Summary
A monochrome scream in which marital infidelity mutates into maternal purgatory: the camera stalks a restless wife as her clandestine caresses curdle into public penance, her children’s faces turning from cherubs to crucifixes, the Parisian boulevards shrinking into a tribunal of whispers. Abel Gance hacks the melodrama apart, stitching every splice to the fibrillation of a guilty heart; close-ups blister, superimpositions swirl like absinthe, and silence itself becomes a thumbscrew tightened by shadows. The film’s protagonist, a bourgeois mother, slips from silk sheets to social pillory, her offspring weaponised against her in a custody battle that feels like inquisition. Each reel peels another layer of skin: first the lovers’ trysts rendered in feverish chiaroscuro, then the husband’s eyes calcifying into granite, finally the courtroom where sunlight slashes across her décolletage like a scarlet letter. Gance refuses redemption; instead he offers a final tableau of the woman framed behind rain-streaked glass, her infant pressed to the pane on the opposite side—two ghosts separated by a single breath, the torture not of silence but of sound that can never again be shared.
Sad story of an unfaithful wife and her subsequent sufferings as a mother.
