The Chaplin Mutuals: Evolution of an Artist

Even today, 30 years after his death and nearly 100 years since he first stepped before a motion picture camera, Charlie Chaplin is still one of the most recognizable people in the world. The dandified Tramp, with his brush mustache, ill-fitting clothes, wicker cane and derby hat, is an iconic figure, but one whose familiarity has to some extent undermined his art. Chaplin today has become something of a two-dimensional figure, a static icon that means little to those born in the decades since his heyday; he exists as a fully formed entity, a known quantity, and is therefore just as easily ignored, an image from the past that no longer requires our attention. 

A new four-disc 90th anniversary edition DVD set of the 12 films Chaplin made for the Mutual Film Corporation has recently been released by Image Entertainment, featuring new restorations, complete with previously missing footage, and brand new scores by Carl Davis. Image released these films on DVD about 10 years ago, but this new set, in addition to superior image quality, has many other features that distinguish it, the best of which is the arrangement of the films in chronological order, providing the viewer with a glimpse of the arc of Chaplin’s art at a crucial stage in his development. 

The image of the Tramp is so ingrained in our consciousness that it is hard to imagine that he had to be invented, and that film comedy itself had to be invented. But that’s essentially what Chaplin did, and he did it, for the most part, single-handedly. He took the crude, knockabout, ensemble comedy of Mack Sennett’s Keystone Studios and zeroed in on character and personality, forging a strong individual identity as well as a unique bond with his audience. 

Once Chaplin broke away from Keystone he went to work for the Essanay company here in the East Bay. (The studio, in what was once known as Niles, near Fremont, is now a museum that offers screenings of silent films every Saturday night.) He made 14 short films for Essanay, firmly establishing himself as the most popular performer in the movies. 

But it is in the next group of films, made for the Mutual Corporation, where Chaplin finally realized his potential. The Mutual films represent the first blossoming of his comic genius. He was already enormously famous, the first international superstar, and his comic exploits had made him something of a populist hero. But it is the Mutual series that truly endeared him to his fans, for it is in these 12 two-reelers that he delved deeper into the nature of the tramp character: his fastidious habits, his contempt for authority, his longing for beauty and love, his artistic temperment. 

With films such as Easy Street and The Immigrant, Chaplin depicted the poverty and strife of his childhood while taking his first steps toward a more rounded cinematic ouvre with forays into social commentary. 

Later, of course, Chaplin would more completely incorporate drama and commentary into his work, drawing complaints from fans and critics alike that Chaplin was abandoning his comedic roots in the pretentious pursuit of Art. But in the Mutual films, the Tramp retains the rambunctious, anarchic, irrepressible humor that Chaplin’s detractors found lacking in his later, more sentimental work.

The series begins with films that are not much different from his Essanay work and steadily progresses from there, with increasing complexity, finely tuned comedic timing, and brilliantly choreographed action sequences. In One A.M., Chaplin performs a solo tour de force, the film’s 20 minutes entirely devoted to a drunk man’s efforts to get home and into bed; in The Rink, Chaplin demonstrates his remarkable physical agility, tangling with his rival in an elaborate rollerskating sequence; and in The Immigrant, Chaplin makes one his first overtly political statements, as a boatload of immigrants gazes in awe at the Statue of Liberty before being roughly herded behind a restraining rope. So much for liberty.

Too often forgotten in appreciations of Chaplin is the fact that he was not just a great comedian, but a great actor. In Easy Street he summons both drama and comedy—an innovation at the time—in the depiction of an unflinching portrait of poverty, crime and drug use while never compromising his comedic instincts. And again in The Immigrant, Chaplin creates one of his best depictions of the rapture of love, with the Tramp and the girl (Edna Purviance) finding the silver lining by getting married during a rainstorm. 

With these early masterpieces, Chaplin set the standard for the comedians who would follow in his wake: Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle, Buster Keaton, Harold Lloyd, Harry Langdon. Arguably some would surpass him, in inventiveness, in direction, staging and camerawork, even in pure laughter. But no one ever came close to matching his enormous talent, his instinctive sense of pathos, or the unique and affectionate bond between the performer and his audience.

Some say the Mutuals are his best period; certainly he was never again so free from self-consciousness, so anarchic and inventive. But a sound argument can be made that the Mutual period represents the artist’s adolescense, with his full artistic maturity expressed most clearly in his features of the '20s and early '30s: The Kid, The Gold Rush, The Circus and City Lights. 

But though those later films are more fulfilling and emotional, it is the casual, careless fun of the Mutuals that lends them to repeated viewings, that entices us to immerse ourselves again and again in the madcap adventures of a newly famous, newly wealthy 27-year-old comedian who had suddenly found himself on top of the world.

The set also includes two documentaries. The Gentlemen Tramp (1975) is a fuzzy, hagiographic film by Richard Patterson that is more content to deify the man than understand him, and Chaplin’s Goliath (1996), an appreciation of the all-too-brief career of Eric Campbell, the huge Scottish actor who played the heavy in most of Chaplin’s Essanay and Mutual films until his life was cut short by a car accident. Also included are essays by Chaplin historians and a gallery of rare still photographs of Chaplin at work on the Mutual films.

THE CHAPLIN MUTUAL COMEDIES (1916-17).

$59.99. Image Entertainment. www.image-entertainment.com.

The Pleasures of Pulp: Fritz Lang's Dr. Mabuse

Fritz Lang is best known today for Metropolis, the 1927 science fiction classic. The film has been tremendously popular throughout the decades, and the fact that much of the film has been lost, cut by censors and misguided studios, has only added to its allure.

But the unfortunate result is that a misconception has developed over the years, leaving many modern viewers with the notion that Metropolis represents not only the best of Lang, but the best of silent cinema.

As fine an achievement as Metropolis is, it is by no means the best film of its time. Not even close. Influential, yes. Enjoyable, yes. Well made, yes. But for the most part it is influential primarily in its own genre.

Lang was hardly devoted to science fiction. In fact, he was primarily interested in realism; he wanted to tell stories rooted in the realities of Germany life. But Metropolis does contain many typical Lang characteristics: It is full of the sort of grand production values and plots that Lang could indulge in when backed by Ufa, the powerful and financially flush German studio that produced most of Lang’s early films.

Lang made several long, somewhat overblown films for Ufa in the 1920s, including Die Nibelungen (1924), Spies (1928) and Woman in the Moon (1929), all of which have been previously released on DVD by Kino in excellent editions based on restored prints. But the best film he made in the silent era precedes all of these.

Dr. Mabuse, the Gambler (1922) catches Lang before his visions became quite so grandiose. It is pure Lang in so many ways: a pulpy, somewhat lowbrow story; a lengthy running time; an obsession with grand, symmetric imagery. Kino has just released the film in a newly restored version on DVD, tracking down more previously missing footage to make this the most complete version yet. The visual quality is spectacular, and the scoring is also excellent. And Kino has placed the two parts on two separate discs, reinforcing a detail that has been glossed over in some presentations: Dr. Mabuse is actually two films, released separately over a short period of time—the original Kill Bill.

The only drawback is that the set contains no extra features. The previous DVD incarnation, released by Image Entertainment, boasted an excellent commentary track with historical background and insightful criticism. For those interested in delving deeper into this classic, that edition is still indispensable.

The opening scenes of Mabuse quickly and brilliantly set the tone, establishing Mabuse’s master-of-disguise persona before diving immediately into intrigue with a sequence in which a government document is stolen and used by Mabuse to manipulate the stock market. It is a complex bit of choreography that features great use of Lang’s favored symmetric compositions, the most striking image being a trestle bridge that crosses the screen, framing beneath it a road on which a speeding automobile hurdles toward the camera, contrasting the horizontal rush of the train with the rapidly approaching vertical movement of the car.

The sequence ends with the final result of the theft: a decimated stock exchange, empty except for the ominous superimposed face of the supercriminal Mabuse.

Lang was bold and brash with his scope and subject matter—even more so with his own public persona—but despite these few examples, he was rarely daring in a technical sense. His camera rarely moves, his shots are rarely dynamic; indeed, they contain little of the style and flourish typical of German films of the period. Instead he holds the camera still, creating mostly static compositions, relying on character and context to hold the viewer’s attention. The idea was that surprising angles and compositions were too easily undermined by their overuse. Therefore a more restrained style would increase the impact of more experimental shots. However, when the actors are weak, the weakness of the technique reveals itself, especially when Lang chose to employ another of his vacuous paramours. But with Rudolf Klein-Rogge in the title role, Lang had found his true muse, an actor who could hold the camera’s attention.

Those static, symmetric shots have their own power, but Lang overuses them. In fact, it can come as something of a relief when he veers from them, for then the film develops a more dynamic energy. Shots of the Excelsior Hotel, for instance, are photographed dead-on from the outside, the revolving door and sign center screen. Likewise the Andalusian nightclub. Until, that is, the maitre d’ takes Inspector Van Wenk out the back door to lead him to the illicit gambling den. Here Lang, just for a moment, embraces the Expressionist aesthetic of the era with an excellent composition: straight ahead, a balcony runs across the top of the screen, with a dark, shadowy staircase running down the right side of the frame. In the foreground, a decaying archway and pillars with peeling paint frame the scene as the two men traverse the frame from left to right, through the archway, behind the pillar, up the stairs and through a doorway. It is simple but immensely effective, taking what could have been a perfunctory moment and transforming it into something much more dramatically compelling.

And this is where Lang truly excels: In taking relatively mundane, pulpish subject matter and elevating it to the point of artful melodrama. When he takes things too seriously he fails. Die Niebelungen collapses under the weight of its own gravity; Metropolis, which for the most part consists of fun, melodramatic silliness, is diminished by its trite, tacked-on message (“The mediator between Head and Hands must be the HEART!”). With Spies, Lang returned to the Mabuse mold, with Klein-Rogge again playing a criminal mastermind, but the film is somewhat less successful than the Mabuse films.

Mabuse is pure schlock, but it is schlock of a high order. It was meant to reflect the tawdry side of the waning days of the Weimar Republic, but that intellectual aspect is hardly necessary to enjoy the movie. Indeed, it seems more like an after-the-fact rationalization for a wild, silly tale. In fact, the film really has more of the feel of a serial, and this may in fact be the best way to enjoy it, watching just a couple of acts at a time, as each act without fail ends with a cliffhanger.

Eventually Lang would find himself on a tighter leash. Without Ufa’s backing—lost in part due to Metropolis’ extravagant budget—Lang was no longer able to indulge his every whim. The result were films in which he displayed remarkable economy and ingenuity, overcoming small budgets and limited resources with innovation and improvisation. The first of these, M (1931), Lang’s first sound film, is his best work. And this was followed by another Mabuse film, The Testament of Dr. Mabuse (1932). Both films catch Lang at his peak, with taught, economical visual storytelling combined with innovative use of sound. Lang counterpointed his sound effects with sequences of absolute silence, evincing a confidence and sophistication rare in the early sound era. These two films have none of Lang’s heavy-handed, plodding story development and few of his mind-numbing symmetric compositions, but instead transform their minimal resources into movies of maximum effect. Both have been previously released in excellent DVD editions by the Criterion Collection.

Asphalt, Warning Shadows: Classics of German Expressionism Restored

Film was the dominant art form of the 1920s, an international cultural phenomenon which, in the days before sound, was considered a universal language. 

No one seemed to have more fun with the form and its potential than the Germans, who exploited every camera angle, every trick of light, every effect—technical, psychological and otherwise—that the medium had to offer.

Two rare German silents have been released by Kino that illustrate the point beautifully. Asphalt and Warning Shadows, masterpieces of Expressionism, take vastly different approaches to the form while reveling in its indulgences.

If, as Godard said, the history of cinema is men photographing women, these two films fit the mold. Both feature luminous beauties in the lead roles, with the men around them driven nearly to ruin by desire and lust. 

Asphalt starts with a cinematic bang, with a rush of images merging and hurdling by in a stunning montage of the throbbing city, the hustle and bustle, the energy and the vice. Then, about 20 minutes in, it takes a step toward melodrama, but beautifully constructed and artful melodrama, with every furtive glance, every emotion, every moment drawn out for maximum effect. The plot is remarkably simple, and could be explained in 10 seconds. But it is not the story that matters so much as the manner in which it is conveyed. Director Joe May constructs the film like a master musician playing just a few notes but playing them with such virtuosity that a few notes are all that are needed. 

Warning Shadows is slightly less accessible but no less remarkable in its achievement. It is a purely visual film, with no intertitles to convey plot or dialogue—beyond the opening credits, that is, which feature each actor appearing on a proscenium, each introduced along with his shadow, for shadows prove to be characters as much as the people who cast them. 

The story concerns a woman and her husband. They are hosting a dinner party of her suitors. A traveling entertainer crashes the party and proceeds to put on a show of shadow puppetry, a show that plumbs the depths of each character’s consciousness. The shadows take on the semblance of reality, acting out a passion play that, in the best Expressionist fashion, gives shape to the tensions and desires in the minds of the party’s hosts and their guests. The husband, overcome with jealous rage, seeks revenge on his flirtatious wife and her ardent suitors, while her beauty and careless allure lead the men to destroy first her and then each other. 

The film was photographed by Fritz Arno Wagner, the famed cinematographer who also shot F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu and Fritz Lang’s M.

Expressionism can be an acquired taste, but it holds many of the same pleasures as American film noir: the overwrought emotion, the heightened reality, the dark shadows and shady characters. And these two films play up those qualities, creating strange, twisted, fever-pitched realities. It is an art that celebrates its own artifice.