THE WOODMANS
(C. Scott Willis,
USA, 2010, Digi-
Beta, 82 mins) If Francesca
Woodman hadn't
killed herself, it's
doubtful that C. Scott
Willis's provocative film would
exist. There are,
after all, other
talented 22-year-old photographers who
haven't merited their own documentaries. Similarly, photographer-turned-filmmaker Anton Corbijn's Control probably wouldn't exist if Ian Curtis hadn't hung himself, and yet Joy Division was an undeniably influential band whose legacy has long outlived its lead singer.
On the contrary, I hadn't heard of Francesca until I read about The
Woodmans in The New York Times. From Stephen Holden's review, I also learned
about her parents, George and Betty Woodman, who have been married for
over 50 years. The film wouldn't exist without them
either, since Willis has produced a group portrait (as if the title didn't give that away).
The story begins in Boulder, where George taught at the University of Colorado (as
a child, I lived in UC campus housing for a semester while my stepfather was getting his law degree).
Tellingly, he describes children Francesca and Charlie, a video artist, as "these sort
of gift calamities."
George and Betty continued to produce art while their kids were growing
up, and earned enough to buy a home in Italy, where Francesca started sketching.
If she inherited their interest in art, her parents worry that they spent more time
creating than parenting. Says Charlie about his mother, who was raised in a Jewish
family, "She doesn't really practice a religion. Art was sort of the religion for her."
George says his daughter picked up photography in boarding school (Phillips Exeter Academy, according to her ID card) and studied the subject at the Rhode Island
School of Design.
By 1979, all three artists were living and working in New York.
Willis weaves Francesca's photographs and video pieces throughout the narrative.
In most, she appears nude, indicating a certain comfort with her own sexuality and
Pre-Raphaelite appearance. In light of her suicide, however, which looms unavoidably, there may have been more to it than that (other female and male subjects appear without clothes).
Also, in some images, like the one at the top of this entry, she looks like a blur or a ghost. If she
were still alive, that might not seem quite so eerie, but that's what happens when
someone takes their own life: every move can look like a rehearsal for death.
To add perspective, Willis interviews classmates, as well as neighbor Patricia Sawin, who found Francesca's photos "a little scary," and friend Edwin Frank (editor, New York
Review of Books), who acknowledges a crush. In addition, Willis adds words (via on-screen text) from her journal to bring Francesca's voice into play. That she kept one
at all invites speculation as to whether she knew it would one day become public.
An unabashed fan, George says Francesca's work made his look "stupid," but who's
to say that it wasn't also morbid and self-indulgent? I find it intriguing, but it makes me
feel like a voyeur. And her parents admit that her "tragic story" adds to the allure.
If I sound cynical, it's because I believe Francesca was an artist in the truest sense,
with all the single-mindedness and arrogance that implies. Everyone thought she
was special--herself above all. Even her father uses the term "self-preoccupation."
Granted, she wasn't the first photographer to make herself her primary subject, but
you could hardly compare her to Cindy Sherman, who seems like an
actress in comparison, since she takes on a different persona for most every print.
Francesa Woodman died believing she was unique, and she was. Her beautiful, fascinating, intriguing work will live on,
and she'll loom larger in history than her parents, despite their enduring devotion to
their respective crafts. It doesn't seem fair. But I also prefer her work to theirs.
The Woodmans concludes tonight, Mar 3, at Northwest Film Forum.
The NWFF is located at 1515 12th
Ave between Pike and Pine. For
more information, please click
here. Images from Kino Lorber.
In the end, it plays like a paranormal teen romance with all the boobs, blood, and blue language that those books and the attendant movies and television shows tend to leave out. I could do without a few of the ick-making scenes--Smith has a habit of walking into puking girls and onto dog shit--but this is definitely one of Araki's more accomplished efforts. If you enjoyed the teen-apocalypse films, do not pass go.
