I'm Ringing Your Party

A lone telephone receiver, dangling like a hanged man in a sepia void, becomes the axle around which Bud Fisher’s phantasmagoria spins. Through a cataract of flickering iris-shutters we glimpse a nameless metropolis where every doorbell has grown a tongue, every parlour echoes with off-key birthday anthems, and the sky itself is a switchboard of crossed wires. A diffident clerk—half Chaplin, half cadaver—discovers that each time he lifts the receiver he is hurled into a parallel soirée: flappers dissolving into moths, tuxedoed cadavers waltzing with their own skeletons, champagne that spills upward and pools in the chandelier. The gag loops, the guest list mutates, the cake re-ices itself in blood-red fondant. Somewhere between the fourteenth and fifteenth ring the parties begin to overlap, conversations bleeding into one another like wet newsprint, until the clerk realises he is not a guest but the entertainment, a wind-up marionette whose jerky dance is the evening’s centre-piece. The film ends where it began: the same close-up of the receiver, now audibly breathing, its cord coiled like an umbilical cord ready to reel the next spectator into the carnival. No moral, no catharsis—only the diabolical invitation to pick up again.