The Count (4 September 1916)


Release Date: 4 September 1916

Writer/Director: Charles Chaplin

Duration: 24 mins

With: Edna Purviance, Eric Campbell, Charlotte Mineau, Leo White, Albert Austin, John Rand, James T. Kelley, Frank J. Coleman

Story: Both a tailor (Campbell) and his assistant (Chaplin) crash the extravagant party of ‘Miss Moneybags’ (Purviance) in the guise of the missing Count Broko, who then arrives in the shape of Leo White…

Production: Following the radical departure of One A.M., a virtual solo turn from Charlie Chaplin, the comedian was back on more familiar ground with his September 1916 release, The Count. Recalling films such as A Jitney Elopement, and playing off a staple of silent comedies of the time, The Count is a mistaken identity tale in which Chaplin’s Tramp impersonates the title character, a faux member of the aristocracy.

Count6Here the Tramp is found working as a tailor’s assistant, only to be drawn into the tailor’s masquerade as a would-be Count. Chaplin’s now regular foil Eric Campbell played the extravagantly bearded tailor who attends a party thrown by the object of his affections, Edna Purviance’s ‘Miss Moneybags’. To impress her, the tailor pretends to be better off financially and socially than he really is. The Tramp is at the same party, initially attempting to woo the cook in the face of competition from the forces of law and order. The pair of tailors encounter one another, of course, and after a brief period of co-operation, they find themselves in competition for the attentions of ‘Miss Moneybags’. The Tramp is mistakenly introduced as the Count, while Campbell is indicated to be his secretary, when the plan the pair hatched was supposed to be the other way around. The subterfuge only works as it is a fancy dress ball.

In Eric Campbell Chaplin had found the perfect authority figure. Not only did his physical size connote wealth and prosperity, but his beard was also seen as a symbol of the ruling class, the rich in opposition to the Tramp’s representation of the poor. Chaplin’s physical response to this stimulus was to repeatedly pull on poor Campbell’s beard (whether fake or not, it can’t have been pleasant), thus giving visual life to the idea of poking fun at authority, or as Simon Louvish puts it in Chaplin: The Tramp’s Odyssey: ‘…the spectacle of the “great and the good” having their whisker’s pulled…’

Count5Campbell was to suffer mightily at the hands, fists and feet of Chaplin in order that he should pay the price of being the on-screen representative of cruel wealth or privilege. As well as tugging on his chin whiskers, Chaplin would often give Campbell several swift kicks up the backside, not-so-innocently stamp on his already sore foot and kick the poor fellow in his ample stomach: he even got to drive off the edge of a Los Angeles pier and into the water. Louvish highlights Campbell’s impressive ability to present himself as a ‘cartoon character’ as part of the success of The Count and several of the other Mutual shorts.

Thankfully, Chaplin’s developing approach to his art can be visually chronicled during this period as many of the discarded out-takes from The Count have survived (despite Chaplin’s insistence that they be destroyed). It is clear from this material that Chaplin largely shot his work in story order, from a rough outline he’d developed. ‘Sometimes a story would present a problem,’ wrote Chaplin in My Autobiography (1964). ‘I would have difficulty in solving it. At that juncture I would lay off work and try to think, striding up and down my dressing room in torment or sitting for hours at the back of a set, struggling with the problem. Sometimes the solution came at the end of the day when I was in a state of despair, having thought of everything and discarded it; then the solution would suddenly reveal itself … the beautiful mosaic I had been looking for!’

The existence of several excised sequences with low shot numbers suggests that Chaplin had originally intended to begin the film as a ‘comedy of below stairs intrigue’, according to Chaplin biographer David Robinson. Featured in the deleted footage are the characters of a butler and a policeman who are hardly to be seen in the completed version of The Count.

Following his dalliance with this plot, the shot number progressions suggest that Chaplin moved on to his aristocratic impersonation plot, seen not only in A Jitney Elopement, but in various forms in Caught in a Cabaret and Her Friend the Bandit. The finished movie’s opening scene in the tailor’s shop seems to have been a late addition to establish the connection between those characters (around whom the finished film revolves), at least according to the shot numbers. It is likely that the original opening for the film was the Tramp’s arrival at the Moneybags’ residence, which now follows his firing by the tailor. David Robinson points out a gem of a scene lost from The Count (pictured above): ‘Charlie sits cross-legged, industriously sewing a garment, only to discover that he has firmly attached it to his own trousers.’

Documentary filmmaker Kevin Brownlow revealed some of the rediscovered Chaplin outtakes in the notable British television series Unknown Chaplin (1983). He notes in his book The Search for Charlie Chaplin that very little of this material showed that Chaplin had rejected the footage on technical grounds, but always as the result of a creative choice. Some of the material was made up of filmed rehearsals, such as those for City Lights (1936), in which Chaplin worked out bits of business that he could then review later by watching the resulting film. Brownlow noted: ‘There is nothing like this in the Mutuals. But in one shot from The Count (included in Programme 1) Chaplin leaps into the arms of a cook. In doing so, he moves the kitchen table. While continuing the scene, he pulls the table back into position.’

Count9With The Count, Chaplin’s director of photography Rollie Totheroh continued to innovate in moving the camera during comedy sequences, especially in the way it follows a pair of dancing couples in the ballroom scenes. While Chaplin was not yet fully engaged in the kind of things he could do specifically with the camera, he was—under Totheroh’s guidance—beginning to think more about how he could use its unique properties in his comedy filmmaking, short of classic film tricks. There was plenty of material to work with: for the Mutual shorts which would each be completed at around 1800 feet in length, sometimes as much as 30 to 90 thousand feet of film could be exposed in search of the right comedy moments.

In The Seven Lively Arts (1924), cultural critic Gilbert Seldes celebrated the climax of The Count as an example of Chaplin’s growing tendency to move away from the improvised chaotic comedy of Keystone and Essanay in his Mutual films, towards a more studied form of comedy that nonetheless came across to the film viewers as being spontaneous. ‘[Charlie] is fleeing pell-mell through every room in the house; the whole movement grows tense; the rate of acceleration perceptively heightens as Charlie slides in front of a vast birthday cake, pivots on his heel, and begins to play alternate pool and golf with the frosting, making every shot count like a machine gunner barricaded in a pillbox or a bandit in a deserted cabin. It was foreordained that the improvised kind of comedy should give way to something more calculated … for a long time [Chaplin] continued to give the effect of [the] impromptu…’

Unlike One A.M., The Count boasts a variety of settings, from the tailor’s shop to the kitchen set and, biggest of all, the home of the very rich ‘Miss Moneybags’ that features its own ballroom. One scene from this location, in which Chaplin kicks another character while continuing to cut a dash on the dance floor, was reportedly subject to three weeks of intense filming until the creator felt he’d got what he was looking for. The scene was accompanied by live music from a hired-in orchestra who played on endless repeat, and who were presumably happy to take advantage of Chaplin’s (and Mutual’s) largesse. This dance sequence was certainly the focus of Chaplin’s time and attention during the production of The Count. A former colleague from Chaplin’s music hall days, Chester Courtney, worked on the scene and recalled in an 1931 issue of Film Weekly that the hired orchestra were repeatedly playing They Call it Dixieland.

In One A.M., Chaplin’s athletic grace is once more on display during this extended scene. His sliding around and repeated performance of ‘the splits’ is topped off by the moment when he hooks his cane to a chandelier in order to right himself once more. It’s an inventive little throwaway moment, but the kind of visual gag that marked Chaplin out: who knows how many takes it took until he achieved that ‘just so’ moment to his own satisfaction?

Count7As before in these types of comedy, Chaplin’s playing as entitled sees him forgiven all his bad behaviour as long as the others at the party think he is ‘one of them’. As soon as that masquerade is exposed, the same behaviour is an excuse for reprisal. This was Chaplin’s way of highlighting the iniquities in early 20th century American society as he saw it as something of an outsider. His terrible table manners (especially in his eating of a huge slice of watermelon), awful treatment of his fellow guests, and his unbridled pursuit of ‘Miss Moneybags’ are all forgiven thanks to his perceived status, with the worst on offer being ‘disapproving looks’ according to Joyce Milton in Tramp. Milton suggests that this reflected Chaplin’s real-life growing status in LA society: he was within them but not really one of them. In fact, Chaplin saw his association thanks to his fame with those better educated and accomplished than him as an opportunity. According to Milton he ‘more or less consciously used them as mentors in a programme of self-improvement’.

In The Art of Charlie Chaplin, John Kimber calls The Count ‘a masterful demonstration of Charlie’s benignly disruptive foreignness’, a film that explores Chaplin’s ‘comedy of incomprehension’ while revealing the clown’s ‘evident pleasure in his own creative flights of fancy’. Against a perhaps overly familiar backdrop and amidst a host of very familiar characters and comic archetypes, Chaplin nonetheless manages to develop some original comic business thus making this kind of tale one worth retelling, especially as his filmmaking style had advanced markedly since those earlier ‘imposture’ shorts from his earlier knockabout days.

There’s a developing maturity to Chaplin’s comedy, and his characters, through the series of Mutual shorts that was largely absent from his Keystone and Essanay periods (with a few notable exceptions such as The Tramp).—Brian J. Robb

Charlie Says: ‘Why should a man exert himself needlessly [with exercise]? Don’t I go to work every morning with my dinner pail, like a stevedore? Why should I swing dumbells when I have to throw people around so as to break things with them every day? And as for hanging [on] to swinging bars, I call a chandelier my second home. I love walking. I walk in crowds, downtown, and think out my plots. People are so sad and so funny, so pathetic and so absurd. I like to frequent parks and cafeterias and other places where crowds go.’—Los Angeles Sunday Times, August 1916

Trivia: A real tailors shop—J. Dronjensky Ladies Tailors on Santa Monica Boulevard—was used as the location for the beginning of The Count. As with some of Chaplin’s earliest ‘on location’ films, the reflection of the watching crowd can be seen in the window of the store, as pointed out by location hunter extraordinaire John Bengtson. In his book Silent Traces, Bengtson reveals the location has now been replaced by an ‘All Mart’ store, part of a larger strip mall. That’s progress.

The Contemporary View: ‘Charlie Chaplin, millionaire movie man who cavorts for your pleasure if you have a dime, ambled into view as a bogus count today and raised peels of laughter from the loop to the limits … All of which is sufficient to indicate that Charles is back with some of his old time slapstick work that will chase the blues and make you forget to speculate on the probable length of the war.’—Chicago Daily News, September 1916

Verdict: A simple tale, simply told, but fun.

Next: The Pawnshop (2 October 1916)

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One A.M. (7 August 1916)

1916 02 One AM

Release Date: 7 August 1916

Writer/Director: Charles Chaplin

Duration: 27 mins

With: Albert Austin

Story: A confused drunk attempts to make his way around his home…

Production: The ultimate showcase, One A.M. features a more or less solo performance from Charlie Chaplin for the entire 27 minute running time, excepting Albert Austin’s brief appearance as a taxi driver. It was a performance that Chaplin had been preparing for almost his entire life—and he’s not even playing his iconic Tramp character.

1916 05 One AMOne A.M. features Chaplin as a drunken toff or swell, reprising a part he knew well from his days as a member of the Karno troupe. One of his signature vaudeville roles was that of the drunk, a character he’d often observed in real life, including his father and those he saw in the streets of London during his impoverished childhood. It was a role that existed before Chaplin joined Karno, but the young, very physical comedian proved to be the most adept at performing it in the Mumming Birds sketch.

According to Peter Ackroyd’s biography Charlie Chaplin, it has been calculated that Chaplin falls over a total of 46 times during this short. The general impression of watching the film suggested this is probably correct, or at least in the right ballpark! One A.M. features the kind of slapstick comedy that Chaplin’s audiences, who had followed him from Keystone to Essanay and now to Mutual had come to expect—what they perhaps were not prepared for was the level or pathos and depth of character that the silent superstar now wove around his character.

1916 07 One AMThis film sees the apotheosis of Chaplin’s battles with inanimate objects. From the moment the drunk arrives home, he is confounded by attempts to get past his own front door. Once inside, things don’t get any better for him. Among the objects the drunk does battle with are a rug which messes with his already unsteady footing, a table that revolves putting a whisky refill forever outwith his reach, stuffed felines that trap his foot in their jaws, a folding bed that all but swallows him up, a staircase which he falls down and up, and—in a fitting finale—the pendulum of a grandfather clock.

This fallabout stuff was all very pleasing to a mass audience, but there was more than just slapstick going on in One A.M. Chaplin was studying the work of other filmmakers in 1916 and learning from them, particularly from his personal favourite, D.W. Griffith. There was more that could be done with movies and in particular by moving the camera than had ever been achieved in his two years at Keystone and Essanay, two studios where any kind of experimentation that might slow the volume of production was heavily frowned upon.

Working with his cameraman Rollie Totheroh, Chaplin set out with One A.M. to explore some of these possibilities. How the camera was used, whether to shoot long shots, medium shots or close ups, and how these elements were cut together would be key to a successful film. Chaplin could see this in the abstract, but achieving it while still entertaining his audience was a larger challenge. Without other actors to focus upon (thus requiring many more wide shots), Chaplin decided to feature only himself, allowing for greater flexibility in the presentation of his comedy ‘business’.

1916 04 One AMFreed from having to feature and interact with others, Chaplin saw his opportunity to have the camera follow him more closely, giving him ample opportunity to interact—to an extent he had never achieved before—with inanimate props, thereby bringing them to life. These obstacles to his simple intention (the drunk wants to get to bed) are all common (at least in 1916) items, but the way the drunk interacts with them gives them a kind of abstract malevolence: these household objects are out to thwart the drunk’s ambition, however simple it might be.

The comedy comes in the drunk’s refusal to be beaten, while all the time attempting to maintain a kind of dignity supposedly suitable to his position in life: it is evident from the items in the house that this man (although played by Chaplin, complete with signature moustache) is no Tramp, he is in fact a man of the world, someone who has achieved much, and going by the décor perhaps an explorer.

Although his aim was to make people laugh, Chaplin was serious about his comedy. In an interview from 1916 with the New York Telegraph, he had outlined his developing ‘psychology of comedy’. ‘Making fun is a serious business,’ Chaplin told the newspaper. ‘It calls for the deepest study, the most concentrated observation. […] Did you ever see what happens when a policeman in uniform slips on a greasy street and takes a tumble? The policeman’s uniform and his club are symbols of his authority. When he slips […] the crowd shrieks with laughter. Why? Well, even good people have a sneaking dislike for a cop. […] There is fun in striking contrasts. One minute there is a picture of pride and dignity […] if I hook that chap with the crook of my cane, drag him almost off his feet […] the audience shrieks with laughter.’

A couple of years later, in 1918, Chaplin expanded upon these ideas in a piece in the American Magazine that was attributed to him, but was probably ghostwritten or the result of a transcribed interview. Chaplin says: ‘Even funnier than the man who has been made ridiculous […] is the man who, having had something funny happen to him, refuses to admit that anything out of the way has happened, and attempts to maintain his dignity. Perhaps the best example is the intoxicated man who, though his tongue and his walk give him away, attempts in a dignified manner to convince you that he is quite sober […] this attempt at dignity is funny.’

Chaplin biographer John McCabe thought that One A.M. was ‘the cleverest and conceivably the funniest film Chaplin made for Mutual’. He points out that the film reverses philosopher Henri Bergson’s concept of comedy, which is ‘the mechanical imposed on the living’ (which certainly applies to some aspects of Chaplin’s later feature Modern Times, 1936). Here, the comedy comes from ‘the living’ (Chaplin’s drunk) attempting to navigate his way around the inanimate obstructions of home (the ‘mechanical’ in Bergson’s conception).

It is a great testimony to Chaplin’s highly developed skills in mime that he is able to pull this off. At no time does it appear on film as if Chaplin (the performer) is manipulating the props (as is actually happening). Instead, it appears as if the rugs, carpets, tables, stairs, clocks and beds are all independently acting to thwart him: they move to ensnare him, he does not align himself to be snared by them (as he is actually doing). Surviving outtakes (which Chaplin had ordered destroyed) reveal the preparation, work and simple repetition that went into achieving the effect: a simple slide on a rug or mat would be repeated and repeated until the perfectionist Chaplin was happy with the effect or effortlessness. The suspension of disbelief is perfectly maintained: this poor man is having a terrible night, trying to achieve the most innocent of aims, but is thwarted at every turn by the very objects he had chosen to surround himself with. Is this all a punishment for his being drunk? Is it a form of revenge by the world upon a man who would indulge himself to excess? Could this film really be a comic commentary on the misuses of alcohol?

1916 01 One AM

The result might seem like Andre Bazin’s concept of ‘filmed theatre’, but Chaplin and Totheroh keep the camera moving, especially up-and-down the stairs, rather than cutting to offering viewpoints of the action that would not have been possible if shooting was simply restricted to ‘through the proscenium arch’ style work that was all too prevalent at the time in comic cinema. In some ways, it could be argued that the drunk’s experience of the house is something of a psychological ordeal. Things start off ordinarily enough, but as time goes on the obstacles in his way become ever more outlandish, weirdly surreal and offbeat. The front door, tables and stairs are all recognisable, but with the animal rugs, the larger-than-life clock and—finally—the man-eating fold-up bed, things just get weird. Is that because we’re actually seeing things through the drunken haze of the sole on-screen character’s unique perception? No wonder he ends things in the bathtub where he can sleep this bender off…

One reason that Chaplin might have embarked upon a film so limited in setting and cast like One A.M. could be that it was in response to budget overages on one of his previous shorts, The Fireman (1916). While it often seemed like money was no object to Mutual (given the enormous cost in signing Chaplin in the first place, and the establishment of his own studio, Lone Star Studio), they were actually as budget conscious on individual films as any other studio of the time. Restricting the cast to one (and a brief cameo) and the setting to one easily-built and easily-controlled set kept the costs down, but it was also a trigger for Chaplin’s filmic imagination. The challenged to come up with almost 30-minutes of engaging comedy from one man in one location would have been too much of a challenge for Chaplin to resist. So, while cost may have been the initial motivation, it was Chaplin’s own filmmaking sensibilities that truly gave rise to One A.M., one of his best ever shorts. Photoplayers Weekly, in July 1916, said of Chaplin: ‘If any man could appear absolutely alone and hold attention for two whole reels, he believed he could do it’.

1916 03 One AMHowever, Chaplin would come to view One A.M. as something of a misstep, at least as far as pleasing his audience went. Chaplin biographer David Robinson wrote of the short: ‘One A.M. was a daring display of virtuosity, so daring that Chaplin afterward confided to his collaborators: “One more like that and it’s goodbye Charlie.”’ It is unclear exactly what Chaplin felt he’d done wrong with One A.M. Was he concerned about the toll that the solo performance had taken on him, or did he worry that his audience would not be satisfied seeing him on his own more than once? Did he feel that his use of a moving camera (more in One A.M. than in any previous short) would be disturbing to filmgoers who were simply more comfortably with the locked-off camera of so many much simpler comedies? Was he worried he was pushing boundaries too far, both in terms of content and technique? Maybe we’ll never really know. However, one thing is clear: apart from isolated sections in later shorts and features this was really the only solo outing for Chaplin.

Writing in his New Biographical Dictionary of Film critic David Thomson noted that “The worldwide appeal of Chaplin, and his persistent handicap, have lain in the extent to which he always lived in a realm of his own: that of delirious egotism. Is there a more typical or revealing piece of classic Chaplin than One A.M. (or ‘I AM’), in which he exists in virtuoso isolation […] executing every variation on the drunk-coming-home theme? It is like a dancer at the bar, confronting himself in a mirror.’


Perhaps that’s it, maybe Chaplin felt he was revealing too much of himself in One A.M., too much of his true inner being? After all, he was worried that he might inherit his father’s alcoholism and failure to make anything of himself, despite everything he had achieved in just over two years in filmmaking. That success itself was a threat to Chaplin, to his sense of himself. He was now rich, thanks to the Mutual deal, beyond his wildest imagination, yet he tried his best to not let the money (and so lifestyle) now available to him change him in anyway. In fact, he went out of his way not to spend; to not change anything fundamentally in his life, for fear that it might affect his comedy. His solution, his distraction, was to throw himself into the work, to focus on his comedy and on his filmmaking and ignore (at least for now) what he could make of his life thanks to his newfound riches. He told writer and early Hollywood historian Terry Ramsaye that he had no intention of buying anything beyond ‘a dozen neckties’, and he pretty much stuck to that promise. According to Chaplin biographer Joyce Milton, Chaplin’s entire expenditure during 1915 had been less than $500 and ‘during the first six months after signing with Mutual [in March 1916], he continued to live in the same modest style.’ It wasn’t a state of affairs that could—or should—last forever.—Brian J. Robb

1916 06 One AMCharlie Says: ‘My ambition, when I started picture work, was to make enough money, some time, so that I might retire with the knowledge that I had enough to ensure me a $25-a-week income for the rest of my life. I was sure, then, that I would be satisfied and happy with that. My first contract with the Keystone company was for $175-per-week. I showed it to everybody I knew, and inwardly quaked with the fear that I would never be able to fool them into paying me that much for more than a few weeks…’—Mabel Condon, Picture Play Magazine, December 1916.

‘One A.M. was unusual for me. It was a solo act which took place in a very restricted space: an exercise in mime and technical virtuosity, with no plot or secondary characters. I arrive home drunk early one morning to find everything in the house against me.’—Charlie Chaplin, My Life in Pictures (1974).

Trivia: Although he was not a big drinker himself (especially give the death of his alcoholic father at the age of 37), Chaplin excelled at playing drunks. The Karno farce Mumming Birds—in which he first learned his trade—was filmed as A Night in the Show (1915). The Tramp is seen to drink in many films, but those in which he’s full-on drunk include The Rounders (1914, with Fatty Arbuckle), A Night Out (1915, with Ben Turpin), and The Face on the Bar Room Floor (1915).

The Contemporary View: ‘As a matter of single-handed time-trifling and one-man farce-juggling, Chaplin’s performance in One A.M. is of course the current record. No other human could detain an audience as Chaplin does through two quite full reels of solo performance in an interior set. Charlie’s feat is like that of some great vaudevillian […] congratulations Mr. Chaplin on speaking your piece so nicely, but—come on back, Edna!’— Julian Johnson, Photoplay, 1916.

Verdict: What might be lost by not seeing Chaplin interacting with co-stars is more than made up for by his display of imaginative physical comic dexterity.

Next: The Count (4 September 1916)

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An 80,000 word ebook chronicle of Chaplin’s early films from Keystone (1914) and Essanay (1915), based on the blog postings at Chaplin: Film by Film with 20,000 words of supplemental biographical essays.

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The Vagabond (10 July 1916)

1916 05 The Vagabond

Release Date: 10 July 1916

Writer/Director: Charles Chaplin

Duration: 26 mins

With: Edna Purviance, Lloyd Bacon, Charlotte Mineau, Eric Campbell, Leo White, John Rand, Albert Austin, James T. Kelley

Story: The Tramp, an itinerant musician, rescues a girl (Edna Purviance) from gypsies, but romantic complications ensue.

Production: Charlie Chaplin found his feet at Mutual in the spring of 1916 consolidating his slapstick-driven filmmaking skills with The Floorwalker and The Fireman. With the arrival of summer, he turned his attention to further deepening the character of the Little Tramp in The Vagabond, a short that called back to his break-through Essanay film, The Tramp (1915).

Combining genuine romance and pathos with the traditional slapstick runaround, The Vagabond sees Chaplin play the Tramp as an itinerant musician, playing his violin in bars hoping to earn a few coins to buy a crust of bread. This was the first time that Chaplin featured his violin on screen: playing it had become something of an all-consuming hobby for the comic when he wasn’t making films. Simon Louvish, in Chaplin: The Tramp’s Odyssey, quotes a press report from May 1916 that Chaplin’s ‘chief hobby is found in his violin. Every spare moment away from the studio is devoted to this instrument. He does not play from notes [sheet music] excepting in a very few instances. He can run through selections of popular operas by ear and, if in the humour, he can rattle off the famous Irish jig or some negro [sic] selection with the ease of a vaudeville entertainer.’

So well known is Chaplin’s persona by this stage, after two years of fame, that he feels confident audiences will recognise him from a view of his battered boots alone. The Vagabond opens with a shot of Chaplin’s feet, as he stands outside a saloon door, gathering the courage to enter and attempt to entertain the probably inebriated patrons. When he does strike up (playing left-handed, it is worth noting), he discovers he has competition in the shape of a four-man brass band and drummer combination that all but drown out his soulful violin. Wiley as he is, though, the Tramp manages to make it around the patrons with his hat out collecting tips before the band conductor (Albert Austin) can do the same, thus beating them to the meagre rewards on offer. Needless to say, Keystone-style chaos kicks off as the participants in this farce chase one another around the bar room, in and out of the swing doors (those eternal Chaplin inanimate antagonists). The brilliant conclusion to this opening sequence sees the Tramp momentarily escape the chaos, find the wherewithal to pour himself a calming drink at the bar, and then escape the scene unscathed and unnoticed by the others. It’s a great set-up, but it could fit into almost any Chaplin short of this period: the best of The Vagabond is yet to come.

1916 03 The VagabondThe scene switches to explore the plight of the ‘gypsy drudge’ (Edna Purviance), a young woman seemingly stolen in childhood and now forced to toil for a gypsy community or feel the wrath of Eric Campbell’s whip hand. Although a cliché of silent movies, the use of gypsy tropes so easily here by Chaplin is a little odd, especially given his own later-expressed desire to have been part of such a community. It is probably no more than easy, melodramatic shorthand, but it still looks slightly dodgy and unthinking to modern eyes. The villainous gypsy was a key figure in early motion pictures, including in D. W. Griffith’s (a filmmaking pioneer much admired by Chaplin) The Adventures of Dolly (1908) and in British director Lewin Fitzhamon’s early film Rescued by Rover (1905). Chaplin was simply buying into the implied ethnic shorthand of the day, and presumably saw no harm as he fancied himself to be part-gypsy anyway.

The set-up for what is likely to happen next is clear. The Tramp enters, wandering down a country road (it would have been easy for the short to have begun here, but perhaps Chaplin didn’t feel entirely confidant in dispensing with the slapstick shenanigans of the opening altogether, at least not yet). He spies the crying ‘drudge’ and again plays his violin in an attempt to cheer her up, before falling into the wash tub. Soon, he’s in a full-on conflict with Campbell’s gypsy chief and his gang, liberating Edna in the process.

1916 02 The VagabondThere follows a romantic idyll as the pair get to know each other, the Tramp brushes out her tangled hair, and washes her face clean. It’s an intimate, touching scene, the likes of which Chaplin would further develop in subsequent films. Their new life is interrupted, however, with the arrival of a travelling artist (Lloyd Bacon) who is struck with inspiration in Edna’s beauty. Fickle as she seems, Edna is soon making googly eyes at the newcomer, breaking the Tramp’s heart in the process. A close-up of Chaplin’s lovelorn face is all that is needed to convey what a largely redundant intertitle also explains: ‘His romance fading’.

Trying to recover his love’s attention, the Tramp tries his hand at illustration, rather unsuccessfully. Meanwhile, the artist exhibits his painting complete with Edna’s distinctive birthmark, the result of which soon sees her reunited with her long lost family. Initially it appears there is no place in the recreated family unit for the Tramp, but determined to end things on a happy note, Chaplin has Edna have a last minute change of heart, returning to pick him up and take him with them onwards to a new life.

1916 04 The VagabondMore so than in The Tramp (which served as a model for The Vagabond), Chaplin manages to combine the fun of the opening bar-set sequence with what is more-or-less a straightforward melodrama tinged with moments of slapstick humour in the film’s second section. The romance is played straight, with only the Tramp’s occasional clumsy moments or attempts at misdirection providing the laughs. The gags all work, but almost more importantly at this point in his developing career, the straight (melo)drama works too. In the essentially good-hearted but unlucky figure of the Tramp, as he would play it from now on, Chaplin had finally moved on from the violent, cheeky imp of his Keystone and Essanay days. There was more depth and more emotion to the iconic figure now, and that gave him a whole new appeal to his ever-growing audience.

The Vagabond signalled an important development in Chaplin’s art. Elements seen here for the first time would inform later further developed routines in Chaplin’s mature features, especially in The Circus (1928), City Lights (1931), Modern Times (1936), and Limelight (1952). Never one to throw away a gag or a sequence he knew worked with an audience, Chaplin would mentally file away anything he saw as being a hit and find a way to reuse it later, often taking it further than before, in a more extensive project. Comedy alone was no longer enough for Chaplin: in developing depth of character and a degree of sentimental identification with his characters from his audience he was ploughing a new furrow in the cinematic arts.

Chaplin biographer David Robinson highlights a long-rumoured alternative ending for The Vagabond that Chaplin may have filmed and which would have concluded the short in a far darker way. Before Edna’s waif returns for him, it is evident from Chaplin’s body language that he is taking the rejection hard. He shrugs his shoulders in an admission of defeat and attempts to do his by now expected happy walk away from the camera, but fails to pull it off convincingly, his despair showing through. Instead of the hopelessly romantic (and highly unlikely) ending tacked onto the released version of The Vagabond, Robinson points to a darker conclusion in which the Tramp was to have been seen committing suicide by hopelessly throwing himself into a river. The rumoured footage supposedly saw the Tramp rescued by what Robinson called a ‘hatchet-faced maiden’ (Phyllis Allen), but the prospect of spending time with her sees the Tramp throw himself into the river in despair once more. Whether the idea was merely scripted and rejected or actually shot is unclear. Robinson calls the alternative footage a ‘legend’ and concludes its existence is ‘unsubstantiated by any existing footage’.

1916 06 The VagabondAlthough Chaplin’s music could not be heard, it has been reported that the tune he plays on the violin was ‘The Honeysuckle and the Bee’, a tune he was familiar with from his impoverished South London upbringing and which no doubt helped reinforce the pathos inherent in his performance. Music was becoming ever more important to Chaplin off-screen, with his new fame allowing him to become friends with various famous composers and performers. Stan Laurel recalled Chaplin playing his violin during their days together as part of the Fred Karno troupe: ‘I wouldn’t call him a good violinist,’ John McCabe reports Laurel as having claimed, ‘but he sure as hell wasn’t a bad one’. As Chaplin’s career progressed music would play a larger part, including his own compositions as scores for revised reissues of his movies in the 1930s and 1940s.

Chaplin’s fame was now such that his own past was proving to be of interest not only to journalists fascinated by him, but also to himself. He knew little about his own family beyond his immediate parents, and even then there was some ambiguity about who his father had actually been. In July 1916, just as The Vagabond was released, Chaplin and his half-brother Syd (who was managing his business affairs) discovered that the Bobbs-Merrill publishing house was planning to put out a book entitled ‘Charlie Chaplin’s Own Story’. Rosie Wilder Lane, a feature writer for the San Francisco Bulletin, had written the book. Chaplin recalled she had interviewed him during his time at the Niles studio when he worked for Essanay.

The prospect of the book and the gypsy subject matter of The Vagabond caused Chaplin to ruminate on his own unclear origins. Many had commented that Chaplin, small of stature, dark of countenance and noticeably slim, did not resemble the average Englishman. Was he, in fact, born of more exotic stock, more exotic even than show folk? Motion Picture Magazine had delighted in the fact that in 1916 there was ‘much speculation’ about Chaplin’s ethnic origins.

For his part, Chaplin seemed happy to allow others to make whatever assumptions about him they liked. Early in his Hollywood career, as Chaplin later reported, a producer he’d worked with assumed he was Jewish. ‘I did not disillusion him,’ explained Chaplin. ‘If they wanted me Jewish, they would have me Jewish’. During his time at Essanay, Chaplin had happily spun a few yarns for interviewers and journalists, mainly in the interest of giving them a good story rather than in service of the truth. He’d claimed his mother was half-Irish and half-Spanish, and so by implication of gypsy stock. It was a romantic notion to him that he wanted to be true and perhaps even half believed.

When he made his astonishing deal with Mutual, interest in Chaplin and his background shot up. The New York Telegraph tracked down his mother’s sister, Kate Mowbray, and queried her about her nephew’s earlier life. ‘Outwardly he is the image of his father,’ Kate told enquiring journalists. She talked of his musical abilities, focusing on his long-standing fondness for the violin, as seen in The Vagabond. She put this musical skill down to an inheritance from his talented mother.

Repeatedly asked about his background, Chaplin began to spin yarns for his own entertainment. He told one journalist he was French, having been born in a hotel in Fontainbleau, France when his itinerant performing parents were on tour. It was perhaps his conflicting public stories that caused complete strangers to come forward claiming to be long-lost relatives of the Chaplin family, who might think themselves in line for a slice of the film star’s ever-growing fortune. Chaplin once claimed to have heard from at least 671 English Chaplins (a very precise number!) who had all claimed to be close relatives—nine of them said they were actually his mother.

Joyce Milton, in her biography of Chaplin entitled Tramp, highlighted what she described as ‘the most exotic story about his parentage’ that Chaplin was told as a result of his ever-increasing fame. A train porter claimed he was related to Chaplin through an acclaimed mixed-African and American descended painter called John Gwynne Chaplin from Pennsylvania. A painter of Biblical subjects, Gwynne Chaplin was light-skinned enough to pass for white, despite this (according to Milton) he was professionally classed as a ‘race artist’. He spent time in Europe from 1850 and may have had a child with a woman in England. It was easy enough to see how the story that Charlie Chaplin somehow fitted into this lineage could be made plausible. The story was important because of the cultural and political context of race in America in 1916. The previous year Chaplin had much admired D. W. Griffith’s film The Birth of a Nation for its filmmaking technique, but that movie had a darker legacy in a rebirth of the Klu Klux Klan and anti-black activism among some of America’s white population. As Milton puts it: ‘…even a suspicion of “negro” blood would very likely have ended Chaplin’s American career.’ For that reason alone, it is easy to see why Charlie Chaplin didn’t add this particular tale to his fanciful repertoire of exotic origin stories for the press.

Rose Wilder Lane in preparing her ‘Charlie Chaplin’s Own Story’ had turned her notes, enhanced with a good deal of invention, into a first person narrative purportedly telling of Chaplin’s own true rise to fame and fortune. Much was accurate—the author had obviously encountered Chaplin at a point when he was happy to be more chatty about his early life than he became in later years—but much more was simply inaccurate or, even worse, pure invention. It was, essentially, an enhanced work of fiction written as if to be in Chaplin’s own voice: the book was billed as an ‘as told to’ story. Syd objected strongly and set Chaplin’s lawyer onto the publisher and this was enough to convince them to withdraw the book from sale.

In all probability, Chaplin’s ancestry is exactly as we believe it to be today. For the man himself, though, these other possibilities gave him the opportunity to believe that his father may have been someone other than a drunken music hall performer who’d died young and impoverished. He already feared he might inherit the mental instability his mother Hannah had already shown, it would be doubly worse if he were to also inherit his father’s fondness for alcohol (although Prohibition was on the horizon in American—it would begin in 1919 and run until 1933—it actually did little to temper the availability of alcohol). These other fantasy-driven stories of his parentage allowed the nervous, anxious and slight figure of Charlie Chaplin to imagine that his father had actually been a well-educated man, perhaps someone of society or in the respectable arts (as compared to the lowbrow vaudeville). It was the kind of figure he aspired to be (and would, by and large, become). It is clear to see in The Vagabond that Charlie Chaplin was taking the opportunity that filmmaking allowed him to safely explore the fantasy autobiography that sometimes ran through his troubled mind. — Brian J. Robb

Trivia: Eric Campbell’s “wife” in The Vagabond, the harridan who leads the gypsy clan, is actually actor Leo White in drag. Born in 1882 in Manchester, White’s filmography stretched from roles in early Chaplin shorts at Essanay through to a bit part in 1944’s Arsenic and Old Lace. He died in Glendale, California in 1948.

The Contemporary View: ‘The latter part of the story shows Chaplin in a new role, and he handles it well in spite of the necessity of being as funny as possible. He would make an interesting lead in almost any story if it were possible for him to divest himself of the little tricks which have made him famous. Those little tricks still go, and they pay, but it would be a novelty to see Chaplin free to do without them…’—Motion Picture World, July 1916.

Verdict: A solid leap forward, building on The Tramp and setting a new direction for Chaplin with deeper character development and better control over the drama.

Next: One A.M. (7 August 1916)

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An 80,000 word ebook chronicle of Chaplin’s early films from Keystone (1914) and Essanay (1915), based on the blog postings at Chaplin: Film by Film with 20,000 words of supplemental biographical essays.

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The Fireman (12 June 1916)


Chaplin2016 The Fireman6

Release Date: 12 June 1916

Writer/Director: Charles Chaplin

Duration: 24 mins

With: Eric Campbell, Edna Purviance, Lloyd Bacon, Albert Austin, James T. Kelley, John Rand, Leo White, Frank J. Coleman

Story: The Tramp has a job, as an incompetent fireman at Station 23. Caught up in an insure-and-burn scheme, he has to rescue fire chief’s intended from the flames…

Production: Charlie Chaplin’s second short for Mutual continued his focus on gags and situations—as the title suggests, Chaplin plays the role of an inept firefighter—but he failed to add any additional depth to his character. Perhaps he felt he needed to find his feet making new films for a new studio in unfamiliar circumstances before he could turn his attention to further developing his art? As it is, The Fireman is a gag-laden short that is richly amusing if not emotionally enriching. According to John McCabe, Chaplin drew inspiration from simply walking past a local Los Angeles fire station near to the Mutual studio one day and imaging himself as a fireman, a man completely at the mercy of the demands of the fire alarm bell. It was enough to see him embark upon making the short, even without a fully worked out scenario, as was increasingly becoming his habit. That approach might explain the somewhat disjointed, episodic nature of The Fireman.

This is a short more in the Keystone style, with Eric Campbell as the hopeless fire chief who gets caught up in an insure-and-burn caper so he can wed a businessman’s daughter (played by Edna Purviance). His plan falls apart, however, when the ever-heroic Charlie comes to the rescue after he spots Edna (whom he’s also in love with) trapped in the burning building. There is something of the later Harold Lloyd ‘thrill pictures’ in the climax as Chaplin (or maybe a stunt double, see ‘Trivia’) scales the ladder to come to Edna’s rescue. Meanwhile, Leo White’s house is also burning down, but nothing he does seems to engage the interest of the fire department.

Filming for The Fireman took place at a real fire station—Fire Station #29, located at 158 South Western, which had opened just three years before (it only closed in 1988, making it potentially the Los Angeles fire station that was in continuous use the longest). This decision gave the short some very high production values, as Chaplin was able to fully utilise the premises and the (horse-drawn) fire trucks stored there—presumably all subject to them being withdrawn from the film if there were an emergency call out.

In addition to the fire station, real fires mounted by the production team at two separate condemned houses added further spectacular production value. Scenes of Chaplin rushing to get to the fires, with the fire fighter crew hanging on to the buggy for dear life, recall some of the old Keystone rough-and-tumble chases from two years before. Even when they reach the site of the fire, the firemen insist on limbering up before they dare tackle the blaze…

Chaplin2016 TheFireman9 EdnaDespite all this action, there is room in the short for some quieter comic moments, such as when Charlie uses the fire engine’s boiler as a makeshift coffee urn, dispensing coffee and cream from its taps, and a scene in which the naïve fireman attempts to brush down the department’s horses using a dainty feather duster. These were characteristic comedy moments, but the relationship with Edna is not advanced much (attaching her to Eric Campbell’s villain made that difficult) and so the opportunities for any kind of heart-tugging pathos are limited.

Upon the release of The Fireman, Chaplin received a letter in reaction to the short from a fan that brought him up short (according to biographer John McCabe). The mid-westerner wrote: ‘I have noticed in your last picture a lack of spontaneity. Although the picture was unfailing as a laugh-getter, the laughter was not so round as in some of your earlier work. I am afraid that you are becoming a slave to your public, whereas in most of your pictures the audience were a slave to you…’ It seemed to Chaplin that the complaint was a valid one—he was in danger of resting on his laurels, and churning out material that could have been made at Keystone or even at Essanay was not enough. He would have to strive to deepen both his character and his filmmaking techniques if he was to stay one step ahead of his fans, giving the public not what they wanted but what they didn’t know they needed.

The latest addition to the Chaplin company at Mutual was James T. Kelley (born in Castlebar in July, 1854 and sometimes billed as ‘Kelly’), an Irish-born performer who had a degree of stage and dance experience, but on film often played elderly inebriates. His earlier films included some Edison credits in 1897: Bowery Waltz (aka Apache Dance) and Charity Ball. He was seen alongside Louise Fazenda in the Universal short The Battle of the Nations in 1914. Kelley had appeared alongside Chaplin before in A Night in the Show and in Police, but he’d really make his mark during the Mutual period. He was the elderly elevator operator in The Floorwalker, a past his prime fireman in The Fireman, and later an out-of-shape bellhop in The Cure and he played two roles in the Chaplin classic The Immigrant. He worked with Chaplin right through the Mutual period, including roles in The Pawnshop, The Vagabond, A Dog’s Life, The Count, The Rink, and Easy Street. He also worked with Harold Lloyd, appearing in his 1921 comedy Among Those Present right through to the feature Safety Last (1923). Later in the 1920s he appeared in a variety of Western films, including Man Rustlin’ (1926) and Men of Daring (1927). He died in 1933 at the age of 79 in New York City.

Along with his newfound popularity, Chaplin had to face a new problem: film piracy. In the earliest days of movie distribution, films were released across the US via local ‘film exchanges’ in an often haphazard manner. Films were considered disposable, unlikely to last (either physically or in the memory of audiences) beyond the projected 90-day life of a standard print. It was easy for unscrupulous practitioners to obtain copies of the newest Chaplin short and strike their own copy, which they then leased out to cinemas pocketing the theatrical screening fee that should have gone back to the studios, whether Keystone, Essanay, or—from May 1916—Mutual, none of whom seemed too interested in protecting their property. (French filmmaker George Méliès, a special effects and filmmaking pioneer in his own right, especially suffered from US piracy of his works).

One example was the completely unauthorised ‘Chaplin Film Company’ that actually had an office on West 45th Street in Manhattan. It was Keystone investor Charles Baumann who discovered it following a tip-off. This unofficial distributor was well-stocked with ‘dupes’, unofficial duplicate prints, copies of the most popular Chaplin shorts and at this point—in the summer of 1915—was making great money from distributing Chaplin’s Dough and Dynamite. Now aware of the transgression, Keystone went to court and had the whole operation shut down. That, however, was just one of many ‘dupe’ distributors in action, many of them not daft enough to open a shop front in a major Manhattan thoroughfare.

One step beyond that kind of direct theft was the ‘bogus Chaplins’. These weren’t films featuring Chaplin impersonators and imitators (already covered here: In The Park), but movies made up of extracts or outtakes from Chaplin’s work that was re-edited to make a ‘new’ Chaplin release. One such was The Perils of Patrick, modelled after Pathe’s The Perils of Pauline (at least as far as the title went), a serial made up of much of Chaplin’s Keystone footage. It didn’t help their case that both Keystone and Essanay (see Burlesque on Carmen) were not above similar activity themselves.

The effort that went in to creating these ‘bogus’ Chaplin shorts was often ingenious. Rather than put their efforts into creating original works of their own, several would-be filmmakers took the opportunity of Chaplin’s stratospheric popularity to ride on the innovative comedian’s coat tails. Among them were Bronx-born duo Jules Potash and Isadore Peskov who took Chaplin’s The Champion (an Essanay release), removed the backgrounds and replaced them with an unlikely undersea world, itself lifted directly from Herbert Brenon’s film Daughter of the Gods. The resulting uncomfortable mash-up was released (through their New Apollo Feature Film Company) under the title Charlie Chaplin in a Son of the Gods, a film which contrived to show the Tramp visiting King Neptune’s court and there encountering Keystone-style bathing beauty mermaids. This film was brazenly screened at the 14th Street Crystal Palace theatre in New York, a regular venue for Chaplin’s legitimate products. Having succeeded with that release, Potash and Peskov were soon at it again with Charlie in the Harem and the predictive Charlie in the Trenches (itself a working title for the later Shoulder Arms, 1918). As Chaplin did not own the copyright to his early works, there was little he could do about such disgraceful behaviour.

Chaplin1916 The Fireman 1Others were inspired to follow the example of Potash and Peskov: after all, there was money in them thar films. The Seiden brothers—Joseph and Jacob—operated out of Chicago (Chaplin’s onetime Essanay stamping ground) and released a Chaplin knockoff under the title The Fall of the RummyNuffs (a supposed pun on the Russian Romanovs, then in the news). As well as adapting original footage, particularly enterprising film pirates would hire Chaplin lookalikes in order to create ‘new’ material to expand the length of the films (this lead to the full-blown craze for Chaplin impersonators such as Billy West). By this time, Chaplin was signed to First National (in 1917), and his legal officer Nathan Burkan launched a concerted effort to rid cinemas of these ‘bogus’ Chaplin films, including such titles as The Dishonour System (a two-reeler) and One Law for Both. Targets he attacked included not only the filmmakers themselves, but also the laboratories that developed the film, those who made the posters for the bogus movies, and those who screened them—all in an attempt to seek some form of financial redress. ‘Several suits will be started against each and every exhibitor in this and other cities for exhibiting spurious Charlie Chaplin pictures,’ said Burkan. At First National, Chaplin developed an innovative way of authenticating his films to counter such piracy, but we’ll cover that when the blog reaches Chaplin’s First National releases.

Another pressing problem that Chaplin faced in the summer of 1916 was the question of his willingness (or otherwise) to fight for his country—Great Britain—in the then-unfolding ‘Great War’, better known today as the First World War. In 1914, when war was first declared with Germany, Chaplin had decided to stay in the US rather than return home to do his bit for ‘King and Country’ (as the misguided patriotic cry had it). By the time he was at Mutual, just as the war was kicking into a higher gear in the summer of 1916, it became public that Chaplin’s Mutual contract actually contained a clause that would actively prevent him from ‘joining up’ in the British army as he was considered to be such a valuable ‘commodity’ to the company.

This created something of a backlash with some popular sentiment portraying Chaplin as a coward who was actively avoiding conscription (the ‘draft’ in the US) of ordinary citizens to serve in the army that was ensnaring much of his home country audience. The comedian began to receive letters from soldiers containing white feathers, long a symbol of cowardice in the face of war, and a handful of cinemas back in Britain refused to screen any further Chaplin films due to his non-participation in the war. At the same time, Chaplin received letters from other soldiers, many serving at the frontlines in France, pleading with him to continue making the ‘funny’ films that made them laugh and raised their morale in the face of deadly danger. Some in the ‘top brass’ of the British army actually came to regard Charlie Chaplin’s filmmaking to be a much more important contribution to the British war effort and to raising morale both among soldiers and on the ‘home front’ than any effort he could personally make by picking up a rifle.

Chaplin2016 The Fireman8According to Chaplin biographer David Robinson, the campaign to harass Chaplin due to his seeming avoidance of war service had been instigated by Lord Northcliffe, the publisher of Britain’s Daily Mail newspaper. From the spring of 1916 the paper had been carrying disparaging comments about Chaplin’s failure to sign up with Britain’s armed forces, highlighting the clause in his Mutual contract that apparently prevented him from returning to his homeland for the duration of the conflict in case he should be conscripted to fight. ‘We have received several letter protesting against the idea of [anyone] making a profit on the exhibition in this country of a man who binds himself not to come home to fight for his native land,’ said the newspaper.

By the following year, the rhetoric had escalated, with an editorial (probably dictated by Northcliffe himself) running in the Weekly Dispatch that castigated the comedian: ‘Charles Chaplin, although slight built, is very firm on his feet, as is evidenced by his screen acrobatics. … During the 34 months of the war it is estimated [that] he has earned well over £125,000. … Chaplin can hardly refuse the British nation both his money and his services. … He is under the suspicion of regarding himself as specially privileged to escape the common responsibilities of British citizenship. … It is Charlie’s duty to offer himself as a recruit.’ Other papers, including the Daily Express, joined the calls against Chaplin’s non-participation.

Eventually, the star was forced into issuing a statement on the situation to the press: ‘I am ready and willing to answer the call of my country to serve in any branch of the military service at whatever post the national authorities may consider I might do the most good,’ said Chaplin. ‘But, like thousands of other Britishers, I am awaiting word from the British Embassy in Washington.’ He went on to highlight his financial investments in the war effort and the fact that he’d registered for the draft (drawn on a random lottery basis) in the United States.

Chaplin2016 The Fireman7Sydney was drawn into the fuss, too, having to confirm that he was over the exemption age of 31—the suspicion was that he’d been singled out simply because he was Chaplin’s (half) brother. The active campaign against Chaplin only came to an end, according to Robinson, when the actor presented himself at a recruiting office but was turned away for being underweight!

According to Peter Ackroyd’s biography of Chaplin the comedian wrote back to one soldier correspondent that he was ‘sorry my professional demands do not permit my presence in the Mother Country.’ According to another friend, Chaplin had expressed his utter horror of war in these terms: ‘Not for me! I’d have gone to jail rather than have gone into it. I’d have gnawed off my fist rather than get into that sort of thing.’ These sentiments perhaps reflected Chaplin’s growing pacifist feelings rather than any cowardice in his nature. Later Chaplin would tackle the subject directly in 1918’s Shoulder Arms and would tour the US (where he was greeted by record-breaking crowds) promoting the purchase of war bonds. — Brian J. Robb

Trivia: It doesn’t appear to be Chaplin driving the horse-drawn fire truck from the station, more like Eric Campbell (based on his size) or an anonymous stuntman. Similarly, the dummy figure that Chaplin carries down during the rescue scene has much darker hair than the blonde Edna Purviance, who he is supposedly rescuing!

The Contemporary View: ‘There is an abundance of the rough comedy which secures laughs. The best laughs are when the prop engine falls apart. The rescue of the girl from the top storey is a good hit, also the general business around the firehouse.’—Variety, June 1916

Verdict: The Fireman is a throwback to Keystone and Essanay slapstick, but Chaplin was capable of more sophisticated comedy.

Next: The Vagabond (10 July 1916)

Available Now!


An 80,000 word ebook chronicle of Chaplin’s early films from Keystone (1914) and Essanay (1915), based on the blog postings at Chaplin: Film by Film with 20,000 words of supplemental biographical essays.

Amazon US | Amazon UK

Also available at Kobo, Nook, Apple, Scribd and other ebook outlets.



The Floorwalker (15 May 1916)


Release Date: 15 May 1916

Writer/Director: Charles Chaplin

Duration: 24 mins

With: Eric Campbell, Lloyd Bacon, Edna Purviance, Albert Austin, Charlotte Mineau, Leo White, James T. Kelley

Story: Visiting a department store, the Tramp becomes caught up in the schemes of the manager and the floorwalker, who bears an uncanny resemblance to the Tramp.

Production: By the spring of 1916, Charles Chaplin had only been a filmmaker for two years and a worldwide movie star (one of the first) for just over a year, yet he was well on his way to mastering this relatively young art form. He’d escaped from his early poverty and troubled family background in London into Vaudeville, and eventually made his way to America as part of Fred Karno’s troupe. Headhunted by Mack Sennett’s Keystone, a studio always on the lookout for new cinematic comic talent, Chaplin made his first tentative steps before the camera in early 1914. A year later, he’d moved on to Essanay, tempted by a huge salary increase and a higher degree of creative control. During 1915, his Essanay year, it is possible to see Chaplin developing new ways of making movies, deepening his iconic Tramp character along the way.

In 1916, turning the age of just 27 that April, Charlie Chaplin had become the highest paid star in movies, signing a $670,000 deal (equivalent to over $10 million today, and 10 times more than he’d previously been paid) with the Mutual Film Company to make 12 two-reel short film comedys. Mutual went all in to support their new star, committing around $1.5 million to him (including that salary), and making available a dedicated studio space and production unit under the suitable moniker The Lone Star Studio. Film historian and publicist Terry Ramsaye (A Million and One Nights, 1926) dubbed Lone Star ‘The biggest operation centred around a single star in the history of the motion picture industry’. Ramsaye himself was sucked into the Chaplin business, having become a producer at Mutual in 1915 and later working on some of the Chaplin shorts.

Chaplin1916 01TheFloorwalker2During his time at Essanay in 1915, Chaplin’s working methods had evolved and his output slowed somewhat. As he spent more time developing comic business and situations for his films, so the anticipated release schedule of a new film short every month had slipped very badly by the end of the contract. It should come as no surprise that it would take Chaplin the better part of two years to complete the 12 films for Mutual that were supposed to have been produced as part of a one year contract. However, there is a lot of truth behind Chaplin’s famous quote about this period: ‘Fulfilling my contract with Mutual was, I suppose, the happiest period of my life.’

Mutual provided Chaplin with what he’d wanted at both Keystone and Essanay—an effectively unlimited budget, so he was free of financial concerns, with complete autonomy and creative control, so he could work the way he had to in order to produce the best comedy films he could his way. The other studios had been production line outfits, where all that mattered was getting the new films out and repeating successful formulas. Although Chaplin had started in this way, he’d quickly grown beyond it, creatively speaking. At Mutual, he had the tools and the time to develop his unique comedy, and to the credit of the studio they were willing to give him the time and resources he needed. Chaplin would not complete his 12 films with Mutual until the release of The Adventurer in October 1917, almost a year and a half after the release of his debut for the studio, The Floorwalker.

By 1916 Chaplin had taken up residence in the Los Angeles Athletic Club. Despite his growing wealth, he continued to live fairly frugally—he didn’t own property. His new ‘Lone Star’ studio was just south of Santa Monica Boulevard, so he didn’t have far to go to get to work in the morning. He had a Japanese chauffeur, Toraichi Kono, to drive him to work in his newly purchased Locomobile. Kono would double in service to Chaplin as an effective bodyguard and servant, as well as chauffeur, becoming a figure Chaplin described as ‘My Man Friday’. Kono would stay in Chaplin’s service for the next 30 years. In a profile of the filmmaker by Karl K. Kitchen Chaplin’s frugal lifestyle was put under the spotlight. ‘His only extravagance is a 12-cylinder automobile. … His personal expenses last year were considerably less than $500 and there are no indications that his new contract has turned his head.’

The filmmaker also had a secretary (and valet) named Tom Harrington to help look after his affairs, while his half-brother Sydney Chaplin continued to handle the business side of his ever more complicated life. While he didn’t flaunt his wealth, Chaplin did put great store by the people his fame allowed him to meet, from those in American ‘high society’ to the great thinkers of his times to his fellow movie stars and filmmakers.

There was some perhaps unwelcome news for co-star and girlfriend Edna Purviance in one of the interviews given by Chaplin at this tumultuous time. ‘When I wanted to marry I didn’t have the money,’ Chaplin claimed (quoted in David Robinson’s Chaplin: His Life and Art). ‘Now that I have the money, I don’t care to marry. Besides, there’s plenty of time for that kind of thing when I quit work.’ His trip to New York to negotiate with studio executives for his services had meant he and Edna were apart for most of a month, the longest time they’d spent apart since they’d met.

Chaplin had a simple plan for his time at Mutual: ‘I’m going to make better pictures than I did last [year],’ he said, perhaps dismissing some of his work at Essanay in the process. ‘I am doing my own scenarios and my own directing.’ His iconic Tramp outfit was not going to be sacrosanct in his newest incarnation. ‘I’ll keep the moustache, but won’t stick so closely to the other clothes. It’ll depend on what the circumstances [of the story] demand. It isn’t how one is dressed, but what one does and how. Slapstick comedy has as much artistic possibility as the best efforts from the stage.’

Chaplin’s new Lone Star studio was officially opened on 27 March 2016, a week later than initially planned. The old Climax Studios facility stood on the corner of Lillian Way and Eleanor Avenue in Los Angeles and it housed an open air shooting stage surrounded by canvas walls, said to be one of the largest stages at that time in Los Angeles. Whereas before Chaplin and his crews at Keystone and Essanay had shot largely on location around the streets of Los Angeles, this new space was vast enough for him to construct his own bespoke street sets (seen to best advantage in Easy Street), where he could exert better control over his filmmaking (and so avoid the increasingly large—and annoying—crowds who gathered whenever Chaplin filmed in public). All the support departments had their own buildings, and the site also contained its own lab and projection facility where Chaplin could review his work-in-progress, something he’d had to force upon Essanay.

Edna Purviance would remain as Chaplin’s ‘leading lady’, in life as well as on screen, while cameraman Roland Totheroh and comedian Leo White followed Chaplin from Essanay to Mutual. Other old hands who’d pop up among Chaplin’s new stock company of performers included Lloyd Bacon, Charlotte Mineau, and James T. Kelley. Several new signings would play prominent roles in the films to come, prime among them being Albert Austin (who would appear in all 12 of the Mutual shorts), and ‘gentle giant’ Eric Campbell, who replaced previous bulky antagonists like Mack Swain and Bud Jamison.

Chaplin1916TheFloorwalker5Chaplin’s filmmaking method had developed instinctively over his two years of experience with the ‘fun factories’ of Keystone and Essanay. He took what he could from those experiences, discarding any approaches he didn’t feel were productive. From a basic idea for a scenario—a department store in the case of The Floorwalker—he would think up ideas for ‘funny business’. Elaborate sets would be built and Chaplin and his team would rehearse comic antics on the set. Sometimes he’d decide these huge sets needed to be adapted or altered, as he’d come up with some new ideas. Chaplin began to use film on his rehearsals, viewing the rushes the next day to decide whether he’d nailed the comedy of situation or if he could improve on it. Much of this was revealed in the 1980s Unknown Chaplin television documentary series, which only existed because Syd Chaplin took it upon himself to preserve every foot of film his younger brother shot (against Chaplin’s own wishes). This outtake material was housed in Chaplin’s own studio until its closure in 1952 (even though, strictly speaking, it was owned by the by-then defunct Mutual). Chaplin ordered all the unused footage destroyed, but Totheroh failed to do the job completely, leaving many reels of Chaplin outtakes in existence. Notorious film ‘preserver’ and distributor Raymond Rohauer got hold of this material, and in 1982 it would form the backbone of the fascinating Unknown Chaplin, made by Kevin Brownlow and David Gill. The series exposed Chaplin’s ‘try it and see’, ‘revise it’ and ‘improve it’ method of working out his comedy cinema. He addressed his working method at this time in his Autobiography: ‘With a bare notion I would order sets, and during the building of them the art director would come to me for details, and I would bluff and give them particulars about where I wanted doors and archways. In this desperate way I started many a comedy.’

The ‘bare notion’ that Chaplin was entertaining as the subject matter for his first film with Mutual was a department store, and—more specifically—the relatively new innovation of the ‘moving staircase’ or escalator. The inspiration behind The Floorwalker had come during Chaplin’s trip to New York to sign his contract with Mutual. He and Sydney had toured the city and witnessed a man fall down on an escalator at the elevated train station on Sixth Avenue—although some versions of this tale place the event in Los Angeles and taking place in an actual department store. Wherever it happened, the comedic potential of the moving stairs was instantly clear to Chaplin, who thought such antics would always be funny as long as they were happening to someone else: he recognised laughter as a form of relief that it is not the viewer caught up in whatever trouble is unfolding on screen. Chaplin combined the moving staircase (when the film was released Chaplin’s Keystone boss Mack Sennett was said to have exclaimed ‘Why the hell didn’t we think of a running staircase?!’) with his vague department store setting, instructing his Lone Star technical director Ed Brewer to build a store set based around a central escalator, which had been designed by George Cleethorpe (one of Chaplin’s transfers from Essanay). In the meantime, he’d try and work out some comic business to be performed before the cameras.

In his tentative beginnings at Mutual, Chaplin put to one side his developing emotional intelligence, briefly side-lining the increasing pathos that he was getting from his Tramp character. The Floorwalker is almost entirely based around Chaplin’s physical clowning, putting the Tramp (slightly better dressed than before) in a basic adventure story and ignoring any romantic complications—Edna had a rather small, insignificant role as the store manager’s secretary. The department store manager (Eric Campbell) and his store ‘floorwalker’ (Lloyd Bacon) are engaged in embezzlement, but detectives are on their tails. Enter the little Tramp, who just happens to be a dead ringer for Bacon’s floorwalker: could this be the way out for at least one of the criminals?

Chaplin1916TheFloorwalker4In casting Bacon as a near duplicate, was Chaplin acknowledging all those ‘Chaplin imitators’ that had followed in the wake of his worldwide fame? Others were making their own way in movies by doing a take-off on Chaplin (Harold Lloyd being one of the earliest offenders), so perhaps the original screen Tramp was warning audiences to beware of imitators. Bacon was a discovery of Chaplin’s previous employer ‘Broncho’ Billy Anderson at Essanay, and had appeared in a trio of earlier Chaplin shorts: The Champion, A Jitney Elopement, and The Tramp (all 1915). He’d go on to appear in a half dozen or so of the Mutual Chaplin films, right through to Easy Street (1917), including the look at moviemaking called Behind the Screen (1916). He’d go on to become a director in his own right, with a number of classics under his belt including Footlight Parade (1933), Invisible Stripes (1938, with George Raft and Humphrey Bogart), and war movie Action in the North Atlantic (1943). By the time of his death in 1955 at the age of 65, Lloyd Bacon had directed over 100 films.

In The Floorwalker, Chaplin is clearly still the familiar Tramp figure that audiences had come to love through his year each at Keystone and Essanay. He seems to be visiting the store with an eye on using the toiletry supplies to freshen himself up, and while he is the subject of attention of the store detective (Albert Austin) other, more well-to-do looking ‘customers’ make off with the majority of the goods on display. As in some of his best shorts, like Work (1915), Chaplin makes a subtle social point amid the comic antics: those with most money accumulate more, while those with least are targeted with suspicion.

The Floorwalker is rightly recalled for the escalator scenes, Chaplin’s initial inspiration for the short. Whether he’s being pursued down when the escalator is moving ‘up’ (both Chaplin and Campbell appear not to be moving on the fast-paced moving staircase) or up the escalator is moving ‘down’, Chaplin takes the advantage of the opportunity to display his physical dexterity in the interest of comic action. In his battle to overcome this new ‘modern’ technology that is getting in his way, Chaplin anticipates some of the themes that would be central to his feature film masterpiece, Modern Times (1936). An outcast from society, Chaplin’s Tramp is also unfamiliar with such new-fangled devices and sees them as little more than obstacles to be overcome. The entire store set had been purposely built around the central escalator, so Chaplin was determined that it should feature prominently in the film. As David Robinson noted, In Chaplin: His Life and Art, ‘The gag sequences are developed with virtuosity. The pursuits on the escalator are miraculously timed and choreographed.’

Perhaps equally well remembered is the ‘mirror image’ sequence in which Chaplin’s Tramp comes face-to-face with Bacon’s floorwalker. For just a moment, the pair are confused, thinking they’ve stopped in front of a mirror. They test out their movements, each mirroring the other, until Chaplin spots that Bacon is holding a bag (full of the stolen money, a plot point of many films from Too Late for Tears, 1949, to Shallow Grave, 1994, and beyond), while he is holding his traditional cane. Although the routine wasn’t new (Max Linder had previously used it), it was the first time it had been widely seen by such large audiences as those attracted to films by Chaplin. It would go on to be repeated and reworked in countless variations, including by Bugs Bunny, the Marx Brothers, Lucille Ball, and others.

Another lovely moment of Chaplin’s natural dexterity worth noting is when the Tramp fights Campbell’s crooked department store boss in his office. The Tramp’s way to divert attention or avoid the physical battle is to indulge in a little ballet, pirouetting away from any swings Campbell aims his way. The Tramp becomes caught up in his little dance, ending with a flourish, arms spread wide, perhaps expecting applause: instead, he gets a punch in the face!

Albert Austin was given the task of becoming one of Chaplin’s key foils at Mutual. Once a member of the Karno vaudeville troupe, as had been Chaplin, Austin had been born in Birmingham in 1881 (or 1885 in some accounts) and was instantly recognisable thanks to his painted and styled handlebar moustache. He was working in theatre rep when Chaplin discovered him, having come to the US in 1912. As well as significant roles in the Chaplin Mutual shorts (especially The Pawnshop, 1916), Austin later appeared in The Gold Rush (1925) and City Lights (1931). He ended his days as a security guard at the Warner Bros. studio in Hollywood, dying in 1953 at the age of 72 (or thereabouts!).

Chaplin1916TheFloorwalker6For many years Eric Campbell was something of a mystery. Like Austin, he was an old Karno trouper, like so many of the British born comics who made it big in the early movie business. Born in 1879 (or 1880, according to some sources), Campbell was at one time said to have hailed from Dunoon in Scotland (see the Kevin Macdonald documentary Chaplin’s Goliath: In Search of Scotland’s Forgotten Star, 1996), but more recent research has revealed he originated in Sale, Cheshire in England—resulting in the removal in 2011 of a plaque erected in his honour in Dunoon’s Castle Gardens. Although Campbell worked in Scotland in his music hall days, it is now believed that either he or his agent invented his Scottish roots in order to make him seem even more ‘exotic’ or romantic to American audiences. Some have even speculated that it was Chaplin himself that decided to promote Campbell as a Scot for publicity value, based upon his surname alone.

Campbell was in his mid-30s when he came to work with Chaplin, and at six foot four and weighing twenty stone it was inevitable that he would play the ‘heavy’ in the eleven Mutual films he appeared in. The contrast between the slight five foot five Chaplin and the towering giant of a man that was Campbell was irresistible to the comedian. Chaplin, along with his brother Sydney, had spotted Campbell in a Broadway stage production (George M. Cohan’s Pom Pom) during the negotiations over the Mutual contract. He was an obvious choice as a replacement for Mack Swain as the outsized foil to Chaplin’s Tramp (Swain would reunite with Chaplin in 1921 for The Idle Class and would star in a major role in The Gold Rush, 1925).

When Chaplin completed his work for Mutual in 1917 and was moving to First National, he intended to take Campbell with him, but fate intervened. In July 1917 Campbell’s wife died suddenly of a heart attack, and that December Campbell died in a car crash at the age of just 38. He’d remarried on the rebound, and his new wife was already suing him for divorce (it is believed that her actions were part of a ‘gold digging’ scam). His unhappiness may have contributed to his getting drunk at a cast party, resulting in the fatal 4am crash. At the time, Campbell was living at the Los Angeles Athletic Club in a room next to Chaplin.

Although The Floorwalker fails to capitalise on Chaplin’s deeper emotional development of the Tramp character at Essanay (that would come again in later films, especially The Vagabond), it is already clear that the working conditions at Mutual had been nothing but beneficial for the comic. The sets are larger and more elaborate, allowing for larger and more elaborate comic explorations by the star. Although the plot is slight in The Floorwalker and it ends with the traditional free-for-all runaround, the stories are more robust throughout the later Mutual shorts than they ever were at Keystone or Essanay. The Floorwalker was a clear sign of the greater things to come throughout 1916 as the little Tramp blossomed. — Brian J. Robb

Charlie Says: ‘I am left free [at Mutual] to be just as funny as I dare, to do the best work that is in me, and to spend my energies on the things that people want. I have felt for a long time that this would be my big year and this contract gives me my opportunity. There is inspiration in it.’

Trivia: In 1932, a few years after the coming of sound—a cinematic development that one time pioneer Chaplin studiously ignored—Van Beuren Studios paid $10,000 for each of the Chaplin-Mutual comedies, adding music and sound effects to ‘update’ them and rereleased each of the 12 through RKO Radio Pictures.

The Contemporary View: ‘Charlie, in a new environment, is still Charlie. He has lost none of this famous quality of drollery and has picked up, instead, a lot of new ideas, with new business and new props which make these two reels worth what the Mutual organisation had paid for them.’—Harvey F. Thew, Motion Picture News

‘…cultured, artistic people are beginning to regard the young English buffoon Charles Chaplin as an extraordinary artist as well as a comic genius. … If it is true that the test of an artist’s greatness is in the width of his human appeal, then Charlie Chaplin must be entitled to a place among the foremost of all living artists.’—The Art of Charlie Chaplin, Minnie Maddern, Harper’s Weekly

Verdict: A small step towards the true Chaplin classics.

Next: The Fireman (12 June 1916)

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An 80,000 word ebook chronicle of Chaplin’s early films from Keystone (1914) and Essanay (1915), based on the blog postings at Chaplin: Film by Film with 20,000 words of supplemental biographical essays.

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Also available at Kobo, Nook, Apple, Scribd and other ebook outlets.




Chaplin Signs With Mutual (26 February 1916)


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One hundred years ago on this day, 26 February 1916, Charlie Chaplin signed his contract with the Mutual Film Company (pictured above), making him the highest paid filmmaker in America at that time. This bonus post at Chaplin: Film by Film chronicles Chaplin’s departure from Essanay at the end of 1915 and celebrates his arrival at Mutual, of which Chaplin said: ‘Fulfilling my contract with Mutual was, I suppose, the happiest period of my life.’

Departing Essanay

Although he had more creative freedom and produced fewer films, Charlie Chaplin’s dissatisfaction at Essanay almost exactly mirrored that which had driven him out the door at Keystone a year before at the end of 1914. The pressure was on for him to produce more films, faster, just at a time he was developing a more considered, and so lengthier, production process for his comedy shorts. His tentative work on a project called Life also showed his growing ambition to expand beyond two-reel comedy shorts to produce a work that was not only feature length, but also mixed pathos with comedy, a potentially lasting work that might have something to say about the human condition. It would be an ambition that would stay with him, but which he wouldn’t truly get the chance to explore for another five years at least.

From the summer of 1915 onwards, Chaplin’s feet grew increasingly itchy at Essanay. His complaints and Essanay’s George K. Spoor’s determination to make the most of Chaplin’s rising star had resulted in a revised contract in July 1915 that paid him a bonus of an additional $10,000 on top of his weekly salary of $1250 for each of the 10 two-reel comedies he committed to producing by January 1916. The first film to be counted under this new arrangement was the already completed Work (1915). By the end of the year, though, such was the slow-down in his work rate, Chaplin had only completed six in total (including Work) of the expected 10 two-reeler shorts. Essanay would later claim its actions in relation to Burlesque on Carmen, Police, and Triple Trouble (see the eBook Chaplin at Essanay: A Centenary Celebration for more on these films) was work they were entitled to under this revised contract.

By the end of 1915, Chaplin’s half-brother Sydney had also left Keystone having worked out his contract there, and was now intent on managing his brother’s burgeoning film career. The Chaplin brothers knew they would not stay with Essanay beyond the end of 1915, but the question of what Chaplin would do next was wide open.

Despite Chaplin’s clear intention to leave Essanay, Spoor was not about to let his biggest star name walk out the door without a fight, and the only way he knew of solving a problem was to throw money at it. He personally came from Chicago to Los Angeles to negotiate with Chaplin, offering the comedian $350,000 for each of 12 two-reelers to be produced during 1916. Chaplin countered with a demand he knew was outrageous: a $150,000 bonus for simply signing a new contract.

Even Spoor had his limits, and knew at that point that Essanay would face the future without Chaplin. The company struggled on for a few more years, before eventually shutting up shop by 1920. After the departure of his business partner, G. M. Anderson (who served as a mentor to Chaplin), Spoor continued to work in film, developing unsuccessful 3D and widescreen processes, before dying in Chicago in 1953. Anderson—Chaplin’s strongest supporter at Essanay—continued as an independent producer, working on Stan Laurel silent comedies among others, and lived until 1971.

Arriving at Mutual

Chaplin1916 Mutual0.1Once it was clear within the industry that Charlie Chaplin was looking for a new studio home, Sydney Chaplin was inundated with offers for his brother’s services. Many of the biggest studio names of the day expressed an interest in signing the comedian, including Universal, Triangle, Famous Players, Vitagraph, and Fox. The winning offer, however, came from John R. Freuler (pictured right with Chaplin at the signing), the President of the Mutual Film Corporation. The company was only three years old, having been formed the year that Chaplin had arrived in the US. Freuler agreed to Chaplin’s $150,000 signing bonus (Chaplin immediately signed over half the bonus to Sydney), and the deal would pay him $10,000 each week (quite an advance on Essanay’s $1250 weekly rate).

Mutual had grown from the Western Film Exchange, founded by partners Freuler, Harry E. Aitken and Roy Aitken in July 1906 in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. The Exchange was one of many nationwide that distributed movies to nickelodeons, specializing in covering the territory of the mid-West. Forced out of operation by Thomas Edison’s Motion Picture Patents Company (known as the ‘Edison Trust’), Freuler and the Aitkens switched instead to becoming a movie studio that produced their own product. They went through several names—the American Film Manufacturing Company, Majestic Film, Western Film—and amalgamated with other interests, before becoming the Mutual Film Corporation.

Before Chaplin, Mutual had produced a variety of films, including A Little Hero (1913), which starred Harold Lloyd and Chaplin’s Keystone co-star Mabel Normand; The Life of General Villa (1914), a silent biopic of Mexican revolutionary Pancho Villa (which starred Villa as himself and is now lost—it was the subject of the TV movie ‘…And Starring Pancho Villa as Himself’ (2003), starring Antonio Banderas); and Sweet and Low (1914), based upon a poem by Lord Alfred Tennyson.

Before singing with Mutual, Chaplin spent a welcome month in New York in early 2016 fielding offers from other studios while enjoying all that Broadway and café society had to offer. It was the first time in over a year he’d spent any time away from Edna Purviance: she had gone home to be with her family in Lovelock, Nevada until after Chaplin completed his negotiations. His trip East was his first holiday from producing films at Essanay, and his first experience of his own popularity, dubbed ‘Chaplinitis’ by the popular press.

Supposedly, a telegraph operator who mediated the cables between Chaplin and Sydney (who was already in New York negotiating with the studio heads) had leaked the star’s travelling plans to the press. Soon crowds were gathering at stations en route, waving banners to grab Chaplin’s attention. The man himself had seen nothing like it. Civil dignitaries at each stop along the way saw their chance for great publicity if they could be photographed shaking hands with Chaplin. In Amarillo, Texas, Chaplin was mobbed as he tried to eat a quiet lunch. In Kansas City, excited Chaplin fans proved themselves to be dangerous when they lined the train tracks. By the time he was due to arrive in New York, the authorities insisted Chaplin leave the train at 125th Street rather than going on to Grand Central Station, both for his own safety and for avoidance of an ‘incident’ at the station. No doubt, such unexpected public acclaim gave the comedian an even greater idea of his own worth at a crucial time.

The Historic Signing

Chaplin1916 Mutual6Mutual’s signing of Chaplin (pictured above with Mutual’s John R. Freuler) on 26 February 1916 made him the highest-paid entertainer in the world, with the contracts total worth for 1916 said to be $670,000. Mutual’s newly hired publicity man Terry Ramsaye (later author of the first substantial history of film, A Thousand and One Nights, 1926), knew the public would be fascinated by the big numbers. Writing in Mutual’s own publicity magazine, Reel Life, in March 1916, Ramsaye heralded the Chaplin signing: ‘Chaplin will receive a salary of $670,000 for his first year’s work under the contract. The total operation in forming the Chaplin producing company involved the sum of $1,530,000. This stands as the biggest operation centered about a single star in the history of the motion picture industry. … Next to the war in Europe, Chaplin is the most expensive item in contemporaneous history. Each hour that goes by brings Chaplin $77.55, and if he should need a nickel for a carfare it only takes two seconds to earn it. Mr. Chaplin will be 27-years-old on the 16th of April. He is doing reasonably well for his age.’ Breaking it down further, Chaplin’s dealt meant he’d receive over $12,880 each week, $1840 per day, and $1.27 per minute. According to Ramsaye’s publicity flim-flam, the contract between Chaplin and Mutual was over 20,000 words long. It covered one year, but it would actually take Chaplin 18 months (until 1917) to fulfill it.

The contract was signed in the Hotel Astor with much ceremony under the eyes of movie cameras and press photographers, such had been the endless interest and speculation on who would secure the comedian’s services since the beginning of 1916. Much as he was essentially shy and retiring and hated appearing in public, Chaplin felt duty bound to issue a statement on his move to Mutual.

Chaplin1916 Mutual5‘A great many people are inclined to make wide eyes at what is called my salary,’ Chaplin began (pictured right in 1916). ‘Honestly, it is a matter I do not spend too much time thinking about. Money and business are very serious matters and I have to keep my mind off them. In fact, I do not worry about money at all. It would get in the way of my work. I do not think that life is all a joke to me, but I do enjoy working on the sunny side of it. What this contract means is simply that I am in business with the worry left out and with the dividends guaranteed. It means that I am left free to be just as funny as I dare, to do the best work that is in me, and to spend my energies on the thing that the people want. I have felt for a long time that this would be my big year and this contract gives me my opportunity. There is inspiration in it.’

Unlike Keystone and Essanay, Mutual recognized the need to give Chaplin total creative freedom in order that he might produce his best work (and prove his worth under the extravagant contract they’d signed). Having decided to go ‘all in’ in the Chaplin business, it didn’t seem like too much of a leap for Mutual to agree to offer Chaplin his very own studio facility where he could work in peace producing the 12 two-reel comedies they’d contracted him for. The studio and Chaplin’s films were financed under a separate Mutual subsidiary, dubbed the Lone Star Film Corporation: guess who the ‘lone star’ of the new studio was? The physical studio space was refurbished from the previous Climax Studios at 1025 Lillian Way in Hollywood (it would later become Buster Keaton’s studio after Chaplin moved on to his own purpose built facility in 1917).

Chaplin had big plans for the year ahead, announced to the press during a stop off in Chicago as the train Twentieth Century made its way back to Los Angeles with the comedian aboard. ‘I am going to make better pictures than I did last year. I am doing my own scenarios and my own directing [he had, of course, been doing this for a while]. We’re to have a little bit more legitimate plots. I like a little story, with maybe an idea in it, not too much, not to teach anything, but some effect, like in The Bank (1915) for instance. One must consider the kiddies, not to go over their heads, and remember the grown-ups, too…’ — Brian J. Robb

Next: The Floorwalker (15 May)

Available Now!


An 80,000 word ebook chronicle of Chaplin’s early films from Keystone (1914) and Essanay (1915), based on the blog postings at Chaplin: Film by Film with 20,000 words of supplemental biographical essays.

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Also available at Kobo, Nook, Apple, Scribd and other ebook outlets.

Burlesque on Carmen (18 December 1915)

Chaplin 2015 Carmen3

Intended Release: 18 December 1915, Essanay [screened for critics only]

Director: Charlie Chaplin

Writer: Charlie Chaplin

Duration: approx. 30 mins. [1916 version: 44 mins]

With: Edna Purviance, Jack Henderson, John Rand, May White, Bud Jamison, Wesley Ruggles, Ben Turpin, Leo White

Story: Guards officer Darn Hosiery (Chaplin) falls foul of seductive gypsy Carmen (Purviance) and the gang of smugglers she works with.

Production: Just as Chaplin had left Keystone at the end of 1914 with nary a word to his co-workers (he claimed his own shyness prevented any grand goodbye gesture), so his departure from Essanay towards the end of 1915 was equally unusual, if a little more controversial. This film was Chaplin’s comic response to Cecil B. DeMille’s Carmen (1915), with each being based upon the Bizet opera. The film, however, was released in various versions between 1915 and 1916 (after Chaplin’s departure from the studio) and resulted in a controversial court case.

The Bizet opera of Carmen dated from 1875, but the story proved especially popular in the early years of the 20th century. There were two film versions alone in 1915 before Chaplin turned to the material towards the end of the year, the first starring the notorious ‘vamp’ Theda Bara (real name Theodosia Burr Goodman, who hailed from Cincinnati, Ohio and not the ‘mysterious East’ at all) and directed by Raoul Walsh—it is now considered a lost film. The second film was the more famous DeMille version, featuring opera star Geraldine Farrar—that movie was critically acclaimed, but when Chaplin saw it, he felt the material was crying out for a fun parody version, and he was just the man to supply it.

For his Carmen Chaplin pulled out all the stops, paying more attention than he ever had before to such matters as the sets and the costumes (in the interest of historical atmosphere, if not accuracy exactly), as well as to cinematography and editing, things he been becoming more interested in as his work had developed. Certainly, during the Essanay period, film editing had become intrinsic to Chaplin’s comic effects, and would become more so at Mutual. Over all, though, the biggest improvement in Carmen was in the on-screen performances.

Chaplin 2015 Carmen1Chaplin’s version of Carmen was an effective showcase for Edna Purviance, perhaps to make-up for her blink-and-you’ll-miss-it appearance in A Night in the Show. She plays Carmen, a gypsy connected to a band of smugglers who are illegally shipping goods into the city. Standing in their way is Darn Hosiery (Don Jose in the original, played by Chaplin, in a departure from his Tramp character), the last honest lawman on duty. It is Carmen’s task to seduce Hosiery, thus clearing the way for the smugglers to go about their clandestine business. An unexpected action by Hosiery means he has to flee his position and effectively join the smugglers. By the time he joins them, however, Carmen has already moved onto a new lover, a bullfighter whom she follows to Seville. Driven mad, Hosiery tracks her down and in a confrontation stabs her to death!

A bit melodramatic for Charlie Chaplin? No doubt that’s what Chaplin thought of the original DeMille version, so as well as spoofing the earnest nature of that film, he defuses the seemingly bleak ending of his film by having Edna and himself break character at the finale, revealed the fake nature of the prop knife and having a laugh at the silliness of the picture as a whole. Some, including biographer Joyce Milton, have questioned Chaplin’s authorship of his Carmen, given his own admitted ignorance of opera at the time, and his inability to distinguish between Rigoletto and Carmen. Viewing Chaplin’s short in conjunction with the DeMille version, it is clear that his is a take-off that required no knowledge of the original opera as it is a direct response to the DeMille film, not the original source story or historical presentation.

Chaplin 2015 Carmen4In Chaplin’s Camen, Edna Purviance took on the task of directly spoofing Geraldine Farrar’s performance in the DeMille film. Her temptress is a direct take-off on Farrar’s performance, no doubt thanks to her innate abilities (remember she was a relative newcomer to film, as was Chaplin himself in many respects) and to some serious coaching and direction from Chaplin. It’s almost as though he was trying her out in a more dramatic role to see if she could cope, perhaps with a view to the starring role she’d later play in the Chaplin-directed A Woman of Paris (1923), which the comedian directed but did not star in (as with the much later A Countess from Hong Kong [1967], he only appears in a brief cameo—his long planned bio-pic of Napoleon never materialised).

Although there are plenty of gags, they are effectively blended with some fairly serious melodrama throughout Carmen, especially in the sword fight scene Chaplin shares with Leo White. Chaplin wrings ever bit of drama and humour from the sequence, moving through variations on the theme of clashing swords, while all the time ensuring the camera moved and wasn’t simply locked off as a static observer of the action, as had happened in many of the Keystone shorts. Close-ups are also used to emphasize the drama, especially on Edna and Charlie, both of whom play their parts relatively straight when the story requires it (right up to that fourth wall breaking end gag, at least).

Charlie Chaplin’s intended take on Carmen went largely unseen. It was screened in the original two-reeler form to critics and reviewers in December 1915, then promptly withdrawn by Essanay. When Chaplin left the Essanay studio, he carelessly left behind material cut from his version of A Burlesque on Carmen. This seems unusual: for an artist who had been demanding control over his own material and who at Essanay had taken over the editing of his own films, to have left behind such footage seems like a huge oversight. Perhaps the thought that Essanay would exploit the Chaplin name by re-cutting the film to include as much footage of the star as they could did not even occur to him?

Chaplin 2015 Carmen6Either way, Essanay were not done with Chaplin and his work, even if he was done with them. Chaplin’s tight and witty two-reel short was revamped by Leo White into a bloated four-reel movie and released in April 1916. Alongside the previously unseen Chaplin material, the studio also padded out the film by adding newly-shot footage starring cross-eyed Ben Turpin as a gypsy character in an all-new (unfunny) subplot.

Essanay boss George K. Spoor attempted a feeble defence of his studio’s actions in the house journal Essanay News by erroneously (and deliberately misleadingly) claiming that the original version of Carmen was Chaplin’s ‘first attempt at cutting’ and that the version that resulted was ‘not acceptable to us, for the reason that Chaplin left out more good stuff than he put in.’ This was a fundamental and probably willful misunderstanding of Chaplin’s evolving approach to his art. During his time at Essanay he had begun to work with celluloid as his raw materials. Although he’d often begin with a scenario and a rough idea of how each short would develop, Chaplin had begun to work out his gags on the fly, often filming them and then thinking up a new way to achieve a bigger laugh or a way to extend the comic potential of any sequence. This would result in a lot of decent comic material hitting the cutting room floor in favour of the far better material that Chaplin’s process produced (indeed, much of the fascinating and highly recommended documentary series Unknown Chaplin [1983] by Kevin Brownlow and David Gill depends upon the excised material for its footage of Chaplin actively working out his gags).

The action of his erstwhile studio drove Chaplin to court in May 1916 an attempt to protect his work, claiming that the new release would do damage to his reputation as it did not represent his artistic view. Chaplin’s suit was supported by written affidavit material from his half-brother Syd Chaplin, describing the production process of Carmen and the adverse publicity the editing had brought Charlie. As The Chaplin Encyclopedia’s Glenn Mitchell pointed out, this fact (as reported in Motion Picture World) suggested that Syd had an intimate knowledge of his brother’s work at Essanay. The studio—furious at Chaplin’s action—had immediately countersued claiming breach of contract and demanding $500,000 in damages. In this they perhaps had an argument, claiming that Chaplin had fallen short of the number of films he’d agreed to complete when he was paid an additional $10,000 bonus. Chaplin won that case, but the bigger issue was not to go his way.

In July 1916, Judge Hotchkiss (who presided over the case) ruled in favour of the studio. Unfortunately, the terms of Chaplin’s agreement with Essanay meant that they had legal ownership of all the material he shot for them, used and unused, and were at liberty to use it how they liked, with or without the permission of Chaplin himself. The outcome of this court case saw the original two-reel version of Carmen withdrawn and suppressed by the studio, replaced by the four-reel versions (and a later three reel cut-down of the same material released once again in 1928, with a partial soundtrack). This experience would ensure that went he went to Mutual and thereafter, Chaplin would retain full control over his creative material (a ‘moral right’ of artists since recognized in law), with clauses in his contracts specifically forbidding studios from re-editing or otherwise re-formatting his work.

As a result of Essanay’s legal victory, for many years the only extant and easily accessible version of Chaplin’s spoof of Carmen was in this butchered form. One of Chaplin’s major objections to the expanded Carmen was the inclusion of repeated material in which he performed essentially the same gag twice (his pretence to be a masseur). This did not escape the critics who reviewed the expanded four reel released in April 1916. ‘A goodly portion of the legions of Chaplin’s admirers will be disappointed,’ noted Motion Picture World of A Burlesque on Carmen, before noting the repeated material ‘…the inference being that the stunt was done twice [so] that the better of the two might be chosen’. This victory over Chaplin would encourage Essanay to release his final Essanay film Police (1916), long after he’d left the studio, and to further utilize more of Chaplin’s discarded material to form the patchwork film Triple Trouble, released in 1918. [For more on these projects, see my second annual Chaplin: Film by Film eBook — Chaplin at Essanay: A Centenary Celebration, on sale now!].

In his autobiography, Chaplin certainly considered Carmen to be his final film at Essanay. ‘I was so impressed with [DeMille’s] Carmen that I made a two reel burlesque of it, my last film with Essanay. After I had left they put in all the cut-outs and extended it to four reels, which prostrated me and sent me to bed for two days. Although this was a dishonest act, it rendered a service for thereafter I had it stipulated in ever contract that there should be no mutilating, extending or interfering with my finished work.’

Chaplin’s original vision—or the best approximation possible—was recovered in 1999 when film preservationist David Shepard studied the transcripts of the Essanay/Chaplin court case and other contemporary documents in an effort to recreate the ‘lost’ Chaplin cut from the available materials. Kino released this version in 1999 as an ‘all new’ rediscovered Chaplin short with an accompanying musical score from David Israel.

Shepard described his approach to reconstructing Chaplin’s Carmen: ‘The version I prepared in 1999 attempts to reconstruct the two-reel version of A Burlesque on Carmen, based upon an affidavit from the lawsuit provided by the Chaplin archives in which Charlie details his intended two-reel version. It was impossible to be guided exactly by Chaplin’s testimony. Some of Chaplin’s original shots were removed in the process of editing the four-reel expansion, which now seems to survive only with reissue intertitles from 1928. A few 1916 shots are retained for continuity in this version and most of the intertitles derive from DeMille, but we hope it captures Chaplin’s intention. For those familiar with DeMille’s production, the two-reel A Burlesque on Carmen is actually one of the better Essanay-Chaplin comedies.’

At its heart in Chaplin’s original version, his take on Carmen was one of his first sustained attempts to blend heartfelt drama and comedy in one film—the kind of thing he’d much later perfect in The Kid (1921) and City Lights (1931). Given that Chaplin had only been actively in the movie business for just two years, the way he’d developed his art over that period is nothing short of astounding. Almost as soon as he’d wrapped on Carmen (the later 1916 release), Police, had been shot earlier, Charlie Chaplin boarded a train for New York, determined to put as much distance between himself and George Spoor’s Essanay as possible. As always with Chaplin, the best was yet to come.

Trivia: G. M. Anderson, star and creator of the Broncho Billy westerns, and Chaplin’s mentor at Essanay, sold his share in the studio to fellow co-owner George K. Spoor (the man who countersued Chaplin over Carmen) shortly after Chaplin left Essanay—is it too much of a leap to think that all these events might have been connected? The result was the immediate closure of the Essanay studio at Niles in California, where Chaplin had initially based himself, and the eventual closure of Essanay’s Chicago base in 1918.

The Contemporary View: ‘Charlie Chaplin’s Burlesque on Carmen [was] given a private showing for review … it is in four reels and, on the whole, was voted unsatisfactory by the majority of the exhibitors who attended. The consensus of opinion is that it is a very much padded picture.’—Variety [reviewing the Essanay four reel version in 1916]

Slapstick: Out of his regular Tramp outfit, Chaplin has some fun with the ornate feathered helmet that replaces his derby and the sword he sports in place of his cane. A table dance sees Chaplin bustin’ some unusual moves. The duel—which kicks off about 20 minutes in—allows for a variety of classic Chaplin balletic slapstick, including turning the fight into a wrestling match, an impromptu game of snooker and a dance routine! When he flees from the guards, Chaplin indulges in a couple of his trademark single-foot skids (we haven’t seen that in a while). When he arrives in Seville (in pursuit of Carmen), Chaplin is much more like the Tramp figure we know, in looks and behaviour (except for all the killing, of course!).

Verdict: The genuine chemistry between Edna and Charlie is evident in Carmen, but the mix of drama and comedy doesn’t quite work, 3/5

Chaplin Signs With Mutual

Next: The Floorwalker (15 May 1916)

[For entries on the Essanay 1916 Chaplin shorts Police, Triple Trouble, and the unfinished Chaplin film Life, see my second annual Chaplin: Film by Film eBook — Charlie Chaplin: A Centenary Celebration]

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