Charlie Chaplin Read online

  In one scene Claire Bloom found it difficult to cry convincingly. Chaplin grew more and more irritated until he launched an angry tirade against her, whereupon she burst into tears. The camera crew had been forewarned and instantly captured the scene in a single take. He had forced her to cry real tears. A reporter from the New York Times asked Chaplin to characterise the film. “It’s a funny picture,” he answered quickly, “I hope.”

  Limelight is in many respects a self-conscious and over-determined film, stagey and loquacious in equal measure. Calvero is sometimes a little glib and portentous, while Terry is continually in tears. In one scene Calvero denounces the public as “a monster without a head that never knows which way it’s going to turn and can be prodded in any direction.” This seems to be a clear reference to Chaplin’s own treatment at the hands of press and public. He also complains that, when a man is growing old, “a feeling of sad dignity comes upon him, and that’s fatal for a comic.” When Terry objects to their feigned marriage, for the sake of respectability, Calvero replies that “I’ve had five marriages already. One more or less won’t matter to me.” Chaplin himself seems to be aware that there may be too much philosophising; at one point Terry turns to Calvero and tells him that “to hear you talk, no one would ever think you were a comedian.”

  Chaplin relies heavily upon sentiment and nostalgia by playing himself, as it were, at the end of a great career. The film can in fact be best seen as a tribute to his own genius in what Calvero describes as “the elegant melancholy of twilight.” The sad clown even manages to die on stage, which might be seen as the ultimate act of self-indulgence or perhaps of self-pity.

  Yet we may speak of Chaplin here rather than of Calvero. The depth of his self-absorption is apparent at every level of the film. The photographs and posters in the lodgings are all images of his past career. When Terry tells him after many months of his self-imposed absence that she still loves him, he replies “Of course you do. You always will.” His talk is essentially about himself, testifying to his own artistry and his own genius. He takes himself very seriously indeed, even when he pretends the opposite. Ultimately it is a highly dispiriting film.

  Yet moments of distinction can be found within it. The portrait of Calvero’s landlady, prurient and vulgar, is an exact one. One of the most appealing interludes in the film is the double act of Chaplin and Buster Keaton in a wild musical duet of broken strings and frantic chords. One of the assistants on the set noted that “there was a certain jealousy between them because each of them wanted to have the better piece of the pie … each of them wanted to grab the attention of the audience.” So Chaplin would say to his colleague, “Oh, Buster, it’s too much, too much of that, I think, don’t you think so?” Keaton said later that “in truth it is at work that he is least funny, if I may say so.”

  In the spring of 1952, just after the principal shooting of Limelight had been completed, he engineered a change in his financial affairs. He placed certain documents in a safety deposit box, to which he gave his wife a key. He transferred his stock in United Artists to her; he added her name to his bank accounts, and granted her power of attorney. He once more applied for a re-entry permit and, after a short delay, was granted one. He also settled all his claims with the Internal Revenue Service.

  He was now intent upon travelling to London where the premiere of Limelight would take place. He could no longer rely upon a sympathetic reception in the United States, and at a press preview of the film in New York he sensed the coldness or hostility of the audience. He told his friends and colleagues that he was simply going on a vacation with his wife and children, but the fact that he had set in order his financial affairs suggests that he was leaving nothing to chance. He had at least a vague apprehension of being denied re-entry to the United States.

  On 17 September, he and his young family sailed for England on the Queen Elizabeth. He had been only two days at sea when he was informed that his re-entry permit had been withdrawn; he could not return to the United States without being interrogated on his moral character and his political affiliations. The Attorney General of the United States told the press that Chaplin “is in my judgement an unsavoury character” and accused him of “making statements that would indicate a leering and sneering attitude” towards the country.

  Chaplin’s first response was one of defiance, and he stated his intention of returning to face any charges or accusations made against him. In this respect he might have been vindicated. The Federal Bureau of Investigation had for a number of years been probing his speeches and activities, but they had uncovered no evidence that was not based on hearsay and rumour. Yet he was terrified that the American authorities would strip him of his assets and possessions. That had always been his greatest fear—that his wealth would be taken from him. All his life he had expressed a horror of returning to the poverty he had known as a child. It is likely enough that he fell into a state of anxiety not far from panic.

  Chaplin was greeted in London by a cheering crowd, although many believed that his reception was smaller than that granted to him in previous years. He wanted to show his young wife and children the immensity of London, and in particular those areas in which he had grown up. He wanted to take them to the source and spring of his imagination. From their suite at the Savoy they could see the newly built Waterloo Bridge but for Chaplin it was of no importance except that “its road led over to my boyhood.” They wandered through the streets of Kennington and of Lambeth, but much of its charm had for him been destroyed by bombing or by recent development. Yet still he went back.

  He was still a London, or cockney, figure. He and Claire Bloom decided one morning to take a walk through Covent Garden Market, where news of his presence quickly spread. The fruit-sellers and vegetable-sellers did not crowd around him, however; they stood in front of their stalls as he passed and saluted him. He was moved and delighted that they still believed him to be one of them. He was a man of the theatre, too, and in these London days he mixed with the variously celebrated figures of the West End. He and Oona flew to Paris for the French premiere of Limelight, in the course of which journey they visited Picasso’s studio. The two artists had no language in common, and so Picasso simply showed him the paintings on which he was then working; Chaplin in turn executed for him a routine known as the “Dance of the Rolls” from The Gold Rush. Picasso wrote later that “his body isn’t really him any more. Time has conquered him and turned him into another person. And now he’s a lost soul—just another actor in search of his individuality and he won’t be able to make anybody laugh.” This was a common response to him—Chaplin did not look anything like Charlie. He was a small, pink-faced and silver-haired gentleman who was obliged to smile and be cheerful.

  It would be reasonable to suspect that he had other matters on his mind. His youngest son, Michael Chaplin, recalled that in London “I’d see my father sitting, momentarily alone, in a big chair, staring ahead of him just like any other preoccupied guy looking for help.” On 17 November Oona travelled by plane from London to New York and then to Hollywood. She had come to rescue her husband’s finances. In two days she managed to gain access to the safety deposit boxes and remove the assets stored there; she also sent $4 million to foreign accounts, closed down the house and arranged for the furniture to be shipped to Europe. In her absence Chaplin suffered what seemed to be a nervous collapse; he feared that her plane might crash or that she might be detained by the American authorities. He could not envisage life without her. He must also have been terrified that her journey might come to nothing, and that all of his money would be irretrievably lost.

  She herself discovered that FBI agents had been questioning the staff at Summit Drive in the quest for evidence of Chaplin’s “moral turpitude”; they also interrogated his friends, lawyers and even his ex-wife, Lita Grey, but nothing was uncovered. It must have become quickly clear to all concerned that Chaplin would not be returning to California.

  20

  The S
hadows

  Chaplin and his wife had decided to move to Switzerland. He had previously said that he did not appreciate mountainous countries, but Switzerland had certain virtues. Taxes, in particular, were very low. His affection for London was not strong enough to keep him there; England had a treaty of extradition with the United States which might be exercised against him.

  By the beginning of 1953 they had moved into the Manoir de Ban in Corsier-sur-Vevey, a commune beside the left bank of Lake Geneva; the mansion had fifteen rooms, spaced over three floors, and an estate of thirty-seven acres complete with park, orchard and garden. The emphasis was upon seclusion. Chaplin had announced that “I want to have six months of peace and quietness in this house. We will not go in for big parties and large receptions, but keep to ourselves.” Two or three months later he explained his decision to leave America on the grounds that “since the end of the last war I have been the object of vicious propaganda by powerful reactionary groups.” In letters from Switzerland it is clear that he now despised and detested what was once his adopted country. He would say that the only thing he missed about America was the Hershey candy bar.

  All was arranged with Chaplin’s usual efficiency. The interior was decorated in a style that was somewhat lush and ornate, becoming known to the locals as “Beverly Hills baroque.” A large drawing room on the first floor opened out on to a terrace from which could be seen the lake and the mountains beyond it; on the other side of the house stood a library and dining room. The second floor harboured two master bed-suites and two guest rooms. In the cellar were stored Chaplin’s films and papers. The five children, with the youngest, Eugene, born in the summer of 1953, were ensconced on the third floor with two nannies, Kay Kay and Pinnie, to keep them in order. Three more children were to follow in subsequent years, thus creating what might be considered to be a good-sized and almost Victorian family. He was obliged to hire twelve servants to maintain the house; three gardeners were also needed to tend the park and garden. A swimming pool and tennis court were eventually installed.

  The children went to a local school in Vevey, where their lessons were conducted in French; they soon spoke that language as well as they spoke English. Chaplin was in any case convinced that the discipline in French schools was infinitely superior to that of American schools. They were taught largely by Catholic nuns and priests and, when Geraldine Chaplin was discussing the perils of hell with her father, he replied that “I am so happy you believe. I would give anything to believe. It makes life so much easier, but I can’t. I would love to believe but I can’t.”

  He approved of discipline for his children, once remarking that “they must be prepared for life by some form of hardship.” He told his children that “education is the only defence.” They were forbidden to make any noise on the ground floor where their father might be working. If he heard them clattering down the stairs he would storm out in a tempest of rage. He was particularly incensed if anyone should open the door without knocking; his need for privacy was so great that he would shout abuse at the offender.

  The family soon established a comfortable regimen, with dinner at 6:45 and bed at 9:00. The children joined their parents for lunch, and then for a brief period after dinner. Chaplin wrote to a friend that “we are very comfortable and happy living in Switzerland” and added that “the Swiss government are splendid people, stolid and reliable and have been most hospitable to me.” Of his wife he reported that “fortunately for me, Oona is not social-minded and, as you know, is somewhat of a recluse … so everything works out very well.” She seems to have settled down into her role as mistress of the establishment, with occasional forays into the kitchen, although there are reports that she had already started to drink more than was customary.

  According to a close family friend, Betty Tetrick, for Oona Chaplin “Charlie came first. The children had to understand that. She tried to make his exile pleasant. She entertained him at dinner—she was always a witty conversationalist. And she always made sure she looked her best … And he had that terrible temper, and she had to defuse that.” The English actress Margaret Rutherford observed that her “stillness and gentleness pervaded the room like pot-pourri. She rarely spoke, but you felt that she was there to protect her husband from any strain.” Another contemporary wrote that “it was good to see them together, impossible to imagine them otherwise.” He called her “the old woman,” “the old girl” or “the missus”; she called him “Charlie.”

  His oldest son, on a visit to the mansion, found it altogether too quiet for his taste. He could endure it for four or five days at the most while his younger brother, Sydney, lasted for two weeks before returning to city life. Chaplin and his wife also made regular trips to London and Paris. They always booked into the Savoy Hotel in his home city; his doctor and tailor were also in London.

  In the spring of 1954 he announced plans for a new film that would concern a king in exile. He said that in Switzerland there were plenty of kings in exile, from which he might draw inspiration, but perhaps the most important one was himself. At once he went into a flurry of preparations for which he needed the help of a competent stenographer. He chose Isobel Deluz, an Englishwoman married to a Swiss professor who had worked on film scripts before. Deluz recalled that for much of the time he was “just brooding and mooching about, and then he was a neurotic terror. I was just beaten down by his tantrums—his first-rate clowning, his second-rate manners and his sixth-rate philosophy.”

  She was obliged to follow him wherever he wandered, taking down his thoughts and ideas; she said that “he never just dictated a letter to me … he acted every word.” There were occasions when “he would begin to prance around, talking at the top of his voice, repeating the same sentence over and over again … or he would gesticulate madly, his mouth forming noiseless words.”

  His moods at Vevey veered wildly in all directions. When he wished to have a swimming pool and tennis court built in the grounds, he quarrelled with the architect and the contractor. “I’ve been building swimming pools for thirty years,” he told them. He insisted that they were stealing from him and declared that he would not pay them. The Swiss workmen would put down tools and watch these arguments; according to Deluz, “they would stand behind Chaplin, grin and wink at each other, point a finger to their foreheads, raise their eyes to the heavens.” When he ruined the red asphalt of the tennis court by playing upon it too soon, he fell into a rage and covered it with concrete. He ordered granite slabs for the “deck” of his swimming pool but, when they were delivered, he demanded that the “tombstones” be removed at once. Finally he accused Deluz of being engaged in a conspiracy with the contractor, at which point she shouted at him and left his employ. She sued him for three months of back pay.

  The citizens of Vevey had at first welcomed Chaplin; after his arrival they arranged a candlelit dinner for him and presented him with a gold Swiss watch. They even asked him to participate in the harvest celebration in the local vineyards. But soon enough he picked a quarrel with the authorities of the town by objecting to the noise from a rifle range in a ravine close to his home. It was an ancient tradition for the Swiss to take out their weapons as part of a citizen army; Chaplin complained that the sound of rifle shots prevented him from working. The members of the local council tried to conciliate their famous guest by introducing sound-proofing, but still he was not satisfied and filed a suit against them. When he discovered that men from other communes were allowed to use the range, he suggested that the local councillors were being bribed. The authorities replied that “the commune of Vevey makes no profit in putting the range at the disposal of other communes.” A compromise was eventually reached whereby Chaplin would pay some of the costs of renovation. He was exasperated by smells as well as by noise. He began to complain of the odour of sewer gas in his property and, when the plumbers could find no evidence for it, he asked the local authorities to dig up the roads and inspect the pipes.

  It is hard to say whether the C
haplin family was a happy one. He would administer spankings to his children for any infraction of his rules. Geraldine Chaplin recalled that “we got the full routine, on the bum, over your father’s knee.” They were only permitted to see Chaplin films, and television was not allowed. Betty Tetrick revealed that Oona Chaplin’s favourite child was Michael and that as a result Chaplin became jealous; she added that “he wasn’t very nice to Michael and often he was a sad little boy.” One visitor to the house recalled that the children were “scared shitless” of their father and that he “corrected them all the time. Hence they gave him a wide berth and did not speak to him if they could help it.”

  In a memoir, I Couldn’t Smoke the Grass on My Father’s Lawn, Michael Chaplin wrote that “he was, and is, to put it mildly, a bit of a handful as a father.” He added that “I never argued with the old man. I never dared to. In any case, it’s useless to argue with my father. He is too stern, too inflexible, too overpowering.”

  The family attended each October a circus owned by the Knie Brothers, Rolf and Fredy, that was put up near Lausanne. Chaplin had a great fondness for clowns, naturally enough, and the Knie clowns showed great affection for him. A dancing elephant, on one occasion, came out with Charlie’s shoes and coat as well as a bowler hat and cane. The crowd, recognising Chaplin in the audience, called out “Charlot! Charlot!” until Chaplin stepped into the ring and presented the elephant with a loaf of bread; the elephant accepted it and bowed, to which gesture Chaplin bowed back. The Chaplins and the Knie brothers remained friends for the next twenty years.

  A few other vignettes of his life at Vevey may be recorded here. He contracted eczema and was obliged to wear white gloves; he received several allergy tests and it was finally resolved that he was allergic to film. This paradoxical diagnosis led Chaplin to believe that the cause lay in his early use of nitrate film. His lawn was plagued by crows and so he devised a form of mirror that he would shine in their eyes. He had a hatred of flies, also, and kept a swatter with him when he had lunch on the verandah. To the delight of his children he would sometimes go behind the sofa and pretend that he was walking down some steps into the basement; before their eyes he grew smaller, and smaller, and smaller. “Sweet” was one of his favourite words. “Oh you’re so sweet” or “It’s so sweet” were the phrases he tended to use. Another common phrase was “modesty forbids.”