My Autobiography (25 page)

The next morning I went to the casting grille. ‘I would like a cast of some sort,’ I said dryly, ‘so will you kindly send me members of your company who are unoccupied?’

They presented people whom they thought might be suitable. There was a chap with cross eyes named Ben Turpin, who seemed to know the ropes and was not doing much with Essanay at the time. Immediately I took a liking to him, so he was chosen. But I had no leading lady. After I had had several interviews, one applicant seemed a possibility, a rather pretty young girl whom the company had just signed up. But oh, God! I could not get a reaction out of her. She was so unsatisfactory that I gave up and dismissed her. Gloria Swanson years later told me that she was the girl and that, having dramatic aspirations and hating slapstick comedy, she had been deliberately uncooperative.

Francis X. Bushman, then a great star with Essanay, sensed my dislike of the place. ‘Whatever you think about the studio,’ he said, ‘it is just the ‘antithesis’: but it wasn’t; I didn’t like the studio and I didn’t like the word ‘antithesis’. Circumstances went from bad to worse. When I wanted to see my rushes, they ran the original negative to save the expense of a positive print. This horrified me. And when I demanded that they should
make a positive print, they reacted as though I wanted to bankrupt them. They were smug and self-satisfied. Having been one of the first to enter the film business, and being protected by patent rights which gave them a monopoly, their last consideration was the making of good pictures. And although other companies were challenging their patent rights and making better films, Essanay still went smugly on, dealing out scenarios like playing cards every Monday morning.

I had almost finished my first picture, which was called
His New Job
, and two weeks had elapsed and still no Mr Spoor had shown up. Having received neither the bonus nor my salary, I was contemptuous. ‘Where is this Mr Spoor?’ I demanded at the front office. They were embarrassed and could give no satisfactory explanation. I made no effort to hide my contempt and asked if he always conducted his business affairs in this way.

Years later I heard from Spoor himself what had happened. It appears that when Spoor, who had never heard of me at that time, learned that Anderson had signed me up for a year at twelve hundred dollars a week with a ten-thousand-dollar bonus, he sent Anderson a frantic wire, wanting to know if he had done mad. And when Spoor heard that Anderson had signed me purely as a gamble, on the recommendation of Jess Robbins, his anxiety was twofold. He had comics who were getting only seventy-five dollars a week, the best of them, and their comedies barely paid for themselves. Hence Spoor’s absence from Chicago.

When he returned, however, he lunched at one of the big Chicago hotels with several friends who, to his surprise, complimented him about my joining his company. Also, more than the usual publicity began piling up in the studio office about Charlie Chaplin. So he thought he would try an experiment. He gave a page-boy a quarter and had me paged throughout the hotel. As the boy went through the lobby shouting: ‘Call for Mr Charlie Chaplin,’ people began to congregate until it was packed with stir and excitement. This was his first indication of my popularity. The second was what had happened at the film exchange while he was away: he discovered that even before I had started the picture there was an advance sale of sixty-five copies, something unprecedented, and by the time I had finished
the film a hundred and thirty prints were sold and orders were still pouring in. Immediately they raised the price from thirteen cents to twenty-five cents a foot.

When Spoor eventually showed up, I confronted him about my salary and bonus. He was profuse with apologies, explaining that he had told the front office to take care of all business arrangements. He had not seen the contract, but assumed that the front office knew all about it. This cock-and-bull story infuriated me. ‘What were you scared about?’ I said, laconically. ‘You can still get out of your contract if you wish – in fact I think you’ve already broken it.’

Spoor was a tall, portly individual, soft-spoken and almost good-looking but for a pale flabbiness of face and an acquisitive top lip that sat over the lower one.

‘I’m sorry you feel this way,’ he said, ‘but, as you must know, Charlie, we are a reputable firm and always live up to our contract.’

‘Well, you haven’t lived up to this one,’ I interposed.

‘We’ll take care of that matter right now,’ he said.

‘I’m in no hurry,’ I answered sarcastically.

*

During my short stay in Chicago, Spoor did everything to placate me, but I could never really warm up to him. I told him I was unhappy working in Chicago and that if he wanted results he should arrange for me to work in California. ‘We’ll do everything we can to make you happy,’ he said. ‘How would you like to go to Niles?’

I was not too pleased at the prospect, but I liked Anderson better than Spoor; so after completing of
His New Job
I went to Niles.

Bronco Billy made all his Western movies there; they were one-reelers that took him a day to make. He had seven plots which he repeated over and over again, and from which he made several million dollars. He would work sporadically. Sometimes he would turn out seven one-reel Westerns in a week, then go on holiday for six weeks.

Surrounding the studio at Niles were several small Californian bungalows which Bronco Billy had built for members of his
company, and a large one which he occupied himself. He told me that if I desired I could live there with him. I was delighted at the prospect. Living with Bronco Billy, the millionaire cowboy who had entertained me in Chicago at his wife’s sumptuous apartment, would at least make life tolerable in Niles.

It was dark when we entered his bungalow, and when we switched on the light I was shocked. The place was empty and drab. In his room was an old iron bed with a light-bulb hanging over the head of it. A rickety old table and one chair were the other furnishings. Near the bed was a wooden box upon which was a brass ash-tray filled with cigarette-butts. The room allotted to me was almost the same, only it was minus a grocery box. Nothing worked. The bathroom was unspeakable. One had to take a jug and fill it from the bath tap and empty it down the flush to make the toilet work. This was the home of G. M. Anderson, the multi-millionaire cowboy.

I came to the conclusion that Anderson was an eccentric. Although a millionaire, he cared little for graceful living; his indulgences were flamboyant-coloured cars, promoting prizefighters, owning a theatre and producing musical shows. When he was not working in Niles, he spent most of his time in San Francisco, where he stayed in small moderate-priced hotels. He was an odd fellow, vague, erratic and restless, who sought a solitary life of pleasure; and although he had a charming wife and daughter in Chicago, he rarely saw them. They lived their lives separately and apart.

It was disturbing moving again from one studio to another. I had to organize another working unit, which meant selecting a satisfactory camera-man, an assistant director and a stock company, the latter being difficult because there was little to choose from in Niles. There was one other company at Niles besides Anderson’s cowboy outfit: this was a nondescript comedy company that kept things going and paid expenses when G. M. Anderson was not working. The stock company consisted of twelve people, and these were mostly cowboy actors. Again I had the problem of finding a pretty girl for a leading lady. Now I was anxious to get to work. Although I hadn’t a story, I ordered the crew to build an ornate café set. When I was lost for a gag or an idea a café would always supply one. While it
was being built I went with G. M. Anderson to San Francisco to look for a leading lady among the chorus girls of his musical comedy, and, although it was nice work, none of them was photogenic. Carl Strauss, a handsome young German-American cowboy working with Anderson, said he knew of a girl who occasionally went to Tate’s Café on Hill Street. He did not know her personally, but she was pretty and the proprietor might know her address.

Mr Tate knew her quite well. She lived with her married sister, she was from Lovelock, Nevada, her name was Edna Purviance. Immediately we got in touch with her and made an appointment to meet her at the St Francis Hotel. She was more than pretty, she was beautiful. At the interview she seemed sad and serious. I learned afterwards that she was just getting over a love affair. She had been to college and had taken a business course. She was quiet and reserved, with beautiful large eyes, beautiful teeth and a sensitive mouth. I doubted whether she could act or had any humour, she looked so serious. Nevertheless, with these reservations we engaged her. She would at least be decorative to my comedies.

The next day we returned to Niles, but the café was not ready, and what they had built was crude and awful; the studio was certainly lacking technically. After giving orders for a few alterations, I began to think of an idea. I thought of a title:
His Night Out
– a drunk in pursuit of pleasure – that was enough to start with. I added a fountain to the night-club, feeling I could get some gags out of it, and I had Ben Turpin as a stooge. The day before we started the picture a member of Anderson’s company invited me to a supper party. It was a modest affair, with beer and sandwiches. There were about twenty of us, including Miss Purviance. After supper some played cards while others sat around and talked. We got on to the subject of hypnotism and I bragged about my hypnotic powers. I boasted that within sixty seconds I could hypnotize anyone in the room. I was so convincing that most of the company believed me, but Edna did not.

She laughed. ‘What nonsense! No one could hypnotize me!’

‘You,’ I said, ‘are just the perfect subject. I bet you ten dollars that I’ll put you to sleep in sixty seconds.’

‘All right,’ said Edna, ‘I’ll bet.’

‘Now, if you’re not well afterwards don’t blame me for it – of course it will be nothing serious.’

I tried to scare her into backing out, but she was resolute. One woman begged her not to allow it. ‘You’re very foolish,’ she told her.

‘The bet still goes,’ said Edna, quietly.

‘Very well,’ I answered. ‘I want you to stand with your back firmly against the wall, away from everybody, so that I can get your undivided attention.’

She obeyed, smiling superciliously. By this time everyone in the room was interested.

‘Somebody watch the time,’ I said.

‘Remember,’ said Edna, ‘you’re to put me to sleep in sixty seconds.’

‘In sixty seconds you will be completely unconscious,’ I answered.

‘Go!’ said the time-keeper.

Immediately I made two or three dramatic passes, staring intensely into her eyes. Then I came near to her face and whispered so that the other could not hear: ‘Fake it!’ and made passes, saying: ‘You will be unconscious – you are unconscious, unconscious!’

Then I drew back and she began to stagger. Quickly I caught her in my arms. Two of the onlookers screamed. ‘Quick!’ I said. ‘Someone help me put her on the couch.’

When she came to, she feigned bewilderment and said the felt tired. Although she could have won her argument and proved her point to all present, she had generously relinquished her triumph for the sake of a good joke. This won her my esteem and affection and convinced me that she had a sense of humour.

I made four comedies at Niles, but as the studio facilities were not satisfactory, I did not feel settled or contented there, so I suggested to Anderson my going to Los Angeles, where they had better facilities for making comedies. He agreed, but also for another reason: because I was monopolizing the studio, which was not big enough or adequately staffed for three companies. So he negotiated the renting of a small studio at Boyle Heights, which was in the heart of Los Angeles.

While we were there, two young men who were just beginning in the business came and rented studio space, named Hal Roach and Harold Lloyd.

As the value of my comedies increased with every new picture, Essanay began demanding unprecedented terms, charging exhibitors a minimum of fifty dollars a day rental for my two-reel comedies. This meant that they were collecting over fifty thousand dollars in advance for each picture.

One evening, after I had returned to the Stoll Hotel, where I was staying, a middle-rate place but new and comfortable, there was an urgent telephone call from the Los Angeles
Examiner
. They read a telegram they had received from New York stating:

WILL GIVE CHAPLIN $25,000 FOR TWO WEEKS
TO APPEAR FIFTEEN MINUTES EACH EVENING AT
THE NEW YORK HIPPODROME. THIS WILL NOT
INTERFERE WITH HIS WORK.

Immediately I put in a call to G. M. Anderson in San Francisco. It was late and I was not able to reach him until three in the morning. Over the phone I told him of the telegram and asked if he would let me off for two weeks in order to earn that twenty-five thousand dollars. I suggested that I could start a comedy on the train going to New York, and while there finish it. But Anderson did not want me to do it.

My bedroom window opened out on the well of the hotel, so that the voice of anyone talking resounded through the rooms. The telephone connexion was bad – ‘I don’t intend to pass up twenty-five thousand dollars for two weeks’ work!’ I had to shout several times.

A window opened above and a voice shouted back: ‘Cut out that bull and go to sleep, you big dope!’

Anderson said over the phone that, if I gave Essanay another two-reeler comedy, they would give me the twenty-five thousand. He agreed to come to Los Angeles the following day and give me the cheque and draw up an agreement. After I had finished telephoning I turned off the light and was about to go to sleep, then, remembering the voice, I got out of bed, opened the window and shouted up: ‘Go to hell!’

Anderson came to Los Angeles the following day with a cheque for twenty-five thousand dollars, and the New York company that made the original offer went bankrupt two weeks later. Such was my luck.

Now back in Los Angeles I was much happier. Although the studio at Boyle Heights was in a slummy neighbourhood, it enabled me to be near my brother, whom I occasionally saw in the evening. He was still at Keystone and would finish his contract there about a month earlier than the completion of mine with Essanay. My success had taken on such proportions that Sydney now intended devoting his whole time to my business affairs. According to reports, my popularity kept increasing with each succeeding comedy. Although I knew the extent of my success in Los Angeles by the long lines at the box-office, I did not realize to what magnitude it had grown elsewhere. In New York, toys and statuettes of my character were being sold in all the department stores and drugstores. Ziegfeld Follies Girls were doing Chaplin numbers, marring their beauty with moustaches, derby hats, big shoes and baggy trousers, singing a song called
Those Charlie Chaplin Feet
.