In the summer of 2021 the ethereal pop goddess Lorde released her third studio album Solar Power to mixed reviews. Unlike Pure Heroine and Melodrama, Lorde’s newest reincarnation was not for the faint of heart primarily because there were no obvious “bops.” Instead, Lorde presented her listeners with deeply introspective lyrics and melodies on Solar Power that were both cheeky and excessively “thoughty” despite their brevity. On tracks like “Stoned at the Nail Salon” the artist waxes poetically about that “wishbone dryin' on the windowsill” and all of those “beautiful girls, who will fade like roses'' while “Oceanic Feelings'' fixates on the wavy rays of summer, family, and legacy. Most of Solar Power is tapped into that sweet moment of time where thoughts wander ceaselessly, but “Mood Ring '' feels definitely different. Singing from the perspective of a common yet privileged young white woman who abides by the corporate rules of wellness culture and Co-Star’s natal charts, the song is a cry for help in the age of overly indulgent self-help. Lorde knows that green juice and yoga cannot lead you to Nirvana, but she’s playing a character, whose cries of misery are heard in the chorus:
I can't feel a thing
I keep looking at my mood ring
Tell me how I'm feeling
Floating away, floating away
Simultaneously conceptual and deadpan, “Mood Ring” is privy to its new age bullshit, yet the song really speaks to larger themes of insecurity and an overall lack of connection and identity. The satirical riffs and seductive tempo cannot hide the fact that Lorde’s vapid subject merits attention despite her sad spineless nature.
While “Mood Ring '' consists of deranged 21st century references like “love and light,” Carol White (Julianne Moore) from Todd Haynes 1995 film Safe suffers from a similar timeless affliction as Lorde’s persona, but the director, known for transgressive films like Superstar: The Karen Carpenter Story, takes it a step further. Living as a housewife in the San Fernando Valley during the late 1980s, Carol is the product of her environment. Califorinication is alive and well and she’s at the forefront of the latest trends. She lives in a colossal home where maintaining the newest design features and a perfect figure are her only priorities. We learn that color coordination and fruit diets are the key to life for the time being, but something is off.
Carol is manicured like her luxurious pastel home but completely lost with nothing to say. She’s a sheep who dresses like everyone else and has no idea why. According to Genevieve Yue, Carol “blends into her surroundings like a suburbanite chameleon, an expensive, mid-eighties accessory among many, or an Ibsenesque doll made to be seen and, as she stutters and stumbles through most of her dialogue, determinedly not heard.” Luckily, Haynes knows a thing or two about dolls. He studies his protagonist carefully despite her bland “nice” personality. During an aerobics class early in the film, one of Carol’s friends notices that she doesn’t sweat. For some women, bodily fluids can serve as a great equalizer. Stains from period blood, breast milk, and discharge are embarrassing but they can also serve as a point of humbling feminine connection, and Carol can’t even break a sweat. While this scene is treated flippantly in the moment, it also strikes a symbolic chord. Carol can’t even commiserate over basic bodily functions. Aware of her lack of definition, Carol puts on a theatrical mask and switches it up one day at the beauty salon. Rather than getting her regular cut, she opts for a perm. Haynes draws us into Carol’s self-care routine with a campy Lynchian montage. Nails are painted, hair is set, and magazines are rustled but there’s a creepy non-diegetic buzzing sound that warns us of something ominous. When the curlers are finally lifted, blood drips from Carol’s nose, and her bone chilling emotions spring forward. It’s not a pit stain, but she’s feeling something.
Self-infused incidents like the nosebleed continue throughout Safe’s narrative progression. Everyday chemicals from truck fumes and pesticides trigger Carol so much they reveal physical symptoms like anxiety attacks and vomiting. Haynes hones in on these episodes despite the fact that Carol’s illness doesn’t logically make much sense. Everything around her is “totally toxic” but no one is affected like Carol, thus asking the question: are her attacks real or devastatingly psychological? Haynes ramps up the non-diegetic music during these episodes so we can see the world through Carol’s eyes, but she’s an unreliable narrator. Almost everyone including Carol’s husband Greg (Xander Berkely) seems to think so too, but Carol is obsessive. She believes the world around her is poisonous, and it's hard not to feel her paranoia. She frequents western doctors who tell her she’s fine, so she seeks alternative treatments in creepy suburban homes that are scary and borderline suicidal. Nothing helps and as a result Carol sinks even further into her own illness. These attacks come to define her.
Eventually Haynes moves Carol to an environmental illness rehabilitation center called Wrenwood that is fueled by hypocrisy rather than wellness. Supposedly situated in New Mexico, but filmed in Malibu Creek State Park, Carol leans into her type at Wrenwood. She lives in an isolated little igloo and wears all white like a cult follower and attends lectures that are led by Wrenwood’s director Peter (Peter Friedman), “a chemically sensitive person living with AIDS.” While Peter is charismatic and inviting with a warm smile, he is not trustworthy. Of course, Haynes never says this out right because he wants us to analyze the situation. During an outdoor group therapy session, he asks his patients “why did you become sick.” Everyone has their own idea of what’s wrong, but Peter is quick to point a finger. “You are punishing yourself,” he calmly remarks to one patient named Joyce (Jessica Harper), who has just expressed feelings of deep guilt regarding her son’s terminal illness. She breaks down almost immediately and Peter swiftly moves onto his next victim. To someone who lacks critical thought like Joyce or Carol, this type of therapy might seem helpful, but it’s actually manipulative and abusive. There’s a reason people never leave this compound in the Land of Enchantment. There’s a cult mentality at large.
Safe primarily functions as a character study that lacks intimacy despite its insane attention to detail. Much like Chantal Ackerman’s tale of domestic drudgery Jeanne Dielman, Haynes’s film focuses primarily on his female protagonist, yet he does not prioritize close-ups or point of view shots as the definitive point of spectatorship. Instead, we watch Carol’s every move from afar. Haynes almost always strategically places the camera at distance as a way of showing Carol’s alienation. Long shots are frequent and so is the director’s use of single point perspective. The compositions are simultaneously minimalist and design forward yet completely contrived and uninviting like the rest of the world Haynes creates in Safe.
Despite the film’s cold distance, Haynes ends Safe with a close-up. Carol is looking in a mirror, but there’s an oxygen tank beside her bed and a bruise on her forehead. She’s isolated in her weird igloo bunker. Haynes slowly zooms in on her face as Carol repeats the words “I love you, I really do.” To some this might seem like a happy ending, but read the room. This is not what a self-loving individual looks like. Carol thinks she has finally obtained complete control of her life, but that’s not the actual reality of her current situation. Despite her misgivings, we can’t help but sympathize with Carol. She is in a league of women not often seen on screen. If you stop and think, you probably know a Carol or two. In today’s world, she’s probably reading some tarot cards or buying expensive vitamins online. Look for her. She’s sad, spineless, and extremely common.