HE LEFT US LAUGHING, 38 YEARS AGO

On Christmas day of 1977, I was sitting on our living room floor, playing with my daughter and son, newly unwrapped presents strewn about the carpet, when Mary Lee said there was a phone call for me. My mom was on the line. Probably just wants to wish us a Merry Christmas, I thought.

That's how I learned that Charlie Chaplin had died that day. He was at his mansion in Vevey, Switzerland, with most of his children and grandchildren and, of course, his wife Oona. That night he passed away in his sleep. I felt a sense of loss, having been a Chaplin fan for several years, even to the point of bestowing the middle name "Chaplin" on my son Gregg. (My daughter's middle name is "Michelle," named for a favorite Beatles song. So much for family tradition.)


This past week, while going through some "stuff," I came across a storage container stuffed with lots of Chaplin items: magazines, newspapers, photos, videotapes, press kits, etc etc. What I want to share with you today are two items from the New York Times, dated Dec. 28, 1977. The first is a news item about Charlie's funeral. Dateline is Corsier-Sur-Vevey, Switzerland. It begins: "Charlie Chaplin, the silver screen's impecunious tramp with a heart of gold, was buried today in the small cemetery of this village overlooking the Lake of Geneva.

     "Rain fell throughout the brief, simple graveside service as the British comedian's wife, Oona, daughter of the late American playwright Eugene O'Neill, faced the coffin surrounded by seven of their children."
      The article goes on to describe the events of the ceremony.

Across from this article was an editorial. Which is what I really want you to read.

                           The Little Tramp

     A year that has seen the passing of such entertainment phenomena as Elvis Presley, Groucho Marx, Bing Cosby and Guy Lombardo now comes to an end with the death of Charlie Chaplin. "Entertainer" is too weak, "star" too lightly used a word to do any of them justice, but Charlie was always in a class of his own. His was one of those precious talents that bridge the gap between popular and highbrow art. Three generations of audiences have joined in laughter at the Little Tramlp and recognized that in laughing at that jaunty figure, we laugh at our common predicament, the commotion we cause and the indignities we suffer trying to come to terms with the vagaries of the world.
     Born in England, Charlie Chaplin build his career in America, beginning in 1914 with his first movie, a one-reeler entitled "Making a Living." During the next half century, he made some 80 films, in which, generally as the legendary tramp, he performed popular slapstick with inimitable grace, combining music-hall sentiment with merciless mockery. The praise was almost unanimous, but in the 1940's, he attracted critics who were concerned not with his art but with his political associations and private peccadilloes. He had given offense by calling for a second front to aid the Russians, speaking on behalf of Henry Wallace's campaign for the Presidency, and becoming the defendant in a sensational paternity suit. In the early 1950's, he went to Europe and, to America's enduring discredit, Washington withheld permission for the return of its most famous alien.
     Whatever Charlie Chaplin's political or personal predilections, they did not matter much then and do not matter at all now. What does matter is the finesse with which he eats a boiled shoe in "the Gold Rush" and attempts to eat corn on the cob from the assembly-line food-feeder in "Modern Times"; his triumph over the bully, with the help of a gas lamp, in "Easy Street"; his ballot with a globe of the world in "The Great Dictator." What matters is the poignant ending of "City Lights," when the girl who has regained her eyesight first sees the funny looking little fellow to whom she owes so much. The feelings they continue to evoke in movie theaters around the world will be Charlie Chaplin's undying eulogy.
      

So here we are, almost four decades later, and Charlie still makes people laugh - and cry - on screens and walls and, yes, even iPads and laptops, around the world. His movies continue to be digitized, cleaned up, re-scored, and reissued continually. A newly restored edition of "The Kid," his first full-length feature, from 1921, will be released early next year.

This Christmas day, in between the presents and the parties, perhaps you might take just a moment to think about how important laughter is to the world, now more than ever, and to remember the man who made so many of us laugh, for so long.

Sculpting Charlie

Recently a friend sent me a photograph of a woman with Charlie Chaplin, and a sculpture of his head. 

This is on the back of the photo:

This made me curious about the sculptor. It was Katherine Stubergh. Turns out she has quite a resume, from sculptures to wax museum figures. I've attached a couple of links if you want to see more about her and her Chaplin work.

According to AskArt.com:

Born in San Francisco, CA on June 23, 1911.   Stubergh came from a long line of mannequin makers.  At age 21 she abandoned a budding dance career to concentrate on sculpting.   Most of her career was centered around Los Angeles where she did many busts of prominent people in the movie industry as well as bronze plaques. Her married name was Keller at the time of her death in Honolulu on May 14, 1996. 

There's even a YouTube video about her and some of her work. Video of Stubergh at work on Hollywood models.

Here are the other links to Katherine:
Charlie by Katherine       Charlie by Stubergh

Found treasure in a Chicago used bookstore

While waiting for my son to finish his tacos in a Wicker Park area pub Saturday afternoon, I wandered down the street and came across the Myopic Used Bookstore. It's near Damen and Milwaukee Streets. I'm a sucker for these places. So I wandered in, was astounded at the sheer quantity of books and the incredibly organized arrangement. Also to my surprise, the store was crowded, mostly young people, lining up to buy books. It made me hopeful for the future of reading "real" books.

 I, of course, headed for the Films section to find something on Charlie Chaplin. There were only three books, and I had them all. I finished looking through the Film section, segued over to Military History, specifically the 3 big wars: Civil, Great, WWII. Dozens I'd like to read but knew I never would. Pass. A quick walk-by in the fiction department, then decided to get back to my son.

On the way towards the front door, I glanced into a glass case which held some "special" books... either rare or signed or hard to find. The price tags on them ranged from $50 up. And that's when I saw it. "The Films of Mary Pickford" by Raymond Lee. Signed by Mary.

And here was the clincher: It included a handwritten note from her personal secretary to someone in the Chicago area, fulfilling a request for Mary to sign the book. Mary's inscription in the book read, " To Bob, Cordially Yours, Mary Pickford." The secretary was Esther Helm. The note was written on notepaper with a picture of Pickfair. Her note read, in part, "Your letter and book arrived last Friday and I have today taken it to the post office -- it has been autographed by Mary, and she and Buddy both enjoyed looking at the photo you sent me." It's dated Dec. 11th. The book has "Christmas 1974" written on the inside cover. Also inside the book was an article on Mary from the Chicago Tribune, March 24, 1976.

The connection to Chaplin is certainly familiar to you. Mary, with Doug Fairbanks, D.W. Griffith, and Charlie formed United Artists in 1919. It marked the first time movie stars took control of producing and distributing their own films. Some historians credit Mary with the initial idea to form the company. Chaplin, unfortunately, was still under contract to First National. It would be four years before he could contribute a film to United Artists. Chaplin eventually sold his interest in UA in 1955 after his move to Switzerland, but he maintained ownership of the films he made for them.

Fortune sometimes smiles on us at the most unexpected times. If my son had not stopped at the pub for tacos, if I had wanted to watch some baseball game on the TV sets there instead of taking a walk, if I hadn't turned to look into that glass case, I would not have been able to put a signed Mary Pickford book on the shelf next to my Chaplin books.

When Marlon, Sophia and Charlie Got Together

Today I'm turning over my blog to a former writer for Life Magazine. 
Her name was Dora Jane Hamblin. She died in 1993, in a retirement home in Rome, at the age of 73. 

But on April 1, 1966, she wrote an article about the new movie being produced in London. Written and directed by Charlie Chaplin and starring Marlon Brando and Sophia Loren, the film was generally panned by critics as being "out of date." During pre-production, Chaplin suffered a great personal loss when his brother, Sydney, died in Nice, France at the age of 80. 





Two esteemed visitors to the set during shooting were Gloria Swanson and the film historian Kevin Brownlow. Kevin wrote about his experience that day, which David Robinson included in his magnificent biography of Chaplin. 

Sadly, this was Chaplin's final film.

But, right now, let's listen to Dora Jane Hamblin. These are excerpts of her article. The "Sydney" she refers to here is Charlie's son.

"Walking onto Charlie Chaplin's set at England's Pinewood Studios feels quite a bit like trying to tip-toe into church after the service has started. There are, to be sure, a lot of slamming doors and exploding champagne bottles and actors leaping around like scalded cats, but between the bangs and the crashes there is a silence quite unlike the perfunctory quiet of the ordinary movie set. Everybody's watching Charlie teach some new tricks to a trio of old pros - Sophia, Marlon and Sydney Chaplin. The stars sit rapt, like well brought-up children, hanging on his every word. That is much easier than hanging onto him.

"Marlon is supposed to chase Sophia around the furniture? Charlie takes off in a frantic deadpan dash, to show Marlon how he wants him to do it. Sophia is supposed to flee? Charlie skitters around uttering little yelps of alarm and casting arch looks back over his tweedy shoulder. Sydney Chaplin is supposed to puff on a cigar and make himself sick? Charlie Chaplin wraps his small hand around an imaginary cigar, tilts his head, and everybody not he set can smell the nonexistent smoke.....

"The new picture, though it is the 81st of Chaplin's 52-year movie career, is a first in a couple of significant categories: it is Chaplin's first film in color; it is the first time he hasher directed established stars, let alone a pair of Oscar winners and staggering personalities like Loren and Brando; and it is the first time in years that he has worked for a company not his own. Universal is bankrolling this one at an estimated production cost of $4 million and will distribute it. But Chapin is clearly running it. .... Hardly a day passes that Charlie doesn't mutter 'We're using too much film.' Actually, Charlie's first feature-length film, the six-reeler Tillie's Punctured Romance in 1914, had almost exactly the same shooting time as this present film, 14 weeks.

"'That was very, very difficult, that scene,' Sophia says. 'It was a charlie Chapin scene, you see. Silent, and subtle. He has the timing exactly right when he does it. Charlie never does the obvious thing, like most actors. He turns it all upside down, thinks of the opposite from the obvious thing.' "...

"'In the next few days I thought I had gone raving mad, Charlie had gone raving mad, and it was impossible,' says Brando. 'I can't do fades and triple-takes and things like that, and I was wanting to go to Charlie to say, 'I'm afraid we've both made a horrible mistake. But then it all started to work out. With Charlie it's chess, it's chess at 90 mph.' ...

"He (Charlie) plays one scene in the film. The morning he did it, he hopped onto the set grinning from ear to ear. He slid into the white jacket of a ship's chief steward, and he combed his hair and muttered his lines under his breath and gave that old familiar half-apologetic look just over the left shoulder. His assistant director called 'Action!' and Chaplin opened the door. He put on the walk of an aging chief steward and then the look of a seasick chief steward He made straight for a porthole and tripped over something that wasn't in the script. Just before the assistant director could call 'Cut' he stopped, bent down, picked up an imaginary object and slipped it intones pocked, adjusted his shoulder, walked on. It was very funny.


"'Well, that's my contribution,' he said as he walked off the set. Kona gave him a big kiss and everybody told him the scene was wonderful. The only reason there wasn't a round of applause was that everyone in the place was afraid he might snap at them. 'Quiet, now let's all be adult!'"

And so ends the article. I've included photos from the magazine, which were shot by famed photographer Alfred Eisenstaedt.

Also included is an ad from that same issue which features another very funny man.

The Conclusion of Chapter 1

"Shadow and Substance: My Time with Charlie Chaplin" - 

Chapter 1 - Concluded

One night in late 1995 I was producing a music recording session at A&M Records in Hollywood. During a break, I wandered down the hall, through a heavy metal door, and stepped onto The Chaplin Stage. The stage was dark. I was alone. I began to wonder, to imagine... what if Charlie's spirit was still here. What if he talked to me. What if he appeared.

And so was born the idea for my novel. Several years later, after many stops and starts, I completed the novel and it was published in 2010. Beginning with this post on my blog, you will be able to read much of my novel over the next several weeks.

If you would like to purchase a signed copy of the novel, send a check for $17 to me, at 503 Taylor Young Drive, Kirkwood MO 63122. A limited number of copies are still available. Thanks, and I hope you enjoy the journey with Charlie.

              CHAPTER 1 - CONTINUED

FlashBack Productions occupies a large house in a residential neighborhood, just north of Sunset Boulevard where Hollywood meets Beverly Hills and the rent begins to escalate. I walked up the stone-lined path to the front door, through a yard deep in shadows amidst a tangled variety of tropical trees, the yard accented with splashes of yellow and pink and red flowers. If it hadn’t been for the hum of traffic on Sunset, I might have thought I was in the Brazilian jungle. Back in Ohio, they might have been shoveling snow.

     “Hi. You must be Cooper. I’m Heather.” The receptionist spoke with a warm, husky timbre. “Can I get you anything? Water? Juice? Herbal tea?” Pause. “Coffee?” 

      “Juice sounds fine. Thanks.”

     “Guava? Papaya? Pomegranate?” Pause. “Orange?”

     “Surprise me.”

     She headed down the hall. “I’ll tell Kevin you’re here.”

     I sank down into a long, plush sofa set against a large, bubbling aquarium in the wall. I knew Kevin McDaniels, the head of FlashBack, only from several phone conversations. His enthusiasm about the project was contagious. I hoped he was as likable in person. And I hoped he liked me. I was the outsider from the Midwest with the credentials he had been looking for. 

     Kevin had said he was looking for a “nontraditional” viewpoint, even though I wasn’t quite sure what it meant. This was an incredibly significant opportunity for me: a writing assignment in Hollywood with the potential to establish myself on my favorite subject, Charlie Chaplin. my all-time favorite, close to obsession status. 

     Heather brought my juice over. Orange. I expected her to take me into Kevin’s office. I was wrong. Two minutes later, Kevin walked up. From his voice on the phone, I had pictured short, chunky and bald. He  was over six feet tall with the smooth, powerful lines of a natural athlete, topped off with a head full of pure white hair. The hair just didn’t match up, an anomaly that looked like a bad make-up job. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, about ten years older than me. 

     “Cooper. Hi. Kevin McDaniels.” He extended his hand, which I both shook and used as a rope to pull myself out of the couch. He backed up his grip with a wide, contagious smile. I liked him immediately and relaxed. “Come on back. How was your flight?”

     “Smooth. The way I like them.”

     “Hotel okay?”

     “Very nice.” 

     We entered his office, a spacious room that looked out onto the back yard and the pool, some orange trees, and a golden retriever stretched out by the sliding glass doors. A living, breathing real estate brochure. 

     We sat in director’s chairs on opposite sides of a low, teak coffee table. He cut to the chase. “Why should I hire you, Cooper?”

     A fair question, but one I hadn’t expected as a starting point. “Because you want to give highly talented writers from mid-America a chance to participate in the dynamics of Hollywood.” Sometimes I speak before thinking.

     He laughed. “Of course.” He shifted forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped, staring intently at me. “Frankly, I’m not sure why you’re here. Let me explain. You made the short list, but I pretty well had it narrowed down to another writer. Then I got this in the mail.”

     He handed me a single sheet of folded paper, undated, no letterhead, with a short, handwritten message. “Mr. McDaniels, it has come to my attention that you are embarking upon an important new series dedicated to early Hollywood personalities, including Sir Charles Chaplin. Forgive my impetuousness, but I would suggest you  consider a young man named Cooper Thiery of Columbus, Ohio, as one of your creative resources. Through my duties here at Oxford University, I have become aware of his insight into the subject and believe it would be in your interest to, at the minimum, contact him. Please excuse the abruptness of this intrusion and lack of follow-through on my part, but I shall be on sabbatical for the next six months. Best of luck on your project.” The signature read “Ian Picking, Professor of Cultural Heritage, Oxford University.”

     The handwriting matched that in the Robinson book.

     I handed the letter back to Kevin, held my hand as steady as possible, and said nothing.

     “I called Oxford,” he said. “Picking is indeed on sabbatical. Out of touch for another four months.” 

     Kevin continued filling in the background on our meeting, but my mind was working over the similarity in handwriting, the appearance of the book at the hotel and the Oxford letter. I just wanted Kevin to say I had the job, so I could start to work and not deal with the puzzle.

     “Any thoughts about that?” 

     He was waiting for my answer, and I hadn’t even heard the question. 

     “About what?”

     “About where you might start. Are you with me, Cooper?”

     I apologized for my drifting, then recalled some of the comments from the book. Maybe that would take the interview in the right direction. “Two areas,” I said. “First, Chaplin’s relationship with Edna Purviance. I think there’s more there than has been uncovered so far.” In a paragraph about her and Charlie, her name had been circled with the comment, “Half the story.” It could be accurate. “The other area is what he did with some of his films, where he stored them, especially one that theoretically no longer exists. Chaplin didn’t destroy much of his work, even if he didn’t like it. It’s worth a look.” I stopped. Other areas seemed workable, according to the notes in the Robinson book, but I didn’t want to start a laundry list of possibilities. Less is more, as someone once said. An architect, maybe.

     Kevin moved into an overview of the project, much of which we had discussed on the phone a couple of weeks ago. Then he stood up and the meeting was over. A four hour flight, each way, for a half hour meeting. 

      Back in Columbus, a message was waiting on my answering machine. Also, a new e-mail was sitting in my inbox. They both said the same thing. “Good news. You start on Monday. Welcome to the dynamics of Hollywood.” I treated myself to a couple of double-cut pork chops for dinner and four draft Guinness's at a neighborhood hangout. I would have gone dancing if I liked to dance.

“Let me introduce the gang to you, Cooper.” Three people were seated at the round, slate-topped table. Kevin pointed to one of the empty chairs and I sat. 

     He began with the slim, perfectly tanned man on my right who was focused on a file folder in his hands. “This is Jamie Cormell. Jamie’s my second in command at FlashBack, and executive producer on the Chaplin show. He has other projects in the works, so you won’t see much of him on a daily basis.” We shook hands and Jamie returned to his folder. It was as sincere as shaking hands with a politician.

     “Next is Therese Margolies. She’ll handle any production services you require. Transfer time for video, audio. Screening of archival material. Access to libraries, schools, even dinner reservations. Therese can get you into most restaurants, just in case you need to impress someone during your research.” Therese, a redhead with a thin, freckled face, threw me a warm smile. “Welcome,” she said and raised her coffee cup in a toast. She seemed genuine.

     “Finally,” said Kevin, “is our man Squid Pessenha.” A short, wiry young man with coffee-and-cream colored skin stood and shook my hand. I noticed it was damp, probably from nerves, I thought. I hoped. “Squid,” Kevin continued, “gets things done. He knows the city like a cabbie, which he used to be.” Squid forced a smile. “Call him to find out how to get anywhere, how to get releases, check out locations. If you don’t know who else to ask, ask him. Just don’t ask him where to get a haircut.” Therese and Jamie laughed. Squid’s shaved head glistened like a ripe coconut.

     Kevin slipped into the chair across from me and kicked the meeting into gear. He scooted his chair away from the table, folded his hands under his chin, and made eye contact with each of us. I had the feeling that the curtain had just gone up on Act One with the stage bare except for an accomplished actor.

     Kevin talked about the great names of Hollywood past, the people who had shaped the present. Garbo, Fairbanks, Keaton, Valentino. The list went on. It was these legends he wanted to redefine. Starting with Chaplin. A series of documentaries would challenge the established notion of who these people were. We knew we weren’t embarking on another Biography concept. “Those are too reverential,” he said. “Our mission is to strip away the hypocrisy, the phony glitter of Hollywood.” He had told me all this over the phone, but the harshness of his concept hadn’t really hit me until now. He really wanted to rip the old-timers.

     Jamie casually jotted some notes on his pad, as though this were just another weekly meeting. Therese looked at Kevin with no expression. Squid fidgeted in his seat and threw a nervous smile at me. 

     Heather called from the next room. “Kevin, it’s Desmond at HBO. She says it’s important.”

     Everyone remained silent while he was out. For the first time I could study the black-and-white framed photographs that ran around the walls. Individuals and small groups of people posed on stage sets, on location, near large Panavision cameras. I couldn’t make out any of the faces, but I would have bet most of them were Kevin with celebrities. The Hollywood equivalent of a doctor’s diploma. 

     Kevin returned with no indication of what the call was about. “Sorry for the interruption. I have nothing further to add. Any questions?” The way he asked it, he wasn’t really interested in answering questions. “That wraps it up then. Thank you.” I started to leave with the others. “Cooper, stick around, please.” Kevin closed the door. I figured this was where he would give me the “Emmy’s are within our reach” speech. In fact, I could swear the lighting in the room changed as he gathered his thoughts.

     He walked over to a stack of file folders, opened the top one, pulled out a photograph, and placed it gently in front of me. It was Chaplin in a scene from City Lights. Charlie holds a rose, his hand at his mouth, a look in his eyes that is a poignant expression of realization and sadness and love lost. That scene had been filmed over sixty years ago and still reaches deep into the heart.

     To me, that is part of the power and wonder of film. The ability of a single scene, a few frames, a scant slice of time on the screen, to stay in your mind forever. The opening shot of Citizen Kane, where a glass ball with a snow scene falls to the floor, distilling the mystery of a great man into a single image. Bogey in a white dinner jacket, seated at the piano bar in Casablanca, the uncommon hero hopelessly in love during dangerous times. George C. Scott dwarfed by the huge American flag in Patton, a simple statement of patriotism, valor and commitment. Robert DeNiro as Jake LaMotta, dancing and weaving in the ring, slow motion, black and white, where Scorcese brought grace and beauty to a violent sport in Raging Bull. And, of course, Charlie Chaplin with the dance of the bread rolls in The Gold Rush, the dream of a lonely man searching for love.

     It is moments like this that make me realize how film can transcend our everyday experience, can lift us even as we are changed. Where do the solar winds of imagination originate and who are these holy filmmakers who sanctify us with their visions? I was certain my writing would never come close to them, but I was content to linger in their shadows.

     I picked up the photo as though it were a relic. “I think I’ve seen this shot before, Kevin.”

     He laughed. “Chaplin at his best, capturing the essence of The Little Tramp. Touching audiences, moving them to laughter and tears.” 

     The way he said it, I knew a “but” was coming.

     Kevin continued. “Ask someone to name three Chaplin films, and City Lights will be one of the three. Probably along with The Gold Rush and The Kid.”

     “Or Modern Times or The Great Dictator.”

     “Whatever.” He wasn’t interested in our agreement on the best films. “Here’s the point. He’s one of the most familiar figures in history. Around the world. In fact, he’s probably as close to a symbol as anyone can get. Except for Jesus. Agree?”

     I agreed.

     “Cooper, I don’t want this show to cover old ground. You’ve got to dig deep. Somewhere, a letter, a contract, a film, a relationship has been overlooked or misinterpreted. You find them.”

     Charlie’s eyes comforted me, yet moved me to a deep feeling of sadness. “Kevin, you know I’ll do my best. I told you that when you first called.”

     “Then there’s no problem, right?”

     “Not a problem, but Chaplin’s life and work have been documented more than any other movie star. Over a hundred books, who knows how many thousands of articles, a long list of documentaries. They were writing him up in the 30’s, and they’re still doing it today. There’s not a —”

     “Don’t tell me the bin is empty.”

     “Maybe not empty, but pretty thin,” I said. What a lousy way to start off. That ticket back to Ohio began to take shape. Kevin had every right to send me back. He surprised me by speaking gently, even as his eyes turned hard.

     “Look. Cooper. I know you have high regard for Chaplin. Nobody spends as much time on a passion as you have without strong feelings. I brought you out here because you know how to rummage through his life, uncover shit that others passed by. I saw it in your articles, your book, your web site. If I want something polite, I can get it from a dozen hacks within three blocks of this office.” He began putting the photos back into the folder.  

     “I can give you a great script,” I said. “I’ve told you that. I’m just not sure this direction —”

     Kevin slapped the folder down. It sounded like a gunshot. “And I told you I was expecting a lot. You were aware of exactly the direction I was taking the series in. And you said you could handle it. Did something happen between then and today? Is this too big for you? Are you more comfortable back in Ohio? Let me know right now, Cooper. I’ve got a show to deliver.”

     I heard my heart pounding. I didn’t know how to respond. My first thought was, I don’t really want to throw mud on Chaplin’s name. Kevin hadn’t been that blunt when we initially discussed my involvement. There’s always something that hasn’t been uncovered, but I really didn’t want to get into scandalizing Chaplin. Did he want me to dig into Chaplin’s marriages, affairs, child-brides and trials? 

     “Kevin, are we talking about Chaplin with his pants down? You know, affairs, paternity suits, legal problems...like that?”

     He moved closer to me and became the warm, sincere boss. “No one’s asking you to do a hatchet job. I don’t want schlock. There’s enough dirty underwear being flown in the world today. I’m after truth, Cooper. Start to finish. On Chaplin, and all the others. This isn’t a one-trick pony. This is my attempt to restore some balance to an industry built on myths.” He moved away and added with a grin, “If it turns out, however, that Chaplin slept with Eleanor Roosevelt, then we use it.” 

     I forced a laugh. “Fair enough.” I wondered about his definition of “truth.” He would go for schlock if it were packaged nicely, but I wasn’t about to confront him. I was in LA, getting paid for writing a script about an artist I worshipped, a comfortable apartment, expenses paid. Kevin had arranged for living quarters in a small apartment-hotel off Sunset — clean, bright, quiet, just what I would need for my three-month stay. Even more pivotal was the opportunity to establish myself out here as a writer. No need to fight for principles if the enemy hadn’t made a move yet.

     Kevin put a firm hand on my shoulder. “I’m not worried. I know you can do it. I suggest you get to work, think about what I’ve said. If you have any questions, we’ll kick ‘em around. Fair enough?”

     “Fair enough.” What’s fair is, unfortunately, defined by those who make the rules.

     I jumped onto Sunset and caught the full brunt of evening rush. My conversation with Kevin replayed in my head. I examined each word, trying to determine if I had said the right things, where we had come out, and what lay ahead. I plodded my way east, past trendy little cafes along the wide boulevard, where the young and the hip sipped whatever it was they sip while breathing in exhaust fumes. I started to turn down Crescent Drive towards my apartment when an urge hit me to check out a Chaplin  landmark. I continued east on Sunset, along the boulevard of bold billboards, until I got to La Brea. There, set back south of the intersection, was the large A&M Studios complex, “A” for Herb Alpert, “M” for Jerry Moss, one of LA’s top recording studios.

     I took a left at De Longpre, which borders the studio, and found a parking spot halfway down the block. A minute later I was standing across the street from The Chaplin Studios, which Charlie had built in 1918. Designed in English Tudor style, to blend in with the rest of the neighborhood, it functioned as his studio until he left America amidst controversy in 1952. I had seen these buildings years ago, on a short trip to LA when I lived in San Francisco. Then, I had stood across the street and stared, my feet rooted in place, the rest of the world shut out. Not much different than a Little Leaguer’s first look at Yankee Stadium.

     Once again that feeling came over me. The glint of yellow sun off white stucco, the filtering haze, the constant clamor of traffic — all faded away. I stood there in 1918, in a quiet residential area, watching the cast and crew come and go as they filmed A Dog’s Life, the first movie to be shot at Chaplin’s new studios. The entire production unfolded within those walls. 

     Charlie and Rollie Totheroh, his trusted cameraman, huddle by the Pathe’ camera. The rest of the cast and crew, about thirty people, stand around or sit on folding chairs, boxes and crates, waiting. Conversation is subdued. No one dares disturb Charlie as he sets up his next shot on the dance hall set.

     The scene, after much rehearsal, evolves into a dance sequence. Edna Purviance dances so energetically she keeps bumping Charlie’s chin, which is on her shoulder, knocking off his hat. Prior to shooting, Charlie shows her the dance step which carries him comically across the dance floor. He then shows Edna how to hold him to get maximum effect from her shoulder movement. She has trouble making it work, so he pulls Henry Bergman onto the dance floor. Henry is a very large man and one of his favorite actors, this time dressed as a woman. Charlie and Henry hold each other and dance around the stage. The cast and crew explode with laughter, which Charlie seems to appreciate. He returns to Edna and continues working on the dance, while the rest of the cast take their places on the set. 

     “Hey, man, I don’t mean to bug you, but I haven’t eaten in three days. Think you could help me out?”

     The fantasy vanished into a blaze of harsh light, fumes, cacophony. In front of me stood a burnt-out remnant of what might have been a nice-looking young man. He was dirty, skinny, long shaggy hair, sandals that barely hung onto his feet. 

     “I’m really hungry, man. I’m not gonna use it for drugs. That’s what you’re thinking, right?”

     Actually I was thinking why doesn’t he just go away and let me get back to my fantasy. But it was too late for that. Across the street the  building was still there, but the cast and crew had long ago wrapped the scene. 

     “Yeah, sure.” I dug into my pocket and gave him one of the two ten’s I had in there. “Here, use it for whatever you need.”

     “God bless you, man.” He took the ten. “You wouldn’t have a little more, would you, so I could get some smokes?” A big smile showed gaps where teeth used to be. I gave him the other ten.

“You’re okay, man. You know that? You’re okay.” And he shambled away.

     I looked over at the studio. To have been there, eighty years ago, and watched Charlie direct his actors and crew, heard him talk camera angles, framing and placement with Rollie. To have spent time with Charlie before the camera rolled, to understand how he thought. 

     The Chaplin Stage still held an abundance of magic.

"Shadow and Substance: My Time with Charlie Chaplin" - The Book

One night in late 1995 I was producing a music recording session at A&M Records in Hollywood. During a break, I wandered down the hall, through a heavy metal door, and stepped onto The Chaplin Stage. The stage was dark. I was alone. I began to wonder, to imagine... what if Charlie's spirit was still here. What if he talked to me. What if he appeared.

And so was born the idea for my novel. Several years later, after many stops and starts, I completed the novel and it was published in 2010. Beginning with this post on my blog, you will be able to read much of my novel over the next several weeks.

If you would like to purchase a signed copy of the novel, send a check for $17 to me, at 503 Taylor Young Drive, Kirkwood MO 63122. A limited number of copies are still available. Thanks, and I hope you enjoy the journey with Charlie.

An artist's only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, 

and on his own terms, not anyone else’s.  

- J. D. Salinger

Creativity takes courage.

- Henri Matisse

SHADOW AND SUBSTANCE: MY TIME WITH CHARLIE CHAPLIN

      by Gerry Mandel   ©2010

                                             CHAPTER 1

“You like Charlie Chaplin?”

     The guy in the next seat obviously had noticed the book I was reading. From the tone of his voice, I knew he wasn’t a Chaplin fan.

     “Yeah, I think he’s pretty funny.” I wasn’t really interested in getting into a conversation with him, not with a four-hour flight ahead of me.

     “You look like an intelligent guy. Let me ask you a question.” He rolled up his Sports Illustrated and jammed it into the magazine pocket. “How can you find running around in circles and poking people with a cane and throwing pies funny?”

     I kept my book open. “Chaplin did more than that. He wasn’t big with pies either. Other comics did pies.” I couldn’t believe we were discussing pies at thirty-thousand feet. I felt trapped in my seat, there wasn’t enough leg room, my sneakers looked dumb. 

     “Anything in that book about him being a Commie?” he said. 

     The captain’s voice interrupted with information about altitude, cruising 

speed, and the approximate time we’d be landing in LA Even though I didn’t want to go any further with this guy, the Commie remark bothered me. 

     “That actually was never a fair accusation,” I said. “He wasn’t a Communist. Maybe if you’d read a little about him, you’d know what that was all about.”

     “I know they kicked him out of this country. I don’t have to read more than that. And what about all those little girls he was messing around with? You saying that didn’t happen?” With each accusation, his voice grew louder. 

     I didn’t answer. Confrontation makes me uneasy. Given a different situation I might have launched into a stout defense of Chaplin and his personal life. Like when you stick up for a friend who’s not there. Not this time, though. I just wanted to be left alone, read my book, prepare for the opportunity ahead in Los Angeles.

     “I guess there’re some people who don’t like him,” I said. “I just think he’s funny, that’s all.” 

     I missed Lauren. I still felt the need to reach over and hold her hand on takeoffs and landings. That’s when I get nervous. Lauren was always there, reassuring me with her warmth and strength. But Costa Rica had ended that. I hadn’t flown since then, nor gone bike riding, our favorite sport. 

     “Now Bob Hope...he was funny,” he said and returned to his Sports Illustrated.

     I picked up my laptop, briefcase and book, and moved to an empty seat further back. I was still trying to get a handle on my interview tomorrow. Their consideration of hiring a freelancer from Columbus, Ohio, to write a documentary about Charlie Chaplin, still baffled me. Sure, I had good credentials on Chaplin, and writing for film had been my goal for the last several years. My shelves were stacked with scripts, treatments, and concepts, none of which had aroused much interest. Sometimes luck follows persistence. Still, why me?   

     The rest of the flight was smooth. I didn’t know it at the time, but it would be the last smooth period in my life for awhile.

******

The following day in LA shaped up as relatively predictable. I’d grab breakfast in the coffee shop at nine, spend a couple of hours in my room reviewing notes, take a walk to put my thoughts in order, eat a light lunch, then be at the production house a little before one for the interview. By late afternoon I’d be on a plane headed back to Columbus, either to continue my gradual decay there or pack for the return trip to LA That was the only part I couldn’t predict. Or so I thought.

     The phone rang after breakfast.

     “Mr. Thiery, this is the front desk. We have a package for you.”

     “A package? For me?” 

     “Yes, sir. A large manila envelope. Shall I send it up, or would you prefer to fetch it?” The clerk with a British accent seemed to be the hotel’s attempt to add some class to a pleasant but otherwise undistinguished Hollywood establishment. 

     “I’ll come down.” I hadn’t expected a package, not even mail or messages. I was here for only the one day. Maybe it had something to do with my pending interview. I “fetched” the envelope, opened it on the elevator and a book slid out, one that was appropriate for the day’s events: David Robinson’s acclaimed biography, Chaplin: His Life and Art. I flipped through it and saw no note, no explanation for its presence, no name or address. I already owned the book, had read it more than once, referred to it dozens of times. This was, in my opinion, one of the best books ever written about Chaplin. My copy was sitting on a shelf back home, along with another hundred or so books about him. 

     I called the front desk. “Where did this package come from?”

     “A gentleman left it here, Mr. Thiery, just minutes before I called you.”

     “What did he look like?”

     “Rather short, looked to be in his fifties, white hair. Steel-rimmed glasses, I believe.”

     “Did he leave a name? Or a message?”

     “No, sir. All he said was, ‘I think Mr. Thiery needs this.’ Something like that. He was a cheerful sort, pleasant smile. Is there anything wrong, sir?”

     I told him no and hung up. The book was obviously used, the dust-jacket well worn, the black and white cover photo of Chaplin slightly faded, the edges of the pages stained. My sense of order began to unravel as I looked through the book. Notes had been written in the margins, words and phrases  underlined or circled, large “X’s” scrawled, seemingly at random, with comments such as “rubbish” and “not so” and “Yes.” Not an abundance of comments, but enough to hold my interest. The previous owner, it seemed, had either possessed a keen insight into Chaplin or a willingness to question the author. Why it had been passed on to me, and who had delivered it, puzzled me. I worked my way through the book, paying closer attention to the markings, balancing them with my knowledge of Chaplin’s life. I didn’t know if the comments were accurate. They were, however, within the realm of possibility, with some intriguing speculation about his life and art. 

     I forgot about my walk, about lunch, and spent the rest of the time engrossed in the book. If I got the job, I would spend my next three months focused on my favorite personality of all time, attempting to define the line between an artist’s work and his private life. One other line would become significant, a line that would test my sense of reality, a line that I had previously believed to be impossible to cross.

To commemorate this day

Today, May 8, is the 70th anniversary of Victory in Europe, the end of the World War II in Europe. If you're a fan of Charlie Chaplin, you're quite familiar with this speech. It comes at the end of "The Great Dictator," released in 1940. Forget the thought that Chaplin stepped outside of his on-screen character of The Jewish Barber and spoke as Chaplin himself. The speech is one for the ages and deserves to be heard again. Idealistic, yes. But hopeful and maybe, someday....
Chaplin's final speech in "The Great Dictator," 1940