III. Ideology and
Spectatorship
Ideological Readings
When ideology is regarded as involving a series
of tensions arising from competing interests – economic, ethnic, religious
or gender-based – the products of popular culture may reflect and help
shape these. Film genres such as police dramas that embody dominant,
patriarchal values will therefore be read as natural and in accordance
with the world view of adherents of the dominant ideology, while negotiated
readings involve selective emphasis on certain portions of the text that
overlap with the perspective of the viewer. Oppositional readings
might explicitly regard the entire text as an expression of ideology.
Independent of the structure of their surface
text, GWG titles appear to operate primarily in one of three narrative
modes that can differ according to the ideological reading suggested.
In addition to generally recuperative and inherently conservative police
procedurals, it may be useful to borrow two elements of Napier’s (Note
10) typology of anime – films that also frequently
foreground the female body in extremis – comprising the “personal apocalyptic”
and “carnivalesque.” Napier’s description of individual bodies in
transition (personal apocalyptic) may be contrasted with the rebellious,
violent, and sometimes bawdy disinhibition of the carnivalesque or “festival”
mode (Note 11)
that up-ends the dominant ideology if only temporarily. When
applied to GWG films, carnivalesque narratives might include not only action
comedies with subversive elements (e.g., “The Outlaw Brothers,” 1990),
but also those that involve prominent – albeit temporary – shifts in roles
(e.g., “Widow Warriors,” 1990). Personal apocalyptic narratives may
include vengeance, assassin or fugitive titles involving the apocalyptic
transformations of loss – of physical safety, personal honor, autonomy
or even life. Particular films can combine these various narrative
modes.
Most GWG police procedurals bear resemblances
to their televisual antecedents, while personal apocalyptic and carnivalesque
narratives may be distinguished by the degree to which the principal female
protagonist is foregrounded. Personal apocalyptic mode may grant
the greatest screen time to the female protagonist as she undergoes her
transformation, but it remains important to gauge the extent to which her
character truly drives the narrative. In the classic and disturbing
HK title “Her Vengeance,” Pauline Wong’s character completely dominates
the screen and the narrative. She is clearly the “bearer of the gaze,”
to the extent that the camera makes extensive use of close-ups of her eyes
in a modification of shot/counter-shot conventions in which she visually
interrogates the targets of her counter-aggression. The viewer is
invited to identify with her perspective as a predator. This is achieved
without fetishization of the body or incorporation of prominent gender-coded
symbols. The very ordinariness of her appearance and manner throughout
the film only magnifies its horrific impact.
By contrast, many carnivalesque films diffuse
narrative continuity across sub-plots and characters – often co-mingling
genres. Thus, the path-breaking “Yes, Madam!” (1985) could be considered
a carnivalesque blend of comedy, crime and police procedural. Roles
are exaggerated, and when conventions are flouted it is often with heightened
drama. By contrast, the “In The Line of Duty” films that shortly
succeeded “Yes, Madam!” tended to be straightforward police procedurals.
Police procedurals and muscle dramas are among
the genres most closely identified with Western male viewing preferences
(Note
12) and patriarchal ideology. In these
genres, male controlled power structures typically delegate authority to
the individual protagonist which is then used in the service of the state
or more vulnerable persons (frequently women). The protagonist’s
conflicts or deficiencies are frequently resolved by a partner or “buddy.”
Authority requires objectivity, emotional self-regulation, and the absence
of sexuality. The action is characterized by individualism, competitiveness,
and regard for rules or norms. The mise-en-scene in such genre productions
frequently involves prominent symbols of civil authority (e.g., police
stations) or gendered symbols (machinery, cars, weapons). The protagonists
are frequently depicted in motion, creating visual excitement. Formal
power structures tend to be patriarchal and are often explicitly held by
men.
HK police procedurals have tended to adhere quite
closely to these formulaic elements, irrespective of whether the leading
characters are male or female. This encompasses many of the police
actioners such as the “In The Line of Duty” series as well as police “buddy”
films that have sometimes placed female martial artists such as Sharon
Yeung (e.g., “Angel Terminators,” 1990; “Princess Madam,” 1989) within
the pair. Such genre films can be thoroughly entertaining.
However, when conventionally physically beautiful, conspicuously costumed
female performers are included, this device positions the female protagonists
as objects of the male gaze within otherwise familiar male-coded narrative
conventions. It is perhaps no coincidence that many of the best-known
GWG police action genre films placed former beauty contestants or dancers
in such parts (Michelle Yeoh, Cynthia Khan, Moon Lee, Joyce Godenzi).
Carnivalesque films often involve startling (to
Western viewers) reversals or modifications of role. Examples include
the exuberant, violent abandon of “Angel” in which both the heroes and
villain were played by women seemingly bent on overturning as many superficial
gender conventions in action film as possible. While the female heroes
(Moon Lee and Elaine Lui) mount a tongue-in-cheek paramilitary operation
that involves aggressive driving, tracking devices, paramilitary fatigues
and automatic weapons, they are also required to rescue the male FBI agent
(Alex Fong) sent to help coordinate the operation! The gunplay is
as immoderate as any Hollywood action film, yet violates the norms of even
this familiar genre by deliberately folding a man over a detonating hand
grenade. In the person of their opponent, they face a skillful, ruthless
woman (played by Japanese martial artist Yukari Oshima) who is both physically
and intellectually competent, as well as quite emotionally expressive –
albeit in a highly deviant manner. “Angel” arguably permits a range
of negotiated readings, including patriarchal, progressive and subversive.
On balance the frame is still constructed in accordance with dominant ideology.
Both the law enforcement and criminal leaders are male; their concerns
are law and order, money and power. The patriarchal order is ultimately
restored by the intervention of male authority. But within the space
of the text, Yukari Oshima opens up a possibility of seemingly unstoppable
personal power that is as convincingly ferocious as it is clearly not masculine.
Recuperative elements seem less immediately apparent
in the case of “Widow Warriors.” After all, it is the women (Tien
Niu, Elizabeth Lee, Kara Hui, Michiko Nishiwaki) who seize control of the
crime syndicate and their own fates, following the murder of their father,
brothers or husbands. In so doing they must battle intrigue as well
as direct, armed attack. A range of skills and characteristics is
displayed by these resilient individuals, some of whom are drawn as well
rounded, reflective people who are able to express genuine emotional range.
But, as was the case with “Widows,” the opening sequences of the film establish
that all the women had relationships with the men who actually ran the
family’s criminal and legitimate businesses. In this manner, the
problematic of “femininity” raised by their subsequent actions is effectively
neutralized. Men have wanted them. In other respects, the film
fares quite well. Patriarchal assumptions are foregrounded, but not
uncritically. After all, it is the poor judgment of the males that
establishes the narrative. Nevertheless, the narrative is still established
and framed by patriarchal discourse although a comparatively broad latitude
for negotiated readings is offered.
A further carnivalesque title may be briefly considered.
“The Outlaw Brothers” (1990) was a relatively successful film that featured
some outstanding martial arts sequences involving participants of both
genders. The sheer spectacle of martial arts skill is buttressed
by a number of symbolic elements. Several elements of parody are
also prominent. The principal plot axis turns on theft of exotic
sports cars. Sub-plots concern a romance between a charming car thief
(Max Mok) and a calculating nightclub hostess (Sharon Kwok), and an apparent
flirtation between the car thief’s partner (Frankie Chan) and the businesslike
female police officer (Yukari Oshima) who is investigating them.
The costuming and flirtatious gestures turn out to be a device. In
the climax, the bleeding but triumphant female police officer subdues her
adversaries (Michiko Nishiwaki, Jeff Falcon, Mark Houghton), sidesteps
the advances of her male colleague (Miu Kiu-wai) – at one point she smilingly
offers him the trash can as a vase for the flowers he brings her – and
arrests the car thieves. As Chan’s character makes a final appeal
to their supposed relationship, she responds “eat turd.”
This entire film can easily be read as a relatively
subversive parody. Both the car thieves and police are presented
in ways that can challenge dominant ideological assumptions. Their
characters do not strongly invite identification, and prompt recognition
of how patriarchal norms can operate. The female police investigator
proves to be stronger and more cunning than any of them. Although
her personal life remains opaque, she manages to remain professionally
engaged and capable as well as (to the male gaze) appealing in her (parodic)
undercover role – yet without surrendering personal power in either instance.
Playfulness with roles characterizes many GWG films, meriting in many cases
more sympathetic viewing. It can still be argued that the film is
nevertheless framed by patriarchal discourse. It is an action film
that counterposes crime with law and order. The mise-en-scene frequently
involves the male-oriented contexts of sports cars and commercial locations.
And yet, in a brief scene set in a fitness club – seemingly incidental
to the narrative – a young woman asks Oshima’s police officer (who is working
undercover as a fitness trainer) whether her exercises are enlarging her
bust line. She is disconsolate to learn that no enlargement has occurred.
This scene is presented and acted in a manner that mocks the implied stereotype
and accompanying male “look.” Neither of the women embodies the stereotype
and they enjoy a brief, ironic moment. Such elements point to subversive
reading possibilities. However, it can be argued that the body of
the female martial artist as an object for display may nevertheless be
fetishized even here – although clearly not in accordance with typical
attractiveness stereotypes.
Female action films in personal apocalyptic mode
are frequently more ideologically problematic. A few, such as “Soul”
(1986) or “Mahjong Dragon” (1997) feature middle-aged women whose lives
are unexpectedly disrupted. Narrative elements in these films cluster
around communication, emotion and relationship significance rather than
a primary emphasis on action. Many assumptions of patriarchal ideology
are implicitly debated, although the framing, overall, remains unaltered
since it is the death of a husband or search for a husband that prompts
the protagonist’s personal crisis. Despite this obvious limitation,
“Soul” explores the transformation in the life of the central female character
(Deanie Yip) as a result of her marriage. Interestingly, her resolution
of current threats turns her previously accepted marital status into a
problematic.
Other variants of the personal apocalyptic involve
a victim-victimizer dialectic. Two surface narratives are common.
In one, the principal female character performs an act that places her
beyond the pale. This may range from an unplanned crime to deliberate
assassination. Isolated by her actions, she then discovers romance
with a nurturing male. She frequently dies – as, occasionally, does
her male consort – as patriarchal forces re-establish order. Such
films as “Beyond Hypothermia” first problematize woman’s independent actions,
then recuperate the patriarchal order initially by romance, then by destroying
her. Further problematic elements in these texts involve nationality
(frequently the female characters are identified as of Vietnamese origin)
and occasionally sexual preference. The prominence of male-gendered
symbolic elements such as guns further codes these texts as representations
of patriarchal ideology.
The second type of film seems modeled after
the vengeance genre that originated with American films such as “I Spit
On Your Grave” and “Ms. 45.” One of the most prominent features of
HK films such as “Her Vengeance” is that virtually every male character
may be depicted as venal, unworthy or callous. Each of the male assailants
creates the circumstances for his own destruction by enacting vice-laden
personal scripts. In “Her Vengeance” the examining (male) gynecologist
is blatantly offensive and unsympathetic. Incidental male characters
display gambling greed or public drunkenness – vomiting copiously.
Even the central female character’s one male friend (a journalist) tries
to grope her crotch after hearing she has an incurable STD. Significantly,
apart from the principal female character (Pauline Wong), the only sympathetic
figures belong to marginalized groups – her sister who is blind, brother-in-law
who is paraplegic, and friend who is a nightclub hostess. Unlike
some films that portray the assailants as physically repulsive – hence
clearly separate – “Her Vengeance” codes the behavior of all its intact
male figures as collectively culpable. Consequently, the film addresses
abuse and stigma in a way that clearly brackets these with patriarchal
ideology. However, the film’s resolution enacted by Pauline Wong’s
character is pure horror, involving systematic serial murders executed
with sometimes marginal physical competence. This conflates the important
ideological message with conventions of the “monstrous feminine” (Note
13) to create a decidedly ambiguous figure.
Other vengeance titles such as “The Lady Punisher”
(1994) support the dominant ideology by their relatively gratuitous depictions
of assault or sexuality, and adoption of male gendered conventions of exaggerated
autonomy and violence. It is the interesting exceptions to these
conventions that allow somewhat different negotiated readings.
Notes: Ideology and Spectatorship
10. Napier, op. cit., pp. 29 – 33.
11. Napier, op. cit., pp. 30 – 31, suggests
that the Festival Mode is often linked to female characters, perhaps due
to relative disempowerment in the culture. The notion of Carnivalesque
is also discussed by Harry Benshoff, “The monster and the homosexual.”
In, Mark Jancovich (Ed.), Horror, the Film Reader. London:
Routledge, 2002, pp. 91 – 102, esp. p. 98.
12. See Williams, op. cit., p. 275 and Kaplan,
op. cit., p. 263 for theorized gendered preferences. However, also
note that female viewers constitute half the local audience for action
films in HK (Bordwell, op. cit., p. 153).
13. Barbara Creed, The Monstrous-Feminine:
Film, Feminism, Psychoanalysis. London: Routledge, 1993.