Cinematic Examples

“Being Julia”

Original title:Being Julia (2004, 105 minutes)

Based on the play Theatre by William Somerset Maugham Directed by István Szabó, with screenplay by Ronald Harwood Character: Julia Lambert, played by Annette Bening Social 3, with Sexual as a second subtype

According to the director, the movie is about masks. Society encourages us to play roles, not only in our professional careers but also in our private lives. The film follows Julia, an actress (a profession that already embodies the art of wearing masks), as she “educates” herself on her journey of self-discovery and personal growth.

The Starting Point

Julia is an energetic, charismatic, cheerful (she smiles frequently), attractive, diva-like theater star with great talent as an actress. However, she feels disenchanted with her job and is going through a midlife crisis. Life and the theater no longer satisfy her, and she begins to realize that her advancing age will limit her to less interesting roles. She is aware that her fame will eventually fade.

In her first conversation with her husband, after an outburst of anger, Julia admits, “I’m tired. More than that: I am utterly exhausted. [...] I’m near to breaking point. Everything’s so tedious. I want something to happen.”

She dramatizes in front of him to convince him to cancel the play she has grown tired of performing: “I’m exhausted. [...] I feel twice my age, which makes me 90. I’m bored. Life has nothing in store for me. [...] I’m near to having a breakdown. I feel as though my life’s come to an end.” At this point in her life, there is a distinct sense of an existential void.

A New Breakthrough

Julia embarks on a love affair with a young man half her age. Initially, she is radiant, rejuvenated, and excited. Everything comes as a shock to her. She tells her friend Charles, “She’s fallen in love with the boy. And it happens just when everything seemed to her so dull and unpromising, as if her life was over. She finds the affair exhilarating, and everyone keeps telling her she looks ten years younger.”

Development

However, Julia loses control. Her defenses and composure break down, and she is humiliated by her lover, her son (who denounces the falsity of her entire existence), and her husband (who is also having an affair with Avice, Tom’s young actress hookup, and predicts that she will be “the new Julia Lambert”).

The Unraveling

Having hit rock bottom, Julia regains her self-control and makes everyone dance to her tune. She starts by “fucking” Tom, objectifying him as a parting shot. Through an ultimate act of revenge, combining cunning and inspired improvisation on stage, she rises from the ashes. She reclaims her husband, her friend, and her son’s respect, restoring her dignity, while publicly disgracing the young duo of social climbers, Avice and Tom. This act of self-affirmation, laden with insult and raw talent, allows Julia to not only find herself anew but also confirm her position as “the greatest actress in England.”

The Mask and the Interplay Between Fiction and Reality

“To seem to be real: that’s the art of acting.” (Jimmie Langton to Julia Lambert)

The mask is a fictitious identity presented to the world. Interpreting a character means bringing that mask to life. The more convincing the fabrication, the more compelling the performance; the better the actor, the more they’re able to identify with the mask.

From a cinematic perspective, the interweaving of fiction and reality operates on several levels. One of the most elementary is that of literal masks, symbolized when Julia, in a moment of vulnerability, cries out from jealousy and heartbreak, then immediately covers her face with makeup. This act mirrors the putting on of a social mask. Julia goes from sincere moments (usually without makeup) to those of concealment and pretense (usually with makeup), bringing out her charm, talent, and intelligence.

Another layer of this interplay between fiction and reality operates on a psychological level, embodied by Julia’s late acting teacher, Jimmie Langton (portrayed by Michael Gambon). Though dead for fifteen years, he is still alive in Julia’s consciousness (“We’d be nothing without Jimmie,” she says at the beginning of the film) and, interestingly, shares the same

initials as Julia Lambert (J.L.). He represents her alter ego, or the Jungian archetype of the “wise old man.”

Langton appears like a very real ghost at key moments in Julia’s life, usually when she’s more in touch with her feelings. The beginning and the final act are punctuated by the interventions of this teacher-consciousness, and they’re nearly identical, addressing the illusion of life and the authenticity of the theater. “Remember this: when you’re on the stage acting, theater is the only reality. Everything else, the world outside, what civilians call the real world, is nothing but fantasy. And I bloody well won’t let you forget it.”

Langton also symbolizes Julia’s ability to see herself from an outside perspective. He critiques her life, commenting on her performance, whether she has overacted, underacted, lacked credibility, and so on. Langton becomes the internalized gaze of others in Julia’s consciousness—a constant reminder that she’s performing.

Julia and the Play Within the Play

When Julia meets her platonic friend, Lord Charles, at a museum—significantly, in front of a portrait by Tamara Lempicka, a painter famous for her decadent sophistication—she speaks about her relationship with her young lover indirectly. Instead of talking openly, she mentions a role she’s been offered, in which she would play a woman who falls in love with a much younger man. Charles, of course, understands that Julia is speaking about herself, but neither of them breaks the illusion. He advises her against accepting the role, warning that it’s a sham, and saying that he’d tell the woman to end the relationship, or it will all end in tears.

Julia doesn’t give in to his pretense and persists, even though she knows she’s been exposed: “But, Charles, she can’t do that. Because she’s fallen in love with him. That’s why. She’s helpless... the character in the play.”

There’s a play that Julia performs on three separate occasions, which alludes to her own life. In one scene, she says goodbye to her beloved: “No one will ever know how much I loved him. He was my earth, my moon, all the stars in the firmament. Farewell, my love,” she declaims as a final line before the curtain falls. This same scene is repeated, but acted in different ways, reflecting the real Julia’s mood in how she brings the character to life on stage.

The first time Julia recites the tragic monologue in a café, it seems believable. (Julia is wearing full makeup.) However, when she repeats the monologue almost word-for-word, but this time dressed in a robe and without makeup, trying to hold onto her lover Tom, it creates an impression of insincerity and pathos. This enhances the dramatic impact of her

words: “I don’t want to lose you. I have few friends. Real friends. And you’re the only person in my life with whom I can be entirely myself. Let’s go on seeing each other. Please.”

Another leitmotif, which almost appears twice in the film, is the script of the final play Julia is set to perform, Nowadays. The play tacitly alludes to the figure of her lover, Tom Fennell: “We should have seen through him. Then it would never have happened. But nowadays we’re only interested in appearances. And he did have the most beautiful appearance.” Julia has difficulty memorizing it: “But you’ve given me a monstrous speech at the end of the play. I hope I can learn it,” even though it actually contains an important thematic key to her life and, therefore, to the film.

Although in her real life Julia pretends, in the closing theater scene, which serves as the film’s dramatic climax, she deviates from the script and improvises, finally expressing herself and her emotions openly. As her teacher used to say, she is being fictitious in reality and real in fiction.

After her triumphant improvised performance, in which she boldly asserts herself, Julia breaks free from societal expectations. She chooses to skip the after-party and dine alone at a restaurant. “I want to dine alone tonight. Quite alone,” she declares, ordering a beer. The final scene of the movie is underscored by the lyrics of the song playing in the background, Smoke Gets in Your Eyes, and the expressions of the protagonist, featured in the foreground:

They asked me how I knew my true love was true... All who love are blind... Yet, today, my love has flown away. I am without my love. [Julia takes a few sips of the beer.] Now, laughing friends deride... [Julia laughs] tears I cannot hide... [her eyes water] so I smile... [already, the smile is faint] and say: When a lovely flame dies, smoke gets in your eyes. [With a distant look and a serious expression, Julia sighs.]

Even the extras in the film pretend. When the mother and the aunt receive a telegram for Julia from the mail carrier, they are shocked, fearing it’s bad news. The aunt tells the mother, “Just say, ‘Here’s a telegram,’ as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.”

The Role of the Mirror

In portraying Julia’s psychology and actions, the mirror has at least three symbolic functions: it’s the internalized gaze of others, a surface for the superficial display and falsification of her true feelings, and a means of coming into contact with herself, enabling self-recognition.

Throughout the film, Julia frequently appears either in front of an audience, performing, or looking at herself in the mirror. Before the mirror, she often acts, though not in an exaggerated theatrical manner (as she does in her job). Instead, she gives a natural, almost life-like performance. Julia speaks to the mirror as if it were a generic “other,” and the mirror reflects back the image she presents to the world; it’s a kind of “private audience.” In a continuous loop, Julia examines herself, fine-tunes her image, directs it to the mirror, and the mirror reflects it back to her. By the time she steps out into the world, her mask is fully studied.

She also turns to the mirror when she feels like she’s losing control. In the presence of this familiar ally, she pulls herself together and regains control over the situation. For example, shortly after being kissed in bed by her young lover, Julia sits up, covers her mouth, goes to the mirror, and exclaims, “Oh... Look at my hair... And I thought you were such a shy young man.” Then, she hastily leaves Tom’s apartment.

This scene foreshadows another one later on. Julia has already gone to see Avice Crichton, the young aspiring actress, and is plotting her revenge after making Tom (scared and under her control) confess that he is in love with Avice. Stirred by pain and anger, she stands up, distancing herself from Tom, and heads toward a large mirror. In an unconscious reinforcement of her act, instead of speaking face to face with Tom, she positions herself with her back to him, in front of the mirror, speaking partly to Tom’s reflection and partly to her own image:

“I’ve liked going to bed with you. And it pleases me to think that you liked going to bed with me.” [laughs] “But let’s face it, I’ve never been in love with you. And you— you’ve never been in love with me.” [chuckles] “We both knew it couldn’t last. You’re in love with that girl, aren’t you? You might as well admit it.”

Tom nods. Julia lets out a sob, her face contorted, her back still turned to him. Then, she quickly composes herself. She spins around to look at Tom, and with a small smile, says, “Go now. Please.” Alone, she sighs, stops the tears that were about to flow, and looks at herself again in the mirror, with an expression of deep and intimate sadness.

The mirror also acts as a kind of diary on which Julia projects her thoughts. In the first instance, Julia has fallen in love. She laughs, gazes at her reflection flirtatiously, and says to herself:

“Damn it all, Miss Lambert, you don’t look so bad. You can go on playing 25-year-olds, 30-year-olds for a good long time. And then what? Whoo! Mothers, grandmothers, and old maids.” [snorts] “Bugger playwrights. Can’t write for women. They’re all men, that’s the trouble.”

In another scene later in the movie, Julia, having just successfully reconciled with Tom, stands in her dressing room, preening herself in the mirror (essentially putting her mask back on) and laughing. Looking at herself (it’s unclear if she’s speaking to herself or rather to Evie, her assistant), she says, “I can’t help feeling... I wish I didn’t, but deep down, I can’t help feeling... a certain contempt for that boy. He’s so transparent.” (In contrast, she is more indirect and manipulative.)

It’s interesting to note that to come into deepest contact with herself, she doesn’t need the mirror. This suggests that the mirror merely reflects superficial aspects of her being, while her most profound intuitions and feelings emerge when she connects with her heart and instincts, without being able to see and, therefore, control herself.

These apprehensions are usually represented by the voice of her conscience, her master Jimmie Langton. A disheartened and humiliated Julia sets about plotting her revenge after her breakup with Tom, and Jimmie appears to her, encouraging her with the words, “You can’t just stand there like a spare prick at a wedding. For Christ’s sake, Julia, assert yourself—it’s you that matters. You. Only you. All’s fair in love and theater, ducky.”

However, in the final scene, after Jimmy’s last appearance, Julia dismisses his ideas, saying, “Rubbish!” and reconciles with reality and herself, at last indulging in the beer she had denied herself for so long. In solitude, without needing the gaze of others (friends, lovers, servants, or family), without anyone to reflect her image back at her, she connects with her desires and with herself. (In this scene, not only are there no mirrors or an audience, and her split consciousness is gone, but there is also a lack of color—Julia is dressed entirely in black.)

A Sense of Lack

If Julia is not “brilliant” and does not play a role, what is left of her? A void, as her son tells her with resounding cruelty: “I don’t think you really exist.” It’s as if Julia doesn’t know who she is, and covers it up by doing (in her case, acting). Throughout the film, when she follows her desire for revenge and indulges in her culinary cravings (such as cake and beer), she becomes more in touch with her true self. She feels more in control, without relying on others (whether a lover or an audience) to fulfill her needs.

Passion (Distorted Emotion)

There are three primary passions that drive Julia’s actions: first, vanity (as E3); second, prestige (as a Social 3), manifesting in her goal to be an acclaimed actress; and third,

attractiveness (since her second E3 subtype is sexual), in her quest to maintain her allure as a male-attracting female.

Julia must dazzle in order to see herself in the admiration she arouses in others. Proof that talent is more important to her than beauty is evident in the conversation she has with her maid in her room. Julia, her face free of makeup, asks if she is attractive, to which Evie replies, “You’re no beauty, you know that.” Julia then responds, “The best actresses never are.”

Fixation (Distorted Obsession)

The fixation is deception (falsehood, self-deception), as a cognitive reinforcement of vanity. The idea is that one cannot truly be themselves, and therefore must act (in both the sense of “doing” and “performing”). For Julia, as an actress, it’s enough to appear as something rather than to truly be it. As her inner teacher tells her, “You’re still going over the top. You’ve got to learn restraint [...] so that it seems real. Seems to be real, that’s the art of acting.” She also possesses a multitude of masks suitable for each context. It’s the chameleon-like attitude her son criticizes: “You have a performance for everyone! For the servants, for daddy, for me, for everybody.”

Neurotic Need

Her first neurotic need is to “shine”—to be admired for her talent. The second is to be attractive. In reality, both of these aspects converge in acting, in embodying masks that elicit admiration. “Jumped-up little tart, that’s what she is. Never stops acting, on-stage or off,” a childhood neighbor, who recognizes Julia in a restaurant, says of her. Even her secretly smitten business associate, Dolly, reproaches her: “You mean that or are you acting? I never know when you’re acting…” Julia turns her focus too much to the outside, seeking the real or imagined gaze of others (if she’s admired by others, she’s worth something) and forgets to connect with herself in private or to fulfill her own needs.

Interpersonal Strategies

She presents a favorable image (well-groomed, stylishly dressed, with a face full of makeup) and exudes charm. She competes with other women who enter her territory to play with her toys (for example, the aspiring star Avice Crichton). This competition isn’t

openly declared but is carried out through indirect manipulation, without ever losing her composure or good public image.

Around devoted male and female admirers of her facade, who don’t know the real Julia (and, by extension, what lies beneath the mask), she uses her usual persona of a renowned actress—seductive and charming, elevated to a pedestal. She even manages to seduce Michael’s financial backer, Dolly, by offering her the chance to swim naked in her pool if she agrees to cancel the play.

With the people who genuinely love her (her husband, her son, and her friend Lord Charles—who will later reveal himself to be gay, so around him, she won’t need the mask of seduction), she occasionally pretends, but she can reveal some of her vulnerabilities. Eventually, she realizes that, despite the pretenses, they love and protect her even more.

With her lifelong companion, maid, and longtime assistant, Evie, there’s maximum intimacy. Julia can afford to be her authentic self and use harsh, vulgar language. Against those who have wronged her, she enacts a grand artistic revenge, all for the glory of her stage persona.

Emotionality

Julia is very extroverted and cheerful, always appearing to be conveying her feelings… though in reality, she is almost always acting. “If I truly felt all the emotions I was representing, I’d be a wreck!”

This doesn’t mean she doesn’t experience emotions or doesn’t show them; rather, what she exhibits is often what’s socially appropriate or convenient, not necessarily a direct reflection of her inner emotional state. She can outwardly manifest one emotion to cover up another she’d rather not reveal. As a result, she can laugh or cry with either authenticity or insincerity.

She maintains a broad, sociable smile and is capable of laughing while saying things that are painful to her or hurtful to others. As for crying, “we all know you can turn your tears on and off like a tap,” her ghostly mentor tells her. Her maid, Evie, adds: “I wish you’d teach me to cry real tears... The times I’ve needed them! [...] I’ve always said you’re lucky you can cry without your eyelids swelling.”

Beneath this outwardly expressive demeanor lies emotional restraint (necessary, above all, to avoid appearing weak or vulnerable in public), which can also, on fewer occasions, take the form of inexpressiveness (such as when her husband casually mentions her lover, and

she responds with indifference, engrossed in reading a newspaper, as though the matter doesn’t concern her).

The ultimate consequence of deceit is emotional disconnection, but that would be more characteristic of other subtypes or different examples than Julia’s. Julia feels a lot; she almost always shows emotions. The question, in any case, is whether they are genuine. She can express her anger only around those with whom she’s very intimate (in at least two scenes, she raises her voice or slaps her husband, who responds to these outbursts calmly, without getting upset).

Love

Although Julia and her husband, Michael, may appear to have a picture-perfect marriage on the outside, they have not had marital sex for some time. Despite this, their relationship is characterized by genuine affection, making them more like accomplices or friends than husband and wife. They do not confess their affairs to each other, instead maintaining appearances. As a result, their marriage is built on falsehoods, even though their affection is real.

During a meeting in a café with her friend Lord Charles, who suggests they stop seeing each other to avoid gossip, Julia justifies herself: “Michael and I lead separate lives. That’s why we’re so happily married… more or less.” In turn, Michael explains to Dolly: “We’re very devoted, united, but not... How shall I put it? Not possessive. We’re a very modern couple.”

As for her lover, Tom, it's curious how, during their first meeting, Julia seemingly ignores and even appears to disdain him (evident from her eloquent expressions of weariness in the elevator). It’s the young man’s unrelenting enthusiasm, and the fact that he doesn’t turn out to be an annoying, obsessed fan, that ultimately wins her over. By falling in love with Tom Fennell, Julia seeks to recapture her youth, intensity, and the illusion of truly living life and feeling idolized (in addition to the physical pleasure it brings).

She allows herself to be led by her instincts, prioritizing them over her reputation and self-control. The ghost of her master notes that she lets herself be treated like a “tart,” to which she agrees. This loss of control turns her into a plaything in the hands of her lover, who shamelessly takes advantage of her. Julia suffers from unrequited love, humiliation (she accepts Tom’s blaming reproaches: “I should never have accepted anything from you”), and jealousy (due to Tom’s relationship with the young actress, Avice).

However, Julia also learns that those who truly know her—and for whom sexual intimacy isn’t a requirement for expressing affection (her frivolous husband, her homosexual friend,

her son, and her maid)—are the ones who really love, support, and care for her. Therefore, for Julia, true love doesn’t necessarily depend on sex.

This is illustrated when her husband, Michael, tells Dolly that since Julia gave birth to their son, she has lost interest in sex and “all those instincts went into her acting.” Later, when her affair with Tom ends, the protagonist redirects her sexual energy entirely into her expression on stage. At the culmination of her brilliant theatrical improvisation (paraphrasing Jimmie Langton’s maxim of “all’s fair in love and theater”), Julia exclaims: “All’s fair in war and... war and... ph, hell, the word escapes me,” replacing “love” (in Jimmie’s phrase) with “war” (in hers).

Shadow

While Julia outwardly appears bright and charming, her shadow is foul-mouthed, perfidious, and evil. If she is to succeed, someone must suffer defeat. The protagonist is aware of her dark side and even takes pride in it (and no wonder, because it will bring her her greatest stage triumph). When Julia’s revenge is exacted, her husband bursts into her dressing room, calling her a “wonderful, glorious monster,” and lifts her in an enthusiastic, whirling embrace. In response, Julia exclaims with fervor, “That’s why you love me!” and Michael passionately agrees, “Yes!” kissing her chastely.

Virtue

Authenticity involves embracing and openly expressing one’s genuine emotions. Julia is capable of this when she is with her husband or her maid, or when she simply gets carried away by her feelings and can’t control herself, as it sometimes happens in front of Tom.

Authenticity requires contact with one’s inner impulses and the ability to distinguish them from external expectations. It also requires assertiveness once that contact has been made—expressing desires and opinions in the outside world and acting accordingly. For example, toward the end of the film, despite everyone’s expectations for her to attend the afterparty, Julia decides to have dinner alone and enjoy a beer—something she previously denied herself.

As an actress, Julia comes close to perceiving herself as an observer, not entirely identifying with the characters but rather watching herself. She consistently watches herself, even during the most emotional moments, sometimes assuming the role of her acting teacher who critiques her real-life experiences as if they were theatrical performances. The acting

profession demands the skill of engaging with emotions, conveying them, all while maintaining a certain detachment to ensure the sincerity of their expression.

Contrast with Other Subtypes

Let’s now compare Julia’s way of navigating the world with that of her husband. Michael Gosselyn is a Sexual 3. A retired actor of little talent, he now works as a producer for the plays in which his wife acts. In reality, he focuses on being one of the most attractive men in England, taking care of himself, and enjoying life’s pleasures, with little professional ambition.

On the other hand, Julia, as a Social 3, is above all talented, brilliant, dynamic, active, ambitious, and manipulative. Unlike her husband, it’s not enough for her to just be attractive; she must constantly be “performing,” acting, and maintaining control over the situation.

In the absence of an Self-Preservation 3 character in the film to compare her to, suffice it to say that Julia needs an audience for her actions, which is exactly why she’s an actress (her existence revolves around performing in front of others). If she were an Self-Preservation 3 subtype, she would only need to feel that she excels in what she does, put meticulous effort into any task, even if it were private and trivial, and wouldn’t have to be as charming, magnetic, and constantly smiling.

"All About Eve"

By Juan José Herrera

Eve Harrington (Anne Baxter) in the movie All About Eve, directed by Joseph L. Mankiewicz (1950)

Original title: All About Eve (1950) Screenplay and direction: Joseph L. Mankiewicz Character: Eve Harrington, a twenty-four-year-old who wins an important theater award, played by Anne Baxter. Social 3, with Self-Preservation as a second subtype.

Other Characters:

• Margo Channing: Accomplished stage actress, Broadway star. Played by Bette Davis.

“Margo is a great star. A true star. She never was or will be anything less…”

• Lloyd Richards: Famous Broadway playwright. Played by Hugh Marlowe. “Always on the lookout for the ideal actress for his characters.”

• Karen Lloyd: Lloyd’s wife, homemaker, and Margo Channing’s confidante. Played by Celeste Holm. “The lowest form of celebrity.”

• Bill Sampson: Famous Broadway director en route to Hollywood, Margo’s boyfriend who’s deeply in love with her. Played by Gary Merrill. “Wherever there’s magic and make-believe and an audience, there’s theater. It’s just that there’s so much bushwa in this ivory greenroom they call the theatuh, sometimes it gets up around my chin…”

• Addison DeWitt: Sharp theater critic. Played by George Sanders. “I have lived in the theater as a Trappist monk lives in his faith.”

• Max Fabian: Theatrical producer who emigrated from Europe in search of fortune. Played by Gregory Ratoff. “One to whom each production means potential ruin or fortune.”

• Miss Casswell: An attractive aspiring actress with the same ambition as Eve, but a different strategy. Played by Marilyn Monroe. “Your next move, it seems to me, should be towards television.”

• Birdie Coonan: Margo Channing’s maid who was also an actress years ago. Played by Thelma Ritter. “A fifth-rate vaudevillian.”

Not just Eve’s character, but the entire film and her fellow co-stars, are steeped in the Social 3 trait. Set in the theater, the film revolves around the concealed dramas behind the passing of the torch among seasoned actresses and the rise of new talents brimming with ambition. The theatrical “marvels” are surrounded by those who, in less visible roles, move the gears of the stage: producers, critics, directors, and playwrights, along with their respective partners, servants, friends, and assistants. Many of them are afflicted, to varying degrees, with the passions cataloged by the Enneagram in the realm of vanity (hysterical-histrionic): E3, E4, and E2.

In this swarm of characters, the Social 3—embodied primarily, though not exclusively, by Eve—experiences a neurotic craving for public recognition. They aim to monopolize the external gaze to which, internally, they also subject themselves. What better metaphor than the theater to speak of the Social 3? In both, a fictional character—a reflection of reality—stands between the person and the audience. The actress at the peak of fame wants to be seen as a woman, as a human being (a dimension she abandoned at some point), but the novice yearns for the opposite. The confusion between the actual person and the character, between reality and the narrative, and the difficulty of reclaiming the former, are fundamental characteristics of the Social 3.

But the film isn’t solely centered on the envy and aging insecurities of an established actress resisting maturity, nor Eve’s ungrateful ascent as an ambitious young woman “on the rise.” Numerous allusions (delivered with such quick and sharp wit that they’re difficult to catch) make it clear from the very first scene that the film is about something more. It explores with acid irony a pivotal episode in the history of performing arts: the advent of the “seventh art” (cinema) and the subsequent decline of the theater. The theater, destabilized, grappled with guiding its artists toward the cameras, embracing the new ideal dream of the masses: becoming a dazzling “star.”

In the United States, a powerful industry was built for the most consumed art in human history: Hollywood. Thanks to this, Joseph L. Mankiewicz was able to produce this splendid film, which mercilessly yet subtly laughs at the “American” vulgarity of Hollywood, while simultaneously elevating cinema to excellence through the very same work.

In an interview, the director shares his fondness for witty tragicomedy and biting character study, featuring sardonic humor delivered with finesse. The film stars the emerging type of independent woman in America, whose profile corresponds to the Social 3.

Lacking outdoor settings, with the action confined to parlors and stages, the film draws inspiration from the theater as the “mother” of all performing arts. Everything seems to foreshadow what the “fruit” or the “daughter” of the theater will be. The fact that her name is Eve hints that even in those years—and since the days in Paradise—such a character was considered feminine.

Tragicomedy demands loquacity and verbal wit, traits the Social 3 possesses and shares with the Social E4 and E2. However, it’s the Social 3 that embodies the “inhuman” coldness and sly astuteness of a “white-collar” gangster. Much like those characters who never appear but feel omnipresent, Hollywood serves as the subtext, suggesting that a woman with determination can aspire to something more lucrative and stellar than Broadway. Anything goes to get to Hollywood; anything goes to remain on the industry’s Olympus.

Eve’s thoughts gradually absorb statements of principles (or lack thereof) echoing distinctly American motifs: “Let nothing stop you on your way,” “success is within the reach of those who fight for it,” “don’t shrink back,” “get what you want.” These are forms of boundless encouragement characteristic of societies that get rich very quickly. Today, wealth and its stellar manifestation—success and fame (prestige)—justify morally dubious methods. Indeed, Eve achieves complete success, and only someone as ruthless as her, with a promising future, can set limits for her.

The film subtly captures nuances in role models and scales of values. They’re discreet, if not imperceptible to the viewer, especially at the beginning when Eve’s ambition is taking shape.

Eve absorbs vast amounts of information with an almost childlike eagerness. Right from the start, when she’s in the alley, she doesn’t ask Karen about her admired heroine, Margo Channing, but (take note of this) about what her boyfriend, Bill Sampson, is like. To fulfill the instinctively “self-generated” ambition in the mind of a Social 3, Eve possesses that typical hypersensitivity to external factors—forms, conventions, manners, and other social codes. She has the ability to instantly discern and appraise the value of the appearance market. The image is thus automatically converted first into “reality,” and then into a commodity.

In order to depict this character, already portrayed by Hollywood as feminine, Mankiewicz shifts the action to the quintessential backdrop of vanity hierarchies: the stage, with all its stardom. By definition, it is the actor’s “fraud” or “technical deception” in representation that produces the audience’s delight, which, in turn, consecrates the actor with recognition.

Eve embodies the prototype of a heroine who doesn’t suffer but only “achieves”: an active, resilient, alert, discreet, and efficient person who accomplishes what she sets out to do—the kind of independent and unprejudiced woman that post-war capitalism, amidst the formation of the American way of life, with its “Do it your way; get a life” ethos, desperately needs.

The film industry mirrors the New Frontier through the dreams of movies and the star system. Careers of actors and actresses, like Eve or Margo, are likened to industrialists such as Rockefeller or Dale Carnegie, who came “out of nowhere”—a favorite expression of the E3 to convey their worth without having to talk about their cumbersome origins. Because, for a Social 3, what they possess is “natural,” a unique and indisputable gift, and there’s nothing worse than explaining its true origin, the shadow behind the shimmer.

Eve is a Social 3 who, in turn, embodies the ways of a fundamentally E3 society, which deems the actions of pathological Threes like her as logical and forgivable, provided they are successful and minimally legal. Mankiewicz crafts the Hollywoodian Eve into a

compendium of ruthless ambition, unscrupulousness, intrigue, and blackmail—all the basest arts of pretense, which many are willing to forgive as long as they benefit from the “rise,” be it of a Wall Street shark or a diva.

Adding to her ambition is Eve’s youth: at twenty-four, she stands in stark contrast to Margo Channing, aged forty. Age, or more precisely, physical appearance, is a fundamental concern for the E3. The generational turnover, whether in theatrical or other settings, is a motif used ad nauseam in both tragic and comedic scripts, and it directly touches on this inherent fear of the Social 3, especially the women: aging or, more abstractly put, losing the appropriate appearance (remember the drama of Dorian Gray?).

The other key theme for Eve as Social 3 is—as we’ve already mentioned—the blurring of the character with the real individual. This is something that happens to many actors; one could say it’s their breeding ground. Margo expresses a very valid sentiment for Social 3s: “I wish someone would tell me about me.” In other words, “Could someone tell me who I am? I’ve lost myself among so many reflections in the mirror I gaze into.”

The film’s atmosphere is saturated with what this subtype perceives as their “natural” habitat, and Eve represents one of its possible manifestations.

The Status

The perception of life as a ladder of achievements and positions, to be swiftly consolidated and left behind for the pursuit of the next one, aptly encapsulates the neurosis of this trait, especially in its social subtype—an incessant quest to “be someone,” meaning, to be perceived as such by others. The film places such emphasis on this aspect that it could well be considered its main theme.

By status, we understand the position a person occupies in society or within a specific group. For someone highly attuned to status, everything serves as a signifier of their own position and that of others—ranging from the words they use, what they drink, who they talk to and how they dress, where they studied or what they’ve read, to where they’ve been…

In their childhood, the Social 3 has so thoroughly adapted to systems that reward status or fame in exchange for specific behaviors that they internalized the world simply functions like that. This character has developed a “natural instinct” to discern “what is appropriate” and is rarely overt in their approach. They know that their need for status will be better satisfied if discreetly concealed, so they seldom draw attention to it, even though they are wholeheartedly engaged in the constant task of positioning themselves to become that coveted “someone,” as we will see happen with Eve.

The World of Theater

Set against the opulent backdrop of the Sarah Siddon Society venue during an awards ceremony, the film unravels through a long flashback narrated by several of its characters. The action takes place between the last speech of the ceremony, delivered by an elderly actor, and his presentation of the last remaining award, the most coveted one—to Eve Harrington, for “her distinguished achievement” in the theater.

We are in the heart of the theatrical universe, on the East Coast, in New York’s Broadway. Naturally, only at the end, after the award has been presented, does it become apparent that neither the grandiose speeches nor the ostensibly “heartfelt” words of gratitude align with the genuine sentiments that brought about the occasion. Almost nothing of what is being said is true, yet this audacious charade of an award ceremony has the dazzling veneer of an idealized “noble sincerity.” It is not exactly a lie either but possesses the “inflated, shiny” essence of a fable (like photos of European monarchs, actors, or millionaires in glossy magazines).

In the life of a Social 3, behind the immaculate and “important” facade (inclined toward “deification,” as they say in Hollywood), the human intricacies behind the award reveal tragic and bleak disparities. The film tells us nothing about Eve’s emotional or sexual life, what she eats, whether she has friends or not (she claims to be an orphan, although, of course, it’s not true), and most importantly, at no point does it mention what kind of approach or sensitivity she has toward her craft. Is the theater her life? Does she resonate with it?

No. That would make for another movie. It would probably begin with her personal or professional crisis, allowing her to start freely creating “her” theater instead of being a mere “carbon copy” of another actress… But Eve’s focus is not on herself, her qualities, or her artistic sensitivity. It’s on others, whose qualities she wishes to appropriate, convinced that this will satiate her longing for the brilliance she admires in Margo, allowing her to “be” someone, and therefore be happy. Almost everything she does, as we shall see, is consumed by this “doing” dictated by her overarching strategy. What she does almost doesn’t matter.

Synopsis

Margo Channing (Sexual E4) is an actress who has reached her forties at the peak of her career. Only after a personal journey, not an easy one for her as the film depicts, does she come to the realization that roles of young heroines no longer suit her or pique her interest.

Her maturity surfaces as she embraces fulfilling her authentic priorities: marrying and building a home with the man she loves, Bill Sampson, a highly acclaimed theater director who leaves for Hollywood on the same day the action begins. This month-long separation from her boyfriend influences her decision to welcome a seemingly vulnerable young woman into her home upon her return from the airport.

Moments before, at the theater, while she’s removing her makeup and taking off her wig after yet another performance of the play symbolically titled Aged in Wood, her best friend, Karen Lloyd (possibly Self-Preservation 3), introduces her to a persistent admirer who claims not to have missed a single one of Margo’s performances for years. This way, Eve Harrington has snuck into the star’s dressing room.

Eve quickly captivates everyone with her life story... except for the maid, Birdie Coonan, who intuitively rebels against the exaggeration of what she’s telling: “What a story. Everything but the bloodhounds snappin’ at her rear end…” Eve successfully enters Margo’s world, who takes her into her service (just as she did years ago with her friend Birdie).

Eve progressively assumes responsibility for almost everything with undeniable efficiency: schedules, scripts, contracts, phone calls… Margo is in a state of bliss, not having to deal with the daily hassles of managing her affairs, for she has found the perfect secretary and companion—a mutual servitude that benefits them both. The only difference is that while Margo’s motivations are evident to the viewer, Eve’s motives are twofold: the transparent ones, as her days of living in precarious conditions have ended; and the hidden ones, which the film will reveal little by little, as she intricately weaves her strategy, like a spider spinning its delicate web. This harmonious arrangement lasts a couple of months until Margo, alerted by Birdie, realizes that, if she is not vigilant, Eve might snatch away not only her boyfriend but also her very identity.

Eve, the “perfect” and indispensable secretary (her second subtype, after the social one, is the conservative one), oversees, filters (with a sensitivity more akin to radar or sonar than a microscope), and executes all the tasks the actress neglects, mirroring at remarkable speed Margo’s on-stage performances. Following the astonishingly chameleonic transformation characteristic of a Social 3, there comes a point when Eve can not only impersonate but also fully embody Margo, usurping her place.

Naturally, you don’t need to be a Social 3 to pull off such feats (professional mimicry exists at all levels) but the manner in which it’s executed is quintessentially E3: savoring the pleasure of ambition and approval without necessarily understanding the content being assimilated.

We’ve mentioned the chameleon (because of its adaptability), but there are more animals lurking in the shadow of the Social 3, from the spider (with its slow, quiet and invisible web)

to the eel (with its movements and speech), and even the silent vulture soaring at heights (the Social 3 might say condor). However, it’s the film itself that nails the most accurate zoological analogy for Eve: the bee. It makes honey, is industrious, and, boy, does it have a stinger.

Without Margo finding out or even suspecting anything, orchestrated with the necessary collaboration of other characters (some unwittingly, like the unsuspecting Karen; others, not so much) and through an exhaustive exploitation of opportune circumstances that present themselves to her, Eve wastes no time and successfully secures the role of Margo’s understudy. The day finally arrives when she manages to replace her in a performance (the only one or one of the very few in Margo’s career that she misses… and not by her own choice).

With this singular performance, earned through her cunning tricks, Eve causes a sensation among the critics, who happened to be assembled entirely “coincidentally” on that particular day to watch a performance that would have otherwise gone unnoticed. Naturally, she is also assisted in “becoming somebody” by the most influential of theater critics, Addison DeWitt, a hawk for young and beautiful talents (including Miss Casswell, who appears to be another Social 3 but with a sexual second subtype instead of conservation, like Eve). The hawk is fascinated by Eve’s “art” (her “scenic animality”) and he won’t leave without his prey. Addison DeWitt will ultimately be the one to uncover her true story and expose her true identity, unraveling Eve’s “original lie.”

Not content with just triumphing on stage in Margo Channing’s wake, Eve is hungry for the absolute prestige of the theatrical milieu and already senses the allure of Hollywood, which appears even more enticing to her. In her delirium, she attempts to entangle even Margo and Karen’s partners (Bill, the renowned director, and Lloyd, the famous author), who have supported her so much, with pseudo-amorous stratagems. Driven by her greed for stardom, nothing seems to stop her in the carefully crafted fabrication she has made of her life. Blinded by her desire for prestige and recognition, she resorts to blackmail to secure a role intended for Margo in one of Lloyd’s plays.

Seeing that Eve is trying to seriously implicate him as an accomplice in one of her many manipulations, the ruthless Addison abruptly stops her in her tracks with the threat of publicly exposing her, thereby ruining her if she persists in her refusal to submit to him. He reminds her that their "success tandem" was established with the understanding that both of them would rise together. (This type of tandem between E3 and E2, especially social and sexual, has produced many prototypical gangster couples in Hollywood.)

In the end, Margo Channing, oblivious to the blackmail, declines to play the coveted role desired by Eve, acknowledging that it’s better to pass it on to a younger actress—perhaps even to Eve herself.

After quelling Eve’s fury, the critic boosts her career and secures the Grand Prize for her, recognizing her "distinguished achievements" with the Sarah Siddon Society. This is the same ceremony with which the film began. Eve receives her award after pompous speeches that, befitting her character, paint a fictional scenario of personal achievement, which has little to do with what actually happened (nothing is said about the artistic aspect). Addison DeWitt, the critic who cynically narrates the aged and hypocritical yet necessary consecration ceremony off-screen, chuckles between the lines.

At the climax of this "authentic fraud," Eve Harrington, the Social 3, takes the stage and dedicates the award, without batting an eye, to Karen, Bill, Lloyd, Max, and Margo Channing—those whose mere mention and association instantly elevate her prestige. However, these figures would never have lifted a finger to grant her the award, as they are already fully aware of her other face. She pointedly leaves out Addison, the main architect of her receiving the award. Margo, present at the ceremony, bids her farewell, telling her not to worry about the void in her heart because she can always put the award in its place (a perfect metaphor for the Social 3).

Eve and the “Original Sin”: A Fabricated Life

In Eve’s initial encounter with Margo in her dressing room, we can already observe characteristic features of the Social 3:

• Fulfilling an insatiable need for attention, capturing it from an attentive audience where she can project the suitable image for the occasion and her goals. • Living life as a performance, a story, a movie. • Tending towards a fantastical elaboration of her own life. • Seamlessly incorporating that elaboration into behavior, with an ease in manipulation through words.

Starting with the Weakest Link

Through the unsuspecting Karen, Eve manages to make her way—much like many fans do with their idols—into Margo’s dressing room, where she recounts her life story to those present. In each of her words, you can sense the pleasure she derives from the attention she receives and the control, invisible but incessant, over her speech. This is part of the "coldness" of her character, aimed at continually earning recognition while subtly introducing measured doses of standard strategies to make her story appear authentic and believable.

What more could a loquacious, recognition-hungry character desire? The scene provides Eve with an attentive, renowned, and knowledgeable audience (its value multiplied because the stars themselves listen, not family, friends, or an unknown crowd). It also offers her the chance to subtly market an image emerging from her imagination, gradually constructing it as she perceives others concurrently weaving in their minds the "authenticity" she dispenses. This Social 3 further knows that not just any story convinces; she must sell the correct image. Her speech shouldn’t be strident but constructed on banal yet widely accepted elements that resonate with the heart of any ordinary American. And so, she presents herself as a young war widow, with a more or less mundane childhood, somewhat mythomaniac in her adoration of Bill, Lloyd, and Margo, and someone who loves the theater.

At her story, the great actress weeps, and everyone is moved to tears. The theater generously distributes its magic. Even the maid falls under the story’s spell, despite being the only one who shows disapproval of the stranger’s presence, sensing the threat: Eve could, in a minute, come between her and her mistress (which, in fact, will happen).

The Theater: A Metaphor for Vanity and the “Interposed” Character

Expert at navigating any social hierarchy, the chameleonic adaptability of the Social 3 resembles an internal theater with multiple stages, where they effortlessly assume the role most advantageous in any given moment. While Eve spins her narrative and fabricates her life, she commits, before an improvised audience, an “artistic fraud”—very similar to what every actor performs on stage. Eve is essentially "acting out her life," the one that takes her out of obscurity and opens the doors to her true, hidden, and overflowing ambition: the applause of the audience and the enchanting glow of a revered actress. These are aspirations she would never dare reveal to Margo, as it would expose her as just another sycophant—an image that, she knows very well, would get her discredited. If everyone accepts her, it’s because she has done and said the right things.

This scene highlights two aspects that are of the utmost importance for the Social 3: the trick, the lie, the deception, the mask (however we want to call it), and the medium through which it manifests—be it narrative or otherwise (fashion, tastes, vocabulary). The E3 excels at winning over others but is essentially an attractive seller of themselves, knowing how to wrap up this first transaction very well. Margo Channing, driven by her own need for companionship (her partner is leaving for Hollywood in a few hours), turns Eve into more than just her secretary—she becomes her companion.

Before the Dressing Room

But let’s rewind to the moment just before Eve enters the dressing room. She is waiting outside, dressed in a shabby trench coat and a man’s hat. When Margo learns she has to greet a fan who’s seen her dozens of times, she immediately recognizes Eve and describes her with disdainful yet surprisingly accurate words: “Ah! The mousy one, in a trench coat with a funny hat?” Unconsciously, she has certainly x-rayed her, but despite all her years as an actress, she is tired and in love, and so she overlooks this primal intuition. Besides, Margo has just been speaking grumpily about fans: “They’re not people—those little beasts that run around in packs like coyotes... juvenile delinquents, mental detectives—they’re nobody’s audience.”

Eve’s Admiration for Margo

Now, let’s consider the scene from another angle—I’m referring to Eve’s admiration for Margo. She has seen her perform "dozens" of times (some of which are true only in her fantasy), and her admiration seems genuinely powerful. But, in reality, it’s not. She is primarily interested in Margo’s boyfriend, Bill, because she knows that only a great director can elevate an actress. In fact, it’s one of the first things she says to Karen: “Bill Sampson is the best.” It seems that, towards Margo, she feels a “soft” envy of the E3, repressed and disguised to the extreme, a feeling she fails to recognize in herself. Despite its twisted nature, it appears to be a misplaced filial love for all those who hold prominence and applause in her eyes: Margo as an actress, and Bill, Lloyd, and Addison... By the time she enters the dressing room, she has thoroughly studied them, observed them at work... in short, she knows them inside out.

Her admiring love is overshadowed by her need for professional success. For her, people don’t exist—only characters. This detachment from her own emotions and being, often labeled as "coldness," is a distinctive trait of E3, particularly the social subtype. She admires what aligns with the idea-objective or accepted values in her environment ("logical and profitable to value") and discreetly discards anything that obstructs her path—anything that suspiciously resembles life itself.

Spiritual Sloth

Eve doesn’t dare openly express her aspirations. Her genuine (and not condemnable) desires seem to be judged negatively by her in advance. It appears that her admiration has transformed into imperceptible cannibalism—an eagerness to imitate the star down to the smallest detail, to supplant her, to “be like” her, and to “appropriate” her art and success.

Despite possessing her own obvious qualities, a deep acedia (spiritual sloth) prevents her from awakening to them and living authentically (E3 within the E6-E9-E3 triangle). Instead, she follows the example with the rudimentary docility of a “good girl.”

She is not a nurturing woman; it seems she has outright rejected her maternal spirit and her inner child. Her “childish coldness” is nothing more than the reduction of life to immediate profit motives, demanding rewards in exchange for effort—a mercantilism as cold and precise as an accounting ledger.

The relationship of convenient mutual servitude best accommodates her desires: two competitive, “phallic” women who thrive by maintaining the subtle hierarchy between them. However, the Social 3, a skilled saboteur, knows very well how to reverse the roles when the right moment comes. Her seemingly imperturbable behavior is so sly because, like a proper E3, deep down she is not entirely sure of her own qualities (if she had high self-esteem, she wouldn’t resort to such tactics). Intuitively, her stratagems are cautious, capitalizing with remarkable efficiency on the weaknesses of the strong (to which, as a Social 3, she is highly attuned). Always entering through the back door (remember how she sneaked into the dressing room?), she never draws attention to anything “incorrect” or “inappropriate” to avoid situations of direct conflict.

Self-Invented

Let’s review Eve’s life story, as recounted by herself. What does it reveal about her, and how? On an impromptu stage, under the watchful eyes of Margo and company, she spins a tale that becomes more extravagant and ambitious with each passing moment. One thing is clear: the more attention she receives, the more outlandish and grandiose her story becomes. While Eve may not yet be an actress capable of navigating the emotional spectrum quite like Margo, she proves to be a skillful storyteller with a vivid imagination.

She herself candidly confesses this before delving into the intricacies of inventing her life: “I used to believe a lot when I was a kid—acted out all sorts of things... what they were isn’t important. But, somehow, acting and make-believe began to fill up my life more and more. It got so I couldn’t tell the real from the unreal except that the unreal seemed more real to me…” In short, she is like Baron Munchausen. As she says it, Eve drifts into a daydream for the first time; let’s focus on her face as she speaks: her gaze becomes distinctly human only in those moments of reverie—she lights up, transforms, as if she’s reclaiming something from her roots and finding grounding.

Only when it’s clear that she’s a born “storyteller” does the attention she receives push her to succumb to her inevitable compulsion: she says she’s from Wisconsin, an only child, born

to poor farmer parents… And this part is true, but everything else is not. She invents a husband, Eddie, a radio technician she supposedly met in the theater group of the brewery where she works. Then comes the wedding, the war, the furlough, widowhood, confirmed while in San Francisco… There she starts going to the theater, collects insurance, and discovers Margo for the first time. She lies needlessly, as it’s almost certain that if she told the true story of how Gertrude Slescynski came to Wisconsin, it would elicit more astonishment, though perhaps less impact on an American heart of that time. But, as mentioned elsewhere, Mankiewicz chooses to have her lie here and invent the typical, easily relatable story of an American patriot because it will strike a chord with her listeners.

Subtlety, Intrigue, Business, and Worldly Mischief

Margo has already discerned that there’s more to Eve’s dedication than just efficiency (for example, an excessive and dangerous interest not only in her, her wigs, and her costumes, but also in her boyfriend, Bill). On his return from Hollywood, Margo hosts a cocktail party, but her jealousy and mistrust spoil it before it even begins. Everyone adores Eve: so feminine and sweet, efficient, polite, correct… so useful and helpful, managing to stay by Margo’s side all this time without a single complaint… Meanwhile, Margo, contrary to all that is “appropriate,” smokes non-stop, raises her voice, drinks to inebriation, and often erupts in both verbal and nearly physical displays of violence.

The contrast between the two becomes exaggerated to the point of caricature. Eve never loses her temper, even when offended. Imperturbability is her armor—a characteristic trait of E3. She appears not to feel, seemingly anesthetized to the pain inflicted upon her (just as she remains oblivious to the suffering of others around her).

Eve’s initial response is to make a mental effort to recall what might have prompted Margo’s mockery. She neither outwardly defends herself nor shows offense. It doesn’t even occur to her that her hidden intentions might have been uncovered, and it’s possible that she hasn’t yet fully clarified them to herself. She doesn’t identify with her pain, Margo’s anger, or the ongoing offense. Internally, she opts to “act as if I wasn’t there” and, if anything, assumes blame for Margo’s outbursts instead of holding her accountable.

This deferral between feeling and acting characterizes E3s as people with significant resilience in the face of difficult situations or those requiring prolonged endurance. They endure to the point of their own “incompetence,” as seen in Eve’s case. But they can also be very impatient and develop a sharp tongue. Mankiewicz attributes this quality above all to the critic Addison DeWitt (Social E2), quite similar to Eve’s character and, perhaps for that reason, they are depicted as “two of a kind” in the script.

The confrontation leads to a revealing conversation, with the critic Addison (accompanied by the debutante Miss Caswell), Bill, Karen, and Eve sitting on the staircase, reflecting aloud on the world of theater and the role each one plays in it. The viewer is already warned that Eve wastes no time, but there is nothing yet that gives away her moral flexibility.

In the bedroom, which doubles as a makeshift closet, she has enlisted Karen to persuade producer Fabian to make her Margo’s understudy in the play. However, she already knows the lines by heart, has nothing to attend to, and has the actress’s affairs in perfect order. Amidst the appearances of the slightly intoxicated Margo, who humiliates Eve (and anyone else within her reach), distinct aspects of the Social 3 trait can be glimpsed in Eve:

Seduction. Eve has captured the attention of Addison (who showed great interest in meeting her from the moment he first saw her), but also Karen, Bill, and Lloyd... She is keenly aware of the attention she arouses, achieved at the expense of the esteemed actress and hostess, whose conduct that night leaves much to be desired. To seduce, she doesn’t need to do anything; her seduction is passive—being looked at and observed, while she moves proudly and discreetly like a bee at work (the metaphor that Mankiewicz astutely uses to refer to women like Eve or Karen).

Mercantilism. Beneath Eve’s candor lies a “mercantile” calculation of gains and losses according to her values. Words and gestures are appraised by Eve as commodities in the marketplace of her interests, resembling an internal auction to gauge what to bid for or what to exchange. This unconscious scenario is typical of E3. Eve cannot fathom that life can be anything other than a transaction, a tit for tat, a quid pro quo.

Living with Margo doesn’t excite her much now that everything is in order, and she has dedicated enough time to her. Meanwhile, her ambitions have taken shape, and she renews her schemes by once again using Karen (the most innocent and unprotected ally in her plans) to help her find a new job... But now, her goal is nothing less than to replace Margo.

The critic Addison will also be instrumental in achieving her ends (she has invited him to the party without him being a friend of Margo and without her knowledge). Similarly, the playwright, Lloyd, becomes the target of her seduction when she sees that Bill, Margo’s boyfriend, rebuffs her advances. Every man at the cocktail party has had her on their mind. And she has achieved this without lifting a finger, reaping the benefits of Margo’s jealousy. They rally to defend her against Margo, asserting her talents and embarrassing the established actress. Furthermore, it becomes apparent that it’s Eve who made the guest list, inviting people whom Margo had removed from her own.

In other words, Eve has invited people it’s convenient for her to meet, skillfully making use of the occasion and extracting maximum benefits from a single event (a unique strength of

the Social 3). Additionally, outsiders view this as “her good and generous deed” of assisting Margo. Just like the final scene of her thanking for the award, it’s an impeccable self-promotion mechanism.

Since she “doesn’t feel,” she assumes that others also don’t “feel,” lacking any scruples whatsoever. Eventually, she will push her abilities too far and break the rule: her diamond-like efficiency will wear off into blatant incompetence, and someone will seize the opportunity to set clear boundaries for her, as we shall soon witness.

Daydreaming: A “Divinized” Vision of Anticipated Achievement

She unwittingly speaks of her passion, which may have sparked the script, the seed from which the film developed, offering a fairly accurate definition of vanity. With sparkling eyes, as if under a spell, she says:

"So little?” “So little,” did you say? Why, if there’s nothing else, there’s applause. I’ve listened backstage to people applaud. It’s like… like waves of love coming over the footlights and wrapping you up. Imagine, to know every night that different hundreds of people love you. They smile, their eyes shine, you’ve pleased them. They want you. You belong. Just that alone is worth anything.

She describes the neurotic need of the Social 3: applause; recognition—an early stage of fame, whether it’s within the family, profession, neighborhood, media, or encyclopedias. Whatever the context, it’s the same underlying desire, varying in its measure.

The gentle wave that rises and stirs Eve reveals, now with more depth, the contrast between her intense emotion in envisioning achievement and a somewhat secondary passion for theater. As Eve utters these words, she is on the verge of tears, and everyone looks at her with rapture. Except for the critic, who evaluates her acting abilities, appreciating the “deceit” of which, at that moment, she isn’t even aware. She can cry for something as distant and abstract as imagining anonymous applause. Understanding this “deceit” gives the critic the power to control Eve—not only because he discovers her weakness and concealed ambition, but also because he knows that, in pursuing it, she will inevitably have to go through him.

The Social 3 storyteller (make-believe) often lives under false illusions, shaping the marketing of their product for sale. The illusion they feed themselves about achievable feats often carries a hint of “divinized enthronement.” This will be reflected in Eve’s expression when she receives the award at the end. In fact, if we pause the film and take a close look at the award, we’ll see that it is a statuette of a woman sitting on a kind of throne, like a triumphant Judith who has just severed the head of General Holofernes.

That internal sense of self-aggrandizement through achievements makes Social 3s productive, industrious, and competitive, feeling compelled to be unique in what they do and driven by incessant action. But nothing is said about the content of Eve’s life beyond her ambition and her emulation of Margo Channing. That’s why, at the beginning of the therapeutic process, the social Three often feels uneasy about halting their activities, ceasing to act, or allowing themselves to be guided by something or someone they don’t know. Especially activities that don’t bring recognition, whether financial or otherwise: crafting, meditating, selflessly helping others, making love, or creating art outside conventional norms. For now, Eve has done what so many Americans do when they travel or talk about things to see in the world: “Done it!” She carries a notebook, and life revolves around crossing off completed tasks, presumably to have the notebook with the most checkmarks.

In Eve’s behavior, we can clearly see the two meanings of prestige: fame and the trickery, deceit, fraud, or “prestidigitation” that she employs to obtain and maintain it.

“I Do It for You”

The dialogue between Eve Harrington and Bill Sampson in a supposed “transition” scene reveals Mankiewicz’s profound psychological understanding of the Social 3 female—a figure that fascinated him and whom he saw as the new prototype of the American woman: a fighter who does not shrink from anything or anyone.

Eve has just completed her first full performance of Aged in Wood, stepping in for Margo and showcasing her great potential as an actress. Bill, the director—who has quarreled with his girlfriend, Margo, and didn’t accompany her on the weekend getaway to the countryside—congratulates her in the dressing room. But Eve remains unsatisfied.

The exchange clearly exposes the existential confusion of the E3. Symbolically, it takes place in the same dressing room where, at the beginning of the film, Bill explained to Eve, in a few somewhat harsh words, what being an actress was all about.

Bill: “[...] You were better than alright. You rang a bell. Little things here and there, but it doesn’t matter. Be proud of yourself. You’ve got a right to be.”

Eve:“Are you proud of me, Bill?”

Bill: “I admit I was worried when Max called. I had my doubts.”

Eve:“You shouldn’t have had any doubts.”

Bill:“After all, the other day [when Eve auditioned as Margo’s stand-in] was one scene. The woods are full of one-scene sensations. But you did it. With work and patience, you’ll be a good actress. If that’s what you wanna be.”

Eve: “Is that what you want me to be?”

Bill:“I’m talking about you and what you want.”

Eve: “So am I.”

Bill: “What have I got to do with it?”

Eve: “Everything.”

Bill: “The names I’ve been called, but never Svengali. Good luck.”

Eve: “Don’t run away, Bill.”

Bill: “From what would I be running?”

Eve: “You’re always after the truth on the stage. What about off?”

Bill: “I’m for it.”

Eve: “Then face it. I have. Ever since that first night in here, in the dressing room.”

Bill: “I told you what every actress should know.”

Eve: “You told me that whatever I became, it would be because of you…”

Bill: “Make-up is a little heavy.”

Eve: “And for you.”

Bill: “You’re quite a girl.”

Eve: “You think?”

Bill: “I’m in love with Margo. Hadn’t you heard?”

Eve: “You hear all kinds of things.”

Bill: “I’m only human, rumors to the contrary, and I’m as curious as the next man.”

Eve: “Find out.”

Bill:“Only thing: what I go after I want to go after. I don’t want it to come after me.”

(Tears well up in Eve’s eyes.)

Bill: “Don’t cry. Just score it as an incomplete forward pass.”

Eve finally reveals that her target is Bill. The blend of ambition, manipulation, and remarkable storytelling ability, where personal convictions are mistaken for reality, accompanies all Social 3s until they encounter clear limits. For Eve, Bill is the first to set them when he realizes she is capable of anything, though he’s yet to understand her true aim, uncertain if Eve’s theatrical calling is sincere.

After her insinuation that there’s a secret connection between them, Bill dismisses her as too fanciful. The invention, trickery, or the make-up—coinciding in English with the same word—distort reality so much that they shatter Eve’s discreet, quiet, and sweet image, revealing her strategy of spinning invisible webs. It marks the first reaction of anger, opposition, and resentment we witness from her (the second being the final unmasking). Perhaps it’s not so much a characteristic feature of the trait’s perverse identification with others as the absolute belief that her own constructions represent reality, distorting and inventing it to the point of delirium, given her difficulty in connecting with herself or real conflicts beyond her fabrications.

But neither identification nor imitation (what has come to be called the “chameleonism” of the Social 3), nor instinctive storytelling, fully captures this aspect of the subtype. In this scene, we observe her need for “identification” with someone who possesses something “valued” by her, and her “imitation” of the other (a couple of minutes later, she admits that her performance is that of Margo and that she is merely “a carbon copy”). Yet, there is something even more illuminating about the Social 3 in this scene. Eve (without knowing why!) in a sudden convergence, offers to become what Bill wants her to be, in line with her ultimate objective (my life is your life): “Is that what you want me to be? [an actress].” It seems that she cannot be herself, that if she looks inward, she’ll only find a soulless mechanism to “be like” but not simply “be.” In other words, she needs someone to always look at her to be able to exist (hence the reference to the hypnotist Svengali).

This statement by Eve stuns and surprises Bill, who replies, “I’m talking about you and what you want.” He realizes that behind this “stage persona,” there isn’t an artistic pursuit, or even a quest for fame, wealth, or triumph, but rather a deep-seated need for recognition and approval from an “audience” that could be himself, a partner, or friends. This need seems to go back a long way, possibly to her childhood family dynamics and her relationship with her father. There appears to be in her an overwhelming need to “be,” but transformed into a profession, not as a spontaneous aspect of life—a need that has been terribly distorted very early on. And the “fall” could be likened to the sudden awakening of

someone who has been hypnotized or a sleepwalker. It’s as if she exists “without really being there,” that is to say, lacking genuine connection to what she says or does—a mere shadow of herself, or an actress mimicking an existence in a world long transformed into a plastic and numb stage.

Power and Contempt: Social 3 and Social E2

The intensity of the unmasking scene seems to fill the void left in Eve's life by the absence of love, sex, or emotions. Like a sleepwalker, a robot, or a woman hypnotized by herself, Eve begins to awaken from a trance after the slap DeWitt gives her. In this scene, sex is in the air, even if it remains implicit. For Eve, sex is undoubtedly another perfectly natural bargaining chip in her mercantile view of things. She might offer sex when asked for love, blurring the lines between the two (a typical E3 confusion). Perhaps Addison is waiting for a better moment to consummate this complex but intriguing relationship, which also interests him professionally. In any case, it’s clear that the two share something deeper. The slap and the subsequent crying on the bed carry the force of a somewhat abrupt sexual encounter, of a finally taken virginity.

Of course, now that Eve is destined to succeed thanks to Addison’s help, he desires her, yes, but he aims to head for Hollywood with her, where she won’t waste a minute before leaving him. At least, this is what a Social 3 would immediately think.

What are the similarities and differences between a Social 3 and a Social E2—two subtypes often very similar and difficult to distinguish? This artistic creation cleverly provides some clues. Some viewers might simply say they’re the same, just one is a man, and the other a woman. But their energy is very different, not only for that reason.

Addison DeWitt could be mistaken for an E8 if not for his refined dandy presence (resembling a parody of Oscar Wilde in the mid-20th century) and his fundamental aversion to conflicts outside of a newspaper column. His passion for histrionics and ambition-conquest also seem to better align with E2.

At the door of his hotel suite, seeing that Eve is capable of taking a nap two hours before the premiere, Addison remarks, “The mark of a true killer” for the cold-bloodedness she demonstrates. She looks at him in astonishment because she doesn’t understand this theatrical reference: “Why did you call me a killer?” He quickly replies: “Did I say killer? I meant champion. I get my boxing terms mixed.” The confusion lies with Eve, and it implies a significant difference between the two. Eve can weave intricate plots like few others, but physical violence and her relationship with the body are another matter. In this moment, the critic pointedly reminds her of some of her physical defects (to which a Social 3 is much

more sensitive than a Social E2). Eve prepares to open the door and order him out after the slap, but he, admiring her dramatic instincts, comments, “You’re too short for that gesture.” Then, as she reaches for the phone, he gravely reminds her, “That instinct is worth millions. You can’t buy it, Eve. Cherish it. When that alarm goes off, go to your battle stations.” He knows that if they fought, it would spell the end for both of them, because the wounds they can inflict on each other would be difficult to heal.

As mentioned before, it’s not uncommon to find Social 3s in the roles of gangsters and sophisticated killers (E2s as well, but they’re usually more forceful; they can also be eccentric dandies who gamble a lot more); villainous aristocrats or white-collar thieves who relish and understand what they’re about to steal (as if it’s already theirs) even more than the owners, who enjoy life and lie more than they speak; croupiers, spies; vain artists; famous writers with a commanding presence; fashion designers and couturiers; creators and experts in poisons… Actors and actresses, theater and film directors… Or those from the world of business and finance, where they can be even more “hard-nosed,” cold, and ruthless.

Only someone like Addison, who was born into, lives by, and for the theater, can unravel Eve and, at the same time, seems to be capable of loving her. He sees in her the seductive force of immense and primal qualities that naturally contribute to her development as an actress. Let’s look at the dialogue right after the unmasking:

Eve: “I had to get in, to meet Margo. I had to say something, be somebody. Make her like me!” Addison: “That I should want you at all suddenly strikes me as the height of improbability. But that in itself is probably the reason. You’re an improbable person, Eve, and so am I. We have that in common. Also a contempt for humanity, an inability to love and be loved. Insatiable ambition and talent. We deserve each other.”

Eve cries, overwhelmed by the shame of having been caught; having been “seen” and unmasked, at the mercy of someone, losing all her freedom of action. She refuses to perform that evening. Although her pride is crushed, she will soon recover with a dose of recognition from the audience. Naturally, she performs and triumphs, becoming worthy of the prize she is about to receive for her role in a play that, for various reasons, everyone is interested in (the theater is interested in) for her success. The play is by Lloyd, Karen’s husband; directed by Bill, Margo’s boyfriend; produced by Max Fabian; and reviewed by Addison DeWitt. There is no other choice: the theater industry and Hollywood need the icing on the cake to be tremendous—a young and assertive young actress. In this case, the model is a Social 3 because in America, the emphasis is on women’s ambition and independence, and myths must become increasingly exaggerated.

The Award Ceremony

The critic Addison DeWitt narrates the ceremony. Mankiewicz thus grants him a certain priority, subliminally identifying with his reflections and viewpoints on theater and actors. Being a critic, he’s immunized against the vanities of the profession.

Finally, Eve takes the award in her hands, and the warm wave of “love” washes over her. We see her features light up, semi-rigid in a reverie of “deification,” as her gaze blurs, and her eyes start to resemble the hollow glass sockets of a doll. When she speaks, she achieves, with astonishing naturalness:

• Self-promotion from a place of “humility.” Claiming not to be anyone, achieving success too early that she feels undeserving, putting in effort despite limited education… She skillfully manages to turn everything into merit by presenting it as “anomalous” or exceptional. • Self-promotion by appropriating the merit of others. Every acknowledgment to those who helped her and now detest her, far from diminishing the value of her effort and debut, adds more credit to her persona, precisely due to the importance of those involved. Additionally, it helps maintain her image as a good, hardworking, and grateful woman. The image of the Social 3 is like a bustling stock exchange where absolutely everything is exploited, whether it belongs to her or not. • The creed of the ego-go, which never stops. Eve describes herself (applauded by American society in the background) with this authentic “gem” describing the Social 3 character: “I regard this honor not so much as an award for what I have achieved but as a standard to hold against what I have yet to accomplish…” • Change in demeanor. Since the unmasking scene, Eve appears rougher and more bitter. Paradoxically, she is now famous and embarking on a promising career, but something in DeWitt’s slap seems to have touched her, as if awakening her from a dream. Yet she doesn’t perceive a different world. Unaware of it, she begins the sad “Hollywoodian” journey, typical of any Social 3 with a two-phased life, or in other words, the imbalance between the external and internal: what she experiences more attentively increasingly resembles a cardboard cutout shadow, while what she genuinely feels, her inner self, is dismissed as a tasteless illusion. This path led many Hollywood personalities to alcohol or barbiturates. Although she doesn’t have to reach those extremes, it’s true that the crisis of the Social 3 manifests as a death equivalent to “being nothing” (opposite to “being someone”), which can lead to serious anxiety. • The lust for notoriety. Eve’s is inexhaustible. Following the ceremony, a big party is thrown in her honor by the producer. Staying true to her character’s cliché, she declines to attend, and Addison reminds her it’s for her. It doesn’t matter to her; if she doesn’t go, she’ll make even more of a buzz because her absence now

surpasses her presence in notoriety. She has already started to become a star, and she knows it. Shortly after, she forgets the hefty award in the taxi: what she obtained becomes easily discarded and discredited by the Social 3 (a unique way to prevent anyone else from benefiting from it later or enhancing its value after she received it). It’s just another step, like any on an infinite social ladder.

A New Eve Emerges

As Eve settles into her apartment at dusk, her trunks wide open as she heads to Hollywood, the myth happens once more. Another young woman requests to work by her side. After the star has retired, she answers the door and places Eve’s immaculate white cape on her shoulders.

With the prize in her hands, reflected infinitely by the prism of mirrors in front of the actress’s dressing screen, she bows before her own image reproduced ad infinitum, performing the self-divinizing ritual of a Social 3, where the actress consecrates herself as the human being disappears. Ironically, Mankiewicz names the new aspirant Phoebe, one of the titans or demigods related to Selene, the Moon, and in charge of the Delphic oracle. (From the Bible, we transition to Greek polytheism.)

The labyrinth of mirrors and the infinite reflection of the image are a striking description of the E3: everything seen of them is on screens, in the numerous mirrors of the world, and in the minds of others. But at the center, within themselves, no one can find the being that gave rise to those images or distinguish it from them.

Mankiewicz brilliantly captures the attributes of the Social 3, characterized by self-inflation, false self-illumination, and the pursuit of ambition, using metaphors of reflections, glitter, infinite projections, mirrors, and sparkling light. Through the tools of theater and cinema (arts of image and representation), he delves into a metaphorical abyss, reminiscent of the bottom of Plato’s cave: where the individual doesn’t feel or see themselves; they lose themselves in a web of inert and flat shadows resembling fleeting glimpses of “being,” projected onto a cold wall, which they confuse with reality. The Social 3 lives through this brightness, seeing the wall as a flat screen with extraordinary moving images (motion pictures). The compulsion to promote that flat self-image, distorted to the point of being unrecognizable, is integrated into the “movement” it believes constitutes life.

It doesn’t escape the viewer that the new aspirant is already eyeing the Oscar, and that she, too, will come to resemble the statuette she’s holding in her hands: a queen on her throne, symbolizing the perfect identification of the E3 with their needs, aspirations, and achievements.