What ‘Cam’ Gets Right About Sex Work
I wonder if lawyers cringe when they watch The Firm. Or if boxers shake their heads in disgust when Million Dollar Baby comes on. I wonder if cheerleaders avoid cheerleading movies. Because if they do, I get it. It’s hard to watch fictional depictions of one’s career. If it’s accurate, it can be unpleasant and distracting to “visit” work while indulging in fiction. If it’s inaccurate, well, maybe that’s just as unpleasant. Maybe it’s downright offensive or triggering. As a former cam performer, I was terrified to watch 2018’s Cam.
Cam performers, commonly referred to as “camgirls,” are sex workers that perform on the internet via webcam. They appear solo or with partners. Their streams can be explicit or non-nude. Some wear masks to hide their faces. Some have kids. Some love it, and some hate it. Like any job, there are both pitfalls and positives. In my experience, many performers are drawn to the work because of the freedom it affords. It’s also generally accessible to those with chronic issues that may keep them from more traditional, in-person work. But as is true with any kind of sex work, folks who disagree with a person’s right to use their body how they please tend to vilify its mere existence.
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But, when you remove the titillating aspects of the job, that’s all it is: a job. For many, it’s a business. You advertise, plan shows, track income, remain accessible, and you pay taxes. It can be wildly unglamorous and even upsetting; sometimes strangers pop by to call you fat or make fun of your boobs. But unlike waitressing, retail, or office work, you set the rules and the parameters of your room. You can kick people out at your discretion. You can even task fans or regulars with moderating comments on your behalf. Once you get into a flow, it can be downright mundane; it’s literally a job. So, it’s frustrating when the media continually fails to portray it as such. Even documentaries seem hard pressed to showcase the actual nature of the work.
I get it though, because who wants to watch a movie about someone’s meticulously kept schedule? There’s no thrill—no action. No peril. And don’t get me wrong, sex workers are in perpetual peril. But in my experience, it comes from legislation, anti-sex work feminists, and platforms quick to discard the very users that enabled their success. Hence my deep avoidance of Cam. I have no interest in seeing a terrorized woman be punished for her job while someone repeatedly calls her a slut. It’s a scary prospect, committing to spend 90 minutes with someone that hates you.
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Thankfully Cam doesn’t hate me or protagonist Alice (Madeline Brewer). In fact, Cam, co-written and produced by former cam performer Isa Mazzei, is a painstakingly authentic look at the life of a camgirl. Alice is a hungry, driven woman with goals and strict metrics for success. She is an entrepreneur—a go-getter. Alice, aka Lola, is a person, and so often in stories about sex work, that doesn’t seem to be a priority.
The film opens with a bit of a fake out. During a show, an anonymous user begins to antagonize Alice, urging her to commit acts of self-harm. And she does. At the user’s behest, Alice takes a knife and slits her throat to the delight and awe of her room. As she sits, head hung, blood staining her chest, her ranking rises. She’s secured more viewers and more visibility. But it’s a gimmick—a “suicide show”—something extreme to grab attention. And while I never broke out the fake blood to get clicks, it’s a startlingly accurate look at how competitive the camming game can be. When I was online, performers used high-concept contests, prize wheels, strange locations, and eye-catching outfits to engage viewers. They, like Alice, had gimmicks. In a crowded market, you have to stand out, and Cam demonstrates that perfectly.
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Alice is successful and good at what she does. And she seems to enjoy it. She plans her shows, gathers props, and stays engaged with her audience. She also wants more. Thankfully, instead of depicting Alice as cash-obsessed, a common stereotype for sex workers (All workers should be paid for their labor, right?), she’s fixated on advancement. Above all else, she wants to raise her ranking and stay relevant. As she edges dangerously close to desperation the movie pivots, becoming something else entirely.
After a particularly extreme show, Alice realizes she can’t log into the cam site. Even odder is that she, or rather Lola, appears to be online. And it’s not just a glitch. Fake Lola begins performing her own shows as Alice watches in horror. It appears someone—or something—has stolen Alice’s identity. It’s at this point Cam spirals into true speculative territory. No longer tethered to reality, the film poses questions about identity and existence in online spaces, and Alice spends the remainder of the movie trying to recover her account and life.
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An argument can be made that Cam is about a loss of self and identity through sex work. Alice is relegated to obsessive voyeur as she observes the fake Lola. To her dismay, the doppelganger morphs into someone she no longer recognizes. The new Lola tosses aside Alice’s values, leaving no trace of the woman who crafted the alter ego. It’s a common criticism of sex work: it changes you, and rarely for the better. But this take requires a certain amount of culpability be placed on Alice and her ambition. It seems unlikely the filmmakers would intentionally reduce fake Lola to nothing more than an avatar for nice girls ruined by sex work. If there’s a villain in Cam, it’s something much more pervasive and less exclusive to camming.
After some digging, Alice discovers she isn’t the only person who’s been copied. One of her overly familiar regulars confirms the phenomena, stating he can typically tell who will be hijacked, even if he’s not sure why or by what. So, if the doppelganger isn’t related to a loss of self triggered by the inherent transformational power of sex work, what’s causing it? Perhaps it’s the internet itself, developing awareness as it consumes the near-constant stream of information we willingly provide. Once it has enough data it can essentially spawn its own version of the user. If that’s the case, Alice has given the Web all it needs to create a new Lola.
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Whatever the cause of the dissociation, the film’s climax is deeply rooted in Alice’s desire for agency. She tricks fake Lola into giving her the password and then deletes the account, finally freeing herself from whatever entity had been squatting in her life. It’s not an easy process and Alice is left with scars from self-inflicted violence that harkens back to the film’s opening fake-out.
Uncharacteristically, I’m not sure I care to overthink the subtext of Cam—in the grand scheme of things, I’m not sure it matters. Could Cam be a cautionary tale of a woman’s struggle to regain her equilibrium after diving into the world of online sex work? Maybe! But there’s room for those stories because, even though I thrived showing my ass online, sex work is not a ubiquitously positive experience. Portraying any act that personal and stigmatized as something singular is inauthentic. Part of distigmatizing sex work is understanding it means different things to the people performing it. For me, it meant more freedom and control. It meant facing my reflection without flinching. It forced me to become an advocate for my body, something I still struggle with. And while I may have found a hidden cache of confidence and self-awareness, I understand that’s not a given.
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Cam is a rich and authentic look at camgirls and online sex work, but I’ve since realized my initial apprehension was never about the accuracy of the depiction. I was afraid of being faced with judgment and disdain. Representation, as they say, matters, and Cam tirelessly approaches the subject with kindness and empathy. It’s that deep and obvious understanding that makes me care so little about what the film may or may not be saying. Is it a story of toxic ambition? Confused ideals? A weird doppelganger that just happens to cam?
Maybe it’s all and maybe it’s none, but it’s having the conversation; Cam’s existence is a win for destigmatization. It shows that sex workers are industrious, resourceful people capable of telling their own stories. And it’s imperative they be able to, because when left to someone else, you lose not only the authenticity but the heart.
Categorized:Editorials News
