FILM CHRONICLE
387
and man of business, Verdoux the cracker-barrel philosopher, Verdoux
the lonely romantic; then Chaplin himself, who believes in Verdoux
even if he also believes in the irony that denies him; then we in the
audience, who sit watching Chaplin and somehow believing everything
at once; finally, the capitalist world again, which produced Verdoux,
murderer, philosopher, and all. The final word, canceling all others,
is in the movie's last shot: Verdoux is a very small figure as he walks
to the guillotine, limping, overshadowed by his guards.
The nearest approach to solidity and directness is in the treatment
of Verdoux's victims and intended victims. These women are not simple
characters, but they are simpler than Verdoux, if only because he mani–
pulates them, and the important facts about them are clear and unam–
biguous: they are stupid and unhappy, in varying degrees, and they
want glamor and love. Since their dramatic function does not require
them to be active, their qualities remain constant; they are not touched
by the irony that envelops everything else-indeed, in the case of
the
Martha Raye character, Annabella, one cannot even conceive of the
possibility of irony: she is too uncompromising a statement of the value
of life. The women are stationary points, and the argument, so to speak,
rages around them: they naturally have no idea that anything is at
st:ake; it is only for Verdoux that the situation is complicated.
Chaplin does wonderful things with these women. Even Thelma,
whom we never see except as a billow of black smoke pouring from an
incinerator, is made clear to us: when we have seen her family, we know
all we need to know. In the scenes with Lydia, the only woman actually
murdered during the time covered by the movie, the menace of Verdoux's
character, his immense coldness, is at its height. Lydia is an old and
bitter woman, and we can see in her face and her posture the whole
long unhappiness of her life, while Verdoux thinks only of her money,
moving around like a cat as he makes his soft and gentlemanly speeches
("Life can so easily degenerate into something sordid and vulgar. Let
us try to keep it beautiful and dignified") and glancing occasionally at
the clock to see whether there is still time to win her over before the
bank closes. Later, when it is time to go
to
bed, Verdoux flexes his fingers
a little as he gets up to follow her, and they walk upstairs, Lydia nagging
at hiin-did you lock the door? did you close the window?-and Verdoux
answering softly, patiently: yes, dear, yes dear; then she goes into the
bedroom and he stops for a moment in the hall, looking out at the moon
and quietly speaking some lines of poetry that occur to him; and then
he follows her, to carry out his necessary and melancholy task.
With Madame Grosnay, the wealthy widow whom he pursues at
various times throughout the movie, Verdoux is at his most charming–
in this case, the question of murder is still in the future. And it is here
that Verdoux is most like the Tramp-a man of taste and sensibility
