by Cris Mora-Villa, Contributing Writer
There are thousands of films produced every year from just about every corner of the globe. Whether it be full length features, short films, or documentaries, there is a near endless river of films that have been forged into existence. A great deal of these movies have continued to influence the audience who consume them, as well as to help shape the medium itself. No one will ever have the time to view them all, as the hours upon hours of footage is too extensive to even make a dent in such a notion. But within the seemingly endless maze of films that are ready at the tap of our fingers due to the age of streaming, there are certain pictures which aren’t usually given the light of day they may deserve. And so exists Hidden Gems, where I take a trip to the past and unearth works that are wholly new to me in the hopes that they just may spark an interest in someone who would have never heard about it otherwise, or has put off checking out something intriguing.
One of the challenges I’ve come across in this Hidden Gems series is deciding which movies to discuss. Now, I don’t wish to misconstrue that as some sort of burden infringing on my SiftPop duties — far from it actually. As stated in my introductory piece on Polytechnique, by persisting with the series in the manner I set out to, there’s the incentive to expand my cinematic vocabulary beyond where it currently sits. That on its own definitely outweighs any hindrances that I run into along the way. What I find challenging is selecting only one film to share my thoughts at a time. For as much as I have come to enjoy writing about movies which I think fall in line with the spirit of the series, it takes a good deal of thought in deciding just what movie to focus on when there are a multitude of possibilities to explore. While there could theoretically be room to tinker with certain aspects of the series in the future, there’s merit to be found in giving one movie the space to fully expand upon my own interpretation of said work. That won’t cease to be the case here, as Todd Haynes’ Superstar is as much a personification of a hidden gem as can possibly be.
While not quite at feature length to count as his directorial feature debut, Superstar: The Karen Carpenter Story as a short film makes for a fascinating movie in its own right, and offers a compelling glimpse into Haynes’ future as a filmmaker. Filmed in the summer of 1985, Haynes conceived of Superstar as his own personalized take on the biographical story of a musician. For as well-cited as that subgenre is in today’s landscape for being formulaic, there are some examples which take a more experimental viewpoint on their main subjects. Superstar can be described as many things; formulaic is not one of them, and it unequivocally falls into the latter of the two descriptions. Itself an intermixture of documentary and nonfiction narrative forms of storytelling, the viewer observes dramatizations of key events in Karen Carpenter’s (voiced by Merrill Gruver) life and after-the-fact footage recounting her memory after her untimely passing. On description alone, each half sounds fairly straightforward and can be categorized alongside other contemporary films as examples of their respective subgenre. In actuality, Haynes’ efforts not only resulted in something wholly original, but simultaneously one of the most bizarre films I’ve ever seen.
In midst of the cultural phenomenon that was Barbie, I would first come to be aware of Haynes’ film as some people in the entertainment space (even Greta Gerwig herself) would go on to name Superstar as a kind of a spiritual predecessor to the film. To not bury the lead any further, I must highlight that the predominant reason for that comparison is Haynes’ substitution of any actual human actors in the dramatization scenes for Barbie dolls. That decision fundamentally shapes the identity of the project in both conception and perception. From what I could decipher when looking back at various think pieces calling back to Superstar, while not every aspect of the movie received glowing praise, I did see a universal acknowledgement of the film’s artistic merit as a bastion of independent cinema. I honestly couldn’t agree with that sentiment any further. While many other movies from that decade were steered away from the last embers of “New Hollywood” and towards the wave of commercial accessibility that’s synonymous with the ’80s, there remained a select few whose work did not refrain from maintaining one’s owns sense of style and personal philosophies to how they approached filmmaking. Todd Haynes can more so be categorized with the wave of auteurs who arrived in the ’90s, as his debut feature would not be released until 1991, but his origin as a director began with Superstar. I’m not sure I could think of a more begetting induction for Haynes.
The phrase “style over substance” is frequently used when taking a movie to task for prioritizing technical, verbal, or visual aesthetics over story or theme. I have my own opinions on that notion, as there are certain films that come to mind which seem befitting for that label or are unjustly classified as such. But something I rarely ever hear relating to said label is the perspective that there is substance to be found in the style. Subjectively speaking, I don’t believe it needs to be one way or the other. In the case of Superstar, any major changes to the way the film is presented, as well its use of the dolls, would fundamentally produce a different film. As it exists currently, much of what the movie has to offer bleeds through the screen as the viewer is bombarded with interludes of Karen’s story. Never sticking too long to any one viewpoint, the shifts from documentary to scripted scenes tell the story of how the outward perception of a public figure differs from that figure’s lived experiences. The use of the dolls themselves not only make sense practically given the limited budget Haynes had to work with, but serve as an effective surrogate device in bringing home the emotional resonance of the movie’s themes.
Anyone who has seen Barbie can leave that movie with its central takeaways of dealing with its commentary on the duality of gender, societal standards of beauty, among other things. To anyone who has seen Superstar, some of those same ideas are present in that film. The major difference is that Haynes’ experimental docudrama couldn’t be any more dissimilar in tone compared to Gerwig’s bombastic comedy. Superstar is as creepy as all gets. For one, its visual quality plays a heavy role, as large portions of the film admittedly do not hold up to the highest standard. That, however, ultimately comes off as more of a happy accident in establishing an atmosphere. Kyle Edward Ball’s Skinamarink immediately came to mind as another film with a strong correlation to Superstar in that regard. What the latter has going in its favor is a stronger put together narrative to sustain its avant-garde sensibilities. In addition to that, the dolls themselves are garish in presentation. Perhaps that’s my own aversion to dolls coming to the forefront, but Haynes direction feels self-assured in how wishes to utilize said dolls as a device meant to bring forth feelings of discomfort. Behind the scenes of every moment meant to show a moment in Karen’s life is the vague allusion that someone or something is behind the curtain pulling strings. As if Karen’s life was never even her own leaving fate to seemingly holding all the cards. That’s just how I would construe Haynes’ own reimagining of how Karen’s life story unfolded as at the end of the day — this is a fairy tale above all else.
At the age of 32 years old, Karen passed away in the hospital due to cardiac arrest complications stemming from a drug overdose. In the years that led up to that point, Karen would grapple enormously under the weight of her newfound fame. Taking into account her lengthy history of dieting, as well as difficulties which arose within her family after forming The Carpenters, the signs for body dysmorphia and anorexia would enrapture the last decade or so of her life. The constant fluctuations in her weight understandably generated a sizable impact in her wellbeing, and it’s here where Haynes is at his most empathetic. Chipping away at her doll stand as the film progresses is perhaps the most brutal visualization of her struggle that can be put to film. It’s no surprise that this would be the avenue Haynes would go down in tackling this subject matter, as I’ve never thought of him to pull his punches. He further doubles down on this notion by introducing the documentary sequences. Contrasting the aftermath of her death through the eyes of such a lowbrow perspective all but devoid of humanity feels apt with the underlying commentary Haynes is espousing. In the years that followed this movie, there would be other documentaries or made for TV biopics chronicling Karen’s life story. Opting out of those mundane options, Haynes goes all in to diminish any power that alternative might hold and instead leave the audience with something lasting. He does stay true to the facts that matter, but knows that anyone who is choosing to watch this particular movie is expecting something else. Not just a summary of events, but a feeling.
Karen Carpenter herself made up one half of The Carpenters, a sibling duo who specialized in soft rock from 1965 up to Karen’s death in 1983. Her older brother, Richard Carpenter (Michael Edwards), is portrayed in the film in a not-so-positive light, as much of his behavior orders on insensitive at best, and downright exploitative at worst. The actual Richard didn’t take too kindly to Haynes’ portrayal upon seeing the film and as a result, is primarily responsible for taking the film out of theatrical circulation via a copyright lawsuit for unauthorized use of the duo’s music for much of the soundtrack. The use of their music is itself multifaceted, as it does serve more than one singular purpose. Some of the songs that are played, such as “Sing,” offer moments of tonal reprieve away from the film’s more sinister baseline. At the same time, however, playing “This Masquerade” or “They Long To Be Close To You” induces a claustrophobic effect which only amplifies the haunting overtones evident in Karen’s life. Her and Richard’s music do contribute in that way to the movie, but I also find a kindredness in when Haynes chooses to use their songs to not just progress the story, but pay respect to Karen as an artist. I could possibly just be making assumptions, but it feels safe for one to assume there was some level of reverence for The Carpenters’ music on Haynes’ part that likely would have metastasized his interest in Karen’s story after she passed. As someone who was not familiar with The Carpenters prior to my introduction to Superstar, I can certainly understand that motivation, as it’s clear where Haynes’ intentions lie. I’ve even come to expect that from Haynes, given the track record he would develop in the following decades.
A few years following the release of Superstar, in 1991, Haynes would arrive with his debut feature titled Poison at the Sundance Film Festival. In what was a tangential continuation of Superstar, the movie would bring about a reprisal of mixing scripted fiction and documentary to tell the story of three unrelated narratives. In making that connection from one film to the next, one begins to think just how influential Superstar was on the rest of his career. While I haven’t yet digested all of Haynes’ feature films, I have seen enough to understand where his interests lie. Carpenter slotting in as the first female protagonist he would position at the center of one of his projects falls directly in sync with the emotional through line of the subjugation of women. Restricted by the societal impositions of being a woman is a common theme shared between Karen, and the leads of Far From Heaven, Carol, and Safe. Haynes’ appreciation of music as a celebrated art form would recur in I’m Not There, The Velvet Underground, and Velvet Goldmine.One could even spot the use of dual narratives to create myth and the notion of truth versus fiction can be found in Wonderstruck, Poison, and May December. Perhaps the biggest commonality found in Haynes’ work is his standing reputation as a leading figure in the movement for LGBTQ+ cinema. As microscopic as its inclusion may be, there are signs in Superstar that the Haynes may go on to expand upon that territory in the future. Fast forward 30 years later and Haynes has gone on to do just that, compiling a fascinatingly unique filmography with a handful of masterpieces under his belt. At the heart of all of this, however, is a short film which begat that and so much more with its sheer limitless level of influence on independent film.
You can read more from Cris Mora-Villa, and follow him on Letterboxd and Twitter