I run to death, and death meets me as fast,
And all my pleasures are like yesterday;
I dare not move my dim eyes any way,
Despair behind, and death before doth cast
Such terror, and my feebled flesh doth waste - John Donne, “Holy Sonnet I”
[Editor’s note: it is assumed the reader has some familiarity with the Lewton films and
Seventh Victim in particular. Ergo there’s a minimum of plot summary as such, and – there will be spoilers.]
The nine horror films produced at RKO in the 1940s under the tutelage of producer Val Lewton have attained legendary status among devotees of classic film, and their reputation only grows with the passage of time. Most legendary of all are
Cat People and its companion work,
The Seventh Victim.
The first and by far best known of the Lewton films,
Cat People is also arguably the best. By contrast
Victim, a less polished work, nonetheless enjoys a cult status that supersedes that of any of the other Lewtons, even the formidable
Cat People itself, and further is what some feel is the most perfect realization of Val Lewton’s dark artistic vision.
Seventh Victim looks back fondly toward the earlier work, invoking common points of reference and possessing uncanny similarities. Indeed
Seventh Victim is much closer in style and content to
Cat People than the earlier work's unofficial sequel,
Curse of the Cat People. The two films might well be seen as mirror images of each other, or perhaps more precisely, doubles, as if two acts of the same movie.
One of the first things we notice is the casting of two of Lewton’s favorite performers, Elizabeth Russell and Tom Conway. The ante is upped further since Conway appears as the same character in both films, the sinister, smooth-talking Dr. Louis Judd. Apparently killed in
Cat People, he is inexplicably reincarnated in
Victim. The incongruity has prompted some commentators to suggest that
Seventh Victim is a prequel, a not altogether illogical premise.
As for characters, the principal emotional dynamic in both films is that
of the familiar romantic triangle. There’s a well-matched couple, and
then the odd woman out, whom we might dub a mysterious Other. The kicker
is that the man is married to the Other, and not to his better suited
love interest. The Other in both films is an outsider (by her ethnicity
in one case, lifestyle and temperament in another), and she has obvious
psychological issues. And in a rare Lewtonian nod to conventional
thinking and morality, the true romantic partner is a wholesome American
woman with normal appetites and values. Inevitably perhaps, the
well-matched couple ends up together, even if the union is a little
shaky, especially in Victim. Still, the most important character is the Other woman [1], Irena in Cat People and Jacqueline in Victim.
In many ways these two women are the same character, right down to the
near identical black fur coat they wear. Perhaps appropriately, it is
the slightly sinister Dr. Judd who acts as the bridge that connects the
two women.
Substantial connections behind the camera must begin with Victim’s director Mark Robson, who was the editor of Cat People as well as two additional Jacques Tourneur-directed Lewton films, I Walked with a Zombie and The Leopard Man. There was also costume designer Renié and composer Roy Webb, contributors to both films. But probably the most significant connections are those of cinematographer Nicholas Musuraca and scriptwriter DeWitt Bodeen [2]. In particular Bodeen’s wise, to-the-point scripts for Cat People and Victim (the latter co-written with Charles O’Neal) give them much of their no-exit, despairing flavor.
"I like the dark ... it's friendly"
Beyond credits and characters there are thematic, design, and existential elements present in both films. The case for considering Cat People and Victim as a unit is strengthened in that both take place in the same world, geographically New York and metaphorically the universe of a large city that’s more like a wilderness. It’s a barren world with its underlying loneliness, isolation and threat of menace, conveyed through the minimalist set designs, chiaroscuro lighting, lack of vegetation, and near deserted streets that smack of the de Chirico-esque. Further, both films are set in a bohemian New York, Greenwich Village in Victim and an unspecified, generic New York in Cat People, though with a Village-like vibe to it. Ergo various intellectuals, eccentrics, artists, homosexuals, bored socialites, salon workers, actors, restaurateurs, and even devil-worshippers flit in and out of the story and spice things up [3].
Interesting that all the commentators list New York as the setting for Cat People, but it's never actually mentioned by name in the script. Apparently the scenes at the museum, park, zoo, and Irena's Brownstone residence all suggest New York but might well apply to any large city.
Then there’s the look of both films [4], imbued as they are with the customary Lewtonesque shadows and Dutch angles that give even seemingly innocuous scenes an ominous overlay and constant feeling of claustrophobia. One of the most conspicuous design elements is the grand staircase from Orson Welles’s The Magnificent Ambersons, recycled and used to great effect. In Cat People it appears in Irena’s apartment building and in Victim at the girls’ school. Even the source music is similar, identical actually: the hurdy gurdy music we hear at the beginning of Cat People appears once again in an early scene in Victim, not just the music but the very same tune. Then there’s the diner in Victim, appropriately named The Dante, and its near lookalike, the small café ('Sally Lunds'), minus the Dante fresco, in Cat People, where Oliver and Alice like to hang out. Dark Satanic forces are also present in both films, although tenuously so. Devil worship in the form of the Palladist group plays a prominent role in Victim, and in Cat People Irena speaks in passing of Satan worship and witchcraft in the old country.
The nine entries that comprise the Lewton canon are also notable for exploring, albeit carefully and indirectly, social and cultural issues, a practice virtually unheard of in other horror films of the era. Though obscured by characters, story and atmosphere, the implied critiques of American society are certainly there. They assume a slyly subversive bent, and broadly can be identified as taking exception to the white, patriarchal, capitalist paradigm that dominated American society in the 1940s, and, one could add, still largely does so today [5]. In any event some of the, probably shocking for its time, topics the films addressed include: alcoholism, female frigidity, child abuse, xenophobia, colonialism, slavery, race relations, suicide, unethical medical practices, class conflicts, gender roles, capitalist excesses, insane asylums, ethnic prejudice, corrupt authoritarianism, mental illness, superstitions, cult religions, and yes, homoeroticism and homophobia. And it’s the last two that will be the subject of this post, focusing mostly on the lesbian undertones in
Seventh Victim.
If we look closely enough, however, we can find (eminently plausibly deniable) subtextual touches in Lewton films other than
Cat People and
Victim. In
Ghost Ship Capt. Stone takes an especial interest in his protégé, third officer Merriam, while at the same time he complains to his girlfriend of strange urges and episodes of mental unbalance. Thus Stone’s mental instability may be read as the twisted manifestation of his latent homosexuality. In
I Walked with a Zombie Mrs. Rand displays a flirtatious attitude toward the nurse Betsy and grows strongly attached to her. In
Isle of the Dead Mrs. Saint Auban and her beautiful servant girl Thea have an especially close connection that seems to go beyond employer and employed.
Even
Cat People and
Victim include relationships on the edges that lie outside the main coded themes and characters: Irena and Alice flirt a bit while at the wedding dinner before cat woman Elizabeth Russell appears and abruptly upstages them. Later in the film Alice addresses Irena as ‘darling.’ In
Victim the edgy relationship between Jason and Dr. Judd gives way to something like genuine friendship and affection.
Whatever these mild hints may – or may not – imply, in
Cat People our main concern is with Irena and her struggle for acceptance, self-acceptance really, as she tries hard to fit into the ‘normal’ world, in a normal (i.e. straight) way. All the while she carries the fear of being outed, not as a cat woman as we might suspect, but as a repressed lesbian. Nowhere is this more the case than in the famous scene, touched on above, at the wedding dinner at which a beautiful, mysterious woman approaches Irena, looks directly at her and says “moya sestra,” which is (apparently) Serbian for ‘my sister.’ Visibly shaken, Irena crosses herself and explains to Oliver the significance of the woman, who by now has slithered out of the restaurant, and out of the movie [6]. Ostensibly this is about the woman’s identifying Irena as a fellow cat woman, but Irena’s real fear is that the woman might recognize her as a fellow twilight lover. Irena’s Other-ness isn’t lost on those closer to her: at the wedding dinner the Commodore tells Alice that he’s heard Irena is “ … a bit odd.”
And indeed throughout
Cat People the references – by Irena about the evil within her (she’s a descendant of devil-worshipping witches infamous for their “corrupt passions”), and her inability to be a ‘real wife’ to Oliver – can be interpreted as coded references to her repressed homosexuality. Even seemingly offhand comments take on significance. For example, the lady at the pet store might well be referring to Irena, albeit indirectly, when she quips: “the animals are so psychic … you can’t fool a cat; they seem to know who’s not right, if you know what I mean.” It’s not such a reach then to view Irena’s transmogrification into a vicious panther – brought about by sexual arousal or jealous rage – as metaphor for unleashing her unnatural, ‘monstrous’ Sapphic energy [7].
“I thought I knew her … today I found out such strange things”
These and other gay innuendos in
Cat People are cleverly inserted, between the lines as it were. Thus they can be accepted, or rejected, depending upon one’s point of view. In
Seventh Victim, however, the coded messages are brought out into the open, and they extend to an array of characters with sometimes surprising confluences and connections. To be sure, the references are brought into the open as much as the censors would allow in the 1940s, thus a certain amount of smuggling them into the story was required. And yes,
Victim can be enjoyed just as much as a (no pun intended) straight horror film without any fussing over subterranean implications.
Be that as it may, The
Seventh Victim doesn’t waste any time in getting to the hidden messages. In the first scene Mary is summoned to the office of the superintendent of the girls’ school she attends. Mary walks alone, slowly, up the stairs while a flock of girls scurry down the stairway. Mary seems oblivious to all the movement and commotion. Already we’re signaled that she is somehow different and apart from her schoolmates. In said headmistress’s office she meets with Miss Loughwood and her assistant Miss Gilchrist. We sense a cozy relationship between the two women, but Miss Gilchrist only has eyes for Mary, literally, as she looks at her with a certain longing, protective gaze while Miss Loughwood explains to Mary the cruel facts of tuition life at the school (Mary’s older sister hasn’t paid the fees for six months).
“One must have courage to live in the world”
Later Miss Gilchrist takes Mary aside and surreptitiously tells her never to return to the school, to have courage: “ … one must have courage to really live in the world.” This has all the makings of a coded admonition. Perhaps Miss Gilchrist sees something in Mary that we don’t see, that even Mary doesn’t see. Then again, maybe Miss Gilchrist is projecting her own insecurity, and her infatuation with Mary, onto her. Or is Miss Gilchrist warning Mary off to save her from the sinister clutches of Miss Loughwood? Another, admittedly remote, possibility is that Mary and Miss Gilchrist had a close relationship that went beyond pupil and teacher. Whatever the explanation, the notion that Mary can be a latent lesbian is a fascinating idea: it makes her search for her sister Jacqueline a voyage of self-discovery in which she learns her true nature. But this interpretation is also fraught with difficulties. To wit: later in the film Mary improbably, and unconvincingly, falls for a guy, though this development is not without its own complications (he happens to be married to her sister). Moreover, with one significant exception there’s no evidence that Mary has homoerotic inclinations (Jacqueline is another matter). But more on all this later.
In the next scene Mary meets Jacqueline’s cosmetics company manager Mrs. Redi, the only butch character in
Victim. Mrs. Redi is an abrupt, dominating woman who has no love for Jacqueline. Instead, she seems to have a close friendship with fellow Satanist Mrs. Cortez. Soon afterwards, Mary encounters the much more simpatico Frances, a woman with more than a little fondness for Jacqueline. Mystified by Jacqueline’s disappearance, Frances relates that Jacqueline was “so crazy about you (Mary) … she was always talking about you,” and that she had Mary’s picture on her desk in her office. Frances raves on, admiringly saying that anyone who saw Jacqueline would never forget her. Mary repeats the same sentiment almost word for word in the very next scene at the restaurant The Dante. In a later scene while doing Mary’s hair, Frances relates that while Mrs. Redi is okay to work for, “ … there’s only one Miss Jacqueline.” As Frances purrs the words she places her hands affectionately on Mary’s shoulders.
A little bit later our next coded reference arrives in most unorthodox manner. Mystery woman Jacqueline finally appears, maddeningly so only for an instant. The buildup of her persona and her fleeting manifestation has been compared to that of Harry Lime in
The Third Man, and she does not disappoint [8]. Jacqueline shows herself to a startled Mary at the apartment door, and, accompanied by suspicious sideways glances, she puts her index finger over her mouth as to shush Mary. The queer implications are unmistakable: Jacqueline is alerting Mary that some things must remain in the closet, and to be on guard for eavesdroppers. Then just as quickly Jacqueline disappears, almost as if in a puff of smoke, leaving a bemused Mary in a bewildered, frustrated state.
A couple scenes later some of the various cross currents get fleshed out, at least as much as they ever do in the unresolved plot threads that run through
The Seventh Victim. This occurs at the party of rich people, intellectuals, and various hangers-on held at the apartment of one Mrs. Cortez [9], an exotic creature with a touch of the world-weary about her. She’s lost an arm and projects an über-feminine image with her flamboyant satin garb that bespeaks of designer nightgowns. Some commentators describe Mrs. Cortez as a former dancer, but darned if I hear it anywhere in the dialogue.
The most significant scene at the party involves the blonde lady, Gladys, and her recollection of Jacqueline. She relates to Mary how she and Jacqueline were close and they had, eminently unspecified, lively times together, but Jacqueline probably never told Mary about these, because she’s too young and innocent. Which leads us to infer that whatever Jacqueline and Gladys did together, it wasn’t limited to afternoon tea and the opera, indeed, the implication being that it was 'adult' in nature, which suggests all sorts of possibilities. By the way, is there any woman in this film, Mrs. Redi excepted, that didn’t have a thing for Jacqueline? [10]
Speaking of Mrs. Redi, she berates poor Frances for talking to Mary about La Sagesse’s trademark, which is identical to the Palladist symbol (“that symbol is us … she was asking about us!”). The "us" in this context doubtless refers to the devil-worship group, but the coded charge of the conversation could not be lost on those viewers who felt certain secrets must remain hidden. Our next homoerotic reference, actually depicted pretty much out in the open, is when Mrs. Redi barges in on a nude Mary in the shower. This tableaux has been much discussed online and elsewhere, how it anticipates
Psycho and so on, and we have little new to offer.
Meanwhile the Satanists hold a meeting in which the group agrees that Jacqueline must die. Frances protests, and head devil-worshipper Mr. Brun says he understands, because he knows that Frances loves her. The Palladists eventually capture Jacqueline and attempt to cajole her into drinking poison-laced wine as punishment for her supposed betrayal. Frances hysterically slaps the glass from Jacqueline’s lips and shrieks the only time she was happy was when they were together (“ … you were always so good to me”). This is usually thought of as the clincher as regards the Sapphic relationship between the two women. At minimum the depth of feeling Frances has for Jacqueline goes beyond ordinary friendship and collegiality, and it’s reasonable to assume that the two women indeed had some kind of intimate relationship, physical or no. As for the ever-enigmatic Jacqueline and her actual feelings toward Frances, we’re not so sure.
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The multi-dimensional, femme fatale-like Jacqueline is fascinating for the simple reason that she’s so inscrutable. What little we know of her is through information supplied by others. We learn that she and Mary were orphans, and that Jacqueline brought up Mary, so much so that Mary never felt she needed other relatives (Mary’s description). This suggests a mother/child relationship, which adds a further kinky layer to a connection we already sense isn’t quite right. Dr. Judd temporarily assumes the role of Jacqueline’s protector, but as the film progresses Mary takes over. Thus she and Jacqueline switch roles, and Mary becomes the mother figure of an ever more listless Jacqueline. The two women’s strange and shifting interconnectedness suggests the residue of a long history of mutually dependent childhood and young adulthood. Eventually Mary returns to the fold in her role as Gregory’s probable future partner, and thus the adult/child relationship is restored via the traditional man-woman formula.
Nevertheless, until fairly recently Jacqueline functioned as a responsible adult, rearing Mary and paying for her education and, later, running a successful cosmetics company. But along the way something happened. It could have been any number of things – mental illness, business setback, blackmail. Whatever the trigger, Jacqueline’s way of dealing with the world and the people in it has drastically changed. Somehow her association with the Palladists is connected to this abrupt change of direction, but whether as a causal factor or the result of a psychic disturbance is unclear. Similarly, the details of her mysteriously abandoning the business to Mrs. Redi – either as a sale or outright gift – along with her most unlikely marriage to Gregory Ward, are left unexplained.
Whatever the circumstances, Jacqueline by now has become a sensationalist (Judd’s term), searching for something to give meaning to her existence and to provide an occasional thrill along the way. In a conversation with Mary, Gregory gives a lilting description of the Jacqueline mystique: “ … a man would look for her anywhere, Mary. There's something ... exciting and unforgettable about Jacqueline. Something you never quite get hold of. Something that keeps a man following after her … she lived in a world of her own fancy." This passage is significant for several reasons: it’s more poetic than anything the nominal poet Jason says in the film; it suggests Gregory is fascinated by Jacqueline’s mystery and melancholy but not the real woman; the quote could just as well be a description of Irena in Cat People.
No surprise then that the two most important relationships in the film have Jacqueline as the common thread. The first is with the oily Dr. Judd, and here there are two schools of thought. They can be summarized as: she and Judd are an item, oops! no, they are not. And truth be told, there are things in the script that support both points of view. Whatever the truth of the matter, Judd retains his brittle, cynical attitude from Cat People, but he is different in one crucial respect: his lecherousness, so central to the earlier film, is nowhere to be found in Victim. Judd’s referring to Jacqueline as a sensationalist is almost too obvious code for, among other things, sexual adventuress, which itself is just a short step away from bisexual, or lesbian. Thus Jacqueline embarks on her unsuccessful quest for meaning amongst the Dantean cauldron of lost souls that’s this New York. Her journey takes place in a large urban metropolis with no motorized vehicles and few people, all of which contribute to the film’s dreamlike ambience. The surreal backdrop mirrors Jacqueline’s perilously tenuous grip on reality, but her quest is different from others only in the more extreme direction it takes.
As if in condemnation of her eccentric detour, the men in Victim, including her in-name-only husband Gregory, show little romantic passion for this strikingly beautiful woman. Both Gregory and Jason are smitten with Mary, and Judd’s connection with Jacqueline is ambiguous at best (he shows no great remorse when she leaves his care, to be looked after by Mary). None of the male members of the Palladists have any interest in her, aside from wanting her dead. Jacqueline’s most important friendships then, both emotional and (implied) physical, are with women, not the least being her sister Mary.
Indeed, the relationship between Mary and Jacqueline is the most important – and complex – in the film. It’s the raison d'être for the entire story, this despite the fact that the two women appear together onscreen only for a few minutes. As intimated above, Mary’s and Jacqueline’s connection seems to go beyond the bounds of sisterly loyalty into the realms of the quasi-mystical. Mary may be both repelled and fascinated by Jacqueline's eccentric lifestyle, which goes against the usual definitions of femininity and domesticity. And even as various nuggets in the script suggest that Mary, and Frances, have romantic feelings for Jacqueline – the love that dare not speak its name – this is left open to interpretation [11]. In both cases the emotional element seems one-way as Jacqueline has by this time gone off the deep end and functions in a semi-somnabulist state.
Mary eventually whisks Jacqueline away from Dr. Judd’s protective care to stay with her and rest. This development might have revealed greater insight into the Mary/Jacqueline relationship and may also have given us more entrée into Jacqueline’s psyche and her recent activities. But whatever happened between the two women at Mary’s apartment must remain forever in the shadows, literally – note the darkened screen as a bridge between their leaving Jason’s apartment and the next morning. The blackness of the image is both a connecting device and also serves as a curtain. Thus the camera is a gentleman: it won’t intrude on the sisters’ time together. The non-scene at Mary’s apartment then is wisely consigned to the imagination as we fast forward to the morning, where a reluctant Mary says goodbye for the day to Jacqueline.
The tender farewell between Mary and Jacqueline at her apartment is all the more heartbreaking in view of what happens next. In the film’s truly what-could-they-have-been-thinking moment, Mary leaves Jacqueline alone and unprotected at the apartment. Was this a subconscious desire that Jacqueline be found by the Palladists and thus gotten out of the way? But this is a little too simplistic and goes against the grain of all that has happened. To be sure, Mary’s actions are questionable, but Jacqueline is the one whose motives and values are obscure, and obscured. In her own unsubtle way Mrs. Redi wasn’t entirely wrong when she quipped that Jacqueline “ … had no sincerity, no real belief.”
Belief, or lack of it, has other contexts in
The Seventh Victim: in one of the last scenes Dr. Judd gives the devil worshippers quite a dressing down as he improbably quotes from the Lord’s Prayer while lecturing them on the folly of their Satanic ways. But Mr. Brun supplies a strong rebuttal: “ … who can say what is wrong and what is right? … I choose to believe in Satanic majesty and power … who can deny me?” This can easily be interpreted as a coded message. Substitute ‘gay lifestyle’ for ‘Satanic majesty’ and you get the idea. Still, as he often does, Judd gets in the last word in this interaction.
Amongst the small group of devil worshipers who take it and like it from Judd’s whiplash tongue, Frances is conspicuously absent. Did the group excommunicate her as punishment for her indiscretion at Jacqueline’s near drinking from the cup? Did she leave on her own, disgusted with the whole business? If she’s so attached to Jacqueline, why didn’t she leave with her?
The rather strange romantic scene between Mary and Gregory that immediately follows amplifies a previously introduced subplot that just appears out of nowhere and never really convinces. Mary acquiesces to Gregory’s romantic overtures, at least in spirit if not in body, and she dutifully reciprocates his confession of love for her. But the body language of both suggests otherwise: a strange tension and awkwardness pervades the, however beautifully lit, scene. Mary is torn between her, possibly Sapphic, love for Jacqueline and her growing fondness for Gregory, all of which is both obfuscated and hinted at by her protest, “ … but Jacqueline’s my sister.”
The film’s darkly nihilistic denouement has been much discussed and we’ll not duplicate here. Some commentators observe that the lesbian ‘monster’ has been dispatched and the world is safe for heterosexual normalcy. This is perhaps too reductive a view, but not without its merits. It might be noted
Cat People’s similar conclusion, which is probably no coincidence [12]. Ultimately
The Seventh Victim is a fascinating, multi-layered work that invites multiple interpretations, and indeed various takes have gushed forth over time. The homoerotic subtext is only one approach among many, but it yields fascinating results and serves as a reminder of how much story and character they could get in – in 71 minutes – back in them days.
[1] Alice in Cat People refers to herself as ‘the new kind of other woman,’ an (unintentional) ironic observation, since her rival Irena is the true Other. By the way, a note on Irena’s accent: while she’s playing a character who hails from the Balkans, Simone Simon’s thick French accent is unmistakable, and sometimes indecipherable. Nonetheless, this is a nice turnabout from the usual de rigueur Hungarian/Transylvanian accent employed by those playing Central European or Slavic roles, especially those of a villainous nature.
Getting back to Victim, a second love triangle, of a sort, consists of Gregory, Jacqueline and Dr. Judd, though this interpretation is a stretch since, as mentioned above, Judd’s and Jacqueline’s relationship is mostly undefined and can be read either way. Depending on how we define these things there's a third romantic triangle involving Mary, Gregory and Jason. Victim's emotional dynamics get even murkier when we consider that most of the men in the story are in love with Mary and most of the women are in love with Jacqueline.
[2] Bodeen was a gay man and it’s no accident that both films carry strong homoerotic undercurrents. It was an era when being found out would probably mean an end to his career. This very real fear of being outed found its way as a major theme into both films, and in Victim it also creeps into the story as the Palladists’ fear of discovery. Thus their invocation of extreme punishment, specifically death, to anyone who reveals their existence.
[3] In early Twentieth Century America Satan worship was probably as scandalous as homosexuality, perhaps more so. It was clever of the filmmakers – or a happy accident – that the devil worshipers in Victim are presented front and center. As a consequence, the homoerotic subtext could be sneaked in under-the-radar. One especially creative theory is that all the members of the group are gay and the devil-worship business is merely a front. Indeed, while the Palladists are on the one hand conspicuously (upper) middle class and behave in a civilized, if trifle effete, manner, on the other hand various clues in their speech and dress suggest they are … different.
Another take is that the Satanists are stand-ins for Nazis. This makes a certain amount of sense in that Victim dates from 1943, when the war was raging in Europe and elsewhere. It might be cynically unkind to suggest that had the film been made ten years later the Palladists would have morphed into godless Commies, but there it is. Nonetheless, even by today’s standards, Victim takes a surprisingly tolerant view of the devil worshipers. The sympathetic portrayal and lack of punishment (aside from Judd’s tongue lashing) is quite remarkable for its time.
[4] True to Lewtonian form, both Cat People and Victim have an abundance of nighttime vistas and other murky scenes that suggest urban menace. However, Victim has a more noirified aesthetic with sharper angles, high contrast lighting and sinister, Caligari-like depiction of doors, corridors, stairs and alleyways.
[5] All the films in the Lewton canon have a (proto)feminist undertow with strong, independent-minded, even dominating, female characters. The women leads are usually stronger than their male counterparts, who tend to be bland, passive or nondescript. I exclude Boris Karloff here, even though he’s the main character in the three films in which he appears. However, in these roles he’s more or less the villain and not a conventional leading man. In any case Lewton films in which the female leads have a forceful, quasi-feminist streak include Cat People, I Walked with a Zombie, Leopard Man, Seventh Victim, Isle of the Dead, and, perhaps most of all, Bedlam.
Silent film actress and dance sensation Alla Nazimova was one such powerful woman and an unapologetic lesbian in her private life. Her inclinations crept into her films, which she often produced and directed, none more so than her ill fated Art Nouveau extravaganza Salome. Nazimova also happened to be Val Lewton’a aunt. Interesting in the context of the homoerotic, especially lesbian, vibe that creeps into Lewton's films and novels. Coincidence?
[6] Another interesting possibility is that Irena and the mystery woman somehow know each other, and were perhaps intimate friends at some time, a fact Irena doesn't want divulged to the others, ergo her extreme reaction. Moreover, if Victim really is a prequel, then are Mimi of Victim and the mysterious cat woman in Cat People the same person? It’s a fascinating conceit, not without difficulties, but it does sort of fit: the clothes the two characters wear, while not identical, do look suspiciously similar. Further, while not a perfect solution, the prequel idea is one way of explaining Dr. Judd’s appearing in Victim and being very much alive.
[7] The conventional explanation for Irena’s stalking and menacing of Alice has been Irena’s jealousy of Alice as competitor for Oliver’s affection. But might it not be just as valid that this represents Irena’s desire for Alice, ergo the stalking and panther manifestation, symbolic of sexual arousal? In this version Oliver is the Other and Alice and Irena the romantic couple.
[8] Only with Jacqueline’s appearance does Victim’s emotional juice finally kick in. Up to this point things have proceeded at a fairly pedestrian pace. But once Jacqueline is on the scene we’re definitely invested in the characters, and the story never lets up. Part of the draw of course is Jacqueline’s look. She’s the very image of the Angel of Death, only suitable for a woman in love with death, and her elegantly creepy look suggests she’s the high priestess of the devil cult rather than its victim. All black garb, exotic brooch, chalky face, and most of all, the raven-haired Cleopatra flapper wig defines her as the original (proto)-Goth Girl, right up there with Carroll Borland’s vampiress in Mark of the Vampire (1935) and much later, Bettie Page in the 1950s. Jacqueline also bears a striking physical resemblance to the similarly death-obsessed Katherine Caldwell (Louise Albritton) of Son of Dracula (1943).
[9] Mrs. Cortez’s cocktail party is a study in Seventh Victim-esque ambiguity. It posits numerous questions, ultimately unanswered, probably unanswerable. For instance, how did Jason know of the party, and that Dr. Judd would be there? Mrs. Cortez and Jason greet each other warmly, and call each other by first name. As Mrs. Cortez seems to have some social standing in the Village, naturally she would be familiar with artists and various bohemians, and perhaps this is just one of her generic parties. By the way, the piano music by Brahms, and later, Beethoven that wafts in the background is a nice artsy touch.
None of the persons we glimpse at the party, excepting Mrs. Cortez, returns again in the two, much more serious, ‘business meetings’ of the Satanists. Thus we have the shapely, gossipy blonde (“we were intimate!”) who knew that Jacqueline “ … took up with Louis Judd.” Research (i.e. IMDB) implies her name is Gladys, though if she’s addressed as such it’s more or less inaudible. The information she conveys is significant, if inconclusive, and she’s onscreen for only a couple of minutes and doesn’t return again in the film. However, if she knew Jacqueline ‘intimately’ then this lady is probably a member of the Palladist group. A bemused Dr. Judd merely listens to her breathless dissertation without comment, seemingly entertained by her rambling. Which makes us ask: assuming these folks are members of the Palladist cult, and they know that Jacqueline told Judd of their existence, why would they be so chummy with him, treating him almost as a guest of honor? Come to think of it, how did the Palladists find out Jacqueline told Judd about them in the first place?
[10] All the characters in Victim, even the supporting and bit players, are nicely drawn and, more important, all have an issue or weakness, be it emotional or physical: Mimi’s consumption; Mrs. Cortez’s loss of an arm; Dr. Judd’s cynicism; Mrs. Redi’s brutal, abrupt manner; Mary’s naiveté; Jacqueline’s death obsession; Jason’s waftiness; Gladys’s impulsive gossip; Gregory’s secretary and her father’s alcoholism; Mr. Brun’s ruthlessness; Miss Gottschalk’s susceptibility to flattery; Irving August’s squeamishness; Frances’s obsessive love. About the only ‘normal’ character is Gregory Ward, who – not so surprising – isn’t very interesting.
The cast in all the Lewton films is invariably spot on. But as for casting, there is a mystery, only right for a movie that’s mostly a mystery. That’s the identity of the actress that played Gregory Ward’s secretary, she with the dipsomaniac father. Searches of IMDB and other sources have come up negative, thus this mystery remains unsolved, at least for the moment.
[Update: at least one source lists Ann Summers as the actress who portrays Ward's secretary].
[11] It’s characteristic of Lewton to take us right up to the precipice emotionally, but never quite let us jump off the ledge. Usually this is in the context of fear and expectation, but here it’s the homoerotic implication. Ultimately the viewer has to make up his own mind since things aren’t made obvious or explicit. In The Seventh Victim various details and innuendos suggest a queer subtext, but there’s nothing that could be called a smoking gun (though Frances’s wild outburst as Jacqueline is about to drink the poison comes close). Then there’s the mysterious Jacqueline stayover at Mary’s place, followed by the lingering, dreamily affectionate farewell the next morning, during which Mary once again addresses Jacqueline as 'darling.'
Still, we have to view all in the context of the Production Code’s restrictions on what could be shown onscreen at the time.
In the more circumspect 1940s, overt references to lesbianism, much less showing graphic details, were so far beyond the pale they couldn’t even be considered. The real miracle is that The Seventh Victim got away with as much as it did, and we’re the richer for it.
[12] In I Walked with a Zombie there’s yet another, similar romantic triangle in which the husband’s wife (the film’s zombie) is the Other, while the beautiful Canadian woman is a much better match for him. Zombie has the further complication that the husband’s younger half-brother is in love with the wife, making this more or less a romantic quadrangle. Zombie also has a conclusion very similar to that of Cat People and Seventh Victim in that the more conventional relationship prevails.
What’s fascinating is that the three above-mentioned films have a Jane Eyre-like dynamic in which a woman finds true love with a man who has a (marginally or full-on) mentally ill wife, the story’s ‘monster,’ if you like. In all three films the wife conveniently ends up dead, by suicide in two and murder/suicide in one. It is a counterpoint of view that reminds us that, whether consciously or no, and for all his progressive bent, Lewton was not averse to the old formulas and traditional resolutions. Even films like Leopard Man and Isle of the Dead, while lacking a love triangle, conclude with the conventional romantic formula as the nominal leads reach a reconciliation and thus provide the viewer with at least a quasi-happy ending.
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