If it is difficult to imagine
Charlie Chaplin in any role other than that of the comic and the downtrodden,
then Monsieur Verdoux stands apart as the defiant exception. Chaplin was
around 50 years when he made his first sound film, The Great Dictator,
in which he lampooned for us an otherwise controversial theme: Nazism.
Nearly
a decade later, an idea for a story was presented to him, based on a real-life
Frenchman who had made a living off the wealth of various widows would first
court and then murder. Hardly stuff for a man who could poke fun at Adolf
Hitler without openly delving into the horrors of genocide.
But Chaplin took on the story
nonetheless, though on one condition: that he direct it. The finished product
was Monsieur Verdoux, which was instantly recognised, then reviled, as a
comedic take on an otherwise horrendous theme – murder then was hardly a
subject of humour, and this black comedy to many seemed more unforgivable than
Chaplin’s take on Nazism. Eventually it was a disappointment at the box-office:
and, outside France and a handful of other countries, it was negatively
reviewed by critics.
But like his next film, Limelight,
it proved what a comic genius could do if he was allowed access to more serious
themes. And like a child gaping open-mouthed outside at a magnificent cake in a
shop display, Chaplin only slightly cropped up the dark overtones of the story
into his film. Not for one moment, except in brief snatches, does he depict the
gruesome in the plot: on the contrary, he playfully dabbles in both comedy and
the macabre, while his comic absurdity is apparent in even the most
cold-blooded and tensed up sequences.
The story was admittedly one
of a kind for me. Henri Verdoux is at the outset a contented middle-class
businessman who enjoys luxury without overdoing it: unlike the actual murderer
on which he was based he is no playboy prodigal. At the beginning of the film
we are told that a well-to-do woman has mysteriously disappeared – and that her
husband is none other than Verdoux. 15 minutes later and we know not only her
fate, but also the fate of nearly every other woman he comes into contact with.
To keep up his modest
lifestyle, he has to resort continuously with what he later calls his “other
means” of business, news of which never comes to the notice of his crippled
wife (who is living, away from this all, in a large mansion-like house).
Surreptitiously but methodically he carries on with his double-edged work (his
charm works on every woman, even, one assumes, at the moment of their deaths!)
as he manages to evade the police.
But in the end fate catches
up with him when, while keeping up a flirtatious romance with a boisterous
loudmouth, he decides to marry an old widow. The depression and the war comes
and goes, and finally the story, while building up to a possible reconciliation
between him and a girl he once saved from the streets, actually ends on a
plaintive, sombre note.
Monsieur Verdoux demands our
interest from the start not owing to any special dénouements that Chaplin shows
off for us, but rather to his ability at maintaining comic absurdity even in
the darkest moments, the peak of which, undoubtedly, is the scene of him
entering the room of one of his lovers before, off-screen, he murders her – all
under an ominous moonlit sky.
As an example of this
there is a sequence where he tries to kill a spinster aboard a
boat. Every time he gets up to lasso her neck, she turns around only to see him
twitching, grinning, and chuckling like an idiot (with mannerisms not unlike
those of the silent era Chaplin). When he finally does get the lasso around
that neck – ostensibly to demonstrate how best to catch fish – a yodeller
disturbs their revelry, and the two of them mutually look with disgust at the off-screen
bunch of partygoers who observe them: we watch with suppressed guffaws as he then
falls off the boat when the woman inadvertently rocks it.
But the comic quality of the film take up a more serious note towards the end. Like the ending of The
Great Dictator, the war is brought up in Chaplin’s final speech. He calls
himself an “amateur” in comparison to the various methods of mass killing
scientifically tested out by governments: it is only when one lone individual
goes on a killing spree that the law sanctions punishment. We never once beg to
differ.
Ultimately our feelings
towards him are summed up by the girl he once saved, who is present at his
trial. We see her crying, but we are left wondering: are those tears of pity
for Verdoux or his victims? In the end some may believe that they are for him,
others for them. But whatever belief you may have, one thing you cannot deny –
that no man was more able to depict a “Monsieur Verdoux” with both grimness and
compassion than Charlie Chaplin.
Written for: Ceylon Today ESCAPE, March 23 2014
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