As the somewhat derogatorily called “women’s movement” raged on in the 70s, it was only natural that the media was going to jump on the chance to parade a cautionary tale about a “free loving ho” whose penchant for casual sex resulted in her brutal murder. Roseann Quinn met her end at the beginning of the new year in 1973 after choosing the wrong “Mr. Goodbar” to take home with her, John Wayne Wilson (because, clearly, anyone with the John Wayne combo in their name seems to have a predilection for murderousness). The local and national media were, of course, quick to jump on the sensationalism of the tale, though, ultimately, “serious journalism” strayed away from the story, with Esquire afraid to publish anything for fear of a lawsuit. This left the telling of it open to a more literary interpretation by Judith Rossner, who often did freelance work for Esquire thanks to her connection to Nora Ephron.
While the book took a more detailed approach to unraveling Roseann Quinn’s–who would become Theresa Dunn–psyche and the reasons for her refusal to attach to any one man, the movie, though it maintained the integrity of Rossner’s original work, veered more toward an approach that centered on Theresa’s desire to outshine the lifelong shadow cast by her older, more well-liked sister Katherine (Tuesday Weld). To her parents, Katherine can do no wrong, would never be suspected of having a secret abortion in Puerto Rico or living between two men in New York and L.A. Theresa, of course, knows all about these nitty gritty details yet bears the brunt of being classified as the failure–the weak and meek one, a label that developed in her preadolescence when a case of polio gone untreated too long forces her to be operated on, worsening her scoliosis. With an unsightly scar left on her back, Theresa’s shyness and insecurity becomes more pronounced, her self-image further distorted when compared against Katherine’s.
But as she breaks free from the oppressive environs of the Bronx, where her Irish American parents, particularly her father, live to cast somber judgment, to attend city college, she gradually begins to come out of her shell. Or rather, is pulled out of it by her professor, Martin (Alan Feinstein), a man who can see that her vulnerability is both beautiful and exploitable. He enlists her, as his best student, to help him with his grading and transcription, a job that quickly takes on other descriptions as well, with Theresa falling down the rabbit hole of love despite her attempts at sounding hardened as she tells him to seduce her. Her status as a virgin doesn’t make it difficult for him to do just that, as he weaves her into his web knowing full well that both as a married man and a teacher with new students every year, his “relationship” with Theresa isn’t going to last past her graduation. Feeling like a used and abused fool, Theresa continues down the track of getting her teaching degree for instructing the deaf as she decides to leave her parents’ house altogether in favor of moving into the East Village building where Katherine and her new husband live.
Though her days are spent as mousy Ms. Dunn, the angelic, patient teacher that even the most wizened of inner city kids love, her nights are a smoke-filled attempt at making an ephemeral connection, musing that she feels the same way about dick as most alcoholics do their drink (“one is never enough”). It is as she’s advocating for a student from a low-income household that she comes into the orbit of their social worker James (William Atherton), a prim suitor who practices all the Catholic ideals she despises. In the book, however, she is set up with him by a friend and colleague from the school. Despite her brusque manner toward him in both versions of the story, he is enamored of her and loyal to a fault in the face of her promiscuity and cavalier attitude. The thought of being someone’s–belonging to them–is an idea Theresa despises even more than Holly Golightly did. It is as such that she pursues the more cad-ish Tony (Richard Gere, sporting some very memorable underwear), a guido type from Queens who flits in and out of her apartment when the mood for sex strikes him.
As she grows more assured in frequenting bars alone, opting to read instead of going crazy within the four-wall confines of her own roach-ridden abode, it’s evident that she’s feeding off any attention she gets, no matter how grotesque the man. Because her sexual gratification has less to do with physical pleasure so much as emotional validation (though the physical aspect gives her a high as well). Someone wants me and I can be the one to turn him away in the middle of the night–the one to reject him before he rejects me. Because Theresa’s entire life was colored by the rejection of being a “runt.” Silent repudiation being her parents’ way of coping with their daughter’s physical limitations, brought on, ultimately, by their own oblivion to her pain, more fixated on grieving for the loss of their favorite son to the war than paying any mind to their living daughter. With the less attractive men of the seedy bars as her willing enough source of approval, Theresa appears content to spend a lifetime making up for the lost positive affirmations of her childhood through the healing medium of fucking the pain away.
Yet to reduce what she’s doing to just that is but another cliche of the psychologically tormented woman who has no choice but to relinquish her demons by relinquishing her fluids. There are moments when Looking For Mr. Goodbar tries to stray away from being another narrative about a “fucked up” girl who copes with her trauma through sluttery, but, eventually, this is the thematic route it must settle upon (it’s a film from Richard Brooks, after all). For it wasn’t merely the era in which the book and film were made in that fulfilled a need to hold up the “tragic harlot” as a warning to any other woman who tried to deviate from the expected norms of marriage and children. It is a need that, even now, the world of film and literature still feels obliged to highlight (with even low culture offerings like Easy A in movies and The Pisces in books positing that the damned woman is only saved when she gets her act together).
While the story of Roseann Quinn was true–a prime example of luck and chance playing into one’s demise–the story of longanimous yet lusty Theresa Dunn is but another cruel means to show that a woman who is damaged is not only destined to become a ho, but can only cope with her damage through said ho-dom.
