Queer-Coded Classics (Pride pt. VII)

Rope

Calamity Jane

On the last Thursday of this momentous month, we’re closing out our celebration of pride by going back to the beginning—where queer cinema started. The queer-coded subtext of early 20th century cinema encapsulated the cultural awareness and forced secrecy of LGBTQ+ life. Queer existence may not have been accepted at the time, but it was by no means unknown. In 1895, one of the first moving pictures ever made—The Dickson Experimental Sound Film—is a 17 second clip of two men dancing. By the 1920s, depictions of gay life were essentially a staple on screen. There were all manner of stereotypes and expectedly limited identities represented: sissies and pansies and the occasional masculine woman with BDE. The first ever on-screen same sex kiss was in Cecile B. Demille’s 1922 film Manslaughter, where the iconic Marlene Dietrich kisses another woman. It might’ve been cheeky and a little shocking to some, but these depictions were largely accepted and enjoyed at the time. But by the early 1930s, The Motion Picture Production Code (or the Hays Code) was introduced, and so began the censorship LGBTQ+ characters, disagreeable content, and pretty much all fun. These things didn’t disappear though, they just had to live in the shadows of the subtext. Nothing was too explicit, but there were signs within the frames. One of the most common representations of queer characters came in the form of, you guessed it, villains. Homosexuality was seemingly only allowed only if it was presented in a negative way, with clear consequences. Queer characters were reduced to maniacal and sadistic caricatures, from lesbian vampires to the antagonists of tonight’s first film: Alfred Hitchock’s 1948 film Rope. Hitchcock was, as this article states, "a complicated, twisted, and mischievous man—characteristics that show up in all his great movies” Hitchcock was not just a clever auteur, he was, allegedly, an abuser—going even beyond the intense psychological torture displayed by directors like Kubrick and engaging in just straight up sexual assault. While I may praise Hitchcock’s twisted filmography, I think it’s important to note that whatever darkness he depicted on screen was never as twisted as he was himself, off screen. Unfortunately, he is also one of the best auteurs of queer-coded classics—a master in implementing hints and signs to those who could see them. He did this in at least six of his films, and while he seemed to be quite accustomed to and comfortable with gay subculture and LGBTQ+ life, his films definitely worked in reinforcing dangerous stereotypes and fears attached to queerness. His 1948 film Rope follows in the philosophy of “be gay, do crimes”, as it follows Brandon and Phillip, two “friends” who decide to kill their former classmate then throw a party in the apartment where they’ve hidden his body. The two murderers were based on the real life murderers Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb, who allegedly spent seven months planning what they thought to be the “perfect crime” to prove their “intellectual superiority”. The real story of Leopold and Loeb is far grislier than the one performed in Rope, but it’s clear that Hitchcock had a profound fascination with these subjects, and their peculiar relationship to one another. One thing I appreciate about Hitchcock’s films is that they do not mince words, they do not burn slowly, they get right to the point—and such was the case with Rope, where the very first scene shows Brandon and Phillip strangling their victim with the titular murder weapon. Once their victim and former classmate is dead, they place his body inside a large bookcase in the living room—the same living room where, that night, a party will be thrown. Brandon is thrilled at the thought of hiding the body in plain sight then entertaining his guests but Phillip has much more trepidation. But Brandon tells Phillip to relax and says “You know I never did anything unless I did it perfectly”—a very gay proclamation if I ever heard one. As the guests arrive and mingle, Brandon holds court with ease while Phillip plays the piano. It is never said what the exact nature of Phillip and Brandon’s relationship is beyond former classmates, but a certain trust and intimacy is shared between them—one that could only come from close, close friends, or lovers. And yet, their relationship is hardly the gayest part of this movie. The rope itself, not to mention how it’s held and stroked, is quite phallic, but Hitchcock wasn’t titillated enough by that. Little by little, more phallicism presents itself, in candleholders and champagne bottles—my god, I could write a whole blog post about the way these men hold and touch champagne bottles. Nothing felt accidental from this ally’s POV, it all seemed fairly in-your-face without ever saying anything. Phillip represents a softer, more uneasy brand of queer representation and Brandon with his confident, conniving presence was serving a bit of Dennis Reynolds. But they’re not the only queer-coded characters. While Phillip and Brandon are codependent lovers of the arts in search of perfection, it’s leading man Jimmy Stewart, with his 1940s Nic Cage twang, who delivers some of the gayest lines in the entire script. While Brandon and Phillip may be murderous and at the very least, caddy, Jimmy Stewart waltzes in like a pissed off queen ready to go off on someone, constantly making jokes that sound far too sincere to be made in jest, and critiquing various elements of the apartment’s decor. Stewart’s protagonist is not only just as sociopathic as the killers, he’s just as sexually ambiguous. It’s Stewart’s character who really shakes things up at this party, bringing up Sigmund Freud and moments later roasting the things he detests most in life which he says are, and I quote, “bird lovers, small children, and tap dancers”, in that order. Now I’ve been to my fair share of gay dinner parties, but this was by far the most chaotic. Joan Chandler and Constance Collier were the only women at this party and provided lots of funny hag commentary—with Collier in particular throwing the most shade and seemingly acting as Hitchcock’s mouthpiece as she struggles to remember the names of Ingmar Bergman films and talks shit about Scorpios (we’ve been misunderstood since the 40s 🙄) The party, while teeming with mystery and confusion, is rather chill for one with a dead body as its centerpiece, and between the conversations surrounding zodiac signs, films, celebrity crushes, and murder, it seemed like any party I normally attend. And while villainy is certainly not the most fair or flattering representation of queer people, there was no violent, horrific end to this story like I expected. Truly, the darkest part of this film is done with in the first ten minutes, and the rest is just gay anxiety. Speaking of which, let’s move onto the final film of pride month: Doris Day’s 1953 movie musical Calamity Jane. This film was technically directed by a man named David Butler, but Calamity Jane is a Doris Day film before it is anything else. When scholars and film critics discuss queer-coded cinema, Calamity Jane is always high on the list. It features a very (by 1950s standards) butched up version of girly film icon Doris Day, and the city of Deadwood—where, seemingly Calamity Jane is the only female inhabitant. Calamity Jane, the character, is based on a real-life sharpshooter and frontierswoman, but the film Calamity Jane bears almost no resemblance to her actual story. Calamity Jane is a western and a musical, which are two of the most inherently gay genres—sorry, I don’t make the rules. They’re also genres that are quite polarizing for me, as someone who loves musicals and falls asleep during westerns, but I was so pleasantly surprised by this film. The film follows Calamity Jane, a courageous and experienced sharpshooter who hangs with the boys and dresses like them too. She is utilized as a source of protection against neighboring native American tribes (which, as you probably guessed, were not depicted in the best light) but as a human being, she is puzzling to her community, and to those outside of it. When Jane takes it upon herself to travel to Chicago to convince the beautiful singer Adelaid Adams to come perform in Deadwood, Jane instead finds the diva’s maid, Katie Brown—who’s soft, silky femininity bewitches Jane. Jane looks Katie up and down, her eyes searching and studying every curve and frill accessible, and comes to the earth-shattering conclusion that she’s never resembled this kind of female presentation. And while Katie is no Adelaid Adams—a name that becomes synonymous with the peak of female beauty standards—Katie is the perfect cure for Deadwood’s lack of entertainment and Jane’s lack of femininity. Calamity Jane, as a whole, is a very interesting study of gender and gender performance. There are men in drag, men as damsels in distress, and Calamity Jane not only sharp shoots and drives, she is the object of flirtation for women in a brief moment in the Chicago scenes. For a movie that, I must admit, seemed rather dull, there wasn’t a dull moment and there wasn’t any hiding the queer subtext. Katie ends up moving in with Jane, and coaching her in the feminine arts. The unfortunate thing that is echoed throughout, though, is that Calamity Jane is too masculine to be desired by men, and too feminine to be respected by men. But the good thing, the surprising thing is that while Jane undergoes somewhat of a transformation, she never fully sacrifices who she is. While Katie’s purpose is seemingly to “fix” or change Jane into a more feminine being, it’s clear that their bond goes beyond friendship. And while Jane does, by the end, become a bit softer, a bit more feminine, she never loses her sense of freedom or her gun. (lol) Calamity Jane is the first musical to feature an undoubtedly gay anthem, called Secret Love, and while the film tries to convince you that Doris Day is singing about her new relationship with an old male pal of hers, it was pretty obvious to me, dear reader that she was singing about Katie. It’s Katie she trusts and looks up to, it’s Katie she protects when the town turns on her, and it’s Katie Jane chases after on a wild horse when Katie suddenly leaves town. And while this film ends in a double hetero wedding, which is somehow queer-coded in and of itself, Calamity Jane is a triumph of lesbian cinema, and of queer cinema in general. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading about these random and wild queer-coded classics as much as I enjoyed watching them, and I hope you’ll check in and read my ramblings again next week. Ta ta! 🥂