Female Directors – Bitch Flicks

Vintage Viewing: Marion E. Wong, Energetic Entrepreneur

What is certain is that, while ultimately upholding the value of family and of traditional culture, ‘The Curse of Quon Gwon’ gives vivid expression to the frustrations of women within those rigid norms, doing so with a cinematic language of the female gaze that centers female perspectives.

Written by Brigit McCone, this post is part of Vintage Viewing, our series exploring the work of women filmmaking pioneers. It also appears as part of our theme week on Women Directors, Part 2.

When considering the ethnographic films of Zora Neale Hurston, as one of the few surviving remnants of early cinema to be directed by a woman of color, I discussed the doubly distorted image of themselves that such women confronted, in a culture without their authorship. At the same time, the article surveyed the significant numbers who were recorded as making films that have not survived, with the intersection of racism and sexism placing obstacles in their path at every stage from financing to distribution to preservation. One of the most energetic women to struggle to fully author her own uncompromising vision, the first Chinese American director, as well as among the earliest female directors, was Marion E. Wong.

Wong founded the Mandarin Film Company (the first Chinese American film company) with ambitious plans to create non-stereotypical images of Chinese Americans, assuming, perhaps naively, that the American appetite for exoticized images of East Asia would make them even more eager to see authentic content. She shared with the Oakland Tribune that she wanted to “introduce to the world Chinese motion pictures with ‘some of the customs and manners of China.’” Mandarin Film Company was practically a one-woman show, with Wong serving as screenwriter, director, supporting actress, and costume designer on their only feature film, 1916’s The Curse of Quon Gwon: Where the Far East Mingles with the West. It’s “the earliest known Chinese American feature” film and “the first and only film made by an all-Chinese cast and an all-Chinese company.” 1917’s Oakland Tribune describes Wong as “energy personified,” with “imagination, executive ability, wit and beauty.” An article in Moving Picture World indicates that Wong traveled as far as New York and China in search of distributors for her film, but none were forthcoming. The film would have likely been as lost as the 1922 film, A Woman’s Error, by pioneering African American filmmaker Tressie Souders, had not two reels of it been unearthed in a basement in 2005. Watching Wong’s film now, we can catch a glimpse of what early cinema might have been, if the viewpoints represented had been more diverse.

The Curse of Quon Gwon: Where the Far East Mingles with the West – 1916

Opening with a statue to the household god Quon Gwon (Guan Gong or “Lord Guan,” a deity based on Guan Yu, a historical general immortalized in the Romance of the Three Kingdoms, one of the Four Great Classical Novels of Chinese Literature). Worshiped in Chinese folk religion, popular Confucianism, Taoism, and Chinese Buddhism, Guan Gong represents the principles of loyalty and righteousness. Though the recovered reels of The Curse of Quon Gwon were lacking intertitles, they have been added to this version to enhance the viewing experience, with Guan Gong speaking the words of the Three Brothers’ Oath in the Peach Tree Garden, from Romance of the Three Kingdoms, in translation by Charles Henry Brewitt-Taylor. We are then shown the heroine’s formal introduction to the family of her groom. Wong stretched her budget by filming with an amateur cast: the heroine was played by Wong’s sister-in-law, Violet Wong, the villainess by herself, the mother-in-law by her own mother, Chin See, and the child by her niece. However, her sets are lavish and her camera moves gently back and forth to prevent the scene from being static. In general, Wong’s shot composition and editing compare very well with the industry standard of 1916.

Mixing Western and Chinese costume, Wong raises the cultural tensions and transnational identity of Chinese Americans at the time, resisting the tendency of mainstream cinema to portray “Oriental” characters as static stereotypes, instead imagining them in a state of fluid cultural transformation. As the heroine resists her maid’s efforts to transform her hair into a traditional Chinese style, her aspirations toward Western fashion are clear. An over-the-shoulder shot of her face in the mirror encourages the audience to identify with the heroine’s gaze, one of several moments by which the film establishes an aesthetic of female gaze and subjectivity.

One of the film’s central showpieces is its depiction of a traditional Chinese wedding ceremony, complete with regalia and gifts, reflecting Wong’s desire to showcase Chinese culture to her imagined Western audience. The beauty of these scenes make it difficult to imagine that a lack of quality was the reason for her film being rejected by distributors. Perhaps its centering of a Chinese American woman’s experience was judged unrelatable to viewers, though the struggle of a restless woman to accommodate herself to the strict rules of her culture is a universal theme. The heroine struggles to walk in her high shoes and laugh with her groom at his regalia, showing their unserious attitude toward Chinese traditions, even as Wong’s film celebrates them. After the wedding, Wong utilizes dissolves to show her heroine hallucinating that she is shackled with chains, anticipating Germaine Dulac’s dramatizing of the interior perceptions of women.

When comparing with Dulac, it is worth remembering that Dulac’s revolutionary impressionist and surrealist aesthetics evolved over the course of many films, from a beginning making conventional narrative cinema. Considering how impressive the cinematic imagination of her debut is, if Marion Wong had received support and distribution, there is no telling how experimental she might have become.

After her husband’s departure, the heroine finds herself rejected and driven from the family home, following a false accusation by the villainess, played by Wong herself. She seeks to take her child with her but is prevented, despite pleading for her child to be returned. Stripped of jewelry, she seizes a knife and contemplates committing suicide to purge her dishonor, before throwing it aside and resolving to live on without shelter, friends, or support. Her befriending a lamb may represent her innocence, or the contrast between compassionate nature and cruel culture.

As the heroine wanders off, grief-stricken, across a windswept wilderness, I was reminded of chapter 28 of Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre, in which Jane strikes out alone and spends the night on the moors, confronting her place in the universe and testing her endurance. In depicting the heroine’s confrontation with nature, her right to be seen as a self-sufficient being and independent of her bonds with others, is affirmed. It occurred to me that I had never seen an Asian woman in an American film in this way, a different form of empowerment from martial arts (kung fu, wuxia, etc.) heroics – the right to be self-sufficient and to seek existential meaning. Zhang Ziyi’s leap from the mountain at the conclusion of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon is the only other example that springs to mind. In 100 years, depiction of Asian women in Hollywood has not matured in its nuance to the level that Marion Wong achieved in 1916. To celebrate the connection of Wong’s heroine with Jane Eyre’s psychological journey as rebellious woman in restrictive society, and acknowledge the Western leanings of Wong’s heroine, extracts from Jane Eyre have been used as intertitles to illustrate the heroine’s thoughts throughout the film.

As a guilt-stricken maid resolves to confess to the heroine’s husband, who has returned and is heartbroken to discover his wife banished, the villainess attempts to choke the maid into silence. Instead, the husband bursts in on them and learns the whole truth (without the original intertitles, it is impossible to determine exactly what the false accusation was, though it possibly involved the heroine’s adorable child). As her husband sets out to find her, the heroine stumbles home, weary from her wanderings. The triumphant reunion of the family, and the despairing suicide of the villainess, conclude the film.

As the heroine adopts Chinese dress, dabs her eyes sorrowfully then gazes on the idol of Guan Gong, bowing solemnly to it, before flashing forward to a scene of the happy family with an older child, the final message of the film is ambiguous. Was the heroine justly punished for her Westernized disrespect of tradition, repenting and learning better by embracing her duty to family? What is the curse of Guan Gong? In the Three Brothers’ Oath, Guan Yu vows, “If we turn aside from righteousness and forget kindliness, may Heaven and Human smite us!” Did the curse then apply to the villainess, who turned aside from righteousness by making the false accusation? Or was it the heroine who was cursed for her rebellious impulses and disrespect of tradition, but redeemed by divine mercy? Are we, finally, to see her Western attitude as transgression or simply as individuality? What is certain is that, while ultimately upholding the value of family and of traditional culture, The Curse of Quon Gwon gives vivid expression to the frustrations of women within those rigid norms, doing so with a cinematic language of the female gaze that centers female perspectives.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pJ5dbcFjXhQ”]

Photo of Marion E. Wong via Wikipedia in the public domain in the U.S.

Brigit McCone keeps trying to learn Chinese but can’t tell the tones apart, though she is happy the ‘Ireland’ is apparently written as ‘love you orchid’. She writes short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and writing posts like this one.

The Unvoiced Indigenous Feminism of ‘Frida’

Frida Kahlo’s sense of kyriarchy, in which the tension between Indigenous culture and European imperialism is a core aspect of her multi-faceted narratives of oppression and resistance, is simplified in Julie Taymor’s film ‘Frida’ towards a more Euro-American feminism, focused on Kahlo’s struggle for artistic recognition and romantic fulfillment as a woman, to the exclusion of her ethnic struggle.

Written by Brigit McCone as part of our theme week on Indigenous Women.

The Tzotzil Mayan activist Comandanta Ramona has become an iconic figure in the struggle for Indigenous women’s rights, as an officer of Mexico’s Zapatista National Liberation Army (EZLN), which was one-third comprised of women, and as a drafter of the Revolutionary Women’s Law which set out an uncompromisingly feminist agenda for self-determination, equality, and reproductive rights on behalf of the Indigenous women of Chiapas. Comandanta Ramona was also a founder of the National Indigenous Congress of Mexico, and led an EZLN delegation to the First National Congress of Indigenous Women in Oaxaca. In San Cristóbal, dolls of Comandanta Ramona are sold, while posters of her are a shorthand for revolutionary Indigenous feminism, comparable to the use of Che Guevara as the shorthand for wider revolution.

The iconic image of Ramona seems, from a Euro-American perspective, unusual: the combination of a revolutionary’s balaclava with a long, floral, traditional dress. In Euro-American culture, the floral dress tends to be viewed as a symbol of traditional femininity, alluding to female submission and domestic dependence. To find a long, floral dress combined with a militant image like a balaclava, representing a feminist ideology like the Revolutionary Women’s Law, may seem contradictory from other cultural perspectives. It declares that Indigenous feminism is an evolution and reclamation of Indigenous culture, not a revolution against it. Ramona’s floral dress expresses the traditions of a specific Mayan culture whose women had their extensive agency undermined by Spanish colonization. The costume is political; it is the visual shorthand and physical embodiment of Ramona’s Indigenous feminism.

If that is true of the iconic image of Comandanta Ramona, it is equally true of the even more iconic image of another famous wearer of Indigenous clothing: Frida Kahlo.

Granddaughter of the Indigenous Purépecha photographer Antonio Calderón Sandoval, daughter of a mother who befriended and aided Zapatista rebels, Frida Kahlo joined with her husband Diego Rivera in the Mexicanismo movement, which sought to reintegrate Indigenous culture and pre-Columbian heritage into the national identity of Mexico. Kahlo, probably the most significant female representative of Mexicanismo, focused on embodying the philosophy through her wearing of Indigenous clothing, particularly Tehuana dress, and its celebration in her painting. This was not merely an aesthetic choice or desire to be “exotic”: writers such as Brasseur de Bourbourg, and the Mexican educator José Vasconcelos had declared Tehuantepec to be a matriarchal society, and Frida’s choice of dress thus serves as a visual shorthand for her support of the matriarchal values that the Tehuana were famed for. Although Tehuantepec is no longer considered a true matriarchy, as its women were traditionally excluded from political power, Tehuana women did achieve a large degree of economic independence as market-traders, and were celebrated for their outspoken and sexually liberated manner. At the start of the 20th century, the Tehuana Juana Cata Romero became a revered power broker, entrepreneur, landowner, and a sexually liberated woman known for her affair with the Mexican president Porfirio Diaz, all while promoting traditional Tehuana costume.

With such precedents, Frida Kahlo’s decision to wear Tehuana dress makes a political statement of Indigenous feminism: the embodiment of female emancipation as a natural evolution of reclaimed Indigenous culture, rather than as a colonial import. It is a gesture stripped of its vital meaning if removed from the context of Tehuana (Zapotec) culture, reduced to flowery exoticism when interpreted from a Euro-American viewpoint.

For that reason, it is unfortunate that the most famous and Oscar-nominated cinematic account of Frida’s life, 2002’s Frida by the Euro-American director Julie Taymor, revels in the colorful Tehuana costumes of Salma Hayek’s Frida without providing a single line of dialogue to address their significance or the matriarchal values that they represent.

Kahlo’s Mexico was a culture of assumed hierarchies: the superiority of the European over the Indigenous, of the rich over the poor, of the masculine over the feminine. In her specific choice of peasant garb from a matriarchal Indigenous culture, Kahlo wordlessly resists each of these hierarchies simultaneously. She is, as Andre Breton described her, “a ribbon around a bomb” against a complicated, interconnected kyriarchy of oppressions.

Kahlo’s sense of kyriarchy permeates her work. “Two Nudes in the Forest” is a queer-positive work that visualizes nature as a space of lesbian eroticism, but it is equally and simultaneously a representation of solidarity between Indigenous people and cultures and European people and cultures. In “Portrait of Lucha Maria, a Girl from Tehuacan,” an Indigenous Tehuacan girl, whose very name means “struggle” in Spanish, clutches a military plane as her toy, suggesting she must be raised in preparation for battle rather than domesticated with dolls. By her military plane’s juxtaposition with her traditional costume, Kahlo’s “Lucha Maria” resembles the iconic image of Comandanta Ramona. In “My Dress Hangs There,” a chaotic collage of the decadence of Euro-American civilization is dominated by Kahlo’s Tehuana dress, hanging as a flag of mute resistance. In her most famous work, “The Two Fridas,” Kahlo celebrates the strength and wholeness of her Tehuana self, in contrast to an alternate self in colonial dress who is bleeding and has her heart torn open, associating European values with romantic weakness and dependence. The image of the empowered Tehuana, either as a disembodied dress or as an aspect of Kahlo’s dual self, continued to evolve throughout her art.

Kahlo’s sense of kyriarchy, in which the tension between Indigenous culture and European imperialism is a core aspect of her multi-faceted narratives of oppression and resistance, is simplified in Taymor’s film towards a more Euro-American feminism, focused on Kahlo’s struggle for artistic recognition and romantic fulfillment as a woman, to the exclusion of her ethnic struggle. Frida’s communism is acknowledged, but not her admiration for Stalin’s cultural nationalism, which formed the subject of several of her paintings. The political beliefs of Kahlo, and of Mexican communists generally, are left largely unexplored by Taymor’s film, or reduced to a naive admiration for the imported ideals of foreign revolutionaries such as Leon Trotsky (Geoffrey Rush).

Another major Indigenous aspect of Kahlo’s work is its integration of Aztec and Mayan cosmology into artistic landscapes defined by the mythic Aztec struggle between light and dark, and peopled by a pantheon of pre-Columbian gods and heroes. Here again, feminism plays a key role in the emphasis that Kahlo lays on the pre-Columbian female divinities, in contrast to the wholly masculine trinity of the Christian worldview. The snake-headed Aztec goddess of birth and death, Coatlicue, sits atop the pantheon of heroes and deities in “Moses,” while in “The Love Embrace of the Universe, the Earth (Mexico), Myself, Diego, and Señor Xolotl” the motherhood and fertility goddess Cihuacoatl cradles Kahlo, mirroring Kahlo’s own maternal pose like a universal alter-ego.

Indigenous mythology serves as a source of strength and inspiration to Kahlo, through which she envisions a distinct feminine life-force within a complementary parity of male and female energies. This aspect of Kahlo’s art is entirely absent from Taymor’s film, though it does depict a visit by Kahlo and Trotsky to pre-Columbian pyramids. For a filmmaker with Taymor’s brilliant visual sense and gift for surreal sequences, this is surely a missed opportunity. What might Taymor not have achieved with a vision of a scarred earth transforming into the heaving bosom of Cihuacoatl, or a moon that shelters a sacrificial Mayan hare, or a writhing and devouring goddess of skulls and snakes who embodies the fearful ordeal of birthing life from death? There is no doubt that Taymor’s film is vivid and captivating, but could it not have been more so, if it had delved deeper into the brutally beautiful mytho-poetry of Kahlo’s painted world and the richness of the Indigenous heritage that informs it?

Paul LeDuc’s 1983 film Frida Naturaleza Viva, starring Ofelia Medina, is slow in pace and bleak in tone, more a collage of impressions and immaculately posed images than a coherent account of the artist’s life or work. Nevertheless, it does place Kahlo and Rivera at gatherings of Indigenous Mexicans, commemorating Emiliano Zapata through folk song and celebration, and thereby representing the political roots and ideological leanings of the artists themselves.

Julie Taymor’s 2002 work is a far more satisfying film, dramatizing a coherent account of Kahlo’s life, and a vibrant portrait of her will to succeed as a bisexual woman with a disability. Frida is saturated in Mexican music and the beauty of Mexican culture, and filled with visual references to Kahlo’s art that are a treat for fans to spot. It fails, however, to provide any context for Kahlo’s political convictions as a Mexican cultural nationalist, her identification with folk art, or her profound interest in pre-Columbian culture. Surely, the purpose of an artist’s biopic is to explore the beliefs and experiences which have shaped their work, to give voice to what was silent on the canvas? Kahlo’s images live in Taymor’s film, but the animating beliefs and Indigenous feminism behind them remain unspoken. In the opening sequence, Kahlo with a mobility disability is carried to her final exhibition in her bed and she’s accompanied by her sister Cristina and an Indigenous peasant woman, who smiles at Kahlo in affection but whose relationship with her will never be explored, and who will never even utter a line of dialogue. Her voicelessness seems to sadly typify the film’s continual use of the Indigenous as silenced accessory.

On one of the film’s posters, Kahlo’s painting “The Two Fridas” is restaged with dual Salma Hayeks clasping hands, one in a male suit and one in a Tehuana costume. The duality is now between her masculine and feminine selves, a tension of gender identity and sexuality, rather than the original painting’s tension between European and Indigenous models of womanhood, that is a distinctly Mexican cultural tension. The alteration appears to reflect the film’s wider purpose of universalizing Kahlo’s story of love and physical suffering. Are Mexican struggles to decolonize really so threatening or so difficult for international audiences to relate to? By reinforcing the impression that a “universal” and relatable story of a woman’s struggle must be a story in which specifically Indigenous concerns are silenced, Frida perhaps unwittingly contributes to the marginalization of Indigenous feminism, depriving it of a potent international icon. While an excellent film in many aspects, it could have been much more. It remains to us as viewers to put back the meanings that are left unsaid.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Biopic and Documentary Week: Frida

Brigit McCone has a passion for all things Frida Kahlo and Salma Hayek. She writes and directs short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and memorizing lists of underrated female artists. Brigit McCone is an extremely boring dinner party guest.

The Anti-Celebrity Cinema of Mary Harron: ‘I Shot Andy Warhol,’ ‘The Notorious Bettie Page,’ and ‘The Anna Nicole Story’

I’ve always thought Mary Harron’s work was the perfect example of why we need female directors. I think the films she produces provide a perspective we would never see in a world unilaterally controlled by male filmmakers. Harron appears to specialize in off-beat character studies of the types of people a male director may not gravitate towards, nor treat with appropriate gravitas. She treats us to humanizing takes on sex workers and sex symbols, angry lesbians and radical feminism and makes them hard to turn away from.

This post by staff writer Elizabeth Kiy appears as part of our theme week on Women Directors.

I’ve always thought Mary Harron’s work was the perfect example of why we need female directors.

I think the films she produces provide a perspective we would never see in a world unilaterally controlled by male filmmakers. Harron appears to specialize in off-beat character studies of the types of people a male director may not gravitate towards, nor treat with appropriate gravitas. She treats us to humanizing takes on sex workers and sex symbols, angry lesbians and radical feminism and makes them hard to turn away from.

Her work is so different from what we are used to that, it’s usually depressing to read anything about the making of her films, which always seem to struggle for financing and spend years in development hell.

Harron’s film are like long monologues, focusing on the experiences of a single, larger than life character. In my head, I’ve compared them to less glossy magazine profiles.

Though she is best know for her controversial take on American Psycho (which starred Gloria Steinem’s stepson, Christian Bale), I find her biopics, a triptych focusing on Bettie Page, Valerie Solanas, Anna Nicole Smith, her most interesting works.

These are difficult women to portray in an even handed fashion. Their personas and actions have transcended the truth of who they are and in the cases of Bettie and Anna Nicole, tend to be seen rather than heard. They are also women who have appeared difficult to defend and explain from within a feminist framework.

Harron, who wrote for Punk Magazine in 1970s New York, mixes feminine aesthetics and masculine grit to find beauty in the often ugly experiences of her subjects. She takes daring subjects and portrays them in a formalistically unique style, using different film stocks, gorgeous cinematography and fast kinetic edits to portray different time periods. The Notorious Bettie Page, uses a Wizard of Oz style switch from black and white to lush colour, to portray the character’s feelings of freedom. She lets her actors breathe and inhabit the characters and when her films succeed, they do on the lead character’s stand out performances.

Though it is often unclear what she is trying to say with them. As a whole, her oeuvre does not present a cohesive sense of auterusim or even stick to a specific genre, medium or perspective. Harron’s main interest appear to be intriguing stories.

If her films do have one message, it’s that people are more complicated than we assume. They don’t make a snap judgement about the characters. Mary Harron doesn’t tell us Valerie Solanas was “crazy” or Bettie Page was exploited or Anna Nicole Smith was a gold digger. She says, there are good and bad parts of everyone. What seems to matter is being interesting.

I Shot Andy Warhol (1996)

I Shot Andy Warhol is a little art scene movie about Valerie Solanas (Lili Taylor), a lesbian writer famous more for the delusions that lead her to (non-fatally) shoot Andy Warhol in 1968 than for her feminist treatise, the S.C.U.M. manifesto (Society for Cutting Up Men).

The film is Valerie’s show, portraying her as a desperate person living on the fringes of society and struggling to make a living, who comes face to face with Warhol’s beautiful world and its superstars and hopes to be invited in. She comes to believe Warhol is trying to control and exploit her when she cannot get him to produce a play of hers.

The film doesn’t seem to take a stance on Solanas, but allows the audience to try to understand her based on what they have been shown. We are helped along by Taylor’s performance, intense to the point of being frightening, which makes her character come alive.

The Notorious Bettie Page (2005)

In Harron’s portrayal of the life of 50s pin-up Queen, Bettie Page (Gretchen Mol), we meet a woman who is a living contradiction. She is portrayed as an innocent who doesn’t understand the idea of pornography yet enjoys posing naked. Even the most aggressive bondage scenes where she is tied up and gagged seem to be a great game for her.

Though the film is about pornography, Harron skillfully avoids giving us overtly sexualized or salivating gazes of her star. The nude scenes are either awkward as Bettie fumbles unsure in the beginning or triumphant in portraying Bettie’s proud nudism and her sun-kissed body, glowing. I think Gretchen Mol’s portrayal of Bettie really helps here; she is wide-eyed and perpetually stunned. The way she inhabits the character makes her sexuality seem natural. She enjoys her body and the film’s switch to technicolor emphasizes that happiness.

However, it’s a film with a lot to unpack. Because Harron opens it with scenes of Bettie’s rape and abuse, it’s easy to believe she’s suggesting Bettie’s sexual openness is because of her rape. It’s gets slightly heavy-handed in one point where she is invited to show a private moment in her acting class and she begins to take off her clothes.

The relatively short span of Bettie’s life Harron focuses on cuts out her later mental illness and the extent of her evangelicalism. It’s discomforting to see younger Bettie enjoy her work when contrasted to older Bettie whose conversion suggests she begins to view what she participated in as exploitative.

The Anna Nicole Story (2013)

The Anna Nicole Story is a Lifetime movie, it’s campy and trashy, but it has aspirations. Harron gives Anna Nicole the Marilyn Monroe treatment, telling us that she is a misunderstood bombshell hiding a deep sadness. Though, the device of the ghostly figure of an older glamorous Anna Nicole guiding her through her life is a bit much.

There’s a fine line between campy trashy and exploitation trashy and Harron is fairly successful here. For the last years of her life, evidence that Anna Nicole Smith was mentally unwell and struggling with drugs was turned into a joke and her weight gain was excoriated by men who just wanted her to get hot again. While Anna Nicole was various exploited and exploitative herself, the film tries to rein in her image to something palatable to the viewers at home. Agnes Bruckner tries to make her seem human, but though we are left unsure of the motivations behind many of her stranger actions.

It seemed like every interview Bruckner did for the film was about the enlarged breasts she sported as Anna Nicole. She was asked “How were they made? or “How did they feel?” over and over.

In the finished picture, too much fun is had with Anna Nicole’s breasts, whose size the film enjoys exaggerating and displaying, though this may come with the territory. The scene where she bring cantaloupes to display the size of implants she want is played for laughs, as is the revel of her new large breasts getting her attention at the strip club.

As it’s a Lifetime movie, Harron is hampered by a PG rating, a low budget and shot production schedule, but she still gives us something interesting to explore.

She always has.

Elizabeth Kiy. is a Canadian writer and journalist living in Toronto, Ontario. Someday she will take over the world.

Call For Writers: Women Directors

Our theme week for March 2016 will be Women Directors. The gender gap in the entertainment industry has risen to the level of popular consciousness, such that prominent public figures are frequently commenting on it and demanding change, but while awareness of the under-representation and misrepresentation of women in film and television has grown, is there much being done to combat it?

Our theme week for March 2016 will be Women Directors.

The gender gap in the entertainment industry has risen to the level of popular consciousness, such that prominent public figures are frequently commenting on it and demanding change, but while awareness of the under-representation and misrepresentation of women in film and television has grown, is there much being done to combat it?

Women directors face myriad obstacles: despite there being an abundance of talented female directors struggling to produce work, many companies refuse to give them projects (only 3.4% of all film directors are female and only 9% of the top 250 movies in 2015 were directed by women), they are not paid as much as their male counterparts, there’s an expectation that their work be stereotypically female (i.e. chick flicks), and their work is rarely appreciated with the same level of acclaim (only 4 women have ever been nominated for a Best Director Academy Award). Despite all these obstacles and hardships, there are a growing number of women making amazing work with wide range of genres and topics: romantic, thought-provoking, innovative, hilarious, or even terrifying. In 2009, Kathryn Bigelow broke barriers with The Hurt Locker, a film about soldiers and war, when she took home Academy Awards for both Best Picture and Best Director. She was the first woman ever to receive an Oscar for Best Director. In 2014, Ava DuVernay’s depiction of the civil rights movement Selma won an Academy Award for Best Song and garnered nominations for Best Picture. But DuVernay didn’t receive an Oscar nomination, an unfortunate snub as she would have been the first Black woman to ever receive a nomination for Best Director.

However, the Oscars are typically white and male-dominated and are increasingly being disregarded as an antiquated, patriarchal, elitist group who should no longer be regarded as the gatekeepers of important cinema, and women are increasingly working in the independent film scene. Despite the somewhat encouraging rise of women directors, white women tend to dominate the field, receiving accolades and projects with far greater frequency than women directors of color, which is a microcosm reflective of the stratification of the feminist movement itself.

The examples below are the names of women directors alongside an example of one of their most acclaimed works. Feel free to use those examples to inspire your writing on this subject, or choose your own source material.

We’d like to avoid as much overlap as possible for this theme, so get your proposals in early if you know which film you’d like to write about. We accept both original pieces and cross-posts, and we respond to queries within a week.

Most of our pieces are between 1,000 and 2,000 words, and include links and images. Please send your piece as a Microsoft Word document to btchflcks[at]gmail[dot]com, including links to all images, and include a 2- to 3-sentence bio.

If you have written for us before, please indicate that in your proposal, and if not, send a writing sample if possible.

Please be familiar with our publication and look over recent and popular posts to get an idea of Bitch Flicks’ style and purpose. We encourage writers to use our search function to see if your topic has been written about before, and link when appropriate (hyperlinks to sources are welcome, as well).

The final due date for these submissions is Saturday, March 26, 2016 by midnight Eastern Time.

Ava DuVernay (Selma)

Sofia Coppola (Lost in Translation)

Haifaa al-Mansour (Wadjda)

Jane Campion (The Piano)

Kathryn Bigelow (The Hurt Locker)

Amma Asante (Belle)

Lena Dunham (Girls)

Julie Delpy (2 Days in Paris)

Mary Harron (American Psycho)

Mary Lambert (Pet Sematary)

Meera Menon (Farah Goes Bang)

Julie Dash (Daughters of the Dust)

Nora Ephron (Sleepless in Seattle)

Penny Marshall (Big)

Lisa Cholodenko (The Kids Are All Right)

Emily Ting (It’s Already Tomorrow in Hong Kong)

Debra Granik (Winter’s Bone)

Dee Rees (Bessie)

Randa Haines (Children of a Lesser God)

Barbra Streisand (The Prince of Tides)

Jodie Foster (Orange is the New Black)

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.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PPjJq3Xb7yw”]

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.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TOSFgnTCP60″]

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.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wDFREhX9ZEU”]

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.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QhCw5XjmbZc”]

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.

The Female Gaze: Dido and Noni, Two of a Kind

Directors Amma Asante and Gina Prince-Bythewood illustrate that when a story is told through the eyes of the second sex, themes, such as romance, self-worth, and identity are fully fleshed out. By examining an 18th century British aristocrat and a 21st century pop superstar, it proves that in the span of three centuries, women still face adversity in establishing a firm identity, apart from the façade, amongst the white noise of societal expectations.

This guest post by Rachel Wortherley appears as part of our theme week on The Female Gaze.

In 2015, the film industry continues to designate female characters to the roles of wives, mothers, girlfriends, mistresses, the clever side-kick, or the sassy best friend. While a form of these categories may exist in reality, a three-dimensional approach allows women to be recognizable human beings. They are conflicted, in love, in hate, trying to find their identities, attempting to cling to self-worth. Women are more than the figures who stand ring-side, cheering and watching their husbands become bloodied and bruised. Women are more than the sex kittens who await their lovers in the bedroom, eager to stimulate him after a difficult day at work. It is rare that those images on film, realistic or not, are funneled through the female gaze.

The films Belle (2014) and Beyond the Lights (2014) demonstrate that women are more than objects for consumption. Directors Amma Asante and Gina Prince-Bythewood illustrate that when a story is told through the eyes of the second sex, themes, such as romance, self-worth, and identity are fully fleshed out. By examining an 18th century British aristocrat and a 21st century pop superstar, it proves that in the span of three centuries, women still face adversity in establishing a firm identity, apart from the façade, amongst the white noise of societal expectations.

Belle and Beyond the Lights share a similar narrative: a young woman, who happens to be mixed race, is plucked from obscurity and in time, gains a better way of life. However, to reduce the dramas to a single line discredits their significance within feminine literature in film. Generally speaking, British-born Gugu Mbatha-Raw is the thread that links both movies. After a few false starts on the small screen, specifically the J.J. Abrams-produced NBC spy drama, Undercovers (2010) and the FOX drama, Touch (2012-13), Mbatha-Raw found her place as the leading lady in two revolutionary films of 2014. Mbatha-Raw, who is a RADA graduate (Royal Academy of Dramatic Art), joins the ranks of several English actors and actresses who continue to penetrate North America with their diverse talent. Within a year, Gugu, who, as Ophelia, shared the Broadway stage in 2006 with Jude Law in Hamlet, transformed from an 18th century, aristocratic historical figure to a sexy, fledgling popstar. Mbatha-Raw offers sheer strength and vulnerability behind the eyes of Dido Elizabeth Belle Lindsay and Noni Jean.

Dido Elizabeth Belle Lindsay is the illegitimate daughter of British naval officer, Sir John Lindsay (Matthew Goode) and African slave mother, Maria Belle. Upon her mother’s death, Sir John rescues a young Dido from the squalor of the slums and is in turn raised by her great-uncle, Lord Mansfield (Tom Wilkinson) and his wife, Lady Mansfield (Emily Watson). Sir John legitimizes his daughter by bequeathing her the name of Lindsay, as well as, demanding that she be raised with her cousin, Elizabeth Murray (Sarah Gadon). In the 18th century, when colonization and slavery is the norm, Sir John makes a brave and radical decision.

Here, writers and producers could have taken advantage of this rich story by constructing it from the male perspective. Through the male gaze it would read as the story of a single father who fights through tempestuous, natural elements to find his mixed race daughter. Upon finding her, Sir John Lindsay has to deal with the pain of leaving his newfound kin for a voyage, and remain stoic amongst the ridicule from his peers. The narrative would then end with his sad demise, never having known Dido. However, audiences watch the 10-year-old curiously gazing at the portraits of her new family. As her aunt and uncle discuss how they will rear Dido, Lady Mansfield questions, where Dido’s race should be placed, “above, or below her bloodline?” The director cuts to an adult Dido who is deliriously giggling with her cousin, Elizabeth. They are inseparable and equals, until the question of marriage emerges.

Dido is at an impasse in society; with her new fortune (2,000 pounds a year left by her deceased father), her aunt and uncle surmise that no aristocratic family will welcome a mulatto and if she marries a man with no title, she risks her rank. While Dido is too high in rank to dine with the servants and too low in rank to dine with members of aristocracy (outside of the family), she continues to carry herself with great dignity. When her future suitor, John Davinier (Sam Reid), addresses her informally, Dido asserts that Davinier speak through the house servant since they have not been formally introduced. To not do so, would compromise social decorum.

Throughout the film, Dido manages to stand up for her self-worth in front of others who threaten to destroy it. Upon Lady Elizabeth’s coming out in London, Lord and Lady Mansfield decide that Dido should stay behind and maintain the house while they are away. There is a striking close up of Lord Mansfield unfastening his keys and Dido with horror on her face as she exclaims, “I am not an old maid!”—their aunt, Lady Mary (Penelope Wilton) is too old to continue to keep watch. The frantic nature in which Lord Mansfield unhooks the charcoaled keys from his hip, paired with Dido’s reaction evokes the images of a slave being punished by their master. Dido cries, “Why are you punishing me?” This softens Lord Mansfield who reassures her that she is most loved. Dido is also concerned that her dignity will be compromised in the portrait of her and Lady Elizabeth. Adult Dido is worried that her image will be reduced to that of a subordinate depicted in all the family portraits along the walls of the house. In the end, Dido is depicted beside Elizabeth, as her equal.

Beyond the Lights begins similarly to Belle, where audiences are introduced to the main character as a child. It is significant that Asante and Prince-Bythewood choose to begin at childhood—our formative years. Noni Jean, who is around 10-12 years of age, is placed on the stage of a talent show and she sings Nina Simone’s “Blackbird.” She settles for the runner-up trophy that her mother, Macy Jean (Minnie Driver), immediately commands her to trash because Noni should never settle for second place.

The camera cuts to a young woman, scantily clad in rubber, with a bare midriff, and sky-high boots as she sings and gyrates in the midst of studio produced hip-hop beats. A rapper, Kid Culprit (Machine Gun Kelly), fondles her. It is adult Noni, who has transformed from the little girl with pigtails to a sexy songstress. She is wildly popular in the music industry and has a hit record before her debut album has been released. However, she finds herself dangling from her hotel terrace with a tear-stained face whispering, “You still can’t see me,” to which Officer Kaz Nicol (Nate Parker) replies, “I see you,” as he grasps her hand and pulls her to safety.

The aftermath of Noni’s suicide attempt does not evoke concern from the parties who hold stock in her image. Her mother reminds her that she has the luxury of fame and fortune. Her record label reprimands Noni for the “accident” and threatens to drop her from the company. She has to maintain the image of the girl who men want and who women want to become. The night of Noni’s suicide attempt, her self-worth was at a low. She is the girl whose image is produced by her inner circle and the media consumes it. Instead of looking at her, they look through her.

Noni’s lack of self-worth is surmounted during her BET performance. As her dancers and Kid Culprit try to open her trench coat to reveal her half-naked body, Noni fights to keep it on. Kid Culprit roughly throws Noni on the staged-bed, attempts to shove her face into his crotch, and violently yanks Noni trench coat, revealing what she tried to conceal. Kid’s act of revenge culminates by his declaration that he dumped Noni. No one dumps Kid Culprit for another man. This moment is comparable to James Ashford’s assault of Dido as a form of degradation and assertion of power. In 2015, women continue to face assault from men when their advances are rebuffed.

In many ways, Dido is looked at as an object for consumption. Dido’s first suitor, Oliver Ashford, sees her as “rare and exotic,” while his brother, James, who is disgusted by Dido, stresses that “one does not make a wife of the rare and exotic. One samples it on the cotton fields of the Indies.” When Dido chooses not to wed Oliver, her family supports her decision, rather than reprimanding the choice. The only suitor who looks beyond Dido’s race is John Davinier—he is the reverend’s son and Lord Mansfield’s pupil. He presents the question of whether she would reduce herself for the sake of rank. The Zong Ship case, the assault, and John’s question helps her decide that she cannot marry into a family who will see her skin color as a burden, or affliction.

Kaz’s heroic action momentarily positions him as Noni’s savior. After their encounter, Noni has the choice to cut ties with him—even after he appears outside her hotel the following night to check on her—but she chooses to leave with him. With Kaz, Noni is able to eat chicken and fries, share her hidden box of songs, and in the most beautiful part of the film, she literally lets her hair down. Noni’s removal of her acrylic nails and extensions is her realization that she is more than the sexy images mounted on the walls. When he softly touches her face, reaches out and “boings” her natural curls, and kisses every inch of her face, audiences see her inner beauty. When she approaches Kid Culprit or walks on stage, it is always, shoulders back, boobs out, with a sultry look on her face. This is the first time Noni’s eyes are free of conflicting thoughts; constantly strategizing how she will present herself.

Beyond the Lights can be vaguely compared to the Richard Curtis film, Notting Hill (1999), in which an ordinary man’s life is changed when a beautiful actress walks into his bookstore. They fall in love, live happily ever after, and she abandons fame and fortune. Yet Notting Hill is written from the perspective of Will Thacker (Hugh Grant). It depicts how his dull life is changed when meets Anna (Julia Roberts) and how empty he is in her absence. As in Prince-Bythewood’s debut romantic drama, Love and Basketball, women are proactive in seeking romance. Monica (Sanaa Lathan) challenges Quincy (Omar Epps) to a game of one and one for his heart. Dido and Noni dictate which relationship they deem appropriate to pursue. Dido chooses John Davinier, while Noni chooses Kaz over Kid Culprit. They choose partners who will respect their newfound sense of self-worth and identity.

Ultimately, Dido and Noni’s suitors help them realize their new selves. However, it is exactly that, help. Dido does not reject Oliver’s marriage proposal because she is in love with John. She rejects it because she is comfortable in her skin and realizes her worth. It is a far cry from the Dido, who at the beginning of the film, gazes upon her image in the mirror and in tears, claws and beats at her breast. Though she must carry the burden of being looked down upon by members within her society, one that Dido is willing to undertake. At the end of Beyond the Lights, Noni stands up to her record label and pushy “momager,” and returns to England, where she presents her true identity on stage. She is wide-eyed, curly-haired, and sings, not underneath suggestive lyrics or studio produced beats, but with a live band and lyrics that come from her heart. As she stage dives into the pit of screaming fans, Noni beams with pride. Kaz showing up to support Noni, elevates her decision to follow her heart personally and professionally. Dido and Noni decide to follow through with the advice employed by their respective suitors. Again, choice is the key idea.

Belle and Beyond the Lights are films that are for women because they truly capture what it is like to be marginalized by society while working through personal growth. What is seen through the gaze of Dido and Noni’s narratives is that in order to function as a rich and diverse character, society must learn to be comfortable with women forming identities independent of two-dimensional categories.

Rachel Wortherley earned a Master of Arts degree at Iona College in New Rochelle, New York. Her downtime consists of devouring copious amounts of literature, films, and Netflix. She hopes earn an MFA and become a professional screenwriter.

Bitch Flicks’ Weekly Picks

Check out what we’ve been reading this week – and let us know what you’ve been reading/writing in the comments!

There Will Be Blood: The Precarious Politics of Representing Abortion Onscreen by Gretchen Sisson at Bitch Media

#NotOurStonewall Calls Out the White-Washing of LGBT History by Anita Little at Ms. blog

The 22 Best Woman-Directed Films Streaming On Netflix by Matt Barone at Tribeca

Amiyah Scott Reported to Become First Trans ‘Real Housewives’ Cast Member by Sameer Rao at Colorlines

Mapping Brutality: How Last Year’s ‘Belle’ Perfectly Explains White America’s Response to Racism by Shannon M. Houston at Shadow and Act

European Film Industry Passes Gender Equality Declaration (UPDATED) by Inkoo Kang at Women and Hollywood

NBC Orders Tina Fey Sitcom, Two Other Female-Driven Comedies by Inkoo Kang at Women and Hollywood

Here’s What’s Missing From Straight Outta Compton: Me and the Other Women Dr. Dre Beat Up by Dee Barnes at Gawker

Dr. Dre Apologizes to the ‘Women I’ve Hurt’ by Joe Coscarelli at The New York Times

What have you been reading/writing this week? Tell us in the comments!

‘What Happened, Miss Simone?’: A High Priestess Speaks of Rebellion

Dispersed among the footage are archival glimpses into Nina’s journals, where we can read quick sketches of her own thoughts and feelings. And although the particular journal entries are chosen and shaped to fit the narrative Garbus is presenting, it only helps to give us a deeper understanding of the complexity of being a Black woman artist in racist America. Nothing has changed.

What Happpened, Miss Simone Netflix One Sheet — *What Happpened, Miss Simone* Netflix One Sheet

“How can you be an artist and not reflect the times?”

–Nina Simone

Director Liz Garbus could’ve stopped the documentary What Happened, Miss Simone? six minutes into its run time. Nina Simone steps onstage after a lengthy absence from show business. She takes a bow and then stops cold, stares at the audience for what seems like an eternity. Her eyes take in the scene but from my viewpoint, it looks like she is seeing beyond the crowd gathered before her. It’s like she can see the future, what’s coming up for Black people around the bend of time.

Her face is filled with long simmering rage, pain, insolent dark beauty, and unchecked defiance. Here stands an artist struggling to create timely, relevant, serious Black art in front of an overwhelmingly white audience outside of America. She remembers the feeling of isolation and hatred against her for being Black. Nose too big. Lips too full. Skin too dark. Daring to dream of becoming the first Black classical pianist. Denied entry into the Curtis Institute of Music after a short stint at Julliard. Then she sits down. Speaks a few words, and then starts her performance.

"I want to shake people up so bad that when they leave a nightclub where I'Ve performed, I just want them to be to pieces" — “I want to shake people up so bad that when they leave a nightclub where I’ve performed, I just want them to be to pieces”

This small moment, a few seconds really, told me all I needed to know. The documentary could’ve ended right there for me, the look on Simone’s face was that forceful and telling. I have seen that look before. In the eyes of my grandfather when I was little, in the eyes of aunts and uncles and older friends who have been through some shit in America. It’s the eyes of a weary soldier who knows the battle will be long and not finished soon enough.

What makes this documentary extraordinary is that we get to hear and see Nina Simone talk about her life herself. In her own words at the exact times she says them. This is not a typical documentary film where the artist is reflecting back, perhaps shading the truth a little because of time. Garbus uses film footage of Nina speaking, and we are allowed to be time travelers, visiting exact moments in Simone’s life as they are happening. Dispersed among the footage are archival glimpses into Nina’s journals, where we can read quick sketches of her own thoughts and feelings. And although the particular journal entries are chosen and shaped to fit the narrative Garbus is presenting, it only helps to give us a deeper understanding of the complexity of being a Black woman artist in racist America. Nothing has changed.

Nina Simone performing "Mississippi Goddam" in Selma during the historic March — Nina Simone performing “Mississippi Goddam” in Selma during the historic march.

What I enjoy about the documentary is that Nina is bold and Black with no filters, exactly as I imagined her to be. I started listening to her music with serious intent while in college after presenting a paper on protest music in a History for Teachers class. I wrote of folk singers, like Woody Guthrie, Joan Baez, Odetta, et al, moved into James Brown’s seminal “Say it Loud-I’m Black and I’m Proud” and “I Don’t Want Nobody to Give Me Nothing (Open Up the Door, I’ll Get It Myself)” and introduced my professor and classmates to Simone’s “Missississippi Goddam.” No one had heard of the song or her. I dug into music archives, listening, learning, trying to imagine being a singer of righteous indignation in a world that only wanted Diana Ross and the Supremes type pop music from Black women. I wondered what Nina Simone thought about her work going against the musical dictates of her time. In this documentary, Simone lays it out there for me. And it’s a heartbreaking motherfucker to watch. I had to pause several times in my viewing to catch my breath and process Simone’s words. A reporter interviews Simone late in her life and Nina laments that all she wanted to be was that cherished classical pianist, and tears swell up in her eyes. I had to stop and cry for her too.

The High Priestess adorning preparing for a show. — The High Priestess adorning hersel for a show.

What Happened, Miss Simone filled me with a lot of anger. I’m angry a lot these days I confess. Angry at the overt racism she lived through, angry at the depression and undiagnosed bipolar disorder she suffered through for so long, and angry at her husband/manager Andrew Stroud. Angry that American racial baggage is still with us as I write these words. The footage of Stroud talking about his life with Nina Simone is a goldmine to have, because we hear directly from the horse’s mouth his adverse reaction to her radicalization during the Civil Rights Movement. In one journal entry Simone wrote:

“I don’t mind going without food or sleep as long as I am doing something worthwhile to me such as this.”

As for her husband’s response to her involvement with the Civil Rights/Black Power Movement, she wrote:

“Andrew was noticeably cold and very removed from the whole affair.”

"Now I could sing to help my people, and that became the mainstay of my life.' Nina on the Civil Rights Movement. — “Now I could sing to help my people, and that became the mainstay of my life.” Nina on the Civil Rights Movement.

While Simone stands on stage shaping her music to reflect the times she lives in, hoping to inspire and encourage young people to recognize they were young, gifted, and Black, in a world that wanted to crush the life out of them, Stroud sits on film stating with disdain, “She wanted to align herself with the extreme terrorist militants who were influencing her.”

Here was a Black man who was calling young Black radicals fighting oppression terrorists. Black People. In America. Getting their asses bombed, beaten, and bloodied in the streets of a country they built. Are you out of your cotton-picking mind?

No wonder Nina Simone left Andrew Stroud.

It wasn’t enough that he was beating her, working her to death, and dominating her life. He was disrespecting the work that she found meaningful which was making music for her people. I found it condescending and – surprise- sexist, that he believed Simone had no agency of her own to think for herself. He really believed that others outside of her own thinking mind were influencing her decision to write and sing radical Black music, to take up the cause of the Black Panthers and to question the utility of non-violence in the face of violent white Americans. Theirs was a complicated, volatile relationship, and I could only feel deep sorrow for their daughter Lisa Simone Kelley who was caught in between them. Lisa discusses how she later suffered physical abuse at the hands of her own mother after her parents broke up. (Side note: One of my favorite performances of Simone’s “Four Women” includes Lisa Simone Kelly. Watch it here.)

Nina Simone's only child, Lisa Simone Kelly. — Nina Simone’s only child, singer Lisa Simone Kelly. She is also an executive producer of the documentary.

Simone explains that she was responsible for the livelihood of 19 people who worked for her. The pressure, stress, and physical/mental fatigue made her suicidal. What happens when your soul can’t do what it needs to do? When the thing that you love doing, slowly turns into the thing that you dread and eventually hate? It eats at you and often your mind turns on itself. Another journal entry during this crisis has Simone lamenting, “They don’t know that I’m dead and my ghost is holding on.”

The documentary showcases the highs and many lows, and it gives the viewer an opportunity to glimpse the genius Black woman that Simone was. Her music catalogue and this documentary are like a grimoire for those of us who need to reach into it to conjure up spells of protection and invocations of remembrance. I had to watch it four times to revel in her magic.

Nina free in Liberia — Simone in Liberia, Africa. The only time she felt free in her life according to Simone in the documentary.

Near the end of the documentary Nina reflects on how singing political songs hurt her career.

“There is no reason to sing those songs. Nothing is happening,” she says. She is so wrong. We need her songs now more than ever. We need that bold, bruising canon of radical Black music. We are calling on old Black Gods during this Black Lives Matter Movement (and the racist, terrorist attack on the Emanuel AME church in Charleston, South Carolina that ended nine lives, including that of a State Senator), and this High Priestess of Soul can show us the way.

I hear her influence in the recent works of D’Angelo (the Black Messiah album) and Kendrick Lamar (“Alright”) who are writing protest music for this generation. As writer/cultural critic Stanley Crouch says in the film, Nina Simone is the Patron Saint of the Rebellion. All praises due. The struggle continues. This documentary tells us that. Call upon her name. Nina. Simone.

Amen.

High Priestess of Soul and The Patron Saint of the Rebellion.

_________________________________

Staff writer Lisa Bolekaja co-hosts Hilliard Guess’ Screenwriters Rant Room, and her latest speculative fiction short story “Three Voices” can be read in Uncanny Magazine. She divides her time between California and Italy. She can be found on Twitter @LisaBolekaja. Follow at your own risk.

Bigelow’s Boys: Martial Masculinity in ‘The Hurt Locker’

The movie also, however, offers ideological and anthropological readings of masculinity which are, arguably, a little more complicated.

Bigelow appears to have a deep interest in, and respect for, martial masculinity.

Poster for The Hurt Locker — Poster for *The Hurt Locker*

Written by Rachael Johnson as part of our theme week on Masculinity.

A well-crafted tale about a U.S. bomb deactivation unit in Iraq, The Hurt Locker (2009) marks a continuation of Kathryn Bigelow’s interest in martial masculinity as well as an evolution of her directorial style. The 2010 Academy Award winner’s documentary look and feel effectively immerses the viewer in the hazardous lives of its warrior protagonists. Hand-held cameras, multiple cameras, zooms, and close-ups serve to create a charged atmosphere as they generate a marked intimacy and terrifying immediacy.

The Hurt Locker not only represents a revival of Bigelow’s interest in men in the military but also exemplifies her abiding fascination with those who seek to shatter the limits of human experience by dancing with death. Risk-takers, typified by the surfers of Point Break (1991), populate Bigelow’s films. The work of bomb technicians constitutes, of course, an especially intimate form of engagement with death. For the protagonist of the Hurt Locker, a certain Sgt. William James, these potentially fatal encounters are to be embraced–even enjoyed. Played by Jeremy Renner, James is a risk-taking maverick more at home in a war-zone than in his family home. He is made of very different stuff from the other men in his unit. His comrades include Sgt J.T. Sandborn (Anthony Mackie) a sensible team-player dedicated to protecting the men around him, and Owen Eldridge (Brian Geraghty), an anxious young specialist. Employing an episodic narrative structure, The Hurt Locker depicts the every day, death-defying activities of the warrior technicians as well as their downtime pursuits.

Bigelow shooting The Hurt Locker — Bigelow shooting *The Hurt Locker*

The Hurt Locker is primarily a character study of a man at war but its setting is Iraq and the audience should never forget this. Bizarrely, the movie itself, scripted by Mark Boal who was embedded with U.S. troops in Iraq, seems to want the viewer to do so. Indeed, there is an apparent absence of ideological discourse about the conflict throughout the entire film. As I have said before, there is, however, no such thing as apolitical cinema. The Iraq war was an illegal war and it is nothing less than a monumental stain on the conscience of the US and UK. There is no mention in The Hurt Locker that the unit is occupying a country and there is no critique of the Iraq War.

The Hurt Locker does depict the impact on civilian lives war has–we see civilians converted into human bombs–but the film only focuses on the deeds of the enemy other. Unlike Nick Broomfield’s Battle for Haditha (2007) or Brian de Palma’s Redacted (2007), The Hurt Locker does not address and examine American atrocities. Instead, the American soldier is uniformly portrayed as skillful, resilient, charismatic, and compassionate. The Hurt Locker does not offer an Iraqi perspective on the conflict. The enemy remains a constant silent, staring threat.

What of the views of The Hurt Locker’s director? Bigelow has stated simply: “This is a film told from the specific point of view of the US soldiers” (David Jenkins interview, Time Out, London). She also asks the viewer to strip away his or her particular political perspective and focus on the particular experiences of her protagonists. The Hurt Locker, she says, offers a sensorial take on the Iraq war: “This conflict has been so politicized. I thought this would be a way for people to meet at the point where one man in a 100-pound bomb suit is walking toward a suspicious amount of wires in a rubble pile and trying to operate very quickly to avoid his coordinates being called in for a sniper attack” (“Kathryn Bigelow and the Making of The Hurt Locker” Glen Whipp, L.A. Times, Dec 23. 2009). I recognize that filmmaking is a physical experience for Bigelow but this is a quite maddening, insular statement. Who is the director addressing? Who’s the audience? The choice to just tell the story purely from the perspective of American soldiers is plainly political (as is the choice to not point out the war itself was illegal or mention American atrocities). But let’s move on and analyze The Hurt Locker as an American story about a trio of US soldiers. If the film is intended to represent the American experience, it is instructive from an ideological perspective; it’s interesting work analyzing how American cultural products reflect and construct their national identity.

If we accept The Hurt Locker as a primarily American story, we also need to ask if it is an authentic expression of that. The audience is, it’s true, given an acrid taste of the characters’ feelings of alienation as they experience the daily threat of death, an indication of what it is like to be a member of an occupying army. The Hurt Locker does not sugarcoat the feelings and attitudes of its characters. “I hate this place,” an exhausted Sandborn announces with brutal simplicity. His comment rings true: Iraq is a dusty, dirty hell-hole for these men. The problem remains though that we are asked to sympathize solely with Sanborn and his comrades. The Hurt Locker can, thus, easily be read as a work of American narcissism and neo-imperialism. The movie also, however, offers ideological and anthropological readings of masculinity which are, arguably, a little more complicated.

Bigelow appears to have a deep interest in, and respect for, martial masculinity. In both The Hurt Locker and K-19: The Widowmaker (2002), she exhibits a respect for men willing to sacrifice their lives for others. Both the Russian navy of K-19 and American soldiers of The Hurt Locker are seen as heroic. In countless interviews for The Hurt Locker, Bigelow expressed a conventional respect for US troops in Iraq as well as admiration for the skills of bomb disposal experts. Does The Hurt Locker propagate the masculinist, militarist belief that martial masculinity is the most heroic form of masculinity? The characterization of James suggests that the picture is, perhaps, more inconsistent or complex.

Finishing his tour of duty with Sanborn and Eldridge, James returns to a damp America, to an ordinary, beautiful wife (Evangeline Lilly, it must be said, in an unrewarding, supporting role) and happy baby son. But it is not enough and James soon returns to Iraq. His commitment to the military is absolute. He puts war before romantic, marital, and paternal love. “War’s dirty little secret is that some men enjoy it,” Bigelow has contended (Kathryn Bigelow Interviews, Martin Keough ed.). It’s an anthropological and philosophical assertion rather than a political one. Considering the fact that (mostly) human males have been at it for thousands of years, there may be some truth to it. The Hurt Locker also opens with a quote by Chris Hedges expanding on the same theme: “The rush of battle is often a potent and lethal addiction for war is a drug.” Choosing to cite the left-wing writer and journalist Chris Hedges is a curious thing in itself, of course, in light of the movie’s refusal to confront the neo-con adventure that was the Iraq War.

Interestingly, Sgt. James is not wounded or scarred by war. It is Sandborn and Eldridge who suffer psychological and physical pain. James is not psychotic. Nor does he have post-traumatic stress disorder. He is, equally, not portrayed as a psychopath. Indeed, he is shown to be compassionate. He is willing to risk his life for others and loves his infant son. Perhaps he still loves his wife. James, however, needs to be in a war zone. He doesn’t know why or how he does it and it rings true that he doesn’t know: James has no inner life. His excessiveness masks nothingness. He also does not grow or change. His masculinity is fundamentally characterized as solipsistic. Although goal-oriented, he is a sterile being. Are Bigelow and Boal effectively normalizing the need for physically brave, unfinished human beings in their portrait of James? Whatever the case, they have created a zombie, a man for whom war is a necessity and pleasure. The Hurt Locker could, therefore, be said to invite more interesting, exploratory interpretations of martial masculinity.

Bigelow empathetically depicts the close camaraderie of male soldiers. She also, however, foregrounds their masculinity–their black humor and sexual jesting made up of dick jokes and mock play fighting and fucking–and her highlighting of their ways indicates that she is also commenting on their masculinity. At one point, a tear-streaked Sanborn admits, “I want a little boy.” What to make of this statement? Although it’s uttered after a traumatic incident, it’s such a schmaltzy, macho thing to say that you wonder if the character’s desire for a boy-child is being mocked as an example of narcissistic masculinity.

The Hurt Locker is a well-paced, visually and technically impressive film. Bigelow’s command of the camera is formidable. Its apolitical stance is, however, utterly fraudulent. I do believe Bigelow is genuinely more interested in anthropological interpretations of war and war as a sensory experience, but her experiential take on one of the defining historical events of our time is ultimately as ideologically charged as any other cultural product. Like many American war movies, it exhibits an insular, neo-imperialist world view. Its representation of martial masculinity is, perhaps, more ambiguous and ambivalent, and it invites more complex readings. The radical nothingness of the movie’s warrior protagonist’s inner core is revealed when his creators peel back his skin. The Hurt Locker, thus, offers an interesting, potentially subversive portrait of martial masculinity and masculinity per se with Sgt. William James.

Scavenging for Food and Art: Agnès Varda’s ‘The Gleaners and I’

Written by Rachael Johnson.

Belgian-born French filmmaker Agnès Varda is nothing less than a cinematic treasure. Her career spans decades and she has gained critical acclaim for both her fiction and documentary films. Varda was, of course, a pioneering figure of the New Wave and Left Bank. In 1962, she directed the ground-breaking, feminist classic Cléo de 5 à 7 (Cleo from 5 to 7). In 1985, her powerful, lyrical film about a young homeless woman, Sans Toi, Ni Loi (Vagabond), won the Golden Lion in Venice. This year Varda was awarded an honorary Palme d’Or at Cannes. She was the first woman to receive the tribute. At the beginning of the Millenium, Varda also directed the documentary Les Glaneurs et la Glaneuse (The Gleaners and I, 2000). It is one of the most fascinating ever made.

Poster for The Gleaners and I — Poster for *The Gleaners and I*

Varda begins her documentary by providing the historical, aesthetic and linguistic context of gleaning. We are given the Larousse dictionary definition: “To glean is to gather after the harvest.” The director tells us that it was a mostly female, collective activity in the old days. Today, both men and women glean, more often than not on their own. François Millet’s painting of les glaneuses provides the stimulating starting point for Varda’s creative, humanist journey. Marrying the past and the present, the documentary features interviews with men and women of rural and urban France in the new Millenium who practice various forms of gleaning. People gather everything from vegetables, fruit, and oysters to old dolls, fridges, and TVs. We encounter an impoverished single mother picking potatoes, and homeless young people dumpster-diving outside a supermarket. We also meet a chef scavenging for fruit because he prefers to know where his food comes from, as well as artist gleaners who scavenge for junk to use in their pieces. One of the most interesting people Varda meets is a man with a master’s degree who picks discarded fruit and bread from city markets in the morning and teaches French to immigrants from Mali and Senegal at night.

The Gleaners and I is not directly political but rather a thought-provoking, humanist study of people on the margins as well as those with reject capitalist norms of production and consumption. Issues of waste and sustainable development have become more and more critical, of course, since the film was made. Interestingly, in an effort to combat waste and food poverty, France introduced new laws this year banning supermarkets from dumping and destroying unsold food. They are now encouraged to give edible food to charities.

Millet's Les Glaneuses — Millet’s Les Glaneuses

The tools Varda employs are modest and made for the road. The handheld digital video camera she uses allows for both freedom and intimacy. She puts herself in front of the camera, filming, for example, her aged hands and thinning hair in candid close-up. Can you imagine a Hollywood director doing so? Varda rejects vanity and embraces vulnerability. Her presence is, also often playful. At the beginning of the film, she recreates the actions of the wheat-carrying glaneuse in Jules Breton’s painting of a solitary female gleaner, all the while fixing her eyes on the camera. Varda has the inquiring mind of all great artists. Her humanity and inventiveness are consistently on display in The Gleaners and I. The director seems entirely invested in the subject as well as entirely empathetic towards the people she meets. Varda indeed identifies herself as a glaneuse. She gleans both memories and images in her life and art. In truth, the documentary is not only a study of gleaning but also a beguiling self-portait of an artist as well as an imaginative self-reflexive study of the art and craft of filmmaking.

Villagers being interviewed about the tradition

At once poetic and politically aware, The Gleaners and I offers a captivating portrait of the practice of scavenging. Both very French and very human, it’s a life-affirming film about how people survive and create. There are no subjects more important. The documentary is one of Varda’s essential works, as well as one of the most interesting and finest of all time.

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.

Vintage Viewing: Mabel Normand, Slapstick Star in Charge

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

Mabel Normand was once known as “The Queen of Comedy” and “The Female Chaplin.” Her name was featured in the title of her shorts as their star attraction, which she soon parlayed into creative control as director. Normand mentored Charlie Chaplin as well as Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle, who went on to mentor Buster Keaton in his turn. Mabel is, therefore, a cornerstone in the development of the American slapstick auteur, but one whose role is regularly overlooked. Her indirect connection with scandals, from Hollywood shootings to Arbuckle’s sensational trial, was used to tarnish her image and spark campaigns to ban her films, exploited by what biographer Thomas Sherman calls “behind-the-scenes Hollywood power brokers seeking to reshape the existing order.” Because of her early death in 1930 from tuberculosis, Normand is now remembered mainly through portraits by male co-workers, Mack Sennett and Charlie Chaplin, rather than her own words.

“Say anything you like, but don’t say I love to work. That sounds like Mary Pickford, that prissy bitch. Just say I like to pinch babies and twist their legs. And get drunk.” – Mabel Normand (close friend of Mary Pickford)

Normand began her career as a model and bathing beauty. In 1910, she joined D.W. Griffith’s Biograph, where she met Mack Sennett and showed potential as a serious actress in The Squaw’s Love, The Mender of Nets and The Eternal Mother. At the rival Vitagraph, she was mentored in film comedy by the duo of Flora Finch and John Bunny, saying “every fiber in my body responded to Flora Finch’s celebrated comedies.” Comedienne Ruth Stonehouse had also been on the scene since 1907, but Normand would become the first director of this cinematic comedienne pack. As Mack Sennett’s lover, Normand left Biograph for Sennett’s Keystone Film Company in 1912. In 1914, Normand began to direct shorts and starred with her protégé, Charlie Chaplin, in Tillie’s Punctured Romance, the first feature-length comedy, a fat-shaming extravaganza that nevertheless ends with solidarity between its female rivals and the rejection of their manipulative suitor. Dissatisfied with simplistic slapstick, Mabel strove for emotional authenticity, believing “if you seem to have any idea that you’re playing at something, you won’t get across” and claiming “no director ever taught me a thing.” Such naturalistic theories visibly influence the later aesthetic of Chaplin and Arbuckle. As Normand had in Mabel At The Wheel, Tamara de Lempicka would later use the image of driving to craft an icon of the empowered New Woman.

"Self-portrait in the Green Bugatti" - 1925 — “Self-portrait in the Green Bugatti” – 1925

In 1915, Normand’s engagement to Sennett broke up over his affair, with Normand suffering major concussion when rival Mae Busch hit her with a vase. This marked the end of Normand’s directing career, after less than two years. A male director would surely be assessed for future promise, yet even Normand’s defender, Thomas Sherman, writes dismissively that “she never had pretensions to being a filmmaking pioneer.” Roscoe Arbuckle, however, highlighted Normand’s active collaboration, saying “Mabel alone is good for a dozen new suggestions in every picture” (see Fatty and Mabel Adrift). Of Chaplin, Normand said, “We reciprocated. I would direct Charlie in his scenes, and he would direct me in mine. We worked together in developing the comedy action, taking a basic idea and constantly adding new gags.”

More than a collaborator, Normand’s biography contradicts claims of her limited ambition. Spurred to leave Keystone in 1916 by difficult relations with Mack Sennett, Sennett lured her back by offering her her own studio. The fact that Normand swallowed her pride, for the sake of her own studio, surely indicates how important creative control was to her. She dismissed three directors before handpicking F. Richard Jones to craft her star vehicle, tomboy Cinderella story Mickey, from a scenario by Anita “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes“ Loos. Normand was involved in every aspect of production. The release of Mickey was shelved for over a year, which Sennett blamed on lukewarm responses from distributors, pushing Normand to sign a five-year contract with Samuel Goldwyn. Once released, Mabel Normand’s Mickey became the highest grossing film of 1918, only too late to save her studio.

Normand with Cheyenne co-star and friend, Minnie Devereaux

Mabel Normand was noted for her generosity in refraining from upstaging other performers, and for her insistence on a slapstick equality in which she took a pie to the face as often as she threw one, in shorts like That Ragtime Band. She was the original “girl tied to the train tracks” in Barney Oldfield’s Race For A Life, but rescued her love interest on screen as often as she was rescued. Normand’s slapstick should be appreciated for its pioneering stunt-work as much as comedy. Mabel’s stunts included: leading a lion on a string, piloting a plane, diving off a cliff into a river, wrestling a tame bear, riding a horse bareback, jumping off a second story roof, dangling from a third story roof, being thrown from a moving vehicle, being dragged through mud on a rope, brick-throwing fights, and driving speeding race cars.

Mabel’s Strange Predicament – 1914

“I had nobody to tell me what to do. Dramatic actresses had the stage to fall back on, the sure-fire hits of theatrical history in pose and facial expression; but I had to do something that nobody had ever done before.” – Mabel Normand (showing pretensions to being a filmmaking pioneer)

The film that developed Chaplin’s Little Tramp persona, Mabel’s Strange Predicament, begins like later Chaplin films, with the pathos of the disheveled Tramp’s rejection by Mabel’s hard-hearted snob. The focus then shifts to Mabel’s own predicament, locked out of her room in pajamas and falling prey to farcically escalating sexual misunderstandings. Pajamas were considered so provocative that the film was banned in Sweden, explaining Mabel’s panic. Mabel’s own “sweetheart” almost strangles her after finding her under his friend’s bed (hiding from Chaplin’s persistent advances). Her sweetheart’s married friend reveals willingness to harass Mabel, as soon as the two are alone. A wedge is thereby driven between Mabel and Alice Davenport, who sees Mabel as sexual competition. In all this, Chaplin is utterly useless, blindly pressing his own suit. Only Mabel’s dog offers unconditional friendship. This kinship with animals would fuel many set-pieces in Mickey. Despite the film’s flippancy and happy ending, the overall impression is of a Mabel constantly stifled by the possessiveness of others.

By shifting the focus from Chaplin’s scorned heart to Mabel’s predicament, our interpretation of both characters shifts, too. Mabel begins the film as the snooty girl, but ends as the victim of exhausting demands on her affection. Conversely, Chaplin begins sympathetically as the archetypal Tramp – a whimsically drunken, lovelorn underdog – but ends as an oblivious and entitled sex pest. Most accounts agree that Chaplin was infatuated with Normand, fueling tension with Sennett. In Mabel’s Strange Predicament, we understand her beauty as a nuisance and hindrance to Mabel’s liberation, not a mere motivator for men. Perhaps the resulting unflattering impression of Chaplin explains the film’s top-rated IMDb review by Michael DeZubiria, calling it “a disappointment for Chaplin fans, but it is a curiosity piece to see what results when he works under a different, and far less talented, director.” A Cinema History, however, spotlights the skill of the “far less talented” 20-year-old Normand’s dynamic editing, keeping a tight pace with cross-cutting and short duration shots.

Suggested Soundtrack: TLC, “No Scrubz”

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I5WtaPhTMQo”]

Mabel At The Wheel – 1914

“I hated to be simply a means by which someone else was creating something.” – Mabel Normand (showing pretensions to being an auteur)

Mabel At The Wheel showcases Normand’s daring as a stuntwoman, brawling, tumbling from moving vehicles into mud, and racing cars. Its dynamic climax also shows her mastery of parallel editing, rapidly cutting between simultaneous events to build tension, a hallmark of her original mentor, D.W. Griffith. Mabel at the Wheel is the film where tensions with Chaplin exploded, with Sennett restrained from firing him only by distributors clamoring for more Chaplin pictures. IMDb’s trivia suggests that this is owing to Mabel being “quick to dismiss [Chaplin’s] own ideas for more refined comic business,” though her slapstick is visibly subtler and more naturalistic than Chaplin’s at this point. As Mabel at the Wheel itself depicts, when men fight over Mabel, it’s always Mabel who gets hit. Chaplin’s autobiography, My Life In Pictures, and Thomas Sherman both suggest the real problem was Chaplin’s inability to “countenance this girl, years younger than himself, directing him in his films,” despite Normand being his mentor in cinema. The jealous saboteur and shrieking bully that Chaplin plays in Mabel At The Wheel is therefore interesting, not only for contrasting with his later self-authored image, but for reflecting his reported behavior on set.

Chaplin never found a comic partnership to rival Mabel’s with Arbuckle, Margaret Dumont’s with Groucho Marx, Flora Finch’s with John Bunny, Lucille Ball’s with Vivian Vance or Stan Laurel’s with Oliver Hardy. He never again found, or perhaps permitted, a co-star with Mabel’s ability to rival both his physical daring and his emotional range, despite the undeniable spark this gives their interplay. A “Battle of the Sexes” angle, that debates whether Chaplin or Normand is more talented, surely misses the point: couldn’t both have grown to their fullest potential through equal collaboration? Wouldn’t Chaplin have sparked off madcap Mabel, as her naturalist theories inspired the developing emotional depth of his comedy? Wouldn’t Mabel, who had never performed comedy for a live audience, have developed discipline and sharper timing by learning from Chaplin’s years of vaudeville experience? Chaplin’s insecurity is not solely responsible for torpedoing Normand’s directing career, but his support could certainly have saved it.

Suggested Soundtrack: Lady Gaga, “Bad Romance”

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yuDqb1mp4oo”]

Mabel’s Blunder – 1914

“To make a farce heroine more than a mere doll, you must think out the situation yourself and, above all, you must pay great attention to every little detail in the scene. The little bits of business that seem insignificant are what make good comedy“ – Mabel Normand

Mabel’s Blunder, written and directed by Normand, suffers from Mabel’s lack of a really talented co-star, but further develops themes from her earlier films. As Chaplin does in Mabel’s Strange Predicament, Mabel’s boss and future father-in-law finds himself sexually harassing a man who has been substituted for Mabel, making male viewers imagine themselves as the harassed woman. Mabel’s forced smile, while harassed by her boss, pointedly contrasts with her privately expressed disgust. Normand again symbolizes her independence in Mabel’s Blunder by taking the wheel, posing as a chauffeur to spy on her cheating fiancé. Mistaken for a man, Mabel is attacked by a jealous suitor for talking to another woman, once more exploring how jealousy suffocates female freedom. Her cheating fiancé applauds the jealous suitor, exposing his double standards. The pointedness of this gender commentary is undermined, however, by a traditional happy ending in which the “other woman” is harmlessly revealed as the fiancé’s sister, while the implications of his own father’s harassing Mabel are never really confronted. All in all, Mabel’s gender reversals are not as biting as Alice Guy’s, but the two have a comparable comic perspective, a distinctive voice that was suppressed by the exclusion of female filmmakers.

Suggested Soundtrack: Yoko Ono, “What a Bastard the World Is”

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While Lois Weber and Mabel Normand were helping to shape Hollywood’s cinematic style, back in Alice Guy’s homeland, France, Germaine Dulac was busily birthing experimental film and auteur theory. Next month’s Vintage Viewing: Germaine Dulac, Surrealist Theorist. Stay tuned!

Brigit McCone performs stand-up and cabaret, writes and directs short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and slapping sticks.