In Society

Inside the gilded aquarium of upper-crust Manhattan, a restless sylph in pearls drifts through marble corridors that echo only with the tick of a husband’s pocket-watch. He chases ledgers downtown while she chases phantoms upstairs, spinning boredom into baroque tableaux: a moonlit waltz with her own reflection, a clandestine joyride on a milk-cart horse, a flirtation with a bohemian painter who mistakes her ennui for genius. Each imagined escapade peels back another lamination of propriety until the woman confronts the yawning absence beneath her privilege—a void no couture gown can stuff. The film’s final movement dissolves fantasy into documentary truth: she walks, veil-less, through immigrant-lined streets, tasting coal-smoke and pretzel salt, finally authoring her own existence rather than renting it from a husband’s schedule.