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Cult Review
Archivist John
Senior Editor
Plot in a headlights’ glare:
A woman curves toward self-immolation, skids, then somehow straightens the wheel without ever fully lifting her foot from the throttle.
Josephson and Hughes, those scenarist surgeons, dissect the bourgeois marriage at a moment when jazz cords were beginning to throttle parlor-room waltzes. Their screenplay never sermonizes; instead it allows sun-flared lake ripples, lace curtains breathing in and out of windows, and the repetitive click of a telegraph key to speak the unspeakable: desire does not evaporate with a wedding ring’s tight fit.
Helene Chadwick’s Phoebe is no vampish caricature; her restlessness flickers behind the eyes first, a staccato blink-and-you-miss-it contraction of the pupils whenever Newton’s baritone drifts across the parlor. Watch her fingertips drum the arm of a wicker chair—one-two-three, one-two-three—as though counting measures of a life she isn’t sure she chose. Opposite her, Richard Dix’s Harley carries the stoic shoulders of a man who has read every manual on how to be indispensable to corporation and wife, yet never skimmed the footnote that warns absence is a solvent.
Newton Hall, entrusted with the homewrecking Anson, plays him with an almost scientific chill: the smile reaches the cheekbones, never the iris. The effect is more unsettling than any mustache-twirling villain; you sense he collects conquests like pressed wild-flowers—something beautiful to flatten, forget, and casually reopen between book pages years later.
Director Edward Sloman maps psychology onto landscape. The summer resort becomes a labyrinth of white planks, boat-house shadows, and verandas wide enough for whispers to ricochet. Note how the camera’s elevation drops inch by inch as Phoebe’s moral ground erodes: early scenes eye her at waist height, framed by picket fences; by the time she readies for that fateful dinner, the lens glares up at her from shoelace level—an almost noir-esque worship that exposes every tremor of silk.
Where many silents over-salt dialogue cards, Dangerous Curve Ahead opts for epigrammatic whispers. My screencap-grabbed favorite: “A broken promise sometimes glitters sharper than the ring that forged it.” The line arrives just as Phoebe fingers her re-accepted engagement jewel—an image cut like diamond on velvet.
Sloman’s film predates Get Your Man by a hairline, yet already interrogates the manic-pixie trope that latter picture would candy-coat. While The Intrusion of Isabel stages female rivalry as drawing-room farce, Dangerous Curve Ahead treats every character as simultaneous sinner and savior—a tension far more postmodern than its release year suggests.
And if you’ve sat through The Children in the House, you’ll recognize the motif of offspring as moral litmus. Yet here the fevered child is not a mere plot lever; her off-screen whimper threads every adult transgression to visceral consequence, tightening the noose until even the audience feels the temperature spike.
Until recently, the only surviving element languished in an incomplete 16mm at La Cinémathèque de Toulouse. A 4K photochemical rescue—funded by an unlikely coalition of San Francisco silent-film diehards and Tokyo’s color-timing wizards—now reveals the amber halo around the kerosene lamps, the bruise-purple of dusk on water. The new Blu-ray’s tonal range finally matches Sloman’s ambition: every shade of guilt visible in the grain.
Though originally released with a compiled cue sheet recommending “Hearts and Flowers” for the break-up, I synced the film to Molly Joyce’s 2020 chamber EP—all tremolo electric violin and heartbeat-like foot-pedal percussion. The anachronism electrifies: suddenly Phoebe’s plight feels algorithmically contemporary, your Spotify Wrapped of marital malaise.
This is not a relic to be politely filed beside heroic biopics or crime capers. Dangerous Curve Ahead is the fault-line running beneath every ostensibly settled union—a warning that the road may look straight on the map, but gravel can shift under summer rain, and sometimes the only thing preventing a plunge is the reflexive jerk of a steering wheel you didn’t know your marriage possessed. See it, then go home and listen for the echo of wheels on your own nightly driveway; you might discover your own curve signs have recently been stolen.
IMDb —
1919
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