Pushing the Bounds of Female Sexuality

‘Film noir’ as a category arose in the later years of WWII and continued into the 1950s; its themes and the ways in which gender was represented reflected the particular social and political location of society during those years. The violence and intrigue inherent in film noir, and later neo-noir, exposed our collective anxieties about the Cold War and global violence generally. In addition, men returned home from the war to find a different world: the housewives they had left behind had filled their jobs, and were functioning in roles previously denied them. The world was changing, and men were uncertain about what their roles would be. Noir films engage with this theme extensively: Richard Dyer, in “Resistance Through Charisma: Rita Hayworth and Gilda,” says that film noir is “characterized by a certain anxiety over the existence and definition of masculinity and normality … [which] constitute[s] the films’ ‘problematic’, that set of issues and questions which the films seek to come to terms with” (Dyer 115). (A fan of the genre of the noir film compiled this clip on YouTube that effectively and entertainingly illustrates the integral themes in film noir.) The films Gilda and Bound both challenge gender conventions and the construction of gender roles by presenting characters who are not confined to a particular gender(ed) or sexual category.

Rita Hayworth is presented as the femme fatale in Gilda. Voice-overs from Glenn Ford’s character, Johnny, alert the audience to her role. Gilda is sexually wild and almost always presented sexually – her wardrobe, the way she walks/carries herself, the way she dances, her continued flirtation with men who are not her husband - in order to clearly demonstrate her powers of attraction/dangerousness. Invariably, the femme fatale in film noirs either die at the end of the movie or succumb to the male protagonist/patriarchy by “accepting” her proper place as a woman. Hayworth’s Gilda is no different, but she is also whip smart, and seems to have a narrative voice and importance to the film that is distinct from the men’s storylines. She has, as Dyer argues, “the kind of illusion of ‘autonomy’ and ‘being there for her own sake’ (and not just for the sake of the hero) usually reserved for men in film” (Dyer 118). I do not concede Dyer’s assertion that Hayworth’s sexuality serves to feminize Johnny, but she does force a change in his behavior and attitude. She is relentlessly enduring, attractive and independent; while Johnny does punish her for these behaviors at the end of the film, he is also forced to evaluate his own behavior. In the end, their equity as defeated, downtrodden characters, and their mutual love (and respect), allows them their happy ending.

The movie, Bound, a lesbian neo-noir film, also challenges gender and sexuality conventions through its two protagonists, Corky and Violet. The film’s introduction to these characters establishes their sexualities as very dichotomous: Corky, the handyman/carpenter renovating the apartment next to Violet’s, is the butch/masculine character, while Jennifer Tilly’s Violet, with her sexy, kitten voice and provocative clothing, inhabits the femme role. The filmmakers play on the audience’s assumption that homosexual relationship dynamics mirror heterosexual ones, that one of these women must play the masculine/male role while the other occupies the feminine/woman position. Our conception of these characters, though, is quickly exploded. Rather than the typical interaction between the hero and femme fatale in neo-noir’s predecessor genre, film noir, these women work together, brainstorm together, and rely on the skills and contributions of each to successfully commit their crime. They are (both) alternately helpless/vulnerable and powerful/in control. Violet most severely bucks the viewers’ perception of her: she is introduced as the femme fatale character, but proves to be capable of real love and is incredibly trustworthy, unlike many femme fatales before her. The movie, quite refreshingly, succeeds in liberating these characters from typical gender constructions, both hetero-and-homosexual, and allows them to exhibit nuanced characteristics usually reserved for real people, not fictional cinematic inventions.

Interestingly, Gilda also engages with racial and ethnic identity questions, too. The film takes place largely in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Hayworth was a very talented and renowned dancer, in addition to her acting, and her skills are deployed throughout the film. When she dances, she is portrayed as very sexual and visually alluring. In her dancing scene when she is back in Buenos Aires, singing “Put the Blame on Mame,” to the audience in Johnny’s club, her sexuality is supposed to represent something negative, which is expressed through the very sexual Latin American dancing she does. The only way I can think in which Bound engages with this theme is through the Gershon’s character, who perhaps we are supposed to understand to be Jewish. Her religion/ethnicity/identification as Jewish demarcates her as ‘other’ and, in the eyes of some, especially Cesar, helps to explain her deviant sexuality/queerness. Throughout history, Jewish sexuality has been defined as sexual deviance, which has further stigmatized Jewish people. The film, perhaps, assumes our knowledge of this stereotype.