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The writer frames his analysis of Kan Lume and Loo Zihan's feature length film Solos (2007) with a historical overview of the representation of queer sexualities in new Singaporean cinema. This approach also takes in the Penal Code Section 377A, arguing that not only do these repressive laws force queer sexualities to the margins of culture and society, but also that the State's censorship laws are a means by which it can reify ‘the Asian value system's supposed rejection of queerness’.

The writer examines Singapore's Media Development Authority's censorship of representations of lesbianism in film, music video, television and theatre. She highlights the government surveillance and repression of portrayals of LGBT cultures and communities in Singapore by unpacking the ambiguities and contradictions underlying the censorship of these popular media forms. This reflects an institutional ‘inability to read lesbians’.

At best, our knowledge about the lives and experiences of Black gay men is limited to a series of stereotypes, snap judgments, and ridicule. In terms of television media product, this aforementioned knowledge has been packaged mostly within the framework of comedy: a red-leather-clad Eddie Murphy talking about the most effective ways to shield his ass from the gay male gaze in the 1983 HBO stand-up performance Delirious ; Damon Wayans and David Alan Grier’s effeminate film critics Blaine Edwards and Antoine Merriweather on the 1990s television variety show In Living Color ; fashionista panel members Miss J and Andre Leon Talley

As bell hooks points out in “Aesthetic Inheritances: History Worked by Hand,” writing an inclusive art history is no easy task. Until very recently, Aboriginal women have been written out of Canadian art history, or rather art history has been written around us. How do we write ourselves in? It falls far beyond simple insertion; the erasures are far too deep. Insertion presumes a simple forgetfulness, an oversight, a neglecting of the obvious. Insertion assumes a presence. It implies a shared mode of history, a common belonging to a collective archive, and an agreed-upon understanding of what it means to be an artist. Beyond the important considerations of race, gender, culture, and social class, our distinct legal status in Canada must be acknowledged. This was particularly true for women artists working between 1880 and 1970. For much of the time period under consideration, First Nations communities lived under a profoundly restrictive regime of colonial power. Relationships between First Nations people and the Canadian state have been defined by the Indian Act, a piece of legislation enacted in 1876 and surviving, through many amendments and revisions, until the present time.

Picture this: a comedy about an overweight Black woman who lives with and takes care of a white family. Joking all the way, she cooks, cleans, helps the father of the family, and comforts the children. Then at one point, we see the father holding his gun and pointing toward the door. The Black woman enters and jumps up and down, screaming, “Massa! Massa! Massa! Please don’t shoot!” It is easy to imagine these scenes in a 1930s film about the antebellum South. But they are actually from the first episode of a 1980s sitcom.

This article examines the response of minority gamers as they adopt new innovations in Xbox Live. Using diffusion of innovation theory, specific attention is given to gamers’ rate of adoption of the new Xbox Live environment, which was a recent update to the Xbox Live interface. By employing virtual ethnography, observations, and interviews reveal that gaming duration and gender are significant factors in identifying a gamer’s successful rate of adoption of the new innovation. Female participants reveal that Xbox Live intentionally targets males as the default gamer and enact changes based on their needs. The research concludes with a plea to Xbox Live to acknowledge minority gamers such as women to incorporate their needs within the decision-making process of new innovations.

Introduction and seven articles looking at the range of present-day queer cinema to be found.

In this chapter, I would like to consider how interactive reality television contributes to the negotiation between national particulars and transnational media flows. Specifically, I want to look at the successful franchise So You Think You Can Dance , a dynamic global media flashpoint and a remarkably adaptable format that serves as a site of pleasurable and contradictory engagement with the sense of national culture and community that television manufactures. But what makes the show of particular interest to me is that it allows audiences, in an increasing number of television markets around the world, to collectively determine their ideal national performers through a competition that requires mastery of a virtual international smorgasbord of popular dance forms and styles, the vast majority of which originate elsewhere, or from within the national, racial, and ethnic cultures of others. Second, in choosing to examine dance shows, I join with a growing number of scholars who have, over the past 15 years, argued for increased attention to dance as a primary site of knowledge production concerning bodies, identities, and representation.

While expanding critiques of pinkwashing have drawn increasing attention to how queer issues in Israel and the Occupied Palestinian Territories are perniciously mobilized by a network of lobby groups, Brand Israel initiatives, and international gay and lesbian organizations, these critiques often fail to consider how queer Palestinians mobilize and understand themselves. This article reports on an October 2011 panel and film screening at Yale University and the Hagop Kevorkian Center for Near Eastern Studies at New York University. “Queer/Palestinian: Critical Strategies in Palestinian Queer and Women's Filmmaking” uniquely focused on questions of queerness and Palestine through a program of eight new Palestinian visual productions. The program brought together Palestinian film scholars, filmmakers, visual artists, and curators for a discussion of queer and feminist artistic practice in relation to Palestinian strategies for resistance. Together, the “Queer/Palestinian” films suggest the urgency for Palestinian visual artists to persistently generate new means of expressing, embodying, and critiquing visions for Palestinian society. Films such as Victoria Moufawad-Paul's Nus Enssas/ صيصنصن (Canada, 2011) and Raafat Hattab's Hourieh (Palestine, 2011) explore issues ranging from queer diasporic solidarity politics and challenges to out/closeted binaries and to the creative reinscription of nakba narratives. Nadia Awad's Two Adaptations of the Same Novel (US, 2011), Suzy Salamy's 1982/2006 (US, 2006), and Moufawad-Paul's Rejoice, O My Heart / يبلق اي حرفا (Canada, 2011) suggest an irreverent queer strategy by undermining the narrative conventions and visual codes of mainstream news media and popular US and Egyptian cinema. Salamy's video, previously projected through mobile exhibition on city buildings, and Eli Rezik's online “web-movies” Living Alone without Me (Palestine, 2011) and Between Us Two (Palestine, 2011) compelled a panel discussion of alternative means of distribution and exhibition. Finally, Alaa AbuAsad's Masturbate bil beit (Palestine, 2011) rounded out the program with an explicitly erotic and unapologetically political version of the meeting of “queer” and “Palestinian.”

When scholars and policy makers contemplate the Arab “media revolution,” they mostly think of Al-Jazeera and its news competitors. They are guided by the assumption that all-news satellite television networks are the predominant, even the single, shaper of the Arab public sphere, a perspective exacerbated by the September 11, 2001 attacks. Drawing on a larger work (Kraidy, 2009, forthcoming), this chapter presents an alternative view, emphasizing instead the combined impact of Arab entertainment television and small media such as mobile phones on Arab governance. It explores how entertainment television is an active contributor to shaping what Arab publics discuss and do in both the social and political realms. As local (in this case regional/pan-Arab, reaching two dozen Arabic-speaking countries) adaptations of global television formats, Arab reality television shows exhibit a combination of signs and practices from several worldviews. As such, this chapter will show how Arab reality shows are open to multiple processes of appropriation and redeployment. Though numerous scholars have for years studied the differentiated “reception” of television texts in various contexts, this chapter focuses specifically on television formats in a context of growing media convergence and protracted political instability and social upheaval. Specifically, it focuses on reality television’s social and political impact, which stems primarily from its activation of new communication processes between a variety of information and media technologies creating what I call “hypermedia space.” In the new Arab information order, reality television activates hypermedia space because it promotes participatory practices like voting, campaigning and alliance building, via mobile telephones and related devices.

Why is it important that a Black woman created, wrote for, and co-produced¹ two highly-regarded television situation comedies that engaged a variety of Black women’s health issues while at the same time these issues were being reduced, simplified, or altogether ignored in mainstream American hip hop? Mara Brock Akil tacitly responded to this question when asked why four episodes of the third season of Girlfriends (2000–2008), the situation comedy she created and co-produced for UPN, addressed the HIV/AIDS crisis among Black women in America. “I have things I want to say,” explained Brock Akil, “about bridging television’s gap between

The demand for minority representation in video games often focuses on proving that members of marginalized groups are gamers. In turn, it is asserted that the gaming industry should focus on appealing to these players via targeted content. Being targeted as a gamer, however, does not a gamer make. Identity as a gamer intersects with other identities like gender, race, and sexuality. Negative connotations about gaming lead people to not identify as gamers, and even to not play video games. This article concludes, based on interview data, that those invested in diversity in video games must focus their attention on the construction of the medium, and not the construction of the audience as such. This shift in academic attention is necessary to develop arguments for representation in games that do not rely on marking groups as specific kinds of gaming markets via identifiers like gender, race, and sexuality.

Trois essais de Richard W. Hill, Jonathan D Katz et Todd B Porterfield.

Aaron McGruder’s “The Return of the King” (2006) is one of many of the artist’s controversial episodes, yet it stands out because of the criticism it received among mainstream media outlets and civil rights leaders. It was the ninth episode to air from his series The Boondocks, which is an anime show that airs on the Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim cable channel. McGruder presents the following scenario in “The Return of the King”: What if Martin Luther King Jr. (MLK) did not die after his April 4, 1968, shooting and instead awoke after being in a coma for thirty-two years?

Performing Resistance/ Negotiating Sovereignty: Indigenous Women’s Performance Art In Canada investigates the contemporary production of Indigenous performance and video art in Canada in terms of cultural continuance, survivance and resistance. Drawing on critical Indigenous methodology, which foregrounds the necessity of privileging multiple Indigenous systems of knowledge, it explores these themes through the lenses of storytelling, decolonization, activism, and agency. With specific reference to performances by Rebecca Belmore, Lori Blondeau, Cheryl L'Hirondelle, Skeena Reece and Dana Claxton, as well as others, it argues that Indigenous performance art should be understood in terms of i) its enduring relationship to activism and resistance ii) its ongoing use as a tool for interventions in colonially entrenched spaces, and iii) its longstanding role in maintaining self-determination and cultural sovereignty.

Gloria Anzaldúa a délibérément écrit certains mots et certaines phrases en espagnol-chicano tout au long de cet article, choisissant pour des raisons politiques et esthétiques de produire un texte qui s’adresse à tout le monde mais peut être compris à des niveaux différents. Elle travaille ainsi aussi bien avec l’intelligibilité qu’avec la non-intelligibilité, liées au vécu et au positionnement social de chacun-e, au-delà de la langue elle-même. Pour tenter de respecter ce travail sur l’intelligibilité, nous avons procédé de la manière suivante. Dans certains cas, Anzaldúa a écrit une expression en espagno-chicano puis l’a traduite en anglais, nous avons alors procédé de la même manière. Dans les autres cas, nous avons laissé tel quel dans le corps du texte, ce qu’Anzaldúa a écrit en espagnol-chicano. Cependant, pour placer cette langue sur le même plan d’intelligibilité que l’anglais, pour le lectorat francophone, nous en proposons une traduction, en note. Enfin, nous avons ajouté un certain nombre de notes de contextualisation. Ainsi, les notes en lettres correspondent aux notes originales d’Anzaldúa, tandis que les notes en chiffres correspondent à la traduction de l’espagnol-chicano vers le français et enfin, les notes en i, ii, iii etc, correspondent aux notes des traductrices. Par ailleurs, deux termes sont particulièrement délicats à traduire : « raza » et « mestiza ». Au Mexique, le mot « raza » est polysémique. Au sens strict, il signifie « race », cependant son emploi actuel et courant n’implique aucune connotation raciale, mais plutôt populaire et affective (ma bande, mon quartier, ma famille élargie, les gens avec qui je m’identifie…), ce qui conduirait à le traduire plutôt par « peuple ». Nous avons donc choisi des traductions contextualisées, utilisant « race » pour la pensée de Vasconcelos (prise dans les courants racialistes internationaux des années vingt), et « peuple » pour la pensée d’Anzaldúa elle-même (qui l’utilise dans un sens actuel et populaire). L’ensemble de son œuvre montre amplement le caractère non-essentialiste de sa pensée, ce qui nous conforte dans ce choix. Enfin, le concept de « mestiza » (ou « mestizo ») possède au Mexique des connotations complexes et contradictoires. Il désigne une personne dominant-e par rapport à l’Indien-ne, mais aussi une personne dominé-e par rapport aux gens d’origine espagnole-européenne. Simultanément, il constitue l’archétype (positif) de la nouvelle « race » forgée dans l’ancienne colonie européenne transfigurée par l’indépendance puis la révolution. Pour Anzaldúa, le mot possède toutes ces connotations, mais signifie également la pluralité à l’intérieur de chaque être humain. Nous avons donc choisi de ne pas traduire le concept de « mestiza », qu’elle-même a décidé d’utiliser en espagnol, son article visant précisément à expliquer le sens nouveau qu’elle donne à la « nouvelle métisse ».

Marlon Rachquel Moore interviews emerging independent filmmaker Tina Mabry about her southern upbringing, racial and sexual consciousness, and the joys and turbulence of bringing her first feature-length film, Mississippi Damned, to the silver screen. Mississippi Damned is based on Mabry's family and set in her hometown of Tupelo, Mississippi.

The cityscape holds the memories of indigenous bones and bodies that resurrect a deep sense of place that exists in the landscape of the city of Toronto. This deep sense of place is part of a connection to the land and stories of place. In this article, the author bridges the creative work of Anishinaabe artist Rebecca Belmore with the living histories of the indigenous bodies and bones that are buried beneath the ground of the city of Toronto and the city of Vancouver. She argues that Belmore's artwork is part of the living archive that performs cultural memory and employs telling as part of an embodied experience and a political act. Belmore's performance work creates, records, and stores indigenous stories of place. This article uses the ideas of cultural theorists Katherine McKittrick, Mishuana Goeman, and Matthew Sparke. Each of these people brings a different element to theories of the body and space. This article also uses feminist geographers Alison Blunt and Gillian Rose's work in women's colonial geographies to unpack the affects of the map in colonial spaces and the colonial gaze. (Contains 4 figures and 50 notes.)

Thérèse Lamartine est bien connue des milieux féministes. Détentrice d’une maîtrise en études cinématographiques, elle a publié Elles, cinéastes... ad lib, en 1985, aux Éditions Remue-ménage, dans lequel elle présentait des réalisatrices de diverses origines, actives entre 1895 et 1981. En 2009, elle publiait Soudoyer Dieu, un roman scrutant la longue et inconsolable douleur d’un groupe de femmes après la tuerie de Polytechnique. Avec Le Féminin au cinéma, une petite plaquette consacrée aux films «de femmes» ou, comme elle le précise, aux films qui «sculptent un art du mieux-vivre la mixité dans nos sociétés ou [qui] débrident les stéréotypes et nous dérident à la fois», Lamartine ouvre les portes d’un monde cinématographique souvent méconnu et rend hommage à des femmes de cinéma, autant derrière que devant la caméra. En sortant ces femmes de l’ombre, elle met au jour un cinéma riche et original, mais méconnu.

Cheryl Dunye's 1996 film The Watermelon Woman earned a place in cinematic history as the first feature-length narrative film written and directed by an out black lesbian about black lesbians. This article examines how the film provides an important opportunity to mark the burgeoning genre of black queer documentary as a historiographical medium. The documentary film is a tool that highlights underexplored issues in black experience and provides a cultural site for imagining new possibilities for black lesbian subjectivity and creating innovative approaches to representing sexuality in black filmmaking.