Authors: Charles Chaplin
Then the disquieting thought loomed up like thunder that we had not yet attempted to sell the picture. But I was not too concerned about that, for the kudos of my name was still box-office – I hoped. Joe Schenck, our United Artists president, warned me that the exhibitors were not prepared to give me the same terms as they had done for
The Gold Rush
, and that the big circuits were holding off and had a wait-and-see attitude. In the past exhibitors had always had a lively interest in a new film of mine; now their interest was only lukewarm. Moreover, difficulties arose about getting a New York showing. All the New York movie houses were booked up, I was told. So I would have to wait my turn.
The only one available in New York was the George M. Cohan theatre with a seating capacity of eleven hundred and fifty, and that was off the beaten path and considered a white elephant. It was not even a cinema house. I could hire the four walls for seven thousand dollars a week, guaranteeing eight weeks’ rental, and I would have to supply everything else: manager, cashier, ushers, projectionist, stage-hands and the expense of electric signs and publicity. As I was financially involved to the extent of two million dollars – and my own money at that – I might as well take the full gamble and hire the theatre.
Meanwhile Reeves had closed a deal in Los Angeles to open in a new theatre which had just been built. As the Einsteins were still there, they expressed a desire to go to the opening – but I do not think they realized what they had let themselves in for. On the eve of the première they dined at my house, then we all went down town. The main street was packed with people for several blocks. Police cars and ambulances were attempting to plough through the crowds, which had smashed in the shop windows next to the theatre. With the help of a squadron of police, we were propelled into the foyer. How I loathe first nights: the personal tension, the mixture of perfumes, musk and carbona – the effect is nauseating and nerve-racking.
The proprietor had built a beautiful theatre but, like many exhibitors in those days, he knew little about the presentation of films. The picture started. It showed the credit titles, to the usual first-night applause. Then at last the first scene opened. My heart pounded. It was a comedy scene of the unveiling of a statue.
They began to laugh! The laughter increased into roars. I had got them! All my doubts and fears began to evaporate. And I wanted to weep. For three reels they laughed. And from sheer nerves and excitement I was laughing with them.
Then a most incredible thing happened. Suddenly in the middle of the laughter the picture was turned off! The house lights went up and a voice over a loud-speaker announced: ‘Before continuing further with this wonderful comedy, we would like to take five minutes of your time and point out to you the merits of this beautiful new theatre.’ I could not believe my ears. I went mad. I leaped from my seat and raced up the aisle: ‘Where’s that stupid son of a bitch of a manager? I’ll kill him!’
The audience were with me and began stamping their feet and applauding as the idiot went on speaking about the beautiful appointments of the theatre. However, he soon stopped when the audience began booing. It took a reel before the laughter got back into its stride. Under the circumstances I thought the picture went well. During the final scene I noticed Einstein wiping his eyes – further evidence that scientists are incurable sentimentalists.
The following day I left for New York without, waiting for the reviews, for I would get there only four days before the opening. When I arrived, to my horror I discovered that hardly any publicity had been given the picture other than a perfunctory ad announcing: ‘Our old friend is with us again,’ and other feeble phrases. So I read the riot act to our United Artists staff: ‘Never mind the sentiment, give them information; we are opening in a non-movie house that’s off the beaten track.’
I took half-page advertisements, staggering them each day in the most prominent New York newspapers, announcing in the same size letters:
CHARLES CHAPLIN
AT THE COHAN THEATRE
IN
CITY LIGHTS
CONTINUOUS ALL DAY AT 50 CENTS AND ONE DOLLAR
I spent $30,000 extra with the newspapers, then rented an electric sign for the front of the theatre costing another $30,000. As there was little time and we had to hustle, I was up all night,
experimenting with projection of the film, deciding size of picture and correcting distortion. The next day I met the Press and told them the whys and wherefores of my making a silent picture.
The United Artists staff were doubtful about my admission prices because I was charging one dollar top and fifty cents, whereas all the important first-run cinemas only charged eighty-five cents top down to thirty-five cents – and with talkies and a live show to boot. My psychology rested on the eminent fact that it was a silent film and that called for raising the prices, and that if the public wanted to see the picture the difference between eighty-five cents and one dollar would not stop them. So I refused to compromise.
At the première the picture went off very well. But premières are not indicative. It was the ordinary public that would count. Would they be interested in a silent picture? These thoughts kept me awake half the night. In the morning, however, I was awakened by my publicity man, who came bursting into my bedroom at eleven o’clock, shrieking with excitement: ‘Boy, you’ve done it! What a hit! There’s been a line running round the block ever since ten o’clock this morning and it’s stopping the traffic. There are about ten cops trying to keep order. They’re fighting to get in. And you should hear them yell!’
A happy, relaxed feeling stole over me and I ordered breakfast and dressed. ‘Tell me where the biggest laughs were,’ I said. And he gave a minute description of where they laughed, belly-laughed and yelled. ‘Come and see for yourself,’ he said; ‘it’ll do your heart good.’
I was reluctant to go, for nothing could live up to his enthusiasm. However, I saw half an hour of it, standing with the crowds at the back of the theatre, in the midst of happy intensity relieved continuously by sudden outbursts of laughter. That was enough. I came away satisfied and gave vent to my feelings by walking all over New York for four hours. At intervals I passed the theatre and saw the long unbroken line that went round the block. The picture also received unanimous rave reviews.
In a 1150-seat house we took in $80,000 a week for three weeks. The Paramount directly opposite, with 3,000 seats, showing a talkie and with Maurice Chevalier in person, took in only $38,000 the same week.
City Lights
stayed twelve weeks, making
a net profit, after all expenses, of over $400,000. The only reason it was taken off was because of the request of the New York theatre circuits, which had booked the picture at a very good price and did not want to have it played out before it reached their circuits.
Now I intended to go to London and launch
City Lights
there. While in New York I saw a lot of my friend Ralph Barton, one of the editors of the
New Yorker
, who had just illustrated a new edition of Balzac’s
Droll Stories
. Ralph was only thirty-seven years old, a highly civilized and eccentric fellow who had been married five times. He had been depressed of late and had attempted suicide by taking an overdose of something. I suggested that he should come to Europe as my guest, that the change would do him good. So the two of us set off on the
Olympic
– the same boat on which I had travelled to England on the first trip.
A
FTER
ten years, I was sensitive as to what my reception would be in London. I would rather have stolen in quietly without any fuss. But I had come to attend the première of
City Lights
and it meant publicity for the picture. However, I was not disappointed by the size of the crowd that welcomed me.
This time I stayed at the Carlton, for it was an older landmark than the Ritz and made London more familiar to me. My suite was exquisite. The saddest thing I can imagine is to get used to luxury. Each day I stepped into the Carlton was like entering a golden paradise. Being rich in London made life an exciting adventure every moment. The world was an entertainment. The performance started the first thing in the morning.
I glanced out of the window of my room and saw several placards down on the street. One read: ‘Charlie is still their darling.’ I smiled, thoughtfully at the connotation. The Press were extremely nice, for in an interview I made quite
a faux pas
when asked if I intended visiting Elstree. ‘Where’s that?’ I inquired innocently. They looked and smiled at each other, then told me it was the centre of the English film industry. My embarrassment was so genuine that they didn’t take offence.
This second visit was almost as soul-stirring and exciting as the first, and undoubtedly it was more interesting, for I was fortunate in meeting many more interesting people.
Sir Philip Sassoon rang up and invited Ralph and me to several dinners at his town house in Park Lane and his country house at Lympne. We also lunched with him at the House of Commons, where we met Lady Astor in the Lobby. A day or so later she invited us to lunch at No. 1 St James’s Square.
As we entered the reception room, it was like stepping into the
Hall of Fame at Madame Tussaud’s – we were confronted with Bernard Shaw, John Maynard Keynes, Lloyd George and others, but all in the flesh. Lady Astor kept the conversation alive with her unfailing resourcefulness until she was suddenly called away, and then there came an embarrassing silence. But Bernard Shaw took over and told an amusing anecdote about Dean Inge, who, expressing his indignation over the teaching of St Paul, said: ‘He so distorted the teachings of our Saviour as metaphorically to crucify Him head downwards.’ This kindness and geniality in helping to keep the ball rolling was most amiable and attractive in Shaw.
During lunch I talked to Maynard Keynes, the economist, and told him that I had read in an English magazine about the functioning of credit in the Bank of England, which then was a private corporation: that during the war the Bank had been drained of its gold reserves, having only £400,000,000 of foreign securities left, and that when the Government wanted a loan of £500,000,000 from the Bank, the Bank merely brought out its foreign securities, looked at them, put them back in the vault, and issued the loan to the Government, and that this transaction was repeated several times. Keynes nodded and said: ‘That is about what took place.’
‘But,’ I asked politely, ‘how were those loans redeemed?’
‘With the same fiduciary money,’ said Keynes.
Towards the end of lunch Lady Astor put in some comedy buck teeth that covered her own and gave an imitation of a Victorian lady speaking at an equestrian club. The teeth distorted her face with a most comical expression. Said she fervently: ‘In our day we British women followed the hounds in proper lady-like fashion – not in the vulgar cross-legged style of those Western hussies in America. We rode side-saddle hard and fast with dignity and womanly comeliness.’
Lady Astor would have made a wonderful actress. She was a charming hostess and I have to thank her for many wonderful parties, which gave me the opportunity of meeting many of the illustrious of England.
After lunch when everyone else had dispersed, Lord Astor took us to see his portrait, painted by Munnings. When we arrived at the studio, Munnings was reluctant to let us in, until Lord Astor
earnestly persuaded him to do so. The portrait was of Lord Astor, on a hunter, surrounded by a pack of hounds. I made a hit with Munnings, for I admired several of the preliminary, quick studies he had made of the movement of the dogs as much as the finished portrait. ‘The action is music,’ I said. Munnings brightened and showed me several other quick sketches.
A day or so later we lunched at Bernard Shaw’s. Afterwards G.B. took me into his library – just the two of us – leaving Lady Astor and the other guests in the living-room. The library was a bright cheerful room that looked out on the Thames. And, lo and behold, I found myself confronted with a shelf of Shaw’s books over the mantelpiece, and like a fool, having read little of Shaw, I went over to them with an exclamation of ‘Ah, all your works!’ Then it occurred to me that he might have brought about this opportune moment to explore my mind through discussing his books. I imagined our being so engrossed that the other guests would have to come in and break it up. How I should have liked this to happen. But instead there was a mincing moment of silence as I smiled and turned away and looked about the room and made some banal comment on its cheerfulness. Then we rejoined the other guests.
I met Mrs Shaw several times after that. I remember discussing with her G.B.’s play
The Applecart
, which had received indifferent reviews. Mrs Shaw was indignant. Said she: ‘I told G.B. he should not write any more plays; the public and the critics don’t deserve them!’
For the next three weeks we were kept busy with invitations. One was from the Prime Minister, Ramsay MacDonald, another from Winston Churchill, others from Lady Astor, Sir Philip Sassoon and so on down the regal line.
I first met Winston Churchill at Marion Davies’s beach-house. About fifty guests were milling about between the ballroom and the reception room when he appeared in the doorway with Hearst and stood Napoleon-like with his hand in his waistcoat, watching the dancing. He seemed lost and out of place. W.R. saw me and beckoned me over and we were introduced.
Churchill’s manner, though intimate, was abrupt. Hearst left us and for a while we stood exchanging the usual comments while people milled about us. Not until I talked about the English
Labour Government did he brighten up. ‘What I don’t understand,’ I said, ‘is that in England the election of a socialist government does not alter the status of a king and queen.’
His glance was quick and humourously challenging. ‘Of course not,’ he said.
‘I thought socialists were opposed to a monarchy.’