Uncategorized – Page 16

Seed & Spark: Being a Lady Boss: Producer Molly Coogan Hires Ladies and Celebrates a Lady Named Coco

This is a guest post written by Molly Anne Coogan. Her webseries Things I Hate is currently crowdfunding via Seed & Spark.

Once I got over the fear of putting my show, Things I Hate, out into the world, I then had to… put it out into the world and actually make it. Early on in the process, I committed to being the producer. This was important to me for several reasons: I wanted a hand in who was being brought onto the project, as well as the final stamp on what I was putting out into the world. This does not mean that I was not open to collaborating, or that I only wanted to do it my way, or that I wanted all the power. What it means is that since these were my words and my point of view, it was important to me at the end of the day to feel that I had seen the show through from start to finish in order to honor the creative vision I had set out to realize. Of utmost importance to me was finding a team who understood the tone and humor; in order for it to be successful, I knew everyone had to be in the same figurative family. Also, I really like producing! I like sourcing and finding people, bringing folks on board, organizing things, and working like a fiend. It checks a lot of my boxes.

I get asked a lot as a lady boss if I try extra hard to hire women. I truly believe in hiring the person who is best for the job, which means you have to look at a pool that reflects all the best potential hires. However, most hiring pools do not reflect that at all. Sometimes the people who have the longest, shiniest resume aren’t going to be the best fit for your project. And while it can be enticing to hire someone who has worked on TV shows you love, if they don’t understand what you’re trying to make it won’t work out in the end. I didn’t want to exclusively hire women for the sake of hiring women; I wanted to be mindful that we were looking at all of our options instead of just what people were giving us (which was names for a lot of dudes). My co-producer Liam Brady, a super dude in his own right, was right there with me.

For example, one of the jobs that felt very important for us to nail was the Director of Photography. I met with several incredibly qualified people, but when I met with Edna Biesold I knew I found the person who understood it all. This show is told and seen from inside the mind of a woman. The questions she asked, the ideas she had, and her point of view all jived. She also made me consider and see things from angles I hadn’t thought of before. As a result, I ended up being blown away by the two episodes we made together (which can be seen here via The A.V. Club.)

I’d be lying if I didn’t say I am proud that the roles of Director of Photography, 1st AC, 1st AD, Production Design, Costume Design, Hair and Make-up, and Production Assistant were all filled by women. But I did not hire them because they were women; I hired them because they were the best people for the job.

One of the other aspects of producing is you have to be tenacious. There is another woman I haven’t mentioned yet who came on board and elevated the level of the production for Things I Hate. We really wanted the locations to be authentic and knew we wanted to shoot in a real salon for the episode called “Lady Grooming.” We were shooting in a brownstone in Bedstuy, NY for another episode, entitled “Weed,” so we wanted to keep things in that neighborhood to ease gear schlepping, especially since we were shooting both episodes in 3 days, a ridiculously fast shoot. But I hadn’t found that salon yet.

It was hot as balls one day, especially for the end of September, and I was determined to find that salon to shoot in. I biked for 4 hours straight around the neighborhood going into every single salon, asking if we could shoot there. I can’t tell you how many places I went into. I was so hot that sunscreen dripped down my pale little body. I had sweat literally everywhere, my clothes were drenched, and I looked like a drowned rat. Perhaps that is why every single salon turned me down. By the time I got on my bike to go home, I was certain my shoot was screwed.

Moments later, I was waiting at a stoplight, and for some reason (perhaps to create some sort of cooling wind), I turned my head and saw this little tiny salon on the corner. I full on whipped my bike across traffic and walked in with my helmet still on my head. Four women who were getting their hair braided turned to look at me like I was an alien. The owner, Coco, was there, cool as a cucumber, and as soon as I asked her if I could shoot in her salon she said,”Count me in!” Coco, you saved my series. Everyone else, go to Honeycomb Hair Studio, and give Coco all your business! Right after you follow and fund Things I Hate on Seed&Spark.

Molly Anne Coogan is a maker of all things. As an actor she’s worked with Ars Nova, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, The O’Neill Theatre Center, The Civilians, TheatreWorks California, CBS, TBS, and more. She is one half of the comedy duo Moll & Rell known for their viral video “Nickelblock,” which Molly directed and co-wrote with her comedy partner Arielle Siegel. As a writer her work has been produced or developed by The Williamstown Theatre Festival, Ars Nova, SPACE on Ryder Farm and The 52nd Street Project. Her web series, Things I Hate, which she created, wrote, produced, and stars in premiered February 2016 on The A.V. Club and features actors from The Knick, Girls, and Orange Is the New Black. She loves photo booths and the word “burgled.” She refuses to pass a lemonade stand without buying a glass. She lives in Brooklyn with her husband, Jonathan Anderson.

‘Fuller House’ and the Shocking, Heart-Squeezing Power of Time

I don’t remember thinking that the premiere episode of ‘Fuller House’ was very good, and I don’t remember paying attention to anything that happened in the plot. What I do remember is crying because it has been 20 years, and I can almost imagine how strange it feels for all of these people to be in the same room again.

Written by Katherine Murray.

I don’t remember thinking that the premiere episode of Fuller House was very good, and I don’t remember paying attention to anything that happened in the plot. What I do remember is crying because it has been 20 years, and I can almost imagine how strange it feels for all of these people to be in the same room again.

If you’re either nostalgic for 90s-era sitcoms or bummed that the Full House Reviewed blog had to end, Netflix just did you a solid by creating a Full House spin-off that features some of the original cast. The premise is that three of the grown-up kids from Full House – sisters DJ and Stephanie, played by Candance Cameron-Bure and Jodie Sweetin, plus annoying neighbour Kimmy Gibbler, played by Andrea Barber – return to their suspiciously spacious childhood home to raise DJ and Kimmy’s children after DJ’s husband dies. Other former cast members make guest appearances after that, but the premiere episode is the one that brings almost everyone from the original series back together, just long enough for each of them to say their catchphrases and leave. And, somehow, rather than being annoying, that’s one of the most touching things I’ve ever seen.

It’s not touching because it’s well-written or because Fuller House is a very good show – both the writing and the show are as blunt and dull as you’d expect. It’s touching because we’re all twenty years older, and “Our Very First Episode, Again” is a living, breathing snapshot of what it means to move through time.

I’ll confess that, while I was watching “Our Very First Episode, Again,” I wasn’t thinking about seeing DJ or Stephanie or Uncle So-and-So again. I also wasn’t thinking about the premiere episode of Full House and how much I loved watching it. I was thinking about a group of actors who used to see each other every day – people who grew up together, who watched each other grow up, who had a near-miss romance between them, who – whether or not they like it or want it to be true – will always be partly defined by Full House. People who had no way of knowing, when they shot the first episode, that they would always be loved and hated and judged and remembered for this weird, dumb show.

I was thinking about how they’d all had to make peace with that, in different ways, for twenty years. How some of them had even stopped acting during that time and moved on with their lives. And here they were, together again, on a set that looks like that set, calling each other by the names they had in that script, listening to people cheer for them for doing these weird, dumb, familiar things. They looked pleased and embarrassed and nervous and amused and the very best part of the episode was watching the faces of the other actors in the same shot when one of them barked out a catchphrase.

Netflix didn’t make Fuller House to be good. There are some self-deprecating jokes, but it’s not, like, a cool, hip reboot of the original series. It’s also not designed to introduce a new generation to TGIF. Fuller House exists to be a freaky time capsule that shows us all how much we’ve aged, how we can’t always choose what defines us, and how we make peace with legacies we have mixed feelings about.

I’m about the same age as Jodie Sweetin, and, when the super-nostalgic credit sequence fires up and shows us footage of her as a little girl, I am terrified and astounded by how old that makes me feel. It immediately reminds me of all the things I’ve experienced since I was that young, and it makes me a tiny bit invested in her character, in ways I never was when we were children. Similarly, there’s a scene where Candace Cameron-Bure’s character, DJ, starts crying because she’s all on her own, parenting, adulting, and not sure if she’s going to succeed, and, god dammit, that feels much more real to me now than it did when Jesse and Joey were messing up school trips and getting into fights with little kids. I feel a sense of solidarity with DJ that comes from nothing but the passage of time.

Fuller House is annoying in all the ways you’d expect – the jokes are lame; there are awkward musical guests; it’s weirdly heterosexist without being exactly homophobic; DJ’s kids are super loud – but that’s also part of the point. Everything is the same as it was in Full House – even, literally, the jacket John Stamos is wearing. The only thing that’s changed is that we all got older. And knowing that that’s all that changed makes the series a mirror, not to culture or society or anything we usually say that TV is a mirror to – it’s just a mirror to age.

It’s not exactly the same thing as cashing in on nostalgia – again, I don’t think anyone sat around missing Full House. It’s more like cashing in on narcissism – and I freely include myself as one of the narcissists, here. The draw of Fuller House is that it’s familiar and different at the same time – it sits somewhere next to the uncanny valley and Tír na nÓg, in a land that can only be accessed by people who were alive to see the original when it first aired, and where they can’t ever suspend disbelief for what they’re seeing. The episodes, for me, are not about the Tanner/Fuller/Gibbler family. They’re about how much these people’s lives have changed and not changed in 20 years, which makes me think about how much my life has changed and not changed in 20 years, and in what ways, and how I feel about that, and whether it’s good or bad. I mean, I think there’s Mexican wrestling or something in one episode, but that was really not the focus of my thoughts.

None of the episodes after the premiere hit me as hard, and most of them didn’t hit me at all, but I have to admit that, against anything I would have predicted, there really is something astounding about bringing this show back to life – even for only one episode. And, it’s something that only seems possible thanks to the Netflix model, where no one has to bank on this becoming appointment television. It’s something that seems specifically engineered for an age where all you have to bank on is that a few people will be in a weird mood one day and want to watch it.

So, if you’re in a weird mood one day, check it out. You will not be entertained but, if you’ve seen Full House before, you will also not be disappointed.

Katherine Murray is a Toronto-based writer who yells about movies, TV and video games on her blog.

#OscarsSoWhite: The Fight for Representation at the Academy Awards

But beyond academy membership, changes need to be implemented on every level, from writing to directing to acting. Speaking in a roundtable on Oscar Diversity, Lara Brown notes that in order to diversify the entertainment industry, women ought be present in a variety of roles. Brown, who directs the Political Management Program at George Washington University believes that women ought to be present in every aspect of the filmmaking process.

This guest post is written by Danika Kimball.

In recent years, moviegoers, critics, and activists have been increasingly outspoken about Hollywood’s apparent diversity problem. Most recently, the battle over identity and inclusion came to a head with the January unveiling of Oscar nominees, where for the second year in a row, all 20 of the acting nominees were revealed to be white — a point which was not glossed over at the 88th Academy Awards.

During last year’s academy awards, April Reign, an attorney who manages BroadwayBlack.com, began using the hashtag #OscarsSoWhite in an attempt to express her frustration at the state of diversity in Hollywood. The hashtag has since gone viral and catalyzed a vital conversation. Reign explained to the Los Angeles Times:

“It happened because I was disappointed once again in the lack of diversity and inclusion with respect to the nominees. … And we see, despite all of the talk since last year, nothing has changed and it looks even worse this year.”

The lack of diversity and inclusion at this year’s academy awards was not glossed over, as Chris Rock opened the program with an biting monologue highlighting the academy’s representation issues — renaming the Oscars the “White People’s Choice Awards.”

“If they nominated hosts, I wouldn’t even get this job,” he added later, “Y’all would be watching Neil Patrick Harris right now.”

The Academy Awards are just the most recent of many instances that show if you’re looking for an accurate depiction of ethnic and gender diversity in the American workforce, Hollywood is the last place you should be looking.

Recent studies by USC Annenberg’s Media, Diversity, & Social Change Initiative recently released a brand new study, which offers an unflattering overview revealing the true extent of the ways in which Hollywood is failing diversity practices. Dr. Stacy Smith, who led the team responsible for these findings, said in a recent interview, “The prequel to OscarsSoWhite is HollywoodSoWhite. … We don’t have a diversity problem. We have an inclusion crisis.”

Their report evaluated every speaking character across 414 films, television, and digital stories released in 2014-2015, covering 11,000 speaking characters who were then analyzed on the basis of gender, racial/ethnic representation, and LGBT status. Researchers also analyzed 10,000 directors, writers, and show creators on the basis of gender and race, and 1,500 executives at different media companies.

Their analysis? “The film industry still functions as a straight, white, boy’s club.”

Other studies performed this year have had similar findings. As reported by NPR, a 2015 UCLA study of Diversity in Hollywood confirms the gender and racial imbalances in film and television, behind the scenes and in front of the camera, which compares minority representation to their proportion of the population.

Darnell Hunt, who co-authored the UCLA study, notes that at every level in Hollywood, women and people of color are underrepresented, although people of color have made slight gains in employment arenas since the last time the study was performed.

Despite the fact that ethnic minorities “make up nearly 40 percent of the U.S. population,” they are represented in leading Hollywood roles a mere 17 percent of the time. And as far as Hollywood executives are concerned, the UCLA study notes that “the corps of CEOS and/or chairs running the 18 studios examined was 94 percent white and 100 percent male.” The study also notes that behind the scenes, directing and writing positions still remain largely white and largely male.

Ana-Christina Ramón, who co-authored the findings notes that the findings are not surprising by any means, but the statistics carry an important message to studios about the profitability of diversity. She tells NPR:

“We continue to see that diversity sells. … And that’s a big point that needs to be then relayed to the studios and the networks.”

She’s not wrong, as her studies prove, films with diverse casts enjoy huge profit margins in the box office, the same for which can be said with television. But it seems as though, despite these statistics, gatekeepers in the entertainment industry (who are white men by and large) believe that the best way to keep their jobs is to surround themselves with people who look like them.

The study also notes that diversity has won out in television, as shows like How To Get Away With Murder, Grey’s Anatomy, Empire, Fresh Off the Boat, and Master of None have proven to draw in high amounts of viewers. The reason? Author Darnell Hunt argues that the answer to that question lies in the general amount of risk associated with each genre.

Television shows are produced in relatively high numbers each year, and budgets operate on a fairly small scale, but for studios produce relatively few films each year and budgets for those can cost upwards of hundreds of millions of dollars — making it imperative to higher ups that these films are successful.

Social media has also changed the landscape of television, as viewers now have social capital to effect change. Ramón tells NPR, “Every viewer has really the power to influence the network directly, especially through Twitter.” To show the power of social media in television, she sites the ABC show Scandal, where viewer opinion changed the arc for a show which was on it’s way to being canceled.

Scandal’s success has prompted even more diverse programming to appear on television, with another Shondaland series How to Get Away With Murder making its television debut just two years later. Television executives are beginning to recognize that shows with a Black female lead are profitable.

For television and film alike, the statistics are sobering, and change ought to be enacted quickly in order to bridge the gross lack of diversity present in all forms of entertainment media. But it looks as though change is in the making. Following this due criticism, it appears as though the academy is increasing measures to diversify their membership. Earlier this year, the academy’s board of governors unanimously voted to double the number of women and people of color in its roster by 2020.

“I think the way [diversity increases] is to have more women in those behind-the scenes in writing, directing, and studio executive roles, because you have to make women more integral to the story, not just the side arm candy to the man’s story.”

In February, the New York Times published, “What It’s Really Like to Work in Hollywood (*If You’re Not A Straight White Man),” which featured interviews with 27 women, people of color, and LGBTQ people in the entertainment industry, highlighting their “personal experiences of not being seen, heard, or accepted.”

Actress, director, and producer Eva Longoria shared:

“I didn’t speak Spanish [growing up]. I’m ninth generation. I mean, I’m as American as apple pie. I’m very proud of my heritage. But I remember moving to L.A. and auditioning and not being Latin enough for certain roles. Some white male casting director was dictating what it meant to be Latin. He decided I needed an accent. He decided I should [have] darker-colored skin. The gatekeepers are not usually people of color, so they don’t understand you should be looking for way more colors of the rainbow within that one ethnicity.”

Wendell Pierce added his experience while in the casting office of a major studio:

“The head of casting said, ‘I couldn’t put you in a Shakespeare movie, because they didn’t have black people then.’ He literally said that. I told that casting director: ‘You ever heard of Othello? Shakespeare couldn’t just make up black people. He saw them.’”

In a similar fashion, Emmy winner Viola Davis mentioned the importance of creating unique roles for women and people of color, as expressed in her acceptance speech earlier this year:

“The only thing that separates women of color from anyone else is opportunity. … I always say that Meryl Streep would not be Meryl Streep without Sophie’s Choice, without Kramer vs. Kramer, without Devil Wears Prada. You can’t be Meryl Streep if you’re the third girl from the left in the narrative with two scenes.”

Danika Kimball is a musician from the Northwest who sometimes takes a 30-minute break from feminism to enjoy a TV show. You can follow her on twitter @sadwhitegrrl or on Instagram @drunkfeminist.

Attachment Mothering in ‘Room’

While both the novel and the film are sure to point out Ma’s anguish, ‘Room’ can be seen to paint a romanticized, sometimes insensitive and propaganda-esque…fantasy of immersive, attachment motherhood in which nothing else matters but the child.

This guest post is written by Scarlett Harris.

[Trigger Warning: discussion of rape, and sexual assault]

I remember a friend telling me that she fantasized about being in prison for a year as it was the only way she would have time to complete all her projects uninterrupted.

This anecdote immediately came to mind at a panel discussion after a screening of Room. The female audience member who asked the question recalled a book club talking point scribbled in the back of her copy of the 2010 novel by Emma Donoghue wondering if the author (who also adapted her book for the screen, and was nominated for an Oscar) idealizes the solitude of imprisonment. While both the novel and the film are sure to point out Ma’s anguish, Room can be seen to paint a romanticized, sometimes insensitive and propaganda-esque — later parts of the book, particularly Ma’s post-escape prime-time interview, politicize things like breastfeeding, the prison industrial complex and abortion — fantasy of immersive, attachment motherhood in which nothing else matters but the child.

When I reached out to panel member and Melbourne Writers Festival program manager Jo Case to expand further on her thoughts about Room, she said that the story “explores that mythical ideal of motherhood: all-encompassing, fully present, hyper-attentive. Completely child-focused. It’s our culture’s impossible (and usually untenable) ideal.”

Further to this, I found Room to be a pretty obvious metaphor for attachment parenting. Jack is still being breastfed at age five — though with a lax diet born out of captivity, breastfeeding makes sense. Ma is always there with Jack, relentlessly threading eggshells onto Egg Snake, fashioning Labyrinth out of toilet rolls, and encouraging Jack to use his imagination because what else is there to do in a 10 x 10 soundproofed shed. Attachment parenting can induce in parents the loss of their sense of self if and when the child goes off to school — or in Room’s case, Outside — and makes a life for themselves independent of the close knit parent/child union. Despite Ma’s relish at re-entering the world and thus, finding a semblance of her former self separate from Jack, their intense bond noticeably loosens the moment they arrive at the clinic (more so in the book than the film). Jack is then the one to look back at Room through rose-colored glasses and in the way the story is told post-escape, with the added impetus of being from Jack’s perspective, who can blame him: “Ma was always in Room” while he is often left to fend for himself “in the world” while Ma tries to make sense of her resentment (“Do you know what happened [to my high school friends]? Nothing. Nothing happened to them.”), depression and PTSD.

All we have to do is look at Jack’s heightened intelligence and his being placed on a pedestal in “saving” Ma to understand that he could be viewed as the ultimate fantasy for all those parents (all parents?) who claim their child is “special,” “gifted,” and “advanced for their age.” You know the ones.

I certainly do: my day job is at a cultural institution where I often hear from parents who insist that their children experience things aimed at kids twice their age and, in some cases, even at adults. Jack is familiar with stories well above his age level, such as The Count of Monte Cristo, told to him by Ma. His memory is impeccable and his literacy skills are strengthened by rereading the few books permitted in Room by Ma’s tormenter, Old Nick, and playing “Parrot,” a game that consists of repeating what Jack hears on talk shows and soap operas. In a society that often foists iPads and smartphones into its children’s hands, Jack’s upbringing is romanticized, especially in the early stages of the story when he is blissfully unaware that anything exists outside of Room and the make-believe world of TV (though Jack is permitted half an hour or so of screen-time, Ma is reluctant to grant more as “TV turns your brain to mush”) is real.

Donoghue is quick to deny this, though, telling Katherine Wyrick of BookPage:

“Nobody wants to idealize imprisonment, but many of us have such complicated lives, and we try to fit parenting in alongside work and socializing… We try and have so many lives at once, and we run ourselves ragged.

“Today parenting is so self-conscious and worried, so I wanted to ask the question, how minimally could you do it? … [Ma] really civilizes and humanizes Jack. … She passes along her cultural knowledge to him, from religion to tooth-brushing to rules.”

Room may be a very successful literary and filmic thought experiment for Donoghue. But it’s also a fantasy in which one of the biggest luxuries for parents — time — reigns supreme. In a recent parenting column on Jezebel, Kathryn Jezer-Morton writes:

“Time is one of the most valuable commodities in post-industrial capitalism. It’s valuable because it’s scarce; we run around acting so busy all the time, partly because our jobs are squeezing us for it, and partly because there are so many competing entities constantly vying for our time and attention. […]

“Spending the first 10 months at home with each of my kids was enormously empowering. By the time I returned to work, I was ready for the company of adults again; work even seemed easy compared to caring for a nonverbal person all day. The time we’d spent together absolved me of a lot of the guilt that many people feel when they first put their kids in the care of others. It also gave me the privilege of feeling confident — even a little cavalier! — about my parenting choices.”

Donoghue discusses similar ideas in an interview for The Independent upon the release of the book:

“It may sound outrageous, but every parent I know has had moments of feeling as if they’ve been locked in a room with their toddler for years on end. Even 20 minutes of building towers of blocks can feel like a lifetime. I’m not saying that Ma’s experience is every mother’s experience, not at all. … But there’s a psychological core that’s the same: the child needs you so much that you don’t fully own yourself anymore.”

Utilizing time for things other than child-rearing is often deemed the height of selfishness, for parents and the child-free alike. With Ma’s characterization comes a certain selfishness (or self-preservation) voiced by the post-escape prime-time interviewer who asks Ma whether she ever considered relinquishing Jack to Old Nick to drop off at a hospital in the hopes of giving him a better — freer — life. While I can see where the interviewer is coming from — and maybe in a perfect world, sure, Jack would have grown up under different circumstances — but he’s a five-year-old who challenges his mother’s assertion that there are two sides to everything (“Not an octagon. An octagon has eight sides.”) and can spell feces, for crying out loud! How many “gifted” children of a similar age but very different circumstances can we say the same of?

Ma may conceive of the great escape in order to get Jack out of Room but, as the Nova panel discussed, she’s also hoping he’ll be savvy enough to lead his rescuers back to her. Again, putting so much faith in a five-year-old could be considered delusional, but that speaks to the trauma of an abductee who’s been raped almost every day for the past seven years; a trauma that I couldn’t even begin to imagine and is for another article.

Conversely, when I watched Room for the third time with my own mother, she found Ma’s “gone days,” her forcefulness in preparing Jack to escape Room, and her depression and disengagement from her son upon release to “not be how a mother should act.” Brie Larson’s Ma is far more assertive and fleshed out in the film, whereas on the page she’s ineffectual, agreeing with Jack when he calls her “dumbo” when things don’t go to plan. As an intimate partner violence survivor herself, I was expecting from Mum more empathy towards Ma. But that’s the beauty and curse of storytelling, particularly in a narrative as controversial and emotional as Room — everyone responds to it differently.

I think Room can best be summed up by Case’s description:

“It’s a horror story not just because of the awful circumstances of [Ma’s] imprisonment — rape and kidnapping — but because it dramatizes one of the hardest aspects of motherhood: feeling trapped by routine and the demands of everyday parenting [and] feeling separated from the outside world in your own mother-child universe.”

In the case of Room, though, “this kind of motherhood saves the mother from her prison rather than trapping her in a domestic [one].”

Scarlett Harris is an Australian writer and blogger at The Scarlett Woman, where she muses about femin- and other -isms. You can follow her on Twitter here.

Interracial Relationships: The Roundup

Check out all of the posts from our Interracial Relationships Theme Week here.

Interracial Relationships in Star Wars: The Force Awakens: The Importance of Finn & Rey by Sophie Hall

To have a Black character like this to not only be the co-lead in an iconic franchise but to also include him in a healthy, positively portrayed relationship with a white woman is a brilliant statement. … Finn and Rey’s difference in race doesn’t put any limitations on what this couple can and do achieve.

Interracial Relationships on Grey’s Anatomy by Cheyenne Matthews-Hoffman

While Grey’s Anatomy has a very large multiracial cast that leads to some impressive representation, its reluctance to discuss race doesn’t give it the opportunity to further explore intricacies of interracial relationships.

Brooklyn Nine-Nine Is Doing Something Right: How One Workplace Sitcom Shows That Interracial Relationships Can Be the Norm by Laura Power

But because the people coming into any workplace in New York City are already diverse in terms of race and sexual orientation, why would a cross-race relationship be bothersome? Brooklyn Nine-Nine doesn’t believe it should be. From the first episode, this show presents interracial relationships as an unquestioned norm, and this is what makes it stand out from all other shows of its kind on television.

No Place For Us: Interracial Relationships in West Side Story by Olivia Edmunds-Diez

Pinky and the Origins of Interracial Oscar-Bait by Hannah Graves

Pinky is best understood at the starting point for a new Hollywood trajectory for interracial relationships onscreen: the worthy Oscar-bait drama that claims to enlighten as it entertains and serves as a conduit for fostering tolerance in the presumed white audience.

Interracial Love in the Afternoon: Daytime Soap Opera Relationships by Rachel Wortherley

It is glaring that amongst soap opera supercouples, there are few pairings with people of color, especially interracial couples. … In 2016, interracial couples only scratch the surface of storylines on daytime television.

Colonialism in The King and I and Related Media by Jackson Adler

The King and I promotes colonialist and “white savior” attitudes. … Adding romantic interest to the story, showing King Mongkut as exceedingly admiring of Anna and portraying her influence in the court as more than it was, paints Western values and morals as superior to others, justifying colonialism by making it seem as though Eastern countries “need” the West.

Negotiating Race as the Female Indian Love Interest in Bend It Like Beckham and The Darjeeling Limited by Allie Gemmill

Both Bend It Like Beckham and The Darjeeling Limited examine Indian women and their romances with white men. Within the interracial relationships explored in these respective films, both Jess and Rita… are burdened with navigating deeply impressed racial boundaries as they move through a modern society.

Jackie Brown: The Journey of Self-Discovery by Rachel Wortherley

By not blatantly focusing on the racial disparity between Jackie and Max, it speaks volumes in regards to who the film is about. … It is silently implied that as a Black woman, she divorces her identity from the men in her life — including a man who, as a white male maintains a sense of privilege in society — and reclaims it for her own.

Blindness, Race, and Love in A Patch of Blue by Leigh Kolb

Fifty years later, portraying disability on screen with empathy and respect is still rare. Showing an interracial couple is also extremely rare (Green says that some people sent terrible letters to him about the kissing scene; in fact, it’s reported that in some areas in the south the scene was edited out for theaters). A Patch of Blue manages to weave together themes of disability, race, socioeconomic issues and family dynamics with beauty and grace.

‘We’re Not So Different’: Tradition, Culture, and Falling in Love in Bride & Prejudice by Becky Kukla

Though clearly based on the novel, Bride & Prejudice is a successful piece of transnational cinema, which uses the interracial relationship between the Bakshi’s second eldest daughter Lalita and white American Mark Darcy to discuss differences in race, tradition, and cultural imperialism.

Endearing Interracial Romance in Flirting by Grace Barber-Plentie

It’s a true rarity to see an interracial relationship that doesn’t have at least some element of suffering in it. In Flirting, on the other hand, most of the difficulties in Danny and Thandiwe’s relationship seems to come from the relationship itself, not the color of the star-crossed lovers’ skin.

On Indie Rom-Coms, The Duvernay Test, and Already Tomorrow in Hong Kong by Candice Frederick

It was Viola Davis who commented about the lack of substantial roles as love interests for women of color on the big screen. … We see that familiar and very white narrative unfold between an interracial pair in Already Tomorrow in Hong Kong, except this time it’s infused with cultural nuances that, while they don’t reinvent the wheel, offer a fresh perspective.

Colorism and Interracial Relationships in Film: ‘Belle,’ ‘The Wedding,’ and More by Atima Omara

The colorism Dido experiences is seen throughout different Western societies that had Black African enslavement as part of its world. Many stories of colorism also exist in American history and folklore and we see how it impacts romantic relationships and in American film and TV.

Into the Badlands: Will Blasian Love Last? by Lisa Bolekaja

Into the Badlands, based on the classic Chinese tale Journey to the West, is set in a futuristic dystopian world where past wars have created a new feudal society. It’s gratifying to finally get an onscreen Blasian couple where they kiss, have sex, and get to have a real relationship.

What Parenthood Taught Me About Interracial Relationships by Livi Burke

I remember watching the scene in the episode “The Talk” where Crosby and Jabbar have their first conversation about the N-word. Crosby looked so caught off guard; he knows this is a racist word he’s not supposed to say, yet at the same he has no idea how to talk about this racial slur and its ramifications with his half Black son.

Animated Love: How Anime Produced Two of the Best Interracial Love Stories of All Time by Robert V Aldrich

Two of the greatest love stories in anime are interracial relationships. … While the industry as a whole generally eschews characters of color, that hasn’t stopped some series from featuring prominent people of color characters in narratively significant stories. This has led to interracial couples being featured in two of the greatest anime series of all time: The Super Dimension Force Macross and Revolutionary Girl Utena.

Colonialism in ‘The King and I’ and Related Media

‘The King and I’ promotes colonialist and “white savior” attitudes. … Adding romantic interest to the story, showing King Mongkut as exceedingly admiring of Anna and portraying her influence in the court as more than it was, paints Western values and morals as superior to others, justifying colonialism by making it seem as though Eastern countries “need” the West.

Written by Jackson Adler as part of our theme week on Interracial Relationships.

“Is the King and I racist, and is it time it was put to rest?” [sic] asks Dee Jefferson of The Sydney Morning Herald. While his article is inconclusive, I strongly believe that the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical as it exists now, and other Western media telling the same story, should be “put to rest.” The way that the story of Anna Leonowens teaching at the court of King Mongkut of Siam (now Thailand) in the mid 19^th century is told in the West needs to be completely redone if it is to be told, because the way it is presented is both inaccurate and harmful. There is a reason The King and I (staged on Broadway in 1951 and adapted for film in 1956) and many other adaptations of the same story such as Anna and the King of Siam (1946) and Anna and the King (1999) either are or were banned in Thailand – because they are extremely insensitive to Thailand’s history and culture, and promote colonialist and “white savior” attitudes.

To say that The King and I and related media is racist is missing the point. This is because racism is a product of colonialism, often being an afterthought justification for stealing and controlling another peoples’ wealth, labor, and resources, or as a propagandist rallying cry to begin the colonization of another people and their land. Anna Leonowens is painted as the “white savior” in these adaptations, and shown inaccurately as the main influence behind the reforms implemented by Mongkut and his son Chulalongkorn.

Though Mongkut and Leonowens did respect one another and worked closely, a romance between them does not seem to have existed, and the invention of it in the media is a tool to better depict Leonowens “civilizing” Mongkut to the extent that he might be a “gentleman” and a romantic interest – albeit in a bittersweet “it would never work” way. Interracial relationships (however problematically written) are themes in Rodgers and Hammerstein’s work, such as in South Pacific, as interracial marriage was a hot button issue at their time, not nationally legalized until 1967. Under the guise of being “progressive,” these works actually do an incredible amount of harm.

Mongkut hired Leonowens (who was ethnically English and East Indian, but claimed to be Welsh) to teach his children “English language, science, and literature, and not for the conversion to Christianity.” He himself already knew English (and Latin) and was well versed in Western culture. The image of Mongkut in the media is a stereotypical “barbarian” and “foolish” despot, despite the efforts of talented actors such as Chow Yun-Fat and Ken Watanabe to show a complex and thoughtful human being and leader. Women’s rights were improved under his reign. For example, unlike the story of Tuptim in the musical suggests, he outlawed forced marriages and released a large number of concubines to marry whom they chose. He respected the minds and wishes of his wives. When they met, Mongkut and his family treated Leonowens with kindness and respect, while she was often rude, condescending, or sarcastic to them. She strongly believed herself superior to the Thai people due to her being (part) English and a Christian, even telling members of the royal family to their faces, “I am not like you.”

The myth of she and Mongkut emotionally having a romance is quickly debunked due to various instances and examples of her enacting and making plain her biases and self-righteousness. One such instance was when she was asked by some female members of the royal family which prince she would find more desirable to marry were she to choose. She replied, according to her first autobiography, that they “are pagans” (Buddhist) and as such, “An English, that is a Christian, woman” such as herself “would rather be put to the torture, chained and dungeoned for life, or suffer a death the slowest and most painful you Siamese know, than be the wife of either” [sic]. The words “you Siamese” naturally show her condescending tone and attitude towards Thai people, insulting their intelligence and knowledge of the world.

Aspects of Leonowens’ autobiographies have proved to be exaggerated or fabricated, and seem to have been made to make herself look better and Mongkut look cruel. Various members of the Thai royal family, from Chulalongkorn himself to more to the present, have spoken out against both the inaccuracies in Leonowens’ works as well all media representations. One example of this is the alleged execution of Tuptim, featured in many adaptations (though she is whipped in the musical). Much of Tuptim’s story was fabricated, and she in fact was not executed, but became one of the wives of Chulalongkorn. Indeed, according to Mongkut did not believe in executions, considering them not in line with Buddhism.

However, Western adaptations have been more than ready to depict the Thai as “barbarians” or as “foolish” and Anna as the epitome of Western graciousness and, indeed, womanhood. Adding romantic interest to the story, showing Mongkut as exceedingly admiring of Anna and portraying her influence in the court as more than it was, paints Western values and morals as superior to others, justifying colonialism by making it seem as though Eastern countries “need” the West. Of course, Anna and Mongkut never kiss and hardly ever physically show their romantic interest, as to do so would “corrupt” Anna, the white woman, and put someone “lesser than” above her due to gender norms.

The fictionalized versions of this story are not only problematic in how they are written, but also problematic in terms of casting. As of 2014, white men are still being cast as King Mongkut, showing little has changed since Rex Harrison played the role in 1946. When an Asian man is cast, even in film adaptations, it is an actor who is not Thai, playing into the Western myth that all Asians and Asian cultures are the same. Except for Korean-American actress Anna Sanders, who played Anna on Broadway for a total of three performances in two days, the role of Leonowens has exclusively been played by white women, and often portrayed as blonde or redhead, despite the historical figure being part East Indian and having dark hair. This whitewashing is ridiculous, and shows how little white Westerners have changed in their self-righteousness and feelings of entitlement toward other lands and cultures.

All in all, the story of Anna Leonowens teaching at the Siamese court, as it has been told by Western media, remain colonialist and otherwise harmful. Even if Leonowens and Mongkut had a particularly deep and romantic relationship, which they did not, Leonowens’ white savior attitudes and Mongkut’s (historically inaccurate) verbal and physical violence would make that relationship a terribly abusive and volatile one. This would not be the kind of relationship to be valued, making even the most redeeming qualities of these adaptions problematic at best. I am not advocating that Leonowens’ and Mongkut’s stories be silenced and untold, but instead that they be told with honesty. This was a king actively working to keep his country free from colonialism, and this was a woman whose colonialist attitudes — which kept her from interacting well with those who treated her with respect — were probably due to internalized racist biases and fears regarding her East Indian heritage (a heritage she worked hard to hide). This is in fact a story that needs to be told, and hopefully many more (and more accurate) adaptations will be made in the future.

Jackson Adler is a transguy with a BA in Theatre, a Bitch Flicks staff writer, and is a writer, activist, director, teacher, dramaturge, cartoon lover, vegan boba drinker, and proud Gryffindor. His day job is at a theatre (live, not movie), and he uses a pen name as a precaution, since he’d rather not risk getting fired. He is white and middle class, and has to remember his privileges. He is also aromantic bi/pansexual, and has an Auditory Processing Disorder and a Weak Working Memory (which does not excuse when he forgets that he has lots of privileges). You can follow him on twitter at @JacksonAdler, and see more of his writing on representation and discrimination in the media at the blog The Windowsill.

‘Pinky’ and the Origins of Interracial Oscar-Bait

‘Pinky’ is best understood at the starting point for a new Hollywood trajectory for interracial relationships onscreen: the worthy Oscar-bait drama that claims to enlighten as it entertains and serves as a conduit for fostering tolerance in the presumed white audience.

This guest post by Hannah Graves appears as part of our theme week on Interracial Relationships.

Twentieth Century-Fox’s Pinky is far from the first Hollywood feature film that depicts an interracial relationship. Despite the evolution of various censorship codes that forbid depicting “miscegenation,” Hollywood has a rich history of mining the salacious or elicit potential from interracial pairing on screen, from Broken Blossoms to Duel in the Sun, Showboat to Imitation of Life. Yet, Pinky was quite distinct in tone from the films that came before it.

Produced by Fox’s studio chief Darryl F. Zanuck, Pinky was part of a spate of post-war social problem films that earnestly sought to address topical issues. Studios promoted these films as evidence that their medium was maturing, littering their advertising with exaggerated claims about the power of their pictures. As one of Pinky’s screenwriters, Phil Dunne, wrote in a New York Times article, “What we say and do on the screen in productions of this sort can affect the happiness, the living conditions, even the physical safety of millions of our fellow citizens.” Pinky is best understood at the starting point for a new Hollywood trajectory for interracial relationships onscreen: the worthy Oscar-bait drama that claims to enlighten as it entertains and serves as a conduit for fostering tolerance in the presumed white audience. It is a tradition that informs films from A Patch of Blue and Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner to Monster’s Ball and the forthcoming Loving.

Pinky is about the identity crisis of Patricia “Pinky” Johnson (Jeanne Crain), a light-skinned woman of ambiguous mixed-race ancestry who has been ‘passing’ as white at her northern nursing school. Set in the late 1940s, the film opens on Pinky as she returns to her southern hometown and grandmother, Dicey (Ethel Walters), after feeling a marriage proposal from Tom (William Lundigan), a white Northern Doctor. Back in the South, Pinky reencounters the racism of her hometown and finds herself the victim of police scrutiny and sexual assault. She resolves to leave but finds herself reluctantly nursing a local white matriarch, Miss Em (Ethel Barrynore), who lives in the nearby planation house. Both Miss Em and Dicey challenge Pinky about her passing, arguing she is not being true to her authentic self. When Tom returns, Pinky informs him about her racial heritage and he reiterates his proposal, albeit implicitly on the condition they live away from both of their families and she continue to pass. Finding herself the sole inheritor of Miss Em’s vast estate after Miss Em dies, Pinky successfully fights for her right to the property in court. She decides to reject Tom’s proposal and converts the planation into a clinic for the local African American community where she resolves to live. An unequivocal hit, Pinky was Fox’s top-grossing film of 1949 and its three lead actresses all received Oscar nominations.

I have something of a love/hate relationship with Pinky. Mixed-race and racially ambiguous looking myself, I have always been fascinated by stories of racial passing. In the scheme of things, life turns out pretty good in Pinky, even if the film lacks nuance. Of course, colorism undergirds the film’s efforts to make its contemporary white audience relate to Pinky. Yes, Zanuck cast a white actress as Pinky rather than Fredi Washington or Lena Horne, rightly drawing criticism in the African American press. It is extremely unfortunate that a cranky white matriarch successfully instructs Pinky on how she should racially identity according to the “one drop” rule, a element even The New York Times recognised as paternalistic. And yes, I know, Pinky and Tom don’t end up together and their relationship is unable to thrive, presumably like the unaddressed interracial relationship that resulted in Pinky herself. However, unlike some of her tragic predecessors, Pinky doesn’t drown in a lake, fall off a building, or fall into prostitution because of a doomed romance. Instead, she gets to keep a large piece of property and embarks on a fulfilling career doing desperately needed work, even if the clinic gets Miss Em’s name on it. This is a big deal. It is also very different from Pinky’s fate in the film’s source material.

According to records held at the Library of Congress, and analysed in Thomas Cripp’s Making Movies Black, the NAACP was understandably nervous when they heard Zanuck wanted to adapt Cid Ricketts Sumner’s novel, Quality (1946), for the big screen. Serialised in the Ladies Home Journal, Quality was an offensively pro-segregationist novel with several racist stereotypes. Not least of which was Pinky who, in true tragic mulatto fashion, suffers Tom’s rejection immediately after he discovers her heritage. Things don’t get much better for Pinky from there; vengeful white locals burn down the property she inherits at the novel’s close. Perhaps this darker ending more accurately reflected the realities of race relations in the pre-Loving vs. Virginia South of 1949, but it wasn’t the story Fox wanted to tell about America (or release internationally) during the Cold War.

In their quest to fashion a more uplifting look at American race relations, Fox’s successive screenwriters tried to salvage the material, but often fell back on familiar tropes. Perhaps recognising the limited perspectives of his white male writing staff, or maybe just feeling increasingly under-pressure from those he consulted at the NAACP, Zanuck recruited a young actress, Jane White, to advise on the script. Jane was the daughter of Walter White, the Executive Secretary of the NAACP. A Smith graduate, Jane found herself in a difficult position in her pursuit of theatre work: too light-skinned in appearance for the limited roles for Black women while racist hiring practices exempted her from consideration for white roles. Stuck in this limbo, she accepted the trip out West to consult on the Fox lot.

Working closely with Pinky’s second screenwriter, Phil Dunne, Jane revealed herself whip-smart, opinionated, forthright and funny. I have never had as good a time in an archive as I did at USC reading her notes chiding her male colleagues about their story’s failings. More is the pity that Fox failed to take up all of her suggestions; we might have had something really special if they did. However, Jane was able to make her colleagues see the limitations of the interracial relationship. She argued that Tom should not reject Pinky, as he did in Quality, but rather declare his loyalty to her. In the film, Tom admits that Pinky’s race poses “important problems” but decides they should “face them like rational people.” He explains that as a doctor and a scientist he does not believe “in the mythology of superior and inferior races.” While Pinky is unable, eventually, to accept his condition that they move out West to start their life together, he is very different from the brute of the book. In turn, Jane advocated for additional dialogue that would clarify for the audience how, at the end of the film, Pinky would be fine without this relationship developing. As Jane explained, Pinky’s life had a more important purpose than to be Tom’s wife and this needed to shine through. Ideally, Jane hoped that a young eligible Black man could wait in the wings to round off the love story. However, the limitations of mid-century interracial romance on screen came full circle: audiences and censors would not accept a white actress and a Black man embracing on screen, even if the actress played an African American character. The idea was scrapped. Although eight years later audiences got that embrace in another Zanuck production, Island in the Sun.

Pinky’s love story may seem mild now, but it is worth remembering its initial context; even the kiss between the two white actors who played Pinky and Tom was too controversial in some southern cities, prompting censorship and cuts. Pinky may offer a fairly cowardly white lover and a failed interracial relationship, but Jane White transformed a tragic mulatto story into a film where a heroine parts from her lover without tears to find emotional satisfaction in her professional accomplishments. This may be too chaste and self-sacrificing but it was a markedly better ending for a woman who passed and fell in love with a white man than those that came before and it laid some of the groundwork for depictions of interracial relationships that followed. In the midst of our current inclusion crisis in Hollywood, Jane White’s work serves as a reminder of what can happen when you get a seat at the table. She is why, whatever we might think about Pinky in the final analysis, it is worth remembering.

Hannah Graves is completing her Ph.D. in History at the University of Warwick. She is also the website editor and social media officer for the Women’s Film and Television History Network. You can find out more about her work here.

Blindness, Race, and Love in ‘A Patch of Blue’

‘A Patch of Blue’ manages to weave together themes of disability, race, socioeconomic issues and family dynamics with beauty and grace.

A Patch of Blue movie poster.

This repost by Leigh Kolb appears as part of our theme week on Interracial Relationships.

Director Guy Green said of the premise of A Patch of Blue: “basically it’s a very corny story, a blind girl falling in love with a Black man.” He credits the writing of the novel it was based upon (Be Ready With Bells and Drums, by Elizabeth Kata) for ensuring that the story, and resulting film, were not corny at all.

The 1965 film centers around a young blind woman, Selina (Elizabeth Hartman), who has been abused and sheltered, and neglected any formal education, by her family–her mother, Rose-Ann (Shelley Winters) and her grandfather, Ole Pa (Wallace Ford). She’s befriended by a Black man, Gordon (Sidney Poitier), and they form a deep relationship, which centers on Gordon’s desire to help Selina lift herself up.

It would be easy to read that synopsis–blind girl falls in love with a Black man–and come to any number of conclusions about the film, especially since it was released at the height of the civil rights movement, but the film manages to capture something much deeper than being a superficial morality play on racism, and it treats Selina’s blindness with care and dignity.

When Selina was five, her father came home unexpectedly while Rose-Ann was sleeping with another man (it’s insinuated that she worked as a prostitute, and still does). Her father killed the man, and when Rose-Ann threw a bottle–a chemical-laden cosmetic–from her dresser at him, it hit Selina in the face, scarring her eyes and leaving her blind.

Elizabeth Hartman wore opaque contacts to simulate Selina’s damaged eyes. Rose-Ann is the only one who berates her “ugliness”; even her grandfather explains that it’s just that people are nosy, not that she is ugly.

Selina’s life circumstances are desperate and miserable, but she is not. The opening shot of the film focuses on Selina’s hands, stringing together beaded necklaces–that’s what she does during the day to help her family (Mr. Faber, her boss, is presented as an important support person in her life). She yearns to spend more time in the park, and Mr. Faber takes her when he can.

It’s in the park that she meets Gordon (a caterpillar dropped down the back of her shirt and she needed help–a problem not reserved for a person who can’t see–and he helps her retrieve it). He’s friendly and gentle without being condescending, and his generosity helps strike up a quick friendship. He buys her sunglasses because she’s self-conscious about her scarred eyes and tells her she looks perfect with them on (this is presented as a generous act for her confidence, not because he actually feels she needs them).

He’s shocked that she’s never heard of braille and was never formally educated: “You haven’t heard of all blind people can do?” he asks, and she is self-deprecating yet unashamed of her lot in life.

Gordon and Selina eat lunch.

While Selina is uneducated (Gordon corrects her grammar when they first meet) and cannot live outside of her home independently, the audience never feels pity for her because she is blind and helpless. Instead, the focus of our pity is on her lack of support–she has an abusive home life and has been neglected. Her blindness isn’t pitiful; her family is.

When Selina is shown doing tasks that she’s been entrusted with–changing linens, washing dishes, cooking, cleaning–she does so perfectly. This is a reminder that her blindness hasn’t been a hindrance to her life and that she is capable of doing what she’s allowed to do.

Hartman, in studying for the part, spent time at a school for the blind to be able to accurately get into character. She wore opaque contacts (Green said they helped because they naturally obstructed her vision), and her family says she wore them constantly and never left character while she was filming.

This careful and empathetic approach to “acting” blind paid off. Hartman’s performance was incredibly convincing and she was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Actress (A Patch of Blue was Hartman’s first film).

Gordon helps Selina find directions by the sun’s location.

In the film, Gordon attempts to feel as Selina must feel shortly after meeting her. He’s shown at his job–working as a night-shift reporter–getting up from his desk, walking across the room, and attempting to return to his desk with closed eyes (he is unsuccessful, and runs into his coworker’s desk). This short scene is poignant in that it further reminds Gordon–and the audience–what it must feel like to be Selina, if only for a few moments.

Gordon never tries to do things for Selina. From the beginning, he teaches her and empowers her to be able to completely take care of herself. Since it’s clear her limitations are environmental, not innate, she is capable. Her disability–caused and amplified by her family–is not what’s in her way. Her poverty and lack of support system are detrimental to her growth and development.

Gordon could have easily met Selina, befriended her, seen that she could clean and cook, and want to marry her, keeping her dependent and living simply for him. And while his romantic feelings for her are conflicted, he wants her to be independent and educated more than he wants her for himself.

Gordon gives Selina very practical advice (counting steps, listening for traffic) so she can navigate streets by herself–which she finally does, after realizing she doesn’t have to take her home life anymore.

Gordon never belittles or gets frustrates with Selina.

Gordon and Selina’s kiss–one of the first on-screen interracial kisses–was at the same time innocent and deeply passionate. When Selina references the fact that she’d been raped, and wishes she hadn’t so she could be with Gordon, he convinces her that she is not “bad” or “dirty,” like she worries she is. (Someone in 1965 understood how to not blame the victim.)

Their kiss was one of the first on-screen interracial kisses.

The filmography often focuses on Selina’s point of view, and is effective in portraying the sensory details she enjoys (the canned peaches or the music box), and the terrors she lives through–her time alone for the first time on the street, or the memory of being raped (we “see” the man from her perspective–what she could have seen, but only felt).

The racial components of the film are also nuanced and effective. When Gordon tells Selina that “tolerance” is one of his favorite words (and explains that it’s not just putting up with something, but that you don’t “knock your neighbor just because he thinks or looks different than you”), she tells him that he must be full of tolerance. He quietly shakes his head and says that he’s not. He looks deeply affected when white people stare and glare at him and Selina walking together, and clearly has deep inner conflict being a Black man in America in 1965 (of course, these aspects of the film don’t seem nearly as dated as they should be). His brother, a doctor, criticizes Gordon’s desire to help and educate Selina because she is white, and comments on the fact that she comes from a “trash heap” (to which Gordon responds, “She may, but she’s not trash”). Underneath the surface of the film is the fact that socioeconomic factors and family support systems are what determine a person’s opportunities.

Rose-Ann is, unsurprisingly, violently racist. We know that she forbade Selina from spending time with the only friend she ever made because the little girl was Black, so we also know that when Rose-Ann sees Selina and Gordon together, she will erupt–which she does.

The characters to be despised are racist, abusive and neglectful. But Selina and Gordon aren’t perfect–they are complex, sympathetic characters who struggle with their own shortcomings and emotions. Selina is only 18, so her naivety and her quickness to fall deeply in love are believable. Gordon loves Selina as a friend, but is unsure of anything beyond that. He says he’s snapped back into reality after getting lost in their embrace. He deals with anger and frustration, too–not only because of his experiences at the hands of racism, but also because of the injustice of Selina’s mistreatment.

By the end of the film, even the crowd of white people (who before had glared), realize that Gordon is no threat to Selina; Rose-Ann is.

The ending is hopeful, but not saccharine-sweet. The realness of the characters, their struggles and their emotions are highlighted by sparse, black-and-white film and a beautiful soundtrack.

Gordon has called a school for the blind and set up a space for Selina. Before the bus comes to pick her up, she is nervous, and wishes they could just get married. Gordon promises that in a year, they could see if their love has anything to do with marriage. He sits her down to tell her that he’s black, but she already knows.

She says, “I know everything I need to know about you.” As she feels his face she continues: “I know you’re good, and kind, and that you’re colored; and I think you’re beautiful.”

He’s shocked that she knows, and responds “Beautiful? Most people would say the opposite.”

“That’s because they don’t know you,” she answers.

A Patch of Blue portrays disability as a part of a woman’s life that only defines her because she’s grown up with an abusive and neglectful family. As soon as she gets access to a world (literally and figuratively) outside of their little apartment, she thrives, and we know she’s just going to continue to grow. She’s beginning her life–a life that won’t be defined by her blindness.

Her relationship with Gordon allows him to also redefine his own life and helps him see himself for who he is–a beautiful, kind and generous man, who knows how to share life with someone who’s never experienced it.

A Patch of Blue manages to weave together themes of disability, race, socioeconomic issues and family dynamics with beauty and grace. It was nominated for multiple Golden Globes and Academy Awards; Shelley Winters won the Best Supporting Actress Oscar, and notably, Sidney Poitier was nominated for the Golden Globe, but not an Academy Award.

A Patch of Blue is one of those films that manages to stay with you for years after you see it; and then, when you see it again, it’s just as beautiful as you remembered.

Leigh Kolb is a composition, literature and journalism instructor at a community college in rural Missouri.

‘Jackie Brown’: The Journey of Self-Discovery

This guest post by Rachel Wortherley appears as part of our theme week on Interracial Relationships. Spoilers ahead.

Quentin Tarantino’s third feature film, Jackie Brown (1997), presents a shift in tone from his previous films Reservoir Dogs (1992) and Pulp Fiction (1994). Using Elmore Leonard’s novel, Rum Punch, Tarantino departs from a world largely shaped by men. Gone are the heightened sense of reality and cartoonish characters such as the color-coded thieves in Reservoir Dogs. Unlike his latter films, Kill Bill Vol. 1 (2003), Kill Bill Vol. 2 (2004), Death Proof (2007), and Inglourious Basterds (2009), his characters in Jackie Brown are not professional assassins, deadly women, or covert agents attempting to assassinate a powerful dictator. These features make Jackie Brown Tarantino’s most underrated film. Here, audiences are given characters that function in the real world.

Though Tarantino is known to use other films as a template for his original screenplays, Jackie Brown is first and foremost an adaptation. The fact that Tarantino uses Leonard’s novel as source material, gave Tarantino an opportunity to rethink the way he wrote female characters. Prior to Jackie Brown, the only significant female figures in his films are “gold-digger” Mia Wallace (Pulp Fiction), and the man-eating vampire, Satanico Pandemonium, in From Dusk Till’ Dawn: characters who lack depth and complexity. Rum Punch allowed Tarantino to write a female character who is strong, desirable, morally complex, yet vulnerable. Jackie is no “airbrushed fantasy object”— she is “real,” with real world problems, obstacles, and doubts. She simultaneously exudes a sense of sensuality and capability beyond men.

Jackie Brown, portrayed beautifully by Pam Grier, is a 44-year old Black woman with a rough past, who has been reduced to working as a stewardess for a cheap airline. It is the only job she could get after her arrest for drug possession, while serving as a mule for her pilot ex-husband at another airline. The film begins with Jackie’s physical profile on the airport moving walkway with Bobby Womack’s “Across 110th Street” playing over the credits. The lyrics, “I was the third brother of five. Doing whatever I had to do to survive. I’m not saying what I did was all right. Trying to break out of the ghetto was a day-to-day fight” establishes Jackie’s position within the film’s universe without the use of traditional exposition. The moment Tarantino focuses on her physical profile with the interspersed music, the audience projects an idea of Jackie as confident; a hard worker; someone who has to hustle to survive. Her stewardess uniform presents her as a responsible, professional: one who serves, but also provides comfort and assurance with a tone and manner that puts even panicky passengers at ease. Jackie’s legitimate job — stewardess, parallels the illegitimate one — smuggling money for petty arms dealer, Ordell Robbie (Samuel L. Jackson). He is the “pilot” of the operation, but in times of peril, she bears the brunt of the consequences while keeping everyone calm and collected.

Jackie’s involvement with Ordell gives her the financial security her other job does not provide. But, when she is caught by Detectives Dargus (Michael Bowen) and Nicolette (Michael Keaton), this threatens her livelihood. At this moment, we see her vulnerability, and how much of her troubles result from her relationships with dangerous, erratic men. There is an element of servitude in Jackie’s relationships with these men, but she is no mere victim of circumstance. She willingly acknowledges that her own choices got her to this place.

Hers is a story of self-actualization, of finding her identity. Early in the film, she confesses to a friendly bondsman, “I always feel like I’m starting over. Starting over would be scarier than facing Ordell.” Sacrifice for the sake of self-preservation defines Jackie’s life, to aid her ex-husband and Ordell. Now, she seeks self-renewal. Because of the maturity and vulnerability that she exhibits, audiences generally want her to prevail, and are “okay” with Jackie using the same men who use her to execute the film’s central caper: a high-stakes money exchange involving Ordell and the police, circumstances that Tarantino uses to give importance to Jackie’s actions and to elevate her to the status of a hero.

Most of the men in Jackie’s life want something from her. Jackie’s pilot ex-husband wanted her to smuggle drugs onto their plane; Ordell wants her to fix the problems her arrest has caused for his business; and the detectives wager Jackie’s freedom in exchange for her help in bringing down Ordell. The only exception is Max Cherry (Robert Forster), Jackie’s bail bondsman, who falls in love with her but asks nothing in return. We witness his feelings for her emerge in the first moment he sees her being released on bail. Unlike the confident, put-together stewardess in the opening shot of the film, her hair is wild and untamed, she is without makeup, and her signature stewardess uniform is disheveled. Tarantino decides to describe this moment through use of a long shot, with Jackie walking down a long path. As she advances toward Max, the artificial light of the jail illuminates her silhouette. When Max first sees Jackie, he is transfixed by her image. He sees her true beauty, beyond the mask and the uniform she wears for the world.

Max and Jackie’s interaction is interesting because it contrasts with the romantic male/female relationships portrayed in Tarantino’s other films, which either center on the revenge narrative (Kill Bill, Death Proof, Inglourious Basterds), or a woman in peril (Pulp Fiction, Django Unchained). In Jackie Brown, the central romantic relationship occurs between two mature adults, entering the next phase of their lives. Rather than lovers, they become confidantes, emotionally vulnerable to each other. They barely know one another, yet Jackie almost immediately feels comfortable allowing Max in her home, where her reduced circumstances are apparent. But Max respects Jackie, rather than pitying her. He wants to help her without relegating her to the role of a damsel in distress. He stands at a comfortable distance, but is present in case her plan goes awry. As he watches her successfully execute her plan, Max admires her determination and bravery.

Jackie Brown also marks the first time there is more of a presence of an interracial relationship in a Tarantino film. While Ordell has a “relationship” with surfer-stoner-girl, Melanie (Bridget Fonda), it is reduced to using the other person for personal gain — financially and sexually. Essentially, Ordell and Melanie are the anti-couple in comparison to Jackie and Max. Tarantino gives us two glimpses of interracial romance in Pulp Fiction: Mia Wallace (Uma Thurman), a white woman married to a Black man, Marsellus Wallace (Ving Rhames), as well as, the “blink and you’ll miss it” moment in the chapter titled, “The Bonnie Situation,” where Tarantino’s character is married to Bonnie, a Black woman. In fact, Bonnie’s role is so minimal that it is non-speaking, and consists of a brief image of her walking toward the camera. These dynamics are not fully captured onscreen and there is not enough time spent amongst these couples. Although, the same can be argued for Jackie and Max.

Max purchases the Delfonics record, “Didn’t I (Blow Your Mind This Time)” after hearing it at Jackie’s apartment, because it reminds him of her: not just as she is now, but of her youth, as she was when she first bought the album. It is as though Max hopes to know her by listening to the song repeatedly, while simultaneously maintaining the image of her the first night of their meeting, when he first heard it. In the last scene of the film, Jackie announces her intention to travel around the world — to Spain. She invites Max to come, but he politely refuses. They share a brief kiss and Max returns to business as usual. But, when Jackie drives off, he watches her leave. His face registers one of immediate regret, or longing. Max’s choice is significant for two reasons. By staying behind, he will not risk tarnishing his image of Jackie. Secondly, he allows Jackie to have the freedom, independence, and fresh start that she desires. Jackie finally has a life for herself, and if Max went with her, he might prevent her from living it. She must cut all ties to the past.

The last scene of the film is a tight close-up of Jackie’s face as she drives off, with the familiar sound of “Across 110th Street.” While the song previously existed outside of the universe of the film, this scene depicts Jackie mouthing the lyrics:

Across 110th street
Pimps trying to catch a woman that’s weak
Across 110th street
Pushers won’t let the junkie go free
Oh, across 110th street
A woman trying catch a trick on the street, ooh baby
Across 110th street
You can find it all
In the Street

Through Jackie’s acknowledgement, the song becomes a part of the film’s universe and it represents Jackie’s continued ability to overcome “the pushers” and “the pimps” largely represented by the men, save Max, who underestimated her. Although Jackie experiences a sense of freedom, tears well in her eyes, but the scene cuts and the film ends before they fall. Audiences are left to interpret this in a multitude of ways. The tears can be construed as “happy tears” that speak to the beginning of a new chapter; the idea of loss, or as a bittersweet moment. Jackie is free (and wealthy), but she leaves a decent man behind. The sense of it being a bittersweet moment is sanctioned by the audience. While we waited for Jackie to win against Ordell, we also wanted to see her “win” in love. Their relationship may be viewed as undeveloped, when it is in fact underdeveloped. Their chemistry implies that beyond the narrative of the film, or in a fantasized sequel, Jackie and Max as a romantic unit is possible.

By not blatantly focusing on the racial disparity between Jackie and Max, it speaks volumes in regards to who the film is about. Jackie’s motivations and plans are not demonstrative; they are quiet. These characteristics only add to her mystery. It is silently implied that as a Black woman, she divorces her identity from the men in her life — including a man who, as a white male maintains a sense of privilege in society — and reclaims it for her own.

Rachel Wortherley earned a Master of Arts degree at Iona College in New Rochelle, New York. She currently teaches English at Iona College and hopes to become a full-time screenwriter.

Interracial Relationships on ‘Grey’s Anatomy’

While ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ has a very large multiracial cast that leads to some impressive representation, its reluctance to discuss race doesn’t give it the opportunity to further explore intricacies of interracial relationships.

This guest post by Cheyenne Matthews-Hoffman appears as part of our theme week on Interracial Relationships.

It’s been more than a decade and Grey’s Anatomy still thrills us with harrowing medical mysteries, last minute life-saving surgeries and, of course, surgeons hooking up in on-call rooms and falling in love from across the OR table. The TV series has always been as much about its surgeons’ personal lives as it has been about the medicine. With an ever-growing cast of colorful characters, it’s no wonder why the show still pulls great ratings week after week. The show has been praised numerous times for its diversity, heralding Shonda Rhimes for her use of colorblind casting, not assigning a specific race to the characters she writes, which created a racially diverse fictional world. While colorblind casting promotes a greater variety of races on screen and normalizes diversity, erasing a character’s color can lead to other issues; issues made all the more noticeable in the heart of Grey’s Anatomy’s most prominent narrative: relationships.

From I Love Lucy‘s Lucy and Ricky to Boy Meets World‘s Angela and Shawn, interracial relationships aren’t new to television and have been on the rise in recent years. From 30-minute comedies to hour long dramas, interracial relationships are becoming more common to see on TV. Brooklyn Nine-Nine, The Mindy Project, The Walking Dead, and The Fosters to name a few all feature interracial couples that are fundamental to their shows. However, Grey’s leads the pack by miles on the amount of interracial pairings featured in comparison to shows that can boast only one or two. Granted, it’s easier for Grey’s Anatomy to contain a multitude of interracial relationships because of its famed colorblind casting. The cast has been racially diverse since its inception in 2005 and a cornerstone of the show is the tumultuous relationships the surgeons have with each other, so it only makes sense that the two would overlap. While Grey’s Anatomy has a very large multiracial cast that leads to some impressive representation, its reluctance to discuss race doesn’t give it the opportunity to further explore intricacies of interracial relationships.

Out of the 39 major, plot-related relationships that have been featured on Grey’s since season one, 14 of them have been interracial, putting them just over 35%. Comparatively, according to the Pew Research Center, in 2013 interracial marriages were at a record high of 13%. Not every interracial pairing is or has been married, but the percentage of interracial couples on Grey’s is pretty substantial in comparison to both real-life statistics and other television shows.

Despite the diversity of the cast, the majority of the characters are white and the majority of the relationships have one white person in them. According to Vulture, it would seem that “interracial pairings in popular culture still tend to necessitate one white person.” There have only been two interracial relationships on the show that weren’t half white; Cristina’s tumultuous broken engagement to Burke and her on-call room hook ups with her intern Shane Ross in season 10. Callie, the only Latinx character on the show, has also only ever slept with, dated, and married white people, while Cristina, the only Asian American main character on the show, has dated, hooked up with, and married men of different races.

Just like every relationship in Grey-Sloan, every interracial relationship is laced with explosive drama; Grey’s Anatomy has never shied away from important and sometimes uncomfortable topics. Cristina and Owen’s relationship is full of disagreements and tense arguments over their different stances on having kids and her subsequent abortion. Callie and Erica catalyzed Callie discovering her sexuality. Callie and Arizona share similar problems to Cristina and Owen: both couples disagree (at least initially) over children, and both couples deal with a partner’s infidelity. Jackson and April argue about how to raise their children and deal with her enlisting in the army, leaving him to deal with his grief over the death of their son by himself. Jo and Jason break up after Jo kicks his ass, with a brief dialogue about male victims of domestic violence. Strangely enough, although Richard faces some subtle racism in “The Time Warp,” when an attending tells him that “ten years ago, [he] wouldn’t have even been allowed in this program” after arguing about whether or not to treat a patient with AIDS, race isn’t a factor when it comes to his relationship with Ellis Grey. Their relationship also leads to myriad other problems, including Richard’s alcoholism, the tension over the two each cheating on their respective spouses, and eventually, more relevant to the present time in the show, how Ellis’s cheating and her relationship effects Meredith’s own life.

From Cristina and Owen’s explosive argument over her abortion to Arizona’s occasional annoyance with Callie’s bisexuality, these couples deal with a wide spectrum of issues. It isn’t like serious and sometimes touchy subjects are off-limits inside of these relationships. So why is race never discussed?

The show doesn’t usually avoid difficult or complex situations (in fact, it more often than not capitalizes on them), which is why it’s so bizarre that after 12 years, the instances race has come up in an episode can be counted on one hand. A recent season 12 episode, “Something Against You” had a subplot where Maggie tells Amelia to check her white privilege. It was certainly progressive, but not necessarily a bold move considering the caliber of handling racism and race relations and discussions elsewhere on television. With other instances being a patient bearing a swastika tattoo in season 4 and Bailey teaching Derek about Zola’s kitchen in season 8, dialogue on race hardly ever enters the personal lives of the surgeons. After a decade of skirting around the subject when brought up, and for the most part ignoring it completely, I wouldn’t be surprised if Maggie’s speech remains the last and only in-depth discussion regarding race we see at Grey-Sloan Memorial.

The avoidance of discussing race on Grey’s Anatomy makes the representation of interracial relationships on the show incomplete and unfinished.

Interracial couples comprise over a third of the romantic relationships that have appeared on the show, but never does the nature of the relationship come up. Mentions of race are already few and far between and these rare conversations never occur between or about an interracial pairing. Interracial relationships happen so frequently and race is already treated as such a low-key subject on the show that the relationships are characterized by the personalities of the couples and their subsequent personal (and medical) drama rather than racial and cultural differences or misunderstandings. The roles these characters play are essentially racially neutral on purpose, so racially specific conversations and problems aren’t created.

Because the show doesn’t address race, the positive and negative aspects intrinsically attached to interracial relationships are missing. Characters don’t learn about their partner’s differing culture and aren’t shown a new perspective through the lens of their significant other. Ethnocentrism goes unconquered because these characters’ ethnicities are erased inside of their narrative. There are no story lines of a characters’ parents and families being resistant or dismissive of the relationship because of their race. There’s no subtle racism in the snide, judgmental comments of friends. There are no instances of one’s race being used against them by their partner, like other identities have been bitterly brought up in arguments, like Arizona inferring Callie’s bisexuality makes her untrustworthy and Jackson calling April’s Christianity unintelligent. These interracial relationships don’t exist to push a commentary about themselves onto the audience.

Even Sandra Oh, who played Dr. Cristina Yang for 10 seasons, said she wished race was brought up on the show more. She told KoreAm Journal, “It bummed me out because I feel like, this could be a great story idea, or even like a joke. But [Grey’s Anatomy’s producers] would not go for it, because it was a show choice.”

For such a large dynamic on a show as diverse as Grey’s Anatomy, it is a bit odd that the ever-present relationship drama never revolves around race.

This is neither good or bad. The argument can be made that it’s commendable that interracial and same race relationships are made to be equal, none are shown to be more superior or inferior in quality than the other based on race. Sex and love are treated just as importantly as the medical drama these surgeons deal with everyday and is explored just as intricately. Because of the series’ reluctance to bring up race, no problems inside of interracial relationships differ from same race relationships. Every couple faces the same incredibly dramatic roller coaster (or carousel, if you will), race notwithstanding; butting heads over surgeries, living together, jealousy, cheating, and everything in between.

Grey’s Anatomy definitely displays interracial relationships more frequently than other shows. While it’s not up to one show to single-handedly address or fix every single iteration of racial issues, it does bear a responsibility to retain a modicum of believability within the parameters it set for itself.

One aspect I can appreciate is that Grey’s Anatomy approaches what could be perceived as polarizing social issues non-politically. Queer relationships, interracial relationships, multiethnic families, and co-parenting, all different types of romantic and familial relationships, are normalized and substantially accepted by both the characters on the show and the audience. So why stop pushing the envelope at examining race, especially when interracial relationships already act as the perfect vehicle to carry out the discussion?

Grey’s Anatomy certainly isn’t known for its realism; no hospital witnesses as many life-altering disasters and miracle cases as Grey-Sloan Memorial, so it may not be the best place to go looking for an accurate portrayal of…anything, really. But there’s something to be said that the large ensemble of characters have tread around the issue for so long. Grey’s Anatomy is racially diverse in physical representation only, with narrative and storyline inclusion regarding race nearly non-existent.

Cheyenne Matthews-Hoffman is a freelance entertainment writer who is obsessed with an absurd amount of television shows. She is an advocate for accessible entertainment and sometimes develops websites. You can find her at @heycheyennehey on Twitter or cheyennecheyenne.com.

No Place For Us: Interracial Relationships in ‘West Side Story’

‘West Side Story’ could be read as a warning to Latinas: stay away from white men. If María listened to her older brother, obeying his wish to keep her obedient and virginal, María would be safe and free from grief. This notion is exceedingly disappointing, especially considering that there are not many Latina main characters in Hollywood movies.

This guest post written by Olivia Edmunds-Diez appears as part of our theme week on Interracial Relationships.

I grew up watching mainstream movie musicals. From The Sound of Music to Grease, my five-year-old self’s dramatic play ranged from pretending to be a Nazi to swiveling my hips singing along to “Look At Me, I’m Sandra Dee.” Oh, the joys of blissful ignorance. But the one movie musical I was not allowed to watch as a child was West Side Story. My mother always passed it off as “too sad and too violent.” As a stereotypical first born, I knew better than to question my mother’s infinite wisdom. It wasn’t until I turned fifteen that I finally sat down to watch West Side Story, and promptly cried through the entire second half, wailing about the deaths. My mother responded with a simple, “I told you so.”

Despite my strong emotional response, I would continue to watch West Side Story over the years. It quickly became one of my favorite musicals, and I would even see it on Broadway (with my mother!) when it was revived in 2009 with Lin Manuel-Miranda adding Spanish to both the book and lyrics. It is unsurprising that I would love this musical so much, for as a Latina theatre major, how could I resist the infectious score, vibrant costumes, and astounding choreography? But it wasn’t until college that I really started to look at the musical’s content, and quickly grew displeased with what I found. My favorite colorful musical about people who looked like me became a musical about racism, sexism, and colonialism.The love story between Tony and María, that I used to admire so, became depressing. After all, María’s life goes downhill once she meets Tony.

Colorism is very much alive in West Side Story, to the point that the film casts white actress Natalie Wood as the Puerto Rican María. Heaven forbid that an actual Puerto Rican be cast! Granted, this casting choice was partly related to Hollywood wanting a big name to draw bigger box office numbers. But because this Romeo and Juliet interpretation features a white boy and a Puerto Rican girl, there is the chance that their mixed-race union could result in mixed-race children. The horror! To ease the minds of Hollywood’s target white audience, Wood was considered a great substitute to allow white audiences to delve safely into the Puerto Rican barrios. After all, María isn’t really Puerto Rican, she’s just a white girl with an on-again off-again Puerto Rican accent!

Of the two featured Puerto Rican women, María is the virgin trope to Anita’s whore trope. María’s virginity is emphasized to make her a safe choice for Tony, lest our white knight be swept into a ‘dirty’ Puerto Rican’s bed. One obvious manifestation of this is her white dress for the dance. Despite María’s wishes for a shorter red dress, like her role-model Anita, Anita ensures María’s virginity by keeping the dance dress white and at a ‘respectable’ length. Anita’s hard work pays off as the white knight Tony only has eyes for María, who visually stands apart from the crowd.

One alarming component to West Side Story is that María does not feel pretty until noticed by a white boy. This is unsurprising, given María’s wish to fit in with mainstream American culture. Living under her older brother’s protective gaze, María longs for independence. Much like Cinderella, all she really wants is a night off and a fancy dress. María is largely uninterested in boys, shunning her brother’s chosen mate for her, until she stumbles upon Tony at the dance. Suddenly, María’s independence flies out the window. Over the span of 72 hours, María gets ‘married’ in an adorable play-wedding that quickly turns serious, has sex for the first time, and becomes a widow.

Within West Side Story, everyone stands against María and Tony’s interracial relationship. Anita makes it clear that she thinks María is out of her mind, and Tony’s boss, Doc, tries to persuade Tony that his interracial relationship will never work. It is interesting that this is one clear distancing move from Romeo and Juliet, in which the Nurse and Friar Lawrence quickly come around to support the couple. But when race enters the picture, Anita, Doc, and the other characters cannot support María and Tony. In the song “Somewhere,” our main love duo sings about a magical place far away where they can be together. They plan to run away to this “Somewhere.” But it is clear by the end of the film that “Somewhere” does not exist, as María and Tony will never be free from racism.

West Side Story could be read as a warning to Latinas: stay away from white men. If María listened to her older brother, obeying his wish to keep her obedient and virginal, María would be safe and free from grief. This notion is exceedingly disappointing, especially considering that there are not many Latina main characters in Hollywood movies. West Side Story came out in 1961, and remains celebrated and remembered to this day. The take-away, then, for Latinas, is to heed our families’ advice and stay within our culture. Maybe someday, interracial stigma will dissipate. But until then, “Somewhere” seems to be the only place interracial couples can live happily.

Olivia Edmunds-Diez is a senior at Northwestern University, double majoring in Theatre and Gender and Sexuality Studies, with a certificate in Theatre for Young Audiences. She loves cats, Beyoncé, and spends her free time listening to the Hamilton cast recording on repeat. You can find her on her blog, Tumblr, Twitter, and Instagram.

Endearing Interracial Romance in ‘Flirting’

It’s a true rarity to see an interracial relationship that doesn’t have at least some element of suffering in it. In ‘Flirting,’ on the other hand, most of the difficulties in Danny and Thandiwe’s relationship seems to come from the relationship itself, not the color of the star-crossed lovers’ skin.

This guest post by Grace Barber-Plentie appears as part of our theme week on Interracial Relationships. Spoilers ahead.

It’s easy to assume as soon as a film starts with a pining white boy’s voiceover, that we’re in for the same tired story that we’ve seen a million times. A sad, pasty white boy is lonely and sexually deprived and meets a cool, edgy white girl that’s way too good to be true, but against the odds, falls for him. So far, so “adaptation of beloved John Green novel.” When John Duigan’s Flirting starts, it seems all too inevitable that this is the direction that the film is taking. And yet, to at least this viewer’s surprise, the film is actually a sweet and nuanced “coming of age” romance more in the awkward vein of Gregory’s Girl than any whiny love story we’ve been fed over the last decade. All that, and it features an interracial love story.

The film focuses on two same-sex boarding schools on either side of a lake in rural Australia. In one, is the film’s protagonist, Danny, star of Flirting’s prequel, The Year My Voice Broke. And in the other is new arrival Thandiwe, the daughter of a Ugandan academic who lectures in Australia. With Thandiwe’s arrival onscreen, the film becomes less the monologue of a whiny white boy, and more an interracial love story like few others that I’ve ever seen.

Let’s face it, in most stories of interracial love, similarly to those of gay relationships, something’s always gotta give. So much screen time in these films is given over to the suffering that comes with being in love with someone of the opposite race or gender (and god forbid your story is same-sex AND opposite race, you’re really doomed then), and a seeming inevitability that things are never going to last because of this. It’s a true rarity to see an interracial relationship that doesn’t have at least some element of suffering in it. In Flirting, on the other hand, most of the difficulties in Danny and Thandiwe’s relationship seems to come from the relationship itself, not the color of the star-crossed lovers’ skin. Thandiwe’s race is, naturally (as the film is set in the 1960s) brought up time and time again by the couple’s peers, throwing various unimaginative insults at her. But the real challenges for the couple seem to be with their separate boarding schools, and the film sees them getting into various scrapes trying desperately to communicate with one another in an unimaginable time pre-mobiles and Facebook.

Even Danny, delivering a wistful voiceover, doesn’t fetishize Thandiwe’s blackness. Yes, he does fetishize her female form: “Sometimes I wouldn’t listen to what she was saying… Instead I’d be looking at her legs. They were very comforting,” he delivers in one such voiceover — but this seems inevitable from a horny teenage boy. In fact it’s Thandiwe’s knowledge that seems to really ignite Danny’s fire — the pair first really connect at an inter-school debate on whether academic pursuits can be held higher than others, in which Danny gives a droll speech on the pros of Rugby, and Thandiwe scandalizes her school by reciting lyrics to “I Just Wanna Make Love to You” and “Tutti Frutti” with a knowing smirk.

Thandiwe is a true joy to watch. She seems, for the most part, to have the upper hand in the relationship, and Thandie Newton’s performance refuses to let her become merely an object of desire. On discovering a Jean-Paul Sarte book in Danny’s room, she casually informs him that she’s conversed with the man himself, on the flaws of marriage of all subjects. She’s clearly an intellectual match for Danny, and never allows herself to be passive — when she wants something, she goes for it. It’s Thandiwe who initiates the relationship with Danny by asking him to the dance, and when it seems that he’s stood her up, she hunts him down. When it appears that Danny embarrassed her by reading out a letter she sent him to his classmates, it’s Thandiwe who cuts off contact and Danny that must woo her back. While nowadays perhaps, with characters such as Samantha White in Dear White People, and even “bougie” independent Black female leads in rom-coms like Love Jones and Brown Sugar, Thandiwe wouldn’t stand out, but in a small Australian film, she makes a hell of an impact. Thandiwe is as well-rounded a character as a girl in a coming of age drama can be — she has interests and passions outside of her male love interest.

As well as the unique character of Thandiwe, the innocence of Danny and Thandiwe’s relationship really makes it stand out from other films depicting interracial love. It’s very easy for these relationships to be fetishized not just by the characters in a film, but also by its directors. As surely any filmgoer will by now be aware of, the Black female body is a commodity that is sexualized again and again — one only has to think of the fact that the sex scene in Monster’s Ball, another film about an interracial relationship, starring the only Black woman to have ever been awarded the Academy award for Best Actress, Halle Berry. It’s become almost inevitable that any sex scene starring a Black woman will lewdly gawp at her simultaneously “perfect” and “taboo” female body, reducing her essentially to “tits and ass.” Flirting luckily takes a very different approach. In a deeply endearing scene in the middle of the film, Thandiwe and Danny sit on a wall talking, while Danny monologues via voiceover. When the film’s diegetic sound returns, the couple’s friends join them. “What have you two been up to?” their friends question them, shooting them inquisitive looks. “Oh, just flirting,” replies Thandiwe with a knowing smile.

When the pair do inevitably have sex, it’s very much the yin to Monster’s Ball’s yang. Thandiwe is forced to return to Uganda and before she is forced to part with Danny, they rent a motel room and have sex for the first time. While the motel room setting may immediately ring alarm bells in a viewer’s head and seemingly cue some kind of lewdly graphic sex scene — the last time I saw a motel feature in a film was one of the numerous explicit scenes in the brilliant Tangerine — it’s actually quite the opposite. The couple kiss in bed in their underwear, as the camera slowly pans away until the scene disappears entirely. The next time we see them, their shared state of post-coital bliss is interrupted by the headteachers of Danny’s school who have caught them. Tender and cutesy love scenes in “coming of age” films may be ten-a-penny, but it’s important to remember that these scenes are nearly always focused on white teenagers. To have one of these scenes featuring an interracial couple may not seem so much of a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but to play it contextually within the film industry, it is.

Much like couples in same-sex romance films, interracial couples rarely meet a happy end. And even if they do, it’s clear that their relationship may still be fraught with difficulties — take for example the couple in Amma Asante’s Belle. The film ends with the couple in a happy embrace, both finally acknowledging their feelings for each other; a lovely and sentimental ending, yes, and one that is perfectly fitting for a petticoat drama, but one only has to remember the time setting of the film, and the couple’s interracial romance, and their path to happiness becomes perhaps a little more fraught. Like the ending of Todd Hayne’s Carol, Flirting chooses a somewhat ambivalent ending that hints but does not solidify happiness. Danny waits for a message from Thandiwe in Africa, and just as he is at the point of almost giving up, she writes and tells him that she is hoping to see him again and tell him everything that’s happened to her. We never see the couple reunite, and in fact there’s no definite answer that they ever will. But, just as Carol’s half sad, half smile across a restaurant to Therese says more about the future of their relationship than words ever could, Thandiwe’s letter suggests rare hope.

Grace Barber-Plentie is a film student, writer, and one third of Reel Good Film Club, a film club dedicated to showing films by and about people of colour in inclusive and non-profit environment. Her passions in writing and programming are depictions of women of colour, issues of “high” and “low” culture, and the merits of Channing Tatum.