Chapter 11
Chapter 11
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 11
Chapter Title: Chaplin Finds a Stage
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A few days later, I handed the first draft of the script to Renua at the Killigrew Theater Company.
"What do you think, Mr. Renua?"
"Hmm, well..."
Renua stared intently at the script I'd dashed off in one go.
It was a far cry from his usual fiery demeanor, which made me a little uneasy.
"Is it no good? Too flimsy as a script?"
"Heh heh, you kidding? Holding back the laughs that kept bursting out while reading it was torture enough. A good farce needs this kind of cheerful, punchy wit. If we're talking favorites, this script gets a solid 25 out of 10."
Out of 10, and he gives it 25? What the hell?
Maybe he's at that age where dad jokes hit just right.
Either way, if a comedy script actually made him laugh, that's a smashing success.
The issue was why he was reacting like that despite it all.
"That said... I don't think it's the kind of thing our Killigrew Theater Company could stage."
"Ah."
"Yeah, looks like you get it. You know the difference between a regular public theater and a private one like ours, right?"
I understood completely.
Theater types dictate wildly different customer bases.
Public theaters aim for a broad audience, welcoming all comers.
Nobles or commoners, rich or poor—no matter, pay the flat fee and you're in.
Private theaters, on the other hand, cater mainly to the wealthy elite.
With such a narrow clientele, they stick to productions suited to high-society tastes.
Naturally, the Charlie Chaplin classics I'd copied verbatim didn't fit the bill for a private theater's main fare.
"Nobles don't hate comedy, of course. Lighthearted, slapstick stuff delights everyone, young or old, man or woman."
Renua handed back the script with a regretful tone.
"But sadly, it doesn't match our troupe's image at all. Killigrew rose to fame with serious, solemn religious plays, after all."
"Fair enough... My judgment was shortsighted."
No one expects a dignified straight-play actor to suddenly ham it up in comedy.
But hoping for both from the same performer? Rare as hen's teeth.
Switching from [Admiral Li] and [Julius Caesar] to Chaplin-style slapstick out of the blue?
It'd draw brickbats, not bouquets.
"Which brings me to this, Phantom."
As I pondered, arms crossed, Renua made an unexpected proposal.
"How about contracting this script with another theater and staging it there?"
"Pardon?"
Contract with some other theater besides Killigrew?
Me, the playwright behind two blockbuster hits in a row?
"You serious? No issues on your end?"
"What, planning to cut ties with us for good?"
"Of course not."
Renua grinned teasingly.
I waved it off firmly, denying any such intent.
Killigrew was a top-tier troupe, even in the capital.
Stellar acting, direction, and transparent operations made collaborating a breeze.
Simply put, they'd earned fat profits from two hits plus hefty imperial patronage.
They could've fleeced a theater newbie like me, but didn't.
No reason for me to burn that bridge.
"Then we're good. As a theater lover myself, I hate seeing rivals snag hits, but I loathe brilliant works gathering dust even more."
Renua dusted himself off and stood, snatching his coat from the rack.
"Come on, Phantom. I know just the theater perfect for your script. They'll pull it off without a hitch."
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ "Hmm, what's this? Long time no see, and you drop in with that?"
Tap tap. A middle-aged woman expertly knocked ash into the ashtray.
Deep wrinkles framed her eyes, but she hadn't lost her youthful beauty. Isabella welcomed us in the parlor.
"A script from the red-hot playwright Phantom? And you want us to stage it?"
"Exactly, Isabella. This is a friendly overture from one troupe leader to another."
"Hah."
Puff puff. She blew donut-shaped smoke rings, smirking.
Amused disbelief as she eyed Renua and me in turn.
Isabella ran a troupe just like Renua—specifically, she was the head of the Gelorusina Theater Troupe, where he'd brought me.
Difference? Renua still acted; Isabella had retired to train successors.
"Twenty years in theater management, and handing another troupe's playwright over? First time for everything. Most of us write our own scripts anyway."
Unlike Killigrew's lavish private interior, Gelorusina screamed classic medieval public theater.
Minimal stage curtains outdoors, seats varying wildly by price tier.
Cheap tickets for poor views (like standing room), premium for the best seats.
A bit shabby, sure, but it had a freer, more soulful vibe than Killigrew.
"Anyway. This must be the famous playwright Phantom himself?"
Glance. She side-eyed my opera-ghost getup with curiosity.
"Why the mask, Mr. Phantom? Tall, strapping build—you must be quite the looker."
"Acid splash scarred my face. Regrettably, it's hideous enough to scream about under here."
"Oh dear. Poor thing. God is cruelly fair, isn't he?"
I recited the 1943 film's backstory, earning her subtle pity.
Like gazing at a tragic genius blessed and cursed in equal measure.
She figured my explosive talent cost me my looks.
My real face under the mask was fine, of course—wasted sympathy.
"No skin off my back. I know the fame of [Admiral Li] and [Julius Caesar]. And with fifteen-plus years knowing you, Renua, your word's gold."
"Damn right. I'd never bullshit you, Izzy. You know us."
"Quiet. Give you an inch..."
Renua joked with a leer; Isabella rolled her eyes but played along.
Fifteen years of friendship, thick as thieves.
No wonder he trusted her with my script.
"But really okay with us, Mr. Phantom? Our style's worlds from that slimy Renua's."
She shot Renua a glare as he snickered beside me.
Questioning if a straight-play specialist could vibe here.
Writers with strong styles rarely stray.
But seeing beats preaching.
To ease her doubts, Renua shoved the script her way.
"Read it and judge. First draft's done."
"What? You brought the full script? Prepared, aren't you?"
Eyes wide, she took it, flipping pages rapidly in stunned wonder.
Like Renua, troupe folks speed-read scripts like pros.
One minute, two.
Her brown eyes raced across the text.
"Pfft!"
Suddenly, her lips twitched, shoulders shaking.
One hand clutched the script, the other her mouth, stifling guffaws—a sight to behold.
"...Been ages. Laughing at just the setups in a script. Rookie mistake back in the day."
After fits and starts, she finished.
She set the script gently on the parlor table.
"Mr. Phantom, thought you were straight-play only, but you've got comedy chops too? This polished—this could go up tomorrow."
"Really? Thank you, Miss Isabella."
Comedy, alongside tragedy, is one of theater's foundational forms, ancient and revered.
Light plots, bright, happy endings define it.
Its levity earned historical snubs versus tragedy, but no art history ignores comedy's satire and entertainment value.
Chaplin's works leaned toward farce, a subset.
Farce evolved from Greek/Roman rustic skits through medieval French traditions: short, absurd comedies.
Exaggerated, implausible, over-the-top humor at its core.
No comedy matched Chaplin's flashy slapstick and wild whimsy.
Critics hailed him for reviving ancient marketplace farces on screen.
"Deal. Script's ready—no waiting. I'll rally the kids."
Isabella grabbed her pipe again, deciding.
With a wistful glance, she added,
"Kinda sucks, though. Teaming with talent like yours for just one show. Renua must be green with envy."
"Not the end."
"...Huh?"
"What?"
Both actors whipped around, stunned sync.
I smiled, clarifying.
"More Chaplin comedy scripts incoming. All exclusive to Gelorusina Theater Troupe."
"R-really, Mr. Phantom? L-long-term collab with us?"
Isabella's jaw hung slack, dazed by my bombshell.
And yes, I meant every word, full throttle.
Today's script was just one of Chaplin's countless films.
From early 15-minute shorts to Hollywood epics.
[Making a Living], [The Champion], [City Lights], [Modern Times]—plenty to localize for this world.