I suppose I should insert a spoiler alert before I discuss the Pagliacci-style ending, with Keaton's character compelled to play a clown while the woman he loves marries another man. In the context of the story this fails to be poignant, but in the context of the star's career it inadvertently hits the mark. This, we now know, would be Buster's fate for the rest of the '30s: Reduced to clowning in mediocre comedies while everything he cares about -- his family, his home, his creative freedom -- is taken away. Watching it today, the ending feels like a deliberate ritual humiliation, as the Hollywood machine forces the greatest American director of the 1920s to fall in line.