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448 pages, Paperback
First published October 1, 1964


"What kind of an impersonal title is 'My Autobiography'?" Truman Capote once took the liberty of asking him. "And what is 'Breakfast at Tiffany's'? I've never heard anything stupider," Chaplin replied.
Comedy is very serious and very persistent work. Charlie Chaplin’s entire filmography proves it.
If Oliver Twist had been born into the squalor of South London at the end of the 19th century and named Charles Chaplin, he too would probably have turned into a successful workaholic and an artist under the Hollywood limelight. The start in life is Dickensian and Victorian in its bleakness: a mentally unstable (and malnourished) mother, a drunkard father, poverty, periodic stays in workhouses, only two years of schooling—partially abandoned because a child actor touring provincial England with a theatrical troupe still earns a little something, travels, and learns the trade. Charlie is a workaholic even then; he just doesn't realize it due to the stimulus of misery. And when the chance for a US tour opens up, it turns out to be the revelation of his life. The Wild West is still a tiny bit wild, and activity (both legal and illegal) is buzzing everywhere, but the old class orders of dignified Old England do not apply. Thus, in 1910, Chaplin begins his slow path to the top.
Workaholism remains his trademark, as does his built-in life moderation and his never-failing distrust of any shiny packaging that comes too easily. This is probably why among the entire colorful and vibrant acting tribe of a rapidly forming Hollywood, where he is one of the pioneer founders (including as a businessman), he only befriends Douglas Fairbanks. Well, his own vanity as a darling of immense fame and the whole celebrity snake pit also contributed.
In these memoirs, at times, he is quite intoxicated by his own fame. But it was hard-won through brutal effort, so it is understandable that he enjoys it. His first-person testimony of the birth pangs of cinema—initially as silent short films filled with slapstick fights and chases—is priceless. It was Chaplin who infused soul into this rough and primitive plot structure, bringing a smile through tears and resistance to life's injustices with an ironic bow. If he had directed, written, starred in, and marketed only "Modern Times" and "The Gold Rush," Chaplin would have earned his eternal glory. Even back then, the first insinuations began that he leaned toward socialism, which to me is simply ridiculous. But in those years, illustrating the trap of automation with those unforgettable gear wheels was sufficiently unexpected, provocative, and irrefutably clear. "The Great Dictator" is a delightfully anti-Nazi comedy that was initially blocked by censorship—one mustn't speak ill of Hitler, as the US and England were honorable, neutral countries. That is, until war was suddenly declared, and the censors hysterically rushed to get it screened as quickly as possible.
I have always wondered what was so communistic about Chaplin and why the post-WWII witch hunt in the US targeted him so actively. Well, it wasn't easy for J. Edgar Hoover’s FBI either—Chaplin never wished to acquire American citizenship, so they couldn't trap him through the standard channels used for domestic "traitors." Chaplin insisted on a second front during the war and argued that eyes shouldn't be closed to Russian casualties—America would be next. And he didn't listen to warnings to keep quiet and play along. The funny thing is that his reaction was far more American than that of the witch hunters. But in spirit, he remained an American from 1910, when the US was still a construction in progress, while they were products of a paranoid 1950, seeing a communist behind every bush. These two eras could never speak the same language.
Chaplin’s films, however, manage to do so—for me, they are the only silent films that simply don't need any lines. Simple, emotional, bittersweet, and timeless.
Chaplin certainly has his flaws when it comes to his ego and an (unfounded) complex to make up for everything his background and early start failed to provide. Far too many names of high-society figures clutter some of the pages. He chooses to keep silent about many moments from his successful years. But he is right about one thing—the truth must be told and defended. And in these brief reflections on various matters (life, success, the craft of acting and directing, friendship, wars, snobbery), he is remarkably honest. For which, hats off.
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🎦 P.S. And yet, this autobiography is directed by a professional with 60 years of experience who is highly biased toward himself. Therefore, what is left unsaid likely far exceeds what is told in volume! Most notably regarding his family life—for instance, he never once refers to his second wife by name and dedicates barely a paragraph to her. 🎦