Monsieur Verdoux (1947)

Directed and produced by Charles Chaplin

In Great Depression-era France, Henri Verdoux (Charles Chaplin) has been let go from his job at a bank. He quickly conceives of the idea of contracting bigamous marriages with eligible middle-aged women, then killing and robbing them. It seems only a matter of time before justice – or will it be mere circumstance? – catches up with him.

Monsieur Verdoux is often rated as a black comedy. Indeed, there is comedy in it; when Verdoux believes he has accidentally poisoned himself, one can easily see Chaplin’s Little Tramp’s antics in a darker setting. But it was not the sort of comedy that fans of Chaplin at the time knew; there are more wry smiles to be had than laughs. That fact contributed to its poor reception. After all, the public was used to Chaplin making them slap their knees, even if there was a strong moral lesson to go with it, as in The Great Dictator.

But this film was out of step with the times. Made in 1947, it landed amid a spate of hopeful, bright movies, with stories that capitalised on the mood of optimism following the Second World War. Monsieur Verdoux is rather bleak, certainly dark, with no sign of optimism.

The strange thing is that this film should have been made a decade earlier. It is set in France – inspired by Henri Landru’s murders – and in the 1930s. At that time, France was being rocked by scandal after scandal, making villains of politicians, financiers and industrialists. The country was nearing a civil war between its sharply contrasting political and social factions, and a story about murders committed by a seemingly respectable middle-class gentleman, with speeches about villainy and war, would have fit perfectly with the atmosphere of the times.

Aside from the bad timing, there are several more serious problems in the story. For one, there doesn’t seem to be a clear idea of what Chaplin wants to say. The credits state that the film came from ‘an idea by Orson Welles’, though I suspect that Welles may have had more concrete intentions. Monsieur Verdoux tells a pretty straightforward tale, though its later dialogue suggests that it was meant as a sermon on the hypocrisy of society: Verdoux compares a murderer, with his handful of victims, to a country going to war, killing millions. This comes very late in the script, and gives the impression of an addendum, something tacked on when it was conceived after the rest of the story.

As well, the character of Verdoux himself is unsympathetic. We learn his motive for his crimes and, while it may be a legitimate motive to him, his commission of the murders is so methodical and emotionless that it’s possible he would have killed people even without reason. He is a merciful man at times, foregoing the murder of a young woman – intended as a test of a new killing method – when he feels sorry for her. I think we are meant to contrast her loss and despair with the more mundane, selfish characters of Verdoux’s victims, who are portrayed as rather unlikeable widows or spinsters. Yet they are not really unlikeable (except for the shrill woman played by Martha Raye).

And Verdoux is not liked much by the women he marries. How does he achieve his courtships, then? We see only one in actual commission, that of Madame Grosnay (Isobel Elsom), and it is unconvincing. He is neither manly nor charming with the women; he is alternately uncaring and fulsome. Only when he is with the mother of his son does he appear admirable.

This last aspect shows off the principal merit of Monsieur Verdoux, which is Chaplin’s acting. He is excellent in the title rôle. Though the character itself is off-putting and a thoroughly unrealistic Lothario, Chaplin makes him seem real. Though his antics in pursuit of women would win no hearts, they are very well performed. The contrast between the parts Verdoux must play with others, and what he is at home, is intriguing.

Alas, this is not enough for a recommendation. There are smaller, almost immaterial criticisms. Though it is set in France, there are a number of non-Gallic names thrown in: a police inspector named Morrow, a couple named Darwin. Verdoux’s son is called Peter, not Pierre. And William Frawley makes the least convincing Frenchman since Dan Aykroyd in a Conehead sketch. As well, there is a plot inconsistency: rather a big deal is made of Verdoux’s outright purchase of the house he lives in with his real wife and their son. Later, we learn that the house has been foreclosed. How can that be?

Monsieur Verdoux remains a movie that any student of cinema – and, of course, of Chaplin (he composed the music, too) – should see. But it left me wondering about the missed opportunity of Welles writing and directing a possibly heavier, more dramatic, film, or – a dream-collaboration – of a co-operative effort between Welles and Chaplin.