Modern Times, by one of those bewildering dispensations of the film industry, has taken so many months to reach Manchester that nobody would dare to call it ╥Charlie Chaplin╒s new film.╙ For all we know they may at this very moment be showing one of later date in London, the Isle of Man, Treorchy, or Ardnamurchan. However, here it is at the Gaumont at last, and it is so good that we are compelled to let bygones be bygones.
In Modern Times Chaplin proves again what the whole world already acknowledges╤that he is the greatest artist of the silent screen as apart from the half-theatrical talking screen, the most eloquent master of mime, and the simplest, most essential, and most touching of comedians. Unless recent impressions have unbalanced the judgment this would certainly appear to be one of his very best films. Not only has Chaplin set to work on new ideas (though they are borrowed from Clair), but he has evolved new comic ╥business╙ and skilfully prepared for revivals of old tricks so that they do not seem mere uninspired repetition. He has restrained the fondness for pathetic effects, which so overbalanced City Lights, leaving only a legitimate invitation to sympathy for the undeliberating, ╥take-the-world-as-you-find-it,╙ yet curiously impersonal emblem of humanity which he presents. Watching Modern Times one is compelled to marvel again at the miraculous soundness of taste which has led people of so many countries to take Chaplin to their hearts. His reaction to life has a humble, saintly, and therefore triumphant quality.
What Chaplin has borrowed from Clair ╤ it was fitting that he should reborrow from such a disciple ╤ is the idea of satirising mass production and the treadmill of industry, a brief ╥Rugby match╙ with a roast duck, and some hints on the synchronising of film and music. The film opens in a factory of nightmarish efficiency where the ╥boss╙ observes all from his desk by means of television and Charlie is hard at work tightening screws on a moving belt. This is a mine of rich humour, and even when he becomes unhinged in mind the treatment is not distasteful. After that he is thrice in and out of gaol for deliriously funny reasons. His comic adventures are too many to relate, but it may be said that they culminate in a cafÄ of ╥singing waiters╙ where, after a wealth of comic ╥business╙ with the tray, he shows his disdain for articulate speech by singing a vividly explicit song in gibberish. There are few feats of virtuosity better than his miming as he rehearses the song and as he performs a short introductory dance. Throughout, his facial expressions and bodily gestures make speech and even the delightfully worded sub-titles unnecessary. The writer, having now seen the film three times, declares that they still remain absorbing and full of meaning.
It will no doubt be objected that the sequence of the big machine becomes tedious, and that in construction the film is somewhat ungainly. Such critics are at liberty to count up the faults, if it gives them pleasure, but are certainly pursuing an unfruitful occupation in enumerating these rather than the excellences. The whole film bears the Chaplin stamp, particularly in the exaggerated character of the gesture and the reliance on miming. Paulette Goddard as the gamin has taken kindly to his style. She seems fresh and different from all other screen women. In the small parts the acting is all of the same whole. One of the reasons why Chaplin is a great artist is that he is not shackled by the bonds of realism which still limit such diverse imaginative work as literature, the stage, and the screen. He has created his own ideal image of the world, or, rather, of human nature.
