My Autobiography Charles Chaplin (best books to read ever TXT) 📖

myself, of my own logic and approach; it is not borrowed from what others are doing. If in art one must keep up with the times, then Rembrandt would be a back number compared to Van Gogh.

While on the subject of films, a few brief words may be profitable for those contemplating making a super-duper special – which, as a matter of fact, is the easiest picture to make. It requires little imagination or talent in acting or directing. All one needs is ten million dollars, multitudinous crowds, costumes, elaborate sets and scenery. With a glorification of glue and canvas, one can float the languorous Cleopatra down the Nile, march twenty thousand extras into the Red Sea, or blow down the walls of Jericho; all of which is nothing but the virtuosity of building contractors. And while the field-marshal sits in his directorial chair with script and table chart, his drill sergeants sweat and grunt over the landscape, bawling out orders to the divisions: one whistle meaning ‘ten thousand from the left’, two whistles ‘ten thousand from the right’, and three, ‘all on and go to it’.

The theme of most of these spectacles is Superman. The hero can out-jump, out-climb, out-shoot, out-fight and out-love anyone in the picture. In fact every human problem is solved by these methods – except thinking.

Also a brief word about directing. In handling actors in a scene, psychology is most helpful. For instance a member of the cast may join the company in the middle of a production. Although an excellent actor he may be nervous in his new surroundings. This is where a director’s humility can be very helpful, as I have often found under these circumstances. Although knowing what I wanted, I would take the new member aside and confide in him that I was tired, worried and at a loss to know what to do with the scene. Very soon he would forget his own nervousness and try to help me and I would get a good performance out of him.

Marc Connelly, the playwright, once posed the question: what should an author’s approach be in writing for the theatre? Should it be the intellectual or the emotional? I think primarily emotional, because it is more interesting in the theatre than intellect; the theatre is designed for it, its rostrum, its proscenium, its red curtains, its whole architectural flounce is addressed to the emotion. Naturally intellect participates but it is secondary. Chekhov knew this; so did Molnár and many other playwrights. They also knew the importance of theatricalism, which is basically the art in playwriting.

To me theatricalism means dramatic embellishment: the art of the aposiopesis; the abrupt closing of a book; the lighting of a cigarette; the effects off-stage, a pistol shot, a cry, a fall, a crash; an effective entrance, an effective exit – all of which may seem cheap and obvious, but if treated sensitively and with discretion, they are the poetry of the theatre.

An idea without theatrical sense is of little value. It is more important to be effective. With a theatrical sense one can be effective about nothing.

An example of what I mean was a prologue I put on in New York with my picture A Woman of Paris. In those days prologues went with all feature pictures and lasted about half an hour. I had no script or story but I remembered a sentimental coloured print captioned ‘Beethoven’s Sonata’, depicting an artistic studio and a group of bohemians sitting moodily about in half-light, listening to a violinist. So I reproduced the scene on the stage, having only two days to prepare it.

I engaged a pianist, a violinist, apache dancers and a singer, then utilized every theatrical trick I knew. Guests sat around on settees or on the floor with their backs to the audience, ignoring them and drinking Scotch, while the violinist poured out his sonata, and in a musical pause a drunk snored. After the violinist had played, the apache dancers had danced, and the singer had sung Auprès de ma Blonde two lines were spoken. Said a guest: ‘It’s three O’clock, I must be going.’ Said another: ‘Yes, we must all be going,’ ad libbing as they exited. When the last had gone, the host lit a cigarette and began turning out the lights of the studio as voices were heard singing down the street Auprès de ma Blonde. When the stage had darkened, except for the moonlight streaming in through the centre window, the host exited and, as the singing grew fainter, the curtain slowly descended.

During this nonsense you could have heard a pin drop from the audience. For half an hour nothing had been said, nothing but a few ordinary vaudeville acts had taken place on the stage. Yet on the opening night the cast took nine curtain calls.

I cannot pretend to enjoy Shakespeare in the theatre. My feeling is too contemporary. It requires a special panache type of acting which I do not like, and in which I am not interested. I feel I am listening to a scholarship oration.

My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou remember’st

Since once I sat upon a promontory,

And heard a mermaid on a dolphin’s back

Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,

That the rude sea grew civil at her song,

And certain stars shot madly from their spheres

To hear the sea-maid’s music.

This may be eminently beautiful but I do not enjoy that kind of poetry in the theatre. Moreover, I dislike Shakespearean themes involving kings, queens, august people and their honour. Perhaps it is something psychological within me, possibly my peculiar solipsism. In my pursuit of bread and cheese, honour was seldom trafficked in. I cannot identify myself with a prince’s problems. Hamlet’s mother could have slept with everyone at court and I would still feel indifferent to the hurt it would have inflicted on Hamlet.

As for my preference in presenting a play, I like the conventional theatre, with its proscenium that separates the audience from