Saturday, August 11, 2007
The film is lush and evocative; it is erotic and deeply emotional; it is the sound of cicadas chirping in the luxuriant green of a forest that has shot out from deep within the sticky fecundity of life-giving mud. It is the roar of the ocean as it crashes with fury against the shore, it is the taste of dancing flames on wilting wicks; it is a concerto or a melancholic air played with rolling intensity on a beach.
I am talking, of course, about The Piano, a 1993 film made by New Zealand director Jane Campion. She is considered an auteur, the first female auteur, to be exact. And is the site of energetic discourse on feminist, pyschoanalytic and postcolonial theory.
I was supposed to do a tutorial presentation on the film. How apt that the film is about a mute woman who expresses herself through means other than language (the law of the Father)! I was the first in the enture tutorial to do my presentation, the one who was supposed to set the bar, the one who gives people an idea of what to expect for when their turn to do their presentations arrive admidst the great fanfare of last minute Sunday night paperwork.
So yeah, no pressures there.
I focused on pyschoanlytic and postcolonial theory (the other person who did her presentation on The Piano focused on feminist theory), delving into ideas I barely understood myself. Lacan and his mirror phase, depictions of Maori culture in New Zealand; I was hanging by a bare thread, trying to keep myself one step ahead.
"I might ask questions for clarification," my tutor explains serenely, and I nod my head, though my mouth has gone dry.
But I plunge ahead, I tell myself to trust my own preparation, which I know on an intellectual level is adequate, more than adequate, but oh so bloody scary people are going to ask questions and I won't be able to answer and people are going to fall asleep and my tutor is going to issue a tough challenge to something I say which will derail my train of thought completely and leave me completely stunned and silent!
Which, funnily enough, didn't happen.
As I share ideas, ideas of theorists so esteemed they bring shudders of admiration deep in my spine; I offer my opinions on them, I deflect counter-arguments, I feel my voice gaining strength and courage as I go on.
And my tutor is pleased. She tells me my presentation is 'weighty' and complex', she tells me I have made a good choice in the clip I showed to the class. She thanks me.
And I am filled with a sort of wonder that I have got through this. Like Ada and her piano, like Ada and her elegant sign language, like Ada and her delightful relationship with her daughter; like Ada with her refusal to capitulate to the 'Law of the Father' through spoken language, my fearful, hesitant presentation, my clumsy wounding of my inner demons, is in no small part a measure of some feminine resistance.
I am talking, of course, about The Piano, a 1993 film made by New Zealand director Jane Campion. She is considered an auteur, the first female auteur, to be exact. And is the site of energetic discourse on feminist, pyschoanalytic and postcolonial theory.
I was supposed to do a tutorial presentation on the film. How apt that the film is about a mute woman who expresses herself through means other than language (the law of the Father)! I was the first in the enture tutorial to do my presentation, the one who was supposed to set the bar, the one who gives people an idea of what to expect for when their turn to do their presentations arrive admidst the great fanfare of last minute Sunday night paperwork.
So yeah, no pressures there.
I focused on pyschoanlytic and postcolonial theory (the other person who did her presentation on The Piano focused on feminist theory), delving into ideas I barely understood myself. Lacan and his mirror phase, depictions of Maori culture in New Zealand; I was hanging by a bare thread, trying to keep myself one step ahead.
"I might ask questions for clarification," my tutor explains serenely, and I nod my head, though my mouth has gone dry.
But I plunge ahead, I tell myself to trust my own preparation, which I know on an intellectual level is adequate, more than adequate, but oh so bloody scary people are going to ask questions and I won't be able to answer and people are going to fall asleep and my tutor is going to issue a tough challenge to something I say which will derail my train of thought completely and leave me completely stunned and silent!
Which, funnily enough, didn't happen.
As I share ideas, ideas of theorists so esteemed they bring shudders of admiration deep in my spine; I offer my opinions on them, I deflect counter-arguments, I feel my voice gaining strength and courage as I go on.
And my tutor is pleased. She tells me my presentation is 'weighty' and complex', she tells me I have made a good choice in the clip I showed to the class. She thanks me.
And I am filled with a sort of wonder that I have got through this. Like Ada and her piano, like Ada and her elegant sign language, like Ada and her delightful relationship with her daughter; like Ada with her refusal to capitulate to the 'Law of the Father' through spoken language, my fearful, hesitant presentation, my clumsy wounding of my inner demons, is in no small part a measure of some feminine resistance.
# posted by me lah @ 12:08 am 
