This is a guest post by Dena Afrasiabi.
It’s tempting to try to fit Desiree Akhavan’s unique and hilarious first feature, Appropriate Behavior, into the appropriate box. In the age of tagging and buzzwords, a film of its kind lends itself to a plethora of catchy categories: Iranian, Brooklynite, lesbian, coming of age, categories that have never all been represented on the same screen at the same time. Add to that some awkward (i.e. realistic) sex scenes and it’s no wonder that so many reviewers have described Akhavan as the bisexual Iranian version of Lena Dunham. Or is it? Upon reading other articles on the film, as well as interviews with Akhavan, on the topic, it becomes glaringly apparent that the comparisons say a lot less about the film or about Akhavan as an artist than they do about the relationship between the media and women artists of color. Granted, Akhavan and Dunham do share some surface similarities: both filmmakers are young women, both make work set in Brooklyn that features flawed (i.e. real), intelligent female characters, characters who harbor real desires, make real mistakes and find themselves in real, awkward, often cringe-worthy sexual encounters. And in all fairness, the comparison is certainly a flattering one, as Akahavan herself has acknowledged.
Nor is Akhavan the first filmmaker or writer to be compared to Dunham. Both Greta Gerwig, writer and star of Frances Ha and Gillian Robespierre, the director of Obvious Child, have also held the somewhat dubious honor, one that’s apparently granted to any talented young female filmmaker who makes a funny film about a smart woman who lives in Brooklyn and doesn’t have her life all figured out by her mid-20s. Indeed, linking filmmakers to one another seems to be a favored pastime of film critics. Dunham herself has oft been dubbed the new Woody Allen. And the interwebs does yield its share of comparisons between male filmmakers as well (Paul Thomas Anderson has been compared to Quentin Tarantino, Tarantino to Scorcese, Judd Appatow and Ed Burns to Woody Allen). But these linkages occur much less frequently and carry less weight than comparisons between female filmmakers, and especially the ubiquitous comparisons between Akhavan and Dunham.
Great artists locate themselves in a tradition. Most filmmakers, including Allen himself, are quick to name their biggest influences. But the above-mentioned comparisons point to something more than just the creation of a genealogy. They reek of a tokenism that only makes room for one successful woman at a time and that fosters acceptance for women of color by linking them to their white counterparts. This tokenism diminishes or even erases the nuances of these filmmakers’ distinct voices and minimizes the range and complexity of experiences they convey.
What’s more, to understand Appropriate Behavior as the bisexual Iranian version of someone else’s work would be to miss the point of the film entirely. While on the surface, the film is about a bisexual Iranian American coming to terms with a breakup and with the messiness of her sexuality, it’s really a film about identity, about what it means not to take the easy way out by shaving off or hiding the parts of yourself that don’t fit into a neat package. By failing, spectacularly, to fit, the film, like its main character, becomes something more than the sum of its seemingly discordant parts, something entirely of its own.
The film’s narrative follows Shirin (Desiree Akahavan), a 20-something bisexual Iranian American living in Park Slope whose barely held together life is coming apart at the seams. She and her girlfriend, Maxine (Rebecca Henderson), have just broken up, sending Shireen out of Park Slope domestic bliss and into a self-destructive spiral inside a dark and cluttered apartment in Bushwick that she shares with a hipster artist couple who look like they just walked off the set of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. She quits her job at the Brooklyn Paper, where she has been replaced as the token Middle Easterner by a Syrian woman whose Syrianness is more exciting to her coworkers than Shirin’s more understated Iranianness and goes to work as a teacher for an after-school filmmaking class full of Park Slope toddlers more interested in eating their cameras than shooting precocious art films she imagines them making. As Shirin deals with her grief over the breakup, we learn of the relationship through a series of bittersweet flashbacks—that’s right, Annie Hall style. In one scene, Shirin and Maxine meet on a stoop just before midnight on New Year’s Eve, where they bond over their mutual disdain (“I hate so many things, too” Shirin tells her, just before their first kiss). In another, they make the romantic discovery while smoking pot together for the first time that they’re “the same type of high person.” The romance quickly unravels, however, as Shirin and Maxine repeatedly butt heads over Shirin’s unwillingness to come out to her socially conservative Iranian parents (Hooman Majd and Anh Duong).
Throughout the film, we watch Shirin repeatedly fail to fulfill the expectations of those around her. She doesn’t embody Maxine’s idea of the right kind of lesbian, one who reads queer studies classics like Stone Butch Blues, embraces gay activism with earnest enthusiasm and wears her sexuality as a badge. Nor does she fit her family’s definition of the right kind of Iranian offspring, by contrast to her successful doctor brother (Arian Moayed) or his polished Iranian fiancée (Justine Cotsonas), who performs reconstructive surgery on pediatric burn victims. She also fails to be the right kind of Iranian in the eyes of Park Slope’s upper middle class liberals, who expect her to be one of the hip young Tehranis they read about in the Times. When asked by her new boss (Scott Adsit) if she’s part of the underground hip-hop scene in Tehran, she answers, “I spend most of time in Iran watching Disney videos with my grandmother while she untangles jewelry.” The slapstick film she makes with her class also clashes hilariously with Park Slope’s collective Disney-like fantasy of a harmonious multicultural world, epitomized by her bohemian coworker, Tibet (Rosalie Lowe), who attends West African dance classes religiously and makes a film featuring white and African American children poetically climbing trees. Shirin’s eventual coming out to her mother, too, defies expectations of the genre with its quiet ambiguity. “Mom, I’m a little bit gay,” Shirin tells her mother one night at her parents’ New Jersey home. And rather than set off a show of hysterics or threats to ship her off to Iran or to straight camp, her mother meets this confession with a simple dismissal, the tip of a cultural iceberg that alludes to beliefs and attitudes that will not melt overnight. It’s such moments of ambiguity that set Akhavan apart as a filmmaker, moments that can’t be separated from her unique vantage point and that get lost in the Dunham comparisons and the branding.
What makes the story so resonant is that Shirin doesn’t ever tie up her identity’s loose ends. A lesser film may have shown the protagonist reaching an epiphany of self-acceptance or end with a celebration of her sexuality or of her identity as an immigrant. Instead, the film vividly details Shirin’s loneliness and discomfort (albeit with much hilarity) as she stumbles from one awkward discovery to another and eventually into a more honest self while also acknowledging, in its own subtle way, the empowerment that comes with resisting the pressure to wrap your identity around any one thing, be it your sexuality or your ethnicity or the neighborhood where you live. This isn’t to say the film is a Song of Myself celebration of American individualism. She doesn’t receive a trophy at the end for “being herself.” Shirin doesn’t defy categorization to make a point or prove herself; she does so because it’s ultimately the only way she knows how to be, a way of being that comes at its own price but whose benefits far outweigh the cost of self-erasure.
Like Shirin, who finally comes into her own by the film’s end through her inability to meet other’s expectations of her identity, it’s Akhavan’s deft and nuanced, not to mention hysterically funny, chronicling of this journey that makes her a filmmaker bound to defy and surpass the already high expectations of her future work—and perhaps in this one sense, it is fair to say she does have something in common with Lena Dunham, a.k.a the straight white Desiree Akhavan.
Dena Afrasiabi is the co-editor of the literary magazine Elsewhere Lit. Her fiction has appeared in Kartika Review, JMWW and Prick of the Spindle. She resides in Austin, Texas and sometimes vents or raves about films here.
