When Artists Go to Work

In 1940, as the U.S. approached WWII, Charlie Chaplin wrote, directed and produced a film called “The Great Dictator.”

For its time, it was a bold comedy. If you haven’t seen it, it’s on Prime and I’d recommend it. Because for a movie made 85 years ago, it stands up.

In the film, Chaplin double bills as the righteous leader of state—and yes, there’s no mistaking it’s Hitler. But he doubes his role as a Jewish barber, who looks, acts and speaks exactly like Hitler. As Chaplin does, he builds up both roles for the first 80 minutes of the film, and then the roles reverse. And the Jewish barber speaks to a million person crowd expecting the words of HItler, and instead, get a speech that resonates just as clearly today.

The film bombed.

In 1940, Chaplin was at the peak of his career. Think if it were George Clooney, or Brad Pitt. Maybe it’s easier today, but then…?
A Hollywood icon, 25 years into his career. The Tramp. The Kid. The United Artists Era. City Lights. Modern Times. Chaplin owned his studio. Owned the development three blocks away on Fountain for his actors. Pure Hollywood Legend.

Remember the waves it made when Alec Baldwin took the role of Donald Trump on SNL? Well in 1940, there was no SNL. We didn’t have weekly skits mocking whatever was in the news that week. No Tik Tok. No Facebook, surprisingly. SNL didn't exist in 1940, so there was no weekly sketch to mock our leaders.

But there was Hitler. There was the swastika. And what Chaplin did was put it up at the big screen for everyone to see. And then he made fun of it.

Why?

“Hitler needs to be laughed at.”

That’s his answer. The U.S. hadn’t even entered the war in 1940. But Chaplin knew it was time to do what he did best: use his voice.

Did it hurt him? Yes. Critics and audiences skewered him. He was put on the FBI watchlist. McCarthy’s Un-American Activities Committee put him in center ring. Hitler even marked Chaplin as someone he needed to kill. And yet, 85 years later, I’m writing about it in a Substack about doing the work.

This piece originated in a Brooklyn sandwich shop almost 10 years ago when Donald Trump was elected the first time. I’m not a Trump fan, I don’t pretend to be. So if that’s your thing, that’s your thing and you and I have the right to disagree on that thing. I posted then, and immediately got a call from a a recruiter telling me to take down the post, because I couldn’t be associated with Hitler.

Ten years later, I edited it, rewrote it, and made it relevant to today’s world, and posted it on a brand new Substack. And just as before, I got calls to take it down by people I know and respect.

And now, months later, not only am I reposting it, rewriting it and resending it, but I’m adding to it. Because then, the first time the conversation, as it was for many years, was only about Trump and the chaos he rained upon the world. The second time, it was about Trump, and ignoring the chaos he rained upon the globe. But now, only 3 months later, the conversation is so much bigger than one man.

We do not live in the 1940s. We do not live in Nazi Germany.
We live here. We live now.

And just as Chaplin did in the 1940s, as Ray Bradbury did with Fahrenheit 451 in the 50s, as Chayefsky did with Network in the 70s. Rambo in the 80s. The Wachowskis in the 90s and beyond, we live in a time where we can either choose to bitch about it, loudly and online and throw it out to any conversation we’ve ever wanted or not wanted to have.

Or we can go to work.

“Greed has poisoned men’s souls,” Chaplin wrote in 1940.
"You don’t have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them,” Bradbury said
“I am the walrus,” said McCartney.

From 2015-2020, I followed with bleeding heart madness all of the chaos. I marched. I hashtagged. I got sucked into the algorithms of the social outrage machine. I held onto the hope that someone was coming to save us.

I did what Chaplin didn’t do.
Or maybe he did it but just in his bedroom with the doors closed and the lights off.

But now, today, in 2026, the chaos has become the standard. The platforms that have connected us and given us abundance have left us not just in want but angry. Split society, jeopardized democracy and even the Canadians are pissed and I haven’t seen Canadians pissed unless it’s about Wayne Gretzky. And I am supposed to be angry.

Because you know what? Trump is taking away rights. And the Nazis are coming back to power and the Dems are leftist evil trannies that pee in school litter boxes.

I can’t even say it without it sounding ridiculous. Forced, even.

Because it is.

Because in the world of capitalism, outrage = engagement.
And engagement on any platform = money. In 2015, I wasn't aware of the algorithm. In 2025, the machine is apparent. The Matrix is alive and well, and the robots are showing their faces.

The arguments obligating us to our feeds. The notifications begging us to pick up our phones. It’s all by design. We are no longer the consumers. We are the consumed. We are their product. We are what the machines buy, manipulate, and sell. We've been their product for years. The machines know what it takes to make us angry.

After 10 years of angry, I'm really bored with being the equivalent of a box of Cheerios. So now the question is, what are we going to do about it?

We go to work. We use our voice. The real one. Not the ones the machines give us, not the edited Grammarly perfection. Our voice. Imperfectly perfect. Inconsequentially us. And unbelievably us.

In 1940, Chaplin turned evil into slapstick.

In 1953, Ray Bradbury published an expose on how entertainment numbs us better than any sensor.

In 1976, Paddy Chayevsky gave us a feature film in which media assasinates a celebrity on live air for ratings.

In 1999, the Wachowskis offered us red pills and blue pills. “You can feel it when you go to work, when you go to church, when you pay your taxes. It is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth."

That’s what they did. They didn’t complain. They created. They used their voice. They went to work.

A Digital World. An Analog Soul.

The algorithms do not have to define us. As writers, as artists, as humans, our responsibility lies in what we create.

A confession: sometimes I use AI as a proofreader. It's pretty good at telling me about verb usage, sentence structure, or where to strengthen an argument. But sometimes, it tries to sneak in the writing for me. I have to be on my toes. After 20 years as a professional writer, I can tell when it does it, and I can tell it to stop. I can make my own points. But it still tries. Why?

Because if I let the machine take over, I will be the product. My words will become its words, and its large language model will become mine. But when I take the step back and tell the machine to step off, it listens.

Because I am more than just a user. I have a voice.

“We know things are bad — worse than bad. They’re crazy. It’s like everything everywhere is going crazy, so we don’t go out anymore. We sit in the house, and slowly the world we are living in is getting smaller, and all we say is: ‘Please, at least leave us alone in our living rooms. Let me have my Internet and my TV and I won’t say anything. Just leave us alone.’

“So, I want you to get up right now. I want all of you to get up out of your chairs. I want you to get up right now and go to the window. Open it and stick your head in and yell, “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore!””

Chayevsky wrote that in 1976. Now, what will 2025 bring? That's up to us. Who knows, maybe when the next Outrage comes our way, we'll look to that bold piece of work you've created to get us through it.