Only the Little Tramp Matters

My Autobiography, by Charles Chaplin. Simon and Schuster, $6.95 The Paramount rooster flapped its wings, raised its neck and crowed in dumb-show. Soldiers marched, speeded to a ridiculous trot by hand-cranked cameras. High-topped limousines raced forward as their wheel spokes moved slowly backwards. Then the news was over and the screen with the patch in the left-hand bottom corner went blank, to be followed, after a fumbling inter lude in the projection booth, by the glowing letters Charlie chaplin in. . . . And Andersen’s Mattapan Theater on any Saturday afternoon echoed with shouts and stamps and whistles. Standing on the rickety wooden chairs, screaming with anticipatory delight, we were carried away by the prospect of seeing again the little man with the mobile face, the black daub of a moustache, the baggy pants and big shoes, the derby, the elastic cane. He was the funniest man in the world; that we knew. Mary Pickford might be America’s sweetheart, but she was not the sweetheart of the Edmund P. Tileston School. Charlie Chaplin was the man for us. Neither the gelatinous Fatty Arbuckle nor cross-eyed Ben Turpin could approach him.

The year was the last year of World War I. I can no longer remember any of the titles of those Chaplin two-reelers except Shoulder Arms. Mabel Normand riding pillion behind Charlie on a motorcycle is the only character whose name I recall.

FR

About the Author

Francis Russell

Featured Tags

Franklin Delano Roosevelt

The Left

My Autobiography, by Charles Chaplin. Simon and Schuster, $6.95 The Paramount rooster flapped its wings, raised its neck and crowed in dumb-show. Soldiers marched, speeded to a ridiculous trot by hand-cranked cameras. High-topped limousines raced forward as their wheel spokes moved slowly backwards. Then the news was over and the screen with the patch in the left-hand bottom corner went blank, to be followed, after a fumbling inter lude in the projection booth, by the glowing letters Charlie chaplin in. . . . And Andersen’s Mattapan Theater on any Saturday afternoon echoed with shouts and stamps and whistles. Standing on the rickety wooden chairs, screaming with anticipatory delight, we were carried away by the prospect of seeing again the little man with the mobile face, the black daub of a moustache, the baggy pants and big shoes, the derby, the elastic cane. He was the funniest man in the world; that we knew. Mary Pickford might be America’s sweetheart, but she was not the sweetheart of the Edmund P. Tileston School. Charlie Chaplin was the man for us. Neither the gelatinous Fatty Arbuckle nor cross-eyed Ben Turpin could approach him.

The year was the last year of World War I. I can no longer remember any of the titles of those Chaplin two-reelers except Shoulder Arms. Mabel Normand riding pillion behind Charlie on a motorcycle is the only character whose name I recall.