ALICE DOESN’T LIVE HERE ANYMORE (1974)

Everything Alice (Ellen Burstyn) knows about her life is about to change. When her husband is killed in a car accident, she and her son Tommy (Alfred Lutter) leave their home in New Mexico, driving across the country. Alice wants to make it to Monterey, California, before what little is left of her savings runs out completely. She dreams of becoming a singer again, of being able to support herself and her son all on her own. And it’s in Monterey that she thinks she can do it. But there are so many hurdles, and Monterey so far away, that it seems that some dreams are destined to be forgotten.

Martin Scorsese’s Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore is his only film with a leading female protagonist. Unsurprisingly, it’s also one of his gentlest, most human depictions of personal struggle, class issues, and gender relations. In a tale that explores the multifarious problems facing women of all walks of life, director Scorsese, screenwriter Robert Getchell, and lead Ellen Burstyn craft a touching portrayal of everyday life in America.

Part of the reason why Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore remains engaging viewing, even after 50 years, is that the drama never feels forced. Perhaps there are a couple of moments at the beginning of the film where it feels like the drama is a tad overdone, particularly when Alice is saying farewell to her neighbour. However, this is then humorously punctuated by a cut to Tommy rolling his eyes in disgust at the mawkish display, demonstrating that some sense of dramatic equilibrium is being maintained.

For the most part, the drama is very muted. The difficulties facing a single mother amount to a dull throb: navigating ceaseless job hunting, worrying about bills, and being the only support network for a child that never seems to stop talking. Besides the practical considerations, Alice must also contend with the rampant sexism that confronts her at almost every turn. When looking for stable employment as a piano player and singer, a bar owner asks her to turn around, so that he can have a look at her. Alice erupts: “Well, look at my face—I don’t sing with my ass!”

Of course, Getchell remembers to punctuate his script with moments of heightened tension. Our story never becomes monotonous, nor is it ever quite predictable. Even in re-watching this work, I could not quite recall where it was going, unlike most dramas that have proliferated across streaming platforms. In the age of New Hollywood, there was an air of ingenuity, creativity, and originality that was so pervasive even run-of-the-mill productions feel bold and daring when juxtaposed against the relatively safe romance stories of today.

Simply put, Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore moves without a specific direction, yet it never feels like bad storytelling. Instead, this sensation of a meandering narrative reflects our protagonist’s central problem: she is aimless. With her childhood attachment to Monterey, she desires to return and find her fortune—but life keeps getting in the way. Nothing is quite as linear as we plan them to be. It’s a reality that Getchell’s screenplay subtly implies: any journey is filled with ups, downs, and little detours no one could ever quite anticipate.

Much of the story’s heart comes from the mother-son relationship between Alice and Tommy. She’s playful with him, in a way that warms your heart, and talks to him like you might with a close friend. When they are leaving New Mexico, she says to him: “Don’t look back—you’ll turn into a pillar of shit.” Still, some conflicts between child and parent are inexorable, with Alice experiencing the ubiquitous irritation of driving in the same car as a bored child, who will not stop asking when they will arrive: “If you ask me that one more time, I’m going to beat you to death.” Few lines of dialogue have captured the exhaustion of a single parent quite so well.

Of course, she’s not serious (or at least, not literally), and she has exceptional patience with what is essentially a very lonely 12-year-old in need of stimulation and attention. Even when she chucks him out of the car and tells him to walk home, it’s not done with undue malice. The tenderness between Alice and Tommy feels deeply authentic precisely because she can be stern with him at times—but these are almost always followed by a sequence that is sincerely affecting, like the pair of them having a water fight in their tiny apartment.

Just before her husband’s death, Alice is talking with her neighbour, saying how she has no real need for men: “I’d be just as happy if I never saw one again… ever.” This is a fallacy, one that invites a great deal of hardship, pain, and chaos into her life: she wants not to want a man in her life, but she realises she cannot control what she desires. She reveals how she craves a strong, dominating male influence in her life, but we are equally aware that it was precisely this dynamic that led to her forgoing her dreams of being a singer. Alice discusses her late husband, Donald (Billy Bush): “I wanted to go on singing. He said, ‘No wife of mine is going to sing in a saloon.’ I said, ‘Yes, master.’ I kind of liked that.”

Her aspirations are first scuppered when she gets married: she’s expected to be an obedient housewife, not a famous singer. Still, we see that she craves his attention, that she’s desperate to appease him. She cooks a lamb dinner, lays the table, and as this small family of three eat in silence, Alice practically whispers: “I made it the way you like it.” When this husband and wife watch television in bed together, with Donald barely acknowledging her presence, Alice slumps down and turns her back to him, attempting to muffle her cries. With his eyes glimmering with tears, seeing that he’s wounding the woman he loves, Donald lies down and embraces her. In the dark, Alice pulls him closer, not wanting him to leave.

It’s a dynamic that unfortunately defines Alice’s relationship with men. Interestingly, though much of the story focuses on Alice’s relationship with the men in her life, in the form of lovers or her impossibly irritating son, this story is truly about her relationship with herself: who is she, and what does she want? The opening of the story, which was heavily stylised to imitate the dreamlike imagery of The Wizard of Oz (1939), reflects her desire for escape, for a nebulous sense of happiness. However, as Scorsese has pointed out, this impulse is mostly based on an illusion. Alice often seems very alone as she lives in her dreams of the future.

This is brilliantly anchored by Ellen Burstyn’s central performance, which earned her the Academy Award for ‘Best Actress in a Leading Role’. While I think Gena Rowlands had a better claim to this accolade for her jaw-dropping, devastating performance in A Woman Under the Influence (1974), Burstyn was by no means undeserving. She’s stunning here, and is offered able support from Kris Kristofferson, Billy Bush, Diane Ladd, and a particularly terrifying Harvey Keitel.

Burstyn brings a degree of ambiguity to the character, which one could argue reflects the film’s ending: does she know what she wants? She has fallen in love with David (Kris Kristofferson), and while he demonstrates a soft side to himself, he has also revealed himself to be violent towards Tommy and aggressive towards Alice. Yet, she decides to stay with him, believing their future to be one filled with promise.

I have never found this ending to be heart-warming, despite the fact it’s portrayed as such. While Scorsese seems to be imbuing their future with hope and optimism, one cannot help but feel that Alice is tending down the same path as she has before: following a dominating man’s instructions, sacrificing her liberty for potential stability. Instead of it being reassuring, it almost feels like it ends in medias res; what’s going to happen next? We don’t know, and neither does she.

With that in mind, even if I don’t find it to be all that triumphant, the ending is certainly a realistic one. As Alice collapses into the arms of a man who promises to love and care for her, it’s completely in line with her character; it’s easier to hope a plan will work than venture off without one. Alice dreams of a future bigger and brighter, but she’s spent so long having to wake up to the harsh light of the present day. And so, she does not hold onto the amorphous dreams of her past self. Gradually, she comes to accept that not all dreams come true in the real world—but she still has a chance at love, and it’s a chance worth taking.

USA | 1974 | 112 MINUTES | 1.85:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH

Cast & Crew

director: Martin Scorsese.
writer: Robert Getchell.
starring: Ellen Burstyn, Kris Kristofferson, Alfred Lutter, Harvey Keitel, Jodie Foster, Vic Tayback, Diane Ladd & Valerie Curtin.