At this year’s Cannes Film Festival opening, Juliette Binoche, president of the jury, made a grand appearance to commemorate the murder of Palestinian photojournalist Fatma Hassona in an Israeli air strike. Only hours earlier, she had been asked by Al-Jazeera about her decision to not sign an open letter denouncing the film industry’s silence around Hassona’s death. She responded first with silence, then coyly said that all would be revealed later.
“Later” turned out to be her speech at the opening. You can read the full text here, translated from the French, but the gist of it is, well, nothing at all. Binoche said, in part, “Against the immensity of this storm, we must create softness; transform our fragmented visions in newfound trust; heal our ignorance; let go of our fears, our egoism; change course…” She goes on, “Fatma should have been among us tonight. Art remains. It’s the powerful testimony of our lives, our dreams, and we the viewers, we embrace it. May Cannes, where everything can change, contribute to that.”
How, exactly, are Palestinians who are being blown to bits—if they’re not starved to death first—supposed to do all that? On whom does the burden of “softness” fall? Her vague and anodyne words remind me of that bit that sometimes plays before the movie starts in the average theatre, or at every single Oscars ceremony, in every introduction to every award: Something-something-the power of CINEMA, the universal language that will bring us all together. It’s a fairly standard and utterly useless rendition of the idea of art as somehow above and outside politics, untouched by massacres and genocide which must not be named outright. And when they do happen, they are an inconvenience in the shape of a rude question addressed to the nice white lady who sits with a smug and knowing smile when asked why she couldn’t be bothered to sign a letter.
Worse: she delivered this toothless, vague, and anodyne speech in a Dior-designed costume that evokes both Dune and Disney’s Ali Baba. Her head was partially covered by a broad hood, while her shoulders and upper chest were bared: the vibe was Sexy Muslim. On Facebook, when I wondered out loud why a certain kind of white woman could never speak about issues facing non-white women without adopting some kind of Orientalist garb, LW responded, “Because we can no longer claim native American ancestry without it backfiring but we want to be ‘exotic’ so much it hurts so we switch it up between risque geisha and memsahib so people will think we’re deep and mysterious.” Which, I think, is perfectly put.
Versions of the hijab or scarf, simulated by Binoche’s flowing hood are, on white women, seen as exotic and empowering. But the same attire, when worn by actual Muslim women, is seen as threatening, or as a symbol of oppression. France, home to the Cannes film festival, has been especially harsh in its crackdown on face and head coverings. Julitette Binoche presented herself in a gown that simultaneously mimicked the religious headgear of a Muslim woman and showed enough skin to make it clear that she was, and is, white and free. Her words, which did not name the genocide that obliterated Hassona, only added Orientalist fuel to the fire. Vulture reported her speech in an piece titled “Cannes Jury President Juliette Binoche Condemns Killing of Palestinian Journalist,” but there was no condemnation at all, only some empty rhetoric about the power of art.
By the time she finished delivering her meaningless words, everyone in the media, perhaps dazzled by the glow of the gown and the whiteness of Binoche, had forgotten that she never did explain why she refused to sign the letter.
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