Maverick and Vincent waited for there to be more to the story: How was the Little Fellow jilted? How did this relate to the eight minutes they had shot? Something with Edna—was that going to end badly? Chaplin told them to go away.

He left the car and, leaning into the driver’s cabin, directed Kono to drive up the road a few hundred yards. Then he waited by himself, swatting at his trousers, for there seemed to be mosquitoes.

Chaplin was in the full tramp costume—hat, coat, vest, trousers, shoes—for the first time since Sunnyside had begun. He had been experimenting before with leaving off elements—one scene without the hat, another without the familiar checked vest, and so on. Today the jacket was a new one found at a jumble sale, far too small, and wrinkled beyond repair.

His eyes went to the horizon, from which the automobile was approaching him. He began a limp kind of walk, as if every step was taken in mud. Clouds of dust were kicked up behind the car’s wheels as it passed the single oak tree far ahead of him. Chaplin arched his back and threw his arms out, yawning, then continued his walk. Here it was, alone again, into the sunset, his comment on the folly of all such endings.

The touring car was thirty feet away, then twenty, and then Chaplin spun on his heel until his back was to the road. He crouched down and put his fingers in his ears. He waited, eyes clamped shut, and heard the shuddering squeal of brakes being applied. The end.

He stood. He shaded his eyes. “Did you get it?”

Rollie yelled back, “Yes, Charlie.”

“Did you use the dissolving shutter?”

“Not on your life. We’ll do it with the cyanide and iodine. Like you said.” Rollie swallowed a capful of bismuth.

“Again,” Chaplin said, and then, “Places,” sending Kono back to his first mark, down the road.

They shot eighteen takes that afternoon, six to eight seconds of film. Each time, Chaplin felt the melancholy of his imaginary rejection make his step a little more heavy, and each time, he spotted the oncoming collision with more relief. In one take, the walk was longer, and he paused to pick at some road trash with the tip of his stick. In another, he lay down on the ground with a daisy on his chest. Another—he jumped in the air, keeping his hat in place. Another—he rubbed his chin as if reconsidering, then concluded, Yes!, and faced the onrushing vehicle with a brave little wince.

There was a thing said in taverns around Hollywood that took some thought to grasp: “You can’t impress me; I work for Chaplin.” His crew had long ago inured themselves to his genius.