Welcome back to The Deep Dive, the show where
we distill the essential, fascinating, and sometimes
shocking truths you need to know from our curated
sources. Today, we are undertaking a massive
deep dive into the life of Sir Charles Spencer
Chaplin Jr., a figure whose career arc is so
dramatic it almost beggars belief. It really
is. It's a story of just these astronomical heights
and then these crushing, crushing lows. We're
talking about a man who spanned 75 years of cultural
history. you know, from his childhood in Victorian
London right up until his death in 1977. And
the core of it all, it isn't just the longevity,
it's this incredible tension between his artistic
independence, which was absolute, and the devastating
political cost he paid for it. Exactly. We all
know him instantly as the Tramp. That icon. That
universally recognizable figure, the baggy pants,
the tight coat, the cane, the little mustache.
It's a walking study in contradictions. And that
contradiction was rooted in his life. I mean,
this is the definitive Rags to Riches tale. He
was born into absolute grinding destitution and
became one of the world's highest paid people
by his mid -20s. And he fought Hollywood for
complete artistic control. And he won. He did.
But that very independence allowed him to speak
out politically. And that, combined with some
scandalous personal choices, resulted in the
country that made him a global megastar, literally
revoking his right to return. So our sources
today, they include extensive biographies, critical
film analyses. Archival material detailing all
these controversies. Our mission is to trace
his incredible ascent, examine his groundbreaking
methods as a complete filmmaker. And we mean
complete. Writing, directing, producing, composing,
starring. And then really understand the seismic
political and legal battles of the 1940s that
forced him out of America. We're going to see
how the trauma of his early life shaped The Tramp,
why he fought a war against sound film for a
decade, and how he weaponized his art and even
his own exile into social satire. This sounds
like a masterclass in cinematic power and the
ultimate price of that power. OK, let's unpack
this. The story has to start with the rags because
the depth of Chaplin's childhood poverty is often
understated. It wasn't just low income. No, it
was a devastating systemic destitution. And it
became the wellspring for the entire emotional
core of the Tramp. He was born Charles Spencer
Chaplin Jr. in London, April 16, 1889. His parents,
Hannah Chaplin and Charles Chaplin Sr., they
were music hall entertainers. Right, so performance
was in the family? It was, but the family unit
was completely broken. The instability was immediate
and it was continuous. His father, Charles Sr.,
was a successful singer, but he was almost totally
absent. And he died very young, right? Very young,
38 years old, from severe alcoholism. So that
left Hannah in this state of chronic financial
distress, trying to support her sons with whatever
odd jobs she could find. One biographer noted
something I found really chilling, that Chaplin
didn't even recognize he was experiencing a crisis
because their whole life was just continual crisis.
That phrase says it all. It was a constant state
of near starvation. And the ultimate result of
that was the workhouse, a truly chilling Victorian
institution. And our sources say he was sent
to the Lambeth workhouse twice before he even
turned nine. Exactly. The workhouse was where
the state housed the destitute, and it was designed
to be terrifying. They operated on the principle
of separating families to break people's spirits.
So he was separated from his mother and brother.
He was. And after the workhouse, he had a stint
at the Central London District School for paupers.
These are basically institutional barracks for
poor children. He remembered it as a forlorn
existence. So this isn't just a tough childhood.
This is deep institutional trauma. And it was
only compounded by the mental health crisis his
mother was facing. Hannah struggled terribly.
In 1898, when Charlie was just nine, she was
committed to the Cain Hill Mental Asylum. What
was the cause of that? It was diagnosed as psychosis,
but our sources say it was attributed to the
dual pressures of a syphilis infection and just
profound malnutrition from years of poverty.
The stress was overwhelming. And she was in and
out of care. She was for a time. But her mental
health collapsed permanently in 1905 when Chaplin
was 16. He had to escort her to the infirmary
himself. She remained in care for the rest of
her life until 1928. It left this deep... deep
autobiographical scar. And that's the connection
right there. These scars, the poverty, the separation
from his mother, they provide the immense pathos
that elevates the Tramp beyond just a slapstick
character. That is the key distinction. Other
early film comedians were just about the physical
farce. Chaplin introduced a real bleeding humanity.
His films are consistently about the poor, about
greed, about loss. These themes came directly
from his life. Yet even as his home life was
falling apart, he was starting his performing
career. Almost by accident, right? It was. He
recalled his first amateur appearance was at
age five. He had to fill in for his mother on
stage one night when her voice failed and the
audience, you know, booed her off. So a five
-year -old just walks out on stage. He did. Entertained
the crowd with a popular song and they showered
him with coins. That little taste of success,
it just propelled him. By age nine, he joined
the Eight Lancashire Lads, a clog dancing troupe.
He basically gave up on school pretty early.
Completely abandoned it by 13. At 14, he landed
a huge role as Billy the Page Boy in a touring
production of Sherlock Holmes. And that got him
to the West End with William Gillette, the original
Holmes. Which was invaluable training. From there,
he joined the Fred Carnot Company. Now, Carnot's
troupe was the most prestigious comedy company
in England. They were famous for creating comedy
without dialogue. The perfect training ground
for a silent film star. The absolute perfect
training ground. Carnot was skeptical at first,
called Chaplin a pale, puny, sullen -looking
youngster. But Chaplin had this natural genius
for pantomime. And it was with the Carnot company
that he first came to America. Yes. On a tour
of the vaudeville circuit. His hit role was this
character called the inebriate swell. He was
already getting incredible reviews, being called
one of the best pantomime artists ever seen here.
And on his second American tour in late 1912,
Hollywood finally noticed. So six months into
that second tour, a scout from Keystone Studios
offers him a contract. They needed a replacement
for a comedian named Fred Mace. Chaplin was.
He was hesitant. He found Keystone's style, which
was run by Mack Sennett, to be just chaotic slapstick.
A crude melange of rough and rumble was his phrase.
But the lure of film was too strong? It was a
new medium, a new art form. He signed for $150
a week in September 1913. He starts work in early
1914, but it's for his second film that the persona
that would define his entire life is conceived.
How did he put together the look of the tramp?
He detailed it pretty meticulously. He said he
just went into the wardrobe and wanted a costume
that was full of contradictions. Contradictions
in every element. Every single one. The pants
had to be baggy, but the coat had to be tight.
The shoes had to be enormous. He wore them on
the wrong feet. But the hat, the derby, had to
be small. And the mustache. That was a stroke
of genius. He picked the small toothbrush mustache
because it added a bit of age and character,
but it didn't hide his facial expressions, which
were key to his comedy. He said the moment he
put it all on, he just felt the character. He
did. He said he began to know the tramp. Sensing
his melancholy, but also his sort of defiant
dignity, the character just... emerged, fully
formed. And that character debuted in kid auto
races at Venice in February 1914. Yes. And while
his first few films were pretty standard Keystone
stuff, he started clashing with the directors
almost immediately. He felt their chaotic style
didn't allow for character or pathos. He wanted
to slow things down. He wanted character -focused
comedy, which was a radical idea at the time.
So how did his boss, Mack Sennett, react to this?
I mean, they were churning these things out.
Sennett was a businessman. And after Chaplin's
11th film, he realized he couldn't fire him.
The demand from the public for more Chaplin films
was just... It was explosive. But box office
was talking. Louder than anyone. So the Senate
gave him a chance to direct. His next film, Caught
in the Rain. Chaplin was so confident, he promised
to pay the $1 ,500 production cost himself if
it failed. Of course, a huge success. A major
success. And from then on... He directed almost
every short film he appeared in at a grueling
pace of about one a week. That keystone period,
rough as it was, it proved that his style worked.
And that immediate success gave him massive leverage
when his contract was up. Senate wouldn't meet
his demand of $1 ,000 a week. He thought it was
an absurd amount of money for a comedian. But
the S &A Film Manufacturing Company, they disagreed
completely. They offered him $1 ,250 a week.
Plus a $10 ,000 signing bonus. Unheard of in
late 1914. It was a revolutionary contract that
basically gave an actor financial power over
the studio for the first time. And this move
to S &A is where the tramp really starts to change.
Precisely. At Keystone, the character had been
described as mean, crude, and brutish. At S &A,
Chaplin finally had some breathing room. He slowed
the pace to focus on quality and dramatic development.
So the character becomes more gentle, more romantic.
Exactly. The real turning point was the 1915
film, The Tramp. And this is where he really
introduces pathos into comedy, which was his
great innovation. Pathos. The quality that evokes
pity or sadness. Right. While he was making The
Bank in 1915, he gave it a genuinely sad ending,
which defied all comedic convention. That shot
of The Tramp walking away, lonely but still defiant,
That became his signature. And critics saw this
as a move toward real cinematic art. Absolutely.
And this success triggered one of the earliest
global cultural phenomena. We're talking about
chaplainitis. Chaplainitis. What did that look
like? It was inescapable. By 1915, shops were
filled with chaplain merchandise. Dolls, cigars,
perfumes, you name it. He was in comics. He was
in songs. A journalist wrote that it had spread
across America like wildfire. He was the film
industry's first... True international star.
An unprecedented level of adoration. And that
leads to another, even more astronomical contract
in 1916, this time with Mutual Film. And here
the numbers just get staggering. Mutual signed
the 26 -year -old Chaplin for $670 ,000 a year.
Let's put that in perspective. In 1916, the President
of the United States made $75 ,000. So Chaplin
was earning nearly 10 times the President's salary.
He was one of the highest paid people in the
world, period. The studio president just said
the public wants Chaplin and will pay for him.
And those mutual years were incredibly productive.
He called them the happiest of his career. They
were. He made 12 short films in 18 months, and
they included masterpieces like The Immigrant
and Easy Street. These films were celebrated
for their structure and their emotional depth.
But here's where it gets really interesting.
How did this immense fame survive the backdrop
of World War I and all the personal scrutiny?
Well, the scrutiny was intense. He was attacked
pretty heavily in the British media for not enlisting.
But he did register for the American draft, didn't
he? He did in 1917, but neither country ever
called him up. Probably because his fame was
seen as a bigger morale booster than his service
would be. And despite the bad press, his popularity
with the public, especially the troops, it never
wavered. It was untouchable. Harper's Weekly
said he was a part of the common language of
almost every country. His fame gave him the power
to command total control over his future. That
unprecedented popularity bought him the ultimate
prize, absolute independence. After Mutual, he
signs with First National for eight films, guaranteeing
him a million dollars. And he immediately uses
that money to build his own studio. Charlie Chaplin
Studios finished in 1918 right off Sunset Boulevard.
A fortress of creative freedom. He now had the
money, the location, and total control. And his
films immediately reflect that ambition. But
the real industry shaker was in 1919 with the
founding of United Artists. Co -founding a distribution
company with Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford
and D .W. Griffith. This was this was a revolutionary
act. It completely sidestepped the studio system.
United Artists allowed these four megastars to
personally fund their own pictures, retaining
100 percent of the creative and financial control.
So they decided the budgets, the schedule, the
final cut. It was the single most important step
in establishing the filmmaker as an auteur, an
autonomous artist, rather than just an employee.
And his first feature -length film under this
new freedom was intensely personal. The Kid in
1921. The Kid ran 68 minutes, and it proved that
comedy could sustain that length while tackling
really heavy subjects like poverty and child
separation. And it had deep autobiographical
roots for him. Crucially, yes. It was made shortly
after the death of his own infant son, Norman,
who died just three days after birth. So the
film became this form of artistic sublimation,
with The Tramp becoming a caretaker to the young
Jackie Coogan. It was a massive global success.
But the public had very clear expectations of
him. His next film, A Woman of Paris, in 1923,
was an attempt to step away from The Tramp. He
wanted to direct a serious drama to showcase
his leading lady, Edna Perviance. He only appeared
in a brief, uncredited cameo, and the critics,
they adored it. praised its nuance and sophisticated
direction. But the public hated it. It bombed.
Commercially, it was a disaster. The public wanted
to chaplain the character, not chaplain the director
of dramas. He was so hurt by the failure that
he just withdrew it from circulation. A harsh
lesson about the power of his own persona. A
very harsh lesson. So he returned to form with
what he called the film he wanted to be remembered
by, The Gold Rush in 1925. An epic comedy based
on, of all things, the tragic Donner Party. He
wanted to make an epic comedy out of grim subject
matter. And he went for massive scale. Huge sets,
600 extras, shooting on location in the Nevada
mountains. It cost nearly a million dollars,
which was a monumental sum. But it gave us some
of the most iconic scenes in cinema history.
It really did. It became one of the highest grossing
silent films ever. We all remember the scene
where he boils his leather boot and eats it like
a gourmet meal. Treating the laces like spaghetti.
Or the dance of the rolls. These are moments
where physical comedy and pathos just align perfectly.
It's pure cinematic magic. But right after this
huge triumph, his personal life just completely
goes off the rails. We're talking about the Lita
Gray scandal. The mid -1920s were a period of
severe emotional turmoil for him. This was his
second marriage in 1924. It was forced by Gray's
pregnancy, just like his first marriage. And
the age difference was controversial. Very. She
was 16, he was 35. But the marriage was also
deeply unhappy, and the public divorce in 1927
became headline news across the country. It was
incredibly sensationalized. To an extreme degree.
Gray's divorce complaint was leaked, and it was
full of accusations of infidelity, abuse, and
these shocking claims of perverted sexual desires.
Chaplin was reportedly on the verge of a nervous
breakdown. And the financial cost was huge. A
$600 ,000 settlement, the largest awarded by
a U .S. court at the time. The stress was so
bad that it completely crippled his work on his
next film, The Circus. Production had to be suspended
for 10 months. It did. And even though the film
was a success and earned him a Special Academy
Award, he forever associated it with the pain
of that period. By the time the circus came out,
Hollywood was changing forever. The jazz singer
had premiered and sound film was taking over.
But Chaplin was deeply cynical about it. He wasn't
just resisting sound. He was waging a one -man
war against it. He felt talkies lacked artistry
and, crucially, he feared that giving the tramp
a voice would destroy his universal appeal. Because
he didn't need translation. Exactly. Giving him
an English or American accent would limit him.
So his defiance culminated in City Lights in
1931. A completely silent film, released four
years into the sound era. An incredible gamble.
An astonishing gamble. The production was a 21
-month saga of pathological perfectionism. He
said he worked himself into an erotic state of
wanting perfection. And he used the new sound
technology, but only to record his own musical
score. Yes, which he composed entirely himself.
And the film was a stunning success. It grossed
over $3 million. But its artistic legacy is even
greater. The critic James A .J. called the final
scene the greatest piece of acting in movies.
He proved that visual storytelling could still
triumph. He did. Yeah. Now, after City Lights,
he took a long break. He traveled for 16 months,
and that trip really opened his eyes to the growing
global turmoil. Including a foiled assassination
plot in Japan. That's right. Ultra -nationalists
planned to kill him to try and provoke a war
with the U .S. It was only foiled because he
decided to play golf instead of attending the
reception. He comes back home deeply troubled
by the Great Depression and what he's seeing
with labor conditions. He was worried that machinery
and capitalism were just going to create permanent
unemployment. And those anxieties became the
foundation for modern times in 1936. Which he
called a satire on certain phases of our industrial
life. It was. The film follows the tramp as he
navigates factories and unemployment. And it
still maintained his commitment to visual comedy.
He used sound effects, but almost no intelligible
dialogue. Almost. Except for the one unforgettable
moment where the Tramp finally speaks. Yes. He's
sourced to sing in a cafe, forgets the lyrics,
and just sings this hilarious, completely gibberish
song. It was his final artistic defiance. The
Tramp communicates, but not with actual restrictive
words. Exactly. And that film marked his definitive
shift from romantic comedy to being a socially
conscious artist. He was getting ready to use
his platform for direct political commentary,
a move that would ultimately destroy his standing
in America. Right. So the political messages
really come to the forefront in the 1940s. And
this just unleashes a storm of controversy that
shatters his popularity in the U .S. The spark
was this really unsettling historical coincidence.
Chaplin was disturbed by the rise of nationalism.
But the key inspiration for his next film was
the uncanny resemblance between himself and Adolf
Hitler. They were born just four days apart.
April 1889. Both rose from poverty and obscurity,
and both had that same distinct mustache. And
that parallel gives us the great dictator in
1940. this was his first true sound film he finally
gave in because he felt the political message
against fascism had to be delivered with dialogue
he knew the risk but he felt as he wrote that
hitler must be laughed at he plays two roles
the dictator adenoid hinkle and a persecuted
jewish barber which was a subtle retort to the
nazi rumor that chaplin himself was jewish but
the film ends with the most controversial choice
of his career that five minute speech He drops
the character completely, looks right at the
camera, and delivers this powerful plea against
war and fascism. It broke the fourth wall and
it forever linked his star image to polarizing
political causes. And while figures like Churchill
and Roosevelt loved it, it made him an immediate
political target for right -wing and isolationist
groups in the U .S. And that political scrutiny
just intensifies exponentially, providing the
perfect cover for a campaign to destroy him.
And this campaign was rooted in a personal scandal
involving an actress named Joan Barry. They had
a brief affair, and then she claimed she was
pregnant with his child. The timing was critical.
J. Edgar Hoover, the head of the FBI, was already
deeply suspicious of Chaplin's progressive politics
and his support for the Soviet Union. So Hoover
saw an opportunity here. He used the scandal
as leverage. The FBI launched a full -on smear
campaign, feeding damaging information to anti
-communist gossip columnists to ruin his public
image. They didn't just stop at gossip, though.
They went after him illegally. They used a truly
archaic law, the Mann Act, from 1910. It prohibits
transporting women across state lines for immoral
purposes. It was an anti -prostitution law. Essentially.
And Chaplin was indicted on four charges. It
was an absurd prosecution. What was the real
threat to him? If he was found guilty, he could
have faced up to 23 years in federal prison.
Now, he was acquitted, but the case dominated
the headlines for months. The FBI had succeeded
in publicly crucifying him. Then came the paternity
suit itself, and this is where it gets really
shocking. The court declared him the father,
despite scientific evidence proving he wasn't.
It was a travesty. Blood tests proved conclusively
he was not the father. His blood type was O,
the mother's was A, and the child's was B. Genetically
impossible. But the court wouldn't accept the
evidence. California courts at the time deemed
blood tests inadvisable. They prioritized the
mother's accusation over science. So he was legally
and financially required to support a child that
wasn't his. And in the middle of all this chaos,
he gets married again to Una O 'Neill, the daughter
of playwright Eugene O 'Neill. He's 54, she's
18. The age difference caused another massive
public outcry. Her father disowned her. And yet,
this marriage proved to be his most stable and
enduring relationship. It lasted until his death.
He later said the buried trial's head crippled
his creativeness. But when he did return to filmmaking,
his anger and bitterness were front and center.
Leading to Monsieur Verdue in 1947, a black comedy
about a serial killer. He used the plot to launch
a direct assault on capitalism. His argument
was that the world encourages mass killing through
war and corporate greed. He said serial killing
was just small -scale business. And the U .S.
public reaction was catastrophic. Overwhelming
hostility. He was booed at the premiere. Major
boycotts. It was his first serious... critical
and commercial failure in America, just outright
public rejection. And at the same time, the communist
accusations fueled by Hoover are getting worse.
He was actively campaigning against the House
Un -American Activities Committee, UQAC, and
calling himself a peacemonger. So political leaders
started publicly calling for his deportation.
They said his life was detrimental to the moral
fabric of America. That's the quote. So the final
blow came in 1952. He was on a ship sailing to
the London premiere of his film Limelight. And
while he's in the middle of the ocean, the Attorney
General, James McGrainery, revokes his reentry
permit. He demanded Chaplin submit to this humiliating
interview about his politics and his morals if
he ever wanted to come back. So he had a choice.
Return and fight or walk away. And he chose exile.
He said he was fed up of America's insults and
moral pomposity. He moved his family to Switzerland
and cut his ties permanently. His exile is just
this profound example of how artistic freedom
clashed with Cold War paranoia. It showed that
no matter how powerful you were, if you use that
power to criticize the state, the state would
weaponize your personal life to bring you down.
So after his banishment, Chaplin settles into
this quiet life in Switzerland at an estate called
Manoir de Bonn. And his wife, Una, renounces
her U .S. citizenship. A profound gesture of
support. Chaplin sold off his stock in United
Artists, cutting his last professional ties to
the country. He started calling himself an anarchist.
And his politics immediately show up in his next
film, A King in New York. Which was a direct
and angry satire on the country that exiled him.
He cast himself as an exiled king and used it
to parody HUAC consumerism and plastic surgery.
And he banned its American release. He did. It
wasn't shown there until 1973. His final film,
A Countess from Hong Kong in 1967, was a romantic
comedy with Marlon Brando and Sophia Loren. But
it just didn't work. It was a box office failure
and a critical disappointment. It hurt him deeply
and effectively ended his directing career. But
even as his output slowed, the artistic method
that created his masterpieces. It's just astonishingly
rigorous. He's considered one of the earliest
true cinematic auteurs. His control was absolute.
Directing, writing, producing, editing, composing,
starring. Everything. And that was essential
because of his unique, almost chaotic method
of creation. He never shot from a completed script.
Never. Until The Great Dictator. He'd start with
a vague premise. build the sets, and then just
improvise gags on set until a narrative started
to emerge. Which sounds incredibly expensive
and wasteful. It was. It meant massive reshoots
and astonishing amounts of wasted film. But because
he was financing his own work, he could afford
it. And this leads to his legendary, almost pathological
perfectionism. It's insane. For a finished scene
in The Kid, he shot up to 53 takes. For the 20
-minute short The Immigrant, he shot 40 ,000
feet of film. Enough for a feature -length epic.
That must have been draining on everyone. It
was. He described the process as sheer perseverance
to the point of madness. He would often act out
every single role for his cast, expecting them
to imitate him precisely. Beyond the visual mastery,
there was the music. He taught himself piano,
violin, and cello. And from City Lights onwards,
he composed the scores for all his films. It's
remarkable, considering he couldn't read sheet
music. He worked with arrangers, but he provided
the musical imperative. Not a note was placed
without his okay. And some of those compositions,
like Smile, have become cultural touchstones.
Absolutely. Smile from modern times, Eternally
from Limelight. They live completely outside
of the films. And it was his music that finally
brought him competitive recognition from the
country that had exiled him. Yes. In 1973, he
won his only competitive Oscar. for Best Original
Score for Limelight, which only became eligible
after it was finally released in the U .S. in
1972. By this point, U .S. sentiment had started
to shift. The Academy saw a chance for reconciliation.
They offered him a second honorary award in 1972,
and his return was this massive emotional event.
He flew back to the U .S. for the first time
in 20 years. And at the Academy Awards, he received
a 12 -minute standing ovation. The longest in
Academy history. It was this profound emotional
climax to a lifetime of work and decades of persecution.
His final years were spent on his autobiography
and rescoring his films. In 1975, Queen Elizabeth
II knighted him. He received the honor in a wheelchair.
He died peacefully on Christmas Day 1977 at the
age of 88. And even then, the drama wasn't over.
His coffin was stolen. Stolen for ransom. It
was recovered, and he was reinterred in a reinforced
concrete vault to make sure it never happened
again. A bizarre cinematic end. Looking back,
his impact is just staggering. He's called arguably
the single most important artist produced by
the cinema. And his greatest creation is The
Tramp, cinema's most universal icon. The character's
whole being was defined by his dignity, his refusal
to be crushed by poverty. That mix of slapstick
and pathos is what sets him apart. I always think
of that little gesture, lifting his hat in apology
to a tree after bumping into it. That's the whole
character right there. Exactly. And that style
set the benchmark. Federica Fellini called him
a sort of Adam from whom we're all descended.
His influence is everywhere. Beyond the art,
he also set a critical legal precedent that protects
performers to this day. The 1928 lawsuit, Chaplain
V. Amador. This was a crucial case establishing
the common law right of publicity. He sued an
impersonator and the court ruled that a performer's
unique persona, the mustache, the hat, the cane,
is legally protected from mimics trying to deceive
the public. So it was an early battle over brand
integrity. It laid the foundation for modern
protections around merchandising and intellectual
property for an artistic persona. His desire
for control extended even to his own image. Today,
his legacy is carefully maintained. His final
home in Switzerland is now the Chaplin's World
Museum. And six of his key films are preserved
in the National Film Registry. A minor planet
is named after him. And in a fascinating twist,
the image of the tramp, the everyman, was ironically
used by IBM in the 1980s to advertise personal
computers. That's the ultimate symbolic journey.
From the Lambeth workhouse to an image so powerful
it could sell the future. The arc is complete.
So, what does this all mean? It means Chaplin
achieved the ultimate creative and financial
independence, making him the defining auteur
of early cinema. But the cost of using that platform
for overt political expression was profound.
The government weaponized his personal life against
him, forcing his permanent separation from the
land that had crowned him king. And yet Chaplin,
the self -proclaimed anarchist who despised government
and rules, was ultimately welcomed back and honored
by the very establishments he spent his life
satirizing. He was knighted by the queen. He
was embraced by the academy. It proves that true
artistic influence eventually transcends any
political banishment. It does. You have to consider
the staggering scale of that trajectory. The
rebel was banished only to return years later
as an immortal monument. His genius just undeniable.
A profound thought on the enduring power of art
over politics. Food for thought indeed. That
concludes this deep dive into the extraordinary
life of Charlie Chaplin. Thank you for joining
us. We look forward to your company on the next
deep dive.