by Jackie Ganiy
The tramp started out as just another sight gag routine, common in the one-reel shorts of the time. Chaplin had bigger plans for him, and when finally he won directorial control over his work, he began borrowing situations from his childhood experiences to incorporate into his films. The tramp became a tragically pitiable tragic figure—the ultimate outsider—an innocent whose life experiences are both funny and poignant. Sublime themes of alienation, poverty and oppression wound their way through his work. Audiences found themselves laughing one minute, and dabbing tears the next. This type of comedy had never been done to the degree that it was accomplished in the Little Tramp features. Pre-depression, pre-WWI America was in love. Chaplin was a huge star, and the Tramp the most recognized character in film history.
Throughout his late teens and early twenties, Chaplin could do no wrong, at least not on film. He crafted his greatest masterpieces during this period, including The Kid, The Gold Rush, and A Woman of Paris.
His personal life was another thing entirely. People were talking about his fondness for young girls. In 1918, he married sixteen-year-old Mildred Harris, thinking she was pregnant, but she wasn’t. He was angry when he found out, as didn’t love her, and felt she stifled his creativity. When the child was born in July of 1919, it was horribly deformed, surviving only three days. Charlie and Mildred separated eighteen months of wedlock, and she went after his fortune with a vengeance. Charlie was inspired by the relationship’s end and the death of his child, and poured those emotions into his first masterpiece, The Kid; a heartbreaking story of a homeless tramp who struggles to care for a small, abandoned child.
His next disastrous relationship was with The Gold Rush costar, Lita Grey. Impregnated by the then thirty-five-year-old Chaplin at the age of sixteen, Lita seemed to be forcing him yet again into a loveless marriage to avoid scandal. He kept his new son and new wife hidden for months, as the birth was too obviously soon after the marriage to not seem related. Once the press had done the math, it was obvious to the public that he had been sleeping with an underage girl out of wedlock, a crime punishable by serious jail time in California. Is it any wonder, with such an inauspicious beginning, that the marriage was never more than a complete failure? Chaplin avoided Lita as much as possible, spending long hours at the studio. Giving birth to a second Chaplin son in 1927, Lita left him as was filming The Circus, taking the children with her. She filed a divorce complaint through her lawyers that read like a dirty novel, accusing Chaplin of onerous sexual perversions and mental cruelty. Copies were leaked to the press, and the tabloids threw a Chaplin skewering party that would have made Rupert Murdoch blush. Conservative groups across the country called for the boycott of all Chaplin films on moral grounds. Chaplin handed Lita six hundred thousand dollars to make her go away—the largest divorce settlement of its kind at the time. Ultimately, The Tramp proved too popular to be snuffed out even by this controversy, and Chaplin’s career continued without much negative effect.
By the time talkies rolled around, Chaplin was still clinging to the artistry and beauty of the medium he had fully commanded for fifteen years: silent movies. He was skeptical of sound, and had an intuitive sense that giving The Tramp a voice would ruin the image he had so carefully crafted for over a decade. He would go on to produce two of his greatest masterpieces in the next decade, silent anachronisms amid a cacophony of talkies. The first was City Lights, in 1930, which told the heart-wrenching story of a down-and-out drifter who helped a blind girl regain her sight, falling in love in the process. The film won critical praise, and is considered by some to be Chaplin’s finest work. The final scene in City Lights, in which the tramp realizes the girl can see his face for the first time, has been called the greatest moment on film. Six years went by before he released another movie.
Charlie was distressed and aimless in the world of sound pictures. He knew his Little Tramp would never make the transition, and he did not know how to proceed without him. In 1932, he met twenty-one-year-old actress Paulette Goddard, and entered into the first positive relationship of his life. The depression was raging, and Chaplin, who had always had a distrust of unbridled capitalism and industrialization, began to formulate the concept for his next film. The movie was Modern Times and shockingly, Charlie chose to make it silent six years after silent films had virtually disappeared. It was the story of a hapless industrial worker, a mere cog in the wheel of a giant evil machine that destroyed humanity in the name of progress. It was to be the last time the Little Tramp appeared before the cameras. Paulette costarred as The Gamine, an innocent child/woman who joins the Tramp in his “us against the world” adventure. The movie received mixed reviews but has since been recognized as the masterpiece that it is. Goddard and Chaplin divorced soon after Modern Times was released. Rumor has it that the couple were never legally married to begin with.
Chaplin’s next film proved to be his most controversial. It was called The Great Dictator, and it was a thinly disguised parody of Hitler and his Third Reich, which was raging atrocities over Europe at this time, but was still at peace with the United States. This was Chaplin’s first real talking picture, and though the Tramp does not make an official appearance, he is clearly present in the character of the Jewish barber. The film was well-received, and proved to be Chaplin’s most commercially successful film. A persistent rumor circulated that Hitler himself viewed a copy of the film before it was released, but his opinion was not recorded.
Chaplin’s life then entered a turbulent period, due in part to his leftist politics, and his inability to stay away from unstable young (some would say too young) women. Such as twenty-year-old actress Joan Berry, with whom he had a brief affair before realizing she was crazy. He broke off the relationship, but Berry stalked him, breaking into his home, and threatening suicide while alternately aiming a gun to her own, then his head. She eventually took him to court, claiming he was the father of her illegitimate daughter. Chaplin was indicted on charges that he violated the Mann Act, for transporting Berry across state lines for sexual reasons. He could have received twenty-three years in prison. Scandal again rained down on Charlie, and he went into hiding. He was acquitted of the charges, and blood tests proved he was not the father of Berry’s child, but the judge refused to admit the test as evidence, and he was ordered to support the little girl anyway. Wow. Berry lost custody of her daughter when she lost her mind completely, and was found wandering around the streets carrying baby booties and mumbling that they were magic.
Demonstrating astonishingly poor judgment yet again, Charlie married eighteen-year-old Oona O’Neill only weeks after he was acquitted. He was fifty-four at the time, and the public once again rolled their eyes. This marriage turned out to be the most stable and positive of all. Oona O’Neill was wise beyond her years, and provided Charlie with a loving home and six children. She stood by him during his most difficult period and went into exile with him, along with their brood, giving up her home and family for him.
Chaplin’s real problems started with Monsieur Verdoux, an unabashed, openly left-leaning, political commentary about a serial killer (representing society) who wreaked mass murder on the most innocent victims (representing the innocence lost during war). The public was not amused. Chaplin was booed at the premiere, and the film flopped. United Artists had to pull and re-release it, but it still failed miserably. The public had grown tired of their Little Tramp, once such an enduring figure, as he turned into this ranting political chastiser they did not recognize. Charlie did not help things by associating with communist organizations, and cozying up to the Soviet Union at a time when The House Un-American Activities Committee was on a rampage, tearing through people’s lives in their relentless pursuit of communist infiltrators. There were public protests, and calls for him to be deported. He was called before the committee, but not asked to testify. He denied he was a communist. but he would not compromise his principals, which always held that unbridled capitalism was evil. Shock. Charlie would have been a proud memb
er of the 99%!
Charlie, Oona and the kids
Charlie shook off his first failure, and started working on Limelight. This film would be a family affair, including four of his children and his half brother. It was set in London, so Charlie decided to hold the premiere there. He, Oona, and their six children set sail on the Queen Elizabeth for England on September 18, 1952. Charlie Chaplin did not see the United States again for twenty years. While out at sea, Charlie’s re-entry permit was revoked by the Attorney General of the United States. It was made clear in a telegram to the director that to re-enter the country, he would have to submit his answers to several pointed questions regarding his political and moral views. Chaplin declined, choosing instead to live out his days in Switzerland, with Oona and their kids.
His final two decades were spent tinkering with various film projects, including A King of New York, a scathing parody on The House Un-American Activities Committee (Go Charlie!). His last complete film was A Countess from Hong Kong. It was a tender, romantic love story released in a 1960s world full of rebellion and free love, and was a commercial and critical failure. Gradually, over the course of this decade, America woke up from its commie/witch-hunting hysteria with a bad hangover, and a disquieting sense of regret. The film industry began to rediscover Chaplin’s older work, and with this came a renewed sense of the tremendous genius they had let slip away.
Finally, in 1972, the Academy Of Motion Picture Arts And Sciences bestowed on Chaplin an honorary award for his “incalculable effect in making motion pictures the art form of the century”. Charlie was invited to America to accept the award. He had not set foot on American soil in twenty years. In one of the most emotional scenes in the Academy Awards Show’s forty-three year history, a frail Charlie shuffled slowly onto the stage of the Dorothy Chandler pavilion, to a crescendo of thunderous applause, and shouts of “Bravo! Bravo!” The star-studded crowd rose to its feet, and stayed there for a full five minutes, the longest standing ovation in the show’s history. Chaplin was in tears as he gazed in awe at the tribute. “Such sweet people,” he mumbled. Jack Lemmon suddenly appeared, handing him the hat and cane of the Little Tramp. The effect was complete.
It took twenty years for Hollywood, and the country, to come to its senses and honor the man that had first dared to take comedy to a deeper place, and in doing so, change our view of ourselves. Chaplin once said, “More than machinery, we need humanity. More than cleverness, we need kindness. Without these qualities, life would be violent and all would be lost.” In the end, a world that had shown nothing but disdain for this gifted genius for twenty five years finally came around, and showered him with the love and recognition he so richly deserved.
Charlie Chaplin died on Christmas Day in 1977, his beloved Oona at his side. He was eighty-seven. In a macabre turn of events, his coffin was stolen a year later, and held for ransom. The Swiss police eventually tracked it down and arrested the perpetrators, who had demanded £400,000 for the safe return of the body. It sounded like something right out of a Keystone comedy. Somehow, I think Charlie would have been amused.
Charlie’s coffin after it was recovered.
Dorothy Dandridge
Entertainment agent Earl Mills finally broke into the once-grand apartment, having knocked for several minutes without response. As he stepped in, he called for “Angel Face”—the young woman he'd come for—but there was only silence. On reaching the bathroom, he saw why. Lying on the bathroom floor in only a blue scarf, was the body of lovely actress, Dorothy Dandridge. She had been dead for several hours, and was showing signs of rigor mortis. Earl was overcome with sadness, and when the world found out, it was right there with him.
Dorothy was born in 1922, in Cleveland, Ohio. Her mother, Ruby, left her father while still pregnant with Dorothy. Soon, another woman came into their lives, Geneva Williams, and she soon became the disciplinarian of the household, brutalizing and intimidating Dorothy and her sister, Vivian. The nature of lesbian relationship between her mother and Geneva would not be clear to Dorothy until decades later, however. Ruby Dandridge was an aspiring actress herself, and saw potential in promoting her darling daughters as a singing/dancing duo known as “The Wonder Children”. They joined the National Baptist Convention, and toured for three years, performing at various churches throughout the South. Their act was part of a collection of similar acts and venues known as “The Chitlin Circuit”, where black entertainers could safely perform in the heavily racially-segregated south. The girls performed day-in and day-out, harassed by Geneva’s relentless “tutoring” to improve their performances. They rarely attended school, or enjoyed normal childhood activities.
Early in the Great Depression, Ruby moved the family to Hollywood hoping to get the girls into films. Etta Jones was added to the duo, and the act was renamed “The Dandridge Sisters”. They toured the United States, even performing at the famous Cotton Club in Harlem. The Cotton Club was the first successful nightclub to showcase only black entertainers, who performed in front of an all-white audience. Soon, she was playing uncredited bit parts in films such as Teacher’s Beau, and A Day at the Races. Her first credited film role was in Four Shall Die. In 1941, she was paired with Harold Nicholas, of the famed Nicholas Brothers tap-dancing duo, for the film Sun Valley Serenade, where they tap-danced together. This scene was cut from the film when it played in the South. She fell in love with Nicholas, and they married in 1942. The marriage was a disaster from the start. Dorothy was desperate to get away from her controlling mother and her mother’s cruel girlfriend, Geneva, and marriage to Nicholas provided that opportunity. Unfortunately, Nicholas was fond of drinking, womanizing, and staying away from home. She got pregnant in 1943, and was home alone when she went into labor. The birth was difficult. The baby girl, named Harolyn, was deprived of oxygen, and suffered from severe mental retardation as a result. Dorothy was devastated, but tried to care for the girl at home, with little or no help from her husband. At one point, she even sent her to live with Geneva and her mother, as she could no longer control her frequent outbursts. Finally, in desperation, she placed Lynn in an expensive institution under the care of a private nurse. By this time, Dorothy’d had enough of her absentee husband’s philandering ways and filed for divorce.
Distracted by her personal life, she had neglected her career, and found it extremely difficult to get any film work. The parts she did get were meager, small roles not worthy of her beauty, experience or talent. In 1951, she met Earl Mills, a Hollywood agent, who realized the rare and talented gem that she was, and set out to revive her career. Mills booked her at some of the most prestigious nightclubs in the country, including the Mocambo, and the famed Waldorf Astoria’s Empire Room.
It was during her tours of Miami and Las Vegas that Dandridge encountered some of the most blatant racism to which she had ever been subjected. How extreme was it that it could exceed anything she encountered on the Chitlin Circuit? It was beyond extreme. While performing in Miami, she was not able to stay within the city limits due to her race. At one of the venues, she was handed a plastic cup when she asked where the restroom was. While headlining at a major casino in Las Vegas, she was treated like an infectious disease instead of the star she was. She was not allowed to mingle with the guests, eat in the public dining room, or use any of the hotel’s public facilities, including the front door. Despite it all, she and Earl decided to take a little dip in the pool, in direct defiance of the rules. Before she even had a chance to slip into the water, the manager came running out. He created a huge scene, screaming and yelling that she was not allowed to do that. Humiliated and angry, Dorothy dipped her foot in the pool in righteous indignation. Later that evening, she walked past the area again, and saw that the pool had been drained, and was being scrubbed clean top to bottom, by black employees.
The nightclub tour did the trick, however, and Dorothy was soon cast in MGM’s Bright Road, opposite up and coming actor Harry Belafonte. Her face began to appear on major national maga
zines, and her future looked bright. She was then cast in the role that would catapult her to major stardom, the title role in Otto Preminger’s Carmen Jones. The film was a modern take on the French opera, Carmen, and was a perfect vehicle for Dorothy. The role was challenging, containing numerous musical numbers and dance sequences. Despite being a professional singer, Dorothy’s voice was dubbed, as were all her costars’. The film was a huge success, both critically and at the box office, and Dorothy was suddenly a hot commodity. Dorothy Dandridge became only the third African-American actress to be nominated for an Academy Award, and the first to be nominated for Best Actress. The ice cream blonde from Philadelphia, Grace Kelly, took home the statue for her performance in The Country Girl, much to Dorothy’s abject and bitter disappointment.
It was on the set of Carmen Jones that she became romantically involved with the married director, Otto Preminger. He gave her career advice, telling her to turn down roles that were beneath her new stature as a leading lady, and she complied. Thus began the slow descent of her career, after only a brief period of upward momentum. She again scored a major success with the film Island in the Sun in 1956, and critical acclaim for her performance in Porgy and Bess. The latter film was highly unpopular with blacks, as they felt it perpetuated negative racial stereotypes. It seems the white audience didn’t care much for it either, and the film was a flop.
Dorothy realized Preminger would never leave his wife for her. Bitter and lonely, she married Jack Denison—a white restauranteur who brutalized, beat and bankrupted her over the next several years. He also forced her to cut ties with her close friends, including Earl Mills, the man who had helped make her a star. She discovered that she owed one hundred and thirty thousand dollars in back taxes, and had also lost a great deal of money in an oil investment scam. Financially and professionally ruined, she was forced to give up her glamorous home, and put her mentally challenged daughter in a state-funded institution. Wracked with guilt, alone, despondent and rejected by Hollywood, she drank and took prescriptions. In 1963, she declared bankruptcy.