I love Charlie Chaplin's work and style, but this movie is just so self-indulgent that it ceases to be anything like art. I have no clue what these critics are talking about when they claim this is some grand statement on art, death, and youth. It's more like a monument to Chaplin's ego, with Calvero as his self-insert protagonist. The scenes where Claire Bloom's character praises him for being "funny," "sensitive," and "more than a comedian" just feel like such self-congratulatory pandering.
The story has no structure to speak of, plodding along and giving us ample time to be lectured by Chaplin on consciousness and life. The comedic scenes are dismal and unfunny. The dramatic scenes flop. The supporting actors don't really get to establish their characters well, because Chaplin is pretty much convinced that this is going to be the Calvero hour. No other character need be developed when HE is supposed to be the whole show.
I wanted to love this movie. I really did. No one blends comedy, humanism, and tragedy quite like Chaplin, and when he gets it right (which he does most of the time), you get pure cinematic magic. But this is just a mess.
An unpopular opinion, yes, but for now, I'm holding to it.
The story has no structure to speak of, plodding along and giving us ample time to be lectured by Chaplin on consciousness and life. The comedic scenes are dismal and unfunny. The dramatic scenes flop. The supporting actors don't really get to establish their characters well, because Chaplin is pretty much convinced that this is going to be the Calvero hour. No other character need be developed when HE is supposed to be the whole show.
I wanted to love this movie. I really did. No one blends comedy, humanism, and tragedy quite like Chaplin, and when he gets it right (which he does most of the time), you get pure cinematic magic. But this is just a mess.
An unpopular opinion, yes, but for now, I'm holding to it.