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Showman gives ‘em the old razzle-dazzle

WASHINGTON — In this town of showmen, liars and big-time con artists, there has never been a more splendid vaudeville show.

It was a comedy of errors yesterday filled with surprise and farce and tragedy featuring a stunning dramatic performance by Charlie Rangel that would strain the acting abilities of the most accomplished Shakespearean player.

From grand bluster, he swung into thundering rage. Then brooding fury gave way to wincing openness. And then the wounded face of a crushed soul. Only to emerge fiery defiance.

All this from one lonely character in just a few minutes on a cramped stage in a room full of dupes.

The latest act in this endless play began yesterday, when Rangel entered the hearing room, a simple stage for his last stand.

He strolled in from the public hallway without the slightest wrinkle of worry creasing his face.

His striped tie and red pocket handkerchief were bright and cheery enough to attract hummingbirds.

On his finger, a glittering ring the size of a butter plate.

As he entered, all alone, a look of pleasant surprise crossed his face as if he had just stumbled upon his birthday party and there were so many familiar faces.

Smiling broadly, nodding deeply, winking here and there, he sauntered to the front of the room and stood proudly behind his prosperous girth.

The only faint recognition by Rangel that his career and legacy were on trial at that moment was his simple refusal to sit — vulnerable and low — while awaiting the entrance of his tormentors.

And when the ethics-committee members arrived, they were no match for Charlie Rangel.

The chairwoman began in the flat, hushed tones of a public-radio host — only to be drowned out by the sheer force of Rangel’s performance.

Denied counsel! Bankrupted by the committee! An endless two-year investigation! Justice for all! Due process!

His crimes were not as bad as they might have been, so where is the apology?

“All I’m asking for is time to get counsel,” Rangel implored with his arms flailing beside him.

And so he danced on that fissure between fact and fiction — reality and fantasy — so fluidly and convincingly that even Truth would not have known her own face in that room.

But no matter how great or epic, every play must come to an end. Curtains for Charlie.

churt@nypost.com