Little Miss Mischief

A maelstrom of toddler id, Little Miss Mischief channels the primal howl of a dethroned princess. Baby Peggy—face as elastic as a silent-screen metronome—etches her jealousy into parlor wallpaper with a charcoal grin, then flees the domestic court where a usurper infant now guzzles affection. The city’s night entrails swallow her: junk-yards, ash-caked alleys, the hulking silhouette of a scrap-sultan who cages children like cracked porcelain. She becomes a nocturnal feline, meowing under moon-bleached windows until chamber-pots, candlesticks, and worn-out dreams rain down; her wagon swells with the detritus of strangers’ lives. Escaping the gnawing maw of servitude, she sprints back to the pastel prison she loathed, only to find the front door ajar, the cradle quiet, and her parents’ arms a cathedral of forgiveness—yet the camera lingers on her eyes, still feral, already plotting the next upheaval.