He

  Chaplin has the strings of a violin reversed so Chaplin can play it left-handed.

  Chaplin watches him practice and rehearse in their shared rooms, then steals his gags.

  Chaplin carries a gun, and patrols the grounds of his home hunting for men who might seek to sleep with his child bride.

  Chaplin promises him work, and reneges on that promise.

  Chaplin’s hair turns white in the 1920s.

  Chaplin bears the name of a man who was not his father.

  Chaplin’s mother is a prostitute.

  Chaplin endures squalor and deprivation.

  Chaplin is abandoned.

  Chaplin is an exile.

  Chaplin marries a woman thirty-six years his junior.

  Chaplin is the greatest comedian he has ever seen, and the greatest he will ever see.

  Chaplin is a monster.

  32

  And Babe?

  Babe deals with his own vexations: twenty-six pictures as a stooge for Jimmy Aubrey, who never likes a frame of film that does not feature Jimmy Aubrey, although Babe does not hold a grudge, and will later put in a word for Jimmy Aubrey when Jimmy Aubrey needs work. They both will: Jimmy Aubrey is from Lancashire, just as he is, and serves time with Fred Karno, just as he does, and is a former understudy to Chaplin, just as he is, and works on pictures with Chaplin, just—

  Never mind.

  And Jimmy Aubrey also serves Larry Semon, but lasts longer than three pictures.

  Because I didn’t want his laughs, Jimmy Aubrey tells him.

  —I didn’t want his laughs, either. I just wanted my own.

  —Well, with Larry Semon there weren’t enough laughs for two. There weren’t that many laughs in the whole wide world.

  He should be more like Jimmy Aubrey. He should remain silent and cash the checks, but he doesn’t have Jimmy Aubrey’s patience, and he doesn’t have Jimmy Aubrey’s common sense.

  And he desires it all too much.

  It could be that he is more like Chaplin than he wishes to believe.

  33

  At the Oceana Apartments he dreams alternate histories. He compiles indices of possibilities.

  He might have been less ambitious.

  He might have been less foolish.

  He might have lived a happier life.

  But not in this business and not in this town.

  So each day he wakes.

  Each day he remembers.

  And each day Babe is taken from him.

  Over, and over, and over again.

  34

  Back to the circuit. Back to vaudeville.

  It is November 1918. It is the Majestic in Springfield, Illinois. It is the act known as “No Mother to Guide Them,” the staleness of it catching in his throat, each line a thorn to be spat out. Back in vaudeville, back in drag. Full circle: “No Mother to Guide Them” first brought him to the attention of Adolph Ramish, who introduced him to Isadore Bernstein for Nuts in May, but Nuts in May failed, just as every one of his subsequent pictures has failed. He is trapped in a perpetual cycle, one in which he is forced always to return to vaudeville to begin again, always in drag, always with “No Mother to Guide Them,” always with Adolph Ramish appearing afterward in the dressing room, always with Nuts in May, always with Isadore Bernstein, always with Carl Laemmle, always with Hal Roach, always with Larry Semon, always back to the Majestic.

  Always older.

  Michigan, Indiana, Iowa.

  Always cold. Always tired.

  Nebraska, Minnesota, Wisconsin.

  Always with Mae.

  The bounce, she says. You came in too hard.

  A simple piece of business: she one way, he the other. They meet, they bounce. The Audience laughs.

  —Did I?

  —You know you did. You almost knocked me on my ass.

  —I’m sorry.

  —Did you take a drink before tonight’s show?

  —What?

  —It’s a simple question. Did you drink before tonight’s show?

  —No.

  —You’re lying.

  —I’m not lying.

  —That bounce hurt.

  —It wasn’t deliberate.

  —I don’t care. You nearly put my tits through my back.

  —Mae, people can hear.

  —Let them hear. What are you doing?

  —Now I’m having a drink.

  —Jesus.

  —Mae.

  —What?

  —Mae. Don’t.

  He drinks. He does not drink to excess, but he drinks. His problem is that he has no tolerance for it. He needs it, or thinks he does, but it does not take much to dull him, to make him numb. He does not tell Mae, but he believes that Hal Roach learned of his drinking, and this is one of the reasons why Hal Roach sent him on his way.

  The other reason, he has heard, is Mae. Hal Roach runs a family company. Hal Roach prizes discretion.

  He and Mae are not discreet.

  He loves Mae, but Mae drives him crazy. He cannot function without her, but he can no longer function with her unless he first has a drink or two to steady his nerves. He is loyal to her, and she to him, but he is more loyal to himself, and she to herself. Mae believes that she could yet be a leading lady. If he becomes a success, Mae will be a success with him: as on the stage, so on the screen, or thus Mae reasons. But Mae is not good enough, and he cannot bring himself to tell her this, just as he could not make himself pitch her name for starring roles when he acted for Carl Laemmle and Hal Roach and Larry Semon. Mae is not a lead—he knows it, and the studios know it, but Mae does not, and so it remains unspoken—and when he drops down a rung to take character parts with Larry Semon, Mae does not descend with him. Character parts are beneath her, and Mae believes they should be beneath him too. They will not make him a star, and so they will not make her a star either.

  But stars do not undress in freezing Wisconsin dressing rooms, and warm themselves with shared bottles of cheap liquor, and listen to midgets squabble and blackface comics complain about their billing. He is not a star, and Mae is not a star, because he has failed them both.

  Mae returns to their lodgings alone. He remains where he is, where he will always be: in the theater. A copy of Variety has been smuggled into the dressing room. In a fit of rage over some imagined slight, Alexander Pantages, King Greek himself, has banned it from every venue on his circuit. Any performer found with a copy will be fired. But Variety is their lifeblood. It contains succor for those who dream of greater success but thrive on the failure of others—in other words, every performer ever born. Variety contains hope.

  Variety also contains mortality, and in death lies opportunity.

  More theaters are reopening after the recent influenza epidemic, although most of the West Coast circuit remains closed, and some vaudevillians there have sought work in shipyards to make ends meet. Many others have died, including performers, and thus vacancies will arise.

  HARRY THORNTON DEAD.

  London, Oct. 30.

  Harry Thornton, of Thornton and Delilah, is dead of influenza, aged 35.

  Thornton once won a $1,000 prize for

  playing the piano continuously for 22 hours.

  London. No good to him, no good to anyone here. Even if they could play the piano continuously for twenty-two hours.

  RENE ROME DIES.

  London, Oct. 30.

  Rene Rome, entertainer, wife of Fred. Rome, the author-comedian, is dead.

  London again. Fred. Rome writes skits and pantomimes. They are popular with amateurs, although he has never used them in his acts.

  Now, here: the guts of it.

  William C. Clark, age 46, recently arrived from Australia, died Oct. 28 at the Hotel Marion. New York, of influenza, the same day he expected to appear in a new vaudeville playlet with his wife and daughter.

  Burrell Barbaretto died Oct. 27 from influenza at the home of a friend at 433 St. Nicholas Avenue. His home was in Larchmont. Mr. Barbaretto was born in For
t Wayne, Ind., 41 years ago, and made his first professional appearance in 1898 with Eddie Foy and Marie Dressier in “Hotel Topsy Turvy.” He attained considerable popularity as a juvenile and has been prominent in many Broadway productions, among others being “Jumping Jupiter” and “High Jinks.” At the time of his death he was about to join the number one “Oh Boy” company on the road, playing the leading juvenile role. Funeral services were held in Campbell’s Funeral Church Oct. 29, the body being sent from there to Fort Wayne for burial.

  Margorie De Vere, chorus girl, age 19, born in England, died Oct. 26 of pneumonia at the Metropolitan Hospital, New York. She came to this country three years ago. Rose Gibson, another chorus girl, of 113 West 84th street, who had but slightly known the deceased, attended to all the funeral arrangements, after having collected the necessary amount to defray expenses.

  Dr. Howe, a brother-in-law of Bart McHugh, died of influenza Oct. 26. Mr. McHugh, who also lost a sister-in-law last week, was informed while in New York Tuesday his sister was dying of the disease. He is perhaps hardest hit of any agent in vaudeville. The deaths in his family leave in his care seven children, he having promised the parents to take care of them. Four professionals whom he represented died of influenza in Philadelphia on the same day.

  The Oh Boy company will be taking on an understudy, at least. There is no shortage of chorus girls to replace Margorie De Vere. Bart McHugh can expect calls from those seeking to comfort him in his grief by offering their brilliance as a means of replenishing his depleted list.

  The bottle is passed around. He accepts another drink. He reads on. He pauses.

  Margaret Devere died in New York Oct. 24 of pneumonia. The deceased had been in pictures.

  Annette Sellos died Oct. 23 at the Lutheran Hospital, New York, from pneumonia, following influenza. The deceased was formerly in pictures.

  The deceased had been in pictures.

  Formerly in pictures.

  He puts down the glass. He folds the paper, and passes it to one of the blackface comics.

  —Where are you going?

  —To bed.

  —Why?

  —Because I’m afraid of what might happen if I stay.

  Hey, comes the reply, if you’re here, it’s already happened.

  Yes, he thinks.

  Yes, he despairs.

  Yes, it has.

  35

  At the Oceana Apartments, he counts the years with Mae.

  Six? Eight? Which is it?

  Eight, he decides. Give or take.

  How many of them were happy?

  Most. Some. He knew it could not end well, not with a husband in the wings, and a son, and a common-law bed, but Mae held on to the fantasy for as long as she could. It was all Mae had.

  Still, there were good times, happy years, and the conclusion, when it came, would not be entirely hateful, not at first.

  And Babe?

  Well, Babe had fewer happy years.

  36

  Babe does not like to talk about the dissolution of his first marriage. How much of what was written can be true, Babe asks, when even the spelling of his ex-wife’s name is open to dispute?

  Babe and Madelyn had a dog, Babe Junior, and a Capuchin monkey, Babe the Third, in lieu of children.

  It was not a marriage, Babe tells him. It was a zoo.

  He is aware of something of the history, but mostly through whispers, and what he read in the gossip columns before he met Babe, when he could still take some small pleasure in another man’s miseries, if only because they diminished his own.

  Babe likes women.

  And women like Babe.

  Madelyn knows this, or guesses it. She can smell them on Babe, their sweat mingling with her husband’s, corrupting his scent. Perhaps it might have been different had she and Babe stayed in Georgia, but probably not. Babe would have tired of her eventually: tired of her plainness, and the toll taken by the years, particularly as the gap in their ages began to tell. But fewer opportunities would have arisen in Georgia for Babe to stray. In Georgia, Babe would have been just another fat fool running a theater.

  And she does love Babe, just as Babe once loved her, which makes the humiliation so much worse.

  The disintegration of the marriage is a horror show, a public spectacle. A separation agreement collapses because Babe falls behind in his weekly maintenance payments of $30, and then ceases to pay anything at all. Madelyn considers filing for divorce, but early in 1920 the health of her father, Louis, deteriorates. Babe, she claims, urges her to travel to Atlanta to be with Louis at the last. Babe describes the divorce suit as a nonsense, and intimates—or so Madelyn believes—that a reconciliation may be possible.

  Madelyn arrives in Atlanta in time to bury her father, and Babe sends a telegram instructing her not to return to Los Angeles.

  I WILL NOT RECEIVE YOU AS MY WIFE.

  But Madelyn does return, and Babe initiates a divorce suit. Babe alleges verbal abuse. Babe alleges physical assault. Babe alleges trickery into marriage through Madelyn’s false claims of pregnancy. Babe claims not yet to have reached his majority when Madelyn inveigled him into their union.

  Babe lies, or permits his lawyers to lie for him. Perhaps Madelyn does the same, but still, he does not like to think of Babe as a liar. Together, Babe and Madelyn put to the torch any memories of happiness they might once have enjoyed, and sow the seeds of troubles to come.

  Babe’s allegations prevail. To compound Madelyn’s abasement, a restraining order is obtained against her, because Madelyn is not a star. Madelyn is just a former piano player and singer. Babe Hardy is in pictures, and must be protected.

  And waiting in the wings (but how long has she been waiting? This, too, is one of Babe’s secrets) is Myrtle Reeves, soon to be the second Mrs. Oliver N. Hardy. Babe is rooming with Myrtle and her sister. Everything is above board. Nothing to see here.

  Madelyn is no fool. The name Myrtle Reeves is already on her lips, and passes in a whisper to the ears of her lawyer. Madelyn counter-sues, and is granted an interlocutory decree.

  A sham, Babe later tells him, but Babe will not meet his eyes.

  Madelyn gets her $30 a week, but does not ask for alimony. This, he thinks, says much about her.

  He does not inquire who got to keep the dog and the Capuchin monkey.

  One year later, with the ink still wet on the final decree, there is another wedding, and another press cutting:

  Vitagraph, safeguarding its investment in Babe, does its job.

  Babe and Myrtle are childhood sweethearts back in Atlanta.

  Babe sends Myrtle her first Valentine when she is ten years old (and Babe is fifteen, if this is to be believed).

  Babe and Myrtle wed after Babe has paid court to her “for some time.”

  This, at least, is true.

  Of Madelyn, there is no mention. She has been bought off so that Babe may rest easy in the arms of his new bride, his life story rewritten. Now Babe will never have to think of Madelyn again.

  If Babe believes this, Babe is a fool.

  37

  Broncho Billy Anderson is a handsome man with a name to match. The name is not his own, but in Hollywood Broncho Billy Anderson is not unique in this regard. Broncho Billy Anderson’s reputation rests on westerns, and Broncho Billy Anderson is a better cowboy name than Max Aronson. The West may have enjoyed its share of Jewish cowboys, but no one has yet figured out how to make money from them.

  Broncho Billy Anderson plays not one, not two, but three roles in Edwin Porter’s The Great Train Robbery, the first real western. After that, Broncho Billy Anderson becomes a western star, the first motion picture cowboy. As a director, Broncho Billy Anderson also films the first pie-in-the-face gag. Broncho Billy Anderson is a man of many firsts.

  Broncho Billy Anderson makes hundreds of pictures, taking his crew on the Western Pacific Railroad through Niles Canyon week after week. Acting, directing, editing.

  Broncho Billy’s Last Spree.

&nbs
p; Broncho Billy’s Christmas Dinner.

  Broncho Billy’s Adventure.

  Broncho Billy and the Schoolmistress.

  Broncho Billy’s Pal.

  Broncho Billy’s Cowardly Brother.

  Broncho Billy for Sheriff.

  In 1915 alone, Broncho Billy Anderson releases more than thirty Broncho Billy westerns. After a while, even Broncho Billy Anderson gets tired of Broncho Billy, so Broncho Billy Anderson departs for New York to become a theater impresario. Unfortunately, Broncho Billy Anderson buys the Longacre Theater. The Longacre Theater is cursed because the man who built it, Harry Frazee, also owns the Boston Red Sox. Harry Frazee is responsible for selling Babe Ruth’s contract to the Yankees, so his theater shares the Curse of the Bambino.

  Broncho Billy Anderson gives up, and returns to California to produce motion pictures.

  In later years, at the Oceana Apartments, he will be asked about the many people who have helped him along the way. Whenever he can, he gives credit to Broncho Billy Anderson, because Broncho Billy Anderson performs two great favors for him, two acts that change his life forever.

  The first is that Broncho Billy Anderson believes in him.

  The second is that Broncho Billy Anderson introduces him to Babe.

  38

  At the Oceana Apartments, he lives in a three-room box. A television sits in the corner of the living room, and on it stands his honorary Oscar. He receives it in 1961 for his “creative pioneering in the field of comedy.” Danny Kaye presents the award.

  By then, Babe has been dead for four years.

  He does not attend the ceremony. He pleads illness, although this is only partly true. He cannot take to the stage without Babe.

  On the wall by his desk is a framed photograph of Babe and him together. It is one of his favorites. Along with the Oscar, it is the only indication that he has ever been in show business.