A collective of queer athletes unearth deep histories of pioneering sportspeople who were excluded from the podium
BY ELLA GAUCI, IMAGE BY STELLA DEBORAH TRAUB
Could you tell us a bit about what inspired you to make this film?
I love watching sports. Athletes throwing their bodies into huge arenas with all their might. Bodies that transcend boundaries in a variety of ways. And always the greatest pathos and effectively staged goosebumps: four years of preparation for the one big moment, then the nerves of the favourite rupture and the underdog wins. I breathe the physical exertion of these moments and I sink into the physical witnessing.
At the same time, I reject the basic idea of competitive sports. This patriarchal concept creates a hierarchy in everything. The martial origin of most athletics disciplines. And – this above all – the limited concept of two supposedly clearly separable gender categories, which not only affects the athletes but also significantly shapes the gender perception of millions of spectators.
Based on this ambivalence, our film looks at nonconformist bodies in competitive sports from a queer perspective. Like all my cinematic works, this film revolves around the connection between social structures and resistant embodiments. Just as important to me as the content of the film is the exploration of a queer film language that transgresses the dominant narratives of established cinema.
What is the key message you hope LGBTQIA audiences take from your film?
I studied documentary film and always noticed that the documentary film form has a preference for showing their protagonists while suffering. Despite all the good intentions, such narratives always exploit the protagonists’ experiences, as they use them to form the dramaturgical centre of a film. Conflict drives the story, it says. But by restricting a film to the description of pain, the cinematic stage is at the same time exclusively given to the forces causing the painful circumstances.
In Life Is Not A Competition, But I’m Winning it was crucial for us to not use our protagonists’ suffering as a suspenseful narrative. Instead, in our film, fictional moments of collective togetherness slowly weave themselves into the life of our protagonist as well as into the visual composition of our images. Suffering and pain merge into a utopian vision of queer community that ends up being more powerful than the violence that was committed.
What are the main themes that your film explores?
It is about queer bodies in sports, but also about violence, solidarity and hope.
What is your favourite line or scene from your film?
The final scene was in the Berlin Olympic stadium, because shooting there was very special. It was our very last day of shooting and this massive Nazi building took the energy out of us, exhaustion in the bodies of crew and cast. The day is coming to an end and the last shot is about to be taken. Our tight film budget allows us to have the impressive, colourful lighting of the Olympic Stadium roof switched on for exactly 15 minutes in the twilight of this last day of shooting, in order to capture it with the camera for the final scene of our film.
After these 15 minutes, we experienced a magical moment: Our entire crew was standing on one of the top stands of the stadium, ready to carry out the equipment and to return home – but then the stadium technician in charge forgot to turn off the stadium lights, which were glowing in bright colours. So the huge arena with 75,000 empty seats continues to glow in purple, pink and orange, someone from our film crew turns on some music and Rihanna sings “Shine bright like a diamond”. Our tired bodies start dancing in the stands, we look into the gigantic stadium, exhausted and fascinated at the same time, and for a brief moment it feels like we have successfully overwritten the violent history of this place.
How did you get into filmmaking and what has been your biggest challenge in the industry?
I actually always wanted to work in theatre and be a director there because I was so fascinated by this parallel world. But then I realised that I’m far too introverted to spend all day rehearsing with actors and decided on film, because you can create your own worlds of images and sounds, but the process is more varied, from long research phases to a short periods of shooting, right through to editing and festival screenings, where you then spend a lot of time on your own or in a small team.
My biggest challenge in film school was to find people who are interested in the same kind of films and cinematic approach as I am – cause I couldn’t really join all the conversations about Tarantino or other famous guys, but I could recommend you a lot of 1980s underground lesbian films from around the world. And today the challenge is to keep on finding film funding institutions that are willing to invest in someone who has quite a radical queer feminist approach, both in the subjects and the cinematic language of their films.
Why is LGBTQIA representation in film so important in 2024?
For me, even more important than representation, is to constantly explore non-normative ways of HOW to tell the stories we want to tell. We see Life Is Not A Competition, But I’m Winning in the tradition of New Queer Cinema and the title of our film expresses the field of tension in which I locate queer cinema.
On the one hand, a resistant, non-conformist attitude, a rejection of hierarchies and patriarchal structures, a transcending of competition and linear narratives. At the same time, however, also this longing not to simply leave the big stage with its effectively performed pathos to “the powerful”, not to be satisfied with special categories and with enjoying the game, but to participate at the highest level and to change the system in power – be it in sports, in film, or socially speaking – from within.
In terms of film language, there is also this ambivalence in queer cinema. On the one hand, a desire to differ from normative visualities – hence the search for an aesthetic of the fragmentary, the unfinished, the dilettantish, riddled with disruption. A subcultural rejection of the cinematic means of the mainstream that aims at overwhelming. And at the same time, however, the longing to stage great moments in imposing images by ourselves and not to save on pathos for the queer reinterpretation.
Why are events like BFI Flare which centre LGBTQIA films so important?
Because there you can find your partners in crime, which you never had at film school. There you can talk late at night about the best shorts from Barbara Hammer and celebrate feminist underground porn without being the weirdo. You can make connections to other filmmakers and share your knowledge.
This year’s Flare is split into the themes of Hearts, Bodies, and Minds. Do you have an LGBTQIA film which affected your heart, body, or mind?
I love Lizzie Bordens Born In Flames as it affected me on all these layers. Also, Daisies from Věra Chytilová is very physical to watch. And of course all the amazing and radical shorts from Cheryl Dunye, they affect your mind and your heart!
What do you hope to see in the future of LGBTQIA filmmaking?
Less adapting our stories to the classical forms of narration as the big VOD platforms are doing it. More courage to differ from that, to be bold and radical in the forms.
LIFE IS NOT A COMPETITION, BUT I’M WINNING screens at BFI FLARE on Fri 22 March at BFI Southbank. Find out more by heading to the BFI Flare website.
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