Golf

In a clapboard universe where parquet floors double as fairways, a manic golfer—equal parts Nero and nobleman—unleashes a cobalt-tinted auger, perforating domesticity until joists yodel and chandeliers tremble. From atop a mahogany tabletop that serves as an improvised tee box, he pirouettes, driver whistling like a dervish, sending dimpled spheres through heirloom mirrors that shiver into mercury confetti. Wedgwood vases, ancestral portraits, and a soup tureen in the adjacent tenement all surrender to the same ballistic fate; the broth erupts in porcelain geysers while the neighbor’s monocle drops into the consommé like a surrendering sun. Silent yet sonorous, the film stages slapstick as a cubist rupture: every swing refracts space, every ricochet rewrites etiquette, until the house itself becomes a sand trap of splintered civilization.