There is an episode of I Love Lucy in which Lucy meets Charles Boyer, the actor who played the evil husband in Gaslight. Concerned that Lucy’s passionate love for Boyer will result in some harebrained scheme and inevitable catastrophe, Ricky convinces Boyer to pretend to be someone else. Boyer agrees to play along and adopts a fictional persona, but (of course) chaos ensues, until, finally, Lucy discovers the deception.
Watching it, I can see the humor—the campiness of it, Lucy’s wide eyes and mugging for the camera, the crazy plotting and slapstick chaos that defines the show’s screwball pleasure. But behind all of that, he is saying I’m not who he is, and it is a game and she is certain but then she isn’t certain. I’m not; it becomes a funny joke, but the joke rests on the deception.
“That’s a dirty trick,” she says furiously when she learns the truth. Ricky chuckles.
Even now, I feel uneasy watching episodes of TV shows about mistaken or stolen identities. The slipperiness of reality that comes along with the comedic device of misunderstanding when someone is not mistaken at all feels uncomfortable to me. When I watched this episode, I could only see the way it eerily mirrored Gaslight’s domestic abuse: jealousy, raised voices, commands. “This is a private matter.” “You’re mine, mine, all mine.” All with a sheen of slapstick, of humorous distance. Isn’t this funny? This is funny! It’s so funny! It could be funny! One day this will be funny! Won’t it?