Concepts of sex and marriage have changed monumentally in the last few decades and still today prove endlessly malleable and undefinable. We spend our whole lives attempting to shape our worth and relevance in accordance with new trends and social phenomena, but what if, for just a moment, we stopped and reflected on whether the hot and new was what we really wanted? At its core, Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice is not just a sex comedy but a snapshot of what it means to accept, and feel content in, our aging. Not everything new need be embraced.
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In 1969, cruising down the sun-soaked streets of Hollywood Boulevard unveiled “wet and hot” titles from the Pussycat Theatre, the infamous Sexy Vixens (“young, beautiful girls dancing just for you!”), and flourishing starlets absorbing passing tourists with a lustful gaze. The sexual revolution, reaching its peak, had materialized the fantasies of an entire generation into unavoidable cultural staples. But for those of an earlier time, who just missed the mark of youth during such sexual upheaval, manifested fantasies acted not as a welcome indulgence, but rather, an ambiguous, unnavigable source of guilt and curiosity. Cue the characters of Paul Mazursky’s Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice: two married couples toeing the line between youth and middle age and, in turn, a world of sexual tradition vs. empowering exploration.
The film’s beginning finds Bob and Carol leaving a spiritual weekend retreat enamored with the concept of complete and unabashed openness: of feeling, physical urges, relationships, and desires. Much to the bewildered amusement of Ted and Alice, Bob and Carol have emphatically convinced themselves of a superior kind of love, one that champions feelings over thoughts and opens the door to physical experimentation without hesitation.
Post-retreat, at an upscale Los Angeles bistro, comes our first hint at the hypocrisy that permeates Bob and Carol’s private lives, and eventually, Ted and Alice’s. From the start, Bob and Carol’s charades are thin-veiled and fleeting, pushing “openness” to an unsustainable and unrealistic degree. The two are all smiles as they explain their triumph over inner-marital secrets and hostility, yet there’s a certain phoniness about their words that betrays all the confidence they exude.
Perhaps if Bob and Carol weren’t so certain of their new life mantra, it would be easier to believe them; however, their condescension toward Ted and Alice, as well as their forced “feelings first” principle, is more revealing of overcompensation than contentment. Like many other couples, Bob and Carol attempt to elude the sexual and emotional differences that separate them from younger generations rather than embrace their own stances on what a marriage should be.
In the end, however, this elusion proves too tiring as, for both couples, the comforts of tradition triumph over new-age experimentation. And though this example of failed forays into new social norms may sound regressive and, frankly, a bit depressing, it’s exactly what has sustained this film for 50 years and lends it such a poignant timelessness.
Concepts of sex and marriage have changed monumentally in the last few decades and still today prove endlessly malleable and undefinable. We spend our whole lives attempting to shape our worth and relevance in accordance with new trends and social phenomena, but what if, for just a moment, we stopped and reflected on whether the hot and new was what we really wanted? At its core, Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice is not just a sex comedy but a snapshot of what it means to accept, and feel content in, our aging. Not everything new need be embraced.
Bob especially shows an inability to practice what he preaches regarding love and transparency in relationships. After admitting to Carol that he cheated on her while on a business trip, he is angered to find that she doesn’t feel jealous or even upset. As Carol puts it, “I don’t see how I can feel jealous about a purely physical thing you had with some dumb blonde,” leaving Bob completely dumbfounded and even a bit disappointed. His outrage at her indifference speaks volumes: the exclusivity of marriage still means more to him than he’s willing to admit. Bob’s self-made, youthful façade crumbles around him; for with Carol’s mellow ambivalence to his infidelity, how durable was their relationship to begin with?
Though absolved of sin in the eyes of his wife, Bob is unsatisfied and, even worse, exceedingly guilty. He and Carol have skipped the arguing and animosity that would normally follow from such a serious situation, but the result has been an atmosphere of strained normality and acceptance. “You’re playing the emancipated woman,” Bob tells Carol. “A hip chick who doesn’t care what her husband does.” It’s this very idea, that both he and Carol are play-acting rather than authentically reacting, that nags at him, ruining every inkling of progress he’s made to become more youthful and forward-thinking.
Unfortunately, a similar tale unravels for Ted and Alice, who find themselves muddled in an even more oppressive, anxiety-ridden cycle of sexual experimentation and fruitless soul searching. Ted, inspired by Bob and Carol, aims to enliven his and Alice’s sex life. The night they arrive home from a dinner party, he sounds off endlessly about his excitement and arousal while the two of them get ready for bed. And it’s in this scene that one of the film’s supreme ironies hits: Ted’s endless insistence that he’s “in the mood” completely ruins the mood of the night, especially for the tired and increasingly aggravated Alice. As Ted moseys ever closer, kissing her neck and rubbing her face, Alice insists “Honey, I asked you not to” and struggles to pull him off of her.
The argument escalates to represent, in many ways, the tug of war between curiosity and reservation: feelings that are completely valid, but in Ted and Alice’s married life, irreconcilable. Ted (with the help of a few blunts) has latched onto the alluring possibility of a more adventurous life, where sex happens every night, “moods” don’t exist, and affairs are passionately pursued. There’s a boyish giddiness in him that, persistent though it may be, is shot down by Alice’s distaste.
As things between them grow more heated, the scene shifts: an uncomfortable vignette of a marriage slowly but surely folding in on itself. All it took was the idea of something more, of something else to shake the foundations. But then again, would it have been preferable for Ted to dwell on his dissatisfaction in private, never finding the words or the energy to express his woes to Alice? This question is never quite answered. Instead, the scene dives further into irony.
Ted’s overwhelming eagerness to shake up his and Alice’s sex life borders on obsessive and, as a result, takes his judgment of mutual pleasure and intimacy back decades. When Alice, after continually explaining that she isn’t in the mood, asks Ted, “Do you wanna do it just like that? With no feeling on my part?” Ted replies, matter-of-factly, “Yeah.” His attempted progression has transformed into a quite regrettable regression, from which he spends much of the film’s remainder trying to recover.
It’s an instance of communicative failure rarely seen in film, so brief yet so intimately revealing of the couple’s enduring weak spots. In fact, moments like these are what show so succinctly why the film has held up far past its 1969 release. The subtle performances of Elliott Gould and Dyan Cannon couple with hyperrealistic dialogue to transcend the sixties and envelop the marital discord of every generation since, making for scenes that carefully balance humorous banter and jarring reflectivity.
Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice has become iconized for its brilliantly overt poster, depicting our four protagonists under the sheets of one bed, all staring off into separate corners of the room. If there were one image to perfectly encapsulate the awkward endearment of the film’s final act, we’d have a standout winner. All discomfort, thrill, anxiety, and guilt meld into a single moment of hopeful bliss. And by forgoing outlined moral conclusions in its ending, Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice indirectly draws its own.
Descending into a drunken euphoria, the characters decide (albeit reluctantly) to embark on their most daring adventure yet: a mate-sharing foursome in their Vegas hotel suite. What happens precisely, we can only guess. Though for a while both swapped partners kiss tenderly in the shared bed, a few moments later finds them first diverting attention to their spouses, then finally settling down into a collective silence. With the same careful ambiguity of contemporaries like The Graduate, the film utilizes an “empty” moment to reveal the ultimate disillusionment of its characters.
Thus arrives a beautiful, supremely bittersweet instance of full-circle recognition. Of course, the disappointment of the failed foursome lingers, but for both couples, the far more valuable insight comes with accepting their own inability to adapt. Norms for marriage, sex, and intimacy change with the times, but how much can people? For all their best efforts, Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice are right back to where they started: run-of-the-mill married couples on the road to middle age. And maybe, just maybe, that’s okay.
The final shots of the film, underscored with Jackie DeShannon’s “What the World Needs Now Is Love,” remind of love’s universality and base simplicity, simultaneously expressing ridicule and deep admiration for these characters’ flustered reactions to the cultural splinting of the sixties. As DeShannon expresses so eloquently, “We don’t need another mountain. There are mountains and hillsides enough to climb.” With perceived requirements and unwritten rules, Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice have unknowingly built themselves the highest of mountains, but fortunately, the film’s ending suggests their willingness to climb back down and start anew.
There’s always the idealistic hope that a culture and its purveyors may advance in perfect unison, with people adjusting their beliefs and actions to reflect a newfound awareness just as it reaches its apex. But how idealistic and how utterly distant from human nature that would be. Part of what makes the evolution of our principles so enduringly fascinating are the psychological contradictions with which they occur and the differing paces at which their mainstream acceptance arrives. Like all of us, Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice are human: attached to certain norms and eager but ever hesitant to change. Change should be slow, explored with trial and error, and readily questioned; to suggest otherwise is to disregard the comfort we all inherently find in routine and normalcy, as well as age’s tendency to mellow our curiosity.
The Pussycat Theatre may be closed, and the Sexy Vixens retired, but in today’s photoshopped models, online porn, dating apps, and Amazon sex toys, perhaps we can find a handy semblance. Sex permeates, sex sells, and sex intrigues, but consider for a moment the tireless nature of it: progressing generation to generation, not without some reservation. My grandmother, a teen in the sixties, probably despises the idea of a Tinder relationship as much as I fail to understand her hush-hush regard of intimacy, and that’s okay by me. Because once upon a time, in Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice’s day, she was among those leading the upheaval. The inevitable role of cultural progress is now handed like a baton to those my age, and so the cycle goes. One generation retreats to known comforts as another carries the banner.
