Charlie Chaplins Own Story

by Charlie Chaplin

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