Tragedy on the Periphery

Most times, when I begin watching a foreign language film, I am little disoriented. The films differ from the American films I have seen; sometimes, I have felt that the “quality” of foreign films is worse, but I have come to understand it is not that at all. I am not sure exactly what the actual production/filmmaking differences are, but the result is a much greater focus on the story in foreign films. They do not depend on big productions, special effects, or other hijinks; rather, they simply get out of the way of themselves and let the characters and the story take the stage.

Sébastien Lifshitz’s Wild Side explores the experiences of different gendered and sexualized existences. In particular, he gives us a window into the life of a transgender woman named Stephanie, formerly Pierre, who lives in Paris and works as a prostitute. Stephanie exists on the periphery of normal society, not only because of her prostitution but also because her sexuality is not considered legitimate by mainstream society. That she has turned to prostitution could be the result of many factors, but in the context of this film the implication is that, in French society, Stephanie’s gender identity excludes her from “legitimate” industry. There is a significant demand for her sexual services, but these interactions are separate, even hidden, from “legitimate” sexual and social interaction. I think in society and in film we have a collective understanding of prostitution as an industry or job that (primarily) women turn to because there is something wrong with them; they have not lived “properly” and that is why they sell their sexual services. In Wild Side, Stephanie’s gendered existence as trans woman means that she left home when she was 15 and moved to Paris where she hoped she would have more opportunities and a greater ability to comfortably and acceptably inhabit her identities. Instead, she encountered a society that did not have room for her, a society that largely “invalidates” her sexuality; rather than something wrong with her, these are the factors that contribute to her prostitution.

Stephanie’s mother falls ill and she returns to her childhood home in the countryside. She physically returns to the space that encompasses her former self. This spatial and identity divide is repeatedly emphasized to the audience through flashbacks and conversations with her mother. This first shots we see of this area in the countryside are of a small boy playing in a field; after witnessing Stephanie’s contemporary life in the city, we return to the small boy and find out that he is a young Stephanie. The distance between the countryside, where Pierre grew up, and the city, where Stephanie currently resides, represents a literal separation between her two existences. A series of interactions with her mother – including an instance in which they embrace, and her mother says, “ my little boy,” and an exchange in which her mother expresses her relief that Stephanie’s father never “saw her this way,” because he would never have approved – reaffirm Stephanie’s endless struggle for acceptance and legitimacy. After one such exchange, Stephanie sits with her lover Mikhail, and teaches him the French words for hands, mouth, and face, touching each as she goes; she then points to herself and repeats, “Stephanie” several times. I thought this scene was incredibly powerful - she is a whole person, with a face and a mouth and hands; she is Stephanie, and she is desperate to reaffirm/affirm/confirm her right to be human, despite the way that society interprets/judges her existence.

The concept of space plays an important role in the stories of her two lovers, Mikhail and Djamel, as well. Neither of them is close to home, least of all Mikhail, a former Russian soldier who escaped from Russia without telling his family whether or not he was alive. Mikhail is the only one of the three who is not a prostitute; he works as a dishwasher in a restaurant. His (immigrant) labor is clearly undervalued and underappreciated, articulated in the film by his literal placement in the back of the restaurant, out of the way and out of sight of the other workers and diners. His connection to France is to his two lovers, one man and one woman, and their individual ostracized identities mean they live together on the fringes of society.

Watching this movie, I felt like I was experiencing tragedy with these characters, like I was witness to extremely tragic existences. Which is slightly odd because, as Cathy said after class, we do not know exactly what has happened or will happen to these characters. The final parting shot of the three of them snuggled together on the train back to the city is especially bittersweet. In one sense, I am exceedingly contented to know they have each other, and that they might form a family and provide each other with love and support (indicated in the scene in which Mikhail said he missed his parents, and Djamel replied that he had them and they had each other). The satisfaction I felt, though, was outmatched by the sadness I feel for them. At the end of the movie, I was left with the sense that there is something about their lives – their sexualities? their gendered sexualities? their nationalities, in Mikhail’s case? or is it something else entirely? – that will continue to preclude and exclude them from happiness and fulfillment. And knowing that, knowing that their fates are already decided, and they probably will not progress far beyond their current positions and existences, feels like a real tragedy.