I’m bickering with my roommate about the usual stuff (Team Carrot Top vs. Team Gallagher), and the house phone rings. We continue to bicker for the next twenty or so minutes while the phone continues to ring. I answer the phone on the 431st ring, only we both stipulate that both comedians are absolutely hilarious. It turns out the call is from the pizza place around the corner. The credit card I gave them was declined, and they were wondering if I had another form of payment, preferably cash.
A ringing phone causes anxiety. To me, at least. I understand when a filmmaker would want to leverage this to further tighten the screws during a tense scene, like when a hostage-taker refuses to let a captive answer a phone call from his dying wife. But when it’s a guy brushing his teeth in the morning, and he’s moving like a three-toed sloth to answer a call from his crab doctor, the caller isn’t going to wait for the machine after two minutes of ringing.
Six rings. Max.