Review: traces of Monica
The time in which we see movies is all important.
I suspect that most of us, critics especially, would like to believe it’s possible to maintain some objectivity in determining a movie’s value. “If I go to see this,” we tell ourselves, “be it today or tomorrow, I’ll walk away with an opinion that I can defer to, and consider accurate, for years to come.” Yet how often do we feel the same way about a movie, upon rewatching it, as we did ten years ago? And how often are our views constrained by the lenses — be they prejudicial, political, generational — through which we’re gazing?
I saw Monica towards the end of May, in the midst of planning my own short film. I was tired; I’d been hiking in the Catskills earlier that day, and as I drove to Albany a late afternoon sun burned orange within a putrid yellow sky — breathtaking, yes, but also the result of wildfires in Canada. Pulling into the theater parking lot, I was struck by a delicate procession of fluffy cottonwood seeds as they drifted through the air and gathered in fine clusters across a neglected, streaked stretch of pavement.
Once inside, I sat in the front row of a modest auditorium that was full of older folks: spouses, friends, all in couples and all chattering mildly with one another. They fell silent once the lights went down, and remained that way through the movie. But in the end, as soon as the credits started to roll, I could hear these people guffawing or tittering to one another. Without hesitation, they dismissed what they’d seen and moved on to other points of conversation: “So what’ve you got going on the rest of your week?”
I may have been the only person in that room who liked Monica — or, at least, I was the only person who felt the significance of its ending, or who cared to pay it the moment of silence it was due.
From where I sit, Monica is a gentle, tender drama that deftly arranges scenes of family tension like flowers in a vase, or figurines on a mantel. The titular character, embodied with earthen beauty by Trace Lysette, returns to her childhood home when her sister-in-law (Emily Browning, who steals the movie with one scene — soothing a baby like Brando once toyed with a glove) reaches out to let Monica know that her estranged mother (Patricia Clarkson) is dying of cancer. This is the same mother who dropped Monica at a bus station when, as a teenager, she came out as trans. The prodigal daughter must now help care for this woman, while reconciling the rather sad, desperate life she’s lived ever since with the perspective afforded by nieces and nephews, a diffident brother (Joshua Close), and her mother’s sensitive caretaker, Leticia (Adriana Barraza).
Needless to say, this is a crucial and invaluable story to see receive big screen treatment. Director Andrea Pallaoro delivers a ravishing mise-en-scene, one that is both stylish and homey, out of a quietly poetic script that she co-wrote with Orlando Tirado. Their film is richly deserving of recognition, yet its theatrical release highlights a curious dilemma faced by contemporary art house flicks — namely, who is meant to go see it?
In terms of demographics, the audience I saw Monica with was, as far as I could tell, pretty par for the course. I’m speaking in generalities, yes, but I do find that the people who go to see unflashy, low-key indies tend to be septuagenarian retirees. Folks who are conservative in outlook if not by party affiliation. And while I know there are cisgender people of all ages who consciously and vocally support trans rights, this is probably the last group of people, taken as a whole, to appreciate Monica for what it is.
I was dismayed when I heard everyone behind me run their mouths as soon as Ms. Pallaoro’s movie drew to a close. It made me distinctly aware of how my generational existence — my age, or lack of it — positions me to recognize and appreciate the noble, imperfect triumph of a film like Monica. My hope is that more people of my generation go see it, so that it can serve as a touchstone.
All that being said, and to the credit of my fellow audience members, there are a few instances in Monica where, once Pallaoro has established a flow in emotional harmony, a gratuitous or sleazy choice throws everything out of sync. I’m thinking especially of several lengthy shots that feature Ms. Lysette in various states of nudity; they pop up throughout the movie, ostensibly illuminating her character’s backstory as a sex worker, or her various attempts at finding some trace of jouissance.
Yet these traces needn’t involve traces of flesh, too — there isn’t a single shot of Ms. Lysette’s unclothed body that tells me something I couldn’t have surmised from watching her in a blouse, or in a closeup.
As a rule, I take issue with movies’ consistent objectification of women’s bodies. It has afflicted countless actors’ careers — from Jane Fonda and Rita Moreno to Kate Winslet and Margot Robbie — and is often excused as “artistic” or “necessary to the character.” (Meanwhile, most renowned male actors go their entire careers without once showing anything below the waist, if not the neckline.) There’s an added layer of sordidness, though, when the woman in question is also trans; not only does it feel as though we in the audience are being invited to ogle Monica, but there’s also space, I think, to interpret these images of her as invitations to be impressed by how “feminine,” or cis-presenting Ms. Lysette is.
It could be that this reaction stems, in part, from my own ignorance or unfamiliarity with trans physiologies. There’s a moment when, after being stood up by a trick, Monica leaves an angry voicemail in which she specifically calls out a guy for “asking all those questions about my body.” Yet isn’t that precisely what Ms. Pallaoro and cinematographer Katelin Arizmendi have done, visually? Haven’t they been using the camera to probe and interrogate Monica, to assert or validate her womanliness? Her desirability? Her identity?
This question of exploitation is just one aspect of what I consider to be a broader crisis facing this movie: its relationship to Monica as a character. At times while I was watching, it felt as though Monica was more of an aesthetic concept than she was a person; many scenes focus on one detail of her appearance — her auburn hair flowing in the wind against her red corvette, her yellow tank-topped bust effervescent against deep green during a stroll through the woods — while steering away from her face and, by extension, her expression.
An audience needn’t see an actor’s face at all times to understand their character, of course, but I do think this fragmented series of still-life compositions distances us from Monica’s inner life, and reinforces her identity as an object to be viewed rather than a subject to be studied.
In all fairness, I believe this may have something to do with the filmmakers’ negotiation of Ms. Lysette’s ability. She gives a strong, magnetic performance, yet it is hard not to notice her shortcomings when displayed alongside the skill of, say, Patricia Clarkson. She is not a formidable actor, though the role of Monica is forbidding; Lysette certainly pulls her weight, but it is only through resourceful, clever staging that Pallaoro’s direction steps in and, ultimately, does much of the emotional heavy lifting.
The downside of all of this is that one doesn’t always feel the impact of Monica as a living, evolving person, so much as one encounters her as an idea of a screen heroine. This assessment isn’t quite fair to Ms. Lysette, nor to Ms. Pallaoro, but it also testifies to the limits, as well as the pioneering nature of this movie. Trans stories — especially those in which trans actors are given center stage as nuanced, authoritative figures — are just beginning to find homes on theater screens. As of this writing, there’s yet to be a wide, established pool of A-list trans talent finding work in front of the camera. So, in a way, it’s up to actors and filmmakers alike to cultivate stars, to champion a first generation of trans leading ladies.
If Trace Lysette is less than a master in Monica, it is likely because she hasn’t had the opportunity to carry a movie before. But she’s carrying one now, and in so doing has forged a virtually unprecedented opportunity that will not only benefit her, but future trans actors as well.
By the same token, if I’ve shown unusual scrutiny towards this movie, it’s likely because there’ve been so few occasions thus far to contemplate how trans stories are told onscreen. But my attitude may soften in years to come; maybe a greater abundance of representation will dilute some of Monica’s contemporary urgency, and bring its quieter qualities that much more distinctly into focus.
As I say, the time in which we see movies is all important — and it is all important that we remember this when passing judgment on works of art that will far outlive us.
