CHICKEN HAWK
D: Adi Sideman.
Film Threat Video
This controversial documentary, which details the inner workings of
pedophile support group NAMBLA (North American Man/Boy Love Association) and
five of its members, is a deeply engaging, if troubling, piece of work – not
only because of its lurid content, but because of the intelligence, humor, and
startling objectivity that Chicken Hawk takes when dealing with its
undeniably volatile subject matter. To hear the fellas at NAMBLA tell it, the
prohibition against older men “loving” young boys is just another social
prejudice that, not unlike homophobia and racism, must be fought and overcome.
NAMBLA’s members argue that young people are fully capable of expressing their
sexuality at very early ages and, therefore, should be allowed to make their
own decisions and enter into “consenting” sexual relationships with more
experienced adults. “Just because some people may know a 15-year-old boy who is
not quite sure of his sexuality doesn’t mean every young boy doesn’t know…,”
elaborates Leyland Stevenson, who is the most open and chilling of the
pedophiles featured in the documentary. (In one unforgettable moment,
Stevenson, through twisted internal logic, manages to misinterpret a typical
childhood prank as a flirtatious come-on.) The film spends most of its
hour-long running time interviewing both NAMBLA supporters and their opponents,
who are made up of a diversity of interest groups including understandably
concerned parents and gay activists who want to separate their image from that
of NAMBLA (which often attempts to unite its cause with other gay rights
issues). But beyond these few rational folks, most of the opposition consists,
disturbingly, of vile, witchhunt-styled mobs that leave crude threats on the
answering machines of NAMBLA members. In the end, Chicken Hawk is
unmercifully fair, as neither side holds much credibility. The NAMBLA members
come off looking like a deluded bunch of perverts, while the conservative
forces opposing them offer up an image of bullying, foul-mouthed rednecks
hurling unspeakably homophobic playground vulgarities at pathetically easy
targets. It is precisely this balance that makes the film so fascinating, not
to mention somewhat frustrating, for Sideman’s camera merely records and
documents facts, events, and opinions, rather than interpret them. The result
is a searing work that provokes a myriad of emotional responses: The horror you
might feel watching Stevenson cruise the neighborhood looking for youngsters
could slowly change to sympathy for the persecuted Renato Corazzo who, despite
his highly questionable desires, has yet to break any laws or cause trouble but
still has a megaphone-wielding mob screaming “baby rapist” at his apartment at
all hours of the day. And still, you might feel an uncomfortable twinge of
identification with that same sickeningly hysterical mob, for the thought of
one of these “boy-lovers” getting near your own 12-year-old is a terrifying
notion indeed. However, these revelations are what makes Chicken Hawk such an important documentary: It forces viewers to look inside and examine
their own feelings about this disturbing subject. In this context, the
picture’s moral detachment is entirely necessary and not a sorry “unwillingness
to take a stand” cop-out. Obviously (do I even need to say it?), Chicken
Hawk is not for everyone: It’s a powerful, unsettling film about an equally
unsettling subject. – Joey O’Bryan
AILEEN WUORNOS:
THE SELLING OF A SERIAL KILLER
D: Nick Broomfield.
Fox Lorber Home Video
Justly or not, the FBI billed her as the “first female serial killer.”
Following her capture, the sensational Florida murders to which Aileen Wuornos
confessed in 1991 quickly inspired a TV movie called Overkill starring
Jean Smart, as well as a several articles and true crime books, one of which,
Dead Ends, was authored by writer and former Austinite Michael Reynolds,
who is interviewed by director Broomfield for this documentary. As
documentaries go, Aileen Wuornos comes from the same tradition as
Michael Moore’s Roger and Me and Errol Morris’ Thin Blue Line:
works shaped by the interventions of participatory narrator/directors who probe
issues of justice and social distortion. Englishman Bloomfield (Dark
Obsession, Monster in a Box) dispenses the “facts” of the case right
at the film’s beginning while driving to his first interview. The orphaned
Wuornos began working as a prostitute at the age of 14. Now in her late 20s and
an admitted lesbian, Wuornos was tricked by her lover of five years, Tyria
Moore, into confessing during a bugged phone conversation to the murder of
seven men who picked her up along the Florida interstate. This case of the
lesbian hooker who killed her tricks was sensational fare, even for a state
whose criminal forebears include the likes of the Gainesville murderer and Ted
Bundy. The media circus was further goosed by the adoption of Wuornos by Arlene
Pralle, a born-again Christian breeder of horses and wolves who read about
Wuornos in the newspaper. Then Pralle hired a lawyer, Steve Glazer, a
guitar-playing paper shuffler, whose law practice seems about as lame and
misguided as his musical practice. Pralle and Glazer, who has never tried a
case, convince Wuornos to plead no contest, which she does and is then
sentenced to death for her confession to seven murders. Despite the appearance
of extenuating circumstances such as abuse by the johns, and the questions of
why Wuornos’ lover was never implicated in the crimes and why police on the
case had negotiated contracts for the story rights before solving the crime,
the Wuornos case became a self-feeding media industry that required no outside
infusions of truth and justice. More than the facts of the case, what
Bloomfield is really interested in here is “the selling of a serial killer.”
His hand-held camera focuses in on all the mercenary and egotistical interests
with stakes in the Aileen Wuornos story from the FBI catching the “first female
serial killer” to the financial remuneration that Pralle and Glazer demand
before allowing access to Wuornos. During a period of time in which Thelma and
Louise became folk heroes for going on the lam after attacking their attackers,
Wuornos became demonized as a primal American nightmare loosed in sunny
Florida. Aileen Wuornos: The Selling of a Serial Killer looks at the
situation through sharply polarized sun shades that reflect the crime and its
aftermath back onto various participants.– Marjorie
Baumgarten
This article appears in July 14 • 1995 and July 14 • 1995 (Cover).