Life — August 16, 1929 — page 24: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

New York Life UT at Tom Mix’s hilltop house O the other night Charlie Chap- lin gavotted for a select coterie of intimates. On the screen Chaplin has never thrown me into the gales of cock-eyed hilarity that gripped fel- low seat holders. Indeed, he usually left_ me yearning for the trained seals. But when out of earshot of the di- rector’s megaphone and facing a sym- pathetic audience he is the most aston- ishingly funny comedian ever my privi- lege to see. Three separate times I reeled out into the California moon- light with the ork-orks to uncork sup- pressed guffaws that must have awak- ened the Buster Keatons on a neigh- boring hill. Chaplin with his bobbing mustache, bamboo cane, wobbly derby and splay feet mincing about in his mignon way always struck me about as magnetic as a mechanical toy. He looked as though he might have been wound up and let go. But here he was on a hot [uly night without coat or vest facing a circle of familiars who knew him as “Charlie” and who have gone into a huddle with him on sundry dawns for a burst of barber shop harmony. An improvising piano player, with the customary dan- gling cigarette, who is always called in on those rare evenings when Chaplin turns playboy—was on the job. The stage was a corner of the block- long Mix drawing room. My hat has often been doffed to such superior mimics as Beatrice Herford, Cissie Loftus and Elsie Janis. But Cha in my opinion is more versatile, fin- ished and engaging than all three. ‘was your old man an comfortable No, he was under a train? There is no limit to his amazing clowning. One minute he is crooning an eerie desert threnody in Arabic— he speaks no more Arabic than Bull Montana does Hindustani—and the next he is tearing a piano apart with a Hungarian rhapsody in the manner of the bushily pompadoured Hungarian concert artists. He sings in any language making up words as he goes along that have So Halloran bas Pedi etoeghentc 4 "Xes, be coulda't wo ? the uncanny rhythm of reality. He uses no makeup or costume—save a dinner coat around his waist in a tango —yet when he sings that sobbing Yid- dish refrain “Eli Eli” you see the Ghet- to and some wailing mother as a hood- ed Niobe swaying in her unconquer- able despair. His imitations of the bosom heaving operatic stars in French, German and Italian taking top notes are to my un- practised eyes the most astounding bit of artistry the world will ever behold. I think only of that over-worked word —superb. The language and his va- rious inflections have often, I am told, fooled expert linguists. Chaplin speaks only English. The pity is that Chaplin wastes this quality of utter madness before such limited audiences and is inspired to them only when he is touched off by the vagaries of some passing mood or a few high-balls. Those who have only laughed and wept with Chaplin on the screen have never seen the real actor when he is off the reservation for the evening. And Broadway producers on the verge of crying out loud at empty ntyre Bias houses might concentrate on signin, up Chaplin. They may not make a fortune but it would show faltering theatre goers there is talent left. Chap. lin is nearing middle years. A litle while and it may be too late to capture this dynamic quality of buffoonery, And that will be about two inches from being a pity. My experience in trying to see a movie in New York has usually been to stand on one foot, then the other while a gentleman who had had several helpings of garlic breathed gently on my neck. Consequently I was all atwitter to see the pre-view of a talkie in the built in de luxe theatre which is a part of the glorified mansion of W. R. Sheehan, once a newspaperman him- self. Mr. Sheehan sends out guides to meet his dinner guests and escort them to his spiraling hillside home far back in the Beverly canyons. His playhouse is a miniature ca- thedral. The guests loll in deep cush- ioned arm chairs. It is like sitting on bellows. The theatre is wired for “sound” and the host over a private wire telephones the operator the selec- tions of his guests. On my right, for instance, was the orchidaceous Miss Norma Shearer and nearby were several other equally beav- tiful ladies. Japanese boys clad in cool pongees were at each elbow to light cigarettes and supply iced flagons of gingerale and mineral waters. All of which shows how much fun you can have in this racket—and never spend a cent. "So was my frandmother.* comicbooks.com , meme §: ‘ueacaa