Apropos of that subject, a delightful impromptu occurred to me at the Alexandria Hotel the first night I arrived back in Los Angeles from New York. I had retired early to my room and started undressing, humming to myself one of the latest New York songs. Occasionally I paused, lost in thought, and when I did so a feminine voice from the next room took up the tune where I had left off. Then I took up where she left off, and so it became a joke. Eventually we finished the tune this way. Should I get acquainted? It was risky. Besides, I had no idea what she looked like. I whistled the tune again, and again the same thing happened.
‘Ha, ha, ha! that’s funny!’ I laughed, tempering my intonation so that it could be addressed to her or to myself.
A voice came from the other room: ‘I beg your pardon?’
Then I whispered through the key-hole: ‘Evidently you have just arrived from New York.’
‘I can’t hear you,’ she said.
‘Then open the door,’ I answered.
‘I’ll open it a little, but don’t you dare come in.’
‘I promise.’
She opened the door about four inches, and the most ravishing young blonde peered at me. I do not know exactly how she was dressed, but she was all silky negligée and the effect was dreamy.
‘Don’t come in or I’ll beat you up!’ she said charmingly, showing her pretty white teeth.
‘How do you do,’ I whispered, and introduced myself. She knew already who I was and that I had the room next door to hers.
Later that night she told me that under no circumstances was I to acknowledge her in public, or even nod if we passed each other in the hotel lobby. That was all she ever told me about herself.
The second night when I came to my room she frankly tapped on the door, and once more we embarked nocturnally. The third night I was getting rather weary; besides, I had work and a career to think about. So on the fourth night I surreptitiously opened my door and tiptoed into my room, hoping to get to bed unnoticed; but she had heard me, and began tapping on the door. This time I paid no attention and went straight to bed. Next day, when she passed me in the hotel lobby it was with an icy stare.
The following night she did not knock, but the handle of the door creaked and I saw it turning slowly. I had, however, locked it from my side. She turned the handle violently, then knocked impatiently. The next morning I thought it advisable to leave the hotel, so again I took up quarters at the Athletic Club.
*
My first picture in my new studio was A Dog’s Life. The story had an element of satire, parallelling the life of a dog with that of a tramp. This leitmotif was the structure upon which I built sundry gags and slapstick routines. I was beginning to think of comedy in a structural sense, and to become conscious of its architectural form. Each sequence implied the next sequence, all of them relating to the whole.
The first sequence was rescuing a dog from a fight with other dogs. The next was rescuing a girl in a dance-hall who was also leading ‘a dog’s life’. There were many other sequences, all of which followed in a logical concatenation of events. As simple and obvious as these slapstick comedies were, a great deal of thought and invention went into them. If a gag interfered with the logic of events, no matter how funny it was, I would not use it.
In the Keystone days the tramp had been freer and less confined to plot. His brain was seldom active then – only his instincts, which were concerned with the basic essentials: food, warmth and shelter. But with each succeeding comedy the tramp was growing more complex. Sentiment was beginning to percolate through the character. This became a problem because he was bound by the limits of slapstick. This may sound pretentious, but slapstick demands a most exacting psychology.
The solution came when I thought of the tramp as a sort of Pierrot. With this conception I was freer to express and embellish the comedy with touches of sentiment. But logically it was difficult to get a beautiful girl interested in a tramp. This has always been a problem in my films. In The Gold Rush the girl’s interest in the tramp started by her playing a joke on him, which later moves her to pity, which he mistakes for love. The girl in City Lights is blind. In this relationship he was romantic and wonderful to her until her sight is restored.
As my skill in story construction developed, so it restricted my comedy freedom. As a fan who preferred my early Keystone comedies to the more recent ones wrote to me: ‘Then the public was your slave; now you are the public’s slave.’
Even in those early comedies I strove for a mood; usually music created it. An old song called Mrs Grundy created the mood for The Immigrant. The tune had a wistful tenderness that suggested two lonely derelicts getting married on a doleful, rainy day.
The story shows Charlot en route to America. In the steerage he meets a girl and her mother who are as derelict as himself. When they arrive in New York they separate. Eventually he meets the girl again, but she is alone, and like himself is a failure. While they sit talking, she inadvertently uses a black-edged handkerchief, conveying the fact that her mother has passed on. And, of course, in the end they marry on a doleful, rainy day.
Simple little tunes gave me the image for other comedies. In one called Twenty Minutes of Love, full of rough stuff and nonsense in parks, with policemen and nursemaids, I weaved in and out of situations to the tune of Too Much Mustard, a popular two-step in 1914. The song Violetera set the mood for City Lights, and Auld Lang Syne the mood for The Gold Rush.
As far back as 1916 I had many ideas for feature pictures. One was a trip to the moon, a comic spectacle showing the Olympic Games there and the possibilities of playing about with the laws of gravity. It would have been a satire on progress. I thought of a feeding machine, and also a radio-electric hat that could register one’s thoughts; and the trouble I get into when I put it on my head and am introduced to the moon-man’s sexy wife. The feeding machine I eventually used in Modern Times.
Interviewers have asked me how I get ideas for pictures and to this day I am not able to answer satisfactorily. Over the years I have discovered that ideas come through an intense desire for them; continually desiring, the mind becomes a watch-tower on the look-out for incidents that may excite the imagination – music, a sunset, may give image to an idea.
I would say, pick a subject that will stimulate you, elaborate it and involve it, then, if you can’t develop it further, discard it and pick another. Elimination from accumulation is the process of finding what you want.
How does one get ideas? By sheer perseverance to the point of madness. One must have a capacity to suffer anguish and sustain enthusiasm over a long period of time. Perhaps it’s easier for some people than others, but I doubt it.
Of course every budding comic goes through philosophical generalizing about comedy. ‘The element of surprise and suspense’ was a phrase dropped every other day on the Keystone lot.
I will not attempt to sound the depths of psycho-analysis to explain human behaviour, which is as inexplicable as life itself. More than sex or infantile aberrations, I believe that most of our ideational compulsions stem from atavistic causes – however, I did not have to read books to know that the theme of life is conflict and pain. Instinctively, all my clowning was based on this. My means of contriving comedy plot was simple. It was the process of getting people in and out of trouble.
But humour is different and more subtle. Max Eastman analysed it in his book A Sense of Humour. He sums it up as being derived from playful pain. He writes that Homo sapiens is masochistic, enjoying pain in many forms and that the audience like to suffer vicariously – as children do when playing Indians; they enjoy being shot and going through the death throes.
With all this I agree. But it is more an analysis of drama than humour, although they are almost the same. But my own concept of humour is slightly different: it is the subtle discrepancy we discern in what appears to be normal behaviour. In other words, through humour we see in what seems rational, the irrational; in what seems important, the unimportant. It al
so heightens our sense of survival and preserves our sanity. Because of humour we are less overwhelmed by the vicissitudes of life. It activates our sense of proportion and reveals to us that in an over-statement of seriousness lurks the absurd.
For instance, at a funeral where friends and relatives are gathered in hushed reverence around the bier of the departed, a late arrival enters just as the service is about to begin and hurriedly tiptoes to his seat, where one of the mourners has left his top hat. In his hurry, the late arrival accidentally sits on it, then with a solemn look of mute apology, he hands it crushed to its owner, who takes it with mute annoyance and continues listening to the service. And the solemnity of the moment becomes ridiculous.
fifteen
AT the beginning of the First World War, popular opinion was that it would not last more than four months, that the science of modern warfare would take such a ghastly toll of human life that mankind would demand cessation of such barbarism. But we were mistaken. We were caught in an avalanche of mad destruction and brutal slaughter that went on for four years to the bewilderment of humanity. We had started a haemorrhage of world proportion, and we could not stop it. Hundreds of thousands of human beings were fighting and dying and the people began wanting to know the reason why, and how the war started. Explanations were not too clear. Some said it was due to the assassination of an archduke; but this was hardly a reason for such a world conflagration. People needed a more realistic explanation. Then they said it was a war to make the world safe for democracy. Though some had less to fight for than others, the casualties were grimly democratic. As millions were mowed down the word ‘democracy’ loomed up. Consequently thrones toppled, republics were formed, and the whole face of Europe was changed.
But in 1915 the United States alleged that it was ‘too proud to fight’. This gave the nation its cue for the song I Didn’t Raise My Boy to Be a Soldier. This song went down very well with the public, until the Lusitania went down – which was the cue for a different song, Over There, and many other beguiling ditties. Until the sinking of the Lusitania, the burden of the European war had hardly been felt in California. There were no shortages, nothing was rationed. Garden fêtes and parties for the Red Cross were organized and were an excuse for social gatherings. At one gala a lady donated $20,000 to the Red Cross in order to sit next to me at a very posh dinner. But as time went on, the grim reality of war was brought home to everyone.
By 1918 America had already launched two Liberty Bond Drives, and now Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks and I were requested to open officially the Third Liberty Bond campaign in Washington.
I had almost completed my first picture, A Dog’s Life, for the First National. And as I had a commitment to release it at the same time as the Bond Drive, I stayed up three days and nights cutting the film. When it was finished I got on the train exhausted and slept for two days. When I came to, the three of us began to write our speeches. Never having made a serious one before, I was nervous about it, so Doug suggested that I should try it on the crowds who waited for us at the railroad stations. We had a stop somewhere and quite a crowd had gathered at the back of the observation car. And from there Doug introduced Mary who made a little speech, then introduced me, but no sooner had I started speaking than the train began to move; and as it drew away from the crowd, I became more eloquent and dramatic, my confidence growing as the crowd grew smaller and smaller.
In Washington we paraded through the streets like potentates, arriving at the football field where we were to give our initial address.
The speakers’ platform was made of crude boards with flags and bunting around it. Among the representatives of the Army and Navy standing about was one tall, handsome young man who stood beside me, and we made conversation. I told him that I had never spoken before and was very anxious about it. ‘There’s nothing to be scared about,’ he said confidently. ‘Just give it to them from the shoulder; tell them to buy their Liberty Bonds; don’t try to be funny.’
‘Don’t worry!’ I said ironically.
Very soon I heard my introduction, so I bounded on to the platform in Fairbanksian style and without a pause let fly a verbal machine-gun barrage, hardly taking a breath: ‘The Germans are at your door! We’ve got to stop them! And we will stop them if you buy Liberty Bonds! Remember, each bond you buy will save a soldier’s life – a mother’s son! – will bring this war to an early victory!’ I spoke so rapidly and excitedly that I slipped off the platform, grabbed Marie Dressler and fell with her on top of my handsome young friend, who happened to be the then Assistant Secretary of the Navy, Franklin D. Roosevelt.
After the official ceremony, we were scheduled to meet President Wilson at the White House. Thrilled and excited, we were ushered into the Green Room. Suddenly the door opened and a secretary appeared and said briskly: ‘Stand in a line, please, and all come one pace forward.’ Then the President entered.
Mary Pickford took the initiative. ‘The public’s interest was most gratifying, Mr President, and I am sure the bond drive will go over the top.’
‘It certainly was and will…’ I butted in, completely confused.
The President glanced at me incredulously, then told a senatorial joke about a Cabinet Minister who liked his whisky. We all laughed politely, then left.
Douglas and Mary chose the northern states for their bond-selling tour and I the southern, as I had never been there. I invited a friend of mine from Los Angeles, Rob Wagner, a portrait painter and writer, to come along as my guest. The ballyhoo was enterprising and handled expertly and I sold millions of dollars’ worth of bonds.
In one North Carolina city, the head of the reception committee was the big business man of the town. He confessed that he had had ten boys at the station with custard pies ready to throw at me, but seeing our serious entourage as we got off the train, he had thought better of it.
The same gentleman invited us to dinner, and several United States generals were there, including General Scott, who evidently disliked him. Said he during dinner: ‘What’s the difference between our host and a banana?’ There was a slight tension. ‘Well, you can skin a banana.’
As for the legend of the Southern gentleman, I met the perfect one in Augusta, Georgia – Judge Henshaw, head of the Bond Committee. We received a letter from him stating that, as we were to be in Augusta on my birthday, he had arranged a party for me at the country club. I had visions of being the centre of a large gathering with a lot of small talk, and, as I was exhausted, I made up my mind to refuse and to go straight to the hotel.
Usually when we arrived at a station there was an enormous crowd to greet us with the local brass-bands playing. But in Augusta there was no one but Judge Henshaw dressed in a black pongee coat and an old, sun-tanned panama hat. He was quiet and courteous, and after introducing himself he drove with Rob and me to the hotel in an old horse-drawn landau.
For a while we drove in silence. Suddenly the Judge broke it: ‘What I like about your comedy is your knowledge of fundamentals – you know that the most undignified part of a man’s anatomy is his arse, and your comedies prove it. When you kick a portly gentleman there, you strip him of all his dignity. Even the impressiveness of a presidential inauguration would collapse if you came up behind the President and kicked him in the rear.’ As we drove along in the sunlight, he tilted his head whimsically, soliloquizing to himself, ‘There’s no doubt about it; the arse is the seat of self-consciousness.’
I nudged Rob and whispered: ‘The birthday party’s on.’
It took place on the same day as the meeting. Henshaw had invited only three other friends, and he apologized for the smallness of the party, saying that he was selfish and wanted to enjoy us exclusively.
The golf club was in a beautiful setting. Shadows of tall trees across the green lawn gave the scene a quiet elegance as we sat on the terrace, six of us, at a round table surrounding a candle-lit birthday cake.
As the Judge nibbled at a piece of celery, his eyes twinkling, he ca
st a look at Rob and me. ‘I don’t know whether you’ll sell many bonds in Augusta… I’m not very good at arranging things. However, I think the townsfolk know you’re here.’
I began extolling the beauty of the surroundings. ‘Yes,’ he said,’there’s only one thing missing – a mint julep.’
This brought us to the subject of the possibility of Prohibition, its evils and its benefits. ‘According to medical reports,’ said Rob, ‘Prohibition will have a salutary effect on the public’s health. The medical journals state that there will be fewer ulcerated stomachs if we stop drinking whisky.’
The Judge assumed a hurt expression. ‘You don’t talk of whisky in terms of the stomach; whisky is food for the soul!’ Then he turned to me. ‘Charlie, this is your twenty-ninth birthday and you’re not married yet?’
‘No,’ I laughed. ‘Are you?’
‘No,’ he sighed wistfully. ‘I’ve listened to too many divorce cases. Nevertheless, if I were young again I’d marry; it’s lonely being a bachelor. However, I believe in divorce. I suppose I’m the most criticized judge in Georgia. If people don’t want to live together, I won’t make them.’
After a while Rob looked at his watch. ‘If the meeting starts at eight-thirty,’ he said, ‘we’ll have to hurry.’
The Judge was leisurely nibbling at his piece of celery. ‘There’s plenty of time,’ he said. ‘Just dally with me. I like to dally.’
On the way to the meeting we passed through a small park. It must have had twenty or more statues of senators looking absurdly pompous, some with a hand behind the back and the other resting on the pelvis, holding a scroll. Jokingly I commented that they were the perfect foil for that comedy kick in the pants he had talked about.
‘Yes,’ he said airily, ‘they do look full of piss and high purpose.’
He invited us to his home, a beautiful old Georgian house that Washington had ‘actually slept’ in, furnished with eighteenth-century American antiques.
My Autobiography Page 24