2020 Tarkovsky Prize First Place: Sebastian Kaplan
Getting Sentimental Over You: Why City Lights Still Triumphs
by Sebastian Kaplan (17, Lowell High School)
“Thinking is the hard work,'' said Chaplin, “Just thinking.” How does a blind girl mistake a tramp for a millionaire? How do you make a critically & commercially successful silent film when talking films are all the rage? How do you balance comedy and tragedy throughout your film for a resonant, poignant ending? And how do you do it all without a completed script? Chaplin didn't have an answer, but he didn't give up, and in the end he had written, directed, edited, composed the music for & starred in City Lights, one of t he most esteemed, influential & indispensable films of the 20th century.
Before getting into City Lights and Chaplin there are a few things about early 20th century film worth noting. In the first few decades of the cinema, most of the interesting films were being made in Europe, and descended from a long history of art and culture. The European films of the time thought of themselves as emerging from poetry, literature, painting & theatre, in fact many of the first important artists of the early German film came from the theatre. Part of the glory of early European film was its recognition that it could be artistically powerful. The other side of the coin was that often the films were limited in their freedom to explore the unique properties of the medium. America meanwhile was freed from this inheritance, it’s films did not think of themselves as artworks. Early American films were often vulgar, trivial, silly, and had limited artistic ambitions, but they explored the capabilities of the medium in ways the Europeans did not because they were freed from the constraints of an artistic legacy.
An example of this is D. W. Griffith’s Birth of a Nation (1915), a film whose politics are indefensible but its status as the first epic of cinema is undeniable. Birth of a Nation was one of the first films to call attention to America as a producer of films, start riots, and to establish contemporary film language. Chaplin was a fan of Grifith all the way through, even if he found his films absurd, melodramatic and a tad outre, he considered Griffith a genius. Another important note about early American film was its self fashioning as an antagonist of high culture—no high socialite would be caught dead in an early film nickelodeon—accessible to anyone who could pay for the ticket and see. Chaplin’s artistry was both that he elevated his film to high art, as well as maintained his accessibility throughout (his fanbase was not high art intellectuals, but the common working people of the world), a coupling which reached its zenith in City Lights.
In 1927, four years before the release of City Lights, the medium changed forever. Films up until then, when Warner Brothers released The Jazz Singer, had been silent; but this new Al Jolson musical introduced the audible screen. Talking films, Chaplin thought, would last three years at best, but with audiences now flocking to the cinema in numbers unparalleled since the creation of the form, it didn't look like they were going away any time soon. Films were now advertised with the magic words, “A talking picture” . By the end of 1929 the majority of theaters were “wired for sound”; films now, whether filmed silent or talkie, were synchronized with sound effects . As one monograph from the 1950s put it, “The country was taking talkies''. Yet, just prior to this upheaval, Chaplin's latest release, The Circus, had cemented the pantomime of the Tramp as an international language and Chaplin as an international figure—his name synonymous with comedy, artistry, and a medium that, to most aside from himself, was history.
The last silent film released by a major studio had been MGM’s The Kiss, and even if this Garbo romance featured the first on screen kiss (a real shock back in 1929), the public wanted talkies. Chaplin was torn as to what to do. He could eliminate the universality of the Tramp by having him speak English, but that would surely shrink his worldwide audience. Alternatively, he could run the risk of being deemed anachronistic by creating another silent film. However, the question of sound was far from the only problem facing Chaplin as he neared his 40th birthday. His latest film, The Circus had been a commercial success, but by the end of production his life had become a cavalcade of scandal and trauma. His mother, whom he loved deeply and was his greatest inspiration, had died. He disliked his wife, opting to spend long unnecessary hours at his studio to avoid her. She then divorced him and accused him of “perverted sexual desires”. Alongside his marital issues there were economic ones. There were tax problems, then there was the beginning of the Great Depression, which rendered silent films a virtually pointless investment compared to the box office promise of Talkies. Chaplin suffered a nervous breakdown.
While reeling from personal trauma, Chaplin came up with the concept for a new film: a comedy that would have something to do with a blind flower vendor and the Tramp. After much deliberation Chaplin decided on a silent film, a romantic comedy in pantomime; but, if he was going to stay relevant, if he was going to be successful commercially & critically, if he was going to make a film in pure images at a time when the public opted for dialogue, the film would have to be perfect. As Chaplin put it in his autobiography, “I’d worked myself into a neurotic state of wanting perfection.” Perfection was no simple task, even for a master filmmaker like Chaplin. He was in for the most difficult, tiring, and testing production of his life. The shoot alone lasted 683 days (a typical shoot being 50), had 4,571 takes, amassing 58 hours of film for an 87 minute final product (39 feet shot for each foot used), all the while being the most expensive film shot that year. Nervous all through shooting because of the film's lack of sound, he experienced tortured creative blocks, labored over set pieces, and was constantly reworking old ideas in a search for inspiration. Like clockwork he rehearsed and rehearsed his scenes on set with the cast and crew, believing that only through complete understanding of the material could inspiration strike. His creative process was one of accumulation and elimination, thinking up as many ideas as he could, good or bad, until he considered one worth rehearsing, and, if it proved to be compelling enough, worth shooting. The results were perfectly crafted scenes that each tell a complete story while avoiding unnecessary camera tricks and tacky effects in favor of comically poignant pantomime and visual movement. In a late 1950's interview conducted by Jean Luc Godard, Jean Renoir observed, “all Chaplin’s films were shot on this principle. They are divided into sequences, each one being a complete story [...] and the important, the essential thing is that the development of a scene must not be artificial.” The critic Alistair Cooke wrote, the film, despite all the struggles of its production, “flows as easily as water over pebbles.”
Note, early in the film, about five minutes in, his encounter with the female statue figure in the shop window. Here is the quintessential Chaplin woman, to be idealized, placed on a pedestal, worshipped. A sidewalk freight elevator is moving constantly up and down in the background as Chaplin eyes the statue; its arrival at pavement level is in perfect sync with the moment Chaplin steps backwards onto it. The scene plays adroitly and is one of the best visual gags in the film, all thanks to rigorous dedication to the choreography’s composition and execution. Another spectacular feat of choreography comes near the end, the tenth scene of the film: the boxing match. In the scene, Chaplin attempts to win money for his love, the Blind Girl, by competing in a winner take all boxing match. Originally agreeing to go 50-50 and remain unharmed with his sparring partner, a sudden change of plans lands him in the ring with a heavyweight who wants to play winner take all; a real David and Goliath situation. This scene is incredibly complex, almost a ballet, and again the product of meticulous rehearsal. Chaplin believed the more one rehearsed and knew the choreography, the greater the likelihood that inspiration would come. Eleven days were spent rehearsing, and 6 days spent shooting the fight which would only last about 4 minutes in the final film. The bell dings and the fight begins, the Tramp immediately maneuvers the referee in between himself and the fighter. The great visual joke of the scene being that the Tramp shadows the referee, avoiding direct contact with his opponent. Like expertly puppeteered marionettes, the three—the referee, the heavyweight, and the Tramp—move in precise synchrony. The music in the sequence is nominal and understated, to make room for the contagious laughter destined to infect any audience watching the scene. Chaplin told a reporter after the London premier, “the whole thing is like a symphony in which the audience is as important as the screen.”
The sequence of the film that gave Chaplin the most difficulty—the most trouble throughout his entire career in fact—is much earlier in the film; 7 minutes in. It is the now famous scene of the Tramp meeting the blind girl, played by Virginia Cherill, and her mistaking him for a millionaire. It was a difficult moment to capture and explain visually, but Chaplin was able to do it, revisiting the scene 6 seperate times during production and finally getting it right near the end. The choreography had to remain simple while solving the dilemma of how a blind girl could reasonably mistake the penniless little fellow for a rich socialite. The scene in the finished film plays effortlessly. Having made his way through a taxi and shut the door behind him, he notices the Woman holding out a flower for him. Accidentally knocking the flower out of her hand, The Tramp then picks it up, but as the Woman continues to search, he realizes: she is blind. He then makes a simple gesture, holding the flower in front of her eyes; “It is completely dancing,” said Chaplin. “It took a long time. We took this day after day. Week after Week.” As the Tramp moves away, a rich man gets into the taxi and drives off as the Blind Girl says “wait for your change sir.” Realizing the illusion she's under, and not wanting to ruin it, The Tramp departs, but not before being doused with a pale of water. The music swells and splices at the perfect moments as the camera stays unobtrusive and deceptively observant; allowing us to forget it’s there at all as we watch Chaplin elevate pantomime to the polished, ingenious form it takes here. The scene holds the Guiness Book of World Records title for most takes, requiring over 300, but it was not in vain. Chaplin historian Jeffrey Vance notes, “it's one stroke of genius to conjure up the idea, but Chaplin was doubly blessed with the ability to execute it to perfection.”
Chaplin’s process is fascinating, and his work is highly complex. Anyone can tell you about Chaplin’s idiosyncratic technique, but the film's real impact is rooted in the genius of Chaplin’s approach. Execution is one thing—but the “why” behind his maddening quest for perfection illuminates why this film has the effect it does on the audience. One method of deciphering Chaplin’s approach is through analysis of his visual style. His camera, acting, & choreography are all ostensibly in pursuit of realism. The films he makes are character oriented, preferring close ups, aiming to make the viewer oblivious to the camera and aware of the character’s psychology. There is complete devotion to mise-en-scene—everything being seen through the lens—from the lighting, the sets, the performances, and, most importantly for Chaplin, the choreography; even the most minute detail is essential. From this it can be inferred the realistic approach is how he achieved the film's power. Another clue that Chaplin approached film through realism can be gleaned by examining the direction his films had taken since the 30s, which made him prime for observation by realist critics. As film historian and professor Timothy J. Lyons notes in his “Introduction to the Literature on Chaplin”: “City Lights (1931), Modern Times (1936), and finally The Great Dictator (1940), at the end of the decade, addressed themselves directly—if, at times, Romantically—to problems in the social environment.” This was true; The Depression, technicism, and the threat of war all played a role in this period of Chaplin’s work. These social questions manifest prominently in the Tramp, whose foibles at times assert and sympathize with the ideals of the era; borrowing screenwriter and film critic Cesare Zavattini's description of the Neo-Realist aim, the Tramp serves to, “tell the audience that they are the true protagonists of life.”
However realistically the film seems to be made, the reality Chaplin presents is not reality at all: it is a romantic, choreographed dream. Chaplin’s “reality” is as carefully constructed as a still life by Cezanne. Realism in fact was not the approach. Chaplin himself viewed realism as prosaic and dull, “It is not reality that matters in film”, said Chaplin, “but what the imagination can make of it.” While, on the surface Chaplin eliminates the camera and embraces unconditional mise en scene to make the film real; this, and his elaborate rehearsal and choreography are manifestations of his endless search for the sentimental. Chaplin, in City Lights, strived for a deeper unconscious truth, the spark that lights effervescence, the immaterial gunk that constitutes inspiration. He was searching for sincerity: “the deeper the truth in a creative work, the longer it will live.” His interest in the romantic notion of a profound genuineness seems to have stemmed from his interest and appreciation of essayist and critic of the 19th century, William Hazlitt, who believed that sentiment was more appealing than intellect and also the greater contribution to a work of art. Chaplin took this to heart, and his films were often lyrically romantic because of it. Some of the most rich and dynamic sequences in the film—him meeting the Blind Girl, the dance party sequence with the millionaire, the boxing match, the escape from the millionaire’s mansion, and of course the ending—focus more on the spiritual than the intellectual. This also sheds light on Chaplin’s motivation to make another silent film. “Dialogue”, Chaplin said, “just gets in the way.” The “intellectual” was dialogue, realism. The “sentimental” was pantomime and the dreamy world of silent film. Luckily for us, he stuck to his beliefs.
By far the most sentimental moment in City Lights, and in Chaplins whole repertoire, comes at the end of the film. The Tramp, rattier than ever after being wrongfully jailed for obtaining the money for the Blind Girl to receive her sight restoration procedure, is wandering the busy old streets of the nameless city, when, after some mockery from two newsboys, he finds himself in front of a flower shop and picks up a rose from the gutter, reminding him of the girl he loved and fought for. The music swells. There is something that reveals everything about Chaplin in this image of the rose in the gutter. In his autobiography Chaplin defines beauty as “an omnipresence of death and loveliness, a smiling sadness that we discern in nature and in all things, a mystic communion that the poet feels—an expression of it can be the dustbin with a shaft of sunlight across it, or it can be a rose in the gutter.” Here Chaplin reveals his conception of beauty, “the rose in the gutter”. The Blind Girl, the owner of the flower shop, watches the bum from her window with laughter and condescension, not knowing it is really he, not a rich man, who provided her with the money she needed to restore her sight. The Tramp brings the flower to his nose, turns, and sees her. The music stops. He stops. He stares at her, his face registering the complex emotions whirring inside. Here is the Tramp, his image seen for the first time by the woman he loves, but never thought he’d see again. The look says it all, lightly apologetic, embarrassed, but excited to see her again. She, not realizing who he is, makes a cruel comment, herself embarrassed by a vagrant taking an interest in her. She offers him some change and a flower, but he, coming back into reality, shuffles away, wanting to avoid pulling back the curtain and unworking the illusion he manufactured so meticulously. When she offers the flower again as he walks away, he cannot resist; his devotion to her is all-encompassing and blind. He is pulled back to her. She touches his hand, like she had so often done with him in the past, and through sensation, not sight, she realizes who he is. He holds the rose and shyly bites his forefinger. Her fingers run along his arm, his shoulder, his lapels, then she catches her breath: "You?" The Tramp nods with a doubtful look, asks, "You can see now?" The girl replies, "Yes, I can see now". The uncertainty on the Tramp's face turns to joy in what Chaplin referred to as “one of the purest close ups I've ever done”. Critic, screenwriter, and friend of Chaplin, James Agee, wrote that the ending was, “Enough to shrivel the heart to see, and it's the greatest piece of acting, and the highest moment in movies.” The film fades to black, and City Lights ends. The last thirty seconds of the film produce, through visual means, an atavistic, intangible, sentimental feeling, in a way no other art form could have. The ending is a poetic composition—coherent, organic, and governed by something deeply irresistible within us.
In January 1931, after four years of restructuring, reworking, and re-imagining, City Lights— born of immense personal and societal struggle, spared no expense in its execution, and repeated until the fullest potential of its vision had been realized—was released. Chaplin’s circumstances and modus operandi are the lifeblood of the film, and yet, neither mean anything without the soul of his approach; the sentimentality that is within all of us, tapped into by Chaplin’s genius. This approach was not lost on fellow filmmakers. Einstein, present at the film's premiere, exempt from the power of Chaplin’s film. During the final scene, Chaplin observed Einstein wiping his eyes, “further evidence,” wrote the filmmaker, “that scientists are incurable sentimentalists.” All the same, these facts come as no surprise, because in searching for a place within us all, Chaplin made a film that touches us all. In a film that couldn’t have been made by any means other than those it was—this time, this execution, this perfect vision—this film touches us in a way that only this film can. Avant Garde filmmaker Jonas Mekas, building off the ideas of Soviet playwright and poet V. Mayakovsky, resolved that “there is an area in the human mind which can be reached only through the cinema.” We can only know certain places within us through film, and what we have known through City Lights is what it is to be beholden to oneself and another, recognizing each feeling is constructed, yet neither illegitimate. A testament to the universality of this understanding is that the never content perfectionist, Chaplin himself, told Peter Bogdanovich later in his life that The Gold Rush was the film he wanted to be remembered by, but City Lights: “City Lights is my favorite.”