Movies

Scene: San Francisco

This article is the first in a monthly series about the lesbian entertainment scene in various cities. This month we start off in San Francisco; come back next month for a trip to Los Angeles.

Scene 1: Queer Women of Color Film Festival Brava Theater, June 9 In the cool quiet of the Brava Theater in San Francisco’s Mission District, stage lights shone brightly down on a panel of five women – three filmmakers, two moderators, all queer women of color. “I grew up in Denver, and Denver was very white at the time,” said Shari Frilot, explaining how she came to be a filmmaker.

“You were either Mexican – of Mexican descent – black or white, and I’m Puerto Rican-Creole; I always slipped through the cracks.” Frilot’s tight, dark brown curls were pulled back from her face with a headband. “I was always told I was not this or not that, and I just grew up defining myself as a string of nots, and it was driving me crazy after awhile.”

As a student, she discovered quantum physics and learned that physicists were frustrated by trying to understand elemental particles, which had a sort of split identity. “I was like, ‘That sounds like me!'” she recalled. “And so I started making movies about science and how science related to identity. … Basically using science as a springboard to investigate sexuality.”

Shortly after graduating from Harvard with her B.A., Frilot made the documentary A Cosmic Demonstration of Sexuality (1992), linking female sexuality with the atom. She is now a senior programmer at the Sundance Film Festival.

For fellow panelist Cheryl Dunye, who made The Watermelon Woman and Stranger Inside, her choice to be a filmmaker came out of a desire to see herself on-screen. “Nobody else was going to do it for me,” she said bluntly.

For women of color who also happen to be queer, finding images like yourself on television or in film can be a life-changing experience. For some women, who turn out to be filmmakers or musicians or writers, that experience translates into the desire to make more of them.

At the third annual Queer Women of Color Film Festival that weekend, I was surrounded by women who looked like me, and the feeling – even in San Francisco – was at times surprisingly unfamiliar.

After the panel, at the reception upstairs in the renovated theater, the panelists and audience members – many of them young, queer, Asian, black – munched on Asian hors d’oeuvres, sipped cocktails and traded business cards. The Brava Theater, which was originally known as the Roosevelt when it housed vaudeville shows in 1926, eventually became a neighborhood movie theater, showing movies that these days would run on basic cable.

In 2000, when the building was being renovated by Brava! for Women in the Arts, a theater that specializes in premiering work by women of color and lesbians, a plaster-and-gilt mural was uncovered beneath a 50-year-old wall. The mural showed San Francisco as a port town: ships, the Golden Gate Bridge, grape growers and workers.

These days, the Mission is no longer heavily Irish, as it was when the Roosevelt was first built. It is now home to a large Latino community, but others have begun to poach on their territory: hipster artists, who throng the trendy boutiques on Valencia, and lesbians, with their vegan restaurants, dive bars and once-a-month club nights. But we all come together to buy burritos at 2 a.m. at the Taqueria Cancun.

The lesbians who gathered that Saturday afternoon to listen to queer black women talk about filmmaking were eager to share their experiences with making movies. Some were planning to launch an online distribution company to bring films about queer women of color around the world. Others offered support by suggesting that filmmakers apply for grants from various organizations.

But Frilot offered the most fairy tale-like advice: “If you follow your heart and be original, you’d be surprised how much people want to work with you.”

Perhaps that’s what we all need to hear, as often as possible.

Scene 2: Girl in a Coma Fat City, June 15 The concert was supposed to start at 9 p.m., but by 10:00 the vast, warehouse-like space of Fat City, a SoMa venue that houses rotating club nights and a variety of performances, was still largely deserted. The members of Girl in a Coma, a three-woman band from San Antonio, lingered near the only seating in the cavernous club, waiting to go onstage.

Earlier in the evening I met with them while the bartenders were stacking plastic cups in preparation for the night’s event, a monthly queer club called Cock Block. “Tonight’s event is a lesbian club,” I said to them. “Have you played many of them?”

“No, actually, this is the first,” said Phanie Diaz, the band’s 27-year-old drummer. With her round face and casual demeanor, she didn’t look much like her sister, 19-year-old lead singer Nina Diaz. Nina wore a shock of pink eyeshadow and thick eyeliner, her lips painted dark. She had the look of a sultry rock star in the making, but she still admitted to missing her mother while they were on the road.

Girl in a Coma, which was signed to Joan Jett’s Blackheart Records last year, was about a month into a two-month tour. After a brief break in early July, they’re scheduled to join Warped – a music tour sponsored by Vans featuring dozens of skate-punk and rock bands – for several dates.

So far, they’ve played mostly smaller bars and clubs. I asked them if they had racked up any interesting tour stories yet, and Phanie answered, “We get the usual guy groping – like some guy slapped Nina on the ass, and Jenn got to throw a drink on him.”

Jenn Alva, 27, is the band’s bass player. “The classic beer splash,” she put in. “I finally got to do it, so I can check that off my list.”

Jenn wore her hair in a hipster cut, spiked up in parts with long, Elvis-like sideburns. She is a lesbian. “It’s something that I’m proud of, but at the same time I don’t really talk about it,” she said, “’cause it’s just about music. Rock and roll, that’s it.”

The band has struggled to avoid labeling themselves – they are also an all-Latina band – and their music does cross genres. Onstage they know how to rock out, but Nina’s voice sounds like it’s been influenced by New Wave singers from the early ’80s: She makes her voice yearn, even when she’s kicking around onstage, slashing against her electric guitar.

By the time they finally began playing, it was an hour and half past the time the flyer said the show would begin, and the audience was still sparsely spread over the broad dancefloor. It was clear, as Girl in a Coma kicked off their hour-long set, that the patrons had come for Cock Block, not a rock band.

As the band went through their tracks – the initially dreamy, then pop-charged “Clumsy Sky,” the staccato vocals of “Say,” the highway-ready “Road to Home” – young women began to arrive at the club.

They were dressed in skinny jeans and studded belts, Converse sneakers and narrow ties, billowing peasant blouses belted over miniskirts and leggings. They were more interested in each other – and their artfully arranged hairstyles that suggested the windblown fantasies of Flock of Seagulls – than the band.

Once Girl in a Coma opened for the Pogues, and when they were asked what they wanted in their concert rider, the humble threesome requested Bud Light and fruit.

“It freaked ’em out,” said Phanie. “They were like, ‘That’s it?'”

I asked them what they would ask for next time they have the option of demanding treats before a performance. “Tea,” said Nina.

“Hummus,” said Jenn. All three are vegetarians.

“Hummus, definitely,” Nina agreed. “I’m hungry,” she said. Everyone laughed.

For their last number, Nina acknowledged the crowd’s restlessness. “I know you all want to dance,” she told them. The crowd cheered as the band tore through their last song, and when they left the stage, the DJ queued up the first beats.

The young, hipster crowd shifted, eyeing each other as the lights began to flash. I wondered if Girl in a Coma was going out for hummus.

Scene 3: Dyke March Dolores Park, June 23 “It’ll probably be cold,” said a friend of mine when I asked her what the weather was supposed to be like on Saturday afternoon for the Dyke March. “You know God hates lesbians.”

But the weather was nearly perfect for San Francisco: warm, sunny, breezy but not cold — yet. At Dolores Park, a bowl of green grass and palm trees with a spectacular hill-top view of the downtown skyline, thousands of lesbians began arriving with blankets, camping chairs, shade umbrellas and booze. They wore feather boas, distressed leather, scuffed sneakers, corsets and thigh-high boots, fulfilling the costume requirements for Pride: anything and everything.

By midafternoon, performers had begun to take to stage set up in the park, but nobody paid attention. The scent-free, smoke-free area that was roped off just in front of the stage had plenty of space left, but the rest of the park was packed.

In New York, the Dyke March gathers together in Midtown and actually marches downtown carrying political placards and chanting about lesbian rights. In San Francisco, it’s a topless party.

I sat with a group of friends in the middle of the hill between a group passing around an extremely fragrant pipe and another group tipping back bottles of wine. It’s possible that the drinking and other kinds of amusement are necessary on a day when everyone expects to run into at least one ex-girlfriend.

Near the edge of the park, a bank of portable toilets were set up, wobbling, on wooden two-by-fours. Whenever a new patron entered one of them, the entire line swayed, leading to a bathroom experience more adventurous than desired — especially after a few beers.

Waiting for the bathroom, I talked to women about what club was the best option for the night. Nobody seemed particularly interested in going to the actual Gay Pride march on Sunday. “That’s for the boys,” said one woman. Saturday was for the girls.

One woman made her way to the front of the bathroom line and negotiated with the one who was next for the toilet. She opened her wallet and handed over some cash. When she returned, triumphant, we asked her how much she had paid to jump the line.

“Five bucks,” she said, grinning.

In the distance we heard the Dykes on Bikes gunning their engines as they prepared to lead the Dyke March through the streets of the Mission on a roundabout stroll to the Castro. As the sun sank behind Twin Peaks, the pale blue sky streaked with orange, the fog began to roll in, bringing with it the evening chill.

Instead of marching, my friends and I grabbed a table at Yum Yum House on Valencia Street. As we ate pot stickers and sizzling tofu, we watched the women of the Dyke March saunter past the restaurant windows. Every once in a while, we saw someone who was still topless, despite the chilly air.

Seated at a nearby table were some tourists who, apparently, had no idea that today was the Dyke March. They tried not to stare.

Scene 4: Frameline Closing Party Swedish American Hall, June 24 “I always ask people to tell me their name again, even if I’ve met them before,” said Stacy Codikow, founder of POWER UP. She wore a blue jean shirt and blue jeans, and I shook her hand.

“Yeah, we met at Q-Me Con,” I said to her, and laughed.

POWER UP’s first feature film, Itty Bitty Titty Committee, was Frameline’s closing night film, and I had just come from the Castro Theater to the festival’s closing party at the Swedish American Hall. Built in 1907, the building’s interior is paneled in dark wood, giving it the feel of an old European manor house. The main space, Freja Hall, is connected to the smaller Balder Hall by a low-ceilinged hallway where I ran into Codikow.

“Danielle really liked it,” she said, referring to Danielle Riendeau’s review of Itty Bitty.

“I did too,” I told her. “I really enjoyed it.” She smiled, pleased. In Balder Hall, Guinevere Turner, who played talk show host Marcy Maloney in the film, sat in one of the room’s Gothic thrones, cornered by an enthusiastic fan. I wandered back into the main hall where Absolut, one of the festival’s sponsors, had set up an open bar. The catch, of course, was that all the free drinks were vodka-based.

I saw filmmaker J.D. Disalvatore, whose film Shelter premiered at Frameline, working her way across the room. I ran into Cheryl Dunye as we were briefly trapped behind a crush of people rushing the open bar. Producer Andrea Sperling and her partner, director Jamie Babbit, stood with actress Nicole Vicius, who played one of the leads in the film, and filmmaker Jenni Olson.

“I’ve really enjoyed your writing,” Olson told me.

“Thanks,” I said, surprised.

“No, really,” she insisted.

Jamie Babbit, whom I had just introduced myself to, looked on with some interest. “I like the layout of AfterEllen,” she said.

“That’s great,” I said, smiling. Perhaps the free vodka was working.

Scene 5: True Colors Tour Greek Theatre Berkeley, Calif., June 29 Those who have chosen to move from San Francisco to the East Bay boast that the weather there is always better — and as much as San Franciscans have pride in the City by the Bay, they have to admit that it’s true. The night of Friday, June 29, it was a balmy 70 degrees in Berkeley with no wind or fog.

As the evening light spread sunset-gold over the outdoor Greek Theatre, Toronto-based band the Cliks took to the stage right on the dot of 7 p.m. They played to a mostly gay and lesbian crowd that was still milling around, checking out the scene, buying $7 cups of beer and locally produced wine.

When they finished their set, Margaret Cho came out onstage to gush about them. “We’ll be signing CDs over at the merch booth,” said lead singer Lucas Silveira, “so come over and say hi.” Silveira, dressed in a white button-down shirt, a black-and-red tie and black jeans, exuded the low-key sexiness of the boi you wished lived next door.

“You’ll be at the merch booth?” Cho said suggestively, and then grabbed Silveira, his guitar pressed between them, and proceeded to kiss him until the crowd noticed and started whistling.

After the band left, Cho explained to the audience, “I did it for everyone.”

At 7:40, my friend and I joined a group of people waiting in line to go backstage to meet Cyndi Lauper. We all wore triangular stickers to indicate we’d be allowed through. “We’re taking you in groups of 20 or so,” said the meet-and-greet organizer. “Have your cameras ready.”

They led us back behind the stage, through a carpeted outdoor seating area with plush couches, and lined us up behind another gate. “You’re just going to go back through there again,” the man in charge of us admitted. “But we have to wait for Cyndi.”

When she emerged a few minutes later, she was tiny, pixie-ish, a little distracted. My friend and I were the second group of people she met that night, and I decided to not bother to introduce myself. How many people had she met on this tour? I wondered.

“Thank you,” I said to her instead, and handed my camera to the waiting assistant. “You’re welcome,” Lauper answered, and the assistant snapped a photo. Then we were ushered out at lightning speed, lest we linger any longer and check out who was sitting on those plush outdoor couches.

As the night went on, the acts became more polished, more professional. The Dresden Dolls were followed by Debbie Harry, who was followed by Erasure — who drove the crowd into a frenzy with a group rendition of “Oh L’Amour.” And then a surprise guest showed up: Rosie O’Donnell, who reminded us that she became so famous because she is, after all, very funny.

When Cyndi Lauper came onstage at last, she seemed to be wearing black ankle socks with her footless tights. It struck me that she was probably wearing the same kind of outfit she wore 25 years ago when she first hit the big time.

She danced around like an elf as she sang “I Drove All Night,” “Money Changes Everything” and “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.” After Erasure, it was like ’80s night; I felt like a kid again as I listened to Lauper sing “Good Enough” from Goonies.

“She’s so tiny,” said my friend. “She’s so adorable!”

At the end of the show, all the performers gathered onstage to sing “True Colors” together. They released huge balloons that the crowd kept aloft by bouncing them overhead like beach balls.

Somehow being gay has come to this: We float balloons at night, giant bubbles glowing in the stage lights, and we cheer together.

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