Men Who Have Made Love to Me

A cigarette ember glows like a tiny comet while Mary MacLane—poet, provocateur, self-crowned queen of the Great Falls demi-monde—reassembles the shards of six erotic skirmishes. She parades them not as confessions but as trophies: the bank clerk who mistook her gaze for a deposit slip; the prize-fighter whose fists bruised only air once she stepped outside the ring of his expectations; the married man who arrived wrapped in another woman’s name and left stripped of every alibi. Between each vignette MacLane lounges in a velvet chair, exhaling skepticism in lazy spirals, while her maid—part confessor, part mirror—unpicks the seams of romance with a needle sharp enough to mend nothing. The film refuses melodrama: affairs collapse not from catastrophe but from the slow leak of fantasy, leaving MacLane upright, amused, sovereign. Re-enactments bleed into metatheatrical address; the camera becomes the seventh lover, courted, teased, finally dismissed. No one is redeemed, no moral delivered—only the lingering perfume of autonomy, half-rose, half-smoke.