Bitch Flicks – Page 39 – The radical notion that women like good movies

From Racist Stereotype to Fully Whitewashed: Tiger Lily Since 1904

Whatever the other problems might be with this film (and they are many), my focus for this review is the character Tiger Lily, who was originally conceived as a racist stereotype by J.M. Barrie and who has had her Native identity completely erased in this latest iteration. Is this progress? I think not.

Written by Amanda Morris.

Pan has a 26 percent rating based on 152 reviews on Rotten Tomatoes, and having just come from a matinee viewing, I must say I agree with these critics. The Peter Pan narrative that we all know has been reconstructed as a sort of prequel, and not very imaginatively, while still retaining its racist roots. The Natives are called “natives” and “savages” multiple times and retain their feathers, facepaint, fringe, dancing, and primitive clothing to emulate a stereotypical idea of Native peoples, and even the map that Peter finds guides him to “Tribal Territory.” The actor playing Hook thinks he is Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western, the Neverbirds are just bigger, more threatening versions of Kevin in Up, and the main actors who appear throughout the entire film are all white.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y1wRv8vTpxo”]

When J.M. Barrie’s original stage play, Peter Pan; Or, The Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up, first appeared on the cultural scene, Miriam Skancke (stage name Nesbitt) played Tiger Lily. Never mind the problem of reducing an actual, living people to imaginary creatures in a fantasy land. According to Miram’s father’s birth record, she appears to have been of Norwegian heritage. Certainly not Native American. So the fantasy creature, the “indian princess,” Tiger Lily, started off in global imaginations as a beautiful white woman.

Miriam Nesbitt plays “Tiger Lily” in J.M. Barrie’s original stage play, Peter Pan, in 1904

In 1911, Barrie published the novel version, Peter Pan, and soon, more stage productions and the film industry came calling, clamoring for this children’s fantasy tale. From 1955-60, Broadway and the American TV industry brought the story to stage and TV with Sondra Lee playing Tiger Lily. Another white woman playing an offensive racist Native stereotype, with the music and dancing to match:

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SVPc4SuoJWE”]

The 1979 Broadway production featured an Argentine-American dancer and choreographer in the Tiger Lily role, and the 1990 version featured Holly Irwin in the role. The characterization on stage remained “Native American,” but still, the actors playing Tiger Lily were non-Native. No self-respecting Native woman actor would WANT to play a racist fantasy stereotype of her own culture, and that is where Pan’s studio, director, and writer made a costly miscalculation.

Here is where we need to be more critical of Warner Brothers, Director Joe Wright, writer Jason Fuchs, and the casting staff responsible for adamantly refusing to re-conceive this problematic character into something more culturally appropriate and honorable. They DID take the time, energy, and money to construct a new narrative that explains how Peter Pan came to be; they reconstructed this narrative in myriad ways so as to make it clearly different from Barrie’s original, except where it concerns the “Natives.” Instead, they took the cowardly way out and completely whitewashed the character (while still retaining feathers, costuming, and even an Aboriginal actor as Tiger Lily’s father).

Bottom line here, Hollywood is lazy and greedy. They saw an opportunity to re-envision this narrative from stem to stern, possibly giving us a truly creative and compelling new story, but instead of also eliminating the racist stereotypes from the original, they chose to whitewash because that is the easier choice. From their perspective, it would have been too hard to reconstruct this “indian princess” into a strong, brave, Native woman. Especially one who seems to be developing feelings for the future Captain Hook, who is white. Instead, they chose white actor Rooney Mara to portray a strong, brave, Native woman who wears beaded and feathered attire, long and dark braided hair, and colorful tribal makeup.

Rooney Mara as Tiger Lily in Pan

Who exactly do they think is fooled by this? Certainly none of us trying to encourage more respectful representations of indigenous peoples. Plenty of reviewers, including one on this site, has pointed out the immense problems with the company and crew’s voluntary blindness to their heinous choices. In fact, director Joe Wright defended his choice.

So, Joe, you understand our criticisms, but were unable to find a Native woman to play a “badass” Native woman character?

Are you fucking kidding me?!

Here are some of the amazing Native actors you should have considered casting: Devery Jacobs, Cara Gee, Tanaya Beatty, Jamie Loy, Amber Midthunder, Taysha Fuller, or Crystle Lightning. That list is by no means complete, but the reason none of these women were chosen is because they are not considered bankable money makers by the Hollywood machine.

Warner Brothers would rather hire a known white woman (as usual) and to completely whitewash the character than to spend a few minutes asking the writer to re-conceive this character to be more respectful of real, living, Native peoples, and then hiring a talented Native woman to play her. Because with all of the white racist fear out there in the viewing audience, they knew this whitewashed version of J.M. Barrie’s original would make them money. They know their audience.

Thankfully, at 26 percent approval rating, Pan will not be in theatres very long. I predict that Warner Brothers could have made a lot more money doing what I and others have suggested – re-writing Tiger Lily to be a more relevant and vibrant representation of a Native American woman with a family that doesn’t look like the ridiculous, primitive stereotypes of Barrie’s imagination, and then casting a terrific Native actor into that role. The amount of positive publicity and curiousity alone would have driven people to want to see this film. Critics and viewers would be introduced in a big way to a talented Native actor, and all of the negative (and well-deserved) criticism that dogs this film might have been reduced. Talk about a missed opportunity and a bad business decision.

Pan is just another in a long line of disappointing versions of this childhood tale. Barrie wrote in a time (1904) when the general populace had accepted the disappearance and death of Native peoples. Everything they read told them that these peoples no longer existed.

That we are still in that same headspace, imagining Native peoples as either racist stereotypes or as long-gone peoples of the past, is pathetic. Shame on you, #Warner Brothers, Joe Wright, Jason Fuchs, Rooney Mara, and all of us who accept Hollywood’s standard practice of erasing Native peoples, cultures, and identities.

Dr. Amanda Morris is an Associate Professor of Multiethnic Rhetorics at Kutztown University of Pennsylvania with a specialty in Indigenous Rhetorics.

‘Freeheld’ Beautifully Captures the Notion that “Love Is Love”

Like waves lapping persistently against the shore, the film is a succession of small, understated moments. Images of water and the sea are trickled throughout while the power of persistence functions on various symbolic levels.

This guest post by Natalie Wilson previously appeared at Ms. blog and is cross-posted with permission.

Love is forged in small moments. Like ragged bits of bottles polished into sea glass, Freeheld‘s lead characters, Laurel Hester (Julianne Moore) and Stacie Andree (Ellen Page), are rugged and tough, tumbled unwittingly by societal pressures and personal illness into gems fighting for LGBTQ equality.

In one early scene in the film—which is based on the true story of Laurel and Stacie’s landmark legal battle—the couple walks on the beach. They find a piece of sea glass, joking about wether or not it is an item worth keeping. Later, after Laurel’s death from lung cancer, Stacie lovingly puts this gem from the sea into a box of remembrances.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=blk27Jj9UE8″]

Though the word feminism is never used, the film drips with feminist undercurrents. As a detective, Laurel must fight to be valued on the police force and hopes to become the first woman lieutenant in New Jersey, while Stacie has to prove she can rotate tires better than a man to get a job as a mechanic.

At one point, Laurel references the white male privilege of her detective partner, Dane Wells. Though he’s an ally to the couple through the film, such privilege is shown to shape the political landscape as well as the law—the five “Freeholders” that make up the county’s governing body are an “old boys network” using their white and male privilege to block Laurel’s attempts to ensure her pension will go to her domestic partner, Stacie.

In addition to documenting how Laurel’s battle with cancer became a battle for marriage equality, the film shows the small daily micro-aggressions one must endure as queer person in a heteronormative society, such as when Laurel’s police colleagues take swipes at her same-sex relationship, or when a group of men attempt to rob the couple while they’re out together in public.

The film has not garnered rave reviews—in fact, it has been written off for having cardboard characters and by-the-numbers drama that “undermine its noble intentions.” I disagree. True, the film is not brimming with action scenes or pulsing with dramatic soundscapes—it builds slowly and ends rather quietly. It is, in fact, far more like life and death than most of the movies that try to capture such stories; life is often slow and undramatic, death is often unexpected and quiet. Freeheld is not a crashing wave of drama—it is, rather, characterized by ebb and flow and captures the change of tide towards justice for LGBTQ people.

Like feminism, which is often characterized as coming in waves, Freeheld depicts the slow build of a changing tide; right now, U.S. culture is experiencing such a change in the tide regarding LGBTQ justice. Women like Laurel and Stacie are part of the wellspring that made this wave possible; part of the multitudes of people trying to live their lives and love who they love, despite living in a culture that uses religion, government and the law to keep the tide turned against them. Freeheld may not shine like a diamond, but it certainly offers us a beautiful piece of history—one that has tumbled and turned lives made jagged by injustice into beautiful, unbreakable bits of sea glass.

Natalie Wilson teaches women’s studies and literature at California State University, San Marcos. She is the author of Seduced by Twilight and blogs for Ms., Girl with Pen and Bitch Flicks.

Seed & Spark: “Not Even Once”

I don’t know yet if we made a good movie, but I’m pretty sure we made an honest movie—and you can’t do that while you, or your characters, are busy pretending to be “strong.” Being vulnerable, and weak, and pushing ahead anyway is what’s interesting about anyone, fictional or real.

Bre Mueck and Matthew Luret at the park in a scene from All Earthly Constraints

This is a guest post by Ryan M. Moore.

My first memory of being exposed to a feminist film (and one of my first memories, period) is of my mom setting up a projector in our basement (8mm? 16mm? I am old), loading it with a reel she had borrowed from the library (yes, you could do that!) and showing my brother and me an animated film called Reverse-a-quake! It was set on an island which was hit by a big earthquake, which caused all of the men to have to switch to doing what had previously been women’s work, and vice-versa. That there was anything political about this storyline sailed right over my 6-year-old head, but knowing what I know now, it must have sunk in a little.

I call myself a feminist without reservation, but I didn’t set out to make a feminist statement, or any kind of political statement, when I wrote and directed my feature film debut All Earthly Constraints. The lead character, Emily (played by the amazing Bre Mueck) is a struggling screenwriter (“Write what you know!”) who works in a gelato shop. Emily’s screenplay is about a struggling screenwriter named Emma (“Write what you know!”) who works in a coffee shop, and is also secretly a superheroine named Emmageddon. Emma is Emily’s “Mary Sue” (a character that is a thinly veiled, idealized version of her author), and Emmageddon is Emma’s. It’s Mary Sues all the way down.

In one scene, Emily has just left her writer’s group in tears after having her script “Emmageddon” savaged (“Self-indulgent! Masturbatory!”) by the sadistic self-proclaimed group leader, John. Soft-spoken Dylan goes after Emily, and they end up talking and drinking at a local park. In the course of their first-ever real conversation, this happens:

DYLAN: I guess I just think about… sometimes, you know, a real job, a family, stability. No “someday when I make it.” Is that so wrong? I mean, haven’t you ever thought you might be worthwhile, or good enough, or whatever, just how you are—just being you?

EMILY: Not even once.

DYLAN: (after a long pause) Me neither.

Shooting this scene was incredibly strange. To hear and see the most honest thing I’ve ever written about the creative process brought to life by two amazing actors, seemed, at the time, like an affirmation of all the choices I’ve ever made. I fell largely on Emily’s side as I thought, “Yeah, I’m doing the right thing with my life.”

Three months later, mired in the post-production process, I can see Dylan’s side too. Maybe it should be enough to just work your job and live your life and be happy with you are. Maybe I would’ve been happier that way. Maybe it’s just my ego that tells me I can’t possibly ever settle for “normal.” It’s been an incredibly difficult process trying to finish this film—making a movie is hard. Trying to do anything well is hard. Life is hard.

Bre Mueck as Emmageddon in a scene from All Earthly Constraints

But what I learned in the process of shooting that scene (and of tangling up my reality and emotional state with that of my character’s to a frankly disorienting extent that I hope would make Charlie Kaufman proud), was this: Emily is not a “strong female character.” Emily isn’t “strong,” at least not exclusively. She starts the scene in tears, and continues by admitting her deepest self-doubts to Dylan, not because she has any real connection with him (yet), but because he’s there and willing to listen and pay for the booze.

And Emmageddon isn’t always “strong” either, even though she’s a self-proclaimed superhero. Who would be interested in seeing a story about someone who was nothing but “strong,” all the time, in every situation? It would be like watching a film about a slab of granite. I don’t know yet if we made a good movie, but I’m pretty sure we made an honest movie—and you can’t do that while you, or your characters, are busy pretending to be “strong.” Being vulnerable, and weak, and pushing ahead anyway is what’s interesting about anyone, fictional or real.

I have a lot of problems with the current crop of superhero movies. While the artistry and craft that goes into their creation is almost literally unimaginable, all too often they exist exclusively in the realm of black and white, “good guys” and “bad guys,” strong, wise-cracking male heroes and female sidekicks who exist mostly as window-dressing, or as sexual conquests for the men. One of my goals in creating All Earthly Constraints was to create a female superhero who was also human: Yes, she kicks, punches, and slaps people who deserve to be kicked, punched and slapped, and she’s good at it. But she has no special powers and she can be hurt, physically and emotionally. Under the costume, she’s still a person. I’m not quite delusional enough to believe that All Earthly Constraints will ever be playing in your local multiplex next to the latest Summer tentpole, but I hope it starts a few conversations, or adds a little bit to some that are already happening.

You can learn more about All Earthly Constraints, and follow or support our crowdfunding campaign at Seed & Spark.

Ryan M. Moore is a writer and director living in Silver Lake, Los Angeles. All Earthly Constraints is his first feature film.

‘Maggie’s Plan’ Is Just as Awkward and Charming and Grim as Gen-Y’s Struggle with Adulthood

Like ‘Frances Ha,’ ‘Maggie’s Plan’ resonates with the gen-Y, mumblecore picture of adulthood that says, “We’re all average, imperfect, confused people trying to stay afloat in a world that feels random and chaotic.” Everything Maggie does comes out of a sincerely-felt – if slightly selfish – desire to be authentic and live truthfully while not having anyone get mad at her. It’s emblematic of a generation full of people who are re-discovering and re-inventing How To Be A Person while ignoring all the models that came before. It’s messy and screwed-up and sometimes stupid-looking, but there’s an optimism to it, too. There’s a sense that we can all cut our own paths through the wilderness, even if we mess it up and go the wrong way.

Written by Katherine Murray.

It’s no Frances Ha, but this romantic comedy directed by Rebecca Miller takes full advantage of its cast, including Greta Gerwig’s trademark brand of awkward charm.

If there’s one criticism I would make about Maggie’s Plan, it’s that the story is a little bit too complicated. When the film starts, we’re dropped into some pretty blunt exposition about how Gerwig’s character, Maggie, has come up with a plan to have a child through self-administered artificial insemination. The next 30 minutes or are devoted to a prologue that develops that idea by introducing us to an old acquaintance of Maggie’s who has now become a pickle baron and wants to be the sperm donor. Just as that seems to be gaining momentum, though, the film changes direction as Maggie falls in love with a married colleague, played by Ethan Hawke.

John – her colleague – is a would-be novelist trapped in a miserable marriage with superstar academic Georgette (Julianne Moore, with an extremely committed Danish accent). Just as she’s about to inseminate herself with the pickle man’s sperm, Maggie instead begins an affair with John, launching us three years into the future, where the action really begins.

In the near future of the main plot, Maggie and John live together with their daughter and she supports him while he works on his never-finished novel. Georgette has written a book about how their affair destroyed her life, and John and Georgette’s children shuffle back and forth between their parents. It doesn’t take Maggie long to figure out that John’s kind of a loser, once you get to know him well, and she soon hatches a plan to get him back together with Georgette, so that she doesn’t have to feel guilty for misguidedly wrecking their home.

The movie gets a lot more funny, purposeful, and creative once Maggie decides to offload John onto Georgette, but it takes a long time to get there. On top of that, as charming and likable as Greta Gerwig is in this and every role, Julianne Moore is the most entertaining person in this movie, and things pick up once she takes centre stage.

Like most romantic comedies, Maggie’s Plan isn’t especially daring in its social commentary – it’s designed to go down easy. The premise of the story – that Maggie would, ideally, like to be a mother without having a man involved – is never really explored beyond its value as a wacky situation, and the characters are drawn in such goofy, likable terms that none of the pain of divorce or failed relationships really seeps in.

The jokes that get the most traction – excepting the ones about winter in Canada, which were a hit with the crowd at TIFF – are mostly about the absurdities of writing and academia. John works in a super-specialized, esoteric field that no one understands but that is, nevertheless, outstandingly important to the handful of researchers he meets at conferences. His novel, when he first shares it with Maggie, is clearly a thinly-veiled story about his own life and how oppressive he finds it to live with a woman who’s always breaking out in stress-related rashes.

The central plot, when we finally get to it, is a nice twist that balances a sense of realism with the same absurdity that underpins most of the jokes. It’s funny that Maggie’s plan is to get her loser boyfriend back together with his wife, but there’s also a sober realization that John seems different after the glow of new love has faded around him. Maybe the most radical thing Maggie’s Plan proposes – radical for a romantic comedy; not radical in life – is that sometimes, when you’re sure you’ve met The One, it turns out to be a mistake. No because anyone was lying to you – not because you were tricked somehow – just because our feelings about and perceptions of people change over time. Sometimes we act impulsively, because we feel certain in the moment, and then regret the impulsive things we’ve done.

It isn’t fair to compare Maggie’s Plan to Frances Ha, which was helmed by different people, but there’s a strange combination of worldliness and innocence that Greta Gerwig brings to her roles, and that makes a kind of sense in both films. Like Frances Ha, Maggie’s Plan resonates with the gen-Y, mumblecore picture of adulthood that says, “We’re all average, imperfect, confused people trying to stay afloat in a world that feels random and chaotic.” Everything Maggie does comes out of a sincerely felt – if slightly selfish – desire to be authentic and live truthfully while not having anyone get mad at her. It’s emblematic of a generation full of people who are re-discovering and re-inventing How To Be A Person while ignoring all the models that came before. It’s messy and screwed-up and sometimes stupid-looking, but there’s an optimism to it, too. There’s a sense that we can all cut our own paths through the wilderness, even if we mess it up and go the wrong way.

Maggie’s Plan picked up a distribution deal with Sony after it premiered at TIFF, so there’s a chance it will end up in a theatre near you some time next year.

Katherine Murray is a Toronto-based writer who yells about movies and TV (both real and made up) on her blog.

‘Crimson Peak’: Guillermo del Toro’s Gothic Romance Offers a Gorgeous Chill

‘Crimson Peak’s connection to the “women’s pictures” of the ’40s and ’50s, and particularly Hitchcock’s ‘Rebecca,’ is instructive in reading it as a feminist film. Del Toro takes the tropes of a goodhearted, innocent protagonist, an oily older suitor, and a dangerous female rival whose hostility to the heroine is in part motivated by an “inappropriate” sexual desire, and recontextualizes them.

Guillermo del Toro’s eye-poppingly gorgeous new horror film/gothic romance, Crimson Peak, has generated mixed reviews, even getting panned by critics who acknowledge its aesthetic strengths. While complaints about the script (by del Toro and Matthew Robbins) aren’t entirely unfounded, complaints about the film’s excesses — from its gore to the batshit commitment of Jessica Chastain’s over-the-top performance, to the visual splendor itself — seem to misunderstand the filmmaker’s aim. Your mileage may vary, as always, but del Toro seems to be in complete control here. The movie is consistent in its vision, and consistent with the filmmaker’s work as a whole.

As he’s done throughout his career, del Toro mines the past for inspiration, then puts his own dark twist on the material. Crimson Peak‘s antecedents include Jane Eyre, Hitchcock classics like Suspicion and Rebecca, and the equally blood-drenched Hammer horror films of the 1950s-1970s. A horror geek of the highest order, del Toro makes loving use of the mood and plot elements of these older works, but makes the material his own.

Crimson Peak‘s connection to the “women’s pictures” of the ’40s and ’50s, and particularly Hitchcock’s Rebecca, is instructive in reading it as a feminist film. Del Toro takes the tropes of a goodhearted, innocent protagonist, an oily older suitor, and a dangerous female rival whose hostility to the heroine is in part motivated by an “inappropriate” sexual desire, and recontextualizes them. He makes the heroine, Edith Cushing (most likely named for Hammer star Peter Cushing), not merely an aspiring author who’s recently written a ghost story (“the ghost is a metaphor,” she explains), but the author of her own fate. As played by the consistently excellent Mia Wasikowska, Edith is a brave, resourceful, and powerful woman, with her own sexual desires.

Tom Hiddleston is Thomas Sharpe, British nobility fallen on hard times. Thomas is charming but weak, as he is batted about by the passions of the two powerful women in his life.

Chastain plays Lucille Sharpe, and from the beginning, both actor and director relish the character’s seething menace. There’s no doubt from the moment Lucille is introduced that she’s bad news, and that she’s running the show. As she explains threateningly to Edith early on in the film, Lucille is that black moth, thriving on dark and cold, and feeding on Edith’s pretty butterfly. It’s not a logical point in the film for Lucille to issue that veiled warning, but it delivers the intended chill, and, as with those ghosts, is a keen metaphor.

Edith is a frustrated author, living in turn-of-the-last-century Buffalo with her wealthy industrialist father, Carter (the great Jim Beaver, beloved of HBO’s Deadwood, bringing an unusual but perfect gruffer-than-thou haughtiness to the role). Edith has personal experience with the supernatural. Her mother’s ghost issued a mysterious warning to her, as a child: “Beware Crimson Peak!” But Edith’s ghost story is not taken seriously because of her gender. She has a suitor, Dr. Alan McMichael (Charlie Hunnam), an ophthalmologist with an interest in Sherlock Holmes, but he clearly doesn’t inspire her. Then Thomas Sharpe comes into her life. He’s handsome and charming and seems genuinely interested in her work. Sharpe is looking for a partner to fund some technical advances at his red clay mine in England, but Carter sees through Sharpe’s charm to his financial desperation.

Noting Sharpe’s interest in Edith, Carter hires a private investigator (Burn Gorman) to look into Thomas and Lucille, and what he uncovers (not revealed to the audience until later in the film, but it should be increasingly clear to all but the densest viewers what’s going on here) is unsettling enough that he threatens Thomas and Lucille with exposure if they don’t leave town immediately, sweetening the deal with a bribe, payable only if Thomas breaks Edith’s heart before he leaves. Thomas knows just how to do it, too, attacking her writing ability.

One gruesome, beautifully staged murder later, Edith is a new bride on her way to Allerdale Hall in England. Her mother’s ghost probably should have told her, “Beware Allerdale Hall!” and not referred to the place by its nickname, which Edith doesn’t find out about until it’s too late.

Allerdale Hall is a wonderful, creaky setting for a ghost story. It’s a classic haunted house, ancient and decrepit, filled with secrets and fluttering black moths. It’s built atop a deposit of red clay, and the blood red seeps into the building through the floors, walls, and pipes. Filled with mournful ghosts, it’s the perfect setting for a scary story, even if its true horrors are contained within the hearts of its living inhabitants.

It seems clear to me that del Toro is less concerned with creating a steel trap of a plot, which he fails to do in any case, and more concerned with atmosphere and with the emotional twists and turns of the story. If you’re chuckling and aghast at the film by turns, it’s working.

Even its detractors admit that Crimson Peak has atmosphere to spare, but they don’t give enough credit to del Toro and his collaborators (chief among them cinematographer Dan Laustsen and production designer Thomas E. Sanders) for creating a work that’s both gorgeous and extremely personal and unique. Crimson Peak is beautiful, but it’s not picture-postcard beautiful. It doesn’t look like a commercial for anything. It’s a fully realized vision of decay, gore, and grue. The playful transitions del Toro uses, those endearing wipes and irises, make it clear that del Toro is relishing the artificiality of it all. The performers play it straight, though, giving the story emotional heft despite that artifice.

Some have complained about the role the ghosts play in the film, but it’s as Edith says, they’re only a metaphor. They serve their function by being beautifully terrifying in their warnings to Edith. And their look — captured in the horror of their untimely deaths, wispy, smoke-like tendrils splaying out in every direction like flayed skin — is unique. It’s one of the few examples I can think of where CGI brings a unique visual sense to the horror — where it’s used expressively, and not just as a way to indicate scale, or to do things to the human body that can’t actually be done on a film set. These beautiful, unsettling ghosts are unlike any I’ve seen onscreen before.

Edith falls ill as she unravels Lucille and Thomas’s plot. Thomas begins to develop genuine feelings for his mark, enraging Lucille. Alan, meanwhile, begins his own stateside sleuthing, uncovering the truth about the Sharpes. During the film, I felt like Hunnam’s adenoidal performance was the weak link of the film, but again, I feel like this is something del Toro intended. It’s clear that neither Alan nor Thomas is truly worthy of Edith.

Her passion for Thomas is real, however, and eventually, she gets him away from Lucille long enough for him to have sex with her, on her terms. He’s weak and devious, but she wants him, and takes control of the situation to have her way.

For a while it seems Alan might save Edith, the damsel in distress. Those familiar with del Toro’s work know better, though. Since his second feature, Mimic, he has always had strong female characters in his films. In this instance, the strongest, Edith and Lucille, are destined to settle their score while the men look on from the sidelines.

If you’re alternately giggling and gasping, the movie is working. It’s outlandish and baroque, but the actors keep it grounded, and I found myself moved, not just by the passion of the characters, but by the evident passion of the filmmaker for the material. Crimson Peak may actually be Del Toro’s masterpiece. I’m convinced it is every bit as heartfelt and coherent as Pan’s Labyrinth, widely considered his best. This is a filmmaker working at the height of his abilities to deliver a grandly entertaining, uniquely gorgeous, and emotionally involving work of cinema, with a pronounced feminist bent.

Click here to see Del Toro discussing the film.

‘Drop Dead Fred’ and the Gendering of Comic Anarchy

There is a deeper truth here: by setting high expectations of men and offering models of liberated behavior that can be imitated, a strong male role model can be a young girl’s best mental defense against patriarchal conditioning. In the absence of one, Elizabeth has created an imaginary friend who models her mental resistance, gendering her own inner anarchic impulses as male.

For the uninitiated, Rik Mayall is what happens when you take a classic English punk from the Sex Pistols era, and tool him up with the comic attitude of Bill Hicks and the comic style of Jim Carrey. Though part of a wave of “alternative comedy,” it was always Mayall who had the Hicksian snarl and the burning, Goatboy-style obsession with his own abjection. A major reason why Hicks found overnight comic stardom in the UK, after years struggling to gain acceptance in the USA, is because Rik Mayall had cultivated the British public’s taste for ferocious comedy anarchism. Mayall and Hicks are products of convergent evolution: unrelated creatures evolving resemblance from environmental similarities. Specifically: Rik Mayall and Bill Hicks were politely raised, intelligent, articulate, straight, white boys of above average height and looks, who spontaneously combusted into epic, punk rock guiltsplosions of belligerent basic decency and self-satirizing privilege, while feeling kinda bad that their raging libidos tempted them to objectify women. Add a feverish energy homaging his beloved Wile E. Coyote, that can only be compared to a punk Jim Carrey, and you’ve got the slapHicks, Rik Mayall. In 1991’s Drop Dead Fred, Mayall starred in a sharp deconstruction of the early-onset socialization of girls to reject their own anarchic impulses – one that films like Seth MacFarlane’s Ted have recycled into a far duller exploration of a man’s choice between his loudly celebrated childish impulses and his Mommy-lover-lady. In Drop Dead Fred the heroine’s own anarchic impulses, comic sense and anger at her mother have been more acceptably regendered as Mayall’s “Fred,” while she herself can be squeezed into an icon of servile ladylike behaviour.

Drop Dead Fred opens with Marsha Mason’s patriarchal mother reading a fairy-tale to the young Elizabeth, telling her that the princess received her happy ending “because she was a good little girl. If she had been naughty, the prince would have run away.” Young Elizabeth considers for a moment, then fires back “what a pile of shit,” healthily immune to social pressures to value herself by a man. Flash forward to adulthood, and Phoebe Cates’ Elizabeth has become pressured into the ideal Mommy-lover-lady of patriarchy, wearing demure floral gowns and fussing over her paternalist, condescending husband’s clothing and shaving. Gradually, we learn that Elizabeth’s mother had blamed her anarchic, destructive behavior in childhood for making her distant father run away, like the prince of the fairy tale who abandons naughty princesses. With her imaginary friend, Drop Dead Fred, being sealed away in a jack-in-the-box on the very day that her father departs, and with her father sharing Fred’s English accent in an otherwise American cast, the film wears its Daddy issues on its sleeve.

Drop Dead Fred is a Dream Father who is a radically present, anti-materialist, anti-provider, implying criticism of the traditional role of fathers, in the same way that the film challenges the traditional conditioning of girls to passive and submissive “goodness.” By standing up to Elizabeth’s mother in all the ways her own father fails to, Fred models self-assertion to her, rather than grooming her to self-sacrificing compliance. There is a deeper truth here: by setting high expectations of men and offering models of liberated behavior that can be imitated, a strong male role model can be a young girl’s best mental defense against patriarchal conditioning. In the absence of one, Elizabeth has created an imaginary friend who models her mental resistance, gendering her own inner anarchic impulses as male.

The adult Elizabeth must finally learn that the sealing away of Drop Dead Fred represented the sealing up of the part of herself that society had coded as masculine: namely, her assertiveness, her anti-conformity and her anarchic disdain for social norms. When her unfaithful husband boasts that he has Elizabeth under control, he feeds her green pills to kill her “imaginary friend” and force her back into tranquilized Mommy-lover-lady perfection, pills that represent rewarded conformity as much as the blue pills of The Matrix. While its patriarchal mother is a figure to be resisted, Drop Dead Fred also showcases positive female friendship and solidarity between Phoebe Cates’ Elizabeth and Carrie Fisher’s Janie. Janie unquestioningly accepts Elizabeth’s accounts of Fred and seeks to fight him on her behalf, curtly telling her older lover that this is “girl stuff.” Yes, apart from the imaginary Fred, all the men of this film are the stuffy, unimaginative equivalent to mainstream cinema’s Mommy-lover-ladies, while battling your anarchic imaginary friend is “girl stuff.” I would say that Drop Dead Fred is “Ted for girls” or “Fight Club for kids,” but it predates both.

Rarely has a showbiz marriage been more divinely inspired than Drop Dead Fred‘s between Elizabeth Livingston’s story of imaginary, anarchic male role models, and Rik Mayall’s self-deprecating punk. A man whose entire career was founded on savage interrogations of toxic masculinity, Mayall was offered a chance to reimagine himself through Elizabeth’s perspective, as a being whose natural anarchism was a liberating force for women. It is impossible to overemphasize how intensely Rik Mayall’s self-authored (or any male-authored) image of Rik Mayall lacked all sense that Mayall’s characters could be good for women. He blossoms visibly in Drop Dead Fred. Watch his interactions with the young Elizabeth. Yes, it’s manic Mayall, but see how wholly his energy is focussed on responding enthusiastically to whatever the little girl gives him? See how visibly thrilled and emboldened that little girl is by his attentive encouragement? See how Phoebe Cates reveals entirely unexpected comic talent as a mime, when wrestling an invisible Fred, and even the brilliantly brassy Carrie Fisher gives her wildest comic performance in a knock-down, drag-out imaginary fight with exactly the physical humor that women are routinely, subtly discouraged from? Rik Mayall was finally cast as a catalyst for female self-expression, so he catalyzed every actress in the film to gleeful unruliness.

Anarchy is a state of mind, not a material state, as many Marxists learn when attempting to enforce their materialist philosophies of antimaterialism (so much devastating humanitarian tragedy that could have been avoided if communist regimes carefully studied “Rik the accidentally authoritarian anarchist snot” from Mayall’s sitcom The Young Ones and cultivated a sense of thunderingly obvious irony). The point is not to sink a houseboat, but to value the adventure over the boat. Not to chop a little girl’s hair, but to teach her that it is irrelevant to her worth. Note also that, while playfully childish sexuality is part of his persona, Fred never sexualizes Phoebe Cates’ Elizabeth. Not ironically. Not jokingly-not-jokingly, to subtly put her in her place. He is her anarchist Dream Father, and he Dream Fathers her with wholehearted focus on her personhood and self-assertion. Rarely, if ever, has a larger-than-life comedian given a performance more generously dedicated to the actual purpose of his role. If you can see Rik freaking Mayall, decked out in hideous fashion and wildly clashing hair that is as classically punk as it is childish, earnestly mentoring a little girl in the joys of antimaterialist, anarcho-punk self-actualization without being moved, then surely you have a heart of stone. Far from selling out, Rik Mayall’s Hollywood family film was the most truly punk statement he ever made.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kgh27gCgiQw”]

Drop Dead Fred finally justifies the endlessly abused loyalty of women like me to male comedians like Rik Mayall, Richard Pryor, Bill Hicks, Monty Python, Trey Parker or the Farrelly Brothers. Like the character of Drop Dead Fred himself, each combines an off-putting, abrasive surface sexism with more profound lapses in empathy for female perspectives, but their comic purpose remains egalitarian mental liberation. As women, we are conditioned to express admiration for such men by rewarding them sexually, rather than by identifying, imitating and integrating the qualities we are actually drawn to. As little Elizabeth might say, what a pile of shit.

Brigit McCone loves her some comic anarchy. She writes and directs short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and clicking this link

‘A Ballerina’s Tale’: Misty Copeland in Good Times and Bad

Misty Copeland, the focus of the new documentary, ‘A Ballerina’s Tale’ (which is directed by Nelson George and started its run in theaters this week) was recently promoted to principal dancer with the American Ballet Theater and with her viral Under Armour commercial (which had a nice body-diversity message)–as well as an autobiography and talk show appearances–might turn into a ballerina the general public knows and loves, the first in decades.

When I was growing up in the ’70s and early ’80s, opera, classical music and ballet were part of mainstream culture in a way they aren’t today. Although I had no interest in opera, I knew who sopranos Beverly Sills and Leontyne Price were, the former because she was a favorite on talk shows, the latter because she’d made a special appearance on The Odd Couple. Classical concerts aired regularly on PBS and NPR, often simultaneously so fans, like my father, could listen to the music on a stereo instead of through tinny, built-in TV speakers. Ballet dancer Rudolf Nureyev was in movies and like other famous people of the era was photographed at the infamous disco, Studio 54. Mikhail Baryshnikov, besides having a burgeoning acting career also starred in more than one prime-time, network-TV dance special.

Although ballet centers many of its works on ballerinas (thanks in part to New York City Ballet founder and choreographer George Balanchine), women dancers in the ’70s were less well-known to the general public; one year Gelsey Kirkland (who became better known for her eating disorder and cocaine addiction) was in the spotlight, then Leslie Brown, who played a supporting role opposite Baryshnikov in the ballet film The Turning Point was. A few years later Natalia Makarova (who had been Baryshnikov’s dancing partner) won a Tony for playing a Russian ballerina in a Broadway revival of On Your Toes. We haven’t had a classical star whom most TV audiences could identify for a long time–and we haven’t had a ballerina they would recognize for even longer. Misty Copeland, the focus of the new documentary, A Ballerina’s Tale (which is directed by Nelson George and started its run in theaters this week) was recently promoted to principal dancer with the American Ballet Theater and with her viral Under Armour commercial (which had a nice body-diversity message)–as well as an autobiography and talk show appearances–might turn into a ballerina the general public knows and loves, the first in decades.

We meet Misty as she is still trying to become the first Black woman principal dancer in the American Ballet Theater (when the film was shot she was still a “soloist”). The film glosses over the disputes between her family and her then-mentors in the years before she came to New York, though we do see some early home video footage of her dancing in California with her voice-over telling us, “I first discovered ballet at 13.” She started considerably later than most ballerinas do, but her talent was obvious even then.

In the present day we see Copeland at the barre but also in street clothes walking around New York or the cities the company tours. Much like Serena Williams has changed what a women’s tennis champion is supposed to look like, Copeland is changing what a prima ballerina looks like. Her face and hair are similar to many other ballerinas, as well as her petite size and extremely low body-fat, but she also has highly defined muscles in her arms and shoulders and bulging, powerful thigh muscles visible through the leggings she wears outside the studio. Her body is also much curvier than what we think of as a “ballerina build.”

Management at ABT saw that Copeland was struggling early in her time in New York where she had no family (unlike most other ballet dancers, no one in her family had the resources to move to New York City with her) and no other Black dancers in the company to talk to. ABT board member Susan Fales-Hill who says of Missy, “She always stood out. She had what you can’t teach and you can’t learn. She had a fire,” was asked to mentor Copeland. Fales-Hill wisely introduced Misty to many who were the first Black women in prominent roles in their respective fields–which helped give Copeland a perspective of her position–and also gave her folks who could prepare her for being the “first” too. So many films about artists seem to focus on the white, male artist achieving alone, but this documentary shows what many of us know from real life, that artists need support systems in place–and women and people of color often have to build their own.

In one of the best scenes we see 80ish former ballerina Raven Wilkinson, a star in the Ballet Russe in the ’50s (eventually she went to Europe to dance because in the Jim Crow South she was barred from staying in hotels with the white dancers). She and Copeland hold hands across their bodies ballet-style and as Wilkinson hums the Swan Lake score they both go through the same head movements of the lead role, which each played decades apart.

At age 29, Copeland’s career seems to be taking off; she plays the lead in The Firebird and is prominently featured in the banners and posters for the performances, but she suffers an injury (stress fractures on her tibia) that requires surgery and a long recovery period. Here we really get a sense of what a dancer has to go through to get her body to do her bidding. Along with the usual stretching, massage and manipulation we see Missy endure difficult therapeutic exercises and a painful looking encounter with a chiropractor. She makes her first return to performance in a non-taxing, guest role. When she comes off stage, she tells the camera, “I’m glad that’s over.”

As Copeland and other dancers interviewed attest, ballet is a “crazy perfectionist” profession with pain, sweat and strain the norm in performances that are supposed to look effortless. George underscores the force and strength needed by letting us hear the insistent soft tap of Misty’s toe shoes hitting the floor when she dances in rehearsal, a sound usually drowned out by an orchestra.

A white director probably would have left out much of the talk of racism in ballet, but hearing it discussed openly as an obstacle to be overcome, is refreshing. Fales-Hill asks directly,”Where are the Black ballerinas?”

Victoria Rowell, an actress who had her start in ballet says she was simply never promoted in the New York City Ballet while her friends, white dancers at her level, were. She states that Balanchine (who was still in charge of NYCB at that time and had great influence over all of ballet) once said that a ballerina should have skin “like a freshly peeled apple,” which not only leaves out Rowell (and Copeland) but also slights the first ballerina Balanchine choreographed his version of The Firebird around: Maria Tallchief was Native American (and his third wife!)

This film could use more footage of Copeland dancing–and in the scenes where she is dancing (or rehearsing) the camera is either too close, so we don’t see her whole body or too far away, so we don’t see the emotion on her face. Logistics of filming dance are always challenging, but La Danse, Frederick Wiseman’s documentary about the Paris Opera Ballet, as well as Wim Wenders 3-D game-changer, Pina, are excellent blueprints. Although George probably didn’t have the budget those films had (Tale is Kickstarter-funded) I wish he had taken some pointers from them.

Still Copeland is a great subject and ballet, like opera and classical music has a rapidly-aging fanbase, a problem we see offset by the many young girls (including girls of color) seeking out Misty for autographs after her performances. Like Serena Williams has done for tennis, Copeland has drawn new fans to ballet from the Black community and beyond.

Copeland is now in her thirties, so her time as a principal dancer will probably last less than a decade. But she has such a warm, lovely screen presence, producers would be wise to put her in front of a camera even when she’s no longer on pointe. But by that time Hollywood will have to chip away at its long legacy of racism, the way we see the ballet world is just starting to do in theirs.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Y2h6fz2XzQ” iv_load_policy=”3″]

Ren Jender is a queer writer-performer/producer putting a film together. Her writing, besides appearing every week on Bitch Flicks, has also been published in The Toast, RH Reality Check, xoJane and the Feminist Wire. You can follow her on Twitter @renjender

Secondhand Embarrassment in ‘Chewing Gum’

‘Chewing Gum’ is a gem and let’s hope that this is a good indication of the bright future that’s ahead of Michaela Coel.

This is a guest post by Giselle Defares.

At the 67^th prime time Emmy Awards, Viola Davis dropped several truth bombs during her acceptance speech after becoming the first African-American to win an Emmy for best actress in a drama: “The only thing that separates women of color from anyone else is opportunity.” Well, when no doors open you have to kick them in. In the UK there has been an underrepresentation of BAME (Black, Asian, and minority ethnic) actors in TV and film; most shows give an incorrect reflection of the British society, especially when it’s filmed in London, where 40 percent of the population is non-white. There are several initiatives such as The Act For Change Project lead by Danny Lee Wynter that campaigns to strengthen diversity in live and recorded arts. The lack of diversity is especially noticeable when it comes to British comedy. There were only a handful of comedy sketch shows in the last 20 years from Desmond’s to The Real McCoy to Little Miss Jocelyn, and that’s about it. Black British humor is underrated, period. Some artists venture out on their own thus leading the way. Enter Michaela Coel.

The Ghanaian-British actress/writer/poet Michaela Coel has forged her own path in the industry whilst being vulnerable and honest in her creativity. Coel was “discovered” by playwright and director Ché Walker during one of her poetry slams. He invited her to visit the masterclasses he held at RADA and from there she later obtained her degree from the Guildhall School for Music and Drama. In her last year, Coel created her own graduation piece, a 15-minute monologue that became the first version of her one-woman show Chewing Gum Dreams, which she later performed at the National Theater in London. In an interview with The Evening Standard, Coel explained that she wanted her show to reflect “the sort of life you don’t see very often on TV. Tracey’s sexual naiveté, for example, reflects [my own] celibacy between the ages of 17 and 22… I had a massive conversion to this very Pentecostal, demon-exorcising church. Getting to the point where I started to do not such a good job of being celibate, was awkward and horrible. So much guilt. Psychologically, I was in a whirlwind.”

Chewing Gum centers round Tracey Gordon (Michaela Coel), a 24-year-old who grew up on a council estate in east London in a strict religious environment who’s trying to alter her path in adulthood. She’s innocent and wise and equally adores her idols Beyoncé and Jesus. She stumbles her way through London and finds out the hard way what she should and shouldn’t be doing. While Tracey is trying to broaden her world, her sister Cynthia (Susan Wokoma) is content with their solemn life as long as she can play the board game Ludo with her family every night. Her overly religious mother Joy (Shola Adewusi) sermons innocent bystanders on the street with quips such as: “My dear, your vagina is holy. I command you to leave your nether regions be.” Tracey’s best friend Candice (Danielle Walters) and her grandmother Esther (Maggie Steed) are more worldly and they often gives her disastrous life advice. Tracey has been in a six-year relationship with her Pentecostal Christian boyfriend Ronald (John MacMillan) and is eager to lose her virginity with him, while Ronald says in his prayers, “We will wait till we die if it brings you glory.” Luckily for Tracey there’s the neighborhood poet Connor (Robert Lonsdale), who seems to really like her.

The first episode was enjoyable, filthy, funny, and loaded with secondhand embarrassment, but the balance between all the characters wasn’t quite there. Before Coel got the greenlight for her six episodes on Channel 4, she got the opportunity to create two comedy blaps to present her idea (unfortunately Channel 4 made them private on YouTube). She changed certain elements from the shorts and at some moments they worked better than what was aired in the first episode. It’s especially noticeable with the new Connor. The old Connor (Morgan Watkins) was slightly better at pulling off the dumb yet dorky character in a less self- conscious way. The new Connor feels a bit out of place (and dorkier) in the first episode, but it seems that Lonsdale will improve in the upcoming episodes. However, the addition of her Christian boyfriend Ronald is a great move.

Chewing Gum is refreshing since it breaks the mold of the overriding limited representation of minorities in the UK. Coel shows us a protagonist who deals with love, religion, classism, pop culture, and it’s set against the background of a council estate. Yet Tracey isn’t the archetype of the Black girl who’s often portrayed as either: unhappy, uneducated, poor, highly sexualized and surrounded by aggression and criminal behavior or other tropes that seem to be prevalent when it comes to the portrayal of the Black British experience within the media. – see Top Boy (fun fact: Coel had a small part in this show). The factor that binds the people on the estate together is, according to Coel, “class and community.”

Coel shines in her leading role. Tracey is kind, grounded and sweet whilst her best friend Candice has a more distinct personality: brash, bubbly and definitely more experienced when it comes to sex. Her advice to Tracey on her date with Ronald: “Just sit on his face.” Well, it went from innocent to filthy (yet funny) real quick. The relationships and the conversations that Tracey has with her friends and family are natural, see for instance the scenes where Tracey discusses her upcoming date with Candice:

Tracey: “ Candice, I’m 24, I’m a virgin. Yes. That doesn’t mean I wanna have sex with my boyfriend, yeah.”

Candice: “ You don’t have to. Bag someone on Tinder. It’s free. Set the thing to find someone in your borough, and walk. A tinder bang is not even a bus-fare, bruv.”

Tracey (looks into the camera): “Candice is like the buffest girl I’ve ever seen on the whole of my estate but she has learning difficulties so it sort of balances it all out. I can be best friends with her and I’m not even jealous or anything.”

Candice: “ You know if you leave it too long, you tear when he enters you. You need stitches.”

Tracey: “Yeah, well, thank god for the NHS then, innit.”

Tracey gives us a glimpse how awkward (extremely guarded) twentysomethings can operate. Comparisons are made with Girls by Lena Dunham or that the show is the British equivalent of The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl by Issa Rae. While Rae and Coel both managed to create their own space when there were no opportunities that’s where the similarities end. It’s fair to say that Chewing Gum stands on its own.

The appeal of Chewing Gum lies in the humor, the familiarity and quite frankly the second hand embarrassment when you see Tracey trying to fulfil her sexual fantasies. Coel gives us a Black female lead who doesn’t shy away from graphic (offensive) sexual humor. Susan Wokoma shines as the religious, younger sister Cynthia. The character could be one note but Wokoma shows her comedic chops. There’s great chemistry between Tracey, Candice and her grandmother Esther, hopefully their relationship will be explored. All the characters are well cast, but Candice and Connor need to be more fleshed out in the upcoming episodes.

Chewing Gum is the comedy with a Black female lead some of us have been waiting for. It’s not the representation of Blackness but it’s certainly nice to see a Black leading character who isn’t molded in archetypes, which can be damaging society’s perception of Black women. Tracey is open, vulnerable, filthy, funny and just trying to live life the best as she can. Chewing Gum is a gem and let’s hope that this is a good indication of the bright future that’s ahead of Michaela Coel.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dpm3UcJd3no”]

Giselle Defares comments on film, fashion (law) and American pop culture. See her blog here.

Five Female Directors Who Helped Shape Nollywood

Amaka Igwe (1963 – 2014)

Nollywood, the Nigerian film industry, has overtaken Hollywood in terms of its volume of output, and is now second only to Bollywood. What were once dismissed as stilted, static, and amateurish films made on home video, have now developed into their own distinctive visual style and genres, which are popular and influential across Africa and the African diaspora worldwide. One of the visionaries who helped to shape the Nollywood phenomenon, Amaka Igwe ran her own production company and owned a radio station, as well as writing and directing films such as Rattle Snake and Violated, and their sequels, having debuted as writer and producer of the award-winning TV soap Checkmate. Her work with Amaka Igwe Studios is credited with raising standards in the Nollywood industry as a whole. Using the Igbo language, Igwe’s films were aimed squarely at a national audience, allowing people to see their own everyday lives and conflicts mirrored in her works.

Tope Oshin Ogun

“My films, I mean the ones that are my personal projects, have serious themes and deal with the situations and problems in our society today. I am not all for entertainment for entertainment’s sake” – Tope Oshin Ogun

Now the CEO of Sunbow Productions Ltd., the actress Tope Oshin Ogun credits Amaka Igwe for getting her into directing and inspiring her to think that she could take a broader control of her films. Igwe noticed that Ogun was asking intelligent questions about all aspects of production and told her that she had a director’s brain. Amaka Igwe’s legacy thus continues in the films of Tope Oshin Ogun, demonstrating the importance of mentoring and precedent between women in the industry. After she decided to take this direction, a number of the directors that she had worked with as an actress allowed her to intern for them, watching them at work while she prepared to make the transition herself. Ogun began by directing many episodes of the television soap opera Tinsel, which is popular across Africa. Tope Oshin Ogun’s feature film Journey to Self chronicles the bonding journey of four women, tackling personal details and reaching self-realization. Filmed from a female perspective, the four women leads are staying at the home of a deceased friend and reading her insightful letters, triggering their own journeys of self-discovery. An intense story of female friendship, empowerment, sacrifice, and self-respect, Journey to Self illustrates Tope Oshin Ogun’s commitment to telling women’s stories that have meaning for her audience.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PPjJq3Xb7yw”]

Sandra Mbanefo Obiago

“I’m concerned about the fact that we download a lot about ourselves yet upload very little into mainstream media, no matter which media we are talking about”, – Sandra Mbanefo Obiago

Concerned about African women’s authorship of their own image, Sandra Mbanefo Obiago founded Communicating for Change (CFC) in 1998 with the mission of becoming a content provider for positive films documenting social challenges in ways that have a strong human interest and creative angle to engage the viewer. She points to Hollywood films like Blood Diamond with its diamond trafficking storyline, as having greater global impact in raising awareness than dry documentaries, while the popular South African series Soul City was able to reach more viewers with carefully researched HIV/AIDS storylines than the “awareness” films of NGOs. Recently, Obiago has taken her long-standing interest in visual art to found African Art Spectrum, and believes that closer collaboration between Nigeria’s writers, musicians, visual artists, photographers and filmmakers will be key to developing the artistic level of Nollywood film. In For Love of Indigo, Obiago celebrates the traditional Yoruba indigo textile artform of adire, through the figure of the internationally famed artist Nike Okundaye. Nike’s life story begins with hardships faced by many rural women, before rising to an extraordinary level of both individual success and generosity in giving back to the community. Among the many women that she mentored in adire were Nigerian emigrants to Italy, who had fallen into the sex industry from a lack of other money-making options, and who were able to use the craft as an alternative source of income.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TOSFgnTCP60″]

Watch Sandra Mbanefo Obiago’s films on culture unplugged.

Remi Vaughan-Richards

“The rest of the world documents… why do you think we have museums everywhere in the world? Because it’s important” – Remi Vaughan-Richards

Remi Vaughan-Richards is the Creative Director of Singing Tree Films, “a hub of creative minds with a mission to entertain, inform and educate using behavior change communication methods.” Based in Nigeria, the company provides content for diverse clients, including the BBC World Service Trust’s Nigeria branch, Sandra Mbanefo Obiago’s Communicating for Change and Ondo State Government. She is interested in defining Nigerian modernity that is rooted in history, and reimagines issues in a new light, integrating her Western training with her Nigerian culture. For examples, in Scent of the Street, a documentary exploring “area girls” from rougher neighbourhoods or “areas” of the capital city Lagos, the subjects Bisayo, Onyinye and Gift are given space to speak for themselves and define their own ambitions. Though she currently lives off dates, Onyinye is clear about her family loyalties and sense of responsibility as a provider for younger siblings, as well as ambition as a model and fashion designer. Bisayo’s role as “Area Mother” is highlighted for the diplomatic and leadership qualities that her hustle requires. Gift’s more modest ambitions for her own market stall, and for safety walking home at night, accepting the protection of her “fine” boyfriend, are equally honored. Scent of the Street reclaims the role of women in hustling street life from an ornamental role on the margins, to put it center stage. Finally, a partnership with Obiago’s Communicating for Change allowed all three of the documentary’s subjects to enroll in life skill classes, to help transform their outlook and the opportunities available to them.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wDFREhX9ZEU”]

Watch Scent of the Street on vimeo.

Michelle Bello

“I love romantic comedies, you know, I’m a romantic at heart, so I was just like, ‘this will be fun to do’ “ – Michelle Bello

A film director and producer, Michelle Bello is the CEO of Nigerian-based film company Blu Star Entertainment Ltd.. After studying communications at the American University in Washington D.C., Bello made her first 16mm short, Sheltered, during a study-abroad program in Prague. After graduation she moved home to Nigeria, becoming an Associate Producer on Mo Abudu’s hit MNet TV Show Moments with Mo, then produced the award-winning music video for T.Y. Bello’s “Greenland.” In 2008, she completed her first feature film, Small Boy, which was nominated for two awards at the Los Angeles American Black Film Festival and won two African Movie Academy Awards in 2009 for its art direction and child star. A film about a young boy living on the streets of Lagos after fleeing abuse at home, it offered a true-to-life portrait of a child in crisis. In a complete change of tone, her next feature, 2013’s Flower Girl, was an escapist romantic comedy in which a shy florist teams up with a movie star to press her long-term boyfriend into proposing. As Africa can be stereotyped as a crisis zone or exotic backdrop, it is important to see films like Bello’s that celebrate universal human aspirations to love and laughter. Flower Girl became a number one box office hit in Nigeria and Ghana, before receiving a limited U.K. theatrical release, making Bello the first female director to have an international cinematic release, a core part of a new wave of Nollywood directors that are furthering the industry as global players. Together with the other women on this list, Michelle Bello seems to promise a strong female voice in African cinema going forward.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QhCw5XjmbZc”]

Brigit McCone believes globalization ought to flow both ways. She writes and directs short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and researching overlooked female artists.

Bitch Flicks’ Weekly Picks

Check out what we’ve been reading this week – and let us know what you’ve been reading/writing in the comments!

Sister Suffragette: ‘Slave’ T-Shirts Highlight White Feminism’s Race Problem by Kirsten West Savali at The Root

The High Stakes for “Quantico” and its South Asian Star by Stephanie Abraham at Bitch Media

Watch 1981 Report on Racial Stereotyping & Lack of Opportunities for Black Actors (What’s Changed 30+ Years Later?) by Tambay A. Obenson at Shadow and Act

Female-Driven Movies Make Money, So Why Aren’t More Being Made? by Thelma Adams at Variety

The Hollywood gender discrimination investigation is on: EEOC contacts women directors by Rebecca Keegan at Los Angeles Times

Ava DuVernay: For Women and People of Color, Hollywood is “A Whole Bunch of Locked Doors” by Inkoo Kang at Women and Hollywood

Study shows how women directors get blocked in Hollywood by John Anderson at Fortune

What have you been reading/writing this week? Tell us in the comments!

Seed & Spark: The “Flawed” Female Protagonist Is, Quite Simply, My Favorite

Not everyone who loves romantic comedies, lives them. Not every happy ending looks like happily ever after. If you feel like you don’t know which box to check, find four lines and create your own.

This is a guest post by Christina Morelli.

In many ways, I am a traditional “girl.” I love getting dressed up. I’m a sucker for every romantic comedy ever made (particularly the solid run of Nora Ephron flicks in the late 80s/early 90s). I read chick lit, and I tend to sob right through it. I live for a good night in with a bottle of wine and my baking supplies. I’m a hybrid of Julia Roberts in “My Best Friend’s Wedding,” Debra Messing in “The Wedding Date,” and Renee Zellweger in “Bridget Jones’ Diary,” with a hint of Kate Winslet in “The Holiday.” My all-time favorite movie is, “When Harry Met Sally.”

Throw a pumpkin spice latte in my hand, turn the camera to selfie mode, and slap on the hashtag- #basicbitch.

And yet, that’s where it ends. For the most part, I’m lacking in several of the adult female stereotype categories. I have an averse reaction to the color pink, unless I’m supporting breast cancer. I don’t like glitter or anything on my body to be adorned with something large and/or sparkly. I’d prefer to elope, if I ever actually get married, and I have puppy fever far more often than I have baby fever. At the moment, “nesting” refers to the being too lazy to fold laundry so I simply sleep on top of it, like a baby bird. Large groups of women give me anxiety. Staying in one apartment, city, job or even room for too long gives me anxiety. And now that I live alone, I’m not going to lie- shaving, primping, and even sometimes, showering, are on an “as needed” basis. (Maybe that’s somewhat connected to the missing bride gene.)

Bridget Jones’ is my spirit animal.

I’ve never completely felt like I fit in anywhere. Far too introverted for most of the women I know, far too emotional for most of the men. So when I ventured into scriptwriting a few years back, I naturally felt compelled to write leading ladies with the same notable flaws that I too experienced. “Write what you know!” they said. Well I know commitment issues, creativity ADD, heartbreak and friendship. I know shifting career paths and fear of the unknown. I know travel. Solo travel, to be exact. I know what it’s like to have trouble letting go. And I know the challenge of approaching something with no experience, including writing, and figuring out a way to make it work.

When I completed the first draft of the script for my full length play, Chasing Shadows, I was eager to get feedback. Chasing Shadows told the story of four fairies who decided to leave Never Land in pursuit of New York City. They traded their wings and magic for the chance to become “real women,” and were granted the exact lives they had wished for back when they were fairies. Tink, the last of the group to give up her freedom, was offered the opportunity to give the real world a one-month trial run. But upon arriving in New York, she found herself torn between her past and her present.

The idea came from the notion that it was socially acceptable for men to embody the “Peter Pan Syndrome” for their entire lives, but women who did not “grow up” and follow the same paths as their family and friends were viewed in a negative light. The Tinker Bell Effect. It was funny, it was dark, it was sarcastic, and it was about fairies- bound to be a hit!

Not so much. The first feedback I received from the few people I shared it with was that my protagonist was not likable. She was too angry, too bitter. No one was rooting for her.

The fairies of Chasing Shadows will be recreating their roles for the web series DUST: A Fairy Tale.

I threw out that draft and started all over again. It took me close to a year to figure out Tink’s new story. I’m sure part of the reason was because I was trying to write what everyone else wanted to hear, and not the characters in my head. I struggled with the fact I was writing a “girly” script, in an age where people seem to crave blood, action, diversity and darkness. Even after several drafts and a few staged performances, people still questioned her journey. She seemed a little lost. She didn’t have an “arc.” It didn’t wrap up in a pretty little bow. I’m sure on some level, she simply made everyone uncomfortable. With all of those opinions in mind, I fought with the decision to keep pursuing the script.

About a month after the second staged reading of Chasing Shadows was performed, I came across an article in the Huffington Post called “Rise of the Woman Child,” by Lauren Duca. The article opened with discussing the predominant criticism Preggoland star Sonja Bennett received regarding her lead character- which was that she wasn’t likeable. The skies parted, the angels sang, a giant beam of light circled my head and I raised my arms victoriously… I wasn’t alone.

A must-read for today’s crop of new female writers.

It goes on to site other contemporary female protagonists, such as Annie (Kristen Wiig) in Bridesmaids and Jenny (Anna Kendrick) in Happy Christmas, who embodied similar qualities that made viewers lack empathy. Unlike their male counterpart roles, such as the characters in Old School, The Hangover, or any Adam Sandler movie, it seems that women who have a different definition of happily ever after, audiences find difficult to relate to.

After reading that piece, I knew I had to continue sharing Tink’s adventures. I made the decision to adapt the play into something online and episodic, allowing me flexibility to develop the characters one tale at a time… and so DUST: A Fairy Tale was born. The thought of taking on yet another huge endeavor (and another career path) with little experience and just a small team behind me was terrifying, but I was inspired by the growing voice of women in the industry. I desired the opportunity for mine to be heard. We launched our Seed & Spark campaign two and half weeks ago, and every day I have to remind myself I don’t write to be liked or to fit in, I write because I have a story to tell.

Not everyone who loves romantic comedies, lives them. Not every happy ending looks like happily ever after. If you feel like you don’t know which box to check, find four lines and create your own.

Because perhaps, the most grown up thing anyone can do, is simply to accept another person for exactly who they are. Flaws and all.

Writer. Director. Producer. Creative consultant by day, fairy by night. From her first ballet shoes to her first computer, Christina Morelli has been immersed in the arts for as long as she could walk and write. Her passion for creating paired with a strong entrepreneurial spirit carved the way for a number of lucrative business opportunities, from owning her own dance studio to producing staged readings of her original full length play in New York City and London. In addition to fueling her own artistic desires, Christina has worked as a writer and consultant for a number of sectors in the entertainment world, including music, production, dance and theater. She is currently thrilled to be bringing her favorite fairies from stage to screen in the upcoming web series, DUST: A Fairy Tale. When she’s not creating a new world of words, characters and scenarios, Christina loves photography, travel, wine and surprising people with her latest adventure. www.christinamorelli.com

The Disappearance of Sexism and Racism in Dystopian Fiction

Certainly, teenagers strain against authority and exert their independence. This doesn’t mean they’re immune to other big issues that plague society – issues such as sexism and racism. If the novels being written for this demographic want to call themselves true dystopias based on a futuristic society in which our current way of living led to some global disaster, then the writers of the novels and the film adaptations shouldn’t shy away from some of the biggest issues in current politics and society.

This is a guest post by Maria Ramos.

If book sales and box office numbers are any indication, young adults love their dystopian fiction. So much so that the creative powers that be are intent on keeping the momentum going with more and more additions to this fairly recent genre phenomenon, for better or for worse. Unfortunately, the repetition breeds dilution of the initial idea of a dystopia as an opposite of a utopia, or perfect world.

The idea of dystopia takes into account basic and flawed human nature, hinging on the idea that power, political in this case, corrupts, leading to a small group of oppressors and a greater group of oppressed. YA dystopian fiction tends to present this oppression as a necessary sacrifice to save the rest of humanity after some global and apocalyptic disaster, often environmental in nature and with the clear message that we should take care of our environment now or suffer our own dystopia later.

The common element in a true dystopia is politics, but in these YA versions, the politics have become metaphors for the seemingly oppressive nature of adult and school rules under which teenagers often chafe. This conversion leaves the stories one-sided and shallow, expecting the reader to assume that, because this is a common problem within the young adult mindset, it is also the biggest problem facing young adults today. At best, such an assumption stems from laziness, and at worst, it’s insulting.

Take The Hunger Games, for example. Society is divided by geography and profession as each of the 12 districts supplies the capital city with a specific product or skill. The districts live in various extremes of poverty and deprivation. While some would argue that such suffering would bring out the best in some people, the situation is also ripe for the desperation that leads to an irrational fear of other, a prime motivator of racism. And yet, while the author created a diverse group of characters, including Katniss who was described as “olive-skinned,” the discrimination based on this diversity is simply missing.

The same could be said for The Maze Runner series (the first film is available on demand through Google Play and DirecTV), which provides representation of various races to include Asian and African American and yet never a hint of racial tensions either in the grove or once they’re out of it and into The Scorch Trials, the second installment of the book and movie trilogy. Possibly the worst offender of recent offerings, however, is the Divergent series, in which society is divided by faction only, with each faction based on a particular character trait. Not only is there no hint of racism anywhere in any of the three novels of this trilogy, but sexism is gone, too.

This latter is particularly hard to swallow given that the domestically abusive and oppressive male leader of one faction (while actively opposing the female leader of another) never once makes a disparaging reference to her being deficient because she’s a woman, even after his true character is brought to light and his crimes against his own family are revealed to all. There is one comment made by a male to the lead female Tris when Peter tells her she has nice legs for a “stiff,” but this is a reference to her previous faction only. No reference to her appearance as a female, only faction.

Overall, if writers and filmmakers wish to reach the widest possible audience, they’ll need to take a harder look at more than struggles with authority. By leaving out other important problems faced by today’s young people, they leave a glaring hole in the message.

Maria Ramos is a writer interested in comic books, cycling, and horror films. Her hobbies include cooking, doodling, and finding local shops around the city. She currently lives in Chicago with her two pet turtles, Franklin and Roy. You can follow her on Twitter @MariaRamos1889.