Alice Kessler-Harris, a prominent feminist historian and author of the pioneering study Out to Work: A History of Wage-Earning Women in the United States (1982), has written a difficult book about a difficult subject. A Difficult Woman is difficult because, rather than being a conventional biography of Lillian Hellman, the celebrated and despised playwright and screenwriter, it explains her life by attempting to answer a question: How was it that Hellman, whom Kessler-Harris and others admired for her three autobiographical works (An Unfinished Woman, Pentimento and Scoundrel Time) and her “blunt and plainspoken style,” had become, by the time she died in 1984, the “archetype of hypocrisy,” the “embodiment of ugliness,” and the public image of “the quintessential liar” (as well as the “angry woman,” the “rigid Stalinist” and the “greedy, self-aggrandizing individual”)—even in a “world where so many others had committed many of the same sins?” Kessler-Harris has tried to answer this question not by reassessing Hellman’s character but “by thinking through her relationship to the twentieth century.” That is no easy task.
Lillian Hellman was difficult in part because of her many apparent contradictions. Born in 1905 in New Orleans, she was a white Southerner who worked for civil rights. She was perhaps the most famous woman playwright in the world, yet one who thought it demeaning to be known as “a woman playwright”; a Jew who was accused of denying her Jewishness (“self-hating” was the term her Jewish neoconservative critics preferred); a truth-seeker who was said to be a congenital liar; a “tough broad” who had no particular use for feminists; a civil libertarian who was repeatedly denounced as a Stalinist; a woman whose face once led William F. Buckley’s conservative National Review to run a cover story showing her looking in the mirror and asking, “Who is the ugliest of them all?” Yet she had an allure, as evidenced by her numerous attractive male bedmates, whose names Kessler-Harris has no compunction about naming.
Hellman was also a difficult woman because she liked being—not to put too fine a point on it—difficult. Sometimes she was difficult on principle: for example, she would not allow her plays to be performed in apartheid South Africa. Sometimes she was difficult professionally: she once struck a deal with Ladies’ Home Journal for three lucrative articles but specified that not a word of hers could be changed. Sometimes she was difficult temperamentally: as Kessler-Harris reports, “She expected accountants and agents alike not only to understand and respect her principles but to honor all her unspoken as well as spoken wishes.” And sometimes she was difficult, period. Stephen Gillers, who worked with Hellman as co-chair of the Committee for Public Justice, an activist organization that she helped found in the 1970s to protect constitutional rights and liberties, told me that a better title for Kessler-Harris’s book would have been An Impossible Woman.
Although Kessler-Harris does a brave and fair-minded job of traversing the thicket of -isms surrounding Hellman (Stalinism and Trotskyism, Zionism and anti-Semitism, communism, McCarthyism, cold war liberalism), a principal value of her book is the way it shows how labels like “Stalinist” obfuscate rather than capture the character of this complicated woman, not to mention the century through which she passed. Consider the striking contrast between her interactions with the two McCarthys, Joseph and Mary. Kessler-Harris makes clear why Hellman’s reaction to the McCarthyite charges that she was a subversive and a possible communist propagandist won her kudos and glory, whereas her lawsuit for defamation against Mary McCarthy (who said of Hellman on the Dick Cavett Show that “every word she writes is a lie, including ‘and’ and ‘the’”) earned her obloquy and ridicule.