Born 130 Years Ago, He Still Makes Us Laugh

He was born into poverty on April 16th in 1889. His father abandoned him when he was a child. His mother began a long, gradual descent into madness. He lived on the streets of London by his wits, along with his half-brother Sydney. He fell in love with the magic of the English music hall when he was eight years old. Audiences loved this funny and talented youngster who made them laugh.

By the time he was 25, he was the most recognized and beloved figure in the world. And remained so for many years.

©Roy Export SAS.

His name was Charles Spencer Chaplin. On screen he was The Little Tramp. Charlie referred to him as The Little Fellow, elevating him somewhat in social standing. Chaplin may have been the most influential film maker in history. He broke away from his early work in Mack Sennett's film factory of slapstick, a kick in the pants, chases and two-dimensional stories, to discover the power of storyline, character development, connection with the audience, performance, nuance, use of pathos and, especially, humor. His films, both the shorts and the features, had immeasurable impact on those who followed. 

©Roy Export SAS. 

This year marks the 130th anniversary of his birth. And, yes, Charlie is still alive in many ways. Activities and events are being held around the world, throughout the year and into 2020. The Chaplin Office in Paris, under the guidance of Kate Guyonvarch, recently posted a calendar of events in their newsletter. It’s impressive. Take a look at www.charliechaplin.com, the official website. 

Before I tell you more about this 130th celebration, a word about why I care. In 1960 I was living in San Francisco, somewhere between beatnik and aspiring writer. On Tuesday nights I’d head across the Golden Gate Bridge to Zack’s, a waterfront bar in Sausalito, where they showed Charlie Chaplin movies. Scratchy, old 16mm prints accompanied by the chatter of the projector. For me, it was magic! Over a scotch and water, and a hamburger, I fell in love with The Little Tramp, the beginning of a life-long obsession. I even wrote a novel about a guy who meets Chaplin today. Yes, time travel. Hollywood yesterday and today. The title is “Shadow and Substance: My Time with Charlie Chaplin.” If you would like to order a copy, send me an email, at spidermandel@charter.net. Reasonably priced, signed at no extra cost. (End of plug.) 

Back to the celebration. Here are some of the cities, countries and venues. For starters, Chaplin’s World in Vevey, Switzerland. That’s where Charlie lived after he left the U.S., and is now a museum (I was there two years ago, an unforgettable experience). Other event locations: London and Bristol, England. Paris. Slovakia. Japan. Italy. Israel. Turkey. United States. Germany. Austria. Switzerland. Spain.  Maybe even St. Louis. I'm working on it. And more on the horizon.

Events and projects include a new documentary, a new album of Chaplin music by violinist Philippe Quint, new plays and adaptations, a revival of “Chaplin: The Musical” in various countries, a BBC Radio series, Chaplin feature films shown with live orchestral accompaniment, limited edition of art prints of photographs from the Chaplin archives. And the party continues into 2020.

In September of 2017, my wife and I visited Paris. We made plans to meet Kate for lunch. As we walked to the restaurant, Kate said, “I’ve invited someone to join us. I hope you don’t mind.” Of course I didn’t mind and said so. Then she told me who it was. Charlie’s grandson. Charles Sistovaris. His mother was Josephine, one of Charlie and Oona’s daughters. It was a lunch I’ll never forget. Charley was incredibly charming and gracious, with that magic Chaplin smile.The meal was delicious, the setting elegant, the company...one for the ages.

I urge you to celebrate Chaplin’s 130th. Go to Paris, London, NYC, DC, or wherever you find a Chaplin event on the website. Or watch a Chaplin movie at home. Maybe start with “The Kid” or “The Gold Rush.” Or his Mutual shorts. Chaplin considered these shorts some of his best work. You can buy them on-line or find them at the library. If possible, get a recent edition of the movie, where the image is sharp and the music track is crisp and clean. You’ll see why Charlie still makes us laugh and perhaps shed a tear. You'll understand why the world remembers his birthday. And rejoices.

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.

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."

A Different Kind of Christmas Memory

The world bid farewell to one of its great artists 
on Christmas day of 1977. 

1971 at the Manoir

I was a copywriter at Gardner Advertising at the time, having just finished two years of freelancing and enjoying the new security, or whatever passes for security in the ad business. Mary Lee was working as a rep for a food brokerage firm. My daughter Holly was nine, my son Gregg would be five on the following day. Their familiarity with Chaplin came from watching an occasional short of his on videotape, or walking into my home office. One wall was covered with framed images of Chaplin - posters, photos, a couple of paintings - but I had not yet been hit with the idea to write a novel about him.

1966 filming "Countess"

On that Christmas morning,  I sat on the floor in the living room with my kids. Mary Lee was upstairs. We had opened the presents and I was probably in the middle of trying to assemble something or playing a game with the kids. The phone rang. My wife answered it upstairs. After a few seconds I heard her say, “I’ll tell him. Thanks, mom.”

She came downstairs and said, “That was your mother. She just heard that Charlie Chaplin died.” I’m ashamed to say that I don’t remember what all my feelings were. Loss, certainly. Sadness at the passing of a great film maker  and comic. I don’t remember if either one of the kids said or asked anything. But there was something else deep inside me. Something like “missed opportunity.” The proverbial road not taken.

Here’s what I mean. I had been in Europe in 1960, had hitchhiked close to Vevey, Switzerland, where Chaplin lived. I considered trying to “stop by and meet the man.” Like walk up to the front door of the Manoir and say, “Is Charlie here?” But I didn’t. Turns out he was working on his autobiography at the time. Thinking back, I know I could have helped him write it, or just typed it for him (I'm a speedy typist), or taken out the trash or catalogued his films or whatever he needed done. The possibilities were endless.

1972, without Geraldine and Michael

Years later I thought about writing to him, before his return to America in 1972, to tell him he wasn't forgotten, he was still loved by many. I wrote the letter in my mind, but never committed it to paper. 

For some reason, his passing fanned the low-burning fire in me, ignited a renewed interest in his life and art. It’s a passion that remains as strong as ever these 36 years later. Ebay has been a big help with that, as well as meeting many wonderful people along the way, people with a shared love of Chaplin.

The point of this rambling is really to say this Christmas, as every Christmas, is special for me in more than just the ordinary holiday aspect of it. Which is why I’ve scattered some photos of Chaplin throughout this article, Chaplin in his later years, and how various newspapers announced his death. I put the newspapers into a large envelope 36 years ago, in the days before you could access every bit of history on-line. Old newspaper is more real than clean digital reproduction.

In summer of 2006, following a week-long bicycle journey in Denmark, we spent a few days in Zurich. On the second day we took a train to Vevey. A heat wave covered much of Europe during that week, the train was a local, and we arrived in Vevey early afternoon.

By the time I found out where to go and how to get around, it was too late to go to the Manoir. But I visited the cemetery.

Charlie and Oona rest side by side there in this small, open sanctuary. I was alone. I sat on the bench, my shirt soaked with perspiration, and thought about all that Charlie had brought into the world, and all that Oona had brought into his life. Silence enveloped me.

I thanked him, touched the headstones, thought about all the years that had passed since he had first entered my life, and walked back into town.

Charlie wasn’t the only bright star to go out that year. There was also Groucho and Bing and Elvis. But for me, the year 1977 has but one meaning: It was the year The Little Tramp kicked up his heels, faced the future optimistically, and walked down that road. Only he wasn't alone. He was with Oona. And the rest of the world was with him.

    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.

***