The notion of the gaze is one of the most prominent and examined aspects in film theory. Laura Mulvey, in her piece assessing the relationship between the male viewer, camera, and overall cinematic output, created a piece that for better or worse has defined feminist film criticism. While I appreciate the historical impact of this piece, and do find it imperative for its recognition of films ability to uphold oppressive societal values, I feel that the term “gaze” has been overprescribed. More particularly, I feel that female filmmakers are limited by the gaze, always considered subversive for acting around it or rendered unable to replicate its negative effects. We immediately assume that the female gaze is more pure than the male gaze, more radical or aware of the negativity of the camera. Simply because a woman is doing the gazing, she is dismantling the negativity of the male gaze, ridding the female body on screen of hyper-sexualization, feminization, and other various stereotypes. I believe women are capable of a complicated gaze, one that is more punitive towards fellow women and embedded in the same limitations of the male gaze. By creating a strict dichotomy in gender-related film criticism, we limit our abilities to assess artists' perspectives, and particularly overextend ourselves in decreeing women as innocent from the creation of a garish image. 

My interest in assessing the female gaze came from an accidental double-feature of Alice Rohrwacher’s La Chimera and Coralie Fargeat’s The Substance. Both are poignant woman-directed films released in 2024, each finding its own way to portray the image of womanhood and those who look upon it. While a comparison of these two vastly different films may feel loose, I felt seeing the various shades of depiction back-to-back influenced my overall experience. 

I watched La Chimera first– sensual and melancholy, wrapped up in our lost loves and how we desperately attempt to null the aching throb of their absence. The use of the “gaze” in this film compels me– while the women in this film are in supporting roles, all of them feel fleshed-out and independent from the actions of Arthur, the main character. We’re seeing the women of the film from Arthur’s perspective (literally, at some points, as he dreams of his dead girlfriend Beniamina), but they all maintain a level of power beyond him. In fact, it feels as if Arthur actively questions his own ability of looking– at one point, he brushes his fingers across a marbleized head of Artume, a Goddess. While tracing her features, he whispers “you’re not made for human eyes”. At this moment, it feels as if Arthur revels in the spirituality of the woman, in her right to not be extorted as a profitable image. He throws her head into the ocean, allowing her to find solitude lodged into the sand. Women in this film are allowed to have various features; sharp noses, crooked teeth, and strong jaws. On the train in the first scene, Arthur tells a girl that her nose is beautiful, outlining it against his face. Moreso, women are allowed to age– Flora, Beniamina’s mother, is played by Isabella Rossellini. She’s allowed to be beautiful and content in her body, her age and wisdom enriching rather than damning. There’s a reverence for the women in this community, whether they be alive, dead, or mythical. More particularly, there’s a gaze from Arthur– it isn’t demeaning or oppressive, but rather awestruck. There are two moments that remain in my heart, delicate and romantic– when Arthur watches Italia dance, and when he reunites with Beniamina. Arthur, solemn and gloomy for the majority of the film, becomes momentarily softened by the drunk shamelessness of Italia. She spins on the dance floor, lightly teased by those around her, a curator of spontaneous joy. Arthur seems to relish her presence, recognizing the singularity of her boldness. Later on, when Arthur finds Beniamina in his death, he cups her face and gathers her in his arms, spinning her. There’s a pure, unfiltered joy and astonishment at her appearance. There’s love and appraisal, seeing her as something precious. Rohrwacher’s use of the male gaze as something that can be passionate or worshipful rejects the common read of it as something to dismantle. I find in my own experience as a writer and filmmaker that women are assumed to make works solely about other women, and that somehow the male perspective is taboo to us. If we do work with the male gaze, we’re meant to be in opposition to it. Why can’t a woman display genuine romance from the male perspective, and why can’t the gaze become something more delicate than barbaric? And if we are considering Rohrwacher’s gaze as a woman, why can’t she be as engaged with the sultriness of human connection? The director should be allowed to create a space for looking to be equitable.

The Substance was one of my most-anticipated films of 2024– I’ve had its release date marked on my physical calendar since August, excited at the prospect of a divisive and conversational film. I was expecting a strong emotional reaction– I was not expecting a dismal nothingness within my gut, hollow and seemingly unfillable. The gore of The Substance was not what made me squeamish– it was the cruelty towards women from women, and its eventual existence as the very thing it desired to critique. I’m aware the film is satirical, or at least attempting to be– I just do not find it effective. It is heavy-handed, its commentary displayed in the most obvious nature; for example, there are various shots of cameras with male voice-overs, saying things like “smile more” or “bend over”. Men are slobbering caricatures, panting like dogs to fall at the feet of those they deem beautiful. Various plot points and negative comments are rehashed in flash-backs again and again, reminding you how vicious the world can be. The film exaggerates the beauty standards women are demanded to uphold, but it seems to punish the women impacted. Demi Moore, appearing as the fading star Elisabeth Sparkle, takes the Substance in an attempt to regain the image of her early career– she ends up creating Sue, the younger and prettier version of herself. Sue and Elisabeth each get a week in the world, and the supplier of the Substance reminds both women they are one being, and their success depends on maintaining a balance. There was no point where I felt the Substance was beneficial for Elisabeth Sparkle– she retains no memories from Sue’s time in the sun, and it does not allow her to bask in the youth she seemingly desires. These women do not feel like one– there are no shared memories or experiences, no indication that they come from the same DNA. What is most troubling is the mutilation of Demi Moore’s body, her deformity and transformation deemed shocking. The most horrific, unimaginable event to occur is the loss of beauty, and the sagging of breasts or the whitening of hair. The audience gawks at the disfiguration, unable to believe that the abuse of the Substance has led to such a transformation. The weight of shock lies on our innate beliefs in stereotypical attractiveness. The expectations of women are not novel– audiences are aware that women are meant to have straight-teeth, noticeable breasts, long-hair, and maintain a rigid standard of beauty. What frustrates me is our inability to move beyond these stereotypes, always using them as our basis of critiquing the expectations thrust upon women. Majority of critiques about the beauty industry, Hollywood, or various other systems of power focus on the experiences of stereotypically attractive girls. To even be deemed worthy of a narrative about beauty, you must first be what society considers gorgeous. There needs to be a considerable transformation into hideousness, often signaled by physical attributes that various women already have. How horrible, to see Elisabeth Sparkle with sagging breasts and a larger body– as if these are gross, shocking variables. Even more infuriating is Margaret Qualley as Sue– again, it is clear that her hyper-sexualization is the point of Fargeat. I simply do not believe the gaze upon Sue is subversive simply because a woman is doing the looking. The various ogling shots of Sue never seem to amount to any meaningful commentary– they are there to gaze upon and to contrast with the depressing, cold world of Elisabeth.  The biggest “shock” that occurs to Sue is the loss of her physical body parts near the end, when suddenly she is deemed ugly. Until that point, there was no retribution upon her physical body. After seeing the film, I’ve seen various people sharing images of Margaret Qualley in these sexualized scenes, commenting on her beauty. Is that not what the film is attempting to critique? At what point are we allowed to voice displeasure on the female gaze and its ability to uphold the same standards as the male gaze? Women are capable of the same cruelty as men– we tear each other apart, judging the progression of other women or how they hold themselves within society. It is limiting to assume the female perspective is inherently liberating, when it can often beat-down and exclude various women within the space. I personally could not find myself moved by the horrors of this film, or even revel in the “takedown” of vapidity. I just felt awful, knowing this idealized womanhood or supposed insecurity did not include me, and that aspects of my being were deemed as part of a monstrous transformation. 

My reactions to La Chimera and The Substance have provided me with further insight on how complicated and unregulated the concept of the “gaze” is within cinema, and how it is often kneecapped by our own desperate need to categorize cinema based on archaic standards of gender. I think we’ve come far enough to provide various readings upon the gaze, allowing any person to be both critiqued and praised for their particular use of looking.