When I attended school in the Fenway area, there were a few places that I can recall as distinctly being part of my college freshman experience. Before the towering Pierce building shadowed over the hospitals and students, there was the 24-hour Dunkins in the gas station at the intersection of Park Drive and Boylston Street (now used for Red Sox parking). There was the Burger King a block away from the gas station that I frequented for a veggie burger in between classes (now replaced with a Tatte; also RIP the BK/Morning Star collab). And, of course, there was Machine — the nightlife scene for eager 18-year-olds living the night on Red Bull.
At the time I was living there, I was a shy 17-year-old who never stepped inside the night club — even up to when the club permanently closed in March of 2020 (surprisingly not because of the pandemic, but unsurprisingly demolished to create luxury residences). The vibrant stories of Machine echoed from my dorm room to the queer spaces I found after college. Even if it wasn’t a firsthand experience for me, hearing the name bounce across Boston certifies itself as a staple.
Though they did have Dyke Night, Machine wasn’t solely a lesbian space. You won’t have to ask many people to know that there aren’t many dedicated queer women spaces in Boston. According to the Lesbian Bar Project, there are 24 dedicated bars remaining in the United States. Reasons behind the demise of the lesbian bar have been discussed in several articles, but in this selected program, Muff Dives: The Dyke Bar in Cinema, we can still hold a “celesbration” for both the extinct and the last-standing. Curated by 4Columns film writer Melissa Anderson (who was also in attendance to introduce the program), the screening of Muff Dives at the Harvard Film Archive is an abridged version from when it played at the Metrograph this past June (the full program can be found here). To say the least, it’s a treat to see life breathing into the walls of these sister spaces.
Sunday’s programming featured two short films followed by a full-length narrative. The short films, which contain rare footage of shuttered lesbian bars, are a flicker of history. Mona’s Candle Light, titled after a club in San Francisco that was active until the ’50s, was the first presentation. As the footage was found at a flea market, the cameraperson is unknown. They take us to the exterior of the club, identified by a neon sign, before leading us to the stage occupied by a singer, Jan Jansen. At the time, heterosexual couples would attend the club, possibly seeing it as a tourist attraction. From the footage alone, it’s difficult to determine what their agenda is; a group of men and women have their backs turned to Jansen as she sings Cole Porter’s “Just One of Those Things,” never once turning their heads. It’s a glimpse of a world that lived under the noses of society, but there is not much else to surmise as the camera suddenly cuts off.
Stormé: The Lady of the Jewel Box centers around Stormé DeLarverie, a prominent figure in Greenwich Village, through archival footage. Before her alleged legacy of throwing the first punch at Stonewall, DeLarverie had been an entertainer — MC, drag performer, singer — and bouncer in the Lower Manhattan area. She first performed as a drag king at the Jewel Box Revue, the country’s first racially integrated drag show (the location is now replaced by a software company). The footage was compiled by Temple University film professor Michelle Parkerson and released in 1987. Even for the brief minutes we see DeLarverie, the steadiness in her voice and her no-holds-barred attitude has me convinced that the rumors are true.
The last feature of the night was Simone Barbès ou la vertu (Simone Barbès or Virtue in English), a French film released in 1980. Though there is a switch in narrative from captured history to a fictional late-night rendezvous, the tonal presence still feels fleeting. Simone Barbès follows the eponymous character (Ingrid Bourgoin) in a fever dream, or a living fantasy amongst other nightcrawlers and insomniacs. The premise, if there is one, is in smokes, but it is still enrapturing to watch Simone navigate through loneliness and disappointment. It begins with Simone at her job: a ticket taker/usher at a porno theater. With her co-worker Martine (Martine Simonet), they show the (all-male) customers to their purchased showings, assumed to cater to sexual preferences. Though there is more to be enjoyed in Simone’s outings (including a choreographed sword fight at the bar), the chemistry between Simone and Martine is the perfect reflection of late-night shifts consisting in delightful eye-rolling and bantering with the customers.
The role of the lesbian bar feels particularly striking in Simone Barbès. Simone leaves work and sits at the bar, waiting for her waitress girlfriend to get off work. Despite the camaraderie from Martine and the fellow waitresses and barstaff that greet her, Simone’s expressions barely crack beyond a small smile. Her desolation is emphasized when she leaves the bar without her girlfriend in hand and gets into a stranger’s car for a ride home. In the decaying nature of these spaces, it feels contradictory to miss that specific type of loneliness. Such as life, you have good days and you have bad ones. But at least we can feel sad in the safety of strangers like us.
I have been lucky to visit two bars this year. The first was Ginger’s in Brooklyn on a quiet Tuesday. A few people were playing pool in the backroom and there were a revolving door of couples, albeit sparse, at the bar. At the same time, the bar was not mistaken to be lonely; the bartender asked us to try her frozen margarita batch, and I tried guessing all of the ’90s female singer-songwriters that was playing the night (Melissa Etheridge wasn’t correct for any of the songs). The second club was A League of Her Own, a multi-level club (with an arcade?) in D.C. that was body-packed for the Friday and Saturday nights I was there. At that point, Beyonce’s Renaissance came out, so “Break My Soul” united everyone across the floors. I don’t think I saw the same person twice.
I mention these experiences knowing that it’s not universal for everyone. But I think the possibility of the experience is meaningful when these spaces exist. It’s ridiculous to say, but having the worst night in a safe space feels like crying in your childhood bed. I can’t see a reason to not support lesbian spaces, but this program doesn’t demand for mobilization at this very moment. For the night, we can watch in awe or in familiarity.
MUFF DIVES screened at the Harvard Film Archive on Sunday, 10/30