The Feminist Distance

Space in Jane Campion's The Piano

The past two decades have seen a surge of interest in the topic of spatiality in a wide range of disciplines, such as art history, philosophy, cultural studies, or human geography. This focus has been particularly relevant for film studies, as space is one of the essential elements of cinema. Feminist film critics approaching this question have mainly concentrated on the gendered signification of travel and movement, or of certain locations, such as the city or the home. But what would it mean to define spatiality itself in feminist terms? And how could it be made relevant to an exploration of sexual difference in cinema? As noted in the introduction, Irigaray suggests intriguingly in the opening pages of Ethics of Sexual Difference that we will only move beyond phallocentrism once women have developed a space (and a time) of their own, and she elaborates a compelling theory of spatiality. Grounded in a close analysis of Jane Campion's 1993 movie The Piano, this chapter considers the numerous points of convergence between the philosopher and the director, arguing that they both develop a twofold understanding of space as either the condition of woman's self-affirmation, or the medium of her disappearance.

The Piano holds a very particular place in the history of cinema, as perhaps the most influential film made by a woman. Not even Kathryn Bigelow's The Hurt Locker can rival its combination of its success at the box-office and critical acclaim. The movie was a blockbuster and Campion went on to win many awards. Most notably, she was the first (and so far the only) woman to win the Palme d'or at the Cannes Film Festival, establishing her as the leading female director of her time. Further, The Piano was the subject of considerable academic scrutiny, which, given the film's release in the early 1990s, relied mostly on psychoanalytical and generic perspectives. Yet this dense, complex movie invites a much wider array of interpretations.

In this chapter, I argue that the movie is driven by a formal framework that relies chiefly and consistently on the opposition between nearness and distance. In particular, what interests me is the tension that exists between the film's favorite camera technique, the close-up, and the main trait of Ada's characterization, which is the insurmountable distance that separates her from the spectator and those who share her life in the movie (with the exception, to a certain degree, of her daughter). I argue that both Irigaray and Campion develop a feminist ethics that is grounded in closeness and distance, and the corresponding interplay of intimacy and autonomy. By investigating the philosophical implications of Campion's aesthetic choices for feminism, I suggest that her understanding of space in The Piano resonates closely with Irigaray's concept of the interval.

Campion's engagement with the politics of spatiality is inextricably tied to a second question, which complicates and deepens the first, which is: How does this conceptualization of space relate to the great conundrum of the movie, which is its treatment of sexual violence? Campion, in spite of her predilection for romance (for instance, her latest film, Bright Star), is at heart a filmmaker of violence, a central theme that dominates most of her work. Even though The Piano has been hailed as a love story and marketed as such, Campion suggests that sexual violence is at the center of heterosexual erotics, as it pervades Ada's relationships with both her husband and her lover (it even seems to be at the source of her love for the latter). Like Campion, Irigaray examines sexual difference in general and heterosexuality in particular through the violence that constitutes it in phallocentrism. In the chapter, "This Sex Which Is Not One," she suggests that sexual violence is the original force that estranges woman from herself and from the close embrace of the lips that form her sex. It is also the mode in which phallocentric sex occurs, and that in which Ada falls in love with Baines. In sum, two understandings of space are sketched out, both in the film and in the philosophical text. On the one hand, a phallocentric logic of intrusion (sexual violence) and alienation (woman does not know herself; man and woman do not speak to each other because the woman has no place). On the other hand, both The Piano and Irigaray propose a feminist spatiality that rests upon nearness, intimacy, and the distance that enables autonomy and intimacy.

I will end this chapter with a study of the limits of Campion's affinities with Irigaray and with feminism in general. It can be tempting to read Campion as more of a feminist than she actually is: after all, she presents us with a female character who insists on preserving her independence and her creativity. But Campion also romanticizes a story that finds its source in an eminently unequal power relation between a man and a woman. An analysis of the genre in the film, and in particular of her engagement with melodrama, proves to be an interesting point of departure from which to explore the differences between Campion and Irigaray. The filmmaker is at once engaging with many of the conventions of melodrama (while frequently subverting them), and with a discourse that has been largely absent from commercial cinema — one that celebrates a woman's autonomy and even an embrace of death, beyond love and beyond the family. Campion is thus at once close to and distant from the norms of genre.

The character of Ada McGrath is one of the most enigmatic and captivating female characters in the history of film: she is so aptly played by Holly Hunter as to appear at once entirely self-evident, and so mysterious as to remain a complete puzzle throughout the film. In this evocative period film, Ada is a nineteenth-century mute Scotswoman pianist who is forced into marriage to a landowner in New Zealand, named Alisdair Stewart (Sam Neill). She is shipped to the island with her young daughter, Flora (Anna Paquin), who is proficient in sign language and serves as her interpreter. Ada further expresses herself through her piano, with which she entertains a fervent relation. She manages to resist her husband's advances, but she soon finds herself faced with an almost impossible bargain. George Baines (Harvey Keitel), another white man on the island (albeit one who is close to the Maori population and speaks their language) has bought the piano from Stewart and he offers to give it back to her in exchange for escalating sexual demands. Ada accepts very reluctantly and soon finds herself lying naked in Baines's bed: a few keys for a few favors. Her initial displeasure and fear are obvious to the viewer, but Baines remains impervious to her feelings, until he unexpectedly declares his love for her. In a surprising turn, Ada falls in...