In his early
work, Chaplin didn’t often attempt to blend comedy with the unpleasant
realities of life - unless you count childhood separation trauma in The Kid (1921), the ghoulish
hallucinations and the staving off of cannibalism in The Gold Rush or those fierce Grand Guignol eyebrows of supporting
actor Eric Campbell across his films. At the end of World War One he found trench
humour in Shoulder Arms (1918) which
ended with him dreaming of capturing the German Kaiser. He would take aim at a
far bigger target in his future.
Chaplin knew
he must free himself from his Little Tramp shadow and of the easy, affecting
sentimentality that accompanied that former alter-ego. It was time to ask
questions that were more difficult, about subjects more controversial. It was
the maturer, more reflective artist of later life that was about to create his
masterpiece The Great Dictator.
I would
argue a place for The Great Dictator
in this retrospective based on fitting the definition of horror as well as
satire. If we accept horror as the dwelling on nightmarish possibilities, the
truly awful and terrible (in the sense of inspiring terror) then what could be
worse than the Holocaust? And in its catalyst, the tyrant who ordered
millions of humans to be exterminated as if ordering the shipping of produce,
who could possibly be a greater monster or serial killer than Hitler? Moreover,
the vileness of the method and chief instigator are all the more appalling for
being real, rather than hiding behind the safe wall of the writers’
imagination.
Trying to
find a humorous angle about the very worst inhumanity of WWII is surely the
hardest proposition in comedy. In thinking about the unthinkable, honouring the
living and the dead and aiming offence only at those deserving it, understandably
few have dared to try. I can only think of one film since Chaplin’s that successfully
mined pointed humour from the subject - Roberto Benigni’s stunningly brave Life is Beautiful (1997) - in which a
father heartbreakingly maintains till his death the illusion for his son’s sake
that their concentration camp internment is all a game. Jerry Lewis struggled
so much with the tone of his Auschwitz-set 1972 film The Day the Clown Cried (as a clown recruited to divert the
attention of the camp children till he finds himself locked in the gas chamber
with them) that as of writing this, he has still never allowed the film’s
release out of enduring shame.
For Charlie Chaplin,
world events would conspire to push him into feeling he had no choice but to
reflect them in his work. The course of his life and that of the emerging
threat of Chancellor Adolf Hitler raise interesting parallels as well as
contrasts. Both men were born in the very same week of April 1889, just four
days apart. They would go on to occupy two sides of the same fame coin: the
celebrated and the infamous. One short, moustached man would be loved the world
over, the other feared. Chaplin was born in London into extreme poverty and his
own childhood trauma, with an absent father and a mother who suffered
precarious mental health that forced her into institutional care. Raised in
Austria-Hungary, Hitler suffered violence at the hands of an abusive father,
though he cared deeply for his mother.
Neither boy
benefitted from schooling. While Chaplin educated himself on the streets and as
a boy performer in the Music Halls before emigrating to America, Hitler sought
his artistic future as a prospective art student. He set his sights on the lofty
Vienna Academy. Their rejection of his unremarkable talent scarred him for
life, the resulting dejection sent him spiralling into slum living as a
real-life tramp much like Charlie’s youth. Inevitably young Hitler’s situation
crossed his path with undesirables, one of whom was Guido von List, a
Gandalf-bearded occultist of letters whose anti-Semitic teachings fuelled his
fateful road to hate-propelled power.
The
aftermath of WWII left Germany in grinding poverty, fertile ground for the
whole nation to be persuaded by opportunistic factions recruiting for their
belief systems. Hitler sided with his old General in the revolutionary Munich
Putsch of 1923 and subsequently landed in jail where he wrote Mein Kampf. Like many, he was further inspired
by the success of Mussolini’s fascist regime, particularly after the Stock
Market Crash of 1929 when even Americans looked favourably on the Italian
dictator’s efficiency drives for national revitalisation.
Cinema was a
vital link between the actor and the politician in promoting their image. Both
understood its potential influence, but whereas Chaplin’s talent translated
beautifully onto the silent movie screen, Hitler’s gesticulations and ferocity
looked inappropriately comical. Ironically, he benefitted from the huge
communication leap provided by his nemeses in 1927’s The Jazz Singer, the first major studio sound film, produced by and
starring jews. With the aid of acting lessons, now the compelling sound of
Hitler’s speeches represented him to his people with devastating potency,
taking him to supreme power as the German Chancellor. In this period Chaplin
spent long hours at the cinema with his son Sydney, studying endless newsreels
and declaring Hitler the greatest actor he had ever seen.
The
admiration was not mutual. Though Hitler was himself a film buff enjoying
American movies and a special fondness for Greta Garbo, he was no fan of Chaplin.
Kevin Brownlow’s compelling documentary The
Tramp and the Dictator cites examples of ugly Nazi propaganda aimed at him.
The poisonous book Juden Sehen Dich An
(‘The Jews are Watching You’) published in 1933 and the 1940 documentary Der Ewige Jude (The Eternal Jew’)
indulged in hate-mongering, reductionist racism singling him out as a perceived
Jew. Though there was no evidence in his genealogy, to his credit Chaplin never
denied the claim. Brownlow said: "He was sent a copy of this book and it
is widely believed that this led him to make the film The Great Dictator as
an act of defiance."
While Hitler
harnessed the impact of cinema sound in his growing bid to conquer the world, Chaplin
held out as long as he could against the innovation. In his mind, he had
conquered the world as an entertainer without it. Even his anti-capitalist gem Modern Times (1936) made almost a decade
into the new medium’s use was still a silent film with added sound effects to
get around having to fully embrace the change. The film was still daringly
topical even so. The factory conveyor belt sight-gags were inspired by
automotive tycoon Henry Ford who had installed the first car worker assembly
line, boasting immense efficiency at the cost of dehumanising labour. Allan
Garcia was cast as the tyrannical Company President with his hair dyed whiter
to directly resemble Mr Ford. The industrialist not only exploited his workers
in pursuit of profit, he was anti-union and overtly anti-semitic, having
already published the four-volume series The
International Jew - reputedly a great influence on the founder of Germany’s
Hitler Youth.
Such open
racism was much more common in America than modern readers might realise. The
pro-Nazi German-American Bund’s popularity culminated in 20,000 attendees at
its rally in Madison Square Garden, New York in February 1939. There were even
Congressional hearings investigating the Jewish influence upon the Hollywood film
business from an attitude of unmistakeable suspicion. In the post-Depression years
before the Third Reich’s monstrous plans and methods were revealed, the USA
actually looked to Hitler’s German government with admiration. After all, what
they saw was a nation eschewing self-pity and instead rolling up its sleeves to
build new infrastructure, absorbing men and women into a collective vision of
productivity. Leni Riefenstahl’s documentary Triumph of the Will (1935) paraded 700,000 proud soldiers at
Nuremberg in a display still astounding in today’s era of CGI-created crowd
effects.
Behind the
scenes though, the Nazis were expressing their darker purpose, one that would
warp an appearance of healthy creation into unimaginable greed and destruction.
Their masterplan annexed Austria in March 1938, affording Hitler the chance to
drive through Vienna with all the vengeful pride he felt he had lost when that
city crushed his teenage artist dreams.
By the time of the hideous Kristallnacht attack against the Jews within
Germany, it would surely be impossible for other countries to doubt the deplorable
monstrosity of Nazism’s real intent.
Chaplin refused
to impotently sit by. His response was to channel his pent-up rage against
Hitler into creativity and announced in October 1938 that his next film would
bear the pointed title The Great Dictator.
Many studio executives were horrified and tried to temper him, reasoning that they
could not risk reprisals in Germany and fascist Italy, still very lucrative
markets for American movies. His assistant Dan Jones recalled their advice:
“You’re going to make it terribly hard for our people over there. You’re going
to make Hitler furious”. He however could not conceive of any worse
repercussions than what was being hinted at for the whole world. He was not
alone. His admirable stance had a powerful ally in President Roosevelt who
backed him fully.
Nine days
after war officially broke out on September 9th 1939, Chaplin began
shooting as the writer and director of The
Great Dictator on secret closed sets. Much was at stake for him since the
entire production was self-financed. He was putting his money where his mouth
would be – and for the first time would be heard speaking through it on screen.
Although the settings were given fictional Ruritanian names, there was no
denying the parallels with the real world. The understated prologue card reads
that between the wars ‘Liberty took a nose dive and Humanity was kicked around
somewhat’.
The opening
sees Chaplin as a drafted version of his plucky Little Man persona struggling
to cope on the front line in 1918 as part of the Tomanian army (essentially
picking up where Shoulder Arms ended).
Cagily, he conceals his voice other than brief subordinate replies and presents
a farcical set-up attempting to operate their Big Bertha gun which only rewards
their preparation by a shell plopping out with an exaggerated cork pop effect.
The sight-gag invention continues amusingly when he is ordered to retrieve the
shell that swivels at him with a mind of its own wherever he turns. There is a
disturbing edge to the humour when he primes a grenade and then loses it down
his sleeve, only retrieving and throwing it just in time to avoid being blown
up. In the fog of trench war, he even finds himself advancing alongside the
enemy’s troops.
We then
discover that in the ensuing Great Depression, the party of dictator Adenoid
Hynkel has filled the vacuum with his overweening ego – the flip-side of
Chaplin’s two dual roles. This signals the naughty schoolboy humour of Chaplin
firstly in his ridiculing of names. Aside from the Hitlerian leader, there are
other notorious associates spoofed from his real life cabinet: Herr Garbitch
(the coolly disdainful Henry Daniell) mocking propaganda supremo Josef
Goebbels, Admiral Herring (a welcome reappearance by Billy Gilbert, Laurel and
Hardy’s volcano-tempered foe in 1932’s The
Music Box) – and even an off-screen General named Schmell-Offel.
In spite of his
reluctance to use spoken dialogue, Chaplin’s opening scenes as Hynkel relish
the new comic dimension. He comes out of hiding as it were with all guns
blazing in a torrent of fake German gibberish. He had the facility like later
TV comedian Sid Caesar to reel off reams of semi-credible gobbledigook in
foreign languages, maximising the laughs by mixing in anglicisms: exhortations
of sacrifice to ‘tighten de belten’ and accusations of ‘cheesen-cracken’.
Hynkel’s strident speechifying blasts with such force that his microphones bend
back and spin. Notice the wide shots of the rally crowd. Was it just
cost-saving or deliberate parody that the background rows are made up of
dummies with mechanically-raised arms? The symbol of the party’s regime doesn’t
escape the film-maker’s satirical digs. The German swastika becomes the literal
double-cross insignia.
Meanwhile, in
the temporary sanity of the Tomania ghetto Chaplin undertakes his other part,
that of a recovering amnesiac barber, a dead-ringer for Hynkel, who is never named – possibly to reinforce his
Everyman status. He dresses like Chaplin’s Little Tramp with bowler hat and
cane and will need all the dexterity and courage of his alter-ego as events
unfold. He develops a relationship with the lovely and tomboyish
Cinderella-like Hannah, played by his real-life wife (and Modern Times co-star) Paulette Goddard. His innate dignity and her
rough diamond quality are a charming match.
In these
scenes as writer-director, Chaplin is careful never to sugar-coat the awful
conditions looming. The brutal Hynkel Stormtroopers are shrewdly cast using
burly New York actors with a convincing threat level, and whilst he shows us
his still-admirable athleticism in scuffles with them, Chaplin doesn’t shy away
from showing an attempted street-lamp lynching of him and their racist ‘Jew’
daubings on shop fronts.
The barber is
reunited with Commander Schultz, the pilot he flew with in WWI who was promoted
to governing the ghetto, played by the dapper Reginald Gardiner Their banter
makes another potential dig at the Fuhrer ( ‘Fooey’ in the film):
‘I always
thought of you as an Aryan.’
‘I’m a
vegetarian’.
Back in
Hynkel’s office, he is in expansive supremacist mood himself, rhapsodising
about the possibilities of “A blonde world”. Coquettishly, he poses half-way up
a curtain, insisting Garbo-like “I want to be alone” (Did the actor know then
of Hitler’s own fondness for the enigmatic Swede?) This leads playfully into
the most famous scene in the film, one that often features in those celebratory
montages of the best moments in cinema. The genesis for it was Chaplin’s plan
to emulate the splendour of Hitler’s Reich Chancellery office. Budgetary
strictures curtailed him somewhat, yet what he did include was something he spotted
in a photo of the interior: a globe on a stand. This may well have reminded him
of a little skit he performed for the camera at home in 1928 in a skirt, boots
and leafy head-dress larking about with a small globe and a German helmet
perched on top. The two combined to form an idea that would beautifully and
wordlessly say everything about Hynkel/Hitler’s relationship to the world.
For a brief heart-stopping
sequence, we are transported like Chaplin in a gorgeous private ballet
partnering him with the giant balloon of the globe accompanied by his and
Meredith Wilson’s lovely string scoring. The dictator keeps his prize aloft
with his hands, feet, even his bottom whilst still suspending time with
thrilling grace. It is utterly wonderful
and his beatific smile makes his secret desire all the more moving to watch.
Never has the awfulness of monstrous ambition been rendered more poetic on
screen.
The
brilliance of this sequence is followed almost immediately by another bravura
one in the barber-shop, showing the maestro’s own quiet prowess shaving a
customer to the tune of Brahms’ Hungarian Dance. Gradually though, the light humour gives way
to the darkening skies of emerging genocidal tyranny. For his treachery,
Schultz is paid back by Hynkel despatching him with the tasteless: “You need a
vacation. Fresh air. A little outdoor exercise. I shall send you to a
concentration camp”. Chaplin must be forgiven for the seeming poor taste of
this line. Jack Benny referenced the same flippancy in 1942’s war comedy To Be or Not to Be (1942): “So they call
me Concentration Camp Ehrhardt!” Most people were saved from knowing the
nightmarish horror of camp treatment till the emaciated, barely-alive soldiers
were pulled out of Bergen-Belsen in 1945.
Schultz
escapes back to the ghetto and here Chaplin adds another layer of serious
politicking to his observations by making Schultz a determined advocate of
someone else bravely sacrificing themselves as a freedom-fighter instead of
him. Another high-point of silent humour is on display as the barber and his
neighbours each try to conceal the coin in his pudding earmarking him for the
task. Regardless, both the barber and Schultz are apprehended.
The second
half of The Great Dictator is enlivened though by the coarse whirlwind of Jack
Oakie blowing in as the Mussolini-esque Benzino Napaloni, dictator of Bacteria.
His crude blowhard impersonation is a master-stroke of casting, sparking rudely
off Chaplin with a loud, backslapping “How are ya, Hinky?” and a stereotype
accent hilariously reminiscent of Chico Marx’s ‘Noo Yooark’-a Italian-a. His
raised chin and preposterous conceit sets up an endless competitiveness between
him and “my brother dictate”. They try to propel their barber chairs higher
than each other and take their border troop negotiations into a stubborn brinkmanship
stalemate over who will invade Osterlich. Hynkel lives up to his insignia by
invading it anyway.
The plot
builds itself toward a climax fed by mistaken identity, a device many comedians
would hinge an entire film on. An off-duty Hynkel is arrested while duck-hunting,
while Schultz and the barber (dressed identically to Hynkel) escape from their incarceration
into a waiting parade at the Osterlich border. The barber has no choice but to
follow his impersonation into making a public victory speech.
An abandoned
sequence, preserved in his brother Sydney’s remarkable colour home-movie
footage has soldiers at this rally climax throw down their weapons and break up
into a madcap dance. Chaplin realised the scene didn’t work and that instead he
must focus on his speech to the people, the Barber being asked to rally the
troops as Hynkel.
Here,
Chaplin stages his other famed scene in the movie – a sudden about-face where
the farcical comedy comes to a dramatic halt. Chaplin pauses at the mention of
hope and at last speaks not as Hynkel or the barber but starkly as himself. He
addresses us directly as the audience in close-up, fixing us with his eyes and
the unvarnished middle-age of his face as he hesitantly begins an appeal for
peace that will be delivered in a single unbroken take of mounting emotion. Chaplin
may not have been aware that on this day of shooting Hitler was driving through
Paris surveying his latest conquest, and yet it is clear the actor knows the prophetic
significance of his words as he utters them: “Even now my voice is reaching
millions throughout the world – men, women and little children”. His idealistic
assurance that “the hate of man will pass and dictators die” gradually turns to
an energising anger, a call to arms that ironically matches the fervour of his
arch enemy but for a benevolent cause. He beseeches the world’s soldiers “don’t
give yourselves to brutes – unnatural men…self-serving dictators free
themselves but they enslave others”. He is speaking of his time, for his time,
and for all time.
Maybe in his
undeniably sincere passion Chaplin should have stopped there. Where critics
take issue with the scene is really over the end-piece in which he calls out to
Hannah and her family, stranded in Osterlich, urging her to look up to where he
imagines “The soul of man has been given wings”. The flight of reborn humanity into
the rainbow is a somewhat overwrought image to follow - however he comes by it
honestly, arguably driven by the enormous scale of the brutality to be
overcome. Perhaps unimaginable suffering demands epic hope.
Finally,
after 559 days of filming, re-shooting and re-editing, Chaplin’s production was
done. It was then that the Nazis instigated their Blitzkrieg campaign that took
the Netherlands, Belgium and France. Chaplin was so appalled by Hitler that he
had almost had second thoughts about releasing his film: “He is a horrible
menace to civilisation rather than someone to laugh at”. But the artist in him
recognised that his greatest satire would have value in diminishing the German
leader.
On its
release, The Great Dictator certainly
rewarded audiences. The film was a huge success despite being banned in parts
of Europe and even in Ireland. There is evidence that its inciting villain even ordered it to be shown - twice - though Hitler's reaction was never recorded. It showed the full flowering of Charlie Chaplin’s
talents as a film-maker, a comedian who could adapt brilliantly to changing
times and a mature, committed artist of conscience willing to reflect them.
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