Charlie, Adolph and Orson

A divided America. Certainly this describes our condition today. Other similar times? Two come quickly to mind: the Civil War (aka The War Between the States) and Vietnam. A third has been added to my list, thanks to a new book by Lynne Olson, which gave me a sense of just how divided we once were. "Those Angry Days: Roosevelt, Lindbergh, and America's Fight Over World War II" covers 1939, 1940, and 1941... the slow run-up to our eventual participation in World War II. "Those Angry Days"

Before Pearl Harbor, America was torn apart by two committed factions: The Interventionists and The Isolationists. Essentially, the issue was should we become involved in the European war, take a stand against Hitler, rescue Britain; or should we secure our own shores, strengthen our defenses, turn our back on England and Europe?

Charlie Chaplin took a stand during those years, and followed it with his most profitable film to date.

Olson's book paints a vivid picture of FDR, Charles Lindbergh, Winston Churchill, and a supporting cast of colorful players on both sides. She even includes events in Hollywood. It seems, with few exceptions, none of the studio heads wanted to touch the subject of the Nazis or German aggression. For two reasons: Most of the studio moguls were Jewish and didn't want to stir up any more anti-Semitism than already permeated the U.S.; and they didn't want to lose overseas box office revenue. I'm not sure which one was the deciding factor. 

The first film out of Hollywood to tackle the subject was "Confessions of a Nazi Spy" in 1939, starring Edward G. Robinson and produced by Warner Brothers.  A year later, another film also named the enemy and the danger. "Foreign Correspondent" starred Joe McCrea and Laraine Day. Alfred Hitchcock directed, Walter Wanger produced, and United Artists distributed (the company Chaplin helped found). 

Hollywood remained silent. But not Chaplin. Supposedly, a chance remark prior to these years by Alexander Korda suggested that Charlie's Little Tramp bore a striking resemblance to Adolph Hitler. It isn't my purpose to recount the long road from concept to release of The Great Dictator in October of 1940. Much has been written about this subject, including a rather incredible book, "Chaplin: The Dictator and the Tramp," edited by Hooman Mehran with articles by him and several noted Chaplin academics. Unfortunately, the British Film Institute - the publisher - printed only 500 of these important books. Which means a used copy of this paperback on Amazon will cost you $50 on up. Still, it's a valuable addition to the Chaplin lexicon. Chaplin: The Dictator and the Tramp

Chaplin, in his autobiography, says, "Halfway through making 'The Great Dictator' I began receiving alarming messages from United Artists. They had been advised by the Hays Office that I would run into censorship trouble. Also the English office was very concerned about an anti-Hitler picture and doubted whether it could be shown in Britain. But I was determined to go ahead, for Hitler must be laughed at. Had I kown of the actual horrors of the German concentration camps, I could not have made 'The Great Dictator;' I could not have made fun of the homicidal insanity of the Nazis. However, I was determined to ridicule their mystic bilge about a pure-blooded race."

Chaplin's courage added another dimension to the stature of this unique artist.

Chaplin's final speech in the film, when he speaks directly to the camera, has its supporters and detractors. When I first saw the film, I was uncomfortable with the "stepping out of character" device. Since then, I've come to appreciate what he said and applaud its importance at the time. Final Speech in "The Great Dictator"  

The other night I watched Compulsion, the 1959 film based on the Leopold and Loeb murder case. It starred Brad Dillman, Dean Stockwell and, as Clarence Darrow, a forcefulOrson Welles. The final summation delivered by Welles was based on a transcript of the original trial. I was struck by the similarity in message between that and Chaplin's final speech in The Great Dictator. They both spoke of love replacing hatred, people learning to live together. 

Here is the conclusion of Welles speech.

"The world has been one long slaughterhouse from the beginning until today, and the killing goes on and on and on. Why not read something, why not think, instead of blindly shouting for death. Kill them because everybody's talking about the case? Because their parents have money? Kill them? Will that stop other sick boys from killing? No. It's taken the world a long, long time to get to even where it is today. Your Honor, if you hang these boys, you turn back to the past. I'm pleading for the future. Not merely for these boys, but for all boys, for all the young, I'm pleading, not for these two lives, but for life itself, for a time when we can learn to overcome hatred with love, when we can learn that all life is worth saving, and that mercy is the highest attribute of men. Yes I'm pleading for the future. In this court of law, I'm pleading for love."

Orson Welles in "Compulsion"

So what do you think? 

Have we learned anything over the last several decades?

The Best of Times, the Worst of Times, and Charlie

Charlie Chaplin was born on April 16, 1889. It was a Tuesday. The calendar for 1889 is identical to 2013, so his birthday falls on a Tuesday this year. That made me wonder what London was like in 1889. I tried to find some first-hand accounts, but the closest I got were by Charles Dickens, who wrote 40 to 50 years before Chaplin was born.

Still, it was a start. The Victorian London he wrote about was a dirty city. The capital's sewers poured filth into the Thames; mountains of rubbish accumulated in the slums; the streets were thick with mud; the very air was poisoned by fog. "We have," said one journalist in 1889, "an accumulation of matter in the wrong place unexampled in the world's history." Fighting this rising tide of dirt was an army of workers, from crossing-sweepers, chimney-sweeps and dustmen, to those in less well-known occupations, such as dust-yard sifters, sewer flushers and street orderlies. 

In “Oliver Twist,” Dickens writes: "It was market-morning. The ground was

covered, nearly ankle-deep, with filth and mire; a thick steam, perpetually rising from the reeking bodies of the cattle, and mingling with the fog, which seemed to rest upon the chimney-tops, hung heavily above. All the pens in the centre of the large area, and as many temporary pens as could be crowded into the vacant space, were filled with sheep; tied up to posts by the gutter side were long lines of beasts and oxen, three or four deep. Countrymen, butchers, drovers, hawkers, boys, thieves, idlers, and vagabonds of every low grade, were mingled together in a mass; the whistling of drovers, the barking dogs, the bellowing and plunging of the oxen, the bleating of sheep, the grunting and squeaking of pigs, the cries of hawkers, the shouts, oaths, and quarrelling on all sides; the ringing of bells and roar of voices, that issued from every public-house; the crowding, pushing, driving, beating, whooping and yelling; the hideous and discordant dim that resounded from every corner of the market; and the unwashed, unshaven, squalid, and dirty figures constantly running to and fro, and bursting in and out of the throng; rendered it a stunning and bewildering scene, which quite confounded the senses."

In “Little Dorrit,” Dickens describes a London rain storm: ”In the country, the rain would have developed a thousand fresh scents, and every drop would have had its bright association with some beautiful form of growth or life. In the city, it developed only foul stale smells, and was a sickly, lukewarm, dirt- stained, wretched addition to the gutters.”

London would undergo significant changes between Dickens’ time and Charlie’s childhood. In 1800 the population of London was around one million. That number would grow to four and a half million by 1880. While fashionable areas like Regent and Oxford streets were growing in the west, new docks supporting the city's place as the world's trade center were being built in the east. Perhaps the biggest impact on the growth of London was the coming of the railroad in the 1830s which displaced thousands and accelerated the expansion of the city. The price of this explosive growth and domination of world trade was untold squalor and filth.

You can read more about Dickens’ London at this excellent website, http://charlesdickenspage.com/dickens_london.html.

Chaplin barely mentions his impressions of London in his autobiography, or at least I couldn’t find any. It seems he forgot, chose to forget, or never knew.

David Robinson, in his monumental work on Chaplin, offers this about Charlie's birth, while talking about Charles Sr. and Hannah: "Charles and Hannah were not so meticulous in registering Charles's birth as Sydney's; and it has tormented historians and biograhers for decades that there is no official record of the birth of London's most famous son. .... In the early days of his cinema fame, Chaplin said that he was born at Fontainebleau, in France. This mlay have been one of the colourful stories with which Hannah seems to have endeavoured to brighten her sons' lives. Later Chaplin was certain that he was born in East Lane, Walworth, just round the corner from Sydney's birthplace in Brandon Street."  "Chaplin: His Life and Art" by Robinson

I discovered this fascinating bit of footage on YouTube, again thanks to the Dickens’ London website. It shows scenes of London in 1903. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v-5Ts_i164c&feature=player_embedded#


My friend Carl Sturmer spends a lot of time in London. Which is terrific, because he's a big fan of Chaplin. Here are some photos he sent me a few months ago, places associated with Chaplin.

Carl's description:  "Found the Royal Theatre on Peter Street in an area of some beautiful building surely there in 1899 when Charlie toured. Short walk from my hotel. The theatre is closed up now (was a disco but lobby floor was strewn with old mail etc.) I was able to walk around the entire circumference. Looked for what would have been the stage door but couldn’t narrow it down. Doors have all been replaced with metal ones anyway. Two interesting things I noticed. Statue of Shakespeare on front of theatre matches the pose of Shakespeare statue in London’s Leicester Square directly across from Chaplin statue .  The other thing is that the building right across the street, under renovation, has a sign on it that reads Lancashire House. (as in Eight Lancashire Lads) Hmmmm!"

Carl and I had lunch at this incredible pub in New York's Greenwich Village.

The Olive Tree Cafe shows Chaplin movies from morning until night. And the food is pretty awesome too. He introduced me to it over a year ago, and I returned there with my wife and daughter last September.

The other two photos are of 19th century London, compliments of Google.
The Tower Bridge (right) was built in 1894.

HOW CHARLIE WORKED WITH HIS ACTORS

On March 17, 1952, about a month before Charlie’s 63rd birthday, Life Magazine ran a feature called “Chaplin at Work.” Subhead: “He reveals his movie-making secrets.” It was basically a photo essay showing him at work on Limelight. His secret seemed to lie in the method he employed working with his actors, along with his complete involvement in every aspect of making the film.

Ironically, this would be the last film that Chaplin made as a resident of the U.S. Just six months later, on Sept. 18, 1952, Charlie left the U. S., headed for London and the world premiere of “Limelight.” The following day U.S. Attorney General James McGranery revoked his  re-entry permit. Although Charlie could have fought it on solid legal grounds, he decided he would rather live in Europe.

In his autobiography, Charlie says:

"Whether I re-entered that unhappy country or not was of little consequence to me. I would like to have told them that the sooner I was rid of that hate-beleaguered atmosphere the better, that I was fed up of America's insults and moral pomposity.”

He would not return until 1972, to be honored at Lincoln Center in New York and at the Academy Awards in Los Angeles.

With old friends Harry Crocker (left) and Tim Durant,
who had bit parts in the film

 But about the article: The photos here reinforced what I had heard about Chaplin’s method of directing actors. Basically, it was to play their part for them, show them exactly what he wanted from them. For the first time in his career, Chaplin gave a photographer the freedom to spend 5 weeks on the set, shooting whatever he wanted.

Demonstrating to Melissa Hayden how he wants her to move

Jeffrey Vance, in his book, Chaplin: Genius of the Cinema, says:

“From his first film to his last, Chaplin remained a man of the theater, and his primary concern was to convey to the audience the action and the emotion of a scene through the performances of his actors, not through innovative or elaborate photography, lighting, or editing. By any standard, Chaplin’s directing style, perfected during the filming of the Mutuals and employed throughout the rest of his career, was unique in the cinema. He simply acted out the parts of all the actors as he wished them to be played, down to the slightest gesture of the hand or movement of the eyebrow. Chaplin and his cast would be in full costume and make-up while he rehearsed scenes and refined ideas over and over again on film. This directorial style was considered eccentric even in 1916, and the time he lavished on his films was the envy of every filmmaker. Yet for Chaplin, a laser-like concentration on performance and perfection to the exclusion of all else was his unyielding obsession, even until the end of his career.”"Chaplin: Genius of the Cinema"

Kevin Brownlow, in his exquisite 1986 “Unknown Chaplin” documentary, clearly reveals the concentration and obsession with perfection that was so much a part of Chaplin’s genius. Unknown Chaplin DVD

Charlie substitutes momentarily for Claire Bloom

I wondered what Charlie had to say about his directing style, so I revisited his autobiography. Here’s how he saw it:

“...Also a brief word about directing. In handling actors in a scene, psychology is most helpful. For instance, a member of the cast may join the company in the middle of a production. Although an excellent actor, he may be nervous in his new surroundings. This is where a director’s humility can be very helpful, as I have often found under these circumstances. Although knowing what I wanted, I would take the new member aside and confide in him that I was tired, worried and at a loss to know what to do with the scene. Very soon he would forget his own nervousness and try to help me and I would get a good performance out of him.

Charlie rolls on the ground to show extras what he
wants of them as an audience in the music hall

“....I do not believe acting can be taught. I have seen intelligent people fail at it and dullards act quite well. But acting essentially requires feeling.... In instructing a true actor or actress about a character, a word or a phrase will often suffice... I have found that orientation is the most important means of achieving this; that is, knowing where you are and what you’re doing every moment you’re on the stage....I have always insisted on this method of orientation with the cast when I’m directing my films.”

Showing Sophia how to play the scene

Fourteen years later, Chaplin would direct Marlon Brando and Sophia Loren in “The Countess from Hong Kong.” Though Chaplin thought the movie was among his best work, most critics did not agree. Here is what Charlie said about his actors, in a 1967 interview with Richard Merryman:

“Marlon Brando is an exceptionally good actor... There were a lot of things he did that I didn’t like - but, you know, they came off 100 percent. Very trifling things, but the sort that loom up to a director, especially for a person like me, I can act, you know, I can act.

“I don’t think either Brando or Loren understood the value of the script that it would work so well. I did. I’m an actor. I wrote it. When you’ve had fifty years experience, you know something about a script.”

Charlie the actor. Charlie the director. Charlie the writer. 

The various faces of Chaplin in "Limelight"

I can only wonder what more he might have accomplished if he had not been forced from the U.S., or if he had decided to fight it and remained here. I wonder where his creative force would have taken him, in an era when silent movies were historic curiosities, when television invaded every home, when the very nature of “what is funny” changed. Yet, looking back at that Life article 63 years later, I am not surprised that his movies are still held in high regard, are shown in theater and festivals and on TCM consistently. Whatever his relationship with actors was, he knew what he wanted. And he got it.

Life Magazine, James Agee and Charlie

You never know what you’ll find in an old Life magazine. I was looking for an idea for this Chaplin blog, decided to dig through “my Chaplin stuff” and came across a 1949 issue of Life. The cover story: “Comedy’s Greatest Era.” Ben Turpin’s picture was on the cover. “Got to be something interesting here,” I thought.

The article is written by James Agee, one of America’s literary lights - a poet, journalist, film critic, and author of one of my favorite novels, “A Death in the Family,” published in 1957, which won the Pulitzer. I knew he was my kind of guy because, when they made the movie of the book,(titled "All the Way Home") a memorable scene between father and son takes place in a cinema where a Chaplin movie is on the screen. 

Agee, as film critic for Time and The Nation, picked out “Four Master Clowns” for his tribute. Chaplin, Keaton, Lloyd - as expected - plus Harry Langdon. Langdon surprised me, mainly because I don’t know enough about him. But since my blog is about Charlie, I’ll get to him. In a minute.

Take a look at where film comedy started - with Mack Sennett at Keystone. I’m fascinated by this picture of the original Keystone Cops. From the left, they are Roscoe Arbuckle, Bobby Venon, Ford Sterling, Chester Conklin Clyde Cook, Mack Swain, James Finlayson and Hank Mann. They would all be heard from beyond the Keystone beginning, most of them appearing in Chaplin films. 

Agee began his analysis of "The Four" with Chaplin. He wrote,

 “When Charlie Chaplin started to work for Sennett he had chiefly to reckon with Ford Sterling, the reigning comedian. Their first picture together amounted to a duel before the assembled professionals. Sterling, by no means untalented, was a big man with a florid Teutonic style which, under this special pressure, he turned on full blast. Chaplin defeated him within a few minutes with a wink of the mustache, a hitch of the trousers, a quirk of the little finger.”

Two years before this article was written, “Monsieur Verdoux” premiered, and Chaplin was hit by some vicious attacks on the film. Agee was one of the few members of the press who came to his defense. 

Which may account why Agee is so lavish with his praise of Charlie in this 1949 article. “Of all comedians he worked most deeply and most shrewdly within a realization of what a human being is, and is up against. The Tramp is as centrally representative of humanity, as many-sided and as mysterious, as Hamlet, and it seems unlikely that any dancer or actor can ever have excelled him in eloquence, variety or poignancy of motion.”

Finally, he talked about that incredibly touching final scene in “City Lights.” 

Agee said, “The camera just exchanges a few quiet close-ups of the emotions which shift and intensify in each face. It is enough to shrivel the heart to see, and it is the greatest piece of acting and the highest moment in movies.”

I agree with Agee, on all counts. About Chaplin, and about Comedy’s Greatest Era.

    This is how it might have happened, 35 years ago.

Charlie's Christmas Carol

                

     The Manoir de Ban sits on a gently sloping hill above the town of Vevey, Switzerland, overlooking Lake Geneva. The home of Sir Charles Chaplin since 1953, the 150-year-old structure is frequently lit by laughter and friends and 16mm silent movies shown on a large silver screen to an appreciative gathering.

     But not tonight.

     For on this night, Christmas Eve of 1977, Sir Charles is put to bed for the final time. His wife, Oona, kisses him lightly on his forehead, touches his cheek, holds his hand, and says, "Good night, my love." Charlie smiles but is unable to say anything. His right hand briefly flutters towards her, but drops to his chest too soon. He is asleep.

     All is still and quiet within the house as the hands on the grandfather clock in the hall crawl past midnight. Outside, the frozen grip of a Swiss winter searches but finds no opening. The sweet scent of peppermint and pine, cinnamon and cloves hangs in the air. Wisps of smoke curl slowly from the blackened logs and up the chimney. The Christmas tree is dark. Scattered throughout the 24 rooms of Manoir de Ban, Oona and seven of the eight Chaplin children are asleep. Only Geraldine is not there. She is working on a film in Spain.

     At 3:45 in the morning, Charlie’s eyes snap open. Something or someone is in the room. He’s sure of it. Or maybe it’s just another one of his imaginings. He’s had so many of them during the past few months. He can’t be sure.

     "Hello?" he says, more of a question. "Hello? Doug? Is that you?" Doug Fairbanks, his best friend, his only true friend, died much too young and left Chaplin adrift among people he didn't trust. He cherishes the memory, decades later, of their friendship. An anchor in a turbulent world.

     He sits up in bed, a difficult maneuver but somehow a little easier this time. The only sound he hears is the clicking of the clock on his night stand. He waits. Nothing. "Must've been a dream," he says aloud and starts to lie back down.

     "It ain't no dream, Charlie." A man's voice, hoarse and gruff, but familiar. "You ain't ever had a dream like this."

     Now Charlie is wide awake and sits up. He pulls off his night cap, never did like that silly thing. He squints at the foot of the bed, thinks he sees... something ...a shape perhaps. "Michael, is that you? This isn't funny, you know."

     "Your son is sound asleep in his own room," says the voice.

     Charlie forces a large laugh, "Now I know. You're the Ghost of Christmas Past, right? Or Christmas Present." He feels better than he's felt in days, the pains in his back and legs receding.

     The figure gains definition. "Oh, hell, Charlie, give me more credit than that. Dickens has already done that ghost thing. As much as you like Dickens, even you wouldn't stoop to that."

     Charlie looks harder. Slowly the face matches the voice as the figure fully resolves. "Buster! It's you!" Charlie claps his hands. "What are you doing here?"

     "I was just in the neighborhood."

     "Come now, Keaton. You don't go anywhere without a reason."

     Buster steps around to the side of the bed and leans over. "Tonight's a special night. For both of us." He opens the closet and pulls out a hanger which holds a familiar outfit. "Here you go, pal. Get dressed and let's get out of here while we still have time."

     Charlie dismisses him with a wave of his hands. "I haven't worn that in years. They won't even - "

     "Oh, they'll fit just fine," says Buster. He sniffs the jacket. "At least you could've washed it once in awhile." The Great Stone Face warms for an instant.

     Charlie pushes back his cover and swings his thin legs over the edge of the bed. "My shoes. I'll need my shoes. The big pair."

     "I know, I know. My God, everybody expects you to wear those oversize brogans. On the wrong feet yet. Where are they?"

     Charlie points to another closet. "In there." He pulls the pants off the hanger. "Ah, it was an inspired day when I put this wardrobe together. Especially these baggy pants."

     "Bollox!" A new voice burst from the darkness. "Those were my pants, Chaplin."

     A glow as big and bright as the morning sun fills Chaplin's face, shedding years from it. "Roscoe!"

     Roscoe Arbuckle walks quickly to the bed, his boyish expression as open and lovable as ever. "Not just the pants but the dance of the rolls, too. He knows how to get Charlie's goat and enjoys watching him squirm.

     "Did not," says Charlie.

     "Did too," says Roscoe.

     "Did not."

     "Did too."

     Buster tosses the clothes and shoes onto the bed. "Girls, girls, break it up." He hands the shirt to Charlie. "Show's about to begin."

     Roscoe points at Chaplin's bare legs. "I gotta say, Charlie, you always did have sticks for legs. How the hell did you walk on those?"

     "These sticks," says Charlie as he begins dressing, "didn't have to support 300 pounds, Roscoe."

     Keaton laughs. "Very funny, Sir Charles."

     "Don't encourage him, Buster. And that's another thing. The 'Sir Charles' crap. How come we never got in on that?"

     Charlie has put on his shirt and small vest. He slips into the oversized pants and pulls them tight with the rope belt. "Because you guys weren't British citizens," he says and strikes a dignified pose.

     Buster bows. "Well, excuse me, your grace."

     Downstairs in the hall the old clock strikes once.

     Roscoe hands Charlie his shoes. "You were funnier in these than I could ever have been."

     "Thank you." He slips them onto the wrong feet and stands fully dressed, his hands on his hips 'How do I look?"

     Buster and Roscoe applaud, very slowly.

     "Stow the sarcasm, boys. It's a low form of humor."

     "But it works," says Roscoe.

     "Sometimes," says Buster.

     The clock strikes the second time.

     "C'mon," says Buster. "It's almost four."

     Charlie touches his upper lip. "My mustache."

     "In your pocket," says Buster.

     "Where's my derby?" says Charlie.

     "Forget the derby," the two respond in unison.

     Charlie looks frantically around the room, his moves quick and easy. "I go nowhere without my derby, gentlemen."

     "Here it is." Another voice approaches out of the darkness. The derby sails through the air and Charlie catches it. "Doug!"

     Doug Fairbanks jumps onto the bed, bounces high into the air, and lands silently on his feet next to Charlie. "C'mon, pal. We got big plans tonight." Doug's dazzling smile moves Charlie; he throws his arms around him.

     "I've missed you," he says.

     Doug puts his hands on Charlie's shoulders. "And you've kept me waiting a long time. How'd you ever make it to 88? That's too old, Chaplin."

     The clock strikes the third time.

     "C'mon, let's move, let's move," says Buster.

     "Imagine that," says Roscoe. "The four of us all in our next production."

     "Not if we don't get out of here," says Buster.

     The four men turn to walk into what had been, just a few seconds ago, a deep shadow, but is now beginning to lighten, to shimmer with a silver glow.

     "Wait a minute," says Charlie. "My cane."

     "C'mon, Chaplin," shouts Doug.

     "I must have my cane." He looks in both closets, in the corner by the bed. "Where's my cane?" He's becoming frantic now. He pulls back the quilt, feels under the mattress. "Ta-Da." He proudly holds up his bamboo cane.

     "Do you believe this?" says Buster.

     "He keeps his cane - " begins Roscoe.

     " - in bed with him," finishes Doug.

     Charlie swings his cane around, shuffles to the three men. "Now here's my idea. We open up with you, Roscoe, sitting at a sidewalk cafe."

     "With a beautiful young woman," adds Arbuckle.

     "And then I ride by on a unicycle," says Keaton.

     "And I swing onto the table from a nearby tree," says Fairbanks.

     They all laugh.

     Charlie turns around and points to the old man in the bed. "What about him?"

     Doug puts his arm around Charlie's shoulders. "You don't need him anymore, my friend."

     The clock strikes four.

     They walk into the light.

     Outside, down the hill, the village slumbers on. It is Christmas morning. A new day is about to begin.

***

     

     

              

Charlie and Hetty: The Story Concludes

From A Comedian Sees the World in Woman’s Home Companion (Sept. 1933), this continues from my previous post. When we last saw the infatuated Chaplin, Hetty had left her troupe and gone to the Continent. Charlie said goodbye but left us with a cliff-hanger: “...the next time we met was in a curious way.”

As Charlie tells it,

“I was crossing Piccadilly when the screech of an automobile made me turn in the direction of a black limousine which had stopped abruptly. A small gloved hand waved from the window. There must some mistake, I thought, when a voice unmistakably called, ‘Charlie!’

Piccadilly Circus, London circa 1929

“As I approached, the door of the car opened and there was Hetty beckoning me to get in. She had left the troupe and had been living on the Continent with her sister. Oh, yes, her sister had married an American multimillionaire. All this as we drove along.”

They exchange some pleasantries about how they’ve spent the past two years, and Chaplin says, “I think I shall try my luck in America.”

Hetty responds with, “Then I shall see you there.” She adds, “You know I’ve thought of you a good deal since the old days.”

We’ll never know whether or not Hetty actually said this, but if that’s what Chaplin remembered, or wished had happened, then so be it. I hope it’s true. Hetty leaves the following day for Paris and Charlie leaves for America and, eventually, Hollywood. While there, he hears that Hetty is in New York. 

“I  had arrived in New York to sign million-dollar contracts. Now is my opportunity to meet her, I thought, but somehow I cannot do it normally. I couldn’t go to her house or send a letter. I am too shy. However, I stayed on in New York hoping to meet her accidentally.”

He finds out from her brother that she has married and is living in England. Charlie immediately returns to his work in Hollywood, trying to forget her. Months later he receives a letter from her. “If you ever come to London,” she wrote, “look me up.” Which is what Chaplin does a few months later, after he completes the picture he is working on. He arrives in Southampton to a tremendous reception. Hetty’s brother, Sonny, is there on the dock, waiting for him. They climb into a carriage and head for the hotel.

“Sonny and I were alone in the carriage. I hadn’t noticed until then. There was something strange about his appearance. As usual, he avoided any mention of Hetty. There was a pause in the conversation. I looked out of the window at the revolving panorama of green fields. At last I ventured to remark: ‘Is your sister Hetty in town?’

“‘Hetty?’ he said quietly. ‘I thought you knew. She died three weeks ago.’”

“I was prepared for every disappointment but this. I felt I had been cheated out of an experience and my holiday had suddenly become aimless...My success I had looked upon as a bouquet of flowers to be addressed to someone and now the address was unknown.

“So I have made up my mind not to be disappointed this time. It is dangerous to depend too much on people. They grow up and become other persons or pass out of our lives.”

He concludes this section of his story with,

“London, I feel, will remain the same. What little change has taken place will not affect my general impression and if I can capture some fragments of my youth I shall feel simply rewarded.”

Burying flu victims in St. Louis, 1918

Some fragments he would never capture. This meeting probably took place in 1918.  Hetty had died that year as the great flu epidemic swept Europe and much of the world. Estimates on the number of victims range from 20 million to over 50 million. To close the book on this chapter of Chaplin’s life, the original theater where Charlie and Hetty first met was destroyed by one of Germany’s “flying bombs” (a V-1 or V-2) in 1944.

But Charlie would never forget Hetty Kelly.