Showing posts with label Max Eastman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Max Eastman. Show all posts

Monday, June 9, 2014

Florence Deshon

Florence Deshon, c.1918

In the summer of 1919, Chaplin was introduced to a budding actress named Florence Deshon.1 At the time she was the girlfriend of his friend, writer Max Eastman.2  She was not only beautiful, but intelligent, free-spirited, and witty. She may have been one of the few women Charlie ever truly loved yet little has ever been written about her.

Max Eastman met Florence at a Masses3 ball in December 1916 and soon after they began living together in Eastman's house in Croton-on-Hudson in upstate New York. In July 1919, Florence was offered a contract with the Sam Goldwyn studio. She moved to Hollywood and took an apartment on De Longpre Ave., not far from the Chaplin Studios. A few months later, Max joined her. It was during this time that Max introduced her to Chaplin. The trio became fast friends, often playing an elaborate version of charades they had devised at Chaplin's home. According to Max, Chaplin's wife, Mildred, was never present at these parties any longer than to say hello to the guests. "You didn't ask why, but you got the impression that she thought his friends had too many ideas and would expect her to say something."

CC, Max Eastman, and Isaac McBride at the Chaplin Studios, 1919

Max eventually returned to his home in New York and it was in the interim that a romance began between Charlie and Florence.

Although Max and Florence had agreed to be mutually independent, he couldn't help but wonder what was going on since Charlie was the only man she ever mentioned in her letters:
Charlie is always very sweet to me.
I dined with Charlie on Christmas Eve, and he gave me a Christmas present.
Beloved, Charlie came to dinner last night and I gave him your book. He was so happy to get it. I saw his picture The Kid in the projection room. I was wonderful, wonderful. I cried and laughed and smiled and worried. It was the most exciting thing I ever saw. 
Charlie is all excited about buying a yacht. He said, "Let's you and Max and Elmer [Ellsworth?] and I go off together." I said we would make movies in all the countries we touched, and he is enthusiastic about your acting in them. Well, we had a wonderful time. Anyhow, as soon as he finishes this picture he asked if I would take a trip in his car. We all the the wanderlust very strongly and were flying all over the world.4

Max recalls that he was never really jealous of Charlie. "Perhaps because we had all three been good friends together--my thoughts of him were not disturbing. I read with a tranquil mind the interesting things she told me about him."
Charlie speaks ever of going away, but it all depends on his picture and at the rate he is working, he will never finish it. I know I am naughty, but I become tired of Charlie's matrimonial troubles. He stays in that frightful situation at this home, and his powerlessness to move wears me out. I did not go with him to meet [Jascha] Heifetz as there were too many people there. I would rather meet Heifetz with Dagmar Godowsky. 
Did I tell you that I met the French comedian, Max Linder? I spent the day at Charlie's studio, and he had a lot of callers that day. Linder is smaller than Charlie and very good looking and well dressed. He is a very sweet little fellow and Charlie was quite jealous of him for a few minutes. Then he went into his dressing room, and Charlie pulled off his cap and roughed his hair and you know he always looks charming that way. He caught a fleeting vision of himself in the glass and all was right with the world again, not because he is striving for perfection, but because something in him refuses to go forward. 5
Another reason for Max's calm may have been his new romance with dancer Lisa Duncan, who had moved into his house in Croton. When Florence learned of Max's new relationship, the "Black Panther" (as he called it) side of her personality came out. Although Max was still in love with Florence, he was not capable of being with just one woman.

Florence Deshon and Max Eastman

A month later, sometime in the late summer of 1920, Max received a letter from Florence stating that she had been "sick in bed for a month." This made Max uneasy. He had a low opinion of Hollywood doctors ("those I knew were a little on the occult side.") He wanted to get her into the hands of a doctor he could trust--"Ignoring the fact that she was living in the bonds of true love with another man." Florence wrote again that she was not getting better and was coming east with Charlie as far as Chicago where he had business. Max believed that neither of them realized how sick Florence really was. Florence traveled on to Croton and Max met her at the train station. They returned to their little house on Mount Airy. Eastman contacted a friend who was a gynecologist who examined Florence and discovered that she had been pregnant for three months and the fetus was dead but he didn't know for how long. An immediate operation was needed to save her from blood poisoning.

Florence recovered within a few days & Chaplin eventually arrived in New York to see her, first staying at the Astor Hotel and then taking a room at a fashionable roadhouse in Croton."And there ensued a period," Max later wrote, "in which Florence, to put it crudely, commuted between two lovers. Neither of us was jealous, or at least not troublesomely so. In Hollywood Charlie had ever since midwinter been coming to her apartment each day after work, and for the most part dining and spending the evenings with her--and how soon also the nights, I don't know. They were as close, almost, as she and I had been. But there had been no arrogance in his courtship or his love. He used to tell her--astutely as well as modestly--that he was satisfied to have sneaked in where a better man belonged."6

Nevertheless, the three-way romance had to eventually come to an end. Charlie was going back to Hollywood, Florence would follow a few weeks later. "Had there been an element of scheming in her love for him," wrote Max, "she would have gone back with him. All Hollywood expected them to marry, and marriage to Charlie Chaplin was then the making of a movie star...But Florence's ambition, however, 'abnormal,' was too proudly high to be satisfied with a triumph bought at the price of her inmost self.

"As she told me the story, she took a late train to Croton one night after spending the day with Charlie in New York. There was no need of her taking that train, and he had demurred. He came to the train with her, and said goodbye with tears in his eyes.

"'Don't mind these tears," he said. 'I'll be all right.'

"And in that mood he went back to Hollywood."7

Florence stayed with Eastman for two months and they renewed their romance for a brief time. One evening after having a few drinks, Florence told him that she could never marry any man but Charlie Chaplin, and if she did marry Charlie, 'I would have a child by you before I married him.'"

When Florence returned to Hollywood, she struggled to revive her career. "She had gradually to face the humiliating fact that not her talents or beauty, but her association with Charlie had given her the sudden rise toward her stardom of the previous winter." Charlie was friendly to her now but impersonal. Max felt that Charlie "was not one who, having been hurt once, would permit himself to be hurt again."8 Charlie was also not one to stay alone for long, he was now involved with actress May Collins.

Florence returned to New York in the autumn of 1921 with hopes of landing a part in a Broadway play. One night in early February 1922, Max bumped into Florence as he was coming out of a subway on 42nd St. They exchanged pleasantries and Max went on his way. He didn't tell her he was  on his way to Scribner's on Fifth Avenue to pick up a copy of his recent book The Sense Of Humor which he had had bound in leather for her. He was going to bring it to her apartment later in the afternoon and surprise her with it but he went home and fell asleep. When he awoke, he decided he would bring it to her the next morning and then met some friends at the theater.  In the middle of the first act someone touched his shoulder and whispered that Florence had been taken to the hospital. When he reached St. Vincent's a woman was in the corridor waiting for him. A neighboring tenant had smelled gas coming from Florence's apartment and forced the locked door open. The doctor in charge told Max that Florence was dying but that a blood transfusion might save her. Max's blood was a match and Florence was wheeled in next to him for a direct transfusion. "She was not pale; she was still vivid, but her breathing was raucous and rapid, a fierce noisy effort of her body to get air, reminding me...what a concrete real violent enginelike thing we mean when we say so abstractly, 'the will to live.'"

Max couldn't help but feel guilty about not bringing her his book. "In her presence, my little personal regret about the book seemed trivial and sentimental, as I so often had seemed trivial and sentimental beside her bold, heroic, uncompromisingly passionate way of living a life."9

Florence died on February 4th, 1922. The true circumstances of her death remain unknown. Many believed, including Eastman, that it was a suicide. However the medical examiner ruled her death an accident since a window in her apartment had been open and there was no suicide note.

There is some speculation whether the opening scenes of Chaplin's 1952 film Limelight, where Terry is found unconscious in her apartment due to gas poisoning, were inspired by Deshon's possible suicide. Who knows if this is true, but suicides were part of Chaplin's films long before Limelight (Sunnyside, A Woman Of Paris, etc.)

Years later, Eastman admitted that it was difficult to write about the triangular affair between Charlie, Florence, and himself. "There was a three-way reticence about the details of this triangular attachment which makes it difficult for me to tell the story now. Charlie was still reticent when I reminded him of it thirty-five years later, inquiring whether he would mind my telling about it in this book [Love & Revolution]."

"You ought to see what I'm telling here!" he answered, holding up the manuscript of his own autobiography. But he did not offer to help me with the task. He only contributed one heartfelt exclamation: "Florence was a noble girl."10


1Florence's real last name was Danks, She invented the name Deshon, with an accent on the last syllable, because she thought it sounded French.
2Chaplin was introduced to Eastman in February 1919 by their mutual friend Rob Wagner after one of Eastman's "Hands Off Russia" lectures in Los Angeles.
3The Masses was a monthly socialist magazine edited by Eastman.
4Max Eastman, Love & Revolution, Random House, 1964

Saturday, July 13, 2013

Random Excerpt

From Great Companions by Max Eastman (1942):
One day, after he had had time to get tired of the social maelstrom that followed the premiere of The Great Dictator, I sent Charlie a telegram at the Waldorf Astoria: "Come on up Sunday and bring a companion. I've got a new game."
When Frank, his Japanese parent-valet, called up to say that he would come, I invited Edmund Wilson, the literary critic, and his gifted wife, Mary McCarthy, to come over from Stamford, and got my friend Charles Reitell, a doctor of sick industries by profession, to bring some of his intelligence and personality tests along. In inviting these guests, I explained that Charlie Chaplin might or might not be there.
Charlie arrived at noon with a gentle and warm-eyed companion from Brooklyn, and we played with those tests, and discussed them, and discussed everything under the sun, until one-thirty that night. It was like old times in Hollywood. Somewhat to our surprise Bunny Wilson, who is a distinctly literary person, made a phenomenal score in the test for operators of delicate machinery. Dr. Reitell guaranteed him a sixty-dollar-a-week job on application. On the same test, I was marked way down for "labored accuracy." "Don't hire this man" was written across my sheet.
Charlie pleaded the absence of his reading glasses and did only one eighth of the test--perfectly. The rest of the time he spent denouncing the whole idea of classifying human beings.
"These tests tell nothing," he said. "People are individuals; they aren't bunches of attributes. You have to know them with your Intuitions before you know them"
The Wilsons left about midnight, and a few minutes after they went out, Bunny stuck his head back through the door:
"Max, I can't seem to start my car. I wonder if you know anything about engines!"
Charlie jumped right out of his chair with delight.
"There you are!" he exclaimed. "That shows you what these tests are worth! Wilson the great machine operative--sixty dollars a week as a mechanic--and he has to come back and ask a poet to start his car!"
Just the same, Dr. Reitell knew a lot more about us when he went home than he could have found out in months of ordinary conversation. In particular, I thought, he had the low-down on Charlie and me, and the reasons for our long mutual understanding. Our "personality inventory" showed a surprising number of traits in common. On "emotional instability" Charlie made a score of 84 per cent--50 percent being the average, and 98 per cent indicating a visit to the psychiatrist, at the very least.
"Your high score there," Dr. Reitell said in a kindly way, "assures you of the ability to dramatize your public. You overfeel for them their emotions...."
He did not offer any such consoling reflections on my still closer approach to the loony bin. My score was 87 percent.
The doctor's inventory attributed one trait to Charlie that indubitably belongs to him, and makes him stand out almost solitary among the weakly gregarious and garrulous brain wasters of the movie world. That is a high degree of "self-sufficiency."
"Your score of 77 per cent in this trait indicates," the doctor announced, "that you prefer to be alone, rarely ask for sympathy, and tend to ignore the advice of others."
The phrase is a picture of Charlie in Hollywood--or above it. It explains both the awe--if the word is not too strong--and the resentment with which many of its more convivial celebrities regarded him. It explains also the dreadful state of mercy-turned-into-rage that girls would get into when their almost universal impulse to become his mother--welcomed at a certain distance--found the inner citadel impregnable.
And not girls only. There is an impulse in all affection to try to "get hold of" its object--to make sure that he depends enough upon its warmth, to be there whenever a returning warmth is needed. Charlie doesn't depend upon any warmth that much--not even when he is in love. He is sufficient unto himself.
This trait frightens some people and gets them mad. It gives me the pleasure of admiration. I do think, however, that in the later years it grew on him and gave rise to flaws in his work. Like most brooding artists, Charlie is hyper-sensitive, and gets very sad if you tell him something he has just done is no good. Nevertheless, he always used to have some robust critic around the studio, like Eddie Sutherland, a good director himself, who would say: "Aw, Charlie, cut that gag short it's a bore!" Charlie would go into a gloom, and maybe quit work for a day or two. But when he emerged, he would emerge with a perfectly objective and correct appraisal of the criticism.
Charlie with Max Eastman, c. 1919
In Charlie's inventory the score on "introversion" was 88 percent--so high that the doctor exclaimed with surprise: "You are not so damn far from being a recluse! Seclusion from the world with solitude seems to be your idea of heaven!" This again increased my respect for the doctor's methods, for I had heard Charlie express that idea of heaven many times. Years ago, when we both thought--some of the time, at least--that a proletarian revolution was coming, he remarked:
"It's all right with me. I'm for the working class. But they needn't expect me on the barricades. I'm no hero--I've got too much imagination to be a hero. When the shooting starts, I'm going to take a loaf of bread and a can of sardines and beat it to the mountains."
He was climbing the mountains in a hurry while he said that--and then he climbed cautiously down again.
"I'll probably come back for a can opener, but that's all I'll ask of the revolution."
In those days, the general notion of living a hermit's life was never far from his thoughts. His home at that time was tucked away on a little walled-in hill with trees enclosing its private sky.
"If I had a moat and a drawbridge," he said when he showed it to me, "I could live here the year round all alone and be happy. I might let you in once in a while for a game of tennis, but only because I need exercise."
Another thing that vastly surprised our examiner was Charlie's low score of 18 percent on "dominance versus submission."
"You certainly fooled me on this one," he said, "I had always thought you would dominate others, but I find you a very submissive, peaceful, quiet type indeed."
On "self-confidence" Charlie's score was still lower--only 11 percent.
"You are very hamperingly self-conscious" the doctor decreed, "and harbor definite feelings of inferiority. Any bold indications of aggressiveness, or strong assertions of power, are but a defense, a thin veneer, the cloaking of a timid, worried, and perturbed soul!"
Here I thought the doctor's system showed a serious defect. It failed to distinguish dominance as an ultimate fact from dominance as an immediate social attitude. It failed to realize that shy and diffident people often have a sovereign confidence in their own judgment, even if they have to go home and lock themselves into a soundproof chamber to find out which judgment is their own.
You could safely bet that, in any group engaged in making moving pictures, Chaplin, even though unknown, would soon turn out to be the boss. He would either become the boss or get kicked out as unmanageable. And yet you would see no clash of wills. He would never bristle or try to domineer. He hated that kind of thing so much that he evaded meeting one of our excessively red-blooded writers who, on a visit to Hollywood, was entertained by all the other stars.
I like civilized people," he said.
It took this "submissive, quiet, peaceful type" only two months, after arriving in Mack Sennett's studio in Hollywood in 1914, a young kid and a total greenhorn, to be come the director of every picture he appeared in. It took him less than six months to change the whole character and conception of cinema comedy prevailing there, if not everywhere. But there is no record of any "indications of aggressiveness" or "strong assertions of power." On the contrary, he bewildered everybody by behaving deferentially, and even humbly, but just not doing what the director told him to. Indeed, until the great news began to arrive from the box offices, Charlie's independence on the set was generally regarded as a special kind of stupidity. Mack Sennett finally allowed him to direct a picture of his own in sheer desperation.
"Let the damn fool find out for himself that it's not so easy!"
But Charlie told me another story from those same days which illustrates his self-distrust:
"Mack Sennett was paying me $175 a week, and when the contract expired, Essenay offered me $3000 a week. I went to Mack Sennett and told him I had had this offer. I said that I would prefer to stay with him, if he would pay me $1000 a week. He came back with an offer of a three-year contract--$500 a week the first year, $1000 the second, and $3000 the third.
"I knew I was popular. I had seen the crowds in the street outside the theatres, But I also knew how transitory such popularity is. I had grown up in the shadow of the uncertainties of an entertainer's career. I wanted to cash in on my popularity before it ran dry. I said to Mack Sennett:
"'I'll accept your offer if you'll reverse it. Pay me $3000 a week the first year, $1000 a week the second, $500 a week the third, and I'll stay.'
"Sennett said it was an idiotic idea, and he wouldn't sign such a contract. But I meant it. I was ready to sign."
There is a shrewdness in such timidity, or near it, and Charlie is extremely shrewd. As a businessman he fell down only in matters demanding an adequate estimation of his own size. It did not seem funny to him to make out his income-tax reports on the theory that he and his half-brother, Syd, who also "acts in the pictures," were partners. Even after paying up a million dollars in back taxes and penalties, he could not quite follow the government's logic!
Here is another example of his shrewdness or inferiority complex, I don't know which:
I came into his room one morning at the Waldorf Astoria, and found him still in bed. His face wore, or assumed when he saw me, that expression of unutterable pathos that so often and so suddenly breaks your heart on the screen.
"What's the matter, Charlie?" I asked, "Why are you so sad?"
He reached over and picked up a slip of paper from the bed table.
"Look at this!" he said.
I took the paper and read in the handwriting of his valet-secretary:
"The X_____ Company offers you $877,000 for twenty-five fifteen-minute broadcasts."
I laughed. I thought his pathos was a joke. But it wasn't.
"I can't do it, you know," he said. And then, with increased mournfulness: "I need the money too! The government just relieved me of a million dollars."
"Why can't you do it?" I said, "You can make a speech!"
"It isn't that," he said. "You know how I love speech-making. I can't come that close to my public. I have to remain a little remote and mysterious. They have to romanticize me. I would lose more than that at the box office if I made myself real and familiar over the radio."
To me, I must say, Charlie remained a mystery no matter how real and familiar he grew--a baffling combination of cool and high judgment, with total submersion in blind emotional drives. He loved advice; he loved a long conversation in which the best minds in the world would devote themselves to his problems and feel that they were guiding an untutored and yet great creative genius. He loved it the way a duck loves a shower bath. The advice was always thoughtfully weighed and, in so far as it was really good, "accepted." Everybody went home with a feeling that important and rather intimate decisions had been made. But if they were made on the other side of the moon, they would have had as much effect on Charlie's course of action.

Sunday, December 16, 2012

Christmas with(out) Charlie, Part 1

Excerpts from the divorce testimony of Charlie's first wife, Mildred Harris Chaplin, from December, 1920.

(Charlie and Mildred were married on Oct. 23rd, 1918. Not long after their marriage, Mildred checked into the hospital with a nervous breakdown. After she was released, the doctor ordered her to bed rest.)

 Q.--Now, after the marriage became public, Mrs. Chaplin, just tell the court in your own way about the course of treatment Mr. Chaplin adopted toward you after that time?
 A.--Well, after I was taken out of the hospital I had to stay in bed until Christmas, Christmas Eve, and the doctor sent a nurse home with me, and Mr. Chaplin got us a home up in Laughlin Park, and I had to stay in bed until Christmas Eve, and that was the first time I was down after I got out of the hospital. And Christmas afternoon--I mean the day before Christmas, Mr. Chaplin told me that he would be home and have dinner with me and help me trim the Christmas tree, and I had had mother get all the Christmas presents. I was not able to get up and I had always thought a great deal of Christmas, and that evening, I dressed and went downstairs and waited for him, and he did not come home. And I waited until 11 o'clock, and he did not come, so I trimmed the tree and mother helped me and then I went to bed and stayed awake until about two or three, and Mr. Chaplin came home about three o'clock.
Q.--What occurred?
A.--And when he came home he came upstairs and was very angry at me for buying so many Christmas presents and making such a time over Christmas.
Q.--Then what occurred?
A.--Then the next day was Christmas Day, and he would not get up all Christmas morning, and I went downstairs and took him up his presents and he was very angry at me for making so much over Christmas.
Q.--What would he say? What did he say?
A.--Well, he said it was very foolish and that he did not believe in such things and that I should not be so silly over Christmas and over having presents and liking such things.
 Q.--Now, on this Christmas evening you have told about, the first Christmas evening after your marriage in October, you had invited your friends there to the house, had you?

 A.--No, I had not; Mr. Chaplin had all his own friends; he did not want me to have mine.

 Q.--Then, you allege, that he came home about what time on Christmas morning?
 A.--It was about two-thirty or three.

 Q.--Two-thirty or three.  Then, on Christmas morning what occurred?

 A.--He stayed in bed all day until four o'clock; he wouldn't go downstairs with me to see the tree.  I took him his presents.
 Q.--Did he abuse you?
 A.--He was very angry at me for making so much over Christmas.
 Q.--What did he say?

 A.--He said it was very foolish and wasn't right to make so much or for me to like presents and foolish things; that it was not his idea to have Christmas or celebrate Christmas; he had never done it.
Q.--Now, on that Christmas did he give you any present or token of any
 Q.--Would you buy anything for Mr. Chaplin himself?
  A.--On Christmas I bought him a silver set for his dresser; I bought him a great many things.  I bought him--
  Q.--His personal clothing and things of that kind, did you?
  A.--Yes; socks.
  Q.--Describe what you bought for him.
  A.--I bought all his handkerchiefs and socks and pajamas and ties.
  Q.--Did he pay for them or did you?

  A.--I did. 
 Q.--You have told about the first Christmas after you were married-- tell the court about your second Christmas.
  A.--On the second Christmas he had been staying out in Beverly Hills,  He had been staying up there for quite a time and he would stay all night a good deal up there because he had a very good time, and the second Christmas he said he would be home and I invited some people, and on Christmas Eve he phoned he would not be able to come home until about nine, but he sent some presents home for the people.
  Q.--Did he send you a present?
  Q.--Go ahead.
  A.--He didn't come.  So these people left and he came home about four in the morning.  I waited up until about two and then I went to bed and sat up in bed waiting for him.
  Q.--Then, as I understand it, on the second Christmas night, after your marriage, after he had promised to come home, he didn't come until about four o'clock in the morning?
  A.--Yes, sir.
  Q.--What did he say when he came in?
  A.--Well, he said he had been detained; that he had met some people and had been talking with them.
  Q.--Did you afterward ascertain where he had been?
  A.--He had had dinner with a lady and gentleman at a little cafe on Fifth street.  I don't know where he had gone.  I think afterwards he told me he had been talking business.**

**Charlie spent this Christmas with Florence Deshon. In a letter to her on again, off again lover, Max Eastman (who was also a close friend of Charlie's), Florence wrote, "I dined with Charlie on Christmas Eve, and he gave me a Christmas present."2 The two dined alone in Charlie's room at the Los Angeles Athletic Club. The gift was a set of monogrammed, hand-embroidered handkerchiefs.3

2 Max Eastman, Love & Revolution, 1964
3 Joyce Milton, Tramp, 1998 (I'll add that Milton gives no source material for this information)