During her brief few minutes on camera, Irene Dailey’s Samia Glavia inhabits the role of the archetypal intellectual with such perfection, we’re tempted to retire the type for all time. She is snooty, stiff, asexual, and so haughty, she all but inhales the room with sheer arrogance. We could no more imagine her engaging in an act of passion than enjoying a cup of coffee, or merely relaxing fireside. Even the simple act of sitting down would be subject to an hour-long dissertation on patriarchy. Having been one of those unfortunate saps both nature and nurture alike failed to grant a sense of humor, she has been cursed to spend her days so steeped in paralytical analysis that any moment not spent proving one’s superiority would be a moment wasted. And wasting time, my friends, is what she does best.
But as much as Ms. Glavia exists, and remains a living, breathing human being, it is only in relation to the film’s anti-hero, Bobby Dupea (Jack Nicholson), that she truly takes shape. For it is everything she is – and represents – that helps explain why Bobby abandoned a life of art, music, and creativity in favor of mindless labor with folks clearly beneath his station. Simply put, he is faking it every moment of the day in order to assuage the guilt of being born gifted. He never asked for it, and after too many weekends in the company of every Samia-type in the tri-state area, he gleefully chose the oil fields to never again hear the pretentious twaddle of privilege. But even the oil fields aren’t enough. Chronic dissatisfaction is his lot, and the moment he feels defined (more accurately, “caged in”), he’ll move on to something else. Without so much as a jacket, if necessary.
Samia’s appearance comes at a moment of truth for Bobby, as he clearly hasn’t put the past completely in his rearview mirror. He might be embarrassed by his eccentric clan of musical prodigies, but he’s equally disgusted by the company he currently keeps. His girlfriend, for example (Rayette, played exquisitely by Karen Black), is authentically sweet and kind, but only in a way that reminds you she’d be impossible to commit to long-term. Moreover, she’s as dumb as the box of rocks of your choosing. She’d accept Bobby as/is, but never give him a moment of challenge or mindful engagement. She’s locked in place, cursed by limitation, while he’s ready to leave any room the moment he enters.
So had Bobby briefly considered returning to the one thing that came naturally to him, Samia and her minions immediately set him straight. Rayette may be a fool, but she’d never offer a condescending word into the ether. Samia, on the other hand, lacks any tone not steeped in condescension, as evidenced by this whopper of a monologue:
“But, you see, man is born into the world with his existent adversary from the first. It is his historic, mythic inheritance. So, is this startling? Aggression is prehistoric. An organism behaves according to its nature. And its nature derives from the circumstances of its inheritance. The fact remains that primitive man took absolute delight in tearing his adversary apart. And there is where I think the core of the problem resides.”
Anything less than a firm backhand is letting the bitch get away with her monstrousness. But Bobby remains silent. Only when Samia dares confront Rayette directly (she has just spoken of a squashed cat) does he blast forth with instinctive disgust:
Samia : …It was just what I was trying to point out…
Bobby : [interrupting] Don’t sit there pointing at her.
Samia : I beg your pardon.
Bobby : I said don’t point at her, you creep.
Samia : But I was just telling about…
Bobby : Where do you get the ass to tell anybody anything about class, or who the hell’s got it, or what she typifies? You shouldn’t even be in the same room with her, you pompous celibate… You’re totally full of shit! You’re all full of shit.
One can imagine that Bobby had screamed exactly that a hundred times to himself, but here, at last, he openly unburdens himself of the shame that had kept him straddling competing worlds for a lifetime. Life among the lowly might reduce matters to bowling alleys and seedy motel sex, but at least you know where you stand. No one ever asks you to prove a thing. You can turn everything off and still get by. In the world of Samia and the Dupea brood, every last word is scrutinized. When you’re not on display, you’re on trial. And your next performance better be your best. With Rayette, not good enough is always, well, good enough. And let’s face it, while you’re slumming it, you can still keep that sense of superiority that never truly left.
Needless to say, because Bobby so hates himself that there isn’t a patch of land anywhere that could bring satisfaction, Samia isn’t entirely to blame for his essential anger. That said, she undoubtedly ruined whatever elation he did extract from the life, limited though it was. Intellectualism is always preferred to an existence based on ad hoc emotionalism, but intellectuals are another matter entirely. They strip joy from everything they touch, and there isn’t a single one you’d like to spend a night with. Woody Allen understood this better than anyone. Cold and judgmental, Samia will inhabit her television-free ice palace certain she’s figured everything out, when she failed to learn the most important lesson of all: knowing everything, or at least striving to, only makes it more likely you’ll enjoy even less along the way.
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