Wordless story about a man who awakes in his bed wearing his clothes (including a check vest). He rises, washes his face, combs his hair, and heads for work across the street at a copy shop. He inadvertently makes a photocopy of his hand, and then the machine beings turning out copies of photographs of himself, the street outside, and his apartment. He unplugs the copier and heads home. He repeats the scene we saw earlier. Copies of himself emerge from bed; baffled, he watches them go to work. Soon, it seems, he's part of a society in which everyone looks like him and wears check vest. Can he get things back to normal?
Director
Writer
Status
Released
Original Language
DE
Morning reveals New York harbor, the wharves, the Brooklyn Bridge. A ferry boat docks, disgorging its huddled mass. People move briskly along Wall St. or stroll more languorously through a cemetery. Ranks of skyscrapers extrude columns of smoke and steam. In plain view. Or framed, as through a balustrade. A crane promotes the city's upward progress, as an ironworker balances on a high beam. A locomotive in a railway yard prepares to depart, while an arriving ocean liner jostles with attentive tugboats. Fading sunlight is reflected in the waters of the harbor. The imagery is interspersed with quotations from Walt Whitman, who is left unnamed.
