A New Economy of the Prostitute and Its Dangers

Alert to the discrepancies in wealth (and the vastly different modes of physical labor it takes to acquire that wealth), Pretty Woman imagines a new the economy of the prostitute by offering a critique of the traditional figures in the economy of prostitution—prostitute, john, pimp. (In the process, we can say, the movie reconfigures the function of the prostitute by making of her, in Žižek’s terms, a moral actor.)

The roommates Vivian and her fellow-prostitute Kit do not have a pimp. It is more cost efficient, they recognize, to be their own economic advocates; although, of course, it makes their line of work more dangerous, because there is no one to protect them should the need arise; as it often does with johns who will, for example, not pay or who will do violence to the women. And the potential for violence is made all too clear at the beginning of Pretty Woman when Vivian spots the high heeled shoe of a dead prostitute in a dumpster outside the Las Palmas, a cheap motel complex close to where they live. Turns out that the murdered prostitute is a woman whom Kit knew, even though Kit dismisses her as a “crack whore,” more or less. Vivian and Kit, the latter of whom introduced the smalltown girl from Georgia to the streets and showed her the ropes, are therefore bound to be each other’s protection, a risk they are willing to take. They keep everything they earn. Taking risks is in keeping with Vivian’s mode of being because, as she tells Edward in an early exchange, she’s a “fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kinda girl.”

In her encounter with Edward, however, their short circuiting the economy of the prostitute works to Vivian’s (and later Kit’s) advantage. An economic free agent, Vivian can negotiate her own terms, allowing her to move freely between the street and the (one-off opportunity to ply her trade in a) luxurious high-rise hotel where Edward is taking up temporary residence. Vivian’s freedom of movement enables her to maximize her profit, to work wherever the going rate is best. And, because of the violence to which prostitutes are exposed, her contract with Edward is not only financially lucrative, but the upscale hotel—as opposed to the seedy motel of death—is almost completely safe, at least in physical terms.

But not, we should add, entirely. And the source of the violence belongs not to a random john cruising the less desirable parts of LA, but to Edward’s expensively dressed but decidedly unlikable lawyer, Stuckey. Already angry at Vivian for prodding Edward, in his negotiations with Morse Industries, in the direction of preservation (of the Morses’ company) rather than liquidation (the conventional PEF strategy), Stuckey the lawyer (a profession enamored of a “sharp, useless look,” according to Vivian) first assaults Vivian verbally before trying to force her to have sex with him. It’s what she does anyway, Stuckey reasons. In other words, Stuckey tries to rape her. Edward happens upon the scene, punches Stuckey, thus sparing Vivian from Stuckey’s assault. The prostitute, as those who study the profession have long insisted, is not safe anywhere. They are fair game to everyone, regardless of socioeconomic status.

At the Regent Beverly Wilshire hotel, where the prostitute’s dream and nightmare coexist cheek by jowl, lavish seduction (and seclusion) and brutal rape are but an encounter—a single individual—away.