Gypsy (1962)

When I imagine myself as a 1940s screenwriter, I am not a mother. I am hard-bitten, sassy, ambitious. There is no space for mothers in the writing room. I know that mothers and Hollywood don’t mix.

Of course, there are plenty of mothers on screen – usually played by actors who are considered too old to be leading lady material, on the downward trajectory of their career. And those mothers are doomed to get it wrong. They will be over-bearing, or self-sacrificing. They will be old and unattractive – or unprepared and incompetent. They can have careers or attend to their children’s needs, but never both. They can never hit that Goldilocks sweet spot.

However, much a mother might do for and love her children, it is never enough. Or it is too much. It was true in the writing rooms of Classic Hollywood. And it remains true now. Motherhood is now packaged as a competition of organisation and cupcakes and we are either pushing too hard or slovenly.

And with the potential nomination of Kamala Harris, I have also learned that step mothers aren’t "real" mothers. Somehow bearing a child relates to the stake we have in the future, but also why we shouldn’t work at all.

I never believed that when I had a child I somehow gained some sixth sense or heightened level of empathy. I have worked in and around social work for years and have come across the full gamut of motherhood from heroic battling against systems to the appallingly neglectful.

But when I’m in my imaginary Hollywood I know that a stage mom is the worst mother of all.

Mary Pickford said:

“No girl … should leave home to go into the picture business unless her mother is with her or unless she is well chaperoned.” (Mary Pickford, 1921)

Ugh, how the men hate a chaperone. Someone to remind them that the young girl in front of them matters beyond her curls and curves.

Mothers – over-protective.

Joan Crawford said:

“I brought myself up” (Joan Crawford, 1928)

Well, there’s a girl we can get behind. But of course, we will also all willingly agree with everything her own daughter has to say in Mommie Dearest.

Mothers – ambitious and neglectful.

And then there is Mama Rose

Gypsy was filmed in 1962, when the Hayes code had lost its grip on the stories that could be told on screen. Making it entirely possible to discuss the career of the leading Burlesque entertainer of her era – Gypsy Rose Lee.

But the film isn’t really about the artistry of stripping. It is about a stage mom.

Gypsy is a film musical based on Gypsy Rose Lee’s memoir. It starts with an audition and the clear instruction:

“Mothers will you get out!”

It follows Rose Hovich – the archetypal stage mom – determined to get her pretty blonde daughter, June, to stardom. She drags both her daughters (Louise is older and constantly reminded that she is less talented) around the country to get them on the Vaudeville circuit. Rose has the help of Herbie – a would-be suitor who wants to settle down with her.

As the girls age out of the cutesy personas, we also bear witness to Vaudeville’s decline.

June elopes leaving Rose with just Louise. Herbie sees this as his chance to marry Rose and have a family.

The three of them are in Wichita, booked into a burlesque house as the safe act in case of a police raid. One of the strippers is arrested for shop-lifting. And just as Rose is about to marry Herbie, she switches direction and persuades Louise to take the stripper’s place. Forcing Louise into a stripper’s role is the last straw for Herbie who walks out.

Louise, styled as Gypsy Rose Lee, discovers her artistic calling. But also a deep desire to be free of her controlling mother.

At the time, the casting of Rosalind Russell as Mama Rose was controversial. Ethel Merman had played the role to critical acclaim on Broadway. And it was known that Russell’s singing voice would need to be dubbed to reach the full range of the score. But Russell went on to win a Golden Globe for her masterful performance. A long-time comedic actress she caught the rhythm of the script, and the pathos of the struggle.

Mama Rose is a case-study in delusion.

“Because my girls always come first.”

She says as she feeds them heated up Chinese food for breakfast and refuses to tell Louise her age. Neither girl attends school.

Natalie Wood as Louise portrays the sense of being on a brink, the struggle to take control of her life.

“Mama you got to let go of me.”

Most of the time, Mama Rose is almost a monster, being too much and offering too little. But then there is a glimpse of her struggle:

“You want to know what I did it for?

I was born too soon.

And started too late.”

Heart-piercing as an older woman has to face her context, her lack of opportunities and the consequences of her actions.

I’m writing about Gypsy because motherhood and creativity has been on my mind.

The appalling shock of Alice Munro’s failure in motherhood has left me reeling.

And then there was my own struggle to put words on a page. Like many women, finding my voice is something that I only felt I could invest in later in life.

Mother and daughter relationships are complicated. Believe me, I know. I am both a mother and a daughter.

I’m not saying that bad mothers don’t exist. I’m just saying we shouldn’t have to be saints that sacrifice our voice. And not being a saint, doesn’t make us a devil.

Louise: You really would have been something, Mother.

Rose: Think so?

Louise: If you had had someone to push you like I had.

Rose: If I could've been, I would've been. And that's show business.

It’s complicated, to put all the love, effort and mistakes on screen. The push and pull, the to-ing and fro-ing. The love and admiration and the sheer frustration.

It’s even harder when there aren’t enough mothers and daughters in the writing room, or behind the camera, or making decisions.

So, sometimes I need to leave my the headspace of my imaginary 1940s screenwriter and just rewatch Ladybird (2017) instead.

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