Where can the world’s most inventive fashionista with Vaudevillian dreams of grandeur and a socialite background possibly carve out a worthy niche in this world and find daily inspiration? If your mind went to the posh East Hampton, playplace for the privileged, then you would be right. Sort of. But only if in the 70s, you had taken a real estate survey and mixed it with a game of “one of these is not like the others.” Upon doing so, you would have stumbled upon Grey Gardens, a namesake homestead for one of my favorite films of all time. Grey Gardens (1975) is documentary magic. Its very real material is the stuff of great fiction. Bizarre. Unflinching. Lovable. Loathsome. Tragic. This sad manifestation of the mother-daughter dynamic is, to use Little Edie’s term, pulverizing. But there’s a hopeful panache in Little Edie simultaneously miraculous and inspiring.
Mother and daughter (Big Edie Bouvier Beale and Little Edie Bouvier Beale) inhabit their decaying mansion (named Grey Gardens) in East Hampton, New York. Actually, decay is a pretty kind term for the unlivable squalor that festers around them, and it’s made all the more severe when juxtaposed to the manicured perfection that surrounds their estate. On top of that, add the fact that this dynamic duo are the aunt and cousin of Jacqueline Kennedy Onasis. And beyond that, add the daughter’s resent for imprisonment and a mother’s overbearing, life-sucking, ever-critical dominance, and you have more tension than a fishing line with a great white on the end. The thin line of connection could sever at any moment.
Big Edie has hoarded her relationship with her daughter. After Mr. Beale left the family, Little Edie became bound to her mother and Grey Gardens. Little Edie’s every waking moment belongs to Big Edie, so long as the matriarch is cognizant. Even Little Edie’s name, her very identity, mirrors that of her mother--one more tether to remind her of the life chosen for her. One of the most disturbing images in the film is the “bedroom” in which the women appear to primarily live. They cook there on a hot plate. They play hostess there. They house the haphazard family treasures there. Particularly, it is the mattress, sans sheet, upon which Big Edie lodges that is so disastrous. Unidentifiable stains run down the sides. Newspapers, bits of food, relics, and any number of cats clutter the tiny twin-sized pad of existence. You can almost smell it through the screen. And as they sing their shrill notes in turn (Big Edie was apparently a recording artist of some repute) and chirp angrily over one another, I’m reminded of two exotic birds, the last of their kind teetering on the brink of extinction, gathering any assortment of bits and pieces with which to build a nest, albeit an unhappy one.
But in the face of her ever oppressive environment, it’s Little Edie’s optimism that can charm the audience. For instance, her dress, which she deems “the revolutionary costume,” basically flips the bird at the establishment, at the town, at her dreary confinement. Little Edie has found more uses for pantyhose and fishnets than you would ever believe humanly possible. Well-worn terry cloth towels become regal headscarves with the right antique brooch. With the right heels, a bathing suit makes a cocktail or even day dress. And when is there not reason to wear a cape? After all, her struggles are heroic.
And Little Edie’s cosmopolitan creativity extends to interior design as well and literature as well. In a scene of gut-wrenching vulnerability, Little Edie walks us through a room she’s currently trying to re-do. She’s clipped magazine photos of roses and glued them together for a collage, a reminder that beauty is real and accessible. She’s hoarded travel magazines and a bird cage, and she walks us through the idea for her layout with the utmost creative confidence. As she peruses a book on astrology, she becomes quite animated at the discovery that a Libra man would bring order to her life. For her, that answers all the questions and sets forth a simple solution to all her woes: al she has to do is find a Libra man. WIth legs crossed, magnifying glass in hand, “Little” Edith Bouvier Beale can face the world in all its harsh ugliness.
And there’s Little Edie’s maternal nature, as heavy a cross as anyone has ever had to bear. Her mother needed her in the wake of a failed marriage, so Edie came home to do the bidding. As the Brothers Maysles (the filmmakers) come and go everyday, it is Edie seeing them in and out and offering hors d’oeuvres made from only God knows what. As Big Edie barks out demands, it’s Little Edie carrying them out with an efficiency that surprises even her mother. From the rat’s nest, she fishes out records, radios, food items. And for the raccoons nesting in the attic (and any of the cats that may have strayed so far), she molds a mountain of Wonderbread and cat food to keep them nourished and happy.
The rancor and rot of Grey Gardens is, no doubt, a tragic existence for both women. Their reclusive symbiosis is as unhealthy a portrait of American living as I’ve seen. But shining through the rubbish is the sparkle of Little Edie, her dreams and hopes. No judgments or degradations can kill her spirit, and this film is like an old friend come to hear a self-proclaimed staunch woman reveal her triumphs and tribulations. And as long as we’re watching, listening, Little Edie (so much larger than her epithet implies) has a lifeline to the outside where she still believes anything is possible.
Little Edie’s greatest moment of triumph comes in the form of a performance of original choreography. Clad in a black leotard, black stockings, high heels, and a color block head scarf, Edie literally marches to the beat of her own music--a military march she has on record. With American flag in hand, she struts and twirls like a top that may spin right off the plane of this existence and into some other dimension. In this short stint in a dim spotlight, she’s a woman unburdened.
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