Then, in the center of the frame, like an asp, is a prickly-pear cactus, its flattened paddles fraught with narrative pull. The Little Fellow chases after Olive Ann, who bows down before him in invitation; he bows back and loses his balance, planting his behind directly into the devilish prickly pear. When he springs up, his dancing, already inspired, is now manic, double-time, and he dashes away; it’s time for the girls to pursue him.

Then a curious moment: him rubbing his sore behind, and seeing himself being seen by the girls. He looks into the camera for the only time in all Sunnyside. He registers with the audience that it and he both know that there are rules: they are beyond him, time is running out, this will not end well. He shrugs, as if asking, In that case, why not make the best of it?

He nabs Olive Ann by the hand. The rest come with, skipping together through the tall grass. When they have left the screen, there is a full second of the landscape, a perfect day preserved, a place still beautiful without them.

Back on the bridge comes the finale. It is as if suitcases are put on beds, candles are being blown out, drapes drawn closed. The Little Fellow dances with Olive Ann again. They bounce like bunnies on the bridge, feet pounding against the plywood. She has sweated through her gown, the roses droop in her hair, but he is as fresh as Narcissus. Behind them is the better part of Sunnyside, and ahead of them the village and the world.

Chaplin falls to one knee, hands to his heart, declaring himself; she swoons, she accepts, they’re in love, final embrace between them, because now that they’re to marry the end is coming.

He throws his head back with a smile, and he addresses heaven. There is no title card to interrupt him. His lips do not move.

We all die alone.

But, of course, no one can hear him.

He makes a lustful and doomed lurch toward Olive Ann, who sidesteps, and— ! —he falls off the bridge.

There he is, in the riverbed again, and the girls make a human chain, pulling—again—on a rope made of vines and flowers. He jerks with the motion, he’s unconscious, the girls fade away, replaced by a midget, a fat man, a dirty yokel, and the evil boss, who haul him up, boot him in the rear, shove him across the bridge, and laugh until they can hardly stand up, for reasons that are not entirely clear, except cruelty.

By the time they finished, the sun was disappearing behind the hills. Chaplin was trembling. His body ached. His throat was parched. How long was that? he asked. But no one was sure yet. Was it eight minutes? Was it longer? No one knew. He could not remember anything about it.