Perhaps I’ve just got demons on the mind after the last response, but I couldn’t help but read a possession narrative into Aurora D’Errico Prat’s photseries Coquette. Though Stigmata might be a better point of comparison than The Exorcist and its more direct derivatives.
Within said film, a young hairdresser receives a rosary that her mother bought on vacation in South America, which, unbeknownst to either of the two women, previously belonged to a catholic priest afflicted with stigmata; a condition which physically manifests the wounds of Jesus during his final days. The hairdresser, Frankie, then inherits the affliction herself, transposed through the medium of the rosary.
Interestingly, Frankie is not a believer, the film going out of its way to make clear that she’s an atheist, who wore the rosary only as a token from her mother. Both her and her mother were likewise unaware of the object's history. These considerations immediately remove the usual question of a psychosomatic cause which possession films so often lean on to maintain suspense or ambiguity. The stigmata which consumes Frankie is presented as absolutely real, to the degree that it becomes almost entirely mechanistic; more akin to ebola than anything truly supernatural. The rosary more viral than cursed.
And it’s here that I see the true connection to Prat’s work, more so than the merely aesthetic connections that they share, in the form of raised and scarred flesh, bloody wounds, and so forth. As effectively rendered as these elements are, (especially in Coquette which isn’t hampered by Patricia Arquette’s performance or late 90s rating standards) the wounds themselves say less than the mediums through which they were gained.
Stigmata is, in fact, an actual psychological condition. Specifically one which only afflicts those who already hold a deep religious belief. Sufferers like atheist Frankie, who wasn’t even aware of the condition, aren’t possible. While not nearly as old, (its origin is variously placed between the mid-eighteenth to mid-twentieth century) the coquette aesthetic, and other viral aesthetic trends like it, aren’t burdened with this limitation. While some who adopt it do so knowingly, and within the context of its history, most do not; having come into contact with it only in its most communicable, socially mediated form.
While obviously not as literally auto-violent as stigmata, Prat’s work shows us how these personal aesthetic trends are ultimately no less demanding upon the bodies of those who become afflicted by them. Unlike stigmata however, said bodies do not belong to true believers. Even in cases like the coquette aesthetic, which has existed for longer than the social media platforms it proliferates on, most who embrace these trends know it only as a mechanistic checklist of colours, and cuts, and body measurements. A strict set of Dos and Don’ts, transposed to them through the medium of the screen; ahistorical and agnostic.
Stigmata, the film, largely fails in its endeavour, specifically because of its overly formalistic treatment of its titular condition. But looking back now, through the lens of the last twenty years of online culture, and of more contemporary explorations of the theme like Prat’s, it could very nearly be said to be ahead of its time. Almost.
Regrettably, its list of failings is a rather long one, despite a promising premise. It more than once seems to suggest that had Frankie been a believer she would have somehow been spared; which makes no sense either within the logic of the film or in regards to the real life condition. There’s also the aforementioned acting, and a whole (heavenly) host of other issues that knock the wind out of its sails.
Thankfully for us, Prat’s Coquette is stitched up much more tightly. Where Stigmata constantly pulls away from its woman lead, refocusing its attention on various men talking at or about her, Coquette remains steadfast in its point of view. Where the 1999 film becomes lost in its own metaphor, Prat manages to layer in added subtleties without ever watering down the impact or losing the thread.
Coquette is a very singular work, almost claustrophobically so; both thematically and formally embracing the isolation and disconnection which it speaks to. It makes clear the ways in which the mechanisms of proliferation are increasingly divorced from the personal and historical contexts of the afflictions they spread. Part of the growing subgenre of ‘alone in your bedroom’ horror which has sprung up over the last half-decade, (put into overdrive by the pandemic) Prat’s photoseries is ironically at the forefront of a new trend, rather than merely following one.
In short, you should really check it out; preferably alone in your room with the lights off. But then maybe go touch some grass or something.