When it comes to Movies of a Certain Age, Gaslight will always top my list of favorites. I'll never forget the first time I saw it; I was twelve or so, and my mother insisted that I take a break from my usual weekend activities (namely, sulking around and hating everyone for no particular reason) to sit down to watch it with her.
Needless to say, my twelve year-old self was enthralled. It was all unlike anything I'd seen before. The mystery! The mayhem! The impossibly small size of Ingrid Bergman's waist! The mother-effing gaslights! And then, of course, there was the plot, which at the time seemed like what would happen if My Fair Lady had produced a love child with Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca. (Every time Joseph Cotten walks past the front door of the townhouse, I still can't escape the feeling that he's about to break into the opening strains of "On the Street Where You Live". On the other hand, that would make Charles Boyer a stand-in for Henry Higgins, which... well... no.)
Anyway, the thing that makes Gaslight so compelling -- apart from the fact that Ingrid Bergman, between this movie and Notorious, seems to have a real penchant for roles in which she becomes imprisoned by her maniac husband in the upstairs of a really great house -- is the unbelievable manipulation that it depicts.
As a teenager, it was harder for me to grasp. "How can she be so dumb?!" I kept thinking to myself. "Come on, he is OBVIOUSLY EVIL. I mean, look at his FACE! Ingrid, why can't you see him for what he is, you weak woman?! Get out of the house before he kills you!" And so on.
But now, fifteen years later, it has become all too clear to me just what a brilliant mindfuck gaslighting actually is. Because, when you live with someone day in and day out, you do begin to rely on him to be your failsafe. Your double-check. The guardian of your quotidian life. All those moments -- the "Baby, where'd I put my keys?", the "Hey, do we have any milk?", the "Has the dog eaten today?" -- they add up to what is, in many ways, a sort of shared consciousness.
This is, I think, one of the nice things about being married -- that sense that somebody else is there with you, is on your team, has got your back.
On the other hand, it is also what makes Charles Boyer-type insidiousness so easy.
See, a couple weeks ago, I noticed that I was getting low on body wash. Not wanting to find myself suddenly sans wash during a future shower, I went out and bought a new bottle, which I then placed on the shower shelf -- unopened -- for such a time as its use became necessary.
Last week, I went to use the new body wash and noticed that its cap had already been cracked open.
"Hey baby," I said to Brad. "Did you use my body wash?"
"No," said Brad.
"Oh, okay," I said, assuming that I had simply failed to close the bottle completely after giving it an in-store sniff test.
A few days later, I went to use the body wash and noticed that its cap was open again.
"Hey baby?" I said to Brad. "Are you sure you didn't use my body wash?"
"Nope," said Brad. "Definitely didn't use your body wash."
"Oh, okay," I said, assuming that I had simply forgotten to close the bottle after last using it.
The next day, I went to use the body wash and found that the bottle was... lighter.
"Brad--"
"No."
"Okay."
At this point, I was sure that I was losing my mind.
And then, I carefully closed the body wash and replaced it on the shower shelf.
There, I said to myself. I have closed the body wash and put it on the shelf. It is on the shelf. It is closed. I closed the body wash. The body wash is closed.
The next day, the body wash was open.
"Brad!" I yelled from the other room.
"What?"
"STOP USING MY BODY WASH!"
"I didn't!" he shouted back.
"Oh, oka--" I began, and then I realized.
The motherfucker was gaslighting me.
Not only that, but he already has his own goddamn body wash. It's a specially formulated man-wash that comes in a very masculine, royal blue bottle and smells like sanitized testosterone, and I know this, because I bought him the man-wash. I bought him the man-wash, specifically, because prior to my having purchased the man-wash, he was using my body wash and it PISSED ME OFF.
"You fucker!" I shrieked, charging into the bedroom with the opened body wash held aloft like a sabre. "I know you used it!"
"It wasn't me!" Brad said.
"Yes it was!"
"No!"
"DON'T LIE TO ME!" I yelled. "You are a LIAR! And not only that, you have your own MAN-WASH!" The bedroom windows rattled as I finished shrieking and stared at him.
Brad gazed blithely back at me and then shrugged.
"This is a marriage," he said. "There is no such thing as 'your body wash' and 'my body wash'. There is only OUR body wash."
This is where I would go on to detail my horrible realization there is, in fact, something even beyond Gaslight in the realm of spousal mindfuckery... but I have to go look for my keys.
9 comments:
Um, this is where I totally 100% disagree with Bradley-poo and say that even in marriage there still exists the YOURS and MINE and ESPECIALLY with bath products.
H2.0 has learned his lesson and not only has his own man wash, but man shampoo, man face soap, and lotion.
At no time is he ever permitted to touch my girlie stuff...
MINE mother-fucker, hands off!
I'm actually sort of OK with the sharing, but I have a problem trying to regulate how much is being used if he does in fact use my stuff. I'll hand it to him and say, "And you don't have to use that much!" Especially this one time he stayed over and had no hair gel and I found approximately five kinds he could use, and each time I was all, "There's this one too, and you don't need much of it either..." And then he looked at me and said, "Are you trying to tell me something about how much hair gel I use?" Being honest to a fault I sort of said yes and was very glad when he thought it was pretty funny.
I need to see this movie, I've never actually watched it.
dude. that SO could've been a scene from the bathroom at my house.
i have to tell him REPEATEDLY not to use my $30 conditioner.
but i use his razor, and payback is an bitch.
Brad uses chick body wash??? I'm telling Rick!!! Muhahahaha.
I don't use body wash, I bathe in motor oil. That's manly.
Or maybe a lie.
LOL LOL touchy subject, i absolutely understand.
Ooh, Gaslight will be the very next movie I watch.
The only thing that puzzles me *greatly* in this story is...why would Brad persist in lying so blatantly about using the body wash? It's not like he even had the foresight to close the bottle cap to reduce suspicion.
LOL...Steve always uses my shower gel too, so I just gave in and bought a somewhat gender neutral kind.
But what's worse is since I obviously use very good- very expensive- shampoo and conditioner, he's become totally spoiled and won't use anything less.
Oh man, that story is great! My mom made me watch Gaslight w/her too and I've definitely had to gaslight a few particularly heinous roommates.
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