#16 — The Great Dictator (Charlie Chaplin, 1940)

There are several different stories that explain, at least in part, the genesis of The Great Dictator, but it surely must have started with the mustache. How bizarre to be Charlie Chaplin, sporter of a distinctive sprout of facial hair, an inky little dust broom right under the nose, watching newsreel footage of a hateful lunatic across the ocean who’s taken the same approach to his daily shaving regimen. Supposedly Chaplin took further inspiration from a viewing of Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will (that he cackled through, his own skill as a filmmaker helping him to see through the utterly transparent propagandist manipulations) and tales he heard from acquaintances experiencing life under the swelling, oppressive Nazi regime. Chaplin addressed the global threat with the most formidable tool he had: his keen talent as a filmmaker. The Great Dictator is a genius satire. That it was released over a year before the United States deemed to necessary to enter into the Second World War might not make it more bold, but it surely instills a level of prescience upon it. Chaplin was often ahead of his peers when it came to his cinematic storytelling. In this instance, he outpaced them in moral consciousness.

Chaplin plays two roles: Adenoid Hynkel, the dictator of a country called Tomainia, and a man identified only as “A Jewish Barber,” who recovers from an old war injury to discover his homeland has become an oppressive society with a special animosity for people of his heritage. The barber is a kindred soul to Chaplin’s famed the Little Tramp character, with a gentle spirit and an endearing innocence. While Chaplin could occasional lean too hard on sentiment, in this instance the contrast between the character’s sweet beginning heightens the urgency as he discovers the pain and danger of the repressive regime and builds up the inner wherewithal to engage in wholly non-instinctual rebellion. Similarly, the lampooning taking place with Hynkel exploits the goodwill held toward Chaplin, with the satiric undercutting of the tyrant occasionally knocked asunder by glimpses of true menace. The contrasts are dizzying. None of this means the film is overly heady or otherwise bogged down by its insightful treatise. Chaplin instills the film with his trademark sense of whimsy and dazzles with scenes of physical comedy that feel loose and spontaneous thought they’re obviously as intricately developed as any ballet.

According to his autobiography, Chaplin eventually regretted The Great Dictator, noting that he wouldn’t have made it if he knew the full extent of the Nazis’ crimes against humanity. That’s of course an entirely reasonable response, but it undervalues the worthiness of well-honed humor as an attack on grotesque villainy. There’s truth to the adage about laughing to keep from crying. More than that, comedy can reveal truths that are so unthinkable they can’t be approached any other way, at least not initially. The buffer provided by laughter can open the door to understanding. Despite Chaplin’s misgivings, The Great Dictator was, and remains, vital.