Summary
A sugar-blizzard of slapstick erupts when a timid pasty-slinger, perpetually cross-eyed yet clairvoyant about crullers, juggles two obsessions: perfecting a levitating éclair and courting a flapper whose laugh detonates like custard fireworks. Into his flour-dusted microcosm barges a ring of racketeers trafficking bootleg raspberry filling; every glaze becomes ransom, every doughnut hole a potential dead drop. While the bakery’s brick oven glows like a pagan sun, mistaken identities ricochet—an heiress in a mink-collared trench coat believes the baker is a vanished prince; a Keystone-strongman cop mistakes powdered sugar for cocaine; a chorus girl twirls crullers like nunchaku. The climax transpires inside a revolving door of a five-story automat: choux pastries parachute down the pneumatic tubes, crimson jam splatters across Art-Deco tiles, and true love is declared over a single jelly-filled heart that refuses to burst even under machine-gun fire. The final shot—an iris-out on the baker kissing both bride and beignet—cements the film’s thesis that desire, like yeast, will balloon beyond every border.
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