For Lil Andrews (Jean Harlow), to live is to fuck. And to fuck, well, that means every last male of the species who can give her what she needs. And in Red-Headed Woman, what she needs is money, power, comfort, and undying devotion. In this world of pre-Code Hollywood, that also means a woman of unquenchable ambition who will not only survive, but thrive, and never, ever be punished for her sins. Because they aren’t really sins. Not in 1932. There’s a Depression on, don’t you know, and asking anyone of Harlow’s talents to settle for mere secretarial work is asking the moon, the stars, and all the planets in the sky.
She has dicks to suck. An ass to shake. A pussy to be beaten and battered and ground into hamburger. Because that’s her way. The only way. The way of a real-life tragic figure who would marry three times, seduce 90% of Tinseltown royalty, and drop dead at 26. Officially of kidney failure, but for those not tied to autopsies and hospital charts, an overindulgence of cock. The old life imitating art bit. A hard but unshakable destiny.
When we first meet Lil, she’s but one of many youngsters looking to survive life in the big city. She may be a little more no-nonsense than most, but let’s be clear: for the average dime, you’re bound to get several dozen similarly inclined. As the film’s title implies, this will be no standard Harlow outing. The platinum locks have yielded to a fiery red, though for our sake as an audience, we’ll have to take it on faith. Still, despite the limitations of black-and-white stock, the inner whore shines through. And how. Lil’s first target? Her boss, naturally, a firm and unyielding husband so devoted to his childhood sweetheart, he’s bound to throw it all away at a mere glimpse of Lil’s thigh. And several long, deep kisses. One sultry evening, she decides to bring the work mail to his house and help him, ahem, sort through it. Naturally, this could take hours. And may involve Lil removing her bra. Whatever the case, it will awaken the beast within. As a wise sage once said, “A man is only as loyal as his options.” More so when those options involve a broad of loose morals.
The boss, Bill Legendre, Jr. (Chester Morris), is actually a subordinate to the Senior of the brood (Lewis Stone), and he immediately sees what’s up. Still, destiny being what it is, Lil works feverishly to ensure that when Bill’s wife is out of town, she’ll be firmly inside his bedroom, gulping her just desserts. Naturally, this being a melodrama, the wife returns early, just as Lil is trying to sneak out the back door. The jig is up, but Bill insists he has learned his lesson. In matters of the flesh, this simply means that he’ll have to work harder to disguise his infidelity. Long story short, Bill is a man obsessed, wifey-poo files for (and is granted) a divorce, and the die is cast. He’ll marry Lil, which is, for anyone with but a fool’s capacity for foresight, the worst decision imaginable. A wedding ring might lock some folks down, but for Lil, it’s simply a springboard for more fucking. After all, there are richer men about. And those furs and fox pieces aren’t going to grow themselves.
Next up on her scorecard is the lonely, but obscenely wealthy Charles Gaerste (Henry Stevenson), a coal titan who can provide the jewels and gowns, sure, but more importantly, the respect. He’s a man of society, with access to all the VIP’s in town, and Lil needs attention. Fawning. Oohs and ahhs to accompany the shattering orgasms. All well and good, but Lil is still stone stupid. A bumpkin. Pure country in a city of sophistication. As such, she’s bound to disappoint when presented to polite society, and she’ll be driven out with all the predictable sorrow of a woman who can fuck a man silly but failed to master the multiplication tables. We’re not even sure she can read. So, as night follows day, she’ll use her new affair to fuck another, this time in the form of Gaerste’s chauffeur, played with obscene charisma by up-and-comer Charles Boyer. He is Albert, and because he’s French, he’s not at all put off by a high body count and innumerable STD’s. His genitals were clapped out long ago, so what’s the harm in ravaging old Lil? At minimum, they can share war stories.
Though difficult to keep track, amidst the bedroom hopping are the requisite betrayals, counter-betrayals, slaps, and lies, topped by blackmail plots, bribes, and shootings. Yes, a shooting. You see, Lil doesn’t like that Bill crawls back to his wife, so as they drive away from a party, Lil fires blindly into their car. Bill is hit, but doesn’t die, and the criminal justice system, in accordance with its usual lack of justice and fair play, doesn’t do a damn thing about it. Bill, too, still under the spell of Lil’s glorious flower, refuses to file charges. Whatever. This gives her the opportunity to sail to Paris and start anew. So, Bill re-marries wife #1 and while both are at a racetrack, they spot Lil. Apparently, she owns a champion racehorse now, these two years later. Though in truth, the horse belongs to a man at least 65 years Lil’s senior, and they are an item. Thick as thieves. Even as she flees an attempted murder rap, two failed marriages, and enough gonorrhea to swallow a kingdom, she remains on the make. A broad who matters.
The life of a cheap whore has been told many times, but Red-Headed Woman roars to the top of the heap because unlike so many morality tales, this time, the female emerges triumphant. She’s not punished, not reduced to the streets, and certainly not saddled with motherhood. Her Paris sojourn proves conclusively that wherever she might go, whether with one suitcase or ten, she will identify, target, and bag a man of means. Arm in arm, eating well, sleeping well, and inhaling the musk of a geriatric set of stones only when she must. I half believe this latest old timer is limp as a noodle, meaning all she’ll have to do to get the latest trinket is walk around naked from time to time. Lil, judge her if you must, is a survivor. Nimble, adaptive, and full of fight. And if she has to marry three dozen by the time she dies at her post, well, so much the better. Keep on keepin’ on, Lil. Even if Ms. Harlow won’t live to see it.
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