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Cinema and the Female Star - A Symposium Part 3
Throughout the history of cinema, the female actor has functioned as a screen goddess, an image of perfection, and a powerful affective force. Whether it is a specific vocal intonation, a certain physical, psychological or political disposition, or a combination of these, the female actor has the power to give expression to our dreams, desires, and fears.
As part of its continuing focus on women and cinema, Senses of Cinema recently extended an invitation to its contributors to reflect on, and pay tribute to, a specific female actor. The result is an eclectic and unconventional range of entries that testifies to the power and force of the female actor.
“I lose my lunch” - Velvet Brown In 1945, MGM produced National Velvet (Clarence Brown, 1945) an equine drama set in a cheesy England of picturesque villages and colourful rural folk. Mickey Rooney received top billing but English teenager, Elizabeth Taylor shared second billing with Donald Crisp. Liz had been evacuated from England in 1942 and had already made several films. She'd buried her face in Lassie's extravagant mane (Lassie Come Home, Fred M. Wilcox, 1943) and had died tragically of consumption (Jane Eyre, Robert Stevenson, 1944). But as a 13-year-old in National Velvet, she really became a star – at least in my eyes. National Velvet is the story of Velvet Brown, a small town butcher's daughter with a passion for horses who wins the English Grand National on the rank outsider, The Pie. Based on a classic of children's literature of the same name, National Velvet is a film I can watch repeatedly with the same overflowing emotion. It is a text full of fantasy and identification that isn't afraid to represent the overwhelming passion some adolescent girls feel for horses. Liz Taylor's performance equally embodies that passion to an almost hysterical degree. With her lustrous skin, huge violet eyes and cascading black hair, she is almost too exotic a Technicolour creature. The passion with which she engulfs her horse could be seen as a precursor to the hypnotic stare she uses to bewitch Montgomery Clift in A Place in the Sun (George Stevens, 1951), a mere six years later. But the passion here is more innocent, more aligned with fantasies of freedom and autonomy than in her subsequent roles. A key scene in the film occurs through a transition. We see Velvet in the bedroom she shares with her two sisters, pretending to ride The Pie using string looped through her toes, for reins. The scene dissolves to her riding The Pie in reality, lost in the speed and the feeling of total communication with an animal of another species. (How do I know this? Because I know that feeling.) In the background is a rear-projected scene of sky and sea. There is an element of fantasy here. It is the first time we've seen her on a horse and until this point it hasn't been clear if she even knows how to ride. Visually, it recalls a scene in Hitchcock's Marnie (1964), where Tippi Hedren rides her favourite horse. But there is none of Hitchcock's psychosexual weirdness here, just sheer, unadulterated joy. National Velvet isn't just a film about young women and horses. It is also about young women and mothers. There is another strong presence in Velvet's life – her Mother, Araminty. Played by Anne Revere, she is all strong, Puritan cheekbones and restrained strength and severity. Like her daughter, Araminty had a dream. This was to be the first woman to swim the English Channel. She succeeded and kept her prize —a hundred gold sovereigns— waiting for a magnificent reason to spend it. In that wonderful Hollywood way, Velvet needs exactly a hundred gold sovereigns to enter The Pie in the Grand National. Araminty gives Velvet the money but warns her that this is a dream 'she'll have to live on all her life'. The unspoken part of the bargain is that no matter whether she wins her race or not, Velvet is destined for small town obscurity and motherhood just like Araminty. Velvet accepts the money thoughtfully; there is no rebellion, no questioning her fate, just a ritualistic handing over of the symbolic gold from mother to daughter. When Velvet's father accuses Araminty of folly in giving away all this money to a young girl with her head full of dreams, Araminty responds with: “What's wrong with folly?” This is a film in which the women are wise dreamers who believe in breathtaking folly and the men are foolish pragmatists who only know the value of a sovereign. National Velvet employs the classic trope of gender impersonation. Velvet knows that The Pie can only win if he's ridden by someone who loves him so she replaces the unsympathetic jockey who had originally been hired to ride the horse. Mickey Rooney's character cuts off Velvet's magnificent black mane so she can pass as a jockey. While the feminine Taylor is hardly believable as a boy, it is a dramatic device audiences have been very willing to accept. Velvet's impersonation is discovered when she falls from the horse in a faint at the end of the race. Given women were then not allowed to ride in the Grand National, the race is taken from her. While this seems incredibly unfair, Velvet has the integrity and strength to know that she and her horse are the best, regardless of what the history books record. At the conclusion of the film, Velvet and The Pie are offered huge amounts of money to go to Hollywood and show themselves off in 'moving pictures'. At first, she's entranced by the thought of another adventure with her horse but eventually refuses the money. She doesn't want The Pie to become a sideshow —and her mother has told her she only gets to have one dream. When Velvet's father argues for The Pie's money-making potential, director Clarence Brown gives Taylor a dazzling close-up. She is as passionate as Joan of Arc when she states: “I'd sooner have that horse happy than go to heaven”. One of my favourite lines in cinema. When considering Liz Taylor's subsequent career, there is a sad irony to her youthful expression of these worthy sentiments. Here is an actress more acknowledged for her celebrity than her actual performances. Taylor is someone who has been stared at all her life, from her early days in roles like Velvet Brown, to her present status as a slightly dodgy grand dame of the cinema. But somewhere still inside Liz is the young girl who wouldn't let her beloved horse be sent to Hollywood to be stared at, no matter how huge the temptation. by Liz Burke back to list of names Liz Burke is a Melbourne filmmaker and occasional writer about film.
Constructing the Screen non-Beauty: Lili Taylor (1) In an essay that explicates the heretofore elided agency of the painter's model, Elizabeth Hollander concludes, positively that: Dogfight depicts a shy, socially awkward young woman (played by Taylor) and her involvement with a young man (River Phoenix) who asks her out as part of a bet. The boy wins his money but, as expected, actually does like his date, who finds out she's being taken to a 'Dog's Ball' as contender for the 'Ugliest Girl' prize. Unlike other films with similar themes, Dogfight manages to convince the audience that Phoenix's character has fallen in love with the girl because he sees her as beautiful, with no 'But' clauses. That is, she doesn't turn into a magazine model overnight, due to her 'ugliness' being a misrecognised product of circumstance, as in Strictly Ballroom (Luhrmann, 1991). And no convenient priority is given to 'personality', placing the female character in the awkward position of accepting her 'ugliness' but being comforted by her 'inner beauty', as in Shrek (Adamson and Jensen, 2001). Rather, Dogfight tells us that beauty is subjective and once a protagonist occupies that pre-constructed position 'object of desire' we begin to read any occupier of that position as 'beautiful' (3).
In search of an alternative publisher, the usually unembellished Valerie reluctantly dons lipstick and a dress with a view to presenting herself as the kind of female author that a male publisher would think of contracting. She does become 'beautiful' as the 'ugly duckling' story has taught us to expect but her discomfiture in the fact that men 'notice' her makes for a sense of relief when she finally gets back to being Valerie. In the Mulvey way of understanding cinema, the male spectator is being denied 'his' gaze. 'He' is given a brief moment of satisfaction at the expense of scopophilia. Valerie Solanis is a character on screen because she is primarily a character on screen; her position as a figure for identification or desire is secondary. (Interestingly, that traditional understanding of 'the gaze' is accommodated only in reference to the character of Candy Darling, the resident drag queen.) When a woman on film looks into a mirror without thoughts of suicide, without adjusting her appearance or experimenting with hairstyles we are being given that rarest glimpse of how a woman-as-subject may look towards herself for identification without imagining how that self appears to others. In Short Cuts, Taylor plays Honey Bush to Robert Downey Jnr.'s Bill Bush. In the context of her oeuvre she is 'playing it straight'. They are represented as an attractive young couple who smoke too much pot and get up to mischief whilst house-sitting a friend's apartment. Not only is this 'straight' for Taylor, it provides an interesting contrast by which her other roles can be assessed: it proves that when she acts 'non-beauty' that's exactly what she's doing – assuming a role. When theorist Griselda Pollock asks “What's Wrong with 'Images of Women'?” she is analysing that phrase 'Images of Women' in terms of its accepted rhetorical use both within and outside the parameters of feminist theory. For, she argues, if that which is pictured before us is an aesthetic construction, why validate it with reference to 'the real'? (5) It is with this in mind that I am analysing Taylor's choice of roles in terms of the varying constructions of screen beauty and the seemingly inextricable relationship between that position and that of being an actor who's a woman. It is my belief that Taylor deliberately adopts the role of the non-Beauty in an effort to detach the purpose of women on screen from the position of aesthetic-object. In essence, Taylor's work emphasises the craft involved in acting, where a role is inhabited so completely that the actor loses him/herself to this super-imposed ego. On film, a medium that's popularity has in part been built on the foundations of iconography, this includes the representation of beauty, the standard of which is used to judge the 'performance' of many women actors. To pursue the characterisation of an iconic 'non-beauty', then, is to defy the parameters of understanding women's visual representation. To have non-beauty as a screen position from which a character evolves means that the fate of a woman character may only be influenced by her appearance, as opposed to being defined by it. by Anna Daly back to list of names Anna Daly recently completed a MA in film, philosophy and globalisation at Monash University, Melbourne. She has written in the past for online magazine Palaver. Endnotes:
One is hard pressed to name a true comedienne in today's English-language cinema with any real box-office clout, but in the silent era proto-feminists like Mabel Normand, Constance Talmadge, and the doe-eyed Fay Tincher could almost always guarantee a crowd-pleasing, box-office hit. Nevertheless, history has been unkind to the once-popular Tincher, who, though having starred in dozens of shorts and features between 1913 and 1930, has been relegated to a mere footnote in most surveys of silent comedy, if not omitted altogether. Early roles included a supporting part in D.W. Griffith's now-obscure The Battle of the Sexes (1914) and Dulcinea in a 1915 Don Quixote, but Tincher soon found her niche as a farceur in indelicate two-reelers such as Ethel Has a Steady (1914) and Ethel Gets the Evidence (1915), and later became established as a formidable comedienne under the tutelage of producer-director, Al Christie. Though she never ascended to the level of a Mabel Normand, and though one finds no eternal masterpieces in her filmography, Fincher's recently reissued Western comedy Rowdy Ann (Al Christie, 1919) has the incipient makings of a cult classic, and may be one of the first American films, comedic or otherwise, to legitimately addresses the social psychology of gender construction.
Though we rightfully wonder how successful a spouse Buster Keaton could possibly be at the end of Our Hospitality (1923) or Steamboat Bill, Jr. (1928), his asocial clown has been, at least to some degree, assimilated by the socializing institution of marriage. But in Rowdy Ann, Tincher subversively resists her feminization (and thus socialization) through to the film's very end, at which point the kindly but ineffectual cowboy with whom we assumed she'll be romantically paired has been forgotten altogether. Director Al Christie may have utilized transvestite farce in his earlier Dororthy Devore short Know Thy Wife (1918), wherein the heroine cross-dresses as her fiancé's short-haired “male friend” to fool his unsuspecting parents, but there the heroine's sexuality and “marriageability” are never in question. Tincher's “Ann,” however, is a rare exception to Walter Kerr's rule in The Silent Clowns: “Comediennes labored under an instant handicap: they had to be pretty.” In Rowdy Ann, using the masculinized trappings of the Western, Tincher not only transcends standard norms of femininity but, more exceptionally, enters the realm of asexual, asocial play that was generally the exclusive terrain of the socially subversive male silent clown. by Andrew Grossman back to list of names Andrew Grossman is the editor and co-author of the anthology Queer Asian Cinema: Shadows in the Shade (Harrington Park Press, 2001). He is a regular contributor to Bright Lights Film Journal, Scope: The Film Journal of the University of Nottingham, American Book Review, and other periodicals.
Mari Töröcsik, who was born in 1935, is one of the most versatile actresses of Hungarian cinema. Seemingly plain by appearance, she has a superbly refined screen presence. She studied with leading Hungarian director Zoltán Fábri who cast her in his famous early film, Körhinta/Merry-Go-Round (1955), where Töröcsik played a village Juliet. Set against the backdrop of rural Hungarian life after World War Two and featuring traditional country fairs and folk dances, Körhinta tells a lyrical love story of star-crossed lovers who want to marry against the will of the girl's land-owner father. A breakthrough indictment of patriarchy, Körhinta was among the first films that explored the tensions between patriarchy and the socialist rush for collectivisation of agriculture. Töröcsik also had the lead in one of Fábri's next films, Édes Anna/Anna (1958), an adaptation of Dezsö Kosztolányi's novel. Since 1957, Töröcsik also pursued a career as a theatre actress at the Hungarian National Theatre. Appearing in over 20 films during the '60s (out of a total of approximately 80 film roles throughout her entire career), she became one of the most popular Hungarian actresses, and was continually cast by many leading Hungarian directors. In Miklós Jancsó's Elektra/Elektreia (1974), Töröcsik paired with György Cserhalmi for a remarkable performance; she also had memorable leads in Pál Sándor's Szerencsés Dániel/Daniel Takes a Train (1983) and in Attila Janisch's Hosszú alkony/Long Twilight (1997).
Married to director Gyula Maár, Töröcsik was cast by him in a number of female roles focusing on mid-life crisis, like Végül/At the End of the Road (1973), Déryné hol van?/ Mrs. Déry, Where Are You?(1975) and Teketória/ Flare and Flicker (1976), as well as in Hoppá/Whoops (1993). She also received a Best Actress award at Cannes for one of her television collaborations with Gyula Maár (in 1976). The Cannes experiences are recounted in Gyula Maár's documentary Töröcsik Mari Cannes-ban (1997). Most likely due to language barriers, Töröcsik's international appearances are limited; she is usually cast in supporting roles as a Hungarian woman, most notably in Costa-Gavras' Music Box (1990). by Dina Iordanova back to list of names Dina Iordanova has published extensively on Eastern European and Balkan cinema. Her most recent books are Cinema of Flames: Balkan Film, Culture And The Media (BFI, 2001) and Emir Kusturica (BFI, 2002).
The Mother, the Gypsy and the Star – a poetic exhortation on what made 'Natalie Wood' Way before the Star (Natalie Wood), there was her Mother. The Mother as virago, as atavist, as megalomaniac. And the Mother knew precisely how to manoeuvre and swerve through the ingrained need to push, push, push to be, be, be something beyond the one home, the one family, the one story… she was from Royal Russian stock, indeed! Desire was her reality. Acceptance was her enemy. She harnessed the truth of her life into packaged fable for the ears of those in the big town of tinsel. For in this town where Americans lived, it was secure; no Bolsheviks to run from, no hangings to witness, and if you were competitive and ambitious you would be kept safe forever. The Mother, when growing up, was known endearingly as Musia. The Mother was called Mud by her famous daughter, the Star. The Mother's second husband was Nikolai, the Russian immigrant with the matinee idol looks, the poet's soul and vodka's spirit. The Mother, with Nikolai, conceived the Star. The Gypsy said the Star would be ' a great beauty known throughout the world'. The Gypsy warned the Mother to beware of dark water for she was destined to drown. The Star became known as Natasha Gurdin, to ease the American tongue of foreign difficulty. The Star was given the name Natalie Wood by the men who made movies. The Star became a childhood celebrity, renowned for her braids and wholesomeness in her fourth film, Miracle on 34th Street (George Seaton, 1947). The Star hated her pigtails and welcomed them being cut off, behind her Mother's back.
The Star was in awe of Vivien Leigh after she saw a Streetcar Named Desire. The Star was petrified of water scenes in many of her movies but she did them anyway. The Mother always warned her daughter of watery depths. And the Gypsy never lied. by Angela Costi back to list of names Angela Costi is a Melbourne-based poet and playwright. She also has a Law/Arts degree and a diploma in Professional Writing.
Born in 1947, Xiao Fangfang is one of the most prolific, versatile, and intellectual Hong Kong female actors. She is also noted for her impressive professional breakthroughs in spite of deafness and a series of personal problems. She appeared in 212 films between 1954 and 1995. Becoming a child star at the age of six to support her mother and earn her own living, Xiao Fangfang essentially grew up in front of the camera. Her father, who studied abroad in Germany, moved from Shanghai to Hong Kong in 1949 when his only daughter was two, and died there a year later. Her mother was an artist from Shanghai who became Xiao Fangfang's business manager when she was a child star. While she was young, Xiao Fangfang played mostly homeless orphans, martial arts practitioners, or young rebels, and became an iconic figure for Hong Kong youth. She was one of the “seven princesses” in the Hong Kong film industry during the 1960s. She generally played female roles in her films, often as the “girlfriend” of another popular female actor named Chen Baozhu, who played mostly the role of a young male. In playing the “girlfriend,” Xiao Fangfang sometimes invited the jealousy and resentment of Chen Baozhu's fans. The marketing competition between Xiao Fangfang and Chen Baozhu in the 1960s was quite dramatic.
After receiving a Master's degree in Psychology from Seton Hall University in 1998, Xiao Fangfang retired from the field of the performing arts. She established a non-profit child sexual abuse prevention organization in Hong Kong and became a full time social worker. by Feng-ying Ming back to list of names Feng-ying Ming teaches at California State University, Long Beach.
Tsetsiliya Zervudaki and the Art of the Eccentric Actor Stanley Kubrick once said about Shelley Duvall: "The wonderful thing about Shelley is her eccentric quality – the way she talks, the way she moves, the way her nervous system is put together. I think that most interesting actors have physical eccentricities about them which make their performances more interesting and, if they don't, they work hard to find them" (Michel Ciment, Kubrick, trans. by Gilbert Adair, First Owl Book Edition, Holt, Rinehart and Winston, New York, 1984, p.189). We can define the eccentric actor as someone who uses every part of his or her body as something akin to an internal rhythmic percussion, putting his or her breathing system in service of the character they are portraying and achieving a performance that is at the same time both organic and non-naturalistic. The eccentric actor likes to use text as means to produce sequences of fulminating ideas, be it an anachronistic gesture, an ambiguous smile, a contradiction between what is said and what is shown, using the face sometimes as a kabuki mask, the body as an iconic sculpture and going from an act of passivity and inertia to one of aggressiveness and movement and vice-versa in a snap of fingers.
by Jorge Didaco back to list of names Jorge Didaco is a Brazil-based teacher and writer in theatre, performance and film.
© Copyright lies with the individual authors, 2002 To Part 1 To Part 2
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