The Iranian feminist poet Forough Farrokhzad (1935-1967) led the way in both her life and art. Her pen foregrounded female subjectivity and desire while her independent lifestyle defied the gender norms of her time and place. Killed in a car accident at the tragically young age of 32, Farrokhzad is regarded as one of the great voices of 20th century Persian poetry. But the Tehran-born poet also occupies a special place in Iranian cinema. She wrote and directed ‘The House is Black,’ an award-winning documentary short film that is still revered by Iranian filmmakers and well-respected by critics and scholars. A landmark essay film of Iranian New Wave Cinema, it recently secured a place (235) on ‘Sight and Sound’s prestigious critics’ (2012) list of 250 Greatest Films.
A film is never really good unless the camera is an eye in the head of a poet.
–Orson Welles
The Iranian feminist poet Forough Farrokhzad (1935-1967) led the way in both her life and art. Her pen foregrounded female subjectivity and desire while her independent lifestyle defied the gender norms of her time and place. Killed in a car accident at the tragically young age of 32, Farrokhzad is regarded as one of the great voices of 20th century Persian poetry. But the Tehran-born poet also occupies a special place in Iranian cinema. She wrote and directed The House is Black, an award-winning documentary short film that is still revered by Iranian filmmakers and well-respected by critics and scholars. A landmark essay film of Iranian New Wave Cinema, it recently secured a place (235) on Sight and Sound’s prestigious critics’ (2012) list of 250 Greatest Films.
The House is Black deserves all the critical acclaim it has received since its release in 1962. It is a powerful and rewarding film that should be more widely seen. It is also vital for critics, filmmakers, and lovers of cinema to remember and honor the work of women around the world who have made their mark in cinematic history. I acknowledge that some will find The House is Black a challenging viewing experience. It is a black-and-white documentary about a leper colony.
Forough Farrokhzad
Filming people afflicted by disease is, of course, potentially problematic. The leprous body has traditionally been a site of anxiety and fear in the cultural imagination and those suffering from the condition have suffered terrible prejudice. Are the victims of disease being violated and exploited by the camera? Is the viewer being emotionally manipulated? There is, thankfully, nothing exploitative about Farrokhzad’s documentary. Her gaze never debases her subjects. She depicts their everyday lives and recognizes that they are not only active members of their community but also a part of their country as well as the human family. We see them pray, collect food, play games, enjoy music, apply make-up, attend weddings, and care for their children. They are not characterized as “other.” Note, however, that Farrokzhad does not shy away from the condition. Her gaze is direct. She has a poet’s grasp of detail as well as a poet’s empathy. Visibility is, in fact, crucial to her project. The producer’s voice-over narration at the opening of the documentary states: “There is no shortage of ugliness in the world. If man closed his eyes to it, there would be even more. But man is a problem solver. On this screen will appear an image of ugliness, a vision of pain no caring human being should ignore. To wipe out this ugliness, and to relieve its victims is the motive of this film and the hope of its filmmakers.” Throughout the film, Farrokhzad’s camera records and honors the experiences of the most marginalized of people.
Farrokhzad does not put herself in the frame but she also employs her own evocative voice. In her voice-over narration, she reads from her haunting verse. The documentary, in fact, incorporates the scientific, metaphysical, sacred and lyrical. Farrokhzad’s poetry serves to articulate the suffering of the afflicted while images of men praying are interwoven with glimpses of patients being treated. A more extended montage of patients being treated is, also, supplemented by a medical voice telling us that leprosy is a contagious but “not incurable,” treatable condition.
The House is Black is a 20th century film about an ancient condition. It is not only expertly executed — there are some fine tracking shots — but it also highly innovative. The poet-director’s use of close-ups, rapidly edited, thematically connected images, as well as repetition of images, endow the documentary with a poetic richness and potency. Sadly, The House is Black is the only film the poet directed. Who knows what other wonderful work she would have given us. Nevertheless, we should be grateful for this utterly unique contribution to World Cinema.
Directed by Shola Lynch, the 2004 documentary ‘Chisholm ’72: Unbought and Unbossed’ tells the story of Chisholm’s campaign for her party’s nomination, and without even trying to, the film offers a necessary antidote to popular culture representation of the dominant white male supremacist lens of history-making that is reified when it goes unchallenged.
If you’ve been following Mad Men this season then you know that the year is 1969, and Nixon has just taken office. Although the show is centered on white upper-middle class men and women, we are finally seeing a wee bit of narrative texture in the two minority women characters employed at the Madison Avenue advertising firm that is the show’s locus. But this is not a takedown of Mad Men, a show whose characters, writing, and style I find compelling even though I support the critiques offered by the likes of W. Kamau Bell and Daniel Mendelsohn. I bring up this series because, unless the writers this season will reveal otherwise, the New York City of 1969 on this show is not likely to highlight a major historical moment of this time and place: in that year and in that city Shirley Chisholm became the first black woman elected to Congress. Three years later, she would launch the first major bid by a woman for candidacy for the Democratic Party for the President of the United States. While there had been other candidates for third and fourth parties as far back as 1872 (Victoria Woodhull, to be precise), Chisholm’s campaign was serious in its determination to represent the United States and all its citizens in no uncertain terms. Directed by Shola Lynch, the 2004 documentary Chisholm ’72: Unbought and Unbossed tells the story of Chisholm’s campaign for her party’s nomination, and without even trying to, the film offers a necessary antidote to popular culture representation of the dominant white male supremacist lens of history-making that is reified when it goes unchallenged.
Lynch’s film follows a familiar style of documentary that viewers have come to expect from the POV series. There are numerous interviews with politicians, activists, and intellectuals who worked alongside Chisholm on her campaign or are called upon to reflect on why they did not support her nomination even while they supported her as a politician. The accounts of author/activist Amiri Baraka and former Congressmen Reverend Walter Fauntroy and Ronald Dellums are especially fascinating in that they reveal the complex interplay of concerns over standing behind a candidate they believed in vs. one who they thought could realistically defeat Nixon. Chisholm understood these concerns, but nonetheless offered a direct challenge to the conventional wisdom of electoral politics in her campaign announcement speech:
“I have faith in the American people. I believe that we are smart enough to correct our mistakes. I believe that we are intelligent enough to recognize the talent, energy, and dedication, which all American including women and minorities have to offer. I know from my travels to the cities and small towns of America that we have a vast potential, which can and must be put to constructive use in getting this great nation together.[…] I stand before you today, to repudiate the ridiculous notion that the American people will not vote for qualified candidates, simply because he is not right or because she is not a male. I do not believe that in 1972, the great majority of Americans will continue to harbor such narrow and petty prejudice.”
Though it is clear Chisholm sought the support of a united party, she was also explicit in her desire to bring together two groups to which she has dual membership: women and black people. After all, she opens her campaign announcement speech like this:
“I am not the candidate of black America, although I am black and proud. I am not the candidate of the women’s movement of this country, although I am a woman, and I am equally proud of that.”
The film’s archival footage is rich with evidence of her attempting to demonstrate her goal to encourage her party toward inclusiveness. We see her move with total confidence and self-possession through crowds of supporters on the campaign trail, on voter registration drives, and facing crowds of thousands. What is perhaps the most remarkable thing about her political presence is she seems to address each audience she encounters with an exacting sense of urgency to motivate all people to seize the rights and privileges of full citizenship. In interviews and behind-the-scenes campaign footage, Chisholm comes across as almost unbelievably authentic (especially for a politician), and embodies the film’s subtitle (taken from her 1970 political autobiography): she was truly “unbought” when it came to her refusal to make political deals that would compromise her constituents and “unbossed” by those who have her remain firmly entrenched in the status quo she was elected to challenge.
Although it’s no spoiler to say that she lost the bid to George McGovern (who would lose to Nixon), the film’s real dramatic force is in the enduring impact felt by those who would go on to realize their own political power as a result of Chisholm’s courageous work. For instance, U.S. Representative Barbara Lee (D-Calif.) recalls when she first met Chisholm and joined the campaign. At the time she was both a student on public assistance and a single mother, and she remembers what Chisholm told her about her own will to act: “[She] told me, no matter what I do in life, use your power judiciously, use it with humility, but use it.”
I could spend all day quoting Chisholm; her famous 1969 speech on “Equal Rights for Women,” for instance, remains as relevant today as it did then (sadly). But rather than do that here, I’ll turn to reading and researching the words and history of a great human being who, as the Shola Lynch said, possesses “a story is an important reminder of the power of a dedicated individual to make a difference.”
Aesthetic influences, talent, and genius are key subjects addressed in the documentary. Although she praises the book reviews of Dorothy Parker, most of the cultural references and influences Lebowitz cites are male. She explains that “much older” gay men constituted her social and intellectual circle from the moment she arrived in the city as a young woman. Although the humorist is a friend of Toni Morrison, Scorsese does not ask why so few of Lebowitz’s influences are women, gay or straight. What has she, for example, gained intellectually and culturally from her relationship with Morrison? This is a missed opportunity.
Public Speaking is an HBO documentary by Martin Scorsese about the writer and public speaker, Fran Lebowitz. Unsurprisingly, the humorist and cultural commentator makes an interesting, entertaining subject. Lebowitz’s words–as the title promises–provide the focus of the film although shots of the writer strolling the streets of Manhattan and driving in the city at night serve to add atmosphere as well as identify the writer as a quintessential New Yorker. We see Lebowitz deliver pointed observations about contemporary US culture at public speaking engagements, share the stage with the great Toni Morrison, and hold court at the famed Waverly Inn. There are, also, clips shown of a younger Lebowitz on Conan as well older television footage of the humorist at speaking and reading events. Lebowitz takes on a wide variety of topics in Public Speaking: artistic talent and genius, the New York gay and arts scenes of the 70s, present-day Manhattan, current LGBT rights issues, gender, race, writer’s block, and, yes, overgrown children in strollers. As you would expect from Scorsese, there is, also, some great footage featured. Much of it is of significant cultural figures of Lebowitz’s youth, particularly those who served as models of inspiration. There’s a great and glorious clip of the magnetic James Baldwin whom Lebowitz cites as the first intellectual she set eyes upon, although clips of Truman Capote and Gore Vidal equally fascinate.
Lebowitz public speaking
Aesthetic influences, talent, and genius are key subjects addressed in the documentary. Although she praises the book reviews of Dorothy Parker, most of the cultural references and influences Lebowitz cites are male. She explains that “much older” gay men constituted her social and intellectual circle from the moment she arrived in the city as a young woman. Although the humorist is a friend of Toni Morrison, Scorsese does not ask why so few of Lebowitz’s influences are women, gay or straight. What has she, for example, gained intellectually and culturally from her relationship with Morrison? This is a missed opportunity.
At the Waverly Inn
Artistic talent is also a central theme in the documentary and Lebowitz underscores the importance of aesthetic standards as well as knowledgeable art critics: “See, what we have had in the last, like 30 years, is too much democracy in the culture, not enough democracy in the society. There’s no reason to have democracy in the culture. None. Because the culture should be made by a natural aristocracy of talent. …. By which I mean… it doesn’t have to do with, you know, what race you are, or what country you’re from, or what religion you are, it should have to do with how good are you at this thing, and that is a natural aristocracy…” Many of her observations do make a refreshing change from the self-affirming, self-stroking mantras of today’s online culture. I must admit that I laughed at her put-down of the populist appropriation of that famous Toni Morrison quote: “If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.” Lebowitz rightly reminds us, “Writers have to know things…”
Lebowitz is both a believer in cultural aristocracy and a politically liberal. She deeply laments the touristification and commercialization of New York, a city only the rich can now afford: “You cannot say that an entire city of people with lots of money is fascinating. It is not.” There’s a hilarious dig at the Bush administration to enjoy but I wish Scorsese had foregrounded and explored her progressive politics more. She has made many eloquent, passionate, dead-on statements elsewhere about America’s worship of money.
Driving in Manhattan
Her views on contemporary LGBT politics are, perhaps, more fully articulated in the documentary. Lebowitz provides an interesting window into 1970s New York. A young woman at the time, she was a witness to the appalling, everyday oppression of gay people during the era. She talks about gay bars being raided and customers being fired from their jobs for being gay after being named in The New York Times. She, however, takes issue with the focus of contemporary LGBT politics. Although she would vote for same-sex unions, Lebowitz finds the contemporary focus on marriage, as well as the inclusion of gay people in the military, mystifying. They are, she cries, “the two most confining institutions on the planet”. Gay marriage is, fundamentally, a civil rights issue and also, of course, a matter of individual choice yet Lebowitz has the right to ask the deeper, more politically radical question that is not commonly addressed in contemporary mainstream liberal discourse: why is gay culture embracing such a traditional institution? Some may, of course, accuse her of mocking the struggle for equality and happiness but she is not speaking out against the right. Some may also argue that Lebowitz’s stance is somewhat romantic and out-of-date in its seeming support of outsider otherness and difference? Regarding the military debate, it is outrageous that people who are willing to put themselves in harm’s way for their country can be barred from serving. Yet, from a progressive, left-wing perspective, the military is a fundamentally reactionary, right-wing institution.
Martin Scorsese
Lebowitz also addresses race and sexual difference in Public Speaking. At an event in the company of Toni Morrison, she describes race as a “fantasy of superiority” and believes that it is an evil that has more hope of ending than inequality between men and women. The latter will persist, Lebowitz maintains, because of non-fantastical, “real” biological differences between the sexes. Men are naturally aggressive, courtesy of testosterone, and this gives them an “advantage”. They also seek to maintain their social dominance: “Men don’t want women to have power because they already have it. People don’t want other people to have what they have.” Contemporary, child-centered fatherhood is simply a sham for Lebowitz. It’s a “style”, she says. The humorist’s views on motherhood are equally provocative. “Women having babies is really a disadvantage. It is a disadvantage to women. ….It does kind of put you out of commission in lots of ways”, she insists. Unlike a new father, she tells an audience, a woman is “so interested” in her baby. “A woman in a room with her baby is looking at that baby. Ok? Is that who you want for your lawyer?” So then, what to make of these words? Are they not insulting to working mothers everywhere? Do they not ignore women who do not want to have babies? Lebowitz is not, of course, advocating a conservative cultural regime but I have a serious problem with her essentialist thinking here. Are these supposed “real” differences between men and women biological? While it is perfectly valid and feminist to point out the difficulties women encounter bearing and raising children in a still anti-woman society, these difficulties issue from patriarchal social structures, structures that should, of course, be changed. I do, however, agree with Lebowitz’s observations about men- or any dominant social group- refusing to give up power. I also personally believe that modern human society still blindly worships the nuclear family and that it is still fundamentally pro-natalist.
With Toni Morrison
Certainly, by today’s bland standards, Lebowitz is a character. She smokes like a demon, sports Savile Row suits, and drives a Checker Marathon cab in New York City. Despite her self-confessed, aesthetic elitism and snobby digs at out-of-town “hillbilly” tourists, she does not, somehow, radiate smugness or arrogance. Despite her comments about women and babies, she also somehow manages not to come across as a Camilla Paglia-like female misogynist. She’s funny about herself, honest about her alleged extraordinary sloth-“I am the most slothful person in America,” she claims- and utterly content with her total disregard for technology.
It is perfectly valid to criticize Public Speaking as too chummy, too self-indulgent, and, simply, too New York. Lebowitz is not a household literary or comic name around the world. Nor is she one of America’s leading public intellectuals. The humorist is, however, an amusing, articulate speaker. There are things she says that viewers would question and challenge, and there are those that ring true. More often than not, her pointed wit entertains. A stimulating subject for a documentary, she would, also, no doubt, make an excellent dinner guest. And she would not be checking her iphone because she doesn’t have one.
Like so many other orthodox and traditional religions the issue of gender identity is seen as an eternal assignment from God, as are the sexual desires and attractions that accompany it. For Eri Hayward, a transgender woman from one of Utah’s most conservative areas, the difficult experience of realizing what she believes about her own eternal identity is a familial journey steeped within the religious mores of her community.
Many of America’s regions are steeped within the highly charged atmosphere of religion, with some of these religions even dominating a geographic area entirely. This is of course the situation in Utah where over 62 percent of the state population belongs to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, or Mormons. Like so many other orthodox and traditional religions the issue of gender identity is seen as an eternal assignment from God, as are the sexual desires and attractions that accompany it. For Eri Hayward, a transgender woman from one of Utah’s most conservative areas, the difficult experience of realizing what she believes about her own eternal identity is a familial journey steeped within the religious mores of her community.
Eri’s courageous story of faith and identity is documented by director Torben Bernhard in Transmormon, a short documentary film and winner of the Artistic Vision Award at the 2013 Big Sky Documentary Film Festival. Bernhard generously agreed to grant Bitch Flicks an interview regarding Transmormon and filming a movie about a woman whose experiences, according to him, embody the tensions circulating around the issues of religion, same-sex marriage and gender identity in America.
Part of what made Eri’s story so compelling to Bernhard is the potential for her story to hopefully ease some of the conflict: “Too often, individual stories get lost and absorbed into statistics and talking points around heated issues. I was interested in attempting to address those tensions, but from the perspective of someone who lives with the reality of those issues in their inner life. I see Eri’s family’s journey as a guide to how we can be kinder, more compassionate, and ultimately gracefully accept and validate the lived experiences of others.”
Transmormon follows Eri and her family just days before Eri leaves for Thailand to have Sexual Reassignment Surgery and complete the physical changes she believes will more accurately reflect her spirit. Throughout the details of Eri’s life and challenges in accepting who she is runs the ever-more familiar theme of coming to grips with religious beliefs.
For much of America’s LGBTQ community being themselves can sometimes come at a price; some families cut their children off, jobs may be lost, and their religious communities might ask them leave. Luckily, Eri’s family is incredibly supportive of her, and while her place within the religion she’s lived her whole life is uncertain, Eri remains a woman of some faith.
However, for faithful LDS members, gender is eternal in nature and Eri’s decision to have SRS means that she can never enter the temple and may only serve a limited role in the church. And in viewing Eri’s story, the inherent pull between change and growth and family and tradition in the Mormon community is highlighted. Berhnard recognized this fact and intentionally included it; “The messages from the pulpit often emphasize the love and compassion that should be extended to LGBTQ members, only to reiterate that marriage is strictly between a man and a woman. So, what are you to do when you cannot conform to the seemingly impossible standards put forward by a church you have always belonged to and have faith in?”
Rather than focusing entirely on Eri’s place within the Mormon religion though, Bernhard chose to focus on Eri’s spiritual and emotional journey as she tries to come to a stable and happy place of acceptance, ultimately mirroring the very human experience of growing up and settling into our individual beliefs. In fact, choosing what exactly to show in Eri’s situation was one of the main obstacles in producing Transmormon: “While editing, we tried to approach this in a number of ways and eventually decided that the criticism we wanted to express already existed in the juxtaposition between her struggle and the institutional policies of the church. Instead, we tried to detail the real struggles that exist for members, while showing that, despite how lovely her family may be, Eri will still ultimately be subject to the judgment of the Mormon church (inasmuch as she accepts their judgment).”
Eri walks the crew through her morning routine.
Because marriage is still generally placed within the context of a chapel, issues of sexuality and gender are still being fought on a religion vs. state battleground and Utah has become a key player.
However, despite the LDS church’s hardline stance on gender roles and even its massive financial contributions to causes like Prop 8 in California, Utah and its creative community are steadily reaching out to the changing face of families and residents like Eri. In fact, Transmormon was conceived because of artistic collaboration in Salt Lake City and was released with an hour-long radio episode dedicated to raising a transgender child.
As Transmormon was screened first in Utah, I was curious about the response that the film would have received; happily, the response to the film has been overwhelmingly positive. In fact, it seems that Transmormon reminds us of the incredible power of storytelling to soften the edges of political and religious difference by placing faces next to difficult topics. Bernhard has received notes and emails from deeply conservative audiences who thank him and Eri for challenging their long-held ideas on gender and identity. Bernhard hopes that “through telling her story, audiences will leave the film with a more nuanced understanding of challenges facing the transgender community and the complexities of gender identity. I also secretly hope that some parents will watch it and make their kids’ lives easier.”
If with every viewing of Transmormon and other films like it, films deeply committed to telling human stories that “transcend biases” audiences are changed and minds are opened, then we desperately need more of them, which luckily Bernhard and other artists are already working on. Bernhard’s next project is a full-length documentary that follows the fight over same-sex marriage in Utah, with exclusive access to plaintiffs and legal teams on both sides. Ultimately though, it’s the ways that these stories touch us on a personal level that make the difference for people everywhere. Even Bernhard, a supporter of the LGBTQ community already, found himself embracing more compassion and respect, “for the individual pain that each family member processes as they grapple with unexpected life turns. There is so much pain implicit in journeys that do not fit neatly into the constrained categories societies often produce.”
The director, Torben Bernhard
You can view Transmormon on Vimeo, but if you’d like to hold a private screening in your community, please do! Bernhard and his team are committed to “opening hearts and minds” however they would like to be aware of the films reach; please email or tweet to let them know.
How’s Eri doing since her surgery? Well, she’s returned from Thailand and a successful surgery, back to Utah and her family. If you’d like to stay updated on her progress you can follow her here.
Rachel is a traveler and teacher who spent the last few years living in Asia. Now back in her native California, she focuses on writing about media, culture, and feminism. While a big fan of campy 80s movies and eccentric sci-fi, she’s become a cable acolyte, spending most of her time watching HBO, AMC, and Showtime. For good stories about lions and bungee jumping, as well as rants about sexism and slow drivers, follow her on Twitter at @RachelRedfern2
Menstrual studies is a discipline very close to my heart. While earning my master’s degree, I temporarily became obsessed with texts like ‘Periods in Pop Culture’ (Lauren Rosewarne, 2012) and ‘Flow’ (Elissa Stein and Susan Kim, 2010) as I composed my thesis. I was blessed with a supportive advisor who made me realize that those who shot me disgusted looks in the past were in fact the weird, misinformed ones. I find it perplexing that so many have capitalized on menstruation, yet many are still terrified of discussing it in any form or on any platform. Menstruation is uniquely female and yet suggestive of violence, sacrifice, and trauma: that’s compelling. The menstrual cycle reminds us all of our own mortality, the devastating truth that our bodies will eventually decompose or burn into ashes, and that’s terrifying for many people. Why has the “fairer sex” been assigned this burden?
Menstrual studies is a discipline very close to my heart. While earning my master’s degree, I temporarily became obsessed with texts like Periods in Pop Culture(Lauren Rosewarne, 2012) and Flow(Elissa Stein and Susan Kim, 2010) as I composed my thesis. I was blessed with a supportive advisor who made me realize that those who shot me disgusted looks in the past were in fact the weird, misinformed ones. I find it perplexing that so many have capitalized on menstruation, yet many are still terrified of discussing it in any form or on any platform. Menstruation is uniquely female and yet suggestive of violence, sacrifice, and trauma: that’s compelling. The menstrual cycle reminds us all of our own mortality, the devastating truth that our bodies will eventually decompose or burn into ashes, and that’s terrifying for many people. Why has the “fairer sex” been assigned this burden?
The Moon Inside You (2009) is a documentary film written and directed by Diana Fabiánová. I bought this film last summer at a conference organized by the Society for Menstrual Cycle Research, and I’ve waited far too long to watch it and offer my two cents. The film contains English subtitles and also features interviews in French, Slovak, Portuguese, and Spanish. When I briefly met Diana, I noted that she was very tall, very beautiful, and very accommodating to my questions about her film.
Diana opens her film by interviewing random men on the street so that we can witness their immediate discomfort at the mere mention of the word “menstruation.” Some men actually walk away; clearly, for many men, menstruation simply isn’t real. We are in Bratislava where we watch Diana visit the gynecologist, as she tells us that her menstrual cycle has caused her nothing but pain and annoyance for years. “Being a woman was like punishment for a crime I didn’t commit,” she tells us. She also explains that she doesn’t prefer to medicate herself, but rather to discover the source of her painful symptoms and put an end to them. This introduction helps viewers to sympathize with those who experience painful periods that prevent them from attending school and work, and even cause some women to resent everyday life with a uterus.
Diana gives us a nice view at the doctor’s office.
Diana speaks to a group of girls at her old school, who explain that boys “have it easier.” This is a useful place to begin, given that our attitudes toward menstruation are shaped from girlhood, and are typically negative. Diana gives one girl a camera to record her “pre-menstrual” experiences. Dominika tells us that a few girls in her class have already hit menarche, but there may be more who “haven’t confessed,” as if it truly is a crime to be a woman, as our narrator tells us. Diana explains that she wants Dominika’s transition into menstruation to be more pleasant than her own was, and I find myself wishing the very same for this lovely young girl. Toward the end of the film, via her video diary, we’re glad to hear that Dominika has in fact made a relatively painless transition into the world of menstruation.
Even the most “anti-menstrual” women will find themselves rooting for the adorable Dominika to get her first period.
After tackling some myths surrounding menstruation (such as the idea that menstruating women are capable of killing infants by merely holding them), Diana heads west to speak to academics and other knowledgeable Americans at prestigious universities such as Harvard. Well-known menstrual scholar and author of The Curse(2000), Karen Houppert is interviewed. Houppert touches on the terrifying impact menstruation as a taboo has on young girls and also summarizes how and why menstruation played a role in shaping America’s workforce and women’s placement in both the workplace and at home. Martha McClintock, Professor of Psychology at the University of Chicago even explains that if we observe and study the moods of men, their moods are just as erratic as women’s; however, women are at an advantage since we can actually predict how we will likely feel at a given time of the month. While this can and should be read as a sophisticated or evolved trait, women are still stigmatized as hormonal and irrational, especially when experiencing PMS. The fact is that our bodies are wiser than us, and we must listen to our own. If we feel that our stress is unbearable, it may be an indication that we must retreat and care for ourselves until we are prepared to tend to the needs of others.
Diana interviews a group of boys as well, who tell us that women can’t have sex while menstruating because “it gets in the man’s way.”
I found it moving to watch a group of women that Diana gathers to participate in an experimental belly-dancing class. These strangers sit together to share their personal stories of pain and distress related to their cycles and then dance as a group before a large mirror. The preconception that only young girls on the verge of menarche or new to its inconveniences gather in such a setting is misguided; fully developed women with children and years of experience menstruating can offer one another comfort and solidarity in a safe environment such as this one.
Chris Knight, another well-known scholar to academics and menstrual enthusiasts, author of Blood Relations(1995), tells us, “The most ancient thing is to keep women from knowing about their own power.” If menstrual blood is a source of power–and I believe it is–then why has our culture gone to such great lengths to conceal this source of power to make us believe that the menstrual cycle is shameful? In The Vagina Monologues(2007), Eve Ensler shares that she is worried about vaginas, and I think several more of us are worried not about menstruation but how women define themselves by its aura of culpability and self-condemnation.
Interspersed throughout the documentary are fun animations of eggs making their way through the fallopian tubes, brief clips that offer a whimsical retreat from the tension felt within much of the film.
Reminiscent of Gloria Steinem’s famous essay “If Men Could Menstruate,” Diana asks men on the street if they would try menstruating if they could. While most men say no (and one even suggests that it’s not “cool” to bleed from your vagina), one man claims that he’d like to menstruate so he can finally understand what women experience.
We seem to have a social contract that our menstrual blood remain secret and concealed when in public…or anywhere, really.
Diana touches on the commodification of our cycles with the help of the birth control pill, acknowledging companies like Tampax that capitalize on the shame that pervades our media messages, and the onslaught of rhetoric that suggests women are somehow biologically flawed by this internal feminine clock that is ever-ticking.
We meet the inventor of the contraceptive implant, who tells Diana that menstruation is not “normal” or “natural,” that the scent of blood is “the scent of death,” and that menstruation is essentially a type of abortion or miscarriage. He believes that once young girls reach menarche, they should experience menstruation once and then immediately prevent ovulation using an implant, since an ovulation that doesn’t result in conception is “useless.” The dangerous and dogmatic recommendations we hear from the “good doctor” should remind us that he’s nothing more than a mechanic who has never owned a car.
A taboo image, the depiction of shit would likely be deemed more acceptable by most people.
Penelope Shuttle, co-author of The Wise Wound(2005), counters this by gracefully explaining, “The thing that’s being given birth to is a new you. You’re giving birth to yourself.” Contrary to what our male doctor claims, the uterus is a place of origins, not death; this doesn’t mean we should all feel inclined to belly-dance like Diana or participate in a drum circle, but it is certainly beneficial to recognize our own sacredness in our blood and to recognize this same light in the women around us.
Women are pressured to be kind and patient during times of hormonal imbalance, although some women experience debilitating pain that prevents them from being productive.
The Moon Inside You is an honest glimpse into how we frame menstruation around the world and how we situate ourselves within its contradictory rhetoric. The destigmatization of menstruation should address the contradictory assessments we make of its appearance as girls and women work to untangle the prescriptive web woven by one-dimensional media, good old patriarchal conventions, and the people we may know who oppress women by regurgitating these haphazard messages of shame and body horror. Young girls can be proud and delighted to reach menarche, just like I was, yet we’re told to bite our tongues as we grow into young women. As Inga Muscio, author of Cunt (2002) explains, “How many bloody mysteries and future generations are hiding up there, somewhere?”
Jenny has a Master of Arts degree in English, and she is a part-time instructor at Alvernia University. Her areas of scholarship include women’s literature, menstrual literacy, and rape-revenge cinema. You can find her on WordPress and Pinterest.
While women are generally underrepresented in the media, stories about domestic and sexual violence overwhelmingly place women in the roles of the victim. In a world where men play the heroes and villains, the damsel in distress is an on-screen role where women are positively overflowing. Breaking that stereotype with strong women is crucial, but for true gender equality, men need to be seen in vulnerable positions as well.
Kickstarter photo of Yeah Maybe, No
This is a guest post by Kelly Kend.
While women are generally underrepresented in the media, stories about domestic and sexual violence overwhelmingly place women in the roles of the victim. In a world where men play the heroes and villains, the damsel in distress is an on-screen role where women are positively overflowing. Breaking that stereotype with strong women is crucial, but for true gender equality, men need to be seen in vulnerable positions as well.
It is with this in mind that I’m making Yeah Maybe, No, a documentary about a male survivor’s experience with sexual assault. Our story centers on Blake, a student at Reed College in Portland, Oregon, who had found himself in a “crappy situation” with his first boyfriend. In a story that any survivor will recognize, he was hesitant to immediately call it a rape and still doesn’t love using the word. He feels that because his attacker used coercion rather than brute force, it somehow doesn’t really count.
Popular movies about female rape victims don’t particularly help with this situation. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo has a particularly violent rape where Lisbeth Salander ties down and brutalizes a man who brutally raped her. In the more recent Divergent, Tris is tested through a simulated rape and applauded for fighting back. While this might be great wish-fulfillment for many survivors, it creates an unrealistic picture of what rape looks like in the real world. While some rape is very violent, many more women report being scared and lying still, waiting for it to be over, and having a hard time speaking. These reactions are the body freezing up in response to a traumatic situation. This is a biologically normal and potentially life-saving response, but one that we don’t see very often, likely in part because it is much less dramatic on-screen.
Rape scene from Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
In Yeah Maybe, No, Blake says that a lack of awareness about non-violent rape is a reason why he didn’t immediately recognize this assault for what it was. But this isn’t the whole story. Due to feminist activists, the definition of rape has shifted over the last century. In 1920, it was defined specifically as something that happened to a woman, and necessarily used force. In 2012, the FBI defined rape as any unwanted penetration, of any orifice, with or without force. According to this definition, what happened to Blake is a crime. However, Blake has no intention of reporting. He calls his experience an assault so he can get support and understanding from his peers, not so he can bring anyone to justice.
This situation is what some might call a “gray rape.” It is different from a “rape rape” in that it’s not a “forcible rape,” but more like “date rape.” Feminist activists would counter that it’s just a rape because “rape is rape.” The truth present in all of these terms is simply that people don’t really know whatrape is. For Blake, he stays out of it as much as possible and generally avoids using the word altogether. Instead, he says it was an assault, a crappy situation, or a bad relationship. It’s a situation where he kind of, maybe gave a silent-implied yes to, but inside it was definitely a no. There was no enthusiastic consent, but there was no fighting either. Blake is left with emotional scars, but he doesn’t want to press charges.
So, is it really a crime? As an activist and a survivor, I want to tell him that yes, yes it is. But as a filmmaker, I need to ask harder questions. Am I really seeking justice for Blake, or for my own unresolved experience? Who am I to tell someone else how to interpret one of the most intimate and emotionally charged experiences of his life?
Through asking these questions, Yeah Maybe, No tells a story of ambiguity in one survivor’s experience. By looking at research and talking to experts, we can establish that yes, his experience was a rape, but by also looking at his struggle with what that means, we can learn so much more. Please join us at KickStarter to help tell his story.
Kelly Kend
Kelly Kend is a documentary filmmaker living in Portland, OR. She has a background in anthropology and has worked on educational and research-based projects for higher education and government agencies. Her work tends to be focused on the details of human interaction and seeks to amplify quieter voices. Yeah Maybe, No is her first independently produced documentary. Her website is www.kellykend.com or you can follow her on Twitter. https://twitter.com/projectid
As an amateur cyclist, I was ecstatic to review Half the Road, especially because the obstacles female professional cyclists face (pathetic prize winnings along with the lack of pay equity, sponsorships, media coverage, recognition, and equal opportunity to compete in events) has long galled me. To finally have a documentary that gives the women most affected by this gender discrimination a platform to show their outrage, their passion for cycling, and their absolute right to “half the road” is crucial for letting the world know this problem exists while (hopefully) acting as a catalyst to evolve the governing body for cycling, the Union Cycliste Internationale (UCI) to accept gender parity as a necessity and the norm.
Half the Road is professional athlete and filmmaker Kathryn Bertine‘s revelatory, inspiring documentary that exposes the rampant gender inequality in professional cycling.
[youtube_sc url=”http://youtu.be/nsKumPrwaQE”]
Half the Road takes us into the homes and lives of professional female cyclists who thrive in their sport, some of whom must work other jobs in order to make ends meet, who must sleep on couches or floors when they travel to race, who hide injuries to maintain a tenuous spot on team rosters due to archaic age regulations, who spend valuable time and energy fighting unfair UCI rulings and bureaucracy, or even one woman who buys tea kettles with her prize winnings because there’s little else she can afford with such a pittance. We see the faces of these elite athletes, like time trialist Emma Pooley, criterium rider and Ph.D holder Nichole Wangsgard, four-time Ironman triathlete gold medalist Chrissie Wellington, and two-time Olympic gold medalist Kristin Armstrong (no relation to Lance Armstrong), and we learn in a straightforward manner about their struggle for gender parity in their sport.
The female peloton (pack of riders) at the Tour of Gila
The documentary’s director, Kathryn Bertine, intimately knows the limitations that stifle female cyclists’ potential because she is a professional cyclist herself. Bertine says:
“As a sports journalist and professional athlete, I knew we had to show the truth about gender equality in sports which is simply a mirror for gender equality in society. As much as everyone wants to believe that Title IX (sports equality law in the USA) has leveled the playing field in sports, the reality is there is still a long way to go. The good news is that cyclists and fans are pushing for change, and at the heart of this movement is a raw, pure, uplifting love of sport specific only to the struggle and triumph of female athletes.”
Kathryn Bertine 2013 World Championship
As an amateur cyclist, I was ecstatic to review Half the Road, especially because the obstacles female professional cyclists face (pathetic prize winnings along with the lack of pay equity, sponsorships, media coverage, recognition, and equal opportunity to compete in events) has long galled me. To finally have a documentary that gives the women most affected by this gender discrimination a platform to show their outrage, their passion for cycling, and their absolute right to “half the road” is crucial for letting the world know this problem exists while (hopefully) acting as a catalyst to evolve the governing body for cycling, the Union Cycliste Internationale (UCI) to accept gender parity as a necessity and the norm.
These athletes, these women, deserve better. I urge you to watch this film and add your newfound knowledge and outrage to this growing movement that demands female professional cyclists be afforded the same rights, privileges, and opportunities that men are given. Because how will we know what heights a woman is capable of achieving if we never give her the chance? Plus, watching Half the Road gives us the treat of seeing all those ladies’ amazing quad muscles in action.
Women cyclist version of Rosie the Riveter’s “We can do it!”
Amanda Rodriguez is an environmental activist living in Asheville, North Carolina. She holds a BA from Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio and an MFA in fiction writing from Queens University in Charlotte, NC. She writes all about food and drinking games on her blog Booze and Baking. Fun fact: while living in Kyoto, Japan, her house was attacked by monkeys.
Green’s intimate reporting and the incredible cinematography and editing that makes the film stand out accomplish the goal of respecting, questioning, and empowering these women activists. Green, in examining those fighting against the patriarchy, exposes and dismantles the patriarch who was running the show.
“Ninety nine percent of Ukrainian girls don’t even know what feminism is.”
This is the sentence that opens Ukraine is Not a Brothel, which premiered in the US last weekend at the True/False Film Fest in Columbia, Mo. The film chronicles Femen and uncovers the patriarch behind the movement.
The aim of Femen–the topless feminist protest organization that began in Kiev four years ago–is to shock the masses and raise awareness for that 99 percent of girls who are growing up in a society that treats women as second-class citizens and to dismantle the fact that Ukraine is seen as a hub for prostitution and sex trafficking. Director Kitty Green (who makes her feature-length documentary debut with the film) was struck by the image of a Femen protestor holding a sign over her bare breasts that said, “Ukraine is Not a Brothel,” and Green embedded herself with the group for a year, serving as their videographer while collecting footage for the documentary.
In one of the opening shots, one of the Femen activists has her body painted.
Femen says that they fight against the patriarchy and against sexism in all forms. In a Q&A after the film, Femen leader Inna Shevchenko (who was featured prominently in the film and has since moved to France) said that the goal of Femen is “fighting patriarchy and its global weight.”
Inna noted that the way Femen uses their sexuality–by running and screaming while naked, and not by posing or trying to attract the male gaze–is a core part of the protest. “We are trying to provoke,” she said, but in a different context.
Everything about Femen sounds pretty great, and their goals and messages are a shocking but valuable chapter of feminist protest.
But it’s more complex than that.
It’s not that simple.
Just as the feminist movement as a whole has its issues, Femen isn’t all that it seems.
During the pre-fest Based on a True Story Conference in conjunction with the Missouri School of Journalism, Green explained to an audience that while she was living with and filming the women of Femen (she was arrested eight times and was abducted by the KGB with them, as well), she started to realize that the movement was actually run by a man who no one knew about. She said that he was abusive to the women, and she had to “shift ideas and expose him,” instead of simply filming the women. She had to secretly film him, and admitted only after she was almost ready to leave the country admit to the women that she was going to expose him.
“They needed to break away from him,” she said, and it was a difficult moment in their relationship, and in Femen. (In an announcement that got cheers from the opening-night crowd, Inna said that it’s been a year since they’ve had contact with Victor.) Green considered the women she lived with to be friends and family, and her “heart broke” when she would hear Victor yelling at them, and the next morning they were holding signs that said “This is the new feminism.”
The film does a beautiful job of dealing with the complexities and paradoxes of Femen–and really, all of feminism. Ukraine is Not a Brothel highlights the Ukrainian protestors–their lives, their struggles, and their goals–while also shining a light on feminism as a whole. Green’s intimate reporting and the incredible cinematography and editing that makes the film stand out accomplish the goal of respecting, questioning, and empowering these women activists. Green, in examining those fighting against the patriarchy, exposes and dismantles the patriarch who was running the show.
The documentary also quietly examines the difficulties that feminism has with other aspects of its modern identity. Worldwide, prominent feminists are often conventionally attractive (white) women. Third-wave feminism grapples with its relationship with sex work. Women are not widely exposed to or immersed in feminist theory. Women’s bodies are still sexualized, even when we try to use that sexuality in protest. Men still think they have the power, even in progressive movements. And oftentimes they do.
It’s all complicated. And Ukraine is Not a Brothel doesn’t offer solutions–except that the women need to be free from the patriarchal influences that are pushing and abusing them.
Green said, “Victor never thought I was capable of this. I was the young blonde girl who sounded like a child when I spoke Ukrainian. I was not taken seriously, and this gave me power.” She pointed out that women in journalism have a perceived weakness that can give them great power. “I want to keep making films about young women,” she said, hoping that this power can help her tell more stories.
If Ukraine is Not a Brothel is any indication, we can be excited and hopeful for the stories that Kitty Green has yet to discover and tell.
Inna pointed out that in all of the unrest and revolution in Ukraine right now, she gets messages from people there who tell her “You were first!” and credit Femen for being a galvanizing force in Ukrainian protest.
In the same way that Pussy Riot: A Punk Prayer purposefully vacillates between humor and intense seriousness, between laughing young women and the same smiling faces screaming and being dragged away by police, Ukraine is Not a Brothel highlights the serious and violent struggle women are fighting against worldwide. These are specific, localized fights that have spread their influence around the world.
Women’s power–especially when they break free from patriarchal forces–is on display in this remarkable documentary. From Green’s intimate storytelling to the protesters’ screams, we are reminded that feminism in all its forms needs to be stripped down and critiqued while we respect and humanize the women putting up the fight and figure out ways to fight with them.
And it sinks in. We can, half a world away, celebrate Pussy Riot’s name. We can listen to their music and cheer them on. What our challenge as feminists needs to be is to take their cause as seriously as those Carriers of the Cross take it. We must hold on so tightly to our convictions–at home and abroad–that the utter fear and terror of female power that those enmeshed in the patriarchy are emboldened by is neutralized.
Pussy Riot–the Russian feminist anti-authoritative protest punk band–staged a protest at Moscow’s Cathedral of Christ the Saviour two years ago. Their subsequent arrest, trial, and incarceration has been broadcast to a world both condemning and sympathetic of their cause.
Because of this, we’re hearing the word “pussy” thrown around on the news and in the classroom like never before. Teaching film and journalism, I think I said it in class a half dozen times in the last 24 hours. NPR’s calm deliverance of the word is almost soothing.
It’s hard to not delight in so much “pussy”—the word, as they use it, is threatening, terrifying, and forceful. It’s also a word that is used to belittle women or shame men. There’s power in the word, but there’s also silliness in the reception. The word itself is analogous to women themselves and how we inhabit this world—we often aren’t taken seriously, but us having power (especially sexual power) is terrifying to patriarchal forces. Pussy Riot has shown us this in a loud, brightly colored way.
The documentary Pussy Riot: A Punk Prayer–now available on DVD—traces the path of Pussy Riot’s inception and worldwide explosion. The dozen or so women who gathered to form the punk collective in 2011 were galvanized by pro-feminist, anti-capitalist, pro-gay rights, anti-authoritarian, anti-Putin, anti-church/state ideologies. Their guerrilla-style performances with their signature brightly-colored balaclavas became known in feminist circles, but their February 21, 2012 performance was what made them a household name.
The documentary shows the group preparing for a concert/protest at the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour, Moscow’s Orthodox church. It feels voyeuristic (in a good way) to watch this guerrilla punk group practice just like any other band.
As the film’s exposition builds, the group plans to storm the cathedral (which they say is the ultimate symbol of the relationship between the church and state), go up to the altar (where they point out women are now allowed, and they believe they should be), and perform “Punk Prayer.” The lyrics to the anthem include the lines,
“Virgin Mary, Mother of God, banish Putin, banish Putin,/ Virgin Mary, Mother of God, banish him, we pray thee!…/ Freedom’s phantom’s gone to heaven,/ Gay Pride’s chained and in detention… /Don’t upset His Saintship, ladies,/ Stick to making love and babies./ Crap, crap, this godliness crap!/ Crap, crap, this holiness crap!/ Virgin Mary, Mother of God./ Be a feminist, we pray thee…”
However, they are only able to perform for less than a minute before being dragged away by security officials and grabbed at by angry cathedral visitors (there was not a service going on at the time). Three of the members were arrested—Nadezhda Tolokonnikova (Nadia), Maria Alyokhina (Masha/Maria), and Yekaterina Samutsevich (Katia)–and Pussy Riot: A Punk Prayer delves into their lives and the court case that awaited them.
Pussy Riot performs briefly at the cathedral
The film–directed by Mike Lerner and Maxim Pozdorovkin—does an excellent job of letting us into the women’s lives. Their testimonies, their words to the press, and their families’ words, along with the footage of their performances, illuminate their entire story. While it’s clear that the filmmakers are pro-Pussy Riot, their allegiance isn’t distracting. For the first part of the film, as they cut between images of church, state, and protest, Pussy Riot’s performances seem like performance art, not acts of all-out revolution. We viewers think to ourselves as they get dragged off and arrested at the cathedral, “Really?”
“Their actual ‘offending’ performance was a quick and amateurish mess. It was a poorly organized and naïve display by the young women, making the punishments placed upon them—two years in intensive labor camps—appear even harsher by comparison. Out of this, the directors are able to show the growing maturity of the women’s court statements as their ‘show trial’ cage inevitably provides them an international platform on which to express their views.”
When the women are shown speaking (whether in detention or in court), they sometimes smirk and smile and certainly use the platform as activists. At one point, they say to each other that the press will use these photos of them smiling to show that they’re happy, and they say that they are actually laughing at the press. We know that their punishment hasn’t started in earnest yet, and so do they.
I found myself wanting, at times, to judge them for those smiles and testimonies that didn’t defend them sufficiently against the charges (“hooliganism motivated by religious hatred”). I realized, in my judgment, that I am part of the problem. Would I have responded that way to a documentary about young male activists? The rarity of seeing women fight and be punished on a national stage feels too rare. We—around the world—notoriously dismiss young women and find them silly. Our response to their name is indicative of that reality.
From left: Katia, Masha, and Nadia await their sentencing in a confined box in the courtroom.
We find them silly, or we find them terrifying. Rarely do we give them power.
The chilling reality of Pussy Riot’s case sets in when the filmmakers follow the anti-Pussy Riot protesters, Orthodox worshipers, and men who belong to “The Carriers of the Cross.” Women holding images of Madonna and child are disgusted with Pussy Riot, and the men say,
“Those girls really offended me… in the 16th century, they would’ve hanged them, they would’ve burned them.”
“The main one, she is a demon with a brain. She’s a strong demon. She is stubborn, you can tell by her lips, her mouth.”
“There have always been witches who won’t repent.”
And it sinks in. We can, half a world away, celebrate Pussy Riot’s name. We can listen to their music and cheer them on. What our challenge as feminists needs to be is to take their cause as seriously as those Carriers of the Cross take it. We must hold on so tightly to our convictions—at home and abroad—that the utter terror of female power that emboldens those enmeshed in the patriarchy is neutralized.
The disgust for female power is palpable in these scenes, and it is familiar. While America doesn’t have the same history as Russia, that vitriol feels familiar.
In the St. Petersburg Times, mere days before the arrest at the cathedral, a lengthy feature was published about Pussy Riot:
“The group cites American punk rock band Bikini Kill and its Riot Grrrl movement as an inspiration, but says there are plenty of differences between them and Bikini Kill. ‘What we have in common is impudence, politically loaded lyrics, the importance of feminist discourse, non-standard female image,’ Pussy Riot said. ‘The difference is that Bikini Kill performed at specific music venues, while we hold unsanctioned concerts. On the whole, Riot Grrrl was closely linked to Western cultural institutions, whose equivalents don’t exist in Russia.'”
We can watch this documentary and the news reels of Bolshevik Revolution and the footage of the original Cathedral of Christ the Saviour being demolished under Stalin. We don’t have the same history. But we have the same enemies.
Pussy Riot: A Punk Prayer is an excellent documentary that reminds us of the threat women pose to the patriarchy–literally and figuratively. And when the women might seem young and naïve at the beginning of the film, we watch them mature, and we realize how serious both their punishment and the society that accepts such a punishment are. We hear Pussy Riot’s performance at the end of the film (footage from an earlier performance) as brilliant and powerful. And we realize, deeply, that we live in a world that needs Pussy Riot.
Kathleen Hanna said, “Anything is possible, if anything, this band has reminded us of that.”
Katia was granted a suspended sentence during the filming of the documentary, but Nadia and Masha went on to serve almost two years in labor camps. They were released in December 2013, which many saw as a false show of amnesty before the winter Olympics began in Russia.
The background vocalists are mostly women of color often singing behind white, male leads and the film poses the question of why these white guys (whose voices are not as strong as the women featured) became stars and their backup singers did not. The answer turns out to be more complicated than we might have thought.
When I was in high school, The Rolling Stones’ “Gimme Shelter” wasn’t new, but it didn’t have the baggage of being associated with Martin Scorcese films, Dexter, or The Simpsons. I remember wondering about the woman whose powerful vocals make up half the song. In those days duets between men and women were a staple on the radio with both artists’ names above the title. But no one ever mentioned this woman. Years later with the advent of the internet and Wikipedia I looked up her name, Merry Clayton, and was surprised I didn’t recognize it. When I had heard the song I was sure I was hearing someone who had gone on to record other hits.
In a way, I had been right. Among many other songs, Merry Clayton sang on Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama,” Joe Cocker’s “Feelin’ Alright,” and Ringo Starr’s “Oh My My,” but because she was a backup singer, her name was buried in the credits and never mentioned on the radio when stations played these songs over and over. So even though many of us have heard her voice throughout our lives and maybe have even bought the songs and albums she sang on, most of us do not know her name.
Merry Clayton
The Oscar-nominated documentary 20 Feet From Stardom(directed by Morgan Neville) attempts to right this injustice by focusing on Clayton and a number of other backup singers whose voices we know, but whose names we often do not: Judith Hill (though some may recognize her from The Voice), Claudia Lennear, Lisa Fischer, Táta Vega, The Waters, as well as former back-up singers whose names became well-known like Darlene Love, the 60s girl-group singer who is in The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and Luther Vandross, who went from singing background on and cowriting and arranging hit David Bowie songs to his own successful solo career.
The background vocalists are mostly women of color often singing behind white, male leads and the film poses the question of why these white guys (whose voices are not as strong as the women featured) became stars and their backup singers did not. The answer turns out to be more complicated than we might have thought.
Lisa Fischer
Anyone who has worked in the arts has seen enough examples to know talent is no guarantee of success– which some of the popular artists who have worked with the backup singers featured admit in the film. We see and hear solo performances from Clayton and Fischer and although they’re good (Fischer’s single won a Grammy), the songs they perform are not close to the caliber of “Gimme Shelter.” What makes a song (and its singer) a hit is tricky: sometimes the vocalists’ collaborators are the key (Mick Jagger with Keith Richards–or Bowie with Vandross), sometimes grooming from a powerful recording executive and producer does the trick (like Clive Davis for Whitney Houston) and sometimes artists become successful on the strength of their songwriting skills instead of their vocal prowess (Leonard Cohen, Tom Waits, and Bob Dylan among many, many others).
As Darlene Love mentions she and the other girl-group singers modified their sound according to the wishes of producers so, for example, in the background vocals for “The Monster Mash” they changed their style to “sound white.” A singer’s popularity often depends on a distinctive style. Even Aretha Franklin didn’t become the Aretha Franklin we know today until she was allowed to sing and play piano as she had when she had sung gospel. In previous, secular recordings she was backed by an orchestra including plenty of strings, in a effort to try to replicate the success of Sarah Vaughn. The backup singers’ flexibility and skill in creating generic vocals might have also been their downfall in achieving success on their own.
Claudia Lennear
Some backup singers have crossed over to great, popular success under their own names. but Sheryl Crowe and Emmylou Harris are white women, Luther Vandross was a Black man and Leon Russell was a white guy. The door doesn’t seem open to women of color. The film touches on some of what the women have had to deal with, acknowledging the racism in “Sweet Home Alabama,” which Clayton says her now-deceased husband convinced her to take part in, so her voice could be a retort to the song’s lyrics. The opening credits unroll to the sound of Lou Reed’s “Walk on the Wild Side” with its infamous chorus of, “And all the colored girls sing…” When the song was released “colored” wasn’t as strong a slur as it is today, but it also was not a word that most Black people were still using to refer to themselves. Progressive white people didn’t use it then either. The song “Brown Sugar” was rumored to be written about Lennear (who dated Mick Jagger around the time it was written) and its lyrics are also cringe-worthy.
Mick Jagger and Lisa Fischer in the 90s
The women are often in the position of being not just ear candy, but eye candy as well. We see a younger, slender Lisa Fischer in spandex eventually replacing Merry Clayton when the Rolling Stones tour and play “Gimme Shelter”–though Mick Jagger and Keith Richards have become visibly older and more fossil-like in the intervening years. Fischer is now 55, and toured with the Stones in 2013 (as she has in each of their tours for the last 24 years), but the precariousness of these gigs for women as they age makes Lennear’s long-ago decision to quit the business and teach Spanish to kids instead seem like a sensible one.
Now that the music industry is collapsing onto itself, the women who are still singing backup complain “my phone has not rung,” and struggle to make a living. So I’m puzzled why so much of the audience and critics see this film as a “feel-good” experience. At the end I couldn’t help thinking what the future would hold for these women: if this film is the last vestige of an era, the way a stuffed passenger pigeon in a museum is all that remains of the flocks that used to cover the sky.
Ren Jender is a queer writer-performer/producer putting a film together. Her writing has appeared in The Toast,xoJane and the Feminist Wire. You can follow her on Twitter @renjender.
I’m not quick to apply the word “intimate” followed by “portrait” to anything outside of the Lifetime series by the same name, but this description accurately characterizes Rodrigo H. Vila’s documentary ‘Mercedes Sosa: The Voice of Latin America.’ The film is a retrospective of the Argentinian alto whose career spanned 60 years and encompassed the tumult of 20th century political and cultural shifts in Latin America.
I’m not quick to apply the word “intimate” followed by “portrait” to anything outside of the Lifetime series by the same name, but this description accurately characterizes Rodrigo H. Vila’s documentary Mercedes Sosa: The Voice of Latin America. The film is a retrospective of the Argentinian alto whose career spanned 60 years and encompassed the tumult of 20th century political and cultural shifts in Latin America.
Sosa was born in the northwestern Argentine province of Tucumán, where she and siblings went to bed hungry more often than not. At the age of 15 she won a singing competition organized by a local radio station and was given a contract to perform for two months, much to the chagrin of her parents, who at the time did not think highly of folk music. She started her career in Tucumán and performed under the name Gladys Osorio. In 1957, she married Manuel Óscar Matus and together with Armando Tejada Gomez and Jose Segovia, they created the manifesto of the “Nuevo Cancionero”: a people’s movement anchored in traditional Argentinian folk music and poetry. Sosa began performing and recording music under her given name, and soon drew much attention for her powerful voice and fervent commitment to championing the rights of the poor and oppressed in Latin America. As she says in one of the many interviews incorporated in the film, “The life of people in America is a suffering people. They are a very poor people. They don’t deserve this poverty. We’ve been robbed of so much, really.” In the early 1970s, she recorded concept albums that celebrated the art and music of Latin American poets and composers, like the Chilean poet and folk musician Violeta Parra. Parra’s “Gracias a la Vida” would become one of Sosa’s signature songs. Even translated into English and flat on the page, the lyrics are beautiful, and in Sosa’s voice truly transcendent:
Thanks to life, which has given me so much. It gave me two stars, which when I open them, Perfectly distinguish black from white And in the tall sky its starry backdrop, And within the multitudes the one that I love.
By 1975 Sosa herself would be robbed of the freedom to perform in her home province, and many other sites in Argentina, due to increasing presence of a military dictatorship, which would install Jorge Rafael Videla in 1976. Targeted as a communist, she started receiving death threats and was forced to leave Argentina after being arrested on stage in 1979. In an interview reflecting on this Sosa says, “Kicking me out was a big mistake because they let loose on the world a famous artist. And in Europe the press was already against them.” In 1982 she returned from exile in Europe to sing in Argentina, and gave a series of performances at the Opera Theatre in Buenos Aires, where she invited many fellow musicians to join her. The recordings from these performances have since become well known, especially Sosa’s version of “Solo le Pido a Dios,” written by León Gieco (who also joins her in performing the song in the film). This song in particular has an anthemic quality, and it didn’t surprise me to learn it’s been covered by artists as wide ranging as Bruce Springsteen and Shakira. Until her death in 2009 at age 74, Sosa would go on to tour extensively and even collaborate with artists like Renee Perez.
While the expansive collection of still photographs and concert and interview footage comprising the main source material of the film make Mercedes Sosa: The Voice of Latin America a rich and inspiring viewing experience, there’s a subtler element that adds a sweet, if melancholic depth: that Sosa’s adult son Fabián Matus is our principal guide through his mother’s life. In his conversations with friends and family who have known his mother longer than he’s been alive, Matus quietly seeks the truth of his mother’s motivations and emotional life. We feel as though we’re seated at the dining room table as he hears from one his mother’s closest friends that his father mistreated and abandoned his mother. Though we don’t know what Matus knew before this scene (or what he went on to find out later, if anything), there is gravitas in these pauses, in the way the subjects take time to think of exactly what they want to tell Matus about the woman they knew as Mercedes Sosa, their friend and sister. Beyond being just a fascinating and well-constructed portrait of a great artist, Vila’s film is a love letter conceived of by her son and generously shared with audiences who, like myself, have the great delight of coming to her art in the afterlife that is her musical legacy.
Whether we make online videos that directly respond to terrible portrayals of us in the media, videos with the purpose of educating and doing advocacy, or produce feature films, sex workers who make media are constantly pressed up against all of our stereotypes. Over the last decade, I have dealt with documentary media about sex work as an audience member, a subject, and a producer. Whether we’re portrayed as villains or victims, pretty women or desperate girls, sex workers are a popular focus of documentary projects. But the only way to reach beyond simplistic narratives is for sex workers to be involved in the production of these projects.
Anna Saini from The Red Umbrella Diaries
This guest post by Audacia Ray appears as part of our theme week on Representations of Sex Workers.
“I took you into my house and allowed you to shoot and you have laughed at us,” Anita’s subtitle reads as she looks directly into the camera in a 2010 Youtube video produced by Veshya Anyay Mukti Parishad (VAMP, the Prostitutes’ Collective Against Injustice). VAMP’s video garnered a little shy of 19,000 views against the nearly two million views of Prostitutes of God, a VICE documentary that inaccurately depicted sex workers in Sangli, India and reported one sex worker as being HIV positive when she was not. VAMP’s video response to the VICE documentary was swift, fierce, and supported by sex worker and human rights activists. VICE edited out the clip falsely identifying a woman as HIV positive, but otherwise did not respond.
Whether we make online videos that directly respond to terrible portrayals of us in the media, videos with the purpose of educating and doing advocacy, or produce feature films, sex workers who make media are constantly pressed up against all of our stereotypes. Over the last decade, I have dealt with documentary media about sex work as an audience member, a subject, and a producer. Whether we’re portrayed as villains or victims, pretty women or desperate girls, sex workers are a popular focus of documentary projects. But the only way to reach beyond simplistic narratives is for sex workers to be involved in the production of these projects.
In 2009, I led my first media spokesperson training for sex workers in New York. At that training, I shot a one-minute PSA video (and I added more footage in 2011) called “I Am A Sex Worker.” In the video, the participating sex workers say one mundane fact about themselves, followed with “and I’m a sex worker.” The purpose of the video was to speak to a general audience and humanize sex workers as people who are multifaceted. I have to admit that it is not a technically “good” video. It’s all people talking directly to the camera in front of an uninspiring background, and the lighting and sound leave a lot to be desired. This lack of technical filmmaking finesse is not uncommon in sex worker-made media. Figuring out how to make the videos ourselves is resourceful; it is preferable to make a video with content completely controlled by sex workers ourselves, instead of handing the power over to a filmmaker we might not trust. Furthermore, there’s something compelling and awesome about sex workers telling even a sliver of their own stories while making eye contact with the camera.
Some sex-worker-created advocacy-driven online videos have a much narrower audience than mine though. The subtitle of the 2010 video conceived, developed, and produced by Lusty Day and Beef Jerky, “Every Ho I Know Says So” spells it out: “advice for partners, lovers, dates, and sweethearts of sex workers.” In this nine-minute video, shot mostly on handheld iPhone video and combining clips shot by many different people, 21 sex workers address the viewer as “you” and give advice about how best to treat a sex worker in a dating situation. The video is offered up as a resource for sex workers to show to their romantic partners and potential partners and for partners to find on their own.
Both of these videos feature the identifiable faces of sex workers, with a couple of exceptions where people’s identifying characteristics are concealed. But exposure can be risky for many sex workers. Whether a sex worker is doing legal or illegal work, exposure can mean loss of income (especially if the sex worker has another job or tries to transition into work outside the industry), loss of child custody or housing, or threats to their well-being from the local community. Showing people’s faces, of course, is an important part of establishing humanity and depth of character in any film project. But some sex workers have been successful in creating videos that don’t reveal their identities while revealing intimate details about their work and motivations.
Live Nude Girls Unite! poster
The Amsterdam-based organization Voices of Women Media (VOW) works with marginalized women to develop media skills so that they can tell their own stories. In a video documentary collaboration with two women who are sex workers in Amsterdam, VOW supported a woman named Chantal as well as an anonymous woman to script, produce, and shoot documentary shorts based on their lives. The resulting pair of 2010 videos, “Drowning” and “Los Caminos,” are portraits of women that are intimate, showing the interior of their work spaces behind the famed Amsterdam red light district windows, but also protect the identities of the women. As more stylistic elements are introduced, like b roll, staging, music, and with them, more complex editing, more skills are needed to create films like these. Collaborations like the Voices of Women Media project can work well if the stories and skill development of sex workers are centered, and if creative control remains with the sex workers and isn’t handed over to someone who will reshape the story for what they perceive as a better narrative. Authenticity is important, though it certainly takes longer to do a project this way. Authenticity, by the way, is not what happens when two young filmmakers decide to “pose as strippers” for two weeks (aka briefly become strippers while also looking down on actual women who strip for a living) and make videos about it, as an upcoming series on VICE touts.
It’s a big leap from DIY web videos to feature documentaries in terms of skill and of course fundraising; there have not been too many feature films about sex workers told from our perspective. The first one I saw was Live Nude Girls Unite, a documentary released in 2000 about the unionization process of the Lusty Lady strip club in San Francisco. There is a lot of hand-held camera work in the film as Julia Query, the producer, co-director, and a character in the film, takes the viewer through the club. In the film, we meet the dancers, attend their meetings, and even get to sit in on Julia’s coming-out to her mother. The dancers create a union, and a historical moment in sex worker labor organizing is documented.
More recently the 2013 feature film American Courtesans, produced by Kristen DiAngelo, an escort who also serves as the interviewer in the film, has played the festival circuit and won critical acclaim. The film features 11 cisgender women from around the United States who Kristen found through her personal networks. There isn’t a narrative structure; instead the film is a series of spotlight shoots of the women, who do sit-down interviews with Kristen and tell their life stories. The film strives to create empathy for the experiences of escorts as both workers and people. Though it doesn’t gloss over the challenges the women have faced in their lives–there are tears on camera more than once in the film–ultimately the filmmakers’ intent is to portray escorting as a legitimate and positive career choice for the women in the film.
After many years of working to produce media with sex workers and create spaces for sex workers to individual stories about our experiences, in the past year I’ve set out to produce my own feature-length documentary, The Red Umbrella Diaries. The film will tell the story of seven LGBTQ sex workers (myself included) as we prepare to tell our stories on stage at Joe’s Pub at the Public Theater in NYC.I’ve learned that my previous experience shooting web shorts as well as directing and producing a feature-length porn film, The Bi Apple (which won a Feminist Porn Award in 2007), has not really prepared me for this process. I’m grateful that I have been able to step aside and not be the filmmaker–instead I’m leaving that to the professionals, an Emmy-award winning crew–but I’d be lying if I said that its been easy. I have said no to many filmmakers who approached me over the years because I don’t trust just anyone to tell my story, and now I’m not signing away my right to review the final product – I’m doing the opposite actually. As an adult model and in other media situations, I have signed those releases, and I know how it feels to see myself represented in a way I dislike and not being able to do much about it.
Now I’m working with a crew I trust, guys who attended the storytelling events I produce for almost two years before showing up with a camera. We are currently working on our rough cut of the film. I’ve learned that having creative control over the final product still means that I need to trust the filmmakers I’m collaborating with. For me, there is definitely such a thing as being too close to the subject matter. I forget that there are elements of the lingo around my former profession that need to be defined, and that if this film is going to be accessible to a general audience, we do have to take the time to spell out things that I think are basic. But I know, and the filmmakers agree, that sex workers are experts on our own experiences, so there won’t be any professors or other experts explaining things on camera. Just us. I feel certain that we’re contributing something positive to documentary film, and I’m excited to prove that a collaboration where the “subjects” of a film have the final say over the content can be a rich and interesting project with complex storytelling.
Audacia Ray is a former sex worker who is the founder and executive director of the Red Umbrella Project, a small organization based in Brooklyn. She is the editor of the literary journal Prose & Lore: Memoir Stories About Sex Work and the executive producer of The Red Umbrella Diaries, a feature documentary with a targeted premiere of spring 2015. http://redumbrellaproject.org, @audaciaray on Twitter/Tumblr/Instagram.
