Nearly two years ago, I attended a midnight showing of Bruce LaBruce's LA Zombie and I have been talking and thinking and writing about it ever since--from the ride home (with the lovely, willing, and fearless Nikoba), to using it as an excuse to strike up a friendship with the gentleman/scholar Adam O., to writing a research paper and, thus, ensuring a home for LA Zombie in the university's film library. Whether anyone will ever watch it is another question, but knowing that I leave UWM covered in terms of gay zombie porn makes my heart pitter patter. As usual, the original paper emerged from the haze of sleep deprivation, carefully balanced alcohol and caffeine consumption, and made-up voodoo rituals involving keyboard pounding and ill-advised harem pants. I have since revised it for a PhD program application, but feel that it still lacks the character I want it to have, especially for a LaBruce film, which deserves a spirited response.However, for the time being, this paper is the demon-child of my years at UWM and my best effort at forging an interdisciplinary pathway. To what end? I have no f**king clue. I am in need of a patron willing to indulge my interests in film studies, queer theory, cultural geography, and the urban milieu. I will wear a push-up bra if needed. Also, I own a blazer that can easily be fitted with scholarly suede elbow patches.
Without further fanfare, here is the LA Zombie paper. Many thanks to Gilberto for tolerating me and for the few people who will appreciate the effort. For the uninitiated, here is a trailer and link to the website:
LA Zombie website: http://www.lazombie.com/
There is No Title Because I Have Erased the Title
(This is Not a Title)
In this paper, I...
1.
Propose a theoretical model for the study of
queerness and geography in film, including a discussion of the spatiality of
film itself, the relevancy of cultural geography in the study of film, the role
of built environments in the regulation of sexuality, and the zombie’s ability
to “queer” space.
2.
Read Bruce LaBruce’s LA Zombie (2010) as a radical critique of the spatial
marginalization of sexual minorities and as a utopian text that champions
border-crossing and the queering of normative spaces.
Of the arts, film is
most often compared to photography and the theater, but it also shares many
affinities with architecture. Anthony Vidler advocates for the bonds between
the two mediums by arguing that films not only possess architecture of their
own—found not just in the construction of sets but in “light and shade, scale
and movement”—but inspire and influence the creation of real-world structures
(101). A classic example lies in Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1927); Lang’s real “muse” was New York City’s skyline
and his dramatic reconstruction of it created a renewed demand for Art Deco
buildings. Yet, the relationship between film and architecture is much deeper
than an aesthetic exchange between mediums. Giuliana Bruno argues that film
scholarship is too focused on scopophilic theory, which “does little to account
for the corporeality of space and the dynamics of sight/site” (110). Like
architecture, she argues that film is “anatomical” because its spaces can be
visited and examined. The film spectator is not only voyeur but also a voyageur, and traveling through a film’s
geography produces a “touristic effect” (Bruno 110). Similarly, Michel de
Certeau suggests that what a narrative really does is “organize walks,” so we
must be aware of the structures that film is moving us through and ask, “on
what sort of walk are we being taken?” In order to determine the answer to this
question, we must think not just think about architecture but about geography.
In order to create
a two-dimension map of the Earth, its surface must necessarily be skewed. How
it is skewed depends on the predilections of its maker; a nautical map, after
all, looks very different than a geopolitical one. It is often said that
winners make history, but they also make maps; one needs only look at
pretechnological renderings to note the bloated size of imperialist nations and
the shrinking and renaming of their conquered lands. Yet, it is not merely the
representation of our physical surroundings that is inherently problematic.
Even as satellites map every inch of the Earth’s surface with mechanical
indifference, we live within environments that only appear politically neutral.
As an extension of culture, our constructed environments reveal the ways in
which dominant ideology (as a regulatory mechanism) reinforces material
conditions, directs mobilities and identities, and contains the ambitions of
those floundering in its depths. Hence, Steve Pile’s evocative suggestion that
geography is “something to struggle over as well as struggle through” (28). To
the cultural geographer, a freeway interchange is not a benign structure but,
rather, a tactic that separates one part of the city from another. Film, too,
presents us with value-laden mapped (and mappable) environments to analyze.
Tim Cresswell and
Deborah Dixon outline two major epistemological stances in the study of film:
the essentialist position—in which film is seen as a substitute for the real
world—and the anti-essentialist—in which film is seen as an object of inquiry
on equal footing with physical objects. While the essentialist stance
differentiates the “reel and the real,” an anti-essentialist approach treats
film as “the temporary embodiment of social processes that continually
construct and deconstruct the world as we know it” (Cresswell 3). The
intersection of cultural geography and film analysis relies on assuming an
anti-essentialist position, in which a film’s geography is considered a serious
object of study. Analyzing space and place allows us to apprehend the play of
power and meaning within networks of signification, and analyzing the mobilities
permitted within the diegesis not only implies the “unfixing of such staples as
time and space; it also points to the transformation and even the dissolution
of key social institutions such as the family and home, flag and country, and
even civilization and humanity” (Cresswell 11). From the anti-essentialist
position, space, place, and mobility as products of or responses to constructed
environments are examined within their social and political contexts.
Cities, Bodies, and Sexual Minorities
Elizabeth Grosz
positions the city as a site for the body’s “cultural saturation, its takeover
and transformation by images, representational systems, the mass media, and the
arts—the place where the body is representationally reexplored, transformed,
contested, reinscribed” (108). For Grosz, the body is a material thing given
meaning through social inscription and the city is partially defined as a
complicated network of social relations; thus, the city is created by its
inhabitants while also inscribing their bodies. The bodies-cities relationship
carries with it a number of fascinating implications, including the ways in
which a city’s most powerful inhabitants discreetly control the inscriptions of
who “merely” occupy it. On the most basic level, we understand that cities are
built to suit the needs of the people within them—yet, those who plan, build,
and manage cities (as well as inhabitants of high-income tax districts) exert
an immense amount of control over the order in which these myriad needs are
addressed. Because planners, builders, legislators, and high-income citizens
hail largely from dominant groups (white, middle- to upper-class, heterosexual,
able-bodied), cities are thus organized according to dominant values. Taking a
cue from Grosz, this paper stresses the importance in uncovering the ways in
which these values—which include the orientation of sexual, social, and
familial relations—are naturalized once they are embedded within our
environments.
Despite the potentially oppressive effects a city has on
its inhabitants, the (Western, capitalist) city has also provided an
environment that allowed queerness to come into existence. John D'Emilio argues that:
gay men and lesbians have not
always existed. Instead, they are a product of history, and have come into
existence in a specific historical era. Their emergence is associated with the
relations of capitalism; it has been the historical development of capitalism .
. . that has allowed large numbers of men and women in the late twentieth
century to call themselves gay, to see themselves as part of a community of
similar men and women, and to organize politically on the basis of their
identity (102).
D’Emilio supports his
thesis by demonstrating the ways in which capitalism changed the functions of
the family. Wage labor led to the collapse of the nuclear family as an
interdependent unit of production and drew workers into cities. The
fragmentation of the family freed people from its heteronormative imperatives
and, therefore, those who left the family home and were attracted to members of
the same sex no longer risked the total loss of their emotional and financial
sustenance. In this regard, the divisive effects of capitalism and the
liberating environment of the city gave rise to “homosexuality” (a concept not
previously recognized). As a result, the city has become of central interest in
the study of queerness. Lawrence Knopp adds another dimension to D’Emilio’s
argument by discussing the ways in which Western, industrial societies create
gender-based divisions of labor that foster single-sex environments in which
same-sex attraction is allowed to flourish. A paradox, according to Knopp,
emerges when we remind ourselves that, in the city, “power is still quite
closely associated with the production and consumption of commodities, and with
white, non-working-class, heterosexually identified men” (154). Thus, the city
is a place that simultaneously liberates and oppresses sexual minorities.
Private/Public: the Spatial Regulation of Sexuality
When discussing the intersections of sexuality
and geography, the private/public binary emerges as a key organizing principle
of space and place. Nancy Duncan observes that the increased “privatization,
commercialization, and aestheticization of public spaces has tended to
depoliticize space and shrink public spheres,” thereby limiting the amount of “free”
space—both in terms
of use and expression—that
we are able to access (127). Decreased availability of and access to public
space is important because the privatization of space is “frequently employed
to construct, control, discipline, confine, exclude, and suppress gender and
sexual difference preserving traditional patriarchal and heterosexist power
structures” (Duncan 128). Part of the control of space entails the notion that
sexuality is only expressed behind closed doors. However, this assumption does
not apply to straights and queers equally. Because heterosexuality is
naturalized and, thus, invisible, it can be expressed anywhere, whereas two men
holding hands in public is seen as an offense committed in a supposedly “neutral”
space. Thus, the expression of non-normative sexuality in public spaces has the
potential to collapse the public/private binary upon which heteronormative
society thrives. Otherwise, queer space remains ephemeral, constituted by the
gaze (i.e. the cruising strip). David Bell points out that heterosexual
identity is placeless and that, “queer space is intimately dependent on a sense
for place in its realization” (107).
Theorizing the ephemeral geographies of queerness leads
us to the utopian potential of queering the streets. Outside what little place
sexual minorities have carved out lies a vast geography in which naturalized
heterosexuality dictates who and what belongs where. José Estaban Muñoz writes:
Queerness
is not yet here. Queerness is an ideality. Put another way, we are not yet
queer. We may never touch
queerness, but we can feel it as the warm illumination of a horizon imbued with
potentiality . . . The here and now is a prison house. We must strive, in the
face of the here and now’s totalizing rendering of reality, to think and feel a
then and there (1).
Muñoz is concerned with the ways in which memory—specifically
the memory of the “heyday” of public sex in a pre-HIV world—has the potent
memories of a sexual utopia “help us carve out a space for actual, living
sexual citizenship” (35) By reading John Giorno’s You’ve Got to Burn to Shine, Muñoz demonstrates how the nostalgic portrayal of
public sex reminds the present day queer that spaces were then and can now be
transformed. One of the more touching moments in Giorno’s memoir occurs when,
after experiencing “perfect dissolution” in a public toilet, he hops on a train
and is suddenly overwhelmed by the crushing effects of heterosexed space. We
cannot go back to a pre-HIV world but, for Muñoz, Giorno’s text calls attention to the need for
place. When Muñoz
asks how we might “stage” utopia, my answer is: film. Like the gay and punk
bars upon which Muñoz
focuses his attention, film provides us with the perfect “utopian rehearsal
room” (111).
If
film has the ability to serve as a utopian rehearsal room, we must consider the
players. In regards to this paper’s project, the zombie is especially useful in
imagining the collapse of the private/public binary. To return to Grosz’s
bodies-cities theory, Jeff May suggests that if a zombie invasion rendered all
the bodies within a city undead the city would be transformed into a “blank
space,” due to “the destruction of hegemonic
and ideological spatial codifications” (286). In other words, the bodies-cities
relationship allows for the transformation of ideology as well as physical
structure. Because zombies have no sense of private property or of belonging,
they defy spatial dichotomy. Thus, the zombie within the city can be seen as a
utopian actor—a creature with the ability to “infect” the city with
revolutionary change and perhaps the only monster truly capable of truly
queering the streets. Because queerness has frequently been articulated through
the trope of monstrosity, we might look at films that depict the monster-queer
in order to observe how space is changed.
Putting It All
Together: A Reading of L.A. Zombie
LA Zombie opens with the sounds of violin
and piano over images of sand, waves, rock, and sky. The Zombie (François
Sagat) rises naked from the
ocean and walks onto the beach. He hitches a ride with a surfer in the hills,
their car crashes, and the Zombie sits inside the wreckage considering the body
of the driver lying on the road. After some thought, he lowers himself over his
dead companion and penetrates his mangled chest. Suddenly, the driver’s exposed
heart begins beating again. Once the bewildered (but apparently grateful) man
has been restored to life, the Zombie enters LA and moves through the city
stumbling upon and resurrecting victims of violence and addiction: a thief, a
gangbanger, a homeless junkie, and a group of drug-addicted porn performers.
Overwhelmed by the poverty and violence he has encountered, the Zombie enters a
a graveyard and attempts to dig his way into a grave marked with a tombstone
with the word “LAW” inscribed on it. Despite hours of clawing at the dirt with
his hands, the soil will not give way; the graveyard has rejected the Zombie.
LA Zombie is a deeply frustrating film.
Even for those unfazed by the sex and gore, the narrative (as it were) is
periodically knocked askew by long takes, discontinuities, and pure spectacle.
However, the ways in which the film organizes space and movement is actually
quite structured, and therefore quite readable.
The Zombie emerges from the depths of the ocean, travels through the blighted
areas of the city, and seeks a graveyard. He moves through and interacts with
these environments, which establishes a continuum (rather than a dichotomy)
between untamed and constructed spaces. Continuums are particularly interesting
within the context of this paper because, as Christina, Tiánna, and Mélisa
Kennedy argue, they are uniquely capable of capturing “shifting scales of
controlled and uncontrolled spaces,” and allow us to experience the “chaos,
possibilities, and creativity of accepting things alien” (294). Because
the Zombie moves through geographies of marginalization—viaducts, alleyways,
brownfields, and sexwork districts—we can see how the Zombie’s “alien” presence
moves within and transforms these spaces.
Aside from the first sex scene, which occurs in the hills
outside LA, all subsequent resurrections—the film inverts le petite mort entirely!—occur within the city in public or
semi-public spaces. Although, as I have already argued, the expression of
sexuality in public spaces collapses the private/public binary (if only
briefly), most of the film positions the Zombie outside the boundaries of
functioning society. Before each sex scene, we see a stream of traffic moving
in the background, calling attention to the functioning of “normal,” mobile society “over there” and creating
a clear boundary between the city’s dead and productive spaces. Even when the
Zombie appears to cross this border between sex scenes and is filmed on the
side of a busy street, the places and people that surround him are impoverished
and immobilized. As he picks through trash on the side of the street, the
camera lingers on a line of people waiting for a bus that never comes. Tall,
concrete structures crowd the frame. Meanwhile, a stream of cars—which have
come to represent functioning society—whip by dangerously close to the camera.
Seen queerly (whether through the eyes of the Zombie or LaBruce himself),
poverty and marginalization are linked to immobility. The jarring sight and
sound of cars passing with no intention of stopping amplify the abjection of
the blight the Zombie traverses.
So what are we to make of the boundaries drawn between
dead and living cityspace and their association with abjection and queerness?
De Certeau writes that spatiality is organized by the determination of
frontiers. Stories not only describe boundaries but function to:
authorize the establishment,
displacement, or transcendence of limits and, as a consequence, to set in opposition, within the closed field of
discourse, two movements that intersect (setting and transgressing limits) in
such a way as to make the story a sort of ‘crossword’ decoding stencil (a
dynamic partitioning of space) whose essential narrative figures seem to be the
frontier and the bridge” (123).
The frontier refers to “legitimate” space and
the bridge to its “alien” exteriority. If, as de Certeau argues, stories create
the potential for action, we can examine the Zombie to see what sort of
border-crossing tactics are being proposed. From the Zombie’s perspective, one
of the Western world’s most iconic cities is, instead, a place of squalor and
poverty—the spoils of capitalism laid to waste. Wherever the Zombie
wanders, he finds another discarded body left to rot out of sight. The victims
are all “deviants” of some sort; apart from their roles as criminals and
junkies, all the characters in the movie are recognizable gay personalities or
stars of male-male pornography. His means of addressing what he sees and revitalizing
these dead spaces is sex and the solution to his abjection is crossing the
boundary between bridge and frontier into the heart of the city (more on this
later).
Genre, Space, and
Hybridity
LA Zombie is a hybrid of two body genres:
horror and pornography, both of which use space in different ways. According
to Thomas Schatz, we can define horror as a genre of determinate space, which
means that it takes place in a familiar “symbolic arena of action” in which
cultural conflicts are violently resolved (564). Though horror’s sites of
conflict are not as aesthetically uniform as Western or gangster films, they
are conceptually stable. Whether we consider the castles, cabins, or insane
asylums of the horror film, horror’s contested sites correspond to Carol Clover’s
idea of the Terrible Place: a corrupted enclosure that might initially seem
safe but serves to entrap the film’s victims (78). Though Clover uses the
Terrible Place as part of her conceptual model for the slasher subgenre, it is
found in most horror films. We seem to require a claustrophobic setting in
order to feel fear. Something interesting happens in LA Zombie, however. Because the Zombie is the film’s protagonist, and
because he revives rather than kills his “victims,” space loses its typical
syntactic functions. This is, I argue, a result of the hybridizing effect of
combining horror with pornography.
Rich Cante and Angelo Restivo identify utopian potential
in male-male pornography’s ability to reinscribe public space on a level that
decades of identity politics have failed to achieve. They argue that:
In
staging any sex scene for the camera, a moving-image text invariable indexes
social space. In making that action “take place,” it thus indexes fantasy space
too. When the action is male-male sex, the spaces in which it transpires can
never constitute normal backdrops. This results from the fact that the acts
themselves are non-normative, whether one conceives the non-normative as a
violation of patriarchal law, or, more experientally, as the excess attached to
feeling different and acting like an outsider (143).
Unlike male-female
pornography, male-male pornography is always situated in relation to the public
(even when it takes place within a private space) because it is political.
Cante and Restivo point out that, until recently, pornography was one of the
only mediums in which we saw representations of gay men and that, even today,
we find gayness represented in pornography more than any other cultural
product. Although they focus primarily on male-male pornography, Cante and
Restivo promote the goal of “queering” the world—of sexual minorities
transforming space (148). If we combine the utopian possibilities of queer
pornography with horror’s spatiality, we end up with the Terrible
Wonderful Place, in which the Monster Queer revives the victims of Western,
capitalist cities according to the logic of a new, affective economy.
Extra-Textual Considerations
The final relationship
between LA Zombie and space that I
want to consider is the film’s exhibition and distribution. First and foremost,
according to Thomas Waugh’s comprehensive chronicle of Canadian queer cinema,
LaBruce is the Canada’s only major filmmaker who has never received a grant
from the government’s arts board (446). LaBruce has always worked on his own
terms; in his own words, he considers himself “an outsider in a band of
outsiders, a character on the margins of the marginalized, an ancillary fairy”
(xv). Although we must take any self-assessment with a grain of salt, his
comment about being “an outsider in a band of outsiders” would seem fair.
LaBruce’s films are rarely shown outside the festival circuit and midnight
screenings due to the graphic depiction of queer sex. Artistic respect for
LaBruce is often outshone by his films’ institutional suppression. For example,
in close succession, LA Zombie was
shown at the prestigious Locarno Film Festival and banned at the Melbourne
International Film Festival (Griffin). After Richard Wolstencroft, director of
the Melbourne festival, screened the film illegally, his home was raided and he
was fined for the offense (Simon).
A reasonable concern about LaBruce’s films, however provocative they may be, is that his refusal to participate
in commercial production and distribution prevents the wide dissemination of
his product. Duncan argues that, in order to be effective, texts must make the
denaturalizing of public space both readable and widely publicized (138).
However, this leads us to a troubling predicament in which our creative
products are said only to “matter” if they mainstream. I would, however, like
to point to the circulation of LA Zombie
as addressing the issue of limited exhibition and distribution. Currently, the
film is available for hard-copy
purchase through online marketplaces as milquetoast as Amazon, Barnes &
Noble, and Sears. It is also being sold directly through the its website, the
website of its distributor (Strand Releasing), and gay porn sites like
TLAGay.com. I find it intriguing that the one “space” in which his films are
readily available is online, because less-regulated virtual spaces provide the
best home for utopian texts. Furthermore, I am unsure if making his work more
consumable would make any sense. LaBruce has created a text that normative
culture cannot hijack. It cannot be edited for television. Hollywood will not
re-make LA Zombie with Shia LeBouf as
the lead. It is available for those who want it and it is 100% queer and
perhaps that is enough.
Conclusion
Anthony Vidler suggests
that, in architecture, “utopian reconstruction was the preferred method of
twenties modernism, wholesale destruction the aim of postwar redevelopment, and
nostalgic representation the dream of postmodern aestheticism” (135). In our
cities, we are faced with an already-built, already-occupied environment that
leaves us little room to create new structures. Thus, the “new” language of
place—and perhaps of the films concerned with it—is the language of the
pandemic and the plague. The aim is mutation. Vidler cites George Simmel’s
argument that we are not afraid of the wanderer “who comes today and goes
tomorrow but the person who comes today and stays tomorrow” (136). The
squatter, the nomad, and the zombie all have the potential to “infect” our
cities with new ideas that can potentially change the way we inscribe meanings
into place and space. Because LA Zombie ends
with the “stranger” in the heart of the city, I argue that the film presents us
with a kernel of hope—the possibility of introducing a queer “virus” into an
oppressive urban milieu that silently—and with brutal efficiency— marginalizes
sexual minorities.
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