Desiree Akhavan – Bitch Flicks

Directing One’s Own Life (and Sexuality) in ‘Appropriate Behavior’

‘Appropriate Behavior’ is thus a product and a triumph of female authorship and agency in the male-dominated film and entertainment industry. … Just as Desiree Akhavan went to lengths to ensure her agency and authorship as a filmmaker, Shirin engages with her bisexuality frankly and honestly…

This guest post written by Deborah Krieger is an edited version that originally appeared at I on the Arts. It is cross-posted with permission.

In Desiree Akhavan’s 2014 film Appropriate Behavior, Shirin (Akhavan), the protagonist, struggles to find her place in both her traditional Iranian family and as a newly-single bisexual woman in New York City. In addition to starring as the protagonist, Akhavan also wrote and directed this offbeat, independent drama-comedy film, basing several of the elements of the film on her own life and experiences, although the plot is fictional. The film premiered at Sundance, where it was perceived as a “breakout,” received a limited theatrical release, and is currently available through various online streaming sources, including iTunes and Amazon Prime. While the film was not a financial success, grossing only $46,000, it put Akhavan on the map, earning her comparisons to Lena Dunham, a writer/director/actor of similar comedic material, and earned her a guest role on Dunham’s HBO show Girls, although Akhavan shrugs off the comparison.

Appropriate Behavior features not only a female creator, star, and director, but also a female executive producer (Katie Mustard), producer (Cecelia Frugiuele) — indeed, women make up at least half of the crew of the film. It is thus fair to say that Appropriate Behavior is a classic example of women’s cinema, which refers to films that have women in positions of creative control, as well as films that are geared towards a female audience. In an industry where women comprise only 9 percent of film directors, 11 percent of writers and 20 percent of executive producers in the top 250 films, Appropriate Behavior’s crew is quite impressive in terms of giving women control over the production of the film.

Appropriate Behavior is thus a product and a triumph of female authorship and agency in the male-dominated film and entertainment industry. Essentially, Appropriate Behavior addresses female production and agency not only in the background processes of the film, but also in content, as exemplified through Shirin’s trials and travails over the course of the film. Shirin aims to take control of her life post-breakup and establish her identity in relationship to the world around her. She gets a new job teaching filmmaking to five year-olds, moves into a new apartment, and, most importantly, tries to get over her ex-girlfriend Maxine by seeking out and engaging sexually with partners both male and female, including a leader of a feminist discussion group and a hip swinging young couple. In short, Shirin’s desire to create her own new life post-Maxine is analogous to the process of Akhavan’s making her film independently, serving as writer, director, and star, and exemplifies Shirin’s own sexual and personal agency as an active female character. Both Shirin and the film Appropriate Behavior exist outside of the mainstream: Shirin is a bisexual woman of color in an industry where films are usually made about straight white men (whites making up 70 percent of the protagonists in 2014 Hollywood films, men 88 percent, with LGBT characters only accounting for 17.5 percent of all characters), and Appropriate Behavior is an independently financed and distributed film not made to satisfy commercial needs or beckon broad appeal. At the beginning of the film Shirin starts with nothing — she is unhappily single, in need of a home, and looking for a new job — and must start from scratch, just as Akhavan conceived of the fictional story of the film, beginning, one assumes, with a white blank page. Indeed, when it comes to its depiction of sexuality, Appropriate Behavior through its form and content, center the idea of female agency and authorship, whether behind or in front of the camera.

Appropriate Behavior reflects the choices made by Desiree Akhavan throughout her burgeoning career as a filmmaker to maintain her independence, control and agency over her projects. Filmmaker Michelle Citron, in her essay “Women’s Film Production: Going Mainstream,”[1] creates a divide between usage of the terms “film-maker” [sic] versus “director,” arguing that a filmmaker exercises more “control” over her product than does a director, who trades control for increased “power” within the mainstream Hollywood production structure and, one assumes, the ability to direct projects with larger and larger budgets and commercial appeal further down the line. In the interview with Professor Patricia White preceding the screening of Appropriate Behavior at the Penn Humanities Forum at the University of Pennsylvania, Akhavan spoke about the difficulty of getting Appropriate Behavior financed, since, as both she and Citron point out, the kind of projects Hollywood supports are the kind that have been proven to be revenue-generating in the past.[2] Akhavan noted that even within the niche of more mainstream LGBT films she had little luck, since her film was a comedy, not a drama (in the vein of, perhaps, Brokeback Mountain), and thus did not receive any grants, and because her film centers on a bisexual woman of color and not white gay men, it was harder to find support.

Additionally, while Akhavan did not explicitly reference Citron’s filmmaker versus director argument, she did point out that as a woman behind the camera, she had been offered to direct mainstream comedies — for example, something starring Zac Efron — but that she turned those offers down because she wanted to direct her own her projects, even though by this token she was trading a chance at power within the Hollywood mainstream for control over a much smaller film, as per the Citron model.

In terms of the film’s content, the depiction of Shirin’s sexuality also emphasizes her choices and agency in her (attempted) sexual encounters with both men and women. Just as Akhavan went to lengths to ensure her agency and authorship as a filmmaker, Shirin engages with her bisexuality frankly and honestly, seeking out partners whom she believes will make her happy (or at least satisfied), regardless of how society views her sexual orientation. She pursues a male partner for a one-night stand over OkCupid, a female feminist group discussion leader, and a couple, who invites her into their home for a threesome. In one key scene in the film, Shirin attempts to revive her existence as a sexual single woman by going to a lingerie shop and hesitantly requesting to be shown “underwear of a woman in charge of her sexuality and not afraid of change.”

Despite her attempts to prove otherwise to herself, Shirin’s sexual identity and agency is anything but assured, as the audience learns over the course of the film, and is a source of both happiness and pain for her. In her article “Pleasure and Danger: Towards a Politics of Sexuality,” which addresses conceptions of female sexuality through a feminist lens, Carole S. Vance cites a “powerful tension”[3] between pleasure and danger. While Appropriate Behavior does not explicitly define itself as feminist or anti-feminist, its take on female sexuality, especially Shirin’s bisexuality, is indicative of the divide between pleasure and danger that Vance addresses. In the film, Shirin’s bisexuality within both straight and lesbian contexts is treated as dangerous and “other”; her straight brother doubts that bisexuality is real and calls her “sexually confused,” while her ex-girlfriend Maxine, in a particularly harsh moment, wonders aloud if their relationship was just a “phase” for Shirin — particularly damning for a bisexual woman, since they are often perceived as experimenting or, indeed, “confused.” Additionally, Shirin’s sexuality is a source of stress — and, indeed, danger — in the film, because Shirin worries about alienating her traditional Persian family if she comes out to them, which is one of the causes of the breakdown of Shirin’s and Maxine’s relationship.

Furthermore, during the discussion with Akhavan, when the topic of filming sex scenes came up, she spoke of her enthusiasm for participating and directing these kinds of scenes, adding that she felt “empowered” by this type of material. However, what was interesting in the interview, vis-à-vis Vance’s discussion of pornography being demonized by certain feminists, is that one of the sex scenes (likely the threesome) worried Akhavan because she thought it was too close to pornography, rather than an honest depiction of sex, and had to be reassured by her producer that it would turn out to be acceptable. In the scene in question, Shirin engages sexually with the couple, then watches awkwardly as they engage with one another, leaving her out. Where the scene becomes “dangerous,” in a sense, for Shirin is the strange connection she makes with the female half of the couple — a connection that so unnerves as disturbs her that she feels obligated to leave the couple’s apartment. Through Akhavan’s intervention, a scene that could have been aimed at the male gaze and meant to titillate like pornography becomes more emotional and meaningful, with the nudity serving to advance the sentiment of the scene as well as the plot of the film. What is emphasized both in the film and in Akhavan’s commentary is the sense of female power and agency in that both Shirin and Akhavan have, and had, the opportunity and luxury of pursuing and expressing their sexuality in or through the making of the film, even if the outcome for Shirin is not what she expected.

Thus, with regards to both the behind-the-scenes processes as well as the narrative of the film, Appropriate Behavior exemplifies and addresses issues of female authorship and agency. Desiree Akhavan asserted herself not only by writing, directing, and starring in her own film, as well as hiring many women to serve on the production team, but also refusing to take on projects that would diminish her agency and control over the process and end result, preferring to be an author and filmmaker rather than a director-for-hire. Similarly, Shirin alternately asserts (and questions) her identity over the course of the film through her displays of sexuality and the choices she makes, ultimately reaching a place where she is feeling hopeful about her own life and ready to move forward, as emphasized by her finally throwing away the strap-on Maxine insisted Shirin take as part of their break-up. In Akhavan’s career as well as the content she creates, it would seem, women’s ability and agency to be sexual, to be oneself and make one’s own choices, to direct one’s own life, as it were, are paramount. Ultimately, Appropriate Behavior succeeds as a feminist film, in my view, insomuch as we can tie female agency and authorship to feminism, because it keenly addresses these concepts both behind and in front of the camera.

Notes:

[1]: Michelle Citron, “Women’s Film Production: Going Mainstream,” in The Gender and Media Reader, ed. Mary Celeste Kearney (New York: Routledge, 2012), 177.

[2]: Desiree Akhavan, interview by Patricia White at the Penn Humanities Forum, September 25, 2015.

[3]: Carole S. Vance, “Pleasure and Danger: Towards a Politics of Sexuality,” in Pleasure and Danger: Exploring Female Sexuality, ed. Carole S. Vance (Boston: Routledge, 1984), 1.

Deborah Krieger is a senior at Swarthmore College, studying art history, film and media studies, and German. She has written for Hyperallergic, Hooligan Magazine, the Northwestern Art Review, The Stake, and Title Magazine. She also runs her own art blog, I On the Arts, and curates her life in pictures @Debonthearts on Instagram.

In ‘Appropriate Behavior’: What Does It Take for a Woman to Author Herself?

What’s more, to understand ‘Appropriate Behavior’ as the bisexual Iranian version of someone else’s work would be to miss the point of the film entirely. While on the surface, the film is about a bisexual Iranian American coming to terms with a breakup and with the messiness of her sexuality, it’s really a film about identity, about what it means not to take the easy way out by shaving off or hiding the parts of yourself that don’t fit into a neat package. By failing, spectacularly, to fit, the film, like its main character, becomes something more than the sum of its seemingly discordant parts, something entirely of its own.

This is a guest post by Dena Afrasiabi.

It’s tempting to try to fit Desiree Akhavan’s unique and hilarious first feature, Appropriate Behavior, into the appropriate box. In the age of tagging and buzzwords, a film of its kind lends itself to a plethora of catchy categories: Iranian, Brooklynite, lesbian, coming of age, categories that have never all been represented on the same screen at the same time. Add to that some awkward (i.e. realistic) sex scenes and it’s no wonder that so many reviewers have described Akhavan as the bisexual Iranian version of Lena Dunham. Or is it? Upon reading other articles on the film, as well as interviews with Akhavan, on the topic, it becomes glaringly apparent that the comparisons say a lot less about the film or about Akhavan as an artist than they do about the relationship between the media and women artists of color. Granted, Akhavan and Dunham do share some surface similarities: both filmmakers are young women, both make work set in Brooklyn that features flawed (i.e. real), intelligent female characters, characters who harbor real desires, make real mistakes and find themselves in real, awkward, often cringe-worthy sexual encounters. And in all fairness, the comparison is certainly a flattering one, as Akahavan herself has acknowledged.

Nor is Akhavan the first filmmaker or writer to be compared to Dunham. Both Greta Gerwig, writer and star of Frances Ha and Gillian Robespierre, the director of Obvious Child, have also held the somewhat dubious honor, one that’s apparently granted to any talented young female filmmaker who makes a funny film about a smart woman who lives in Brooklyn and doesn’t have her life all figured out by her mid-20s. Indeed, linking filmmakers to one another seems to be a favored pastime of film critics. Dunham herself has oft been dubbed the new Woody Allen. And the interwebs does yield its share of comparisons between male filmmakers as well (Paul Thomas Anderson has been compared to Quentin Tarantino, Tarantino to Scorcese, Judd Appatow and Ed Burns to Woody Allen). But these linkages occur much less frequently and carry less weight than comparisons between female filmmakers, and especially the ubiquitous comparisons between Akhavan and Dunham.

Great artists locate themselves in a tradition. Most filmmakers, including Allen himself, are quick to name their biggest influences. But the above-mentioned comparisons point to something more than just the creation of a genealogy. They reek of a tokenism that only makes room for one successful woman at a time and that fosters acceptance for women of color by linking them to their white counterparts. This tokenism diminishes or even erases the nuances of these filmmakers’ distinct voices and minimizes the range and complexity of experiences they convey.

What’s more, to understand Appropriate Behavior as the bisexual Iranian version of someone else’s work would be to miss the point of the film entirely. While on the surface, the film is about a bisexual Iranian American coming to terms with a breakup and with the messiness of her sexuality, it’s really a film about identity, about what it means not to take the easy way out by shaving off or hiding the parts of yourself that don’t fit into a neat package. By failing, spectacularly, to fit, the film, like its main character, becomes something more than the sum of its seemingly discordant parts, something entirely of its own.

The film’s narrative follows Shirin (Desiree Akahavan), a 20-something bisexual Iranian American living in Park Slope whose barely held together life is coming apart at the seams. She and her girlfriend, Maxine (Rebecca Henderson), have just broken up, sending Shireen out of Park Slope domestic bliss and into a self-destructive spiral inside a dark and cluttered apartment in Bushwick that she shares with a hipster artist couple who look like they just walked off the set of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. She quits her job at the Brooklyn Paper, where she has been replaced as the token Middle Easterner by a Syrian woman whose Syrianness is more exciting to her coworkers than Shirin’s more understated Iranianness and goes to work as a teacher for an after-school filmmaking class full of Park Slope toddlers more interested in eating their cameras than shooting precocious art films she imagines them making. As Shirin deals with her grief over the breakup, we learn of the relationship through a series of bittersweet flashbacks—that’s right, Annie Hall style. In one scene, Shirin and Maxine meet on a stoop just before midnight on New Year’s Eve, where they bond over their mutual disdain (“I hate so many things, too” Shirin tells her, just before their first kiss). In another, they make the romantic discovery while smoking pot together for the first time that they’re “the same type of high person.” The romance quickly unravels, however, as Shirin and Maxine repeatedly butt heads over Shirin’s unwillingness to come out to her socially conservative Iranian parents (Hooman Majd and Anh Duong).

Throughout the film, we watch Shirin repeatedly fail to fulfill the expectations of those around her. She doesn’t embody Maxine’s idea of the right kind of lesbian, one who reads queer studies classics like Stone Butch Blues, embraces gay activism with earnest enthusiasm and wears her sexuality as a badge. Nor does she fit her family’s definition of the right kind of Iranian offspring, by contrast to her successful doctor brother (Arian Moayed) or his polished Iranian fiancée (Justine Cotsonas), who performs reconstructive surgery on pediatric burn victims. She also fails to be the right kind of Iranian in the eyes of Park Slope’s upper middle class liberals, who expect her to be one of the hip young Tehranis they read about in the Times. When asked by her new boss (Scott Adsit) if she’s part of the underground hip-hop scene in Tehran, she answers, “I spend most of time in Iran watching Disney videos with my grandmother while she untangles jewelry.” The slapstick film she makes with her class also clashes hilariously with Park Slope’s collective Disney-like fantasy of a harmonious multicultural world, epitomized by her bohemian coworker, Tibet (Rosalie Lowe), who attends West African dance classes religiously and makes a film featuring white and African American children poetically climbing trees. Shirin’s eventual coming out to her mother, too, defies expectations of the genre with its quiet ambiguity. “Mom, I’m a little bit gay,” Shirin tells her mother one night at her parents’ New Jersey home. And rather than set off a show of hysterics or threats to ship her off to Iran or to straight camp, her mother meets this confession with a simple dismissal, the tip of a cultural iceberg that alludes to beliefs and attitudes that will not melt overnight. It’s such moments of ambiguity that set Akhavan apart as a filmmaker, moments that can’t be separated from her unique vantage point and that get lost in the Dunham comparisons and the branding.

What makes the story so resonant is that Shirin doesn’t ever tie up her identity’s loose ends. A lesser film may have shown the protagonist reaching an epiphany of self-acceptance or end with a celebration of her sexuality or of her identity as an immigrant. Instead, the film vividly details Shirin’s loneliness and discomfort (albeit with much hilarity) as she stumbles from one awkward discovery to another and eventually into a more honest self while also acknowledging, in its own subtle way, the empowerment that comes with resisting the pressure to wrap your identity around any one thing, be it your sexuality or your ethnicity or the neighborhood where you live. This isn’t to say the film is a Song of Myself celebration of American individualism. She doesn’t receive a trophy at the end for “being herself.” Shirin doesn’t defy categorization to make a point or prove herself; she does so because it’s ultimately the only way she knows how to be, a way of being that comes at its own price but whose benefits far outweigh the cost of self-erasure.

Like Shirin, who finally comes into her own by the film’s end through her inability to meet other’s expectations of her identity, it’s Akhavan’s deft and nuanced, not to mention hysterically funny, chronicling of this journey that makes her a filmmaker bound to defy and surpass the already high expectations of her future work—and perhaps in this one sense, it is fair to say she does have something in common with Lena Dunham, a.k.a the straight white Desiree Akhavan.

Dena Afrasiabi is the co-editor of the literary magazine Elsewhere Lit. Her fiction has appeared in Kartika Review, JMWW and Prick of the Spindle. She resides in Austin, Texas and sometimes vents or raves about films here.