Chaplin walked a wild canyon, with culverts and brush and chaparral that would be subsumed by concrete foundations, brick chimneys, redwood framing, appliances, automobiles, sewer pipe, and the immeasurable weight of a whole world’s anticipation. With each step he was reminded of dreams he’d had where he could fly. All he needed to do was speed up his step, which he did now, and lengthen his stride, and let the sky take him.

As the crew watched, Chaplin began to skip. He waved his arms, he bounced from a demi-plié to a tour en l’air, then a series of chassés. And then he pretended to be a chicken.

He was going to finish Sunnyside before Zukor and all his lot had their meeting. He was going to finish it today.

Orders were being barked. Film canisters were eased from canvas satchels. Boys with brooms were sweeping away dust. Four women had been costumed in lengths of gauze, and they were currently having garlands of flowers sewn onto their outfits.

Chaplin surveyed the land. There was a road leading into the ranch, and it ran across a narrow bridge, not twenty feet long, over a dry riverbed, and on the other side was the wilder, more remote acreage. He was attracted to the bridge, which was raw plywood nailed to unfinished slats, just sturdy enough for a horse pulling a wagon heaped with hay.

“What’s the sky like?” he asked.

“Clear today, mushy tomorrow,” the dayboy said.

“If we don’t get it today, can we pick it up?”

Shrugs. Then Rollie leveling with him. “Not a chance.”

Chaplin ordered the brush trimmed back, and he directed Rollie to find a good place to film so that the dry riverbed and the span of the bridge would be visible.

Rollie followed him as he walked toward the wardrobe tent. “Okay, Charlie, what do you want to rehearse?”

“No rehearsal. What time is sunset?”

“Five-thirty-one today,” Rollie said. “Except there’s a ridgeline to the west. Let’s say five.”

“I want to dance,” Chaplin said. “Let’s have, what, three women I can dance with.”

“The agency just sent four.”

“Then four. Dress them as— No, better. Goddesses.”

And he closed the flaps of the tent. He carefully put his trousers and jacket on wooden hangers, and removed his chambray shirt so that he was in his undergarments.

On went the Max Factor No. 30, and over that, light powder, eyeliner. Then a filthy-looking collarless shirt, a pair of trousers that would swallow a hundred Arbuckles, newly battered size-sixteen shoes that laced up with twenty eyes each. The plaid vest of the Akins tartan, two buttons missing. Spirit gum for the mustache. He wiggled his upper lip. Hat on.

When he returned to the bridge, Rollie was set up on the bank, a two-foot square of black velvet mounted behind the camera, so that he would not lose the pupils in close-up.