Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Affirmative Aesthetics
and Wilful Women
Gender, Space and Mobility in Contemporary
Cinema
Maud Ceuterick
University of Bergen
Bergen, Norway
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Preface
This book was formed through travel and habitation of cities in Belgium,
Spain, Ireland, New Zealand, and Norway. As I was trying to find my way
across the globe through the academic maze, I observed the differences
in treatment I received as a woman compared to my male counterparts,
whether in the streets, at the wheel of a car, in private houses, or in ‘public’
places such as restaurants, cafés, or workplaces. If the sexist comments and
attitudes in Brussels were in appearance much more frequent and violent
than in Spain, New Zealand, or Norway, sexism and misogyny in these
countries remain pervasively ubiquitous and institutionalised, albeit in sur-
reptitious ways. The categorisation of subject identities according to gen-
der, ethnicity, sexuality, and social class determines spatial perceptions and
experiences and affects mobility. As a film and media scholar, I feel that art
has a responsibility to make visible how space and mobility are gendered
and racialised, as well as to stimulate imagination and create the new. This
book argues that films and media have the power to critique the status quo
and generate future possibilities by formally creating fluid spaces and wil-
ful bodies. I have come to categorise these wilful and fluid forms as
instances of ‘affirmative aesthetics’. Before going into more detail on the
origin and implications of affirmative aesthetics, however, I want to
recount an anecdote that touches on the major themes of this book and
reaffirms its cross-disciplinary and cross-cultural aspects.
Lowering her voice to a whisper, a friend at a party asked me: ‘are you
a feminist?’ I laughed and asked her why she seemed so ashamed to utter
the ‘f-word’ as if it was a swear word. She proceeded to tell me her story
v
vi PREFACE
about how traditional views of gender roles and power structures shaped
her life. My friend J. was raised in a small Chinese town where she was
exposed to strong cultural traditions which posited girls’ mobility (their
necessity for and capacity of) as inferior to that of boys. Under her moth-
er’s guidance, she took up competitive running. Her fellow male students
were perplexed about her competitive nature; they believed that competi-
tiveness was a male trait and that she did not need to be competitive
because she would ultimately be expected to find a husband who would
provide for her. Later, when she talked about her Swedish boyfriend, peo-
ple ‘back home’ would blame her for having a foreign partner and not
keeping the Chinese genes ‘pure’ or within the nation. As an answer to
these accusations, she would joke that foreigners are fearful of China tak-
ing over the world and that by marrying a foreigner she was playing her
patriotic part in the conquest of the world. However, this explanation was
not acceptable to her fellow citizens, since for them ‘Chinese ethnicity’
was transmitted through the father, and thus, because she was a woman,
her children ‘would not be Chinese’.
Because she perceived the injustice of not being accommodated by
space, of having to ‘insist on what is simply given to others’ (Ahmed 2014,
149), J. experienced the wilfulness to put her body in the way of the patri-
archal and sexist division of space and social rights. Instances like the ones
mentioned appear to have structured her young life and raised her aware-
ness of an unequal gendered existence. My friend’s story resonates with
me as similar to the story of the young character in Haifaa Al Mansour’s
film Wadjda (2012) who, because of her gender, is prohibited from riding
a bicycle as the boys of her age do (see Chap. 4 on Wadjda). Feminist
scholar Sara Ahmed writes that wilfulness is ‘a matter of how we are
affected’, namely by social and spatial constraints; Wadjda’s and my friend
J.’s wilful bodies would ‘[get] in the way, when spaces [were] not made
“accessible” to [their] bodies’ (2014, 76; 147, emphasis in original).
Experiencing wilfulness is about endorsing ‘the capacity to say or enact a
“no” to what has been given as an instruction’, to ‘what has been willed
by others’ (14; 65). It is also to walk freely through the city so as to inhabit
it fully, despite not being naturally accommodated, just as Hannah Arendt
notes when writing that ‘one inhabits a city by strolling through it without
aim or purpose’ (cited in Solnit 2001, 211). Inhabiting space through
walking without aim or purpose may manifest as a wilful gesture, not a
conscious one, but one that is experienced.
PREFACE vii
accommodate us for who we were and are, and for how we strolled across
prohibited grounds. If these negative affects pervade generations and cul-
tures, wilfulness and affirmative forms similarly pass from one generation
to the next, reach from one culture to another, and change representation
into desire.
This book aims to follow my grandfather’s motto that optimism is
good for our health and well-being (L’optimisme, c’est bon pour la santé)
and is dedicated to the women of my family, who (including myself) strug-
gle to live by that principle: my grandmother Mariette, my mother Martine,
and my sister Aline. All in their own ways, they have taken wilful paths and
contributed to who I am and to the thoughts that went into this book.
This book could not have been completed without the University of
Otago Doctoral Scholarship that funded my doctoral research, from which
this project emerged. I received an individual research fellowship from the
European Marie Skłodowska-Curie Actions, which allowed me to devote
my time to research and write this book. I also received generous funding
from the University of Bergen’s Open Access Publication Fund, which
made it possible to publish this book under a Creative Commons licence.
An early version of Chap. 3 has been published in Baschiera, Stefano, and
Miriam De Rosa (eds.), Film and Domestic Space: Architectures,
Representations, Dispositif, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2020.
Many thanks go to the editorial team at Palgrave, Lina Aboujieb, and
Emily Wood, and to my peer reviewers for believing in this project and for
their extraordinary efficiency. Thanks to William Gillis for his careful re-
reading of this book. Thanks are also due to Anja Padge at Wüste Film,
Jennifer Bredtmeyer, and Sibel Kekilli for the cover image.
The ideas in this book result from my interactions with wonderful
friends and colleagues at the University of Otago, New Zealand. My deep-
est and unreserved thanks go to my supervisor and mentor Cathy Fowler,
for her inestimable generosity, kindness, continuous support, and insight.
I am grateful to my peers and mentors in the Department of Media, Film,
and Communication, whose inspiring and stimulating conversations have
nourished my research, especially my co-supervisor Cecilia Novero, Vijay
Devadas, Brett Nichols, Anne Begg, Sally Milner, Alex Thong, Rosemary
Overell, Peter Stapleton, and Massimiliana Urbano.
xi
xii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
For their support, editing advice, and general insight, I wish to thank
Sam Spector, Nick Reeder, and Chris Ingraham. Thank you to my col-
leagues in the Digital Culture Research Group and Media Aesthetics
Research Group at the University of Bergen, in particular Jill Walker
Rettberg, Asbjørn Grønstad, Øyvind Vågnes, and Anders Lysne.
I am also indebted to a great number of friends who have made and
continue to make my life a plentiful and colourful one, whether in
Dunedin, Belgium, or Bergen, and in particular to Manon de Decker who
has been there for me since our first years at university.
Most of all, my tender thanks go to my family for their unwavering sup-
port: Aline, Robin, and Michel Ceuterick: and Martine, Mariette, and
Georges Eliard. Thank you to André Ceuterick for transmitting his pas-
sion for socially engaged cinema.
Finally, I thank Gon Nido, for his wit, love, and delicious breakfasts
that enliven my life on a daily basis.
Contents
xiii
xiv Contents
Index177
List of Figures
xv
xvi LIST OF FIGURES
When we look for films that ‘imagine’ mobile female characters and exam-
ine the scholarship related to these films, we encounter binaries in both,
binaries that confine women through gendered considerations of mobility.
Filmic narratives of travel, such as the road movie, tend to situate their
characters within dichotomous systems that oppose, for instance, ‘mascu-
line’ / ‘feminine’, mobility / stasis, road / house, traveller / strayed wan-
derer,1 desiring / aimless, and autonomy / dependency. Meanwhile,
scholars writing about gender and space on screen also seem to overtly
focus upon how female characters seem trapped in both passive roles and
within domestic space. Having noted the prevalence of binaries, we need
to ask how the patriarchal status quo affects women’s (as in those who
identify or are identified as ‘women’) freedom of movement and habita-
tion of space.
In this book I am looking for both ‘new images’ that will transmit
women’s wilful habitation of space along with a new vocabulary through
which to theorise gender and space in film affectively. The logical starting
point, with the road movie, is in fact problematic for female protagonists
for reasons I discuss in Chap. 2; therefore, what we need to examine is not
the ‘mobility’ of these women but their bodily habitation of their spatial
environments. Similarly, in order to find wilful models of women who are
able to move and act with as much ‘freedom’ as men do, we have to start
looking at ‘mobility’ through a different lens.2 For what stands out from
had ‘the privilege of passing unnoticed in the city’ while women’s ‘pres-
ence on the streets would certainly be noticed’ (2006, 19). Women’s dif-
ficult habitation of space is opposed to the privileged abilities of men to
cross spatial boundaries unrestricted. While male flâneurs such as
Baudelaire were roaming the streets for pleasure or in search of artistic
inspiration, female flâneuses, such as Virginia Woolf, needed a clear aim
that justified their movement in so-called ‘public’ spaces (1942). As has
been well recorded, middle-class female flânerie became possible with the
apparition of the department store, as it allowed women to go into the
streets unchaperoned, and consume goods in a semi-private, protected
area.3 As Rebecca Solnit puts it in her book Wanderlust, ‘women legiti-
mised their presence [in urban life] by shopping—proving they were not
for purchase by purchasing… as either commodities or consumers’
(2001, 237).
For many of these early writers, the streets were seen to have a negative
impact upon women’s lives. Ironically, in order to escape the commodify-
ing male gaze, women had to haunt the urban space like unwelcome
ghosts,4 for they embodied all the sexual ‘uncanny’ that the city space
represented (Wolff 2006, 27). In particular, Wolff notes that:
the lives of women in the modern city—in private as well as in public (for the
sociology of modernity has paid little attention to the domestic sphere) are
thus, as [Avery] Gordon puts it, ‘barely visible, or seemingly not there’. As
a result, they haunt the discourse and the city itself—uncanny because not
admitted to language and thought. (2006, 27)
Despite the tendency to dwell upon the problems city spaces pose to
women, less pessimistic readings do exist. Elizabeth Wilson describes how
women’s resistance to ideological and spatial boundaries ‘flourished in the
interstices of the city’ (1991, 8, emphasis mine). Whereas Wilson writes
that cities of the early twentieth century were simultaneously feared and
desired for all the sexually and morally forbidden activities that became pos-
sible, and that women were (and arguably continue to be) seen as problems
that needed to be controlled. Yet Wilson also celebrates the potential of
cities to offer women, in particular, ‘greater freedom and diversity than life
in small communities’ (5–6; 156). Although in the city ‘[women] were and
continued to be defined in terms of their sexuality in a way that most men
were not’, urban life undermined patriarchal authority, as it gave birth to
employment and subsequent relative economic independence, as well
4 M. CEUTERICK
the lived space, made of social relations that continually change through
time, as defined by Doreen Massey. The three spaces that Lefebvre distin-
guishes are contingent, so that one could consider that filmic representa-
tions of space and bodies have an impact on lived, perceived and, ultimately,
conceived places.
In this book, I refer to space as ‘practiced places’, socially constructed
and in constant transformation (de Certeau 1984, 117). For Michel de
Certeau, narratives constantly transform places into spaces and, vice versa,
the social idea of a space into a specific place (118). De Certeau explains
that these narratives emerge as strategies, deeds of a ‘subject of will and
power (a proprietor, an enterprise, a city, a scientific institution)’, or as
tactics, the weak’s (the ‘other’) resistance to hegemonic structures (xix). It
seems here that strategies conceive space and participate in the perception
of space, while tactics progressively determine lived spaces. According to
de Certeau, the binary separation of space that depends on actions of the
strong and the weak impacts how space and time are perceived, ranked,
and appropriated: strategies are spatialised and tactics depend on time.
In the essay collection Entanglements of Power: Geographies of
Domination/Resistance (2000), Tim Cresswell and Doreen Massey cri-
tique de Certeau’s binary divisions between strategies and tactics,
and domination and resistance. As opposed to subjects ‘with will and
power’ managing space and its inhabitants, de Certeau describes very pes-
simistically the position of the ‘weak’, or the ‘other’, who lacks a proper
place and can only resist strategies of power through micro-tactics (1984,
36–37). Massey argues that a more ‘egalitarian map of power’ requires
thinking about power in terms of both possibilities and responsibilities by
practising ‘active spaces of action, [which are] continually being made’
(2000, 284). While power configurations are not as totalising and all-
coherent as de Certeau argues, Massey warns: ‘a recognition that power is
everywhere – and that we must pay attention to the micro-politics of
power (which we must) – should not lead to a position where the real
structural inequalities of power are lost, dissipated in a plethora of multi-
plicities’ (280).
According to Massey, space should be considered as space-time affected
by ‘power-geometries’: a practised, inhabited, and ‘ever-shifting social
geometry of power and signification’ (1994, 3). Massey contends that
space is not neutral, ‘fixed and unproblematic in its identity’ (5), but is
instead an evolving source of meaning and social relations produced and
reproduced within power configurations. While these power-geometries
1 INTRODUCTION: GENDER, SPACE, AND AFFECTS IN FILM 7
what gives a place its specificity is not some long internalized history but the
fact that it is constructed out of a particular constellation of social relations,
meeting and weaving together at a particular locus. … [Place] is absolutely
not static. If places can be conceptualised in terms of the social interactions
which they tie together, then it is also the case that these interactions them-
selves are not motionless things, frozen in time. They are processes. …
places are processes, too.… clearly places do not have single, unique ‘identi-
ties’; they are full of internal conflicts. (1994, 154–55)
gendered ideas, it may also affirmatively suspend these ideas of space and
bodies and actualise alternative forms.
Following the notions of affect and cinema developed by Deleuze,
Massumi, Berlant, Hemmings, and Ahmed, I would like to conclude
that cinema acts as a ‘way of thinking’ towards the world and towards
socio-spatial power relations. Although realist cinema is anchored in the
actually existing, it may also reveal other perspectives: of a world in con-
stant transformation. This book adopts Spinoza’s and Deleuze’s reading
of affect as non-representative thought, as duration, as a passage: ‘the con-
tinuous variation or the passage from one degree of reality to the next’
(Deleuze 1978–1981, 10, translation mine).16 In film theory, affect has
often been considered as being there for the spectator, or as an exchange of
potentialities between film and spectators (Sobchack 1992, 2004; Barker
2009). As Steven Shaviro writes, many film theorists have linked cinema
and other media and art works to the production of affects, as ‘machines
for generating affect, and for capitalizing upon, or extracting value from,
this affect.… [films and music videos] lie at the very heart of social pro-
duction, circulation, and distribution. They generate subjectivity’ (Shaviro
2010, 2–3, emphasis in original). Rather than concentrating on the poten-
tial exchanges between film and viewers, this book focuses on the textures,
light, objects, colours, sounds, and bodies that give shape to the film
world, to space on screen. In his book Non-Representational Theory: Space,
Politics, Affect, Nigel Thrift argues that it is by going beyond representa-
tion, beyond anchoring narratives and dialogues, that space, time, and
gendered bodies become reconfigured (2008, 113–119). It is by focusing
on affects as filmic forms that we can sense how this happens. In the
genre of musicals, Richard Dyer finds great importance in recognising
how ‘non-representational signs’ (colour, texture, movement, rhythm,
melody, camerawork) ‘embody feeling’ and ‘suggests an alternative to the
narrative’ (Dyer 2002 [1992], 21; 28). I contend that cinematic forms
may create affirmative ‘cracks’ in the patriarchy that emerges from real-
ist narratives; they may create what entertainment offers for Dyer: ‘what
utopia would feel like rather than how it would be organized’ (20, empha-
sis mine). On a similar line, Eugenie Brinkema’s model of close analysis
(‘reading for form’) is appealing. In an authoritative and convincing man-
ner, Brinkema writes in favour of ‘treating affects as structures that work
through formal means, as consisting in their formal dimensions (as line,
light, color, rhythm, and so on) of passionate structures’ (2014, 37). In
her formalist film analyses, Brinkema reads affects as ‘a matter of form,
1 INTRODUCTION: GENDER, SPACE, AND AFFECTS IN FILM 13
consider how affects, that is, physical sensations towards another body
that accumulate as ways of being in the world, are produced in space and
in turn produce space.
Through the concept of power-geometry discussed earlier, Massey sug-
gests that it is not only access to economical and transport resources that
affects our experience of space but also social relations, which convert
spaces themselves into sites of meaning and power (1994, 146–156).
Although Massey situates the complexities of spatial experiences within
social interactions determined by power rather than in affects, her text
nonetheless suggests the affectivity of spatial existence: ‘women’s mobility,
for instance, is restricted – in a thousand different ways, from physical vio-
lence to being ogled at or made to feel quite simply “out of place”—not
by “capital”, but by men’ (1994, 148, emphasis mine). Both direct physi-
cal contact and mediated (such as filmic) experiences certainly affect us
physically and therefore condition our reactions, behaviour, habitation of
space, and indeed our whole social existence.
For instance, when I walk alone in the city (especially one unknown
to me, and at night time), it is how I have been affected personally and
collectively (as a woman) and how these affections have also been cultur-
ally mediated to me (through films for example) that orient the way I
inhabit urban spaces: with fear, distrust, and a general feeling of being
out of place. The many online and offline feminist movements against
harassment in the post-2000s—such as Stop Street Harassment, the Slut
Walks across the globe, the French Ni Pute Ni Soumise, Reclaim the
Night, the Everyday Sexism Project, and the #metoo movement and
its French equivalent #BalanceTonPorc—in fact reveal the collective,
institutionalised, and ubiquitous dimensions of sexism and misogyny
that negatively affect women’s habitation of so-called ‘public’ spaces.
Many women around the world have used their digital cameras to docu-
ment sexual assaults and the many obstacles women have to overcome in
the streets or before they go out of the house, such as in Brussels through
“Femmes de la rue” (Peeters 2012), “10 Hours of Walking in NYC as a
Woman” (Rob Bliss Creative 2014), and in Cairo, “Creepers on the
Bridge” (Loon and Ghunim 2014). On the one hand, the digital sphere
overflows with platforms that gather women’s testimonies of being
harassed, not feeling welcome, or not being accommodated in the urban
space—thereby focusing on the negative affects of power-geometries.
On the other hand, a plenitude of digital artists denounce what has come
to be known as ‘rape culture’ in an array of creative and affirmative ways.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
—C’est le palais de la Belle au Bois Dormant, se dit le conseiller
qui ne voyait déjà plus cette maison qu’avec les yeux d’un
propriétaire. A qui cela peut-il donc appartenir? Il faut être bien bête
pour ne pas habiter une si jolie propriété.
Aussitôt, une femme s’élança de dessous un noyer planté à
droite de la grille, et sans faire de bruit passa devant le conseiller
aussi rapidement que l’ombre d’un nuage; cette vision le rendit muet
de surprise.
—Eh! bien, d’Albon, qu’avez-vous? lui demanda le colonel.
—Je me frotte les yeux pour savoir si je dors ou si je veille,
répondit le magistrat en se collant sur la grille pour tâcher de revoir
le fantôme.
—Elle est probablement sous ce figuier, dit-il en montrant à
Philippe le feuillage d’un arbre qui s’élevait au-dessus du mur, à
gauche de la grille.
—Qui, elle?
—Eh! puis-je le savoir? reprit monsieur d’Albon. Il vient de se
lever là, devant moi, dit-il à voix basse, une femme étrange; elle m’a
semblé plutôt appartenir à la nature des ombres qu’au monde des
vivants. Elle est si svelte, si légère, si vaporeuse, qu’elle doit être
diaphane. Sa figure est aussi blanche que du lait. Ses vêtements,
ses yeux, ses cheveux sont noirs. Elle m’a regardé en passant, et
quoique je ne sois point peureux, son regard immobile et froid m’a
figé le sang dans les veines.
—Est-elle jolie? demanda Philippe.
—Je ne sais pas. Je ne lui ai vu que les yeux dans la figure.
—Au diable le dîner de Cassan, s’écria le colonel, restons ici. J’ai
une envie d’enfant d’entrer dans cette singulière propriété. Vois-tu
ces châssis de fenêtres peints en rouge, et ces filets rouges
dessinés sur les moulures des portes et des volets? Ne semble-t-il
pas que ce soit la maison du diable, il aura peut-être hérité des
moines. Allons, courons après la dame blanche et noire! En avant!
s’écria Philippe avec une gaieté factice.
En ce moment, les deux chasseurs entendirent un cri assez
semblable à celui d’une souris prise au piége. Ils écoutèrent. Le
feuillage de quelques arbustes froissés retentit dans le silence,
comme le murmure d’une onde agitée; mais quoiqu’ils prêtassent
l’oreille pour saisir quelques nouveaux sons, la terre resta
silencieuse et garda le secret des pas de l’inconnue, si toutefois elle
avait marché.
—Voilà qui est singulier, s’écria Philippe en suivant les contours
que décrivaient les murs du parc.
Les deux amis arrivèrent bientôt à une allée de la forêt qui
conduit au village de Chauvry. Après avoir remonté ce chemin vers
la route de Paris, ils se trouvèrent devant une grande grille, et virent
alors la façade principale de cette habitation mystérieuse. De ce
côté, le désordre était à son comble. D’immenses lézardes
sillonnaient les murs de trois corps de logis bâtis en équerre. Des
débris de tuiles et d’ardoises amoncelés à terre et des toits dégradés
annonçaient une complète incurie. Quelques fruits étaient tombés
sous les arbres et pourrissaient sans qu’on les récoltât. Une vache
paissait à travers les boulingrins, et foulait les fleurs des plates-
bandes, tandis qu’une chèvre broutait les raisins verts et les
pampres d’une treille.
—Ici, tout est harmonie, et le désordre y est en quelque sorte
organisé, dit le colonel en tirant la chaîne d’une cloche; mais la
cloche était sans battant.
Les deux chasseurs n’entendirent que le bruit singulièrement
aigre d’un ressort rouillé. Quoique très-délabrée, la petite porte
pratiquée dans le mur auprès de la grille résista néanmoins à tout
effort.
—Oh! oh! tout ceci devient très-curieux, dit-il à son compagnon.
—Si je n’étais pas magistrat, répondit monsieur d’Albon, je
croirais que la femme noire est une sorcière.
A peine avait-il achevé ces mots, que la vache vint à la grille et
leur présenta son mufle chaud, comme si elle éprouvait le besoin de
voir des créatures humaines. Alors une femme, si toutefois ce nom
pouvait appartenir à l’être indéfinissable qui se leva de dessous une
touffe d’arbustes, tira la vache par sa corde. Cette femme portait sur
la tête un mouchoir rouge d’où s’échappaient des mèches de
cheveux blonds assez semblables à l’étoupe d’une quenouille. Elle
n’avait pas de fichu. Un jupon de laine grossière à raies
alternativement noires et grises, trop court de quelques pouces,
permettait de voir ses jambes. L’on pouvait croire qu’elle appartenait
à une des tribus de Peaux Rouges célébrées par Cooper; car ses
jambes, son cou et ses bras nus semblaient avoir été peints en
couleur de brique. Aucun rayon d’intelligence n’animait sa figure
plate. Ses yeux bleuâtres étaient sans chaleur et ternes. Quelques
poils blancs clair-semés lui tenaient lieu de sourcils. Enfin, sa
bouche était contournée de manière à laisser passer des dents mal
rangées, mais aussi blanches que celles d’un chien.
—Ohé! la femme! cria monsieur de Sucy.
Elle arriva lentement jusqu’à la grille, en contemplant d’un air
niais les deux chasseurs à la vue desquels il lui échappa un sourire
pénible et forcé.
—Où sommes-nous? Quelle est cette maison-là? A qui est-elle?
Qui êtes-vous? Êtes-vous d’ici?
A ces questions et à une foule d’autres que lui adressèrent
successivement les deux amis, elle ne répondit que par des
grognements gutturaux qui semblaient appartenir plus à l’animal
qu’à la créature humaine.
—Ne voyez-vous pas qu’elle est sourde et muette, dit le
magistrat.
—Bons-Hommes! s’écria la paysanne.
—Ah! elle a raison. Ceci pourrait bien être l’ancien couvent des
Bons-Hommes, dit monsieur d’Albon.
Les questions recommencèrent. Mais, comme un enfant
capricieux, la paysanne rougit, joua avec son sabot, tortilla la corde
de la vache qui s’était remise à paître, regarda les deux chasseurs,
examina toutes les parties de leur habillement; elle glapit, grogna,
gloussa, mais elle ne parla pas.
Cette femme semblait ensevelie dans
une méditation profonde.
ADIEU (p. 298).