In a world where monsters traded fangs for pratfalls, one film dared to make invisibility the punchline to horror’s darkest joke.

In a world where monsters traded fangs for pratfalls, one film dared to make invisibility the punchline to horror’s darkest joke.

Long before horror comedies like Shaun of the Dead blended gore with guffaws, Universal Studios experimented with the formula in the tail end of their classic monster era. The Invisible Woman (1940) stands as a peculiar outlier, transforming the chilling premise of H.G. Wells’s seminal novella into a frothy farce filled with pratfalls, gangsters, and gender-bending mischief. Directed by comedy veteran A. Edward Sutherland, this overlooked gem deserves a fresh dissection for its sly subversion of horror tropes and its prescient take on female agency through supernatural absurdity.

• A deep dive into how The Invisible Woman pivots Universal’s Invisible Man series from terror to tomfoolery, highlighting its slapstick mechanics and social satire.
• Breakdown of groundbreaking invisibility effects that prioritised humour over horror, influencing later comedic takes on the genre.
• Spotlights on director A. Edward Sutherland’s comedic mastery and John Barrymore’s chaotic late-career brilliance, framing the film’s enduring cult appeal.

Unveiling the Farce: A Plot Thick with Thin Air

The narrative kicks off in the cluttered workshop of the delightfully daft Professor Gibbs, played with bombastic glee by John Barrymore. Kitty Carroll, a put-upon secretary portrayed by Virginia Bruce, endures endless harassment from her lecherous boss at Carroll’s Department Store. Fed up with his advances and the drudgery of her job, Kitty volunteers as the guinea pig for Gibbs’s latest invisibility ray machine, a contraption powered by atomic wizardry far ahead of its time. In a flash of light and a puff of smoke, she vanishes completely, her clothes pooling on the floor in a classic comedic reveal that sets the tone for the film’s relentless sight gags.

Now unseen and unstoppable, Kitty embarks on a spree of vigilante justice. She torments her boss by toppling ladders, slamming doors in faces, and generally causing chaos amid the store’s mannequins and merchandise. The sequence plays like a proto-Home Alone, with invisible hands hurling pies and yanking trousers, all underscored by exaggerated sound effects that amplify every unseen slap and stumble. This empowerment fantasy resonates deeply; Kitty, once objectified, now wields invisibility as a tool for retribution, flipping the script on workplace predators with gleeful abandon.

Complications arise swiftly when her newfound beau, playboy adventurer Richard Russell (John Howard), gets wind of the experiment. A botched demonstration sends the machine careening into the hands of Blackie Cole (Edward Brophy), a dim-witted gangster flanked by his brutish henchmen, led by the imposing Oscar Homolka as the sinister Foghorn. These lowlifes kidnap Gibbs, intent on using the device for criminal heists. What follows is a whirlwind chase across snowy mountains, involving ski chases, cabin shootouts, and a parade of pratfalls where invisible Kitty outsmarts the thugs at every turn.

The climax unfolds in a lodge hideout, where Kitty’s invisibility saves the day repeatedly: she spikes drinks, rigs explosives, and delivers knockout blows from nowhere. The gangsters’ confusion peaks in a riotous free-for-all, bodies tumbling and furniture flying as the unseen heroine orchestrates their downfall. Russell and Gibbs reclaim the machine, restoring Kitty’s visibility just in time for a tidy romantic resolution. Clocking in at a brisk 70 minutes, the film packs its punchy plot with non-stop action, ensuring nary a dull moment amid the mayhem.

Effects That Disappear into Laughter

John P. Fulton, Universal’s effects maestro behind the original Invisible Man (1933), returned to helm the visuals here, but with a comedic twist. Gone are Claude Rains’s bandaged menace and the shadowy dread; instead, Fulton’s techniques emphasise levity. Partial invisibility shots—where torsos vanish while limbs flail—create hilarious mismatches, achieved through matte paintings, wires, and clever compositing. Kitty’s disembodied gloves boxing gangsters’ ears or her floating cigarette betraying her position rank among cinema’s earliest invisible prank masterpieces.

Sound design proves equally ingenious. Every footstep, rustle of clothing, or clink of glass echoes with crystalline clarity, turning absence into auditory comedy gold. The score by Charles Previn mixes playful xylophones with ominous brass only to undercut tension with cartoonish stings. These elements transform horror’s uncanny valley into slapstick’s sweet spot, proving invisibility need not terrify when it tickles.

Budget constraints actually enhanced the film’s charm; low-cost sets like the lodge and workshop double as playgrounds for physical gags. Brophy’s Blackie, repeatedly punched by thin air, sells the absurdity with perfect timing, his bewildered double-takes mirroring audience delight. Fulton’s work here foreshadowed comedic invisibility in films like Now You See Him, Now You Don’t (1972), cementing its technical legacy in lighter fare.

From Frankenstein to Fools: Universal’s Comedic Pivot

By 1940, Universal’s monster cycle faltered amid Depression woes and shifting tastes. After Son of Frankenstein (1939)’s grimness, the studio lightened up, paving the way for Abbott and Costello meet-the-monster romps. The Invisible Woman bridges this gap, retaining series continuity—Gibbs mentored the original invisible man—while ditching dread for domestic laughs. Curt Siodmak’s script, laced with Bringing Up Baby-esque screwball energy, skewers class divides: the elite Russell versus blue-collar thugs, with Kitty as the levelling force.

Gender politics shine brightest. Invisibility liberates Kitty from the male gaze, letting her brawl, ski, and seduce on her terms. Bruce’s spirited performance—pouting visibly, smirking invisibly—embodies proto-feminist fire, echoing Mildred Pierce ambitions in miniature. Yet the film tempers this with heteronormative closure, Kitty visible and wed by fade-out, reflecting era constraints.

Class satire abounds too. Gibbs’s mad science mocks ivory-tower eccentricity, while gangsters parody Prohibition-era mobs with Keystone Cops incompetence. Charlie Ruggles’s butler George adds upstairs-downstairs farce, his prissy panic contrasting Kitty’s chaos. These layers elevate the film beyond fluff, offering bite amid the buffoonery.

Sounds of the Unseen: Auditory Hijinks and Slapstick Symphony

Milton Schwarzwald’s uncredited sound supervision crafts a sonic playground. Invisible footsteps crunch snow with hyper-real crunch, doors creak ominously only to slam comically, and punches land with exaggerated thwacks. This hyperbolised foley anticipates Looney Tunes logic, where sound sells the supernatural sell.

Dialogue zips with rapid-fire wit, Barrymore’s Gibbs mangling malaprops like “invisibilify” in a nod to his stage-ham persona. Homolka’s thick accent butchers English, turning threats into punchlines. The mix prioritises rhythm over realism, propelling the comedy forward.

Legacy in the Laugh Track: Echoes Through Time

The Invisible Woman flopped initially, overshadowed by war news, but gained cult status via TV syndication. It inspired Abbott and Costello Meet the Invisible Man (1951), blending baseball bats with bandages. Modern heirs like The Invisible (2007) nod to its empowerment angle, while Arsenic and Old Lace vibes persist in invisible avengers from Death Becomes Her to Glass Onion.

Culturally, it captures pre-war escapism, invisibility as wish-fulfilment amid economic strife. Critics now praise its progressive streak, with feminist readings in journals highlighting Kitty’s agency. Box office revival via home video underscores its timeless tomfoolery.

Production tales add lustre: Barrymore, deep in alcoholism, ad-libbed wildly, nearly derailing shoots. Sutherland wrangled the chaos, his Fields-honed patience shining. Censorship dodged graphic violence, favouring suggestion—a sly invisibility perk.

Director in the Spotlight

A. Edward Sutherland, born Arch Edward Sutherland on January 19, 1895, in London to Scottish parents, entered film as an extra in 1915’s The Female of the Species. By 1920, he directed his first short, Love, Honor and Obey, honing craft at Paramount. A comedy specialist, he collaborated extensively with W.C. Fields on gems like International House (1933), It’s a Gift (1934), and Remember the Day? No, Mississippi (1935), capturing Fields’s anarchic genius amid on-set tensions.