Talkies by Eddie Cantor is a humorous essay written in the early 20th century. Playful and satirical in tone, it lampoons the arrival of sound in motion pictures and the broader explosion of mechanical noise in modern life. The narrator recalls a vanishing era of urban quiet, then jokes that talkies have turned cinema’s sanctuary into a cacophony, inspiring visions of chatty furniture, yodeling doorknobs, and multilingual bureaus. He skewers early sound-film glitches: mismatched voices and accents, kisses that slurp like soup, dentures clicking louder than violins, and microphones hidden in absurd places—like under a sofa that must be addressed as “Mother.” A botched synchronization has barnyard animals delivering the humans’ lines; another production uses multiple “doubles” to talk, sing, and play for a star. Pushing the gag further, he proposes a “smellophone,” then spins a skunk-led disaster on a Noah’s Ark set. The piece ends with a wry assurance that, for all the marvels of the talking screen, it can’t replace the stage—if only because you can’t wait by the stage door. (This is an automatically generated summary.)