Archive for The New Janitor

Shapeshifter

Posted in FILM, literature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 18, 2021 by dcairns

THE PAWNSHOP is perfect.

Charlie is a little bastard again — more childish than ever, really, and engaged in a kind of sibling rivalry with co-worker the marvelous John Rand. The pawnbroker, Henry Bergman, is a stern father figure. Edna, his daughter, treats Charlie like a child, which he encourages. But he’s obviously a lecherous child.

Somehow Chaplin balances everything just right in this one — Charlie is just sympathetic enough — in the sense of giving us a vicarious indulgence in naughtiness which is pleasurable — without crossing the line and becoming totally hateful. Obnoxious yet somehow appealing.

The film is pretty plotless — there’s bickering between Charlie and Rand, competition over Edna, attempts to escape the discipline provided by Bergman, and then Eric Campbell turns up to rob the place, providing Charlie a chance to be the hero, a role which he has shown himself entirely undeserving of. There are no really sympathetic characters — Edna is nice, but a gullible idiot with big hair and her cakes are terrible — everyone else bickers and is mean to one another, is grifting or exploiting or out-and-out stealing. And yet the film manages to be fairly likable. The lessons of Keystone, where Charlie could be an absolute thug, have been learned, and Chaplin is cautious about just how far he can go.

After a couple of shots establishing Edna in the kitchen with a kitten, for cuteness, and Henry Bergman as the pawnbroker pacing impatiently, irked by Charlie’s customary lateness, Our Hero appears. Again, viewed from the rear. The Mutual comedies tend to have fun with how recognisable the Little Fellow is, from the rear, or just reduced to raggedy flapshoes.

Bergman was a native Californian who became a kind of courtier/toady to Chaplin. Collaborators could be slightly harsh about his role in offering Chaplin steady support and encouragement, but Chaplin obviously found him valuable. And he’s a good character man, deft with disguise, so he appears in every Chaplin film from here until MODERN TIMES. He never overacts and that’s especially important here as he’s playing Jewish. The treatment of race is considerably more delicate than in THE VAGABOND. Chaplin took to never denying claims that he himself was part Jewish, since he felt this would play into the hands of anti-Semites. He also joked about his half-brother Sydney having Jewish ancestry, explaining the siblings’ marked difference in appearance, though in fact Sydney’s father’s identity is not known for certain.

Charlie, told he’s late, checks his fob watch against the calendar, in the best Mad Hatter tradition. The watch then becomes a running gag, something for Charlie to check every time he receives a blow or takes a fall. If his watch is OK, everything’s fine.

Most of Charlie’s interactions are with his rival, John Rand, who had proved such a deft foil in POLICE. Billy Armstrong, who previously performed this function and wore this cookie-duster, had left to pursue an independent star career, but would subside into modest supporting roles to Stan Laurel and others, and sadly died of tuberculosis aged only 33.

I’m going to be paying close attention to Rand, because he’s excellent, and I didn’t even know his name before embarking on this. He and Armstrong and Conklin had a perfect connection with Chaplin onscreen.

The feather duster is the first great toy: compacting every vane with soot allows Charlie to do far more harm than good, and dusting the electric fan shreds the duster into floating particles.

When Charlie unsportingly “fights” Rand, who’s trapped in a ladder, the other end is held by a shoeshine boy, who is either the second anonymous Black kid in a Chaplin short (after LAUGHING GAS), or the umpteenth blackface character (after, most recently, A NIGHT IN THE SHOW) — my screen isn’t big enough for me to be 100% sure which. Charlie’s swinish behaviour is funny only because he’s putting on such a great pugilistic display, as if he were doing something noble and impressive, rather than persecuting a totally helpless opponent.

Scrapping with Rand gets Charlie fired, and he embarks on his celebrated plea for mercy, miming a large — increasingly large — family of dependents. starting with a gesture indicating Jackie Coogan height, then going up, up, up, until the largest invisible child is the height of Eric Campbell. The mockery of pathos first appeared in THE NEW JANITOR, and gave Chaplin the idea that he could move an audience for real. But it’s still amusing to make fun of the whole idea of emotional manipulation.

Asides from the conflict with Rand, the film has Charlie balancing dangerously on a stepladder, from which he falls with a spine-saving roll; flirtation with Edna, where he dried dishes using a trick mangle, which also serves to dry his hands; he deals expeditiously with Campbell’s very elegant heister; and he “serves” various customers. Alternating between these activities works perfectly well to create the illusion of narrative.

The “ruinous old man” — David Robinson’s cruel and beautiful phrase — is credited as Wesley Ruggles on both IMDb and Wikipedia, but it very clearly isn’t. The old, but not original credits on my DVD list James Kelley as “old actor” which is more believable. IMDb instead casts Kelley as “Old Bum.” He might be both… that’s easier to believe. But Kelley, a seventy-year-old Irishman, is typically somewhat recognisable in his movements and his stoutness and tininess (smaller than Chaplin). This guy is thin and frail, probably older than 70, doesn’t seem particularly short or wide, and has a great “strolling tragedian” way of acting that suits his role here.

As the shabby-genteel geezer goes into his pantomime of woe, Chaplin at first watches and eats callously, performing the occasional mocking mime of his own — a gesture heavenwards causes him to pick up binoculars and scan the ceiling. But slowly he’s taken in and moved to tears by the expert heartstring abuse.

When he buys the guy’s ring, he gets the change from a huge wad of dough, not the kind Edna is using, and realises he’s been had. Thus the film preserves its own callousness without having caused our man to totally lose our sympathy. I note also that Charlie’s slow burn I-don’t-believe-this gaup, chin lowered and eyes uprolled balefully — the Crazy Kubrick Stare, almost — appears here for the first time.

Albert Austin’s scene is a different matter, and arguably the film’s true highlight. He’s brought in his alarm clock — how hard up must he be? It’s not clear that Charlie’s ruthless treatment of the wretch is a response to his having been fleeced by whoever the old guy was — I shall be watching out for later appearances — but it’s pretty heartless. Chaplin distracts us slightly from this just by being dazzling, and he softens (literally) the final blow by using what proves to be a rubber hammer to clonk the irate Austin. Despite the fake prop, Austin staggers off, seemingly concussed, presumably by some effect analogous, yet opposite, to the placebo.

Chaplin gets nearly five minutes out of this clock routine.

The set-piece itself is a thing of wonder. Dissecting the alarm clock until its a mess of oily scrap, Charlie uses a stethoscope, a drill, a can opener, pliers, an oil squirter, the mouthpiece of a telephone. But the oil dropper transforms in his grasp into some kind of insect exterminator, and the phone part is used as a jeweller’s eyeglass. The clock is sometimes a patient, sometimes a can of spoiled and off-smelling goods, perhaps a watch; its mainspring becomes a bolt of cloth; its innards, arrayed on the counter and magnetized into a roil from below, become an insect horde to be flitgunned into submission with what had moments before been an oil dropper. Chaplin himself becomes a doctor, surgeon, a dentist, a tailor (several of which he’d been in other films), before he finally reverts to character, sweeps the detritus into Austin’s hat, and hands it back with a shake of the head that isn’t even regretful.

Nobody else was doing this, and pretty much nobody ever has. Buster Keaton exploited the transposition gag a great deal, but with different intentions and results. Usually with Keaton, the objects themselves force him into a new role, and they in turn become transformed. One thinks of the train crashing into the river in OUR HOSPITALITY. Buster finds his fuel car turned into a boat, and so the shovel in his hands becomes automatically a paddle. He uses it as such, with the air of one in a dream or under some strange spell. At other times he’s more in charge, thinking with his body, finding a way to make the objects around him fit his needs, ignoring their intended purpose and using instead their actual properties. Problem-solving, in other words.

Chaplin isn’t solving a problem, here, exactly. It is, I suppose, just showing off, only loosely tied into the narrative. A piece of performance art.

David Robinson cites THE PAWNSHOP as Chaplin’s greatest exploration of transposition gags to date — the setting may have been chosen simply because it allows for a wide variety of objects to be played with.

Arthur Machen writes, in the short story N:

‘When man yielded,’ he would say, ‘to the mysterious temptation intimated by the figurative language of the Holy Writ, the universe, originally fluid and the servant of his spirit, became solid, and crashed down upon him overwhelming beneath its weight and its dead mass.’ I requested him to furnish me with more light on this remarkable belief; and I found that in his opinion that which we now regard as stubborn matter was, primally, to use his singular phraseology, the Heavenly Chaos, a soft and ductile substance, which could be moulded by the imagination of uncorrupted man into whatever forms he chose it to assume. ‘Strange as it may seem,’ he added, ‘the wild inventions (as we imagine them) of the Arabian Tales give us some notion of the powers of the Homo Protoplastus. The prosperous city becomes a lake, the carpet transports us in an instant of time, or rather without time, from one end of the earth to another, the palace rises at a word from nothingness. Magic, we call all this, while we deride the possibility of any such feats; but this magic of the east is but a confused and fragmentary recollection of operations which were of the first nature of man, and of the fiat which was then entrusted to him.’

Charlie still retains some trace of this fiat, though he applies the old prelapsarian protean power on a much smaller scale. He is atavism and avatar.

My thoughts on Chaplin and the fluidity of matter owe a great debt to B. Kite’s remarkable writing here.

Bin Dreams

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 20, 2021 by dcairns

Chaplin is working in a bank in THE BANK, a variant on THE NEW JANITOR, a Keystone one-reeler that looks now like an early clue to the new direction — the Little Fellow as sympathetic underling, dreaming of greater things. In THE BANK, the more exciting part of the plot really IS a dream.

I’m uncertain about Chaplin’s frequent recourse to the dream narrative: in a bittersweet way, it can add a sting of pathos to a story, as in the New Year’s party in THE GOLD RUSH. When the dream eats up the whole movie, you feel a little short-changed, since nothing has really “happened” in the story. When you know it’s a dream, as in THE KID, there’s a danger of the fantasy going on too long, so that you’re looking at a scenario where nothing’s at stake. In that film, the dream really goes on about four times longer than I’d like, it’s a colossal misstep, and the film isn’t wrecked by it only because the rest is so brilliant it resists wrecking.

According to Ben Urwand’s deeply flawed book The Collaboration, Chaplin originally planned for the ending of THE GREAT DICTATOR to turn out to be all a dream, with the Jewish barber waking up from his Hynkel impersonation to find himself back in a concentration camp. That would have been bloody depressing and bloody strong. But I love how the film ends now, with an unformulated question. What does fake Hynkel do next? What will he be allowed to do?

THE BANK begins with Charlie coming to work. Big build-up to him getting his janitor’s uniform from the safe, which isn’t really a great pay-off since his usual costume prohibits us from suspecting he’s the manager. But this halfhearted gag allows Chaplin to set up most of the film’s spaces and their relationships to one another.

This is the most impressive set we’ve seen in a Chaplin film — genuinely large, imposing, convincing. For the last couple of pictures, the domestic environments have been more detailed and solid than you tended to get at Keystone, but this is actually grand.

Charlie’s character — and he’s called Charlie in this one — is not quite settled, so in this picture he can be spectacularly stupid. He doesn’t even know how to carry a mop without mishaps. A lot of the work-based slapstick is very much out of THE NEW JANITOR, as when he lifts a waste-basket upside-down and is surprised when it empties all over the office.

Edna works at the bank. By some quirk of nineteenteens fashion, her office clothes are reasonably fetching — at least they give her a waistline — whereas her leisure clothes in every other film save THE CHAMPION (sexy pullover) are hideously disfiguring. I suppose that by disguising her shape they make it possible for us to imagine she’s a thin girl unflatteringly dressed, instead of a slightly rounder girl unflatteringly dressed. She is a bit rounder than the current fashion, or indeed the nineteenteens fashion, comparing her to the other actresses in Chaplin films.

Anyway, her role here is interesting…

Billy Armstrong is Charlie’s co-worker, a subgump idiot who’s somehow more efficient at his job than Charlie, despite his glazed look. Armstrong has a very thick head of hair (and a very thick head, in this), and I believe he may have reinforced it with some product or produce to make it rise up like a wall of brown flame. He’s also grouchoed his eyebrows very severely. My favourite business involving him is his attempt to speak to Charlie through half a doorstop sandwich he’s crammed into his face. Charlie pauses his discourse and excavates the pulped bread from his maw with a pencil, prying loose doughy wads until Armstrong’s only barrier to fluency is his cookie-duster.

The loose opening of the film sets up these characters and also a bank teller, the president, and a disgruntled customer in silk hat and guyliner, all of whom are important for the upcoming dream.

But before that, pathos. The surly, lazy and mentally disorientated Charlie of this film seems an unlikely subject for pathos, but he’s not quite as obnoxious as the version of the character seen in THE TRAMP. Chaplin is slowly working out how to get the rambunctious knockabout stuff to play along with, around and maybe even THROUGH the sentiment. Charlie is generally rough with his co-workers — he tends to see himself as a superior sort of person, there’s certainly no collegial spirit. But he’s not bullying Armstrong, as he does with Paddy McGuire in THE TRAMP or his wretched old underling in THE PROPERTY MAN. He and Armstrong are just scrapping, and neither one has the upper hand for very long.

In the farce tradition, a misunderstanding is contrived. Edna is sweet on a bank teller, also called Charles. Chaplin seems to have been uninterested in seeing Edna share scenes with a conventional leading man type, since Charles is played by CARLTON STOCKDALE, a kind of jug-eared camel type. Stockdale came from Broncho Billy’s stock company at Essanay, and is otherwise best remembered for providing an alibi for Mary Miles Minter’s mom in the William Desmond Taylor shooting. He went on to join Griffith’s group and was a busy bit-player until 1943.

Edna prepares a gift of a necktie for this other Charles, with a loving note. Charlie sees this on her desk and thinks she loves him. He gets her a couple of measly roses and writes a note of his own. His spelling and handwriting have improved since THE TRAMP, at least.

Edna initially thinks the flowers are from Stockdale. There would be room here for farcical misunderstandings to multiply and complicate, but Chaplin isn’t interested in that. Edna realises the roses are from Charlie and bins them. Then she tears up his note. Then she sees him looking heartbroken and SNEERS. Edna is a right cow in this.

Usually in this kind of comic romance, the comedian has to find a way to keep the object of his desire sympathetic, even as she temporarily snubs him. But Chaplin is shrewd enough to know that this time it doesn’t actually matter, so he just plays it to the hilt.

Charlie retrieves the roses and stuffs them up his janitor’s jacket, next to his bosom, a bit of romantic masochism like the bloke in MANON DE SOURCE.

Charlie’s brokenheartedness threatens to rupture the tone, as his getting shot in THE TRAMP does, but he modulates it. Seeing Billy Armstrong preening into a hand mirror, Charlie kicks him out of frame out of sheer spite. But even this simple proven remedy does not relieve his melancholia. He sits on his bench, defeated.

The transition to dream sequence is managed quite smoothly, and probably might still fool people. True, the movie immediately turns into DIE HARD, but that sort of genre-fluidity was common in 1915. Robbers take over the bank. One of them is the disgruntled customer (John Rand, who would keep appearing in Chaplins up until MODERN TIMES), which helps tie things together. It’s a grace note — it’s not essential to set up a bankrobber outside the dream, but it makes things neater.

One of the robbers is herr future film director Lloyd Bacon, a regular, but a bank customer is played by another herr future film director, joining us for the first time, Wesley Ruggles. Makes sense that he was an actor, since his brother is Charlie Ruggles (a thing I never knew until very recently).

So, these bank robbers come pigalleying into the bank, and, hilariously, Stockdale panics and flees, shoving Edna in his craven terror. She falls, is grabbed by the robbers, struggling desperately. She’s been such a bitch it’s hard not to experience a warm glow of schadenfreude. Edna really throws herself into the melodrama here. Feels like every short Chaplin makes requires her to extend herself, and she always does. I think I’d seen her as a bit of a lump before, but watching the films in sequence brings out her range.

Charlie leaps into action, deploying his full range of martial-arts moves: the arse-kick, the roundhouse face slap, and the flying drop-kick to the sternum. He not only propels two of the robbers into the walk-in safe, he slams both the barred gate and the big safe door, spinning the wheel lock and twisting the combination dial. Those guys better hope that thing’s not time-locked. If it is, they better hope Jimmy Valentine’s in the area.

Edna has now swooned, so Charlie hefts her on his shoulder, not, it must be said, without a certain difficulty. Kind of a worker ant scenario going on. Picking up a robber’s fallen pistol while carrying Edna really puts the strain on. Charlie is striking a balance, I’d say, between getting the available comedy out of the situ, and fat-shaming his leading lady. It’s not offensive, just honest.

The remaining heisters are subdued with similar efficiency — Edna actually comes to the rescue when Charlie is at a loss. By the end of this, Charlie is proper knackered. I did one of my bigger lols when he sat on a fallen robber’s head to call the kops. Now the cowardly cur Stockdale is found cowering under a desk, and summarily dismissed. The wretch. Edna is ashamed of ever having fancied the man-camel, as well she should be. Her affections turn to the mentally incompetent janitor. This is the point where it really does feel like a dream sequence. I’m curious to see how Chaplin’s going to handle the romance in later Purviance co-starrers, because there seems no way to make it plausible. I really can’t remember how he works it. He’s going to have to get less stupid, and the social distance between them will have to be reduced if there’s going to be any future in it.

Is Edna thinking, “Well, he possibly saved my life, and the bank, and he fancies me, so I suppose I owe him at least a quick fumble”? Retrieving his roses from the waste paper basket where he’s just re-dropped them, she nestles her head on his chest while he stares at us in wonderment —

— and wakes up cuddling his mop. That mop’s been a very useful prop, but this is its finest moment. Palpable disappointment at the return to reality. Prefiguring the audience’s own literal disenchantment when the illusion of this film is over. Even the film stock deteriorates at this point, which seems perfect in a way.

Edna is back with the repulsive Stockdale. It may be unfair, but I can’t find it in myself to forgive him for his caddish behaviour in Charlie’s dream.

Charlie throws away the flowers, with accompanying back-kick. This is not so much pathos as bitterness, actually. He turns to walk away, tries to switch from mopish to upbeat, but doesn’t seem to have built the set big enough to pull it off — the open road is better suited to this — and then the film is cut off — probably at least a second or two missing, and it could make all the difference.

A step forward! The pathos is integrated into the tone, and ameliorated with comedy so it goes down smooth. The Essanay phase is beginning to build towards the maturity of Mutual, but a couple of stumbles lie ahead — not really Chaplin’s, more Essanay and Leo White’s…

Pathos and Pangs

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on December 23, 2020 by dcairns
Transporter malfunction!

I wrote about THE NEW JANITOR very recently, before I decided to explore Chaplin’s Keystone period in sequence and in more depth than anyone wants. I was influenced by Craig Keller’s excellent series, but he kept things epigrammatic and stopped at 1914… I might keep going. This’ll be like Hitchcock Year all over again, but it’ll be 93 films long. Try and stop me.

What wasn’t obvious about TNJ on a cursory view was that its narrative stratagem — injecting Chaplin-as-Tramp into a perfectly serious little melodrama — was totally new for the comedian, and probably for the studio. And it paves the way for many future developments. Supporting comics in obvious fake whiskers playing supporting clown roles will decrease — only Chaplin is allowed to look midway between circus performer and real everyday dude — the stories will get serious with Chaplin being the means of injecting comedy. The stakes will be real, and the settings for naturalistic.

This one was spat out of the Keystone Komedy assembly line so fast (there are just nine set-ups, and eight of them have been used before the halfway mark) that Al St. John hasn’t had a chance to change out of his bellboy costume. Charlie is set up as the underdog victim of St John’s elevator prank. The building he’s working in has obvious backdrops of skyscrapers outside the windows — or maybe just painted ON the windows. But my one time inside a New York skyscraper the views looked just like that. Unreal.

Charlie’s specific kind of incompetence is well-painted-in too: he has remarkable physical dexterity, gratuitously juggling with props, but his mind lags far behind so he does stupid stuff like carrying a waste paper bin upside down so the contents spill out.

Charlie also gets a little romance, which is played seriously and though he’s not much a catch the film doesn’t emphasise any leering or gargoyleish or antisocial qualities to render this scenario grotesque. Simple and seemingly without ambition, the film, like the character, presages the character and his films’ later form.

Chaplin remarks in My Autobiography, “I was playing in a picture called The New Janitor, in a scene in which the manager of the office fires me. In pleading with him to take pity on me and let me retain my job, I started to pantomime appealingly that I had a large family of little children. Although I was enacting mock sentiment, Dorothy Davenport [sic], an old actress, was on the sidelines watching the scene, and during rehearsal I looked up and to my surprise found her in tears. ‘I know it’s supposed to be funny,’ she said. ‘but you just made me weep.’ She confirmed something I had already felt: I had the ability to evoke laughter as well as tears.”

1) I think he means Alice Davenport.

2) It would be a while — years — before Chaplin found a proper use for this secondary talent…

It’s Keystone but released by Mutual, for whom Chaplin would make his best shorts, later.

But in THOSE LOVE PANGS, released on my birthday fifty-three years before I was born — I am now fifty-three so there’s a kind of symmetry to this — Chaplin is back to playing a repellant sex pest, and is billed as The Masher. Suggesting that he wasn’t sure if THE NEW JANITOR represented the direction he wanted to go in. People seemed to like him as a repulsive lout. He should make more lout films, then?

Charlie and Chester Conklin are rivals in pursuit of their landlady (Helen Carruthers). Though we meet them at the tea-table, Charlie seems drunk, or perhaps just mentally enfeebled. Still, when Conklin usurps his place with the landlady, Charlie is quick to prong the offender’s rump with a suitably pointy utensil. As David Hemmings would later say in JUGGERNAUT, “I may be stupid, but I’m not… bloody stupid.”

Caught red-forked, Chaplin pretends he’s using the implement as a musical instrument — the thinking comedian at work. When Conklin attempts to lay down the law — an amusing idea even in sentence form — Charlie spits in his eye — the low comic at work. Still, Chester can count himself luck not to have received the fork in his eyeball. The lout is mellowing.

A bit of further delicacy: having taken Conklin’s place with the landlady (or is she a maid? I think she’s a bit young for property-owning), Charlie positions her to be the target of the avenging prongs of Conklin. But this won’t do. Conduct unbecoming. He swaps back. And duly gets a set of tines jabbed inches deep in his noble derriere. It actually takes an effort to wrench the steel free from his flesh. Dizzily relieved expression. But his strange spasms repel the object of his wooing.

Some very good, almost abstract dueling clown action between CC and CC, before they realize the bar is open. Making excellent use of his cane, Charlie drags Conklin by the neck to their appointed destination, but for once the opportunity for drink is refused, and the chance of a tussle with some swing doors passed up, as a passing floozy (Vivian Edwards) gives Charlie the wink.

Meanwhile, Chester also meets a seductress (women just can’t resist a comedy pornstache) — Cecile Arnold. She’d been in a few Chaplin shorts previously but makes a much bigger impression here with her unusual introductor closeup. You can see her lips saying “Chester.” I wish she’d call ME Chester.

Charlie flops with his girl (she has a bigger beau, one Fred Hibbard), then reacts extravagantly to the sight of Chester and his gal. Splitscreened by a big tree, the two clowns gesticulate extravagantly and it becomes a bit obscure. I don’t get what they’re each trying to mime. Earlier, facing off together, the comics were wonderfully in synch. Here, competing for our attention, they just make muddle.

But I get that Charlie is disgusted by his rival’s romantic success, so his half-hearted attempt at drowning himself makes sense. The cop who interrupts him is no clownish Kop, but a stern authority figure without walrus moustache decoration.

Then there’s a very good bit where the big beau tries to explain a plot to Charlie who keeps falling backwards towards the pond. The beau keeps rescuing him, then prodding him, or throttling him, because he’s not listening, causing him to fall backwards etc. The relationship seems classically Chapliesque: the big brute is not necessarily consciously the Little Fellow’s enemy, in terms of wishing him ill, but he is his NATURAL enemy because he is a big guy, and pushy, and wants Charlie to do something not in Charlie’s best interests or nature or skillset. He’s inherently a boss, in other words.

Anyway we don’t really find out what the guy wants — a storyline seems amputated, somewhere. Charlie eventually gets him in the water and kicks his forehead and leaves. That’s that dealt with.

Conklin is now romancing BOTH girls. Chester Conklin gets all the pussy. It’s the moustache, has to be. Good Conklin-Chaplin grudge match, with many unconventional moves, not all of them within the Queensberry Rules. In particular, when Charlie folds Chester up and uses him as a chair while going through his wallet, we may feel that a line had been crossed.

The girls are off to the Majestic Cinema to see HELEN’S STRATAGEM. Charlie’s stratagem is to pursue them.

Nice plotting: the big beau, emerging from Echo Lake in a sodden condition, wrings out his jacket over Conklin’s face, inadvertently reviving him. It’s quite a lot like when the fake bat pukes on Dracula’s ashes in SCARS OF DRACULA. But better, obviously, because Christopher Lee didn’t wear a moustache like Dracula does in the book. What kind of moustache? Wouldn’t it be amazing if Dracula had a Chester Conklin cookie-duster? All dripping with blood and everything.

Chaplin is now embracing both girlies in the front row of the Majestic, and since his arms are occupied he’s telling them stories using his legs to gesture with. A young Charley Chase is somewhere in the audience behind him, the third CC in this movie. Then his rivals, Chester and the big beau, arrive, and we find out why cinema seats these days are bolted to the floor, and then Charlie is thrown through the cinema screen and pelted with bricks The End.

The clear implication from this film’s eventful action is that CC and CC do this every day of their lives.