"COMING OUT" BY NUMBERS

A thesis presented to

the faculty of the College of Fine Arts of Ohio University

In partial fulfillment

of the requirements for the degree

Master of Arts

Jessica L. Hey

November 2007 2

This thesis titled

"COMING OUT" BY NUMBERS

by

JESSICA L. HEY

has been approved for

the School of Film

and the College of Fine Arts by

Alessandra Raengo

visiting Assistant Professor of Interdisciplinary Arts

Charles A. McWeeny

Dean, College of Fine Arts 3

Abstract

HEY, JESSICA L., M.A., November 2007, Film

"COMING OUT" BY NUMBERS (68 pp.)

Director of Thesis: Alessandra Raengo

This thesis investigates the independent lesbian films of the 1990s, examining specifically how these films adopt the hegemonic narrative structures of the heterosexist

Hollywood tradition. The “coming out” films, while possessing queer content, fail to truly depict an alternative, queer, sexuality apart from the problematic ideological structures inherent to the more dominant cinematic mode. Therefore, my central question is, can these films with their adoption of such normative, narrative structures be considered “authentically” queer? And, if not, what did the prevalence of these films portend concerning the encroaching appropriation of queer culture?

Approved: ______

Alessandra Raengo

visiting Assistant Professor of Interdisciplinary Arts 4

Table of Contents

Page

Abstract...... 3

Introduction...... 5

Chapter 1: The Cinematic Precursors (A Queer Historiography)...... 12

Chapter 2: The “Coming Out” Films (An Overview)...... 25

Chapter 3: The Emerging Queer Adolescent...... 35

Chapter 4: The Emerging Queer Woman ...... 45

Chapter 5: The Queer Commodity...... 58

Conclusion ...... 63

References...... 67

5

Introduction

“Any film touching on the subject of homosexuality is bound to be controversial – we’ve been denied the right of self-expression and the right to see ourselves on the screen for so long that we expect every gay film that comes along to make up for it all, which is of course impossible. No film can meet such expectations.” (Waugh, p. 45)

Keeping in mind the sage and rational words of Canadian film theorist and academic, Thomas Waugh, a question still remains, “Why are so many lesbian films so bad?” And though I recognize this to be an entirely subjective diagnosis, it was this one extremely simple, extremely frustrated, query that arose from my habitual disappointment at the quality (not to mention quantity) of feature-length narrative films released in theatres, at festivals, or on video that addressed, in one manner or another, central lesbian characters and issues.

Lesbian characters [on film] have historically existed in a variety of fictional forms. Rarely, however, have these limited personifications been either sympathetic or three-dimensional. And while the filmmaking apparatus has surpassed its 100th birthday, relatively little has changed since its inception. On the one hand there is the American mainstream movie industry which largely ignores and/or degrades (through stereotype and marginality) lesbian identities, on the other is the independent film scene which doesn’t seem to be doing “us” any favors either; creating narrative films that are either dreadfully maudlin, excessively frivolous, technically awful, or oftentimes, all of the above. In short, they tend to be nothing special. Yet despite my frequent dissatisfaction and perhaps rush to [harsh] judgment, I can never seem to resist waiting for the next 6

installment – rife with anticipation. Nevertheless, through my extensive viewing of nearly-all filmic depictions of overt lesbianism, I began to be fascinated by the striking similarity of these films’ content and structure and to investigate why precisely they were as “bad,” or unfulfilling, as they seemed to be.

Because to this point, the list of films is (relatively) too long to examine each and every one, I have chosen a particular group of films on which to focus my attention; that is, the independent (i.e. non-studio), female, queer-themed (queer being a specific term to be further explored) films of the 1990s which took as their subject matter the emerging queer adolescent girl, the emerging queer woman and their respective “coming out.” Here is a somewhat annotated list of the films to be included within this temporal and financial qualification: Claire of the Moon (Nicole Conn, 1992), When Night is Falling (Patricia

Rozema, 1995), The Incredibly True Adventure of Two Girls in Love (Maria Maggenti,

1995), Late Bloomers (Julie Dyer, 1996), All Over Me (Alex Sichel, 1997), It’s in the

Water (Kelli Herd, 1997), High Art (Lisa Cholodenko, 1999), Better than Chocolate

(Ann Wheeler, 1999), and But, I’m a Cheerleader (Jamie Babbit, 2000); though all of these films warrant mention, only a select few will be subject to a more thorough textual analysis. And, finally, within a slightly different context, I will also discuss Donna

Deitch’s 1985 film, Desert Hearts and Rose Troche’s 1992 film, Go Fish - in order to make clear the historical context of these ‘coming out’ films’ creation as well as to identify the images as belonging to a definite set of cinematic conventions.

I am concerned primarily with the common practice among these ‘coming out’ films to position their subversive content within a traditional (read: heterosexual) 7

narrative structure and to trace the historical and cinematic roots through which they came to be. Therefore, my central question is: Can these independent films with their adoption of hegemonic and hetero-normative narrative structures be considered

“authentically” queer? And, subsequent to this, was there some degree of political impetus or social currency to be gained through the use of such a dominant mode? If not, why not? Thusly, what did that portend concerning the encroaching appropriation and commodification of the lesbian subject? Does the theory of queerness even apply? And, where are we today?

Yet, before I begin to tackle this intimidating number of questions, I must first make clear the theoretical rationale and methodology from which I am basing my assertions, as well as to specifically define the terminology I will be utilizing throughout this analysis. To begin with, when I use the term “traditional” in regards to film structure,

I am intending to reference the all-too familiar Hollywood formula, laden with well- established and obligatory generic “givens,” such as characters (lone rebel meets shy school girl), themes (love conquers all), iconography (white = right), and ideologies which are fundamentally hetero-normative in nature. That is, they assume heterosexuality as the dominant, or sole, sexual-identity position. And, for my purposes, I intend to evoke the vast history of romantic Hollywood narratives which have historically employed a set of formulaic structures or generic characteristics which are instantly, and comfortably recognizable for their audience (such as the antagonism/attraction of opposites, goofy happenstance, serendipity, thwarted desire, star-crossed love, and, of course, happy endings). My argument against such structures is the inevitable creation of an unwanted 8

abject, or monstrous “other” (Butler, pg. 79) that is perpetually left absent from these romantic fantasies (be it racial, sexual, religious, or otherwise) – with which the mainstream is unwilling to deal. In “Queer Visibility in Commodity Culture,” Rosemary

Hennessy elaborates upon this point, “Heterosexuality is not an original or pure identity; its coherence is only secured by at once calling attention to and disavowing its “abject, interiorized, and ghostly other, homosexuality.” (p. 46) These hegemonic narratives are not necessarily objectionable on their own, but in overwhelming conjunction to almost every other film ever made (in the United States of America) an impenetrable network of misinformation and destructive mythology is established that leaves an enormous number of individuals outside the Hollywood gates.

In addition to “traditional,” I will also periodically utilize the term “alternative” in reference to the films’ which are here under examination. By alternative, I simply mean those sexualities and identities which defy said traditional heterosexual model; those that are not the “normal” subject, but the exception. And, in almost synonymous conjunction, what do I mean by “queer”? On this point, I must align myself with another film scholar,

Alexander Doty, who in the Introduction to his text, Making Things Perfectly Queer, makes clear his own particular usage of “queer,”

Therefore, when I use the terms “queer” or “queerness” as adjectives or nouns, I do so to suggest a range of non- straight expression in, or in response to mass culture. This range includes specifically, gay, lesbian and bisexual expressions; but it also includes all other potential (and potentially unclassifiable) non-straight positions. (Doty, xvi)

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That said it must be clear that I am limiting this discussion solely to the representation of lesbianism. While these ‘coming out’ films do exist in strikingly similar form and content within the gay male film canon and though both sexual orientations may share in their common divergence from heterosexuality, their visual representation in popular culture and for my purposes, the cinema, is almost diametrically opposed - and I find it irresponsible to conflate homosexuality as if it was one experience, regardless of gender.

“Queerness” as an academic, theoretical construct began to gain acceptance and favor in the late 1980s, on the heels of both feminist theory and gay and lesbian studies.

Its primary purpose was the furtherance of alternative sexualities, genders, and identities

– and the term “queer” was intended as a re-appropriation, or “taking back” of a term previously used for the purposes of denigration and humiliation. Prominent academic theorists such as Eve Kosofsky-Sedgwick, Judith Butler, and Michael Warner began to more clearly “define” queerness as that which sought to defy definition, And, in cooperation with a burgeoning political movement (ACT-UP, Queer Nation, etc.), queer theory became quite the cause célèbre, and tool, of avant-garde artists and intellectuals looking to distance themselves from more assimilationist tendencies of 1980s corporate culture.

Lending a new elasticity to the categories “lesbian” and “gay,” “queer” embraces a proliferation of sexualities (bisexual, transvestite, pre- and post-op transsexual, to name a few) and the compounding of outcast positions along racial, ethnic, and class, as well as sexual lines – not of which is acknowledged by the neat binary division between hetero- and homosexual. (Hennessy, p. 34)

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And so, while “queer” has been taken to mean any form of sexuality outside of

heterosexual, procreative monogamy – I am largely employing this term in regards to

lesbian sexuality, specifically contrasting the ways in which these lesbian romance films

have constructed their stories within a framework historically associated with

heterosexuality; and in doing so, are they not then separate from what is considered

“essentially” queer? Additionally, it is not only that these films resemble so much of

heteronormative film history but that their existence, owing in large part to the political

and artistic daring of those in the Queer Nation seems at cross purposes with that which

engendered its creation (historical elaboration to follow). Ultimately, it is my contention

that these ‘coming out’ films are pushing a lesbian agenda, rather than a queer one – for though queer theories began to initially present themselves amidst some groundbreaking artistic achievement, in order to be incorporated within mainstream culture and society, queerness had to take a back seat to a more mundane “gayness” – something that could resemble heterosexuality in all but one respect.

Finally, “For a lesbian and gay political project that has had to combat the

heteronormative tyranny of the empirical in order to claim a public existence at all, how

visibility is conceptualized matters.” (Hennessy, p. 31) Thus, my project is to examine an

extended moment in film history, in particular how these ‘coming out’ films represent a

collective point of cultural transition from the avant-garde to the acceptable – a gradual,

nearly invisible, process by which a larger filmic agent came to incorporate and inoculate

that which was previously outside its realm of control. Thus, this analysis will also

necessarily include a discussion of “queer” as a commodity and what that has come to 11

mean, and guarantee, over the last 15 years – as well as the role these ‘coming out’ films

played in that progression. Because, “how visibility is conceptualized,” does indeed

matter and I intend to demonstrate that acquiescing to the necessary evils in order to

achieve a modicum of minority visibility need not be so necessary. And, through this

examination I hope to locate an answer to my initial question. That is, “Why are so many lesbian films so bad?”

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CHAPTER 1: The Cinematic Precursors (A Queer Historiography)

In addition to an explanation of terminologies and methodologies it would be

remiss if I did not also provide some sort of historical context, or due deference to the

cinematic antecedents, by which these ‘coming out’ films were made socially and

economically viable. They did not just spontaneously appear in the 1990s without a

significant group of causal factors enabling their existence – there were, in fact, several

films, movements, and historical stimuli that contributed to the accumulation of the

lesbian canon; a canon that I am now able to examine. And, it is my intention to provide a

few examples of possible influential cinematic elements that brought about the popularity

and preponderance of the ‘coming out’ film.

Therefore, it seems appropriate to begin with the “mother” of modern-day lesbian

romance. That is, Donna Deitch’s 1985 film, Desert Hearts. It may seem too-convenient

or perhaps apocryphal to attribute the contemporary condition of lesbian film to just one film – that is not my intention. However, with the emergence and popularity of this film, the adoption of a heteronormative structural model and any attendant stereotypical characterizations proved successful, thereby establishing its usefulness toward furthering the “cause” of lesbian representation. This so-called “heteronormative adoption” is not merely supposition but something admitted to, even championed, by Deitch herself as a tool with which to attract those outside the film’s core audience. She has even said, “This would be a universal (my emphasis) love story, regardless of the gender of the characters.” (Sundance Channel, “After Thoughts,” 2000)

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Released in August of 1985, Desert Hearts was a revelation for generations of lesbian women who had yet to experience a visual representation of their sexual identity portrayed with a modicum of affirmation and sensitivity. And in order to fully understand the dimensions of my argument, a brief plot synopsis is as follows: Vivian Bell (Helen

Shaver), a college professor in her mid-thirties, arrives in Reno, Nevada in 1959 to obtain a quickie divorce. During her stay at a local dude ranch she meets-cute and falls in love with a wild, casino change-girl ten years her junior, named Cay Rivers (Patricia

Charbonneau).

Desert Hearts is a simple love story and was originally conceived as such by both

writer and director. This film is not necessarily significant because it is an exemplary

piece of filmmaking, in point of fact it is rather lacking by several standards of critique.

Regardless, its unique aesthetic film history justifies exploration because it is a film that

is not so much an unconscious mixture or amalgam of film trends and historical impetus,

but rather a conscious rejection of said models of influence (lesbian victimization,

predatory lesbian stereotypes, etc.). Whether considering queer national history or queer film history, Desert Hearts strives to work against the canon of films and archetypal characterizations of lesbian identity that preceded it. With one, notable, exception – that is, the film’s use of classic romance-film structures, akin to the oft-used genre, melodrama. It is a film, almost entirely, conceived in opposition to that which engendered its creation. Yet, it is this word “almost” that makes the film’s purpose so essential for my analysis. However, detractions aside, it was through the successful utilization of

familiar generic characteristics that this film opened the “closet” door, so to speak, for the 14

independent lesbian films of the 1990s and was the filmic agent, for good or bad, of an

entire minority demographic at that moment in time.

When the film was released in 1985 it was simultaneously praised and condemned

for its depiction of overly-idyllic locations, stars, and societal acceptance. In the

compilation text Queer Looks: Perspectives on Lesbian and Gay Film and Video,

Lizanne Moore of the New Socialist is quoted as saying, “Desert Hearts wants to have its cake and eat it -- because all the men are so nice and understanding, because the women are just so gorgeous to look at, any challenge lesbianism might represent is underplayed.”

Although this film was a departure, in some key respects it stayed within very safe parameters as dictated by the social atmosphere of the time. With the knowledge that its lesbian subject matter would be controversial enough, the film presents few additional rupturing elements. And it is this technique, this reluctance to cause rupture, that proves so applicable for the ‘coming out’ films which sought to locate their queer characters within familiar cinematic frameworks so as not to distance their subject matter from the structures which, historically, have proved so comforting, self-affirming and successful with decades of supposedly heterosexual audiences.

As it pertains to Desert Hearts, placing the film in the 1950s, distancing it from a contemporary framework, provides a buffer for the 1980s movie-going populace. Rather than imagining this lesbian couple as one’s next door neighbor or co-worker, the characters become less threatening when portrayed in a historical setting.

Simultaneously, setting the film in the 1950s imparts a much-needed commentary on that repressive decade and transfigures it through the well-adjusted existence of these lesbian 15

protagonists. The two-fold purpose of the film’s period setting acts in almost binary opposition. On the one hand, serving to quell any excess indignation the film might provoke from the conservative masses of the 1980s, and on the other providing a socially progressive, if excessively quixotic, re-telling of the 1950s, in order to ameliorate, if only for the length of the film, the social circumstances of that decade which proved so harmful for the lesbian population.

Desert Hearts walks a tightrope between a minoritizing and universalizing approach to lesbian representation. As quoted above, Desert Hearts “wants to have its cake and eat it.” And, I find it quite amazing that twenty years later, not much has changed in the struggle over minority representation. Whether considering John Cameron

Mitchell’s quasi-porn examination of a multiplicity of sexual proclivities in Shortbus

(2006) or the tediously mainstream, pseudo-lesbian romantic comedy, Grey Matters

(2007) – the battle between mainstream and avant-garde is often fought, and brought to compromise in the quaint art house theatres and film festivals across America – and for every fabulously experimental Shortbus, there are ten mediocre Grey Matters, hoping to find the perfect middle-ground that draws throngs of viewers eager to expand their “hip- ness” quotient with a little “queer” experience.

In his text, Unlikely Couples, Thomas Wartenberg provides a useful perspective on the balancing act that is, Desert Hearts,

Hoping to reach a wide audience, yet keenly aware of the prejudices of many of its members, the film designs a set of representational strategies to deflect homophobic responses to its depiction of lesbian lovemaking. Of considerable interest, then, is the manner in which the film simultaneously presents a love story with which lesbian viewers can 16

identify while developing ways to keep straight viewers from reacting negatively to its graphic portrayal of lesbian sex. (Wartenberg, p. 194)

I think a clear and tangible example of this film’s attempt to balance controversial subject matter with well-traversed classical cinema exists through the alterations implemented during the process of literary adaptation. Although this film is based on a novel, there are stark contrasts between Desert Hearts and its source material, Desert of the Heart. Jane

Rule’s 1964 novel does have the same basic story: Vivian (Evelyn in the novel) does travel to Reno for a divorce, does meet Cay (Anne in the novel), and they do fall in love.

However the film adheres to a traditional romance-film structure which constitutes a departure from Rule’s novel. In Queer Looks, Mandy Merck remarks upon this structure

in her article entitled, “Dessert Hearts,”

Desert Hearts is steeped in the hetero tradition of the active pursuit of the reluctant woman. It does employ traditionally related dichotomies of class (cheeky casino girl pursues shy professor), geography (candid Westerner courts aloof Easterner), sexual history (experienced lesbian brings out previously faithful wife), and appearance (passionate brunette warms up cool blond, who honors a long cinematic tradition of letting her hair down). (p.379)

All of the above conventions were in fact added to the film version. The novel contains few of these elements. There were no clear class distinctions (Cay was equally college- educated), no coastal difference (Vivian was from Berkeley, not New York City), and no dark/blond dichotomy of appearance (in the novel they are often mistaken for twins).

Mandy Merck goes on to say, “Desert Hearts is set in a fantasized Wild West (where anything goes pardner), in an idealized retro-chic fifties, without any of the fifties 17

circumstances which could have contributed to the guilt and pessimism represented in

Rule’s novel.” (p. 380) This fabrication of internal obstacles via adaptation is particularly

necessary to this film as it simultaneously tries to re-create a classic melodramatic

romance-film structure while altering the typical subjects of romance. In essence the

film’s screenwriter is inverting the gender without any subsequent consequences. Their issues are no longer on a grand scale, but instead rely on personal factors which can be necessarily overcome within the neatly plotted narrative. Rather than take on the

intensely bigoted society that creates so much harm for those struggling with their gay

identity – the film creates personality-based dilemmas that largely acquit society of its

inherent wrongs. From an intensely introspective and thoughtful novel, comes a film that

reduces very specific (and dangerous) societal circumstances to personal melodrama,

something easily contained and explained by the characters internal dilemmas.

In her article entitled “If You Don’t Play, You Can’t Win: Desert Hearts and the

Lesbian Romance Film,” Jackie Stacey provides a brief outline of the conventions

inherent to traditional romance films,

“Romantic narratives are usually concerned with a potential heterosexual love relationship whose fulfillment is threatened by a series of problems. The obstacles which stand in the way of ‘true love’ are varied. The function of these barriers is to produce narrative tension and to encourage audiences’ involvement in a particular set of intense emotions. The pleasures of romance, then, involve audience participation in the desire for love to win out over these obstacles.” (p.97)

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Herein lies the major problem of the film. Because Desert Hearts was striving to work against historic and cinematic lesbian victimization it removes many of these external obstacles, these threats of danger, in order to place these women in a safe and (relatively) supporting environment. Unfortunately, this effectively reduces, to large degree, the film’s dramatic tension. The external obstacles that act to hinder the women’s romance are neither menacing nor terribly convincing because the film is attempting to remove the protagonists from this historical stigma. I’m sure that screenwriter, Natalie Cooper, and

Deitch, were well aware of the conservative tenor of their own decade, as well as the one they sought to represent, and recognized that through utilization of a more traditional, albeit overly optimistic, mode of storytelling they could provide a non-threatening familiarity for the straight audience and give the lesbian audience a classic romance in which they no longer had to translate heterosexual feelings of desire for their own version of love and lust.

While Desert Hearts serves like a cinematic blue-print for the vast majority of

‘coming out’ films (young and old), a group of films from the early 1990s represent the precise diametric opposite to all that Desert Hearts, Lianna (Sayles, 1983), Personal Best

(Towne, 1982) and their progeny, the ‘coming out’ films, strove to create with their warm and fuzzy, barely-queer representations. They were queer “in name only.” But, close on their heels came a group of films with an entirely different, highly controversial, and entirely “queer” objective.

Between the years 1991 and 1994 several films were released at various American independent film festivals, whose project was the unequivocal promotion of a definitively 19

queer, post-modern, visibility and to question the existence of one cohesive queer identity. This informal movement, or subversive zeitgeist, was titled, New Queer Cinema.

The list includes: Tongues Untied (Riggs, 1990), My Own Private Idaho (Van Sant,

1991), Poison (Haynes, 1991), The Living End (Araki, 1992), Swoon (Kalin, 1992), and

Go Fish (Troche, 1994). With the advent of NQC and the emergence of young, impassioned filmmakers willing to sacrifice narrative neatness for theoretical rigor and artistic acumen, came a glimmer of hope – that, the images of queerness would finally be portrayed by queers themselves.

Although these films premiered in the early 1990s, decades are rarely, if ever, sharply divided. And so, these films are essentially a political, albeit cinematic, reaction to the conservative tenor of the 1980s. In particular, they were a fervent response to two central foci of ultra-conservative aggression: the AIDS epidemic and the subsequent neglect which the Reagan/Bush administrations visited upon the American homosexual population (as a result of the AIDS epidemic). By the early 1990s, several thousands of gay men had either died or been infected with the HIV virus, and many of the filmmakers involved in this New Queer Cinema movement were directly involved with such activist organizations as ACT UP, and artistic collectives such as Gran Fury whose fight to bring attention to this largely-ignored epidemic included so many young, aspiring artists. In

Queer Images: A History of Gay and Lesbian Film in America, Harry Benshoff and Sean

Griffin provide some historical context for this moment in cinematic history, 20

One of the most important things about New Queer Cinema was its energy – its irreverence, brashness, and defiance. In many cases, that assertiveness was directly related to the AIDS crisis and the era’s renewed sense of lesbian and gay activism. Indeed, at least one account of New Queer Cinema defines it as “a form and expression that emerges from the cataclysm of AIDS in the Western world. (pg. 221)

Working in devastating tandem, these events were directly responsible for the surprisingly sudden confluence of rage and oftentimes vitriolic empowerment that erupted through the film cameras and onto the movie screens in the early 1990s. So, with these social conditions as impetus and armed with a burgeoning academic adherence to the new “queer theory” (a theory forwarded by academics which proffered a post-modern identity and openness to all subversive forms of sexuality outside of heterosexual procreative monogamy), these films created a unique aesthetic that garnered much- needed attention for a minority demographic, and signaled an essential shift in queer cinematic representation: that is, the depiction of queer characters by queer directors thereby wresting control of their own image. In a second text, Queer Cinema: the Film

Reader, Harry Benshoff and Sean Griffin again provide a further description of queer

theory’s social and academic import,

Queer theory posits that sexuality is a vast and complex terrain that encompasses not just personal orientation and/or behavior, but also the social, cultural, and historical factors that define and create the conditions for such orientations and behaviors. As such, queer theory rejects essentialist or biological notions of gender and sexuality, and sees them instead as fluid and socially constructed personalities. The term queer, once a pejorative epithet used to humiliate gay men and women, is now used by academics to describe the broad, fluid, and ever-changing expanse of human sexualities. (pg. 1)

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Although the films from this movement were unique in form and message, they were not

the first films to deal with homosexual subjects from a sympathetic perspective. Under

similar duress, a small group of films were released some five years prior which sought to

bring a modicum of visibility to a gay and lesbian audience, largely bereft of positive

cinematic representations. Desert Hearts (discussed above), Parting Glances (Sherwood,

1986), My Beautiful Launderette (Frears, 1986), and Dona Herlinda and Her Son

(Hermosillo, 1985) all debuted within a few months of each other in the spring of 1986.

These films and their concurrent emergence were hailed as the, Gay New Wave. While

this array of films was a positive move towards the furtherance of gay visibility, they

were stepping stones; small, sweet, films with less of a political agenda, than the films

considered part of the New Queer Cinema. I mention these earlier films to provide some sense of historical perspective and to highlight the difference in message and intent from the Gay New Wave to New Queer Cinema. For, while both dealt with the depiction of homosexuality, the former was decidedly gay/lesbian and the latter, decidedly queer.

With this in mind, it is interesting to then consider the trajectory from the Gay New Wave

to the New Queer Cinema – and then, to the ‘coming out films’ which chart a course of

sexual fluidity and identification that exists closer in structure and form to the far- tamer

films of the Gay New Wave and a far cry from the in-your-face aesthetic championed by

the filmmakers involved with New Queer Cinema.

In a September, 1992 Village Voice article, B. Ruby Rich proclaimed that a New

Queer Cinema had arisen "out of the long and important tradition of gay and lesbian film-

making within the history of independent, experimental and 'outsider' cinema” ("New 22

Queer Cinema" 32). She coined it, “Homo-Pomo (post-modern).” And from the pristinely posed, and post-modern, black and white imagery of Tom Kalin’s Swoon to My

Own Private Idaho’s muted western landscapes, each film exhibits a distinct aesthetic and though they may differ sharply in mode, their method and (perhaps unconscious) similarity of purpose is striking. And, so I will attempt here to provide a brief explanation or description of the ways in which one film, in particular, put forth an important, even necessary, representation of queerness; a representation that furthered the popular gay film movement, more concretely and quickly than all the “genuine” studio efforts

(Making Love (1982), Philadelphia (1993), The Birdcage (1996) etc.) combined.

Of all the films circumscribed within NQC, it is Rose Troche’s 1994 film, Go

Fish – that provides the most startling contrast between the work of the NQC directors and the lesbian films that I am considering a part of the ‘coming out’ classification. Go

Fish chronicles the lives of several women within a small urban lesbian community.

Though the film is un-polished, perhaps rather rough around the edges, with grainy film stock, shaky camera work and un-professional actors it provides something essential.

That is, a multiplicity of lesbian representation. It very clearly asserts that there is no one way to be a lesbian – and that identity is entirely dependent on how one defines oneself.

It addresses not only issues of how lesbians are perceived by society but how lesbian perceives themselves – and while it is entirely film literate and conscious of the wide range of pejorative stereotypes and traditional structures, it does not descend into an adoption of such formulas – but provides a fresh, outsider perspective. It is a highly experimental narrative, with eloquent extra-filmic digressions, Greek chorus-like 23

inquisitions, and direct-camera address, each calling attention to the artificiality inherent

to narrative filmmaking. Go Fish was wildly popular. When it was released at the

Sundance Film Festival in 1994 it caused quite the sensation – yet the films which

followed its success contained almost none of its fresh and irreverent perspectives.

Rather, the subsequent ‘coming out’ films play it entirely safe with a polish and shine that

took away all the necessary queerness, leaving behind a mediocre and homogenous

“gayness” that resembles, all too closely, that which New Queer Cinema sought to resist.

From loner male prostitutes (My Own Private Idaho), renegade queer-bait (The Living

End), and unapologetic diesel-dykes (Go Fish) to pimply-faced adolescents awaiting their first innocent brush with something approaching lesbianism; the transition was violent.

In addition to putting forth a [sexual] minority visibility, the films of New Queer

Cinema played an essential part in the furtherance of a progressive self-empowerment that would enhance the political face of the “gay” movement. While I would say that the political impetus of these films was largely beneficial, I do not wish to misconstrue the nature of the images themselves – in fact the identity politics involved with the creation of these new gay characters was extremely controversial and unpopular among not only straight, white, male critics, but gay audiences as well. These were not happy gay characters, but ones built more from the model of reality, with complexities and contradictions. And, thus their appearance at a critical mass is all the more essential for the furtherance of the queer political voice. To again quote Benshoff and Griffin,

Yet not everyone was wholly enthusiastic about New Queer Cinema. Right-wing pundits and politicians lambasted the films as pornographic and used them as “bad objects” in the fight to de-fund public art projects. 24

Some queer audiences found the films boring and overly intellectual; others found them awash with negative images. Still others complained about the sexist and racist dynamics that seemed to be at play within the movement. (p.220)

And, it is this conflicted ambivalence that I believe in many ways led to the popularity of the ‘coming out’ films. For those unhappy with New Queer Cinema, these ‘coming out’ films were more familiar. These traditional and “happy” films represented what the majority of the queer population had envisioned while watching one heterosexual love story after another (throughout their collective youths), mentally inverting the gender

themselves, rather than creating an “alternative” narrative form. As opposed to envisioning themselves existing in some avant-garde universe outside of the mainstream, their identities were inextricably intertwined (understandably so) with the traditional

heteronormative film industry. Thus, placing there fragile subjectivity within the films’

narratives, desiring, to be within and included seems all the more appealing and entirely natural. And though NQC presented authentic queer voices, its Brechtian approach (the artistic method which seeks to separate its audience from the performance, by revealing the “strings”) left many gay viewers – still outside the films’ formalist narratives – “out” in the cold, with little to relate to. Therefore, the ‘coming out’ films, with their traditional structures provided this necessary narrative familiarity and escapism.

25

CHAPTER 2: The “Coming-Out” Films (an overview)

Fundamentally, the “coming out” film concerns the awakening of one’s sexual self; they are about a revelation (or from a narrative perspective, a “reveal” or self- disclosure) and the search for one’s identity. The narrative form (think, “woman’s film”) is familiar; yet, within this particular context, I am speaking of the homosexual, specifically lesbian woman, who “comes out” to herself and [sometimes] her society as a person possessing a subversive (to the heterosexual norm) sexual preference, that is, a preference for her own gender. And, to be even more specific I am speaking of the string of independent lesbian films released throughout the 1990s, which found a sympathetic, eager audience desperate for self-reflection and cinematic validation. This group of films includes, but is not limited to: Claire of the Moon (Nicole Conn, 1992), When Night is

Falling (Patricia Rozema, 1995), The Incredibly True Adventure of Two Girls in Love

(Maria Maggenti, 1995), Late Bloomers (Julie Dyer, 1996), It’s in the Water (Kelli Herd,

1997), High Art (Lisa Cholodenko, 1999), Better than Chocolate (Ann Wheeler, 1999), and But, I’m a Cheerleader (Jamie Babbit, 2000).

The “coming out” films were about the transformation of cinematic representations for a queer populace – they were about visibility. For a minority group long accustomed to an often invisible, sometimes monstrous, but basically miserable, film history, portrayed in films like The Children’s Hour (1961), The Fox (1967), The

Hunger (1983), and Personal Best (1982) - full of self-loathing, tragedy, horror, and heterosexual re-cooperation - these ‘coming out’ films were intended to counteract such a history. However, they did not initiate this process - these ‘coming out’ films were not, 26

by any means, the first to portray or push a queer agenda (as discussed in Chapter Two).

They did not necessarily blaze any trails or shock the mainstream public with their brazen depiction of sexual perversity. They exist, rather, in an intriguing middle ground that would seem either socially progressive or rather innocuous. They are forthright, upright films (painfully so) which portray a minority community from a refreshingly de- pathologized perspective. However, from a distance they seem instead to pave the way towards mainstream inclusion [within the heteronormative film tradition] which ultimately strips their alternative community of that which made it “essentially” alternative. In short, the ‘coming out’ films represent a cinematic moment in transition

(existing somewhere in between Go Fish and The L Word). In “Generation Q’s ABCs:

Queer kids and 1990s’ independent films,” Chris Holmlund wonders, “Have the past 30 years of the gay rights struggle [taken] place primarily to ensure homosexuals’ rights to the same mediocre entertainment as straight people?” (p.187)

There are many elements common to the films here under discussion. So similar are these features, they constitute the emergence of a sub-genre from underneath its heterosexual shadow. And, like most genres, there are several narrative consistencies from one to the other. However, within this sub-genre there are in fact two competing, or complimentary, strains. One is the adolescent teen romance, which simultaneously entails a coming-of- age and “coming out.” The other is the sexual discovery of a previously

“straight” woman, who is made aware of the “love that dare not speak its name.” Though these films are different, many of the sub-generic characteristics of the “coming out” film

(my umbrella term) are shared between these two adjacent forms of lesbian identity. 27

To begin with, each of these films contain structural elements, based on

components of both the Hollywood romance narrative and the “woman’s film.” In “When

is a lesbian not a lesbian? The lesbian continuum and the mainstream femme film,” Chris

Holmlund speaks of these similarities,

The film plots were crucial to their success with straight audiences as well, although not always for the same reasons. All are love stories framed within the genre conventions of the woman’s film. All therefore focus on crises between individuals rather than social groups. Problems are personal, not economic, and so, necessarily are the solutions. Nevertheless, as the directors’ and stars’ comments about each film make clear, this emphasis on the personal was intended to guarantee the films’ market appeal to lesbian and gay audiences as well as to heterosexual audiences. (p.36)

These films construct love stories based on a few basic principles – the first (and most applicable for my purposes) is the attraction/antagonism of opposites. This is the

narrative device in which two would-be lovers are initially, and violently, repelled by one

another (Gone with the Wind (1939), Pride & Prejudice (1940), Lady and the Tramp

(1955), When Harry Met Sally (1987), etc.). Coming from opposite ends of the spectrum

(be it, social, economic, professional, racial, etc.), their initial disdain will (of course)

lead to attraction and eventually love. Not only do nearly all lesbian romance dramas

contain this element, it is often the key point of plot conflict amidst films desperate to

eschew the homophobic paradigm of the hunted homosexual. In lieu of that dramatic

device, the antagonism between those intended for eventual romantic coupling becomes

that much more essential (as evidenced by Mandy Merck regarding Desert Hearts – 28

quoted above). From The Incredibly True Adventure of Two Girls in Love and But, I’m a

Cheerleader, to Claire of the Moon and When Night is Falling (as well as many others)–

the majority of films within this classification establish their two lead female characters

as opposites and often antagonistic towards one another.

This attraction/antagonism of opposites is often visually portrayed via one central

device. That is the casting, or physical characterization of the romantic pair, as consisting

of one blonde woman (girl) and one brunette woman (girl). And, in nearly every film in

which the blonde/brunette dichotomy is present, it is the lusty brunette who

pursues/seduces the reluctant blonde or the “dark” who seduces the “light.” Though most

of the protagonists in these films are Caucasian females, (an issue in itself) the few

instances when the couple is bi-racial, it is the black woman who seduces the white. In her text Daughters of Desire, Shameem Kabir quotes B. Ruby Rich,

Race occupies the place vacated by gender’ in some lesbian relationships, where race serves as a ‘marker for difference’ in the lack of gender differences. Rich cites the work of art historian Linda Nochlin, who states that ‘the conjunction of black and white, or dark and light female bodies, whether naked or in the guise of mistress and maid servant, traditionally signified lesbianism.” (p.105)

Not only does the dark woman seduce the light, she very often possesses several

characteristics common to the dark, mysterious, and brooding stranger familiar to so

many heterosexual romances (Marlon Brando in The Wild One (1953), Paul Newman in

The Long Hot Summer (1958), etc.). The brunette (or black woman) is often passionate,

misunderstood, rebellious and desperate for love. The blonde (or white woman), on the 29

other hand, is often cool, polite, distanced, and oftentimes inexperienced in regards to sex

(practically frigid). Thus, it is the brunette’s duty to bring the blonde woman out of her shell, to open her up (metaphorically and literally) to all that women have to offer.

Whether the films are romantic dramas (Claire of the Moon) or lighthearted, romantic

comedies (It’s in the Water) – this visual representation of the protagonist’s disparate,

opposing personalities is always quite evident.

Not only is their bifurcation visually evident through the use of hair color and/or

skin color, they quite often play out the familiar dynamic of acrimony-to-attraction. In

nearly every film, the pair experience initial tension and conflict-based foreplay which

soon leads to an acceptance and appreciation of each others distinct personalities – no

longer a point of frustration, their differences are now regarded with love-sick

fascination. In addition, when considering the films which deal primarily with adult

women (Claire of the Moon, When Night is Falling, It’s in the Water, High Art), there is

almost always the added dramatic oppositional component of one [blonde] woman’s

previously “straight” sexuality. For as much as the lesbian community forswears the

notion of straight-to-gay conversion, the large majority of lesbian narratives construct this

exact seduction process. And, of course, it is most common that the dark female be the

established lesbian, who then pursues the light (or innocent) straight female. While this

device is most likely employed to establish a point, or character, for heterosexual

reference – it seems to directly contradict what a politically-correct lesbian society would

have you believe. And, whether the film is directed by a lesbian or not (although most

are), the central character is almost always the “straight” woman. It is most certainly her 30

arc, or journey, and it is with her that the audience is meant to identify. Whether this is meant to reflect the early existence of many lesbian women (before they were “out”), or employed in order to bring in a “wider” audience - probably both – it nevertheless puts the solid, or definitive, lesbian in a supporting role, the role “she” knows all too well. In

Uninvited: Classical Hollywood Cinema and Lesbian Representability, Patricia White discusses this supporting position as it has existed in Hollywood cinema,

Thus she [Agnes Moorehead] exemplifies what I contend is a systematic relation: the supporting character – at once essential and marginal to classical realism and its narrative goals – is a site for the encoding of the threat and the promise of homosexual difference. (p.140)

She goes on to say, “…signifiers of homosexuality marginality have attached themselves to these roles even though they aren’t explicitly gay.” (p.141) Though the work of Ms.

Moorehead is not of particular import, her position within the hierarchy of representation is extremely revealing. Subliminally (and supporting) lesbian characters have found much work within the history of Hollywood cinema, and so when these independently produced lesbian films place the definitive lesbian, again, in the secondary role

(subordinate to her apparently-heterosexual love interest) they do her a disservice. For her “true” purpose then becomes, while essential to the narrative, only to further the arc of a/the woman more “squarely” a member of the dominant heterosexual society.

Although the clash of personalities, of opposites, is very much in-keeping with heterosexual romantic narratives, there is yet another similarity between the films themselves, as well as to resemble their hegemonic (heterosexist) model. That is, the use 31

of the “happy ending.” While there is most certainly a legitimate and long-awaited desire

for lesbian couples to experience a happy ending, the ‘coming out’ films often follow the lead of their heterosexual counterparts without consideration given to the larger structural construct which they adopt, and the ideologies it implies. Rather than strive to create narratives that move past the need for a candy-coated conclusion, the ‘coming out’ films largely fall in step with that which sought to diminish, even extinguish, its very existence.

Because, if “she” failed to “get the girl” at the film’s conclusion it would be regrettably realistic, but wholly discouraging and thus would not fall within the “guidelines” of the heteronormative narrative. While this happy ending is perhaps liberating, in part because the films allow, even relish in the act of successful sexual conquest, because it is couched within these fantastic narratives of successful conversion, the subversive potential is subsequently made null.

In Daughters of Desire, Shameem Kabir provides a more optimistic perspective

on this disturbing trend,

Women and minorities are going “narrative” to recuperate a more generally shared filmic language. This involves the re-appropriation of cinematic forms (narratives, genres, aesthetic codes) previously defined as belonging to the patriarchy. (p. 90)

Though this argument has been made before, and though my voyeuristic need for

escapism would love to accept this as possible, I find this to be a rather naive perspective on what seems to me a generally irresponsible manner of representation. How can, from a theoretical standpoint, one truly separate or escape a history of prejudice using the 32

structural models used to exact the very same prejudice? How far exactly can re-

appropriation take you? Kabir does, however, provide a counterpoint to her earlier

argument, “Lesbian filmmaker Barbara Hammer finds that ‘conventional narrative’ is a

‘patriarchal and heterosexist mode’ and to break free, one has to disrupt such modes,

where ‘radical content deserves radical form.’” (p.89) Kabir goes on to say, “Narrative

can evidence less interest in ‘what’ happens, which is the suspense factor, and more in

‘how’ it happens, in the process, which can be repeated.” And, it is this repetition, this

filmic exercise, akin to paint-by-numbers, that feels so objectionable and contradictory to that which queer peoples have been attempting to subvert.

Additionally, within these ‘coming out’ films there is a startling lack of willingness to address issues of class beyond what is only superficial and incidental to the films’ plot lines. Class is not an issue that has been often negotiated within classical

Hollywood cinema with any kind of depth and complexity, and is used most often to merely accentuate the stakes or intensify the film’s dramatic tension, but rarely with any serious examination of the complexities inherent to class-stratification. Regrettably, these

‘coming out’ films employ these class divisions with much the same lack of true understanding and depth. Simply as another narrative device to accentuate the character’s opposing natures, the appearance of class (when used at all) is token, at best.

Finally, there is the depiction or “performance” (as Judith Butler would have it) of femininity as being always, excessively feminine, or femme. In “When is a lesbian not a lesbian? The lesbian continuum and the mainstream femme film,” Chris Holmlund makes reference to this trend, 33

Heterosexuals threatened and/or titillated by lesbianism could reassure themselves that the female characters on the screen were “just friends” and/or find voyeuristic satisfaction in watching two beautiful women together. Lesbians too could take pleasure in looking at and fantasizing about female characters they saw as lovers, not just as friends. (p. 34)

She goes on to say, “For many mainstream critics, the basically feminine attributes of all the female characters made these films all the more easily digestible as fictions about

“every woman.”” (p. 38) With not a butch or someone even approaching butch, in sight – these films maintain the image of the perfectly feminine woman that the dominant

Hollywood narrative would have you believe. While these ‘coming out’ films seek to

trouble the notion of one [hetero] sexuality, they are awfully quick to suggest that

lesbianism has only one expression of gender. That there exists only one acceptable

lesbian face, and that face is definitely wearing lipstick. While perhaps this could be seen

as a productive step away from the tough-talking prison matrons of old, (Caged, 1950)

the swing is too violent – and its opposite, the well-manicured lesbian bombshell, is just

as harmful (in its predominance) as its mannish and predatory lesbian cousin.

Despite my protestations thus far, these films are not “evil” and they are not

wholly without purpose. In her text, Impossible Bodies: Femininity and Masculinity at

the Movies, Chris Holmlund gives some additional insight into the possible complexities

inherent to these transitional films,

The profit motives behind the mainstreaming of lesbianism in these films that I am going to discuss are enough to render such black-and-white judgments suspect, for the 34

images of lesbians they present are necessarily air brushed to appeal to as diverse an audience as possible. (p. 34)

Meaning, that these images contain a purpose or import beyond what the images

themselves portray. Though the images say quite a lot about the direction of lesbian representation, there is no clear “answer” or indication as to the inherent quality of the films as cultural indicators. Because profit plays a part (a significant factor to be discussed later), anything thus presented bears the mark of ulterior motives.

I realize this raises certain questions regarding the nature of those individuals with alternative sexualities, and whether one’s sexuality necessarily dictates a divergence from traditional art and culture. In “Commodity Fetishism and Commodity Enchantment,”

Jane Bennet, raises a question concerning this fraught intersection, “How does a zest for commodified art coexist with a critical awareness of its manipulative intent?” And so, it

is not that these films exist, for who would necessarily question ones desire to see

“queer” versions of straight stories – but that they exist in such numbers, and that their

emergence reached this critical mass within a relatively short span of time is a

phenomenon worth exploring. And, in the next chapter I will begin expand from this more-general discussion to provide specific, textual examples from the films themselves to support my various assertions.

35

CHAPTER 3: The Emerging Queer Adolescent

The coming-of-age story has existed on film for a great many years to varying

degrees of complexity and success. From To Kill a Mockingbird (1962) and 400 Blows

(1959) to A Little Romance (1979) and Sixteen Candles (1984) there have been a great many stories which deal with the process of growing up. And such stories contain a few common rites of passage; such as the loss of innocence, sibling and peer rivalry, an

encounter with the adult world, and the acceptance of one’s new responsibilities at the

expense of one’s adolescent pursuits and ideas. And, within the teenage years, the

majority of stories overwhelmingly focus on the pursuit and experience of first love. The

following films were an extension, or derivation, of such films – they are the “queer”

version of the coming-of-age film and similarly done to varying degrees of complexity and success: The Incredibly True Adventures of Two Girls in Love (1994), Better than

Chocolate (1998), All Over Me (1997), Show Me Love (1999), Set Me Free (1999) and

But, I’m a Cheerleader (1999). However, within this analysis, I am focusing on only two films (for the sake of specificity) which negotiate not only the coming-of-age process, but also the ‘coming out’ or sexual awakening as the central thrust within the film’s narrative arc. While all of the aforementioned films deal with an element of “alternative” sexuality, a slightly smaller group is specifically involved in the “project” of lesbian representation, that is, they possess an overt agenda - and it is with these films that this chapter will seek to engage.

The Incredibly True Adventure of Two Girls in Love is the first film, in the aforementioned group of films, to negotiate the ‘coming out’ of America’s youth. And, as 36

one might expect, it carries with it a degree of didactic political posturing, yet ultimately its message is surprisingly benign and ambivalent towards the formation of a truly subversive identity.

Randy Dean (Laurel Holloman) is a young, working-class dyke of the early

1990s. Replete with converse sneakers and grungy, non-descript, clothing; Randy is a rebel, a slacker, and an outsider; yet, desperate for love. Conversely, Evie (Nicole Parker) is an upper-middle class African-American. She is an over-achiever with the perfect house, the perfect car, and the perfect friends. Clearly these two central characters represent opposite ends of the teenage spectrum and thus it is inevitable, and obvious from the beginning, that they will meet and fall in love. Accentuating their dichotomous

personalities is the element of race (Randy is white, Evie is black), essentially a casting

decision that has little impact on the film’s plot but significant impact on its symbolism.

That Randy and Evie are both girls is the only aspect in which this film deviates from a

traditional (heterosexual) teenage/coming-of-age narrative, and if I had never revealed

Randy as a female, with appropriate gender-specific pronouns, and continued to impart

details of the film’s plot, no one would ever be the wiser.

Director, Maria Maggenti’s first film chronicles first love, and is an inarguably

sweet film. These two characters are likeable, sympathetic and chock full of the typical

angst-ridden dilemmas that ritually face America’s youth (school problems, friend

problems, parent problems, etc.). Yet their story is riddled with one youthful cliché after

another. Randy is a bit of a misfit. She is out of place in her surroundings, ridiculed for

being a “dyke” and considered too-obvious. Thus, based on her un-feminine attire, she is 37

ostracized. That her gender is somewhat blurred (she is a tomboy) is the only respect in

which this film negotiates issues of queerness – deviating only slightly from the generally

overt feminine depiction of lesbian characters. Randy lives with her lesbian aunt and

though within their household there is the occasional mention of their “alternative”

lifestyle, nothing within the framework of the film’s plot actually addresses any of these

issues in a serious or thorough manner. That Randy’s home life is non-traditional, serves

only to separate her from Evie’s privileged lifestyle, to accentuate their difference for the purposes of romantic conquest. To perpetuate the cinematic, or rather narrative notion,

that “love conquers all.” I don’t wish to imply that lesbian films must always portray

“their” community as pathetic loners, incapable of successful couple-hood, rather, the

depth to which the characters economic, social, and familial differences is explored is

token, at best. This failing is not the exception, but the rule within traditional coming-of-

age narratives – and The Incredibly True Adventure fails to avoid this trap. Rather than

portray the complexities of the ‘coming out’ process amidst the social pressures of high

school – this film is reduced to a goofy (perhaps wistful) comedy, complete with a wacky

chase scene at the film’s climax – in which Randy and Evie go on the lamb, eventually

secluding themselves inside a seedy motel, on the run from reality. And it is outside this

seedy motel room that their family and friends flock to confront them about the realities

and consequences of their decisions – and as the love birds cower below the window,

hands intertwined and just barely out of sight, they formulate their demands and devise

their getaway in a scene reminiscent of the last stand in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance

Kid (1969) and Thelma and Louise (1991). 38

Similar to Randy’s economic situation – there is nothing about Evie’s situation

that serves to distinguish her identity as anything other than heterosexual female. She is

the princess, the prom queen, who descends from her ivory tower to slum it with the girl

(might as well be boy) from the other side of the tracks. However, the most startling lack

in this film is the negotiation of race, or the avoidance of just such a negotiation. In

“Eating the Other: Desire and Resistance,” bell hooks discusses the issue of race or

“blackness” as something to be consumed and commodified,

Within current debates about race and difference, mass culture is the contemporary location that both publicly declares and perpetuates the idea that there is pleasure to be found in the acknowledgement and enjoyment of racial difference. (p. 424)

As previously stated Evie is an African-American and before beginning any criticism, I

feel I must first acknowledge that, of course, there is no one way to be African-American,

nor should there be. That said, there is nothing in the film’s content that indicates her

race, or makes reference to the obvious difference beyond the visual. She is, in large part,

separated from all other African-Americans and with the exception of her mother and the very brief appearance of a boyfriend – she is the black face in a world of white. She has white friends, drives a white Range Rover, and ends up with a white girl by the film’s end

– what could be safer for a white population? Beyond one or two comments regarding race, the film sides-steps the issue completely, and while perhaps there is something to be said for her race being, “no big deal,” in reality this seems highly implausible, especially considering the rather rural local in which the film takes place. 39

With the above evidence in mind, I find it hard to accept Evie’s blackness as anything other than a narrative tool to heighten the stakes of their romance and accentuate the dark/blonde dichotomy that exists again and again in these ‘coming out’ films. In addition, and in reference to the words of bell hooks, does this black character perhaps serve to not only emphasize their difference but to add to the illicit and forbidden nature of their relationship? Does it not intend to titillate? The notion of two women “together” is already fodder for male fantasy – to then add the exotic nature of a cross-racial relationship, what could be more taboo? And finally, it is Randy who is the established lesbian, not Evie – and so in regards to a burgeoning lesbian identity and the potential consequences, the stakes lie in Evie’s court. It is she who is venturing forth into uncharted sexual territory. And so, in order to heighten the stakes for Randy and level the playing field, crafting Evie’s character as a black character, accentuates the extremity of the consequences for both girls and contributes to the overall exotic nature of their

“unholy” union. Evie is different, she is the other “other” and while in some ways it is refreshing to direct otherness towards someone besides the queer character (who has habitually held that status) by creating an “other” of the black character – you simply substitute one problem for another, and when it comes to the otherness of African

Americans, their history of negative representation in cinema surely rivals, if not surpasses, the harms done to the queer population through pejorative and stereotypical depiction.

I do not wish to imply that The Incredibly True Adventure of Two Girls in Love strove to make a racially irresponsible film. Rather, like many of its problems, it appears 40

unintentional – but damaging nonetheless. Maggenti presumably tried to make a film that was an entertaining and enjoyable experience and that would appeal to as wide an audience as possible – to get the message “out.” Yet, in doing so the film necessarily falls prey to a structure and set of generic conventions and harmful stereotypes that have previously and predominantly served the queer and black community very ill.

At the tail end of the 1990s, is Jamie Babbit’s 1999 film entitled, But I’m a

Cheerleader, and though the film is working within the parameters of slightly different genre, the structural conventions of a romantic melodrama are surprisingly similar.

Cheerleader centers around two teenage lesbians negotiating the societal and familial expectations of late-adolescence while remanded to a rehabilitation “camp” for homosexuals (think: homosexuals anonymous). They are there to be “fixed.” Megan

(Natasha Lyonne) is the film’s central character, and it is her journey we observe; from an innocent, heterosexual, cheerleader to informed, adult lesbian. Megan is blonde, perky, and completely naive concerning not only her sexuality, but of any sexuality beyond heterosexual, procreative, monogamy. As she describes it, “I’m not perverted. I get good grades, I go to church...I’m a cheerleader. I’m not like all of you.”

And, by “you” she means Graham (Clea Duvall). The dark, brooding, cynic with a punk rock attitude and all the necessary piercings; Graham, is her romantic foil or opposite. She is blunt, cranky and generally pissed off – a far cry from the bright ray of sunshine that is Megan. In the very first scene in which they are introduced, Megan is being given the grand tour of the rehabilitation facilities. Upon entrance to their sleeping 41

quarters (a room awash in pink…everything), we meet Graham, the room’s only

inhabitant, (a dark visual blot on her perfect pink surroundings) who looks up from her

cigarette to regard Megan with a look of disdain. Megan wonders aloud what her tour

guide (Melanie Lynskey) means when she says that there is no “funny business allowed”

in the girl’s dormitory. “Like swearing?” Megan suggests. “No, like fucking!” Graham

replies. And, with those three words, her character is instantly established as everything

that Megan is not, and everything with which she will become further acquainted. This

scene, bursting with exaggerated décor and satiric visuals on what it means to be a girl,

sets up the arc for the rest of the film – from sexually naïve cheerleader to sexually

informed lesbian cheerleader – Megan’s romantic conquest and sexual journey has been

established.

I mention this scene because it is exceptional only in that the romantic couple

consists of two girls. There is, now and then, a splash of racy dialogue or some lewd

sexual innuendo – but essentially it is, again, an example of a very conventional romantic

comedy in which the central romantic pair must overcome a variety of contrived

obstacles in order to consummate their mutual attraction and feelings of love. Although it quite clearly utilizes the aforementioned device of the attraction/antagonism of opposites

– it also falls prey to the trap of presenting the lesbian population as containing one

uniform performance of gender - that will only allow its girls to be “girls.” Both Megan

and Graham, though possessing a slightly divergent fashion sense would be characterized

as lipstick (overtly femme) lesbians. While perhaps, Graham’s dark attire, and somewhat

punky look could perhaps move her into the “chap-stick” category – neither girl exists 42

much outside the accepted norm of feminine aesthetics or behavior. In addition, neither girl (nor any other character in the film) is shown to exist in any other class but the middle. Not that class is necessarily the film’s point – but the film’s tendency to collapse its characters into one upper-middle class lump seems all too reminiscent of every teenage, coming-of-age story I’ve ever seen. Whether considering the collected teenage works of John Hughes (Sixteen Candles (1984), The Breakfast Club (1985), and Pretty in

Pink (1986)) or the new crop of popular adolescent films (the American Pie series), teens in film deal only incidentally, and with minor consequences when it concerns matters of class.

And, while class does play a minor part in The Incredibly True Adventure…, there are no real consequences or any manner of in-depth exploration as to why or how their class divide will affect their relationship. The difference of class is used more as a tool to accentuate the places from which they are coming and to heighten the romantic grandeur inherent in their ability to bridge the gap between race and class in order to sustain their feelings of love. It is intended as a testament to their love, but because no real exploration is given into the consequences of such a difference, it reduces the usefulness of such class distinctions to a mere proxy for the appearance of social progressivity. The same goes for

But, I’m a Cheerleader – in which Graham is portrayed as a wealthy trust-fund brat, but of course despite a minor device to heighten the conflict and increase the stakes – her economic difference from Megan is never something that bears any true weight. And here, is the reason: Most teenage films (heterosexual and homosexual alike) do not deal with the details and intricacies of an established relationship but with the budding 43

romance, the “honeymoon” phase – in which everything is new and nothing is

insurmountable. Rather than negotiate the complications of a long-term or existing

relationship – most films which deal with coming-of-age romance tell the story of

courtship not the period when things become pedestrian Once the initial starry-eyed

sheen wears off, the two characters will be forced to face all the problems which their

opposite natures will necessarily entail as well as the additional conflict that might arise

from two vastly different economic experiences (in the case of The Incredible True

Adventure). But, this later period is not the stuff of sweet romantic cinema – and has only

rarely been addressed in cinema at large, so why should it necessarily be expected within

its queer subset. That the films reach their climax at the point of consummation, sexual or

otherwise – and that the happy lesbian couple then rides off into the proverbial sunset

allows for the suspension of disbelief and for any realities concerning their relationship to

be postponed until further notice. Like, The Incredibly True Adventure…, Cheerleader

concludes its narrative in typically exaggerated and comic style: Megan (sporting military camouflage) rescues Graham from the hetero-to-homo graduation ceremony and after a

declaration of love, cheerleader style, the pair dash to a waiting pickup truck and ride of into the sunset, clasped in a tender embrace.

Lastly, I am curious as to way in which this sexual consummation is portrayed

visually via the two separate films. That is, if you were to show each film’s “sex scene”

in succession – the similarities would be startling. Both Cheerleader and The Incredibly

True Adventure contain a brief and entirely benign depiction of teenage sex. As is typical

in this country, sexuality, especially as it pertains to America’s youth, is considered taboo 44

as if those under 18 years of age are asexual beings. Accordingly, each film’s sex scene is visually composed of a series of tight, disconnected body parts (bringing to mind

Mulvey’s notion of the “male gaze”) – the physical connection established as part for the whole. In small visual glimpses, anonymous hands move across midriffs, mysterious thighs brush up against one another, all a microcosm of their larger, supposedly entangled bodies. And of course, orgasm is never featured. And, so, though these films are willing to portray the existence of same-sex romance, they remain bound by the conventions of the archaic Hollywood code when it comes to the depiction of actual sexual acts between those “underage.” So, at the films’ end when the female couples engage in some degree of physical connection, the visual style, with soft light, soft focus, and a constricting frame create the feeling that these films are not as daring as they would like to think and unwilling to construct a reality outside of the typical, heteronormative narrative tradition.

Some of the other films within this coming-of-age and ‘coming out’ classification do contain a small degree of increased sexuality, and some address the issues of race and class with a greater degree of insight. Yet, as a whole the films each sacrifice, to a great degree, the subversive possibility inherent in their content, in order to put a friendly face on America’s queer youth. I am not opposed to teenagers having a sympathetic and affirming visual representation to emulate, but these films’ willingness to sacrifice difference, I believe ultimately does more harm than good. The narratives created are nothing new and nothing special and if one character in each film was changed from girl to boy, these films would never have been made because, we’ve seen them all before.

45

CHAPTER 4: The Emerging Queer Woman

The second-most predominant strain of independent lesbian films released

throughout the 1990s were the romantic lesbian melodrama (analogous to the

aforementioned Desert Hearts) which negotiated the ‘coming out’ of a previously-

straight woman made aware of her same-sex desires through an encounter with a, or the, dark, lesbian “other.” There are several films which fall under this category: Claire of the

Moon (1992), Late Bloomers (1995), It’s in the Water (1996), High Art (1998), Wild Side

(1998) and When Night is Falling (1995). And, similar to the coming-of-age films – these

“adult” films were executed to varying degrees of success. Their aesthetic approach may differ and their and narrative style might fluctuate, ever so slightly, but ultimately the manner in which these films depict the emergence of an adult female’s lesbian sexual identity and the attendant relationship between said emergent lesbian and established

[pro] lesbian is remarkably similar. In addition to characterization, the narrative structure upon which the lesbian romance hangs is invariably based on a melodramatic formula for romantic love. That is, the paradigm of the personal. Not to imply that each film is working solely within the confines of the melodramatic genre, for each film might employ, to a lesser degree, an amalgamation of other genres (though, regardless of the genre, be it screwball comedy or film noir, each generic usage is invariably patterned after the pre-existing Hollywood formula) – yet when it comes to the representation of romance, there is a consistent melodramatic genricity which engages and colors the films’ depiction of romance. And, to some extent this generic choice is logical. When constructing these romantic lesbian tales (read: fantasies), why not adopt a form which 46

has historically been associated with the intimate and highly-introspective realm of “the”

woman; because, these are serious stories (regardless of any comedic trappings) and in

order to be regarded as such, these films have patterned themselves after a genre that is

nothing if not serious.

Although all of these films court the seduction of the straight woman, for the sake of time and specificity I am going to address in detail only two. Claire of the Moon, the

1992 film by Nicole Conn is chock-full of dismal acting and absurdly melodramatic scenarios. And, it is perhaps best known for its intimate, touchy-feely approach to lesbianism. The film contains plenty of moody, instrumental music, plenty of conversation (rife with the pregnant pause) and one scene after another that relies on the supposed sexual tension conveyed through the longing glance. The second film here under discussion is Patricia Rozema’s 1995 film, When Night is Falling. Although When

Night is Falling is far superior in many respects to Claire of the Moon, (visually, performance-wise, and otherwise) both films rely on a set of generic conventions common to the “woman’s film” or [heterosexual] romantic melodrama and both resemble and support a structure and narrative framework which essentially strips their transgressive content of any significant, truly subversive, potential.

Claire of the Moon (if the nauseating title doesn’t already indicate) is a film about two women attempting to locate their inner selves, creative voice and vitality while attending a writers retreat for women. Set in a pastoral, Northeastern, waterfront locale – the women are spurred on towards inspiration through long wistful walks on the beach and intimate, character-building, conversation with fellow writers. The two central 47

characters, Noel (Karen Trumbo) and Claire (Trisha Todd), forced to share living quarters, are instantly at odds with one another. Noel, a tall, striking, brunette with a rather stern and clenched personality, lives a very ordered life; she is the established lesbian. Thus, Claire, the cool blonde, is the man-crazy heterosexual. She is completely disorganized, and in a slight variance from the normal dynamic, it is Claire who is the free spirit, the rebel - that is, in all respects other than her [straight] sexuality. From the very beginning the antagonism is established, via the women’s divergent working conditions: Noel prefers quiet, Claire prefers music; Noel prefers neatness, Claire prefers a mess; Claire is a smoker; and, naturally, Noel detests smoking. Thus, for the first third of the film the two women are placed in one confrontation (as foreplay) after another.

And, of course, as the film progresses the two women grow together and their oppositional personalities soon serve as the site of attraction. Finally, as is custom, the two women consummate their building attraction in the film’s concluding scene; a scene that for all its supposed power and honesty, more-closely resembles soft-core pornography than anything else - full of posing and histrionic musical accompaniment.

As discussed in an earlier chapter, there are several commonalities between the

‘coming out’ films and Claire of the Moon is no exception. Noel, the lesbian, is of course a brunette. Her personality is dark, somewhat moody – and it is she who seeks to acquaint the blonde (Claire) with the benefits of lesbianism. Because, like Desert Hearts, the obstacles or points of conflict come not from without, but from within – the conflict created through the characters oppositional dialectic (as visually represented by their dark vs. light appearance) is the sole tool with which the filmmakers are seeking to create a 48

narrative tension. And, because we don’t envision these characters eventually walking down the [marriage] isle (as is common in heterosexual love stories), the tension is created and maintained for one purpose, that is, the point of sexual consummation.

Different from the ‘coming-of-age’ stories, the adult lesbian melodramas do contain fairly graphic sex scenes. Yet, regardless of their level of nudity, they are similarly styled

(to the ‘coming-of-age’ films), with cropped frames, disconnected body parts, and much inauthentic, and oftentimes non-committal languid gesturing – designed to bring “it” without “bringin’ it!” It is just such a sex scene towards which the narratives are generally constructed.

An additional commonality between these films is the lack of a substantial community in which these lesbian characters exist. As opposed to the familial environment, and structures of kinship created in Go Fish, these lesbian melodramas are created quite separate from any cohesive lesbian network. Though Claire does take place in a community of women – the dynamic is certainly not nurturing and not especially lesbian. In fact, of the films under discussion, (Desert Hearts, It’s in the Water, High Art,

Late Bloomers, and When Night is Falling) not one film places its romantic leads among like-minded people. Though the films are usually light on outright homophobia, containing instead, friendly heterosexuals, they fail to create an environment in which the lesbian couple is one of many. In Impossible Bodies: Femininity and Masculinity at the

Movies Chris Holmlund gives a possible reason for this lack,

In most cases because these films valued romance over sexuality and downplayed references to community and consciousness, following conventions of the woman’s film, 49

the burden of deciding whether these film femmes were friends or lovers fell on the individual audience member. (p. 48)

Because these characters are often the only lesbians in the film – their relationship can be perceived as an aberration or anomaly and therefore unthreatening to a larger heterosexual majority. And, if the film is unthreatening it can therefore find a larger audience, outside of its niche market. The female characters may be in love, but it is certainly not the “norm” and if their relationship and sexual identity is isolated from all

“others” of a comparable nature then how can they be viewed as anything other than the exception to the [heterosexual] rule. Nevertheless, in the end, a little marginalized exposure is better than none at all, right?

In addition to discussing the lack of a coherent lesbian community, Holmlund’s quote also makes reference to my second point. That is, the startling dearth of gender diversity when it comes to these romantic adult melodramas. Though women, as a sex, may share the same basic biological equipment, the expression or visual manifestation of one’s gender is incredibly diverse. Unfortunately though, there is only one performance of gender that exists in these lesbian romantic melodramas, and she is always a femme.

From the mother of them all, Desert Hearts, to the modern-day lesbian vehicle, The L

Word, very few (if any) romantic lesbian melodramas contain butch or even mildly androgynous female characters. I do not wish to suggest that these films are any different than the vast majority of Hollywood films which seem to portray only the “beautiful” people – these lesbian films are certainly not alone in their skewed representation of 50

femininity. Yet, here again, is my central thesis – by succumbing to the expected, the

familiar model of not only narrative structure but also the homogenous manifestation of

gender, these independent films nullify any potential for true change. Although the

‘coming out’ films strive to portray an “other” form of romantic love, that is the sole

point of departure from the mainstream model. I have heard/read the rationale that before

such films appeared, the general perception of lesbians was as man-hating, mullet-

sporting, flannel wearing “dykes.” Thus, the super-femme, complete with heels, make-up,

and anything skin-tight and low-cut was a welcome change, a necessary derivation.

However, again, the shift has been too extreme and though “we” now appear on television and on film as no different from our heterosexual “sisters,” something has been lost, something in-between. It appears as if the 1950s gender-binary of butch and femme, a dangerous and limiting bifurcation, that dominated so much of lesbian society is still in existence and that those who fall outside of these two discrete gendered categories need not apply. Claire of the Moon is just one example among many, and though the lesbian community can take pleasure from the successful coupling of Claire and Noel, their existence does very little to complicate or trouble the established conventions of narrative, genre, and the female image.

A second lesbian-indie film from the 1990s, goes further in some respects towards the creation of an aesthetically ambitious lesbian film (as opposed to the large number of low-budget, visually uninspired lesbian films), but fails to avoid the aforementioned traps when it comes to the patterning of narrative and the construction of original characters.

When Night is Falling, the 1995 film by Canadian director, Patricia Rozema focuses on 51

the romantic relationship between Camille (Pascale Bussieres) and Petra (Rachel

Crawford). Camille is a professor at a conservative Christian college where she teaches

mythology. She is a very proper and contained person – and she is white. Petra is a performer in a traveling modern-circus (a low-budget Cirque de Soleil), she is wild, impetuous – and, she is black. Yet again, based on the details I have just imparted, the

aforementioned formula of opposites applies, in spades. Upon a chance meeting at a local

laundromat, Petra performs a “switch-er-ooo” on the two women’s laundry – therefore

manufacturing the need for a second meeting; and, as the film progresses, Petra, the

unpredictable, circus lesbian puts the voodoo on the rather conservative, straight,

Camille, who slowly finds herself inextricably drawn to the dark and mysterious

performer. Petra is, in essence, everything that Camille is not. And, so the familiar

dynamic rears its ugly, but recognizable head. And, similar to the lack of community, in

which the lesbian couple is a part for the whole, away from any “others,” so too is Petra,

the black woman, apart from any other members of her own race. She is (like in The

Incredibly True Adventure of Two Girls in Love) the sole representative of her black race.

And, beyond the color of her skin, the fact of her race serves no other conceivable

purpose than to highlight the difference between the two lovers and to symbolize the

darkness or “other”, both racially and sexually, toward which Camille is eventually

seduced. To again quote bell hooks from her article, “Eating the Other: Desire and

Resistance,”

When race and ethnicity become commodified as resources for pleasure, the culture of specific groups, as well as the bodies of the individuals, can be seen as constituting an 52

alternative playground where members of dominating races, genders, sexual practices affirm their power-over in intimate relations with the Other. (p. 425)

Put simply, hooks is addressing the commodified representation of the racial “other” and

the exotic form that this racial body often takes as a vehicle to pleasure the dominant

[white] race. And her point is made quite evident in the heterosexual love scene between

Camille and her [white] boyfriend and colleague, Martin (Henry Czerny). As the couple engages in sexual intercourse, Camille stares trance-like at the ceiling where an almost tribal-like image of a dancing Petra performs her circus act in silhouette. She is there, in essence, not reality, to provide an illusory exotic twist or sexual spice to the now- mundane physical interactions between Camille and Martin. She is being used as a

“resource for pleasure” as nothing more than a racial implement to inspire the sex life of a white, bourgeoisie, hetero-couple. Not that this was necessarily the intention of the scene. In fact, most likely, this scene was intended to suggest that Camille was engaging in a heterosexual act of sex while fantasizing about the new woman in her life; that her sexual self is now attuned to a more feminine sensibility as embodied by the image of

Petra. Yet, this scene perfectly articulates the exotic nature of Camille’s interest in Petra – and through this usage, however unintentional, Rozema is evoking a historical (cinematic and otherwise) stereotype about the nature and purpose of black bodies (as untamed and oversexed) – and the extent to which white bodies have invariably taken advantage.

When Night is Falling is a visually stunning film, with lush and lyrically composed imagery. However, nothing in the dynamic between the two women, or the 53

manner in which their seduction occurs is anything other than standard. Of course,

Camille, the “straight” white woman is the film’s main character and though Petra has a

few scenes apart from their scenes together, it is Camille’s journey who we witness. From

sheltered straight Christian to lesbian bohemian, her journey is, though implausible, the

one with which we are meant to identify. Petra, on the other hand, fulfills the long-held

place of the supporting lesbian character. Whether considering Silkwood (1983), Basic

Instinct (1993), First Wives Club (1996), Chasing Amy (1997), or Under the Tuscan Sun

(2003) – Hollywood has become well acquainted in the last 30 years with the “out”

lesbian as sidekick or subplot (and even further back in history with the sub-textual

lesbian). Therefore, it is all the more disturbing when these lesbian-made independent

films, financially apart from many mainstream influences and focus groups, continue to

further this marginalization.

Furthermore, like many of the other adult ‘coming out’ films, usually directed by

“out” lesbians, Rozema chose for her central character, the obligatory straight woman on

the verge of sexual discovery. As though the only sexual discovery one can make is from

straight to gay. Like their heterosexual counterparts, the lesbian romantic melodramas are not about gray areas, and cannot end in indecision – but must create stark contrasts between good and evil, dark and light, and for my purposes, straight and gay/lesbian (not

queer). In Generation Q’s ABCs: Queer kids and 1990s ‘independent films’, Chris

Holmlund makes reference to this necessary bifurcation, “Terms like ‘queer,’

‘transgendered,’ and ‘bisexual’ are rarely used: to admit fluidity or acknowledge choice

is deemed dangerous.” So, while these films strive to portray the existence of alternative 54

sexualities, the notion of fluidity or queerness is something not really under discussion.

Because if a woman is a lesbian that’s one thing – she can self-identify and everything is

then clearly labeled, categorized, and controlled – if, however, the subject is seen to be

fluctuating, the indeterminate nature of her sexuality becomes a site of contestation, change, and perhaps (gasp!) choice.

At the conclusion of When Night is Falling, Camille literally runs away to join the circus – and thus joins the other fictional lesbians (mentioned thus far) in her flight from reality. The romantic lesbian melodrama is certainly not exempt from the desire to engage the “happy ending,” and a great number of films portray their women as literally and figuratively riding off into the sunset. That they experience a happy ending is not

nearly as problematic as the fact that most flee from their home environment in search of

happiness, thereby suggesting that staying in one place – in one’s home - is untenable or

impossible to achieve for a “happy” lesbian couple.

When Night is Falling and Claire of the Moon are not the only films which

negotiate these issues. In the film Late Bloomers (1996) a lesbian gym teacher finds herself attracted to the school’s math teacher and so begins a bizarre romance in which the straight female math teacher leaves her husband for the tall, leggy gym teacher. It’s in the Water, a romantic farcical comedy by director Kelli Herd pairs two ultra-femme

Texans together in a film filled with references to the lesbian canon, but still cannot manage to eschew the same traditional romantic paradigms. In fact, there is one scene in particular from It’s in the Water that merits a brief mention. Alex (Keri Jo Chapman) is a rich, white, blonde member of the Junior League in rural Texas. Married to a hulking he- 55

ape, she is rather ambivalent concerning her non-existent sex/love life. Therefore, when

an old high-school friend, Grace (Teresa Garrett), a pretty brunette, returns to town and

reveals that she is a lesbian, Alex begins to question her own sexuality. Overall the film is

un-remarkable; however, there is one scene that makes particular reference to the

accumulation of a small flock of lesbian films. Alex, having feigned illness to escape a

dinner party, sneaks to the local video store and rents every lesbian film in the place (a

list which includes: Lianna, Personal Best, Desert Hearts, The Incredible True Adventure of Two Girls in Love, and Claire of the Moon). Upon returning home she watches in rapt

attention as the events of the films unfold, positively mesmerized by the images of girl-

on-girl action (or inaction as the case may be). While we can’t see actual images from

these films (most likely due to budgetary limitations), we can, instead, watch Alex and

her glowing face as she absorbs one after another – taking in what modern film history

has had to “say” about lesbians. The scene is brief, but fascinating in its self-reflexivity as

this woman learns about lesbianism or “how- to” be a lesbian from a canon of films that

It’s in the Water is now ostensibly a part of. That she is learning from a movie is not unusual or even atypical to my understanding and experience of the post-modern human condition, but that she is viewing a list of movies that predominantly stereotype and

fantasize lesbian identity, seems rather ironic. And, that this film undergoes much the same stereotypical process is all the more intriguing or rather, frustrating.

Finally, though mentioned briefly in an earlier chapter, I think it is essential to

discuss the straight-to-gay character arc which these films promote with their romantic

conversion narratives. Almost every film in the ‘coming out’ genre includes the 56

progression or transformation of one female character from straight, man-lovin’ lady to

lady-lovin’ lesbian. While the political face of the lesbian community largely decries

such a desire, it appears obvious through the narratives created that the desire to convert

the straight woman is a common fantasy. Similar to the heterosexual Hollywood

narratives wherein the overlooked male (class nerd or reject) pursues the popular girl in

school – which invariably ends in success – these conversion fantasies in which any

woman can be “turned” suggests a possibility and unrealistic goal that does more harm

than the fantasy could do momentary good. Subsequently, what does this desire as well as the prevalence and popularity of these stories indicate about the movement or trend in independent lesbian cinema? These storylines were not dictated by a Hollywood studio boss and in most cases these films were financed on a shoe-string and released

predominantly via the festival market. So, why does this particular narrative hold such allure? I can only attest that because so much of cinema is designed for the purposes of escapism (to which the lesbian community is certainly not immune), that these fantastic tales of conversion are the perfect medium through which the long-deprived lesbian community can voyeuristically witness the seduction they so-wish they had

experienced.

These adult lesbian melodramas did not die with the beginning of the new

millennium, but continue unabated (Kissing Jessica Stein (2002), Imagine Me & You

(2006), Grey Matters (2007)), strikingly similar in method and misstep. And, if these

films continue to persist, as nothing more than heterosexual love stories with the gender 57

inverted, lesbian representation will never achieve a unique identity apart from that which is salvaged from the heteronormative and hegemonic [cinematic] leftovers.

58

CHAPTER 5: The Queer Commodity

Up to this point I have sought to provide an analysis of the ‘coming out’ films; their

historical predecessors, generic components as well as supporting textual examples from

the films themselves. I have attempted to make clear the content, structure, and scope of

the films considered (by me) to be the ‘coming-out’ films. And, as I expressed in the

Introduction, these films are intriguing not in their individuality and daring, but their

willingness to adopt the narrative conventions of traditional, heteronormative, American

cinema – with all the corresponding problematic ideologies. And, as made clear by

Chapter 1: A Queer Historiography, the contemporary point at which these films emerged

is significant as a moment in cultural transition – for they were both adherent to and dismissive of the various cinematic and social precursors which made their existence possible.

However, there is another essential component to my argument. In her article,

“Commodity Fetishism and Commodity Enchantment,” Jane Bennett poses an intriguing

question, “What is the relationship between pleasure afforded by mass-produced

entertainment and ethico-political complacency?” (p.7) Bennet goes on to say,

Particular repertoires of consumption are said to function as a language of invention with which radical groups can think about, refine, and ultimately advertise their ideologies. Such perspectives, which emphasize the libratory possibilities internal to consumption, contest the idea that only revolutionary action can alter the economic terms of justice. (p.4)

59

I mention Bennett’s questions and assertions, because I believe these ‘coming out’ films,

with their earnest representations of happy homosexuals, coupling and multiplying

(metaphorically, of course), represent a key moment in which the ‘pleasure afforded’ to

the previously bereft lesbian community by the “mass-produced entertainment” became

too tempting to deny thus leading to the inevitable and logical conclusion of, “ethico-

political complacency.” The popularity and prevalence of these ‘coming out’ films was a multi-faceted process and there has been much written about the appropriation and capitalization of the “gay” market, or the recognition of the gay consumer. And I believe that in many respects, consumption was perceived to be a definite, “libratory possibility” for the gay community to escape the clutches of heterosexual society’s domination of capital.

With the significant acclaim of New Queer Cinema, came a degree of public awareness – this critical mass coming at a relatively advantageous political moment with the election of Bill Clinton and on the heels of a devastating epidemic (AIDS). However once the market was identified, from both ends of the sexual identity continuum, the whiff of capital polluted the air – and thus the ‘coming out’ films became a valuable commodity for both “camps.” The essence of the commodity (as Marx would have it) is its “spectacular” ability to obscure the labor involved in its creation and therefore value.

For my purposes, I posit that the queer commodity obscures not only its labor force, but also the heteronormative/traditional structure on which it is based. These independent lesbian films portray just that, lesbians, and because their content is somewhat

“alternative” it is easy to misconstrue the films themselves as anything other than 60

ordinary. Conversely, for those heterosexual audience members, these “straight” films with a queer twist are in many ways familiar, and though not immediately apparent, the gay “candy” coating is merely superficial, therefore harmless to those who don’t share in the films’ general ideological and sexual persuasion.

There is another unfortunate side effect from the commodification of all things queer. “The increasing circulation of gay and lesbian images in consumer culture has the effect of consolidating an imaginary, class-specific gay subjectivity for both straight and gay audiences.” (Hennessy, p.32) For as much as inclusion within the heteronormative structure attains, it produces a result that consolidates the queer image, and community as consisting of only one societal stratum. Queerness within contemporary American culture has only one face; he/she is white, attractive, upper-middle class, and educated. And, though the popular visual perception of gay men and lesbian women is different, they are similar in their lack of ethnic, racial, and economic diversity. If the aforementioned lesbian ‘coming out’ films are not evidence enough, watch the large majority of gay male films and an identically prosperous and Aryan face will appear (replete with an always- sculpted physique).

On the one hand, there is a dominant heteronormative financial power structure that to a certain extent doesn’t care where the cash originates. In her article, “Queer

Visibility in Commodity Culture,” Rosemary Hennessy makes reference to an important trade-off, “Visibility in commodity culture is in this sense a limited victory for gays who are welcome to be visible as consumer subjects but not as social subjects.” (p. 32) In essence, while “our” money spends, it should not be assumed that this will necessarily 61

translate into equal rights and opportunities within the social sphere. However, from the

gay (predominantly male) perspective the popularity of NQC allowed them the breadth

and notoriety to develop their image, and to push for further inclusion within the

American cinematic academy. And, therein, lies the problem. Rather than build upon the

queer aesthetic and subversive potential, they settled for a more acceptable, vanilla,

persona – the crowd pleasing films which would help pave their way towards the

mainstream.

The ‘coming out’ films here under discussion were “independent” films – they

were not part of the Hollywood studio machine. Yet, their creators and distributors

(Strand Releasing, Wolfe Video, etc.), now-aware of the queer market, and not afraid to

pursue it, began to make more queer commodities (films) available for consumption.

And, as these films did well (relatively, that is) and money was made, more and more

films were made possible, many straight to DVD. Consequently, as expeditious availability and visibility at any cost became that which was essential, the quality, content, and structure of such lesbian representations became incidental at best. Thus, the desire to promote and produce lesbian films, regardless of caliber, became paramount.

Therefore, as what we were showing became less important than how [often] we were

showing it - so began the ghetto-ization of lesbian films. Stuck somewhere in the middle,

lesbian films made by and for lesbians, are not quite tame enough for mainstream but not

quite good enough to be considered avant-garde – and so they continue to exist in the

land of DVD (impressing neither the conservative American majority nor the artistically 62

ambitious), stuck in the recesses of the local video stores, resigned to the dark corner so- delegated for those films labeled gay/lesbian, alternative, and occasionally, cult.

In this contemporary media-moment, queerness has a certain cache. Whether on cable or network television, in our big box stores or small boutiques, there is most definitely something “queer” in the air. Yet despite the influx of such imagery, the cache has failed to guarantee a significantly increased social currency for the queer community outside of America’s major urban centers (and, in fact, many states have experienced a violent legislative backlash).

“A commodity appears at first sight a very trivial thing, and easily understood. Its analysis shows that it is, in reality, a very queer thing.” (Clark, pg.181) Double-entendres aside, these ‘coming out’ films might appear far from noteworthy, as self-explanatory cinematic products, not deserving of lengthy academic examination. And, in fact, relatively little has been written about their seemingly benign presentation of queer identity. Yet, these ‘coming out’ films quietly and quickly paved the way; they laid the groundwork for all that was yet to come and inevitably disappoint (think: The L Word).

And though perhaps a small modicum of visibility was attained, weighed against the homogenous, commodified, nominally-queer face, that now resides – the effort to adopt the method of our “betters” doesn’t seem all that worthwhile.

63

Conclusion

“Cinema is a system of production of meaning above and beyond a mechanical process of image generation and one that has a unique ability to play with the suppression of knowledge in favor of belief.”(Mulvey, p.12) Truthfully, there is an overwhelming part of my consciousness that would dearly love to simply succumb to the innocence and bliss that pure “belief” can illicit. I want to believe. But, my suspension of disbelief has become irreparably damaged by the sheer number of ways in which the lesbian image is injured by the marginal and mediocre depictions these ‘coming out’ films proffer, despite their best intentions. As is typical in the re-claiming of representations, the early attempts to address the legacy of homosexuality in cinema, was dominated by stereotype identification (Vito Russo’s The Celluloid Closet) and subsequent debunking. Now,

however, that the homosexual (and for my purposes, lesbian) image is relatively back

under “self” control, the critique becomes somewhat internal, but essential nonetheless.

With the emergence of queer theory, came a moment ripe for [cinematic]

transgression. Accordingly, those who understood the import of such a development took

decisive action, and the films within the New Queer Cinema are evidence.

By targeting heteronormativity rather than heterosexuality, queer theory and activism also acknowledge that heterosexuality is an institution that organized more than just the sexual: it is socially pervasive, underlying myriad taken-for-granted norms that shape what can be seen, said, and valued. (Hennessy, p.36)

This acknowledgment was invaluable. Unfortunately, despite the recognition of

subversive potential, the vast majority of filmmakers, producers, and distributors set 64

about creating narrative films that entirely adopted the methods and structures of just such a heteronormative institution. Hennessy goes on to say, “Politically, the aim of queer visibility actions is not to include queers in the cultural dominant but to continually pressure and disclose the heteronormative.” With the ‘coming out’ films in mind, how exactly is that accomplished through the mimicry of such dominant modes? As has been evidenced throughout this discussion, the characters, narrative structures, and symbolic representations are nothing, if not formulaic. And nearly every film mentioned thus far could be quickly inverted to portray heterosexual stories of romantic love. Randy, the young and grungy baby dyke (The Incredibly True Adventure of Two Girls in Love) from the wrong side of the tracks, could just have easily been a man (played by James Dean) and Camille, the white professor at a Christian college (When Night is Falling), could just have easily fallen in love with a male circus performer. Change Petra to Peter and not one scene from the film need be changed. Perhaps the point is that she didn’t; Camille didn’t fall in love with Peter, she fell in love with Petra – and such a portrayal is necessary. But, that such a substitution is so-easy, and that nothing in the film’s structure or make-up strives to create a narrative form apart from that which previously did such harm, seems utterly egregious.

Rosemary Hennessy applies a similar complaint to a few, more-commercial films,

“The critique of heterosexuality in films like The Kiss of the Spider Woman and The

Color Purple is suppressed and rendered invisible by the films compliance with the apparatus of commercial cinema and its institutional drive to, precisely, commodity exchange.”(p. 50) While the ‘coming out’ films are not comparable in their commercial- 65

scale, there complicity with the apparatus of commercial cinema is no less disturbing. In

fact, in many respect, it is more so. For, who would expect the Hollywood behemoth,

Steven Spielberg, to tackle such issues? I recognize that the films circumscribed within the ‘coming out’ moniker, did not necessarily aspire to theoretical purity. They are most certainly not queer, based on a strict interpretation of the theories formal (or informal) qualifications, but “lesbian” (a terms that additionally carries various presumptions and associations) – and though I have been attempting to measure these films based on a queer standard, I do understand that their intention was not necessarily to meet such a rigorous expectation.

Regardless, I can’t quite seem to acquit their willingness to fall prey, or acquiesce, to almost every generic plot point and archetype in the book. “Subversivness as Andrew

Britton rightly says, needs to be assessed not in terms of a quality which is supposedly

proper to a phenomenon, but as a relationship between a phenomenon and its context –

that is, dynamically” (Holmlund, pg. 49) Rightly so, I have attempted to consider these

films with just such an approach in mind. These ‘coming out’ films did possess

subversive potential, and I hope that in my assessment of their strength and weaknesses I

have taken into account the context in which they were produced. In fact, it is in large

part due to their historical (racial, sexual, economic, etc.) context, that their readiness to

be contained within the heteronormative film tradition is all more distressing. I believe

there was a moment in the 1990s (a political and social loosening) when something

subversive could have broken out, when the cinematic representation of queerness could

have taken a turn. And, though it may have peeked its queer head ‘round the corner, no 66

substantial movement was attempted, instead the lesbian-American community has been

left with one bland, homogenous and interchangeable lesbian character.

Given my assertions to this point, it should come as no surprise that these films

are as “bad” as they are. And, I suppose, my hope for the future is that the work being

done within more experimental forms of filmmaking will strive to influence the

narratives which can’t seem to consistently locate a [queer] voice of their own. Rather

than remain content to tell the same stories, why not strive mightily to recognize the

advantage inherent to sexual difference, as being already outside of the traditional

framework? Why not take the outsiders’ opportunity to craft visual representations that more accurately represent the diverse community and ideologies from which queer identity was formed. Perhaps the profit motive will forever doom (and appropriate) the representation of minorities to that which is token, stereotypical, and homogenous but as new forms of technology promote increased exposure and availability to the apparatus of image creation, I truly hope that my guarded optimism and fervid anticipation awaiting

the next “great” lesbian film will someday be rewarded. 67

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