Klute – Bitch Flicks

An American Icon: In Praise of Jane Fonda, AFI’s Life Achievement Award Winner of 2014

The roles she began to play during this period revealed a growing socio-political awareness.

On June 5, Jane Fonda received the American Film Institute’s Life Achievement award. She fully deserves the honor, of course. The two-time Oscar winner is, simply, one of the greatest American film actors of the last 50 years. There is a certain sincerity and intensity to Fonda’s acting and, as with all the finest stars, the camera never finds her boring. Her greatest performances, in They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? (1969), Klute (1971) and Coming Home (1978), are nothing less than master classes in the art of acting. Fonda has also led an interesting, eventful life. She has been an activist for decades, and her political interests have not infrequently been reflected in her choice of roles. An inspirational interpreter of American femininity on the screen, she has, moreover, championed feminist causes in both the United States and around the world.

Many of the films Fonda has appeared in address social and political issues while many of her roles have been culturally significant. The very early ones are, generally speaking, less interesting but in movies such as Barefoot in the Park (1967), Fonda’s vivacious protagonists are clearly intended to represent youthful 60s womanhood. Directed by her then husband, the late French filmmaker Roger Vadim, the wacky, erotic sci-fi Barbarella (1968) made her into one of the cinematic sex symbols of that decade. Her next role could not have been more different: in the dark, Depression-set drama, They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?, she plays a participant in a hellish dance competition. There is great depth and complexity to her character and Fonda won her first Oscar nomination for the part. The roles she began to play during this period revealed a growing socio-political awareness.

They Shoot Horses Don't They — *They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?*

Fonda’s greatest, Academy Award-winning performance–to date–is in Klute (1971). As I noted in my article, “Female Identity and Performance,” Klute should not only be celebrated as a suspenseful psychological thriller about a sex worker and a detective but also as “an allegory of the female condition in patriarchy.” Alan Pakula’s film powerfully explores female sexuality and independence as well as violence against women and misogyny. Reflecting social change, Fonda portrayed independent professional women during the 70s and 80s. She played TV reporters in The China Syndrome (1979) and The Electric Horseman (1979) and a psychiatrist in Agnes of God (1985). Fonda also, of course, starred in 9 to 5 (1980), a lively, subversive revenge comedy that directly addressed sexism in the American workplace. Incarnations of real-life, historical figures have been rare but in Julia (1977), she played Lillian Hellman, one of the key American playwrights of the 20th century. In The Butler (2013), she portrayed former first lady, Nancy Reagan. As the former President’s politics contrast sharply with Fonda’s, the decision to play his partner is a somewhat amusing one.

Fonda has not only portrayed American femininity for decades; her off-screen feminist activism has also been widely acknowledged and appreciated. A supporter of the V-Day movement, the actor has actively championed anti-VAW initiatives around the world. She has also demonstrated an interest in women’s health. She founded the Georgia Campaign for Adolescent Pregnancy Prevention in 1995 and the Jane Fonda Center for Adolescent Reproductive Health at the Emory School of Medicine in 2002. A co-founder of the Women’s Media Center, the actor has, furthermore, shown a commitment to improving the status of women in the US media.

Fonda championed progressive political causes as a younger woman. In the late 60s and early 70s, she supported Native and Black American rights and campaigned against The Vietnam War. Fonda’s visit to Hanoi during the Vietnam War in 1972 was the subject of controversy and one incident in particular caused anger in the United States. A photo was taken of a gleeful-looking Fonda as she sat on a North Vietnamese antiaircraft gun site. In her autobiography, My Life So Far (2005), Fonda explains, for her part, that the act was spontaneous and not intentionally staged; she was singing a song with her hosts and sat down unwittingly at the site. There are, in fact, Vietnam vets today who have not forgiven Fonda for her Hanoi visit, particularly for the gun incident, and the actor remains a target for virulent right-wing abuse online. In fact, a certain right-wing US news source–you can guess which–reported anger by some veterans at Fonda receiving the AFI award. In her memoir, Fonda apologizes for the photo. She also states that the gun incident constituted a betrayal of her own involvement with the GI movement, explaining that it was the veterans themselves who exposed her to the horrors of the Vietnam War.

Right-wing obsession with the image, of course, not only indicated frankly racist indifference to the mass deaths of Vietnamese civilians but it also served to obscure the political and moral motivations for the trip as well as the infinitely greater transgression of the war itself. Fonda does not apologize for the trip in her memoir. She went to raise awareness in the United States of Nixon and Kissinger’s underhanded, escalated bombing of the country, particularly its dikes. Any reading of the historic response to her visit, particularly the gun incident, as well as lingering resentment, should also take into account the following truths: politically engaged women have traditionally endured greater scrutiny and judgment than their male counterparts while women who have been perceived as traitors have always been subject to more intense vilification. Fonda herself expresses an awareness of this in her memoir: “I realize that it is not just a US citizen laughing and clapping…I am Henry Fonda’s privileged daughter who appears to be thumbing my nose at the country that has provided me these privileges. More than that, I am a woman, which makes me sitting there even more of a betrayal. And I am a woman who is seen as Barbarella…an embodiment of men’s fantasies.”

Again, many of the movie projects she was involved in during the era addressed her political concerns. One, in fact, tackled the war in Vietnam. Conceived and developed by Fonda herself, Coming Home is the story of a wife of a Marine Corps captain who has an affair with a paraplegic vet when her husband is in Vietnam. An intimate, political take on the conflict, the drama addresses its life-changing consequences. It not only examines war-related disabilities and PTSD but also looks at its impact on women with partners in the military.

The China Syndrome (1979), a thriller about a cover-up in a nuclear plant, reflected Fonda’s concern with the dangers of nuclear energy. The credibility and urgency of the movie’s message was amplified by a real-life incident at the time of its release in 1979: astonishingly, the Three Mile Island accident in Pennsylvania, effectively a limited nuclear meltdown, occurred less than a fortnight after the opening of the film. Other films Fonda appeared in during this period critiqued materialism. The romance The Electric Horseman (1979) espouses an anti-corporate ethos while Fun With Dick and Jane (1977) takes aim at the American Dream. Although set in a much earlier era, the anti-Fascist Julia examines the nature of courage and political engagement.

Fonda has played a great many parts in her own life. She has, of course, been a fitness and health guru–as aspect of her life that, I must admit, interests me the least–as well as a memoir writer. Fonda’s private life has been equally been eventful. She has been married to three charismatic men–the politician Tom Hayden, media mogul Ted Turner, as well as Roger Vadim–has three children, and is currently in a relationship with music producer, Richard Perry. It is difficult to think of another American movie star who has had such an accomplished, interesting and influential life but Fonda’s deeply confessional autobiography is a candid account of female insecurity and self-abuse. My Life So Far chronicles the experiences of a privileged though objectified woman in a patriarchal society and details the psychological damage that sexist attitudes inflict upon women. It is shocking to read director Joshua Logan’s suggestion that Fonda procure a more defined look by having her jaw broken and reset. Another troubling aspect of her memoir is her account of her relationship with her father. Jane adored Henry though he was a cold and distant parent. On Golden Pond (1981), a drama about a troubled father-daughter relationship, was a gift to Henry from his daughter–Jane produced and starred in the film with him and he won a Best Actor Oscar for it–but you wonder whether he deserved her love. It is, to be frank, a love that comes across as emotionally slavish father worship. Fonda also, it seems, had troubles with the men in her life in the past, including sexual betrayal. My Life So Far may be read as an act of female strength in that it opposes traditional patriarchal attitudes towards weakness but it is also a quite a perplexing and dispiriting affair. As a feminist icon, should Fonda not be highlighting her work more? Tough yet vulnerable, independent yet emotionally dependent, the younger Fonda arguably embodied the contradictions of middle 20^th century womanhood.

Fonda retired from acting in the early 90s but returned in 2005. The films have not been remarkable but it’s great to see her grace both the big and small screen. Her role as CEO Leona Lansing in the TV series, The Newsroom, is strikingly played but we are left wanting more. The good news is that she will star with Lilly Tomlin in a Netflix comedy. It would also be a wonderful thing to see another great central cinematic performance from Fonda but even if it does not happen–through preference for smaller parts or opportunity–the great roles of her prime will continue to stand the test of time.

Few figures in American popular culture have played such a dynamic public role as Fonda. Whatever your opinion of her politics or fitness/health projects, it is difficult to disregard her passion and commitment. Fonda was at the very epicenter of social and political change in America for many years. The 76-year-old has shown creativity and daring in both her career and activism and she should be celebrated not only for her great performances but also for her personal courage and resilience. Jane Fonda is an American icon and survivor.

Female Identity and Performance: An Appreciation of Alan Pakula’s ‘Klute’ (1971)

Klute is one of the key American films of the 1970s. Engaging with themes of surveillance and voyeurism, Alan Pakula’s masterpiece is, first of all, an absorbing, suspenseful thriller. It owes its intimidating ambiance, in great part, to Gordon Willis’s extraordinarily skillful and innovative photography. Klute, however, transcends the genre in the many ways it addresses contemporary gender politics; the New York-set neo-noir is both a character-driven study of female identity and sexuality as well as an unsettling portrait of misogyny. Starring Jane Fonda and Donald Sutherland–two of the most interesting cinematic icons of the day–Klute is also an actor’s film. Fonda won a richly deserved Best Actress Oscar for her outstanding central performance.

Written by Rachael Johnson.

Klute is one of the key American films of the 1970s. Engaging with themes of surveillance and voyeurism, Alan Pakula’s masterpiece is, first of all, an absorbing, suspenseful thriller. It owes its intimidating ambiance, in great part, to Gordon Willis’s extraordinarily skillful and innovative photography. Klute, however, transcends the genre in the many ways it addresses contemporary gender politics; the New York-set neo-noir is both a character-driven study of female identity and sexuality as well as an unsettling portrait of misogyny. Starring Jane Fonda and Donald Sutherland–two of the most interesting cinematic icons of the day–Klute is also an actor’s film. Fonda won a richly deserved Best Actress Oscar for her outstanding central performance.

Sutherland is John Klute, a Pennsylvania-based private investigator searching for a missing friend, executive Tom Gruneman. Fonda plays Bree Daniels, his most important lead in the case. Bree, a high-class call-girl with modeling and acting aspirations, has apparently been receiving obscene letters and phone calls from Gruneman. She does not, however, remember meeting him. Bree is also being stalked. The detective offers her protection and their relationship deepens. They soon become lovers. As Klute pursues the case, another prostitute is found murdered, and it is not long before the killer targets Bree.

It must be said that it is not the plot of Klute that stays with you but rather the characters and performances. Equally, the story’s most interesting themes relate to gender and sexuality. Unusually for a mainstream film, Klute is graced with a complex female protagonist. Bree is shown to be a self-determining, self-reliant woman. She seeks out modeling gigs, goes on acting auditions, and makes regular visits to her female therapist. Bree claims that her current work has given her real independence. She is no longer controlled by a pimp and considers her transactions with her ‘johns’ empowering. Early on in the film, we witness Bree negotiate with a nervous commuter client from Chicago. Supremely self-assured and entirely in control of the situation, she is sexually assertive in a dominant, almost maternal fashion. On the city streets, with her seventies ‘shag’ hairstyle, mini skirt and thigh-high boots, she radiates sexual charisma and power. We also learn that Bree used to work full-time on Park Avenue but now only tricks when she wants to. She further maintains that prostitution, on her own terms, has given her a certain psychological autonomy and control. When she tells Klute that she never climaxes with her clients, it comes across as a boast of personal sovereignty. But as Bree falls in love with the investigator and experiences a kind of sensual rebirth, she feels increasingly overwhelmed and disempowered by her feelings. Making love with Klute, she says, is ‘a baffling and bewildering experience’. What is evident, from her sessions with her therapist, is that her insensibility is a mask for mere numbness. Bree, in fact, tells her that she fundamentally wants to be ‘faceless and bodiless and left alone’. Sucked back into the vortex of her old life, she begins to unravel. At one unsettling point, she attacks her lover with scissors. There are also indications that Bree wants to stop turning tricks. In an early scene, we see her angrily ask her therapist why she is still drawn to the life.

Giving a truthful picture of prostitution on the screen is a thorny issue, of course. Many Hollywood films have prettified and sanitized prostitution and the stereotype of the whore with a heart of gold is one of the oldest in the business. Klute has a relatively complex take on prostitution. What it shows is that the prostitute remained a scapegoat for society’s sexual hypocrisies in the 1970s- an era of progressive change regarding gender and sexuality. Bree herself is fully aware of the double standards but she does not see herself as a victim. When she claims that she is very much in charge when she tricks on her own terms, the viewer is confronted with the suggestion that there are women who are not victimized by the profession. Our response to Bree’s statement, of course, depends on our individual attitude toward prostitution. It may be argued that Bree is too articulate and too bourgeois to be a believable call girl but they should remember that there is not one type of prostitute. Klute even shows that the life has an absurd and amusing side. We learn about a wealthy client who visits Bree’s old Park Avenue workplace not to ‘party’ with the girls but to clean the bathroom. Bree’s profession is, however, depicted as a dangerous one and, as specified above, she is evidently psychologically troubled. Klute is not a polemic on the dangers of prostitution but it indicates the omnipresent threat of sexual violence- and homicide- in the profession while pointing out its associations with drug culture. Klute’s stance on sex work may be interpreted in a variety of ways. Does the characterization of Bree as sexually and emotionally disengaged reflect an accurate understanding of the psyche of sex workers or does it represent a disavowal of female sexuality? Does Klute’s associations of prostitution with danger reinforce Victorian ideas of ‘fallen women’ as vulnerable and passive? What is clear is that the watchful, taciturn Klute is intended as a potential savior for Bree.

Klute does not solely offer a portrait of prostitution. It is also an allegory of the female condition in patriarchy. Klute explores the objectification and exploitation of women through the symbolic figure of the prostitute. We are encouraged to see Bree as an embodiment of female sexuality in a hypocritical, sexist society. In this sense, it is actually irrelevant whether she is believable as a call girl. Although drawn as a highly individualistic, complicated character, Bree is manifestly intended to represent universal femininity. There is a feminist consciousness exhibited in the film. It is apparent in an early scene when we see Bree apply for a modeling job. The female applicants are lined up in a row before being openly and cruelly objectified. The way the scene is framed seems to indicate that the aspiring models are treated in a fashion not too dissimilar from women in a brothel. Klute also uses the theme of surveillance to explore society’s objectification of women. Bree is being watched constantly- by her stalker, clients and protector. The practice and metaphor of acting further points to a feminist awareness. Acting is not just an aspiration for Bree but a means of personal and professional expression. It, also, however, masks fragility and emptiness. These psychological weaknesses are not unique to Bree but represent the fractured psyches of women alienated from a still-patriarchal society. Her dilemma is, effectively, an existential one: she is searching for an authentic social role. The character of Bree fuses Actress, Prostitute and Woman. These identities, as we know, have been interchanged throughout Western history. Klute shows how sexually liberated and economically independent American women were objectified, exploited and abused after the so-called sexual revolution of the sixties.

Klute, moreover, offers a sharp, disturbing portrait of misogyny. The villain is not the classic weirdo or social outcast of most movies and crime reports. Played with a reptilian venomousness by Charles Cioffi, the thriller’s sadistic psychopath is an esteemed man of wealth and power. His heart contains an ocean of hate for women and prostitutes are accessible, serviceable targets for his fathomless misogyny. In his final confrontation with Bree, he tries to justify his actions. They are worth quoting in full: ‘You make a man think that he’s accepted. It’s all just a great big game to you. When you’re all too obviously lazy and too warped to do anything meaningful with your lives so you prey upon the sexual fantasies of others. I’m sure it comes as no great surprise to you when I say that there are little corners in everyone which were better off left alone- sicknesses, weaknesses which should never be exposed. But that’s your stock and trade, isn’t it- a man’s weaknesses and I was never fully aware of mine until you brought them out.’ His character, it is quite boldly suggested, illustrates the hypocritical, perverse aspects of heterosexual masculinity.

In the closing moments of Klute, we see Bree leave her New York apartment with her lover. As the outcome seems to fulfill the imperatives of a conventional Hollywood ending, it may arguably be seen as a sell-out. The good, traditional man saves the troubled, wayward woman. Of course, the romantic in us believes that happiness lies with this man of honor and compassion. For the first time in her life, Bree has experienced genuine sexual intimacy and joy with a man. In a wonderfully understated performance, Sutherland gives the quiet Klute a gracious, self-effacing masculinity. Nevertheless, Bree’s closing voiceover seems to cast doubt over a permanent future for the couple. She is perhaps too complex a character to be rescued and her fate remains ambiguous.

Ultimately, what makes Klute most memorable is Fonda’s multi-layered, full-blooded performance. She invests Bree with a remarkable intelligence and plays her with a singular openness and bravery. With her would-be lover Klute, she is alternately satirical, seductive and mocking. In her therapy sessions, we witness Bree’s quest for self-definition in articulate, questioning observations and emphatic hand gestures. Fonda’s performance is equally rich in empathy. Bree’s acting endeavors are shown to be sincere and enterprising. As noted, the character’s worldliness is countered by deep apathy and despair. Her capacity for self-destruction is revealed in an especially striking party scene where she regresses perilously into her old life. To a deafening funk soundtrack, we see a stoned, sweaty Bree weave her way through a crowded club, stop to make out with a stranger and embrace an old girlfriend before surrendering to the throne of her former pimp, Frank Ligourin (a sleazy-handsome Roy Schneider). Fonda’s expressions in this riveting episode are a pitch-perfect blend of brazenness, revulsion, discontent, despair and defiance. Bree’s final confrontation with the murderer is equally unforgettable. Forced to endure the recorded screams of a fellow prostitute being tortured and murdered, she bows her head and silently cries. Terrified yet still trying to maintain her dignity, we watch her wipe away the snot now dripping from her nose. Few Hollywood actresses of any era have been allowed to be as real and raw as Fonda in this scene. In her autobiography, My Life So Far (Random House, 2005), the actress explains that she was crying for all female victims of male violence in these moments.

Klute is a classic that deserves to be revisited again and again. An involving, atmospheric thriller and politically-aware study of female identity, it boasts one of the most original and emblematic heroines in the history of American cinema and features one of the greatest screen performances of all time.