Why are we drawn to the soft horror of the other woman? She is desire defined, with the freedom to explore what it may bring in whatever way she wants. But often stories that feature this other woman, the third wheel as the adage goes, only wish to present a downfall.
I’m going to make this, at least briefly, about Anne Boleyn.
The stories we tell of Anne Boleyn, which we must tell because the facts leave only the bones of a compelling narrative, are often of the other woman. Boleyn, born anywhere between 1498 and 1512 (although 1501 and 1507 are the two most definitive dates agreed upon), was the quintessential second wife in a century not lacking in those. She wasn’t even the first second wife of a major political figure via divorce in that decade which lex to a break from the Catholic Church. That honour goes to the second wife of the Langrave of Hesse, Margarethe von de Saale.
The love story of Anne and Henry should have been one for the ages. They lasted through seven years of celibacy. He gave up his religion. Tradition died for this marriage. But the story of the second wife of Henry VIII doesn’t end happily. It ends in infidelity, miscarriages, and murder. She falls by his order, and he in turn repeats the pattern established with her many times over.
Her word is beheaded.
Many second wives meet similar ends in fiction, particularly if the first is still around to empathise with. They’re a mid-life crisis, or a harpy preying on a sick and stupid man. It’s Sarah Jessica Parker in First Wives Club (1996) or Edie Britt in Desperate Housewives (2004-2012). Rarely do second wives exist as characters, but more as symbols. They latch on to established money and families like parasites, draining until they’re too full to move, or they’re torn off.
There are, of course, acceptable second wives. Men in media and history have always been allowed to move on with their life and remarry. It’s almost tradition. There is no Sound of Music (1965) without Maria. These women are not the other for these scenarios. But with the first wife is still around, her presence lurking as with Mrs Rochester in Jane Eyre - threatening to burn down this beautifully adorned new life for their husband - there is trouble. With this scenario I’m reminded of Katherine of Aragon sewing Henry Tudor’s shirts for him until he forced her to stop for Anne’s sake. There’s comfort in the familiar, but there’s also the threat to what is new.
When I was younger and in a real big romance phase, one book I absolutely adored (it’s fun garbage) was Shining Through by Susan Isaacs. The story of a woman of German Jewish heritage who goes undercover in Nazi Germany is thrilling. Except the spy stuff isn’t really the point of the story. It’s more along the lines of Stella Got Her Groove Back, except the groove is WWII. You see, Linda Voss is the other woman, but in a way where she’s still the better woman. Her new husband just awful. Hot, blond, and ball-less. She’s a spy, he’s a starfucker for the law. He only got with her because a one-night stand ended with a pregnancy right after his first wife left him for more interesting pastures. Linda, the protagonist and class-act, eventually divorces him to get with his former father-in-law. I ate this shit up.
This is only brought up because I want to outline just how much effort must be put into stories to make the other woman a figure of sympathy. Remove the WWII crap and Linda Voss is essentially just Shelley from First Wives Club who went for a lawyer. Her inner monologue tells us constantly just how much she knows she deserves better than this. Her actions speak otherwise.
But then again I love Anne Boleyn.
That’s the trouble. Context is truly everything, and most of the other woman figures exist outside of that. They’re objects of desire, but they’re also objects of scorn. Lana Del Rey’s music often plays around with the tragedy and pain of being a highly sort after second choice. But it often doesn’t really tell the story of a person who feels real. There’s the essence of tragedy, pulling suitably glamorous imagery, but the characters of Lana Del Rey aren’t people. They’re Warhol copies of sad women.
To put my own feelings under the microscope, let me compare Anne Boleyn to her most obvious counterpoint: Jane Seymour. On the surface, these are two women who history has been unkind to. They were both the other woman with Henry VIII. They both died extremely early into their marriages. So why does Anne Boleyn elicit such a strong reaction of empathy across centuries, whereas the reputation of Henry Tudor’s third wife continues to plumet?
Jane Seymour’s rise mirrors Anne’s seemingly by intention. But that’s just an interpretation of her life story. Henry VIII’s third queen is more of a mystery than any of his others by design. She seems to have expressed exactly one political opinion as Queen, leaves no cultural legacy outside of Anne’s fall, and ultimately does not matter. But she isn’t without context.
If Anne Boleyn’s rapid fall from grace is tragic because of the love affair ended so quicky, Jane’s ended quicker. If it’s sad to think of a mother missing her only child’s life, well, Jane mostly likely never even met her son before infection took her life. They were either the same age or Anne a few years older when they died. But the crucial difference is the context of humanity. Seymour has very little lingering humanity to recommend her. She’s the other woman in traditional glory. She stole the affections of a man from his partner of almost 10 years during a pregnancy which ended in miscarriage (in some tellings sparked by the discovery of the infidelity) only to marry that man 11 days after her execution. At least with Anne in regard to Catherine of Aragon, the spark had long died and attempts were made for an amicable spit. Jane walked through blood for her crown.
But this is the least charitable read of Jane Seymour’s life. The woman leaves no quotes, no thoughts, no interesting facts to make her exciting in death. She’s considered the least of everything in retrospect. Jane doesn’t even get the credit of being attractive, then or now. She was just pale.
Faded.
There are obviously other comparisons to make in the realm of the other woman that are fun. Honey from Fresh Off the Boat (2015-2020) is a great example of humanising her from a trophy wife to a real person with flaws and growth. Her arc, from the exiled bride on the block to kooky but loveable extended member of the Huang household is fascinating in this context. Much like Celia in The Help (2011), Honey is simply too symbolically desirable for most of the woman near her to find non-threatening. Unlike Celia, Honey is allowed space to be a person with resentment and subsequent growth from that which allows her to form friendships.
Or to put it more bluntly, Honey is granted better writing and Chelsey Crisp isn’t saddled with giving a mid-tier Monroe impersonation. But we can unpack the smaller ways The Help fails another time. It’s a FLAWED film.
Honey is actually a really uncommon variation of the other woman simply because she’s not a doormat nor really a villain. The show probably goes too far in sanding off the harsher edges of her marriage as it progresses, but the truth is, she earns everyone’s respect on her own terms. Her desirability isn’t skin deep, and charm isn’t always tied to sex. Even her husband’s first wife winds up being warm to her. Empathy gets her extremely far. Much like how Anne Boleyn (I know I’m pushing this comparison but please be indulgent) has grown in esteem due to a perceived personality.
But these examples of the other woman in media are the exceptions, not the rule. Too often in film and television is she just an obstacle. She’s sometimes even a punishment to the short-sighted man. Her feelings are abstract, her purpose is simply to exist.
So why are we fascinated by the soft horror of the other woman? Because she’s a looming threat to every happy relationship. Men in media don’t just cheat, they’re tricked. They fall into waiting, menacing vaginas that want to destroy families. While there are women who want to take that role, oftentimes it’s a way for men to assign blame elsewhere. They can’t be the one at fault if they’re also a victim. These narratives make her tragically lonely, standards too high until she lowers them to earth and discovers all the “good men” are taken. So she takes one back. She does her hair and nails not because she wants to, but because she can. At best, she’s a bimbo, at worst, a predator.
I’m going to end by promising I’m going to write a sequel to this soon-ish specifically about the best film ever made, The Other Woman (2014).