Sunny-Side Up: Breakfast At Tiffany’s and the American Slumber
Whenever I talk about movies with friends, I always circle back to Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I will be the first to admit that this is because Audrey Hepburn’s Holly Golightly (as a friend puts it) “is super hot.” Sporting a black Givenchy princess dress, crowned with a mini tiara, and hugged by a string of white Tiffany pearls gleaming under the morning sun while devouring a danish out of a paper bag, Hepburn’s Holly admires not only her own stunning reflection but also a world of wealth worthy of an F. Scott Fitzgerald fiction—which eludes her by the length of a fingertip—through the jeweler’s window.
Like The Great Gatsby, Breakfast at Tiffany’s confronts the dark underbellies of American romantic consumerism. The film is unapologetic about the nature of its characters: Holly is no wealthy heiress but a run-away child bride who seeks to strike gold in the city of sin by marrying rich while hopping from man to man. Paul is a pen and penniless writer who prostitutes himself to rich housewives from the Upper East Side. Yet, Holly is complicated: she is independent, strong-willed, and carefree. She will not yield to the will of patronizing men. She is also unfinished—she finds herself torn in a world of antinomies, stuck between the debaucherous manor of the wealthy gentlemen she exploits and the melancholic dump-of-an-apartment of the mistress fallen from favor.
Yet, in another light, she becomes radically free, embodying both the spirit of Sartrean existentialism—how our existence precedes our essence—and its limitations. If the world is ultimately meaningless in its absurdity, why can she not choose to run away from her family and her domestic duties (and four children) if she no longer loves him and no longer wishes to be bound by him? In my mind, Holly remains not only a true Feminist icon but an existential one, rivaled by none less than Michel Poiccard from Jean-Luc Godard’s Breathless. Just as Michel hotwires cars and takes many different women to bed, Holly parties to the end of the night and shoplifts for pleasure: she breaks with the cult of domesticity and exemplifies the vision that one is not born, but rather becomes, a woman.
In the end, what catapults Breakfast at Tiffany’s to the top of my list of favorite movies is its bittersweet story: unlike the cheery, sweet romance of Roman Holiday—a film that tries a little too hard to imprint the Dulce et decorum est pro Patria Mori ethos upon its viewers—Hepburn’s later (and finer) film ends with an inconclusive embrace and an even more precarious kiss. I, for one, imagine that the two protagonists never get married (though the cat is saved).
To be sure, the film has its problems. First, does New York City really look this good (from an angry Bostonian’s window)? Second, the happy scene where the lovers exchange vows and lament that they would marry each other if only they were rich seems forced. More importantly, the depiction of the Japanese landlord is unapologetically racist, but the caricature does little to hinder the brilliant storytelling in any significant manner. In my opinion, Crazy Rich Asians, a film that many leftist critics tout as a progressive masterpiece, does more to harm Asians and Asian Americans by reinforcing already damaging stereotypes. Nick and Rachel have little chemistry compared to Paul and Holly. There is little to be salvaged from scenes of oriental filial piety in the former against a backdrop of lavish parties on superyachts with Oxford men sporting Paul Newman Daytonas.
In the end, this film gets it right. It beats back against the current just enough to rock the boat but not enough to sink it. For a girl like Holly, who is perennially denied access to the ultra-rich like Jay Gatsby despite all efforts, there is no harm done in having breakfast at Tiffany’s or lunch at Cartier’s every once in a while. In this way, the American dreamer is kept asleep, if only in time for another patisserie in front of the looking glass.