Bitch Flicks – Page 22

Bowed, Bent, and Broken: Examining the Women of Color on ‘Game of Thrones’

With the women of color being so scarce in the show, it’s just as important to look at the quality of these portrayals. While ‘Game of Thrones’ does give us some strong women of color, many of them are portrayed problematically in their own ways: either put into subservient roles, exoticized, demonized, or otherwise discarded by the narrative in ways that the white characters aren’t.

This guest post written by Clara Mae appears as part of our theme week on Game of Thrones.

I often feel conflicted about HBO’s Game of Thrones and its portrayal of women. On one hand, the show has given us some of today’s pop culture feminist icons: women like Brienne, Arya, Daenerys, and Olenna, who show us what it means to persevere in a male-dominated society despite differences in age and social standing. On the surface, so too does the show give us dynamic women of color: characters like Irri, Missandei, Shae, Talisa, and the Sand Snakes, some of whom were updated or added in for the benefit of the show’s audience (of which I am a part of exclusively, having not read the book series).

But with the women of color being so scarce in the show, it’s just as important to look at the quality of these portrayals. While the show does give us some strong women of color, many of them are portrayed problematically in their own ways: either put into subservient roles, exoticized, demonized, or otherwise discarded by the narrative in ways that the white characters aren’t.

The first image we get of women of color in the show is not… flattering, to say the least. In the pilot episode, we see the women of Khal Drogo’s khalasar writhing topless and being mounted in plain sight as Daenerys looks on in disgust. Daenerys is dressed in a light, airy dress while the dark-skinned Dothraki women gyrate in dirty clothes. The audience is meant to see these women as “savages,” and Daenerys the character we sympathize with — an uncomfortable task, you can understand, if you happen to look more like the Dothraki women than Daenerys herself. To contrast this terrible first impression, we later meet Irri, a kind and headstrong woman who is gifted to Daenerys as a handmaiden — really, just a euphemism for “servant/slave” in this context, as another handmaiden, Doreah, mentions that “your brother bought me for you” and, y’know, they’re not actually paid for their services.

Irri is the first woman of color we meet who expresses any degree of humanity. She teaches Daenerys the Dothraki language, mends her clothes, and cares for her. It’s a subservient role, clearly, and one that’s problematic when you look at the fact that the only women of color we’ve seen up to this point are either barbarians or servants. But the narrative tells us Irri is not unhappy in her station — and in fact seems to take pride in it — and so her lack of agency goes by relatively unremarked upon. And social standing aside, Irri is a strong character in her own right. She’s proud of her culture, is equal parts firm and compassionate, and has no qualms about speaking out against the men in her male-dominated tribe.

But Irri is ultimately not given much to do as a character outside of her subservient role to Daenerys, and unfortunately, the narrative ultimately discards Irri for Daenerys. Irri is killed off-screen in Xaro Xhoan Daxos’ home when the dragons are stolen. When Daenerys stumbles across Irri’s body, she briefly shows distress, but yells not a second later, “Where are my dragons!” Irri’s body, then, suddenly becomes just another object in the room. The narrative here is clear: Irri, as helpful and supportive as she was to Daenerys, ends up mattering very little at all.

Irri is then replaced with Missandei as Daenerys’ translator and cultural ambassador. Missandei, like Irri, is also a servant to Daenerys: “You belong to me now, you do what I tell you to,” Daenerys tells Missandei after buying her from her former master. Again, we have an uncomfortable power dynamic between our white female protagonist and another woman of color; but with Missandei, at least, she’s given more to do than Irri ever was, and is all around one of the most long-lasting and positive representations of a character of color on the show.

Although Missandei starts out as a servant, she quickly grows from simply being Daenerys’ translator to her confidant and advisor on the council. She’s shown to be intelligent and quick: she can speak nineteen languages and advises Daenerys about the fighting pits of Meereen. Daenerys herself becomes very fond of Missandei and indeed ends up seeing her as a close friend: when she believes they’re both going to die in Daznak’s Pit, Daenerys holds Missandei’s hand in a sign of trust and love.

Most notably, Missandei is also given a chance at romance with Grey Worm. Through Grey Worm’s eyes we see Missandei as someone who deserves to be looked upon reverently: an important contrast to the images of the gyrating, savage women of color we saw back in episode one. By giving Missandei a romance, she’s elevated above simply being a servant or a background character: she’s someone who matters and who is worthy of love. That, if anything, is one of the most valuable portrayals a woman of color can see reflected back at her.

Missandei is not the only woman of color romanced on the show. Shae is Tyrion’s clever and outspoken lover across several seasons. To be clear, Shae’s actress is Turkish; Turkey straddles the border between Europe and Asia. The actress has spoken about being type-cast as a “foreigner” in European films. The show also plays her off as an “exotic Other” regardless, so I thought it appropriate to include her here. Shae is a rather feminist character: she outwits Tyrion in their first meeting, and is shown to be just as clever as Varys and Littlefinger when necessary. She’s incredibly protective of Sansa: she quickly pulls a knife on a serving girl who tries to tell Cersei about Sansa’s period. She’s compassionate and loving towards Tyrion, a sharp contrast to how the other characters treat him. She’s all around a positive improvement from her book counterpart, and an example of how a character doesn’t need to be a queen to be able to take control of her own story.

Yet Shae’s characterization begins to quickly unravel in season four. The narrative suddenly turns her cruel, thoughtless, and petty — an attempt to put her back on track with her book counterpart, despite George R.R. Martin saying book versus show Shae are “certainly two different characters.” Shae then becomes the tawny jezebel in Tyrion’s life: she lies on the stand about Tyrion and Sansa, despite how much she sincerely seemed to love both of them. Tyrion later stumbles across Shae in his father’s bed — a somewhat inexplicable conclusion, as the show never makes it clear whether she’s there by choice or by blackmail. But then it doesn’t really matter, because Shae is brutally choked to death by Tyrion in a gratuitous snuff scene: her body splayed out with a gold Lannister chain dangling from her neck. The scene focuses more on Tyrion’s pain than Shae’s, and in the end Shae is fridged in order for Tyrion to finally find the determination to kill his father. Despite being such an integral character in the show, the narrative ultimately discards her.

Then we have Talisa (whose actress is half Chilean), the other woman of color romanced on the show. She’s introduced in season two and she’s tough as nails: the first thing she does when we meet her is saw a man’s foot off. Talisa is Not Like Other Girls: she vows to never go to dances, and instead travels the countryside tending to the wounded. As a creation of the show writers, Talisa is Robb’s equal in many ways: she trades quips with him, is of noble birth (although not from Westeros), and is just as stubborn. Although some have pointed out that the show writers made her a bit too much of a Strong Female Character, a Mary Sue of sorts, she is regardless the portrait of a confident woman driven by her own moral compass.

It’s difficult then to reconcile Talisa’s “Mary Sue-ness” with how utterly her life falls apart. Talisa and Robb make some singularly bad decisions together, the worst of which is getting married despite both being fully grown adults who are aware of Robb’s “debt that must be paid” to the Freys. Talisa becomes one of the sources behind Robb’s and Catelyn’s fractured relationship, and indeed Talisa is placed strongly in opposition to Catelyn: young versus old, change versus tradition. As the audience is more familiar with Catelyn than Talisa, it’s difficult to not feel resentful towards her for embodying everything Catelyn is not.

This of course all culminates in the Red Wedding, which Talisa is present for when her book counterpart (Jeyne Westerling) was certainly not. Talisa’s death is vicious and startling; a painful reminder of how often the women of color are written off the show. So although the show writers seemed to take two steps forward by creating Talisa, a strong woman of color presented as Robb Stark’s equal, they then took several steps back by giving her one of the most unpleasant deaths that any woman has suffered on the show.

Then we have Ellaria Sand and the Sand Snakes. We meet Ellaria in season four: she’s fiery, viper-tongued, and sexually free. After Oberyn’s death, she becomes relentless in her quest for revenge, and she sets her sights on Myrcella: “Let me send her to Cersei one finger at a time,” she demands of Prince Doran. Ellaria is unhinged; an angry demoness who is given little characterization beyond her need for vengeance.

Ellaria rallies her daughters and stepdaughters the Sand Snakes, who are younger and more bloodthirsty than their book counterparts. The show writers have reimagined them as tanned jezebels out to torment the sweet Myrcella, who really, has done nothing wrong except be related to Cersei up to this point in time. While Tyene, Nymeria, and Obara are interesting in their own rights, they are not given much characterization beyond just acting as Ellaria’s weapons. As Neil Miller writes at Film School Rejects:

“The Sand Snakes have become villains of the story, hellbent on doing harm to Myrcella in their blind quest for vengeance…It has made them one dimensional characters, stereotypes who will potentially become more known as ‘The One With the Whip’ and ‘The One with the Daggers’ than well-rounded characters. They are caricatures, whereas Oberyn was a dynamic and fully fleshed-out character.”

Worse, the narrative pivots the story so that instead of it being focused solely on Ellaria and the Sand Snakes, it instead becomes the story about Jaime and his heroic rescue of his niece/daughter. The Dornish women, then, are given little agency over their own plotline: they simply exist as Jaime’s antagonists that he must overcome in order to triumph.

All in all, Game of Thrones doesn’t do so great with its women of color. Three of them are dead, leaving us just Missandei — the one positive portrayal — and the bloodthirsty Ellaria and the Sand Snakes. With the debut of season six, I’m hoping we’ll see not only the Sand Snakes getting more characterizations, but new characters of color introduced. I’m going to be crossing my fingers for a lot of things. But looking at the show writers’ poor track record, I’m also not going to be holding my breath.

Clara Mae is a twenty-something year old English grad from UC Berkeley who works somewhere in the San Francisco financial district. If not at work, is probably off eating ramen, petting dogs, or attempting yoga. Blogs too little and tweets too much at @ubeempress.

A Black Feminist Woman’s Life in Comedy Web Series ‘Sit Black & Relax’

This series expands the often narrow variety of roles for Black Women in film, and allows them to be what we rarely see — normal.

This is a guest post by JustLatasha.

Comedy vlogger JustLatasha writes, directs, and produces the comedy web series Sit Black & Relax. The series premiered Monday, March 14th (and every 1st Monday of each month) on JustLatasha.com. This series expands the often narrow variety of roles for Black Women in film, and allows them to be what we rarely see — normal.

Sit Black & Relax has a five episode premiere for its first season and stars Shakirah DeMesier of the extremely popular play, Plantanos y Collard Greens, and comedy actress Alison Burke. DeMesier plays the lead of “Maya,” an awkward new New Yorker who tries to casually live while Black amongst her white friends, and often finds herself in ironic situations due to the advisement of her best friend “Lana,” played by Burke. The series obtains heavy influences of FX’s Louie and Comedy Central’s Broad City, and is told through the passive Black woman’s point of view.

Sit Black & Relax shows a feminist woman living her Black life. Maya is a slightly failing jewelry designer who works at a nanny-matching service to support her dream in NYC. She’s living the carefree life: dating bachelors, entertaining the nightlife, and loving Beyoncé while meeting experiences of race. Just when her life gets too practical and predictable, she keeps her best friend Lana at her side to continue to keep her radical options open.

JustLatasha grew in popularity amongst 6K subscribers with her YouTube comedy vlog, making racism funny… when it ain’t! She tackles tough topics of pop culture and social issues concerning color and feminism, and educates her listeners using comedy. Next episode airs Monday, May 2nd on JustLatasha.com.

She hosted a screening alongside of popular podcast host, Hey Assanté of The Friend Zone Podcast, and was also joined by Kid Fury and Crissle of the #1 iTunes rated comedy podcast, The Read.

Please view the premiere episode, as featured on Blavity and AfroPunk:

[youtube_sc url=”https://youtu.be/RWe0Ov-9GoM” width=”560″ height=”340″]

JustLatasha is a Queens, NY native and cum laude graduate with a Bachelor’s of the Arts degree in Communication Arts. She began her career in the vast and un-glamourous world of Fashion PR, until she found her passion in filmmaking. She started her first brand, Dope Files, in 2010. She discovered that her passion for Black art & activism was shared amongst a vast audience. This birthed her current brand JustLatasha; she films and edits bi-weekly comedic vlogs about race issues to her 6,000 subscribers. This also led to her highly anticipated upcoming comedy web series, Sit Black & Relax, which debuted March 14th, 2016. This is her first scripted work, and she is more than excited to share more of her talents with the world.

‘Sorceress’: A Flawed Telling of Women and Worship in the Middle Ages

One might expect ‘Sorceress’ to be a powerfully feminist film and a faithful portrayal of the Middle Ages. It disappoints on both counts. … For all its faults, ‘Sorceress’ remains much more attentive to women’s experiences than many films, and provides insights into village life during the Middle Ages.

This is a guest post written by Tim Covell.

[Trigger warning: rape and sexual assault]

Sorceress, also known as Le moine et la sorcière, is a 1987 French film featuring Tchéky Karyo, Christine Boisson, and Jean Carmet. It had a limited theatrical release, playing at film festivals and independent theatres, and is available in subtitled and partly dubbed English versions. The story was written by Paméla Berger, Suzanne Schiffman directed, and they co-wrote the screenplay. Berger is a founder of the Boston Women’s Health Book Collective, the folks who gave us the seminal Our Bodies, Ourselves, and a professor of Medieval Art. With her background, one might expect Sorceress to be a powerfully feminist film and a faithful portrayal of the Middle Ages. It disappoints on both counts.

The film begins with a note stating that it is based on the writings of Étienne de Bourbon, a 13th century Dominican monk. A prologue shows his telling of the martyrdom of St. Guinefort. St. Guinefort was a dog, killed for apparently harming a baby. After his death, it is learned that he had protected the baby from a snake. The legend of the faithful animal killed in error is known in many cultures, but it was new to Étienne. In the rural area of France where he learned of it, the villagers not only considered the dog a saint, helpful to sick children, but maintained a grove and conducted healing rituals there, with the help of an old woman from another town. Étienne wrote that he preached against the practice, disinterred the dog, and burned the dog’s bones and the trees.

The film shows Étienne arriving at the village, on an inquisition and eager to see the local priest’s list of suspected heretics. He is told there are none. He soon learns of a woman who lives alone in the forest, and heals people with plants. Étienne suspects that “her practices might be irregular,” but considers her merely superstitious. Then he witnesses the ritual of healing a sick baby at Guinefort’s grove, concludes she is a witch, and arranges for her to be burned at the stake.

Berger takes numerous liberties with the source anecdote, though as a character notes, when Étienne writes of these events, he will change things so no one will know what really happened. The implication is that the film shows the true events. However, the changes introduce anachronistic and unrealistic notes, and simplify the characters. Étienne recorded the ritual as occasionally being fatal to infants. His description is consistent with similar rituals in other cultures, but the film shows that the children are never in danger. In the film, Étienne announces that he is looking for heretics, who “let women preach,” and could “destroy the church.” The comment may amuse modern audiences, who may not realize that he was likely seeking Waldensians, members of an organized movement throughout Europe, which tried to create an alternate church. Once Etienne hears of “suspicious acts of healing,” the film has him morph into a witch hunter. Extensive prosecution of witches came hundreds of years after the time of Étienne, and at his time witchcraft was not heresy.

De Bourbon had been a Dominican, travelling in rural areas for at least a dozen years before he became an inquisitor. However, the film introduces him as a dogmatic bumbler, and eventually reveals him to be a rapist. Clearly, he’s the bad guy. We learn through a flashback that as a teenager, he fled from the sight of a deer being gutted. It is hard to imagine that a rural youth in the 13th century would find this shocking, but the film distracts us from this oddity by trying to shock the viewer, briefly showing the gutting, and in a much closer view than the character’s perspective.

The older woman from the neighboring town is, in the film, a young attractive healer living in the forest. She may have been younger, and she may well have been a healer — women’s healing work was often unrecorded in history. However, it is less likely she lived in the forest, and her modern sensibilities with regard to plants, the natural world, and her appreciation of literacy are out of place. Early on, the film shows her pulling a thorn from a wolf’s paw. She’s the good guy. She became an outsider after her lord exercised “his first night’s rights” (she was raped), and her husband killed the lord. First night’s rights were often claimed to have existed during the middle ages by later writers, but there is no contemporary evidence for them. As with the story of the wrongly killed protective animal, first night’s rights have been written about in many cultures, going back to Gilgamesh.

The presentation of legends as fact, the anachronisms, and the one-dimensional characters weaken the story and the representation of life in the Middle Ages. Some of these aspects may have been intended to emphasize the overlooked participation and subordination of women, but they are not always effective. The reference to first night’s rights could have been a symbol for the position of women in society, but the timing and method of the presentation reduce it to a backstory footnote. Étienne’s writings about the ritual make only brief mention of an older woman who assists the ritual, but in the film this woman is young, attractive, and a source of sexual tension. It’s easy to accept that this may have been the reality, and Étienne downplayed this when he wrote about the incident, as a way of erasing her from history. However, it is also possible that the filmmakers thought, in typical Hollywood fashion, that the female lead should be conventionally young and attractive.

The film makes other efforts to celebrate women and the feminine. The first image in the film is a baby at the breast. A strong female character exists in a subplot, and the home of the forest women is lush green woods, while Étienne’s place is the dark and sterile church. Guinefort’s grove is a place to heal babies, and therefore a place for the women of the village. Unfortunately, the efforts to celebrate the feminine are undercut because, despite the title, the film is a story about a man’s growth and redemption.

The plot is structured around Étienne’s visit to the village. The forest woman intrigues him. But it is a man who shows him the error of his ways, another man who tells him how he can learn from this, and the climax is a pissing contest between Étienne and a local lord. Visuals also emphasize that this is Étienne’s story. This is most obvious is when we share his gaze of a revealed ankle. Significantly, we are shown traumatic events in his past, from his perspective, while the past traumas of the forest woman are merely narrated, making her a less sympathetic character. Finally, in a film which claims to reveal much of what may have been silenced, an important female character is mute, with a man to speak for her.

Sorceress shows that Étienne eventually agreed to allow the worship of St. Guinefort to continue, and in a closing note states: “The last woman healer to protect babies at the grove died in 1930.” This statement is both misleading and less interesting than the historical evidence. No information exists about a continuous line of healers, but the legend of St. Guinefort persisted. In the early 1930s, a woman in the area would go on substitute pilgrimages to Guinefort’s grove and other places, on behalf of sick children’s parents, if they paid her a small fee. She would also light candles and go to church for others, cast spells (but not against anyone who gave her meat), offer flowers, weed graves, and beg at a regular circuit of houses. She had been widowed in 1910, had one stillborn child, and lived alone until her death in 1936 at age eighty-eight. This is presumably the woman whose sad but interesting life was both acknowledged and downplayed as “the last woman healer.”

When I first saw the film, decades ago, I was impressed by the foregrounding of women’s experiences. With subsequent viewings, a greater knowledge of film, and a greater knowledge of history, I’ve become more aware of the film’s relatively superficial approach. However, it is entirely possible that in the 1980s the film could not have been financed had truly focused on the forest women, past and present. Even today, that might prove difficult. For all its faults, Sorceress remains much more attentive to women’s experiences than many films, and provides insights into village life during the Middle Ages.

Recommended Reading: The New York Times Review/Film; ‘Sorceress,’ A Medieval Parable

Tim Covell has degrees in English Literature, Film Studies, and Canadian Studies. He studies film censorship and classification systems, which are largely about managing representations of sexuality. More at www.covell.ca.

Things I Learned About Rocker/Poet Patti Smith at Tribeca Film Festival Talk Series

Rock legend Patti Smith and Oscar-nominated actor Ethan Hawke shared stories and ideas about process, acting and writing Thursday afternoon at the SVA Theater in Chelsea to kick off the Tribeca Film Festival talk series. Here are things I learned about the rocker/poet, who is a fascinating raconteur who had a packed audience spellbound.

This is a guest post by Paula Schwartz.

Here are things I learned about the rocker/poet, who is a fascinating raconteur who had a packed audience spellbound:

How she came to co-write “Cowboy Mouth,” a one-act play with music with Sam Shepard:

Sam and I wrote this play cause we had this relationship which we shouldn’t have because he had a small kid, a family. We were young, and we knew we had to end our relationship even though we liked each other so much, (so) we wrote this play sort of as our swan song… (He said) let’s stop crying and write a play.

I said, ‘I don’t’ know how to write a play.’ Sam said, ‘You’re the girl and I’m the guy… Just do what I say…He writes a little set up and then he says something and he hands me the typewriter so I just answered him, and we wrote out a whole play that way and then he thought we should perform it… Sam at the time was sort of like a big deal, so we got to do the play at American Place Theater and there was a part in the play where Sam wanted us to have a battle of language…We battled with language.

How Smith learned to improvise:

Sam improvises his language, and my character is suppose to improvise back, and I said, ‘How do we do that? What will I say?’ … He said, I’ll say stuff and you’ll say stuff back to me, any kind of rhythm and poetry… ‘What if I make a mistake?’ He said, ‘It’s improvising! You can’t make a mistake. If you lose a beat then you invent another beat,’ and that made perfect sense to me. And that little instruction and then doing a play with him I learned how to improvise, which has served me my whole life in everything I do. It was one of the greatest lessons I ever got was from Sam.”

Smith likes getting awards:

It’s really fun to get like accolades. I’ve gotten awards from the French government. I love my medals, and I do I really I get in the swing of it. Somebody wants to give me a medal, I’m really happy. But really the only real success is that success that you know when you’ve done something well, when you finish a poem or you do a certain performance and you know you’ve done a good job.

Gregory Corso and Smith’s first poetry reading:

Of the beat poets, Gregory Corso was the youngest… Gregory had intense energy and he was also very academic as well as being one of our greatest poets… We would go to poetry readings. I was only 20 years old. They don’t have poetry readings in South Jersey… A lot of these poets go on and on… I have to say it was kind of boring… I just sat there quietly… Gregory goes, ‘Shit, shit, shit… No blood, get a transfusion.’…and I was like, ‘If I ever do a poetry reading it can’t be boring, Gregory will cream me.

So I did my first poetry reading in St. Marks in 1972. I was talking to Sam Shepard, and I was telling him I’ve got to deliver. I have to do something that will transcend boredom and Sam said, ‘Play a guitar because a lot of your poems have a lot of rhythm.’ I asked my friend Lenny Kaye, and I asked him if he could play like car crash sounds or feedback and things to the poem and stuff like that, and he did and it caused quite a ruckus and Gregory wasn’t bored.

Smith’s work habit rituals:

I write in the morning usually for a few hours, since I was about 10, almost every day. If I don’t write I feel agitated. I’ll write in a bathroom or a train. I just feel the need always to write something. When I was younger I would stay up all night or smoke a little pot and write… I would sit all day typing on the typewriter but once I had children, once I had children, a baby, I couldn’t do that, I had to redesign and redefine my work time and so I started waking up at 5 in the morning – this was in like 1981 — and from 5 to 8 when my husband and baby were sleeping that was my time to write. That’s when actually really developed a certain work ethic.

How Smith went from being a poet to a performer:

I started out writing poetry, which is a very solitary discipline, drawing, painting also, and I never wanted to be a performer really, but through writing poetry and performing it I evolved into being a performer and then having a rock and roll band but it was not a planned thing. It was nothing I aspired to so it was evolving right in front of me but it was evolving and the people were part of the fabric of that evolution. I would never have done that by myself because I was a solitary worker… I think that’s the one thing that makes me a little different from other musicans, other performers or other rock and roll singers. I’m really of and from the people as a performer. I feel we’re all part of the same fabric I just never would have done it. I wouldn’t have found it on my own. I didn’t even aspire to it.

Paula Schwartz is a veteran journalist who worked at the New York Times for three decades. For five years she was the Baguette for the New York Times movie awards blog Carpetbaggers. Before that she worked on the New York Times night life column, Boldface, where she covered the celebrity beat. She endured a poke in the ribs by Elijah Wood’s publicist, was ejected from a party by Michael Douglas’s flak after he didn’t appreciate what she wrote, and endured numerous other indignities to get a story. More happily she interviewed major actors and directors–all of whom were good company and extremely kind–including Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, Morgan Freeman, Clint Eastwood, Christopher Plummer, Dustin Hoffman and the hammy pooch “Uggie” from The Artist. Her idea of heaven is watching at least three movies in a row with an appreciative audience that’s not texting. Her work has appeared in Moviemaker, more.com, showbiz411 and reelifewithjane.com.

Calling “Action”: A Lesbian Female Filmmaker on Diversity in Action Films

I was reminded of the importance of telling stories that incorporate minorities and women, who so often don’t get our stories told. … As a lesbian female filmmaker, the biggest barrier to success in Hollywood is always financing.

This is a guest post written by Miranda Sajdak. She is currently crowdfunding her film No Trace.

When I was young, I was taken to see the film A League of Their Own. I still remember the excitement of watching the women’s baseball teams go head-to-head, and the rush of leaving the theater, knowing I wanted to make movies and re-create that experience for others. It took a lot of years – and a lot of movies — to find that same balance of blockbuster and pure entertainment factor in films I was watching.

One day, a co-worker (at my then-job on the metal show Uranium) suggested that I check out the film Ong-Bak. I had no idea I’d be in for one of the most kickass action films I’d ever seen. I was reminded of why I got into movies to begin with – to make entertaining films that engage the viewer so much, they can’t help but leave the theater energized and excited. I remembered the first time I felt that way, watching A League of Their Own, and was reminded of the importance of telling stories that incorporate minorities and women, who so often don’t get our stories told. Other films and TV shows that have influenced me since include The Long Kiss Goodnight, District B13, Damages, and Banshee. Any time there’s great action, crime drama, and fun characters, I’m there.

As an action fan who’s also passionate about diversity, it sometimes feels like we’re the black sheep of the film world; we don’t get the same sort of attention that genre-lovers in horror and comedy do, even when we show up opening weekend to Salt, popcorn in hand, ready to be blown away by some high-energy stunts. But that doesn’t make us action fans any less passionate or devoted to our genre of choice.

I’ve long been a proponent of equality in the film landscape. While my first favorite being an almost-entirely female cast influenced me towards finding ways to showcase diversity in my own work, my prime goal has always been: be entertaining – and incorporate underrepresented cast and crew members, because inclusivity matters, and will keep the story fresh and engaging. As an award-winning screenwriter, I’ve also found that incorporating diversity into my projects makes them more engaging on the page.

To that end, I recently decided to direct a new project, starring Heroes’ James Kyson and Grey’s Anatomy’s Pia Shah, called No Trace. My film follows an undercover cop who robs a bank for the mob, only to find herself on the run from her former partners. There’s a killer fight scene, some great dialogue, and a surprise ending that you won’t see coming.

As I have written:

“The statistics for women directors in film are pretty dismal, with only 9% of the top films in 2015 directed by women (via USC’s Media, Diversity & Social Change Initiative), the same rate as in 1998! One of the most important things we can do to make a change is to promote female-directed projects. I hope to inspire other women and girls to make their movies, too.”

As a lesbian female filmmaker, the biggest barrier to success in Hollywood is always financing. I’ve put together a killer team, including Oscar winner James Parris on VFX, with Derek Bauer on camera and Natalie Nicole Gilbert on music. Our team started a crowdfunding page at gofundme.com/MirandaDirects to help achieve our goal of making this film a reality. We were thrilled to make our first goal, and are now approaching our stretch goals with the same drive and determination we’re putting towards producing this film. We hope you’ll be a part of it, and support women filmmakers and diversity in the independent action realm.

For more, check out our site, or follow us on Twitter:
@MirandaSajdak – Writer/Director
@IAmDellanyPeace – Producer
@JamesKyson – Lead
@piajune – Lead
@plasterofparris – VFX Supervisor

Miranda Sajdak is a director/writer/producer currently living in Los Angeles. As a script reader, she has done coverage for producers of films ranging from indie hits like Drive to studio features including Final Destination, American Pie, and Everest, as well as television shows Huge and My So-Called Life. She co-founded company Harbor Road Entertainment in 2015, working as a producer, director, and writer, as well as providing script notes and proofreading to writers in the industry. She was a winner of Go Into the Story‘s Quest Initiative in 2013. She was also a winner of The Next MacGyver competition in 2015, paired with mentor Clayton Krueger at Scott Free to develop original pilot RIVETING. She enjoys hard-hitting dramas, dark comedies, and ’90s legal thrillers.

‘Inside Out’: Does Riley Lack Agency?

Does Riley make decisions of her own, or are her decisions made for her by Anger, Disgust, Fear, Joy, and Sadness? … If Riley were completely subject to the whim of her emotions, they would be able to control her in any way at any time. However, ‘Inside Out’ repeatedly conveys that there are limits to what they can do when they interact with Riley.

This is a guest post written by Margaret Evans.

A few months ago, legendary animator Don Bluth made an interesting observation about the movie Inside Out. According to Bluth, Riley, the central character, lacks agency. This was a claim that I felt warranted further thought. Does Riley make decisions of her own, or are her decisions made for her by Anger, Disgust, Fear, Joy, and Sadness?

In order to answer that question we must first take a look at the emotions themselves. They are Riley’s emotions, each one is the embodiment of what Riley is feeling. You would think that this would end the debate there and then. If these characters are the expressions of Riley’s feelings than surely Riley does have agency. However, it should be noted how the emotions talk about Riley. While the emotions talk about Riley’s life as if it is their own, they talk about Riley in the third person. This has the unfortunate effect of distancing Riley from her emotions. Ironically, the well-rounded nature of her emotions works against the story that Pixar is trying to tell. We see her emotions as complete people in their own right rather than extensions of Riley. This isn’t helped by the fact that we see all of Riley’s decisions from the perspective of the emotions, reinforcing the idea that Riley is someone they collectively control.

Despite this, I still believe that Riley does exert some agency in Inside Out. Certain aspects of the film show the emotions being influenced by outside factors that they can’t explain. At the beginning, Sadness finds herself feeling the urge to participate in a way that she hasn’t in the past, much to the chagrin of Joy; a happy memory turns sad at Sadness’ touch and Joy is unable to merely change it back. When asked why she is “acting up,” all of a sudden Sadness doesn’t know why. This clearly indicates an example of Riley influencing how the emotions feel father than the other way around.

In my mind, this is just one way that proves that the emotions are the embodiment of how Riley feels rather than the deciders of how Riley feels. The emotions collectively may have put Joy in charge, but when Riley is sad, the film ultimately proves that they can’t just make Riley happy when it suits them.

Another example of this is the difference between two similar points in the movie. During a scuffle, Joy and Sadness are sucked up into Riley’s mind. Later, Fear tries to get the exact same thing to happen to him but it fails. No explanation within the film is given for this but I would argue that Riley subconsciously rejected Joy and Sadness and retained Fear. She wasn’t happy or sad but she was angry, disgusted and afraid. Finally, at the end of Inside Out, only Sadness is able to have any affect on Riley. Until Sadness gets through to her, the console that the emotions have been using throughout the film becomes completely inoperable.

If Riley were completely subject to the whim of her emotions, they would be able to control her in any way at any time. However, Inside Out repeatedly conveys that there are limits to what they can do when they interact with Riley. The emotions inhabit a world which is clearly governed by rules and they are subject to those rules.

When we watch Inside Out, it’s easy to look at the emotions and think that the personification of how Riley feels starts and ends with them. But it doesn’t. The train of thought that we see is just as important to understanding Riley as the emotions. The ground that Joy and Sadness walk on through their journey is just as much a part of Riley as the emotions themselves.

Ultimately, the reason why it appears that the emotions call the shots is because the way that Riley influences the emotions is much more subtle than the way that the emotions influence her. The emotions affect Riley in a very straightforward way that is easy to see: they press a button or pull a lever. The way that Riley impacts the emotions, however, remains subtle, and therefore much harder to identify. We see Riley’s influence in the rules that govern her mind — we are told that memories fade because she “decides” she doesn’t need them anymore — and when Joy can’t alter a memory near the end of the film. Riley doesn’t lack agency as her agency propels the plot and the choices she makes.

Margaret Evans is a blogger from Godalming, a small town in south England. She currently writes the blog Plot Twists and Continuity.

‘Daredevil’s Elektra and the Problem of Destiny

Ultimately, we are left to conclude that Elektra’s characterization is not based in specific motivations, but in a dangerous, unseemly destiny that shapes her will and revokes her agency. … This trope, in which women’s “destinies” obscure, erase, or negate their agency is one that can be found other places…

This is a guest post written by Elyssa Feder. | Spoilers ahead.

In season two of Daredevil, Elektra Natchios, international assassin and part-time debutante, is one of a pair of foils the show introduces to contrast with the series’ hero, Matt Murdock. While season one saw Matt wrestling with if he should kill Wilson Fisk, season two puts Matt among two antiheroes who have chosen the other side of the ethical line Matt won’t cross — Elektra, and Frank Castle, aka The Punisher. While Frank is given a detailed backstory, Elektra’s motivations are suspiciously obscured. The show then reveals that she is “The Black Sky,” a weapon that a shadow organization called The Hand has been searching for for centuries. Ultimately, we are left to conclude that Elektra’s characterization is not based in specific motivations, but in a dangerous, unseemly destiny that shapes her will and revokes her agency.

This should leave a sour taste. I watched season two of Daredevil in around two days and then I watched it again, mostly because I have a terrible memory and usually need to watch shows twice to retain what happened. But going back and watching with the knowledge that Elektra is a weapon, that that is a designation handed to her by men, that she doesn’t get to choose any of it, and that it serves to explain her characterization while Frank Castle gets all the internal motivation he seeks — that’s very troubling to me.

There are a lot of moments to make your skin crawl about this, but the one that kicked off my concerns about this is all the way in 2×12, “The Dark at the End of the Tunnel.”

Here, Stick, the mentor to little Elektra (and little Matt, as the latter will later learn), explains there is some violent force inside Elektra, one she will have to learn to control. Though I’m not in principle opposed to women having innate power, there’s something off-putting about the way Elektra’s power is described here, and in other parts of the episode. Stick suggests that Elektra and her power are unwieldy, something dangerous and unnatural. And this line comes directly after Elektra almost kills someone — and she ultimately does kill him, later in the episode, an act Elektra explains she did “just to prove she could.” What a sociopathic little girl, we are left to believe.

But the show makes a pretty bad case that Elektra’s a sociopath, which might have let them off the hook for laziness. She’s reticent to leave Stick, her adoptive father figure, and her love for Matthew is genuine. Rather, the show reveals that Elektra is the Black Sky, a strange and mysterious weapon we still haven’t had fully explained. Rather than a real woman with choices, she’s an object. Her violence is, as Stick suggests, deeply a part of her — not because she chooses it but because, at least as most of the men of Daredevil would like to suggest, she’s not really a person. She’s just a shell for something sinister.

There are some fairly grotesque examples of this objectification. Nobu, one of the leaders of “The Hand” repeatedly refers to Elektra as “it.” Nobu is part of a cult that worships the Black Sky, so while one might think he’d be nicer to Elektra, the woman is just a shell, the container of the weapon. Stick, when tied up in Matt’s apartment says, “The Black Sky cannot be controlled, manipulated, or transported.” (Stick seems to have done quite a bit of controlling, manipulating, and transporting of Elektra over the last 3ish decades of her life, but I digress.) There’s a moment after Nobu reveals her identity where you can see the trauma and self-loathing Stick brought to her play out, and she seems to entertain this destiny, even for a moment.

To be fair to Elektra’s internal world, I think we can chalk this up to the trauma of her father figure trying to kill her. Furthermore, Elektra is raised by an older white man who taught her that she was out of control for unknown reasons, her violence is given no rationality, and then it’s ultimately revealed she’s violent because surprise! She’s not a person; she’s a weapon. Destiny and a bunch of guys who worship her said so. But they don’t really worship her. They worship some sort of weird mystical weapon they think is inside her. They see her as an “it.” And, at least for a moment, Elektra thinks, “Makes sense.” After all, was she not raised to believe she was a monster? A thing without reason? A creature out of control?

This sort of burden of destiny — and the irrational, innate violence that goes along with it — is something her natural season-long foils, Matt and Frank, are spared. Though I have my own struggles with the writing of Matt’s motivation (a subject not for this post), one cannot doubt that he is hyper-rational about them, with probably too much thinking and self-flagellation for my taste. Frank is given enumerative motive and rationality in the form of his murdered family, and a personal champion Karen Page who makes sure those motives and rationales come to light.

I should be clear here, when I say rationality I don’t mean, “Frank Castle makes good choices.” What I mean is that there is an internal logic to them; he is a Rational Actor. It is this rationality that allows Karen to argue he wouldn’t target the DA’s family; it goes against Frank’s internal code. I know why Frank Castle does everything he does, in a way I don’t with Elektra because it’s never offered. And there’s a reason this matters too, in the basic vein of “women are people,” and the fact that their choices are circumscribed or erased in all sorts of media is not only a common trope, but a disturbing one. We all know women in the real world make choices, good and bad, moral and immoral, that are grounded in experience. Elektra, the show suggests, makes choices because she can’t help it. Elektra kills people because she was born a weapon. Not much of a choice.

Though there moments where Elektra makes choices in this series, particularly ones that reject her “destiny” and the violence it sparks in her, that unseemly destiny thing has a tendency to intervene. One example is in 2×08, “Guilty as Sin”:

Matthew: Where’s Stick?
Elektra: I made my choice. He didn’t like it. I want to be with you. The only person in this world who believes I’m good.

Then, around three minutes later, Matthew gets attacked by a young member of The Hand and, after beating him single-handedly, Elektra still kills him in this bloody homage to “crazy” lady slasher films.

This line is the most unhinged Elektra is all season by my estimation, not three minutes after she decided to hang up her evil sword and pick up her noble one. Guess that uncontrollable violence got in the way again. She and Matt call it quits for a few episodes, until they’re mostly back together in 2×12, after she decides against joining up with The Hand.

It is in the finale that Elektra makes her last choices, at least for now. When Stick says her decision to fight The Hand is a mistake she says, “Maybe. But it’ll be my mistake, because this is my life.” This is the clearest pronouncement of her own choices and agency Elektra makes all season. It is a choice she makes not because she wants Matt to see her as Good ( I should note the paternalism and white savior complex in this dynamic are important to explore), nor a choice she makes because she’s the Black Sky. It wouldn’t be good characterization or good writing for her to suddenly become a white hat, but she chooses to fight a war because she wants to fight it, because there is something personal and at stake for her in its victory, and because she seeks to reject the destiny the men around her have told her is fated.

This is, of course, for naught. She and Matt fight The Hand on a roof, during which she declares they will kill him “over her dead body,” just to heavily foreshadow what was obviously going to happen. And then, in the latest case of unseemly lady deaths, she runs into a sword to save Matt, taking The Hand’s precious weapon out of the equation. It seems Elektra can only have agency over her destiny by throwing herself on a sword.

These are the few choices Elektra is allowed in Daredevil that contradict her destiny to be a weapon instead of a woman. The final chain of events — choices that are truly Elektra’s and no one else’s, and ones she makes to reject her destiny — leads to her death. The show even has the audacity to suggest her death, one of her few (and problematic, obviously) choices, will be rendered useless in the face of that destiny. Season two ends with Elektra in a coffin designed by The Hand for “the rising.” We are safe to assume Elektra, or something in Elektra’s skin, will return.

This trope, in which women’s “destinies” obscure, erase, or negate their agency is one that can be found other places, each of which could merit their own post, but I’ll give a few examples. In Buffy the Vampire Slayer, the premise of the show is that Buffy wanted to be a normal girl and no longer can be, because a few millennia ago, a bunch of men forced superpowers into a girl, and now Buffy doesn’t get any choice in the matter. On the spinoff series Angel, though Cordelia is initially given a series of painful visions without her consent, the show suggests in the episode “Birthday” that Cordelia is destined to have the visions. In making the choice to accept some mystical intervention into her life, she sets off a chain of events that ultimately leads to her death (also in the interest of saving the man she loves). In Battlestar Galactica, Kara Thrace is given the destiny of leading humanity to Earth and nearly loses her mind because of it, only to disappear and die (again) once that mission is completed; Laura Roslin’s similar destiny is inextricably linked with her illness and death.

On the other hand, when men are given great destinies, from Harry Potter to Buffy and Angel and beyond, their choices are not sublimated in the face of that agency. Rather, those choices are portrayed as steps along a greater path. Their agency remains intact, and their deaths are rare. Yet, we see patterns where women’s destinies cut off their choices, or where the choices they make in the face of destiny leads to their deaths. (I will note that Dawn Summers, also in Buffy, faces a similar ‘you’re a mystical creation’ scenario as Elektra, but is allowed to retain and enhance her agency throughout the rest of the show.)

It is also worth noting that Elektra’s death appears amongst a series of disturbing choices to kill off women this spring. A few weeks ago, The 100’s decision to kill Lexa, a lesbian character, sparked deep outrage in the fandom, as well as critiques from the broader media as part of a larger pattern of killing off LGBT women on television. This past week on Sleepy Hollow, the show decided to kill of lead Abbie Mills, played by Nicole Beharie. Sleepy Hollow has faced critiques for a few seasons for the continued sidelining of Beharie’s character, a Black female lead on a major network, in favor of white characters on the show. The show’s decision to not only kill off Abbie, but to construct her death as in the service of white lead Ichabod Crane (played by Tom Mison) and his destiny (one they were supposed to share, but seems to have been summarily robbed from Abbie in the service of his), has been roundly criticized, with fans of the show creating a hashtag to cancel the show entirely (which, agreed). Elektra, a woman of color (played by Elodie Yung) who the show forces to sacrifice herself to save a white man, is part of this larger disturbing pattern.

Conveniently for Daredevil, they, unlike many of these shows, have the opportunity to fix the problem they created. When Elektra does return, the writers have a choice as to who they bring back. She can be a thoughtless monster, a weapon known as the Black Sky with no consciousness, and which Matt will inevitably have to either kill or save with his love (dramatic eyeroll). Or she can be Elektra, a woman who tells the men who both put her in the grave and raised her from it to go to hell, and take destiny with them. It would be this Elektra who could be given the opportunity to make the choices she wants, to have an inner world explained by more than “she’s a weapon.” A real, live, breathing woman.

See also at Bitch Flicks: ‘Daredevil’ and His Damsels in Distress

Elyssa Feder has a BA in Women’s Studies and International Affairs from George Washington University, where one day she decided to write a paper about women in the military (on scifi television) and it was all downhill from there. By day, she is a political person doing political things; by night, she can be found lecturing friends and coworkers about television. She also does this by day, if anyone lets her.

‘The Witch’ and Legitimizing Feminine Fear

Instead it mashes these together to legitimize the misogyny of historical witch trials. … Those hoping for a nuanced 1630s witch tale, beware: ‘The Witch’ legitimizes fear of feminine sensuality while simplifying powerful female denizens to devil-worshiping pleasure-seekers.

This is a guest post written by Josephine Maria Yanasak-Leszczynski. | Spoilers ahead.

Witches are one of those archetypes common enough that it is easy to say they exist in every culture. Yet through foreign interpretation, mythological evolution, and even simple mistranslations, witches vary enough to call into question their omnipresence. This archetype differs from actual witches, followers of Wicca and other pagan religions.

Witches depicted in tales are often women, but not always. As healers they practice medicine, but sometimes in the form of potion making, as they are in possession of forgotten medicinal and herbological knowledge, sometimes spiritual, with plenty of amalgamations in between. As curse makers they are in possession of dark magics, using common implements or rare ingredients, or sometimes only words. They can be ritualistic, fickle, or wise entities of more or less human composition depending on their lineage. Their power can derive from lineage, chance, interactions with powerful beings and on and on.

In the United States, witch stories and lore are flavored by witch trials in New England. In extreme cases here, women and men perceived as living outside the pious norm were forced to admit to committing atrocious acts, jailed, tortured and murdered. Inspired also by a period of witch trials in Europe lasting hundreds of years where accusations of witchcraft were used to bring down politically powerful women, or the invisible threat of feminine power over men, there is a rich history of witches in film and television touching on this morbid piece of shared American and European history. Many of these depictions in media support or reject the criminalizing of perceived feminine power.

The Witch explores very few of these things, except to depict the scariest versions of American witches in stark color and with exacting matter-of-factness. There is no room to misinterpret the witches in this movie. It is also a film about desires so secret, the audience does not even know they exist within our poorly fleshed out protagonists.

This is especially frustrating in a film so visually complete, because the desire for more on the part of women is often demonized in film, and The Witch plays into that while using its powers of cinematography to the greatest degree. Here is a beautiful, sometimes terrifying film, chilling in its failure to flesh out characters and give them understood motives.

However, one thing this film does well is presenting its trumped up, cliché version of witches.

Witches, after all, are feminine inspired fear incarnate. They are reflections of sin, and in The Witch we see three mirrors. The first mirror is mother Kate, her baby murdered in a scene so grotesquely the opposite of motherly care, it reads like the Hostel of American Witch film. The second mirror is a seductress for the oldest boy Caleb, aided in ogling his older sister by the camera repeatedly and obviously, because hey, he likes breasts. Finally, the patriarch William is murdered not by a witch, but by a new masculine power, Black Billy, who we can read as the Devil. There was something satisfying in his murder: he was the reason they were all out in the wilderness alone in the first place. Yet it is unconvincing that he was the root of all their sufferings given his ineffectiveness as a leader and general weakness beside the focal point of his wife. Also, the replacement of patriarchy with patriarchy reads like so many witch trial accusations of Puritan fathers versus Satan.

It would be easy to view these scenes as each protagonist individually snapping if it weren’t for so many witnesses in some central scenes. The Witch reads like two movies: One of visual horror, depicting in full grandeur the literary and oral traditions of decrepit European minds in religious frenzy, then one of psychological horror on the tolls of extreme piety and isolation. Instead, it mashes these together to legitimize the misogyny of historical witch trials.

The film can be described as The Crucible style witch trial pretending on the part of the young twins Mercy and Jonas confused by the Black Narcissus seduction by erotic wilderness. It would be a 1600s familial AntiChrist, flavored by Lovecraftian fear of the American backwoods if it weren’t for the sheer number of things we fear. The film reels too quickly from paranoia to solid evidence of evil to be effective; stabbing “show don’t tell” into bite-sized chunks for an audience not sure they’re really hungry.

The Kubrick-esque score does play beautifully when contrasted with the great stillness of the stunning forested vistas. But this is interrupted by every scene with human life where, boxed in and poorly protected by their wood constructions, they talk far too quietly and often incoherently.

The ending would be satisfying if any of it tied together, or any of the offerings made by our witch’s seducer had been touched on earlier in the story. Those hoping for a nuanced 1630s witch tale, beware: The Witch legitimizes fear of feminine sensuality while simplifying powerful female denizens to devil-worshiping pleasure-seekers.

This is a truly forgettable and not-good horror film that is frustrating in its potential. In case there was any hope the film is symbolic and not representative, writer/director Robert Eggers comes out with a clear message in the end, citing “historical witch trials” as a source.

See also at Bitch Flicks: ‘The Witch’ and Female Adolescence in Film

Josephine Maria Yanasak-Leszczynski is a museum educator by day (and often night), and a freelance writer every other time she manages to make a deadline. She can be found on Twitter at @JMYaLes.

Call For Writers: ‘Game of Thrones’

Season 6 of Game of Thrones launches in April, so it’s an apt time to really dig in and dissect this wildly popular show. As the show is so widely consumed and so influential, it’s important that we take a deeper look at the ways in which it subverts or reinforces our cultural norms.

Our theme week for April 2016 will be Game of Thrones.

Season 6 of Game of Thrones launches in April, so it’s an apt time to really dig in and dissect this wildly popular show. The talent of its cast and crew, the painstaking settings, the rich costuming, and the astronomical budget all contribute to making this show the success it is. However, to explain their love of GoT, many point to the depth of character development, the intrigue, the thoroughness of the worldbuilding, and the way the show keeps its audience constantly guessing. As the show is so widely consumed and so influential, it’s important that we take a deeper look at the ways in which it subverts or reinforces our cultural norms.

How does GoT represent its female characters, its sex workers, its characters of color, its marginalized characters? What does the show say about power and privilege? What does the show celebrate, critique, or elucidate? At its heart, why do people fanatically follow GoT?

We’d like to avoid as much overlap as possible for this theme, so get your proposals in early if you know which topic you’d like to write about. We accept both original pieces and cross-posts, and we respond to queries within a week.

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, 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 these submissions is Friday, April 22, 2016 by midnight Eastern Time.

Here are the articles we have published about Game of Thrones:

Women Directors Week: The Roundup

Check out all of the posts from our Women Directors Theme Week here.

Women with a Camera: How Women Directors Can Change the Cinematic Landscape by Emanuela Betti

What I saw… was the problem women have faced for centuries: the popularity of woman as art subject, not as creator. What critics and award judges seem to love are not so much women’s stories, but women’s stories told by men. Stories in which women’s agency is strictly and safely in the hands of a male auteurs. … We need more women filmmakers — not as a way to fill quotas, but because women’s stories are different, unique, and need to be told.

Why Eve’s Bayou Is a Great American Art Film by Amirah Mercer

The story of a family burdened by salacious and supernatural secrets in 1962 Louisiana, the movie has become one of the finer American films in the Southern gothic tradition; but with a Black director and an all-Black cast, Eve’s Bayou has been unceremoniously booted from its deserving recognition as the fantastic, moody art film it is.

Leigh Janiak’s Honeymoon as Feminist Horror by Dawn Keetley

The film thus brilliantly puts the everyday (marriage) on a continuum with the horrifying (possession?), connecting the problem of Bea’s troubled self-expression and containment, now that she’s married, to the later seemingly supernatural plot. … Are the seemingly supernatural elements of the plot symbolic of Bea’s struggles with intimacy and the weighty expectations of married domestic life (sex, cooking, and reproduction)? Janiak’s expert writing and directing definitely leaves open this possible subtext of the film…

When Love Looks Like Me: How Gina Prince-Bythewood Brought Real Love to the Big Screen by Shannon Miller

Gina Prince-Bythewood’s choice to center these themes around a young Black couple shouldn’t feel as revolutionary as it does. But when you consider that “universal” is too often conflated with “white,” Love & Basketball feels like such a turning point in the romance genre. It was certainly a turning point for me because, for a moment, Black love and romance, as told by Hollywood, weren’t mutually exclusive.

Sofia Coppola as Auteur: Historical Femininity and Agency in Marie Antoinette by Marlana Eck

Sofia Coppola’s film conveys, to me, a range of feminist concerns through history. Concerns of how much agency, even in a culture of affluence, women can wield given that so much of women’s lives are dictated by the structures of patriarchy.

The Gender Trap and Women Directors by Jenna Ricker

But, when was the last time ANYONE sat down to write a story, or direct a project and asked themselves — Is this story masculine or feminine? Exactly none, I suspect. … Storytellers tell stories, audiences engage, the formula is quite simple. But, it only works one way — male filmmakers are able to make any film they want without biased-loaded gender questions, whereas women filmmakers always face more scrutiny and criticism.

Individuality in Lucia Puenzo’s XXY, The Fish Child, and The German Doctor by Sara Century

In the end, it is this focus on individuality that is the most striking common theme of Lucia Puenzo’s works. Each of her characters undergoes intense scrutiny from outside forces, be it Alex in ‘XXY’ for their gender, Lala in ‘The Fish Child’ for her infatuation with Ailin, or Lilith from ‘The German Doctor,’ who is quite literally forced into a physical transformation by a Nazi.

Andrea Arnold: A Voice for the Working Class Women of Britain by Sophie Hall

British director/screenwriter Andrea Arnold has three short films and three feature films under her belt, and four out of six of those center on working class people. … [The characters in Fish Tank, Wasp, Red Road, and Wuthering Heights] venture off away from the preconceived notions they have been given, away from the stereotypes forced upon them, and the boxes society has trapped them in.

Susanne Bier’s Living, Breathing Body of Work by Sonia Lupher

Women consistently make good films around the world, even if we have to look outside Hollywood to find them. Susanne Bier is one powerful example. Her vivid, probing explorations into family dynamics and tenuous relationships are fiercely suggestive marks of a female auteur that deserves recognition.

No Apologies: The Ambition of Gillian Armstrong and My Brilliant Career by Rebecca Hirsch Garcia

However, Armstrong also doesn’t mock Sybylla’s ambition or treat it as a joke. In Armstrong’s world, the fact that Sybylla has desires and wants outside of marriage and men is treated seriously because Sybylla takes it seriously. She never needs to prove herself worthy enough for her desires. … [She is] a woman who bravely acts according to her own desires, someone willing to risk everything in order to have what she wants and who recognizes that men and romance are not the sum total of her world.

OMG a Vagina: The Struggle for Artistic The Struggle for Feminine Artistic Integrity in Kimberly Peirce’s Carrie by Horrorella

Carrie is a terrifying and compelling story, but there is certainly something to be gained and perhaps a certain truth to be found in watching the pain of her journey into womanhood as told by a woman director. … But even in the face of these small victories, we have to wonder how the film would have been different had Peirce been allowed to tell this story without being inhibited by the fear and discomfort of the male voices around her.

Kathryn Bigelow’s Near Dark: Busting Stereotypes and Drawing Blood by Lee Jutton

Both brutally violent and shockingly sexy, Near Dark’s influence can be felt nearly thirty years later on a new crop of unusual vampire dramas that simultaneously embrace and reject the conventions of the genre. … Yet among all these films about outsiders, Near Dark will always have a special place in my heart for being the one to show me that as a filmmaker, I was not alone in the world after all.

Fangirls, It’s Time to #AskForMore by Alyssa Franke

In the battle to address the staggering gender gap in women directing for film and television, there is one huge untapped resource — the passion and organizing power of fangirls.

Euzhan Palcy’s A Dry White Season: Black Lives in a White Season by Shara D. Taylor

It is doubtful that anyone else could have made A Dry White Season as poignantly relevant as Euzhan Palcy did. Her eye for the upending effects of apartheid on Black families brings their grievances to bear. … The meaning behind Palcy’s work resounds clearly: Black lives matter in 1976 South Africa as they do in 2016 America.

Why Desperately Seeking Susan Is One of My Favorite Films by Alex Kittle

The character was created to be an icon, a model for Roberta and other women like her, an image to hold in our heads of what life could be like if we just unleashed our inner pop star. But she’s also real enough that it feels like you might spot her in a hip nightclub, dancing uninhibited and having more fun than anyone else there just because she’s being herself.

Movie You Need to Be Talking About: Advantageous by Candice Frederick

Directed and co-written by Jennifer Phang, Advantageous is a surprisingly touching and purposeful film that revitalizes certain elements of the sci-fi genre while presenting two powerful voices in women filmmakers: Jennifer Phang and Jacqueline Kim.

Concussion: When Queer Marriage in the Suburbs Isn’t Enough by Ren Jender

The queer women we see in sexual situations in Concussion are not cut from the same Playboy-ready cloth as the two women in Blue is the Warmest Color: one client is fat, another is an obvious real-life survivor of breast cancer and some of her clients, like Eleanor herself, are nowhere near their 20s anymore.

I’m a Lilly – And You’re Probably One Too: All Women Face Gender Discrimination by Rachel Feldman

Another obstacle to getting Ledbetter made is the industry’s perception of my value as the film’s director. There are certainly a handful of women directors whose identities are well known, but generally, even colleagues in our industry, when asked, can only name a handful of female directors. Of course, there are thousands of amazingly talented women directing; in fact there are 1,350 experienced women directors in our Guild, but for the vast majority of us our credits are devalued and we struggle to be seen and heard – just like Lilly.

Making a Murderer, Fantastic Lies, and the Uneasy Exculpation Narratives by Women Directors by Eva Phillips

What is most remarkable and perhaps most subversively compelling about both ‘Making a Murderer’ and ‘Fantastic Lies,’ and about the intentions and directorial choices of their respective creators, is that neither documentary endeavor chronicles the sagas of particularly defensible — or even, to some, at all likable — men.

Lena Dunham and the Creator’s “Less-Than-Perfect” Body On-Screen by Sarah Halle Corey

Every time someone calls to question the fact that Lena Dunham parades her rolls of fat in front of her audience, we need to examine why they’re questioning it. Is it because they’re wondering how it serves the narrative of ‘Girls’? Or is it because they’re balking at “less-than-perfection” (according to normative societal conventions) in the female form?

Female Becomingness Through Maya Deren’s Lens in Meshes of the Afternoon by Allie Gemmill

Her most famous work, Meshes of the Afternoon becomes, in this way, a reading of a woman working with and against herself through splitting into multiple iterations of herself. Most importantly, the film unpacks the notion that not only is the dream-landscape of a woman complex, it is bound tightly to her, defining who she is and guiding her constantly through the world like a compass.

Kelly Reichardt’s Wendy and Lucy: Heartbreak in a Panning Shot by ThoughtPusher

Through the course of the film, Kelly Reichardt’s pacing is so deliberate that even the most ordinary moments seem intensely significant. Reichardt’s framing traps Wendy in shots as much as her broken-down car and lack of money trap her in the town.

Sofia Coppola and The Silent Woman by Paulette Reynolds

Many films touch upon the theme of female isolation, but I remain fascinated with Sofia Coppola’s three major cinematic creations that explore the world of The Silent Woman: The Virgin Suicides, Lost in Translation, and Marie Antoinette (2006). Each film delves into this enigma, forming a multifaceted frame of reference for a shared understanding.

The Anti-Celebrity Cinema of Mary Harron: I Shot Andy Warhol, The Notorious Bettie Page, and The Anna Nicole Story by Elizabeth Kiy

I’ve always thought Mary Harron’s work was the perfect example of why we need female directors. I think the films she produces provide a perspective we would never see in a world unilaterally controlled by male filmmakers. Harron appears to specialize in off-beat character studies of the types of people a male director may not gravitate towards, nor treat with appropriate gravitas. She treats us to humanizing takes on sex workers and sex symbols, angry lesbians and radical feminism and makes them hard to turn away from.

How Women Directors Turn Narrative on Its Head by Laura Power

Marielle Heller (The Diary of a Teenage Girl), Miranda July (Me and You and Everyone We Know), and the women directors of Jane the Virgin are infusing elements of whimsy into their work in strikingly different ways, but to similar effect. The styles they’re using affect the audience’s relationship with their stories and with the characters themselves by giving the viewer an insight that traditional narratives don’t provide.

Wadjda: Empowering Voices and Challenging Patriarchy by Sarah Mason

Haifaa al-Mansour casts an eye onto the complexity of navigating an autocratic patriarchal society in Wadjda. This bold voice from Saudi Arabia continues to empower voices globally.

Mary Harron’s American Psycho: Rogue Feminism by Dr. Stefan Sereda

American Psycho fails the Bechdel Test. … The script, co-written by Guinevere Turner and Mary Harron, eschews any appeal to women’s empowerment. … When the leading man isn’t laughing at remarks from serial killers about decapitating girls, he’s coming after sex workers with chainsaws (at least in his head). Yet American Psycho espouses a feminist perspective that fillets the values held by capitalist men.

21 Short Films by Women Directors by Film School Shorts

For Women’s History Month, we’ve put together a playlist of 21 of those films for your viewing pleasure. As you’ll see, no two of these shorts are alike. They deal with topics like autism, racism, sexism, losing a loved one and trying to fit in and find yourself at any age.

Evolution in Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis and Chicken With Plums by Colleen Clemens

In a similar way to Marji (Persepolis), Nasser (Chicken with Plums) must be sent far away to have his journey of becoming. There is something in him — talent — that requires he must go beyond his home. But whereas in Marji’s case she must go away to protect herself, Nasser must go away so he can grow, get bigger and fuller and richer.

Vintage Viewing: Alice Guy-Blaché, Gender-Bending Pioneer by Brigit McCone

When was the last time we watched vintage female-authored films and discussed their art or meaning? Bitch Flicks presents Vintage Viewing — a monthly feature for viewing and discussing the films of cinema’s female pioneers. Where better to start than history’s first film director, Alice Guy-Blaché?

Leigh Janiak’s ‘Honeymoon’ as Feminist Horror

This guest post written by Dawn Keetley appears as part of our theme week on Women Directors.

Although their numbers appear to be on the rise, women directors of horror are still relatively scarce. I’m always excited, then, when I can add another film to the growing list of exceptional horror films directed by a woman, a list that includes Kathryn Bigelow’s Near Dark (1987), Mary Lambert’s Pet Sematary (1989), Mary Harron’s American Psycho (2000), Lynne Ramsay’s We Need to Talk About Kevin (2011), Jen and Sylvia Soska’s American Mary (2012), Jennifer Kent’s The Babadook (2014), and Karyn Kusama’s Jennifer’s Body (2009) along with her even better The Invitation (2015).

Leigh Janiak’s Honeymoon (2014), which is currently streaming on Netflix, unambiguously belongs on that list. As well as directing the film, Janiak also co-wrote it, with Phil Graziadei.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5iZLPNFWLxk

The film focuses on a recently and (seemingly) happily-married couple, Bea (Rose Leslie) and Paul (Harry Treadaway), who are heading on a delayed honeymoon to the cottage in the woods where Bea grew up. Things go swimmingly until Paul discovers one night that Bea is gone. He eventually finds her (in a highly creepy moment) standing in the woods, in a state of dazed and virtual unconsciousness (think Katie in Paranormal Activity, although it’s even more unsettling since Bea and Paul are deep in the woods, not on a suburban patio). The couple writes the strange event off to sleepwalking — albeit with a hefty dose of anxious self-deception, since Bea has never walked in her sleep before.

From that night on, though, Bea’s behavior becomes increasingly strange. She’s withdrawn, silent, wanders off, and scribbles obsessively in her journal. And she starts to change: she uses words that aren’t quite right (saying she’s going to “take a sleep” rather than “take a nap”). She is apparently unable to remember things about herself, about Paul, and about their relationship. And Paul overhears her practicing ways to tell him she doesn’t want to have sex. Shortly after, events spiral into the horrific.

It’s never completely clear what happens to Bea, and Janiak brilliantly keeps that question open by evoking several possibilities, not least through covert references to other horror films. Since Bea’s strange behavior begins after she and Paul meet a man from her past, it seems at first that this could be an adultery film (Unfaithful, 2002). Or is it a possession film (The Shining, 1980, Paranormal Activity, 2007)? An alien film (Invasion of the Body Snatchers, 1956, and the recent They Look Like People, 2015)? A zombie/infection film (The Evil Dead, 1981, Cabin Fever, 2002, or Severed, 2005)? I thought of all these possibilities at different moments, prompted by the film’s rich suggestiveness.

There are also definite hints in Honeymoon of Rosemary’s Baby (1968) and The Stepford Wives (1975), both films about paranoia and violence within a seemingly banal domesticity. Janiak’s camera, along with the screenplay, creates a stifling claustrophobia around Bea and Paul as they head off into the woods alone together, the drive overlaid with voiceovers of stories about their first date and their wedding, all signaling an extreme insularity. Indeed, the film starts with a shot of Bea recording herself (somewhat unwillingly) on camera at their wedding, saying: “I guess I’m the first one to do this. I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to say. I’m now a wife.” These opening lines of the film link her becoming “wife” (about which Bea herself seems incredulous) to an inability to speak, as if marriage has silenced her — and certainly, whatever happens to her later in the woods (is it just her honeymoon, in the end?) disrupts her ability to speak even more violently. As Bea speaks (or tries to) at the beginning, she is visually confined by a camera, by the car, and by the stark lines of roads, overpasses, and trees. The film thus brilliantly puts the everyday (marriage) on a continuum with the horrifying (possession?), connecting the problem of Bea’s troubled self-expression and containment, now that she’s married, to the later seemingly supernatural plot.

Once they get to the cottage, cracks soon surface in Bea and Paul’s marriage — tellingly, around the issue of babies. After their first night together, Paul tells Bea that she needs to “rest her womb,” a strange comment to which Rose reacts badly, saying she isn’t sure she wants a baby. Paul’s comment, which seems to surprise both of them, and which is clearly precipitated by the fact that they are now married, tellingly anticipates all the strange things Rose will say once she is “possessed” (or whatever it is that happens to her). Janiak suggests, more than once then, that perhaps it is marriage that is an utterly alien state.

It also becomes clear that Bea and Paul have some profound differences: Bea hunts, fishes and embraces the outdoors, and Paul seems more comfortable in the cabin. His constant closeness to her in the many interior scenes seems oppressive, seems to exert a pressure on her to stay with him, indoors. Indeed, the viewer soon senses that the claustrophobia we feel about their relationship (well, I certainly did) may well be shared by Bea.

The claustrophobia that infuses the film, and the sense that Bea is not immune to its grasp, is intensified by one of the clearest intertextual references in the film: Bea starts writing her name and her husband’s name (“My name is Bea,” “My husband’s name is Paul”) over and over in her journal, and the evocation of The Shining is clear, specifically Jack Nicholson’s character slowly losing his grasp on reality when trapped in a snow-bound hotel with his wife and son and with the demands his family inevitably imposes. Bea’s repetitive writing of her husband’s name, and things about their relationship, moreover, mimics the way, early in the film, they had told stories about their relationship, pushing what might have seemed benign in the beginning into the realm of something more disturbing. Bea seems to be trying to paper over the cracks, to convince herself she’s something (“wife”) that deep down she doesn’t want to be.

This is where The Stepford Wives in particular comes in: are the seemingly supernatural elements of the plot symbolic of Bea’s struggles with intimacy and the weighty expectations of married domestic life (sex, cooking, and reproduction)? Janiak’s expert writing and directing definitely leaves open this possible subtext of the film — especially given what happens at the end.
The ending, which I won’t give away, draws on several scenes in the film in which rope figures prominently, as Bea and Paul take turns tying each other up for various reasons. The meanings of these scenes increasingly turns toward the sinister, from play toward overt entrapment. While it’s Bea who gets tied up at first, the tables are turned at the end in ways that could be expressing desires that Bea may not have allowed herself consciously to feel, and that are expressed instead through the plot of her “possession.”

The use of ropes in the film actually reminded me of the late nineteenth-century short story, “The Yellow Wallpaper,” by feminist writer Charlotte Perkins Gilman. In this story, the narrator, who has just given birth, is forced to “rest” in bed by her physician-husband (just as Paul tells Bea to “rest her womb”), and the coerced and numbing inactivity of body and mind impels the narrator into madness (raising another possibility for what happens to Bea). At the end of the story, the narrator ties herself up with a rope and is creeping around her room, a scene so horrifying to her husband that he faints. In Gilman’s story, the rope (as well as the entrapping room itself) represents the confines of patriarchal marriage — and I would argue that uses rope very much the same way, although the film’s final instance of someone getting tied up pretty much completely inverts Gilman’s ending.

The weight of this film rests on its two actors, who are virtually alone, with the fleeting (albeit important) appearance of a man from Bea’s past and his wife. Rose Leslie and Harry Treadaway are both absolutely sensational, superbly carrying this weight. Leslie does a fantastic job of expressing a sense of disquiet (in her marriage) well before things turn toward the truly strange — and Treadaway is great at expressing the kind of unambiguous, puppy-dog adoration — the desire never to let his wife out of his sight — that undoubtedly produces Bea’s ambivalence.

While what happens to Rose and Paul may in the end be about forces beyond their control, like every good horror film, Honeymoon exploits the cracks in “normality” before the truly uncanny erupts. Janiak (whose previous credits as director include only a couple of TV episodes) both knows good horror films (referencing them throughout) and knows how to make one.

I should add that it seems Sony has tapped Janiak to direct and co-write (along with Graziadei, her partner from Honeymoon) the upcoming remake of the 1996 cult hit, The Craft. As The Hollywood Reporter points out:

“The news of a female director coming on board to direct a female-centric feature project is welcome news to Hollywood, as it breaks after the studios have come under fire from the American Civil Liberties Union for ‘systemic failure to hire women directors at all levels of the film and television industry.’ Janiak’s hiring was already weeks in the works; the filmmaker impressed execs with her take on a female empowerment tale.”

Like The Craft, I think Honeymoon, too, is a “female empowerment tale,” as well as an extremely good horror tale. Leigh Janiak is definitely a director to look out for!

This post is revised and expanded from a review that appeared on a blog Dawn Keetley co-runs, about all things horror Horror Homeroom. She also teaches gothic and horror literature, film, and TV at Lehigh University in PA and has edited a collection of essays on The Walking Dead entitled We’re All Infected (McFarland, 2014).

Lena Dunham and the Creator’s “Less-Than-Perfect” Body On-Screen

This guest post written by Sarah Halle Corey appears as part of our theme week on Women Directors.

A lot has been said about Lena Dunham’s body. So much has been said, in fact, that upon a simple Google search of “lena dunham body,” I was overwhelmed with viable links to embed in this post. There are articles praising her positive body image and sharing of TMI, and other articles disparaging her for showing so much flabby skin, and even more articles questioning if we should even be talking about her body at all.

Dunham created and stars in the series Girls, a show on which she often presents her own naked body. She’s appeared naked on-screen countless times throughout the series’ five season run, and often in hyper-realistic situations: awkward sex, rolling out of bed in the morning, etc. And every time, Dunham’s “less-than-perfect” (according to normative societal conventions) body is showcased. It’s not uncommon for nudity to be a hot topic among media pundits and amateur critics alike. How much is too much? How much is too little? How does it serve the story? So when a supposed “less-than-perfect” naked body like Dunham’s is presented, it’s outside the norm and people rush to comment all the more because of that.

It makes sense that people love to discuss the bodies of actors: their bodies are displayed in front of us, something to observe and interpret just like the the sets and camera angles that are also presented on screen. Each frame of a movie or TV show is filled with choices that the director made, choices that the director wants the audience to see and connect to some meaning or vision. But what happens when the director makes herself – her body, specifically – one of those on-screen choices?

Every time someone calls to question the fact that Dunham parades her rolls of fat in front of her audience, we need to examine why they’re questioning it. Is it because they’re wondering how it serves the narrative of Girls? Or is it because they’re balking at “less-than-perfection” in the female form? These two issues often get conflated.

And then, when Dunham goes to defend her choice, she often needs to approach it from both perspectives. Dunham is both the creator and the creation itself, the sculptor and the slab of marble. So, not only must she defend the creative choice as a director, but also the existence of her own “less-than-perfect” body as a woman. Her defense is both an artistic one and a personal one.

In a way, Dunham’s predicament is representative of a lot of defenses that women creators find themselves being forced to make. Often times, female creators are seen as women first, creators second. The fact that Dunham puts her body, and thus a part of her womanhood, at the forefront of her art, just makes the defense all the more blatant for her. Women directors often need to take a stand to justify their art, and for Dunham that includes her body too.

By combining the director and her work into one, Dunham simply crystallizes the power of the creator in connection to her creation. Art is personal, and no one exemplifies that more than Lena Dunham.

Sarah Halle Corey is a writer, filmmaker, and digital content creator who produces work about pop culture, feminism, feelings, and everything in between. You can find her work at sarahhallecorey.com. Sarah is usually drinking way too much coffee and/or tweeting @SarahHalleCorey.