My Autobiography

by Charles Chaplin

  VERDOUX: Nowhere.

  GIRL: Get in.

  verdoux steps into car.

  Interior of limousine.

  GIRL [to chauffeur]: To the Café LaFarge… I still think you don’t remember me… but why should you?

  VERDOUX [looking at her admiringly]: There is every apparent reason why I should.

  GIRL [smiles]: Don’t you remember? The night we met… I was just out of jail.

  Verdoux puts finger to lips.

  VERDOUX: Shhh! [He points to chauffeur, then feels glass.] It’s all right… the window’s up.[He looks at her bewildered.] But you… all this…[indicating car]. What’s happened?

  GIRL: The old story… from rags to riches. After I saw you, my luck changed. I met someone very rich – a munitions manufacturer.

  VERDOUX: That’s the business I should, have been in. What sort of chap is he?

  GIRL: Very kind and generous, but in business he’s quite ruthless.

  VERDOUX: Business is a ruthless business, my dear… Do you love him?

  GIRL: No, but that’s what keeps him interested.

  The censors’ objections to the above scenes were as follows:

  ‘Please change the underlined dialogue: “You sent me on my way like a good little girl”, and the rejoinder, “I must have been a fool”; this to get away from the present suggestive flavour of the dialogue; and please inject into the dialogue some reference to the munitions manufacturer as the girl’s fiancé; this, to avoid the suggestion that the girl is now a kept woman.’

  Other objections were to other scenes and sundry bits of business. I quote:

  There will be no vulgar emphasis on the ‘outlandish curves, both in front and behind’, of the middle-aged woman.

  There must be nothing offensive in the costumes or dance routines of the show girls. Specifically, there must be no showing of the bare leg above the garter.

  The joke about ‘scraping her bottom’ is unacceptable.

  There should be no showing of, or suggestion of, toilets in the bathroom.

  Please change the word ‘voluptuous’ in Verdoux’s speech.

  The letter concluded by stating that they would be only too happy to place themselves at my disposal to discuss the matter and that it might be possible to bring the story within the requirements of the Production Code without seriously impairing its entertainment value. So I presented myself at the Breen Office and was ushered into the presence of Mr Breen. A moment later one of Mr Breen’s assistants, a tall, dour young man, appeared. His tone was anything but friendly.

  ‘What have you against the Catholic Church?’ he said.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ I replied.

  ‘Here,’ he said, slamming a copy of my script on the table and turning its pages. ‘The scene in the condemned cell where the criminal Verdoux says to the priest: “What can I do for you, my good man?” ’

  ‘Well, isn’t he a good man?’

  ‘That’s facetious,’ he said, waving a disparaging hand.

  ‘I find nothing facetious in calling a man “good”,’ I answered.

  As we went on discussing, I found myself enacting a sort of Shavian dialogue with him.

  ‘You don’t call a priest “a good man”, you call him “Father”.’

  ‘Very well, we’ll call him “Father”,’ I said.

  ‘And this line,’ said he, pointing on another page. ‘You have the priest say: “I’ve come to ask you to make your peace with God.” And Verdoux replies: “I am at peace with God, my conflict is with man.” You know that’s persiflage.’

  ‘You have a right to your opinion,’ I continued. ‘I also have a right to mine.’

  ‘And this,’ he interrupted, reading from the script. ‘The priest says: “Have you no remorse for your sins?” And Verdoux answers: “Who knows what sin is, born as it was from Heaven, from God’s fallen angel, who knows what mysterious destiny it serves?” ’

  ‘I believe that sin is just as great a mystery as virtue,’ I answered.

  ‘That’s a lot of pseudo-philosophizing,’ he said contemptuously. ‘Then you have Verdoux look at the priest and say: “What would you be doing without sin?” ’

  ‘I admit that line is a little controversial, but after all it is supposed to be ironically humorous and will not be addressed to the priest in a disrespectful way.’

  ‘But you have Verdoux continually scoring off the priest.’

  ‘What do you want the priest to play, a comedy part?’

  ‘Of course not, but why don’t you give him some worth-while answer?’

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘the criminal is going to his death and attempts to go with bravado. The priest is dignified throughout and his lines are appropriate. However, I’ll think up something for the priest to answer.’

  ‘And this line,’ he continued: ‘“May the Lord have mercy on your soul.” And Verdoux says: “Why not? After all it belongs to Him.” ’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ I asked.

  He repeated laconically: ‘“Why not!” You don’t talk to a priest like that.’

  ‘That line is said introspectively. You must wait until you see the film,’ I said.

  ‘You impugn society and the whole state,’ he said.

  ‘Well, after all, the state and society are not Simon pure, and criticism of them is not inadmissible, surely?’

  With one or two other minor changes the script was eventually passed. And in all justice to Mr Breen a lot of his criticism was constructive. Said he wistfully: ‘Don’t make the girl another prostitute. Almost every script in Hollywood has a prostitute.’

  I must confess I felt embarrassed. However, I promised not to stress the fact.

  When the film was finished, it was shown to about twenty or thirty members of the Legion of Decency, representatives of the censors and religious groups of various denominations. I have never felt so lonely as I did on that occasion. However, when the picture was over and the lights went up, Breen turned to the rest. ‘I think it’s all right… let it go!’ he said abruptly.

  There was silence; then someone said: ‘Well, it’s okay by me, there’s no cleavage.’ The others were glum.

  Breen with a wry face, addressing the others, made a sweeping gesture. ‘It’s okay – we can let it go, eh?’

  There was little response; some nodded reluctantly. Breen quickly swept aside any objections they might have had, and, patting me on the back, said: ‘All right, Charlie, go ahead and roll them’ – meaning, ‘Print your positive film’.

  I was a little bewildered by their acceptance of the picture, considering that in the beginning they had wanted it completely banned. I was suspicious of this sweeping approval. Would they use other means?

  *

  While re-editing Verdoux, I received a telephone message from a United States marshal, saying that he had a summons for me to appear in Washington before the Committee on Un-American Activities. There were nineteen of us summoned.

  Senator Pepper of Florida was in Los Angeles at the time, and it was suggested that we meet with the Senator for advice. I did not go, because my situation was different: I was not an American citizen. At that meeting everyone agreed to stand on their Constitutional rights if called to Washington. (Those who stood on them went to jail for a year for contempt of court.)

  The summons stated that I would be notified within ten days of my actual appearance in Washington; but, soon after, a telegram arrived stating that my appearance had been postponed for another ten days.

  After the third postponement I sent them a telegram stating that I had a large organization suspended, causing me considerable expense, and that since their committee had recently been in Hollywood interrogating my friend Hanns Eisler, they could have interrogated me at the same time and saved the public money. ‘However,’ I concluded, ‘for your convenience I will tell you what I think you want to know. I am not a Communist, neither have I ever joined any political party or organization in my life. I am what you call “a peace-mo
nger”. I hope this will not offend you. So please state definitely when I am to be called to Washington. Yours truly, Charles Chaplin.’

  I received a surprisingly courteous reply to the effect that my appearance would not be necessary, and that I could consider the matter closed.

  twenty-nine

  DURING all my personal problems, I had not given much attention to the business of United Artists. Now my lawyer warned me that the company was $1,000,000 in the red. In its prosperous days it had grossed between $40,000,000 and $50,000,000 a year, yet I do not remember receiving more than two dividends from it. During the peak of this prosperity, United artists had acquired twenty-five per cent equity in four hundred English theatres without paying a penny for them. I am not sure how we acquired them. I believe they were given to us in exchange for guaranteeing them film products. Other American film companies acquired large amounts of stock in British cinemas the same way. At one time our equity in the Rank organization was worth $10,000,000.

  But one by one the United Artists stockholders sold their shares back to the company, and in paying for them the company till was almost depleted. In this way I suddenly found myself a half-owner in a United Artists that was $1,000,000 in debt, with Mary Pickford as my partner. She wrote expressing alarm at the fact that all the banks had refused to give us further credit. I was not too concerned, because we had been in debt before and a successful picture had always pulled us out. Besides, I had just completed Monsieur Verdoux, which I expected to be a tremendous box-office success. My representative, Arthur Kelly, prognosticated a gross of at least $12,000,000. If this were true, it would pay off the company’s debt and give it $1,000,000 profit besides.

  In Hollywood I had a private showing for my friends. At the conclusion Thomas Mann, Lion Feuchtwanger and several others stood up and applauded for over a minute.

  With confidence I embarked for New York. But on my arrival I was immediately attacked by the Daily News:

  Chaplin’s in town for the opening of his picture. After his exploits as a ‘fellow traveller’, I dare him to show his face at a Press conference, for I shall be there to ask him one or two embarrassing questions.

  The publicity staff of United Artists deliberated whether it was advisable for me to meet the American Press. I was indignant, because I had already met the foreign Press the morning before, and they had given me a warm, enthusiastic welcome. Besides, I am not one to be brow-beaten.

  The following morning we reserved a large room in the hotel and I met the American Press. After cocktails were served I made my appearance, but I could smell mischief. I spoke from a rostrum at the back of a small table, and with as much charm as I could pin on, I said:

  ‘How do you do, ladies and gentlemen. I am here to impart any facts that might interest you in connexion with my picture and my future plans.’

  They remained silent. ‘Don’t all speak at once,’ I said, smiling.

  Eventually a woman reporter sitting near the front said: ‘Are you a Communist?’

  ‘No,’ I answered definitely. ‘The next question please.’

  Then a voice began mumbling. I thought it might be my friend from the Daily News, but he was conspicuous by his absence. Instead the speaker was a begrimed-looking object with his overcoat on, bent closely over a manuscript from which he was reading.

  ‘Pardon me,’ I said. ‘You’ll have to read that again, I don’t understand a word you’re saying.’

  He started: ‘We of the Catholic War Veterans…’

  I interrupted: ‘I’m not here to answer any Catholic War Veterans; this is a meeting of the Press.’

  ‘Why haven’t you become a citizen?’ said another voice.

  ‘I see no reason to change my nationality. I consider myself a citizen of the world,’ I answered.

  There was quite a stir. Two or three people wanted to talk at once. One voice dominated, however: ‘But you earn your money in America.’

  ‘Well,’ I said smilingly, ‘if you’re putting it on a mercenary basis, we’ll have the record straight. My business is an international one; seventy per cent of all my income is earned abroad, and the United States enjoys one hundred per cent taxation on it, so you see I am a very good paying guest.’

  Again the Catholic Legion piped up: ‘Whether you earn your money here or not, we who landed on those beaches in France resent your not being a citizen of this country.’

  ‘You’re not the only guy who landed on those beaches,’ I said. ‘My two sons were also there in Patton’s army, right up in the front line, and they’re not beefing or exploiting the fact as you’re doing.’

  ‘Do you know Hanns Eisler?’ said another reporter.

  ‘Yes, he’s a very dear friend of mine, and a great musician.’

  ‘Do you know that he’s a Communist?’

  ‘I don’t care what he is; my friendship is not based on politics.’

  ‘You seem to like the Communists, though,’ said another.

  ‘Nobody is going to tell me whom to like or dislike. We haven’t come to that yet.’

  Then a voice out of the belligerence said: ‘How does it feel to be an artist who has enriched the world with so much happiness and understanding of the little people, and to be derided and held up to hate and scorn by the so-called representatives of the American Press?’

  I was so deaf to any expression of sympathy that I answered abruptly: ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t follow you, you’ll have to repeat that question again.’

  My publicity man nudged me and whispered: ‘This fellow’s for you, he said a very fine thing.’ It was Jim Agee, the American poet and novelist, at that time working as a special feature writer and critic for Time magazine. I was thrown off my guard and confused.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘ I didn’t hear you – Would you kindly repeat that again?’

  ‘I don’t know if I can,’ he said, slightly embarrassed, then he repeated approximately the same words.

  I could think of no answer, so I shook my head and said: ‘No comment… but thank you.’

  I was no good after that. His kind words had left me without any more fight. ‘I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen,’ I said, ‘I thought this conference was to be an interview about my film; instead it has turned into a political brawl, so I have nothing further to say.’ After the interview I was inwardly sick at heart, for I knew that a virulent hostility was against me.

  Still I could not quite believe it. I had had wonderful mail congratulating me on The Great Dictator, which had grossed more money than any picture I had ever made, and before that picture I had gone through plenty of adverse publicity. Besides, I had great confidence in the success of Monsieur Verdoux, and the staff of United Artists felt the same.

  Mary Pickford telephoned to say that she would like to go with Oona and me to the opening, so we invited here to dine with us at the ‘21’ restaurant. Mary was quite late for dinner. She said she had been detained at a cocktail party and had had difficulty in tearing herself away.

  When we arrived at the theatre crowds were milling outside. As we pressed our way through into the lobby, we discovered a man broadcasting over the radio: ‘And now Charlie Chaplin and his wife have arrived. Ah, and with them as their guest that wonderful little actress of the silent days who is still America’s sweetheart, Miss Mary Pickford. Mary, won’t you say a few words about this wonderful opening?’

  The lobby was packed, and Mary propelled her way over to the microphone, still holding on to my hand.

  ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, here is Miss Mary Pickford.’

  In the midst of the shoving and pushing, said Mary: ‘Two thousand years ago Christ was born, and tonight…’ She got no further, for, still holding on to my hand, she was yanked away from the mike by a sudden push from the crowd –I have often wondered since what was coming next.

  There was an uneasy atmosphere in the theatre that night, a feeling that the audience had come to prove something. The moment the film started, instead of the
eager anticipation and the happy stir of the past that had greeted my films, there was nervous applause scattered with a few hisses. I loathe to admit it but those few hisses hurt more than all the antagonism of the Press.

  As the picture progressed I began to get worried. The laughter was there, but divided. It was not the laughter of old, of The Gold Rush, of City Lights, or Shoulder Arms. It was challenging laughter against the hissing faction in the theatre. My heart began to sink. I could not sit in my seat any longer. I whispered to Oona: ‘I’m going out in the lobby, I can’t take it.’ She squeezed my hand. My crumpled programme, which I had twisted beyond repair, smarted the palms of my hands, so I discarded it under my seat. I crept up the aisle and walked about the lobby. I was torn between listening for laughs and getting away from it all. Then I crept up into the circle to see what it was like there. One man was laughing more than the rest, undoubtedly a friend, but it was convulsive and nervous laughter, as though he wanted to prove something. It was the same thing in the gallery and the circle.

  For two hours I paced around in the lobby, in the street, around the theatre, then back to look at the film. It seemed to go on interminably. At last it was over. Earl Wilson, the columnist, a very decent chap, was one of the first I met in the lobby. ‘I liked it,’ he said, emphasizing the ‘I’. Then up came Arthur Kelly, my representative. ‘Of course, it’s not going to gross any twelve million,’ he said. ‘Well, I’ll settle for half,’ I said jokingly.

  We gave a supper party afterwards for about a hundred and fifty people – a few were old friends. That evening there were many cross-currents, and despite the champagne it was depressing. Oona stole home to bed, but I stayed half an hour longer.

  Bayard Swope, a man whom I liked and thought astute, was arguing with my friend Don Stewart about the film. Swope hated it. That night only a few complimented me. Don Stewart, a little drunk like myself, said: ‘Charlie, they’re all a lot of bastards trying to make politics out of your picture, but it’s great and the audience loved it.’

  By this time I did not care what anyone thought, I had no more resistance. Don Stewart saw me back to the hotel. Oona was already asleep when we arrived.