There's never been a Charlie Chaplin festival quite like the one we're bringing you throughout the month of March-47 separate Chaplin titles including all his biggies, both feature-length films and the legendary shorts, plus 12 separate and revealing documentaries about the man and his films, in addition to a Chaplin "revue" compilation feature and the premiere of a striking new documentary about the great star by film historian Richard Schickel. Call it a month in which you can find out everything you ever wanted to know about the fellow often called "the reigning genius of the movies."

It's a passport to Chaplin at age 25 in his Keystone comedies, at age 36 in his dazzlingly funny The Gold Rush, at age 51 in his first talkie The Great Dictator, at age 68 in his last all-Chaplin endeavor, A King in New York, and everything in between. But the Chaplin I remember most vividly is one who stood alone and frail on the stage of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion of the L.A. Music Center in 1972. He was just a week away from his 83rd birthday and back in Hollywood for the first time since he'd been ruled persona non grata 20 years earlier in the era of McCarthyism when he was refused an entry visa to the U.S. following a trip he'd made to his native England. He was, at that time, accused of having Communist sympathies, although he had adamantly declared he never did. ("I am not a Communist and never have been," he insisted. "What I am is a peace monger.") After that, he swore never to set foot on American soil again and didn't for two decades, during which time not only did the world change drastically but so, eventually, did the public's distrust of him. Eventually, he became a beloved icon again and Hollywood's Academy asked him to accept a special Oscar® in 1972 for "the incalculable effect he has had in making motion pictures the art form of the century."

Return to Hollywood he did, although he was terribly frightened to do so because of his age. He also feared the violence he heard was now commonplace in American cities and he was concerned that the anger, which had once been pitted against him, might resurface. On that trip he cautiously revisited old haunts, including what had once been his studio on Highland Avenue in Hollywood, and both met old friends and made some new ones. On Oscar® night itself, April 10, 1972, the program planners did something that had never been done before: they saved his appearance until after all the other awards had been dispersed. Jack Lemmon made the introduction and, after a prolonged standing ovation, teary-eyed and obviously fragile, Chaplin stood alone in a spotlight and said, very haltingly, "Words seem, oh, so futile, so feeble. This is a very emotional moment for me. You are wonderful...sweet people." Then, he donned the Little Tramp's bowler hat, reminding people of earlier, more robust and pioneering times, looking anything but the dangerous menace he was once accused of being. It was a remarkable moment to witness and Chaplin's last time in the town he helped create.

by Robert Osborne