(PART II)
In her exemplary work Erotic Beasts and Social Monsters: Shakespeare, Johnson and Comic Androgyny, Grace Tiffany outlines two traditional representations of the androgyne/ hermaphrodite figure: the sacred vs. the satirical.
The sacred androgyne is rooted in myths, particularly origin myths of primal unity, and is a positive, salutary, even salvific figure. As she explains:
“Classical myths concerning the androgyne, like those found in numerous other cultures, used him/her to demonstrate a principle of relatedness: of potent human connectedness and progress, or what the Greeks called ‘eros.’ Eros, according to the androgynous principle, is far more than sexual libido. It is a metamorphic power that compels human creativity, procreation, and personal and social growth through intimate connectedness…. [quoting Laurens van der Post], ‘The spirit of Eros’ is ‘a process of metamorphosis,’ of which ‘all of us…are not only capable…but driven…by the collective unconscious’ that ‘unites all humankind.’”
It is important to remember that this sacred androgyne is in no way deprived of positive masculine traits (Tiffany associates it with such virile figures as Hercules, Odysseus, Dionysus and Shiva), but is rather the fruition of both gender potentials in tandem, true man and true woman, (M/F). Tiffany traces its genealogy through a number of culture zones and literatures, finding it especially well represented in the work of William Shakespeare—his cross-dressing, shape-shifting champions of Eros vs. his tragic/villainous rejecters and saboteurs of same.
On the other side of the coin we find what Tiffany dubs the satiric androgyne, which she links to “a misogynistic classical ethic that, as early as the seventh century B.C, confronted and warred with the older myth of the sacred androgyne.” This rival androgyne is typically vulgar, immodest, hypersexual (yet impotent/barren), lacking both the grace and generative power of the feminine and the virility and agency of the masculine. It is grounded in a dispassionate, separatist, intellectual critique (as opposed to the passionate involvement of erotic experience), and is characterized by “distrust in personal and social relationships, particularly in relationships with women.” Its rhetorical M.O. involves what Matthew Hodgart calls “destruction of the symbol,” which Tiffany explains:
“When the image of the androgyne is separated by the satirist from its mythic roots, it becomes simply this “thing in itself”: not a multiform, polynomial, fluid symbol of multiple selves, but one single effeminate male or inappropriately aggressive, ‘manly’ female who, so far from figuring communal wholeness, appears as an unhealthy impediment to the productive life of the community.”
This, then, is the double negative, neither male nor female, (-M/-F) which opposes and seeks to annihilate the positive, male and female (M/F).
All of this is vividly realized in the 2003 biopic film Beautiful Boxer by Singapore-based director Ekachai Uekrongham. The film chronicles Nong Toom’s journey, from her childhood in rural Thailand, to her initiation into Muay Thai, through the stages of her controversial career as a top fighter, and finally her decision to undergo a sex-change operation and resolve the contradictions of mind and body once and for all. There are many scenes worthy of comment, but the key scene, for our purposes, comes about two thirds of the way through.
Nong Toom, (sensitively played by actor/boxer Asanee Suwan), stands in the ring, comely and dignified in her customary lipstick and rouge. Her opponent is Ramba, a grotesque—bearded, garlanded, and garishly made up. This unsightly thing minces and sashays about the ring in a caricature of womanly mannerisms to the raucous cheers of the spectators. Mythically it appears as a projection of the ignorant crowd, born of their derision; psychologically it is also Nong Toom’s own shadow made hideous flesh. This clownish, false, satirical androgyne, this demonic mockery, neither man nor woman, arises to traduce and slay the hero, to counter her erotic power and eradicate her very tenuous identity. What started as a boxing match has become a harrowing ritual, an enacted myth, and yet there is nothing pre-scripted or guaranteed or safely contained here. The stakes are jacked to an all or nothing, existential showdown, and all the world is watching.
At first the demon’s wicked mojo seems to work; Toom is stunned, clearly offended. She is blindsided by a sudden, vicious attack. In the course of the fight she regains her poise, turns the tide, and gives Ramba a vengeful thrashing. It’s no surprise, really, that the demon isn’t much of a fighter. Its very nature is negation; when it comes down to it, it isn’t much of anything. In the end, the shameless creature begs for mercy, pleading “We’re both girls!”
“Yes,” says Toom, “but girls like you give girls like me a bad name.” Her next punch knocks Ramba out cold, and this time there’s no kiss.
Psychologically,and mythically, this scene opens the way for Nong Toom’s further initiationinto the feminine sphere. She startstaking hormones, and while the treatment favors her transformation, it weakensher in the ring. She absorbs morepunishment and starts losing fights. Sadas it is, this decline also supports the mythic reading, for as she becomesmore and more a woman, she sacrifices the male aspect of the androgyne,forfeiting certain potentials and powers, like closing down wings of a greathouse. The process culminates in herfinal, surgical transformation, after which she is banned entirely fromentering the ring, as per the ancient, patriarchal rules of the sport.[4] On a sociological level, we may not thegalling irony that the official acceptance of her as woman takes the form ofbanishment. But in a mythic sense, wesee her delivered from the semiotic arena and its crucible of warringcategories. She has died to herself andbeen reborn. She is free.
(To be continued)
(Meet Mago Contributor) Matthew Chabin.