGY is a newsletter focusing on the life and death of William Desmond
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Taylor, a top Paramount film director in early Hollywood who was shot to
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death on February 1, 1922. His unsolved murder was one of Hollywood's major
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scandals. This newsletter will deal with: (a) The facts of Taylor's life;
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(b) The facts and rumors of Taylor's murder; (c) The impact of the Taylor
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murder on Hollywood and the nation; (d) Taylor's associates and the Hollywood
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silent film industry in which Taylor worked. Primary emphasis will be given
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toward reprinting, referencing and analyzing source material, and sifting it
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for accuracy.
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[Other Chaplin items can be found in TAYLOROLOGY 36, 37, 46, and 51]
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Flashes of Charlie Chaplin, Part II
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
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September 11, 1921
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Frank Vreeland
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NEW YORK HERALD
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Charlie Chaplin, Philosopher, Has Serious Side
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Charlie Chaplin an egotist--Charlie Chaplin an iconoclast! It hardly
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seems possible. Yet out of his own mouth the king of the screen comedians
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convicts himself.
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"Yes, I'm an egotist," says Chaplin, no matter how hard you protest.
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"I'm an iconoclast. I love to tear things apart. I don't like them as they
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are."
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And it would seem, from the talk he gave the other day at the Ritz-
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Carlton while stopping in New York on his way abroad--his first trip to
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Europe in eleven years--that he was as he pictured himself. But it would
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require the pen of a George Meredith to describe such an egotist.
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Make no mistake about the quality of self-concentration in him. He is
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neither overbearing, vainglorious nor snobbish. Those who spoke with him on
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his visit here found him one of the most affable and engaging of men. There
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is none of the aloofness in him to be found in screen performers with less
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than half his success. Nor is he cold and ruthless. When he is in the mood
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for it--and he acknowledges he is a creature of moods--he can be gay and
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hospitable even to casual acquaintances.
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It is simply that he is confident in himself, that he has arrived at his
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viewpoint deliberately as a result of his career. He might be called an
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egotist by conviction. For all things are measured according to his
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personality. Fundamentally, every one is an egotist, more or less, in that
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vein, but Chaplin is franker about it than most.
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"Ah, yes," he declares, with a twinkle in his eye, "I think a very great
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deal of myself. Everything is perfect or imperfect, according to myself.
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I am the perfect standard."
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And he waves his hand with boyish yet ironic smile, having settled that.
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His self-absorption can be understood on this basis, that, now that he
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is independent, he resents anything which smacks of intrusion from the
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outside world that would seem likely to control or curb him. There is a hint
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of a smoldering rebel in him that would have broken out but for his success.
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Chaplin says positively that he is not soft hearted. Admirers of his
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tender wistfulness in "The Kid" will scarcely credit it. Yet when anything
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rouses him a glitter comes into his eyes, almost a fixed, hard stare, that is
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scarcely the expression of an arrant sentimentalist. Then again, when he
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speaks of Barrie, a shadowy, dreamy look drifts across his eyes--for his is a
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Barrie fan. But of that more later.
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Personality is the most fascinating thing in the world--that study of
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the common qualities and the unique that link up and separate the great and
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the small. Chaplin says that nothing in life enchants him quite so much as
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personality--the human stuff. He himself is one of the most fascinating
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among mortals. He hasn't the simple, bubbling, direct appeal of his close
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friend Douglas Fairbanks. He is more subtle.
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Some one has said that the great of the earth aren't really complex,
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they only seem so. Yet Chaplin is one of the most complex among men, a fact
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which leads to some apparent contradictions. One moment he will declare that
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he is wrapped up primarily in his own concerns; the next he will assert that
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nothing is of real moment and all life is ephemeral. But that, at bottom, is
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the expression of a mind quietly secure in itself and disdainful of the
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world.
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All this came out in a talk in his suite at the hotel the other day in
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which he illuminated for virtually the first time the serious side of his
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nature, and all but psychoanalyzed himself. As he talked readily and
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pungently, he drank copious draughts of hot water with a pinch of salt, for
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he has suffered from indigestion and neuritis of late. He curled about the
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earthenware pots holding this stimulating beverage on the table exactly like
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a kitten around a saucer of milk, and drank it with his left hand--though he
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gestured mainly with his right.
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Those hands of his hardly seem in the flesh to have the delicacy and
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dexterity they possess on the films, until he moves them in a deft gesture,
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and then the instinctive grace shows. As he talks he clasps them around his
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knee, or digs them in his trousers or vest pockets, or thumbs them under his
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armpits, and on the rare occasions when he is at a loss for a word, he waves
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the right hand slowly in a circle to one side. His favorite motion would
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seem to be to consist of brushing the curly locks back from his forehead, or
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rumpling the gray hair in back. For already, though he is only 32, the snows
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of time are creeping through his dark hair.
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Meanwhile, his legs are behaving in an interesting and eccentric
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fashion, quite as though they belonged to some one else. They will be
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sprawled straight in front of him, or curled around the rungs of his chair
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like a school boy, and sometimes one of them will be quite casually sat upon.
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They are never in the same place for two minutes.
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The feet were encased on this occasion in leather bedroom slippers, and
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this, with the neat pin striped suit he wore, gave him not the least air of
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being dressed to receive company. He lounged back in his chair quite
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unaffectedly, and there was no suggestion despite the royal, golden
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decorations of the suite, that there was a king holding his morning levee.
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From the summit of his thirty-two years and his five feet four inches he
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was asked to look back upon his life and say whether he was satisfied with
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it.
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"I never really thought of that before," he said slowly, rubbing his
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head. "Of course," he went on with his quick smile, "it's hardly time for me
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to say at 32 whether I'm satisfied with my life. But I think I am. I think
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if I had it to live over again I'd do it as I have--only more so. I'd do it
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with less moderation.
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"But I'm not satisfied with the world as I find it. There are many
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things in it I'd like to change. Do I mean political and economic
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conditions? Well, yes, I suppose I do.
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"But I'm not soft hearted about them. When I see such misery as that on
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the East Side it arouses my emotions, but it doesn't make me sentimental.
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My interest is caught--such things stimulate me. I know that if I found my
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lot cast there I shouldn't wait very long before I worked myself out of it.
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"What is the purpose of existence? I don't know. I accept it as it is.
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After all, what is the value of putting such queries to one's self? It's
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enough that we're here, that all that has gone before has led up to
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ourselves. What does it matter what comes tomorrow? So far as we're
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concerned, we're the crown of the ages. Each one can consider himself the
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perfect fruit toward which evolution has been working. We're in this world
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to live--that's enough."
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Despite this interest in himself, the comedian who has passed the
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recreation hours for thousands in hilarious enjoyment finds it very difficult
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to amuse himself in his leisure hours.
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"I'm really very lazy," he explained with a frank smile. "My working
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hours are from 9 to 5, and I really don't do anything at all in my spare
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time. I don't like to make engagements to meet people or to go to dinners.
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The thought of getting ready for such appointments bothers me.
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"And yet, when I've finished work I often say, 'I'd like to see so-and-
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so now.'
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"'Oh,' they tell me, 'you had an engagement to see him a couple of hours
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ago, but you broke it off.'
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"I don't drive my car about much. In fact about the only thing I like
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to do is just ramble around. I swim a bit, but I'm not a sportsman. Yes, I
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know there was a picture of me in a magazine dressed in polo costume and
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standing beside a horse, but that was all a joke. I went down to Coronado to
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rest up a bit, and there was a friend there who had a complete outfit. He
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suggested that I put it on just for a joke, and then the picture was taken.
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"I don't go to concerts and that sort of thing. I used to play my
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violin a great deal up to a couple of years ago, but since then I've hardly
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touched it. I seem to have lost interest in such things. Yes, I've composed
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my own music, I'm ashamed to confess. Were they bright, gay tunes? Not at
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all--very sentimental ballads. Almost weepy. Some time ago I used to think
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it would be fine to be the leader of an orchestra. The grace as he waved his
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baton attracted me, the sense of command. I felt that way when I conducted
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the Hippodrome orchestra. But somehow I don't seem to care so much about it
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any more.
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"Usually, I'm hard put to it till I set to work and amuse myself.
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I hate to think of the effort it would require to go out and meet people, to
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go to the theatre. You see, I am lazy. I hate to think of the next picture
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I'm going to do right after I've completed one. I don't like to choose the
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idea for the story. I put it off till the last moment.
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"I put off the day I start to work--and I'm going to defer it as much as
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possible in the future. I like to remain in a state of pleasant uncertainty
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until I feel in the right mood to start. I must feel a kind of glow, a sort
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of white heat or inspiration. Of course, it's impossible to maintain the
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quality of inspiration all through a picture. You can't really act except in
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a few scenes. After a time on each picture it becomes mechanical and you
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find yourself going a bit stale. Toward the end you feel as though you would
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have to flog yourself to finish it.
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"So I like to save my acting spirit as much as possible. Some actors
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insist on acting even when they're rehearsing. I want every bit rehearsed
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thoroughly, all the technical details worked out very carefully. I say,
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'Now, so-and-so crosses the bridge at this point; now I go over to the table;
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now I lift up this cup.' Then, when all those bits of business have been
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gone through thoroughly, I say, 'Now we'll act it.'
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"But I don't want perfection of detail in the acting. I'd hate a
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picture that was perfect--it would seem machine made. I want the human
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touch, so that you love the picture for its imperfections."
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It may be guessed from all this that Chaplin is something of an epicure
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of emotions, a connoisseur of feelings. He is--that attitude pervades his
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whole thought. He is inclined to be a sort of professional spectator,
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looking on and sampling life exquisitely, plumbing every sensation, even
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despair, for the sake of the adventure in it. Though he was born in France
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there must be Russian blood somewhere in his ancestry, for he relishes being
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introspective.
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"The other night," he said, "I went to the 'Follies.' Fanny Brice is a
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wonder as a comedian when she says, 'I'm feelin' terrible, t'ank God'; that's
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a gem. But the rest of the production didn't move me. Even the pretty girls
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didn't stir me, and usually when I see them on the stage it puts me in quite
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a romantic flutter. I say to myself, 'You might meet one of them and marry
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her. There, that girl on the end--maybe she'll be your wife. Who knows?'
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"Every time I sit down in front at a musical comedy I'm a potential
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husband. It excites me tremendously, and I like it. But at the 'Follies' I
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was struck with an impression of straining for effect. I was oppressed, as I
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often am, with a sense of the futility of human effort. That ovation given
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to Mary and Douglas the other night at the theatre was immense--but at bottom
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it amounted to nothing! When you come right down to it nothing in the world
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really means anything.
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"When I go to the theatre, so often I say to myself, 'Look at all this
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noise and bustle going on inside here, while outside real things are
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happening! Isn't it terrible? Look at that man there, striving so hard to
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please. He thinks he is important. Isn't human nature fruitless and
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depressing?'
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"My mouth is drawn further and further down. I grow dismal and
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despairing. I realize what a perfectly good time I've having with my
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emotions. Then I'm happy."
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And the comedian laughed.
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"Of course," he went on, "the reaction from such moods is pronounced,
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and I become quite gay. But I am always impressed with the fact that you can
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call nothing in life truly great. The best picture that was ever made, when
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it's shown, well, that's that"--he waved his hand--"and it's over. It's
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served its purpose, and passed on. Nothing in life is lasting or important.
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If God were to come along and pick up the Statue of Liberty the world would
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really go right on as though nothing had happened."
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The telephone rang, and Chaplin turned toward it eagerly, and listened
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expectantly as his press agent answered it.
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"That phone," he said, "has been buzzing constantly since I came here.
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I never knew I really had so many friends. And in spite of all the calls,
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each time it rings I'm just as curious as ever. Yet, no call is ever so
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momentous as I expect.
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"I'm just as curious about reading fan letters. I get anywhere from 100
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to 200 a day. They fascinate me. I hold one in my hand, and say, 'Who knows
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what wonderful message this may contain?' And the wonderful message is,
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generally, a letter requesting an autographed picture, that runs like this:
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"'Dear Mr. Chaplin: I've seen you so often on the screen, and I like you
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so much. Won't you please be good enough to send me your photo, so I can put
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it among my gallery of screen celebrities, whom I greatly admire?'
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"Flattering!
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"I send out about 4,000 pictures a year. The pictures cost four cents,
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the postage and mailing another four cents, besides the time of the
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stenographer to answer the requests--this is on the authority of my press
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agent. If I once stopped to look through the heaps of mail I get, I'd never
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do any work. And the letters, once I do look at them, never mean anything.
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Few intelligent persons write fan letters. And those who do don't make me
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feel in the least indispensable. I feel the world would get along just as
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well if I should drop out of it.
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"You see, I recognize that really too much emphasis is placed on the
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personality of a play, without distinguishing his personality on the screen
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from his character off it. He is much different out of a picture from what
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he is in it. Yet it's that personality they see on the screen, which is
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really a sort of impersonal quality, that the fans want to know. Of course,
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if you seek to know an actor just as a regular friend--well, that's
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different.
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"But I must admit that I like such interest. When I came here a year
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ago I thought I'd be unobtrusive. I didn't let any one know I was here.
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I registered at the hotel under another name. Yet every one seemed to know
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it presently. This time when I cam East I thought at first I'd do it
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quietly, without any press agent flourish. I even considered I might go
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abroad incognito. I said to myself: 'Nobody will know you're around--it
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won't really make any difference to them anyhow.' Then I told myself:
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'Nonsense! Of course it will! As if you could go incognito!'
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"Besides," and he smiled candidly, "I enjoy it. (I like being patted on
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the back). So now I'm having a very good time. I'm really taking an
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emotional holiday. I found I was going stale. Nothing seemed to interest me
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vitally any more. When I think about my latest picture, I'd say to myself,
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'What if it shouldn't be a success?' And I'd answer myself, 'What does it
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matter, anyhow?' Then I'd start to worry about my apathy, and having really
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begun to worry once more, I was happy. I enjoy worrying about my work--it
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keeps me interested.
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"But this time it wasn't enough. Nothing really roused me but food--
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I love food. I'd finished 'The Idle Class,' and I had a number of scenes
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completed for my next picture. Then one day, as I was in my dressing room,
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starting to make up I looked at myself in the glass suddenly, and said, 'See
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here, you're 32, and you haven't been abroad in years. You're not taking any
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fun out of life. You're going stale.'
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"Yes, perhaps it was the sight of the gray hairs that did it. Maybe I'd
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been working on too many pictures in the last year. I'd had a touch of the
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'flu,' and that seemed to leave me depressed. At any rate, I decided at
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11 o'clock on a Tuesday morning to go to Europe, and at 11 o'clock the next
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morning I was leaving Los Angeles. The rest of the company had been all
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ready to go on with the picture, but they're disbanded now. I don't care
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when the picture is finished. I'm going to have a good time.
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"I shall go to England, where I hope to meet H. G. Wells, Bernard Shaw--
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all the big men of that country. What places shall I visit in London? Oh,
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just 'spots.' I'll take a kind of Dickensian prowl. But particularly I want
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to see the Kennington road. That's where I lived as a boy. I don't remember
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what it looks like, but I know I want to see it.
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"Then I shall go to Berlin. I'm most interested to observe what they've
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been doing there since the war, especially in motion picture producing. Also
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I'm going to Madrid--I want to see a real bullfight. No, I don't contemplate
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playing a bullfighter, though Frank Harris's story, 'Montez the Matador,'
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would be splendid to put on the screen.
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"This trip, as I said, will be principally for the purpose of
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recuperating my emotions. You see, I want to express myself freely. Most of
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my life I've been so suppressed. When I was struggling along as an actor I
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was so afraid of what people would think about me. I'd harbor secret
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thoughts, but I'd be afraid to let them out. Whenever I met a man who
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dared to express unconventional ideas--ideas I thought were held only by
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myself--I thought he was a superman.
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"That's one thing I do appreciate about success. It enables me to do
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what I please. I can say to myself: 'Let's go to Egypt today.' And I can
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go. I can think what I please.
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"That's largely the reason why I don't care much about reading. I don't
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want to be fettered by other persons' thoughts. When I was about 19 I set
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out to read at a great rate. But since then my interest has languished.
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I scarcely read a magazine. Novels don't interest me. I like history a bit.
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I also rather enjoy modern biographies--stories that get me close to human
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personalities. The biography of Oscar Wilde fascinates me. But I dislike
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any suggestion of the mechanical or the non-human in literature. Science?
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I hate it.
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"I find myself constantly skipping the plot in a book. You see, I don't
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want any sense of originality spoiled. I don't want to be bothered by a
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suspicion, after I've nursed an idea, that I feel would simply paralyze the
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world, that maybe some one, some where, had written the same thing and I'd
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read it--and forgotten it.
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"Yes, I have what I trust is a really big idea for a picture I want to
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play in. I've carried it around in my mind for a couple of years, the way we
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all do, and I hope to use it in the near future. It's about a clown. It
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will show the hardships of his life. It will present him behind the scenes
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as it's never been done before--truthfully. It won't have any of the
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sentimental romance you see so often in such plays. It will show how his
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work is simply bread and cheese to him--merely his means of earning a living,
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nothing more. And it will reveal his utter contempt for his audiences.
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"It's like 'Deburau'? I never saw that play and I don't know its
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history. Of course, this picture will have its comedy, but it will be the
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most serious thing I've ever attempted. For my custard pie days are over.
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Yes, possibly I shall do 'Beau Brummell' some day."
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But though he has renounced the custard pie and all its works he doesn't
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show the bitterness toward that paramount element in his past career that
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most converts do toward their early dissipations. When it was suggested that
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he might be knighted on his trip to England Chaplin, who discounted any
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rumors to that effect, chuckled as he pictured his coat of arms, with a
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custard pie rampant.
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Always, he said, he had wanted to get away from them, from the first.
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As far back as his earliest days in the movies he had striven to put some
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real characterization into his parts, and not depend solely on a bakery for
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his technique. The story of his debut into pictures had a new sidelight shed
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on it by the comedian.
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"I was playing at Philadelphia when a strange telegram came to the
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theatre. It was addressed to some weird name--Champagne, or something like
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that. At any rate it began with 'Ch,' so I figured it must be for me. It
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said I was to meet some one on important business in the Longacre Building in
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New York City. I asked my friends what kind of persons occupied the Longacre
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Building. They said, 'Lawyers,' which got me excited.
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"There had been some kind of aunt in my family--a couple of generations
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removed--who was expected to die some day and leave us all a big fortune. Of
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course, she was probably mythical--you know how there are stories like that
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in every family. But I'd heard about her so often, and when I learned that
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lawyers occupied the Longacre Building I went there expecting that at last my
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ship had come in. But it turned out to be nothing more than an introduction
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to the movies.
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"When I first began to act before the movies I was terribly nervous.
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It wasn't so much the fact that I was appearing in a strange studio, before
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cold eyed stage hands. But the Keystone people who hired me had seen me in
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'A Night in a Music Hall,' and I was heralded as a frightfully funny man.
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I had a reputation to live up to, and I felt desperately put to it to make
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good. And all the other comedians stood around the studio with
|
|
superciliously twisted mouths and an air of 'Show me.'
|
|
"That was all the harder because, never having been in a movie studio
|
|
before, I thought it would be the easiest thing to act before a camera.
|
|
I figured it would be nothing but walking through my part. Well, I was
|
|
quickly disillusioned. I had to study the business. I had to get over
|
|
feeling self-conscious before the camera. The way to do that is to
|
|
concentrate on your part so hard you lose yourself in it. If you don't you
|
|
might just as well quit acting in the movies.
|
|
"Moreover, I had the advantage of a good stage training. Every screen
|
|
actor would be helped immeasurably by that. I'd acted under an excellent
|
|
stage director--Quentin McPherson, director for Charles Frohman, for whom, by
|
|
the way, I appeared in 'Sherlock Holmes.' No, I'll never go back to the
|
|
speaking stage again. I'm not a very good speaking player, and, besides, an
|
|
audience means nothing to me. They are just a mass of figures. I like to go
|
|
off somewhere in seclusion, work out a picture and then suddenly spring it on
|
|
people and say: "Here, look at it--that's me."
|
|
"That stage experience gave me quite a lead from the beginning over
|
|
other movie actors. Very few of them in those days understood the technique
|
|
of movie acting. They'd walk too fast, or cross over in front of one another
|
|
with the utmost nonchalance. Besides I was surprised to discover that few of
|
|
them, even those most concerned in the production of pictures, took it
|
|
seriously. It was just a cheap sideline with them, a means of making a
|
|
livelihood. From the first I took it very seriously. I had been deeply
|
|
impressed, as I still am, with the powerful appeal of the motion picture,
|
|
with its great circulation, its--what's the word (he snapped his fingers)--
|
|
its great scope."
|
|
Perhaps Chaplin underrates his desire to read, for he is fond of Frank
|
|
Harris's works, and reads Guido Bruno--both of whom are often an effort for
|
|
the man in the street. But his reluctance to read, he indicated, is due not
|
|
only to distrust of having his cinema ideas colored, but also because he
|
|
doesn't want his writing affected. For Chaplin disclosed that he has
|
|
secretly been indulging in writing--that he has even been concocting poetry
|
|
all these years, with scarcely any one suspecting it.
|
|
"Yes, I've scribbled a great deal," he said. "Poetry and such things.
|
|
I've never written any short stories nor essays. Most of my writings have
|
|
been unfinished. I start off at a great rate, and then lose interest. You
|
|
know how you put a thing aside, promising yourself you'll complete it some
|
|
day, when you feel more inclined. That's how I've written.
|
|
"I've projected several full length plays, though I've never done
|
|
anything with them. But I have taken to playwriting more seriously of late.
|
|
And--I've completed a one act play."
|
|
He launched into a description of it, detailing how it was a satire on a
|
|
certain type of piety, in which a child lay dying while a thunderstorm raged
|
|
outside and an old crone mumbled pious phrases inside and a man went crazy.
|
|
A bright little gruesome bit it seemed, though Chaplin added, with a grin,
|
|
that "It had funny passages in it." The unique point about it was that two
|
|
mysterious men who sat down in front on the stage during the action turned
|
|
out in the end to be the author and the manager, who insisted that "this play
|
|
will never get produced unless it has a happy ending," with which the author
|
|
agreed.
|
|
"Probably that author is more fortunate than I am, for I shall most
|
|
likely never get it printed or produced. I don't expect to present it at my
|
|
own expense, either. But maybe some day I shall read it to my friends, who
|
|
may be able to stand anything."
|
|
That interest in religion displayed in this playlet is one of the
|
|
underlying traits of the comedian. He considers that many religions in the
|
|
world's history have been little but "repressions and propaganda."
|
|
"I have no 'spooks.'" he said. "There are none either in my mind or
|
|
outside. I don't believe in spiritualism, and, frankly, I don't believe in a
|
|
hereafter. Life is interesting enough as we have it here--let's make the
|
|
most of it now."
|
|
He drank some hot water as he said that--perhaps so much talking had
|
|
made him thirsty. Moreover, that drink seemed designed not only for his
|
|
indigestion but to keep him from taking on weight. For, he admitted, "I'm
|
|
afraid lately I've been taking on avoirdupois, and if I keep on"--he waved
|
|
his hand with a mock flourish--"I shall lose my ethereal figure."
|
|
The comedian was not always as sturdy as he now is. When he was a lad
|
|
in England, he said, he was quite frail. What helped him early in life was
|
|
long distance running. It does not appear to be generally known that Chaplin
|
|
at one time was a Marathon plugger.
|
|
"You see, I have quite a good lung development. And then, my legs were
|
|
quite well developed from dancing with the 'Eight Lancashire Lads' on the
|
|
stage. I used to belong to the Kennington Harriers, and thought nothing of
|
|
running fifteen miles. In fact, I considered going into the Marathon in the
|
|
London Olympics, but became ill about that time.
|
|
"I can still run ten miles without minding it. You never lose that
|
|
stamina and lung power. People are surprised today to know that with my
|
|
slight figure I can run long distances. Not so long ago I was at the beach
|
|
with Samuel Goldwyn, and he got up off the sand and began doing some
|
|
exercises.
|
|
"'You ought to take exercise, he said. 'Do this every day.' So I said,
|
|
'I think I'll run up and down between those two piers about twenty times.
|
|
Want to try it with me?' He stared at me astonished, for the distance on the
|
|
sand between the piers was about half a mile. But he and several other film
|
|
people ran up and down with me a couple of times--then they dropped out. By
|
|
that time a crowd had gathered around and as I kept going they started up a
|
|
band. I ran up and down about ten times without any trouble."
|
|
The one thing that seems to sweep him away in artistic endeavor is
|
|
dancing. He has the most enthusiastic admiration for Pavlowa.
|
|
"When I see her floating above me so gracefully, when I look at her
|
|
face, I see the tragedy of life. I see the hard struggle in her career.
|
|
Something seems to catch hold of me here." He placed a hand on his brow.
|
|
"I get all choked up. The rhythm of it carries me away."
|
|
Of course in film production he is much interested in David W. Griffith.
|
|
He was much drawn to "The Birth of a Nation, " "Intolerance"--especially the
|
|
Babylonian episode--and "Broken Blossoms."
|
|
"Griffith is a real personality, and he manages to convey it on the
|
|
screen. He makes all his offerings distinct and individual. I always go to
|
|
see a new Griffith picture. It may be terrible--I may disagree with his
|
|
ideas--but they're always interesting. His pictures are different."
|
|
Then Chaplin wrinkled up his upper lip and his eyes in a startling real
|
|
burlesque of the diabolical mask of the violin player in "Dream Street," and
|
|
got up off his chair to wriggle in a travesty of the kind of "evil" to which
|
|
the violinist's playing was supposed to incite the slum dwellers. But
|
|
Chaplin confessed that it is not often he feels inspired to give such comic
|
|
travesties.
|
|
"You see," he explained with a rather wistful smile. "I'm not really a
|
|
comedian. Except on rare occasions I never feel inclined to try to be funny
|
|
and carry on in company. Friends never say of me, 'Oh, he's a very amusing
|
|
man to be with.' Frank Tinney is just as funny off the stage as he is on.
|
|
I'm not--I wish I were. Mostly I like to be with people with whom I scarcely
|
|
have to speak a word. All I want to do occasionally is say, 'Um--aa--h'm!'
|
|
I like people who understand when I do this"--and he pointed deftly to
|
|
something, jerking his thumb as though he meant the subject to be picked up.
|
|
"People whose sole conversation is to yawn and say, 'When do we eat?'
|
|
"Not that I think people talk too much. Very rarely do we really get
|
|
under the skin of a personality in a conversation. The savages communicate
|
|
with each other much more definitely and clearly. If they like you they
|
|
stroke your hair, and so on. We cover up ourselves in words."
|
|
And then this strange compound of contradictions, who likes Barrie and
|
|
considers "Mary Rose," for all the fact that it is a bad stage production,
|
|
one of the most spiritual and delicate masterpieces he has ever seen,
|
|
acknowledged that he "likes vulgarity, for it is of the masses--of the earth,
|
|
earthy--and I love that."
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
[Special thanks to David Pierce for supplying the following article.]
|
|
|
|
January 18, 1922
|
|
Thomas Burke
|
|
THE OUTLOOK
|
|
The Tragic Comedian
|
|
A "Close-Up" of Charles Chaplin
|
|
|
|
A frail figure, small footed, and with hands as exquisite as those of
|
|
Madame la Marquise. A mass of brindled-gray hair above a face of high color
|
|
and nervous features. In conversation the pale hands flash and flutter and
|
|
the eyes twinkle; the body sways and swings, and the head darts birdlike back
|
|
and forth, in time with the soft chanting voice. His personality is as
|
|
volatile as his lithe and resilient figure. He has something of Hans
|
|
Andersen, of Ariel, touched with rumors of far-off fairyland tears. But
|
|
something more than pathos is here. Almost, I would say, he is a tragic
|
|
figure. Through the universal appeal of the cinematograph he has achieved
|
|
universal fame in larger measure than any man of recent years, and he knows
|
|
the weariness and emptiness that accompany excess. He is the playfellow of
|
|
the world, and he is the loneliest, saddest man I ever knew.
|
|
When I first heard that Charles Chaplin wished to meet me, I was only
|
|
mildly responsive. I can never assume much interest in the folk of the film
|
|
and the stage; their hectic motions, their voluble, insubstantial talk, and
|
|
their abrupt transitions are too exhausting. But I was assured that Charles
|
|
Chaplin was "different," and finally a rendezvous was made at a flat in
|
|
Bloomsbury. He is different. I was immediately surprised and charmed.
|
|
A certain transient glamour hung about this young man to whose doings the
|
|
front pages of the big newspapers were given and for whom people of all
|
|
classes were doing vigil; but, discounting that, much remained; and the shy,
|
|
quiet figure that stepped from the shadow of the window was no mere film
|
|
star, but a character that made an instant appeal. I received an impression
|
|
of something very warm and bright and vivid. There was radiance, but it was
|
|
the radiance of fluttering firelight rather than steady sunlight. At first I
|
|
think it was the pathos of his situation that made him so endearing, for he
|
|
was even then being pursued by the crowd, and had taken this opportunity to
|
|
get away for a quiet walk through narrow streets. But the charm remained,
|
|
and remains still. It is a part of himself that flows through every movement
|
|
and every gesture. He inspires immediately, not admiration or respect, but
|
|
affection; and one gives it impulsively.
|
|
At eleven o'clock that night I took him alone for a six-hour ramble
|
|
through certain districts of East London, whose dim streets made an apt
|
|
setting for his dark-flamed personality. I walked him through byways of
|
|
Hoxton, Spitalfields, Stepney, Ratcliff, Shadwell, Wapping, Isle of Dogs; and
|
|
as we walked he opened his heart, and I understood. I, too, had spent hard,
|
|
inhospitable hours of youth in these streets, and knew his feeling about
|
|
them, and could, in a minor measure, appreciate what he felt in such high
|
|
degree at coming back to them with his vast treasure of guerdons and fame.
|
|
The disordered, gypsy-like beauty of this part of London moved him to ecstasy
|
|
after so many years of the bright, angular, gemlike cities of Western
|
|
America, and he talked freely and well about it.
|
|
At two o'clock in the morning we rested on the curb of an alley-way in
|
|
St. George's, and he talked of his bitter youth and his loneliness and his
|
|
struggles, and his ultimate bewildering triumph. Always, from the day he
|
|
left London, he had at the back of his mind, vague and formless and foolish,
|
|
the dream of a triumphal Dick Whittington return to the city whose stones
|
|
were once so cold to him; for the most philosophic temper, the most aloof
|
|
from the small human passions, is not wholly free from that attitude of "a
|
|
time will come when you SHALL hear me." Like all men who are born in exile,
|
|
outside the gracious inclosures of life, he does not forget those early
|
|
years; and even now that he has made that return it does not quite satisfy.
|
|
It is worth having--that rich, hot moment when the scoffers are dumb and
|
|
recognition is accorded, the moment of attainment; but a tinge of bitterness
|
|
must always accompany it. Chaplin knows, as all who have risen know, that
|
|
the very people who were clamoring and beseeching him to their tables and
|
|
receptions would not before have given him a considered glance, much less a
|
|
friendly hand or a level greeting. They wanted to see, not him, but the
|
|
symbol of success--reclame, le dernier cri--and he knew it.
|
|
He owes little enough to England. To him it was only a stony-hearted
|
|
step-mother--not even the land of his birth. Here, as he told me, he was up
|
|
against that social barrier that so impedes advancement and achievement--
|
|
a barrier that only the very great or the very cunning can cross. America
|
|
freely gave him what he could never have wrested from England--recognition
|
|
and decent society. He spoke in chilly tones of his life in England as a
|
|
touring vaudeville artist. Such a life is a succession of squalor and mean
|
|
things. The company was his social circle, and he lived and moved only in
|
|
that circle. Although he had not then any achievements to his credit, he had
|
|
the potentialities. Although he was then a youth with little learning, an
|
|
undeveloped personality, and few graces, he had an instinctive feeling for
|
|
fine things. Although he had no key by which he might escape, no title to a
|
|
place among the fresh, easy, cultivated minds where he desired to be, he knew
|
|
that he did not belong in the rude station of life in which he was placed.
|
|
Had he remained in this country, he would have remained in that station. He
|
|
would never have got out. But in America the questions are, "What do you
|
|
know?" and "What can you do?" not, "Where do you come from" and "Who are your
|
|
people?" "Are you public school?"
|
|
Today England is ready to give him all that it formerly denied him. All
|
|
doors are open to him, and he is beckoned here and there by social leaders.
|
|
But he does not want them. Well might he quote to them the terms of a famous
|
|
letter: "The notice which you have been pleased to take of my labors, had it
|
|
been early had been kind; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent and
|
|
cannot enjoy it...till I am known and do not want it." But twice during our
|
|
ramble--once in Mile End Road and once in Hoxton--he was recognized, and the
|
|
midnight crowd gathered and surrounded him. There it was the real thing--not
|
|
the vulgar desire of the hostess to feed the latest lion, but a spontaneous
|
|
burst of hearty affection, a welcome to an old friend. He has played himself
|
|
into the hearts of the simple people, and they love him. The film "Charlie"
|
|
is a figure that appeals to them, for it is a type of thwarted ambitions, of
|
|
futile strivings and forlorn makeshifts for better things. As I watched the
|
|
frail, elegant figure struggling against this monstrous burst of enthusiasm,
|
|
in which voices hot with emotion, voices of men and women, cried boisterous
|
|
messages of good will to "our Charlie," I was foolishly moved. No Prime
|
|
Minister could have so fired a crowd. No Prince of the house of Windsor
|
|
could have commanded that wave of sheer delight. He might have had the crowd
|
|
and the noise, but not the rich surge of affection. A prince is only a
|
|
spectacle, a symbol of nationhood, but this was a known friend, one of
|
|
themselves, and they treated him so. It was no mere instinct of the mob.
|
|
They did not gather to stare at him. Each member of that crowd wanted
|
|
privately to touch him, to enfold him, to thank him for cheering them up.
|
|
And they could do so without reservations, for they could not have helped him
|
|
in his early years--they were without the power. I do not attempt to explain
|
|
why this one man, of all other "comics" of stage and film, had so touched the
|
|
hearts of the people as to arouse this frenzy of adulation. It is beyond me.
|
|
I could only stand and envy the man who had done it.
|
|
Yet he found little delight in it. Rather, he was bewildered. I think
|
|
his success staggers or frightens him. Where another might be spoiled he is
|
|
dazed. The "Charlie," the figure of fun that he created in a casual moment,
|
|
has grown upon him like a Frankenstein monster. It and its world-wide
|
|
popularity have become a burden to him. That it has not wholly crushed him,
|
|
ejected his true self and taken possession of him, is proof of a strong
|
|
character. Your ordinary actor is always an actor "on" and "off;" but as I
|
|
walked and talked with Chaplin I found myself trying vainly to connect him,
|
|
by some gesture or attitude, with the world-famous "Charlie." There was no
|
|
trace of it. When, a little later, I saw one of his films, I again tried to
|
|
see through the makeup the Chaplin I had met, and again I failed. The
|
|
pathetic, fragile clown of the films is purely a studio creation, having
|
|
little in common with its creator, for Chaplin is not a funny man. He is a
|
|
great actor of comic parts. Every second of his pictures is ACTED, and when
|
|
he is not acting he casts off "Charlie," drops the mask of the world's fool,
|
|
and his queer, glamorous personality is released again.
|
|
He described to me the first sudden conception of his figure of fun--the
|
|
poor ludicrous fool, of forlorn attitudes, who would be a gentleman, and
|
|
never can; who would do fine and beautiful things, and always does them in
|
|
the wrong way and earns kicks in place of acceptance and approval. At every
|
|
turn the world beats him, and because he cannot fight it he puts his thumb to
|
|
his nose. He rescues fair damsels, and finds that they are not fair.
|
|
He departs on great enterprises that crumble to rubbish at his first touch.
|
|
He builds castles in the air, and they fall and crush him. He picks up
|
|
diamonds, and they turn to broken glass. At the world's disdain he shrugs
|
|
his shoulders and answers its scorn with rude jests and extravagant antics.
|
|
He is sometimes an ignoble Don Quixote, sometimes a gallant Pistol, and in
|
|
other aspects a sort of battered Pierrot. All other figures of fun in
|
|
literature and drama have associates or foils. "Charlie," in all his
|
|
escapades, is alone. He is the outcast, the exile, sometimes getting a foot
|
|
within the gates, but ultimately being driven out, hopping lamely, with ill-
|
|
timed nonchalance, on the damaged foot. He throws a custard pie in the
|
|
world's face as a gesture of protest. He kicks policemen lest himself be
|
|
kicked. There is no exuberance in the kick; it is no outburst of vitality.
|
|
It is deliberate and considered. Behind every farcical gesture is a deadly
|
|
intent. Never do the eyes, in his most strenuous battles with authority,
|
|
lose their deep-sunken haunting grief. Always he is the unsatisfied, venting
|
|
his despair in a heart-broken levity of grips and capers. Chaplin realized
|
|
that there is nothing more universally funny than the solemn clown, and in
|
|
"Charlie" he accidentally made a world-fool; though, I think, certain
|
|
memories of early youth went to its making.
|
|
But I am more interested in the man than his work. When, at four
|
|
o'clock in the morning, he came home with me to Highgate and sat round the
|
|
fire, I felt still more warmly his charm and still more sharply his essential
|
|
discontent. I do not mean that he is miserable--he is indeed one of the
|
|
merriest of companions; but he is burdened with a deep-rooted disquiet.
|
|
He is the shadow-friend of millions throughout the world, and he is lonely.
|
|
He is tired, too, and worn, this young man whose name and face are known in
|
|
every habitable part of the world. It is not a temporary fatigue, as of a
|
|
man who is overworking or running at too high a pitch. His weariness, I
|
|
think, lies deeper. It is of the spirit. To the quick melancholy of the
|
|
Latins--for he is Anglo-French, and was born at Fontainebleau--is added that
|
|
unrest which men miscall the artistic temperament. But even without these he
|
|
could not, I think, command happiness. He is still an exile, seeking for
|
|
something that the world cannot give him. It has given him much--great
|
|
abilities, fame, fortune, applause; yet it has given him, for his needs,
|
|
little. The irony that pursues genius has not let him escape. He is hungry
|
|
for affection and friendship, and he cannot hold them. With the very charm
|
|
that draws would-be friends towards him goes a perverse trick of repulsing
|
|
them. He desires friendship, yet has not the capacity for it. "I am
|
|
egocentric," he confessed. To children everywhere his name brings gurgles of
|
|
delight; and he does not like children. He has added one more to the great
|
|
gallery of comic figures--Falstaff, Pickwick, don Quixote, Uncle Toby,
|
|
Micawber, Touchstone, Tartarin, Punchinello--and he hates "Charlie."
|
|
He sat by the fire, curled up in a corner of a deep armchair like a
|
|
tired child, eating shortbread and drinking wine and talking, talking,
|
|
talking, flashing from theme to theme with the disconcerting leaps of the
|
|
cinematograph. He talked of the state of Europe, of relativity, of Benedetto
|
|
Croce, of the possibility of a British Labor Government, of the fluidity of
|
|
American social life, and he returned again and again to the subject of
|
|
England. "It stifles me," he said. "I'm afraid of it--it's all so set and
|
|
solid and ARRANGED. Groups and classes. If I stayed here, I know I should
|
|
go back to what I was. They told me that the war had changed England--had
|
|
washed out boundaries and dividing lines. It hasn't. It's left you even
|
|
more class-conscious. The country's still a mass of little regiments, each
|
|
moving to its own rules. You've still the county people, the Varsity sets,
|
|
the military caste--the governing classes and the working classes. Even your
|
|
sports are still divided. For one set there are hunting, racing, yachting,
|
|
polo, shooting, golf, tennis; and for the other, cricket, football, and
|
|
betting. In America life is freer and you can make your own life and find a
|
|
place among the people who interest you."
|
|
And Chaplin has surrounded himself with quiet, pleasant people. Not his
|
|
those monstrous antics of the young men and women whose light heads have been
|
|
shaken by wealth and mob worship. He is not one of the cafe-hotel-evening-
|
|
party crowd. When the "shop" is shut, he gets well away from it and from the
|
|
gum-chewing crowd to whom life is a piece of film and its prizes great
|
|
possessions. You must see him as an unpretentious man, spending his evenings
|
|
at home with a few friends and books and music. He is deeply read in
|
|
philosophy, social history, and economics. His wants are simple, and,
|
|
although he has a vast income, he lives on a portion of it and shares
|
|
everything with his brother, Syd Chaplin. During the day he works, and works
|
|
furiously, as a man works when seeking distraction or respite from his
|
|
troubled inner self. What he will do next I do not know. He seems to be a
|
|
man without aim or hope. What it is he wants, what he is seeking, to insure
|
|
a little heart's ease, I do not know. I don't think he knows himself. This
|
|
young man worked for an end, and in a few years he achieved it, and now the
|
|
world now stretches emptily before him, "and the eyelids are a little weary."
|
|
I have tried to present some picture of this strange, elusive, gracious,
|
|
self-contradictory character; but it is a mere random sketch in flat outline,
|
|
and gives nothing of the opulent, glittering, clustering light and shade of
|
|
the original. You cannot pin him to paper. Even were he obscure, a mere
|
|
nobody, without the imposed coloring of "Charlie" and world popularity, he
|
|
would be a notable subject, for he has that wonderful, impalpable gift of
|
|
attraction which is the greater part of Mr. Lloyd George's power. You feel
|
|
his presence in a room, and are conscious of something wanting when he
|
|
departs. He has the dazzling rich-hued quality of Alvan in "The Tragic
|
|
Comedians." You feel that he is just the fantastic, flamboyant figure that
|
|
leads revolutions. And when you connect him with "Charlie" the puzzle grows,
|
|
and you give it up. The ambition that served and guided him for ten years is
|
|
satisfied; but he is still unsatisfied. The world has discovered him, but he
|
|
has not yet found himself. But he has discovered the weariness of repeated
|
|
emotion, and he is a man who lives on and by his emotions. That is why I
|
|
call him a tragic figure--a tragic comedian.
|
|
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
[The "Three-Minute Hot Weather Interview" was a regular feature of this
|
|
newspaper, in which celebrities were to attempt to answer 15 questions within
|
|
three minutes.]
|
|
August 31, 1921
|
|
Marguerite Mooers Marshall
|
|
NEW YORK EVENING WORLD
|
|
|
|
Charlie Chaplin Proclaims He Is In the Matrimonial Market Again
|
|
In Three-Minute Hot Weather Interview
|
|
|
|
Charlie Chaplin, the playboy of the movies, Charlie of the funny feet,
|
|
the trained mustache, the incredible headgear, handles a three-minute
|
|
interview with all the care he does NOT bestow on custard pies and cops.
|
|
Charlie is ever so polite about it, but nevertheless he acts as if he thought
|
|
The Evening World's hot weather test in mental speed were a bomb of some sort
|
|
that might go off in his hands.
|
|
When I saw the brown-eyed, debonair, soft-voiced little comedian in the
|
|
theatre lobby just after the rehearsal of the next release of his friend Mary
|
|
Pickford and just before the showing of the newest picture of his friend
|
|
Douglas Fairbanks, he leaned against the wall for support, wiggled his
|
|
fingers nervously and took his full three minutes to answer the fifteen
|
|
questions I had prepared.
|
|
|
|
FIRST MINUTE.
|
|
Gains on Schedule, but Parries Most Thrusts.
|
|
|
|
It was exactly 17 minutes past 1 when I asked:
|
|
Q. No. 1--What is it that makes you so funny?
|
|
Charlie Chaplin (grinning bashfully, so that he showed most of his very
|
|
white and even teeth, and looking off into space, somewhere over my left
|
|
shoulder)--I don't know--ask the kids.
|
|
Q. No. 2--Ought movie salaries to go down?
|
|
Charlie Chaplin (straightening his drooping shoulders, an indignant
|
|
inflection in the soft voice)--Certainly not!
|
|
Q. No. 3--Is the Bolshevik Government going to last in Russia?
|
|
Charlie Chaplin--I do not know.
|
|
Q. No. 4--Why don't you want to marry again?
|
|
Charlie Chaplin (who was recently quoted as saying that he didn't, but
|
|
who seems to have changed his mind--girls, here's your chance!)--Who says
|
|
that I don't? Quoting me to that effect was a mistake. I certainly do want
|
|
to marry again, very much!
|
|
Q. No. 5--What sort of woman do you like best?
|
|
Charlie Chaplin (again grinning embarrassedly and tying his fingers into
|
|
bow knots)--Now, that's hard to answer; I really couldn't say; I couldn't
|
|
even tell whether she's blond or brunette; I couldn't answer that.
|
|
Q. No. 6--Are you in favor of an Irish republic?
|
|
Charlie Chaplin (determinedly playing safe)--I prefer to be discreet and
|
|
not commit myself.
|
|
The first minute was gone and we were one answer ahead of the average
|
|
called for by the time schedule.
|
|
|
|
SECOND MINUTE.
|
|
Slows Down His Answers, but Holds to Schedule.
|
|
|
|
Q. No. 7--Should women smoke cigarettes?
|
|
Charlie Chaplin (hesitating, lips moving nervously, then smiling
|
|
diplomatically)--That depends on the woman.
|
|
Q. No. 8--Do you believe in national censorship of the movies?
|
|
Charlie Chaplin (repeating the question to gain time and thinking hard)
|
|
--Do I believe in national censorship? Yes--if it's intelligent.
|
|
Q. No. 9--What do you do with all your money?
|
|
Charlie Chaplin (the hundred candle-power grin again turned on)--Pay my
|
|
taxes--and spend some now and then.
|
|
Q. No. 10--What should the Government do to help the unemployed?
|
|
Charlie Chaplin (who takes a decidedly serious, non-facetious interest
|
|
to labor and social problems)--They should do a great deal--so much that I
|
|
couldn't begin to cover the subject even if I took the whole time you allow
|
|
for the interview.
|
|
The second minute was up and we had lost our one-answer lead owing to
|
|
the comedian's habit of stopping to think before he spoke.
|
|
|
|
THIRD MINUTE.
|
|
Finishes Exactly on Time and Seems Glad It's Over.
|
|
|
|
Q. No. 11--What is the easiest way to make people laugh?
|
|
Charlie Chaplin (with modest hesitation, although you'd think him
|
|
qualified to answer this one)--Make them happy, I guess--but somebody else
|
|
could answer that question a good deal better than I.
|
|
Q. No. 12--If you were not a movie star, what would you like to be?
|
|
Charlie Chaplin (with a quiet chuckle)--Night watchman.
|
|
Q. No. 13--How many custard pies have you ruined since the beginning of
|
|
your career--a million?
|
|
Charlie Chaplin--Oh, not as many as that. Say a thousand!
|
|
Q. No. 14--What is your candid opinion of the Volstead act?
|
|
Charlie Chaplin (the laugh in his eyes, as well as on his lips, and
|
|
looking me straight in the face for almost the first time during the
|
|
interview)--Of the Volstead act? You must excuse me--I don't use such
|
|
language!
|
|
Q. No. 15--When are you going to play Hamlet?
|
|
Charlie Chaplin (although this role is said to be his dearest ambition)
|
|
--I'd rather read it. What I really want in my future work is to do as I
|
|
please--to follow my own whim!
|
|
The interview and the three minutes were over. Charlie seemed glad the
|
|
bomb had not exploded!
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
September 4, 1921
|
|
NEW YORK TRIBUNE
|
|
Charlie Chaplin seemed to be the big attraction on the White Star pier
|
|
yesterday when the Olympic sailed for Southampton...
|
|
He posed for the "stills" and the motion picture machines until the
|
|
operators were satisfied and when it was done he drew his hand across his
|
|
dripping brow and appeared to be garnering the drops that fell into his
|
|
upturned hat which he held under his chin. Then with a spoon fashioned from
|
|
his imagination he pretended to stir the contents of the hat and sprinkle the
|
|
bystanders.
|
|
It has been said that Chaplin will go in for the romantic thrillers, the
|
|
sort of films that Bill Hart produces.
|
|
No. There was not a word of truth in it. Charlie did want to get a
|
|
certain Bill Hart story, but he had no thought of forsaking the funny film.
|
|
It was explained that Chaplin was impressed with "The Border Wireless," which
|
|
Howard E. Morton wrote for Hart, and had informed the author that he would
|
|
like to have had it for himself. Mr. Morton asked Chaplin if he contemplated
|
|
quitting comedy. Charlie then explained that he would have enacted the
|
|
romantic part portrayed by Hart in his own way, and that the more serious the
|
|
tale the more ludicrous he would have made it.
|
|
"The great trouble with writers," said Chaplin, "is that they offer what
|
|
they think is funny stuff. I want serious stories which I can make
|
|
ridiculous. I can think of funny things to do with a serious plot. Comedy
|
|
suggestions injected into manuscripts I get rarely are the ideas I want."
|
|
Charlie said he would pass a month in England...
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
[In 1919, Elsie Codd came from England to Los Angeles; she was hired by
|
|
Chaplin to write publicity for the British press.]
|
|
October 11, 1919
|
|
Elsie Codd
|
|
PICTURES AND PICTUREGOER
|
|
|
|
Some First Impressions of Charlie Chaplin
|
|
|
|
I.
|
|
|
|
Los Angeles!
|
|
The long journey was at last accomplished, and I stood, feeling very
|
|
small, strange and lonely amidst a seething mass of chaotic "arrivals" and
|
|
"departures," wondering whether my telegram had really arrived and whom they
|
|
would send to meet me.
|
|
Then gradually the crowd resolved itself to one figure, a little slight
|
|
man in a neat grey suit, who apparently expected someone on the "Limited,"
|
|
and who looked as though he were wondering whether that someone had got
|
|
mislaid en route.
|
|
At the moment when I decided that I was neither dreaming nor suffering
|
|
from an optical illusion, the little man focused his attention on a grey hat
|
|
and a blue coat and skirt, and visibly recalled these garments as important
|
|
data in an otherwise rather vague scheme of identification.
|
|
My next impression of Charlie Chaplin was a smile, an English voice, and
|
|
the warm clasp of an outstretched hand.
|
|
|
|
II.
|
|
|
|
Slowly the big car glided along a bewildering maze of long streets with
|
|
strange tall buildings, thronged with busy traffic and a cosmopolitan crowd,
|
|
then gradually the city was left behind and we passed down a wide, smooth
|
|
boulevard, bordered with palms and pepper trees.
|
|
On the way he would point out some landmark of special interest--the
|
|
ruins of the old Griffith Babylon on the Sunset Boulevard, the Sennett
|
|
Studio, where he made his own first pictures--but I think these remarks were
|
|
purely incidental, concessions to his role of cicerone showing a little
|
|
British "rubberneck" the usual sights for the first time. I remember he
|
|
talked incessantly--little about pictures, a great deal about England and the
|
|
people "back home."
|
|
Yes, some day he hoped to see the Old Country again. But when he went
|
|
he wanted some definite purpose to take him there. Perhaps to produce a
|
|
play. No, not for the screen--for the stage. It was the dream of his life
|
|
to write that play, and he had carried the idea bout with him for the last
|
|
two years. Yes, he acknowledged, almost shyly, it was to be a serious play,
|
|
centered in a deep psychological problem.
|
|
"But I don't suppose it will ever materialise," he said, breaking off
|
|
the subject with a laugh. "I can't write, you know."
|
|
At last the car slowed down on a quiet avenue and drew up before a
|
|
quaint row of low timbered-fronted houses, a little bit of Shakespeare's
|
|
England sleeping beneath the cloudless blue of the Californian sky.
|
|
"And this," said Charlie, "is the Studio."
|
|
He was obviously gratified at my delight. In one part we found a
|
|
village within a village, the "set" which was built for "Sunnyside," and of
|
|
which the church is still standing today, because Charlie likes its quiet
|
|
pastoral touch and hates to pull it down.
|
|
We finished the tour with an inspection of the huge open stage, on which
|
|
a "set" for the new picture was already in course of construction, then
|
|
adjourned to Charlie's private office. There he showed me his books and
|
|
pictures and talked of the things that interest him most--men and women, art
|
|
and letters, drifting from that point into speculations of a philosophical
|
|
nature.
|
|
Charlie is a deep thinker and a brilliant talker. A chance remark will
|
|
set him off, seeking his way through a maze of speculations, his mind working
|
|
so surely and rapidly, that you need all your powers of concentration to keep
|
|
pace with him. His intelligence is marvelously quick and active, and he
|
|
expresses himself in a vivid boyish way which somehow inspires you with his
|
|
own enthusiasms. I have never seen a man more intensely ALIVE. He is such a
|
|
slight little fellow himself, that he gives you the impression of one whose
|
|
physique is consumed by the very strength of its own vitality.
|
|
The other day he owned that he wished he were "a tall, fine chap," and
|
|
guessed his own small build explained his intense admiration of champions of
|
|
the ring and other big fellows.
|
|
|
|
III.
|
|
|
|
A little tousle-headed figure in a preposterous suit of clothes,
|
|
surrounded by a crowd of some fifty "extras," cameramen, technical directors,
|
|
continuity writers and property-men.
|
|
Charlie Chaplin at work.
|
|
I believe the thought the uppermost in my mind when I reached home at
|
|
the close of that long, hot, strenuous day was that I would have liked just
|
|
at that particular moment to have met the man who asserts that Chaplin
|
|
doesn't earn that million-dollar salary.
|
|
And another thing I learnt was that genius is not only the infinite
|
|
capacity for taking pains, but also that enthusiasm which makes loyal and
|
|
willing workers, that patience and humanness which alone inspires that spirit
|
|
which makes a work of genius live.
|
|
|
|
IV.
|
|
|
|
It was late in the morning when he arrived moody, restless and distrait.
|
|
Hadn't slept all night worrying over some snag in this old story. He also
|
|
decided he wouldn't use the scenes he had made yesterday. They were no good,
|
|
anyhow. Nobody to be admitted to his office; newspaper men, interviewers and
|
|
automobile agents to be shot at sight.
|
|
With this ultimatum Charles Chaplin retires to the sanctuary to thrash
|
|
out his problems alone.
|
|
|
|
V.
|
|
|
|
I will conclude these impressions with the recollections of an evening
|
|
at Chaplin's house. He and his wife had entertained a few friends, and after
|
|
dinner we adjourned to the music-room, with its quiet, intimate atmosphere of
|
|
shaded lights.
|
|
In one corner stood a magnificent concert grant. Charlie loves music.
|
|
It seems to be the natural outlet for his restless, eager spirit, and
|
|
whenever I have seen him in that room, sooner or later he invariably responds
|
|
to the lure of the instrument.
|
|
On this particular evening he sat there for nearly an hour, playing
|
|
snatches from "Butterfly," "Carmen" and the "Valse Triste," improvising sad,
|
|
wistful little melodies of his own, and trying some new records on the
|
|
pianola.
|
|
"And this is my favourite," he said, having after a long search at last
|
|
discovered one he particularly wanted to try.
|
|
I glanced at the title. It was the celebrated theme with variations
|
|
from one of Haydn's string quartettes, the melody to which we English have
|
|
learnt to sing the hymn, "Praise the Lord, ye heavens adore Him."
|
|
"I remember I used to think it the most beautiful thing on earth when I
|
|
sang it as a little boy at Sunday school," Charlie said. "But now it seems
|
|
wonderful things to me. I seem to see a whole Russian army on a great wide
|
|
plain, thousands and thousands of them as far as the eye can reach. They are
|
|
all kneeling in prayer, and the priest passes slowly down their ranks and
|
|
blesses them with the sacred ikon in his hands."
|
|
And as I watched him lose himself and all sense of his surroundings in
|
|
the beauty of that music, I realised that this was a Charlie Chaplin the
|
|
world has yet to know.
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
August 7, 1920
|
|
Elsie Codd
|
|
PICTURES AND PICTUREGOER
|
|
Sidelights on The Stars:
|
|
Charlie Chaplin
|
|
|
|
He arrives. And simultaneously a miniature hurricane breezes into the
|
|
peaceful little English village drowsing in the sunshine, as though that
|
|
small human dynamo had suddenly electrified the entire surrounding atmosphere
|
|
with his presence.
|
|
The arrival is immediately heralded by the bodyguard, vigilantes and
|
|
watchers at the gate, and the customary view-hallo is raised; "Rollie! Jack!
|
|
He's here!"
|
|
Occasionally Mr. Chaplin will relieve the watchers of the formality,
|
|
suddenly materialise on the premises and announce himself with the triumphant
|
|
whoop: "He's here!" Which always means that he's feeling "good," and heralds
|
|
for us all the dawn of a perfect day.
|
|
Thereupon Rollie and Jack, the trusty cameramen, instantaneously
|
|
precipitate themselves from some hidden lair and sprint to the projecting
|
|
room, it being an unwritten law that any person rash enough to attempt an
|
|
entrance into said projecting room after the doors are closed is liable to be
|
|
shot at dawn.
|
|
After ripping open his shirt collar and flinging his latest specimen of
|
|
flamboyant neckwear on the nearest chair, Charles Spencer will then pass
|
|
judgment on the scenes that were shot on the previous day. A running flow of
|
|
Chaplinesque comment will accompany the running off of the film; in fact, a
|
|
quarter of an hour per diem in the projecting room with Charlie would be an
|
|
education for any high-class film critic.
|
|
(N.B. and before I forget it: In the projecting room there stands a
|
|
sinister instrument strangely misnamed a harmonium, and at this juncture I
|
|
might add that if the light is too bad for us to "shoot," it is Mr. Chaplin's
|
|
habit to have it out on that harmonium. On such occasions--a wet and dismal
|
|
afternoon by preference--he will improvise for hours in minor keys, till you
|
|
want to lift up your voice and weep. Probably, what with the wet afternoon
|
|
and the wheezy harmonium and the minor keys, he will go home with a couple of
|
|
nice new "gags" neatly pigeonholed in that remarkable mind of his, and feel
|
|
that he has spent a thoroughly jolly afternoon.)
|
|
But, supposing the day is bright and sunny. No sooner has the film been
|
|
run off than Charlie is out in the open again. Perhaps there is a new "set"
|
|
to be inspected, which mysterious ritual is performed by giving an
|
|
impersonation of a camera lens and squinting through your fingers from
|
|
various angles of the stage.
|
|
Or possibly Mr. Chaplin is going to shoot that day a new faction of his
|
|
story. Then the various actors and their make-ups pilgrimage to the Santuary
|
|
in order to submit themselves for inspection and approval. Thereupon
|
|
Mr. Chaplin will run through his mail, retire to his dressing-room, which is
|
|
partitioned off by a curtain from the rest of his office, doff the well-cut
|
|
garments he affects as a private citizen, and in due course emerge in his
|
|
famous reincarnation of a tailor's nightmare.
|
|
Possibly over the business of making-up he will discuss some tangled
|
|
know in his "story" with the elect who form his advisory committee. On one
|
|
occasion I remember him rushing out of his dressing-room in the preliminary
|
|
stages of making-up, with a towel round his chin, another twisted like a
|
|
Grecian fillet round his head, to impart the sensational news that he had
|
|
just solved a problem in the story that had been worrying him for weeks. The
|
|
twist was as original as it was perfectly logical and natural, and yet it was
|
|
the last thing that would probably every have occurred to a trained scenario
|
|
writer.
|
|
"I just made my mind a blank," he exulted in his vivid, boyish way, "and
|
|
the idea came in a flash. Can't think why it had never occurred to me
|
|
before. It only just shows you that the danger we movie folk have to guard
|
|
against is to allow our minds perpetually to run in the same groove and only
|
|
think in the terms of the movies."
|
|
Charlie at work is still the same marvel to me that he was the very
|
|
first day I saw him in action, only, if possible, even more so. He will be
|
|
at it six hours on end, without showing a sign of fatigue, his small body
|
|
perpetually active, his mind working with the precision and lightning
|
|
rapidity of a steel spring. Some times he will knock off for half-an-hour
|
|
and go off to lunch on a cup of coffee and his favourite strawberry
|
|
shortcake, but as likely as not he will send off the others and remain on the
|
|
lot, too interested in his job to risk any chance of disturbing his
|
|
concentration.
|
|
I remember one day we were discussing our ideas of pleasure and
|
|
happiness, and how Charlie thrilled at the thought of a long walk through the
|
|
English countryside and a farmhouse meal with fresh bread, dairy butter, new-
|
|
laid eggs and tea in an earthware pot.
|
|
"The only things that gave me any real pleasure," he said, "are just the
|
|
simple things. I'm happiest when I'm working, and the biggest pleasure I get
|
|
out of life is to suddenly get a real inspiration and land a comedy gag."
|
|
Sometimes, of course, inspiration clogs. I have known some hot
|
|
afternoon when Charlie declares he is nearly asleep, and the rest of us are
|
|
feeling very much the same. Then, by sheer force of will, he will go through
|
|
a variety of strenuous gymnastics with a tremendous show of energy and "pep."
|
|
Sometimes, however, it is a case of pure physical and mental exhaustion, the
|
|
result of several days of almost superhuman effort. Then he abandons all
|
|
pretence of work and knocks off for a bit, gets out his violin and plays us a
|
|
tune, gives us a little exhibition of fancy dancing or one of his famous
|
|
imitations of a grand opera tenor.
|
|
When the light is good, work may go on uninterruptedly till past five,
|
|
when possibly Mr. Chaplin will remorsefully remember that at four he had an
|
|
appointment with his dentist or a special emissary of the Grand Lama. Even
|
|
then, after he has discarded his screen regalia, he may remain at the studio
|
|
long after the others have left, working out the next scenes of his story or
|
|
seeking fresh inspirations over the sweet music of his old violin. On other
|
|
occasions he will wind up a busy day with a show or a dinner.
|
|
And so, as Mr. Pepys would say, to bed.
|
|
"I've had a wretched night," we will possibly hear on the following
|
|
morning, "hardly slept a wink. But I've had a great idea. Now we'll retake
|
|
some of those scenes we did yesterday."
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
October 1921
|
|
Elsie Codd
|
|
PICTUREGOER
|
|
[from an interview with Jackie Coogan]
|
|
It was one afternoon, between scenes, during the filming of "The Kid,"
|
|
that I cornered Jackie Coogan on the set for the purpose of a press
|
|
interview...
|
|
It was at this moment that Charlie Chaplin strolled up from another
|
|
part of the set, and took a seat beside us on the edge of the pavement.
|
|
"I'm making an attempt," I explained, "to fathom the psychology of a
|
|
youthful screen star. So far, I find him somewhat detached on the subject of
|
|
moving pictures. As a man of influence and standing, he will probably listen
|
|
to you. Please help me out."
|
|
"You flatter me," Charlie said with a smile, whilst Jackie promptly
|
|
profited by the occasion to return to his mud-pies. "All the same, I very
|
|
much doubt whether my influence and standing, as you are pleased to call
|
|
them, have any bearing on the case in hand. You know," he continued,
|
|
lowering his voice so that Jackie could not hear, "what I like about that kid
|
|
is his absolute sincerity. He's one of the few with whom I come into contact
|
|
who are completely indifferent to my position in this unreal sort of world of
|
|
ours. He likes me, not because I'm Charlie Chaplin, but because he thinks
|
|
I'm not a bad sort of scout, though, no doubt, he entertains an even higher
|
|
opinion of the property-boy and the janitor, because they have so much more
|
|
time to play with him. But seriously, you know," he said, hitching up his
|
|
knees in his favourite attitude of repose, "that boy's a genius. He's not
|
|
only got imagination, but vision. No long, tiresome rehearsals for him!
|
|
I might labour in vain if I were simply to tell him to 'register' surprise,
|
|
joy or sorrow in the usual way; but give him an intelligent grasp of the
|
|
situation in hand, and put it to him what he would do under similar
|
|
circumstances, and he will instantly key himself to the corresponding
|
|
emotions. The great thing to be remembered, if the privilege falls to your
|
|
lot to develop a latent genius, is to allow it the freedom to find itself and
|
|
work out its destiny along its own lines. That is why, as far as possible, I
|
|
leave Jackie to give his own rendering of a part, and just content myself
|
|
with giving him such hints as will make that rendering more perfect from a
|
|
technical point of view. Such things as camera values, positions and cues
|
|
have to be learnt, but he is a child interpreting a child's part, and having
|
|
a natural genius for self-expression, can be trusted to follow his own sense
|
|
of logical fitness in any situation that presents itself. The task I have
|
|
set myself to perform is to develop in him a realisation of what personality
|
|
means in any form of Art, and to make him, above all things, true to himself.
|
|
Come here, you little miffler," he said, turning to his protege, who was
|
|
still reveling in the bliss of old clothes and unlimited supplies of earth
|
|
and water; "tell us what you need most to be a really great actor."
|
|
"Personality," (No doubt of Master Jackie's conviction on this point,
|
|
for the promptness and decision of the answer simply didn't allow a loophole
|
|
for the slightest argument.)
|
|
"And what does Personality mean?"
|
|
"Being just yourself and nobody else."
|
|
"And how do you know a good actor when you see one?"
|
|
"Oh, that's easy. He acts so natchral, that--that--well, you can't
|
|
even see that he's acting at all."
|
|
Not bad for a five-year old, is it? Though I doubt whether I'd ever
|
|
have got so deep into the matter if it hadn't been for Charlie's assistance.
|
|
For no sooner was Charlie's back turned than Jackie made a confession.
|
|
"I'm not so sure that I wouldn't like to be a camera-man," he said with
|
|
a quaint, pensive expression.
|
|
"I like to hear those cameras whirr, and turning the handle's great
|
|
fun. You watch me."...
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
August 20, 1916
|
|
Grace Kingsley
|
|
LOS ANGELES TIMES
|
|
|
|
Witty, Wistful, Serious is the Real Charlie Chaplin
|
|
|
|
To interview a man whose idea of repartee might consist in throwing a
|
|
pie--who might, as a proof of his wit, offer to hurl you over a cliff--how
|
|
exciting!
|
|
However, there weren't any pies around the Charlie Chaplin stage the
|
|
other day. There was only a billiard-room "set" used by the comedian in his
|
|
latest picture, "The Count," with its comedy furniture lying around in
|
|
dejected attitudes, as if comedy were indeed a sad business.
|
|
Which, take it from Charlie Chaplin it is--the saddest business in the
|
|
world.
|
|
Charlie arrayed himself in a natty summer suit, with a day off from
|
|
work, was practicing golf strokes out on the grass plot in front of his
|
|
studio with Billie the mascot goat of the studio, as principal hazard and
|
|
sometimes caddy.
|
|
Away from the Cooper-Hewitts it's a very human, natural, lovable Charlie
|
|
that greets you. A Charlie with flashes of drollery, and moments of
|
|
wistfulness, too, such as you see in the pictures. A Charlie of unexpected
|
|
vanities, and of equally big humilities concerning himself and his
|
|
achievements. A shrewd Charlie, who is saving his money toward the time when
|
|
he may do big things. And a Charlie, above all, who takes life and himself
|
|
seriously, and wants you to take them seriously, too.
|
|
Maybe it's the background of the poorhouse that makes him serious. You
|
|
know, when he was a little boy Chaplin, his brother and mother were thrust
|
|
into an English workhouse. If it hadn't been for the poorhouse, and
|
|
certainly if it hadn't been for a certain large curly dog, maybe there never
|
|
would have been anybody in the world earning $670,000 a year and the world
|
|
would have been out a lot of laughs besides. It was the big curly dog of
|
|
Chaplin's workhouse period that pulled Charlie out of the river one day when
|
|
the embryo comedian was in bathing, and had got beyond his depth.
|
|
Chaplin's present ambition--that for which he is waving? Nothing less
|
|
than appearing in high comedy on the speaking stage--comedy as high as Pinero
|
|
or Shaw or Wilde.
|
|
One believes that he will achieve it, too, even though you smile at the
|
|
idea that, in the very midst of a funny fall, Charlie may be delivering a
|
|
Shaw epigram, or that he may be murmuring a Wilde bon mot all the while he is
|
|
kicking the fat man!
|
|
"When I arrive in the morning I'm usually gloomy," said Charlie, as he
|
|
led us out on the big state, "especially when I haven't any idea of what I'm
|
|
going to do in a scene, as is often the case. Tears bedew my eyes as I put
|
|
on my make-up, and I weep sadly as I step out on the stage. And as for these
|
|
gray hairs:--indicating those about his temple over his right ear--I got them
|
|
all the other day trying to be funny in a ballroom scene. I think any
|
|
comedian who started out to be funny in a ballroom would have his career
|
|
blighted at the outset."
|
|
Chaplin has his comedy "locations" down fine. It's easy to be funny in
|
|
a billiard-room or a bakery, he says; a bathroom is inherently humorous; one
|
|
chuckles even at thought of a taxidermist's shop; a taxicab, facetiously
|
|
nicknamed "the robber's delight," is potentially funny, but ballroom and a
|
|
horse and buggy are synonymous for sighs.
|
|
"How did I acquire my walk?" Well, sore feet are always funny to me--
|
|
I mean, of course, other people's. Mostly, somehow, they are owned by people
|
|
with no sense of humor, or maybe a person's sense of humor is in abeyance
|
|
when he has sore feet. Anyway, it was a funny little old public-house keeper
|
|
in London, who habitually had sore feet and groaned over them, from whom I
|
|
learned that walk."
|
|
"How about the athletic work you do, that we hear so much about?"
|
|
"No, ma'am. Don't you believe that. Why should a man exert himself
|
|
needlessly that way? Don't I go to work every morning with my dinner pail,
|
|
like a stevedore? Why should I swing dumbells when I have to throw people
|
|
around so as to break things with them every day? Why should I wrestle, even
|
|
when I have to kick people for a living? And as for hanging to swinging
|
|
bars, I call a chandelier my second name. I love walking. I walk in crowds,
|
|
downtown, and think out my plots. People are so sad and so funny, so
|
|
pathetic and so absurd. I like to frequent parks and cafeterias and other
|
|
places where crowds go."
|
|
Charlie Chaplin calls his funny clothes his "salary." And as for his
|
|
first comedy boots, they were a pair of old ones belonging to Ford Sterling.
|
|
So that Chaplin both literally and figuratively stepped into Sterling's
|
|
shoes."
|
|
"No, I don't own a car. I rent one when I need it. When I was over at
|
|
the Keystone I bought a car. The first day I ran it it went on a gasoline
|
|
jib. First it playfully climbed a telephone pole, then it bit me when I
|
|
tired to fix the speedometer, and lastly, when I got out and tried to pry the
|
|
darn thing loose from a house it had run into, it jammed me up against a wall
|
|
and wouldn't let me go.
|
|
"Concerning my imitators--yes, I have had some funny experiences with
|
|
them. I met a man the other day, fresh from some place where they don't have
|
|
any Charlie Chaplin imitators, apparently. He had just seen me an hour
|
|
before, he said, out in front of one of the theaters.
|
|
"'Why do you do it?' he asked. 'I think you lose prestige that way--
|
|
cheapen yourself!'
|
|
"'Oh, I don't know,' I told him, 'I hardly know myself why I do it. It
|
|
just helps keep me busy--that's all--helps pass the time away!'"
|
|
Back in New York, on Charlie's recent trip, he was standing in a crowd
|
|
watching an imitation of himself, when a small boy came up and tried to push
|
|
him out of the way.
|
|
"What's the matter?" demanded Chaplin.
|
|
"Oh, git outa me way," said the urchin. "I wanta see Charlie Chaplin.
|
|
Whada you care about seein' him? Youse guys always gets in a kid's way.!"
|
|
At another time Charlie had been doing a scene in an alley, and the rest
|
|
of the company had gone on, while Chaplin stopped to watch a bunch of
|
|
newsboys shooting craps. Along came a policeman.
|
|
"Move on!" he commanded.
|
|
"I'm Charlie Chaplin, and I've been working here!" exclaimed the
|
|
comedian.
|
|
"You Charlie Chaplin!" laughed the policeman. "Huh, I guess I know
|
|
Charlie Chaplin when I see him. You're just one of his bum imitators. Get
|
|
out!"
|
|
Charlie is given to spells of moody melancholy. One night he was
|
|
particularly low-spirited, and when he chanced to meet the joyous Tom
|
|
Meighan, the latter proposed a slumming party to chase away the glooms. They
|
|
went down to the old "Mug" saloon on Winston Street.
|
|
"The proprietor was suspicious of us from the beginning," said Chaplin.
|
|
"Maybe our clothes were too good. He asked all sorts of questions. 'Do you
|
|
work on the docks at San Pedro?' 'No, not at San Pedro,' I assured him.
|
|
After we had spent upwards of 30 cents buying him drinks, he openly voiced
|
|
the opinion we weren't there for any good. Finally our evidence of
|
|
overwhelming wealth--we had spent six bits by that time--caused him to decide
|
|
that such reckless spenders must be from Alaska. After a while, though, he
|
|
began to look at me closely. A look of amazement stole over his face. 'You
|
|
ain't--it can't be Charlie Chaplin!' he cried. 'Pshaw,' I answered, 'of
|
|
course not. I'm a traveling man.' 'I'll bet you are Charlie Chaplin!' he
|
|
insisted. But when I coyly admitted I was indeed that very person--
|
|
"'Aw, no you ain't,' he veered around. 'No man that made $670,000 a
|
|
year would come to a dump like this!' And no amount of persuasion or proof
|
|
could convince him."
|
|
Chaplin has been much taken up by society of late. He admits he rather
|
|
likes dancing and the role of cozycorner fusser.
|
|
"But I think," he said slowly and a little sadly, "I think perhaps those
|
|
people could be very cruel, if--" Did that "if" mean, if one lost one's
|
|
vogue, his money, his power? Shrewd Charlie.
|
|
"Anyhow, my work's the thing. Yes, I admit that sometimes I use other
|
|
people's ideas." Chaplin grinned. "But, oh, the irony of fate! Once last
|
|
year I made a picture filled with no less than ten masterpieces of other
|
|
people's creation--and the exhibitors sent it back. Said it was rotten!"
|
|
Chaplin has a secretary to answer his letters, of which he receives
|
|
sometimes as many as 100 a day. And his letters are graded and filed! What
|
|
do you think of that? If you write him an A No. 1 love letter, for instance,
|
|
or one that's extremely interesting, or one so badly composed that it's
|
|
funny, that letter goes into a certain pigeonhole and to be kept and taken
|
|
out and read over again by Charlie at some future day. But if you write only
|
|
the common or garden variety of love letter, or any other ordinary sort, it
|
|
is filed in the regular letter file, and after a while is destroyed. He gets
|
|
letters from everywhere in the world, and is an especial favorite in China
|
|
and Japan.
|
|
Following is a postcard which he received the other day from an admirer
|
|
in Tokio: "Dear Mr. Chapline: Dear Sir: Your kind favour with a pretty
|
|
photo of you was duly to hand for which I was enormously delighted.
|
|
Expecting that your work in the M. F. Company will please us more than I saw
|
|
before, Yours truly, -----."
|
|
Oftentimes he goes to the theater to listen to comments of his
|
|
audiences.
|
|
"And when I hear some of the criticisms, I walk off quickly," he says.
|
|
For, strange as it may seem, as sensitive to criticism as a child is
|
|
this famous comedian, who has created a guffaw that is heard around the
|
|
world, a ripple of laughter that ceaselessly encircles the globe.
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
[The following interview with Edna Purviance really belongs with her
|
|
interviews in TAYLOROLOGY 66. But Chaplin does make a cameo appearance.]
|
|
|
|
May 6, 1916
|
|
Fred Goodwins
|
|
PICTURES AND PICTUREGOER
|
|
The Little Lady of Laughter
|
|
|
|
I want you to imagine, if you will, what a breath of fresh air it was to
|
|
find when I prepared this interview that I was compelled to speak the truth
|
|
from sheer want of a means to improve it! Like the "Ernest" of Oscar Wilde's
|
|
comedy, it's the first time I ever found myself placed in such a position.
|
|
I suppose Edna has her faults; if she has she is fearfully bashful about
|
|
them, for in all my intimate friendship with her I have never so far
|
|
succeeded in bringing one to light.
|
|
She was with Charlie the first time I met her--in the lobby of the hotel
|
|
where they were dining--and while that ubiquitous young gentleman was trying
|
|
to handle three visitors at once she drew me aside and gave me an amusing
|
|
insight into the various subterfuges he has to practise in order to dispose
|
|
of the "pests," as distinguished from the legitimate callers.
|
|
"He hates to do it, you know," she assured me, "but if you only knew the
|
|
hundreds of inconsequential things people want to see him about sometimes,
|
|
you wouldn't think hardly of him--or of me--for turning them down."
|
|
"Of you?" I queried.
|
|
"Yes, you see, he feels so badly about having to do it that he has to
|
|
get poor me to answer phone messages and act as a right-hand diplomat!"
|
|
That's the phrase: "Right-hand diplomat." There you have the whole of
|
|
Edna's relation to the great little star, for when she is not playing her
|
|
part before the camera she is managing bits of business for him and
|
|
sometimes, when occasion demands it, managing him.
|
|
When I grew to know Edna more thoroughly I was better able to realise
|
|
just why she is one of the best-loved girls in the whole of this vast
|
|
industry. The boys of the studio always spoke of her in glowing terms,
|
|
particularly the many English boys, I noticed, the reason of which soon
|
|
became apparent. Edna, for a patriotic American girl, is the most English-
|
|
spirited creature that ever happened. She is, in fact, just that good-
|
|
natured, hardy, tomboyish type so dear to us Englishmen. Yet, withal, she
|
|
has the right amount of reserve that goes to make up the ideal girl.
|
|
"You want to interview me?" she exclaimed, when I told her I wanted to
|
|
do so for PICTURES. (I had taken her into a candy-store for a little tea--
|
|
Charlie having Anglicised her into that habit, which is not a national one in
|
|
America.)
|
|
"Why not?" I said, amused at the wideness of her blue eyes.
|
|
"Oh, don't 'kid' me," she chided, and it took me several minutes and the
|
|
unearthing of a note-book to convince her that the great B. P. wouldn't be
|
|
averse to hearing from her something about herself. My point was gained.
|
|
"Well, first of all I suppose you want me to tell you that I was
|
|
born--"
|
|
"Just like 'David Copperfield,' eh?" I agreed. "That was the first
|
|
chapter of your life?"
|
|
"Of course it was," she said. "Don't be irrelevant."
|
|
I subsided, and continued to jot.
|
|
"Do you write shorthand?" she exclaimed, looking at my book. "So do I--
|
|
Pitman's; what's YOUR system?"
|
|
"'Pitman-Goodwins',' I suppose you'd say--nobody can read it but
|
|
myself!"
|
|
She evinced a desire to use her pastry-knife murderously, and I
|
|
hurriedly returned to my notes.
|
|
"Well, I was born in 1894, in the State of Nevada--so I'm thoroughly
|
|
Western, you see. A lot of people have asked me how I came by my peculiar
|
|
name and this will be a good opportunity to tell them. The name itself is
|
|
French, of course, and must have come down through several generations--
|
|
because nobody ever saw a purely French woman with hair as fair as mine, did
|
|
they?" She pulled out a strand of very blonde hair--almost white it is, and
|
|
as fine as spider silk. "I expect I get it from the English side of my
|
|
family, which is my mother's. But about my name--Charlie says I ought to
|
|
change it; because nobody can pronounce it; but I hate assumed names, and as
|
|
mine is so distinctive I want to keep it. Tell people to pronounce it like I
|
|
do--Pur-vi-ance, with the accent on the second syllable.
|
|
"When I left high school I became secretary to a firm in San Francisco,
|
|
and it was there that I acquired the speed at typewriting that I used in that
|
|
Picture we were in together"--she meant "The Bank"--"but the humdrum life of
|
|
an office didn't seem to satiate my inborn spirit of freedom--love of
|
|
adventure I suppose you'd call it--so one day I turned up my position and
|
|
became a lady of leisure once more.
|
|
"Time kind of hung on my hands, and one day I thought it would be fun to
|
|
go out to Niles"--the Essanay head studio near San Francisco--"and see them
|
|
taking pictures, so I called up a girl chum of mine and we went.
|
|
"When we got there, they were very kind to us and let us wander around
|
|
the plant, and then I noticed what a crowd of girls was there. I asked one
|
|
of the gentlemen what they were all doing, and he said: 'Why, Mr. Chaplin has
|
|
got five hundred of them to choose his new leading lady from; these are some
|
|
of the applicants.' While we were watching, a little man with dark curly
|
|
hair, who had been walking among the girls, looked over at me, and pointing
|
|
in my direction called out: 'That's the type I want!' I was scared at first,
|
|
and when the young man who was with him came over to me, I asked him who the
|
|
little man was. 'Why, that's Charles Chaplin, our comedy star,' he answered;
|
|
'he wants to see you about the position.' 'Position?' I said. 'Yes, Miss,'
|
|
he answered; 'he wants you for his leading lady--just to try-out, you know.'
|
|
"So that's how I met Charlie. I was not one of the applicants, but the
|
|
idea of acting in pictures with the comedian I had laughed at so often
|
|
appealed to me as a huge joke, and I decided that I'd try everything once--
|
|
like the Kaiser," she added artlessly.
|
|
"Never mind the Kaiser," I suggested; "I'm getting interested. And was
|
|
it a huge joke?"
|
|
"It was not; before I began to be a picture artist, I had thought myself
|
|
gifted with a little more than ordinary intelligence. After the first day in
|
|
front of the camera, I came to the conclusion that I was the biggest 'boob'
|
|
on earth.
|
|
"Charlie was very patient with me, though, and after my first picture,
|
|
in which I think I was terrible--'A Night Out,' you know--I began to get used
|
|
to the work, and although I have had occasional relapses, as Charlie calls
|
|
them, I am at least 'camera-wise' by now."
|
|
"And a very clever little woman," I added, with privileged gallantry.
|
|
"No, I wouldn't like to believe that. But someday I want to do
|
|
something REALLY good; I want to EARN the people's regard, don't you know.
|
|
I don't want them to like me just because I'm lucky enough to be Charlie's
|
|
leading lady, but because I've done something myself that has appealed to
|
|
them."
|
|
"You've done that already, Edna," I ventured. "Look at the letters you
|
|
get from all over the world."
|
|
"Yes, that's true; but I want to go on and on and on. I think I've
|
|
found a business in which I can achieve something, and I want to rise to the
|
|
top of it. I remember your saying that Charlie is the soul of ambition."
|
|
I nodded. "Do you believe me when I say that if ambition could get a person
|
|
on, I'd be the most successful woman in the world?"
|
|
"Why, yes," I agreed, a bit at sea over the sober channel our interview
|
|
was taking. "You'll do it, too."
|
|
She raised her eyes eagerly.
|
|
"Do you REALLY think that?" she begged. "I'm a pessimist, you know--I
|
|
never believe anything will happen until it has.
|
|
"Gee! It's half-after-four, and I promised to see Charlie at the next
|
|
corner but one."
|
|
We passed on to the door.
|
|
"Great Scot! it's pouring," I ejaculated, looking through the glass.
|
|
"You can't go out in this! Let me go and fetch Charlie down here."
|
|
Her permission received, I started out, but good luck saved me a wet
|
|
trip, for at that moment a huge touring-car halted by me and the comedian
|
|
thrust out his head in greeting.
|
|
"Hold on!" I cried. "Your precious burden's in here." A moment later
|
|
the little lady of laughter was snugly ensconced among a lot of rugs, and
|
|
they were both waving their adieus.
|
|
In that car were two of the best-known personalities in the world--two
|
|
"souls of ambition;" one all but fully realised, the other only a question of
|
|
time.
|
|
|
|
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
|
|
|
|
July 1930
|
|
Jim Tully
|
|
NEW MOVIE MAGAZINE
|
|
The Unknown Charlie Chaplin
|
|
|
|
I first met Charles Chaplin at a dinner given by Ralph Block. My first
|
|
book had been published. Chaplin had read some of the reviews. When we
|
|
parted that night he asked me to call on him and was kind enough to tell me
|
|
that he liked me.
|
|
Several days later I telephoned the studio. Chaplin sent his limousine
|
|
for me. He was very kind during that first private interview. I was ill at
|
|
ease. We parted, I think, with a feeling of reserve on both sides. I was
|
|
not natural that day. Nor was I ever quite natural in all the months that I
|
|
was to be associated with the comedian. I have always regretted this fact.
|
|
Paul Bern is ever on the alert to be kind, as hundreds in Hollywood
|
|
besides myself can testify. He secured me a position with Chaplin. My
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salary was small, but it was a fair wage, considering what little work I had
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|
to do. It was agreed upon between the comedian and myself that he was to
|
|
sign certain articles which I was to write from time to time. His name had
|
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value in the magazine world. After signing two articles he refused to sign
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more. Feeling the inadequacy of my position, and hoping daily against hope,
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I remained on the job.
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|
Konrad Bercovici, the writer of gypsy romances, once wrote an article on
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Charles Chaplin for HARPER'S MAGAZINE. In it he did me the honor to call me
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Chaplin's secretary. He described my entering the room and laying a paper on
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the great jester's desk. No attention was paid to me.
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Mr. Bercovici was sadly mistaken. My principal duty with Charles
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Chaplin was to receive my weekly check. I was merely one of the sad jesters
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in the court of the King of Laughter.
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|
|
|
The time arrived to select a leading lady for "The Gold Rush." Dozens
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|
of screen tests were made of ambitious young ladies. I often accompanied
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Chaplin's higher salaried yes-men to the projection room, where we watched
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as the faces of these inane beauties flashed upon the screen.
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An ordinary-looking Mexican girl arrived one morning. She had played
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some years previously in "The Kid." Chaplin was not yet at the studio. The
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girl was about to depart, when lo--the little jester met up with his destiny.
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A screen test was made of the girl. Several of us agreed privately that it
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was the worst yet made. The girl did not photograph.
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Chaplin watched her features on the screen the next day. In silence we
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|
watched him.
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He rose from his chair.
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"That's the girl," he exclaimed. A fearful silence filled the room.
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I walked to my office and allowed the yes-men to argue the great
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|
question. Something--perhaps a mood--as he had, and rightly, no respect for
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my judgment, compelled Chaplin to join me a few minutes later. He entered
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the room as tragic as Hamlet, hands held behind his back, a frown on his
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|
face, as though his next decision would rattle the stars from the sky.
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|
"What do you think of her, Jim?" he asked.
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Having been hungry, and knowing that he would choose the girl he
|
|
preferred anyway, I parried with, "I don't know, Charlie. She may be all
|
|
right."
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|
The rug on my office floor was vivid red. Chaplin began to pace up and
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|
down, up and down, hands still behind his back. His good-looking face bore
|
|
the same fearful frown. Now and then I would glance at him and then let my
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|
eyes rest once more on the scarlet carpet.
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|
Suddenly the door opened. The Mexican girl entered. She was cheaply
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|
dressed, but her eyes flashed, her teeth were even, her body was so round and
|
|
supple that one soon forgot the ugly black dress which clothed it.
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|
Chaplin smiled benignly, as gracious and charming a smile as I have ever
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|
seen.
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|
She stood before him and asked, "Well, what is it, Charlie? Am I
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|
hired?"
|
|
The comedian looked at her and then down at his spats, which, actor-
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|
like, he always wore.
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|
I watched their expressions. The keen, fine face of the actor, mobile
|
|
and finely molded, was a face that would be noticed in any gathering. The
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|
girl watched him, round-eyed, round-faced, full of life. I saw in her then
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|
everything which Chaplin did not see--a young woman who seemed to me devoid
|
|
of spiritual qualities.
|
|
Chaplin answered at last, "You're engaged."
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|
The girl leaped into the air with joy. Together they walked out of my
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|
office--to a troubled destiny for the man and a fortunate one for the girl.
|
|
She afterward had the fine fortune to marry the comedian and garner for
|
|
herself many hundreds of thousands of dollars.
|
|
If his marriage was a farce, his divorce was tragic. As Lita Grey
|
|
Chaplin she brought him as much misery as it is possible for a
|
|
misunderstanding young lady to bring to genius.
|
|
She worked in "The Gold Rush" at a salary of seventy-five dollars a
|
|
week. Mr. Chaplin has no more sympathy with large salaries than any trust.
|
|
During her stay at the studio, the officials from the Board of Education
|
|
often called. She could scarcely be forced to study. Her grades were low
|
|
and she had no interest in books. And to this girl was given by the Fates in
|
|
marriage Mr. Charles Spencer Chaplin, the most complex of human beings.
|
|
Just why he remembered Miss Grey from her childhood days and insisted
|
|
upon making her his leading lady might be worthy the attention of a master of
|
|
irony like Chaplin himself. He has undoubtedly been away from it long enough
|
|
to smile--until he remembers the fortune it cost him. And then, if he weeps,
|
|
he is but human.
|
|
|
|
It is my opinion that Chaplin does not like intelligent men as
|
|
companions.
|
|
Elmer Elsworth, one of the most whimsically humorous and highly
|
|
intelligent men I have known, worked with him for many months. Chaplin once
|
|
remarked to me that Elsworth was "a real highbrow." Given his choice between
|
|
such a man and Henry, the heavy restaurant proprietor in Hollywood, the
|
|
comedian chose the latter. They have been close associates for many years.
|
|
Chaplin frequents his restaurant and spends hours in chatting with other
|
|
ephermal film immortals.
|
|
Chaplin often ridicules sentimentality in others. The publishers of
|
|
Thomas Burke's "The Wind and the Rain" sent him a copy of that book. It is,
|
|
so far as I know, one of the most maudlin and sentimental books written an
|
|
any language. Burke is a product of the same London environment that
|
|
produced Chaplin. Success has made both men dramatize self-pity. Chaplin
|
|
read the book with tears in his voice. The true nature of the volume
|
|
entirely escaped him. Secluded in a bungalow at the far end of the studio,
|
|
oblivious to everything else, he read and discussed the book at great length.
|
|
When I asked to borrow the precious volume, he willingly loaned it to
|
|
me, saying, "Take good care of it, Jim. It's my Bible."
|
|
The book had touched the misery of his own childhood. After seeing the
|
|
East End of London, I can understand why. For there poverty is groveling,
|
|
supine--so listless and beaten that it dares not hope.
|
|
I said to him, "Charlie, it would be a nice thing to cable Burke and
|
|
also send his American publishers a boost for the book."
|
|
He was immediately enthusiastic over the idea. I phrased cablegram and
|
|
telegram, which he approved.
|
|
Burke had asked him for an autographed photograph. I found one and took
|
|
it to him. He frowned.
|
|
"It's not good enough," he said.
|
|
In London, four years later, I asked Burke if he had ever received the
|
|
photograph.
|
|
"Not yet," he answered.
|
|
Chaplin has often been called "a maker of directors." During my term
|
|
with him he had as his lieutenants Charles Reisner, now a successful
|
|
director; Edward Sutherland, Henry, the ponderous restaurant keeper, and
|
|
Harry d'Arrast. Monta Bell, the famous Paramount director, had but recently
|
|
left him to begin his brilliant career. Bell was in many respects the
|
|
shrewdest and most able man associate with Chaplin. He watched his
|
|
opportunity and sold himself to Warner Brothers to direct "Broadway After
|
|
Dark." It was an immediate success and Bell's future was assured. I tried
|
|
at many different times to get Chaplin to comment on the film. He would not.
|
|
It had seeped through Hollywood that Bell had been partly responsible
|
|
for "A Woman of Paris." Chaplin heard the news and made no comment.
|
|
One of the most surprising qualities about him is his kindness and
|
|
tolerance toward those who have been none too kindly to him. His attitude
|
|
toward life is far from gentle, however. People interest him a great deal,
|
|
though he has no love for them in the mass.
|
|
In all the months I was with him he expressed no love for the beauty of
|
|
nature. I called his attention to a gorgeous sunset. He looked with
|
|
narrowed eyes and said no word. He once, in a whimsical mood, spoke of the
|
|
fog of London and wished that he might die in it. He told how it draped the
|
|
buildings and hid their ghastly ugliness.
|
|
Once, long after I had gone, three men sat a table with him. Being
|
|
citizens of Hollywood, two of them evidently thought the shortest road to his
|
|
heart was in disparaging me. Chaplin listened for some time, saying nothing.
|
|
At last he said, "He can write," and the subject was changed.
|
|
His mind is ever in a furore. As restless as a storm, it is always
|
|
charged with wonder. The vagaries of the human brain interest him a great
|
|
deal. The Leopold-Loeb case kept him enthralled. He often expressed pity
|
|
for the Chicago anarchists done to death as the outcome of the Haymarket
|
|
riot.
|
|
One brave fellow in the early morning hour before his execution sang so
|
|
that the entire prison could hear:
|
|
"Maxwelton braes are bonnie,
|
|
Where early fa's the dew--
|
|
It was there that Annie Laurie
|
|
Gae me her promise true."
|
|
Chaplin often talked of this incident. Whenever he did, his voice was
|
|
soft.
|
|
|
|
When not working, which was half the time, it was his custom to
|
|
telephone from his Beverly Hills mansion each day and request that certain of
|
|
his employees be sent to him. If the order came late in the evening, we
|
|
considered it from "the little genius," our pet name for him.
|
|
One Saturday afternoon I was called for, and upon arriving was told that
|
|
I was to accompany him to dinner that night. He had suddenly grown tired of
|
|
two other men and had suddenly desired my company. I saw that he was in a
|
|
dark mood and, sensing tedious hours ahead, I looked about for a means of
|
|
protection.
|
|
Leaving the mansion to go on an errand in Hollywood, I had the good
|
|
fortune to meet Lita Grey at the studio. Knowing that if she should
|
|
"accidentally" drift into the Montmartre, where I guessed we would go for
|
|
dinner, that he would probably invite her to dinner and send me home, I asked
|
|
her to come to the restaurant. She agreed to make it appear accidental. The
|
|
plan nearly worked.
|
|
At eight o'clock that night Chaplin took me to the Montmartre. As we
|
|
walked nonchalantly toward his accustomed table, he stopped suddenly. For
|
|
there sat the two men of whom he was tired.
|
|
Chaplin turned about, saying "No more privacy than a shoe clerk," and
|
|
walked with me out of the restaurant. We went to another cafe. It also was
|
|
crowded.
|
|
His Japanese chauffeur followed us in the car.
|
|
Chaplin decided to go to the Ambassador Hotel.
|
|
Once there, we remained at the same table for over five hours. I was
|
|
completely talked out.
|
|
Chaplin watched the dancers gliding about.
|
|
At last a Spanish girl began to flirt with him. My heart beat fast.
|
|
If she would only come to his table, he might excuse me. I praised the
|
|
girl's beauty now and then, while the comedian's eyes followed her. Finally,
|
|
in desperation, I said, "Why don't you chat with her, Charlie? She's very
|
|
lovely."
|
|
And the little genius answered, "I'm not in the mood, Jim. It's
|
|
lovelier just to watch her."
|
|
He took me home early in the morning.
|
|
Lita Grey arrived at the Montmartre on time. She found the two men at
|
|
the table. We had come--and gone.
|
|
He is the greatest inarticulate ironist on earth. The petty platitudes
|
|
of lesser men do not conceal from his keen eyes the great truth that life is
|
|
a bitter business and that mankind does a goose step to the grave. He has
|
|
the first-rate man's sense of futility.
|
|
|
|
My ingratitude to Chaplin has long been a byword in Hollywood. It has
|
|
been said that I arrived here a tramp and was befriended by film people,
|
|
subsequently biting the hands that fed me. This is not true. The two men
|
|
who made the early days easier for me in Hollywood were Paul Bern and Rupert
|
|
Hughes. Both are still close to me. My second book was dedicated to Rupert
|
|
Hughes, my last to Paul Bern.
|
|
Until this moment I have never troubled to answer any man's charges.
|
|
My old grandfather used to say, "Kape your head up, Jimmy. Ye've the blood
|
|
of a wind-rovin' Dane." And so through all the melee of words I have always
|
|
smiled, and thrown another brick. If it missed, I threw another one.
|
|
"Payple respect ye more whin they're a little afraid," my grandfather
|
|
used to say. He was a ditch-digging man of the world, doomed to canker out
|
|
his life in the saloons of a miserable Ohio town. There was always in his
|
|
big and turbulent and troubled old head a slight feeling of contempt for
|
|
everything and everybody. He early inculcated in me that feeling, and begged
|
|
me to try like the devil to compel life to make way for me. I obeyed the
|
|
magnificent, mud-bespattered old brigand, and I put him in a book just as he
|
|
was and sent him to the far corners of the world. If I whimpered in
|
|
explaining myself now, he'd kick a board out of his coffin.
|
|
Charles Chaplin and I quarreled over a matter which the intervening
|
|
years have taught me was my fault. I was entirely to blame. But growth is
|
|
not given to Irish mortals in a day.
|
|
Long after we had separated, I was invited to the home of Frank Dazey,
|
|
with whom I was writing a play.
|
|
When I arrived, Mrs. Dazey said to me, "Jim, I know you'll be a good
|
|
fellow, as Charlie Chaplin is coming. Marion Davies telephoned and asked if
|
|
she could bring him. I knew you would understand."
|
|
Always self-conscious in company, I wondered how I would act.
|
|
The newspapers at the time were full of news concerning our quarrel.
|
|
Chaplin arrived soon afterward. He was charming as sin. Never in all
|
|
his life had he been more considerate with me. In the presence of all the
|
|
guests, he put his arm about me. A sublime actor, one can never be sure when
|
|
he is in or out of a role. Cynical of most things, I still believe that he
|
|
was sincere that night. If not, he was charming, which is just as well.
|
|
Later in the evening a charade was played. Charlie picked me for his
|
|
side. In choosing a word, he said, "Let's pick one of four syllables." And
|
|
then with pantomime and a look of deep concern, he said, "Lord, I don't know
|
|
any."
|
|
The game over, many of the guests chatted in the living room. Wondering
|
|
if he had changed I began to talk upon a pathological subject. Soon he drew
|
|
his chair near mine and we talked for a long time. As of old his powerful
|
|
mind wondered at subjects probably never to be understood.
|
|
Since meeting him at the Dazey home I have seen him but once.
|
|
At the time of his greatest trouble, I met him walking in the gathering
|
|
dusk down Sunset Boulevard.
|
|
His cap was pulled low over his eyes. His shoulders were drooped.
|
|
His hands were shoved deep in his pockets. His chin was buried on his chest.
|
|
There was no one within a block of us. My first impulse was to say,
|
|
"Hello, Charlie," and put my arm about him.
|
|
I was positive that he would have welcomed me. And yet I hesitated, for
|
|
some unaccountable reason.
|
|
Soon his lonely figure melted into the night. Somehow at the time he
|
|
reminded me of Victor Hugo's line on Napoleon after the battle of Waterloo.
|
|
That Man of Destiny was found wandering aimlessly in a field, in Hugo's
|
|
words, "the mighty somnambulist of a vanished dream."
|
|
|
|
*****************************************************************************
|
|
*****************************************************************************
|
|
Back issues of Taylorology are available on the Web at any of the following:
|
|
http://www.angelfire.com/az/Taylorology/
|
|
http://www.etext.org/Zines/ASCII/Taylorology/
|
|
http://www.silent-movies.com/Taylorology/
|
|
Full text searches of back issues can be done at http://www.etext.org/Zines/
|
|
For more information about Taylor, see
|
|
WILLIAM DESMOND TAYLOR: A DOSSIER (Scarecrow Press, 1991)
|
|
*****************************************************************************
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