Wanda (1970)

The 1970’s were, all things considered, beyond brutal. A paradise for bibliophiles, music lovers, and serial killer aficionados, yes, but for everyone else, a dumpster fire of epic proportions that rivals the Great Depression for overall hopelessness. The economy was trash – rising inflation and high unemployment combining to create “stagflation” – Watergate was in full swing, Vietnam was winding down to the inevitable humiliating defeat, and getting gas, on a good day, took the better part of an afternoon. Everything, from isolated farm communities to once grand empires like New York City, was covered in a blanket of filth, grime, and grinding despair. 

Smiles were almost impossible to come by. Folks even resorted to giving away their wallets ahead of time to avoid the expected muggings. And I haven’t even mentioned the garbage strikes, round-the-clock plane crashes, murderous cults, and near ubiquitous drug use. Naturally, we’d round it off with a hostage crisis. Still, despite those years being the closest we’d come to ending the American experiment once and for all, the movies were never better. Before or since. Something about surrendering to darkness that revives the artistic spirit. Bold moves were made, absurd risks were taken, and even typically conservative studios were giving away money for whatever crossed a director’s mind. Hollywood was alive once again in a way unseen since the noir-infused 40’s. Which brings us to Wanda.

Directed by Barbara Loden (her one and only effort), she is also its star, giving the sort of performance that’s hard to read because she never shows her hand. Though, in reality, there’s not much to show. Wanda is – and she’d be the first to admit it – an empty vessel. Tired, blank, and lacking much by way of will, she’s one of the few movie females to leave a husband and children behind for nothing more considered than a whim. While we’ve seen hundreds of men – usually described as loners, rebels, and anti-heroes – take to the open road in search of, well, something, we rarely afford women that same opportunity. Simply put, we judge them more harshly. Women can get crazy, sure, but once the kids come, they’d better buckle down. 

Not Wanda. She’s inept at the whole enterprise and knows it. Showing up late to family court in little more than what she went to bed in, she begs the judge to grant the divorce. She won’t even offer a half-hearted defense. He can have everything. From there, who the hell knows. She’s gone beyond day to day; she’s literally existing moment to moment. It’s one of the film’s great strengths to refuse to grant the character an articulate stance in favor of something that might amount to feminist enlightenment. Perhaps her husband is a brutish bastard. Perhaps not. Maybe he cheats. Maybe he doesn’t. She’d find herself, but she’s not sure what that even means. She simply wants something else. Even that’s in question. Here, that’s enough.

In lesser hands, Wanda might have starred Jane Fonda strutting chin-up as “I Am Woman” roared on the soundtrack. It could have been vocal, angry, and determined to 2×4 its way to patriarchy’s overthrow. But 1970 wasn’t a time for fantasies. Or delusions of empowerment. No, the women, like the men, children, and everyone else you care to include, had no clue what it all meant. Life was nasty, brutish, and short, and you’ll just have to find a way to survive it. Wanda starts her quest, such as it is, with a drink, which leads to sex, only the sort that seems about as much fun as walking into the ocean. She’s not taking control, she’s losing it, and this is but step one to full abdication. It’s quite telling that as Wanda wanders away from an unfulfilling life, not once is she referred to by name. She’s “lover” or “blondie,” “honey” or “stupid.” She’d object, but at least she’s being addressed. 

Eventually, Wanda finds her way into the arms of Mr. Norman Dennis (Michael Higgins). Is he the answer? Only if you prefer the sort of man who performs mechanically in bed then demands not to be touched. And go get him some hamburgers, dammit, only without any of the crap that makes them worth eating. Just meat and a bun and be quick about it. He’s the sort of man who roars, “When you’re with me, no slacks.” He’s just as huffy about questions. On occasion, he’ll sound like a philosopher – “If you don’t want anything you won’t have anything, and if you don’t have anything, you’re as good as dead” – but parsing the language, it’s just his way of justifying the life. A life of crime. He’d work, but that’s effort, and something tells me he could no more get through an interview than spend a day taking orders. 

And so Mr. Dennis and Wanda take to the road, robbing convenience stores and planning a big heist, which is little more than the stupidest idea ever devised by a petty nobody. What works in your head rarely translates to the real world. It had no more chance of being a success than these two had of getting hitched and walking into the sunset. But that’s for later. In the meantime, they’ll act as a newfangled Bonnie and Clyde, only without any of the glamour, sex, or charisma. Just ineptitude and sour faces. Few have ever had a worse time living free. Going back to Pennsylvania’s coal mines would hold more appeal. Again, beautifully, Wanda isn’t talking. Not a regret, a rumination, or a bon mot is offered. I’d say she’s being held hostage, but Dennis himself doesn’t seem to care. She’s an audience, but he could take her or leave her.

While the pair drive, sulk, stare, and eat, I couldn’t help but think of the Bob Dylan line (from “Not Dark Yet”): I can’t even remember what it was I came here to get away from. That’s Wanda. Dennis, too, but at least he covets something. Easy money illegally obtained, but it’s a dream. Enough reason to wake up in the morning. Wanda has less. Much less. Up to and including her breathing, everything about her is involuntary. I can’t remember a character so ill-defined, only I’m not being critical. This isn’t bad writing. It’s simply who she is, with the courage to say so. Too many filmmakers want their creations to be loved. It takes a true talent to give little and expect less. Perhaps asking us to care about someone so defiantly unlikeable is the ultimate test of our empathy. I mean, if this cipher grabs us, maybe we need to pay more attention to everything else. At minimum, it’s a challenge. Back when the cinema believed in such things.

It’s no spoiler to inform you that Dennis dies, shot down like a dog in the midst of a ridiculous bank job. Before that, a kidnapping and hostage taking that also involved a bomb not even a blind man would believe was authentic. No matter. Wanda, like Patty Hearst, was more complicit than compelled, and she too deserves the fate that follows. Only hers seems more cruel in light of what Dennis received. You see, Wanda lives. No money, no partner, no one to talk to. Back to the cheap bars and even cheaper company. She’ll sleep with a few, shack up with others, and likely end up in exactly the same situation she felt compelled to leave. I can even see another child or two, because that’s usually the way these things turn out. Suffering doesn’t mean as much unless you have someone along for the ride. Especially someone who can’t physically leave. Blank at the outset, blank at the end. And a frozen image to leave us with. Wanda proved what we all suspected was true: we can try to start fresh in a journey of self, but the thing holding us back is always with us: ourselves.