The Sullivan-Considine circuit.
Cincinnati, A Night in an English Music Hall.
Seattle, Vancouver, Portland.
The cold. God, the cold.
(“Charles Chaplin is exceedingly funny.”)
Chaplin.
Chaplin is different now, because Chaplin is worse. Mack Sennett is calling once again. Mack Sennett’s Keystone machine must be fed, and Chaplin is the meat that will give good mince. In November 1913, as the weather changes, Chaplin jumps.
For $150 a week, with no more nickel lunches.
For $150 a week, with his name above the title.
For $150 a week, with all the girls Chaplin can fuck.
It is his chance. With Chaplin gone, he can shine. But without Chaplin there is no company, because Chaplin is, was, and always will be the company. Alf Reeves claims to have tried to plead his case. In Alf Reeves’s telling, the theater owners are informed that he is Chaplin’s equal, but even Alf Reeves does not believe this, and the theater owners certainly do not believe it. They have been sold shit by better men than Alf Reeves, and better shit too.
When the humiliation comes, it is worse than he has anticipated. The tour will go on, but only if Alf Reeves can guarantee the presence of Dan Raynor, the lead in Fred Karno’s London company, to take Chaplin’s place. Dan Raynor makes his way across the Atlantic, the new wheel on the wagon, but the wagon is falling apart, and it is winter, and Chaplin is in the ascendant. Although he tells himself he should not, he takes the time to bear witness to Chaplin’s rise.
Making a Living.
Kid Auto Races at Venice.
Mabel’s Strange Predicament.
And thus he sees the Little Tramp being born.