Henry Bergman: Unsung Hero

Henry Bergman
February 23, 1868- October 22, 1946

A former circus clown and trained opera singer, Henry “Hank” Bergman made his biggest mark as a beloved character actor in several Charlie Chaplin films from 1918 to 1936. He was born 138 years ago today in San Francisco, and it is my privilege to include this largely forgotten kindhearted man in my pantheon of personal heroes. He appears to have been loved by all who knew him, seemed to love his friends even more than they sometimes deserved, and has left one of the greatest legacies of pride amongst the early Jewish actors of Hollywood.

Henry came to the screen later than most actors. He first appeared in the L-KO 1914 silent short The Baron’s Bear Escape in his 46th year, after having worked with Pathé-Lehrman since 1913. His early career was generally undistinguished until he established an enduring working relationship and friendship with a young Charlie Chaplin in 1916, when he appeared in his first Chaplin short, The Vagabond.

A kindly and loving man, his loyalty to Chaplin was one of an almost fatherly duty, and he worked not only as supporting actor, but also as an assistant to the occasionally temperamental Chaplin. Serving as Chaplin’s friend and most dedicated supporter through the years, as well as the tiny director’s sounding board, second unit A.D., and general protector, Bergman established himself as one of the least dispensable staff members at Chaplin Studios in California. Chaplin’s wives came and went, but Henry was always at his side.

The ample Bergman appeared, often in drag, in 22 Chaplin films, including his first four feature-length films, and, along with Charlie and Sydney Chaplin, in the 1918 WWI propaganda short, The Bond (as John Bull, above). He is probably best remembered today as the commedia del' arte clown in The Circus (1928) or as the charitable surveyor Hank Curtis in the 1925 hit The Gold Rush. In most of their films together, Chaplin reflected their off-screen relationship by casting Bergman as the kindly mentor to Charlie’s unfortunate Tramp.

It was in the classic 1916 almost-surrealist masterpiece, The Pawnshop, that Bergman’s legacy was established for me. Chaplin, who was not Jewish despite rumours to the contrary, was certainly no anti-Semite. However, it was his respect and friendship with Bergman, a proud Jewish man, which led to some of the earliest humanized portrayals of Jews on screen.

In early silent cinema, Jewish men were generally far from heroic. With a few notable exceptions, Jews served as the butt of the joke, the villain who sought to destroy young love, or the scoundrels who tainted the business world with their cunning. In The Pawnshop, we see an interesting blend of stereotype and tenderness in Bergman’s Jewish caricature. While a Jewish pawnshop owner who wore a long black coat, spectacles, kippah and grey beard is generally in keeping with Jewish screen stereotypes, The Pawnshop goes wildly off-type in its story. While Jewish bosses of early cinema were often shown to be cruel and stingy with their unfortunate Gentile employees, Bergman’s Jewish boss was a kindly and understanding one. Indeed, when faced with The Little Tramp (a notoriously bumbling worker), Bergman’s treatment of The Little Man is more than fair. When he attempts to fire the Tramp, with just cause, he relents when the Tramp pleads for the welfare of his children (falsely, one assumes), and accepts a sloppy hug and kiss in gratitude.

Compare this portrayal of employer kindness to the one in Sunnyside (1919), in which a farmer, beneath an ironically placed “Love Thy Neighbour” plaque, beats, insults and harangues the Tramp at every opportunity, and then goes off the local Christian church. Clearly, Chaplin was under no misapprehension that abuse of employer privilege rested solely with the Jews. As a result, Bergman’s Jews remain some of the gentlest portrayals in Hollywood’s early history.

Bergman made his final appearance in a Chaplin film in 1936’s Modern Times, as the even-tempered and unprejudiced café boss during the classic “Nonsense Song” routine. At 68, Bergman was slowing down and showing his age. Chaplin, who had very little admiration for old age, helped Bergman establish his famous restaurant in Hollywood, “Henry’s”. Although Bergman, the opera singer, did uncredited production work on Chaplin’s first talkie, The Great Dictator (1940), the world never heard his voice.

In a sad and regretful end to this story, Bergman and Chaplin’s friendship continued unto death, as far as Henry was concerned, but was capriciously left to falter by Chaplin. Dying and desirous of some film work for old time’s sake, Henry applied to Chaplin for a non-speaking role of a judge in what is probably Chaplin’s best talking picture, Monsieur Verdoux (1947). Chaplin decided that Henry was too old to play any role at his studios and denied the application, and, for all intents and purposes, turned his back on one of the closest friends he ever knew. Bergman died in October 22, 1946, before Verdoux was released, without bearing any ill will against his old friend and boss.

The irony is that Bergman, always Chaplin’s greatest admirer, did not live to see Chaplin’s later political troubles in the United States. If he had, he would have clung more firmly to Chaplin’s side than ever. More firmly, certainly, than Chaplin did to Bergman when Henry was attacked by something more immoveable than the State Department. Bergman had been attacked by old age, Chaplin’s greatest fear. In that, Chaplin (the eternally young, original artist of the cinema and usually fearless humanist) was not able to stand by him.

Today, however, we celebrate the birth of a great, unsung hero of the silent era. He was beloved, but not as much as he deserved. Likewise, today he is remembered, but not as much as he should be.