Transformations

Over-turners of large forest stones know that anything could emerge from beneath them, which is why they always brace themselves for a surprise and may be disappointed upon seeing no more than flattened earth. Some of our greatest horror-film delights likewise step—or slither—forward from previously protected cavities, including those that have been built as a result of our penchant for sticking to the smoothly paved thoroughfares of accepted classics and old standbys.

Barbara Hirschfeld’s 1972 nine-minute 16mm film, Transformations, looks like it could have come only from the Vermont woods in which it was made. Utilizing the talents of the local feminist collective, Hirschfeld gives us just cause for the aforesaid bracing, because there’s no other cinematic offering like this one. We watch various women begin their days, in their modern homes—which don’t look that different from any you’d find in this region today—as they set about forgathering in the woods. Lest we doubt what period we’re in, a car whizzes by in the corner of the frame as one of these women walks along the side of the road, but it’s incidental, a remnant, if not revenant, on wheels in its own time in comparison to the centrality of this morning ritual.

Each woman has tasks and responsibilities that are tended to, but we intuit that these matters of business are also matters of identity pertaining to the larger group to which they all belong as self-actualized individuals. They have their lives of the home and their lives—and selves—apart from it. We see one of these women as she opens her eyes for the first time that day and then side-eyes her still-sleeping husband in the bed next to her.

There’s no bundling board per se, but we wonder what their marriage is like. Are they happy? Did they come together like many do because what else is one going to do? Shortly thereafter, we witness the same woman leaving the bedroom with her husband having awakened. Not a word passes between them. This isn’t his time to infringe upon her time. He understands, though we’re unsure how readily he agrees or how long that took, or what it took. We won’t see any more men here. We don’t need to. That would be like an intrusion upon identity and that which must be maintained. Think of a person who keeps chipping away at their favorite activities to fit their lives and selves to how someone else is. Boundaries are necessary. Perhaps this is but an example and all is conjugal bliss later on, because this routine is respected by both parties.