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100 CELLULOID
on a fragment of paper torn from the hoop through which the girl jumped, all that remained of the circus ring and his loved one. He shrugged his shoulders as only Chaplin can, flicked his cane, and cheerfully walked away into the distance in his inimitable manner as the screen darkened. From that empty field he has come to a great city and, homeless as usual, found shelter for the night in an about-to-be unveiled statue. Yet again he falls in love, this time it would seem with more success. In fact, the suspense of the ending of City Lights gives many people reason to believe that this film is his swan song, the end of all things, which I do not believe.
If City Lights be regarded from a detached point of view, and if for a moment we are indifferent to Chaplin's engaging personality, we shall see that it is quite different in texture from any other current picture of American origin, and in particular from the comedies of Harold Lloyd and Buster Keaton. There is no quality in it to suggest that it was produced in the neighbourhood of Hollywood. It does not bear the American studio imprint as do most American films, especially the comedies of Lloyd and Keaton. It might, for instance, have been made in England, with the exception of one or two minor points such as the policemens' uniforms and scavengers' clothes. It might be a film of any city or a synthesis of all cities.
This international quality which distinguishes all Chaplin's films is, I think, worth considerable