Entering, he was nervous to the point of being insensible, and he signaled that the film should start immediately. And so there was a moment of confusion, himself appearing just as the film came on, projected across his chest, Doug and Mary standing to greet him, and, oh dear, he couldn’t really say a proper hello, how had this happened, the film had started, let’s all sit down, apologies, we’ll say hello afterward.

Chaplin recognized the footsteps of Alf, Rollie, and Albert Austin, and then sensed perfume and heels, meaning a girl or two had slipped in, perhaps from Wardrobe, perhaps someone Albert was trying to impress, and then another tread, careful yet heavy, that he couldn’t place. Ten bodies in the theater, eleven with Eddie, who was manning the projector. Chaplin was biting his nails, a filthy habit that he wished not to have.

Laughter. It began with the opening scenes of training, and continued throughout the scenes in the trenches. Chaplin saw Pickford’s hand go toward the crease of her eye. He looked carefully for how the light was hitting her cheek—was it wet?

After the first reel, he closed his eyes and just tried to listen to the reaction, feeling again as if he were on the verge of dissolving, casting off the lens of his own perception, actually feeling what the rest of the universe felt.

The laughter did not build, but, rather, there were short, sharp chuckles punctuated by a sort of holding-the-breath-with-worry. There was a question of whether Charlie, the slacker, would insult the troops, and that seemed to slip away, and in its place was the thrill of whether he would capture the Kaiser.

By the time Edna, Syd, Chaplin, and the others were standing among the AEF troops in France (actually at Fairfax and Santa Monica, on the airfield side of the street), and the Little Fellow had kicked the Kaiser in the behind, and soldiers all around were carrying him on their shoulders, funneling champagne into their mouths, slapping him on the back, there was actual applause in the tiny room. Douglas was the first to stand, but somehow his motion distracted from the final shot revealing it had all been a dream, and then there were hands on Chaplin’s shoulders, tousling his hair, cries of pleasure, a strange moment in which he was being celebrated now as the Little Fellow had been, onscreen, and he wondered if he would wake up from this, too.

“Thank you,” he said. And then, “Thank you.”