#premiere of monsieur verdoux

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Charlie Chaplin with Mary Pickford on his right arm and lovely wife Oona on his left. Attending Premiere of “Monsieur Verdoux”, Broadway Theatre, New York City, April 11th 1947.

Mary Pickford appears to want to be anywhere, but there. She and Charlie were still partners in United Artists. It was felt her public support would help the film’s reception. It did not work, in fact some sitting in the theatre hissed at the film. Charlie quite upset at this reaction went and stood in the lobby while Mary and Oona sat through it.

By 1947, Charlie Chaplin was starting to feel a backlash from the press and the public. In fact the press that met with him the next day at the Gotham Hotel, treated him quite different than seven years prior, on the occasion of “The Great Dictator”, when the press had met him with open arms.

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Style is knowing who you are, what you want to say, and not giving a damn.

- Orson Welles

It is an odd fact that two of the most original film artists in Hollywood only ever collaborated once in their stellar careers. Both Orson Welles and Charlie Chaplin made their mark by the time they reached 26 years old. But both would be driven out of Hollywood for very different reasons.

Monsieur Verdoux (1947) was the one film both iconic film makers did work together on. Charlie Chaplin said, without false modesty, that Monsieur Verdoux was "the most intelligent and brilliant film of his entire career".

It is in any case the darkest of his comedies: the story of a serial killer who ends up on the guillotine. But, as Chaplin always said, comedy is never far from tragedy and horror. "Under the right circumstances, murder can be comic," he wrote.

The original idea was suggested by Orson Welles. It was originally a project for a dramatic documentary about the legendary French assassin Henri-Désiré Landru, who was executed in 1922 after killing at least ten women, two dogs and a young boy. Chaplin paid Welles $5,000 for the idea, agreeing that the credits should read, "Inspired by an idea of Orson Welles." Later, Welles would claim that he had written a script for the film himself, but this is unlikely. In any case, the written agreement between Chaplin and Welles makes no mention of this.

The agreement was signed in 1941, but it took Chaplin four years to complete the script. In the meantime, he was distracted from his work by a painful paternity suit, which was offset by his happy marriage to Oona O'Neill.

Chaplin claimed that the character of Verdoux was partly inspired by Thomas Wainwright, a nineteenth-century English forger, murderer and intellectual.

Monsieur Verdoux was released in New York in April 1947, at a time when political paranoia was reaching its peak. Chaplin, vaguely suspected of extremist sympathies by J. Edgar Hoover of the powerful FBI, was one of its most notable victims.

Already affected by the general unfavourable reaction to the film premiere, he was even more so by a press conference where hostile journalists refused to talk about the film but asked him pointedly about his political views, his patriotism, his tax problems and his refusal to adopt American nationality.

September 1952 marked Charlie Chaplin's first visit to England in 21 years; yet it also marked the beginning of his exile from the United States. The trip to Europe was meant to be a brief one to promote his new film Limelight, with Chaplin remarking upon his departure that "I shall probably be away for six months, but no more." However, on 19 September, while Chaplin was still at sea, the US Attorney-General announced plans to lauch an inquiry into whether he would be re-admitted to the US. In the end it would be 20 years before he would return.

For Orson Welles, he would spend the rest  of his life trying to make films on his own terms after the critical success of Citizen Kane. Welles was willing and eager to work, virtually to the last day of his life. The fundamental sources of his difficulties remained what they had been throughout his career: the financial and artistic constraints bound up with working in the American film industry.

In effect Welles was blacklisted by the Hollywood studios in the late 1940s. McBride points to “unmistakable evidence, hidden in plain sight, that Welles’s political and cultural activities had caused him to be blacklisted during the postwar era. His decision to leave the country in 1947, just as the Hollywood blacklist was being imposed, and his reinvention of himself as a wandering European filmmaker, largely out of necessity, hastened his already strong bent toward independence from the commercial system.

**Photo: Orson Welles and Charlie Chaplin having a lunch together at the Brown Derby in Hollywood, 1947.

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Here Mary Pickford, Charlie and wife Oona attend premiere.

Charlie Chaplin's MONSIEUR VERDOUX premiered in New York City #OnThisDay in 1947.

[365days365movies]

April 4, 2021: The Great Dictator (Review)

It's a 100%. Haven't given one of those in a while!

Here's the thing: this is a great film. Hang the comedy bit, even though it's also a very funny film! This is a great movie, no questions. I actually have no problems with it, and barely any actual commentary, gonna be honest. Fact of the matter is, it's essentially perfect in my book. Maybe it's not actually flawless...but I'm having a lot of trouble seeing any flaws. If you've got any, PLEASE tell me! I'm curious, really.

But OK, why am I even writing this, then? Because I want to close out this Golden Era of Comedy with a post about the end of its biggest star, Charlie Chaplin. Because from here...things are all downhill. And the seeds of that journey can be seen in this film. So, in other words, this post is a film history post. WELCOME TO SCHOOL

Yeah, sorry. If you like these history posts, I hope you like this one! And if not...yeah, that's entirely fair. Go ahead and skip this one! The next movie is Arsenic and Old Lace, so I'll save you the trouble of scrolling down! See you next time!

...

...OK, you still here? Cool, let's do this. Go ahead and "keep reading" for more on Chaplin after this film!

Review: Charlie Chaplin

Chaplin's walking on air, at least in terms of his film career! The Great Dictator will become his best-received film critically, and was a smash-hit in the United States. But that's pretty heavily contrasted with the reception of, well, Chaplin himself. Because unfortunately for him, Chaplin's ideologies would soon VIOLENTLY clash with that of his adopted country of the United States.

First things first, his love life was a mess, as was typical for the film star. His latest significant other was actress Joan Barry, and they separated bitterly (AKA, the only was Chaplin separates from anybody), after having a child together. This relationship would begin the downfall of Chaplin's image, starting in 1942. And that would be due to one of the most irritating, shitty dudes in the history of the FBI: J. Edgar Hoover.

Hoover HATED Chaplin, mostly because he was suspicious of him, as he was with EVERYBODY. Fuck Hoover, by the way, dude was a monster. He was also an INSANE patriot, bordering on straight up nationalism. But his hatred of Chaplin revolved around the fact that Chaplin's views were...controversial. I mean, Modern Times was an anti-industrialist film, and that's what the USA was ALL ABOUT at the time. And then, there's...one more thing. I'll get there.

Hoover launched a smear campaign against Charlie, and the Barry case was saddled with an additional allegation: violation of the Mann Act, which stated that it was illegal to transport women across state lines for sexual reasons. It was an attempt to stifle prostitution, and part of a massive moral panic of the time period. It was a bullshit charge, and Chaplin escaped it in trial. But damage had been done to his reputation, and Charlie was about to make it worse.

Shortly after, in 1943, Chaplin would meet his last wife, Oona O'Neill. She was 18, he was 54. Fuckin' OOF, dude. And in 19 years, the two would have EIGHT CHILDREN JESUS FUCKING CHRIST CHAPLIN!!!

Anyway, other than this positive development, the Barry trial had beaten the shit out of him, will-wise. But he began developing a new ambitious film project in 1946, which was called Monsieur Verdoux. This was a black comedy about a bank clerk/serial killer that killed women for money. Which is obviously pretty controversial in a moral panic-stricken America, but that was made worse by Chaplin more overtly expressing his political views...which were violently anti-capitalism! In post-World War II America!

Uh-oh.

In 1947, with the release of Monsieur Verdoux, the film was legit booed at the premiere in the USA. Fuck. Tensions finally came to a head, and Chaplin was "outed" as a filthy, filthy commie! And I put "outed" in quotes because, well...he wasn't. Sure, Chaplin was against capitalism and military nationalism, as well as sympathizing with communist ideals in some cases. He was also friends with suspected communists, and with Soviet diplomats. And that shit's barely OK NOW amongst a pretty big proportion of people in the country. In 1947? WAY FUCKIN' WORSE.

Chaplin was "dangerous and amoral" according to the FBI, and he probably believed in equal rights for minorities too, the FILTHY FUCKIN' COMMIE!!! But, yeah, he was targeted by Joseph McCarthy and the House Un-American Activities Committee, and was nearly listed as one of the Hollywood Ten, a group of filmmakers blacklisted from Hollywood for alleged communist activities. Chaplin escaped that, but was still a major target for the Red Scare.

Chaplin, not giving a fuck as always, now decided upon a new project. Limelight was a semi-autobiographical film, in which he played an aging former vaudeville actor who had lost his popularity and fame, and falls in love with a younger woman. On the nose as always, Chaplin. Also, that's Buster Keaton in the GIF up there! Only time the two ever appeared on screen. Neat, huh?

Chaplin went home to the UK for the film's well-publicized premiere in 1952. And that's when the US Attorney General STRUCK, revoking Chaplin's VISA, and trapping him overseas permanently. Chaplin was banned from the United States, through really shitty underhanded tactics. Fuck, man. Worst part is, it's since been proven that there was no good justification for the VISA to be revoked. But the damage was done, and Chaplin willingly cut his ties with the United States, having been spurned by his adopted country for years.

Loved in Europe and hated in America, Charlie continued making films, with his next film being another semi-autobiographical parody called A King in New York. He also came out not as a communist, but as a straight-up anarchist! He hated government altogether at this point, and it's hard to blame the guy. He really did get screwed. But, ironically, his love life was now quite stable, and his marriage with Oona was happy, by all accounts.

His films were banned in the United States, and Chaplin banned them right back, not releasing his films there, and preventing American journalists from attending its premiere. But even ten years later, Chaplin's filmography began to re-emerge for movie audiences, and his popularity began to rebound. The man was just that good, what can I say? Chaplin made a romantic comedy in 1967, called A Countess from Hong Kong, and starring Marlon Brando of all people! It was his first color film, and...it did NOT go well with audiences, ANYWHERE. It just wasn't well-received, and that film would be Chaplin's last.

In 1967, Chaplin had his first stroke of many. He continued his marriage with Oona, and even continued making another film called The Freak, an ambitious project from what's known about it. Basically, it was about a South American girl with wings, which is interesting. In 1972, after 20 years away, Chaplin was welcomed back to the United States with open arms, and was given an Honorary Academy Award for his insane contribution to the medium since the Golden Age of Hollywood. He was given a 12-minute standing ovation, the longest ever given at an Academy Award ceremony.

Still planning on making his film, he returned home. But the film went on a permanent hiatus by 1977, by which time his health had badly declined. On Christmas Day, 1977, Chaplin was found dead, having suffered a stroke in his sleep. He was 88 years of age, and was buried two days later in Switzerland. And THEN...he was dug up.

Yeah, DUDE'S GRAVE WAS FUCKIN' ROBBED! A couple of guys held Chaplin's corpse for ransom, which didn't work out for them, and he was reburied a few days later, this time in a reinforced concrete vault, where his remains remain to this day.

Charles Spencer Chaplin is one of the greatest actors and filmmakers of his time, and didn't deserve the guff he got from the government. The guff he got from his wives...eh, that he probably did deserve, not gonna lie. Dude wasn't the best husband, or the best dad to at least three of his kids. But in an ongoing effort to separate the art from the artist, Chaplin needs to be appreciated for the mountain of talent that he was, and his films will make him immortal in the annals of film history. Long live the Tramp.

But with him and his influence, the film industry had a place to evolve from, especially in terms of comedy. After The Great Dictator, some comedies felt the freedom to take a bit of a darker tone. And from here on out, we're splitting the timeline by genre, tracking comedy films by the evolution of their respective genres. And we start in 1944, with a film about...MYURDERRRR!!! And sweet old ladies!

April 5, 2021: Arsenic and Old Lace (1944), dir. Frank Capra

[golbargbashi]

I am often attacked and falsely accused for my lack of "patriotism," for "siding" with this or that government for simply expressing my solidarity with peoples and causes that apparently an Iranian-born woman of color who white-passes in America, ought not to do. It is in these times that I take solace and strength from progressive transnational Iranian intellectuals, like 20th century CE poet Nima Yushij who proclaimed: "The World is My Home" or those after him like Sohrab Sepehri, Fereydoon Moshiri or those centuries before them such as Jalal ad-Din Balkhi Rumi who re-imagined and dared (in spite of their "unfashionable," non-nativist, anti-racist concerns) to continue to express their care and involvement with just causes and the downtrodden anywhere on our tiny planet (not governments or Departments of States!) On this Sunday, Charlie Chaplin's words and example epitomizes how I feel, act, and see myself as a mother, as a writer, and as a human being who navigates across borders, languages, academic disciplines, and outside of petty identity-politics. During the premier of Charlie Chaplin's film "Monsieur Verdoux" (1947) in this very city, New York, my home, if I am entitled to claim, "members of the audience booed and hissed at the screen . . . [and the film premier was followed by] a hostile press conference." Chaplin was accused of being anti-American, not British enough, a Communist, a Soviet sympathiser etc etc. Chaplin who cared deeply about the human condition, where-ever it happened, responded as follows: "I consider myself a citizen of the world . . . I just happen to have been born in London, England. It could have been Burma or China or Timbuktu, I’d still be the way I am." (Chaplin, 1947) Years earlier he had said and shown throughout his work that: 'I’m a patriot to humanity as a whole. I’m a citizen of the world. If the Four Freedoms mean anything after this war, we don’t bother about whether we are citizens of one country or another.” (Chaplin, 1942) Elsewhere he wrote: “The deeper the truth in a creative work, the longer it will live.” It is my sincere hope that my transparent, solid commitment to the truth does just that. (at New York, New York) https://www.instagram.com/p/CE2F8bYAKjr/?igshid=1im88nrlngjg

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Mary Pickford, Charlie Chaplin and Oona O’neill at the premiere of “Monsieur Verdoux“- Broadway 1947

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When Charlie Chaplin met Pablo Picasso: How a war of egos took place in Paris

Cultural titans, left-wing darlings - but how did Pablo and Charlie get on when they finally met?

Today, Pablo Picasso is rarely out of the news. Tickets must be booked long in advance for the brilliantly refurbished Picasso Museum in Paris, and his works command surreal prices at auction. (Last year, a version of his Women of Algiers set a new world record when it sold at Christie's in New York for $179m.) We hear rather less of Charles Chaplin: the last time his hat and cane were sold at auction, they raised a mere $40,000. But if, in 1952, we had been invited to nominate two world-famous artistic geniuses, still active and thriving, whom we would have liked to find together in the same room, Chaplin and Picasso might well have fitted the bill. But while Chaplin's early, silent films were still shown and adored across the world, Picasso's fame at that time was more problematic.

Already he was sought-after by museums and collectors, but the public regarded him with suspicion or hostility – too modern, too ugly, too in-your-face, as the master of Cubism somersaulted from one baffling style to the next. And while both he and Chaplin had lauded Stalin's Russia, Picasso had recently been condemned by Moscow's academicians and museum curators as "formalistic", "decadent", "bourgeois" and "anti-human". His blood boiled silently, while his celebrated Dove of Peace extended its wings from Moscow to Peking.

Many might assume that Picasso and Chaplin, both born in the 1880s, the "maître" and the "maestro", had little else in common beyond brilliant careers, fame and wealth. Indeed, they could not exchange even an insult in the same language. So what could bring them together? More than might be supposed, and culminating in a celebratory meeting between two inflated egos in Picasso's vast studio in the rue des Grands Augustins, Paris – a collision we shall presently attend, uninvited.

Their two careers had pursued contrasting trajectories. Whereas the supremely self-confident Picasso had remained entire master of his own change of styles during an output spanning five decades, Chaplin by contrast had been confronted by a potentially terminal crisis when silent films such as his The Gold Rush gave way to "talkies". He had to remodel himself as an actor-director in the 1930s – and he did, coming up with such works of genius as Modern Times and The Great Dictator. He had discovered a way of remaining true to himself, always the ridiculous yet captivating clown, while injecting social and political commitment into modern cinema. But what most obviously linked Picasso to Chaplin was an aggressively left-wing outlook, sympathetic to Soviet Russia and scornful of Western "warmongers".

And as such, both were outsiders, heretics.

Having publicly supported the Soviet Union during the war, calling for a second front to take the Hitlerite pressure off the Red Army, Chaplin then backed the abortive US presidential campaign of Henry A Wallace, leader of the Progressive Party. In 1949 he put in a prominent appearance at the fellow-travelling Waldorf Conference in New York, a scene of bitter, Cold-War recriminations. As a result, Chaplin (who had never forfeited his British citizenship) was cordially detested by large swaths of the American public.

Picasso, too, had declined citizenship in his adopted country. When the Nazis occupied Paris in 1940, he stayed put. His native Spain was closed to him by Franco's victory in the Spanish Civil War, and by Picasso's famous pictorial lament Guernica, a huge, expressionist canvas of massacre and misery commemorating the fascist air attack on a Republican town. (That the work now hung in New York's Museum of Modern Art was also considered a scandal in the age of Senator Joseph McCarthy.)

Another thing Chaplin and Picasso had in common was short stature combined with Napoleonic energy. Capitalising on his small, slender frame on screen, his stick held by elastic, Chaplin was sensitive about it in public: the women in his life were not allowed to wear high heels. He was also a snob of sorts. His autobiography chokes on the names of all the famous people he had known or met for a handshake. George Bernard Shaw? HG Wells? Of course. Mahatma Gandhi? Einstein and Eisenstein? No problem. Churchill headed the list, followed by Roosevelt.

Chaplin was proud that Hitler himself had banned The Great Dictator (although he seems to have been unaware that Stalin had suppressed the same film just in case the scenes of Nazi mass adulation reminded Soviet audiences that the first man to stop applauding a speech by the Great Helmsman Stalin was a dead man). Chaplin did know, however, that Modern Times had been rejected by Russia, ostensibly because it was weak on socialism (true), but in reality because the film inadvertently confirmed that even demon capitalists provided washrooms and served three-course lunches on trays to their oppressed workers.

Indeed, one illustrious hand was missing from the list of those shaken by Chaplin – Stalin's. Chaplin had never visited the USSR and Stalin had rarely stepped out of it. So there we have a cruel paradox: both Chaplin and Picasso admired the Soviet Union and "Uncle Joe", but their work could not be shown there.

Both the maître and the maestro were notorious womanisers. When they finally met, their mutual passion for young women might well have driven them apart after Picasso took a fancy to Chaplin's fourth American wife Oona O'Neill and threatened to cuckold him – a pledge luckily lost to the language barrier. In puritan America, where the collective voice of women was louder and more litigious, Chaplin's lively sex life had landed him in bitter divorce cases and public opprobrium, culminating in his indictment under the Mann Act, a US federal law that aimed to curb prostitution and "immorality". French public opinion, always more permissive – a man, after all, is a man – had given Picasso an easier ride.

Estranged from his first wife, the Ukrainian-born ballerina Olga Khokhlova, the great artist remained technically married to her from 1918 until her death in 1965, which brought him relief from a lady increasingly inclined to follow him about and harass his mistresses along the seafronts of the South of France. Picasso was a man of many mistresses and muses, including the often-painted Marie Thérèse Walter and the talented photographer-artist Dora Maar, subject of the "weeping woman" portraits. He deserted both when another woman took his fancy. Her name was Françoise Gilot and what he later told her about his rendezvous with Chaplin gives us his version of their meeting. (Chaplin's has yet to be found.)

According to Picasso, Chaplin, who was heading for London with his family in September 1952, was totally focused on the launch and promotion of his new film Limelight, successor to Monsieur Verdoux, a dark comedy more popular with French audiences than American. Set in London in 1914, Limelight almost chokes on pathos and nostalgia. It portrays the decline of Calvero (Chaplin), once a famous stage clown but now a washed-up drunk. Rescuing a despairing young dancer (Claire Bloom) from suicide, he devotes his dwindling energies to reviving her dancing career. Deeply grateful, she is willing to marry the haggard old man, but Calvero altruistically delivers her into the arms of the young composer (Sydney Earl Chaplin, the director's son) whom she loves. The swelling and sobbing theme music is as much a tear-jerker as the story itself.

But Chaplin's popularity was at a low ebb in the US. Persecuted by the FBI, the Catholic War Veterans and the Hearst newspapers, he was now faced with a virtual boycott of the film by the most powerful cinema chains. And his situation, as he headed by sea for London, was worsened by news that US Attorney General James P McGranery, a strong Catholic, had issued a statement threatening to ban Chaplin from returning to America, accusing him of "making statements that would indicate a leering, sneering attitude toward a country whose hospitality has enriched him". Chaplin might never get back to his home in California, his accumulated wealth and his film studio.

At Cherbourg, reporters swarmed aboard the liner; they swarmed again when Chaplin, absent from London for 21 years, moved into his Savoy penthouse suite. The hard voices of the Hearst Press challenged his politics and his sex life. Why had he never applied for American citizenship, they asked? Was he guilty of tax avoidance? What did he have to say about Charles Skouras's decision to ban Limelight from his movie theatres? Had he been invited to visit Russia by Stalin? Naturally, Chaplin hit back, sometimes wittily. Asked whether he had ever committed adultery, he quipped: "An FBI agent visited our home and asked that question. I said no – did he recommend it?"

The next morning he smilingly toured Covent Garden vegetable market in the company of Claire Bloom, currently Juliet at the Old Vic (and tactfully wearing flat shoes), while Cockney porters saluted him. Come the premiere of Limelight in Leicester Square, he stood in the receiving line to greet Princess Margaret, then headed to a dinner at the Mansion House, hosted by the Lord Mayor, where Charlie raised a cheer from the white ties and silk gowns by describing England as "my country". (The next day, The Times pointed out that Mr Chaplin was not inclined to settle for the draconian taxes endured by the rich who chose to reside in "his" country.) And now the Chaplins headed for Paris and Pablo Picasso.

Regarded tolerantly by the French public as, at worst, an exhibitionistic maverick, Picasso's situation was more secure than Chaplin's. Having joined the Communist Party in 1944 after the Liberation of Paris, eight years later he remained the jewel in the Party's cultural crown. In the cause of the Peace Movement, he had even allowed himself to be dragged to a conference in Sheffield. (He later reported that he almost died of cold and didn't find anything he could eat for two days – "It's a mystery how the English take their clothes off long enough to procreate," he told comrades.) For the newspaper l'Humanité he produced a touching sketch of Ethel and Julius Rosenberg, imprisoned then executed for atomic espionage. He also came up with a strangely displaced canvas, Massacre in Korea, depicting semi-medieval robots mowing down women and children.

Picasso's misgivings about Soviet Russia were jealously kept under the carpet by the French Party. But he could not forget the relentless denigration of his work – "dismembering humanity" – in the Soviet press. The Russians had locked away in cellars their rich collection of Picasso's early works purchased before the revolution by the wealthy collectors Sergei Shchukin and Ivan Morozov. (Jean-Paul Sartre ironically described "the nausea of the Soviet boa constrictor, unable to keep down or vomit up the enormous Picasso".) That was why, according to the histories and biographies, Picasso rejected all invitations to visit Moscow in the cause of "peace". Even in 1956, when the Pushkin Museum finally staged a retrospective of his early work – hugely attended by a curiosity-driven Soviet pubic enjoying the post-Stalin "thaw" – he failed to turn up.

But back to Chaplin: here he is arriving in Paris for the French premiere of Limelight, celebrated by dinner with President Auriol, the award of the Legion d'Honneur and a grand visit to the Opera. The Left rallies: Chaplin is not to be abducted by the reactionary state. The leading Communist writer Louis Aragon, fluent in English, arranges a first meeting between Chaplin and Picasso at a dinner attended by Sartre. Chaplin tells Picasso, "I am a great fan of yours", an excusable exaggeration.

From this emerges the invitation to Picasso's studio, so Chaplin brings Oona by limousine to the rue des Grands Augustins. Knowing no more of the French language than Chaplin, she is beautiful, radiant, affable. Le tout Paris, invited or not, presses into the capacious studio with its stacks of canvases. Aragon explains to Chaplin how much Picasso admires his films, notably the rapid, deft way that the villainous Monsieur Verdoux flips through the pages of a telephone directory in search of new female victims – and the way he counts their money after disposing of them. Meanwhile, Aragon's Russian-born wife, the writer Elsa Triolet, explains to Oona how Pablo had tried to count his own money as rapidly as Monsieur Verdoux: "He made more and more mistakes and there were more recounts."

Oona is puzzled: doesn't Picasso know about banks? Triolet replies: "Pablo has always carried around with him an old red-leather trunk from Hermès in which he keeps five or six million francs. He calls it 'cigarette money'." Oona wonders whether he should smoke so much, while Chaplin beams genially: "As Henry Ford once remarked to me, a man who knows how much he's worth isn't worth much."

Carefully kept from the Chaplins by Aragon and Triolet is the fact that Picasso, taken to view Limelight, had come away distempered. "I don't care for the maudlin, sentimentalising side of Charlot [Charlie]," he had complained on leaving the cinema. "That's for shop girls. It's hand-me-down threadbare romanticism and it's just bad literature."

In fact, Picasso was incensed to witness Chaplin's ageing Calvero sacrificing himself sexually by handing over the heroine to a younger man. Picasso says he would rather let a beautiful young woman die than see her happy with someone else. (His own struggle with virility is relentless.) The Chaplins, meanwhile, merely peck at the culinary delicacies on offer – are these snails or something?

Chaplin satirising Hitler in ‘The Great Dictator’ The packed room falls silent as Picasso instructs Aragon to convey to Charlot the profound thought that both he and Chaplin are masters of the silent gesture, "no description, no analysis, no words". Chaplin nods, bemused – Limelight is fully scripted (inevitably by Chaplin) and Picasso may be indicating an adverse opinion about Chaplin's work since the silent cinema. Chaplin responds, to general delight, by lifting the hat he is not wearing, wriggling his eyebrows and twiddling an invisible moustache. He then launches into the dance with the rolls from the New Year's Eve sequence in The Gold Rush. Huge applause. Picasso beams with delight.

Later, he and Charlot will closet themselves alone in the bathroom to practice the clown's inimitable shaving routine. And when they emerge, Oona – not so cautious about the flowing wine as about the snails – now stands herself back-to-back with Charlie, bends her knees, and giggles: "See? Charlie's taller."

"Moi aussi! I try!" roars Picasso, aflame. Oona obliges him, by no means coyly, again bending at the knee and maybe (accounts differ) playfully butting his bottom.

Much aroused, Picasso turns to Aragon. "Tell Charlot I wouldn't want to insult him by not desiring his wife. Tell him only a very wealthy friend is worth cuckolding." But this does not reach Chaplin. Aragon has abruptly forgotten his English.

The Chaplins departed for Rome and London with the McGranery cloud darkening their lives: Charlie's acceptance of permanent exile from America meant sending Oona home to California on a desperate mission to recover and transfer what may be called the crown jewels, not forgetting to close the family mansion and dismiss the faithful servants. This she bravely did.

The histories and biographies inform us that the Chaplins then headed for Switzerland to find a mansion suitable for a long exile. But a historian I know well believes they first spent two weeks in Moscow, along with Picasso, Aragon and Triolet as part of the Stalin birthday celebrations. According to my newly discovered evidence, the expedition turned into a highly dramatic, multiple disaster; but into this story I do not venture here. Some may unwisely call it "counter-factual" or even mere fiction.

[allegrovinyl-blog]

Toscanini’s Bohemian Rhapsody

Antonin Dvorak was reticent about the New World.

Already a well-known composer in Europe when he took over the directorship of the American National Conservatory of Music, Dvorak tsailed from Prague and disembarked in Hoboken, New Jersey on September 27, 1892. Initially, he was awed by the sprawling rush of urban life–his arrival coincided with the festivities surrounding the 400th anniversary of Columbus’s New World docking. “Great and magnificent” was how he described his new city. In a quiet neighborhood on East 17th St., Dvorak began sketching his last symphony.

Once completed, it was billed in advertisements as evoking “wide open spaces”–an ironic phrase since Dvorak was horrified of them. The Ninth Symphony (“From the New World”) premiered on December 16, 1893. Audiences were enthralled. The composer was hailed as creating a distinctively American sound.

His experience with indigenous Americans, however, was pretty much restricted to watching some traveling Iroquois put on an exhibition in Prague some 20 years earlier. Another influence, strange as it sounds, was Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. As was Longfellow’s 1855 The Song of Hiawatha, which Dvorak wanted to make into a symphonic poem but never finished. Like most white visitors, Dvorak’s view of America was largely expropriatory.

Harry Burleigh, one of his African American students–and later a composer in his own right–introduced the composer to spirituals, leading the latter to contend that African American folk songs would be the basis for a national musical heritage, proving apposite when jazz came along. Notwithstanding his soaking up of second-hand Americana, “From the New World” is very much a product of late-Romantic music theory.

The mood of America, though, pieces the international melodies into an adventitious American composition. An opening minor-key horn solo gives way to an expansive theme that recurs with differing modalities, and its something like listening to a European’s impression of America from a train-car. As it happens, Dvorak was obsessed with railroads, keeping fastidious timetables.

Discovery and longing are twin atmospheres in the symphony. In the Largo‘s intensely tender, almost painfully homesick English horn motif the feeling is tangible, with the first movement’s themes brought into a gently sad harmony.

After an initial burst of Jaws-like strings in the final movement, the preceding melodies are brought into synchrony with inventive variations. Here, the haunting notes of the Largo return in a slower, almost wary lead-up to the hurtling major-key finale. Fittingly enough, the bittersweet horn rounds out the last note of the symphony.

It’s an ambivalent vision of America, and at certain points a bleak one even. Innocence, expectation, transformation, yearning–the 9th is a Brahmsian traversal, with touches of Brucknerian brass, of the New World and Dvorak’s pining for Bohemia. A more modern, Americanized sense of dread roils just out of reach.

There are dozens of fine recordings of Dvorak’s autobiographical paean to America. Rafael Kubelik and the Berliner Philharmoniker ranks among the best and is probably the most faithful to Dvorak’s score.

A quieter performance comes from the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra under the baton of Karel Ancerl.

Istvan Kertesz’s lively conducting of the 9th, included in a 1960s symphonic cycle for Decca, is considered a classic.

But for sheer propulsive power, none equal Arturo Toscanini’s 1953 studio recording. Definitely not the most sensitive or naturalistic, his direction is a headlong dive into the velocities of Dvorak’s New World.

Toscanini, by all accounts, was a difficult man. He was known for pushing his players to their limits with endless rehearsals. A perfectionist par excellence, he was a maniac on the podium, flailing wildly and muttering to himself under an Old World tailored mustache, resembling something like a hybrid of Charlie Chaplin from Monsieur Verdoux and Daniel-Day Lewis.

He was classical music’s first superstar conductor,  with a flair for the dramatic, whose performances on radio and television were viewed and listened to by thousands. His was literally the face of conducting: few people outside of an orchestra had ever seen a conductor’s expressions mid- performance. And what expressions they were.

Toscanini’s anti-Mussolini views made Italy a dangerous place to remain, so he emigrated, just like Dvorak, to NYC. Toscanini’s reputation preceded him; on arrival in 1937 he was supplied with his own hand-picked orchestra and a private studio. Soon, the hyper-charged conductor rampaged through the classical repertoire, rattling off Beethoven cycles, staging Wagner and Verdi, and generally, if you happened to be one of his musicians, being nearly insufferable.

Whether he was a great conductor or not has been a matter of debate, but what’s not in question is that his Dvorak Ninth is pretty exhilarating. Recorded at the NBC studio and subsequently re-issued many times, it displays Toscanini’s ridiculously keen sense of rhythm and tempo, notably in the 4th movement. His approach is practically staccato, an unapologetically brash interpretation that maximizes the symphony’s raw edges and conflicted feelings about the New World. Every bar is as chiseled as Mount Rushmore, with a momentum that channels Dvorak’s love of locomotives. It’s a view of America through the prism of two immigrants navigating its sometimes sweet, often furious noise.

[racingtoaredlight]

On This Day...

On this day in 1952, legendary actor Charlie Chaplin, who had departed New York for London with his family aboard the RMS Queen Elizabeth the day before, publicly had his re-entry permit to the United States revoked by Attorney General James P. McGranery. Chaplin, a British citizen, had built virtually his entire career to that point in the United States, but a series of scandals and innuendos that he was a member of the Communist Party tainted his reputation. For the next two decades, Chaplin lived in Switzerland, having severed all ties to the United States.

Charlie Chaplin became one of the film industry’s first great superstars in the 1920s and 1930s. During this time, Chaplin made a number of silent films which are still considered among the hundred best movies ever made. In 1940, Chaplin crowned his career with the release of his first sound film, The Great Dictator. Considering the time in which it was made, The Great Dictator remains today an astonishingly profound indictment of fascism and nationalism when the horrors of both were barely apparent to the rest of the world. The satire was a critical success, and was also Chaplin’s most commercially successful film. Chaplin’s career was at its zenith.

In 1941-42, Chaplin had a brief affair with actress Joan Barry. The dalliance became public knowledge in the months after Chaplin ended the relationship, when Barry began stalking Chaplin, leading to her being arrested twice. Around the same time, Barry announced she was pregnant and filed a paternity suit against Chaplin, who insisted the child was not his. After two trials, in which much of Chaplin’s personal life was put into public record leading to many frenzied gossip columns, Chaplin was determined by the court to be the father of Barry’s daughter. He was ordered to financially support the child until her 21st birthday. The torrid nature of the proceedings amplified when FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover, who disliked Chaplin, took advantage of the paternity suit and announced that the FBI was investigating Chaplin for alleged violations of the Mann Act. Hoover’s allegation was that Chaplin had impregnated Barry after transporting her across state lines, essentially charging him with sex trafficking. There was scant evidence to support the charge and the jury acquitted Chaplin in that regard. Chaplin’s reputation, however, was badly scarred. Chaplin exacerbated the entire situation still further when, at the age of 54, he married his 18 year protege, Oona O’Neil. The once-highly praised actor was now thought of as a lecherous old man.

The end of World War II led to a rapid deterioration in relations between the United States and the Soviet Union. The erstwhile wartime allies grew suspicious of the each other’s geopolitical intentions and abilities. This period, which I’ve written about before, is called the Red Scare, and lasted much of the 1940s and 50s. During this time, thousands of American citizens were investigated by the FBI for any statements or actions that appeared to show a connection to communism, the Soviet Union, or any other “progressive” ideas. The House Un-American Activities Committee and Senator Joe McCarthy saw themselves as the scourge of anyone who, in their eyes, participated in movements that sought to undermine the capitalist society of the west.

It was in this climate that Charlie Chaplin released his first post-war film, Monsieur Verdoux. The film marked the first time Chaplin did not feature in his role of The Tramp. Instead, it was a black comedy about a poor French bank teller who supports a lavish lifestyle by marrying women of means and then murdering them. The film was taken as a criticism of western values and of the capitalist system. Chaplin said as much and this, along with previous statements criticizing national policies which lead to war, brought him to the attention of J. Edgar Hoover’s FBI again. Monsieur Verdoux received somewhat muted critical praise and was a domestic box office bust because it was deemed anti-American.  While he was despondent over the film’s failure, he refused to disassociate himself from its message, calling it the “most clever film I ever made.”

With his reputation still sullied by the Joan Barry affair, Chaplin’s apparent association with anti-western ideals further undermined his career. Chaplin was even briefly investigated by the House Un-American Activities Committee, though he was never called to testify. Throughout the late 1940s, the FBI continued to investigate Chaplin, intending to seize on any opportunity to have him deported. For his part, Chaplin denied he was a communist, but refused to cooperate with either HUAC or the FBI, declaring that their actions trampled on civil liberties.

In 1952, Chaplin’s studio released his next film, Limelight. The film focused on a once popular vaudeville actor coming to terms with his fading popularity. Though it was filmed entirely in Hollywood, it was set in London. Because of this, Chaplin decided to hold the premiere across the Atlantic, in his native Britain. Though Chaplin had lived in the United States for four decades, and his wife Oona was an American citizen, he personally never sought citizenship. Upon leaving the country, he would have to apply for re-entry with immigration officials. Realizing the opportunity, the Attorney General, at Hoover’s urging, declared on September 19, the day after Chaplin departed New York City, that any application for reentry would be denied. This decision was allegedly supported by evidence of communist collusion in Chaplin’s FBI file, though this assertion is now known to be false and no such evidence exists.

Chaplin accepted the circumstances and moved with his family to Switzerland. His wife, Oona, renounced her American citizenship and become a British citizen. Chaplin closed his studio, liquidated his American estate, and sold his share in United Artists studios. Chaplin would not step foot in the United States for two decades. In 1972, he was invited to Hollywood to receive an honorary Academy Award. Chaplin reluctantly agreed. When he stepped on the stage at the Academy Awards on April 10, 1972, Chaplin received a 12-minute standing ovation, his reputation as one of the American film industry’s finest actors and producers completely resurrected.

[chaplinfortheages]

Charlie Chaplin and wife Oona attend premiere of his film "Monsieur Verdoux" April 11th 1947.

To Oona's left William Sayroyan a Pulitzer Prize and Academy Award winning novelist & playwright then married to Carol Grace (the future Mrs. Walter Matthau, I believe to his left) school girl friend of Oona.

Some trivia: His Pulitzer play was made into the 1948 James Cagney film "The Time of Your Life" He co-wrote the song "Come On-a My House," which became a big hit for singer Rosemary Clooney in 1951. The other writer was his cousin Ross Bagdasarian (who later became famous as "David Seville," the impresario behind Alvin and the Chipmunks), adapting the music from an Armenian folk song.

[chaplinfortheages]

It was a far different press greeting Charlie Chaplin April 14th 1947 in NYC for the premiere of "Monsieur Verdoux".

7 years previous, in NY for the Premiere of "The Great Dictator," the press greeted him with open arms.

Reading his answers to their questions (click picture to see better, he was a bit antagonistic, but rightfully so.

[chaplinfortheages]

October 13th 1940, Charlie Chaplin in New York meets with the Press, Waldorf Astoria Hotel.

In NY for the Premiere of “The Great Dictator” - October 15th

7 years later the same press buried him, when he attended a press conference for "Monsieur Verdoux" 1947.

[citizenscreen]

Charlie Chaplin's MONSIEUR VERDOUX premiered in New York City #OnThisDay in 1947.