Last night I watched the 1951 Swedish film, Miss Julie , which was based on the play of the same name written by August Strindberg. Strindberg's tortured psyche and resulting tumultuous love life must certainly have factored in to the equation, as he sees the relationship between men and women as being a combative, loathing affair in which both sexes are driven together only by carnal lust. The two main characters, Miss Julie and her nominal lover Jean, spend the majority of the film variously exchanging insults, spilling forbidden details of each's dysfunctional childhood, while desperately striving to keep away the barely concealed desire that so strongly pulls them together. This, to Strindberg, is what characterizes every romantic pairing at its basest core.
While I might not agree with said statement, I do grant that the playwright does deserve some praise for being ahead of his time to some degree. Power dynamics, particularly those regarding types of privilege are explored in much detail, especially the means by which gender inequality trumps class distinction and vice- versa. Miss Julie holds power over her working-class, though highly educated lover because her background is aristocratic. Jean, however, has power over Miss Julie because he is male and is not restrained by upper-class values. Ironically, the aristocracy is shown to create its own needless restrictions and its own cages, and though the working-classes might have less money or influence, they also live lives of greater freedom than their social betters. As for Jean and Julie, their flirtation is as much about control as it is about lust, and in it neither character wins the upper hand for very long. Instead, we the audience are left with a maddeningly unresolved squabble that, by the film's conclusion, is never really put aside.
As a feminist, however, what I found most appalling is Strindberg's
presentation of Miss Julie's mother. A woman who comes across as a
sadistic parody of first-wave feminism, her character reads like a
laundry list of male privilege paranoia. For starters, she broaches
propriety by being unwilling to get married because she does not wish
to be seen as her husband's property. Loathe to give birth or to be a
mother, she nonetheless becomes pregnant, while plainly hating the
child that emerges from her womb. Her daughter is forced to dress in
boy's clothing, forbidden to play with dolls, or to embrace even the
most modest of female gender roles. All of this is meant, as the
playwright asserts, to prove that women are equal to men. However,
these draconian tactics lead to much misery and confusion for the child
who finds traditionally male pursuits like hunting or plowing a field
either perplexing or impossible. She is therefore raised as a boy
would be, learning the same chores and same societal obligations as
would a male offspring, though the implication is that gender role
distinctions to some degree exist for a reason. Her designs even fall
upon the workers of the estate. Women are required to perform men's
work and men are required to perform women's work. Neither does so
competently and before very long the family is nearly broke. It is
then without much surprise that Strindberg notes how much Miss Julie's
mother hates, fears, and mistrusts men and seeks to pass along this
same perspective to her daughter.
Her husband, Miss Julie's father, is a well-meaning and kind-hearted
count who patiently tolerates his wife's behavior until he takes a firm
look at the balance sheet. At this point, he insists that a more
traditional means of both raising a child and conducting business will
be employed. He liberates his daughter from boy's clothing, dressing
her in what he believes to be gender-appropriate fare. He arm-twists
his wife into a marriage ceremony and exchange of vows, much to her
extreme distaste. However, he fails to take into account her perfidy
and bitterness, as she sets fire to the estate, forcing the family to
take on more debt and leaving them without a place to live until the
Count finds the means to rebuild. She then suggests that her husband
should borrow money from a close personal friend, one that she happens
to be having an affair with, no less. The money borrowed is secretly
her own that she has hidden away, but she lies deliberately to entangle
her husband into an economic arrangement that could have been otherwise
avoided. The Count discovers what she has done, but due to the
insidious nature of the transaction cannot file charges or seek
justice.
Strindberg's own views were frequently perplexing and capricious. At times in his life he advocated for women's suffrage but also made misogynistic statements that completely negated his original position. He was, quite unsurprisingly, married three times, each of which ended in bitter, acrimonious divorce, due in large part to the fact that he was hardly easy to live with, nor to tolerate. I note this in attempting to understand his motives but also to denote how our own sense of stability and personal satisfaction frequently dictates how we respond to the outside world. Indeed, there have been times in my own life when I was in a profound state of crisis. In those times, I acted frequently petty and negative. If I feel like dredging up past behavior and bad decisions, I find many examples of which I am not particularly proud and am deeply remorseful. That I seem to have reached a point where my own issues have not overtaken me gives me good reason every day to give thanks. It is easy for us to come down harshly on those who make anti-feminist statements. Criticism is justified, but I try to, as best I can, take into account the circumstances and the state of mind of those who make patently offensive statements. Yes, words do matter, as do statements of brazen misogyny and unrepentant sexism, but without excusing such behavior, I do seek to find its root in an effort to formulate a solution.
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For what it's worth: Miss Julie only has three roles as a stage play - both the count and Julie's mother are pure inventions of Sjoberg, the director and screenwriter of the 1951 movie.
Ah, I see. Well, there goes most of my argument. Still, some of it remains.