Charlie Chaplin—As Seen by Bert Levy | clown ministry

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originally published June 8, 1929, by Bert Levy in Hollywood Filmograph
HOLLYWOOD FILMOGRAPH

More than twenty years ago I stood in the wings of an English Music Hall and watched his antics in a typical Fred Karno sketch. There was something extraordinary about him. Though his broad comedy registered hilariously with the audience, it was the quiet subtle bits of business and the little touches of genuine pathos which, in my humble opinion, stamped him as a real comedian.

He was then, comparatively speaking, an unknown member of that happy-go- lucky gang of English Music Hall clowns who lived only for the laughs in life and gave very little thought for the morrow. He was a sad-faced, and it seemed to me an undernourished youngster just burning up with suppressed emotion. I saw him, and talked casually with him several times around London, and somehow or other I could not, even when I returned to America, forget him.

I came across him again in nineteen hundred and ten when he opened with a Fred Karno troupe at the Colonial Theatre, New York (then run by Percy Williams), and we renewed a pleasant acquaintance. Off and on, through the nineteen years which followed--years during which he has risen from comparative obscurity to fame, we have often met, and though I am privileged to call him friend, I have kept aloof from him for I did not want him to number me among those pests who are ever ready to claim acquaintance with and remind a celebrity that they "knew him when, etc. etc."

Not that he inspires such a feeling, for, once one has had the good fortune to break through that necessary reserve of his, one will not find a more simple, honest--nor yet a more self-willed, straight-from-the-shoulder human being than Charlie Chaplin.

In his bungalow on the lot last week he kept me rooted to my chair for over three hours while he delivered short, sharp jabs of satire intermingled with caressing touches of poetry and pathos. In a moment he lifts one to sublime heights by some inspired thought only to be dropped to the depths of despair by his knocking into a cocked hat one’s pet ideals. From a sober discussion of the Talmud he suddenly switches to a screamingly funny imitation of a jazz songwriter in the throes of composition or vigorously sketches in words the portrait of a typical Babbit.

Chaplin is obviously impatient of humbug and a bitter enemy of the useless conventions. For instance, he objects to be decorated with diplomas for his screen work and refuses to stand stupidly at attention while some intruder introduces himself while he (Chaplin) is at the dining table with a lady.

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Charlie's face shows very little trace of the early hardships--not to speak of the sorrow and strife of the later years of his chequered career. His boyish smile dissipates all that. When he exploited the baggy pants, antique derby and the nimble cane of his lean London days, nobody bothered him; but, in the days of his affluence unsuccessful imitators hung on to him like barnacles and complained that he (Chaplin) sought to restrict to his own use the rags that made him famous. The fools. It was not the colors he used that brought Rembrandt immortality, but how he used them.

There was a time when scandal sought to waylay and drag him down. Mud- slingers were yapping at his heels like a lot of curs. Chaplin asked for no quarter and gave none. Subsequent events proved that he still holds his place in the affections of the people. The writer was present when Charlie, with the world seemingly against him, stepped upon the platform before a gathering of distinguished newspapermen at the New York Press Club. What a frantic demonstration in his favor there was on that day. It is the first time I have seen Chaplin holding back tears.

His philosophical outlook on life inspired, not by any particular "ism" or cult, but by his intimate knowledge of human nature, is the thing that makes Chaplin's companionship worth while. He steadfastly maintains that it is necessary for the artist to have known the pangs of hunger and to have experienced bitterness and hatred as well as love in order to bring out whatever of soul there is in him. Chaplin's way of jumping from one interesting subject to another is responsible for my doing the same thing in this article.

Limited space at my disposal prompts me to briefly chronicle the highlights in our studio chat. Chaplin has an incurable fear of crowds and a dislike of unnecessary publicity. "Charlie Chaplin belongs on the screen," he will say. "Any undue publicity regarding my petty aches and pains is distasteful to me and of no interest to the public."

A peculiar thing about Chaplin is that he seems to look upon his reel self and his real self as two separate beings. He criticizes his shadow in quite an impersonal way. When he makes up his mind that he is right, nothing will influence him to change it. Evidence his attitude against his best friends and some of the most powerful men in the film business, when he refused to consent to the pooling of his interests with Warner's. They threatened and cajoled, but all to no purpose, for, Chaplin standing at bay, refused all overtures and won out.

I asked Charlie his opinion of the talkies. "Entertainment without charm," he replied quickly, and then added, "while watching a silent picture each individual supplies the unspoken words according to his own understanding of the action. The dullard sees the story in his own way as does the intelligent, the wise, and so on--each one, as I said before, supplying his own understanding and everyone is pleased. But when the actor gives through the spoken word his own interpretation--then--well, there is bound to be disappointment. Yes, the talkie is undoubtedly entertainment, but in my opinion lacks charm."

I left Charlie grateful that I am privileged to call him friend--that is the sort of influence he has over those who know him best. Today the world is at his feet, but to me his is just the same lovable, lonely little clown I first met over twenty years ago. You rated this page: