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No More Flat Feet!
Serge Berna, Jean-Louis Brau, Guy-Ernest Debord & Gil J. Wolman
Internationale lettriste #1 (November 1952)
Translated by Sophie Rosenberg
Sub Mack Sennett director, sub-Max Linder actor, Stavisky of the tears of unwed mothers and the little orphans of Auteuil, you are Chaplin, emotional blackmailer, master-singer of misfortune.
The cameraman needed his Delly. It's only to him that you've given your works, and your good works: your charities.
Because you've identified yourself with the weak and the oppressed, to attack you has been to attack the weak and oppressed — but in the shadow of your rattan cane some could already see the nightstick of a cop.
You are "he-who-turns-the-other-cheek" — the other cheek of the buttock — but for us, the young and beautiful, the only answer to suffering is revolution.
We don't buy the "absurd persecutions" that make you out as the victim, you flat-footed Max de Veuzit. In France the Immigration Service calls itself the Advertising Agency. The sort of press conference you gave at Cherbourg could offer no more than a piece of tripe. You have nothing to fear from the success of Limelight.
Go to sleep, you fascist insect. Rake in the dough. Make it with high society (we loved it when you crawled on your stomach in front of little Elizabeth). Have a quick death: we promise you a first-class funeral.
We pray that your latest film will truly be your last.
The fires of the kleig lights have melted the makeup of the so-called brilliant mime — and exposed the sinister and compromised old man.
Go home, Mister Chaplin.
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