Alice Doesn't Live Here AnymoreLife is held together by tenuous threads. We form our lives around tying our thread to others. But when a thread is severed, the whole structure starts to unravel. Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore is a romantic comedy and drama about a housewife turned widow named Alice Hyatt (Ellen Burstyn), who leaves her home in Sorocco, New Mexico--along with her twelve year-old son, Tommy (Alfred Lutter)--for the greener pastures of Monterey, California. Or at least that's Alice's "plan", which amounts to a dream of a career as a singer to support her surviving family. Not everything goes according to plan.
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I was a child of the Eighties, but my TV consisted predominantly of Hanna-Barbera cartoons and Star Trek reruns. It wasn't until after I watched Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore that I discovered that the long-running television series (from the mid-Seventies to the mid-Eighties) called "Alice" was adapted from this movie. It still surprises me because it feels like an early (but by no means exclusive) example of a popular movie that became even more entrenched into pop culture after the fact (like with M*A*S*H). I haven't seen the show, but I can see the appeal of adapting it after having seen this film. I was drawn to this picture because of my fondness for the work of its director, Martin Scorsese, although there is little here that is reminiscent of the films largely identified with his work. This is pretty much due to the more significant contributions of two other people: the star, Ellen Burstyn, and the film's screenwriter, Robert Getchell. To be clear, the film began as something of a passion project for Burstyn, who was drawn to the pre-existing screenplay, and at the suggestion of Francis Ford Coppola, brought on Scorsese to direct. Subsequently, aside from a few scenes that vaguely recall other Scorsese films (along with a few familiar actors, like Harvey Keitel), this isn't really a "Scorsese" picture. (Although I suspect that a scene with Tommy talking to himself while wearing a cowboy outfit informed a similar scene in Taxi Driver.) Just felt that I should put this out there before diving deeper into the movie. So what is Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore? In a sense, it is an examination from a woman's point-of-view about the challenges that come when a woman is forced into the world on her own without the financial security of a husband. (Keep in mind, this was made in 1974, at the onset of the social movement commonly referred to as "Women's Lib".) Aside from a peculiar prologue featuring an eight year-old Alice (Mia Bendixsen), what little we learn of Alice's past comes from her lips alone. In her youth, she enjoyed acting with her brother, and had aspirations of making it big. She is also smart with a quick wit, a quality which she has imparted--for better or for worse--onto her son. Her life in Sorocco wasn't a bed of roses. There was always the threat of an argument with her (then-living) husband, Donald (Billy "Green" Bush), but things were still tolerable. Everything shifts after the funeral, as Alice struggles to consider what she can do to support her and her son, and that old dream comes sneaking its way back into her thoughts. But her scheme is flawed, meant to underscore the inherent flaw in an asymmetrical marriage--that a spouse should not deprive their partner from a means to survive if they perish before them. So with little more than a dream and a prayer, Alice packs up her kid and drives out (further) West. This is about as far as she's thought things through, and it shows.
Alice and Tommy repeatedly mask their grief with jokes, arguably to the point that the script feels a little too proud of itself about how clever it is. On one hand, it diminishes the gravity of their situation, but on the other it does represent how people who are too scared to face their grief will often hide behind humor. (Unfortunately, the film doesn't really embrace the latter interpretation.) There are moments in Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore which still make it clear to the audience that Alice had better come up with a plan and fast. She gets sidetracked in Phoenix, spending what little savings they brought on a fancy dress and a new hairdo, and goes from bar to bar looking for a singing gig. It isn't until she comes to a bar and immediately breaks down into tears--much to the embarrassment of the proprietor--that she gets a job at all. In the mean time, she and Tommy are living in a hovel of an apartment, where the neighbors fight and hit one another, and where Tommy is left on his own at night, eating a bag of potato chips for dinner while watching old movies on the black and white TV. Perhaps out of loneliness, she enters into a relationship with a persistent barfly named Ben (Keitel), who--it turns out--is both married and abusive, compelling Alice to escape with Tommy ASAP. But instead of making a beeline for Monterey, she gets sidetracked yet again, stopping at a motel in Tuscon, Arizona.
Resigned to not finding another singing job, Alice returns to her cramped motel room crestfallen, declaring that she has become a waitress. What strikes me as fascinating here is that despite having lofty ideals about "making it big" as a performer--to see her childhood desires fulfilled--she takes on an occupation that so many other people before her have and since. Her attitude isn't gratitude for a means to support her and Tommy, but to be ashamed. It suggests that Alice has led a sheltered life up until now, and that this experience is going to be crucial for her to understand what life is really like for everyone else out in the real world. (The basis for the TV show was predominantly centered around her work at the diner.) Yet work in the diner is chaos from go. Alice's co-workers include the bombastic Flo (Diane Ladd)--who embarrasses Alice from the start--and the meek Vera (Valerie Curtin). And on her first day, a handsome rancher named David (Kris Kristofferson) sets his sights on her, flirting with her to wear down her defenses. Although she tries to repeatedly rebuke him, he eventually wins her over. It's understandable that she'd be apprehensive after Ben; but some of the most convincing scenes in Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore come from her romance with David. These include a quiet moment when she reaches into his pocket to light a cigarette for him as they drive along in his pickup truck, as well as the aftermath from Tommy's birthday party. Unlike other men Alice has known, David challenges her to do better by Tommy and herself, forcing her to confront what she truly wants out of life. He may be a bit rough around the edges, but he is a good man whose patience is tested by Tommy's antics and Alice's indecisiveness. Their scenes are the high point of the movie, a rare case where although the method to introduce David into the plot feels forced, the rest of their scenes (barring the saccharine ending) feel genuine. It's clear that even though the plot meanders in Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore, it suits the film as a reflection of Alice's own difficulty with rooting herself into the best life available to her given the circumstances. This means (unlike what I gather about the end of the TV show) that Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore isn't pandering to an idea that anyone can be anything just because they gave it their all. It sometimes means that you have to act like an adult and make a choice that may not be "living the dream", but is ultimately the right choice to make about your future and the future of your loved ones.
Recommended for: Fans of a touching (if not always consistent) comedy/drama that explores the challenges of life after the loss of a partner. Keep an eye out for a young Jodie Foster as a delinquent, but don't expect to hear "kiss my grits" in this movie; that was the TV show.
Alice and Tommy repeatedly mask their grief with jokes, arguably to the point that the script feels a little too proud of itself about how clever it is. On one hand, it diminishes the gravity of their situation, but on the other it does represent how people who are too scared to face their grief will often hide behind humor. (Unfortunately, the film doesn't really embrace the latter interpretation.) There are moments in Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore which still make it clear to the audience that Alice had better come up with a plan and fast. She gets sidetracked in Phoenix, spending what little savings they brought on a fancy dress and a new hairdo, and goes from bar to bar looking for a singing gig. It isn't until she comes to a bar and immediately breaks down into tears--much to the embarrassment of the proprietor--that she gets a job at all. In the mean time, she and Tommy are living in a hovel of an apartment, where the neighbors fight and hit one another, and where Tommy is left on his own at night, eating a bag of potato chips for dinner while watching old movies on the black and white TV. Perhaps out of loneliness, she enters into a relationship with a persistent barfly named Ben (Keitel), who--it turns out--is both married and abusive, compelling Alice to escape with Tommy ASAP. But instead of making a beeline for Monterey, she gets sidetracked yet again, stopping at a motel in Tuscon, Arizona.
Resigned to not finding another singing job, Alice returns to her cramped motel room crestfallen, declaring that she has become a waitress. What strikes me as fascinating here is that despite having lofty ideals about "making it big" as a performer--to see her childhood desires fulfilled--she takes on an occupation that so many other people before her have and since. Her attitude isn't gratitude for a means to support her and Tommy, but to be ashamed. It suggests that Alice has led a sheltered life up until now, and that this experience is going to be crucial for her to understand what life is really like for everyone else out in the real world. (The basis for the TV show was predominantly centered around her work at the diner.) Yet work in the diner is chaos from go. Alice's co-workers include the bombastic Flo (Diane Ladd)--who embarrasses Alice from the start--and the meek Vera (Valerie Curtin). And on her first day, a handsome rancher named David (Kris Kristofferson) sets his sights on her, flirting with her to wear down her defenses. Although she tries to repeatedly rebuke him, he eventually wins her over. It's understandable that she'd be apprehensive after Ben; but some of the most convincing scenes in Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore come from her romance with David. These include a quiet moment when she reaches into his pocket to light a cigarette for him as they drive along in his pickup truck, as well as the aftermath from Tommy's birthday party. Unlike other men Alice has known, David challenges her to do better by Tommy and herself, forcing her to confront what she truly wants out of life. He may be a bit rough around the edges, but he is a good man whose patience is tested by Tommy's antics and Alice's indecisiveness. Their scenes are the high point of the movie, a rare case where although the method to introduce David into the plot feels forced, the rest of their scenes (barring the saccharine ending) feel genuine. It's clear that even though the plot meanders in Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore, it suits the film as a reflection of Alice's own difficulty with rooting herself into the best life available to her given the circumstances. This means (unlike what I gather about the end of the TV show) that Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore isn't pandering to an idea that anyone can be anything just because they gave it their all. It sometimes means that you have to act like an adult and make a choice that may not be "living the dream", but is ultimately the right choice to make about your future and the future of your loved ones.
Recommended for: Fans of a touching (if not always consistent) comedy/drama that explores the challenges of life after the loss of a partner. Keep an eye out for a young Jodie Foster as a delinquent, but don't expect to hear "kiss my grits" in this movie; that was the TV show.