Maurice Chevalier, though 67 and thicker of waist, can be as debonair, as gamin, as boulevardier as ever. He proves as skillful as ever at prattling, as clever at pantomime, as suavely deficient in voice; he flashes his professional yet always personal smile, brightly kids flamenco, travesties the English, bangs at Las Vegas.
But though the cork pops and the champagne flows, the drink often tastes pretty flat. A whole evening of Chevalier is debatable to begin with; a whole evening when, pretending to stroll in straw hat and stick, he must in effect tote sample cases full of inferior wares, seems...
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