The Celluloid Closet (or, Cry Me Up, Cry Me Down)

I sat down, or rather lay down, and watched The Celluloid Closet last week whilst I was waiting for that work to be emailed to me. (Still waiting, by the way.) The doco, based on the book by Vitto Russo, has always been a staple of mine, which gets pulled out when I want something to watch when I am doing something that is going to divide my attention. Film is often the mirror of a society's soul and the grab-bag of film clips in that are hung out in The Celluloid Closet follow a line that traces the representations and prevailing attitudes towards homogays and lesbianas over the past hundred years. It is somewhat like an incidental history. I've seen it probably 20 times, maybe more, and it still ignites a fire in my blood each time I see it.

Why?

This time I think I have figured it out. Apart from the fact that it is all about film and gays (two of my favourite things), I think that the true artistry in The Celluloid Closet is that it taps into the coming out experience. The progression of the representations of our community from the butt of jokes to rounded human beings, via loathing and derision, is often the very same path we take in our own journey towards self-acceptance. The film manages to evoke the fear, the eventual freedom and exhalation of the coming out process, helped immensely by Carter Burwell's evocative score. By the end there is a pervading feeling of optimism and potential, not unlike that moment when you have finally done the deed and you realise that it was not the big deal that you thought it was.

It is an intoxicating reminiscence at a primarily emotional level. Yes, I am in tears by the end of it. And usually during it. It is a catharsis that reminds me that there is always a way out of that gloom and that out society has an immense capacity for change.

The Celluloid Closet is delightful tonic in these increasingly puritanical times. If you haven't seen it, you must, you must.