By Tanya Vasundharan
Do three-line film reviews on IMDB usually disappoint you? Is it a bit like chasing a perverse chef for a simple recipe, where you end up with an idea of the essential ingredients but aren’t told that one ingredient in it would change everything for you?
I have to confess that this is what happened with me and the Iranian film A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night by Ana Lily Amirpour. When it came out in 2014, I’d looked it up, and the caption made the film sound immensely forgettable: ‘In the Iranian ghost-town Bad City, a place that reeks of death and loneliness, the townspeople are unaware that they are being stalked by a lonesome vampire.’ Another vampire-themed story, and of course it had to ascribe to the barren town mode, just like Near Dark (1987), Nosferatu (1992), and Byzantium (2012).
*Many spoilers. Beware*
The film is wickedly tongue-in-cheek, particularly when her victims are unsuspecting men who come on to her. The first time you see her, it appears as if she’s in danger after being lured into a sleazy rich pimp’s house. He’s snorting coke like there’s no tomorrow, and luckily for him there isn’t. He approaches her after a few lines, and strokes her face while his giant chest muscles twinkle in the light. Then he shoves his finger in her mouth, alpha-male confidence about getting laid oozing from every pore (never mind that he has the word ‘S-E-X’ tattooed on his neck) and that’s when the fun starts. In a flash, she sprouts formidable canines and bites off his whole finger. There’s a very loud crunch.
It’s not just that the film subverts stereotypes about predatory male vampires and their delicate girls-in-white prey, because there’s plenty of that in literature and pop culture already, from the eponymous vampire in Carmilla, a Gothic novel by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu that was written before Dracula, to Drussila in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and Pamela Swynford in True Blood. I used to be called Van Helsing in school — beats me why, maybe it had to do with my all-black outfits or the Goth sullenness I tried hard to exude for a brief period — but let me tell you that the woman in A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night is one character that would make Van in all his Transylvanian macho glory look weedy and try-hard. Because the most striking aspect about the film was the powerful ease with which she walked — the surge of relief that passed over you knowing that you didn’t have to squirm uncomfortably in familiar discomfort waiting for her to be attacked — the confidence with which she navigated empty streets at night.
Had I ever felt that sense of magnificent freedom as a woman on the streets at any hour? Not since puberty, I don’t think. I did experience a heady rush the first time I stepped out on to a desolate platform at a tiny station called Sole Street (as the name suggests, it was always empty) in Kent. I had just visited a friend in London, and was on my way back home. It was past midnight, but I was scornful and high on independence. No trace of the paranoid edge I developed later after being followed home on two occasions in Defence Colony, an apparently safe part of New Delhi. And then a large, drunk British man, mumbling incoherently, began following me. After 10 minutes, he attempted to drag me to his car. He thought I was an escort, or something along those lines, and so, of course, in his head, willing to be dragged by strangers to their cars. Years later, I spoke to a Ghanaian friend who grew up in Italy and was constantly propositioned or asked outright if she was a prostitute, and why this large creep picked me in particular made a little more sense.
After being followed in broad daylight by a group of 18-year-old boys yelling, “Get that Indian chick to give you a blowjob” in a public park in Surrey, and being followed into a gym by a drunk who insisted that I was his ‘Hindustani’ girlfriend, it hit me that my perception about England being safer for women was a complete misconception. Instead, what confronted me there as a brown immigrant woman was the ‘exotic or invisible’ dichotomy. Your presence was either ignored completely, or hyper-sexualised, and rare confessions of straightforward attraction occasionally accompanied by the caveat “For an Indian, you’re quite this, that, or the other.”
Being followed in what you presume to be safe-enough places, only to realise that sadly there is no such thing as ‘safe-enough’, is what makes watching the vampire stalk the streets in A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night such a surreal and refreshing (if escapist) experience. Because, while relentlessly stalking sleazy chaps and chomping off their fingers — or even mimicking the protagonist in the Utopia cartoon below — isn’t what we would all get up to go do on a Friday evening. But it’s nice that they exist, fearlessly, in our imaginations.