Classical Hollywood: Teresa Wright

Teresa Wright in Shadow of a Doubt, dir. Alfred Hitchcock

I recently completed my final semester of college, which, among other things, granted me a newfound, long overdue appreciation for old American cinema. I took a course called “Classical Hollywood Narrative: 1920-1960,” and it slowly but surely became my favorite out of all my four years, despite having nothing to do with my major. I enjoyed going to every screening and witnessing stories unfold on the big screen each week. The assignments were far from burdensome; they gave me the freedom to write and write about films and how they personally impacted me.

In class, we watched two films that particularly stood out to me: Alfred Hitchcock’s Shadow of a Doubt (1943) and William Wyler’s The Best Years of Our Lives (1946). Besides both stories’ shared commentary on American domesticity, they are linked by another common thread: actress Teresa Wright. In both films, Wright portrays anchoring characters. The protagonist in one and a supporting figure in the other, she is a quietly powerful force who utterly captivated me in that screening room both nights. In Shadow of a Doubt, Wright’s character of young Charlie emerges as the de facto head of the family — a heroine who understands that the practical way forward after facing evil is to preserve the idyllic nature of her household from before. In The Best Years of Our Lives, Wright plays Peggy Stephenson, the daughter of a WWII veteran coming home. Peggy is the emotional lynchpin of the film, and her relationships with her father and another young veteran are pure, genuine, and heartwarming. We gravitate towards her ability to nurture.

Inspired after the course ended, I went on to watch a couple other Wright’s notable performances, including her debut in The Little Foxes (1941) opposite Bette Davis, followed by Mrs. Miniver (1942) — she was nominated both times for an Academy Award and won Best Supporting Actress in the latter. Wright was stellar as an initially naive teenager with hints of child-like mannerisms who comes into her own in The Little Foxes, ultimately having the last word at the end of the film. She gave an especially poignant performance as the new wife of a WWII RAF pilot in Mrs. Miniver, humbling the audience first with her wit and then with her unwavering loyalty and commitment to love. My bar was set high and yet these two performances still reached it with ease.

I found this quote about Wright that pretty much encapsulates my admiration for her:

What can her performances say to us now, though, a socially liberated and more cynical audience? Simply put, they can make sympathy astonishingly new. Wright expanded the body of virtue as acting terrain. Often, when others play virtuous people, we’re dying for the shattering blow to fall and make them interesting. This actress changed that, with something it would not be excessive to call a genius for decency.

Stephen Talty, 1990

Moreover, Wright acted with conviction in her own life. She purposely avoided the over-glamorization and unnecessary sexualization so common in Hollywood at the time, writing out a clause in her contract that essentially forbade any attempts at her promotional objectification by studios and producers. She made career decisions of her own accord, thus always maintaining her agency.

In a way, Teresa Wright reminds me a lot of the first actress I looked up to, Winona Ryder (specifically in Heathers). That short, bouncy, voluminous black hair and those amazing shoulder pads and blazers that completed her characters’ wardrobe, as well as that gentle, quiet but powerful conviction, that vulnerability paired with self confidence, and most of all, that intelligence and maturity well beyond her years whenever she was confronted with a dilemma. These are all traits that I wish I possessed and that I wish to hone as I continue down my own path in life.

Dead Poets Society (1989)

This post contains spoilers.

Every so often I come across a film so devastatingly beautiful that I can’t stop thinking about it long after my initial viewing. No other film has made me cry as much as this one. Dead Poets Society, directed by Peter Weir, centers around a group of teenage boys who attend an elite New England boarding school where honor and discipline are strictly enforced. Sharp blazers, ties, cozy sweaters, and duffle coats (!) make lovely appearances. I very much appreciated the dark academia wardrobe. And Robert Sean Leonard’s cheekbones, but I digress.

In comes John Keating (Robin Williams), the new English teacher whose unorthodox teaching methods pleasantly surprise his students. He inspires them to seize the day (carpe diem!), and contribute a verse to the play that is life. After all, the human race is filled with passion, so why not pursue that passion? The boys discover that Mr. Keating was part of the Dead Poets Society, which they then restart to read poetry together during late night escapades.

The first half of this movie felt like a warm hug. The way Neil welcomed his reticent roommate Todd into his friend group and tried to include Todd in all of their activities—with seemingly little effort—was so wholesome. I only wish I had a friend like Neil. And this made the second half of the movie so utterly heartbreaking. I’m not sure at what point I started crying, but I do know that the tears just kept coming.

My favorite scene is when Neil confides in Mr. Keating. There seems to be no way in which Neil can convey his passion for acting to his disciplinarian father, who has banned Neil from performing the starring role in an upcoming play. While smiling through tears, Neil says, “I’m trapped.” In fact, whenever Neil cries, he half-laughs out of desperation. Perhaps this reflected what Neil saw as the hopelessness of his situation, or even the catharsis of finally finding a father figure in Mr. Keating. This line carries so much weight, especially when you know what happens next. It’s sad yet true, and underscores the emotional pain a parent can inflict upon their child. Dead Poets Society leaves us with that wound.

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A note – I found out that River Phoenix, one of my favorite actors, really wanted to portray Neil. I absolutely love Robert Sean Leonard’s performance, but one can wonder. I guess the powers that be knew River reciting Thoreau’s poetry would have been too much for my heart to handle. I probably would have entered into another plane of existence.

Fleabag: Being Known

**this post contains minor spoilers**

I have never written anything about a TV series on this page, but quarantine and the start of summer have left me with more time and a sudden desire to join the world of streaming.

I dove into Fleabag blind. And boy was that refreshing. It starts out quite raunchy with this dry, impeccably-timed sense of humor that necessitated a step back on my part. In other words, this isn’t a genre towards which I would typically gravitate.

Bluntly stated, the show revolves around the eponymous Fleabag (Phoebe Waller-Bridge, a.k.a. a modern genius) as she attempts to navigate womanhood and its sexual frustrations amidst a strained family environment and constant reminders of past trauma. Fleabag frequently breaks the fourth wall in order to reveal her uncomfortable yet remarkably relatable inner thoughts to the audience, a tricky technique brilliantly executed by Waller-Bridge. This is just one aspect that sets Fleabag apart from anything else I’ve ever seen.

If the first season was addicting, the second absolutely blew me away and probably warranted its placement as the best TV series I’ve seen on my inchoate (but very personally important) list. Yes, it’s humorous, witty, biting, and awkward (painfully at times), but it also deals with buried emotions, disjointed desires, and the confusing frustrations that arise from not knowing what the hell to do in this one, precious life. The story of Fleabag is so beautifully and chaotically intricate that I am still wrapping my head around what exactly I spent the past few days watching. I have a plethora of thoughts to jot down, but it’s probably for the better if I highlight just a few. God, I just wish I had someone to talk to about this—the plight of being alone!

While Fleabag spends the first season emotionally alone despite drifting between multiple unnamed men, she informs us at the beginning of the second season that it is a love story. And it is definitely an unholy one, to say the least. At a dysfunctional family dinner, Fleabag meets Hot Priest, who is set to officiate the wedding between Fleabag’s estranged father and dismissive godmother. The Priest is the only person who seems to see through her cleverly constructed outer shield. He is the only one who senses Fleabag breaking the fourth wall and actively tries to find out why, thus intruding in on her intimate conversations with us, the viewers—this sold the show for me. It is unnerving yet awfully touching in that perhaps we have finally encountered someone who truly understands our friend.

But to reiterate the obvious, he is a priest. And even though their connection is immediate and patently fervent, he must remain celibate. The irony goes hand in hand with their obvious chemistry, and is sadly comical for Fleabag. Here we have someone who knows Fleabag, someone who can see her inside and out, and she cannot truly be with him. Even so, it’s emotionally difficult for Fleabag to let down her guard—she is initially uncomfortable, but can’t hide forever. In the pivotal confession scene, we listen to the Priest gently coax her into revealing more and more until she finally does, through tears.

“I just think I want someone to tell me how to live my life, Father, because so far I think I’ve been getting it wrong, and I know that’s why people want people like you in their lives, because you just tell them how to do it. You just tell them what to do and what they’ll get out at the end of it, and even though I don’t believe your bullshit, and I know that scientifically nothing I do makes any difference in the end anyway, I’m still scared. Why am I still scared?”

Her confession encapsulates a truth so pervasive in society—the feeling of not knowing what to do and how to react, the fear of wandering through this life alone, and the longing for guidance. It all betrays the pain of vulnerability and of being known by another. As similarly echoed by the Priest later on, no wonder love isn’t something weak people to do.

Fleabag breaks the fourth wall to communicate with us until she no longer needs to. She will exist for herself, and we poignantly wave goodbye knowing that her freedom is awaiting.

Little Women (2019): Jo’s Loneliness

I was late catching on to the novel Little Women. For some reason, I never read it in grade school, unlike so many girls out there.

Then came Greta Gerwig’s 2019 film adaptation. As a lover of her directorial debut, Lady Bird, I was ecstatic to see another Greta/Saoirse project. Consequently, I went into the theater anticipating a magical, touching performance unraveling on screen (albeit a surface-level understanding of the plot, oops). I left with nothing short of that.

The more I think of Little Women, the more and more I appreciate the film in all its aspects—the dialogue, delivery, cinematography (everything looks like a painting!), accompanying score. Reading parts of the screenplay allowed me to rediscover poignant gems scattered throughout. But this is not a film review. Rather, I want to take the time to write down my thoughts on Jo’s character—and how there is a part of her in me, and frankly, every woman.

Jo is portrayed by Saoirse Ronan, who is absolutely brilliant (although I have yet to see the 1994 version with Winona Ryder, so I will refrain from comparing the two). Although my personality is not the most similar to Jo’s, I aspire to be like her, as I can imagine most people do. At one point, Jo has a monologue:

“Women, they have minds, and they have souls, as well as just hearts. And they’ve got ambition, and talent, as well as just beauty, and I’m so sick of people saying that love is all a woman is fit for—I’m so sick of it. But I’m so lonely!“

That last line hit me in the theater—it was so unexpected, yet so incredibly true. I don’t think I have related to a quote this much, especially at this stage in my life. I know where my priorities lie; I have ambitious goals for the present and for the future, and all I know is how to work hard to get there. I am independent (and proud of that), and I don’t want to compromise myself for anyone else. But I am alone because of this, in a world where everyone else has someone. Jo has all the warmth from her sisters, but she is still lonely. I am surrounded by my loving family, but I am still lonely. I know how to be alone. I cherish it, but I am still sometimes ashamed. How can I simultaneously find comfort in my loneliness while also yearning for more?

Until I saw this film, I couldn’t really metabolize this idea. It was a constant nagging in my mind, but Jo/Greta summed it up perfectly and articulated what I could not. My womanhood is a constant rift between “intending to make my own way in the world” and wishing I had someone to share that with.

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Some beautiful, deeply resonating quotes to conclude, both from the book and the film:

“I want to be great or nothing.” —Amy March

“You are the gull, Jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and the wind, flying out far to sea, and happy all alone.” —Louisa May Alcott

“I’d be respected if I couldn’t be loved.” —Amy March

“Be comforted, dear soul! There is always light behind the clouds.” —Louisa May Alcott

Mermaids (1990): Eccentricity at its Finest

Has Winona ever failed to impress me?

A while back, I promised myself that I would watch every single Winona Ryder film, and Mermaids (1990) was near the top of that list. I knew nothing of the plot beforehand, and it turned out to be a fitting film for a cozy Friday night in. This quirky comedy-drama begins in Oklahoma in 1963; along the way, Mrs. Flax (played by Cher) and her two daughters Charlotte (Winona Ryder) and Kate (Christina Ricci) move to a small town in Massachusetts due to Rachel’s tendency to drop everything and leave after every short-lived fling she has.

Mermaids has its fair share of flaws. Charlotte is incredibly awkward, which gives her a cute, confused kind of aura. I could never understand her obsession with Catholicism and fervent desire to become a nun, all the while lusting after the local caretaker. This strange paradox was never truly explained, and I would have even liked to see it somehow connected to Charlotte’s estranged father, but the two storylines never really merged. Yet somehow, it resulted in a more enticing character.

I didn’t think I would enjoy the film until around halfway in. This family is portrayed as so eccentric, and you can’t really anticipate what will unfold in the next scene. But this movie crept up on me, and the next thing I knew, I was unexpectedly appreciating its sweetness. Because maybe not everything needs to make sense. Take Charlotte—she is just blossoming into a teenager. She is an emotionally vulnerable shell one minute, and an open book the next. She has dreams and desires, many of which cannot be explained, but maybe there does not need to be a reason for her feelings. She is just as confused as any other teenager out there, and that’s completely okay. Her eccentricity and naiveté should be embraced—at the end of the day, Charlotte just wants to love and be loved.

I believe Mermaids is also an insightful study on the mother-daughter relationship. I can’t find an explanation for why Mrs. Flax acts the way she does and insists on leaving normality behind, but despite (or should I say, thanks to) their clashing personalities, she and Charlotte complement each other in the most compelling way. In a pivotal argument scene, both their deepest motives are realized. Underneath all their exaggerated traits is the unmistakable mother-daughter dynamic. Mrs. Flax just wants what’s best for Charlotte, and Charlotte just wants to be seen. And they both still have so much to learn from one another.

A Comment On Movies

Watching films is one of my absolute favorite pastimes—whether alone in my room on my laptop, or in a cinema on 35 mm. On the train ride back to campus after the holidays, I was listening to the soundtrack of The Godfather (mostly to elicit some sort of motivation for back-to-school) when I began to think about what it is that makes movies hold such a dear place in my heart.

To me, films represent a break from reality. For two hours, I can forget the stress and worry that consume my mind. My everyday thoughts are scattered and frantic as I try to navigate life as a teenager; I often feel isolated and waves of loneliness seem to constantly wash over me. But in movies, everything is different. These are characters that live completely different lives than mine—their stories are far more fascinating than my mundane routine. I become engrossed in following their struggles instead of my own. I look up to them. They are like specimens in a museum. I am in awe.

But most importantly, I see myself in these characters. I have to be able to relate, or to feel a connection to some aspect of the film, for it to top my list. I forget about most movies I see a couple days or weeks after the viewing, as the stories become buried underneath reality. These have a good plot, a decent ending, and a forgettable soundtrack, but they failed to truly resonate with me.

There is a distinction between the best film I have ever seen, and my favorite film. Take The Godfather, which is considered one of the, if not the, greatest film ever made. And I completely agree. The layers of nuance and sophistication inherent in Coppola’s masterpiece coupled with various themes that critics have analyzed time and time again solidify its legendary reputation. I honestly have nothing negative to say about it, and I get excited whenever people bring it up in conversation. But at the end of the day, it’s not my favorite film.

That coveted spot goes to Lady Bird (2017). I’m well aware that it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, but I remember watching the film again and again and just feeling so attached to the central character. I saw myself in Lady Bird, and in a way, I felt special. I felt less alone. I watched it at a low point during my senior year of high school, where I felt like a fish out of water most of the time. Even now in college, whenever the insecurity becomes overwhelming, I look to Lady Bird for inspiration. The same goes to various other characters in my favorite films: Veronica Sawyer in Heathers, Maria in The Sound of Music, the friends in Stand by Me. In a recent interview with Lucy Liu, she remarks that when you connect to a film or a character or art, it “heightens your level of being a human being. It gives you accessibility to something and makes you feel like you’re less alone.” So with all the discomforting aspects of reality, there is a safe haven in the movies where I am free. There is something about the characters from which I can draw inspiration and reassurance, in which I can see my own reflection. And for me personally, at the end of the day, that priceless connection to the self embodies the art of film.

Plein Soleil (1960)

I am going to preface this by saying that yes, the primary reason I watched this film was to admire the impeccable beauty of Alain Delon. Every article I read mentioned his perfection at least once in some format. However, I also wanted to gauge how much French I could understand, and Plein Soleil (also called Purple Noon) seemed to fit, complete with gorgeous Italian scenery and Nino Rota’s alluring soundtrack.

Adapted from Patricia Highsmith’s acclaimed novel The Talented Mr. Ripley, the film follows Tom Ripley, an American in Italy trying to persuade his wealthy friend Philippe Greenleaf to return to San Francisco and take over his father’s business. Philippe has no intent to do so, and begins to become increasingly tired of Tom’s presence. Tom, who is poor himself, devises a plan to kill Philippe and assume his identity.

I first found it a bit incredulous that Tom could carry out this deed in such a calm demeanor—you don’t expect a sociopath to look the way he does. The only indication of his duality is the subtle, and perhaps subconscious manner in which his eyes flit here and there, in an ever-so brief moment of contemplation. Tom’s ability to evade suspicions and live comfortably in the shoes of another man is captivating—he almost makes it look easy, and we cannot comprehend how he is simultaneously tense and at ease.

It’s a story of envy, deceit, and murder concealed in a picturesque world. There is not much fast-paced action in the film, and yet before we know it, we have followed Tom’s every footstep and grown accustomed to the darkness in his eyes. In the final scene, he is lying under the plein soleil in a state of euphoria—it is only a matter of time before il est couvert.

Portrait of Jennie (1948)

There is something so mesmerizing about watching old golden age films like this—it’s as if I’m being transported back to the black-and-white mystical era, unfamiliar even when set in the familiar New York City. You know, when the actors have that ethereal, hazy glow emanating from their faces that is so characteristic of 40’s film.

Portrait of Jennie is a lesser-known product of classical Hollywood cinema, starring Joseph Cotten and Jennifer Jones, who were both in their prime back in the day. The film is unconventional in that it opens with a philosophical narration introducing the premise and preparing the audience for what they’re about to see.

“Since time began man has looked into the awesome reaches of infinity and asked the eternal question: What is time? What is life? What is space? What is death?

Out of the shadows of knowledge, and out of a painting that hung on a museum wall, comes our story, the truth of which lies not on our screen but in your hearts.”

In this supernatural love story, Eben Adams (Joseph Cotten) is a struggling artist living in Depression-era New York City; he paints landscapes but hasn’t found much success in selling them. One evening, he meets an old-fashioned schoolgirl by the name of Jennie Appleton (Jennifer Jones) in Central Park. She is sweet yet mysterious, seemingly vanishing in plain sight after the two have a conversation. Eben is fascinated by Jennie, and sketches a portrait of her (his first one) that immediately sells to the gallery owner (Ethel Barrymore). The two meet again periodically over the course of a few months, with Jennie growing from a child into a young woman before every encounter, which inspires his next painting of her. They eventually fall in love, despite the fact that the enigmatic Jennie disappears every now and then, before it is eventually revealed, much to Eben’s shock and disbelief, that Jennie died years ago in a storm. He embarks on a journey to save her, and finally uncovers the truth about the beautiful, elusive subject of his portraits.

Portrait of Jennie is a reminder that above all, love is timeless and transcendent. Every so often you meet someone who is utterly captivating, someone you want to hold onto forever. And even if you lose your grip, that memory stands the test of time. Eben’s did, in the form of a portrait in a museum, where it can be admired forever.

A Clockwork Orange: Music and Violence

I recently finished reading a copy of A Clockwork Orange, the masterful yet controversial novel by Anthony Burgess. Brilliant? Yes. Unsettling? Highly.

When Alex is captured for his crimes, he is chosen to undergo the Ludovico Technique, a treatment meant to modify behavior. Alex is forced to watch extremely graphic and violent films while being injected with a nausea-inducing drug, so that he eventually associates violence with a feeling of sickness. Alex is a firm believer that free will should never be compromised, and when the Ludovico Technique renders him unable to choose violence, Burgess asserts that Alex becomes a mere “clockwork orange,” or something that is seemingly human yet mechanically controlled by a greater State. As an unintended consequence of the procedure, Alex loses his ability to enjoy listening to classical music. In addition to the Technique taking away freedom of choice—a fundamental human trait—it has also stripped Alex of his love of music.

“The question is whether such a technique can really make a man good. Goodness is something chosen. When a man cannot choose he ceases to be a man.”

While I was quite appalled by the more explicit and gruesome elements of the book, I was equally disturbed by the role of music in inciting torture. How can something that represents the purest form of humanity be used as a weapon? Classical music is an escape; Beethoven, in particular, uplifts and inspires.

“But it’s not fair on the music. It’s not fair I should feel ill when I’m slooshying to lovely Ludwig van and G.F. Handel and others. […] I shall never forgive you, sods.”

It becomes clear early on that our central character Alex is a fervent admirer of Beethoven (whom he affectionately calls Ludwig van). He particularly enjoys listening to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, which can be interpreted as alluding to themes such as universal brotherhood and freedom of expression, according to The Atlantic. This would be fitting for Alex, seeing that he bands together with his brotherly “droogs” in wreaking havoc everywhere.

Yes, listening to Beethoven incited in Alex an insatiable desire to destroy, but it also made our protagonist human. Depriving him of his joy of music was saddening to me, and though I don’t fully sympathize with Alex (unlike many critics), I felt incredibly sorry and disgusted with the fact that the mere sound of music blasting through the walls drove him to near-suicide. In the end, the Ludovico Technique rendered him more inhumane than before by taking away both his moral choice and musicality.

“And then there I was, me who had loved music so much, crawling off the bed and going oh oh oh to myself, and then bang bang banging on the wall creeching: ‘Stop, stop it, turn it off!’

“I was like wandering all over the flat in pain and sickness, trying to shut out the music and like groaning deep out of my guts, and then on top of the pile of books and papers and all that cal that was on the table in the living-room I viddied what I had to do. . .and that was to do myself in, to snuff it, to blast off for ever out of this wicked and cruel world.”

Phantom Thread (2017): Food as a Weapon

Breakfast – the most important meal of the day!

**contains spoilers.

For starters, I feel so conflicted about this film. Paul Thomas Anderson’s Phantom Thread is an exquisite yet strange, twisted story about the complex interrelationship between love and power. Set in 1950s London, Reynolds Woodcock (Daniel Day-Lewis) is a fashion designer engrossed in his work when a young woman named Alma (Vicky Krieps) enters his life. Their relationship turns quite…toxic. This film is terribly profound and thought-provoking, and I found myself staring at the end credits in disbelief, trying to process what I just watched. Is it masochistic? Feminist? Personally, I would have preferred a different ending, but I will proceed to talk about one of the more brilliant themes in the film.

Besides the expected stellar performances by Daniel Day-Lewis, Vicky Krieps, and Lesley Manville, there is another star of Phantom Thread that deserves more credit, and that is the food.

The food in Phantom Thread is a not-so-subtle metaphor for control and dominance. It indicates the complete and unabashed surrender of power over from one person to the next. In one of the opening scenes, Reynolds, his sister Cyril, and his soon-to-be-ex lover are seated at the breakfast table. Reynolds is clearly irritated with the gooey pastry that the young woman has prepared, and that mistake in his simple morning delicacy is enough distraction to throw off his day. We don’t think much of it at first—he’s just your typical whiny grand couturier.

When Reynolds dines at a local café, he becomes immediately enchanted with an awkward young waitress named Alma. He begins to order an intricate array of items, only to take the paper Alma is writing on and ask her if she can remember everything. Hint, hint—she can and she proves it, to Reynolds’ delight. And we begin to decipher the intelligent nuances that PTA has introduced: Alma foreshadows her means of control in a note that states: to the hungry boy.

Alma soon moves in to the House of Woodcock, and her toast-buttering mannerisms at the breakfast table, which would slightly irritate the average person, send Reynolds in a fit of rage. He cannot stand the incessant crunching sound of the knife scraping against the toast, and abruptly leaves, slamming the door behind him. Again, his entire day is ruined, and he fails to concentration on his dressmaking. Alma, however, doesn’t necessarily change her ways. Somewhere in the workings of her mind, she is processing the obsessive, commanding nature of her partner.

In a pivotal moment in the film, Alma sends away Cyril and all the seamstresses in the house for the evening; she cites her plans to surprise Reynolds with a home-cooked dinner, and have a night for just the two of them. The ever indignant Reynolds is not appreciative, however. His asparagus was cooked with butter, not his preferred oil, and he is bitter about the dinner as a distraction from his work. Alma retaliates and explains her concern over Reynolds’ lack of attention to their relationship, to which Reynolds thinks it’s an ambush: “Are you sent here to ruin my evening, and possibly my entire life?” Perhaps. All of this over some asparagus!

And then we arrive at the gripping journey to the climax. Alma deliberately poisons Reynolds’ tea with some poisonous mushroom, and in turn, he is bedridden. At this point, Alma fully understands her potential for power and control, for an ascension to dominance over her lover. She doesn’t play the role of quiet muse or damsel in distress. Reynolds’ temper doesn’t faze her in the slightest. Instead, Alma has used a mushroom to render her “boss” completely powerless and submissive to her care. After Reynolds recovers, he becomes utterly infatuated and asks to marry her—in effect, falling in love with her all over again.

When this poisoning occurs a second time in the form of a mushroom omelette (with loads of greatly detested butter), Reynolds finally comprehends what Alma has done as he chews. She has turned the kitchen into an arsenal, and the food into a weapon. She acts wisely, though, feeding her husband just enough to almost kill him, thus compelling him to submit once more to her power of healing. And what’s more, Reynolds deliberately swallows, in what can be interpreted as a parallel act of slight defiance to match Alma’s and a preservation of his own ego. It’s a back-and-forth handling of power, told through food. Alma has found her weapon, and she is not afraid to use it. “I can stand endlessly…no one can stand as long as I can.”