Short experimental film exploring

media’s seductive allure into femininity.

Short experimental film exploring media’s seductive allure into femininity.

resembling Carrie (De Palma, 1976), whose “‘femininity’ is a surface alteration designed to mask the true horror of her body” (Lindsey, 1991, p. 38). Failure to conform brands her as unfeminine and undesirable, relegating her to the status of a social outcast or “monster” (Haskell, 2016, p. 4). The recurring motif of the mirror, a space for self-reflection and self-presentation, serves as a potent symbol of Carrie’s internal struggle with social expectations, ultimately culminating in a moment of restoration and destruction (Greven, 2011, p. 93), following the shattering of the mirror. 

In my film, it is the camera that serves as the character’s primary mirror – the viewer is made to see her as she sees herself, through her own eyes, recognising the mirror’s role as a “vital self-disciplining tool for the female-self” (Madhuri, 2018, p. 90), “a device that measures ‘beauty’ to be reflected back and judged by the viewer, that measures the achievement of a feminine identity” (Newbery, 2002, p. 2), therefore positioning the viewer as an arbiter of beauty, prompting introspection regarding one’s power to control over feminine ideals. The response from the majority of female viewers expressed an expectation for more rage from the character, with some wanting her to scream, and when she did not, feeling compelled to scream for her.

Laura Mulvey reflected that “It is said that analysing pleasure, or beauty, destroys it” (1975, p. 8), a sentiment that inspired her groundbreaking essay and served as the reason behind my own work. Much like Mulvey, my aim was to deconstruct and challenge the prevailing beauty standards propagated by the media, dissecting the context from which they emerge.

Narratives and cinematic representations often serve to “solicit women’s consent and by a surplus of pleasure hope to seduce women into femininity” (de Lauretis, 1984, p. 10), fostering an internalised pressure among women to conform to social beauty standards, further proving that “images of beauty in advertising and mass media execute control over women” (Martin et al., 1999, p. 166). Lights, Camera, Insecurity is a short experimental film based on the idea of exposing the media’s seductive allure into femininity. 

Initially centred on cinematic representation, my attention shifted towards dissecting advertisements that promote a narrow ideal of what is considered ‘feminine’, which, according to them, is “to be thinner, more toned, less grey, and less wrinkled, and to hide a variety of imperfections”, while framing such pursuits as “acts of self-care that serve to discipline the body that has, without conscious consent, deviated from valued cultural norms of appearance” (Thompson & Hirshman, 1995, p. 150), “advertised in terms of doing it for yourself as an individual right and reward” (Harris-Moore, 2014, p. 28). These commercials, as observed from the 1950s to the 1970s, often featured male voices, gradually giving way to female narrators. Initially, these female voices merely acknowledged the products being sold with remarks such as “beautiful, isn’t she?”, before eventually assuming full control and reiterating the messages previously voiced by men. This research informed my decision to incorporate the voiceovers from these vintage beauty commercials into the film’s soundscape, functioning as a subtle ‘guide’ for the female character’s actions. However, the juxtaposition of these scripted assurances with the depicted reality of the women’s experience unveiled an irony, exposing the stark dissonance between the advertised ease and comfort of conforming to social beauty standards and the actual, often painstaking, efforts required to meet these unrealistic ideals. This disjunction further underscores the notion that “the female body, in particular, can always be guaranteed to be at fault” (Ewen, 1976, p. 39).

Leslie Jamison asks a significant question of “How do we represent female pain without producing a culture in which this pain has been fetishised to the point of fantasy or imperative?” (2014, p. 126). By extending sequences depicting rituals like shaving, applying body tape, and struggling with false eyelashes, the film sought to authentically capture the realities of women’s endeavours to conform to social beauty norms, diverging from traditional cinematic tropes that often romanticise female suffering.

The film opens with a scene depicting the female protagonist shaving her body hair, a deliberate act of rebellion against social norms perpetuated by commercial imagery. As noted by Sarah Pascoe, “so monstrous is female body hair that adverts for razors depict women running blades down pre-epilated legs”, as “to show a woman’s leg with hair, even if that hair is in the process of being removed, would be to signal that it’s okay, natural, not a big deal, and that would subtly undermine the sale of such razor blades” (2016, p. 204). By showcasing the act of shaving and the discomfort associated with it, the film seeks to subvert this idealised portrayal and expose the realities concealed behind the facade of advertised smoothness and ease. Furthermore, the intent is to provoke discomfort in the audience.

One way of causing discomfort is through horror, defined as the “genre of looking” (Berenstein, 1996, p. 91), and known for utilising “the female body as a repository for its generic needs” (Johnson, 2016, p. 2). Sule observes that “bodies that do not conform to the ‘rules’ or ‘respect borders’” (2023, p. 4), as articulated by Kristeva, “are inherently abject” (1982, p. 3), suggesting that “there is something inherently horror worthy” (Sule, 2023, p. 4). Initially, my intention was to explore the body horror subgenre, recognising its potential to “understand the pain, unreliability, and ‘monstrosity’ of the female body” (Limjoco, 2023, p. 16). 

However, my focus shifted towards evoking discomfort by tapping into what Barbara Creed terms “possible fears”, experienced by “the male spectator, who identifies with his screen surrogate”, therefore “is clearly placed in a powerless situation” (2015, p. 155). Screening the film for both male and female audiences confirmed this intent, with the shaving scenes notably unsettling male viewers more than females. I have further employed ironic montages juxtaposing the harsh reality behind the purported ease of attaining social beauty standards with longer shots depicting the aftermath: blood flowing down the drain, remnants of used body tape, or the skin’s reactions to makeup removal, utilised to give the audience time for reflection. These sequences, graded entirely in red, serve to punctuate the narrative, drawing on the visual potency of the colour to underscore themes and evoke emotional responses (Bellantoni, p. 2; Seyler, 2019, p. 3). The use of red not only aligns with horror aesthetics but also symbolically hints at the underlying horror inherent in conforming to social ideals of femininity that the protagonist assumes “by dressing up, putting on, adding to her body” (Lindsey, 1991, p. 38), resembling Carrie (De Palma, 1976), whose “‘femininity’ is a surface alteration designed to mask the true horror of her body” (Lindsey, 1991, p. 38). Failure to conform brands her as unfeminine and undesirable, relegating her to the status of a social outcast or “monster” (Haskell, 2016, p. 4). The recurring motif of the mirror, a space for self-reflection and self-presentation, serves as a potent symbol of Carrie’s internal struggle with social expectations, ultimately culminating in a moment of restoration and destruction (Greven, 2011, p. 93), following the shattering of the mirror. 

In my film, it is the camera that serves as the character’s primary mirror – the viewer is made to see her as she sees herself, through her own eyes, recognising the mirror’s role as a “vital self-disciplining tool for the female-self” (Madhuri, 2018, p. 90), “a device that measures ‘beauty’ to be reflected back and judged by the viewer, that measures the achievement of a feminine identity” (Newbery, 2002, p. 2), therefore positioning the viewer as an arbiter of beauty, prompting introspection regarding one’s power to control over feminine ideals. The response from the majority of female viewers expressed an expectation for more rage from the character, with some wanting her to scream, and when she did not, feeling compelled to scream for her.

Laura Mulvey reflected that “It is said that analysing pleasure, or beauty, destroys it” (1975, p. 8), a sentiment that inspired her groundbreaking essay and served as the reason behind my own work. Much like Mulvey, my aim was to deconstruct and challenge the prevailing beauty standards propagated by the media, dissecting the context from which they emerge.

Narratives and cinematic representations often serve to “solicit women’s consent and by a surplus of pleasure hope to seduce women into femininity” (de Lauretis, 1984, p. 10), fostering an internalised pressure among women to conform to social beauty standards, further proving that “images of beauty in advertising and mass media execute control over women” (Martin et al., 1999, p. 166). Lights, Camera, Insecurity is a short experimental film based on the idea of exposing the media’s seductive allure into femininity. 

Initially centred on cinematic representation, my attention shifted towards dissecting advertisements that promote a narrow ideal of what is considered ‘feminine’, which, according to them, is “to be thinner, more toned, less grey, and less wrinkled, and to hide a variety of imperfections”, while framing such pursuits as “acts of self-care that serve to discipline the body that has, without conscious consent, deviated from valued cultural norms of appearance” (Thompson & Hirshman, 1995, p. 150), “advertised in terms of doing it for yourself as an individual right and reward” (Harris-Moore, 2014, p. 28). These commercials, as observed from the 1950s to the 1970s, often featured male voices, gradually giving way to female narrators. Initially, these female voices merely acknowledged the products being sold with remarks such as “beautiful, isn’t she?”, before eventually assuming full control and reiterating the messages previously voiced by men. This research informed my decision to incorporate the voiceovers from these vintage beauty commercials into the film’s soundscape, functioning as a subtle ‘guide’ for the female character’s actions. However, the juxtaposition of these scripted assurances with the depicted reality of the women’s experience unveiled an irony, exposing the stark dissonance between the advertised ease and comfort of conforming to social beauty standards and the actual, often painstaking, efforts required to meet these unrealistic ideals. This disjunction further underscores the notion that “the female body, in particular, can always be guaranteed to be at fault” (Ewen, 1976, p. 39).

Leslie Jamison asks a significant question of “How do we represent female pain without producing a culture in which this pain has been fetishised to the point of fantasy or imperative?” (2014, p. 126). By extending sequences depicting rituals like shaving, applying body tape, and struggling with false eyelashes, the film sought to authentically capture the realities of women’s endeavours to conform to social beauty norms, diverging from traditional cinematic tropes that often romanticise female suffering.

The film opens with a scene depicting the female protagonist shaving her body hair, a deliberate act of rebellion against social norms perpetuated by commercial imagery. As noted by Sarah Pascoe, “so monstrous is female body hair that adverts for razors depict women running blades down pre-epilated legs”, as “to show a woman’s leg with hair, even if that hair is in the process of being removed, would be to signal that it’s okay, natural, not a big deal, and that would subtly undermine the sale of such razor blades” (2016, p. 204). By showcasing the act of shaving and the discomfort associated with it, the film seeks to subvert this idealised portrayal and expose the realities concealed behind the facade of advertised smoothness and ease. Furthermore, the intent is to provoke discomfort in the audience.

One way of causing discomfort is through horror, defined as the “genre of looking” (Berenstein, 1996, p. 91), and known for utilising “the female body as a repository for its generic needs” (Johnson, 2016, p. 2). Sule observes that “bodies that do not conform to the ‘rules’ or ‘respect borders’” (2023, p. 4), as articulated by Kristeva, “are inherently abject” (1982, p. 3), suggesting that “there is something inherently horror worthy” (Sule, 2023, p. 4). Initially, my intention was to explore the body horror subgenre, recognising its potential to “understand the pain, unreliability, and ‘monstrosity’ of the female body” (Limjoco, 2023, p. 16). 

However, my focus shifted towards evoking discomfort by tapping into what Barbara Creed terms “possible fears”, experienced by “the male spectator, who identifies with his screen surrogate”, therefore “is clearly placed in a powerless situation” (2015, p. 155). Screening the film for both male and female audiences confirmed this intent, with the shaving scenes notably unsettling male viewers more than females. I have further employed ironic montages juxtaposing the harsh reality behind the purported ease of attaining social beauty standards with longer shots depicting the aftermath: blood flowing down the drain, remnants of used body tape, or the skin’s reactions to makeup removal, utilised to give the audience time for reflection. These sequences, graded entirely in red, serve to punctuate the narrative, drawing on the visual potency of the colour to underscore themes and evoke emotional responses (Bellantoni, p. 2; Seyler, 2019, p. 3). The use of red not only aligns with horror aesthetics but also symbolically hints at the underlying horror inherent in conforming to social ideals of femininity that the protagonist assumes “by dressing up, putting on, adding to her body” (Lindsey, 1991, p. 38), resembling Carrie (De Palma, 1976), whose “‘femininity’ is a surface alteration designed to mask the true horror of her body” (Lindsey, 1991, p. 38). Failure to conform brands her as unfeminine and undesirable, relegating her to the status of a social outcast or “monster” (Haskell, 2016, p. 4). The recurring motif of the mirror, a space for self-reflection and self-presentation, serves as a potent symbol of Carrie’s internal struggle with social expectations, ultimately culminating in a moment of restoration and destruction (Greven, 2011, p. 93), following the shattering of the mirror. 

In my film, it is the camera that serves as the character’s primary mirror – the viewer is made to see her as she sees herself, through her own eyes, recognising the mirror’s role as a “vital self-disciplining tool for the female-self” (Madhuri, 2018, p. 90), “a device that measures ‘beauty’ to be reflected back and judged by the viewer, that measures the achievement of a feminine identity” (Newbery, 2002, p. 2), therefore positioning the viewer as an arbiter of beauty, prompting introspection regarding one’s power to control over feminine ideals. The response from the majority of female viewers expressed an expectation for more rage from the character, with some wanting her to scream, and when she did not, feeling compelled to scream for her.

Laura Mulvey reflected that “It is said that analysing pleasure, or beauty, destroys it” (1975, p. 8), a sentiment that inspired her groundbreaking essay and served as the reason behind my own work. Much like Mulvey, my aim was to deconstruct and challenge the prevailing beauty standards propagated by the media, dissecting the context from which they emerge.