Loose Lions and Fast Lovers

A carnival of leonine chaos detonates inside a monochrome fun-fair where matrimonial vows are as flimsy as rice-paper. Bud Jamison’s hen-pecked husband, festooned in a straw boater two sizes too small, stumbles through a tunnel-of-love that disgorges him into the muscular embrace of The Century Lions—beasts rented by a slick-haired Lothario whose moustache wax glistens like fresh crime-scene evidence. Dixie Lamont’s cigarette-girl turned reluctant lion-tamer sashays between cages and chaise longues, her satin calves flashing Morse code to every hot-blooded rube in the county. While the big cats gnaw the scenery, matrimonial sabotage is plotted in the shadows: a gramophone blares tango so torrid the needle melts; a wedding veil is repurposed as a lion’s hammock; a honeymoon trunk reveals not lingerie but a sedated lioness dreaming of steak. The climax—a three-ring chase across collapsing bleachers—leaves corsets unhooked, egos shredded, and the institution of marriage looking like it was mauled by a pride on payday.