The Woman in the Window (1945)
It’s about the chilling dangers of fantasy. So many films were about this; even Coward’s Brief Encounter is framed in that way. In Coward’s famous film a married woman falls in love with a handsome doctor, yearning for a passionate affair. She decides against it, and her dream of love (accompanied by Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto #2) fades into the distance along with her would-be-paramour’s railway train. She is left only with floral pillows, phonograph records, and a warm fire. The moral is clear: stay at home. This ‘pandemic’ didn’t come from nowhere; it required a perfect storm to create it— conditions for this particularly attractive and horrifying little garden to prosper. Today’s ads — for everything from real estate to poached eggs -- all urge us to ‘stay at home.’ But we’ve been telling ourselves to ‘stay at home’ since Eve took a bite out of the apple. The Woman in the Window has an ‘Eve’ complex — but film noir is the only place we get to see powerful women take control. The district Attorney, when considering Joan Bennet as suspect, says “She's got something on her conscience, but what woman hasn’t?” This misogyny — though blatant and repellent — is not what interests me here. What interests me is the much more serious implication in films like this — and The Bible — that Eve is evil because she is connected with a dangerous knowledge originating in a fantasy of pleasure. Edward G. Robinson is a happily married professor saying goodbye to his wife and children. He chats with his professor friends at his ‘club’; they discuss the ridiculous spectacle of older men who are attracted to younger women. There is much good-natured chuckling, but it’s clear Edward G, is much too old to fool around. He settles into his club chair to read ‘The Song of Solomon.’ On his way out of the club Edward G. happens to see a portrait of a beautiful woman in a shop. The painting comes to life; Joan Bennett — the woman in the portrait — is reflected in the window. She lures him to her apartment, which is filled with various painted and sculpted representations of herself. An unidentified man breaks into the room and attacks Edward G.. Edward G. kills him, and he and Joan cover up the murder. They escape discovery. But it’s too late — Edward G. has committed suicide from guilt. Or has he? Actually it was all a dream, brought on by reading ‘The Song of Solomon. Edward G. gazes at Joan Bennett’s painting in the window one final time: a prostitute sashays up to him and asks for a light. He flees in terror. This is a movie about staying home — but worse than that, it’s a movie about the dangers of fantasy. When the professors joke about the painting they are doing what everyone does at one time or the other — objectifying the object of their affection, fantasizing, dreaming. This is the source of all art — it’s what the 'The Song of Solomon' is — and that's probably the only biblically-sanctioned sex fantasy in literature. But The Woman in the Window disallows even that. It amazes me that some straight women feel betrayed when their husbands look at porn. Do you actually believe you can own someone else’s imagination, or that to do so is desirable for them, or you? Fantasies are sacrosanct. They are not good or evil; they are merely symptomatic. For instance, we all nurture the fantasy of schadenfreude. Those hiding inside — safe from COVID-19 — are right now enjoying the fantasy that those pariahs who parade about about in public parks — and swim about at Ozark pool parties — may die a gruesome death from COVID-19 — their lungs riddled with tumours. Well that’s fine. That’s natural. We all have fantasies that the people we hate (usually people who are having a better time than us ) have self-immolated through spontaneous combustion. It’s called having a fantasy, and that’s natural, and if it’s not healthy, then at least it’s healthy to admit we have them. On the other hand there are those who like to torture people and kill them. But they are not the only people who had fantasies of torturing and killing people -- everyone does -- they are just the psycho/sociopaths who actually do it. I’m a porn addict. I’m not particularly happy about that. The explanation is simple; for the first 28 years of my life I was closeted and my only outlet was magazines. I lived in a rooming house in downtown Toronto, and after I ‘used’ the photographs, I would sneak out, late at night, run to a public garbage bin, and throw the porn (my guilty co-conspirator) into the garbage. I made sure the garbage was far from the house; as I was terrified someone would find it and somehow know I lived in that house and had hid it. Don’t ask me to defend pornography; but I won’t say it’s anything worse than The Woman in the Window, which is in it’s own way, a kind of sentimental pornography, a romanticisation of family done in the Victorian manner (i.e. you spend the whole movie watching a sinful femme fatale seduce a married man, and then congratulate yourself when he runs from a prostitute at the end.) I wish I could understand this kind of hypocrisy, but I’ve based my entire life on not being hypocritical; the irony of throwing those magazines in the garbage every night (and then going out to buy new ones the next day) was not lost on me. When I learn a lesson, I learn it well; I am a bad boy and I will not lie. But all fantasy is good, even if it’s an evil, sexual fantasy, just as all art is good, even if it’s evil art. The only problem is when we mix art up with life. If you don’t know the difference between art and life, then just remember that what you would rather not be doing -- is probably what life is. This lock down is nearing its end (though Doug Ford has sentenced us to one more week); I suddenly feel the need to imagine what it would be like when it’s over. (Dangerous, I know!) Of course I am permitted to fantasize. But I mustn’t. Because whatever it is -- it’s bound to be a disappointment, compared to what I imagine it will be. I imagine it will be like Eisenstaedt’s famous photo of the sailor sweeping the girl into his arms for a romantic kiss on VJ Day in Times Square. But the young woman who was the likely subject of that kiss has now stated that it was not consensual, and many now see the photo as exemplifying rape. But come on. I mean, come on. You have to admit that's one damn good photo, isn’t it?
