My Name Is Not Earl: Waitress and Post-Feminist Pie Slinging

Spoiler Alert: While Waitress is not a movie riddled with suspense, it does tread on some plot points for surprise. These plot points are discussed below. So, consider this warning…

Honk. Honk. Honk. Honk. Honk.

In the lovely little treat that is Waitress, Earl, the waitress in question's controlling husband played so well by Jeremy Sisto, marks his every entrance with an annoying, repetitive bleat of his car horn. By the midpoint of the film, the sound becomes not only irritating but indicative of this man's character: He is an insistent, deeply selfish bastard who has no sense of how his actions affect those around him.

Such is the nature of Waitress. At times, heavy handed in its visuals and symbolism but nonetheless enjoyable for it.

This feminist confection, in short, is about Jenna (played with aplomb by Keri Russell), a diner waitress stuck in a loveless marriage to a jealous, controlling husband. Her only salvation is making pies. And so, Jenna secretly stashes money away in hopes of escape. If she can only enter and win a pie baking contest, she can win her freedom. True to movie form, though, an obstacle too big to overcome hinders her escape: She finds out she's pregnant. The film winds its way to conclusion by way of a clumsy affair with her doctor, bursts of sagely advice from the diner's owner, Joe, and earnest help from her fellow waitresses. All ends happily.

I called this movie a "feminist confection" and it is. This film is about a woman who finds salvation in herself and in her newborn baby. It teaches us that through the guise of "love," men can beat (psychologically and/or physically) all the life out of women. Men who treat their wives as objects can strip them of their self-worth and damn them to emotionless lives. In regards to the plight of unhappily married women all over the world, Jenna is everywoman and this is her story.

Her story, then, is equal parts horrifying and uplifting. Jenna finds her way, over the course of her pregnancy, to the light and lives to love again. She frees herself from the chains of unbridled misogyny masquerading as husbandly love. Her reward? A fluorescent colored pie shop!

Seriously, though, this film is sweetly funny and affecting. And while its subject matter is very real (and dealt with, for the most part, very realistically; Jenna, as far as I'm concerned is one of the strongest, realistically flawed women in recent film history), the tone and feel of the film is, well, sweet. The grainy-ness of the film, matched with washed out, but no less bright colors (think of vivid beach scenes viewed through a fogged car window), makes the film feel very much like old Good Housekeeping advertisements come to life. It's as if Adrienne Shelly attached a "nostalgia filter" to the camera. I'm reminded of cheeky "how to" Technicolor shorts from the 1950's and 60's.

But there's more to this film than just quaint shots of pies being assembled and "ra-ra" feminism. This is not just a sweet coming of age drama about a small town waitress. Ultimately, what this film is about is the power of self-actualization. Jenna is a unique woman (who lacks faith in that uniqueness)-- but her uniqueness does not stretch far beyond her ability to make great pies. That is, she may be unique, but she's still a woman-- she is still human. Her uniqueness, really, only serves as the catalyst for the film. Otherwise, this would just be the story of every woman trapped in a loveless marriage.

And that's just the thing that makes this film so damn good. The denouement is pure girl power joy, but once the dust settles from the almost orgasmic release of pent-up frustration that is Jenna's life, the viewer is left to ponder the motivation, the pieces that led to that moment. As my good friend Gerald said after watching the film, he knew exactly where the film was going from the moment Joe, played with brilliant acidic charm by Andy Griffith, enters the diner. But, despite the film's predictability, the pieces have to play out-- just as they do in life.

Jenna wants out. She tries repeatedly to get out. Each time she fails. No great wisdom there, eh? Well, the problem lies in her path: She wants to escape, but sneaking away (and never coming back) isn't the path to true release (at least not in the make believe world!). That is, she wants to leave Earl and never look back. This scenario lacks actual confrontation with Earl. This is the real source of her problems: It's not that she can't get away; it's that she's been stripped of faith in herself.

And that's where the film ceases to be strictly about a woman's liberation and becomes a film about saying yes to the serpent. Serpent? Sorry, got a little Joseph Campbell there. But that's the point, I guess. Arguably, the hardest part of the hero's journey for any of us is heeding the call. It's one thing to be called. It's quite another thing to answer. And that's what Jenna finally does at the end of Waitress. She says yes to life (the serpent). Sure, to bring up Gerald's comments again, the end devolves into a "Hollywood" version of primary color pie town, but that's beside the point. The point is that Jenna has heeded the call. She confronted the beast barring her way to self-fulfillment and won.

It's no coincidence, then, given my Joseph Campbell reference, that this moment happens as a result of child birth-- the ultimate call to the hero's journey.

Gerald and I talked a little about two other bits from the climax of the film. First, the references to the hero's journey only work if Jenna steps on the path without incentive. That is, her victory over Earl, her path to fulfillment, would be false if she opened the letter from Joe before confronting Earl. She had to make her choice without the check from Joe. (I might argue that had the film left out the "inheritance" from Joe it would have been truer but less Hollywood, thus saving it from Gerald's ire!)

The other point is this: For Gerald, and possibly for women who have experienced childbirth (sorry about that pairing), the moment doesn't necessarily ring true. That is, Jenna spends the entire film not wanting the baby. Her letters to her baby are honest but comedic. She sees the baby as one more tie to Earl that she cannot willfully sever. As such, there is a certain resentment to both the child and the prospect of motherhood.

And so, the audience is left with the (Madonna and Child, as Gerald pointed out) climactic change of heart that seeing her child for the first time evokes. This is the kind of transformation that Hollywood loves to give audiences. And I might agree with Gerald-- if not for the tears in my eyes!

Seriously, though… While this moment is rhapsodic in its delivery, it isn't just the moment (as the film might have us believe). Why not? Because everything else in the film leads up to this moment. That is, this is not a miracle moment, but a logical culmination of events. In fact, I would argue that the real "climax" comes in Jenna's friendship with Dr. Pomatter.

While the motions are obvious, they are no less heartwarming: Pomatter shows up at Jenna's house and consoles her ("Dear Baby, I hope someday somebody wants to hold you for 20 minutes straight."). Then he asks her to teach him how to make a pie. This is movie-speak for "caring." Pomatter doesn't just want sex; he wants interaction. True, the pie-making sequence is inundated with innuendo, but it's here that Jenna starts to put the pieces (of her life) (back) together.

It is here that she begins to realize that Pomatter's purpose in her life is to bring her back from the empty oblivion of her marriage. How he does that is by simply showing interest in her and offering his unconditional friendship.

This opens the floodgates. Cut to a sequence wherein Jenna essentially spills her life story to Pomatter-- and he does the right thing: He listens. And this the point at which Jenna truly begins to accept that change is necessary and unavoidable. Her self worth multiplies as a result of coming to terms with where her life has led her. The true realization that something is wrong comes from Jenna's admittance that her mother would be disappointed in her for letting herself get sucked into such a meaningless existence.

The real source of beauty, the real power in her final confrontation with Earl comes not from this newborn love for her baby but from the catharsis of the moment. While we might argue the notion that giving birth is transcendent, we will not argue that giving birth is painful and dangerous-- thus verifiable as a "near-death" experience. It is also a verifiably emotional experience. As such, it can be cathartic. In Jenna's case, that catharsis brings with it the power of change and self-actualization.

This notion is reinforced by Dr. Pomatter's Moon Pie. Huh? I have to give my wife credit for pointing this out! Dr. Pomatter is still at a crossroads. While Jenna has realized her self as a result of their relationship, Pomatter has not. And so, just as he claims not to want to save her, she cannot save him. He has to do that himself. And he's not there yet. And so, Jenna gives him her Moon Pie. How's that for symbolism?!

Honk. Honk. Honk. Honk. Honk.

Why don't I wrap this up with Earl. Earl is such a fascinating character because he's just so unlikable. This film, this story, after all, is Jenna's-- not his. But, like that damn car horn, he obnoxiously marks his presence. It is through Sisto's complete realization of Earl's character that audience applause is almost automatic at Jenna's thrashing of him at the end.

I mentioned the whole objectification thing earlier. Earl, after his outburst at Dawn's wedding, drags Jenna into the house and shouts accusing questions at her. Why is she hiding money from him? This, he questions, after he finds her at the bus station (earlier in the film) with a suitcase. While we might wonder at his intelligence, I'll take the line of reasoning that where Jenna is concerned, he is so blinded by his own selfishness that he can't think straight.

Jenna's feelings also don't really play into his world view. Even in his most emotionally destitute state he can't fathom Jenna's existence beyond object to be loved. As such, he accepts whatever she tells him that reinforces his world view.

The sequence I'm referring to reminds me of Thomas Haden Church's meltdown in Sideways: At the prospect of losing his fiancé, after having an affair on a road trip, and being chased out of a house naked, Church's character falls apart in front of Paul Giamatti. Aside from the sheer horror of graphic images gleefully splattered on the screen by Robert Rodriguez in Sin City, I have never felt more uncomfortable in a theater as I did watching that moment in Sideways.

Earl's breakdown in Waitress is almost as affecting. It falls short, however, because of that damn honking horn, and his complete lack of understanding. On his knees, holding on to his wife's legs, his face pressed against her belly, he professes his love to her. She is "the only thing" he's ever really loved. And in that moment, shocked by this man's frailty, one word pulls us back from pity and understanding: Jenna is not his wife, she is his thing.

After seeing this film the first time, my wife and I got into an argument about this scene. She felt no sympathy for Earl in this moment. I did. Just a little. In that argument, I brought up the Sideways reference, but she wasn't having it. No comparison, she said. Earl was in no way sympathetic. In the heat of that moment-- initially, that is-- I didn't get where she was coming from. But but but…

I was a little slow on the draw.

Mainly, because my wife's vehemence was unexpected. It shouldn't have been. But damn, when I get to analyzing a movie, I usually get carried away (never would have guessed that, huh?) with my own reasoning...

But when it sunk in, I did get it. The bottom line is that Earl is only sympathetic in that he is, well, pathetic. To feel sympathy for him is to give him power, to put him in control (even in his anguish, he controls the moment-- this is the root of psychological abuse).

Again, some might argue that Earl is too stereotypically drawn, but that's where the meltdown sequences come in. Otherwise, he would be just a buffoon incapable of exerting that kind of power over Jenna. And there again, even in his mania, he emotionally manipulates to get what he wants-- to maintain his world view.

And that's the heart of it. Just as Jenna is "everywoman," Earl is "every misogynist man." He's not everyman. But, given my wife's reaction-- and the reaction of probably every woman in that theater-- there are a whole lot of Earl's out there.

That should come as no surprise, of course. But it is always surprising (to me at least) to witness a relationship like the one depicted in Waitress. I am always flabbergasted when I hear stories (watch stories) about women being controlled by men like Earl. Maybe that's why I love this movie so much: It takes all those stories and rights them. And, I think that's what got me in dutch with the wife: I am so unfamiliar with this kind of misogyny that I don't altogether find it real.

But it is.

The bottom line is that Earl is a son of a bitch. And, for most of the film, the audience is led to believe that he's a dangerous son of a bitch. However, what we come to realize in the end is that he's only a bogeyman. His only power is intimidation-- and intimidation only works when someone lacks faith. Jenna discovers the power of self. And in that final moment (here again, I find more reason than birth-enigma-love for the climax), Earl ceases to have power over Jenna.

There's a lot more I could say about this film, especially about Andy Griffith and Nathan Fillion, the most under-rated, under-used man in Hollywood. But I won't. I'll just leave you with this:

Honk. Honk. Honk. Honk. Honk.