“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it."
But does it move on? Or does it press that omniscient digit down on our skulls until we become inkblots of despair? Tiny little Rorschachs of blood waiting for that lover, preacher, teacher, boss, spouse or child to interpret the very drips and drops of our truncated lives. I think life has a way of making us revisit things that we didn't deal with ultimately and completely. A High Noon showdown where we inhabit The City on the Edge of Forever constantly watching—either by apathy or design—our beloved Edith Keeler die a horrible and painful death. Why? because we know it is the right the do. Or hope we know that it’s the right thing to do.
This was no truer than in the HBO Miniseries
Mildred Pierce, staring Kate Winslet, Evan Rachel Wood and directed by Todd Haynes. This weepy sudser was not so much a remake but a retelling of the original book by James M. Cain. My problem with this lovely period drama was: Mildred’s inexhaustible skill at enduring bullshit. First her husband’s philandering, then her youngest daughter’s sudden death (while she was indisposed with her lover having unbridled sex at his beach house) to finally Veda, her oldest daughter’s sociopathy. I usually love Kate Winslet in everything she does, but I didn’t like the anemic obsequence her character took toward the end of this monstrously long 6-hour miniseries. Unlike Joan Crawford’s balls-out bravura performance in her Oscar winning turn as Mrs. Pierce, Miss Winslet’s Mildred became milquetoast when her demon seed daughter activated her evil powers. From tantrums to insults, manipulation to grandeur Veda was a pouting purveyor of perfect petulance. She stole money, status, the spotlight and ultimately Mildred’s second husband. Ronald Guttman as Carlo Treviso, her voice teacher, sums Veda’s character up—in what becomes this version’s memorable Eve Arden alligator quote; he says, “[Veda] Is snake. Is bitch. Is coloratura. For me, I no like snakebite.”I know Mr. Haynes loves Douglas Sirk, but Mildred chasing Veda’s taxi while inconsolable and in tears in the climatic scene of the miniseries did not bring me one-tenth of the emotional heartbreak I felt when watching Sarah Jane (another thoroughly detestable child) throw open the doors to the hearse of her long-suffering, now dead mother, and cradle the casket sobbing “Mama!” in the 1959 classic Imitation of Life. (Go to 5:40 or just watch Mahalia sing and let the teears flow)
But I beg to ask the question, Why Mildred why? What is it about the human mind that we can overlook such horror and injustice in people we love? I’ve asked similar questions before. Is life just some set of random occurrences or is there a divine plan? Do you believe in predestination? I discussed that topic sometime ago here. Is tragedy like some pre-existing disease just waiting in our genetic code for just the right moment of hysteria to burst forth like an inviolable monster that can’t be stopped? And why is long-suffering such a virtue? We see it time and time again in literature and legend. Jesus Christ suffered on the cross and died for our sins. The First Noble Truth of Buddhism states Life is Suffering. In my first novel Solstice, Solstice herself uses suffering and our human connection to it as a way to advance her nefarious schemes. Going so far as to use sympathy to further her path after she’s murdered the wife of her benefactor.
The comfort she would give to The Good Doctor. The “just right” flush of melancholy grief she would have on her face when the other families of The Circle drew near to mourn one of their own. People would say, “She is so strong, trying to conceal her pain,” and, “It’s a blessing The Good Doctor has her around.” They would touch her face with the back of their wool gloves and hold her hand. The men, who normally averted their eyes away from her in fear of seeming lustful, will take her small hands in both of theirs, giving her a hug. She planned just the right spot on their faces to kiss and just the proper intonation of “Thank you so very much, for your sympathy.” It will be such a sublime fiasco.
These unhealthy relationships have been a tenant of creative expression since we started painting caves. Remember Medea—no not Tyler Perry’s gun-totting drag alter ego—but Euripides’ scorned woman hell-bent on killing her own children to spite a former lover. Ostensibly this double helix of pathology is not broken when the relationship is severed. When one person chooses to leave or if God forbid somebody dies, there is dissatisfaction in the outcome. Are these pangs in our chest for these attachments love, obsession or worse: obligation. There was a moment of true fear in Mildred Pierce. Upon an umpteeth reconciliation between mother and child, Mildred enters Veda's bedroom to see the pretty red-headed jinn asleep. She watches Veda lustfully wanting her child to love her as dogmatically as she does her offsrping. The impulsively she kisses Veda on the lips. It was beautiful, frightening, disgusting, carnal. In that tiny lurid little moment I saw the underlying sickness of both women. The obsessive over-indulged child forever bound to the fearful needy mother.But what of love? Is it some all-binding taffy that pulls and entwines us together to the point that our empty hearts become filled with the codeine of attention, even if its bad. Was Mildred so lonely and guilt ridden that the emotional atrocities Veda brought on her were somehow tolerable? Are these the emotions a woman feels when she puts her life and her children’s lives in danger by staying with an abusive man? My mother always says to me “Well at least you’re alive.” So what’s the alternative? Death. Is there no middle ground between long-suffering heartache and just simply not breathing. Are we so afraid of change that we equate it with dying? Sometimes you have to say enough is enough. Cauterize your wounds and move on. Or you can be virtuous and long suffering and maybe one day somebody will right a book about you. It’s like that old expression; if you're born to be hanged, then you'll never be drowned. As in my earlier reference to Star Trek if only we could be Vulcan. They have excised all emotional baggage from their culture. Cool logic prevails. But wait… they only mate every seven years. Maybe I’ll rewatch Mildred Pierce again, it should take just about that long.
