Queer Anglo Films, Take #4: My Beautiful Laundrette

After a longer-than-we-intended haitus, Dave and I are back to discuss another film in our Queer Anglo Films series. We're looking at all things queer in British cinema, but today's entry, My Beautiful Laundrette, is perhaps more famous for another reason: the breakthrough performance from Daniel Day-Lewis, which, coupled with his turn in the same year's A Room With a View, showed him to be one of the most versatile actors around. But, as we discuss further, My Beautiful Laundrette is surprisingly complex and layered film, much more so than I recalled before this rewatch.

James: For 25 years, the gays have claimed Stephen Frears' My Beautiful Laundrette as one of "their" films. But I'm about to make a statement that will no doubt ruffle some feathers (and in case GLAAD becomes outraged, just remember that they publicly endorsed I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry): it's time to, if not outright give it back, then at least relinquish some of the control. Sure, on its surface, Laundrette acts and feels like a queer film, and it even takes some twists and turns that set it apart from many others in that genre made around the same time. For such a small film, however, My Beautiful Laundrette tackles some heavy themes--including racism, alienation and the class divide in Britain--in addition to the already taboo homosexuality issue. There's a lot to chew on here and not all of it relates to the main couple, a rarity among gay-themed films then AND now.

To me, My Beautiful Laundrette is a film about the divide between the old and the new generation, the working class and the college educated, British and Pakistani traditions, conservatism and radicalism, the immigrant dream and the disillusionment of the new land. Among these, though, the most obvious divide is that between Omar and Johnny. Looking at them, you'd never be able to tell that they were a couple and you'd be hard-pressed to come up with any commonalities in background, temperament, ambition or personality. So why are they 'd together? Like a lot of issues in My Beautiful Laundrette, it's probably a tad more complicated than the surface (opposites attract!) appears. There's an element of power in their relationship that mirrors and inverts what is going on around them culturally speaking. There's a scene in the film where, after a fight, Johnny leaves Omar and the laundrette to go to some party with his punk friends. When Omar goes to bring him back, he doesn't try to woo him back with declarations of love and how lost he be without him. Instead, he, rather cruelly, reiterates his superiority over Johnny, how he, as a Pakistani, is his boss and Johnny must listen to him. The fact that he uses this tactic is curious, but even more curious is the fact that this is what makes Johnny come back. What is it about Omar that makes the usually defiant Johnny submit so willfully? Is it only because he loves him or is he also atoning for his past sins as a radical, anti-immigrant punk? To director Stephen Frears' credit, he only hints at these possible motivations, shading what otherwise could have been a fairly typical love story.

There are a vast amount of topics we could cover with this film, so I'm curious where you want to take this, Dave. What else did you find unusual about the Omar/Johnny relationship?

Dave: I don’t really think that anyone need relinquish anything – as you go on to suggest, the claims to the themes this film deals with are multitudinous, but surely it speaks of the immense, lasting quality of the film that several groups of marginalised people would want to have some sort of ownership over it. At the time of its release, I imagine the homosexual aspect was so revolutionary that it overrode the interests of heterosexual Pakistanis; nowadays, I’d hope they view it with a similar fondness for its depiction of their existence in urban Britain during the ‘80s. A few years ago, I read a novel by Hanif Kureishi, who wrote the screenplay here, and its mixture of racial and sexual complications was strikingly similar. So I think there was a certain underground culture, not merely comprised of gays, who would have appreciated and ‘claimed’ this film as representing their lives. The remarkably blasé depiction of an interracial homosexual relationship always suggested to me that the film was playing to a more general audience who were opposed to the Thatcherite political scene at the time.

But, given the series we’re looking at this as part of, we should indeed focus on the homosexual aspects – while having recognised the value of the other aspects of the film. I’d definitely agree that there’s a strange power dynamic between the two of them. I think that moment speaks of the strange friction in the wider society between Thatcher’s ideals and the general racism of the time – the fact that Pakistani immigrants were the major group flourishing under her rule is a wonderfully ironic fact. Johnny should be the more powerful of the two – and he certainly seems to be the one who takes the initiative in their sexual relationship – but the system has undone him. But I also think that, for Johnny, work isn’t something he particularly values at all. He does want to get his life back ‘on track’ and knows that to do so, he has to work. But, as he suggests when he says, “Just to get us through, Omo,” it’s so that, in some not impossible world where he and Omar can be together, they’ll need money. So he’s happy and willing to do grunt work not because it will bring him money, but because it’ll help the business grow and support them.

I think this optimism is a huge part of what keeps My Beautiful Laundrette feeling so fresh even today. It’s strangely ahead of its time, because it’s not utopian or naïve at all – there is obvious homophobia in the community, from the punks and from the older generation, but from Omar and Johnny’s perspective, these are minor concerns. They constantly tease other people with veiled references to their relationship – “In my experience, it’s always worth waitin’ for Omo” – and then there’s wonderful little moments like Johnny licking Omar’s neck in broad daylight. When Tania leaves, I think it’s because she’s disappointed in herself for expecting such a conventional union as that between her and Omar. (Tania is also part of an aspect we’ve not touched on yet – the marginalisation of females. Where does acceptance of homosexuality leave the already oppressed females?) What do you make of the thin boundaries between Omar and Johnny’s homosexual and homosocial relationships? It’s a dangerous game they play, but it also seems rather fun.

James: I was impressed with the way Omar and Johnny's relationship was presented in Laundrette. Obviously, they couldn't be as open with their homosexuality as two West Hollywood gays can be now. But there were many instances where they felt winkingly defiant towards their oppressors. My favorite is when Omar invites Johnny over to his uncle's house. Tania is at the door greeting them when Omar suddenly reaches for Johnny's face. He reveals that he's only removing an eyelash, laughing at both Johnny's slight wince and Tania's surprise expression. Omar does this with such flourish and, for lack of a better word, swagger, he's almost begging for Tania to say something. Framed in a three shot, we can see that Tania is slowly understanding Johnny and Omar's relationship, even if she doesn't want to come out and admit it. And this is what so great about their relationship: they hint and tease it to nearly everyone in the film but only enough so eyebrows that are raised, not so anyone actually comes out and asks them. They have fun making others squirm, yet they know their limitations. One wrong move could kill their laundrette and any dreams they have for it.

Speaking of Tania, I found her to be one of the most fascinating characters in the entire film. As a woman in Pakistani culture, she is as oppressed, if not more so, than the homosexual Omar. At least he has the luxury of being able to "hide" his "condition" whenever he wants (or needs to). But Tania has a bit of a rebellious streak in her, as evidenced by her going topless outside the window where Omar is trying to have a serious conversation with his uncle. Branching off from what you said, and this may be me reading way too much into the film, I felt like Tania was at first elated that Omar wasn't a "conventional" suitor. Perhaps she felt that having a homosexual as a husband would give her the freedom to break away from the woman's traditional role in Pakistani culture. She clearly wants her independence, and Omar is probably the first guy she has met who may be able to offer it. But, as she sees Omar becoming more and more like an American yuppie, concerned mostly with making a good impression and being a professional, we start to see her rebelliousness act up even more. She starts to see that whatever benefits she thought she would get by marrying Omar may not happen. And she'll be damned if she'll end up like her own mother, an oppressed housewife stuck with a husband who openly has an affair with another (white!) woman.

When you ask where the acceptance of homosexuality leaves oppressed females, my mind quickly went to how homosexuals of each gender are presented "in the media." Even among homosexuals, who are supposed to be all in this together (yes, I just quoted High School Musical), men's issues about coming out, finding relationships, staying in relationships are given far more weight in films and TV than women's. And in terms of exposure, forget about it. Turn on nearly any TV show and you'll see a gay man (the fact that he's often playing the sassy friend to the straight, white female lead is for another conversation). Off the top of my head, I can think of only two American shows that feature a lesbian character at all (Pretty Little Liars and Glee). It may be even worse in film, where gay films about gay men are always the Talk of the Town, while films with lesbians are either straight male fantasies (Johansson and Cruz making out in Vicky Cristina Barcelona) or condescending looks at women who are "turned" straight (The Kids Are All Right). Contrary to what Beyonce claims, men still run the world and we can still feel it in 2012. So it's not just a problem in the world of My Beautiful Laundrette; women are marginalized everyday, even in an "accepting" gay culture.

Dave: I think you're right about to some extent about Tania. She certainly disparages the idea of the family unit, and the silent ghost of her own mother moving around in the background of shots is hardly an ideal to look up to. But the (only?) other model of womanhood around is Rachel - a woman with some nice coats, sure, but also willingly entrapping herself within an affair that can never develop beyond that - and Tania dislikes her because of the pain her mother quietly suffers. "Everything is waiting for you," Rachel tells Tania at one point, but with these options of womanhood, what is waiting for Tania? I didn't really sense any of that elation, because Omar and Johnny's homosexuality is another door shutting on Tania's escape attempt. Finally, she takes her leave in plain sight, on one of the trains winding through the city. Tania definitely reflects the continued neglect of women that you went on to describe - their spaces are still off-screen, undefined, and unexplored. Tania doesn't even leave so much as simply vanish.

So I don't think My Beautiful Laundrette is eschewing presenting the ongoing problems and oppressions in this society, but in such a troubled, politically violent time, the winsome note of optimism it ends on was obviously carefully chosen and hits the right note without being naive or inappropriate. The feeling of an innocent childishness to the moment is clearly fleeting, something that can only exist behind closed doors; so perhaps the playful erotic edge to it is fleeting too, and maybe there's a tinge of sadness as the door closes, with the recognition that the door has to close on this lovely scene. With the faded intellectual glories of Omar's father, the hollow business ventures of Nasser, and the oppressive mutedness of Tania's mother, the purest happiness seems to remain in childhood, and I think the ending captures that bittersweet realisation. My Beautiful Laundrette never makes Jonny's Nazi-punk figures of real terror in the narrative, and I think that more optimistic approach makes the film more distinct because it can express a genuine homosexual entanglement without it being defined by its wrongness. And that's surely an argument for keeping the queer claim on the film.

Bukkake!

For the third installment of our Queer Anglo Films series, Dave and I tackle avant garde director Derek Jarman's debut film, Sebastiane. In the post, we discuss the film's take on homosexuality and Christianity, it's nakedness and influence on modern porn, "love vs. lust" in the gay community and why homoeroticism is deemed okay in films set in Ancient Rome. We even discuss a bukkake scene! So, join us. There's plenty of fun to be had!

Queer Anglo Films, Take #2: Sunday Bloody Sunday

That rascal Dave from Victim of the Time and I are at it again, looking at our second of ten British gay films in this little project of ours. Today's very appropriate film for this Sunday afternoon is John Schlesinger's Sunday Bloody Sunday. Released ten years after our first film, Victim, Sunday Bloody Sunday depicts Britain just a few years after homosexuality was decriminalized. On the surface, homosexuals were allowed to be more open, but had things really changed that much...? 

James: Perhaps the most surprising thought I had after watching Sunday Bloody Sunday was that I wouldn't really label it a queer film at all. Sure, the film's plot--a middle-aged male doctor and a gorgeous female share the affections of an attractive bisexual--makes it sound like a queer film, and a positively shocking one at that since this was made just ten short years after our last film, Victim. But, whether or not Sunday Bloody Sunday is actually that shocking is up for debate, especially now that we've had 40 years of hindsight. On one hand, Sunday Bloody Sunday depicts two men who have a physical desire for each other. Their first embrace and kiss is right out in the open for everyone (in the audience) to see. It's no Milk, that's for sure, but it's certainly a step in the right direction from the asexuality of Victim.

On the other hand, however, that scene is really the only one that expresses any external attraction between the two. There is another moment, just a few moments later, where Daniel (Peter Finch) and Bob (Murray Head), both shirtless, climb into bed together. But the scene is shot King's Speech-style where the two of them are shoved into the bottom corner of the frame, askewed and barely visible. It looks more like Daniel is humping a sex doll than having relations with a flesh-and-blood human. So much for progess, huh?

But, but, maybe that's the point of the whole thing. Maybe Schlesinger isn't afraid of the homosexuality so much as he wants to make it appear so natural and unobtrusive to the narrative that we don't pay any attention to the fact that they are homosexuals. Aside from the "shocking" first kiss between Daniel and Bob, the film is hardly interested in any of the characters' sexuality. Gay, straight bi, it doesn't matter: Sunday Bloody Sunday is investigating the point at which having some, but never all, of another person's love is worse than being alone altogether. Schlesinger and company aren't focusing on sexuality by choice rather than because they are afraid of it. Once we've reached that stage, that's what I consider progressive. In its own way, Sunday Bloody Sunday is as revolutionary as Victim. While Victim needed to discuss homosexuality to get people riled up and take down this awful law, Sunday Bloody Sunday is almost saying, "Victim is sooo ten years ago. We've progressed a lot since then. We don't need to discuss the morality of homosexuality. Let's just show a homosexual living his life."

Then again, perhaps I'm overselling this rather quaint film. Gah, I haven't been this conflicted about a film in such a long time. Perhaps you can help me make up my mind, Dave.

Dave: I have to say, I would never call Sunday Bloody Sunday "quaint". Maybe it's a personal leaning, but I've always found this sort of early '70s evolution of the 'kitchen-sink' British drama to be dated, certainly, but with a rather definite and ennervating energy to them - they're always a bit drained of colour, but the camerawork and editing and narrative choices (the speech to camera at the end!) keep something in them fresh and fascinating, even if the social issues they're portraying have been left far behind. So I felt all that with Sunday Bloody Sunday, even as I understand the ambivalence you seem to have come away with. I think it means to leave its audience with an ambivalence, crafting such an elegant but disconcerting final scene where Peter Finch talks about how he took away happiness from a relationship that hasn't necessarily come to its end.

IMDb's trivia page for the film - a regular fountain of good and truthful knowledge - tells me the character of Daniel was originally written as much younger. I did actually feel a slightly awkward disconnect between Finch's age and occasional interactions in the film - Daniel's treatment during the bar mitzvah party wasn't tinged by any sort of suspicion or bewilderment at his lone wolf status, merely the sort of "when are you going to find a nice girl and settle down" questioning usually leveled at someone in their thirties. But Finch's age definitely gives a different complexion to Daniel's relationship with Bob - the latter seems mostly shallow, but his affection for Daniel suggests a deeper attachment. There's a kind of distortion from what would probably have been a largely sexual relationship to a sort of familial one - especially later, when Daniel comes to care for the ill Bob.

I think that aspect feeds into what I think is the film's reticence towards homosexuality. It actually presents both of Bob's relationships as familial, but Alex's can still be dominantly sexual as they are the young, bohemian couple with outlandish toddlers who smoke pot in front of them. His relationship with Daniel is necessarily more privatized, and though you do get sexual moments between them (peculiarly filmed, however - Finch's face is turned away from Bob, strangely immobile), scenes such as the one where Bob stormed out of the party struck me more as the rebellious teenager fleeing the stifling domesticity of the home. The film is much more concerned with sexualising the character of Bob - I remember particularly him standing in partial darkness like a sculpture, before he moved over to Daniel on the bed - than it is with sexualising the relationships, but it nevertheless seems more in love with Glenda Jackson than it is with Peter Finch. Alex, unlike Daniel, is permitted the grace to terminate her relationship with Bob on her own terms (albeit with a lingering toucan), within the normal narrative of a heterosexual relationship. Daniel and Bob's, in contrast, hangs there, without resolution. The film gradually becomes more and more intimate with the viewpoints of Alex and Daniel, but the camera shoots Jackson with a more glowing interest than the rather sterile view it seems to take of Daniel. Could be age, could be gender, could be subconscious homophobia - but in any case, it shows what I think is probably an unintentional remnant of more conservative values.

James: Yes! That was so dead on. You verbalized exactly what I couldn't regarding my mixed feelings toward this film and, more directly, the relationship between Daniel and Bob. How are we expected to believe that Daniel and Bob are in a hot-blooded sexual relationship when the camera shies away from actually showing anything AND they act more like a father and son than lovers?

Now, can we talk about the film's depiction of bisexuality? I have a few ideas of my own, but I'm dying to hear yours first.

Dave: On face value, Bob seems like the worst image of a bisexual - demanding and receiving emotional superiority over two people because of his sexual prowess. But I don't think the film views the emotional compromises Daniel and Alex have to make - and ultimately can't cope with - to keep Bob as harshly as that. It's made crystal clear that Bob isn't remotely duplicitous, but merely refuses to prescribe to the monogamous expectation set by society. Murray Head makes Bob seem genuinely affectionate and involved with both his lovers, and even though we are identifying with they rather than he, the script still values the idea that he is a great deal more emotionally mature than either of them. It might even have counted as a revolutionary portrayal of bisexuality if the film was told from his side. As it is, he's a tad too idealized.

 

James: Wow, you are far kinder towards the film's view of bisexuality than I plan on being. While I appreciate the film's attempt at allowing each relationship to thrive in honesty and openness instead of deceit ("Ooh, look at that shady bisexual, cheating on that lovely girl with that old man!"), I still don't find it to be much more than a detrimental depiction of bisexuality. Believe me, I'm no great defender of bisexuality, but even I recognize the depiction of Bob's sexuality as early 70's fear of an even greater unknown than homosexuality. Of course he's in love with two people of the opposite gender at the same time. And of course he's unwilling to make a decision between them so he decides to date both of them. And of course both of his lovers accept this because he's bisexual and, hey, he can't help it. I understand it's a contrivance the film is based on, but can't we give the bisexual a little more credit?

I think it's interesting that you note that Bob is "affectionate and involved" with Daniel and Alex and a "great deal more emotional mature" than either of them, because I found the exact opposite to be true. With both Daniel and Alex, he seems disengaged emotionally. They are the ones carrying the heft of the relationship (and the film), worrying about where it is going or what will happen if and/or when he decides to leave them for the other one or if they are better off alone. Bob is the pretty blank slate who bounces around between each relationship, sticking around when things are great but the first to leave when any sign of trouble comes. He's indecisive and doesn't appear to understand or care when Daniel or Alex are hurt by the situation. "You agreed to this arrangement," is always his answer when either Daniel or Alex complains about him leaving them for the other. Frankly, I found him to be empty of any emotion whatsoever rather than more emotionally mature.

Dave: On the surface, Sunday Bloody Sunday does seem to set bisexuality in the form of spontaneous, careless youth, but I think the script and Murray Head carefully avoid making Bob as cool and disengaged as he easily could have been, and I guess that's where we're diverging on this point. Whereas on the one hand he is, I think, drawn as emotionally mature, that same matureness means he's at odds with the expectations of relationships that you, and Daniel and Alex, are pointing to. Bob has constructed his approach to people as fluid and adaptable. As it doesn't conform to a monogamous society, he consciously positions himself on the fringes. That is easily viewed as a negative trait, but I don't think the film does that. Daniel and Alex accept the situation, so Bob isn't duplicitous. In the final event, Bob does fail at complete emotional maturity because he isn't adult enough to make a decision; he wants the best of both worlds. But I don't think we should confuse that with him being villainized, nor being emotionally vacant. There were several instances, particularly later in the film, where Murray Head played Bob's visual exchanges with his lovers with a spark of genuine sexual attraction or warm affection. He may leave them rather rudely at points, but it struck me more as being direct about his unwillingness to play their games of emotional dependence. If the film does fear bisexuality, it's equally afraid of independence - and that's a trait that ultimately makes itself known in each of the characters. Bob's decision to leave was never about Daniel versus Alex, but about love versus life experience - and I don't think the film begrudges him the opportunity to explore a different avenue of his life.

It's inevitable that Sunday Bloody Sunday could be viewed as painting Bob as empty of emotion, because it doesn't tell the story from his point-of-view. But if the film really wanted to demonize bisexuality, it could have been a great deal harsher than it is. It seems odd, in a way, that we've talked about Bob, because this isn't his story. This is about two characters engaging with the relatively new idea (within wider society, at least) of bisexuality, and I don't think either Alex nor Daniel ultimately feels wronged by Bob. They were, to an extent, a society in themselves, one which was prepared to make room for a different conception of sexuality.

I'm certainly being a little too generous here, but it's basically a case of me trying to fight for a corner I think the film hangs around in just as much as it hangs around in the opposite one you're describing. Sunday Bloody Sunday isn't perfect, and is a product of the times; but then again, are we really likely to find a depiction of bisexuality these days that's much more impartial and unjudgmental as this one? This series is about homosexuality, but I think what we've teased out of Sunday Bloody Sunday, whatever side we each land on, is that it's depcition of bisexuality is at the very least fascinating rather than frightened or ridiculous.

"It used to be witches. At least they don't burn you."

Wow, it has been ages since my last post. Sorry about that. My life has been a whirlwind lately--in the best way possible, I must emphasize--leaving me little time for writing. However, I have a few free days, so it's time to get this blog up and going again. And boy am I coming back with a bang.

A couple months ago, my brother from another mother Dave from Victim of the Time and I were shooting around some ideas for a collaborative series. After a couple of stinkers, we came up with one that immediately piqued our interest: British gay films. Dave and I decided on a list of ten films we were interested in discussing and, voila, the Queer Anglo Film series was born! For our first entry, we immediately recognized that we couldn't discuss British gay cinema without discussing Victim, one of the very first films to discuss homosexuality in a frank and open manner. The fact that it stars my Pretend Boyfriend Dirk Bogarde certainly didn't hurt matters. So head on over to Dave's blog and check out what we have to say about this landmark film.