Barbara Forever Revisits a Lesbian Filmmaker’s Lost Visibility

By Grace Kim

Barbara Hammer made more than 85 films and archived her life in 125 boxes that she eventually sold to Yale, according to Brydie O’Connor, director of Barbara Forever. Hammer began making films in the late 1960s and died from cancer in 2019, O’Connor says.

After screenings at Sundance and Berlinale, O’Connor brought the documentary to the Ji.hlava Intl. Documentary Film Festival, where she presented it at the U.S. Docs showcase in 2023. The film was an A Space Time Films and Killer Films production, made in co-production (a joint production) with Kartemquin Films. Kristen Stewart and the “uber-producer” Christine Vachon became influential supporters, O’Connor says.

Vachon told O’Connor: “I love that it’s an unconventional approach to an unconventional artist.” O’Connor, who calls some of Vachon’s films “the most groundbreaking queer films I’ve ever seen,” adds: “That’s what supporting a new generation of queer artists looks like.”

O’Connor says she felt Hammer’s frustration “at so many different points.” She kept hearing: “We love your enthusiasm for Barbara Hammer, you emerging lesbian filmmaker. But does that relate to the present day and broader audiences?” O’Connor says the obstacle was not a lack of admiration.

Hammer’s influence did not make her a household name, O’Connor says. Making the film proved difficult, she says, because the market had to be persuaded that a decades-spanning career had relevance for a wider audience.

What does Barbara Forever change for queer filmmakers?

The answer is partly a new audience for Hammer and partly an unfinished argument about support. O’Connor says: “We had such wonderful partners, but we were all working overtime on this little movie that could. All the success that we’ve seen with this film hasn’t translated into funding for new projects or making money. I really hope that it will at some point.”

O’Connor sees Hammer’s experience among emerging queer filmmakers today. Hammer felt invisible for most of her life, both while coming out and within the film and art worlds, O’Connor says. She believed her work was not receiving the recognition it deserved, yet she continued to value teaching and direct contact with audiences until her death.

O’Connor began researching Hammer as a student and still asks: “How did she do it all? How did she make over 85 films? How did she archive her entire life in 125 boxes that she eventually sold to Yale? How did she have such a successful relationship towards the end of her life?” She finds an answer in Hammer’s drive: “The complexity of just living, being ambitious and trying to make it happen feels very relatable to me.”

O’Connor reads Hammer’s prolific output as a social project. “Barbara had this idea that it would offer insight into how one lesbian, and one woman, navigated the world,” she says. When Hammer first understood her sexuality, she had never heard the word “lesbian.” That experience drove her to document everything so other people could see themselves in her work, O’Connor says.

O’Connor considers Hammer’s methods uncannily current. Like today’s influencers, Hammer wasn’t afraid to interview passers-by, film herself or share intimate moments with the camera, O’Connor notes. She used social media near the end of her life, put herself in the frame and filmed everything. “It feels very contemporary,” O’Connor says.

Hammer also offered a throughline, or continuous point of reference, that O’Connor believes influencer culture often lacks: the experience of one woman moving through the world. Visibility, however, did not guarantee institutional recognition. Hammer wanted the fame that eluded her, O’Connor says, and people who knew her recalled: “Barbara had a huge personality. She was really pushy, you know.”

O’Connor interprets Hammer’s assertiveness as practical. “She knew that she had to overemphasize the importance of her work and her presence. It was about becoming a lesbian icon at a time when the world didn’t really want a lesbian icon.” Hammer made personal, experimental films but still valued direct exchanges with viewers, O’Connor says.

“Connecting with others through art was really at the core of her practice. It’s also why she loved teaching. I definitely try to take at least a page out of Barbara’s book in that regard,” she says.

The film reached beyond Hammer’s existing audience after one screening. A woman from Texas, who said she was not queer and had never heard of Hammer, approached O’Connor about her dying father.

“I’ve never heard of Barbara Hammer. I’m from Texas and I’m not queer. But I was so moved because my father is at the very end of his life, and he keeps telling our family that he’s at peace. After seeing this movie, I finally understand what he’s saying,”

O’Connor calls that response “one of the greatest gifts” of making the film: “Just talking to audiences.”

Now, new viewers are meeting Hammer through the documentary. O’Connor says: “Now, so many people are being introduced to Barbara and feeling so moved by this film. I’m so grateful for that. It’s such a win to release it, but it was hard to convince people of its place in the market.” Her account separates cultural recognition from material support: the film can move audiences before it can secure money for the next project. The practical test is whether that visibility produces durable funding for queer filmmakers rather than another cycle of acclaim without resources.