An Isadore Bernstein Production.
Written by Isadore Bernstein.
Filmed at Bernstein Studios.
Isadore Bernstein talks of a possible collaboration with Chaplin.
He should have known better. He plays a book salesman who becomes convinced that he is the Emperor Napoleon. He plays a deluded individual.
There is one preview at the Hippodrome. He sees himself on the screen at last. He sees Mae. Cigars are lit. Toasts are made.
It is the only showing of the picture.
It is the first and last comedy in his series.
Someone tells him that Chaplin was sitting at the back of the Hippodrome for the screening. It may be a lie, because there is no sign of Chaplin afterward. He hopes that it is a lie, because if Chaplin departed without exchanging a greeting it can only be for one of two reasons: either Chaplin saw the picture and viewed his old understudy as competition, and Chaplin dislikes competition; or the picture was so bad – and he so bad in it – that Chaplin wished only to spare him the shame of an encounter.
But Chaplin reappears. Chaplin invites him to dinner. Chaplin offers him work, because Chaplin says that he is better than this, better than Isadore Bernstein Productions.
And he believes Chaplin, because Chaplin is Chaplin.
But the work never materializes.
Because Chaplin is Chaplin.
Isadore Bernstein blinks at him through round spectacles and asks for a donation toward the building of the Temple Israel on Ivar Street. He tells Isadore Bernstein that he is not Jewish. Isadore Bernstein replies that it does not matter.
– You could be Jewish. You could be Jewish and just not know it. You don’t have to give the full amount. Give half. A quarter.
He has money, but not enough of it. He is back where he began, with ‘The Nutty Burglars’ and ‘Raffles the Dentist’, town after town, stage after stage, in boarding houses that reek of grease and mildew, drinking whisky in kitchens by candlelight, drinking with men who have failed and men who have yet to fail. He wishes that he had never met Isadore Bernstein. He regrets ever seeing his own face on the screen.
Because he wants this now.
He wants it more than ever.
He lies in Mae’s arms. Beyond the walls, beyond the light, someone cries a woman’s name.
You were good, Mae tells him, just as she has told him every night for the last month.
But if he were good, then the picture would be good. If the picture were good, then the picture would be released, but the picture will not be released, and therefore it must not be good. He cannot get Isadore Bernstein on the telephone. Isadore Bernstein, he suspects, may be off doing God’s work, recruiting Jews at a discount.
There will be another chance, Mae tells him, just as she has told him every night for the last month.
He looks in Mae’s dark eyes, and cannot see himself reflected. He licks at Mae’s nipple with the tip of his tongue so that he may be sure she is real, and he is real. He kisses Mae’s pale, supple flesh.
Between them, he and Mae have come up with a new identity for him, and a surname they will both share.
He adds the initials to their suitcases.
S.L. and M.L.
Like the tree, says Mae. Like the victory wreath.
Mae shifts position. She gazes down at him, and runs her hands through his hair. She moves on him, and he in her.
Within the walls, within the light, he cries her name.
22
At the Oceana Apartments, he follows a daily routine. He has always sought stability. He thrives on the habitual, on control, even as his comedy relied on its usurpation.
Ida gets up first. Ida goes to bed late – she likes to watch her shows – but still she rises earlier than he. He requires a test each morning for his diabetes, and this task falls to Ida. He breakfasts on toast and tea, or coffee if the mood strikes him. Lois, his daughter, keeps him supplied with jellies from the Farmers Market. He could have a different flavor every day of the week, if he chose.
Such small pleasures, such simple delights.
When he is done with breakfast, he ventures to the lobby to pick up his mail. He moves slowly. His stroke has left him with a limp, and he is hugely self-conscious about its effects. Only here, in the safety of the Oceana Apartments, where his neighbors are familiar with his ways, is he comfortable to be seen in decline.
There is always mail. Mostly it is a handful of letters, but sometimes it comes in sacks, and he tips the doorman to help him carry them up to his desk. And then he sits, for hour upon hour, and composes his replies. A blood vessel has burst in his left eye. It makes it difficult for him to read books, but he can cope with letters easily enough, and the stories in the trade papers. He once calculated how much he spends on stamps every week, and it is an exercise he chooses not to repeat; there are some expenses it is better to ignore. He pauses only to take telephone calls – from friends, from strangers, and always, always from his lawyer, Ben Shipman, who continues to look after his business affairs, and ensures he never has so much money that he is in danger of becoming a playboy.
He stops for lunch. If he is feeling strong enough, he and Ida go out to eat at Madame Wu’s, or The Fox & Hounds; otherwise, they order in. He naps. He looks out upon the ocean. He watches television. He plays canasta with Ida and her friends, or poker with Buster Keaton.
He goes to bed.
He repeats the cycle.
This is how he spends the days, the days without Babe.
23
J. Warren Kerrigan: Jack to his friends. The Handsomest Man in Pictures: broad-shouldered, soft-eyed. They have passed each other on the circuit, but now Jack Kerrigan has left vaudeville behind. Jack Kerrigan is a big name at Universal, starring opposite Louise Lester in the Calamity Anne pictures, although the whispers suggest that the westerns have been miscast, and Jack Kerrigan has missed his calling as Calamity Anne.
Jack Kerrigan is a notorious fairy. Jack Kerrigan lives with his mother and his lover, James Vincent, in a house in Balboa Beach. Jack Kerrigan also believes in his own status as an artist, which is his downfall. On May 10th, 1917, the Denver Times asks Jack Kerrigan if Jack Kerrigan is planning to sign up and fight for his country. This is the answer that Jack Kerrigan gives to the Denver Times:
I think that first they should take the great mass of men who aren’t good for anything else, or are only good for the lower grades of work. Actors, musicians, great writers, artists of every kind – isn’t it a pity when people are sacrificed who are capable of such things, of adding beauty to the world?
Jack Kerrigan is fucked.