In an earlier discussion of the New Hollywood landmark Klute (produced and directed by Alan J. Pakula, shot by “Prince of Darkness” Gordon Willis, and starring Jane Fonda and Donald Sutherland), we argued that the theme of “control” was the central issue for Bree Daniels (Fonda). Which in turn makes it the central theme of Klute, which, although nominally a mystery story, is more than anything a character study of Bree. And in that context, it engages broader issues intimately associated with the emerging women’s movement (the film was released in 1971), and the challenges of balancing independence and autonomy with intimacy and even domesticity—concerns which fit the newfound political sensibilities of Fonda, who had a considerable voice in shaping the movie’s production.
Three juxtaposed sequences underscore these tensions in distinct manifestations (and which, in good seventies style, are not resolved in the end, as the closing images and the attendant voiceover point in opposite directions, conclusions about which Fonda, Sutherland and Pakula disagree). In the first, Bree follows a humiliating cattle call for a modeling gig, during which she has no control, by rushing to a phone booth to arrange a trick—where she is in total, confident control. The movie sees little moral difference in these two acts of selling one’s body. (Twice more we will see Bree treated shabbily by men when pursuing her acting career.)
“Show us your hands”
“Can you get me a commuter?”
“The greatest actress in the world”
As Bree tells her analyst, “When you’re a call girl, you control it.” But her control is being threatened, by the deranged killer Cable, who is a threat to her life, and private-detective Klute (Sutherland), who is a threat to her autonomy. As noted, Bree craves control, which is why she has abandoned the bordellos and even works without the services of her former pimp Frankie (Roy Scheider). But with Cable murdering witnesses, eventually Bree, freaking out at the death of Arlyn Paige (Dorothy Tristan), goes running back to Frankie, to the utter bafflement, not to mention dismay, of Klute.
But Klute is potentially as threatening to Bree as Cable is, if in a very different (and more existential) way. As she explains in one therapy session, when you’re a call girl, “you don’t have to feel anything.” But she develops genuine feelings for Klute. And as if Klute and Cable were different manifestations of a primal fear with common roots (both men follow her, watch her, record her voice, and become obsessed with her), as Bree’s feelings for Klute become more profound, the violence of Cable’s psycho-sexual rage escalates. Thus a deeply romantic interlude of the happy couple buying fruit (with Bree even catching a glimpse of a man with a child, hinting at a life-trajectory never before imagined) is followed by a rude awakening back at her apartment, which has been ransacked and defiled.
A moment of intimacy
And imagined possibilities
But at what cost?
At some metaphysical level these can all be seen as demons conjured by Bree—reflecting nightmarish manifestations of the dangers inherent to freedom on the one hand and intimacy on the other. As expressed in the scenes with her analysist, she certainly has wildly mixed feelings about the prospect of real intimacy, which is in accord with Pakula’s suggestion that she “really almost destroys herself.” Which path does she choose? Like all great seventies films, Klute raises more questions than it has any intention of answering.
“I feel the need to destroy it . . . I had more control before”