Author: Catherine Xie

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Orientalism, Ornamentalism, Brownface/Yellowface in Old Hollywood

Something that immediately stuck out to me while watching Lawrence of Arabia was Alec Guinness’s performance as King Faisal and Anthony Quinns’ performance as Auda abu Tayi. While both actors were both obviously caucasian, both took lengths to appear more Oriental, with Guinness darkening his lashes with mascara and Quinn going as far to wear a fake nose prosthetic and darken his skin with dye. This was, of course, done instead of casting any native actors in major roles for the production. This immediately brought to mind a related study on the usage of yellowface in older Hollywood films (adjacent to this topic but still overall connected through the theory of Orientalism) that I had encountered in another class, particularly through the case study of Anna Mae Wong. 

Anna Mae Wong, the first Asian American actress to make it to big Hollywood, often starred in Orientalized and hypersexualized roles in major blockbuster productions such as “Daughter of the Dragon,” and “The Thief of Baghdad” (the latter, interestingly, takes place in Baghdad where an entirely white cast plays Muslims while Anna Mae Wong plays the ambiguously Asian and scantily clad slave). She is situated in the unique position of being both a pioneer and a perpetrator/opportunist, as while she did open the doorway for Asians in Hollywood, she did so through an Orientalist lens. Notably, she was also passed up the main female lead O-Lan in The Good Earth in favor of a yellowface Luise Rainer, a film that snagged both best picture and best actress at the Oscars in 1938. Anna Mae Wong introduces an offshoot on Said’s Orientalism — Anne Anlin Cheng’s Ornamentalism, an essay that defines ornamentalism as a “conjoined presences of the oriental, the feminine, and the decorative.” With this definition there is a clear implication of the loss of power: if a woman is to be so drastically associated with an aesthetic that she “live[s] as an object,” then she must, by association, have the same power as that object. In essence, she lacks agency. Her presence is admired, yet it holds little power. 

Anna Mae Wong perfectly fit into the framework of ornamentalism, and the legacy of Eastern representation can be understood through a relative comparison. Guinness and Quinn play Middle Eastern characters, but their power is excused by the fact that they are, ultimately, white. The same can be said of Peter O’Toole, but flipped. This can also be applied off the screen: Lawrence is neither a woman or Oriental, but it is fascinating that he is coded under both identities. His struggle with homosexuality, both inner and outer through other people’s perceptions, as well as his familiarity with the Bedouin, complicates his legacy as a man of great agency. 

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Freya Stark and Freudian Psychology

In Passionate Nomad, Jane Geniesse ranges from implying to outright diagnosing Freya’s adult choices and tendencies as a result of her tumultuous childhood. Her desire to please? A consequence of being devoted to a narcissistic mother. Her love for the outdoors? Her father’s influence in making her walk through the woods alone. Her love for extravagances? A need to offset the poverty she grew up in. Her desire for freedom and exploration? The result of her helplessness while sequestered in Italy. The list goes on and on, and wrapped within the layers of her psyche appears to be an interlocking relationship between the Freudian idea of domesticity and childhood with the gendered fantasy of the East. 

Alice in Wonderland, or originally, Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There by Lewis Carroll is largely regarded as a metaphor for a young girls’ psychosexual self-discovery. Written in 1871 and an instant literary classic, it feels a bit divinely coincidental when Freya writes in Perseus and the Wind, “Whatever the ultimate origins, the book of Genesis gives a summary of the repeated story: delight in external things, and then human hunger for truth beyond. Eve, Psyche, Pandora, they would look, not, like the Lady of Shalot, away home the mirror, but through it, to see what is hidden behind the moving show: until the face of things becomes an impedi- ment to them and a torment, a barrier to the simplicity of truth.” Here, Stark equates herself with mythical figures of creation and exploration, but the critical lens we’ve applied to her in class makes her out rather to be the young Alice: bumbling through Wonderland, running away from the confines of mundane life, chased by some fear and ghost of her childhood. This analogy sets up how, in the minds of female colonial explorers such as Stark, the East functioned as a psychosexual space of “self-discovery.” In a world where every action was policed, freedom only existed and fantasy, and the East was a living embodiment. On some level this mentality persists even today, with common tropes of mid-life crisis prompting a trip to India

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Fantasy of Fantasy: A Comparison of Language in Queen of the Desert and Dune

In class, I briefly made a point about the use of language in Queen of the Desert (in which most of the dialogue is in English, with only certain buzzwords, names, and greetings in Arabic or relevant Middle Eastern languages) and the use of Arabic in made-up languages in fantastical films based off the Middle East, such as Dune. Where does one draw the line between accessibility, exoticization, and authenticity? When Herzog’s Iran is as much a fantasy as Director Villeneuve’s Arrakis, what lends one white-made artistic vision credibility and the other condemnation?

After a bit of sleuthing, I found a New Yorker article, ‘“Dune” and the Delicate Art of Making Fictional Languages’ (https://www.newyorker.com/culture/cultural-comment/dune-and-the-delicate-art-of-making-fictional-languages?_sp=7e36c459-8134-41bc-9eee-8d6d99565401.1760207334616), which ruminates adjacently on this topic. In Dune, Arabic is the “language of greatest influence…[where the fantasy language] uses at least eighty terms with clear Arabic origins, many of them tied to Islam.” Amongst these words are, most notably, istislah (“natural law”), ijaz (“prophecy”), and names, such as shai-hulud (“thing of eternity”) and mu’addib (teacher). Strikingly, the word jihad, while present in the books, is excluded purposefully in the films, as not to perpetuate modern negative associations. The reasoning for these inclusions is unique; of course, the filmmakers thought it apt to pay tribute to the Middle East, but they also reason that Dune takes place so far in the future the language must have evolved beyond recognition, just as how English has evolved dramatically since Beowolf. There are some other stand-out lines from the article; particularly, when addressing the white-washing of certain characters, scholar Khaldoun Kheli states that “Arabs can’t be heroes…we must be erased.”

These two films hold an interesting dichotomy; Queen of the Desert is a fantasy of a Middle Eastern past, while Dune is essentially a fantasy of a Middle Eastern future. With a shared inspiration, the similarities and differences are fascinating. Both films deal with the colonization of the Middle East (perhaps subconsciously suggesting, though this may be a bit of a long shot, that a place only becomes accessible and relevant after a white man has stepped into it). Herzog’s film seems obviously fetishistic, while Villeneuve executes with more taste and tact. Both films suffer from White Hero Syndrome: Timothee Chalamet plays the world’s legendary prophet Lisan al-Gaib, and Gertrude Bell is bestowed the title of Umm al-Mu’minin (wife of the prophet) by King Faisal (how interesting that these are both Islamic epithets of the highest honor, which the narrative and history has bestowed upon white characters). 

This projects onto a greater point of Orientalism, which characterizes the East as essentially a colonial fantasy. There is quite a depressing argument to be made here, which is that in the past, present, and future, the Middle East is imprisoned within the exaggerated imaginations of white creators. However, that may be too reductionist of a generalization to make in such short a post, as camel races did exist, Gertrude Bell was in fact named Umm al-Mu’minin, and the argument about Beowulf does make quite a lot of sense. Rather, the key definer seems to be about framing, rather than content. However, I am  unfortunately running out of space — hopefully a commentator can take it from here.

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The Mirror Trick

The Mirror Trick

In Marie-Odele Delacour and Jean-René Hulue’s “Introduction: The Game of ‘I’”, they draw special attention to the rhetorical and thematic use of perspective in Eberhardt’s writing. In “The Mirror,” a short prelude to the rest of her short story collection, the first-person narrator is Mahmoud Saadi. He is a male wanderer who becomes the vessel for Isabel’s writing, though in the text he is not named, and without further inspection his role is mostly passive. The more active subject is Mohammed, who is described to be of “perfect masculine beauty.”. Mahmoud observes Mohammed looking at himself in a little penny mirror and speculates at his interiority — at the end Mohammed closes the mirror and smiles, and the reader is left unsure as to whether Mohammed was using the mirror to spy upon the spying on Mahmoud.

While reading this passage, I remembered a quote that’s been pinging itself around in my head recently. Margaret Atwood says: “Male fantasies, male fantasies, is everything run by male fantasies? Up on a pedestal or down on your knees, it’s all a male fantasy: that you’re strong enough to take what they dish out, or else too weak to do anything about it. Even pretending you aren’t catering to male fantasies is a male fantasy: pretending you’re unseen, pretending you have a life of your own, that you can wash your feet and comb your hair unconscious of the ever-present watcher peering through the keyhole, peering through the keyhole in your own head, if nowhere else. You are a woman with a man inside watching a woman. You are your own voyeur.” While this refers more to heterosexual objectification, it nevertheless provides an interesting perspective on Eberhart’s superfluous and intersectional identity as a woman who often disparages women, a woman who travels as a man, and a white person who claims a middle-Eastern identity and inheritance. 

In their reading of “The Mirror,” Delacour and Hulue claim Eberhardt as an incredibly active participant; through their description, it’s easy to mistake her as a character in the narration itself. With this supportive interpretation, the question that the Atwood reference then invokes is whether or not there is such a thing as an internal, uncorrupted female gaze. The fact that Eberhardt is the female puppeteer behind these two male figures is a significant reverse-power play considering the context of her time, but that logic is marred when taking into account the privilege of her whiteness in shaping ethnic stories. The infinite “spying” aspect of the mirror trick also relates to Atwood’s quote as it is unclear if Mohammed is reflecting internally within himself, if it is only Mahmoud is spying on Mohammed, if it is Mohammed is spying on Mahmoud spying on Mohammed, or, to get really rhetorical, if Mohammed is piercing the veil of Mahmoud to lay his eyes on Eberhardt; Atwood’s quote is less about separate male and female gazes, but and more that they are inevitably melded within a woman. Is Eberhardt, this double agent of politics and identity, just living an amped up version of this psychosis?