As Benjamin Braddock awkwardly moves through his parents' busy living room in the opening moments of “The Graduate,” one woman sits quietly on an arm chair. Her highlighted black hair, gracious face and look of thorough boredom are all the things of intrigue. She smokes her cigarette in the sort of gentle, sexy fashion only previously seen on the silver screen in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” where Audrey Hepburn made Holly Golightly into one of the first veritable sex symbols of the 1960s.
But Mrs. Robinson is a different sort of sex symbol. Nearly four decades later, she is perhaps even more so remembered than the “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” protagonist, and yet clearly lacks the same level of sheer visual opulence. Rather, she is a thing of intellectual intrigue – more willing to confess to sexual starvation than simple boredom, so self-centered at times as to evoke memories of Robert Louis Stevenson’s finest creation and also so thoroughly attractive as to have single-handedly helped much of society view the generation gap as a thing that might be bridged with the simple aid of a prophylactic.
Behind the legendary adulteress is Anne Bancroft, a noted, award winning actress who actually enjoyed one of Hollywood's longest marriages, having been wed to Mel Brooks since 1964.
Ms. Bancroft died Monday, June 6 of uterine cancer. She was 73.
In reflecting upon Ms. Bancroft’s life, it is easy to focus on that legendary marriage, the Academy Award, the Tony, the Emmy (yes, she won all three), or any number of other notable achievements. But her greatest legacy — that for which she will be the most remembered — is surely Mrs. Robinson, an immortal figure of such complexity that her name has become a genuine part of the American vernacular. Even modern films are obliged a certain homage to her from time to time, as “American Pie” introduced the term “MILF” into the vocabulary of teenagers everywhere with a subtle nod to Mrs. Robinson as a drink was poured and Simon and Garfunkel music took to the soundtrack.
Sure, Mrs. Robinson was a product of “The Graduate” screenplay long before Ms. Bancroft ever took to the set. But to each line, she lent the ideal persona – a chillingly curt tone for her more monstrous moments and a soft, raspy voice throughout the film's various moments of intimacy and seduction.
“How are you, Benjamin?”
“Is there an ashtray in here?”
“Oh Benjamin, I forgot to ask you something. Will you take me home?”
“My husband will be back quite late. He should be gone for several hours.”
“Will you unzip my dress?”
“Benjamin, I’m not trying to seduce you.”
“Would you like me to seduce you?”
For this cinematic setup to work, Ms. Bancroft would have to play the perfect foil to Dustin Hoffman’s timid, awkward interpretation of Benjamin Braddock. And in 1967, that meant she would have to bring to the screen one of Hollywood's first true alpha females. She has no trouble opening her own car door or unzipping her own dress, she merely invokes various conventions of chivalry when they suit her own selfish, immediate wants. And her character is terrifying in that sense, as one of the film’s most harrowing moments comes as she pries her own way into a car, with yet another coming as she drapes her hand down her zipper.
Therein lies much the brilliance of Ms. Bancroft's performance, allowing her villainous moments to embody so much of what was then considered counter-cultural, but encapsulating in her most feminine scenes those infamous acts of adulterous seduction that were perhaps even more chilling yet.
That was the brilliance of Mrs. Robinson. Though the shag carpeting and “plastics” references may have become dated over the past few decades, the character remains entirely fresh. And therein lays the brilliance of Ms. Bancroft’s performance — a legacy unto itself that will long survive the actress.
