Foreword
“Propaganda is the deliberate, systematic attempt to shape perceptions, manipulate cognitions, and direct behavior to achieve a response that furthers the desired intent of the propagandist.”
—Garth S. Jowett and Victoria O'Donnell, “Propaganda and Persuasion”
“There are more valid facts and details in works of art than there are in history books.”
—Charles Chaplin
“Propaganda is like pornography; it is profane, and offensive, and demeans us by insulting our very intelligence in its crass attempts to appeal to Man’s most basic instincts. Unlike pornography, however, propaganda is more insidious; it would be a wise man indeed who can know it when he sees it.”
—Daniel Kamakura, “Triumph of the Tramp: A Close Reading of Charles Chaplin’s Interpretation of Nazi Propaganda”
Introduction
The ultimate goal of propaganda is to make the people think as exactly as one desires them to think, regardless of whether the position you are proposing is in their best interests, or even particularly logical or truthful in the least. The processes by which propaganda—particularly cinematic propaganda—achieves this end are as old as the medium of film itself: generate meaning (“discourse”), engage the viewer in that meaning (“suture”), and direct the gaze and perspective of the viewer exactly where you want them to look (“fetishize the gaze” and make it “spectacle”), until you finally succeed in usurping their viewpoint entire life outlook. These techniques of film-as-propaganda, perfected and perfectly executed in Leni Riefenstahl’s watershed film Triumph of the Will, were ultimately so successful that they succeeded in propelling some of the most dangerous men ever born into a position of power, and given film’s popularity as recreation it seems little wonder that they would make such a powerful tool of political discourse. However, against such an onslaught—against the seemingly unstoppable force of film and propaganda to corrupt the hearts and minds of otherwise rational and humane individuals—what defense does common humanity and human decency have against such a foe?
The answer, of course, is propaganda.
But the good kind.
It is propaganda.
In the course of this essay, we will not only be analyzing The Great Dictator for its obvious propaganda value, but also engaging in a close reading of the text in order to understand precisely how the work succeeds in producing and putting forth its own unique brand of political meaning using familiar cinematic techniques held in common with those used by some of the best propagandists of the day. In a nutshell, I will not only be arguing that The Great Dictator is a work of propaganda, but that it is, in my humble opinion, the best work of propaganda—and use every technique at my disposal to usurp your sensibilities and convince you of the same.
In the final act of The Great Dictator, the film dispenses with all formality and pretense of humor to directly treat on the central message of the film—that is to say, its central political message—in a direct parody and analogue of one of Adolf Hitler’s speeches before the Nazi Party in Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will. The sequence begins in clip 1 (1:52:04), in which a black-cape-clad, stony faced Herr Garbitsch (Chaplin’s parody of Joseph Goebbels, Hitler’s minister of propaganda) ascends to the address the audience.
Narratively speaking, Garbitsch (Henry Daniell) is addressing his remarks to the millions of soldiers that are implied to be standing before him, as well as the rest of the world listening in via radio. However, by focusing the camera squarely on Garbitsch (and providing the viewer with literally no other image that they might focus on), clip one instantiates the viewer with the perspective of one of the storm troopers gathered at the foot of the stage; the camera, tilted up and static after following Garbitsch to the podium, mimics the perspective of a spectator in the crowd, and displays The Great Dictator’s use of cinematic “fetishized gaze,” in which the viewers is drawn into the spectacle of the scene, sutured into the film’s cinematic action. At this juncture, the viewer is no longer an “omniscient” or detached 3rd party to the scene; we the people are now squarely set in the action, standing at attention and gazing upwards at our leaders in rapt—and perhaps, fearful—awe and wonder.
Also in this clip, we see a thinly-veiled subtext of images and actions that cue the viewer in to how they are meant to view this spectacle (a necessary feature of any self-respecting propaganda film). First, Garbitsch enters the stage from camera-right, with Chaplin and his ally Schultz (Reginald Gardiner) seated left of the middle. This Right-Left orientation reflects the political duality of the scene; Garbitsch and Herring (a parody of Herman Goeringm, played by Billy Gilbert) epitomize the extreme, right-wing political fascists, whereas Chaplin and Schultz are trapped (off-frame) in the left-wing, silent and fearful of being annihilated.
It is also important to note, that as Garbitsch speaks (1:52:14) the camera moves in closer, cueing the viewer to pay attention, as this scene is of great importance and merits close observation and notation. As he speaks, however, Garbitsch never once looks down at the crowds being gathered before him; rather he looks up and above them, portraying the Nazi leadership as haughty, out-of-touch, and maliciously arrogant and condescending.
In shot 2 (1:52:33), however, the camera cuts to Chaplin to the “left” of the middle—symbolizing the comparatively “liberal” ideas that Garbitsch has been so unabashedly denouncing. Chaplin, like the dejected “liberal” democracies that (at the time of the film’s production) were being so resoundingly and demoralizingly defeated, is looking downwards, despondent, and only looks up briefly at the mention of the Jews (1:52:37), looking up and right out of the frame. This act, of Chaplin and Schultz looking up-right and out of the frame, creates the discursive meaning of their being situated left of the middle (and left of Garbitsch and the fascists, who have taken “center stage” for the moment), and establishes them as being the minority in the group; despite their identical uniforms, these two men were picked out of the crowd, and even if the viewer knows nothing else of the film, they are at least eager to find out why.
The next cut to shot 3 (1:52:46) returns us back to a mid-close-up shot of Garbitsch, still looking up and over the audience (and the viewer), continuing his bitter tirade until cutting back again to Chaplin and Schultz in shot 4 (1:52:51), at the words “…our Great Leader” (this again cues the viewer to assume that Chaplin, due to both his strong resemblance to Hitler and his character’s resemblance to “Hynkel,” the dictator of the film, has been mistaken for the brutal despot).
This cut to Chaplin, still looking off-screen to the right, shows Chaplin looking down again, dismayed, until hearing Garbitsch being to talk Hynkel (the source of so much suffering for himself and his people) up. Each time Garbitsch glorifies and lionizes the brutal dictator, Chaplin’s character’s eyes rise, each time with a visibly growing fire of objection and indignation behind them. At Garbitsch’s final words, predicting Hynkel’s rise to be the future “Emperor of the World,” Chaplin’s eyes dart right, silently looking at Schultz for guidance. Schultz, now looking left at Chaplin (metaphorically located further left than he; a former member of the old establishment, and thus more “liberal” and by extension more able to effect real change), implores his comrade to speak (1:53:02). Chaplin then steals a glance at the camera (but in reality at “us,” the viewer), before responding that he cannot. Schultz, however, refuses to look at him (thus, refusing to acknowledge his defeatist attitude and remaining valiantly stony faced) and responds that it is their “only hope.”
At the word “Hope,” however, everything changes. (No doubt a none-too-subtle nod to the candicacy of Barack Obama, 70-something years before "Obamamentum" became en vogue).
Chaplin, now that the H-word has been verbally uttered, looks back at the camera to break the fourth wall and echoes the Captain’s sentiments, enunciating “hope” once more in a dreamy-yet-despairing whisper (signaling the viewer the word and concept’s frailty and fragility in the current circumstances). At the very same time (1:53:15), delicate strings begin to play diegetic music, as Chaplin’s eyes dart about wildly, quite literally “looking” for a source of hope, before finally locking eyes with the viewer and finding it. As Chaplin’s character rises, he looks out of the frame and away (perhaps, one could argue, “to the future”), and ascends to the podium.
As he does so, all eyes (including the viewer’s own, subverted, gaze) follow him as the camera pans right to following him to the stage. Once there (1:53:25), Chaplin’s character stands in stark contrast to Garbitsch; Chaplin, appearing short, meek and unassuming, dressed in a non-descript, olive-drab (which, in black-and-white, actually appears to be a lighter shade of gray), and Garbitsch, appearing tall, imperious, and unemotional clad in jet-black capes and closed body language.
At 1:53:45, the scene cuts to Schultz on the left (once again symbolizing the “leftist” Allies and liberals of democratic Europe), looking right to Chaplin with expectant eyes. In shot 5 (1:53:46), the camera cuts to Herring and Garbitsch on the right (representing the right-wing extremes and European fascists), looking up confused rather than expectant—a subtle hint, no doubt, that fascist dictators wouldn't recognize hope or compassion, even if they say it standing in front of them.
In shot 6 (1:53:48), the camera cuts to Chaplin in a close up, showing for the first time his character’s detailed features and age (symbolized in the white streak in his hair). At the cut, Chaplin is looking down-left, despairing, but speaks when looking at us. In contrast to Garbitsch’s speech, which was uttered over the heads gathered before him (and over us, the viewer), and which was characterized by an impetuous demeanor, minimal emotion and closed body language, Chaplin’s speech makes use of liberally body language, raising his head when speaking of lofty and altruistic images, and lowering when touching on the more sinister forces arrayed before him. Also unlike Garbitsch’s monologue, Chaplin’s speech is so direct and personal, and his gaze so immediate and individual, that it not only breaks the fourth wall, not only pulls the viewer into the story and has them hanging on his every word, it is almost disconcerting in the way the words seem directed personally at you (not the person next to you, not the person behind you, but you, and only you). In this way, the film not only cues the viewer into assigning the situation importance, but also forces the viewer to adopt a stance of defensive introspection and self-analysis—while usually frowned upon by conventional propaganda (whose maxim can be crudely simplified as “thinking audiences=audiences that might find something to disagree with you about”), this perfectly captures the propagandic message of The Great Dictator itself; namely, that you (yes, you, the viewer) can and should be introspective and self-analyzing. For, as The Great Dictator argues, it is only through introspection and analysis that one can ever hope to combat the speedy simplicity that traditional propaganda brow-beats individuals with in order to compel them to conform.
The next scene change is a dissolution to shot 7 (1:55:13), which dissolves to reveal Hannah (Paulette Goddard), Chaplin’s love interest (both on-screen, and in real life at the time), and this cut is quite intentionally synced up to Chaplin’s monologue in order to neatly represent the “millions around the world” who are suffering at the hands of brutes like the Nazis, all despite (or perhaps, because of) their innocence and inherent goodness. This cut, followed quickly by a dissolve to a distant, body-shot of Chaplin (1:55:21) serves as an emotional running-start, a “springboard,” if you will, to the sudden gear shift that follows. In this gear shift, Chaplin turns to the left and pans right, lowering his gaze to the out-of-frame, invisible soldiers, imploring them not to be drawn in by the malicious lies and callous logic of the brutes he has been denouncing. At the words “machine-men,” Chaplin again looks up at the camera, both accusatory but also reassuring the viewers that, even if they had been suckered—even if they had agreed to the goose-stepping madness that had subverted their free will and consigned them into mechanical, bovine obscurity—“you are not machines.” You, the viewer, therefore, are absolved of your sins (if you had any), so long as you now see the error of your ways and agree to the new status quo being presented by the film.
Gradually, the camera begins to move in (1:56:16), and as Chaplin quotes Luke:17, the close-up cuts out the microphones in the frame (the only “machines” present in the shot), as Chaplin once again oscillates between looking down at the invisible soldiers, and up at the camera and viewers. This technique is repeated again, and each time that Chaplin looks down at the invisible soldiers and back up at the camera (and us), he occasionally directs comments such as “unloved and unnatural” upwards at the viewer. While ostensibly alienating and condemnatory, this is not necessarily meant as a personal attack against the viewer (unless they don’t agree, and are thus “against” goodness, and by extension, unnatural). Rather, it is a subtle jab at the viewer, pointing out the fact that, as an observing, omniscient 3rd party, only they (the viewer) are capable of effecting change and sparing the lives of the invisible, innumerable soldiers who would otherwise be sacrificed. Thus, the reference is in fact a call-to-arms and a plea for action, rather than a bitter denunciation or vituperation.
After a brief cut (1:57:26) to a Nazi propaganda-crowd—ironically subverting the “Nazi Propaganda Gaze” to use against its own original purpose)—the scene dissolves to Hannah once more (shot 11, 1:57:32). In this shot, Hannah begins to look up as Chaplin addresses her directly, ostensibly looking up towards Heaven (the “Kingdom of Heaven,” mentioned previously in Chaplin’s speech), and as the camera dissolves back to Chaplin in shot 12, Chaplin too is looking up along with Hannah, uniting the two (and, by extension, uniting all people who metaphorically “look up” to see the same sky and hold the same dreams of hope and liberty and humanity).
Like any great propaganda film, The Great Dictator begins and ends with a definitive political, social, economic or ethical position it wishes to espouse, and goes to great lengths to inspire—or coerce—its viewers in order to share that position, ostensibly for the betterment of all mankind. While the precise tone and exact message of each propaganda film may differ (and, in the case of The Great Dictator as opposed to Triumph of the Will, they may differ quite a bit), the various techniques and processes of creating a compelling cinematic argument are the same as those used in standard Hollywood cinematic discourse in order to create narrative sense and a story’s plot. Through the use of intimate close-ups and fourth-wall-breaking gazes, through the controlled use of perspective and fetishized spectacle, The Great Dictator acts as an ironic, comedic (but still no less valid and identifiable) example of propaganda. It is the anti-propaganda, to be sure—propaganda used to debunk the most dangerous and malicious forms of coercive, "persuasive" media—and is Chaplin’s sincere and earnest attempt to use the self-same tactics of Triumph of the Will for definitively altruistic and diametrically-opposed ends.
But then again, every propagandist believes they are doing the right thing; the curse of convincing others, is at times being convinced by yourself.
“Propaganda is the deliberate, systematic attempt to shape perceptions, manipulate cognitions, and direct behavior to achieve a response that furthers the desired intent of the propagandist.”
—Garth S. Jowett and Victoria O'Donnell, “Propaganda and Persuasion”
“There are more valid facts and details in works of art than there are in history books.”
—Charles Chaplin
“Propaganda is like pornography; it is profane, and offensive, and demeans us by insulting our very intelligence in its crass attempts to appeal to Man’s most basic instincts. Unlike pornography, however, propaganda is more insidious; it would be a wise man indeed who can know it when he sees it.”
—Daniel Kamakura, “Triumph of the Tramp: A Close Reading of Charles Chaplin’s Interpretation of Nazi Propaganda”
Introduction
The ultimate goal of propaganda is to make the people think as exactly as one desires them to think, regardless of whether the position you are proposing is in their best interests, or even particularly logical or truthful in the least. The processes by which propaganda—particularly cinematic propaganda—achieves this end are as old as the medium of film itself: generate meaning (“discourse”), engage the viewer in that meaning (“suture”), and direct the gaze and perspective of the viewer exactly where you want them to look (“fetishize the gaze” and make it “spectacle”), until you finally succeed in usurping their viewpoint entire life outlook. These techniques of film-as-propaganda, perfected and perfectly executed in Leni Riefenstahl’s watershed film Triumph of the Will, were ultimately so successful that they succeeded in propelling some of the most dangerous men ever born into a position of power, and given film’s popularity as recreation it seems little wonder that they would make such a powerful tool of political discourse. However, against such an onslaught—against the seemingly unstoppable force of film and propaganda to corrupt the hearts and minds of otherwise rational and humane individuals—what defense does common humanity and human decency have against such a foe?
The answer, of course, is propaganda.
But the good kind.
Triumph of the Tramp
Charlie Chaplin’s The Great Dictator is more than simply a comedic masterpiece, wrapped in biting social commentary, dipped in political satire, spritzed with self-aware humor and derision, slathered in irony, and stuffed into an easy-to-swallow Hollywood slapstick format for your convenience and viewing enjoyment. It is of course, all of these things, but it is also so much more.
It is propaganda.
In the course of this essay, we will not only be analyzing The Great Dictator for its obvious propaganda value, but also engaging in a close reading of the text in order to understand precisely how the work succeeds in producing and putting forth its own unique brand of political meaning using familiar cinematic techniques held in common with those used by some of the best propagandists of the day. In a nutshell, I will not only be arguing that The Great Dictator is a work of propaganda, but that it is, in my humble opinion, the best work of propaganda—and use every technique at my disposal to usurp your sensibilities and convince you of the same.
In the final act of The Great Dictator, the film dispenses with all formality and pretense of humor to directly treat on the central message of the film—that is to say, its central political message—in a direct parody and analogue of one of Adolf Hitler’s speeches before the Nazi Party in Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will. The sequence begins in clip 1 (1:52:04), in which a black-cape-clad, stony faced Herr Garbitsch (Chaplin’s parody of Joseph Goebbels, Hitler’s minister of propaganda) ascends to the address the audience.
Narratively speaking, Garbitsch (Henry Daniell) is addressing his remarks to the millions of soldiers that are implied to be standing before him, as well as the rest of the world listening in via radio. However, by focusing the camera squarely on Garbitsch (and providing the viewer with literally no other image that they might focus on), clip one instantiates the viewer with the perspective of one of the storm troopers gathered at the foot of the stage; the camera, tilted up and static after following Garbitsch to the podium, mimics the perspective of a spectator in the crowd, and displays The Great Dictator’s use of cinematic “fetishized gaze,” in which the viewers is drawn into the spectacle of the scene, sutured into the film’s cinematic action. At this juncture, the viewer is no longer an “omniscient” or detached 3rd party to the scene; we the people are now squarely set in the action, standing at attention and gazing upwards at our leaders in rapt—and perhaps, fearful—awe and wonder.
Also in this clip, we see a thinly-veiled subtext of images and actions that cue the viewer in to how they are meant to view this spectacle (a necessary feature of any self-respecting propaganda film). First, Garbitsch enters the stage from camera-right, with Chaplin and his ally Schultz (Reginald Gardiner) seated left of the middle. This Right-Left orientation reflects the political duality of the scene; Garbitsch and Herring (a parody of Herman Goeringm, played by Billy Gilbert) epitomize the extreme, right-wing political fascists, whereas Chaplin and Schultz are trapped (off-frame) in the left-wing, silent and fearful of being annihilated.
It is also important to note, that as Garbitsch speaks (1:52:14) the camera moves in closer, cueing the viewer to pay attention, as this scene is of great importance and merits close observation and notation. As he speaks, however, Garbitsch never once looks down at the crowds being gathered before him; rather he looks up and above them, portraying the Nazi leadership as haughty, out-of-touch, and maliciously arrogant and condescending.
In shot 2 (1:52:33), however, the camera cuts to Chaplin to the “left” of the middle—symbolizing the comparatively “liberal” ideas that Garbitsch has been so unabashedly denouncing. Chaplin, like the dejected “liberal” democracies that (at the time of the film’s production) were being so resoundingly and demoralizingly defeated, is looking downwards, despondent, and only looks up briefly at the mention of the Jews (1:52:37), looking up and right out of the frame. This act, of Chaplin and Schultz looking up-right and out of the frame, creates the discursive meaning of their being situated left of the middle (and left of Garbitsch and the fascists, who have taken “center stage” for the moment), and establishes them as being the minority in the group; despite their identical uniforms, these two men were picked out of the crowd, and even if the viewer knows nothing else of the film, they are at least eager to find out why.
The next cut to shot 3 (1:52:46) returns us back to a mid-close-up shot of Garbitsch, still looking up and over the audience (and the viewer), continuing his bitter tirade until cutting back again to Chaplin and Schultz in shot 4 (1:52:51), at the words “…our Great Leader” (this again cues the viewer to assume that Chaplin, due to both his strong resemblance to Hitler and his character’s resemblance to “Hynkel,” the dictator of the film, has been mistaken for the brutal despot).
This cut to Chaplin, still looking off-screen to the right, shows Chaplin looking down again, dismayed, until hearing Garbitsch being to talk Hynkel (the source of so much suffering for himself and his people) up. Each time Garbitsch glorifies and lionizes the brutal dictator, Chaplin’s character’s eyes rise, each time with a visibly growing fire of objection and indignation behind them. At Garbitsch’s final words, predicting Hynkel’s rise to be the future “Emperor of the World,” Chaplin’s eyes dart right, silently looking at Schultz for guidance. Schultz, now looking left at Chaplin (metaphorically located further left than he; a former member of the old establishment, and thus more “liberal” and by extension more able to effect real change), implores his comrade to speak (1:53:02). Chaplin then steals a glance at the camera (but in reality at “us,” the viewer), before responding that he cannot. Schultz, however, refuses to look at him (thus, refusing to acknowledge his defeatist attitude and remaining valiantly stony faced) and responds that it is their “only hope.”
At the word “Hope,” however, everything changes. (No doubt a none-too-subtle nod to the candicacy of Barack Obama, 70-something years before "Obamamentum" became en vogue).
Chaplin, now that the H-word has been verbally uttered, looks back at the camera to break the fourth wall and echoes the Captain’s sentiments, enunciating “hope” once more in a dreamy-yet-despairing whisper (signaling the viewer the word and concept’s frailty and fragility in the current circumstances). At the very same time (1:53:15), delicate strings begin to play diegetic music, as Chaplin’s eyes dart about wildly, quite literally “looking” for a source of hope, before finally locking eyes with the viewer and finding it. As Chaplin’s character rises, he looks out of the frame and away (perhaps, one could argue, “to the future”), and ascends to the podium.
As he does so, all eyes (including the viewer’s own, subverted, gaze) follow him as the camera pans right to following him to the stage. Once there (1:53:25), Chaplin’s character stands in stark contrast to Garbitsch; Chaplin, appearing short, meek and unassuming, dressed in a non-descript, olive-drab (which, in black-and-white, actually appears to be a lighter shade of gray), and Garbitsch, appearing tall, imperious, and unemotional clad in jet-black capes and closed body language.
At 1:53:45, the scene cuts to Schultz on the left (once again symbolizing the “leftist” Allies and liberals of democratic Europe), looking right to Chaplin with expectant eyes. In shot 5 (1:53:46), the camera cuts to Herring and Garbitsch on the right (representing the right-wing extremes and European fascists), looking up confused rather than expectant—a subtle hint, no doubt, that fascist dictators wouldn't recognize hope or compassion, even if they say it standing in front of them.
In shot 6 (1:53:48), the camera cuts to Chaplin in a close up, showing for the first time his character’s detailed features and age (symbolized in the white streak in his hair). At the cut, Chaplin is looking down-left, despairing, but speaks when looking at us. In contrast to Garbitsch’s speech, which was uttered over the heads gathered before him (and over us, the viewer), and which was characterized by an impetuous demeanor, minimal emotion and closed body language, Chaplin’s speech makes use of liberally body language, raising his head when speaking of lofty and altruistic images, and lowering when touching on the more sinister forces arrayed before him. Also unlike Garbitsch’s monologue, Chaplin’s speech is so direct and personal, and his gaze so immediate and individual, that it not only breaks the fourth wall, not only pulls the viewer into the story and has them hanging on his every word, it is almost disconcerting in the way the words seem directed personally at you (not the person next to you, not the person behind you, but you, and only you). In this way, the film not only cues the viewer into assigning the situation importance, but also forces the viewer to adopt a stance of defensive introspection and self-analysis—while usually frowned upon by conventional propaganda (whose maxim can be crudely simplified as “thinking audiences=audiences that might find something to disagree with you about”), this perfectly captures the propagandic message of The Great Dictator itself; namely, that you (yes, you, the viewer) can and should be introspective and self-analyzing. For, as The Great Dictator argues, it is only through introspection and analysis that one can ever hope to combat the speedy simplicity that traditional propaganda brow-beats individuals with in order to compel them to conform.
The next scene change is a dissolution to shot 7 (1:55:13), which dissolves to reveal Hannah (Paulette Goddard), Chaplin’s love interest (both on-screen, and in real life at the time), and this cut is quite intentionally synced up to Chaplin’s monologue in order to neatly represent the “millions around the world” who are suffering at the hands of brutes like the Nazis, all despite (or perhaps, because of) their innocence and inherent goodness. This cut, followed quickly by a dissolve to a distant, body-shot of Chaplin (1:55:21) serves as an emotional running-start, a “springboard,” if you will, to the sudden gear shift that follows. In this gear shift, Chaplin turns to the left and pans right, lowering his gaze to the out-of-frame, invisible soldiers, imploring them not to be drawn in by the malicious lies and callous logic of the brutes he has been denouncing. At the words “machine-men,” Chaplin again looks up at the camera, both accusatory but also reassuring the viewers that, even if they had been suckered—even if they had agreed to the goose-stepping madness that had subverted their free will and consigned them into mechanical, bovine obscurity—“you are not machines.” You, the viewer, therefore, are absolved of your sins (if you had any), so long as you now see the error of your ways and agree to the new status quo being presented by the film.
Gradually, the camera begins to move in (1:56:16), and as Chaplin quotes Luke:17, the close-up cuts out the microphones in the frame (the only “machines” present in the shot), as Chaplin once again oscillates between looking down at the invisible soldiers, and up at the camera and viewers. This technique is repeated again, and each time that Chaplin looks down at the invisible soldiers and back up at the camera (and us), he occasionally directs comments such as “unloved and unnatural” upwards at the viewer. While ostensibly alienating and condemnatory, this is not necessarily meant as a personal attack against the viewer (unless they don’t agree, and are thus “against” goodness, and by extension, unnatural). Rather, it is a subtle jab at the viewer, pointing out the fact that, as an observing, omniscient 3rd party, only they (the viewer) are capable of effecting change and sparing the lives of the invisible, innumerable soldiers who would otherwise be sacrificed. Thus, the reference is in fact a call-to-arms and a plea for action, rather than a bitter denunciation or vituperation.
After a brief cut (1:57:26) to a Nazi propaganda-crowd—ironically subverting the “Nazi Propaganda Gaze” to use against its own original purpose)—the scene dissolves to Hannah once more (shot 11, 1:57:32). In this shot, Hannah begins to look up as Chaplin addresses her directly, ostensibly looking up towards Heaven (the “Kingdom of Heaven,” mentioned previously in Chaplin’s speech), and as the camera dissolves back to Chaplin in shot 12, Chaplin too is looking up along with Hannah, uniting the two (and, by extension, uniting all people who metaphorically “look up” to see the same sky and hold the same dreams of hope and liberty and humanity).
Like any great propaganda film, The Great Dictator begins and ends with a definitive political, social, economic or ethical position it wishes to espouse, and goes to great lengths to inspire—or coerce—its viewers in order to share that position, ostensibly for the betterment of all mankind. While the precise tone and exact message of each propaganda film may differ (and, in the case of The Great Dictator as opposed to Triumph of the Will, they may differ quite a bit), the various techniques and processes of creating a compelling cinematic argument are the same as those used in standard Hollywood cinematic discourse in order to create narrative sense and a story’s plot. Through the use of intimate close-ups and fourth-wall-breaking gazes, through the controlled use of perspective and fetishized spectacle, The Great Dictator acts as an ironic, comedic (but still no less valid and identifiable) example of propaganda. It is the anti-propaganda, to be sure—propaganda used to debunk the most dangerous and malicious forms of coercive, "persuasive" media—and is Chaplin’s sincere and earnest attempt to use the self-same tactics of Triumph of the Will for definitively altruistic and diametrically-opposed ends.
But then again, every propagandist believes they are doing the right thing; the curse of convincing others, is at times being convinced by yourself.
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