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While rightfully remembered for her immortalizing portrayal of Margo Channing in ALL ABOUT EVE, such an association often — though not on purpose — creates a specific subjective construct that reduces the career and personality of Bette Davis to a few select bullet points. Within this box lies the dissolved essence of a powerful and formidable actress, whose career boasted a length and range rivaled by few. Even her other well-known roles only help to further enforce this idea of a niche with ostensible boundaries: in BABY JANE she is ruthlessly campy, and in works like THE LETTER,THE LITTLE FOXES, and BEYOND THE FOREST, she epitomizes the quintessential bitch with a memorable zinger or two up her sleeve (lest we forget the infamous “What a dump!,” immortalized nearly twenty years later by Elizabeth Taylor in WHO’S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF?)
Fasten your seatbelts for this essay!
All of these observations are grounded in truth and do, in part, comprise a large facet of this woman who was in all ways larger than life. There is no denying that these roles in particular were more memorable thanks to the energy she brought to the table — especially when such roles were considered precarious for an actress of her stature to take. Even as early on in 1934, when she was only three years into her film career, Davis relentlessly rallied to take on the odious role of Mildred in OF HUMAN BONDAGE. When she finally got her way, she was told that it would surely be career suicide and stop her dead in her tracks. Bette embraced the adversity, taking Charles Laughton’s advice to heart: “never be afraid to hang yourself.” Sure enough, the gamble paid off and Davis made a name for herself in a performance that created what would be the first controversy to plague the Academy Awards. Hollywood was thrown into an uproar when she was passed over for nomination as Best Actress, resulting in a flurry of write-in nominations on her behalf. Alas, Davis lost to Colbert, but she would go on to win what many would consider a consolation prize for her performance in 1935’s DANGEROUS.
Bette Davis as Mildred in OF HUMAN BONDAGE
Thus, a star was born — and for the next fifty-five years Davis went on to achieve two Oscars and eleven nominations before passing away in 1989. Still, in this near six decade span of time, she is often remembered for this sampling of historic yet poor representation of choice roles, leaving much talent and history shrouded in the mist of disinterest. Who else did Bette Davis play besides unforgiving femme fatales and aged out actresses? What sort of roles did she inhabit, and of them which did she like best? I’d like to take a look at some of her lesser known performances and cast them in a new light. These performances in question run the gamut of her career, not only showcasing her growth as an actress but additionally calling her true character into question. Why did she choose these roles, and how closely did she personally resonate with them? The following films that I will examine, while all incredibly different, are woven together by a common thread that will be the basis for this particular analysis. In SO BIG!, Bette is a young, free-spirited illustrator. In WINTER MEETING, she’s a spinster poetess, and in STORM CENTER, a withdrawn librarian. In her twilight years, she often takes on the role of an unflappable widow (THE HARVEST OF HILL HOUSE) or matriarch (Elizabeth Winfield in FAMILY REUNION) — and when company is desired, it’s never a man that comes to her side (Her stately Mrs. Van Schuyler in DEATH ON THE NILE relies on a female companion). Perhaps overarching comparisons are easy enough to draw — all of them are atypical roles for women in the sense that they were neither glamorous nor conventional, making them social outliers. Not without coincidence, all of these characters are single and remain so when the film draws to a close. In an era where the Hays Code reigned mercilessly over the chastity of pictures, the appeal and necessity of encoding controversial and taboo topics became an increasingly popular phenomenon, ranging from near blatant depiction to the most subtle insinuations that perhaps something more lies beneath the surface. The latter applies In the case of these three films: while nothing is ever explicitly stated or choreographed, for that matter, a watchful eye can discern the intentional weaving of lesbian subtext in each — opening a door that has long remained buried beneath the many other accolades that comprise what the public perceives as Bette Davis’ legacy as an actress.
The presence of lesbianism in film, or even film theory, is still very much a new and burgeoning field. It has never enjoyed the outright luxury of analysis that lent itself earlier to male homosexuality, which found itself the topic of texts and documentaries a la “The Celluloid Closet” as early as the 1980s. The conversation is young but important and is pertinent to not only contemporary film, but older films which were made in a time when such a lifestyle was condemned, forbidden, and swept under the rug as if it never existed.
Still from MADCHEN IN UNIFORM (1931).
There were two general exceptions to the rule, and one was born out of a response to the other. This initial method was to tackle the issue as directly as possible (quickly rendered an inability following the enforcement of the Hays’ Code). While fleeting in its existence, it provided the initial framework for lesbian representation: these are the works borne out of the Precode area that boldly took it upon themselves to challenge this mindset by tackling the topic of lesbianism directly and thoroughly. The best known surviving example is none other than 1931’s MADCHEN IN UNIFORM, a German film that explored a young woman’s burgeoning infatuation for her female teacher. It was met with horror upon its arrival in the States for its explicit and sympathetic handling of a homosexual relationship. Unquestionably, it only helped to derail the movement which it started and consequently lent impetus to hasten the enforcement of the code.
These restrictive, fear-mongering measures allowed only for certain formulaic sapphic subtexts to emerge: interestingly enough, one of Davis’ films, OLD ACQUAINTANCE, exemplifies it. For sapphics, the thoroughfare was unquestionably the dynamic of female friendship. Despite its undeniable elements of sapphism, I have chosen not to include it in this framework for two reasons: one, because it’s different* in its approach, and additionally, because I have already written an extensive piece that examines the manifestation of classic sapphism by solely using OLD ACQUAINTANCE as a reference point. If you have not read it and wish to do so, you can find it HERE.
As the code aged, its morals loosened, allowing for more loopholes. The limited inventory of tropes expanded, and soon sapphism permeated films in a way bolder than it had for years. For example 1947’s DESERT FURY, while never explicitly depicting anything, makes no point in hiding mother Mary Astor’s borderline incestuous obsession with her daughter, portrayed by a vibrant Lizabeth Scott: she fights actively to keep control of her, and continually addresses her by loving epithets along the lines of “baby,” and “darling.” This is perhaps the earliest example of the marriage between lesbian subtext and the western, which went on to be replicated a handful of times in the fifties in films such as THE FURIES, JOHNNY GUITAR, and FORTY GUNS. The western represented a whole new frontier, one that was wild, alluring, enticing and ripe for conquering: the perfect allegory for the forbidden allure of sapphic temptation.
Lizabeth Scott and Mary Astor in DESERT FURY.
Perhaps the best example of a lesbian code classic is William Wyler’s THE CHILDREN’S HOUR, made in 1961 starring Audrey Hepburn and Shirley MacLaine. Based upon a work by playwright Lillian Hellman (of THE LITTLE FOXES fame), the story revolves around two old friends who work together as school teachers. Their lives are turned upside down when one of the students spreads what she believes to be a harmless and mendacious rumor: that Martha is in love with Karen. It creates an uproar amongst the school and further forces the realization upon a tortured Martha that she does in fact love and desire Karen more than a friend, jeopardizing their friendship and sending her into a downward spiral. The play, in existence since the 1930s, had been a contention point in the industry for some time. As early as the mid thirties directors were trying to find a way to bring it to the screen: ironically, it was Wyler who succeeded. THESE THREE was released 1936 starring Miriam Hopkins and Merle Oberon, story doctored so it revolved around a common male love interest as opposed to centering around the lesbianism presented in the original play. It took nearly another thirty years — six years before the eventual fall of the code — for it to be adapted faithfully.
Shirley MacLaine and Audrey Hepburn in THE CHILDREN’S HOUR.
The particular films of Bette’s that I mention share no common ground with any of these widely acknowledged lesbian classics, for they fall outside the defining criterion which served as the baseline for such a classification. In fact, Bette would never make a western picture in the entirety of her career: the closest she came was THE PETRIFIED FOREST, which took place in a desert-like setting but was through and through a true gangster film. It’s true she would go on to star in episodes of famous TV westerns including THE VIRGINIAN, but the two different mediums are incomparable in every which way — from the production down to the promotion.
Interestingly enough, however, Davis shared an ever changing and evolving outlook when it came to “unconventional pictures” — specifically speaking, pictures that clearly incorporated themes of sapphic overtures. In the beginning, she disavowed them, refusing to partake in CAGED with Joan Crawford because of the lesbian implications. However, as the years bore on, her attitude changed. Davis expressed an interest in portraying the blatantly lesbian protagonist of THE KILLING OF SISTER GEORGE, (a role that ended up going to Beryl Reid), and just over a decade later, in 1978, portrayed the morally androgynous Mrs. Van Schuler in DEATH ON THE NILE. The shift is peculiarly fascinating, and something I wish to examine in the course of this essay, These roles, from start to finish, encapsulate the queer experience by saying more by showing less, a quality at which Davis in particular was extremely adept. The conclusions drawn from what isn’t present have as much to say as what is present, and Davis illustrates this beautifully in each one of these particular performances. Whether or not she was aware of the heavy subtext and implications that lay beneath her performances is something that only she, in finality, could answer. The purpose of this writeup is not to examine her persona, but rather her various characterizations.
Our journey begins in what was very much still an exciting and unbridled frontier — that is to say, the age of the pre-code. Queer representation at this time was enjoying what would amount to a fleeting reign, existing in a space where creativity and expression was encouraged without fear of judgement or analysis. It was truly a cultural mecca, an artist’s paradise where no topic lay off limits. In fact, in a fashion that would all too quickly perform a cultural 180, the more taboo it was, the better.
Oftentimes, queer context was born unintentionally, or of a byproduct of sorts: while the culture did exist, it was simultaneously being squandered with speedy haste — most notably in Germany, where order and fascism drove out a thriving underground culture that celebrated queer expression. Still, it is important to acknowledge that all material conceived in this window benefitted from the privilege of not having to worry about a conscious knowledge of threat, fear, and censorship. Thus, it is crucial to analyze separately as well as a synedoche of the queer catalgoue of films throughout the different eras of the film industry.
Overtly, directors used this advantage to explore sex and its construed meaning on the screen. Queer representation was never a main or conscious focus of the medium, and thus, ironic as it sounds, emerged as a means of free yet subconscious expression: the fear of homosexuality had yet to be drilled and fired into people’s heads, so thus, there was ample room for exploration without repression. Unfortunately the window of opportunity was scarce and rapidly closing by the inception of sound, and by the time artistic expression was reaching new heights, heavy censors were in place. The fear of nonconformity, of non traditionalism — had been established.
Still from SO BIG.
Alas, however, one of the oft overlooked gems birthed in this brief period of liberal ingenuity is a rather nondescript and innocuous film that masquerades as a biographical drama — SO BIG!, a Barbara Stanwyck vehicle made by Warner’s in 1932. Davis was still in the infancy of her career, not yet a star by any means, and thus inhabits a role that can easily be dismissed as insignificant when weighed against the importance of Stanwyck’s lead. It isn’t until the final act that Davis makes her entrance — a bit part that lasts all of twenty minutes — yet these twenty minutes reveal a meaty and unconventional part that the young starlet played up to perfection. SO BIG! Was also pivotal for another reason: it was the first film Davis made after completing THE MAN WHO PLAYED GOD, the picture she cites as giving her the motivation and resilience to remain in Hollywood after a spell of bad pictures. Despite being relegated to such limited screen time, Davis scintillates and stands out in what would otherwise be a very mundane role, had any other performer filled her shoes.
The character in question is named Dallas O’Hara, and she is first introduced to the viewer as a business liaison. Protagonist Dirk, who runs a betting office, has consulted her for work — we learn she is an illustrator, and from the way she dresses it’s evident that she’s done well for herself. Davis wastes no time in breathing spunk and energy into her character, casually mentioning tossing out an exorbitant price quote of $2500 (in 1932 dollars!) for her work. When she is confronted by an aghast Dirk, who calls her talent into question, she never once flinches, apologizes or backs down: instead she defends her worth, and threatens to walk out upon the mention of any negotiation. Her confidence and charisma stun Dirk into accepting the proposition, where he, humbled and flabbergasted, stammers that he suppose that it would be possible to grant an exception on her behalf.
In most films — even precodes — the next logical assumption is that the two would kindle a relationship of sorts. After all, it is made very clear that Dirk is single and furthermore interested in Dallas. Following this formula, he visits Dallas in her studio, who is hard at work painting his piece. She appears starkly different from how we were first introduced to her: instead of being dressed to the nines in minks, she is barefaced and clad in a long, open blouse and baggy slacks. Her hair is frizzy and she has no makeup on her face — still, she beguiles the smitten Dirk all the same. As he fires away proposition after proposition at her, “Will you go to dinner with me sometime?” Dallas makes it very clear that she is only half listening at best, uninterested by what he has to say. She continues to paint without pause, and finally relents when Dirk reaches levels of desperation. A dinner date is agreed upon, and she takes off to change.
Dallas, engrossed by her work in SO BIG!
Dinner makes it only all the more evident that Dirk’s infatuation remains unrequited. Dallas seems more interested to talk about other things, about how life inspires her art, and how she doesn’t care a great deal for the frivolity of the wealthy. When she notices the asparagus on the menu shares Dirk’s last name — leading Dirk to tell her about his mother (Barbara Stanwyck’s) farming legacy, only then do we see her eyes light up. “Now that’s a woman I’d want to meet!” she declares, making total disregard of the admirer before her. After, the two are briefly shown sitting together in an apartment. Dirk, clearly vexed and frustrated that his feelings aren’t reciprocated, asks Dallas if many men have ever fallen in love with her. “Yes, they have,” she answers matter-of-factly. When asked what becomes of it, she shrugs and says that nothing ever comes of it and that in the end they simply settle for being her friend.
There’s enough to examine and unpack in that last statement alone to write an entirely separate paper: given the fact that this film, too, was made before the enforcement of the code, it is entirely plausible that this was a blatant allusion to Dallas’ queerness. She is introduced as a woman in a man’s world — more or less one of the boys — and continually ignores Dirk’s romantic overtures. Now, she clearly and loudly proclaims how her past relationships with men have gone, only giving more weight and credence to her behavior. When Dirk asks her if she likes him, she says “yes,” but implies through body language and expression that it is not the same kind of affection that he harbors toward her. All of this has been expertly conveyed through Davis in less than twenty minutes, giving an incredible depth and background to a character so minor and trivial in the grand scheme of things.
Davis as Dallas in SO BIG!
The most telling bit, however, arrives with the film’s ending. Even despite her rebuffs toward Dirk, Dallas still has the potential to end up as his love interest. Afterall, he takes center stage as the main protagonist for the film’s third act — formulaically, that would allow for Dallas to step in and fill the role of his girlfriend, thus sealing the entire vehicle with a happily ever after. The beauty is that the film subverts this expectation: while Dallas does indeed go with Dirk to meet and visit with his mother, she remains decidedly aloof toward him. Instead, her final lines on screen are dedicated to Selina. As she stares off screen and smiles in her direction, she talks about how spectacular she is, even making it a point to call her beautiful. The film then goes on to conclude with mother and son embracing, confirming that nothing ever blossomed between Dallas and Dirk. It is bold and satisfying, not only speaking to her potential queerness but as her autonomy as a self-dependent woman. It’s an interesting contrast against Selina, who also fits the same criterion — but unlike Dallas, her perseverance was to provide for her family. Dallas, being young and unmarried, does it for herself. While a lot of her freedoms are protected by the leniency of the pre code era, it is still novel in the sense that for a woman to command such control and authority over her own ambitions was a sight both unusual and generally unacceptable in 1932.
Davis’ part in SO BIG! is sadly more-or-less forgettable thanks to a factor of things — poor reception and performance at the box office, the fact that she had yet to come into her stardom (thus making the film purely a Stanwyck vehicle in the eyes of many), and a story that hadn’t translated smoothly onto the big screen. She’d soon go on to establish herself as a minor player in Warner Brothers films. By 1935 she’d reached widespread acclaim and went on to enjoy a decade of success as their new leading lady.
While Davis played a wide catalogue of different roles in this so-called golden era, they all happened to fall more-or-less within the bounds of conventionality — that is to say nothing rivaled the scandal that BONDAGE had stirred up several years before. She played the other woman (THAT CERTAIN WOMAN, THE OLD MAID), reprised her role as a lady of the night (MARKED WOMAN), and for the first time broke into what would later become her ruling terrain, playing contemptible cold-hearted villainesses (THE LETTER, THE LITTLE FOXES). In each of these performances, no matter how heinous the character, there was no ambiguity surrounding sexuality. These women either eventually yielded to men, or remained aloof and asexual, too consumed with the prospect of personal power to think twice about pleasure.
Still from THE GREAT LIE.
One exception arises, that being Edmund Goulding’s THE GREAT LIE. Standard melodramatic fare, it tells the story of a twisted love triangle between two best friends and an aviator pilot. Concert pianist Sandra (Mary Astor) finds herself pregnant but risks her reputation and career if the news is made public, so she elopes with her best friend (and former wife of the now deceased father) to a solitary ranch, evoking shades of the real life Loretta Young and Judy Lewis story. This subplot is only allotted fifteen minutes of screentime, but what emerges is an intimate portrait of domesticity between two women. Maggie (Davis) assumes the role of the husband, looking out and providing for her pregnant friend. When Sandra becomes hysterical, it is the dominant Maggie who slaps her into shock in order to console her. The dynamic that arises, then, is one that suggests that there is more to their bond than what is shown on screen.
Mary Astor and Bette Davis as Sandra and Maggie in THE GREAT LIE
It’s small, but significant — and stands as the sole outlier in the annals of Davis’ filmography during her reign as the fourth Warner Brother. She wouldn’t inhabit a role ambiguous enough to lend itself to re-examination until seven years later. The movie in question was WINTER MEETING, based on the eponymous (and decisively racier) novel by Grace Zaring Stone* By this point in her career, Davis was old stock, and treated as such. Wiping the dust that had settled on her career, a now forty-year-old Bette Davis was poorly repackaged and thrown into a vehicle that somehow managed to be even less titillating than the title suggested.
WINTER MEETING was made in 1948, Davis’ first film upon returning from giving birth to her daughter, BD. Very much like she had in ‘32, during the production of SO BIG!, Davis found herself at an unusual crossroads in her career. The last film she had completed with Warner’s had been 1946’s DECEPTION, which had failed to drum up what had now become routine praise, performing poorly at the box offices. Hopeful to rebound with something strong to jump start her career once more, Davis was once again met with a plot she found to be less than invigorating. In short, WINTER MEETING trailed the lives of two very opposite individuals — one a soldier, the other a spinster — whose lives briefly entwined for a number of days before expunged secrets ultimately unraveled their ephemeral yet powerful bond.
Susan and her flamboyant companion, publicity still for WINTER MEETING
Davis takes on the role of Susan Grieve, a virginal and reserved poettress who spends the majority of her time cultivating her craft. Her one friend is the quintessentially classic gay and gossippy socialite, equipped with quick wit and incredible charisma as to win over every person he meets. He serves as the catalyst who convinces (through relentless accostment) Susan to accompany him on a double dinner date. The other couple in question, of course, is a young and brazen starlet type who is with none other than the soldier Slick Novak, who ultimately becomes Susan’s paramour.
The meat of the story — the eventual and inevitable tryst between virgin Susan and the charming Slick — is lost entirely due to the strict censors of the code. What is interesting to note is the context it then creates in its absence: a context that while, certainly not intending to do so, further bolsters the queer subtext laying beneath the tight and morally laced character of Susan herself. While Susan and Slick do elope together for the weekend to a winter cabin, all indications the morning after insinuate that nothing more sensual than a kiss transpired between the two. In fact, the most pivotal scenes in the cabin focus not on romance nor any purported chemistry between the two leads, but rather a mutual airing of emotional grievances and traumas that lay deeply buried for too long. It’s intimate and vulnerable, but not sexual nor romantic. A trust is certainly established between the two that allows for this outpouring to occur, engendering an illusion of attraction — but no genuine love is ever borne between the two. The film’s end only further drives that point home by having both characters go their separate ways. Both are calm and understanding of the situation, fully grasping that they are not meant to be together, and manage to walk away amicably with little bombast that so often accompanies the torrid affairs teased in movies of this era. It is, in fact, almost too cool of a parting — it does more to work against the supposed romantic plot than it does support it.
The poetess in her palace — a still from WINTER MEETING.
Susan herself is an interesting character, embodying many of the stereotypical spinster traits but also possessing a depth that they often lack. She’s withdrawn and reclusive, sure — but she is also attractive and carries herself well. Her wardrobe, while not showy by any means, is still a far cry from the matronly and prudish wardrobe that one might typically associate with a spinster. She is contemporary, and while not provocative, still possesses an enviable glamour. Despite her virginity, she is confident in her femininity and takes pride in her prowess and work ethic. Up until her encounter with Slick, she is shown as being happily independent and accomplished in her career, living in an enviable home and earning a sumptuous salary.
When she first is introduced to Slick and his voluptuous date, her attention falls not to him, but the woman in question. “She absolutely fascinates me”, she remarks, clearly enraptured by her beauty. The fact that a female — who is blatantly made to be a virginal spinstress– makes such a comment is more than suggestive or telling. It would be one thing for an egregiously heterosexual female to make such a comment, but whereas Susan’s sexuality is amibiguous from the start, it makes things even more peculiar. Was such a plot point intentional? Whether or not it was, Davis enacts the scene with convincing authenticity that invokes curiosity, leading the hawk-eyed viewer to pick up on the potential sapphic undertones that exist within her character and portrayal.
Even if the code is to blame, the reworking of the story’s so-called “climax” only further favors the sapphic intonations. Susan and Slick may have exchanged vulnerabilities and intimate confessions, but never felt the need to physically consummate their bond. The fact that both can freely go their own way at the end of the film (without much regret) only serves further to support the theory that the plot explores a veiled relationship between a queer woman and a man that acts as more as a protective or necessative barrier more than anything else. Having been made (and subsequently set) in the late 40s gives all the more credence to the theory. Historically speaking, it was an era where both queer men and women (particulaly women) could not be authentic in their identities, and thus frequently opted to support one another by engaging and creating partnerships that cast the illusion of heterosexuality.
In the eight years that elapsed between WINTER MEETING and STORM CENTER, Bette Davis vacillated between extreme triumph and extreme disappointment, reaching new heights and lows. She divorced her third husband, took up with costar Gary Merrill, adopted two children, and made an unremarkable return to Broadway with the revue TWO’S COMPANY, to name a few things. Good film roles were few and far between — and to make things worse, Davis suffered two significant injuries, both of which required significant rehabilitation. It was the slowest decade of Bette Davis’ career — she made a mere twelve movies in a decade, a feat she had easily done in a year or two’s time during her time at Warner Brothers– of these twelve films, three of them were glorified cameos.
Alicia watches on in horror as her library is burned to the ground in STORM CENTER.
STORM CENTER presents perhaps the most vague and malleable protagonist of the lot I’ve chosen to examine in the sense that the entire plot revolves around a woman who goes against the moral status quo. Produced at the height of the Red Scare, the historically annotated reading sees Davis as an alleged communist, but the truth of the matter is that by being shunned as a pariah, she encapsulates every marginalized identity– being queer among them.
Historically, it was incredibly bold of Davis to take on such a role — the wounds from the damage inflicted by the red scare were still fresh, and many artists had suffered from its repercussions — some even to the point of death, like John Garfield, who never even made it to the age of forty. But perhaps Davis was ahead of her time in tackling such a role, once again daring to put her career on the line for a good part. The early half of the fifties had proved to be humiliating for her screen career, and it was evident that she’d never again reach the zenith she’d achieved with Eve. The only highlight amongst a series of box office flops was a nomination for Best Actress in 1952, for her performance in THE STAR. Given Davis’ stubborn character and her indomitable resilience, perhaps it was only natural that she’d rise to the occasion when nobody else dared to.
Still from STORM CENTER.
The canonical story trails the life of a spinstress librarian, Alicia, who refuses to remove Marx’s Communist Manifesto from her shelves. Her argument is a logical one — that all texts should be accessible for the sake of academic discourse — but the townspeople take vehement opposition. Even the children, her closest friends and allies, eventually rebel against her. This idea is daringly replicated almost to a T in Wyler’s adaption of Hellman’s THE CHILDREN’S HOUR, which came only six years later. Much like Storm Center, the integrity of the teacher figure is brought into question by a meddling minor.
Alicia, now ostracized, has no other choice than to fade into obscurity. She retreats to her house and relinquishes her position as head librarian. It is important to note that she is unmarried — even more so to note the text implies she’s never romanced a lover. She, an innocent woman, is forced into hiding and obscurity — solely because she dared to take a stand deemed shameful and ignominious by the resounding moral conesus of the town. While this stance can metaphorically embody many a strife, in this particular analysis I am choosing to analyze it as one of queerness. As noted in Vito Russo’s “The Celluloid Closet”, he cites a 1950 NYT article in which republican national chairman guy george gabrielson declared that “sexual perverts who have infiltrated our government in recent years are perhaps as dangerous as actual communists.” By 1956, things were just as hostile, if not moreso: by now, any groundwork laid by the working women of the war had been long undone in favor of a return to traditionalism. Anybody who defied the status quo — whether intentional or not — was subject to severe scrutiny, ostracization, and worse, physical harm. It was the rebirth of the proverbial witch hunt, the anathema being “communism” — which, while a legitimate fear, was also a convenient catch-all for any behavior that deviated outside of normal convention.
Another noteworthy aspect is the very essence of Alicia herself. An unmarried career woman who is tawdy, plain, and sexually unappealing, she fits the criterion for Russo’s definition of the 1950s coded lesbian character, given in this laconic explanation: “The presentation of lesbianism as an alien state of being emerged much more strongly in the Fifties in hard female characters who were seen as bitter reminders of the fate of women who tried to perform male roles”(Russo 99).
The only point that would argue against a traditional queer reading of the time is the fact that STORM CENTER concludes on an overtly positive note. Realizing how they wronged, the community once again accepts Alicia with open arms and allows her to resume her position as the local librarian. This would be quite the liberal ending for a film made in the 1950s, particularly if it pertained to a queer character — even six years later when Wyler released THE CHILDREN’S HOUR, one of the two queer protagonists end up dead. It’s important to note that while STORM CENTER can easily be read and analyzed as a queer text, that it never was intended to — but on a similar vein it was produced as a rebellious means to fight and challenge the status quo, paving the way for revolutions (like the LGBT movement) to follow in later years.
This brings us to the next film I wish to analyze — 1978’s DEATH ON THE NILE, where Davis enjoys an extended cameo as a wealthy and subversive dowager. Even more interesting, she is introduced as traveling with a female companion. This alone constitutes ample evidence, but the argument for her queerness is only bolstered when said female companion (portrayed by Maggie Smith) is exhibits not only as having no interest in men, but also as preferring to dress and present herself in what was then perceived as controversially masculine attire (aka suits and tuxedos, something only Dietrich and Garbo dared to explore in the 30s, which is when the film takes place). It is important to note that Dietrich self-identified as “bisexual” and the ever enigmatic Garbo never took a husband and was known to harbor affairs with female paramours.
Maggie Smith and Bette Davis in DEATH ON THE NILE.
Bette’s role may only be a bit part, but her screentime warrants a thorough analysis: throughout the entirety of her performance she remains only close to her companion, expressing not once an interest for any of the objectively attractive young men who are also on board with her. One may attribute this to age, but in a more modern feminist analysis it is easy to see that age is not the variable that keeps her from mainintaing an interest in any of the many men who are available for the taking. Of course, given that Davis and Smith are at best decorative assets to the meat of the story, only so much attention and detail is given to their characters. The lack of depth lends itself to the literal and metaphorical presentation of ambiguity, from Maggie Smith’s androgynous clotheswear to the manifold implications of an unusual partnership.
Still from DEATH ON THE NILE.
In that very same year, Davis partook in yet another picture that promoted subtle sapphic undertones, a TV special by the name of THE DARK SECRET OF HARVEST HOME. The production was based on the 1973 novel “Harvest Home” by Tom Tryon. Bette, having read the original source material, took a kinship immediately to the role of Widow Fortune, a cryptic hive mother who oversees a dystopian commune. In true Davis fashion, she lobbied incessantly for the role — for reasons that can only be inferred. Perhaps she was attracted to the idea of embodying a New England matriarch, or perhaps there were other motivating factors. One cannot say for sure, and thus such a point of is moot in regards to the relevance of this analysis.
Widow Fortune is not only enigmatic, but also emanates a supernatural aura from the second she is introduced. It is revealed almost immediately that she acts as the lone doctor/caretaker on the grounds of Cornwall Coombe — a society that bears many historical similarities to the Amish. Even in “contemporary” 1978, the inhabitants of this settlement are clearly living in an anachronistic era. They dress conservatively and refuse to make use of modern technology that would clearly aid in their farming pursuits — instead, they prefer to laboriously follow tradition.
Bette Davis as Widow Fortune in HARVEST HOME.
The Constantine family, expats from New York, are the newcomers in town. Mother and daughter are taken by what they see as a quaint and rustic way of life and immediately assimilate. Father Nick, on the other hand, remains suspicious of the group’s intentions, particularly taking a dislike to Widow Fortune. He resents the fact that the two most important people in his life have pledged unabiding allegiance to a woman he finds justly surreptitious and strange. This alone is substantive enough to warrant another reading through the lens of sexism — and while this is fair and valid, I choose to analyze the other potential reasonings behind such behavior: namely, the ones that support the topic of this paper.
Nick, without the support of his only allies (his nuclear family), continues to embark on an exhaustive quest to unearth the many mysteries surrounding the encampment, all of which lead back to Widow Fortune. Convinced the answers he’s looking for lie in her possession, he ultimately homes in on exposing Widow Fortune’s true nature — leading to an intense climax of events that ultimately reveals the furtive and morbid truths hidden and encapsulated by the residents of Harvest Home.
Widow Fortune poses proudly with her fruits of her harvest.
It just so happens that Widow Fortune helms a cult that flourishes on account of shedding male blood — every seven years, a young and eligible bachelor is elected the Harvest Lord, a respected and highly coveted title. Also nominated is the Corn Maiden, a young woman of similar age. To Nick’s great dismay, the honor goes to his daughter, Beth, who seemingly couldn’t be more thrilled. A shroud of mystery surrounds these roles and their purpose — no men are allowed on the premises during the night of the ceremony, and the women refuse to talk about what transpires. The viewer learns the truth alongside Nick, when he manages to crash the ceremony and witness firsthand the horrors that comprise the homestead.
The reveal is as idiosyncratic as it is gruesome: the two appointed youths copulate while the crowd of women watches. As the Harvest Lord approaches orgasm, his throat is brutally slit — the women then drain the blood from his corpse and use it to fertilize the soil for the crops. More horrific still is Nick’s fate — while he ultimately gets to witness the rituals that encompass the “day of Harvest,” he ends up becoming blind, mute, and ultimately ostracized not only from the cult, but from his family as well.
The ending is fascinating for a number of reasons, notably for the fact that its climax sheds light on the hitherto latent dominance of women in Cornwall Coombe. In a classic role reversal, men are seen as nothing more than sexual objects to be used and discarded, cajoled into complacency by the collective hivemind ideology and its concomitant evocation of fear. Thus, the role of the male is rendered largely futile, making female relationships the center focus and granting them a sense of importance.
Helming the hierarchy is none other than Widow Fortune, earning reverence and adoration from the women of her posse. She is presented as the ideal embodiment of woman: proud, strong, and independent. Though Widow herself is never shown engaging in sex, it is clear that she enjoys being a voyeur and masterminding the sexual machinations of the settlement. She delights in doting on her younger female subjects, granting them lavish praise and generous amounts of attention. Despite being labeled a Widow, she never once gives any indication that she was ever married or took any interest in a man — and if she had, her motivations would have been purely fueled by a gain of power as opposed to actual love or attraction. Every contextual clue points to her being a queer woman spearheading a society that, while evil, allows for her to exist without conesequence.
Widow Fortune addresses the townspeople.
Her character is thinly veiled propaganda that could argue one of two ways. Given that the protagonist of the feature is Nick, a man, one could interpret that the film acts as commentary on the evils of encroaching feminism and female dominance, perhaps no better represented than in the existence of lesbians. The sexual revolution was still raging strong in the late 70s, and the intersection of feminism and lesbianism provided ripe breeding grounds for unprecedented visibility. The ultimate threat to male dominance existed not in the liberated woman, but the liberated lesbian, for she had no need or desire for a man in order to thrive. Thus, the secure dominance enjoyed by men for so long was suddenly thrust into what they perceived was a state of danger.
On the other hand, one could just as easily read the text as a think piece that advocates for women’s rights. Perhaps it exists as a warning, a harbinger to warn men what could potentially transpire should they continue to deny women the freedom of existence and expression — that expression specifically encompassing sexual fluidity and queerness. Whichever is the case, the concept of sapphism is inherently woven into the narrative.
The last character upon which I’d like to touch would be Elizaebeth Winfield, the lead in 1981’s FAMILY REUNION, and a role Davis inhabited masterfully. As the title is inclined to suggest, Davis plays the role of a matriarch of a long divided and estranged family that is engaged in a war over the monetary value of historic real estate. It is a three hour long, made for TV epic that does an excellent job in tackling an unfortunately commonplace yet taboo occurence that so often drives families apart.
While Davis’ Elizabeth is the protagonist and thus comprises the majority of the plot, her character’s background is almost never brought into question. In many ways, she’s reminiscent of Mrs. Van Schuyler — composed of a bare minimum set of traits that create a basic framework, but lacking the necessary depth to flesh out a well-rounded personality. She’s palpable, yes, but only inasmuch as the film requires her to be.
In many ways, the role also parallels that of Alicia in Storm Center. Elizabeth is a former English teacher; Alicia is a librarian. Both women harbor fondness for literature and learning. She, like Alicia, lives alone: and both women, though loners, exhibit a strong maternal instinct and take children under their wing. Ultimately, Elizabeth faces the same cruel ostracization that Alicia does, though for very different reasons.
Elizabeth Winfield also stands as an excellent foil to Widow Fortune, as both women are standalone matriarchs. If Widow Fortune has the ability to exercise total control over her subjects, Elizabeth unfortunately is just the opposite: her family has been torn asunder over inheritance and innovation. She struggles to retain her identity, failing to live up to her role as the glue that holds everyone together. Elizabeth also must bear the burden of seeing her own descendants fail to live up to the moral integrity which she tried so hard to instil upon them. Still, in this journey and fight for her namesake — which has stood as the core component to her identity for so long — another aspect of her character raises attention to another definitive trait that, while not outwardly explored, suggests a constant that has remained even when everything else is thrown into disarray.
Bette Davis as Elizabeth Winfield in FAMILY REUNION.
Ambiguity lends its favor to the potential that Elizabeth may indeed be a queer woman. Of course, like the bulk of this essay, everything here is nothing more than pure speculation — but still, the thought is entertaining at the least, if not groundbreaking. There are many nuances that require careful examination, but for simplicity’s sake this will remain a superficial interpretation. Nothing is ever definite: even if Elizabeth did marry a man and biologically birth her children, this alone doesn’t qualify for absolution in terms of heterosexuality. It works the other way as well — unless explicitly stated, nobody can factually declare that a character is definitively queer.
That being said, Elizabeth’s sexuality could be argued in any number of ways, and as with any argument, each raises piquant extrapolations that could act as further, deconstructed commentary that supplements the central message of the film. If she is indeed queer, her character could be lauded: despite her own personal shortcomings, Elizabeth Winfield is by all means a respectable, good-hearted and renowned woman. She’s enjoyed a career that allowed her to make use of her voice and talents, and remains vigorously vocal and independent even in retirement. Given the era in which the film was made, this could be interpreted as a very liberal and positive view of queer folk for its time. While her sexual preference is never clearly defined, it could easily be read in the sense that a queer woman is much more than her sexuality.
Coming full circle, Bette’s role in all of this remains curiously ambiguous. There exists evidence to support the fact that she actively sought out roles peppered with sapphic intonations (THE KILLING OF SISTER GEORGE) and evidence that argues she avoided them (CAGED). Perhaps her views vacillated over time — the only one who could say for certain is she herself. What one can conclude, however, is the fact that from the start until the bitter end, Bette embraced roles seen as daring and unconventional for the time. She played many a pariah and hooker, innumerable villains and women far older than her age at the time of production. Queer women unquestionably belonged (and continue to belong) to that group of outcasts, making it very plausible that Bette, whether consciously or subconsciously, took on those roles. In the end, such a truth is trite — because no matter her intentions nor motivations, Bette Davis has undoubtedly carved an astounding repertoire of unforgettable performances, many of which capture elements that detail the ongoing plight of the queer woman. The beauty of cinema rests in its subjectivity: film will never stop giving for as long as it persists, remaining a beautiful prism that speaks liberally to all walks of life. So long as it exists, anybody can.
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