brisk and hurried as before and plunged imme-
diately into a description of the part I was
to play, pausing only to mop his perspiring
forehead now and then. The heat had increased;
under the reflectors the place was like a
furnace, but my spine was still cold with ap-
prehension.
"Is it an acrobatic part?" I asked, as soon
as I could force myself to inquire.
"No, not this one. You're a hungry tramp in
the country. "We'll take the interiors here,
and for the rest we'll go out on 'location,'"
the director answered, ruffling the pages of
the "working script" of the play. "We'll do
the last scene first — basement set. Let's
run through it now; then you can make up and
we'll get it on the film before the light's
gone."
He led the way to the basement set and began
to instruct me how to play the part.
"You fall in, down the trap-door," he said.
"Pick yourself up, slowly, and register sur-
prise. Don't look at the camera, of course.
You have a pie under your coat. Take it out,
begin to eat it. Register extreme hunger.
Then you hear a noise, start, set down the
pie, and peer out through the grating. When
you turn around the rats will be eating the
pie. Get it?"
I said I did, and while the director peered
through the camera lens I rehearsed as well
as I could. I had to do it over and over,
because each time I forgot and got out of the
range of the camera lens. At last, however,
with the aid of a five-foot circle of dots
on the floor, I did it passably well, and was
sent to make up in one of dozens of dressing-
rooms, built in a long row beside the stage.
My costume, supplied by the Keystone wardrobe,
was ready, and I was reassured by the sight
of it and the make-up box. Here at last was
something I was quite familiar with, and I
produced a make-up of which I was proud.
206
When I returned to the stage the camera
operator was waiting, and a small crowd of
actors and carpenters had gathered to watch
the scene. The director was inspecting the
colored rats and giving orders to have their
tails repainted — quick, because the blamed
things had licked the color off and would
register tail- less. A stage hand was standing
by with a large pie in his hand.
"Ready, Chaplin?" the director called, and
then he looked at me.
"Holy Moses, where did you get that make-
up?" he asked in astonishment, and every one
stared. "That won't do; that won't do at all.
Look at your skin, man; it will register gray
— and those lines — you can't use lines like
that in the pictures. Roberts, go show him how
to make up."
I thought of my first appearance in Rags to
Riches, and felt almost as humiliated as I
had then, while Roberts went with me to the
dressing-room and showed me how to coat my
face and neck with a dull brick-brown paint,
and to load my lashes heavily with black.
The character lines I had drawn with such
care would not do in the pictures, I learned,
because they would show as lines. I must give
the character effect by the muscles of my face.
207
Feeling very strange in this make-up, I went
back the second time to the stage. The di-
rector, satisfied this time, gave me a few
last directions and the pie, and I mounted
to the top of the set.
"Remember, don't look at the camera, keep
within range, throw yourself into the part
and say anything that comes into your head,"
the director said. "All ready? Go to it."
...
The camera began to click; I clutched the
pic, took a long breath, and tumbled through
the trap-door.
CHAPTER XXVII
In which, much against my will, I eat three
cherry pies ; see myself for the first time
on a moving-picture screen and discover that
I am a hopeless failure on the films.
"REGISTER surprise! Register surprise!" the
director ordered in a low tense voice, while
I struggled to get up without damaging the pie.
I turned my head toward the clicking camera,
and suddenly it seemed like a great eye watch-
ing me. I gazed into the round black lens,
and it seemed to swell until it was yards
across. I tried to pull my face into an
expression of surprise, but the muscles were
stiff and I could only stare fascinated at
the lens. The clicking stopped.
"Too bad. You looked at the camera. Try it
again," said the director, making a note of
the number of feet of film spoiled. He was
a very patient director; he stopped the
camera and placed the pie on top of it for
safety, while I fell through the trap-door
twice and twice played the scene through,
using the pie tin.
209
Then the pie was placed under my coat again,
the camera began to click, and again I started
the scene. But the clicking drew my attention
to the lens in spite of myself. I managed to
keep from looking directly at it, but I felt
that my acting was stiff, and half-way through
the scene the camera stopped again.
"Out of range," said the camera man care-
lessly, and lighted a cigarette. I had for-
gotten the circle of dots on the floor and
crossed them.
I had eaten a large piece of the pie. There was
a halt while another was brought, and the
director, after an anxious look at the sun,
used the interval in playing the scene through
himself, falling through the trap-door, reg-
istering surprise and apprehension and panic
at the proper points, and impressing upon me
the way it was done. Then I tried it again.
...
All that afternoon I worked, black and blue
from countless falls on the cement floor, per-
spiring in the intense heat, and eating no less
than three large pies. They were cherry pies,
and I had never cared much for them at any
time.
When the light failed that evening the di-
rector, with a troubled frown, thoughtfully
folded the working script and dismissed the
camera man. Most of the actors in the other
companies had gone; the wilderness of empty
sets looked weird in the shadows. A boy ap-
peared, caught the rats by their tails, and
popped them back into their box.
"Well, that's all for to-day. We'll try it
again to-morrow," the director said, not look-
ing at me. "I guess you'll get the hang of it
all right, after a while."
In my dressing-room I scrubbed the paint from
my face and neck with vicious rubs. I knew I
had failed miserably and my self-esteem
> smarted at the thought. Even if I had succeed-
ed, I said bitterly, what was the fun in a
life like that? No excitement, no applause,
just hard work all day and long empty evenings
with nothing to do.
Only two considerations prevented me from
canceling my contract and quitting at once —
I was getting two hundred dollars a week, and
I would not admit to myself that I — I, who
had been a success with William Gillette and
a star with Carno — was a failure in the films
Nevertheless, I was in a black mood that night,
and when after dinner the waiter, bending def-
erentially at my elbow, insinuated politely,
"The cherry pie is very good, sir," he fell
back aghast at the language I used.
211
Work at the studio began at eight next morn-
ing, and I arrived very tired and ill-tempered
because of waking so early. We began imme-
diately on the same scene, and after I had
ruined some more film by unexpectedly landing
on a rat when I fell through the trapdoor,
we managed to get it done, to my relief.
However, all that week, and the next, my
troubles increased.
We played all the scenes which occurred in one
set before we went on to the next set, so we
were obliged to take the scenes at haphazard
through the play, with no continuity or
apparent connection. The interiors were all
played on the stage, and most of the exteriors
were taken "on location," that is, somewhere in
the country. It was confusing, after being
booted through a door, to be obliged to appear
on the other side of it two days later, with the
same expression, and complete the tumble be-
gun fifteen miles away. It was still more con-
fusing to play the scenes in reverse order, and
I ruined three hundred feet of film by losing
my hat at the end of a scene, when the succeed-
ing one had already been played with my hat
on.
212
At the end of the second week the comedy was
all on the film and the director and I were
being polite to each other with great effort.
I was angry with every one and everything,
my nerves worn thin with the early hours and
unaccustomed work, and he was worried because
I had made him a week late in producing the
film. The day the negative was done Mack
Sennett arrived from New York, and I met him
with a jauntiness which was a hollow mockery
of my real feeling.
"Well, they tell me the film's done," he said
heartily, shaking my hand. "Now you're going
to see yourself as others see you for the
first time. Is the dark room ready? Let's go
and see how you look on the screen."
The director led the way, and the three of us
entered a tiny perfectly dark room. I could
hear my heart beating while we waited, and
talked nervously to cover the sound of it. Then
there was a click, the shutter opened, and the
picture sprang out on the screen. It was the
negative, which is always shown before the real
film is made, and on it black and white were
reversed. It was several seconds before I real-
ized that the black-faced man in white clothes,
walking awkwardly before me, was myself.
Then I stared in horror.
213
Funny ? A blind man couldn't have laughed at
it. I had ironed out entirely any trace of
humor in the scenario. It was stiff, wooden,
stupid. We sat there in silence, seeing the
picture go on, seeing it become more awkward,
more constrained, more absurd with every
flicker. I felt as though the whole thing were
a horrible nightmare of shame and embarrass-
ment. The only bearable thing in the world
was the darkness ; I felt I could never come
out into the light again, knowing I was the
same man as the inane ridiculous creature
on the film. Half-way through the picture
Mr. Sennett took pity on me and stopped the
operator.
"Well, Chaplin, you didn't seem to get it
that time," he said. "What's wrong, do you
suppose?"
"I don't know," I said.
"Yes, it's plain we can't release this," the
director put in moodily. "Two thousand feet
of film spoiled."
214
"0h, damn your film!" I burst out in a fury,
and rising" with a spring which upset my chair
I slammed open the door and stalked out.
"Well, here is where I quit the pictures," I
thought.
Mr. Sennett and the director overtook me
before I reached my dressing-room and we
talked it over. I felt that I would never make
a moving-picture actor, but Mr. Sennett was
more hopeful. "You're a cracker jack come-
dian," he said. "And you'll photograph well.
All you need is to get camera-wise. We'll try
you out in something else ; I'll direct you,
and you will get the hang of the work all
right."
The director brought out a mass of scenarios
which had been passed up to him by the scena-
rio department and Mr. Sennett picked out one
and ordered the working script of it made im-
mediately. Next day we set to work together
on it ; Mr. Sennett patient, good-humored,
considerate, coaching me over and over In
every gesture and expression; I with a hard
tense determination to make a success this
time.
We worked another week on this second play,
using every hour of good daylight. It was not
entirely finished then, but enough was done
to give an idea of its success, and again
the negative was sent to the dark room for
review.
215
I went to see it with the sensations of dread
and shrinking one feels at sight of a dentist's
chair, and my worst fears were justified. The
film was worse than the first one — utterly
stupid and humorless.
CHAPTER XXVIII
In which I introduce an innovation in motion-
picture production ; appropriate an amusing
mustache ; and wager eighty dollars on three
hours' work.
"WELL, what are we going to do about it?"
Mr. Sennett asked, when the flicker of the
second film had ceased and we knew it a worse
failure than the first. "Looks hopeless,
doesn't it?"
"Yes," I said, with a sinking heart, for
after all I had had a flicker of hope for
success this time. We had both worked hard,
and now we were tired and discouraged. I
went alone to my dressing-room, shut the
door and sat down to think it over.
The trouble with the films, I decided, was
lack of spontaneity. I was stiff; I took all
the surprise out of the scenes by anticipating
the next motion. When I walked against a tree,
I showed that I knew I would hit it, long
before I did. I was so determined to he funny
that every muscle in my body was stiff and
serious with the strain. And then that con-
founded clicking of the camera and the effort
it took to keep from looking at it — and the
constant fear of spoiling a foot of film.
217
"So you're a failure," I said, looking at
myself in the mirror. "You're a failure ;
no good; down and out. You can't make a
cinema film. You're beaten by a click and
an inch of celluloid. You are a rotter,
no mistake!"
I was so furious at that that I smashed the
mirror into bits with my fist. I walked up
and down the dressing-room, hating myself
and the camera and the film and the whole
detestable business. I thought of haughtily
stalking out and telling Mr. Sennett I was
through with the whole thing ; I was going
back to London, where I was appreciated.
Then I knew he would be glad to let me go;
he would say to himself that I was no good
in the pictures, and I would always know
it was true. My vanity ached at the thought.
No matter how much success I made, no matter
how loud the audience applauded, I would
always say to myself, "Very well for you,
but you know you failed in the cinemas."
...
With a furious gesture I grabbed my hat and
went out to find Mr. Sennett. He was on the
stage watching the work of another company.
I walked up to him in a sort of cold rage
and said, "See here, Mr. Sennett, I can
succeed in this beastly work. I know I can.
You let me have a chance to do things the way
I want to and I'll show you."
218
"I don't know what I can do. You've had
the best scenarios we've got, and we haven't
hurried you," he said reasonably. "You know
the rest of the companies get out two reels a
week, and we've taken three weeks to do what
we've done with you — about a reel and a half."
...
"Yes, but the conditions are all wrong," I
hurried on. "Rehearsing over and over, and
no chance to vary an inch, and then that click-
ing beginning just when I start to play. And
I miss a cane. I have to have a cane to be
funny."
It must have sounded childish enough. Mr.
Sennett looked at me in surprise.
"You can have a cane, if that's what you want.
But I don't know how you are going to make
pictures without rehearsing and without a
camera," he said.
"I want to make up my own scenarios as I go
Charlie Chaplins Own Story Page 15
