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U of M Student Responds to “Shulie”

And Yet She Moves: Reviewing Feminist Cinema is a series co-organized by the Walker Art Center and the University of Minnesota. As a part of the collaboration, we will be using this blog as a venue for students to respond to and discuss the films. This post presents several viewpoints and responses to Shulie which […]

And Yet She Moves: Reviewing Feminist Cinema is a series co-organized by the Walker Art Center and the University of Minnesota. As a part of the collaboration, we will be using this blog as a venue for students to respond to and discuss the films. This post presents several viewpoints and responses to Shulie which screened in the Lecture Room during November.
Written by U of M Student Rashid Ali

Of all the films I have seen throughout this “And Yet She Moves” series the documentary, Shulie was the most unique one for me. The first aspect of my unique experience of the film was the way in which it was produced. The discussion prior to the film made me believe that Shulie was an unintentional masterpiece. The mundaneness of the subject that is being filmed fascinated me because this must have been differently refreshing in the mid 1990’s. The subject, however, isn’t so mundane. She’s an artist that is going through her daily routine of being in the studio, on the go, and dealing the people around her. I didn’t know that this was apparently a re-shoot of a similar production in the 1960’s. The original is quite different as it follows Shulamith Firestone doing things that aren’t necessarily related to her art. It was more like being in the subway, working in the post office. I love this contrast between the contemporary version and the original. I also founded interested how the film played tricks on the audience. We were led to believe that the contemporary Shulie follows the same real Firestone as we might have in the original. The opening quote of “No matter how many levels of consciousness one reaches, the problem always goes deeper–from The Dialectic of Sex, 1970″ made me think about Variety in a weird way. The main character of Variety seems to be disconnected from her conscious in that she does whatever she wants and follows whomever she pleases. Although I wasn’t around in the 1970’s I can presume that there might be a little tension between the way in which the audience from that time perceives the film to our contemporary audience. I just wonder what that discussion would’ve entailed. As for the feminist movement, it would be interesting to see Subrin’s take on the evolution of this political movement throughout the last four decades. There is one mistake that we should avoid in my opinion. And that is assuming that the remake is a clone of the original and that aside from the time period in which we live in there isn’t much of difference.  Quite the contrary, there are important differences between the two films that should not be lost. For example, the way the second film uses concepts is different than the first and even better from my perspective. Another example is the camera shots, costumes, props and backgrounds. It’s much easier for me to aesthetically appreciate the contemporary version than the original.  One question what I thought should’ve been addressed in the discussion that followed the film was how the contemporary remake utilized ideas from the original. Overall, I was really impressed with this portrait of an artist in the making. It was different than all of the films that we have watched. I felt that I didn’t necessarily have to think but observe more. I didn’t have to think about concepts or ideas. I honestly enjoyed watching Shulie as much as the camera enjoyed film it.

Film is Dead…Again

Numerous critics and writers have recently been responding to the proclamation that film is dead. Bleak is that prognosis may be, though, the truth—as always—is a little more shaded (and perhaps even hopeful) than it seems.

Wherever the diagnosis came from, numerous critics and writers have recently been responding to the proclamation that film is dead. As of late, A.O. Scott, Roger Ebert, The Onion‘s Scott Tobias,‘s Matt Zoller Seitz, IFC’s Matt Singer, Jean-Luc Godard (about 40 years after his initial apocalyptic prophecy), director Peter Greenaway, cinematographer Roger Deakins, British artist Tacita Dean, neurologically-inclined critics in Psychology Today, and many others have dealt with the possibility that the medium of celluloid, after only about 125 years of flickering existence (long enough to reshape the way we viewed mediation and reality; positively newborn, though, in comparison to most other visual arts), is giving way to digital technologies. The responses above have ranged from panicked destitution to enamored zeal to melancholy resignation, but most of them agree on the facts: as digital cameras and projectors are becoming more technologically-advanced, elevating their pictorial qualities to something near the level of newly-struck film prints (or above and beyond, according to Deakins in the article posted above), moviemakers, distributors, exhibitors, and manufacturers are gradually pushing cinema towards the digital realm.

Those facts are incontrovertible. Kodak is phasing out production of celluloid film; Aaton, AARI, and Panavision will no longer make film cameras. Theaters that turn to digital projection are usually required to get rid of their celluloid projectors (for reasons that are unquestionably more economic than technological). Many film-processing companies have closed down, and new 35mm film projectors are no longer being manufactured.

How you respond to this news depends, of course, on your willingness to embrace change, to accept the fact that technologies evolve and displace what came beforehand; or on your nostalgia-steeped affection for an art form that has unified audiences for the better part of the last century, and which is becoming something of a romanticized antiquity. Like most movie-lovers, we here in the Walker film and video department greet the emergence of digital technologies with ambivalent melancholy. Like most moviegoers of certain generations, we all have euphoric memories of a projector’s lightbulb flickering through a physically-present strip of chemically-imbued film (my personal favorite: an astonishing 35mm restoration of Max Ophüls’ Letter from an Unknown Woman); none of us want to see this shimmering art form vanish from theaters. Luckily, for screenings at the Walker, it doesn’t have to: a recent grant furnished to our film and video department has allowed us to upgrade our projection equipment, facilitating not only a new digital projection system (with 3D capabilities) but also a celluloid projection system for both 16mm and 35mm (with variable frame rates for, perhaps, the occasional 18fps silent-film screening). All of these advancements will be sure to get a workout in the winter and early spring of 2012.

While it doesn’t seem like there’s much to add to the plethora of articles posted above, it bears repeating that celluloid is not dead; bleak as the prognosis may be, film has a long way to go before it approaches its deathbed (if that ever happens). Digital may be taking over, but there will always be museums, college campuses, cinematheques, and specialty houses that preserve and champion the projection of celluloid. (And there will always be film buffs who crave, at least occasionally, the glorious imperfections of celluloid—the scratches, the flickering grain, even the muffled hums and clicks of the projector in the nearby booth.) Furthermore, the communal experience of watching movies with an audience in a darkened theater will not die; whether projected on film or digitally, cinema’s value as a social gathering cannot be vanquished by developing technology. (This was the same fear that arose with the popularity of television in the 1950s; if TV couldn’t kill movie theaters, neither will Netflix, Hulu, iTunes, or cell-phone downloads.)

A last bit of irony I’d like to mention: the year 2011 saw what was probably the highest number of cinematic death knells in the history of movies, as die-hard celluloid purists could not ignore the fluctuations of the industry any longer; but 2011 also may have been the strongest cinematic year at least since the new millennium, with good-to-masterful new movies by the likes of Terrence Malick, Raúl Ruiz, Jean-Luc Godard, Aki Kaurismäki, Abbas Kiarostami, Apichatpong Weerasethakul, Werner Herzog, Elia Suleiman, Steve McQueen, Kelly Reichardt, Errol Morris, Cristi Puiu, Lars von Trier, and Lee Chang-dong, and upcoming releases from Béla Tarr, Jafar Panahi, Roman Polanski, David Cronenberg, Lynne Ramsay, Takeshi Kitano, and Wim Wenders—not to mention re-releases of films by Godard, Truffaut, Fassbinder, and Roeg, among others. For an art form that’s supposedly dying, it’s incredible how much it seems to be thriving at the same time.

U of M Students Respond to “!Women Art Revolution”

And Yet She Moves: Reviewing Feminist Cinema is a series co-organized by the Walker Art Center and the University of Minnesota. As a part of the collaboration, we will be using this blog as a venue for students to respond to and discuss the films. This post presents viewpoints and responses to !Women Art Revolution […]

And Yet She Moves: Reviewing Feminist Cinema is a series co-organized by the Walker Art Center and the University of Minnesota. As a part of the collaboration, we will be using this blog as a venue for students to respond to and discuss the films. This post presents viewpoints and responses to !Women Art Revolution which screened on November 18th and 19th.

Lynn Hershman Leeson's "!Women Art Revolution"

Written by U of M Student Martin Cech

Last night, at the local premiere of Women Art Revolution, the general feeling in the Walker Theater was not one of blissful nostalgia but rather one of an uncontrollable desire to move forward. Lynn Hershman Leeson noted in the post-screening question-and-answer period that the assembled footage was but a small fraction of what she had shot over a long period of time. Given the interest in form that we approached the other movies of And Yet She Moves with, it is interesting that the last movie was a fairly straight-forward documentary in terms of form, but the content and degree of artistic merit fit well in the constellation of the other films.

Hershman Leeson, in her decisions with the camera and in the editing room, starts to dismantle the patriarchal structure that so often associated with historical documentary. She subverts the generic conventions of documentary by claiming no expertise beyond her own experience. Instead of a handsome and vaguely familiar maleactor’s voice guiding use through some topic we may or may not have any knowledge of, we get a story that has never been told through a community of voices with first-hand experience. It does not rely on a Hollywood star or well-known producers for credibility and in this, it feels more real.

While not purporting to be complete history of feminist art, it allows the viewer a sense of familiarity and intimacy with the remembered history from someone who was at the beginning of the revolution. The value of hearing marginalized stories by marginalized voices allows us to connect the struggle with a face. A metaphor for this subtle subversion occurred in the film when the Guerilla Girls discussed the impact of naming names and publishing statistics about the lack of representation in museums.

It is important in this film to not rely simply on our beliefs. Especially for the viewers in the audience who may have never considered their own ignorance of women artists. HershmanLeeson appropriately deals with the potential for internal bias by making a rhetorical argument through the form. In this way, it is part documentary and part film essay. Her arguments in Women Art Revolution are told through the history of feminist art and artists and the stories that they relate to the camera. This medium is fitting for this argument as it allows the interface of both visual art and the voices of the artists telling the story.

Hershman Leeson noted in the post-screening discussion, however, that this film and the feminist artists’ stories art not enough. The title for the series And Still She Moves is very fitting given her outlook for feminist art. And the overt comparison between Galileo and the feminists is one I think she would agree with. She described the need for constant forward motion and brings this theory to practice with her RawWAR concept; allowing artists to share their work without the prescriptions and constraints of a gallery. In many ways, this is the ultimate enactment of the argument she makes in Women Art Revolution because she is able to find the ending she was searching for in the close of the film. An ending that isn’t really an ending at all, just another medium to make the argument.

Written by U of M Student Emily Rohrabaugh

The question of how to historicize and archive early feminist film was a recurring theme throughout the And Yet She Moves film series.  The project of archiving feminist art is, for Lynn Hershman Leeson, of the highest priority.  For her, the lack of representation of the womens’ art movement within the history of contemporary art constitutes an erasure of these womens’ stories and struggles.  In !Women, Art, Revolution, Hershman Leeson presented snippets of an overwhelmingly rich selection of women’s art. The film and her accompanying online archiving project attempts to provide a venue for this history.

While I felt inspired and energized by Hershman Leeson’s film, I also thought about some of the other films that were screened during the And Yet She Moves series that took a very different view on the role of the archive.  In particular, I was thinking about Chick Strand’s four short films and the debate around preserving early experimental films.  Because Strand never allowed her work to be shown at anything other than 16mm and 16mm is becoming an increasingly rarified screening format, this was a precious opportunity to see the films.  Additionally, the film Surname Viet, Given Name Nam problematized the idea that the material artifact is a sufficient or accurate marker of history.  The film’s investigation of the documentary film format draws the viewer’s attention to the assumptions that film is an inherently trustworthy repository, instead drawing our attention to the role that the documentary format has played in creating dominant narratives in history while erasing others.

U of M Student Responds to “Semiotics of the Kitchen”

And Yet She Moves: Reviewing Feminist Cinema is a series co-organized by the Walker Art Center and the University of Minnesota. As a part of the collaboration, we will be using this blog as a venue for students to respond to and discuss the films. This post presents several viewpoints and responses to Semiotics of […]

And Yet She Moves: Reviewing Feminist Cinema is a series co-organized by the Walker Art Center and the University of Minnesota. As a part of the collaboration, we will be using this blog as a venue for students to respond to and discuss the films. This post presents several viewpoints and responses to Semiotics of the Kitchen which screens in the Best Buy Video Bay through February 26th.

Martha Rosler's "Semiotics of the Kitchen"

Written by U of M Student Heidi Zimmerman

Martha Rosler’s 6-minute 1975 video Semiotics of the Kitchen, opens with a medium shot in which Rosler is mostly hidden behind a title chalkboard, her expressionless eyes visible just above the board.  She blinks several times.  The camera backs up until we see that she stands in a kitchen behind a small table, which is laden with various kitchen instruments.  A stove and refrigerator are visible in the background.  After what seems like ages, she puts down the board.  From off to the right of the frame, she picks up an apron.  Slowly and deliberately, she struggles into it (first one arm, then the other, moving her hair to button it behind her neck—only a contortionist could execute this button gracefully).  Her movements demonstrate that this is a laborious process.  Once buttoned, she returns her gaze to the camera.  “Apron” she states.  She reaches down and slowly picks up another item, which, with equally little emotion, she shows to the camera. “Bowl,” she intones.  She mimes stirring.  Rosler continues through the alphabet, naming a “chopper,” which she bangs several times against the bottom of the bowl, a “hamburger press,” which she opens and closes with a loud crack, a cast iron “pan,” which she thrusts toward the camera, then, with equal force, withdraws back toward herself, an “ice pick,” with which she forcefully stabs her work surface several times. Although one might expect the “ladle” and “spoon” to be fit for more peaceful purposes, Rosler demonstrates that they might, too, be put to violent use: after she uses them to gently scoop, stir and smooth the air, she abruptly flings their invisible contents out over her shoulder.

The violence and abruptness of her movements are almost always accompanied by an utterly affectless facial expression.  Her expression momentarily changes when she demonstrates the can “opener”: she grimaces as she turns its handle, however, this is an expression conveying effort, not affect.  She manages to match kitchen items to every letter of the alphabet until she gets to “T” for “tenderizer” (with which she hammers the table).  For the letters U through V, Rosler takes a carving fork in her right hand, a carving knife in her left, and forms the shapes of U through Y with her arms. She puts down the fork and finally uses the knife to slashes a zigzag shape in the air. “Z.”  Having gotten thus through the alphabet, Rosler again stands motionless, arms crossed loosely across her front.  In a rare display of affect, she suddenly shrugs and raises her eyebrows, tossing her head slightly to the side.  Her mouth remains impassive.  Finally, she returns to her affectless pose.

The framing of this video references cooking shows, like Julia Child’s The French Chef (1962-1970), and other domestic advice shows, which tended to assume the naturalness of women’s role as competent domestic laborers.  The setting of the kitchen and Rosler’s direct address to the camera suggest she might similarly be giving us domestic advice.  Yet while Rosler remains within the private space of the kitchen, she departs discordantly from these other media forms.  Here, Rosler takes these kitchen items out of their taken-for-granted context as tools for the maintenance of the heteronormative family.  Instead of putting them to use in normative reproductive labor, Rosler imagines how things might be different by placing them instead in alphabetical order, gesturing with them wildly and unproductively.  Although her “uses” of these items are absurd vis-à-vis normative expectations about “women’s work,” she also demonstrates the effort required if one is to put these items into practice.  We watch her struggle with the apron, lift the cast iron pan, and crank the handle of the can opener with all her might.

In watching this video, I was especially struck by Rosler’s gaze and performance of affect.  Rosler maintains a steady gaze and affectless visage, looking directly and impassively into the camera for much of the film.  She breaks eye contact only when the task at hand requires her full attention.  She always immediately looks back at the camera.  Her direct gaze is especially striking when coupled with violent gesture.  For example, when she demonstrates “fork,” she sharply stabs the air in several places, never once breaking her gaze with the camera, and never once altering her facial expression.  The seeming contradictions within this performance make it both funny and alarming.  She undermines the naturalness of women’s competence and grace in the kitchen through her effortful and awkward (decidedly ungraceful) gestures.  She undermines the naturalness of the kinds of caring affect assumed to accompany women’s caring work (in the kitchen, for example).  Yet these things are not undermined incidentally or accidentally.  Rather, Rosler’s steely, emotionless eye contact conveys an active and deliberate refusal (through her command of the gaze), a refusal to be located by dominant, patriarchal assumptions and imperatives.  If this is so, however, how do we make sense of her final “shrug”?  Is this a gesture of resignation?  Is it one of dismissal? Does it aim to emphasize meaninglessness?  Or obviousness?  Perhaps it is a gesture that indicates a kind of inside joke among those who are called upon to negotiate these objects, these technologies of normative femininity and labor.

Charlotte Brusdon has remarked that Rosler produced this video during an “era when one of the most important debates was over whether a woman could be the subject of her own story or whether she was always “spoken” in stories told by others” (Brunsdon 112).  Rosler enters into this debate through her refusal to be determined by these objects, wrenching them from their normative context, and taking hold of her own representation.  Yet I would be very interested to hear how this video speaks today in the context of the incredibly broad and prolific circulation of cooking shows and domestic advice media that offer themselves as the means to a kind of self-empowerment.  I am very skeptical of these forms of so-called “empowerment,” but I also take seriously popularity of such media and the pleasure that individuals find in them.  Have kitchen gadgets—gadgets that have long functioned as technologies for maintaining a particular division of household labor and a certain division between public and private space—come to be viewed as technologies for living a pleasurable life?  Perhaps Rosler’s piece has something to offer present-day analyses of such phenomena.

Works Cited

Brunsdon, Charlotte. “Feminism, Postfeminism, Marth, Martha, and Nigella.” Cinema Journal 44.2 (2005): 110-116.

U of M Students Respond to “One Way or Another (De cierta manera)”

And Yet She Moves: Reviewing Feminist Cinema is a series co-organized by the Walker Art Center and the University of Minnesota. As a part of the collaboration, we will be using this blog as a venue for students to respond to and discuss the films. This post presents several viewpoints and responses to One Way […]

And Yet She Moves: Reviewing Feminist Cinema is a series co-organized by the Walker Art Center and the University of Minnesota. As a part of the collaboration, we will be using this blog as a venue for students to respond to and discuss the films. This post presents several viewpoints and responses to One Way or Another (De cierta manera) which screened on Wednesday, November 16th.
Written by U of M Student, Koel Banerjee

Since this blog-post is about the last film we have watched in this series, many of the discussions that have happened during the last two weeks will find resonance here. The film form is an issue that has kept coming back in the discussions about all the films we have been viewing. And keeping that in  mind, it is only befitting that the last film we viewed in this series is a film that is as much a film that raises questions about form as it is a film that content-wise grapples with a lot of issues.

De Cierta Manera is a film that would be a very apt example of how extra-cinematic moments make their imprints on the cinematic form. It is a film about landmarks—a black woman filmmaker working on issues of class, race, and gender against the backdrop of a country after the Revolution. It brings together romance (associated with the feminine) and the documentary (commonly associated with the extreme end of realism). Commonsensical understanding would be that the purpose of fiction film and that of documentary films are diametrically opposed. So what happens when a film engages both? Does the use of documentary-like footage cushion one’s agenda more strongly than the more traditional forms associated with fiction-films would? In bringing these two filmic styles—fiction and documentary—how does this film make our compartmentalization of truth vs. make-believe problematic? What we forget is that documentaries are representations and like classic realist cinema, which seems to draw the most flak from ideology-criticism, are as prone to make their own hierarchy of truth. Perhaps, the term ‘approximation’ will be a better fit here than ‘representation’ which bears the implication of straightforwardness.

De Cierta Manera consciously avoids socialist realism. The image of the giant stone razing old buildings is poignant at several levels. First, it is a trope for a country trying to reorganize itself after a revolution, breaking down old social structures. Second, it is also a statement about the film which constantly breaks the rules of audience expectation by refusing to conform to either a strict documentary or a clear fictional code. The film constantly plays on the real vs. fiction divide, drawing on various filmic influences, viz. classical documentary, cinema verité, and fictional cinema. It makes it impossible to separate fact from fiction with fictional characters meeting real people, subplots of the real stories of real people, and with fictional characters filmed in documentary sequences. The documentary, narrated by the omniscient narrator, and almost sociological in nature, about the marginalized in Cuba sets the frame within which we watch the fictional characters operate. The film has a pedagogic intention and is not without a certain amount of didacticism. However, it does not resolve the questions it raises: whether it be questions about women’s independence, or the question of masculinity, or the question of allegiance vacillating between male friendship and the Revolution. It even leaves the fate of the lovers (where the class angle plays out best) unanswered. The film gathers its motion from several layers of dynamic oppositions (I am hesitant to use the term dialectic). Yolanda coming from a middle class background is the independent woman. However, she fails to empathize with the mother of her student who is also a working-woman in her own right, but hails from a marginalized background. Mario testifies against Humberto not because of his ethical/political commitment to the Revolution but because Humberto has accused him of being an informer—something that Mario’s code of machismo will not tolerate. At the same time, he is guilt stricken at having violated the code of male-bonding. The unruly student that Yolanda throws out of her class is given his own story—the story of a marginalized family with no father figure and a working mother, and she is chastised by her co-workers for lacking empathy. Giving all these complex layers to the characters, the film explores the different aspects of marginalization. During the discussion, Prof. Nimtz mentioned that it is much more difficult for a Cuban film to deal with class than with race or gender. What makes this film interesting is that it complicates the issues even further by linking them together in a complex network and by consciously refusing to create its own hierarchy of truth. That is probably why a film like this cannot have a clear resolution.

One could compare De Cierta Manera  with Soviet cinema to look at two modes of filmic responses to revolution. While the Soviets, on the one hand, used editing, especially the montage, for channeling audience response, i.e., the filmic response to the revolution becomes enmeshed in questions of formal aesthetics, De Cierta Manera, on the other hand, explores the issues that accompany any radical social transformation, viz. class, race and gender. At the level of content and at the formal level, it does away with the distinction between documentary and fiction and, in doing so, becomes a part of the filmic practices that stand in opposition to the Hollywood classic realist cinema and its seamless world of narrative and carefully orchestrated regime of dominant specularity.

Written by U of M student, Viviane Bain

In Sara Gomez’s film De Cierta Manera, she underscores the progression in the plot with scenes from what the revolution brought to the marginalized classes of Cuba and uniquely ties these larger realities to the lives of the characters—scenes of building demolitions, urban slums, and state-run factories are scattered throughout the film.  Her characters exist entirely in this world, blending the fictional romance between Yolanda and Mario into the larger landscape of the social condition in Havana.

Yolanda, a grade-school teacher, lets us follow the camera into the lives of the women and children of the Miraflores neighborhood in Havana.  Many of her students are unfocused, undisciplined, and unwilling to cooperate with her, leaving Yolanda in no other position but to call in their mothers.  We are able to have an intimate view into what is portrayed as a typical family living in the urban Cuba of the day.  In the cases Gomez presents, the husband/father figures in these families are either entirely absent from or minimally involved with the mothers and their children, highlighting the fact that then and now, the divorce rate in Cuba is one of the highest in the world.  These single mothers are often the sole providers for their children, which leaves them little time to direct much individual attention to any one of their children.  The combination of poverty, a lack of encouragement, and a general lack of social and economic incentive to pursue their studies is creating another generation that will mirror the life path of its parents.

In tandem with this look into the lives of Cuban women, Gomez explores the Cuban male psyche through the eyes of Mario, Yolanda’s pursuer.  He plays the seducer, showing us perhaps the beginning stages of how the mothers who spoke with Yolanda were put in the situations they are now in.  To set up a deeper understanding of the forces at play, Gomez gives us insight into some of the cultural practices held by predominantly Afro-Cuban men that blatantly defame and leave out women as a community function.  The rather cultish gatherings stem from an indigenous African religion that was practiced by slaves brought to Cuba to farm its sugar cane plantations.  The essence of its creation myth teaches that women are unworthy and not to be trusted.  The Latino men bring the tradition of machismo to Cuban culture, and a system of patriarchy is created.  The revolution in Cuba has not shaken these deep set attitudes from the minds of men and women alike, and even Mario, seemingly a protagonist in the film, shows that he is unchanging in the end in his enraged treatment of Yolanda at the movie theater.

Gomez, while giving us much food for thought, does not provide the viewer with any resolution concerning Yolanda and Mario, nor of any of the other characters we met along the way.  It is perhaps fitting, because there really has been no resolution for the Cuban people; in our post-film discussion, August Nimtz elaborated on how many of the social conditions touched upon by the film still exist today.  Just as there is no end to the dialogue between the quarrelling lovers, there has been no end to the dialogue on the social conditions of modern day Cuba; marginalism for many is still a fact of life.


Artist Camille Gage Responds to “!Women Art Revolution”

Lynn Hershman Leeson’s documentary !Women Art Revolution premieres this weekend, November 18-20, at the Walker Art Center. This post is Minnesota artist Camille Gage’s response to the film.

Lynn Hershman Leeson’s documentary !Women Art Revolution premieres this weekend, November 18-20, at the Walker Art Center. (An installation based on material collected for the film is also on display at the University of Minnesota’s Katherine E. Nash Gallery until December 3.) Over the next week, three area female artists, all members of the local arts organization, will be contributing responses to the film on the Walker Film & Video blog; after the film’s premiere screenings, will also publish a roundtable discussion regarding the film. This post is artist Camille  Gage’s response to the film.

The Guerrilla Girls in Lynn Hershman Leeson's "!Women Art Revolution"

A Film of Her Own

Written by Camille Gage

Lynn Hershman Leeson’s documentary !Women Art Revolution opens, Jay Leno-style, with Hershman stopping passersby on the street in New York City to ask if they can name three woman artists. Blank stares, skyward glances and much hemming and hawing ensue. No one can do it. It’s both humorous and disappointing to watch, a chortle wrapped in a shrug. Someone finally blurts out, “Georgia O’Keefe! That’s all I can do!,” as if naming women artists is an insidious form of intellectual torture to which no one should be subjected.

Ms. Hershman Leeson is certainly doing her part to change that.  !Women Art Revolution (!W.A.R.) is a 20-year labor of love. The film is broad in its reach and intimate in delivery. Utilizing both historical performance/interview footage and more recent interviews shot by the artist specifically for the film, !W.A.R. laces together both public and personal moments to capture the bold soul of the feminist and women’s art movement of late 1960s through the early ‘80’s.

I was excited to see the documentary. My mom returned to art school in the early 1970s, post-divorce, chucking her housewife frockery for bell bottoms, giant aviator glasses, and a new attitude.  The film brought me back to the art, fashion, and mood of the time, which was at once both searching and fierce—a lot like my mom, come to think of it.

!Women Art Revolution is a highly entertaining picture, and always edifying. There are solemn moments, especially surrounding the controversial death of artist Ana Mendieta at the tender age of 36, but plenty of laughter, too, as the Guerilla Girls prod, provoke and amuse. There are also moments of shrill intensity as artists argue, cajole, and grapple over the boundary lines of feminism and its impact on creative practice. And there is, of course, lots of nudity, as artists reclaim the female form, animating it in diverse performances that run the gamut of humorous, outrageous and downright scary.

But the film is not without disappointment—its exclusive focus on New York and California artists, in particular. For a film of this scope, it is a major oversight to omit mid-country artists and collectives such as the Twin Cities’ own Women’s Art Registry of Minnesota (WARM), which began in 1973 and continues as a vibrant collective to this day.  This coastal myopia is doubly ironic as it perpetuates yet another form of cultural exclusion—that of dismissing as barely relevant the careers of the many artists who live outside NYC/LA. I wish that Hershman Leeson had had the funding this project deserved, and the ability to create a more comprehensive and balanced work.


Camille Gage's "Robe for Judith" (from the artist's "War, Mediated" series), 2009

As I left a special preview screening of !Women Art Revolution recently, I couldn’t help but think about Virginia Woolf. I’d read A Room of One’s Own while in art school and was deeply moved by the novel.  In the 1929 book Woolf muses on the capacity of women to produce great work—as good as the best of men. She also addresses women’s lack of economic resources and its inevitable impact on their ability to create the time and space necessary to excel in their own work.

But that was then and this is now, right?

In !W.A.R. Hershman Leeson mentions, not without irony, her own futile attempts to sell her art work. It has only been very recently in her long and productive career that she has begun to command the attention of collectors.

Which brings me back to the story of my mom: After her divorce, we moved from a nice house in what would soon become the suburbs to a small, rented place. My mom raised four kids on an office worker’s salary, with a bit of help from her family and none from my dad, who was wrestling his own demons at the time. Before long, under those circumstances, she dropped out of art school a second time and soon stopped making art altogether.  She was probably 39 when she threw in the creative towel, her potential buried under the heavy responsibilities of single parenting.

In my dining room, I have a lovely intaglio print of a melancholy Virginia Woolf. I purchased the print at the Women’s Art Institute art sale. It was a fundraiser, of course, to try to keep the program going. In the print, by Minneapolis artist Debra Bruers, the novelist gazes directly at the viewer with eyes both sad and hopeful.  As a visionary artist, Woolf likely had a good idea what the future held for creative women, and the prospects were dim.

New York Magazine’s art critic Jerry Saltz, who has taken the issue of gender equity in the arts as something of a personal mission, places the Museum of Modern Art‘s collection at 94% male artists and 6% female.  Further, according to the latest census statistics, women still earn only 77 cents of every dollar earned by their male counterparts in the work force. In fact, women’s wages have increased just a half a penny on the dollar over the past four decades—the period covered by !Women Art Revolution.

All told, Hershman Leeson’s documentary is an invaluable contribution to the art historical record and a powerful reminder of just how far women artists have come—and how terribly far there is yet to go.

Camille Gage

Camille J. Gage began her creative journey in her teens, writing music and touring with a variety of bands, including the all-female alt-rock band Tetes Noires. She later segued into public art and mixed media performance, often with a topical edge, and received a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from the Minneapolis College of Art and Design. Gage’s work has been shown at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts (MIA), The Weisman Museum, and the Katherine Nash Gallery, among others. She has performed at the Walker Art Center, the MIA, and First Avenue in Minneapolis, as well as many venues in New York City including The Bottom Line, The Knitting Factory, and Folk City. Her work is in numerous individual and institutional collections, including the Walker Art Center, The Minneapolis Institute of Arts, Boston Scientific, The Family Housing Fund, The Minnesota Historical Society and Carleton College. Gage is also one of the founding members of Form + Content Gallery, an artist’s cooperative in Minneapolis. Her website:

Artist Margaret Pezalla-Granlund responds to “!Women Art Revolution”

Lynn Hershman Leeson’s documentary “!Women Art Revolution” premieres this weekend, November 18-20, at the Walker Art Center. This post is artist Margaret Pezalla-Granlund’s response to the film.

Lynn Hershman Leeson’s documentary !Women Art Revolution premieres this weekend, November 18-20, at the Walker Art Center. (An installation based on material collected for the film is also on display at the University of Minnesota’s Katherine E. Nash Gallery until December 3.) Over the next week, three area female artists, all members of the local arts organization, will be contributing responses to the film on the Walker Film & Video blog; after the film’s premiere screenings, will also publish a roundtable discussion regarding the film. This post is artist Margaret Pezalla-Granlund’s response.

Still from Lynn Hershman Leeson's "!Women Art Revolution"

If Lynn Hershman Leeson interviews you about your life and work as a woman artist, what do you talk about? The artists in !Women Art Revolution discuss their career successes and setbacks, doubts and determination, changing relationships to family, friendships, politics. These women are my role models: they’ve had long, interesting careers making work I admire. But here’s the thing I still don’t know: how did they make living as an artist actually work? How do art life and regular life actually intersect? The minutiae of everyday life might not make for an interesting film, but I am thinking more and more that these dull details are actually quite central.

Let me share three encounters that have stuck in my head for years:

— A conversation with a fellow art student who opined, “If you have to have a dining room, you’ll never be a real artist” when I expressed doubts about a raw warehouse space.

— Feeling self-conscious about cleaning my studio at CalArts, especially when a (male) studio neighbor commented on my domesticity. Repeatedly.

— Chatting with fellow grad school alums who scoffed when I said I had a full-time job. True artists, apparently, worked only part-time and didn’t worry about health care or retirement benefits.

Years after these encounters—each of which, in the moment, made me doubt I would ever be a real artist—I am still making artwork. I also live with my family in a house, where we eat at a table in the dining room. I sweep, cook, and sometimes clear the bathroom; all house and kid work is shared with my partner, which means I can spend time in my studio. I have a nearly full-time job that I love, and which provides health care and retirement benefits, not to mention a grants office that helps me find funding for my work.

Still, I have nearly constant doubts about the balance I negotiate every day between a domestic life of daycare schedules, piano recitals, and the vanpool, and the time and money I spend making my work. I have a feeling the women in this documentary—and other artists, as well—struggle with tensions between domestic and artistic life, too. In a way, it’s no different than the life/work balance we all try to negotiate, no matter our occupations. But thinking back on the experiences that have made me feel most insecure about my choice to be an artist, they are those which pit the artistic life against the banal one, the creative against the practical—the pernicious notion that if I can’t release myself from a desire for a house, a family and the security of a job, I certainly won’t be able to free myself to be an artist.

The women in !Women Art Revolution broke with convention and with their comfortable lives to be artists: they left marriages and relationships, defied expectations, scraped by to make their work. But why is this still the narrative of the ideal for an artistic life? I want to know more about the everyday life that art is supposed transcend. How did these artists make work when they were worried about money, when their parents or children were ill, when the car broke down, when they had to work overtime?

I now feel that those early encounters that provoked my doubts were based on that idealized narrative, and that a male artist wouldn’t have been asked the same questions. I wouldn’t have been criticized for sweeping, for example, if I was male; the expectation was that because I am female, evidence of domesticity or practicality merely reinforced the preconceived idea I was ill-suited to life as an artist. Well, here’s the deal: I have a house, a family, a job—and I am a working artist. And thinking that the practical details of my life will be eclipsed by the fabulous creative dimensions of my artistic life—or vice versa—is both unrealistic and dismissive.

And on a side note: I went to graduate school in the 90s at CalArts, and know the work of most of the artists featured in !Women Art Revolution through my coursework and conversations there. I feel very fortunate to have studied at a school where I learned about women like Eleanor Antin, Yvonne Rainer, Adrian Piper, Carolee Schneemann, and Judy Baca. Thanks to all the artists and educators out there who are working to make sure this doesn’t remain a lost history.

"Tugunska," by Margaret Pezalla-Granlund

Margaret Pezalla-Granlund received her MFA from the California Institute of the Arts, Valencia, California. She has exhibited locally and nationally, and her work has been included in exhibitions at the Santa Monica Museum of Art, the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, Angel’s Gate Cultural Center, and the Peabody Essex Museum. Pezalla-Granlund was recently awarded a McKnight Artist Fellowship for 2008-2009 and a Jerome Foundation Travel Study Grant for 2009. She is interested in modeling the complex spaces of the natural and built landscape on scales both macro and micro. Her website:


“!Women Art Revolution” Blog Series with

In conjunction with the film series And Yet She Moves: Reviewing Feminist Cinema, the Walker Art Center will be screening Lynn Hershman Leeson’s documentary !Women Art Revolution from November 18-20. The film’s ongoing relevance will be discussed in an upcoming series of blog posts contributed by Minnesota-based female artists, all members of, over the next week.

Lynn Hershman Leeson's "!Women Art Revolution"

In conjunction with the film series And Yet She Moves: Reviewing Feminist Cinema, the Walker Art Center will be screening Lynn Hershman Leeson’s documentary !Women Art Revolution from November 18-20. More than 40 years in the making, edited together from hundreds of hours of interview footage with artists such as Yvonne Rainer, Judy Chicago, Miranda July, Marina Abramovic, Yoko Ono, Cindy Sherman, and many more, !W.A.R. ties the feminist art movement to the turbulent social upheavals of the 1960s and chronicles its impact on activism and alternative art over the last four decades. (An installation based on material collected for the film is also currently on display at the University of Minnesota’s Katherine E. Nash Gallery until December 3.)

The challenges and advancements detailed in !W.A.R. remain pertinent to modern artists, of course. This ongoing relevance will be discussed in an upcoming series of blog posts contributed by Minnesota-based female artists, all members of, an online hub for local artists and audiences catering to the development of the arts in Minnesota. Over the next week, the Walker film blog will be posting three responses to !Women Art Revolution by female artists of varying backgrounds and perspectives. Before and after the Walker’s screenings of the film this weekend, be sure to check back and peruse the artists’ entries, which we hope will spark lively discussion around a complex, endlessly-relevant film. In addition, will publish their own roundtable discussion regarding the film on their website, following the screenings this upcoming weekend.

!Women Art Revolution plays at the Walker Art Center on Friday, November 18, at 7:30pm; on Saturday, November 19, at 2:00pm, 4:00pm, and 7:30pm; and on Sunday, November 20, at 1:00pm and 3:00pm. Lynn Hershman Leeson will be present to introduce the film and participate in a post-screening Q&A for Friday night’s screening.

U of M Students Respond to “Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles”

And Yet She Moves: Reviewing Feminist Cinema is a series co-organized by the Walker Art Center and the University of Minnesota. As a part of the collaboration, we will be using this blog as a venue for students to respond to and discuss the films . This post presents several viewpoints and responses to Jeanne […]

And Yet She Moves: Reviewing Feminist Cinema is a series co-organized by the Walker Art Center and the University of Minnesota. As a part of the collaboration, we will be using this blog as a venue for students to respond to and discuss the films . This post presents several viewpoints and responses to Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles which screened on Sunday, November 13th.

Written by U of M student (and Walker Performing Arts Online Content Specialist) Jesse Leaneagh

Jeanne Dielman is a film about everyday life, yet as Hegel said, “the familiar is not necessarily the known.” Delphine Seyrig’s performance in the title role, Chantal Akerman’s script and direction, and Babette Mangolte’s cinematography recapitulate real time for the audience of the film, but the familiarity of this time never gives us clear knowledge of the psychology of the main character. I think that is the greatest accomplishment of the film, that—as Amy Taubin wrote in ArtForum, January 2009—“because of the subjacent angle and the absence of close-ups, we never feel as if we have power over her or superior knowledge of [Jeanne Dielman’s] experience. Indeed, the film is structured as much around information to which we are denied access as it is around that which is easily observable.”

On the level of affect, the film is rare in its ability to foreground the bodily experience of the audience. In that way, the film is more like dance than film. In narrative film, time is often forgotten because of the pleasure or immersive quality of the cinema. Ivone Margulies, in the Criterion notes to the film, said, “the viewer becomes aware of his/her own body, restless and then again interested.” Alongside Jeanne Dielman’s work onscreen, I began thinking about the work I do in everyday life, the work mothers do, the ways I am indifferent to the work of others.

The film confronts the “ultimate challenge” Laura Mulvey set out in “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema,” which is “how to fight the unconscious structured like a language…while still caught within the language of the patriarchy.” In the scenes between Jeanne Dielman and her son, long stretches of non-verbal communication structure the choreography of their exchange. Here we see Mulvey’s problem inverted: language structured like the unconscious: typical family behavior.

The final violence of the film was less surprising for me than relief; because of the film’s structure, and our bodily experience in the theater, our stake in the film is Jeanne Dielman’s own body. While still foregrounding her position within sexual/gender norms in the film, I also interpreted some of her actions through the valence of mental anxiety or even illness, which speaks perhaps to the underlying psychosis-type of repetitive order she maintains in her domestic space. Her relationship with coffee in the film, the performative illogic of coffee cups poured and rejected, foreshadow the final rupture. Leisure time for her has been emptied out, and by the second and third day impatience and distraction have overwhelmed her attempted moments of leisure. Jeanne Dielman’s confrontation with coffee, its eviscerating effect on her as practice and place-holder in everyday life, seems to be her bodily response to the transactional nature of patriarchal language, structured once again “like the unconscious.”

During the post-screening discussion, one audience member declared the film to be anti-humanist, and another argued for Jeanne Dielman to be considered as a non-person. I am not sure I agree with either of those statements. Like Henri Lefebvre’s Critique of Everyday Life, Akerman seems to be showing that while alienation is constant and everyday, “genuine changes” also “take place…in the unmysterious depths of everyday life.” The seven final minutes of the film alone express Jeanne Dielman radical personhood. While there is mystery in Delphine Seyrig’s masterful performance, there is something utterly ordinary about the way she sits at the table with a bloody hand, breathing in and out all of her own disequilibrium in that duration. Akerman’s avoidance of sensationalism, of voyeurism, the ways she preserves Jeanne Dielman’s subjectivity intact, is feminist and humanist.

This film is beyond brilliant and if you missed it, you are lucky: this is the most widely-available of all the films in the And Yet She Moves series. Despite the film’s ability to cause “perceptual oscillation” for the viewer (according to Marguiles), I was surprised at how short the three and a half hours felt. As the house lights went up, I was thinking about how I wanted to watch it again.

Written by U of M student Nichole Neuman

With the film’s opening revealing titles and credits—text on a black background—we first hear, rather than see, the world of Chantal Akerman’s title character in Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles.  The hissing of her gas stove breaks into the silence. Likewise, the close of the film mirrors the beginning, with the sounds of the Quai du Commerce intruding on Jeanne’s life and lingering with the fade to black in the end credits.  These moments of transition serve as more than just a clue of the realities of the main character’s life; rather, they illustrate her transformation.  From housewife to liberated woman?  Murderess?  On the lam?  As Professor Rabinowitz stated in her post-film lecture, the end (the murder) is not the end point and, in a way, is unimportant.  The sound transitions to and from the titles underscore this notion and state, rather bluntly, that Jeanne no longer is rooted firmly in the domestic, but has made a break from this routine and lifestyle.  The actions, not the motivation, constitute the focus of attention and do not finish with the murder, but continue beyond that moment and, indeed, beyond the scene where Jeanne sits in the dining room.

Akerman’s film does not portray a woman coming undone, but rather a destruction of a routine that has kept her captive.  The murder, though perhaps momentarily shocking, comes as no surprise.  Jeanne’s world slowly unravels, interrupting her routine and our watching.  The expansion of Akerman’s movie time[1] encourages and allows the viewer close observation.  By expanding scenes to watch Jeanne begin and complete a task, the viewer becomes inducted into her routine and the specific actions surrounding tasks.  In day one, we receive the ideal of how she ought carry out her tasks and interactions.  The second day begins with an unsettling moment—with the chair being harshly pushed in after shining Sylvain’s shoes.  Where such a mundane action would normally not register with a film viewer, the contrast with her previous carefulness with such an action is jarring enough to make us jump as if she lit a firecracker.  These moments of domestic dissonance with the standard routine accumulate: the potatoes cook too long; her hair remains unkempt after her visitor; she fails to greet her son at the door upon his arrival home.  This disruption in behavior extends to the framing and editing.  With a closer look at the dinner scene on the second day, Jeanne leaves the dining room, and, in typical fashion, the scene changes to the hallway, but instead of cutting to follow Jeanne into the kitchen to watch her fill the plate for the next course, the camera remains in the hallway, denying the expected continuity and, I would argue, emulating for the audience the restlessness and disruption of the main character.

As mentioned during the post-film discussion, Delphine Seyrig’s hair was dyed to match the woodwork in order to help the character of Jeanne more completely blend into the domestic space.  When looking at her costumes as unchanging and tied to specific actions,[2] we see how these further serve to codify her activities and how tied to responding to her environments Akerman’s character is.  Through this costuming, we can read a continuum of disruption in Jeanne’s life.  After being accustomed to the proper manner of dress, an out-of-place button forces a comment by her son.  In the final scene, the small amount of blood on an otherwise perfect, white blouse does not surprise because of that button and the mussed hair on the previous day; they prepare us for her change in behavior.  As she sits at the table after the murder, neon light flashes in a pattern across Dielman’s face, as it has throughout the film.  She is still part of the same sphere, now a space transformed.

In a film where looking forces us to focus on the mundane and habitual activities of housewives, it leaves us with one of the film’s longest shots to contemplate with the character the dissolution of a woman’s work and how she can regain personal identity and agency in making a break (accidental or intentional) with the menace of the routine.

[1] I am here consciously avoiding calling this real time, after reading the Rosen ArtForum interview with Akerman in the WAC program notes for this film.  Akerman: “Everyone thought, for example, that Jeanne Dielman was in real time, but the time was totally recomposed to give the impression of real time.”

[2] Jeanne wears a heavy, blue robe in the morning; a light, patterned housecoat for housework and cooking; a black skirt and grey sweater over an unremarkable blouse for down time and white; and functional undergarments for her professional entertaining and sleeping.

Written by U of M Student Emily Rohrabaugh

I think that it is interesting, as Nicole discussed above, that the film Jeanne Dielman depicts the unraveling of a woman’s routine, because it seems that it simultaneously builds a cinematic language based on a new time signature—that of the time of Jeanne Dielman’s daily activities.

 Jeanne Dielman, the film, seems as methodical and measured as Jeanne Dielman, the character.  Jeanne Dielman, the character, is constituted by her careful and precise domestic labor depicted in the film.  In one scene, we watch her bread thin slice of meat, a process that we learn occurs in three stages: flouring the meat, dipping the meat in egg, and then dipping the meat in breading.  Dielman wastes nothing—we learn that the meals for the week are set ahead of time in order to reuse ingredients from the previous day, and that Dielman wastes no time in her preparation method.  Likewise, Akerman wastes no time in these scenes, instead we are reoriented to the time of breading meat, a time that we quickly learn always includes washing dishes and wiping off the table. At some points these lessons in food preparation seem excruciatingly boring and almost terrifying in their power to co-opt the audience member’s time.  But at other times, this imposition of structure allows for an exploration of the pleasure of boredom.  Because this is a filmic time that wastes nothing but also omits nothing, the viewer is able to sink into Dielman’s routines and experience the comfort of boredom.

U of M Students Respond to “Surname Viet, Given Name Nam”

And Yet She Moves: Reviewing Feminist Cinema is a series co-organized by the Walker Art Center and the University of Minnesota. As a part of the collaboration, we will be using this blog as a venue for students to respond to and discuss the films . This post presents several viewpoints and responses to Surname […]

And Yet She Moves: Reviewing Feminist Cinema is a series co-organized by the Walker Art Center and the University of Minnesota. As a part of the collaboration, we will be using this blog as a venue for students to respond to and discuss the films . This post presents several viewpoints and responses to Surname Viet, Given Name Nam which screened on Saturday, November 12th.

Written by U of M student Youa Vang

In the film Surname Viet, Given Name Nam, Trinh T. Minh-na explores the issues Vietnamese women experienced during the political era in Vietnam, which corrupted the country. The film focused on the interviews of these women and the oppression they experienced which put them into silence. This film is a non-traditional documentary, with Trinh developing her own genre in this film.

During the beginning of the film, these interviews were conducted in English and the interviewees spoke in their heavily-accented English. The accent made it unclear and hard to understand. Was she trying to make us the foreigner by having all the interviewees with heavy accents? Sometimes the heavy accents were aided by the words of the women on the screen, and yet, we still struggle to listen and read. We also find that while the women are speaking, there is a translator voicing over the interview. Why does Trinh do this? Why does she choose to have them speak English and not Vietnamese?  We struggle to listen to both voices as one takes over the other voice and the other fights to gain the attention back. At times, the words that do appear may not be the words they spoke. Their facial reactions were different from the words they spoke and they seemed to not understand what they were saying.  Trinh also included beautiful background music into the film. Yet while the interviewee was talking, the song cuts her off and the English translation takes over, making the viewer focus on reading rather than listening. Once again, we struggle to read and listen at the same time. What does this mean?

As the viewers proceed with the film, one may think the women interviewed were playing their true selves. Dressed in traditional Vietnamese clothes, it’s hard not to assume it is their original role. Trinh Minh-Ha also made us think it was filmed in Vietnam but we also later learned it was set in a room in the states and she expertly used lighting to fool us. As the film progressed, we find that these women were non-professional actresses dramatizing the roles of the women interviewed. We later find them to be playing their true selves when they appeared in their “normal” clothes and spoke Vietnamese with English subtitles. Was this her intention? Why did she lead us to think the actresses had more than one identity? We later see these women in their normal roles; working at hydroelectricity plants, speaking at their child’s school, and attending pageants.

Trinh Minh-ha also draws attention to space.  She also uses still photos as visual material, but she doesn’t to allow them to stay still on the screen.  The camera scans them, moving from one point to another on the image. It doesn’t focus on one spot.  At other times the still is framed by black and then she reveals more and more of the image that had been covered. Why does she cover and reveal a photo? Is there something more to this? A picture is never just a picture; there is always something outside of the frame.

Written by U of M student Lizzy Shay

I am always very intrigued by the psychological effect of studying film versus simply viewing it. To a naive cinema guest, Surname Viet, Given Name Nam would have a fantastical impact as the viewer watched the interviews on screen unfold to reveal their true form as staged recreations. For a film student, the realization comes instead as a source of relief – the mystery is solved, and we now finally understand why we came to the film – our minds say “Aha! it is a fake documentary.”

The psychological impact of our expectations is intriguing in that it provides further insight into and curiosity about the film experience – if I had not known that a twist was coming, that this film was one piece in a series syndicated to expand my knowledge of feminism and cinema – would I have digested these interviews at face value? And furthermore, what is face value?

Surname Viet, Given Name Nam includes controversy on multiple levels. First, the content matter of the actual interviews: Vietnamese women speaking out about the difficulty of their lives and the misfortune of their oppressive society – that’s racy stuff. Initially, these testimonials seem to give insight into the state of women’s rights and gender relations at the time, and it is only when the interviews become bizarre that we realize the second degree of controversy. These interviews are staged. What an incredible concept. It seems that as long as our preconceived notions of what a documentary’s subject matter entails is not too quickly denied, we are willing to accept a fake as if it were real. We assume immediately that the plainly dressed women in a barren room are just a few brave souls, and yet we eventually realize that we’ve been fooled and that these interviews were designed to be accepted our brains even though they aren’t real. The third level of controversy is revealed to us by the director.

Trinh T. Minh-Ha explains in our film notes that these “actresses” in the film were told to present themselves as they are in everyday life, and yet for their “real” interviews these women wore dramatic outfits, excessive make up and in some cases completely fabricated their everyday surroundings. This back story may be the true point of commentary in relation to feminism as these young actresses try to present themselves as something that in reality – they are not. Attempting to fulfill social roles and be perceived a certain way, the actions of these women reinforce Laura Mulvey’s notion that women are constantly portrayed as the object and that their captured film images are a source of voyeurism. This intentional creation of a fake reality to fulfill an external set of expectations provides amazing and more honest insight into the mindset of these women, because authentic or not, the perception each woman creates becomes our reality.

This concept of reality is explored further in many contexts that might be easier for the viewer to relate to. One such instance is the bold statements of academic writings such as F is for Phony, a series of essays created to comment on the implications of fake documentaries, that include such simple axioms as “many documentaries lie to tell the truth” that can be shocking and yet obvious–by the same degree to which a film student views any film with a biased set of eyes, any interviewee is likely to bend their reality to fit their desired image: despite the honest context of a true documentary.” Another, and likely more accessible example, is the Tim Burton film, Big Fish. Although not academic and commercial, it provides insights into the fake stories a father told his son, and ultimately shows the audience that even though fiction was built into every “truth” that was told–the impression that was created was much closer to the essence of the emotions, relationships, and true story behind the tale than honestly describing the events that transcribed ever could have.

That realization is what I believe is most incredible about this film. Beyond its role in commenting on feminism I believe the true power here lies is showing the audience that what we may perceive as truth could be a complete fallacy, and yet what we know to be fake provides us a view into truth that an honest answer never could have.

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