Les Diaboliques at 70: The Devil’s Twist
Celebrating 70 years of Les Diaboliques (1955), Henri-Georges Clouzot’s masterful psychological thriller that redefined suspense cinema. Explore its legacy, plot twists, and its influence on filmmakers like Hitchcock.
When the chap behind Psycho – that cheeky little number with the shower curtain and the violin screech – calls another film his “favourite horror of all time,” you don’t just sit there twiddling your thumbs. You sit up, spill your tea, and pay attention. Robert Bloch, the author of Psycho (1959), wasn’t one to bandy about praise like confetti at a wedding. So when he tipped his hat to Les Diaboliques (1955), a French psychological horror directed by Henri-Georges Clouzot, one must presume he meant business. And what a chilling slice of cinematic mischief it is – turning 70 this year and still sending shivers down spines like nobody’s business.
Based on She Who Was No More, a sinister little novel by Boileau-Narcejac (the double-barrelled duo behind Hitchcock’s Vertigo), Les Diaboliques doesn’t just dabble in suspense – it soaks in it, wrings it out, and hangs it up for all to admire. Clouzot, never one to shy away from the macabre, turned this story into a masterclass in tension, blending noir sensibilities with good old-fashioned horror until the whole thing feels like a pressure cooker on the brink of explosion.
At the heart of this tale are two women – the delicate, sickly Christina (played with quiet dread by Clouzot’s wife, Véra) and the whip-smart, world-weary Nicole (Simone Signoret, effortlessly magnetic). Their mutual misery stems from the same source: Michel, the brutish headmaster of the boys’ boarding school where they both work, and where Christina lives under the shadow of his tyranny. Nicole, once his mistress, now joins forces with the trembling wife to dish out some poetic justice. They drown the rotter in a bathtub and dump his lifeless carcass in the school pool, hoping he’ll bob to the surface like an overcooked dumpling.
But he doesn’t.
And that, dear reader, is when things begin to properly go pear-shaped.
The next morning, Michel’s body is nowhere to be seen. Vanished. Vamoosed. The pool is as empty as a politician’s promise, and Christina’s fragile heart begins to crumble under the weight of dread. Is Michel alive? Is he haunting them from beyond the grave? Or are the women simply losing their marbles? Clouzot plays his cards close to his chest, leaving us hanging on tenterhooks, biting our nails down to the quick.
The whole affair is dripping with paranoia, mystery, and a deliciously nasty edge. Critics of the time noted the “vogue for the horrid,” but Les Diaboliques wasn’t just another stab at fright for fright’s sake. It was a cut above the rest – slow-burning and relentless, the cinematic equivalent of someone whispering in your ear just a little too close for comfort.
Clouzot himself was a bit of a dark horse. Before the war, he made films under the Nazi-run Continental Films, earning himself a ban from directing for a couple of years after the liberation of France. Never one to mince his messages, Clouzot’s films were riddled with cynicism and a bleak view of humanity. Not everyone was a fan – especially the Nouvelle Vague crowd, who labelled his work cinéma de papa (Dad’s cinema). But history, as it so often does, got the last laugh. Clouzot’s so-called “stodgy” thrillers – Quai des Orfèvres, The Wages of Fear, and Les Diaboliques – have aged like a fine Bordeaux.
Now, here’s the rub: the twist. One of the finest in all of cinema, it leaves even the most seasoned sleuths slack-jawed. Without giving the game away, let’s just say the final act packs more punch than a pub brawl in Peckham. Stephen King called the bathtub scene “the single scariest moment I have ever had in entertainment,” and let’s face it, the man knows a thing or two about a fright.
The reveal is executed with such cinematic sleight of hand, you’d think Clouzot had moonlighted as a magician. Viewers were even begged at the time not to spoil the ending for others – the original spoiler alert, if you will. And the film, cheeky devil that it is, even throws in a hint of the supernatural just when you think it’s all wrapped up, like a ghostly wink from beyond the grave.
And what of Hitchcock? The master of suspense himself wanted to get his mitts on the original novel but was pipped to the post by Clouzot, who bought the rights mere hours before the Brit had a chance. Rumour has it insomnia helped the Frenchman strike early – a tale likely half myth, half marvellous PR. In any case, Hitchcock was so irked, he snapped up the next Boileau-Narcejac book and turned it into Vertigo. Petty? Perhaps. Inspired? Absolutely.
The legacy of Les Diaboliques lingers like an unwelcome draft in a cold corridor. Roman Polanski’s Repulsion, Psycho, What Lies Beneath, and countless other chillers owe it a debt. It dared to show that horror didn’t need gore to get under the skin. Sometimes, all you need is a creaky floorboard, a vanishing body, and the creeping sense that something just isn’t quite right.
So, next time you’re in the mood for a fright, skip the slashers and give Les Diaboliques a spin. It’s not just horror – it’s haute horror. A psychological puzzle box, laced with dread, polished with Gallic flair, and sinister enough to give even Hitchcock a run for his money.
Bloch was right. It’s bloody brilliant.
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