February 13, 1921 [The Kid]

Chaplin understands the appeal of the movies: a space in which aggressive sentimentality will always be forgiven—and more: where it is encouraged, and partnered with anything else (genuine pathos, broad comedy, social commentary) that will put up with its excesses. Or maybe it's just Chaplin's brand of sentimentalism. After all, he is the master of the small touch: In the midst of catastrophic merriment he flicks a cigar-end or pauses and stares, with just enough dexterity to surprise or just the proper stillness to register the moment—and to engage us in that moment, as sappy as it might be. The Kid brings this tendency closer to perfection. Between Chaplin's Tramp and Jackie Coogan's Kid, I wasn't sure which was which, and didn't care. Again, I'm enamored of the little things: The Tramp entering his abject hovel—but not before daintily wiping his feet. The Kid aiming a window-destined rock—and stopping in mid-swing as he realizes a cop is standing behind him. The Tramp eager to stop the Kid from brawling—until he sees that the boy is winning, and he switches without a beat to applause and encouragement. The Kid making a formidable stack of flapjacks—and tearing off a tiny corner of one of the drooping fried disks to sample the flavor, a gesture delicate as a master chef appeasing a miffed soufflé. And I will not ignore the pathos, surprisingly affecting. Coogan cries magnificently, and Chaplin reveals himself as a philosophical clown, inclined to moral musings and all-but-tragic heights of loss and regret—while not ignoring our need for flight and capture, with nimble rooftop-hopping tossed in—mingled with a Tramp-Kid reunion that had the audience sobbing. Such unashamed pandering! And such wonderful surrender to it! What hath Chaplin wrought?