One of
the figures in Prakosa's Kantata Tawka
that interested me the most, especially given the nature of our class readings
and discussions, was that of the young woman who appeared throughout the film.
I wondered about her role in the narrative and how it was related to her
gender. She contrasted sharply with the male characters by being passive when
they were active. While they spoke eloquently or sang passionately, she was
silent. Instead, she watched them and listened to them; indeed her main purpose
seemed to be to serve as a witness to the events of the film. She did not
intervene in the action and did not seem to have any particular side or
standpoint in the characters' struggles "not to betray their
consciences". Finally, near the end of the film, she witnessed the men's
brutal murders, emphasized by extreme close-ups of her eyes, without any
discernible emotional reaction.
He: The make-up's a sort of mask, too.
She: To be humble... The thinking goes, as long as a woman is a woman, her face isn't good enough to be seen without make-up.
What exactly
is the purpose, I wondered, of putting in a character who does nothing but watch?
Whose relationship to the action of the film is essentially no different from the
viewer's? This is particularly interesting when we remember how many of the
lesser characters in the film are masked: the villagers are masked, as is the
judge-figure in the courtroom scene who actually changes masks several times.
And, of course, the faceless villains of the piece wear gas masks, until one,
cornered at the end, tears his off and dies. The idea of sight seems to me to
be strongly linked to justice. Anonymity protects the unjust (the judge and the
gas-masked soldiers) only temporarily, until justice unmasks them. The
witness-figure therefore ties in to the prevailing theme of the film: a longing
for honesty or truth. The main characters express frustration and contempt for
the deceitfulness of modern life and strive to be "natural". In this
context, a character who does nothing but watch may be interpreted as a
personification of truth or justice, which, given that she is mute, has some
interesting implications.
The
woman's appearance, however, in relation to gender and power, is interesting
after reading Cixous and Eilberg-Schwartz. She is modestly dressed with a veil
hiding her hair, unlike the men, who all have long, unruly hair and frequently go
shirtless and barefoot. The main male characters in the film are contrasted
with the masked masses to highlight their agency. A face is a powerful asset, a
symbol of agency. In Cixous and Eilberg-Schwartz's discussion of decapitation
anxiety, which serves as an excellent response to Freud's simplistic and
phallocentric idea of castration anxiety, Eilberg-Schwartz explains how the
face, or head, is related to subjectivity: "To be silent, to have no subjectivity,
is to be decapitated" (7). The men in the film with faces speak and sing,
while the veiled woman and masked men are silent. This concept reminds me of a
1966 Japanese film, Tanin no kao (The Face of Another), by Hiroshi
Teshigahara, in which the male protagonist is distraught over the destruction
of his face in an industrial accident. He has a conversation with his wife in
which they discuss why women wear make-up (here loosely translated).
He: It's
to deceive men, isn't it?
She: Not
even close. In the Tale of Genji era,
hiding one's face was a sign of modesty. That's why women are described in the Tale of Genji only by their dark hair...
It's the same even now in some Arab countries...He: The make-up's a sort of mask, too.
She: To be humble... The thinking goes, as long as a woman is a woman, her face isn't good enough to be seen without make-up.
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