It is both a blessing and a curse when a character begins to outshine its creator. Long before Paul Reubens became Pee-Wee Herman, Charles Chaplin’s “Little Tramp” gave birth to a new era of comedy. His buoyant personality, yet forlorn appearance, became so iconic that few may have recognized the creative genius underneath (Chaplin did, in fact, look quite different without his makeup). The Little Tramp’s innovative amalgamation of slapstick vaudeville and poignant drama marked an unquestionably definitive moment in the early history of film. Yet, when a legendary auteur develops ambitions outside his or her niche, the character must sometimes learn to wear a different mustache.

1921’s The Kid marked the beginning of many things for Charlie’s career. Despite being his 56th effort as a director, the fifty-minute film was his first major success. More importantly though, the overall tone exemplified an emotive quality atypical of Chaplin’s work. When the Tramp happens upon an orphaned baby lying in an alley, he takes it upon himself to raise the child—regardless of who its true parents may be. Five years later, the authorities come to recover the Kid—on behalf of his now-wealthy and famous mother. The result was one of the most heart-wrenching scenes audiences had ever witnessed in a film—and in a comedy, at that! As a protocol by which Charlie would continue to conduct himself, the film accomplished so very much with so very little. Through the use of a very minimal set, modest-sized cast, and a script Chaplin would often invent on the spot, the Little Tramp came to represent society’s most disparaged citizen—and the viewer’s best and only friend.

The ten years that followed The Kid brought, arguably, both the best and worst things to ever happen to Chaplin’s career. Two years after shooting his first masterpiece, 1925’s The Gold Rush, the film world was rocked by the birth of talkies (that is, if you consider The Jazz Singer to be the first non-silent film). Regardless of this invention, Charlie stuck to his silent-guns for another four years. The filmmaker’s second masterpiece, 1931’s City Lights, might have revolutionized silent film had it been made at a time when audiences still cared for that sort of thing. While both Gold Rush and City Lights featured a masterful blend of humor and sentimentality, it was undoubtedly the latter that truly reestablished the defining traits of the Little Tramp. Despite his clumsiness and misfortune in many precarious situations, the City Tramp maintains the sad dignity of a proper, well-to-do gentleman; in essence, he holds himself to a higher standard. This is also reflected in The Kid by his ingenious parenting skills and in Gold Rush by his cooking, cleaning, and table manners (even when he is forced to eat his own boot!). The plot of City Lights—his last silent film—concerns the love affair between the Tramp and a blind girl who believes the poor vagabond is, in fact, a generous millionaire. Never one to disappoint or go back on a bad decision, the penniless dreamer vows to do all he can for the poor girl—at whatever cost. City Lights—as well as The Gold Rush—showcases the Little Tramp’s common sense, fortitude, and above all else, his never-ending love of love.

The outstanding performance Chaplin gave for City Lights’ famous final scene exemplified an almost uncanny ability to manipulate the viewer’s emotions. For all that can be said of the Little Tramp’s contribution to comedy and vaudeville, it should be noted that this scene almost single-handedly gave birth to the modern romance tale. The poor girl, who can now see, discovers that her millionaire is nothing more than a Tramp in love. A constant critic of his own work, even Chaplin himself remarked at how the Tramp appears “almost apologetic, standing outside [himself],” but that it works because “it isn’t over-acted.” In 1949, film critic James Agee even went so far as to call it, “the greatest piece of acting and the highest moment in movies.” Federico Fellini, Woody Allen, and even Paul Thomas Anderson have honored the poignant, yet simple tenderness—as well as the cinematography—of that moment in the film. However, none has since managed to transform such a simple character into so great an icon.

The established persona of the Tramp is a man of fierce devotion, fortitude, and on-the-spot creativity. In City Lights, we saw a man who would have himself thrown in jail, find extra work, or even risk his own life at the expense of helping a beautiful stranger. The Gold Rush also exemplified those same three measures of determination, yet toward a woman who was still in love with another man. Even as far back as The Kid, the Tramp would always go to the ends of the Earth for someone or something he loved or cared about—and still leave the audience laughing their socks off. When the Tramp befriends a drunken millionaire in City Lights (in a desperate effort to score some extra cash for the blind girl), the resulting hijinks are insane, hilarious, and quintessentially Chaplin. It seems that such an integral element of Charlie’s paintbrush would have been inseparable from his style—regardless of changes in trends, technology, or creative ambition.

Unfortunately, the Tramp’s undying determination, blind optimism, and energetic belief in love quickly faded throughout the latter part of Chaplin’s career. What was once the auteur’s vehicle for laughs, romance, and perhaps even the obligatory “moral of the story,” transformed into a podium for political and social commentary. His first talkie (it is debatable whether it truly classifies as such), 1936’s Modern Times, presented a rather clichéd commentary on the supposed threat of useless modern technology on the working class. The Tramp appears as a factory worker so confused and ensnared within the grinding cogs of modern society that he eventually decides he would rather live in prison than try to cope with the more and more challenging task of finding employment. The message was clear, yet Charlie’s first attempt to make a genuine, liberal statement seemed inconsistent with his typical Tramp comedy routine. There are moments where it is difficult to differentiate between the serious commentary, the tried-and-true Chaplin comedy routine, and the more ambiguous elements that leave the audience feeling just uncomfortable. However, he followed this up with what is undoubtedly his best non-silent film ever, 1940’s The Great Dictator; a decry against fascism, anti-Semitism, and Hitler. Chaplin appears as both a Jewish barber and Dictator Adenoid Hynkel, with the former being his final Tramp-type character. Although the film became his most successful, it is now marred by the true tragedy it lampooned.

Both Modern Times and The Great Dictator exercised the director’s apparent longing to make large-scale serious films, whose “moral of the story” would create controversy rather than laughter. For all that can be said of the positive impact these commentaries had, it should be recognized how much the Tramp changed during the post-City Lights era. The irony of Chaplin’s comment about the City protagonist “standing outside [himself]” appears throughout most of Modern Times and in parts of Dictator. The way Charlie performs is not as much authentic Tramp as it is a mockery of his silent era foolishness. One rather perverted scene from Modern shows the Tramp worker fastening bolts on an assembly line with such abnormal speed that he continues the rapid, tightening motion even after he has walked away from the line. When one of his female superiors arrives to address the curious behavior, the Tramp mistakenly applies the fastening motion to the woman’s chest. This scene—and many others like it—fails to offer humor or commentary or any kind. In general, when the Tramp is not being used as a political device, he only manages to offer up not, cheap slapstick—unlike the remarkably original, well-choreographed routines of his silent years. The Tramp we knew and loved would never return again following the release of Chaplin's Fascist farce.

The new Charlie was not, however, a total stranger. Some scenes from Dictator could have been extracted directly from any of his silent work. First, there is the famous scene where Hynkel dances with a giant globe. Truer to the antics of the original Little Tramp, though, was the scene where the Jewish barber gives a man a shave to the beat of Brahm’s “Hungarian Dance No. 5” (this is due, in part, to the fact that Charlie had shot a longer version of this exact same scene back in 1919 for his short Charlie the Barber). Recorded all in one, long take, the scene retains the simplicity, playfulness, and effortless perfection of the famous moment in Gold Rush when the Tramp dances two dinner rolls across the table with forks. Chaplin also maintained his reliance on minimal sets for Dictator (although this is not the case in either Modern Times or any film following Dictator). The entire Jewish ghetto is depicted using about three basic rooms, and one street. Despite Charlie’s obsession with re-shoots (many of the scenes from City Lights were re-shot over one hundred times) and abnormally high budgets (The Great Dictator was made for $2 million in 1940, a year in which the average production cost for an American feature was only $400K), the final product of most of his films presented comparatively minimal dialogue, an incredibly fast tempo, and remarkably few extras. Yet still, most of Chaplin’s effort was going toward promoting the films’ liberal statements. That meant audiences would soon be dealing with a new breed of Chaplin protagonist—one that cared very little for love or life, much less laughter.

Throughout the rest of the forties and fifties (and even the sixties if you include his swan song, 1967’s A Countess From Hong Kong), Chaplin grew more and more divorced from that which had made him a household name. Much like the way one might envision how a character in a book actually looks without seeing the film adaptation, the Little Tramp’s fans had realized his voice and character before he ever uttered an audible word. Before anyone ever heard him speak, everyone could agree on what he sounded like; the mousy, yet optimistic tone, the mature, gentlemanly diction, and an overwhelming sense of civility. Yet, all Chaplin’s films made after The Great Dictator bear no connection to the properties, reason, or attraction offered by the Tramp days. Only in one small respect does his first film of the fifties, Limelight, allude to Charlie’s early work. The protagonist, an aging star named Calvero, supposedly performed vaudeville-like acts on stage back in his heyday (recreations of these acts are casually interspersed throughout the film). Even then, it is a reflective notion, rather than a new take on our old friend. The new Chaplin protagonist often sang to the tune of the times—in typical forties, noir fashion, he could never be totally trusted and was often not actually the “good guy.” For instance, 1947’s Monsieur Verdoux suggests a Bluebeard-esque theme on the part of Chaplin’s character (although, once again, with the intent of making a political statement).

That is not to suggest, however, that his later work should bear lower expectations—they are all very fine films, indeed. Yet, there is sure to be a confliction in the viewers mind concerning the intended role of comedy. Part of the reason diehard Chaplin fans favor City Lights so highly is the almost perfect blend of comedy and drama it presents. It is undoubtedly a comedy, and yet nary another of Charlie’s films bears a stronger statement, moral, or sentiment. His later work is so pessimistic and political that fans are likely to go in search of something offering a bit more hope or optimism. There would be no objection if what Chaplin was making were devoutly political films. However, it is sometimes difficult to swallow the full comedic value, as well as the intensity of the political statements being made (after all, we cannot all be Lewis Black). On the other hand, the political statements are all well founded and thank God there were people brave enough as Chaplin to make them. Still, that does not change the fact that people came to the theatre expecting what was commonly identified as a “Charlie Chaplin film.” Directors are always allowed to evolve, but not at the cost of losing what they are really good at. The Little Tramp had so much more to offer the world—and might have had the opportunity if not for the sound era. While there is hardly a bad apple anywhere in Chaplin’s catalogue, audiences today still wonder what ever happened to that strange, little man in the bowler hat.

this is my second charlie chaplin film-city lights was the first-and i see how they are, intellectually very similar, little tramp or no little tramp. monsieur verdoux is overtly didactic where city lights certainly has a politics, but it is just below the surface. of course, this may be a result of the speeches at the end of monsieur. i understand that chaplin was reluctant to move away from silent film, and perhaps we can see here why. language has given him the ability to curse.

i wonder if welles' involvement (hes credited with the original idea) added to these vocal politics? but welles' tone is different from chaplin's. chaplin takes a position, where welles tends only to insist on questioning, not settling on an answer.

does this sound like i am criticizing chaplin? i am not. i like that monsieur moves from what could be a lightly critical and humorous to directly critical--the audience is given the pleasure of the film, with its jokes, and that excellent gestural humor, and, oh my, could martha raye   be any better or funnier?, and then led to chaplin's criticism of world politics at the beginning of the second world war.

did this influence godard? must've.

i got stuck on the scene where chaplin sits on the sofa and his elbow slips off the arm, upsetting his balance and eventually sending him off the sofa. his grandson, james thierree, does an excellent extended version of this same movement, unable to prop his chin in his hand, in the larger context of trying to sit in a chair, cross his legs and prop his chin, in au revoir parapluie. in the new yorker, he apparently expresses reluctance to be compared to chaplin, but then why take chaplin's gesture and amplify it? (i think they're both excellent, but i also think they are different, or they do different things.) chaplin is making social criticism and thierree, from what i have seen, is more interested in fairytales.

j. hoberman wrote this on monsieur.

very disjointed of me. more again later, perhaps?

The original poster for Chaplin's most misunderstood film Monsieur Verdoux said it all. A film that was as scathing a critique of its own period as any op-Ed piece the New York Times has been running on Bush policy over the last seven years. the difference of course was that the New York Times wasn't writing critiques of this kind, nor did anyone in America expect the lovable Tramp to take a turn as a Brechtian social critic. But that's exactly the direction Chaplin was headed in after films like Modern Times and The Great Dictator, the only thing was that for Verdoux, Chaplin totally abandoned the Tramp. The history behind the making of the film and its place in Chaplin's artistic cannon are nearly as interesting as Verdoux itself. As the film opens in New York this week, there's bound to be plenty more chronicling of this period for Chaplin. NWFF will be screening Verdoux next month. Before then, I suggest picking up a copy of Agee on Film and reading his three part defense, one of the only published at the time.