Imagine being a big fan of The Beatles who doesn’t like Hey Jude or a car enthusiast that isn’t
keen on Ferraris. That’s the situation I find myself in when it comes to The Gold Rush. I’ve never met as big a
Charlie Chaplin fan as myself and doubt I ever will. His 1925 film saw the
beginning of his golden period, a period which lasted fifteen years before his
deportation from the US
and witnessed the production of some of his most successful films. Chaplin
remarked in his own splendid autobiography that he wanted The Gold Rush to be the film that he was remembered for and to an
extent it is. Why is it then that I don’t love his Ferrari, his Hey Jude, his Gold Rush? The Gold Rush
was amongst the first Chaplin films I saw and I had high hopes for it. When I
was initially discovering Chaplin’s work it was obvious that this was one of
his most famous and as a result, surely one of his best. Many people would
argue that it is. I was instantly disappointed though with a film that I felt
was short of laughter and featuring a plot which I cared little for. The story
certainly beats some of his earlier shorts and it’s better written and deeper
than say his follow-up The Circus but
it doesn’t really do anything for me. It feels like the plot of a short that
has been stretched to breaking point and isn’t as sweet, dramatic or
sophisticated as the likes of The Kid
or City Lights.
