Saturday Night

In a moonlit manor where marble staircases echo with whispers of old money, Iris—porcelain-skinned heiress to a railroad empire—trades her gilded cage for the oil-scented embrace of Tom, the chauffeur whose leather gloves still carry the ghost of steering-wheel heat. Their elopement detonates the social lattice: Richard, her erstwhile fiancé, retaliates by wedding Shamrock, the laundress’s daughter whose palms know every starch-stiff collar in the household. The film then pirouettes through a masquerade of divorces, remarriages, champagne soirées that curdle into brawls, and dawn-lit courthouse steps where silk hems trail through puddles of scandal. Jeanie Macpherson’s script stitches together opera-length stares, a children’s chorus humming ragtime hymns, and a final shot of Iris—now clad in a mechanic’s jumpsuit—watching biplanes scar the sky above the Riviera, her smile half emancipation, half elegy.