‘Olivia’ Part 5: Death by a Thousand Cuts

This is the last in a series of five essays about Olivia (1951). These essays are based on personal reflections, research, and observations related to the film. I offer these words only in appreciation of the film and those who made it. 

Each character in Olivia is grappling with a universal experience—whether it be the hope of self-discovery, the determination to move forward, or the fear of being left behind—all through the lens of queer womanhood. Overcoming the challenges of these experiences is integral to their survival, and what unfolds in the film is a series of bittersweet mistakes, difficult choices, and broken promises that add such layered nuance to this story that queer women are still drawn to it today.

One critical piece of information that permeates nearly every frame of this film is this: Julie almost never initiates contact with Olivia unless she’s been rebuffed by Cara. The only time she does so with clear intention is at the end of the film when she visits Olivia in her room, thus neglecting Cara who then dies. It’s the ultimate mistake. To turn entirely away from Cara to find solace in Olivia is fatal in every way imaginable. Not only does a long-time love take its final turn at the introduction of this young girl, but Cara dies, the school falls prey to Frau Riesner, and Julie’s whole life crashes and burns. It’s not so far-fetched to think that Julie views Olivia as a danger or bad omen, which may be the reason she gifts her with the paper knife at the end of the film.

Julie uses the paper knife to start a story anew, to turn the pages in her books, to push a narrative forward, to continue on in her task of reading (Note: Paper knives were used to cut open a new book, paper cutters were used when binding books). If we’re to apply this forward-looking lens to Julie herself, it comes into play when we learn from Cara that Julie doesn’t like things of the past such as posing for photos. We also see Julie use the paper knife at opportune moments that foreshadow what’s to come: when prompting Olivia to talk about herself in the library, when handing back the girls’ devoirs and remarking on Olivia’s potential for the first time, when defending herself against Cara’s accusations of impropriety (as Olivia also does with the paper knife in hand), and announcing her departure. 

In these moments, the paper knife gives Julie an air of power, keeps her at arm’s length, and protects her from getting too near or too invested. It’s a barrier of sorts, one she sees as an extension of herself and as a reminder of her victory in this life: it suggests she’s ready to raise her sword to any person or circumstance that threatens to dismantle or capture her. We know nothing of Julie’s past and as such can never know the battles she fought to find her place at Les Avons, especially as a woman both at the center (intellectual) and at the margins (sexual) of society. What we do know is that she won those battles, earned the respect of her peers, and found some semblance of contentment. The paper knife, then, could be interpreted as the physical manifestation of her will to survive, of her hope for the future, of her need to feel safe. 

And yet, the paper knife serves as much as a bridge as it does a barrier. Olivia, Julie remarks, will never be victorious in these battles. She’ll require reinforcement because, like herself, she’s been marked by a love that dare not speak its name. The paper knife, then, is a torch to be passed, a beacon of light (of remembrance?) to guide Olivia in her murky journey toward self-realization. But the paper knife has been degraded along the way. Like Olivia, Julie—who has used her brand of love to spoil Cara rotten and encroach upon the innocence of young girls—is a dangerous presence, one who brings disaster upon those she loves. 

By the end of the film, Julie has been reborn and redeemed: she recognizes the error of her ways, understands that one must not give in to every temptation lest she risk everything she truly holds dear. She’s totally vulnerable to her truth and to the ultimate pain of losing all that she loves. She must move forward; this particular book is closed and the paper knife no longer serves a purpose for her, or so she thinks. 

In Olivia the novel, the paper knife stays in Julie’s possession. She remains steadfast against Olivia’s attempts to reach her and has the paper knife sent back to Olivia when she dies. To me, this suggests two things: 1) that Olivia, not yet ready to let go of the past, is not at all ready to have the torch passed to her by Julie, and 2) that Julie, who tried to remain focused on the present by rejecting Olivias’s attempts to contact her, still needed the reminder to move forward—to keep turning the pages in her own story until it came to its eventual end. 

What, then, could the film be saying about the nature of queerness during the Victorian era? And then during the 1950’s when it was made?

My best guess is that the challenges of being a queer woman in a man’s world were so persistent that Julie could only find some semblance of peace and safety in the cocoon of Les Avons. There, she could let her guard down somewhat and share her love for Cara—and women in general—freely but only because she herself single-handedly cultivated that kind of environment. But that drive came at a cost. 

“I’ve struggled my whole life, but I’ve always been victorious and proudly so. And now I wonder if losing would not have been best for everyone,” Julie says to Olivia at the end of the film. “But you, Olivia, you will never be victorious. If you are defeated…when you are defeated…” and her voice trails off. 

Here Julie is still trying to win, all the while clutching the paper knife and ready to make the next fateful cut.