"Schindler's List": an Americanization of the Holocaust

Schindler’s List, released in 1993, is the story of Oskar Schindler (Liam Neeson), a non-Jewish German who, through swindling and deception, eventually saves the lives of eleven hundred Jews during the Holocaust. The character is a money-loving con man, with a history of failed business. He decides to bribe Nazi officials in order to have hundreds of Jews, from his list, sent to work in his factory. Schindler hires Itzhak Stern (Ben Kingsley), a Jewish accountant, to oversee the business. Throughout the film, Schindler does business with Amon Goeth (Ralph Fiennes), a psychopathic Nazi general. Their encounters consist of Schindler’s bribery and Goeth’s insanity. Oskar Schindler experiences a major transformation from a man indifferent to the Holocaust, to one who aspires to saving hundreds more Jews. This change comes about through a realization that it is possible to do good in the face of evil.
The social context of Schindler’s List emerges through examination of several reviews of the film. The editorials were mostly concerned with the technical aspects, and sometimes noted the weight of the film’s content. Most critics revered the film for its cinematography, editing and screenplay. Yet, they are divided as to whether the film is a reasonable portrayal of history, and if it is even possible to represent such an “intimidating subject” (Carr 91), one “too vast and tragic to be encompassed in any reasonable way by fiction” (Ebert 1). Schindler’s List goes “beyond the usual boundaries of film” (Carr 91), in order to depict the overwhelming atrocity included in, and stemming from the Holocaust. One must wonder why and to what extent Americans consider the Holocaust so horrific. A noteworthy characteristic of the film, eagerly analyzed by critics, is the utilization of black-and-white film, with the sporadic use of color. The colorless images remind the audience of the grisly newsreels and photographs that surfaced following the Holocaust and World War II. Indeed, “the ways in which the images and sounds [are] produced will not distinguish sharply between a fiction film and a documentary” (Bordwell, Thompson 131). In contrast, the use of color “intensifies most of the emotional values” of the film (Stone 4). Specifically, Oskar Schindler notices a Jewish girl, dressed in a bright red coat (apparent to the audience) in a Ghetto street, and later among the dozens incinerated. This obvious use of color only enhances the audience’s, and Schindler’s ability to sympathize with the victims of the Holocaust.
Reviewers recognized several other facets of the film as exceptional. For example, Spielberg’s use of a hand-held camera for a large portion of the movie creates a unique point of view for the audience. This creates a “near documentary” feel about the film, which enhances the credibility and authenticity of the story (McCarthy 2). This source credibility can be defined as, “an arguer’s ability to be believed and trusted by recipients” (Inch, Warnick 81).As well as recognizing the technical aspects of the film, reviewers acknowledged the “three staggeringly good lead performances” (McCarthy 1) by Neeson, Kingsley and Fiennes. Similarly, Steven Spielberg is revered as a master of film, so far as to claim that “neither he nor the Holocaust will ever be thought of in the same way again” (Maslin 1).Overall, critics were consumed by the extraordinary quality of the film, rather than the content. Thus, we must question whether or not Americans are able to confront the horror of the Holocaust. Furthermore, we must wonder if this American memory is culturally and ethically correct.
A discussion of Steven Spielberg’s career and reputation sets up an even clearer picture of the social context in the United States. Even before Schindler’s List was released, Steven Spielberg had tremendous source credibility as a film maker. Through the releases of blockbuster movies such as E.T., Jaws, and Jurassic Park, Spielberg validated his place as Hollywood’s most “famous, influential, and successful director” (Columbia Electronic Encyclopedia 1). In the film E.T. (1983), Spielberg successfully evokes emotions of the audience, while at the same time displays a carefully developed masterpiece of a film. Ten years later, Jurassic Park was released, and was the biggest movie moneymaker up until that time. Even though Schindler’s List didn’t even make half as much money as Jurassic Park, it was “destined to have a permanent place in memory” and “earn something better” than money (Maslin 3). Due to Spielberg’s undisputable success, his source credibility is greatly enhanced. He has made several movies in the past which were presented in a way that audiences could easily follow the story, and allowed them to emotionally identify with the main characters. Identification can be defined as, “influence that occurs because people find a source attractive and wish to enhance their own self-concept by establishing a relationship with the source” (Inch, Warnick 83). Additionally, Spielberg’s films are always beautifully crafted, through careful editing, casting, and unique screenplays. He continued this pattern in making Schindler’s List, even though he was faced with the challenge of telling the story of an event that is “totally and irrevocably Other” (Hansen 134).
I will argue that the Holocaust, as represented in Schindler’s List is an Americanized memory. In order to support this claim, I will provide a historical context of the Holocaust and examine specific factors inside and outside the United States during World War II that contributed to the Americanization of the Holocaust. In connection, I will argue that the main character in the film is a parallel case to American involvement in the Holocaust. Then, I will explain the defensibility of an interpretation in film, about an event in history, or book about history. Finally, I will discuss how Steven Spielberg constructs a memory of the Holocaust in Schindler’s List, and how that memory is one that has been Americanized. This argument is controversial because it suggests that Steven Spielberg, a Jew himself, has misrepresented the narrative surrounding the Holocaust.
The term “Holocaust” refers to the Nazi extermination of around six million Jews throughout Europe. Additionally, the Nazis murdered another nine to ten million people- Gypsies, Slavs, homosexuals and the disabled. The Holocaust was characterized by genocide, “a systematic destruction of a people solely because of religion, race, ethnicity, nationality or sexual preference” (Columbia Electronic Encyclopedia 1). The Nazi regime in Germany from the years 1933-1945 is known as the Third Reich. This time period began when Hitler was named German Chancellor and the first concentration camp was established. Progressively, Jews lost more and more rights, including citizenship. On November 9, 1938, numerous anti-Semitic riots occurred in Germany and Austria during Kristallnacht (Night of Broken Glass). That same year, Jews began to be sent to concentration camps. In 1942, mass killings using the gas Zyklon-B began at the concentration camp in Auschwitz-Birkenau. In July 1942, about 100,000 Jews from the Warsaw Ghetto were transported to Treblinka death camp. Those Jews who were not transported, and continued to be quarantined in that specific Jewish district staged an uprising in early 1943, and were exterminated later that year. The Soviet and American Armies began liberating the Jews in 1944, while Nazis tried to hide evidence of death camps. Following the end of World War II, many Nazis were put on trial for war crimes (Columbia Electronic Encyclopedia 1).
American involvement in the Jewish Holocaust consisted of ignorance, and lack of priority. In August 1942, the State Department received news “confirming Nazi plans for the murder of Europe’s Jews” (Holocaust Encyclopedia 1). That report was not passed on to the American public, and was not recognized for its severity. Similarly, President Franklin D. Roosevelt was informed of mass murder in the Warsaw Ghetto, but no “immediate executive action was taken” (Holocaust Encyclopedia 1). The lack of attention on the part of the United States government is only emphasized more in the fruitless begging by Jewish leaders for the bombing of gas chambers and railways leading to Auschwitz-Birkenau. The U.S. government clung to their policy of non-involvement in rescue, and refused to bomb the actual buildings in which thousands were ruthlessly murdered. This concept was only validated by other important figures in American culture during this time. Charles Lindbergh insisted that “meddling in foreign affairs is a peril” (Holocaust Encyclopedia 1). Bountiful propaganda surfaced in the 1940’s, equating Jewry with communism. In addition to this ignorance, the refugee policy of the U.S. State Department made it “difficult for refugees to obtain entry visas” (Holocaust Encyclopedia 1). Thus, if the Jews wanted to escape from grips of Nazi control, they had virtually nowhere to go. Overall, Americans were only slightly involved in the Holocaust, and therefore couldn’t fully experience the atrocity it produced.
Nearly fifteen years after the liberation of Europe’s Jews, the term “holocaust” finally surfaced in American culture. And not until the 1960’s did that word begin to represent the Jewish genocide in the 1930’s and 40’s. Further, the Holocaust began to “take shape as a distinctly Jewish nightmare” (Ehrenhaus 329). It took years before images of the Holocaust surfaced in the United States. These photos can be said to be “of something we were not a part of, and cannot do anything to affect; [we] couldn’t feel or relieve the suffering” (Sontag 20). This can be interpreted to mean that only those who suffered, the Jews, would be directly affected by the Holocaust. And since America was, and continues to be, a predominantly Christian society, we find it difficult to identify with the blatant atrocities. This characteristic causes an amplified interest in the oppression of minority cultures. Scholars believe that ethnic groups within the United States strive to be recognized as “first and worst” and to receive “officially recognized suffering” (Ehrenhaus 329). Ethnic minorities have consistently been treated as victims, and are in competition with one another to attain the pity of American society. Thus, it can be concluded that American see themselves as liberators. We must ask why are unable to see ourselves as the victims, the criminals, or the apathetic.
This question, specifically concerning the Americanization of the Holocaust, can be addressed through reflection upon our past, and our cultural identity. First, the concept of Americanization must be defined. The Columbia Electronic Encyclopedia states that to Americanize is “to make or become American in character, assimilate to the customs and institutions of the United States.” Thus, the memory of the Holocaust has been molded to fit these requirements for American acceptance. One can conclude that our memory of the Holocaust differs from that of Europeans, Germans, Jews, etc. Yet, it is difficult to claim which memory is more defensible. Peter Ehrenhaus argues that there are three separate aspects through which we can begin to explain how our memory of the Holocaust is Americanized. They are as follows, the 1967 Six Day (Arab-Israeli) War, the emergence of ethnic identity and education, and the myth of salvation.
The Six Day War was the “defining moment for the American Jewish community, as well as for the state of Israel” (Ehrenhaus 329). The Middle-East Jews encountered severe and violent threats from the Arab world. Each group wanted control of Jerusalem and the area surrounding the Jordan River. The Jews were forced to take up arms and eventually reclaimed their holy city, and stood at the walls of the Second Temple once again. This validates the claim that “Jewish national identity [is] built upon strength, resistance, and self-interest” (Ehrenhaus 330). This can also be applied to the Holocaust, in that the Jews obviously had to exert a large amount of resistance and strength in order to survive that terrible time. The Jewish population has endured several hardships through which they have learned to fight back. Yet, in the contemporary world, the Jews are never “fully accepted, often debated, and repeatedly the object of genocidal hatred” (Ehrenhaus 330). Further, for Jews, militancy is necessary in order for survival to be an option, even though it is usually the cause of compromise, loss and death.
In the mid- to late 1960’s, American colleges and universities began to offer courses about minorities, and about the Holocaust. As stated before, the predominantly Christian population of the United States tends to victimize those we can’t identify with. On a different level, this surge of new education enabled minorities within the United States to learn about their heritage and begin to identify with others with similar pasts and characteristics. Essentially, the United States promoted the idea of understanding your differences from the stereotypical Christian American. This just meant that you would be victimized. This concept was only supported and taught further in America’s schools. Many unfamiliar cultures have produced compelling histories of heroics and failures. We are told about these, only according to what we are allowed to learn, according to our country. The “Holocaust memory is also a beneficiary of an unfortunate consequence of the rising recognition of minority histories” (Ehrenhaus 329).
Americans have applied the “myth of salvation” to many events throughout history. Those who suffer justifiably encounter the darkness, because it is necessary in order for them to experience the light. They must pass through the “gates of hell” and are then “purified by suffering and by blood” (Ehrenhaus 329). If this is true, the European Jews during World War II were as pure as they could possibly be. This concept is central to, and easily traced throughout, American Christian theology. In order to be completely virtuous, you must sacrifice your innocence, renew your spirit, and redeem yourself. This model makes complete sense, in explaining how we have Americanized the memory of the Holocaust. We remember the European Jews during World War II as sacrificing themselves to the Nazis, then finding courage within themselves to renew their spirit, and finally redeeming themselves through opposing the higher power, and through liberation. Thus, these Jews have justified the outpouring of pity towards them, and have proven that their story is one worth remembering.
Due to the overwhelming presence of Christianity in America, we must ask whether anti-Semitism played a role in our involvement and eventual memory of the Holocaust. Scholars have suggested that the Jews in the film are “portrayed by anti-Semitic stereotypes” and are “lowered to generic types incapable of eliciting identification or empathy” (Hansen 132). Were we really as tolerant as we proclaimed ourselves to be? Did we only get involved in the rescue of Holocaust Jews because we felt obligated? In addition to anti-Semitism, we must examine the factor of past crises in America when discussing our memory of the Holocaust. Our fascination with the Holocaust can be explained by our struggle to find an adequate way of “memorializing traumata closer to home” (Hansen 148). We can easily relate the Holocaust to our own years of slavery, American-Indian genocide, and the Vietnam War. These events held consequences we have trouble facing, and we may have not faced them at all. In these circumstances, we were the ones killing others. That action is hard to justify. When faced with a crisis such as the Holocaust, which happened in another country, we are reminded of our inhumane moments in history. Will we ever be able to face such catastrophes objectively, and finally take responsibility for our actions? We may have taken a step forward with the making and reception of Schindler’s List, but we must analyze the legitimacy and impact of an historical story re-told through the media.
Before discussing how and if Spielberg created a defensible account of the Holocaust in Schindler’s List, one must ask how such a story can be adapted from history. The film was originally adapted from the 1982 book with the same title, by Thomas Keneally. To claim that Keneally’s account of the Holocaust is reasonable is a totally different argument. The fact that both the book and the film are based on actual characters and events greatly increases their credibility. This usually overpowers the fact that the events were presented by actors in an unoriginal setting, during a very separate time from when the actual event occurred. We must remember that, unless it is blatantly stated that it is a documentary, we have been conditioned to understand that it is a fictional film. Differing from documentary, fictional film “presents imaginary beings, places, or events” (Bordwell, Thompson 130). Thus, the events depicted in Schindler’s List may be viewed as exaggerated, and may not be reasonably internalized by an American audience. Internalization can be defined as “a process in which people accept an argument by thinking about it and by integrating it into their cognitive systems” (Inch, Warnick 83).
Schindler’s List can be said to be a docudrama, in that it is a dramatic portrayal of a historical topic. Historical fact and dramatic form are fused, producing an “interpretation of the past” (Sturken 85). Along the same lines, docudramas such as Schindler’s List embody a “screen memory” that “covers a traumatic event that cannot be approached directly” (Hansen 147). Further, they provide a “means through which uncomfortable histories of traumatic events can be smoothed over” (Sturken 85). We must ask why the American public is not able to directly face the events of the Holocaust. We are living in a time of popular modernism, a time of “leisure, distraction and consumption” (Hansen 144). We are consistently distracted by materialism, our reputations, and being viewed as tolerant, that we tend to forget about the issues that really deserve our attention. Rather than face them head on, we feel the need to “externalize…modernity’s catastrophic features onto another nation’s failure and defeat” (Hansen 148).
Along the same lines, historical films function differently than historical texts. The director decides what to include in his film, and therefore what the public will view/learn about history. In the case of Schindler’s List, the public could read the book and view the film, and encounter two very different accounts of the Holocaust. Robert A. Rosenstone claims that “a film is not a book” (506). Therefore, a film is not expected to meet the criteria for a historical text. Essentially, an historical film is open to great interpretation. And the way it is presented greatly influences what interpretations are possible. Hollywood has come accustomed to making films with certain elements that make it more attractive and popular among American audiences. In order for a film to present history, it must have a story of heroic individuals “who do unusual things for the good of others” (Rosenstone 507). Additionally, the film usually embodies the historicity of the event by including issues that are “personalized, emotionalized, and dramatized” (Rosenstone 507). Schindler’s List’s “textual devices belong to the inventory of classical Hollywood cinema” (Hansen 143). In this sense, Schindler’s List is said to have “turned the Holocaust into a theme park” (Hansen 130). These concepts greatly impact the public’s perception of the film, and especially the main character.
From the beginning of the film, we are given the impression that Oskar Schindler pities the Jews, and does not view them in the way Nazis do during World War II. He conducts business with Jews inside a Catholic Church, suggesting his support and validation for Jewish commerce. These actions, in no way, could save Jews from the Holocaust’s wrath. He progressively strengthens his actions in order to improve the lives of those taken captive by the Nazis. For example, Oskar tries to reason with Amon Goeth, and convince him not to randomly shoot innocent Jews in his labor camp. Further, when the Jews from his list are horded on a train bound for his factory, he orders the overseeing Nazis to hose down the train cars. The temperature was extremely hot, and the viewer can interpret this action to mean that Schindler wanted the Jews to be comfortable. This action toward a Jew had not yet been seen in the film, and thus came as a surprise. At the end of the film, Schindler admits he would be pursued by the German government because he was a criminal. He transgressed against the beliefs and laws of the Nazi regime. This elicits a sense of pity from the audience, and enables us to identify with Schindler even more, because of the abundance of human emotion.
This is only emphasized in one of the very last scenes of the film. Schindler exclaims that he had not saved enough people, and he could’ve done more. His outcries are met by an emotional and physical embrace from those Jews whom he saved. Izhtak Stern then gives Oskar a ring, engraved with the Hebrew words meaning: “Whoever saves one life saves the world entirely.” This quote further validates that Oskar’s actions were enough, and he made a significant difference. This concept can be said to have been applied to American involvement in the Holocaust, as evidenced in an earlier excerpt from this essay. We were barely involved in the beginning, and then progressively took more action. This may have been due to our sense of pity and obligation to help the minority, or those different from us. At the conclusion of the Holocaust, it can be concluded that the American government may have felt inadequate in their preservation of the European Jewish race during World War II. But the fact that we were involved at all, and saved as many Jews as we did, meant more than if we hadn’t done anything at all.

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A look at "Paris is Burning," and author bell hooks

Livingston chose to delve into a marginalized demographic of the United States, making a film that shared their everyday struggles and hardships while living in white society. Like many other films (documentary or otherwise) that include members of marginalized populations, the story is told from the point of view of the white (patriarchal - capitalist) supremacist. The individuals in the film are deemed unusual, interesting, and marginalized because the white men told them they were. It is these specific groups that white society finds fascinating because they supposedly fulfill the role of the “other” – that which dominant America is not. We find pleasure from consuming a bit of that “other” group, so we feel more worldly, more open-minded and accepting of diversity. The individuals in the film consistently judge themselves according to how well they can fit accepted roles within American culture – those identities which are deemed most pleasurable, beautiful, successful, etc. Indeed, one category within their “ball” competitions is “realness” – how well can you dress yourself to appear as much like your heterosexual (white) counterpart?
bell hooks calls this a “celebration of whiteness;” the individuals in the film worship at the throne of whiteness, even if it demands that they live in a perpetual cycle of self-hate and/or self-loathing, and experience times of physical or mental devastation. Indeed, some individuals in the film greatly admire famous white figures (i.e. models), and judge their own lives against and according to their own. Not only do the men/women in the film embody the white perspective, but Jennie Livingston (film maker) herself does as well. As a white woman, she is perpetuating the pattern of whites “doing a favor” to the marginalized people by bringing their story to the mass audience. But this is not done in hopes to strengthen the much-needed legitimate voices within our country; it is to reinforce the dichotomy of “us” vs. “them”. White culture does not accept these individuals into the greater society; rather, it represents black and homosexual cultures according to its ability to be consumed or marketed. Livingston tells us that these demographics are worth seeing – making them into a spectacle (especially because of their ball competitions), something to be enjoyed/viewed from the outside.
It is particularly interesting to consider the developed social roles for black men in white society. It strikes me that hooks pinpoints their socially-constructed difference from white men as a key catalyst that enables the film’s characters to cross-dress and embody a more feminine position. White males are not allowed to do this – but since black males have consistently been marginalized and forced into specific masculine roles (i.e. phallocentric or sexually powerful identities); they are essentially moving between multiple powerless positions when they cross dress. White society is characterized as masculine, strong, and patriarchal, forcing black (male) culture into a less-masculine role – towards a more feminine characterization. This tradition of femininity – that which American (white) society is not – allows the men in Paris is Burning to occupy the feminine role more acceptably.

Issues of representation of race in "Bamboozled"

We remember our history through story-telling and repeated representations of social phenomena. The past contributes greatly to our understanding and inherent construction of ourselves and our identities. The history of the United States is one of racial hierarchy – during and after slavery, white supremacists have kept control and “maintenance of any system of racial domination” (hooks, 2). The wealthy, heterosexual white male has traditionally been in the position of power, dictating the lives and identities of all others. We have built upon those initial positions which were laid out for us in American society, thus forming our cultural theory which consists of “symbolic actions – words and/or deeds – that have sequence and meaning for those who live, create, or interpret them” (Fisher 266). If a specific identity or characterization is repeated enough, it has great potential for manifesting itself in day-to-day life, by which we would be apt to understand ourselves and our society. Those social roles and norms are easily internalized due to the continual inundation of capitalist white patriarchal standards and stereotypes in the media and other social or political institutions. Of particular interest is the influence and power of the media (TV, film, and the like) – a socially constructed representation of the American people and their respective roles in society – because of how popular culture can be accessible and easily grasped, and because it consists of pleasing, exciting and fascinating stories of norms and stereotypes.
This has emerged as a dominant archetype that recreates inferred social phenomena and documents the people and events within (American) life in the mass media. Peter Hamilton describes this process as the “representational paradigm,” which offers the unique vision of the photographer, filmmaker or author by which they see the world and what is worth viewing within it (Hamilton 76). Documentation of human life, in this way, appeals to the public because they can easily relate and connect with the narratives they hear of seemingly “lived experience” (Hamilton 87). Yet, representational paradigms can be dangerous because of their tendency to infiltrate individual identities – the viewer is more likely to internalize the repeated depictions that are represented in media productions. In this way, Hamilton claims that humanist photography (and thus, media), as discursive texts hold inherent power and persuasiveness in the development of knowledge in public spaces (Hall 51). Individuals are especially vulnerable to this power in times of instability – as evidenced by Hamilton’s exploration of humanist photography in post-World War II France (Hall 76-144). It is those time periods when the people are hungry for a new outlook on the world, and a way to develop a new identity within a changing society.
Surely, this concept has played a large role within the African-American population and their search for identity, especially through their experiences in a racially hierarchical society through the past centuries. By initially entering American society as servants or slaves to the Colonists, African-Americans were forced to deal with the trauma of racial oppression and forced social roles or identities. Upon the abolishment of slavery, those individuals had to search for a new way to form their community and self identities; and again during and after the Civil Rights and Black Liberation movements – they had to decide how to “create standards for community and family life” after centuries of mistreatment and upheaval (hooks 92). Ultimately, they formed identities which were acceptable to the dominant (white) culture, and which would hopefully protect them from future exploitation or abuse. They could not model their identities by historical characterizations because “there are no such thing as models… Colonialism means that we must always rethink everything” (hooks 2). This pattern of molding to fit accepted roles is the product of these traumatic time periods; they all contributed to the development of specific roles for African-Americans (both male and female), constructed according to the “representational paradigm” presented by white supremacist society.
It is clear through this discussion that African-Americans have developed and learned their identities according to what has been forced upon them – an oppressive white supremacist culture. Their history has been stripped away and de-legitimized as a source upon which community and self identities can be built. Through a consistent pattern of characterization as the marginalized “other,” a “crisis in identity” has emerged, making it difficult for African-Americans to “maintain a secure sense of self…in a contemporary era in which the very qualities necessary for a strong racial identity -stabilizing social narratives, a sense of history, an unassailable subjectivity - are actively and persistently deconstructed by society at large” (Chidester et al. 288). American mass media has represented the difficult search for African-American identity in countless films and TV shows. Spike Lee has confronted the problematic characterizations of African-Americans in Bamboozled, for example. The film offers a critique and exploration of the search for an adequate and satisfying formation of identity in the wake of centuries of oppression within white supremacist American society.
Because of this difficult search, it has become complicated to define the “authentic” African-American self. Postmodern thought tends to reinvent the “truth,” consistently reconstituting aspects of human life, interrupting the progression of history and thought (Turim 188). Through this process, previous thoughts about self identities within American society are challenged – making current racial identities unstable (Chidester et al. 288). Upon viewing the film, it is apparent that all of the characters in Bamboozled are searching for that “authentic” self, developing an arena of competition and insecurity. They all must confront white American society’s tradition of placing negative stereotypes upon the African-American community, which have ultimately been transformed into spectacles to entertain, celebrate, and serve white society (Chidester et al. 290). Early oppressive conceptions of black (males) were seen as entertainment to serve the white man: for instance, as “cartoon-like creatures” that only wanted to have a good time; and later, the overwhelming presence of black face in minstrel shows as a way for African-Americans to gain entrance to the white entertainment industry (hooks 90).
This stereotype materializes in Bamboozled in the main character’s development of “Mantan’s New Millennium Minstrel Show”. Pierre Delacroix aims to produce a TV show so offensive and harsh that the CNS network executives would fire him for such an inadequate job. In a twist of irony, the show is a hit with the executives and the public; Spike Lee utilizes the “… Minstrel Show” as a commentary on the undying presence of stereotypes of African-Americans as unintelligent and mindless puppets for white society. Delacroix recruits two street performers to be the main characters in his new show, promising them new clothes and money. The actors must wear blackface and embody specific African-American stereotypes that developed through the past – particularly those that emerged during slavery and post-Reconstruction eras: blacks as “buffoons” and “coons”. The popularity of the show affects the Minstrel show’s actors and several other characters in Bamboozled in specific and competing ways.
The main character of the show, Manray, actively participates in the satirical representation of African-American stereotypes because he is motivated by his compensation and because he is able to display some of his dancing and acting talent professionally. He finally sees himself on the same plane with White America as far as wages and economics go. During and for decades after slavery, black men could not attain high-paying jobs and had to deal with white racist employers, making it difficult to fulfill their expected patriarchal role as caretakers of their families (hooks 90, 93). The traditional definition of masculinity is that of the successful wage-earner – a role that black men (especially those absorbed in white society) strive to fulfill, for fear of “emasculation” or “castration” (hooks 93). Perhaps Manray and his cohort see themselves as rebelling against white society in their attainment of a successful high-paying job. In this way, Manray attempts to define himself through the lens of white society, and ultimately discovers what “he has lost through his active participation” in the “celebration of offensive perceptions” of the Black community (Chidester et al. 290).
If Manray is an active participant in the American stereotyping, Pierre Delacroix acts as a conductor and an undeniable enforcer. He has “mastered” the image of black identity, representing his “powerful claim to authenticity”. Delacroix presented a TV show as a text that becomes whatever the viewers and CNS executives say it is; conclusions about the Minstrel show are drawn through the “activity of seeing” rather than experience (Chidester et al. 299). It seems to exist on its own, completely detached from historical grounding in white supremacist society’s oppression of African-Americans; if viewers related its subject matter to its true roots and sources of representation (slavery, Reconstruction, and after), they would not be as likely to accept its continued presence in society. Delacroix ensures that this does not happen, and embraces the “promise of the show and its promises of fame and fortune” (Chidester et al. 290). He gets caught up in the glamour and appeal of his high-profile job within the CNS corporation; he embodies a clear “domination” of the company as well as the racially-charged subject matter included in his new television show.
In addition to this dominating characterization, Delacroix appears to exploit and rule over his female assistant, Sloan. It is repeatedly discussed that Delacroix and Sloan shared a sexual relationship prior to her employment at CNS, suggesting the betterment of Sloan only with the help of a powerful male. He refers to her as “the help” at the end of the film – reiterating her subordinate role to Delacroix. This relates to the black masculine identities as the “right of men to dominate women, however benevolently,” and the elevation of the black male’s status by the female’s work and support (hooks 97, 101). The only mention of Delacroix’s family is about his mother and father; it appears he does not have nuclear family of his own, making it nearly impossible for him to embody the traditionally-praised masculine role as the family patriarch. He does not provide funds or goods for anyone but himself; leaving him with phallocentric and misogynistic masculinity as the remaining male identity available. Through history the black male has been led by white supremacist society into either the patriarchal or the phallocentric masculine roles (hooks 94). Thus, Delacroix is living through the lens of white society (like Manray) in his search for “authentic” black identity.
In contrast to Delacroix’s individual black identity, Sloan’s brother, Julius, and his group of friends (the “Mau Maus”), embody yet another white supremacist stereotypical characterization of African-Americans as violent, radical, and dangerous (hooks 89). This developed after the abolition of slavery, and during the Black Liberation movement. Once whites lost control over their assumed “docile” slaves, they feared that their wild and animalistic personalities would backlash against them. They had to regain control through different avenues (i.e. lynching, restriction of other rights), and thus reconstitute black identity yet again according to what was acceptable to the dominant society. Resistance to this white rule sometimes manifested itself in physically aggressive ways, sure, but not enough to legitimize white supremacist culture’s normalizing stereotype. Perhaps it seemed too difficult to challenge the narrow visions of the United States, making bold, physical statements more conceivable as a means to spark change.
This certainly seems the case in Bamboozled, with Julius and the Mau Maus’ depiction as angry radical activists who deny white society. The black community has endured centuries of physical and mental oppression by white society, and Julius’ group of friends makes us consider the possible results of a reversal in positions. Their dialogue continually includes the word “nigger” – a traditionally demeaning term, and a sign of racial hierarchy (Chidester et al. 295). Julius and his friends claim the right to their own language and actions as defiance, and a way to redefine the black identity. But they always act according to what white society is not: reshaping the word “black” into “Blak” – the “opposite of the white community”. It is clear that Julius and the Mau Maus define themselves precisely according to what white society is not, though they still retain some of the characteristics and terminology that were initially enforced upon them by white supremacy itself. This definition comes out of hatred for dominant culture, not out of loving blackness, which bell hooks suggests to be a path out of marginalization and self-negation, and a way to political resistance and reconstitution of racial identities (19, 20).
From an examination of a few of the characters in Bamboozled, it is clear that the search for African-American identity in the modern U.S. is nearly impossible. The power of white supremacist society and their overtaking of black history and heritage veils the foundations upon which blacks living in modern America could recognize and develop their self identities. It is difficult to define black identity, even by the power of texts in the media; they are all inevitably judged and affected by the legacy of white supremacy. Bamboozled is limited in its ability to locate a black identity that accounts for the centuries of tumultuous history; rather, it serves to explore the very dilemma that has risen out of an un-remembered past and a continuous enforcement of regulations and roles by white patriarchal supremacist society. Indeed, Bamboozled and other works that interrogate race and identity must be analyzed according to a different paradigm than the one that has, for centuries, “shape[d] one’s ability to consider and evaluate” – that of white supremacist society. Upon a change in perspective, perhaps a revolution of American identities is possible.

Bibliography

Bamboozled. Dir. Spike Lee. Perf. Damon Wayans, Savion Glover, Jada Pinkett Smith.
DVD. New Line Cinema, 2000.

Chidester, Phil, Shannon Campbell, and Jamel Bell. ""Black is Blak": Bamboozled and
the Crisis of a Postmodern Racial Identity." The Howard Journal of Communications. 17 (2006): 287-306.

Fisher, Walter. “Narration as a Human Communication Paradigm: The Case of Public Moral Argument.” Communication Monographs. 51 (1984): 1-22.

Hall, Stuart. Ed. Representation: Cultural Representations and Signifying Practices. London: Sage, 1997.

Hamilton, Peter. "Representing the Social: France and Frenchness in Post-War Humanist
Photography." Representation: Cultural Representations and Signifying Practices. Ed. Stuart Hall. London: Sage, 1997. 75-150.

Harold, Christine, and Kevin Michael DeLuca. “Behold the Corpse: Violent Images and the Case of Emmett Till.” Rhetoric & Public Affairs. 8, 2 (2005): 263-286.

hooks, bell. Black Looks: Race and Representation. Boston: South End Press, 1992.

Turim, M. “Cinemas of modernity and postmodernity.” Zeitgeist in Babel. Ed. I

Hoesterey. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1991. 177-189.

"Corrina, Corrina," Romance, and the Anti-Racist White Hero Film

American cinema, and the development of Hollywood, has inadequately represented black women, especially since those representations come from the non-white supremacist point of view. Since its start, American film has reproduced and reinforced white dominant views of society and cultural identities. It has encountered difficulties in who should tell the stories that appeal to the public, and who should be included in those stories. Through this journey, and much public contestation, movies have come to reflect dominant ideologies and social structures – those that position whites at the top. Especially following the abolition of slavery, through Reconstruction, and the Civil Rights Movement of the mid-twentieth century, black men and women sought more agency and power, and demanded a greater and more truthful representation of their community in American media. Mediated representations of the population greatly contribute to the development and perpetuation of stereotypes of specific demographics. In the same vein, they also lead to those groups’ self-identification and self-actualization processes within the greater society. Indeed, a constructed “theory of reality” develops through media representations: “a structuring principle” which describes “the system of beliefs and practices” in a culture (Turner 181). While it seems that a diversity of groups have attained a more equal placement and representation in the media, we must confront the beliefs, practices, stereotypes and inequalities that result from the embedded racial hierarchy in American media.
It is understandable that problematic representations of non-white communities are produced by white-dominated institutions, such as the American media. How can a believable and legitimate story of non-whites be created by a primarily white source? It is clear that non-white and unique voices of various demographics are necessary in telling the stories of the past, present and future of the United States. A cultural monopoly has developed, however, over this aspect of American life: “representations of the nation … both produce and reproduce the dominant points of view” (Turner 184). In the same way, representations of repressed or marginalized groups in America are usually portrayed in a way that supports and strengthens social (racial, gender, class) hierarchies. Media, and especially films, reflect ideologies that have implemented the “social order” that affects “all social and political formations, from class structure to gender relations” (Turner 181). The subsequent structures act as the model by which “most Americans still shape their perceptions of themselves as well as others” (Berry, Manning-Miller 25).
In other words, cinema tells stories of American life from viewpoints that present the story the way that they would like such happenings to develop, occur and be received in society. For this very reason, it is important for various voices to be heard through media representations in order for a more complete telling and representation of American life. This essay examines the film Corrina, Corrina (1994) in its representation and influence on American culture and identity in its telling of an interracial love story set in the 1950’s. A general discussion of cinema’s power will lead into a look at stereotyped and common representation of such relationships. The pattern will then be applied in the case of Corrina, Corrina, with its anti-racist themes coming into question, including the portrayal of the “Mammy” – the “saintly” black character, the “anti-racist” male protagonist, and the subsequent constructions of reality and identity for American audiences. Overall, the discussion will focus on the difficulties (or simple inabilities) that the U.S. media faces in representing romantic relationships between black and white characters in film; a critique of Corrina, Corrina reveals similar stereotypes and themes of other films that include different relationships and dynamics among characters of various races. Corrina, Corrina perpetuates the stereotype of the black individual as innocent, restricted, and on a different level than the white community – another example of “paternalistic white supremacist discourses” that try to “‘contain’ [the] legitimation crisis” that has resulted from movements for civil rights and equality by non-white demographics in America (Madison 399).

Power and Influence of Film Representations

While all forms of media offer unique weaknesses and strengths, cinematic representations produce some of the most influential and problematic stories of American culture. The film-watching experience leads us to believe that what we see on screen “duplicates our everyday experience of reality” (Snead 132). It had to happen in order for the camera to record it, so it appears as a real phenomenon. And the filmmaker must have had some real-life inspiration in order to write and direct the story to be adapted into movie format. But that filmmaker comes from a specific background and positioning within society. Thus, their stories will probably appeal to people that belong to the same group(s); different demographics will identify or recognize various stories as being more, or less real. This concept connects directly to the different viewings of race-related films by white or non-white groups in America. Indeed, cinematic representations do “more than entertain” and reflect the racial hierarchy that benefits the white demographic: films “circulate ideologies – about good and evil, order and disorder – and images of masculinity and femininity” (Finley, Finley 218).
By identifying and categorizing non-whites, the dominant (white) group is legitimized and sustained: “white identity is defined and clarified by black identity” (Burgoyne 18). Specific character traits or practices of one black individual, for example, are highlighted and applied to others that seem similar to them – the white voice constructs roles and identities for non-whites. In contrast, white individuals are usually not seen just by a few practices or traits, but as a “synthesis of all the attributes of humanity” (Burgoyne 18). This develops the white individual as a naturally-powerful being, which secures their position of dominance, and inevitably reiterates the “binary” categorization and ultimate marginalization of non-whites (Burgoyne 19; Finley, Finley 219). Their influence in this realm is just one form of their subordinating power over non-white groups, but film has a central role because: cinema, “more than any other media experience determines how blackness and black people are seen and how other groups will respond to us based on their relation to these constructed and consumed images” (hooks 5).
This phenomenon has focused mainly on defining the white and black communities, respectively, as general groups, and has given a lack of attention to different demographics within those greater categories. Indeed, non-heterosexual, female (especially those that are non-white), less-affluent individuals, and non-white communities have less of a voice in media representations of their own stories. American culture encounters difficulties and uncertainties in how they should be included in such portrayals. It is easy to assume that those who dominate media institutions ultimately choose to tell the story that seems most realistic to them, which is probably different than the story that the marginalized characters would have liked to tell. Those individuals are included in stories from the dominant viewpoint, and caricatures are formed by the patterns of representations of subordinated groups (Snead 140). Because of film’s appeal and influence, those caricatures transform into stereotypes that have the ability to escape the bounds of film and media, and infiltrate the minds of everyday American citizens.

Representations of Interracial Couples in Film

Specific dynamics result from, and are portrayed in, interracial relationships in American films. Depictions of interactions between and among race groups are products of white-dominated media representations, and other social and political institutions that still hold similar characteristics and standards that were the initial foundations of American society. The constant desire to uphold the racial hierarchy, as discussed in the last section, tends to limit the possible characterizations and roles of non-white actors; white actors tend to have larger and more visible roles that are “in charge of critical decisions and the direction of the plot” (Entman, Rojecki 184). Similarly, the relationship between the two often portrays the white individual as someone powerful on whom the non-white actor inevitably depends on for agency and strength (Madison 405). The theme of protecting white privilege and extending white benevolence in American media developed following periods of civil rights struggles which threatened the white supremacist structures in America (Madison 404). The legitimacy of the foundations for America’s social and political life were put into question, and led to endure change in accordance with modern social change. The racial hierarchy was interrogated and change was proposed, which caused a crisis in the white community, who felt that their security was threatened, and “damage to white identity and domination was minimized” (Madison 400). A “legitimation crisis” resulted from this phenomenon, with the white community attempted to regain their power and agency, while simultaneously harnessing further rebellions by the black community (Madison 405). This is evident through specific portrayals of racial identity and relationships in the cinema.
Following the civil rights era, America wanted to protect the privileged positioning of whites within supremacist institutions, but in a way that didn’t appear outwardly racist or defensive towards individuals outside of the white demographic. Racist tendencies were undesirable, but they were often fleshed out by using black individuals as a “vehicle for liberal white soul-searching and spiritual healing” (Owen, Ehrenhaus 3). And only by this process of awakening (taken on by the white individual) could the black community attain equal footing in American society. Thus, black identity is disempowered when it exists as a separate entity, but can attain agency by the benevolence of whites who become accepting and nurturing enough to help them.
This is especially true in Hollywood’s (re)production of the black/white buddy film (i.e. 48 Hours, Lethal Weapon), where the “black characters, … laden with stereotypical qualities, become helpers to the white leading man who holds them in ‘protective custody’” (Entman, Rojecki 183). Such films include black actors in leading roles, but still portray them as under the control and authoritative watch of their white counterparts (i.e. Jerry Maguire). Further, it is common for black actors or actresses in major roles to appear in the background, for comedic effect, as simple beings, as hard-working people willing to sacrifice for their greater good, or as saintly individuals who are good enough to spend their time and energy aiding the white individual in their search for spiritual and/or personal enlightenment. While the white/black “buddy film” is reproduced fairly often in American cinema, Hollywood continues to “titillate audiences with mixed couples” while still ensuring that the “old hierarchies will and should remain intact” (Gabbard 1). More specifically, romantic interracial couples are rarely represented or even discussed in films – “interracial intimacy [is] missing from most films” (Entman, Rojecki 200). When they are represented, they seem overtly asexual – “chastely [avoiding] romance” and any exchange of “I love you” – and white benevolence prevails in developing stereotypical identities for their black counterparts (Etnman, Rojecki 200). “Mainstream films still shy away from sexually mixing the races” because (white) “Americans are still extremely anxious about racial mixing,” which is evident by the low number of films representing interracial couples. The anxiousness is evident in the production of Hitch (starring Will Smith), which cast Latina Eva Mendes as the lead female role since casting a white or African- American woman would be problematic for the film: “a black couple would have put off worldwide audiences whereas a white/African American combo would have offended viewers in the U.S.” (www.mixedmediawatch.com). This pattern and undoubted taboo warrants a look at the race relations and characterizations within Corrina, Corrina (Gabbard 2).

Racial Stereotyping in the Anti-Racist Film and the Saintly Black Characterization

The stereotypical characterization of the black male or female as “saintly” applies to the discussion here about Corrina, Corrina (dir. Jessie Norman, 1994). Whoopi Goldberg plays Corrina Washington - a hip, straightforward, educated and talented woman that comes to work for Manny Singer (Ray Liota) as a housekeeper and nanny, and ends up winning the heart of his daughter, Molly (Tina Majorino). Because of her connection with Molly, as well as her charm, confidence and intelligence, Manny becomes attracted to Corrina, and the two develop an unconventional interracial relationship that is barely addressed in the film’s narrative. It becomes apparent that Corrina is the only candidate that can “enlighten the Singer home,” by bringing Molly out of her shell after the death of her mother, and keep Manny company by discussing jazz and offering religious inspiration to cope with the loss of his wife (Persall 1). Many film reviews recognized Corrina, Corrina as “joyful and hopeful,” “feel-good,” inspiring and heart-warming (Kempley 1; Andersen 1; Hartl 1); and Corrina’s relationship with Manny was interpreted to come together in a “believable …, smooth and practically painless way” (Andersen 1). The reviews viewed the film as an inspirational transcendence of racial borders and a story of a couple that could care less about criticisms concerning their relationship. Other reviews discussed the historical accuracy of the film – the true-to-life racist barriers that Corrina faces, with her only possible employment option being a nanny or maid service. Interrogation of Corrina’s characterization and relationship with Manny and Molly, especially in the 1950’s setting, is necessary to understand the American racial hierarchy as evidenced through cinema.
It is clear from the beginning that Corrina is different than any other candidate to be Molly’s nanny; she has an immediate connection with Molly, she has a college education, and is unapologetically honest with Manny about her desperate need for the job. Corrina is “glaringly overqualified for her domestic job” in the Singer home, but must take the role because it is one of few that are acceptable - according to white society (Maslin 1). Rather than become spiteful or bitter, Corrina decides to deal with the situation and take what she can get – “she needs the work” (Maslin 1). Her sister, Jevina, tries to persuade her to discontinue her work for the “white man” – an exemplary attitude during the Civil Rights struggle. But Corrina decides otherwise and continues to serve the white family, fulfilling the stereotype of the obedient black servant (Snead 146). She is portrayed as doing Manny and Molly a favor – as evidenced by her gradual tendency to work overtime and take on more roles than just a babysitter and maid (i.e. emotional support for the family, help and advice for Manny in his latest project at the office). Manny even begins to give her gifts and invites her to participate in family activities, further exemplifying his gratitude for Corrina’s saintliness and graciousness in helping the Singer family. The film portrays their pain as more important than any that Corrina might feel every day. This is a common theme in Hollywood: “white pain is more important, more interesting, more meaningful” (Entman, Rojecki 186); films “privilege a particular ‘white’ experience” over the African-Americans’ struggle for equality (Madison 405). Eventually, it seems that Corrina’s self-sacrifice and dedication to the family can reestablish the “nuclear unit that dissolved when [Molly’s] mom died,” and essentially make Manny and Molly whole again (Hoffman 1). Corrina’s intelligence is needed in the Singer home – warranting her entrance into the “white world” long before Molly or Manny experience Corrina’s “black world”. This exemplifies the black individuals’ inability to choose their roles – where and when their services are needed; and the white individuals’ privilege in deciding when and where they will go, what they will experience, and what is worthy of their presence.
Of the many ascribed roles for black men and women, it is important, here, to look at the traditional characterization of black women as the obedient “mammy” maid/servant in American films (i.e. Gone With the Wind). This stereotype emerged, like many others, during and after slavery as a Southern nostalgia – an attempt to “put the Negro in his place,” and “further dehumanize and subjugate blacks” (Noble 75; Berry, Manning-Miller 173). Black women are represented time and again as obedient, “docile, desexualized,” gracious, often matter-of-fact, and “didactic pariahs” that would never cease to serve their white masters (Berry, Manning-Miller 174). Corrina continuously offers Manny and Molly wisdom about how to cope with loss and the hardships they are facing, but still doesn’t seem to have enough wisdom or drive to “escape her own meager lot in society” (Berry, Manning-Miller 174). She understands that her hardships are less important than those of the white individuals that employ her, and that she has little chance of improving her position in society. Therefore, she is characterized as making the most of her situation, offering what she can, working hard, and showing “utter devotion to the white household” (Hall 251). Corrina does not embody the traditional visual mammy stereotype as “the big, black, bandanna-wearing maid,” but her presence in the film acts for a similar purpose – the “savvy black maid who shakes up and straightens out a family of uptight whites” (Berry, Manning-Miller 173; Andersen 1). By repeatedly representing black women as docile, subservient, and saintly, it further subordinates their position in American society (both as black individuals, and as women). Corrina does not appear to combat this repression and escape the stereotype’s barriers. Rather, she strives to fulfill her servant role to its fullest extent.
Despite the few identifiable shortcomings that Corrina, it seems that she can do no wrong. Goldberg’s character appears to be a sort of “noble” “superwoman” capable of anything and everything – the “savior nanny” (Rainer 1; Persall 1). Of particular importance is Corrina’s continuous reference to her Christian faith in her attempts to support Manny and Molly through their grieving. She makes little “attempt to ‘fit into’ the white world” and seems a “bit too self-righteous,” but her presence in the film acts as the anomaly that will “bring Manny, the grieving atheist, to his senses and get him to talk to God” (Rainer 1). Indeed, the inclusion of Christian themes “negate accusations of racist representation” (Owen, Ehrenhaus 13). It is difficult to critique racist tendencies of a film that also promotes spirituality and Christian values. The coupling of Christianity and racism in films would need to be interrogated in another critical essay, but it is clear that their presence in Corrina, Corrina develops a specific and useful formation of Goldberg’s role as the “saintly” and “innocent” black servant. She is clearly not a threat to the sanctified and pure white household, which allows her presence in their home. Corrina is characterized differently than Manny and Molly in every way, even in religious terms – a way to reify the racial division, while simultaneously forming avenues by which the two demographics can come together. Traditionally, “blacks and whites in the United States continue to live their private lives apart from one another” (Entman, Rojecki 2); surely, religion is part of that private life. By Corrina and the Singer family connecting on the religious level, we are led to see their relationship as genuine and equal. But the interracial relationship must be examined in the context of the racial tensions of the film’s 1950’s setting.
Many reviews of Corrina, Corrina recognized the film’s inability or inadequacy in confronting the racial tensions inherent in the 1950’s and 1960’s. Nelson includes a binary presentation of the Singer home with Corrina’s home that she shares with her sister’s family, and the “cross-referencing serves to keep these worlds apart rather than bring them together” – further portraying Manny and Corrina’s interracial relationship as even more unnatural (Rainer 1). The film portrays the Singer home as more calm, orderly, clean and bright than Corrina’s household, where her nieces and nephew seem to run around wildly and the adults barely have enough time to keep their eye on them; the children speak differently than Molly and other white children in the film, a common example that further divides and differentiates the two (Entman, Rojecki 196). Further, the clothing and décor of each house appear as opposites: the Singer’s large and brightly-decorated living room versus the Washington’s dark wood-paneled living room with dingier furniture. This “marks” Corrina and her family as black, or more specifically, as “not white” (Snead 145). It appears that the two live in different neighborhoods, and the people within their individual communities rarely interact with each other. It can be assumed that they only learn about each other from the media, or by what they hear from their friends and family (Entman, Rojecki 2).
Yet, the household dichotomy is the only mention of the black-white divide of the 1950’s until late in the film; it seems that Nelson was “saving these issues until late in the story and then [manipulated] them so blatantly” that the audience leaves with an “indecisive feeling” about their treatment in the film (Maslin 1). Nelson seems to fly right over the conflicts, with Manny playing off the criticism from his neighbors and family, as if his relationship with Corrina is acceptable and normal - a “dramatic oversimplification” of a society that “even worse than being a person of color…is to be a white person who dates, befriends or in any way sympathizes with blacks” (Hoffman 1; Finley, Finley 230). Indeed, Manny does experience a “form of racism vicariously through some black contact,” but it appears to be an easy criticism to deal with (Madison 405). The interaction between Molly and her new best friend (Corrina’s niece) about their different skin colors, and their exchange of racial slurs are quickly resolved by their inability to “comprehend the force of what they’re saying” and their decisive statements about their dedicated friendship (Rainer 1). The lack of attention to the characters’ experiences of racial conflict and turmoil is a deficient representation of the actual tensions of that time period. Nelson’s “wishful-thinking” seems to encourage the audience to remember the 1950’s as a “painless [time] for the races to mix and mingle” (Hoffman 1). While there are a few references to Corrina’s experiences of restriction and inequality (i.e. saying that she’s had a “block” all her life, when Manny asks if she ever has “writer’s block”), we are never really shown how she reacted or dealt with the circumstances. Any injustices that a black man or woman experiences are portrayed as more natural and normal, while the white characters must overcome racist tendencies and ultimately become an enlightened individual. This is exemplified by Manny’s personal journey in juxtaposition with Corrina’s acceptance of the roles laid out for her by white society, and her decision to bestow her intelligence and compassion on her white suitor and his daughter.

Misogyny and Racism

Inherent in a film about an interracial romance involving a man and a woman are issues concerning patriarchy, misogyny and their interaction with racism in America. Corrina, Corrina simultaneously upholds racial norms and the gender hierarchy. Corrina is employed by Manny – she works for him, and helps his household to remain stable and organized. Meanwhile, Manny leaves the home everyday, working at his office job to fulfill the American patriarchal role as the powerful “wage-earning” overseer of the household (hooks 94). We come to know Manny as a family-man with much compassion and concern for his daughter; and it is apparent that he holds great importance on maintaining the nuclear unit and dynamics of the all-American family. Indeed, it is a common narrative in American culture for the woman to stay and work at home, while the man acts as the bread-winner to support his family. This real-life phenomenon is reproduced time and again in cinematic representations of familial relations, as usually told from the viewpoint of the male protagonist – “cinema is not necessarily free of the dominant white, male, heterosexual hegemony that has succeeded, at one point or another, in colonizing us all” (Berry, Manning-Miller 26). Of interest here is the dynamics between Manny – as a man – and Corrina – as a woman. Manny holds control over Corrina – he only lets her affect him when he’s ready, while she has little choice in the realities of their relationship. His masculinity is maintained, as well as his “right to dominate women, however benevolently” (hooks 97). This hierarchy is reinforced and laid out as a model of self-identification in the “heralding of a plethora of popular, male-centered films that purport to present a black worldview” (Berry, Manning-Miller 28).
Corrina’s inaccessibility to choice and direction of her own life mirrors the pattern of restrictive, detrimental and marginalizing effects of stereotypical and obstructed representations of black women in Hollywood (Berry, Manning-Miller 25). Due to the patriarchal monopoly over representations of American culture, it seems that women (in general) hold little power or presence in films – a phenomenon enacted by the dominant demographic to uphold the gender hierarchy. Portrayals of powerless women (and of the benefits of upholding a male-dominated society) must be interrogated – not only for what they include in the representations, but what they don’t include. Women in mediated productions have little agency for self-identification or self-actualization. In fact, it is common in films for male characters to be the benevolent vehicles by which female characters attain agency. For a woman to seek agency and power on their own would be a threat to sacred and highly-regarded masculinity (hooks 101). Thus, women are repeatedly cast into acceptable roles that are almost always subordinate to those of men.
Within the black community, specific misogynistic dynamics have developed between men and women, and their power in representing themselves in American film. The fight for agency and representation in the black community, in general, has been so great that it is difficult to pay adequate attention to the struggle for the desires, rights, or needs or its specific demographics: “there is a prevailing sense within white supremacist capitalist patriarchy that black men and women cannot both be in the dominant culture’s limelight” (hooks 101). The struggle for black masculinity, which had been diminished and subordinated by white dominant culture through the ages, often trumps that of black femininity within a patriarchal and white society – and black males are perpetually positioned as having responsibility for their black female counterparts (Berry, Manning-Miller 24). This imbalance is evidenced by the emergence of black males in larger film roles, and the still-lacking inclusion of black females in the media. Black males appear more in films with a largely-white cast, while “black females receive most of their starring roles I movies with mostly black casts that cater to black audiences” (Entman, Rojecki 193). Further, those few roles that are given to black females almost always perpetuate cultural stereotypes and caricatures of that demographic: restrained, less civilized, unintelligent, and hypersexual objects (among others) (Entman, Rojecki 198). This pattern continues the “endangered [black] female species’” positioning and “negative predicament” with cultural representations (Berry, Manning-Miller 25; 24). Corrina, Corrina fails to interrogate this predicament, and only fulfills the pattern of stereotyped roles for black women in American film as subordinate to (all) men.

Historical Distanciation in Corrina, Corrina

Rather than challenge the gender and race hierarchies that overpower American culture, Corrina, Corrina allows audiences to see racist treatments and inequalities as a phenomenon of the past that does not infiltrate modern society. The film takes place in the 1950’s (surely one of the most turbulent eras of race relations), which immediately acts to distance us from its subject matter. We see racial interactions and dynamics in that time period, rather than view them playing out in modern times. This makes it difficult to relate to the plot or characters – our lives are much different now than they were then. A specific memory of that time period is created through the film’s representation of painless race relations: a version of a “‘quick fix’ approach to an often unpalatable history” (Snead 148). This “fix” acts as cultural memory (“a field of contested meanings in which Americans interact with cultural elements to produce concepts of the nation, particularly in events of trauma, where both the structures and the fractures of a culture are exposed” (Sturken 1)) created by dominant white society as a means to cope with the difficulties and threats during and after the Civil Rights era (i.e. the “legitimation crisis” discussed earlier).
By representing the 1950’s as a time of peaceful, easy and natural race relations, modern American (white) audiences can remember its events as resolved, and in the past. Further, it is easier to believe that racism does not reside in modern social and political institutions, since they are barely even visible in Corrina, Corrina. The depictions in Nelson’s film are presented as reality, so “the viewer is therefore distanced from the real problems of racism, and his or her own complicity with them” (Finley, Finley 233). They are not led to recognize their own participation in racial subordination because they can not identify with the actors on the screen, who appear in the 1950’s; it is easy to conclude that “racism is due to individuals that are not like us,” which allows us to “stop considering solutions to the race problems endemic in the U.S.” (Finley, Finley 233). Corrina, Corrina’s failure to represent racist individuals (which undoubtedly existed in the mid-twentieth century) falls into the cinematic pattern to portray that “there are some mean racists out there, but none of them are central to the story” (Hoffman 1). Therefore, the distanciation is further strengthened, and modern Americans are led to believe that racial injustices are a thing of the past, and the traumas of dealing with them are resolved.
The phenomenon of historical distanciation appears often in American cinema, among other tactics that act to “mask white supremacy in the history of global capitalist domination and in the material and cultural structure of the U.S.” (Madison 415). Specific memories and interpretations of the past are formed by cultural representations – especially by the power of film. In a way, they deny history and replace its memory with “an artificially constructed general truth about the unchanging black ‘character.’ We are being taken out of history and into the realm of myth: things which never change, which were so at the beginning, are so now, and ever shall be.” (Snead 139). Indeed, the white lens reproduces stereotypical caricatures of those that are different from them and those that could potentially threaten white hegemony. Films like Corrina, Corrina allow us to “believe that things have gotten better” (Snead 140). In reality, its representation of black and white characters in stereotyped roles allows for the maintenance of America’s “hegemonic status by … neutralizing the very movements that sought to abolish white oppression” (Madison 415). So far, this goal has been fulfilled, which seems alarming and threatening to the identities of the powerless and subordinated. Scholars must challenge this monopoly. This examination of Corrina, Corrina as a representation of an interracial couple in the ‘50s functions as an integral interrogation of the power of cinema and American social institutions in maintaining white patriarchal domination. The clear reproduction of hegemonic white supremacist ideology in American cinema warrants a serious critique of the country’s foundations and inner-workings, as “very little attention [has been] paid to the more structural aspects of racism in this country” (Finley, Finley 232).

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Turner, Graeme. Film as Social Practice. 3

"Marie Antoinette," Cultural Norms and Interrogation of Historical Memory

Film representations of the past, or of a historical figure warrant analyses about their adequacy and alignment with fact in their retelling of a story. In addition, the point of view by which that retelling is presented is important to recognize. Who is included in the stories? And who is allowed to tell those stories? It is important to recognize the position from which we remember the story of Marie Antoinette and her dynamic rule in France. Historical representations are almost always told through the lens of the dominant view point: “representations of the nation…both produce and reproduce the dominant points of view” (Turner 184). At first, it seems that Marie Antoinette fulfills the age-old stereotype of the Queen as a naïve and apolitical female (object) that exists primarily to serve and sustain the King and his blood line. This story has been continually told and retold through time, exemplifying the human tendency to accept the status quo and the dominant historical perspective. More often than not, the repeated story of Marie Antoinette is not critiqued and/or compared to more specific historical facts, which continually reinforces the stigma that surrounds the young woman as the French queen. However, Sofia Coppola leads us to empathize and see the genuine and emotional side of Marie, a misunderstood individual – and how she had been manipulated and mentally stretched by the monarchal system of rule. This essay will consider this concept in relation to the film as an historical biopic, its use of the “male gaze” as well as its specific film style that invites the audience into Marie’s mind and emotions.
Marie Antoinette (2006) - inspired by Antonia Fraser’s biography Marie Antoinette: The Journey - tells the story of the Princess of Austria, Marie Antoinette (Kirsten Dunst), who has been betrothed to the Dauphin of France, Louis Auguste XVI (Jason Schwartzman), and is destined to become a new Dauphine and future French ruler. The couple faces immediate pressure to consummate their marriage and produce an heir to the throne, but receives extreme criticism when it doesn’t go according to plan. Marie faces some difficulty in her forced adjustment to her new life as French Royalty, but eventually settles in, deciding to make some of her own choices - by surrounding herself with attractive men, fine food, expensive clothes, etc. and strives to enjoy life’s pleasures to the fullest. She affirms her place in the Royal Court with the birth of her two children, a daughter and a son. Louis XVI is crowned the new ruler following the death of his grandfather, the King, and must handle economic and social issues, both in France and abroad. Meanwhile, Marie comes under public scrutiny for her assumed lack of attention and concern for the French people and the social issues they are facing.
Marie Antoinette received mixed reviews upon its release in late 2006. Audiences didn’t quite understand the new interpretation of the well-known story of Marie as the last (failed) French queen, and the unique discourse on the still-loaded topic in French history (Joy 1). It was seen as an over-the-top film without an interesting or driving narrative; a project made by Sofia Coppola as a reflection of her life as a young woman in a privileged position as Francis Ford Coppola’s daughter (Badt, 2; Horton 1). The coupling of modern music and props baffled viewers, who saw the film’s enormous budget (around $40 million) and star-studded cast out of line with the telling of an historical biopic (Chocano 1); the transformation of Versailles into a “night club” angered French audiences in particular (Barlow 1). The film only made around $15 million gross in profits – a nearly $30 million loss. Perhaps viewers could not get on the same page with Coppola’s focus on the person, not the circumstances, and her goal to reveal Marie Antoinette, the human being, who holds a memorable and controversial place in history.
Other reviewers recognized Coppola’s film’s interpretation of the past as a personal expression of a “dialogue between past and present,” since “a significant gap remains in our understanding of an event that shaped the modern world” (Hornaday 3; Price 1). The movie is accessible to modern audiences (particularly the teenage demographic) with its inclusion of modern music, and Coppola’s “pink Chuck Taylor peeking out of a Versailles closet” (Hornaday 3). The appeal, in this way, is an attempt to close the historical time gap and reflect on the “isolation and corruption” that affected Marie, that can be traced within today’s “imperial politics” (Hornaday 3); she is trying to “shed some light on how flamboyantly and shallowly some people lead their lives in any age” (Kimmel 1). Further, Coppola wanted to enable audiences to relate to Marie on a “human level” as a young woman on a search for her “true self”. She retold Marie’s story in a style that she thought reflected the feelings and energy that the main character would have been feeling during that time (Barlow 1). Coppola has a history of telling stories of young women trying to find themselves (The Virgin Suicides (1999), Lost in Translation (2003)), and Marie Antoinette is no exception.
The trilogy is said to reflect Coppola’s personal life journey, with the last film representing her completed transformation – as exemplified by Marie’s submission to the angry French mob, understanding of herself in her role as the French queen, and the ultimate embrace of that role. This climax reflects Marie’s (and Sofia’s) contentment and realization of their true selves in their present situation – “which is probably why we don’t see [Marie] beheaded” (Barlow 1). The exclusion of the arrest, trial and execution of Marie is not referenced or included in the film, leading us to remember Marie as a transformed individual that was greatly changed by her emotional journey and difficulties at Versailles. The ending makes it seem that Marie is not worried, and can not see what is about to happen to her; we experience this right along with her because we are “sealed inside Marie Antoinette’s world, [and we] don’t see it coming” either (Chocano 1). Coppola’s choice to end the film before Marie’s death, and the way she chose to tell the story warrants a discussion of cinematic portrayals of historical events and people.

Film as History

Historical film holds a significant power and appeal in modern society: films reflect “‘dominant fiction,” ideological reality or [an] ‘image of social consensus’ within which members of a society are asked to identify themselves” (Burgoyne 1). Films that tell the story of tumultuous and foreboding events usually offer closure and allow society to finally distance themselves, and move on. Further, such mainstream texts originate from the white-dominated media institution – the viewpoint from the dominant demographic is told and retold through time. Other texts that include historical events and people function differently than films: “a film is not a book;” therefore a film does not necessarily need to meet the criteria of historical texts, and can utilize various levels of interpretation (Rosenstone 506). Indeed, cinema acts as a very powerful representation of society and is “a potent form of forging historical consensus” (Hornaday 1); films are often expected to align with factual standards while simultaneously subscribing to Hollywood aesthetic standards that make the movies appealing and accessible to audiences – a difficult task indeed.
In this way, it can be assumed that films transform history into something that is more acceptable and relevant to today’s society – they decide “what deserves to be remembered, what counts as history” (Hornaday 1). In the same vein, remembering history’s powerful, memorable and/or heroic figures provides perfect material for Hollywood cinema – a requirement for a cinematic retelling of history (Rosenstone 507). Returning to the lives of such poignant individuals as Marie Antoinette, “tells us who we are” (Hornaday 2). It is notable in Marie Antoinette that nearly all actors in the film are white. Did Coppola plan this to align with the social dynamics of the time? Or was it unintentional, and a product of Hollywood tradition to include primarily white actors in historical texts? Either way, it is important to recognize that the audience has no choice in hearing Marie’s story from an all-white viewpoint. Cinema proves to be a difficult medium to remember history; is there a line between art and fact? In any case, film can be an extremely powerful tool to portray realism and recreate history’s people and events.
As a docudrama and biography, Marie Antoinette tells the story of real life events and people, but it remains important to consider how the film presents that story. Bordwell and Thompson explain that biopics, and the like, are “wholly staged and the historical agents are portrayed through actors’ performances” (131). Directors can choose, manipulate, and stage an array of elements to make the “historical” film, as well as include certain events, dialogue, settings, etc. Beyond these elements, filmmakers utilize key elements to build the narrative of the story; of importance here is the use of suture, – the “means of which cinematic texts confer subjectivity upon their viewers” (Silverman 195) – editing, and film style. Each element contributes to the development of the story, leads the audience to understand and anticipate the film’s events, and represents emotional and/or moral appeals that affect viewers.
The general theme of disapproval of the Queen grows as the film plays out, and the audience experiences the tension right along with Marie. While attending an opera performance, Marie applauds at the end; but the rest of the audience seems appalled and angry, just glaring at Marie (unlike an earlier scene where Marie applauds and the rest follow suit). This exemplifies the loss of support from the people around her. Louis’ actions also lead to a loss of monarchal support. He mishandles domestic and foreign economic issues, and fails to “control” his wife, discuss her behavior, or utilize his power to right the situation. Marie dominates the relationship, which discourages Louis from attempting to correct her wayward path as Queen. The young King is portrayed as a childish and detached leader who would rather play with toys than secure his position of power. In fact, Coppola shows him to be careless – by the strains he places on France’s budget to support the American Revolution. Louis’s lack of initiative and Marie’s lack of self-awareness act as the two main catalysts in the film’s plot. Coppola highlights these two concepts for audiences to get a closer look at how the couple interacted within the French monarchal system, and how their actions contributed to their demise.
The marriage between Marie and Louis is portrayed as an uncomfortable and forced match where Louis does not see Marie as an object to gaze at and appreciate – not the typical male/female relationship that is repeated in Hollywood cinema. It is clear that Louis has other things on his mind and has little concern for strengthening the important relationship with his wife. He has a lack of interest and maturity, and has great difficulty in fulfilling the traditionally masculine role of a King. Coppola highlights Louis’ traits to exemplify a less-desirable and less-able ruling patriarch. Yet, Marie is blamed for the couple’s inability to consummate their marriage and for her husband’s presumed dissatisfaction that prevents him from fulfilling his duties. It seems that no one around them can see how Louis’ uneasiness and hesitancy greatly contributed to the failure of the French Monarchy under his rule – Marie wasn’t the only one at fault. All eyes and criticisms stay fixed on Marie, while her husband’s attention remained on menial tasks such as his daily hunt, and fascination with mechanical locks.

The Gaze

Hollywood cinema has been built upon the greater American social ideology that holds patriarchal men as more powerful than women. This is reflected in the cinematic tendency to suture the audience into a position that identifies with a traditionally male protagonist, who gazes at female characters as objects (Mulvey 59). Marie Antoinette presents a unique form of the “gaze,” as the female body is still subject to voyeurism and subjectivity even in the absence of men. Marie enters into her new position as French royalty in the beginning of the film, being stripped (literally) of everything she brought from her home country. She must further adjust to her new life during the first few days living within the rigidity of Versailles. It is clear that all (literally) eyes are on her and she must fulfill her duties, and live up to a myriad of expectations as the Dauphine. A clear example of her vulnerable and open position is located near the beginning of the film when Marie wakes up after her first night with Louis at Versailles Palace.
Every morning the women of the French court perform the “morning dressing ceremony,” where the highest ranked woman in the room has the privilege of dressing Marie for the day. In order for this to occur, Marie must be first stripped of her nightgown, and remain naked for a considerable amount of time until the highest-ranked woman steps forth for her duty. In the scene, we see Marie experiencing the excruciating feeling of standing naked for several minutes in front of dozens of women she doesn’t know. She is still expected to act naturally, and bow gracefully to those that “dress” her. Her discomfort is evident by her attempts to cover herself and shield her body from the judging eyes of the women around her. This element is crucial in understanding the “gaze” in Marie Antoinette. We never actually see her naked body in its entirety, yet there is always the suggestion of it – whether it be by Marie’s strained attempts to protect her body, or the view of her body in a very sheer under-robe. The camera purposely doesn’t show Kirsten Dunst’s breasts or genitals in the frame, seemingly to make the situation a little more comfortable for all those involved (Marie, the other women in the scene, and the audience). The dynamics between all members in the scene are evident through the camera’s movements and angles around Marie and Louis’ bedroom.
Sofia Coppola utilizes a shot/reverse-shot sequence in this scene to give the audience an understanding of Marie’s defined position in contrast to that of the other Royal women. This camera work is common in suturing the audience into the scene, allowing them to identify with the characters, and showing them the environment that surrounds them (Turner 150, Silverman 1). The audience is placed in a specific place of subjectivity, and is shown where to look - according to the camera. We see the “morning dressing ceremony” from the perspective of Marie, and also from that of the Royal women. The camera works to make Marie’s perspective uncomfortable for the audience – she is the recipient of dozens of eyes gazing at her nude body, and her position is unpleasurable. This is juxtaposed with the view of the women in the room who ultimately hold power over Marie; we find it easier to position ourselves with them, especially after experiencing Marie’s view. Therefore, we find more pleasure in looking at Marie; it is more comfortable to be the “looker” than the receiver of that look (Silverman 8).
In her position, Marie is clearly an object to be judged, viewed, and critiqued. The women (and the audience) only look at Marie’s eyes, or the clothing/shoes that she will soon wear, and are not allowed to see Marie’s naked body parts. Women should be shielded and drawn away from actually seeing the naked female form, as exemplified by the camera’s unwillingness to stray below Marie’s waist, and the constant barriers between the audience’s eyes and Marie’s body. The women in the scene look at Marie in order to discipline her, to put her in her place, and remind her of the constant criticism of her behavior in her new position; she is constantly pushed to “mould [her good qualities] into a very particular and memorable presence” (Price 8). She must live up to everyone’s expectations while they constantly question her abilities and dish out harsh criticism of her every move. This exemplifies one way that the gaze can objectify Marie, although it can function differently in different situations. According to Hollywood tradition (and within Marie Antoinette), women are positioned to use the gaze as a disciplining tool, a way to exhibit criticism and discipline the object/recipient; while men gaze at women as visually-appealing sexual objects.
In film, men are continuously portrayed as voyeurs and “lookers” of the female body in Hollywood; and even within Marie Antoinette: upon Marie’s arrival in France, the King himself asks “how is her bosom? It’s the first thing I look at.” We can assume that he actually did view Marie this way upon their initial meeting. The subjective female/active male dichotomy is established early on in the film, with Marie being positioned as a deficient erotic object to be looked at and displayed (Mulvey 63). The King explicitly repeats that his only hope for Marie during her rule at Versailles is to produce an heir. She is seen as simply an object for reproduction and sexual pleasure for her husband. Even without such a male presence through much of the movie, Marie is continuously objectified by those around her. Specifically, in the “dressing scene”, Marie’s body is never shown in its naked entirety – perhaps a sort of striptease for the male viewers’ pleasure. While there is no male protagonist visibly present in the scene to “drive the narrative”, the audience is still positioned to “gaze” at the naked female form due to previous comments (i.e. the King’s) and objectification of Marie (Mulvey 63). The history of American cinema has created this situation, where men are the only ones allowed to view the subjective female form for their own pleasure; yet female characters are also seen by other women in the film as objects to be disciplined and manipulated.

Film Style

Sofia Coppola uses specific film techniques to depict the polarized worlds of the French Royal Court and the “natural” life that Marie wants for herself. We often see a pattern of longer scenes with little dialogue, sound, color or action juxtaposed with scenes with quick editing and exciting sound and action. The former mirrors the unnatural, emotionless, and uncomfortable nature of the events – especially those that include only Marie and Louis (i.e. their first night together as a married couple). It is clear that Marie’s happiness and emotions are not important; she is simply expected to fit the role as Louis’ Dauphine and produce an heir. These scenes position the audience to view Marie just as everyone else does – as an object. Yet the shot/reverse-shot patterns enable us to experience Marie’s position and her undeniable difficulty and uncomfortable feelings. In contrast, the more exciting and chaotic scenes allow the viewer to enter the scene and enjoy the activities and luxuries right along with Marie. We see the young Queen in a more comfortable and open state – she engages in situations that please her, maybe even to the extent that she is seen as rebellious to the monarchal system that continually attempts to keep a firm grip on her every move.
A specific scene near the middle of the film provides a clear example of this dichotomy. The “Shoes and Cake” scene immediately follows the birth of Marie’s nephew – the first prince of his generation, which placed much more pressure on Marie and Louis to produce an heir. She feels extreme criticism for not fulfilling this responsibility sooner, even though Louis is as much to blame. Her emotions were uncontrollable following this event, but she knows she must not show her insecurities or frustrations in public. After seeing Marie break down, alone, behind closed doors, we are immediately taken into a scene where she begins her “rebellion” and search for her true desired lifestyle - something very different than the life laid out for her by the monarchy. It seems that this is the beginning of Marie’s gradual path towards chaos and loss of control over her duties as Queen. Sofia Coppola’s use of a chaotic and quick editing style, along with upbeat music and bright lighting, makes the scene appealing to the audience, and allows them to enter the film and begin to understand who Marie really is.
The “Shoes and Cake” scene employs a semi-chaotic and unorganized style - “the formal system…that organizes film techniques” (Bordwell, Thompson 391). Also, the shots almost always utilize close-ups of objects or body parts of unknown actors. This ambiguity and de-personalization allows the audience to position themselves in the scene, essentially being invited to participate. Lastly, there is very little dialogue or diegetic sound, but rather, the scene includes a version of a modern pop song (“I Want Candy”), further placing today’s audience in a position to easily join in without having to follow complex discussions or plot developments. The “Shoes and Cake” scene exhibits the stylistic elements within the unfolding narrative to exemplify the very real possibility that anyone could find themselves in Marie’s shoes, not realizing their destructive pattern of behavior. We are invited to understand Marie’s emotions and desires as a teenage woman who became powerless under the rigidness of the French monarchy.
An analysis of the film techniques used by Sofia Coppola in the “Shoes and Cake” scene allows us to recognize how the audience comes to this point and to understand the significance of their relationship with Marie in the film. Throughout the scene, the shot rhythm remains quite fast, with periods of extremely short cuts, and certainly some longer takes. But the overall quickness of the editing rhythm makes it difficult to see what is going on in each frame and in the overall plot sequence: “by controlling editing rhythm, the filmmaker controls the amount of time we have to grasp and reflect on what we see” (Bordwell, Thompson 304). In addition, we are not presented with a clear view of the spatial relations among the shots. It seems that the scene violates the primary rule of filmmaking – the 180º system, which “ensures that relative positions in the frame remain consistent” (Bordwell, Thompson 311). Most of the shots exhibit ambiguous objects or body parts, leaving the audience without a clear understanding of where the action is taking place or the general spatial relations; they are forced to make connections on their own, without much guidance from the film style. There is no clear narrative flow in this scene, which leads the audience to “enter” the film, put the pieces together, and ultimately drive the narrative (Turner 149).
Along with the unclear spatial relations and narrative flow, the shot composition in “Shoes and Cake” makes it difficult to understand what is going on; yet the mise-en-scene invites the audience to “enter” the scene. For example, a few shots show a servant presenting Marie and her friends with fine fabrics. The camera pans up and down some of the fabrics, from an unknown perspective. This allows the audience to participate and appreciate what is in front of us: “it is difficult not to see camera movement as a substitute for our movement” (Bordwell, Thompson 269). Apart from these shots, the others seem to appear in an almost random order, not allowing a clear narrative pattern to develop. Film audiences are typically trained to look at things in the scene “guided by our assumptions and expectations about what to look for” (Bordwell, Thompson 208). Yet, in this specific scene, it is unclear where we should focus, as we are only presented with quick glances of the action – a form of montage editing which “compresses a lengthy series of actions into a few moments” (Bordwell, Thompson 332). Marie is on a personal journey, an exploration of behaviors in her current state. Such editing practices surely shape the audience’s perspective (Bordwell, Thompson 229). The sheer number of shots make the audience feel overwhelmed, not knowing where to look first. The use of shots exhibiting grandiose or reckless behavior exemplifies the chaotic nature of the scene.
The progression towards chaos seems to clash with many other scenes in the film – a dichotomy discussed earlier. Before the “Shoes and Cake” scene, we can see a general increase in the amount of rapid and confusing editing and camera movements. Overall, this developing pattern can be paralleled with Marie’s progression toward behavior that is deemed extreme or unacceptable for a Royal. Her actions in such scenes as “Shoes and Cake” do not typically seem to characterize a Royal or political leader; thus reiterating the two lifestyles portrayed in the two types of scenes. Yet, the unique cinematographic techniques interact with the audience to demonstrate how Marie would fall into a pattern of behavior that appears more invigorating, pleasing, and fitting for her desired lifestyle.
By exploring cinematic techniques used by Sofia Coppola, it is apparent that she wanted to retell Marie Antoinette’s story in a different light so that the audience could connect emotionally with the historical figure, and reach a “realization” right along with her. The film included specific editing techniques, scene designs, costumes, music, lighting, and camera work to invite viewers into Marie’s life and ultimately understand why she acted the way she did. Monarchal rule had taken over Marie’s true self, and her attempt to reclaim her life manifested itself in her indulgent behavior and attempts to escape the “protocol”. She continues on this path with little consequence, and because of the monarchal structure, no one can really control her; especially since her husband, the King, is just as careless, apparently clueless and unable to step in (emphasizing his role contributes greatly to Coppola’s efforts in leading the audience to empathize with Marie). Her behavior can be looked at as a form of rebellion, but also as a quest for agency and reclamation of power over her own life. Everyone around her reiterated that everything depended on her – she was expected to produce an heir, please her husband sexually (which determined his happiness and ability to rule), and uphold the Austro-Franco political relationship. Her happiness was not of any importance, since exhibition of emotions was taboo in the Royal Court – she was simply to act obediently, make others happy, serve the traditionally-patriarchal power structure, and seek the approval of those around her.
Rather than remember Marie Antoinette as a reckless, failed woman, Coppola encourages viewers to see the more emotional and human side of the famed Queen. By contrasting with traditional views on Marie that uphold the dominant view (usually that of the male), Coppola challenges their monopoly on remembering and telling of history. Marie’s character and behavior weren’t the only factors that led to the economic and social demise in France. Overall, the film invites the audience to critique the monarchal system of power and recognize its ability to influence and manipulate rulers into unnatural and uncomfortable positions. Modern elements make the story accessible to today’s audience, and lead us to be aware of current problematic or dangerous systems of rule. Coppola attempts to remove some of the stigma and prevalent stereotypes attached to Marie’s life, and encourages viewers to question the status quo and dominant ways of remembering. While the film may represent Coppola’s personal soul-searching journey, it also functions as an argument to resist distanciation with the past and to recognize the stereotypes that come from dominant story-telling. While these efforts seem admirable and useful, it is difficult to ignore the fact that Coppola tells the story from a dominant white viewpoint. A more radical representation of history, and Marie’s story, would result from a more complete resistance of such tradition and “protocol”. Such dominant systems are what held Marie in the “gilded cage” to begin with (Chocano 1); and it seems they will be around as long as everyone accepts their rigidity and inability to change.


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