The Unknown Chaplin

This canister of film contains a clip

requiring restoration. We can see

the sequence opens in a studio;

a flapping muslin sky diffuses all

the ambient sunlight. Although the heat

looks terrible, we spot a withered palm

sighing and swaying inside a pot with each

gentle breeze blowing through the lot;

a lot still ringing from a bang somewhere

along the Western Front—a Ford back-

firing in the distance. After these

imagined noises fade, we find the world

returns to silence once again: black

and gray and white. A dented derby fans

Edna Purviance and her bouncing leg.

Windows are replaced and hinges greased.

Cops and crooks—wearing identical

false moustaches—whisper, exchanging their

own views about the news: the war, their wives,

sore bums, their pay. A puppy—on a leash

that’s growing shorter as he sniffs around

a fake hydrant—nearly strangles him-

self in search of some comic relief.

A titter passes through the company.

The dog breaks up the day’s monotony:

endless takes and retakes; wasted time;

the camera always turning, turning, like

the door to a hotel you can’t escape.

This is not a movie. This is life.

No longer the director, our hero

races from behind the camera

and acts. His face says everything. But

we only see a blur: a little man,
without a hat, running very quickly

toward a dog. The rest is lost. Perhaps.