He was—as many a film historians would note—The Original Independent Filmmaker. Writing, producing, directing, financing, acting in, and sometimes even scoring his own movies, many of which remain popular a century later. As one of the four founders of United Artists, he also co-owned the damn studio.
His “The Tramp” character was not only beloved worldwide but became and remains a defining symbol of Hollywood both in the United States and abroad (even though his creator was a born and bred Englishman).
And when he was given a lifetime achievement Oscar in 1972, he received a 12-minute standing ovation, still the longest in the history of the ceremony. Yes, from childhood, Charlie Chaplin was a born showman, dedicated (and usually obsessive) about the work of filmmaking. A truly remarkable journey for a kid born into a Dickensian world with a family background of alcoholism, mental illness and sexual profligacy.
But Charlie Chaplin also blurred some lines when the words of show business and politics were decidedly separate. Was he pro-Russia…or pro-Communism? Anti-Fascist, but pro-Red? And just why didn’t he want to become an American citizen? Charlie also liked women, and lots of them. Some of them were very young.
Thus, for decades powerful enemies in the FBI, the media, and self-described moral crusaders had a hard on for Chaplin, their ultimate goal being the destruction of his career and deportation. And he wasn’t always his best advocate for his defense. He could also be a hard taskmaster on the set, and there was that Type A successful artist’s ego.
Film historian/journalist Scott Eyman, who has previously penned bios on Cary Grant, John Wayne, and director John Ford, brings all the pieces together in the compelling Charlie Chaplin vs. America: When Art, Sex, and Politics Collided (432 pp., $29.99, Simon and Schuster).
For what were seen by his enemies as personal and political foibles, there were trials and hearings, government transcripts, and back and forth battles in the press.
And even when Chaplin as declared long before Maury Povich as not the father of on-and-off again girlfriend Joan Berry’s child (they met when she was 22 and he 53) via a blood test and the unanimous opinion of three doctors, including one for the prosecution, that wasn’t enough. He was tried a second time and the verdict was switched in a case that was clearly more about moral outrage over the age gap than actual paternity.
Throughout the book, Eyman offers interesting productions details on several Chaplin’s films including Modern Times (that famous scene of Chaplin, being a literal cog in the machine took 400 takes), The Great Dictator (a withering jab at Adolf Hitler at a time when many Americans just knew him as an overseas nutjob), and Monsieur Verdoux.
The last became Chaplin’s first box office “failure.” But whether it was because it was the first to not feature The Tramp and cast Chaplin as a wife killer in the then-odd “dramedy” format, or the result of crusades against him personally, are of equal heft.
The fact that at age 54 he married 18-year-old Oona O’Neill (herself the daughter of playwright Eugene O’Neill) set more tongues wagging. Though Eyman details they had a true romance and she stayed with him, raising a family, for the rest of his life. Still, Chaplin’s 30-year FBI report would consume 1,900 pages, and that was only one of six total government agencies sniffing around the star for purported sins.
Eyman deftly interweaves all the narratives uncovering contemporary accounts and interviews as well as a trove of official documents, many of which feature Chaplin alternately speaking for an/or defending himself.
Even when one inquisitor basically browbeats the self-proclaimed “citizen of the world” for not becoming an official U.S. citizen (even though all of his taxes on worldwide income were paid to the U.S.), tossing in mentions of dead soldiers who “fought for his freedom” to egg him on.
Ultimately the U.S. government would make its move in 1952. When Chaplin and his family had set sail for London and the overseas premiere of his latest film, the semi-autobiographical, Limelight, his re-entry permit to the country was rescinded.
Chaplin and his family were then exiled, settling in Switzerland. He would not set foot on U.S. soil again until those 1972 Oscars.
It didn’t matter that the actual Soviet outlet, Pravda, declared him “not a Communist.” It didn’t matter that his many foes in the media (including then-influential gossip and showbiz columnists) continued to print lies, half-truths, and exaggerations about Chaplin’s personal, professional, and political lives. It didn’t matter how much he has contributed to U.S. causes and charities. As a working artist, he was (mostly) toast.
“In hindsight, it can be seen that Chaplin was the most prominent victim of the Red Scare,” Eyman writes. And he makes a compelling case for just that.
It’s interesting for the reader to view Chaplin’s woes through the prism of today’s media culture. Personal lives of celebrities decades ago were often mysterious and unknown to fans, who could only form opinions on what they read in the newspapers and fan magazines.
Today, social media, texts and cameras make every celebrity misstep instantly viral. There’s by now a well-worn path to redemption, including the “Apology Tour” that Chaplin would probably never even consider taking. Today, he would have had his own PR machine to advocate for his side. Or there would be more “proof” of his supposed sins.
To the end, Charlie Chaplin had very mixed feelings about America, the source of both his greatest success and his most damaging developments. And in Charlie Chaplin vs. America, Scott Eyman has illuminated an odd but compelling time when indeed art, sex and politics collided in one man.
This article appears in Jan 1 – Dec 31, 2023.
