Where Are Your Husbands?

A kaleidoscopic fever-dream of marital hide-and-seek, Where Are Your Husbands? unspools like a vaudeville acid trip: three wives, draped in the ghost-light of a nickelodeon lobby, discover their respectable spouses have moonlighted as big-top clowns, patent-medicine shills, even fugitive safe-crackers. The camera, drunk on iris-out gags and vertiginous Dutch tilts, chases them through fun-house corridors where every doorframe disgorges a new persona—now a bearded lady, now a confidence man hawking love potions distilled from yesterday’s divorce decrees. Billy B. Van, face rubberized into perpetual astonishment, shape-shifts between hen-pecked banker and carnival barker, his silhouette flickering like a moth trapped in the projector beam. Tom Bret’s intertitles, peppered with flapper slang and temperance pamphlet vitriol, splice matrimonial farce with social autopsy: the institution of marriage becomes a rotating barrel in a Coney Island shooting gallery, every bullet hole a revelation of debt, deception, and libido run amok. By the time the wives commandeer a stolen Model T to pursue their shape-shifting men across a landscape of smoke-stacked Pittsburgean nightmares, the film has detonated the very notion of fixed identity; gender itself is a costume trunk spilled open on a Mardi Gras morning. The final reel—a triple-exposure hallucination where wedding rings melt into handcuffs—leaves the viewer marooned between laughter and vertigo, clutching the sobering suspicion that the joke is on anyone who ever believed a marriage license was more than a ticket to the midway.