Passion Fish 1992
Chantelle first appears on the side of a road in the departing dust of a Greyhound bus. An ordinary suitcase sits at her feet. She looks around, perhaps to see where she has landed but perhaps also to search for something.
This traveling woman has come into the film unexpectedly. We have just spent the first twenty minutes of the film on the Louisiana estate of white handicapped soap opera veteran May-Alice, yet now here is a Black woman who seems to have packed her life into this modest suitcase. We see Chantelle’s feet touch down here and we wonder if she will find what she is looking for on this southern earth.
The newly arrived guest enters May-Alice’s home, and now we recognize that Chantelle is the latest in a long line of home helpers sent to help the paralyzed host of the home. One of the first things we notice is how May-Alice defaults to talking about her dropped remote and her need for breakfast when Chantelle asks her how long she has been without a helper. Life for May-Alice has been sliding by in a blur of television, alcohol, and food. The fact that human contact has been missing seems irrelevant to her. Of course, if you had met the series of whiny aides who had come so far, you may have also lost your appetite for a human touch. The scene ends with these words from May-Alice, almost as stiff as a hand in the face : “Listen, Chantelle. You got any problems, personal problems, I don’t wanna hear ‘em.” We watch Chantelle’s chest heave sharply and see something between alarm and grief on her face. She is stifling something, and that something is part of what the movie is about.
The way director John Sayles places Alfre Woodard’s Chantelle at the heart of this story is the purest stroke in his film. Chantelle is a Black woman whose voice is elevated above all the other voices in the film, and she is by far the most meaningful and carefully drawn character in the whole thing. Mary McDonnell as May-Alice is very good, but if left on her own we would be thinking about how much she is like so many other characters we have seen in dramas like this one. (Watching someone rise above their disability is a worthy subject for a film, but very often the uplift is canned and so does not really honor real stories of those who triumph in this way in real life.)
Who is Chantelle to May-Alice? She is not a buddy who weeps supportively by May-Alice’s side. She is not a slave or a servant to May-Alice. She is not even a good cook, as we see in a very credible moment in which she brings out canned soup for the guests. Is she a nurse? Maybe so, as she imparts wisdom on health and works to keep May-Alice safe.
Above all, I think, the most significant thing that Chantelle is to May-Alice is that she is present. She is someone who stays, persevering through May-Alice’s moments of capriciousness, self-pity, and passive-aggression without enabling her in those tendencies at all. Alfre Woodard’s performance as Chantelle is so key here. This is never truer than in a piercing scene in which we watch Chantelle, alone in her own bedroom, working to keep her heaving sobs under control. Woodard shows us how much this relationship and this assignment costs Chantelle. (On a side note: as a Christian, I find it ironic that the film casts a very skeptical eye on the Christian church’s relationship to local culture when, in fact, Chantelle’s merciful and persevering presence with May-Alice strikes distinct notes of Christlike love.)
The richness of Chantelle’s character stands alone, but also stands alongside the character of May-Alice as the two of them navigate a relationship and friendship in which each needs the other one in profound ways. In the way this film sketches this relationship (in some ways a caregiver-care receiver relationship, but really so much more complex than that), the film paints the vibrant color of interdependence across the screen.
All of the above is so good, yet I cannot neglect to express some dismay about the male love interests that sidle their way up to the leading women in the second half of the film. One of these love-interest stories badly strains credibility, while the other one both glorifies a dubious relationship at the same time as it invites us to appreciate a Noble Savage-style stereotype.
Focusing on the latter, we watch with surprise as the film seems to invite us to root for (mild spoiler alert here) May-Alice to pursue an old flame who is still married and with a handful of children in tow. The film gives some hints that the man may not be so happy in his marriage, but are we really to believe that May-Alice is becoming a more socially and mentally healthy person by going for this man? This whole narrative thread is also undone by the fact that, though played by the fine David Strathairn, its male character is defined mostly by his hunky “man of the earth” qualities. Other than (and maybe because of?) the fact that this man is considering cheating on his wife, we are invited to view him as uncomplicatedly perfect. To paraphrase the Grandma in the film Minari, I will say, “No thank you, male love interests.”
Perhaps I should be more thankful for those male love interests, though, because in contrast they remind us what Sayles does right with these female characters. The director has treated the women in his film with great dignity, avoiding stereotypes and narrative fakery but giving them a story and a relationship full of complexity and humanity. We join Chantelle in searching for something near the start of the film, and then we are grateful we can join her also in finding it at the end. She has found something of deep value, and we have found a film with some enduring treasures.
