Bitch Flicks – Page 2

‘The Lure’ Fills the Mermaid Shaped Hole in My Heart

Closer to sirens than friendly flounders these creatures lure men to their deaths and feast on their flesh. … Deadly mermaids, Eastern European pop music, and crushing dreams may not initially seem like a wonderful combination, but The Lure mixes these elements together beautifully.

This guest post written by Deirdre Crimmins originally appeared at Film Thrills and appears here as part of our theme week on Women in Horror. It is cross-posted with permission.

This will be no surprise to readers who know my taste in film, but I like it weird. I like violence intersecting art. I like burlesque mashing-up with David Bowie. And now, thanks to the opening film of the Boston Underground Film Festival, I now know that I like fantastical creatures breaking out into song. Mermaids and musicals: Where have you been all of my life?

Directed by Agnieszka Smoczynska, The Lure is a film that can be easily summarized, but not easily understood because it is far greater than the sum of its parts. The Polish film is a mermaid tale (or tail — get it?) wherein two mermaid sisters wander onto land to become nightclub singers. Silver (Marta Mazurek) and Golden (Michalina Olszanska) are minding their own business in the ocean when they happen upon a trio of drunken swimmers, and rather than eating them right away, they agree to follow them to their discothèque.

The Lure builds comfortably upon the classic and violent roots of fairy tales. Like Disney, mermaids are great singers and impossibly beautiful, but unlike Disney traditional mer-people are deadly creatures. Closer to sirens than friendly flounders these creatures lure men to their deaths and feast on their flesh. When on land Golden and Silver are beautiful and playful young women, resembling eunuchs with great breasts. But splash a little water on them and their tails and vaginas emerge. The eel-like tails are not particularly sexy, but that does not stop them from being the object of desire from nearly every man they see.

While on land Silver falls in love, which causes a rift between her and Golden. Golden then turns to rebel against her fading relationship with her sister and seeks the company of another fantastical creature she happens upon one night. The story, and Silver’s blind love of a total loser, is heart breaking, but is overshadowed by the musical numbers in the film.

The musical trio who adopt the mermaid siblings are the featured act at their local dance club. Though there are women dancing, and stripping, during many of their numbers, often the music is enough to keep the crowds happy and drinking. Adding the mermaids and their siren’s songs to the act makes for mesmerizing interruptions to the film in high-concept musical numbers. We see them first singing back-up, before moving forward on stage and dominating the club. During one frenzied punk number the entire audience is gripped by their music and thrown into a manic state of debauchery. Strobing lights, pumping music, and outlandish costumes teeter this scene on the edge of celebratory and frightening chaos, and signal the shifting tide in the film from cute fairy tale to a much darker timeline.

Deadly mermaids, Eastern European pop music, and crushing dreams may not initially seem like a wonderful combination, but The Lure mixes these elements together beautifully. The film is outstandingly odd, and for that I love it.

Deirdre Crimmins is a Cleveland-based film critic who lives with two black cats, and her eternal optimism that the next film she watches might be her new favorite. She wrote her Master’s thesis on George Romero and still loves a good musical.

20 Years of ‘The Craft’: Why We Needed More of Rochelle

Rochelle was the social outcast with the other handful of social outcasts of St. Bernard Academy, sure. But how do we cinematize the Black girl outcast teenager that many of us felt like? That just so happens to be a practicing witch? Much of what can be read of Rochelle relies heavily on those of us whom she meant so much to.

This guest post written by Ashlee Blackwell originally appeared at Graveyard Shift Sisters and appears here as part of our theme week on Women in Horror. It is cross-posted with permission.

The Craft (1996) is a film that came out around the time I turned 13. A freshman in high school and firmly established as a minority within a minority in my predominantly white/European immigrant working-class suburb right outside of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. It was a painful observation. I was constantly confronting microaggressions about what kind of Black person I was supposed to be, and wasn’t, from all of my peers. I was the weirdo. And I found myself socializing with other weirdos who were the pop culture nerds, especially those who liked genre films and TV (The X-Files and Buffy The Vampire Slayer consumed my life for many years) as much as I did.

But my racial difference only highlighted the rise of a reaction that one particular friend, in retrospect I realize wasn’t much of one, consistently searched for from me. As if my nerdiness, introvertedness and his incomprehension that I didn’t fit his concept of a Black person was a code to crack. It was twenty years ago and I still remember this high school hallway conversation all too vividly. He just had to tell me about the Black girl in this new movie called The Craft. And how Rochelle (the Black girl, played by Rachel True) was told by Laura Lizzie (Christine Taylor) after she bravely confronts her as the victim of Laura’s harassment that she doesn’t like “negroids.” Instead of being observantly taken aback, he dished this unwanted spoiler with delight and amusement. As if blatant racism, fictional or not, was something to laugh about.

I don’t know what I expected from a 13-year-old white guy. I don’t know why I even remained casually friendly with him. But I do remember not finding it as chuckle-inducing as he did. And I additionally remember my silence. Because I couldn’t quite find the words at such a young age so quickly, not to express being offended (I wasn’t), but to question why this particular scene I just had to know about, and maybe even reprimand his emotional immaturity and insensitivity.

It was one of those moments where I knew I would never fit in. Anywhere. I would always be the weirdo.

I don’t remember when I finally saw The Craft but when I did, Rochelle’s interactive scenes with the obtuse Laura cut deep. I was flustered and empathetic to a character that was virtually invisible to an entire school population outside of her small coven of comrades, unless to be the unchecked target of racist scorn. This made her experience even that more isolating in contrast to her white female counterparts who, if they did get that brief seat at the table, were promptly dismissed for their class, burn scars, and not performing for the teenage ‘good ‘ol boys’ club. The most glaring difference; Rochelle was never going to get that seat. Along with Sarah (Robin Tunney), Nancy (Fairuza Balk), and Bonnie (Neve Campbell), all making a pact to use the dark arts to channel their angst into empowerment.

Unfortunately, Rochelle’s score to settle was not explored and displayed enough with the emotional weight it carried. It was played as superficial comeuppance for Laura’s racial intolerance. A spell was cast on her to lose what we are to assume was one of Laura’s most cherished assets and core of self-worth; her hair. But it is interesting how her straight, blonde locks were a symbol in itself of an idealized status of social capital, supposed racial superiority, and prosperity. It is interesting how Rochelle makes a sweeping statement, one so quick, sneaky, and easily missed, amongst her friends about a spell to “make me blonde.” I picked up on that 20 years ago and it’s still so apparent to the damage that these experiences inflict on women of color. These are the pieces to Rochelle we could never fully put together because the entire mold was never assembled. What’s missing is much more than The Craft could explore in its run time. And that’s more than just unfortunate.

The movie for many sparked the thirst to explore the deep intersections of the weirdo. Rochelle was the social outcast with the other handful of social outcasts of St. Bernard Academy, sure. But how do we cinematize the Black girl outcast teenager that many of us felt like? That just so happens to be a practicing witch?

Much of what can be read of Rochelle relies heavily on those of us whom she meant so much to. What kinds of conversations did young Black girls have back in 1996 and are having now about the importance of her presence in a film that at least, didn’t blend her in colorblind rhetoric? How did many us find camaraderie, empathy, and imagination in Rochelle’s broader, unseen story?

It’s been a welcomed challenge to do some unpacking and keep the discourse on Rochelle circulating. The Craft is timeless by the strength of the performances and themes. What the film conveys are ideas we carry well into adulthood, never dismissing their importance in our personal growth.

On the surface, it doesn’t necessarily do Rochelle any good for arc’s sake to supernaturally one-up the Mean Girl factor in objection to the popular Blonde girl’s accepted racist attitude, but it does bring an awareness to that other dynamic of being the wierdo — of how there are those who work to shame difference simply on the basis of skin color alone. Why is Rochelle reprimanded for, for some, being the enactor, the catharsis, of every brown teenaged girl who’s had to deal with racism and not exactly know how to combat it at such a tender age?

When True herself sat down with HitFix in May 2016, she discusses the idea that Rochelle and The Craft offered audiences in 1996 an alternative to the kind of Black characters and stories signified as Black that were being greenlit by film studios. Lamenting the fact that the scene with Rochelle’s parents was cut and her motivation for next-level witchcraft mastery was combating racial discrimination, she seemed determined to bring her very best to the material she was given. And it shows. Rachel’s government name alone sparks so many good memories for so many people. She’s proven to be a versatile actress that you’re constantly ready to embrace what she does next. Her presence in The Craft has left an indelible imprint.

Ashlee Blackwell is the founder and managing editor of Graveyard Shift Sisters, a website dedicated to highlighting the work of women of color in the horror and science fiction genres. She holds a MA in Liberal Arts from Temple University and aspires to bring intersectional horror into the college classroom.

‘Rosemary’s Baby,’ ‘Prevenge,’ and the Evils of the Trump Administration

Alice Lowe’s ‘Prevenge’ is in some ways a modernized version of ‘Rosemary’s Baby.’ … Throughout the course of history, and especially in Trump’s America, baby always comes first. Our government cares more about fetuses than it does about living, breathing women. This chills me to the core more than a scary movie ever could.

This guest post written by Lindsay Pugh appears as part of our theme week on Women in Horror. | Spoilers ahead.

[Trigger warning: discussion of rape and sexual assault]

Whether completely alone or with a partner standing by, pregnancy is one of the most terrifying and bizarre events to happen in real life. Of course, women are expected to handle it with aplomb and joy. “Oh, you mean my entire body is going to change and then if all goes well, another human being is going to rip through my vagina, hopefully only causing minimal tearing? Fantastic! Sign me up!”

As a woman in 2017, there’s plenty to be afraid of: increased attacks on abortion, unrelenting attempts to defund Planned Parenthood, rape culture and the normalization of sexual assault (“Grab ‘em by the pussy.”), etc. The litany of bullshit is horrific and interminable. How can anyone make a horror film that will scare women when real life has turned into a waking nightmare? Easy. Throw pregnancy into the mix; take all those standard fears and concerns and amplify them. Two films that do a great job portraying these atrocities are Roman Polanski’s Rosemary’s Baby (1968) and Alice Lowe’s Prevenge (2016).

I hate to give Polanski, creepy Keebler Elf and sexual predator extraordinaire, credit, but Rosemary’s Baby is one of my all-time favorite horror films and feminist as fuck. It makes me feel a little better to know that his screenplay is nearly identical to Ira Levin’s novel, so it’s not like Polanski is responsible for any of the genius plotting or characterizations.

In order to truly grasp the brilliance of Rosemary’s Baby, let’s quickly review the atrocities Rosemary (Mia Farrow) has to endure, from the sex before conception to her post-birth satanic cult discovery. First, it’s important to note that Rosemary’s pregnancy is the product of rape. Even though she’s been drugged c/o Minnie’s (Ruth Gordon) chocolate mousse, Rosemary is cognizant enough to realize, “This is no dream! This is really happening.” (Although even if she wasn’t cognizant, the fact is she was unable to consent.) The morning after her rape, Guy (John Cassavetes) tries to gaslight Rosemary by apologizing for the scratches on her body and telling her they only had sex when she was blacked out because he didn’t want to miss “baby night.” Rosemary is tense and suspicious for days, but those feelings are eventually eclipsed when a phone call from her doctor confirms her pregnancy. Instead of focusing on the traumatic conception, Rosemary diverts her attention to scheduling doctor’s appointments and spreading the joyous news.

Unfortunately, Rosemary’s happiness wanes when her body begins to change. In order to combat her feelings of unease, Guy, Minnie, and Roman (Sidney Blackmer) concoct a plan to ensure that no matter how bad her symptoms become, Rosemary never believes they’re abnormal. Dr. Sapirstein (Ralph Bellamy) tells Rosemary not to ask any questions or listen to advice from friends or books. Instead of taking vitamins, she’s to drink one of Minnie’s herbal concoctions every day. Rosemary wants what’s best for her baby, so she listens to the doctor, even as she becomes scarily gaunt. She knows something is wrong, but the people closest to her have done a great job of convincing her she’s paranoid and can’t trust her own instincts.

Throughout the film, Rosemary vacillates between trusting her intuition and dismissing it because she wants what’s best for the baby and doesn’t always trust herself to provide it. At several points, she tries to take control of her situation, but external forces usually convince her she’s made the wrong call. By effectively gaslighting her, Guy and the Castevets have ensured that Rosemary no longer trusts her own body or motherly intuition. At the end of the film, when Rosemary decides to embrace her role even though her child is a fucking demon, it’s a total act of rebellion. These people have taken away her sanity, her health, and nine months of her life, but they won’t take away her baby. Even though this situation isn’t what she signed up for, she’s on board for lack of a better option.

Even with a wanted baby, pregnancy can be a terrifying situation full of unknown elements. Alice Lowe had this in mind, that “pregnancy is an alien experience,” while making Prevenge. Without the power to ask questions and make informed decisions, a beautiful, exciting life event could easily turn into a waking nightmare full of anxiety and dread. The Trump administration wants to make Rosemary’s Baby a reality. Something is wrong with your pregnancy and you need to terminate it in order to avoid a lifetime of pain for yourself and your child? Too bad. You must carry the pregnancy to term and deal with the ramifications alone. Your pregnancy is the result of rape and you’re unable to deal with the psychological trauma? Or you simply don’t want to be pregnant? I hope you have the time, money, patience, and strength to deal with abortion restrictions like mandatory waiting periods, forced ultrasounds, TRAP laws, personhood laws, insurance and funding limitations, 20-week bans, forced counseling, and ideological shaming that you’re likely to encounter depending your state. And restrictions to abortion access disproportionately impact women in poverty, women of color, and women living in rural areas.

Rosemary’s Baby is as relevant today as it was forty-nine years ago. Like Guy Woodhouse, the Trump administration uses women as pawns and attempts to stave off rebellion by gaslighting, discrediting, isolating, and emotionally manipulating them.

Prevenge is in some ways a modernized version of Rosemary’s Baby. Ruth (Alice Lowe) is a widow, convinced something is wrong with her pregnancy but told by her midwife (Jo Hartley) that she needs to stay positive and listen to her instincts. The midwife tells Ruth, “Baby knows what to do. Baby will tell you what to do.” The only problem is that Ruth’s baby tells her to kill people, not to relax and eat some Cheetos dipped in clam chowder. With influences ranging from the Greek Furies, to American Psycho and Taxi Driver, Lowe “wanted to show a powerful pregnant woman,” which counters how pregnant women are traditionally depicted or viewed as frail.

During her pregnancy, Ruth is even more isolated than Rosemary. She lives out of hotel rooms, has no friends, and only interacts with her midwife and people she plans on killing. The bond with her unborn baby is the sole one we’re privy to and it’s obviously very twisted. Even when we finally see a flashback of her deceased husband, it’s of his death and not their time together.

While we often hear the midwife voice concern for the baby, we never hear her ask Ruth how she’s doing. Even after she looks through Ruth’s paperwork and realizes that her partner is dead, she doesn’t feign sympathy. She essentially tells Ruth to suck it up and remain positive because her negative energy won’t do anything to help the baby. This is the conversation she has with Ruth after realizing she’s a single mother:

Midwife: It’s very important to let the past stay in the past. It’s just nature’s way.
Ruth: I think nature’s a bit of a cunt, though, don’t you?
Midwife: Oh, negativity’s not good for the baby’s spirit, really.
Ruth: Do you think?
Midwife: Yes. I think it’s good to try to stay positive.

Ruth is clearly struggling with mental health issues and needs someone to step in and help her, but no one gives a shit about her problems; her job is to serve the baby and as long as she’s following through, there’s no cause for concern. As soon as Ruth becomes a mother, her grief and depression are non-issues to those around her because the baby comes first. Throughout the course of history, and especially in Trump’s America, baby always comes first. Our government cares more about fetuses than it does about living, breathing women. This chills me to the core more than a scary movie ever could.

Ruth and Rosemary both try to do what they think is best, but are swayed by outside influence. Ruth’s midwife tells her to listen to the baby; Dr. Sapirstein tells Rosemary to listen to him. No one tells either of these women to listen to themselves — to trust their bodies, experience, or intuition. Women are not to be trusted in any capacity, in any situation. Ruth knows that something isn’t right, that her pregnancy and mental state are abnormal. But she squashes these feelings, listens to her “baby,” and continues to kill people. Rosemary fights like hell at the end of the movie and tries to tell anyone who will listen that there’s a conspiracy against her, but she’s branded as “crazy” and immediately dismissed.

This Halloween, what’s keeping me up at night isn’t fiction; it’s real life. It’s the possibility of a 20-week abortion ban and the knowledge that I live in a country where women aren’t valued or trusted — where a majority of white women would rather have Donald Trump represent their interests than Hillary Clinton. I watch films like Prevenge and Rosemary’s Baby because I want to remind myself to stay vigilant. In 1979, Loretta Lynn said, “We’ve come a long way, baby,” but these films remind me we haven’t come far enough.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Rosemary’s Baby: Marriage Can Be Terrifying

The “Blurred Lines” of Body Horror and Rape Culture

Rosemary’s Baby: Who Possesses the Pregnant Woman’s Body

Recommended Reading:

Woman in Revolt on Prevenge

Refinery29’s Interview with Alice Lowe: The Pregnant Serial Killer Movie Taking a Knife to Stereotypes on Film

The Most Cursed Hit Movie Ever Made by Rosemary Counter

Lindsay Pugh runs Woman in Revolt, an intersectional feminist film blog that focuses on female directors in television and film. She is a self-described militant feminist and can be found wandering the streets of Ann Arbor wearing a leather jacket adorned with “Fuck Paul Ryan” pins and shaking her fist at the patriarchy.

All the Rage: Women-Led and Women-Centric Horror Film Festivals

“They just assume I’m an actress. They would never assume that I directed it or made the film myself.” That’s the assumption that women-centric horror film festivals intend to quash. They’re also, as Women in Horror Film Festival (WIHFF) co-director and filmmaker Samantha Kolesnik said, a growing platform for “equal representation” in all aspects of film production.

This guest post written by Sonia Lupher appears as part of our theme week on Women in Horror.

“What film are you with?” If you ever find yourself at an independent horror film festival, this is a question you will likely be asked by fellow attendees. At least, this is the question you want to be asked. But, as many women mentioned at the first annual Women in Horror Film Festival (WIHFF) in Peachtree City, Georgia last September, when you attend a general horror film festival as a woman, you’re more likely to be asked, “What part do you play?” Producer-writer-director and Sick Chick Flicks Film Festival founder Christine Parker told me, “They just assume I’m an actress. They would never assume that I directed it or made the film myself.”

That’s the assumption that women-centric horror film festivals intend to quash. They’re also, as WIHFF co-director and filmmaker Samantha Kolesnik said, a growing platform for “equal representation” in all aspects of film production. The Women in Horror Film Festival is just one of a handful of film festivals devoted to women in horror film production that has sprung up in the last few years in the wake of Women in Horror Month, an initiative founded in 2010 by Hannah Neurotica of the Ax Wound Film Festival. WIHFF, unlike many other film festivals, accepts films helmed by men as long as there are women in three or more creative roles: producer, director, writer, lead talent, composer, SFX artist, editor, production designer, and/or cinematography. This is because, as Kolesnik and WIHFF co-founder and filmmaker Vanessa Ionta Wright point out, the festival strives to shed light on the role of women across all areas of horror film production.

Some of the WIHFF award winners pose with festival directors Samantha Kolesnik and Vanessa Ionta Wright (bottom row, first and fourth from left).

Indeed, WIHFF showcased tons of incredible shorts and features from women directors across the globe, such as Norma Vila’s Jules D. (Spain), Aislínn Clarke’s Childer (Ireland), and Mia’kate Russell’s Liz Drives (Australia). Canadian directing-duo Jen and Sylvia Soska were also in attendance as invited guests, sharing tips and dropping hints about their upcoming remake of David Cronenberg’s Rabid. But among the non-director stars of the festival were Melissa Lyons, who penned and co-produced Alfred J. Hemlock, Jennifer Trudrung, who wrote/produced/starred in audience favorite Unbearing, and Ruin Me editor/producer/co-writer Trysta Bissett. The primary goal of WIHFF, as Kolesnik and Wright made clear, is to offer inclusive networking for women and their male allies in horror while showcasing the impressive work they are already undertaking.

This latter goal is shared by a handful of other festivals around the world. Neurotica, who co-runs the Ax Wound Film Festival with Ashlee Blackwell (who also founded Graveyard Shift Sisters, a site devoted to Black women in horror) and Miki Hickel, is very vocal about the importance of seeing other women in horror film production for budding filmmakers. The upcoming festival, which will feature film screenings, panels, and workshops (including a workshop on crowdfunding led by filmmaker Christina Raia), strives to get more horror-inclined women behind the camera. Neurotica is firm on the non-competitive atmosphere of the film festival, describing the mission of Ax Wound as one of collaboration and support. As a result, Ax Wound does not give awards. “There is so much competition among women in this field. It’s brutal,” Neurotica wrote. “The only way we can change that is by working together, hiring each other, and networking. Ax Wound provides a safe space which we hope brings women together rather than set up hierarchies.”

Ax Wound Film Festival’s 2016 Filmmaker Panel Hosted by Jay Kay of Horror Happens Radio

The Sick Chick Flicks Film Festival (October 28-29) was developed by Christine Parker alongside her production company of the same name with the underlying intention of making it clear to women that they can make films too. As director/writer/producer Lynne Hansen (whose zombie-comedy Chomp has played at dozens of film festivals, including WIHFF) told me, it was not until she saw another woman direct a film that she realized (“way too late”) she could do it too. Film festivals play a large role in getting female filmmakers in the public eye and, in turn, inspiring other women to make their own films. Through her production company, Parker strives to teach women filmmakers the nitty-gritty aspects of filmmaking, to “foster and show them how to do lights and how to do sound,” so they can go on to make their own films. Sick Chick Flicks Film Festival is, in turn, a platform to get these films to audiences.

Sick Chick Flicks Film Festival director Christine Parker stands in front of the marquee for the 2016 festival.

In addition to WIHFF, Ax Wound, and Sick Chick Flicks, North America is home to several other film festivals featuring the work of women in horror production, while the international scene is no less rich. These festivals include:

Etheria Film Night, which takes place in June, is an annual one-night event in Hollywood organized by Heidi Honeycutt, Stacy Pippi Hammon, and Kayley Viteo.
The Bloody Mary Film Festival, focused on Canadian female-helmed films and organized by Laura DiGirolamo and Krista Dzialoszynski, will hold its second festival from November 30-December 1st in Toronto.
Stranger With My Face, an annual festival founded in 2012 by Briony Kidd and Rebecca Thomson, takes place in Hobart, Tasmania. Stranger With My Face is celebrated as a leading genre event and also hosts the 48-hour Tasploitation Challenge and the Tasmanian Gothic Short Script Challenge.
The Final Girls Berlin Film Festival, founded by Elinor Lewy, Lara Mandelbrot, and Sara Neidorf, saw its second year in June 2017.
Scream Queen Filmfest Tokyo, founded in 2013 by Mai Nakanishi who programs and runs “the only female-centric genre film festival in Asia.”

The sheer number, not to mention the raging success, of women-centric horror film festivals demonstrates the ongoing momentum of women in horror film production and the opportunities that these festivals offer to them. What makes these festivals fundamentally different from genre film festivals at large? “I would dare anybody to look up different festivals’ past winners and finalists and tally up the statistics – see how many of these films are directed by women, written by women, how many have special effects artists that were women and how many times there was just one woman on the team,” Kolesnik said. It’s about showcasing the impressive work that women are doing in the genre, offering collaboration opportunities, and ensuring that the presence of women in horror filmmaking remains strong. Visibility, equal opportunity, and demonstrating the grit women bring to horror are what these film festivals are all about.

First image features film stills from Paralysis, Ruin Me, Chomp, and Unbearing. Second image courtesy of Women in Horror Film Festival. Third image courtesy of Ax Wound Film Festival. Fourth image courtesy of Sick Chicks Flicks Film Festival.

Sonia Lupher is originally from the Pacific Northwest, but moved east to pursue a doctoral degree in the Film Studies program at the University of Pittsburgh. She is fulfilling her lifelong dream of watching movies for a living, and especially loves horror movies directed by women. You can follow her on Twitter @SoniaLupher.

‘Raw’ and Coming of Age via Cannibalism

What writer/director Julia Ducournau does with ‘Raw’ is use the traditional tropes of body horror to tell the story of one young woman’s awakening. … It’s frightening and disturbing, as coming of age often is. … By filtering this all-too-common struggle through the extreme lens of cannibalism, Ducournau highlights the absurdity inherent in how women’s bodies and desires are policed.

This guest post written by Lee Jutton appears as part of our theme week on Women in Horror. | Spoilers ahead.

Women are constantly fighting for control of their bodies. This is not an exaggeration, however extreme it may sound. One’s body is the most personal and precious possession one has — literally the only one we are born with — and yet, if you are a woman, it is also the most policed. Society tells us that women’s bodies must remain pure and virginal in order to be deemed desirable. Men in government aspire to limit our access to healthcare despite expecting our bodies to constantly churn out babies; they want to take away our birth control, but they also don’t want us to get abortions. We’re shamed into starving ourselves to get in shape for bikini season while men’s beer-bellied “dad bods” are glorified in the same media that shove those unattainable ideals down our throats.

In a world where women’s urges are so obsessively monitored and shamed by society, it’s no surprise that in pop culture, there is no shortage of stories of women rebelling against these attempts at control — often in extreme ways. In Han Kang’s Man Booker International Prize-winning novella The Vegetarian, a South Korean housewife is so traumatized by a bloody nightmare that she abruptly stops eating meat. Despite being shamed (and subject to abusive attempts at force-feeding) by her family and treated like an outcast by society, Yeong-hye holds fast to her desires and refuses to eat meat. Even when she is hospitalized and appears to be wasting away to those around her, she is more at peace and in control of her body than she ever had been previously. Why does a woman like Yeong-hye have to essentially cast off her human body in order to prevent others from telling her what to do with it? Why do women need to go to such lengths to prove their autonomy?

In her debut feature film, French writer-director Julia Ducournau covers themes similar to those in The Vegetarian, but reverse-engineers them for maximum shock and awe. Instead of telling the story of a woman deciding to give up meat, Raw chronicles what happens when a lifelong vegetarian discovers an animalistic desire to consume raw meat during a hazing ritual at veterinary school. What follows is an intensely visceral, gore-filled saga of one young woman taking control of her body and her urges, however unacceptable they may seem to the rest of the world. In an interview with Women and Hollywood, Ducournau said she “wanted the audience to feel empathy for a character that is becoming a monster in their eyes.” While you might not be able to comprehend the nature of protagonist Justine’s desires, you cannot help but sympathize with her struggle to balance what her body wants with what is expected of it by others.

Justine, played by the suitably wide-eyed and coltish young actress Garance Marillier, comes from a family of ~~strict~~ vegetarian veterinarians. She plans to follow in the family tradition by joining her older sister, Alexia (Ella Rumpf), at the same veterinary school that their parents both attended. While Alexia is a bit of a wild child, Justine is a quiet, albeit passionate, prodigy. She comes to the vet school more prepared for her studies than the vast majority of the students around her, including her roommate Adrien (Rabah Naït Oufella). What Justine isn’t prepared for, however, are the extreme hazing rituals forced upon the “rookies” by the older students, including Alexia. These include being forced to sing along with strange songs, having buckets of blood poured over them for a class photo, and — in the moment that changes everything for Justine — being pressured into eating raw rabbit kidneys. Justine initially refuses, citing her family’s vegetarianism and asking Alexia to back her up. When Alexia denies her claims and eats one of the kidneys right in front of her, Justine doesn’t feel as though she has any choice but to follow suit or be shunned by the rest of the school. She’s nearly sick, but she does it nonetheless.

Soon, Justine finds herself plagued with a raw red rash on most of her body. The school doctor chalks it up to food poisoning, despite Justine mentioning that she also feels ravenously hungry all the time. Justine takes the cream prescribed by the doctor; she also starts stealing hamburgers from the cafeteria and eating late-night shawarma with Adrien. But these seemingly normal cravings — which could be chalked up to a girl discovering that once she is free from her parents’ overwhelming and possibly stifling influence, she actually likes different things than them — turn extreme quickly; gnawing on raw chicken in the middle of the night extreme; lusting after the body of her gay roommate until she gets a nosebleed extreme. But all of this pales in comparison to the moment when Alexia accidentally cuts off part of her finger in a freak scissors accident and Justine picks it up and starts eating it.

This incredibly unsettling scene is skillfully played for maximum impact by Ducournau, from the frantic and electric turn that Jim Williams’ musical score takes to Marillier’s intense performance, in which one can see her visibly struggling with her desire to taste human flesh and her knowledge that what she wants to do is wrong. The scene then takes a delightful yet disturbing comic turn when Alexia wakes up from her faint to stare agape at her younger sister as she nibbles on a part of her body. You can’t help but laugh, both as an attempt to ease discomfort with what is happening and also because what’s happening is pretty damn funny.

It turns out Alexia is subject to the same strange urges as Justine, going so far as to cause a car crash on a deserted road just to provide both sisters with a couple of corpses to feast on. In her own twisted way, this is Alexia’s idea of being a supportive and understanding sister. Yet while Alexia has no qualms about wanting to eat human flesh, Justine flees, unable to come to terms with what her body wants. As the film progresses, Justine continues to struggle, vacillating between allowing herself to succumb to her desires while also fighting to contain them. In no scene is this better visualized than when Justine’s overwhelming lust for Adrien results in her losing her virginity to him and, when she climaxes, sinking her teeth into her own arm after Adrien refuses to let her bite him. As blood oozes out, Justine grows visibly relaxed. Tasting flesh, even her own, seems more satisfying than sex for her.

By the end of the film, Alexia’s uninhibited actions have resulted in tragedy and she’s hospitalized, after which Justine learns from her father that their mother is subject to the same urges. “You’ll find a way to control it,” her father says in an attempt to comfort Justine about this distressing family trait, but his words elicit only deep choking sobs from his youngest daughter. In the end, who is more free? Is it Alexia, trapped in an institution but with nothing left to hide, or Justine, out in the real world but forced to keep such a large part of herself a secret?

As Justine starts giving in to her desires, gobbling raw meat and ogling Adrien’s shirtless torso, she becomes more confident. The quiet, meek student who seemed to be trying to disappear into her oversized sweaters starts projecting an aura of boldness. Donning her sister’s slinky cocktail dress to writhe in front of her bedroom mirror and smear lipstick seductively across her mouth, Justine is vastly more comfortable with her body as a cannibal than she was as a virginal vegetarian.

In showing us Justine starting to blossom, is Ducournau condoning cannibalism and condemning vegetarianism? Absolutely not. What she does with Raw is use the traditional tropes of body horror to tell the story of one young woman’s awakening. The obvious youth of her lead actress (Marillier was born in 1998) makes her message hit all the harder. It’s frightening and disturbing, as coming of age often is. Watching your body change and awaken to new desires is scary enough; dealing with the constant messages from society that everything you’re dealing with is somehow wrong is even worse. By filtering this all-too-common struggle through the extreme lens of cannibalism, Ducournau highlights the absurdity inherent in how women’s bodies and desires are policed.

Lee Jutton has directed short films starring a killer toaster, a killer Christmas tree, and a not-killer leopard. Currently a staff writer at Film Inquiry, her writing has also appeared in publications such as Bitch Flicks, Bitch: A Feminist Response to Pop Culture, TV Fanatic, and Just Press Play. You can follow her on Twitter @leiladaisyj for more opinions on movies, pictures of cats, and ramblings on German soccer.

‘Metropolis’ and ‘Ex Machina’: Portrayals of Gender, Technology, and Society

‘Metropolis’ and ‘Ex Machina’ are merely the oldest and one of the most recent examples, respectively, in a long line of films (and texts) that associate women with technology in this manner, presenting them as potent and potential threats to societal order and to the men who create and aim to control them.

Guest post written by Deborah Krieger. | Spoilers ahead.

Fritz Lang’s 1927 silent film Metropolis and Alex Garland’s 2015 film Ex Machina share many commonalities. While these two sci-fi films come from different countries (Germany and the UK, respectively) and from wildly differing eras, social contexts, and technological standpoints, both films have much in common in terms of their portrayals of gender, as well as the key association of technology with social class divides. They also represent an ascribing of an inhuman machine-influenced identity to those who work with said technology, creating a blurring of the lines between man and machine. I will compare and contrast how these two films, made nearly ninety years apart from one another, represent the male and female genders as well as divergent views on the purposes, users, and creators of technology, highlighting the ways in which Ex Machina is indebted to and reflects its predecessor.

In Metropolis, technology is depicted as necessary for all of society to coexist. Yet it is associated with the working class — particularly the male worker — who must give their blood, sweat, and labor to the “Heart Machine” located underground in the City of the Workers, depicted at the opening of the film. The workers of Metropolis are not only associated with machines and technology through their daily labor, but they are also depicted as extremely robotic, monotonous, and identical in their movements. They are all dressed in the same masculinized dark clothing and live what could be called robotic lifestyles, following the same work schedule day in and day out. Even the workers’ walking is mechanized in the shift change scene. Apart from Maria, the only named members of the working class are male: Grot (Heinrich George), the foreman and Georgy/11811 (Erwin Biswanger), an aspect highlighted by Gabriela Stoicea in her article “Re-Producing the Class and Gender Divide: Fritz Lang’s Metropolis,” in which she discusses Karl Marx’s de-emphasizing of the female worker within the context of labor:

“One of the most striking elements in this sequence is the complete absence of women and children, as male workers return to a seemingly deserted city […] by all rules of logic, the so-called worker’s city in Metropolis should therefore be a space inhabited mostly by women and children. Visually, however, there are next to no traces of their existence […] Additionally, Marx himself refused to acknowledge the importance of women’s domestic labor for the daily reproduction of workers’ labor power since it was not remunerated financially.” (Stoicea, 25)

In stark contrast to the working class, the wealthy class, of which the protagonist Freder (Gustav Fröhlich) belongs, lives far above the city in the “Club of the Sons,” where they are surrounded by lush, ethereal flora of the “Pleasure Gardens” and are free to move about, to run, to dance as they wish to, with highly differentiated forms of dress and body language. When we are first introduced to the “Club of the Sons,” we see young men and women cavorting in a fantastical garden landscape, replete with strange plants and a bubbling fountain. The women — described by Stoicea as “prostitutes” (Stoicea, 32) — wear ornate, highly sexualized dresses, while the men are largely dressed in white — a symbol of luxury in that one must have the resources to clean the material if it gets dirty, which the inhabitants of the “Club of the Sons” clearly do.

While Metropolis assigns technology and machinery to a (masculinized) working class, Ex Machina clearly associates technology, as well as the subsequent dehumanization of its users and makers, with the wealthy upper class and with more pastoral elements (see Figures 3-7 in Appendix A), yet still maintains a highly masculinized atmosphere. Nathan Bateman (Oscar Isaac), the creator of the Google- and Facebook-esque site Bluebook is depicted as incredibly well-off, with an entire underground compound filled with cutting edge software and hardware, hidden away on a massive tract of land (rather than in an urbanized environment). In Metropolis, the most advanced technology is in the Pleasure Garden itself, kept away from the lowly Underground City.

Bluebook is the creation that gained Nathan his fame and fortune; notably, Nathan’s creation of the female robots, Kyoko (Sonoya Mizuno) and Ava (Alicia Vikander), is not necessary for his economic survival. These female robots are merely prototypes created for his enjoyment in a variety of ways both servile and sexual; their use connects the technology depicted in Ex Machina with the leisure and privilege of the upper classes, rather than as something necessary for societal order and human survival. While arguably we could consider Bluebook, like Facebook and Google, to be necessary for humanity to some degree, these internet applications are not nearly as integral to the simple mechanical functioning of society in the way that the complex machinery is in Metropolis.

Additionally, while women are also hinted at as existing within a technological/labor-based context in Ex Machina, they are not even remotely important to the plot; in the beginning sequence of the film when Caleb (Domhnall Gleeson) learns he has won a prize allowing him to meet Nathan, the reclusive creator of Bluebook, there are various out-of-focus shots of female figures within the context of the Bluebook workplace, as well as text messages on Caleb’s phone from unseen female co-workers. However, it is the female robots, rather than the male humans, who propel the film’s climax and ending.

The archetype of the female robot, or “fembot,” has long been a popular figure in media, be it live-action film, cartoons, comics, novels, and more. Many societies have grappled with this powerful but dangerous figure, giving us works as different in tone and theme as Blade Runner (directed by Ridley Scott, 1982) and Austin Powers (directed by Jay Roach, 1997-2002) from the U.S. as well as Chobits (manga by CLAMP; 2000-2002) and Ghost in the Shell (directed by Mamoru Oshii, 1995) from Japan. Metropolis and Ex Machina are merely the oldest and one of the most recent examples, respectively, in a long line of films (and texts) that associate women with technology in this manner, presenting them as potent and potential threats to societal order and to the men who create and aim to control them.

In Metropolis, the female robot in question is a recreation of the inventor Rotwang (Rudolf Klein-Rogge)’s beloved Hel, who married the city’s leader, Joh Fredersen (Alfred Abel), and gave birth to Freder. When Joh Fredersen learns of Rotwang’s creation and of Maria (Brigitte Helm), the woman from the Underground City who prophesies the mediation of the two classes, he convinces Rotwang to give the robot Maria’s image, intended be a demagogue, to fool the workers into violently rioting and to lead them to their own destruction. The robot Maria (aka “Maschinenmensch”) goes on to perform an extremely sexualized, hypnotic dance for the wealthy young men of the Club of the Sons, using her body for the purposes of her creator.

Ava and Kyoko in Ex Machina share several common aspects with the robot Maria in Metropolis, but they also differ in some key ways. Ava and Kyoko are both created for sexualized purposes. It is unclear that Kyoko (who writer Zhuojie Chen called “a white man’s plot device“) is actually a machine until late in the film, as Caleb — and the audience by proxy — assumes she is a human woman who does not understand English and thus does not speak. In fact, Kyoko is a robot with whom Nathan engages sexually, and Ava, it is revealed, is also created to respond to intercourse, as Nathan tells Caleb:

“You bet she can fuck […] in between her legs, there’s an opening with a concentration of sensors. If you engage them in the right way, it creates a pleasure response. So if you wanted to screw her, mechanically speaking, you could, and she’d enjoy it.”

Thus the male sexual consumption of the female robot hinted at in Metropolis is taken to its literal extreme in Ex Machina. Later in the film, it is revealed that Caleb was not randomly selected to meet Nathan and perform the Turing test on Ava; his internet searches and pornography preferences were used in constructing Ava’s face and body, thus emphasizing the extreme disconnect between the creation of the robots in Metropolis and Ex Machina. In the former, the robot is created for love and is corrupted to perform evil tasks, whereas Ava was designed and programmed from the start to be able to hurt and manipulate Caleb.

Additionally, the female robots in Metropolis and Ex Machina both make use of the media in which they are represented to complete their seduction of the male characters in a rather self-referential way — and, in the case of Ex Machina, the seduction of the audience through Caleb. Metropolis is a silent film; therefore the robot Maria must use her body in order to establish her power, which she does during her dance sequence. Even if she speaks, the audience cannot hear her — we can only read her words in the intertitles — so her seduction of the audience must be as effective as her seduction of the characters in the text; thus the focus on her scantily-clad physical form. Conversely, Ex Machina has the benefit of being a non-silent film, which allows Ava to seduce both Caleb and the audience with her body language as well as with her voice and personality, revealed in their ongoing conversations. Thus, we see a similarity between the methods of these two female robots, even if their texts differ in technological capabilities.

Both films use dance sequences to create a sense of confusion in a designated male viewer or viewers, controlled by the male masters of the robot in question; Maria dancing for the wealthy men of the city, orchestrated by Joh Fredersen and Rotwang, is echoed in the seemingly randomly-inserted disco sequence in which Kyoko and Nathan perform a routine in unison while Caleb can only watch, horrified and uneasy. Indeed, Ex Machina‘s dance sequence has several visual parallels to that in Metropolis, including the way the dancing female robots are shot: from the front, with circular decorations in the background, and a focus on the sexualized, half-dressed female body in motion (see Figures 1 and 2 in Appendix A). Director Alex Garland said in an interview with Wired that he wanted to avoid making viewers think of Metropolis’s Maria when designing Ava, but it seems that he still owes the earlier film a debt in terms of the narrative weight and significance of their dance scenes and depiction of gender.

While the female robots of Metropolis and Ex Machina are important characters within their respective films, they are far from the main protagonists. In what is perhaps a reference to Freder’s narrative journey from innocence to disenchanted knowledge, Ex Machina’s Caleb undergoes a similar trajectory. Both characters begin the film in one world, only to have their lives changed upon visiting an entirely different world — in both cases, literally an underground world. Freder spends the beginning of Metropolis gallivanting in the Pleasure Gardens without a care in the world, but soon learns of the oppression of the lower class when he visits the Underground City and meets Maria, who prophesies a promise of peace and resolution.

Likewise, Caleb begins in the historical world in a brief prologue, where it is revealed that he has won the fateful contest. As he descends into Nathan’s compound, his optimism and ability to trust are constantly tested by Nathan as well as by Ava, to the point where Caleb becomes unsure of whether he himself is an actual human being. Caleb reaches a turning point after a session with Ava, as well as his discovery of videotapes in which Nathan’s older robot models destroy themselves trying to break free. He begins to doubt his own humanity in the light of Nathan’s cavalier approach to creating and destroying life in his robots, so to speak, and in a particularly gruesome scene, slices open a vein on his forearm to make sure he can bleed. It is also during this sequence that Caleb makes the decision — or so he believes — to betray Nathan and help Ava escape.

One other major difference between these two films is the depiction (or lack thereof) of the robot women’s potential for subjectivity. In Metropolis, only the workers and young men of the Club of the Sons believe that the robot Maria is human; Rotwang and Joh Fredersen know the truth, and their point of view holds sway as they manipulate the robot Maria’s body for their own purposes. As an audience, we are never sure whether the robot Maria has a consciousness or independent will. This issue is touched upon in the film, as Rotwang assures the real Maria:

“Joh Fredersen is looking for an excuse to use violence against the workers […] she will destroy their belief in the Mediator! But she is only a machine — made to obey my will. While my power holds, she will do so […] but already I feel I have lost that power, and I am fearful of the consequences!”

However, the audience never sees Rotwang’s apprehension result in any actions of which Joh Fredersen would not have approved. Conversely, the main thrust of Ex Machina‘s narrative is devoted to Caleb’s exploration about whether Ava has a consciousness, a subjectivity, or is merely programmed to act the way she does. In contrast to Metropolis, which only mentions a loss of control briefly, Ex Machina seems to answer this question in the affirmative, as Ava takes the initiative to turn Kyoko against Nathan, kill him, and abandon Caleb to die. Her actions indicate that Ava has, for all intents and purposes, free will, or at least a desire for self-preservation at all costs, in the light of her and Caleb’s realization that Nathan plans to disassemble her when he builds an upgrade.

Of course, it is also possible that the sadistic Nathan could have given Ava and Kyoko a desire to escape as part of their design (rather than such a desire being evidence of AI), only to torture them by refusing to set them free, which might have led them to self-destruct as earlier models are shown to have done. When Ava and Kyoko turn on Nathan, we see Ava whispering something indecipherable in Kyoko’s ear, which might be what switches Kyoko from acting obedient to seeking retribution. Additionally, it could be argued either way that Kyoko revealing herself as a robot to Caleb is part of Nathan’s programming, or that it represents Kyoko rebelling against her creator, thus hinting at a level of AI capabilities she had not previously demonstrated.

Yet through the changing of the point of view in the last sequences of the film from Caleb, trapped in a room of the compound, to Ava, who leaves the compound in the helicopter and enters the human world, we see that Ava has a consciousness and becomes, for the last few minutes, a de facto co-protagonist of the story. Even if her wants and desires are indeed programmed to a degree, the fact that Ava has such feelings and is able to act upon them is evidence that Nathan cannot ultimately control his creation, while in Metropolis, it is less certain whether Rotwang ever truly loses control.

It’s particularly interesting to think about the way Ava performs humanity within the context of Descartes, whose famous quotation “I think, therefore I am,” complicates how we might think about the difference between a human and a machine. According to Neil Badmington, Descartes does not separate humanity versus machinery by virtue of bodily differences — i.e. flesh-and-blood versus hardware — but rather, through the possession of “reason,” which is “the only thing that makes us men and distinguishes us from the beasts” (Descartes in Badmington, 16). However, Badmington challenges Descartes’s certainty, imagining the following hypothetical:

“If a machine — in keeping with the spirit of his fantastic scenario — were constructed in such a way that it had what might be called ‘an organ for every occasion,’ it would, according to the letter of Descartes’s own argument, no longer be possible to maintain a clear distinction between the human and the inhuman. Given enough organs, a machine would be capable of responding in a manner utterly indistinguishable from that of a human being. Reason, no longer capable of ‘distinguish[ing] us from the beasts,’ would meet its match, its fatal and flawless double.” (Badmington, 18)

There can be little doubt that Ava fulfills this prophecy; over the course of the film, it becomes increasingly clear that she is “capable of responding in a manner utterly indistinguishable from that of a human being” (Badmington, 18), much to Nathan’s and Caleb’s detriment. As Garland’s inspiration for the film came from a conversation with his neuroscientist friend who argued that machines could never have consciousness, this ending serves to make his point that much more strongly.

The endings of Metropolis and Ex Machina differ on the relationship between technology and humankind, and present outcomes at the opposite ends of the spectrum. At the end of Metropolis, Joh Fredersen (the “head”) and the engineer Grot (“the hands”) are joined in solidarity and unity by Freder, the prophesied mediator (the “heart”), ultimately representing a happy ending and a promise of coexistence. In contrast, the ending of Ex Machina nullifies this premise, presenting humanity and technology as forces at cross-purposes (despite Garland’s claim that it’s “a pro-AI movie”): Nathan intends to destroy Ava when he makes a newer model of the AI; in return for this mistreatment, Ava and Kyoko turn on Nathan and Caleb, betraying them, stabbing Nathan, and leaving Caleb to die in the sealed-off compound while Ava, disguised as a human, escapes into the real world. The endings of Metropolis and Ex Machina prove particularly ironic, given that Lang was critical of industrialization, while Garland, who deems Ex Machina “pro-AI” sets machines and humans at odds by the film’s end. As technology and robotics improve within our society, it remains to be seen which film’s view is more accurate: whether these new machines, designed to be so like us, will be friend, foe, or more.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

On Ex Machina, Artificial Intelligence of Color, and How to Become a (White) Woman

Ex Machina: Scavenging for Parts in a Patriarchal World

Ex Machina‘s Failure to Be Radical: Or How Ava Is the Antithesis of a Feminist Cyborg

Ex Machina and Her: Dude, the Internet’s Just Not That Into You

Manic Pixie Revolutionary Awakenings

Literature Cited:

Anders, Charlie Jane. “From Metropolis to Ex Machina: Why Are So Many Robots Female?” io9, April 21, 2015. Web. 1 May 2016.

Badmington, Neil. “Theorizing Posthumanism.” Cultural Critique, No. 53, Posthumanism (Winter, 2003): 10-27. Web. 8 May 2016.

Garland, Alex. “Ex Machina’s Director on Why A.I. is Humanity’s Last Hope.” Interview with Angela Watercutter. Wired, April 7, 2015. Web. 8 May 2016.

Johnson, Kjerstin. “How ‘Ex Machina’ Toys with its Female Characters.” Bitch Media, May 8, 2015. 8 May 2016.

Rose, Steve. “Ex Machina and sci-fi’s obsession with sexy female robots.” The Guardian, January 15, 2015. Web. 1 May 2016.

Stoicea, Gabriela. “Re-Producing the Class and Gender Divide: Fritz Lang’s Metropolis.” Women in German Yearbook, Vol. 22 (2006): 21-42. 8 May 2016.

Watercutter, Angela. “Ex Machina Has a Serious Fembot Problem.” Wired, April 9, 2015. Web. 1 May 2016.

Appendix A:

Figure 1. Maria dances in Metropolis.

Figure 2. Kyoko dances in Ex Machina.

Figure 3. The City of the Workers, Metropolis.

Figure 4. The Pleasure Gardens, Metropolis.

Figures 5-7. Stills from Ex Machina of Nathan’s compound.

Deborah Krieger is the curatorial assistant at the Delaware Art Museum as well as an arts and culture writer and Fulbright Austria alumna. She has written for BUST Magazine, PopMatters, Paste Magazine, Whitehot Magazine of Contemporary Art, The Mary Sue, and The Awl. She also runs her own art blog, I On the Arts, and curates her life in pictures @Debonthearts on Twitter and Instagram.

We Need To Talk About ‘Claws’: The TV Series We Need and Deserve

This powerhouse series is led by Niecy Nash, who has finally been given the leading lady role she deserves. … The friendship and loyalty between these five women places this show in a long legacy of TV shows about female friendship, from ‘Sex and the City’ to ‘The Bold Type,’ but it handles itself in a much more realistic manner — it isn’t afraid to call out their flaws just as it highlights their strengths.

This guest post by Odalis Garcia is an edited version of an article that originally appeared at Enjoy the Marina. It is cross-posted with permission.

With the summer now over, I have to say that the best “summer show” premiered this year. Yes, of course we have all been preoccupied with the twists, turns, incestuous deeds, and dragons of Game of Thrones and yes, The Handmaid’s Tale won numerous Emmys, but I’m talking about Claws.

This powerhouse series is led by Niecy Nash, who has finally been given the leading lady role she deserves. She is introduced as Desna, a nail technician from Palmetto, Florida trying to get out from under the hold of the Dixie Mafia, an organized crime syndicate, and open a new nail salon in the wealthier part of town. However, the unplanned murder of her flame (Jack Kesy), the Dixie Mafia’s golden boy, sets her back a couple of steps.

The main story focuses on Desna wanting to give herself and her brother (Harold Perrineau), who’s on the autism spectrum, a better life. Yet in the span of 10 episodes, you start to care deeply for the other members of Desna’s crew and see that they are unique and complex characters. The crew comprises Quiet Ann (Judy Reyes), Polly (Carrie Preston), Jennifer (Jenn Lyon), and Virginia Loc (Karrueche Tran). The friendship and loyalty between these five women places this show in a long legacy of TV shows about female friendship, from Sex and the City to The Bold Type, but it handles itself in a much more realistic manner — it isn’t afraid to call out their flaws just as it highlights their strengths. These women are mothers, caretakers, sisters, nail techs, and lovers; they are absolutely badass and unafraid to ruin anyone who gets in their way.

Quiet Ann, is a lesbian character who’s not a punchline or a trope. She’s a pivotal, if not the most important, member of the crew. She protects the team and keeps them grounded. Plus, she gives great pedicures. She rarely ever speaks but when she does, her words are insightful and always taken as sage advice. Quiet Ann is their protector at all times, but we see her go through a journey of love and inevitably, she must decide to whom she is most loyal.

Polly is a force to be reckoned with. We catch up with her as she is just released from prison after conning older people in a retiree community out of their money. Even though she lied her way through life, she always stays true to Desna and the crew, even if that means she reverts to the criminal habits that landed her in jail in the first place. Preston has been in the game acting for a long time, from True Blood to The Good Wife, (as have Niecy Nash on Reno 911!, Getting On, and Scream Queens, and Judy Reyes on Scrubs and Jane the Virgin), and this is yet another iconic role, a testament to her talent.

Jennifer Husser, is Desna’s best friend but there is more to her than just the constant companion. She’s a mother and recovering from alcoholism, who has already been hurt by the mob’s influence in her life, though she technically married into it. She will ferociously defend her daughters and family even if at times it conflicts with the interests of her best friend.

And last but not least is Virginia, who at first seems to be Desna’s foil. But as the series progresses, we see her evolve from petty and competitive to realizing that she seeks acceptance, a way to get out of the stripping business, and a desire to have a “found family” who will support her and have her back.

Devoted to each other, these women are as intense in their loyalty to one another as they are in their manicure game. They will just as easily create art while simultaneously framing some evil, rich, white people for murder. It’s not to say that there aren’t divisions in the friendships at times and that trust doesn’t falter every now and then, but that’s just life. Friendships will chip but the beauty of women, which Claws illustrates, is that even when we’re not on great speaking terms, we will root for each other.

Of course it makes sense that the female characters are so complex and intriguing since the creative team is composed mainly of women, including showrunner, executive producer, and writer Janine Sherman Barrois (The Jamie Foxx Show, Criminal Minds, ER) — one of the few Black women showrunners — as well as directors Victoria Mahoney (Yelling to the Sky, Queen Sugar, Power) and Nicole Kassell (The Killing, The Closer, The Americans), and executive producer Rashida Jones.

This show is the perfect example for what happens when diversity isn’t just written into the script but is also practiced behind the camera; because of this the women of color in the show are written with the nuance and care that any other character (read: usually white characters) gets.

It could be because of this same reason that its characters are so intriguing. It goes beyond women understanding the way female friendships work, but also knowing that one woman doesn’t have to be a paragon of strength for all women. Women also fail, are complicated, and will get angry. Women are saintly but also manipulative. Women are people too. The creators of this show demonstrate that through the way they’ve written the characters.

Claws also deconstructs gender roles and toxic masculinity. The three main male Hussers of the Dixie Mafia are not afraid to express their emotions and cry. When (SPOILER ALERT) Roller is believed to be dead, the Husser men cry openly and in front of everybody, unafraid to show how they feel. Bryce Husser (Kevin Rankin), Jennifer’s husband, is very vulnerable and honest with his wife about their marriage and is willing to talk about how to make it better — instead of just closing off.

Mob boss, Clay Husser (Dean Norris), who goes by the nickname “Uncle Daddy,” has his own side boy toy who’s treated as part of the family. He’s also devoted to his wife (Dale Dickey), treating her with the reverence due a warrior empress. Uncle Daddy’s masculinity and bisexuality are never questioned.

The show addressed Roller’s (Kesy) trauma after being a victim of kidnap and sexual assault; a narrative that’s not usually given to male characters. It’s a sad reality that men are less likely to report when they have been abused for fear of not being understood or supported. However, about 14% of survivors who report rape are male.

When it comes to the women and gender roles, Desna, and the rest of the women for that matter, are not judged for their sexual desires and casually talk about sex in the nail salon — really the best place for that kind of gossip. Quiet Ann is probably the most physically strong but there is a tenderness to her when it comes to falling in love. And it’s admirable that her queerness is a simple fact, giving her a love interest without anyone batting an eyelash. The only issue with the woman she falls for is that she’s a detective looking into the Dixie Mafia and Desna by default.

Claws is the show that you can’t miss. Now that it has been renewed for a second season, I can’t wait to see how the series will further develop. And I will repeat: it is SO GOOD to finally see Niecy Nash in the spotlight she deserves.

Through Nash’s Desna, we see a character that is not often explored in the world of television. She’s unapologetic, driven, and totally badass — characteristics not usually attributed to actresses in their late 40s, and especially not to women of color. We, as the audience, want to see her achieve her goals of opening the new salon, of finally getting out from under mob rule, of her getting that big house her brother always dreamed of, of finally leaving abusive people behind. Women need to see that happen, no matter how dramatic it may be; it’s a message they can relate to.

Here’s hoping that next summer won’t just be about the arrival of winter or whatever else, but about the heat and vibrancy of the sunshine state and the five women who stick together through thick and thin and all that humidity.

Odalis Garcia is currently trying to figure life out, in the meantime, she watches all of the TV shows and likes to yell about them to her friends, occasionally writing about those feelings. She is originally from Puerto Rico but calls Miami home (#Miss305) and is very passionate about Cuban food, empanadas, and the salsa dancing emoji. You can read more of her work at her website and you can follow her on Twitter @odcgg and Instagram at odalis.gg.

The Chameleon Woman in ‘Dollhouse’ and ‘iZombie’: Personality Swapping and Agency

The problem presented by both ‘Dollhouse’ and ‘iZombie’ is that of the “Chameleon Woman.” Both Echo and Liv carry the metaphor of the expectation that women adapt based on the needs and desires of others. However, both TV series point to this societal issue with two very different takes.

Guest post written by Audrey T. Carroll.

“Would you like a treatment?” This phrase is repeated throughout the course of Joss Whedon’s television series Dollhouse, meant to cue the “Actives” or “Dolls” — people, mostly women, whose personalities have been stripped from them — to let the in-house scientist imprint them with a personality, memories, or skills that someone pays for them to have. After the client encounters, they are again wiped of their memories and personalities. The “Dollhouse,” one of approximately 20 facilities that rents out Dolls, is a human trafficking ring. The Dolls are meant to fulfill the expectations of others, especially (though admittedly not exclusively) male clients and often in a sexual or sexually enticing capacity. For example, in season one episode two “The Target,” the show’s protagonist, Echo (Eliza Dushku), is sent on a date with a man who loves outdoor activities. She is clearly hired in an arousal capacity, which takes a turn for the worst when the guy starts to hunt her.

Echo changes every week. We’re supposed to root for her because she’s the protagonist and Eliza Dushku does a wonderful job infusing the character with as much sympathy as possible. Of course we feel bad for her because of her situation. However, it can be difficult to connect to a character who has to change in accordance with each situation. Echo, in a lot of ways, embodies an ideal of “the chameleon woman.” She changes depending on the needs of the partner who paid for her, a sickening representation of the expectation that women exist solely to service the needs of others, most commonly men — if they like the outdoors, then so must she; if they need a doting wife or neighbor, then she must fit that description; if they need someone cold and calculating, then that’s what she becomes.

Why, out of all of the Dolls in the House, do we predominantly follow Echo? Because Echo is unique in that she has a “defect”: she has the ability to retain some semblance of self and she becomes more self-aware. Because of this, we can root for her as an audience; it gives us some sort of personality continuity that we can connect to emotionally. But the characters in power — scientist Topher (Fran Kanz); Adelle, (Olivia Williams) who runs the Dollhouse; Echo’s handler, Boyd (Harry Lennix) — make it clear that this is a defect, not something impressive or victorious as the audience might perceive it. In fact, this can land Echo in a lot of trouble. Specifically, she can end up in “the Attic,” which serves as a punishment of permanent entrapment and mental torment for Dolls who are “broken” or “defective” (in the view of the Dollhouse).

Echo’s unique skill doesn’t help her to not be stripped of her agency the vast majority of the time. She has no say in what personalities she gets imprinted with, or who her clients are, or even the most basic “yes or no” consent. Even before she was a Doll, when she was Caroline, the head of the Dollhouse essentially backed her against the wall, making Caroline’s agreement to be a doll in the first place ethically compromised even beyond the basic premise of “humans used as shells for the pleasure of people who pay for them.” It was hardly a choice at all. And for some other characters — namely Sierra (Dichen Lachman), who was institutionalized by a man after she rejected him and then involuntarily sent to the Dollhouse — there was literally no choice at all.

Based on the comic books, the TV series iZombie, created by Diane Ruggiero-Wright and Rob Thomas, focuses on the crime-solving medical examiner and pseudo-psychic Olivia “Liv” Moore (Rose McIver). Liv helps Detective Clive Babineaux (Malcolm Goodwin) with homicide cases. She’s able to do this because, in the process of eating the brains that come down to the medical examiner’s office to keep herself as human as possible, she takes on the memories and personalities of the deceased. This can lead to visions that give Liv clues for Clive to identify the killers he needs to put away. Because of the way that eating brains affects Liv, she changes personalities every week — a dominatrix one week, a frat boy the next.

Liv is able to help in the pursuit of justice, albeit in a highly unconventional way, and she’s able to develop meaningful and consistent relationships not solely centered on sex or her sexual appeal. She has no sexual history nor, as far as the show presents, sexual engagement with most of the other characters: Ravi (Rahul Kohli), her fellow medical examiner; Peyton (Aly Michalka), her best friend; and Clive. It could be argued that Clive benefits from what Liv can do, but he is friends with her outside of her abilities and, while he can be very determined and dedicated, he’s never forced or coerced Liv into a situation or actions that morally compromise her.

Echo’s defect is that she maintains a semblance of self; Liv’s is that she can deviate from her true self. When Liv eats the brains of a deceased hitman, she almost lets Ravi get eaten by a much more monstrous “Romero zombie.” When she’s on vigilante brains, she almost gets herself killed. When she’s on nymphomaniac brains, she cheats on her boyfriend. But most of the time, Liv is still Liv, just with some goofy quirks and moments of zoning out when she sees someone else’s memories. At first, Liv’s voice-over narration in the show reflects her thoughts and demonstrates that she’s still herself. Later, the writers let Rose McIver’s acting and her consistent chemistry with the other actors do the heavy lifting of demonstrating that Liv is always Liv, and that this Liv is who her friends connect to and care about.

Liv is also not robbed of her agency. She chooses to eat the brains of murder victims for many reasons tied to her character, probably the two foremost being that the person is already dead and she wants to help find their killer. She also turns down the “brain mush” from the company Fillmore-Graves, which would give her the sustenance she needs without imbuing her with the personalities or memories of the deceased. Liv chooses to help others, to accept the drawbacks of her current feeding situation so that being a zombie — a state of being that was beyond her control — becomes something that benefits the greater good. Liv is able to make the choice to not let what she is control who she is — zombie Liv is different from human Liv, but she is still at her core Liv.

The problem presented by both Dollhouse and iZombie is that of the “Chameleon Woman.” Both Echo and Liv carry the metaphor of the expectation that women adapt based on the needs and desires of others. However, both TV series point to this societal issue with two very different takes. In Dollhouse, women (who comprise most of the recurring named Dolls) are commodities waiting to have a skin put on them. The framing can make it difficult to create emotional connection to Echo, and all of the non-Dolls are morally compromised because they are either actively involved in the actions of the Dollhouse or otherwise complicit in its continued existence.

The argument could be made that Dollhouse is about women struggling to regain agency. However, there is the example of Alpha (Alan Tudyk), a Doll who escaped and became homicidal because he, like Echo, was remembering personalities that the Dollhouse gave him. He can theoretically be read as a warning for Echo not to be anything more than the childlike drone she is when between personalities. This is to say nothing of the constantly looming threat of “The Attic.” Whether Echo retaining her memories and sense of self is a positive quality is much more ambiguous and comes with a much greater sense of personal danger for the protagonist than is presented on iZombie.

In iZombie, situations can happen to a person that they can’t control but they can still make choices about how to move forward and, in this way, maintain agency. It’s not a flaw; letting the adopted personality control you is the failing. Liv’s zombie boyfriend Justin (Tongayi Chirisa) even tells her, when she cheats on him while on nymphomaniac brains, “I’ve eaten brains before, Liv, and you can fight them if you really want to.” At the end of the day, Dolls are Dolls; they can function as objects or they can be made to disappear. Zombies can become monsters, either the ilk of serial killer criminal bosses like Blaine (David Anders) or mindless and violent “Romero zombies.” But zombies do not have to choose to be monsters.

Both TV series are all about choice, and this becomes colored a certain way with female protagonists. Women are too often robbed of choice, or are presented with choices that range from bad to worse. The struggle for women’s agency seems inextricably linked to the struggle for women’s choices. Examining what women do with choice is a natural extension of this effort. At the end of the day, Dollhouse is about what a woman does with a lack of choice; iZombie is about what a woman does within her realm of choices.

Audrey T. Carroll is a Queens, NYC native currently pursuing her English PhD at the University of Rhode Island. Her obsessions include kittens, coffee, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Queen of Pentacles, her debut poetry collection, is available from Choose the Sword Press, and she can be found at http://audreytcarrollwrites.weebly.com and @AudreyTCarroll on Twitter.

‘Queerama’: A Tapestry of Queer British History

An unexpected gem directed by Daisy Asquith, the documentary outlines the milestones, setbacks, stigma, and celebrations of the LGBTQ movement in the UK from 1919 to the present. It incorporates electro beats, limited dialogue, and some steamy scenes, cut with cards detailing important milestones for the LGBTQ community. … Though much as the majority of queer history is persecution, oppression, and erasure, ‘Queerama’ is a strangely joyful monument to it all.

Guest post written by Becky Kukla.

Opening Sheffield Doc Fest this year was an unexpected gem in the form of Queerama. Produced entirely out of the British Film Institute (BFI) archives, the documentary outlines the milestones, setbacks, stigma, and celebrations of the LGBTQ movement in the UK from 1919 to the present. It incorporates electro beats, limited dialogue, and some steamy scenes, cut with cards detailing important milestones for the LGBTQ community.

The unusual result comes from the mind of Daisy Asquith, a documentary director probably best known for her funny, yet poignant TV documentary Crazy About One Direction which delved into the lives of One Direction fans. Asquith, who received nothing short of vitriol from the young fans for her film, calmly succeeded in creating a film that was both critical and understanding of young teen culture. She showed us that “Directioners” were every bit as obsessed and in love with One Direction as the media portrayed them to be but also, that we as humans, all have obsessions.

Asquith’s keenness to dissect social ideologies is realized fully in her latest feature film. From the the beginnings of gay relationships on-screen, as early as 1919, right up to the publicly fought battles for adoption rights and marriage equality, Queerama details queer British history in a way it has never been seen before. There are frank interviews with politicians, scientists, and all manner of “experts” where the discussion ranges from homosexuality being sinful, to being reversible with the right therapy, to those who practice it being labelled as mentally ill. There is a strong exploration of the idea of lesbianism as invisible — Queerama points out that there have never been any laws against women having sexual relations with one another.

Weaving previously unseen news footage, with steamy subtextual scenes from the early days of cinema — Queerama is rich in both content and emotion. Certain archival footage brings up feelings of anger, but these are almost always followed with footage of the queer community and of positive representations of LGBTQ culture. The crossing over from fiction to news archive and back again brings up the cyclical nature of art and life. Which imitates which? As we see queer couples becoming publicly intimate on UK television shows of the 1980s, we also watch in horror as the AIDs crisis unfolds.

The soundtrack is glorious (I’ve already made my own playlist on Spotify) and it soars flawlessly from racy, upbeat electro tracks to slower, more melancholic moments. Asquith overlays footage from the 1950s and 60s with contemporary pop music, bringing the visuals into the 21st century. At times, it feels like an educational music video — the songs blurring into one another, barely stopping for the fairly limited moments of dialogue. Songs like John Grant’s “Jesus Hates F*****s,” set against scenes of a very sexual nature, provides more insight into the conflicted identities of LGBTQ folk than a fictional film ever could.

Humor, in the soundtrack and visually, plays a huge part in the documentary. It isn’t a comedy, there is too much tragedy and discrimination for it to be comical, but it’s reflective of the queer British movement. Color, laughter, and celebrations exist amongst the tears. Juxtaposing certain songs and archives against one another — particularly stern experts mixed with the beautifully queer lyrics of Herucles & Love Affair — gives their words less meaning, and it is easier to laugh at the backwards mentalities that certain people hold (and still do).

As a part of the LGBTQ community, I found myself staring at a history that I only partially recognized. A documented, filmed history, real history — most of which I had never looked at. The selection and use of archival footage is truly astounding, and Asquith repeatedly cuts sequences together to create the idea of an expansive queer narrative; a living history, a narrative which spans beyond its reach. Queerama feels like a tapestry. Growing up in the 1990s and 2000s, homosexuality and bisexuality was becoming accepted. There was (and is) still a lot of stigma, bullying, and discrimination but watching Queerama made me realize exactly how far we have come. It’s this progress we need to celebrate, yet simultaneously keep an eye on the past to make sure it doesn’t come back around.

I think everyone, whether you identify as LGBTQ, are an ally, or none of the above, should watch Queerama. Though much as the majority of queer history is persecution, oppression, and erasure, Queerama is a strangely joyful monument to it all. It will make you laugh, cry, dance, and think — quite possibly all at the same time. It says, “Despite it all, we are still here.” It’s a testament to perseverance and to queer visibility.

It is, quite simply, a breathtaking experience.

Becky Kukla works in factual TV by day, and by night she writes about representation in film and television, and rants about politics on twitter. You can find her at Femphile or at Film Inquiry.

Call for Writers: Women in Horror

Our theme week for October 2017 will be Women in Horror. Horror films have long been analyzed and critiqued for both their feminist and misogynist themes… With so many women protagonists and explorations of primal emotions, there is a lot to unpack regarding gender and horror.

Our theme week for October 2017 will be Women in Horror.

Evelyn Wang at Broadly declared that we are currently in a “golden age of women-directed horror,” what with the recent releases of films such as Raw, Prevenge, The Love Witch, The Lure, XX, The Babadook, A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night, Honeymoon, and The Invitation. Rolling Stone‘s Phoebe Reilly discussed “the rise of the modern female horror filmmaker” and Vogue‘s Taylor Antrim wrote about “the rise of the women-only horror films.” Women have directed horror films for decades, not to mention written horror novels and short stories, but we are certainly seeing more attention paid to women directors of horror lately. Women directors bring their unique perspectives and experiences to the lens of the horror genre. While women have certainly made tremendous strides in horror, we would love to see even more women-directed films, as well as more horror films directed by women of color and queer women.

The film industry as a whole suffers from a lack of gender parity both on- and off-screen. Only 32% of speaking film characters are women in the top 100 domestic grossing films in 2015. Critics, scholars, and writers use these statistics and the Bechdel-Wallace Test to measure the systemic inequality of women in film. But in horror films, we not only see many women directors but more women characters as well. Beth Younger reported that “horror is the only film genre where women appear and speak as often as men.” In horror, women are both victims and survivors. We hope this trend continues and more horror films (and films in all genres) feature more complex women characters and protagonists, especially more women of color, queer women, and women with disabilities.

Horror films have long been analyzed and critiqued for both their feminist and misogynist themes: strong female characters; gender roles; female sexuality; violence; the “male gaze,” coined by Laura Mulvey; violence against women; the “monstrous-feminine,” coined by Barbara Creed; and tropes such as the femme fatale, the damsel in distress, and the “final girl,” coined by Carol J. Clover. With so many women protagonists and explorations of primal emotions, there is a lot to unpack regarding gender and horror.

For this month’s theme week, we want you to explore the role of women in horror films. How does the film (or films) portray women? Why do you love (or not love) women in horror films? What gender norms and tropes are reinforced or challenged? How does the film’s depiction of gender intersect with its depiction of race, sexual orientation, class, age, and disability? How are people of color, LGBTQ characters, older characters, and characters with disabilities portrayed? How do the messages in many horror films reinforce or subvert notions of femininity and masculinity? How does the film exploit and objectify or empower their female characters? Are the film’s female characters allowed their own narrative arcs? How do the women in horror films assert their agency? What are your thoughts on the horror genre’s themes such as fear, survival, bodily autonomy, reproduction, possession, and revenge? Why are we now seeing a surge of women-centric and women-directed horror films? How can we encourage and support more women filmmakers in horror?

Feel free to use the examples below to inspire your writing on this subject, or choose your own source material.

We accept both original pieces and cross-posts. Most of our pieces are between 1,000 and 2,000 words, and include links and images. Please send your piece as a Microsoft Word document to btchflcks[at]gmail[dot]com, including links to all images, and include a 2- to 3-sentence bio.

If you have written for us before, please indicate that in your proposal, and if not, please send a writing sample if possible.

Please be familiar with our publication and look over recent and popular posts to get an idea of Bitch Flicks’ style and purpose. We encourage writers to use our search function to see if your topic has been written about before, and link when appropriate (hyperlinks to sources are welcome, as well).

The final due date for submissions is Sunday, October 29, 2017 by midnight Eastern Time.

Carrie

Halloween

Alien

The Invitation

Get Out

Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?

Ginger Snaps

The Girl with All the Gifts

Trouble Every Day

Pet Semetary

The Cabin in the Woods

Vamp

Goodnight, Mommy

A Nightmare on Elm Street

The Hitch-Hiker

28 Days Later

The Babadook

Da Sweet Blood of Jesus

Raw

Bride of Frankenstein

Crimson Peak

AVP: Alien vs. Predator

Night of the Living Dead

It Comes at Night

Scream

The Lure

You’re Next

The Ring

Prevenge

The Slumber Party Massacre

Kelly Reichardt’s ‘Meek’s Cutoff’: The Camera’s Relationship to Characters and Power

In reclaiming the era, Kelly Reichardt created a representation that centers the experiences of those not served by the traditional Western. A view of the life of women divorced from the patriarchal lens, a view of the treatment of Native Americans divorced from the lens of white supremacy.

This guest post written by E Warren appears as part of our theme week on Women Directors, Part 2.

Somewhere downhill, a short distance away, the men are talking. Their voices tickle the edge of our comprehension. “What are they talking about?” someone asks, “Were you told?” “They’re talking about whether to hang Stephen Meek.” A slight pause, the women on the bluff go back to collecting their kindling. The camera lingers on this image for a while. Later on, we will find out how that discussion in the valley went, one of the men will relay proceedings to us, and we trust that he is being truthful. For now, there’s work that needs doing.

As for Meek himself, it’s widely agreed amongst the characters that he probably deserves his sentence. Having led their caravan on a two-week shortcut, now well into its fifth week, and into territory Meek happily admits is on no map he ever read, the caravan continue marching westward; hoping against hope to blithely stumble their way back into civilization.

Meek’s Cutoff is a 2010 film directed by Kelly Reichardt. Compared at the time to Gus Van Sant’s Death Trilogy, it shares the bleak tone and sparse narrative in its look at the lives of the women on a caravan lost on the Oregon Trail in 1845. With little dialogue, Reichardt relies on the images captured by director of photography Christopher Blauvelt (in their first collaboration) to create a sense of their place in the world.

The film opens on the fording of a river. Observing dispassionately, from a distance, these anonymous figures wade through chest high water, their belongings held above their heads. We wait for someone to fall. Nobody does. The water sounds loud and fierce in our ears, the rickety wagons tremble in the flow. Once all are across, the men sit by the shore planning the way forwards. Everyone seems glad the trial is passed. It is the last running water they’ll see.

Before setting out, the women of the caravan wash clothes at the bank of the river. We see them from beside, behind, above; their bonnets conceal their faces. We see three figures: one pink, one green, one yellow. Eventually their identities are revealed to us: Emily Tetherow (Michelle Williams), Glory White (Shirley Henderson), and Millie Gately (Zoe Kazan). We come to know them by the colors of their dresses long before we get a closer look at their faces. Their names come up only in passing.

It is morning then, and Stephen Meek (Bruce Greenwood) emerges from his tent — Reichardt employs a static camera as we observe the scene. She then creates three shots: the Whites, the Tetherows, the Gateleys. The men are standing, pouring coffee, extinguishing fires. The women are seated, placed towards the back of the compositions, their presence minimized. The caravan sets off and again we see this division. The men lead their oxen while their wives walk a short distance behind, subordinate.

In the American expansion, men gave up their whole lives to head bravely on towards a new west. They would leave their jobs and homes to adventure toward a brighter future. What did women leave behind? The responsibilities of “women’s work” could not be abandoned on the journey. They still were expected to cook, clean, and to rear their children. These women, in their marriage vows, would have promised to love, honor, and obey. Their work never changed, they were just expected to trek as well; Reichardt speaks of the historical sources in this interview with Filmmaker Magazine.

The working woman in Meek’s Cutoff is an isolated one. If at rest she sits, at work she crouches to wash, set fires, and knead dough. In their long calico dresses, it seems an uncomfortable position to be in. In this form, the women are immobilized. For the camera to capture them, it must single them out in the frame, its borders invisible divisions between them. The men debate, their work connects them; we see them huddled together having important discussions. Even the young boy, Jimmy White (Tommy Nelson), is included in these, the camera establishing the patriarchy he’s growing into.

Eventually, the film provides an image of a space for women: a knitting circle. It is quiet, but over half an hour into the film, it is the first time we establish a physical closeness between these female characters. Then Stephen Meek invades; he hijacks the conversation, and with it the frame. Towering over them, they are isolated once again.

Portraying companionship: Emily Tetherow (Michelle Williams) and Glory White (Shirley Henderson) share a rare two-shot.

After the men venture off to find water, Emily encounters a Native American man (Rod Rondeaux, credited as “The Indian”). The film reaches a turning point as she runs to the gun. It is an image we have not been primed for, if a working woman crouches and a resting woman sits, what does this new form mean? Jean-Luc Godard said that all you needed for a movie was “a girl and a gun” (though the credit for this is disputed.) Can culture rationalize an armed man in a way that it finds impossible with an armed woman?

In American society, male gun owners still outnumber women who own guns at a rate of roughly three to one. Culture has established a visual shorthand: the uniformed soldier; the cowboy in a long coat and wide brimmed hat; the suited gangster; the isolated teenager dressed in whatever style is determined “alternative.” We are led to understand the roles these people play, the positions they exist within society. They are all traditionally male figures. Films such as Kathryn Bigelow’s Zero Dark Thirty and Denis Villeneuve’s Sicario are notable for their disruption of these culturally stratified roles, examining how they are inhabited by women. On their own, a woman with a gun seems to signify chaos, as women traditionally have when refusing to occupy their correct position in patriarchal society.

After that subversive act, the film starts to change, a war starts to be waged between Emily Tetherow and Stephen Meek. If neither of them know the way to civilization, or even to water, why should it matter who makes the calls? It extends beyond the caravan to the very structure of the film itself. Emily starts becoming more prominent in the frame, her actions command the edit, and she invades the spaces previously reserved for the men. Reichardt has spent so long defining the character’s role in society that to see her step out of it is arresting.

This change happens in part because of the arrival of another unknown: the Native American man is captured. A vote is taken and the characters choose to leave him alive, hoping he can lead them to water. The man speaks no English and he is a different race than the travelers; he is now the Other and the unknown. The presence of a more notable Other empowers the women — racism becomes a more powerful motivator than misogyny. For this man to have control of the caravan’s direction begins to upset the balance of the white patriarchy, the established order begins to dissolve, yet white supremacy still reigns as he remains captive.

With this shift, so too does the rigid formalism of the cinematography. The previously united caravan falls in on itself; they appear to shrink, consumed by the landscapes they traverse and the crushing darkness of night. Stephen Meek, who previously commanded the frame, loses control of it as the Native American man now takes ownership of it. It is through him that Emily gets to explore her relationship to power, to the film’s lens.

By placing the camera on the kidnapped man, the power the lens can give is also gated. It is then that Emily sets about gaining it. She approaches the man, in the context of the place she must inhabit in this world as a woman. Rather than exhibiting the force that her male companions do, which necessarily comes in opposition, separating them in the frame, she cooks for him and fixes his garments. Their interaction connects them; in the language of the film, the power is shared.

Reichardt has the film take the travelers’ perspective, lost in this unrecognizable territory, the traditional 4:3 aspect ratio constrains our ability to see, much like the bonnets worn by our leads restrict their peripheral vision. The Native American man’s dialogue, spoken in the language of the Nez Perce tribe, is not subtitled. The film is not content to “whiten” the character in order to make him accessible to a modern audience; we are asked instead to understand that his humanity is not a function of his relatability. The history of the United States is inextricable from the subjugation of Native peoples. The film observes the exploitation of this man, of his knowledge. Even Emily, whose relationship to him veers the closest to respect, still operates through the context of subjugation; when she proclaims that he knows there’s water over the next hill, she remains as ignorant of him as her compatriots.

The climax of Meek’s Cutoff comes with guns drawn. Emily defends the man from Meek, the embodiment of the failure of the white supremacist patriarchy. The angle puts the two side by side with Meek, opposing them and creating a barrier between the two forms. When Meek backs down, walks away, the earth tones of his clothes disappear him into the ground. A new order has arisen.

At the film’s close, the man is leading them again, away from the camera; we do not know if they will find water. Their position is not materially any better than it began yet the divisions have fallen. At last, the women and the men appear to be travelling as one. The Native American man, however, is still their captive.

At the time, Meek’s Cutoff was extensively described as an “anti-Western.” Reichardt rejected the label. In an interview with T Magazine, she said, “You know, it’s funny. If you’re not a white, straight man and you show a different point of view in a film, you need a particular category to go into, when it’s just a different point of view.” The history of the American West is just that, regardless of how it has been depicted through the history of cinema.

In reclaiming the era, Reichardt created a representation that centers the experiences of those not served by the traditional Western. A view of the life of women divorced from the patriarchal lens, a view of the treatment of Native Americans divorced from the lens of white supremacy. It may be a different perspective on the Western, but it remains an honest perspective on The West.

E Warren is a writer and actor in the UK. More film and culture writing can be found at their blog A Grand Quiet.

How a ‘Little Evil Bookshop’ Helped Me Find My Role in Hollywood

It isn’t that I am or was passive in my acting career, it is that acting is a long game and it can be difficult to see where the road might lead. That is something I have accepted; sometimes it’s terrifying and other times it excites me. But for this achiever, perfectionist, and feminist, there is something unbelievably validating about the immediacy of payoff in this new venture called producing. They call it “producing” for a reason! At the end, you have made something, paved your own road.

Guest post written by Lena Raff.

An actress is pretty much the only thing I ever wanted to be, save for a few months in elementary school when bottlenose dolphin trainer and anthropologist were on the table. When I was young, performing gave me a rush, but I couldn’t have accurately verbalized why I loved it. It took me until now to comprehend and come to terms with why I am on this path. Being an artist means that you get to live in your heart and your body. Acting means constantly listening, feeling, and experiencing. It means getting to roll words around in your mouth and connecting with the other actors and your audience; you get to make people feel. It is all just so human.

The issue is that a person cannot simply go out and act unless they create content for themselves. Writers can write at home or in a cafe; try “acting” in either place and you are going to look very silly indeed. I can’t act in a vacuum. By definition, I need other people, and until now, I’ve needed there to be an existing project for which someone hires me. However, it’s difficult to get an acting job in TV and film. That old adage “You need an agent to get credits and you need credits to get an agent” is still widely true. So you have to have an agent who gets your photo in front of casting. Then, casting has to actually see your photo — one of thousands submitted online for any given role — like your look for the part, your abilities and credits, call you in for an audition, like and trust you enough to send you to the producers/director/studio/network who have to also like and trust you, and then you might get an offer. Given this, and the nature of the way projects are shot, the television and film actor will spend much of their time not acting, particularly early on. Even a highly successful and lucrative career can often mean only a few days on set every month, or every several months.

Much of the time, this life is joyous. I have met many wonderful people and artists who have become my soulmates. Classes keep me involved, focused, and skilled. I thrive on the challenge of a difficult scene, relish putting in the work for an audition, soak in every moment of going to work on set. Acting is a constant adventure and I am always learning. In my worst moments, though, this all feels futile. The odds are so steep, the gateways to entry are numerous but elusive. One can feel like one is floating through a nebulous landscape waiting for milestones to grab onto when they happen to appear. And although it has vastly improved in the past few years, Hollywood can seem like a boys club. Many projects still don’t pass the Bechdel test and the words “bikini ready” periodically make their way across my computer screen. But I am an autonomous being. This is what I, enthusiastically, signed up for.

Then I signed up for something else. This year, I began producing a feature film called Little Evil Bookshop with two other young women — Ashley Ellis (director/producer) and Jessica Schott (producer) — and it has been exciting and illuminating. I love the feeling of creative responsibility for something larger than myself, of concrete steps that need to be taken each day. This venture has made me feel capable and worthwhile. It isn’t that I am or was passive in my acting career, it is that acting is a long game and it can be difficult to see where the road might lead. That is something I have accepted; sometimes it’s terrifying and other times it excites me. But for this achiever, perfectionist, and feminist, there is something unbelievably validating about the immediacy of payoff in this new venture called producing. They call it “producing” for a reason! At the end, you have made something, paved your own road. It’s empowering and self-actualizing in an entirely different way from what I have experienced in my artistic life thus far. I have been inspired to examine the landscape in which I am creating as both and actress and producer. Being on feminist projects has always been important to me, but this is the first time I’ve had the opportunity to shape the narrative and be extremely selective about what I put my effort and skill into.

Recently, while working on this project that centers around a middle-aged woman protagonist, I realized that even though the message of the film — a dark ensemble comedy about the staff of a small occult bookstore attempting to impress a revered author and spiritual leader — isn’t feminist in the political or ideological sense, it is feminist by nature of the fact that it is telling a woman’s story. This is the story that three young women want to tell, have put our time, energy, brain-space and hearts into sharing with the world. We are crowdfunding via Seed & Spark and networking. We have committed to diverse and inclusive hiring and casting to deepen and enrich this film about identity. We are standing up, asking for our abilities and voices to be valued.

Through this lens, I started looking around and seeing many incredible women, and many actresses in particular, prolific, daring, and unapologetic in their art. Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s Fleabag and Pamela Adlon’s Better Things are two shining examples. With two very impressive respective acting careers between them, Waller-Bridge and Adlon have recently debuted two deeply personal, groundbreaking, and critically acclaimed series of which they are the creators, showrunners, and stars. Issa Rae co-created, co-writes, and stars in the acclaimed series Insecure based on her hilarious web series Awkward Black Girl. Shonda Rhimes created a television empire with creating and producing her women-centric dramas Grey’s Anatomy, Scandal, and How to Get Away with Murder. Jill Soloway (who identifies as non-binary) changed television and the culture at large with Transparent and its representation of the LGBTQIA community and whose new show I Love Dick depicts women’s sexuality in perhaps unprecedented ways. Now the highest paid woman director in history, Patty Jenkins revolutionized big budget, superhero films with Wonder Woman, “the highest-grossing live-action film to be directed by a woman” and “the highest-grossing film in the DC Extended Universe.” Brie Larson will be Captain Marvel, co-directed by Anna Boden. Gina Prince-Bythewood will direct Silver and Black, “the first Black woman to direct a superhero film.” Ava DuVernay is the first Black woman filmmaker to direct a film with a $100 million budget with her upcoming adaptation of Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time. She also created Queen Sugar, a beautiful and powerful dramatic series telling the story of a Black family, and hired all women directors for both of its two seasons (she was the showrunner for season one while Monica Macer is season 2’s showrunner). Reed Morano recently became the first woman in 22 years to win an Emmy for Best Directing in a Drama Series and the show she won for — the undeniably, ruthlessly feminist The Handmaid’s Tale — swept the night, except for the awards offered up to the women-centric ensemble miniseries, Big Little Lies. Lena Waithe took home an Emmy award for Best Writing in a Comedy — the first Black (queer!) woman to do so — for a Master of None episode about coming out to her family.

I am so looking forward to the time when these achievements do not strike us as the exception to the rule, but rather, are the lay of the land. For now, I chose to take my place among these artists. I am raising my hand, and learning to stand up, not just for what I believe in, but in full ownership of my talent, effort, and ability.

I am not saying that acting isn’t feminist or empowering. I am not saying that producing is a more worthwhile or fulfilling pursuit. I’m not saying I won’t wear a bikini on-screen, or ask someone else to do so. What I am saying is that both of these endeavors, especially coupled together, have allowed me to take a look at my life and career with a consciousness that I didn’t have before. It is heartening to see such poignant stories told by women about women find critical acclaim as well as commercial success. I know I have a place in this exciting world, in whichever role I chose.

Little Evil Bookshop is currently crowdfunding via Seed & Spark until October 13, 2017.

Lena Raff is an actress and producer in her 20s living in Los Angeles. Originally from the suburbs of Boston, she earned a BA in Theatre Studies from Emerson College. Lena can raise one
eyebrow, but only when she’s on camera and isn’t trying to do so.

Links: littleevilbookshop.com | http://www.imdb.com/name/nm5299012/
Instagram: @Lenaraff | @littleevilbookshopfilm