Roberto Gavaldón’s La diosa arrodillada (US: The Kneeling Goddess) is a film noir for people who don’t like film noir. It contains almost no action, no violence, no chases, no police; even the murder in question takes place way off screen. Nearly every scene drips with melodrama and wistful gazes. There are no gaslit streets, gritty bars, or dangerous alleys. Aside from a brief detour to a Panama nightclub, the story takes place largely inside an impeccably decorated mansion which rarely contains more than two people. In fact, even femme fatale Raquel Serrano (played by the larger-than-life María Félix) seems more romantically confused than malicious. Instead, the film’s primary noir attribute lies somewhere in its atmosphere of uncertainty and alienation, even if these qualities are contained in a single affair: Raquel and millionaire businessman Antonio Ituarte (Arturo de Córdova). Married to the beautiful but frail Elena (Rosario Granados), Antonio’s extramarital dalliance with Raquel has turned into mental torture, her primitive spell tearing him between defensively re-asserting his matrimonial commitment and constantly, achingly desiring to be with Raquel. When Elena dies under mysterious circumstances, Antonio must face a new kind of trouble. With certain parallels to Hitchcock’s Rebecca (1940), the film casts a dreamy gauze that pulls the viewer in while production designer Manuel Fontanals’ glossy take on the Ituarte mansion — luxurious fountains, indoor caryatids, colonnaded hallways, and, of course, the titular sculpture — serves as candy for the eyes.