Superstar: The Karen Carpenter Story (1988), dir. Todd Haynes

Todd Haynes’ filmography splits between two themes: a deep connection to a musical artist and their hidden backstory, or a destructive suburban life, presented from a feminist perspective. Superstar, long suppressed, reliant on bootleg copies, brings all these themes into focus in its short 40 minute runtime.

In an interview around the release of I’m Not There. (2007), Haynes spoke of the process of acquiring consent of the artist for his projects – received from Bob Dylan for I’m Not There., rejected by David Bowie for Velvet Goldmine (1998), and sued by Richard Carpenter for Superstar. Though these films are about real historical figures, they were never about the real figures themselves, but something larger: a mythology; a reflection of time and culture, that could be expressed through an analogue, but not the person themselves.

Haynes both speculates and projects: in I’m Not There., Haynes reaches the ultimate level of subversion, embodying different Dylans reflecting different eras, repurposing artistic influences as analogues. Arthur Rimbaud (Ben Whishaw), poet under interrogation; Woody Guthrie (Marcus Carl Franklin), black kid blues singer travelling across the Midwest in the back of train carriages; Jack Rollins (Christian Bale), documentary subject and gospel singer; Robbie Clarke (Heath Ledger), James Dean-esque rebel without a cause; Jude Quinn (Cate Blanchett), moving across the London art scene a la Dont Look Back (1967); and Billy McCarty (Richard Gere), rural, turn-of-the-century outlaw.

In Velvet Goldmine, Haynes folds multiple 1970s music personalities into one to create an analogous portrait of David Bowie through Brian Slade (John Rhys Meyers), and his relationship with musician Curt (Ewan McGregor), combining the soundtrack with the music of Brian Eno and shifting through musical eras from mods and rockers to glam rock. Beyond the image of the static artist, Haynes’ artist becomes fluid: a performative identity. Haynes never seeks to create the authentic biopic: only the sense of one.

To Haynes, the musician is central to the construction of his identity: in Velvet Goldmine, Arthur (Christian Bale) becomes analogous to Haynes, embracing his sexuality through Slade’s music. Haynes never directed Superstar through sinister intentions: first and foremost, it is grounded in an appreciation of the music itself. Superstar could never exist without the Carpenters’ music, recreated in stage performances. Haynes speaks of his appreciation of Karen Carpenter himself in a documentary segment, credited as DJ Todd Donovan, expressing what was so radical about her work.

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Haynes as ‘Todd Donovan’

As listeners to an artist’s work, we are never aware of their authentic lives: only the sense, represented within lyrics, newspaper headlines, interviews and speculation. In Velvet Goldmine, the private persona reveals Slade’s queer identity; here, Karen’s private persona reveals her struggle with anorexia. Objectively, Superstar is a biopic about Karen Carpenter. Yet where Velvet Goldmine and I’m Not There. acted as a retrospective celebration of the musical scene of the 1960s and 70s, Superstar is more the story of a woman’s struggle with anorexia, though embodied through the persona of Carpenter.

Karen Carpenter’s name may not carry the same cultural recognition today as it had in 1988, but the narrative of the vulnerable female celebrity recurs throughout culture, from Marilyn Monroe to Amy Winehouse, whose struggle with drug addiction became posthumously represented in Amy (2015) through archival footage. Yet we do not understand their personal struggles through a reality, we understand it through a constructed image. As Lindsay Ellis explains in her Loose Canon analysis of Marilyn Monroe’s representation within culture, Monroe became more a symbol than a person: a brand and a piece of intellectual property.

Haynes juxtaposes Karen’s musical performances with her personal struggle. As a cultural icon celebrated by Nixon, Karen feels the weight of representing positive American values. Singing about being “on top of the world” becomes ironic: she is in her depths. In the final scene, Karen’s music coalesces together as collage, removed from comprehension as her bodily self degrades.

Perhaps the most remarkable aspect of the film is how Haynes is able to communicate emotion through dolls. Haynes simultaneously saves his budget whilst presenting a heavily cited influence on body image – the slender, impossible body perpetuated by Barbie. As the film progresses, we see Karen’s body become slenderer and slenderer – just as the ideal body size decreases as the years and decades pass.

Haynes accepts the limitation of low-budget filmmaking and uses it to his advantage, never losing anything in the process: he understands composition, uses period-appropriate sets, understands how to use colour (as so beautifully shown in Far from Heaven (2002)), lights every scene perfectly, understands editing. Haynes is no amateur: he isn’t a 15 year old directing an Action Figure Adventure. Haynes recreates Karen’s musical performances, depicting her in the recording studio, or in a black TV studio draped in colourful lights. Haynes doesn’t need to show a studio audience; the performance conveys enough. Yet in bootleg VHS form, Superstar becomes defined by its lo-fi nature.

In part, the film takes on the form an essay film, presenting historical context (the TV plays in the background of the family home, with news reports about the riots and revolutions of the 1960s and the Nixon administration) alongside propositions and arguments, examining the Carpenters’ place in American society and the rise of anorexia, illustrated through scenes. Haynes places information around anorexia in the form of expositional title cards, whilst his documentary-style footage acts as a source to be analysed.

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The film’s title cards lend an essayistic structure

When we were taught about anorexia and bulimia in high school, it never felt like it was going to achieve much. Eating disorders were as badly taught as sex education was in the same classes, unable to communicate how widespread rape is and how consent is misunderstood, exempted from queer narratives in favour of the dominant heterosexual one. Anorexia was taught in a collection of testimonials presented on a page, never presented as a real, tangible thing, treating male anorexia as uncommon and an afterthought. Its sufferers were never living, breathing humans, not acknowledging that many of the people in the room may also come to suffer, or have suffered, from it.

Through the character of Karen, Haynes presents scenes that may feel familiar. Karen feels the pressures of being a public media personality, encouraged to experiment with diets, like the Stillman diet, in order to lose weight, because a columnist described her as “chubby”. These pressures are only amplified today, through constant comment from sexist Daily Mail paparazzi shoots and social media, or the edited instincts of Photoshop. Karen finds restaurant and family meals difficult, refusing to eat from her plate as Richard asks her to just take a bite. Karen’s revulsion to food becomes the enemy; in a disjuncture edit, food is shot in stark monochrome as though it were a 1950s horror film. Haynes’ editing is subversive and experimental, showing the constantly decreasing weight on the scales, lips moving, plates being replaced and taken away, to depict a indescribable relationship with anorexia.

Haynes implicates a number of pressures: the Ex-Lax pills promise an easy fix and obsession, only servicing consumer culture in a culture of overabundance. Similarly, when Karen reaches 108 pounds, her family toasts her progress – only making Karen feel like the process will be easy; recovery becomes just as dangerous as the condition alone. When Karen confides in her dietician over the telephone, she feels unable to progress through a “long, hard battle” that will last several years.

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The Ex-Lax pills become a source of dependency for Karen

Haynes grounds these pressures within the suburban home of the latter half of the 20th century. In the opening sequence, the camera pans through a suburban neighborhood, until focusing upon the Carpenter household. Through the production design, Haynes recreates an authentic image of the 1970s household. The suburban home as a constructed self-destructive prison within society to a female protagonist saw Carol develop chemical sensitivity in Safe (1995), Cathy’s socially taboo relationship with Raymond and her husband Richard’s queer sexuality in Far from Heaven, and Carol’s secret relationship with Therese in Carol (2015). Here, Haynes implicates the overprotective family: Karen’s mother, Agnes, believes she must be protected by living at home, away from a lifestyle of drugs, though Karen is in her 20s. She becomes imprisoned by her own family, only to develop a dependence on an entirely legal drug.

Yet this suburban lifestyle exists because of the era it exists within. Through exposition, Haynes links the post-war end of rationing, bringing about the plentiful availability of food, to the rise of anorexia. Karen experiences the pressures of femininity – as a woman with a career, she feels the pressures to look good that many men do not experience. In exposition, Haynes describes anorexia as a rejection of the “doctrines of femininity”, in line with how Susan Bordo described anorexia as a resistance to cultural norms and a rebellion against femininity in Unbearable Weight (1993).

Karen wants agency over her music career, social circles and her body, yet encounters continual obstacles. She declares she will move away from home to undergo her treatment, yet encounters resistance from her parents. Undergoing the treatment, she feels “more in control than ever”, yet still does not have full agency.

Haynes’ editing adopts the structure of a music documentary, combining montages of remixed archival footage, animated newspaper headlines, news reports on anorexia’s effects, and vox pop interviews with people on the street. In I’m Not There., documentary became a central part of the narrative: we learn of Jack Rollins’ life through documentary extracts, interviewing family and past collaborators, with archival footage of Rollins receiving an award and performing at a church presented with the benefit of hindsight. In the sections focusing on Jude Quinn, we become aware of the unseen observer, D.A. Pennebaker, documenting the events seen in Dont Look Back (though the timeframe of events is rearranged), reinforced through cinéma-vérité-esque monochrome cinematography. Haynes becomes interested in telling multiple narratives, rather than relying upon a single source.

Superstar should not officially exist, buried through lawsuits intended to protect Karen’s legacy. The film never seeks to present the official narrative of Karen’s career or relationship with anorexia. Taken as a precursor to Haynes’ later film work, Superstar is an essential watch, often uneasy and depressing, yet no less powerful.

Far from Heaven (2002), dir. Todd Haynes

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More so than Carol (2015), Far from Heaven constructs itself as a technicolor Douglas Sirk film, with a sense of artifice. Haynes doesn’t create a real world, or at least initially he doesn’t; he projects the 1950s of cinema. When Cathy drives, the camera points straight towards her, showing the car window and an obvious rear projection of the street behind her. In editing, jump cuts are often ignored; shots are drawn out, leaving instead extended crossfades. The house feels like a soundstage. The exterior of the bar feels like a studio backlot.

The front and back of the house, where Cathy and her gardener Raymond initially talk, forms a luscious garden of flowers that pop, but it feels plastic and unreal. The deliberate arrangement of colour pops throughout the film, and throughout Haynes’ filmography – during the party, we see a row of women in bright dresses – orange, blue, red. The living room is lit in blue light, drawn in from the window. The bar, where Frank hooks up with another man, is bathed in green, whilst leaving Frank cast in shadows, as if he were the troubled protagonist of a noir film.

Equally artificial is the concept of the nuclear family. We are introduced to an idealised, perfect family – the mother, the father, the son, the daughter and, still within the world of Gone with the Wind (1939): the black servant, silent until spoken to. Gradually, as the film progresses, this is revealed to be an illusion. Frank’s homosexuality comes to light; Cathy begins to speak to Raymond more, and the black community is given a voice. But it tries to re-manifest itself: Cathy and Frank try to continue the image of the perfect family, even when they know it has shattered.

Frank agrees to conversion therapy, even when the doctor warns of a low success rate. Cathy and Raymond attempt to make love, but this doesn’t lead to a heartwarming scene of them kissing in each others’ arms, as the camera pans away to reveal the next morning. Raymond cracks, hitting her and rejecting Cathy’s claims that he is still a “real man”. Going on a New Year’s holiday to Miami, he again tries to suppress his sexuality, before meeting eyes with a waiter, and they later make love in his hotel room. He severs his ties with Cathy; we close with a telephone call where he says goodbye to her, as his male lover waits in the other bed. As with Carol,  love conquers all adversity towards it, even in secret, and still leaving a dangling thread of heartbreak. Here, the heartbreak is with Cathy’s suppressed feelings towards Raymond, as he moves away from town, and in her lost husband and shattered family.

When Cathy helps Raymond collect some things for the garden, Cathy asks him how it must feel like to be the only black man in the room. Frank feels like he is the only gay man in the room. As he undergoes therapy, he silences himself, rarely speaking at the dinner table.

Silence carries the film. Sybil, their servant, rarely speaks except when spoken to. The frame itself minimises her presence: she exists as the back of her head, or just out of shot, as she responds to what is asked of her. Only as the film progresses does she gain more of a voice. She signs a NAACP form, surprised that Cathy is allowing her to. She raises the courage to tell Cathy that Raymond’s daughter was the black girl who was a victim of violence, even though she knows it isn’t her place to. Cathy becomes furious at her for not telling her, and by extension, furious at the system that prevents her from speaking.

Similarly, Raymond is introduced as a silent character. He is a black man walking around in the garden to the horror of the old lady visiting, someone to be afraid of. His colours are muted in contrast to the bright coats of the women, the green of his coat blending into the trees of the garden. As with Sybil, he gains more of a voice, though more quickly. He feels consideration and care for Cathy when she is in distress, more than is socially acceptable. In contrast to Sybil, he is the one who initiates conversations, not Cathy.

Silence manifests not only in situation, but in dialogue. Dinner party conversation talk negatively of integration between between “negroes” and whites, but Cathy shuts this discussion down. When Cathy and Eleanor speak about a magazine article on homosexuality, she feels unable to even use the word. Taboo subjects are still talked about – but in hushed tones. When she is honest to Eleanor about her feelings for Raymond, she is disowned.

Cathy begins to feel like what it is like to be a maligned minority. As a woman, she already feels a degree of social pressure. Yet her interactions with Raymond bring the attention of the entire town – affecting not only her, but also the reputation of both Raymond (forcing himself to move), and Frank’s work life. At the ballet class, mothers cling to their daughters lives to stay away from her. She positions herself as an ally, considering signing up to volunteer for the NAACP’s cause.

Yet Haynes highlights the complexities of the forces of racism. Cathy doesn’t only receive sneering looks from white people, she also feels it from the African American patrons of the black majority pub, confounded by what Raymond is doing. I’m reminded of the themes explored in the second season of Agent Carter (2015-16) between Peggy and Jason, dancing in a bar to sneering looks. Raymond ends up with stones thrown through his window on a daily basis – not by white boys, but black people. These attitudes are reinforced both inside and outside the community.

In another scene, at a hotel in Miami, a young black boy wanders into a whites only pool, before being taken away by his father, as everyone else flees in the direction of the sunbeds. As history tells us of lynchings, police violence, mass shootings, slavery and the march on Washington, we forget about smaller, and younger, attacks. The experience that Sarah undergoes is a subtle manifestation of racism – young boys “teaching her a lesson”, not meaning to throw a stone to her forehead. She is the odd one out to them, cast tiny and in shadows by the frame in comparison to the boys.