52 Films By Women: At the Ready (2021)

At the Ready

By Andrea Thompson

It’s been an interesting set of weeks collaborating with Milwaukee Film for Hispanic Heritage Month...no less because of the two films I chose to write about in honor of it.

Case in point: in my previous 52 Films By Women column I discussed “Luchadoras,” a documentary that followed female Mexican wrestlers who were fighting for a better life in and out of the ring in Ciudad Juárez. But this week is all about (well, mostly) Maisie Crow’s “At the Ready,” which sees many of its subjects grappling with similar forces in El Paso, Texas. 

When I wrote about “Luchadoras,” I mentioned that Juárez and El Paso were separated by a mere fence, but the latter enjoyed safety and prosperity, while the former has come to be known as Murder City. And judging by El Paso’s depiction in “At the Ready,” it truly does seem like a world away. 

If anyone in “At the Ready” is in the line of fire, it’s because they’re choosing to be, since the film’s subjects are high school seniors who are training to be police officers and Border Patrol agents. Most of them are Hispanic, and the profession they’re already actively planning to join has them training for active shooter situations, drug busts, and raids in their high school itself. So prepare to be disturbed, since the doc kicks off with kids suiting up in paramilitary garb and going through drills.

As intense as it often is to see teenagers holding fake guns and intending to use the real thing, it’s often just as disturbing to see other people’s reactions as they go through their exercises. Other kids smile and laugh, but to others it’s clearly been normalized, which includes many of the teachers, one of whom is so unfazed they merely mumble a greeting and continue on with their day.

At first glance, their lives seem to have little in common with those in “Luchadoras.” They can leave the house and go where they wish with relative freedom, since being watched and followed by cartels - or possibly getting shot in general - certainly doesn’t figure into their daily lives. And while none of them could be remotely called wealthy, their families have been able to build a measure of success and a general safety net that ensures a measure of stability.

It may be the bare minimum, but I can’t help but make the comparison. The longer “At the Ready” goes on however, the clearer it becomes that many are indeed being harmed by the increasingly vicious immigration system. It’s simply less apparent, and reflective of the insidious ways even the seemingly privileged are often used to maintain the status quo and invest in a way of life that harms us all.

Crow may keep herself out of the story she’s telling, but it’s clear enough where she stands - where any sane person would. But she mostly takes the classic route of allowing her subjects speak for themselves as she waits for them to open up and be vulnerable while attempting to portray them as truthfully as she can. The main focus are three young trainees: Cesar, Cristina, and Kassy, who quickly emerges as the most compelling, and has since come out as trans and changed their name to Mason.

Before that though, he will break your heart as he comes across as both spectacularly competent in his work and clearly unsuited to it. As Mason slowly opens up, it’s also quite clear that he’s a part of this group out of a desperate need for a sense of family, even if he must hide who he is. He’s not out to many of these so-called friends, and his father is absent much of the time. Work is a convenient explanation, but when Mason’s father does have free time, he chooses to spend it with his girlfriend and her children, leaving Mason to his own devices and to essentially raise himself.

The motives of Cristina and Cesar are less emotional, but no less complicated. They both clearly want to make good on the sacrifices their parents made for a better life, even if Cesar’s father is unable to return to the U.S. after he was arrested for drugs, and Cristina’s own father is an immigrant. 

Crow more or less spells out why they or anyone else would get involved in this type of work in the first place though. As jobs get scarcer, one that is willing to hire young and pay $50,000 the first year, $100,000 after five, no college degree required, is bound to attract a fair amount of people, ethics be damned, especially in families where money is a constant consideration.

Politics also can’t help but play a role, as Trump’s outright racism and the increasingly cruel border policies quickly make Cristina, Cesar and Mason doubt whether they even want to remain involved in law enforcement. Even one of the instructors eventually acknowledges how hypocritical he feels in training these children to join his former profession, revealing that he suffers from PTSD and his belief that his job played a large role in his divorce.

But it’s funny the way things do and don’t work out. After the central trio graduates, it is Mason, who once felt bereft of so much, who seems the most well-adjusted and accepting of who he is. An amount of uncertainty is generally a given during young adulthood, but Cesar and Cristina seem a bit more lost than most. They spent much of their last year of high school preparing for a career they now feel incapable of doing well or at all, and they’re clearly still floundering in the wake of their disillusionment. Where they’ll end up is anyone's guess, and it’s something of a relief that Crow withheld judgements about them as she exquisitely allowed their lives to reveal just what might be in store for us all if our immigration policies continue unchanged.

52 Films By Women: Luchadoras (2021)

By Andrea Thompson

There’s no doubt that co-directors Paola Calvo and Patrick Jasim wanted to make a powerful statement with their documentary “Luchadoras,” currently streaming as a part of Milwaukee Film’s Hispanic Heritage Month, which follows three female wrestlers struggling to make a better life in Ciudad Juárez, which has seen so many of its residents disappear it’s come to be known as Murder City.

The roots of such a brutally infamous moniker can be blamed on a familiar culprit - the vicious force we quaintly refer to as global capitalism. It makes the most twisted kind of sense, then, that many of the disappeared are women who worked at assembly factories, which are themselves the result of the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA). All three of the documentary’s subjects, who mostly go by their wrestling alter egos of Lady Candy, Baby Star, and Mini Sirenita, see wrestling both as a source of income and empowerment, a way to fight for a better life in and out of the ring.

They all have many things in common, most of which involve how they cope with the gender limitations in their work and daily lives. The stories, the jokes, the memories they all share, with each other and those around them, are no less horrifying for being normalized. They speak of their memories of women screaming for help who they were too afraid to assist, of others who were abducted and raped by bus drivers, the discovery of mutilated bodies in the desert, and the police corruption and incompetence that enables it all. 

Their personal lives are about as healthy as you can expect, as many recount stories of the toxic men in their lives, from those in the ring to their families and their partners, many of whom forbade them from working, and who were generally a source of emotional and physical violence. 

The truly remarkable thing is how determined each of them are to have the last word. They may be under siege, but the women in “Luchadoras” have reached the stage where they’ve become very aware that they’re under siege together. Such solidarity, born of their brutal circumstances, has led them to become activists fighting for change in their communities and personal lives, from teaching self defense classes in the ring to using it as a platform to organize and protest against femicide. 

No, there are no mere victims here, and no one is helpless by any means. Lady Candy, Baby Star, and Mini Sirenita are pushing back as best as they can, living their lives, and trying to make them better. All of them pin their hopes on their wrestling careers despite the very real dangers, and attempt to provide more stability, for themselves and their families.

Given all that, it’s sometimes frustrating how little context Calvo and Jasim provide, even if their reasoning is obvious. They have a great deal of trust in their audience, and centering their subjects above all, even at the expense of that audience at times, is how they avoid reducing this remarkable trio to victims or invulnerable superwomen. 

Candy, the youngest, may have the most painful story of all, one whose twists and turns beg for a little outside guidance. She is the one who works in a funeral home and is grappling most directly with the consequences of not just economics but how the system is stacked against potential immigrants. Candy left her husband due to domestic violence, but he’s still able to keep her children from her in the safety and prosperity of El Paso, Texas, despite the fact that the two cities are separated by a mere fence. To see them, Candy must attempt to get a visa, in spite of the bureaucratic hurdles, and the fact that fewer of them are being granted.

If only Calvo and Jasim were willing to assert themselves into the film, or just more information outside of what people are willing to say aloud, “Luchadoras” would practically be a textbook example of how the unfettered, unchecked, so-called free market wreaks havoc, especially among populations of color. But then, the filmmakers clearly aren’t interested in arguing, merely showing how those who should be helpless can and do resist, even under constant pressure.

52 Films By Women: Cléo from 5 to 7 (1962)

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By Andrea Thompson

It’s strange to imagine a world unfamiliar with Agnès Varda, but it was still in the process of getting to know her when she made the 1962 masterpiece “Cléo from 5 to 7.” It was only her second feature, and it took a subject other films would stretch across days, weeks, months, or more, and compressed it into real time.

Over the course of a mere 90 minutes, a young, beautiful, vain singer named Cléo (Corinne Marchand) is not just awaiting the results of a biopsy that will inform her whether she has cancer, she comes to terms with her own mortality. It would feel like paranoia or the hypochondria everyone assumes it is if the film didn’t heavily imply that Cléo not only has cancer, but that she will eventually die from it.

Thank goodness for Varda, because a lesser filmmaker, even a female one, would merely be punishing Cléo for her flaws. But Varda knows there’s more to it than merely portraying Cléo’s self-absorption and humbling her accordingly. As one of a very few female filmmakers during the male-dominated French New Wave, her signature touch, full of compassion, realism, and symbolism doesn’t just burst from the screen, it seems to swirl around us, gently sweeping all into her vision.

Yes, Cléo is focused on her appearance and her beauty, and she is well aware that it is her source of her power. It’s no accident that mirrors are a heavy presence in this film, appearing twice in the first ten minutes alone. But the kind of power Cléo possesses flows from others. It is the outside world who bestows Cléo with power, attention, and her career, and Varda’s camera, rather than lingering on Cléo and her, ahem, assets as she walks down the street, pulls back as both men and women stare and lavish her with attention. 

But not comfort. Every friend Cléo interacts with fails to give her the emotional support she needs, and almost all of them, from friends, confidantes, and colleagues, refuse to take her illness, or even her, seriously. It’s an old, practically classic revelation for women who supposedly enjoy all manner of power and privilege: the discovery of just how fragile their position really is. One of the first, and only, clearly spoken revelations Cléo has about halfway into the film is when she says, “Everyone spoils me. No one loves me.” It’s also when she strips herself of her wig, dons a black dress, and leaves her luxurious apartment to wander alone in search of consolation.

It proves to be an evasive thing. This poor woman must grapple with death all day, from shattered mirrors which she interprets as bad omens to various films and even taxi drivers casually referencing the ultimate end. Even the tarot reader at the beginning, the only portion of the film in color, sets the tone, casually predicting nearly every event to come, and privately stating that she believes Cléo is doomed. 

Varda refuses to give a final verdict, but just as another great film concluded “the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world,” Cléo’s comfort arises from being able to see beyond herself. Or perhaps she just finally meets the right person-a young, talkative soldier named Antoine (Antoine Bourseiller). Unlike the other people Cléo encounters, who are still fully immersed in life, Antoine also has to grapple with the possibility of impending death as a soldier who will soon return to the battlefield of the Algerian War.

It is then when Cléo is finally able to lose her fear of her own possible end, and finally be at peace with herself in the Paris of the 60s Varda fully embraces in all its splendor. In this beautiful, fully alive world, perhaps Varda just found it unthinkable for despair or even death itself to emerge as the dominant force.

52 Films By Women: Jinn (2018)

By Andrea Thompson

Nijla Mumin’s 2018 film “Jinn” is a rarity. It doesn’t just center women of color, nearly all of them are also Muslim women who wear hijabs. It’s a tough subject to even make a film about in an industry that is supposedly committed to diversity, but it’s especially difficult to do it justice as Mumin does. “Jinn” doesn’t merely preach the beauty of Islam and being yourself in a world that is likely to attack you for it, it grapples with the ramifications of faith, freedom, and identity.

In can be difficult for adults to fight their way through such complex intersections, so the carefree, teenage Summer (Zoe Renee) suddenly has far more on her plate than college applications when her mother Jade (Simone Missick) suddenly converts to Islam and becomes someone Summer doesn’t recognize.

When Jade starts to bring Summer to the mosque, things get even more complicated. Jade is all aglow in the zeal of a convert, a godly light that Summer envies but feels too far away from to share in, even when she eventually decides to go along. So she converts, starts wearing the hijab, and refuses to let anyone talk down to her about her decision. But Summer also chafes at the restrictions her mother and her newfound community place on her. It’s the classic dilemma - all the comforts and trappings of faith can suddenly become chains when faced with the simple reality of being a human in a very messy world.

Islam does provide Summer with a new way of defining her struggles though, and she becomes more and more fascinated by stories of spirits called jinn. Neither of god nor hell, they can motivate humans to do good or evil. The turbulence inherent in the concept fits Summer’s own worldview, as she becomes increasingly aware of the limitations on her, especially as her attraction to her classmate Tahir (Kelvin Harrison Jr.), who also attends the same mosque, grows. 

One of the great ironies is that there’s nothing like repression to make a love story progress, so when Summer and Tahir lock eyes during the Imam’s (Hisham Tawfiq) preaching, it’s in a way that speaks of far more worldly attractions, likely made more delicious by the knowledge that those around them would condemn them for it.

But even as “Jinn” refuses to deny the darker side of Islam and how women are often shamed far more for not living up to expectations, Mumin also gives the mosque a warmth and a glow seldom seen in film. It embraces the comfort such an environment can provide, and none of the women who bask in it are victims. They are fully in control of their own decisions, even Jade, whose fanaticism begins to drive a wedge between her and her daughter.

The conclusion is about as messy as people generally are, with freedom being the ultimate goal for mother and daughter. That freedom may look different to both of them, but it is ultimately the ultimate prize with all that beautiful messiness inherent to them and others.

Jinn is streaming on Amazon Prime, YouTube, Apple TV, and Vudu.

52 Films By Women: Girlfriends (1978)

The Criterion Channel

By Andrea Thompson

For our latest entry in films that were ahead of their time, we have Claudia Weill’s 1978 gem “Girlfriends.” In a sense at least. Any film that takes place in New York City during this particular era (or really any time before the early 2000s) is going to be a time capsule, and “Girlfriends” is very much that, with the quickest communication happening not just through landline (!) phones, but without any kind of voicemail or answering machine.

Plodding through this now strange and alien landscape is Susan Weinblatt (Melanie Mayron), an aspiring photographer who happily resides with her best friend and roommate Anne (Anne Munroe), an aspiring writer. At least, until Anne moves out to get married, leaving Susan feeling alone and betrayed. 

As the title promises, Susan and Anne’s close, intense, and rather symbiotic relationship is the film’s heart. It’s also the common thread in what is more accurately described as a series of episodes as Susan struggles to pay the bills and make a living as a photographer. 

That less than cohesive narrative works though, and to watch “Girlfriends” is to see a forerunner to the great pop culture womances, the most obvious being “Sex in the City” and Lena Dunham’s “Girls.” Its true heir, however, might just be the 2012 film “Frances Ha,” which saw the title character, played by Greta Gerwig, similarly flailing personally and professionally after her best friend marries. 

IMDB

And flail Susan does, screaming aloud out of sheer loneliness in her apartment, contemplating a relationship with an older, very married rabbi (who also has a son), and just dealing with the everyday sexism that includes a creepy cab driver, condescending men who have something to mansplain to her about her photos, and devastatingly, her own self-destructive tendencies that harm both Anne and Susan’s relationship with her boyfriend Eric (Christopher Guest).

The wedge between Susan and Anne is especially devastating though, and reflective of the starkly divergent, limited crossroads many women faced at the time-the often devastatingly lonely path of the independent career woman or losing themselves in marriage and motherhood. The growing distance between Susan and Anne reflects that dichotomy, with the former envying Anne’s stability and home, and the latter resentful of Susan’s independence and freedom. 

A bond like theirs may fray, but we all know it can’t be completely dissolved. When the two reconcile, as we know they will and must, it’s through the quiet familiarity of inside jokes and simply how they share space with each other, which wordlessly conveys the strength and deeply loving nature of a bond born of years of shared experiences.

When they are interrupted by the arrival of Susan’s husband, theirs is a shared look that speaks of a spell being broken. But just as Gerwig is able to gaze across the room at her platonic love and say, “She’s my best friend,” Susan and Anne have found their person again, and it’ll always be each other.

52 Films By Women: Fire (1996)

Screenshot

By Andrea Thompson

To say that Deepa Mehta’s film caused a stir when it was released in her home country of India in 1996 is an understatement. It was the first mainstream film in the country to depict a lesbian relationship, and the response was explosive. Conservatives practically foamed at the mouth to denounce it, and crowds of protestors attacked theaters where it screened.

There was certainly much to provoke. “Fire” isn’t just a film about two women falling in love, it’s about the various ways women are exploited in a home environment which is enabled by the staunch traditionalism outside of it. Yet a few still manage to take their power back and find happiness, even as some remain complicit.

Conservatives, however, are very right to fear modernity, as Radha (Shabana Azmi) and Sita (Nandita Das) have a hell of a lot more choices than their cinematic predecessors. Much like the women who embrace queer love in “Portrait of a Lady on Fire” and “The Handmaiden,” they fall for each other not exactly because they identify as queer (which doesn’t seem like much of an option for them anyway), but rather, in the sense that they are able to find freedom and understanding only with each other in their stifling patriarchal surroundings. 

Sita and Radha actually have more in common with Carol and Therese of “Carol,” and Wil and Vivian of “Saving Face,” and it’s directly related to its more contemporary 90s setting. If their love stories have a common thread in settings hell-bent on heteronormativity, there are still far more options than the far too fleeting, isolated feminist utopia of “Portrait.” 

That said, Sita and Radha probably never would have connected if not for one of the most traditional structures in existence-marriage. Mere days into Sita’s arranged marriage with Jatin (Javed Jaffrey), she’s already feeling the pain of his cold indifference, exacerbated by the rigid expectations of her new home, where she is expected to serve not only her new husband, but his mute and paralyzed mother Biji (Kushal Rekhi), who is also subject to perverse exploitation by the family servant Mundu (Ranjit Chowdhry), but nevertheless rigidly helps to enforce conservative standards of behavior and dress.

Sita’s consolation is her older sister-in-law Radha, who is unable to bear children and likewise suffers from the emotional abuse doled out by her pious husband Ashok (Kulbhushan Kharbanda), who has fallen under the sway of a local religious leader and believes that desire is the root cause of all unhappiness. To prove his devotion to self-control, he has refused to have sex with Radha for 13 years, and whenever he feels the urge, has her lie motionless next to him while he refuses all touch.

It’s an excruciating way to live, and Radha has resigned herself to it until the younger, more rebellious Sita joins the household. Sita quickly realizes that her husband Jatin would much rather spend nights with his Chinese mistress Julie (Alice Poon), but her pain fades as she and Radha form a close friendship that quickly blossoms into a connection that’s as emotional as it is physical. And neither much bothers with what the men around them think. After they consummate their relationship, Radha is quick to reassure the more forward Sita that they’ve done nothing wrong, and they refuse to put a stop to their affair, which they’re essentially having in plain sight.

When they are discovered, as we know they will be sooner or later, “Fire” only reserves the last fifteen minutes to others’ reactions, and perhaps that might be the biggest insult of all to those who opposed this film and its empowering message. “Fire” never shies away from painful realities, but the emphasis is always on life, and the right to defy those who would try to deprive others of it. It’s a dangerous message for those who insist on adhering to a rigid code at the expense of all else, and that it involves a tender love story between two women might just represent the greatest threat of all.

52 Films By Women: Xena: Warrior Princess-Here She Comes...Miss Amphipolis (1997)

The Mary Sue

By Andrea Thompson

Note: Some spoilers ahead.

I’m cheating a bit for this week’s column, since I’m writing about a TV episode rather than a film. But hell, it’s Pride Month, “Pose” has recently ended, and the episode I’m focusing on was not only directed and written by women, it has a fantastic origin story.

But, as is habitual with me, I’m getting ahead of myself. Like many, I’ve turned to fun, light-hearted content during the pandemic, some new, some rediscovered. One example of the latter has been “Xena: Warrior Princess,” a show which I enjoyed whenever I could catch it (ah, life before streaming) and have likewise enjoyed revisiting. If you’re somehow unfamiliar with the premise, it was set in a fantasy version of ancient Greece and followed the titular character Xena, (Lucy Lawless) a former warlord who chose to fight for good in an effort to atone for her past. On her journey to redemption, she was aided by a farm girl named Gabrielle (Renée O'Connor), who became her conscience, friend, fellow warrior, and eventually, far more, even if it couldn’t become official canon at the time, although it was clear enough to the ardent fan base it garnered during its six season run from 1995 to 2001.

One episode in particular was one of those completely random watches I enjoyed as a teenager, and ended up being one of those childhood gems that’s even better once you can really appreciate what it was doing. Granted, there are many episodes of “Xena” that fit this description (and to be fair, some that don’t), but the one I’m singling out is the season two episode “Here She Comes...Miss Amphipolis,” which aired in 1997. 

As the title suggests, it revolves around a beauty pageant, but in typical Xena fashion, there are higher stakes than just determining a winner. A fragile peace has been in place in the unnamed setting for about a year, but that peace may soon be shattered. All three of the warlords who previously waged war on the battlefield are now basically fighting by proxy, with each having entered their respective girlfriends as contestants. Now someone has been attempting to not only sabotage each contestant’s chances of winning but do away with them completely, which would kick off another war.

Xena and Gabrielle aren’t shy about sharing their thoughts on beauty pageants and how degrading they can be, but as Xena points out, “War makes everyone a victim.” So she decides to pose as a contestant for the title of...Miss Known World (not making that up), with Gabrielle adopting another kind of disguise, complete with a hilarious accent, as her sponsor.

And what happens next is surprisingly complicated, far ahead of its time, and in many ways, our current time. But perhaps the biggest relief is how this episode avoids the most tired cliche of all - the “tough girl” struggling to perform traditional femininity. Xena sees no conflict between her warrior skills and the demands of a contestant, gamely donning a blonde wig and various costumes. She not only performs her part to perfection, she WORKS IT as a blonde bombshell. To her, it’s just another adventure, and this one happens to demand this particular set of skills, some no doubt inspired by Lawless, a former beauty queen herself. It’s what I refer to as the “Clueless” brand of satire, which maintains a respect for the characters they’re portraying even as they’re poking fun at them.

So it makes sense that the other contestants are far different from the “underdressed, over-developed bimbos” Xena was expecting. As the episode reminds us, all of them have seen the horrors of war up close, and it’s given them the kind of perspective that makes it impossible for them to take such frivolities seriously. As one contestant puts it, “You can’t know how stupid something like this seems when you’ve been through a war where it was a fight just to survive.” It’s what they stand to gain that get them invested in winning rather than the pageant itself, with one contestant being promised food for her village, another hoping to find another life far away from the trauma she’s endured, and one believing she has so little right to her own feelings she’s chosen to go along with her sponsor/boyfriend’s decision to enter her in the pageant.

Only one contestant is actually invested in the pageant itself, and that is Miss Artiphys, which is when the episode really gets interesting. Yes the name is pronounced artifice, and Xena quickly discovers they weren’t born a woman. In fact, Miss Artiphys was played by Karen Dior, a bisexual adult film star who was a female impersonator, then moved into more mainstream roles in the 90’s, and from what I could discover, apparently identified as a man rather than a trans woman. Given that information, I will use he pronouns when referring to Dior, and they when referring to the character of Miss Artiphys.

The character of Miss Artiphys not only isn’t a joke, but is treated with dignity. When they lock Xena in a steam room, it’s not out of a sense of competition, but out of fear that Xena will reveal their secret. As Miss Artiphys struggles to explain their reasons for joining the competition to Xena, they point out that Xena was born a woman and can take her identity for granted, while for them, “This is a chance to use a part of me most people usually laugh at or worse. The part I usually have to hide. Only here that part works for me.” Xena doesn’t pretend to fully understand, but she not only listens to Miss Artiphys, she refuses to out them and says, “May the best person win.”

How was such respect possible at a time when trans (or in this case, trans implied) characters were nonexistent, or when they were acknowledged, were generally treated as jokes at best, or violent killers at worst? That’s probably due to writer Chris Manheim, who was inspired to create the character of Miss Artiphys by her brother Keith Walsh, who apparently died of AIDS in 1992, and was also a regular drag performer. 

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For Miss Artiphys, the pageant is genuinely empowering, and it’s easy to see their arc as Manheim’s wish fulfillment for her brother. Miss Artiphys not only steals the show (no small achievement when you’re standing next to Lawless), they get the best moments. They not only appear onstage in Xena’s signature costume and proclaim, “Honey, I’m no princess. I’m a queen,” they also get to (spoiler!) win the pageant. All the other finalists proudly declare their agency and decide to drop out of a competition that’s based on their objectification, leaving Miss Artiphys as the winner to raucous applause and tears that were probably genuine on their part. 

Such dreams were rarely fulfilled in real life at the time. Karen Dior never found mainstream stardom and died of AIDS-related complications in 2004. Manheim had long been a prolific TV writer and continued to not only write but produce several “Xena” episodes, but her last IMDB credits is as a writer of an episode of “Monk” in 2004. This was also the last director credit for Marina Sargenti, who also directed the underrated 1990 horror film “Mirror Mirror.” 

No, pop culture as a whole wasn’t prepared to follow the example set by “Xena” at the time, even if Lucy Lawless and Renée O'Connor embraced their status as queer icons long before it became trendy or just good PR. Nevertheless, “Here She Comes... Miss Amphipolis” sums up the show’s legacy nicely, and in a fashion that much of the mainstream is still struggling to catch up to. Or as Xena herself quite simply puts it, “Beauty is beauty.” Indeed it is.

52 Films By Women: Tale of a Vampire (1992)

By Andrea Thompson

There are precious few films that would round out Asian American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month and be a fantastic watch on World Dracula Day, and that’s a shame. There should be more, and they should all be as fascinating as the 1992 film “Tale of a Vampire.”

It came out at an odd time. Seeing the world from the vampire’s perspective was still relatively new at the time. Sure, the book “Interview With the Vampire” was published in 1976, but the movie adaptation wouldn’t come out until 1994. Not that vampires stuck to the shadows in the meantime. They’d always been a part of cinema since its earliest days with “Nosferatu” in 1922 and maintained a steady screen presence since, mostly in slashers and general B movie fare. 

But the 1980s saw a large number of vampire movies that took the undead seriously, and that attitude carried over into the 90s, which saw the release of many films that would come to define the genre. The same year “Tale of a Vampire” crept onto screens, two hugely influential films that would come to define how vampires were depicted burst onto the screen with far more flash - Francis Ford Coppola’s “Dracula,” and the far more infamous “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” which would soon be eclipsed by the iconic (and now very problematic) series of the same name in 1997.

So it’s hardly surprising that “Tale of a Vampire” seems to have come and gone with little fanfare, or notice in general. Written and directed by Shimako Sato, she was less inspired by Anne Rice than Edgar Allan Poe’s poem “Annabel Lee.” And “Tale” commits, both to Poe’s inherent undercurrent of dread and its bibliophilism, which it wears on its sleeve like a deranged, twisted heart, with much of the film’s plot taking place in a beautifully musty London library with texts that would make any book lover swoon.

Sato has become more known for her work in Japanese horror and the “Resident Evil” video games, but “Tale of a Vampire” was her directorial debut, which occurred after she left Japan to study film in London. According to Variety’s dismissive review of the film, “Tale” was shot over a mere four weeks on a relatively paltry budget of $375,000, and Sato almost seems to delight in her confines, fetishizing the city to a degree that is thrilling and exquisite. She doesn’t make use of the London atmosphere with its fog and shadows as create her own, infusing even the most brightly lit restaurants with unearthly dread.

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There’s a more conventional, love across the ages romance too of course, with vampire Alex (Julian Sands, in some of the creepiest work of his career) mourning his lost 19th century love as he returns to the library day after...I mean, night after night to research religious martyrs for his thesis. Ah the wonders and drawbacks of a pre-digital age. One day, he’s struck by a new hire, Anne (Suzanna Hamilton), who bears a remarkable resemblance to his lost love Virginia. 

Anne is mourning a loss of her own, and is dressed down to appear believably appealing rather than a lust object, but she still has (dare I say?) quirks like singing on her way to the cemetery at night to visit her recently departed love, reading palms, and conveniently for the film, the electricity at her place never seems to work, leaving her to make constant use of candles. No wonder Alex is quickly obsessed.

Make no mistake, obsession rather than love is what really sets the gears of “Tale of a Vampire” in motion. There’s no question that Alex is a monster rather than the gentle, sensitive loner he comes off as, and the movie is very aware of this. When Alex kills the victims he chooses at random, it’s violent, bloody, and painful for them as well as messy. How he drinks their blood is less like an elegant feeding than a clumsy attempt to drink liquid from an unwieldy jug. Even the lost love he mourns had a queasy beginning to say the least, since the film eventually reveals he met her as a young child, with their love blossoming when she became an adult.

If Alex has a redeeming quality, it’s that he seems very aware of how repulsive his needs and desires are, unlike his opponent Edgar (Kenneth Cranham), who cloaks his toxicity in righteousness. He bullies and manipulates Anne, and he confesses to consigning his wife to a fate worse than death because, as he puts it, “She dared to betray my high ideals. I had to punish her.” Shudder.

Like many a genre film directed by women, “Tale of a Vampire” is very aware of what a high price women tend to pay in struggles between powerful men, and the film ends by staying true to its coldly unblinking gaze. There’s no reassurance that good or even anyone’s better angels will triumph. Its lasting impression is that in the midst of so much darkness and toxicity, it isn’t love or any other lofty note of hope that lasts, but rather, pain.

Tale of a Vampire is streaming on Amazon.