Summary
A lone silhouette—equal parts jester and prophet—lurches through a metropolis that feels excavated from yesterday’s nightmares and tomorrow’s headlines. Paper money flutters like wounded doves while trolley bells clang funeral hymns for a civic dream long curdled. Billy Ruge’s nameless drifter, equal parts Buster Keaton’s ghost and Chaplin’s id, staggers into a pawnshop whose shelves groan with wedding rings and rusted bayonets, each price tag a miniature obituary for human trust. A mysterious reel-to-reel recorder spins an inaudible question—"Will it come to this?"—that haunts stairwells, speakeasies, and rooftop pigeon coops. In episodic tableaux, the city’s denizens barter dignity for survival: a typist auctions her last vowel to finish a love letter, a cop pockets bribes inside a clown’s rubber nose, children stage a mock execution with broomsticks and crepe paper. The film’s very structure mimics a frayed ciné-train schedule, jumping tracks between slapstick acceleration and languid, almost Tarkovskyan pauses where milk bottles sweat on windowsills and time itself forgets the hour. Midway, the drifter hijacks a political rally, replacing the candidate’s speech with a kazoo solo that crescendos into a hail of counterfeit confetti; yet the gag curdles when the crowd, hungry for any ritual, elects the kazooist mayor in a write-in landslide. Power corrupts in real time: top-hatted financiers clap him on the back, a brass band drowns out the squeak of ethical retreat, and the city’s skyline mutates into a jawbone of neon molars. In the penultimate movement, he confronts his own reflection inside a fun-house mirror rigged to a stock-ticker—every uptick elongates his nose, every crash thins his limbs—until the glass splinters and the question on the recorder finally speaks with his own voice. The finale offers neither catharsis nor apocalypse, only a slow dissolve to dawn: our anti-hero, stripped of office and clown shoes, shuffles toward an open drawbridge that may slam shut or yawn wider; the frame freezes on his raised eyebrow, a silent dare to the audience to decide whether the plunge is tragedy, pratfall, or rebirth.
Review Excerpt
"
A nitrate fever dream resurrected from a Berlin vault, Will It Come to This arrives like a ransom note from the past—its edges singed, its punchlines bleeding.
Tom Bret’s screenplay, once dismissed as too grotesque for peacetime, now feels like a wiretap on the 21st-century id. Scene after scene anticipates the meme-ification of governance, the lolcats who hold nuclear codes, the telethons where despair is auctioned for likes. Billy Ruge, a vaudeville escape artist who never quite broke the f..."
