Why McCabe & Mrs Miller is a fem­i­nist masterpiece

McCabe & Mrs Miller is not a love sto­ry. The title rep­re­sents a busi­ness asso­ci­a­tion between gam­bler John McCabe (War­ren Beat­ty) and Con­stance Miller (Julie Christie), a cock­ney pros­ti­tute. The amper­sand is key to under­stand­ing Robert Altman’s dis­re­gard for con­ven­tion­al, het­ero­nor­ma­tive cou­pling and roman­tic wish ful­fil­ment reg­u­lar­ly pro­vid­ed by Hollywood.

Set in a min­ing com­mu­ni­ty in the rain-lashed wilds of Wash­ing­ton, McCabe moseys into town on a gloomy winter’s day. He’s affa­ble and impres­sive. An almost-instan­ta­neous mea­sure of respect springs from a mis­un­der­stand­ing, one McCabe fails to cor­rect. This mis­take part­ly seals his fate, too. Pok­er play­ers in Sheehan’s bar start to flap their gums, when they find out he goes by the name McCabe, and ask among them­selves if it’s ​‘Pudgy McCabe’ the gun­fight­er? The lads assume he is. Plus, he’s got a shoot­er on his hip. John plays along with the misperception.

West­erns are near­ly always about pro­fi­cient men. Those most capa­ble thrive and sur­vive in fron­tier envi­ron­ments or become heroes. In Robert Altman’s revi­sion­ist west­ern, the tra­di­tion­al role is switched to a female char­ac­ter. McCabe is less than capa­ble: he’s a fool and no hero. Con­stance sees the guy for what he is: a tin­horn chancer with lit­tle ambi­tion and no vision. ​“If you want to make out like you’re such a fan­cy dude, you ought to wear some­thing besides that cheap Jock­ey Club cologne,” she tells him over din­ner, scoff­ing down four fried eggs, stew and a mug of strong tea. He sits and mar­vels at Mrs Miller, amused by her blunt speak­ing and fero­cious appetite.

Every­thing about Con­stance (and the film) is aston­ish­ing­ly polit­i­cal and pro­gres­sive. Even its title strikes a note for gen­der equal­i­ty. (Edmund Naughton’s 1957 nov­el was sim­ply called ​‘McCabe’.) We know noth­ing of Mrs Miller’s back­sto­ry, although we lat­er learn that she is a wid­ow and became a pros­ti­tute in order to sur­vive in a for­eign land. She def­i­nite­ly sees – and under­stands – how the world she lives in deems women as items to be pur­chased or trad­ed. (When arriv­ing in Pres­by­ter­ian Church from Bearpaw, she is mis­tak­en for a mail-order bride.)

Miller is a strong-willed sex work­er who refus­es to play the role assigned to her by soci­ety: the fall­en woman in need of redemp­tion and a male res­cuer. And how many films have you seen fea­tur­ing a work­ing girl read­ing a book? How often have you heard dia­logue in which a broth­el madam speaks like a sex­u­al rev­o­lu­tion­ary and rad­i­cal? When giv­ing wid­ow Ida (Shel­ley Duvall) a pep talk, before she receives her first client, the shy and ner­vous girl informs Mrs Miller that sleep­ing with Bart, the recent­ly deceased hus­band, was ​“her duty.” Con­stance is hav­ing none of it: ​“It weren’t your duty, Ida. You did it for your bed and board. You’ll do this for your bed and board, too. Only, you get to keep a lit­tle extra for your­self and you don’t have to ask nobody for noth­ing.” It’s a bold, lib­er­at­ing sentiment.

Mrs Miller’s lack of inter­est in McCabe as a lover grows to tor­ture the guy. When per­mit­ted to sleep with her, he pays for it. No spe­cial favours allowed. McCabe might be a schmuck, but it’s Constance’s fiery per­son­al­i­ty that he responds to, falls for and ulti­mate­ly comes to respect. She might be below him social­ly, but she’s well above him intel­lec­tu­al­ly. The one scene they get along in any­thing like roman­tic fash­ion, John doesn’t even realise she’s as high as a kite, hav­ing had a few toots on the old opi­um pipe, pri­or to their meeting.

McCabe does attempt to assert author­i­ty over Mrs Miller. Her forth­right per­son­al­i­ty and sharp intel­li­gence begins to gnaw at his sense of mas­culin­i­ty, as well as con­front his priv­i­leged posi­tion in the com­mu­ni­ty. John is stingy with his dough. ​“You’ve got to spend mon­ey to make mon­ey,” she implores him. His patro­n­is­ing atti­tude doesn’t wash, either. When he calls her ​“lit­tle lady,” she fires back: ​“Don’t give me any of that ​‘lit­tle lady’ shit.” Constance’s entre­pre­neur­ial vim makes McCabe’s broth­el a huge suc­cess. Only it becomes too suc­cess­ful. When John refus­es a buy-out deal with a vil­lain­ous min­ing com­pa­ny, they send in a posse to rub out the competition.

The film ends with McCabe dead in the snow and Con­stance zonked out on opi­um in a Chi­nese den. Every­thing they built has been lost. McCabe & Mrs Miller is a sting­ing tragedy because McCabe’s arro­gance and stu­pid­i­ty robbed Con­stance of her shot at gain­ing con­trol. She doesn’t need a man for com­pan­ion­ship, just for busi­ness. If she’d have col­lect­ed on the $1500 share of the sale, she wouldn’t have even need­ed that. Her goal – move to San Fran­cis­co and open up a classy bor­del­lo – is destroyed by male incompetence.