Brigit McCone – Page 2

Five Female Directors Who Helped Shape Nollywood

Amaka Igwe (1963 – 2014)

Nollywood, the Nigerian film industry, has overtaken Hollywood in terms of its volume of output, and is now second only to Bollywood. What were once dismissed as stilted, static, and amateurish films made on home video, have now developed into their own distinctive visual style and genres, which are popular and influential across Africa and the African diaspora worldwide. One of the visionaries who helped to shape the Nollywood phenomenon, Amaka Igwe ran her own production company and owned a radio station, as well as writing and directing films such as Rattle Snake and Violated, and their sequels, having debuted as writer and producer of the award-winning TV soap Checkmate. Her work with Amaka Igwe Studios is credited with raising standards in the Nollywood industry as a whole. Using the Igbo language, Igwe’s films were aimed squarely at a national audience, allowing people to see their own everyday lives and conflicts mirrored in her works.

Tope Oshin Ogun

“My films, I mean the ones that are my personal projects, have serious themes and deal with the situations and problems in our society today. I am not all for entertainment for entertainment’s sake” – Tope Oshin Ogun

Now the CEO of Sunbow Productions Ltd., the actress Tope Oshin Ogun credits Amaka Igwe for getting her into directing and inspiring her to think that she could take a broader control of her films. Igwe noticed that Ogun was asking intelligent questions about all aspects of production and told her that she had a director’s brain. Amaka Igwe’s legacy thus continues in the films of Tope Oshin Ogun, demonstrating the importance of mentoring and precedent between women in the industry. After she decided to take this direction, a number of the directors that she had worked with as an actress allowed her to intern for them, watching them at work while she prepared to make the transition herself. Ogun began by directing many episodes of the television soap opera Tinsel, which is popular across Africa. Tope Oshin Ogun’s feature film Journey to Self chronicles the bonding journey of four women, tackling personal details and reaching self-realization. Filmed from a female perspective, the four women leads are staying at the home of a deceased friend and reading her insightful letters, triggering their own journeys of self-discovery. An intense story of female friendship, empowerment, sacrifice, and self-respect, Journey to Self illustrates Tope Oshin Ogun’s commitment to telling women’s stories that have meaning for her audience.

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Sandra Mbanefo Obiago

“I’m concerned about the fact that we download a lot about ourselves yet upload very little into mainstream media, no matter which media we are talking about”, – Sandra Mbanefo Obiago

Concerned about African women’s authorship of their own image, Sandra Mbanefo Obiago founded Communicating for Change (CFC) in 1998 with the mission of becoming a content provider for positive films documenting social challenges in ways that have a strong human interest and creative angle to engage the viewer. She points to Hollywood films like Blood Diamond with its diamond trafficking storyline, as having greater global impact in raising awareness than dry documentaries, while the popular South African series Soul City was able to reach more viewers with carefully researched HIV/AIDS storylines than the “awareness” films of NGOs. Recently, Obiago has taken her long-standing interest in visual art to found African Art Spectrum, and believes that closer collaboration between Nigeria’s writers, musicians, visual artists, photographers and filmmakers will be key to developing the artistic level of Nollywood film. In For Love of Indigo, Obiago celebrates the traditional Yoruba indigo textile artform of adire, through the figure of the internationally famed artist Nike Okundaye. Nike’s life story begins with hardships faced by many rural women, before rising to an extraordinary level of both individual success and generosity in giving back to the community. Among the many women that she mentored in adire were Nigerian emigrants to Italy, who had fallen into the sex industry from a lack of other money-making options, and who were able to use the craft as an alternative source of income.

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Watch Sandra Mbanefo Obiago’s films on culture unplugged.

Remi Vaughan-Richards

“The rest of the world documents… why do you think we have museums everywhere in the world? Because it’s important” – Remi Vaughan-Richards

Remi Vaughan-Richards is the Creative Director of Singing Tree Films, “a hub of creative minds with a mission to entertain, inform and educate using behavior change communication methods.” Based in Nigeria, the company provides content for diverse clients, including the BBC World Service Trust’s Nigeria branch, Sandra Mbanefo Obiago’s Communicating for Change and Ondo State Government. She is interested in defining Nigerian modernity that is rooted in history, and reimagines issues in a new light, integrating her Western training with her Nigerian culture. For examples, in Scent of the Street, a documentary exploring “area girls” from rougher neighbourhoods or “areas” of the capital city Lagos, the subjects Bisayo, Onyinye and Gift are given space to speak for themselves and define their own ambitions. Though she currently lives off dates, Onyinye is clear about her family loyalties and sense of responsibility as a provider for younger siblings, as well as ambition as a model and fashion designer. Bisayo’s role as “Area Mother” is highlighted for the diplomatic and leadership qualities that her hustle requires. Gift’s more modest ambitions for her own market stall, and for safety walking home at night, accepting the protection of her “fine” boyfriend, are equally honored. Scent of the Street reclaims the role of women in hustling street life from an ornamental role on the margins, to put it center stage. Finally, a partnership with Obiago’s Communicating for Change allowed all three of the documentary’s subjects to enroll in life skill classes, to help transform their outlook and the opportunities available to them.

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Watch Scent of the Street on vimeo.

Michelle Bello

“I love romantic comedies, you know, I’m a romantic at heart, so I was just like, ‘this will be fun to do’ “ – Michelle Bello

A film director and producer, Michelle Bello is the CEO of Nigerian-based film company Blu Star Entertainment Ltd.. After studying communications at the American University in Washington D.C., Bello made her first 16mm short, Sheltered, during a study-abroad program in Prague. After graduation she moved home to Nigeria, becoming an Associate Producer on Mo Abudu’s hit MNet TV Show Moments with Mo, then produced the award-winning music video for T.Y. Bello’s “Greenland.” In 2008, she completed her first feature film, Small Boy, which was nominated for two awards at the Los Angeles American Black Film Festival and won two African Movie Academy Awards in 2009 for its art direction and child star. A film about a young boy living on the streets of Lagos after fleeing abuse at home, it offered a true-to-life portrait of a child in crisis. In a complete change of tone, her next feature, 2013’s Flower Girl, was an escapist romantic comedy in which a shy florist teams up with a movie star to press her long-term boyfriend into proposing. As Africa can be stereotyped as a crisis zone or exotic backdrop, it is important to see films like Bello’s that celebrate universal human aspirations to love and laughter. Flower Girl became a number one box office hit in Nigeria and Ghana, before receiving a limited U.K. theatrical release, making Bello the first female director to have an international cinematic release, a core part of a new wave of Nollywood directors that are furthering the industry as global players. Together with the other women on this list, Michelle Bello seems to promise a strong female voice in African cinema going forward.

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Brigit McCone believes globalization ought to flow both ways. She writes and directs short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and researching overlooked female artists.

Vintage Viewing: Maya Deren, Experimental Eccentric

Part of Vintage Viewing, exploring the work of female filmmaking pioneers.

Maya Deren: spacetime surrealist

Born Eleanora Derenkowsky in Kiev, Ukraine, in 1917, the Derenkowsky family fled antisemitism to arrive in New York in 1922 and take the name Deren. Maya Deren became a pioneer in the development of experimental cinema in the USA. Like Germaine Dulac, she was film theorist as much as director. As a dancer and choreographer as well as poet, writer and photographer, however, Deren placed her own body at the centre of her most famous works, becoming a performance artist in a way that Dulac did not. Deren experimented with superimposition effects, and the unifying of diverse spaces through the movement of her body to create enmeshing, hallucinogenic dreamscapes recalling Alice’s trip down the rabbit-hole. Her film symphonies are composed using rhythm and the repetitions of ritual to probe questions of identity and the forces entrapping her heroines. Deren was an auteur in the fullest sense: director, writer, cinematographer, editor and performer.

A student of journalism and political science at Syracuse University, Deren was politically engaged. Her master’s, however, in English and symbolist poetry, point to her contrasting impulses towards abstraction and the poetic. Touring and performing across the USA with the Katherine Dunham Dance Company, Deren met the Czechoslovakian filmmaker Alexander Hammid in Los Angeles, and produced her first and best-known experimental film in collaboration with him: Meshes of the Afternoon. Marrying Hammid and moving back to New York, Deren took the name Maya, the Buddhist term for the illusionary aspect of existence and, in Greek mythology, a messenger of the Gods. The film critic Thomas Schatz has pointed to Meshes as the first example of “the poetic psychodrama” a “scandalous and radically artistic” form of art film that “emphasized a dreamlike quality, tackled questions of sexual identity, featured taboo or shocking images, and used editing to liberate spatio-temporal logic from the conventions of Hollywood realism.” In this respect, poetic psychodrama was an important source for the art of music video, which illustrates the circular rhythms and alternative moods of the music, rather than limiting itself to the logic of linear storytelling. Though her work was silent, almost musical rhythms of repetitions and variations were central to all Deren’s films.

As an independent distributor, Deren exhibited her films and gave lectures on them across the USA, Cuba, and Canada, helping to nurture a D.I.Y aesthetic of countercultural arthouse film, directly inspiring Amos Vogel’s formation of Cinema 16, a film society promoting experimental films in New York. In 1947, Deren won the Cannes Film Festival’s Grand Prix Internationale, before receiving a Guggenheim Foundation Fellowship to research Haitian voodoo ritual, shooting over 18,000 feet of documentary footage and publishing the study Divine Horsemen: The Living Gods of Haiti. Deren became a participant in the ritual and was initiated as a priestess, while remaining simultaneously an academic observer. Tensions between observer and participant were a running theme of her work. In the late 1950s, Deren herself formed the Creative Film Foundation to reward independent filmmakers. Deren died in 1961, aged just 44. She remains a key influence on New American Cinema, homaged by creators such as David Lynch.

Meshes of the Afternoon – 1943

“Everything that happens in the dream has its basis in a suggestion in the first sequence – the knife, the key, the repetition of the stairs, the figure disappearing around a curve in the road.” – Maya Deren

A luxurious Hollywood villa becomes an entrapping nightmare in Meshes of the Afternoon, Deren’s most influential film, where cycles of images become the meshes that bind the heroine. Opening with the delicately feminine image of a bare arm placing a flower carefully onto the ground and abandoning it, the heroine’s shadow, apparently detached, returns to grasp the flower before her body reenters the frame. Fragments and glimpsed body parts resist the tendency of cinema to pan over and survey women, defining Deren’s heroine rather by her actions and movements as the propulsive agent of the film, which shares her gaze as it roams over the house. A lost key falls downstairs in dreamlike slowmotion. A knife stabbing bread unites the feminine domesticity of cookery with a hint of violence. What is the meaning of the tall black figure whose face is a mirror as (s)he steals the heroine’s flower? Death? A male partner onto whom she projects herself? Stairs twist and distort around the angles of her writhing body, like an M. C. Escher optical illusion, until the heroine is looking down on the sleeping self that had started by imagining her. Key objects – knife, record player, key, flower – jump into new positions regularly, further destabilizing the reality of the film’s location and the logic of its timeframe. In an iconic image, the second “dream” version of Maya stands framed at the window, wistfully observing yet another version of herself performing the same looped actions she has just completed. Key becomes knife becomes key: death the only release? Seascape becomes patio becomes carpet in the space of a few steps, making a mockery of Hollywood realism in favor of dream logic. The knife-wielding version of herself becomes a male partner who wakes the dreamer, hangs up the phone and restores spacio-temporal logic. But another leap, from flower to knife, shatters the mirror (or illusory maya?) of reality to reveal a seascape beyond, and the man returns to find his floor covered in mirrored shards and his apparently dead lover draped in seaweed. Where was the “reality” within these meshes?

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At Land – 1944

“The whole is so related to every part that whether one reads horizontally, vertically, diagonally or even in reverse, the logic of the whole is not disrupted, but remains intact.” – Maya Deren

Like an informal sequel to Meshes of the Afternoon, At Land opens with the heroine lying washed up on a wild seascape whose waves flow backwards upon the opening of her eyes. Driftwood appears beside her and becomes a magically distorting staircase similar to the central staircase of Meshes of the Afternoon. In this case, climbing the driftwood leads Maya to a long dining table full of leering, gossiping, and judging society faces. Crawling down a table and jungle simultaneously, Deren links these wildly different spaces through the movement of her own body. The dinner party ignores her, making her existence seem unreal in their mundane space, while the leaves bend before her reality. Finding a chess board at the end of her crawl, Deren moves the pieces telekinetically, using the movements of her eyeballs alone, a taken piece falling through a hole in the rocky seashore and being swept away by the tide as Deren chases it, in another circular return to the original space. A man joins her on her solitary walk down the countryside – the first living person to interact with her. As the camera switches back and forth between the figures, a different man is substituted for the first, slyly playing an identical role. A third substitution, and the figure is Alexander Hamid, familiar as the male figure in Meshes of the Afternoon. Following him into a wooden hut, she crawls underneath and rises in an empty space of covered furniture, which tents and reveals yet another man. Dropping a cat, Deren walks away through repetitive sequences of door frames that lead her back to the rocky coast (or a cliff of scaffolding?). On the shoreline, two women play chess while chatting – is it a comment on the competitive nature of society? Is Deren herself a lost piece, swept away on the waves and unable to join in? She bends back the heads of both women and strokes their hair while they smile ecstatically, all united on one side in a sensual break from the competitive edge of game logic. Abruptly Maya is doubled – one thief stealing a chess piece and running away with it, another still joined to the female players in smiling sisterhood, watching the runaway with puzzlement. Alternate selves from the stages of her journey turn to frowningly watch the rebel runaway. Her footsteps leave tracks in the sand as she vanishes into the distance, destination unknown.

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Ritual in Transfigured Time – 1946

“And what more could I possibly ask as an artist than that your most precious visions, however rare, assume sometimes the forms of my images?” –Maya Deren

With collaborators Rita Christiani, Frank Westbrook, and Hella Heyman, Ritual in Transfigured Time expands on the experiments in time and space of Deren’s earlier films. Rita Christiani plays a double for Deren as Maya performs ritual repetitions or is frozen in time. Christiani’s outstretched hand moves in slow trance to encounter Deren and complete her wool-gathering. Slow motion is intercut with speeded time to give a surreal edge to the domestic chore, under the stern gaze of a third, older woman – the monitoring mother figure? A party freezes as Christiani enters the doorway with her ball of yarn, and now she is a nun bearing lillies – do they speak to her dislocation from everyday frolics? A dancing partner ends her nun costume and sweeps her into the repetitive rhythms of the house party, where entranced guests bounce from partner to partner. She strikes a pose with a man’s lips intimately brushing her cheek, and instantly they are transported to a garden, where three women play like Botticelli’s three Graces. Christiani and Westbrook dance in the garden, showing Deren’s dance background very clearly in their sinuous movements. As Christiani leaves the dance, she becomes Deren again, watching in perplexity like a dreamer awoken. The three Graces are spun by Westbrook, each falling into their own dynamic freeze frame. Dancing figures become statues on pedestals as Christiani re-enters the garden. Westbrook’s jerky motions, achieved by intercutting with freeze frames, bring him to life and frighten Christiani, driving her away, pursued by Westbrook now in leaping slow motion. Finally, she is Deren again, fleeing through waist-high water and then falling in eerie negative exposure to reveal herself as Christiani once more. The film achieves a sense of dream logic while celebrating the human form in its full variety of poses and rhythms.

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Maya Deren’s experiments with rhythm and form through editing draw on a long Slavic tradition. In particular, they draw on the groundbreaking film theory of Sergei Eisenstein and Kinoglaz. Kinoglaz was the partnership of Dziga Vertov and Elizaveta Svilova. Though Vertov is usually credited with its achievements, Svilova was a formidable documentary film director in her own right. Next month’s Vintage Viewing: Elizaveta Svilova, Mastering Montage. Stay tuned!

Brigit McCone writes and directs short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and boring people with lists of forgotten female artists.

Dysphoria Dystopias in ‘The Matrix’ and ‘Glen or Glenda’

However, comparing Wood’s deeply personal product with the Wachowskis’ deeply polished one, ‘Glen or Glenda’s explicit gender dysphoria with ‘The Matrix’s allegorical dysphoria reveals parallels that illuminate both films.

“You’re here because you know something. What you know you can’t explain, but you feel it. You felt it your entire life.” – Morpheus, The Matrix

Though Lana Wachowski’s coming out should not be an excuse to limit interpretation of the Wachowski siblings’ most iconic film, The Matrix, to a closeted discussion of gender dysphoria, yet it is a film that is profoundly concerned with psychic dysphoria as sci-fi dystopia: with jarring disconnects between perceived reality and actuality, embodied in a heroic struggle for the reimagination of the self against escalating systems of social control. Ed Wood Jr.’s cult 1953 B-movie, Glen or Glenda, explicitly harnesses classic science fiction to dramatize the psychology of gender dysphoria. As was fictionalized in Tim Burton’s biopic Ed Wood, Wood was a self-accepting crossdresser who approached the topic of gender dysphoria with an empathy almost unique for his era, clumsily advancing enlightened opinions that would later become orthodoxy. There may be deceptive cunning underneath Wood’s film’s rough surface. Assigned to create a cheap, B-movie freak-show exploitation of the notoriety of Christine Jorgensen’s sex change, Wood delivers a freak-show of random mad scientists, mischievously accuses the cismale audience of suffering from pattern baldness due to their failure to wear women’s hats, creates a surreal nightmare of social conditioning, and then allows his transgender subjects to be islands of humanity within this freakish world. He effectively delivers a transgender freakshow in which the transgender are never freaks. On the surface, Wood’s film and the Wachowskis’ could not be more different: one is the cheap and amateurish product of a man popularized by the Golden Turkey Awards as “the worst director of all time,” while the other is a slick blockbuster considered a milestone in special effects, that has spawned serious, academic debate over its philosophical meanings. However, comparing Wood’s deeply personal product with the Wachowskis’ deeply polished one, Glen or Glenda‘s explicit gender dysphoria with The Matrix‘s allegorical dysphoria reveals parallels that illuminate both films.

Dystopia, Now: Contemporary Reality As Sci-Fi Nightmare

“It is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth” – Morpheus, The Matrix

The most fundamental parallel between The Matrix and Glen or Glenda is their shared concept of present reality as a creation of sci-fi dystopia. In Glen or Glenda, Boris Karloff’s mad scientist is positioned as a creator-figure, who performs sex change transformations with a wave of his hand, while omnisciently supervising all life. Though Karloff’s never-really-specified relationship to the film’s realist narrative, complete with weirdly hovering intrusions over the action, are celebrated ironically as symptoms of Wood’s incompetence and oddness, yet Karloff’s role in Glen or Glenda mirrors that of the machines in The Matrix: he enables a dual discourse of irresistible predestination and faulty creation. Karloff’s “pulling of the string” drives surges of wildebeest like irresistible animal impulses, which place Wood’s hero as a puppet who must “dance to that which one is created for” while recognizing that “nature makes mistakes, it’s proven every day”, just as Neo struggles to accept that he is not in control of his own life through the guidance of his re-creator Morpheus.

Using a nightmare sequence of mobbing crowds and mocking variants of the schoolyard chant “slugs and snails and puppy dog’s tails, that’s what little boys are made of, sugar and spice and all things nice, that’s what little girls are made of,” Wood dramatizes the sinister power of social conditioning in a way that would be considered Lynchian surrealism, if he wasn’t dismissed as the worst director of all time. Where Wood uses a nightmarish dream sequence, the Wachowskis use body horror, in the violation of flesh-penetrating bugs and the imposed silence of a mouth literally sealed shut, to expressively dramatize the sinister power of their Agent “gatekeepers” over the hero’s most intimate body and self. Wood’s visual vocabulary for expressing the internal experience of gender dysphoria is drawn from James Whale’s Frankenstein, a queer lexicon of absent nurture and flawed divinity. The Wachowskis’ visual vocabulary in The Matrix is drawn from Ghost In The Shell, a cyberpunk anime that explores gender identity through a dystopia where characters can explore their identity by “plugging themselves in” to superpowered new bodies (or “shells”) of any gender. The effect of both texts, however, is to code lived reality as a profoundly unnatural and imposed nightmare that is essentially dystopian and demands the psyche’s resistance, symbolized for the Wachowskis by re-Creator Morpheus’ red pill.

Wood’s decision to open his film with a trans* woman’s suicide, narrated through her suicide note of repeated arrests for cross-dressing–“let my body rest in death, forever, in the things I cannot wear in life”–underlines the seriousness of the psychological crisis of gender dysphoria. Wood’s dramatization also recognizes the individual nature of each trans* experience, from the “transvestite,” who was conditioned by the environment of early youth to value femininity over masculinity and yearn to express his feminine side, to the “pseudo-hermaphrodite” Anne, who seems to correspond to a trans woman in her description as “a woman within… indeed meant to be a woman.” Anne challenges gender stereotypes by excelling as an army officer, before choosing a sex change operation. The “removal of the man and the formation of the woman” is represented onscreen by Bela Lugosi’s scientist blessing the new incarnation in a pseudo-religious ceremony.

The Holy Trinity: Variations And Incarnations

“You’ve been living two lives. In one life, you’re Thomas A. Anderson… the other life is lived in computers, where you go by the hacker alias “Neo”… One of these lives has a future and one of them does not.” – Agent Smith, The Matrix

When Keanu Reeves’ hero, hacker Thomas Anderson, is introduced, he has constructed an imaginary identity and vicarious second life as “Neo” that is confined within the cyber-realm. The basic plot of the first film is Anderson’s gradual embrace and embodiment of “Neo” as his true identity, while realizing his imposed identity of Thomas Anderson as a fictional construct. It is Hugo Weaving’s sinister Agent Smith of the social-conditioning “matrix” who continually imposes the (explicitly masculine) identity of “Mr. Anderson” onto Neo. It is when Neo finally resists and asserts “my name is Neo!” that he frees himself from the inevitability of his defeat. It is Neo’s allies who affirm his true identity, with Trinity’s iron belief in his potential self, embodied as a kiss, acting as the catalyst for his final awakening into unbounded liberation. Many commentators have pointed out that Neo can be read as a Christ allegory. Fewer have highlighted that Trinity’s name evokes the Holy Trinity’s conception of a single being’s incarnation into multiple forms. If Morpheus functions as a Creator/Father mentor to Neo’s Christ-figure, Trinity must represent his Holy Spirit. Her kiss is therefore not only Mary Magdalene’s handmaiden witnessing Christ’s resurrection, but the descent of the dove/spirit as agent of his baptism and awakening to mission.

The film’s iconic uniform of black leather, slicked back hair and shades visually codes Carrie-Anne Moss as a female variant of Keanu Reeves’ hero, reimagining the patriarchal Holy Trinity of the Christian religion as a transracial, transsexual one (the theme of transracial incarnation would later play a controversially race-bending role in the Wachowskis’ Cloud Atlas). While the dizzying complexity of the Matrix sequels are beyond the scope of my study, it should be noted that they center on Neo’s battle through ever complicating systems of social control and predestination to avoid the compelled sacrifice of Trinity. A traditional feminist reading would bemoan that Trinity serves as yet another apparently Strong Woman reduced to damsel-in-distress. However, reading Trinity as Neo’s liberated alter-ego enables an interpretation that is more coherent and thematically rich. Trinity is introduced before Neo – demonstrating her super-strength and desirable mastery over laws of nature, she is his ultimate goal throughout the films.

Glen Or Glenda describes the relationship of “Glen” and “Glenda” as “not half man, half woman, but nevertheless man and woman in the same body,” evokes the idea of multiple incarnation of a unified being. A kind of trinity is established between Glen, Glenda and the supervising creator Karloff, similar to that between Morpheus, Trinity and Neo.

The Blue Pill: The Lure Of The Cure

“You take the blue pill, the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe.” – Morpheus, The Matrix

In The Matrix, the “blue pill” represents returning to the “prison for your mind” that is coercive social conditioning. The character of Cypher represents the lure of the cure, in rejecting the “desert of the real” with its lack of comforts, its isolation and its persecution by patrolling machines, in order to resume a pre-programmed, conforming life where he forgets his past and betrays the team because “ignorance is bliss.”

Neo is dissuaded from his own instincts for comforting conformity by Trinity, the empowered alter-ego who gives him strength to resist his moments of doubt with her own certainty: “You know that road. You know exactly where it ends. And I know that’s not where you wanna be.” In Glen or Glenda, Barbara becomes the strengthening image, with her willingness to accept and love Glen, even if he never abandons women’s clothing, being the catalyst for his mental freedom. While insisting that a sex change is a happy ending for Anne, Glen’s happy ending becomes his reabsorption into a standard male role by finding his cravings for loving femininity fully answered by Barbara. This ending satisfies the mainstream audience’s urge to “cure” Glen, but only if they can grant the trans* audience’s demand that Glenda be accepted as she is, as a part of Glen, as a crucial precondition of the cure.

Gender policing limits the opportunities for full self-realization of all people, though their realized selves might take many forms across a wide spectrum of gender identity. In Lugosi’s words, “one is wrong because he does right. One is right because he does wrong.” Paradoxically, the mainstream audience are the obstacle to their own liberation, because of their mental indoctrination into an ideology of gender policing. As The Matrix‘s Morpheus puts it, they are “the very minds of the people we are trying to save, but until we do these people are still a part of that system, and that makes them our enemy.” Or as Glen or Glenda has it: “You Are Society – JUDGE YE NOT.” In the struggle to envision a world without rules or controls, without borders or boundaries, the self-actualization of all people is implied. As long as their matrix of policing thoughts and ingrained prejudices exists, the human race will never be free. What an everyday nightmare.

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Brigit McCone covets the Bride of Frankenstein hairdo, writes and directs short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and hanging out with her friends.

Clitoral Readings of ‘The Piano,’ ‘Turn Me On, Dammit,’ and ‘Secretary’

But how can female arousal be visually expressed? If women stereotypically prefer to read literary erotica over watching porn, with erotica’s descriptions of the interior sensations of female arousal, is that because many women imagine that female performers of porn are uncomfortably simulating their pleasure? Can there be a clitoral cinema of female arousal, and what would it look like?

Written by Brigit McCone as part of our theme week on Sex Positivity.

In Lisa Cholodenko’s The Kids Are All Right, a lesbian couple justify their preferred choice of pornography – gay male porn – by the fact that erections make desire excitingly visible and unarguable. The essence of sex positivity is shared arousal, yet, as Nora Ephron and Meg Ryan famously reminded audiences of When Harry Met Sally, female arousal and orgasm are easy to visually fake. Male craving for confirmation of orgasm in their own porn-watching leads to the “cum shot” becoming a standard trope of male-oriented pornography. But how can female arousal be visually expressed? If women stereotypically prefer to read literary erotica over watching porn, with erotica’s descriptions of the interior sensations of female arousal, is that because many women imagine that female performers of porn are uncomfortably simulating their pleasure? Can there be a clitoral cinema of female arousal, and what would it look like?

I would like to investigate that question using examples from three female-authored films: The Piano, Turn Me On, Dammit!, and Secretary. Judged only by their premises, they appear to be the height of exploitation – The Piano explores the sexual blackmail of a mute woman, Turn Me On, Dammit explores the lustful fantasies of a slender, blonde Scandinavian teenager, and Secretary explores an inexperienced young woman’s desire to be spanked and dominated. Yet, by making the female erotic imagination and self-stimulation central to their aesthetic, each of these films became erotic classics for female audiences. How?

The Piano

Written and directed by Jane Campion, The Piano contains some equal opportunity nudity and straightforward sex scenes, but it also disrupts the male gaze and centers the female spectator at key moments. Consider the scene in which Harvey Keitel’s Baines is examining Holly Hunter’s Ada from every angle, with casual male entitlement, as she plays her piano. Lying on the floor, he discovers a small hole in her thick, woollen stocking. The hole is symbolically clitoral to the female audience, as Baines circles his finger slowly over the little patch of heightened sensation and Ada gasps, but for the male audience it offers no spectacle. It is, rather, an evocation of the sensation of clitoral stimulation, in the same way that a woman licking an ice-cream may evoke oral sex to a male sexual imagination.

With Ada reaching through a crevice of wood to play secretive piano notes, Campion portrays the instrument as inherently sensual. Later comes a lovingly lit shot of a naked Baines caressing and rubbing the piano itself with a cloth. The hetero-female audience can take pleasure in both the spectacle of his body, and the suggestive quality of his attentive and caressing touch, but the female body is removed from the realm of spectacle. Instead, Baines is caressing the piano as a symbol of Ada’s voice and will, representing his deeper appreciation for her. Some critics (including Bitch Flicks) have said that it is problematic for Ada to fall in love with a man who is sexually blackmailing her. I would suggest, however, that, in a society that normalizes the purchase and conquest of women, it is Baines’ initial desire to negotiate, and his eventual total rejection of models of ownership,to request that Ada shows active desire for him, that marks him as her chosen mate.

Sam Neill’s controlling husband Stewart voyeuristically peers through a chink in Baines’ cabin to see his sexual play with Ada. At the moment at which Baines performs oral sex on Ada, Stewart’s gaze is distracted by his dog licking his hand. If Stewart carries the male gaze and male identification in this scene, then Jane Campion playfully interrupts that gaze to turn the man’s own hand into a symbolically clitoral site, vividly evoking the sensation of being licked for female audiences. The Piano, and its reputation as peculiarly erotic to women, is perhaps the strongest evidence that the female imagination responds to clitoral symbolism on a level that equals male susceptibility to phallic symbolism.

When Neill’s Stewart submits to Ada’s exploring his naked body with her hands, the male body becomes available to woman as spectacle and tactile pleasure while the woman herself remains clothed. If the male audience is uncomfortable with this passivity, they can identify with Stewart’s own discomfort, which explodes when Ada reaches the taboo territory of his backside, and he pulls up his hose and dashes from her, eyes averted. Just as his relationship with the Maori is colonial and acquisitive, Stewart’s only model for sex is male conquest and female submission. Just as Baines has surrendered to Maori language and culture, so his model for male/female relationships is a negotiated dual surrender and an attempt to learn the meaning of Ada’s piano language. The film’s finale rewards Baines’ model of negotiated interdependence and dual surrender over the Stewart’s domineering conquest model, with clitoral cinema triumphant.

Turn Me On, Dammit!

Depictions of female masturbation as erotic spectacle tend to focus on a woman moaning softly as she caresses her face, breast and thighs, running her fingers through her hair. The clitoris, effectively, becomes dispersed and distributed across any secondary sexual characteristics that the male audience happens to find attractive, hence the weirdly clitoral scalp of compulsive hair caressing. Female writer-director Jannicke Systad Jacobsen of Turn Me On, Dammit!, by contrast, opens with her teenaged heroine lying clothed on the floor, her hand jammed down her panties, frantically rubbing her clitoris, breathing rapidly and screwing up her face in unphotogenic arousal. This realistic depiction of masturbation immediately establishes the woman as sexual agent, not object. Because it is solitary and largely unphotogenic, masturbation has no function but to be the expression and release of female arousal.

Alma is masturbating to a phone sex hotline, where a male voice describes a hot encounter in the imaginary realm, like narrated literary erotica. Despite its sexed-up publicity, Turn Me On, Dammit! features only one brief, confusing sex act, as Alma is poked in the thigh by the naked erection of her crush, before he immediately withdraws. Instead, the film is saturated with Alma’s erotic imagination as she narrates imaginary encounters over fragmented photographs, ridiculous surrealism and vivid close-ups. Fragmenting the encounters in this way evokes the partial and inadequate imagination of a sexually inexperienced girl, attempting to project what sex might be like. Her fantasies include older men to whom she is not attracted, as well as female rivals, capturing the wide ranging of a horny teenager’s exploratory imagination. By combining fragmented visuals with Alma’s own narrated voiceover, the female viewer never feels an intrusive male gaze. The teenaged female voice of desire and sexual curiosity dominates and narrates throughout.

Secretary

Although the film is directed by Steven Shainberg, he is sensitive to the female origins of his story, adapted by Erin Cressida Wilson from a short story by Mary Gaitskill. Determined to portray the sexual awakening of a submissive woman, rather than the focussing on the pleasure of a dominant man, Secretary harnesses many of the same techniques used by the fully female-authored The Piano and Turn Me On, Dammit. Where Baines demonstrated his attentive, caressing nurture by lovingly wiping Ada’s piano, James Spader’s Mr. Grey demonstrates attentive, caressing nurture to the delicate, vulva-reminiscent orchids in his office. The flowers symbolize burgeoning arousal and desire explicitly in the heroine’s own fantasy sequence, as giant blooms burst open behind Mr. Grey. This fantasy sequence is alternated with shots of the heroine’s frantic, realistic masturbation. Like Turn Me On, Dammit!‘s Alma, Secretary‘s Lee is fully clothed during her masturbations, emphasizing that they are expressions of arousal rather than spectacle. After the film’s most potentially degrading act of domination, where Lee is required to bare her ass while Mr. Grey masturbates over it, the act is reclaimed for audiences as having been arousing for Lee, by her immediate withdrawal into the bathroom to masturbate over the memory of it. A middle-aged woman in a neighbouring stall is shown overhearing her masturbation with a look of compassionate understanding that emphasizes the universal female experience of arousal and desire. Finally, however, it is Lee’s own narrating voice, like Alma’s, that owns the film and challengingly asserts her active role in submitting.

So, can we say that these three films – The Piano, Turn Me On, Dammit! and Secretary – are sex-positive films? I would argue that their clitoral aesthetic of female-authored desire and imaginative sensation make them sex-positive for their female audience. However, in the world of the film, its men are still technically committing acts of sexual harassment where the woman consents by her imagination rather than her voice. This harassment is reclaimed for the female audience by our insight into the heroine’s desire. Can we assume that the male heroes are aware of the women’s desire, because they’ve read it on her face or in her subtler physical responses? We are still a long way from a society that takes it for granted that women should voice their desires, and that sex should be openly negotiated. But recognizing and developing a clitoral aesthetic of film is a step in the right direction. A cinematic language of female desire can be harnessed to support conversations about female needs and sensitivities.

Brigit McCone became obsessed with Harvey Keitel after seeing The Piano at an impressionable age. She writes short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and reveling in trashy romances.

Frankenstein and His Bride: Mapping Maternal Absence

However, Whale challenges Shelley’s automatic association of the maternal with the absent female: the Bride’s rejection of Frankenstein’s monster shows that the maternal can be absent even when the woman is present, while the blind man’s nurturing care suggests that man can embody the noblest maternal impulse.

As the daughter of pioneering feminist Mary Wollstonecraft, Mary Shelley inherited radical ideas about the intellectual abilities and sexual freedoms of women. She learned these ideas from her mother’s books rather than her presence, however, because Wollstonecraft died soon after her birth. Anne Mellor points to compelling evidence that the undated events of Frankenstein are set over the nine months of Mary Shelley’s own gestation, in 1797, with the date of Victor Frankenstein’s climactic death coinciding almost exactly with Mary Wollstonecraft’s. Created lovelessly as a theoretical experiment, Frankenstein’s monster is the ultimate icon of the unmothered child. Mary’s own beloved father, philosopher William Godwin, would disown his teenaged daughter when she became pregnant by married poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, a deeply personal betrayal that contradicted his theoretical conviction in anarchy, and motivated Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin to rename herself Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. Mary Shelley was thus shaped by the trauma of parental rejection as a result of her sexuality, an experience common to girls of the 19th century and queer youth of the 20th.

How appropriate, then, that the greatest screen adaptation of Frankenstein should be the work of a gay man, James Whale, whose own identification with Shelley’s monster is explored in fictionalized biopic Gods and Monsters. Though there have been adaptations more technically faithful to the novel, none has been truer to its central pathos of maternal absence. It was because Whale acknowledged him as the film’s emotional core, that we now associate “Frankenstein” with the abandoned monster rather than his egoistic creator. Where Mary Shelley’s monster rapidly acquires educated speech, while his stigma is a physically undefined “ghastliness,” Whale’s monster evokes intellectual disability by his realistically slow learning, and his distorted physique equally provokes the audience’s ableism, luring them into complicity with the persecuting mob and challenging them with their own temptation to reject the “monster.” In sequel Bride of Frankenstein (whose very title suggests the monster as “Frankenstein”), Whale demonstrates his sympathetic understanding of Shelley’s emotional identification with her monster, by casting Elsa Lanchester in the dual role of Mary Shelley and the monstrous Bride. However, Whale challenges Shelley’s automatic association of the maternal with the absent female: the Bride’s rejection of Frankenstein’s monster shows that the maternal can be absent even when the woman is present, while the blind man’s nurturing care suggests that man can embody the noblest maternal impulse.

Elsa Lanchester as Mary Shelley and as Bride

“The Body,” the acclaimed episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer‘s fifth season that portrays the death of Buffy’s mother, features a symbolic art class in which Dawn is instructed to draw the negative space around an object, rather than the object itself. In art teaching, drawing negative space is a recognized technique for breaking preconceptions and allowing the viewer to perceive with fresh accuracy. In a society that chronically undervalues the labor of motherhood, drawing its negative space is one technique for reassessing its worth. Opening with the narrative of a polar explorer who has abandoned his loving sister for territorial conquest, Frankenstein portrays the execution of a girl falsely accused of infanticide, the destruction of the monster’s bride and the murder of Victor Frankenstein’s own bride in vengeance. It may well be claimed that Shelley’s entire novel is a mapping of the negative space surrounding female nurture.

By choosing to bring forth the Bride (in the novel, Victor destroys the Bride before she’s completed), Whale develops Shelley’s theme from woman’s absence into her rejection, touching on painful legacies of maternally rejected queer and disabled youth. Frankenstein’s monster is created with a brain labelled “abnormal,” raising issues of inborn and predestined sinfulness, yet his violence is always directly provoked by cruel treatment and maternal absence. In Bride of Frankenstein, Whale conflates Mary Shelley with her monster through their joint embodiment in Elsa Lanchester, insightfully converting the Bride’s climactic rejection of Frankenstein’s monster into the author’s rejection of herself. To become adult is to assume responsibility for self-parenting. Because adults instinctively base their self-care on the model of their own parents, many suffer for life from absent nurture in youth. Frankenstein’s monster seeks a Bride-mother-lover to supply his lack of parenting, but the new monster is as lacking as himself. Though women are often imagined as unlimited sources of nurture, rather than humans wrestling their own psychologies, James Whale allows his Bride to be broken. Those to whom nothing is given, have nothing to give. Bride of Frankenstein should be celebrated for powerfully reclaiming the maternal as a learned capacity and a voluntary commitment, rather than an automatic quality of womanhood.

Elizabeth (Mae Clarke) rejects Boris Karloff’s “monster”

From its eerie opening of grave-robbing, Frankenstein cuts straight to the rejection of the female, as Henry Frankenstein (Shelley’s Victor Frankenstein is renamed Henry, while friend Henry is inexplicably Victor) writes to his fiancé Elizabeth, instructing her to wait for him: “My work must come first, even before you. At night the winds howl in the mountains. There is no one here.” In its howling winds, the film evokes Shelley’s endless polar wastes, visualizing fields of masculine achievement as deserts of desolation. Though his own father assumes that Henry must have abandoned Elizabeth for another woman, his scientific research is a substitute for all women, perhaps echoing William Godwin’s substitution of philosophical theories of liberation for personal support of his daughter’s freedom. As Henry successfully animates the monster, he cries out, “In the name of God! Now I know what it feels like to be God!” As Christianity teaches that we are sons and daughters of God, so Henry’s assumption of the divine role is surely the ultimate assuming of responsibility for self-parenting, leading to catastrophe precisely because of the deep flaws in his internalized parental model. Boris Karloff’s monster is justly iconic, his sinister appearance contrasted with the mute yearning in his eyes, his palms spread and beseeching for warmth, whether of companionship or simple sunlight. The instant that his monster becomes burdensome, Henry’s first impulse is abandonment: “Leave it alone! Leave it alone!,” displaying an assumed freedom to disengage that is typical of society’s model of fatherhood.

Shelley and Whaley question whether a man who has abandoned family for science can successfully parent his scientific creations, as Shelley’s prologue describes herself parenting the novel Frankenstein. Where Dr. Frankenstein understands public work and domesticity to be in opposition to each other, a patriarchal logic that segregates male and female, Shelley and Whale suggest rather that maternal care is demanded inseparably of both public and domestic spheres. It is Henry Frankenstein’s assistant Fritz, a hunchbacked “dwarf,” who viciously torments the monster with a burning torch, perhaps acting out his own parental model of hostility and rejection. Unlike Shelley’s novel, in which the monster kills as calculated punishment for Victor Frankenstein’s abandonment, Whale presents the monster’s first killings as justifiable self defense. Escaping the tortures of Frankenstein’s laboratory, the monster encounters Little Maria, a young girl who accepts him as a playmate. Through Little Maria’s moving acceptance, in the absence of parental supervision, Whale implies that intolerance must be learned from parental models. Little Maria shows the monster how flowers float, and he accidentally drowns her in compliment to her flower-like beauty. Meanwhile, Henry Frankenstein is driven back to his fiancée by revulsion at what he has created. Leaving Elizabeth at the monster’s mercy, by protectively locking her into her room, illustrates how counterproductive Henry’s efforts to control life have become. The film ends with the iconic image of a mob with burning torches, united to persecute the outsider and avenge the death of Little Maria. As the mob sets fire to Frankenstein’s windmill, Whale dwells on the monster’s agonized screams, panic and isolated death. He then cuts to Henry Frankenstein’s being tenderly nursed by a flock of maids and his loving fiancée, ending his masterpiece with harsh contrast between the abandoned and the cherished.

Meeting the maternal man: “Alone: bad. Friend: good!”

Bride of Frankenstein opens with Mary Shelley narrating the sequel to her tale to Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley, in a setting of elegant luxury–a choice that foregrounds the story’s female authorship. Marvelling at Mary Shelley’s youth and femininity, Byron booms: “Can you believe that bland and lovely brow conceived of Frankenstein?” Yet, though Byron postures in his grinning celebrity as “England’s greatest sinner,” it is the woman, Mary Shelley, who has truly suffered for unsanctioned love. When Byron brands her “angel,” she smiles enigmatically: “You think so?” Whale’s portrait of Mary Shelley revels in her dainty, feminine appearance and twinkling grin, before unveiling her secret kinship with the monster through her reincarnation as his Bride. Fading from Shelley’s luxury to Frankenstein’s burning windmill, from which the monster makes his improbable escape, we witness two women in the persecuting mob: one who weeps at the “terrible” sight, and another who gloats that she is “glad to see the monster roasted to death.” What sharper illustration that woman is “naturally” neither merciful nor cruel, but individual? Henry Frankenstein is lured back to science by the amoral Dr. Pretorius, who has grown life “from seed” to create a menagerie of shrunken authority figures. In this empowerment fantasy, the overbearing, lecherous king can be plucked from his targets with tongs, while the squeakily disapproving bishop may be bottled in a jar. By shrinking authority figures to ludicrous insignificance, Dr. Pretorius is giddily liberated from the constraints of social conditioning: “Sometimes I have wondered whether life wouldn’t be much more amusing if we were all devils, with no nonsense about angels and being good,” recalling Elsa Lanchester’s skepticism, as Mary Shelley, when described as an angel.

By introducing a second creator figure rebelling against nature (Dr. Pretorius and his menagerie are not in the novel), Whale allows the procreation of two men: “Together, we will create his mate!” Meanwhile, the wandering monster shows self-loathing inability to nurture himself, by attacking his own reflection in a pond, before finding kinship with a compassionate, blind man in the forest. The blind man welcomes the monster, assuming a maternal role: “I shall look after you, and you will comfort me.” Through the excellence of his care, and the rapid progress of the monster under his tutoring, we understand that the maternal is a nurturing quality independent of sex. Men like Dr. Frankenstein do not lack maternal nurture as a fact of their maleness; they willfully reject it in their pursuit of fortune and glory, the social rewards for masculine achievement. In Whale’s ending, it is those who have found mutual nurture – Henry Frankenstein and his fiancée Elizabeth – that Frankenstein’s monster chooses to spare, while those who are unable to care for others – Dr. Pretorius, Frankenstein’s monster and the Bride – “belong dead.” Though they center male characters, Shelley’s novel and Whale’s films reverse male priorities, elevating the maternal to reign supreme.

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein is credited with inventing science fiction, while her follow-up, The Last Man, founded sci-fi dystopia. After more than a century of male-dominated authorship, science fiction continues to obsessively echo Shelley’s themes of fatherly inadequacy and the vain hubris of the inhumanely over-rationalizing man. Like the persistence of Ann Radcliffe and Lois Weber’s Final Girl in the male-dominated horror genre, or the inability of female creators like Kathryn Bigelow to rewrite the masculine conventions of action film, this persistence of female themes in male-dominated sci-fi demonstrates the power of a genre’s original creators to fix its conventions and shape its expectations. The cultural contributions of female creators like Mary Shelley may be undervalued by society but, like mothers and maternal fathers, they’d leave one hell of an absence.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AkSbwiKP3mo”]

Brigit McCone covets the Bride of Frankenstein hairdo, writes and directs short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and hanging out with her friends. Friends: good!

Vintage Viewing: Lotte Reiniger, Animation Innovator

Part of Vintage Viewing, exploring the work of female filmmaking pioneers.

Lotte Reiniger: It’s a Snip

Born in Berlin in 1899, Lotte Reiniger became fascinated by Chinese silhouette puppetry. Beginning her film career working on intertitle designs for Paul Wegener’s Rumpelstiltskin’s Wedding at the age of 16, Wegener introduced her to a collective of animators. At first, Reiniger created special effects sequences for German expressionist films such as Rochus Gliese’s Apocalypse and Wegener’s The Pied Piper of Hamlin. Reiniger had developed and refined her own technique for completely animated films by 1919’s Ornament of the Lovestruck Heart. In 1921, Reiniger married Carl Koch, who became her producer and camera operator, while Reiniger was responsible for concepts, storyboards and silhouette cutting. In 1922 she made Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty, demonstrating the magic of Grimm’s fairy tales and the appeal of princess stories, years before Disney abruptly switched from masculine cartoon heroes like Mickey Mouse, to folklore princesses.

A still of Prince Achmed, showcasing its multiplane silhouettes

Reiniger transcended the flatness of silhouette animation by pioneering the multiplane Tricktisch (trick table), in which layers of glass are inserted into a table so that images with layers and depth can be shot through the table’s central hole. Walt Disney’s U.S. patent (no. 2,201,689) for his own multiplane camera would strongly resemble Reiniger’s earlier design. Far from patenting her own work, however, Reiniger wrote and filmed tutorials on her techniques, with a passion for spreading the art of animation. In 1925, Lotte Reiniger completed three years of labor on The Adventures of Prince Achmed, a fully animated feature film drawn from the folklore of the 1001 Nights, followed by 1928’s half-hour Dr. Dolittle and his Animals. That’s over a decade before Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarves received an honorary Oscar for screen innovation. Reiniger’s visionary contribution continues to receive little recognition in official histories of animation.

Despite this woman’s major significance to the development of the art of animation, Disney would make a notorious company policy that excluded women from creative work in his company. Reiniger, meanwhile, fled Nazism in the 1930s, losing all her original prints (watching copies of copies means we lose a lot of the fine detail in her originals). However, with her small team of collaborators, she continued animating in her distinctive silhouette style, adding color backgrounds to later films, finishing a long and productive career with 1980’s The Four Seasons. The longevity of her career speaks to her skill in carving out and developing her own unique niche and flavor, which survived competition with rival animators who were working on an industrial scale.

Cinderella – 1922

Many feminists find the tale of Cinderella problematic, because of the role that Cinderella plays in accepting her own servitude and being rewarded for this passivity. Reiniger solves this problem in her film’s first frames. We see a speeded-up portrait of Reiniger’s hand and scissors cutting out the figure of Cinderella, before the little figure seizes the scissors for herself. Cinderella will cut the scenes of her own fantasy jaggedly from the film’s black background, as a dress-maker cuts the pattern of their outfit. Is it because the wicked stepsisters pull the tail of their caged bird that Cinderella has a bird army at her disposal? These scenes are far more faithful to the original Grimms’ fairy tale, where birds helped the heroine sort the lentils from the ashes as one of the impossible tasks she was set before she was allowed to go to the ball.

Reiniger also anticipates Disney’s habit of rewarding his virtuous heroines with armies of animals that substitute the girls’ own agency. If Cinderella is the one cutting out her bird army, does this mean she identifies as a caged bird herself? Are the rolling eyes of her stepsisters a true representation, or has Cinderella mischievously cut their silhouettes as grotesques to express their inner ugliness? The farcical padding of the thin stepsister’s bust, and the girdling of the overweight one, show a sharp female eye for the constructed nature of female beauty.

Rather than a fairy godmother, the apple tree growing from her own mother’s grave clothes Cinderella in finery. In a cruel twist, the Prince finds her at her mother’s grave after the fairytale clothes have fallen from her, and is unable to recognize her without her artificial finery. The plan to marry the first woman who fits Cinderella’s abandoned shoe flies out of a courtier’s head as a magic bird–a sly dig at its birdbrained logic? Such witty details are a trademark of Reiniger’s work. Notice the tiny figure of a man on the minute hand of her great clock, and a lady on the hour hand. Though the man moves 60 times as fast, he constantly passes the lady by, just as the prince overlooked Cinderella without her finery. The gruesome slicing off of her foot’s excess weight by the stepsister, to fit the slipper, is a detail kept from the original story, that adds to Reiniger’s darker tone. Only magic birds can provide the prince with the right answer, for fortune favors the unscrupulous. But with a “Snip!” that fate can be changed, when a girl is wielding her own scissors. Her physically abusive stepmother can only huff and puff and blow herself apart. The price, however, is to pass forever the unreal imaginary space of “fairyland.”

Soundtrack Suggestion: Evanescence “Bring Me To Life”

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kku75vGDD_0″]

Papageno – 1935

1935’s Papageno uses the new technology of synchronized sound to the full. Mozart’s playful classical music from comedy opera The Magic Flute is brought to life by Reiniger’s rhythmically animated fantasy interpretation. Long before Disney’s Fantasia, Reiniger, a fan of the hyperreal arts of shadow theater and opera, showed that animation could be used to popularize supposedly elite art forms like opera.

Mozart designed The Magic Flute as a popular entertainment, not an elite spectacle, and Reiniger’s “silhouette opera house” restores that sense of accessible magic with her sprightly bird catcher and his magical pan pipes for charming the birds from the trees, who lives in lonely longing for a female counterpart. The film also showcases Reiniger’s development of multiplane depth in her use of detailed backdrops. Great care must have been required to exactly synchronize with the music, as when the parakeets play the bells while Papageno swings on vines and pictures his bird friends as the women that he wished he could charm. From giant snakes to an attempted suicide, this adaptation doesn’t shrink from the darker undertones in Mozart’s libretto and music, while the freedom of animation brings talking birds and a dashing, ostrich-riding heroine to life, enriching the musical fantasy, just as the classic music of Tchaikovsky’s ballet Sleeping Beauty was brought to more literal life in Disney’s 1959 film of the same name. Working with few collaborators, Reiniger may not have achieved such a lush result, but her work clearly shows her visionary grasp of the medium’s potential.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zCR-GFKmMGU”]

Thumbelina – 1954

Hans Christian Andersen’s Thumbelina told the tale of a tiny girl grown from seed to be a companion to an old woman, Reiniger has her Thumbelina born spontaneously and magically from a flower, beholden to none but herself. Without parents to guide her, Thumbelina explores the world and resists all attempts at coerced marriage in her own search for her soul kin. Kidnapped by a bullying toad to be a bride for her son, Thumbelina prays for release from her lily-pad prison and is rewarded by the intervention of kindly fish who tow her to shore, along with a sympathetic butterfly, the first hint of Thumbelina’s kinship with creatures of the air.

After an autumn feeding on berries and playing with the woodland animals, Thumbelina finds herself freezing with the coming of winter and seeks shelter with an apparently kindly, motherly mouse. In exchange for her home, Thumbelina does housework for the mouse, but the mouse attempts to use her leverage to emotionally blackmail Thumbelina into accepting marriage with the neighboring mole, who can bribe Thumbelina with necklaces and jewels that mark him as a good match. Under the pressure of her debt to the mothering mouse, Thumbelina accepts a ring and allows herself to be pushed into bridal regalia, but a late migrating swallow helps her to fly away after hearing of her despair at the upcoming wedding. In Andersen’s original tale, discovering a fairy prince who is her own size makes Thumbelina’s happy ending, reinforcing the idea that Mr. Right must be the ultimate reward. In Reiniger’s retelling, Thumbelina discovers a whole fairy community, who fit her with wings so that she can join them as an equal. It is the final vision of Thumbelina dancing in a line with other fairies that makes Reiniger’s happy ending, not a romantic resolution. In asserting Thumbelina’s right to reject unsuitable suitors and search for her own soul kin, the fairy tale takes on its feminist edge. Thumbelina may be vulnerable, but she struggles for her own desires throughout the tale.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vDojanzKKmw”]

Carving out their own unique niche in the filmmaking world was one way for women to resist mainstream pressures that were pushing them out of the directing craft. Lotte Reiniger can lay claim to being the greatest silhouette animator. In the USA, avant-garde, arthouse film was pioneered by Maya Deren. Next month’s Vintage Viewing: Maya Deren, experimental eccentric.

Brigit McCone began her film career making stop-motion animation with play-dough, writes and directs short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and watching animations that are supposed to be for kids.

Parajanov and Puppies: Queering the Soviet Superman

“If the Socialism is Authoritarian; if there are Governments armed with economic power as they are now with political power; if, in a word, we are to have Industrial Tyrannies, then the last state of man will be worse than the first… Over the portal of the new world, ‘Be thyself’ shall be written.” – Oscar Wilde

Oscar Wilde’s polemic “The Soul of Man under Socialism” offers a prophetic warning about authoritarian tendencies in socialist philosophy, and the need to safeguard individualism, as Wilde attempted to reconcile his belief in social equality with the protection of minority opinion and divergent personalities. The philosophies of Karl Marx advocated radical equality, including gender equality, but through imposed conformity rather than equally accepted diversity. For gender equality, this meant achieving conformity of the sexes by abolishing the female domestic sphere, not integrating it, and by rejecting emotionalism in women, not promoting it in men. The female ideal created by Soviet artists like Vera Mukhina was a distinctly muscular, masculinized one.

If masculinizing the Soviet Superwoman was state orthodoxy, feminizing the Soviet Superman was subversive rebellion. The rejection of appeals to include gay rights in the socialist agenda dates back to Marx and, particularly, to the homophobia of Friedrich Engels. Personal distaste and pointed silence became political persecution and erasure in 1933, when Stalin outlawed homosexuality as “bourgeois deviation” punishable with five years in prison camp (ironically, McCarthyism would stigmatize homosexuality as socialist subversion).

Problem Child – 1954

Tatyana Lukashevich directed at the height of Socialist Realism, a form that placed limitations on style (realism), genre (relentlessly optimistic musicals and romantic comedies, or anti-capitalist propaganda), and theme (the glorification of collective labor). As such, her work is usually dismissed by Western critics as mindless state ideology. But there is passionate individualism striving against her Stalinist limitations. More than any filmmaker of her era, Lukashevich’s work expresses the pain of Soviet suppression of femininity. In The Foundling (1940), a lonely geologist is tempted to adopt a lost little girl, the film dwelling sympathetically on his longing for family and the emptiness of a life dedicated only to work. Written by Agnia Barto and Rina Zelenaya, and directed by Lukashevich, this entirely female-authored film harnesses a man to express its sharpest parental urge. In musical comedy Wedding With A Dowry (1954, mistranslated as “Bride With A Dowry”), scripted by Lukashevich herself, the top workers of rival Kolkhozes (collective farms) are a woman and a man in love. They almost break up over their rivalry as workers, before realizing that that rivalry has created a record-breaking harvest (the joint dowry of the wedding). The film criticizes the role of male insecurity in undermining female talent.

Perhaps Lukashevich’s most interesting film is Problem Child (the Russian title is a pun between “Certificate of Education” and “testimony of maturity”). Problem Child‘s antihero, Valentin, advocates an Individualism remarkably similar to Wilde’s in “The Soul of Man Under Socialism.” Valentin relishes poetry, aesthetics and daydreaming, while shirking manual labor and conventional masculinity. In the film’s Komsomol (Communist Youth) masquerade ball, Valentin arrives costumed as a long-haired Demon, standing on a comrade’s shoulders to tower symbolically above his peers. His costume is revealing: 19th century Romantic Mikhail Lermontov wrote Demon to portray a scorned outcast of heaven, but one who is a sexually magnetic rebel. The appeal of Vasily Lanovoy’s charismatic Valentin is essential to Problem Child. To justify his existence as a character in Stalinist film, he must suffer a public denunciation by his peers for egoism, and be proposed for expulsion from the Komsomol by his best friend, Zhenya (short for Evgeny). The viewer must endure a lesson about Great Lenin’s Komsomol philosophy. Yet the film remains subtly ambivalent about Valentin’s punishment; his accusers are nasal and visibly jealous, and Zhenya’s own mother reproaches him for denouncing his friend: “How could you? … you think shockingly little of each other… it’s no good.”

Modern fans celebrate the relationship between Valentin and Zhenya as “slash” and “the Soviet Brokeback Mountain,” highlighting the role of its female writer, Liya Geraskina, and director Tatyana Lukashevich, in frankly eroticizing the Soviet ideal of brotherly comrades. Taking shelter in a deserted cabin, after a dangerous mountain descent, a soaked Valentin averts his eyes and sighs, “When we descended the mountain, it seemed to me there were only us two in the world,” before his eyes roam Zhenya’s face and linger on his lips, he tickles his nose and the two giggle and hug. Waiting to give a bouquet to his female love interest (Zhenya’s sister), he tells Zhenya blushingly, “I’m revealing the greatest treasure to you. I deeply love…” “Who?” Zhenya demands. Valentin laughs self-consciously (and ambiguously), “What do you mean, who? You, of course!” At the masquerade ball, another boy tries to lure Valentin away with him to “a house he knows,” while one of their peers sneers “look what a tender friendship! Quite the pair – a goose and a loon!” Censors could not risk perceiving homoerotic subtext in such moments, lest they themselves be accused of perverted imaginations.

The Komsomol’s crushing persecution and expulsion of Valentin’s “egoism” can easily be read as a coded persecution of his homosexuality. Just as The Foundling uses a man to express its sharpest parental urge, so Problem Child harnesses a man to express stereotypically feminine romantic tenderness, dissociating its heroine from the stigma of excessive femininity. We can only speculate how it was received by closeted viewers in rural regions of the Soviet Union.

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Sayat Nova (The Color of Pomegranates) – 1969

“In the USSR, it’s impossible for a person not to be intimidated. But all the same, they didn’t intimidate Parajanov. He is perhaps the only one in his country who embodied the saying: ‘if you want to be free, be free.'” – Andrei Tarkovsky

The bisexual Armenian-Georgian director Sergei Parajanov, who had Ukrainian and Tatar wives, was inspired by the creative freedom of Andrei Tarkovsky’s Ivan’s Childhood to break away from Socialist Realism and create his own unique style, fusing lush camp with mystical symbolism and the cultural distinctiveness of the USSR’s ethnic minorities. His first film in this new style was 1965’s Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors, set in the Hutsulian culture of the Ukrainian Carpathians. His second, The Color of Pomegranat e s (original title: Sayat Nova) dispensed with narrative altogether, to create an idiosyncratic visual meditation on the writings of medieval Armenian poet Sayat Nova. Already convicted of homosexual acts with a KGB officer in 1948, the international success of Parajanov’s new style led to a playful interview in a Danish magazine, in which he claimed to have given sexual favors to 25 Communist party members. He was sentenced to five years’ hard labour for “the rape of a party member” and “propagation of pornography” in 1973. Andrei Tarkovsky and Lilya Brik were among the Soviet artists who campaigned for his release. In prison, Parajanov created hundreds of drawings and collages, now displayed in the Parajanov Museum in Yerevan, Armenia. His monument in Tbilisi, Georgia, is based on an iconic photograph of the director leaping, as if to take flight, reminiscent of Mikhail Kuzmin’s 1906 novel Wings, which compares its hero’s acceptance of his homosexuality to growing wings.

Released from prison after four years of petitioning, Gorbachev’s glasnost allowed Parajanov to produce two more films, 1985’s The Legend of Suram Fortress, set in Georgia, and 1988’s Ashik Kerib, set in Azerbaijan. Both take place in a vivid and stylized past, like Sayat Nova and Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors. Our tendency to describe Vladimir Putin’s anti-gay laws as “medieval” is misleading; medieval Russia was remarkably tolerant of gay culture, while gay themes were unusually prominent in pre-revolutionary Russian literature. The role of Marxist ideology in fostering state homophobia in Russia may be compared to the Marxist publication Molla Nasreddin and its role in stigmatizing traditional homoeroticism in Iran as “cultural backwardness” and “elite decadence.” To varying degrees, the same was true of many cultures in Parajanov’s native Caucasus Mountains, which stretch between Russia and Iran, with entire ethnic groups persecuted and deported under Stalin. The relentlessly progressivist rhetoric of Soviet homophobia fostered the link, perhaps counterintuitive to our eyes, between nationalist conservatism and camp radicalism that is observable in Parajanov’s films, conflating ethnic and sexual minority politics. In Sayat Nova in particular, the film’s symbolic meditations on love, wisdom, religion and death – “I am a man whose life and soul is torment” – are accompanied by experimentations in gender bending. Parajanov presents his Georgian actress, Sofiko Chiaureli, in a variety of guises, including both the poet as a young man and the poet’s mother. Cutting hypnotically back and forth between Chiaureli’s masculine and feminine forms, between a woman’s spinning and a man’s reading, a skull and a rose, Parajanov creates a subversive aesthetic of gender fluidity and male femininity.

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The Light Blue Puppy – 1976

The Light Blue Puppy is an adaptation of Hungarian author Gyula Urban’s children’s book about a bullied and rejected black puppy, who acts as a metaphor for the USA’s treatment of African Americans (the official anti-racism of the USSR attracted African American intellectuals such as Paul Robeson and Langston Hughes, though ordinary Russians were frequently racist, despite the Black ancestry of Russia’s beloved national poet, Alexander Pushkin). The cartoon’s writer, Yuri Entin, altered the puppy’s color from black to a “nontraditional” light blue (“nontraditional orientation” is the conventional Russian euphemism for homosexuality). It was apparently after the cartoon’s appearance that “light blue” (goluboi) became standard slang for gay, though it’s unknown how far The Light Blue Puppy influenced this. To those who interpret his “hymn to tolerance” as a satire of homosexuals, Yuri Entin responds, “It’s literally hitting below the belt. I have a huge amount of acquaintances of non-traditional orientation, they are wonderful people that I have the very tenderest relations with. And so I would never have allowed myself to mock them.” (Russian-language source) By transforming the puppy’s stigma from race to male femininity, if not homosexuality (the male puppy is voiced by actress Alisa Freyndlikh, and rescued by a frankly feminized sailor), Entin converted anti-American propaganda into an edgier metaphor for Soviet oppressions. His pink sailor attacks with flowers, recalling Portugal’s pacifist, pro-democracy Carnation Revolution.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=To2csb4eK-o”]

Children’s entertainment became a vehicle for subversion in Russian culture, not only because it wasn’t taken seriously, but because it was permitted fantasy and symbolism. The avant-garde surrealist Daniil Kharms, blacklisted for bitterly surreal satires of Stalinist dehumanization, found refuge in writing twisted children’s literature like a Russian Roald Dahl, before finally starving to death on a psychiatric ward. In the 1970s, when Vladimir Vysotsky circulated tapes of songs about the Stalinist purges and gulags, authorities regularly banned his concerts and film appearances. The heterosexual Vysotsky’s reunion with Parajanov, after his friend’s eventual release from prison, was reportedly tearful. Popular children’s cartoon Nu, Pogodi! (“just you wait!”) features an anti-authoritarian wolf that whistles a Vysotsky tune and is clearly based on his “bandit” persona, in a nod to Vysotsky’s individualist anthem “Wolf Hunt.” The Light Blue Puppy must be read as part of this tradition of coded cartoon subversion. In 2004, Russia produced its first openly queer romcom, You I Love, but current laws against gay propaganda look like a setback toward symbolism. Life, uh, finds a way.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ROmlFJamIuY”]

Individualists of the world, unite! Or don’t. Up to you.

Brigit McCone studied for a year in Moscow State University, writes and directs short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and melodramatically declaiming Lermontov.

Shishihokodan: The Destructive Female Gaze of YA Supernatural Action Romantic Comedy

This repost by Brigit McCone appears as part of our theme week on The Female Gaze.

YA Supernatural Action Romantic Comedy (SARCom) was created in 1987 by the manga artist Rumiko Takahashi’s Ranma 1/2. Her mixture of kung-fu demon-of-the-week fights, romance and comedy, with a supernaturally strong heroine, dual shapeshifting supernaturally strong love interests and sarcastically quipping sidekicks, was then a completely unique format and rapidly became popular in the West and Japan. Takahashi’s creative control as visual and story artist (particularly after the success of the slapstick Urusei Yatsura) meant that the aesthetics of SARCom were shaped by the female gaze from the outset. Among its innovations, Ranma 1/2 introduces an Ice Prince/Wolf love rivalry between the hero Ranma and his rival Ryoga, a trope Takahashi would develop in her next SARCom Inuyasha. Joss Whedon’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer popularized the SARCom in mainstream Western culture, developing its own Ice Prince/Wolf rivalry with the characters Angel and Spike. The Ice Prince/Wolf dynamic now dominates teen girl cinema, after Catherine Hardwicke’s Twilight set a new record for commercially successful female directors.

Hardwicke’s camera continually privileges Kristen Stewart’s female gaze as Bella Swan, moving with her and focusing on her lip-biting lustful reactions, while offering Robert Pattinson’s Edward Cullen as erotic spectacle, the camera panning over him lovingly. Twilight also almost fails a reverse-Bechdel through the intense Bellacentrism of all its characters. Male viewers react with defensive ridicule to the uncomfortable sensation that they are supposed to be lustful fourteen-year-old girls when watching this film. In this moment, they have a brief sensation of what it is to be the female spectator of 90% of Hollywood films, uncomfortably reminded by the Male Gaze that you are somehow supposed to have the reactions and expectations of a heterosexual man. Their unfamiliarity with the mechanics of the female gaze became obvious when Hardwicke was replaced in Twilight sequels by male directors, who fumbled uncomfortably to recapture her intensity. Not only excluded as unintended spectator, the male viewer of SARCom is more likely to identify with the always defeated “Wolf” (sexual pursuer, equivalent to female “Whore”), the vulnerable, openly desiring rival. The victory of the unrealistic “Ice Prince” (sexual resistor, equivalent to female “Madonna”) is therefore destructive to the male viewer’s ego, often provoking a hostility barely concealed under sneering ridicule, just as the Male Gaze’s Madonna/Whore logic has always been destructive to the female ego. So what, actually, is going on?

Celebrating Celibacy: The “Ice Prince” Archetype

The defining characteristic of the “Ice Prince” is his combination of emotional fidelity and sexual unavailability, which amplifies gazing female desire and sexual frustration simultaneously, and is generally accompanied by his emphasized superiority and/or physical threat. That is, his sexual unavailability becomes a symptom of his overall domination. Ranma, the hero of Ranma 1/2, not only rivals the heroine Akane in martial arts, but periodically transforms into a girl more sexually attractive than she is. This tantalizing superiority enhances the character’s sexual unavailability; the world of Ranma 1/2 plays with gender but is strictly heteronormative with biological sex. Ranma 1/2 occupies an intermediate position between the shounen (boys’ manga) harem plot of Takahashi’s previous Urusei Yatsura and the love rivalries of her later Inuyasha: as a shounen hero, Ranma is the center of a harem of sex-crazed women, but as a shoujo (girls’ manga) hero, he must be sexually attracted to none of them. The sexual friction from these conflicting genre demands seems to have accidentally invented the “ice prince” archetype.

Inuyasha tames its threateningly feral hero, while maintaining his sexual unavailability, by making him frustratingly in love with a previous incarnation of the heroine Kagome – thus, he loves Kagome as a reincarnation, but cannot consummate this love due to his frustrating fidelity to her original.

The most extreme “Ice Prince” archetype in Takahashi’s work is Sesshomaru, the haughty, aristocratic pureblood demon introduced as a villain, accompanied by a sycophantic toady, who is attempting to cheat his socially inferior, half-brother Inuyasha out of his inheritance; that is, almost exactly the set-up of Fitzwilliam Darcy in Pride & Prejudice. She may have intended to create a villain, but Takahashi falls into Austen’s tried and tested Darcy arc: Sesshomaru meets an open-hearted, mischievous and unintimidated girl whom he struggles to scorn as inferior; his flaws are contextualized by introducing his controlling, snobbish mother; finally, he risk everything to rescue the redeemer-girl. Introducing a poison-clawed Demon Dog Darcy, with the power to raise the dead and blast his enemies to hell as a supporting character, unbalances Inuyasha: Sesshomaru’s well-written redemption arc commences just as Inuyasha’s own arc grinds to a halt, spending a hundred chapters randomly upgrading his sword while the fandom sways toward the narratively marginalized Sesshomaru. Demon Dog Darcy is then forced to hand his emotionally-earned powers over to Inuyasha in an exasperatingly contrived plot twist. But Sesshomaru’s very marginalization in Inuyasha‘s narrative, and total detachment from the main heroine, function to intensify fangirl emotional and sexual frustration: the ultimate aim of any Ice Prince. Although Demon Dog Darcy progressively thaws emotionally, the character’s sexual unavailability is emphasized by spiked armor encircling his chest and maintained by filling the “Elizabeth Bennet” role with a pre-pubescent girl.

In Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel loves and saves Buffy but is made sexually unavailable by a curse that he will lose his soul if he has sex with her. This loss of soul also allows the intensification of Angel’s dominating physical threat and sadism, while permitting the “real” Angel to remain a dutiful lover. Twilight likewise presents Edward Cullen as a deeply loving and loyal “Ice Prince” who threatens Bella repeatedly by mentioning his urge to devour her and, of course, is sexually unavailable through his fear of ‘losing control’. All these narrative devices intensify friction, rather than satisfaction. However, since a female viewer can never fulfil her own sexual desires for a fictional construct, her experience of frustrated sexual tension is most satisfyingly expressed by sexual tension within the narrative. Also, because society constructs men as permanent sexual pursuers, a woman is relieved of her need to resist, and able to fully and extravagantly express her lust in a safer space, when the male is reimagined as loving resistor.

Demon-in-Distress: The “Wolf” Archetype

The defining characteristic of the “Wolf,” the eternally rejected sexual pursuer, is his combination of desperate emotional and sexual availability with repeatedly emphasized vulnerability and animalism. The most exaggeratedly vulnerable is Ranma 1/2‘s Ryoga, a little boy lost in the literal sense that he farcically lacks any sense of direction. The fanged, impulsive Ryoga’s regular transformations into a small, cute piglet add to his vulnerability. His inability to tell the heroine Akane of his true nature and feelings, out of fear of losing his privileged access as her pet pig, forms a near-perfect satire of the “Friendzone” phenomenon.

Inuyasha‘s impulsive, hotheaded Koga is a wolf-demon. In contrast to the elusive, emotionally conflicted hero Inuyasha, Koga falls for the heroine Kagome almost immediately and pursues her consistently. The manga is notable for constantly placing Koga in helpless “demon-in-distress” situations requiring rescue, and for counterbalancing Sesshomaru’s spiked, hug-repellent armor and Inuyasha’s loose robes with Koga’s skimpy armor and furred micro-miniskirt, concealing his crotch only by careful choice of viewing angle. This ogling display of male flesh is characteristic of the Wolf, maximizing the friction between his overt desirability and the need to resist him.

Although Buffy‘s Spike is a vampire, theoretically an “ice prince” archetype, the character bears a dog’s name and typical “wolf” impulsiveness and romantic vulnerability. In his second season introduction, he is confined to a wheelchair and forced to watch his beloved Drusilla seduced by ‘Ice Prince’ rival Angel. In the third season, he’s pathetically dumped and weeping. In the fourth, he’s neutered by a brain chip that zaps him for attacking, so “he doesn’t chase the other puppies anymore.” In the fifth, the trope of Spike’s muscular nakedness is introduced as vulnerability; he bares his chest to Buffy’s stake and confesses his love. This sequence is revealed as Spike’s dream; he is stripped and Buffy is fully clothed even in his own sexual fantasies. Spike is also stripped and tortured for love of Buffy by the dominant, female deity Glory in this season. In the sixth, after their first sexual encounter, Buffy is again fully clothed, abusing Spike verbally while he sprawls naked and defenseless. She repeatedly violates his sexual boundaries from a position of dominance; his attempt to force himself on her is presented as a crime of pathetic desperation. Though ‘Ice Prince’ Angel wishes to torment and kill Buffy when he is soulless, Spike’s soulless state is no obstacle to his love – the emotional dependence of the “Wolf” knows no bounds.

Twilight’s Jacob Black is another wolf defined by constant loyalty, before attempting to force himself onto Bella in an act portrayed as pathetic desperation. Where Edward’s brief moment of toplessness is a dramatic, suicidal act that will dazzle a watching crowd, Jacob’s muscular toplessness and skimpy attire are chronic, underlining his tantalizing availability and maximizing mental friction in the female spectators, as the heroine resists.

Shishihokodan! Or, Why Team Jacob Loses

Comparing the fandom of all four series reveals an interesting trend: fangirls are roughly equally divided between Team Jacob and Team Edward, Team Spike and Team Angel, Team Ryoga and Team Ranma, Team Koga and Team Inuyasha; nonetheless, the “Ice Prince” always gets the girl. It would be easy to blame the creators. Yet, Stephenie Meyer claims to be “Team Jacob.” Both Marti Noxon and Jane Espenson, Buffy‘s major female writer/directors, have made statements in support of the Buffy/Spike (“Spuffy”) romance. Rumiko Takahashi’s writings in the romcom genre, Maison Ikkoku and One Pound Gospel, also reward and root for heroes in the vulnerable “Wolf” mode, and it is Takahashi who provides a structural explanation for ‘ice prince’ triumph with Ranma 1/2‘s Shishihokodan arc.

The “Shishihokodan” is a blast of energy which enables perpetual loser Ryoga to defeat the hero Ranma by harnessing his own heartbreak. Ranma attempts to defeat the all-powerful Shishihokodan with a confidence-blast, but can only triumph by giving Ryoga momentary hope of sexual opportunity. In other words, Ryoga loses not because he is inferior, but because losing is the paradoxical source of his power. Any woman attracted to the “Wolf'” archetype is inherently drawn to vulnerability; her attraction is intensified by the wolf’s heartbroken rejection, her frustration intensified by the heroine’s resistance. Any woman attracted to the “Ice Prince” is inherently drawn to dominance; her attraction would be reduced by his loss of mastery if he were defeated. As such, pursuing the resistant hero, and resisting the pursuing hero, create positively and negatively charged polarities to an explosive battery of sexual tension; a narrative trap which dooms the “wolf,” as Takahashi showed herself sympathetically aware with the Shishihokodan arc.

The wolf is difficult to dispose of: any alternative love interest would undermine his painful availability, thus one could only be introduced with unsatisfactory suddenness at the last minute to make a weak consolation price. The sudden arrival of a pig-fetishist marks Ryoga’s sidelining in Ranma 1/2; a wolf-girl for Koga is a last-minute addition to the Inuyasha anime, while Koga simply loses his previously foolhardy fighting spirit, forgets his long-established vengeance vendetta and slinks out of the original manga after admitting that Kagome should be with Inuyasha. Abandoning pursuit annihilates a Wolf’s narrative role. Most disturbingly, the newly arrived love interest for Jacob Black is literally newly-arrived as a newborn; his obsessive need to psychologically groom an infant into a future bride doesn’t bother the infant’s parents, presumably merely relieved that the wolf has been disposed of. More satisfyingly, rather than slinking away Koga-style, Spike’s acceptance that Buffy can’t love him “but thanks for saying” allows him to destroy the Hellmouth and be redeemed, incinerating himself in a spectacular blast of purest self-destructive Shishihokodan.

Recognizing the function of Ice Prince/Wolf in YA SARCom implies the continual defeat of the Whore as structural necessity in male writings also – as a pursuing character she must be resisted to generate sexual tension, regardless of whether the male author is Team Madonna or Team Whore. The destructive impact on the self-image of female viewers is pure collateral damage, just as our SARCom is poisonously emasculating for male viewers. In fact, mankind’s Whore is generally more empowered than womankind’s Wolf, probably because culture sees male sexuality as common weakness but female sexuality as social rebellion. It is the female gaze’s model of dominant-resistor/submissive-pursuer that aligns the rivalry dynamic of triumphant dominant with the love dynamic of triumphant resistor in a perfect feedback loop, structurally maximizing sexual tension (hence the squealing). But the collateral damage for a male viewer is the destruction of the character he most identifies with, in a blast of purest Shishihokodan. As women well know, it sucks to be the unintended spectator.

Brigit McCone is unapologetically Team Wolf, writes and directs short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and making weird Pride and Prejudice analogies.

‘Moolaadé’: Female Genital Mutilation And Geographical Morality

Unlike most things, injustice appears bigger when it is further away.

“Geographical morality by which the duties of men… are not to be governed by… their relations to men, but by climates, degrees of longitude and latitude… As if, when you have crossed the equinoctial line, all the virtues die.” – Edmund Burke

The 18th century Irish politician Edmund Burke coined the term “geographical morality” to slam Britain’s Governor General of India, Warren Hastings, for excusing his own corruption by claiming it met Indian cultural norms. Burke fought a 10-year campaign to hold Hastings accountable for the colonial exploitation of India, under the belief that “there is no action which would pass for an act of extortion and of oppression in England, that is not an act of extortion and oppression in Europe, Asia, Africa and all the world over.” Such criticism of geographical morality challenges ideas of cultural relativism. Yet, it was Burke who debunked his peers’ assumptions about the Oriental barbarism of the Koran, by an extensive study that demonstrated that it could serve as a culturally appropriate guarantor of civil rights. He aimed to oppose geographical morality through the defense of personal liberty worldwide, while respecting established cultures rather than imposing foreign norms.

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“When writers, painters, musicians and filmmakers suspend their judgment and blindly yoke their art to the service of the nation, it’s time for all of us to sit up and worry.” – Arundhati Roy

One major risk of the defensive patriotism of colonized nations, is that it censors internal critics in the name of patriotic solidarity. 2004’s Moolaadé was the final film of Ousmane Sembene, the “Father of African cinema,” who died in 2007. Sembene was an artist never intimidated by controversy, nor did his patriotism lead him to self-censorship. His 1975 film, Xala, confronted institutional corruption in his native Senegal. 1977’s Ceddo was controversially frank about sectarian conflict between Muslims, Christians, and traditional spirituality. His vision in Moolaadé is a culturally specific condemnation of West African practices of female genital mutilation (FGM), but also a universally relevant exploration of cultural inertia and the personal cost of change. Surely, no reader of Bitch Flicks needs to be told that the forced mutilation of a girl’s genitals is wrong. However, if we cannot see that this struggle goes on, in another form, in our own cultures, then we are lost in the imaginary superiority of geographical morality. Here in Ireland, we know that international outcry is vital to force decriminalization of abortion, yet it remains intensely uncomfortable to feel one’s own culture reduced to an inferior evil in a foreign onlooker’s rhetoric. But the Irish have long cited American gun laws, use of the death penalty and armed police force, to define and defend our own imaginary cultural superiority. Unlike most things, injustice appears bigger when it is further away.

Village girls, seeking self-determination

“By making films, we have the opportunity to view ourselves, for the first time, through a mirror made by ourselves.” – Ousmane Sembene

In a conservative, rural community that practices polygamy as well as the “purification” of FGM, Moolaadé opens with four girls fleeing the ceremony and seeking refuge with Mother Collé, who already resisted pressure to have her own daughter, Amsatou, cut. Collé does not defend the girls in the name of international human rights, nor in the name of the African Charter for Human Rights (the Banjul Charter), nor even in the name of existing laws prohibiting FGM in Burkina Faso, where Moolaadé is set. She defends them in the name of her village’s established cultural tradition of a protective spirit that can be evoked: the moolaadé. By wielding moolaadé to create a magical boundary around her compound, Collé declares herself, like Sembene, an equal inheritor of her own culture. Collé’s compound becomes a refuge, whose boundary rope even female goats can cross to escape rutting males. To force her to undo her spell, the village authorities are driven to whip Collé as “sacrificial lamb” on behalf of her community’s women, provoking the film’s climactic showdown.

As we try to unthink centuries of colonial ideology and develop respect for the self-determination of other societies, we never forget that the right to self-determination belongs not only to cultures, but to individuals and marginalized groups within those cultures. As the outsider, Mercenaire, is sacrificed for opposing violence against women in Moolaadé, we must ask how his freedom of conscience, or the self-determination of Collé’s girls, can be defended, if the authority of village elders is upheld? A White Savior’s approach would speak on behalf of its “saved,” just as the village elders seek to. The solution to Sembene’s “little tyrant” is the same as to White Saviors: amplifying the power of women and minorities to advocate for themselves. Defensive patriotism, that provokes the village men to oppose foreign contamination by destroying their radios, may be justifiably provoked by colonial stigma. In Ireland historically, and in Poland more recently, the disproportionate power of Catholic dogma stemmed from the Church’s role in resisting foreign oppression (British or Soviet), associating our patriotism with obedience to the social rulings of a celibate, exclusively male hierarchy. But culture is not a static concept that can be defended. It is a dynamic, living process of interpretation, and Collé Ardo’s conflict with the village elders strikes to its heart: who is empowered to interpret?

Colle, creating and transmitting female cultural precedent — Collé, creating and transmitting female cultural precedent

“Indeed, culture may be the missing link in the development of Africa. Culture is dynamic and evolves over time, consciously discarding retrogressive traditions, like female genital mutilation (FGM), and embracing aspects that are good and useful.” – Dr. Wangari Maathai

Poised between the imported influences of Islam and the radio, the village debates what the men consider “a minor domestic issue” and Collé brands “a matter of life and death.” She bears the scars of a life-threatening Caesarean, forced by complications from her own cutting and stitching. A sister of one of the fleeing girls died from this procedure. As Amsatou’s prestigious fiancé is pressured to reject her because she is a bilakoro (uncut), we witness the fearful prospect of a daughter’s becoming unmarriageable and unprotected, which has inspired loving mothers down the ages to enforce the cutting of their daughters. Yet, as girls kill themselves rather than be cut, and yet another dies from the procedure, Sembene questions whether it is worth torturing and risking lives for the sake of marriage value. In the face of cultural inertia and the threat of becoming outcast, it is still society that must be somehow changed, not the bilakoro.

Somali supermodel Iman, whose parents, like Sembene’s fictional Collé, withstood cultural pressure to subject her to FGM, has spoken against the practice, while Somali supermodel and Bond girl Waris Dirie, who was traumatized by FGM at age five before fleeing forced marriage at thirteen, was appointed a UN Special Ambassador in the struggle against it. It is no coincidence that both are supermodels. Only truly extraordinary genetic perfection grants African women their global visibility.

“Genital mutilation is not my thing… Listen, girls cannot go to school. I can’t tackle all the issues, otherwise I’m spreading myself too thin.” – Iman

Iman recently protested attempts to solicit her opinion yet again on FGM, in an interview focussed on her advocacy of education for girls. To question her priorities is to miss the point. There is a reason why Iman is expected to serve as the sole spokeswoman for, among other things, Somalia (any aspect thereof), the economic development of Africa (the entire continent), female education in Africa, female genital mutilation, and Black beauty. That reason is the widespread silencing and invisibility of African women’s perspectives in global culture. There is also a reason why so many young African girls have their genitals forcibly cut. By astonishing coincidence, that reason is also the widespread silencing and invisibility of African women’s perspectives in global culture. Waris Dirie is tackling FGM with her NGO, Desert Flower Foundation. But Iman also tackles the root causes of FGM, by addressing the neglect of girls’ education. Where Desert Flower Foundation understandably resorts to White Savior rhetoric in its pressing need for funds – “save a little Desert Flower!” – Iman tackles root causes of FGM, simply by existing as an assertive, outspoken and glamorously uncut African woman in the public eye, let alone by her packed schedule of activism. Conversely, when we accept the glaring absence of African women and their stories from our global culture (the legal struggles of Beatrice Mtetwa? The ongoing attacks against human rights defender Aminatou Haidar?) we are actively contributing to the root causes of FGM, by lowering the status of African women. Acknowledging that complicity feels less comfortable than the warm glow of donating to fight a foreign evil.

“If a white man or woman saw a white child that is mutilated, there would be screaming. I guarantee it would end. This is abuse against a child, so to say it’s to do with your religion or race, it’s all wrong. This is about child protection,” – Waris Dirie

The wording of the Banjul Charter‘s Article 18 states, “the State shall have the duty to assist the family, which is the custodian of morals and traditional values recognized by the community… The State shall ensure the elimination of every discrimination against women.” The Irish Constitution has similar wording about the State’s duty to “protect” (read: enforce) family, used to prohibit divorce until 1996, to criminalize homosexuality until 1993, to coerce unmarried mothers into surrendering their children for adoption and to bar married women from the civil service. If family organization has been traditionally patriarchal, how can the upholding of its “morals and traditional values” avoid discrimination against women? Yet, the Banjul Charter’s Article 18 also explicitly forbids discrimination against women, allowing its interpretation as a tool of liberation: who will be empowered to interpret? Similarly, the Koran forbids compulsion in religion, but contains verses justifying battle against “infidels” (composed when Mohammed’s followers were actively persecuted by nonbelieving Arabs). It can be read as advocating women’s equality – “any of you who labors in My way, be it man or woman; each of you is equal to the other (3:195)” – but contains verses that support gender discrimination. The Koran even supports queer-positive readings. As Burke claimed, the Koran can be interpreted as a basis for liberation and just rule: but who is empowered to interpret? At the joyous climax of Moolaadé, Amsatou’s fiancé, heir to the village’s throne, unites with the village women to collectively withstand traditional authority and reject genital mutilation. They empower themselves to interpret.

“We were taught at school, or even in tales and legends, that the hero was the soldier. It’s the leader, the one who can kill, who comes back as a hero. However, to me, from a moral point of view, it takes much more honesty and courage to resist the everyday without getting tainted by it.” – Ousmane Sembene. R.I.P.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6GCOmlTewSo”]

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Brigit McCone has been fangirling over Wangari Maathai since her Lion King post, writes and directs short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and terrible dancing in the privacy of her own home.

‘Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom’: Childhood Is The Pits

The heroic journey of Short Round is the catalyst for both Willie’s and Indy’s own growth and transcendence, as Willie becomes proactive and Indy becomes responsible.

Ke Huy Quan as Short Round, facing the pits

Written by Brigit McCone.

Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom is the coolest kids’ movie ever made about severe child abuse. Just as Roald Dahl’s Matilda does for daughters and mothers, so The Temple of Doom affirms that the good father must empower his son, and defends the child’s right to reject and resist abusive behavior. Critics who strive to dismiss the film as the original trilogy’s “weakest” often snark about the allegedly annoying chirpiness of Ke Huy Quan’s heartfelt performance. I suspect they are actually uncomfortable that Spielberg’s film narratively centers Short Round as its protagonist, while casually assuming that an adult audience identify with him. From his hero-worship of Indy to his glee at the film’s thrill rides, Short Round’s emotional responses cue our own, including an assumed desire to break up kissing couples and see squealing girls get giant millipedes down the back of their necks.

The film embodies the sensibility of a twelve-year-old boy, wholeheartedly and without ironic distance. The mighty Indiana Jones himself is regularly “fridged,” disempowered by the mind-controlling Black Blood of Kali Ma (Mother Kali) and voodoo dolls, to further Short Round’s heroic journey. As much as Spielberg’s E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial, his Temple of Doom showcases the director’s extraordinary empathy for a young boy’s worldview, though it conjures a nightmare of parental abuse rather than E.T.‘s fantasy playmate, leading to accusations that the film is “too dark”. Validating a child’s experiences by confronting the terror of abusive parents is apparently less acceptable than Nazi torturers to mainstream (adult) viewers. Just as audiences can only fully appreciate Spielberg’s film by identifying wholeheartedly with Short Round, so Indy must learn to identify with the child’s perspective to grow into the role of good father, from careless and selfish beginnings. His newfound identification is showcased when begged to flee the hellish Thuggee lair. Harrison Ford turns, jaw set in iconic resolution, and growls “right! All of us” before battling for the cathartic liberation of every last one of the film’s abused children. Coolest. Dad. Ever.

"Left Tunnel, Indy!" - good father. Crap navigator. — “Left Tunnel, Indy!” – good father. Crap navigator.

Because Short Round is positioned as the protagonist of the film in terms of agency, I don’t read it as a conventional White Savior narrative. Indy’s swaggering Fedora the Explorer is repeatedly punished for assuming he knows better than the film’s Asian boys. As Short Round puts it, with a frustration familiar to any child, “I keep telling you, you listen to me more, you live longer!” Interestingly, the Prime Minister of Pangkot explicitly accuses British colonials of viewing Indians as children, while the Thuggee appropriate the village’s power source and indoctrinate their children like nightmare colonizer-fathers (yes, Indians are the film’s primary representatives of Patriarcho-colonialism. “Projection” has many cinematic meanings). The film’s paternalist Brits monitor and stifle, but fail to figure out what’s really going on until it’s too late. Only the holy fire of Short Round’s torch, that awakens Indy as Indy’s fiery wrath awakens the Sankara stones, can defeat the Thuggee menace.

Where British colonizers infantilize adults, Indiana Jones lets children drive (a powerful metaphor, if inadvisable from a vehicular manslaughter standpoint). The supernatural power of the stones confirms that Indiana Jones operates in a syncretic universe, in which the divine can manifest equally as Shiva or Jehovah, marking no culture as inherently superior. However, the failure of The Last Crusade to even mention Short Round’s fate, in its meditations on the meaning of fatherhood, reinforces the vilest stereotypes of interracial adoptees as disposable rent-a-kids. Indian culture is also caricatured and distorted by the film, even granted the disturbing true history of the Thuggee death cult. Where in Hinduism the god Shiva and goddess Kali are consorts, each representing forces of combined destruction and creation, Spielberg and Lucas create a simplistic opposition between a heroic Shiva and an evil Kali.

The historical Thuggee did kill in Kali’s name, indoctrinating young boys into their cult, but did not target women. The film’s plot, with Indy possessed by his skull-faced mother goddess and compelled to destroy his blonde love interest, therefore resembles a Bollywood reimagining of Hitchcock’s Psycho more than Hinduism. Spielberg’s Thuggee are a cult that brutally enslave children, both boys and girls. The boys are terrified that their puberty will force them to become mindless abusers themselves: “will become like them. Will be alive, but like a nightmare. You drink blood, you not wake up from nightmare”. We see no adult women among the Thuggee which, along with the attempted sacrifice of Willie, forces us to conclude that the enslaved girls have their hearts torn out and are fed to the flames when they hit puberty. The film’s vision of the Thuggee is thus a nightmare caricature of patriarchy: consuming women heart first, enslaving children and turning terrified boys into inevitable replicas of their abusive fathers, for fear of sharing the sacrificial woman’s fate (“projection” has oh so many cinematic meanings). How appropriate, then, that the surrogate family at the film’s heart – Indy, Willie and Short Round – caricature traditional gender roles. Indy is an overtly macho leader who lusts after “fortune and glory”; Willie is a squeamish, passive beauty who seeks to control violent men with sex appeal; Short Round is a colonized kid who models his whole identity on his father-figure. When Indy is forced to drink the Kool-Aid of Kali Ma, this substance abuse terrifyingly alters his personality, becoming a violent and unloving nightmare father. It is up to Short Round to break this cycle and fight back (dun-ta-dun-tah, dun-ta-daaah!)

Kate Capshaw as Willie, facing the pits of Mommy-goddess issues — Kate Capshaw as Willie, facing the fiery pits of patriarchy’s Mommy-goddess issues

Willie is a perfect deconstruction of the myth of female sexual power, and Kate Capshaw plays her with tongue firmly in cheek. She attempts to secure her position in Shanghai by her sexual power over an influential mob boss, but he hardly cares if she dies. She tries to bolster her shaky self-worth by accusing Indy of being unable to take his eyes off her, only to be humiliated as he pointedly pulls his fedora over those eyes and naps. Further outraged as Indy seems more interested in feeling up a statue than in making love to her, the objectified Willie is reduced to being farcically jealous of a literal object. After Indy becomes evil through drinking the Black Blood of Kali Ma (what is it with women and their wicked bleeding, amirite?), Willie attempts to cure him using traditionally female strategies of appeasing, pleading and crying, that are shown to be totally ineffective. The audience is lured into a contemptuous “girls are stoopid” view of Willie, that reflects the typical psychology of children in abusive families, who cope with their own terrifying helplessness by identifying with the seeming strength of the abuser, and redirecting their angry frustration at the apparently weaker, appeasing parent. If you are one of the many feminists who hate Willie, ask why you intensely dislike a woman who struggles to secure her safety nonviolently, and is out of her depth in a situation where we would be likewise. Battling to be more than some man’s Willie, Willie shows great guts, becoming a partner in adventure who courageously fights for Short Round, braving hideous bugs to free him and forcefully stamping on the fingers of the villainous Mola Ram as he climbs to get them. Willie even develops a sense of humor about being hosed by Short Round’s elephant. Coolest. Mom. Ever.

Of course, there are problems with this model. The Indiana Jones trilogy follows the usual pattern of male-authored feminist empowerment, in proposing that women can become equal to men by proving that they can be masculine, with no self-scrutiny or uncomfortable adjustments necessary in the underlying ideology of male domination. Insecurity over female sexuality pervades these representations. If a woman tries to get her way using sexual power, like Kate Capshaw’s Willie, she is ruthlessly mocked. If she succeeds in getting her way using sexual power, like Alison Doody’s Elsa of The Last Crusade, she is dropped screaming into a bottomless abyss. Only Karen Allen’s Marion Ravenwood, of Raiders of the Lost Ark, is a truly Cool Girl, because she can drink more than men, doesn’t dress too sexy and has no problem with violence. By contrast, many Asian philosophies teach that our full humanity is a balance between the forces of shiva and shakti, yin and yang. To impose a rigid gender binary, society must code shiva/yang as exclusively male, and shakti/yin as exclusively female. Each of these exclusions, enforced by strict gender policing, serves to suppress full human potential. Yet, just as Spielberg and Lucas reject the positive potential of shakti in their distortion of Hinduism, so they reject the positive potential of femininity in their distortion of women. Through Cool Girls like Marion Ravenwood, the trilogy accepts that the female is not necessarily feminine, but does nothing to question the demonization of femininity itself.

"Kali Ma Shakti De!" - Mola Ram summons his feminine side — “Kali Ma Shakti De!” – Mola Ram summons his feminine side

As for the boy-child, Short Round is repeatedly shown humorously mirroring Indy, underlining his hero worship, which is also expressed in his contempt for Willie: “you call him Dr. Jones, doll!” Trapped in the nightmarish Thuggee model, however, in which Indy has become corrupted into a violent Thug, Short Round breaks his identification with him and, with tears in his eyes, symbolically rejects him by burning him, before fighting to save mother-figure Willie from the sacrificial pit. Spielberg’s Temple of Doom resembles a Euro-American vision of hell, that Short Round must escape by braving its fires and learning to wield them himself. The abused child’s empowerment fantasy allows Short Round to locate the voodoo doll that is controlling his parent, and remove the pin, so that Indy can be magically admirable again. Indy’s own fury, at being manipulated into a mindless slave of the wicked Temple of Patriarcho-colonialism, can then awaken Shiva’s righteous flame and destroy Mola Ram’s arch-abuser. Only through such painful awakening, not appeasement, can the cycle be broken and the nightmare escaped.

The heroic journey of Short Round is the catalyst for both Willie’s and Indy’s own growth and transcendence, as Willie becomes proactive and Indy becomes responsible. Ultimately, Indy renounces “fortune and glory” in favor of giving back to the community. A reconciliation with feminine values, after all? Since community values are represented by Shiva’s Penis… perhaps not. By breaking his chains and rejecting the abusive father, it is Short Round who single-handedly turns the film around. If Ke Huy Quan doesn’t break your heart as he croaks “I love you! Wake up, Indy!” before swinging that torch, you may need to check your pulse. Annoying? Bah! Give that kid an Oscar.

Short Round and the Father Figure of Doom

The Indiana Jones trilogy commands a rabid devotion that none of its many imitators can match, because its thrill rides cover a masculine psychological journey of archetypal power. In Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indy must defeat his shadow self in Belloq, and reconcile with his female counterpart in Marion, by embracing humility and accepting his limits. In The Temple of Doom, he must accept the responsibilities of the father and confront his fear of becoming the abusive father. Finally, in The Last Crusade, Indy must forgive his own father, and consciously walk in the footsteps of his father’s teaching. The films have less to offer female audiences: a promise of equality through rejecting femininity, and an opportunity to overidentify with an Asian boy. But societies are defined by the freedom and dignity granted to their most vulnerable members. By unabashedly celebrating the empowerment of children, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom becomes a manifesto for the liberation of Shorties everywhere. Wake the hell up, Indy.

Brigit McCone has a lingering fondness for fedoras, writes and directs short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and pretending The Crystal Skull never happened.

Vintage Viewing: Zora Neale Hurston, Open Observer

Part of Vintage Viewing, exploring the work of female filmmaking pioneers.

“Mama exhorted her children at every opportunity to ‘jump at the sun.’ We might not land on the sun, but at least we would get off the ground. ” – Zora Neale Hurston

The seven principles of Kwanzaa (Nguzo Saba), designed to foster community empowerment in the face of racial stigma, include Kujichagulia, the right to “define ourselves, name ourselves, create for ourselves and speak for ourselves.” Though we often debate choice of imagery on Bitch Flicks, it is impossible to create an image that represents another group’s equality, because their right to define their own image is fundamental to that equality. Caribbean-American comedian Bert Williams became the first Black artist to write, produce, direct and star in a film, with 1916’s A Natural Born Gambler, having already broken boundaries as writer-star of In Dahomey (1902), the first Black musical on Broadway. Williams’ performances exploited the blackface conventions of his age to be acceptable to a wider audience, while illuminating them with humanity and subversive subtext, as he continually fought for greater creative control. At the climax of A Natural Born Gambler, his character plays an imaginary poker game in prison. By losing, even in his own fantasy, Williams makes virtuoso mime into poignant commentary on internalized stigma, also the theme of his hit song, “Nobody,” from the 1906 musical Abyssinia. The same year, Williams’ Fish cast himself, then in his 40s, as a young boy who escapes his chores to catch fish and is punished for his entrepreneurship. In a society where even Black children were often viewed as prematurely adult, Williams’ demand that audiences recognize the child in the man was challenging, and audiences reacted unfavorably. Neither of Williams’ surviving films feature significant roles for women.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=naUN5L56Zg4″]

Bert Williams masked biting commentary under comic delivery

In 1920, Oscar Micheaux wrote and directed Within Our Gates, the oldest surviving feature film by a Black director. The film argues for education and against the unquestioned domination of the church, while breaking many taboos, including depicting a lynching and the attempted rape of a Black woman by a white man. However, its heroines remain stilted and rigidly defined by Madonna/Whore framing. Micheaux’s 1925 film, Body and Soul, features a powerful performance by Mercedes Gilbert as a rape victim, opposite a menacing debut by Paul Robeson. Yet, the heroine must demonstrate her virtue by dying of shame, harnessing the martyrdom of the female body to score Micheaux’ points about oppressive religious hypocrisy. 1910’s White Fawn’s Devotion by James Young Deer (the Nanticoke director of 34 Westerns, whose role in shaping the genre is rarely acknowledged), uses the martyred suicide of White Fawn to prove to her Euro-American husband that she is attached to homeland and kin, once more scoring its racial points through female martyrdom (even if the heroine recovers for a happy end).

Once tipped for an Oscar, Louise Beavers remained typecast as 'Maid' — Once tipped for an Oscar, Louise Beavers remained typecast as “Maid”

“As long as the plays are being written and produced by whites for whites, there will be the same chance for criticism. The only remedy is for such plays as would meet popular favor to be produced by us.” – Louise Beavers

Mabel Normand‘s star vehicle, Mickey, featured sympathetic scenes of bonding between Mickey and her foster mother, played by Cheyenne comedienne Minnie Devereaux, while Mae West’s films showed extensive, sympathetic banter with maids played by Louise Beavers (whose performance in Imitation of Life was acclaimed as Oscar-worthy, without promoting Beavers from supporting roles) and Soo Yong (cast as aunt to a yellowface protagonist in The Good Earth). Though these displays of interracial female solidarity by Normand and West would be considered progressive for their time, they limit women of color to supporting roles, reinforcing their heroines’ white supremacy. The fact that white female filmmakers tended to reinforce white supremacy with their representations, while male directors of other races utilized disempowering sexist tropes, surely illustrates why they cannot collectively represent women of color.

As Deborah Riley Draper points out in her Bitch Flicks post, “#EarlyCinemaSoBlack,” many Black women were striving to bring their perspectives to the screen at this time. Tressie Souders became probably the first Black woman to write and direct a film with A Woman’s Error in 1922, but her film is now lost. However, considering how Chinese-American writer-director Marion Wong’s 1916 feature, The Curse of the Quon Gwon: When the Far East Mingles With The West, turned up unexpectedly in a basement in 2005, Souders’ film might yet be similarly rediscovered. Wong showcased traditional Chinese ceremonies to satisfy Western curiosity about the exotic Orient, but she also explored Chinese-American cultural tensions with the nuance of an insider. The Curse of the Quon Gwon uses superimpositions and dissolves in a short fantasy sequence to represent the heroine’s own imagination, predating similar effects by Germaine Dulac. It’s worth remembering that Dulac made a series of conventional films before developing the impressionist and surrealist styles that she is celebrated for, while The Curse of Quon Gwon was Marion Wong’s only film (denied financing, distribution or promotion, despite her striving to secure them). With the same support as Dulac, how far could Wong have developed, described by the Oakland Tribune as “energy personified”?

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xAxpLXP6O_M”]

Where they did not face the stigma of a racial minority, women of color found more filmmaking success. In India, Fatma Begum directed the first of eight fantasy epics in 1926. The following decade, Sakane Tazuko became the first female director in Japan, while Elena Sánchez Valenzuela directed a feature documentary in her native Mexico, acclaimed by journalists for “hundreds of the most beautiful, evocative scenes” but now lost. Esther Eng began writing and directing in Hong Kong in 1937 (documentary clip). Still, the ethnographic films of Zora Neale Hurston remain a rarity: vintage footage directed by a woman of color, available online. Better known as the playwright of 1925’s prize-winning Color Struck, as a leading light of the Harlem Renaissance, and as the author of novels including Their Eyes Were Watching God (see Bitch Flicks‘ review of Darnell Martin’s adaptation), Hurston also studied anthropology under Dr. Franz Boaz, who dedicated his life to challenging assumptions of Western cultural superiority. Believed to be part of Hurston’s wider research into African-American folklore, these ethnographic films were made in the Southern United States between 1928 and 1929. The footage is scored in the embedded video with Hurston’s own performance of folk songs that she collected. At first glance, her films seem like simple anthropological records. However, they are equally revealing when read as explorations of our ways of seeing, framing and interpreting others.

Logging (1928) – Children’s Games (1928) – Baptism (1929)

“She pulled in her horizon like a great fish-net. Pulled it from around the waist of the world and draped it over her shoulder. So much of life in its meshes!” – Zora Neale Hurston

The Palestinian-American founder of postcolonialism, Edward Said’s Orientalism explored how the psychological needs of the observer shape their observations, as much as the nature of the thing observed. Criticizing the constant framing of “things Oriental in class, court, prison or manual for scrutiny, study, judgment, discipline or governing,” Said noted that imperial observers tended to interpret the Orient through “synchronic essentialism,” as something fixed and unchanging. Essentialist interpretations deny responsibility: if something is unchanging, it is impossible for oppression to impact it. If women are essentially and eternally nags, you aren’t responsible for your wife’s annoyance. If colonized people are hotheaded savages, they need no reason for rebellion. If dispossessed peoples are permanently lazy, it isn’t a symptom of their demoralizing dispossession. Oppressors become invisible to themselves through their interpretative framework.

Fictions of objective and invisible observers (oppressors?) are the traditional framing of anthropology. A “native” may be scowling because the photographer is intrusive, but their image will be frozen as an “objective” record of the “hostile native”, with viewers instinctively imagining themselves in the photographer’s place. Robert Flaherty’s Nanook of the North charmed audiences with its warm intimacy, popularizing the art of the documentary feature. But by claiming objectivity and obscuring his sexual relationship with his subjects, however, Flaherty distorted their shared banter and flirtation into essentialized features of the “happy-go-lucky Eskimo” and his “smiling one” wife, fueling a popular image of Inuit naivete and availability.

In her ethnographic films, Hurston, by contrast, strikingly resists fictions of objectivity and pointedly draws attention to herself as observer. A woman and a dancing child smile directly into her lens in extreme close-up, with shy pride or beaming pleasure at her clearly encouraging attention. Instead of merely observing their games, we join the circle of clapping children and they interact with the camera as it pans over their faces. Hurston’s camera is dynamic, tracking up a logging railway and lingering on tapping feet. We instinctively warm to her subjects, as we share Hurston’s sense of belonging through her camera’s gaze. She contrasts the work of an elderly lumberjack with the machinery of professional logging, showing a world of changing realities, and lingers on sawmill workers’ leisure rather than fetishizing their labor, casually noticing a woman among them. Is their mechanized modernity an improvement on the old man’s axe?

Faith Ringgold: 'In Picasso's Studio' — Faith Ringgold: “Picasso’s Studio”

“She had an inside and an outside now and suddenly she knew how not to mix them.” – Zora Neale Hurston

Of most interest for questions of self-representation, Hurston briefly portrays woman’s life in the community. Opening with the woman framed against her home environment, a wooden cabin, in the pose of a typical anthropological subject, Hurston’s woman then holds our gaze purposefully and walks up close. Hurston instructs her to smile, turn and present her profiles; she is reframed as a model, or an actress on a casting call. Compare Faith Ringgold‘s “Picasso’s Studio”: her nude heroine models against a backdrop of African “primitivism” that has been reframed by Picasso as “modernism,” while Ringgold playfully reframes Picasso himself in the African-American, feminine “folk art” of quilting, challenging the gendered and racialized ways art is interpreted and (de)valued, just as Zora Neale Hurston challenges the devaluing subtext of the anthropological frame through glamor modeling. As Hurston cuts to her woman sitting with another woman on the porch, laughing in each other’s company, this is surely the silent film equivalent of a Bechdel pass. Bouncing to a wide angle on the cabin environment, the next shot reframes the woman again, draping her over her porch railing in the “Venus reclining” pose. Hurston’s use of this classical pose recalls the 19th century African-American/Ojibwa sculptor Edmonia Lewis‘ use of Classical Grecian styles to visually code her African and Indigenous subjects as noble. From this static pose, Hurston cuts to the woman’s feet tapping as she rocks, adding musical sensibility. Hurston has thus reframed her subject five times: 1) as a product of her environment, 2) as a glamorous beauty, 3) within a community of female friendship, 4) as an iconic goddess and 5) as an appreciator of music. In total silence, in under a minute and with a mediocre camera, Hurston achieves a multi-faceted portrait. Imagine what she could have done with a budget and a distributor.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wtPrN-zYZc4″]

The world’s first animated feature film, 1926’s The Adventures of Prince Achmed, was a celebration of Middle-Eastern folklore, animated by Lotte Reiniger. Reiniger’s concept, for creating feature-length animations based on classic folklore, would become box office gold for Walt Disney, winning him a special Oscar for innovation, while he also patented a design for a multi-plane camera almost identical to Reiniger’s. Despite his debt to Lotte Reiniger, Disney would exclude women from creative work in his company. Next month’s Vintage Viewing: Lotte Reiniger, Animating Innovator. Stay tuned!

Brigit McCone writes and directs short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and learning new things.

Vintage Viewing: Germaine Dulac, Surrealist Theorist

While America was building its clout as the commercial center of the global film industry, it was France that became the center of film theory, driving experimentation. A key figure in that development was Germaine Dulac.

Part of Vintage Viewing, exploring the work of female filmmaking pioneers.

The career of Alice Guy, the original film director, straddles two continents. In America, where she made the bulk of her films, Guy mentored Lois Weber, triggering an unparalleled wave of female film directors. But her career began in France, and it was to France that Guy returned in 1922, lecturing on film there for many years. While America was building its clout as the commercial center of the global film industry, it was France that became the center of film theory, driving experimentation. A key figure in that development was Germaine Dulac. Beginning her career as a journalist and drama critic for feminist publications La Française and La Fronde, while exploring photography, the bisexual Dulac was introduced to cinema by her girlfriends, actress Stasia de Napierkowska and writer Irène Hillel-Erlanger, founding D.H. Films with Hillel-Erlanger in 1915. Women’s contributions are often erased within their collaborations with male lovers, but Dulac reminds us that sharing goals is a natural romantic development, that goes beyond gender. Like Alice Guy’s Pierrette’s Escapades, Dulac’s early films explore playful gender fluidity, filming a ballet of a crossdressing masked ball. Her lost collaboration with future husband Louis Delluc, Spanish Fiesta, is credited with kickstarting French Impressionist cinema. Her influential The Seashell and the Clergyman, often called the first surrealist film, was released the year before Luis Buñuel and Salvador Dalí’s more famous Un Chien Andalou.

By combining the roles of critic and practising filmmaker, Dulac developed a theory of film that was uniquely coherent for its time, shaping the thinking of France’s cinematic avant-garde. Dulac was a firm believer in cinema as a director’s vision (Antonin Artaud fought publicly with Dulac over the liberties she took with his screenplay for The Seashell and the Clergyman). In a 1923 interview, Dulac declares: “cinema comes from palpable emotion… To be worth something and “bring” something, this emotion must come from one source only.” She explicitly demanded recognition as “author” (“auteure” – a term not then used of cinema) of The Seashell and the Clergyman, laying the foundation for the auteurism of the French New Wave in the 1950s. With the advent of sound, Dulac abandoned her impressionist and surrealist “visual symphonies” to become an artistic director and documentary filmmaker at Alice Guy’s old studio, Gaumont. She played a key role in nationalizing the French film industry in 1935, taught cinema at the Louis Lumière school and helped to establish the Cinémathèque Française, whose archives and program of organized screenings educated many of the French New Wave’s directors. After her death in 1942, a magazine apparently attempted to censor her obituary, out of discomfort with her “nonconformism”. Dulac’s historical significance has been marginalized, often limited to “the first feminist filmmaker” (a label which manages the impressive double whammy of limiting the scope of Dulac’s achievement while erasing Alice Guy, Lois Weber and Marion E. Wong). This marginalization resembles that of Agnès Varda, whose 1955 film La Pointe-Courte launched the French New Wave, before male directors Jean-Luc Godard and François Truffaut were allowed to dominate international coverage of the movement.

The Smiling Madame Beudet – 1923

“Only by using ideas, lights, and the camera was I able, by the time I made my first film, to understand what cinema was, art of interior life and of sensation” – Germaine Dulac

Theatre struggles to stage inner worlds. We watch characters onstage as we watch people in life, from the outside. Traditionally, women suffered most from realist depictions, because women were expected to play passive roles, easily dismissed as decorations or overlooked altogether. In Dulac’s best-known film, her subject matter is passivity and suppression itself: a frustrated housewife who does not, actually, dramatically murder her husband. Dulac creates tension from this static premise, in the conflict between Madame Beudet’s outer passivity and her vibrant inner life. Cinematic effects of slow motion, distortion and superimposition allow easy shifting between reality and vivid fantasy, confirming cinema’s potential as Dulac’s “art of interior life.”

Opening on a tranquil small town’s facade, Dulac takes us first inside the house and then inside the head, as the sparkling lake in Madame Beudet’s mind mirrors the mood of the music she plays, establishing her sophistication and artistic appreciation in a few strokes. Isolated in a black vacuum, Madame Beudet fantasizes of escape by fast car, or a burly tennis player kidnapping her mocking and controlling husband, who emotionally blackmails her with faked suicides. He locks her piano to assert his power, anticipating Jane Campion’s The Piano. The older, married Madame Labas ogles magazine pictures of attractive sportsmen, while the housemaid’s inner smile, as she fantasizes of her lover, is contrasted with her outwardly dutiful expression, emphasizing that the passions of women are independent from their social value. A running conflict over the placing of a vase of flowers shows the banality of hellish incompatibility.

Madame Beudet’s own imaginary lover is blurred, a vague aspiration, while the grinning face of her grotesque husband is tauntingly clear, haunting her from every angle, hanging in mid-air, leaping in the window in slow motion and whizzing around the house speeded up. She loads his gun, dooming him to die if he pulls another fake suicide. While jokingly throttling a doll, Mr. Beudet clumsily breaks it, because “a doll is fragile, like a woman.” Careless ignorance does as much damage as deliberate spite. In the end, Madame Beudet is only human, and shrieks when her husband seems about to really shoot himself. Can the impulse be judged, when not acted on? In her husband’s crushing embrace, “together by habitude,” the Beudets walk the streets of their small town’s picturesque façades. Traditional womanhood is an iceberg: nine tenths lie beneath the surface. La Souriante Madame Beudet is a classic feminist work, not because it depicts what should be, but because it clarifies the stifling frustration of what is.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IKiyxv88CKE”]

Invitation to the Voyage – 1927

“the intellectuals and the filmmakers should develop a closer kinship to one another, for it is only nuances between words that irremediably keep them apart” – Germaine Dulac

From the popularity of Serge Diaghilev’s Ballets Ruses to the paintings of Henri Matisse, Orientalism saturated early 20th century Paris. Edward Said has criticized its distortions and stereotypes but, under the pretext of representing real cultures, the “Orient” allowed Parisians to role-play alternative social values, as scifi and fantasy worlds do today. In particular, the Persian homoerotic poetry of Abu Nuwas, Omar Khayyam and Rumi made Orientalism an important codifier of gay identity. Novelist Lucie Delarue-Mardrus and dancer Ida Rubinstein led a heavily orientalized lesbian counterculture in Dulac’s Paris, while Dulac’s own lover, Stasia de Napierkowska, played Cleopatra on film and danced with the Ballets Ruses. Rather than disdaining popular Orientalism, Dulac explores it as an imaginary French creation, representing a striving for sexual liberation. In Dulac’s six-part serial, 1920’s Âmes de fous, a French heiress is liberated from her oppressive stepmother by adopting the persona of an Egyptian dancer while, in 1928’s Princesse Mandane, the Orient is the hero’s dream, where his rescued princess elopes with her female bodyguard, playfully thwarting his assumed entitlement to her. In Antonia Lant’s assessment, “it was the pleasure of the Islamic as a visual and cultural code, transformed through recyclings within contemporary French urban culture, that fascinated Dulac.”

Invitation to the Voyage was born as a poem by Charles Baudelaire, where the poet seeks “to love at leisure, love and die in a land that resembles you.” Dulac’s film makes the metaphorical nature of the voyage clear, by converting it into the theme of a bar that our inhibited heroine furtively enters. Veiled by her fur stole, her eyes devour the scene with enigmatic desires, though she flinches from sexual propositions. She pictures her home life, sewing wordlessly while her husband reads. Their child’s cot materializes between them – an obligation binding them? Clocks tick meaninglessly in her husband’s repeated absences on business (rendez vous d’affaires), echoing Madame Beudet’s stagnation. The heroine smiles hungrily at dancing couples, including fleetingly glimpsed interracial and lesbian pairings, then allows herself to join them. Rolling seascapes blend with her admirer, associating his sexual promise with escape, while Oriental musicians play. Yet, just as Madame Beudet fails to kill her husband, so the lonely wife returns home with dreams unconsummated.

Soundtrack suggestion: Billie Holiday’s The Best of Jazz Forever

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mKzlYMkpxvI”]

The Seashell and the Clergyman – 1928

“Lines and surfaces evolving according to the logic of their forms, and stripped of all meanings that are too human to better elevate themselves towards abstraction of sentiments, leaving more space for sensations and dreams: integral cinema.” – Germaine Dulac

The Seashell and the Clergyman, an impressionist portrait of a clergyman’s lustful desire for a general’s wife, shares many themes with Dulac’s earlier work. Repressive hypocrisy and stifling convention are represented by clerical celibacy, while the violent fantasies of Madame Beudet are recalled in the priest’s violent fantasy of throttling his rival, the general, until his head tears apart. As with Invitation to the Voyage, the sea suggests sexual release. However, Dulac’s imagery in this film is far more abstract, evolving an aesthetic of surrealism by empowering the viewer to make their own meanings. Dulac’s theories of “pure cinema” called for all the elements of film – the rhythm of camera movement and cutting, the shape of forms portrayed, the flow between movements – to combine in their own “visual symphony” beyond narrative logic. Through the possibilities of slow or speeded motion, running film backward and jump cuts, cinema allows for time itself to become another element to sculpt with. In her 1928 film Thèmes et variations, Dulac eliminates narrative altogether, playfully juxtaposing a ballerina and factory machinery, feminine and masculine, elite and working class, before allowing them to flow together in a pure poetry of motion. In The Seashell and the Clergyman, that sense of visual poetry combines with a fever dream of erotic repression, fantasy, possessiveness and conformity. Dulac’s clergyman feels trapped as a disembodied head in a jar, surrounded by caretaking women, but ends up imaginatively trapping the woman in his place. This version is tinted and set to “The Dreams” by Delia Derbyshire (legendary electronica pioneer and composer of the Doctor Who theme tune).

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fO60-cvUFmk”]

Germaine Dulac was hailed as the “first feminist filmmaker” for harnessing cinema to visualize the fantasies of women, but she was not the first to do so. In 1916, Chinese-American filmmaker Marion E. Wong wrote, directed and produced The Curse of Quon Gwon, featuring a fantasy sequence that uses dissolves and superimposition to visualize its heroine’s fears of marriage. The ethnographic films of Zora Neale Hurston are among the only other vintage footage online that is directed by a woman of color. Next month’s Vintage Viewing: Zora Neale Hurston, Open Observer. Stay tuned!

Brigit McCone wishes she could pull off that sophisticated French look, but does not recommend you take up smoking. She writes and directs short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and learning new things.