Drama – Bitch Flicks

“You Can’t Sit with Us”: Witchy Girl Gangs and Covens

Underwritten in this claim of selfhood, however, is a larger message. Each of the films and the TV series, to varying degrees, promote individuality over conformity. Eventually, each teaches viewers the importance of being true to yourself and avoiding the pitfalls of group mentality. …Each manifestation of the girl group trope proposes an affirmation of self-esteem, non-conformity, independence, and individuality.

This guest post written by Michelle Mastro appears as part of our theme week on Women in Horror.

The volume of films exploring the hazards of “girl world” is quite robust. Before the comedy Mean Girls there was cult classic Heathers, a darker satirical vision of teenage girl strife. Rounding out the cinematic landscape between these pillars of classic girl-on-girl warfare set in the average American high school are numerous other examples from Never Been Kissed to Jawbreaker. In fact, so hackneyed is the trope of female-centered cliques that if it isn’t treated as part and parcel of teen comedies as a genre, it is almost always at least a minor plot point. Yet horror films and television series grapple with themes inspired by catty drama and gossip as well, only the aesthetics are different to align better with their genre. In these iterations of the girl clique trope, girl gangs become covens, and the power of gossip is transformed into charms and incantations.

Swapping out girl gangs and cliques for covens is as easily done as replacing “witch” with that other not so nice pejorative term for women. In the TV series American Horror Story: Coven, for example, Fiona Goode (Jessica Lange) toys with both words, calling one of the school’s meaner pupils a “little witch bitch.” In that same episode, she takes the band of squabbling girls on a field trip through New Orleans, telling them all beforehand to “wear something black.” The show aired on Wednesdays, prompting fans to coin the phrase, “On Wednesdays we wear black,” another play on words, only this time in reference to Mean Girls. One of the frequently quoted lines from the film includes the “Plastics”’ rules about hump day association and uniformity: “On Wednesdays we wear pink.” The writers of AHS: Coven and fans alike got the joke: girls in groups can be mean — mean like witches.

This, of course, might seem like a sexist reading of girl friendships — and it would be even more understandable to question the show’s depiction of gender given how female sexuality is portrayed and its problematic depiction of race. Yet, given that women, historically, could only maintain their social status through heteronormative marriage — through their connections to men — it would make sense that the young women might begin to view each other as competition. In high school, who dates whom really matters, and thus the high schools of the films are more or less stuck in a time warp. Their cafeterias, the place of social gathering, are where romantic attachments are forged. The dining hall perfectly figures as a sort of Regency court of King George III, where marriages mattered to one’s social superiority. Social status dictated how close courtiers got to sit near the king. Terrifyingly, the king’s friendship could help produce advantageous marriages or dissolve them entirely. Thus, the more popular the girl in Mean Girls, the closer she resides near Regina George. She usually forbids more readily than she grants unions, however, and her despotic rule feeds much of the clique’s cattiness.

Which begs the question: why would these characters hang around each other at all? On the surface, each school clique offers a certain amount of protection. In AHS: Coven’s case, if the girls don’t band together, they will face assaults from outsiders. “If witches don’t fight, we burn,” says Fiona to the students. In Mean Girls (written by Tina Fey), the point of being in the Plastics is somewhat similar, though obviously not nearly as dire. For protagonist Cady Heron (Lindsay Lohan), lunchtime at the cafeteria posed as a minefield full of aggressive cliques, and not being a member of any group at first, she found herself the butt of jokes, a social outcast forced to eat alone in a women’s bathroom stall. Better to have fun at the expense of others with the Plastics in their “Burn Book” than get burned oneself. The same conclusion is proposed near the beginning of The Craft and Heathers. Sarah (Robin Tunney) in the former joins her clique more out of necessity than anything else, whereas Veronica (Winona Ryder) in the latter participates in spiteful pranks on fellow students, even though she questions the group’s methods and is quick to claim her own name in a gaggle of Heathers, stridently affirming: “I’m a Veronica.”

In The Craft, when the girls catch a bus together, they all wear dark sun-glasses and nearly identical fashions, precursors of the pink Plastics and black-draped New Orleans witches, not to mention references to the shoulder-pad loving Heathers of the 1980s. Each group of young women has made their own clique, but within each group, conformity is essential. What’s worse, the supposed protection proffered by The Craft’s coven in the form of casting spells is as spiteful as participating in any girl gang gossip. Both hurt and have unforeseen consequences. Sarah learns to be careful about what energy she puts out. “Whatever you send out, you get back threefold,” she is counselled. She casts a spell to get back at football player Chris Hooker (Skeet Ulrich) for spreading lies that the pair had sex. After the spell, he becomes her lapdog, but his obsession quickly turns violent. Apparently, her intention behind the spell was wicked, and the results matched. Although Sarah was right to seek justice, her spell was framed in a way that could only elicit revenge, a much more volatile act that inflicts a cost on both parties, although this in no way means that she deserved nor brought on herself slut-shaming or attempted rape. In AHS: Coven, one of the girls, Madison (Emma Roberts), is gang raped. She uses her magic to kill the boys, but also murders an innocent guy in the process. Her actions will come back to haunt her, as all the witches’ poor decisions inevitably do. Madison becomes more and more heartless as the series progresses, symbolized by an actual heart condition preventing her from ever serving as the coven’s leader. “The only good or bad is in the heart of the witch,” Lirio (Assumpta Serna) tells the girls in The Craft. Cady in Mean Girls arrives at a similar realization. The Burn Book of the Plastics is photocopied and dispersed among the students, and Cady will have to find a way to take back her words. It is too late, of course, just like in Sarah’s case. In The Craft, Lyrio tells her: “When you open a flood gate, how can you undo it? You unleash something with a spell. There is no undoing; it must run its course.” The mistake each of the girls all made was attempting a kind of vigilante justice — really a type of revenge.

The Craft is a cult classic that impacted many women due to its representation and messages of empowerment and “taking back the threat of female power.” In the oral history of The Craft at Entertainment Weekly, producer Douglas Wick said he “was curious about the phenomenon of girls marginalized in a man’s world who suddenly come into their sexuality and have this enormous power.” Actress Robin Tunney said, “Somehow it still speaks to everybody’s inner teenage girl.” In her Vulture article on The Craft‘s legacy, Angelica Jade Bastien writes:

“Witchcraft is more than mere teenage rebellion for these young girls. It’s a means to attain what at first glance appears unattainable: power, control, autonomy, the ability to live beyond the various oppressive forces that govern their lives. […] These girls, each in their own way, is calling out for something women learn early and often is hard to attain: the power to control your own life.”

Yet the girls’ friendship ultimately turns toxic and destructive, demanding conformity over individuality.

Sarah, Veronica, Cady, and the girls from AHS: Coven learn painful lessons. Words and spells cannot be taken back and cannot be undone, and the girls prove more powerful in their individuality. In The Craft, Sarah realizes her friends’ coven is organized more like a petty club and her fellow witches are just as spiteful as the young women and men they sought vengeance against. Veronica realizes she cannot undue the harm she has caused; she cannot bring back the kids she helped to murder. And Cady learns that being “personally victimized by Regina George” does not give her license to become another queen bee. Each of the protagonists find strength in themselves. Sarah is called a natural witch, for unlike the other girls, her “power comes from within.” After Sarah’s coven disperses, all the girls lose their magical powers except Sarah. Veronica and Cady, meanwhile, end their films with the promise of never allowing any future cliques to form in their respective high schools ever again. Or at the very least, they won’t conform to what others say; they will listen to their own moral compass. In AHS: Coven, the ruling mean girls Madison and Fiona have been ousted as well. And the rise of a new headmistress, Cordelia (Sarah Paulson) brings with her the promise of beginning the school afresh. Past mistakes will not be repeated, she informs the press, revealing the school to the world.

In this way, each manifestation of the girl group trope proposes an affirmation of self-esteem, non-conformity, independence, and individuality. The chilling and ominous tales about teenage witches invoke and summon the moral of their comedic cousins, warning female viewers against resentment and revenge, while encouraging them to always “do unto others as they would have done unto them.” What might seem like an allusion to Christian doctrine is, in fact, the basis of many beliefs, even Wiccan practices. “[I]t’s part of a basic spiritual truth. Said in many ways in many faiths,” Lirio says matter-of-factly. Spells, like gossip, will come back “threefold.”

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Girl Gangs Are Mean: Teenage Girl Gang Movies Through the Years

20 Years of The Craft: Why We Needed More of Rochelle

American Horror Story: Coven: Gabourey Sidibe’s Queenie as an Embodiment of the “Strong Black Woman” Stereotype

Exploring Bodily Autonomy on American Horror Story: Coven

I’m a Veronica: Power and Transformation Through Female Friendships in Heathers

Veronica Decides Not to Die — Heathers: The Proto-Mean Girls

How Should a Show about Witches Be?

Michelle Mastro is a graduate student at Indiana University, Bloomington’s English PhD program. She loves all things horror, and to her, autumn is the greatest season not just for Starbucks pumpkin spice but for the availability of horror film marathons on TV — of which she watches plenty.

‘The Eyes of My Mother’ Is a Gorgeous Coming-of-Age Horror You’re Not Likely to Forget

With ‘The Eyes of My Mother,’ writer-director Nicolas Pesce explores the nature of human instinct and arrested development in a way that is uncomfortable to watch yet immersive just the same.

This guest post written by Candice Frederick originally appeared at Reel Talk Online and appears here as part of our theme week on Women in Horror. It is cross-posted with permisssion.

Oh, how I love this age we’re living in in which women characters on the big and small screens are allowed to be inappropriate, messy, b**chy, and sexual. It just further illuminates the myriad complexities women embody, painting a more thorough profile of inclusive feminism. But even while Hollywood has been consistently pushing these boundaries in more recent years, few films have explored morbid sensuality through the gaze of a woman better than writer/director Nicolas Pesce’s The Eyes of My Mother.

Part provocative horror and part WTF-is-this, The Eyes of My Mother tells the story of Francisca, a young woman (Kika Magalhães) living on a humble Portuguese farm who has been fascinated with death from a very early age. Her unusual enchantment, influenced by her surgeon mother (Diana Agostini) who introduces her as a little girl to the art of removing eyeballs from dead animals, has desensitized her to death, leading her to a life of intense solitude. It isn’t until she reaches adulthood, marked by a horrible tragedy, that she begins to yearn for human connection — at any cost.

At the hands of a less inspired filmmaker, The Eyes of My Mother would have surely been reduced to yet another silly iteration of the Addams Family-meets-The Beverly Hillbillies fish-out-of-water trope. (It’s important to note here that I love both these series immensely, but The Eyes of My Mother they are not). Instead, Pesce delivers a haunting coming-of-age, semi-goth drama that presents Francisca as a three-dimensional villain who’s more The Girl from A Girl Who Walks Home Alone at Night than Wednesday Addams. But very much alive, living in the countryside, and illuminated by Zach Kuperstein’s gorgeous black-and-white cinematography. Magalhães consumes each scene ready to burst from sheer isolation, so much so that even when she’s sharing a scene with the few people Francisca has put in her path, you still feel her overwhelming loneliness and sad desperation. Crafty yet naive, confident yet deeply mournful, Magalhães’s singular portrayal is so seductive that you almost forget that you’re rooting for a sociopath. Almost.

So what happens when a woman comes of age, develops sexual urges and a fierce maternal instinct, after being socially barricaded on a farm all her life? When you’ve grown up surrounded by death and decay, how do you react when it takes someone you love? Does it matter? And if so, how do you show that? With The Eyes of My Mother, Pesce explores the nature of human instinct and arrested development in a way that is uncomfortable to watch yet immersive just the same. It becomes increasingly clear that none of the characters, including our protagonist Francisca, realize that they are trapped in a horror narrative until it’s too late. That’s what makes it all the more bone-chilling.

Candice Frederick is an award-winning journalist and the founder of Reel Talk Online, a website devoted to providing honest and often irreverent reviews and commentary about film from a woman’s perspective. Find her on Twitter @ReelTalker.

20 Years of ‘The Craft’: Why We Needed More of Rochelle

Rochelle was the social outcast with the other handful of social outcasts of St. Bernard Academy, sure. But how do we cinematize the Black girl outcast teenager that many of us felt like? That just so happens to be a practicing witch? Much of what can be read of Rochelle relies heavily on those of us whom she meant so much to.

This guest post written by Ashlee Blackwell originally appeared at Graveyard Shift Sisters and appears here as part of our theme week on Women in Horror. It is cross-posted with permission.

The Craft (1996) is a film that came out around the time I turned 13. A freshman in high school and firmly established as a minority within a minority in my predominantly white/European immigrant working-class suburb right outside of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. It was a painful observation. I was constantly confronting microaggressions about what kind of Black person I was supposed to be, and wasn’t, from all of my peers. I was the weirdo. And I found myself socializing with other weirdos who were the pop culture nerds, especially those who liked genre films and TV (The X-Files and Buffy The Vampire Slayer consumed my life for many years) as much as I did.

But my racial difference only highlighted the rise of a reaction that one particular friend, in retrospect I realize wasn’t much of one, consistently searched for from me. As if my nerdiness, introvertedness and his incomprehension that I didn’t fit his concept of a Black person was a code to crack. It was twenty years ago and I still remember this high school hallway conversation all too vividly. He just had to tell me about the Black girl in this new movie called The Craft. And how Rochelle (the Black girl, played by Rachel True) was told by Laura Lizzie (Christine Taylor) after she bravely confronts her as the victim of Laura’s harassment that she doesn’t like “negroids.” Instead of being observantly taken aback, he dished this unwanted spoiler with delight and amusement. As if blatant racism, fictional or not, was something to laugh about.

I don’t know what I expected from a 13-year-old white guy. I don’t know why I even remained casually friendly with him. But I do remember not finding it as chuckle-inducing as he did. And I additionally remember my silence. Because I couldn’t quite find the words at such a young age so quickly, not to express being offended (I wasn’t), but to question why this particular scene I just had to know about, and maybe even reprimand his emotional immaturity and insensitivity.

It was one of those moments where I knew I would never fit in. Anywhere. I would always be the weirdo.

I don’t remember when I finally saw The Craft but when I did, Rochelle’s interactive scenes with the obtuse Laura cut deep. I was flustered and empathetic to a character that was virtually invisible to an entire school population outside of her small coven of comrades, unless to be the unchecked target of racist scorn. This made her experience even that more isolating in contrast to her white female counterparts who, if they did get that brief seat at the table, were promptly dismissed for their class, burn scars, and not performing for the teenage ‘good ‘ol boys’ club. The most glaring difference; Rochelle was never going to get that seat. Along with Sarah (Robin Tunney), Nancy (Fairuza Balk), and Bonnie (Neve Campbell), all making a pact to use the dark arts to channel their angst into empowerment.

Unfortunately, Rochelle’s score to settle was not explored and displayed enough with the emotional weight it carried. It was played as superficial comeuppance for Laura’s racial intolerance. A spell was cast on her to lose what we are to assume was one of Laura’s most cherished assets and core of self-worth; her hair. But it is interesting how her straight, blonde locks were a symbol in itself of an idealized status of social capital, supposed racial superiority, and prosperity. It is interesting how Rochelle makes a sweeping statement, one so quick, sneaky, and easily missed, amongst her friends about a spell to “make me blonde.” I picked up on that 20 years ago and it’s still so apparent to the damage that these experiences inflict on women of color. These are the pieces to Rochelle we could never fully put together because the entire mold was never assembled. What’s missing is much more than The Craft could explore in its run time. And that’s more than just unfortunate.

The movie for many sparked the thirst to explore the deep intersections of the weirdo. Rochelle was the social outcast with the other handful of social outcasts of St. Bernard Academy, sure. But how do we cinematize the Black girl outcast teenager that many of us felt like? That just so happens to be a practicing witch?

Much of what can be read of Rochelle relies heavily on those of us whom she meant so much to. What kinds of conversations did young Black girls have back in 1996 and are having now about the importance of her presence in a film that at least, didn’t blend her in colorblind rhetoric? How did many us find camaraderie, empathy, and imagination in Rochelle’s broader, unseen story?

It’s been a welcomed challenge to do some unpacking and keep the discourse on Rochelle circulating. The Craft is timeless by the strength of the performances and themes. What the film conveys are ideas we carry well into adulthood, never dismissing their importance in our personal growth.

On the surface, it doesn’t necessarily do Rochelle any good for arc’s sake to supernaturally one-up the Mean Girl factor in objection to the popular Blonde girl’s accepted racist attitude, but it does bring an awareness to that other dynamic of being the wierdo — of how there are those who work to shame difference simply on the basis of skin color alone. Why is Rochelle reprimanded for, for some, being the enactor, the catharsis, of every brown teenaged girl who’s had to deal with racism and not exactly know how to combat it at such a tender age?

When True herself sat down with HitFix in May 2016, she discusses the idea that Rochelle and The Craft offered audiences in 1996 an alternative to the kind of Black characters and stories signified as Black that were being greenlit by film studios. Lamenting the fact that the scene with Rochelle’s parents was cut and her motivation for next-level witchcraft mastery was combating racial discrimination, she seemed determined to bring her very best to the material she was given. And it shows. Rachel’s government name alone sparks so many good memories for so many people. She’s proven to be a versatile actress that you’re constantly ready to embrace what she does next. Her presence in The Craft has left an indelible imprint.

Ashlee Blackwell is the founder and managing editor of Graveyard Shift Sisters, a website dedicated to highlighting the work of women of color in the horror and science fiction genres. She holds a MA in Liberal Arts from Temple University and aspires to bring intersectional horror into the college classroom.

‘Rosemary’s Baby,’ ‘Prevenge,’ and the Evils of the Trump Administration

Alice Lowe’s ‘Prevenge’ is in some ways a modernized version of ‘Rosemary’s Baby.’ … Throughout the course of history, and especially in Trump’s America, baby always comes first. Our government cares more about fetuses than it does about living, breathing women. This chills me to the core more than a scary movie ever could.

This guest post written by Lindsay Pugh appears as part of our theme week on Women in Horror. | Spoilers ahead.

[Trigger warning: discussion of rape and sexual assault]

Whether completely alone or with a partner standing by, pregnancy is one of the most terrifying and bizarre events to happen in real life. Of course, women are expected to handle it with aplomb and joy. “Oh, you mean my entire body is going to change and then if all goes well, another human being is going to rip through my vagina, hopefully only causing minimal tearing? Fantastic! Sign me up!”

As a woman in 2017, there’s plenty to be afraid of: increased attacks on abortion, unrelenting attempts to defund Planned Parenthood, rape culture and the normalization of sexual assault (“Grab ‘em by the pussy.”), etc. The litany of bullshit is horrific and interminable. How can anyone make a horror film that will scare women when real life has turned into a waking nightmare? Easy. Throw pregnancy into the mix; take all those standard fears and concerns and amplify them. Two films that do a great job portraying these atrocities are Roman Polanski’s Rosemary’s Baby (1968) and Alice Lowe’s Prevenge (2016).

I hate to give Polanski, creepy Keebler Elf and sexual predator extraordinaire, credit, but Rosemary’s Baby is one of my all-time favorite horror films and feminist as fuck. It makes me feel a little better to know that his screenplay is nearly identical to Ira Levin’s novel, so it’s not like Polanski is responsible for any of the genius plotting or characterizations.

In order to truly grasp the brilliance of Rosemary’s Baby, let’s quickly review the atrocities Rosemary (Mia Farrow) has to endure, from the sex before conception to her post-birth satanic cult discovery. First, it’s important to note that Rosemary’s pregnancy is the product of rape. Even though she’s been drugged c/o Minnie’s (Ruth Gordon) chocolate mousse, Rosemary is cognizant enough to realize, “This is no dream! This is really happening.” (Although even if she wasn’t cognizant, the fact is she was unable to consent.) The morning after her rape, Guy (John Cassavetes) tries to gaslight Rosemary by apologizing for the scratches on her body and telling her they only had sex when she was blacked out because he didn’t want to miss “baby night.” Rosemary is tense and suspicious for days, but those feelings are eventually eclipsed when a phone call from her doctor confirms her pregnancy. Instead of focusing on the traumatic conception, Rosemary diverts her attention to scheduling doctor’s appointments and spreading the joyous news.

Unfortunately, Rosemary’s happiness wanes when her body begins to change. In order to combat her feelings of unease, Guy, Minnie, and Roman (Sidney Blackmer) concoct a plan to ensure that no matter how bad her symptoms become, Rosemary never believes they’re abnormal. Dr. Sapirstein (Ralph Bellamy) tells Rosemary not to ask any questions or listen to advice from friends or books. Instead of taking vitamins, she’s to drink one of Minnie’s herbal concoctions every day. Rosemary wants what’s best for her baby, so she listens to the doctor, even as she becomes scarily gaunt. She knows something is wrong, but the people closest to her have done a great job of convincing her she’s paranoid and can’t trust her own instincts.

Throughout the film, Rosemary vacillates between trusting her intuition and dismissing it because she wants what’s best for the baby and doesn’t always trust herself to provide it. At several points, she tries to take control of her situation, but external forces usually convince her she’s made the wrong call. By effectively gaslighting her, Guy and the Castevets have ensured that Rosemary no longer trusts her own body or motherly intuition. At the end of the film, when Rosemary decides to embrace her role even though her child is a fucking demon, it’s a total act of rebellion. These people have taken away her sanity, her health, and nine months of her life, but they won’t take away her baby. Even though this situation isn’t what she signed up for, she’s on board for lack of a better option.

Even with a wanted baby, pregnancy can be a terrifying situation full of unknown elements. Alice Lowe had this in mind, that “pregnancy is an alien experience,” while making Prevenge. Without the power to ask questions and make informed decisions, a beautiful, exciting life event could easily turn into a waking nightmare full of anxiety and dread. The Trump administration wants to make Rosemary’s Baby a reality. Something is wrong with your pregnancy and you need to terminate it in order to avoid a lifetime of pain for yourself and your child? Too bad. You must carry the pregnancy to term and deal with the ramifications alone. Your pregnancy is the result of rape and you’re unable to deal with the psychological trauma? Or you simply don’t want to be pregnant? I hope you have the time, money, patience, and strength to deal with abortion restrictions like mandatory waiting periods, forced ultrasounds, TRAP laws, personhood laws, insurance and funding limitations, 20-week bans, forced counseling, and ideological shaming that you’re likely to encounter depending your state. And restrictions to abortion access disproportionately impact women in poverty, women of color, and women living in rural areas.

Rosemary’s Baby is as relevant today as it was forty-nine years ago. Like Guy Woodhouse, the Trump administration uses women as pawns and attempts to stave off rebellion by gaslighting, discrediting, isolating, and emotionally manipulating them.

Prevenge is in some ways a modernized version of Rosemary’s Baby. Ruth (Alice Lowe) is a widow, convinced something is wrong with her pregnancy but told by her midwife (Jo Hartley) that she needs to stay positive and listen to her instincts. The midwife tells Ruth, “Baby knows what to do. Baby will tell you what to do.” The only problem is that Ruth’s baby tells her to kill people, not to relax and eat some Cheetos dipped in clam chowder. With influences ranging from the Greek Furies, to American Psycho and Taxi Driver, Lowe “wanted to show a powerful pregnant woman,” which counters how pregnant women are traditionally depicted or viewed as frail.

During her pregnancy, Ruth is even more isolated than Rosemary. She lives out of hotel rooms, has no friends, and only interacts with her midwife and people she plans on killing. The bond with her unborn baby is the sole one we’re privy to and it’s obviously very twisted. Even when we finally see a flashback of her deceased husband, it’s of his death and not their time together.

While we often hear the midwife voice concern for the baby, we never hear her ask Ruth how she’s doing. Even after she looks through Ruth’s paperwork and realizes that her partner is dead, she doesn’t feign sympathy. She essentially tells Ruth to suck it up and remain positive because her negative energy won’t do anything to help the baby. This is the conversation she has with Ruth after realizing she’s a single mother:

Midwife: It’s very important to let the past stay in the past. It’s just nature’s way.
Ruth: I think nature’s a bit of a cunt, though, don’t you?
Midwife: Oh, negativity’s not good for the baby’s spirit, really.
Ruth: Do you think?
Midwife: Yes. I think it’s good to try to stay positive.

Ruth is clearly struggling with mental health issues and needs someone to step in and help her, but no one gives a shit about her problems; her job is to serve the baby and as long as she’s following through, there’s no cause for concern. As soon as Ruth becomes a mother, her grief and depression are non-issues to those around her because the baby comes first. Throughout the course of history, and especially in Trump’s America, baby always comes first. Our government cares more about fetuses than it does about living, breathing women. This chills me to the core more than a scary movie ever could.

Ruth and Rosemary both try to do what they think is best, but are swayed by outside influence. Ruth’s midwife tells her to listen to the baby; Dr. Sapirstein tells Rosemary to listen to him. No one tells either of these women to listen to themselves — to trust their bodies, experience, or intuition. Women are not to be trusted in any capacity, in any situation. Ruth knows that something isn’t right, that her pregnancy and mental state are abnormal. But she squashes these feelings, listens to her “baby,” and continues to kill people. Rosemary fights like hell at the end of the movie and tries to tell anyone who will listen that there’s a conspiracy against her, but she’s branded as “crazy” and immediately dismissed.

This Halloween, what’s keeping me up at night isn’t fiction; it’s real life. It’s the possibility of a 20-week abortion ban and the knowledge that I live in a country where women aren’t valued or trusted — where a majority of white women would rather have Donald Trump represent their interests than Hillary Clinton. I watch films like Prevenge and Rosemary’s Baby because I want to remind myself to stay vigilant. In 1979, Loretta Lynn said, “We’ve come a long way, baby,” but these films remind me we haven’t come far enough.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Rosemary’s Baby: Marriage Can Be Terrifying

The “Blurred Lines” of Body Horror and Rape Culture

Rosemary’s Baby: Who Possesses the Pregnant Woman’s Body

Recommended Reading:

Woman in Revolt on Prevenge

Refinery29’s Interview with Alice Lowe: The Pregnant Serial Killer Movie Taking a Knife to Stereotypes on Film

The Most Cursed Hit Movie Ever Made by Rosemary Counter

Lindsay Pugh runs Woman in Revolt, an intersectional feminist film blog that focuses on female directors in television and film. She is a self-described militant feminist and can be found wandering the streets of Ann Arbor wearing a leather jacket adorned with “Fuck Paul Ryan” pins and shaking her fist at the patriarchy.

‘Raw’ and Coming of Age via Cannibalism

What writer/director Julia Ducournau does with ‘Raw’ is use the traditional tropes of body horror to tell the story of one young woman’s awakening. … It’s frightening and disturbing, as coming of age often is. … By filtering this all-too-common struggle through the extreme lens of cannibalism, Ducournau highlights the absurdity inherent in how women’s bodies and desires are policed.

This guest post written by Lee Jutton appears as part of our theme week on Women in Horror. | Spoilers ahead.

Women are constantly fighting for control of their bodies. This is not an exaggeration, however extreme it may sound. One’s body is the most personal and precious possession one has — literally the only one we are born with — and yet, if you are a woman, it is also the most policed. Society tells us that women’s bodies must remain pure and virginal in order to be deemed desirable. Men in government aspire to limit our access to healthcare despite expecting our bodies to constantly churn out babies; they want to take away our birth control, but they also don’t want us to get abortions. We’re shamed into starving ourselves to get in shape for bikini season while men’s beer-bellied “dad bods” are glorified in the same media that shove those unattainable ideals down our throats.

In a world where women’s urges are so obsessively monitored and shamed by society, it’s no surprise that in pop culture, there is no shortage of stories of women rebelling against these attempts at control — often in extreme ways. In Han Kang’s Man Booker International Prize-winning novella The Vegetarian, a South Korean housewife is so traumatized by a bloody nightmare that she abruptly stops eating meat. Despite being shamed (and subject to abusive attempts at force-feeding) by her family and treated like an outcast by society, Yeong-hye holds fast to her desires and refuses to eat meat. Even when she is hospitalized and appears to be wasting away to those around her, she is more at peace and in control of her body than she ever had been previously. Why does a woman like Yeong-hye have to essentially cast off her human body in order to prevent others from telling her what to do with it? Why do women need to go to such lengths to prove their autonomy?

In her debut feature film, French writer-director Julia Ducournau covers themes similar to those in The Vegetarian, but reverse-engineers them for maximum shock and awe. Instead of telling the story of a woman deciding to give up meat, Raw chronicles what happens when a lifelong vegetarian discovers an animalistic desire to consume raw meat during a hazing ritual at veterinary school. What follows is an intensely visceral, gore-filled saga of one young woman taking control of her body and her urges, however unacceptable they may seem to the rest of the world. In an interview with Women and Hollywood, Ducournau said she “wanted the audience to feel empathy for a character that is becoming a monster in their eyes.” While you might not be able to comprehend the nature of protagonist Justine’s desires, you cannot help but sympathize with her struggle to balance what her body wants with what is expected of it by others.

Justine, played by the suitably wide-eyed and coltish young actress Garance Marillier, comes from a family of ~~strict~~ vegetarian veterinarians. She plans to follow in the family tradition by joining her older sister, Alexia (Ella Rumpf), at the same veterinary school that their parents both attended. While Alexia is a bit of a wild child, Justine is a quiet, albeit passionate, prodigy. She comes to the vet school more prepared for her studies than the vast majority of the students around her, including her roommate Adrien (Rabah Naït Oufella). What Justine isn’t prepared for, however, are the extreme hazing rituals forced upon the “rookies” by the older students, including Alexia. These include being forced to sing along with strange songs, having buckets of blood poured over them for a class photo, and — in the moment that changes everything for Justine — being pressured into eating raw rabbit kidneys. Justine initially refuses, citing her family’s vegetarianism and asking Alexia to back her up. When Alexia denies her claims and eats one of the kidneys right in front of her, Justine doesn’t feel as though she has any choice but to follow suit or be shunned by the rest of the school. She’s nearly sick, but she does it nonetheless.

Soon, Justine finds herself plagued with a raw red rash on most of her body. The school doctor chalks it up to food poisoning, despite Justine mentioning that she also feels ravenously hungry all the time. Justine takes the cream prescribed by the doctor; she also starts stealing hamburgers from the cafeteria and eating late-night shawarma with Adrien. But these seemingly normal cravings — which could be chalked up to a girl discovering that once she is free from her parents’ overwhelming and possibly stifling influence, she actually likes different things than them — turn extreme quickly; gnawing on raw chicken in the middle of the night extreme; lusting after the body of her gay roommate until she gets a nosebleed extreme. But all of this pales in comparison to the moment when Alexia accidentally cuts off part of her finger in a freak scissors accident and Justine picks it up and starts eating it.

This incredibly unsettling scene is skillfully played for maximum impact by Ducournau, from the frantic and electric turn that Jim Williams’ musical score takes to Marillier’s intense performance, in which one can see her visibly struggling with her desire to taste human flesh and her knowledge that what she wants to do is wrong. The scene then takes a delightful yet disturbing comic turn when Alexia wakes up from her faint to stare agape at her younger sister as she nibbles on a part of her body. You can’t help but laugh, both as an attempt to ease discomfort with what is happening and also because what’s happening is pretty damn funny.

It turns out Alexia is subject to the same strange urges as Justine, going so far as to cause a car crash on a deserted road just to provide both sisters with a couple of corpses to feast on. In her own twisted way, this is Alexia’s idea of being a supportive and understanding sister. Yet while Alexia has no qualms about wanting to eat human flesh, Justine flees, unable to come to terms with what her body wants. As the film progresses, Justine continues to struggle, vacillating between allowing herself to succumb to her desires while also fighting to contain them. In no scene is this better visualized than when Justine’s overwhelming lust for Adrien results in her losing her virginity to him and, when she climaxes, sinking her teeth into her own arm after Adrien refuses to let her bite him. As blood oozes out, Justine grows visibly relaxed. Tasting flesh, even her own, seems more satisfying than sex for her.

By the end of the film, Alexia’s uninhibited actions have resulted in tragedy and she’s hospitalized, after which Justine learns from her father that their mother is subject to the same urges. “You’ll find a way to control it,” her father says in an attempt to comfort Justine about this distressing family trait, but his words elicit only deep choking sobs from his youngest daughter. In the end, who is more free? Is it Alexia, trapped in an institution but with nothing left to hide, or Justine, out in the real world but forced to keep such a large part of herself a secret?

As Justine starts giving in to her desires, gobbling raw meat and ogling Adrien’s shirtless torso, she becomes more confident. The quiet, meek student who seemed to be trying to disappear into her oversized sweaters starts projecting an aura of boldness. Donning her sister’s slinky cocktail dress to writhe in front of her bedroom mirror and smear lipstick seductively across her mouth, Justine is vastly more comfortable with her body as a cannibal than she was as a virginal vegetarian.

In showing us Justine starting to blossom, is Ducournau condoning cannibalism and condemning vegetarianism? Absolutely not. What she does with Raw is use the traditional tropes of body horror to tell the story of one young woman’s awakening. The obvious youth of her lead actress (Marillier was born in 1998) makes her message hit all the harder. It’s frightening and disturbing, as coming of age often is. Watching your body change and awaken to new desires is scary enough; dealing with the constant messages from society that everything you’re dealing with is somehow wrong is even worse. By filtering this all-too-common struggle through the extreme lens of cannibalism, Ducournau highlights the absurdity inherent in how women’s bodies and desires are policed.

Lee Jutton has directed short films starring a killer toaster, a killer Christmas tree, and a not-killer leopard. Currently a staff writer at Film Inquiry, her writing has also appeared in publications such as Bitch Flicks, Bitch: A Feminist Response to Pop Culture, TV Fanatic, and Just Press Play. You can follow her on Twitter @leiladaisyj for more opinions on movies, pictures of cats, and ramblings on German soccer.

We Need To Talk About ‘Claws’: The TV Series We Need and Deserve

This powerhouse series is led by Niecy Nash, who has finally been given the leading lady role she deserves. … The friendship and loyalty between these five women places this show in a long legacy of TV shows about female friendship, from ‘Sex and the City’ to ‘The Bold Type,’ but it handles itself in a much more realistic manner — it isn’t afraid to call out their flaws just as it highlights their strengths.

This guest post by Odalis Garcia is an edited version of an article that originally appeared at Enjoy the Marina. It is cross-posted with permission.

With the summer now over, I have to say that the best “summer show” premiered this year. Yes, of course we have all been preoccupied with the twists, turns, incestuous deeds, and dragons of Game of Thrones and yes, The Handmaid’s Tale won numerous Emmys, but I’m talking about Claws.

This powerhouse series is led by Niecy Nash, who has finally been given the leading lady role she deserves. She is introduced as Desna, a nail technician from Palmetto, Florida trying to get out from under the hold of the Dixie Mafia, an organized crime syndicate, and open a new nail salon in the wealthier part of town. However, the unplanned murder of her flame (Jack Kesy), the Dixie Mafia’s golden boy, sets her back a couple of steps.

The main story focuses on Desna wanting to give herself and her brother (Harold Perrineau), who’s on the autism spectrum, a better life. Yet in the span of 10 episodes, you start to care deeply for the other members of Desna’s crew and see that they are unique and complex characters. The crew comprises Quiet Ann (Judy Reyes), Polly (Carrie Preston), Jennifer (Jenn Lyon), and Virginia Loc (Karrueche Tran). The friendship and loyalty between these five women places this show in a long legacy of TV shows about female friendship, from Sex and the City to The Bold Type, but it handles itself in a much more realistic manner — it isn’t afraid to call out their flaws just as it highlights their strengths. These women are mothers, caretakers, sisters, nail techs, and lovers; they are absolutely badass and unafraid to ruin anyone who gets in their way.

Quiet Ann, is a lesbian character who’s not a punchline or a trope. She’s a pivotal, if not the most important, member of the crew. She protects the team and keeps them grounded. Plus, she gives great pedicures. She rarely ever speaks but when she does, her words are insightful and always taken as sage advice. Quiet Ann is their protector at all times, but we see her go through a journey of love and inevitably, she must decide to whom she is most loyal.

Polly is a force to be reckoned with. We catch up with her as she is just released from prison after conning older people in a retiree community out of their money. Even though she lied her way through life, she always stays true to Desna and the crew, even if that means she reverts to the criminal habits that landed her in jail in the first place. Preston has been in the game acting for a long time, from True Blood to The Good Wife, (as have Niecy Nash on Reno 911!, Getting On, and Scream Queens, and Judy Reyes on Scrubs and Jane the Virgin), and this is yet another iconic role, a testament to her talent.

Jennifer Husser, is Desna’s best friend but there is more to her than just the constant companion. She’s a mother and recovering from alcoholism, who has already been hurt by the mob’s influence in her life, though she technically married into it. She will ferociously defend her daughters and family even if at times it conflicts with the interests of her best friend.

And last but not least is Virginia, who at first seems to be Desna’s foil. But as the series progresses, we see her evolve from petty and competitive to realizing that she seeks acceptance, a way to get out of the stripping business, and a desire to have a “found family” who will support her and have her back.

Devoted to each other, these women are as intense in their loyalty to one another as they are in their manicure game. They will just as easily create art while simultaneously framing some evil, rich, white people for murder. It’s not to say that there aren’t divisions in the friendships at times and that trust doesn’t falter every now and then, but that’s just life. Friendships will chip but the beauty of women, which Claws illustrates, is that even when we’re not on great speaking terms, we will root for each other.

Of course it makes sense that the female characters are so complex and intriguing since the creative team is composed mainly of women, including showrunner, executive producer, and writer Janine Sherman Barrois (The Jamie Foxx Show, Criminal Minds, ER) — one of the few Black women showrunners — as well as directors Victoria Mahoney (Yelling to the Sky, Queen Sugar, Power) and Nicole Kassell (The Killing, The Closer, The Americans), and executive producer Rashida Jones.

This show is the perfect example for what happens when diversity isn’t just written into the script but is also practiced behind the camera; because of this the women of color in the show are written with the nuance and care that any other character (read: usually white characters) gets.

It could be because of this same reason that its characters are so intriguing. It goes beyond women understanding the way female friendships work, but also knowing that one woman doesn’t have to be a paragon of strength for all women. Women also fail, are complicated, and will get angry. Women are saintly but also manipulative. Women are people too. The creators of this show demonstrate that through the way they’ve written the characters.

Claws also deconstructs gender roles and toxic masculinity. The three main male Hussers of the Dixie Mafia are not afraid to express their emotions and cry. When (SPOILER ALERT) Roller is believed to be dead, the Husser men cry openly and in front of everybody, unafraid to show how they feel. Bryce Husser (Kevin Rankin), Jennifer’s husband, is very vulnerable and honest with his wife about their marriage and is willing to talk about how to make it better — instead of just closing off.

Mob boss, Clay Husser (Dean Norris), who goes by the nickname “Uncle Daddy,” has his own side boy toy who’s treated as part of the family. He’s also devoted to his wife (Dale Dickey), treating her with the reverence due a warrior empress. Uncle Daddy’s masculinity and bisexuality are never questioned.

The show addressed Roller’s (Kesy) trauma after being a victim of kidnap and sexual assault; a narrative that’s not usually given to male characters. It’s a sad reality that men are less likely to report when they have been abused for fear of not being understood or supported. However, about 14% of survivors who report rape are male.

When it comes to the women and gender roles, Desna, and the rest of the women for that matter, are not judged for their sexual desires and casually talk about sex in the nail salon — really the best place for that kind of gossip. Quiet Ann is probably the most physically strong but there is a tenderness to her when it comes to falling in love. And it’s admirable that her queerness is a simple fact, giving her a love interest without anyone batting an eyelash. The only issue with the woman she falls for is that she’s a detective looking into the Dixie Mafia and Desna by default.

Claws is the show that you can’t miss. Now that it has been renewed for a second season, I can’t wait to see how the series will further develop. And I will repeat: it is SO GOOD to finally see Niecy Nash in the spotlight she deserves.

Through Nash’s Desna, we see a character that is not often explored in the world of television. She’s unapologetic, driven, and totally badass — characteristics not usually attributed to actresses in their late 40s, and especially not to women of color. We, as the audience, want to see her achieve her goals of opening the new salon, of finally getting out from under mob rule, of her getting that big house her brother always dreamed of, of finally leaving abusive people behind. Women need to see that happen, no matter how dramatic it may be; it’s a message they can relate to.

Here’s hoping that next summer won’t just be about the arrival of winter or whatever else, but about the heat and vibrancy of the sunshine state and the five women who stick together through thick and thin and all that humidity.

Odalis Garcia is currently trying to figure life out, in the meantime, she watches all of the TV shows and likes to yell about them to her friends, occasionally writing about those feelings. She is originally from Puerto Rico but calls Miami home (#Miss305) and is very passionate about Cuban food, empanadas, and the salsa dancing emoji. You can read more of her work at her website and you can follow her on Twitter @odcgg and Instagram at odalis.gg.

The Chameleon Woman in ‘Dollhouse’ and ‘iZombie’: Personality Swapping and Agency

The problem presented by both ‘Dollhouse’ and ‘iZombie’ is that of the “Chameleon Woman.” Both Echo and Liv carry the metaphor of the expectation that women adapt based on the needs and desires of others. However, both TV series point to this societal issue with two very different takes.

Guest post written by Audrey T. Carroll.

“Would you like a treatment?” This phrase is repeated throughout the course of Joss Whedon’s television series Dollhouse, meant to cue the “Actives” or “Dolls” — people, mostly women, whose personalities have been stripped from them — to let the in-house scientist imprint them with a personality, memories, or skills that someone pays for them to have. After the client encounters, they are again wiped of their memories and personalities. The “Dollhouse,” one of approximately 20 facilities that rents out Dolls, is a human trafficking ring. The Dolls are meant to fulfill the expectations of others, especially (though admittedly not exclusively) male clients and often in a sexual or sexually enticing capacity. For example, in season one episode two “The Target,” the show’s protagonist, Echo (Eliza Dushku), is sent on a date with a man who loves outdoor activities. She is clearly hired in an arousal capacity, which takes a turn for the worst when the guy starts to hunt her.

Echo changes every week. We’re supposed to root for her because she’s the protagonist and Eliza Dushku does a wonderful job infusing the character with as much sympathy as possible. Of course we feel bad for her because of her situation. However, it can be difficult to connect to a character who has to change in accordance with each situation. Echo, in a lot of ways, embodies an ideal of “the chameleon woman.” She changes depending on the needs of the partner who paid for her, a sickening representation of the expectation that women exist solely to service the needs of others, most commonly men — if they like the outdoors, then so must she; if they need a doting wife or neighbor, then she must fit that description; if they need someone cold and calculating, then that’s what she becomes.

Why, out of all of the Dolls in the House, do we predominantly follow Echo? Because Echo is unique in that she has a “defect”: she has the ability to retain some semblance of self and she becomes more self-aware. Because of this, we can root for her as an audience; it gives us some sort of personality continuity that we can connect to emotionally. But the characters in power — scientist Topher (Fran Kanz); Adelle, (Olivia Williams) who runs the Dollhouse; Echo’s handler, Boyd (Harry Lennix) — make it clear that this is a defect, not something impressive or victorious as the audience might perceive it. In fact, this can land Echo in a lot of trouble. Specifically, she can end up in “the Attic,” which serves as a punishment of permanent entrapment and mental torment for Dolls who are “broken” or “defective” (in the view of the Dollhouse).

Echo’s unique skill doesn’t help her to not be stripped of her agency the vast majority of the time. She has no say in what personalities she gets imprinted with, or who her clients are, or even the most basic “yes or no” consent. Even before she was a Doll, when she was Caroline, the head of the Dollhouse essentially backed her against the wall, making Caroline’s agreement to be a doll in the first place ethically compromised even beyond the basic premise of “humans used as shells for the pleasure of people who pay for them.” It was hardly a choice at all. And for some other characters — namely Sierra (Dichen Lachman), who was institutionalized by a man after she rejected him and then involuntarily sent to the Dollhouse — there was literally no choice at all.

Based on the comic books, the TV series iZombie, created by Diane Ruggiero-Wright and Rob Thomas, focuses on the crime-solving medical examiner and pseudo-psychic Olivia “Liv” Moore (Rose McIver). Liv helps Detective Clive Babineaux (Malcolm Goodwin) with homicide cases. She’s able to do this because, in the process of eating the brains that come down to the medical examiner’s office to keep herself as human as possible, she takes on the memories and personalities of the deceased. This can lead to visions that give Liv clues for Clive to identify the killers he needs to put away. Because of the way that eating brains affects Liv, she changes personalities every week — a dominatrix one week, a frat boy the next.

Liv is able to help in the pursuit of justice, albeit in a highly unconventional way, and she’s able to develop meaningful and consistent relationships not solely centered on sex or her sexual appeal. She has no sexual history nor, as far as the show presents, sexual engagement with most of the other characters: Ravi (Rahul Kohli), her fellow medical examiner; Peyton (Aly Michalka), her best friend; and Clive. It could be argued that Clive benefits from what Liv can do, but he is friends with her outside of her abilities and, while he can be very determined and dedicated, he’s never forced or coerced Liv into a situation or actions that morally compromise her.

Echo’s defect is that she maintains a semblance of self; Liv’s is that she can deviate from her true self. When Liv eats the brains of a deceased hitman, she almost lets Ravi get eaten by a much more monstrous “Romero zombie.” When she’s on vigilante brains, she almost gets herself killed. When she’s on nymphomaniac brains, she cheats on her boyfriend. But most of the time, Liv is still Liv, just with some goofy quirks and moments of zoning out when she sees someone else’s memories. At first, Liv’s voice-over narration in the show reflects her thoughts and demonstrates that she’s still herself. Later, the writers let Rose McIver’s acting and her consistent chemistry with the other actors do the heavy lifting of demonstrating that Liv is always Liv, and that this Liv is who her friends connect to and care about.

Liv is also not robbed of her agency. She chooses to eat the brains of murder victims for many reasons tied to her character, probably the two foremost being that the person is already dead and she wants to help find their killer. She also turns down the “brain mush” from the company Fillmore-Graves, which would give her the sustenance she needs without imbuing her with the personalities or memories of the deceased. Liv chooses to help others, to accept the drawbacks of her current feeding situation so that being a zombie — a state of being that was beyond her control — becomes something that benefits the greater good. Liv is able to make the choice to not let what she is control who she is — zombie Liv is different from human Liv, but she is still at her core Liv.

The problem presented by both Dollhouse and iZombie is that of the “Chameleon Woman.” Both Echo and Liv carry the metaphor of the expectation that women adapt based on the needs and desires of others. However, both TV series point to this societal issue with two very different takes. In Dollhouse, women (who comprise most of the recurring named Dolls) are commodities waiting to have a skin put on them. The framing can make it difficult to create emotional connection to Echo, and all of the non-Dolls are morally compromised because they are either actively involved in the actions of the Dollhouse or otherwise complicit in its continued existence.

The argument could be made that Dollhouse is about women struggling to regain agency. However, there is the example of Alpha (Alan Tudyk), a Doll who escaped and became homicidal because he, like Echo, was remembering personalities that the Dollhouse gave him. He can theoretically be read as a warning for Echo not to be anything more than the childlike drone she is when between personalities. This is to say nothing of the constantly looming threat of “The Attic.” Whether Echo retaining her memories and sense of self is a positive quality is much more ambiguous and comes with a much greater sense of personal danger for the protagonist than is presented on iZombie.

In iZombie, situations can happen to a person that they can’t control but they can still make choices about how to move forward and, in this way, maintain agency. It’s not a flaw; letting the adopted personality control you is the failing. Liv’s zombie boyfriend Justin (Tongayi Chirisa) even tells her, when she cheats on him while on nymphomaniac brains, “I’ve eaten brains before, Liv, and you can fight them if you really want to.” At the end of the day, Dolls are Dolls; they can function as objects or they can be made to disappear. Zombies can become monsters, either the ilk of serial killer criminal bosses like Blaine (David Anders) or mindless and violent “Romero zombies.” But zombies do not have to choose to be monsters.

Both TV series are all about choice, and this becomes colored a certain way with female protagonists. Women are too often robbed of choice, or are presented with choices that range from bad to worse. The struggle for women’s agency seems inextricably linked to the struggle for women’s choices. Examining what women do with choice is a natural extension of this effort. At the end of the day, Dollhouse is about what a woman does with a lack of choice; iZombie is about what a woman does within her realm of choices.

Audrey T. Carroll is a Queens, NYC native currently pursuing her English PhD at the University of Rhode Island. Her obsessions include kittens, coffee, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Queen of Pentacles, her debut poetry collection, is available from Choose the Sword Press, and she can be found at http://audreytcarrollwrites.weebly.com and @AudreyTCarroll on Twitter.

Amma Asante Shows that Period Films Can (and Should) Center Black People

Actress Thandie Newton argues that “historical dramas ‘limit UK Black actors’.” Churning out endless projects about the royal family and the so-called “good old days” isn’t doing Black actors any favors. …”Historical/period drama” is one of the worst genres for inclusion of Black characters, with a whopping 80% of such films having no named roles for Black actors whatsoever. …Period dramas and Black stories aren’t mutually exclusive, as Amma Asante shows us in ‘Belle’ and her latest film, ‘A United Kingdom.’

This guest post written by Elizabeth Matter appears as part of our theme week on Women Directors, Part 2.

Samuel L. Jackson caused a stir and opened up a dialogue with his comments about the casting of Black British actor Daniel Kaluuya in the breakout hit Get Out, which has broken multiple box office records. “I tend to wonder what that movie would have been with an American brother who really feels that,” Jackson said in a radio interview. Several Black British actors have rebutted his remarks, including David Harewood and John Boyega. But Jackson’s observation that “there are a lot of Black British actors in these movies” is hard to deny. From Boyega and Kaluuya to Naomie Harris, David Oyelowo, Idris Elba, Chiwetel Ejiofor, and Ruth Negga, many of the most visible Black actors in Hollywood right now are from my side of the pond (not to mention Thandie Newton killing it on the small screen in HBO’s Westworld).

What looks like another British Invasion from Jackson’s angle, though, looks like a talent drain from mine. It’s no mystery why so many of our best actors are choosing to migrate to the U.S. It’s partly, of course, because Hollywood remains the biggest (in terms of screens and box office revenue) and most established film industry in the world, and for Black actors in the UK, the roles just aren’t there, as Oyelowo and Elba point out.

Part of the blame might lie with our nation’s appetite for nostalgia. It’s a truism that us Brits love our period dramas. It’s worth pointing out, though, that the rest of the world seems to love our period dramas, too: Downton Abbey is one of our most successful exports in recent years, and The Crown is the first original series that Netflix has commissioned from Britain, as well as one of the most expensive TV shows ever made. Meanwhile, on the big screen, The King’s Speech is the most successful solely British production since 1989. I’m sure that many of these projects are greenlighted with one eye on the international market, but read the comments on any Daily Mail article and it’s hard to deny that Little England’s fondest wish seems to be to live inside a sepia-tinted photograph of Blighty circa 1945 (I’m being rhetorical. Please don’t read them).

Thandie Newton argues that “historical dramas ‘limit UK Black actors’.” Churning out endless projects about the royal family and the so-called “good old days” isn’t doing Black actors any favors. According to the British Film Institute’s (BFI) research project “Black Star,” “historical/period drama” is one of the worst genres for inclusion of Black characters, with a whopping 80% of such films having no named roles for Black actors whatsoever.

David Oyelowo has pushed back against this phenomenon, saying “look at the beautiful buildings in London — the blood of my ancestors are in those bricks […] Black people did not turn up in the UK at Windrush” (referring to the Empire Windrush, the ship that brought 492 Jamaican immigrants to the UK in 1948, when British Citizenship was first granted to people living in all Commonwealth countries). In an interview with Radio Times, he said, “We make period dramas [in Britain], but there are almost never Black people in them, even though we’ve been on these shores for hundreds of years.”

Of course, he’s absolutely right: period dramas and Black stories aren’t mutually exclusive, as Amma Asante shows us in Belle and her latest film, A United Kingdom (which stars and was co-produced by Oyelowo).

Based on the true story of mixed-race 18th century heiress Dido Elizabeth Belle (Gugu Mbatha-Raw), Belle looks and feels like a Jane Austen romance, complete with gender politics, meddling guardians, and a romantic rivalry for the heroine’s hand between a caddish suitor and her true love. But the film goes further, dealing with issues such as slavery, institutional racism, and the intersections between different forms of privilege and oppression. In one of the film’s best lines, Belle says that, due to her financial independence, she has “been blessed with freedom twice over, as a negro and as a woman”; in another, she admits that she “cannot claim even a portion of the misfortune to those whom I most closely resemble.” Impressively, it weaves all these strands into the narrative while still remaining engaging and character-driven.

Although there is some question as to the authorship of Belle — while Asante herself claims to have extensively redrafted Misan Sagay’s initial script, the WGA’s investigation found in favor of Sagay, who was awarded sole credit — we can be sure that it was written by a Black woman, and it shows. In one scene, Belle, who was raised by white relatives, turns to the only other Black person she knows — a servant named Mabel (Bethan Mary-James) — for help with her hair. Though the specifics of the situation are highly bound by historical context, Belle’s struggle to feel entirely at home in her white household brings to mind the experiences of interracial adoptees, and those of mixed-race children raised by a white single parent.

Even without such details, Belle would be entertaining, beautifully shot, and brilliantly performed, particularly by Mbatha-Raw; with them, it is a thoughtful and important piece of work.

Asante’s most recent feature, A United Kingdom, which opened the 2016 BFI London Film Festival, the first film directed by a Black filmmaker to open or close the festival, begins in 1947 — as does the much more expensive and much whiter The Crown — and is also about royals; in this case, the royal family of what was then Bechuanaland (modern-day Botswana).

Based on real-life events, what starts as an intimate romance between working-class Londoner Ruth Williams (Rosamund Pike) and law student Seretse Khama (David Oyelowo) becomes a much bigger story. The petty racism they face from Ruth’s father turns out to be the least of their problems, as Seretse’s status as king of the Bamangwato people — and the subsequent interference of Britain’s government — threatens the foundations of their marriage.

At a press conference promoting the film, Asante spoke about shooting in Botswana. She said, “I wanted the DNA of the country running through our film,” and shared how Botswanans were “comforted that [the story] was going to be told through the gaze of a woman of colour.” She also stressed the importance of the female gaze in cinema, pointing out:

“We also play a large part in getting men to the cinema to watch these films, that a lot of the time are about white men, in a certain age bracket. That’s not to say women directors should always direct women’s stories, but seeing the world through a female gaze from time to time shouldn’t be that odd […] I walk a female path every day, I see the world through female eyes, and I know there are 50% of people in this country who walk a similar path. It’s not about removing what’s already there, it’s about allowing a space for others to join, and have the same privilege.”

For my money, A United Kingdom (written, incidentally, by a white man) is more stolid than Belle, and lacks some of its insight. However, it’s an entertaining and informative look at a forgotten chapter of British history, as well as an important reminder of the British government’s complicity in South African apartheid.

To return for a moment to Samuel L. Jackson’s comments, one of the ways he said that the Black British experience differed from the African American one is that in Britain we have “been interracial dating for a hundred years.” Asante’s depictions of interracial relationships in Belle and A United Kingdom show that this is true, but not the whole story: the couples at the center of these films encounter different struggles than those depicted in, say, Loving (starring Ruth Negga, a Black Irish actress who has obviously found better opportunities on the other side of the Atlantic), but struggles nonetheless. We may not have had slavery or segregation in Great Britain — although there was indentured servitude and British merchants and ships were heavily involved in the Atlantic slave trade, making Great Britain one of the main carriers of African slaves — but that doesn’t mean British history isn’t filled with examples of institutional and societal racism, the effects of which we can still observe today.

In both films, Asante displays a deft touch, telling these overlooked stories with humor and intelligence while maintaining a populist sensibility that gives her films mainstream appeal. I’m sure her career will continue to flourish; her upcoming film, Where Hands Touch, will be another period piece, starring Amandla Stenberg. I hope that it also inspires British producers to think more creatively about which stories to tell. Asante proves it’s possible to make films that are representative of Britain’s diversity without giving up the frock flicks we love so much — and maybe we can even stop losing all of our most talented actors to Hollywood.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Belle: A Costume Drama Like and Unlike the Others
The Gaze of Objectification: Race, Gender, and Privilege in Belle
The Female Gaze: Dido and Noni, Two of a Kind
Colorism and Interracial Relationships in Film: Belle, The Wedding, and More

Recommended Reading:

Lady Macbeth: how one film took on costume drama’s whites-only rule via The Guardian

Elizabeth Matter is a queer writer and performer who lives in England, writes at Medium and tweets @PanickyInTheUK.

Vintage Viewing: Marion E. Wong, Energetic Entrepreneur

What is certain is that, while ultimately upholding the value of family and of traditional culture, ‘The Curse of Quon Gwon’ gives vivid expression to the frustrations of women within those rigid norms, doing so with a cinematic language of the female gaze that centers female perspectives.

Written by Brigit McCone, this post is part of Vintage Viewing, our series exploring the work of women filmmaking pioneers. It also appears as part of our theme week on Women Directors, Part 2.

When considering the ethnographic films of Zora Neale Hurston, as one of the few surviving remnants of early cinema to be directed by a woman of color, I discussed the doubly distorted image of themselves that such women confronted, in a culture without their authorship. At the same time, the article surveyed the significant numbers who were recorded as making films that have not survived, with the intersection of racism and sexism placing obstacles in their path at every stage from financing to distribution to preservation. One of the most energetic women to struggle to fully author her own uncompromising vision, the first Chinese American director, as well as among the earliest female directors, was Marion E. Wong.

Wong founded the Mandarin Film Company (the first Chinese American film company) with ambitious plans to create non-stereotypical images of Chinese Americans, assuming, perhaps naively, that the American appetite for exoticized images of East Asia would make them even more eager to see authentic content. She shared with the Oakland Tribune that she wanted to “introduce to the world Chinese motion pictures with ‘some of the customs and manners of China.’” Mandarin Film Company was practically a one-woman show, with Wong serving as screenwriter, director, supporting actress, and costume designer on their only feature film, 1916’s The Curse of Quon Gwon: Where the Far East Mingles with the West. It’s “the earliest known Chinese American feature” film and “the first and only film made by an all-Chinese cast and an all-Chinese company.” 1917’s Oakland Tribune describes Wong as “energy personified,” with “imagination, executive ability, wit and beauty.” An article in Moving Picture World indicates that Wong traveled as far as New York and China in search of distributors for her film, but none were forthcoming. The film would have likely been as lost as the 1922 film, A Woman’s Error, by pioneering African American filmmaker Tressie Souders, had not two reels of it been unearthed in a basement in 2005. Watching Wong’s film now, we can catch a glimpse of what early cinema might have been, if the viewpoints represented had been more diverse.

The Curse of Quon Gwon: Where the Far East Mingles with the West – 1916

Opening with a statue to the household god Quon Gwon (Guan Gong or “Lord Guan,” a deity based on Guan Yu, a historical general immortalized in the Romance of the Three Kingdoms, one of the Four Great Classical Novels of Chinese Literature). Worshiped in Chinese folk religion, popular Confucianism, Taoism, and Chinese Buddhism, Guan Gong represents the principles of loyalty and righteousness. Though the recovered reels of The Curse of Quon Gwon were lacking intertitles, they have been added to this version to enhance the viewing experience, with Guan Gong speaking the words of the Three Brothers’ Oath in the Peach Tree Garden, from Romance of the Three Kingdoms, in translation by Charles Henry Brewitt-Taylor. We are then shown the heroine’s formal introduction to the family of her groom. Wong stretched her budget by filming with an amateur cast: the heroine was played by Wong’s sister-in-law, Violet Wong, the villainess by herself, the mother-in-law by her own mother, Chin See, and the child by her niece. However, her sets are lavish and her camera moves gently back and forth to prevent the scene from being static. In general, Wong’s shot composition and editing compare very well with the industry standard of 1916.

Mixing Western and Chinese costume, Wong raises the cultural tensions and transnational identity of Chinese Americans at the time, resisting the tendency of mainstream cinema to portray “Oriental” characters as static stereotypes, instead imagining them in a state of fluid cultural transformation. As the heroine resists her maid’s efforts to transform her hair into a traditional Chinese style, her aspirations toward Western fashion are clear. An over-the-shoulder shot of her face in the mirror encourages the audience to identify with the heroine’s gaze, one of several moments by which the film establishes an aesthetic of female gaze and subjectivity.

One of the film’s central showpieces is its depiction of a traditional Chinese wedding ceremony, complete with regalia and gifts, reflecting Wong’s desire to showcase Chinese culture to her imagined Western audience. The beauty of these scenes make it difficult to imagine that a lack of quality was the reason for her film being rejected by distributors. Perhaps its centering of a Chinese American woman’s experience was judged unrelatable to viewers, though the struggle of a restless woman to accommodate herself to the strict rules of her culture is a universal theme. The heroine struggles to walk in her high shoes and laugh with her groom at his regalia, showing their unserious attitude toward Chinese traditions, even as Wong’s film celebrates them. After the wedding, Wong utilizes dissolves to show her heroine hallucinating that she is shackled with chains, anticipating Germaine Dulac’s dramatizing of the interior perceptions of women.

When comparing with Dulac, it is worth remembering that Dulac’s revolutionary impressionist and surrealist aesthetics evolved over the course of many films, from a beginning making conventional narrative cinema. Considering how impressive the cinematic imagination of her debut is, if Marion Wong had received support and distribution, there is no telling how experimental she might have become.

After her husband’s departure, the heroine finds herself rejected and driven from the family home, following a false accusation by the villainess, played by Wong herself. She seeks to take her child with her but is prevented, despite pleading for her child to be returned. Stripped of jewelry, she seizes a knife and contemplates committing suicide to purge her dishonor, before throwing it aside and resolving to live on without shelter, friends, or support. Her befriending a lamb may represent her innocence, or the contrast between compassionate nature and cruel culture.

As the heroine wanders off, grief-stricken, across a windswept wilderness, I was reminded of chapter 28 of Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre, in which Jane strikes out alone and spends the night on the moors, confronting her place in the universe and testing her endurance. In depicting the heroine’s confrontation with nature, her right to be seen as a self-sufficient being and independent of her bonds with others, is affirmed. It occurred to me that I had never seen an Asian woman in an American film in this way, a different form of empowerment from martial arts (kung fu, wuxia, etc.) heroics – the right to be self-sufficient and to seek existential meaning. Zhang Ziyi’s leap from the mountain at the conclusion of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon is the only other example that springs to mind. In 100 years, depiction of Asian women in Hollywood has not matured in its nuance to the level that Marion Wong achieved in 1916. To celebrate the connection of Wong’s heroine with Jane Eyre’s psychological journey as rebellious woman in restrictive society, and acknowledge the Western leanings of Wong’s heroine, extracts from Jane Eyre have been used as intertitles to illustrate the heroine’s thoughts throughout the film.

As a guilt-stricken maid resolves to confess to the heroine’s husband, who has returned and is heartbroken to discover his wife banished, the villainess attempts to choke the maid into silence. Instead, the husband bursts in on them and learns the whole truth (without the original intertitles, it is impossible to determine exactly what the false accusation was, though it possibly involved the heroine’s adorable child). As her husband sets out to find her, the heroine stumbles home, weary from her wanderings. The triumphant reunion of the family, and the despairing suicide of the villainess, conclude the film.

As the heroine adopts Chinese dress, dabs her eyes sorrowfully then gazes on the idol of Guan Gong, bowing solemnly to it, before flashing forward to a scene of the happy family with an older child, the final message of the film is ambiguous. Was the heroine justly punished for her Westernized disrespect of tradition, repenting and learning better by embracing her duty to family? What is the curse of Guan Gong? In the Three Brothers’ Oath, Guan Yu vows, “If we turn aside from righteousness and forget kindliness, may Heaven and Human smite us!” Did the curse then apply to the villainess, who turned aside from righteousness by making the false accusation? Or was it the heroine who was cursed for her rebellious impulses and disrespect of tradition, but redeemed by divine mercy? Are we, finally, to see her Western attitude as transgression or simply as individuality? What is certain is that, while ultimately upholding the value of family and of traditional culture, The Curse of Quon Gwon gives vivid expression to the frustrations of women within those rigid norms, doing so with a cinematic language of the female gaze that centers female perspectives.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pJ5dbcFjXhQ”]

Photo of Marion E. Wong via Wikipedia in the public domain in the U.S.

Brigit McCone keeps trying to learn Chinese but can’t tell the tones apart, though she is happy the ‘Ireland’ is apparently written as ‘love you orchid’. She writes short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and writing posts like this one.

Why ‘The Bold Type’ Is Exactly the Feminist TV Show We Need Right Now

The magic that has propelled ‘The Bold Type’ to the forefront of the TV summer landscape is, without a doubt, the depth and strength of the bond between the trio. … I just can’t overstate how lovely it is to see young women caring about each other unconditionally, through thick and thin. Strong friendships and more importantly strong writing, especially for female characters, doesn’t always have to rely on drama and conflict and rivalry. Sometimes all we want to see is women giving their friends a shoulder to lean on.

Written by Erin Tatum.

At a time when it feels like an alarming number of people would happily turn back the social clock 50 years (or 200), it’s nice to have a lighthearted beacon of hope in our perpetually apocalyptic media shitstorm. The Bold Type has emerged as an unexpectedly poignant tonic to… well, almost everything else that’s made headlines this summer.

With my 26th birthday around the corner, I admittedly felt I was getting a little long in the teeth for Freeform (formerly ABC Family). I can no longer watch frothy high school soaps without feeling like a disapproving PTA mom, even if the vast majority of the characters are played by actors over 21. I’ve resisted adulthood as much as anyone, but for obvious reasons, I just can’t relate to teenage issues anymore. I could care less about Jimmy trying pot or Amy running for student council — although Manny wearing a thong to school was one of the most scandalously memorable TV moments for an aughts teen. Feels quaint in an era saturated with Snapchat nudes, doesn’t it?

It’s been frustrating to see actors in their 20s repeatedly siphoned away to play eternal 17-year-olds (no, really) instead of being allowed to explore characters who are also navigating early adulthood. Cue The Bold Type.

The TV series, created by showrunner Sarah Watson, follows the adventures of BFFs Jane, Kat, and Sutton (Katie Stevens, Aisha Dee, and Meghann Fahy) and their work at Scarlet, a women’s magazine based on Cosmopolitan as the show is “inspired by the life” of former editor-in-chief Joanna Coles. The first revelation? We get to see actresses in their 20s playing characters the same age instead of passing themselves off as high school sophomores! Praise Anna Wintour! I’m thoroughly enjoying watching my demographic actually being our demographic. It alleviates the weird peer/parent viewing experience and validates your more recent missteps rather than make you cringe at your old ones. In particular, the social issues that felt earth-shattering as a teen pale in comparison to the potential consequences of a professional pratfall. The show thus acquires a mature and reflective tone alongside sillier beats like fishing a yoni egg out of your friend’s vagina and pouring a bucket of cold water on the myth that shower sex is fantastic.

Special mention also goes to the girls’ boss Jacqueline (Melora Hardin) for being the most delightful subversion of every fashion alpha stereotype ever. I fully expected her to be a scathing Devil Wears Prada redux, but she’s most notable for what she isn’t — namely, a bitch. Female bosses both on TV and in real life are not only assumed but expected to treat their female subordinates with contempt and derision, to the point where getting your spirit broken by a “bitch boss” is perceived as a rite of passage for any young woman looking to make it in the corporate world. Jacqueline turns this trope on its head, gamely taking the trio under her wing as a no-nonsense mentor, her capacity for understanding and kindness as high as her intolerance for bullshit. Plus, she gives actual sound career advice without exploiting the girls or crushing their self-esteem! The bar may be low, but the results are heartwarming to watch. Hardin plays “ambiguously maternal authority figure who would still totally kick your ass” really well.

Gif credit: Kadena Daily

Another surprise crowning jewel of the show has been the relationship between Kat and Adena (Nikohl Boosheri), one of the first portrayals of an out Muslim lesbian on mainstream television, generating both praise and controversy. Kat initially tells a curious Adena that she’s straight and I was already bracing myself for a season of gay panic à la Skins‘ Naomi and Emily. In a hilarious about-face for the plot and the character, Kat decides she’s into women and cheerfully announces she wants to bang Adena like 12 hours after the orientation conversation. Super hetero there, Kat. Rather than squandering the emotional momentum of their relationship on the usual label dance, the couple faces much more pressing obstacles like immigration law and Islamophobia. The main romance on the show is between two sapphic women of color and I am HERE for it! And not just because of my massive crush on both Aisha and Nicole.

That’s not to say Jane and Sutton don’t deserve shoutouts, too. Jane is a newly promoted writer navigating the responsibilities of her new position and what it means to date as a Millennial woman. Katie Stevens has thrown herself at the zanier moments of the show with gusto and her apparent embrace of cringe comedy (she is the subject of both the yoni egg scene AND the awkward shower sex) has paid off well in terms of making the character more nuanced, in addition to the narrative tone overall. Stevens can also carry more emotionally hefty storylines, like Jane grappling with the decision to be tested for the BRCA gene after it is revealed that her mother died at a young age from breast cancer.

Assistant Sutton struggles with the potential professional ramifications of secretly dating hunky board member Richard (Sam Page) and plucking up the courage to pursue her ultimate dream of working in the fashion department. While I sadly can’t relate to having a sexy covert affair with a superior, her discussion with Richard about feeling pressure to achieve her goals ASAP because she’s turning 26 this year and she fears complacency REALLY hits close to home right now. Bonus points for the fact that neither of them bat an eye at Kat’s overnight sexuality revelation and are immediately as invested in her relationship with Adena as they are in their own love lives.

Above all, it’s refreshing to watch young women support each other and face challenges while still being realistically flawed in ways that aren’t always redeemable. Jane publicly snaps at Jacqueline when an assignment unearths painful memories of her mother’s illness. Sutton inadvertently threatens Richard’s career when Kat angrily barges into his office to confront him about sharing their private conversation with a fellow board member. Kat coddles an incompetent intern and creates a PR nightmare for the magazine. Frankly, she doesn’t seem that great at her job at times. For a supposedly seasoned social media manager, she frantically deletes quite a few tweets, although I’m willing to hand wave that for the laugh I got out of her accidentally tweeting, “This lesbian shit is intense!” from the corporate account. In the end, however, they all acknowledge their mistakes and use the consequences as an opportunity for growth. Jane apologizes to Jacqueline and realizes she has to face her fear, Sutton breaks up with Richard to protect their respective jobs, and Kat must fire her intern. Ultimately, none of these mistakes are really meant to morally categorize or negatively impact our perception of any of the trio, a welcome departure from the broad brush strokes that usually plague the characterization of women on television.

The magic that has propelled The Bold Type to the forefront of the TV summer landscape is, without a doubt, the depth and strength of the bond between the trio. Sure, they get pissed off with each other – what best friends don’t on occasion? – but it’s mercifully never left to fester as a long term conflict. They fuck up, they recognize it right away, they apologize, they move on. Their connection easily transcends the personal drama of the week. Although I’m well aware that the writers will probably break them up temporarily at some point, I have complete confidence that nothing can keep them apart for long. I just can’t overstate how lovely it is to see young women caring about each other unconditionally, through thick and thin. Strong friendships and more importantly strong writing, especially for female characters, doesn’t always have to rely on drama and conflict and rivalry. Sometimes all we want to see is women giving their friends a shoulder to lean on. Or more accurately, having those friends happily climb fully clothed into a bathtub to feed you wine. I can’t think of a purer expression of friendship than that.

Erin Tatum is a social media marketer and writer. She lives in Pennsylvania with her numerous dogs and birds. Her passions include animals, intersectional feminism, and baking. She is a diehard foodie with a weakness for bad reality TV.

Why ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’ Visuals Should Carry the TV Series to Emmy Victory

‘The Handmaid’s Tale,’ which stars Elisabeth Moss as June/Offred, is a hard watch in terms of emotional drama. But the TV series, which is the first prestige drama to focus intimately on a woman’s perspective of a dystopian world, rivals ‘Game of Thrones’ in terms of visual splendor.

Guest post written by Ani Bundel.

When the Emmy nominations for the 2016-2017 television season arrived, for the first time since 2011, there was a huge opening for new “prestige TV shows” to make their mark. For years, the “Drama” category, as well as the myriad of technical awards that are pushed out of the main televised portion of the event, has been dominated by one show: Game of Thrones. But this year, due to a twist in scheduling, HBO’s mainstay is not eligible. In its stead, the opportunity for Best Drama, as well as wins for cinematography, production design, and costumes, should go to The Handmaid’s Tale. In addition to these categories, the series also received Emmy nominations for acting (Elisabeth Moss, Samira Wiley, Ann Down, and Alexis Bledel), directing (Reed Morano and Kate Dennis), writing (Bruce Miller), casting, and visual effects.

The Handmaid’s Tale, which stars Elisabeth Moss as June/Offred, is a hard watch in terms of emotional drama. But the TV series, which is the first prestige drama to focus intimately on a woman’s perspective of a dystopian world, rivals Game of Thrones in terms of visual splendor. Some of the more chilling aspects of the show are drawn directly from Margaret Atwood’s 1985 dystopian novel: the blood red of the Handmaids’ garb, the blue of the Wives. In addition to evoking a sanguine shade, Atwood chose red for the Handmaids to symbolize Mary Magdalene. She also chose the color because prisoners of war were forced to wear red in Canada during WWII “because it shows up so very well in the snow.” In the novel and the series, the Wives wear blue to symbolize the Virgin Mary and feminine religious piety. The particular shades of red and peacock blue used were inspire by nature: a red maple leaf against a teal sky, used to contrast the two groups of women but still be aesthetically appealing visually. The show’s choices with lighting enhance this already striking visual stratification of society. Regarding the costumes’ color symbolism, costume designer Ane Crabtree told Vanity Fair:

“We wanted the Handmaids, as they are the fertile women’s tribe of the story, to flow down the streets of Gilead, leaving a long line of red in the midst of the gray of Gilead. Beyond this, the red is the color of a womb, of a wanton woman, a scarlet kind of mark upon a pious world of dark tones in the visual landscape, and also in a tiny intimate space.”

In an interview with The Hollywood Reporter, Crabtree said that it was “intense” finding the right shade of red that would look like “liquid blood” as well as look striking on camera on women of all races. Just as the wardrobes stratify the women, the lighting and production design work in tandem to convey the Handmaids’ oppression as well. Director of photography Colin Watkinson told Indiewire: “I want you to feel the light coming from the outside, so it’s based in a reality, but it’s a hyperreality.” Production designer Julie Berghoff told Curbed that visually, June/Offred “should feel like a mouse in a cage.”

Before the series even aired on Hulu, the red of the Handmaids’ costumes along with their bonnets (which work like human versions of horse blinders) had already made an impact. Cosplayers showed up to events (and to political rallies) dressed in costumes taken from the show’s promotional materials, unnerving those passing by and security guards alike. But on-screen, the stark red of their outfits becomes more pronounced with the warm, pink tinged lighting tones.

In scenes like the birthing room, and other moments when all the Handmaids are gathered together with Aunt Lydia (Ann Dowd), the show turns up the pink highlights. The TV series “uses vaguely Nazi brown for the Aunts.” The skin of the actresses become rosier, more flushed, as if to remind us these women who are forced to serve are alive, full of life, in fact the only ones so alive, they can breed new life.

Contrast that against the green filters used on the wives like Serena Joy (Yvonne Strahovski). Much like the pink tinged filters, the most obvious moment comes during the birthing scene, with the wives downstairs playacting at labor while upstairs the handmaid Ofwarren (Madeline Brewer) actually feels the pain.

But it is all the more jarring when these green women suddenly invade the birthing room at the end of the sequence, and their green is suddenly lit by the pink filters – a little borrowing of the Handmaid’s inner life while stealing their inner ability to make it. The opposite happens during the afterbirth, when Offred is forced to sit in the green tinged living rooms of the Wives cooing over the baby. The green filters drain Moss of the pink we’ve seen her look previously, as these vampires around her drain it for their own masquerades.

Interestingly, there are two other moments when Offred looks less lifelike. The first is with Commander Waterford (Joseph Fiennes). He too is lit with a green wash to match his wife. It’s a subtle signaling by the show that he is just as barren as the woman he married, and that in fact, there is no chance he can get Offred any more pregnant than he can Serena Joy. Both Waterfords are always lit in green tones — even during the “before” flashbacks of the Serena Joy episode. Not only are they sterile people — although we don’t actually know if Serena is infertile, as women are the ones blamed for infertility, despite at least the doctor Offred visits knowing it’s men who could be sterile — they are sickly ones who would oppress others and take their happiness.

The other times Offred looks more pallid are whenever she’s down in the kitchen with the Martha character Rita (Amanda Brugel). The Marthas, per the book, are dressed in drab greens, as if to help them fade into the walls. The lighting enhances this, and Wilkinson said for the lighting they “opted for grey diffusion and unbleached muslin bounce.” But the lighting on the Marthas is always unnaturally dim and shadowed, as if to hide them. No wonder they are the servants in Gilead with the most effective network.

There is one time in Gilead that these stratifications are thrown to the side – the trip to the world of the Jezebels where Offred sees Moira (Samira Wiley) for the first time since being assigned to the Waterfords. Those sequences have a golden tinge to them, a deliberate call back to all of the sequences “before” Gilead happened. This is also the time when we see people wearing the colors of pre-Gilead life. It’s noteworthy that these sequences eschew red, greenish blue, and grayish green for browns, oranges, yellows, and blues.

Book readers could have predicted this about the Jezebels sequence – after all, that, like the rest of the world building, is pulled straight from the novel. But what was striking is how much it recalled the flashbacks (which don’t exist quite in the same fashion on the page), as well as our Canadian episode with June’s husband Luke (O-T Fagbenle).

On first watch, this was my least favorite episode. In a show that had focused on the oppression of women and their stories, why were we forced to sit for an hour to watch a man who escaped this world? (Other than the obviousness that this was helping build out space for a second season?) But upon closer inspection, this episode turned out to be the cruelest cut of all, and it was all in the lighting of Luke’s memories.

All the memories of June with their daughter were gold hued and backlit, creating golden halos around June’s silhouette. Now, I understand that absence makes the heart grow fonder, and for Luke to hold on to the past to rescue his wife requires he remember his family as sweeter than perhaps they were in his pre-Gilead life. But this “Mother Mary” image of his wife (second wife, as we should recall) also recalls the scene in the early episodes when the rights of women were first taken away. Luke’s response to June, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

Though he might not be the one trying to take her rights away, it doesn’t bother him that much when those rights are taken. This sexist condescension, which both June and Moira challenge, makes it seem like June was never fully equal or human to him – even a good man, like Luke, has these patriarchal beliefs inside him. No wonder Gilead succeeded. Who is to say that Luke wouldn’t stop bothering to rescue his wife if he was offered a house like the Commander’s, and a Handmaid of his own? Although, Luke would never be offered these luxuries as the government considered him a criminal for marrying a second time.

All this worldbuilding, shown with just a few visual cues. So much said about where our society could head, if we don’t stay vigilant against those who would oppress us. Yet, our society (and others) already headed this way historically with slavery in the U.S. and the rape and forced breeding of Black women. Stealing children occurred in Argentina and to Indigenous people in Canada and Australia. Every oppressive tactic by Gilead in both the novel and the TV series has occurred in real life. Echoing this, director and executive producer Reed Morano told Indiewire:

“I didn’t want it feel like a period piece. That was my fear with the costumes and everything. I pushed very hard that all the uniforms in Gilead had modern elements to them. Period would defeat the purpose. There are women in the world who experience these things today, and this story is a warning it could happen here just like that. It needed to be and feel other.”

The TCAs have already heaped nominations upon The Handmaid’s Tale (along with This Is Us), the first bellwether of how this year’s awards will lean. Let’s hope that the Emmys follow suit and The Handmaid’s Tale wins the awards it rightfully deserves.

Ani Bundel is a TV writer with EliteDaily and Tellyvisions. You can find her on the internet at Anibundel.com, or on Twitter @anibundel. An anglophilic pop culture fashion junkie with a penchant for snark. All posts are approved by her cats.

International Women-Directed Films at the 2017 London Feminist Film Festival

The London Feminist Film Festival is all about “celebrating international feminist films past and present.” It “will provide a safe space to explore, celebrate, organise, and inspire.” Now in its fifth year, the festival will run from August 17-20.

Here is the 2017 London Feminist Film Festival’s trailer:

THURSDAY, 17 AUGUST | 6:00 pm

Talk Back Out Loud + panel discussion with Kaori Sakagami (director), Rhodessa Jones (protagonist of the film and acclaimed theatre director & performer), and Naima Sakande (Programme Lead, Young Women’s Work, Leap Confronting Conflict). Chaired by Marianna Tortell (CEO, Domestic Violence Intervention Project).

Talk Back Out Loud EUROPEAN PREMIERE
Director: Kaori Sakagami / 2014 / USA & Japan / Rating: U / 119 mins

“The Medea Project: Theatre for Incarcerated Women, an all-women theatre group originating in San Francisco, produces work by and for women who are HIV-positive and/or have experiences of being incarcerated in the US prison system. The women in the theatre group are often marginalised and silenced by and within the prison system, health services and the art world; through the Medea Project led by Rhodessa Jones, they claim and celebrate their own identities, space and survival. This film challenges the othering of women who have been diagnosed as HIV-positive and/or criminalised by white patriarchal institutions and communities.”

FRIDAY, 18 AUGUST | 6:00 pm

INDIAN WOMEN CLAIMING SPACES + panel discussion with Geetha J (director, Akam), Vaishnavi Sundar (director, Aage Jake Left), Manuela Bastian (director, Where to, Miss?), and Viji Rajagopalan (Domestic Violence Intervention Project).

Akam (Inside) UK PREMIERE
Director: Geetha J / 2007 / India / Rating: U / 12 mins / English and Malayalam with subtitles

“A visual poem, an intergenerational portrait of three women. The focus is on the akam – the inside or the domestic space.”

Aage Jake Left (Go Ahead and Take Left)
Director: Vaishnavi Sundar / 2017 / India / Rating: U / 5 mins / Hindi with subtitles

“Anju is a traffic constable in the north-eastern state of Sikkim, where women have more freedoms than those in many parts of India.”

Where to, Miss?
Director: Manuela Bastian / 2015 / Germany / Rating: 12 / 83 mins / Hindi with subtitles

“Devki’s biggest wish is to become a taxi driver – she wants to ensure other women can travel around Delhi in safety, and would like to be financially independent. While striving for her goal, she must contend with opposition from the men in her life and the deeply-rooted traditions of society. Where to, Miss? follows the story of this courageous young woman over a period of three years, as she navigates the roles traditionally assigned to women whilst trying to maintain a sense of her own identity.”

SATURDAY, 19 AUGUST | 1:30 pm

FEMINISM AND THE ARCHIVE + panel discussion with Althea Greenan (Curator at the Women’s Art Library at Goldsmiths University), Samia Malik (from theWomen of Color Index reading group that explores the Women’s Art Library catalogue at Goldsmiths to visibilize WoC artists’ work) and Julia Wieger (co-director of Hauntings in the Archive! and co-founder of the Secretariat for Ghosts, Archival Politics and Gaps (SKGAL), at the VBKÖ).

“We will screen the European premiere of feature documentary Hauntings in the Archive! This will be followed by a short talk by Selina Robertson on her research with the Rio Cinema’s 1980s–1990s feminist film curation archive.”

Spuken im Archiv (Hauntings in the Archive!) EUROPEAN PREMIERE
Directors: Nina Hoechtl and Julia Wieger / 2017 / Austria / Rating: 12 / 72 mins / English and German with subtitles

“Hauntings in the Archive! reflects on and exposes the his/herstory/ies of the Austrian Association of Women Artists (VBKÖ) through its century-old archive of letters, photos, catalogues and thousands of other documents. The Secretariat for Ghosts, Archive Politics and Gaps curates the material to conjure up the spectres of the multiple lives of the VBKÖ that meet and share the scene in the film: ghosts of national socialism encounter colonial fantasies and old and new feminist agencies.”

SATURDAY 19 AUGUST 3.30 pm

VISIBILITY + panel discussion with Clare Unsworth (Director of Shhh!), Leah Thorn (Spoken Word Poet whose poem is featured in Shhh!), Victoria Bridges (Program Director – Global Girl Media), Monique Washington (co-director of Brexit Unveiled), Aisha Clarke (co-director of Brexit Unveiled), Holly Bourdillon (co-director of 1 in 5) and Hannah McMeeking (co-director of 1 in 5). Chaired by Jacquelyn Guderley (Founder of Salomé and co-founder of Stemmettes).

“This session of short films explores ways of navigating (in)visibility.”

One in Five
Directors: Holly Bourdillon and Hannah McMeeking / 2007 / UK / Rating: PG / 12 mins

“Two feminist film students research the lack of women in the film industry to find out what is stopping women from succeeding.”

Brexit Unveiled
Directors: Aliyah Bensouda, Aisha Clarke, Ruth Egagha, Violet Marcenkova, Jorja Oladiran, Poppy Sharples, Lily Barnett, and Monique Washington / 2016 / UK / Rating: PG / 4 mins

“Examining the increased levels of violence that Muslim women have faced since the Brexit vote.”

Shhh!
Director: Clare Unsworth / 2016 / UK / Rating: PG / 4 mins

“A lyrical, physical expression of a powerful poem by Leah Thorn about the systematic silencing of women – and about resistance to that silencing.”

Cycologic UK PREMIERE
Directors: Emilia Stålhammar, Veronica Pålsson, and Elsa Löwdin / 2016 / Sweden / Rating: U / 15 mins

“The traffic in Kampala, Uganda can be chaotic and dangerous. This multi-award-winning short follows urban planner Amanda Ngabirano’s campaign for a cycling lane in her city, plus other women cyclists who negotiate the restrictions imposed on women by society.”

Mrs Somerville’s Monument
Directors: Rebecca Hurwitz and Liz Liste / 2017 / UK / Rating: PG / 7 mins

“This animated short asks why so few women have been awarded a science Nobel Prize.”

Women Speak Out! Mena
Director: Women’s Resource Centre / 2016 / UK / Rating: PG / 5 mins

“Mena speaks about her experiences of racism.”

More Dangerous Than a Thousand Rioters
Director: Kelly Gallagher / 2016 / USA / Rating: U / 6 mins

“A shimmering, poetic ode to the activist Lucy Parsons. Animation illuminates Lucy’s fierce battles against injustice, from her birth on a Texas plantation, to Chicago and beyond.”

SATURDAY, 19 AUGUST | 8.30 pm | @ BFI Southbank

40th ANNIVERSARY SCREENING FEMINIST CLASSIC: The Sealed Soil + Skype Q&A with director Marva Nabili, hosted by BAFTA-nominated film producer Elhum Shakerifar.

Khake Sar Beh Morh (The Sealed Soil)

Director: Marva Nabili / 1977 / Iran / Rating: PG / 90 mins / Persian with subtitles

“Eighteen-year-old Rooy-Bekheir rejects suitor after suitor as she struggles for independence and identity in her southern Iranian village. The Sealed Soil, the first independent feature by an Iranian woman director, was shot clandestinely before being smuggled out of pre-revolution Iran for post-production. It achieved international success, including winning Most Outstanding Film of the Year at the 1977 London Film Festival, but has never been shown in Iran. The beautifully shot film has been compared stylistically to Chantal Akerman’s Jeanne Dielman. This is a rare chance to see a feminist classic on the director’s own 16mm print.”

SUNDAY 20 AUGUST | 1:30 pm

VAWG: RESISTANCE & SURVIVAL + panel discussion with Katja Berls (director, Outside Peace, Inside War), Dorett Jones (director, Nothing About Us Without Us), & others tbc, chaired by Camille Kumar (Women & Girls Network).

“This session will explore and celebrate women’s global resistance to violence against women and girls (VAWG) through 3 films that challenge the notions that there is one right way to respond to VAWG and that there is one kind of survivor.”

Nesaa Alhoria (Women of Freedom) EUROPEAN PREMIERE
Director: Abeer Zeibak Haddad / 2017 / Palestine and Israel / Rating: 15 / 58 mins / Arabic and Hebrew with subtitles

“This film tells the stories of women murdered in the name of ‘honour’ within Arab and Palestinian communities in Palestine and Israel, focusing on the social and political contexts in which the women were killed. The director travels through Palestine and Israel collecting testimonies from survivors and perpetrators, and giving voice to murdered women, while drawing on her own experiences. Women of Freedom encourages discussion, reflection and action on an issue that is not limited to one community, religion or country.”

[Trigger warning: images of violence.]

Außen Frieden, Innen Krieg (Outside Peace, Inside War) WORLD PREMIERE
Director: Katja Berls / 2017 / Germany / Rating: 15 / 29 mins / German with subtitles

“More than 70 years after the end of WW2, Hilde and her surviving sister speak about their experiences of sexual and physical violence perpetrated against them and their sisters by soldiers during the war. This film speaks about and to the violence and trauma perpetrated against women and girls in war and crisis zones around the world, both past and present, and its impact on women’s lives.”

[Trigger warning: discussions of violence.]

Nothing About Us Without Us
Director: Dorett Jones / 2016 / UK / Rating: PG / 12 mins / English and Urdu with subtitles

“This short film captures black women’s resistance to government cuts that threaten vital VAWG services for and by black and minoritised women. It follows women from Apna Haq, a black women’s organisation from Rotherham, who travel to London to march with other women and hand in a petition to Downing Street to protest against the continued closure of black women’s organisations, which threatens women’s lives.”

SUNDAY 20 AUGUST | 4:00 pm

ASPIRE / INSPIRE + panel discussion with Terry Wragg (Leeds Animation Workshop), Chi Onwurah MP (Women’s Engineering Society), & others tbc.

“Inspirational women forging a way in male-dominated professions.”

Did I Say Hairdressing? I Meant Astrophysics
Director: Leeds Animation Workshop (a women’s collective) / 1998 / UK / Rating: U / 14 mins

“A modernised fairytale animation, investigating why women are under-represented in Science, Technology, Engineering and Maths (STEM). The film uses humour to counter the subtle and not-so-subtle gender typecasting that often prevails, from babyhood right up to professional level.”

Ouaga Girls
Director: Theresa Traore Dahlberg / 2017 / Sweden, France, Burkina Faso and Qatar / Rating: 12 / 83 mins / French and Moré with subtitles

“We follow a group of young women who are training to be car mechanics in Burkina Faso’s capital, Ouagadougou, in this highly enjoyable film about life choices, sisterhood and the endeavour to find your own way. The young women are at a crucial point in life when their hopes, dreams and courage are confronted against society’s expectations of what a woman should be. Dahlberg’s short Taxi Sister was a big hit at LFFF2012, and it’s great to welcome her back to LFFF with her debut feature film. This is a coming-of-age story with much warmth, laughs, heartbreak and depth.”

To purchase tickets and for more information, please visit London Feminist Film Festival’s website. All screenings are at the Rio Cinema in Dalston, except for LFFF’s Feminist Classic screening of The Sealed Soil, which is at BFI Southbank on 19 August. All film and panel descriptions are courtesy of London Feminist Film Festival.