Ima Vamp

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.