Betty's Green-Eyed Monster

A sun-bleached citrus orchard becomes the amphitheatre for a woman’s slow combustion: Betty, newly wed to citrus baron Robert, watches her husband’s gaze slide toward every swaying skirt and feels the green acid of possessiveness eat through the lacquer of her composure. Muriel Ostriche incarnates this corrosion with flickers of eyelash and jaw—tiny seismic shifts that register on the Richter scale of repression. When Robert’s flirtation with a visiting San Francisco sculptress escalates into moonlit sketching sessions, Betty’s jealousy graduates from passive surveillance to operatic sabotage: she engineers a champagne-bubble masquerade where identities dissolve like sugar in absinthe, then plants the sculptress’s missing bracelet in her rival’s boudoir to frame an innocent chauffeur. The film’s visual grammar toggles between the pastoral serenity of white adobe arcades and the Expressionist tangle of eucalyptus shadows, as if nature itself were blushing at the human farce. In the final reel, a windstorm of blossom petals swirls around the confession scene—an ecstasy of petals and recriminations—until Betty, stripped of artifice, stands mute beneath the spinning orchard ladder, her eyes two bruised olives, no longer hunting but hunted by her own unmasked need.