o, frida and film and writing

As some of you know, and others of you will know when reading the draft I submitted, my thesis-in-progress is composed of a series of lyric essays. In each lyric essay, some parts are committed strictly to straightforward narration; that is, the narrator simply tells the character’s story (stories) without interjecting to offer narrator or character reflection or interior. As of now, these parts also contain limited dialogue, utilizing mostly silence and space instead. It’s with this in mind I watched (and read with my eyes) the film Frida to locate how silence and space create character.

Quite prominent in the film is Frida’s face (facial expressions in/during silence). (I’ll get to the camera’s (audience) gaze in just a bit). In the second scene we have a young Frida running through the school courtyard – we don’t know where she’s going and why, but her facial expression, one of youthful eagerness and desire, asks that we be just as interested. This ‘physical and social presence,’ if we can name it as such, provides a ‘somewhat limited, on the surface’ interior. This seems to speak to the ways in which we (I) might capture younger folks on the page – there’s presence, energy, and vulnerability to unabashed curiosity. There’s innocence (while remembering vulnerability) we can establish on the page through expression, gesture, moving quickly through space.

As we know, we get to go deeper, get to know Frida a bit better – still through silence (and desire) – in ‘family and group’ dynamics. A secret language is revealed between Frida and her sister when, after a quickie is cut short, Frida runs into the kitchen and the two share a glance and a head tilt. They both know that they both know, even though they share nothing verbal. Similarly during the scene when there’s a drinking contest for a dance with Tina. Frida says nothing, waits for the men to be done trying, and then, with friendly threat in her eyes, enters herself into the contest, grabs the bottle, beats them both, and gets the dance. Such simple silent set-up reveals much: when her gender places her to be desired, she’ll include herself, as one who desires. While facial expressions reveal much in this scene, the scene also establishes itself as something to be read. The two men (those who desire) are sitting, Tina (the desired) and Frida are standing. The silent interaction between the characters, their placement in the scene, the movement of the bottle – all work together to create a moment of loosening up that Frida, through abrupt action, disrupts – there’s shock and surprise at first – then keeps the scene moving along by her joining in.

What’s attractive about viewing such a scene and then applying it to my own writing is considering how often I forget that I know the scene, I can envision the scene, those in it, what they look like, their gestures, expressions, etc. and how often I skim past/over some details (almost always simple ones) that can alter/improve a scene tenfold. I’m figuring out through the process of writing this post how I might shift my process, if only just a bit, in order to more fully develop scene for audience. I’m wondering how useful it can be for me to run the scene (through my brain) more times before putting it down; and, perhaps, after putting it down, really slowing it down (in my brain) to cast very specific glances on unimportant included details or to see which details I’ve not translated to page. A slow motion sort of thing.

When viewing film I equate the camera’s gaze with the narrator’s in writing. Much of my attention while viewing Frida was on how we are meant to gaze at a scene, where our attention is directed. Most notably, in keeping with the silence and space to create character (I’ll not get into film theory and The Gaze here), I followed how the camera captures the passing of time.

Post-accident, we watch time pass in bed. We know this through Frida’s shifting body position, not through her expression – her expression does not change which communicates a very slightly if at all shifting in emotional state. She does show emotion when her partner visits to tell her he’s leaving, though she doesn’t show him, she only shows us. Dramatic irony. Dramatic irony’s something I’ve never named in my own work, though it’s clear here how interior and reflection can function as such, the other characters unaware (audience clearly aware) of what’s happening in the head of the ‘I’ unless the expression of which is outright. And we know the dramatic irony falls away when, through tears, Frida is casted multiple times, the cast a dress on which she creates. This another marker of the passing of time – each time we see the dress it’s more decorated.

After Diego leaves Frida, the camera reveals time passing when we get Frida in a new living space. And, after we watch Frida chop her hair off in a drunken state (revealed by the unbalanced camera shots), as Frida’s hair grows, time thus passes. Though I haven’t yet played around with the passing of time through embodiment or length of hair, I did find myself reading the drafts for this week with alternate ways to reveal passage of time in mind. (I even directly relate one comment on a draft to this film).

A final note on structure. The film begins at the end. Frida in her bed being carried through public to where we only find out at the film’s close. Throughout the film I kept wanting to figure out where she was being carried. I held onto that image, held onto possibility. In the past I’ve written less successful pieces that close all too neatly, which is not to say that’s what this film does. What did happen for me was a build-up to the final moments, a return to the beginning which was really the end. And, while, I wasn’t overly enamored by the film, the build-up didn’t let me down because of the films telling and showing, through silence and not.

All this to say:

Dearest Elmaz,

We should watch more films in class.

Sincerely,
michelle