The Earl of Pawtucket

A frost-bitten Rhode Island mill town, circa 1915, wakes to find its most eminent resident—Colonel Brinsley, the self-styled Earl of Pawtucket—has pawned his own myth for a handful of Confederate scrip and a pocket watch that ticks backward. While brass bands still rehearse his putative heroism, the Colonel’s ward, Rosamond, slips through the side-door of respectability into the arms of a railroad surveyor whose pockets are empty but whose gaze promises un-American latitudes. Enter the Colonel’s nephew, a Wall Street hyena in patent-leather gaiters, brandishing promissory notes inked in the old man’s trembling hand. The film—shot on slate-gray mornings when the Pawtucket River swells like a bruise—tracks the clan’s descent from parlor-room hauteur to barter-town desperation: heirloom portraits swapped for coal, ancestral swords melted into rivets, a wedding dress sold to a Polish seamstress who dreams of Ellis Island. All the while, Augustus Thomas’s intertitles crackle with Gilded-Age sarcasm: “He kept his honor in the attic, next to the moth-balled flag.” Emil Hoch’s Colonel, face a topographical map of defaulted loans, dies mid-sentence—his final cough splattering the deed to a silk mill across the camera lens. Rosamond, now reduced to staging séances for mill girls, confronts the new landlord: her former fiancé. The closing shot—an iris that narrows to the spinning watch—freezes time at the instant the word ‘earl’ loses all lexical meaning, leaving only the smell of river-sludge and the sound of looms grinding out someone else’s future.