The Women

1939

If you’re familiar with this film, the first thing you think of is probably the cast. All women. Not one man. But the tagline on the original lobby poster says it all. Under the glamorous images of Norma Shearer, Joan Crawford, and Rosalind Russell are the words “It’s all about men.” 

It really is. Every scene, whether in an Upper East Side spa, the dressing rooms of a posh boutique, or the ladies’ lounge in a swank nightclub, is overflowing with gossip about who’s marrying whom, and whose husband is stepping out. 

So don’t go looking for anything that will pass the Bechdel test here, my friends. But do go looking for whip smart dialogue, glittering performances, and a window into the lives of the wealthy housewives of 1939. Or at least the lives as Clare Boothe Luce, who wrote the play this film is based on, saw them. (But keep in mind that Mrs. Luce famously had no use for society women.)

From the first time we meet Mary Haynes (Norma Shearer) with her daughter Little Mary (a blessedly un-cutesy Virginia Weidler) their entire conversation revolves around Daddy. Even the consult with the family cook is all about what Mr. Stephen Haynes should be eating to stay trim and how often he’s staying late at the office these days. Hmm.

We meet Mary’s friends, all of whom have something to say about marriage and infidelity. Peggy (Joan Fontaine) a newlywed with stars in her eyes, Edith (Phyllis Povah) a self-absorbed mother of seven girls, Nancy (Florence Nash) a sharp-eyed “old maid” writer and Sylvia (Rosalind Russell) a society wife who dips her every word in gleeful poison.

The term “frenemy” should have been invented in 1939 and applied to Sylvia. Everything with her is “I’m devoted to her, but” or “She’s my very dearest friend in all the world, but…” The “but” is that Sylvia is awful. Hilarious, but awful. Mary finds out about her husband’s affair from the manicurist Sylvia deliberately sends her to.

Okay. Now Mary knows. Husband Stephen has fallen prey to a shop girl named Crystal (Joan Crawford!). Mary’s mother councils her to turn a blind eye, as she did when Mary’s father strayed. “It’s about the only sacrifice spoiled women like us have to make.” Okay. Mary tries, and it works for a while, until…until…the fashion show.

Fashion alert! The fashion show is in color! The gowns, the gloves, the hats! Costume designer Adrian really outdid himself here. It’s all fun, but it also tells us what the idealized day of an idealized wife would be. Frolicking at the beach. Feeding animals at the zoo. Attending a bizarrely formal garden picnic, and a yet more formal evening of theater and cocktails. All frills and no substance. But such pretty frills. And did I mention the gloves?

It’s in the dressing room after the fashion show that wife and mistress finally meet. They both want the same nightgown. (It costs $225, roughly four grand in today’s dollars, and Crystal boldly says she could use a few more like it.) She’s opened an account in Stephen’s name.

It’s on, people! Dressing Room Wars! Mary, in an elegant evening gown, is on the moral high ground, telling Crystal she isn’t worried. “You’re even more typical than I’d dared hope.” (In 1939 that was how you called someone a basic bitch.) Crystal, in shiny lingerie, knows sex will win over high morals any day. When Mary condescendingly tells her Stephen wouldn’t like anything as obvious as what she’s wearing, she shoots back with “If anything I wear doesn’t please Stephen, I just take it off.” Crystal drops the mic.

Inevitably Mary winds up on the train to Reno for a quickie divorce, where she meets a Countess (Mary Boland) and a chorus girl (Paulette Goddard). The countess, who’s first husband left her rich and whose next three husbands tried to kill her, is a fool for love, and a lovable one. Miriam the chorus girl is sharper and more cynical. But they all wind up at the same divorcee dude ranch, run by Marjorie Main, playing Marjorie Main like nobody else can.

It’s all terribly sad and wistful until Sylvia shows up at the ranch. Her husband has been seeing someone, and it turns out that someone was Miriam. Which leads to a brawl that lets Rosalind Russell prove herself a queen of physical comedy. It strikes me that if she had married a Cuban band leader, instead of Lucille Ball, history might have turned out entirely differently. And now I need to go watch Stage Door, which features both Lucy and Roz expertly cracking wise while Katherine Hepburn learns to act. Oh! And Russell and Ball both played Mame! But I digress.

Cut to eighteen months later. Crystal has managed to land Stephen in marriage. We find out that she’s in the penthouse now, and the shop girl’s dreary life has become nothing but one long bubble bath. We also find out she’s cheating on Stephen. Oh, Stephen. You’re so stupid. 

How will it end? In gorgeous evening gowns, of course, and with nails painted jungle red.

The men:

For everything this script has to say about women, it totally objectifies men. Stephen isn’t a person. He’s just the prize they fight over. And he doesn’t seem to have much agency. He’s manipulated by all of them (poor thing.) Crystal’s phone call, convincing him to ditch his wife and come over for her fake birthday, is a master class in twisting a lover around your little finger. None of which means I’m on his side. Team Mary!

The blame:

Somehow it ends up being Mary’s fault that her marriage breaks up. In fact, Miriam makes quite a speech about how Stephen’s infatuation was like a fever, and Mary shouldn’t have gone off and left him alone, staggering helpless as a lamb around New York with no protection from the she-wolf who was after him. Um. Okay. But Mary buys into it, telling her mother “I had the only one I ever wanted. If it hadn’t been for my pride…” Really? So he gets a pass on his infidelity? The only problem is that you didn’t look the other way? Really?

Mommy dearest:

Mary’s mother always has something to say. “You mustn’t kid Mother, dear. I was a married woman before you were born.” And even offers comfort of a sort after the divorce. “Living alone has it’s compensations, heaven knows it’s marvelous to be able to spread out in bed like a swastika.” Like a what? A what?