A Transboundary Cinema

Tunç Okan (Bay Okan) is an independent emigrant filmmaker born in 1942 in Turkey. He started his filmmaking career in 1974 with his debut film The Bus, which he made in Sweden, and partly in Germany. He completed the film some seven years after he quit his short but hectic acting career in Turkey’s popular commercial cinema industry, Yeşilçam. A dentist by training, Okan’s cinema career started in 1965 after winning an acting competition organised by a popular film magazine. Starring in thirteen films in a period of less than two years, he achieved considerable fame. In 1967, Okan quit his career in Yeşilçam, which he accused of anaesthetising society, and immigrated to Switzerland.3 His debut film The Bus was followed by only three other films: Drôle de samedi (Funny Saturday, 1985), Mercedes mon Amour (The Yellow Mercedes, 1992), and Umut Üzümleri (Grapes of Hope, 2013). Okan’s films are products that can best be studied in relation to both the mainstream popular cinema of Turkey, Yeşilçam, in which Okan started his cinema career, and in relation to certain European filmmakers and cinema movements that have influenced his cinema. Naficy’s accented cinema concept ultimately focuses too much on Hollywood cinema, and for this reason, it is ill-equipped to study the cinema of filmmakers like Okan, whose works have little to do with Hollywood. Okan’s cinema requires a different approach and a vocabulary which will enable one to study his cinema in relation not only to Hollywood, but to a diverse group of personal cinemas and cinema movements. Okan is an eclectic filmmaker; his cinema is in constant flux. As I demonstrate in this study, Okan’s cinema is inspired by a diverse group of filmmakers and cinemas. In his films, one can find markers of, inspirations from, and references to a great variety of European filmmakers, ranging from Wim Wenders to Jacques Tati, Jean-Luc Godard to Jack Clayton, and cinema movements from Italian Neorealism to the Czechoslovak New Wave, French New Wave to British Free Cinema influenced New Wave kitchen-sink dramas. Although his films feature recurrent themes relating to im/migration, being the cinema of an independent filmmaker Okan’s cinema proves to be a difficult one to categorise because of the many neatly employed inspirations from, and references to, diverse sources. Perhaps this is one of the reasons why it has thus far received so little attention. Okan is not a “typical” Turkish film director. Only half of his films take place in Turkey, and even those films feature parts that were shot abroad. More importantly, he is not a film- maker who uses themes, cultural icons, stereotypes, narration strategies, and filmic aesthetics that have typically been used by filmmakers in Turkey. He is also not a filmmaker who has attracted the attention of international critics. His cinema is a cinema in-between; it is a cinema of tensions and competing identities, visions, and interests. It invokes a split reception on the viewer. On one hand, his films can be read in relation/reaction to tendencies in national/Turkish cinema, and on the other hand, in relation to international, particularly the European, arthouse cinema. Given this, the best way to understand and appreciate his works is perhaps to read Okan’s films in dialogue with developments in both cinema of Turkey and European (art) cinema, for his “signature” derives influences from a variety of sources in these cinemas. Okan’s own words, identifying himself as a “European Turk” could be seen as legitimisation, and encouragement to discuss his works in relation to both cinema of Turkey and European (art) cinema. Okan is neither a one-issue director nor a filmmaker who restricts himself to one format or genre. On the contrary, his films are always on the road, sometimes literally; his third film, The Yellow Mercedes, is a road movie, and The Bus, though not being a road movie in the strict sense, generously exploits the conventions of the genre. Figuratively, all of Okan’s films are in search of new ways of expression. Indeed, they are the products of this very search. This constant search motivates him to challenge, and often cross, many established conventions and boundaries of cinema. Okan’s cinema is what I call “transboundary cinema”.

With a detailed range of approaches, this new collection investigates how cinematic narratives can and have been used to portray different political 'threats' and 'dangers'. Including a range of chapters with a contemporary focus, it studies issues such as: how the geopolitical world has been constructed through film how cinema can provide explanatory narratives in periods of cultural and political anxiety, uneasiness and uncertainty. Examining the ways in which film impacts upon popular understandings of national identity and the changing geopolitical world, the book looks at how audiences make sense of the (geo)political messages and meanings contained within a variety of films - from the US productions of Hollywood, to Palestinian, Mexican, British, and German cinematic traditions. This thought-provoking book draws on an international range of contributions to discuss and fully investigate world cinema in light of key contemporary issues. This book was previously published as a special issue of Geopolitics.

The film Yol (The Road) is a landmark in Türkiye’s cinema history, not only because it shared the Palme d’Or with Missing by Greek-born French director Konstantinos Gavras at the 35th Cannes Film Festival in 1982, but also because it was the first film from Türkiye to receive the highly prestigious Golden Palm. Şerif Gören directed the film, but the award was given to Yılmaz Güney (Pütün), the screenwriter and one of the editors of the film, who was present at the festival. The award was given to Güney, not on behalf of Şerif Gören, but instead of the film’s director, and The Road was publicised both at the festival and in the following period as “a Yılmaz Güney film”. Even today, many popular or academic publications, including the official website of the Cannes Film Festival, credit Güney as the director of the film, despite his imprisonment during the entire preparation and shooting process. Strikingly, in the majority of these sources, the name of the film’s real director, Şerif Gören, is either not mentioned at all or is given after Güney’s in small letters. This study hopes to correct several (film) historical records as well as a historical injustice against Gören. I also hope that this text will inspire Şerif Gören to break his silence, the reason of which I cannot understand, and allow us to learn new things about one of the most important filmmakers in Türkiye’s cinema and his films through a dialogue or discussion environment that can ensue.

Cinema and Nation considers the ways in which film production and reception are shaped by ideas of national belonging and examines the implications of globalisation for the concept of national cinema.

The Amoy-dialect film industry emerged in the 1950s, producing cheap, b-grade films in Hong Kong for direct export to the theatres of Manila Chinatown, southern Taiwan and Singapore. Films made in Amoy dialect - a dialect of Chinese - reflected a particular period in the history of the Chinese diaspora, and have been little studied due to their ambiguous place within the wider realm of Chinese and East Asian film history. This book represents the first full length, critical study of the origin, significant rise and rapid decline of the Amoy-dialect film industry. Rather than examining the industry for its own sake, however, this book focuses on its broader cultural, political and economic significance in the region. It questions many of the assumptions currently made about the ‘recentness’ of transnationalism in Chinese cultural production, particularly when addressing Chinese cinema in the Cold War years, as well as the prominence given to ‘the nation’ and ‘transnationalism’ in studies of Chinese cinemas and of the Chinese Diaspora. By examining a cinema that did not fit many of the scholarly models of ‘transnationalism’, that was not grounded in any particular national tradition of filmmaking and that was largely unconcerned with ‘nation-building’ in post-war Southeast Asia, this book challenges the ways in which the history of Chinese cinemas has been studied in the recent past.

From the beginning of the sound cinema era, singing actresses captivated Chinese audiences. In Sounding the Modern Woman, Jean Ma shows how their rise to stardom attests to the changing roles of women in urban modernity and the complex symbiosis between the film and music industries. The songstress—whether appearing as an opera actress, showgirl, revolutionary, or country lass—belongs to the lineage of the Chinese modern woman, and her forty year prevalence points to a distinctive gendering of lyrical expression in Chinese film. Ma guides readers through film history by way of the on and off-screen careers of many of the most compelling performers in Chinese film history, such as Zhou Xuan and Grace Chang, revealing the ways that national crises and Cold War conflict shaped their celebrity. As a bridge between the film cultures of prewar Shanghai and postwar Hong Kong, the songstress brings into view a dense web of connections linking these two periods and places that cut across the divides of war, national politics, and geography.

This volume closely examines the near-ubiquitous images of state security walls, domes, and other such defense enclosures flashing across movie screens since 2006, the year of the ratification of George W. Bush's Secure Fence Act. This study shows that many of the films of this era enable us to imaginatively test the effects of these security mechanisms on citizens, immigrants, refugees, and other sovereign states, challenging our commitment to constructing them, maintaining them, staffing them, and subsidizing their enormous overheads. With case studies ranging from Atomic Blonde and Ready Player One to Black Panther and Elysium; Walls without Cinema serves as a timely counterpoint to the xenophobic rhetoric and abusive, carceral security conditions that characterize the Trump administration's management of the Mexico-U.S. border situation.

The Postcolonial Body in Queer Space and Time examines the ways in which the notion of the postcolonial correlates to Judith Halberstam’s idea of queer space and time, the non-normative path of Western lifestyles and hegemonies. Emphasizing authors from Africa and Southeast Asia in the diaspora in London from the mid-1960s through 1990, the reading of both postcolonial lands and subjects as “queer counterproductive” space reveals a depiction of bodies in these texts as located in and performing queer space and time, redefining and relocating the understanding of the postcolonial. The first wave of postcolonial literature produced by diasporics presents the body as the site where the non-normative is performed, revealing the beginnings of a corporeal resistance to the re-colonization of the diasporic individual residing in England from the Wilson through the Thatcher regimes. This study emphasizes the ways in which early postcolonial literature embodies and encounters the topics of race, gender and sexuality, proving that a rejection of subjectifying processes through the representation of the body has always been present in diasporic postcolonial literature. Reading through postcolonial theory as well as the works of Foucault, Deleuze and Guattari, Hardt and Negri, Homi Bhabha, and Giorgio Agamben, as well as Halberstam and queer theory, The Postcolonial Body in Queer Space and Time discusses the poetry and journals of Arthur Nortje, Hanif Kureishi’s The Buddha of Suburbia and his film Sammy and Rosie Get Laid, and Tayeb Salih’s Season of Migration to the North, tracing a geographic arc from homeland to London to the return to the homeland, traveling through the queer space and time of the postcolonial.