Oh, Girls!

A kaleidoscopic fever-dream of flapper-era femininity, Oh, Girls! hurtles through gin-soaked speakeasies, clapboard boarding houses, and phosphorescent vaudeville stages where five women—each a shard of the same fractured mirror—weaponize laughter, legs, and laconic wit against the patriarchal machinery that would grind them into chorus-girl paste. Harry Madison’s swaggering con-man, equal parts matinee idol and card-sharp Svengali, drifts among them like a fox in a henhouse made of tungsten and tinsel, promising Broadway stardom while pick-pocketing their last nickel. Hap Ward’s hoofer, a human metronome whose tap shoes spark like flint on steel, ricochets between romantic foil and accidental saboteur; Charles A. Post’s cigar-chomping producer lounges in the shadows, a corpulent spider orchestrating casting-couch sacrifices. Helen Howard’s ingenue—eyes wide as nickelodeon screens—morphs from ingénue to insurgent once she deciphers the semaphore of winks, whistles, and backstage betrayal. The film pirouettes from slapstick custard-pie anarchy to acid-etched melodrama without warning, stitching together split-screens, irised close-ups, and jump-cuts that feel like a stutter in the space-time continuum. Reels dissolve into hand-tinted amber hallucinations where chorus lines melt into locomotive steam; title cards arrive like telegrams from a drunken conscience. By the final reel the women, stripped of illusions but clad in sequined armor, commandeer the spotlight, train lamps blazing through the gauze of a society that never asked them to speak—only to shimmy. The closing shot freezes on a wink that shatters the fourth wall: a promise that the revolution will be choreographed, and it will be electric.