.png)
Publicity poster promoting OLD ACQUAINTANCE
“There are certain things that one just doesn’t do! But I did!” publicity for OLD ACQUAINTANCE
In an era where censorship reigned over the film industry with an iron fist, it’s incredible to think that so many movies ultimately slipped through the cracks, strategically exploiting blind spots or ambiguous loopholes to subtly exploit a controversial topic. If there ever was a golden age of subtext, it was during this moralistic witch hunt. It flourished under adversity, emerging from the very conditions that sought to stifle it. Eventually, the inexorable growth of culture, society and a liberalization of morals led to a gradual degradation of the code, rendering it nearly innocuous, something that devolved into convention that, by its collapse in 1967, was but a shell of its original intention.
However, in 1940, the Code was still relatively new with no leniency in sight. Artists struggled to retain their creative autonomy in wars waged (and ultimately lost) against studioheads. No bad deed could go unpunished — and even more importantly, no overt reference to homosexuality and queerness could grace the screen. In fact, the paranoia was so high that often innocent interactions were redacted or removed in meticulous briefings — if a term of endearment was even so much as exchanged between two non familial members of the same sex, it was a public outcry — for men, anyway.
The roots of this reasoning stem far before the advent of cinema, based in the very nature of gender, sexuality, and expression. As acutely observed by Vito Russo in his novel THE CELLULOID CLOSET, for a man to be gay was to be equated to a woman — feminine, emotional, sensitive, and weak — all qualities derived from stereotypes, values that, while not always ringing true, were unjustly branded as unfavorable. Words that alone held no harm, but carried a dangerous subtext when equated with men. Any outliers who dared to embody or display such traits were scorned and denounced in defense of quintessential manhood. A man was supposed to be tough, uncompromising, unfeeling, virile. Again, words that held no particular weight on their own, but became stringent blueprints to be adhered to when it came to the depiction of men.
The marriage of homophobia and misogyny only further reared its ugly head in its hyprocritical and paradoxical treatment of the queer woman. If a woman boasted elements of masculinity, it was mostly excusable — for there was no shame in being a man. Instead of being admonished, she’d be dismissed as a tomboy, or worse overlooked and/or rendered invisible. Tomboys weren’t taboo creatures, just harmless and quirky. Rarely was a woman presented as so flamboyantly dykish that it stirred issue — and thus, with this window of ambiguity birthed a breadth of artistic opportunity. Lesbian stories could easily be woven into the subtext by capitalizing on all the traits that worked against gay men: femininity, vulnerability, and emotion.
The queer woman had the advantage of exercising her femininity while also exhibiting behaviors attributed to men, allowing for sexual ambiguity to flourish. Thus, the closeness of two females was rarely called into question. Simply by being women and thus, gentle by definition, it was natural to have intimate relationships with those of the same sex. On the contrary, any depiction of closeness between two men was immediately viewed as suspect. While it certainly isn’t good to have one’s identity repudiated as a myth, it was a thousand times more preferable to the opposite: which was to be socially lambasted, a target of ceaseless derision on account of said visibility.
Invisibility, though detrimental, was not without its benefits: for one, it granted relative immunity when it came to expression, even if borne from unintentional irony. Reducing sapphic romanticism to friendship was the perfect method of silencing: not only was it effective, but also non-malevolent in its manifestation despite the damage it dealt. Its genius lay not in the fact that it could be a silent enforcer, but rather that because of its versatility it was easily reclaimed and weaponized by queer victims to fight back against the status quo.
It would birth expression through repression by simultaneously granting visibility to and taking credibility away from sapphic women. Despite the broadened tolerance for subtext through displays of femininity, the frontier was decisively sequestered by an impenetrable wall of morality. Thus, implicit meaning took precedence and importance, since its medium — subjective in its existence — was the only one which granted a near full reign of expression. Take things a little too far and suddenly, the protective bubble of invisibility was no longer something to which one could turn a blind eye, jeopardizing livelihoods and profitability.
Of course, there were always obstacles in place. Certain measures had to be obeyed for the illusion to work. Following the standard acceptable recipe for melodramas, these films were expected to glorify and incorporate some sort of heterosexual relationship. It was simply peace of mind for the code: if traditionalism was present in some form, then the movie would never face scrutiny. Whereas If the material was too explicit, then it would never stand a chance. The closeness of two women was permitted so long as it was bolstered by a heterosexual relationship. This, at first a hindrance, took on an important role in the long run. The issue first was how to work around the man, something that was ultimately resolved by giving him a lack of dimensionality. His function was to serve as a distraction, to fool the censors and code while the true sapphic narrative played out in the background.
Despite all the roadblocks enforced by the Code, female friendship was the easiest device through which to employ sapphic subtext. It was a novel technique in an era where implication was one thousand times more gratifying than invisibility. Of course, today, where queer love is visible on screen, the very idea has taken a complete 180 in its intended use. Exploiting friendship in an era where lesbians were forbidden to exist was a delightful act of quiet rebellion — today, it’s used to deny and invalidate lesbians, an enforcer of the invisibility against which it once fought. All too often, explicitly sapphic relationships are dismissed as being nothing more than a good friendship.
I ask for the reader to take a step back and approach this piece with the time appropriate lens, which I have provided. It is important to fight against the “very good friends” trope in contemporary times where it threatens the very existence of sapphic expression. But in times long past, it once was emblematic of lesbian visibility, championing the underground queer moveent that struggled to have their voices heard. This analysis also utilizes three distinctly different classifications of female sexuality: I use all three interchangeably not to deny their individual importance, but rather to include them in a narrative to which they can relate. Sexual expression is vast and varied, and one particular identity does not and should not be erroneously categorized as being superior or more authentic than the rest.
Thus, due to the foundations established by the dominion of masculinity, gay men continued to struggle for tolerance due to their undeniable flamboyance. Lesbians, on the other hand, quietly prospered through innuendo and intention by exploring the emotional facets of female friendships. It is this particular loophole that allowed one of the most heavily sapphic films to triumph in silent victory upon its release, which brings me to the very core of this writeup.
The picture in question is Vincent Sherman’s 1943 production of OLD ACQUAINTANCE, which explores the inextricably tumultuous relationship between two lifelong female friends. Kit, played by Bette Davis, is a bookish and taciturn bachelorette who writes for a living. Millie, played by Miriam Hopkins, is a flamboyant, histrionic woman prone to whims of destructive envy: in other words, the exact foil of her friend. Set throughout the course of several decades, OLD ACQUAINTANCE follows both women from their youth up until middle age, tracing their mutually imposed ups and downs. Why this film in particular? There is no short supply of code era films that revolve around female friendship: in fact, these so-proclaimed “women’s pictures” would thrive and dominate the box office during the bulk of the decade and well into the next. The answer exists in its conception, a perfect storm that would never again be replicated. With Davis and Hopkins bringing a pre-existing rivalry to set, the lines of reality and fiction blur at the intersection of female friendship, obsession, and envy in OLD ACQUAINTANCE. The screenplay becomes a guideline at best, allowing for unscripted interactions and dialogue: what is canon becomes a matter of contention, then, because the lack of distinctions only aid to further conjoin fact with fiction. Its remarkable and bombastic creation heightens the intricacies of the complex female dynamic by calling performance into question. Uninhibited emotion and its concomitant character and player consolidation creates a reading so undeniably efficacious that it overtakes the literal, face-value narrative of the film, exemplifying how female friendship can at once be both a device and façade that both gives credence to and protects the sapphic narrative.
Hopkins and Davis in OLD ACQUAINTANCE
The variables that gave way to the foundation of this tempest lay in the strange, competitive nature of Hopkins’ and Davis’ working relationship. I want to preface this next part by adding that it is not the objective of this paper to make any claims regarding their sexual proclivities. Rather, I want to objectively examine the curious ins and outs of their professional relationship, which, at its peak — during the production of OLD ACQUAINTANCE — was even marketed as a feud to drum up additional interest in the picture. While sexuality is certainly a huge facet of this paper, the examination of Davis and Hopkins exists solely to illustrate its effect — intentional or not — on the film’s final outcome. Chemistry, whether romantic or not, always makes for an emotionally charged performance: and the same is true of OLD ACQUAINTANCE.
Hopkins and Davis were acquainted long before either one achieved star stature. It was in Rochester, New York where they both met for the first time. Both girls were coincidentally working in George Cukor’s theatre troupe. The year was 1928, the play; EXCESS BAGGAGE. Hopkins was a rising star — Davis, by contrast, a fledgling fill-in. Certainly prescient of what was to come, their initial encounter was defined by mutual disdain. Davis, prone to exaggeration, alleged that Hopkins was irritated by her presence and saw her as a threat. The truth, again, lies likely somewhere in the middle: Hopkins was notoriously insecure, but not to the point to raise hairs with someone who was virtually a nonentity.
Bette Davis photographed in 1928, when she was performing in Rochester alongside Miriam Hopkins
Whilst the two women wouldn’t be reunited for another decade, their careers often inadvertently brushed paths. Hopkins was the first to successfully break onto the scene, cementing herself as a movie star as early as 1931 and going onward to balance this success with a profitable career on the stage. It was Hopkins who originated JEZEBEL on Broadway in 1933, espousing her own fiery temperament and southern heritage with that of protagonist Julie Mardsen. Five years later, she’d lose her fight to reprise the role in the film version to none other than Davis — who infamously secured her second Oscar thanks to her performance. It was more than a simple slight — it was rubbing salt in the freshest of wounds. It is important to note that the 1930s were an important transitional period in terms of performative expression: prior to then, stage performance had long reigned the superior and more prestigious form of acting. Cinema was still very much in its infancy even as late as the 1920s, still dismissed as a lesser medium dominated by lowbrow artists and bohemians who didn’t have the means to break onto the stage. The shift was simultaneously gradual and swift: while the theatre still retained its dominance in 1930, by the end of the decade motion pictures had cemented their authority. Celluloid meant immortality and innovation: an actor didn’t have to be confined to one singular role for a series of months or even years, instead having the ability and option to inhabit several roles at once. The movies were tangible, attainable and affordable — while in contrast, stage performances were often expensive, inaccessible, and redundant by the quickly changing expectations of consumers in the age of the Great Depression. While Hopkins may have started holding the upperhand, she certainly was not in 1939.
(as seen above: Miriam Hopkins as Julie in the stage production of Jezebel in 1933; Bette Davis as Julie in Wyler’s film adaption in 1938; Davis with her Best Actress Oscar in 1939)
Bette Davis had managed the impossible in a short matter of eight years, becoming a star player in an industry which set her up to fail. From a shaky screen test that threatened her future to two Oscars and three nominations under her belt, by 1939 Davis had not only beat the odds of survival but just about surmounted every other leading lady of her era. She had long since usurped Kay Francis and Ruth Chatterton as Warner’s leading lady, and was on the upswing when the majority of her contemporaries were branded as box-office poison. While Garbo and Shearer were seeing the writing on the wall, Bette Davis was continuing to ride the golden crest of what would ultimately be the most prolific stretch of her career.
Hopkins in DESIGN FOR LIVING (1933)
Miriam Hopkins did not share the same dismal fate that plagued the leading ladies of MGM (amongst Dietrich and Hepburn as well, at Paramount and RKO), but she certainly wasn’t enjoying the success of being a household name like Davis. She enjoyed steady praise and notoriety for her work in pre codes such as TROUBLE IN PARADISE, THE STORY OF TEMPLE DRAKE and DESIGN FOR LIVING, but lost much of her momentum after the enforcement of the code. She was offered — and subsequently turned down — the very role for which Claudette Colbert would win her only Oscar, Capra’s IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT. There were just two things that she and Davis had in common by the time they arrived on set for THE OLD MAID: the desire to portray Scarlet O’Hara in GONE WITH THE WIND, and the affections of director Anatole Litvak, who was then husband to Hopkins. Whether Davis and Litvak actually had an affair remains conjecture at best.
According to Davis, tensions on set began right away. By her own account she claims, “On our first day of shooting, for instance, she arrived on the set wearing a complete replica of one of my JEZEBEL costumes. It was obvious she wanted me to blow my stack at this. I completely ignored the whole thing. Ensuing events prove she wanted even more to be in my shoes than in my dress.”
This, coupled with constant attempts to upstage Davis by way of distracting gesticulation, is the portrait of Hopkins which Davis paints for her reader. She goes on to assert that she was coolly unbothered by it and took pleasure in watching the other woman act out of jealousy. It’s hard to believe that Davis remained totally aloof given her legendary temperament, but there’s no denying that the envy she describes Miriam as having was searingly authentic. The first onscreen pairing of two obstinately flashy divas proved to be a financial success — and while the film itself is marvelous and weaves in many of the same subtextual nuances as OLD ACQUAINTANCE, its material allowed no room for abstraction. The story is literal and straightforward and lacks the aura of ambiguity which allowed for OLD ACQUAINTANCE to transcend its implied boundaries of being a traditional, straight-laced melodrama.
Hopkins and Davis on set during filming of THE OLD MAID (1939)
Davis’ recollections of OLD ACQUAINTANCE make for an even more vibrant visualization of the tensions simmering on set, furthering illustrating the intensity at play. In her memoir, THE LONELY LIFE, she recalls:
“The next film Miriam and I made together was OLD ACQUAINTANCE. We were always old somehow ; everything but old friends. Again I played the heroine and Miriam the bitch. Quite a reversal for me — but if you play the heroine you have to play it. I truly feel back of all Miriam’ s unhappiness and rivalry with me was this one fact. She wanted to be loved too, as a heroine. Came the scene in the script when I slap her — that’ s what the script said. I might add, the rafters above the stage were full of excited spectators. It was rather like a prizefight ring below. We rehearsed this scene for hours — not only her eyes were wandering but so was her body, to every corner of the stage. I finally said, “ Miriam! If I have to sit on top of the piano to look into your face for this speech, I will.” The slap followed the speech and I had to be near her. Her look of innocence and seeming lack of comprehension was infuriating, but stand still she did — and take the slap she did. To be sure, her eyes filled with tears of self-pity — but the camera couldn’ t see it. It was on her back! The next day, she arrived on the set very late. I had been waiting for hours. In all contrition she said upon her arrival, “ Ahm sooo sahry — everybody, but ah’ ve bin fleuin’ so terribly.” I could have thrown her off the roof for that one. Yes, Miriam is a caution ; but good actress she is.”
With all this established, we can now delve into the meat of the analysis: precisely, how the conditions at play helped to evoke and extract latent sapphism from the bones of a play that does little to provoke abstraction on its own. However, when brought to life by frenetic performance that holds truth in both fact and fiction, the key is turned, the lock opens, and the revelation emerges. This begins with how Davis and Hopkins portrayed their respective roles, at times broaching a very thin and ambiguous threshold between performance and existence.
OLD ACQUAINTANCE marks the second and final film collaboration of Bette Davis and Miriam Hopkins, a two hour fever pitch of a long simmering rivalry that has finally come to head. Originating as a play by John Van Druten and adapted for the screen with help from Edmund Goulding and Lenore Coffee, OLD ACQUAINTANCE stripped to its very core is ripe with displays of affection and envy, exploring how the two often overlap and intermingle: a story of crossed wires that creates drama to distract from the quiet machinations of wanton lust. For every cloyingly sweet or suggestive line exchanged between the two women, there is one to eventually refute and counter it — an expert strategy, intentional or not, for allowing these glimmers of sapphic dynamism to trickle in. It is one long elegy to the rivaling coexistence of love and hate by way of envy, presented on screen not only through the story of Kit and Millie, but also through visceral glimpses into the raw and authentic characters of Bette and Miriam. It prompts the viewer to consider if what has been immortalized by celluloid is a performance or a genuine expression of pent up frustration. The answer lies in between, as the sequences established are a waltz of both that lies at the mercy of their conscience.
While the screenplay itself touts both Kit and Millie as dominant, self-sufficient women, it is the energy and spirit of Davis and Hopkins that cements it as fact. The women in the play may be writers, but ultimately find themselves at the mercy of their emotions (in layman’s terms: infatuation with a man). When Davis and Hopkins take over, however, they assume both the female and male authority, swallowing up an utterly forgettable John Loder (Pres) and emasculating him to the point his main character attribute is exclusively defined by his service in the Army. The movie then becomes even more the story of Kit and Millie, arbitrated masterfully by the mercurial tensions — both fictitious and factual — exuded by both Davis and Hopkins.
The casting is masterful, and wouldn’t create nearly the same effect had the roles been reversed. Davis’ Kit is the heroine – not only is she successful, but also morally impeccable as well. When Millie fails to care for her daughter, Kit steps in without hesitation — only to receive her friend’s scorn in return. When, in the second act, Millie and Pres separate and Pres beseeches Kit to take up with him, it is Kit who refuses his offer — even though her feelings are shared — because she refuses to betray her friend in such a way. It isn’t until the very end that Kit cracks up and confronts Millie, but even then her erring is rendered void when, several scenes later, she accepts a desperate apology from a lugubrious Miriam without a second thought. Thus, by the nature and definition of foil alone, Millie fills the role of the antagonist. It’s no coincidence, either, that the majority of the sapphic intonantions stem from her character, giving more credence to the idea that when portrayed — if at all — homosexuals were depicted as evil and aberrant.
Even more interesting is how the pairing of Millie and Kit rivals that of Bette and Miriam (or at least by Bette’s account): Miriam, like Millie, is vindictive and jealous of Kit, who, like Bette, takes her flashy outbursts with a grain of salt. Miriam and Millie blend together as one in their unyielding pursuit to rouse a reaction out of their rivals. The underlying causes are deliberately grey and obscure, with anger joining forces with jealousy to mask any underlying implications of forlorn desire. It calls back to yet another long-employed traditional trope that came to define early depictions of queerness: the internal quandary of hate being born out of unwanted or unrequited love or desire, laying subconscious in wait. In some cases the character does come to this shocking epiphany — in other cases it continues to elude them, only further strengthening the intensity of the phenomenon. Hopkins and Davis manage to transcend the definition of acting by allowing their own selves to step into the film — something, while never intentional on their parts (and likely never recognized), was inevitable given the rampant parallels to their own life and history as contemporaries.
Many forces are at play in this power struggle, but one prevails. Jealousy is the driving constant in OLD ACQUAINTANCE that fuels an otherwise banal story, transforming it from a tired, uppity take on female friendship to a torrential tour de force exploring the undeniable presence of carnal desire. Millie decides to pursue a career as a writer just to one-up Kit, as she is jealous of her success. Everything Millie does is a direct response to her friend’s actions: because truthfully, in her eyes, anything that Kit pursues that doesn’t involve her is an attack. She masquerades her desire for Kit by instead channeling it through jealousy. She wants to be Kit, and does everything in her power to do so — but still, in the end, even this is not enough. It can never be the physical relationship for which she longs, just a furthering of the illusion until it snaps — which it inevitably does.
Hopkins does a marvelous job of bringing the contemptible Millie to life, employing hysterics to masterfully showcase her intensity. Her role as the antagonist is blatantly established by the happenings in the opening few scenes. Millie is to host a welcome party for Kit, who is in town for a book tour. When Kit gets swept away by a crowd of adoring fans, Millie becomes inconsequentially angry with her, storming home and then lapsing into a tirade as her poor husband meekly listens on. Unbeknownst to Millie, Kit hears the whole thing, having arrived early with the intention of surprising her. She takes her friend’s tantrum in stride, despite the fact that it was an overreaction in every sense of the word. This example sets a precedent that goes on to exemplify their relationship: while platonically Kit pulls the weight, it is Millie who outright desires her friend in ways that exceed the nature of their friendship. It is Millie who continues to ostentatiously act out throughout the film, and Kit who instead adjusts her own interests to prioritize her friends.’
Building off of the invisibility awarded to sapphics on screen, the text takes it one step further to ensure that these two women, while simply just friends, must endure many a quarrel — over men, no doubt — to really prove their heteronormativity. Ironically, the concept seems to work against itself: it can easily be argued that portraying two intimate women with no holds barred is an incredibly liberal portrayal of sapphic affection. After all, not only do real couples quarrel — but the ending provides a beautiful resolution which, quite literally, ends with both women toasting to one another in a proclamation of “friendship.”
A major point of contention (and ultimately, part of a self-sabotaging heterosexual agenda) is Millie’s woefully neglected husband Preston, affectionately dubbed “Pres.” It is made clear from the start that Pres harbors feelings for Kit; in the second act, both are given a chance to act on what has been established as a mutual attraction. Despite the fact that she turns him down, Kit’s actions still invoke harsh repercussions in the third and final act. However, Pres’s appearance is simply a product of (and effective placeholder for) the real conflict at hand: Millie’s irreverent and unrelenting desire toward her friend, which rears its head through a Freudian defense mechanism of envy and resentment.
Pres (John Loder) makes his feelings for Kit known
Millie’s implied sapphism is only allowed by way of reaffirming Kit’s heterosexuality, which is accomplished through the addition of another love interest. Rudd is inevitably thrown into the mix just to reinforce the idea that Kit still longs for a man of her own — to make it abundantly clear that she isn’t actively seeking out the company of her friend. In an interesting twist, Rudd — a soldier ten years her junior — falls out of love with her after becoming entranced by Millie’s now grown daughter. Kit initially views her relationship as a casual one — ironically, it is she who falls more in love as time passes, making the decision to split a painful one. Thus, the exceptionally unorthodox ending is made justifiable: sure, both women end up alone, but they come together ultimately to commiserate over their male losses. Nearly the entire bulk of the film’s final scene consists of lines recalling sorrow and heartbreak; Millie, placated by the reemergence of her friendship, is content to sit and console Kit. Despite all this, the queer subtext still emerges triumphant — though not without its hangups.
An older Kit (Davis) and the much younger Rudd (Gig Young)
A heartfelt moment is shared between the two women at the film’s conclusion — though again, its sapphic undertones emerge only given the staunch and recurring reminder that Kit is a wholesome, heterosexual woman. Millie has just enthused excitedly that she wants to write a book detailing the stories of their lives — in a move pandering to her unconscious queerness, she excitedly declares that it will be her first book drawn from authentic and true to life experiences — since before, she only wrote what was in demand: that being cliche romance stories with happily ever afters between a man and a woman. She asks Kit ideas for a title, and through this simple act alone Kit is able to reassert her heteronormativity. “How about OLD ACQUAINTANCE?” she suggests, vaguely alluding that at best, no matter how intimate, they were and always will remain just acquaintances– a far more distant relegation than that of a ‘friend.’
In Millie’s case, she never has that particular moment of realization — in fact, she never seems to question her feelings towards Kit at all, blinded by her own pride and devotion to what she falsely believes to be nothing more than a deep rooted friendship. Her introduction in the film depicts her subservience right out: not only is she going above and beyond to welcome Kit, but she’s offhandedly bragging to family and friends alike that the book was dedicated to her. Her devotion is plainly spelled out in this brief interaction shared with the local newspaperman:
Can you spare one?
Oh, of course. I’ve lots of them.
I knew you’d want it,
so I got it all picked out.
– Well, haven’t you got one of her alone?
– I don’t think so.
What about this…
Well, I looked all through,
but I couldn’t find a single one.
until she moved to New York…
we were absolutely inseparable.
From the first day we met,
our lives, our thoughts, our feelings were…
– Inseparable.
– That’s it.
– The book’s dedicated to me, you know?
– Yeah, I know.”
The deliberate emphasis on inseparable in all but unnecessary given the context supplied in this excerpt alone. It’s made very clear that nobody holds a candle to Kit in Millie’s book. She views them as a singular item, not as two separate individuals — the photograph dilemma only further elucidates that.
A more literal reading imagines Millie as a classic narcissist, which holds partial truth given her temperament. Millie certainly comes across as a confident and accomplished woman upon her grand entrance, and loves to center herself in the spotlight. It is true that Kit’s welcome party was likely conceived in part by her desire for recognition, but the other motivations — like the subtext — lay deeply hidden beneath the surface. In other words, it’s not just any kind of recognition she’s seeking. It’s the affection and attention of Kit that she so desperately longs for.
This is quickly revealed to be a performative guise, however, as her insecurity goes on to undercut her only a few short scenes later. In a moment of quiet confidence, Millie confesses to Kit that she envies her status as a career woman. Despite being happily married and pregnant, she laments that she is terribly unsatisfied with her life. Kit, on the other hand, is more than happy to support and encourage her friend in every endeavor — even one born out of mimicry. Thus, Millie goes on to seemingly have it all, only to once again find herself miserable. While her career has certainly helped to quell and abate many of her insecurities, she’s all but abandoned her family with the exception of Kit, upon whom she steadfastly depends for support and inspiration. She’s a tortured and trapped soul, doing everything in her power to construct a happy reality for herself — everything, that is, except look into her feelings. The one person she can’t seemingly get through to — or conquer — is none other than Kit. In fact, by acquiescing to her every bequest, Kit only further agitates the bellicose, attention-starved Millie.
Because all of this is extracted from subtext and thus, subjective, there is no definitive canon when it comes to Millie’s awareness of her sexuality. Her greatest obstacle, then, is her own unresolved internal conflict. Given this conjecture, it’s possible to argue that she never fully recognizes her sexual attraction to Kit by way of self-sabotage. Moments of calm seldom last between the two women: instead, as soon as all is resolved, Millie again resumes her role as the instigator. It’s a surefire subconscious defense mechanism that, ultimately, protects her from ever becoming conscious of her true feelings. When Millie finally achieves success as a writer and thereby resolves her initial conflict with Kit, peace is short lived. Instead, she creates more conflict by way of envy, this time centering around the relationship with her daughter. Her self-sabotage is almost always born out of jealousy, which is ultimately the distorted reflection of her obsession. To be envious of another woman is perfectly natural, whereas obsession crosses the line. It is why, then, Millie is conditioned to play upon her jealousy rather than acknowledge the root of her feelings.
Without the intensity brought by Davis and Hopkins, it would be infinitely harder to extrapolate upon the latent desires and motivations of Kit and Millie. It is that equivocally immeasurable authenticity that gives way to the idea that there may be something more lurking in the shadows of these two characters. The way Miriam, as Millie, practically grovels at the feet of Bette Davis, seeking forgiveness and validation in a way so personal it transcends the confines of the scene. How acrimony, like a geyser, erupts because of mounting pressure beneath the surface.
Though no viewing is ever truly objective by definition, from a straightforward reading OLD ACQUAINTANCE stands as an exemplary film. Its excellence is on account of the seamless collaboration of the writers, actors, directors, and crew. This collaboration, too, is what inspires alternative readings of the source material. The beauty of cinema rests in its inconclusivity– that it remains open to interpretation, extremely malleable despite the fact that it’s objectively whole. It begets imagination and contemplation that can help us to better understand ourselves and our society, standing as a lens through which we can examine and project our own desires.
Comments