Summary
In the chiaroscuro of post-war ennui, Parkington—a Manhattan esthete whose soul is upholstered in velvet and rust—discovers that his wife Lida’s pupils dilate not for him but for the velvet-tongued neosymbolist oracle Swetson, a man who recites Mallarmé as if chewing glass. To liberate her, Parkington stages his own aqueous demise: a plunge from a fog-laced pier, pocketed with stones and a letter that smells of bergamot and regret. Yet the grave cannot hold a ghost who never died; his testament bequeaths everything to Lida, but his rapacious aunt Maria Fortescue—part gorgon, part railroad baron—snatches the will like a hawk claiming a field mouse. Swetson, scenting lucre, pivots his desire from the wife to the aunt, marrying Maria in a candle-lit ceremony where the vows taste of iron. Months later, Parkington—his face a living palimpsest of greasepaint and anguish—returns in the guise of a taciturn gardener. Only the cold nose of his mastiff, Pal, betrays the masquerade. From behind velvet drapes he eavesdrops on a midnight confession: a second, later will exists, one that would disinherit Lida forever. In a single flourish of lamplight he restores the original parchment, confronts the usurpers, and expels them into the snow. The final tableau: husband and wife silhouetted against a bay window, the dog curled like a comma between them, the world outside exhaling white silence.
Synopsis
James Parkington, Finding that his wife Lida is more absorbed in neosymbolist lecturer Swetson than in him, James Parkington resolves to feign suicide to secure her happiness. Although Parkington has willed his estate to Lida, Maria Fortescue, his aunt, lays claim to the estate upon his "death." Learning that Maria has inherited the estate, Swetson turns his attentions to her. Parkington, eager to know the results of his scheme, comes out of seclusion in disguise and visits the home, where he is recognized by his dog. He overhears a discussion of a second will, restores the original will, and when discovered by Maria and Swetson, orders them from the house. Swetson reveals that he is married to Maria, and Parkington and Lida are reconciled.
Review Excerpt
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Restless Souls is not a film; it is a séance on celluloid, a nitrate fever dream where love wears the mask of death and even the dog knows the scent of deceit.
Calder Johnstone’s screenplay—adapted from a slither of Richard Harding Davis cosmopolitan dread—treats the bourgeois drawing room like a shark tank lined with Persian rugs. Every cigarette curl, every tremor of lace curtains, vibrates with the unspoken: what if marriage itself is the original forgery? The film’s first act unspools lik..."
