But She Doesn't Look Like a Fiend . . .

This is the convoluted, messy ground from which the TV movie springs. As a representation of the legend, it incorporates two genres, the fact-based story (implying claims to "truth") and the horror spectacle. They work together to create delicious thrills for viewers. After all, these bloody scenes are not just movie magic-- they really happened, or so we are led to believe. The legend of the axe-wielding Lizzie is supported by many "facts" in the film, which draws on the trial and inquest transcripts, and echoes previous texts. The troubled family life of the Bordens is revealed, as is Lizzie's frustration and desire for social prestige. The ingredients of the standard family melodrama are in place, and have a historical basis in Hiram Harrington's memorable comments, among others. Lizzie is shown fighting with Abby and Andrew about money. There is open hostility between her and Abby. In a nasty argument Lizzie is accused of stealing from her father and lying about it. Lizzie complains about the wretchedness of their house and Andrew's miserliness. She complains that she is suffocating. This implies a desire for fulfillment which is being stifled in that household, and is part of a thin thread of feminism running through the story. Lizzie resents living under patriarchal rule, and at the end of the movie, when she returns to the house, exults that she and Emma are finally "free." In another scene, Mrs. Knowlton, the prosecutor's wife, is shown at home, expressing solidarity with Lizzie as a woman. She tells her disapproving husband that she sympathizes not with Lizzie's deeds, but "perhaps with her motives." Although there is no record of Lizzie holding feminist views, many prominent women took her part, among them Mrs. Mary Livermore, Miss Lucy Stone, and Mrs. Susan Fessenden, who made gender an issue in the case. A feminist perspective would also be familiar to the film audience because of the women's movement in our own time. A consistent feature in the Borden texts is the inclusion of contemporary social concerns, hence an angry, somewhat feminist Lizzie.

She has other troubles as well. Lizzie's (historical) reputation as a shoplifter comes into play in the film, and can be viewed as another sign of female frustration. It is common knowledge in Fall River that Lizzie had a habit of stealing from the merchants. In her later years, there was even an embarrassing incident involving some decorative plates, that got newspaper coverage. Here we see her steal an axe. The shopkeeper does not see what she takes, but tells an indignant witness that everyone knows about Lizzie, and they just send Andrew the bill. While one is watching the film and caught up in the brisk pace of the story, this point is not bothersome. In retrospect, however, it creates a flaw in the plot. How will the merchant bill Andrew, and if he discovers precisely what was stolen, won't that solve the mystery of the murders? In a visual medium this can, literally, be overlooked.

Another "unappealing" aspect of Lizzie's film persona is her public stoicism, which is perceived as unfeminine. This also has a basis in actual events. In the film she tells a reporter that although she does not like to display her feelings in public, she weeps in private. These protestations should make her more sympathetic, but when the camera closes in on her inscrutable face in court, she becomes eerie and frightening. When she does show strong emotion in a scene in her jail cell, she looks more dangerous than pitiful. Her lawyer informs her that if she is found guilty, the punishment is death by hanging. We would not expect anyone to greet this news cheerfully, but Lizzie goes berserk. Her breakdown is not ladylike.

There is something distinctly creepy about her, reflected in the reactions of others. At one point, as Andrew and Lizzie argue, he tells her he cannot fathom her-- she is strange and changeable. She projects a sense of otherness, emphasized by the way Emma treats her. Emma is ten years older, and not only takes on a maternal role, but seems oddly protective of this thirty-two-year-old who acts childishly. When Emma comforts Lizzie, she tells her with a meaningful glance that she is "special." Just what she means is never overtly stated, but it is not a subtle gesture, and seems to be a code word for strangeness. The first question Emma asks Lizzie as she arrives home on the day of the murders is, "Did you kill father?" Lizzie's answer is no, but surely this is an odd question. Here we see a selective use of "fact" to create an atmosphere of fear and threat around Lizzie. This is the "queer" Lizzie described by relatives; not the nice Lizzie described by friends. They are absent from this representation, although we do see supporters demonstrating with signs protesting her innocence. She had fans in those trying days, and continues to do so. The inclusion of supporters here serves a dual purpose. It reminds us that contemporary observers could justifiably believe in her innocence, since she had an alibi (a visit to the barn) and no blood was found on her. They could also believe in her guilt, since she seems to be the only one who could have done it, and had motive and opportunity. The demonstrators also provide a link to the audience, the fans of today.

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