There was a mention of “positive racism… which is still racism” in class yesterday. One of the most complicated examples of that is Fred Astaire’s tribute to dancer Bill Robinson in the “Bojangles of Harlem” number in the film Swing Time (1936). The entire musical sequence is supposed to be a show of love for Robinson but everything about the scene is rooted in caricatures, seen most egregiously when Astaire appears onstage in blackface and wearing clothes intended to evoke Harlem. Alastair Macaulay wrote about the number in the New York Times a few years back and, in judging form versus content, described the footwork as “rhythmically imaginative.” This is certainly true in the second half of the scene, which involves shadows projected onto the wall behind Astaire. But how can anyone, even a great fan of Astaire as a performer, feel comfortable watching him perform black identity? He is black only for as long as the number lasts, and afterwards he can wash the makeup off, removing the mask – his masquerade – of blackness. Swing Time is considered one of Astaire’s finest films; as a child who grew up with a sizable collection of 1930s-60s musicals on VHS, I have been familiar with (and a fan of) Swing Time for almost my entire life and I always loved it for the inoffensive songs and dances (“Pick Yourself Up,” “The Way You Look Tonight,” “A Fine Romance,” the intimate two-person spectacle of “Never Gonna Dance”). It wasn’t until I was older that I realized how problematic “Bojangles of Harlem” was and still is.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J4UUkui545I

The “Bojangles” problem also makes me think more critically about “Shine on Your Shoes” in The Band Wagon (1953), in which Astaire shares the dance space with Leroy Daniels, who got the role because he actually was a shoe shiner in real life. Daniels’ character can only be present in the space because he is performing a service for a white character. Not only that, Daniels has to do what was so often asked of black film characters: he has to act pleased to serve Astaire. (By the end of the scene Daniels is thoroughly delighted to have the opportunity to brush the dust off Astaire’s clothes.) Daniels was not even billed onscreen for his efforts, identifiable only as “Arcade Shoeshine Man” among the film’s list of uncredited characters and bit parts on the IMDb. MGM lets him be Astaire’s onscreen partner, but at the same time those Powers That Be deny Daniels an equal amount of credit for his contribution to the number.

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Mulvey talks of the active/male and the passive/female – with the former looking at the female in a couple of different ways. He either fetishes the female and elevates her to the status of an icon or a pin-up. Or he is a voyeur who takes on the role of judging/punishing/rescuing her. In all of this, the female is passive; and her chief quality is the being looked at-ness.

We as female members of the audience are said to exercise a choice – between identifying with the male gaze, or with the female being looked at-ness. In fact drawing from psychoanalytic theory, it is suggested that we oscillate between these 2 points of view.

I like the idea that we move from 1 POV to the other, but not as it is described by Mulvey. Personally, I am not sure that I identify with the male POV – the male gaze – when the masculine in me is ascendant. For me, it is an uncomfortable POV, even abhorrent on occasion: the voyeurism, the aggression, all of it.

Even more objectionable is the POV of the female being looked at. My response to the idea of a man rescuing/completing me can extend anywhere on the continuum from amusement to annoyance. Then again I can have a visceral reaction to popular notions of romance. Think of Michelle Pfeiffer’s glowing face in Up Close and Personal, with the Celine Dion track in the background: “I am everything I am because you loved me!”

What makes sense to me is that we all have masculine and feminine tendencies that we move between. 1 of which maybe the overriding tendency for some of us. For others, it maybe that we are the stuff of movement, without a value judgment associated with either POV? The goal is to integrate the 2, and be more in touch with the masculine and the feminine in us. Rather than view the world in dichotomies.

I am all for an “androgynist” film theory!

The lack of queer  theorization within the Doane and Mulvey pieces this week was disappointing. I realize they were already stepping in uncharted territory by looking closely at how women watch films, so diving into ideas of queer readings was not on their radar. But in their examinations of how women can alter the viewing practices that were so prevalent in the classic Hollywood era, for members of the queer female audience, lining up subjectivity in unexpected places is a stimulating alternative. One of my favorite films from the Hollywood studio era is Stage Door (1937). Directed by Gregory La Cava and starring an almost exclusive female cast including Katharine Hepburn, Ginger Rogers, Lucille Ball and Eve Arden among many others, this film for me is one of those exceptions to the rule of looking when it comes to the women within the film as well as those watching. The story revolves around aspiring actresses in New York who live together in a theatrical boarding house. The blue-blooded Hepburn enters into the scene and shakes things up with her upper class aura, and has a particular effect on the brassy Ginger Rogers. For me, their narrative resembles the boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl back scenario that we’ve seen time and time again but this time enacted between two young women. They clash immensely in the beginning of the film but soon develop an affection for one another, largely because they are roommates in the house. And the penultimate scene which acts as a sort of climax, is the two of them embracing in a medium close-up, a very familiar sight.

There is little to no talk of men, and the only real prominent male character is a theater producer who seduces young actresses by promising them roles. In fact, when Hepburn deals with him she plays his game right along with him (masquerading one might say) in order to get the part. Her dabbling into heteronormative behavior is simply a tactic to get ahead, there is absolutely no emotional attachment involved.

The first meeting between Rogers and Hepburn is telling in the way that it is framed. La Cava uses the standard shot-reverse-shot in this scene, but instead of looks exchanged by a man and a woman, two women are given ample opportunity to look each other up and down, in the privacy of their own room to boot. Below is that clip, beginning at 1:55. Their witty banter as well as Rogers’ appearance in her bathrobe bring to mind many of the “meet-cute” moments that occur in numerous romantic comedies of the time. So, right off the bat there is a connection that the diagesis creates for these two women using techniques that usually connect a man and a woman.

http://www.tcm.com/mediaroom/video/304385/Stage-Door-Movie-Clip-Miss-Randall-s-Baggage.html

There are many fascinating aspects of Stage Door that feed into a queer reading of the film including Hepburn herself as a lesbian icon, the homosocial environment of the all-female boarding house, the lack of any genuine heterosexual narrative which was extremely rare at that time, as well as intimate moments between women when they share clothes or help one another get undressed after a long night out. But one of the most memorable examples involves Hepburn’s performance of heteronormativity. She comes from a very well off family and has decided to buck the trend of marrying a successful businessman in favor of moving into a very crowded house with a bunch of women. She does land a lead role in a Broadway play, though at the expense of one of the other housemates who had been vying for that same part. The housemate in question, Kay, eventually commits suicide because of the hopelessness she feels in her current situation. This role was to be her big break, and it was taken away from her. When we first see Hepburn at rehearsal attempting to feel a connection to the play, she is flat, lifeless and stiff. In the play’s scene, she is supposed to be mourning the loss of her male lover, but she is failing miserably. However, on opening night, the same night that Kay takes her own life, Hepburn performs flawlessly. Her performance is raw and heartfelt and affects everyone watching (including Rogers.) Importantly however her mind is not on this fictional male lover, but on the female friend whom she has just lost. Additionally, Rogers confronted her in her dressing room prior to the curtain going up and accused her of causing Kay’s death. So in Hepburn’s mind and emotions, she experiences the loss of her friend Kay as well as Rogers, her “special” friend. Below is the result of those feelings, a touching performance with her beloved friend Rogers looking on intently.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WNtz0r5pmXo

Following this scene, Rogers rushes back into the dressing room and runs into Hepburn’s arms, signifying a truce and a reunification.

With that reconnection, like similar embraces in countless romantic movies, the film is able to end.

When I watch this movie, it is a touching story of female love mixed with a lot of wonderful and intelligent humor. Most likely that was not the intention of the filmmakers or the actresses playing these roles, but in my capacity as a female, queer viewer decide to read against the grain in order to derive pleasure from the text, rather than following the strict misogynist rules of spectatorship and subjectivity that dominated at the time.

In the late 1950s, Anthony Perkins (or “Tony Perkins,” as the teen magazines called him) capitalized on his boy-next-door image by recording a few jazz-pop albums. Listening to those recordings (besides the song posted above, I’m also partial to “But Beautiful” and “I Remember You”), I find the difference in Perkins’ pre-Psycho and post-Psycho careers all the more fascinating. Even more interesting is the movie of his that came out mere months before Psycho, a comedy called Tall Story in which Perkins plays a college basketball player wooing fellow student Jane Fonda (in her film debut).

On occasion I hear my classmates talk about whether they “buy” a certain storyline or character in a film. In this instance, can we buy Perkins as a goofy, lovesick college boy since we’ve seen Psycho and perhaps some of his other unsettling performances? (See: Five Miles to Midnight, Pretty Poison, Psycho II/III/IV, etc.) As Marion Crane says in Psycho, “sometimes just one time can be enough,” and that was certainly true in Perkins’ case when you see how he was typecast. Since I spent my teenage years as a sort of aficionado of his movies and I heard some classmates ask what other roles Perkins did in his career, I can recommend a few in particular: the Civil War drama Friendly Persuasion (1956), for which Perkins got an Oscar nomination for playing Gary Cooper’s son; Fear Strikes Out (1957), the true-life story of a baseball player battling bipolar disorder; a pair of romantic dramas from the early 60s, Goodbye Again (1961) with Ingrid Bergman and Phaedra (1962) with Melina Mercouri; and, as was mentioned in class, the Orson Welles film The Trial (1962).

If I could make a case for Anthony Perkins as an auteur of acting, I would say that he should be lauded for making the most of lighthearted romantic comedy leads, various kinds of characters in period pieces of different genres, the psychological depths he had to plumb for Psycho, then all the bad retreads of the Norman Bates character that came afterward. And, to bring the post full circle, there was the Broadway musical Perkins sang in, Greenwillow, which he was rehearsing in New York in between shooting scenes for Psycho. (A stand-in played “Mrs. Bates” during the shower sequence.) The song “Never Will I Marry” might not be a classic of the American stage, but it’s to Perkins’ credit that he makes it so affecting, as you can see in this TV performance from 1985.

I am still trying to wrap my head around the idea “it is so bad it is good” – a comment that was made in connection with the film Showgirls and/or the director Paul Verhoeven.I certainly get the idea of not looking at the usual suspects when it comes to the auteur theory – where’s the challenge in that – and so looking at a Verhoeven. But I had a lot of difficulty stomaching the film. It was quite unbelievable that this film would have been made – and even more so that it made the amount of money on home viewing, in its afterlife.

Maybe I am at a disadvantage because I have not seem enough of the director’s films to have a good sense of his filmography, and so be able to appreciate his POV, his presentation, and his style. I can only say that I dislike the 2 American films of his I have seen fully – Basic Instinct and for sure Showgirls. I did catch his Dutch film – Black Book – that he made when he returned to filmmaking in this native Holland,. It was not a bad film, but it was not a particularly good one either. One among many, many WWII films is how I remember it.

I found though that Colleen’s post gave me pause – when she talked of the dichotomy in his portrayal of women. It is possible as she suggests that we cannot make sense of how he sees them, or what he thinks they are/should be about. But this still does not take away from my issue: the exploitativeness in his portrayal. And more importantly, just how bad his films are. Or to be specific, how bad Showgirls is – the story, the script, the acting, all of it!

Christian Metz’s observations on voyeurism and fetishism within cinema were challenging, but fascinating to read. When he talks about theater or burlesque, Metz distinguishes voyeurism as having an inherent agreement on the part of the object or performer to be seen and desired by the spectator since they both exist in the same place at the same time. For film however, that consent is absent because the object or “actor was present when the spectator was not (=shooting), and the spectator is present when the actor is no longer (=projection).” (Metz, 704) The film actor has no opportunity to peer back at the spectators when taking a final bow, like those involved in theater or striptease have. Rarely even does the film actor have the opportunity to look directly into the camera which would create the illusion of peering back at the viewer. Instead, the moviegoer is given the opportunity to look without the threat of being discovered by the object/actor. Additionally, the object/actor, though only a trace or simulacrum of the actor, exists solely in that particular role. There is no final bow that whisks away the illusion of character. The credits roll and the spectator leaves the theater with the experience of peering into the life of a stranger, perhaps thrillingly without their consent. In addition, that important distance between his body and the object he desires onscreen remains intact. On top of that, he can repeat this experience night after night and the performance will never change. The object will satisfy his desire with the same amount of success, contrary to a theatrical performance that can change from night to night or even be recast midway through the show’s run. Because of these assurances, it is no surprise that the fetishization of the cinematic experience can occur. The objects and people on the screen “put a fullness in place of a lack, but in doing so [they] also affirm that lack.” (707)

Delving into Verhoeven’s filmography quickly transformed from feelings of dread to enjoyment. The idea of spending hours with the likes of Schwarzenegger and other men of his ilk as well as the overindulgence in gore and women’s naked bodies was not entirely enticing. However, I quickly fell under his spell. Robocop was the most surprising in its delightful takedown of corporate-owned America through the sympathetic cyborg and his spunky female sidekick. In fact, Verhoeven’s depictions of women are the most fascinating aspects of his films for me in all their frustrations as well as elations. Women always play a key and active role in these films, which is not always common in the action adventure tales. What is so fascinating is the play between exploitation and elevation. On the one hand, the viewer sees the breasts (and often much more) of just about every featured actress in his films. I am not of the mind that nudity should be avoided at all costs, but one could see some Girls Gone Wild comparisons in several of his film sequences, especially those involving a communal shower scene.  On the other hand, these same women are intelligent, witty, strong, brave, inventive and often save the leading man’s life at some point in the proceedings.   This dichotomy is even apparent in an early Dutch film of his that I was able to scour up, Katie Tippell (1975). Surprisingly, there are many echoes of Katie’s story in Nomi’s sordid tale. This is a story of a poor but strong-willed young woman who has just moved to Amsterdam with her parents and siblings who hope to find a better life. Tippell’s story is a depressing one rife with prostitution, rape, familial problems, poverty and ill health. In the end, she inadvertently finds her place with a wealthy young man and lives happily ever after, though Verhoeven gives us no view of that part of her life (this is based on a true story). Katie’s body is continually used, abused and discarded. There is a brutal rape scene (similar to the extraordinarily violent one in Showgirls) where Katie is attacked by her boss. She obviously does not return to that job so she is forced into prostitution by her mother in order to help support the family. An artist spots her and asks her to pose for a painting (happily without any ulterior motive) and it is through him and his friends that she begins to escape her hard life.

So, here in an early film is another example of Verhoeven’s knack for simultaneously exploiting and heralding a young woman. We all saw Nomi clawing her way to the top despite huge hurdles, defending her friend’s honor in beating up her vicious rapist, having some amount of morality in refusing to pimp herself out to an investor, etc. However, in between all these acts of nobility or courage she was naked about 80% of the time exploiting her sexuality for money and proving to be less than intelligent. Similarly, Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct uses her sexuality to manipulate everyone she encounters, male or female. However, she is in complete control of her own exploitation. And on another note, Denise Richards in Starship Troopers is a highly skilled pilot who often saves her fellow “civilians” but she does so with vapidity and iciness. She is a shell of a person. What exactly is Verhoeven’s opinions of these women? It seems there is some attempt to demonstrate the ways that these women and women in general are constantly being taken advantage of in one form or another, as well as constantly being underestimated. However, the only solution Verhoeven seems to offer is for them to sexually exploit themselves or to resort to violence. Perhaps in the end, it’s as simple as sex and violence sells movie tickets, who knows. But there is something very intriguing going on in Verhoeven’s choices when it comes to his leading ladies.

And as a quick aside, Nomi in the form of Elizabeth Berkley is the hardest for me to take because it seems that he was intentionally directing her to act badly – her performance is so consistently frenetic and manic that I cannot imagine it was not intentional on his part. I would love to hear her story on how she and Verhoeven collaborated.

Foucault argues that the difference between discourse and science is that in discourse a “proposition’s theoretical validity” is defined in relation to the work of the founders whereas with scientific theories its validity is defined in relation to what physics or cosmology actually is (116). So, the founders of discursive theories (Freud, Lacan) originate and the founders of scientific theories (Galileo, Newton) discover. It may be interesting to think about this scientific aspect: for Foucault it is distinct from discourse and scientific theorists are not authors (since authors have to put forth ideas that can be studied, discussed, contradicted, expanded, etc. forever). But what about those filmmakers that invented new techniques and technology? Could they be considered authors or did they simply discover a scientific fact that already existed? I think in general technological innovations can contribute to a director’s position as auteur–for example, Orson Welles’ development (although not discovery of) deep focus in Citizen Kane. To what extent can the invention or discovery of technological innovations in cinema contribute to auteurism?