THE CHAMPION (1915)

Though there were so many brilliant comics in the early days of cinema, there are probably none as immediately recognisable as Charlie Chaplin. Whether you’ve seen his films or not, you’ll certainly be able to identify him. That is unless there’s a “Charlie Chaplin lookalike” competition, in which case you may be hard-pressed—the world-renowned movie star once entered such a contest incognito (as himself, paradoxically), where he placed third.

While the titan of cinema is now best remembered for his films like The Great Dictator (1940)—a film as timely as ever—The Kid (1921), and City Lights (1931), Chaplin had been an industrious and pioneering force for decades prior. In 1914 alone, he starred in some 36 short films, 20 of which he wrote and directed himself. The following year he wrote, directed, and starred in 15 films (perhaps the man was getting a touch lazy). One of these early shorts was a film called The Champion, which serves as a perfect example of the filmmaking formula that made him famous.

The myriad reasons behind Chaplin’s success can be found in The Champion, despite its relatively low quality when compared to his greater cinematic achievements. One explanation for Chaplin’s prolificacy during his early years (he made roughly 72 short films in a time frame of only nine years) is the wonderful simplicity of these projects: they’re not difficult to follow, easy to digest, and more often than not, resoundingly heartwarming. While later films would intricately tackle more profound themes and complex sociopolitical issues, the antecedents of his straightforward narrative style can be found in shorts like The Champion.

Chaplin once famously remarked: “All I need to make a comedy is a park, a policeman, and a pretty girl.” It’s this shrewd understanding of what makes an entertaining story that made Chaplin a towering force in the early days of cinema. If you look at any of his films, you’ll find this exact recipe in varying forms. There’s the prominent setting (be it the factory, boxing ring, or political office), an easily recognisable manifestation of conflict (whether it’s a cop or a bully, they almost always represent unjust persecution), and an immediately comprehensible, tangible object that our hero works towards (winning the heart of his beloved is frequently the Tramp’s intrinsic motivation).

This narrative simplicity often works wonders. Much like in Keaton’s The General (1926), no matter what crazy hijinks ensue, and no matter how grand the stunt, the Great Stone Face was always striving to earn his sweetheart’s affection. In The Champion, regardless of how long the digression or gag is, we always have the understanding that The Tramp is working to charm his would-be lover, and it works as a suitable anchor in what would otherwise be a hectic and diffuse story.

However, there are times when the gags feel too average and uninventive. Indeed, when compared to the mesmerising creativity present in Keaton’s Sherlock Jr. (1924) and Steamboat Bill, Jr. (1928), it feels as though there’s little to commend in Chaplin’s The Champion, either in terms of its humour or cinematic innovation. The primary gag revolves around Chaplin slapping people in the face (either intentionally or by accident, as he’s prone to swinging, unpredictable gesticulations) with a boxing glove that’s been stuffed with a horseshoe. After a few dozen times, this particular piece of slapstick fails to garner even a smirk, let alone a knee slap.

Moreover, if it’s not a loaded glove that’s sending side characters into a flailing stupor, or simply prostrate as they’re rendered unconscious, it’s another heavy object that bludgeons them. For a couple of minutes, a comically large dumbbell—the kind used by classic bodybuilders and strongmen—is carelessly wielded by Chaplin, who clobbers anyone in his general vicinity. Those that surround him are rather inept at dodging the spinning weight (in a manner that desperately requires the suspension of disbelief), and so proceed to be battered for minutes at a time. Meanwhile, Chaplin is completely unaware of the havoc he’s causing.

Many of these gags become tiresome purely because they’re entirely predictable. These sequences lack the anticipation one might feel when watching a sequence from Modern Times (1936), where you can never be sure how a gag will develop. Here, you can be fairly sure of the beginning, middle, and ending of a sequence, and the result is a collection of run-of-the-mill slapstick that feels stale far before the gag concludes. Unfortunately, they cease to contain even the promise of humour.

Having said this, there are plenty of comics (both contemporary and from the early years of Hollywood) that would have done a far worse job with the material. Much like how Oliver Hardy inexplicably made running one of the funniest visual gags in classic cinema, Chaplin’s walk as The Tramp is pretty amusing; somewhere between a penguin’s waddle and a drunk’s swaying stagger, it’s been imitated by thousands but never done with the same idiosyncratic nonchalance.

And if nothing else, when the slapstick isn’t funny, it’s at least impressive: how these performers literally throw themselves to the floor is cause for concern, and you’re often left wondering how no one was injured during the production. Chaplin looks like he lands on his head more than once, while a number of his supporting acts dive for the floor so quickly that you’re forced to question if there is any technique to the fall, or if it’s simply a matter of hurling oneself to the ground as fast as is humanly possible.

Furthermore, it’s undeniable that a film like The Champion had a massive influence on silent comics of the day, as well as filmmakers in the 21st-century. Mike Cheslik’s incredibly funny Hundreds of Beavers (2022) has undoubtedly taken inspiration from all of silent cinema, but there’s a definite adulation of Chaplin present in his instant classic. Chaplin’s contemporaries, such as Buster Keaton, praised Chaplin as being the greatest silent comedian of all time.

Occasionally, it can be difficult to gauge the merit of a film so old (The Champion celebrates its 110th anniversary this month), particularly when a short such as this one isn’t as widely renowned as the auteur’s greater achievements. When one takes into consideration that this was only one film of 63 made over four years, it’s no real surprise that not every gag is infused with originality or gut-busting humour; working on the kind of schedule that Chaplin was, sometimes getting punched in the face four or five times over would have to cut it.

With this in mind, it’s terrific that Chaplin achieved such creative autonomy when he founded United Artists, avoiding the shackles of major studios at the time. As if to confirm how disastrous a contrary move would have been, Keaton’s decision to sign a multi-year deal with MGM completely ruined his career. Chaplin was profoundly dismayed by this, and it’s easy to see why. Because when you compare the relative mediocrity of The Champion against the genius of his later endeavours, you’re made to consider how one of cinema’s greatest and most original contributors would have been forced to create subpar, impersonal projects for his entire career, and that’s truly quite a frightening thought.

USA | 1915 | 33 MINUTES | 1.33: 1 | BLACK & WHITE | SILENT

Cast & Crew

writer & director: Charlie Chaplin.
starring: Charlie Chaplin, Edna Purviance, Ernest Van Pelt, Robert Shields, Lloyd Bacon, Leo White, Carl Stockdale, Billy Armstrong, Paddy McGuire, Bud Jamison & Ben Turpin.