“black box explores the instability of memory and interrogates various narratives that are constructed around an act of sexual violence. A black box is a closed system, a lacuna, a blind spot. Its internal mechanisms cannot be known. The internal function of a black box can only be determined by comparing its input to its output. Trauma is an endlessly multiplying black box. Each attempt to peer into it creates a re-traumatization, an illegible algorithm, another dark spot at the heart of the event.” - Giuliana Foulkes
Giulz and I have been best friends since 2014 — coming to a total of 6 years of friendship with the only Scorpio stellium that I know. I set out to write this review after they released their documentary short black box to the public, joking that I was to be their PR manager for their film. The truth is, my love for Giulz is so insanely massive, that I don’t see this as a part of a job title — I want to simply discuss one of the best short films I’ve ever seen.
From my personal perspective, Giulz is one of the most empathetic, intelligent artists I have ever met. Their love for their friends and community extends externally — albeit I worry about how much they take care of themself after giving so much. So here is my measly attempt at giving back; a public testimony of how much respect and admiration I feel for my chosen sister.
In the years we’ve been close, many of our talks stem from our shared interest in how trauma operates within our psyche. It felt like only a matter of time until Giulz began to work on a film that discussed directly that. It was winter break of 2014, during our first year as undergraduates at CalArts, and I was boarding a bus by my old high school after visiting a couple teachers. Giulz suddenly called me, speaking very quickly on their idea that they will go back to the site where they were sexually assaulted, and film a documentary there. I was excited for them, as for this was a film idea that sounded boldly new to me. After visiting my high school, I was also lost in my thoughts about what it means revisit places that hold painful memories.
That following summer, they flew back to Chicago, back to Beatlefest, back to that hotel. They interviewed their friends, their parents, their enemies, trying to piece together the events that occured preceding and following their rape. black box becomes a collage of the past colliding with the present, the editing techniques decreasing the proximity to which the days are divided. In this film, time is no longer a line, rather the very ghosts that Giulz whispers they are afraid of, as they turn the corner of each hallway of the hotel basement.
“In 1995 I attended Beatlefest for the first time, in utero
In 2012 I was sexually assaulted there
In 2015 I returned to Beatlefest to make this movie”
In the span of 3 years, I watched Giulz undergo countless re-edits of black box, along with it epiphanies, nostalgia, isolation, torment. Their painful process that involved their own retraumatization was open like a fresh wound, and I witnessed the tearing and repatching. The film’s process did not end — it continues within them, as with countless other survivors.
We watch as Giulz discusses a mysterious box that they were seen carrying with their rapist before their assault; interspliced with aged karaoke videos of them and their brother Wolfgang; and current footage of them wandering the hotel, gazing into their own reflections.
Giulz’ counting becomes a time marker for the film itself: “56, 57, 58”; floor 5B; the film was shot in 2015; the interview with the unnamed man takes exactly 109 seconds to complete. The viewer is pushed to increase their awareness of the arithmetic elements surrounding the traumatic event. In the end however, it proves useless to unlock the black box itself, as it endlessly puzzles both Giulz and the witnesses.
Yet above everything, black box holds such an absolute bold presence of the self that is the centerpiece of the film’s core. Usually, following a public call out of an abuser or rapist, society seems to immediately turn the public concern over to the one accused, rather than the accuser. In black box, we witness the “call out”, devoid of a name, with the survivor placing themself on the forefront before anything else.
“I was raped by him”; but first, the sentence begins with “I”.
The film wraps up with a drench of irony, said from one of their witnesses: “Because of the confident, cool way you always carry yourself, it was just like, ‘Giulz can handle this.’”
And with this bold statement, we see the filmmaker’s constant struggle to be seen and heard. Even with the self-proclamations through mirror reflections and silent text, rape culture slips in between the cracks, attempting to erase the work done. Telling, retelling the story is a constant negotiation of endless risks.
2 years after the completion of black box, Giulz made their film public on their Vimeo page. As Cora B. states in her tweet about the film: “Making it public is a powerful act all its own.” It takes you by the shoulders, and demands to be seen. The survivor is present. Listen to them, before anything else.