Journal articles on the topic 'Virginie Despentes'

Virginie Despentes has become one of France’s most commercially successful and celebrated novelists. However, while the French press has often labelled Despentes’ novels as crime fiction (‘polars’), there has been little in-depth scholarly discussion of how her work engages and transforms the conventions of the genre. Studies of Despentes’ queer/feminist themes and rhetoric would benefit from a more sustained attention to her ambivalent appropriations of the masculinist tropes of brutal crime fiction, and studies of French crime fiction would benefit from considering Despentes as key figure in the development of French queer/feminist crime fiction. Examining novels ranging from Baise-moi to Apocalypse bébé, this article argues for the interest in reading them as crime fiction, and notably as works that underline the risks that accompany efforts to rewire masculinist genres from within and orient them towards feminist and queer concerns.

La romancière et essayiste Virginie Despentes s’est imposée par une plume qui fait écho aux travaux de Preciado ou Butler, où, par le biais d’une forme de recherche-création, elle aborde des thèmes tels que la prostitution, la pornographie ou la violence féminine. Partant du principe selon lequel le personnel est politique, sa réflexion expose le caractère construit de ce qu’on prend habituellement pour donner : le soi et l’identité genrée. Cet article entend montrer comment le corps est décrit par Despentes comme lieu d’une potentielle résistance politique dans la mesure où, tout comme le soi, il peut se soustraire du moins en partie aux déterminismes par un processus d’autoreconstruction. En transformant leurs corps de façon à redéfinir leur identité, les personnages décrits par Despentes présentent différentes façons de penser les rapports entre individus, mais surtout, de générer un discours critique qui permet de penser l’identité au-delà des dichotomies de genre. French novelist and essayist Virginie Despentes has become prominent through her literary work, which echoes the works of Preciado or Butler. Through a form of research-creation, Despentes tackles topics such as prostitution, pornography, and female violence. Starting from the principle that “the personal is political,” her reflection exposes the constructed character of what is usually taken as given: the self and gendered identity. This article intends to show how Despentes describes the body as the locus of a potential political resistance insofar as, like the self, it can at least partly escape determinisms by a process of self-reconstruction. By shaping their own bodies so as to redefine their identity, the characters created by Despentes present different ways to rethink the connections between individuals and, most importantly, different ways to generate a critical discourse that allows one to think about identity beyond gender dichotomies.

O objetivo desta tradução é trazer ao público brasileiro uma pequena, porém representativa, parcela da obra dessa escritora tão conhecida na França por sua literatura subversiva e engajante. Virginie Despentes é um nome pelo qual o leitor contemporâneo da literatura francesa não consegue não passar, tamanha sua importância. Despentes aprecia transitar entre o oral e o escrito, entre o correto e o subversivo. Sua literatura reflete esse embate que ela representa, Ã s vezes dilacerando sobretudo a língua francesa. Esta tradução visa, pois, tentar transportar esse embate, essa combatividade e esse dilaceramento do original para o português, utilizando-se também de oralidade e coloquialidade sem fugir da controvérsia.

El siguiente trabajo constituye una lectura desde los estudios literarios del ensayo experimental Testo yonqui de Paul Preciado. Ciertas zonas de esta obra pueden entenderse como un ejercicio de crónica al poner el énfasis en la problemática de la alteridad: un otro molecular (la testosterona), un otro amoroso-sexual (Virginie Despentes) y otro existencial (la muerte de su amigo Guillaume Dustan). En este sentido, argumentaremos que la productividad genérica de la obra se juega como resolución singular de la interacción entre cultura letrada y cibercultura.

Virginie Despentes et Chloé Delaume, deux figures importantes de la littérature française contemporaine, ont placé l’humour – fût-il noir – au coeur de leur oeuvre. On montrera que ce rire grinçant, réel enjeu féministe, a deux fonctions principales : dénoncer avec force ironie le système de la domination masculine et court-circuiter par la parodie l’exercice conventionnel du pouvoir. Ce rire féministe, impliquant des connivences particulières, ne se réduit pas à une simple provocation ou à un amer constat. Il figure le lieu ludique et décomplexé de la résistance, pouvant encore être perçu comme trop menaçant pour une certaine réception critique.

Partindo da ideia de que os gêneros são construções da vida humana, que como todas as demais estão limitadas a demandas culturais, neste artigo me apropriarei um pouco do que já pensou Hannah Arendt, Judith Butler, Virginie Despentes, entre outros, para pensarmos quais outras elaborações poderíamos alcançar. Essas mulheres são exemplos de que a crítica à tradição não repercute em vazios inférteis, mas o terreno e a condição para o novo. Alçar voos para além da casa e adquirir mais responsabilidades no mundo do trabalho não significou liberação. Que outras performances estejam por vir e que nenhum poder seja dispensado.

Sur la base d’un rappel de la réception particulière dont a bénéficié la parution, au mitan des années 1990, de Baise-moi (Paris, Florent Massot, 1994), le premier roman de Virginie Despentes, cet article propose une analyse de la dimension autoréflexive du roman avec pour point d’ancrage la scène, centrale dans l’oeuvre, du meurtre du personnage de l’architecte. Il a pour objectif de mettre en lumière les stratégies intertextuelles à l’oeuvre dans le texte qui, en s’articulant aux tactiques éditoriales et de mise en marché du livre au moment de sa parution, ancrent Baise-moi dans le champ des productions culturelles de son époque d’une manière oblique. Dans la perspective ouverte par l’analyse, Baise-moi apparaît, sur les plans esthétique, historique, tout comme sur celui des « politiques de la littérature », dans un fonctionnement dialectique où la surexposition brutale des corps sensibles, sexués et violents ne s’oppose plus à l’entreprise intellectuelle, où la négation forte d’un attachement à l’époque est indissociable d’une inscription complexe dans l’histoire (littéraire et plus largement culturelle) où sont consommés (détruits et assimilés) les codes, les frontières et les hiérarchies d’oeuvres, de médias et de pratiques qui sont ceux d’une modernité faussement porteuse d’émancipation et dont le roman de Despentes dresse un portrait lucide et violent, où ont part simultanément la destruction et l’hommage.

Liberté, Égalité, Sororité: Female body genres and the women of the New French ExtremityIn the essay Film Bodies: Gender, Genre, and Excess, Linda Williams coins the concept of body genres. These genres include melodrama, horror and porn, which are linked through their impact on the spectator’s body and intensifying viewing experiences. According to Williams, these three film genres emphasize the notion of spectacle, but they place the female body in its centre. The female body is moving and is being moved, which causes its vulnerability to the hegemony of the male gaze. But we can conduct research from a feminist perspective and find films that simultaneously tell about a visceral excess and develop an intellectual transgression through the body. The best example of this tendency is the New French Extremity, precisely the female directors such as Catherine Breillat, Mariny de Van or Virginie Despentes. They maximize the somatic spectacle in their films, which annihilates the pleasure that the male spectator derives from the fetishized female body.

In order to rectify important gaps in scholarship, this article examines how Virginie Despentes’s documentary Mutantes: Féminisme Porno Punk (2009), her autobiographical essay King Kong Théorie (2006), and its theatrical adaptation play off one another to advance the argument that Despentes’s transnational feminism has its roots in the sex-positive movement that began in the United States in the early 1980s.1 At the heart of her work, this feminism influences King Kong Théorie and much of her fiction.2 Despentes, inspired by the sex-positive movement that began in the United States in the early 1980s, interviewed its American pioneers in 2005 for her documentary, Mutantes. These interviews articulate a sex-positive feminism that strives to destigmatize sex work by promoting it as a legitimate, lucrative, and often enjoyable way to earn a living. It resoundingly refutes the notion of the sex worker as victim. Mutantes also focuses on the performances by European postporn collectives trying to find non-binary ways to express sexuality and desire. This “pro-sexe” stance would shape both Despentes’s feminist manifesto King Kong Théorie one year later and her fiction, for she evokes it in brief references to sex workers in her Vernon Subutex trilogy. In a nod to the campy personalities and performers in Mutantes, Vanessa Larré’s production of King Kong Théorie (2018), that she adapted to the theater with Valérie de Dietrich, also aims to educate and challenge. With provocative and jocular scenes and shots, Mutantes and Larré’s play knock viewers and theatergoers off kilter to make them reflect on the ways gender-based and heteronormative binaries stifle both men and women in patriarchal societies. While some of the performances, images, and non-binary sex toys in Mutantes may be upsetting to viewers, that is exactly the point: to defy gender and sexual norms to open up new possibilities for individuals shut out by the binary. Both the documentary and the play tackle taboo subjects with ludic humor in a way that stimulates reflection on the part of the audience in a disarming, unthreatening manner. This paper uncovers the way the camp sensibilities in Mutantes rub off on the play’s adaptation since both capture the humor, joviality, playfulness, and oftentimes self-deprecation of the sex-positive American feminists that worked their way into Despentes’s writing. Mutantes and the play also concretely underscore the ways Despentes’s works are shaping contemporary feminist writers such as Chloé Delaume and Gabrielle Deydier and artists and actors such as Larré and Dietrich.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:0in">Learning a foreign language cannot be separated from literature and culture. One of the definitions of literature is a reflection of society; so through literature we can know the real image of society as well as the culture. Moreover, by knowing the foreign cultures of the countries from which we learn the language, we can not only read, but also understand the problems that appear in the texts studied. Similarly, French culture cannot be separated from Maghreb culture. The two cultures complement each other, later becoming the content of various literary, French literary and Francophone literary. The relationship between the two cultures is also part of the content of Virginie Despentes' novel <i>Apocalypse bébé</i>. Through this novel, we can see an image of the relationship between France and the Maghreb people in their social life. Thus, as a learner of French, we could know not only French culture through the textbooks published by French publishers, but also recognize the French culture associated with France both directly and indirectly. Therefore, the literary text entitled <i>Apocalypse bébé</i> can be an alternative source of learning French, not only in terms of language attached to vocabulary and grammar, but also to know French and Francophone culture so that students know the relationship for understanding and analyzing literary works.</p>

Este artículo analiza las obras que he realizado entre el 2006 y el 2019 poniendo énfasis en la descripción de mis procesos creativos y los resultados. Así mismo indago en las metodologías y estrategias que utilizo en mi producción artística. Mis intereses giran en torno a lo público y lo privado, la sexualidad, el feminismo, el empoderamiento y el derecho al placer sexual. Entre mis referentes teóricos más importantes se encuentran: Camille Paglia, Virgine Despentes, Beatriz Preciado e Itziar Ziga.

Virginie Despentes, dont le premier livre a été publié en 1993, est reconnue comme l’une des représentantes majeures d’une nouvelle orientation de la littérature féminine. Cet article analyse deux aspects de la réflexion de Despentes sur la figure du personnage public de l’écrivain : il montre, d’une part, que ses textes théoriques comme ses fictions dénoncent la réception critique, en France, d’une femme qui écrit et qui crée. D’autre part, il met en lumière, à l’heure de la domination de l’autofiction sur la littérature française, l’approche différente du moi et du sujet entreprise dans ses textes. C’est à partir d’une réflexion sur l’élaboration sociale du féminin et de la valeur « travail », qui ne se limite pas à l’oeuvre de l’écrivain, que Despentes repense la teneur de la sociabilité, le diagnostic d’une décomposition sociale n’étant pas pour elle seulement à critiquer, mais à mettre en oeuvre autrement.

I dette nummer er følgnde bøger blevet anmeldt:Eva Österberg og Marie Lindsted Cronberg (red): Kvinnor og våld – en mångetydig kulturhistoria. Nordic Academic Press, 2005.Rikke Andreassen: Der er et yndigt land. Medier, minoriteter og danskhed. Tiderne Skifter, 2007.Virginie Despentes: King Kong og Kvinden. Tiderne Skifter, 2007.Henrik List: Sidste nat i kødbyen – essays. Aschehoug, 2007.Helene Hjort Oldrup: Mellem hastighed og tilhør –erfaringer og fortællinger om hverdagsmobilitet, ph.d.-afhandling, Københavns Universitet, 2005.

Dans son dernier roman, Les Sorcières de la République, Chloé Delaume imagine une société où, devenues sorcières après que les déesses de l’Olympe les ont dotées de pouvoirs magiques, les femmes renversent le gouvernement français jugé trop oppressif pour celles-ci et imposent un nouveau régime politique. Si l’intrigue paraît fantasque, le réinvestissement de la figure de la sorcière, incantatrice et jeteuse de sorts, permet de mettre en avant l’idée d’un pouvoir d’action résidant fondamentalement dans la parole. Cet article se propose d’analyser comment cette agentivité discusive se construit précisément dans le texte en observant la parole de la sorcière, de la représentation de son émettrice à l’espace dans lequel sa voix résonne. Mots-clés : sorcière, agentivité, pouvoir, parole, Delaume Références Austin, John L. How to Do Things with Words. Oxford University Press, 1962. Bras-Chopard (Le), Armelle. Les Putains du Diable : Le procès en sorcellerie des femmes. Plon, 2006. Bechtel, Guy, Les quatre femmes de Dieu : La putain, la sorcière, la sainte & Bécassine. Plon, 2000. Butler, Judith. Excitable Speech: A Politics of the Performative. Routledge, 1997. ---. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. Routledge, 1990. Delaume, Chloé. Les Sorcières de la République. Seuil, 2016. ---. Mes biens chères sœurs. Seuil, 2019. Despentes, Virginie. King Kong théorie. Grasset & Fasquelle, « Le livre de poche », 2007. Federici, Silvia, Caliban et la Sorcière : femmes, corps et accumulation primitive. Traduit par le collectif Senonevero, Entremonde/Senonevero, 2014. Gardiner, Judith Kegan, éditrice. Provoking Agents: Gender and Agency in Theory and Practice. University of Illinois Press, 1995. Havercroft, Barbara. « Quand écrire, c'est agir : stratégies narratives d'agentivité féministe dans Jounal pour mémoire de France Théoret. » Dalhousie French Studies, vol. 47, Summer 1999, pp. 93-113. Hekman, Susan. “Subjects and Agents: The question for Feminism.” Provoking Agents: Gender and Agency in Theory and Practice, édité par Judith Kegan Gardiner, University of Illinois Press, 1995, pp. 94-207. Michelet, Jules. La Sorcière. 1862. M. Didier, 1952-56. Rose, Gillian. Feminism & Geography: The Limits of Geographical Knowledge. Polity Press, 1993.

This paper addresses that natural consort of love: sex. It particularly considers the absence of actual sex from mainstream popular culture and the marginalisation of 'fun' sex as porn, requiring its illicit circulation as ‘illegitimate’ videos. The absence of sex from films classified and screened in public venues (even to over-18s) prevents a discourse about actual sex informing the discourse of love and romance perpetuated through Hollywood movies. The value of a variety of representations of sexual practice in the context of a discussion of love, sex and romance in Western cinema was briefly illuminated for the few days that Baise-moi was legitimately screened in Australia. For all that love is one of the great universal themes, Western cinema tends to communicate this ‘finer feeling’ through recourse to romance narratives. Which is not to say that romantic representations of love are devoid of sex, just that that the cinematic convention is to indicate sex, without showing it. Indeed, without the actors 'doing it'. The peculiarity of this situation is not usually clear, however, because there is so little mainstream sex-cinema with which to compare the anodyne gyrations of romantic Hollywood. Which was where Baise-moi came in, briefly. Baise-moi is variously translated for English-speaking cinema audiences as 'Fuck me' (in Australia) and 'Rape me' (in the US, where, astonishingly, Rape me is seen as a less objectionable title than Fuck me.) Of the two titles, Fuck me is by far the cleverer and more authentically related to the meaning and content, whereas Rape me is a travesty, particularly given the shocking power of an extremely graphic and violent rape scene which initiates much of the succeeding violence. An early appeal by the Australian Attorney-General (to the Review Board) against the Office of Film and Literature Classification’s granting of an R rating meant that Baise-moi was hastily removed from Australian cinemas. The movie is, however, heavily reviewed on the web and readers are referred to commentaries such as those by Gary Morris and Frank Vigorito. The grounds on which Classification was refused were given as ‘strong depictions of violence’, ‘sexual violence’, ‘frequent, actual detailed sex scenes’ and ‘scenes which demean both women and men’. Violence, sexual violence and ‘scenes which demean’ are hardly uncommon in films (although it may be unusual that these demean even-handedly). If the amount of violence is nothing new, the sex was certainly different from the usual cinematic fare. Although this was not the first time that ‘unsimulated’ sex had been shown on the art-house big screen, the other major examples were not entirely similar. Romance was wordy, arguably feminist, and a long way from mindless sex-because-they-like-it. Intimacy 's ‘sex scenes are explicit but totally non pornographic, they’re painful, needy, unsatisfying except on an orgasmic level’, according to Margaret Pomeranz, who reviewed the film for SBS. Baise-moi is different because, as Vigorito says, ‘please make no mistake that the two main characters in this film, the so-called French Thelma and Louise, certainly do want to fuck’. (They also like to kill.) Baise-moi is often characterised as a quasi-feminist revenge movie where the two protagonists Manu (a porn star) and Nadine (a sex worker) seek revenge with (according to Morris) ‘ultimately more nihilism than party-hearty here, with the non-stop killings laid squarely at the doorstep of a society that’s dehumanized its citizens’. While the brutality depicted is mind-blowing (sometimes literally/visually) it is the sex that got the film banned, but not until after some 50,000 Australians had seen it. The elements that separate Baise-moi from Intimacy and Romance (apart from the extreme violence) is that the characters have (heterosexual) sex with a variety of partners, and sometimes do so just for fun. Further, although the Office of Film and Literature Classification ‘considers that the film has significant artistic and cultural merit’ (OFLC), one of the directors wrote the novel on which the film is based while the other director and the two stars are former porn industry workers. If Baise-moi had been accepted as cinema-worthy, where would the sex-on-the-screen factor have stopped for future classification of films? The popular culture approach to romance, love and sex moves comparatively smoothly from the first kiss to the rumpled sheets. Although the plot of a romantic film may consist in keeping the love and sex activities apart, the love is (almost invariably) requited. And, as films such as Notting Hill demonstrate, true love these days is communicated less frequently through the willingness of a couple to have sex (which generally goes without saying), and more often through commitment to the having and rearing of a shared child (whereas off-screen this may more usually be the commitment of a shared mortgage). Sex, in short, is popularly positioned as a precursor to love; as not entirely necessary (and certainly not sufficient) but very usually associated with the state of 'being in love'. It is comparatively rare to see any hesitation to engage in sex on the part of a film-portrayed loving couple, other than hurdles introduced through the intervention of outside forces. A rare example of thinking and talking before fucking is The Other Sister , but this means it rates as an R in the States because of ‘thematic elements involving sex-related material’. In contrast, the film Notting Hill, where the characters played by Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant hardly pause for breath once attraction is established, rates a PG-13 (‘for sexual content and brief strong language’). Thus it is all right for producers to have sex in a storyline, but any hesitation, or discussion, makes the film unsuited to younger audiences. Given that characters’ thinking about sex, and talking about sex, as part of (or preliminary to) having sex apparently increases the age at which the audience is allowed to see the film, perhaps it should not be surprising that actually showing sex about which the audience can then think and talk is almost entirely banned. Yet for a culture that associates sex so strongly with love, and celebrates love so thoroughly in film, television and literature (not to mention popular magazines such as Woman's Day, New Idea, New Weekly and Who), to be occasionally challenged by a film that includes actual sex acts seems not unreasonable, particularly when restricted to audiences of consenting adults. Ian McEwan's debut collection of short stories, First love, last rites explores this conundrum of 'the sex that shall only be acted, never performed' in a short story, 'Cocker at the theatre' (McEwan 57). The tale is about a theatrical production where the actors are new, and nude, and the theme of the play is copulation. It is a story of its time, mid-seventies, the resonating-hippie Age of Aquarius, when Hair still rocked. McEwan's naked couples are assembled by the play's director and then pressed together to begin the rhythmic moves required to complement the thumping musical score of GTC: ‘Grand Time Copulation’. The male and female actors are not near enough to each other, so they are spliced closer together: ‘When they began to move again their pubic hair rasped’ (57-8). The director is unimpressed by the result: ‘I know it's hard, but you have to look as if you're enjoying this thing.' (His voice rose.) 'Some people do, you know. It's a fuck, you understand, not a funeral.' (His voice sank.) 'Let's have it again, with some enthusiasm this time.' However, all is not entirely well, after a good second beginning. ‘Them on the end, they're going too fast, what do you think?' [says the director to the stage manager] They watched together. It was true, the two who had been moving well, they were a little out of time ... 'My God,' said [the director] 'They're fucking … It's disgusting and obscene … pull them apart.' (58-9). The issue raised here, as in the case of the removal of any classification from Baise-moi that effectively prevented further public screenings, is the double standard of a society that expends so much of its critical and cultural energies in exploring the nature of love, romance and sexual attraction but balks (horrified) at the representation of actual sex. Yet one of the values of a cinematic replay of 'unsimulated sex' is that it acts as a ‘reality check’ for all the mushy renditions of romance that form the mainstream representation of 'love' on-screen. So, if we want to see sex, should we not simply consume pornography? In modern-day Australia it is impossible to discuss depictions of live sex without conjuring up connotations of ‘porn’. Porn, however, is not usually consumed in a manner or place that allows it to interrogate media messages from mainstream production houses and distributors. Watching porn, for example at home on video, removes it from a context in which it could realistically prompt a re-evaluation of the visual diet of love and sex Hollywood-style, an opportunity that was provided by Baise-moi during its temporary season. The comparative absence of on-screen sexual activity means that there is an absence of texts through which we can interrogate mainstream representations of lovemaking. Whereas the Eros Foundation aims to promote debate leading to ‘logical perspectives on sex and rational law reform of the sex industry’, and avoids using the term 'pornography' on its home page, it is hard to find any representations of unsimulated sex that are not classified as porn and consequently easily pigeon-holed as 'not relevant' to cultural debate except in general terms regarding (say) 'censorship' or 'the portrayal of women'. It is hard to know what Baise-moi might have said to Australian audiences about the relationship between sex, authenticity (Morris uses the term ‘trashy integrity’) and popular culture since the film was screened for only the briefest of intervals, and throughout that time the ‘hype’ surrounding it distracted audiences from any discussion other than would it/wouldn't it, and should it/shouldn't it, be banned. Hopefully, a future Attorney-General will allow the adults in this country to enjoy the same range of popular cultural inputs available to citizens in more liberal nations, and back the initial (liberal) decision of the OFLC. And what has love got to do with all this? Not much it seems, although doesn't popular culture ‘teach’ that one of the main uses for a love theme is to provide an excuse for some gratuitous sex? Perhaps, after all, it is time to cut to the chase and allow sex to be screened as a popular culture genre in its own right, without needing the excuse of a gratuitous love story. Works Cited McEwan, Ian. First love, last rites. London: Picador, 1975. 56-60. Morris, Gary. “Baise-moi. Feminist screed or fetish-fuckathon? Best to flip a coin.” Lip Magazine 2001. http://www.lipmagazine.org/articles/revi... OFLC. Classification Review Board News release, 10 May 2002. http://www.oflc.gov.au/PDFs/RBBaiseMoi.pdf Pomeranz, Margaret. “Intimacy.” The Movie Show: Reviews. http://www.sbs.com.au/movieshow/reviews.... Vigorito, Frank. “Natural porn killers.” Offoffofffilm 2001. http://www.offoffoff.com/film/2001/baise... Filmography Baise-moi. Dirs. Virginie Despentes and CoRalie Trinh Thi. Dist. Film Fixx, 2000. Intimacy. Dir. Patrice Chereau. Dist. Palace Films, 2001. Notting Hill. Dir. Roger Michell. Dist. Universal Pictures, 1999. Romance. Dir. Catherine Breillat. Dist. Potential Films, 1999. The other sister. Dir. Gary Marshall. Dist. Touchstone Pictures, 1999. Links http://www.offoffoff.com/film/2001/baisemoi.php3 http://www.eros.com.au http://film.guardian.co.uk/censorship/news/0,11729,713540,00.html http://www.sbs.com.au/movieshow/reviews.php3?id=838 http://www.michaelbutler.com/hair http://www.oflc.gov.au/PDFs/RBBaiseMoi.pdf http://www.movie-source.com/no/othersister.shtml http://www.lipmagazine.org/articles/revimorris_128.shtml Citation reference for this article Substitute your date of access for Dn Month Year etc... MLA Style Green, Lelia. "Sex" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.6 (2002). Dn Month Year < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0211/sex.php>. APA Style Green, L., (2002, Nov 20). Sex. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture, 5,(6). Retrieved Month Dn, Year, from http://www.media-culture.org.au/0211/sex.html

What creative techniques of resistance are available to a female filmmaker when she is the victim of a violent event and filmed at her most vulnerable? This article uses an autoethnographic lens to discuss my experience of a serious car crash my family and I were inadvertently involved in due to police negligence and a criminal act. Employing Creative Analytical Practice (CAP) ethnography, a reflexive form of research which recognises that the creative process, producer and product are “deeply intertwined” (Richardson, “Writing: A Method” 930), I investigate how the crash’s violent affects crippled my agency, manifested in my creative praxis and catalysed my identification of latent forms of institutionalised violence in film culture, its discourse and pedagogy that also contributed to my inertia. The article maps my process of writing a feature length screenplay during the aftermath of the crash as I set out to articulate my story of survival and resistance. Using this narrative inquiry, in which we can “investigate how we construct the world, ourselves, and others, and how standard objectifying practices...unnecessarily limit us” (Richardson, “Writing: A Method” 924), I outline how I attempted to disrupt the entrenched power structures that exist in dominant narratives of violence in film and challenge my subjugated positioning as a woman within this canon. I describe my engagement with the deconstructionist practices of writing the body and militant feminist cinema, which suggest subversive opportunities for women’s self-determination by encouraging us to embrace our exiled positioning in dominant discourse through creative experimentation, and identify some of the possibilities and limitations of this for female agency. Drawing on CAP ethnography, existentialism, film feminism, and narrative reframing, I assert that these reconstructive practices are more effective for the creative enfranchisement of women by not relegating us to the periphery of social systems and cultural forms. Instead, they enable us to speak back to violent structures in a language that has greater social access, context and impact.My strong desire to tell screen stories lies in my belief that storytelling is a crucial evolutionary mechanism of resilience. Narratives do not simply represent the social world but also have the ability to change it by enabling us to “try to figure out how to live our lives meaningfully” (Ellis 760). This conviction has been directly influenced by my personal story of trauma and survival when myself, my siblings, and our respective life partners became involved in a major car crash. Two police officers attending to a drunken brawl in an inner city park had, in their haste, left the keys in the ignition of their vehicle. We were travelling across a major intersection when the police car, which had subsequently been stolen by a man involved in the brawl – a man who was wanted on parole, had a blood alcohol level three times over the legal limit, and was driving at speeds exceeding 110kms per hour - ran a red light and crossed our path, causing us to crash into his vehicle. From the impact, the small four-wheel drive we were travelling in was catapulted metres into the air, rolling numerous times before smashing head on into oncoming traffic. My heavily pregnant sister was driving our vehicle.The incident attracted national media attention and our story became a sensationalist spectacle. Each news station reported erroneous and conflicting information, one stating that my sister had lost her unborn daughter, another even going so far as to claim my sister had died in the crash. This tabloidised, ‘if it bleeds, it leads’, culture of journalism, along with new digital technologies, encourages and facilitates the normalisation of violent acts, often inflicted on women. Moreover, in their pursuit of high-rating stories, news bodies motivate dehumanising acts of citizen journalism that see witnesses often inspired to film, rather than assist, victims involved in a violent event. Through a connection with someone working for a major news station, we discovered that leading news broadcasters had bought a tape shot by a group of men who call themselves the ‘Paparazzi of Perth’. These men were some of the first on the scene and began filming us from only a few metres away while we were still trapped upside down and unconscious in our vehicle. In the recording, the men are heard laughing and celebrating our tragedy as they realise the lucrative possibilities of the shocking imagery they are capturing as witnesses pull us out of the back of the car, and my pregnant sister incredibly frees herself from the wreckage by kicking out the window.As a female filmmaker, I saw the bitter irony of this event as the camera was now turned on me and my loved ones at our most vulnerable. In her discussion of the male gaze, a culturally sanctioned form of narrational violence against women that is ubiquitous in most mainstream media, Mulvey proposes that women are generally the passive image, trapped by the physical limits of the frame in a permanent state of powerlessness as our identity is reduced to her “to-be-looked-at-ness” (40). For a long period of time, the experience of performing the role of this commodified woman of a weaponised male gaze, along with the threat of annihilation associated with our near-death experience, immobilised my spirit. I felt I belonged “more to the dead than to the living” (Herman 34). When I eventually returned to my creative praxis, I decided to use scriptwriting as both my “mode of reasoning and a mode of representation” (Richardson, Writing Strategies 21), test whether I could work through my feelings of alienation and violation and reclaim my agency. This was a complex and harrowing task because my memories “lack[ed] verbal narrative and context” (Herman 38) and were deeply rooted in my body. Cixous confirms that for women, “writing and voice...are woven together” and “spring from the deepest layers of her psyche” (Moi 112). For many months, I struggled to write. I attempted to block out this violent ordeal and censor my self. I soon learnt, however, that my body could not be silenced and was slow to forget. As I tried to write around this experience, the trauma worked itself deeper inside of me, and my physical symptoms worsened, as did the quality of my writing.In the early version of the screenplay I found myself writing a female-centred film about violence, identity and death, using the fictional narrative to express the numbness I experienced. I wrote the female protagonist with detachment as though she were an object devoid of agency. Sartre claims that we make objects of others and of ourselves in an attempt to control the uncertainty of life and the ever-changing nature of humanity (242). Making something into an object is to deprive it of life (and death); it is our attempt to keep ourselves ‘safe’. While I recognise that the car crash’s reminder of my mortality was no doubt part of the reason why I rendered myself, and the script’s female protagonist, lifeless as agentic beings, I sensed that there were subtler operations of power and control behind my self-objectification and self-censorship, which deeply concerned me. What had influenced this dea(r)th of female agency in my creative imaginings? Why did I write my female character with such a red pen? Why did I seem so compelled to ‘kill’ her? I wanted to investigate my gender construction, the complex relationship between my scriptwriting praxis, and the context within which it is produced to discover whether I could write a different future for myself, and my female characters. Kiesinger supports “contextualizing our stories within the framework of a larger picture” (108), so as to remain open to the possibility that there might not be anything ‘wrong’ with us, per se, “but rather something very wrong with the dynamics that dominate the communicative system” (109) within which we operate: in the case of my creative praxis, the oppressive structures present in the culture of film and its pedagogy.Pulling FocusWomen are supposed to be the view and when the view talks back, it is uncomfortable.— Jane Campion (Filming Desire)It is a terrible thing to see that no one has ever taught us how to develop our vision as women neither in the history of arts nor in film schools.— Marie Mandy (Filming Desire)The democratisation of today’s media landscape through new technologies, the recent rise in female-run production companies (Zemler) in Hollywood, along with the ground-breaking #MeToo and Time’s Up movements has elevated the global consciousness of gender-based violence, and has seen the screen industry seek to redress its history of gender imbalance. While it is too early to assess the impact these developments may have on women’s standing in film, today the ‘celluloid ceiling’ still operates on multiple levels of indoctrination and control through a systemic pattern of exclusion for women that upholds the “nearly seamless dialogue among men in cinema” (Lauzen, Thumbs Down 2). Female filmmakers occupy a tenuous position of influence in the mainstream industry and things are not any better on the other side of the camera (Lauzen, The Celluloid Ceiling). For the most part, Hollywood’s male gaze and penchant for sexualising and (physically or figuratively) killing female characters, which normalises violence against women and is “almost inversely proportional to the liberation of women in society” (Mandy), continues to limit women to performing as the image rather than the agent on screen.Film funding bodies and censorship boards, mostly comprised of men, remain exceptionally averse to independent female filmmakers who go against the odds to tell their stories, which often violate taboos about femininity and radically redefine female agency through the construction of the female gaze: a narrational technique of resistance that enables reel woman to govern the point of view, imagery and action of the film (Smelik 51-52). This generally sees their films unjustly ghettoised through incongruent classification or censorship, and forced into independent or underground distribution (Sexton-Finck 165-182). Not only does censorship propose the idea that female agency is abject and dangerous and needs to be restrained, it prevents access to this important cinema by women that aims to counter the male gaze and “shield us from this type of violence” (Gillain 210). This form of ideological and institutional gatekeeping is not only enforced in the film industry, it is also insidiously (re)constituted in the epistemological construction of film discourse and pedagogy, which in their design, are still largely intrinsically gendered institutions, encoded with phallocentric signification that rejects a woman’s specificity and approach to knowledge. Drawing on my mutually informative roles as a former film student and experienced screen educator, I assert that most screen curricula in Australia still uphold entrenched androcentric norms that assume the male gaze and advocate popular cinema’s didactic three-act structure, which conditions our value systems to favour masculinity and men’s worldview. This restorative storytelling approach is argued to be fatally limiting to reel women (Smith 136; Dancyger and Rush 25) as it propagates the Enlightenment notion of a universal subjectivity, based on free will and reason, which neutralises the power structures of society (and film) and repudiates the influence of social positioning on our opportunity for agency. Moreover, through its omniscient consciousness, which seeks to efface the presence of a specific narrator, the three-act method disavows this policing of female agency and absolves any specific individual of responsibility for its structural violence (Dyer 98).By pulling focus on some of these problematic mechanisms in the hostile climate of the film industry and its spaces of learning for women, I became acutely aware of the more latent forms of violence that had conditioned my scriptwriting praxis, the ambivalence I felt towards my female identity, and my consequent gagging of the female character in the screenplay.Changing Lenses How do the specific circumstances in which we write affect what we write? How does what we write affect who we become?— Laurel Richardson (Fields of Play 1)In the beginning, there is an end. Don’t be afraid: it’s your death that is dying. Then: all the beginnings.— Helene Cixous (Cixous and Jensen 41)The discoveries I made during my process of CAP ethnography saw a strong feeling of dissidence arrive inside me. I vehemently wanted to write my way out of my subjugated state and release some of the anguish that my traumatised body was carrying around. I was drawn to militant feminist cinema and the French poststructuralist approach of ‘writing the body’ (l’ecriture feminine) given these deconstructive practices “create images and ideas that have the power to inspire to revolt against oppression and exploitation” (Moi 120). Feminist cinema’s visual treatise of writing the body through its departure from androcentric codes - its unformulaic approach to structure, plot, character and narration (De Lauretis 106) - revealed to me ways in which I could use the scriptwriting process to validate my debilitating experience of physical and psychic violence, decensor my self and move towards rejoining the living. Cixous affirms that, “by writing her self, woman will return to the body which has been more than confiscated from her, which has been turned into…the ailing or dead figure” (Cixous, The Laugh of the Medusa 880). It became clear to me that the persistent themes of death that manifested in the first draft of the script were not, as I first suspected, me ‘rehearsing to die’, or wanting to kill off the woman inside me. I was in fact “not driven towards death but by death” (Homer 89), the close proximity to my mortality, acting as a limit, was calling for a strengthening of my life force, a rebirth of my agency (Bettelheim 36). Mansfield acknowledges that death “offers us a freedom outside of the repression and logic that dominate our daily practices of keeping ourselves in order, within the lines” (87).I challenged myself to write the uncomfortable, the unfamiliar, the unexplored and to allow myself to go to places in me that I had never before let speak by investigating my agency from a much more layered and critical perspective. This was both incredibly terrifying and liberating and enabled me to discard the agentic ‘corset’ I had previously worn in my creative praxis. Dancyger and Rush confirm that “one of the things that happens when we break out of the restorative three-act form is that the effaced narrator becomes increasingly visible and overt” (38). I experienced an invigorating feeling of empowerment through my appropriation of the female gaze in the screenplay which initially appeased some of the post-crash turmoil and general sense of injustice I was experiencing. However, I soon, found something toxic rising inside of me. Like the acrimonious feminist cinema I was immersed in – Raw (Ducournau), A Girl Walks Home at Night (Amirpour), Romance (Breillat), Trouble Every Day (Denis), Baise-Moi (Despentes and Thi), In My Skin (Van), Anatomy of Hell (Breillat) – the screenplay I had produced involved a female character turning the tables on men and using acts of revenge to satisfy her needs. Not only was I creating a highly dystopian world filled with explicit themes of suffering in the screenplay, I too existed in a displaced state of rage and ‘psychic nausea’ in my daily life (Baldick and Sartre). I became haunted by vivid flashbacks of the car crash as abject images, sounds and sensations played over and over in my mind and body like a horror movie on loop. I struggled to find the necessary clarity and counterbalance of stability required to successfully handle this type of experimentation.I do not wish to undermine the creative potential of deconstructive practices, such as writing the body and militant cinema, for female filmmakers. However, I believe my post-trauma sensitivity to visceral entrapment and spiritual violence magnifies some of the psychological and physiological risks involved. Deconstructive experimentation “happens much more easily in the realm of “texts” than in the world of human interaction” (hooks 22) and presents agentic limitations for women since it offers a “utopian vision of female creativity” (Moi 119) that is “devoid of reality...except in a poetic sense” (Moi 122). In jettisoning the restorative qualities of narrative film, new boundaries for women are inadvertently created through restricting us to “intellectual pleasure but rarely emotional pleasure” (Citron 51). Moreover, by reducing women’s agency to retaliation we are denied the opportunity for catharsis and transformation; something I desperately longed to experience in my injured state. Kaplan acknowledges this problem, arguing that female filmmakers need to move theoretically beyond deconstruction to reconstruction, “to manipulate the recognized, dominating discourses so as to begin to free ourselves through rather than beyond them (for what is there ‘beyond’?)” (Women and Film 141).A potent desire to regain a sense of connectedness and control pushed itself out from deep inside me. I yearned for a tonic to move myself and my female character to an active position, rather than a reactive one that merely repeats the victimising dynamic of mainstream film by appropriating a reversed (female) gaze and now makes women the violent victors (Kaplan, Feminism and Film 130). We have arrived at a point where we must destabilise the dominance-submission structure and “think about ways of transcending a polarity that has only brought us all pain” (Kaplan, Feminism and Film 135). I became determined to write a screen narrative that, while dealing with some of the harsh realities of humanity I had become exposed to, involved an existentialist movement towards catharsis and activity.ReframingWhen our stories break down or no longer serve us well, it is imperative that we examine the quality of the stories we are telling and actively reinvent our accounts in ways that permit us to live more fulfilling lives.— Christine Kiesinger (107)I’m frightened by life’s randomness, so I want to deal with it, make some sense of it by telling a film story. But it’s not without hope. I don’t believe in telling stories without some hope.— Susanne Bier (Thomas)Narrative reframing is underlined by the existentialist belief that our spiritual freedom is an artistic process of self-creation, dependent on our free will to organise the elements of our lives, many determined out of our control, into the subjective frame that is to be our experience of our selves and the world around us (107). As a filmmaker, I recognise the power of selective editing and composition. Narrative reframing’s demand for a rational assessment of “the degree to which we live our stories versus the degree to which our stories live us” (Kiesinger 109), helped me to understand how I could use these filmmaking skills to take a step back from my trauma so as to look at it objectively “as a text for study” (Ellis 108) and to exercise power over the creative-destructive forces it, and the deconstructive writing methods I had employed, produced. Richardson confirms the benefits of this practice, since narrative “is the universal way in which humans accommodate to finitude” (Writing Strategies 65).In the script’s development, I found my resilience lay in my capacity to imagine more positive alternatives for female agency. I focussed on writing a narrative that did not avoid life’s hardships and injustices, or require them to be “attenuated, veiled, sweetened, blunted, and falsified” (Nietzsche and Hollingdale 68), yet still involved a life-affirming sentiment. With this in mind, I reintroduced the three-act structure in the revised script as its affectivity and therapeutic denouement enabled me to experience a sense of agentic catharsis that turned “nauseous thoughts into imaginations with which it is possible to live” (Nietzsche 52). Nevertheless, I remained vigilant not to lapse into didacticism; to allow my female character to be free to transgress social conventions surrounding women’s agency. Indebted to Kaplan’s writing on the cinematic gaze, I chose to take up what she identifies as a ‘mutual gaze’; an ethical framework that enabled me to privilege the female character’s perspective and autonomy with a neutral subject-subject gaze rather than the “subject-object kind that reduces one of the parties to the place of submission” (Feminism and Film 135). I incorporated the filmic technique of the point of view (POV) shot for key narrative moments as it allows an audience to literally view the world through a character’s eyes, as well as direct address, which involves the character looking back down the lens at the viewer (us); establishing the highest level of identification between the spectator and the subject on screen.The most pertinent illustration of these significant scriptwriting changes through my engagement with narrative reframing and feminist film theory, is in the reworking of my family’s car crash which became a pivotal turning point in the final draft. In the scene, I use POV and direct address to turn the weaponised gaze back around onto the ‘paparazzi’ who are filming the spectacle. When the central (pregnant) character frees herself from the wreckage, she notices these men filming her and we see the moment from her point of view as she looks at these men laughing and revelling in the commercial potential of their mediatised act. Switching between POV and direct address, the men soon notice they have been exposed as the woman looks back down the lens at them (us) with disbelief, reproaching them (us) for daring to film her in this traumatic moment. She holds her determined gaze while they glance awkwardly back at her, until their laughter dissipates, they stop recording and appear to recognise the culpability of their actions. With these techniques of mutual gazing, I set out to humanise and empower the female victim and neutralise the power dynamic: the woman is now also a viewing agent, and the men equally perform the role of the viewed. In this creative reframing, I hope to provide an antidote to filmic violence against and/or by women as this female character reclaims her (my) experience of survival without adhering to the culture of female passivity or ressentiment.This article has examined how a serious car crash, being filmed against my will in its aftermath and the attendant damages that prevailed from this experience, catalysed a critical change of direction in my scriptwriting. The victimising event helped me recognise the manifest and latent forms of violence against women that are normalised through everyday ideological and institutional systems in film and prevent us from performing as active agents in our creative praxis. There is a critical need for more inclusive modes of practice – across the film industry, discourse and pedagogy – that are cognisant and respectful of women’s specificity and our difference to the androcentric landscape of mainstream film. We need to continue to exert pressure on changing violent mechanisms that marginalise us and ghettoise our stories. As this article has demonstrated, working outside dominant forms can enable important emancipatory opportunities for women, however, this type or deconstruction also presents risks that generally leave us powerless in everyday spaces. While I advocate that female filmmakers should look to techniques of feminist cinema for an alternative lens, we must also work within popular film to critique and subvert it, and not deny women the pleasures and political advantages of its restorative structure. By enabling female filmmakers to (re)humanise woman though encouraging empathy and compassion, this affective storytelling form has the potential to counter violence against women and mobilise female agency. Equally, CAP ethnography and narrative reframing are critical discourses for the retrieval and actualisation of female filmmakers’ agency as they allow us to contextualise our stories of resistance and survival within the framework of a larger picture of violence to gain perspective on our subjective experiences and render them as significant, informative and useful to the lives of others. This enables us to move from the isolated margins of subcultural film and discourse to reclaim our stories at the centre.ReferencesA Girl Walks Home at Night. Dir. Ana Lily Amirpour. Say Ahh Productions, 2014.Anatomy of Hell. Dir. Catherine Breillat. Tartan Films, 2004. Baise-Moi. Dirs. Virginie Despentes and Coralie Trinh Thi. FilmFixx, 2000.Baldick, Robert, and Jean-Paul Sartre. Nausea. 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