Charlie Chaplin is the sole justification for a large part of the kinemaÕs repertory. On the steadiness of his success hang, with precarious clutches, numbers of weak little screen comedians whose humour is wholly blatant.
At the Deansgate Picture House this week there is a new Chaplin comedy. It is called ÒThe AdventurerÓ and portrays the hero in the role of an escaped convict. Like all his recent films it is exceedingly well produced, and the acting of the lesser people avoids any risk of the film being a one-man show.
As regards Charlie himself, it is a little disappointing. There are scenes of him running, monkey-like, up the sheer slopes of a sandy cliff, of high dives and splendid swimming. He doesnÕt carry the expressive cane, nor does he wear the bowler hat that was bought for him when he was ten and is now an indifferent fit. He does things which weÕve never seen him do before, and most of the time the camera is too far away from him to catch the full significance of his expressions. But there are one or two perfect moments in the film, as, for instance, when the freed convict wakes up and finds himself clad in a sleeping suit, striped like the ominous garments of Sing-Sing, and with the bars of his bedstead behind him.   M.A.L.