The Way We Were: The Sexual Assault Women Swoon Over

Is it still nonconsensual if the passed-out drunk is a male?

Hi. I realize this post looks long, but it’s probably 2/3 pictures. (I just wanted to get that out of the way first.)

You’ll notice, if you’re a subscriber familiar with my regular subject matter, that the title has nothing to do with pronatalism. One of the things I like about having named my newsletter The Choice is that it allows for anything choice-related. I have a hard time with niche-ing and branding - it’s too limiting - so now and then I’ll probably start including topics unrelated to birthing/not birthing. Favorites include equality (the subject of what’s below) and writing. I appreciate anything you stick around for, and I’m very happy you’re here now. - Kris

*I wrote this post a few years ago, but since the attitudes about the film don’t seem to have changed, I thought it was worth sharing again with a little bit of updating (to include an excerpt of a The Way We Were 50-year anniversary write-up that was published last year).

The Way We Were, 1973 © Columbia Pictures

Many women — many of whom would balk at the idea of a drunk woman being considered capable of having consensual sex —would say they love the movie The Way We Were, whose grand romance between Barbra Streisand’s “Katie” and Robert Redford’s “Hubbell” begins with a rape.

Somehow this film, which would have been one of the early victims of our cancel culture had the characters’ sexes been reversed, has survived unscathed, its “date rape” either accepted or ignored.

Answer this: Is the story below romantic?

A man helps his dream date out of the cab, careful not to let her red dress show a slip, and opens the front door to his walk-up. He guides her into the stairwell, then makes sure she’s steady enough to go it alone before he hurries ahead, taking the stairs two at a time. He’s huffing by the time he opens his own door, sweating as he quickly declutters. He prepares a pot of coffee and has just pulled out two mugs when he hears her heels in the doorway.

He pops his head out of the kitchen to invite her to sit, but she’s hunched in the entry. She slaps her hands to her mouth just in time to catch a heave. He points and says, “There!”

She stumbles into the bathroom and closes the door.

He returns to the kitchen. Coffee. She ’ll be fine after coffee. They’ll sit, they’ll talk.

He pours two cups and expects to find her sitting on the couch when he leaves the kitchen, but she’s not there. The bathroom door is open, the light left on. Her shoes are tipped on their sides on the hardwood floor.

Her dress is in a heap outside his bedroom door.

He sets down the mugs and steps slowly toward the bedroom. The door is half closed. He sees the end of his bed, her underwear on the floor, her bare feet on the mattress.

He steps inside.

The white sheet covers her waist, her breasts. It doesn’t cover her strong calves, her fragile ankles.

He presses his back to the in-side of the door and carefully, quietly closes it behind him.

He steps closer.

He stands there for a moment, over the bed.

He unbuttons the top button of his shirt, hesitates, and then unbuttons the rest of the buttons. His shirt falls to the floor. He unbuckles his belt, unzips his pants, and removes them. He slides down his briefs and steps out of them.

Naked, he lies down beside her. He covers himself with the sheet. The warmth of her body fills the space between them.

She breathes evenly in hard, alcohol sleep.

He curls an arm around the top of her head. His fingertips graze the flesh just above her eyebrow.

She responds to his touch, turning toward him without opening her eyes. She presses her naked body to his and kisses his neck. She pulls herself on top of him and glides lazily down and around him. He tries to look at her, but her body is flat on his and her face is hidden. When he does catch a glimpse of her eyes, they’re still closed as she rocks in a sleepy rhythm. He puts his arms around her and encourages her with his body, his hips, until, suddenly, she no longer moves with him but is motionless on his chest.

He whispers her name. And again. There is no reply but her breathing.

“You didn’t know it was me,” he murmurs, surprised and saddened that in her post-vomiting, blackout, passed-out condition she had no idea what, or whom, she was doing.

Everything Zoomer, in 5 Reasons the Classic Romance Endures 50 Years On, praises the above as “the poignant scene in the apartment when Katie, nervous but thrilled and almost in disbelief, slips into bed with the blond she calls ‘America the beautiful.’”

Widescreenings.com summarizes the scene as Streisand climbing “into bed next to an exhausted Hubbell.” (Word bolded by me for zoinks.)

However, Teen Vogue knows — as the rest of us do — that “when someone is so drunk that they don’t remember what happens the next day, they were too drunk to fully consent — that is, to fully and excitedly say yes to having sex. When someone doesn’t consent, that’s sexual assault.”

We need to talk about the way we talk about The Way We Were.

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this post, you might also enjoy my novel The Age of the Child: What happens one generation after Roe falls?

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