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Klute (Alan J. Pakula, 1971)
🕑 Added 2020-07-29 16:47:00 +0000 UTC
This is one of those classics that I feel a bit sheepish about writing up. Is there really any more to be said about Klute? Not only is it one of the key paranoid thrillers of the 1970s; it has been rediscovered by a new generation because of Jane Fonda's performance as Bree Daniels, an all-too-rare depiction of sex work that is evenhanded, not judgmental or condescending. Or, to put it another way, when Bree does become a victim, it is not because she is a "call girl," in the old terminology. Her isolation and abuse at the hands of a psychopath has everything to do with her simply being a woman. So Klute is progressive in that it shows the hatred and murder of sex workers to be a subset of a more generalized misogyny, and not some sort of occupational hazard.
I suppose more could be said about the relationship between Bree and John Klute (Donald Sutherland), although the film very cleverly says a great deal about the relationship over the course of its running time. Bree's sessions with her analyst (Vivian Nathan) allow her to provide additional perspective and character depth, another Cubist facet to Bree, without ever lapsing into ham-fisted explanation. But what they tell us is that, for Bree, Klute is a bit of a mystery. In the initial interactions between the two characters, he is so immune to her sexual come-ons that, if Klute were made sometime in the 90s onward, we would just assume he were gay.
But in fact, Klute is even more mysterious than that. He is decent, professional, and almost a Bressonian cipher. Bree's security in the world, such that it is, relies on her skill at manipulating men through sexual theater. The fact that her moves don't work on Klute both frightens and entices her. It's often been asked why the film is called Klute when it's so obviously about Bree. But I think it's more complicated than that. It's about a relationship (and a film) that reverses the sexualized gaze. Bree's subjectivity is rattled because she begins to see herself as John Klute sees her. How else to explain the numerous shots when Bree retreats to the comfortable behaviors she knows (e.g., hanging with Roy Scheider's sleazy Frank), and we immediately see Bree notice Klute looking at her. His is the only outside look she has had to contend with for a long time, and it is not one of judgment, but of rueful hurt.
I would be remiss not to acknowledge the final villain monologue of Peter Cable (Charles Cioffi), about as chilling as any similar moment in 70s cinema. Its bluntness is harrowing because it articulates the double-think that drives misogynist lustmord, a truly perverted set of ideas that, when followed to their (il)logical conclusion, make the destruction of women utterly reasonable. Aside from the nightmarish use of sound design in this scene -- the fact that Cable did something so horrific to Bree that we can only imagine it -- this sequence is so disturbing because it hasn't aged one bit. It's easy to hear the "trans panic" defense -- I killed her because she "opened a dark corner in me" -- in Cable's words.
Not incidentally, Klute has become a touchstone for trans critics, mostly because of its depiction of sex work and issues relating to bodily trauma. I refer you to the great Willow Maclay, and remind you that you should subscribe to her Patreon if you do not already.
