Summary
A salt-stung coastal hamlet, ochre cliffs gnawed by tides, is the canvas on which this 1920 chamber-drama paints its trembling chiaroscuro. Hilda—whose palms still carry the tar-and-herring scent of her father’s nets—marries the town’s golden surgeon, Philip Emerson, a man who dissects spleens while blind to his own emotional necrosis. Matrimony, once a lantern, becomes a frost-bitten corridor: the doctor’s scalpels glint ever brighter as his gaze toward his wife dulls. When poliomyelitis blooms like a white bruise across the valley, Emerson’s obsession mutates; he transfuses his own soul into Petri dishes and X-ray plates, leaving Hilda to rock their infant beneath vacated rafters. Enter Peter—radiant, steadfast—and Robert—eyes smoldering with borrowed promises—two friends who become surrogate constellations in a sky Emerson has abandoned. News arrives like a guillotine: little Philip Jr. succumbs to the epidemic, or so the death certificate insists. Hilda’s wail shatters the film’s very frame; the camera retreats as though ashamed. Yet in a clandestine catacomb beneath the sanatorium, the boy’s chest still rises, palsied but breathing. Emerson, convinced truth would torch the last filament of his wife’s sanity, imprisons the child in a metal cot, injecting serums distilled from his own midnight sweat. Science, ever the vaunted colossus, buckles; hamstrings remain petrified. Only Peter’s conscience, flinted against secrecy, drags mother and son back into shared oxygen. The reunion is primal: her trembling lullabies, the heat of her skin against his atrophied calves. In the final reel, the boy stands—frail, swaying, but vertical—his first steps a manifesto of flesh over pharmacology, of matriarchal alchemy over chloroform hubris.
Synopsis
Hilda, a fisherman's daughter, and Philip Emerson, a noted physician, fall in love and marry, but the doctor soon becomes increasingly involved in his medical work, neglecting Hilda and their young son Philip, Jr. He then leaves her in the company of his friends, kind Peter and philandering Robert. When an epidemic of infantile paralysis breaks out, taking up even more of the doctor's time, his own son contracts the disease, and by all appearances dies from it. Heartbroken, Hilda collapses. However, the doctor discovers that the boy is in fact alive, although paralyzed. Believing that Hilda would be even more disturbed to know this, he hides the boy in his laboratory and works on trying to cure him, but cannot. Peter finally reunites Hilda with her son, and her presence and the miracle of motherly love succeed where science has failed: the boy is cured and walks toward his mother.
Review Excerpt
"
Moonlit nitrate flickers, and suddenly the room smells of brine and carbolic acid. The Woman in His House is that rare phantasm which makes the spectator conscious of odor, temperature, the very taste of grief. Shot through with a palette of bruised indigos and cigarette-ember oranges, it positions itself halfway between Dickensian sentiment and the clinical chill that would later pervade The Flashlight. Yet unlike that thriller’s voltaic shocks, this film’s voltage is low, sustained, intimate..."
