Jack the Giant Killer

In a sepia-tinted Kansas City attic that reeks of coal dust and boyish yearning, a pimply dreamer named Jack unspools a home-made reel for the neighborhood’s unattainable Susie; the flickering strip, spliced with sweat and swagger, reimagines him as a fearless bean-sower who climbs a vine of pure nerve into a cobalt sky. There, among cumulus continents, he confronts a cyclopean colossus forged from chalk-dust and hubris, brandishing a toy sword that glints like a first kiss. Each frame jitters like a heartbeat: the giant’s breath rustles paper clouds, Susie’s celluloid double gasps from a tower of thimbles and thread, and Jack—half puppet, half aspiration—swings from cobweb rigging, determined to stitch fantasy to flesh. The tale loops, stutters, rewinds, as if the boy-creator can’t decide whether love is best won by slaughtering monsters or by merely entertaining them. In the final gag, the giant deflates into a pair of long johns on the clothesline; Jack shrugs, winks at the camera, and offers Susie the leftover beans. She pockets them, grins, and the reel burns out in a flare of white—leaving only the smell of nitrate and the after-image of a grin that may or may not be reciprocated.