DbcultAccessing Vault...
Cult Review
Senior Film Conservator
A chandelier’s thousand crystals flicker like gossip in In Society, and every shard catches a different angle of the same restless wife. The camera, drunk on her discontent, pirouettes through drawing rooms so cavernous you could park a zeppelin beside the grand piano. Yet the real geography is internal: a map sketched in sighs, erasures, and the electric pause before scandal.
Director Scott Pembroke—better known then for knockabout two-reelers—vaults into high society melodrama with the appetite of a street urchin sampling champagne. He keeps the staging deliberately theatrical, as though Edith Roberts’s porcelain protagonist might at any moment break the proscenium and demand a rewrite. The effect is Brecht avant la lettre: we never forget we are watching display, and that very artifice sharpens the ache beneath the feathers.
Cinematographer Francis McDonald bathes Roberts in a honeyed chiaroscuro that turns skin into alabaster and shadows into bruises. Notice the moment she unhooks her pearl collar: the necklace slithers off-screen like a reptile shedding its skin, a silent announcement that the performance of dutiful wife is over. The cut that follows lands us inside a nickelodeon where newsreels of suffrage parades stutter across a scratched screen; the splice is jarring, almost Soviet, collapsing her private rebellion into the public clamor outside the velvet ropes.
Compare this to One of Our Girls, where the heroine’s transgressions are tidily re-domesticated by fade-out. Pembroke refuses such comfort. His final shot holds on Roberts’s face—half grin, half gauntlet—while the city’s elevated train rattles past the window, a mechanical reminder that time, like a husband, can be missed but never stopped.
Dick La Reno’s spouse is less a character than a metronome: we hear his footfall on the stair, the jangle of keys, the grunt that could mean hello or goodbye. The film’s genius is to make this absence kinetic; he is present through the very vacuum he leaves behind. In one bravura sequence, Roberts paces the length of a reception room while the camera tracks backward, keeping her centered as the furniture seems to recede like loyal courtiers abandoning a queen who has misplaced her crown. Each footstep lands on a bearskin rug, and the glass eyes of the stuffed head glint as if judging her ingratitude.
Hollywood circa 1921 usually punished imaginative wives with suicide or repentance; see The Innocent Sinner for the template. Here, imagination is not a temporary detour but a guillotine. Roberts’s daydreams are rendered in double exposures so lush they threaten to burst the celluloid: skyscrapers sprout wings, parlors flood with seawater, a lone violin morphs into a flock of gulls. Yet each reverie ends with a match-cut back to mundane upholstery, the shock of banality more violent than any slap.
The boundless visual grammar predates even Cleopatra’s opulent daydreams, yet unlike Theda Bara’s star-vehicle spectacle, these flights are tethered to psychic necessity. When Roberts imagines herself dancing on a rooftop, the city’s lights blink Morse code for “escape,” but the chimney-smoke spells “stay.”
Viewed today with a live trio hammering out a contemporary score, the film mutates again. I caught it in a Brooklyn warehouse where musicians scraped violin strings with copper brushes, producing a rasp that felt like the inside of a neglected housewife’s skull. Each creak synced with Roberts’s blinks, turning the theater into a hive of collective pulse. Silence, normally the Achilles heel of surviving prints, becomes collaborator: the soft hiss between title cards is the soughing of a marriage bed grown cold.
Edith Roberts, too often dismissed as merely decorative, wields her cheekbones like switchblades. Watch the micro-tremor when she smells another woman’s perfume on her husband’s lapel; the nostril flare is almost imperceptible, yet the emotional seismograph jumps from 2 to 8. Compare her restraint to the histrionic contortions of The Weakness of Man; Roberts intimates rather than declaims, making her eventual break feel earned rather than engineered.
Catherine Kent, as the bohemian painter who serves as temporary co-conspirator, supplies a jolt of saltpeter. She swaggers into parlors wearing men’s cravats and a grin that knows the censor can’t police what hasn’t been named. Their scenes together crackle with pre-Code electricity; when Kent casually stubs a cigarette on a Sèvres saucer, the act feels more erotic than any kiss the era could show.
The production design sneaks in social commentary: tiger skins drape chaise longues like spoils of empire, and a Maori totem sits incongruously beside a portrait of Washington. These objets are not mere exotic décor; they are trophies of the same patriarchal conquest that has pinned Roberts inside a gilded diorama. When she finally flees, she leaves the front door open, letting in the sound of immigrant children chanting jump-rope rhymes—America’s future spilling into America’s past.
This subtextual sting anticipates the class-conscious barbs of The Almighty Dollar, yet arrives three years earlier, proof that the silent era was already excavating the fault lines beneath the Jazz Age’s manic grin.
Why has In Society languished in the attic while Merely Mary Ann enjoys pristine restorations? Partly because no Garbo or Pickford headline graces the poster; partly because the film’s negative was sliced into short segments for army training reels during WWII, a casualty of celluloid cannibalism. Yet absence can be aura. The fragments that survive—five reels out of seven—feel deliberately elliptical, as if the movie itself took Roberts’s lesson and walked out before the plot could staple it down.
Streaming platforms, hungry for fresh IP, have begun sniffing around Pembroke’s oeuvre. A 4K scan from the sole surviving Portuguese print surfaced on an obscure torrent last winter; within hours, Tumblr bloomed with GIF sets tagged #SilentSelfCare and #PorcelainRebel. Fan fiction imagines Roberts’s next chapter in Paris, trading pearls for paintbrushes. The cycle is complete: a film about the dangers of fantasy has itself become fantasy’s fuel.
To watch In Society is to press your forehead against a windowpane coated in frost; the outside world blurs into impressionist smears, yet the cold seeps through all the same. The film does not comfort, it cracks. Long after the curtain, you will find yourself counting the silences in your own domestic routines—the hush between the microwave’s ding and the neighbor’s TV, the pause between your partner’s inhale and your reply. In that hush you may hear Edith Roberts’s satin heel turning on parquet, a reminder that revolutions begin not with manifestos but with the refusal to keep still.
Seek it out, even if only in shreds. Let its incompleteness mirror your own half-formed desires. And if the final reel ever surfaces, resist the urge to splice it neatly into place; some stories are more honest when they remain slightly undone.
IMDb —
1932
Community
Log in to comment.
