Summary
A nickelodeon fever-dream stitched from soot, sweat, and celluloid nitrate: on the clamorous streets of an East-Coast industrial town, a bright-eyed riveter (Edward Flanagan) vaults from lunch-pail respectability to gin-soaked perdition after one carnival night with a jazz-age siren whose laughter jingles like shattered crystal. His fall arcs through pool-hall shadows, whistle-stop speakeasies, and the sulfurous glow of a steel mill, each frame cranked with staccato iris-ins that feel like punches. Along the curbstone gutters, a vaudeville prankster (Neely Edwards) and a Presbyterian matron (May Foster) watch his moral carcass unravel—one mocking, the other mourning—while title cards, terse as cracked commandments, flash ‘GUILTY’ and ‘FORGIVEN’ in alternating electric shocks. The film ends on a rain-slick rail track: our hero limping toward a horizon already swallowed by night, pockets emptied of illusions, the camera retreating until only the echo of his boots remains, a metronome counting down to America’s Great Depression.
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