Charlie Chaplin’s The Kid is a warm, sharply judged comedy about caring for a child with scarcely anything to spare. Jackie Coogan makes the affection convincing, even when Chaplin’s fondness for sentiment gets the better of him.
Charlie Chaplin gives the Tramp a child to look after, then finds comedy in the work of caring for him. The Kid is a fine, funny film whose affection survives some rather determined attempts to make us feel sorry for its characters. An abandoned baby comes into the care of a man who scarcely seems equipped for the job. Chaplin lets their life together become familiar enough that we begin to take the household as seriously as they do.
Jackie Coogan is essential because the boy gets to contribute to the comedy. His charm is considerable, but he also has something to do besides being cherished, and the shared routines give him a proper place beside Chaplin. We were moved by the sight of the Tramp simply getting on with looking after him. There is nothing grand about the care, which is why it feels convincing. Coogan makes the child seem comfortable in this company, and that ease holds their scenes together.
Roland Totheroh’s cinematography serves the physical performances well, keeping the Tramp’s movements clear within the detailed slum setting. The surroundings matter: they make it difficult to forget how little this household has, even when the comedy is at its lightest. The domestic spaces also give the performers something to work against, so the setting earns its place in the jokes. We can enjoy Chaplin’s grace while remaining aware that these are poor people trying to get through a day.
Chaplin’s editing gives the jokes time to register without repeatedly bringing the story to a halt. At 68 minutes, the film allows its central relationship to settle into a recognisable daily life. Chaplin is credited with the music too, and here the urge to help us feel becomes less welcome. The score’s tenderness can press a point the actors have already made, particularly when Coogan’s presence is sufficient to earn our sympathy.
The same problem affects the direction when Chaplin leans too hard on the child’s appeal. We are occasionally asked to feel sorry for the boy just when his comic independence has made him interesting, and the insistence reduces what Coogan has achieved. This never wrecks the film, but it does make the sadness feel arranged in places. The poverty around the pair supplies ample reason for concern, without further encouragement to regard them tenderly. For a family comedy, though, its detailed account of slum life is unusually unwilling to make poverty look cosy.
There is no need to approach The Kid as an improving encounter with early cinema. Come for the physical comedy and give the child as much attention as the man whose name occupies so many of the credits. We recommend it warmly, with a warning for anyone impatient with overt appeals to sympathy: Chaplin will make them, even after the boy has made them unnecessary.
