Celestino Deleyto - The Secret Life of Romantic Comedy-Manchester University Press (2019)
Celestino Deleyto - The Secret Life of Romantic Comedy-Manchester University Press (2019)
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The secret life of romantic comedy
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The secret life of
romantic comedy
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Celestino Deleyto
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The right of Celestino Deleyto to be identified as the author of this work has been
asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 09 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
The publisher has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for
any external or third-party internet websites referred to in this book, and does
not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or
appropriate.
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Contents
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Introduction 1
1 The theory of romantic comedy 18
Romantic comedy and laughter 19
Happy endings, forgotten middles and the ideology
of romantic comedy 24
The space of romantic comedy 30
The Sydney issue 38
Genres and films 45
2 Comic negotiations 55
I Laughter, love and World War II:
To Be or Not to Be 55
Love and the invasion of Poland 59
A table for three: the love triangle 62
Lubitsch meets screwball royalty 66
That great, great Polish actor 72
Performing love, performing war 75
II Romantic comedy in no man’s land:
Kiss Me, Stupid 81
Romantic comedy in the 1950s 82
Satire and comedy 85
Moral standards and character identification 89
Climaxing in Climax 91
Bang, bang 96
Comic combinations 100
of independence 148
Love in real time: Before Sunset 157
The realities of love 158
Walking and talking 163
Sex and the city 167
References 177
Index 185
research was carried out at the libraries of the British Film Institute
and the University of Zaragoza. I would also like to thank the fol-
lowing people for their help at various stages of the process: Peter
W. Evans, for providing the initial inspiration to write about
romantic comedy; Christine Holmlund, for her encouragement and
ideas during our preparation of the panel on genre at the Chicago
SCMS conference; Kelly McWilliam, for sharing with me her
unpublished material on lesbian romantic comedy; Chantal Cornut-
Gentille, for her help, friendship and encouragement and for intro-
ducing me to the basics of chaos theory; and the staff of Manchester
University Press, for always making things easy for me. My thinking
about genre has been shaped through lengthy discussions with my
colleagues in the ‘Cinema, culture and society’ research group and
I am greatly indebted to all of them. My most special thanks go to
Constanza del Río, my most demanding critic, from whose aca-
demic acumen and personal involvement in my work I continue to
benefit shamelessly; Frank Krutnik, whose work I have admired for
years and who generously helped me when I most needed him; and
Marimar Azcona, who has discussed with me the theory of roman-
tic comedy for hours on end and has collaborated in this project as
if it was her own. As usual, I owe most to my wife Anita, for her
constant love and affection, and to my daughters Elena, who keeps
me abreast with the new affective protocols, and Esther, the person
with the clearest notion of what is and is not a romantic comedy.
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Introduction
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Jack, a bank robber, and Karen, a cop, meet in the boot of a car
when he breaks out of jail. They become attracted to one another
as they discuss Faye Dunaway movies. Their romance develops and
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intensifies as one chases after the other, in more ways than one.
The ambiguous ending suggests that sex may have become more
important than the (federal) law. This is one way of describing the
plot of Steven Soderbergh’s Out of Sight (1998) and it is a descrip-
tion that makes the film sound very much like a romantic comedy,
whether we take our definition from accounts of the genre’s classi-
cal antecedents in Greek and Roman New Comedy (for example,
Miola, 2002), from Northrop Frye’s theorisation of Shakespearean
green world comedies (1957), or from more recent approaches, like
Steve Neale’s discussion of romantic comedy’s conventions (1992)
or Tamar Jeffers McDonald’s ‘master definition’ of the genre (2007:
9). The meet cute, the wrong partners, the learning process and
other features listed by Neale, or the quest for love, the light-
hearted way and (arguably) the successful conclusion required by
Jeffers McDonald are in place, as are romance, desire, gender dif-
ference and social pressure, all easily identifiable as some of the
genre’s central thematic concerns.
The film was released at a time of maximum popularity of the
genre and, while it can just as accurately be described as a caper
movie, a crime film or a thriller, the cultural importance of romantic
comedy at the end of the 1990s facilitated the genre’s appearance
in this and other unexpected places – films like Scream (1997),
Starship Troopers (1997), Play It to the Bone (1999) or Entrapment
(1999), to name a few. Yet, since it has not been seen as a ‘con-
ventional’ romantic comedy, Out of Sight does not figure in recent
accounts of the genre. Romantic comedy being the most superficial
comedy, more than other genres, has not fared well. A circular
argument has been more or less universally accepted whereby only
those films that include certain conventions and a certain ‘conserva-
tive’ perspective on relationships are romantic comedies and, there-
fore, romantic comedies are the most conventional and conservative
of all genres. If a film threatens to be mildly interesting in cinematic,
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1 ‘Search me, sheriff’. John Wayne and Angie Dickinson in Rio Bravo
(dir. Howard Hawks, 1959, Warner Bros.)
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about conquering the West but about keeping what has been con-
quered. The only thing that he finds western-like about it is the
iconic presence of John Wayne and Walter Brennan (1988: 294).
Robin Wood, using the very approach that Neale criticises, finds
the film both the most traditional of westerns and ‘essential Hawks’.
For this author, the value of generic conventions is that they provide
a firm basis from which the director can build his own perspective,
his own personal approach. Rio Bravo, therefore, presents an
extremely productive tension between background and foreground,
between genre and auteur (1983: 35–40). It goes without saying
that neither these critics nor anybody else has stopped to consider
that the film may be, at least to some extent, also a romantic
comedy.
In his theoretical work on genre, Neale has attempted to shift
the emphasis from the texts themselves to the systems of commu-
nication and expectation within which they operate. Genres are not
only situated in the texts but also, crucially, in the industry that
produces them and markets them and in the audiences that consume
them (2000). Thus, while it may be argued theoretically that Rio
Bravo is not just a western, the industry marketed and continues
to market it as a western, and most spectators would more or less
intuitively consume it as a western. In those important cultural
senses, the movie is indeed a western. However, while the expan-
sion of genre theory beyond the texts, especially by theorists like
Neale and Rick Altman (1999), is a welcome move and such
of film genres.
For chaos theorists, human beings, natural phenomena, the phys-
ical world, the financial market or mathematical structures are all
part of chaotic systems, governed by unpredictability and impossi-
ble to control in the long run. These systems, called complex
systems, are governed by an unstable balance between order and
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itself all the remaining genres, entering in close relations with them
and transforming them and the general context in which they
operate (2000: 120–2). Genres are not discrete units, or categories,
but are part of a complex system which works chaotically but in
unison and which is constantly mutating through the films them-
selves and other discourses, both internal and external to the
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industry.
Chaos theory, Wittgenstein’s critique of Aristotelian categories
and Lakoff’s cognitive appropriation of it go a long way towards
dismantling traditional film genre criticism: the impossibility to
isolate one essential property which is shared by all the members
of one given class; the idea that the boundaries between classes are
changing all the time; and above all, the fact that genres are not
uniform categories defined by a collection of properties that all the
category members share, but, in Wittgenstein’s formulation, chains
of relationships and similarities (1963: 31e–33e). These are all
empirically observable phenomena that contradict traditional genre
thinking. However, one important aspect of generic functioning
seems to have been overlooked by Lakoff’s theory. For him groups
of texts are unstable, fluid and unrelated to many other members
of the same category, but the idea of membership, or belonging to
a certain category (or, perhaps, several categories) remains safely
in place. The groups are looser and interact with one another in
more intricate ways than before but remain, however vaguely
defined and however provisional, still groups. In this sense, Jacques
Derrida’s theory of genre goes one step further.
In his article ‘La loi du genre/The Law of Genre’, Derrida argues
that genericity is inescapable, that all texts are generic and that they
all bear the imprint of their own genericity. For him genre criticism
has always been concerned with norms to be respected, with lines
of demarcation, with purity. Mixing genres is a dangerous game
because it threatens the purity of the genre and the very concept of
genre. In his own words, ‘one owes it to oneself not to get mixed
up in mixing genres’ (1980: 204), but even when genres do inter-
mix, the very fact that we speak of ‘mixing’ guarantees the essential
purity of their identity. The law of genre is, therefore, a norm of
purity, a certificate of guarantee, and the occasional transgression
of the law only serves to reinforce its validity. But what, asks
Derrida, if at the heart of the law, were lodged its opposite: ‘a law
of impurity, or a principle of contamination?’ (204). What if it were
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Derrida does not go into the details of the specific nature of this
participation but the relevance of his theory for the study of film
genre cannot be underestimated. Altman’s Derrida-inspired defence
of the constitutive impurity not only of Hollywood fi lms but also
of its genres satisfactorily solves traditional problems of ‘genre
belonging’ – whether Oklahoma! (1955) is a western or a musical,
whether Mildred Pierce (1945) is melodrama or film noir – while
it also emphasises the industrial and internal nature of generic
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tinction between langue and parole. A film genre would work like
a system of rules and individual genre films would be specific mani-
festations of those rules (1981: 19). However, the static quality of
Saussure’s concepts does not correspond to the constantly shifting
nature of the generic system, in which genres are in a process of
constant evolution (and, sometimes, dissolution) and filmic texts
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conventions. Yet, since this director was perhaps more familiar with
the conventions of romantic comedy than with those of any other
genre, he may be seen as a conduit through which conventions
travel from some films to others, from some genres to others. In
this sense, a useful way of tackling this director’s oeuvre and, more
specifically, his use of romantic comedy, would be to analyse the
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study that these films are not in a minority within the history of
the genre with respect to such critically accepted cycles as the
screwball comedy, sex comedies, nervous romances, new romances
or post-romantic comedies. In fact, the history of the genre would
probably not have been the same without those films that, by
combining the conventions of romantic comedy with those of other
genres, opened new directions which then became consolidated
in more obvious instances of the textual workings of generic
conventions.
but also, when they do coincide in the same text, they remain sepa-
rate, without impinging on one another. In other words, there are
texts which happen to be romantic comedies, others that are come-
dian comedies and yet others which may contain both forms but
always in isolation from one another. In short, in this formulation,
romantic comedy and comedian comedy are largely incompatible.
The critical tendency to separate humour from narrative in
accounts of comedy has always been very strong. Earlier mythical
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the film text. Gags, jokes and other comic business are not
opposed to narrativity but integral parts of it. Humour and the
comic must, therefore, be ‘re-admitted’ into the theory of romantic
comedy.
On the other hand, the constitution of two types of film comedy
around the ‘opposite’ poles of laughter and the happy ending
responds to the traditional approach to film genres criticised in the
introduction of this book. When critics say that a film cannot be a
romantic comedy if it does not have a happy ending or, conversely,
that the fact that some romantic comedies do not make us laugh
means that laughter is not an element of the genre, they are thinking
of genres as groups of films and of films belonging to either one
genre or another, in this case, comedian or romantic comedy. A
film is a romantic comedy when it tells a love story with a happy
ending, and a comedian comedy when it revolves around the comic
antics of the central comic actor. Although the value of this power-
ful classification is that it has recuperated for academic analysis a
very important comic tradition in the cinema, its downside, as we
have seen, is that it has excluded humour from the theory of roman-
tic comedy against the evidence of empirical research. If we stop
thinking about genres as groups of films and consider them instead
as a constantly shifting langue, abstract systems which are articu-
lated in various ways in the actual texts, which do not belong but
participate in various genres, an immediate consequence is that there
are no specific conventions that a given film must have in order to
participate in a genre, since membership is not necessary. A film
may contain very few jokes or no jokes at all and still use romantic
comedy as a genre. Or humour can be theorised as integral to the
genre even if there are some films that do not provoke laughter in
the spectator. What is important at this point is to recognise that
humour and the comic constitute an essential ingredient of the way
in which romantic comedy deals with discourses of love, sex, inti-
macy and gender.
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of this critical emphasis has been the relegation, often virtual dis-
appearance, of the rest of the comic narrative from critical discus-
sion, especially of the middle section. Attention to the middle
section and, specifically, to the way in which the mechanisms of
humour and the comic operate within the representation of the
genre’s discourses, will allow us to explore the flexibility of the
genre and to abandon the ideological determinism mentioned above.
This is not to say that in romantic comedy, as in all narratives, the
ending is not important. As Peter Brooks has argued, the narrative
plot moves the reader forward through the space of the text, in
search of a totalising structure that will be perceived as such only
retrospectively, from the vantage point of the ending. Therefore
narratives only make sense once they have ended, allowing us to
see the whole of what went before in relation to their final moment.
But in order to reach the ending the narrative must go through what
Brooks calls ‘the vacillating play of the middle’, or, elsewhere, ‘the
arabesque of plot’ (1984: 107). It could also be said, therefore, that
the ending only makes sense with respect to the middle, to what
has happened before. There is an inexorable circularity in the domi-
nant argument that condemns romantic comedy as the most medio-
cre and repetitive of genres because, since a romantic comedy is a
love story with a happy ending, all romantic comedies end in the
same way. If we accept that there are other dimensions to the genre
apart from the happy ending then the recognition of much greater
formal and ideological variety will immediately ensue. The ending
of romantic comedy appears to be so highly conventionalised that
that romantic comedy has indeed a very specific subject matter. Yet
the Althusserian brand of ideological criticism that dominated film
studies in the 1970s and 1980s and remains strong in genre criti-
cism nowadays has combined this subject matter with a monolithic
ideology: not only is romantic comedy about love and marriage but
it always says the same thing about it, it invariably conveys the
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tive in which women were seen as evil temptresses, love was under-
stood as a destructive passion and sexuality as a powerful,
irrepressible and unpredictable human instinct. Shakespeare con-
stantly acknowledges the magnitude of this passion, making the
spectator marvel at its power, even as he puts marriage forward as
a mechanism to tame and socialise it. At the same time, his plays,
in order to be comprehensible to Elizabethan and Jacobean
audiences, articulated views of love and desire that were part of the
sexual and affective discourses of his age. Since then these concepts
have undergone frequent and very important historical changes
and, as a consequence, so have the artistic texts that have repre-
sented them.
Critics, however, have insisted on the unchanging nature of
romantic comedy conventions and messages. In a recent study of
contemporary Hollywood romantic comedy, Frank Krutnik, while
admitting that the genre has always attempted a negotiation between
the concept of heterosexual monogamy and a historically fluid
intimate culture, still concludes that it routinely continues to cele-
brate love as an immutable, almost mystical force (2002: 130, 138).
This view is extended among romantic comedy’s contemporary
critics and is, again, based on two problematic premises: 1) only
those texts that appear to conform to the idea of love as an immu-
table force are considered romantic comedies, and 2) the happy
ending is the only location of the films’ ideology. I have very briefly
broached the diversity of the attitudes towards love reflected in the
Italian fiction and drama of the sixteenth century and referred to
cannot be but welcome, even though it still leaves too much out.
Shumway suggests that the discourse of romance, consolidated in
the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, coexists nowadays with
the discourse of intimacy, one which is better equipped to deal
with stories of love after marriage and with the new term –
relationships – that emerged around the 1960s to cover new types
of affective and sexual bonds between individuals (2003: 24–5).
He finds, beginning in the 1970s, a new genre of films that reflect
these changes, which he calls relationship stories (157). As these
and many other examples suggest, the genre of romantic comedy
has undergone as many transformations as the discourses of love,
sexuality and intimacy in the course of the last five centuries.
Northrop Frye has argued that romantic comedy focuses on the
creation of a more adult and complex identity, and the crucial
factor in this is the discovery on the part of the protagonists of a
more profound sexuality (1957). The celebration of marriage may
have been, already in Shakespeare’s times, an ideological aim of the
genre but not the only one. What really characterised these narra-
tives (and still does) was the artistic articulation of current dis-
courses on love, sex and marriage, discourses which then, as now,
were multiple and contradictory. The apparent universality of the
happy ending and its obvious conventionality have led many to
defend an homology between the genre’s narrative structure and a
stern defence of monogamy and heterosexuality, distorting what,
in my view, is its main discursive space: the exploration of love and
human sexuality and its complex and fluid relationships with the
funny and romantic. But humour and love are not enough to under-
stand properly how the genre works. Through its comic perspective
on cultural discourses of love and desire, romantic comedy proposes
an artistic transformation of the everyday reality of human relation-
ships by constructing a special space outside history (but very close
to it): the space of romantic comedy.
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play but the rest of the characters are already there. For them, Illyria
is both social and comic space. At the end the lovers will all stay
on the charmed island, where they again, as in Much Ado, have
found an ideal context for the expression of their sexual identities,
however complex, and their erotic desires. Sebastian articulates the
sense of wonder that accompanies the experience of the genre when,
after noticing how, on their first meeting, Olivia behaves towards
him as if they had been lovers for a long time, he says: ‘This is the
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air, that is the glorious sun,/ This pearl she gave me, I do feel’t, and
see’t,/ And though ’tis wonder that enwraps me thus,/ Yet ’tis not
madness’ (4.3.1–4). In this passage Shakespeare is aware of the
duality of the play’s space and of its centrality in the comic experi-
ence. By this time the other lovers have already been subjected to
the influence of the comic atmosphere. Sebastian, on the other
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evolves from folk festivals and street humour. This literary form is,
like romantic comedy, easily traceable to traditional village celebra-
tions and invocations to the gods. Its main objective is the subver-
sion of the dominant order, whereas romantic comedy has been
theorised as a conservative genre that seeks to perpetuate the status
quo. This may be the reason why not many links have been found
between the two outside Shakespeare. While romantic love as a
historically specific formation has been the only ideological dis-
course to be recognised in the genre, the privileging of sex and the
body in carnivalesque comedy has remained outside the boundaries
of romantic comedy, but once we admit the presence of a multiplic-
ity of discourses about sex within the genre, the links between the
two theoretical formations start to become more visible. The space
of romantic comedy, which the genre appears to inherit from its
various sources, shares a similar potential for the release of repressed
drives and the circumvention of social inhibitions to that of
Bakhtinian carnival.
Medieval carnival, Boccaccio’s erotic liberation and the pastoral
green world constitute, therefore, the historical context of the
magic space of romantic comedy, which becomes consolidated in
Shakespeare’s comedies and has since then remained a central
feature of the genre. Whereas the happy ending affects only a rela-
tively small section of the generic plot, the space of comedy
pervades the whole text and is most often seen at work in the
middle section, where the various discourses of the social space vie
for domination and where the characters appear to be freer from
charged battle of wits between the lovers (1988: 89). Comic dia-
logues, therefore, became part of the creation of that special atmos-
phere which, for Greenblatt, was simply a theatrical substitute
for sex. In more general terms, humour (which in the cinema is
not only verbal but also visual) became associated with the creation
of that erotic utopia which romantic comedy proposed, and is
still proposing, as an antidote against the sexual and affective
frustrations of everyday life. Sometimes, the happy ending may
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although the films that deploy its conventions may be one or the
other, or, very often, both at the same time. The next section briefly
illustrates how a film generally taken as a romantic comedy
(although not only) might be analysed taking into account what I
have described as the main characteristics of the genre.
optimism of the first years of a president who was at the time seen
as more human and approachable than his predecessors. Later films
like Primary Colors and Bulworth, released after the Monica
Lewinsky scandal, also use comedy, albeit of a different kind, to
explore the darker mood that beset the country as a consequence
of the media appropriation of what could perhaps be described as
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through this relationship that the film is making its most important
political statement.
Authors like Babington and Evans (1989), Neale (1992), Krutnik
(1990; 2002) and Shumway (2003) have related the rise of romantic
comedy at the end of the last century to changes in social and inti-
mate relationships in contemporary society and have mentioned the
aftermath of the sexual revolution, the new discourses on sexuality
and intimacy and the impact of feminism on gender relationships
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but still expected them to continue doing what they were doing
before. This development was denounced by feminists like Susan
Faludi as part of the culture of patriarchal backlash (1992) and,
within mainstream Hollywood, memorably summarised by the
Julianne Moore character in The Hand that Rocks the Cradle
(1992): ‘These days a woman can feel like a failure if she doesn’t
bring in fifty grand a year and still make time for blow jobs and
homemade lasagne.’
Sydney feels some of these pressures and the film suggests that
in the past it is her job that has taken precedence, creating an emo-
tional void which is unacceptable for romantic comedy. Her bril-
liance as a political operative has left her increasingly powerless to
pursue affective relationships or has turned her half-hearted attempts
into a long chain of failures. Yet, The American President does not
suggest that, in order for the protagonist to regain her ability to
engage with another person intimately, she should surrender her
gains within the social sphere. Rather, it proposes a scenario in
which the two can coexist and feed off each other. As her romance
with Andrew develops, Sydney continues to be as tough and relent-
less in her job as she had been in the past and, moreover, uses
her influence to bring back to life the president’s dormant liberal
ideas. Conversely, awareness of their difficult professional relation-
ship makes their desire for each other more urgent and even helps
their sexual imagination along, as when, after their first meeting,
Andrew summarises their rapport to his friend and Chief of Staff,
A.J. (Martin Sheen): ‘We had a nice couple of minutes together.
cussed here are fixed or permanent. Although when the critic tries
to describe a genre of such longevity as romantic comedy, s/he often
looks for theoretical articulations that can encompass as many of
its historical manifestations as possible, there is no way in which
we can aspire to fix it forever. We cannot predict the directions in
which it will evolve in the future, the mutations that it will undergo,
or the specific ways in which it will continue to be culturally rele-
vant (or not).
If films are the specific manifestations of generic conventions at
work, it is also in the films that genres constantly intersect with one
another and it is, therefore, partly through the films that genres
evolve. But genres are also systems of communication, which involve
industrial decisions and audience reception, and are also, crucially,
cultural discourses. The history of a specific genre is, therefore, also
related to extrinsic factors: in the case of romantic comedy, the
evolution of ideological struggles and the historical realities of love,
sex and intimate relations. These factors, however, stop being
wholly extrinsic when, as in our case, the artistic genre has become
very influential in the way people think about love and sex, and
perform the social protocols related to these affects. If it can safely
be said that romantic comedy has changed drastically in the twen-
tieth century because sexual and affective protocols have evolved
in very rapid and sometimes radical ways, it can also be argued
that the popularity of romantic comedy has affected the way people
have behaved and continue to behave with respect to love and
sex.
and what they call, writing in the late 1980s, ‘romantic comedy
today’, to which they interestingly add a chapter which deals with
the films of three ‘comedians’, Bob Hope, Mae West and Woody
Allen (1989). Frank Krutnik follows a similar pattern and distin-
guishes three main periods: the screwball comedy of the 1930s, the
sex comedies of the 1950s and the nervous romances of the late
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chapter, we need to take into account not only films like Bringing
Up Baby, Pillow Talk or Pretty Woman, but also many other films
which would not be immediately recognisable as romantic comedies
and yet both use the conventions of the genre and contribute to its
historical change. Films like Out of Sight, Before Sunset or Rio
Bravo, mentioned in the introduction, would be examples of this,
as would Sullivan’s Travels, a film that combines several types of
comedy, along with other non-comic genres. Since Sturges’s film is
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book will try to prove. The films of Woody Allen were instrumental
in bringing about the rebirth of the genre in the late 1970s and yet,
since then, even though the New York director continued to make
(and still does) one film every year, his movies have virtually dis-
appeared from discussions of 1980s and 1990s romantic comedy.
The action-adventure film and the buddy movie have dominated
New Hollywood production, particularly through the preference of
contemporary blockbusters for this generic configuration. However,
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Although, as has become clear from the above discussion, film genre
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lished auteurs. This does not mean that only ‘great works of art’
are amenable to this type of generic analysis, or that only important
artists can transcend generic purity in interesting ways. Impurity is
consubstantial to generic working and does not depend on the
individual filmmaker. The specificities of the various directors’
work with romantic comedy are necessarily taken into account here
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Hitchcock within his study of 1950s U.S. comedy (1994), the British
director is certainly not one that springs to mind when we think of
romantic comedy, and Rear Window (1954) has never, to my
knowledge, been analysed as a romantic comedy although it is one
of the texts most often discussed in the history of cinema. Not that
I will be arguing that the film is indeed a romantic comedy – no
film is strictly a romantic comedy from the perspective proposed
here – but our understanding of its meanings, especially its sexual
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Comic negotiations
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admission tickets of its New York premiere to the war effort. Two
months before the release of To Be or Not to Be, on 6 March 1942,
its female star Carole Lombard is killed in a plane crash near Las
Vegas when returning to her home in California from a war bond
rally in Indianapolis. In the meantime, the extermination of the
Jews as the Final Solution is being discussed by Nazi high-rank
officers and, even as the film is being released, Jews are being
deported to Auschwitz. As Peter Barnes emphatically puts it, ‘every-
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thing is Poland’ (2002: 7). The time is rife for war rhetoric, heroism
and grand gestures. The time is wrong for laughter and comedy.
In this extremely charged atmosphere, a film that treats the inva-
sion of Poland as a farce is bound to be controversial. The great
Academy Award winner of the year is William Wyler’s Mrs. Miniver,
a war-time hybrid of marriage comedy and melodrama with its
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heart in the right place which never takes its theme lightly. A few
months later, in November of the same year, the most popular
World War II film, Casablanca, is also released to general acclaim.
As complex a generic hybrid as To Be or Not to Be – romantic
melodrama, exotic adventure, war movie, antifascist and anti-
isolationist propaganda film – Curtiz’s film, like Mrs. Miniver,
strikes the right note by tracing through the character of Rick Blaine
(Humphrey Bogart) the progress of the U.S. attitude towards the
War in Europe and ending with his reluctant compromise with the
Allied cause. Like Lubitsch’s film, it also features at its core a love
triangle. Yet, while the triangle in Casablanca transcended its
immediate context and went on to become paradigmatic of con-
temporary Western discourses on love, desire and marriage, that of
To Be or Not to Be remained almost invisible next to the promi-
nence of the film’s more ‘serious’ concerns and the controversial
nature of its comic perspective – oddly, if we consider that Casa-
blanca gave people the kind of patriotic discourse they wanted to
hear at the time, which should have made the love plot secondary,
while Lubitsch’s movie wore its tongue impertinently in its cheek,
which could have driven spectators to ignore its Nazi plot and
concentrate on its love story.
Yet, right or wrong, politically correct or not, the film was a
comedy and as such it became part of film history. If the histori-
cal context and the war-time industrial rearrangements that
Hollywood was undergoing during the film’s production and
first run are relevant, equally relevant is its pivotal position,
had been released in 1941 and The Palm Beach Story would appear
in 1942.
Apart from Sturges’s films, there were also screwball ingredients
in Meet John Doe and certainly in Howard Hawks’s Ball of Fire,
which, also released in 1941, evokes in retrospect, both in its story
and mise en scène, the impending onset of film noir (The Maltese
Falcon also appears in 1941, This Gun for Hire in 1942). 1942 is
also the year of Take a Letter, Darling, a ‘minor’ screwball gener-
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the decade, even if these discourses are different from those of the
1930s comedies and from the sexual politics of the Hepburn and
Tracy vehicles. In this respect, To Be or Not to Be also occupies a
historical middle-of-the-road position between the comic actor-
based screwball of the 1930s and the comedian comedy of the
1940s: while Carole Lombard was the most glamorous screwball
star, Jack Benny, who did not make many films, was a comedian
and, perhaps for reasons not unrelated to Bob Hope’s popularity,
he brings into the film conventions, meanings and structures related
to this type of comedy. As we shall see later on, this combination
is also crucial to understand the movie’s comic meanings.
In sum, To Be or Not to Be may not be as central to the Lubitsch
comedy as Trouble in Paradise (1932) or Design for Living (1933)
or to such screwball comedy as It Happened One Night (1934),
The Awful Truth (1937) or Bringing Up Baby (1938), but its his-
torical location as a kind of epitaph to both cycles, its almost unique
generic combination of the two, its position as a meeting point
between the romantic comedy of the 1930s and that of the 1940s
and its intersection with other comic traditions grant it an interest
which ‘purer’ films within their respective traditions, like Trouble
in Paradise, Bringing Up Baby or The Paleface, lack.
comedy in the film but not as far as the comic star is concerned.
Later on he affirms that due to the age discrepancy between Maria
Tura (Carole Lombard) and her admirer, Lieutenant Sobinski
(Robert Stack), the love scenes between these two are more comic
than romantic, and therefore there is no romantic comedy here,
either. Where, then, is the romantic comedy? Paul does not seem
able to find it anywhere and, as a consequence, ends up dismissing
the love plot and concentrating on the deception scenario.
Here I would like to continue the generic analysis initiated by
Paul by concentrating on the interaction between the two comic
plots and on the relationship between the use of romantic comedy
and black comedy, between the comic treatment of love – through
the intersection of the Lubitschean love triangle narrative and
screwball comedy – and the comic treatment of the Nazis. Satire
and romance may be seen to exist in very distant worlds from one
another but within the generic space of comedy they can and often
do intersect. As has been seen, satirical or Aristotelian comedy
exposes and ridicules vices and human folly with a corrective aim.
As Jonathan Swift says about his own poetry, ‘His satire points at
no defect, / But what all mortals may correct.’ Since the folly related
to love, desire and marriage is one of the most frequent types of
folly to be satirised in literature, theatre and film, especially in such
generic configurations as farce, comedy of manners and marital or
divorce comedy, satire often coexists with romantic comedy, which
is also centrally concerned with love, desire and marriage even if
its comic atmosphere may, in principle, exclude satire. In the same
way as authors like Neale and Krutnik (1990: 13–14, 23–5), Rowe
(1995: 110–14) or Thomas (2000: 21–2 and passim) affirm that
melodrama is often very close to romantic comedy, the other side
of the same coin, or constantly knocking at the door and demand-
ing to be admitted inside, it could be argued that satire is similarly
near, its ridiculing impulse often struggling with the protecting
vocation of the beneficent comic space of romantic comedy.
There are, therefore, two types of intersections that demand our
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and, conversely, how does the Nazi plot affect the representation
of intimate relationships? What does the interaction between satire
and romantic comedy say about the film’s representation of love
and desire, sexuality and identity? Finally, in more historical terms,
what is love doing in the middle of the invasion of Poland, and
what discourses on love and desire can be articulated in such a
historical context?
clear that Sobinski has become part of a family which, by the look
of it, seems elastic enough to admit more members in the future.
The brilliant contrivance of the Nazi deception plot, which has
just reached its dénouement, may prevent some spectators from
considering the consequences of this final intimate/erotic arrange-
ment seriously, and yet, from the perspective of romantic comedy,
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of filmic texts within the history of genre, in this case, the history
of romantic comedy.
Eve Sedgwick has suggested that the typical form of the love tri-
angle, with two men and a woman as their common object of
desire, reflects the cultural superiority of male homosocial desire
over heterosexual desire in Western patriarchal society, the woman
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being the silent object of exchange between the two men (1985:
21–7). This theory has become a potent ideological template to
explain many Western narratives, including many movies, but it
feels rather inaccurate in the case of Lubitsch’s films in general and
of To Be or Not to Be in particular. Lubitsch is centrally concerned
with the exploration of heterosexual desire and in his films homo-
social bonding clearly recedes into the background: men are not
really all that interested in one another. This is not to say that
society, with its rules and conventions, its repressions and its limita-
tions, does not play a crucial part in Lubitsch’s erotic scenarios in
other respects, as both Paul and Babington and Evans, in their book
on the Hollywood comedy of the sexes, have pointed out. In terms
of the representation of desire, society is a crucial factor and not
necessarily a negative or repressive one. Babington and Evans assert,
referring to the famous ‘no sex’ clause of the ménage à trois with
which Design for Living ends, that ‘the ending preserves a realism
about the power of sexual ideologies and even, it may be, from the
anthropological perspective, the power of pairing as the basis of all
known social life, while wondering if some other kind of arrange-
ment is possible’ (1989: 72). For these authors, Lubitsch separates
himself from screwball comedy by preferring mature love over the
youthful innocence and energy of first love.
Love after marriage is also at the core of the cycle of screwball
comedies labelled by Stanley Cavell as ‘comedies of remarriage’
(1981). Yet, with their emphasis on fun and games and their unre-
pentant optimism, these films project a sense of the erotic as untainted
tion of the erotic triangle, had seen this geometrical figure as the
correlative of obsession, frustration and ultimate loneliness. Here,
by bringing it into contact with the Nazis, Lubitsch is airing it,
breathing some new energy into it and turning it into the liberating
representative of a new Utopian order in which the all-important
link between love and desire can be articulated in new inventive
ways. Paul has noticed that, since Ninotchka, Lubitsch’s films had
become more openly political and had moved from the individual
to the social (1983: 331). This is because, he argues, the historical
and industrial contexts forced him to move away from his hitherto
almost exclusive focus on love and sex. Yet, the mixture of comic
modes in To Be or Not to Be (as in all the rest of his last films)
points in a different direction: it is not so much that individual
desire gives way to social concerns; rather, the perspective on desire
is made to shift – from psychology to social Utopia. That this
Utopia should be located in a historically tragic moment, in the
midst of social anxiety and massive personal suffering, may have
been partly to blame for the negative reception of the film in some
quarters. That the liberal sexual discourse was conveniently ‘hidden’
behind a satire of Nazi totalitarianism and tyranny may explain
why the outrage was not greater.
husband to the fore and turning him into the romantic protagonist.
This generic shift humanises the stereotype: Josef is still a laughable,
gullible fool but he is also a hero and Benny’s presence ensures that,
even at his most ridiculous, the spectator is never too far from
sympathising with him. Carole Lombard is a different matter. While
films like Design for Living or Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife (1938) may
occasionally come close to the conventions and ideological concerns
of screwball comedy, Lubitsch’s oeuvre, as has been argued before,
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unlikely blend of, on the one hand, romantic comedy and satire
and, on the other, Lubitsch and screwball. Through this generic
complexity the film anticipates the temporary liberation and rise in
social visibility of women in countries like the U.S. or Great Britain
during World War II. Maria is, therefore, a fantastic filmic con-
struction which, through a very specific blend of comic genres,
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I go on a diet you lose the weight, if I have a cold you cough, and
if we should ever have a baby I’m not so sure I would be the
mother’, to which he replies: ‘I’m satisfied to be the father.’ Later,
Anna encourages Maria through such gnomic observations as ‘what
a husband doesn’t know won’t hurt his wife’, recommending a
combination of sexual freedom and caution. In the next scene,
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This is the context in which the joke that the film was widely
criticised for, even among those closest to Lubitsch (see Eyman
1993: 289–305), takes place. Josef, disguised as Professor Siletsky,
asks Colonel Ehrhardt (Sig Ruman) whether he has heard of that
great, great Polish actor, Josef Tura. Ehrhardt, unlike those who
have preceded him, unexpectedly replies that he has seen him once
on the stage and gives his famous opinion of Tura’s performance:
‘what he did to Shakespeare we are now doing to Poland.’ At the
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intention if not in fact) and facilitate the power she holds over her
husband. In a sense, therefore, Ehrhardt’s reply is equating Hitler’s
military mastery over Europe both with the husband’s poor acting
and with the wife’s sexual power. Acting works not only as a meta-
phor for the horrors of military invasion but also as a mediator
between war and sex. It may not be too far-fetched to affirm that
the joke offended not only because it treated acute suffering frivo-
lously but also because it indirectly equated two types of perfor-
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women (48).
This fear of female sexuality and of female sexual agency may be
partly soothed by the fact that Maria is, like Carole Lombard, a star
and, as such, larger than life, or else the anxious spectator can take
shelter in the idea that comedy is not serious. Narrative develop-
ment, however, should alert the spectator to the real intentions of
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the text: once the small crisis provoked by Sobinski’s plan to marry
her has been overcome, Maria is never punished, not even comically,
for her ‘excess’. Rather, she is supported by the text when, after the
bed episode, both her husband and her lover seem more or less
content with the arrangement. Her wish to have both a husband to
love and a lover to desire is finally granted by the story’s dénoue-
ment. Whether marginal or dominant, the presence of this ideology
of female agency and liberation from the sexual and psychological
norm in a mainstream film attests to its readability, to the fact that
in 1942 women’s claims for sexual equality were seen as a possible,
if only minority, option. Lubitsch’s activation of screwball conven-
tions, through his use of Carole Lombard, also suggests the potential
of the genre to convey such egalitarian meanings, even if that
potential was not often realised because of the screwball’s often
excessively oblique approach to sexual matters. It is screwball’s
encounter with the much more openly sexualised intimate scenarios
of the Lubitsch comedy that facilitates such activation.
Judith Butler, in her influential theory of identity, takes issue
with the Western metaphysics of substance according to which
gender identity is constructed but sex is natural. She accordingly
rejects the opposition sex/gender and argues that sex was con-
structed by specific discourses on gender. The production of sex as
a natural, unchangeable fact is the consequence of a social act of
regulation which requires the existence of two genders, two sexes,
two differentiated desires. She rejects psychoanalysis’ interest in
gender normality but appropriates the psychoanalytic perspective
ring not only to the Doris Day cycle of the end of the decade but
also to the Tracy–Hepburn series (as much part of the 1940s as of
the 1950s), the Billy Wilder farces, the ‘B’ family comedies directed
by Douglas Sirk at Universal in the early 1950s and, less interest-
ingly for these authors, the lush romantic comedies characterised
by glamorous European locations and high production values
(1989: 179–266). Ed Sikov, from his auteurist perspective, adds to
the list important films by Howard Hawks, Frank Tashlin and
Alfred Hitchcock that had been overlooked by the earlier critics
(1994).
As in the case of the 1930s, many of these cycles went on after
the end of the decade (the Doris Day sex comedies do not get under
way until the end of the 1950s and continue uninterruptedly during
the first half of the 1960s) but by the mid 1960s it was obvious
that all the comic trends that had developed in the last two decades
had virtually ground to a halt and there was nothing to replace
them. In this sense, the box-office and critical failure of Kiss Me,
Stupid may have been due less to the controversy that surrounded
its opening and to the boycott it suffered, as the received critical
opinion goes (see Sikov, 1998: 478–96), than to the fact that the
genre was moving fast into the dearth which would years later lead
Brian Henderson to announce its death (1978). Not that Kiss Me,
Stupid can be said to be out of touch with its time or to be a back-
ward looking film, but the future that it envisaged, rather like the
sexual utopia represented in To Be or Not to Be, was a future that
would never find a place in mainstream Hollywood cinema. The
three) six different phases, three of which are closer to comedy and
another three nearer tragedy. Yet Frye reminds us elsewhere that
there are two basic elements in satire: an object of attack, on the
one hand, and wit or humour founded on fantasy or a sense of the
grotesque and the absurd, on the other (1957: 224). That is,
although as his phases come closer to tragedy they become more
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serious, the first three phases are for Frye, precisely because of their
use of humour, truly representative of the mythos, the other three
being more marginal, less satirical. Satire’s favourite procedure for
the attack of its target is ridicule – of a person, a social class or a
cultural norm – in order to make it laughable, and if in classical
authors like Ben Jonson, Swift or Dryden satire may become
stern and even violent, its comic tone is hardly ever absent from
view.
Frye also defines satire as ‘militant irony’ (223) and this is related
to his notion that the genre always has a standard of correct moral-
ity or social normality against which to measure deviations, vices
and corruptions. While the moral standard in irony may often be
ambivalent, satire’s moral norms are always relatively clear, yet
the two forms often work together in texts, confirming once and
again satire’s comic tendencies. Take, for example, one of the
most popular satirical novels of the nineteenth century, William
Thackeray’s Vanity Fair. The narrator often uses his licence to
separate himself from the characters and discuss them as fictional
characters in direct address to the reader, but, in his extremely and
even fiercely ironic stance, we often doubt whether we should trust
his words and take them at face value. Consider the following
passage:
And, as we bring our characters forward, I will ask leave, as a man
and a brother, not only to introduce them, but occasionally to step
down from the platform, and talk about them [. . .]. Otherwise you
might fancy it was I who was sneering at the practice of devotion,
sympathy, although not necessarily for the same reasons. Like Irma
la Douce (Shirley MacLaine) before her, Polly the Pistol is the
prostitute with a good heart and the text soon engages in a full-
length account of the road that led her to her present state to ensure
the spectator’s understanding of her ‘essential purity’. In Novak’s
performance, she constitutes the most unambiguous point of iden-
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tification for the spectator and, in the long central scene at the
Spooner household, she ‘rescues’ Orville from satirical attack and
farcical ridicule, humanising him and facilitating spectatorial iden-
tification with him. Her dream of leaving Climax and becoming a
wife may seem suspect from the point of view of gender equality
but it is partly offset by the text’s espousing of Zelda’s infidelity.
The temporary exchange of roles between the two women turns the
characters into elements of a formal pattern with ideological con-
notations: the fact that the wife becomes a prostitute for one night
while the prostitute becomes a wife suggests that there are no moral
hierarchies between them and that the roles of prostitute and wife
are interchangeable, not so much, as second-wave feminists would
argue, because marriage is a form of prostitution for women but
rather because they are both social roles with their own attached
sexual fantasies. Neither of them is final or irreversible, neither is
more morally reprehensible than the other and both are equally
celebrated by the text. Kiss Me, Stupid does not only satirise the
social repression of (particularly female) sexuality but, from the
perspective of romantic comedy, it liberates sex from its institu-
tional dimension and places it in the space of fantasy.
Zelda is a more complex case than Polly: while initially appear-
ing to be just a narrative function of her husband’s jealousy and
inadequacy, and therefore the secondary and colourless female
counterpart of traditional marriage comedy, she gradually comes
into her own through her unremitting resistance to Orville’s inex-
plicable behaviour and, particularly, in the final-reel fulfilment of
her fantasy of spending the night with Dino, the idol of her high-
school years. Her centrality after the trailer scene suggests that her
tryst with Dino is not just a punishment of Orville’s jealousy and,
especially, of his agreement to ‘sell his wife’, but a positive stand-
point from which to measure her society’s sexual habits and norms.
From this position she becomes the clearest mouthpiece of the
satirical text, the moral standard to be followed – a standard which
was perhaps too difficult to accept in 1964, especially because
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Zelda never gives an explanation for her actions. The text demands
that we see her behaviour not as a deviation, certainly not as a vice,
but as a viable alternative to dominant discourses on women’s
sexual habits.
The complication in terms of identification with the character
comes because her night with Dino occurs as a consequence of her
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Climaxing in Climax
Ginette Vincendeau has argued that comedy as a genre is both
mimetic of social reality and distanced from it through exaggeration
and performance (2001: 24). By performance she means the actor’s
rendering of a fictional character but we have already seen that a
related type of performance, that of social or sexual roles, is also
central to romantic comedy, as is proven not only by the plot of
from the main road a few years before. At the same time, however,
the characters’ increasingly unexpected attitudes towards received
sexual discourses and their ability to embody alternative discourses
without any negative consequences soon alert the spectator to the
fantastic overtones of the place. This persuasively constructed
double ontology turns Climax into the ideal physical and meta-
phorical space of a romantic comedy directly concerned with sex
and sexual discourses.
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The film is based on the Italian play L’ora della fantasia (2001),
written by Anna Bonacci in 1944 and previously adapted to the
screen by Mario Camerini with the title Moglie per una notte
(1952). The original’s title already underlines the importance of
fantasy both in the play and in the two films, yet it is in Wilder’s
movie that sexual fantasy occupies a most central position. Moglie
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for most critics who were not able to see beyond the film’s satirical
content: ‘A stop-and-start sex farce that is sometimes funny and
sometimes isn’t’ (Powers 1964: 3); ‘a comedy of pimpmanship
[which] cuts to the moral quick of American ambition’ (Durgnat,
1965: 27). Later authors, in monographic books on Wilder, have
not been able to redress the balance: ‘at the dawn of the sexual
revolution, Wilder set out to make sex seem filthy again’ (Sikov,
1998: 479); ‘less morally outrageous than aesthetically crude’
(Armstrong, 2000: 109); ‘a bawdy comedy, in the manner of the
Restoration theater, which would satirize some American preoccu-
pations with sex’ (Lemon, 2001: 40). Only Richard Lippe, in an
early reappraisal of the film, called attention to its blend of satire
and fantasy and wondered why earlier critics could only see morally
repulsive, sordid realism where there was, more importantly, ‘a
strong romantic spirit [. . .] which carries [the film] beyond day-to-
day reality and casts a suspended enchantment over the action’
(1971/72: 34).
Without theorising it, Lippe assumes a very similar theory of
comedy to that put forward in this book. The drab day-to-day
reality of Climax and of the entertainment industry represented by
Dino is the object of the film’s satire, but as the action develops,
the ‘spirit’ or romantic comedy transforms the story, recasting the
sexual and affective discourses it defends under the benevolent
atmosphere of the genre. This transformation takes place very
gradually during the central scene of the film – the evening for three
at the Spooner household, in which, following the advice of his
Bang, bang
The scene fades out on Orville inviting the substitute Mrs. Spooner
to go to bed with him, and the spectator remains outside, wonder-
ing, as has been pointed out before, whether, given the male char-
acter’s recent record, to criticise him for taking advantage of the
situation or forget our moral scruples and join in the fantasy. The
critics predictably took the former option, a path that led them
nowhere in moral terms. Yet the film clearly prefers the latter, if
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we take into account what happens next: while Orville and Polly
spend the night as husband and wife, Zelda impersonates Polly the
Pistol in her caravan when Dino lands there on the rebound still
looking for action – not the filmic action enjoyed by Polly’s Western-
obsessed parrot but nevertheless one that can be summarised by the
same words: ‘Bang, bang’. A greater transgression by the patriar-
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6 ‘Kiss me, stupid’: Zelda’s face and the comic space. Felicia Farr in Kiss
Me, Stupid (dir. Billy Wilder, 1964, Lopert, MGM)
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ences in 1964.
Comic combinations
The analyses of To Be or Not to Be and Kiss Me, Stupid have
explored the presence in specific texts of romantic comedy in
combination with other comic genres, particularly satire. The two
selected films are very useful for this type of analysis because of
their historically significant position, closing in both cases what
historians have seen as the two most productive periods of Holly-
wood romantic comedy. Perhaps the kind of precarious historical
position occupied by the two texts lends itself to departures from
the norm and rejections of generic purity more readily than when
the films are more ‘safely’ located at the peak of the popularity of
a given genre. At the same time, it is, as has been seen, this generic
instability that allows them to articulate more forcefully the con-
ventions of the genre and to explore its meanings and discourses,
by placing them side by side with other conventions. It is not that
these films are representative in their extreme hybridity of how
romantic comedy generally works. There is little doubt that many
other films use the conventions of the genre in ‘purer’ but equally
interesting ways. Rather, the theoretical perspective proposed here
allows us to account for all texts in a more consistent way, to
acknowledge the frequency of the presence of conventions belong-
ing to different genres in a great many individual texts, and to treat
such cases not as exceptional, radical or transgressive but, rather,
as historically significant.
himself had labelled and explored some years before (1986), fully
contextualising the film within the generic field of romantic comedy.
North by Northwest is also a central text in Brill’s theory of the
Hitchcockian romance, a film which he considers a modern version
of the medieval romance of adventure, good and evil, quests, lucky
coincidences, animism and psychological transparency (1988: 6), a
film in which, for example, ‘Eve retains hints of Persephone, the
goddess of flowers and vegetative fertility kidnapped by the king of
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Hades and finally rescued through the agency of Demeter and Zeus’
(12–13). Romantic comedy and romance, therefore, have joined the
suspense thriller and the adventure movie – itself a modern version
of the romance story (Taves 1993) – as part of the generic context
of this particular film, producing an instance of Hitchcockian
impurity in a film which paradoxically remains thoroughly
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Look at me
Throughout the film, Jeff (James Stewart) insists on looking through
his window at the other side of the courtyard and ignores what is
going on inside his own apartment. When Hitchcock describes the
film to Truffaut he shares this blindness: ‘You have an immobilized
man looking out. That’s one part of the film. The second part shows
what he sees and the third part shows how he reacts. This is actu-
ally the purest expression of a cinematic idea’ (1986: 319–21). For
the director, the ‘two parts’ of the film are Jeff looking and the
courtyard outside. His apartment remains invisible. With some
important exceptions, the majority of critics, starting with Jean
Douchet, Robin Wood and Laura Mulvey, follow the lead of the
character and the director and keep looking out of the window.
Douchet inaugurates the discussion of the film as metaphor for
the cinema, equating Jeff’s look with that of the spectator and the
window with the screen: the protagonist is chair-bound like our-
selves and, like ourselves, projects his guilty desires onto the other
characters and situations (1960: 10). Since then, as with To Be or
Not to Be, the metacinematic perspective has been dominant.
Mulvey argues that Jeff does not find Lisa (Grace Kelly) interesting
until she crosses over to the block opposite and becomes the exhi-
bitionistic object of his gaze. In a move not unlike that performed
by much feminist criticism, this critic replicates the male protago-
nist’s attitude and finds Lisa as boring as he does while she remains
in his apartment (1989: 23–4). Wood partly departs from Douchet
from the beginning by calling our attention to the relationship
Hitchcock often displayed in his interviews’ (2001: 6). Yet, this has
not necessarily meant greater attention to the dynamics inside Jeff’s
apartment. For example, one of the main points made by Modleski
is that in Rear Window the woman also looks, that Lisa is a repre-
sentative of the female spectator at the cinema (a spectator that had
been erased by Mulvey’s theory) in that, rather than interested in
spying on her neighbours, she relates to them through empathy and
identification. This leads her to conclude that both spectatorship
and narrativity may be more feminine than Mulvey had thought
since they place the spectator in a passive and submissive relation
to the fi lm (1988: 80–3). Although the film’s fi nal look is Lisa’s at
Jeff in the last scene, the text remains for this critic fi rst and fore-
most a metacinematic commentary on the relationship between
spectator and screen. What has changed from Douchet to Mulvey
is that Mulvey’s is a gendered spectator, and from Mulvey to
Modleski that for the latter the spectator is not just male.
The scarcity of analyses of the Jeff–Lisa relationship, outside
indirect reflections of it in the other stories, has gone hand in hand
with the virtual erasure of the film’s genericity from critical com-
mentary. Although Rear Window has occasionally been mentioned
in connection with Hitchcock’s use of humour and comedy, and
even though John Michael Hayes’s script is acknowledged to have
contributed a lighter touch, breezy dialogue and witty double enten-
dre (Fawell, 2001: 3), the film’s use of the suspense thriller format
for the murder story that Jeff discovers from his window has tended
to override any other generic considerations. One exception is Stam
the genre consisting, as Steve Neale has pointed out, of, among
other conventions, a learning process (1992: 292–4). Like North
by Northwest, according to Cavell’s analysis, Rear Window is
about the process whereby the male character becomes a worthy
candidate for marriage (1986: 263 and passim). Accordingly, in the
final stages of the story, Jeff’s attitude shows several signs of soften-
ing: his reaction when Lisa comes back to his apartment after slip-
ping the anonymous note under Thorwald’s door; his surrender to
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her love when she holds him in her arms after his fall; and his smile
as he sleeps with his two legs in casts with Lisa sitting next to him
in the last scene.
In any case, it must be admitted that Jeff never makes it easy for
the comic space to take hold of his apartment. Lisa is a different
matter. For much of the film she is only half-heartedly interested
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in the various people she can see from the window, but when she
comments, jokingly or in earnest, on what she sees, her views are
pointedly different from Jeff’s: Miss Torso, for example, rather than
the Queen Bee surrounded and pampered by all the drones among
which she chooses the wealthiest men, as Jeff’s sexist interpretation
of her life goes, is, for Lisa, forever ‘juggling wolves’ because she
is not interested in any of these men. From her first appearance,
Lisa consistently carries with her the comic space of the genre, not
only personifying its firm belief in compatibility but also relentlessly
seeking to transform the drabness of her beloved’s apartment into
a more conducive space to the pleasures of coupledom. She is not
just an erotic object for Jeff and the male spectator to look at. She
is a very strong and active subject underneath the veneer of her
wealth and apparent frivolity. The fact that most critics have seen
Rear Window as a single-protagonist movie speaks volumes not
only about the resilience of patriarchal structures but also about
the invisibility among the critical and academic institutions of
certain generic configurations, precisely because of their ‘feminin-
ity’. Slavoj Zizek has recently suggested that this critical tendency
to overlook the inside of the apartment has indeed been a serious
oversight:
Lisa spends much of the film and all of her energy trying to get Jeff
to look away from the window, to turn his face towards the inside
of his apartment, to project his identity onto his relationship with
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her rather than onto the other windows. When she apparently gives
up and decides to join him in his interest and fascination with what
goes on in other people’s lives, this is not a capitulation but only a
strategic move. By joining him by the window and projecting herself
onto the opposite side of the courtyard, she is only enlarging the
space of the (in more ways than one) diminutive apartment and
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Society calling
Even before Lisa makes her first appearance, Jeff’s apartment has
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Ritter). These discourses revolve, on the one hand, around the issue
of marriage, and different contemporary approaches to coupledom,
and, on the other, and inevitably related to the former, around
constructions of homosexuality as defective masculinity.
Jeff may become increasingly involved in his voyeuristic plea-
sures as the film unfolds, but it must be remembered that he does
not engage in his Peeping-Tom activities as a matter of choice. If
we are to believe his own perception of himself as he intimates it
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sion, in fact, extends to the whole movie and renders Stella’s criti-
cisms of his virility and Lisa’s growing fears more credible. In any
case, this is probably the first and also the last time we can discern
something like erotic curiosity in Jeff’s gaze, if only because of the
textual insistence on his look and the nature of its object. From
now on, women will start to mean something different, something
altogether less attractive.
Apart from Miss Torso, the only other female characters that
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appear in the film as would-be erotic objects of Jeff’s gaze are the
two young women who disappear from view as they undress, ready
to sunbathe on the balcony of one of the top floors, but the only
time Jeff sees them he seems to be more interested in the hovering
helicopter whose pilot is ostensibly looking down at the women
than in the women themselves. In general, the sunbathing beauties
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stantly taunt him with his being less than a man. When he explains
to Stella that Lisa wants to marry him, the nurse’s reply – ‘That’s
normal’ – is simply commonsensical, but when Jeff says that he
does not want to get married, Stella’s question – ‘Is that normal?’
– immediately recalls the 1950s horror of homoerotic desire. Nor-
mality in sexual matters is the opposite of homosexuality, the
‘normal’ cure for which is marriage. Homosexuality remains unut-
terable but the very resistance to name it on the part of the char-
acters increases its visibility. Stella seems aware of this when, in
response to his attempt to explain that Lisa is not what he wants
at the moment, she asks: ‘Is what you want something you can
discuss?’ Similarly, later on, Lisa tries to draw her boyfriend’s atten-
tion once again with a second shower of passionate kisses but Jeff,
forgetting to kiss her back in mid-action, returns to what really
interests him, the Thorwald case, and, after mentioning some
incriminating evidence, asks for her opinion: ‘What do you think?’
Lisa, pulling away from him in despair at his lack of responsiveness,
replies: ‘Something too frightful to utter.’
While this dynamic of representing but not saying ensures that
the 1950s spectator understands what is at stake and allows the
contemporary spectator to examine topical definitions of homo-
sexuality, the film is less interested in the exploration of alternative
sexual orientations than in the problematisation of patriarchal mas-
culinity (Fawell 2001: 6 and passim). Jeff’s potential for homoerotic
desire is part of an often confusing amalgam in the construction of
his character that includes the Playboy mentality, anxieties about
female sexuality, the love of adventure and the great outdoors and,
as Suárez suggests in the title of his essay, homosocial desire (1996:
359). Like his look at Miss Torso in the first scene, stranded
between the camera’s concentration on the woman’s body and
Stewart’s non-committal performance in the reaction shots, Jeff’s
refusal to marry is overdetermined in a way that does not neces-
sarily make narrative sense. The film throws in various possible
reasons why the protagonist does not want Lisa but is not particu-
larly interested in integrating them into a coherent characterisation
of Jeff, thus prompting spectators to make connections – such as
homosexuality and the fear of women, or homosociality and homo-
sexuality – which the text itself does not take very seriously. Rather,
Rear Window is more concerned with building as formidable as
possible an obstacle to the heterosexual union, and this obstacle is
completely inside Jeff’s mind.
The discourse on homosexuality as ‘hormone deficiency’, then,
is subordinated to the discourses on heterosexual desire and mar-
riage. Jeff’s temporary interest in Miss Torso in the first scene is a
consequence of his boredom after spending six weeks with nothing
to do but look out of the window (no DVDs then and Jeff does not
seem to be the book-reading type). This boredom has gradually
turned into restlessness and it is as a consequence of this that he
becomes vicariously involved in other people’s lives. But, as he says
replace romantic love (2003: 3). While the love proposed by Stella
is based on sexual infatuation – people coming together like two
taxis on Broadway – and marriage and a happy life together should
be a consequence of this initial moment of passion, Jeff argues that
there is an intelligent way to approach marriage, that we have
progressed emotionally and that people have different emotional
levels. This summarises the discourse of intimacy as opposed to that
of romantic love. Whereas, as Shumway argues, romantic love was
only interested in the build-up to marriage but never in the reality
of a life together after the wedding, producing as a consequence
frustration and successive marriage crises, the discourse of intimacy
provides a model for the continuing expression of emotion through-
out the duration of a relationship. Passion is replaced by emotional
closeness, deep communication, friendship and sharing, all feelings
that outlive and replace the thrill of new love (27). This is the dis-
course that has coexisted with romantic love for decades but has
steadily gained ground and credibility.
It is odd that the representative of this new discourse in Rear
Window is a character who is not interested in women or marriage
at all and relishes instead a life of independence and permanent
travel, with no more than casual relationships. We may speculate
that this unlikely association is made because the concept of inti-
macy was an emergent discourse, familiar enough to 1950s specta-
tors to be understood, but not one that had reached wide levels of
acceptance and clearly not the film’s choice. A lasting relationship
sanctified by marriage and based on the violent passion of romantic
The scenario is, therefore, set for the ideological struggle to take
place through the narrative confrontation of wills that is about to
start. Inside the room, as in the social space of so many romantic
comedies, male independence and romantic love have staked out
their positions. Significantly, Stella’s first visit is bracketed by two
corresponding views of marriage in Jeff’s look at the apartments
opposite: the Thorwalds’ married life, dominated by disappoint-
ment, constant arguments, deception, infidelity and, as we will find
out later on, violence, just before Stella comes in, and the newly-
weds, who make their first entrance as the nurse is leaving, showing
the excitement of first love. Since, as has been mentioned before,
the protagonist’s interpreting activities can be seen as projections
of his own psychological life, it may be surmised that, at this point,
Stella’s rhetoric has made some progress and the excitement of
marriage is at least contemplated as a possibility by the reluctant
hero. This is only temporary and at the film’s conclusion this new
couple has already started to resemble the Thorwalds (like, perhaps,
Jeff and Lisa). In any case, the two terms of the debate have been
powerfully stated inside the social space of the room.
Window does not allow completely free rein to the comic space,
compromised as it is by the projection of sexual and social anxieties
through its suspense thriller dimension (Suárez 1996: 366), and by
Jeff’s (and the spectator’s) insistence on looking the other way. Yet
the first fade out, which follows Stella’s departure after the newly-
weds’ first kiss, openly transports the spectator and the narrative
to a different level of reality, if only temporarily. The subsequent
fade in signals a temporal ellipsis – it is now evening – and the mise
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en scène has been noticeably transformed: the new long shot of the
courtyard is now suffused in an artificial orange light, which beyond
denoting the sunset turns the screen into a veritable mise en scène
of desire (Cowie, 1984). The spectator may vaguely relate this
change on the screen to the blind being pulled down in the newly-
weds’ apartment a few seconds before and mentally construct a
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other hand, given Jeff’s opinion of marriage and his unusual aggres-
siveness towards Lisa, the manner of her appearance here may
indeed be announcing a different type of crime against Jeff, maybe
one of even more serious consequences than the murder he will
later investigate.
Let’s look at the visual articulation of what is probably one of
the most spectacular character entrances in the history of cinema.
The medium close-up of Jeff, now asleep and therefore unaware
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behaviour and one which the film consistently endorses. Stella had
already introduced the erotic power of romantic love through her
image of the crashing Broadway taxis and Lisa’s kiss now confirms
that what the comic space so forcefully introduced by her at this
point is going to protect is not so much the emasculating post-war
version of marriage that Jeff and the spectator have become
extremely anxious about but the openly sexualised expression of
heterosexual desire that she stands for.
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Lisa, then, has brought into the apartment the space of romantic
comedy and clarified the kind of intimate behaviour promoted by
that space, but we soon realise that in a film like Rear Window it
takes more than a sequence like the one described above to con-
solidate the presence of this genre. The second thing that impresses
the spectator after the exceptional filmic construction of the kiss is
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cedes the kiss can, as we have seen, signify the articulation of the
space of comedy in which a compatibility of desires can be repre-
sented in a magically transformed social space, or the gothic space
of the thriller in which murderous drives often signify sexual obses-
sion and repression. The kiss itself is ambiguous enough: first, we
see a frightening shadow, full of threat and foreboding, and the
next second, Lisa’s desiring face fills the screen. Desire and anxiety,
romantic comedy and the thriller, have staked out their positions
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and their claims for the spectator’s attention. In the rest of this
scene, Jeff keeps letting his gaze wander across the window and
nastily resisting Lisa’s repeated attempts to make him look at her
instead. Their subsequent dialogue turns from the lively screwball-
like banter signifying sexual friction to the more serious argument
about the impossibility of living together. By the end of this exchange
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riage as riddled with guilt, deceit and murder but also allows him
to keep the formidable Lisa at a distance, first replacing her pas-
sionate kisses with speculations about the Thorwalds, and then lit-
erally sending her away to become part of his murder story, thus
plunging the spectator in the generic world of the Hitchcockian
thriller. Romantic comedy strives to bring the protagonists together,
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and the thriller, siding with Jeff, pushes them apart because, in this
generic configuration, Lisa conjures up the shadow of feminisation
and unmanning. As Lemire graphically puts it, ‘when faced with
Lisa and her desires, Jeff can’t get it up’ (2000: 75).
Once the encounter between the two genres has been brought to
the fore, issues of Jeff’s potential homosexuality recede into the
background, at least momentarily, and our attention is shifted to
specific aspects of the war of the sexes. The threat of latent homo-
sexual desire is resolved in the final confrontation between Jeff and
Thorwald, one in which, on the one hand, Jeff comes into contact
for the first and only time with the repressed object of his desire –
Thorwald manages something that Lisa has repeatedly failed to do:
move her boyfriend from the wheelchair to the bed – and, on the
other, violently rejects such a desire by defeating the murderous
villain. However, as we will see in the next section, both before and
after this climactic confrontation, the generic struggle between the
two ways of conceiving heterosexual desire is also resolved, or
rather, highlighted without achieving a clear resolution. The thriller
ending is riddled with ambiguities but so is the romantic comedy
ending which occupies the film’s epilogue.
does not do, fails to warn her when Lars arrives, starts calling the
police to stop another woman from committing suicide and finally
succeeds in saving Lisa by using the same telephone call, as a kind
of afterthought, once he has confirmed that the other woman is
safe. It is as if, at the moment of maximum danger for his girlfriend,
he still cannot make up his mind between the two women – the
real one and the projection – and only settles for Lisa when his help
is not needed by the other one. Or, to put it in a different way, the
protagonist can still not decide whether Lisa should be murdered
or not. His (and Stella’s) wandering eye suggests that, in spite of
her effort to ease herself into Jeff’s adventure, Lisa has not yet
managed to command his undivided attention. Rather, by having
moved over to the other side, she has become one more actor in
her boyfriend’s pleasure theatre, and, inside this scenario, the
woman downstairs, who in her solitariness had always been some-
thing of a favourite with the photographer anyway, can claim
seniority. The text has structured the events in such a way that the
spectator may not even notice the unconscious hierarchies operat-
ing in Jeff’s mind but it can be surmised that he still has not learned
to prefer the ‘real Lisa’ to his constructed fantasies, figments of his
anxious imagination. At this very late point in the narrative, he
keeps up his battle against marriage, or, as has been argued before,
heterosex.
Various commentators have noticed that when Lisa reveals Mrs.
Thorwald’s wedding ring to Jeff, now safely lodged in her own
finger, she is both signifying the success of her mission and her
‘threat’ that she still aims to marry him and, sooner or later, to
have sex with him. The suspense thriller operates here with
maximum potency not only to bring about the longed-for narrative
climax but also to reinforce the male anxieties about commitment
and about female sexuality that the genre has represented in this
film. If the physical resemblance between Mrs. Thorwald and Lisa
suggests that Lisa has already been metaphorically killed once, now
Jeff conjures up the incarnation of his unconscious desires, to, once
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tion but the way in which the interface between the two genres has
constructed an early 1950s scenario of male anxieties about women
and marriage, of criminalisation of homoerotic desire and of a hope
in heterosexual compatibility based on male acceptance of female
sexuality. Romantic comedy is not here to predominate over other
genres but rather to contribute a comic perspective and a protective
atmosphere which intimate that all problems in matters sexual have
a solution and that desire, in this case heterosexual desire, will not
be interfered with.
together in the final scene and, while the story of Judah and
Dolores is never even slightly touched by comedy, Clifford’s becomes
gradually darker, as if contaminated by its contact with the other
strain of the plot. The film brings together the murder plot of a
Hitchcockian thriller and the comedy of manners of desire and
infidelity among mature middle-class New Yorkers typical of earlier
Allen films, but there is in Crimes a gloomier strain in the repre-
sentation of desire and a more precarious presence of romantic
comedy than, for example, in Rear Window. In terms of Allen’s
career, the movie may be seen as the central piece in an unofficial
trilogy of increasingly more pessimistic multi-protagonist explora-
tions of contemporary love initiated with Hannah and her Sisters
(1986) and culminating three years later with Husbands and Wives,
before Manhattan Murder Mystery (1993) changed the trend and
introduced the generally more optimistic comedies of the 1990s.
By referring to Hitchcock’s film, therefore, Allen is not anticipat-
ing a generic shift towards comedy but, rather, calling our attention
to a generic contrast and evoking the better-known and more fre-
quent allegiance of the English director to the thriller: if Mr. & Mrs.
Smith was the only ‘pure’ romantic comedy directed by ‘the master
of suspense’, the dramatic plot of Crimes is Allen’s attempt to make
a thriller à la Hitchcock. This experiment with a new genre, however,
is not arbitrary. Allen uses the thriller in so far as it can affect the
evolution of his brand of romantic comedy. If, in the late 1970s
and early 1990s, the New York director had played a crucial part
in the introduction and consolidation of the nervous romance
will try to show, from the perspective of romantic comedy, that its
devastating representation of love and sexuality is the result of the
unworkable fit between the social and the comic space. Conse-
quently, the film cannot be properly understood without due atten-
tion to its use of romantic comedy from the margins of the genre.
The genre’s transformative space is constantly visible in multiple
forms but never manages to affect the social space, dominated here
by decadence, coldness and cynicism and therefore closer to the
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of the film’s ideology and, along with the rest of the dénouement,
one of the most brilliant moments in the whole of Allen’s filmic
career.
and Professor Levy, whose views of the world and the human being
are spectacularly summarised in the final montage sequence and
work as a counterpoint to the chilling experiences of the two pro-
tagonists. If Cliff and Judah remain the main characters to the end,
it is the other two that articulate the space of comedy, a space both
extremely precarious and vigorous.
Ben and Levy coincide in defending the need to encourage a
moral attitude in people’s lives whether from a religious or a secular
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Allen allows the spectator one of the film’s few jokes, when his
character says: ‘I think I can see a cab. If we run quickly we can
kick the crutch from that old lady and get it.’ Aggressiveness
towards women characterises much of the humour in the film. This
aggressiveness is often directed at Cliff’s wife, Wendy (Joanna
Gleason), who, for example, is at one point compared with Hitler.
While the old lady of the joke obviously has little to do with the
problems of the married couple or with the bleak view of marriage
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offered by the narrative, the film’s rhetoric reveals its ‘true colours’
when an ellipsis immediately after the joke transports the spectator
to Cliff and Wendy’s apartment, where he is just arriving after
dropping Jenny at her house.
That the old lady joke unconsciously vents the protagonist’s
frustration at his married life is not only suggested by editing – the
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9 The mise en scène of the end of love: Women take the blame.
Woody Allen and Joanna Gleason in Crimes and Misdemeanors
(dir. Woody Allen, 1989, Orion)
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know that it is Cliff who has been trying to be unfaithful for much
of the film. The general impression that we may draw about con-
temporary relationships is that marriage as an institution does not
work any more and that women are to blame.
Before Wendy tells her brother about the break-up, Cliff has
already told his sister Barbara. Their short dialogue includes the
film’s last joke. When Barbara says that a relationship in which sex
does not work has no future, her brother agrees and adds: ‘The last
time I was inside a woman was when I visited the Statue of Liberty.’
This line summarises the textual attitude towards women and is an
almost literal illustration of Freud’s theory of humour and the
comic. Freud argues that the most effective jokes are those he calls
tendentious, which make possible the satisfaction of an impulse by
overcoming an obstacle. The obstacle is always the same: woman’s
incapacity to tolerate uninhibited sexuality due to her social repres-
sion. Tendentious jokes allow us to recover what used to be ours
and we have had to repress. The Viennese thinker reveals his tra-
ditional view of women’s inferiority and weakness, as well as his
sexist attitude towards male and female sexual desire, in his use of
the term ‘incapacity’ to define women’s attitude to sex. As he
elaborates in other writings, for Freud women’s resistance to sex is
not only part of their sexual development but also crucial to rein
in men’s drives. The pleasure afforded by the tendentious joke
consists precisely in demolishing the female obstacle and includes
blame for their estrangement. The woman says no, the man represses
himself and then vents his frustration through humour. Cliff
becomes, therefore, a Freudian man – the uncomprehending victim
of women’s forever resistant sexuality.
But the joke does not only express the protagonist’s hostility
towards his wife. Just as the reference to the old lady’s crutch was
immediately followed by a scene between Cliff and Wendy, the
Statue of Liberty line anticipates the arrival of Lester and Halley at
the party and Cliff’s shocked realisation that the two are together.
Narrative sequentiality facilitates the interpretation of the joke as
an unconscious displacement of the character’s hostility not towards
his wife but towards Halley, for rejecting his desire for her and,
especially, for choosing Lester, the embodiment of the values he
most detests in life. Thus, Lester’s superficiality, dishonesty and
materialism are tendentiously displaced onto the female character,
a displacement which had subtly started earlier on, when Halley
had revealed an excess of interest in her job and a readiness to
sacrifice everything to professional success. It is within this context
that her final preference for Lester over Cliff must be understood
and it is also within this context that the movie’s last joke makes
complete sense.
It is, therefore, not the wife but the professional and desiring
woman that becomes the ultimate embodiment of the film’s grim
view of heterosexual relationships. The Freudian interpretation sug-
gests not only, as William Pamerleau argues, that the text’s funda-
mental tension is that between love and economic and social success
(2000: 107), but, more insidiously, that the real problem, as con-
structed by the text, is that a woman should choose the latter over
the former. This dimension of its ideological structure places Crimes
within the neo-conservative discourses of the 1980s, which openly
blamed feminism, women’s demands of equality and their massive
presence in public life for the growing unhappiness in their private
lives. As Susan Faludi has explained, however, it was not women’s
unhappiness that was really at stake but the consequences for men
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of the profound social changes that were taking place (1992: 9). In
this film, patriarchy’s undeclared fears once more come to the
surface: while Halley appears to be reasonably happy at the end of
the film, Cliff ends up disappointed in love and his private life is
deeply affected by women’s decisions. Halley’s choice is presented
as the wrong choice and even as a form of betrayal, although she
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had never made any promises to him and, therefore, she has not
betrayed anybody. We can only understand this once we manage
to distance ourselves from the text’s rendering of the story: as with
Wendy, the only access we ever have to Halley’s subjectivity is
through Cliff’s perspective and idealised construction of her. This
construction becomes so powerful that critics have concluded that
her betrayal surpasses all previous betrayals in Allen’s films (see,
for example, Lee, 1997: 284). In terms of the representation of
heterosexual desire, Cliff’s interest in Halley is initially presented
as a counterpoint to his marriage and as a consequence of its crisis,
but the text finally reveals what could perhaps be described as its
hidden ideology: that Wendy is just an exaggerated version of
Halley in her desire of material wealth, in her disregard for her
husband’s job and affective and sexual needs and, as it turns out,
even in her reverential admiration of her brother Lester.
In general terms, therefore, the film’s humour has no contribu-
tion to make to the implementation of the comic space. Rather, it
highlights its impossibility and becomes closer, in generic terms, to
the type of humour that can be found in satire. As in that genre,
its main objective is not to create a festive atmosphere that will
facilitate the temporary abandonment of social norms and repres-
sions but to attack society. On the other hand, while satiric humour
is often conscious and direct, Crimes is a lot more reluctant to admit
the nature of its critique. It expresses pessimism at the social evolu-
tion of intimate matters in U.S. society in the 1980s and blames it
on the relative gains of feminism.
Splitting genres
The film’s double plot, dual structure and double generic allegiance
is replicated by the final scene’s two clearly differentiated spaces,
both in terms of physical location and cinematic rhetoric. On the
one hand, there is the main hall of the Waldorf-Astoria hotel in
which the wedding celebration is taking place and, on the other,
the adjacent room to which Cliff withdraws after the ceremony in
order to nurse his distress at the unexpected ending of his desire
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for Halley. In the first of these two spaces, to which most of the
scene is devoted, life goes on: Barbara is still looking for a partner,
Judah and Miriam return to their previous comfortable life together
after their muted crisis, Lester celebrates his conquest of Halley
with his usual sense of humour, Wendy begins to savour her recently
gained freedom, and unknown guests praise Lester, the successful
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his liberation from guilt has brought about a more horrible type of
imprisonment.
The formal and dramatic contrast between the two spaces under-
lines the predicaments of two characters whose narrative experi-
ences have literally set them apart from the social space of comedy
and have therefore prevented their eventual transformation. Life
goes on and the power of comedy remains visible in the next room
but the two protagonists do not belong to that space anymore. This
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of course, knows that this is a Hollywood movie and that the happy
ending is actually taking place next door. The space occupied by
these two characters, therefore, is the space of a world that is
impervious to the regenerative mechanisms of comedy.
What is Cliff thinking about at the end of the film? How can we
interpret the sadness and resignation of his countenance? It could
be argued that he is meditating on the difference between cinema
and reality mentioned by Judah before leaving. The world in which
he has tried to live his romance with Halley is a film world, not
only because of its utopian view of relationships but also because
of its moral structure, which is lacking in a contingent and unpre-
dictable reality. In the real world, crimes are not punished, love is
hardly ever reciprocated and social appearance and dishonesty
generally triumph over the goals of the Sartrean authentic person.
Judah has speeded up Cliff’s fall from his cinematic cloud and has
metaphorically closed one more door to comedy. Yet, a wedding
between two people, the traditional symbol of the ritual of renewal
proposed by comedy, has just taken place, while a bustling group
of guests provide the traditional comic environment, sanctioning
once again the communal dimension of marriage and the triumph
of love and youth over death. Two fleeting shots of some children
among the guests at the wedding anticipate the hope in the future
that Levy will soon spell out in his final words. The benevolent
space of comedy, inaccessible as it has proved to be for the pro-
tagonists, seems to have finally found its place in the social space.
The division of the setting in two locales reinforces the impression
The wedding and Cliff’s conversation with Judah are the last
events narrated by the film but not the text’s final word. Once the
separation between social and comic space has been confirmed, the
movie closes with the last fragment of the documentary on Profes-
sor Levy, who for the first time is heard in voice over while a
montage sequence of ten shots takes us back to the highlights of
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the story, bracketed by shots of Ben dancing with his newly married
daughter. Sam Girgus argues that the flashback is a crucial element
to express interiority in this film. The combination of a close-up of
a character and a flashback that indicates a memory articulates an
interior space which visualises one of the most important themes
of the movie: the presence of the past in our lives (2002: 118–19).
However, this time the successive flashbacks represented by each
of the ten shots are not narratively motivated by a character’s
memory but are totally external and only justified by Levy’s words.
It should also be said that this is the only occasion when the phi-
losopher’s dissertation is not accompanied by footage from Cliff’s
documentary, i.e. him talking to camera. These characteristics set
the scene apart from the rest of the film, a scene in which only the
first and last shots (both of the wedding ball) are anchored in the
narrative present. It is, therefore, not a character but the text itself
that merges the philosopher’s conclusion about life and love with
a selection of images of earlier moments in the story in order to
offer its own conclusion. It is now that reality definitively becomes
film and the social space becomes comedy.
The sequence starts with images that illustrate the fundamentals
of Sartrean philosophy: when Levy talks about the important deci-
sions that human beings have to make from time to time we see
Judah and Dolores arguing, in anticipation of his crime, and when
he mentions the small decisions, we see Cliff kissing Halley. As we
hear him say that we define ourselves by the decisions we make,
we are given a shot of Judah ‘commissioning’ Dolores’s murder
over the phone, and when Levy affirms that our identity is the total
sum of our choices, we go back to shots of Mussolini and Lester
edited together in Cliff’s mock documentary. The sequence contin-
ues along this line until a tracking shot shows Dolores walking back
to her apartment before dying, while the philosopher argues that
human happiness does not seem to have been included in the struc-
ture of creation. This is a visual summary of the calamities and
misfortunes of life which have been the subject of the narrative,
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but, unlike the film’s story, Levy’s final words now go on to cele-
brate the pleasures that can be found in the little things, in human
tenacity in the face of an indifferent universe, and in the hope that
our children will one day discover the mysteries of existence. These
optimistic words are accompanied by the last three shots: when
Levy reiterates humans’ capacity to love, we see a shot of the
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the one character who has so far represented the future generation
is Jenny, the protagonist of the last but one shot.
that best embodies it. As in the legend of the fisher king, Manhattan
and Husbands and Wives deal with the spiritual decline of the king
of the city, whose only hope lies in the spiritual renewal he pursues
through repeated and often failed sexual encounters. Fallon asks
the spectator to abandon the dictates of bourgeois morality and to
interpret the films not on a realist level but as symbolic quests for
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2003). More recently, the genre has followed the lead of White Men
and My Best Friend’s Wedding in offering happy endings in which
the heterosexual couple do not end together, in comedies like In
Good Company, Prime or The Break-Up. The crisis of love and
traditional attitudes towards sexual relationships appears to have
installed itself quite comfortably in the realm of romantic comedy.
Crimes is, therefore, not an isolated case but part of a broader ten-
dency both inside and outside the genre. In this film, it is not an
abstract concept of love – the love defended by Levy as an antidote
to loneliness and despair – that is attacked but, more specifically,
romantic and sexual love. For this reason, a sexual relationship
between Allen’s protagonist and a much younger woman like the
one in Manhattan would not make any sense.
The absence of viable instances of romantic love, however, does
not preclude the presence, even the abundance, of other types of
love: Cliff’s love for his sister and Wendy’s admiration for her
brother, the intimate friendship between Ben and Judah, the close-
knit family of Judah’s childhood, the love between Ben and his
daughter, or Cliff’s affection for his niece. Filial love, parental love,
friendship and love for one’s family permeate the story from begin-
ning to end and represent feelings that are not affected by the sar-
castic humour and the moral indictment that the text has in store
for heterosexual love.
Of all these relationships, the one that is most clearly protected
by the comic space is that between Cliff and Jenny. ‘I’m crazy about
that kid’, enthuses the protagonist at the beginning of the movie.
The best moments of his everyday life are those he shares with her:
at the cinema, walking in the streets of Manhattan, buying her
presents, teaching her ‘practical’ lessons about life, explaining to
her his love for Halley. It comes as no surprise that, in order to
illustrate the human being’s perseverance in the face of adversity,
the text chooses a shot from one of the scenes featuring these two
characters. Once sexual desire has been discarded as a source of
regeneration for the fisher king, affection for Jenny appears as the
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best option for the future. The girl represents the purity of youth
and the hope of adapting better to a fast changing world, a world
Cliff cannot understand anymore. She symbolises the superiority of
future generations. Cliff may have been bitterly disappointed in his
desire for Halley and he may be demoralised after the break-up of
his marriage, but the love celebrated by Levy is still present in his
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life through his relationship with Jenny. A few years later, in a more
optimistic period of Allen’s oeuvre, Dj (Natasha Lyonne), the inter-
nal narrator of Everyone Says I Love You (1996), fulfils a similar
role and has a similar relationship with her father, Joe (Allen), and
it is the intensification of her perspective, through her narrating
voice, over those of the other characters that gives the film a more
optimistic tone, which extends to the older characters, as well. In
Crimes, on the other hand, her influence is more limited.
It may be no coincidence that Cliff’s niece has the same name as
the protagonist of Portrait of Jenny (1948), the film wildly praised
by the surrealists for its subversion of the bourgeois morality also
criticised by Fallon which narrates the fantastic story of the love
between an adult man and a little girl who grows up while he waits
for her without ageing until their love can be consummated. More
recently, Beautiful Girls (1995) also features a similar relationship,
this time between the male protagonist and a young teenage girl
played by Natalie Portman in a fascinating combination of adoles-
cent vulnerability and postmodern precocity, who also asks him to
wait until she grows up so that they can get married. The parallel-
isms with these films might tempt biographical critics to posit a
morally reprehensible subtext in Allen’s film but such an interpreta-
tion is not justified by the text and would lead nowhere. Portrait
of Jenny and Beautiful Girls are, like Manhattan, versions of the
legend of the fisher king though they reveal, to a greater or lesser
extent, a belief in the viability of romantic love. This belief is con-
spicuously absent from Crimes. Rather, the similarity lies in the
narrative links between the two that make their combination not
only possible but also culturally relevant. Within Allen’s career, the
film belongs to a period of existential crisis and formal experimen-
tation which extends to his constant exploration of the limits of
romantic comedy – the genre that he had crucially helped revive at
the end of the earlier decade. Thus the film may be seen as a theo-
retical lesson on the genre’s limits: the representation of love and
sex and the positing of a comic space are not enough for romantic
comedy to be active if humour does not contribute to the construc-
tion of the comic space and if the comic space remains isolated from
the social space of sexual and gender discourses. Finally, from the
perspective of the history of romantic comedy, Crimes anticipates,
in spite of the precariousness of the genre’s presence in it, ideologi-
cal positions which will become increasingly familiar in the next
two decades: the growing preference for other types of relationships
over romantic love and the ‘happiness’ of an ending in which the
traditional heterosexual partners do not end up together.
there is much more to the genre than has been included in previous
accounts, there is no denying that romantic comedy, perhaps more
than other genres, has had its ups and downs in the last century or
so. The situation, however, seems to have changed in the last three
decades. When, in the early 1990s, Neale and Krutnik identified
first the nervous romances of the late 1970s and then the new
romances, starting around the mid-1980s, as two distinct cycles,
they could not predict that the popularity of the genre would con-
tinue unabated well into the twenty-first century. Today romantic
comedy remains as strong at the box office as it has been for the
last twenty-five years. Neale’s definition of the new romance – the
‘persistent evocation and endorsement of the signs and values of
“old-fashioned” romance’ (Neale, 1992: 295) – has become clearly
insufficient to encompass everything that has happened in the
genre.
More recently, Krutnik has enlarged the scope of the new
romances into the 1990s by adding to their initial characteristics
the postmodern scenarios of deception and fabrication that he finds
in several films of the decade (1998: 28–33, 2002: 140–4). At the
same time, however, he acknowledges the bewildering variety
shown by the genre in the last twenty years (2002: 139–40) and
lists various subgroups, hybrids and developments which fall clearly
outside the narrow definition offered by Neale, a definition based
on the ideological apriorism of the cycle’s neo-conservative return
to a past of traditional patriarchal heterosexuality and monogamy.
Leger Grindon (2007) is also dissatisfied with the notion of the new
and Manhattan, may be related to his deal with Orion in the 1980s,
a company which, as Tzioumakis has argued, chose to pursue
independence at a time when the industrial context demanded alli-
ances with the majors, a choice that led to its final demise (2006:
228–40).
The fact that one of the characteristics most often adduced in
definitions of independent cinema is its transgression of generic
conventions, its ‘anti-genericity’ – which has led some commenta-
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tors to describe the label itself as a genre (King, 2005: 167) – has
not facilitated the consideration of the existence of a strand of
romantic comedy, one of the most highly codified of genres, within
independent cinema. However, the more flexible approach to the
genre proposed here allows us to do so. While it may be true that
the discourse of independence, with its connotations of ideological
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closet and has been having an affair with another man for a year,
presents almost exclusively the wife’s perspective and the spectator
only finds out about the recent changes in the man’s sexual orienta-
tion at the very end of the movie, at the same time as his wife.
Independent cinema has also explored the vicissitudes of gay love
and desire from a comic perspective in films like The Wedding
Banquet (1993), Kiss Me, Guido (1997), Bedrooms & Hallways
(1998), Trick (1999) or Adam & Steve (2005). Yet these comedies
have had a more limited impact on the genre, while male homo-
sexual love appears to have been served better by other genres –
witness the cases of My Own Private Idaho (1991), The Living End
(1992), The Doom Generation (1995) or Brokeback Mountain
(2005). More popular comedies featuring gay characters, like The
Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert (1994), To Wong Foo,
Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar (1995) or, within the main-
stream, My Best Friend’s Wedding, The Object of My Affection
and As Good as It Gets are not concerned at all with gay love and
desire, as if the genre were perfectly comfortable with gay charac-
ters in all kinds of social relationships as long as they do not express
their sexuality openly.
Various forms of heterosexual desire have remained dominant
in the genre, even within an ‘indie’ context. A case in point is Next
Stop, Wonderland (1998). Distributed by Miramax when the studio
had already become firmly integrated within the Hollywood indus-
trial machine, its differences from equivalent mainstream films are
revealing. It is similar, for instance, to Sleepless in Seattle in that
the two lovers do not meet until the very end of the story and in
that they both focus on the difficulties of men and women who are
‘out there’, looking for suitable partners and afraid of loneliness,
immersed in the crisis of heterosex but reluctant to give desire up
altogether. Both texts take very different stylistic and ideological
approaches, which can be summarised in the contrast between the
old-fashioned romanticism of Nora Ephron’s film and the anti-
romantic realism with which both lovers approach their own desire
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from the bookshop by the bank of the Seine, where they start, to
Céline’s apartment. The stringent formal strategies become, beyond
the real-time conceit, part of the film’s discourse on love, desire and
contemporary relationships.
novels to sell books, and prefers what she sees as people’s real
experience, in which this type of love does not work, precisely
because it is not real. Ironically, in Before Sunrise, the idealised
view of romantic love is the ‘real’ one, while the ‘realistic’ one – the
two characters spending ten days together and then separating –
never actually happened. As the story develops, this polarisation
between real and ideal love is questioned in various ways.
In generic terms, several things can be said about this dialogue.
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In the first place, the ending of the novel does not bring about the
union of the lovers. Rather, the two young people have had a few
hours of happiness and excitement together and have set up the
meeting in the unrealistic hope of prolonging what must now
come to an abrupt end. Before Sunrise may leave a tiny door open
to the ‘always and forever’ but is by no means committed to that
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11 Love as fantasy and reality: Céline and Jesse fictionalise their past.
Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke in Before Sunset.
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pattern for the spectator: the various framings and cuts convey a
continuity which is not manipulated but real. The cuts between the
different tracking shots, for example, ensure that the spectator
knows that the narrative is actually covering the whole length of
the streets the characters are walking along, that they are turning
from one real street into another and that no part of their progres-
sion has been omitted from view. Now, as they walk along a
narrow street with houses on their right and a fence on their left,
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the cut from a follow-focus tracking shot from behind the charac-
ters to one that precedes them again confirms that no time or space
has been elided – the background remains strictly constant – and,
as a relative novelty, introduces a two-and-a-half minute-long take,
which covers the time that it takes them to get to the end of this
particular street. This long take, like the rest of the film, risks
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ferred over the future, self-analysis and talk of love over action or
commitment, talk of sex over sex, walking and talking over bodies
and physical intimacy. This is an intellectual type of relationship
that affects the characters deeply and becomes as powerful for them
as others based on more emotional or carnal exchanges. The film’s
method of representation feels realistic not because it is objectively
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to switch off the camera. It is not that the film is coy about sex.
Rather, it is just not very interested. This is the type of romance of
self-analysis inaugurated on the screen by Woody Allen in the
1970s but one which has since then evolved and metamorphosed
into something else: a defensive mechanism against the ravages of
desire in the contemporary intimate panorama, which has turned,
like friendship, into a cultural practice that is revealed to have
manifold attractions. Even touching each other as a way to soothe
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‘How come we never fucked?’ Once the question could not be sup-
pressed any longer – once sex could not be left out of the structure
of the genre – romantic comedy, the critic surmised, could not
flourish anymore (1978: 21–2). A good proof of the basic sound-
ness of Henderson’s thesis was that the genre did not return to form
again until Woody Allen and other filmmakers found a culturally
understandable and convincing way of bringing sex into the equa-
tion. The dialectic between romantic love and sex became part of
the thematic structure of Annie Hall, The Goodbye Girl and the
other nervous romances, and even if explicit representations of
sexual desire did not always figure prominently in the romantic
comedies of the 1980s and 1990s, its role in the new intimate spaces
of the genre was never seriously challenged. Sex may not have
always been there but neither was it constantly denied or postponed
any more.
On the other hand, the ever-growing presence of more or less
explicit sex in mainstream films, the recent blurring of boundaries
between commercial and pornographic movies as far as the repre-
sentation of sex on the screen was concerned, and its consequent
normalisation as one of the most obvious attractions of the con-
temporary mainstream may have produced a saturation that the
independent cinema of those decades was quick to capitalise on.
sex, lies, and videotape (1989) caused a sensation not because of
the exploitation tactics suggested in its title but precisely because it
did not deliver its promise. Before the pleasures of visible sex
reached their 1990s mainstream apogee with Paul Verhoeven’s
frigidity does not prevent her from talking about sex and it is even-
tually this talk of sex that leads her to enjoy it again, although for
the spectator sex in the long climactic scene happens offscreen, and
remains only accessible through what she says about it. The voy-
euristic expectations are frustrated when the sex scene is abruptly
interrupted before physical contact between the protagonists is
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I wrote [the screenplay] after years of talking with girls and guys my
age. Since sexual liberation, there has been a need to redefine how
relationships are handled. Is it easier or harder to love someone now?
What role does the man have to take? I have a lot of single girlfriends
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who’d like to fall in love with the right guy. They’d like to find
someone who will accept the fact that they are a strong woman. [. . .]
The idea that they felt numb, that they were not capable of being
connected to someone. [. . .] People don’t want to open up these days.
Showing emotions is seen as a sign of weakness. (Julie Delpy, in
Goodridge, 2004: 20)
that, at least in the fictional world of the film, those anxieties will
be confronted and overcome. But any final resolution of the con-
flict, if the comic text finally posits one, will not feel relevant or
artistically powerful if the problems to be resolved are not felt to
be close to real people’s experience: no convincing conflict, no
believable resolution. As Jesse confesses that his marriage is disin-
tegrating and Céline reveals that she has been unhappy in all her
relationships with other men, including the present one with an
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her. She says she does not romanticise things too much nowadays
but her cynicism is a thin defence mechanism which quickly crum-
bles down once the conversation becomes honest and personal.
Descriptions of what her love life has turned her into range from
deadened to manic depressive. In general, both their attitudes to
the link between love and sex are recognisably modern but they are
still separated along the gender divide: for Céline, sex, like love,
has been harmful and inhibiting; for Jesse, the ‘horny’ U.S. Ameri-
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the city’s romantic aura contrasts ironically with the text’s realism
and its concern with showing, through the characters’ wanderings,
a more mundane Paris. Paradoxically, Paris becomes a very realistic
space of comedy, one that transforms the reality of love without
itself abandoning its own reality. In this respect, the use of real
locations in this movie bears certain similarities with the way in
which the United States as a mythical space was constructed in
North by Northwest.
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both characters lived in New York at the same time for several
years but they never came across each other then. New York, in
spite of its cosmopolitanism, would not have done as a place of
reunion because it would have been too close to home, not so much
the home of the characters (Céline is from Paris) but the home of
the film’s U.S.-centred discourse. Paris, for all its cultural centrality,
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Before Sunset both identifies the film as a cultural text of its time
and places it within a particularly active line of development of
contemporary romantic comedy. The use of a ‘realistic’ version of
Paris as the comic space to protect and transform the lovers makes
the film’s discourse of tolerance and international romance more
powerful and believable.
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The final scene takes the characters to the end of their pilgrimage
in Céline’s apartment, one more location constructed with a
realistic vocation, deep in the heart of off-the-beaten-track but
still tourist-cute Paris. The characters, particularly Jesse, have
strung one excuse after another to prolong their time together and,
eventually, he misses his flight back to the U.S. How many more
flights he will miss after this one remains open but the ending strikes
the same blend of pure relationship and escape from compromise
that has constituted the film’s particular ‘translation’ of cultural
discourses on intimate matters. The two characters, after their
abstract and personal conversations, seem to have reached a stage
of contentment in each other’s company that makes his immediate
return to New York (and to his wife and child) less pressing. In this
final stage of their mutual seduction, music takes centre stage: not
only the music of the love song Céline has written for Jesse but,
just as significantly, the music of Nina Simone, who had recently
died in France after a long period of self-exile from her country,
the United States. Simone, who had always been outspoken in her
critique of U.S. politics and racism, represents a different type of
U.S. transnationalism, one that links Céline’s political commitment
with Jesse’s European travels but one that could finally not be
absorbed by the system. It is an index of the film’s defence of toler-
ance that Simone’s more abrasive side is ignored now, while the
open sensuality of some of her concerts is comically impersonated
by Céline who, still performing, becomes more sexually forward
than she had been so far. Temporary contentment and impending
12 Will Nina make them stop talking? The open ending and the future
of relationships. Julie Delpy in Before Sunset (dir. Richard Linklater,
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DSLREF.indd 184
11/17/2008 5:17:43 PM
Index
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Allen, Woody 48, 51, 54, 128–47, Bringing Up Baby 15, 50, 59, 68,
151–2, 164 127
Altman, Rick 3, 5–6, 7, 11, 14 Brooks, Peter 24
American President, The 38–45, Burns, Edward 155
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fantasy 20, 34, 45, 71, 74, 79, 83, Hitchcock, Alfred 53–4, 58, 67,
86, 88–90, 92–6, 97, 98, 100, 82, 103–28, 129–30, 170
119, 134, 153–7, 159–60 Holmlund, Christine 150–1
female sexuality 76, 80, 84, 88, homoerotic desire 107, 114, 116,
89, 94, 97, 115, 123, 126–8, 123, 128
172 homosexuality 78, 112–16, 124,
feminism 40, 42, 43, 44, 45, 51, 149, 153–5
68, 78, 104, 138, 146, 167–8 homosocial desire 16, 31, 51, 64,
femininity 29, 43, 69, 81, 109, 115, 153
122, 124, 128, 146 humour 18, 20–4, 30, 33–6, 40–1,
film noir 7, 11, 58, 68, 120 44, 46, 71, 86, 103, 106, 130,
Foucault, Michel 79, 81 131, 135, 136–7, 138, 144,
Freud, Sigmund 21, 131, 136–7, 146, 147
147 see also jokes; laughter
friendship 18, 36, 47, 117, 144, Husbands and Wives 46, 129,
149, 153–4, 164 135, 143
Friends with Money 153–4
Frye, Northrop 1, 19, 22, 28, 31, independent cinema 50–1, 54,
37, 86 150–7, 164, 165, 172–3,
174
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes 13, 97 In Good Company 25, 144
Girl Can’t Help It, The 13, 121 intimacy 1, 24, 28–9, 40,
Greenblatt, Stephen 34–5, 70, 122 117–18, 152, 163, 168,
Grindon, Leger 148–9 174
It Happened One Night 59, 67,
happy ending 18, 20, 23, 24–5, 68
27–9, 33, 35, 101, 126–7, I Was a Male War Bride 13, 15,
140, 144, 175 97
Krutnik, Frank 20, 21, 22, 27, Moglie per una notte 93
29–30, 48, 50, 62, 82, 84, Much Ado About Nothing (play)
129–30, 148, 152, 169 31
multi-protagonist films 37, 52,
Lady Eve, The 48, 57–8, 68, 127 129, 131, 149
laughter 19–24, 30, 33, 34, 35 My Best Friend’s Wedding 25, 42,
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Pillow Talk 13, 50, 118, 121, see also female desire;
127 heterosexual desire;
Play It to the Bone 1, 6 homoerotic desire; sexuality
Portrait of Jenny 145 sexuality 27–9, 34, 36, 38, 40, 45,
Pretty Woman 2, 50, 151 52, 62, 65, 77, 79, 81, 83,
Prime 25, 144 97, 99, 104, 107, 117, 121,
128, 131, 136, 137, 143, 144,
realism 2, 19, 21, 60, 64, 77, 94, 155, 175
98, 107, 153, 156–63, 170–1, Shakespeare, William 19, 26–7,
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171 68
romantic love 25, 33, 47, 97, Shumway, David 28, 40, 117,
116–19, 122, 123, 144–7, 163
149, 153, 159–62, 163–4, Sikov, Ed 53–4, 82, 85, 94, 96
169, 175 Simone, Nina 173
Sleepless in Seattle 2, 42, 50, 151,
Sabrina 88 155–6
Sartrean philosophy 130, 140, Smiles of a Summer Night 97
141 Some Like it Hot 13, 35, 83, 97
satire 19, 27, 51, 53, 60–2, 66, Speed 51, 152
69–70, 83, 85–7, 89–91, Staiger, Janet 14
94–8, 100–1, 138, 146 Stranger than Fiction 156–7
see also Aristotelian comedy; Sturges, Preston 48–9, 50, 57–8,
black comedy 103
Schatz, Thomas 12 Sullivan’s Travels 48, 50, 57–8
Science of Sleep, The 157
screwball comedy 15, 17, 48–9, Take a Letter, Darling 58
50, 57–9, 61, 64–5, 66–9, Thomas, Deborah 20, 34, 37, 62,
70–2, 78, 80, 97, 103, 104, 92
123, 128, 172, 175 thriller 1, 43, 45, 53, 60, 75, 102,
Searchers, The 13, 16 103–5, 106, 110–11, 122–4,
Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky 51, 64, 126, 128, 129–30, 143, 147
153 To Be or Not to Be 53, 55–81,
sex comedy 82, 84, 113 82, 85, 88, 92, 100, 101, 105
sex, lies, and videotape 164–5 To Catch a Thief 104, 121
sexual desire 27, 44, 45, 76, 83, transnational romance 149, 171
93, 95, 97–8, 116–17, 122, Truffaut, François 103, 105
123, 136, 137, 143–6, 164 Tzioumakis, Yannis 151–2