Black & White & Sex

Pamela Biénzobas checked in from Paris to see Black & White & Sex, an international premiere from Australia.

I’m Angie and I’m a sex worker. Of course my name is not Angie, but you already know that, don’t you? Even if you can’t help asking… You can choose to believe whatever you want: I can be who-ever you wish. I say ‘I’ all the time, don’t I? In fact, why am I the one doing all the talking, when you’re supposed to be interviewing me? I have to stand up to you and take control, because that’s what you want. I know it. That’s my job, to know what you want.

But in the end, I’m just like you see me. I’m what you make of me. In my diversity, I’m supposed to represent us all. ‘Us’, all the ‘I”s like me. All those who choose to call themselves Angie or whatever you want it to be, honey. Isn’t it disturbing how, no matter the shape, size, age or style, all the Angie’s say the same things, in the same way? We’re all the same, aren’t we? All for one and one for all, we’re just a category. You put me in front of the camera, and — you’re the client — I’ll be whatever you want, even before you ask for it.

It’s that we both know that it’s not about me. It’s all about you. All about you, mister filmmaker. You, filmmaker within the film. You, filmmaker of the film. You want to play cool; you want to be the open, liberal-minded guy who takes interest in someone like me. (There we go again, ‘like me’.) But at the same time you want some fun. You knew we would soon start this little game of control and manipulation. Paying someone puts you in control… apparently. But you know I’m no silly ingénue, and that I will never lose control. But let’s play along. Anyhow, it’s nothing new. When I’m working, I spend my time doing exactly that: Keeping tight control of the situation, and at the same time making you think you’re in control. I sometimes wonder if you really buy it. I’m pretty sure you don’t, but anyhow, you keep coming back for more.

Did you notice about the ‘you’, there? Yes, it’s exactly like that ‘I’, I’m talking to you, my sweet little interviewer, and I’m talking to ‘you’, all that huge category of potential clients, or simply of normal people who are curious about all the ‘I’s’.

Because you also want to represent ‘everyone’, don’t you? You’re sort of pretentious in your humble plans. You don’t admit it openly, but you want to ask me what you think everyone wants to know, so that means you think you know what everyone wants to know. Wasn’t there a film called something like that? Everything you always wanted to know about sex but were afraid to ask, right? But you don’t want to play Woody Allen. You’re too serious for that. You are the serious type, or at least you want to seem so. You’re the boss here. All these people controlling the cameras, the lights, the sound… You need them to look up to you. What’s with you? You are so self-conscious, but it’s me whose being exposed here, not you. But then again, it’s not about me; it’s about you. So I guess it’s my turn to expose you. You haven’t asked yet, and you won’t. You’ll even resist, but once again that’s just part of the game. We both know (perhaps I know it a bit faster than you, it comes with the trade) that that’s what you’re paying me for.

Come on! Say something, do something, help me out a bit. I’m starting to repeat myself here and I’m getting bored. Won’t the others get bored as well? I guess it’s my job (yes, I am conscientious when it comes to work) to try to avoid that. But standing here in front of you, with those four same cameras pointing at me… I’m not too sure if it will keep the interest alive all along the film. Even if you change the way you see me. Even if I change along the way — a clever, original and even humble idea, in a way, since it’s your way of admitting you can’t grasp me.

I know what you’re doing is honest. Even if I provoke you and tease you and fight back, I know you have good intentions. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, and you know that. But you have a funny way of doing it. You act so foolish. Unprofessional, sort of. I’m not going to tell you how to do your job, but I’m not sure if you’re such a good filmmaker, you know? At least not right now, I’m not that sure what you really care about is the film. I mean, you’re like so many of those who pay me for my services: You really want a therapist! Your confession in the end makes it clear, of course. I really didn’t see that one coming; I’ve got to admit. Wow, really…

Anyhow, as I was saying, you strike me as a bit of a lazy director, standing there, barely conducting the interview, and just recording this from the same points of view. But I like the style of what I see. I like the black and white image, so sexy, so glossy. Isn’t it a bit cliché, though? Of course, I’m one big cliché! Even if I guess the idea is to go beyond the cliché and find out what I’m really like. But you didn’t even get the question right. You think you want to know what I’m really like, but there you go again: You’re talking about that collective ‘I’, and if (and that’s one big IF!) I was to let you look a bit deeper, that wouldn’t help you to understand any other ‘I’ but me.

You know, some people say that films are a way of traveling. But you don’t need to go very far to find me. I’m everywhere, in every corner of the world, in every society and epoch. Yes, Angie is everywhere, is anyone, is yours. But ME, I’m nowhere. Not for you, honey. You’ll never find me, ‘cause you’ll never know who I am.

Pamela Biénzobas

Black & White & Sex (John Winter, Australia 2011, 94′)