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Thirty years ago, when I was starting out as a film historian, I used to show silent films from my collection to anyone who would ask me. One kind American film-maker who seemed fascinated was the veteran director Andrew L. Stone, and he held gatherings at his London home to which he invited fellow film-makers. I remember meeting names I had until then only read about. One man who always came was a tall, handsome American - so handsome I assumed he was a leading man. But this was Robert Parrish, who turned out to have directed films like that remarkable western The Wonderful Country (1959), with Robert Mitchum. I found all those American film people extraordinarily charming and fascinated by their craft. But Parrish seemed to know all of film history from personal contact. You couldn't mention a film he didn't know, a director he hadn't worked with.
He was a man of constant surprises. I remember talking about Chaplin's classic City Lights (1931), an example of a silent film released into the talkie era. "I was in that," he said. "I was the kid who blew the peashooter at Charlie." It was City Lights which fired his ambition to be a film director - up to then he'd assumed every film had been directed by D.W. Griffith. And it was City Lights which began a friendship with Chaplin.
Parrish told the story of how Chaplin had shot five takes of a little dance on Monsieur Verdoux; he showed all five to Parrish, now a film editor. Chaplin was good in all of them, but in take three the camera panned a little far and picked up an electrician for a fraction of a second. "Which take did you like best?" asked Chaplin. Parrish chose take five. "Did you like my dance in take three?" "Yes, but what about the electrician?" Chaplin jumped out of his seat. "What...