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Too many thoughts about Chaplin
I just finished watching Limelight, and a few days ago did Monsieur Verdoux, which means in the past few months I've seen The Kid, City Lights, Modern Times, The Great Dictator and Unknown Chaplin as well as the last two. And I'm trying to get my thoughts on Chaplin in order, because I'm fascinated by him and by my reaction to him. What's especially interesting is how I was, for the past thirty years, singularly uninterested in him--he was too famous, and it is/was in vogue to prefer Keaton, as if there's some sort of rule about only liking one or that you have to claim some sort of allegience. There's a strange criticism I've internalized along the way, something about Chaplin being too sentimental, too concerned with pathos, as if that's a negative attribute.
What I find really interesting about that is the fact that while his films do have that tendency, there's a very real tension both between the character he portrays and the themes of his films and the reality of Chaplin's life. The Tramp, with whom he is most securely associated, is "lovable." It's like his defining characteristic, and a symbol of hope and perseverance despite the fact that he ends every film the way he started, with nothing. And a lot's been written about that, sure, and I haven't even begun to delve into Chaplin criticism. What I know from watching the films--and I'm talking the features, really--is that his artistic and commercial inclinations seem to be fighting against the easy answer. The sentimental/pathetic formula. City Lights is pretty schmaltzy, it's true, but even there he's at war with talkies, which you can see as a weakness ("I am obsolete and don't know what else to do about it") or you can see as perseverance ("and look, I'm going to include horrible Charlie Brown's parents voices as a kick in the pants, and hey wait, in four years I'm going to release another silent picture so fuck you!"). And when he does finally make a talkie, what does he play? HITLER. Okay, Hitler and a Jewish barber, in a time when there were plenty of Jews behind the cameras but not a lot being explicitly portrayed.
Then there's Monsieur Verdoux, where he plays a vegetarian pacifist who murders old ladies for money and argues that he's basically doing what society does on a smaller scale, and scale dictates the division between villainy and heroism. It's not a great film, but it's a surprising one, both in the "comedy" of murder and the snarling sentiment (as in feeling, not "sentiment") behind it. Of course critics (so I've read) thought he was excusing murder, which is ridiculously backwards.
Then we come to Limelight, where he plays an alcoholic has-been comedian in a "shocking" (platonic) relationship with a much younger woman, an overtly self-indulgent work I sort of adore. In it he weaves in some bitter observations about audience and actual nods to his own contentious relationship with the press. So in watching them in sequence, I saw not an overwhelming pathos or sentiment but balls. A perversity that appeals to me greatly, more greatly perhaps than the films themselves do on their own. I'm not mad about any of them (except for The Great Dictator, which I can't believe I left alone until now) but in their entirety I'm fascinated.
And then there's his personal life, detailed (with no great artistry, as far as I'm concerned) in Chaplin and floridly told (and obscured and probably lied about) in his autobiography, My Autobiography, which is an amazingly redundant title I'm not sure how to feel about. Adored, mobbed, deemed obsolete, called a communist, finally denied re-entry to the United States, Chaplin does not seem to be the Tramp he made everyone love. Still, there's something attractive to me about him, something in spite of the string of way-too-young girls and autocracy and everything else. Claire Bloom talks about meeting him before making Limelight (her mother coming along as chaperon), and how attractive he was, and I agree, only given his romantic history it's really disturbing. Because I can see this tiny, harmless-looking and publicly-loved man getting in under so many poorly-constructed defenses, and it makes me feel almost guilty for falling for that trap, as well.
His book is interesting, too. I have no idea how honest it is, and I'm guessing that "not very" is the answer, and yet there's a truth to be found in how people wish to be remembered. There is certainly plenty in it that does not make him look particularly good, and one wonders what his purpose is in those particular revelations. Some of them, and no doubt this is intentional, serve to make his foibles look understandable, and his honesty commendable. Such as his attraction to wealth--he's very up front about liking being rich, and that can be refreshing. He's also very candid about not being a patriot, in a way that makes utter sense. Like him, the book is sweet, flowery, provocative, and ego-maniacal, obscure and honest at once. He's challenging, and I think part of my current interest is that very revelation. I always considered him very simple, and dismissed him out of hand.
I always wonder, when I "get into" people in this way, what it means to go at them as people rather than as artists. But that's not really what I mean--I mean to go at the person rather than just the art. I think art (or product, if you like) should be taken on its own merits. I think a review of Limelight should ignore the personal. But on the other hand, I think my interest here is on the intersection of art and personality, which is a different thing. I think there might be a danger in mistaking one for the other, and one can't excuse a work based on the personal history of the creator any more than one make sweeping assumptions about someone's life or opinions based on their work. But as with Orson Welles, and other interests of mine, part of my fascination lies in creation, both of the body of work and of the legacy of personality that we can now only read via those works and what is written about them. I'm not sure why that is, or what it highlights, but it's interesting. After all, Limelight to me is highly interesting and in fact enjoyable because of the personality behind it--coming to it blind, I'm not sure I'd be half as interested. In a sense, changing the conversation changes the value of the film, to me. And I think that's all right, as long as it's understood.
I still don't know exactly how I feel about Chaplin, aside from "fascinated," which I think I've made abundantly clear. I'll definitely keep thinking about him, and reading, though there's so much writing I'm not sure where to go next.
What I find really interesting about that is the fact that while his films do have that tendency, there's a very real tension both between the character he portrays and the themes of his films and the reality of Chaplin's life. The Tramp, with whom he is most securely associated, is "lovable." It's like his defining characteristic, and a symbol of hope and perseverance despite the fact that he ends every film the way he started, with nothing. And a lot's been written about that, sure, and I haven't even begun to delve into Chaplin criticism. What I know from watching the films--and I'm talking the features, really--is that his artistic and commercial inclinations seem to be fighting against the easy answer. The sentimental/pathetic formula. City Lights is pretty schmaltzy, it's true, but even there he's at war with talkies, which you can see as a weakness ("I am obsolete and don't know what else to do about it") or you can see as perseverance ("and look, I'm going to include horrible Charlie Brown's parents voices as a kick in the pants, and hey wait, in four years I'm going to release another silent picture so fuck you!"). And when he does finally make a talkie, what does he play? HITLER. Okay, Hitler and a Jewish barber, in a time when there were plenty of Jews behind the cameras but not a lot being explicitly portrayed.
Then there's Monsieur Verdoux, where he plays a vegetarian pacifist who murders old ladies for money and argues that he's basically doing what society does on a smaller scale, and scale dictates the division between villainy and heroism. It's not a great film, but it's a surprising one, both in the "comedy" of murder and the snarling sentiment (as in feeling, not "sentiment") behind it. Of course critics (so I've read) thought he was excusing murder, which is ridiculously backwards.
Then we come to Limelight, where he plays an alcoholic has-been comedian in a "shocking" (platonic) relationship with a much younger woman, an overtly self-indulgent work I sort of adore. In it he weaves in some bitter observations about audience and actual nods to his own contentious relationship with the press. So in watching them in sequence, I saw not an overwhelming pathos or sentiment but balls. A perversity that appeals to me greatly, more greatly perhaps than the films themselves do on their own. I'm not mad about any of them (except for The Great Dictator, which I can't believe I left alone until now) but in their entirety I'm fascinated.
And then there's his personal life, detailed (with no great artistry, as far as I'm concerned) in Chaplin and floridly told (and obscured and probably lied about) in his autobiography, My Autobiography, which is an amazingly redundant title I'm not sure how to feel about. Adored, mobbed, deemed obsolete, called a communist, finally denied re-entry to the United States, Chaplin does not seem to be the Tramp he made everyone love. Still, there's something attractive to me about him, something in spite of the string of way-too-young girls and autocracy and everything else. Claire Bloom talks about meeting him before making Limelight (her mother coming along as chaperon), and how attractive he was, and I agree, only given his romantic history it's really disturbing. Because I can see this tiny, harmless-looking and publicly-loved man getting in under so many poorly-constructed defenses, and it makes me feel almost guilty for falling for that trap, as well.
His book is interesting, too. I have no idea how honest it is, and I'm guessing that "not very" is the answer, and yet there's a truth to be found in how people wish to be remembered. There is certainly plenty in it that does not make him look particularly good, and one wonders what his purpose is in those particular revelations. Some of them, and no doubt this is intentional, serve to make his foibles look understandable, and his honesty commendable. Such as his attraction to wealth--he's very up front about liking being rich, and that can be refreshing. He's also very candid about not being a patriot, in a way that makes utter sense. Like him, the book is sweet, flowery, provocative, and ego-maniacal, obscure and honest at once. He's challenging, and I think part of my current interest is that very revelation. I always considered him very simple, and dismissed him out of hand.
I always wonder, when I "get into" people in this way, what it means to go at them as people rather than as artists. But that's not really what I mean--I mean to go at the person rather than just the art. I think art (or product, if you like) should be taken on its own merits. I think a review of Limelight should ignore the personal. But on the other hand, I think my interest here is on the intersection of art and personality, which is a different thing. I think there might be a danger in mistaking one for the other, and one can't excuse a work based on the personal history of the creator any more than one make sweeping assumptions about someone's life or opinions based on their work. But as with Orson Welles, and other interests of mine, part of my fascination lies in creation, both of the body of work and of the legacy of personality that we can now only read via those works and what is written about them. I'm not sure why that is, or what it highlights, but it's interesting. After all, Limelight to me is highly interesting and in fact enjoyable because of the personality behind it--coming to it blind, I'm not sure I'd be half as interested. In a sense, changing the conversation changes the value of the film, to me. And I think that's all right, as long as it's understood.
I still don't know exactly how I feel about Chaplin, aside from "fascinated," which I think I've made abundantly clear. I'll definitely keep thinking about him, and reading, though there's so much writing I'm not sure where to go next.
no subject
This is interesting, because it's not something one has the medium for experiencing very often. I think it's what biographies are for, but a lot of biographies slant toward the personality side--or worse, the history side. I say worse; you can say as much as you want to about someone's personality, but you can't illuminate it without also giving some of that person's history. But I'm sure you'll agree that some biographies are great histories and quite personality-less.
Anyway, while many biographies discuss the art as well as its creator, do we really see biographies combined with literary criticism? It might approach uncomfortably close to questions of authorial intent, which crit strives to avoid. The problem is with this intersection is you can't draw conclusions; art definitely says something about its creator, but what it says we can't definitely say. And academia always wants conclusions; so maybe that intersection is more often found in fandom?
I love the title of Chaplin's autobiography.
Nice post!
no subject