Homosexuality, Ideology and the “Vanishing Mediator” in Contemporary Cinema

In this post I’d like to deal with an interesting topic that’s probably been discussed at great length and in better prose by far more accomplished “intellectuals” than myself: homosexuality in contemporary cinema. But, I think a certain “twist” needs to be added, perhaps even a “double twist.” I’d like to explore the Hegelian notion of the “vanishing mediator,” a concept largely attributed to the highly influential American literary critic Frederic Jameson, as it relates to this topic of homosexuality, and moreover, how “vanishing mediators” come to be seen as either intended or unintended consequences of ideology: to make it more concrete, in the case of the former, an intended critique of ideology and in the latter an “unintended consequence,” to use the parlance of neoliberalism, of a film’s structural flaws due to underlying, unstated ideological propositions. Hence, on the one hand, this motif of the “vanishing mediator” qua homosexuality in contemporary cinema appears to be structurally homologous; indeed, a superficial analysis might perform a kind of reductio ad absurdum, yet, as I’ve just outlined, the themes and messages can be practically the opposite. I’d like to focus primarily on Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck’s Das Leben der Anderen (2006) and Alfonso Cuarón’s Y tu mamá también (2001), but I’ll also briefly touch on Casablanca (1942).

Before I get going I should probably clarify the term “vanishing mediator” for those not familiar with it. In this case, a Wikipedia definition will suffice: “A vanishing mediator is a concept that exists to mediate between two opposing ideas, as a transition occurs between them. At the point where one idea has been replaced by the other, and the concept is no longer required, the mediator vanishes. In terms of Hegelian dialectics, the conflict between thesis and antithesis is resolved by a synthesis of the two ideas, although the synthesis represents the final solution, whereupon the mediator vanishes.”

In all of the above mentioned films, we get a series of triadic relationships. To some extent this should signal to us to keep on the look out for the “stupid obvious” Hegelian motifs of theses, antitheses and sublations. In the case of von Donnersmarck’s Das Leben der Anderen, this triad is occupied by Georg Dreyman, the prolific East German playwright who is under the careful scrutiny of a Stasi agent named Gerd Wiesler. Wiesler becomes fascinated by Georg’s life and indeed slowly becomes more and more emotionally involved in its dramatic unfolding, especially after Georg’s girlfriend Christa-Maria begins having an affair with a high-ranking GDR official in order to keep Georg and herself safe from imprisonment or something worse. As Slavoj Zizek pointed out in his review of the film, a homoerotic undercurrent develops between Gerd and Georg. This is at first a somewhat one-sided affair, but the death of Christa-Maria (with all of its christological implications) opens the way for an unfolding of reciprocation. Thus, as the “vanishing mediator” clears from the picture, the film’s structure becomes more apparent, giving new meaning to Georg’s search for his Stasi friend whom he later dedicates his book to after die Wende (because Georg finds out that Gerd was responsible for saving his life by not revealing his recorded conversations). Similarly (as Zizek peripherally notes), the film Casablanca has the same homoerotic undertones. As critics like William Donelley have pointed out, the vanishing mediator in the form of Ilsa Lund gives way to a fairly obvious love story between Rick and Captain Renault: the “beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

How then is one meant to interpret these homosexual undercurrents? In both cases I think the answer lies in their underlying ideological propositions. In the case of the former, the sentimentality attributed to the GDR (“Ostalgie”) is precisely what manifests the homoerotic reverberations. In the case of the latter, puritanical censorship gives rise to unintended meaning. What this means is that the role of the vanishing mediator is strictly correlative to how one might discern the role of ideology: it isn’t that one should “reduce” the plot to the homosexual motif and call it quits; one should instead draw from these unintended undertones the structural flaws in the film that open up the minimal space to see how ideology manifests itself.

Yet I think it would be irresponsible to leave on a note that appears to be condemning homosexual undercurrents in film. Hopefully to most educated readers one is able to discern that this is obviously not the point I’m trying to make. To demonstrate an example where quite the opposite is the case is Alfonso Cuarón’s Y tu mamá también. In this film, contrary to Das Leben der Anderen and Casablanca, the homosexual relationship between the two main characters is meant to open up the space for a radical critique of Mexican social and economic divides. Moreover, Luisa’s role as the vanishing mediator is made abundantly clear about a third of the way through the film (maybe even five minutes in for some astute viewers, when the narrator announces that one of the boy’s mothers is a “Lacanian psychoanalyst”). After both teenagers have sex with Luisa on their road trip (and, as a side note, I think Caurón deserves bonus points for using arguably the most overused trope in cinematic history as the backdrop to a brilliant story), there’s a wonderful scene where the two boys are standing next to each other after a wild night of drinking and Luisa is standing between them; she slowly moves down beyond the visiblity of the camera, which is focused from the boy’s hips to their heads (and it’s made explicit that she’s giving both of them fellatio), then the two boys start making out with one another. The next morning when the two wake up next to each other, it’s pretty much spelled out for us.

I think the aforementioned scene artfully demonstrates the concept of the vanishing mediator in all of its totality, but what exactly is it trying to resolve? Where’s the thesis and antithesis? It would superficially seem like the two boys are the same, but in fact we’re given a lot of clues to the contrary. Their jokes about each other’s penises reveals perhaps more than it intends to: the lack of circumcision in one of the boys is meant to be an indirect commentary on class status in Mexican urban society. Without even needing any sort of psychosexual analysis, it’s made even more apparent when one compares the size and style of each of the boy’s houses and their parent’s different jobs (I think one of the boy’s parents was deeply involved in Mexican politics while the other was more middle-working-class). Class struggle and social strife take on deeper meanings with Cuarón’s clever usage of the road trip mise-en-scène: what’s happening in the foreground is largely unimportant compared to what unfolds in the background, where we see images of intense poverty, police brutality, etc. Cuarón uses the same technique in his other critically acclaimed film Children of Men to the same degree of artistry (if not greater).

So while there’s definitely a structural homology to the three aforementioned films, Y tu mamá también is unique in that it uses the vanishing mediator qua homosexual undercurrent to offer a radical (some might say Marxist) critique of Mexican society, whereas with the other two films, Das Leben der Anderen and Casablanca, it can more or less be attributed to the problematics of ideology as revealed through pervasive structural flaws.