Last week the BFI released their list of the “30 Best LGBT Films of All Time.”
I will be watching them through the year and reviewing them from time to time.
Tangerine, Magnolia Picture 2015 Directed By Sean Baker
As a young adult, I was in an emotionally and sexually abusive relationship. Much, but not all of the sexual abuse was coercion, which made it almost difficult for me to recognize for a long time. My partner framed any lack of consent on my part as me rejecting him; or me not being attracted enough to him; or me forcing him to beg for even the smallest crumb of sexual contact.
We were having sex multiple times a week, just for reference.
The consequence to me saying “No,” (sometimes very clearly and directly and sometimes as “I’m too tired” etc) was varied, but was often:
Repeated, continued requests for sex throughout the night
Repeated requests for an agreement to have sex if not that night, then the next day
A long conversation which began, “I know we’re not going to be physical tonight, but I think we need to come to an agreement about how to improve our sex life.”
A long conversation which began, “I know we’re not going to be physical tonight but can we just talk about what turns you on when we do have sex?”
Requests for something “non-sexual” like a hug or cuddling, during which he would sigh to let me know he wanted more
Me finally packing myself for bed and retreating upstairs before things could escalate into a fight
Him (uncharacteristically) deciding that he was going to bed at 9pm instead of 11pm
Me scurrying into my walk-in closet, ripping off my clothes and trying (quick-as-lightning) to shove my body into my pajamas before he entered the room and could see me naked or in various forms of undress
If that worked out, me rushing through my bedtime routine (wash face, brush teeth) so that I could:
Rush into bed, pull up the covers and either fall asleep or pretend to fall asleep before he entered
Whether I was pretend-asleep or definitely awake, him getting into bed and saying, “I know you don’t want to be physical tonight, but could you just hold my balls while I touch myself?”
Me saying, “That’s sexual.”
Him saying, “It’s not really.”
Me saying, (if I felt feisty) “So you’re okay with me doing it to someone else?” Which would result in him asking, “Who would you like to do that to? Tell me about it.”
If I was dumb enough to answer: him both getting turned on, getting off, and days later using the information to jealously accuse me of an affair
If I said, “No,” to holding his balls, there were requests for me to talk to him about something “sexy,” or a fantasy I had. He wanted to get off on my words, even though that too, is sexual and I’d said I didn’t want that
If I said, “Yes,” he would push at every boundary I’d set verbally until finally I exploded in anger and left the bedroom
The talking was worse, felt more invasive, more degrading then holding his balls—because then not even my mind was my own to control—so sometimes I’d agree to holding his balls and pray he wouldn’t ask me to talk to him during it. It was a fifty-fifty shot
If I could remain silent, I could hold him, and move my hands mindlessly like undulating those musical Chinese Balls, disassociate, and make him satisfied
Don’t worry, when I say make him satisfied I just mean he came. The next day, requests for sex were made again complete with: “We haven’t been physical in days.” And, “Well that didn’t count.”
I bring this up because while it’s completely fucked up, I’m not the only one for whom a variation of this has happened, and it’s important to know in order to understand the understated brilliance of Tangerine.
Tangerine is one of the more sensory-stimulating movies I’ve seen in a long time. The music, exaggerated ambient noise and almost Technicolor images set everything inside you on high alert. Even the quiet moments are loud, thick with ambiance, an impressive feat for a movie completely filmed on an iPhone 5s.
The gist of the movie is a kind of day in the life of a black, trans prostitute, Sin-Dee, who just been released from a 28-day stint in jail. She’s trying to find her boyfriend to confront him for cheating on her while she was in lock up. She moves around the streets of LA in frenetic, colorful motion colliding with an equally intriguing ensemble of characters in her crowd work out their own lives.
For me the humanity of Tangerine is housed more within the deep friendship between Sin-Dee and Alexandra (another black, trans prostitute). In the movie’s final scene (spoiler alert!) after a mess of a day where Sin-Dee ends up covered in urine. Alexandra brings her to a laundry mat to clean up. As Sin-Dee is forced to disrobe she is resistant to give up her wig, her cloak of female-identity. Alexandra, understanding the devastation, gives her friend the wig off her own head to preserve Sin-Dee’s pride.
In fact, sitting alone in my living room, with all the lights out, and nothing but the fire, illuminating the walls, I was terrified by how close I felt to their experiences.
There’s a scene Alexandra gets into the car of a john. I was connected with her completely. Black, transwoman, prostitute and I. One and the same.
He’s looking for a blow job. He puts $40 on the dashboard and she tells him her price is $80 or no dice.
He says, “I can do all the work and jerk myself off. Maybe you can just grab my balls or something. Please it’ll be super fast. Come on, it’s Christmas.”
It’s horrible and creepy, especially when you realize that you’ve heard the virtually the same words coming from a partner of yours. Who wasn’t paying you. Because he said he loved you.
“I’ll touch myself,” the john says, “you just grab my balls.”
The scene cuts away and then when we rejoin Alexandra she has her hand in the John’s lap. She’s looking extremely frustrated and bored and she tries to stop, tells him he’s taking too long. She tries to revoke consent.
“Can you give it a little stroke, please?” he says.
“No, you get what you paid for,” she retorts.
He blames her for not being able to remain hard, then he refuses to pay her because he doesn’t get off.
She holds his balls, but he doesn’t pay her.
He says it doesn’t count.
We know it was never going to count.
Alexandra does not get upset or collapse into a puddle. She barely winces and then goes about her day. It’s not just because she’s a sex worker and that’s par for the course—although probably it is. She is used to men seeing her body as their possession for sexual gratification. She is used to no one giving a shit because it’s not like she’s been raped or beaten. This was years before #metoo, but honestly, even in the midst of the #metoo movement, people are having the same reaction.
Female-identified folks are expected to do all the pleasing, the loving, the feeling. And if we try to reject it, set boundaries, we are forced, coerced and manipulated into doing it anyway. If we stay strong, we are told we are failing. You can tell us not to buy into the standards all you want. Sometimes it just wears you down.
You can argue she could leave her profession.
You can argue I could have left my relationship.
That’s true. But once it happens enough, you begin to feel like you’re just going to leave one bad thing for another. The devil you know, and all that.
This is what makes that moment of female friendship in the laundry mat so moving. The friends’ strength and care does not just get to exist in a rosy-colored vacuum. They have to keep their walls up enough to deal with assholes like the John in the car. It perfectly captures female responsibility in the current structure of the world. You are required to be sexy, and strong, and caring, all at once. It’s an impossible task except in the smallest of ways: for one moment, Alexandra chooses vulnerability and removes part of her own identity in order to preserve Sin-Dee’s. Here, the film redefines and deeply honors true relationships and love.
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