The Out Take: ‘Portrait of Jason’ and the Genesis of Queer Cinema

“The Out Take,” is a bi-weekly column dedicated to queer cinema.

In the beginning, there was Jason. Biblical metaphors are often somewhat trite and they haven’t always been friendly to the LGBT community, but in this case I think it’s more than warranted. Shirley Clarke’s “Portrait of Jason” is foundational in the grandest of terms. Like that opening verse of The Gospel of John, Jason Holiday’s testament feels like The Word, an origin moment for independent queer storytelling in cinema. And, like the first verses of Genesis, this brilliantly simple documentary feels like a series of creation acts. Jason’s honesty, defiant yet vulnerable, introduces just about every major theme that LGBT filmmakers have worked with ever since. To finish off this indulgent introduction with Whitman, Clarke’s revelatory documentary “contains multitudes.”

But first, what is “Portrait of Jason”? In late 1966 Shirley Clarke sat down with Jason Holiday, a 33-year old hustler. She interviewed him for twelve hours about his life, shying away from nothing. She asks about his family, his lovers, and his long career as a jack-of-all-trades, especially the under-the-table ones. Jason’s honesty is both defiant and vulnerable, and almost impossibly informative. He’s seen everything, been everywhere, met everyone. “I’ve been balling from Maine to Mexico,” he quips, “but I haven’t got a dollar to show for it.” He’s been a maid, a houseboy, anything to get by and avoid the humdrum 9 to 5. His life story is a kaleidoscope of the pre-Stonewall gay experience.

That’s right, pre-Stonewall. Let’s take a second to muse on that. This is 1966. That Clarke had the audacity to make a film on one of society’s most charismatic outcasts is impressive enough. That the resulting film is such an expansive collection of the ideas, themes and identities of queer art is downright miraculous. And, without fail, all of this extraordinary text is still relevant today.

“Portrait of Jason” begins with identity. “My name is Jason Holiday…My name is Aaron Payne.” The latter was Jason’s birth name, one which didn’t fit. Later on in life, in San Francisco, he was given the opportunity of a fresh start. “Jason Holiday was created in San Francisco. And San Francisco is a place to be created, believe me,” he explains. When you spend your early life being told not to be yourself, sometimes the best way out is to create a new self altogether. This comes up all over the place in queer cinema, running the gamut from Charles Busch’s “Die Mommie Die!” to the bewildering re-namings of Pedro Almodóvar’s “Bad Education.”

This radical way of retaking control is only the first step in a long journey through an irrepressibly fluid life. Jason has been a maid/butler for countless rich older women, most of them white. He embodies the classic duality of the servant’s role: docile on the surface but quick-witted and satirical when out of sight. His wisdom in matters of society and sexuality comes from having witnessed everything, or almost everything.

Meanwhile, his many sexual and domestic experiences with men across the country complement his wise knowledge of femininity. He is the wise outcast that knows everything, an empowering archetype of marginalized LGBT culture. As the years go on this trope may have gotten more magical, with characters like Jack Fairy in “Velvet Goldmine” and five Roses in “Laurence Anyways,” but the root is there.

In spite of all of this resourcefulness, however, there remains a real vulnerability. Clarke makes sure to sprinkle these more tender moments throughout the film, rather than solidly landing on Jason’s weaknesses with a thud. “I just want to be straight,” he lets slip. Another confession follows, “I’ve never, since I left home, really lived anywhere.” This unlikely combination of sheer charisma and raw frailty is at the essence of many a gay cultural emblem, from Judy Garland and the real queens of “Paris is Burning” to Julianne Moore’s roles in Todd Haynes’s “Safe” and “Far from Heaven.”

And, as Garland’s example illustrates, this conflict is often resolved through the act of performance. Jason’s spirited impersonations of Mae West and Butterfly McQueen are the most obvious example, allowing him to escape into a less conflicted character for a short while. Yet in many ways he is always performing, constantly shifting personas. In one moment he’s coy, insisting “I’ll never tell.” The next moment he’s the lush: “One more drink, I’ll tell all.” Later in the film, discussing his dreams of a cabaret act, he boasts that he could “play all the parts.”

Performance is perhaps the ultimate conduit of queer fluidity. Where can we still find that today? Forty-seven years after Clarke sat down with Jason, we’ve found ourselves in a precarious position. As the LGBT community (mostly the LG bit) becomes more accepted by the mainstream, from Hollywood to Middle America, reinventing ourselves seems less important. If we fit into the new idea of the modern family seamlessly, why would we bother to change our names, wander the country without aim and get dressed up like Dorothy Dandridge?

Well, it’s complicated. On the one hand, the community of transgender artists knows that in many ways this is old hat. Cabaret genius Justin Vivian Bond, for example, has moved beyond the gender binary altogether. Internationally, filmmakers like Almodóvar, Dolan, Sally Potter, and Apichatpong Weerasethakul get it. On cable TV there’s one notable outlier, “RuPaul’s Drag Race.” The show embraces the fluidity, emphasizes reinvention and taking control of your own narrative, and champions transgender characters and the irrelevance of traditional gender norms. Yet, while I’d argue that RuPaul is one of the most positive influences currently working in American culture, is that enough?

When it comes to the American mainstream, this fluidity seems to actually be on the wane in representations of queer characters. Hollywood is building a world for Aaron Payne, but doesn’t seem interested in Jason Holiday. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not necessarily a bad thing that gay kids across the country are being told that it’s ok to be who they are. But doesn’t it miss the point to not also say “Be whoever you want to be”?

“Portrait of Jason” is currently playing at The IFC Center in Manhattan.

Categories: Columns

Tags: LGBT Cinema, Portrait of Jason, The Out Take

When and Where I Prefer to Watch Depressing Cinema

Let’s begin with a bit of sharing — I suffer from depression. I don’t have an official diagnosis or bottles of pills, but life often throws me curve balls that leave me huddled under my comforter or raging on my social networking. (And once again, let me extend an apology to those who follow me on both.) I have various ways to cope, and like most people, one of my ways of trying to haul myself out of a black mood is by watching a film.

Now, the popular consensus is that one should watch a happy, silly movie when one is depressed. This is certainly a good rule to follow. Laughter is the antithesis of sad, after all, and a favorite comedy often has the same effect as comfort food. They’re probably the top form of what Quentin Tarantino described as “the hang-out movie,”  the movie you watch just to spend time with the characters. These goofballs are your friends, and they’re putting on a show just to make you feel better.

But comedies don’t always work for me. Reality inevitably crowds in. These characters aren’t hanging out with me and trying to cheer me up. They’re mocking me with their superior lives! Just  look at their house, their friends, and their wardrobes — why isn’t my life like that? If my mood is awful enough, even a character suffering for comedy appears to be having a better time than I am. Margaret Dumont’s wealthy dowager may have been the butt of the Marx Brothers’ jokes, but she was still at parties, operas, and horse races, which is surely better than weeping at home in your pajamas.

In my humble and moody opinion, the best film to watch in a black mood is the violent or depressing, and preferably one that combines both. (Korean films are great for this; they’ve perfected the cathartic and misery-inducing story.) A bad day is quite often the best time to watch that bleak movie everyone has recommended, but you’ve dodged every night in favor of lighter fare. Girlfriend or boyfriend dumped you? Go on, watch Biutiful or 21 Grams. Did you get fired? You might as well pop in Antichrist; you’ve had it out from Netflix for six months. Did you lose a pet? Well, you’ve never seen Penny Serenade, tonight is the night.

This might seem like a horrific form of treatment, and it’s certainly not a habit you should continue for a great length of time. But let’s face it — you’re feeling terrible. You’re bound to feel worse before you get better. So just plunge into the deep end of your mood, and revisit The Deer Hunter or The Hours. After all, do you want a sad story to ruin a perfectly good mood?  No, you don’t.  So, just go with it.  The film may even resonate more because you’re in a bleak head space.

In a perverse way, it may even improve your mood. Even a depressing film will distract or you — or, if you prefer, it will focus you. It’s uncommon knowledge that sitting still and concentrating on any one thing for several hours is a form of meditation. That thing can be a book, a piece of music, or a film. By watching a movie, you’re meditating, and that’s a pretty popular prescription for mental and spiritual ailments. You may find yourself stilled by the cinematic experience, even if it’s a miserable one.

A depressing film can also help you get perspective. My Russian professor remarked that she liked watching Doctor Zhivago when she was depressed or disgusted with grading papers, because it reminded her that life could be a lot worse. I’ve always taken that to heart, and when misery strikes, I pick the movies where characters suffer war or disease as a bit of a slap to the face.

As a general rule, I also like to keep these sobbing, numbing experiences to my home, where I have blankets to hide in, dogs to pet, and pajamas to wear an unseemly amount of time. However, you can’t always pick the time or place when a movie will break you into bits. Sometimes there’s a gloomy film I’m dying to see and support in the theater, and so I go — regardless of mood — dragging friends or family with me so we can talk each other off the ledge and seek out so-called unicorn chasers.

But more often than not, I try to meet depressing cinema on its own ugly terms. You want to depress me, movie? You’ve already lost. I’m already depressed. So let’s get this over with, shall we? Bring on the Ingmar Bergman and Lars von Trier, and we’ll see who comes out laughing.