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Moving Picture World, New York, June 1, 1918.

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„Laughter keeps one from going mad, doesn‘t it?“

Editorial content. „Chaplin Grotesqueries Fit in War Zone

      And Now Dramatic Editor Cannot Think

      of Comedian‘s Feet Without Also Recalling Raiders

      and Exploding Shells.

      Edwin Carty Ranck, in Brooklyn Eagle.

      One doesn‘t usually associate Charlie Chaplin with

air raids, but in the future I shall never see the

eccentric movie actor fall over his own feet without thinking

of German raiding airplanes, exploding shells and

men and women burrowing their way into subway entrances

like rabbits entering warrens.

      The second night after I landed in Paris I went to a funny

little movie house called the Cine Opera on the Boulevard

des Capucines, where the best seats are the worst and the worst

seats the best. By that I mean that they charge you more

the nearer you are to the screen and much less when are seated

ten rows back, which are, after all, the best seats for

movie fans. The cheapest seats in the Cine Opera were two

francs seventy-five centimes, which approximates fifty

cents in our money. The best seats are five francs; about

a dollar.

      Bessie Barriscale was there in a clever Irish comedy

with French captions, which was, to an American,

a rather amusing incongruity. They flashed on the screen

the message of General Pershing, offering all of his

available resources to France. This brought forth a storm

of applause, the first spontaneous applause of the

evening, by the way. Then American boys were shown

at the front and there was more applause. They love

Americans, do these warm-hearted French people.

      Then there was a prolonged shout of merriment and the

cause was soon apparent. There walked out upon the

screen, queer feet and all, Monsieur Charlot. That‘s what

they call him over here. They don‘t know anything

about the Chaplin part of his name. But the French people

adore Monsieur Charlot.

      It was an outrageously funny Chaplin picture. Charie

had returned home intoxicated and couldn‘t get

upstairs to save his life. he also had weird experiences

with tiger rugs and bear rugs and a clock, the

pendulum of which had a queer way of getting out of the

clock case and striking Charlie on the nose. You

have probably seen the picture. It was played in New

York last winter.

      Well, the French audience simply ,ate it up´, as we would

say in America. They laughed! They shrieked! They

roared with mirth. Every failure of Charlie‘s to get upstairs

was greeted with hysterical gaiety. There was a large

sprinkling of American officers in the audience and they had

as much fun as the French people, whose mirth was

contagious. Even if you didn‘t care at all for the Charlie Chaplin

brand of humor you would have had the time of your

life just watching those Frenchmen laugh, while seventy

miles away a German gun, facetiously dubbed ,Big

Bertha,‘ was sending shells into Paris at regular intervals.

      At last it was all over. Charlie Chaplin finally

succeeded in getting into his moving bed, and the last laugh

vanished into air. Stepping outside into the April night

the contrast with the lighted movie house was uncanny. Paris

was a phantom city, dark and mysterious. Here and

there greenish lamps shone like queer, Poe-like worms,

and automobiles, sans lights, sans horns, sans

everything except motive power and chauffeurs, crept

along silently. In doorways pedestrians crouched,

looking up expectantly.

      We were talking of Charlie Chaplin when it happened.

As if it had all been prearranged there came three

shots from a French ,75‘ and then the hoarse shriek of a

steam siren. Two venturesome Boche airplanes had

evaded the overhead region of Paris.

      Out in the open square, in front of the silent and massive

French Opera House, men and women were staring

up into the air. Others were crowding into the subway station

at this point, the mouth of which was marked with a

greenish light ,Refuge.‘ We looked up, and while we couldn‘t

see much of the aerial combat; we saw the spraying light

of exploding shells and the peculiar deadened concussion of

the anti-aircraft guns as they poured a steady stream

of projectiles at the two Boche beasts.

      It was about 10:15 when the firing began. I lingered

around for a while and then went back to my hotel,

where I found that all of the guests had taken refuge in the

cellar. i stood at the window of my room for some time,

looking out over the darkened city and seeing at intervals the

spray of an exploding shell falling in the darkness like

fragments of a Fourth of July skyrocket. The deadened din

of the anti-aircraft guns was continuous.

      Then, suddenly the clamor ceased. It was then twenty

minutes to eleven. Suddenly a dead silence descended

upon Paris. Then, sharp and clear, like the ancient call of a

Highland chieftain, there came a bugle note. Some

French Paul Revere was riding through the streets of Paris

on a big red fire truck, not so romantic as a neighing

steed, but much more efficient. He was notifying the residents

that all was clear. The German menace had passed.

The wakeful French 75‘s had performed their faithful watchdog

service and driven off the two Boche beasts.

      Almost instantly the city came to life again. It was just

as if Paris had been holding its breath. Outside the

window I heard a French hotel maid laugh merrily. A man‘s

voice was heard singing a stave from Samson et

Delilah. Relieved voices of men and women were heard

passing my door. The hotel guests had emerged

from the cellar.

      Then, suddenly, without any particular reason, I found

myself thinking of Monsieur Charlot Chaplin and his

absurd feet, and I began to laugh as I stood there at the

window, watching Paris awake from the shadow of

the German menace. It was a grotesque thing to do. But then

this war is grotesque. The bombardment of Paris by

a gun seventy-five miles away is grotesque. The world is

a grotesque place in which to live nowadays. But as

long as Monsieur Charlot is still in it, one can laugh, and

laughter keeps one from going mad, doesn‘t it?“

      Edwin Carty Ranck sees Chaplin in One A. M.

      in the Ciné Opéra in Paris. His report is first published

      in Brooklyn Daily Eagle, New York, May 12, 1918.


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