Ageing Femininity on Screen: The Older Woman in Contemporary Cinema 9781788316699, 9781786735379

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List of Figures Figure I.1

Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson) in Sunset Boulevard.

Figure I.2 Baby Jane Hudson (Bette Davis) in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?

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Figure I.3 Little old woman (Edie Martin) as a symbol of the hotel’s dilapidation and filth in Genevieve.

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Figure 1.1

Mary Wallace (Joan Plowright) in Tea with Mussolini.

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Figure 1.2

The orphanage in Tea with Mussolini.

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Figure 1.3

An art gallery in Florence in Tea with Mussolini.

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Figure 1.4

Helen Mirren as Queen Elizabeth in The Queen.

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Figure 1.5

Helen Mirren looking glamorous on the red carpet.

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Figure 1.6 Heritage aesthetics in Quartet suggesting a parallel between the celebrated grand architecture and its residents – Sissy (Pauline Collins) and Jean (Maggie Smith).

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Figure 2.1

Exterior of Victoria’s (Helen Mirren) house in RED.

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Figure 2.2

Interior of Victoria’s (Helen Mirren) house in RED.

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Figure 2.3

Victoria (Helen Mirren) as ‘damsel in distress’ in RED.

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Figure 2.4 Helen Mirren as the decidedly unglamorous Rachel in The Debt.

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Figure 2.5 Helen Mirren performing little-old-lady-ness, dressed in headscarf and cosy coat, in The Debt.

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Figure 3.1 Piper (Debbie Reynolds) and Beryl (Elizabeth Taylor) in These Old Broads.

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Ageing Femininity Figure 3.2 Representation and reality as collapsible categories in These Old Broads. Figure 3.3

These Old Broads insisting on its own campness.

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Figure 3.4 Maggie Smith in 1991 as Grandmother Wendy in Hook.

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Figure 3.5 Maggie Smith in 2015 as the Dowager Countess Grantham in Downton Abbey.

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Figure 4.1 Barbara (Judi Dench) alone and lonely on the park bench in Notes on a Scandal.

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Figure 4.2 Barbara (Judi Dench) surrounded by loving couples in the park while she is alone.

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Figure 4.3 a Scandal.

Unflattering shot of Sue’s back fat in Notes on 125

Figure 4.4

Sue (Joanna Scanlan) gloating in Notes on a Scandal.

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Figure 4.5

Barbara Covett (Judi Dench) in Notes on a Scandal.

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Figure 4.6

Judi Dench looking glamorous on the red carpet.

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Figure 4.7 Dotty (Brenda Fricker) framed in the window to suggest imprisonment in Cloudburst.

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Figure 4.8 Molly (Kristin Booth) and Stella (Olympia Dukakis) filmed in long shot to connote captivity in Cloudburst.

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Figure 5.1 Mimi Marks, winner of the 2006 Transsexual Beauty Pageant, reinforcing the media stereotype of trans women.

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Figure 5.2 The liminal, non ‘passing’ trans woman (Harry Shearer) coded as object of ridicule in A Mighty Wind.

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Figure 5.3 Miriam: the successfully ‘passing’ trans woman who is coded as dangerous and predatory in the TV show There’s Something about Miriam.

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Figure 5.4 and 5.5 The Houston ‘Vote No’ campaign which suggested that trans women are merely perverted men, disguised as women, invading women’s bathrooms to assault a young girl.

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List of Figures Figure 5.6 Mrs Madrigal (Olympia Dukakis): the middle-class, older trans lady who is the embodiment of liberal, genteel San Franciscan culture.

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Figure 5.7 Cisgendered actors playing ‘unconvincing’ women on the screen to question the very concept of feminine ‘authenticity’ in Transamerica.

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Figure 5.8 A moment of cruel comedy in Transamerica in which the perma-tanned mother Elizabeth (Fionnula Flanagan) is coded as an object of ridicule because of her failed feminine performance. 160 Figure 5.9 Another moment of unkind comedy in Transamerica where Elizabeth (Fionnula Flanagan) is, yet again, the comic fool.

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Figure 5.10 The gorgeousness of Maura’s (Jeffrey Tambor) house guiding the spectator’s emotional response to Maura herself in Transparent.

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Figure 6.1 The predatory homosexual sneaking up on young Jimmy to infect him with the plague of homosexuality in Boys Beware: Homosexuals are on the Prowl. 176 Figure 6.2 Quentin Crisp who came to embody the received idea of the ageing gay man as effeminate ‘queen’.

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Figure 6.3 Lake (Pier-Gabriel Lajoie) sketching in his bedroom, below a huge poster of Gandhi, in Gerontophilia.

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Figure 6.4 Older characters – George (Alfred Molina) and Ben (John Lithgow) – as the embodiment of bygone New York elegance and charm in Love is Strange.

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Figure 6.5 Uncle Ben (John Lithgow) as object of the stare in Love is Strange.

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Figure 6.6 George (Alfred Molina) when affluent and therefore part of the mise-en-scène.

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Figure 6.7 George (Alfred Molina) when impoverished and therefore not ‘fitting’ into the setting.

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Series Editors’ Foreword Many of the books in this series offer discussions of gender in film. While the focus of each book is different, what they all have in common is a medium that ‘preserves on celluloid’ images of people who will never age. Clever lighting and make-up can serve to make these people appear younger or sometimes older than they are, defying nature. Niall Richardson’s discussion in this book explores the place of older women in film, placing it in a social context that explores how we use age as a social qualification in a world where ageing women are generally marginalised or else rendered invisible. As has been pointed out by many feminists, although ageing is a natural process, the sexual desirability of the ageing body is highly gendered. For example, the ageing man is a ‘silver fox’, while an ageing woman is an ‘old hag’, or worse. This division leads to a higher visibility of positive male roles for older men in film, with far fewer such parts for older women. Where ageing female roles have appeared, they are traditionally stereotyped as grotesque, such as Bette Davis in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962). This book explores the place of ageing women in the horror and gothic genres, while the flip side of this is the ‘dotty old dear’, a figure of fun who crops up in comedies such as Clockwise (1986). However, Richardson also explores the concept of ‘successful ageing’, a representation of ageing that is directly related to the socio-economic context of Western cultures where life-long hard work and savings allow for leisured retirement, and the affordances of medicine and improved lifestyle choices do not mean that retirement is always collocated with invisibility and domesticity. Films such as Mamma Mia! (2008) and The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (2011) are discussed in relation to this concept of successful ageing. As Richardson points out, it is not just the fact that ageing women are appearing in such films in the twenty-first century, but also the truth that these are highgrossing, and incredibly popular across a wide range of age groups. The book finishes with a chapter on the role of LGBT themes in films that

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Ageing Femininity feature ageing women. As with many books in this series, sexuality is visible in new ways throughout popular culture texts, and here Richardson offers an exploration of it through the discussion of the ageing woman in film. Angela Smith and Claire Nally

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INTRODUCTION Identifying ‘Old’ Age – Biological, Cultural and Social

‘Ageing’ is now a much-discussed topic in media, film and cultural studies. Its popularity may be due to the fact that, unlike other identifications such as ethnicity or disability, growing ‘old’ is something that directly affects everyone. Provided we live long enough, we will all experience ‘old’ age (Marshall 2006: vii). Like all identifications, ageing is not merely biological but also cultural (Gullette 2004) and social (Gilleard and Higgs 2000). On a biological level, bodies will all age but how the signifiers of ageing are identified is culturally mutable. What is deemed ‘old’ is discursively constructed (Woodward 1999: p. x) and, as such, will vary according to geographical and historical context. As Karen Stoddard points out, ‘“old” is different to each culture and to each time period, so that an American woman aged fifty in 1920 was considered old, while a woman of the same age in 1980 is considered middle-aged’ (1983: 21). Even the everyday phrase of ‘acting your age’ suggests that age identification is performatively constituted rather than something which is fixed (Krainitzki 2014: 34; see also Woodward 2006). However, unlike other cultural identifications, such as sexuality or class, age is also social in that it is quantified by societal practices that give it a precision which other cultural identifications do not have. Not only is it

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Ageing Femininity customary to acknowledge a person’s ageing through birthday celebrations but there are various systems in place which publicly identify the body’s age. For example, in contemporary British culture when people reach ‘old’ age they are given a bus pass, which entitles them to free public transport, and therefore they are officially labelled as a ‘bus-pass-carrying OAP’ (Old Age Pensioner). Similarly, people at the other end of the age spectrum can obtain a ‘Young Person’s Travel Card’ and this can be used as an official testament to the body’s social qualification as ‘young’. It is noteworthy that this quantification of age is deemed important within public spaces (especially transport systems), thus suggesting that socio-legal structures view the classification of the body’s age as one of the most important of social identifications. This regulation of age in public spaces, via the carrying of identification cards and travel passes, would be unfathomable for other cultural identifications such as, say, class or sexuality. People would be appalled if they were asked to carry a card which quantified their degree of hetero- or homosexuality. In this respect, ageing is not only a cultural identification but social qualification which, given its degree of legislative specificity, can be viewed as one of the ‘master identities’ (Twigg 2013: 2) of contemporary society. It is important to remember that these factors of biology, culture and social quantification subsist in a tacit dynamism. Given improvements in medical sciences and nutrition, people are now living longer. As such, legislation must change to accommodate greater life expectancy (retirement age has been raised in recent years and, for future generations, it may well be the case that retirement is not anticipated until people are in their 70s) and, of course, cultural expectations about what constitutes ‘old’ are therefore also responding to these biological and social changes. A popular saying of the moment is that 50 is now the new ‘50’. Yet even though society regiments and quantifies ‘old’ age, the cultural interpretations of age are inflected strongly by other identifications – not least sexuality, race, class and, arguably the most important, gender.

Gendering Age On a biological level, men do not age any better than women (indeed life expectancy for males is still less than that for females) but the physical signs of ageing are interpreted differently for masculinity than they are 2

Introduction for femininity. While ageing is permitted in masculinity and, in some cases even exalted and eroticised (Twigg 2013: 5), the same signifiers are vilified in femininity. Susan Sontag was one of the first critics to note this phenomenon which she aptly termed the ‘double standard of ageing’ (1979). For example, within linguistic discourses a man whose hair has turned grey is described as ‘distinguished’ or a ‘silver fox’. Culture does not deem such terms to be applicable to a woman whose hair has lost pigmentation. By contrast, most of the negative terms to describe ageing, such as ‘hag’, ‘crone’, ‘witch’, ‘old bag’, are only applicable to femininity (Stoddard 1983: 3). As Lynne Segal has pointed out, ‘few adjectives combine faster than ugly-old-woman’ (2014: 42) and we have only to think of the recent twitter abuse of the academic Mary Beard, after her television appearances, to see that such hateful discourse is still in common currency. Arguably, the difference in the identification of ageing is related to the cultural paradigms which view women’s roles in terms of their physical beauty and reproductive ‘utility’ (Bartky 1990; Spelman 1982). Ageing women are doubly stigmatised in that they not only lose the potential for child birth but also their youthful beauty is viewed as diminishing with age (Chivers 2011: p. xv). While women are valued in terms of their appearance (Wolf 1990), men (until fairly recently) have had the luxury of being able to be removed from the tyranny of beauty. A man’s body is appraised in terms of what it can do rather than how he looks (Bordo 1999: 197). However, even within representations in which the body’s beauty is the main agenda of the image, we can still see a difference in the identification of ageing. Within contemporary advertising it is expected that older female models will have their wrinkles airbrushed (recently there was considerable controversy about the airbrushing of the model Twiggy) while advertisements featuring male models often allow their wrinkles (especially their forehead lines) to remain. Of course, on one level this relates to the coding usually employed in the representation of the passive male body (see Dyer 1982). The male model often returns the gaze of the camera, while wearing an intense facial expression, thus suggesting that the model’s mind is involved in processes of thought/intellectual debate and therefore he is not simply a body upon which to gaze. A male model’s forehead lines seem to suggest he is musing on a complex subject and

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Ageing Femininity therefore reinforces the Cartesian binary of masculinity associated with thought and reason while femininity is simply the body and emotion (Spelman 1982; Bordo 2003). However, what cannot be ignored is how advertisements featuring images of men suggest that it is deemed acceptable, even desirable, for male bodies to wear wrinkles on their faces but that it is unacceptable for female bodies. Given this type of media imagery, it is hardly surprising that ageing is discursively constructed as a ‘problem’ for women (Coupland 2013; Marshall and Rahman 2015). Many anti-ageing creams and lotions identify the signifiers of age as a ‘concern’ that needs to be treated. As Yvonne Tasker and Diane Negra point out, recent advertisements often identify agedefying cosmetic ‘treatments’ as something that women will need to submit to rather than being an elective procedure (2007: 22). In contemporary culture, it seems that defying the ageing process is a requisite of hegemonic femininity. The same is, arguably, not the case for men and, as Kathy Davis points out, when men are represented as submitting to cosmetic procedures they are usually identified as odd or even imbalanced (2002). However, the exception here might be gay men and it is fair to say (as will be argued in more detail in Chapter 6) that the tyranny of ageing does apply more to gay men than to their heterosexual counterparts (see Jones and Pugh 2005; Sandberg 2008; Richardson and Wearing 2014). Having said that, the unashamed eroticisation of the older male body can be found in gay popular culture – especially pornography (see Mercer 2012). A blog such as ‘silver fox men’, for example, celebrates the sexiness of the older male body in softly (homo)erotic images. Although there are websites which eroticise the older female body, these sites are usually coded as perverse or even deviant. Even the terms used to denote a sexually attractive older woman – a MILF (Mother I’d Like to Fuck) or GILF (Granny I’d Like to Fuck) – are offensive on so many levels. Therefore, if age is coded as a ‘problem’ for femininity, it is something which must be ‘treated’ and, if it can be, disguised or even ‘cured’. As Julia Twigg has argued, a problem of contemporary culture is that we have confused ‘age resistance’ with ‘age denial’ (2013: 45 – 6). Instead of praising bodies that have aged, we only celebrate them if they do not resemble their age. In contemporary culture, women are permitted to be older provided they do not look it (Mellencamp 1992).

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Introduction Yet, the difficulty for older women is that if the enterprise of ‘disguising’/‘treating’ the signifiers of age is not deemed to be successful then it can lead to the subject being identified as ‘mutton dressed as lamb’. As Rexbeye and Povlsen explain: ‘Mutton dressed as lamb’ has been a well known phenomenon at least since the eighteenth century describing women who act or dress much younger than prescribed by the cultural norms for their age . . . What seems just as important though, is that the phrase implies looking cheap – and has implicit references to prostitution. (2007: 71)

As Beverly Skeggs famously asserted, attaining normative femininity requires a considerable amount of labour but this labour must be concealed. If the labour is not disguised from view then the female body is identified as cheap and/or distasteful (see Skeggs 1997). The label of ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ is the ultimate insult, given that it is an entirely arbitrary identification. There are no definite guidelines for how mutton is actually supposed to look or dress (Greer 1991: 34) and therefore no possible way that an older woman can defend herself against accusations of mutton-ness. Even more worrying is that if female body fails to mask the signs of ageing with sufficient skill then she risks not only being identified as ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ but as grotesque. One of Hollywood’s favourite stereotypes has, and continues to be, the ‘ageing female grotesque’ (Brooks 1992; Farmer 2000; Morey 2011). The ageing female grotesque is the body that is attempting to fulfil its obligation to disguise the ageing process but is failing miserably. Although Hollywood and popular media did not create the current obsession with youth (Judith Fisher has researched how female actors in the eighteenth century were denied work because audiences did not wish to observe ageing female bodies on the stage (1999)) contemporary media have certainly played an important role in perpetuating ‘cultural assumptions that physical beauty is premised on youthfulness’ (Coupland 2013: 5; see also Chivers 2011: p. xv). Within discourses of popular culture, women are required to disguise the ageing process but are mocked when their attempts fail and identified as freakishly grotesque. It seems that in relation to the identification of age, women are damned if they do and damned if they don’t. 5

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What Ever Did Happen to Baby Jane? Although the condemnation of older female bodies that fail to mask the ageing process appropriately occurs in wider cultural discourses, it is probably most explicit within cinema and entertainment industries. As various critics have noted, several contemporary Hollywood female stars have been subject to considerable tabloid abuse for attempting to disguise their ageing and, apparently, not doing it successfully. Two recent examples have been Melanie Griffith (see Chivers 2011: p. xii) and Sharon Stone (see Feasey 2012) – Hollywood stars who have been mocked by the tabloids either for their recourse to cosmetic surgery (Griffith) or for attempting to portray sexual characters on the screen when they are now deemed too old to be sexy (Stone). Perhaps even more worrying than the ageism within the entertainment industry are the narratives of mainstream films which often represent female ageing itself as ‘a horrifying process of inexorable decline’ (Jermyn 2012a: 4). In a variety of films ageing females are represented as the diegetic source of grotesque terror. Two Hollywood characters whose names have now become a shorthand for the concept of the ‘ageing female grotesque’ in cinema are Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson) from Sunset Boulevard (dir. Wilder 1950) and Baby Jane Hudson (Bette Davis) from What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (dir. Aldrich 1962) (see Figures I.1 and I.2). Although both films are often cited together, they do have slightly different politics and it is fair to argue that Sunset Boulevard is not quite as cruel in its representation of ageing femininity as What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? Sunset Boulevard is, in many ways, a satire on the Hollywood industry and was made at a time when Hollywood had started to critique its own mechanisms. Like other 1950s films, such as The Bad and the Beautiful (dir. Minnelli, 1952) and Singin’ in the Rain (dir. Donen and Kelly, 1952), Sunset Boulevard can be read as offering a self-reflexive critique of how the Hollywood film-making process is unfairly gendered and of how new technologies are simultaneously both enhancing Hollywood production values but also eclipsing performance aesthetics. Most importantly, the bodies of Norma Desmond and Baby Jane are not coded the same way on screen. While Baby Jane’s harlequin make-up does indeed render her grotesque, Norma Desmond’s ageing is identified

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Figure I.1 Norma Desmond (Gloria Swanson) in Sunset Boulevard.

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Figure I.2 Baby Jane Hudson (Bette Davis) in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?

in the dialogue rather than coded through her appearance. Desmond herself describes the physical signs of her ageing (such as the lines in her neck) as these are not actually visible on the screen (Chivers 2006: 216). Likewise, the montage sequence, in which Desmond undergoes an array of beauty therapies to get ‘in shape’ for her cinematic comeback, will remind any contemporary spectator of the montage sequence often found in action films in which the hero prepares for battle by enduring a process of training. Like Rocky’s gruelling fitness regime, Desmond’s beauty process suggests a sense of heroic masochism in which she is subject to physical ordeals to win the war against Hollywood’s ageism. Unlike Rocky, however, Desmond is unsuccessful and her punishing regime is all in vain. In this respect, Sunset Boulevard may be read as a critique of the ageism of 8

Introduction the Hollywood industry and its cruel treatment of female actors who are now deemed too old for the screen. What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, by contrast, offers considerably less critique of the ageism of the entertainment industry. A 1960s horror film, What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? is often read as the inspiration for a new sub-genre of horror which has been labelled ‘hag horror’, ‘psycho biddy films’ or, to use Peter Shelley’s more poetic term, ‘Grande Dame Guignol’ (2009). Successors to What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? include What’s the Matter with Helen? (dir. Harrington, 1971); What Ever Happened to Aunt Alice? (dir. Katzin, 1969); Who Slew Auntie Roo? (dir. Harrington, 1971), Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte (dir. Aldrich, 1964) (which also stars Bette Davis as another deranged, older woman) and, more recently, Death Becomes Her (dir. Zemeckis, 1992). (See Chapter 2 for further discussion of Death Becomes Her.) On a variety of levels, these are utterly distasteful films in which the acts of murder and violence are coded as less horrific than the image of the ageing, and often demented, woman. As the genre’s title suggests, the true horror is witnessing the film’s ‘hag’ in all her grotesque glory. Although the theme of all ‘hag horror’ cinema is the same, What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? is distinguished from the subsequent films because of its heightened level of verisimilitude. Not only did the extra-textual reallife rivalry between Joan Crawford and Bette Davis add authenticity to the diegesis (see Dolan 2010: 7) but the film’s story, in which a has-been star tries to revive her career by placing an advertisement in the paper, actually mirrored Davis’s own life given that Davis only attained the role of Baby Jane by marketing her services in a Hollywood rag (Chivers 2006: 16). One of the most famous scenes of Baby Jane (arguably one of the most notorious sequences in all Hollywood cinema) is when the ageing Baby Jane screeches the song she used to sing when she was a child star, ‘I’ve Written a Letter to Daddy’, while dressed in baby-doll frock, her hair styled in kittenish, ringlet curls and wearing full harlequin make-up. This scene is particularly disturbing not only because of Baby Jane’s lack of awareness of how her body is now different from her childhood performances but also due to her ignorance of how entertainment conventions have changed (Chivers 2006: 218). Audiences of the 1960s no longer wanted music-hall type, saccharine-sweet songs performed by cute, moderately talented starlets. Therefore, the horror of this scene is what Mary Russo famously

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Ageing Femininity termed ‘the scandal of anachronism’ (1999) in that the character is out of step not only with the cultural requirements of feminine ageing but in relation to expectations of popular entertainment. What occurs in the ‘I’ve Written a Letter to Daddy’ sequence is a terrifying conflation of physical deterioration with foolishness and, in many ways, the scene may be read as adopting the strategies of the ‘freak’ show (see Richardson 2010 for discussion of popular cinema’s enfreakment strategies). As Kathryn Weibel has argued, it is a shame that films such as Baby Jane did not permit female actors to portray ‘the advanced wisdom which age brings instead of presenting aging women as freaks’ (1977: 112). However, there has been considerable debate among film scholars as to how such Baby Jane type images may be interpreted. One way of reading this image is simply as unadulterated misogyny. While ageing male bodies are usually coded in mainstream narrative entertainment in terms of their wisdom and authority, ageing female bodies are subject to a strategy of enfreakment in which they become a source of ridicule and/or horror. Older men in Hollywood are rarely ever mocked for their advancing years and very often continue to be coded as the eroticised heroes of the narrative. Fred Astaire was being paired with female partners who were close to half his age (Altman 1987: 244– 5) and even contemporary films have no qualms in continuing this practice. Richard Gere, for example, has been matched with increasingly younger female actors who are often almost half his age. In Pretty Woman (dir. Marshall, 1990), Gere was 40 and Julia Roberts was 22; in Bee Season (dir. McGehee and Siegel, 2005), Gere was 56 and Juliette Binoche was 41; in Amelia (dir. Nair, 2009), Gere was 60 and Hilary Swank was 35; while in Arbitrage (dir. Jarecki, 2012), Gere was 63 and Laetitia Casta was 34. Indeed, it is hard to find any images of ageing masculinity in Hollywood which can be read as comparable to the coding of Baby Jane Hudson. On the other hand, instead of reading the ‘ageing female grotesque’ as misogyny, a strand of feminist scholarship has argued that it is possible to read a feminist-inspired challenge in the representation of Baby Jane style grotesquerie (Morey 2011; Chivers 2006). This type of reading continues a tradition in feminist scholarship which has celebrated a potential for resistance in the spectacle of the transgressive woman. In this line of argument, women who are rendering themselves as spectacles may be interpreted as demonstrating an act of resistance because they are defying,

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Introduction and also appropriating, the very discourses which would police them (Russo 1995; Shugart and Waggoner 2005). Instead of Baby Jane being dismissed as foolish, she may be celebrated for deliberately challenging the conventions that would constrain older femininity. Anne Morey, for example, has proposed that a character like Baby Jane Hudson may be read as ‘an expression of rage against [the] system’ (2011: 107) in which the actor’s extreme performance is critiquing the oppression of ageing femininity in the entertainment industry. Of course, this argument depends on the level of self-awareness and agency that is attributed to the character of Baby Jane. However, it is possible to argue that the film text itself supports this reading because the movie’s narrative is foregrounding Baby Jane as the star. Baby Jane is a doubly transgressive character in that she is not only refusing to ‘act’ her age but, most importantly, because What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? is representing Baby Jane as the protagonist then the film itself may be read as critiquing the fact that older women are usually not deemed appropriate bodies to hold centre stage roles (see Chivers 2006: 219). Similarly, there are critics who have argued that Baby Jane style ‘inappropriate’ feminine ageing may even be celebrated as a challenge to gendered social relations because it ‘transgresses and confounds all manner of social conventions from notions of gender propriety and decorum to received dictates about erotic desirability and appropriate sexual relationality’ (Farmer 2000: 146 –7). Catherine Silver argues that female ageing may be ‘understood as a form of resistance to the patriarchal order’ (Silver 2003: 385; see also Greer 1991: 4) because it allows ‘the lifting of social and symbolic controls around sexuality, femininity and family obligations’ (Silver 2003: 387). The ageing female body enjoys a liberation from the oppression of patriarchal culture as she is no longer conscripted to the regimes of hetero-patriarchal femininity and subject to the tyranny of ‘the beauty myth’ (Wolf 1990). The older woman is now blessedly free from the harassment of cat calls and wolf whistles (Greer 1991: 52). Arguably, this joy of being free of the constraints of gendered etiquette may be read in the performance of Baby Jane – a woman who behaves inappropriately but does not care about the consequences. Finally, there are critics who have taken the queer/poststructural approach and argued that a character like Baby Jane problematises the very idea of a fixed gender binary system. Martin Shingler, in his analyses of

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Ageing Femininity Bette Davis’s later performances, has argued that Davis’s Baby Jane Hudson can be praised for the way it ‘exploited the ironies and ambiguities of gender’ so that her ‘masquerade of femininity comes remarkably close to that of female impersonation, to drag’ (Shingler 1995: 181; see also Silverman 1993). Baby Jane Hudson may be read as a female female impersonator – a woman who is performing caricatured femininity and therefore demonstrating that all gender is iterative and performative. (Indeed, the idea of reworking drag in relation to the performance of age will be considered in more detail in Chapter 3 when I argue that it has been mobilised as an age affirmation strategy by both film texts and specific stars.) However, to return to the question posed at the start of this section – what ever did happen to Baby Jane? – it is fair to argue that she is still around but, like all contemporary representations, has been reworked with a heavy dash of irony. While critics have argued that television has been relatively sympathetic to representations of older women (White 2014: 156; Jermyn 2012a: 7) – we all remember The Golden Girls with great fondness – it does seem that recent cinema has become even more fascinated by the abject spectacle of the ageing female grotesque. Arguably, one of the most recent films to have brought Baby Jane back centre stage has been the biographical comedy-drama Florence Foster Jenkins (dir. Frears, 2016). Florence Foster Jenkins, or Madame Florence as she liked to be called, was a well-to-do amateur singer living in New York in the 1940s. Madame Florence liked to give song recitals for small, invited audiences and seemed to be oblivious to the fact that she was an utterly terrible singer. Unlike What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, Florence Foster Jenkins is certainly a more sympathetic character than the deranged, older woman (the film is a comedy-drama rather than horror) and it does attempt to interrogate the very mechanism of the type of so-bad-it’s-good camp appreciation that many of Madame Florence’s fans (notably gay male fans) enjoyed about her performance. (See Chapters 3 and 6 for more discussion of this.) Nevertheless, the film is problematic in the way it glosses over Madame Florence’s actual health issues which may well have been the reason the woman was such a poor singer and unaware of the shortcomings of her performance. Although the film does identify that Madame Florence was infected with syphilis, the narrative does not reveal the possible side-effects of the disease. One side-effect of syphilis is tinnitus

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Introduction and so it is highly probable that Madame Florence was unaware of her poor singing because of the ringing sound in her ears. Similarly, the toxic effects of the dangerous ‘medicines’ that Madame Florence would have received at the time (veritable poisons such as arsenic and mercury) could also have been contributing factors to her ‘madness’. Instead of detailing these issues, however, Florence Foster Jenkins simply represents the spectacle of the deranged, older woman who is screeching her way through operatic arias with even less vocal prowess than Baby Jane wailing ‘I’ve Written a Letter to Daddy’. Notwithstanding the continuation of the Baby Jane character in comedies and dramas, recent years have seen the ‘horrific hag’ return to the screen with a vengeance in Hollywood’s revival of the fairy tale genre. Films such as The Brothers Grimm (dir. Gilliam, 2005); Stardust (dir. Vaughn, 2007); Mirror, Mirror (dir. Singh, 2012); Snow White and the Huntsman (dir. Sanders, 2012); Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters (dir. Wirkola, 2013) and The Last Witch Hunter (dir. Eisner, 2015) have brought fairy tales back to the screen but have inflected them with a particularly dark and adult tone. Most importantly, these films have seen the monstrously ageing woman return to the screen in the role of the evil, old witch. Arguably, one of the reasons for Hollywood’s renewed interest in the classic fairy tale genre has been the current trend of postfeminist sensibility in contemporary media (Gill 2007, 2016; Negra 2009). I discuss the elements of postfeminism in more detail in Chapter 1 but it is fair to argue that its key tenets are a focus on youthful femininity, an ‘ironic’ reclamation of earlier prefeminist ideologies and a complex backlash against second wave feminism. In many ways, the fairy tale genre offers the perfect template for postfeminist sensibility through the genre’s exaltation of the youthful and girlish heroine, who embraces prefeminist sensibilities of dutiful daughter-ness and aspires to find a handsome prince to marry so that she may accede to the role of wife and mother. However, a key element of postfeminist media is that second wave feminism is identified in the text – usually personified in the body of the older woman – but is represented as dated, ineffectual and therefore eventually dismissed by the younger, postfeminist protagonist (McRobbie 2009: 12). Second wave feminism is coded as angry, humourless, ugly but, most importantly, ineffectual and unnecessary and so most postfeminist texts represent a

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Ageing Femininity battle of wits between the older feminist woman and the young postfeminist girl. The fairy tale genre allows this battle to become physical as it maps this onto the characters of the younger postfeminist princess versus the older queen/witch who embodies the identification of second wave feminism as dour, humourless and ugly. Owen Gleiberman even identifies the evil queen in Snow White and the Huntsman as a ‘fascist of feminism’ who is exacting her revenge for living in a world ‘where men can feed on women’s beauty and then toss them away’ (2012). Such radical feminism is represented as not only ineffectual but, ultimately, self-defeating as the evil queen is alone, frustrated and utterly miserable. This metaphor of witchcraft as feminism supports the misogynist denigration of feminist politics in that feminism is coded in contemporary fairy tales as simply ugly women (either ugly to begin with or made ugly by feminism) trying to usurp masculine power – often because they cannot win the love of a good man. Feminism, like witchcraft, is represented as ultimately unfulfilling and self-defeating as the women end up alone and unloved, rendered hideous through their exercise of (magical) power. By contrast the young girls who have no (magic) power (or else, as in Hansel and Gretel, are white witches who simply perform magic which accords with traditional femininity such as healing and nurturing) are able to attain the affections of a good man and so have no need for any empowerment. The ending of Stardust makes this very clear when the evil witch Lamia is defeated by the radiating love between Yvaine and Tristan. In all the films, the witches’ ideology is misplaced and, like Baby Jane and Norma Desmond, they are anachronistic monsters whose bodies and minds have lost touch with contemporary culture. Stardust is probably the most extreme of the contemporary Hollywood fairy tales in its coding of the evil witch as a type of radical feminist. The film narrates how the evil witch Lamia (Michelle Pfeiffer) wishes to kill the fallen star (now embodied as Yvaine (Claire Danes)) and eat Yvaine’s heart because this action will restore her youth. Not only has Lamia little regard for human life but she has no respect for gender binaries – or even gender itself – as evidenced by the way she first turns a man into a goat and then transforms him into a buxom wench to work in her inn. People who are anti-feminist often cite essentialist discourses (‘Men and women are different. How dare you suggest otherwise?’) and so Lamia’s actions are

14

Introduction tapping into the spectator’s inaccurate, but nevertheless dominant, anxieties about feminist activism. Yet, while feminism may be coded as terrifying witchcraft, some of the films even enjoy unashamed misogyny and violence against women. Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters is a thoroughly gruesome gore fest which offers as much gratuitous violence as can be found in contemporary torture-porn horror films. Although some of the most disgusting violence is indeed wreaked on men’s bodies (one man explodes and another is quartered) the final sequence represents Hansel chaining up chief witch Muriel and proceeding to punch her to death. Muriel (Famke Janssen) possesses the ability to transform her haggard face into youthful beauty and, in an attempt to stop Hansel’s assault, changes her face from witchcrone to the recognisable face of Janssen the actor and begs Hansel to stop. Hansel simply replies ‘nice try’ before then resuming his pulverising of Janssen’s face. Therefore, the film is not content to show a sequence of a man thumping a female body – albeit one that has been deformed via prosthetics to render it monstrous – but is now representing a man punching the beautiful Famke Janssen. If the narrative had, at least, attempted to show witch Muriel’s illusion of transforming her face into youthful beauty as part of her attempt to kill Hansel, his subsequent pummelling of her could be justified as self-defence. As it stands, the narrative simply shows a man smashing his fist into a woman’s face. Obviously, the fairy tale genre has been particularly useful for Hollywood as it excuses the affirmation of prefeminist gender roles – if not even extreme misogyny – because these films are based on traditional fairy tales that have (arguably) asserted hegemonic gender ideologies (Zipes 2011; Warner 1994 and 2016). This is not Hollywood’s misogyny; it is simply the gender politics of the fairy tale which is being reworked for contemporary audiences with a knowing ‘irony’. However, as Susan Cahill argues, although most of these films are espousing a level of playful doublesignification in their images, where they ‘lose their humour and irony, however, is in relation to the older woman’ (Cahill 2010: 58). All these films represent older women who are desperate – at all costs – to regain their lost youth. Whether this involves murder of innocent men, women or even children, there is nothing these women will stop at to become young again. Indeed, death is coded as preferable to old age in all the films so that the final scene of Mirror Mirror (a reworking of the Snow White tale)

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Ageing Femininity represents the evil queen, now transformed into a crone because she has used too much magic, prepared to commit suicide by eating a slice of the poisoned apple. The message is clear: death is preferable for women than old age. Arguably, the films that are most extreme in their sexist gerontophobia are The Brothers Grimm and Stardust. In these films the evil, old witches are played by Monica Bellucci (evil queen in The Brothers Grimm) and Michelle Pfeiffer (witch Lamia in Stardust). What makes these two witches such unforgiveable characters, and moves them to a level beyond earlier youth-obsessed women such as Norma Desmond and Baby Jane, is that these women are not fixated on restoring their youth because their careers demand it. Nor are they attempting to regain their youth to appeal to a love interest. Instead, Lamia and The Brothers Grimm evil queen wish to regain youthful beauty simply to bask in an auto-erotic narcissism. In one sequence, Lamia attains a short-lived transformation into youthful beauty (via ‘star-assisted cosmetic surgery’: Cahill 2010: 61) and blows kisses at her own mirror reflection in an unashamed act of solo-sexual pleasure. Once again, this taps into anxieties about the assumed horrors of feminism as, for both these women, men are redundant elements given that these witches appear to have no need either for masculine protection or heterosexual affection. These fairy tale films are, of course, extreme representations but they do demonstrate that the popularity of ageing femininity as horror is still holding currency. Whether represented in the caricatured witches of the fairy tale, the revision of Baby Jane lunacy in Florence Foster Jenkins or the everyday reality of the make-over television show (Heyes 2007; Ringrose and Walkerdine 2008), the concept of feminine ageing as a horror in itself is still discursively constructed by contemporary media.

Older Women as a Social ‘Problem’ Chivers is correct to argue that ‘Hollywood receives and deserves much blame for a broader cultural shift to “youth” as an object of desire’ (2011: p. xv). Nevertheless, mainstream cinema did not actually create these anxieties; it merely replicated them and helped to perpetuate them. Arguably, anxieties about ageing femininity can be found throughout history, so that even writings from ancient Greece may be read as 16

Introduction demonstrating disgust towards ageing (Segal 2014: 41). However, contemporary Western culture’s anxiety about the older person (the older woman in particular) can be seen to have increased in the midtwentieth century due to the social destruction caused by the atrocities of two world wars (see Nicholson 2008). The loss of so many male soldiers (many of whom were husbands and fathers) shattered the family support system by leaving many women, in prefeminist society, without the financial and emotional support of their husbands and/or fathers. As such, older people – especially older women – ‘began to be perceived as social problems’ (Williams, quoted in Blaikie 1997: 637) and a burden on the state. As Williams argues, ‘This perception informed and directed much of the picturing of older people that was to appear over the next 30 years’ (ibid.) so that ‘old age was seen throughout the twentieth century as a “social problem”’ (Johnson 2005: 567; see also McIntyre 1977 and Pratt 1976). One film text from the 1950s, that represented this growing postwar anxiety about ageing, was the underrated British comedy Genevieve (dir. Cornelius 1953). Often classified as an Ealing comedy (given the scriptwriting and directorial team) Genevieve represented the London – Brighton veteran car run (in which enthusiasts of vintage cars drive from London to Brighton) and followed the humorous ordeals of a young couple, Alan and Wendy McKim, driving their vintage car called Genevieve. On the return journey to London, the McKims decide to have a race with another couple and the rest of the film represents their silly feud as they struggle to be the first couple across London Bridge. Genevieve was Janus-like in its ideology in that it featured female characters who were both attempting to embrace proto-feminism but eventually returned to dutiful housewife roles as they cheered on their husbands at the end of the race (Geraghty 2000: 164). Like many 1950s comedies, the politics of heteronormativity were stamped heavily in the narrative and Genevieve codes the married couple (Mr and Mrs McKim) as the heroes of the film who should win the race against the unmarried couple (see Porter 2001). However, Genevieve is particularly noteworthy for the way it represented the 1950s anxiety about ageing. In one of the funniest sequences in the film, the McKims learn that they are unable to stay at the Brighton hotel of their choice and instead must suffer the horrors of a

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Ageing Femininity dilapidated, dingy guesthouse – ironically titled The Grand Palace. This hotel is coded as the sort of boarding house where elderly people stay as permanent residents; a seaside B&B where old people go to die. Indeed, the room which the McKims are ‘fortunate’ to get is only free because its permanent resident died last week. One of the most memorable moments in Genevieve is the horrified look on Wendy McKim’s face as she watches one of the hotel residents – a tiny, ancient woman (Edie Martin) – hobble down the stairs with what appears to be bottles of medicine or, more likely, booze tucked under her arm (Figure I.3). The sequence suggests that being forced to stay, even for one night, with people of this generation is truly terrifying. Even more gerontophobic is the way the older people function as a metonym for the abject horror of the hotel. This B&B only offers hot water for a couple of hours in the day and the McKims’ bedroom is so filthy that it should be condemned rather than let to paying guests. Most importantly, while the squalor of the bedroom is coded as horrific for the young McKims it was deemed quite acceptable for the older woman who languished there until she died the week before. Although the narrative

Figure I.3 Little old woman (Edie Martin) as a symbol of the hotel’s dilapidation and filth in Genevieve.

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Introduction makes it clear that the woman who lived in this squalid bedroom was deaf, and so was not perturbed by the thundering sound of the tower clock booming outside, this does not explain why it was deemed acceptable for her to live in such abject filth. In this respect, the film conflates the age of the hotel residents with the dilapidation of the hotel itself and couches both in a discourse of squalor which must be abjected to the margins of society. Certainly, the fleeting image of the tiny, ancient woman, clutching desperately her bottles of whisky and gin, is an example of the other stereotype in films which is equally popular as the ‘ageing female grotesque’: the ‘senile old fool’ or ‘dotty dear’. As opposed to the monstrosity of the Baby Jane character, this body is conveniently contained within the rhetoric of the ‘politics of pity’ – a representational strategy often found within the history of disability iconography. This body does not demonstrate the aggression and anger of the ‘ageing female grotesque’ but is a softer image of ‘endearing’ dottiness and, in many ways, is closer to the established Medical Model of Age which delineates age in terms of ‘frailty’. (In Western medicine, the subject is deemed frail not because of calendar years but because of the subject’s ability to function within social circumstances: see Walston 2016.) This stereotype signifies the idea of older bodies being in their ‘second childhood’ and thus requiring the care and protection usually afforded to children. It is interesting that the ‘dotty dear’ is often wedged into the narrative to provide a moment of comic relief in which a lull in plot suspense is solved by introducing a confused, elderly woman who serves no other purpose than being the comic interlude – akin to the tradition of the Shakespearian fool. Another excellent example of this narrative conceit is the British comedy Clockwise (dir. Morahan 1986) in which Brian Stimpson (John Cleese) misses his train connection to an important conference and spends the rest of the film trying to arrange alternative, and highly unsuccessful, means of transport. During moments of comedic lull, three borderline-certifiable, older women are dropped into the narrative as a source of comedy in themselves. The purple-rinsed Joan Hickson serves no other narrative function than to provide some moments of comic relief in the build up towards the arrival of Stimpson at the conference. Like Genevieve, Clockwise is a film that is concerned with the importance of maintaining time and progress and the image of racing transport can be read as a metaphor for the speed of change in

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Ageing Femininity contemporary culture. The inclusion of the older women in both films, for whom time seems to have stood still, is yet another example of Russo’s ‘scandal of anachronism’. These women are funny not only because they are removed from the ‘real’ world but serve as a humorous warning of what may happen to the younger bodies if they ever permit old age to dislodge them from contemporary cultural agendas. Related to the stereotype of the ‘dotty dear’ is the third stereotype of ageing femininity identified by Elizabeth Markson: the ‘disintegrating ill or dying female body’ (2003: 95). This is a popular character in entertainment narratives as it contains the ageing female body within acceptable tropes of feminine powerlessness and vulnerability. As Mark Gallagher argues (2009), the stereotype of the older woman dying in a hospital has even become a popular motif in contemporary action cinema and superhero films because the older woman’s frailty serves as a defining other to further enhance the masculine power of the hero. The (super)hero returns to his masculine duties because of the need to protect powerless women like the bedridden, elderly female. Nevertheless, although the stereotype of the ‘dotty dear’ and ‘bedridden older woman’ are, arguably, not quite as offensive as the ‘ageing female grotesque’ they are still implicated in a power dynamic of containing, and nullifying, the ‘threat’ of ageing femininity. It is worth noting that this anxiety about ageing is remarkably different from many earlier discourses (especially the meta-narratives of the dominant religions) that represented old age as deserving of ‘dignity, authority and respect’ (Johnson 2005: 263). Arguably, this may not only be due to the postwar identification of older women as burdens on the state but also because people are now living longer. In earlier times, the older body would not only have been a novelty but would most probably have been someone of high social status – given that medical care would not have been as available to the poorer classes (Segal 2014: 40) – and so would have commanded respect for their social position. Certainly, in comparison to earlier generations, we now live in an era in which ageism and gerontophobia are definite social problems.

Ageism and Gerontophobia Although often used as synonyms, ageism and gerontophobia have slightly different meanings. Ageism is similar to sexism and racism in 20

Introduction that it legitimates a prejudice against a specific group, based upon a physical identification, and denies this group social, civil and cultural liberties (see Davidson 2012: 27). The term is thought to have been coined by Robert Butler (1975) and is usually identified in a shorthand way as a simple dislike of older people (Hanlon et al. 1997: 294). There are, of course, two different manifestations of ageism in society: discrimination and prejudice (Bytheway 1995, 2005). Discrimination describes when older people are denied resources, services and opportunities because of their age. As such, discrimination is social and, arguably, easier to prevent and challenge given that the law aims to protect people from all forms of discrimination – including ageism. Prejudice, on the other hand, identifies negative perceptions that are circulating in culture (such as offensive media stereotypes) and is therefore more difficult to challenge and prevent than discrimination. A ‘negative’ representation cannot be identified with the same precision as the action of denying someone a specific service because of his/her age. Gerontophobia is not a synonym for ageism as, similar to other phobias about a group of people – such as homophobia (Bersani 1996: 27) – it denotes a fear of recruitment. Arguably, gerontophobes are frightened of older people because they know that, one day, they will become a part of that group. In this respect, geronotophobia is not comparable to other forms of discrimination, such as, say, misogyny or racism. A racist might harbour ridiculous beliefs about a specific racial group but even the most stupid of racists do not hold an anxiety that, eventually, they will become part of that racial minority. Responding to these contemporary social and cultural issues, gerontology (the critical study of old age) appeals to scholars who seek to challenge the problems of ageist discrimination, prejudice and gerontophobia. While geriatrics denotes the study of age within medicine, gerontology identifies scholarship within the humanities and social sciences which aims to address how and why ageism and gerontophobia are structured in contemporary culture and society and consider ways in which they can be challenged. Two key discourses that have been proposed as a challenge to existing dynamics of ageism and gerontophobia have been the promotion of the identifications known as ‘successful ageing’ and ‘third age’.

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Ageing Femininity

‘Successful Ageing’ and ‘Third Age’ Given the general discourses of ageism and gerontophobia in contemporary culture, and the wealth of ‘negative’ images of ageing – especially ageing femininity – in film and media, it is hardly surprising that a counter discourse of ‘successful ageing’ has been created. The term ‘successful ageing’ was, arguably, coined by the sociologists John Rowe and Robert Kahn in 1997. ‘Successful ageing’ was intended as a model or a template of socio-cultural activities that older people could utilise to maintain good health. Rowe and Kahn proposed three central tenets of ‘successful ageing’: avoidance of disease, maintenance of physical activity and an engagement with wider cultural activities and social hobbies (Rowe and Kahn 1997, 1998). While this model is obviously good lifestyle advice, the problem is that this template has now become the concept of successful ageing in itself (Holstein and Minkler 2003: 789). As critics have pointed out, ‘successful ageing’ is problematic for various reasons. First, it depends upon the requirement of being physically able to engage in activities in later life. The suggestion that ageing well is dependent upon lifestyle and cultural practices may well ignore the biological realities of the body (Holstein and Minkler 2003: 794). Second, and even more importantly, the older persons may age ‘successfully’ if they have the economic and sociocultural capital with which to enjoy leisure-time pursuits. Ballroom dancing, for example, may well be identified as a good past-time for older people in that it not only promotes health via enjoyable, gentle exercise but also a friendship community in the dance club. However, this past-time requires not only economic resources but also access to specific venues that offer the activity and the socio-cultural awareness of the requirements of social interaction. It is considerably more difficult to age ‘successfully’ when someone is struggling with poverty or living in an isolated or ageist location (see Calasanti et al. 2006: 15). Another key problem with the popularity of the discourse of ‘successful ageing’ is that it raises expectations and suggests that everyone, not simply a privileged minority, can age ‘successfully’ (see Holstein and Minkler 2003: 793; Andrews 2009). Even more worrying is that the media discourse of ‘successful ageing’ tends to ‘blend imperceptibly into anti aging’ (Moody 2005: 64). As I have already pointed out, it does seem that there is now an expectation in contemporary media that women should age without the visible signs of

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Introduction ageing (Katzand Marshall 2003: 57). Obviously, this does very little to help the situation of age awareness and challenge gerontophobia. As Holstein and Minkler ask, ‘how can we respect age if we do everything in our power to deny it?’ (2003: 795). Perhaps, a more sustainable model than the concept of ‘successful ageing’ is the identification usually known as ‘third age’. This label was, arguably, popularised by Gilleard and Higgs (2000) as a way to liberate ‘ageing’ from ‘old age’ (see also Gilleard and Higgs 2002, 2005). This concept of ‘third age’ is a way of challenging existing cultural perspectives which view old age as a prelude to death. Instead, ‘third age’ is an attempt to ‘reconstruct the meaning of later life as an opportunity rather than a problem’ (Davidson 2012: 19). Therefore, while the discourse of ‘successful ageing’ runs the risk of simply being age-denial or anti-ageing, the idea of the ‘third age’ suggests an openly identified period of life that should be embraced (rather than denied) and, most importantly, be celebrated because of the new opportunities that it can offer the older person. However, this model of ‘the third age’ is also ‘an implicitly classed term’ (Twigg 2013: 144) which, like ‘successful ageing’, is dependent upon the person having the economic and socio-cultural capital to consume certain activities and practices that are deemed beneficial. It is true, of course, that many senior people do have a considerable amount of disposable money to spend on recreational and leisure pursuits (Chivers 2011: 6; Dugan 2015). Certainly, the UK’s rise in property prices has permitted many retired couples to capitalise on the sale of their family home as they downsize to a small retirement flat and enjoy the proceeds of the house sale. Many British television property programmes (Escape to the Country, A Place in the Sun and Location, Location Location) feature well-to-do older couples who are anticipating a very pleasant retirement on the monies secured not only from lucrative pension schemes but the sale of the family home. Yet, a key problem with this strategy of representation is that it has raised the expectations of old age so that the concept of ‘successful ageing’ is not just an aspiration but a veritable obligation for ageing citizens (Katz and Marshall 2003). Live up to the requirements demonstrated in the media or fail as third-agers. Although the discourse of successful ageing underpins many popular media texts, Anglophone cinema has started mobilising this concept in recent productions. Films such as Calendar Girls (dir. Cole, 2003), Roald

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Ageing Femininity Dahl’s Esio Trot (dir. Walsh, 2015), Hampstead (dir. Hopkins, 2017), Ladies in Lavender (dir. Dance, 2004), Mamma Mia! (dir. Lloyd, 2008), Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont (dir. Ireland, 2005), My Old Lady (dir. Horovitz, 2014), Philomena (dir. Frears, 2013), RED (dir. Schwentke, 2010), Quartet (dir. Hoffman, 2012), The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (dir. Madden, 2011), The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (dir. Madden, 2015), The Time of their Lives (dir. Goldby, 2017), The Queen (dir. Frears, 2006) and 45 Years (dir. Haigh, 2015) are just some examples of recent popular films that have aimed to challenge the stereotypes of the ‘ageing female grotesque’, ‘dotty dear’ and ‘bedridden older woman’ by representing characters who are poster pin-up ambassadors of ‘successful ageing’ in their ‘third age’. Certainly, these texts do privilege a specific type of older person, who conforms to a narrow identification in terms of race (the films mostly feature white protagonists), socio-economic class and political ideology, but, at the very least, these movies are raising awareness of age and challenging earlier stereotypes. Likewise, the films can be seen to challenge the reduction of age to biological essentialism or social quantification. What is deemed elderly varies throughout the film narratives, with some characters of a biological age of late 50s (self-) identified as ‘old’. This inconsistency, however, helps to emphasise that ‘old’ age is culturally and contextually mutable and cannot be socially quantified through recourse to biology. Therefore, this book is a discussion of the strategies of age affirmation found in contemporary film and television. All the film/media texts and stars analysed in the subsequent chapters are identified as ‘age affirmative cinema’ and the chapters analyse the ways in which age affirmation is coded in genre, aesthetics, narrative strategies and actors’ performance styles. Arguably, the very fact that popular cinema is now producing films that feature the older female body as the point of focalisation is remarkable given that, only a few years ago, Amir Cohen-Shalev stated correctly that ‘Too much “old age” cannot be allowed in a popular film if it is to reach the widest audience’ (2009b: 5). As recently as 15 years ago, cinema spectators would never have imagined that texts such as The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel films; Mamma Mia!, or RED would attain international success and appeal to audiences of all age groups. At this point, it would be fair to ask if we really need yet another text analysing ageing – particularly female ageing – in Anglophone cinema

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Introduction and television? This topic has been investigated by many highly respected scholars in recent years. Excellent monographs and edited collections on the subject of ageing on screen (especially earlier films from the 1960s to 1990s) have included Saints and Shrews: Women and Aging in American Popular Film (Stoddard 1983); Visions of Aging: Images of Elderly in Film (Cohen-Shalev 2009a); The Silvering Screen: Old Age and Disability in Cinema (Chivers 2011); Aging Femininities: Troubling Representations (Dolan and Tincknell 2012); The Becoming of Age: Cinematic Visions of Mind, Body and Identity in Later Life (Gravagne 2013); Aging, Performance, and Stardom: Doing Age on the Stage of Consumerist Culture (Swinnen and Stotesbury 2012); Ageing, Popular Culture and Contemporary Feminism: Harleys and Hormones (Gwynne and Whelehan 2014); Aging Heroes: Growing Old in Popular Culture (Jones and Batchelor 2015); Fade to Gray: Aging in American Cinema (Shary and McVittie 2016); and Lasting Screen Stars: Images that Fade and Personas that Endure (Bolton and Lobalzo Wright 2016). Similarly, a wealth of chapters and journal articles have been authored on the subject (Chivers 2015, 2016; Dolan 2010, 2012, 2016; Hallam 2016; Hobbs 2013; Jermyn 2013, 2014, 2016; Krainitzki 2014, 2015, 2016a, 2016b; Markson 2003; Smith 2016; Tincknell 2012; Vares 2009; Wearing 2007, 2012; Whelehan 2010; Williams 2015). What I hope to bring to the debates, however, is a slightly different angle. Not only is the book’s focus on the various aesthetic and narrative techniques of age affirmation strategies in cinema (and their socio-political importance) but it will also broaden the focus to include female characters who are not identified as hetero-feminine such as lesbians and transidentified older women. Indeed, the final chapter will even consider the representation of ageing (ef)femininity with a consideration of the similarities between older heterosexual women and ageing gay men – character types usually coded as old ‘queens’. Although this may seem a strange choice of discussion for the final chapter of this book, I hope to mobilise these debates to develop the discussion about the potential of queering the discursive and gendered construction of age. Chapters 1 and 2 will analyse the importance of cinematic genre in strategies of age affirmation story telling. Chapter 1 considers how one of the most popular genres in contemporary British cinema – the Heritage Film – has not only been considerably more sympathetic to the representation of the older woman but can be seen to draw a deliberate

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Ageing Femininity conflation between the heritage of Britain (especially its grand architecture) and the older bodies as exemplars of everything that is ‘great’ about British culture – past and present. Chapter 2, by contrast, will consider genres which traditionally have not been sympathetic to older women: the action film and the musical. Given that both these genres require the representation of bodies which, at the very least, appear capable of extreme physical actions, to maintain a sense of cultural verisimilitude, both the musical and action film have tended to exclude older characters. This chapter will analyse the various ways in which recent texts such as Mamma Mia! (dir. Lloyd 2008) and RED (dir. Schwentke 2010) have attempted to revise and negotiate this. Chapter 3 considers specific coding and performance strategies which may be read as mobilising an age affirmation sensibility. Can camp be utilised to affirm ageing and is there a specific performance strategy of age drag mobilised by contemporary stars and entertainers? Chapter 4 will consider the representation of older lesbians in contemporary cinema. Although much of the scholarship on ageing femininity has considered the hetero-feminine film character, star or entertainer, the issue of ageing for lesbians has (with the exception of Eva Krainitzki’s research: 2011, 2014, 2015, 2016a, 2016b) often been overlooked in media analyses. This chapter will consider the history of the ‘old dyke’ stereotype and how recent film texts have interrogated and challenged this representation. Chapter 5 will explore the discourses of ageing and trans-femininity. While trans identity politics are a hot topic in both academic discourse and contemporary society, how trans identification intersects with age has often been overlooked in trans studies. Finally, Chapter 6 will ‘cheat’ by considering ageing effeminacy on the screen and analyse how various film texts have challenged or reclaimed the stereotype of the ‘old queen’. As sociologists have argued, ageing gay men experience many of the same societal and cultural pressures as ageing women (see Jones and Pugh 2005) and so a comparison between the age affirmation strategies in both cinematic narratives will be an interesting final chapter for this discussion. One genre of cinema that will not be addressed in this monograph is the type of popular film labelled by Margaret Tally as the ‘older bird chick flick’ (2008). These are romantic comedies which represent the older woman as both ‘desirable and desiring subject’ (Jermyn 2012b: 38) – a character type now known as the ‘sexy oldie’ (Gott 2005). The narratives usually involve

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Introduction the older female characters rediscovering their sexuality and, despite some comedic setbacks, find this epiphany to be ‘a positive and enriching experience’ (Tally 2008: 129). Examples of this type of film have included It’s Complicated (dir. Meyers 2009), Calendar Girls (dir. Cole 2003), Last Chance Harvey (dir. Hopkins 2008) and the film which, arguably, can be identified as the birth of the genre: Something’s Gotta Give (dir. Meyers 2003). These films (especially Something’s Gotta Give) do not need any further discussion from me as they have been analysed in meticulous detail by some very insightful film critics (Jermyn 2012b, 2017; Radner 2011; Tally 2008; Wearing 2007) who have pointed out that, although these films are age-affirmative, they rely upon a representation of a specific type of white, middle-class, beautiful woman (the sort of body that is a veritable pin-up for the politics of ‘successful ageing’) and that the labour which has so obviously been invested in the creation and maintenance of these taut, well-exercised bodies is never acknowledged in the films’ narratives (Jermyn 2012b: 44). These films do mobilise the traditional romantic comedy conventions, but they also couch the role of the female character within a narrative of sustained self-improvement (so that the maintenance of her successful ageing is just another element of requisite care-of-self (see Radner 2011: 180). Similarly, the films also tend to frame the romance with a subplot of young characters in a romantic relationship which then leads into the romance of the older characters through a foregrounding of younger bodies in romantic situations – as if to prepare the audience for the eventual surprise of witnessing older characters in sexual-romantic sequences. The related ‘chick flick’ genre, identified by Hilary Radner as a ‘fashion film’ (2011), will also not be addressed in the subsequent chapters. The contemporary ‘fashion film’ includes not only documentaries which are devoted to an examination of fashion industries and fashion consumption – Iris (dir. Maysles 2014), Advanced Style (dir. Plioplyte 2014), The September Issue (dir. Cutler 2009) – but also fiction texts (such as Sex and the City: The Movie (dir. King 2008) and The Devil Wears Prada (dir. Frankel 2006)) in which the representation of clothes is one of the main pleasures for the spectator. The distinctive element about these film texts is that they have all featured women who, by Hollywood standards, are positively ‘ancient’ (Radner 2011: 158). Given that the fashion industry is ‘inherently youth-oriented’ (Twigg 2013: 11) these film texts have been

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Ageing Femininity remarkable for representing older women who not only gain a personal pleasure from fashion consumption but have their identification strengthened through their skilled negotiation of the rigours of dress and the fashion system. Advanced Style, for example, documented Ari Seth Cohen creating his much-lauded Advanced Style fashion blog which became famous for its photographs of some truly gorgeous older women (some of Cohen’s models are more than 100 years of age) in order to demonstrate that style is possible at any age. However, as Jermyn points out, as laudable as Cohen’s project may be, his very mechanism of selecting appropriate models for the photos ‘surrenders older women into the trappings and judgemental hierarchies that confine younger women and compel them to always earnestly selfcritique their appearances’ (Jermyn 2016: 580). Although Cohen’s blog is undoubtedly intended to be an ‘overt celebration’ (Jermyn 2016: 578) of older women, it ends up reinscribing older femininity (a generation which, as I have pointed out, has the possibility of enjoying freedom from gender policing regimes: Silver 2003; Greer 1991) back into the same disciplinary scheme of internalised self-surveillance (Bartky 1990: 80; Copjec 1989: 54). Similarly, the narrative of fiction ‘fashion films’ (Sex and the City and The Devil Wears Prada) may well celebrate the importance of clothes in enhancing older women’s self-esteem and identity but, as I have argued elsewhere, these films rely on a cruel narrative strategy of juxtaposing older women with their gay male sidekicks. While the older women’s consumption of fashion has the effect of making them more attractive, their gay male sidekicks’ embrace of fashion has the very opposite result (see Richardson 2012). For example, the opening sequence of Sex and the City: The Movie 2 (dir. King, 2010), represents Stanford and Anthony’s wedding in which Stanford is dressed in a very unflattering white suit which only serves to emphasise his chubby body and lack of neck. Carrie, by contrast, dons a striking crown type hat which has the effect of enhancing her sharp features and outfit. In this wedding scene, it should be the ‘bride’ (Stanford) who is represented as beautified by the clothing but instead it is Carrie who is transformed by fashion so that even Stanford (the person getting married at the wedding) has to stand back and admire Carrie’s appearance. Carrie has therefore committed the social crime of upstaging the ‘bride’ on the wedding day and the spectator should wonder if the same narrative

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Introduction would have been acceptable for the weddings of the female characters in the SATC series (Richardson 2012).

‘Affirmation’ Strategies? As I have stated already, this book will be a discussion of how the discourses of ‘successful ageing’ and ‘third age’ are narrated in popular Anglophone film and television. Although it is correct to criticise these media texts which mobilise the discourses of ‘successful ageing’ and ‘third age’ for their naïve celebration of a certain type of socio-economic class identification and sensibility, it should be remembered that in the history of all affirmation politics there has always been a particular subsection that has been deemed the appropriate ambassador of the minority group. For example, many of the earliest media images which were identified as ‘gay affirmative’ representations did feature only white, well-to-do, middleclass, handsome gay men. From the earliest films which sought to legalise homosexuality (Victim (dir. Dearden, 1961)) and legitimise gay relationships (Making Love (dir. Hiller, 1982)) to texts which raised awareness of HIV/AIDS (Longtime Companion (dir. Rene, 1989), And The Band Played On (dir. Spottiswoode, 1993)) through to gay-is-fun romantic comedies (Trick (dir. Fall, 1999), The Broken Hearts Club (dir. Berlanti, 2000), Billy’s Hollywood Screen Kiss (dir. O’Haver, 1998) and Latter Days (dir. Cox, 2003) the focus has always been on middle-class, white, handsome and masculine men. Those who were less fortunate in terms of socio-economic privilege rarely featured and, if they did, they were relegated to the margins. Most recently this debate has returned with a passion given the recent outcry about the representation of the fictionalised hero as yet another white, middle-class, masculine gay man in Stonewall (dir. Emmerich, 2015). People of colour and trans-identified bodies are, once again, relegated to the margins while the ambassador for LGBT rights is deemed to be the white, masculine, gay man. Although I have certainly been one of the writers to have criticised this type of gay affirmation narrative strategy (Richardson 2003b, 2009b; see also Hanson 1999: 9) it is important to remember that, at the very least, these texts were and are raising awareness of LGBT issues. In a similar vein, it should not be forgotten that many of the gay affirmation films were also reacting to the history of stereotypes which represented gay men either as 29

Ageing Femininity ineffectual sissies, and the object of ridicule, or as depraved, lecherous monsters who were often psychotic (see Chapter 6). In this respect, a direct comparison can be made between gay affirmation cinema and the recent age affirmation films which are trying to represent the sociological paradigms of ‘successful ageing’ and ‘third age’ on the screen and challenge the negative images of feminine ageing. While the following chapters will be highly critical of these age affirmation cinema and media texts, they will argue that these representations do challenge many of the stereotypes that have promoted and furthered ageism and gerontophobia. Given that representations in contemporary hyper-mediated society are constitutive of identification, I should hope that a discussion of age affirmation strategies in contemporary film and media will make a small contribution to gerontology and its fight against ever-increasing problems of ageism and gerontophobia.

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1 Lady Power and Gentility: The Older Woman in Contemporary Heritage Cinema

So-called ‘heritage cinema’ might even be said to be partially characterised by its inclusion of a recognisable ‘type’ of older actors reproducing particular kinds of performances which draw attention to the proficiency and scope of the actor’s craft, and which frequently involves the ritualised bestowing of awards as markers of acclaim for their performances. (Wearing 2012: 151)

The label ‘heritage cinema’ was coined by film critics to identify the British period costume dramas that were attaining popularity in the 1980s and 1990s. Largely associated with the Merchant-Ivory studio productions – especially their adaptations of E.M. Forster’s novels, such as A Room with a View (dir. Ivory, 1985), Maurice (dir. Ivory 1987) and Howard’s End (dir. Ivory, 1992) – the genre of heritage cinema is one of the most acclaimed of British cinema’s exports in recent years (Hipsky 1994) and has been a popular topic within British film studies (Dave 2006; Hall 2008; Hill 1999; Higson 2003; Monk 2012). Heritage films have received critical attention for their unique visual style and their particular vision and version of the British national past. One of the pleasures of the heritage cinema is its shots of grand architecture or beautiful landscapes, often unanchored by a specific character’s point of view, to allow the spectator the pleasure of 31

Ageing Femininity watching the grandeur of the setting as if gazing upon a painting. Andrew Higson even uses the term pictorialism (when a modern art form such as photography or film apes the paradigms of fine art) to describe the aesthetics of heritage cinema (2003). The films tend to represent Southern England as Britain while focusing on upper-middle to upper class characters who often inhabit grand country houses and/or elite institutions such as Oxford and Cambridge universities (Hill 1999: 77). Heritage cinema also makes a direct claim to the status of ‘high’ art given that they are often adaptations of great novels and feature classically trained actors who have been celebrated for their achievements in theatre (Geraghty 2002; Wearing 2012: 151). Similarly, heritage films are read as type of more ‘accessible’ art cinema (not mainstream but not quite European art cinema) in that it adheres to the principles of classical narration but focuses on a group of characters, rather than a protagonist, and is a highly episodic story in which the narrative is often fragmented by the pictorialist pleasures of architecture, landscape or even period costume (Hill 1999: 78). There is always an avoidance of physicality and action and a focus on characterisation, longer speeches and the foregrounding of the acting skill of the classically trained actors. Christine Geraghty (2002) argues that there is even a particular acting style associated with heritage cinema in which emotion is always expressed through small gestures which, in another film context, may seem insignificant. This style of acting – a performance of emotion conveyed through intellect – is undoubtedly one of the key pleasures for the spectator of heritage films. Therefore, in contrast to Hollywood, heritage emphasises its adherence to restraint and, instead of action sequences and fast-moving montages, the cinema’s pictorialism offers slow-moving sequences in which the beauty of the setting and the style of acting is the allure for the spectator. In recent years the genre of heritage cinema has evolved and its films have now been identified by a number of critics as ‘post heritage’ (Church Gibson 2002; Vidal 2012, 2014). Pamela Church Gibson argues that one of the first texts to do this was Elizabeth (dir. Kapur, 1998). This film not only reworked the genre (this was heritage cinema mixed with action thriller) but altered the visual codes. The mise-en-scène lacked the fastidious period detail of earlier heritage and featured deliberately anachronistic elements which aimed to create a sense of generalised ‘history’ rather than historical verisimilitude. The settings themselves often appeared staged or fabricated

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Lady Power and Gentility and the cinematography featured extreme close ups; bird’s eye shots; tracking shots and unrealistic noir-ish lighting (Church Gibson 2002: 136). (Other successors could, arguably, include Hollywood revisions of heritage with Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette (2006) offering a distinct steam punk aesthetic.)

What is Heritage? The concept of heritage itself first appeared in the 1980s when it became apparent that the museum and gallery industries were big business in the UK (Hewison 1987). By the mid 1980s the number of museums and galleries was double that of 1960 and visits to museums and galleries totalled 74 million (see Hewison 1987; Waterton and Watson 2010. The growth in heritage industry was partly due to Thatcherite politics – and could even be viewed as a ‘significant part of new enterprise culture’ (Hill 1999: 73) – but also as an element of global developments in postmodernity in which tourism had become the new industry to replace Fordist mass production. In post-modern culture, the sale of images had replaced the marketing of physical objects (Baudrillard 1983). The growing popularity of heritage industries could be explained in socio-cultural terms as well in that this interest in the past gave people a sense of identity and belonging in a time when the speed of life was creating a sense of destabilisation and fragmentation in once established communities. Arguably, heritage culture offered a sanctuary in a past in which the problems of contemporary culture did not exist (Hill 1999: 74 – 5). Yet, this love of heritage was not a naïve longing for the past but a highly self-aware and ludic nostalgia (Higson 2014; see also Davis 1979). Stuart Cosgrove describes heritage industry as a type of ‘hyper history’ in that it is ‘a processed history rather than a history of social process’ (quoted in Hill 1999: 76). In this respect, a country house is not so much an archaeological find as an element of performative history in which the antiques of the house may well be combined with a fabricated tea room on the estate grounds which serves an ‘authentic’ Edwardian afternoon tea to the visitors. As such, heritage is emblematic of the ludic playfulness that is so characteristic of post-modern culture. However, while heritage is a cultural agenda that was promoted by globalisation and the newly created tourist industry, it is, paradoxically, 33

Ageing Femininity both supporting and rejecting the global ‘village’. British heritage may be embracing post-modernity but it is also retreating from it through its exaltation of earlier eras of British Empire. Ironically, an industry that has been facilitated by post-modern culture creates images which eschew any sense of post-modern identification. Indeed, it is heritage’s lauding of the ‘glory’ days of the British Empire that has supported the argument that heritage cinema of the 1980s may be read as an allegory for Thatcherite politics – if not even a constitutive element of Thatcherism. Certainly, in her early days, Mrs Thatcher’s campaign stressed how she wished to make Britain great again and voiced an explicit nostalgia for the ‘glory days’ of the British Empire and a return to old-fashioned Victorian moral values. Not only can heritage cinema be read as nostalgia for the lost days of the Empire but it can also be interpreted as a metaphor for the other key tenet of Thatcherite politics: enterprise. Thatcherism’s lack of support for public services such as education, but encouragement for private enterprise, may be interpreted in many of the narratives of heritage films. For example, in Chariots of Fire (dir. Hudson, 1981) the lead character’s employment of a personal trainer, to assist him in his preparation for the race, may be read as a metaphor of the importance of private enterprise (Hill 1999: 26 –7). While the film is set in the educational environment of Cambridge, the film’s focus is on the neoliberal agenda of self-improvement for the race rather than the pursuit of higher learning in the university. Critics, however, are divided on how to read heritage cinema. On one level, these films may be read as a wilful revisioning of the past, filtered through conservative Thatcherite ideologies and politics of personal enterprise. Yet, on the other hand, heritage cinema offers nuanced texts which may be read as undermining and challenging many conservative ideologies. Claire Monk has argued that heritage films may be viewed as satires that are mocking the regimes of patriarchal social class and emphasising how issues of love and friendship are much more important than identifications of race, ethnicity or class (1995: 122). Similarly, like the heritage industry itself, the films may represent England but this is often a highly self-reflexive and obviously constructed Englishness (Monk 1995: 120) which is as much as sense of hyper-heritage as the ‘Victorian’ tea room that serves its ‘authentic’ tea to the visitors of the stately home. The opening sequence of Chariots of Fire, for example, represents the easily

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Lady Power and Gentility recognisable beach of St Andrews in Scotland while the narrative voiceover identifies it as Kent. Yet, as Andrew Higson (2003) has emphasised, making definitive readings of heritage cinema are highly problematic given the genre’s deliberate ambivalence in its coding. Often a key problem with heritage narrative is that there is a tension between the ideology of the story and the luscious spectacle of the mise-en-scène. For example, Forster’s novel Maurice was a critique of the oppressive regimes of Edwardian society and the hetero-patriarchal culture of Cambridge University which stifled the expression of love between Maurice and Clive. However, in the film adaptation, the mise-en-scène represents the institutions of oppression, such as Cambridge University and country houses, as so visually enticing that the spectacle, arguably, undermines the political message of the story (Hill 1999: 86). Similarly, the motor car was something which Forster despised – reading it as the symbol of industrialisation and modernity. Forster’s novel Howard’s End features a horrid description of the car running over a helpless cat. Yet, in the film, the period car becomes simply another fetishised element of the gorgeous Edwardian landscape and so Forster’s critique of this symbol of modernity is eclipsed by the beauty of visual image (Hill 1999: 85 –6). Nevertheless, despite the film texts’ ambivalence, some critics have argued that these films represent progressive ideologies in relation to gender and sexuality politics and the representation of some minority groups. Claire Monk, one of the most respected critics of heritage cinema, has pointed out that the films are distinguished from other mainstream film texts by their foregrounding of female sexuality and, most importantly, female desire (1995, 1997). Not only does heritage cinema address the issue of women’s romantic fulfilment but the cinematic gaze is often a hetero-feminine one in which beautiful, male bodies are objectified on the screen (Monk 1995: 120; 1997). While full male nudity is still rare in Hollywood, it has often featured within heritage films (Monk 1997). Similarly, Richard Dyer has argued that this objectification of beautiful men also appeals to the gay male spectator and, more importantly, that the films themselves, such as Maurice and Wilde (dir. Gilbert 1997), address issues of homoerotic desire and societal problems such as homophobia (Dyer 2004a; see also Michael Williams 2006). In Maurice, for example, the male –male sexual pleasure is coded as beautiful and passionate in

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Ageing Femininity comparison to the uninspired heterosexual love scenes (Bruzzi 2009: 135). Given that heritage films are also read as highly conservative texts (extended allegories for Thatcherism), the foregrounding of these issues is remarkable – especially for the 1980s. Most importantly, if heritage cinema has been praised for its foregrounding of hetero-female and gay male desire, it is also a space in which older characters – in particular older women – have attained a certain affirmation not found in other mainstream films (Wearing 2012). Therefore, I should argue that, in addition to the stylistic changes identified in post-heritage cinema (Church Gibson 2002), there has been a further thematic development: the age affirmation heritage film. In recent years, some film texts have synthesised the visual pleasures of heritage aesthetics with narratives that affirm the importance of old age. Recent examples of such age affirmation heritage films have included The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel franchise (The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (dir. Madden 2001) and The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (dir. Madden 2015)), Quartet (dir. Hoffman 2012), Ladies in Lavender (dir. Dance 2004) and The Queen (dir. Frears 2006).

Older Women and Heritage Although the development of this new subgenre of age affirmation heritage-looking cinema is relatively new, older bodies have certainly always featured in heritage cinema. Arguably, the film which really emphasised the importance of older characters in the genre – especially older females – was Franco Zeffirelli’s Tea with Mussolini (1997). Starring Dame Maggie Smith, Dame Judi Dench and Dame Joan Plowright, Tea with Mussolini is a semi-biographical film inspired by Zeffirelli’s own experiences of being taught and guided by a group of older, ex-pat English ladies residing in Florence at the start of World War II: Lady Hester (Maggie Smith), Arabella (Judi Dench) and Mary (Joan Plowright). These English ladies look after a young boy called Luca whose mother is deceased and whose father does not wish to care for him. These elderly English women introduce Luca to art, literature and music and, most importantly, provide an alternative family and sense of emotional support for the orphaned boy. Like all heritage films, Tea with Mussolini is a textually rich film in which the pictorialist representations of Florence 36

Lady Power and Gentility offer visual pleasures to the spectator. Many sequences do little to further the narrative but simply offer the joy of gazing upon beautiful Florentine piazzas, Italian art and architecture. One key motif of the film, however, is the conflation of the older female bodies with the heritage of Italy. One important plotline is how the English women restore an Italian church fresco and, at the end of the film, even protect it from the Nazis who wish to destroy it. Throughout the film, colour is used to link the older women to the fresco as their clothing, which is usually sombre and dark, will contain at least one element which echoes the dominant colours of the fresco (see Figure 1.1). Developing the theme within much heritage art and photography of representing older people as ‘examplars of all that was good about the nation’s past’ (Blaikie 1997: 629), Tea with Mussolini asks that the respect which heritage enthusiasts give to older buildings should also be accorded to older bodies. Similarly, the elderly ladies’ education of Luca always emphasises how artistic expression can elevate the mind beyond the aggression of warfare and masculine strivings for power. In an early

Figure 1.1 Mary Wallace (Joan Plowright) in Tea with Mussolini.

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Ageing Femininity scene, Luca is supposed to return to the orphanage from which he ran away. The camera offers the boy’s point of view in which the orphanage resembles a prison and the orphans, marching in lines, anticipate the future sequences of the Nazis patrolling the streets. The cinematography of this sequence is then reworked in a later scene when Arabella (Judi Dench) introduces Luca to the art gallery. In this scene, the spectator is once again offered Luca’s point of view but this time the boy’s view is not held at a low angle but instead the camera rises in a crane shot – thus suggesting how the boy’s mind is now elevated by the beauty of the art which can release the soul from captivity (see Figures 1.2 and 1.3). Although Tea with Mussolini is to be admired for its visual style and beauty, the ideology of coding the older female body as representative of knowledge, wisdom and, most importantly, heritage is, arguably, the most striking element of the film. Not only does the film conflate the older female body with the artistic heritage of Italy but it suggests that their appreciation of this art is a form of political resistance against masculine

Figure 1.2 The orphanage in Tea with Mussolini.

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Lady Power and Gentility

Figure 1.3 An art gallery in Florence in Tea with Mussolini.

oppression. In doing so, it represents a particular performance of gentility as something which facilitates feminine empowerment.

Gentility and Lady Power Gentility stems from the Middle English ‘gentilesse’ and was originally deemed an innate attribute of a person of ‘birth’. One of the first to query this was the author Geoffrey Chaucer who represented gentility as ‘dependent not on birth but on behaviour and manners’ (Saul 1992: 47). In Chaucer’s discourse ‘true gentility is thus a gift of grace, not of birth’ (Dempster 1942: 175). As such, gentility became a middle-class concern and was the way the middle classes would performatively assert their identification. Most importantly, while gentility was originally gender neutral (Ariel praised Prospero for his gentility in Shakespeare’s The Tempest) it would evolve to become a feminine preserve (Lawrence 2012). While chivalry 39

Ageing Femininity would continue to be a masculine sensibility (A. Davis 2003), gentility was feminised although, arguably, it still exists in non-gendered activities such as ‘genteel discourse’. Diane Lawrence, one of the leading scholars of gentility, has argued that gentility was ‘a system of values’ and ‘a highly nuanced form of knowledge’ (2012: 3) which, most importantly, was commanded by middle-class women. Lawrence emphasises four important elements that constitute feminine gentility. First, gentility was signified by restraint. This was not only an adherence to a specific set of values but a demonstration of feminine modesty and, as such, connoted a ‘strong moral aspect’ (Lawrence 2012: 3 and see also Skeggs 1997). Second, gentility was performative in that feminine gentility was constituted by a variety of acts and gestures which required continual iteration in order to support its identification (Lawrence 2012: 3). Third, gentility was implicitly connected to issues of consumption and taste (in the Bourdieu (2010) sense of the word) and, as such, required a certain amount of economic capital to establish this identification (Lawrence 2012: 4 –5). Finally, gentility was a key element within discourses of cultural power in colonial Britain. As Lawrence argues, gentility may have been a desirable identification in England but ‘across the British Empire the ideology acquired additional value and purpose’ because ‘in colonial sites it invariably fell to the woman to establish a cultural aesthetic, to lay down markers in new or uncertain landscapes’ (2012: 5). Therefore, the British middle-class colonial lady, who was often overlooked within historical accounts of the British Empire, may well have exerted as much influence in shaping cultural regimes throughout the Empire as the rule of law commanded by the British officer. As Lawrence argues, the ‘influence and power of gentility’ (2012: 5) should not be overlooked. Tea with Mussolini brings this issue to the forefront of its narrative by representing a cultural war between the machismo of the Axis powers and the feminine gentility of the English ladies. Of course, in doing so, the film (like most heritage cinema) glosses over the actual political and economic issues of the time and, rather than representing the English woman as obstinate and foolish for remaining in Italy at the outbreak of World War II (the worst element of British imperial arrogance), codes them as heroic. One of the ideological conflations of the film, which represents the women as war heroes rather than snobby and dogmatic fools, is the suggestion that an appreciation of classical art is intrinsically linked to gentility. Therefore,

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Lady Power and Gentility gentility is not represented as misguided, or irrelevant and trivial snobbery, but as an ideologically cohesive element of society. The sentimental ending, in which the ladies are willing to sacrifice their own lives to defend the art contained within the Italian church (they tie themselves to the walls of the church to prevent the Nazis from blowing it up), codes gentility not as archaic snobbery but as political resistance. Most importantly, throughout Tea with Mussolini a particular type of ‘lady power’ is demonstrated in which the ex-pat women wield the codes of gentility as a type of cultural weaponry. When the ladies are taken into captivity, after Italy’s entrance into World War II, they insist that the Italian officers always follow protocol in their daily activities. This is not coded as a trivial and irritating adherence to unnecessary regimes or obsolete manners but as the women challenging the power and control of their prison guards. Lady Hester’s insistence that the soldiers may not enter the room without first knocking politely at the door and, when leaving that they should wish the ladies goodnight, causes a shift in the power structures of the room so that the male gaolers now become captive by cultural regimes of manners. The ladies may be physically gaoled, but they now hold the men as prisoners of protocol. In this respect, the performative gestures of gentility are not being used to contain and control femininity but have been reversed to offer a feminine means of challenging aggressive masculinity. This challenge to chauvinist masculinity continues in the film’s queering of hetero-feminine relationships. The inclusion of the openly lesbian identified, American archaeologist Georgie (Lily Tomlin) (one of the few characters who is not based on an actual person) not only emphasises that the English ladies are not homophobic but also functions as the symbol of the alternative family unit formed by the older women. If the Italian army is represented as all-male, macho, disrespectful, misogynist (and presumably homophobic) then the genteel ladies are liberal and inclusive. In this respect, the film narrative elides the conservative gender politics which would have been implicit in colonial regimes of feminine gentility. Yet, like all heritage films, there is a deliberate ambivalence in its ideology. While, on the one hand, the film is lauding the importance of female friendship and the power of traditional femininity, the inclusion of Lady Hester’s grandson provides an alternative reading from the film’s

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Ageing Femininity sensibility of feminine empowerment. To avoid being taken to a prisoner of war camp, Hester’s young grandson (Wilfrid) cross-dresses and pretends to be Lucy so that he can live in the more comfortable gaol with the older women. However, the emotional and psychological pressures of transgender identification prove to be too much for Wilfrid and eventually he rips off the female clothes and flees the building. It is later revealed that Wilfrid has become a key member of the resistance and is instrumental in taking people to safety. This narrative progression may be read as making a comment upon the limited power of femininity – whether genteel or not – as it is only through the renunciation of femininity that Wilfrid is able to join the ‘actual’ resistance and effect some change. Nevertheless, Tea with Mussolini remains a remarkable film in its foregrounding of older femininity on the screen and its suggestion that oldfashioned, feminine gentility is not only a metonym of high art and culture but a politically effective form of civilised disobedience to tyrannical (masculine) rule. Tea with Mussolini is, of course, set at the outbreak of World War II but more recent heritage cinema, set in contemporary culture, has also suggested that this particular type of older ‘lady power’ is a key element within a certain strand of postfeminist identification.

The Queen: Older Feminine Gentility as Postfeminist? Postfeminism is a baggy monster and continues to inspire debate within gender studies (see Brooks 1997; Brunsdon 2013; Gill 2007, 2016; Gill and Scharff 2011; McRobbie 2004, 2009). Contemporary postfeminism is, arguably, a ‘sensibility’ (Gill 2007) rather than an organised political movement and, in many ways, is constituted by certain discourses articulated in contemporary Anglophone films and television dramas (Gwynne and Muller 2013; Nash and Whelehan 2017; Negra 2009; Tasker and Negra 2007; Radner 2011; Schreiber 2014). Postfeminism has been viewed as a complex backlash against second wave feminism in which the achievements of feminism are acknowledged only then to be identified as out of date and irrelevant (McRobbie 2009: 12); a reclamation of traditional feminine iconography (Moseley 2002); an exaltation of ‘choice’ (but often this choice is little more than the right to consume copious amounts of luxury goods: Gill 2007; Negra 2008) and, perhaps most importantly, an 42

Lady Power and Gentility ‘ironic’ awareness of contemporary sexism (Gill 2007: 159–61; MacDonald 1995: 100). Arguably, this is one of the most upsetting elements of postfeminist sensibility in that sexist, if not even misogynist, rhetoric and discourse is permitted if it is laced with post-modern irony. In this respect, a postfeminist identification is very much the privilege of well-educated (usually heterosexual and white) women who are able to maintain an ironic stance to contemporary culture because they are fortunate enough to live in sophisticated societies which ‘get’ the joke (Richardson and Wearing 2014: 29–32). Perhaps most relevant for this discussion, postfeminism also tends to maintain a focus on youthful femininity and an ‘ironic’ celebration of prefeminist gender roles. Postfeminist women can embrace traditional feminine domesticity as their ‘choice’. Although often viewed as an Anglo-American sensibility, the British context of postfeminism brings a specific angle to these debates. First, there is the strand of ‘ladette-ism’ (sometimes described as ‘girl power’ – à la Spice Girls) within British postfeminist sensibility. Ladette-ism can be described as young women’s response to the culture of ‘new laddism’ (Whelehan 2000) in which young women adopted laddish behaviour of drinking too much and celebrating vulgarity. Many of the tenets of ‘ladette’ culture – boisterousness, overt sexuality and an aggressive assertion of a woman’s right to masculine impropriety – were not only young women claiming a right to male ‘badness’ but were also reactions to the perceived restraints of second wave feminism (Smith 2013: 143). Justin Ashby argues that, in British cinema, a film such as Bend It Like Beckham (dir. Chadha 2002) may be read as an exemplary ‘ladette’ or ‘girl power’ movie, framing a rite of passage narrative within an ‘upbeat, postfeminist idiom’ (Ashby 2005: 130). Yet, as Angela Smith argues, British postfeminism is not characterised solely by its sensibilities of ‘girl power’ and ‘ladette’ culture but, paradoxically, is also commensurate with ‘a resurgence of a form of traditional femininity in the middle-class ‘lady’ mould’ (Smith 2013: 139). Smith labels this paradigm of postfeminism as ‘lady power’ (141). Makeover shows such as What Not to Wear (UK 2001 – 7) and Ladette to Lady (UK 2005 – 10) aimed to impose a specific type of middle-class femininity on unruly, working-class women as this is identified as more socioculturally empowering than the ladette’s claim to masculine boisterousness and impropriety (Smith 2013: 139). This is an unusual and, arguably, very

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Ageing Femininity British element in postfeminist sensibility, given that the make-over sensibility (a key tenet within postfeminist culture: see Gill 2007; Jermyn 2016) has tended to focus on a revision of feminine iconography – usually with the goal of promoting an appearance of girlishness. Indeed, as Deborah Jermyn speculates (2016: 574), postfeminism’s obsession with a perceived youthfulness is, arguably, one of the connections that it holds with earlier feminism, given that second wave feminism also had a preoccupation with young femininity (Woodward 1999: p. xi). Similarly, postfeminist cinema and television also promote the idea of girlishness as something that is desirable and empowering (Schreiber 2014: 22; Groeneveld 2009; Jackson and Westropp 2010). As Smith has proposed, British postfeminism may celebrate girlishness but it is also able to embrace a return to middle-class feminine restraint which, most importantly, is dictated by older women. What Not to Wear (UK 2001 – 7) and Ladette to Lady (UK 2005 –10) narrate how younger women must learn from older advisors. It is this return to middle-class feminine decorum which can be seen to shape various discourses in contemporary British popular culture. It would be possible to argue that recent British cinema has not only represented older female actors in leading roles in order to appeal to older audiences but has represented these characters as the embodiment of a type of ‘old-fashioned’ femininity which can even be read as an element of postfeminism’s ‘ironic’ embrace of traditional gender ideologies. Of the films identified already, arguably The Queen (2006) is the best example of a text exalting a particular brand of postfeminist ‘Lady Power’. Set at the time of Princess Diana’s death, The Queen was an attempt to articulate Queen Elizabeth’s response to the mass hysteria surrounding the death (see Turnock 2000) and to challenge many of the public perceptions held about the royal family’s treatment of the ‘People’s Princess’. The film represents the relationship, and eventual friendship, between Queen Elizabeth and Tony Blair who, at the time of Diana’s death, had only just been elected Prime Minister. Like all heritage cinema, The Queen offers the pictorialist pleasures of grand architecture and sweeping landscapes but, like contemporary heritage, is considerably more ironic and self-referential than earlier examples of the genre. Most importantly, the film was an attempt to revise the public perception of Princess Diana as the innocent victim of the cruel machinations of the royal family. In one key sequence,

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Lady Power and Gentility news footage of Diana’s famous statement of how she would like to be a ‘queen of people’s hearts’ cuts to an image of Queen Elizabeth watching this on television while dressed in her fluffy, pink dressing gown and slippers. As Josephine Dolan points out, the iconography is designed to challenge the victim status usually attributed to Diana by representing the princess as a ‘calculating, celebrity divorcee’ while the Queen, usually deemed the oppressive matriarch in the relationship, is depicted as an ‘ordinary, slightly fragile old lady’ (Dolan 2012: 56) – a stereotypical grandmother type in dressing gown and slippers. While public perception had often read Diana as the caring and compassionate member of the royal family, the film strains to revise this by equating the Queen’s sense of public duty with maternal care or ‘keen grandmotherly responsibility’ (Dolan 2012: 57) – thus conflating the idea of the Queen’s love for her family with love for the British public – while representing Diana as only caring about herself. In one of the key speeches of the film, the Queen – in words which could have been spoken by Laura Jesson from Brief Encounter (dir. Lean 1945) – stresses the importance of caring for her grandchildren, and grieving in a private, restrained manner, rather than dashing to London to take part in some ‘circus’ of public mourning. The film’s miseen-scène (in a fashion similar to Tea with Mussolini) even conflates this sensibility of feminine restraint and decorum with the paradigms of art by associating the Queen with paintings (‘fine’ art) while Diana is linked to grainy televisual images in MTV-style editing (Merck 2013). However, a key aspect of postfeminism is its irony or, as I have even labelled it in other representations, campness (Richardson 2006a) so that this sensibility of ‘old-fashioned’ femininity is not didactic in the film text but represented with obvious self-referentiality. An important element in this irony is the casting of Helen Mirren in the role of Queen Elizabeth (Dolan 2012; Merck 2013; Vidal 2012). Dame Helen Mirren not only connotes quality acting (like Dames Dench and Smith, Mirren is deemed a master of the craft) but, unlike other women of her age, Mirren is also associated with ‘rebellious sexiness’ (Merck 2013: 157) given her famous theatrical role in Miss Julie and, more recently, her roles in the films Calendar Girls and RED (dir. Schwentke, 2010) (Wearing 2012; Vares 2009). (See Chapter 2 for further discussion of Mirren’s roles in recent action cinema.) Watching The Queen, the spectator is always aware that this is sexy Helen Mirren dressed in the fuddy-duddy pink dressing gown, clutching

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Figure 1.4 Helen Mirren as Queen Elizabeth in The Queen.

a hot water bottle to her chest and articulating such old fashioned ideologies (Figures 1.4 and 1.5). This sense of self-referentiality is emphasised from the very opening sequence which represents Queen Elizabeth sitting for a portrait. At the end of this sequence, the Queen, dressed in full robes, turns and gazes directly into the camera (in the type of Brechtian action often associated with Tilda Swinton: Richardson 46

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Figure 1.5 Helen Mirren looking glamorous on the red carpet.

2009b: 129), thus foregrounding the actor performing the role. This element of irony is also emphasised in the portrait sequence by casting Earl Cameron (famous for his roles in 1950s racial melodramas – notably Sapphire (dir. Dearden, 1959)) as the painter Mr Crawford. Crawford is chatting with the Queen about the appointment of Blair as Prime Minster and he articulates a reluctance to see Great Britain ‘modernise’ because, in his opinion, Britain is in danger of losing all that is great about the nation. By giving the words of anti-modernisation to an actor whose film characters have suffered extreme racism is, yet again, another attempt by the film to ‘soften’ its ideology of old-fashioned traditionalism. The two characters who hark back to days of restraint and conservatism are the Queen (played by rebelliously sexy Mirren) and Crawford (performed by an actor whose film roles have shown how cruel and racist 1950s conservative Britain could be). It is this double signification, this playfulness, which takes the sting out of postfeminist ideologies (MacDonald 1995: 100) and permits a film text to articulate gender politics which are, arguably, very regressive. Most importantly, the casting of Mirren draws attention to the issue that age is not a matter of innate biology but is as much cultural as it is physical. Mirren is now roughly the same age as Queen Elizabeth was at the time of Diana’s death. Therefore, while The Queen represents Queen Elizabeth as a frail and elderly woman, this feeble grandmother is played by 47

Ageing Femininity a woman of comparable age who is far from desexualised and elderly. The casting of Mirren signifies that age is a matter of culture, performatively constituted by iterative acts, rather than a biological imperative. (I discuss how Mirren’s deliberate play with the performative identification of age is a key element in her recent film roles in considerably more detail in Chapter 2.)

Postfeminist Imperialism? This chapter has argued that some recent films, usually classed as examples of the British Heritage genre, can be identified as age affirmation narratives in the way they deliberately conflate older femininity with the paradigms of traditional heritage iconography. Exalting the older women as an element of fetishised ‘heritage’, the films have depicted these characters as a cipher for a particular old-fashioned sensibility of British feminine gentility which is represented as morally important and politically influential. I have proposed that this celebration of old-fashioned femininity may even be read as a tenet of contemporary British postfeminism labelled by Angela Smith as ‘lady power’. Yet, an alternative reading could interpret these representational strategies as attempting to achieve two very different agendas from the ones I have discussed. First, the conflation of older bodies with heritage iconography may not simply be an exaltation of older people as exemplars of the greatness of Britain but may be read as a means of masking the actual lived realities of old age. Quartet, for example, is a film which is emphatically age affirmative but could also be criticised for appropriating heritage iconography in order to disguise many of the possible lived realities of old age. The screengrab of Quartet below features the iconic symbol of the heritage genre – the grand country house – in the background to the older bodies who live there (Figure 1.6). Unlike the narratives of earlier heritage films, this mansion is not a grand country estate but a retirement home for musicians. The suggestion is that the older people are as much an element of the heritage of Britain as the grand house and so both should be celebrated. Beecham House may have the appearance of heritage country estate but it is a retirement home for musicians and so the film is not only drawing a deliberate equation between the heritage grandeur of Britain and older 48

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Figure 1.6 Heritage aesthetics in Quartet suggesting a parallel between the celebrated grand architecture and its residents – Sissy (Pauline Collins) and Jean (Maggie Smith).

people but also the great British tradition of classical music performed by these older musicians. The film emphasises this through its deliberate confusion of diegetic and non-diegetic music. In several sequences it becomes apparent that music, which initially seemed to be non-diegetic, was being heard by characters within the film text. On one level this is merely to emphasise the importance of music for these characters – their lives are music – but it is also to remind the spectator of the social and emotional importance of these beautiful recitals of classical music performed by the (older) musicians. We are fortunate to have such a wonderful heritage of music in Britain because of musicians like these. (See Chapter 2 for further analysis of the use of musical performance in Quartet.) However, while music critics lauded Quartet for its celebration of opera and for offering ‘no egregiously incorrect statements about music’ (Kosovsky 2012: 65) film reviewers were, understandably, rather less enthusiastic and felt that Quartet was too intent on cloaking the harsh realities of old age behind heritage iconography (Chivers 2016; Dolan 2016). Josephine Dolan, for example, argued that ‘‘‘old age’’ is tempered, rendered genteel, by the Downton-style grandeur of Beecham House’ 49

Ageing Femininity (Dolan 2016: 574; see also Schwarzbaum 2013). Although the narrative did assert that these musicians were in Beecham House because they were impoverished, and had nowhere else to live, the visual opulence of the mise-en-scène negated the characters’ spoken affirmation of their poverty. Similarly, Sally Chivers (2016) pointed out that Quartet glossed over the harsh realities of care home life – especially the level of physical care often required by the residents. These characters were all physically fit, successful agers and if infirmity did feature it was represented as very mild and coded as the stereotypical ailments of momentary memory loss and having to walk with a stick (Chivers 2016: 215). Like earlier heritage films, Quartet was eclipsing the political message of the film through its celebration of the grand setting. While the film’s narrative may well be affirming the difficulties faced by older people within British society, the gorgeousness of the mise-en-scène negated any political critique being made about contemporary British ageism and gerontophobia. Second, it is possible to read contemporary age affirmation heritageesque cinema as a covert way of making some of the worst elements of British conservatism (especially those which have, arguably, always underpinned heritage ideologies) appear acceptable because these are softened, or even cloaked, through being articulated by charming, elderly ladies. Perhaps even more troubling is how this exaltation of extreme conservatism can be read, in some contemporary age affirmation heritage films as extolling ‘a deeply disturbing neo-colonialism’ that ‘echoes the racist dynamics of white privilege’ (Dolan 2016: 579). The Last Exotic Marigold Hotel series of films are undoubtedly films which proclaim that life is fabulous when one is elderly. Both films are basically extended slogans for the possible excitement and joys of the third age. These characters are all very successful agers who are thoroughly enjoying the opportunities provided by their later stages of life. While the Marigold films have been critically acclaimed for the way they challenge expectations of the heteronormativity of old age (Gatling et al. 2017), like earlier heritage cinema they may also be read as a rather worrying exaltation – albeit in an ironic fashion – of British chauvinism. The films narrate how a group of retired British people, for a variety of different personal reasons, have decided to stay in the Marigold hotel in India. One rather distasteful narrative motif is that ‘the British incomers

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Lady Power and Gentility always know better than the local Indian population’ (Dolan 2016: 579) and so even a game of street cricket, played by some local boys, ‘takes on a neo-colonialist hue’ (Dolan 2016: 580) when one of the characters teaches the children ‘proper’ cricket technique. Perhaps most offensive is the way the character Sunni, the owner of the Marigold hotel, is infantalised and represented as utterly incapable of running the hotel. Sunni’s business only becomes a success because the very elderly Muriel Donnelly (Maggie Smith) intervenes and takes over the management of the hotel. In the sequel (the innovatively titled The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel) the hotel is now a financial triumph and plans are being made for expansion of the business with a second property. Therefore, the films’ narratives may be read as suggesting that even an uneducated, British woman (Muriel has worked as a cleaner/housekeeper her whole life) is more capable than a young, educated Indian man. This infantalisation of the Indian characters (who apparently need the kind and generous English to look after them) is not dissimilar to the imperialist agenda depicted in colonial films of the 1930s. Sanders of the River (dir. Korda, 1935), for example, represented Colonel Sanders as the benign, patriarch who took care of his native ‘children’. Of course, the key difference is that the British colonial regime is now suggested in the Marigold Hotel series by charming, elderly ladies and so something that could be truly offensive (the British sweep into town to sort out the problems of the ineffectual natives) becomes acceptable because it is performed by older bodies. Indeed, the film even employs a level of double-signification by having its imperialist ideologies, and a longing for the ‘glory’ days of Empire, articulated by the unlikable character of Jean Ainslie (Penelope Wilton). By giving this ideology to a bigoted and snobby character, the film can claim to reject these politics while still encoding them within the narrative. Therefore, while it was possible to argue that earlier heritage cinema need not be read as conservative texts because of its sensitive representation of minority groups (gay men, women and older people) it seems that this argument has now come full circle. These very minority groups, which were often identified as challenging the assumed conservatism of the ideology of heritage cinema, are arguably now being mobilised as ambassadors for that very conservative and imperialist agenda.

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Conclusion: Strategies of Greywashing? This chapter has considered the ‘genre’ of heritage cinema – a type of film which has always been relatively sensitive to the representation of older people and therefore popular with older audiences (Monk 2012). It has argued that contemporary heritage cinema has developed the tradition of conflating the older body with the heritage iconography to suggest that both are representative of the ‘greatness’ of Britain and therefore deserve equal respect. A key element within these narratives has been the foregrounding of feminine gentility as a type of ‘lady power’. Not only is this sensibility represented as inherently linked to the aesthetics of the visual elements of the film text itself but is coded as a form of feminine resistance against masculine and often macho control. Nevertheless, recent examples have demonstrated that this celebration of older, conservative femininity may be a means of cloaking the harsh realities of old age and the less palatable aspects of heritage sensibilities such as its unashamed celebration of imperialism and British jingoism. Lauding the representation of older characters in a film is problematic if these bodies are merely being used as a political cipher – a way of disguising the farright ideologies of the narrative beneath a veneer of genteel grey. For the purposes of this discussion, I shall label this strategy of representation: ‘greywashing’. My use of ‘greywashing’ is inspired by the highly contentious concept of ‘pinkwashing’ – a term which was, arguably, coined by Ali Abunimah in 2010 (Shafie 2015: 84) to argue that Israel’s celebration of LGBT culture (particularly in tourist resorts like Tel Aviv) is an insincere co-option of LGBT rights into an elaborate PR strategy. Developing the politics of the Brand Israel campaign of 2005 (Elia 2012: 50 –1) – which aimed to promote Israel as a country of first world luxury, an ideal tourist destination and, most importantly, a liberal and democratic state – pinkwashing has been Israel’s attempt to represent itself as a gay oasis in the midst of the highly homophobic MENA region (see Jackman and Upadhyay 2014; Schulman 2011, 2012; Shafie 2015). In contrast to the surrounding Arab states, in which gays and lesbians are at worst criminalised (even put to death in Saudi Arabia and Iran) and, at best, socially marginalised, Israel proclaims how it respects and cherishes its LGBT citizens. This foregrounding of Israel as a gay-friendly country can

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Lady Power and Gentility be seen in its much publicised legislation (LGBT discrimination is outlawed; same-sex couples can adopt and gays and lesbians can serve openly in the military) to examples from popular culture ranging from the documentary film Undressing Israel: Gay Men in the Promised Land (dirs. Michael Lucas and Yariv Mozar, 2012) through to Israel’s version of the TV series Dancing with the Stars (Rokdim Im Kokhavim) which, to date, has been the only version of the franchise to feature a same-sex couple in the competition. (In season 6, the openly lesbian-identified television presenter Gili Shem Tov was paired with professional female dancer Dorit Millman.) Given that LGBT rights are often viewed as the indicator of a liberal, progressive and Western society (see Solomon 2004: 636), Israel’s celebration of LGBT rights can be read as reinforcing Orientalist prejudices of the Middle East in which the surrounding Arab countries are identified as homophobic and therefore barbaric while gay-friendly Israel, by comparison, represents Western civilization and liberal democracy. Arguably, this can further enhance existing Western hatred of Arab countries if not even overt Islamophobia. Therefore, ‘pinkwashing’ is, arguably, not merely a tenet of the Brand Israel campaign but may be seen as an evolution of the ‘Zionist colonialist narrative’ (Elia 2012: 50), which identified itself as an altruistic agenda that was bringing civilization to a primitive, barbaric land – ‘a narrative that sanitises the violence of occupation while erasing indigenous experience, struggle, and resistance’ (ibid.). Critics, however, have argued that not only is Israel’s celebration of LGBT culture insincere, and concerned only with reinforcing the assumed civilised/barbaric dichotomy of Israel versus the surrounding Arab countries, but that – more importantly – pinkwashing is also a way of cloaking Israel’s highly problematic behaviour towards neighbouring Arab states – especially Palestine (see Elia 2012; Puar 2011, 2013; Ritchie 2015; Schulman 2011; Shafie 2015). Israel’s proclamation of its own gay friendliness may simply be the country’s attempt to deflect international attention away from its behaviour towards Palestine and its violation of many international laws (see Shafie 2015: 83; Puar 2011: 133). If Israel identifies itself as the liberal state, with a high respect for the rights of (LGBT) minorities, then it appears to be the sympathetic player in the Arab – Israeli conflict irrespective of how many atrocities Israel, arguably,

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Ageing Femininity may be committing against its neighbouring state. It is difficult for a Western onlooker to dislike the country that values human rights – especially those of vulnerable minorities. In recent years, the term ‘pinkwatching’ has been coined to describe political queer movements around the world which have attempted to expose and challenge Israel’s pinkwashing (see Ritchie 2015; Jackman and Upadhyay 2014). (It should also be noted that Israel is not unique in its strategy of pinkwashing. Arguably, similar political agendas have been mobilised in Western Europe in which various anti-Muslim and anti-immigration political parties, in countries such as the Netherlands and France, have attempted to co-opt the rights of white, Western gay people as a means of inciting further Islamophobia and anti-immigration public sentiment: see Schulman 2011.) While the greywashing strategies identified in films like Marigold Hotel and The Queen obviously do not have the political importance of the current Arab – Israeli conflict (and I in no way mean to trivialise the highly contentious issue of pinkwashing) the mechanism of representation can be seen to work in a similar fashion. It is difficult for the spectator to be offended by the jingoism of the Marigold Hotel series when the films are making such a decided effort to celebrate the vulnerable minority group of older people. Marigold Hotel proclaims that it cannot be a chauvinist text when it is so sensitive to the identification and needs of a minority group. In the same way that Israel’s pinkwashing reinforces Orientalist prejudices of Western civilisation versus Eastern backwardness, but suggests altruistic narratives of bringing education to the backward lands, the Marigold Hotel narratives proclaim that these genteel, elderly British people are not revisiting imperialist agendas but are merely bringing sophistication to the poor, indigenous people. Most importantly, the film emphasises the frailty of the characters who articulate the most colonialist agendas. Muriel (who educates Sunni on how to manage his hotel) is not only poor and working class but uses a wheelchair, while Graham, who instructs the local boys on correct cricket technique, later dies with a heart condition. (Graham is also gay identified and so the character can be read as a conflation of the strategies of greywashing with pinkwashing.) It is the films’ focus on the rights of the vulnerable, older people, and its insistent age affirmation, that grey-washes the neoimperial politics of the narrative.

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Lady Power and Gentility The co-option of older people into an elaborate PR strategy to mobilise a political ideology will be one of the themes to underpin many of the subsequent discussions and is a key factor in questioning if the films identified in this book are quite as sincerely age affirmative as they would assert. In a culture which is becoming ever more aware of its ageism and gerontophobia, so that many spectators are acutely anxious of being implicated in these discourses, it is relatively easy to celebrate a simple representation of a minority group while forgetting to consider how this image may be co-opted into a wider political scheme.

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2 Action! Performance and Performativity

The genres of the musical and the action film have never been particularly welcoming to older bodies given that both genres demand, at the very least, the appearance of youthful vitality and physical flexibility. While action stunts and dance acrobatics can be fabricated on the screen (either through stunt/dance doubles or now with recent CGI technology), for a sense of cultural and generic verisimilitude to be achieved, the body represented as performing these actions must suggest a degree of physical competency. Arguably, action cinema and musicals are two of the most unashamedly body fascist genres as one of the pleasures they offer spectators is the opportunity to gaze upon the perfected bodies performing elaborate physical activities on the screen. Although not included in Linda Williams’s famous list of cinematic body genres (films such as the weepy, horror and pornography which speak to or animate the body rather than the mind: Williams 1991) both musicals and action films also stir the body’s emotions and offer the affective pleasure of physical spectacle. This chapter considers some recent examples of musicals and action films that have tried to challenge the genres’ assumed ageism. These film texts are remarkable for not only representing older actors as subsidiary characters in the narratives but for featuring them as the protagonists of the films. 57

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The Musical Although genres such as the folk musical and the fairy tale musical have certainly offered roles for older women these are usually the accepted character tropes of ‘evil witch’ (fairy tale musical) or ‘family matriarch’ (folk musical). It is fair to say that the leading roles in the musicals have nearly always been the young, classically beautiful characters. However, from its earliest cinematic appearances, the genre of the musical has been self-referential about its lauding of beautiful, youthful bodies. The backstage musical (a musical which is set within the world of musical theatre) has often drawn attention to the performing arts industry’s obsession with beautiful, youthful femininity and its cruel ageism. One of the earliest examples of the cinematic backstage musical, 42nd Street (dir. Bacon (choreography Berkeley), 1933), is highly self-reflexive about the musical theatre industry’s body fascism. The film offers sequences where the chorus girls are asked to flaunt their legs for the auditions and the film’s heroine, Peggy Sawyer (Ruby Keeler), is only selected for the part because the director sees her gorgeous legs extended on the sofa while she is having a post-audition recuperative doze. Busby Berkeley’s famous cameraconscious choreography (Berkeley was always identified as the most cinematic of choreographers) fetishised and fragmented the female form in the song and dance sequences and, of course, Berkeley is most famous for his pre Hays code ‘crotch shots’ where the camera tracks through the spread legs of a line of chorus girls (Altman 1987: 223, see also Wills 2001). Therefore, although 42nd Street may well have been drawing attention to the musical industry’s obsession with classically beautiful, youthful femininity it was also complicit in this objectification. Of course, 42nd Street, as with all of Berkeley’s musicals, is now read as camp (Cohan 2005: 3, Dyer 1992: 137). As I shall argue in Chapter 3, with the case study of These Old Broads (dir. Diamond, 2001), the genre of the musical is suited to mobilising a certain type of camp sensibility which may be read as not only deconstructing the requirement of physical accomplishment in dance but even challenging the identification of age itself. However, while a made-for-TV movie such as These Old Broads may be camping age identifications it is noteworthy that mainstream cinematic musicals, certainly the genre of the backstage musical genre, took a long time to develop this strategy. Many contemporary cinematic backstage

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Action! Performance and Performativity musicals can even be read as less self-reflexive than the Berkeley musicals of the 1930s. This can be seen in a comparison between Richard Attenborough’s 1982 film version of the Broadway musical, A Chorus Line, with its original stage production. Not only does the film version of A Chorus Line refuse to mobilise the self-reflexive campness of early cinematic backstage musicals but is also unashamedly complicit with the ageism of the musical theatre industry. A Chorus Line, an ‘emphatically middlebrow musical’ (Herrera 2016: 106), has been one of the longest running and most commercially successful Broadway musicals. The show has been the subject of considerable academic analysis, with scholars debating how A Chorus Line demonstrates the ‘influence of the Nietzsche-based Dionysian paradigm on dance and Broadway’ (Dunbar 2010: 155) and the legacy of la théâtre de l’absurde on stage musicals (Herrera 2016: 105). Choreographed and directed by dance legend Michael Bennett, A Chorus Line tells the story of a group of dancers who are auditioning over the course of a day for chorus line parts in a (1930s style, Berkeley-esque) musical. A Chorus Line certainly challenged many socio-cultural issues of the 1970s (not least its open address of homosexuality) but is also famous for being one of the least feel-good of stage musicals due to its chilling final sequence in which the characters, whom the theatre audience have come to know as individuals, are now represented as absorbed into the anonymity of a dancing chorus line. The final song, ‘One: Singular Sensation’, is ironic given that the characters are no longer singular but are now a unified arrangement of indistinguishable bodies. As Michael Bennett said of the final sequence: It’s going to be the most horrifying moment you will ever experience in the theatre. I have a vision of them forming a V and marching with frozen smiles, like Metropolis. If I do this right, you will never see another chorus line in theatre. (Quoted in Mandelbaum 1990: 171)

As well as drawing attention to the musical theatre industry’s reduction of individuals to the status of anonymous, performing monkeys, A Chorus Line (Broadway production) is also famous for its critique of the body fascism of musicals. In one of its most famous songs, ‘Dance 10, Looks 3’ (often known as ‘Tits and Ass’) the character Val laments how, despite her 59

Ageing Femininity dance skills (awarded 10 in auditions) she would not get any dance jobs because her body was deemed unsexy (looks 3). After much cosmetic surgery, to give her the required ‘tits and ass’, Val found that the job offers came rolling in. Most importantly, A Chorus Line also draws attention to the institutionalised ageism of musical theatre. What gives this stage musical a very bitter-sweet quality is that it features characters who are ageing dancers – all desperate for their final chance of dancing in a big stage musical before they are forced into retirement because of their age. However, while institutionalised ageism was one of the themes of the Broadway stage musical, Richard Attenborough chose to downplay, or even ignore, this issue in his 1982 film adaptation. Instead of representing ageing, past-it dancers – struggling for one last dance in the spotlight – the film version of A Chorus Line represented young, aspiring dancers who were working their way up through the dance hierarchies. In a muchquoted interview, Kelly Bishop (who played the character Sheila in the original Broadway production) was highly critical of Attenborough’s revision of the musical’s key theme of theatre industry ageism: It was appalling when director Richard Attenborough went on a talk show and said ’this is a story about kids trying to break into show business.’ I almost tossed my TV out the window; I mean what an idiot! It’s about veteran dancers looking for one last job before it’s too late for them to dance anymore. No wonder the film sucked! (Quoted in Rowan 2015: 297)

While the key songs are still included in the film version, the textual details offer little suggestion of ageing bodies that may genuinely be feeling the strain of the physical demands of musical theatre. Indeed, the film characters who self-identity as ‘old’ demonstrate no difficulty with the demanding acrobatics of their dances and the vocal pyrotechnics of their singing. This is especially evident in the performance of the songs, as the soaring high notes (the final note of ‘I’ve got to get this job’ is extremely high) are no problem for the film characters while the recording from the original Broadway show represented voices straining to make the final high note. In short, the film version of A Chorus Line not only disregards anxieties about age but also ignores any of the real difficulties which may be faced by ageing bodies attempting to brave the physical demands of performing in musical theatre. 60

Action! Performance and Performativity Of course, in retrospect, it is easy to criticise Attenborough’s production of A Chorus Line without acknowledging how this film was trying to succeed within the Hollywood machine of the 1980s. If we read Attenborough’s adaptation of A Chorus Line as exemplary of the ideologies of 1980s Hollywood, it does seem to support the argument that while theatre (musical or otherwise) is prepared to address the issues of ageing and ageism, mainstream Hollywood cinema cannot permit ‘too much “old age”’ (Cohan-Shalev 2009: 4) in its texts if ‘it is to reach the widest audience’ (ibid.). It would not be for another 20 years that the genre of the film musical would attempt to address the ageism implicit in song and dance performance with film musicals that have made the subject of ageing one of their explicit themes: Quartet (dir. Hoffman, 2012), Last of the Blonde Bombshells (dir. MacKinnon, 2000) and Mamma Mia! (dir. Lloyd, 2008). While Quartet and the TV movie Last of the Blonde Bombshells are more correctly termed musical films (in that they feature musical sequences but are not identified in industrial and critical circles as musicals), Mamma Mia! (dir. Lloyd, 2008) is not only one of the most successful film musicals ever but is remarkable for its foregrounding of older bodies performing elaborate song and dance sequences.

Last of the Blonde Bombshells and Quartet Last of the Blonde Bombshells and Quartet are both comedy-dramas (with musical sequences) which represent ageing musicians who wish to do a final ‘reunion’ performance. Last of the Blonde Bombshells tells the story of Elizabeth (Judi Dench), a well-to-do widow living in south London, who remembers fondly the days when she played alto saxophone in an allfemale swing band, known as ‘The Blonde Bombshells’, during the days of World War II. The film narrates how Elizabeth tries to regroup the members of the band so that they can play for a charity concert held in her granddaughter’s school. Much of the story’s comedy arises from Elizabeth meeting up with the members of the band, marvelling at their eccentric lifestyles and then trying to entice them back into the reunion performance. Quartet, based on the Ronald Harwood play of the same name, is set in Beecham House: a fictional retirement home for professional musicians 61

Ageing Femininity that is, arguably, based upon the casa di riposo per musicisti founded by Giuseppe Verdi. Four of the residents – Cissy (Pauline Collins), Wilf (Billy Connolly), Reg (Tom Courtenay) and Jean (Maggie Smith) – had starred together in a highly acclaimed production of Verdi’s opera Rigoletto. Wilf, Cissy and Reg would like to stage a performance of the Rigoletto quartet (‘Bella figlia dell’amore’) in the Beecham House summer concert and, as in the narrative of Last of the Blonde Bombshells, much of the film entails Cissy, Wilf and Reg trying to cajole and entice a reticent member of the group (Jean) into doing the performance with them. Unlike Last of the Blonde Bombshells, Quartet (as I have argued in Chapter 1) references heritage cinema traditions with beautiful shots of Beecham House and the estate grounds providing the pictorialist pleasure of the film. As in other heritage cinema there is the suggestion that the older bodies inhabiting the stately building are just as much an element of British heritage as the grand house and therefore also deserve equal respect. The key theme of both Quartet and Last of the Blonde Bombshells is that these musicians, despite their advanced years, can still give virtuoso performances. Yet, both Quartet and Last of the Blonde Bombshells feature a cast of non-musicians. Dench is not really playing her alto saxophone in Last of the Blonde Bombshells and although Quartet does feature actual musicians in its supporting cast, the main actors – Connolly, Smith, Collins and Courtenay – are not classically trained singers. What both films do, however, is to include at least one professional musician in the cast whose performance stands in for the musicianship of all the other characters. Last of the Blonde Bombshells contains a performance by Britain’s ‘first lady of jazz’ – Dame Cleo Laine – singing ‘Taking a Chance on Love’ while Quartet not only features a wide cast of retired musicians (all of whom are shown to be performing in short sequences) but represents the acclaimed opera singer, Dame Gwyneth Jones, as the character Anne Langley, performing ‘Vissi d’arte’ from Tosca. The character of Gwen (Cleo Laine) is first introduced In Last of the Blonde Bombshells after Elizabeth had attempted to contact other members of the band only to find that they were either dead or were in prison. Elizabeth and her friend Patrick (Ian Holme) travel to Wolverhampton to watch Gwen perform in a jazz club and the film features an abrupt cut from a shot of Elizabeth and Patrick’s car travelling along the motorway to Gwen performing ‘Taking a Chance on Love’ in the club. Until this moment, the

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Action! Performance and Performativity spectators had only seen non-musicians acting the performance of playing an instrument (Dench playing alto sax and Betty (Joan Sims) vamping a piano) but this sequence now gives an authentic, and truly excellent, jazz performance by the inimitable Cleo Laine. The film’s abrupt edit – quite a visual shock – suggests the even greater shock of seeing Dame Cleo Laine perform as the character Gwen. Laine’s deep contralto voice is as resonant as ever and she can still perform her trademark falsetto high notes to give the impression of a vocal range that is close to three octaves. After a few bars of ‘Taking a Chance on Love’ there is a shot of Elizabeth and Patrick watching the performance from a side table and Elizabeth utters the line which echoes the thoughts of every spectator at this point: ‘She’s still terrific’. The sequence even affirms that the sensuality and sexuality of Laine’s performance is still as powerful as ever when Patrick (who was married to Gwen) closes his eyes in a type of erotic reverie when she strikes her characteristic falsetto high notes. The key point is that, within the diegesis of Last of the Blonde Bombshells, in which there is a cast of non-musicians acting musicianship, the film only represents one character who really is performing some music. Therefore, the text is performatively constituting older musicianship as virtuosic through the inclusion of Cleo Laine, a truly exceptional jazz singer, in the role. A similar strategy takes place in Quartet in which Anne Langley (Dame Gwyneth Jones) really is singing ‘Vissi d’arte’ in the Beecham House concert. Of course, this metonymy evades the issue of declining capacity due to old age as the texts represent an exceptional musician – one whose talent has obviously not diminished with age – standing in for all older performers. However, both films mask this problem by making a subtle conflation between musical talent and acting talent. In Last of the Blonde Bombshells, the spectator is prepared to accept the performance of the band in the school concert at the end of the film not simply because of Laine’s singing but because of the accomplished acting of musicianship demonstrated by others such as Dench. While Laine may bring authenticity to the band performance, Dench’s acting of musicianship is deemed equally worthy of praise. This is emphasised in an early scene of the film when Elizabeth’s granddaughter chances upon her practising alto sax in the attic. Until this moment the little girl had no idea that her grandmother was such an accomplished musician. The film employs the technique of the first-person

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Ageing Femininity camera, offering the granddaughter’s point of view as she ascends the stairs, intrigued by the sound of this accomplished sax playing. This point of view camera shot aligns the spectator with the granddaughter and encourages empathy with the young girl as she remarks ‘That was amazing!’ while watching her grandmother play. However, this proclamation of ‘amazing’ may be read not only as a comment on the intra-diegetic performance of the character playing alto sax but as an affirmation of the talent of Dame Judi Dench. Often labelled as one of Britain’s ‘National Treasures’, and already revered for having performed so many different characters on screen (English queens, James Bond’s boss and even frustrated lesbian-coded characters), Dench is now demonstrating that she can turn her supreme thespian skill to such a credible performance of acting alto sax playing. Quartet is even more emphatic in making this point through the casting of Maggie Smith as Jean Horton. While the narrative affirms that the characters of Cissy, Wilf and Reg had only achieved very minor operatic fame, Jean had become an opera sensation whose performances were internationally acclaimed. In the scene where Jean arrives at Beecham House she receives a round of applause from all the other residents and this is coded as reminiscent of the standing ovations Jean would have received for opera performances. Yet it is here that the film deliberately confuses the star persona of Maggie Smith with the fame of fictional operatic diva Jean Horton. The other stars in the Rigoletto quartet, while acclaimed actors and comedians, do not command the current recognition and critical acclaim commanded by Dame Maggie Smith. All the trailers for the film emphasised that Smith – arguably the actor with the largest box office appeal – would be the star of the film by giving her more screen time than any of the other characters. Smith’s much loved ‘one-liners’ (‘This is not a retirement home. This is a mad house.’) featured in the movie trailer. Therefore, in the scene in which Jean arrives at Beecham House, and is applauded by the residents, the spectator – unable to relate to any of Jean’s operatic performances as they simply do not exist – will read the applause, if only on a subliminal level, as praise for Maggie Smith, the highly acclaimed actor, rather than Jean the fictional musician. Like Last of the Blonde Bombshells, Quartet may be foregrounding the talented musician as representative of older performers but this is also conflated with the acting skill of the actors in the film text.

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Action! Performance and Performativity However, it should not be overlooked that both Quartet and Last of the Blonde Bombshells are musical films rather than musicals. In order to consider how a musical negotiates the issues of representing older people in the leading roles we have to consider one of the most successful cinematic musicals ever: Mamma Mia! The film tells the story of single mother Donna (Meryl Streep) who lives on a Greek island, where she runs a small hotel with her 20-year-old daughter Sophie (Amanda Seyfried). Sophie is engaged to be married to Sky (Dominic Cooper) and Donna’s two good friends Rosie (Julie Walters) and Tanya (Christine Baranski) arrive to support the marital celebrations. Unknown to Donna, Sophie has also contacted three men whom she knows could possibly be her father and has invited them to the wedding as well. When these men – Sam (Pierce Brosnan), Harry (Colin Firth) and Bill (Stellan Skarsgard) – arrive there is considerable confusion, and many comedic events, but these are always interspersed with some much-loved Abba songs.

Mamma Mia! The Karaoke Musical As Louise Fitzgerald and Melanie Williams point out, Mamma Mia! was ‘exceptional’ in many ways. Not only was this the first time in decades that a musical had achieved such ‘enormous commercial success’ but, more importantly, it was a film that afforded ‘significant narrative space to characters more frequently marginalised in mainstream cinema’ (2013: 1 –2) – namely older women. The film has certainly attracted critical attention for its representation of older bodies in the context of the musical genre (Jenkins 2013; Mellamphy 2013). However, Mamma Mia! has also been celebrated for its mobilisation of feminist politics. In contrast to other contemporary ‘chick flicks’, the young postfeminist heroine (Sophie) can be read as renouncing the postfeminist sensibility of wishing to embrace traditional domesticity, and marry at the age of 20, to consider a more feminist rejection of heteronormativity (Womack 2009: 202). Similarly, Mamma Mia! also abandons a heteronormative trope, which has dominated much Western entertainment (from television talk shows to films like Star Wars) in discerning who is the father of a child and whether or not he will accept paternal responsibility (Jubin 2016: 204). Mamma Mia!, by contrast, asserts that paternity is irrelevant and instead focuses on validating a single woman’s family (Fitzgerald 2013). The film is, of course, 65

Ageing Femininity a female friendship movie (Kaklamanidou 2013) and, most importantly, stresses the importance of the female voice – not only in terms of authorship (Williams 2013) but in its revoicing of the original Abba songs (Womack 2009, 2013). Arguably, it is the feminist rearticulation of the Abba songs that is the most remarkable aspect of Mamma Mia!. As Elizabeth Vincentelli has argued, Abba songs were ‘theoretically frustrating to good feminists’ (2004: 101) because of the way the songs often mobilised the female singers (Agnetha and Frida) as little more than ‘their husbands’ mouthpieces’ (Vincentelli 2004: 101). Many of the Abba lyrics describe a woman who is often weak, self-pitying and utterly reliant on a man to give any real sense of meaning to her life. For example, Malcolm Womack points out that one of Abba’s greatest hits, ‘Thank you for the Music’ is about a woman with remarkably low self-esteem expressing gratitude to a man for giving her some purpose and meaning in her life because of his musical compositions. In the first line, Agnetha sings that ‘I’m nothing special. In fact, I’m a bit of a bore’, and then continues to proclaim that she is a ‘non-entity except when she is singing the songs written for her by her husband’ (Womack 2009: 204). The song’s lines are not even content with the female singer articulating that any happiness she has in her life is due to the male songwriter but continues with the lines ‘I’ve been so lucky / I’ve been the girl with golden hair’ thus decrying any of her own musical talent and identifying herself simply as pretty, blonde, eye-candy who is voicing the songs written by her husband (Womack 2009: 204). In Mamma Mia!, however, Sophie sings the song ‘Thank you for the Music’ to her mother Donna, thus achieving a distinctively feminist revoicing of the original Abba hit (Womack 2009: 204). Womack cites other examples in Mamma Mia! where comparable feminist rearticulations take place such as the ‘Lay All on your Love on me’ sequence in which it is no longer a woman who is nervous that she will lose her man, and begging him to love her forever, but now the male singer Sky who is terrified that Sophie may cast her affections elsewhere (Womack 2009: 208). Yet Mamma Mia! is not simply claiming the textual meaning of the Abba hits for feminist politics but is also mobilising the performance of the songs for a decidedly female age-affirmative agenda. The fact that this was a film musical about older people and their relationships was particularly remarkable given that Mamma Mia!, unlike other musical narratives such

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Action! Performance and Performativity as Quartet or Last of the Blonde Bombshells, did not employ the tactic of representing an exceptional musician/singer to stand in for the other nonmusician actors. Mamma Mia! is exceptional for being a musical that features actors who are not associated with the genre of musicals and, at points, even represents vocal performances that are barely in tune. Pierce Brosnan’s rendition of the song ‘When All is Said and Done’, for example, was criticised by reviewers (see Jubin 2016: 206) and, as one of my students succinctly described, was a performance that was comparable to a drunken uncle mumbling karaoke at a wedding. The concept of karaoke, however, is rather apt in relation to Mamma Mia! as the film could be identified as one of the first in a new genre of film musicals: the karaoke musical. Developing the tradition of the jukebox musical – ‘productions that tailor a narrative to suit an already performed score’ (Jubin 2016: 195) – Mamma Mia! not only offers the audience the pleasure of hearing well-known popular songs but issues an invitation for the audience to join in and sing along. Arguably building upon the success of the recent sing-a-long-a Sound of Music (dir. Wise, 1965), and the tradition of other join-in musicals such as Rocky Horror (dir. Sharman, 1975), Mamma Mia! offers audiences the pleasure of having a good, old sing-song with some highly beloved Abba songs such as ‘Super Trouper’ and, of course, ‘Dancing Queen’. Yet, as all Abba fans will be aware, the problem with performing Abba in karaoke is that the Abba songs are extraordinarily difficult to sing. Abba music not only covers a wide range of notes (‘Dancing Queen’ is close to two octaves) but the songs often ‘sit’ very high on the vocal scale as they were written to showcase the bright lyric soprano voice of Agnetha and the mezzo-soprano (although still very frontal) voice of Frida. The famous line in ‘Dancing Queen, for example, – ‘Dancing queen, feel the beat of the tambourine’ – is situated in the high range of the vocal register and an untrained voice will struggle to sing the line comfortably. Mamma Mia!, however, resolves this problem through its use of older female actors. As older women, whose voices have dropped to a lower contralto range (a vocal register that Richard Elliott (2017) terms ‘the late voice’) Streep, Baranski and Walters required the Abba songs to be transposed down several keys. The result is that ‘Dancing Queen’ in Mamma Mia! is now sing-able for its karaoke audience while the original recording of the song was just too high for the average, untrained voice. Therefore, Mamma Mia! is validating ageing femininity as part of the very

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Ageing Femininity mechanism of its cinematic musical pleasure. Audience members with untrained voices who wish to join in with the Abba songs can now do so precisely because the musical features a cast of older women with lower voices. It’s not possible to criticise an older woman’s voice for having deepened when it is in the context of a karaoke musical and thus facilitates greater pleasure for the audience singing along. While Mamma Mia! must be celebrated for its feminist revoicings (both in terms of lyric appropriation and employment of older female voices to enhance sing-along pleasure) it can also be praised for a type of feminist redancing. The film is unusual within the musical genre for featuring actors (both male and female) who not only have little reputation as singers but have absolutely no commercial standing as dancers. Although Streep is acclaimed as ‘Hollywood’s most cerebral of thespians’ (Linda Ruth Williams 2004: 169), praised for her accomplishment in performing accents and, arguably, regarded as one of the few female actors working within the method tradition (see Timoney 2016), she has no reputation as a dancer. Similarly, Baranski is a television drama and sitcom actor and Julie Walters is famous for comedy, but neither of them are respected for their dance skills. (Indeed, in films such as Stepping Out (dir. Gilbert, 1991) and Billy Elliot (dir. Daldry, 2000) Walters has played characters who, although having a love of dance, are notably incompetent dancers themselves.) Mamma Mia!, however, employs an interesting tactic of performing a feminist reclamation of the type of vulgar choreography which, in other films, has been used to represent the older woman as an object of ridicule. One of the best examples of this is actually an earlier Meryl Streep film: Death Becomes Her (dir. Zemeckis, 1992). Almost 15 years before appearing in Mamma Mia!, Streep performed a musical number, ‘I See Me’, in a film which is most definitely not ageaffirmative cinema. An exceptionally dark comedy, Death Becomes Her narrates how two self-obsessed and utterly horrible women (Madeline (Meryl Streep) and Helen (Goldie Hawn)) discover a potion which grants them immortality. This is a film that foregrounds an explicit strain of misogyny (see Corliss 1992) and, as I have argued in the Introduction, may be read as a contemporary example of the ‘hag horror’ genre. Like most misogynist tracts, Death Becomes Her represents women fighting against women (women are coded as their own worst enemies) while men are benign, although ineffectual, bystanders. The narrative makes it clear that

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Action! Performance and Performativity neither of these women needed to drink the immortality potion (one is a writer and the other a retired actor who is enjoying a comfortable lifestyle) but, like the witches in Stardust, they simply wish to have eternal youth so they can wallow in their own narcissistic, auto-erotic adoration of their own bodies. The fact that these women do live in a society which pressurises them to maintain youth and beauty, irrespective of their jobs and time of life, is not articulated in Death Becomes Her, as the only man featured in the narrative is the bumbling, yet kind and devoted husband, Ernest (Bruce Willis). Ernest really does not care whether Madeline looks young or old and, in one scene, it becomes clear that he has not even noticed the transformation of the potion and simply asks if Madeline has had a new haircut. The interesting point about Death Becomes Her, is that this nonmusical, black comedy opens with a musical song and dance number. The song ‘I See Me’ is a number within the fictitious musical Songbird – a musical adaptation of Tennessee Williams’s play Sweet Bird of Youth. (Presumably, the number ‘I See Me’ occurs at the point in the narrative where Alexandra del Lago looks at her reflection and acknowledges that she is a great Hollywood star. This song is, therefore, an ironic comment on the rest of the film as neither Helen nor Madeline ever do see themselves as persons of value but only in terms of their surface value or beauty.) In various interviews, Robert Zemeckis described how this musical number was a composite of all the very worst examples of bad-taste choreography which, although not visually pleasing, are extremely difficult to perform. In one shot, Madeline (Streep) has to dance on a revolving, padded sofa and, as can only be expected, is barely managing to keep her balance let alone dance. The camera dollies back to reveal a half-empty auditorium with some spectators snoring and many storming out of the theatre in disgust. The use of the musical number is, of course, intended to emphasise Madeline’s ageing and demonstrate that she is now too old to perform competently in the entertainment industry. If Madeline had been represented as acting in a straight drama then her age would not be identified as so problematic in the diegesis. Yet although the scene is certainly making a comment about the ageism of the entertainment business, the unsettling aspect of the sequence is that there is a conflation between the sheer awfulness of the choreography and the idea that

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Ageing Femininity Madeline is now too old for the musical stage. Madeline actually performs the exacting choreography very well but the performance still looks vulgar and tacky because of the bad-taste, disco-floor type moves in the dance sequences. (At the start of the scene, the choreography even has Madeline perform a cupping action in front of her own breasts – the type of gesture usually performed by a laddish man to suggest a woman’s impressive cleavage – while the main dance section features the type of moves more commonly found in a village hall disco.) Therefore, the opening sequence deliberately confuses the crude, tasteless dance moves with Madeline’s assumed ageing body. Is the musical sequence unpleasant to watch because of the bad choreography or because of Madeline’s age or both? The spectator’s impression of the whole performance as ugly – guided by the complaints of the theatre audience now walking out in disgust – confuses the distinction between the ageing star and the tacky choreography so that the two meld together. (The ‘cheapness’ of the dance routine is also an ironic comment on Madeline’s other big anxiety beside her age – being thought of as cheap herself.) Of course, this is a very camp song and dance sequence and, like the ‘I’ve Written a Letter to Daddy’ song in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane is open to debate on how it should be read. Yet the reason for citing the ‘I See Me’ song and dance sequence from Death Becomes Her is that this (arguably) misogynist spectacle of older woman performing vulgar, karaoke style choreography was reclaimed for a feminist agenda in Mamma Mia! While Death Becomes Her used this type of song and dance moment to ridicule the ageing woman, Mamma Mia! reworks it, in accordance with its karaoke feminism, to celebrate older femininity. This is most obvious in the song and dance sequence which one reviewer described as ‘the hands-down highlight’ of the film (Robey 2008): ‘Does your Mother Know’. The original Abba performance of ‘Does your Mother Know’ is unusual within the Abba canon as it is one of the few songs in which the men have the vocal lead. Although written in an era predating our current anxiety about underage sexual exploitation by older people, ‘Does your Mother Know’ was always an unsavoury narrative in which an older man rebukes a young girl whom he believes is ‘teasing him’. As Karl French has noted ‘there is something just a little bit sleazy in having a man sing about seducing and being seduced by a girl who is barely, if at all, legal age’ (2005:

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Action! Performance and Performativity 158). In Mamma Mia!, however, we have Tanya – the older, cougar type (comparable in ostentatious style and sexual voracity to Madeline in Death Becomes Her) singing this song as a way of dismissing the unwanted attentions of a much younger man. As Womack points out, the ‘Does your Mother Know’ sequence, ‘turns a song that winks at the temptations of a young woman into a withering attack on virile posturing’ (Womack 2009: 209). The question ‘Does your mother know that you’re out?’ is no longer the sordid flirtation of an old man, convincing himself that a young girl wants to have sex with him, but becomes a ‘biting insult’ (Womack 2009: 209) against youthful, male arrogance. However, this ‘withering attack on virile posturing’ takes place during a dance sequence which is remarkably similar to the type of song and dance number that was used in Death Becomes Her to ridicule the older woman. The sequence contains a number of comparable dance moves: there is the shot of the older woman performing a gratuitous allongé leg extension; the representation of a troupe of dancing chorus boys who, at one point, also elevate the older woman overhead; the same surrealist aesthetic of physical impossibility (the chorus boys appear to perform fouetté rond de jambe entournant on beach sand – and even Nureyev could not do that) and there is the same vulgar breast-cupping gesture performed in the dance. Yet, while Death Becomes Her mobilised a song and dance sequence in which an older woman dances with chorus boys in order to make her a figure of fun, the Mamma Mia! scene promotes the spectator’s identification with Baranski’s character Tanya. This is not only promoted by the narrative and mise-enscène (the sequences starts with Tanya elevated on the platform of the beach bar, while the arrogant boys are lower down on the beach, and there is the famous moment where she humiliates the younger man by wrapping his beach towel into a nappy) but also because the dance sequence, like the Abba songs, issues an invitation to the audience members to join in with the moves. As Ceri Hovland has argued, Tanya’s solo dance routine ‘is evocative of aerobic-style dance crazes like “Saturday Night” or “Macarena”, with their rhythmic movement alternating between different poses’ (2013: 117). Anthony van Laast was the choreographer for Mamma Mia! and he deliberately chose simple, easy-to-remember, moves. This was not merely because the cast were untrained dancers but was a deliberate choreographing of dance moves that the audience would find easy to copy (Jubin 2016: 205). Therefore, the use of an older, non-professional dancer – performing vulgar

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Ageing Femininity choreography – is not mocking older femininity but, because it is an easily copied dance routine in the context of a karaoke musical, the spectator is actually encouraged to identify with the older woman on the screen. Should the audience so wish they can not only join in with singing the songs but with the ‘Macarena’ style choreography of Tanya’s dance. Arguably, the power of Mamma Mia! is that it acknowledges the importance of a certain type of popular music and dance (Abba) as a constitutive element of identification for a specific cultural group (Jubin 2016: 200). These Abba songs are not merely a few jolly tunes but something that Mamma Mia! asserts is the very ‘fabric of all our lives’ (Jubin 2016: 200). By reviving the musical tradition of immediate burstinto-song sequences, but placing them within the context of a karaoke musical, Mamma Mia! is not merely representing the fun of performing Abba songs but is suggesting that Abba music can be read as performatively constituting a specific type of feminine identification with its distinct markers of taste, class, feminist politics and, most importantly, age. Mamma Mia! is not merely sympathetic to older characters but, through its karaoke feminist revoicing and redancing of the Abba hits, is asking every spectator – whether male or female, young or old – to identify with the older females on the screen.

Action Cinema: Representing the Older ‘Action Babe’ Unlike the musical, action cinema has been notoriously difficult to identify as a specific genre not least because it draws upon so many variations in narrative and iconography (Arroyo 2000: 3). Lisa Purse, however, argues that action cinema may be ‘defined by its persistent and detailed attention to the exerting body’ (2011: 2) and by the way it encourages an embodied, even physical, response from the cinema spectator (2011: 3). Therefore, like the musical, action cinema is a film genre which requires the representation of bodies that appear capable of performing the physical demands of the activities. Although largely ignored in the early days of film studies, action cinema has recently been the subject of detailed critical analyses (Arroyo 2000; Brown 2013; Inness 2004; Purse 2011; Schubart 1998 Tasker 1993, 1998, 2004). While there have been discussions about the history and evolution 72

Action! Performance and Performativity of the genre (Bean 2004; Neale 2004) and the affective qualities of its visual spectacle and special effects (Wood 2004), much of the criticism of action cinema has focused on gender politics. The figure of the action heroine, in particular, has promoted much discussion. Some critics have analysed the iconography of the female action star, considering how or if, the active (and often athletic and muscular) female body challenges essentialist ideas of masculine power and strength (Lindner 2009, 2011; Tasker 1998). Other theorists have debated how the action heroine can challenge issues of gender identification and dynamics of gendered spectatorship (Brown 2013; Hills 1999; Schubart 19987). Most recently, critics have debated the evolution of the female action star into the character of the ‘action babe’ (O’Day 2004;) where the woman is still coded as a sexualised object, despite the extensive action scenes, ‘so that she can retain her erotic appeal’ (Purse 2011: 82) and be contained within a hetero-patriarchal narrative. In recent years, Hollywood action cinema has adopted a new motif in its representation: the older body. Arguably, the first example of the older body featured in the action genre was the much-discussed representation of Judi Dench as M in the Bond franchise. Not only did the casting of Dench as M change the character’s sex but was also noteworthy as an attempt to inject some feminist discourse into the Bond series (see Gauntlett 2002: 49; Krainitzki 2011: 270; Patton 2015: 246). Eva Krainitzki makes compelling arguments about how Dench’s M can be read as challenging expectations of what is acceptable for a woman of her age (2011: 248) and that M could also be read as a lesbian due to her iconography and the star persona of Dench who has had a recent history of playing lesbian-coded characters on screen (2011: 120). (For further discussion of Dench’s iconic lesbian-coded roles see Chapter 4.) Krainitzki’s most interesting argument, in relation to the topic of age affirmation, is that M queers temporality through the casting of Dench as M in Goldeneye (dir. Campbell, 1995) and then in the later reboot of the formula in 2006 with Casino Royale (dir. Campbell). Krainitzki explains that the anachronism of including Dench as M in Casino Royale (this was the first Bond story in the novel series) ‘constitutes a temporal breach’ (2014: 36) which can be read as a type of ‘queer temporality’ (36) challenging the idea of a ‘normative correspondence between an actress’ and her character’s chronological age’ (36). However, Krainitzki and other critics have also pointed out that the feminist and/or queer challenge of Dench’s M is contained in the narrative

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Ageing Femininity by the coding of M as an ‘explicitly maternal figure’ (Holliday 2015: 266) who, at various moments, is represented in her nightgown, sleeping beside her husband in an image of conventional, feminine domesticity. Similarly, critics have also read the association between Bond and M as coded as a mother/son type relationship (Kunze 2015: 242; see also Boyce 2015; Garland 2009; Parks 2015; Patton 2015; Tincknell 2009). (Even the death of M in Skyfall (dir. Mendes, 2012) is represented as an inversion of the Pieta motif in which the son now cradles his dying mother in his arms (Kunze 2015: 244).) Most importantly, it should also be noted that, although Dench’s M has played an authoritative role in the Bond series, she is never complicit in a key element of the genre: the action sequences. It would not be until 15 years after Goldeneye, that mainstream cinema started to include older bodies in action film spectacles. Hollywood’s two most successful examples of ‘ageing action’ have been RED (2010) (and its sequel RED2 (2013)) and The Expendables series of films (2010, 2012 and 2013). These films are noteworthy for featuring older heroes who, despite their advanced years, are represented as capable of performing the extreme physical activities that were associated with their character types in earlier Hollywood films. The narratives are unashamedly age affirmative in that they all stress how these older bodies, despite being subject to age discrimination by other characters, demonstrate physical prowess and agility which is far beyond the display of the much younger characters. The RED series of films (based on the comics of the same name) frequently places the ageing Frank Moses (Bruce Willis) in opposition with much, much younger men but always asserts that it is the ‘elderly’ and retired Frank who can whip the asses of guys who are half his age. These characters may be identified as ‘old’, but they are still considerably more competent than their younger successors and, as the title asserts, are Retired (but still) Extremely Dangerous (RED). One of the issues in representing older bodies as performing extreme acts of physical action is cultural and generic verisimilitude. Can a character of advanced age, despite the narrative assertion that he/she has been well trained as an operative, really perform such physically demanding activities? Therefore, Ellexis Boyle and Sean Brayton identify a similar strategy at work in contemporary age-affirmative action films, such as the Expendables series, as the one I identified in musical films like Quartet and Last of the Blonde Bombshells: the inclusion of actors who

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Action! Performance and Performativity really are athletes capable of performing such stunts. Boyle and Brayton point out that the representation of athletes lends ‘an image of “real” and authentic masculine virility and physical competence to those whose bodies are built purely for the screen and that are clearly beginning to decline’ (Boyle and Brayton 2012: 481; see also Holmlund 2013 99). The inclusion of older athletes, who are still proficient in performing stunts and martial arts, demonstrates that an older body is indeed capable of such physical prowess. While this is the case in all the Expendables film series, the interesting aspect of the RED films is that they do not include professional athletes in their supporting cast in order to evoke a sense of verisimilitude to the operations of the spies and assassins. Instead, the element of ‘authenticity’ is provided by Helen Mirren in her role as wetwork operative Victoria. While the inclusion of professional athletes in the Expendables series demonstrates the possibility of older male bodies performing such activities, it is the inclusion of Mirren – performing her characteristic sexiness – which denotes the plausibility of the procedures carried out by the spies in the film. If the older male athletes in The Expendables series add a sense of credibility to the actors performing action stunts, it is Mirren’s performance of the older action babe which suggests that the exploits of the RED trio really could succeed. The next section will argue that Mirren, in her two action cinema roles of the same year – RED (dir. Schwentke, 2010) and The Debt (dir. Madden 2010) – is simultaneously affirming the representation of the older woman as ‘sexy oldie’ (Gott 2005; Vares 2009) but may also be read as drawing attention to the cinematic construction of this image.

Helen Mirren: Performative Sexiness Performing the ‘Action Babe’ in RED and The Debt Although Mirren is now considered an A-list movie star, she did have a rather difficult start in Hollywood and many of her early appearances were in films that were critical and commercial failures. Teaching Mrs Tingle (dir. Williamson, 1999) introduced an uncharacteristically frumpy Mirren to the screen, as the embittered history teacher Eve Tingle, and, although some reviewers praised Mirren’s acting (Ebert 1999), the film itself was a flop. The 2001 Hollywood mystery, The Pledge (dir. Penn), did not perform 75

Ageing Femininity much better at the box office. It was not until Gosford Park (dir. Altman, 2001) that Mirren starred in a big-screen hit and only Calendar Girls (dir. Cole, 2003) that secured Mirren’s reputation as cinema’s supreme example of the ‘sexy oldie’. Mirren is now regarded as embodying the ideal of ‘fit, sexy, beautiful ageing’ (Marshall and Rahman 2015: 8; see also Dolan 2010: 11). Given that contemporary media demonises the signs of feminine ageing, Mirren is noteworthy for having been ‘virtually exempt from the negative criticism in the media regarding her looks because she conforms to a version of tasteful ageing’ (Fairclough-Isaacs 2014: 146; see also Lewis et al. 2011: 106). As Josephine Dolan asserts, Mirren is always sexy but never sleazy (2012: 52). Even more remarkable is that Mirren is still coded as sexually attractive in mainstream media and, in various images, is even ‘framed as explicitly desirable’ (Wearing 2012: 149). It is this representation of Mirren as sexually desirable that distinguishes her from other female actors of her generation who, while still identified as successful within the entertainment industry, are not coded as an object of sexual desire. My main argument about RED is that the film offers this accepted view of Mirren as ‘explicitly desirable’ as the important element of ‘authenticity’ within the film’s narrative. First, on a paratextual level, there was a great deal of discussion, at the time of RED’s release, about the ‘authentic’ performance of Mirren as a trained operative. Many interviews drew attention to Mirren’s command of the craft of acting – in particular how she had spent months training with guns, learning how to fire with her eyes open, to make the shoot-out sequences seem credible. Bruce Willis stated, in interviews, that he appreciated having Mirren as a co-star in the film because ‘It could just be Helen Mirren, actress, who in her secret life, really is a spy’ (‘Interview with Bruce Willis about RED’). Second, the film text itself asserts that Victoria’s vocation as a spy is her ‘true’ identity by coding her middle-class, domestic retirement in various layers of visual irony. The first image of Victoria’s home, Eagle’s Nest, is as a picture postcard – the type of grand, country house that might appear in holiday brochures. When Frank (Bruce Willis) then visits this picture-postcard house, the mise-en-scène suggests an interior which is a parody of the style of house featured in a gracious living, design magazine. Victoria herself then appears on screen and her attire – especially her hairstyle and cardigan – is an obvious pastiche of Martha Stewart’s iconography (see Figures 2.1 and 2.2). This coding of

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Action! Performance and Performativity Victoria’s current lifestyle as fabricated and artificial serves to suggest that, underneath the fac
ade, there is the ‘authentic’ identity of wetwork operative. However, it is the sexiness and desirability of Mirren that, arguably, provides the anchorage for the credibility of the film’s narrative. Bruce Willis and John Malkovich are older stars who are acting the role of assassins and so the spectator accepts that they are performing stunts of physical impossibility. Although Willis may be perceived as a type of hyper-real action body, given his Die Hard roles, the spectator is still aware that this is yet another performance of action by the much celebrated star. By contrast, Mirren’s elegance, beauty and gracious sensuality are coded as something that actually is Helen Mirren. Therefore, the key moment in the narrative, asserting that these three spies could function as highly successful operatives, is the sequence when Victoria (Mirren) has the role of the front operative in the sting performed at the dinner dance for the Vice President. While Willis has, at other points in the film, performed actions which are highly improbable, Mirren’s performative femininity can be seen to rise easily to the challenge of elegant, gracious, evening attire. The turning point in the scene, in which the operatives manage to invade

Figure 2.1 Exterior of Victoria’s (Helen Mirren) house in RED.

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Figure 2.2 Interior of Victoria’s (Helen Mirren) house in RED.

the kitchen area of the banquet, is because Victoria is able to delude the security guard that she does not pose any danger because of her appearance of middle-class gentility. Of course, Victoria does turn out to be a very real threat and her exquisite Armani handbag is not a fashion accessory but a dangerous weapon which knocks the security guard unconscious. What follows is an elaborate shoot-out sequence in which Mirren’s skills with the machine gun are flaunted to great effect. However, the shoot-out culminates in Victoria herself being shot and having to tell Marvin (Malkovich) that he must go on without her as she will not be any further use in the operation. The next scene is particularly interesting in that it is one of the few occasions in mainstream cinema in which the older female body is explicitly eroticised as the object of the cinematic gaze. Victoria, obviously in pain due to the bullet in her side, staggers into a dead end in which she is trapped against an iron gate. The camera offers a shot of Victoria approaching the gate and discovering that it is locked. There is then a reverse field cut to show Victoria from the opposite side while she turns in panic, having heard a noise from the kitchen, and pressing her back against the gate. The camera then tracks to a close up of Victoria’s face – mouth slightly open, eyes wide and breathing heavily (Figure 2.3). 78

Action! Performance and Performativity This cinematography, mise-en-scène and editing formula is, of course, standard Hollywood eroticisation of the ‘damsel in distress’ motif – a narrative convention that can be traced from classical mythology through to fairy tales and cinematic melodramas, horrors and action cinema. The image of the ‘woman in jeopardy’, awaiting rescue by her hero, reinforces paradigms of feminine passivity and the signifiers of panting, being flushed and wide-eyed may also be read as connotative of female arousal. Certainly, this is a moment in the film in which Mirren is ‘framed as explicitly desirable’; the object of the cinematic gaze. Of course, RED’s playfulness is restored a second later when Ivan (Brian Cox) appears at the other side of the gate and rescues Victoria, sweeping her off her feet and carrying her away in an obvious parody of the damsel in distress motif. There is even a linguistic play in which the characters utter the clichéd lines which, since they featured in Return of the Jedi (dir. Marquand, 1983), have been quoted by many other films: ‘I love you / I know’. How the spectator is supposed to read this sequence is open to debate. RED is certainly asserting that Victoria – the older female body – should be perceived as sexy and desirable but, to achieve this effect, the film codes the body within the (offensive) cinematic tradition of conflating female terror with arousal and representing it as the object of the gaze. Yet, like all

Figure 2.3 Victoria (Helen Mirren) as ‘damsel in distress’ in RED.

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Ageing Femininity the sequences of RED, this is performed with a knowing wink to the cinematic spectator. In other words, the film may well be asserting that Mirren is the sexy, older woman but will only code her as an action babe if the image is insulated by layers of cinematic irony. Yet, if read on a transtextual level, the casting of Mirren as Victoria brings a different degree of signification to the performance of older action babe given that Mirren had, in the very same year, played another ageing assassin in the Hollywood film The Debt (dir. Madden 2010). A Hollywood remake of the Israeli film Ha-Hov (dir. Bernstein, 2007) (a film often read as exemplary of the ‘return to Germany’ narrative found in much contemporary Israeli cinema: see Ramati 2014), The Debt is the story of a trio of Mossad agents who, in the 1950s, were assigned to capture a Nazi war criminal. Because of the surgical experiments he performed on Jews in concentration camp, this criminal was known as ‘the surgeon of Birkenau’. The trio fail in their mission to capture ‘the surgeon’ and bring him back to Israel for trial but, when they return to Israel, they lie and tell the people that ‘the surgeon’ had tried to escape while they held him prisoner and so they were forced to kill him. Due to this deception, the trio are hailed as heroes – especially Rachel, the female operative who claimed to have fired the shot which killed ‘the surgeon’. Many years later, a resident of a Ukraine care home has claimed that he really is ‘the surgeon of Birkenau’ and so Rachel, now an elderly woman, ventures to the Ukraine to investigate and, if necessary, finish the mission that she and her colleagues failed to complete in the 1950s. Both the Hollywood remake and Israeli original are age-affirmative narratives. It is the older Rachel who is now able to succeed in the mission while she had failed as a much younger woman. The opening voice-over line of the Hollywood remake – ‘We must never forget how young they were’ – is, within the film’s diegesis, praise for the heroism of such youthful Israelis who were prepared to give their life for their country but is also an explanation as to why they did not succeed in their mission. They were too young and lacked the wisdom and judgement which comes from age. However, the interesting difference between the Israeli original and Hollywood remake is the coding of Rachel. In the Israeli original, the character of the older Rachel is played by Gila Almagor while the Hollywood remake casts Helen Mirren in the role. In contrast with

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Action! Performance and Performativity the coding of Mirren as RED’s Victoria, Rachel is not only a decidedly unglamorous woman but one who is quite seriously disfigured because of the knife attack from ‘the surgeon’ in the 1950s. This is not simply Hollywood maintaining the visual style of the Israeli original as the older Rachel in Ha-Hov (Gila Almagor) is represented as having a very slight scar on her check that is easily disguised with make-up. By contrast Mirren’s Rachel has a painful looking, purple gash across her face which no amount of make-up can conceal (Figure 2.4). While the Hollywood remake certainly maintains the German Expressionist aesthetic of the original – including its excessive shadows and theme of doubling and mirror images (see Ne’eman and Grossman 2016) – it makes a decided point to de-beautify Mirren’s Rachel and, most importantly, represent her as an ‘old’ woman. Rachel (Mirren) expresses in various scenes that she is physically incapable of travelling to the Ukraine to see if this really is ‘the surgeon of Birkenau’ in the care home because she is too old and too frail to perform such a mission. In one scene she even declares ‘Look at me! I’m old!’ – an invitation both to her colleague, but also the spectator, to gaze at her ageing body and agree that it appears incapable of performing such a mission. Therefore, in the same year, Mirren played two older, female spies in Hollywood action films. Yet while RED’s Victoria is coded (although with a heavy dollop of irony) in terms of Mirren’s ‘authentic’ sexiness and desirability as the older action babe, The Debt’s Rachel is an unglamorous

Figure 2.4 Helen Mirren as the decidedly unglamorous Rachel in The Debt.

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Ageing Femininity and, due to her disfigurement, not classically beautiful, ‘old’ woman. The Debt’s Rachel is, of course, as successful an older spy as RED’s Victoria but she exploits her performance of ‘little old lady in headscarf’, rather than powers of glamorous beauty and feminine seduction, to infiltrate guarded environments (Figure 2.5). Read as comparison texts, RED and The Debt can be seen to make a specific comment on the media discourse of ‘sexy oldie’ and its performance by Helen Mirren. On one hand, it is possible to read Mirren’s Rachel in The Debt as further affirming her sexiness and desirability. Rachel is an against character type role for Mirren. It is only because Mirren is regarded as embodying the idea of ‘fit, sexy, beautiful ageing’ (Marshall and Rahman 2015: 8) that she can perform a role in which she plays an ‘old’ and not conventionally attractive woman. (As I have argued in Chapter 1, similar arguments can be made about Mirren’s performance of Queen Elizabeth as a sweet grandmotherly type in The Queen.) Yet, on the other hand, if reading the two films (both the same genre and same year) as companion texts, then an argument can be made that they are deconstructing the discourse of feminine ageing. Mirren, in the same year and in films which both appeal to action cinema fans, is performing two types of older femininity and thus, on an intertextual and transtextual level, is challenging an essentialist view of Mirren’s body and suggesting that age is merely a question of acting performance and visual coding. While RED suggests the ‘authenticity’ of ‘sexy oldie’ (but always with a knowing wink to the spectator) another action film

Figure 2.5 Helen Mirren performing little-old-lady-ness, dressed in headscarf and cosy coat, in The Debt.

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Action! Performance and Performativity from the same year contests this by showing the identification to be a media construct. Mirren is not pre-discursively ‘sexy’; this identification is constituted through media representations. In this respect, Hollywood is making a self-referential comment not only on Mirren’s performative sexiness but on the cinematic coding of the character type of the older action babe. Yet, by casting an older female actor who is known for her performative sexiness in two roles which both ‘authenticate’ and challenge this identification, contemporary cinema is evading the issue of gerontophobia in current media discourses. Is the identification of ‘sexy oldie’ something that older women really can claim or is it merely a cinematic fantasy? By simultaneously affirming and challenging the concept of the ‘sexy oldie’, contemporary cinema is yet again having its cake and eating it too.

Conclusion This chapter has discussed some examples from cinematic genres that have usually been considered unsympathetic to older female characters. While action cinema and musicals were previously considered to be inherently ageist genres, contemporary cinema has produced some notable ageaffirmative action films and musicals. I have argued that while the strategy of representing an excellent performer, who stands in for all ‘older’ characters, can provide a sense of anchorage and authenticity, it is the genre’s revision of its textual mechanisms (karaoke singing/dancing and action cinema’s metacritical coding of the action babe as cinematic performance) which are the most age-affirmative aspects of the examples discussed. Nevertheless, it should not be overlooked that films like Mamma Mia!, RED and The Debt are still atypical examples within the mainstream, Anglophone cinema canon. These films are now several years old and, to date, contemporary cinema has failed to produce successors to the genres of the ‘karaoke musical’ and ‘older action babe film’. What seemed to be rather inspiring challenges to the constrictions of the genres may well be little more than one-off exceptions within the genres. Even more problematic is that these affirmation strategies are premised upon the principles of (feminist) reclamation and revision and, most importantly, always coded with a layer of media-savvy irony. When a film text is emphatic and self-referential about 83

Ageing Femininity its own level of irony and double-signification, it evades the issue of making any ideology explicit to the spectator. The next chapter, however, will consider this level or irony, playfulness and double-signification in more detail by discussing if strategies of age camp and age drag can be mobilised both by a media text and in the performance style of specific actors.

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3 ‘Get Off Your Asses for these Old Broads!’: Age Camp and Age Drag

While the previous chapters considered the importance of cinematic genre in age affirmation narratives, this chapter will discuss specific strategies of representation and performance which may be read as affirming older femininity on the screen: age camp and age drag. The camp investment and identification that some gay male spectators may have in a type of ageing femininity on screen has been discussed by media critics (Farmer 2000; Shingler 1995; Sikov 2008), but this chapter will consider not only the politics of a camp appreciation of older female characters and stars but also how strategies of camp and drag may be mobilised to represent age in an affirmative, although heavily ironic, fashion. Can a film text utilise camp to support feminine ageing and are certain stars able to mobilise a type of performance strategy to affirm the ageing self on the screen? In order to consider these issues, the chapter will analyse two case studies: the contemporary film These Old Broads and the recent star persona of one of Britain’s ‘National Treasures’ – Dame Maggie Smith.

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Defining Camp? Camp has been the subject of a number of sustained critical discussions (Babuscio 1984; Bergman 1993; Cleto 1999; Cohan 2005; Dyer 2004b; Newton 1979; Tinkcom 2002). Yet, although camp is one of the most overused words in popular criticism it is notoriously difficult to define. Its etymology is also unclear as it is thought either to stem from the French se camper (to strike a pose) or the old English kemp meaning uncouth or an affront to decency (Meyer 1994: 75). Susan Sontag was one of the first critics to make a valiant attempt to theorise camp in her much-quoted essay: ‘Notes on camp’ (1983). According to Sontag, ‘Camp is a certain mode of aestheticism. It is one way of seeing the world as an aesthetic phenomenon. That way, the way of Camp, is not in terms of beauty but in terms of the degree of artifice, of stylization’ (1983: 106). Although viewing camp as a mode of representation structured around artifice and stylization is a useful starting point, this does not clarify how camp is different from parody, kitsch or even irony. Therefore, Sontag’s essay has been criticised by many theorists. Moe Meyer describes Sontag’s theory as the description of mere ‘camp trace’ (1994: 5), while David A. Miller writes of Sontag’s ‘phobic dehomosexualisation of camp’ (1993: 212) due to her neglect of camp’s queer signifiers in her discussion. Andy Medhurst develops this argument further and, in his deliciously campy essay on camp, insists that camp is the exclusive property of gay men (1997). Medhurst even concludes his essay with the gloriously campy rant that camp is ‘ours, all ours, just ours, and the time has come to bring it back home’ (1997: 291). This raises two important questions. First, if Sontag’s essay is wrong and camp is not merely a way of representing something in terms of artifice and stylisation, then what actually is camp? What area of consideration has she ignored in her analysis? Secondly, why do so many critics insist that camp is a gay male preserve? What is it about camp that is supposed to make it ‘essentially’ gay? To address the first issue, one of the key areas missing from Sontag’s analysis was the question of gender. Camp, if it is to maintain a specificity which distinguishes it from other forms of representation, such as irony or kitsch, must maintain an awareness of gender. In other words, camp is an ironic performance of gender; it is gender which camp represents in terms

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Age Camp and Age Drag of artifice or stylisation. This is not to suggest that gender parody is the sole constituent of camp but rather that camp must maintain an ironic representation of gender if it is to preserve its status as camp rather than simply irony or playfulness. Therefore, camp will draw attention to gender roles as actually being gender roles. In camp, both masculinity and femininity, through exaggeration, parody or irony, are represented as constructs or performances. However, why should this be important to gay men? In his study of sexual discrimination in schools, Andrew Parker noted that homophobia was not the main problem in schoolyard bullying. Instead the problem was often effeminophobia – the fear of effeminacy: In the case of the boys at Coleridge, in calling someone a ‘poof’, pupils were not implying that certain individuals were in fact gay. Rather this term and others like it (i.e. fag, faggot, queer) were implicitly conceptualised in terms of gender as opposed to sexuality, and therefore constituted some kind of gender-structured generic, meaning ‘non-masculine’ or effeminate. (Parker 1996: 150; see also Pascoe 2005, 2011; Richardson 2009b, 2016)

As Parker’s study affirms, homosexuality is often perceived as a genderbased semiotic, the post-Foucaultian trope of an ‘interior androgyny, a hermaphroditism of the soul’ (Foucault 1978: 43). In other words, homosexuality is thought to be signified by gender transitivity or effeminacy. In this respect, when an 11-year-old school boy calls his colleague a ‘queer’ he is not suggesting that another 11-year-old is sexually gay but simply that the boy is non-conforming to dominant ideas of masculinity. Therefore, from as early as the school playground, everyone learns that being labelled ‘gay’ is dependent upon gender performance. Incipiently gay men learn that homosexuality is a semiotic. In dealing with this, many gay men focus upon ‘passing’ for straight and concentrate on constructing a masculine performance. As I have argued elsewhere (2009b), many gay men often seek out masculine partners not only because of an erotic investment in this iconography but because of their anxiety of being identified as gay through the signifier of effeminacy (see also Baker 2003). Yet, many gay men choose the opposite strategy and emulate a ‘camp’ performance by flaunting exaggerated feminine signifiers. Camp has indeed been one of gay men’s most powerful weapons – a strategy of 87

Ageing Femininity ‘defensive offensiveness’ (Medhurst 1997: 276) – as the camp ‘queen’ is drawing attention to the stereotype of the gay male as effeminate by caricaturing and exaggerating gender signifiers. Therefore, camp is a form of self-mockery which steals the thunder from the attacker. Camp not only exaggerates the very issue that may inspire effeminophobic abuse in the first place but, through this process of overstatement, denaturalises it and demonstrates that it is only a performance. If the gay man is the first to make fun of his effeminacy, by drawing attention to it and showing that it is simply a performance, then what is the point of the effeminophobe attacking him with effeminophobic terms of abuse? In this respect, both the macho gay man and the effeminate ‘queen’ maintain these performances because they are aware of the cultural perception of sexuality and gender as collapsible categories. However, one of the issues which often becomes blurred in debates about camp is the difference between the theory of camp (camp as the representation of gender in terms of artifice/stylisation) and camp as reading strategy of visual texts. While a camp performance is a survival strategy, often used by gay men within a homophobic and effeminophobic culture, the use of camp as a viewing lens is employed by gay men to facilitate pleasurable readings of visual texts and to promote a sense of community through a shared interpretation. In earlier generations being identified as a fan of Bette Davis or a friend of Dorothy was a clandestine way of asserting a shared and – at that time – illegal sexual identification (see Tinckcom 2002: 14). As I have discussed in the introduction, many gay men have taken delight in Bette Davis’s performance of Baby Jane Hudson. Martin Shingler (1995) argues that Davis’s performance of Baby Jane is female – female impersonation (female drag) and this deconstruction of gender may appeal to gay men who, growing up with years of effeminophobic abuse, have learned to manipulate their gender semiotics. Baby Jane draws attention to and critiques the identification of femininity by demonstrating that it is a performance or stylisation. Indeed, Baby Jane’s iconic sequence in which she shrieks ‘I’ve Written a Letter to Daddy’ offers a point of focalisation for the gay male spectator in the form of her accompanist Edward. Karen Stoddard describes Edward as an ‘obese mama’s boy’ (1983: 122), while other spectators, less polite than Stoddard, would simply read him as a fat ‘queen’. Therefore, the only two characters on the screen in this

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Age Camp and Age Drag sequence – Hollywood partners in crime – are the ageing female grotesque and the effeminate ‘queen’. This scene is exemplary of Hollywood’s pairing of the effeminate and, in accordance with Hollywood coding strategies, gay-identified man with the ageing woman. Not only are both represented as grotesque, but the scene also provides a sense of focalisation for the gay male spectator. Edward’s reaction to Baby Jane’s screeching is a mixture of an initial horror before developing into an ironic appreciation. The applause that Edward offers at the end of the song is a cue to gay men that the strategy of camp may also have a certain relevance for the performance of ageing femininity. (See Chapter 6 for more discussion of this.) This chapter will argue that while camp has functioned as both a form of presentation of the self and a way of enjoying the coding within mainstream film texts, these two strategies may be employed by heterosexual female performers – in particular ageing women. Is there a similar strategy of camp’s defensive offensiveness for ageing females and can a film text mobilise a similar camp agenda as found in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? to support an age-affirmative narrative?

The Defensive Offensiveness of Age Camp? While gay men have certainly been camp’s main ambassadors, some critics have argued that camp may be utilised for a feminist agenda as well (Robertson 1996; Richardson 2006a; Shugart and Waggoner 2005). Pamela Robertson argues that, ‘for feminists, camp’s appeal resides in its potential to function as a form of gender parody’ (1996: 10). If camp represents exaggerated gender performances which, by their very excess, draw attention to the performativity of gender, then this could also be mobilised to function as a type of feminist critique. Camp has the potential to emphasise not only the engineered but also compulsory construction of femininity within hetero-patriarchal society. Through its focus on excess and exaggeration, camp draws attention to how women are compelled to perform appropriate femininity within the heterosexual matrix. Can similar strategies be employed in relation to feminine ageing? Arguably, the late stand-up comic Joan Rivers employed strategies in her routine that could be identified as age camp. During her long career, Rivers was one of the most highly acclaimed, and internationally recognised, 89

Ageing Femininity stand-up comedians in Anglo-American culture. As critics have noted (Beynon 2002; Horowitz 1997; Zoglin 2009) stand-up comedy is usually regarded as a masculine activity and so Rivers was distinguished by the fact that she thrived in the macho world of stand-up for more than 50 years (Lockyer 2011). Rivers’s routine can be seen to mobilise strategies of age camp in three main ways. First, just as the camp ‘queen’ draws attention to his own effeminacy, Rivers’s comedy was distinguished by the way she always made jokes about her ageing appearance. For example, one of Ms Rivers most famous quips was: ‘My breasts are so low, now I can have a mammogram and a pedicure at the same time.’ Like the politics of camp, Rivers was foregrounding and exaggerating these issues so that a misogynist spectator could not attack her with these insults. There is little point in dismissing Rivers as an ugly, old woman if she is continually identifying herself as such. However, as Frances Gray has argued (1994: 137), this type of selfdeprecating humour only works if there is a visible difference between the speaker’s appearance and self-perception. Rivers may have lamented how her body had sagged but her iconography certainly did not evidence this. In this respect, what Rivers did throughout her routine was establish the level of double-signification – so indicative of camp – in that the issue was identified but then was always negated either by her behaviour or iconography. Like camp revealing gender as a performative effect, Rivers’s stand-up was drawing attention to the very identification of feminine old age as a discursive construct. In accordance with camp’s defensive offensiveness, Rivers was drawing attention to the issues but then representing them as artifice and theatricality so that these very worrying concerns for women, become little more than a performance style and comedy routine. As the camp ‘queen’ overperforms effeminacy, in order to draw attention to it but at the same time de-essentialise it, so Rivers was critiquing the discourse of age by separating it from the embodied self. Second, Rivers’s act was never merely a string of self-deprecating jokes. She was also famous for making fun of other celebrities with the same vicious attacks on body image that she inflicted on herself. Some of Rivers’s most famous barbs have been: ‘Elizabeth Taylor is so fat, she puts mayonnaise on aspirin’ and ‘If Kate Winslet had dropped a few pounds,

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Age Camp and Age Drag the Titanic would never have sunk.’ As Susan Horowitz has argued, Rivers was breaking down the dichotomy of bully and victim in her act so that she was both ‘the ugly, teased scapegoat and the catty schoolmates who inflict the teasing’ (Horowitz 1997: 99). Like the camp ‘queen’ who is stealing the power from the homophobe through his own self-caricature of potential insults, so Rivers was neutralising all potential insults and rendering everything a matter of comedy. Rivers was prepared to attack herself in the same way that she made fun of others, thus suggesting that verbal insults are little more than word play and have no real power to hurt. What power is there in misogynist insults if the very women who would be its victims claim an enjoyment in the practice? Third, Rivers may have continually made fun of her own (and other women’s) ageing appearance but she was also famous for joking about the extensive cosmetic surgery procedures she had endured in order to disguise, or even defy, the ageing process. (‘I’ve had so much plastic surgery, when I die, they will donate my body to Tupperware!’) The effect of this comedy was not only to bring these politics to the attention of all her audiences (female and male) but to offer a backhanded criticism of the society which made women feel so self-conscious about ageing in the first place. Arguably, this was the most skilled aspect of Rivers’s comedy routine. Had Rivers appeared on stage and criticised the tyranny of beautyism, without first having attacked herself and other women with vicious taunts, then her act would have been dismissed as rampant (and unfunny) feminism. By implicating herself in the discourse of ageism, Rivers was emphasising the pressures women feel to accord to patriarchal expectations of feminine beauty and, as such, was offering a covert feminist critique of contemporary beautyism. Like the camp ‘queen’ doing effeminacy, to draw attention to and critique ideologies that demand masculinity be performed by male bodies, so Rivers was critiquing the antiageing aesthetic required of contemporary femininity. Yet, like gay male camp, there is a bitter-sweet quality to this critique. Both the camp ‘queen’ and Rivers may well be attacking the system but, by implicating their own stylised bodies in the discourse, they are also demonstrating how the body is complicit in these structural issues. As Andy Medhurst stated, camp is ‘ameliorative, not transformative’ (1997: 278). It may well critique, make fun of or even attack the system but it still remains a part of the structure that it seeks to undermine.

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Ageing Femininity These strategies of Rivers – the self-deprecation combined with the bitchy taunts of other celebrities – all served to foreground the pressures women feel to conform to standards of femininity but, most importantly, denaturalised the identifications of beauty and ageing. In the same way that camp critiques gender, Rivers’s own brand of age camp deconstructed ‘old woman-ness’ and emphasised that it was merely a system of biased cultural expectations.

These Old Broads Can similar strategies of Rivers-esque age camp be mobilised in cinematic representation? These Old Broads is a 2001 made-for-television movie starring Shirley MacLaine, Debbie Reynolds, Joan Collins and Elizabeth Taylor. Scripted by Carrie Fisher, the film is an homage to the Hollywood tradition of ‘comeback movies’ (especially Sunset Boulevard) in which a trio of ageing actors – Kate Winterbourne (MacLaine), Piper Grayson (Reynolds) and Addie Holden (Collins) – are attempting to make a return to the screen. The film narrates how their 1960s road-movie musical Boy Crazy attained record viewing numbers during a television broadcast and so TV executive Gavin (Nestor Carbonell) decides it would be a lucrative venture to make a one-off television production in which Kate, Piper and Addie perform some songs from Boy Crazy. Gavin hires Kate’s son Wesley (Jonathan Silverman) to produce the show. The only problem is that the three women all loathe each other and, even when they are lured back into working together (largely due to the salaries secured for them by their agent Beryl Mason (Elizabeth Taylor)) they seem incapable of performing collectively with any degree of basic courtesy or civility. The film is largely a bitch-fest between the three women in which they exchange truly vicious, Rivers-esque remarks about each other’s ageing bodies and physical appearance. Adding to the camp antics are the subplots of Addie’s escaped jailbird husband dying of a heart attack while making love to her and Wesley (Jonathan Silverman) coming out as gay to his mother Kate. My analysis will certainly not make any claims for These Old Broads as representative of ‘quality’ cinema and, arguably, I could have chosen a different case study through which to test my theories of age camp. However, given that These Old Broads was one of the final performances of the late Debbie Reynolds and Elizabeth Taylor, and also

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Age Camp and Age Drag one of the final scripts penned by Reynolds’s daughter Carrie Fisher, I feel this lesser known age affirmation film deserves some critical attention. These Old Broads is certainly emphatic that it should be interpreted as high camp. From the very start, it functions on zealous levels of selfreferentiality and pastiche to suggest a sensibility of artifice and theatricality. Quotations to earlier ‘comeback’ movies – especially Sunset Boulevard – abound within the text. For example, Addie’s mansion resembles Desmond’s Sunset Boulevard house; the trays of afternoon tea which Beryl orders to be wheeled in are similar to the ones that Desmond’s butler Max presents and the turbans worn by Kate are very Desmond. Other intertextual references include: the introductory image of Addie through a close-up of her red lips – a reference to the iconic image of Crawford in Mommie Dearest (dir. Perry, 1981); the basque worn by Addie which is almost identical to the one sported by Collins in The Bitch (dir. O’Hara, 1979), while the death of Addie’s husband, and the women’s attempt to hide the body, is a nod towards the film Weekend at Bernie’s (dir. Kotcheff, 1989) which starred Jonathan Silverman – now playing Kate’s son Wesley. The film is certainly quoting heavily from other films but it also makes heavy-handed comments about how representation is constitutive of identity in contemporary culture. One recurrent motif in the mise-en-scène is the Warhol-style silk screen print hanging in the background. In one scene, the camera focuses on the copy of Warhol’s Liz (1963), hanging on the wall behind the reclining Beryl (Liz Taylor), before then tilting down to show Beryl underneath (Figure 3.1). Similarly, a later scene represents a Warholised version of Caravaggio’s The Cardsharps (1594) hanging in Gavin’s office in which the lead thief, represented in Warhol fashion on the silkscreen, bears a definite resemblance to Gavin (Figure 3.2). This deliberate conflation between representation and reality continues in the film’s suggestion that its leading ladies really are the actors themselves. Kate Westbourne is first introduced practising New Age spirituality – a belief famously embraced by MacLaine herself – while Piper owns a hotel and casino in which she signs photographs of herself for her fans in the same way that Reynolds did for many years in her ‘Debbie Reynolds Hollywood Hotel and Casino’. The film pushes these similarities even further in a later scene in which a studio executive tells Piper (Reynolds) that he fell in love with Tammy (the lead character from Reynolds’s famous film Tammy and the Bachelor (dir. Pevney, 1957)) and

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Figure 3.1 Broads.

Piper (Debbie Reynolds) and Beryl (Elizabeth Taylor) in These Old

jokes with Kate (MacLaine) about how he may have known her in a previous life – a reference to MacLaine’s much publicised belief in reincarnation. Kate even replies that he may have been Charlemagne thus referencing MacLaine’s own story of how she believed she had been in love with Charlemagne in an earlier life. Other direct parallels with real life include the scene in which Piper (Reynolds) discusses with Beryl (Taylor) about how her husband Freddie Hunter left her for Beryl many years ago – a direct reference to the famous scandal of Eddie Fisher leaving Reynolds for Taylor in the late 1950s. Similarly, Carrie Fisher (the screenwriter of the film) connects all the women not only by the fact that she is the daughter of Reynolds and step-daughter of Taylor but by having written the semiautobiographical Postcards from the Edge in which the Reynolds-type figure is acted by MacLaine. The film is asserting that the characters of Kate, Piper and Beryl are not just similar to MacLaine, Reynolds and Taylor but that the dichotomy of actor and performed character does not exist. The exception in the film is Joan Collins. Not only is there a difference in star ranking (while MacLaine and Reynolds were Hollywood stars, Collins was known only for B movies) but, more importantly, if MacLaine and Reynolds are playing themselves in These Old Broads, Addie (Collins) is the character that is most dissimilar to Collins the actor. If Collins is famous for her Englishness, the film emphasises throughout its narrative 94

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Figure 3.2 Representation and reality as collapsible categories in These Old Broads.

that Addie’s English accent is a mere affectation and, at times of stress, Addie even forgets her plummy accent and returns to a Kansas twang. This emphasis on Collins playing a fictional character (as opposed to the other actors who play themselves) further supports the film’s sensibility of collapsing image and reality to engineer its deliberate campiness. While two of the trio really are their characters, the third is fiction but yet sits comfortably alongside the other two. Just like the metaphor of the Warhol silkscreens – in which the Liz silkscreen is a representation of the physical body of Beryl/Taylor lying underneath but the fictional character of Gavin actually is created through the process of a narrative of representational strategies – the film is showing representation and reality to be collapsible categories. The inclusion of Collins is also the cue to the spectator that the film’s play with signification should not be read merely as post-modern playfulness but as camp. Post Dynasty, Collins has been one of the most famous camp icons in Western culture (Finch 1986) and Britain’s camp comedian, Julian Clary, originally titled his act ‘The Joan Collins Fan Club’. Most importantly, this sensibility of camp continues into the identification 95

Ageing Femininity of age. Collins – paired with Pat Crawford Brown as her mother – can be seen to mobilise the Rivers-esque strategy of age camp. At the time of filming These Old Broads, Collins was aged 69 while Pat Crawford Brown, playing the character of her mother, was aged 71. Although these two women are nearly the same biological age, one is represented as a little, old lady while the other is coded as a sexual and sexy woman. (The narrative asserts that Gavin is genuinely attracted to Addie (Collins) throughout the film.) This age camp can be seen, like the rest of the film’s insistent questioning of what is reality and what is representation, to deconstruct the very identification of ‘old age’. What actually is ‘old’ when two actors of similar biological age perform the identification of ‘age’ so differently? Most importantly, Addie’s ageing body, and her obsession with cosmetic surgery, is most often the target of jokes in the film but, like Rivers, there is a disjunction between the things the characters say about each other’s bodies and their actual appearance. All the three women hurl ageist insults at each other, yet there is not the slightest wrinkle to be seen on any of them. This continuous merry-go-round of vicious barbs between the women not only challenges the dichotomy of bully/victim, in the same way as Rivers’s stand-up, but renders the entire process of exchanging insults as a type of well-choreographed spectacle – comparable to the other songand-dance sequences within the film. Like Rivers’s age camp, These Old Broads foregrounds the issues that older women face in contemporary gerontophobic culture but softens the critique through self-deprecation and a dissolution of the bully/victim dichotomy. Collins also serves another function, besides bringing a sense of camp to the proceedings, in that Collins, unlike Reynolds and MacLaine, does not have a reputation for musical theatre. Reynolds is, of course, famous for her singing and dancing performances in Singin’ in the Rain (dir. Kelly and Donen 1952), Tammy and the Bachelor (dir. Pevney, 1957), What’s the Matter with Helen? (dir. Harrington, 1971) and for her theatre performance as Irene O’Dare in Irene (1973) for which she received the Tony Award for Best Actress in a musical (1973). Similarly, MacLaine’s musical credits include Can Can (dir. Lang, 1960), Sweet Charity (dir. Fosse, 1968) and the Broadway musical production of Seesaw (1976). Collins, by contrast, was neither a singer nor a dancer. In this respect, the inclusion of Collins has the opposite effect from the strategy detailed in Chapter 2 in which an accomplished musician or athlete stands in for the

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Age Camp and Age Drag performance ability of the other members of the cast. In These Old Broads, by contrast, the fact that Collins is represented as the most accomplished of the dancers (in one scene she performs the splits) again creates the camp aesthetic of confusing image with reality. This inclusion of a performer who negates the very real importance of dance training, and renders the entire performance as artifice, is also a means of masking the fact that MacLaine and Reynolds can no longer perform their characteristic high kicks and that their voices have dropped considerably in pitch. Reynolds’s bright, soprano voice – the key to Kathy’s success in Singin’ in the Rain – is now a husky contralto while MacLaine’s famous high kicks are now reduced to a knee flick. The point is that, without Collins represented beside them, the final song and dance performance by the older bodies would be disappointing as the spectators would make comparisons with their roles in earlier films. The inclusion of Collins – an actor who is not a dancer but yet is the most accomplished mover of the trio – not only makes the verisimilitude of the sequence utterly irrelevant but is a very definite signifier that the scene should be read as camp. However, while the film forges a camp confusion of representation and reality to challenge the fixity of ageing, it also makes a very definite comment about the affiliation shared by gay men and older women. In These Old Broads, gay men are represented as adoring fans of these older actors. One of the most feel-good scenes in the film is when Kate, Addie and Piper visit a West Hollywood (WeHo) gay club to speak to Wesley. (This club is, of course, a rather Will and Grace version of a gay club in that the dancefloor is not filled with gyrating, shirtless WeHo muscle boys but classically dressed, middle-class, straight-looking men.) From the very moment the women drive up outside the club, they are besieged by a legion of adoring gay men shrieking how much they adore them and begging for their autographs. This continues inside the club (one WeHo boy tells Piper that he dressed up as her for Halloween) and the only way that Kate can have some time alone with her son is if Addie and Piper distract the throng of adoring gay men. To distract the onlookers, the DJ plays a karaoke track of the Garland classic ‘Get Happy’ to which Piper and Addie sing and dance for the pleasure of the gay clubbers. The sequence edits between Kate’s discussion with her son and the dance sequences of Addie and Piper entertaining the clubbers. As the dance rises to a climax (Piper and Addie are sitting on the shoulders of their adoring gay male fans by their final

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Ageing Femininity verse) the emotional intensity of the discussion between Kate and Wesley also escalates until Kate, who never cries in public, actually starts to weep with joy and gives Wesley a big hug. What is so very touching about this sequence is that its insistent cross-cutting between the two events draws a parallel between the two types of love expressed in the scene: the love of a mother for her son is equated with the gay male fan adoration that the clubbers have for Piper and Addie. In this respect, the film is not only gay affirmative, in the same way that it is trying to be age affirmative, but is insisting upon a shared sensibility between ageing women and gay men and, most importantly, validating camp identification as comparable to other expressions of love. This equation between gay male identification and ageing is pushed even further in the film through the representation of Wesley’s homosexuality. If the film is trying to denaturalise the signifiers of ageing, drawing attention to how age is a performative effect rather than essential identity, it employs a similar strategy with gay male identification. The revelation that Wesley is gay is coded as an unexpected twist in the film. Largely this is due to the deliberately misleading first representation of Wesley when he is at home and preparing dinner with a lovely female – thus suggesting the heteronormative spectacle of a husband and wife – but also because Wesley is played by Jonathan Silverman whose star persona (largely due to his roles in the Weekend at Bernie’s franchise) is of the heterosexual, ‘guy next door’ type. By contrast, the network executive Gavin is coded with iconography that is usually identified as gay male (or, more recently, metrosexual), given his immaculately coiffed hair, stylish suits and exquisitely groomed goatee beard. (See the Conclusion for a discussion of metrosexuality.) Gavin even appears to wear visible mascara and eyeliner (more so as the film progresses) to highlight his eyes. Therefore, the film not only draws parallels between gay male sensibility and female ageing but is insistent upon deconstructing the visual signifiers of both – emphasising that they are cultural constructions. The film’s equation between gay male signifiers and the iconography of female ageing can also be read as making a specific point about the difference in the politics of the two. Wesley passes as straight. Although it would be fair to argue that he has very real concerns about coming out at work, he has also been unable to identify as gay to his mother. Granted, there has been a strained relationship between mother and son but, as Kate

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Age Camp and Age Drag herself states, she has worked with gay people all her life in the movie industry and so has absolutely no issue with anyone identifying as nonheterosexual. The suggestion is that Wesley is actually ashamed of being gay. This resonates with the strange moment in an earlier scene in which Ben (presumably Wesley’s boyfriend?) accompanies him to Beryl’s house but Wesley is unable to introduce Ben to Beryl. Beryl even has to ask who he is and Wesley simply gives his name rather than, as the spectator would have expected at this point, an identification of Ben as some sort of work colleague. The point is that gay identification is represented as something that Wesley finds shameful. The women’s ageing, by contrast, is something that is openly identified in the film. Therefore, the film contrasts two differing approaches to identity politics by juxtaposing Wesley with Kate. Wesley’s homosexuality is a matter of shame; the trope of the closet. Kate’s advanced age is something that is proclaimed within the film and the constant subject of all the discussions within the narrative. While Wesley’s homosexuality is something which he himself has difficulty accepting, female ageing is something to be declared and celebrated in the text. Arguably, These Old Broads is exalting age affirmation politics by representing them as even more dynamic than gay identity politics. In These Old Broads, Gay Pride is very definitely eclipsed by Age Pride. Yet, despite my fondness of this film, even I must admit there are problems with its representational politics. The film is so unashamedly emphatic that it should be read as camp that it often falls into the very trap of failing to be camp due to trying so hard. The exaggerated mise-en-scène, affirming that the film is self-reflexive in its construction of identifications, is sometimes so heavy-handed as to appear laboured rather than camp (Figure 3.3). The other issue is the question of agency. While Joan Rivers’s brand of age camp is something wielded by Rivers herself, the same may not be the case of the women in These Old Broads. Are they camp subjects or camp objects? The film seems to be so nervous about this that it includes a sequence in which Wesley fires the director of the comeback show because he was laughing cruelly at Kate, Piper and Addie when they performed ‘Boy Crazy’. This director is represented as a misogynist drunk and so Wesley’s dismissal of this guy gives the message that the spectator should not be laughing at the women in a similar fashion. Camp appreciation, in which we laugh with the film at how it critiques the ageism of society, is

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Figure 3.3 These Old Broads insisting on its own campness.

fine, but giggling at the women is not acceptable. Yet the fine distinctions between laughing-with and giggling-at are not always so easy to discern. As Susan Smith has argued, despite its best intentions, These Old Broads runs very close to supporting the ageism which it purports to satirise (2012: 34). The discourses of age camp mobilised in the film may well be strategies of defensive offensiveness, which are critiquing the system, but they still implicate the subjects within this very structure and so, as Gregg Blachford famously wrote, camp is merely a way of making ‘the best of a bad lot without transforming the whole lot’ (Blachford 1981: 204).

The Prime of Dame Maggie Smith The issue of agency – whether these women are subjects or objects of camp – is certainly an important question in These Old Broads, as is the political effect this coding strategy has in the film’s age affirmation narrative. However, one contemporary actor can be praised for mobilising 100

Age Camp and Age Drag camp and, more recently, age camp and age drag, as a nuanced performance strategy in many of her roles. Often identified as one of Britain’s ‘National Treasures’, Dame Maggie Smith is undoubtedly one of the most respected and loved of all of Britain’s actors. In a career spanning more than 50 years, Smith has distinguished herself in a variety of theatre and film roles and is still one of the most highly sought-after actors in the Anglophone cinema industries. Born in Ilford, in a rather humble, lower-middle class background, Smith fell in love with acting from an early age and made her first theatrical performance in a series of revues. In 1967, in a television show entitled Acting in the 60s, Smith was noted for saying that she disliked screen acting and much preferred theatre. Yet although Smith herself may not have been in love with performing in film, it is fair to say that the cinema adored her. Indeed, Smith was celebrated in Hollywood much earlier than Dames Dench and Mirren, winning the Best Actress Oscar, for her eponymous role in The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie (dir. Neame, 1969), and then Best Supporting Actress in California Suite (dir. Ross, 1978). From her early film roles – Hot Millions (dir. Till, 1968) and The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie (1969) – Smith distinguished herself as a genius for comedy. It soon became apparent, both to critics and audiences, that Smith could transform the most mundane line into a laugh-out-loud moment. In a 1964 theatre production of Noel Coward’s play Hay Fever, the character Myra Arundel (Smith) had a simple line remarking that the breakfast ‘haddock is disgusting’. On paper, this is hardly a humorous quip but when it was delivered by Smith this line managed to excite audiences into roars of laughter. Smith’s commitment to comedy has continued throughout her career so that she has usually acted in films that have been labelled as comedies or else she has often played a character that is required to interject moments of humour into the narrative. Most importantly, from her early days, Smith has been associated with a certain type of camp comedy. Andy Medhurst has identified The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie as one of the most celebrated camp texts in British popular culture (1997: 276) and commentators have remarked on how this film established a certain camp style that became synonymous with Smith and her subsequent career (Coveney 2016; Peter Hall quoted in Hadley 2015). One of the key elements within Smith’s performance style is that many of her characters can be read as critiquing or even satirising the British

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Ageing Femininity class system. Smith herself is of lower-middle class background yet she usually plays extremely grand, upper class ladies. Often the narrative twist (for example, The Missionary (dir. Loncraine, 1982) and My House in Umbria (dir. Loncraine, 2003)) is that these upper class ladies are actually of lower class origins. As Tessa Hadley has argued, Smith’s performances of upper class women are popular with audiences because there is always an ambivalence about their class identification (2015). While some spectators may indeed wish to read Smith’s characters as upper class, without any hint of irony, other spectators will enjoy, with an ironic wink, the ‘mannered hauteur’ (Farmer 2015: 13) that Smith brings to many of her famous roles. Smith can be read as ‘a petite bourgeois interloper in a toff’s world, performing the upper-class performance’ (Hadley 2015). Therefore, even when Smith’s characters are uttering the most offensively snobby lines, this level of double-signification undercuts the discourse and makes the haughty remark humorous rather than unpleasant. Most importantly, it is possible to consider the irony that Smith brings to her roles in terms of gender as well as class. Tessa Hadley has commented that Smith often acts ‘women performing themselves as women’ (2015) – a similar type of female –female impersonation that Martin Shingler (1995) has argued was performed by Bette Davis in the later stages of her career. Smith may be read as performing a similar gender iconoclasm to Davis so that her performance of ‘femininity comes remarkably close to that of female impersonation, to drag’ (Shingler 1995: 185). However, unlike Davis, Smith’s performances are more inflected with the nuances of British socio-economic class dynamics so that many of Smith’s iconic roles may be interpreted as lower class women performing the role of upper class lady. As such, the female transformation narrative (in which a woman is transformed into ‘acceptable’ femininity – often at the hands of a man) is implicitly critiqued. In Smith’s performances there is always the subtle reminder of the way that classed femininity is fabricated by patriarchal culture (Skeggs 1997). Most importantly, Smith’s mobilisation of camp has recently demonstrated the potential to critique age identifications as well as gender and class. From the early 1990s, Smith started to play ‘old’ ladies on the screen. The film reviewer Barry Norman noted this in an interview with Maggie Smith on his show Film 93 by remarking that she was now acting ‘very old ladies’ in films. Arguably, this started when Smith performed

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Age Camp and Age Drag Grandmother Wendy in the film Hook (dir. Spielberg, 1991) – a film which represented the grown-up Peter Pan (Robin Williams) returning to London with his wife and kids to visit Wendy. As Wendy had never actually lived in Neverland she had aged considerably more than Peter and, although Wendy’s age is never actually confirmed, the narrative suggests that she is an elderly lady in her late eighties or early nineties. In 1991, Smith was aged 57 but, with the aid of prosthetics and make-up, was playing a woman of more than 30 years her own age. After her performance as Grandmother Wendy, Smith would play the role of Mother Superior in Sister Act (dir. Ardolino, 1992) and Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit (dir. Duke, 1993) – a character who was not only identified as physically ‘old’ but also as embodying old-fashioned ideologies – and would then progress to other ‘old lady’ parts in The Secret Garden (dir. Holland, 1993) and Washington Square (dir. Holland, 1997) before assuming her iconic ‘old dragon’ roles in Tea With Mussolini (dir. Zeffirelli, 1999), The Last September (dir. Warner, 1999), Gosford Park (dir. Altman, 2001), Ladies in Lavender (dir. Dance 2004) and, of course, the formidable Dowager Countess Grantham in Downton Abbey (2010 – 15). Therefore, from the age of 50, Smith started to perform the role of the ‘very old lady’ on screen. In other words, ‘old age’ was an acting style that Smith established in 1991 and which she has continued to employ in her roles through to the current day. For example, the iconography and performance style of Grandmother Wendy in 1991 is not dissimilar to the manner of the Dowager Countess Grantham in Downton Abbey more than 25 years later. Wendy was a much gentler character than the indomitable matriarch of Downton Abbey, but Smith utilised the same gestures and movements in the performance of both characters – particularly the tilt of the head, her often frightened rabbit-type stare and her trademark fluttering of the fingers as one hand gently massages the other (Figures 3.4 and 3.5). Therefore, for the past 25 years, Smith may be read as mobilising not just age camp but a type of age drag on the screen. The critical concept of age drag was recently explored by Mary Zaborskis (2015) who employed this paradigm to analyse the performances mobilised in the North American tradition of baby beauty pageants. These pageants, popular throughout the USA, are beauty contests in which toddlers compete for the crown of beauty queen. Like adult beauty pageants, the competitors are

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Figure 3.4 Maggie Smith in 1991 as Grandmother Wendy in Hook.

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Figure 3.5 Maggie Smith in 2015 as the Dowager Countess Grantham in Downton Abbey.

excessively made-up through recourse to hair styling products, false nails, spray tans and even false teeth (required to conceal the gap left by the occasional missing baby tooth). Understandably, these pageants have inspired anxieties in the media about the sexualisation of children’s bodies (see Giroux 1998) but Zaborskis argues that the pageants may not only be unsettling for the way they eroticise young girls’ bodies but because of how they disrupt the continuum of sex, gender and, most importantly, age. These pageants represent children performing age so that ‘before the pageant, they are children; during the pageant they are performing an excessive version of womanhood’ (Zaborskis 2015: 118). In this respect, pageants ‘destabilize the when of gender’ so that the accepted life narrative of age, gender and sexuality is challenged and revealed to be an ‘illusory construction’ (Zaborskis 2015: 119). Although Zaborskis is analysing a very different performance spectacle (age drag promotes a very unsettling effect in the baby beauty pageants), this same concept of age drag may be employed to consider the career of Smith over the past three decades. For the past quarter of a century, Smith has been performing old-lady-ness in popular cinema. Arguably, one of the 105

Ageing Femininity reassuring elements of Smith’s performances is the timeless quality that Smith brings to the screen. Smith’s characters have been ‘old’ but have not been ageing for the past 25 years. The same gestures and performative effects of age have stayed with Smith’s characters for several decades so that ‘old’ age is merely an acting style and method of characterisation. Like the toddlers who are children but then perform age when on stage, so Smith’s acting career has rendered age a type of entertaining drag spectacle. Arguably the term age drag could also have been applied to the performances of Helen Mirren (see Chapters 1 and 2) – especially in her eponymous role in The Queen. However, unlike Smith, the element of camp humour is not present in Mirren’s performances and, as I have argued already (Chapter 2), her recent roles may be interpreted as questioning how the very identification of ‘sexy oldie’ is discursively constructed via the media. By contrast, Smith’s performances are – arguably – not making the same political comment on identification of being a ‘sexy oldie’ (Smith has never been revered for her sexiness in the same way as Mirren) but are actually rendering ‘old-lady-ness’ a type of performance spectacle. While Mirren’s roles have critiqued the requirements of successful (and ‘sexy’) feminine ageing, Smith’s performances have deconstructed the very identification of age itself so that ‘old lady’ is merely a performance style. It is fair to say that Smith has indeed been typecast in recent years playing, as she so often does, Lady Bracknell type older ladies. Therefore, in any of Smith’s film roles there is now a guaranteed and reassuring atemporality. Audiences can anticipate the Smith character ‘type’ (consistent for the past 25 years) and so Smith provides a sense of anchorage and consistency across the type of age-affirmative narratives that are now being produced for silver audiences. Yet, the genius of Smith is how she manages to bring a slightly different inflection, a subtle nuance in characterisation, to roles which – on paper – appear to be very similar. Tea with Mussolini’s Lady Hester and The Last September’s Lady Myra (both 1999) are comparable character types, as are the Dowager Countess Trantham (Gosford Park, 2000) and the Dowager Countess Grantham (Downton Abbey, 2010 – 15). Arguably, what makes these performances so enjoyable for the spectator is the sheer pleasure of watching how Smith can reinterpret these similar character types with very subtle differences. Therefore, one of the pleasures of spectatorship is watching how Smith the actor transcends the role. It is probably fair to speculate that many

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Age Camp and Age Drag spectators go to see Maggie Smith perform, marvelling at how she has – yet again – managed to revise the Lady Bracknell type, rather than seeking an emotive identification with the character that Smith is playing. Charles Gant even identified Smith’s most recent film, The Lady in the Van (dir. Hytner, 2015), as a ‘Maggie Smith vehicle’: a film created to showcase her talents. Whether it is the Dowager Countess Grantham or a homeless woman living in a van, the fans delight in Smith’s acting style; her authorial stamp on the film role. Smith, of course, is an actor more associated with mannered performances than the Method technique. In the press conference for The Lady in the Van, Simon Button asked Smith how ‘Method’ she was in preparation for the role. Smith replied that she did not engage with that practice at all as ‘not a lot of that is required when you are dressed as I was and in a van. That was Method enough.’ Perhaps this is part of the appeal of Smith’s camp performance style? Although she demonstrates a meticulous attention to the details of the characters – their specific mannerisms, expressions and idiosyncrasies are a joy to watch – Smith always maintains a subtle difference (almost Brechtian) between actor and role. As Tessa Hadley (2015) has argued, ‘empathy isn’t really how Smith’s acting works: it’s cooler and crisper than, say, the more heartfelt warmth of her contemporary and friend Judi Dench. Dench can usually find something to feel within the least promising part, whereas Smith is always at her best when the words are good.’ This is not intended as any form of criticism of the art and acting technique of Dame Maggie Smith. In recent years, it does seem to be the case that identifying an actor as anything less than a master of the Method is deemed an insult when, in fact, this should not be the issue at all. Nor is it intended to draw comparative rankings between the skill of Dench and Smith. Instead, it is simply to stress that while Dench’s performances are remarkable for how they can render even the most horrible character sympathetic without the slightest inflection of camp (Dench’s role in Notes on a Scandal is the best example here – see Chapter 4), Smith’s performances give an equal amount of pleasure to the spectator through their ironic revision of yet another Lady Bracknell stereotype. It is the element of age camp and age drag which often elevate Smith’s roles beyond being mere caricatures of snobby, old dragons. Indeed, it was the combination of the emotive skills of Dench, combined with the camp

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Ageing Femininity irony of Smith, which was a big factor in the success of one of the most age-affirmative films in recent years: Ladies in Lavender (dir. Dance, 2004).

Enter the Dragon: Ladies in Lavender Set on the Cornish coast, just before the outbreak of World War II, Ladies in Lavender (based on a short story by William Locke) narrates how two elderly sisters Janet (Smith) and Ursula (Dench) find a young Polish man (Andrea, played by Daniel Brühl) on the beach, after he has been swept off his America-bound ship in a storm, and nurse him back to health. Ursula, who has never been married, develops affections for the young man. The director, Charles Dance, has identified the film as a fairy tale in many interviews and there are various references in the narrative to the codes and conventions of fantasy tales. The film has received critical attention for its exquisite representation of Cornwall (Moseley 2009) and for how it may be read as mobilising a type of atemporal, postmodern nostalgia, popular in many contemporary British period films (Higson 2014). However, the story of an older woman falling in love with a much younger man is not a subject that is often addressed in popular cinema – unless the tale is coded as a black comedy such as Harold and Maude (dir. Ashby, 1971). Making the amorous older woman sympathetic to the spectator is a very difficult task but one which Dench, the actor’s actor, manages to do. In one tear-jerking scene, Andrea and Ursula have been on the beach and Andrea, exhausted from vigorous swimming, is now napping. Ursula is sitting on the grass and, as Andrea lies down beside her, he rests his head on her lap. Ursula very gently caresses Andrea’s hair but this is not an immediate response to the young man placing his head on her lap. Instead, the whirlwind of emotions that Ursula is feeling at this moment is conveyed to the spectator through the detail of Dench’s performance. Ursula’s first gesture is to raise her hand and then place it on her own chest, signifying the heartache that she is experiencing at this moment, before then lightly touching the young man’s head. What could have been a scene inspiring anxiety or even revulsion in the spectator becomes, through the skill of Dench’s performance, a moment of heartwrenching identification in which Ursula is not merely a deluded, silly, old 108

Age Camp and Age Drag woman but a person whose desires can be felt by every spectator – irrespective of age or gender. This scene can be read as exemplary of the type of heritage-style acting discussed by Christine Geraghty (2002) in which emotion is always tempered through intellect. As Julia Hallam argues, ‘it is this restraint, coupled with Dench’s ability to convey her emotions through small but significant details’ (2016: 562) that not only makes Ladies in Lavender convincing but also acceptable to the middlebrow audience. Of course, the empathy which is demanded by Dench’s character Ursula could make Ladies in Lavender an extremely sentimental, if not even mawkish soap opera. What saves the film from wallowing in sentimentality is how Dench’s performance style is juxtaposed with Smith’s. If the thrill of Dench’s acting is how it steals the spectator’s heart then the joy of Smith’s role is that she snaps the spectator back to reality – often with the zinging one-liners that have become so characteristic of her performances. Janet is yet another of Smith’s battle-axe older ladies, equipped with a razor-sharp tongue and witty turn of phrase, and it is evident that she is a formidable matriarch in this remote Cornish village. As is usually the case in films that star Smith, the trailer features Janet’s best lines to show the spectator that, although the film will be a heart-breaking tale of unrequited love, there will be some sparkling moments of Smith’s camp comedy as well. Yet Smith’s one-liners are not simply comedic effect but the voice of reason and authority in the text. Janet initially dismisses Ursula’s affections for Andrea as ridiculous but then becomes more concerned when she sees the intensities of her sister’s emotions. What could become a very didactic morality play (a geriatric version of Sense and Sensibility but without the Austen charm) in which ageing femininity is a source of anxiety, if not even horror, is given a humorously camp inflection through Smith’s portrayal of Janet. The point is that if Janet’s reprimanding lines were not delivered with the characteristic Smith irony, the film would be an insensitive story showing the horror of old age in which a deluded, older woman is kept in check by her guardian/carer sister. This pairing of Dench’s emotional identification and Smith’s critical distance has the remarkable effect of elevating a very simple story, which moves at a snail’s pace, to the level of being one of the most emotionally affective films of contemporary cinema.

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The Downton Dowager Dragon If Smith’s acting technique, which I read as a deliberate mobilisation of camp, saves Ladies in Lavender from descending into sickeningly sweet sentimentality, she is an equally skilled saviour of another popular British media text: Downton Abbey. One of the most successful British television series ever – and one of Britain’s greatest exports in the USA – Downton Abbey narrates the trials and tribulations of the aristocratic Grantham family who reside in the stately manor house, Downton Abbey, during the early part of the twentieth century. In the series, Smith plays the formidable Violet Grantham – the Dowager Countess – whose witty one-liners have been the subject of many YouTube montages and online fan websites. While it is true that the Countess often does have Wildean lines (‘Don’t be defeatist, dear, it’s very middle class’; ‘If I were to search for logic, I would not look for it among the English upper classes’; and ‘No Englishman would dream of dying in someone else’s house’) other hilarious moments are more a testament to Smith’s comedic genius than the writing in the script. The line – ‘I couldn’t have electricity in the house. I couldn’t sleep a wink’ – would hardly raise a smile, let alone a laugh when read on the page, but when delivered by Smith is elevated to a moment of high camp comedy. Downton Abbey is a ‘soap-opera-style makeover of period drama’ (Byrne 2014: 326) and, like heritage cinema of the 1980s, may also be read as an allegory for the political ideology of the time. If Thatcherite rhetoric underpinned the 1980s Merchant-Ivory films, Downton may be interpreted as an extended allegory of Cameron’s liberal conservatism (Tincknell 2012: 59). For example, one motif throughout Downton is that aristocratic paternalism, which cares for and protects the vulnerable and injured servant class, ‘does away with any need for a welfare state’ (Byrne 2014: 320). This may be read as a metaphor to appease the spectator’s anxiety about the public spending cuts brought about by the Cameron conservative government (see Byrne 2014: 320). Downton suggests there is no need for a benefits system when the upper echelons are so generous. Most worryingly, however, Downton may be read as an unashamedly snobby text. Not only does the series draw a conflation between the British class system and the beautiful house, suggesting that both should be preserved and treasured (see Tincknell 2012: 58), but social inequality is

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Age Camp and Age Drag represented in the drama as ‘a natural component of human behaviour’ (Tincknell 2012: 58) and something which, like Downton Abbey itself, should be painstakingly maintained. In Downton’s ideology the upper echelons should be protected, given that Downton always codes the upper class people as the most liberal and gracious of all the characters. This was particularly emphatic in the storyline in which the under-butler Thomas was outed as gay. While the servant classes voiced the most homophobic utterances (the head butler Carson described homosexuality as ‘unnatural’, ‘revolting’ and ‘disgusting’), the upper echelons were barely concerned at all. The Earl of Grantham, when learning of Thomas’s homosexuality, dismissed it as irrelevant (see Brown 2015). Perhaps even more problematic is that the working-class characters are often identified as the villains of the series. Thomas, together with the lady’s maid, O’Brien, are consistently coded as evil and treacherous characters. Although O’Brien and Thomas’s villainy may be read as expressing their frustration with the oppressive regime of Downton society (Brown 2015), it is more often coded as ‘disloyalty’ (Byrne 2014: 320) to the kind and tolerant members of the upper classes. In this respect, Downton does seem to establish a highly tendentious binary in which the upper classes are liberal, charming people while the servant classes are coded as intolerant and often their own worst enemies – making their own situations even more difficult than they need to be. Yet Katherine Byrne argues that it is also possible to interpret an ironic – or even camp – subtext in Downton which suggests that, ‘despite this world’s obsession with breeding and permanence there is nothing natural or intrinsic about the ordering of society and its roles’ (2014: 318). For example, Byrne points out that the butler Carson, often the most emphatic advocate for traditional class roles in the house, is not, as was first implied, a butler from a long line of butlers but is in fact a retired actor. The suggestion is that Carson’s insistence upon essentialist class identifications may not be as heartfelt as his character maintains. Similarly, Byrne argues that Lord Grantham’s speeches may be interpreted as suggesting that ‘class is performative, rather than innate’ and thus can be read as challenging ideas of ‘class as intrinsic and godgiven’. In many of the Earl’s key scenes, Byrne argues that ‘the audience watches an actor playing the role of a man who is “playing” at being a Lord’ (2014: 318).

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Ageing Femininity Interestingly, Byrne does not cite Smith’s performance of the Dowager Countess in her analysis of how Downton may be read as simultaneously reinforcing and deconstructing class ideologies. I should argue that a key element which undercuts the unpleasant ideologies of Downton is the camp comedy brought to the screen by Smith’s Dowager Countess. While Chapter 1 argued that the imperialist and conservative ideologies of contemporary heritage cinema were rendered more benign by having them voiced or performed by older characters (a strategy of greywashing), Smith’s performance does more than simply grey-cloak the ‘steaming, silvered tureen of snobbery’ (Schama 2012) that is Downton. As with her other roles, Smith’s Dowager Countess deconstructs class, gendered and age ideologies. Not only is there Smith’s characteristic ironic wink towards class and gendered identifications in that the Countess is very much Smith doing her female – female impersonation (one reviewer described the Dowager Countess as ‘Kenneth Williams in drag’: Lewis 2015) but Smith’s famous age drag is also a key component of the Countess Grantham performance. First, Smith’s characteristic age drag is, arguably, the reason we are prepared to accept the incredible longevity of the character of the Dowager Countess. Given that the narrative of Downton Abbey has spanned 15 years (series one was set in 1912 and the final series was 1926) and the Countess was identified as very elderly when the series first started (she was born in 1842), then the woman must have been impossibly ancient when the series concluded. Second, it is this atemporality of the Dowager Countess, alongside the camp deconstruction of the identifications of gendered class, which allows the unpleasant anti-feminist sensibility of Downton to be palatable for the contemporary spectator. As Tincknell argues, the representation of the Dowager as an empowered, older woman is anachronistic as it glosses over the very real material problems of the highly patriarchal system of Edwardian England through a focus on the ‘personal charisma’ of the Dowager (2012: 61). However, I would identify this ‘personal charisma’ as yet another example of Smith transcending the stereotyped role to create a subtle Brechtian distance between actor and role. More importantly, the atemporality of the Countess’s age (this character cannot be confined to a specific era) moves the performance beyond the context of Edwardian society so that the Countess’s prefeminist politics become comparable to a certain strand of contemporary postfeminist identification. The atemporal Countess is articulating the

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Age Camp and Age Drag contemporary postfeminist stance of the privileged, upper class lady who is in a position to embrace conservative gender roles, and dismiss feminist activism as irrelevant, because of her advantaged social position but – most characteristic of postfeminism – is always doing it with an ‘ironic’ wink. If the Countess had not been played by Smith, with her camp deconstruction of gender and class, and the atemporality of her age drag, then the character would really be a thoroughly unpleasant dragon and the anti-feminist sensibility of Downton would indeed be very offensive for contemporary viewers.

Camp Conclusions It may have seemed strange to discuss Maggie Smith’s highly acclaimed performances, in critically celebrated films and television dramas, in the same chapter as a discussion of Joan Collins in the TV movie These Old Broads but perhaps the one connection to be made is the US reception of Downton Abbey compared to a previous ‘grand house’ soap opera: Dynasty (1981 –9). It is fair to speculate that Downton Abbey may be functioning, especially for certain audiences in the USA, as the Dynasty of the 2000s. A key issue in the comparison is how both TV series celebrate a camp, ‘older’ matriarchal figure at the centre of the narrative. Drawing a similarity between Alexis Colby and the Dowager Countess may seem a little extreme but, as Mark Finch argued, the key to reading Dynasty as camp is the casting of Joan Collins as Alexis Colby who, on many occasions, ‘makes sense of the text’s wit, claims it for her own, and this is appreciable from a gay subject position’ (1986: 41). It was the distinctively ironic acting style deployed by Collins (Alexis would always smile while delivering the most preposterous of lines) which allowed the series to function on a level of double-signification comparable to Downton’s enunciation of class and gender discourses. Of course, as Finch argued, reading Dynasty as camp was itself a highly ‘class-based discourse’ as ‘The Mirror would never call Dynasty camp’ (Finch 1986: 36). While it may have been the case that many metropolitan gay men were dressing up as Alexis Colby on Halloween night (‘Heaven’ – London’s main gay club in the 1980s – used to screen the Alexis –Krystal cat fights above the dance floor), other viewers of Dynasty may simply have adored Alexis’s snobbery and viewed her as the epitome of upper-class Englishness. Arguably, 113

Ageing Femininity Downton functions in a similar fashion in contemporary US culture so that many fans simply adore the snobbery while others read a level of irony, self-referential and, most importantly, age camp and age drag in the show. This chapter has considered the ways in which camp – as both a reading strategy and performance style and sensibility – can inflect the identification of feminine ageing in popular texts. It has considered both strategies of textual coding and the techniques of acting and performance that have been mobilised by contemporary older stars. Age camp and age drag, arguably, can be used to undercut an offensive narrative that codes ageing femininity as grotesque or even horrific. Stereotypes of vicious harridans, ageing dragons and snobby battle-axes can be coded within camp’s double-signification in which there is a knowing aside to the media-literate spectator. Of course, it is very easy to make grand claims for the power of camp to challenge or even deconstruct classed and gendered identifications of age and render them an empty and ironic signifier. Without ethnographic and audience research these arguments must remain at the level of speculation. As the last example of Dynasty demonstrated, this element of political, and even subversive, critique is dependent upon the identification and cultural investment of the consumer. Indeed, the very fact that I am prepared to argue for a shared sensibility across a variety of visual texts (‘quality’ heritage films, television dramas and made-for-TV movies) demonstrates my own wilful investment in these politics – something which may not be shared by the casual film and television enthusiast. Andy Medhurst, in a deliberately controversial statement, argued that ‘postmodernism is only heterosexuals catching up with camp’ (1990: 19). Certainly, if camp has become just another strategy within ludic, post-modern coding – in which everything is now a question of style over substance and any political ideologies can be masked with an ironic wink – are the strategies of age camp and age drag really attaining any level of social critique or are they merely another strand of contemporary media’s semiotic playfulness?

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4 What Ever Happened to Sister George? Representing Ageing Lesbians

The following three chapters consider the intersection of ageing with queer sexuality and discuss the representation of LGBT-identified older people in contemporary film and television. While two of the chapters will discuss age in relation to lesbian and trans-identified women, the final chapter will ‘cheat’ by examining the issue of ageing (ef)femininity through an analysis of ageing gay male effeminacy – the revised stereotype of the old ‘queen’ – in contemporary cinema. As Linn Sandberg has pointed out, a similarity can be seen between the assimilationist agenda of LGBT culture and the politics of age affirmation (2008: 124). The neoliberal agenda which asserts that LGBT culture may be ‘tolerated’, provided gays and lesbians aspire to the paradigms of middleclass domesticity, can be compared with the hegemonic template of successful or appropriate ageing. These chapters will address the ways in which the representation of successful ageing is inflected by identifications of queerness and will analyse the small corpus of contemporary films and television texts which have attempted to challenge or interrogate the negative stereotypes of queer ageing: the vicious, embittered old ‘dyke’, the ‘pathetic’ non-‘passing’, older trans woman and the predatory yet highly effeminate old ‘queen’.

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Ageing Femininity Although most research in gerontology has addressed heterosexual ageing, with a focus on female heterosexual ageing, there has recently been insightful scholarship on LGBT ageing (see Hajek and Giles 2002; Heaphy et al. 2004; Herdt and de Vries 2004; Jones and Pugh 2005; Mercer 2012; Slevin and Linneman 2010 Walker 2012; Wagenen et al. 2013). Two of the most discerning analyses of ageing lesbian culture and representation have been performed by Jane Traies (2012, 2014, 2016) and Eva Krainitzki (2011, 2015, 2016a). While Traies’s ethnographic research has explored the socio-cultural difficulties often faced by older lesbians in contemporary British culture, Krainitzki has analysed, in meticulous detail, the representation of older lesbian characters in popular Anglophone cinema. Building upon Traies’s and Krainitzki’s research, this chapter will discuss the contemporary film texts Cloudburst (dir. Thom Fitzgerald, 2011) and Notes on a Scandal (dir. Richard Eyre, 2006) and analyse the issues raised within the broader political category of contemporary LGBT identifications.

Older Lesbians: A Triply Invisible Minority As Monika Kehoe as argued, older lesbians are a ‘triply invisible minority’ (1986) in that they are removed from socio-cultural visibility due to the conflated issues of sexism, ageism and, most importantly, heterosexism: Lesbians over 65 have been an unknown, mysterious minority. They are a social embarrassment to the wider community and the presumption has been – if anyone thought about it at all – that lesbians, as well as gay men, are either ‘cured’ when they reach seniority or die young from alcoholism, suicide, or social diseases. (Kehoe 1986: 139; see also Poor 1982)

Conflating the perception that older people are asexual with the prejudice that older lesbians and gays will probably have killed themselves due to unbearable loneliness, there does seem to have been a belief that older queers will simply not exist. This view of older gays and lesbians was hardly surprising given that much of the early work on gerontology could only speculate about the lived experiences of older lesbians and gay men because so little was known about the actual lives of older queer people (see Butler and Lewis 1976: 56). It is hardly surprising, therefore, that one of the 116

What Ever Happened to Sister George? main agendas of contemporary sociological research in lesbian and gay ageing has been ‘to challenge stereotypes of homosexual old age as sad and lonely’ (Traies 2014: 17) and interrogate images which have coded older LGBT people as being ‘worthy of pity at best and scorn at worst’ (Wagenen et al. 2013: 11). More recent social science research has seen detailed ethnographic studies of older lesbians in which findings have affirmed that, although they are often not a highly visible community, ‘the current sample of older lesbians is a strong and engaged group of women’ who ‘have a strong network of support that includes their partners, same-aged lesbian friends, heterosexual women, and biological family members’ (Averett et al. 2011: 230). (See Chapter 6 for further discussion of these debates.) However, the media have not conveyed these sociological findings as many texts still represent – although often in an ironic or self-referential fashion – the stereotype of the lonely, embittered old ‘dyke’. This chapter will consider two very different film texts. While the independent film Cloudburst obviously challenges the idea of the solitary and unloved older lesbian, the more mainstream Notes on a Scandal may appear to revive many of the perceptions of the pre-gay-liberation, embittered ‘dyke’. Yet, while Cloudburst seems to be the more age affirmative, Notes on a Scandal offers a more thought-provoking interrogation of the difficulties of ageing for older queer women. First, it is important to contextualise both films within the legacy of earlier cinematic representations of older lesbians.

What Ever Did Happen to Sister George? Early Film Representations Based upon the Frank Marcus play, produced in 1964, The Killing of Sister George (1968, dir. Aldrich) was one of the first mainstream Anglophone films to represent lesbian culture of 1960s Britain. While lesbian-coded film characters have existed throughout the history of cinema (see Castle 1993; Weiss 1992; White 1999) The Killing of Sister George was one of the first Anglophone films to represent explicit lesbian identifications on the screen. The extended sequence depicting the actual lesbian nightclub, ‘The Gateways Club’, gave many spectators of the 1960s their first glimpse of lesbian subculture while the seduction scene between two lesbian characters would have been very shocking for mainstream cinema culture of the period. Most importantly, The Killing of Sister George gave cinema 117

Ageing Femininity audiences a highly memorable representation of the older lesbian. It is probably fair to say that the character of Sister George has become as much a symbol of ageing lesbianism as Baby Jane has been for ageing heterosexual femininity. (It is interesting to note that Bette Davis was the director’s first choice for the character of Sister George (see Considine 1989: 384; Sikov 2007: 366– 7). The Killing of Sister George tells the story of June Buckridge (Beryl Reid): an actor who plays the character Sister George in a soap opera called Applehurst (often read as a thinly veiled parody of The Archers). While the character Sister George is a good-natured person, June the actor is the very opposite and is a belligerent, foul-mouthed, borderline alcoholic who is also a pathological sadist. One key motif in the film is that June is usually referred to as George, both on and off the set, and so a theme of the movie is a consideration of how the post-modern subject identifies within contemporary hypermediated culture. June/George is in a relationship with Alice McNaught (Susannah York): a younger, extremely childlike woman whose nickname is actually Childie. The film narrates how the character Sister George is going to be killed in the soap opera and explores the psycho-social devastation that this impending unemployment causes to June and the strains that it places upon her relationship with Childie. The stress upon their relationship is compounded by the erotic attentions that the studio manager – Mercy Croft (Coral Browne) – affords to Childie. Although now regarded as a cult classic, and enjoyed (with a heavy pinch of camp relish) by many contemporary fans, the film was neither a critical nor commercial success when it was first released. Renata Adler, for example, was highly disapproving of the cinematography and argued that scenes which had been successful on stage did not ‘work in close-up’ (1968). Adler was particularly upset by the seduction scene which she judged distasteful and setting ‘a special kind of low in the treatment of sex – any kind of sex – in the movies now’ (1968). It is fair to speculate that Adler’s reading of the film was representative of movie journalism’s moral viewpoint of the time and contemporary critics may wonder how much of the criticism was inspired by the technical failings of the film’s cinematography and how much by the homophobia of 1960s AngloAmerican culture. Perhaps one of the reasons why reviewers felt the George/Childie S&M scene did not work in cinematic close up, but was

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What Ever Happened to Sister George? acceptable on the stage, was because the stage play did not make the lesbian relationship explicit while the film did. Certainly, The Killing of Sister George is highly problematic in the way it codes a lesbian relationship. Perhaps most offensive is the way the film conflates lesbian sexuality with a highly prejudiced view of sadomasochism. One of the most famous sequences of the film (identified by Adler as not working in cinematic close up) is the sadism scene in which June/ George is shown to take great pleasure from exacting a humiliating punishment on Childie. In this sequence, June/George instructs Childie to eat some cigar butts from the ashtray as punishment for her disobedience. Childie is physically and emotionally distressed by this activity but she manages to turn the situation to her advantage by pretending to enjoy the act and thus destroy June/George’s sadistic pleasure. Obviously, there are several problems with this representation of S&M. First, the scene does not detail the scripted scenario of an S&M act in which mutually consenting adults engage in a complicit negotiation of eroticised power dynamics. The pleasures that are afforded through playing the masochistic role are not represented and, as such, the scene is coded simply as one evil sadist (June/ George) torturing a vulnerable and childlike woman. Given that S&M would have been viewed by the majority of 1960s spectators as a ‘perversity’, this representation would have done very little to challenge these misinterpretations. Second, the sequence conflates lesbian sexuality with this sadistic torture. If S&M was regarded as ‘perverse’ in the 1960s, lesbianism would not have been viewed very differently and so the combination of two taboo sexual pleasures, into one grossly inaccurate scenario of sickening torture, would have done very little to progress sexual minority rights. Perhaps not as problematic, but still worthy of note, is how the power dynamics of the relationship between the women is mapped onto prefeminist socio-economic, class politics. June/George is the sole breadwinner of the household while Childie is little more than her property. The late 1960s saw the genesis of second wave feminist politics with Shulamith Firestone forming the political group ‘New York Radical Women’ in 1967 and the famous sewing machinists strike for equal pay happening in the Ford factory in Dagenham in 1968 – a strike which contributed to parliament’s formation of the Equal Pay Act in 1970. Given this culture of incipient feminism of the late 1960s, The Killing of Sister

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Ageing Femininity George was highly problematic in that it represented a same-sex female couple adhering to the most archaic form of prefeminist ‘marriage’ in which Childie is simply George’s possession. If feminist politics of the period were struggling to advance equal rights, there is something very troubling about the representation of a same-sex female couple who disregarded any feminist political advancement and instead elect to follow the most archaic – and brutal – model of household domination. (Of course, viewed through a contemporary queer theory lens, the sequence offers interesting challenges to homonormative scripts and, understandably, many younger viewers may find the scene rather more inspiring than spectators who remember earlier times of pre-gay liberation.) It could even be argued that The Killing of Sister George represents lesbianism as nothing more than a poor and failed imitation of heterosexuality. The final scene depicts June/George (now sacked from her job and having lost Childie to Mercy Croft) as utterly alone and wandering aimlessly among the lights, cameras and props of the studio. June/George notices the studio prop of the coffin, in which Sister George will be buried in the next soap opera episode, and opens it. The coffin lid falls off and it is apparent that the inside is not even a real coffin. June/ George becomes enraged and pushes the prop out of the window, screaming that ‘Even the bloody coffin is fake!’ One of the themes of the film has been the hyper-reality of June/George’s identification but her outburst here may not simply be suggesting that the fake coffin is exemplary of the falsity of her career, and the fake-ness of media executives, but of the artificiality of her relationship as well. The devastating realisation for June/George is that everything she had cherished in her life – career, support from friends and work colleagues and now her marriage-type relationship – was all fake. Notwithstanding these problematic issues in the representation of lesbian relationships, S&M erotics and feminist politics, The Killing of Sister George will always be remembered for its depiction of the ageing lesbian. Fullmer et al. read June/George as exemplary of the stereotype of the old ‘dyke’ who ends up alone, miserable and desperate by end of the narrative (1999: 138 – 9). June/George’s descent into madness in the final scene suggests that she may not stop at hysterical wailing but that she may self-harm and/or even kill herself. As Eva Krainitzki has argued, this trope has continued throughout popular culture in which older lesbians are

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What Ever Happened to Sister George? either killed off at the end of the narrative or, at the very least, tend to be represented in a heteronormative context so that they are ‘outside a lesbian – or lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) – community and without any friends who are also lesbians’ (Krainitzki 2015: 14). While there has certainly been considerable progress in the representation of lesbian culture in the media this tends either to be coded within the postfeminisation of lesbians (Henry 2004, see also Clark 1995 and Moritz 1995) – in which the media exalt well-to-do, chic and, most importantly, young lesbians (Krainitzki 2015: 15) (the television series The L Word is probably the best recent example) – or else within the representational strategy identified as the ‘heterosexualisation of lesbianism’ (Jenkins 2005) in which most lesbian scenes are heterosexualised ‘in order to promote the conventional straight male’s lesbian fantasy’ (Jenkins 2005: 492). (Recent examples have included American Pie 2 (dir. Rogers, 2001), Cruel Intentions (dir. Kumble, 1999) and Wild Things (dir. McNaughton, 1998).) The representation of the older lesbian falls outside of these two visual tropes and so, as Krainitzki as argued, the only narrative available for the older lesbian is ‘terminal illness, mourning, and widowhood, with a seemingly inevitable unhappy ending’ (Krainitzki 2015: 14).

Sister George Still Lives? Notes on a Scandal Adapted from the 2003 Zoe Heller novel of the same name, Notes on a Scandal is a 2006 British film that was both a critical and commercial success. It stars Dame Judi Dench as the film’s intra-diegetic narrator and anti-hero: Barbara Covett – a history teacher at a tough, North London comprehensive school. Barbara is nearing retirement age, is single and is desperately lonely. It seems that the only two pleasures Barbara has in her life are her pet cat and writing her diary. When the young and beautiful Sheba Hart (Cate Blanchett) joins the school as the new art teacher, Barbara (like all the other members of staff) is enchanted with her and is exceptionally delighted when Sheba befriends her. However, during the evening of the school Christmas concert, Barbara goes to the art studio to chat to Sheba and catches sight of Sheba having sex with one the school’s GCSE students: the 15-year-old Steven Connolly (Andrew Simpson). Barbara is initially horrified by Sheba’s criminal act but soon realises 121

Ageing Femininity that she can use this knowledge to her advantage and promises not to divulge Sheba’s activities in order to coerce and manipulate Sheba’s friendship. Notes on a Scandal has been analysed in meticulous detail by Eva Krainitzki (2011, 2015, 2016b) who has examined the film’s key motifs including its theme of confession (2011: 191); its food as a metaphor for sex and sexuality motif (2011: 204– 6); the film’s symbolic representations of hands (2016b: 169) and, most importantly, how the film – through its use of Barbara as character narrator – can be read as queering the heteronormative framework and timeline (2016b: 166 –73). Krainitzki has also argued that perhaps the ‘scandal’ of the film is not only Sheba’s affair with an underage student but also Barbara’s refusal to age appropriately (2016b: 172) given that ‘Barbara ages “disgracefully”’ by being an ‘older woman who refuses to behave according to gender and age-appropriate norms’ (Krainitzki 2016b: 167). Certainly, one of the most interesting questions raised by Notes on a Scandal is how the spectator is supposed to read the character of Barbara. There are two possible interpretations of the film which I want to consider in more detail now. One the one hand, the film may be interpreted as representing nothing more than the Sister George stereotype: a solitary, embittered, sexually frustrated, old ‘dyke’ who is borderline certifiable due to the unbearable intensity of her loneliness. Yet Notes on a Scandal may also be read as an example of contemporary queer cinema which challenges ideologies of ‘appropriate’ gender, sexuality and ageing through its representation of Barbara.

Sister George is Now Teaching in a London Comprehensive School? Notes on a Scandal is certainly emphatic about asserting Barbara’s solitude from its very opening credit sequence. The first shot represents Barbara sitting by herself, on a park bench on a foggy morning, while she gazes at the city of London in the distance. On the other park bench is a heterosexual (presumably married) couple whose young children are playing on the grass in front. The camera then cuts to a shot of Barbara from the side and, in the background, there is yet another heterosexual couple strolling arm-in-arm through the park. The poignancy of Barbara’s 122

What Ever Happened to Sister George? loneliness is emphasised in this opening scene as she is surrounded by loving couples yet she herself is utterly alone (Figures 4.1 and 4.2). Charles Derry points out that the politics of this stereotype of the lonely, old ‘dyke’ are even more troubling when we realise that ‘Barbara’s sexual repression is needlessly archaic’ (2009: 197) given that Barbara would merely have to visit a lesbian club or bar (she is living in central London, after all) to find suitable companionship. Similarly, it does seem improbable that a person of Barbara’s razor-sharp (although extremely cruel) wit should not be able to find some friends who would enjoy her wry acidity. In this respect, ‘Barbara does indeed stir up former stereotypical representations of the pathological lesbian, from a pre gay-liberation society’ (Krainitzki 2016b: 163) and may be interpreted as a testament to the ‘pervasiveness and continuation’ (Krainitzki 2011: 179) of earlier ‘negative’ stereotypes of the ageing, vicious, old ‘dyke’. Sacked from Applehurst, Sister George has now taken up teaching? The unpleasant coding of Barbara as the embittered, old ‘dyke’ is complicit with the strain of finely tuned misogyny that pervades the film

Figure 4.1 a Scandal.

Barbara (Judi Dench) alone and lonely on the park bench in Notes on

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Figure 4.2 Barbara (Judi Dench) surrounded by loving couples in the park while she is alone.

text (Hallam 2016: 553; Krainitzki 2011: 184). For example, one of the other unlikable female characters is the performing arts teacher: Sue Hodge (Joanna Scanlan). Sue is first represented in one of the most unflattering shots in the movie (Figure 4.3). Filmed from behind, as she is sitting down, the shot not only emphasises Sue’s fat body (her back-fat bulges from beneath her cardigan) but codes the action as an obsequious bow to the headmaster. This unpleasant coding of Sue continues when she submits her head-of-department report, about which the headmaster remarks on how thick the document is, and the film cuts to a shot of Sue gloating because she’s submitted the longest report of the faculty (Figure 4.4). This cruel representation of Sue is very different from the way she is depicted in the novel. In the book, Barbara introduces the character of Sue by criticising her teaching methods and then proceeds to mock Sue for being an ‘awful prig’ (Heller 2004: 33) who is ‘terrifyingly dull’ (34) beneath her ‘frightfully pretentious’ fac
ade (33). While these are hardly pleasant descriptions of Sue they are not comparable with the line uttered by Barbara in the film adaptation in which she confirms the 124

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Figure 4.3 Scandal.

Unflattering shot of Sue’s (Joanna Scanlan) back fat in Notes on a

cinematography in the earlier departmental meeting scene by describing Sue as ‘fatty Hodge’: ‘a pig in knickers’. This is, arguably, one of the most unpleasant aspects of the film in that its representation not only renders Barbara considerably less sympathetic than she was in the novel (Shakespeare 2007) but also mobilises the character of the vicious, old ‘dyke’ as a means to facilitate a sly misogyny. Although Sue Hodge is the obvious example (the fat phobic representation is coded first in the cinematography and then reinforced by Barbara’s voiceover narration – words which would have been totally unacceptable if uttered by a male narrator), the film also performs a similar strategy with the coding of Sheba Hart. Notes on a Scandal certainly makes the point that Sheba Hart is a failed artist who has only achieved a degree of success in her life due to her good looks and feminine charm. What is most interesting is that these interpretations of Sheba as talentless yet pretty are made by two female characters. During the Christmas Day scene, when Sheba is entertaining all her family to a meal, Sheba’s own mother is represented in the drawing 125

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Figure 4.4 Sue (Joanna Scanlan) gloating in Notes on a Scandal.

room, after having enjoyed Sheba’s magnificent Christmas lunch, discussing her daughter with another guest. Sheba’s mother asserts that Sheba is an utterly useless and talentless person and so she has always been thankful that, at the very least, Sheba was pretty. This highly sexist dismissal of Sheba as little more than eye candy is not only voiced by a female character but is then emphasised through the cinematography. In an earlier sequence, when Barbara is visiting the Harts for Sunday lunch, the camera offers Barbara’s gaze at Sheba dancing in the Hart family tradition of a post-lunch boogie. The sequence is in slow motion to further eroticise Sheba’s beauty. Sheba is, at this moment in the film, visual eye candy. However, Barbara’s voiceover contradicts the eroticism of the gaze by describing the after-lunch dance as ‘embarrassing’. Therefore, the film is offering a standard mainstream cinematic sequence, in which the female body is eroticised for the spectator’s pleasure, but is simultaneously excusing this by coding it as Barbara’s point of view and then anchoring it as ‘an embarrassing family tradition’ through her voiceover narration. In this respect, the film may be read as articulating an unpleasant misogyny 126

What Ever Happened to Sister George? throughout but excusing it not only by having it voiced by other women but by laundering the textual objectification of Sheba through Barbara’s ironic (is it mocking? is it erotic?) gaze. Apart from the coding of Barbara as a Sister George type, and the distasteful misogyny that pervades the film, Notes on a Scandal is perhaps most upsetting for the way it suggests comparability between the two ‘scandals’ of the narrative: Barbara’s age-inappropriate desires for Sheba and Sheba’s illegal sexual activity with a 15-year-old boy. This conflation becomes apparent towards the end of the film when Barbara is summoned to the headmaster’s office. It becomes evident that the headmaster wants to use Sheba’s criminal act as an opportunity also to get rid of Barbara from the school by accusing her of being an accessory to the crime. Barbara refutes the accusations and claims she had no idea of the affair. The headmaster, clearly determined to dispose of Barbara, then cites Barbara’s ‘relationship’ from the previous year with a former teacher in the school, Jennifer Dodd, thus suggesting that he views Barbara’s desire for the adult Jennifer Dodd as comparable with Sheba’s paedophilia. Barbara asserts, in her characteristically bitchy fashion, that friendships between consenting adults are perfectly legal but the headmaster responds with details of how Jennifer Dodd had to get a restraining order to keep Barbara away. It is this moment when the film emphatically codes the unsolicited lesbian desire of an older woman for a younger woman as a type of pathology comparable with the paedophilia of Sheba Hart (see Street 2009: 239). It would even be possible to argue that the unsavoury scene in The Killing of Sister George, in which lesbian desire is conflated with S&M/‘perversity’, continues in mainstream cinema more than 50 years later. Obviously, the film’s suggestion that closeted lesbian desire is equally as scandalous as Sheba’s paedophilia is rather worrying in the context of contemporary LGBT politics. Yet it is not simply the characters’ dialogue that codes lesbian desire as comparable to paedophilia but the film’s cinematography as well. As Krainitzki points out, a key motif of Notes on a Scandal is the act of voyeurism (2016b: 165). However, illicit voyeurism applies both to lesbian desire and paedophilia given that both voyeuristic gazes are coded as predatory and, most importantly, invading safe spaces in which people are vulnerable. Barbara’s erotic gaze at Sheba, dancing with her family after Sunday lunch, is unsettling as it brings unsolicited desire into the safety of

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Ageing Femininity the family environment. One of the reasons why Sheba is dancing at this moment, in such a carefree, auto-erotic fashion, is because she feels safe from any voyeuristic gaze given that she is dancing in the privacy of her living room seen only by her children, husband and a friend whom she assumes is an asexual spinster. This same motif of a sexualised gaze, invading an innocent space, is then demonstrated by Sheba in the school playground. In this sequence, Sheba and Barbara are represented on playground duty and, as always, Sheba has been struggling to maintain control and discipline in the schoolyard. The character of Steven Connelly is now introduced as he scores a goal in the playground game of football and, copying the actions of professional footballers, removes his shirt and runs around the playground celebrating his victory. The spectator reads this action as indicative of the silly machismo of little boys. Steven believes that ripping off his shirt will demonstrate his macho strength but instead of revealing the muscular torso of a professional footballer Steven only has the pasty, freckly, wretched body of a pubescent boy – so borderline malnourished that his ribs jut out. The point of focalisation in the shirtless scene is Sheba and, at this stage in the film, the spectator is invited to read Sheba’s gaze as being one of exasperation and anxiety that she will never be able to establish any discipline over these Lord of the Flies type boys. Later in the film, however, when Sheba is confessing to Barbara of her affair with Steven, the spectator is shown the sequence again. This time Sheba narrates how she became involved with the child and it now becomes apparent that Sheba’s gaze at Steven’s shirtless, scrawny torso was not exasperation for the uncontrollable machismo of little boys but was actually desire for the 15-year-old. What makes this flashback such an unsettling moment in the film is that the spectator is now forced to acknowledge not only that illicit desires can congregate in activities that most people would consider totally non-sexual but that the motif of the unsanctioned, predatory gaze is being used to identify both Barbara’s lesbian desires and Sheba’s paedophilia as comparably scandalous. So far I have identified some of the problematic elements of Notes on a Scandal. The film’s coding of the embittered, lonely old ‘dyke’; its pervading strain of misogyny and its conflation of socially acceptable lesbian desire with illegal paedophilia may be read as comparable with the representational strategies found in The Killing of Sister George. On the other hand, it is possible to read Notes on a Scandal as a transgressive text

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What Ever Happened to Sister George? which, far from repeating the earlier codes of the old ‘dyke’, can actually be seen to interrogate and even challenge them.

Queering Paradigms of ‘Appropriate Ageing’: Notes on a Scandal as Contemporary Queer Cinema? It is important to note that, instead of reading Barbara as the villain of the narrative, it would be equally possible to see her as an anti-hero – not least because of the way she is contextualised in the school. Compared to the other faculty members of the school - a group of utterly ineffectual morons who are an absolute disgrace to the teaching profession - Barbara is the best of the bunch. Although Barbara first refers to the school pupils with her characteristically cruel acidity as ‘prepubescent prols’, in the very next scene she is represented as hard at work in the classroom. The spectator may have anticipated that Barbara would be the sort of unmotivated teacher who lounges at her desk, drinking a mug of coffee, while instructing the students to read from a textbook, but instead Barbara is shown to be labouring at the whiteboard actively teaching the students church history. When the bell rings the unruly students leap to their feet but Barbara stays them with a glare, reminding them that self-discipline is one of the things they are required to learn at school. Barbara’s commitment to education is further emphasised during a cafeteria discussion with Sheba when she affirms that she believes in the importance of teaching the students the oldfashioned ‘Three Rs’ and even couches this in the discourse of public service by saying that ‘we serve the students best if we teach them to read, write and add’. A later sequence demonstrates that not only is Barbara committed to the rigours of basic education but that she is one of the few members of staff who should be permitted to teach at all. During break time in the staffroom, one female member of faculty says that she had heard that Sheba’s father was the academic who ‘invented inflation’. This woman’s subject is not identified but it is rather worrying that someone so ill informed should be standing at the front of any classroom. Barbara corrects this woman by pointing out that Sheba Hart’s father did not ‘invent inflation’ but merely proposed a theory which explained the connection between inflation and contemporary consumerism.

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Ageing Femininity It is not only school faculty who are coded as stupid and ignorant of the necessities of education but the headmaster as well. He is first represented during the heads of department meeting at the beginning of term when he introduces Sheba Hart to the other teachers. A smug and self-satisfied little man, the headmaster describes how he views art in the school as essential to the policy of ‘reform through nurture’ – the type of meaningless slogan that is often voiced by people who have absolutely no experience of the lived reality of classroom teaching. The headmaster then requests for all the heads of department to submit their yearly reports by asking, in a patronising fashion, ‘Has everyone done their homework?’ All the teachers submit lengthy reports in folders while Barbara submits a single page with two paragraphs of writing. When the headmaster questions if this is her report on the entire workings of the history department, Barbara simply replies that he will find it ‘quite thorough’. If the spectator had not just witnessed Barbara teaching history in the classroom, and noted what a committed teacher she actually was, then this action would be identified as incompetence, if not even professional negligence. Instead, given the preceding scene, this is coded as an act of defiance against the ludicrous ‘reform through nurture’ type policy of the headmaster and a suggestion that Barbara believes the teachers’ time could be better spent in the actual classroom teaching these students the basics of education rather than writing speculative reports. The spectator’s empathy for Barbara, however, is not inspired simply by the narrative details of Barbara’s competence in teaching but has, arguably, more to do with the performance and star persona of Dame Judi Dench. As I have argued already, the genius of Dench’s acting is how she can inspire empathy for even the most unlikable of characters (see Chapter 3). In her autobiography, Dench herself stated that she found it very difficult to act a character if there was not, at least, some small element of likability there. Writing about The Merchant of Venice, Dench argued ‘I loathe the play, I think it is terrible, everyone behaves so frightfully badly. Who cares about anybody in it?’ (Dench 2012: 73). Certainly, Dench’s enthusiasm to take on the role of Barbara would suggest that she believed that the spectator would indeed care about this anti-hero. Dench is, of course, widely identified as one of the most popular actors of contemporary cinema and is remarkable for having an appeal which extends across all generations. In recent years, school-kids (tweens and

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What Ever Happened to Sister George? even younger) have coined the phrase ‘well Dench’ to describe something that is cool and hip. The fact that 11-year-olds are referencing an octogenarian woman as an example of hipness is testament to the extent of Dench’s wide-reaching popularity. Dench is highly respected as a master of the acting craft – the actor’s actor – and exemplary of the ‘hard graft and professionalism’ (Wearing 2012: 151) required in the industry. As Kirsty Fairclough-Isaacs has argued, it is perhaps Dench’s relative ‘plainness’ that has ‘worked in her favour as she has aged’ (2014: 141) as she carved out a career based on her acting talent rather than her looks. Most critics argue that a key element of Dench’s popularity is the way she is read as a supreme example of ‘successful ageing’ (Krainitzki 2011: 32 – 40; Williams 2015: 148; Fisher 1999: 73). Known for her ‘boyish youthfulness’ (Williams 2015: 148), Dench is the counterpart to Hollywood glamour. As Melanie Williams argues, Dench presents ‘a more approachable gamine image’ (148) which although being feminine is not in thrall to the demands of movie screen feminine glamour and its requisite morphing by cosmetic surgery. Both arguments, Dench’s command of the acting craft and her notably ‘boyish youthfulness’, need to be considered when analysing her performance of Barbara. First, Dench, one of the most popular of Western actors, can be read as flexing her theatrical muscles when taking on the role of the highly unpleasant Barbara Covett. As Krainitzki has pointed out, Dench has not shied away from playing queer-identified characters (either those that can be read as lesbian from the narrative – Notes on a Scandal and The Shipping News (dir. Hallström, 2001) – or those who could be subject to a lesbian spectator’s appropriation such as M in the Bond series), but these characters can be interpreted by the spectator-fan as yet another example of the skill of Dench’s acting. The much loved ‘National Treasure’ of Dame Judi Dench is emphatically coded in media reports as being totally different from Barbara and so this role is simply a type of thespian star vehicle which offers Dame Judi the chance to demonstrate her character acting skill. Second, Notes on a Scandal can be seen to mobilise the technique of age drag already discussed in previous chapters. Dench’s much respected ‘youthfulness’ seems to disappear when she is represented as Barbara. Dench’s ‘trademark pixie haircut’ (Williams 2015: 148) is replaced with straggly, badly dyed and thinning hair in Notes on a Scandal and, although

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Ageing Femininity Barbara is much younger than Dench (Barbara is somewhere in her early 60s while Dench was 72 at the time of filming), she looks considerably older than Dench does in her public appearances (Figures 4.5 and 4.6). Arguably, this is an extra-textual element which can be read as queering the very idea of age as a fixed identification. Dench, a woman of 72 who is known for her ‘boyish youthfulness’, is playing a character in her early 60s who looks considerably older than the actor herself. Therefore, the film is performing a type of extra-diegetic queering of age by suggesting that age is a matter of performance and styling. This argument links to Krainitzki’s insightful reading (2014) of how the queer anachronism of Dench’s performances (see Chapter 2 for analyses of Dench’s M in the Bond series) can actually position her characters

Figure 4.5 Barbara Covett (Judi Dench) in Notes on a Scandal.

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Figure 4.6 Judi Dench looking glamorous on the red carpet.

‘outside the heteronormative/patriarchal time frame and, thus, within a ‘queer time-line’ (Krainitzki 2011: 227). As Krainitzki argues, this is particularly obvious in Notes on a Scandal in which Barbara’s perception of her ‘romance’ with Sheba is anachronistic enough to queer the very idea of contemporary relationships. This queer failure to accept patriarchal temporality is also the reason why Barbara refuses to act her age and thus challenges the expected propriety of feminine ageing (Krainitzki 2016b: 171– 2). Even more interesting is the fact that, in stark contrast with the representation of Sister George, Barbara’s sexuality is never confirmed. In one scene, in which Barbara is enjoying a long soak in her bathtub, she narrates how the unbearable loneliness of her life means that a casual brush 133

Ageing Femininity of finger tips from a bus conductor can actually be a sexual thrill. If the bus conductor is assumed to be male (although the film does not clarify this) then Barbara’s sexuality may not necessarily be identified as lesbian but merely as someone who is so sexually frustrated and desperate for any form of erotic affection that the gender of the sexual object choice is irrelevant. Therefore, Krainitzki argues that Notes on a Scandal should be read as an example of queer cinema (a cinematic movement noted for its rejection of sexual identity labels: see Richardson 2009b) which, unlike the lesbian-identified drama of The Killing of Sister George, challenges categorisations of sexual identification and queers both hetero- and homonormativity (Krainitzki 2016b: 166 – 7). Barbara may be read as ‘empowering’ in the tradition of rereading villains who offer ‘progressive or oppositional possibilities for female spectators’ (Jermyn 1996: 252) because she ‘transgresses age-appropriate forms of desire and challenges the asexual construct of the spinster (Krainitzki 2011: 26). Most importantly, it should be noted that Barbara is neither dead nor institutionalised at the end but is represented in the final scene as engaged in yet another lesbian-stealth sting in which she makes a move on her latest ‘target’ seated on the park bench. On one level, this is certainly an ‘unhappy’ ending as the spectator should, by now, infer that Barbara’s advances on this young woman will be even less successful than her attempts to win Sheba’s affections. Yet, on the other hand, the spectator may also celebrate how Barbara, unlike other female monsters in mainstream cinema, has neither been punished (taking retirement one year earlier than planned is hardly a great penalty) nor killed. Instead Barbara continues to queer notions of temporality, age appropriateness and, perhaps most importantly, lesbian identification. Therefore, I should argue that Notes on a Scandal is a truly remarkable film text in that it manages to reconcile a sensibility of unsavoury misogyny with a reworking and interrogation of earlier negative stereotypes of older ‘dykes’ in a queerly age-affirmative narrative.

Older Lesbians as Ambassadors for Marriage Equality: Cloudburst While Notes on a Scandal offers a deliberately controversial representation of ageing lesbianism, a much more crowd-pleasing depiction is found in 134

What Ever Happened to Sister George? the independent Canadian film Cloudburst (dir. Thom Fitzgerald, 2011). A charming and, in many ways, feel-good film, Cloudburst tells the story of two older lesbians – Dotty (Brenda Fricker) and Stella (Olympia Dukakis) – who have been living together for many decades in a farmhouse in rural Maine. Dotty, who in her youth had been in a heterosexual marriage and has children and grandchildren, is now almost totally blind and so her partner Stella – ‘a foul mouthed octogenarian who is never at a loss for words’ (Chivers 2015: 139) –takes care of her. One evening Dotty falls out of bed and damages her wrist. After learning about the injury, Molly (Kristin Booth) – Dotty’s ‘overprotective and clueless granddaughter’ (Krainitzki 2016a: 633) who is not prepared to accept that Dotty and Stella are a lesbian couple – commits Dotty to a nursing home where she believes her grandmother will receive appropriate care. Stella breaks Dotty out of the nursing home and they embark on a geriatric Thelma and Louise (dir. Scott, 1991) style road trip to Canada where they can be legally married. (Same-sex marriage was legalised nationwide in Canada in 2005 but the USA demonstrated much slower progress on the issue. Marriage equality was not legally recognised in Maine until 2012 and not the law of all the US states until the Supreme Court ruling in 2015.) On their journey to Canada, Dotty and Stella pick up a young, male hitchhiker – Prentice (Ryan Doucette) – and the three develop a close friendship bond, forming an alternative or queer family. On many levels, Cloudburst offers a much less problematic representation of older lesbians given that both Dotty and Stella are considerably more sympathetic characters than Barbara Covett. One salient theme of the film is the enduring love that exists between the two women. In one scene Stella reminds Dotty that she loved her when she got fat and when she got blind and so will always love her. The mise-en-scène of the film is also emphatic about how enduring this love is through the conflation of Dotty and Stella’s relationship with images of the landscape. The contextualisation of the couple in the beautiful shots of the Maine countryside, and their enjoyment at gazing upon the clouds in the evening sky, all suggest that their love is ‘natural’ and everything would be fine if only society did not intervene. These images of nature are then contrasted with shots of the couple indoors that are almost Sirkian in their camera angles and framing – thus suggesting the oppression of heteronormative society. In one scene Dotty is represented in the classic Sirkian motif of the

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Ageing Femininity window framing (a frame within a frame to connote captivity) while Stella’s discussion with Molly is filmed in a long shot suggesting the oppression of the feminine domestic enclave (Figures 4.7 and 4.8). (For discussion of the Sirkian System see Willemen 1971, 1972/3; Mercer and Shingler 2005; Richardson 2006b.) This celebration of nature, and criticism of the claustrophobia of culture is, of course, a standard motif of the road movie genre in which characters always find new freedom of identification once they are removed from the ‘oppression of hegemonic norms’ (Cohan and Hark 1997b: 1). It is for this reason that the genre has been, in recent years, particularly popular with feminist (Thelma and Louise), queer (The Living End (dir. Araki, 1992), My Own Private Idaho (dir. Van Sant, 1991)) and trans (Transamerica (dir. Tucker, 2005)) narratives, as the road movie can facilitate a fluidity of identifications when the characters venture beyond the confines of mainstream, heteronormative culture (Richardson 2010: 132– 4). Cloudburst certainly continues the road movie tradition of queering gendered identifications (Lang 1997; Robertson 1997). The most obvious example is the way the film juxtaposes the masculinity of Stella with the feminization of the hitchhiker Prentice. When Prentice is first introduced his body is represented within the cinematic mechanism that usually codes

Figure 4.7 Dotty (Brenda Fricker) framed in the window to suggest imprisonment in Cloudburst.

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Figure 4.8 Molly (Kristin Booth) and Stella (Olympia Dukakis) filmed in long shot to connote captivity in Cloudburst.

the female body as erotic spectacle in which the camera tilts up from the ground to offer the spectator the chance to gaze upon Prentice’s beauty. Prentice is then revealed to be a dancer (an occupation which has challenged gendered regimes through its requirement that men use their bodies expressively rather than instrumentally (see Adams 2005; Burt 1995; Jordan 2001) and is even identified as the only penetrable body in the film text when he is forced to undergo a cavity search by security guards suspicious that he might have been drug smuggling. By contrast Stella performs a type of exaggerated masculinity so that in one scene an inattentive waitress even refers to Stella as ‘Sir’. The film certainly draws attention to how gender is discursively constructed through its representation of Stella and Prentice but particularly emphasises this in one scene where Stella lauds the use of the word ‘cunt’ and explains that she has no problem with the use of a term which merely refers to anatomical detail. Stella’s enthusiasm for the use of the dreaded ‘C word’ can be read as a metaphor for the film’s theme of deconstruction in that there is no essentially negative connotation to that particular word but that it is simply part of a wider structural regime of patriarchy and misogyny. In short, Cloudburst, like most road movies, is investigating how gendered ideologies signify when moved beyond the hetero-patriarchal, structuralist system. 137

Ageing Femininity Cloudbust can even be seen to make an ironic comment on the discursive construction of the body’s gender. In one farcical sequence, Dotty and Stella have driven Prentice to his mother’s house in Canada. Dotty needs to use the bathroom but, due to her blindness, loses her direction and wanders into the bedroom of Prentice’s naked stepfather and falls into his bed. As can be imagined, the man is rather perturbed by having a strange woman collapse on top of him and what ensues is a French farce type chase in which the naked man scurries after the elderly, blind woman. The humour of the scene is that the naked, male body is not coded in terms of empowerment as the man’s body appears vulnerable rather than strong and his little penis, flopping between his legs, certainly does not suggest any phallic mastery. By contrast, the more dominant figure in the scene is the frail, elderly, blind woman who has terrified this big, strong man by stumbling into his bedroom. However, Cloudburst’s most remarkable sequence is where it queers age identifications as well as gender. In this scene, Stella rescues Dotty from the care home by masquerading as a stereotypical ‘little old lady’ dressed in floral dressing gown, slippers and walking stick in order to sneak into the care facility by resembling one of its residents. Sally Chivers describes this as ‘a type of “old lady drag” which allows Stella to pass as a resident in the care facility’ (2015: 138). The scene represents the octogenarian Stella performing old-lady-ness to deconstruct an essentialist view of feminine ageing. However, unlike the examples of age drag discussed in the previous chapters, this is only a temporary act as Stella performs old age but then discards this old age drag on the sidewalk after she and Dotty have escaped. While age drag is implied in other films it is made explicit in Cloudburst. The element of social critique in the sequence is that the care home nurse, someone who is supposed to be accustomed to older people, was happy to believe Stella’s masquerade, thus suggesting that people are only too ready to accept the signifiers of age without question while they would probably be more wary of performances of other identifications such as class and gender.

The Politics of Marriage Equality While Cloudburst is certainly an enjoyable film, which celebrates the love between two older lesbian characters and makes some decided efforts to denaturalise narratives and ideologies of gendered ageing, it could be 138

What Ever Happened to Sister George? criticised for being little more than a heavy-handed political slogan for the importance of same-sex marriage. Cloudburst is set in Maine – a state which has had a rather tortured history in relation to same-sex marriage. In 2009, Maine was one of the first states to experience a referendum which rejected the recently passed bill that had legalised same-sex marriage. In a voter referendum, usually titled ‘Maine Question 1’, 53 per cent of the people voted to reject the same-sex marriage bill and so many lesbian and gay couples, who had been hoping to get married, found their wedding rights withdrawn. It was not until 2012 that ‘Maine Question 1’ was returned to a public referendum and this time it passed with the opposite result and 53 per cent of the voters were now in favour of granting marriage licences to same-sex couples. Some sequences in the film are very laboured in their proclamation of the political and legal importance of same-sex marriage in the USA – especially the hotel room scene in which Dotty affirms that she had only been dismissive of marriage as a ‘crock of shite’ because she had been indoctrinated into believing it could never happen for same-sex couples. It would be possible even to argue that the film is not actually concerned with the love between a lesbian couple at all but is merely co-opting the charming image of two elderly lesbians as ambassadors for equal marriage. Indeed, a very cynical reading of Cloudburst would argue that the film is mobilising the older female bodies, which are suggestive of love and companionship rather than physical lust, as little more than ciphers for the politics of same-sex marriage. Arguably, this can be read as another example of greywashing (see Chapter 1) in which the narrative mobilises older characters as a way of softening contentious politics and making them more acceptable to the spectator – although the politics advocated by Cloudburst are considerably more progressive than the conservative ideologies of Marigold Hotel. Arguably, Cloudburst’s representation of older lesbians as ambassadors for same-sex marriage is one of the reasons why the film was one of the most commercially and critically successful of the ‘same-sex marriage affirmation’ films that appeared around this period. Another example of the ‘genre’ is I Do (dir. Glen Gaylord, 2012) which, like Cloudburst, may be read as an extended political slogan campaigning for the socio-legal necessity of affording marriage rights to same-sex couples across all the states of the USA. I Do tells the story of late thirties, English, gay male

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Ageing Femininity photographer, Jack Edwards (played by ex-model David Ross) who lives in New York and, like Cloudburst, the film is empathic about same-sex marriage rights. Jack’s resident’s visa has expired and he will be deported to the UK. His current boyfriend Mano (Maurice Compte) offers to marry him to give him residency but, in a scene which is obviously engineered to emphasise why same-sex marriage needed to be recognised across all the states of the US, a lawyer explains that even if Mano and Jack were to marry it would not give Jack US citizenship because his right to US residency is a federal rather than a state issue. Given that same-sex marriage was only recognised on a state by state basis, I Do is certainly hammering the point of why same-sex marriage needed to become federal law rather than a discretionary state provision. Unlike Cloudburst, I Do received negative reviews from the film journalists who were critical of its ‘contrived plot twists’ and ‘thin characters’ (Saltz 2013). Certainly, one of the most contrived elements of I Do is its amount of gratuitous male nudity as, in many scenes, Jack is represented in various stages of undress which are not necessitated by the narrative. While the representation of Jack’s beautiful, gym-toned, Chelsea-boy body is undoubtedly pleasurable for the gay male spectator it does little to emphasise the importance of marriage as a lifelong commitment that applies to everyday, ‘average’ bodies. In comparison to the gay male narcissism of I Do, the love of Cloudburst’s Stella and Dotty is shown to transcend the desirability of physical beauty and so, understandably, was a more successful film in relation to the politics of same-sex marriage affirmation. Related to this point is the fact that, despite its queering of gendered ideologies, Cloudburst codes Stella and Dotty within the matrix of butch/ femme and, most importantly, maps this onto the gender roles expected of heteronormative marriage. Although butch and femme are ‘primarily erotic designations’ (Munt 1998: 9) they have also received considerable critical attention in relation to the issue of performative gender roles. A key question has always been whether femmes and butches are ‘dupes of heterosexuality’ (Nestle 1992a: 14), who merely replicate the gendered paradigms of straight marriage (Faderman 1992: 580), or are they to be celebrated as iconoclasts of heteronormativity (Walker 2012)? An important issue within this debate is whether the femme is ‘playing’ with femininity as opposed to ‘being’ feminine (Walker 2012: 805; Nestle 1992b)?

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What Ever Happened to Sister George? Yet the question remains if non-queer spectators, who are not well versed in lesbian subcultural identifications, actually read the potential iconoclasm of the butch/femme couple or do they simply see butch and femme as replicating the ideology of the heteronormative husband and wife (see Faderman 1992). Therefore, it could be argued that Cloudburst is merely mobilising this representation of an older butch/femme couple, who most closely approximate the heteronormative ideology of marriage, to sway the (heterosexual) spectator’s view on the politics of marriage equality. What could be more normative than a monogamous, devoted couple whose gendered and sexual roles map so readily onto the traditional ideologies of masculine, dominant care provider and feminine, passive wife?

Conclusion This chapter has considered two very different films which have made older lesbians the subject of their narratives. While Notes on a Scandal may initially be viewed as replicating the Sister George stereotype, I have argued that the film’s representation of a queer anti-hero, who challenges dynamics of appropriate or successful ageing on both a textual and extratextual level, may be read as an interrogation of the problems of ageism and gerontophobia both within heteronormative and contemporary queer culture. Cloudburst, on the other hand, appears to be the more ageaffirmative film but it could also be seen as mere greywashing: the cooption of the older lesbian couple into little more than political ciphers for the socio-economic necessity of recognising equal marriage across all the states of the USA. Cloudburst’s ending is also highly problematic, if the film is to be identified as an age-affirmative narrative, given that Dotty dies soon after she and Stella have become married. Therefore, the film echoes the narrative trajectory of age and decline in which the older lesbian is left alone and single by the film’s conclusion. It is also worth noting that both Barbara and Stella – the two lesbians who are alive at the end of the both films’ narratives – are masculinised women. While Barbara certainly wouldn’t label herself as ‘butch’ in the same way as Stella would, she is certainly a masculinised female character (Hallam 2016: 558). By contrast the one femme lesbian of the two films – Dotty – is conveniently dead by the end of the narrative. Given that the masculinised lesbian has rejected traditional feminine iconography, it 141

Ageing Femininity could be argued that she is not subjected to the same societal pressures to defy the ageing process as heterosexual or femme-lesbian women. In that respect, it is easier for films to celebrate the figure of the ageing lesbian if she is a masculinised woman who has already challenged and rejected requirements of hegemonic femininity. As the sociologist Richard Friend has argued (1989, 1990), what is needed for contemporary society’s recognition of older lesbian culture is an acknowledgement of the diversity of experience. Unfortunately, the films addressed in this chapter do not manage to do this but instead offer a dichotomy of representation. We either have Scandal’s controversial reclamation and ironic reworking of the vicious, lonely, imbalanced, old ‘dyke’ or we have the representation of a charming, devoted and monogamous couple who, despite the film’s determination to queer gender roles in its road movie narrative, can be read as conveniently representing a same-sex couple who most closely approximate heterosexuality in their stereotypical butch/femme relationship. Obviously, these films deserve credit for being two of the first mainstream productions to address the issue of lesbian ageing but, as with other texts which represent ‘successful ageing’, there seems to be an imperative to conflate the issue with a variety of coding strategies which make the subject more acceptable. Would Cloudburst be such a ‘feel good’ film if it were not such a dynamic political slogan for the importance of equal marriage and would Notes on a Scandal be an equally enjoyable experience without its self-referential exploration of the issues of star performance, queer narratives and self-reflexive coding of unsuccessful ageing?

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5 ‘My Whole Life I have been Dressing up as a Man. This is Me’: Representing Ageing Trans-Femininity

In May 2014, Time Magazine published a cover story titled ‘The Transgender Tipping Point’, which argued that the social movement around trans rights had gained so much momentum that it was now challenging our deeply held cultural beliefs about gendered identification. This idea was celebrated in much of the Western media with many journalists pointing out that trans people were ‘everywhere’ in popular culture. It certainly does seem that there are considerably more trans-identified celebrities in the media than ever before. Recent years have seen the reclusive directors, the Wachowski siblings, both transition; trans fitness models Ben Melzer and Aydian Dowling have both regularly featured in men’s workout magazines; trans actors Laverne Cox and Rebecca Root have held leading roles in the television dramas Orange is the New Black (US 2013 –) and Boy Meets Girl (UK 2015 –) and, of course, the most publicised trans person in recent years has been Caitlyn Jenner. While it is true that trans people have gained greater visibility, and that many of these new representations are challenging the transphobic stereotypes of the past 20 years, there are still problems in the way trans people are coded in the 143

Ageing Femininity media – particularly in relation to other identifications such as class, race and, most relevant for this chapter, age. In recent years the subject of ageing and trans identification has become an important topic within much sociological and cultural studies research (Heaphy et al. 2004; Hughes 2006; Persson 2009; Sandberg 2008; Wagenen et al. 2013). There are, of course, obvious comparisons to be made between the identification of ageing and trans. Not only are trans and older people both stigmatised by contemporary culture but trans and older people are also coded in the media as being dissatisfied with their bodies and attempting to address this displeasure by whatever means are available to them. The media trope of the trans person as someone ‘trapped in the wrong body’ shares comparisons with the beauty industry’s marketing of anti-ageing products that encourage ‘potential consumers to think of themselves as young people trapped in an older person’s body’ (Heyes 2003: 1102; see also Morgan 1998). This chapter will review the critical responses to transgender identity politics within the field of cultural studies before then analysing the popular stereotypes of transgender people. Finally, it will examine recent representations of older trans characters in visual fiction, through a discussion of the film Transamerica (dir. Tucker, 2005) and the celebrated television drama series Transparent (2014 –), to consider not only how the identifications of trans and age intersect but also how age can be co-opted as a trans-affirmation strategy.

Critical and Cultural Responses to Transgender Identifications Any discussion of transgender identity politics within the field of cultural studies must start with Janice Raymond’s much quoted thesis, first published in 1979, The Transsexual Empire: The Making of the She-Male. It has now become extremely popular to attack Raymond’s thesis and dismiss it as unacceptably transphobic. I certainly do not wish to condemn Raymond, or her writing, but her contentious ideas must be discussed – not least because they fostered a range of responses from other critics and, in that respect, can actually be seen as the origins of a cultural studies (as opposed to a psychiatric-medical) response to transgender identity politics. 144

Representing Ageing Trans-Femininity When reading Raymond’s thesis, it is important to situate it within a particular time period and a contextualised set of feminist politics. Raymond’s thesis was articulated from the standpoint of a subsection of radical feminism. There is, of course, considerable debate as to what actually constitutes radical feminism but it is fair to say that Raymond situates her politics within a separatist model which stressed the importance of female autonomy from men. Inspired by the lived experience of women who had suffered the realities of misogynist-fuelled violence, economic dependence and unequal division of labour, this model of radical feminism advocated for the creation of gender-separate spaces that could be liberating for women. It should be remembered that the 1970s was a period in which there was the formation of feminist discussion and consciousness-raising groups in which women, in the space of a male-free environment, were able to debate feminist politics and strategies of feminist activism. Given this political situation, it is perhaps not remarkable that Raymond’s first main argument about trans women was that they were ‘invaders’ of this safe domain of femininity (1979: p. xx) – ‘invading both the feminine and feminist fronts’ (1979: p. xxv). As Munroe and Warren point out, this anxiety may be understandable when we consider that Raymond’s feminist politics are ‘based on the notion of an unequal gender-binaried system’ (2004: 354) and so ‘transgender scrambles gender binaries and opens up the space beyond simple male – female categorisation’ (Munroe and Warren 2004: 354). However, as is often the case with Raymond’s writing, she tended to couch her argument in very emotive and tendentious language and in this particular case she mobilised the metaphor of colonisation by arguing that ‘the transsexual empire initially colonized women’s bodies. Now it has extended to colonize feminist identification, culture, politics and sexuality’ (1979: p. xx, emphasis added). In this view, transgender identifications are read as a type of mass conspiracy Trojan Horse plot in which men, jealous of these women-only spaces, are prepared to perform radical changes on their bodies to allow them to sneak in. As I have argued already, this anxiety about invasion has to be understood in the context of Raymond’s particular interpretation of radical feminist activism but where her criticism of transgender politics moved beyond the remit of justifiable critique, and into the realm of offensive discourse, was her use of the metaphor of rape.

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Ageing Femininity All transsexuals rape women’s bodies by reducing the real female form to an artefact, appropriating this body for themselves . . . Rape, although it is usually done by force, can also be accomplished by deception. It is significant that in the case of the transsexually constructed lesbian-feminist, often he is able to gain entrance and a dominant position in women’s spaces because the women involved do not know he is a transsexual and he just does not happen to mention it. (Raymond 1979: p. xx, emphasis added)

Reading trans women as a type of wolf in sheep’s clothing who invade (via stealth) these women-only spaces in order to ‘rape’ femininity is not only offensive to trans people but the rape analogy could also be read as disrespectful of people who have endured the lived experience of sexual assault. Raymond’s final point, in which she argued that transgendered women were the product of a patriarchal legal –medical system, did hold validity at the time of writing. Certainly, in the 1970s, the majority of surgeons and psychiatrists would have been male and so there is a tenuous argument to be made that transgender women are simply ‘patriarchal society’s stereotype of femininity’ (Raymond 1994: 628). If the psychiatrist who ‘diagnoses’ the gender ‘dysphoria’ is male and the surgeon who performs the sex-change surgery is male then it could be possible to see a Stepford Wives types analogy in which men, living out Zeus myth fantasies, are creating the bodies of women from the bodies of men. Successors of this argument have included Bernice Hausman who has asserted ‘that the development of certain medical technologies made the advent of transsexualism possible’ (1995: 7; see also Hausman 1992, 2001). Developing Raymond’s critique, Hausman has argued that trans women are buying into the patriarchal binary-gendered system and so they only have agency in their complicity with the (masculine) psychiatric-medical model. Arguably, there is little challenge to the patriarchal gendered system if trans women perform stereotypical femininity. (Of course, one of the key issues with this argument is that it fails to acknowledge FtM trans people but, at the time of Raymond’s thesis (late 1970s), female to male transgenderism was not widely recognised and so Raymond was focusing only on MtF trans women.) Unfortunately, this idea of trans women as pneumatic stereotypes of femininity has been supported by media representations which, until 146

Representing Ageing Trans-Femininity recently, tended to focus on trans women who performed hyperfemininity. For example, the 2006 documentary Trantasia: Tears, Tiaras and Transsexuals (dir. Stanford, 2006) represented a Las Vegas trans beauty pageant in which the iconography of the winner, Mimi Marks (see Figure 5.1), accorded with the hegemonic classed and raced perception of beauty that has, quite understandably, been the subject of considerable feminist critique (Bartky 1990; Bordo 1993; Wolf 1990). Although the Trantasia beauty pageant was marketed as progress for trans liberation, are beauty contests – a degrading regime in which women are objectified and paraded like cattle – a legitimate form of political empowerment? However, despite considerable criticism of Raymond’s thesis, it is fair to argue that ‘The Transsexual Empire has become the archetypal articulation of radical feminist hostility to transsexuality and has had a persistent influence on feminist perceptions of transgender’ (Heyes 2003: 1099). Most problematic is that Raymond’s particular response to trans people ‘tends to be associated with feminism as a whole’ (Elliot 2010: 18) and, although Raymond’s work has been criticised (Ekins and King 2006; Hines 2007, 2010; Hird 2000), her thesis has been supported by other feminists – not least Sheila Jeffreys (2008, 2012) whose most recent text, Gender Hurts (2014), has the subtitle A Feminist Analysis of the Politics of Transgenderism – thus supporting the conflation of trans exclusionary radical feminism with feminism in general. Unsurprisingly, Raymond’s Transsexual Empire inspired rousing critical responses. In the aptly titled article ‘The Empire Strikes Back’ (first published 1987), Sandy Stone discussed Raymond’s thesis and advocated for a development in feminist responses to trans. Stone’s first point was to stress the inclusivity of feminism and the lived experience of trans women. Surely feminism is about challenging all gender inequality and not just the issues that may affect cisgendered women? Many people benefit from feminism’s challenge to sexism and misogyny and so narrowing the focus may not necessarily by the best way to advance feminist politics. As a result, the transfeminist mantra ‘support your sisters not just your cis-ters’ was born. It should also be remembered that, in the late 1980s, trans people would have had very little recourse to political and cultural support networks. This was a decade prior to the formation of the identification LGBT and so, at that period, there would only have been

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Figure 5.1 Mimi Marks, winner of the 2006 Transsexual Beauty Pageant, reinforcing the media stereotype of trans women.

lesbian and gay liberation which would not have accommodated trans activism as well as current LGBT politics. Stone’s second point was more theoretical in that she argued that trans people, far from being dupes of the gendered system, could be celebrated for their productive disruption of structuralist readings of sex, gender and sexuality. From this argument arose the development of queer theory’s embrace of trans identity politics in which critics like Kate Bornstein coined the term ‘gender outlaw’ (1994) to describe how trans people could be read as deconstructing the gendered binary system. Other critics such as Riki Wilchins developed this concept with the identification of ‘genderqueer’ (2002), arguing that trans bodies were actively challenging taken-for-granted meanings about gender as a fixed set of oppositional differences. Most recently, other liberal feminists have made a compelling argument that the trans discourse of being trapped in the wrong body is something that many cisgendered men and women may also have experienced – as evidenced by the ever-growing demand for cosmetic surgery and body modification procedures (Heyes 2003: 1098). While many cisgendered people may not wish to change their gender 148

Representing Ageing Trans-Femininity identification, they certainly may wish to modify or change their bodies (whether through activities such as diet, exercise or surgery) so that their physicality is aligned with their desired self-perception. However, a political tension would arise in queer theory’s discussion of transgender. Queer theory, largely underpinned by gender performativity (Butler 1990: 33), tended to celebrate identifications that exposed the iterative, performative nature of gender (drag, cross-dressing) or subverted gender (gender-bending). A body that drew attention to gender as a flexible fiction was to be praised. By contrast, a trans body which performed hyper-femininity (stereotypical femininity) was not celebrated as it, arguably, supported Raymond’s position of trans women as stereotypes of patriarchal expectations of femininity (see Prosser 1998: 6). It was not until 2005 that Vivian Namaste pointed out that much of queer theory’s celebration of the gender-dissident, gender-bending subject was, in many ways, naïve and utopian. To state that one is neither a man nor a woman . . . or that gender is only a social construct . . . ignores the very fundamental reality of being in this world. Yes, we can state that we are not men and not women . . . but would someone please tell me how to get an apartment when one is neither a man nor a woman? Where does one find a physician to treat neither men nor women? And an employer? My point is that this transgendered discourse is utopic, and one profoundly informed by privilege. (Namaste 2005: 22)

Of course, in recent years there have been social and legal changes to try to accommodate non-binary gender identifications – such as many workplaces requesting the use of gender-neutral pronouns and some countries facilitating non-gendered passports. To summarise, Raymond started a discourse which read trans bodies as products of the patriarchal legal – medical system who were invaders of the separatist domain of femininity. This ‘invasion’ was coded in the offensive metaphor of ‘rape’. Transfeminism responded by stressing the inclusivity of feminist politics while subsequent queer theory celebrated the trans body as a pin-up for the politics of gender queering and gender fluidity. The trans body could suggest new possibilities of being. However, the interesting point is that, despite the advancements made in 149

Ageing Femininity academic discussions, the media have been only too keen to embrace early positions in relation to trans identifications.

Media Stereotypes There are arguably two main tropes of MtF trans representation in the media (Serano 2007). The first is the ‘pathetic trans’ who does not ‘pass’ very well at all. The second is the highly successful trans body, who does hyper-femininity, and is therefore coded as a predatory threat. Arguably, the ‘pathetic’ non-‘passing’ trans is popular culture’s response to queer theory’s celebration of the gender-dissident, gender-bending subject. The trans-identified subject, who does not ‘pass’ as one specific gender, and occupies a liminal position between masculinity and femininity, is often coded as a figure of fun. An example of this stereotype can be seen in the coda at the end of Christopher Guest’s mockumentary A Mighty Wind (dir. Guest 2003). This highly entertaining film represented the folk music scene in contemporary USA in which various folk groups from the 1970s were re-forming for a one-off tribute performance. At the end of the film, a coda reveals that a change has now taken place in the all male trio ‘The Folksmen’ as one member of the group – the bass singer – has transitioned. In a direct-to-camera address, this character asserts that she came to the realisation that she was ‘really a blonde, female folk singer trapped in the body of a bald, male folk singer and I had to let me out or I would die’. The sequence then represents the group (still titled ‘The Folksmen’) performing their song ‘Eat at Joe’s’ with the bass singer still singing the basso profundo line despite now being attired in frock and blonde wig (Figure 5.2). On one level, the clip can be seen to echo Namaste’s point that a queer celebration of a liminal, gender-dissident body is often impractical when it comes to everyday lived experiences. This person is a professional singer, in a group known as ‘The Folksmen’, so how can she conceivably function as the bass singer now that she has transitioned? How will the group even be employed for gigs unless as a type of freakshow? The sequence also mobilises a definite strain of transmisogyny in that the spectator is permitted to laugh at dowdy femininity – especially the frumpy frock and bowl, hausfrau haircut – because this is a trans body. Giggling at the fashion style of a cisgendered woman would be misogyny but the spectator 150

Representing Ageing Trans-Femininity

Figure 5.2 The liminal, non ‘passing’ trans woman (Harry Shearer) coded as object of ridicule in A Mighty Wind.

is absolved of any guilt because this is a trans rather than cis woman. In this respect, it is fair to argue that the non-‘passing’, liminal trans body may be read as the successor of the earlier stereotypes of gender-dissident lesbians and gays in the media (Richardson 2010: 128; Phillips 2006). Early stereotypes suggested homosexuality on the screen through a conflation of sexuality and gender transitivity, with lesbians coded as butch and gay men represented as sissies. Arguably, many spectators were not laughing at the suggestion of these characters’ homosexuality but at their gender dissidence. Given that it is now unacceptable to laugh at gays and lesbians because of their identifications, the trans body has become the successor of this stereotype. Therefore, the non-‘passing’ trans body is a powerful comedic trope in that it combines both misogyny (the opportunity to snigger at frumpy femininity) and a chance to giggle at the gender dissidence that had previously been afforded by media stereotypes of gays and lesbians. However, the other more worrying stereotype is the trans person who is highly successful in ‘passing’ and is therefore coded as predatory and dangerous. One of the most truly offensive examples of this was the British dating show competition There’s Something about Miriam (2004) 151

Ageing Femininity in which a group of bachelors were competing for the affections of the gorgeous Latina model Miriam. The very unsavoury twist in this dating show was that Miriam was trans and the final toe-curling moment of the series was Miriam’s self-revelation as a trans-identified woman. There’s Something about Miriam was yet another example of the type of new laddist dating show that became popular in the early 2000s in which a team of eligible bachelors competed for the affections of a beautiful woman. Other examples included the British and US versions of Average Joe (2003 – 5, US) and Playing it Straight (2004, US; 2005, UK). While these shows’ formats suggested that the woman was in control, through having the right to select the bachelor she will choose to date, the shows were really mobilising a nasty strain of finely tuned misogyny in that the woman was often the butt of the joke, given that all the men were prepared to lie and deceive her in order to win the competition. As I have argued elsewhere, even the show Playing it Straight (in which the female participant was required to discern which of her suitors were gay and which were straight) contains a pun in the title as none of the men were playing it ‘straight’ (in the sense of honest and decent) because they were all – irrespective of sexual identification – lying to the woman in their attempt to win the prize money that was given to the successful suitor (Richardson 2009a). While the female contestant was represented as taking part in the dating show because she believed she might meet a potential boyfriend, the men were treating it simply as a competition in which they were determined to win against their male rivals. There’s Something about Miriam developed these themes even further. The homosocial rivalry, with a dash of nasty new laddist vulgarity and (given Miriam’s Latina identification) racist prejudice (Lewis 2009), became explicit in the final episode when Miriam selected Tom as the winning bachelor. Miriam then revealed that she is trans and all the men sniggered, gloating at Tom’s discomfort (Figure 5.3). This moment is, of course, the ‘reveal’ – a narrative motif very popular in media representations of the ‘predatory, dangerous trans’. This moment, in which the men are coded as unsuspecting victims who have been ‘deceived’ by the trans woman, and therefore subject to humiliation from their male colleagues, is one of the most transphobic narrative devices in popular

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Figure 5.3 Miriam: the successfully ‘passing’ trans woman who is coded as dangerous and predatory in the TV show There’s Something about Miriam.

culture. (Filmic examples include The Hangover: Part II (dir. Phillips, 2011) and Dude, Where’s my Car? (dir. Leiner, 2000).) Yet, what makes There’s Something about Miriam even more upsetting than other ‘reveal’ sequences in popular culture is the addition of Miriam’s speech. Presumably this was scripted for Miriam as no trans-identified woman would make the announcement that ‘I am not a woman. I was born a man.’ It’s particularly telling that Miriam does not say she is a trans woman but simply that she is not a woman. Given Miriam’s statement, it is not difficult to argue that Raymond’s assertion (made in 1979), that trans women cannot be women, is still the popular perception in contemporary media more than 30 years later. Indeed, more parallels with Raymond’s thesis can be made if we compare Raymond’s belief that the trans body is invading a gender-separatist domain with the way Miriam has been coded as sneaking into the bachelors’ world through stealth and deceit. Raymond’s metaphor of rape can even be seen to hold currency here (more than 30 years since The Transsexual Empire was published) 153

Ageing Femininity given that, after the filming of There’s Something about Miriam, the male contestants sued the production company on the grounds of attempted rape and received a sum of money in an out-of-court settlement (see Lewis 2009: 247). Perhaps equally worrying is that the ‘successful and predatory trans body’ is also a vehicle for transmisogyny and homophobia in an even more aggressive fashion than the ‘pathetic trans’ stereotype. The show implies that if Miriam is ‘actually’ a man then she must be a gay man who is attempting to seduce, via stealth, these unsuspecting heterosexual bachelors. While the ‘pathetic trans’ is the heir to the comedic stereotype of the ineffectual, gender dissident sissy, the ‘successful and predatory trans’ is the successor of the dangerous homosexual who preyed on unsuspecting young, heterosexual men. While the 1960s saw the production of the public ‘service’ broadcast Boys Beware: Homosexuals are on the Prowl (see Chapter 6), contemporary media are warning the public that this threat is still close by but now homosexuals have become so resourceful that they have ‘disguised’ their bodies as female to infiltrate a male group and sexually abuse these unsuspecting, innocent people. Both these trans stereotypes are highly disturbing for the way they fold homophobia and misogyny together into one neatly packaged body. Even more worrying than the representations in popular entertainment is the current political situation in the USA in which Raymond’s thesis, of the trans body as invading a gender-separatist domain to ‘rape’ the unsuspecting innocent people within that space, has been mobilised by the extreme right in what has become known as the ‘bathroom issue’. This ‘concern’ first came to the public attention in 2013 during the campaign for the Houston Equal Rights Ordinance (HERO). Houston currently does not afford any protection against LGBT discrimination and so someone could conceivably be fired from his/her job for merely identifying openly as gay. The proposition was intended to provide protections for minority groups and was put to a public vote. However, campaigners who opposed the ordinance incited considerable fear in the voters through representing ridiculous scenarios in which a man, pretending to be a woman, could enter a woman’s restroom to sexually abuse women who were using the facilities (Figures 5.4 and 5.5). In one highly distasteful advertisement, a man was represented as forcing his way into a restroom cubicle, which was occupied by a little girl,

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Figures 5.4 and 5.5 The Houston ‘Vote No’ campaign which suggested that trans women are merely perverted men, disguised as women, invading women’s bathrooms to assault a young girl.

Ageing Femininity to assault her. While Raymond’s metaphor of rape was certainly upsetting, at least she did not assert that trans people would aim to assault a small child. Ostensibly, this type of imagery suggests contemporary culture’s deeply entrenched transphobia. Given the dominance of the media stereotypes, many people simply read a trans woman as a man-in-disguise who is invading a gender-separatist space to assault vulnerable people. Yet, it could also be speculated that many far-right extremists are merely mobilising transphobia as means to roll back legislative advancements for gays and lesbians. Given the example of the Houston Ordinance it is apparent that the T is now the Achilles heel in LGBT politics and it may well be the case that many homophobic people, realising that homophobia no longer holds the same cultural currency as it did several decades ago, have targeted their efforts on the T so that they can attack LGBT culture in general. Since Houston had an openly lesbian identified mayor at the time of the Houston Equal Rights Ordinance referendum, it would have seemed unlikely that a homophobic campaign would be successful in preventing the ordinance from passing. Transphobia, on the other hand, is the new terror – arguably working at the same level that homophobia did 30 years ago. In view of the stereotype of the trans person as a sexual predator – someone who has gone to the extent of disguising the body to seduce unsuspecting people via stealth – it is hardly surprising that trans people now prefer the term transgender to transsexual given that transgender affirms that this is an issue of gender identification and nothing to do with sexual desires. Recently, trans-affirmative representations have mobilised the ageing body as an ambassador for trans rights. On one level, this is obviously intended to emphasise the point that a transgender identification is an issue of gender rather than sexuality – given that older bodies are usually read as non-sexual. However, as I have argued in previous chapters, mobilising the older body as a political cipher is an ingenious move in that the older character can affirm a political stance but, given the signification of the character’s advanced years, the protest is softened and made more palatable for the conservative spectator. This is not only due to the non-threatening representation of the older person but also the textual conflation between age and cultural expectations of heritage.

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Representing Older Trans Women: Desexualised Ambassadors for Transgender Rights It is interesting to note that before trans affirmative texts such as Transamerica and Transparent, one of the first mainstream representations of a trans person was indeed the older trans woman. The muchcelebrated television adaptation of Armistead Maupin’s Tales of the City (1994, US) featured a trans character who was not only the matriarch of the series but the moral centre of the narrative. The much-loved Mrs Anna Madrigal (Olympia Dukakis) was the landlady of 22 Barbary Lane who cared for, and guided, all her tenants (an extended queer family) throughout all their romantic trials and personal ordeals. It is important to note that Olympia Dukakis acted Mrs Madrigal as a character who was performing old-lady-ness as a method of gaining a cultural legitimacy for her trans femininity (Figure 5.6). Throughout the series, Anna Madrigal performed the supreme example of the bohemian, San Franciscan older lady – often situated within the context of her beautiful house and garden – an ambassador for the celebrated liberalism of 1970s San Francisco. Several decades later, another older, equally genteel trans woman would prove very popular for audiences as Transamerica became a surprise success at the box office. Felicity Huffman was only 43 when she played the role of Bree but, in a similar fashion to Dukakis’s Mrs Madrigal, Huffman acted Bree as a trans woman who was performing older-lady-ness. I have discussed Transamerica in considerable detail elsewhere (2010), arguing that the film is, for the most part, affirmative of trans rights – not least in the way it actively questions the very identification of femininity throughout its narrative. Transamerica is, arguably, most interesting because of its deliberate double-signification in the coding of the trans protagonist Bree given that she is played by a cisgendered actor (Felicity Huffman) but does not ‘pass’ very well on the screen. The film, therefore, may be read as making a deliberate comment on the very idea of ‘authentic’ femininity given that a cisgendered woman is playing a trans woman but does not look like a ‘convincing’ woman in the film (Figure 5.7). This message is emphasised during one key scene when Bree visits Mary Ellen’s house. In this sequence, Bree is juxtaposed with the character Mary Ellen (Bianca Lee) and both women are discussing how another character (seated behind in the corner) ‘couldn’t pass on a dark night’. The scene is

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Figure 5.6 Mrs Madrigal (Olympia Dukakis): the middle-class, older trans lady who is the embodiment of liberal, genteel San Franciscan culture.

very obviously intended to question the idea of ‘genuine’ femininity. The character dressed in pink and sitting in the corner is a cisgendered woman, played by a cisgendered actor, but is read as not ‘passing’ by the other characters. Similarly, Bree herself does not ‘pass’ very well – despite being played by a cisgendered female actor. By contrast, the most ‘authentic’ looking female character on the screen is Mary Ellen but she is the only character played by a trans actor (Bianca Lee). The film continues this critique of essentialist ideas of femininity by later juxtaposing Bree with her mother Elizabeth (Fionnula Flanagan). Although Elizabeth is cisgendered, she has the appearance of a drag queen due to her vulgar dress sense and tanorexic complexion. Transamerica seems determined to argue that ‘authentic’ femininity is a myth and all 158

Representing Ageing Trans-Femininity

Figure 5.7 Cisgendered actors playing ‘unconvincing’ women on the screen to question the very concept of feminine ‘authenticity’ in Transamerica.

women – whether trans or cis – have a problem living up to this discursively constructed ideal (Figures 5.8 and 5.9). Despite my love of Transamerica, the film does have several problematic issues – not least that its narrative is structured around the unsavoury moment of the ‘reveal’. In this unpleasant sequence, the spectator is permitted a salacious peak at Bree’s penis during a moment when, due to a lack of available rest facilities, she is forced to urinate by the side of the road. Although the tagline of the film is that ‘life is more than the sum of its parts’, the narrative suggests the opposite by insisting upon the importance of specific anatomical bits in the formation of identity. Nevertheless, Transamerica is certainly one of the most pro trans rights mainstream films from the mid-2000s and, most importantly, is determined to challenge the stereotype of the trans woman as a sexual predator (a gay man in disguise) who wants to violate unsuspecting men. Key to this agenda, is the coding of Bree as a desexualised, older spinster. 159

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Figure 5.8 A moment of cruel comedy in Transamerica in which the permatanned mother Elizabeth (Fionnula Flanagan) is coded as an object of ridicule because of her failed feminine performance.

As I have argued elsewhere (2010: 145), the final image of Bree, alone in her little house, is an image that is almost Sirkian in its representation of domestic femininity – thus nullifying any threat which had been posed by this transgressive body. Bree is the ‘acceptable’ trans woman because she is contained within the identification of asexual – and most importantly – ageing spinsterhood. This criticism of Transamerica ‘containing’ the threat of the trans body is compounded by (what could be termed) Huffman’s ‘transface’ performance as Bree. Casting a recognizable cisgendered actor as a trans woman may be read as akin to other cinematic strategies of containing bodies which inspire anxiety. Like the fat body created on the screen via the prosthetics of the fat suit (see Richardson 2010, 2016) – so that the spectator is reassured that the ‘horror’ of fat is not real because underneath the fat suit is a well-known slim actor – the ‘transface’ performance asserts that the spectator does not need to worry about the transgressive body as it is only a skilful performance by the much loved Felicity Huffman. 160

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Figure 5.9 Another moment of unkind comedy in Transamerica where Elizabeth (Fionnula Flanagan) is, yet again, the comic fool.

Transamerica, however, predated the current US anxiety about bathrooms and, arguably, was made at a time when the trans body was not inspiring so much political debate. Recently, a visual text has been created which can be seen to address many of the current ‘concerns’ in relation to trans identifications in the USA but, most importantly, is mobilising the older trans woman as an acceptable ambassador for trans rights. Created by Jill Soloway, Transparent (US, 2014 – ) is a highly popular Amazon TV series. A dramedy (inspired by Soloway’s own family experiences of a parent coming out as trans in later life), Transparent tells the story of Maura Pfefferman, a retired UCLA professor, who is transitioning while in her late sixties. (Out of respect for trans identity politics, I shall not deadname the character in this discussion but refer to her throughout as Maura.) The series, now into its third season, details the response of Maura’s family to her transition as well as representing a range of other difficulties experienced by the family. The Pfeffermans are an uppermiddle-class, Jewish family who live in Los Angeles. As well as Maura there 161

Ageing Femininity is also her ex-wife Shelley (Judith Light), eldest daughter Sarah (Amy Landecker), son Josh (Jay Duplass) and youngest daughter Ali (Gaby Hoffman). A variety of other characters feature in the series including Maura’s trans friend Davina (Alexandra Billings), the rabbi of the Pfeffermans’ synagogue – Rabbi Raquel (Kathryn Hahn) – and Viki (Angelica Huston), a cisgendered woman who becomes Maura’s love interest towards the end of season two. Transparent has been well received by both journalists and academic critics (Clayman 2015; Coan 2017; Ford 2016; Funk and Funk 2016; Hess 2017; Villarejo 2016). Valerie Clayman argues that Transparent is one of the few popular cultural texts to ‘hit all the right chords’, as it was ‘respectful to trans coming out narratives’ (2015: 64), while Akkadia Ford locates the series within the tradition of the recent Trans New Wave of independent film and television (Ford 2016). Linda Hess (2017) argues that Transparent deserves praise for the way it challenges narratives of ageing through representing Maura as making a beginning in her retirement, rather than ending her life, and for the way the series challenges temporal linearity to queer time and place. Although Transparent has been praised for its sensitive representation of Maura (Villarejo 2016; Funk and Funk 2016; Clayman 2015), it has received criticism for its ‘relentless whiteness’ (Villarejo 2016: 15) and for its representation of trans men – especially the short-lived storyline in season one where a trans man was coded in terms of comedy (Keegan 2014). Similarly, there have been discussions about whether the casting of a cisgendered actor in the role of Maura (Jeffrey Tambor) is yet another example of Hollywood’s ‘transface’ (Freeman 2016). However, given the casting difficulties of finding an actor in her late 60s, who is only beginning the process of transition, it is perhaps churlish to criticise the casting of Tambor in the role. Although most of the analyses of Transparent have focused on the representation of Maura, critics have also noted that the show is remarkable for being ‘the most Jewish show that’s ever been on television’ (Vallarejo 2016: 11). This is not only because the episode narratives feature so many Jewish festivals but because the character of Rabbi Raquel is usually coded as the moral compass of the show – a voice of reason when all the other characters are responding in irrational or overly emotional ways. The series is very obviously Maura’s story and she provides a sense of focalisation for the spectator. Although it does seem slightly implausible

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Representing Ageing Trans-Femininity that a university professor – a person who makes a living from research – should be so naïve about several issues (Maura has no knowledge of trans exclusionary radical feminism and people who are trans chasers/transamorous), this ignorance of important contemporary matters can be seen to mirror the spectator’s perspective. The spectator will empathise with Maura’s surprise and amazement as she is exposed to this unknown world of trans life. The main theme of Transparent is certainly Maura’s transition but the series is emphatic that this is just another issue in the range of difficulties that may face a contemporary Western family. Maura’s transition is contextualised alongside other inter-personal dramas such as marital infidelity, sexual (identity) experimentation, career/employment problems, religious identifications and drug addiction. The series even features a variety of flashbacks to frame Maura’s transition within wider history and one important storyline is the history of Grandma Rose Pfefferman (growing up in pre-World War II Germany) whose brother identified as trans (the only available term at that time was ‘transvestite’) prior to the Nazi accession. Transparent is emphatic that not only are trans rights to be viewed as civil rights but that the struggle for trans identity has always been present in society. This is suggested in the opening credits that feature a montage of sequences which range from homemade family movies to documentary type footage of civil rights protests and women’s rights marches. Trans rights are both personal and political and, most importantly, comparable with other struggles for socio-cultural and legal recognition. As well as contextualising trans rights within familial and wider societal struggles, Transparent is obviously responding to contemporary debates that have arisen about transgender identification and trans rights politics. It is fair to argue that several of the storylines are simply extended allegories intended to address issues of transphobia, transmisogyny and general issues of trans prejudice. First, the much-contested alignment of trans with lesbian, gay and bisexual identifications under the umbrella term of LGBT is a salient theme in the series. As with contemporary discussions of whether it is beneficial to class a politics of gender identification with the rights for freedom of sexual expression (LGB&T?), Transparent represents Maura’s struggle to find a group with which she can identify. In episode 4 of season 1 (‘Moppa’) Maura moves into a

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Ageing Femininity predominantly gay apartment block and although she initially finds the environment to be very welcoming she finds it difficult to live in a culture filled with party-loving gay men. At the end of the episode, Maura is shown to be desperate for some peace but is unable to relax due to the raucous party taking place in the apartment next door. Similarly, the problem of trans people finding sexual and emotional relationships is addressed through the representation of characters identified as ‘chasers’ or ‘trans-amorous’. Season 2 introduces Sal (the partner of Maura’s trans friend Davina) who has just been released from prison. Sal is coded as a macho guy who conforms to the stereotype of the trans chaser in that his relationship with a trans woman facilitates a type of prefeminist misogyny. Maura is appalled by the chauvinist way that Sal objectifies and fragments women’s bodies – especially when he starts to make comments about how Maura should reshape her own iconography through cosmetic surgery – and it is apparent that Sal enjoys the type of Stepford-esque dominance that he holds over trans women. In Sal’s view, trans women are little more than a collection of sexy, surgically modified body parts which conform to stereotypical male fantasies. (However, like most television dramas, in which the dramatic tension is always provided by inter-personal conflict, Transparent has no essential antagonists. While Sal’s objectification of trans women is coded as distasteful, in an earlier scene Maura also described how she loves women by using the discourse of ‘loving every part of them – from head to vagina’. Is the reduction of women to specific parts acceptable when Maura voices her love for them but vulgar and sexist when Sal articulates the same desire?) However, where Transparent is most interesting is the way it contextualises Maura’s story within ongoing debates about trans identification in the wider scheme of feminist politics. The series is to be praised for the sensitive way it addresses the tensions, which I have already discussed, that exist between radical feminists and trans-identified women. The representative of trans exclusionary radical feminism is the character Leslie Mackinaw (Cherry Jones) – a professor in the gender studies programme at UCLA. Leslie (arguably based upon the poet Eileen Myles) is coded as a sympathetic character – not least because the series narrates that when Maura was a professor at UCLA she made life rather difficult for Leslie by impeding her career promotion on several occasions. Most importantly, trans exclusionary radical feminists (known by the

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Representing Ageing Trans-Femininity unflattering acronym of TERFS) are always represented engaging in a polite exchange with trans women rather than aggressive verbal fights. In season 2, episode 9 (‘Man on the Land’), Maura attends a womyn-bornwomyn music festival. This is an obvious reference to the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival that held its final event in 2015 and which was often criticised for its trans-exclusionary policy. In one scene, Maura and the other women have a very respectful and courteous discussion about why trans women are not welcome at the event and both sides make eloquent and rational arguments. The episode then edits between flashback sequences of Grandma Rose’s history in Nazi Germany and Maura storming out of the festival. The scenes in Nazi Germany show the Nazis breaking into Magnus Hirschfield’s Institute for Sexual Research and invading the safe and secure space that this institute had provided for vulnerable minorities. (This is historically inaccurate as Hirschfield had left Germany before the Nazi accession to power.) However, the cross-cutting is making an emphatic point about the identification of victim and oppressor. Is Maura, like the Nazis, invading the safe space of the womynborn-womyn festival and, if this is the case, then Transparent is asking whether an oppressed group can also be fascists? While the series is sensitive to the tensions between radical feminism and trans activism, it is somewhat less sympathetic to the identification of transvestitism. In a flashback episode (season 1, episode 8, ‘Best New Girl’), Transparent emphasises that trans identification should not be conflated with transvestitism. It is revealed that, in earlier decades, Maura found emotional support with a group of cross-dressers and enjoyed attending a cross-dressing retreat in the woods with a friend – Mark (Bradley Whitford). While initially enchanted by the environment of the crossdressing retreat (especially its freedom of expression) Maura soon finds the machismo and misogyny of the other cross-dressers to be rather offensive. In one scene, the transvestites are highly critical of trans women and emphasise that they see themselves as superior to trans women because they maintain their male privilege. One character articulates that transvestites may occasionally like to dress as women but that they are always dominant, heterosexual men. Indeed, this episode represents a similar type of ideology that has been identified in the cross-dressing comedies in 1980s Hollywood (for example, Tootsie (dir. Pollack, 1982)) which suggest that transvestitism reinforces male privilege by showing that

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Ageing Femininity men can actually do femininity better than women (see Bruzzi 1997: 156). Femininity, in this context, is almost an academic exercise – something which demonstrates male superiority. Transparent is obviously keen to condemn this machismo of transvestitism by featuring a sequence in which Mark, dressed in feminine attire, chats to his teenage son on the telephone and advises the boy to ‘man up’. The absurdity of a man, dressed as a woman, telling his young son to ‘man up’, makes the scene a moment of comedy but, most importantly, is intended to criticise the assumed ideology of the cross-dressers. Maura is shown to be disgusted at Mark’s actions and this is identified as a pivotal moment in the series in which Maura realises that she is trans rather than a cross-dresser. While it is true that the trans community may wish to distinguish themselves from transvestites – especially given the current bathroom politics in the USA in which transphobes seem to confuse (either deliberately or through ignorance) the identifications of trans and cross-dressing – for Transparent to mock transvestites in its attempt to elevate trans identifications is problematic.

Trans ‘Affirmation’? Despite some problems in its politics, Transparent is certainly one of the most trans affirmative shows to have been produced in recent years and there is no doubt that the series intends to promote understanding and acceptance of trans identifications. Having discussed some of the narrative issues raised by the series, I now want to consider the textual mechanisms employed to affirm transgenderism for the spectators. First, the series questions the commonplace but very inaccurate assumption that femininity is inherently embodied. A key motif of the show is make-up and the body’s iconography. In the episode ‘Moppa’ (season 1, episode 4), Sarah, Ali and Maura visit the Beverly Centre where they have make-overs and make-up lessons. These lessons are performed by the store’s make-up boys and so represents a scene in which cisgendered men instruct two cis women and one trans woman on how to perform femininity – thus drawing attention to the fact that Western femininity is a learned discourse of performative and commodified acts. In Western culture, women purchase femininity on their credit cards. After Maura, Sarah and Ali have all been made up they inspect their appearances in the 166

Representing Ageing Trans-Femininity mirrors and there is a definite disjunction between how they perceive themselves (they are delighted with the make-over) and the spectator’s perception of their newly made-up faces. Sarah and Ali, who have always preferred very little make-up, now resemble drag queens because of their overly painted faces and so the scene is emphasising that femininity is little more than strategies of stylisation – the success of which is open to personal interpretation. This feminine iconoclasm continues in the next sequence in which there is a truly vicious altercation in the women’s washrooms when one woman reads Maura as a man and requests that she leave the room. Sarah has a verbal battle with this woman and even refers to the woman and her daughters as ‘bitches’. While Sarah is currently overly made-up, and therefore looking more ‘feminine’ than she has in the previous episodes, she is now behaving in an aggressively masculine way and even employing misogynist rhetoric to attack the woman and her daughters. This disjunction between feminine iconography and masculine behaviour stresses the point that femininity is constructed. Second, the series employs a similar strategy to other texts I have already considered in that it conflates the identity of ageing trans femininity with the beauty of the mise-en-scène. Los Angeles is represented as utterly gorgeous in Transparent. This is the California of everyone’s dreams: the land of eternal sunshine in which sophisticated, liberal people inhabit beautiful, sun-dappled houses and gracious apartment blocks. One key symbol is Maura’s house in Pacific Palisades. Indeed, the first representation of Maura’s breath-taking house (Figure 5.10) is comparable with the way Mrs Madrigal’s house was coded in Tales of the City and there are even elements of the house’s style that could be read as 1970s (Villarejo 2016: 13). The description in Soloway’s script really conveys the wow-factor that is intended with the first appearance of Maura’s house: Post-modern Palisades fabulousness. It’s architectural porn, Dwell magazine wish fulfillment, walls of glass, towering Eucalyptus trees. (Soloway, pilot script for Transparent)

Undoubtedly, the representation of the exquisite house is intended to steer the spectator’s response to Maura herself and, as argued in Chapter 1, this is a heritage-type conceit of conflating the character with the beauty of the architectural setting. 167

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Figure 5.10 The gorgeousness of Maura’s (Jeffrey Tambor) house guiding the spectator’s emotional response to Maura herself in Transparent.

Most importantly, this Palisades mansion – coded as a source of support and the very backbone of the family – is very much Maura’s house. Shelly lives in a chic apartment and, although family disputes certainly happen there, Shelly’s little condominium does not connote the same sense of emotional sustenance as Maura’s house. The series is drawing a deliberate conflation between the house – which is beloved by the family and so important for their identification as Pfeffermans – and Maura who is equally treasured by all members of the family. Maura’s house not only symbolises family love but also represents the Californian dream of a sophisticated, gracious and, most importantly, liberal lifestyle. On occasions, when prejudiced and bigoted people are represented in the series, these characters are always associated with humble accommodation. In the episode ‘Mee-Maw’ (season 2, episode 5) a couple of Kansas ‘Bible-Bashers’ visit the Pfeffermans. This couple are not even represented in their modest Kansas lodgings but are coded as dwelling in a Winnebago that they park in Maura’s front drive. Not only is their accommodation a visual eyesore in the beauty of Maura’s front garden but the little kids in the Winnebago are chanting some tuneless hymn so that 168

Representing Ageing Trans-Femininity the scene makes an assault on the auditory sense as well. Given that Transparent has often employed its beautiful soundtrack for very emotive effect, the inclusion of the children’s tuneless religious chant is a notably ugly image in the series. Third, the series employs an unusual tactic of coding Maura in terms of trans rhetoric in the narrative but not in the textual mechanism of the mediation. As Amy Vallarejo has pointed out, Maura is never coded as the object of the gaze. While the bodies of the other cisgendered characters are often represented as erotic spectacle, Maura is never represented in terms of ‘to-be-looked-at-ness’ (Mulvey 1975). This is emphasised in the pilot episode in which the first image of Maura at her trans support group has been preceded by a sequence showing Ali’s nude body. While the youthful and very beautiful Ali is obviously intended to provide erotic pleasure to the spectator, this image is then followed by a sequence of Maura. On one level, this juxtaposition of shots can be read as exemplifying the main argument I am proposing for the popularity of Transparent as a transaffirmative text: Maura’s age denotes the recognised asexuality of the older person and so this character is affirming the key point that trans is a question of gender identification rather than sexuality. Trans women are not sexual predators in disguise. The combination of a scene showing the sexiness (and sexual activity) of Ali with a sequence of a conservatively dressed, older trans woman, who is discussing socio-cultural issues of trans identification, really emphasises to the spectator that trans identification is not a question of sexual desire. However, the series presses this issue even further by continuing to code Maura in terms of asexuality even when she is with other cisgendered bodies of comparable age. In ‘Flicky Flicky Thump Thump’ (season 2, episode 2), Maura is staying with her ex-wife Shelly and, in one scene, both women find themselves sharing a bathroom. Shelly is relaxing in a bubble bath while Maura is styling her hair. Shelly and Maura start talking about their married days and Shelly reminisces how Maura used to masturbate her with the action they called ‘flicky flicky thump thump’. A sex scene then ensues in which Maura masturbates Shelly with the requested flickythump action. Shelly orgasms quickly but Maura is shown to be utterly disinterested in attaining any sexual pleasure for herself and has only done this action as a favour for Shelly. While the camera offers a medium shot of Shelly’s orgasm – her shoulders and neck muscles are shown to be tensing

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Ageing Femininity – the reverse cut is only a close up of Maura’s face. This is such an extreme close-up shot that Maura’s hair is not even in view, let alone her feminine clothes, and instead the only image is of the intense expression of Maura’s make-up-less and very masculine-looking face. Although the narrative has asserted that this is a scene in which a trans woman masturbates a cis woman the visual details suggest an asexual body with a sexual, older female. Therefore, although the series is making trans rights a key element of the narrative, the textual mediations often exclude Maura from the gender-sexuality matrix and code the body as asexual so that she is not really a challenge to received expectations of gender and sexual identification. Indeed, it would be possible to argue that, like Huffman’s ‘transface’ performance in Transamerica, Transparent is a star vehicle for Jeffrey Tambor in that not only is it a celebration of his acting talent but a reassurance to the spectator that the character on the screen is not really trans and so there’s nothing transgressive about the flicky-thump sex scene. (In season 3, Maura does have a sexual experience with Viki but, again, the cinematography limits the view of Maura’s body and the key image in the lovemaking scene is Maura’s cries of sexual pleasure – articulated in a deep, masculine voice. Arguably, the same negation of trans-femininity is at work in this scene as well.) Most importantly, Transparent constantly affirms the frailty of Maura due to her advanced years. This is not only a running theme in the third season, in which Maura learns that her sex-reassignment surgery may not happen, and she may even have to come off hormones due to heart problems, but is mobilised at times when Maura is engaging in anything that could be identified as trans activism. In ‘Eliza’ (season 3, episode 1), Maura is volunteering at an LGBT suicide hotline when she receives a distressing phone call from a young trans woman called Eliza. Worried that Eliza will try to harm herself, Maura journeys to a South Central LA shopping centre to try to find Eliza. However, the exertion of the journey proves to be too much for Maura and she suffers a fainting spell at the very moment that she meets Eliza in person. On one level, this narrative is certainly pointing out that there is a definite lack of support for young, frightened trans people like Eliza. It really should not be the responsibility of a frail, 70-year-old trans woman like Maura to help Eliza when other people should be doing this job. Yet, on the other hand, the series does not continue this storyline (the spectator has – at least by the end of season 3 –

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Representing Ageing Trans-Femininity no knowledge of what happens to Eliza) and so this event can be read as an example of the way in which the age of the character is being mobilised to soften the assumed militancy of trans activism. Instead of the stereotype of the angry trans activist – a person who is belligerent and confrontational in defence of trans rights – we have an image of a frail, 70-year-old trans woman who is merely trying to offer some care and compassion to a trans teenager. The very fact that Maura then has a fainting fit when she meets Eliza equates the vulnerability of the older person (and the care which we know we should afford to the older generation) with the support we should also be offering to trans-identified people – whether young, like Eliza, or older, like Maura.

Conclusion This chapter has argued that the representation of older trans women may be read as a deliberate attempt to challenge the earlier stereotypes of trans femininity – not least the way in which trans women have been coded as sexual predators (male bodies ‘in disguise’) who are invading genderseparatist domains to assault innocent, unsuspecting people. In this respect, texts such as Transamerica and Transparent may be read as more examples of greywashing in which older bodies are represented as a way of softening activist politics. The conflation of the older body with heritage iconography is undoubtedly helpful in emphasising the message that trans people are a respected element of liberal, gracious society while the assumed asexuality of the older person stresses the point that transgender is an issue of gender identification rather than sexual desire. Undoubtedly, there will be a fourth season of Transamerica and so all Pfefferman fans will be waiting to learn the further details of Maura’s transition. While the series has been hugely influential in raising awareness of trans rights – and challenging issues of transphobia – it has yet to address Maura’s full transition and, perhaps even more importantly, her succession to romantic and social acceptance.

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6 Long Live Our Gracious ‘Queens’: Representing Ageing Effeminacy

In a society in which ageism and homophobia are endemic, to be old is bad enough, but to be old and gay is to double the misery. (Jones and Pugh 2005: 256) Faggots are worse than women about their age. They think their lives are over at thirty. (Mike in The Boys in the Band)

This cheating chapter moves from a discussion of ageing femininity in cinema to a consideration of ageing effeminacy: the representation of the older gay man – a character that, in earlier visual texts, was often coded as the stereotype of the old ‘queen’. As various critics have argued, older men who identify as white, heterosexual and middle-class do not face the same level of societal prejudice experienced by ageing femininity and are certainly not represented in popular culture with the same degree of negativity (see Estes 2005; Gannon 1999; Segal 2014). However, the case is somewhat different for ageing gay men – especially those who are identified as effeminate. In various ways, ageing gay men face similar societal prejudice as that experienced by ageing women (Jones and Pugh 2005; Hajek and Giles 2002; Simpson 2013, 2015). (See next section.) This has been encouraged by the media which have employed 173

Ageing Femininity many of the same strategies in representing older gay men and older women. There are two dominant stereotypes of ageing gay men. The first is the older, predatory gay man who seeks to ‘corrupt’ innocent, younger men. This is ageing homosexuality coded as a type of contagion; something which younger, heterosexual men could ‘catch’ if they are not careful (see next section). By contrast, the second is the desexualised figure of the ‘old queen’ – a body whose ageing effeminacy removes him from the scheme of sexuality because he occupies a liminal space between gendered identifications. This chapter will discuss how both these stereotypes can be seen to hold similarities with the prejudices surrounding ageing femininity and will then analyse some contemporary film texts which have tried to challenge or revise these tropes.

Comparing Older Gay Men with Older Heterosexual Women: Ageing as Contagion and Victims of the Beauty Myth Jones and Pugh argue that there are obvious ‘comparisons between older women and older gay men’ (2005: 248). As I have discussed already in Chapter 3, this is particularly relevant when we consider the way both groups have been coded in the media. First, popular media have often paired the ageing female grotesque with her gay-coded male sidekick. Baby Jane and her pianist are the most famous example but more recent partnerships, referencing this motif, have included Bobbi Adler (Debbie Reynolds) and her pianist in Will and Grace and Violet (Frances de la Tour) paired with the old ‘queens’ in Vicious. Second, the media have represented both female ageing and homosexuality as a type of contagion which could infect innocent, young people. When ageing femininity started to be represented as a social problem from the 1950s onwards, Hollywood’s monster movies – which are often read as allegories for the socio-political anxieties of the time – coded feminine ageing as a highly dangerous disease which, if it was not quarantined, could infect or even kill innocent people (see Slevin 2006: 256). The Leech Woman (dir. Dein, 1960) and The Wasp Woman (dir. Corman and Hill, 1959), for example, both represented ageing women who had discovered a means of vampire-like

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Representing Ageing Effeminacy rejuvenation. Yet this process of revival required that they drain the life force from innocent, youthful victims. As can only be expected, both monsters are killed at the end of the film and the world is now safe from the threat of ageing femininity. This suggestion of contagion was also one of the key coding strategies used to depict queer characters (especially gay men) on the 1950s and 1960s cinema screen. While Hollywood narratives represented gay-coded characters attempting to seduce the unsuspecting victim, and thus lure their prey into the twilight world of queerness (Dyer 1993), other representations explicitly coded homosexuality as a contagious disease. The 1961 US ‘social guidance’ film, Boys Beware: Homosexuals are on the Prowl (dir. Sid Davis) warned young men about the ‘dangerous’ and ‘predatory’ homosexuals who were lurking in everyday places. It narrates how the teenager Jimmy meets the much, much older, sunglass-wearing Ralph (sunglasses were, apparently, en vogue for ‘predatory homosexuals’) and they become friends (Figure 6.1). The climax of the film occurs when the narrator reveals that: What Jimmy didn’t know was that Ralph was sick. A sickness that was not visible like smallpox, but no less dangerous and contagious – a sickness of the mind. You see, Ralph was a homosexual: a person who demands an intimate relationship with members of their own sex.

There are several terrifying misconceptions articulated here. First, Boys Beware asserts that homosexuality (like ageing femininity in The Leech Woman) is a disease that is highly contagious. The implication is that Jimmy may now have caught this sickness from prolonged exposure to Ralph. The use of smallpox as a simile must be read as deliberately provocative given that, in the 1950s, smallpox (once a great terror of society) had been eradicated through medical developments. Arguably, Boys Beware is implying that medical science would, given time, also succeed in eliminating the ‘disease’ of homosexuality or, at the very least, invent a vaccine against it. Second, the film confuses (or deliberately conflates) homosexuality with paedophilia by representing the teenage Jimmy being lured into danger by the middle-aged Ralph. Unfortunately, as Nancy Knauer has argued, this stereotype of ‘the aging queen qua paedophile’ (2008: 58) is still one that lingers in contemporary popular 175

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Figure 6.1 The predatory homosexual sneaking up on young Jimmy to infect him with the plague of homosexuality in Boys Beware: Homosexuals are on the Prowl.

cultural representation. Consequently, the Boys Beware stereotype of the older gay men as lonely, embittered and, most importantly, predatory is one of the most enduring images of ageing homosexuality (DeVries and Blando 2004: 7; Hajek and Giles 2002). In his landmark study of how the older gay man was discursively constructed, Raymond Berger summarised this commonplace assumption of how the ageing gay man was thought to live: The older homosexual . . . is alienated from friends and family alike, and he lives alone, not by choice but by necessity. At thirty, he is old. Since he is no longer sexually attractive to other homosexuals, he is forced to prey on children and to pursue anonymous sexual contacts in public places such as restrooms and parks. He is desperately unhappy. (Berger quoted in Rawls 2004: 120)

This stereotype has been furthered by mainstream cinema. Not only have films from the 1960/70s, such as Death in Venice (dir. Visconti, 1971), represented the older, gay man as a lonely, sexual predator, desperate to win the affections of a much younger man, but this has continued into more recent cinematic texts such as Gods and Monsters (dir. Condon, 1998) and Love and Death on Long Island (dir. Kwietniewski, 1997).

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Representing Ageing Effeminacy In these more recent films, there is the same motif of the isolated, ageing ‘queen’ who is desperate to seduce a much younger man (Yoakam 2001). Although these films are more nuanced than earlier representations (I have praised Love and Death on Long Island’s subtle critique of heritage conventions: Richardson forthcoming), these films do continue the tradition of representing ageing homosexuality as trapped in the matrix of loneliness and sexual frustration. (Another film from the 1990s, An Empty Bed (1990), while not coding the older gay man as sexual predator, has continued the tradition of gay old age as unendurably lonely.) Of course, from the 1960s onwards, it is fair to say that contemporary mainstream cinema was no longer explicitly coding feminine ageing and homosexuality in terms of horror and contagion. Instead, the narrative strategy became one of comedy in which the ageing woman and the effeminate man were coded in terms of comic relief. Baby Jane wailing ‘I’ve Written a Letter to Daddy’, while accompanied by her fat, ‘queeny’ pianist, was more likely to have inspired giggles than fear. Yet, at the very least, Baby Jane and her pianist were given some degree of characterisation. In many other film texts – especially low-brow comedies – the older woman and the effeminate gay man were often little more than stereotypes dropped into the narrative to liven up a dull moment. Especially in lowbrow British comedy, the senile old woman or the camp neighbour from the house next door were an assured source of humour. Compare the ‘dotty dears’ from Clockwise (dir. Morahan, 1986) with the camp neighbour from Not Now, Comrade (dir. Cooney and Snoad, 1976). Given these existing discourses, it is hardly surprising that much recent scholarship in the social sciences has attempted to challenge this mediainspired stereotype of ageing gay men as lonely ‘queens’. Many sociologists have argued that queer ageing may not be quite as catastrophic as it has been represented. First, older LGBT-identified people, although not having had the legal right to form families, have often created networks of friends which function as a support group (DeVries and Blando 2004: 10). Queer culture has always celebrated alternative support networks and, in this respect, older gay men may well have been more equipped in dealing with older age because, unlike heterosexual counterparts, gay men have not become reliant on the concept of the nuclear family. Second, researchers have noted that LGBT-identified people had a greater ‘crisis competence’ than many heterosexually identified subjects given that gays and lesbians

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Ageing Femininity had to brave the ordeal of coming out and then often experienced high degrees of discrimination and prejudice throughout their adult life (Brown et al. 1997; Friend 1990; Kimmel 1979). Given this degree of ‘crisis competence’, ageing may be viewed by gays and lesbians as simply yet another challenge which they must brave in their life. Added to this, the fact that so many Western gay men lost their partners and friends to the pandemic of AIDS in the 1980s and 1990s may well encourage older gay men to view ageing as a privilege rather than a burden. However, the issue does remain that much of gay male culture seems to be extremely youth oriented (DeVries and Blando 2004; Hajek and Giles 2002; Jones and Pugh 2005) and, arguably, this is where gay male culture shares the greatest similarities with heterosexual, female ageing. Both gay men and heterosexual women know what it is like to experience the pressures of ‘the beauty myth’ (Wolf 1990). Straight women and gay men have learned to objectify their bodies, internalising the gaze which regiments and demands standards of physical excellence (Jones and Pugh 2005: 251). Like heterosexual women, gay men know what it feels like to be appraised simply in terms of physical beauty and to experience the demands to conform to culturally recognised standards of youthful attractiveness. A cursory glance at gay popular culture (magazines, online social networks, bars and clubs) will reveal an unashamed celebration of youthful beauty which parallels, if not even mirrors, the adoration of girlish femininity within heterosexual society. Older gay men may well find themselves excluded from the youth-oriented gay culture of bars and clubs (Simpson 2013; Hajek and Giles 2002; Slevin and Linneman 2010) for several reasons. First, as Hajek and Giles (2002: 700) argue, many younger gay men are highly distrustful of all older people (not just older gay men) because of bad experiences of rejection during their coming out (see also D’Augelli 1998: 194). Second, hegemonic gay male culture fetishises the lithe, muscular physique (Alvarez 2007; Benzie 2000). Gay culture’s obsession with the muscular and ‘fit-looking’ body type may, on one level be a response to the AIDS pandemic, but may also be viewed as a ‘coping mechanism’ (Hajek and Giles 2002: 705) for dealing with exclusion from heteronormative society. If people feel unloved and rejected from mainstream culture then they can make their own bodies their love interest and focus on perfecting this. In gay culture the body is very often a type of cultural capital – the symbol of belonging to specific groups. However,

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Representing Ageing Effeminacy when the body ages, and is unable to conform to the requisite standards of gym-toned beauty, then the older gay man can experience rejection and alienation from this chosen culture. However, drawing a direct comparison with the beautyism of contemporary heteronormative culture is, arguably, not so simple. Unlike heterosexual women, gay men are both subject and object of the gaze. A gay man is positioned simultaneously as both desiring to date a body with a specific iconography but also looking like that himself (Hajek and Giles 2002: 704). While a heterosexually identified woman may well empathise with the situation of an older female she does not have to gauge her own sexual response to this older body. Therefore, gay men are both subject of an oppressive regime of physical beauty and are implicitly aware that they are also the creators and facilitators of this disciplinary gaze. Arguably, this can promote a greater sense of self-awareness and, most importantly, a facility to withdraw from gay culture which is not available to heterosexual women within the constrictions of heteronormativity. If a gay man does not wish to be subjected to the body fascism of a gay club then he does not have to enter that specific environment (Simpson 2015: 122). The same is not the case for the heterosexual woman who lives within hetero-patriarchy and may experience sexist objectification in all environments – not just the bar/club but the office or boardroom as well. It also seems to be the case that gay male culture may provide greater facility for a variety of erotic tastes than can be found in other sexual (sub)cultures. Arguably, one of the benefits of identifying within a sexual regime, which is already marginalised within society, is that alternative sexual tastes are not as stigmatised as they might be within heteronormativity. To a certain extent, this may also be the case with age. While heteronormative courtship rituals are often inflected with an awareness of the time-clock of biological procreative capacity, the same is not the case for two gay men. Dating someone who is beyond childbearing age is not an issue for a non-reproductive couple. Although it is accurate that most of gay culture assumes a ‘one-way attraction of age to youth’ (Simpson 2013: 294), critics have noted that there are erotic representations of older gay men to be found in gay culture and in recent years there has even been the emergence of a subgenre of ‘daddy porn’ – films that explicitly eroticise the older gay man (see Mercer 2012). These are movies in which a younger man ‘actively pursues and attempts to

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Ageing Femininity seduce what appears to be a much older man’ (Mercer 2012: 321) so that the idea of the predatory, older man is emphatically challenged. Mercer suggests that part of the appeal of this pornography is that its eroticisation of the older male may connote nostalgia for the 1970s and the carefree joy of a pre-AIDS era (Mercer 2012: 319). However, it must be remembered that pornography does cater for fantasies and, arguably, this type of porn is produced for the pleasure of older, gay male spectators (Mercer 2012: 322) who are watching a dream scenario (which would be unlikely to occur in everyday life) represented on the screen. Given the rise of the online Tube sites, and the growth of amateur pornography, it also could be argued that the professional porn studios have had to create more extreme or unusual scenarios, which cannot be found on amateur sites, to secure sales. Despite the fact that there may be a slightly greater chance of older bodies being eroticised in gay culture than in heteronormativity, the obsession with youth does remain hegemonic in mainstream, metropolitan gay environments (Simpson 2013). Like ageing women, who try unsuccessfully to mask the ageing process, the older gay man is ridiculed. While the label ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ (with its class-based connotations of sexual laxity) are not levelled at the age-ashamed gay man, the pejorative term of ‘old queen’ certainly is. Like the ageing woman, trying to fool people with excessive make-up and hair dye, the ‘old queen’ is considered equally grotesque. However, it was not simply the similarities between the body fascism of gay male culture and the contemporary beauty myth that secured a conflation of ageing gay men with ageing femininity in the mind of many people. Instead, a key figure in this discursive construction of ageing homosexuality as comparable to ageing femininity was one of gay culture’s greatest (anti) heroes: the late, great Quentin Crisp.

What Ever Happened to Quentin Crisp? Identifying himself as the last stately homo of Britain, Quentin Crisp was a writer, raconteur, occasional actor and more often merely famous for being famous (Figure 6.2). Most importantly, Crisp was one of the first publicly identified homosexuals (he predated the popularisation of the label gay) and therefore it is fair to speculate that Crisp helped to codify 180

Figure 6.2 Quentin Crisp who came to embody the received idea of the ageing gay man as effeminate ‘queen’.

Ageing Femininity homosexuality in the minds of much of the heteronormative majority (Dyer 1993: 32). Once considered a pioneer for early gay rights (if only because he attained visibility for the identification) Crisp was later vilified by gay liberation activists. Peter Tatchell, for example, identified Crisp as ‘selfhating’ and ‘homophobic’ (2009) – given that Crisp, throughout his career, had demonstrated little support for the idea of equal rights. Arguably, one of the main problems that gay activism had with Crisp, especially from the 1970s onwards, was the way Crisp argued for an essentialised view of homosexuality as effeminacy. In an often-quoted passage from his autobiography, The Naked Civil Servant, Crisp asserted that homosexuals ‘must, with every breath they draw, with every step they take, demonstrate that they are feminine’ (2007: 26 (first published 1968)). Given that a key agenda in 1970s gay liberation politics was the desissification of homosexuality, in which gay men appropriated the signifiers of heterosexual masculinity (see Weeks 1985: 198), Crisp’s identification of homosexuality within the matrix of gender transitivity was problematic for many gay activists of the time. Even more distressing was the way Crisp asserted that the innately effeminate homosexual could never attain any true erotic and romantic satisfaction: The parallel problem that confronts homosexuals is that they set out to win the love of a ‘real’ man. If they succeed, they fail. A man who ‘goes with’ other men is not what they would call a real man. This conundrum is incapable of resolution . . . (Crisp 2007: 64)

In Crisp’s essentialist view of gender and sexuality roles, not only is the homosexual innately effeminate but he desires an ‘authentic’ masculinity which he can never attract. Of course, it should be remembered that Crisp was not a scholar and, in an era predating academic Gender Studies, was obviously struggling to comprehend and reconcile several critical paradigms – not least the formulation of the sexual matrix premised upon performative gender (Butler 1990). Yet, irrespective of how Crisp was essentialising gender and sexual identifications, his comments undoubtedly made many gay men read Crisp as defeatist and self-loathing. Most importantly, Crisp’s view that homosexuality could never attain any erotic or sexual union, so that ‘the homosexual world is a world of spinsters’ (Crisp 2007: 159), furthered the belief that gay men inevitably became 182

Representing Ageing Effeminacy embittered and lonely, old ‘queens’. It is fair to speculate that, until relatively recently, the only publicly recognisable representation of the older gay man was Quentin Crisp and so even now his name is used as a shorthand to denote a type of effeminate, ageing gay man. Recently, however, there have been some attempts to revise and even reclaim the Crispan model. The recent film An Englishman in New York (dir. Laxton, 2009) represented Crisp’s life after The Naked Civil Servant (dir. Gold, 1975) when Crisp moved to New York to continue his career as a public wit and raconteur. With John Hurt reprising his role as Crisp from The Naked Civil Servant (dir. Gold, 1975), An Englishman in New York offers a charming Sex and the City type view of Manhattan as a queer utopia. (Crisp even walks with the Carrie Bradshaw type sashay of crossing one foot in front of the other and Cynthia Nixon plays the role of Penny Arcade.) The film is interesting in the way it revises Crisp’s history in relation to 1970s and 1980s gay culture. First, An Englishman in New York asserts that Crisp lost popularity with gay culture because of a flippant remark he made about AIDS being ‘a fad’. While this infamous remark would not have won Crisp any gay fans, he had already irritated gay men through his essentialising of homosexuality as effeminacy and his assertion that gay male desire was doomed to failure. Second, the film asserts that Crisp’s extreme effeminacy was not unusual or extreme iconography. In a key sequence, the effeminately dressed Crisp is ejected from a leather bar, along with another conservatively styled gay man (the fictional character Phillip Steele), because they are not conforming to the clone style of hard masculinity. By representing the macho clones as having a problem with both the effeminately styled Crisp and the normatively dressed Phillip, the film is identifying the macho clones’ code of hyper-masculinity as the excessive performance rather than Crisp’s effeminacy. In this representation, Crisp becomes the more normative body who is aligned with the conservatively attired gay man. Therefore, rather than detailing the political agenda of the gay macho look in relation to gay assimilation politics of the 1970s and 1980s, the film is conflating Crisp with the straight-acting Phillip and identifying the macho gay men as the oppressors – fascists who lack any form of irony. Similarly, in another sequence, Crisp has to endure patronising comments from a young disco-bunny who dismisses all the early years of pre-Stonewall gay criminalisation, and the importance

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Ageing Femininity of a publicly identified figure like Crisp, while lauding the hedonistic, popper-fuelled party culture of pre-AIDS New York. In other words, An Englishman in New York codes much of 1980s Manhattan gay culture as politically vacuous and driven only by sex and parties while identifying Crisp as being a true pioneer of gay rights. Like An Englishman in New York, the three contemporary films discussed in this chapter are very obviously negotiating the legacy of these two dominant stereotypes of the predatory older gay man and the effeminate, Crispan ‘queen’. Beginners (dir. Mills, 2010) attempts to challenge the perception of the older gay man who preys upon a younger man and forges a cross-generational relationship through emotional or financial exploitation (Robinson 2008; Steinman 1990). Gerontophilia (dir. LaBruce, 2013) asks the spectator to reconsider the image of the abject, desexualised old ‘queen’ through a very unsettling challenge to dynamics of gendered and eroticised spectatorship. Finally, Love is Strange (dir. Sachs, 2014) is the film most related to the theme of this book given that its narrative is an examination of the concept of ‘successful (gay) ageing’. Love is Strange demonstrates that youthful culture is prepared to accept a certain type of genteel, sophisticated, older gay man but when this identification is challenged through socio-economic difficulties then the ‘acceptable’ older body becomes a burden on mainstream society.

Beginners Inspired by the late coming out of his own father, Beginners is Mike Mills’s semi-autobiographical film. It tells the story of Oliver (Ewan McGregor), a heterosexual man in his thirties, who is reflecting on his father Hal’s coming-out at age 75 and Hal’s death from cancer a short time after his announcement. Hal is played by Christopher Plummer who received critical acclaim for his performance – including the 2011 Best Supporting Actor Oscar. The film has been the subject of academic critical attention (Gatling et al. 2017; Goltz 2015; Gravagne 2013; Hess 2014; Shary and McVittie 2016) – particularly how the figure of the older gay man has been coded in the narrative. Beginners is certainly trying to challenge many preconceptions around gay male ageing and coming-out narratives. Most obviously, the film is determined to overthrow the ‘persistent stereotype of the predatory,

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Representing Ageing Effeminacy miserable, and lonely ageing gay man’ (Hess 2014: 166). In part, this is achieved through the film’s reworking of narrative conventions. First, Beginners reverses the coming-out narrative in which children usually come out to their parents. In Beginners it is a 75-year-old father who comes out to his son. Second, the film also challenges the coming-out moment as signifying the end of the story for the gay character (Hess 2014: 178). Dennis Allen has argued that much American popular culture tends to link ‘homosexuality to a narrative of disclosure’ (1995) in which the coming-out moment signifies the finale of the character’s storyline. Popular television dramas often feature the coming-out narrative as the only story for the gay character so that, after coming out, the gay character is usually left with ‘narrative redundancy’ (Davis and Needham 2009: 7, see also Herman 2005) and then written out of the drama altogether. Beginners challenges this paradigm by featuring an older (indeed a dying) gay man who only starts to ‘live’ after his coming out. Hal and his son Oliver become closer than they have ever been before and Hal finds more romantic and emotional fulfilment in the short time he has with his lover Andy than he did over the rest of his earlier life. Third, as Hess argues (2014), Beginners not only revises narrative conventions but questions the very reliability of all narration. Key to this is the character of Oliver who, as a homodiegetic character narrator, both narrates the film and is also an active participant in the story. As Hess points out, Oliver continually questions his own ability to narrate with accuracy and therefore interrogates the very ‘construction of identity through narrative’ (Hess 2014: 166). Beginners prepares the spectator for this challenge to narrative in an early scene when Oliver’s voiceover tells the spectator that ‘this is what life was like in 1950s America’, accompanied by a montage of media images from 1950s popular culture. Oliver then follows this with a similar narration of contemporary North American life – again accompanied by popular media images. The sequence demonstrates that what we think we know about life is simply a system of cultural representations and narrative histories which are highly subjective and open to personal interpretation. This scene, drawing attention to the unreliability of narrative conventions, prepares the spectator for the way in which Beginners deliberately challenges the assumed narratives of gay men and ageing. Therefore, in the next sequence, Oliver narrates that he remembers his father wearing a purple sweater when telling him that he

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Ageing Femininity was gay but that, in fact, Hal was wearing a dressing gown. The film represents Hal in this purple jumper saying, direct to camera, that he is gay and then there is a cut to another shot of Hal saying, once again, ‘I’m gay’ but this time wearing his robe. This montage then continues by introducing a third shot of Hal – this time dressed in an olive-brown sweater – and continues to cut between Hal saying the same sentence while dressed in robe, purple sweater and olive sweater. The sequence not only stresses the unreliability of Oliver’s narration (Oliver is not actively trying to deceive the spectator but merely pointing out that the art of narrating is difficult) but is also questioning the reliability of all narratives. Most significantly, this sequence draws attention to the assumed effeminacy of ageing gay men through the key semiotic of the purple (or lavender) sweater. Although Plummer is the same in all of the shots, the change in fashion inflects the image with a different nuance so that Hal looks more like the stereotypical older ‘queen’ in the lavender sweater than when he is in the robe or olive sweater. This visual trip-wire is intended to make the spectators question why they, like Oliver, would assume that the older gay man would be dressed in lavender-purple and therefore reflect on the legacy of the Crispan model that had enshrined this iconography in cultural perception. Most importantly, Beginners is attempting to make the spectator consider how certain narratives are accepted as gospel truth in specific cultures. The film makes this very explicit in a later scene in which Hal rewrites the death of Jesus in his diary. Instead of the savage death by crucifixion, Hal narrates how Jesus died peacefully, as an old man, surrounded by his friends. When Oliver reads this story he is amazed that his father has rewritten Jesus’ death. As Hess argues, ‘Oliver’s surprise shows that some narratives are so fundamentally embedded in a culture that they become the invisible and unquestioned norm’ (2014: 176). However, what is particularly charming about Beginners is not simply that it rewrites narratives throughout but it demonstrates how the ideology of a narrative is dependent upon personal interpretation. For example, in an early sequence in the film, Hal telephones his son to chat about the evening he has spent in a gay club. (There is even a visual in-joke in this scene – referencing Plummer’s most famous film role – as Hal is shown to experience a type of epiphany because of The Sound of Music (in this case it is house music rather than ‘doh ray me’) in the gay club.) This scene in which Hal dances by himself to house music could, in another narrative, be

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Representing Ageing Effeminacy coded as a moment of intense sadness in which the lonely, older man is forced to dance by himself in the club – ignored by all the younger men on the dancefloor. Yet Beginners represents Hal as accepting that he will be invisible on the dancefloor but, nevertheless, gaining a great deal of joy from the physical pleasure of dancing to the addictive house music. Hal telephones Oliver in the middle of the night, having had a very enjoyable time dancing to the house beats, to enquire about the name of this addictive, thumping music. The sequence edits to a shot of Oliver telling Hal that it was probably house music and then enquiring if Hal had met anyone. Hal replies that he had not become acquainted with anyone because younger gay men are not interested in older gay men. This line is then followed by a shot of Hal, sitting alone at the bar and sipping his cocktail – a much more stereotypical image of the lonely, older, gay man. However, this image of Hal as lonely at the bar has not been anchored by a specific point of view. The spectator is unsure if this is still Hal’s memory of the evening or if this is now Oliver’s interpretation of how he believes the event may have looked. Therefore, the sequence is drawing attention to how events may be read in different ways by different people. Hal’s evening in the club may well have been a very pleasant experience in which he, although being older and being unfamiliar with the music, had a very enjoyable time dancing to pulsating house rhythms. On the other hand, the evening could be interpreted as a depressing experience emphasising the isolation of the older gay man. The fact of being alone in the gay club is not, in itself, evidence of being lonely and unhappy. Beginners’ deliberate confusion of focalisation, emphasising that narratives are personally subjective, is probably one of the reasons why many reviewers identified the film as having a dream-like feel (Schwarzbaum 2011) as shots are often divorced from a specific character’s point of view in order to create a haemorrhaging of focalisation and, in this respect, a ‘dreamy’ quality to the film text. In Beginners the play with narrative and narration not only questions how we should read the image of the older gay man but interrogates the dynamics of the popular stereotype of the older gay man who lusts after younger men – often having to pay for or coerce intimate exchanges. In contrast to earlier representations, Hal is shown to enjoy a ‘fulfilled relationship’ (Hess 2014: 172) with Andy and even depicts Andy visiting Hal in the hospital, insisting upon his right to see Hal and kissing him

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Ageing Femininity ‘triumphantly’ (Hess 2014: 172) to proclaim that he is Hal’s partner. Beginners, therefore, reverses the paradigm of the older, predatory gay man, who hunts after the unsuspecting and naïve younger man (often with offers of money), by representing the younger suitor as actively demanding the attention of the older man and declaring their relationship in a public space. Arguably, Beginners is asking the spectator to question the traditional ascription of power dynamics to the young –old partnership and perhaps reconsider previous interpretations of similar representations on the screen. Beginners is challenging not only the accepted coming-out narrative but also the discursively constructed identification of the older gay man. Hal is neither the lonely, old gay man nor the effeminate ‘queen’. Similarly, Hal may be at the end of his life but he is beginning a new era of emotional fulfilment and, most importantly, liberated fun. While Beginners challenges the narration of the dynamics of attraction in gay intergenerational relationships, Gerontophilia moves one stage further in its attempt to make the spectator question the assumed unattractiveness of the ageing gay man who self-identifies as an old ‘queen’.

Gerontophilia As I have argued already, the idea of the ‘old queen’, whose ageing effeminacy makes him fall between the gender binary and therefore be identified as unsexual, was enshrined in the public imagination through the figure of Quentin Crisp. Gerontophilia (dir. LaBruce, 2013) is a remarkable film not only for the way it reclaims the stereotype of the ‘old queen’ and forces the spectator to consider the erotic potential of this type of body; a body type usually coded as abject in representations post-Crisp. What makes Gerontophilia a challenging film to watch is not only that the ageing, gay male body is coded as an object of desire but that the spectator is often situated within the erotic perspective of the young gerontophile who is lusting after the ageing gay man. The film tells the story of 19-year-old Lake (played by Canadian model Pier-Gabriel Lajoie) who has an erotic attraction to much, much older bodies. Lake secures a job in a nursing home where he meets the 80-year-old Melvyn Peabody (Walter Borden) – a self-identified ‘old queen’ – and falls in love with him. The second half of the film develops into a road movie as Lake breaks Melvyn out of the care home and they embark on a trip across Canada together.

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Representing Ageing Effeminacy Identified by commentators as a gay version of Harold and Maude (dir. Ashby, 1971), Gerontophilia is unusual in the Bruce LaBruce canon for having a more conventional approach to narration and also for being much less sexually explicit than his earlier films. Gerontophilia does, however, continue the LaBrucian theme of queering sexual identifications, sexual desire and the very concept of ‘sexy’. LaBruce’s previous film, L.A. Zombie (2010), interrogated the ascription of sexiness within the cinematic canon through a queering of the figure of the zombie. While the vampire (every bit as undead as the zombie) has often been coded as hyper-sexual and sexy, the zombie has not. L.A. Zombie represented the porn star Francois Sagat (arguably one of the most desirable bodies in gay popular culture) as the zombie protagonist and so the film is very definitely asking the spectator to question not only cinematic traditions of sexiness but to challenge the politics of the erotic gaze itself. Is porn star Sagat still sexy when coded as the abject zombie? Gerontophilia develops this theme of queering the continuum of sexuality, sexual attraction and sexiness by representing the type of body that is usually celebrated for its beauty (19-year-old, classically handsome Lake) desiring the older body whose iconography usually inspires erotic numbness if not even revulsion. In this respect, Gerontophilia is reworking the narrative formula found in other films (such as Gods and Monsters and Love and Death on Long Island) in which the older, gay man pursues the affections of much younger men. The opening sequence of Gerontophilia emphasises that the queering of sexual desire will be a key motif in the film by representing Lake and his girlfriend Desiree (Katie Boland) engaged in passionate kissing. While there is nothing unusual about two teenagers making out, the film codes Desiree’s sexual excitement as being inspired as much by the names of the feminist activists and writers that she is listing as by her smooches with Lake. This opening sequence asserts that even the most conventional, heterosexual lovemaking has the potential for queerness. Is Desiree turned on by kissing Lake or do his smooches simply provide a mechanical stimulation to accompany her true erotic pleasure of thinking about the famous feminists? The film then shows Lake walking home in a sequence which deliberately references the cinematic clichés that have been used to signify ‘perversity’ in previous representations. First, Lake stops to gaze upon the

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Ageing Femininity dead body of a bird and, for a few moments, there is a suggestion that he may be a necrophiliac. Not only is this a reference to the film Kissed (dir. Stopkewitch, 1996), in which the protagonist’s necrophilia is revealed through her gazing upon a dead animal, but is also the first time in the narrative that Lake has shown some genuine interest in anything. Lake’s gaze is then drawn to the image of the school pedestrian crossing and the patrol man ushering the little kids across the road. The camera offers the soft focus, slow motion perspective of Lake gazing upon the schoolkids and the patrol man and thus suggests the cinematic coding usually employed to denote paedophilia. However, it soon becomes apparent that Lake’s desire is not directed towards the little kids crossing the road but the very elderly patrol man. Arguably, the point of this sequence is to distinguish gerontophilia from both necrophilia and paedophilia. If the spectator was feeling anxious that the film’s protagonist would desire dead bodies or children, there is a surely a sense of relief at this moment to learn that Lake’s fetish is simply that he fancies older bodies. Although medical science continues to classify gerontophilia as a paraphilia (in the same league as paedophilia and necrophilia), and most medico-psychiatric analyses identify case studies in which abuse of older people has been the sole objective of the gerontophile (see Kaul and Duffy 1991), LaBruce’s film is asking the spectator to consider that gerontophilia should perhaps just be identified as unusual sexual desire. Throughout Gerontophilia, various sequences draw attention to the hypocrisy of much of contemporary neoliberal society which dictates that younger people are supposed to respect and admire the elderly but not find them sexually attractive. In one scene, Lake is doing some charcoal sketches while sitting on his bed and there is a large picture of Gandhi behind his headboard (Figure 6.3). This image exemplifies the restricted continuum of idolisation versus eroticisation that is maintained in contemporary culture. It is acceptable for Lake to have a poster of Gandhi above his bed, given contemporary society’s respect for Gandhi as one of the greatest human rights activists in history. However, if this poster above the bed were to be identified as an erotic pin-up (as posters in teenagers’ bedrooms often are) would contemporary society view the image in the same way? Similar to Desiree’s listing of her feminist idols while she kisses Lake, the film is asking if heroworship is distinct from desire or if there is always some overlap.

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Figure 6.3 Lake (Pier-Gabriel Lajoie) sketching in his bedroom, below a huge poster of Gandhi, in Gerontophilia.

However, where Gerontophilia is truly challenging for the spectator is the way it manipulates empathy as the film progresses. Initially, Lake is represented as the film’s hero. He is appalled by the treatment of the older people in the care home (especially at the hands of dragon-esque matron Nurse Baptiste) and, in the early scenes of the film, the spectator should read Lake’s desires for the older bodies as something laudable. As the film progresses though, the coding of Lake starts to change. In one scene, Lake is sketching Melvyn while he is sleeping on the bed. Lake has pulled the bed clothes back to reveal Melvyn’s naked body and is making a pencil sketch of the man’s nude form. After he has finished the sketch, Lake then starts to masturbate while gazing at the sleeping body of Melvyn. On one level, this scene continues the film’s critique of what is considered an ‘acceptable’ level of emotional investment in an older body. Is sketching a body always underpinned by eroticism and, if so, is it an acceptable level of erotic investment? When the artist’s gaze then becomes salacious, inspiring masturbatory lust, does this pencil sketch become pornography rather than art? Most importantly, this scene is a pivotal moment in the narrative in which Lake transforms from a sympathetic character to someone who is coded as much less likable. Arguably, Lake’s erotic concern for Melvyn has now mutated into a form of abuse. As the film progresses, Lake becomes fiercely possessive of Melvyn and is even irritated when Melvyn speaks to a 191

Ageing Femininity man in a café for no other reason than to ask for directions on the map. In one of the final sequences, Lake and Melvyn are in a gay bar and, when a young man shows an interest in Melvyn, Lake starts a bar-room brawl with the guy. What is remarkable about this narrative progression is that Melvyn, the body identified as physically undesirable, starts to become the more attractive character in the film while Lake, the body which accords to contemporary standards of youthful beauty, appears as a selfish, insecure and even sadistic bully. This reading is encouraged by the fact that Lake says very little in the film (his dialogue tends to be short, mumbled sentences delivered in a monotone voice) but Melvyn demonstrates wit and camp humour once he is free from the care home diet of tranquilisers. One of Melvyn’s best one-liners was his response to Nurse Baptiste who told him that medication would be more effective if he took it on schedule. Melvyn replied: ‘Like the trains in Germany’. It soon becomes apparent that an evening in the company of Melvyn Peabody would be very entertaining while spending time with Lake would be exceedingly dull. Gerontophilia’s final image of Melvyn and Lake in the gay bar draws attention to this problem in their relationship by offering a shot of two same-sex couples (one lesbian, one gay) chatting at bar tables. The camera then pans to the left to show Melvyn and Lake slow-dancing together on the floor but not saying a single word to one another. The use of camera movement, rather than an edit, situates Lake and Melvyn in the same context as the other two couples to juxtapose the difference in the relationships. While the other couples are capable of conversation, demonstrating their emotional and intellectual connection, Lake and Melvyn are only united by physical desire. Gerontophilia is, of course, a film inspired by a highly unusual sexual relationship. Documented cases of such extreme cross-generational relationships (same-sex or heterosexual) are very rare and so Gerontophilia, like Beginners, can be read as merely a meta-critical reflection on the dynamics of ageing gay male sexuality, desirability and cross-generational love. Arguably, the heterosexually identified spectator is aware that such relationships are exceptional and so is not really being asked to question his/ her perception of older gay male sexuality in contemporary culture. Love is Strange (dir. Sachs, 2014), however, forces the spectator to question the idea of whether sophisticated, metropolitan society is genuinely happy to accept

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Representing Ageing Effeminacy older gay people by making the issue of ‘successful ageing’ the key theme of its narrative.

Love is Strange Directed by Ira Sachs (a filmmaker often identified as the contemporary cinematic auteur of New York: Ebiri 2016) Love is Strange is the story of an older, gay couple – Ben Hull (played by John Lithgow) and George Garea (played by Alfred Molina) – who, after being together for nearly 40 years, get married now that the US legislation permits same-sex marriage. However, George teaches music at a Roman Catholic school and, when the bishop of the diocese finds out about the marriage, George is fired from his job. Without their main income, George and Ben find that they have fallen on hard times and are forced to sell their New York apartment and move in with friends and relatives until George can find another teaching position. Ben stays with his nephew Elliot (Darren Burrows) and his wife Kate (Marisa Tomei) where he is forced to share a room with their teenage son Joey (Charlie Tahan). George moves in with neighbours in the flat downstairs – a young gay couple who enjoy having all-night parties. It soon becomes apparent that, despite everyone’s best intentions to help George and Ben, it is very difficult to accommodate these two older, gay bodies. While Ben certainly does not ‘fit’ with the heteronormative family neither does George feel comfortable with the younger, party-loving gay men in the flat downstairs. The film is not only making a comment about the need for greater protection for gay couples now that same-sex marriage is available (in many states gay couples can get married but then be fired from their job for having done so) but is also ‘exposing homophobic attitudes that persist in a seemingly liberal New York community’ (Macnab 2015). Love is Strange may well commence with George and Ben’s friends and family celebrating their wedding, but when there is a need to help this couple, who have now fallen on hard times, society takes a slightly different perspective. Like Beginners, Love is Strange is asking the spectator to reevaluate interpretations of older, gay men and ask when one performance of gay ageing is successful and acceptable while others are not. The film draws attention to this issue in its exquisitely constructed textual details. From the very start of the film, George and Ben are always represented alongside art and music. While there has been a tradition of

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Ageing Femininity associating homosexuality with an appreciation of art, especially music (see Brett et al. 1994), this is also the heritage conceit of conflating age with ‘fine’ art as both George and Ben are coded as the embodiment of an old-fashioned, romantic New York. The opening shot represents a deliberately ungendered image of a sleeping couple by offering only a medium close up of George and Ben’s feet poking out from underneath the bed clothes. Above George and Ben’s bed are two sketches of a male and a female nude but the shot of the room only permits the spectator to glimpse the legs of the sketches – thus echoing the visual motif in the bed below. The message is clear: this is a monogamous, long-term couple who just happen to be the same sex. A couple is a couple – irrespective of gender. The next scene then shows these two charming, older men getting ready for their wedding day and although these are certainly older bodies (there is a shot of Ben in the shower that makes no attempt to disguise his ageing flesh) the couple are coded as symbols of a bygone era of New York elegance. As George and Ben stroll to their wedding – a scene which has become the iconic image of the film – the two gentlemen are represented as very elegant and exquisitely dressed (Figure 6.4). These older gay men are the nostalgic symbol of earlier cinematic depictions of romantic New York. Throughout Love is Strange, New York is depicted as the sun-dappled metropolis – reminiscent of the Manhattan of earlier romantic comedies such as Breakfast at Tiffany’s (dir. Edwards, 1961), The Apartment (dir. Wilder, 1960) or Manhattan (dir. Allen, 1979). An early sequence represents a beautiful montage of springtime New York while later scenes show Ben painting on the rooftop and the camera offers his perspective of the glorious New York sunset. This is the unashamed pictorialist pleasure of gazing upon the beauty of New York – the city of love and romance – but, most importantly, is always linked to the bodies of the older gay men. However, Love is Strange demonstrates how this charming couple appear somewhat less attractive when they have lost the trappings of their genteel, middle-class life. In contrast to the image of the men attired in their beautiful suits and strolling down the Manhattan boulevard, when they move in with friends and relatives, their bodies do not seem to ‘fit’ with their context. In one scene, Kate and Joey wake up Uncle Ben, who has dozed off on his bunk bed in Joey’s room, and the camera offers a medium shot of Ben, shirtless, decrepit and squeezed into the lower bunk bed while all the family stare at him (Figure 6.5).

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Figure 6.4 Older characters – George (Alfred Molina) and Ben (John Lithgow) – as the embodiment of bygone New York elegance and charm in Love is Strange.

This is almost an enfreakment image in which Ben’s body is coded as unusual and the object of the stare rather than the gaze. In the next scene, Ben is talking to George on the telephone (George is now living with the young gay couple downstairs) and the film offers an unflattering close-up

Figure 6.5 Uncle Ben (John Lithgow) as object of the stare in Love is Strange.

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Ageing Femininity of George who appears not to ‘fit’ into that apartment. Indeed, George’s disconnect with the mise-en-scène continues throughout the film and is often coded in terms of colour. While an earlier shot (when George and Ben still owned their apartment) had represented George in the stairwell, his dark green shirt toning beautifully with the hallway paint scheme, in later sequences George is shown returning to the neighbours’ apartment while wearing a white shirt and burgundy trousers which clash with the dull green of the door (Figures 6.6 and 6.7). The effect of these textual details is to make the spectator realise that this couple, when represented as middle-class gentlemen in a long-term monogamous relationship, are very attractive bodies which not only complement their environment but symbolise an era of bygone elegance and gentility. Yet, when this couple has lost this position of successful ageing (and it can dissolve with the loss of a couple of months’ salary) they become a burden on society. On one level, Love is Strange is obviously a plea for greater protection for LGBT rights and is very much a product of the debates that were occurring in the USA at that period – especially the highly contentious issue of samesex marriage prior to the Supreme Court’s ruling in June 2015. The film is emphatic that so-called liberal New York is still a highly hetero-patriarchal society in which figures of male heterosexuality dominate. Love is Strange even makes a couple of visual jokes on this issue by representing the priest (who fires George from his job) and the orthopaedic surgeon (who diagnoses Ben’s dislocated shoulder) as delivering their judgment while set against a beatific light from a window behind – an ironic comment on how the opinion of these heterosexual men is to be read as gospel. Yet the film does not fall into the trap of representing any true villains in the diegesis and thus avoids setting up a tendentious binary between the intolerant homophobes and the victimised, elderly gay couple. The people who offer to house George and Ben have genuinely good intentions and are obviously very fond of these two older men. The problem is simply that these older gay male bodies have no place either in the gay party world of the young couple downstairs or the middle-class, heteronormative household in Brooklyn. Even the priest who sacks George is shown to be very upset at having to do this and merely acting because of orders from his superiors. In this respect, Love is Strange is emphasising that there is a wider structural problem in which contemporary, metropolitan society cannot accommo-

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Figure 6.6 en-scène.

George (Alfred Molina) when affluent and therefore part of the mise-

date the older, gay man who does not conform to the capitalist narrative of successful ageing. The film emphasises this issue further by making an interesting plot twist in character development in the final sequences. In a scene towards the end of the film, George and Ben stop by a gay bar after having enjoyed a classical music concert. Ben tells the barman that he was one of the gay activists from many years ago who organised a ‘sip in’ at the bar to contest the city’s law that prohibited bars and restaurants from serving homosexuals. The barman is obviously impressed and gives George and Ben free drinks. It is only when the barman leaves that George and Ben start giggling and it becomes apparent that Ben’s story was a lie. This is followed by a frank discussion between the men during which it is revealed that Ben had not always been faithful throughout their relationship. The effect of this scene is to make the spectators consider how they have read and interpreted the characters of Ben and George throughout the film. Like the film’s diegetic characters, does the spectator’s perspective now change when Ben and George are no longer coded as the monogamous, 197

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Figure 6.7 George (Alfred Molina) when impoverished and therefore not ‘fitting’ into the setting.

middle-class gentlemen who were active in the fight for LGBT rights all those years ago? If Ben and George are simply a couple of average men, who have not really done very much in their lives (their careers have been relatively humble if not even unsuccessful) and they are not as charmingly monogamous as was first suggested, does this inflect our acceptance of the older, gay man? Love is Strange is not only asking the spectator to reconsider the perceptions of what makes ‘successful’ gay male ageing, and how this is narrated in popular culture, but to evaluate our own responses to this identification. Can we celebrate, or even accept, older (gay or straight) people if they do not match up to the narrative of ‘successful ageing’ in the ‘third age’ as discussed in the Introduction? A final comparison could be drawn with another representation of New York which, like Love is Strange, is equally invested in the gorgeousness of the metropolis and its older citizen: Ari Seth Cohen’s Advanced Style. As discussed in the Introduction, Cohen’s documentary fetishises the beauty of ageing women who, like Ben and George, are coded as ambassadors for a specific style of New York elegance. However, like Love is 198

Representing Ageing Effeminacy Strange, Advanced Style makes it very clear that only a certain type of ‘successful ageing’ should be celebrated. In the documentary about the photography blog, there is a scene in which Cohen is checking out an older woman and considering whether she would be a suitable model for his blog. As he draws closer to her, he decides that she has not yet got the requisite elements and so decides not to speak to her. As Deborah Jermyn points out, this scene, in which a female’s ‘successful ageing’ is evaluated, is just as ‘crude’ as ‘the objectifying, sexualised male gaze’ which ‘ranks and orders’ the bodies of young women (Jermyn 2016: 580). The gorgeousness of third age may be celebrated – in both older gay men and heterosexual women – but only if it matches up to the requisite template of ‘successful ageing’.

Conclusion Beginners, Gerontophilia and Love is Strange have tried to challenge both the Crispan stereotype of effeminate, desexualised gay man and the trope of the predator who exploits younger men in a manipulative cross-generational relationship to create an image of ‘successful’ gay male ageing. Love is Strange codes the older couple as symbols of earlier days of romantic New York, Beginners manipulates the spectator’s expectations to revise narratives of gay male ageing and how these stories are interpreted and Gerontophilia challenges the spectator’s assumed erotic response to the ‘abject’ older body. While all three films are addressing the situation of the older gay man, it could also be argued that these films were not actually about these men and their relationships but instead focused on how contemporary, neoliberal society struggles to accept the older gay male body. Indeed, a comparison could be drawn with the types of gay affirmation and AIDS awareness films of the early 1990s. Philadelphia (dir. Demme, 1993) (one of the most famous of these genres) is arguably not the story of a gay man who is dying of HIV/AIDSrelated infections but is instead the narrative of how a homophobic lawyer can come to accept homosexuality (Allen 1995). Arguably, the same ideology is present in the three films discussed in this chapter in that their focus is on how the heteronormative majority contend with the ‘threat’ of the ageing, gay male body. Most importantly, while all three films may well represent successfully ageing gay men, the narratives all end in death and so the challenge to the heteronormative family is ‘safely dead’ (Hess 2014: 173). At the end of all three films, the concluding images are of conventionally attractive, young people. 199

CONCLUSION Grey Affirmation or Greywashing?

It does seem as if gerontophobia is becoming more, rather than less, of a problem in contemporary Western culture. Recently, I came across the online medical information website: MedFriendly.com. This website offers information about medical problems and now includes an entry on gerontophobia. Apparently, the ‘signs and symptoms of gerontophobia can include trembling, sweating, racing heart, heart palpitations, shortness of breath, nausea, dizziness, lightheadedness, crying, chest discomfort, fear of loss of control, feeling sick’ (MedFriendly). Should any potential gerontophobes wish to self-diagnose, they will be delighted to learn that not only is their fear of older people and ageing now qualified as a medical discourse but it is even quantified with precise symptoms. Thankfully, no such entries exist describing the potential ‘symptoms’ of racism, homophobia or misogyny. While these other socio-cultural prejudices are being tackled and addressed in a variety of institutions (both social and cultural), to demonstrate how irrational and illogical they are, it seems that the opposite is happening with gerontophobia if ‘medical’ sources such as MedFriendly.com are now canonising it as a legitimate health concern. Let me offer two anecdotal examples which, I believe, give some indication of the current scale of contemporary gerontophobia. I live in Eastbourne – an East Sussex seaside town which, in addition to being 201

Ageing Femininity famed for its grand Victorian seafront and clement climate, has a reputation for having a lot of older residents. As such, Eastbourne is often labelled with the unflattering nickname of ‘Costa Geriatrica’. A message posted on the online website TripAdvisor suggested the extent of contemporary gerontophobia when a participant asked for some advice about holidaying for a weekend in Eastbourne. She had heard that it was a lovely town but wanted the message board to warn her if ‘Eastbourne was full of old people’. This charming question was remarkable for two reasons. First, the person’s anxiety did seem a little excessive given that older people are generally thought to be a rather benign social group. Did she need a warning because she anticipated that these older people would beat her up or molest her? Second, the sheer rudeness of asking to be warned about the presence of a minority group struck me as a remarkable question in contemporary culture. Would this person have felt equally entitled to be ‘warned’ if Eastbourne was full of Jews or gays or people of colour? If she had asked such a question then I have no doubt the respondents on the board would have criticised her for racism or homophobia. However, her question about the presence of the ageing population in Eastbourne did not receive any criticism. Instead, the respondents either stated that ‘Costa Geriatrica’ was a myth, and that Eastbourne was actually full of young people, or else they acknowledged that it did have a high percentage of older people but that this group could easily be ignored. It seems that, in this discussion, older people are either not there at all (they are just a fairy tale invented to frighten people) or else, if they really do exist, then they can be ignored. Either way their presence is not identified as being a particularly welcome addition to the population. A second example comes from 2016 – a year which will be remembered in British history for the UK having experienced one of the most significant events ever: the EU Referendum. The result of the vote, in which the Leave vote won (by a very narrow margin), saw unprecedented records of vicious class-based animosity between the two sides. While the Remainers labelled the Brexiters stupid and uneducated, the Brexiters retaliated by categorising the Remainers as the arrogant, metropolitan elite. Most importantly, however, the result also saw a rise in gerontophobic discourse. After the vote, many media stories identified older voters as the reason for the Leave vote having been successful. Some journalists even lamented that older people

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Conclusion had destroyed the possible careers and lives of the younger British through their own selfish vote; a vote, they argued, that was premised only on a whimsical nostalgia for days when Britain was not part of the EU. The Huffington Post, for example, ran the headline ‘Young Screwed by Older Generations’ (Ridley 2016) while the journalist Giles Coren tweeted that, due to the Brexit result, he would no longer give up his seat for older people on public transport. However, the reality of the statistics showed that, although the older generation had indeed favoured a Brexit vote, it was not as notable a difference from the other age groups as the media were suggesting. According to the Lord Ashcroft Polls, 60 per cent of the 65 þ demographic had indeed voted to leave. While this was certainly an affirmed majority it is important to compare this with the voting pattern of the other age groups. Within the 45 – 54 age band (the age group to which Giles Coren belongs) the vote to leave was 56 per cent and therefore not very dissimilar from the 65 þ vote. As this example shows, it is very easy to point the finger at an already stigmatised group and scapegoat them for all the problems that are happening rather than merely identifying them as an element within a wider voting pattern. Rather than criticising the number of younger people who failed to vote on the day, it is always easy to condemn a demographic that is already viewed in a negative light. In view of the ever-increasing ageism and gerontophobia in contemporary culture, this book has discussed film and television texts that have been attempting to challenge many of the myths, prejudices and stereotypes that have been in circulation about older people – in particular ageing women. Of course, one obvious criticism of the featured case studies is that they gloss over, or even ignore, any of the very real physical problems which may affect older people, such as memory loss, diminishment of social inhibitors and anxiety. By focusing only on characters that conform to the paradigm of successful ageing, the texts represent a very narrow, and exclusive, version of ‘old’ age. Nevertheless, given that we live in an increasingly ageist and gerontophobic society, this small collection of visual texts should be commended for trying to mobilise the sociological concept of successful ageing on the screen. Drawing upon theories of genre, narrative, performance style and the deliberate conflation of age with other political agendas, I have discussed a variety of strategies

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Ageing Femininity that can be utilised in visual culture to challenge discourses of gendered gerontophobia. The book commenced with a consideration of genre. I argued that heritage cinema is one of the few film genres that has been relatively sympathetic to older women. If heritage offers an unashamed celebration of the history and culture of Britain then its conflation of older people with all the other elements of British ‘greatness’ is a skilled mechanism for exalting older bodies on the screen. The second chapter discussed genres which historically have not been sympathetic to older bodies: musicals and action cinema. I praised Mamma Mia!’s development of the musical into the subgenre of the karaoke musical in which revoicings and redancings of the numbers, intended to encourage audience participation, were actually facilitated by the very fact that the performers were older and therefore singing with lower voices and dancing in a less accomplished fashion. Likewise, the use of the exceptional older performer to stand in for the rest of the cast (Quartet, Last of the Blonde Bombshells) focuses the spectator’s attention on an exemplar of successful ageing. Recent action films have employed a similar technique through their representation of an outstanding performer who evokes a sense of cultural verisimilitude in the otherwise incredible narrative. Yet although the focus on exemplary performers may raise awareness of the potential for successful third ageing, it does rather conveniently mask the very real biological issues that may affect older people. Nevertheless, this representational strategy does, at the very least, ask the spectator to reconsider preconceptions of gendered age and ageing. This consideration of genre developed to discussions of narrative technique, ironic visual coding and performance style. The use of stylised narrative conventions to create a sense of atemporality can indeed challenge linear and essentialist perceptions of ageing. This play with linear temporality has been evidenced in the recent James Bond films in the representation of M, Notes on a Scandal, Transparent and Beginners. These stylistic gymnastics are not merely pleasurable for the cinephile but may encourage the spectator to consider (if only on a subliminal level) that the identification of age could be as much cultural as it is biological. Similarly, my argument has made great claims for the power of camp or ironic double-signification in the textual details of film (The Queen, RED, These Old Broads, Notes on a Scandal, Cloudburst) or the actor’s performance

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Conclusion (Maggie Smith, Judi Dench, Helen Mirren). Helen Mirren has, in the same year, played roles which both affirm her identification as the archetypal ‘sexy oldie’ while also demonstrating that this is merely a media construct. Likewise, Maggie Smith has built a career for the last 25 years on performing ‘old-lady-ness’ on screen: a technique I have termed age drag. Both age camp and age drag draw attention to the identification of age while at the same time denaturalising and deconstructing it so that it is rendered merely a matter of aesthetics and performance. Next, the book considered how ageing femininity intersected with identifications of queerness. First, it considered representations which challenged the stereotype of the miserable, lonely, old ‘dyke’ and then considered how recent transgender representations were revising media myths of trans women as (gay) men in disguise and/or sexual predators through their mobilisation of the older, unthreatening trans woman. The final chapter ‘cheated’ by thinking about the stereotype of ageing effeminacy, rather than femininity, through its discussion of how recent film texts had attempt to dispel the stereotypes of older gay men as predatory monsters or abject old ‘queens’. My arguments have made great claims for the power of these assorted film texts – cinema that has ranged from critically celebrated film to texts that are deemed merely low-brow, vulgar entertainment. However, the limitations of the arguments should also be acknowledged. Nearly all the chapters have asserted the importance of double-signification in textual signification and/or the actors’ performances: strategies that I have referred to as age camp and age drag. Camp is, of course, great fun and undoubtedly gives considerable joy to its consumers and performers. Yet, the question does remain if these strategies of double-signification or ironic coding will effect any real change? As Leo Bersani famously argued, it is highly unlikely that strategies of camp whether ‘resignification, or redeployment, or hyperbolic miming, will ever overthrow anything’ (1996: 51). Camp cannot truly challenge the hegemonic as it merely offers ‘spectacles of politically impotent disrespect’ which, most importantly, are always ‘closely imbricated in the norms’ (Bersani 1996: 51) they purport to mock. Helen Mirren is both denaturalising the identification of ‘sexy oldie’ with a certain ironic wink yet is still obligated to conform to the system which demands her performance of sexy oldie-ness. Stars such as Maggie Smith may have transformed the identification of ‘old’ age into yet another acting

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Ageing Femininity technique in their repertoire of classically trained acting skills yet this very performance is required to keep her in employment as it is now an expectation of both fans and casual spectators. As this example shows, strategies of camp may initially appear as subversive or challenging but very soon become an accepted part of hegemonic culture. In Jenny Joseph’s famous poem, the speaker may speculate that ‘when I’m an old woman I shall wear purple’ to signify a disrespect of the structural system which polices and regiments appropriate feminine ageing, but what does the speaker do when purple ceases to be transgressive and simply becomes accepted or even normative iconography for older femininity? Perhaps more worrying than the limited potential of camp or textual irony is the agenda I have labelled as greywashing in which older characters can be co-opted as a means of softening an aggressive political message within the text. As I have argued, this has been mobilised to make issues of lesbian and gay activism and trans rights appear more sympathetic to the non-queer identified spectator. The older lesbian couple in Cloudburst, and the two older gay men in Love is Strange, have illustrated the importance of federal recognition of same-sex marriage in the USA and, most importantly, stressed how same-sex marriage is no different from the socio-legal commitments made by opposite-sex couples. I should propose that even the most stalwart opponent of same-sex marriage would be moved by the representation of the devoted lesbian couple in Cloudburst or the charming symbols of bygone Manhattan elegance in Love is Strange. Similarly, the series Transparent – a show which is determined to tackle many of the issues underpinning contemporary trans prejudice and transphobia – very definitely benefits from the representation of an older, frail trans woman who challenges unfounded anxieties about the assumed ‘threat’ of the trans person. More worryingly, though, greywashing can also function to disguise a much less pleasant political agenda. Recent evolutions of the heritage genre have seen the representation of older people function as a means of masking the less agreeable aspects of heritage culture – especially its jingoism and fetishisation of Britain’s imperial history. It is rather ironic that the very minority group which was first praised for challenging the assumed conservatism of heritage ideology is now being used as a political cipher for that very traditionalist and imperialist agenda. Therefore, greywashing not only facilitates rather extremist views to be articulated

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Conclusion beneath the veneer of genteel-grey but reduces the minority group, which the genre is supposed to be celebrating, to little more than political ciphers. Perhaps the inclusion of older characters in contemporary narratives may not suggest quite as genuine a commitment to age affirmation politics as the films would suggest? Instead of sincere grey affirmation, the texts may simply be greywashing. The discussion of lesbians and gays in the final chapters does, however, raise a key comparative issue between age affirmation and gay affirmation narrative strategies. Although earlier gay and lesbian identity politics films, which tried to promote a ‘gay is good’ slogan, can be seen to have a comparable agenda to recent age affirmation cinema, I believe there are subtle differences in their current state of political progress. Arguably, we have seen, in recent years, a mainstreaming of gayness (often labelled ‘homonormativity’: Duggan 2002) so that explicit homophobia is now identified as passé or even extremely bad taste. However, while we may have seen the absorption of gay culture into the mainstream, I am not entirely sure that the same thing has yet happened with old age. A comparison between two contemporary practices – metrosexuality and ‘granny hair’ – may illustrate the difference in cultural progress between gay mainstreaming and age affirmation politics. The identification of metrosexuality has been discussed in considerable detail by academic critics (Coad 2008; Hall 2014; Mercer and Attwood 2017; Miller 2005; Shugart 2008). The iconography of metrosexuality, in which heterosexually identified men engage in extensive beautification and care of the self, has been theorised by various critics. Metrosexuality can be read as a response to the political shift in the labour market in which men are now feeling the tyranny of beauty in the workplace as much as women (Miller 2005). Men need to look good to impress their employers and managers. Related to this, metrosexuality can be seen as an attempt to reconcile commercial masculinity with normative masculinity (Shugart 2008). Most importantly, however, metrosexuality – in which men beautify their bodies and, in doing so, adopt many of the aesthetics and performances usually associated with urban gay male culture – may be read as signifying a ‘destigmatization of homosexuality and a consequent decrease of homophobia’ (Coad 2008: 197). If new masculinity in the early 1990s was a sensitive response to feminism, metrosexuality is an acceptance of the mainstreaming of gay culture. Metrosexuality may be

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Ageing Femininity seen as the young heterosexual male’s demonstration that he no longer has any fear of being read as gay. While the homophobe is, arguably, articulating an anxiety about his own sexuality through his fear and hatred of gay people, the metrosexual is demonstrating that gayness is nothing to be feared and indeed is stylish and popular. In this respect, metrosexuality appears to denote that gayness has now become an accepted, even desirable, element of sophisticated, metropolitan culture. (Of course, we have to be cautious in reading too much into the politics of metrosexuality as the identification is premised on little more than a celebration of consumption. Metrosexuality may well code men as consumers but this does not necessarily challenge or even change characteristics of hegemonic masculinity: see Carniel 2009: 81.) However, a similar performance strategy to metrosexuality, in which the dominant group appropriates the signifiers of a marginalised group, has started in recent years in relation to age identifications. This is the (popular) hairstyling trend known as ‘granny hair’ in which young people have started emulating the signifiers of old age in their hairstyle (see Giles 2017). ‘Granny hair’ involves bleaching the hair to remove pigment and then adding a toner to create a bluish-silver tint – a hair colour that was often seen as the indicator of a specific type of older women known as ‘the blue-rinse brigade’. Recent celebrities who have sported this style have included Nicole Richie, Rihanna, Cara Delevingne and the male model Lucky Blue Smith. On one level this may be read as similar to metrosexuality in that, like the straight identified men copying the signifiers of gay male culture, young people are demonstrating that they are not gerontophobic through their appropriation of the style of older women. However, as Deborah Jermyn points out, this style of ‘granny hair’ is perhaps not so much young people wanting to look or be like older women as much as saying that they admire older women (Jermyn 2016: 586). The key difference between metrosexuality and ‘granny hair’ is that the metrosexual will resemble a metropolitan gay man and may well be read as such by a casual observer. By contrast, the young person with ‘granny hair’ can only be read as a young body copying the hair fashion of older women. Far from breaking down the dichotomy of youth/age, and challenging gerontophobic anxiety, the ‘granny hair’ look reinforces the fear of ageing by being a performance that only a very young body could achieve. As Sarah Giles argues, ‘young women engaging in the granny hair

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Conclusion trend created distance between themselves and old age in a way that affirmed their youthful and therefore privileged status’ (2017: 49 –50). It is the very tension between the youthful face and the ‘granny hair’ that serves to strengthen the distinction between young and old rather than confusing identifications in the way metrosexuality does. For this reason, the only celebrities to have sported the style have been the very young. Middle-aged celebrities have not dared to ‘grannify’ their hair. Therefore, the current trend for ‘granny hair’ is probably more akin to the gay affirmation strategies of the 1990s in which people, after confirming their own definite straightness, would be happy to say that they are good friends with gay people. It would not be for another couple of decades that heterosexually identified people no longer had any concern with whether they themselves would be read as gay in their eagerness to say they liked gay people. In this respect, ‘granny hair’ is not the young person wishing to be old but merely demonstrating that he/she has a certain limited respect for older people. This idea of a limited respect for older people can be seen in other examples from Anglophone popular culture. The much-loved talent show, Britain’s Got Talent, has continually included at least one successful ager in every one of its seasons. Notable examples have been: ‘Paddy & Nico’ (2014), where the 80-year-old Paddy danced some amazing acrobatic moves with her young dance partner Nico; Janey Cutler (2010) demonstrating that a seemingly frail, elderly woman had an extremely powerful voice and ‘The Zimmers’ (2012) in which a group of seemingly decrepit, elderly people showed viewers how to rave it up. Arguably, the thrill of these acts is that they force the spectators to re-evaluate perceptions and prejudices of old age. Nobody expected that the 80-yearold Paddy would be able to perform such amazing dance acrobatics. Yet, the problem with this convention in Britain’s Got Talent is not only that it adheres to the narrative discussed in Chapter 2, in which an exemplary performer is an ambassador for all the other musicians and dancers, but that it also runs precariously close to the aggrandised mode of enfreakment from the archaic spectacle of the ‘freak’ show. (In the aggrandised mode of ‘freak’ show representation, the ‘disadvantaged’ body is celebrated for overcoming physical limitations and adversities (see Bogdan 1988; Garland Thomson 1996; Richardson 2010).) Containing these Britain’s Got Talent performances within a matrix of pity merged with celebration for

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Ageing Femininity overcoming adversity (‘aren’t these performers wonderful for overcoming the difficulties of old age?’) does little to mainstream older people. These older performers are not celebrated for their singing and dancing performances in themselves but only because their talents are juxtaposed with the performers’ age. Therefore, implicit in the narrative is the identification of age as a disadvantage or adversity in itself. Certainly, the problem with all the visual texts discussed in this book has been the way age has always been the main (if not only) identification of all the characters. None of the characters discussed have just happened to be older people whose advancing years is not an issue in the story. Instead their ‘old’ age is always represented as their master identity and the main source of tension within the narrative. Again, this can be compared with the representation of lesbians and gays in earlier film and popular culture in which their sexuality was always their only reason for being included in the visual text. It has not been until relatively recently that popular culture has started to represent gays and lesbians who simply happen to be gay and whose sexual identification is not a source of personal or inter-personal tension within the narrative. Until popular film, television and media can represent older characters whose age is not a source of narrative tension or character anxiety then arguably no amount of genre revision; double-signification in textual details or acting style and conflation of age affirmation with contemporary political issues can ever really challenge contemporary discourses of ageism and gerontophobia. Until this happens, grey-affirmation cinema may remain at the level of greywashing.

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Filmography

Films 42nd Street (dir. Lloyd Bacon (choreography Berkeley), 1933, USA). 45 Years (dir. Andrew Haigh, 2015, UK). Advanced Style (dir. Lina Plioplyte, 2014, USA). Amelia (dir. Mira Nair, 2009, USA/Canada). American Pie 2 (dir. James B. Rogers, 2001, USA). An Empty Bed (dir. Mark Gasper, 1990, USA). An Englishman in New York (dir. Richard Laxton, 2009, UK). And The Band Played On (dir. Roger Spottiswoode, 1993, USA). Arbitrage (dir. Nicholas Jarecki, 2012, USA). The Apartment (dir. Billy Wilder, 1960, USA). The Bad and the Beautiful (dir. Vincent Minnelli, 1952, USA). Bee Season (dir. Scott McGehee and David Siegel, 2005, USA). Beginners (dir. Mike Mills, 2010, USA). Bend it Like Beckham (dir. Gurinder Chadha, 2002, UK). The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (dir. John Madden, 2011, UK). Billy Elliot (dir. Stephen Daldry, 2000, UK). Billy’s Hollywood Screen Kiss (dir. Tommy O’Haver, 1998, USA). The Bitch (dir. Gerry O’Hara, 1979, UK). Boys Beware: Homosexuals are on the Prowl (dir. Sid Davis, 1961, USA). Breakfast at Tiffany’s (dir. Blake Edwards, 1961, USA). Brief Encounter (dir. David Lean, 1945, UK). The Broken Hearts Club (dir. Greg Berlanti, 2000, USA). The Brothers Grimm (dir. Terry Gilliam, 2005, UK). Calendar Girls (dir. Nigel Cole, 2003, UK). California Suite (dir. Herbert Ross, 1978, USA). 211

Filmography

Films 42nd Street (dir. Lloyd Bacon (choreography Berkeley), 1933, USA). 45 Years (dir. Andrew Haigh, 2015, UK). Advanced Style (dir. Lina Plioplyte, 2014, USA). Amelia (dir. Mira Nair, 2009, USA/Canada). American Pie 2 (dir. James B. Rogers, 2001, USA). An Empty Bed (dir. Mark Gasper, 1990, USA). An Englishman in New York (dir. Richard Laxton, 2009, UK). And The Band Played On (dir. Roger Spottiswoode, 1993, USA). Arbitrage (dir. Nicholas Jarecki, 2012, USA). The Apartment (dir. Billy Wilder, 1960, USA). The Bad and the Beautiful (dir. Vincent Minnelli, 1952, USA). Bee Season (dir. Scott McGehee and David Siegel, 2005, USA). Beginners (dir. Mike Mills, 2010, USA). Bend it Like Beckham (dir. Gurinder Chadha, 2002, UK). The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (dir. John Madden, 2011, UK). Billy Elliot (dir. Stephen Daldry, 2000, UK). Billy’s Hollywood Screen Kiss (dir. Tommy O’Haver, 1998, USA). The Bitch (dir. Gerry O’Hara, 1979, UK). Boys Beware: Homosexuals are on the Prowl (dir. Sid Davis, 1961, USA). Breakfast at Tiffany’s (dir. Blake Edwards, 1961, USA). Brief Encounter (dir. David Lean, 1945, UK). The Broken Hearts Club (dir. Greg Berlanti, 2000, USA). The Brothers Grimm (dir. Terry Gilliam, 2005, UK). Calendar Girls (dir. Nigel Cole, 2003, UK). California Suite (dir. Herbert Ross, 1978, USA). 211

Ageing Femininity Can Can (dir. Walter Lang, 1960, USA). Casino Royale (dir. Martin Campbell, 2006, UK). Chariots of Fire (dir. Hugh Hudson, 1981, UK). A Chorus Line (dir. Richard Attenborough, 1982, USA). Clockwise (dir. Christopher Morahan, 1986, UK). Cloudburst (dir. Thom Fitzgerald, 2011, Canada). Cruel Intentions (dir. Roger Kumble, 1999, USA). Death Becomes Her (dir. Robert Zemeckis, 1992, USA). Death in Venice (dir. Luchino Visconti, 1971, Italy). The Debt (dir. John Madden 2010, USA). The Devil Wears Prada (dir. David Frankel, 2006, USA). Elizabeth (dir. Shekhar Kapur, 1998, UK). The Expendables (dir. Sylvester Stallone, 2010, USA). The Expendables 2 (dir. Simon West, 2012, USA). The Expendables 3 (dir. Patrick Hughes, 2015, USA). Florence Foster Jenkins (dir. Stephen Frears, 2016, UK). Genevieve (dir. Henry Cornelius, 1953, UK). Gerontophilia (dir. Bruce LaBruce, 2013, Canada). Gods and Monsters (dir. Bill Condon, 1998, UK/USA). Goldeneye (dir. Martin Campbell, 1995, UK). Gosford Park (dir. Robert Altman, 2001, UK). Ha-Hov (dir. Assaf Bernstein, 2007, Israel). Hampstead (dir. Joel Hopkins, 2017, UK). Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters (dir. Tommy Wirkola, 2013, USA). Harold and Maude (dir. Hal Ashby, 1971, USA). Hook (dir. Stephen Spielberg, 1991, USA). Hot Millions (dir. Eric Till, 1968, UK). Howard’s End (dir. James Ivory, 1992, UK). Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte (dir. Robert Aldrich, 1964, USA). I Do (dir. Glen Gaylord, 2012, USA). Iris (dir. Albert Maysles 2014, USA). It’s Complicated (dir. Nancy Meyers 2009, USA). The Killing of Sister George (1968, dir. Robert Aldrich, UK). Kissed (dir. Lynne Stopkewitch, 1996, Canada). L.A. Zombie (dir. Bruce LaBruce, 2010, Canada). Ladies in Lavender (dir. Charles Dance, 2004, UK). The Lady in the Van (dir. Nicholas Hytner, 2015, UK).

212

Filmography Last Chance Harvey (dir. Joel Hopkins, 2008, USA). Last of the Blonde Bombshells (dir. Gillies MacKinnon, 2000, UK). The Last September (dir. Deborah Warner, 1999, UK). The Last Witch Hunter (dir. Breck Eisner, 2015, USA). Latter Days (dir. C. Jay Cox, 2003, USA). The Leech Woman (dir. Edward Dein, 1960, USA). The Living End (dir. Gregg Araki, 1992, USA). Longtime Companion (dir. Norman Rene, 1989, USA). Love and Death on Long Island (dir. Richard Kwietniewski, 1997, UK). Love is Strange (dir. Ira Sachs, 2014, USA). Making Love (dir. Arthur Hiller, 1982, USA). Mamma Mia! (dir. Phyllida Lloyd, 2008, UK). Manhattan (dir. Woody Allen, 1979, USA). Marie Antoinette (dir. Sofia Coppola, 2006, USA). Maurice (dir. James Ivory, 1987, UK). Men of Israel (dir. Michael Lucas, 2009, USA). A Mighty Wind (dir: Christopher Guest, 2003, USA). Mirror, Mirror (dir. Tarsem Singh, 2012, USA). The Missionary (dir. Richard Loncraine, 1982, UK). Mommie Dearest (dir. Frank Perry, 1981, USA). Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont (dir. Dan Ireland, 2005, USA). My House in Umbria (dir. Richard Loncraine, 2003, USA). My Old Lady (dir. Israel Horovitz, 2014, USA/UK). My Own Private Idaho (dir. Gus Van Sant, 1991, USA). The Naked Civil Servant (dir. Jack Gold, 1975, UK). Notes on a Scandal (dir. Richard Eyre, 2006, UK). Philadelphia (dir. Jonathan Demme, 1993, USA). Philomena (dir. Stephen Frears, 2013, UK). The Pledge (dir. Sean Penn, 2001, USA). Pretty Woman (dir. Garry Marshall, 1990, USA). The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie (dir. Ronald Neame, 1969, UK). Quartet (dir. Dustin Hoffman 2012, UK). The Queen (dir. Stephen Frears, 2006, UK). RED (dir. Robert Schwentke, 2010, USA). RED2 (dir. Dean Parisot, 2013, USA). Roald Dahl’s Esio Trot (dir. Dearbhla Walsh, 2015, UK). Rocky Horror Picture Show (dir. Jim Sharman, 1975, UK/USA).

213

Ageing Femininity A Room with a View (dir. James Ivory, 1985, UK). Sanders of the River (dir. Robert Korda, 1935, UK). Sapphire (dir. Basil Dearden, 1959, UK). The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (dir. John Madden 2015, UK). The Secret Garden (dir. Agnieszka Holland, 1993, UK). The September Issue (dir. R. J. Cutler 2009, USA). Sex and the City: The Movie (dir. Michael Patrick King, 2008, USA). Sex and the City: The Movie 2 (dir. Michael Patrick King, 2010, USA). Singin’ in the Rain (dir. Stanley Donen and Gene Kelly, 1952, USA). Sister Act (dir. Emile Ardolino, 1992, USA). Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit (dir. Bill Duke, 1993, USA). Skyfall (dir. Sam Mendes, 2012, UK). Snow White and the Huntsman (dir. Rupert Sanders, 2012, USA). Something’s Gotta Give (dir. Nancy Meyers 2003, USA). The Sound of Music (dir. Robert Wise, 1965, USA). Star Wars: Episode VI – Return of the Jedi (dir. Richard Marquand, 1983, USA). Stardust (dir. Matthew Vaughn, 2007, UK/USA). Stepping Out (dir. Lewis Gilbert, 1991, USA). Stonewall (dir. Roland Emmerich, 2015, USA). Sunset Boulevard (dir. Billy Wilder, 1950, USA). Sweet Charity (dir. Bob Fosse, 1968, USA). Tammy and the Bachelor (dir. Joseph Pevney, 1957, USA). Tea with Mussolini (dir. Franco Zeffirelli, 1997, UK/Italy). Teaching Mrs Tingle (dir. Kevin Williamson, 1999, USA). Thelma and Louise (dir. Ridley Scott, 1991, USA). These Old Broads (dir. Matthew Diamond, 2001, USA). The Time of their Lives (dir. Roger Goldby, 2017, UK). Transamerica (dir. Duncan Tucker, 2005, USA). Trantasia: Tears, Tiaras and Transsexuals (dir. Jeremy Stanford, 2006, USA). Trick (dir. Jim Fall 1999, USA). Undressing Israel: Gay Men in the Promised Land (dirs. Michael Lucas and Yariv Mozar, 2012, Israel). Victim (dir. Basil Dearden 1961, UK). Washington Square (dir. Agnieszka Holland, 1997, USA). The Wasp Woman (dir. Roger Corman and Jack Hill, 1959, USA). Weekend at Bernie’s (dir. Ted Kotcheff, 1989, USA). What Ever Happened to Aunt Alice? (dir. Lee H. Katzin, 1969, USA).

214

Filmography What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (dir. Robert Aldrich, 1962, USA). What’s the Matter with Helen? (dir. Curtis Harrington, 1971, USA). Who Slew Auntie Roo? (dir. Curtis Harrington, 1971, USA). Wild Things (dir. John McNaughton, 1998, USA). Wilde (dir. Brian Gilbert, 1997, USA).

Television Average Joe (2003 –5, USA). Benidorm Bastards (2010 – 11, Belgium). Betty White’s off their Rockers (2012 –present, USA). Boy Meets Girl (2015 –present, UK). Britain’s Got Talent (2007 –present, UK). Downton Abbey (2010 –15, UK). Dynasty (1981 –9, USA). Escape to the Country (2002 – present, UK). The Golden Girls (1985 –92, USA). Ladette to Lady (2005 –10, UK). Location, Location Location (2004 –present, UK). Off their Rockers (2013 –present, UK). Orange is the New Black (2013 –present, USA). A Place in the Sun (2001 –present, UK). Playing it Straight (2004, USA). Playing it Straight (2005, UK). Rokdim Im Kokhavim (Dancing with the Stars) (2005 –present, Israel). Tales of the City (1993, USA). There’s Something about Miriam (2004, UK). Transparent (2014 –present, USA). Vicious (2013 –present, UK). What Not to Wear (2001 –7, UK). Will and Grace (1998 –2006, USA).

Other Media ‘Interview with Bruce Willis about RED’ https://www.youtube.com/watch? v ¼Zxd_Q8xNN80 (accessed 8 August 2016). ‘Vote No to city of Houston Proposition No. 1’ https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=NPVTVvc-kg0 (accessed 21 September 2016). 215

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Index

‘action babe’, 72 –84 action cinema, 20, 45, 72 –84, 204 age affirmative cinema, 24 – 30 age camp, 89 – 92, 96, 99, 100, 103, 107, 114, 205 age drag, 26, 84, 85, 103– 7, 112, 113, 114, 131 –3, 138, 205 ‘ageing female grotesque’ stereotype, 5 –16, 68 –70 ageism, 6, 8, 9, 20, 22, 30, 50, 55, 75, 58, 59, 60, 61, 69, 91, 99, 100, 116, 141, 173, 203, 210

camp, 12, 26, 45, 58, 59, 70, 84, 85, 86 –9, 90, 91, 92, 93, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 106, 107, 109, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 118, 177, 192, 204– 6 Chivers, Sally, 3, 5, 6, 8, 9, 10, 11, 16, 23, 25, 49, 50, 135, 138 Chorus Line, A, 59 – 61 Clockwise, 19 – 20, 177 Cloudburst, 116, 117, 134 –42, 204, 206 Cohan, Steven, 58, 86, 136 Collins, Joan, 92, 94 –100, 113 Crisp, Quentin, 180 –8

Baranski, Christine, 65, 67, 68, 71 –72 ‘bedridden older woman’ stereotype, 20, 24 Beginners, 184 – 8, 192, 193, 199, 204 Bersani, Leo, 21, 205 Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, The, 24, 36, 54 –5 Boys Beware: Homosexuals are on the Prowl, 175– 6 butch/femme, 140 –1

Death Becomes Her, 9, 68 –71 Debt, The, 75, 80 –4, 139– 41 Dench, Judi, 36, 38, 61 –4, 73, 107, 121– 34, 205 Dolan, Josephine, 9, 25, 45, 49, 50, 51, 76 ‘dotty dear’ stereotype, 19 – 20, 24 Downton Abbey, 103, 106, 110– 13 Dyer, Richard, 3, 35, 58, 86, 175, 182 Dynasty, 95, 113, 114

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Index fairy tale, 13 –16, 108, 202 Finch, Mark, 95, 113 Florence Foster Jenkins, 12 – 13, 16 gay men, 26, 29, 51, 53, 86, 87, 88, 89, 97, 98, 113, 116, 151, 164, 173– 99, 205, 206 Genevieve, 17 –20 gentility, 31, 39 –48, 52, 78, 196 gerontology, 21, 30, 116 Gerontophilia, 184, 188 – 93, 199 gerontophobia, 16, 20 –2, 23, 30, 50, 55, 83, 141, 201, 202, 203, 204, 210 Gill, Rosalind, 13, 42, 43 Gilleard and Higgs, 1, 23 Gods and Monsters, 176, 189 ‘granny hair’, 207 –9 greywashing, 52 – 5, 112, 139, 141, 171, 201– 10 hag horror genre, 9 –16, 68 Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters, 13 –15 heritage (cinema), 25, 26, 31 – 55, 62, 109, 110, 112, 114, 156, 167, 171, 177, 194, 204, 206 Higson, Andrew, 31, 32, 33, 35, 108 Hill, John, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35 I Do, 139 –41 imperialism, 48 –55 Jermyn, Deborah, 6, 12, 25, 26, 27, 28, 44, 134, 199, 208 karaoke musical, 65 –72

Killing of Sister George, The, 117– 28, 133, 134, 141 Krainitzki, Eva, 1, 25, 26, 73, 116, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 127, 131, 132, 133, 134, 135 Ladies in Lavender, 24, 36, 103, 108– 10 lady power, 39 – 48 Last of the Blonde Bombshells, The, 61 –5 Lawrence, Diane, 39 – 40 lesbian(s), 25, 26, 41, 52, 53, 64, 73, 115 – 42, 146, 148, 151, 156, 163, 177, 178, 192, 206, 207, 210 Love is Strange, 184, 192, 193–9, 206 MacLaine, Shirley, 92 – 100 Mamma Mia!, 24, 26, 61, 65 –72, 83, 204 McRobbie, Angela, 13, 42 Medhurst, Andy, 86, 88, 91, 101, 114 Mercer, John, 4, 116, 136, 179, 180, 207 metrosexuality, 98, 207– 8, 209 Mirren, Helen, 45 –8, 75 –84, 106, 205 Monk, Claire, 31, 34, 35, 52 Moseley, Rachel, 42, 108 musicals, 26, 57, 58 –61, 74, 83, 92, 96, 204 Negra, Diane, 4, 13, 42 Notes on a Scandal, 107, 116, 117, 121– 34, 224, 227, 141, 142, 204

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Ageing Femininity ‘old dyke’ stereotype, 26, 115– 42, 205 ‘old queen’ stereotype, 25, 26, 88, 89, 115, 173– 99

Sontag, Susan, 3, 86 Stardust, 13 – 16, 69 Stone, Sandy, 147 –8 Streep, Meryl, 65, 68 successful ageing, 21 –4, 27, 29, 30, 131, 142, 193, 198, 199 Sunset Boulevard, 6 – 8, 14, 16, 92, 93

pinkwashing, 52 –4 Plowright, Joan, 36 –7 postfeminism, 13 –14, 42 – 55, 65, 112, 113 Quartet, 24, 36, 42 – 8, 54, 82, 106, 204 Queen, The, 24, 36, 61, 65 –72, 83, 204 queer(ing), 11 –12, 25, 41, 54, 73, 86, 87, 115, 116, 117, 120, 122, 129, 131– 4, 135, 136, 138, 140, 141, 142, 148, 149, 150, 157, 162, 175, 177, 183, 189, 205, 206 Radner, Hilary, 27, 42 Raymond, Janice, 144 –8, 149, 153, 154, 156 RED, 24, 75 – 80, 83 Reynolds, Debbie, 92 – 100 Rivers, Joan, 89 –92, 99 road movie, 135 –7, 142, 188 Robertson, Pamela, 89, 136 Rowe and Kahn, 22 – 3 Russo, Mary, 9, 20 Shingler, Martin, 11 –12, 85, 88, 102, 136 Smith, Angela, 43 – 4 Smith, Maggie, 36, 51, 62, 64, 85, 100– 14, 205

Tasker, Yvonne, 4, 42, 72, 73 Taylor, Elizabeth, 90, 92 – 100 These Old Broads, 58, 85, 92 –100, 113, 204 third age, 21 –4, 29, 30, 198 Tincknell, Estella, 25, 74, 110, 111, 112 Traies, Jane, 116, 117 Transamerica, 136, 144, 157– 61, 170, 171 transgender, 25, 26, 28, 29, 42, 115, 121, 136, 143 –71, 205, 206 Transparent, 144, 157, 161 –71, 204, 206 Walters, Julie, 65, 67, 68 Wearing, Sadie, 4, 25, 27, 31, 32, 26, 43, 45, 76, 131 What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, 6– 16, 19, 70, 88, 89, 118, 174, 177 Whelehan, Immelda, 25, 42, 43 witches, 13 – 16 Willis, Bruce, 69, 74, 76, 77 Woodward, Kathleen, 1, 44 Zaborskis, Mary, 103– 6

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