The Gender Politics of English Literary Modernism

By Paul Tiessen

Spring 1993 Issue of KINEMA

EISENSTEIN, JOYCE AND THE GENDER POLITICS OF ENGLISH LITERARY MODERNISM

A remarkable meeting took place one November day in 1929 in Paris between two famous innovators, one in literature, the other in film: James Joyce (1882-1941) and Sergei Eisenstein (1898-1948).... The historical meeting ... took place on November 30, 1929, at 2 Square Robiac, 192 rue de Grenelle, Paris 7e, where Joyce had a flat.... As far as is known, Joyce never mentioned this meeting in writing.⁽¹⁾ 

Like other literary scholars have done in the past couple of decades, I looked first of all to the writings of novelist James Joyce and to the writings of filmmaker Sergei Eisenstein when I sought to find a ground or establish a basis for my interest in exploring the possible shared relationships -- the influences, the historical connections, the theoretical or ideological associations, the definitions and other constructed meanings -- between literary modernism and the new medium of cinema.⁽²⁾ Of course, Eisenstein's interest in literature in general and in Joyce in particular is everywhere evident in his writings, and so I simply took note of his own suggestions for some kind of unified consideration of modernism and film. At first, too, as I approached the modernism-and-the-movies question, I was pleased to enter what seemed like a rich ground identified by various scholars who found in Joyce's parodies and puns, especially in Ulysses, an allusive play either on details of the movie world or on elements of film technique, or who found in Joyce's structures and rhythms some acknowledgement of film form in general or some anticipation of 1920s movies by directors like Eisenstein or Ruttmann in particular.⁽³⁾

When, more recently, my interest swung, specifically, to literary modernism's reception of cinema, to literary modernism's precise knowledge and understanding of cinema, even to literary modernism's idea about cinema in relation to its own literary leanings and longings, or, further, literary modernism's implicit or quite explicit definition of its own modernism in terms of its construction of cinema, I began again with Joyce and scholarship concerning Joyce. Indeed, it seemed inevitable that I begin there, for so strong is the "Joycean" current within scholarship assessing literary modernism that it seems actually to colour and determine the direction even of the most general of surveys of 20th-Century "literature-and-film" connections written since the late 1960s. Joyceans and non-Joyceans alike, it seems, have claimed much of that territory in the name of Joyce.⁽⁴⁾ Joyce -- through the dominance of his reputation, the singular vastness of his achievement, the nature of some of his specific actions, and especially the continuing interpretation of these by scholars and reviewers and critics -- from the 1920s to the present day, seems to carry incredible force in determining how 20th-century cinema is to be defined or constructed. To be sure, it was the case that already in the 1920s his name lent a certain air of legitimacy and definition to the new medium, at least as Eisenstein -- everywhere he went in Russia, Europe, and America, in avant-garde and other artistic, as well as educational, circles -- was proposing its development.

However, I want to point to our chance of actually losing a fuller understanding of literary modernism's construction of cinema and of the importance for modernism of that construction, if we do not let go of Joyce a little -- that is, if we limit our entry into the territory too much to the highly privileged and highly charged Joycean point of departure. By foregrounding only Joyce, we risk losing some of the meanings of cinema in a definition of modernism itself. We risk losing the sense of controversy concerning cinema within modernism, and the range of open and explicit responses, from hostility to rejoicing, concerning cinema as high art, and sometimes as low art; the anxiety, or the cautious optimism, about its effects on modernism, or on the new mass-man/woman. We risk losing some of the breadth and variety and complexity in literary modernism's response to and assessment of cinema, hence, of modernism itself.

I summarize an opportunity we have for re-considering or re-contextualizing the hitherto relative hegemony of the Joycean presence in film history, and for re-distributing or re-situating literary modernism's definitions of cinema as theory and as practice. I will draw attention to some of modernism's points of resistance to serious and to popular cinema, and points of welcoming embrace. Besides the benefits we gain in approaching cinema from a fuller perspective, I believe that much of what literary modernism believed about cinema helps to reveal something of what it believed about itself.

It is fairly common to regard the experiments of English literary modernism in the 1920s -- the modernism of Joyce and Pound and Eliot, for example -- as somehow bound up with, perhaps even indebted to, the new art of the cinema. Since the 1920s, English literary history has tended to tie literary developments of that period especially to the modernist and avant-garde experiments of the post-war, international silent cinema, from early German Expressionism in 1919 and American comedy to Russian formalism and French avant-garde in 1929, by which time the silent era had all but ended. Literary scholars' well-known enthusiasm especially for technical analogies -- stream-of-consciousness, interior monologue, and their variants in literature; montage and other editing devices, as well as interior monologue, in film -- has given them a framework for describing the artistic trends of that decade.

In the process, literary history in English-speaking countries has here and there absorbed but mainly it has excluded writers' own explicit views concerning the place of film in the 1920s literary world, or in the aesthetic preoccupations of that 1920s artistic world. Yet there is a strong oddity in all this, and paradoxes abound. For example, James Joyce, saying little about film, is routinely cited where there are discussions about 1920s literature-and-film; Dorothy Richardson, explicitly offering much and over a period of many years, is routinely ignored.

To put this in slightly different words: we find in most scholarship and criticism little sense of any complex argument put forward by modernists themselves concerning film. Furthermore, where such an argument incorporates a strongly favorable view of film, it is most likely to be absent from literary history. One congruent effect (or is it a cause?) is the absence of women's responses to the modernism of their own period, for it was in particular Joyce's female contemporaries who strove to enlarge the definitions of modernism by looking with enthusiasm to cinema both as model for and even expansion upon or perhaps alternative to the literary interests of the 1920s. Today, challenges to and questions about the patriarchal forces determining modernist achievement invite us to re-articulate the modernist moment and to observe that literary women's understanding of -- in some cases, even, preoccupation with -- cinema should itself be regarded as more than accidental, to observe, indeed, that a modernist politics focussed on the cinema might become part of a discussion of the "gender of modernism."

Bonnie Kime Scott is one critic who, though almost in passing, does invite us to investigate literary modernism in light of connections between women modernists and cinema. Scott sets her invitation in the context of her consideration of a modernism of novels, poetry, and manifestos which has been decoded as "unconsciously gendered masculine."⁽⁵⁾ Participants within modernism and decades of scholars and critics have foregrounded the status of men in that movement, a movement for which Joyce's Ulysses (1922), she notes, "was considered by many the central text."⁽⁶⁾ "Typically," as Scott reminds us, "both the authors of original manifestos and the literary historians of modernism took as their norm a small set of its male participants, who were quoted, anthologized, taught, and consecrated as geniuses."⁽⁷⁾ What Wyndham Lewis -- inserting himself into a grouping made up also of Eliot, Joyce, and Pound -- called "The Men of 1914" now becomes what some critics prefer to call "a gendered subcategory [of modernism] -- 'early male modernism,' ... or 'masculinist' modernism."⁽⁸⁾

The three men with whom Lewis identified, and who elsewhere stated their sense of identification with each other, all expressed, in varying degrees, at least mild interest in cinema. But that interest now seems merely "courteous," as Ivor Montagu, in his book on Eisenstein, once said of Joyce:⁽⁹⁾ restrained, cautious, distant, abstract, two or three times politely suggesting links between cinema and one of their own works. Yet because these men and the critics and biographers who defended them to such a large extent set the cultural agenda for our reading of the modern period and much of what followed it, their statements have determined the limits of the exploration of modernist patterns of thought concerning cinema. Certainly film theory per se feels their impact -- particularly, the impact of Joyce.

In the more than sixty years that we have looked back at the high modernist period, literary scholars have contented themselves largely with repeatedly and quite uncritically accepting Eisenstein's account of James Joyce's interest especially in Potemkin (1925) as paradigmatic and complete in determining how we should understand the 1920s interest of writers in film. Literary scholars' views have been based on a perceived kinship between technical elements used or implied in Ulysses and in Eisenstein's work; indeed, Joyce's show of interest was particularly valued and often repeated by Eisenstein, who was searching for ways to demonstrate cinema's connection to all major forms of art, and who well knew the benefits of identifying with Joyce.

Joyce's oft-cited expression of interest came, we now might say, as a kind of punctuation mark, a form of closure, at the very end of the decade, in effect sealing off a single reading of it in the late afternoon of November 30, 1929. As if to take on heightened significance as a signature of literature/film association, it came in the centre of the world of 1920s English-language modernism, Paris, where Joyce and Eisenstein (like two great currents not only in the arts but also in the broader intellectual, political, and economic movements of society and culture) one day met. And it came in response to a new art form that itself had in Germany, Russia, and France achieved an impressive high modernism, and so was made safe for at least cautious and limited approval by the male modernists, including even the outspoken critic of popular cinema, Wyndham Lewis.⁽¹⁰⁾ But the Joyce/Eisenstein moment now has about it the appearance of one of the "critical ceremonies of male self-certification" that Gilbert and Gubar describe.⁽¹¹⁾

Literary critics, in effect absorbing Eisenstein's reaction to Joyce, have appropriated this pat and pristine moment as the archetypal gesture of a great modernist bestowing on an upstart cinema a blessing, an acknowledgement of a unifying resonance. Their apparent belief in the seemingly definitive quality of Eisenstein's clinging to Joyce has in some respects partially forestalled further analysis. Richard Ellmann, in his huge study, James Joyce, reflects more realistically a perspective on the event when he moves rapidly from a quick reference to film to less transgressive areas, such as the literary translation of Ulysses into foreign languages; he even states that such a shift of focus, from film to literary concerns, "was more certainly to [Joyce's] taste."⁽¹²⁾

Of course, after 1929 the problem of "taste" was aggravated for literary critics when so many writers, including even Faulkner and Fitzgerald, tried their hand at Hollywood script-writing in the era of the "talkie," a popular and often crassly consumer-oriented form that seemed at first only a shallow successor to the high art that had been proposed by silent cinema, and experienced embarrassing and widely-publicized failures. Even Joyce's 1929 visitor Eisenstein failed in Hollywood, shortly after his meeting with Joyce. And then, too, by the early 1930s Joyce, who had earlier actually thought of modernist film-directors such as Eisenstein or Ruttmann in this regard, "[o]fficially ... discountenanced the idea" when Warner Brothers contacted him about movie rights for Ulysses, "on the ground that the book could not be made into a film with" -- here again that fear, whether Joyce's or Ellmann's -- "artistic propriety."⁽¹³⁾ Joyce (outside the parodies of cinema in his later fiction), saying little about film after a disastrous attempt in 1909 to get a movie theatre going in Dublin, now publicly kept at a certain distance from cinema. His interest lay too much in the written word; Ulysses, to be sure, is a text to be read.

Joyce scholars and supporters such as Ellmann have quite distinctly, if unintentionally, conveyed intensely-felt tacit assumptions about cinema, articulating a viewpoint that has the depth and complexity and continuing force of a deterministic anxiety about the movies, a cine-phobia. By so often casting cinema in the role of a kind of interloper and by restricting their observations to technical analogies between the two forms, they simultaneously draw on deeply-set fears about cinema already present within the literary elite and embroider or camouflage those fears by means of moral outrage or aesthetic rhetoric. Though some of his arguments present perhaps an extreme articulation of cine-phobia, Wyndham Lewis' many works provide virtually a catalogue of vituperative assessments of mainline cinema and related media, for he saw in cinema the vulgarization of art and the degradation of every form of culture; by 1927 Lewis had turned even Joyce's gentle stylistic flirtations with cinema-alluding technique into objects of vigorous, satiric attack, and thereby blatantly underscored some of the actual tension and misgiving the dominant part of the literary world felt about virtually all cinema.⁽¹⁴⁾ As one of the few male "masters and movers of modernism" (to use Scott's phrasing again),⁽¹⁵⁾ Lewis expressed an elitist masculine and "monological" sort of rage against movies, suggesting thereby that he was operating within rather conservative or reactionary preserves of a male literary world, the London- and Paris-based modernist circles of the 1920s.

If there was an aggressive and committed expression of active and explicit enthusiasm by modernist writers for cinema we have to consider the largely overlooked writings of H.D., Dorothy Richardson, Virginia Woolf, Gertrude Stein and other women of the period. Of course, like anyone responding to a construction as diverse in its meanings as cinema (whether it is taken first as art or as entertainment, as technology or sociological sign, as mechanical and superficial or transcendant and profound narrative, as friend or as enemy of literature), women modernists were by no means unified in their "definitions" of cinema; yet they demonstrate simply in their active openness to it a response not generally shared and sometimes aggressively opposed by their male counterparts. Indeed, in their appropriation of cinema, in the "uses" to which they frequently put cinema in their more polemical and ideological statements, they expressed at times (it now becomes evident) a political shrewdness aimed at resisting and subverting men's efforts to control literature and discredit cinema. They seemed to recognize in male modernists' frequent hesitations about cinema as an alternate narrative practice or denunciations of cinema as an instance of readily popularized narrative form the formulations of a naive, elitist, reactionary response.

For women, the very character of cinema as a medium, as well as the marginalized status accorded cinema by male modernists (who in this respect were really following the published arguments of male traditionalists, like Bennett and Galsworthy, as well as the playwright, Shaw),⁽¹⁶⁾ proved attractive. Therefore, how cinema would be defined in relation to the modernist project of the 1920s, and who would have the right to create that definition, became questions of some concern in several of the literary debates of the modernist period. For women, cinema -- whether the avant-garde and art-film of the 1920s, or even the commercial film which prevailed with the arrival of the sound-film -- provided a non-literary model by which they could give distinctive intellectual shape to some of their arguments concerning literary modernism, or a modernist aesthetic in general. Of course, their identification with a popular medium was a risk, for open identification with elements of mass culture and with the signifying systems of everyday life (as Andreas Huyssen and others have pointed out)⁽¹⁷⁾ led in some cases to the assurance of a woman's further exclusion from the "official" modernist canon. Yet women -- often eager to take precisely that risk -- persisted in their exploration of the meaning of film, in their incorporation of film in the intellectual and artistic milieu, and with interesting and stimulating results. It is partly in their very examination of cinema, in their inclusion of cinema in their own discourse, that we find an enlarged and modified version of that period and movement. In a spirited attack on the myth of the cinematic threat deeply embedded in what she called the "vast horde of the fair-to-middling intellectuals" of Europe, the leading modernist poet H.D. in 1927 hilariously mocked those very intellectuals for foolishly regarding cinema only as "a Juggernaught crushing out mind and perception in one vast orgy of the senses."⁽¹⁸⁾ She was, here, conveying an attitude held also, particularly, by Dorothy Richardson, who began to write extensively about film that same year.

But H.D. and Richardson had been anticipated by Virginia Woolf. Woolf, who already in 1919 had made note of a "cinematic" quality in Joyce's installments of Ulysses,⁽¹⁹⁾ in 1925 was perhaps the first prominent woman modernist to announce openly a rich potential for the cinema alongside modern literature. Seeing the possibility for profound expressiveness in an abstract moment in The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, the first film to attract any English-language writers to the European cinema, Woolf argued: "it seems plain that the cinema has within its grasp innumerable symbols for emotions that have so far failed to find expression, ... [for] some secret language which we feel and see, but never speak."⁽²⁰⁾ In so re-stating an argument which she published the same year in her literary criticism, when she questioned the "materialist" techniques of Bennett, Wells and Galsworthy, she in effect repeated her criticism of those male novelists who themselves, by and large, found it difficult to take film seriously. H.G. Wells who did take it seriously and published a rather laboured and heavy-handed film-script in 1929, went in the other direction and, somewhat hysterically and naively, predicted with the coming of film the imminent death of the novel! Ironically, Wells' film-script was so laden with wordy captions that it reminds us more of the series-of-epigraphs-flashed-on-the-screen technique, favoured by Bernard Shaw, than the "language ... which we never speak" proposed by Woolf.

Dorothy Richardson, who had developed the interior monologue and stream-of-consciousness forms even before World War I, well before Joyce's Ulysses, in 1928 joined H.D. in scorning what she called "the ravings of the ebullient critics" motivated by a "desire to nip in the bud" the "virulently poisonous growth" they myopically took cinema to be.⁽²¹⁾ On egalitarian grounds alone, Richardson defended even the low-brow commercial cinema against the elitist attacks of the highbrows, whom she regarded as inflexible and arrogant. Indeed, by 1927 she seemed almost eager to flaunt her practice of going to cinema which for her had become much like going with friends to the theatre: "We go. No longer in secret and in taxis and alone, but openly in parties in the car."⁽²²⁾

Generally questioning what she saw as the limited and myopic artistic vision and style of men, often, specifically, H.G. Wells, her one-time intimate friend, she was not altogether unprepared when Wells in 1929 spoke favorably about "the film's power of excelling the written word," or about the film leading to the demise of literary forms such as the novel. She scoffed at such narrowness, however futuristic it in this case at least superficially seemed: "it [is] hardly possible to suppose that Wells [sees] in the arrival of the film the departure of literature," she replied, also in 1929.⁽²³⁾ Indeed, she argued with conviction, it was more likely that film would "achieve for all the arts renaissance rather than death,"⁽²⁴⁾ and thus, also, she in effect rightly challenged John Middleton Murry and a decade's worth of various anonymous snipers' snide and predictable remarks that her own novel, Pilgrimage, was "merely an endless film,"⁽²⁵⁾ as "tiring as a twenty-four-hour cinematograph without interval or plot."⁽²⁶⁾

Richardson's stylistic innovation in her novel, Pilgrimage,⁽²⁷⁾ was deliberate; it was, moreover, inextricably related to her deeply-felt sense of what she referred to as "women's consciousness" -- and to her experience of the movies, especially the silents. In an article entitled "The Reality of Feminism" (1917), Richardson observed that woman is "synthetic. Relative to man she sees life whole and harmonious. Men tend to fix life...."⁽²⁸⁾ Above all, Richardson resisted closure of any kind and admired woman's ability to resist the temptation of holding only single points of view. Richardson found in the silent film a stimulating narrative form that existed outside the realm of verbal discourse, a means of artistic communication that came close to revealing -- and evoking in its audience -- "the deep current of eternity" that she believed infused the consciousness of the "womanly woman."⁽²⁹⁾ The silent film, she observed in an argument recalling Virginia Woolf's proposal, was like a spirit, free of containment by spoken or written language. And in its "power to evoke, suggest, reflect, express from within its moving parts and in their totality of movement, something of the changeless being at the heart of all becoming," Richardson insisted that the film was essentially feminine.⁽³⁰⁾ It invited collaboration with the viewer; it did not enforce closure. It provided, in effect, instruction in how she hoped readers would respond to her novel, Pilgrimage. In Richardson's insistence on an independent and distinctive woman's consciousness, her distrust of conventional (masculine or patriarchal) narrative forms and strategies as an adequate vehicle for this consciousness, her nuanced sense of the role of woman as spectator, her demand for freedom for all from the intrusions of male authority, and her distrust of verbal language, Richardson anticipated (and to no small degree informs) the cinefeminism of the last two decades. For Richardson, film in the silent era had become a metaphor for women's rejection of the discourse of the patriarchy. Free of the verbal language that defines and delimits patriarchal norms, the nondiscursive quality of the silent film, Richardson argued, elevated and, indeed, sustained the immediacy of woman's experience in opposition to the abstracted distancing of man's.

H.D. played variations not only upon Richardson's immersion in and commitment to film, but also upon Richardson's recognition that in film there lay implications for a male/female discourse concerning language. Regarding film as "a major new art form and the most important innovation since the Renaissance,"⁽³¹⁾ H.D. not only wrote about film but also turned herself quite literally -- though not without at least a little sense of parody -- into what she liked to call a "star": I am thinking of H.D.'s descriptions of her roles as actress in Wing Beat (1927) and Foothills (1927-28), both short films, and the feature-length film tellingly called Borderline (1930); all were directed by Kenneth Macpherson, titular editor of the film journal Close Up, for which Bryher was silent co-editor.⁽³²⁾

Willing in the 1920s to declare for serious cinema a place in the modernists' world, to go without "abashed guilt, sneaked to at least intellectually" as to the circus (as H.D. quipped in 1927),⁽³³⁾ Richardson, as well as H.D., embraced cinema in a range of ways which make our view of Joyce's alleged interest in Potemkin in 1929 seem extraordinarily cautious and even reductive now. These women celebrated the cinema, from its commercial to its "high-art" variations, in a manner recalling the words of Gertrude Stein; Stein sympathetically appropriated cinema -- not for herself, in the manner in which the more exclusive Joyce seems to have claimed Eisenstein -- but for a collectivity of writers and for an era: "anyone is of one's period," she reflected on the high modernist years, "and this our period was undoubtedly the period of the cinema."⁽³⁴⁾ Speaking with a generous and clear acceptance of cinema that is the very antithesis to what we find in a writer like her antagonist Wyndham Lewis, Stein said with equanimity that she felt writers in general had been "doing what the cinema was doing."⁽³⁵⁾

In particular, it was Richardson and H.D. who expressed themselves in a sustained way in terms of the spirit later recalled by Bryher, who saw in the post-war silent cinema, with its collective authorship, an artistic force which, in unifying artists and audiences in all of Europe, would reveal some limitations of the modern novel though without negating its legitimacy:

The [silent] film was new, it had no earlier associations and it offered occasionally, in an episode or a single shot, some framework for our dreams. We felt we could state our convictions honorably in this twentieth-century form of art and it appealed to the popular internationalism of those so few years because 'the silents' offered a single language across Europe.⁽³⁶⁾

Bryher, in thus looking back, saw in silent film the brief fulfillment of what Woolf in 1925 envisioned as "some secret language which we ... never speak," a form of expressing not just a single, solipsistic view, but, like her little magazine, communal and plural subjectivities. Bryher had been operating within a male-dominated literary culture of the 1920s, a culture which primarily reinforced and fearfully expanded upon a paranoia concerning a cinematic threat against literature and against conventional high culture; it was a literary culture which, in effect, invited women to use cinema in developing various strategies of their own along its margins. Women modernists found in film a means for challenging the male modernists' protectionist literary view, indeed, a means for vigorously expanding the modernist canon to include a polyphony of voices and genres and for exploring their own new aesthetic, sociocultural, and political interests or roles. For them, the 1920s cinema had proposed not just a series of new techniques but of new languages; but for over sixty years we have been left with the November 30, 1929 image of James Joyce and Sergei Eisenstein shaking hands, congratulating each other on their respective achievements, and in effect contributing, however unintentionally, to the suppression of literary women's interest in new non-verbal languages. These women, through their discourse and arguments concerning cinema, long ignored or thought disreputable, re-define the modernist literary aesthetic and practice, and also enlarge the ideological and many other meanings of twentieth-century cinema.

Notes

1. Werner, 491, 494, 495.

2. In some of my essays on writers such as Virginia Woolf, Wyndham Lewis, Dorothy Richardson, and Malcolm Lowry, Joyce in particular has often provided my starting point, or first point of reference. See, for example, "The Shadow in 'Caligari': Virginia Woolf and the 'Materialists'' Responses to Film" (1-2), "Malcolm Lowry: Statements on Literature and Film" (120), "A Comparative Approach to the Form and Function of Novel and Film: Dorothy Richardson's Theory of Art" (83), and "A New Year One: Film as Metaphor in the Writings of Wyndham Lewis" (156-57), as well as my "Introduction" (co-author, Miguel Mota) to The Cinema of Malcolm Lowry (7). For an earlier exploration of the present argument, see my article, "Literary Culture and the Myth of the Cinematic Threat, 1919-1930." For his comments concerning my present study, I am grateful to Dr. Paul Salmon, University of Guelph.

5. Scott, 2.

6. Ibid., 10.

7. Ibid., 2.

8. Ibid., 4.

9. Montagu, 29.

11. Gilbert and Gubar, 154.

12. Ellmann, 654.

13. Ibid.  

14. See, for example, Lewis's Time and Western Man, 218.

15. Scott, 3.

15. Scott, 3.

16. For a discussion of these three writers, as well as Virginia Woolf and H.G. Wells, see my article, "The Shadow in 'Caligari': Virginia Woolf and the 'Materialists'' Responses to Film."

17. See, for example, Huyssen's After the Great Divide: Modernism, Mass Culture, Postmodernism.

18. H.D., 23.

19. Woolf, "Modern Novels (Joyce)," 643.

20. Woolf, "The Movies and Reality," 310.

21. Richardson, "The Thoroughly Popular Film," 45. I am at present co-editing Richardson's work on film for publication as part of a multi-volume study of literary modernism and the cinema, which I am writing.

22. Richardson, "The Increasing Congregation," 61-62.

23. Richardson, "Almost Persuaded," 32.

24. Ibid., 33.

25. Anon., 474.

26. Murry, 298.

27. Richardson's first installment of Pilgrimage, called Pointed Roofs, appeared in 1915, about four years after she began work on it. In his book, Film and the Narrative Tradition (1974), John L. Fell was among the few literature/film historians of about twenty years ago to offer an alternative to the pronounced emphasis on Joyce as the starting point for our readings of modernism by suggesting, there, a place for Dorothy Richardson (11, 68). See also Anne Friedberg's 1983 introduction to Richardson's "The Film Gone Male" in Framework.

28. Richardson, "The Reality of Feminism," 245.

29. Richardson, "Women and the Future," 40.

30. Richardson, "The Film Gone Male," 37.

31. See Friedman, 12.

32. See Friedman, 13.

33. H.D., 23.

34. Stein, 177.

35. See Kawin, 5.

36. Bryher, 246.

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Author Information

Paul TIESSEN teaches English and Film Studies at Wilfrid Laurier University, Waterloo, Ontario. He is working on a book-length study of modernism, the mass media, and Marshall McLuhan (with David Black) and on a multi-volume series dealing with literary modernism and the cinema.