When women were restrained, and every movement had to be laced with grace and ease and poise, their counterparts on celluloid were exploding with Technicolor temper.
The women on-screen, their personal lives a twisted mess of divorce and pills and smeared lipstick, could shutter and morph into warrior butterflies, two stories high.
Their voices were strong and even, their dresses were tight and silk and red. The women who watched them were dainty and fair, their voices soft in the dark of the theatre. They folded themselves in green velvet chairs and rearranged day gloves that lay limp as wet leaves in their laps. At their feet were their purses, and glass bottles of Coke and Cheerwine that they sipped at through straws. The women who watched didn’t use the full force of their voices yet, as they were busy making their homes like white and calm wombs. But there is power in that, too.
(am ill, and at home, watching Cleopatra)…