Ellen's midlife crisis
Ellen Brody's midlife crisis is the novel's most intimate and sustained portrait of psychological and emotional distress, a slow-burning discontent that flares into reckless action and finally subsides into a chastened, more mature awareness. It is not a single event but a state that deepens across the summer, fed by nostalgia, social alienation, and a gnawing sense of lost possibility, and it culminates in an affair that leaves her more isolated than before.
Origins and Social Dislocation
The roots of Ellen's crisis lie in the social bargain she struck when she married Martin Brody. As a young woman from a wealthy summer family—a Wellesley student who had been voted "Most Sincere" at Miss Porter's School—she chose a policeman over the bankers and brokers her peers married, a decision that cost her the world she knew. For years, the estrangement did not bother her; she was too busy raising three children. But when her youngest started school, she found herself adrift, and the life she had rejected—shopping excursions, long lunches, tennis, cocktail parties—now seemed like paradise. She tried to re-establish bonds with old friends, but all commonality had vanished; she talked about local politics and her volunteer work at the hospital, while they talked about New York galleries and writers. The conversations ended with feeble promises to get together, promises that were never kept. She tried to make new friends among the summer people, but the associations were forced and brief, undermined by her self-consciousness about her house and her husband's modest salary. She made sure everyone knew she had started her Amity life on a different plane, and she hated herself for it. By the time the novel opens, she has largely given up on active forays into the summer community, but the resentments and longings linger. She is unhappy, and she takes out most of her unhappiness on her husband, a fact both understand but only he can tolerate. She wishes she could go into suspended animation for that quarter of every year.
The Affair as a Desperate Remedy
Ellen's encounter with Matt Hooper, the younger brother of a man she once dated, acts as a catalyst. Their meeting in Albert Morris's hardware store reawakens her past with startling vividness: Hooper remembers her charm bracelet, her pageboy haircut, the song "Sh-Boom," and the samba contest she won at the Beach Club. The past flies at her, swirling around her head, showering her with longing. She feels a terrible, painful sadness, convinced that the best part of her life is behind her. She hates her life and hates herself for hating it. She sees Hooper as the only possible donor for an injection of her past, a transfusion of its essence. The thought of love never enters her mind; she seeks only to be serviced, restored. She initiates the affair by calling him at the Abelard Arms Inn and arranging a lunch at Banner's in Sag Harbor, a restaurant far enough from Amity to offer anonymity. She prepares with the meticulous care of a woman reclaiming her desirability: she shaves her legs, powders herself, dabs cologne on her nipples and genitals, and examines herself in a full-length mirror, wondering if the goods are good enough. During the lunch, she drinks more than usual, shares sexual fantasies, and steers the conversation toward a motel. The encounter itself, however, is disturbing. Hooper's ferocity and intensity during their first coupling frighten her; his eyes are fixed and unseeing, his teeth clenched, and he continues to pump madly even after his climax, oblivious of her. She has to tap him on the back and say, "Hey, I'm here too." The memory lingers disturbingly in her mind.
The Aftermath and Reckoning
After the affair, Ellen feels a twinge of shame, but it passes quickly. She lies to Brody about her whereabouts, claiming she came home from the hospital early because she felt ill. She feels a new, cynical sophistication, thinking to herself, "Now I am a woman of the world." But the affair does not provide the lasting restoration she craved. When she learns of Hooper's death—killed by the shark while trying to photograph it from a cage—she cries mechanically, angrily, grieving not so much for him as in hopelessness and bitterness at yet another death. She had been sadder at the disintegration of Larry Vaughan, a dear and close friend. Hooper had been a "lover" in only the shallowest sense; she had not loved him. She had used him, and though she was grateful for what he gave her, she felt no obligation to him. In her mind, he becomes a relic of her distant past, no different from his brother David.
Resolution and Renewed Perspective
The crisis finds its resolution not in a return to the past but in a fearful confrontation with the present. When Brody tells her he is going back out with Quint to kill the shark, she is furious and scared, begging him not to go. She accuses him of being selfish, of wanting revenge. But when he leaves, she waits. When he returns, exhausted and shaken, she wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him hard on the mouth. The experience has forced her to recognize the richness of her life—a relationship with Brody more rewarding than any Larry Vaughan would ever experience, an amalgam of minor trials and tiny triumphs that add up to something akin to joy. She feels regret that it took her so long to see the waste of time and emotion in trying to cling to her past. She feels fear that something might happen to Brody before she can savor her awareness. The crisis is not erased, but it is transformed into a more mature, if still fragile, appreciation for the life she has chosen.
