Summary
A gilded coffin of celluloid delusion: six-foot scarecrow heiress, bones wrapped in inherited taffeta, stalks the arc-lights like a stork that thinks it’s Garbo. Daddy’s millions bankroll a director whose talent could be drowned in a thimble; together they confect a vanity vehicle so rickety its sprocket holes yawn wider than the leading lady’s mascara-choked eyes. Each frame curdles with flop-sweat: velvet drapes sag like wet lungs, chandeliers droop like exhausted erections, and the star—120 pounds of trembling wish—floats through parlors and drawing rooms demanding love in a voice that could sand varnish. The plot, a frayed corset of high-society masquerades and drawing-room suicides, snaps midway; what remains is a séance of shrieks, collapsing sets, and the lingering perfume of money trying to purchase immortality but settling for ridicule.
Synopsis
This six-foot, 120-pound old maid wanted to be a movie queen, and her Dad had money. The director was greedy but it would have taken four Dads to have given him enough ability to put this over.
Director
Ward Lascelle
Deep Analysis
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