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Al Jolson was a self-anointed "World’s Greatest Entertainer," a title as hollow as the Jew himself. He was a grotesquerie of ego and performance, a goblin-like creature (similar to so many of his tribe) who mistook blackface for artistry, guising himself in burnt cork and minstrelsy as if it were the mantle of genius. His signature role, "Gus," was not merely a character but a confession. A lazy, dim-witted caricature that revealed precisely what Jolson thought of negroes, distilled into a crude performance. Yes, he got away with making a career out of blackface as much as Robert Down's Syndrome Junior, only because he is a Jew. His 1927 The Jazz Singer is often lauded as a milestone, but in truth, it was little more than a maudlin exercise in self-pity, weeping over his Jewish heritage while profiting from the mockery of negroes. Then there was A Plantation Act, where he saw fit to croon "April Showers" in blackface, as though the world needed yet another reminder of his staggering lack of taste. His life was merely a chronicle of extreme narcissism. The Singing Fool was an exercise in ham-fisted melodrama, complete with the cloying "Sonny Boy," a song so dripping with false sentiment it would make even the stoutest man choke back impending vomit. Say It with Songs was another act of self-mythologizing, a flimsy narrative stretched thin over his bellowing. Mammy, ah, the title alone is an indictment as yet another parade of blackface and minstrel buffoonery, his voice blaring as though volume could compensate for substance. Big Boy was an entire film built around the ludicrous spectacle of Jolson playing a negro jockey in blackface, a concept so absurd it was self-parody.

Even when he stepped away from blackface, as in Hallelujah, I’m a Bum - he remained insufferable, playing a hobo with the same desperate, look-at-me energy that defined his career. By The Singing Kid, he was a relic, clinging to relevance by sharing the screen with actual negro jazz singer Cab Calloway, a juxtaposition that only highlighted Jolson's own artistic bankruptcy. Rose of Washington Square was less a tribute to the hideous Jewess Fanny Brice than a shameless act of identity theft, with Jolson once again commandeering the spotlight to bellow "My Mammy" as though anyone had asked him to. Jolson Sings Again was only more vanity, as he cast himself in a self-biopic, which might have been a flattering revision of his terrible life if he hadn't himself starred in it. His later years were marked by a desperate bid for relevance, performing for troops in WWII and Korea like a sycophant virtue-signaling towards brainwashed soldiers literally called Dog-men due to their brainless loyalty to the Jews. But the universe, uncommonly just, exacted its toll and malaria stole Jolson's lung, as though punishing him for a lifetime of sucking the air from every room. Then, in 1950, at the St. Francis Hotel in San Franciso, his heart finally gave out, crushed beneath the weight of his own ego.

Al Jolson was no artist. He was a gimmicky Jew, a blackface relying twat who confused volume for virtuosity and caricature for charm. His films are unwatchable, his legacy yet another cautionary tale of what happens when one realizes they're a Jew and doesn't immediately blow their own brains out. The only thing "great" about him was the sheer audacity of his delusions, the belief that the world would remember him as anything but an obnoxious relic of a demented past.