dir. Melvin Van Peebles, “Sweet Sweetback’s Baadasssss Song”

1971

The film opens with the lines “Starring the black community” and “Dedicated to all the Brothers and Sisters who are tired of being held down by the Man.” Sweetback, adopted into foster care, becomes a servant at a brothel and loses his virginity at a very young age (the repeating credit sequence of the prostitute’s orgasm). As a man, he performs in sex shows condoned by white police. All the white characters in the film speak like tape recorders – flat and colorless, almost nonsensical speech. Sweetback is arrested, the cops promise, as a distraction from their covert activities. He ends up beating the cops with his handcuffs still on when they begin to beat MoMo, the other guy in the cop car, who insults the police. Sweetback escapes and is beaten. He escapes again, trading sex for the removal of his handcuffs. He and a friend stumble into a Hell’s Angels den. To escape, Sweetback “pays” with sex, “fucking” a white woman in front of all the Hell’s Angels. She experiences wild pleasure. They leave and the rest of the film is occupied by increasingly paranoid, lonely montages of Sweetback fleeing the police in the desert. He trades clothes with a white hippie, disguises himself from the police once more by pretending to be having sex in the bushes, and finally makes it across the border to Mexico. The film ends with shots of the dead police dogs in the river, whose stones are dotted by blood. The screen reads: “WATCH OUT. A badass nigger is coming back to collect some dues.”

Melvin Van Peebles stars in and directs this film, often called the first of the blaxploitation genre. Many blaxploitation films have similar themes (orchestral, improvisational soul/funk soundtracks, a black here sticking it to the Man by a sort of trickster cunning, an overdetermined black male virility and fixation on the sexuality of black bodies, etc.). Still, it may be unfair to label the film this way, since Peeble’s goal was to draw attention to issues facing black culture while providing enough entertainment to garner wider audiences. It is retroactively labeled blaxploitation because it revealed to Hollywood the market for films about black heroes like Sweetback. It came out the same year as Shaft, which may have been the real start of the genre.

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Kaja Silverman, “The Subject of Semiotics”

1983

Kaja Silverman expands on Oudart’s and Miller’s Lacanian interpretations of suture in cinema. She points out that Psycho undermines suture by making us realize we are invited to be voyeurs through the window, victim and killer at once, and we have an ‘unmediated’ relationship with the camera, which ‘exceeds’ Marion’s gaze. Silverman’s argument is that suture can be even more swaying when not tied to a subject. In the shower scene, the camera routinely cuts and returns more than 30 degrees from the last shot, drawing attention to its ruptures.

“Even though we have just lost our heroine, and our own discursive postion, we can afford to finance others. What sutures us at this juncture is the fear of being cut off from narrative. Our investment in the fiction is made manifest through the packet of money which provides an imaginary bridge from Marion to the next protagonist… What Psycho obliges us to understand is that we want suture so badly that we’ll take it at any price, even with the fullest knowledge of what it entails – passive insertions into preexisting discursive positions… threatened losses and false recoveries, and subordination to the castrating gaze of a symbolic Other.” (Silverman)

“Mulvey’s argument… bears a striking resemblance to the suture theory. Both posit a cinematic adventure in which plenitude is fractured by difference and lack, only to be sealed over once again… the lack which must be both dramatized and contained finds its locus in the female body… Classic cinema abounds in shot/reverse shot formations in which men look at women.” (Silverman)

“Suture can be understood as the process whereby the inadequacy of the subject’s position is exposed in order to facilitate (create the desire for) new insertions into a cultural discourse which promises to make good that lack. Since the promised compensation involves an ever greater subordination to already existing scenarios, the viewing subject’s position is a supremely passive one, a face which is carefully concealed through cinematic sleight-of-hand… attributing to a character within the fiction qualities which in fact belong to the machinery of enunciation: the ability to generate narrative, the omnipotent and coercive gaze, the castrating authority of the law” (Silverman)

D.A. Miller, “Anal Rope”

1990

Criticism of Hitchcock’s Rope, D.A. Miller points out, always strives to make Hitchcock’s irregular approach (shots ranging from 3 to 9 minutes) into a string of identical 10 minute shots – the fantasy of the film done in one take, as it were 145. Nevertheless, this is also often considered a gimmick, even by Truffaut and Hitchcock himself, who said it was a “stunt” that violated his own interest in montage. At the same time, Hitchcock insisted later that he “maintained the rule of varying the size of the image in relation to its emotional importance within a given episode” 146. All of his explanations, however, continue to circle around the film’s technique.

In Truffaut’s short plot summary, Miller argues, the word “homosexual” stands out – it is not “furnished on the direct evidence of what we hear or see in the film,” unlike the other facts, so that “in an account that is attempting to reduce the story to its most abbreviated articulation, their homosexuality must seem at once a remarkable and a remarkably pointless piece of information” 147. Truffaut “constructs it into a homosexuality of no importance” 148. But in this culture, “a truly offhand reference to male homosexuality must hardly be credible… The heavy silence surrounding homosezuality requires explanation no less than the featherweight fussing over technique” 148.

“The reason that both questions have been unconsciously but definitively crossed with one another, so that technique acquires all the transgressive fascination of homosexuality, while homosexuality is consigned to the status of a dry technical detail…” 148.

“How do we think we know?” 149. It could not be named or shown because of the code, but the “post-coital nuances of the dialogue between Brandon and Philip after the murder” would be a place to start 149. “How did you feel – during it?” “I don’t remember feeling much of anything – until his body went limp, and I knew it was over, then I felt tremendously exhilarated,” etc. 149. “Connotation will always manifest a certain semiotic insufficiency,” Miller continues 150. “Connotation enjoys, or suffers from, an abiding deniability” 150. In this way, “Rope  exploits the particular aptitude of connotation for allowing homosexual meaning to be elided even as it is also being elaborated” 150.

“Until recently, homosexuality offered not just the most prominent – it offered the only subject matter whose representation in American mass culture appertained exclusively to the shadow kingdom of connotation, where insinuations could be at once developed and denied, where… one couldn’t be sure whether [it] was being meant at all… the silence necessary to keep about [the codes] deploy[ing it]” 151.

This engages an accumulative hunt for verification – “a redundancy of notations” 151. If Philip and Brandon are gay, why not the Michaelangelesque David, his friend Kenneth who is often mistaken for him, or their teacher Rupert as well? Hysterical and frigid Janet is there to “grant all three men an ostensible homosexuality” (everyone but Philip has dated her), “it does so by making suspiciously intense the homosocial bond between boyfriends” 152. Rupert’s excuse at the end, that the boys had no right to twist his words into action, restores the male heterosexual subject, and his gunshot is a sort of cathartic ejaculation 153. But the tension never clears in the film.

As the camera holds on them sitting in a triangle to await the police, “the moment… is eerie not just in the sense that one doesn’t know what to make of it, but also in the sense that one rather does… homosexuality provides the marking term, whose presence or absence is wholly determining for what lies on both sides of the virgule” 154.

“At Rope’s end… it is precisely the developed heterosexual subject who is most definitively implicated in a structure of homosexual fixation, a notion that accordingly proves to have perhaps as little to do with gay men as penis envy does with women” 155.

“Connotation, we said, excites the desire for proof, a desire that, so long as it develops within the connotative register, tends to draft every signifier into what nonetheless remains a hopeless task… the dream (impossible to realize, but impossible not to entertain) that connotation would quit its dusky existence for fluorescent literality, would become denotation” 155.

Thus a gay subtext always gives on to the imagined or desired spectacle of gay sex. It is less on the level of language than the image that this occurs in Rope: “able to suggest that Brandon and Philip are actually touching, holding, or leaning against one another, when they are only occupying parallel spatial planes’ 156. They are often “too close,” and their arguments and wrestlings involve hand-holding and visual tropes of the Hollywood embrace 156. Part of the suspense of the film, then, is the almost-painfully prolonged desire for the gay spectacle 157.

As the straight [male] viewer looks to see if the looks of the two men are too lingering, he himself becomes involved in a potentially homosexual gaze. “How might a desire to see what one is afraid to look at ever be gratified?” In the closet, Miller answers. We never see the body in the trunk – we are not forced to look in. (Isn’t it also interesting that the clue is the hat in the closet?) Of the 5 blackouts that do link rolls of film, 4 are of men’s backsides and one is of the trunk lid. “The blackouts come as proof positive that there is nothing to see, unless of course what is laid bare, through the imperfections of the joins, is the structure of the join itself, hence the very operation of the closet” 159.

But what is the gay sex the viewer anticipates? “The cavital darkness” of the anus, and “the cut,” both and one represented by the man’s backside, as Miller has it 160. One “hides the cut” because “it is imagined to be a penetrable hole in the celluloid film body,” but the anus is “hidden here as what remains and reminds of a cut” 160. The binarism of the male body fears castration because the anus reminds the man of the fear projected onto the vagina – the fear of being on the bottom 161. Straight men “need” gay men, Miller argues, to “imagine [themselves] covered front and back” 161. Hence Hitchcock’s relegation of the techniques to normality, rather than perversity. In fact, we see the cuts at Janet, Mrs. Wilson, and Rupert, we see them as blacked-out backsides with the “gay” characters: “Only to the extent that they are seen can the cuts at a man’s backside promote a heterosexualizing castration anxiety” 163.

The fifth and final blackout on the trunk, then, focuses on David’s body as somehow “obscene – and so to be kept offscreen” (literally, re: on/scene and obscene, Linda Williams says) 163. Perhaps the stiff has a stiff or has been abused, Miller suggests: “Far more disconcerting than the evidence of a penetrated anus or an erect penis is the prospect of their copresence on the same male body” 164.  The rope itself “now dangles and tautens like a penis and now encircles and tightens like a sphincter” 164. Ultimately, the film is both afraid of castration and its negation, Miller contends. Rupert’s last moment is to look behind him and sit down – to cover his ass, literally 164.

Guy Debord, “Society of the Spectacle”

1967

Debord’s assertion that “all that once was directly lived has become mere representation” is central to his neo-Marxist arrival at the failures of image culture (reminds me of Jameson and Adorno) – “the historical moment at which the commodity completes its colonization of social life.” The most Jamesonian moment is perhaps the assertion of a failure of history in the spectacle, which obfuscates the past and fuses it with a future to create a neverending present. The waves of ecstasy and obsessive product trends also parallel religious fervor of ages past.

One might also think of the spectacle – which Debord argues arises in the 1920s as the confluence of mass media, advanced capitalism, and governments – as parallel to Benjamin’s concern with mass culture and fascism in “Art in the Age of its Technical Reproducibility,” though Benjamin seems to have more faith in film…

In the “society of the spectacle,” we see “the decline of being into having, and having into merely appearing,” so that “passive identification with the spectacle supplants genuine activity.” Debord takes Marx’s idea of the social relation between objects, rather than subjects, as an origin point:  “The spectacle is not a collection of images. Rather, it is a social relationship between people that is mediated by images.”

Debord’s situationism proposes to wake up ideologically drugged spectators by using spectacular images to disrupt the flow of spectacle (detournement) – to interrupt suture, as it were (Oudart).

dir. Lars von Trier, “Antichrist”

2009

Lars von Trier’s Antichrist, divided into literary “chapters,” is a horror/art film that meditates on violence, misogyny, sexuality, and the family. In the prologue, the child, Nick, falls through the window and dies in the snow as the parents make love. In Chapter 1, “Grief,” the man, a therapist, begins to treat his own wife, who has been in psychiatric treatment but remains incapacitated by grief. He takes her to the cabin where the family spent time the previous summer and she worked on a dissertation on Gynocide. Here he isolates her “greatest fear,” which seems to be the cabin and the surrounding forest and vegetation. (He sees the dear with the dead fawn hanging out of it.) In Chapter 2, “Pain” (Chaos Reigns), the couple arrive at the cabin. She runs across the bridge fearfully. The husband is covered in ticks one morning and acorns seem to attack the house in the night. (He sees the fox eating its own innards who says, “Chaos reigns”). In Chapter 3, “Despair” (Gynocide), the husband discovers her increasingly frantic notes for her thesis, which reveal that the woman came to “drink the Kool Aid” during her research and buy into misogynist idea that all women are inherently evil. He confronts her about this and she asks him to hit her during sex. He initially refuses, but complies when he finds her masturbating under a tree in the mud of the forest. They make love as eerie hands proliferate and emerge from the tree. He finds the photos of Nick with his shoes on the wrong feet and recalls that the boy’s feet were noted as ‘deformed’ in the autopsy report. The woman attacks him, crushing his testicles and then giving him a hand job until he comes blood. She drills a hole in his leg when he is passed out, attaches a grindstone to it, and throws the wrench under the house. The man drags himself into a foxhole, but a crow, buried alive there, caws and gives him away; it will not die no matter his efforts. He too remains partially buried alive as she goes to get a shovel to beat him. In Chapter 4, “The Three Beggars,” the woman apologizes and weeps when she cannot find the wrench to free the man. She says she does not want to kill him “yet,” but that “someone must die” when “the three beggars” arrive. In what seems like a flashback, we realize she may have seen Nick at the window before he fell and not done anything to prevent it. She begins to masturbate and cuts off her own clitoris with a pair of scissors. The deer, fox, and crow appear as a hailstorm arrives (perhaps her doing, as misogynistic texts suggested earlier. The man digs the crow up through the floor and finds the wrench as well. She stabs him with the scissors, but he strangles her and burns her body. The three beggars look on as hundreds of female figures with blurred faces climb the hill on which he stands.

What’s interesting about this film is the way it operates on the viewer as the woman does on the man’s body – it buys into its own needless violence, traps us, and throws away the wrench. Though the husband finds it and escapes, I am not sure the viewer is so lucky. One wonders what the affordances of this violence are, apart from the oddity of watching a woman be a bad mother and torture a man and child. The fact that she does this out of self-hatred makes it significantly less interesting to me, though I suppose you could read it as a comment on hysteria as a socially-produced phenomenon engendered by ideology. However, I think the film wants to frustrate all of our attempts to decode its images – the very symbolism we are handed in the form of “The Three Beggars” is meant to be in the world of her insanity, but it affects him as well, and is our only hope for making sense as viewers. What then? If the only patterns in the film are delusions, what are the payoffs of its violence?   The truth of the film is indeed that “chaos reigns,” but since that’s uttered to us by a CGI fox, it’s more than a little hard to swallow.

dir. Ridley Scott, “Blade Runner”

1982

Ridley Scott’s futuristic post-human adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?” is set in 2019 in Los Angeles. Deckard (Harrison Ford) is a “blade runner,” an assasin who is neither exactly vigilante nor part of the legal institutional framework, hired to kill “replicants” who have tried to return to Earth to live from the planet where they are slaves. As he falls in love with Rachel and tries to teach (program?) her about love even though he is supposed to kill her, the film leads us to question whether Deck himself, like Rachel, Pris, Zora, and Roy, is himself a replicant. The mixture of film noir and 1980s corporate culture with an imagined ‘future’ another 40 years hence (now almost the present!) suggests a concern not so much with the traditional noir anxiety about gender (though that is present as well), but humanity itself.

The “simulation city” of Scott’s imagination also has the dark, steamy fog and cramping light and space effects of film noir, where Rachel plays Joan Crawford to Dex’s Humphrey Bogart. It is carceral, hierarchized, and Foucauldian in its ‘futurism’ (not only in its surveillance, but in the brief lifespans of the “lower class” of replicants, which reminds me of what Foucault says about the bourgeois “cult of life” and trying to live forever). While the machines breathe and flicker like humans, naturalized, the humans are mechanical, robotic, unrecognizable in their humanity. The presentation of space renders the horizontality of LA as verticality, but often flatly – the opening scenes present the buildings as cutouts against the smog, the flying craft move in gridlike patterns (think of Deleuze & Guattari’s “striated space”), and the advertisements playing on the sides of high-rises are like the opening credits of Mad Men – massive plays on surface and the Jamesonian sublime (many of the products are real, too – like Coke). This LA has illegible foods and surfaces, saturated as it is with a melange of “Asian” cultures – bicycles, noodles, and characters from numerous Oriental languages.

The film engages intertextually with a wide range of other materials. As a reworking of Shelley’s Frankenstein, it at least materializes women (which that novel does not – Dr. Frankenstein throws the component female parts into the sea in a trunk). But it parallels the classic novel in presenting the rejected spawn of the scientist’s mind as “human” – returning in this case to beg for more life. His queer, campy brand of aestheticized violence and superhuman capabilities remind me of Omar in David Simon’s TV series The Wire, and like the gay murderer of Paul Schrader’s American Gigolo, Scott provides another model for homosexual masculinity than effeteness. Many of the female characters are strikingly robotic and, in Pris’ case (Daryl Hannah as a sex slave), unintelligent, suggesting that men have “programmed” them that way, both literally and metaphorically. Like Pynchon’s Pierce Inverarity, who lives on “as a paranoia,” Tyrell’s death fails even to dent the monolith of social change is corporation has wrought.

It would be interesting to think about how the original ending of the film – with the unicorn sequence revealing Deck as a replicant and the fantasy of “driving away” into the country would act in conversation with David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas, an urban tale focused on the many nodes of city space, as well as its resistant fringes (the underbelly of the city, too). This “resolved” ending is more 50s, or 80s-conservativist, and the more ambiguous end of the origami unicorn and uncertain escape seem more 40s, or noir, in tone.

The film interests me in terms of surfaces in a number of ways. First, it challenges the status and even the value of memory as a source of depth, as it was in many modernist works. Like the “unicorn sequence” that suggests Deckard’s “memory” is false as well, all the replicants are “implanted” with memories from a computer database, which they believe to be their own, but which are fabrications. Deckard’s name also has the ring of Descartes, or “deck-of-cards” – you might connect this to the crisis of the cogito, ergo sum in the film or to Eliot’s The Waste Land and the shuffling of pieces in and out of persona. Pris and Roy’s insistence on styling themselves is a sort of queer-empowered surface rendering of Foucault’s ideas about self-fashioning. Roy speaks largely in song lyrics, and the cheesy, melodramatic flight of the dove at his death makes him (his body) into a work of art in a paradoxically humanizing mode. The replicants also squat in an empty building like artists as well. Kazuo Ishiguro’s novel Never Let Me Go seems to have faith that art is redemptive, whereas that is a subject for contemplation and distress in Scott’s universe.

 

dir. Michael Powell, “Peeping Tom”

1960

Released the same year as Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho, Peeping Tom takes ‘scopophilia’ to newly literal levels. It tells the story of Mark Lewis, who has a conspicuously German accent and works on a film crew, shooting soft-porn photos part-time. He lives in his dead father’s house, where he poses as a tenant and lets the other rooms to tenants. In the first scene, Mark follows a prostitute into her home, murders her while filming, and watches the tape of it at home. He later kills an extra on the film set where he works, and the film builds tension as he becomes particularly taken by his neighbor Helen. (Her mother, a blind woman, senses that something is “off” about him and worries for her daughter, but she is dead before she can do anything about it.) His last murder is of a pin-up girl named Milly. Mark shows her some home movies from his childhood, revealing that his psychologist father obsessively filmed him when he was young by putting him under duress and documenting the child’s reactions for “research.”

We discover only at the film’s conclusion that part of the horror of his victims’ last looks (this is how the police link the first two murders) lies not only in the knowledge that they are going to die as he comes towards them while filming, but also that they are seeing themselves at the moment of death, since Mark has affixed a mirror to the pointed camera leg that also serves as his weapon. In the final scene, Mark corners Helen when he catches her watching his snuff films and approaches her to kill her. The police arrive and Mark impales himself on his own camera while filming – the last shot of his documented life. Thus, in classic horror film mode, Helen is both the “girl who gets away” and the only one to live to witness the mode in which the killer kills being turned against him (think Halloween, etc.).

dir. Douglas Sirk, “Imitation of Life”

1959

Douglas Sirk’s famous 1959 remake of the 1934 John Stahl film and 1933 Fanny Hurst novel changes a number of key features of the story. Lora Meredith (Lana Turner) takes the place of the white heroine Bea Pullman, her daughter Susie (Sandra Dee) replaces Jessie, and the live-in help they meet at the beach and hire are not Delilah and Peola but Annie Johnson (Juanita Moore) and Sarah Jane (Susan Kohner). Instead of selling pancakes and syrup, Lora Meredith is selling herself here – first as a stage, then a movie actress, offering a sort of meta-commentary on film in film (Lana Turner was incredibly successful at this point, and her wardrobe of over $1 million for the film was the most expensive to date). Steve Archer (John Gavin) remains the love interest Susie falls for, but in this version, after refusing Steve for 12 years for the sake of her career, Lora decides to marry him, with Susie going off to school in Colorado to recover from her crush. In this sense, the novel hierachizes the two female leads more as masculine breadwinner and feminine domestic laborer – a “queerer couple” even than the original film. Sarah Jane runs off and changes her name after being beaten by a white boyfriend who discovers she is “colored.” The massive funeral of the brokenhearted Delilah comes after a trip to see Sarah Jane in L.A., where she is acting and dancing. The funeral, featuring Mahalia Jackson’s gospel singing invites us, as Lauren Berlant points out, to see the scene as satire and melodrama, which Sirk intended. It has nevertheless been read “straight” by many viewers since the film’s release. The spectacle of the funeral, more ostentatious even than any of Lora’s spectacles, reveals to the white woman the entire universe Annie has built, not with fame and notoriety, but action and commitment. The film was largely read as “soap opera” and “melodrama” and only came to be appreciated as one of Sirk’s “masterpieces” later on. The opening credits feature the song “Imitation of Life” Thomas Webster (“without love you’re only living – an imitation, an imitation of life), with weighty, faceted, rainbow-colored falling diamonds piling up and filling the screen, giving the sense of a wall of bubbles as the song concludes.

dir. John Stahl, “Imitation of Life”

1934

In this first version of Fanny Hurst’s novel, released just a year after the book, white Bea Pullman and her daughter Jessie take in black Delilah Johnson and her light-skinned daughter Peola as live-in help. Bea markets Delilah’s pancake recipe, literally making her “the face” (like Aunt Jemima) of the business (this unfolds in the film through 2-dimensional renderings of Delilah’s smiling face that are continually flipped over – like pancakes – emphasizing their flatness). Jessie falls in love with Stephen, Bea’s beau, and they play out a comical “Boxer and the Bobby Soxer” routine before Bea refuses him, prioritizing her daughter’s feelings, and promises to come find him when Jessie has recovered. Like the Sirk film, the early version ends with the same grand funeral for Delilah, who dies of a broken heart after Peola abandons her, but here we see Peola “accept her race” and return to her Negro college. (See Lauren Berlant on both films.)

 

dir. Martin Scorsese, “Taxi Driver”

1976

Travis Bickle (Robert DeNiro), an “honorably discharged” U.S. marine, is a taxi driver in New York City. He becomes obsessed with the pure and obviously bourgeois Betsy (Cybill Shepherd), but things sour on their second date, when he takes her to a dirty movie and she doesn’t want to speak to him again. Travis becomes angry and his behavior becomes increasingly erratic. He begins plotting to assassinate Palentine, the senator whose presidential campaign Betsy works for, and stockpiles a number of illegal weapons. He works out obsessively and practices integrating the weapons to his body, including through the use of a slider from a file cabinet running down his arm (DeNiro improvised the famous “You talking to me?” scene).

Eventually, Travis redirects his attention to the more helpless “Easy” (Jodie Foster), a twelve year-old prostitute whose real name is Iris (Easy/Iris making a neat pun on “easy on the eyes”), and whose violent and filthy world embodies the “scum and garbage” Travis is so obsessed with cleansing from the city. After killing everyone in her brothel, including her pimp, Travis mimes killing himself to the police, but cannot actually do it, since he is out of bullets. As the camera slowly pans out of the room where Iris weeps, into the staircase, down the hallway, and out into the street, finally ending in Travis’ room (covered in clippings), we learn he has become something of a hero for his actions. In the final scene of the film, we see Betsy’s disembodied face reflected in the rearview mirror of his taxi, surrounded by the flicking lights of the city (like Daisy in The Great Gatsby). She seems interested in him again, now that his violence has garnered him status, but he only gives her a free ride and drives off into the night, his eyes twitching anxiously around.

The film was made in the 1970s at a moment of urban crisis (white flight), conspiracy culture (Watergate), anxiety about children (Children’s Defense Act), and post-Vietnam cultural crisis (traumatized veterans). In particular, Travis’ transition from “copper” to “cowboy” in Sport’s eyes, “pioneering” the merging of his body with guns, and finally to renegade “Indian” (with his mohawk) for the murders, plots a particular mode of psychotic American individuality comparable to both Psycho & American Psycho. His status as an ex-marine also draws attention to a crisis of masculinity. In this sense, it would be interesting to put this film, with its slow-jazz phonograph soundtrack and dark clouds of steam, in conversation with Bladerunner & American Gigolo, which have still stronger “film noir” emphases in their depiction of seedy 1980s LA (rather than seedy 1970s).

I am also interested in thinking about how the film rewrites Lolita, with Jodie Foster as a crass pre-teen Lo, her pimp, Sport, as a sort of Quility (a “director” who lays out the sexual possibilities for Iris’ clients and tells her “If you ever liked what you were doin’ you wouldn’t be my woman), and Travis as a possessive, sociopathic Humbert Humbert who believes he is saving a girl with a wad of money and the murder of another man (a fantasy of himself as a defender, rather than an aggressor).