Edgar Ulmer’s somewhat plaintive version of
the Bluebeard story doesn’t focus on a man who murders his wife; indeed,
eroticism and conventional desire are entirely absent, the killer shown early
on to be Gaston Morel (John Carradine at his most austere), a puppeteer,
formerly a painter, whose murderous compulsion is driven by the gap between
artistic idealism and often sordid reality. He hopes the retreat to puppets, in
all their miniature abstraction, will suppress his instincts, but his compulsion pushes him toward greater fidelity in their creation and costuming, eroding
their value as a suppressant, which in combination with economic realities
draws him back toward the easel and its inevitable consequences (Morel’s art
dealer is shown to be paying him only a fraction of what he charges for his
paintings, adding to the sense of diminished agency). Beyond the establishing
shots of Paris at the beginning and the end and the French-sounding character
names, the film hardly reflects its setting, taking place in a shadowy,
oppressive environment; a climactic chase across the rooftops, if not again for
a few glimpses of painted landmarks in the background, would seem like an
escape into pure angular abstraction. The budgetary limitations are obvious, but
Ulmer renders it all tonally and visually coherent, almost inevitable-seeming,
as if any easing of constraints would be to yield to undesirable temptation: the
climax’s shots of real water, for instance, feel in this context intrusive,
even gauche. The sense of claustrophobia is amplified by the implosive nature
of the plot, the intersections between the few key characters allowing Morel’s
latest love object not only to have access to the police’s key clue but also to
know its meaning, and by an almost aggressively ever-present music score (if
there’s an unscored moment in the film, I didn’t register it).
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