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Charlie Chaplins Own Story

Page 16

by Charlie Chaplin


  along. I just want to go out on the stage

  and be funny," I said. "And I want the cam-

  era to keep going- all the time, so I can

  forget about it."

  219

  "Oh, see here, Chaplin, you can't do that.

  Do you know what film costs? Four cents a

  foot, a thousand feet of film. You'd waste

  thousands of dollars' worth of it in a season.

  You see that yourself. Great Scott, man, you

  can't take pictures that way!"

  "You give me a chance at it, and I'll show

  you whether I can or not," I replied. "Let

  me try it, just for a day or so, just one

  scene. If the film's spoiled, I'll pay for

  it myself."

  We argued it out for a long time. The notion

  seemed utterly crazy to Mr. Sennett, but

  after all I had made a real success in comedy,

  and his disappointment must have been great

  at my failure on the films. Finally he con-

  sented to let me try making pictures my way,

  on condition that I should pay the salary of

  the operator and the cost of the spoiled film.

  ...

  That night I walked up and down the street

  for hours, planning the outlines of a scenario

  and the make-up I would wear. My cane, of

  course, and the loose baggy trousers which are

  always funny on the stage, I don't know why.

  I debated a long time about the shoes. My

  feet are small, and I thought perhaps they

  might seem funnier in tight shoes, under the

  baggy trousers. At last, however, I decided

  on the long, flat, floppy shoes, which would

  trip me up unexpectedly.

  These details determined upon, I was return-

  ing to my hotel when suddenly I discovered I

  was hungry, and remembered that I had eaten

  no dinner. I dropped into a cafeteria for a

  cup of coffee, and there I saw a mustache.

  A little clipped mustache, worn by a very dig-

  nified solemn gentleman who was eating soup.

  He dipped his spoon into the bowl and the mus-

  tache quivered apprehensively. He raised the

  spoon and the mustache drew back in alarm.

  He put the soup to his lips and the mustache

  backed up against his nose and clung there.

  ...

  It was the funniest thing I had ever seen.

  I choked my coffee, gasped, finally laughed

  outright. I must have a mustache like that!

  Next day, dressed in the costume I had chosen,

  I glued the mustache to my lip before the

  dressing-room mirror, and shouted at the

  reflection. It was funny; it was uproariously

  funny! It waggled when I laughed, and I

  laughed again. I went out on the stage still

  laughing, and followed by a shout of mirth

  from every one who saw me. I tripped on my

  cane, fell over my shoes, got the camera man

  to shouting with mirth. A crowd collected to

  watch me work, and I plunged into my first

  scene in high spirits.

  221

  I played the scene over and over, introduc-

  ing funnier effects each time. I enjoyed it

  thoroughly, stopping every time I got out of

  the range of the camera to laugh again. The

  other actors, watching behind the camera,

  held their sides and howled, as my old

  audiences had done when I was with Carno.

  "This," I said to myself triumphantly.

  "This is going to be a success!"

  When the camera finally stopped clicking

  all my old self-confidence and pride had come

  back to me. "Not so bad, what?" I said, tri-

  umphantly twirling my cane, and in sheer good

  spirits I pretended to fall against the camera,

  wringing a shout of terror from the operator.

  Then, modestly disclaiming the praises of the

  actors, though indeed I felt they were less

  than I deserved, I went whistling to my

  dressing-room.

  222

  "How soon do you want to see the film, Mr.

  Chaplin?" the operator asked, tapping at my

  door while I was changing into street clothes.

  "Just as soon as you can have it, old top,"

  I replied cheerfully. "Oh, by the way, how

  many feet did we use?"

  "Little over two thousand," he called back,

  and I heard the sound of his retreating feet.

  ...

  A little over two thousand! At four cents

  a foot! Eighty dollars! I felt as though a

  little cold breeze was blowing on my back.

  Nearly a month's salary with Carno wagered

  on the success of three hours' work! After

  all, I thought, I was not sure how the film

  would turn out; the beastly machine might not

  see the humor of my acting, good as it had

  been. I finished dressing in a hurry, and

  went out to find Mr. Sennett and show him

  the film in the dark room.

  I sat on the edge of my chair in the dark

  room, waiting for the picture to flash on the

  screen, thinking of that eighty dollars, which

  alternately loomed large as a fortune and sank

  into insignificance. If the picture was good —

  But suppose it, too, was a failure! Then I

  would be stranded in California, thousands of

  miles from home, and where would I get the

  eighty dollars?

  223

  The shutter clicked open and the negative

  began to flicker on the screen. I saw myself,

  black-faced, with a little white mustache and

  enormous white shoes, walking in great dignity

  across the patch of light. I saw myself trip

  over my shoes. I saw the mustache quiver

  with alarm. I saw myself stop, look wise,

  twirl my cane knowingly, and hit myself on

  the nose. Then, suddenly in the stillness, I

  heard a loud chuckle from Mr. Sennett. The

  picture was good. It was very good.

  "Well, Chaplin, you've done it! By George,

  you've certainly got the comedy! It's a

  corker!" Mr. Sennett said, clapping me

  heartily on the back as we came out of the

  dark room. "You've wasted a lot of film,

  but hang the film! You're worth it! Go on

  and finish this up. I'd like to release it

  next week."

  CHAPTER XXIX

  In which I taste success in the movies ;

  develop a new aim in life; and form an

  ambitious project.

  "WE'LL use the third scene," Mr. Sennett

  said to the camera operator. "How long will

  it run?"

  "About two hundred feet," the operator re-

  plied.

  "Well, keep it and throw away the rest.

  Think you can finish two good reels this week?"

  Mr. Sennett asked, turning to me.

  "Watch me!" I responded airily, and my

  heart gave a great jump. They were paying

  me two hundred dollars a week and were will-

  ing to throw away thousands of feet of film

  in addition to get my comedies. "There's a

  fortune in this business! A fortune!" I

  thought.

  My ambition soared at that moment to dazzling

  heights. I saw myself re
tiring, after five or

  ten years in the business, with a fortune of

  ten thousand pounds — yes, even twenty

  thousand !

  225

  The comedy was finished that week; I worked

  every day, during every moment when the light

  was good, not stopping for luncheon or to rest.

  I enjoyed the work; the even click- click-

  click of the camera, running steadily, was

  a stimulant to me; my ideas came thick and

  fast. I sketched in my mind the outlines of

  a dozen comedies, to be played later. I remem-

  bered all the funny things I had seen or

  heard and built up rough scenarios around

  them. I woke in the night, chuckling at a

  new idea that occurred to me.

  When my first comedy was released it was a

  great success. The producers demanded more,

  quickly. I was already working on 'Caught in

  the Rain'. I followed it the next week with

  'Laughing Gas'. They all went big.

  Every morning when I reached the stage in

  make-up the actors who were to play with me

  stood waiting to learn what their parts were to

  be. I myself did not always know, but when I

  had limbered up a bit by a jig or clog dance

  and the camera began to click, ideas came fast

  enough.

  I told the other actors how to play their

  parts, played them myself to show how it

  should be done; played my own part enthusi-

  astically, teased the camera man, laughed and

  whistled and turned handsprings. The click-

  ing camera took it all in ; later, in the

  negative room, we chose and cut and threw

  away film, picking out the best scenes,

  rearranging the reels, shaping up the final

  picture to be shown on the screens. I liked

  it all ; I was never still a minute in the

  studio and never tired.

  226

  The only time I was quiet was while I was

  making up. Then I thought sometimes of my

  early days in England, of Covent Garden, and

  my mother and my year with William Gillette.

  "Life's a funny thing," I said to myself. Then

  I made up as a baker, ordered a wagonload of

  bread-dough and flour and went out and

  romped through it hilarious, shouting with

  laughter whenever I was out of range of the

  camera. The result was 'Dough and Dynamite',

  and it clinched what I then thought was

  my success in the movies.

  At first when my pictures began to appear in

  the moving-picture houses I took great de-

  light in walking among the crowds in front of

  the doors, idly twirling my cane and listening

  to the comments on my comedies. I liked to go

  inside, too, and hear the audiences laugh at

  the comical figure I cut on the screen. That

  was the way I got my first real ambition in

  moving-picture work. I still have it. I want

  to make people chuckle.

  227

  Audiences laugh in two ways. Upon the stage,

  in all the tense effort of being funny be-

  hind the footlights, I had never noticed that.

  But one night, packed with the crowd in a

  small, dark moving-picture house, watching

  the flickering screen, listening for the

  response of the people around me, I suddenly

  realized it.

  I had wedged into a crowded house to see

  my latest film. It was a rough-and-tumble

  farce; the audience had been holding its sides

  and shrieking hysterically for five minutes.

  "Oh, ho!" I was saying to myself. "You're

  getting 'em, old top, you're getting 'em!"

  Suddenly the laughter stopped.

  I looked around dismayed. I could see a hundred

  faces, white in the dim light, intent on the

  picture — and not a smile on any of them. I

  looked anxiously at the screen. There was

  Charlie Chaplin in his make-up standing still.

  Standing still in a farce! I wondered how I

  had ever let a thing like that get past the

  negative. The house was still; I could hear

  the click of the un-rolling film.

  228

  Then on the screen I saw myself turn slowly ;

  saw my expression become grim and resolute ;

  saw myself grip my cane firmly and stalk

  away. I was going after the husky laborer

  who had stolen my beer.

  Then it came — a chuckle, a deep hearty

  "Ha! Ha! Ha!" It spread over the crowd

  like a wave ; the house rocked with it.

  "That's it! That's what I want, that's what

  I want !" I said. I got out quickly to think

  it over. I had to crowd past the knees of a

  dozen people to do it, and not one of them

  glared at me. They were still chuckling.

  ...

  I walked back to my hotel with my cane tucked

  under my arm and my hands in my pockets. That

  was the thing — the chuckle! Any kind of

  laughter is good; any kind of laughter will

  get the big salaries. But a good, deep,

  hearty chuckle is the thing that warms a

  man's heart; it's the thing that makes him

  your friend ; it's the thing that shows,

  when you get it, that you have a real hold

  on your audience. I have worked for it ever

  since.

  After that I visited the picture houses night

  after night, watching for that chuckle, plan-

  ning ways to get it. I was never recognized by

  strangers, and more than once some one asked

  me what I thought of Charlie Chaplin. I do

  not recall that I ever told the truth. In fact,

  I was not thinking much about Charlie Chaplin

  in those days ; I was thinking of his work and

  his success and his growing bank-account.

  I had come into the business at the height of

  its first big success. Fortunes were being made

  overnight in it; producers could not turn out

  film fast enough to satisfy the clamoring pub-

  lic. The studios were like gambling houses in

  the wild fever of play. Money was nothing;

  it was thrown away by hundreds, by thousands.

  "Give us the film, give us the film! To hell

  with the expense!" was the cry. I heard of

  small tailors, of street-car motormen, who had

  got into the game with a few hundred dollars

  and now were millionaires. In six months I was

  smiling at my early notion of making fifty

  thousand dollars.

  Sidney, who was still in vaudeville, came to

  Los Angeles about that time, and I met him at

  the train with one of the company's big auto-

  mobiles. The same old reliable Sidney with

  his sound business sense. He had figured out

  the trend of affairs and was already negotiat-

  ing with the Essanay company for a good con-

  tract with them, going deliberately into the

  work I had blundered into by accident.

  230

  "There's a fortune in this if it's handled

  right, Charlie," he said.

  "A fortune? If this holds out, if I can

  keep up my popularity, I'll have a cool half
/>
  million before I quit, my lad ! Keep your eye

  piped for your Uncle Charlie !" I said gaily.

  CHAPTER XXX

  In which I see myself as others see me ;

  learn many surprising things about myself

  from divers sources ; and see a bright

  future ahead.

  SID laughed.

  "Well, have it your way, old top!" he said.

  "What will you do when you get your half

  million?"

  "Do? I'll quit. I'll be satisfied," I said.

  "You can't keep 'em coming forever, and I

  don't expect it. I'll give them the best I

  have as long as I can, and then — curtains!

  But I wager we keep out of the Actor's Home,

  what?"

  Sid laughed again. "There's money in the

  movies, Charlie," he said. "Half a million?

  You wait a year. Your popularity hasn't be-

  gun."

  He was right. In a world where so many people

  are troubled and unhappy, where women lead

  such dreary lives as my mother did when I

  was a boy, where men spend their days in

  hard unwilling toil and children starve as

  I starved in the London slums, laughter is

  precious. People want to laugh ; they long to

  forget themselves for half an hour in the

  hearty-joy of it. Every night on a hundred

  thousand motion-picture screens my floppy

  shoes and tricky cane and eloquent mustache

  were making people laugh, and they remem-

  bered them and came to laugh again. Suddenly,

  almost overnight, Charlie Chaplin became a

  fad, a craze.

  232

  My first idea of it came one night when I

  was returning from a hard day's work at the

  studio. It had been a hot day; I had worked

  thirteen hours in a mask of grease paint under

  the blazing heat of the Southern California

  sun intensified by a dozen huge reflectors be-

  fore the inexorable click-click-click of the

  camera, driven by the necessity of finishing the

  reel while the light lasted. My exuberance of

  spirit had waned by noon; by four o'clock I

  was driving myself by sheer will-power,

  doggedly, determinedly being funny. At

  seven we finished the reel. At nine we had got

  the film in shape in the negative room, and I

  had nothing to do till next morning but get my

  ideas together for a new comedy.

  233

  I was slumped in a heap in the tonneau of

  the director's car hurrying to my hotel -and

  thinking that the American system of built-in

  baths had its advantages, when we ran up to a

  crowd that almost stopped street traffic. The

  sidewalk was jammed for half a block; men

 

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