It is a single, unblinking shot of a housefly. The insect is perched on the lip of a woman’s naked body. For the next twenty-five minutes, you watch that fly crawl. It traverses the landscape of skin, navigating the valleys of ribs and the slopes of thighs, all set to a soundtrack of Yoko Ono’s own vocal contortions—moans, stutters, and high-pitched trills that sound like a nervous breakdown caught on tape. This is Yoko Ono The Fly, a film that premiered at the Cannes Film Festival in 1971 and hasn't stopped being divisive since.
People usually have one of two reactions. They either find it a profound meditation on vulnerability and the male gaze, or they think it’s a pretentious load of rubbish from a woman who "broke up the Beatles." Honestly, neither side is entirely wrong, but both miss the weird, technical brilliance of how the damn thing was actually made. Don't miss our recent post on this related article.
The Gritty Reality of Filming Yoko Ono The Fly
You can’t just tell a fly where to go. That’s the first thing people forget when they watch this. To make Yoko Ono The Fly, Yoko and John Lennon (who helped produce and even did some of the camera work) had to get creative with biology. They weren't just hanging out in a loft waiting for a random insect to land.
They used sugar water. Lots of it. If you want more about the history of this, Variety provides an excellent summary.
The actress, Virginia Lust, had to lie perfectly still for hours while the crew dabbed her skin with sweets to lure the flies. But here’s the kicker: the flies were actually "staged." They were chilled in a refrigerator before the shoot to make them sluggish. This allowed the camera to capture those ultra-close-up shots without the fly just buzzing off into the rafters immediately. It’s a bit macabre if you think about it. These tiny creatures were basically in a half-frozen stupor, waking up on a warm human body and trying to find their bearings.
The cinematography was handled by Peter B. Logan, and it’s genuinely impressive for the era. They used a 16mm camera with a macro lens. This was 1970. No CGI. No digital stabilization. Just a guy crouched over a naked woman, trying to keep a bug in focus while Yoko Ono directed the "performance" of the insect.
Why the Soundtrack is Half the Battle
If you watch the film on mute, it’s a quiet, almost peaceful study of the human form as a landscape. But you aren’t supposed to watch it on mute. The audio is a track from her album Fly, recorded with the Plastic Ono Band. It’s avant-garde in the truest, most abrasive sense.
Yoko uses her voice as an instrument. It’s not singing. It’s mimicry. She tries to sound like the fly. She buzzes. She clicks. She lets out these guttural, rhythmic heaves that match the fly's leg movements. It creates this skin-crawling sensation where the viewer starts to feel like the fly is on them. It’s a psychological trick. You’ve probably felt that phantom itch before when seeing a bug on screen; Yoko just weaponizes it.
The Meaning Behind the Buzzing
What was she actually trying to say? Yoko has always been obsessed with the idea of the "unseen." In her book Grapefruit, she writes instructions for art that often exists only in the mind. With Yoko Ono The Fly, she’s flipping the script on how we look at women in media.
Think about it.
The camera is a fly. A fly is a scavenger. It’s an unwanted guest. It’s something we usually swat away. By making the viewer follow the fly’s journey over a woman’s body, she’s basically calling out the voyeuristic nature of cinema. We are the pests. We are the ones crawling over this woman who remains immobile, almost like a corpse or a statue. It’s deeply feminist, though in a way that felt very "New York Underground" at the time.
Some critics, like those who saw it at its 1971 debut, hated it. They saw it as an extension of the "Bed-Ins for Peace" or the "Bagism" phase—just more "Ono-isms" designed to shock the bourgeois. But others saw a connection to the Fluxus movement, where the process of making the art is more important than the finished product.
The Lennon Connection
It’s impossible to talk about this film without mentioning John Lennon. He wasn't just a bystander; he was an active collaborator. During the filming at the St. Regis Hotel in New York, Lennon was reportedly very involved in the technical side. He loved the "anti-movie" aspect of it. At a time when he was shedding his "Mop Top" image and becoming a radical artist, Yoko Ono The Fly was his way of sticking a thumb in the eye of the mainstream music industry.
He didn't want to be a pop star anymore. He wanted to be the guy holding the light meter for a film about a fly.
Technical Specs and Trivia
- Director: Yoko Ono
- Release Year: 1970 (Filmed), 1971 (Cannes)
- Run Time: 25 minutes
- Cast: Virginia Lust (the body) and about 200 flies
- Location: An attic in New York City and the St. Regis Hotel
The flies were actually sourced from a biological supply house. They weren't "street" flies. This gave the production more control over the health and appearance of the insects, though "fly health" wasn't exactly a high priority for the critics of the day.
Is it Actually Art or Just Weird?
That’s the million-dollar question. Honestly, it’s both. Art doesn’t have to be pretty. In fact, a lot of the best art is meant to be repulsive. Yoko Ono The Fly succeeds because it forces you to acknowledge your own discomfort. Why does a bug on skin feel grosser than a hand on skin? Why are we okay with seeing nudity in a "pretty" context but not when it’s treated like dirt or a landscape?
It’s a masterclass in minimalism. There is no plot. There is no climax, other than the fly eventually flying out of a window at the very end. The ending is actually the most poetic part. The fly leaves, and the woman remains. The intruder is gone, and she is finally "clean" or "alone" again.
How to Experience it Today
You can find clips of it on YouTube, and occasionally it’s screened at the MoMA or other high-brow galleries. If you're going to watch it, don't go in expecting a "movie." Treat it like a moving painting.
Wait for a quiet night. Turn the volume up (even if it annoys your neighbors). Watch it on the biggest screen you have.
You’ll find yourself noticing things you never would in a standard film. The texture of goosebumps. The way skin folds. The terrifyingly complex anatomy of a fly's legs. It changes your perspective on the mundane.
Actionable Insights for the Curious
If you’re inspired by the raw, DIY nature of Yoko’s work, here is how you can actually apply her "Fluxus" mindset to your own life or creative projects:
- Embrace the "Single Shot" Constraint: Next time you’re filming something—even just a TikTok—try to do it in one take without edits. It forces you to focus on the subject rather than the post-production.
- Use Found Sound: Yoko used her voice to mimic an insect. Try recording "ugly" sounds and layering them over "pretty" visuals. The contrast is where the interest lies.
- Challenge the Gaze: If you’re a photographer or artist, think about what "pest" might be observing your subject. How does changing the perspective from a human to an animal change the emotion of the piece?
- Research the Fluxus Movement: If you liked the "vibe" of the fly film, look into artists like Nam June Paik or George Maciunas. They were the pioneers of this "boring but brilliant" style of art.
- Don't Fear the Critics: If Yoko had listened to the people who told her she was "weird," we wouldn't have some of the most influential conceptual art of the 20th century. Do the weird thing. Someone, somewhere, will find it profound.
