Thoughts on Prostitute (1980)
I came across Prostitute (1980) while looking for films that blur the boundary between documentary and narrative cinema, and I’m glad I did. The film captures the lives of street workers in Birmingham and London with a detached, almost clinical eye, giving it a feeling of authenticity that’s hard to find. I felt like I was being granted access to an unseen world, not as a spectator, but as an outsider peering into something real and unvarnished.
There’s no overt dramatisation or moralising. The camera lingers on ordinary moments that reveal so much: a conversation between two women laughing about their different clients, or the way Sandra’s expressions change as she deals with her move to London and the challenges that come with it. There’s a frankness in the way these scenes unfold that never feels voyeuristic or intrusive. It’s not trying to tell you what to think or feel, but it’s impossible not to react in some way.
Garnett’s approach captures the contradictions and layers of the women’s lives, the need for control in a situation where they have little power, the small acts of agency against a backdrop of exploitation. And although Prostitute deals with its subject matter without sensationalism, there’s an underlying anger in the narrative. The harassment by police, the injustice of the legal system, and the general sense of these women being disposable bodies to those in power. It’s not heavy-handed, but you feel it. You feel it in the offhand comments, the weary expressions, and the way the film quietly observes, letting the women’s own words and actions speak for themselves.
Watching Prostitute has left me considering how to bring a similar grounded perspective to The Ogress of Fez. There’s a power in showing things as they are and letting the silences carry as much weight as the words. It’s more about understanding the layers and letting the characters reveal themselves naturally, without forcing interpretations or simplifying who they are.
The film’s mixture of staged scenes with real-life dialogue and locations has a rawness that aligns with the kind of atmosphere I’m trying to evoke in The Ogress of Fez. The grit, the mundanity, the quiet moments of despair, all of it felt more impactful because it never felt staged. It has made me think about how I might portray some of the dynamics between the women in Oum’s brothel without resorting to overt stylisation. I am particularly struck by how the scenes don’t draw attention to themselves, how everything feels lived-in, almost casual, yet somehow affecting.
It’s this kind of authenticity that I’m aiming to bring to my own work. Something that feels unflinching and truthful, even if it’s uncomfortable to watch. There’s an honesty in Garnett’s approach that resonates with me; one that avoids easy answers or neat resolutions, and instead allows the viewer to sit with the discomfort, to grapple with it in their own way.