[FILM] All That Heaven Allows (1955, Douglas Sirk)
The following piece is actually two pieces. The first was written for its induction into the Muriels Hall of Fame (RIP Muriels, you had a good run), while the second was added to Letterboxd as an addendum. I considered trying to rewrite both pieces into a complete whole, but both laziness and the suspicion that it couldn't be done without ruining the original won the day. A lot of you have probably already read this; again, my apologies, and I hope the addition of screenshots compels you to give it another go.
There is so much to adore about All That Heaven Allows, Douglas Sirk’s 1955 tale of a love affair between a socialite (Jane Wyman) and younger gardener (Rock Hudson). The acting is top-notch: Wyman leads us through Cary’s conflicts and confusion with her face alone, while Hudson’s soft-spoken and tamped-down performance is, in the context of a 50s melodrama, practically Bressonian. The crazy-artificial sets, particularly Cary’s house, are outstanding — Cary’s ‘perfect’ life reflected in what looks like a life-size doll house, every object placed just so, both lifeless and looming. And, Jesus, the colors! Every Argento and Refn film is a tribute to the battle between Cary’s cold-blue bedroom and her hot-red dress.
But for me, it’s Sirk’s use of space that defines ATHA and marks it as one the greatest films ever made. Cary’s world is stifling and claustrophobic; so Sirk counterintuitively emphasizes how large her world is. There’s the majestic God’s-eye crane shot that opens the film, hovering over the burg of Stoningham in a kind of judgment. There’s Cary’s cavernous house, made up of giant rooms that never seem to connect to one another. Or consider the parties thrown by her friend Sara, which feel like a never-ending horizontal tracking shot, an endless Oldboy-esque corridor of busybody gossips and leering old men. In one bravura bit of blocking, Sara’s guests act as walls that hide, then reveal one of Cary’s spurned suitors, who emerges ready to strike.
All of these spaces underline Cary’s isolation, and vulnerability because of that isolation. Ron’s spaces, while always smaller, appear to lack walls. He works outside, with the trees; his domain, an old mill, is essentially one big room, even when he refurbishes it into something more like Cary’s home. There’s a get-together at Ron’s friend’s house, a house that looks cramped for four, but is soon filled, like a clown car in reverse, with friends dancing, all in one room. It’s wild and chaotic, and the complete opposite of anything in Stoningham. In this world, smallness means closeness, intimacy, and there can be no barriers to intimacy.
At the end, we see Ron’s major change to his home: part of the wall has been replaced with a large window. A window separates like a wall, but there’s transparency, and the intimation of responsibility — what can be seen through it cannot be ignored. Even though he’s injured, and possibly may not recover, Cary has accepted Ron into her life, and now the world is open to them, with all the beauty and uncertainty that entails.
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One further thought, that didn't have a place in the above essay: although I'm on Cary's side from the get-go -- I mean, who thinks she should marry Harvey or spend the rest of her life watching TV? -- it was interesting to note how the film subtly manipulates us to be on her side.
First, a little more on the difference between the two parties, Sara's and Ron's. Sara's parties are filled with similar-looking people with very little to distinguish each person from another. These people are, generally, hostile to Cary, it's true, but they're presented less as people and, as I said above, more as a kind of wall, a shifting labyrinth that Cary must navigate. (Which reveals a minotaur: look out, Cary, it's Howard!) At Ron's party*, though, not only do we meet each guest, we get names and character sketches: the immigrant Spanish family! The head of the Audubon society! A beekeeper/artist who is "strictly primitive!" (Are we sure this is in New England and not Brooklyn?) Simply put, while Ron's friends just seem like more fun (and I'm sure they are), the fact that they are presented as people first is what gets us on Ron's side.
Second, note that we never meet Cary's first husband. (I'm not sure we even ever see a picture of him.) He's a phantom to us; no, worse than that, he's an abstraction. He's not an abstraction to the characters, giving the film its conflict, but there is no way we can give a shit about this guy. He means nothing to us. Think how emotionally conflicted we would be if we had met him before he died, if he were a genuinely good guy, and how obviously-manipulated we would feel if he turned out to be a cad. Eliminating him gives the film clarity, focusing on Cary's feelings without allowing us to be tripped up by our own.
