Summary
Fontaine Fox’s celluloid postcard from 1921 catapults us into a hand-drawn township where perspective itself has vertigo: tracks bend like paper clips, lampposts gossip, and the trolley—half mechanical beast, half municipal id—skitters along Main Street with the attention span of a hummingbird. Betty Bovee’s luminous shopgirl dispenses licorice and anarchic grins; Dan Mason’s conductor, equal parts showman and Sisyphus, wrestles brake handles that squeal in dialect. Wilde’s flapper anarchist pirouettes through candy-colored smoke bombs, while Maximillian’s top-hatted plutocrat tries to buy the horizon by the yard. The plot is a Möbius strip of sabotage and slapstick: every time the trolley derails, the town folds into itself like pop-up origami, revealing new gags stitched between the perforations. Fox’s gag-writing ethos treats cause-and-effect as a polite suggestion; physics is merely another extra on the payroll. The climax—an election where votes are literally thrown, caught, and re-thrown until democracy looks like a Calder mobile—resolves in a communal shrug and a communal cheer, both equally sincere.
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