Ah yes, the Manic Pixie Dream Girl. We hardly knew ye. Defined as “a young woman with quirky and eccentric personality traits, who exists primarily to serve as the love interest for a male protagonist, often acting as a catalyst for his personal growth and transformation,” she’s been portrayed a thousand times over the years, from Goldie Hawn to Zooey Deschanel. Real-life incarnations are as rare as the dodo, of course, but onscreen, she’s as ubiquitous as the Talking Killer, or even the man Too Old for This Shit. But here, in 1969, with Alan J. Pakula manning the director’s chair for the first time, is the opening salvo in a war that never seems to end. A trope that simply refuses to die. A female of feisty fanaticism who enters from the mist, wreaks havoc, then disappears to parts unknown. Curiously, as if on cue, she only seems to appear when adolescent voices break, or college looms, or someone is returning home for a funeral to face his demons. Impeccable timing to ensure maximum damage.
It seems fitting that Miss Liza would fire the first shot, given her predilection for the half-cocked goofball set, and she does not disappoint. As an acting exercise, it’s a master class, that is, if success is to be measured by an audience’s desire to see a character strangled and dumped in an alley. She hits all her marks with unmatched precision, and from her nom de plume (“Pookie Adams”) to her vaguely disinterested look whenever the subject turns away from herself, the now-cliched archetype is a performance likely never to be topped, though young and hungry actresses are almost certain to try. You can see immediately why the part garnered Minnelli an Oscar nomination: there are tears, laughs, loony eye rolls, half-naked barks, and a drunken rant so unhinged, it likely caused a post-mortem Judy Garland to burst through her coffin and declare a new champion of unsubtle shrieking. A proud mama, indeed. Liza learned from masters.
The unsuspecting victim? Poor lad Jerry Payne (Wendell Burton), a shy, virginal young man still possessing a modicum of idealistic fury, ready to take on the world of education with his usual grit. Only his initial bus ride – a fateful bus ride at that – is interrupted by the wandering Pookie, a boundary-free extrovert who thinks nothing of inventing a wild tale of death and mourning so that she can sit near the boy who has caught her eye. Because, like all MPDG’s, she can sniff out the weak and the vulnerable from a thousand yards. More self-respect on his part, and she’d be rebuffed. A bit of experience, and Jerry would almost certainly give her a quick shove and move on with his day. But he’s uncertain, feckless. He all but wears a target on his back for just such a predator. And a predator she is, despite the aw-shucks grin and seemingly sweet disposition. Dig a little deeper, and you’ll soon find the psychopath within. The only thing separating her from a serial killer in training is her ability to turn a phrase. Her unserious manner is but a cover for an authoritarian’s heart.
At bottom, Pookie is a stalker by trade. She’d make other appearances with various names in later years, from Play Misty for Me to Fatal Attraction, only here she’s apt to disarm you with a wisecrack. But from the very moment she enters your space, she’s after total control. Not to be satisfied with half-measures, she’s gunning for the whole loaf each and every moment she’s on the scene. And we know that the worst thing you can do with such a woman is have sex, but Jerry goes there anyway, because who among us can resist a breathing female? The next worst thing is to declare one’s love, but goddamn it to hell, he goes there too with little resistance, almost as if he’s following the playbook on how to ruin your life in two easy steps. Naturally, the sex leads to pregnancy, although it’s clear that Pookie invented the entire story as some kind of sadomasochistic loyalty test. Jerry, the sap, says he’ll stick around (even throwing in the marriage idea!), so of course the baby-to-be goes poof. Being fucked with in such a manner might drive away most men in possession of working balls, but when you’re eighteen and new to orgasms, there’s little logic to be found. As always, a lack of options leads to disaster.
The most telling series of events surrounds Easter break at the college. Because he’s been spending all his time fucking in fields, Pookie’s VW bug, and any number of cheap motels, Jerry is in danger of flunking out. He needs to buckle down. Spend the week studying his ass off, because, after all, he came to college to make something of himself. Only Pookie throws a fit — the sort of fit that mixes vague threats with passive-aggressive despair – which leads Jerry to agree that yes, perhaps, he can hit the books while Pookie does everything under the sun to drive him nuts. To no one’s surprise, Jerry doesn’t have a moment to himself, because any second not devoted to Pookie’s self-aggrandizement is a second wasted, and a man will do anything to avoid the hysteria to come. When pouting and groaning fails to turn the tide, she resorts to the wily female’s not-so-secret weapon: removing her clothes. Jerry being Jerry, the books close, the pencil stops scribbling, and the might of manipulation wins yet another round.
As you would expect, Pookie’s entire persona is built on bullshit. Covering for a gargantuan vapidity, she substitutes whimsical affectations for an actual personality, injecting drama and excess into everything to avoid life itself. Jerry seems to ignore the blazing red flags that emerge almost from the opening bell (a host of ex-roommates, dismissive looks whenever she enters a room), but that’s the siren song of the MPDG: hated and despised, she can always claim the outsider status so prized by youth. To be great is to be understood, yes? Perhaps, Mr. Emerson, but it could also simply be a case of annoying the fuck out of everyone within earshot. And as Jerry learns much too late, to be manic is to use the allure of promiscuity as a mask for any real substance. Easier to remain horizontal when one’s vertical hours bore the rest of us to tears.
With but a moment’s reflection, any man worth a damn steadfastly rejects even the idea of a Manic Pixie Dream Girl. Sure, blowjobs are plentiful and often in the oddest locations, but eventually you’ll have to sit down for a conversation. And every time a girl like Pookie opens her mouth, there’s the unmistakable temptation to put something (anything) inside to stop her from breathing. As we contemplate, we imagine any jury would understand. Just play the tapes. Distribute the pictures. Read from her diary, perhaps that discarded poem she thought she had thrown away. Surely I had no other choice. A dynamo in a dress, but she never stopped talking. Not even in her sleep.
Okay, okay, it’s all negative, but don’t get me wrong: The Sterile Cuckoo is a fine film. Sure, if there’s one Semi-Obligatory Lyrical Interlude, there are twenty, and Pookie doesn’t die violently or get set on fire, but as a portrait of a very specific kind of femme fatale, even the missteps are handled with aplomb. And again, Minnelli is a wonder. She’d win that Oscar only three years later for Cabaret, playing a woman who believes she can fuck and sing away a looming Holocaust. Her delusion is far greater in that later film, but in many ways, Pookie and Sally Bowles are cut from the same cloth. Distraction and artifice to lure them in. Look over here, while over there, they steal your very soul.
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