If there is any silver lining to the loss of Dolly Parton, as iridescent a force for good and joy in the world as we have perhaps ever been lucky enough to witness, it is the fact that the whole of herself can be found in the art she leaves behind. Rare has an artist given so much of herself over so fully, so willingly, so achingly to be imprinted upon through her words, her smile, her aura of ethereal effervescence; a bleach blonde avatar of our better angels given free wing to sing. Her music is immortal; its legacy sure to outlast the lives of any person reading or writing these words. Yet, it is perhaps in her on-screen performances when the whole of her can be best gleaned, dissected, and, perhaps even, understood. Dolly’s cinematic output was fairly prolific in the 1980’s; she contributed musically, as well as dramatically, to the iconic “9 to 5,” “The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas” and even the endearingly ridiculous “Rhinestone.” The outlier of this era of her career, however, comes with a project where the glittering mask of her perfectly coifed public persona is at its most bare; a paring back of her beloved iconography into something more relatable, or at the very least achievable: the Louisiana-set classic “Steel Magnolias.”
“Steel Magnolias” (1989), based on the stage play by Robert Harling, placed Dolly at the center of a group of women doing their best to keep their chins high while the rest of the world threatens to collapse around them. As Truvy, the owner of the town’s most popular beauty salon, which just so happens to be in her own backyard, Dolly is a lighthouse amid troubled waters; the lifeblood of the film and its most lasting character, the neighbor, the aunt, the godmother that every viewer wishes they had. Her salon is a place of safety and sanity, a welcome haven free from the needs of the boorish men who these women are plagued with loving. Truvy is part saint, part savant, a sage confidant who is quick with a quip and generous with her smile. When the bookish and frazzled Annelle (Daryl Hannah) stumbles her way into the shop in desperate need of a job, all thumbs during her haphazard audition, Truvy’s support is unflinching and earnest, providing helpful feedback while ultimately offering to hire the young woman as a “glamour technician.” “There is no such thing as natural beauty,” says Truvy, and Dolly herself exemplified this adage most profoundly. The beauty of her soul, of her generosity, of her eager relation to everyone she met and knew may have been inherent, but it was certainly not natural. Dolly was, it seems, the most unnatural person to ever exist; endlessly giving, nurturing, and self-deprecating, a woman who knew her worth and worked to show the rest of us our own. The kindness of Truvy feels indicative of the Dolly we know and adore; the same supportive spirit that made her as much an icon for Southern women as she was a sainted figure among the LGBTQ community. Her shimmering influence transcended gender, race, sexuality, and, perhaps most surprisingly, political affiliation. Truvy’s shop, with Dolly manning the hair dryer, is what America pretends it is and perhaps, if given the proper guidance, might one day be: an emotionally protective space where all comers are welcome, where the tired, the poor, the lost and the downtrodden are beseeched to sit back, unburden themselves, and feel loved. Dolly was a woman who gave that same brand of love freely, projected it through her voice, her smile and her deeds. In a film filled to the brim with Magnolias, hers blooms brightest.
With all of her inherent and self-styled glam, the flamboyant hair and the fabulous clothes she openly wore as armor against those who might dare belittle or dismiss her, Dolly was just as willing to let down that guard and show the gooier core of the glitz; an intimacy that came through in the most lasting of her music and in the quieter moments of her work in “Steel Magnolias”. Far from the madcap laughter of the salon, Dolly’s finest moments in the film come in her scenes with Sam Shepherd as Truvy’s layabout husband Spud, where the slow disintegration of her marriage is allowed to play out in the tears clinging to the corners of her eyes. Spud is not a bad man, but has lost his way; choosing to bemoan his depression at not finding work by lying up in bed while nursing a can of Dixie, with zero time for his doting wife who clearly loves him through the malaise. As Truvy, Dolly does her best to bring sunshine into Spud’s doldrums, hoping to rekindle the affection they clearly once shared by spurring him to join her at a Christmas festival. But Spud is too wrapped up in his own self-loathing, feeling that he has little value if he is not earning a living for his family, and is perhaps a bit emasculated by his wife’s success. If only he could see the woman sitting right beside him, begging to be embraced: “I’ve got fried chicken prepared by Christian women and a bottle of cheap wine,” she croons to Spud, who can barely look at her, let alone love her. Dolly, in these scenes, does not hide her devastation behind any facade; here she allows us to not only see her sadness but feel it, the soft disappointment hiding behind the slightest of smiles. It is within that yearning that Dolly the person, not the icon, can be found, a woman who gives all the love she has but still needs it returned to her. If a woman this beautiful, talented, and kind could have her man taken by Jolene, what hope might the rest of us have? She tasks herself with facilitating the happiness of everyone around her while allowing her own sadness to simmer. At the film’s end, Truvy is putting herself together to attend the funeral of her friend’s daughter and is surprised to see Spud willing to go with her, even asking whether or not his one good tie is appropriate to wear. She listens as Spud, finally, opens up to her about his fears of losing her, awkwardly unloading the feelings Truvy may have hoped he still held but would not allow himself to express. It’s often said the finest quality of a performer is in how they listen. Here, Dolly listens with the best of them; the love she feels for this man cascading over her face as would the soft rising of a lunar tide on a warm Summer night. She sees the truth of him now, just as Dolly herself seemed to see the truth of people in life; loving them for their faults, their scabs, their best intentions, and their brightest lights. That was her superpower: to stare unblinking into the face of mankind and see only the hope, all while doing her part to spread joy and goodness as far as she could, offering a luminous hug that could envelop the whole world. It’s easy to be jealous of Spud here, undeserving as he might be, of Dolly’s uninhibited affections. Dullard that he is, her love holds no strings; it is open, it is willing, and it is pure. “The hell is this for,” Spud asks as he fiddles with a green sludge on Truvy’s workstation. Dolly just smiles, through tears of happiness and grief threatening to fall and intermingle. “It makes you pretty.”
Dolly in “Steel Magnolias” is radiant, stunning without overpowering, shimmering without pulling focus from those around her. Rarely has a performer of her stature been so eager to share praise, give adulation, and elevate those around her; exemplified by the endless philanthropic work that has uplifted communities for decades. Her light still shines, and will do so forever, as will the quiet grief we all share for, while perhaps never knowing her, losing her all the same. “Please don’t cry, or I will to,” says Truvy. “I have a strict policy that nobody cries alone in my presence.” Even in her absence, our tears will fall, but Dolly was so much more than herself; she was something grander, more bountiful, shared by anyone who ever dreamed, loved, wept, sang, or had the great pleasure of always loving her as she always loved us in return. And in that spirit, she will live on.
