37 Years Ago on Christmas Day

This Christmas, 2014, will mark the 37th anniversary of the death of this great film artist. Like his life and many of his films, the event held a surprise and, eventually, a happy ending.

Charlie died early in the morning on Christmas, at Manoir De Ban, which overlooks the town of Vevey, Switzerland. 
 

















He had been in declining health for awhile, though he never lost the urge to make one more movie. He was buried near the Manoir.



End of story? No. Three months later, in March of 1978, his body was unearthed and stolen. A ransom note demanded payment. The body-snatchers bungled the job, left a lot of clues.It sounds like one of his early shorts. The body was discovered in a farmer's field, the police caught the robbers, they stood trial, and Chaplin was buried in a more secure manner. This was in a cemetery in Vevey, in a concrete tomb, to eventually be joined by Oona in 1991. Oona's final years were quite sad as she withdrew from the public.


According to current plans, the Manoir is scheduled to open as a museum in Spring, 2016, an event long anticipated.










I visited their gravesite several years ago. It's in a small cemetery, surrounded by low walls, and open to the public. It was a hot day in July, I was alone there, and sat on the bench of front of their headstones for several minutes. I thanked him.

So, on Christmas day, amidst the presents and laughter and decorations and gathering of friends and family, perhaps you can pause for just a few seconds to say, "Thanks, Charlie. You brightened up my life, and the world."

    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.

***

     

     

              

When Charlie Came Back

It was in 1952 that U.S. Attorney General James McGranery waited until the Chaplin's had sailed for England that he pulled their re-entry permit. McCarthyism, HUAC, and the powers in D.C. had declared that the man who had given so much to America was now a danger and no longer welcome. Hollywood remained silent.

Twenty years later, with the Red scare safely tucked away, Charlie was invited back for a special honor at the Oscars.  He had been living in Vevey, Switzerland.  He reluctantly agreed. First he stopped in New York for a screening of two of his films at Lincoln Center's Philharmonic Hall. Even Mayor John Lindsay presented him with a special award. Then he headed West to accept his honorary statuette in front of a cheering Hollywood audience. He looked frail, unsteady, but still tried to entertain the audience with a small bit with his hat. Afterwards he returned to Vevey where he lived out his final years.

Shortly after he left, SHOW magazine published an article about him, written by William Wolf. He talked about the shock of seeing Chaplin in old age. Even Chaplin remarked, "My pins aren't so good any more," referring to his legs. Wolf interviewed Charlie at Manoir de Ban shortly before he left for the U.S. Here are some of Chaplin's remarks which I've pulled from the interview.




"I don't think (today's movies) stack up to mine. I'm very frank in saying that. They have no merit. They are silly and foolish, and if performers strip off their clothes - well, that's all right, but I would say that's what I object to about the modern movie. Any pantry sweetie can come in and take her clothes off, and she's interesting to the average audience. But I worked damned hard on the set to make a film, and everything I did was con amore, with my heart and soul, and with a terrific enthusiasm. I don't consider I'm a genius. Things come hard to me. I think they must come easier to other people.


"The FBI people asked why I followed the party line. I said, 'If you tell me what the party line is, I'll tell you whether I follow it or not.' They couldn't believe I wasn't a Communist. Oh yes, I was sympathetic to anybody who was hard up and needed help. That's all my politics ever got into."

He talked about "A King in New York."

"I didn't do it with any bitterness. It has a very good performance by my son Michael, and there's a lot of good stuff in that picture. If a picture gives the opportunity for invention, I'll take it, and I don't care what the hell the consequences are. We made fun of a lot of things, like progressive education, and the story naturally veered tgoward this young chap whom the FBI was trying to pressure to inform on his parents. But I wouldn't accept any ideas unless there was great comedy in it. I'm not  a pamphleteer. I had great fun, and that's the only thing I'm interested in."

Shortly before the interview was interrupted by the news that his young daughter, Annie, had broken her ankle in a skiing accident, Charlie talked about Mack Sennett.

"Mack Sennett was a great influence. I learned all of my comedy from him. He would laugh at the things I did, and I'd think well, that's not so funny, but he would think it was funny, and he gave me a lot of confidence. I enjoyed the old days in California when Thomas Ince as around, and when Sennett was around."






The author finishes up with these thoughts:
"His reputation stands on his films, of course, and not one's judgement of him as a person. But he did make a likeable impression, because the sense of humor was strongly there, he was gracious and hospitable, and he had a kind of elder statesman of the arts air about him. One quickly observed the strong ego people have long talked about....Within him seems also to be the longing to make yet another film, since he fights against accepting that his work, as great as it is judged to be, should stand completed."