The Spirit of '76

A tempestuous allegiance of blood and empire, The Spirit of ’76 detonates inside the gilt drawing-rooms of mad King George, where Catherine Montour—half-Seneca, half-sovereign—dances on the knife-edge between concubinage and coronation. While muskets crackle across distant colonies, she dreams of a throne carved from a continent still smoldering with settler torches. Cloaked in buckskin and brocade, she shuttles between Windsor’s candle-lit corridors and the Ohio forests of her mothers, trading wampum for secrets, seduction for gunpowder, her body a map redrawn by every hand that grasps for it. The film fractures chronology like shattered stained glass: a midnight escape down the Thames, a treaty parley under a blood-moon, a gallows picnic where redcoats gamble on her last heartbeat. Each shard gleams with erotic dread, until the final reel—a single, unbroken shot—watches her burn a parchment crown and vanish into a snowfall of ash, leaving both monarch and revolution to choke on the smoke of their own making.