In a land that now seems very far away to us all–90s L.A.–it was still possible for a girl to pull herself up by her bra straps, as Bette Midler would say, and use her sex appeal to her advantage. Particularly if she was “low class” like the newly christened “Ivy” (Drew Barrymore), a high school student with nothing and no one to rely on but her wits and (highly sexual) instincts. Observed with reverence by fellow friendless classmate and slightly dowdy Sylvie Cooper (Sara Gilbert) from afar as Ivy recklessly rides a tire swing with more wildness and carefreeness than the performance Lana Del Rey put on in the “Ride” video, Sylvie internally comments upon their differences. Though a part of her despises Ivy for her beauty, she also wishes she could be friends with someone so “scangy.” Sylvie herself is an only child from a wealthy two-parent household. Her greatest regret in life is that she doesn’t struggle more, has no great emotional scar to parade around the way Ivy seems to.
Ivy, who gets her name from Sylvie when she asks her dad, Darryl (Tom Skerritt), if they can give this blonde she’s been coveting from afar a ride to “Olympic and Fairfax,” has plenty of emotional damage emanating from her pores. Sylvie’s name for Ivy arises from a fake tattoo she has of a cross with ivy wrapped around it, a symbol Ivy chalks up to the potential for rebirth in death. It’s all very foreshadowing of course, as Ivy starts to gradually infiltrate the Cooper household, honing in on how Sylvie’s dying of emphysema mother, Georgie (Cheryl Ladd), dresses and looks to swoop in on Darryl. That Sylvie doesn’t think having an ill mother is enough of a cross to bear compared to the made up lies she tells about being half-black, adopted or a self-mutilator speaks to her own fraught psychosis. Yet it is Ivy whose mental damage takes more twisted forms in how she ultimately acts them out. This subtle dig at how those from poor income, familyless backgrounds are more prone to becoming dangerous menaces to society later on in life is handled with continuous care by screenwriters Andy Ruben and Katt Shea (who directed), who got their story from Melissa Goddard (best known for producing another 90s staple, Big Girls Don’t Cry… They Get Even).
From the way in which Sylvie seems to idolize Ivy only for her damagedness to the way in which she pretends to want to be rebellious for the sake of impressing Ivy, everything about their dynamic serves to accent a class divide. But when it comes right down to it, Sylvie has a limit to her dissent (even if she did call in a bomb threat to prevent her own dad’s news report), a threshold that’s been ingrained in her by her upbringing, prompting Ivy to seethe at her while they’re at the tattoo shop, “You rich little bitch with your socially acceptable rebellion.” This after Sylvie infers that a tattoo isn’t really her “style,” a euphemism meaning that Ivy is the one trashy enough to be inked. In the end, however, she succumbs to Ivy’s influence and gets a concealable one on her ankle.
Ivy is the whorish vamp who doesn’t know any better than to wield her sexual power to get what she wants since she has no other conventional means like money and the associated educational “pedigree” that comes with it. She is reliant solely upon her street savvy and the intense desire to rise from the mire from whence she came. Whereas we seem to know everything about Sylvie’s backstory, we come to know nothing concrete about Ivy other than the fact that she lives with an aunt who collects her welfare checks from the government. Maybe it’s true and maybe it’s not. The entire point of Ivy is that she is an amalgam of what it means to be a “bad seed” sprung from the venomous garden of poverty. She makes fun of Sylvie for her futile attempts to even possibly understand what it’s like to have no money, no resources. Sylvie, who teaches inner city kids how to read to make herself feel better about her luck of the draw in life, an act that Ivy mockingly deems is “mighty white” of Sylvie.
Then there is the element of contempt for the rich as exemplified by Sylvie’s inability to make friends at school. While it is a private school, she appears to be more moneyed than most, further making her unrelatable to the other students. Ivy, however, is all too happy to relate if it means a massive mansion to stay in that offers a view overlooking the city. She’ll even take Sylvie’s semi-horrified expression upon learning Ivy is “one of those” scholarship students if it means free swag from Georgie, who seems all too pleased to give Ivy her clothes to wear in thanks for befriending her daughter. Of course, Ivy takes a little more than the “handouts” she’s given, delving even deeper into the closet to find an evening dress she eventually wears to Darryl’s work party that she also manages to oust Sylvie from being present at.
Yes, the girl from the wrong side of the tracks isn’t so dumb and helpless as she lets the rich folk who take pity upon her believe. And she uses the presumed handicap of destitution to her utmost advantage in ascending to the top, literally. Yet it wouldn’t be the 90s if an impecunious slut turned out to be the victor in the end.
A cautionary tale about letting poor people too close, giving them too much of the benefit of the doubt in helping them, Poison Ivy speaks far more voluminously about the class divide in America than it does about seduction and its inevitable coming to no good fate. To be sure, the film is in keeping with the “erotic thriller” trend of 1992, and ticks off both of these very important boxes in assuring that if you are promiscuous and insolvent, to boot, you might as well be dead in the U.S.
