DIARY OF A MAD HOUSEWIFE (1970) Directed by Frank Perry
GoodTimes Home Video VHS
THE FILM
Since when did the plight of rich, self-absorbed twits become so engrossing?
Emotional catharsis. We all live with it. Even so, very few inconspicuous filmmakers are capable of transforming this conjunct trait into eloquent cinematic statements. Which brings us to Frank and Eleanor Perry. Not as naturally concentrated as John Cassavetes, but more immediate than Eric Rohmer, the husband-and-wife team's pioneering lineage (he directed, she wrote) revels in the perplexity of human emotions. The Perrys kicked things off with 1962's invigorating David And Lisa. And they kicked the bucket, both creatively and personally, with this film -- 1970's Diary Of A Mad Housewife. Gentle angst was never so becoming.
"You have a pimple on your ass."
Poor Tina. If that was only the worst of it. Sequestered in a NYC brownstone with excessively oppressive husband/weasel Jonathan (the always awesome Richard Benjamin) and two pissy daughters, Tina (Carrie Snodgrass) is not a happily married woman. She has money. She has intelligence. But, she also has stuff like "Do something about that godawful hair of yours!" to deal with on a daily basis. After deflecting another night of nursery-rhyme sex with Jonathan, Tina bumps into author/lothario George (Frank Langella, complete with artsy haircut) at a house party in which The Alice Cooper Band is performing. Soon enough, George asks her: "Does screwing appeal to you?" You bet it does. A plate of Thanksgiving stuffing is smashed. Much sex, some of it quite erotic, is had. And then, Tina discovers that All Men Are Bastards. Possibly.
Adapted from Sue Kaufman's novel, Diary Of A Mad Housewife is quiet, forthright and darkly humorous, moreso than any other film in the Perrys' combined filmography. It's like Woody Allen right around the time he truly became "Woody" -- a caustic missing link between Annie Hall and Interiors. Elegantly shot, suitably acted, and emotionally claustrophobic, the film depicts a constant psychological power struggle between women, men, and the unfortunate effects of non-communication. Successfully. Granted, the stagey aspects of the production (few exteriors, moments of trite delivery) do little to help the cause. And the incessant babbling of both Jonathan and George veers from smile-inducing to agitating at the hour mark.
So the question remains: Since when did the plight of rich, self-absorbed twits become so engrossing?
Since the very last scene in Diary Of A Mad Housewife, that's when.
AUDIO AND VIDEO
Blown-out and fuzzy, but not in the best of ways. Damn.
EXTRAS
Aside from Carrie Snodgrass's deserved Oscar nomination, there's nothing. But thanks to the life-enriching Eddie Brandt's Saturday Matinee, I now have a copy of every Frank Perry film that's worth writing about. Hollywood is my kind of town.
FINAL THOUGHTS
Bon voyage, sweet Perrys. Diary Of A Mad Housewife is a fitting conclusion to the inventive filmography of Frank and Eleanor Perry. It's heavy, deceptively intricate, and somewhat inconsistent -- everything their admirable body of work has come to represent. Enthusiasts of cathartic, above-the-board 1970s rarities will be in rich-twit heaven.
— Joseph A. Ziemba, 04.08.10 | 
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