Sid
Rob Wagner, my secretary
Terry Ramsaye, publicity
Carlyle T. Robinson, publicity
Henry Caulfield, studio manager
Alf Reeves, studio manage [sic]
Tom Harrington, My Valet
Rollie Totheroh, my cameraman
Eddie Sutherland, assistant director
Henry Bergman, to tell people “Mr. Chaplin is busy go away.”
Toraichi Kono, chauffeur
Constance Collier, coach for acting, speech and deportment
Loyal Underwood (actor)
Adam Austin (actor)
Eric Campbell (heavy, foil) RIP Dec. 1917
Granville Redmond, painter
Helen Orlando, studio secretary
George “Scotty” Cleethorpe, master of properties
Charles Levin, Superintendent of Laboratories
Rhiannon Powell, wardrobe mistress
Ed Brewer, my technical director
Douglas Tuck, my technical director
Vincent Bryan, gag man my assistant
Maverick Terrell, staff writer my assistant
Jocasta Brownlee, hair and make up
Karin Wessel, hair and make up
Maybonne Mullen, hair and make up
Maggie Chascarrillo, asst secretary
Clair Knightley, asst secretary
Hopey Glass, asst secretary
Irvington Temporary Agency: Hair and make up, asst. secretary
Find new Temporary Agency
Edna

A story conference was held at a pair of pushed-together card tables onstage, around which sat Alf, Eddie, Scott, and Eddie—and Vincent and Maverick, who had the most difficult jobs in all Hollywood. It was known around the world that Chaplin was a genius and did not have writers.

“I was thinking we’ll open on the town,” Chaplin said, bluff with energy. “And I think, since it’s a pastoral, I might milk a cow.”

“And you could ride a bull,” said Maverick.

“I was just thinking that,” Chaplin replied. “I’ll ride him right through the center of town, into a schoolroom.”

Vincent, who had been with Chaplin longer than any other assistant, plotted a course. “Then you could step on the parson’s toe when you got off the bull.”

Chaplin looked annoyed. “I don’t think so.”

Vincent cocked forward his shoulders and tucked down his head, sipping coffee. “I just thought that, when you said you would ride the bull into church, it might be funny if—”

“No, I don’t think so. Let’s not stray from my first idea yet. It can be a Sunday, and everyone will be streaming into church. The Little Fellow runs a bull right in among them.”

And so it went for a pleasant hour, almost as if he weren’t married, Chaplin having many good ideas that seemed somehow to get better when exposed to the air. “I want everyone to be kind to each other in this one,” he said. “The Little Fellow will be overwhelmed, and they will tread on him, but I want the mood to be of kindness.”

Since there was no overarching conflict binding the film together, no escalator, no bully, no dog in peril, no war, but instead a general mood (kindness), there was not much story. This bothered no one—Chaplin
films always came together, eventually. They discussed bits and factions: berserk farm equipment, belligerent goats, something with a scarecrow.

“He could herd the cows and slip on a banana peel.”

“No, he won’t,” said Chaplin.

“The farmer takes a wife,” said Vincent.