Thank you Twitterverse,
you keep me company through
you act and direct as if
to capture my soul.
When you are trapped with
a great film, there is nothing
Thank you Twitterverse,
you keep me company through
you act and direct as if
to capture my soul.
When you are trapped with
a great film, there is nothing
I just had the privilege of seeing The More Loving One at the New York International Fringe Festival, a new comedy-drama about two couples in their twenties facing moments of decision, points of minor (and some more major) crisis. It was moving, hilarious, and a tribute to what blackbox theatre can be.
But more rewarding still was the discussion with my father that followed — his question when he walked out was whether the play, or theatre in general, is “authentic”, by which he basically meant whether it is relevant to lived experience. We ended up having a rather heated discussion, (probably) mostly because I am an amateur philosopher and devotee of semantic game-playing and feel strangely fulfilled (?) by delving as deeply as possible into the very questionable, nearly erasable nature of Truth and Meaning, usually to the point of Nihilism, at which juncture one can have the catharsis of re-emerging into the real world.
Is theatre relevant to the real world? If life is art, or even something sort of close to it, then of course the lived experience of attending the play, or acting in it, is of course “authentic”. Are the situations in a play “truth”? No, not on a philosophy-of-language-truth-evaluable-statements level, not really, and no, not on a this-is-totally-real-time-and-the-events-of-this-play-are transpiring-in-the-quote-unquote-real-world, not really. But I think that the emotions, the humanist elements of any dramatic interaction, are entirely “authentic”. Not everyone will relate to them in the same way — for example, the struggles of the characters in their mid-twenties in The More Loving One might not speak as directly to my father as they do to me, newly 21 and thinking constantly about what it means to be an artist and a woman and a one half of a relationship.
But this quote from Preston Martin, one of the four actors in the play, in response to the question “Why theatre?” speaks exactly to what I think is the crux of theatre’s authenticity for the human experience:
“Vulnerability. Human vulnerability is a gift that we constantly try to hide, and the theater is the place we go to watch that vulnerability unveil itself. Theater teaches us through reflection that emotion, both positive and negative, is what makes day to day life mean more than waking up, having a day, and going back to sleep. I love being on both sides of it, audience and artist.”
I can’t speak for the whole of humanity, but I can speak for myself and people I think I know well, like my father — and vulnerability is universal, at least to my universe. When a piece of theatre and a cast of actors such as those in the show we saw tonight can tap into this, authenticity is virtually guaranteed.
So if you’re in New York right now, do your self a favor and get tickets for this show before the last three performances are over. Be vulnerable. And then grab your favorite parents and have a rousing discussion about truth and meaning.
So, I am SUPER stoked for back-to-school week, and not just because I get to see everyone at Carleton again, and start taking amazing classes, and ride circles around Northfield to my hearts content — my newest reason for anticipation of said week is that my friend and movie-blogging role-model Andreas is hosting the first every Blogathon at Pussy Goes Grrr, and everybody should take part! Basically, between September 12-16, you get to write about two or more movies and somehow…juxtapose them…and be part of an awesome week of cinephilia. Andreas does a better job of explaining the rules, er, guidelines, er…just go here. All the cool kids will be there. *dashes off to brainstorm blog ideas…*
…I also saw Barbara Hammer outside of the IFC screening of her new documentary Maya Deren’s Sink. Oh yeah, and I’ve seen Maya Deren’s sink. Like, the actual artifact. And I have a few of Joseph Cornell‘s paperclips. (AND HAVE I MENTIONED THAT I’VE PEELED ASPARAGUS WITH ROBERT BEAVERS? Cause yeah. That too. And gotten tipsy with P. Adams Sitney.)
But seriously. The extent to which I can name-drop in the small but self-loving world of experimental and avant-garde cinema seems astounding to me, and maybe to a handful of people who I hope are reading this blog, but it probably won’t get me far in the “real world” — whatever that might be.
I would, however, like to take a moment to acknowledge the kind of eerie fact that in the last week or so, since having the great honor of returning some film reels from Anthology to famed feminist (and filmmaker) Ms. Millett and her partner, Sophie Keir, the search terms for The Semioptician have included hits for three distinct Kate Millett-related searches, two of which include my name as well. Which, given that I hadn’t yet blogged about this lucky encounter, was at first rather disconcerting. It seemed as if WordPress or some unseen search-bot was predicting my blogging predilections.
Then of course I remembered that I had, in fact, tweeted about it. And Facebook-chatted my friend Rebekah with a rather enigmatic “also do you know who Kate Millett is??” In light of these remembrances, it’s no longer totally unprecendented that I had a strange deja-vu-ish moment of looking at my blog stats (and yes, I do that, sucker for numbers and ego boosts that I am…) and wondering — did I mysteriously write a blog post that I’d been thinking about writing and then completely forget that I had…? So thank you, whoever (all three of you?) searched for Kate Millett and found your way here. It made my (several) (unheimlich) day(s).
I was feeling lazy this afternoon, so I decided to watch a copy of The Oh! in Ohio that I had just checked out from my local Brooklyn Public Library. I never saw this movie when it came out in 2006, and apparently not many people did, since it tanked in the box office and got panned pretty much all around. The basic premise, for anyone who hasn’t seen it, which might be all two of you, faithful readers: Parker Posey as an advertising ice queen unable to achieve orgasm, and Paul Rudd as her gone-to-seed high school bio teacher husband, who feels stripped of his manhood by his wife’s “sexual dysfunction” and rediscovers his former glory by taking up with his miraculously transformed pothead-to-Harvard-headed student, played by Mischa Barton. Oh, and Danny deVito as “Wayne the Pool Guy”.
As a feminist and a filmperson, I had a lot of initial misgivings about the extremes that this film (incidentally, directed and written by two men) employs in addressing what is basically the issue of female sexuality. I can make some allowances for the fact that it is meant to be a comedy, and it is operating within a discourse of the sex comedy which is typically masculinist, centered on the male orgasm, or if not purely masculinist, quite usually heteronormist. The film tries, I think rather valiantly, to reverse these ideologies by centering the plot (which most critics complain does not exist, like Posey’s elusive O…) on the issue of female pleasure, and by including a brief daliance on Poey’s part with a gorgeous femme-y lesbian sex toy shop employee played by Heather Graham, to round out the not-totally-heteronormaative requirement. But the problem is that the be-all and end-all of sex (and a fulfilling life, apparently) is still the orgasm. Perhaps this is endemic to the sex comedy as a genre, but the persistence of this narrow-minded view of sexuality and of how we define sex is only ever going to uphold the structures of patriarchy and misogyny and the imbedded cultural results of sexual difference that continue to limit the potential of women. Vibrators are demonized as being addictive and replacing the male sex partner and disrupting important business deals, and lesbian sexual relations are represented as ineffective. Ultimately, Posey does discover her O with a man, but the film makes this the “solution” to her problems — the man himself. Uh-oh.
There also seems to be a confusion of love and sex, itself perhaps the ultimate problem with the entire genre of the sex comedy — how is it that a marriage of twelve years could really dissolve so easily over issues in the bedroom? Are we to assume that the people in these relationships do not ever do the Times crossword together on Sundays, or play games of tag in Ikea, or other non-sexual things that healthy couples might at any moment all across the country be doing?
But still — I applaud the creative team (including mostly female producers) for trying. The way to make films that address female sexuality, in an industry and a discourse so heavily male-dominated, is to begin by making some that fail. In this case, any publicity may be good publicity, for the subject of female pleasure, if only for the arguments or conversations the film and its plot my inspire. But this gets to what scares me the most about the whole situation — the critical response. It has a 22% rating on Rotten Tomatoes, and most of the critics “cleverly” express their distaste with jokey jabs about the film failing to satisfy or never reaching climax, rejecting it within the terms of a failed sex comedy, which only serves to reinforce the already problematic privileging of the orgasm above all else. Did I mention that practically all of these reviews were written by men? Many of the same men who loved 2005’s The 40-Year-Old Virgin, which is in essence a version of The Oh! in Ohio with a male protagonist, enough to give it an overall 85% rating on Rotten Tomatoes. Why do we find humor about Steve Carrell finally achieving pleasure totally palatable and endearing, but Parker Posey finally getting off in a heteronormist, sexist world is no dice?
The bottom line is that sexism persists, imbedded or otherwise, in the film industry and on the screen and in the real world. And it’s hard to see how a mainstream sex comedy is going to change this, as long as what we’re trying to change is the mainstream — but we have to keep trying. And for the record, from the standpoint of pure entertainment value, I thoroughly enjoyed watching The Oh! in Ohio.
For the past three weeks, the vast majority of my time has been devoted to shooting Tick Out of Time, the independent feature film that several of my fellow Carls have made happen this summer – this in itself a pretty amazing feat. On July 17th the camera began speeding on the first take, and so many crazy days and nights of extreme heat and lost sleep later, we completed the martini shot, as they call it, in the late evening on Thursday, August 4th. Wrapped.
Thus, an entire feature film has been captured on an endless series of re-formatted CF cards, and I was privileged enough to be a part of it – or rather, two feature films. The first, the intended narrative fiction of Tick Out of Time, the second my own documentary-narrative interpretation of the process. I originally came on board with the project, at the passing suggesting of the illustrious John Schott in early June, as the film’s documentarian. The idea was that I would basically hang around and take stills and some footage of the process – auditions, discussions between the three members of the creative team, work meetings, location scouting, rehearsals, all the aspects of pre-production, production, and post-production, with a sort of vague intention of creating a documentary film, or at least a making-of movie. (I also shot and edited this short promotional videofor the IndieGoGo page.)
It went as described, but as shooting arrived, my role transformed to something of a documentarian-digital imaging technician-social media maven-assistant camera-sound two operator-featured extra-production assistant extraordinaire, a getter of many birthday cakes and hotdogs and light bulbs and whatever else we needed at any given moment while sweating slowly to death in our interior location on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. I somehow ended up giving my life to this project for three weeks, and in the meantime, juggling two other internships and, despite the many other tasks I was fulfilling, valiantly finding ways to keep shooting for my documentary, which the idea of actually producing in some extended and meaningful form was becoming more and more interesting to me. I’m still trying to synthesize everything that I received in return for the life I have given to Tick Out of Time – beyond some travel expenses covered and a great deal of craft provided, I’ve learned more in this short, hectic, brilliant, stressful process than I probably could in any production class at Carleton.
I’ve also had some revelations of a more personal nature, or at least relating to my own conceivable future practice in film. I’ve realized that some of my hesitancy to be in what I see as the “mainstream” mode of film production (even in the no-budget world of the indie flick) — with 90-page screenplays, directors, producers, talent, caterers, set designers, DPs, crews, key grips, and such — has been a sense of not having access to the technical experience or organizational power that this requires. To some extent, working on this film has thrust me into those technical and organizational roles, brought me to the realization that I can’t wait for some special permission to ‘be’ a filmmaker. I must simply begin.
At the same time, not because any great misogyny has been perpetrated by Mother’s Favorite Pictures (quite the contrary — I have had sensitive and meaningful discussions regarding gender and the film industry with Gabe in particular), the whole process and my realizations about the almost subconscious avoidance of the undeniably ‘masculine’ power structures and mechanical/technical aspects of production has redrawn my attention to the overall gendering of the industry, the art world, and the opportunities presented to me in general as a young female aspiring filmmaker. Because on many levels, film is as much business as it is art, and the money and power required to produce it are historically located in the hands of (white upper class) men.
(I beg no forgiveness for any feminist polemics that begin to emerge, because such self-excusing only serves to keep the power of the female artist in check. At the same time, I make no direct accusation toward individuals and wish to make no enemy – my enemy is, at the risk of simply ‘blaming the system’, the embedded social constructions that no one of us has created and no one of us can single-handedly rework. That is the long road down which we have progressed far, indeed, but not far enough – The Farthest Shore still winks in the distance.)
As a student of film, I have also been drawn to the experimental and avant-garde forms of cinema, historically more artisanal and intimate, requiring less of that masculinized money and power with the artist working alone or in concert with one or a few others. Historically, perhaps, a more feminized mode than that of the ‘mainstream’ film production, but nonetheless a male-dominated realm of the arts as well. But I wonder, a bit, whether some of my interest in the avant-garde arises from both my oppositional feminist leanings and a subsequent desire to be subversive, to be ‘avant-garde’ in its most oppositional sense, and from my desire to make film being diverted by fear of the ‘masculine’ large-scale production mode toward the more accessible ‘feminized’ personal, intimate, artisanal tendencies of the historical avant-garde. The genre can carry a sense of the immediate, a made-by-hand style that resonates with me, but this summer has made me question, to some extent, the true nature of my affinity for this type of film, and how this affinity functions within the discourse of gender that is inherently part of my relationship with the world. Likewise, documentary, cinema verite and the essayist modes of Chris Marker and Agnes Varda have grown increasingly influential in my own storming brain, sparking lightning bolts of thoughts as to what I may want to do with my filmmaking.
I suppose I have known this all along, or since the moment I walked out into the magical starry October night after screening In the Mirror of Maya Deren, a sophomore in college calling home to declare that I had found my calling, pacing the streets of Northfield and waxing eloquent (sophomorically, perhaps) on the virtues of Meshes of the Afternoon. Or perhaps much earlier when my thirteen-year-old self painstakingly produced a documentary of my grandfather’s life, what now seems a clunky Ken Burns imitation redeemed by sheer luck and purity of emotion into an essayist paean to the deeply personal experience of death at a young age. Or perhaps even earlier, when I, the ever-wakeful preschooler, would desperately will myself to sleep during naptime, knowing that a successful afternoon sleep was the prerequisite for watching a movie with my parents on any given night in our wilderness wooden enclave on the outskirts of Park City – a feisty four-year-old yearning for films and blithely unaware of the strange magic being worked upon me by growing up within the shining aura of Sundance.
This summer has been a reminder that I wanted to declare my major four terms early; a summer devoted to the moving image, its production, consumption, consideration. A summer of sitting steeped in the history of ‘essential cinema’ at Anthology Film Archives, of exploring the horizons of new media and video art at Eyebeam and on W. 14th street, of keeping my camera rolling on a daily basis, and of course, experiencing full immersion into the world of the making of the independent film. I have been flirting aggressively with psychogeography, but I think now it is time to realize that psychogeography needs a means of translation, and that I can make that means of translation this medium to which I am renewing my vows. I have been flirting with feminism (or at least the academic study therein associated), but this too, can be in concert with my camera — a choreography of life that is filmic and focused on understanding myself and the world through the twin lenses of my gender and my Nikon.
Luckily, there is no requirement that I choose one mode or genre of film and cut ties with all others — to be experimental, to be mainstream, to be experimentally mainstream, to work with narrative, to work with documentary, to work with narrative documentary and the liminal spaces between the constructed reality and the supposition of ontological truth in chemically or digitally images, to be a psychogeographer and a feminist and a Japanese scholar and a filmmaker — all roads are open.
I am committing myself to making no commitments, except to the need to express. So long as I am breathing film, I think I can come close to finding all the frustration and happiness that will fulfill and sustain me.
And so, I am incredibly grateful for the experience of being a part of Tick Out of Time — as the post-production process kicks in, I will undoubtedly still be around and perhaps take on the co-editor role the guys have offered me, eager now for experiences that bolster my ambitions. And I do, in truth, have a special love for this project that keeps me coming back in spite of constraints on my time and wonderings as to whether I should be working on more of my ‘own’ work. Rather like an anthropologist, I am steeped in this participant observation. As I continue to shoot this documentary (and I will, in the post-production phase as well), I become more convinced that it may be something bigger, a subjective realist narrative of my own awakening, the unconventional screenplay for which may be this very blog post. I see a film infused with the artisanal and the intimate, a film that does not abandon feminism or psychogeography or theory but builds its foundations on a mental montage of all this and more, a film that attempts irony and humanism and rejects all universals.