By this point it was fairly clear that Charlie Chaplin's little tramp character was not a canonical, consistent individual embarking on one adventure after the other. He could be a man of any name or background, albeit with the same famous props and persona, even a foreigner coming to American shores for the first time.
It was this flexibility of character that kept Chaplin continually inventive, as well as being the key to the breadth of his appeal. The situations Charlie finds himself in here would be familiar to a large proportion of the audience, either from their own lives or the stories of their parents. There is a layer of poignancy in the harsh and frank depiction of the sea crossing, and Chaplin's balancing of comedy and tragedy was never better. Jokes have a bittersweet edge, and sad moments are given a comic – but never disrespectful – twist.
Chaplin's precision as a director is utterly beautiful to behold. When the camera is tilting and Charlie is lurching all over the deck, other passengers get up one-by-one to vomit over the side, giving a kind of rising level of madness to the scene, and making the tramp's tottering look even more precarious. Later, when the passengers are having dinner, the rocking of the boat provides plenty of great gags, but look at what happens when Edna Purviance walks in. Not only do we cut to close-ups, losing all the distracting background business, but the rolling subsides to a gentle swaying. The change is smooth enough for us not to notice, but it subliminally colours the moment.
The supporting performances are gems as always, but this time special attention goes to Henry Bergman. In the first half, Chaplin ekes a few laughs out of the poor man's rotund stature, with Bergman's rolling across the deck actually being quite an impressive feat. In the second half he gives one of his most fun performances as the flamboyant artist, not being exactly laugh-out-loud funny but creating a bold character all the same.
And Chaplin himself is in the middle of it all, now doing his little tramp so effortlessly it looks as if his funny business is just happening, rather than having been thought up. He was now like Jimmy Stewart or Gary Cooper would be years later – always playing the same familiar type who could be adapted to any setting. The added bonus for Chaplin is that, as a silent star, audiences could project any name or voice they wanted upon him. This, then, is also one of the reasons why the little tramp could not have survived into the sound era – but that's another story.
It was this flexibility of character that kept Chaplin continually inventive, as well as being the key to the breadth of his appeal. The situations Charlie finds himself in here would be familiar to a large proportion of the audience, either from their own lives or the stories of their parents. There is a layer of poignancy in the harsh and frank depiction of the sea crossing, and Chaplin's balancing of comedy and tragedy was never better. Jokes have a bittersweet edge, and sad moments are given a comic – but never disrespectful – twist.
Chaplin's precision as a director is utterly beautiful to behold. When the camera is tilting and Charlie is lurching all over the deck, other passengers get up one-by-one to vomit over the side, giving a kind of rising level of madness to the scene, and making the tramp's tottering look even more precarious. Later, when the passengers are having dinner, the rocking of the boat provides plenty of great gags, but look at what happens when Edna Purviance walks in. Not only do we cut to close-ups, losing all the distracting background business, but the rolling subsides to a gentle swaying. The change is smooth enough for us not to notice, but it subliminally colours the moment.
The supporting performances are gems as always, but this time special attention goes to Henry Bergman. In the first half, Chaplin ekes a few laughs out of the poor man's rotund stature, with Bergman's rolling across the deck actually being quite an impressive feat. In the second half he gives one of his most fun performances as the flamboyant artist, not being exactly laugh-out-loud funny but creating a bold character all the same.
And Chaplin himself is in the middle of it all, now doing his little tramp so effortlessly it looks as if his funny business is just happening, rather than having been thought up. He was now like Jimmy Stewart or Gary Cooper would be years later – always playing the same familiar type who could be adapted to any setting. The added bonus for Chaplin is that, as a silent star, audiences could project any name or voice they wanted upon him. This, then, is also one of the reasons why the little tramp could not have survived into the sound era – but that's another story.