THE REEL REALS: Chester Conklin

Chester Conklin

Chester Conklin did not attain the lasting marketability of many of his contemporaries, but he is no less a comic legend. Creating for himself a recognizable character with a large, bushy, "walrus" mustache and round spectacles, he definitely stood out from the pack as movies began to hit their stride at the turn of the century. Everyone had a schtick in those days: Fatty had his weight, Keaton had his stone face and pork pie hat, Chaplin had his tramp suit and mini 'stache. Later, Groucho Marx would adapt and lampoon this token comic commodity by giving himself a grease mustache. Yet, a comedian needs more to recommend him than his makeup and wardrobe, and it was Chester's innate instinct for comic timing, absurd improvisation, and lovable mugging that helped him edge his way to the front of the gag pack. 

After leaving his home state of Iowa, where he had only a bleak future in the church to look forward to, Chester started traveling on the vaudeville circuit, learning the ropes, and improving upon them. The character he developed-- the one audiences would become most familiar with-- was in fact based upon a former boss. A baker. By exaggerating the crazed nuances of this man's personality, Chester was able to build a bumbling, pompous, and forever foiled buffoon. His wide eyes, forever shocked at the chaotic world around him, and his contorted and often curmudgeonly faces were at once reassuring and cathartic to audiences-- who shared his befuddled assessments that modern life was ridiculous. 

Chester had no shame in making himself the butt of the joke. His films were never as much about unlikely heroism-- like Keaton-- or the triumph of social consciousness-- like Chaplin. He was purely about side-splitting pranks. This is perhaps why he would later lose some of his leading man stature to become the just as important, reliable, supporting gaff guy in other pictures. He was more of a contributory piece of the puzzle than the maestro putting it all together. Nonetheless, his enjoyable performances remain timeless.

While many know him only as the unfortunate co-worker whom the Tramp accidentally sucks into the mad machine of Modern Times, Chester was better known at his zenith as a partner in crime with fellow performer Mack Swain. He also has the prestige of being one of Mack Sennett's infamous "Keystone Cops" and performing alongside Mabel Normand in many of her own comic capers. He additionally bandied up onscreen with surly funnyman W.C. Fields, appeared in Erich von Stroheim's Greed (though his scenes were some of the many eventually cut), and kept himself busy in the talkies thanks to Preston Sturges, who cast him in many of his features. 

However, times were tough for an old hat comedian as the motion picture industry grew, and Chester soon found himself edged out of the game. Yet, in looking back at the early world of cinematic comedy, he seems to be everywhere. He may not have been the biggest name but he always pops up, often unexpectedly. This makes him, I suppose, an alternative to the old adage, "Wherever you go, there you are." With Chester, it's "Wherever you look, there he is!" As such, he is an important piece of the funny fabric of moviedom, where audiences can still rest assured that whenever he's around, it won't be dull.

HISTORY LESSON: Man Enough? Part 1 - The Silents

In order to save his love interest (Virginia Cherrill) in City Lights, Chaplin has
to put up his dukes and "be a man."

While a lot of focus is given to interpreting the repression and liberation of women in film, that of the male archetype seems to be less thoroughly examined, at least in terms the facets of masculinity as reflections of/on society. The reason for this could very well be the lazy perception that "a man, is a man, is a man," which is a theory many may humorously, and perhaps correctly (to a certain extent), agree with. It is not the "male mystique" that continues to plague and baffle the opposite sex, yet this does not mean that the more "predictable" sex is any less complicated and nuanced than his fairer opposite. As such, his presentation on the silver screen and its metamorphosis over the years creates quite a broad portrait of just what it means to be a man. What makes a good man? A bad man? An attractive man? And what on earth is masculinity? Are the depictions of the different shades of the complex male conundrum-- the lover, the fighter, the cave man, the villain, the hero-- influenced by or influential of contemporary society? Probably a little bit of both.

Eugene Sandow gives good bicep in an early silent clip. A famous
Austrian body builder, he was Schwarzenegger before anyone
knew what a Schwarzenegger was.

During the initial stages of silent cinema, men were, quite simply, just men. They weren't polished, they weren't pristine, they weren't products. They weren't, in fact, even acting. The more studied performers of the stage rebuffed the hackneyed gimmick of the "motion picture" as it groped its fledgling way into a fully grown, full-fledged business. Thus, the gratuitous appeal of the original flicker shows, which portrayed human beings naturally, as they really were, whether the image of the man projected was sneezing, boxing, flexing his muscles, or kissing May Irwin, was the documentary style of the medium. It was simple: point and shoot. Then, point and shoot with costumes on. The storytellers on the screen were regular guys looking for work. As movies became shorts, which became features, as 1 reel lengthened to 8, as plot lines became more complicated, so too did the requirements of the leading men become more intricate. Trained actors, who had performed on the stage and in vaudeville, soon began migrating toward the cinema, less to achieve fame-- as it didn't exist yet-- then to make ends meet and take the jobs that their contemporaries still poo-pooed. Many were innovators that saw the potential others overlooked, and some were merely wooed by the opportunity its opportunists. As a result, some of the great personalities of the 20th century would present themselves on the silver screen-- Chaplin, Keaton, Chaney, Fairbanks, Reid-- and the words "movie star" would be born. 

The interesting thing about these personalities is that, while they were better trained than the initial rookie actors of cinematic minor leagues, they were still fairly regular guys, the prettiest of them belonging to the Wallace Reid (left) variety, who with his boyish good looks and overgrown child charms was both the son and lover to his leading ladies. He and Douglas Fairbanks both presented a masculine archetype that was bristling with the energy of immaturity-- Wally with his speed racing, and Doug with his nonchalant embrace of danger. In these cases, the women and romantic interests were always secondary to the major action within the story, with both men more invested in being "wild and wooly" than responsible. Meanwhile, the leading ladies performing opposite them tried their best to domesticate them, all while accepting that they never really could. "Boys will be boys..." Wally was, admittedly, much more sexual, which is why he could easily vacillate between the daredevil driver of  The Roaring Road and the smitten love interest of The Golden Chance with ease.

Doug defends all of mankind's honor with the mightiest of phalluses,
his saber! (The Black Pirate)

Doug was never "in it" for love. Ever. His heroes, like D'Artagnan of The Three Musketeers and his Robin Hood were more enthralled with the opportunity for adventure than the sentimental pull of romance. Therefore, as an unspoken "hit 'em and quit 'em type"-- however optimistically he portrayed himself-- he wasn't about putting down roots but exploring man's liberty. The message both figures presented was that men weren't meant to be chained. They must be able to exercise their need for freedom. Women just had to be ready to catch them when they wore themselves out. Most of their stories possessed a wink at the female audience of, "Yeah, we don't need you, but we really do." The little lady in an apron was always the true brains behind the operation, running the man's life, all while he thought he was indeed running wild. This perpetuated the paternal society's definitions of gender roles within a marriage: women, keep the home fires burning, men... burn rubber!

Gilbert succumbs to the succubus, Garbo, in
Flesh and the Devil.

This isn't to say that there were no men with emotive eloquence. Two Romeos with such all consuming passion were John Gilbert and Rudolph Valentino, both of whom were inhumanly handsome and intensely virile. While inheriting in some ways the fairly adolescent charisma of the aforementioned brand of man-boy, the inciting incident in their lover storylines was not that which would attract them to adventure or the fight of good over evil. The inciting incident was the appearance of Eve in their Edens. Whatever extraneous business was happening otherwise was pure background noise. Each man followed only the beating of his heart, or perhaps better yet, the compulsion of his loins. These guys were victims to their passion. However selfishly they may have behaved in the past, meeting the girl was enough to instantly change them from selfish boys to helpless fools for love, and consequently drive them insane with desire. Gilbert was most memorably paired with Garbo in his romantic career. His intoxicated devotion to her, which nearly destroyed him every time (and sometimes did), portrayed for women the man of their dreams. He gave his undivided attention to his muse, for whom he would do anything, and he would not rest until he possessed her. This was enough to leave ladies fanning themselves in their seats, if not passing out in the aisles. 

Interestingly, it was Garbo who usually suffered in the end (at least in the silent era), being punished for her erotic witchcraft in Flesh and Love, for example. After escaping the soul-sucking power of the vamp, who sought only to bleed a man dry of his potent juices, the man was supposed to reclaim his soul, embrace his manhood, curse the bitch, and settle into a relationship that would place him back in a position of power. Gilbert's characters, therefore, would find solace in more dependable women who would be faithful, loyal, and submissive, and also allow him to peaceably engage in the boyish hijink's he'd temporarily forgotten while under the spell of forbidden sex. Though, it should be noted, that when Gilbert fell for a "good girl," such as Eleanor Boardman's heroine in Bardelys the Magnificent, the romance was indeed consummated. His more worldly character having already certainly experienced the ego and heart bruising of a Garbo-like woman in the past, this guy was out for an innocent wife to protect with his well-situated manliness. He had come of age before the storyline started.

Valentino's gents were very similar in their romantic addictions. Rudy had no problem becoming the putty in the hands of Alla Nazimova's Camille or Nita Naldi's vamp in Blood and Sand. The same action ensued, with the woman generally paying the price for her forbidden, unbridled sexual nature, and the man reasserting his final dominance, either shaming her in Camille's case or foolishly allowing himself to be destroyed in the vamp case, the latter being a lesson to all men. However, Valentino's heroes possessed more danger than Gilbert's. The is partially due to the scintillating allure of the foreigner-- xenophoberotica?-- and his animalistic assertion over his prey. In both Sheik films, Rudy shamelessly kidnaps Agnes Ayres and Vilma Banky until they accept their stations as his sex slaves, with him resorting to what can only be described as rape in the second film, Son of the Sheik (see right). Naturally, he feels bad for his carnal crimes afterward and learns his lesson, thereby clinging the soiled woman to his muscled chest-- again, the "good girl"-- and reforming himself into a more civilized man (undoing his foreignness) in the process. With his dark(er), Italian appeal, he also offered more fantasy, as Rudy wasn't a real American but a strange figure from a strange land. His heroes could be tamed but not domesticated, and after his capture of chosen female, it is assumed that he would take her to a fantasy world of happily monogamous "ever afters" and over-sexed oblivion. In whichever case, the macho man had to conquer to become the King of his own identity. He must be a slave to no one and the ultimate one in charge. This begets the plague of the necessarily more submissive female. 

Keaton battles the elements in Steamboat Bill, Jr.

In truth, the only true lovers of the silent era came from the fools and clowns-- sometimes literally. When looking at the selfless devotion of Chaplin or the innocent but maladministered and attracted pursuit of Keaton, one witnesses some of the greatest examples of romance in all of cinema, period. The Tramp would send himself into further despair, isolation, or poverty to rescue the woman he loved from even minor devastation (The Circus, City Lights), while Keaton's many lovable but bumbling wooers would do anything to impress a potential bride only to fail-- as in his refused enlistment in the army in The General. Neither was reaching for the moon. They just wanted nice girls to settle down with and have an ordinary life. They also always had competition: bigger men, stronger men, better looking men, and richer men. The Tramp was undeserving, because he was poor; Keaton, because he wasn't macho. The latter would only accidentally become a worthy hero when presented with the challenges of extreme circumstances, be they wartime, weather affected, or even hallucinatory. The notion was that these men were, indeed, good guys. But good guys rarely get the girl, which is why the majority of the time, these two did nothing but suffer. The image of the man as the strong provider and savior still continues to be the divisive factor in what makes a man a man. 

Chaplin continues his voyage as the loner, lovelorn loser in
The Circus-- a telling title.

Unlike Fatty Arbuckle, who was able to win the day almost totally due to his imposing size and the clever swiftness of his actions and schemes, he was a bit of the selfish prankster that Fairbank and Reid represented but in the comic genre. Contrastingly, Chaplin and Keaton were diminutive, sensitive, emotionally aware, but mostly uncomfortable with themselves. Confidence is key, and they guys didn't have it. Thus, Chaplin's victory was primarily only ever the reward of selfless love-- sending the girl of his dreams off to live with the man of hers-- while Keaton was more often allowed to end in wedded bliss because, despite his size and social ignorance, he was able to prove his masculinity through his unbelievable, life-saving acts of prowess. He had thus earned his place in man-dom. Chaplin's silent hero never received applause for the secret aid he gave to his lovers in need. These comic gems were the underdogs of society, who thus gave such equally aching, hidden Lotharios a voice. However, they were still the butt of their own jokes; not real men, but men in training. They weren't what any woman was looking for, and furthermore, they were holding the steam engine of the growing American powerhouse back by begging on street corners instead of getting "real jobs." In a capitalist society, one who isn't chasing coin or engaging in the game of business is looked upon as a chump, just another sad cog in the wheel of the money machine. Invisible heroes aren't heroes.

Lon Chaney also belongs in this category, which is further complicated by identifying these ardent, bleeding heart lovers as a fools simply for loving at all. Chaney's twisted, heartbroken soldiers were literal mutations of the male sex. The fact that he wore love on his sleeve made him a monster. "This is not what a man is supposed to be," his movies unconsciously seemed to say. This too is why he is constantly left loveless by the final reels. The Phantom of the Opera is, forgive me, "cock-blocked" by Norman Kerry's more virile Raoul when vying for Christine (Mary Philbin). The Hunchback of Notre Dame is, again, intercepted by Kerry's Phoebus when vying for the heart of Esmerelda (Patsy Ruth Miller). Even when not physically misshapen, Chaney's desire and pure-hearted emotion for the women he desired sealed his fate as one who would forever do without such love's return. His obsession with Joan Crawford in The Unknown leads him to mutilate himself. His devious fixation in The Unholy Three, his love for Mae Busch/Lila Leed, is why he fails in his caper and is punished for his crimes. He is crippled by and in love in The Shock, West of Zanzibar (left), and The Penalty. He is a dunce in love in The Trap and Mockery. And, just as Chaplin, his selflessness goes unrewarded with loneliness in Tell It to the Marines and While the City Sleeps.

Chaney's depiction of the ultimate man's man in Tell It to the Marines is
pretty much the definitive portrait of masculinity. Hard-broiled, weather-
worn, and built of discipline and duty, he is the man all new enlistees
are meant to emulate. His one error is the depth and honesty of his feelings,
which is why he loses the girl to the less emotionally and more erotically
focused William Haines (boy-man). His heart is read as a flaw, yet his 
surrendering of it in the end makes him a hero. Real men don't fall for 
that love stuff. They get the job done.

The absolute torment of bearing such a full, martyred heart, one so desperate to love, made Lon's heroes immediate victims. When playing a purely sexual avenger in Victory or The Wicked Darling, he still didn't get the girl, but he represented more fully the man's man that could at least get a tramp and could make it in society, even if by the skin of his corrupt teeth. His predators with their ulterior motives and potent sex drives spoke to the beast in male viewers. He was their dark side, something immediately relatable, just as in his opposing roles he represented their good side-- strangely an even darker, dirtier secret. In either case, as the extreme in both contrasting levels of the internal, male, emotional world, he rarely walked away the winner-- literally and figuratively. His sinister villains had to be destroyed for the sake of order in society as well as in the protection of virginal women, and his hideous poets had to be eliminated in some fashion so that the virgins could be defiled by more righteous men-- less emotive, good looking, and not from the dregs of society. 

Thomas Meighan as the bored husband in Why Change Your Wife?

Perhaps the best representative of the silent movie, "regular" man would be Thomas Meighan. Handsome but not pretty, masculine but not action oriented, his characters were generally average guys, which is to say that they held down jobs, were crossed and sometimes victorious in love, and were composites of flaws and virtues. He was sexual and desirous of love but not overly emotive about it. He had feelings, but he played them close to his chest. He may have started out a con man in The Miracle Man, but he cleaned up his act and went straight by the end. When watching his performance in Male and Female, we see that he is indeed a man of character with both primal and romantic desires-- directed at Gloria Swanson-- but these qualities are only exhibited after the characters are stranded on a desert isle, and he is allowed to indulge his instincts without fear of social scrutiny. When he returns to life, so too do these instincts become buttoned up and forgotten. A real man knows how to walk a straight line, keep his romance a secret, keep sex in the bedroom, and pay his taxes. The sturdy and reliable Meighan, in all the varieties of his characterizations, provided such a portrait, still while allowing light to be cast on different aspects of man's character that the actual average man would never have allowed to be seen.

Love's a gag, something that Fatty Arbuckle showcased best-- here
alongside constant co-star Marbel Normand in Fatty's Married Life.
Fatty cared for his women, but womanhood was something he
generally had to put up with while out getting into more interesting 
trouble or making it. Marriage is a drag, but the ball and chain was
never going to stop Fatty from being Fatty!

These actors were favorites during the silent era for all that they represented, whether their stories made them winners or losers. The interesting thing to note is how intrinsically different they were from one another. No two were the same. Each had his own fashion, his own style, his own art, and each depicted his own version of masculinity, even while all portrayals may have eventually led society down the same path of acceptable male behavior-- the best version of his gender. Perhaps because screen identities were not yet firmly established, ergo there were no cliches or gender staples to adhere to, men were allowed to step before the camera in all shapes and sizes, modes and behaviors. The early days were an incredibly diverse and liberating era for the actor/performer, and viewers were consequently introduced to a wide array of talents and depictions of what it then meant to be a man in contemporary America. While the thread of necessary male dominance always held sway, never again would the characters in the male tapestry be as mixed nor as interesting as in the silent period. At the time, it would have been more fitting to say, a man is a man in any way he can...

To Be Continued in The Studio era and Method to Modern Times...

HISTORY LESSON: Who-dunnit, Hollywood?

Charlie Chaplin and Marion Davies: did their affair

lead to murder???

Part of Hollywood's allure is its mystique: a foreign land of sunlight, palm trees, and skies that seem to rain money on people that are just plain prettier than the rest of us. However, this city, when it doesn't have its make-up on, can be downright ugly. The harder someone works to look perfect, the more certain you can be that he or she is covering something up-- perhaps even something hideous. The dark side of La La Land is far from glamorous, and enough disturbing, tragic events have taken place to create the contradictory, evasive, and hypocritical image of both Heaven and Hell that many equate with the city today. Strangely, the world's audience seems to find the macabre stories more fascinating and hypnotic than the triumphant or pure. And so, we remain tantalized by tales of Sharon Tate, Elizabeth Short, Paul Bern, Thelma Todd, and George Reeves, keeping in check a city that protests too much its perfection-- we are no longer fooled. Here are a handful of similarly fascinating Hollywood tales, unsolved mysteries, and questionable alibis. The trouble with the following is that we may never know what truly happened in any of these cases, but then again, a solved murder is much less intriguing than the average open book.

What really happened to Thomas Ince (left)? The theories abound and none of the facts add up. What we know for sure is that Ince-- acclaimed director and producer who made up one third of the Triangle Film Corp. triumvirate and made Westerns in Inceville-- joined a group on William Randolph Hearst's yacht, the Onieda, when it took to sea in celebration of his 43rd birthday on Nov. 16, 1924. Thomas would never set foot back on shore, for when the party docked in San Diego on the 19th, he was carried inland and died mere hours later. The cast of this plot alternately may or may not include: Marion Davies (Hearst's mistress), Elinor Glyn, Margaret Livingston (Ince's alleged mistress), aspiring columnist Louella Parsons, Seena Owen, Aileen Pringle, Julanne Johnston, Theodore Kosloff, Hearst's secretary Joseph Willicombe, publisher Frank Barham and wife, Marion's sisters Ethel and Reine and niece Pepi, Dr. Daniel Carson Goodman, Mary Urban, and Gretl Urban. During the night, Ince was overheard groaning in his bedroom. The fortunately present Dr. Goodman was summoned and diagnosed Thomas as suffering a heart attack brought on by indigestion or ptomaine poisoning. The ship docked on the 19th, Ince was attended to, and to keep matters from the press, Hearst urged everyone to keep mum-- most particularly, one presumes, to keep his affair with Marion under wraps (not to mention the heavy imbibing that had occurred during this prohibition era party). After all, leaking their rendezvous would only serve to inflame current gossip, embarrass his wife, Millicent Wilson, and hurt the career that he was trying to build for his kooky but beloved girlfriend, Marion. Unfortunately for Hearst, Ince died, and the press wanted details. The nervous Doctor Goodman is generally blamed for fearfully blabbing a series of contradictory facts in order to obey Hearst's orders, thus starting the alleged theory that all was not as it seemed. All aboard maintained that the death was an unfortunate twist of fate, and Marion maintained to her deathbed that nothing sinister was afoot. 

Yet, this is difficult to be believed.  This is where Charlie Chaplin comes into play, who was also allegedly in attendance on the Onieda, though he always denied this later. It had been rumored for some time that he and Comedy Queen Marion were enjoying a tryst of their own, and that Hearst was becoming incredibly jealous. When you add this to the conflicting stories about what exactly occurred, the alibis get dicey. The most shocking bit of evidence came from Charlie's own loyal chauffeur, Kono, who stated that he not only picked Charlie up from the travel's end but witnessed Ince being pulled ashore with an apparent bullet-wound in his head, a fact which he confided to Eleanor Boarman. Curious... Marion maintained there was no gun on board, but Hearst was known to shoot pelicans for sport on the ship. The now popular theory is that Hearst, in a jealous rage over his suspicions that Marion Davies and Charlie were having an affair, shot at Chaplin, only to discover that he had accidentally shot Ince instead, who in certain lighting looked a great deal like Charlie. (This a scenario brilliantly brought to life in Peter Bogdanovich's The Cat's Meow). Other theories are that Hearst poisoned Ince, stabbed him with Marion's hatpin, or even hired an assassin to kill him, though with no pure motive, these latter conspiracy theories don't add up, unless Marion was getting too cozy with Ince as well. To cover up the scandal, many believe that Hearst threw money at everyone present to hush them up-- including giving Louella Parsons her lifetime gig with the Hearst corporation-- and printed his own creative narrative of the events in his papers, like the little ditty that Ince had taken ill at his ranch and not at sea. As Hearst all but controlled the press, it was not a hard feat to keep things quiet, yet Ince's quick cremation and burial on Nov. 21st only bolstered suspicions. So, was Kono mistaken? Was the blood he saw actually from a "perforated ulcer?" It is hard to believe that Kono, so loyal to his boss, would tell such a lie nor one so outlandish. And if Ince wasn't shot or somehow pummeled on the head, why would Hearst go to such lengths to cover up his death? Was it some other, even more unbelievable accident, or was it murder? Everyone involved kept deathly silent, and now the truth is lying six feet under. (Right, the nemeses at happier times at one of Hearst's costume balls: Doug Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, Hearst, Charlie, and Millicent Hearst (?)).

One of Charlie's old Keystone chums also ran into her share of scandals. Good-time girl Mabel Normand (left) made a career out of hamming it up alongside fiance Mack Sennett, becoming the first major cinematic comedienne. She held her own against the comic giants of the day, eventually directing her own films and becoming a huge star in the process. The fact that she twisted her beautiful features into hilarious mugs made her seem less pretentious and more down-to-earth than the average starlet, and as she earned the public's chuckles she too stole their hearts. Ironically, Mabel's heart was ever in trouble. Not only did she fail to marry her soul mate, Mack, but she wound up in a loveless, gag marriage to Lew Cody, and was also falsely implicated in the murder of her good friend William Desmond Taylor. When it came to luck, Mabel must have spent it all in her first 25 years. The demise of her relationship with Mack is one of the remaining mysteries about her. We know that the powerful duo broke it off. We too know that Mabel appeared afterward with a nasty head wound. Where exactly it came from remains a matter of great debate. One theory is that Mabel walked in on Mack in flagrante with her supposed friend Mae Busch, who-- after Mabel became understandably hysterical-- smashed a vase over her head. 

Minta Durfee, Mrs. Fatty Arbuckle, would recall that she and her husband were either a) summoned to Mabel's home by a mutual friend who revealed the disconcerted Mabel and her nasty head-wound, or b) Mabel showed up at their doorstep in the same fashion. Fatty rushed Mabel to the hospital where a threatening blood clot was found and instantly corrected through a dangerous operation. Yet, another theory is that Mabel was so heartbroken by her break-up with Mack-- who may or may not have been a philanderer-- that she took one of her famous swan dives from the Santa Monica Pier in the attempt to kill herself. To complicate things further, Adela Rogers St. Johns attested that Mabel attempted this suicide only after her initial head-injury and hospital release, making both versions true. Whatever the case, the story Sennett (right) gave the press was that Mabel had injured herself while doing a stunt with Fatty, who allegedly, accidentally sat on her head-- a bit of foreshadowing to the Virginia Rappe rape scandal, where again Fatty's girth would be used as a scapegoat (this guy couldn't catch a break). Sennett also claimed that Mabel faked her "illness" to get back at him for going after Busch, a ploy that worked after he complacently set her up in her own studio and gave her the role of a lifetime in Mickey. Arguments against Mae Busch's guilt in the incident have too been made, as she and Mabel were pretty good pals. Whatever the true situation, Mabel was never the same. Some would protest that in addition to her heartbreak, a switch in her mind took place that made her more erratic and disjointed. So, what really broke Sennett and Mabel up? Was it the same thing that broke her head?

By 1958, Lana Turner (left) was no longer the Queen of MGM. As an aging actress, her career was winding down almost as quickly as she had risen to the top. This prior rise to fame in itself is the stuff of legend. After she was allegedly plucked off a stool at Schwab's Pharmacy (really the Top Hat) while drinking a milkshake (coca-cola), Lana shot to fame for her ability to fill out a sweater with great... panache in They Won't Forget. Lynn Fontanne she was not, but Lana still had an edge to her that made her a bit naughty, a bit dangerous, and all gorgeous, which allowed her to maintain a lengthy career before the cameras. In her time, she was linked to all kinds of handsome leading men, from Tyrone Power, to Artie Shaw, to Clark Gable, but it was her marriage to Johnny Stompanato aka Johnny Valentine that would become the most notorious. Johnny too had an edge of danger, but his was much more threatening than Lana's more sensual allure. In fact, it was deadly, but this had come in handy back when he was a bodyguard for none other than Mickey Cohen. The thrice divorced Johnny's charms and seduction won the rebellious Lana over, though as their relationship became abusive, their passion for each other perpetuated an on-again, off-again tragedy-- both violent and deluded. Caught in the fray was Lana's daughter with Steve Crane: Cheryl. Cheryl bore witness to more than one unruly spat that grew horrifyingly physical. At fourteen-years-old, this was hardly the happy home that the teenaged girl needed to endow her with confidence and positivity to face the world. 

On the evening of April 4th, ironically Good Friday, the police were summoned to Lana's home on the infamously catastrophic Bedford Drive. Johnny had been stabbed to death! Cheryl and Lana would claim that Cheryl had overheard another frightening spat between her mother and her lover, during which Johnny had threatened to essentially cut both women to ribbons. Terrified, Cheryl had run to the kitchen to obtain a weapon to protect her mother. She raced back to Lana's bedroom door, and before she even knew what she was doing, she was startled by Johnny's exit. She stabbed him, and he fell backward into the shocked Lana's room. Lana would tearfully tell this same story before a judge, a moment that many would mockingly refer to as "the performance of her career." Cheryl has forever maintained her version of the story, but many have hypothesized that it was in fact Lana who killed her lover. To save herself and her career, it is thus suggested that Lana begged Cheryl to step up to the plate and take the blame. Did she? In the end, most of us take Cheryl's word for it, but was she protecting her mother's life on that fateful day, or did she tell a fib to protect her mother's livelihood forever after??? If the latter is true, the ploy worked. Lana shot back to fame with the dual success of Peyton Place and Imitation of Life. Buh-bye, Johnny. (Lana, Johnny, and Cheryl, right).

The name Jean Spangler (left) doesn't ring too many bells today. A wannabe actress, the svelte brunette had come to Hollywood chasing the dreams of so many others. And, like so many others, she too often used the wrong avenues to get where she wanted to go. Vulnerability and naivete never serve a woman well... By the age of twenty-seven, Jean had already been a dancer at the Florentine Gardens and a girlfriend of, again, Mickey Cohen. Still, her fortitude was able to land her some bit parts in films for Harry Cohn at Columbia, such as The Petty Girl, but she never made it as a top leading lady. This, of course, may have had something to do with the fact that she literally disappeared on October 7, 1949.  Earlier that day, Jean had confided that she was going to be "out late" shooting a movie. After over 24 hours of absence, her sister Sophie filed a missing person's report, and the hunt for Jean began, though efforts by LAPD were half-hearted at best-- they didn't even send the report out on the teletype. On the 9th, a groundskeeper at Griffith Park found her purse, which had been torn. Clearly a struggle had ensued, but no robbery had taken place, as the purse's contents remained in tact-- including an undelivered note to her current boyfriend, "Kirk" (allegedly Kirk Douglas), in which it is heavily implied that she would soon be proceeding with an abortion from a "Dr. Scott." Ooh, the plot thickens...

Needless to say, Jean's family, particularly her mother, were distraught and certain that foul play had ended in murder. Kirk (right), who was married to Diana Douglas at the time, and his lawyer maintained that he didn't even know "the girl," yet her mother maintained that he had picked her up from her apartment at least twice. Other eye-witnesses claimed to have seen them at a party together, and Jean's friends attested to the fact that Jean was indeed three months pregnant. Throwing speculation is his direction even more is the fact that he contacted the police to tell them that he was not the "Kirk" in the note before the contents of this note had been made known to him, nor the connection made by police to the defensive star. Kirk would later backtrack and admit that he may have taken Jean on a couple of dates. Radio man Al "The Sheik" Lazaar also claimed that he saw Jean the night she disappeared at The Cheese Box on Sunset, where she was sandwiched between two unrecognizable men. The trio were said to be arguing. This was the last time that she was seen alive. What happened is still unknown, and her body has not been found. There are two major theories as to what may have befallen the young beauty: a) the infamous Dr. Scott had botched Jean's abortion, she had died on his table, and her body was disposed of, perhaps even in Griffith Park or b) Mickey Cohen had her maliciously "taken out" when he became jealous over the news of her affair with Kirk Douglas. Aside from the possible baby, Kirk was in no way implicated in her disappearance. Certainly, he must have learned his lesson regarding what a seemingly harmless night of passion can turn into. This didn't keep him from being at least partially blamed, and the normally stony Cohn actually had him barred from his studio when Kirk came to pay a visit to Evelyn Keyes not long after the incident. While his conscience may be clear of her death, someone is guilty. But just who-dunnit, we may never know.

STAR OF THE MONTH: Charlie Chaplin

Charles Spencer Chaplin

The spectrum of artists who built Hollywood is so wide and vividly populated that it is hard to generalize or define its true founders. The different talents and innovators who crafted the grandest level of artistic achievement-- a consummation of all artistry-- are incalculable. They wear many faces and many hats, some of which the audience never saw. However, when you whittle it all down, it isn't too extreme a statement to make that in the beginning, there were three. If Griffith gave the movies art, and Pickford gave it a face, then it was Chaplinwho gave it it's most useful and universal ingredient: heart. Marilyn Monroe once said, "If you can make a girl laugh, you can make her do anything." And so it was that Cinema's chief clown was able to endear himself to a worldwide audience and win their loyalty by giving them that oft sought and too little found human emotion: joy. But there was more to Charlie than his familiar "little tramp" schtick, for he too had art, and he too had a face-- one which has outlasted Mary's in its relevance. His comedy outdid Fatty Arbuckle's  because, while he portrayed down-and-out and sometimes manic characters, he was yet a buffoon with an edge of class. He was conscious while innocent, as calculating in his movements as he was in his story structure. His films too thematically outdo Buster Keaton's, making him the unexpected silent voice of reason, compassion, and human understanding. Buster awed his audience with surprising gags and awe-inspiring stunts; but Chaplin used his creativity just as concentratedly to make people feel as to astound them. And this, he did accidentally. He didn't set out to take the world by storm, nor to become the greatest fighter the underdog ever had. That's just how life played out. Then, just as quickly, the world that he had brought to its feet in applause turned its back on him. Life is funny...

~     ~     ~

Charlie Chaplin started out as many folks do who learn to use laughter to overcome their personal pains. He entered the world on April 16, 1889 in London to parents Charles Chaplin, Sr. and Hannah Hill.  He had an elder brother, Sydney-- a "bastard" from one of Hannah's earlier trysts-- and after his parents' marriage hit the rocks, he would be gifted another illegitimate brother, Wheeler, from whom he was parted and would not see for many years. He was, thus, his mother's only "legitimate" child. This made life no easier for him, and he never saw any difference between himself and the elder brother he adored. The family was impoverished, with Hannah earning money intermittently as an entertainer and a seamstress and Charles Sr. rarely pitching in while he enjoyed a measure of success as a singer. Charlie found himself growing up quickly, sharing the responsibilities of running the household with his equally responsible elder brother Sydney. Hannah, in Charlie's memory, was a wonderful woman: loving, tender, and talented. An uncanny mimic who put on shows for her two boys, telling them stories of the different townspeople she saw passing below their window, Hannah would give Charlie an early education in characterization. Sadly, she too was losing her mind, which was a part of her family's unfortunate legacy. Luckily, none of her sons seemed to inherit the gene that mentally crippled her. When times got rough, Charlie and Sydney found themselves shipped off to a workhouse and the London District Poor Law School of Hanwell, where Charlie received little more than a bout of ringworm and the pain of isolation from his loved ones. After Sydney decided to go to sea as a steward and bandsman (he played the bugle), dutifully sending money home to his family, Charlie became his mother's official caretaker. He took odd jobs selling flowers or working as a barber's boy to help supplement income. One night, he came home to the news that his mother had "gone insane." At the age of 13, he was forced to walk her himself to the infirmary where she was to remain for some time. The moment of goodbye was one he would not soon forget.

A young Charlie as Billy the Pageboy in "Sherlock Holmes."

The odds seemed stacked against him, but Charlie had a few things going for him. One was his drive; the other was his natural talent. He and Sydney both shared a love of performing. Charlie once said that his love of music, and thusly his love of entertainment, was born when he heard the song, "The Honeysuckle and the Bee" when he was a child. His first venture on stage occurred when he had to save his mother from disgrace when she was unable to finish what was to be her final professional performance before a rowdy, unforgiving crowd. Charlie stepped in, sang her song for her, and the coins started flying. He stopped singing mid-song to collect them all, telling the audience he would not continue until he had them all rounded up! Herein we see the mixture of Charlie the ragamuffin entertainer and Chaplin the businessman. Somewhere in his little boy's mind, he had discovered something very important: he had learned how to make money. Later, at the age of nine, he would travel with William Jackson and "The Eight Lancashire Lads." He continued intermittently, while still caring for his mother, to obtain various roles, including one as Billy in "Sherlock Holmes." By 1908, at the age of 19, he was making waves in the infamous "Inebriate" act in "Mumming Birds" with Fred Karno's troupe. His part was a "play within a play." He portrayed an intoxicated man watching the performance and making quite a scene himself. Naturally, his physicality and buffoonery stole the show and got him quite a bit of notice. His traveling companions would all remark at the strange juxtaposition in his nature. He was so alive, so unabashed, so warm on the stage. Afterward, he would quickly turn inward. He spent his time reading, trying to tutor the mind that had received no formal education, plucking on his violin, or staring solemnly into space, ever lost in thought. He was a loner. He kept to himself. He was distant... Hardly the bawdy comedian prototype.

With Mabel Normand and Marie Dressler in Tillie's Punctured Romance- 
the film that proved that humor could last for an entire feature.

By 1912, he found himself in America still touring with Karno. A year later, he was offered a contract with Mack Sennett, who had seen or caught wind of "the inebriate swell" gig. Mack had been expecting an elder gentleman, as befitting Charlie's make-up on the stage, and tried to renege on the offer. Charlie assured him that his age would not hamper his ability to contribute to Keystone. The rest, as they say, is history. In his second film, Mabel's Strange Predicament (released third), Charlie's beloved "Tramp" stepped before the camera. The legend of his birth is heavily contested, with everyone wanting a part of the glory. In some tales, his pants were borrowed from Fatty, his shoes from Ford Sterling, etc; in others, Charlie haphazardly assembled the costume and serendipitously created a phenomenon. The truth is perhaps somewhere in between. The eternal calculator, Charlie certainly put thought into the look and the character he was fashioning that fateful day. All that is known for certain is that he based his signature walk on an unconsciously hilarious neighbor from his boyhood: "Rummy" Binks. Looking back, it seemed as if the hand of God guided the formation of the Tramp: his dirty, ill-fitting clothes, silly mustache, jerky movements, yet prim disposition, created a character of both dignity and irreverence. The Tramp was a sweet soul deep down, but he too did whatever he he had to do to get by. Thus, humor and grace were enveloped under a dusty derby, and America was enthralled. Through films like The Immigrant, Easy Street, and Shoulder Arms, Charlie's career started soaring. A shrewd businessman, who was not so much in it for the wealth as for the security, he and his brother Sydney negotiated more and more creative and financial freedom into his contracts. He bounced from Essanay, to Mutual, to First National. His films became his own personal vehicles under his own direction, and the stories he chose to tell always sold well.

Charlie and Jackie Coogan developed an incredibly close

relationship during The Kid, Charlie's first feature-

length directorial effort. It was a smash success.

Feature films would take his visual narrations to a whole other level, and the work he did at his own Charlie Chaplin Studios would change cinema storytelling forever. His craft as an artist was dedicated, focused, and perfectionistic. A kernel of an idea would give birth to scenes, which led to plot-points, and soon he had built-up an entire story. He would work his stories out on the spot most of the time, trying out an idea, fashioning it in a new way, reworking it, implementing some lucky bit of business that happened on the spot, etc. His efforts were painstaking. Yet, as exacting as he was in his ambitions, he still made room for input, listening to others' advice or accepting ideas from everyone on the set. At the end of the day, what Charlie said went, but he never made a final take without weighing every possible alternative. He wanted to give his audiences the best product possible. All too often, he would awaken weeks after a scene had been filmed and decide that he had done it wrong or that it could have been done better. He was never satisfied. When these (imagined) errors could be corrected, he would drive his more penny-pinching brother Sydney mad with the expenses, retakes, and wasted film incurred. When too late, Charlie would have to live with the disappointment. And he was always disappointed. He always chased the perfect compromise between idea and execution and was interminably hard on himself when the result wasn't so. The effect was a very tired man. He worked all day, directing, acting, building scenarios, editing, composing music-- work work work. He worked to eliminate the painful thoughts and memories, the loneliness that haunted his private life. All too often, he would return home and have to be nearly carried inside by his chauffeur because he had exhausted himself to the point of muscle failure.

Charlies' private life is something to note. It is also something that remains a scandalous stain on his otherwise impeccable creative life. The opposition to Mr. Chaplin over time would be a combination of his romantic life and his political leanings. The source of the former is the story of his unconsummated love for Hetty Kelly, the young woman with whom he fell in love during his initial Karno stint in 1908. She was a "Yankee Doodle Girl," who by some curious method has was able to charm the emotionally evasive Charlie out of his shell and into a fog of incurable adoration. The stony exterior he had been building up after a harsh life was finally being penetrated. Hetty was initially receptive to his bashful, romantic overtures. Unfortunately for Charlie, it appears that Hetty's mother had other aspirations for her daughter, and didn't want her to wind up with an impoverished actor. Hetty, after an assumed reprimand from the senior lady, turned suddenly cold. She refused to see Charlie anymore. He was heartbroken. After he went to America, perhaps subconsciously driven by the hope that he'd make good and be able to win Hetty back, he received word that she had gotten married to Lt. Alan Horne. The courtship of Charlie and Hetty had been brief-- but eleven days-- and Charlie once calculated that they never spent more than 20 minutes together. Still, he never forgot her. Hetty would pass away prematurely after catching a nasty bout of pneumonia following the influenza epidemic.

Charlie and soon-to-be second wife Lita Grey during The Gold Rush. She would become

pregnant during early filming, which gained her a husband but clearly took her out of 

the running for the lead role, which was awarded to Georgia Hale. The

marriage would not be a pleasant one.

Perhaps it was in the desperate hope of recreating his dream girl that Charlie seemed drawn to the same brand of young women. But, there is more beneath his disastrous marriages to the 15-year-old Mildred Harris (instigated by a fake pregnancy) or the 15-year-old Lita Grey (real pregnancy) than misguided devotion. His tendency toward young, unworldly girls insinuates more his need for a measure of control.  He chose beautiful, assumedly uncomplicated vessels that would not make demands on him or his work. Unfortunately, this resulted in the opposite effect. Immaturity requires constant attention and consequently results in frequent fights. Charlie thus fell prey to his own romantic ignorance, becoming attracted to a princess only to be confronted by a monster of his own creation. Yet, he was not a cold-hearted, selfish person, and treated his wives well, giving them a good home, and providing for his sons (Charles Jr. and Sydney, both by Lita). What he couldn't give was himself. After Hetty broke his heart, he could only put his most ardent passion into his work. Thus, his young brides were left in a cold, empty home with a ghost of a husband. Of course, the ladies weren't innocent either, having latched onto Charlie for more fiscal than emotional purposes. Charlie seemed to forgive the Mildred fiasco over time, even after her lawyers tried to seize The Kid as monetary property, but hurricane Lita became a matter that Charlie would never discuss. His strongest relationship was with glowing third wife Paulette Goddard, a feisty, mature equal whose compassion and light-heartedness earned her Charlie's respect and two of the largest female roles in any of his films (Modern Times and The Great Dictator), but even this match was not to last. His friendship with Douglas Fairbanks always had a way of bucking him up, but Charlie had little outside his work. He wasn't a social butterfly, and despite his constant performer antics, he was quite bashful around people he didn't know, particularly people he considered far more posh than himself. He wasn't extravagant with his money, and it was years before he ever bought himself a tailored suit. He was sitting in the lap of luxury, but didn't know how to enjoy it. The quiet moments of his life were unendurable and lonely. In private, he remained an isolated little boy. At the studios, he was in total control of his genius. All the more reason to work.

Charlie's initial concept for The Circus sprouted from the gag of him

ungracefully trying to tight-rope while unruly monkeys climbed

all over him.

The body of work that Charlie compiled is beyond description or praise. City Lights, The Gold Rush, The Circus... Whatever issues he had in private, the public would never have known. Charlie was a man on a mission, whatever that mission was from project to project. He seemed to have an almost psychic ability when it came to the social stratosphere. In honor of his mother, he lambasted the hypocrisy shown against women in general, and particularly against unwed mothers in A Woman of Paris and The Kid, (the latter film in which he also expressed his own deep sorrow over the death of his first born son by Mildred). He lambasted the replacement of technology and profit over mankind in Modern Times. He confronted the ugliness of facism in The Great Dictator before most others had registered the dangerous tyranny surfacing in Germany. (Charlie later said he could never have made the movie had he known about the level of devastation in the concentration camps). Wherever he was in his life, whatever he was feeling, whatever direction he saw the world moving in, he allowed himself to make a commentary on it. This is what got him into trouble politically. Time and again Charlie was labeled as a communist. Why? Mostly because he gave a damn about humanity and didn't apologize for it. He would  more appropriately label himself as a "non-comformist." Primarily, he was just a simple humanist. His work and its depiction of the mistreatment of the lower classes, the ambivalence of the wealthy, and the hypocrisy of society in general had always inadvertently ruffled feathers. Certainly, on some level, Charlie believed in what he preached, but his message was primarily subliminal. The point was always comedy.

However, his early advocation that we send troops to the German front during WWII caused a stir. For a society in turmoil and trying to escape war, the appeal to bear arms from the most popular man in the world made people nervous. After the war, when fear turned to the paranoia during the Cold War, Charlie's open-mindedness and curiosity about various people and politics too began to chafe certain government officials. Charlie was never a communist, but he respected a man's right to believe as he wished. Just as he brushed off accusations that he was Jewish, ("I do not have that honor") due to his loyalty to his half-Jewish brother Syd, he would be honest but evasive with reporters when they pressed him for information regarding his alleged "red ties," mostly because he didn't consider it any of their damn business. Changing tides and attitudes caused the once loving public to turn against Charlie. Suddenly, he was being harangued for not ever obtaining American citizenship-- a choice that he had made not of disloyalty to the Western country he truly loved but out of nostalgia to his boyhood home. He failed to cooperate with any government officials that badgered him, and he publicly stated his disagreement with the quickly growing HUAC madness. Most of his contemporaries remained silent during the tumult, whereas Charlie spoke up. He had faith that the mania would blow over, but it was not so. It is hard to imagine a world so irrationally misdirected that it would seek out and invent criminals to feel more secure, but history has led us down this road more than once. Charlie became one of the many bewildered victims of the movement. In a nation so anxious that it sought out cries of Unity from every corner, Charlie's continuing films-- which proceeded to ask society probing questions about its very soul-- was a boil on the butt of Joseph McCarthy's lack of "decency." 

The maniacal gibberish that Charlie concocted for his German villain, "Dictator

Hynkel," was ad-libbed on the spot and totally captured and satirized 

the vainglory and maniacal oblivion of men with God complexes.

The truth was that no evidence could be found to truly support that Charlie was in any way, shape, or form a communist, and his every effort (including his contribution to the war bond tour) clearly implied his loyalty to the United States and his desire to protect and serve its freedoms. Despite all this, certain far-far-right factions pegged Charlie as a threat. It is rumored that Hedda Hopper herself (Hollywood's number one anti-communist spokeswoman) urged his former lover Joan Barry to take him to court over his alleged illegitimate child (proven beyond a reasonable doubt not to be his, but no matter) in order to besmirch his otherwise spotless character. The man who had made America laugh for nearly forty years was, thus, suddenly the butt of the joke. He would continue on after the malicious scandal, film Limelight-- his poetic opus to the aging entertainer-- then set sail for Europe for its London premiere on Sept. 17, 1952. Once abroad, he was alerted that he was barred from returning to the land where he had built his life. Attorney General James McGranery had rescinded his re-entry permit with a little help from a US Code of Laws on Aliens, which "permits the barring of aliens on grounds of morals, health, or insanity, or for advocating communism." Later McGranery admitted that he had taken this abrupt action "without consulting any other government departments."

Charlie's heart was broken. America had given him a life beyond his imaginings, but it too is safe to say that he had given the nation just as much in return. Now, he and his young bride and love of his life Oona O'Neill were sent adrift with a brood of children that would grow to reach nine (11 counting his two sons with Lita). They eventually settled in Switzerland. During these tough years, Oona became a perfect counterpart to Charlie. Though thirty-six years his junior, she possessed a maturity, devotion, and independence that was infatuated with his genius, considerate of his needs, and tolerant of his flaws. The duo would raise eyebrows, but their marriage lasted until Charlie's death. While getting up in years, Charlie's most provocative and enchanting work was done, but he was still consumed by the creative process, making A King in New York to directly confront the witch hunt that had ostracized him from America soil, and finally directing Marlon Brando and Sophia Loren in A Countess from Hong Kong. The Tramp character was long since gone, having essentially been put to rest by the talkies, and the "art of pantomime," which Charlie had preached was the breath of life in cinema, died with him. The world of film had changed and the big shoes Charlie had left to fill no longer even fit himself. He continued writing and planning new epics, but his best work had become a memory of the land of long long ago. Eventually, he would be honored for his life's work in film with various recognitions and awards (including an Academy Award for Lifetime Achievement), and he was welcomed back to America with  guilty, open arms. He too forgave, was touched that he was still remembered, and was reassured that the good in man will triumph eventually-- a notion he had preached in all his films.

Charlie's infamous skating routine in Modern Times was accomplished with the help of 

mirrors-- but his blindfolded abilities remain impressive nonetheless.

Charlie Chaplin died on Christmas day in 1977. That sentence alone required pause-- a moment of silence. It is hard to fathom that such an individual existed, let alone come to terms with the fact that a presence so strong is with us no more. For all of the controversy and mudslinging he suffered in his life, Charlie's true fans never forgot him. Generation after generation, when viewers are introduced to him, they are introduced to a man of great principle, honesty, and hope. One with a dark heart could not inspire a world to laugh as he did, nor share their joys together for those brief moments when their threadbare, floppy-footed hero convinced them that we are indeed not in this mess of life alone but together. As he himself said, "It is paradoxical that tragedy stimulates the sport of ridicule... Ridicule, I suppose, is an attitude of defiance; we must laugh in the face of our helplessness against the forces of nature-- or go insane." And so, a little boy from Great Britain who had endured madness, heartbreak, poverty, and intolerable loneliness, fought his demons off with laughter and let us join in with him. The world continues to laugh at him, with him, and to idolize him, because even in silence, his Tramp speaks the truth. He may walk off into the sunset alone time and again-- without a plan, without a hope in the world-- but he always disappears with a swinging cane and a skip in his step. His fight is never over, and his audience is left to believe that a better day will dawn and that, even better, they will see their delightful friend again somewhere down this windy road.