Charlie's birthday is about 2 weeks away, on April 16 as you probably know. So I thought I'd go to my novel for a brief passage. I just got word that I will be appearing at a speaker series in mid-May, at Innsbrook Village, about an hour from St. Louis. The topic will be Charlie and my novel, "Shadow and Substance: My Time with Charlie Chaplin." I'll be going into a third printing, but have a few copies available for sale. $24...that includes shipping. End of commercial. The story briefly:
Cooper, a documentary film maker, meets Charlie in present day Los Angeles. They go to the Alexandria Hotel, in downtown LA, which is where Charlie stayed when he first came to LA.
FROM THE NOVEL:
Charlie walked to the front desk and returned with a room key. We entered the tired elevator, pressed the button for the fifth floor, and creaked and groaned our way up.
“Where are we headed?”
“Room 437. We’re in luck. It’s not occupied.”
We opened the door to the dark, sour room. Charlie stopped in the doorway. For what seemed like a long time, he didn’t say a word. Then he
carefully closed the door behind him and switched on the light. “They’ve changed the furniture. New wallpaper.” He moved like a
shadow around the room, touching, inspecting. He looked out the window
at the alley below and let out a short laugh. “They haven’t washed the
windows since I was here.” He took a deep breath, shook his head and
looked at me. “What do you think, Cooper?”
“About what?”
“About this room. What’s your impression?”
I told him I found it depressing, sad. “But I didn’t live here eighty years ago, Charlie. I’m sure it must have been a lot more cheerful then.”
The room was just a square with a small bathroom attached. A single bed with a dark green blanket dominated the space, flanked by a wooden
frame chair with no padding, a narrow desk and a small closet near the
entrance. A glass jug lamp sat on the desk, while a ceiling light fixture
struggled to dissipate the shadows. Even in the middle of the morning it
was a losing battle.
Charlie leaned against the desk, crossed his arms over his chest, and surprised me with his next comment.
“I was happy here, Cooper. Do you believe that?” He didn’t wait for
an answer. “I had just opened a new door in my life, and the view I saw
was breathtaking. I loved the movies. I was actually good at it. People
paid their dimes and quarters to see me, to laugh, to be moved. Anything
was possible. The Tramp had been born, an easy birth, and my mind was
bursting with ideas.” He walked around the room, his hands gesturing
with enthusiasm, as though he had stepped into the world of film for the
first time. “I loved what I was doing. I always loved it, difficult as the
creative process was at times. But at the start, before I was married, before
troubles began to hound me I was...I don’t know how to explain it.” He
walked over to me, placed his hands on my shoulders, looked me in the
eye, and said, “I didn’t have to measure up, Cooper. People had modest
expectations of me. Every success was a surprise, to everyone except
myself. I knew I could do it. With each new film, I made more friends,
more fans. With no controversy. It was a wonderful, blissful time.” He
let go of me, turned around and slowly ran his hand over the back of
the chair. “Of course, feelings like that are always in retrospect. I didn’t
realize just how exhilarating it was. But, oh, to have those days back. Just
one day.” His voice softened. “I would love to relive one evening, dinner
with Edna and Doug and Mary, in the restaurant downstairs, just the four
of us. Or Fatty and I relaxing over a couple of drinks after a day at the
studio.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “I long for the freshness of it all,
that unexplored, everything-is-new feeling of adventure and promise that arrives only that first time and can never be repeated.”
I stood near the door and tried to take in the whole room and Charlie. I could picture him as a man of twenty-eight in the Los Angeles of 1920, with London behind him, the first World War just ended, the Roaring Twenties still ahead, the Great Depression a decade away, to be followed by World War Two, atomic bombs, suburbs and television.
This man in front of me was no longer the clown, the genius, the icon. He was less, and he was more. He was a small and lonely man with a deep-seated fear of poverty. He had physically left behind the slums and deprivation of London, but still harbored the gnawing, painful memory of his youth. Like so many others who start off life impoverished and become rich, the scars of the street never completely heal.
One other facet of Charlie had yet to become known. That was still a couple of days away, in a place that surprised me. The past that Charlie cherished was confined to a narrow stretch of two years, preceding his meteoric rise, and the Alexandria Hotel had become its focal point. There is no way for any of us to ever recapture that first breath of an April morning again or the first taste of a vanilla ice cream cone.
The day was moving on. I had only this Sunday before I stepped back into the all-too real world of Hollywood and television and Kevin. In spite of revelations and possibilities emanating from Charlie, I had little for the meeting.
“Charlie, is there anything here at the hotel that might be a help on the project?”
“You mean like secrets hidden in this room or in the lobby? Maybe a contract or a photograph, or how about a hidden letter that sheds light on the monster that dwells within?” An edge crept into his voice. “Nothing so clean and simple,” he said. “We’re together because I want to be left alone.”
Thanks for reading this. And an early birthday wish to Charlie.
