Almost There: Michelle Pfeiffer in "White Oleander"
Friday, February 19, 2021 at 10:58AM 
This past weekend, actressexuals and Pfeiffer pfans were scandalized when Lucas Hedges revealed he had never seen a movie starring Michelle Pfeiffer before working with her on French Exit. I kid, while also admitting I was surprised. Being only two years older than Hedges, I've seen plenty of Pfeiffer movies as have many of my friends, ranging from work by renowned auteurs to blockbuster fare. Hers is a varied filmography. She may have only been nominated thrice for the Oscars, but Michelle Pfeiffer has delivered a fair share of awards-worthy star turns and her range is quite expansive. Equally brilliant in big leading parts and small supporting roles, broad comedy and thrilling drama, Pfeiffer is one of my favorite actresses and I'd love nothing more than to share my adoration with you, dear readers.
With that in mind, let's delve into one of the best performances in her resume. Maybe more than any other of her other films, White Oleander got Michelle Pfeiffer very close to that elusive fourth Oscar nod…
Adapted from the Janet Flitch novel, White Oleander revolves around fifteen-year-old Astrid Magnussen, daughter to a dazzling and dangerous artist called Ingrid. Like the flower that gives the film its name, the free-spirited matriarch is a pale beauty, a strong creature who hides a poisonous heart within and can kill those who are too foolish to think her harmless. That's what happens to an ex-boyfriend of hers. Upon his murder, Ingrid is imprisoned and Astrid is unmoored, floating from foster home to foster home, redefining her image with each new source of attention that happens to cross her path. In many ways, it's a story of self-discovery and growth, of identity eroded, reformed, re-imagined, brought down and built back up. More than anything, though, it's a story about the trauma of a mother-daughter relationship that's as unforgiving as Pfeiffer's cold stares.
The actress plays Ingrid who enters the film sitting on the edge of the roof on a warm autumn night, enjoying the Santa Ana winds as she looks down on the glistening Los Angeles landscape. She's like a goddess purveying the earthly realm, a queen regarding her lowly subjects, a siren calling to her daughter with a song of destruction. When she suggests the young woman come closer, there's an authority to the tone, a demand dressed as casual affection. She pulls on the girl's arm, so vigorously it's almost violent. It's risky too when one considers the deadliness of a potential stumble, a fall. That she follows this gesture with an embrace and loving caress tells us a lot about their dynamic.
For how deceitful Ingrid might be, Pfeiffer's performance is always clear, transparent, obstinately so. She plays the monster at the center of White Oleander as an evil that does very little to hide its true face but expects the world to be dazzled and bend the knee nonetheless. Her limpid eyes, for example, gaze into everything and everyone with the intensity of a carnivorous reptile assessing its prey. Every maternal expression feels like it can turn into a sneer at any moment. There's a ravenous snarl always waiting on the sidelines, ready to take center stage. Her tears feel aggressive as well, sadness tainted with rage.
Nothing is freely given with this mother and, even if it seems like there's no fee, you'll pay the price eventually. Her love is deeply conditional and forbiddingly expensive. Her disdain, on the other hand, is much cheaper. Anyone can have that and they often do, whether they like it or not. That being said, one can sometimes perceive a hint of tenderness through the sharp edges of the characterization. By the time we get to that soft center, we've been cut to smithereens, bloody gashes all over our bodies, our souls ravaged by the pointy cheekbones and even pointier words. Still, we can't help ourselves, we need to get closer.
Ingrid's only constant is that complicated love for her daughter. It's toxic love, true, more poisonous than nourishing, and a reflection of self-regard rather than deep caring for another human being, but it's still a kind of love. We see the danger but we don't turn away, each subtle kindness stringing us and Astrid along. Like the sun, we're attracted to Ingrid, pulled by the gravity of a star. Like the sun, we're burned to a crisp by the fire, the uncaring flame, the cruel heat. She's luminous, incandescent, a movie star through-and-through. Such power informs the way the role registers with the audience. This killer artist's innate charisma has been turned on its head, long before we ever lay eyes on her, twisted into a new biting version of itself. Pfeiffer has never been scarier.
That's evident when Ingrid meets Claire, an insecure childless actress played by Renée Zellweger. She's Astrid's new foster mom and a fragile person who, akin to a porcelain doll, is prone to shatter if pushed too hard. Ingrid can smell weakness from a mile away and Claire stinks of it, her frailty plain to see and ready to be taken advantage of. Ingrid sees the doll-like quality of the other woman and is ready to shatter her. One can feel the dread twisting in the stomach as the Pfeiffer grins an insincere smile. In these moments, the actress performs Ingrid as a Cheshire cat playing with a poor mouse, clawing at it before biting down and detaching its head from the twitchy body. What's more, she savors every instant of the protracted kill.
Unexpectedly, at her worst, Ingrid still feels human. That's the genius of Michelle Pfeiffer's performance. Her selfish manipulations, her icy countenance, her destructive instincts, it all works together. They're pieces of a machine that fit to make a terrifyingly believable human being. So finely tuned is Pfeiffer's craft, in fact, that we can see the precise instances when Ingrid drops the act and is sincere. In her final scenes, the thespian unravels her character without revealing a performer's judgment, extending generosity to this wretched woman even as her painful confessions reveal the lacerating essence of her self-absorption. It's a haunting achievement, all the more impactful because of how uncompromised it feels in its embrace of the feminine grotesque, the beautiful perversion of motherhood, and its barbed embrace.
During the 2002-2003 awards season, Pfeiffer got some well-deserved acclaim for this malicious tour de force. Both the critics' societies of Kansas and San Diego awarded her with their Best Supporting Actress prizes and she was nominated by the WAFCA too. Her biggest get, as far as precursors go, was a SAG nomination. Considering how consistent that year's lineup was across awards bodies, it's fair to say that such a high-profile nomination means she was probably in sixth or seventh place come Oscar nomination morning. AMPAS' chosen five were Kathy Bates for About Schmidt, Julianne Moore for The Hours, Meryl Streep for Adaptation, as well as both Catherine Zeta-Jones and Queen Latifah for Chicago. Zeta-Jones won both the Oscar and the Supporting Actress Smackdown. While it's hard to argue against that result, I'd argue Pfeiffer outperforms all of the Best Supporting Actress nominees. She's my winner too.
White Oleander is currently streaming on HBO Max. You can also rent it from a variety of services like Amazon and Youtube.
Reader Comments (55)
Well I had not realized how Michelle Pfeiffer unleashes passions and many against. In my opinion she is more than talented, she has presence and is bright and she looks very good in certain roles and she knows how to choose some of them.
And about her performance in White Oleander she is fantastic, the bad thing is that the movie does not accompany her.
And although she was nominated for the Sag Award I suspect that Cameron Diaz was sixth considering her Golden Globe nomination and that Gangs of New York garnered 10 Oscar nominations.
Pfeiffer is incredible in this (although I'd still give the Oscar for Zeta-Jones) if voting in that category.
Such a shame that Alison Lohman stopped acting. I remember thinking she was pretty good in this, but even better in MATCHSTICK MEN as well as DRAG ME TO HELL. She's done nothing since a tiny bit part in 2016. I wonder what the story there is.
One of my favorite supporting performances of all time!
Everyone : Fitch's novel is fantastic. Nowadays it would be turned into a limited series. There is so much story that it needs 5 -6 hours to do it justice.
I concur that the novel is a terrific read, very moving but also gritty in a way that I don't think the film captures at all. Pfeiffer, however, is an A+ incarnation of the Ingrid as written on the page. It's such a shame that she didn't get that Oscar nomination/win as this would've been the perfect, deserved make-up for that dreadful loss in '89. (Zeta-Jones, who's fabulous in Chicago, is a co-lead, though borderline. In fact, Chicago, like The Hours, has three leads, which I wish Academy members could get through their thick skulls. ;-)