Page 17: Midnight in St Petersburg

Kracauer compares the film screen with Athena’s polished shield which she gave to Perseus so that he could behead the Gorgon Medusa by seeing the monster’s mirror reflection instead of looking directly, which would have turned him to stone. The moral which he draws from the myth is that we do not, and cannot, see actual horrors because they paralyse us with blinding fear, and that we shall know what they look like only by watching images of them which reproduce their true appearance. He concludes that perhaps Perseus’ greatest achievement was not to cut off Medusa’s head but to overcome his fears and look at its reflection in the field. Indian cinema is no Perseus, nor is its shield polished enough to reflect the Indian Medusa.

Among those few fighters who are trying to liberate the film from those bonds that hamper its growth is Michael Powell. Recently he wrote in ‘The British Film Yearbook’: ‘The truthful summation of the creators’ knowledge and understanding of their art, their available technical skill, their materials, their honest thinking and a desire to entertain, will smash the whole of the solidified process which grinds out films from a false basis; and this welcome burst will bring the end of the dark ages of film making…’

Stage life, with its night work, its daytime sleep, its irregular meals, its travelling and close contact, does not make for a natural existence and throws a so-called glamor over many people. Contrast its possibilities with those of the picture studio. In the latter place work is done in regular office hours–daylight work; no glamor of night, of orchestra, of artificial light. A player is located in one neighborhood and is recognized as a permanent and respectable citizen. Evenings can be spent at home, and the normal healthiness of one’s own fireside is an atmosphere conducive to refining influences. Healthy outdoor work and a permanent circle of friends make for a sane and non-precarious existence. The restlessness and loneliness of a life of travel is… eliminated.

He is sitting in a bulky chair that is on top of two dictionaries. He is drawing. He is drawing a big grey-and-white seagull. The bird’s head is facing towards the right, in profile. The wavy line dividing the two parts of its curved, pointed bill can be distinguished, as well as the pattern of feathers on its tail and along the edge of its wing, and even the overlapping scales down the length of its leg. Yet it seems as if something is missing.

Captain Ben followed his pointing finger, he seemed to be willing the vanishing tracks to reappear. Finally he said, ‘There’s no dog here. Don’t keep one. I’ve been gone since noon seein’ about borrowin’ the use of a tractor for a couple of days. I didn’t leave any dishes and I didn’t see any dog. That’s got me beat.’

‘This is a design much used by smugglers until a couple of years ago. Now it is suspect – an encumbrance, and embarrassment for honest travellers because it invites suspicion. The secret has been discovered – circulated to every Customs officer in the land. I am not suggesting your departed friend used this device for anything but the most prudent of purposes – the protection, the concealment of valuables.’

ANN BLACK SMITH: The dollhouse of Dickie Dell was just wonderful. We couldn’t play in it unless we were invited, and we weren’t invited very often. You could look, but not touch. Everything was in miniature, and it was all done beautifully, decorated with silk bedspreads and silver crystal. It really was quite a thing, a dream, a kind of Hansel and Gretel house, with a swooping roof. You could stand up in it, even if you were a grown-up.

Seven passages from seven page seventeens in seven books I own. Mine, all mine!

My response to Tony Scott’s DOMINO will be posted tomorrow. At least it’s written now.

The Context: A Social Cultural Anatomy by Raghunath Raina, from Indian Cinema Superbazaar edited by Aruna Vasudev & Philippe Lenglet; Art & Design in the British Film by Edward Carrick; Motion Picture magazine, Feb 1915, quoted in Charlie Chaplin and his Times by Kenneth S. Lynn; The Voyeur by Alain Robbe-Grillet; The Mystery of Rabbit Run by Jack Bechdolt, from Alfred Hitchock’s Haunted Houseful; Mr Campion’s Falcon by Youngman Carter; West of Eden: An American Place by Jean Stein.

CAL vero

Picked up a copy of Charlie Chaplin and His Times by Kenneth S. Lynn. Kind of late in my Chaplin odyssey to start a new book, especially one of Mack Swain girth, but what the heck. I turn to the section on LIMELIGHT —

‘…the picture was strewn with references to Charlie Chaplin. Thus a photograph of Chaokin hangs above the mantel in the ageing comic’s rooming-house parlour. From the faded posters in his possession that date from the days of his top billing, it can be seen that he used to be known as the “tramp comedian.” And his very name, Calvero, with its combination of “vero” with three of the letters in “Chaplin,” proclaims him to be the true Chaplin. The proposition that Calvero is indeed Chaplin is underscored by such further details as his old-fashioned button shoes, his left-handed violin playing, and his gently mocking description of himself to the young dancer, Terry Ambrose, as “an old sinner” who has had five wives.’

Good catch on the five wives, I missed that.

I’m not sure that CAL = CHAPLIN and I think that “vero” is some indication of the character’s honesty, integrity, as much as a signpost to The True Chaplin. And since Chaplin is playing Calvero, a photo of the young Chaplin on his wall makes sense. And if he’s going to play the violin, he’s going to have to do it left-handed, because that’s how he in fact played it. But the passage above got me hunting for photos of Chaplin in his actual tramp costume on the walls, and, though they’re not there to be found, it’s interesting that Calvero’s tramp costume, though different, blurs into the same identical silhouette in long shot.

Same picture, different sizes, above the table and then above the lintel.

The name Calvero also has the same sonic beginning and end as Karno, which is also surely relevant.

The first act of LIMELIGHT is basically Calvero saving Terry, then a series of discussions about the miracle of life in which he pulls her back from despair with variations on his “Buck up!” speech from the end of MODERN TIMES. And some theatrical dream sequences.

In the second of these, Calvero is in his own tramp costume, and begins by eating a flower, like Gary Cooper in FAREWELL TO ARMS. And then Terry appears — retroactively incorporated into his dream-act, wearing a bizarre, rather distracting costume. It probably is accurate to the peculiarities of the music hall, and the tutu is there, of course, because she’s a dancer in reality, not a straight man. What all this proves, of course, is that she’s moved into his thoughts.

LIMELIGHT, in a way, reverses the romances of earlier Chaplin films — in THE GOLD RUSH, Georgia doesn’t realise she loves Charlie until very late in the picture. Here, Calvero will nobly deny Terry’s love, using all the reasons we might give — mainly that she’s much too young for him. This is surprisingly effective — Fiona said, anyway, that she believed the love story and didn’t have a problem with it.

It can also be said that LIMELIGHT echoes that earlier showbiz picture, THE CIRCUS — a more suitable romantic lead is offered, and Charlie/Calvero steps out of the way to make it possible. Only here he does it by dying.

The IMDb SEEMS at first to give thorough credits for this film, enumerating all the guests in the dress circle of the Empire, but it gives us no names for the people in the agent’s office. Who is the small actor? It might be the wonderfully named Teddy Kiss Atom, who turns up, much aged, in CHITTY CHITTY BANG BANG and THE PRIVATE LIFE OF SHERLOCK HOLMES. I’m slightly obsessed with Teddy Kiss Atom because his name is Teddy Kiss Atom. But this might equally be his brother (?), Charlie Young Atom. But, come to think of it, those guys seem to have been UK-based. What American small people can we suggest, apart from the obvious Billy Barty?

Wheeler Dryden turns up again as the doctor. The question of Terry’s legs is gone into. As an investigation of a hysterical condition, in which the investigator becomes enamoured of the patient, LIMELIGHT might bear comparison with MARNIE, and it has a similarly studio-bound quality, with similarly patchy process shots. Another autumnal work from the other most famous English filmmaker in Hollywood.

What makes LIMELIGHT a more ramshackle construction is that its central problem refuses to coalesce — is the problem Terry’s despair, Calvero’s drinking, Terry’s paralysis, Calvero’s failure as comedian, Terry’s romances with Calvero and Neville, or what? Each of them is shoved forward, fails to sustain itself, and is yanked off by the stage manager’s dreaded shepherd’s crook (the Charlie cane turned into an annihilating thunderbolt). Flashbacks and dream sequences fragment things further. It’s not that a film can’t be about many things, but probably it has to be about one or two in particular, and those should be very closely related.

What it most successfully is about is two people who have lost heart, and who give each other courage. But Calvero has another Calvary to face first, at the Middlesex Music Hall…