“Yes, there's one thing I do want. I want to be aware of the minutes and the seconds, and to make each one count.” - Lyon Burke, Valley of the Dolls by Jacqueline Susann
The middle of summer is an interesting time. Halfway between relaxation and work - if you are, like me, lucky enough to have a job that allows you to be on holiday during the summer - and time seems to run on its own schedule. Days bleed together and sometimes it can be hard to know if it's day or night; the world looks the same with the blinds drawn. So here I am, on an early August morning, trying to make sense of this post while simultaneously trying to will my body to adapt to Canadian time zones. I returned to Canada a week ago in an attempt to apply for a visa that will grant me more time in the city that I love, and in the process I have successfully managed to lose more sleep than a football team the night before a drug test (too soon, Warriors?).
Today we look at Jacqueline Susann's Valley of the Dolls, a book that has endured despite much outrage, criticism, and more winged eyeliner looks than you can shake a stick at. The story of three women enveloped in the culture of the star-making Hollywood machine so powerful in the 40s and 50s, it remains pertinent today in our celebrity-obsessed society. Anne, Neely, and Jennifer are at various stages in their careers: one is a small-town girl who moves to New York to find work in a talent agency, one is in the first stages of stardom on the Broadway stage, and the other is a full-fledged member of the Hollywood elite despite coming up a bit... short... where talent is concerned. This novel continues to be a viciously funny and at times, a quite sad look at the way external pressure on image dictates the way women lead their lives. Each of these three women ends up turning to pills (also known as "dolls" in the book, hence the name) to keep their charades alive, continuing to perpetuate the vicious cycle of hiding emotion under a veil of pharmaceutically-induced feelings.
Wow, what a mouthful.
And yet, I couldn't put it down.
I can't imagine coming of age (sidenote: I consider "coming of age" to take place around the 18-25 range as I had no idea who the hell I was when I became a legal adult and it seemed to take a few years to sort that out) in the spotlight. The pressures of everyday life - and yes, as a woman in an image-obsessed society - are heavy enough as it is without scrutiny on my every move. So this novel shed a little light behind the curtain, so to speak, and I have to say I finished the book on a bit of a... sympathetic note. I won't ruin it for you, and I really do think it deserves to be read, but be prepared for a whole lotta drama. Sure, it's no Shakespeare, but it's well-written and captivating. If nothing else, at times I likened it to a sociological experiment. Give it a go.
Where does Mom fit into all this?
Keeping up appearances is an interesting Pandora's box to open. These women are desperate - I mean DESPERATE - to do whatever it takes to stay cool, calm and collected, often with the side effect of becoming detached and cruel. My Mom was pretty damn good at pretending that things were fine even when they weren't. For years when I was a kid, I thought nothing of her coming home and spending hours in bed in front of the TV, often with a (large) glass of wine. She and my dad didn't shout at each other or exchange unpleasantries; she was very present in mine and my sisters' lives. I see now, as an adult, that the veneer she wore in those years was thin and our age was likely the only thing protecting it from shattering. What kid is going to ask their parent to talk to them like a grown-up, about their grown-up problems? My friends' families seemed the perfect nuclear groups, too: both parents worked, the kids got on fine at school and did extracurriculars, occasionally there would be holiday party or five thrown in, complete with Dad on the videocamera. This was suburban life in Southern Ontario at its finest, and only as a woman in my late-20s do I see just how hard it must have been not to buckle under the pressure of the "Sears-catalogue family."
The screen siren of the novel, Jennifer North, accepts that her body has given her many advantages in life, including the attention of many men who in turn helped to further her career (insert casting couch comment here). She shares some advice with Anne, holding a torch for a beau: “A man must feel he runs things, but as long as you control yourself, you control him.” Well. What a statement. I wonder if Mom felt that way about my Dad... you know, the whole idea of keeping quiet and not rocking the boat or whatever. If nobody knows it's broke, don't fix it.
Later on, Mom and Dad split up. The hard exterior grew thicker and yet somehow more transparent; anyone who dared to mention they could see the cracks would get the silent treatment. That was Mom. Interestingly, this was mirrored in my own relationship at the time. I've never been someone who likes criticism when it comes to my relationships - probably because I know deep down that depending on the person (and of course the comment) there is some validity there. I had been dating a guy off and on for almost five years; I thought we would one day get married and have children as we'd had a few chats about it. Time passed and my friends and family could see that over time, I wasn't the same person I was when I started seeing my boyfriend. Now to be clear, he was not a bad guy. It was definitely one of those "we-knew-it-should-have-ended-sooner-but-the-comfort-level-was-there" sort of things. But when push finally came to shove, it was around Christmastime, and the first since my Mom had passed. We had a variety of family things scheduled on both sides and so decided to stay together appearance-wise over the holidays while knowing that once he returned to school out of town in January, our relationship would be over. Hell, it was already over. That week or two was really difficult. It's hard to look at someone you love and know that the foundation you built together has crumbled, supports splintering under the words you can't say anymore because it wouldn't be appropriate. Because, you know, you're broken up on the inside. But throw that smile on and open those Christmas presents.
At that point, I began to understand why Mom put on that face, that performance, year upon year.
It's not easy to accept change, especially when it comes in a relationship. I have many friends whose relationships have fallen apart, some over a few years, some spontaneously combusting out of nowhere. It takes a long time to recover, I think, because not only are we trying to tend to our hearts, but we are also trying to reclaim the parts of us tied so deeply to another; the identity of self in relation to another person. So-and-so's girlfriend. Her husband. The fiancé. That sort of thing. So what do we do? Put on a brave face and carry on with our lives. What else can we do? Nobody wants to have that conversation. And nobody who asks, "How are you?" really wants to hear the "Oh, you know, really shit lately as my girlfriend has left me and the dog is going mental and I can't stop crying." Cue the fade.
Maybe we should be working to let down those barriers and be more emotionally aware of others. I'm not saying that we have to be open books and just vomit emotion all over everyone, but if we lived in a society where being vulnerable is accepted and even encouraged (especially for men), where having a full spectrum of feelings is regarded as a feature of strength and wisdom, well then perhaps we wouldn't worry so damn much about the façade.
Lyon Burke, the object of Anne's affection in the novel, is apt at speaking the truth about these women who cycle in and out of his life, yet he chooses to do so only when it suits him. How very much like a man in 1950s America... or present-day America... ahem. He is infinitely quotable, though, in spite of his - shall we say lecherous? - nature, and some of the best words to be written in this book come forth from his mouth, so I'll leave you with those. I'm ending this post with a bit of an ominous undertone, and perhaps it's time to get down to brass tacks then, as it were. Who are you, really? No, scratch that. Who do you want to be? Because if the answers to those questions are radically different, you'd best re-examine your motivation and accept the consequences that may arise as a result.
Wow, what a mouthful.
And yet, I couldn't put it down.
I can't imagine coming of age (sidenote: I consider "coming of age" to take place around the 18-25 range as I had no idea who the hell I was when I became a legal adult and it seemed to take a few years to sort that out) in the spotlight. The pressures of everyday life - and yes, as a woman in an image-obsessed society - are heavy enough as it is without scrutiny on my every move. So this novel shed a little light behind the curtain, so to speak, and I have to say I finished the book on a bit of a... sympathetic note. I won't ruin it for you, and I really do think it deserves to be read, but be prepared for a whole lotta drama. Sure, it's no Shakespeare, but it's well-written and captivating. If nothing else, at times I likened it to a sociological experiment. Give it a go.
Where does Mom fit into all this?
Keeping up appearances is an interesting Pandora's box to open. These women are desperate - I mean DESPERATE - to do whatever it takes to stay cool, calm and collected, often with the side effect of becoming detached and cruel. My Mom was pretty damn good at pretending that things were fine even when they weren't. For years when I was a kid, I thought nothing of her coming home and spending hours in bed in front of the TV, often with a (large) glass of wine. She and my dad didn't shout at each other or exchange unpleasantries; she was very present in mine and my sisters' lives. I see now, as an adult, that the veneer she wore in those years was thin and our age was likely the only thing protecting it from shattering. What kid is going to ask their parent to talk to them like a grown-up, about their grown-up problems? My friends' families seemed the perfect nuclear groups, too: both parents worked, the kids got on fine at school and did extracurriculars, occasionally there would be holiday party or five thrown in, complete with Dad on the videocamera. This was suburban life in Southern Ontario at its finest, and only as a woman in my late-20s do I see just how hard it must have been not to buckle under the pressure of the "Sears-catalogue family."
The screen siren of the novel, Jennifer North, accepts that her body has given her many advantages in life, including the attention of many men who in turn helped to further her career (insert casting couch comment here). She shares some advice with Anne, holding a torch for a beau: “A man must feel he runs things, but as long as you control yourself, you control him.” Well. What a statement. I wonder if Mom felt that way about my Dad... you know, the whole idea of keeping quiet and not rocking the boat or whatever. If nobody knows it's broke, don't fix it.
Later on, Mom and Dad split up. The hard exterior grew thicker and yet somehow more transparent; anyone who dared to mention they could see the cracks would get the silent treatment. That was Mom. Interestingly, this was mirrored in my own relationship at the time. I've never been someone who likes criticism when it comes to my relationships - probably because I know deep down that depending on the person (and of course the comment) there is some validity there. I had been dating a guy off and on for almost five years; I thought we would one day get married and have children as we'd had a few chats about it. Time passed and my friends and family could see that over time, I wasn't the same person I was when I started seeing my boyfriend. Now to be clear, he was not a bad guy. It was definitely one of those "we-knew-it-should-have-ended-sooner-but-the-comfort-level-was-there" sort of things. But when push finally came to shove, it was around Christmastime, and the first since my Mom had passed. We had a variety of family things scheduled on both sides and so decided to stay together appearance-wise over the holidays while knowing that once he returned to school out of town in January, our relationship would be over. Hell, it was already over. That week or two was really difficult. It's hard to look at someone you love and know that the foundation you built together has crumbled, supports splintering under the words you can't say anymore because it wouldn't be appropriate. Because, you know, you're broken up on the inside. But throw that smile on and open those Christmas presents.
At that point, I began to understand why Mom put on that face, that performance, year upon year.
It's not easy to accept change, especially when it comes in a relationship. I have many friends whose relationships have fallen apart, some over a few years, some spontaneously combusting out of nowhere. It takes a long time to recover, I think, because not only are we trying to tend to our hearts, but we are also trying to reclaim the parts of us tied so deeply to another; the identity of self in relation to another person. So-and-so's girlfriend. Her husband. The fiancé. That sort of thing. So what do we do? Put on a brave face and carry on with our lives. What else can we do? Nobody wants to have that conversation. And nobody who asks, "How are you?" really wants to hear the "Oh, you know, really shit lately as my girlfriend has left me and the dog is going mental and I can't stop crying." Cue the fade.
Maybe we should be working to let down those barriers and be more emotionally aware of others. I'm not saying that we have to be open books and just vomit emotion all over everyone, but if we lived in a society where being vulnerable is accepted and even encouraged (especially for men), where having a full spectrum of feelings is regarded as a feature of strength and wisdom, well then perhaps we wouldn't worry so damn much about the façade.
Lyon Burke, the object of Anne's affection in the novel, is apt at speaking the truth about these women who cycle in and out of his life, yet he chooses to do so only when it suits him. How very much like a man in 1950s America... or present-day America... ahem. He is infinitely quotable, though, in spite of his - shall we say lecherous? - nature, and some of the best words to be written in this book come forth from his mouth, so I'll leave you with those. I'm ending this post with a bit of an ominous undertone, and perhaps it's time to get down to brass tacks then, as it were. Who are you, really? No, scratch that. Who do you want to be? Because if the answers to those questions are radically different, you'd best re-examine your motivation and accept the consequences that may arise as a result.
Everyone has an identity. One of their own, and one for show.