qfm23-df
A Weekly Queer Film & Media Column
writings by desiree franz
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Our Flag Means Death (2022)
“You wear fine things well.”
Queer reverb resounds throughout HBO’s Our Flag Means Death, through much more than just the central romantic relationship. The thing about this show is that the entire thing is Queer. The cast is significantly (and refreshingly) not pre-dominantly white, aspects of Queerness that are often left behind narratively are explored with care (Polyamory, Gender non-conformity, Asexuality), and the majority of the show takes place on the open sea.
All of this contributed massively to how quickly Queer Tumblr took to the show. It was not long before the gifs of special moments between Stede and Blackbeard were littered across LGBTQIA+ Tumblr. The notion of Queer Reverb: Tumblr, Affect, Time by Alexander Cho addresses the momentous nature of this when he discusses “Queer reverb”. This is the lasting effect of Queer existence on platforms like Tumblr, I offer “reverb” to further tweak this fruitful concept and posit it as a way to under- stand how intensity interacts with refrain over time and as a function of repetition”.
Taika Waititi who plays Blackbeard and is a big part of the development of the show feels like a big part of the reason why Our Flag Means Death is one of the only pieces of new Queer media that is not led entirely by white people as, he himself is not white. This may have been the first time I have ever seen ethical polyamory explored narratively. There is a non-binary character who goes through some very vulnerable events but their character is treated with respect throughout the entire show. The existence of this crew on the sea is not by coincidence, this is an exploration of the “gay pirate” idea, which was someone who could only exist in the way that they did because of their literal* detachment from (land and) traditional societal expectations. This type of unabashed Queerness flips the notion of The Monster and The Homosexual on its head as, the crew is still seen as the “bad guys” when they are on land but we are finally shown just how in the wrong these land-dwellers are about their supposed “bad guys” (hint: the people on land are the dummies, Queerness is cool kids).
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Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
“Do all lovers feel they’re inventing something?”
In one of the most notable Queer landmark films of this century, Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019), filmmaker Celine Sciamma literally* explores the Lesbian gaze and dispels the notion that Lesbianism is only valid in explicit sexually recognizable terms. This on-screen exploration is something to be considered when looking at this weeks reading “Doing it”: Representations of Lesbian Sex.
The gaze, that is the way women literally look at each other, is pivotal to the narrative and thematic quality of Portrait of a Lady on Fire. In one of the most noteworthy Lesbian films in some time, rare is it when “explicit” Lesbian is shown to the audience. After such atrocities as Blue is the Warmest Color (2013) which essentially serve nothing but “explicit” Lesbian content (so much so that many now attribute the film as nothing more than fetish porn catered towards straight, cis-men) Sciamma’s take on the representation of Lesbian love is refreshing. Let’s dive into why such a film feels like a breath of fresh air.
An artist is commissioned to paint a portrait to send to a distant arranged-husband, but not before she can fall in love with her subject. This premise requires the exploration of the theme of sight, art, and physical form; the perfect parallel for Lesbianism. Something about the way that these two women look at each other is so full of meaning that the audience cant help but feel their love for one another. There is little to no need for explicit sex-acts to “confirm” the presence of a Queer relationship because, as Jenny Kitzinger and Celia Kitzinger note in the reading this week, “Lesbianism as an emotional universe which provides an alternative to women from slotting into the heterosexual system, on the other hand, is a threat. (p 24)”. These two women have found solace in each other, simply by looking, the threat of the eventual arranged marriage disappears when women are allowed the option to exist outside the bounds of heterosexual hell.
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Interview with the Vampire (2022)
“I had walked my entire life as a dead man.”
AMC’s Interview with the Vampire takes a story that was initially centered on whiteness and recontextualizes the narrative to center a Black Queer man who must survive in America. The reclamation of this storyline allows for a lot of exploration of yet another intersection of Race, Class, and Sexuality that can inform another aspect of The Monster and The Homosexual.
Louis de Pointe is turned into a vampire by a mysterious stranger who he falls confusedly in love with out of the blue. In yet another story where Queerness is very closely aligned with traditional views of villainy. Louis de Pointe remains closeted because it is the only way he can survive in America as a lower-class Black man, while his mysterious lover stays in the Vampire closet for similar reasons of survival but not at all as much in terms of Queerness since he is white and upper-class. The collision of these two allows for a very complex exploration of what it means to be a “villain” in the traditional sense of media. The “monster” that is exposed over the course of this show does not end up being Louis de Pointe or his lover, even though they are vampires, but rather the systems that either of them are stuck in regardless of their life status. Here, even immortality does not remove a Black, Queer man from the constant struggle of white America.
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Tongues Untied (1989)
“Black men loving Black men is the revolutionary act.”
In one of the best “short films” (spanning just 5 minutes under the category “feature film”) I have maybe ever seen, filmmaker Marlon Riggs bears his soul in the exploration what Black male homosexuality means in 1980s America and, more importantly, what that identity it means to him. The format of this film is something that I have not witnessed in a very long time. The pace, writing, the cinematography, and the narration work in perfect harmony to create what feels like an anthology poetry book.
Tongues Untied (1989) is a series of art pieces set around the premise that Black Homosexuality is something revolutionary. It is in this way that it relates itself to our reading by Senthorun Raj; Grindring Bodies: Racial and Affective Economies of Online Queer Desire. While the film does not relate at all to the latter implication of the title (Online* Queer Desire) it does touch on the beginning observations about Black Queer sexuality in the modern age. In the first couple of pages Raj dissects whiteness and comes to the conclusion that , “...Whiteness, then, is an inherited system of privileges (Han 2006: 3)”. No one featured in Riggs’ film is white, this is a film exclusively about the Black Male same-sex attraction experience, meaning, this is a kind of love that is not “allowed” by said inherited system of privileges; it is in fact looked down upon even as late as the era of 1990s New Queer Cinema in America. The second part of that is that, again, Marlon is exploring Homosexuality and Queerness which is; “Sex that does not conform to this social imaginary is normalised as dangerous to the health and wellbeing of society”. In the case of all of these Riggs’ filmic thesis is proven to be true, Black Men loving Black Men is, indeed, a revolutionary act.
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Captain America: The Winter Solider (2014)
“You are my mission!”
“Then finish it. Cause’ I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.”
I remember the first time I saw Captain America: The Winter Solider was in a theatre with some friends. This was before the Stucky shippers took over Tumblr with their fan theories and long before I was able to realize my own queerness. Still, when we got to the scene where Steve kisses Sharon I was confused. He doesn’t care about her, I thought to myself.
This is thee single moment of explicit romantic intention between Steve Rogers and Sharon Carter. There is no explicit representation of any romantic intentioned relationship between Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes and yet...
The entire two hour and sixteen minute runtime of this film dedicates itself to the relationship between Steve and Bucky. Steve and Sharon interact a handful of times and never about anything personal, their relationship is surface level, they are coworkers at best. Meanwhile, Steve cares only for the fight to get his “best friend” back from the grips of Soviet brainwashing (an allegory strangely akin to conversion therapy). He nearly dies in the process. Packed into the development of Steve and Bucky is so much implicit romantic tension. This is not to say that men cannot intend to die for their best friend in a strictly platonic way, however, something about the intention between these two is different. Dive into their actions on screen, their emotional fight scenes, the language Steve uses when he talks about Bucky. These two are soulmates.
I will not speak to whether LGBTQIA+ representation has more or less impact when it is explicit or implicit, or what my definition of “good” or “bad” queer representation contains. However, as it speaks strictly to audience interpretation of on-screen storytelling (regardless of any narrative intent the filmmakers may or may not have had), a queer reading of Captain America: The Winter Solider and, in turn, the relationship between Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes makes sense to me. Steve cares only for Bucky.
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Pariah (2011)
“Breaking is freeing, broken is freedom. I am not broken, I am free.”
In Pariah (2011), director Dee Rees crafts a narrative about Black Queerness that explores concepts like rebellious desire and the possibility of agency at this intersection that are also explored by bell hooks in this weeks reading, The Oppositional Gaze.
Alike is a young Black girl who is questioning her sexuality, however, the household that she lives in is not safe for that kind of questioning. Alike’s mother runs a household that is masquerading via values that white society requires in order to accept “others”. Meaning, Alike’s household is a middle class one held together by a loving, perfect marriage with perfect children all of whom participate eagerly in white, suburban Christianity; but it is just that, a mask. Alike’s parents are going through a rough patch as, it is likely that, Alike’s father is having an affair outside of his marriage, Alike’s mother is the only one who seems to genuinely care about religion, and Alike is closeted. Her mother is sympathetic because it is possible that this mask is simply something that she so desperately needs to keep on in order to secure a good life for her family in the midst of whiteness, though, there are many moments when even she seems to believe this masquerade is real.
Alike poses a threat to her mother because of her “rebellious desire” to exist outside of that masquerade. It is in this way that her Queerness is a radical threat to not only her mother but also to the values that whiteness abides by. This is (a part of) The Oppositional Gaze.
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And Then We Danced (2019)
“You know, Georgian dance is based on masculinity. There is no room for weakness.”
Levan Akin’s And Then We Danced intermingles with the role of a certain perceived physical strength associated with traditional masculinity that men must maintain in order to retain their masculinity. This theme lends itself closely to this particular association in traditional Georgian dance and our main character, Merab, as he attempts to win a lead role at his dance company.
Merab is constantly chastised for “not being strong enough” for the role that his dance requires and while his merit as a dancer is called into question, so is his sexuality. Merab’s journey along the path of discovery and acceptance of his own sexuality is paralleled with his journey as a dancer. He thinks he is one thing and is confident in that until a point, he thinks he fails at something, then comes back with a new flavor of radical self-acceptance for the better.
In a similar vein, our reading this week explored the role that traditional masculinity has in American ballet and functions similarly in comparison to And Then We Danced. Both Traditional Georgian dance and American Ballet tend to wear a cloak of “traditional masculinity” that they assign to any male dancers who participate in the sport. However, with the physicality that dance requires comes a closeness, intimacy, and softness in order to maintain good performance. It is in this way that same-sex relationships in dance tend to seem so intimate, partners must understand one another and, often, be physically close with one another to achieve peak physical performance. It is in this way that we can apply the ideas of Jennifer L. Campbell, “ components worked together in a way that shrewdly merged conventional masculinity and queerness shrouded in a cloak of discretion,“ to the narrative of And Then We Danced.
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The Watermelon Woman (1996)
“Tamara, why are you always constantly clocking women?”
“We’re lesbians, remember, Cheryl? We’re into female-to-female attraction.”
Cheryl Dunye’s 1996 independent feature debut turned queer-cult-classic The Watermelon Woman is a landmark film in Black Lesbian cinema and intermingles with Evelynn Hammonds theory of Black (W)holes and the geometry of Black female sexuality and the said Black (W)holes ability to simultaneously channel both absence and opportunity in terms of representational media.
Saying that The Watermelon Woman is a landmark in Black Lesbian cinema is already one side of the spectrum that the Black (W)hole offers. That side being that with the status of Black Lesbian cinematic groundbreaker comes a certain isolation. That is to say that not many other films that explicitly intersect at Black and Lesbian (rather than simply “Queer” which leaves more wiggle room for broad interpretation, this is a very specific representation on film) movies like this have been made since. This unfortunate absence in the Black (W)hole, however, leaves room and opportunity for more films like this to be made. There should not simply be one Black Lesbian romance, there should be many different and diverse representations of that intersection. In other words, films like The Watermelon Woman may offer a sort of “blueprint” in terms of cinematic representation to fill a void; rather, it should be one of many in this endless void that is the Black (W)hole.
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The Celluloid Closet (1995)
"My taste includes both, snails and oysters”
Less of a documentary and more of a compilation of Queer milestones throughout United States film history, The Celluloid Closet provides insight into how Queerness permeated the film industry before, during, and after the implementation of the Hays code and connects seamlessly to the questions brought up by this week’s readings.
Given how big an impact the Hays code had on film production from 1934-1968, framing the structure of The Celluloid Closet around it made for a smooth flow and steady pace. It was interesting to learn about creative ways Queer filmmakers were able to leave their discreet impact throughout the industry via Queer Coding and subtext since, for a very long time at least, Queer Representation was simply not an option.
The question brought up by this week’s reading, of differentiating Queer coding and subtext, was something I considered in relation to the examination of past Queer stereotypes depicted throughout The Celluloid Closet. Character types like The Sissy, The Spinster, or the Gay Best Friend (who is but an unsexed shell of themself in order to prop up the much-more-important straight protagonist) were reexamined by actors and filmmakers. Some deemed them harmful depictions while others stated their admiration of the tropes and appreciated them for their place in history- It was refreshing to have such a range of responses rather than one resounding “correct” opinion. At the same time, the various techniques used by writers in order to scatter Queer subtext throughout certain characters, or even entire plots, were dissected and shed light on the importance of Queer coding during a time when that was the only option.
My favorite examples of intentionally Queer coded dialogue as well as the Queering of certain narratives by writers were in the films Ben Hur (1959) and Spartacus (1960). I added both films to my watchlist so fast.
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Anders als die Andern (Different from the Others) 1919
German Expressionism is a cinematic era that sees the depth of me.
Anders als die Andern especially, struck a chord lost within those depths. As, I myself am a Queer German person, the Queerness of this narrative as well as Conrad Veidt and Magnus Hirschfeld brought me so much joy. One of my favorite films of all time is Das Cabinet des Dr. Caligari but I only learned of Conrad Veidt’s legacy after a few rewatches and I only learned of his apparent open bi-sexuality after this week’s lecture- I was ecstatic. I almost felt like a failure to my (LGBTQIA+) community after learning about Magnus Hirschfeld for the first time in my life after that same lecture, and only after that learned of his historical prominence in sexology, let alone his coinage of the term Transsexual. All of this history was music to my ears, and then we actually watched the film. Anders als die Andern sung to me.
While this relatively simple narrative might not be typically aligned with the horror plots that often distinguish expressionist films, (i.e. Das Cabinet des Dr. Caligari) the political conversation aligns itself perfectly within the era. The silence that permeated Germany during 1919 was one born of necessity. §175 had been in place since 1871 and had forced Queer people to either hide themselves or be prosecuted for their identities. To be Queer and silent was to be safe. In the midst of this, the production of a film that not only serves as transparent Queer representation but also calls for the revocation of the very same §175 is a feat that cannot be understated.
While, the absence of footage that would have deemed this a feature-length film is deeply disheartening, I am grateful for the 50 minutes that we can witness. Even with its relatively narrow focus on white cis-gendered men Anders als die Andern retains a very important place within (Queer) film history and, for me personally, is a picture that makes my Queer little German heart want to sing.
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