Charlie Chaplins Own Story

by Charlie Chaplin

  were standing up in automobiles to get a better

  view of whatever was happening. My chauf-

  feur stopped.

  "What's the row?" I asked one of the men

  in the crowd.

  "Charlie Chaplin's in there!" he said excit-

  edly, jumping on the running-board and cran-

  ing his neck to look over the heads of the men

  in front of him.

  "Really?" I said. I stood up and looked.

  There in front of a moving-picture theater was

  Charlie Chaplin, sure enough — shoes, baggy

  trousers, mustache and all. The chap was

  walking up and down as well as he could in the

  jam of people, twirling his cane and tripping

  over his shoes. Policemen were trying to clear

  the sidewalk, but the crowd was mad for a

  glimpse of him. I stood there looking at him

  with indescribable emotions.

  "That's funny," I said after a minute. The

  man on the running-board had only half heard

  me.

  "Funny? I should say he is! He's the

  funniest man in America!" he said. "They

  say he gets a hundred dollars a day and only

  works when he's stewed."

  "Well, well! Really!" I said.

  234

  "I guess that's right, too," he went on. "He

  acts like it on the screen, don't he ? Say,

  have you seen his latest picture? Man, it's

  a knock-out! When he fell into that sewer — !

  They faked the sewer, of course, but say — !

  I like to of fell out of my seat !"

  We had not faked the sewer. It was a thor-

  oughly real sewer. Rut I drove on to my

  hotel without explaining. The whole situation

  was too complex.

  Within a week half the motion-picture houses

  in Los Angeles had the only original and

  genuine Charlie Chaplin parading up and down

  before them. I grew so accustomed to meeting

  myself on the street that I started in sur-

  prise every time I looked into a mirror with-

  out my make-up. Overnight, too, a thousand

  little figures of Charlie Chaplin in plaster

  sprang up and crowded the shop windows. I

  could not buy a tooth-brush without reaching

  over a counter packed with myself to do it.

  ...

  It was odd, walking up and down the streets,

  eating in cafes, hearing Charlie Chaplin talked

  about, seeing Charlie Chaplin on every hand

  and never being recognized as Charlie Chaplin.

  I had a feeling that all the world was cross-

  eyed, or that I was a disembodied spirit. But

  that did not last long. A plague of reporters

  descended on the studios soon, like whatever

  it was that fell upon Egypt. Then the world

  seemed more topsy-turvy than ever, for here

  I was, an actor, dodging reporters !

  Not that I have any dislike of reporters.

  Indeed, in the old days I asked nothing better

  than to get one to listen to me and often

  planned for days to capture one's attention.

  But that's another of life's little jokes. A

  man who tries hard enough for anything will

  always get it — after he has stopped wanting

  it.

  I had to turn out the film, hundreds of feet

  of it every week, and it must be made while

  the light lasted. The gambling fever had spent

  itself in the picture business; directors were

  beginning to count costs. To stop my company

  half an hour meant a waste of several hundred

  dollars. And every morning half a dozen repor-

  ters waited for me to give them "Just a few

  minutes, Mr. Chaplin!"

  I took to dodging in and out of the studio

  like a hunted man. Did I stop to give a har-

  ried and unwary opinion upon something I knew

  nothing whatever about, next Sunday I beheld

  with staring eyes a full-page story on my

  early life, told in the first person. At last,

  in the pressure of getting out two new come-

  dies in a hurry, I escaped interviews for

  nearly three weeks. We were working overtime;

  it was late in the fall, when the weather was

  uncertain and the light bad. We would start

  at five in the morning to get to our "location"

  in the country by sunrise, only to have the

  morning foggy. Then we hurried back to the

  studio to work under artificial light, and

  the afternoon was sunny. It was a hard

  nerve-racking three weeks and our tempers

  were not improved when, at the end of the

  last day, we tried out the negative as usual

  and found the camera had leaked light and

  ruined nearly a reel of film.

  Hurrying off the stage to get a quick sup-

  per, so that I could return and make up as

  much lost time as possible that night, I en-

  countered on the studio steps a thin young

  man in a derby, who did not recognize me.

  237

  "Say, is it true Chaplin's crazy?" he asked.

  "Crazy?" I said.

  "Yes. He hasn't released a film for over a

  month and I can't get hold of him here. They

  say he's raving crazy, confined in an asylum."

  ...

  "He is not," I said. Then the humor of the

  thing struck me. "He isn't violent yet," I

  said, "but he may be, any minute."

  Half an hour later two morning papers tele-

  phoned the director for confirmation of the

  report, which he denied emphatically and pro-

  fanely. No story appeared in the papers, but

  I have since been solemnly told by a hundred

  people who "have it straight" that Chaplin

  is, or has been, confined in the California

  Hospital for the Insane.

  Behind all this flurry of comment and con-

  jecture I was working, working hard, turning

  out the best film I could devise, with my mind

  always on the problem of getting that deep,

  hearty chuckle from the audience. I did not

  always get it, but I did get laughs. And my

  contract with the Keystone company was run-

  ning out; I saw still brighter prospects ahead.

  CHAPTER XXXI

  In which the moving-picture work palls on me;

  I make other plans, am persuaded to abandon

  them and am brought to the brink of a deal

  in high finance.

  THE reorganization among the producers of

  motion pictures, which followed the era of

  mushroom companies sprung up overnight,

  making fabulous fortunes, wildly, in the

  first scramble for quick profits and going

  down again in the general chaos, was still

  under way when my contract with the Keystone

  company expired.

  Millions of laughs, resounding every night

  in hundreds of moving-picture theaters had set

  producers to bidding for me. I received offers

  of incredible sums from some companies ;

  lavish promises of stock from others. The

  situation, I felt, required the mind of a

  financier. I called in Sidney.

  After a great deal of consideration, we de-

  cided to accept the offer of the Essan
ay com-

  pany, as combining in due proportion size of

  salary and security of its payment. My con-

  tract called for a thousand dollars a day,

  also a percentage on my films.

  239

  A thousand dollars a day! Two hundred

  pounds every twenty-four hours! At the

  moment of signing the contract a feeling of

  unreality came over me. It seemed incredible.

  Only five years ago I had been cockily con-

  gratulating myself on wringing ten pounds a

  week from Carno !

  I returned to Los Angeles in the highest

  spirits and set to work again. A small com-

  pany, three actors and a score of "supers,"

  was got together for me. The stage, a rough

  board structure large enough for a dozen

  " sets", built near the bridge of the street

  railway between Los Angeles and Pasadena, was

  turned over to me and my company. Here, on a

  little side street of tumble-down sheds half

  buried in tangles of dusty woods, I shut my-

  self in behind the high wooden wall of the

  studio through the long hot summer and worked

  at being funny.

  240

  Every morning, as soon as the light was right

  for the pictures, I arrived at the studio and

  got into my make-up, racking my brain the

  while for a funny idea. The company stood

  waiting in the white-hot glare of the big

  canvas reflectors; the camera was ready;

  at the other end of the long-distance wire

  the company clamored for film, more film

  and still more. I must go out on the stage

  and be funny, be funny as long as the light

  lasted.

  "The whole thing's in your hands, Chaplin,"

  the managers said cheerfully. "Give us the

  film, that's all we ask."

  I gave them the film. All day long, tumbling

  down-stairs, falling into lakes, colliding

  with moving vans, upsetting stepladders,

  sitting in pails of wall-paper paste, I

  heard it click-click-clicking past the

  camera shutter. At night, in the negative

  room, I checked and cut and revised it.

  And all the time I searched my mind for

  funny ideas.

  Now, nothing in the world Is more rare than

  an idea, except a funny idea. The necessity

  of working out a new one every day, the re-

  sponsibility of it and the labor so wore upon

  me that by fall I had come to a stern deter-

  mination. I would leave the moving pictures.

  I would leave them as soon as I had a million

  dollars.

  "If this keeps up another year I will be a

  millionaire," I said to myself one evening,

  lying on the cement floor of the basement set,

  where I had gone in my search for a cool spot

  to rest. "Then I'll quit. I will quit and

  write a book. I never have written a book,

  and I might as well. But not a funny book.

  Ye gods, no!"

  After all, I had had my share of the lime-

  light, as I had always known, even in my worst

  days, that I would some day. I had made my

  success on the legitimate stage with William

  Gillette. I had made my success and my money

  in the moving pictures in America. I was still

  in my twenties. "Why not leave the stage

  altogether, settle down on some snug little

  ranch and write? It might be jolly fun to be

  an author. By jove, I'd do it!

  My arrangement with the Essanay people had

  been for only a year — Sidney's prudent

  idea. The contract was expiring in a few

  months; already I was receiving offer from

  other companies. I would refuse them all;

  yes, I would quit with less than a million

  dollars. Three-quarters of a million would be

  plenty. Lying there on the cool cement floor,

  still in my baggy trousers, with the grease

  paint on my face, I stretched my legs and

  waggled my floppy shoes contentedly. Jove,

  the relief of never being funny again!

  242

  "Charlie, old boy, don't be a gory idiot!" Sid

  protested, when I told him my project. "Why,

  you can make a fortune at this. Hutchinson,

  of the Mutual, is in town right now; I was

  talking to him last night. They'll make you

  an offer — you can get fifty offers that will

  beat anything you've dreamed about. You can

  be the highest-paid movie actor in the world."

  ...

  "What's a million more or less, old man?"

  I said airily, though I began to waver. "I've

  made my pile. I want to write a book."

  "How do you know you can write a book?"

  Sidney returned. "Of all the bally rot ! D'you

  want to go off somewhere and never be heard

  of again? Or have you got another notion

  that William Gillette's going to take you to

  America?"

  It was the first time Sidney had ever men-

  tioned that affair since the day he had bought

  me clothes and so got me out of the London

  hospital and taken me home. I had told him

  all about it then.

  243

  It struck me he was probably right. It has

  been my experience that he usually is.

  "All right," I said. "Your contract's up

  with the Essanay, too. Come over and manage

  things for me and I'll stay with the moving

  pictures."

  He agreed and we began to consider which

  company I should choose. The moving-picture

  business is standardized now; a few big com-

  panies practically divide the field between

  them. The various departments of the work

  have been segregated also, a producing com-

  pany turning its films over to a releasing

  company which markets them. What we most

  desired was to make a connection with a big

  releasing company, since if I got a percentage

  of the profits which we meant to stand out for,

  the marketing of the films was most important.

  ...

  I felt greatly relieved when my contract

  expired and I drove away from the studio for

  the last time, free for some wrecks from the

  obligation of being funny. Sidney was busily

  negotiating with several companies, consider-

  ing their offers and their advantages from our

  view-point. I was idle and care-free ; I might

  do what I liked. I whistled cheerfully to my-

  self, swinging my cane as I walked down to

  dinner that night, facing the prospect before

  me with happy anticipation.

  In a week I discovered that the one thing I

  most wanted to do was to be acting. A thou-

  sand bright ideas for comedy situations rushed

  into my mind ; I longed to put on my make-up

  again, to smell the piny odor of the studio

  in the hot sun, to hear the click of the

  camera. I looked regretfully at the old

  signs on the movie theaters; no new Chaplin

  pictures were being released. I was eager

  to be back at work.

  Each night I discussed more eagerly with />
  Sidney the different companies we were con-

  sidering. At last, after a great many talks

  with Mr. Hutchinson, we privately decided on

  the Mutual as offering the best advantages.

  This decision, however, we prudently refrained

  from mentioning until after Mr. Caulfield, the

  personal representative of the Mutual's presi-

  dent, Mr. Freuler, should come to Los Angeles

  and make us a definite money offer.

  Mr. Caulfield promptly arrived, and Sidney

  undertook the negotiations with him, keeping

  me in reserve to bring up at the proper time.

  I relied a great deal upon Sidney; I knew

  myself entirely capable in handling theatrical

  managers, but I had greater confidence in Sid-

  ney's handling of business men. I awaited

  somewhat nervously my share in the arrange-

  ments.

  One night my cue came. Sidney telephoned up

  from down-stairs. "I'm bringing Caulfield

  he said. "He offers ten thousand a week

  and royalties. I'm holding out for two hun-

  dred and fifty thousand dollars bonus on sign-

  ing the contract. Stick at that if you can,

  but whatever you do, don't take less than one

  hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars."

  CHAPTER XXXII

  In which I see success in my grasp; proudly

  consider the heights to which I have climbed;

  and receive an unexpected shock.

  SIDNEY came in a moment later, bringing Mr.

  Caulfield. Like Mr. Hutchinson, like, indeed,

  most of the men handling the affairs of the

  big motion-picture corporations, Mr. Caulfield

  is a keen, quick-witted business man. Producing

  and selling moving-picture films is now a busi-

  ness as matter of fact as dealing in stocks and

  bonds ; there is nothing of the theatrical man-

  ager about the men who control it.

  "Well, Mr. Chaplin, your brother and I have

  been reaching an agreement about your contract

  with us," he said briskly. "We will give you

  a salary of ten thousand dollars a week

  and royalties that should double that figure."

  He mentioned the per cent, agreed upon, as I

  assented.

  "More than that, we are planning to create

  a separate producing company, subsidiary to

  the Mutual, which will be its releasing com-

  pany, and to call the new concern the Lone

  Star company — you to be the lone star. The

  new company will build its own studios at

  Santa Barbara, and it will give you the finest

  supporting cast that money can hire." He

  mentioned a few of the actors he had in mind,

  and I agreed heartily to his suggestions. They