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Imagine the following scene: It is a rainy night in a major city. A crowd of people wait expectantly outside one of the city's great houses, for tonight there is to be a grand, high-society wedding. The mistress of the house has ordered the drapes drawn from a large picture window through which the crowd outside may view the pageantry inside, as on a vast movie screen. Out of the darkness and rain, a middle-aged woman, clad in a shabby hat and coat, tries to enter the house, but is told that she cannot. She joins the crowd gathered outside the wrought-iron gate and stands transfixed as she watches the wedding from the street. She grasps the gate with both hands, a look of awe and wonder on her face. As the wedding progresses, tears begin to course down her cheeks. At one point, a policeman tries to move her along, but she pleads for a few minutes more. “Oh, please let me see her face when he kisses her,” she pleads. The policeman relents. As the bride turns to kiss the groom, the woman's face alights with pleasure, as she abstractedly chews on her handkerchief in excitement. The policeman returns, and, reluctantly but with a satisfied sigh and wistful backward glance, the woman turns and walks away. A warm glow of triumph suffuses her features; and she fades from sight.
This is the final scene of King Vidor's 1937 film, Stella Dallas, a “sacrificial” maternal melodrama, which was part of a genre known as the “woman's” film. At the height of its popularity during the