A Scrambled Romance

A kaleidoscope of marital entropy, A Scrambled Romance stitches vaudeville pratfalls onto the hem of a crumbling honeymoon. Polly Moran—jaw set like a bulldog in curlers—plays a newlywed whose breakfast eggs slide from skillet to husband’s fedora, triggering a domino of door-slamming, piano-crawling, chandelier-swinging calamities. The plot, a Rube Goldberg of jealousy, scrambles across boarding-house corridors, moonlit parks, and a courthouse that tilts like a sinking ark. Each reel cracks open a fresh yolk of misunderstanding: a mislaced garter mistaken for another woman’s, a love letter baked into a soufflé, a divorce decree served on a roller-skate. By the time Moran’s character dangles from a courthouse clock, time itself feels poached—soft whites of sincerity folding into hard edges of farce. The film ends not with reconciliation but with the couple flinging yolks at one another in a diner, their laughter as runny as the eggs, suggesting love is less an institution than an endlessly flipped omelet.