
1997 · Cheryl Dunye
For when you want something witty and romantic that also gives you plenty to chew on — a comfort watch with a sharp mind, great for a night when you're in the mood for indie charm over polish.
Cheryl, a young Black lesbian working at a Philadelphia video store, becomes obsessed with a 1930s Black actress credited in old films only as 'The Watermelon Woman,' and sets out to document her life. As her research deepens, she's also fumbling through a new romance with a white customer — and both threads keep asking who gets remembered and who does the remembering.
Funny, flirty, and scrappy in the best way — it plays like a video diary made by your smartest friend, then sneaks up on you with real melancholy about everything history threw away. Its lo-fi charm is the point; it feels alive and handmade.
Cheryl Dunye, directing herself as 'Cheryl,' has a warm, deadpan screen presence that makes the whole experiment feel effortless, and Guinevere Turner brings prickly chemistry as the love interest.
Dunye invented a form she called the 'Dunyementary,' braiding fiction, mock-documentary, and video diary — and the 'archival' photographs of her subject were fabricated so convincingly with artist Zoë Leonard that they were later exhibited as art in their own right. The sleight of hand is the argument: when history erases you, you have to build your own archive.
The first feature by an out Black lesbian director in American cinema, made for around $300,000 at the tail end of New Queer Cinema — a foundational text for anyone thinking about who film history leaves out.
Reception & legacy: how The Watermelon Woman was received, argued over, and remembered →
The first feature by an out Black lesbian director in American cinema, made for around $300,000 at the tail end of the New Queer Cinema wave — and one of the wittiest films about the archive ever made. Cheryl Dunye plays 'Cheryl,' a Philadelphia video-store clerk and aspiring filmmaker researching a 1930s Black actress credited only as 'The Watermelon Woman,' while fumbling through a romance with a white customer (Guinevere Turner). The form Dunye invented — she called it the 'Dunyementary' — braids fiction, mock-documentary and video diary, and the archival photographs of her subject were fabricated with artist Zoë Leonard, a project so convincing it later exhibited as art in its own right. The sleight of hand carries the film's argument: Black queer women were written out of film history so thoroughly that recovering them requires invention. Its NEA grant drew fire from a scandalized congressman; a quarter-century later, the Library of Congress added it to the National Film Registry. The final title card states the method plainly: sometimes you have to create your own history.
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