Solid Concrete

A jittery concrete-sample peddler, whose syllables trip over one another like drunken bricks, zigzags through a bustling microcosm of 1923 America—sidewalks, trolley tracks, and half-built skyscrapers become his stuttering stage. Each attempted sales pitch detonates into Rube-Goldberg catastrophes: a demo slab splinters a prized storefront window, a mispronounced order sends construction crews pouring wet cement down the mayor’s convertible, and a love-letter to the boss’s daughter arrives as an unintelligible telegram that accidentally commissions a Gothic cathedral of concrete in her backyard. The film’s very architecture—slapstick girders of pratfalls, expressionist shadows of embarrassment—turns language itself into rubble, leaving the hero to discover that the only fluent speech left in a city of noise is the thud of his own body against the indifferent metropolis.