This is considered to be one of Buster Keaton's greats, but I couldn't understand why until the final ten minutes. Up to that point, it's a very dull, basic formula: steamboat captain reunites with an estranged son, furrows his brow when the boy isn't as manly as he'd like, forbids his courtship of a rival's daughter and is, eventually, shown the error of his ways.

Keaton is the son, of course; a flighty, effeminate young man with a delicate step and an aversion to violence. He conjures up a few lightly amusing set pieces - testing caps in a haberdashery, scuffling with hired muscle, sneaking out for a midnight rendezvous - but none of it feels particularly fruitful. Not until that closing scene, when a cyclone rolls into town and Keaton basically discards the plot to have some fun. Then, suddenly, it's a physical comedy manifesto, replete with the kind of chaotic, disaster-inviting stunts that made his career. Most striking is the famous falling frame bit, where the star (once again) risks life and limb by pulling a full-blown house down around himself, but really, the entire climax is thoroughly astounding. That's where the sizzle lives, Keaton being Keaton without the constraints of an unconvincing romance or a bumbling old man to work around. The wind-swept catastrophe is pure dynamite, but the preceding acts really make us earn it.