In so many ways, this film reflects the current moment, while also highlighting how things have and have not changed since the King family and their allies risked their lives to secure rights for all. Scenes in the film will jolt you into the present: watching Jimmie Lee Jackson’s mother grieve in 1965 for the son she will never see again made me immediately think of the family of Tamir Rice, the young black boy who was murdered by police officers this year for toting a toy gun in Ohio. ‘Selma’ is now.
This guest post by Nijla Mu’min previously appeared at Bitch Media and is cross-posted with permission.
Historical dramas often stick to a tried-and-true formula: Important figures face struggles, then they triumph, becoming the great people we know today. We can usually count on a scene from their conflicted childhood, scenes showing their romantic troubles, any issues with drugs or alcohol, and how they persevered through it all to deliver whatever divine message or artistic gift they possessed.
Ava DuVernay’s new Martin Luther King Jr. biopic, Selma, avoids this formula—much to its benefit. It is one of the most effective, well-crafted historical biopics that I’ve ever seen because it goes off the traditional narrative about the Civil Rights Movement, giving us a moment in history that feels immediately familiar to the moment we are currently living in.
Selma captures the tireless efforts of Martin Luther King Jr. and a group of black activists attempting to secure equal voting rights for black people. These efforts led to the passage of the 1965 Voting Rights Act, signed into law by President Lyndon B. Johnson. The film takes its name from the series of marches that King and his followers embarked on at the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama. One of those marches was infamously known as “Bloody Sunday,” after police and deputized locals descended on the protesters with nightsticks and tear gas. DuVernay and Director of Photography Bradford Young capture that march in all its terror in a scene where young and elderly marchers are clubbed and chased by angry police on horses. Selma certainly doesn’t cast the history of the Civil Rights Movement in feel-good soft focus.
In a recent interview I conducted with DuVernay, she discussed the way she approached the humanity of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., including his suspected infidelity. She was most interested in how this information affected his wife, Coretta Scott King, and how Martin Luther King would respond in the moment when questioned by Coretta. This emphasis on the intimacy in their relationship, rather than the scandal that the FBI sought to publicize, is something that informs the core of the film.
DuVernay is not interested in showing us montages of the unfaithful hero, his mistress, and the scorned wife, as was done in Mandela: Long Walk to Freedom. She is interested in the complex spaces of love and pain between two people. Coretta Scott King, played with an uncanny resemblance by Carmen Ejogo, takes on a central role in this film, not only as a wife and mother, but as a key player in the movement as she faces daily death threats made against her and her family. The attention and specificity paid to her character and her relationship to King is another gift that DuVernay brings to this film.
Further, there are so many ways this film could’ve become an extension of the Hallmark image that we see of Martin Luther King Jr., one that replays the same “I Have a Dream Speech” and tells us that nonviolence is the only way. While those elements are important, they are often overemphasized at the expense of the other work he did.
That is where Selma fills in the blanks. In this film, we get to know a methodical, intelligent, human Martin Luther King Jr; a man who just wanted to sit down at the end of the day and smoke a cigarette, or call Mahalia Jackson in the middle of the night to hear her sing a soothing gospel song. In the film, he invokes nonviolence but also cleverly provokes outward hatred in his opponents, helping people around the world witness this physical racism in the media. His tactics were risky, his negotiations with the likes of LBJ were grueling, and he was often put in positions of extreme discomfort, along with the many people he worked with.
This is not a film about a man and his followers, but about how a man’s work is informed by the respect he has for the people he works with—and even those he doesn’t. It reflects the movement by emphasizing distinct traits in each of the civil rights leaders it documents, from the youthful resistance of Jimmie Lee Jackson (played powerfully by Keith Stanfield), to the gentle persistence of Malcolm X (Nigel Thatch), who appeals to Coretta Scott King in a beautifully rendered scene. That scene and others completely reverse the rhetoric we’ve been fed about who these people were. The warring ideals between Malcolm and Martin aren’t the focus of this narrative, but rather how Malcolm X may have actually intentionally pushed many black people to follow Martin Luther King Jr., helping to strengthen the movement after all. Again, DuVernay utilized Coretta Scott King in a way that shows her role in the movement beyond being a supportive wife. She serves as a sort of peacemaker here.
In so many ways, this film reflects the current moment, while also highlighting how things have and have not changed since the King family and their allies risked their lives to secure rights for all. Scenes in the film will jolt you into the present: watching Jimmie Lee Jackson’s mother grieve in 1965 for the son she will never see again made me immediately think of the family of Tamir Rice, the young black boy who was murdered by police officers this year for toting a toy gun in Ohio. Selma is now. It lets us into the interior spaces of pain, progress, and movement that no formulaic historical drama could ever capture.
Selma opened Christmas Day in Los Angeles, New York City, Washington, DC, and Atlanta. It opens nationwide Jan. 9.
So what can women do about these smear campaigns directed at films by women? Go see films directed by women, support these filmmakers any way you can, whether it’s by filling theaters or participating in social media campaigns. We may not be able to change Academy voters’ minds, but we can continue drawing attention to gender disparities and focus on the positive changes.
This guest post by Lauren Byrd previously appeared at her blog and is cross-posted with permission.
Oscar nominations haven’t been announced yet, but there’s already a campaign to dethrone an Oscar hopeful. Selma, directed by Ava DuVernay, is a solid choice for film critics (100 percent on Rotten Tomatoes), but in the weeks following its release, the film has come up against criticism for its portrayal of President Lyndon B. Johnson.
During a time when the holiday season detracts from awards season, historians and former members of the Johnson administration voiced their concerns with the film.
Three days before the film’s release, Mark K. Updegrove, the director of the Lyndon B. Johnson Library and Museum in Austin, Texas, wrote a piece in Politico, titled, “What Selma Gets Wrong”:
In the film, President Johnson resists King’s pressure to sign a voting rights bill, which—according to the movie’s take—is getting in the way of dozens of other Great Society legislative priorities. Indeed, Selma’s obstructionist LBJ is devoid of any palpable conviction on voting rights. Vainglorious and power hungry, he unleashes his zealous pit bull, FBI chief J. Edgar Hoover, on King, who is determined to march in protest from Selma to Montgomery despite LBJ’s warning that it will be “open season” on the protesters. This characterization of the 36th president flies in the face of history. In truth, the partnership between LBJ and MLK on civil rights is one of the most productive and consequential in American history.
Updegrove makes his argument about what is and isn’t right about this portrayal, but what the articles about the “Selma controversy” in The New York Times, The Wrap, and other media sites haven’t mentioned is that Updegrove also states that much of the film is correct and an accurate portrayal of the events of that time.
A former aide to Johnson Joseph A. Califano, Jr., wrote a similar piece in The Washington Post and on New Year’s Eve, The New York Times highlighted the charges of inaccuracy against the film in a piece by Jennifer Schuessler, which quoted several LBJ focused authors and historians.
Ava DuVernay on set of Selma
DuVernay isn’t standing silently in the face of the recent criticism. In a recent interview with Rolling Stone, she said, “I wasn’t interested in making a white-savior movie; I was interested in making a movie centered on the people of Selma.”
It’s hard not to compare the sudden firestorm of controversy surrounding a potential Oscar hopeful to the controversy in the 2013 Oscar season that befell Kathryn Bigelow’s Zero Dark Thirty.The debate about that particular film was based on its portrayal of torture and whether the film showed enhanced interrogation techniques producing intelligence that led to Osama bin Laden. Many journalists who had covered the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, as well as national security, thought the film glorified torture, while film critics classified the film as an accurate depiction of the dark decisions made by the U.S. government during the murkiness of the post-9/11 decade.
It’s even more difficult not to note that both these films are directed by women. While questions about accuracy were also brought up about Lincoln during the 2013 awards season, which was directed by a man Steven Spielberg, the backlash against Zero Dark Thirty drowned out any questions around Spielberg’s film. As a result, Bigelow did not receive a Best Director nomination while Spielberg did. The inaccuracies in Argo, of which there were many, were not as widely discussed, and both Ben Affleck and the film went on to win Oscars.
Selma
This year, another film directed by a man, Bennett Miller’s Foxcatcher, has recently undergone criticism from Mark Schultz, one of the brothers whom the film is based on. But FlavorWire has already written a piece defending the film against Schultz’s remarks.
Compared to Foxcatcher, which has been in theaters since November, the controversy around Selma has received more media play and it’s possible the charges of inaccuracies from historians will affect how future audiences view the film. (It opens nationwide on Friday.)
These smear campaigns against films helmed by women are yet another sign of the disparity of the treatment of men and women in the film industry. So are these smear campaigns a gender issue or simply a coincidence?
As someone who knows enough about the industry to know that the Academy Awards are certainly not based on merit or artistry, but rather on money and publicity, it was still hard to believe smear campaigns were a reality until the 2013 Oscar race when Zero Dark Thirty‘s awards season chances quickly diminish.
Kathryn Bigelow moderating a Q&A with Ava DuVernay after a screening of Selma
So what can women do about these smear campaigns directed at films by women? Go see films directed by women, support these filmmakers any way you can, whether it’s by filling theaters or participating in social media campaigns. We may not be able to change Academy voters’ minds, but we can continue drawing attention to gender disparities and focus on the positive changes. Michelle MacLaren directing Wonder Woman, for instance.
While it’s unclear what effect the controversy will have on Selma and DuVernay’s Oscar chances, let’s hope that in the future, audiences and Academy voters learn how to think for themselves rather than be carried away by the most recent awards season smear campaign. Man or woman.
Lauren Byrd has a master’s degree from Syracuse University’s Newhouse School. She’s worked in television and recently worked as part of the education team at Brave New Films.
Women in films are even less likely to engage in this kind of dispirited struggle. Instead an actress usually plays the wife, mother, or girlfriend whose job it is to be “strong” and rub the hero’s back while he battles against his own obstacles. She talks reassuringly to him whenever he doubts himself, the exact same way Sandra’s husband does with her here.
In one of the first scenes of Two Days, One Night, the newest release from the Belgian writer-directors Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne, we see the main character Sandra (played by a dressed-down Marion Cotillard) receive some bad news on the phone. She says out loud to herself afterward, “Don’t cry.”
Sandra, we later find out, has been on sick leave from her job for the past few months because of clinical depression. The phone call is from her friend at work, Juliette (Catherine Salée), who tells her that the rest of the laborers at their place of employment (which seems to be a small manufacturer of solar panels) have voted to accept a €1,000 bonus (about $1,200), which the foreman has offered in exchange for their agreement to lay Sandra off (Western Europe: a fairytale land where a boss asks his workers for permission to lay off their colleague–and offers them money to do so). The overwhelming majority of the workers (all but two of the 16 of them) have voted against her.
Juliette tells Sandra the foreman has misled the others into thinking if they didn’t agree to get rid of Sandra one of them might be laid off instead. So as the plant’s big boss is leaving the parking lot in his sports car to start his weekend, Juliette and Sandra plead with him to hold another vote, with a secret ballot, first thing on Monday morning. He just wants to get out of there, so he agrees.
Sandra (Marion Cotillard) and her husband (Fabrizio Rongione)
For the rest of the film Sandra, with the support of her husband (Fabrizio Rongione), and to a lesser extent, Juliette, tries to convince the others (after finding their home addresses and tracking them down) to let her stay. Of course voting against Sandra was easy when they didn’t have to face her and hear her say that she doesn’t want to be jobless and swear that she’s ready to go back to work (even as we in the audience, who have seen how frail she still is, wonder if she’s telling the truth).
One of her coworkers (part of the handful of Black and brown immigrants also more likely to be let go) is unexpectedly emotional; Sandra looks confused as he weeps about voting against her on Friday and thanks her for the chance to redeem himself. Others, including a woman Sandra had thought was her friend but refuses to see her, are surprisingly cold–or outright hostile. They want that €1,000 and don’t care if getting it means she will lose her job. Some make excuses and tell her they’re not the ones who set Sandra’s continued employment against their bonuses. She replies, quicker and more astutely than we expect, that the choice isn’t of her making either.
A coworker begs Sandra for forgiveness
Cotillard, her hair in a straggly ponytail, wears skimpy, summer tank tops, but is so slouched and tense for most of the film, her body is like a backwards “S.” She comes across as both convincingly desperate and working-class (not something all red-carpet actresses are capable of). Like Violette, Two Days, One Night isn’t afraid to show its protagonist at her worst. Sandra, like Violette, hates the thought that the concessions the others are making for her are motivated by pity. She constantly wants to give up, taking to her bed in the middle of the day, even as her husband gently pushes her saying, “Why not try?” and “Don’t give in. You have to fight.”
This film, like Violette, challenges the lie that most films tell, especially those released in time for awards season, that after a few minor setbacks a protagonist will, with uplifting music on the soundtrack, stand up straight and face adversity head-on with courage and maximum photogeneity. But the people who do extraordinary things often do them after a lot of bone-crushing rejection. They feel like miserable failures. They cry. They consider quitting all the time. We all like to think we face the trouble that comes our way like Wonder Woman, but when events take a turn for the worse we’re more like Dr. Smith on the old TV show Lost In Space, crying in an increasingly hysterical voice, “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”
Women in films are even less likely to engage in this kind of dispirited struggle. Instead an actress usually plays the wife, mother, or girlfriend whose job it is to be “strong” and rub the hero’s back while he battles against his own obstacles. She talks reassuringly to him whenever he doubts himself, the exact same way Sandra’s husband does with her here.
Sandra’s quest is not just an indictment of capitalism but also touches on the responsibility we feel for our fellow human beings–how deep (or not) our empathy runs for the people we talk to and work alongside every day. Seeing Sandra’s surprise at who votes for her and who votes against her makes us wonder how well we know our own coworkers. We see her smile after one small triumph and in her next encounter we see her literally knocked down. We count with her as she accumulates four then five votes and when she talks to a man who just wants his money see her wisely clam up about which coworkers are voting for her. The long, frustrating, seemingly impossible task in front of Sandra could stand in for a number of others: writing a book, staying in a marriage–or making a movie.
And after we, along with Sandra, have nearly given up hope for her getting her job back, we see her become unexpectedly resilient–and the solution to her problem become more complex. Her late transformation reminds me of the redemption of another depressed character in a French-language film, Delphine in Eric Rohmer’s great Summer. Just as we hear the wonder in Delphine’s voice in the last line of that film, we hear a newfound strength and certainty in Sandra’s voice as she talks on the phone to her husband at the end. The two days and one night of the title have changed her, maybe forever.
Nice girls aren’t supposed to walk alone in the dark, even in the movies. So in the generically titled ‘A Girl Walks Home Alone At Night,’ the debut feature from writer-director Ana Lily Amirpour we in the audience wonder what a woman in a black cloak (a traditional Iranian garment called a chador) is doing on the streets of a largely empty desert town in the wee hours. We see her witness a pimp (Dominic Rains) exploit and then cheat a sex worker (Mozhan Marnò). We soon find out the woman in the chador, The Girl–we never find out her name (played, unforgettably, by Sheila Vand) is no ordinary woman, but a vampire with fangs that retract like a cat’s claws–or a switchblade.
Nice girls aren’t supposed to walk alone in the dark, even in the movies. So in the generically titled A Girl Walks Home Alone At Night,the debut feature from writer-directorAna Lily Amirpour,we in the audience wonder what a woman in a black cloak (a traditional Iranian garment called a chador) is doing on the streets of a largely empty desert town in the wee hours. We see her witness a pimp (Dominic Rains) exploit and then cheat a sex worker (Mozhan Marnò). We soon find out the woman in the chador, The Girl–we never find out her name (played, unforgettably, by Sheila Vand) is no ordinary woman, but a vampire with fangs that retract like a cat’s claws–or a switchblade.
The film takes place in a parallel California which contains a Farsi-speaking, Iranian enclave called “Bad City.” We know we’re not in Iran because the pimp has visible tattoos and later we see a woman in public with her hair and much of her body uncovered. Also The Girl wears her chador in such a way that we see her hipster, stripey, boat shirt (too short for modest dress) and skinny jeans underneath.
In spite of its surface differences, the film to which Girl has the greatest parallel is probably David Lynch’s Eraserhead. Like that film, every sumptuous, black and white shot is framed and lit with care, creating an alternate universe for the audience to lose themselves in. And as in Eraserhead, even what we hear is fussed over in a way that grabs our attention: incidental sounds are recorded close. The proximity doesn’t alienate us, the way less skillful dubbing in other films often does, but gives us a heightened sense of intimacy, as if we are almost touching the characters.
When The Girl interrogates The Street Urchin (a young boy played by Milad Eghbali) the film shows a truth that many films, including horror films, elide–but that the other recent acclaimed horror film directed by a woman, The Babadook, also addresses–the first person who scares us when we are children is often a woman, whether it’s a mother or another woman authority figure. Tilda Swinton has said that her character in Snowpiercer was based on a particularly terrifying nanny from her own childhood. Few lines in films this year have been more chilling than the one The Girl leaves The Street Urchin with after she threatens him: “Be a good boy.”
Like Michael Almereyda, who, in the ’90s made a stylish black and white film about a woman vampire among New York hipsters, Nadja (its star, Elina Löwensohn, had eyes you couldn’t look away from, much like Vand’s)Amirpourcombines familiar elements in an unfamiliar way for maximum resonance. In Almereyda’s modern day New York Hamlet(from 2000), he famously incorporated a video of Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh talking about “being” in the background of a scene, priming us to later hear Hamlet’s most famous soliloquy.
In Girl Amirpour gets at how women in modest Muslim dress (including those from Iran) are used for xenophobic and anti-Islamic fear-mongering (often in the guise of “feminism”) in the US (like in the recent ad campaign for Homeland) but also uses a chador’s resemblance to a cape to give us an eerily familiar–but new–“Dracula” silhouette. When The Girl rides on the skateboard The Street Urchin leaves behind (after he runs away from her in terror) the chador billows around her as she rolls down the road, and she becomes, without CGI trickery, a bat in flight.
Americans often read chador on women to mean vulnerability, but like the frail-seeming, pale, young, blonde Mae in another beautifully-shot, vampire Western (also directed by a woman, the pre-Hurt Locker Kathryn Bigelow) 1987’s Near Dark, who, when her cowboy boyfriend lassoes her as a “joke” takes hold of the rope and pulls him in, The Girl has hidden reserves of strength. The Girl becomes an avenging angel in black, attacking the men we see abuse women, using her “traditional” quiet passivity to draw these guys close. As the abusive men do with the cat who is many times in the frame (rarely has a filmmaker caught how much of our daily lives our animals witness) they ascribe motivations and personas to The Girl which are more about their own perceptions than about who she is or what she is thinking.
Like a number of films Girl has an early scene, fast becoming a campy cliché, in which a woman suggestively sucks the finger of a man. But when The Girl takes the pimp’s forefinger into her mouth, he gets more than he bargained for.
And as we do with Mae, we see that The Girl is lonely, and a hapless, good-looking guy, Arash, played by Arash Marandi touches something in her. When they meet, he’s coming from a costume party where he’s taken some of the club drugs he was dealing and is still wearing a vampire cape as he stares into a street light. She immediately becomes protective of him.
Vand’s presence burns through the screen. She has the intensity of the great silent actresses–and in many of her scenes, the ones in her room plastered with ’80s music posters, dancing by herself to Farsi synth-pop records or even when she interacts with other characters, she often does not speak. This film is low on back story but Vand’s face, especially her huge dark eyes (we see her put on her heavy eyeliner in the bathroom mirror before she goes out) tells us what she is feeling in every scene.
Amirpour’s camera (the magnificent cinematography is by Lyle Vincent) lingers over Arash’s beauty–his high cheekbones and large, long-lashed eyes under a dark, curly version of James Dean’s pompadour–in a way few male filmmakers would. His clothes (a plain white t-shirt and jeans that hug his muscled body) also evoke Dean’s. And even though the pimp, Saeed, is a villain, meant to repel us, Amirpour lets us take in the attractiveness of his body, especially in a shirtless scene with The Girl when his pants hang very low and we see the full extent of his tattoos–and his muscles.
LA has enough Iranian-Americans in it that some have nicknamed it “Tehrangeles” (after Iran’s capital), but I can’t think of another film produced near there (Girl was actually filmed in Bakersfield) in which most (or all) of the cast is of Persian descent, but no one is a terrorist or a relic from the old country. These characters speak Farsi to each other but, except for Arash’s father, with his drug addiction and collection of pre-revolutionary framed photos of family (complete with 60s-style teased hair on the women), these people aren’t living in the past–even The Girl’s retro record collection, clothes and bobbed hair reflect present-day fashion.
We can never know for sure, but just as with Black actress Gugu Mbatha-Raw giving two terrific, completely different star-turns in movies in one year but the media still largely ignoring her, I wonder if Amirpour’s flawless visual sense, skill with actors and unique reworking of a genre many of us thought didn’t have an original angle left would garner more attention if she were a white guy. Girl is distributed in partnership with VICE‘s film arm and has even made some year-end, top-10 lists, but I had to go to New York to see it and whole countries (like Canada) have yet to get even limited distribution. Nevertheless Amirpour continues to work on films unimpeded. Her next work is about cannibals. I can’t wait until its release.
The actress added, “Being an artist and being a mom sometimes keeps you at odds and not to say you can’t do it, but an artist can feel very isolated, very narcissistic, and being a parent needs to be something completely different and so I understood that sort of thing and trying to make the right decisions and then getting caught in a lie with your child. That was something I found really fascinating and I was really interested by that dynamic.”
“The 50s were a good time if you were a man,” an unseen narrator says at the beginning of director Tim Burton’s latest bizarre tale, Big Eyes. The movie is based on the stranger-than-fiction story of artist Margaret Keane and her husband Walter Keane, who signed his name on her paintings of saucer-eyed, forlorn-looking waifs that were everywhere in the 60s.
Amy Adams, always terrific, and Christoph Waltz, in his usual effective turn as a weirdo, both landed Golden Globe nominations in the comedy lead acting categories. Screenwriters Scott Alexander and Larry Karaszewski, who worked with Tim Burton on Ed Wood, also received an Independent Spirit Award nomination. And the Women’s Film Critics Circle, of which I am a member, gave the film the dubious distinction of citing it this year’s worst male images in a movie.
The colorful tale begins after Margaret flees her abusive husband in the late 50s for San Francisco, where she seeks a better life for her and her daughter. She meets the sweet-talking Walter at a street fair where he admires her paintings of children with sad-looking, enormous peepers. His Parisian street scene painting he claimed were inspired by his life and study in Paris. She falls for him. Soon she realizes she’s never actually seen him paint.
After they married, Walter talked Margaret into letting him put his signature on her paintings. Nobody buys “lady art,” he told her. In the beginning she was a willing but reluctant accomplice, but soon she felt the enormous cost of giving up her name and ownership of her greatest passion, her art. Walter was a genius at marketing. He bypassed the snooty gallery owners who detested the paintings and made a fortune when he mass-produced them as prints, posters and other tchotchkes.
By the time the fraud was uncovered in the 1970, Margaret’s paintings, which in their time were either adored or reviled, were no longer in style, and her story forgotten or never much known. Big Eyes, a Weinstein Company release, is as much about Margaret’s personal and professional awakening as it is about the perpetration of an art fraud. But it’s also about how Margaret’s paintings of urchins with enormously dilated pupils captured the zeitgeist of those trippy times.
Margaret, who at 87 is very much alive and still painting, attended the New York premiere last week and had a ball promoting the film, according to Adams, who participated in a press conference for Big Eyes last week at the Park Hyatt Hotel in Manhattan. Burton and screenwriters Alexander and Karaszewski also attended along with cast members Christoph Waltz, Danny Huston, Krysten Ritter, and Jason Schwartzman.
Amy Adams, at a Big Eyes press conference
Burton, who generally works with the same cast over and over, notably Johnny Depp, who has been in eight of his films, and Helena Bonham Carter, from whom he just separated, was asked about his casting choices for the leads. Burton replied, “Obviously they’re great actors. He’s Walter. She’s Margaret. And it was just fresh energy for me to work with new people ’cause everybody’s been getting sick of the people I was working with,” he laughed.
As portrayed in the film, Margaret is a timid woman and a single mother with few options in an era of rampant sexism. She found her voice after she left Walter and landed in Hawaii where she became a Jehovah’s Witnesses after a few of them happened to come to her door. She credits them with her resolve and determination to tell the truth. It is great fun to watch Adams portray her character’s transformation into a steely and determined woman resolved to take back her ownership of her paintings, no matter what you think of the portraits. (I hated them back in the 60s and hate them even more now that the children smile instead of frown.)
Director Tim Burton
My favorite scene in the movie is the court showdown between Margaret and Walter. She sued him for slander after he insisted he was the painter of the signature works. The judge staged a paint-off and ordered Walter and Margaret to recreate a painting in front of him and the jury. Margaret produced a painting in under an hour. The unhinged Walter, who acted as his own lawyer, complained of shoulder pains and never painted a stroke. (Until his death in 2000, Walter insisted the paintings were his.)
At the press conference, Adams was asked if the appeal of playing a subtle character like Margaret was that it came after her role as the brassy femme fatale in David O. Russell’s American Hustle.
“I didn’t really think of her as a subtle person. I just thought of her as Margaret and that’s Margaret, so it wasn’t as though I was aiming to portray a thing. I was portraying a person and she’s a very understated human being although she gave us some zingers the other night,” Adams laughed. Margaret, who is conservative and dresses primly, attended a dizzying round of receptions, screenings and premieres to promote the film last week.
Adams noted she met Margaret only a couple of weeks before they began to shoot the film and the two sat down and talked. (Margaret has a cameo where she’s sitting on a park bench.) Adams said, “The thing that I liked about Margaret, and what I thought kept her from being a victim, because I didn’t want her to seem like a victim, is when you talk to her she still takes responsibility.”
Margaret has some compassion for Walter. She told Adams, “‘Maybe if I didn’t lie he would not have turned out like he did,’ she told me.” She added, “Margaret also gives Walter credit for her career, saying ‘I wouldn’t be known if it wasn’t for him and he was a genius at what he did and I would never have the following I have today.’”
Christoph Waltz
In response to a question about how she related to the film and her character and how being a parent informed her performance, Adams said she read the script before she became a mother: “I saw Margaret one way and then after I had my daughter and had been a mom for about four years, I saw her completely in a totally different way.”
The actress added, “Being an artist and being a mom sometimes keeps you at odds and not to say you can’t do it, but an artist can feel very isolated, very narcissistic, and being a parent needs to be something completely different and so I understood that sort of thing and trying to make the right decisions and then getting caught in a lie with your child. That was something I found really fascinating and I was really interested by that dynamic.”
Adams also related to Margaret’s discomfort in front of a crowd, like the press conference in which most question were directed at her and Burton. “Like, gosh, I have to talk in front of people,” she laughed. “But yeah, it played a great deal in how I related to the role, and Margaret said something great the other day. She was asked what she wanted people to walk away from the movie. She said, “’Stand up for yourself. Be true to yourself. Read your Bible and don’t lie.’”
The movie makes meaningful comments on the overwhelming sexism of the time, and Adams was asked if by the 70s Margaret identified with the feminist movement. Margaret wasn’t part of any movement, Adams replied: “As she puts it, ‘I was in a closet making paintings,’ so I like the way that Larry and Scott brought that into the movie because I do think whether intentional or not she did do something that was very much of the moment in standing up for herself and I do like that that sort of coincided with such a great portion of the feminist movement.”
After the press conference, Adams told me, “It was nice to get to play a woman, who even if it was unbeknownst to her, really spoke for a lot of women.”
On another note, the Weinstein Company sent out a press release supporting Amy Adams, who went on the Today show the other day but whose appearance was pulled when she expressed reservations about talking about the Sony hacking scandal.
The TWC release read: “We firmly stand behind Amy Adams. We’ve been lucky enough to have had her talents grace several of our films. We are certain her fellow actors and directors would all agree, she is nothing but the consummate professional both on and off set. Amy decided to speak up for herself and express her disappointment that Today would feel the need to ask her a question she did not feel comfortable, and rather than respect her opinion or continue the discussion, the reaction was to pull her appearance from the show.”
Amy Adams took the message of Big Eyes to heart. Can anyone imagine the Today show canceling Bradley Cooper or any other A-list male actor for the same reason they pulled Amy Adams’ appearance?
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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.
The filmmakers (director Jean-Marc Vallée and screenwriter Nick Hornby) profess to be fans of Strayed’s work, but they were apparently so busy patting themselves on the back for not making this story of a woman alone into some kind of boy-meets-girl rom-com that they forgot to include everything else that makes the book distinctive.
The reviews of Wild, the new film based on the bestselling memoir by Cheryl Strayed, make me think most men shouldn’t be allowed to review films based on women’s memoirs. Because more than one male critic has likened Cheryl Strayed and her grief-stricken, hardscrabble book about making her way up the Pacific Crest Trail to Eat, Pray, Love, Elizabeth Gilbert’s account of living a life of luxury in various spots around the globe and indulging in a little cultural appropriation along the way. I’m sure these same critics would never dream of arguing that Jack Kerouac, James Baldwin, and Michael Palin are basically the same person because they’re all men who also wrote about travel.
I went into the screening of Wild prepared to love it. I’m a big fan of Strayed, whose work I was first exposed to when she had an online advice column (which she started writing anonymously) “Dear Sugar,” in which she gave answers to readers’ questions that read more like selections from Best American Essays than “Dear Abby,” while still managing to offer solid guidance and empathy. The book that collected the columns, Tiny Beautiful Things, like Wild, was a bestseller. Strayed has done a lot of good with the fame and money Wild and “Sugar”have brought her, including using her name to publicize and raise funds for VIDA, the group that lobbies for more women to be published (and their books to be reviewed) in literary publications. I also wanted to be able to champion the film because of the male critics who have dismissed it; one of whom (thankfully now retired) took time in his review to comment on the real-life Strayed’s body, a supreme irony when, elsewhere Strayed has described men who disparage women’s bodies as not “worth fucking.”
Films don’t have to necessarily be very much like the books they’re based on to be good, even when those books have received a lot of critical acclaim and have sold a lot of copies. But the film version of Wild often leaves out or glosses over precisely the things that make Strayed’s story–and writing–so striking. A comparison of the film’s scenes to those that make up the original essay Strayed expanded into Wild or any of her writing in Tiny Beautiful Things (Strayed returns many times to her mother’s death and its aftermath, always detailing different, but still vivid memories), shows that Strayed’s version of events are not only more compelling on the page, but also leave us with more lasting visual images than the same or similar scenes in the film do.
The filmmakers (director Jean-Marc Vallée and screenwriter Nick Hornby) profess to be fans of Strayed’s work, but they were apparently so busy patting themselves on the back for not making this story of a woman alone into some kind of boy-meets-girl rom-com that they forgot to include everything else that makes the book distinctive. The mother’s death (Strayed tells a therapist in the film, “My mother was the love of my life”), the hook-up sex, the family violence that Strayed (played by Reese Witherspoon, who also produced the film) thinks back on as she hikes up the West Coast could have been cut and pasted from any other film. The staging for these scenes isn’t incompetent, but generic enough to leave us unmoved.
Hornby and Vallée also omit that some of Strayed’s hook-ups were with women (which makes Vallée two for two in erasing the queerness of his main characters: his previous film, Dallas Buyers Club, made its protagonist a straight homophobe, when in real-life he was an out bisexual). They cut out the sexual abuse Strayed endured as a very young child from her father’s father–as if this abuse had a minimal effect on her or her life.
Laura Dern plays Strayed’s mother, Bobbi
Witherspoon is significantly older than Strayed was when the events of the book take place, but physically embodies the role in a believable way. Though Laura Dern, who plays Strayed’s mother (she’s excellent–in her brief scenes we can see why her loss would affect her daughter so deeply) is less than a decade older than Witherspoon, their scenes together work, though again, Strayed in her book and other writing depicts their relationship much more compellingly.
In Wild, Witherspoon as Strayed can’t seem to summon the youthful energy that she had in movies like Freeway, when she was closer to the age she is supposed to be in Wild. This story is definitely a 20-something’s–thinking a three-month hike in the wilderness alone, thousands of miles away from home, will turn one’s life around is the sort of half-assed hypothesis a 30-something would never come up with–though in Strayed’s case, the miracle was this “cure” for her broken life worked.
Witherspoon’s Strayed also doesn’t have the recklessness or the inevitable shame that follows that recklessness the Strayed of the book had. When, in the film, a fellow hiker tells her that she seems like someone who beats herself up a lot, the observation comes as a complete surprise to the audience.
I skipped Dallas Buyers Club, in spite of its many awards, because of its straight-washing–the buyers clubs that the film depicts were a movement of queer people with AIDS, not the work of one “straight” homophobe– as well as its transphobia and general cluelessness about the issues the film is supposed to address (the makeup team when accepting their Oscar referred to “AIDS victims” when the preferred term, coined by those who have the disease more than 30 years ago, is “people with AIDS“). But in spite of my wariness, I didn’t expect Vallée to be the hack director he is here. Not just the flashback scenes but also the wilderness scenes in this film are nothing special–panoramas that should take our breath away look like faded, crappy postcards. Both Boyhood(a film I thought was otherwise vastly overrated) and Under The Skin (which I also had major qualms about) capture the beauty of nature (and in Skin the danger for a woman alone in it) on a level that Vallée seems incapable of–and those two films are in the“wild” for a relatively brief period of their runtimes.
I should probably add that Strayed herself has said that she is satisfied with the film and was allowed a lot of access to the film’s set; her daughter, Bobbi Strayed Lindstrom, even plays her as a young girl in flashback scenes. But Wild being better than most of the films in the multiplex doesn’t mean it’s nearly good enough. Maybe only when we have women writing the screenplays that adapt great books by women and women directing those films will we get the movies we deserve.
Until the release, ‘Big Eyes’ looks like a promising movie to end off the empowering year of the woman. Flexing in the face of men, Margaret Keane’s story translates to roadblocks women surpass on the daily at the workplace and at home. Depending on how Burton captures Margaret’s story, Amy Adams has the opportunity to do women justice and end off the year of feminism with a bang–a big-eyed bang.
This is a guest post by Samah Ali.
It’s been a big year for feminism. Tight throats have softened as women and men voice their opinions on equality as the fire of third wave feminism ignites in the next generation. Iconic moments like “Feminist” echoing across nations during Beyoncé’s Vanguard Performance and Emma Watson’s HeForShe Campaign uniting the sexes for a greater tomorrow clearly shows that not only was this the year of the woman, but this was the year of feminism.
As the Oscar circuit releases movies about struggling, white men on power trips, there is solace in Tim Burton’s Big Eyes to reflect on the powerful year for women and feminism. With a talented female lead and enough buzz to get nominations, Big Eyes has the means to add to the number of women who showed off this year.
Amy Adams takes on the role as Margaret Keane, a painter whose portraits of big-eyed children are falsely sold as her husband’s, Walter Keane (Christoph Waltz). Growing sick and tired of her lie and unaccredited work, Margaret takes Walter to court in hopes to gain rightful ownership and acknowledgement for her paintings. This is a timeless story applicable today as women continuously break the glass window in their lines of work.
Bullied by the fact that “people don’t buy lady art,” Margaret’s true story translates to women overcoming stereotypes and validating their creative expression today. As Shonda Rhimes casually dominates Thursday primetime, some are still threatened that an “Angry Black Woman” is capable of writing and running the year’s most successful television dramas. And as Lena Dunham’s Not That Kind of Girl book tour came to a slow halt due to right-winged, sexual assault accusations, evidently women are still receiving bigoted doubts in a male-dominated field. Fighting the power in true Public Enemy style, Shonda still ran Thursday primetime, Lena’s book tour still continued, and Margaret still fought for her paintings. Resilience and women–it’s like coffee and cream.
Since Big Eyes highlights the power relation between Margaret and Walter, the movie shows another angle to abusive relationships after countless awareness projects, essays, and declarations over the past few months. The opportunity for another angle on abuse captures how tired one grows after being caught in a web of lies surrounding rape, violence, or mental persuasion. Convinced that no one would believe her talents, Margaret allowed her husband to take credit for her work until she had the courage to stand against him in the public eye. As more victims of abuse come out as an act of solidarity, Big Eyes can be a platform to encourage similar acts and show the true victor in victims.
Nevertheless, there are some questions to be answered as the movie plays out.
Considering the story is about a female defying sexist opinions toward her art, why was Tim Burton given the directorial role as opposed to an acclaimed female director? Maybe Lisa Cholodenko (The Kids are All Right, 2010)? Maybe anyone? Even though Burton is a fabulous, wonky director, he is still a man with male experiences in a man’s world. Not quite the angle needed since the movie is about a woman with female experiences in a man’s world. Hmph.
This carries over to the point of view: expectations assume that Margaret’s story will be told how she saw it, a violation of her creative expression and plagiarism of her work. But if told from the perspective of her husband, Margaret may appear as a backstabbing housewife who overstepped her bounds. Hopefully Burton will get it right because another male-driven movie is unwanted here.
However the most disappointing result would be if Big Eyes does not pass the Bechdel Test. Let’s pray the script allows Margaret’s conversations to go deeper than the actions of her husband and more into her identity as a woman breaking boundaries. After all, if this female-driven movie can’t even pass the Bechdel Test then what other Oscar bid is there?
Until the release, Big Eyes looks like a promising movie to end off the empowering year of the woman. Flexing in the face of men, Margaret Keane’s story translates to roadblocks women surpass on the daily at the workplace and at home. Depending on how Burton captures Margaret’s story, Amy Adams has the opportunity to do women justice and end off the year of feminism with a bang–a big-eyed bang.
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Samah is a dedicated film buff seeking films that enhance the movie watching experience by provoking thought, emotions, and relation between the audience and the screen. With a passion for storytelling and ample free time, she looks for the next feature to preach about to the masses. @samahaliii
Quick! An avalanche is about to kill you and your family. Do you: A) Try to save your children, or B) Grab your phone and run away, leaving your loved-ones to perish? If you chose B, you may be the male lead of ‘Force Majeure,’ the sometimes-funny, sometimes-serious Swedish movie up for Best Foreign Language Film at the 2015 Golden Globe Awards.
Quick! An avalanche is about to kill you and your family. Do you:
A) Try to save your children, or
B) Grab your phone and run away, leaving your loved-ones to perish?
If you chose B, you may be the male lead of Force Majeure, the sometimes-funny, sometimes-serious Swedish movie up for Best Foreign Language Film at the 2015 Golden Globe Awards.
A peaceful family vacation, right before someone chooses B
The story of Force Majeure – which is revealed in the trailers; I’m not giving anything away – is that a husband and wife, Tomas and Ebba, are enjoying a vacation with their two young children when what looks like an out-of-control avalanche comes barreling toward them. Believing they’re about to die, Ebba immediately tries to save the children, while Tomas abandons all three of them to save himself.
It turns out that the avalanche stops in time, so everyone’s all right, but the rest of the movie is about what it means – for Tomas and Ebba personally, and for their marriage – now that they know he’s a coward. From the moment the avalanche stops, they keep talking about it – and trying not to talk about it – as they try to decide whether it was a Big Deal, and whether it Means Something about the kind of person he is.
In real life, a “force majeure” is a clause in a contract that lets you out of your obligations in the event of a major catastrophe, such as a natural disaster. In Force Majeure, the question is whether Tomas – who generally has a good relationship with his family – can be forgiven for failing to be a good spouse and father, during extraordinary circumstances. What sounds like it could be a joke – man unexpectedly abandons family without a backward glance as soon as things get rough – becomes a very thoughtful and serious examination of what it means to be married to someone, what you have the right to expect from your spouse, and what the proper separation is between Self and Family.
As the film points out, women’s identities have traditionally been closely tied to their roles as wives and mothers, while men’s identities have been tied to their jobs and extra-familial achievements. It’s telling that, before the avalanche even arrives, Ebba (obliquely) accuses Tomas of focusing too much on work rather than his family. After the avalanche hits, the detail she zeroes in on is that he chose to save his phone – which he’s been using to check his work email – rather than helping her with the kids.
At the same time, the movie suggests that Ebba might be too wrapped up in her family. In one scene, she becomes disturbed and uncomfortable by the idea of polyamory, as explained to her by another tourist staying at the same resort. It isn’t just that she’s not poly herself – it’s that she can’t wrap her head around the idea that a polyamorous couple can lead separate lives while still being committed. When she’s separated from her family for an afternoon, she’s nearly catatonic without them, and bursts into tears when she sees them having fun without her.
By running away from the avalanche, Tomas separated himself from the we/us/ours that Ebba takes for granted as the centre of a meaningful relationship. There are lots of reasons why running away wasn’t the right thing to do, but the part that seems to bother her most is his selfishness.
Tomas and Ebba, briefly united as the objects of their children’s hatred
For most of the film, Tomas and Ebba aren’t able to talk about what happened. It takes Ebba a long time to process what she’s feeling and, at first, she tries to pretend it’s OK. Tomas, on the other hand, at first tries to deny he was scared, and then denies he ran away. He retreats into a detached, intellectual position where he pretends to find it “interesting” that they have “different perspectives” on what happened, abandoning her a second time.
When they finally do talk about it, they drag in two of their friends, one of whom suggests that men from a certain generation were raised not to care about their children – something that starts a second argument about what it means to be a good father. Mats, the friend who’s been divorced already, defensively argues that he’s a good father because he provides financially for his children. His girlfriend points out that his children live with their mother, and suggests that he doesn’t put in enough face time to say he’s involved in their lives.
The disagreement spirals out in several different directions but, every direction it goes, it comes back to the idea that the roles we play in life, and the expectations we have of ourselves and each other, are coloured by gender.
Even though it’s not specifically discussed this way, there’s something gendered about the way Tomas initially refuses to admit that he was scared – about the way that he projects his feelings onto Ebba and tries to tell their friends that she was terrified while he stayed calm. There’s also something gendered about the way that Ebba can’t stop smiling when she’s angry – the way that she can’t stop talking about what happened, even when she hasn’t worked out what to say.
Force Majeure is about a world where men and women are supposed to be equal partners in marriage, but where we don’t yet know what that means. We’re watching an institution that used to mean one thing evolve to become something else. It’s exciting and confusing and the question, what does it mean to be a good partner or parent or woman or man, is one that gets more complicated as our notions of what’s possible expand.
Watching two people passive-aggressively argue about who did or didn’t run away when they were or weren’t about to die is a microcosm for the conflict at the heart of any union – what’s the separation between I and We?
No one knows. That’s what makes it riveting to watch.
Katherine Murray is a Toronto-based writer who yells about movies and TV on her blog.
Chinua Achebe said, “There is that great proverb — that until the lions have their own historians, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.”
Reading Fanon, listening to Malcolm X, watching ‘Concerning Violence’–these are just a few ways to hear the lions. When the hunter listens, though, he sees a lion roaring, jaws open wide to bite and kill. The fear sets in. Oppressive control digs its heels back in.
“We revolt simply because, for many reasons, we can no longer breathe.” – Frantz Fanon
I saw Concerning Violence six months before Darren Wilson shot Michael Brown. It was six months before white people started wringing their hands to a chorus of “The answer to violence isn’t more violence!” “Look at them destroying property and looting!” “What would Martin Luther King, Jr. say?”
Nine months before the announcement that Darren Wilson was not indicted, white audience members–in Missouri–squirmed in their seat after screening Concerning Violence: “But violence should never be the answer.”
[youtube_sc url=”http://youtu.be/ohoiW9HrXkc”]
Concerning Violence is a remarkable documentary. Directed by Göran Hugo Olsson (The Black Power Mixtape 1967 – 1975), it weaves together archival footage of African colonization and anti-colonial liberation revolts from the 1960s – 1980s with the words of Frantz Fanon‘s The Wretched of the Earth (1961). The text–read by Lauryn Hill–often appears on screen as she narrates. Technically, the documentary is brilliant. It’s almost as if we cannot feel the director’s presence, because the power of the archival footage and Fanon’s language is woven together so powerfully and without any added commentary (nor does there need to be). Instead, we are assaulted with a perspective we never feel: that of the colonized-as-heroes, by any means necessary.
The stunning, disturbing footage is presented in such a way that we must realize how pertinent it is to America in 2014. The film opens with images of armed men in helicopters shooting and killing a field full of cattle. As Keith Uhlich describes at A.V. Club:
“One animal takes a particularly long time to die, and, with each bullet that doesn’t kill it, convulses in what can only be described, anthropomorphically, as pure fear. The more horrifying implication is that there’s no true word for what the beast is going through, and it’s impossible, by the end of the scene, to not imagine a human being in the same terrible situation.”
From far away, a literal and figurative position hundreds of feet higher than those on the ground, these powerful colonizing forces shoot with savage impunity. The privilege and power are palpable, and this sets the stage for the rest of the film (or, more accurately, for our history). Colonize, control, instill fear, kill, in perpetuity.
Missionaries in Tanzania, watching Tanzanians dig a site to build a church. They say that maybe after the church, they’ll build schools and hospitals.
I can’t stress this enough: watch this film, and research the various “anti-imperialistic self-defense” histories that you likely never learned about in school.
What is overwhelming to me is the complete cognitive dissonance in white Americans decrying violent revolution. The same utterance of “violence is never the answer!” about protests contrasts with celebrating American history. This isn’t a new dichotomy, of course. In “The Ballot or the Bullet,” Malcolm X said,
“When this country here was first being founded, there were thirteen colonies. The whites were colonized. They were fed up with this taxation without representation. So some of them stood up and said, ‘Liberty or death!’ I went to a white school over here in Mason, Michigan. The white man made the mistake of letting me read his history books. He made the mistake of teaching me that Patrick Henry was a patriot, and George Washington – wasn’t nothing non-violent about ol’ Pat, or George Washington. ‘Liberty or death’ is was what brought about the freedom of whites in this country from the English.”
The word “or” is important here. Just as the American Revolution we celebrate with fireworks (even though there was plenty of looting and a high death toll) was built upon this notion of “liberty or death,” so also are calls to anti-colonial violence in self-defense.
“If you do not liberate us, we must liberate ourselves.” How is this not logical? And if the historical precedence of “liberation” is through violent means, how can we, with a straight face, say that the answer to violence is not more violence? It’s always been white America’s answer.
In the Mozambique Liberation Front (FRELIMO), founded in 1962, men and women fight as equals.
When we learn about Nat Turner and Malcolm X in school (if we do), it’s in hushed tones. That‘s not the way to get freedom (if you are African American, at least). We know that we receive our history, literature, and film primary from one voice: the white male. Chinua Achebe said, “There is that great proverb — that until the lions have their own historians, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.”
Reading Fanon, listening to Malcolm X, watching Concerning Violence–these are just a few ways to hear the lions. When the hunter listens, though, he sees a lion roaring, jaws open wide to bite and kill. The fear sets in. Oppressive control digs its heels back in.
One of the aspects of Concerning Violence‘s archival footage that makes it powerful is that so much of it is in color. We tend to think that the fiercest acts of colonialism and imperialism happened long ago and far away. It’s so important to see a world that looks like our world now, with the weapons and machinery of modernity that colonize now, not 100 years ago. Concerning Violence is historical, but it’s not history. It forces us to be uncomfortable with the world we’re living in, which is the first step to changing it.
Violence is presented as the or. Instead of desiring or justifying violence from the oppressor or the oppressed, we need to consider changing the structure. If people riot and respond to oppression with violence, how can we think that’s unheard of, uncalled for, or without historical precedent? If we do react that way, then we need to drastically change how we teach and understand our own history. If violent revolution is abhorrent, make that clear–even when white men do it.
“In her spoken preface to Concerning Violence, renowned Columbia University professor Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak explains that in ‘reading between the lines’ of The Wretched of the Earth, one sees that Fanon does not in fact endorse violence but rather ‘insists that the tragedy is that the very poor is reduced to violence, because there is no other response possible to an absolute absence of response and an absolute exercise of legitimised violence from the colonisers’. Spivak goes on to make a telling comparison regarding the earth’s ‘wretched’: ‘Their lives count as nothing against the death of the colonisers: unacknowledged Hiroshimas against sentimentalised 9/11s.'”
Violence is the or. If the oppressed, the colonized, are not treated as human beings, and are subjected to institutional racism and injustice, thinkers such as Fanon and Malcolm X see the or as revolutionary self-defense. This kind of violence is part of a long history of the oppressed overcoming oppression. That’s why it’s so terrifying to colonial powers and their rhetoric is censored, shut down, and shrouded in fear.
Perhaps that is what is most frightening to those who focus on how abhorrent rioting in the face of injustice and brutality is: they know, deep down, that rioting makes sense. White Americans know–consciously or subconsciously–that Black Americans have reason to respond to violence from the “colonizers.” And that is a terrifying reality.
In Ferguson and the protests that have swept the nation, small pockets of violent and destructive reactions have occurred–almost never by the organized protesters themselves. Even so, one image on the news media of a burned business or vehicle makes many white Americans shut down and refuse to see any legitimacy in wider protests.
White Americans, at the very least, can strive to understand why–in a world bought and won by violence–an oppressed group might see violence as self-defense and justifiable. This is not to encourage violence, to desire violence, or to act violently. This is to pause, take a step back, and just for a moment, listen to the lions. Listen to them roar.
Two of the most prominent messages during the protests against police brutality and inequality in Ferguson and elsewhere have been “Black Lives Matter” and “I/We Can’t Breathe” (after Eric Garner’s final words). These sentiments, and the response from both the judicial system and many white Americans, bear a chilling resemblance to the words Fanon wrote about colonialism.
Rural poverty and urban poverty are not the same. Individual racism and institutional racism are not the same. However, these forces are woven together as they are fiercely kept separate in our common mythologies of what America means. We avoid difficult stories that disrupt the narratives we’ve come to understand.
For over a century, Missouri was known as a bellwether state; a politically split swing state (blue urban Kansas City and St. Louis bookend red rural communities), the state’s presidential vote almost always reflected the outcome of the presidential election. In the Civil War, Missourians fought for both sides. Demographically, economically, socially, and politically, Missouri has often been seen as a microcosm of America as a whole.
In an NPR article, the term “bellwether” is defined:
“You might be wondering where the word ‘bellwether’ comes from. Just think about Mary and her little lamb… she’d tie a bell around the neck of a wether (a castrated male sheep) who would lead the little lamb and the rest of the flock around until Mary came back. And when she returned, the bell signaled the flock’s location.”
The bell around Missouri’s neck has been sounding, tuning a nation in to the economic and divisive realities of a nation divided, economically and racially. Three recent documentaries paint a portrait of tragic desperation that is not isolated to middle America; it’s the struggle of a nation faced with the staggering reality of deep divides in class and race.
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The Pruitt-Igoe Myth
The Pruitt-Igoe Myth
The Pruitt-Igoe Myth, directed by Chad Freidrichs and released in 2012, tells a more complex version of a modern myth. Pruitt-Igoe was a public housing development in St. Louis, built to be a shiny clean alternative to the tenements of the city. It was designed with the goal of “lifting residents out of poverty,” and was built using federal funding after the Housing Act of 1949. The documentary, which succeeds greatly in its usage of historical footage and current interviews with past tenants, paints a picture of a development full of hope. Those interviewed remembered Pruitt-Igoe as an “oasis in a desert,” and their time there had been incredibly exciting and happy. There was also fear, though. A complex portrait is drawn that leaves the viewer wondering, “What happened?”
The complex was segregated. Public housing was racially segregated until 1956; after that, many areas remained or became increasingly segregated due to redlining and “white flight” as suburbs became attractive options and were also subsidized heavily by government funding. Against the backdrop of a post-war economy that was not growing as expected, and the deep racism that permeated the country as schools were desegregated, Pruitt-Igoe was a socialist penthouse built on a racist, shaky free market.
Twenty years after its completion, it was fully demolished. The mythology that has surrounded its failure typically stigmatizes public housing and the residents; however, the real story has much more to do with the lack of maintenance and support, welfare policies that broke apart families, and decaying conditions coupled with increasing rent. While the government built the complex, the maintenance and upkeep was to be paid for with tenants’ rent. This model relied on a vibrant, growing city and economy.
That’s not what happened.
The government was also committed to pro-suburb housing policies, where middle class and working class whites went to live. The Pruitt-Igoe Myth does an excellent job outlining the history of economic decline and housing and zoning laws that were often unfriendly to poor and working class African Americans.
Another reality that the film reveals is the “control” that the welfare department had over those in the apartments who received aid, including the anti-family “man in the house” rule, which dictated that if an “able-bodied” man lived in the home, the family couldn’t receive assistance. For some of the interviewees in the film, that meant that their fathers had to leave the state, or hide when agents came to check and see if a man was living in the house. (And just a few decades later, conservatives decry the breakdown of the family as the cause of poverty and crime.) The rules were restrictive–telephones and televisions were not allowed. The theme of “control” runs through many of the former tenants’ narratives–the control that the housing authority attempted to have over them, and the lack of control they felt in their deteriorating living conditions.
Instead of fixing and maintaining the units, authorities made everything “indestructible” (caging in light bulbs for example). One former tenant said that that “made you want to destroy things.” While The Pruitt-Igoe Myth is ostensibly about a housing project, it is also about segregation, masculinity, poverty, distrust of law enforcement, racism, the decline of the American city, and whites’ deep fears of Black poverty and crime (the mythology of Pruitt-Igoe became a scapegoat to uphold those fears).
This iconic footage of Pruitt-Igoe being destroyed was used in the film Koyaanisqatsi. “Koyaanisgatsi” is a Hopi Indian word, and means “life out of balance.”
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Rich Hill
On the other side of Missouri is Rich Hill, a rural town with a population of just over 1,000. A former coal mining town, the economy of Rich Hill has declined rapidly in the last few decades, and its inhabitants are faced with poverty and a lack of employment opportunities.
Filmmakers Tracy Droz Tragos and Andrew Droz Palermo (who are cousins), grew up visiting family in Rich Hill. They stress the importance of showing poverty in America, and that we cannot keep those living in poverty “at arm’s length.” They directed Rich Hill, a beautiful documentary that focuses deeply on the lives of three young teenage boys who are up against a world that seems hopeless.
Between 2000 and 2010, poverty rates in Missouri doubled, at a rate 3.5 times the national average. Rural areas have been hit by declining manufacturing opportunities. The three boys chronicled in Rich Hill are all faced with devastating family situations. Andrew is good-looking and charming, and seems optimistic amid the chaos of his life–a father who does odd jobs, sings country music, and moves his family around constantly. Appachey lives in rage, and chain smokes at age 12. His mother had him when she was a teenager, and his father left when he was 6. Harley’s mother is in prison because she tried to kill his stepfather after his stepfather had raped him, and the cops did nothing. Harley lives with his grandmother. “I don’t need an education,” he tells us. “I just need my family.”
The film spans a year, and it’s punctuated by Fourth of July celebrations. Toward the end, the fireworks are juxtaposed with scenes of Andrew and his father arm wrestling, and the town chanting “USA!” in celebration. These scenes are stunningly beautiful and deeply sad.
Andrew says, “I keep praying. Nothing’s came yet, but I keep trying…”
Tragos said that in making the film, they were trusted because they had their grandparents’ name. She explains that this was “less of a nostalgia piece than for an urgent piece about these kids’ lives.” It’s clear that the filmmakers were pulled in to these boys’ lives (their website features updates and fundraising links for the boys and other organizations).
The plight of the mothers and grandmothers is overwhelming. It’s difficult to watch the one father who is in the picture; he has delusions of grandeur, and we can see Andrew following in those charismatic, aimless footsteps (although most viewers are completely charmed and heartened by Andrew’s grinning confidence). The boys are all smart and funny, yet they are faced with a system–whether it be the juvenile system, or a free-falling economy–that is completely against them and their families.
Harley
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Spanish Lake
Spanish Lake
Spanish Lake is an unincorporated township north of St. Louis eight miles away from Ferguson. Filmmaker Philip Andrew Morton lived there until he was 18. When he returned 10 years later, his childhood home and elementary school were abandoned, and he wanted to explore the phenomenon of “white flight” that occurred in St. Louis in the last half century.
He made Spanish Lake, which centers mostly on the white people who left Spanish Lake as they reflect upon the past. While these interviews make up the majority of the film, there is a bit of history that gives some context to the demographic shift. Spanish Lake was kept unincorporated due to anti-government sentiment, which led to a lack of social services and the building of Section 8 apartments, where many impoverished African Americans moved after housing developments like Pruitt-Igoe were destroyed. Realtors redlined neighborhoods, pushing whites in and out strategically. White people–fueled by racism and the lack of what had been strong, unionized labor opportunities–fled to other suburbs or rural areas.
In Spanish Lake, Morton captures a reunion of “Lakers”–former residents of Spanish Lake who have a reunion at Spanish Lake and drink beer while reminiscing about the past. Morton’s motivation in making Spanish Lake was his own nostalgia, as he remembers his childhood in Spanish Lake with a sense of pain and loss. While there’s no doubt that he also has a social awareness (that was certainly heightened as the timing of his film coincided with Ferguson making waves around the world, as Ferguson’s demographic shift has been similar to Spanish Lake’s), the overriding tone of the documentary is nostalgic, peppered with just enough history to give some context.
White former residents talk about the fights, and getting beaten up by “sisters,” and laugh about shooting a Black Santa off a new resident’s roof. The pain in these former residents’ comments is palpable, but it’s left unexamined. The documentary plays for more than 30 minutes before a Black person speaks. There are short clips of Black apartment residents thanking the local police force and their new (white) landlords.
Had Spanish Lake existed in a vacuum, it would have been a fine piece of nostalgic film that briefly illuminated a modern history of segregation and deeply entrenched racism and a decaying middle class as labor and manufacturing opportunities dissolved.
If viewers are looking for a nuanced commentary on “how Ferguson became Ferguson,” Spanish Lake is not enough. The Pruitt-Igoe Myth, full of authentic voices that speak to the fear and trauma of growing up in poverty and institutional racism, should be required viewing.
However, Spanish Lake itself does capture how many white Americans react and speak about a recent history of demographic changes, housing segregation, and school desegregation. It’s uncomfortable to hear their voices, but those voices are familiar and loud, all across America.
There’s a lot of talking, but not a lot of critical thinking. And when it comes to talking about race and class in America, that’s a painfully accurate representation.
White voices dominate Spanish Lake
Rural poverty and urban poverty are not the same. Individual racism and institutional racism are not the same. However, these forces are woven together as they are fiercely kept separate in our common mythologies of what America means. We avoid difficult stories that disrupt the narratives we’ve come to understand.
We don’t want to hear how, in so many ways, Pruitt-Igoe was set up for failure, and fit into a narrative that it was the residents themselves who were failures. We don’t want to listen to the young Black man who was a boy in Pruitt-Igoe, who loved quietly watching insects in a field before he saw his brother brutally murdered–then all he could think about was killing.
We don’t want to hear about rural poverty, and how the economy has gutted middle America and left in the rubble children who are failed by their parents, their schools, and the legal system. One audience member at a Rich Hill screening praised Andrew for his faith and encouraged him to keep praying, as if his optimism and charming smile would someday pay the bills.
We don’t want to hear the racism of former residents of a “nice area,” who can’t see that their own anti-government stance helped usher in low-income housing, which they were also against. Then there weren’t social services available–because they were against centralized government–and that lack of social services harmed everyone. In so many ways, Spanish Lake represents an entire nation of people who vote and scream against their own interests without any sense of introspection. What makes Spanish Lake jarring is the modernity of the footage. In The Pruitt-Igoe Myth, the footage of residents and officials of Black Jack, another township north of St. Louis who wanted to keep a certain “element” out of their neighborhoods is in black and white, grainy news reels of a time that seems so long ago. But it wasn’t. In Spanish Lake, former residents make the same arguments in broad daylight in high-definition.
We want to believe that it’s all simple. Segregated housing policies are a thing of the past, and we’re in a “post-racial” society. Poverty is due to laziness. People should just choose to live in better conditions and pull up their bootstraps, and ignore history. We want to ignore history.
That is the American mythology that has a chokehold on us all.
But the chain is tightening around Missouri’s neck, and the bell is sounding. We must leave the mythology in the past and deal with reality.
Because Missouri–its segregation, its poverty, and its denial–is America.
‘The Internet’s Own Boy’ is a passionate, intelligent tribute to the tragically short but brilliant life of the programmer and activist. The documentary successfully captures Swartz’s spirit and rightly underscores his visionary genius and socio-cultural importance. Recounting both his days of triumph and despair, it acknowledges his vulnerabilities and fears as well as his drive and passion.
Directed by Brian Knappenberger, The Internet’s Own Boy (2014) is an involving and profoundly moving documentary about Internet icon Aaron Swartz. Swartz was not only an innovative and influential programmer, he was also a deeply committed Free Speech and Open Access advocate. In late 2010 and early 2011, Swartz downloaded academic documents from JSTOR at MIT. Arrested in January 2011, he was charged with wire fraud and theft of information. Facing up to 35 years in prison and a $1 million fine, he took his own life in his New York apartment on Jan. 11, 2013. He was 26 years old.
Examining both his private and public life, The Internet’s Own Boy intermixes home movies, stills, news footage, and interviews with friends and relatives. Home videos of Swartz as a child illustrate his intellectual precocity while family members recall his love of learning. At the age of 12, he created a Wikipedia-like information site before Wikipedia called info-org. The documentary comprehensively chronicles both his Internet and activist careers. Swartz programmed for Creative Commons, helped develop RSS and co-founded Reddit. When Reddit was bought by Conde Nast in 2006, the programmer relocated to California. But he literally recoiled from office life, and abandoned start-up culture. Peter Eckersley, a former roommate of Swartz and technological projects director at Electronic Frontier Foundation, tells us, “He was totally unexcited about starting businesses and making money.” Swartz was inspired by the example of World Wide Web inventor, Tim Berners-Lee, who wanted his creation to be used by all. He could have been like any other self-serving member of the 1 percent but he chose another path.
Prodigy
Swartz soon became a leading Open Access and Free Speech activist. He saw the Internet as an instrument of freedom and enlightenment, and his profoundly moral and generous vision is evident from his personal blog, excerpts of which are featured in the documentary: “I work for ideas and learn from people. I don’t like excluding people…I want to make the world a better place.” Swartz co-founded Demand Progress in 2010, an advocacy group that successfully fought the Stop Online Piracy Act (SOPA). That public information and records should be out of reach of the public struck him an absurd injustice. In 2008, he downloaded electronic federal court records from the expensive public access service PACER. (Although investigated by the FBI, Swartz was not charged.) Expressing unease with social and economic inequality, he became increasingly politically engaged. In 2009, he co-founded the Progressive Change Campaign Committee. Aaron Swartz offered–and still offers–another way of thinking and being.
Although The Internet’s Own Boy does not give a gender-aware reading of Swartz, it is clear that the programmer and activist embodied a certain egalitarian masculinity. Although Swartz possessed attributes that have been traditionally associated with masculinity–such as single-mindedness and risk-taking–he neither personified nor espoused ideals of dominant masculinity. Unlike the ruinous gambling of the bankers who wrecked so much havoc on the world’s economy during the financial crisis, his risk-taking sought to serve the greater good. Swartz simply did not want to be a prized exemplar of corporate masculinity. He seemed uninterested in exercising power, and he did not exhibit the customary misogyny of his industry. Indeed he challenged institutions of power and wealth, asking why they possess so much control over human knowledge. Men like Swartz expand modern definitions of masculinity. The other way of thinking and being that he offered transcends gender, race, age, and sexuality, and he remains an inspirational figure for all.
Fighting SOPA
Critics may argue that the documentary offers a romanticized account of its subject. It sides with Swartz, that’s true, but the argument presented is utterly persuasive. Isn’t it, in fact, self-evident? How can anyone be locked away for 35 years for downloading academic documents? There is, also, no denying that Swartz is a romantic figure. He was an attractive, young man who wanted nothing more than to share knowledge. The Internet’s Own Boy chronicles this sad, shameful story of prosecutorial zeal with insight and compassion. It both angers, and moves the viewer. The prosecutors’ lack of imagination and humanity simply takes your breath away. If there is a modern-day American martyr, it is Aaron Swartz.
The Internet’s Own Boy is a passionate, intelligent tribute to the tragically short but brilliant life of the programmer and activist. The documentary successfully captures Swartz’s spirit and rightly underscores his visionary genius and socio-cultural importance. Recounting both his days of triumph and despair, it acknowledges his vulnerabilities and fears as well as his drive and passion. The story of Aaron Swartz is one of the most important of the millenium and it is encouraging that The Internet’s Own Boy is on this year’s Oscar shortlist. It’s a documentary about our time and we all need to see it.
What were the biggest challenges in making a feature film? How do people see compulsory military service in Israel? Was that Russian girl really possessed by a ghost? Writer/director Talya Lavie answers our questions about her award-winning film.
What were the biggest challenges in making a feature film? How do people see compulsory military service in Israel? Was that Russian girl really possessed by a ghost? Writer/director Talya Lavie answers our questions about her award-winning film.
Zero Motivation, which won Best Narrative Feature at the Tribeca Film Festival, is a dark slacker comedy set in the Israeli military. You can read our review of it here.
The first feature-length film from writer-director Talya Lavie, Zero Motivation was inspired by her own military service. In the Director’s Note found in the movie’s press kit, Lavie writes that “Israeli women may of course serve in more glamorous roles, like pilots or tank crew instructors. But I wanted to focus on us office girls, the unseen and mostly ignored majority whose contribution is lacking any social or symbolic value.”
While promoting the film’s release in New York, she took the time to follow up on that statement, and to answer a few of our questions.
Bitch Flicks: Most of our readers are from the US and Canada, where the concept of mandatory military service is a little bit foreign, so I’m wondering if you could expand on that statement and talk about how you see the role of female conscripts in the Israeli military.
Lavie: Israel is one of the only countries that has mandatory military service for women as well as men. It creates a paradox because, on the one hand, it’s a symbol of equality but, at the same time, the IDF… still demonstrates real gender discrimination. There are women in combat roles but, as I said, the majority of women are still doing secretarial jobs. I believe this may change only if the army becomes less central in Israeli society – hopefully one day.
BF: In many ways, this is a coming of age story, but one that takes place within a very specific setting. (How) do you think that serving in the military has influenced the way these characters define themselves and develop as individuals?
Lavie: In a way, the army for those characters is what college is for Americans. Everyone participates and accepts it as a fact. It is, though, challenging to define your individual identity while having to wear the same uniform as everyone else, and to [live under these] rules. I guess it influences each person in a different way, like every other thing in life.
BF: While the film is very funny, there are a few darker moments in the story. How did you go about managing the changes in tone in the film?
Lavie: The film is defined as a “dark comedy” but, while writing the script, I didn’t want to lock myself into a specific genre. I put a large [range] of emotions in it, and was interested in mixing different spirits. Ultimately, my greatest challenge was to maintain the specific subtle tone of the film; to balance the transitions between humor, sadness, nonsense and seriousness. I felt like an acrobat in a circus walking on a rope, trying not to fall off, and yet to keep the film’s free spirit.
BF: I think the sequence where Irena is “possessed” by the spirit of the dead girl works really well on a metaphorical level, but inquiring minds want to know – was she really possessed by a ghost?
Lavie: All of the characters in the film have a very detailed biography that is not told in the movie – none of them gives a personal monologue. But their background is hinted at in many ways. In Irena’s character, we tried to hint that she has a history of violence. And when she sees Zohar nearly raped, it brings a very strong reaction out of her. Is she really possessed? I leave it for each viewer to decide for himself.
BF: What were some of the biggest challenges you faced in making this film, and do you have any advice for aspiring filmmakers?
Lavie: The biggest challenge was raising the budget for the film. It took several years. That stage in the creation of a film can be very frustrating for any first time filmmaker. My advice for filmmakers at this point is, in addition to applying anywhere you can, use that waiting time for learning and preparing for shooting. Eventually, when I look back on the process, that waiting period was frustrating but also useful for rewriting and studying. I came to the set very prepared. And since we had a very short time for shooting, [being prepared] was significant.
Thank you to Talya Lavie for taking the time to speak with us. Zero Motivation is currently playing in New York, San Francisco, Toronto, and other select cities in North America.
