Chaplin's sentimental salute to himself, in the role of an aging vaudevillian still bursting with creativity, charity, sagacity, and dignity. Astoundingly self-glamorizing, voluminously talky, almost totally unhumorous. Its chosen vein is pathos, and it is undoubtedly pathetic in one sense or another. Made in 1952, but it looks closer to 1932 with its lead-weighted camerawork and barren, prison-like sets. With Claire Bloom and, too briefly, Buster Keaton. (1952) — Duncan Shepherd
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