- ► 2017 (106)
- Claude Lanzmann | Shoah
- Claude Lelouch | Un homme et une femme (A Man and ...
- Randall Wright | Hockney
- John Carney | Sing Street
- Charles Chaplin | The Gold Rush
- Hal Ashby | Being There
- Howard Hawks | To Have and Have Not
- Roman Polanski | Chinatown
- Abel Gance | End of the World [link]
- Bharat Nalluri | Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day
- Rainer Werner Fassbinder | Die Dritte Generation (...
- Lewis Milestone | The Strange Love of Martha Ivers...
- Lloyd Bacon and Busby Berkeley | 42nd Street
- ▼ April (13)
- ► 2015 (127)
- ► 2014 (118)
- ► 2013 (124)
- ► 2012 (147)
- ► 2011 (134)
Saturday, April 16, 2016
Charles Chaplin | The Gold Rush
surviving without prospects
by Douglas Messerli
Charles Chaplin (writer and director) The Gold Rush / 1925
The other day, when I had determined to revisit Charlie Chaplin’s The Gold Rush for the first time since childhood, I poked into my favorite movie guide, Time Out, to discover what I presume was a younger reviewer arguing that it was “hard to see it was ever taken for a masterpiece.” So I somewhat feared what my reviewing of the film might actually reveal. Would I love the film as much as I remembered I had?
It is hardly surprising, however, that soon after Chaplin retreated to his Los Angeles studios to portray the rest of the work with a mixture of flour and yeast to represent the snowy landscape of his cinema. The icy reality would surely have frozen Chaplin’s balletic movements in its tracks, delimiting the frantic comedic enactments of the little tramp.
After a battle between the two heavyweights, with the Chaplin figure rushing in an out of range of the loaded rifle over which they are battling, a kind of ménage-a-trois is established, the three of them desperately living together—but without anything left to eat. A draw of the cards sends Larsen into the cold to seek out food, while the two others are left behind to eat the Lone Prospector’s left shoe, their Thanksgiving dinner, during which, in a nearly peerless pantomime of the extremes of starvation and one of Chaplin’s most brilliant set-pieces, he sucks the leathery meat off the nails of his shoe.
Meanwhile—a period of time which one might describe defines this episodic movie—Larsen has discovered the hole-up of two other would-be prospectors, killing them for their foodstuffs and, soon after, discovering McKay’s claim, with no intentions of returning to his former cabin.
The now-partners split up, with McKay discovering Black Larsen having usurped his claim. Once again Larsen attacks, attempting to murder the other. Larsen again escapes, but “cruel” nature takes care of him, as he falls into a chasm after an avalanche.
Meanwhile again….back in town the little tramp dares to enter the local bar, where he encounters the beautiful dance hall girl, Georgia. This entire scene, however, represents an entirely other kind of genre, which is what perhaps so confused some Chaplin admirers. The New Yorker, for example, found Chaplin’s 1925 film out of character:
One might be given to expect wonders of Gold Rush
burlesque with the old Chaplin at the receiving end
of the Klondike equivalent of custard. But one
is doomed to disappoint, for Chaplin has seen fit to
turn on his onion juices in a Pierrot's endeavor to
draw your tears.... Instead of the rush of tears called
for, one reaches for his glycerine bottle.... We do not
wish to deride Chaplin. He is as deft as ever and
far and away a brilliant screen master. He has
made a serviceable picture in "The Gold Rush" but it
seems that he is not as funny as he once was.
In fact, the scenes that follow are not as comedic as Chaplin might once have appeared to be. The women in the bar are clearly tough prostitutes, ready to take on any frontiersman they might meet; they drink, lure in the men, and even suggest somewhat more than intimate female relationships. If previously the Lone Prospector was ludicrous, in this wild-west saloon he is completely absurd. Suddenly in love with the mocking Carmen of the bar, the Chaplin figure is surely no longer funny, despite the fact that he (accidently) defeats the dangerous ladies’ man, Jack Cameron (Malcolm Waite). To toy with Cameron’s affections, Georgia determines to dance with the tramp in one of the most wonderfully comic dance numbers in all of film history (a scene I describe in my essay on film dance in My Year 2000).
Sure, the Pierrot he often represented might still play out the “Dance of the Potatoes,” but, as the film itself predicted, this fool was soon to be very rich—after a moment back at the cabin (a symbol throughout the film as uncomfortable home) where the two “heroes” find themselves at the edge of another abyss, this time balancing their bodies and even the household furniture against the inevitable disastrous fall into eternity. They escape “home” only because they are now rich and can endlessly travel—an ability during the decade which, we should recall, the Fitzgerald’s, the Hemingway’s, the Porter’s and, yes, the Chaplin’s much admired.
The final scenes of The Gold Rush, which reveal the little tramp as now a multi-millionaire represent a Chaplin whom we had not yet met on screen—a character basically freed of the truly maudlin and sentimental elements of his earlier, and often, his later films. Finally, the tramp is a true survivor—even without the prospects he had never truly been expected to achieve. Even if he is required to dress up again like the tramp, he is no longer the same foolish being.
Yes, The Gold Rush has elements of that former actor-director, but it represents something different, far more experimental, and resulting in a much more masterful work than any film comedian before had achieved. To dismiss The Gold Rush is to ignore film history.
Too bad Chaplin himself seemed to want to revise that very history when in 1946 he issued another version, with 20 minutes cut, excising the original’s misunderstanding between Georgia and the Lone Prospector when she sends a love letter to Jack, who vengefully passes it on to the Chaplin character—some of the elements which defined his 1925 version as so original, and so much more naturalistic—as opposed to the sentimental figures to whom Chaplin was so devoted. In fact, the Monte Carlo bar represents Chaplin’s own version of what later became Rick’s American Café—a far more complex world than the little tramp had ever conceived.
At least the music of his later version was better. The VHS I saw, clearly a cheap Canadian knock-off which featured a completely baroque organ score that had nothing all to do with what was happening on the screen, made me want to turn off the sound and truly see it as the silent film as it was originally was conceived. Yet Chaplin’s vision still came through, which says a great deal about its true power.
Los Angeles, April 13, 2016