To gaslight someone is to perform a type of psychological abuse that makes a victim doubt their own memory, perception, or even sanity. It’s a term that’s still relatively new, even though the act itself is old, and while it’s certainly an insidious act, where would old crime films be without it? It’s a genre where the truth is constantly being manipulated in order to cover some unspeakable intent by either a roguish cad, or some manipulative femme fatale, but back in the late 30s/ early 40s, we can track the actual phrase back to a play written by Patrick Hamilton. Entitled Gas Light, it literally told the tale of a woman being slowly driven mad by her controlling husband and it got not one, but two movie versions in both 1940 and 1944. While the latter version boasted Ingrid Bergman and Charles Boyer and is better known, today we’ll be focusing in the earlier film, which saw Diana Wynyard have to weather the confidence stripping words of a callous Anton Walbrook. Murder, lies and plots are abound as we hold up a light to a 40s classic.
At the address of 12 Pimlico Square in London, we witness the callous murder of Alice Barlow, a little old lady who seemingly has something her killer wants. However, after this unknown assailant has ransacked the house, they come away empty handed – but after the residence sits unused for about 20 years, it’s eventually bought by newlyweds Paul and Bella Mallen. However, I’d hardly describe their lives as wedded bliss as we soon find out that Paul has his wife believing that she’s losing her sanity due to the fact that she constantly is misplacing, or outright stealing various items from around the house.
With a near endless stream of chiding, berating and various thinly veiled threats concerning having her locked away, Paul could hardly be described as husband of the year at the best of times, but once we discover that he’s actually setting his wife up to think these things, his already highly questionable behavior goes into full sinister mode.
Meanwhile, former detective B.G. Rough has had his suspicions about the various events that have occured in 12 Pimlico Square, and wants to investigate Paul Mallen a little closer despite the fact he’s no longer a copper. However, the only way he can get insight into the man is through his victimised wife and while he attempts to break the hold the man has over his muddled spouse, Paul steps up his campaign, pouring yet more scorn on his increasingly paranoid wife. But aside from being an incredibly shitty husband, what exactly is Paul’s game? Does he have anything to do with the sordid history of 12 Pimlico Square like Rough believes, or is he just a vile, controlling human being that enjoys preying on his wife’s sanity? Either way, something needs to change.
There’s always something cool about watching an old film that braces a phenomenon that’s mistakenly thought to be quite modern. While people have been mind-fucking each other with lies, stories and passive aggression for as long as humans have been able to communicate, actually accusing someone by using the term “gaslighting” weirdly feels more of the realms of the social media age. However, that doesn’t mean that Thorold Dickinson’s ornate, precise thriller doesn’t double down on articulating just how disturbing the act can be. Obviously there’s more at play here – I mean the film starts with an old woman getting throttled by her own knitting out of nowhere, and the endgame is to obtain some wayward rubies – but the lion’s share of the plot concerns Anton Walbrook’s controlling husband as he effortlessly alternates from dastardly to bastardly, often within the same line reading.
It’s an interesting take, because later swings on the subject (including George Cukor’s 1944 remake) tend to keep us guessing about whether or not the focal point for the abuse is actually insane or not – however, Dickinson makes no qualms about diving right in and has us witness his devious and mercilessly cruel mind games right from the off. In fact, it’s tough not to be taken off guard about how forthright the movie is on the subject, especially considering that Diana Wynyard’s victimised Bella is already half out of her mind when we first meet her. Second guessing herself at every turn and sporting the thousand yard stare of someone whose grasp on reality is utterly frazzled (“Hit me, hurt, do anything but for Pete’s sake, speak to me!” she pathetically pleads at one point), the only thing you feel more than pity for her is the flabbergasting hate you feel for Walbrook’s preening villain. Constantly pouring poison in the woman’s ear with a European lilt in his voice, it’s actually quite exhilarating to see just how much of an odious shit he really is.
But while the central performances is insanely strong (props too must go to Frank Pettingell’s absurdly confident Rough who cheerfully plays detective), it’s Dickinson’s slick direction that keeps things moving. Virtually everyone except poor Bella has an ulterior motive going on, and the director has his female lead buffeted in a storm of people who know their minds far more than she’s been allowed to do. And yet while the film stages the ultimate whodunit as both a hopful respite from her ordeal and framing device for the act of gaslighting in general, it’s by far the most memorable thing here. Despite the period setting and the 40s sensibilities, it’s thrilling how much the film directly tackles the subject and then backs it up with superlative cinematography, detailed sets and entertaining performances – however, possibly most strange of all is the fact that the film nearly fell foul of the eponymous crime itself.
After securing the rights to mount a remake, RKO not only had the rights to the original play, but also held the right to Dickinson’s film, which it then literally tried to erase from existence in order to leave their version free and clear. Only in Hollywood would a studio attempt to gaslight the public from thinking that a film about gaslighting already existed in order to sell another film about gaslighting. Thankfully though, the 1940s version managed to survive the cull to arguably continue to be the superior version, neat little visual quirks and all. After all, you have to tip the cap at a scene where a mentally distraught woman stares hauntingly at the domestic abuse occurring in a Punch and Judy show while her husband is literally in the process of snapping her soul like dried kindling.
Deeply atmospheric (it’s a film where the dimming of the lights is a literal plot point), nicely fluid and nastily salacious when letting its villain attempt to lobotomise his wife with brutal words, Gaslight is one of those crime films that’s made all the more enticing the more it piles on the melodrama, but it’s all worth it when it comes to a knife waving denouement that proves to be insanely satisfying.
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