This evening I introduced Crankenstein to Whirlpool, a 1950 film noir directed by Otto Preminger and starring Gene Tierney as a doctor’s wife who finds herself mixed up in kleptomania and hypnotism before catching a murder charge. Richard Conte, unfairly overlooked among leading men of that era (see: Thieves’ Highway and House of Strangers), plays her work-obsessed husband; José Ferrer is the smooth-talking hypnotist and astrologer who promises to cure her insomnia.
The last time I watched Whirlpool was probably 15 or 20 years ago, long before I was the sleep-deprived spouse of an industrious physician, so I found parts of it a little funnier now than in the past. If you love Preminger, Tierney or noir, I’m pleased to report this is currently on YouTube, though I’m not sure how long it’ll stay there. Here I thought I’d compare how my experience stacks up to that of Ann Sutton, Tierney’s character.
For one thing, I’m too spill-prone to wear a light-colored robe. (But I can’t be the only one who coveted Laverne’s ‘L’-embroidered sweaters on Laverne & Shirley, even though my name doesn’t begin with that letter.) Sutton lives a life of luxury and was just handed the phone by her housekeeper in this scene. If that was standard for a one-physician household 74 years ago, reimbursement rates definitely haven’t kept up with inflation.
Alas, I’m just cynical enough to concede that Ferrer’s character isn’t entirely off the mark with this. Carly Simon also covered it pretty well.
“You don’t have to exhaust yourself trying to seem normal,” Ferrer tells her. I found that particularly poignant given all that Tierney faced in her personal life. As for me, I’m weird and anyone who pays attention will probably notice, even if I try to hide it. But the good news is that few pay attention, or if they do they don’t care. It’s a young person’s game to assume you’re of much interest to anyone but yourself and maybe your mom and dog.
How glamorous does she look here? My hair’s currently clean (and unusually well-behaved due to Bed Head’s After Party), but my clothes and soul are probably visibly dirty as I write this. The dark circles under my eyes would extend to her nostrils. Thanks to my East Slavic ancestry, I’m usually growing a beard.*
Sutton is the model of sophistication even as she jots a note. I don’t wear necklaces because I’m afraid of Isadora Duncan-ing myself, and my watch is the budget Apple model with its face set to Batman slapping Robin. There’s nothing refined about my writing process. The notebook in which I plan for Cranky Lesbian cost $1.99 at Target and has a sticker of Patsy Stone drinking on its cover.
Like most noir leads (she isn’t technically a femme fatale), Sutton’s kept some secrets from her husband. I’ve never kept much from my significant others, and Crankenstein would say there are times she wishes I wasn’t quite so honest with her. Here I empathize more with Dr. Sutton — I have a habit of picking partners who keep their own counsel. None would’ve ever called my love “wonderful,” though. More like “fair-to-middling.”
* Those are jokes, but my hair really is unusually contained at the moment, something that only happens once every seven years.
** You need different notebooks for different projects. I’m currently juggling four.