“That’s easy. We can all leave town.”
George has arrived in town at the behest of his wealthy uncle. He was promised as an eager young man raised to believe wholeheartedly in the Protestant work ethic as the key to attaining the American Dream, so he does as instructed. The uncle is presented rather benevolently though there is a subtly detectable edge of capitalist evil running beneath. George’s cousin Earl, however, is representative of the way that heirs to wealth generally are far more evil than the generation which actually built that wealth. Earl and his mom—George’s aunt-by-marriage—voice just one concern: how will this poor relation possibly fit into their snooty social circle. It comes early in the film and it is significant.
“I can’t swim. I never learned.”
This may be one of the most infamous quotes serving as foreshadowing in American cinematic history. Its significance and simplicity can be illustrated by comparing it to examples which do not actually exist. Suppose, for instance, Luke Skywalker had said “What could be worse than finding out the dad you thought was dead is alive and a villain?” Or Verbal Kint offhandedly observing, “Sometimes I feel as though I’m Keyser Soze, Agent Kujan.” Except that those examples are not just simple, but awkward and unbelievable. When Alice admits she doesn’t know how to swim, she is unwittingly setting off a narrative time bomb. But it never feels that way. The context of the situation is flirtation: George is trying to tell her he wants to see her naked. The subject of this point of the conversation is swimsuits, not swimming, much less drowning. It is a perfect example of the pristine cohesion of the way the film is structured. Everything fits together perfectly, seamlessly, in a way that seems to be one thing only to be revealed as something entirely different.
“Are they watching us?”
The moment that stimulates what will become one of the most memorable love scenes in American film history is another example of that pristine cohesion. Or, perhaps, symmetry would be a better word. There are three women in George’s life: his mother, an equally poor co-worker whom he gets pregnant named and the glamorous socialite whom he loves. Both of the young women are, of course, symbolic mother figures in their respective ways, but it is the symmetrical unity of these two which define the cohesion. Their names give the game away: frumpy Alice Trip and unattainable Angela Vickers. Their very names place them in polar opposition despite being very similar; their first names at least. George is warned not to get romantically involved with a co-worker but does so anyway. As a result, they must always be on guard against being seen together or acting at work as though they are intimate.
And yet it is Angela who voices this paranoid fear of predatory instincts of the herd. Just as she is about to reciprocate George’s expression of love while dancing among other socialites, she suddenly goes wacko, fearfully makes the above query, and goes rushing off the dance floor to the darkened private comfort outdoors where they can’t be seen. Both women express a fear of being seen with George and though seemingly for different reasons, in reality both are expressing the same anxiety: what an expression of pure emotion toward another person might do to their financial status if discovered. Of course, of equal significance is that while Alice’s fear is well-grounded, Angela’s is not so much. Privilege has its privileges.
