Ego Death Cinema

Translated from French

Alienated by the male gaze for a long time now, the cinema is born from the white man’s heteronormative gaze, which coerces and takes hostage the audience to reduce it to the status of object. The discovery of phenomenology, that "stipulates that every knowledge is rooted in the incarnated/embodied experience of the human life”, applied to the 7e art has allowed me to understand this medium in a subjective and situated way. It is the reason for which this piece, exploring the representation of rape on screen and its impact, is a personified critique using the pronoun ‘I’. And after a closer look, how could it be different? Because as claimed by Pauline Kael, “you’re a damn fool” to think that any journalistic neutrality exists. It seems primordial to install this honesty.

While there is none with the series Peep Show. In episode 4 of season 5 (2008), one of the main characters, Mark, is raped by Natalie. The situation is meant to be funny: Natalie is a masculine woman, Mark a sensitive man. As he emerges from his sleep, we can see in the background a blurry movement, accompanied by a distant moaning. The discomfort is total. The vision suddenly becomes clear and the camera shifts its angle. We are now in Natalie’s skin. We are one with the character, and the camera follows the cadences of her body. The picture reverses again, we are now on Mark’s side. But the plan is fixed – it is a hostage situation. This woman who dominates Mark moves slightly out of frame. The character on the floor is completely deprived of his agency, not being able to even look away. Back to Natalie, the camera comes and goes, we are one with the rapist. The difference between animated and still plans establish an unbalanced dynamic. This composition results from a male gaze: the mise-en-scène compels us to go through the experience of the person who is raped. My reaction was visceral, as much psychological as physical, because we can’t separate the gaze from the rest of the body, the latter being a ‘somatheque, a living political archive’.

However, it wasn’t the first cinematographic rape that I saw as a survivor. I let myself be tempted by the madeleine of R. Scott’s, Thelma & Louise (1991). Two friends go on a weekend trip and, stopping by a roadside restaurant, Thelma is a victim of attempted rape. But instead of dealing with this scene in a scopophilic manner or by fetishising the obscene, the camera prefers a distanced yet incarnated gaze and avoids the pitfall of spectacle or comic relief. Therefore, when the character of Geena Davis goes out for some fresh air with the man she just met and he assaults her, the scene is the opposite from that in Peep Show. The first difference comes from the dialogue. In the film, the aggressor says to Thelma ‘I’m not going to hurt you’. This line acts as a disclaimer, almost a trigger warning that allows us to steel ourself. The body is in alert, not cowering at the bottom of the seat. The following part is never filmed in full shoot avoiding the sensation of voyeurism. The camera is never in a subjective plan but always just behind the characters, permitting us not to identify as the rapist; however, close enough to the protagonist for us to empathise with her. The frequent variation of angles contribute to the constant reactivation of the regard. As the tension builds, the camera focuses on the feet, a way of showing the brutality without imposing it. This female gaze neutralises the atrocity of the moment without veiling the violence from which Thelma is a victim. It is Louise, played by Susan Sarandon who will save her friend. And kill Harlan.

If my body did not twist during this scene it is not because I already knew the intrigue, but thanks to the female gaze. An experience pushed to its paroxysm by Michaela Coel with I May Destroy You (2020). The series explores rape and its consequences by following Arabella. At the end of the first episode, as the actress is filmed in a low-angle shot, a flashback occurs: takes the place of Arabella, a man in the middle of a sexual act. We are at the place of the victim and if the plan is fixed, the experience is way different. The picture is framed in the middle of the perpetrator’s torso : we live the scene in an incarnated manner, but slightly dissociated thanks to this manipulation of framing. Jolting sounds fade into the background. The shocks are absorbed by the camera. The viewer is one with the subjectivity of Arabella, but the mise-en-scène permits a distancing. The last episode, titled Ego Death, opts for a Rape and Revenge approach. Split into several scenarios, the finale returns the agency to the character, with a subtle mix of gazes. Going back to the place of the crime, Arabella tricks the rapist. As she pretends to be drugged, he brings her to the toilets. The scene is filmed from above, we are in the disturbing position of voyeur. The tension grows, and as David is about to repeat the rape, the perspective shifts: hand-held camera, Arabella counterattacks. This sudden change of view stops the growing anxiety; my body relaxes, while activating at the same, as well as the one of the protagonist. In the second version, Arabella is actually spiked, but remains conscious. This time, the picture is agitated, trained on Arabella's body, manipulated by David. Once again, the crispation is triggered but is suddenly neutralised by a fixed close-up on the faces: Arabella has taken back control of the situation. The incarnation of the feminine experience is total, the sensorial physicality of the image and our body.

However, whether it is the end of Thelma & Louise or I May Destroy You, reducing these two sequences to a jubilant moment is an illusion. It is a metaphor of the psychic death, the ego death. The violence is never enjoyable when it has colonised a body. And it is what Michaela Coel brilliantly depicts, telling her loss of subjective self identity, until the reconquest, on the beach.

References

Froidevaux-Metterie, Camille, Le corps des femmes, la bataille de l’intime, 2018, p. 151 B. Preciado, Paul, Je suis un monstre qui vous parle, 2020, p.48