Drama – Page 6 – Bitch Flicks

‘As I Open My Eyes’ to Sex and The Police State: An Interview with Director Leyla Bouzid

Two things that make Leyla Bouzid’s new film ‘As I Open My Eyes’ distinct from these other [portrait of the artist, coming-of-age films] are: the lead who resists family pressure by joining a band is a young woman and her parents have more to be concerned about than what the neighbors think. The action takes place in Tunis, Tunisia, in 2010, before the Revolution, so any kind of rebellion, even artistic, can draw the attention of the police and lead to arrest — or worse.

Written by Ren Jender.

“My uncool parents won’t let me be an artist (or writer)” is such a common plot for coming-of-age films that a repertory theater could show a different one every night and fill at least a full month’s calendar. But girls and women usually need not apply as leads in the Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man genre. In these films, the wife and/or girlfriend of the main character rarely has a personality of her own. The male protagonist has a meddling (or mostly silent) mother. We see sisters as troubled or as comic relief, like in writer-director David Chase’s Not Fade Away, a lackluster semi-autobiographical account of a not very successful band in the 1960s.

Two things that make Leyla Bouzid’s new film As I Open My Eyes distinct from these other films are: the lead who resists family pressure by joining a band is a young woman, Farah (Baya Medhaffar) and her parents have more to be concerned about than what the neighbors think. The action takes place in Tunis, Tunisia, in 2010, before the Revolution, so any kind of rebellion, even artistic, can draw the attention of the police and lead to arrest — or worse.

But Farah is a teenager (she’s 18), so she doesn’t believe she’ll get into trouble with the authorities. As her mother (Ghalia Benali) tries to dissuade her from performing with the band, which includes Farah’s slightly older, manbun-wearing boyfriend, Bohrène (Montassar Ayari), Farah says, “Everyone’s scared for nothing.”

Her mother sighs as she tells Farah, “I used to be like you.”

Like girls and young women all over the world, Farah blithely lies about why she’s late coming home which sends her mother into paroxysms of rage and frustration and leads her to vow to never speak to her daughter again. But the fractured family puts on a good front for their other relatives during Ramadan Iftar as they talk of Farah becoming a doctor and avoid any mention of her musical ambitions.

Bouzid, who is from Tunisia, (she now lives in France) co-wrote the script with Marie-Sophie Chambon and they capture the balancing act required of those who live under a police state. Even the band discusses which songs are (and aren’t) safe to play. When one member asks, “Aren’t we censoring ourselves,” we can see how younger people chafe against the restrictions that have defined their parents’ lives.

A great deal of the film takes place during the band’s performances and rehearsals, the songs commenting on the political situation of the country, similar to Cabaret‘s juxtaposition of musical performances and increasing oppression. But the music is North African with a tinge of punk: Farah’s style of singing sometimes reminds us of X-Ray Spex’s Poly Styrene and Farah and her bandmates pogo to one song. Farah’s great curly meringue of hair (like her mother, Farah looks like a different person with her hair pulled back) is offset by an early-’80s-style “tail.”

Medhaffar is fully committed as a singer, sometimes seeming to be nearly moved to tears by what she sings, but she shines offstage as well. Too often, a teen lead is played by an actor several years older, a glaring discrepancy at that age. Medhaffar, if anything, seems younger than 18, perfect for the stubborn, determined, and love-addled Farah. Bouzid and Medhaffar expertly capture the intoxication that is a young woman’s first love and first (good!) sexual experience. Benali is also excellent, so much so that I wished the script added more clarity to her backstory. As I Open My Eyes is the second film I’ve seen written and directed by a Tunisian woman about a Tunisian woman becoming an artist (the other is Satin Rouge), a genre I hope we see more of — and not just from Tunisia.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kgx_48jQAmE”]

I had the opportunity to talk with Leyla Bouzid, the director and co-writer of As I Open My Eyes, by phone last month. This interview was edited for concision and clarity.

Bitch Flicks: Baya Medhaffar is not just a great singer but also so good in the scenes that show her emotional and physical attachment to her boyfriend. Were there films that feature a young woman’s first love — and sex — that you were influenced by? Were there mistakes you’d seen in other films that you wanted to avoid?

Leyla Bouzid: We wanted to show the emotion. It’s her first love. The kiss at the start of the film is the first kiss and the time they make love is the first time she makes love, even if she doesn’t say it’s her first time. She just says, “It’s the first time I’ve seen a guy naked.” I was always thinking what was important for her. Because in other films, especially films from the Arab world, the issue would be she’s not a virgin anymore. This is not the truth; it’s not the real feeling this young woman would have. And I wanted the film to be very organic and very tactile, that we feel what you feel when someone is touching you for the first time. What I thought about were Jane Campion’s films, like The Piano. When the lovers touch each other you can really feel it. It’s a feminine way of showing love and attraction.

BF: I liked that the mother character starts out as seeming completely unreasonable, but then as the film goes on we see that she’s not. I’m wondering if you gave the actress Ghalia Benali [who is also a singer] any special direction.

LB: Ghalia was very afraid that we would think her character is hysterical. We talked a lot about the mother’s path. At the beginning of the film, she’s protecting her daughter so much that we think, “She’s crazy.” But at another point of the film we think, “She was right.” I pushed her to become this very protective mother. She trusted me. She said that how she was in the first part of the film reminded her of her own mother when she first started singing.

BF: Although the music is North African it also, especially in Medhaffar’s singing had a punk feel. And Farah has one of Patti Smith’s ’70s album covers hanging in her bedroom. What bands did you want Farah’s band to sound like or be influenced by?

LB: In Tunisia, there is not that much of a rock scene. There was when I was really a teenager but not during the period in the film. But there are a lot of Western bands that make rock and punk in Lebanon and Egypt and I was influenced by them. A band called Adif: it’s the band of the composer of the film [Khyam Allami]. It’s really rock but melancholy. I was also influenced by the Lebanese group called Mashrou’ Leila and by Maryam Saleh and Tamer Abu Ghazaleh. The idea was to have this mixture of traditional rock and traditional Tunisian music.

BF: The film takes place before the Revolution in 2010. Six years later, what do you think Farah would be up to? Do you think she would do as you did [Bouzid, like Deniz Gamze Ergüven, writer-director of Mustang attended the French film school La Fémis] and leave Tunisia?

LB: I think she’s still in Tunisia. She’s probably able to sing and has an audience and more of an ability to do concerts, but if she stays she’s probably disappointed — or depressed. When I was searching for the actress to play Farah, I met a lot of young women that were 22, 23 years old [which would be about Farah’s age now] and they were all kind of depressed. When I told them the story of Farah, they said, “Oh this is the story of my life, but I gave up and now I’m stuck with my family.” When watching the film, we can decide what happens. At the end it’s open, if she continues to sing or not.

BF: Your father is an acclaimed Tunisian director. Did you learn anything from him?

LB: The most useful thing I learned from him is: it is really hard in our country to make a film. In Tunisia making a first feature before turning 30 is unusual but part of why I could do it is because I had seen my father, how difficult it was every time for him to make a new film. Even though he was so famous in Tunisia it was still hard for him to get financing. I think when you start in cinema, it’s a dream and people idealize it. I didn’t. I knew it was really complicated.

BF: Muslims in France have been in the news lately. Your home is in France. Do the bans on Muslim women dressing how they want concern you?

LB: Yeah, I think really it’s just an empty, I don’t know how to say, a non-event. What the hell do you care about the clothes women wear when they swim? I’m relieved that the French courts stopped this. Politically, it was a very, very, very bad sign.

BF: Surveillance from the state, especially in the form of surrogates, like the “friend” of the band, is a big part of the film. Did you have experiences with state surveillance when you were in Tunisia? Did you know anybody who did? In the U.S., Muslims have been very much targeted in surveillance. Is the same thing happening in France?

LB: Yes, in Tunisia this event in the film, it really happened to me, but not in the same situation. When I was 16 and 17 years old, I was in a cinema club. We were all young. Some were 22 and I was the youngest I think. And we met every Saturday and talked about cinema and started to make our films. There was a guy who was the only one who had his own apartment, so we were always having parties at his house. If we were doing something we had to hide or we wanted to make out or whatever, we always went to his house. And after 3 years, I found out that he was a cop and that he was there to watch us. This is something that happened to a lot of people. Also, all the taxi drivers, they were working for the police, so every seventh person in Tunisia was a cop.

In France, let’s say the atmosphere has been really special for the past two years. It’s more speeches and the media and especially television are openly racist and Muslims are targeted in that way. There is more suspicion. I have a neighbor who’s Jewish but her skin is brown. She looks much more like an Arab than I do. And she told me she’s getting a lot of harassment every day. Individuals say to her, “Go back to your home,” and, “We don’t want Arab people here.”

BF: I’ve now seen two feminist films from Tunisian women writer-directors: yours and Raja Amari’s Satin Rouge, which feature women who find themselves through artistic expression. Can you tell me how you’ve been influenced by other women artists in or outside Tunisia?

LB: In general women directors are very inspiring, like Jane Campion, but also Tunisian women directors, like Moufida Tlatli. Also, other artistic women and singers, like Patti Smith. I really liked what she wrote in her books. And Bjork. And Frida Kahlo: these kind of women who are really creating things.

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

‘Sense and Sensibility’: Sister Saviors in Ang Lee’s Adaptation

On first glance, it may well appear that the film follows the usual trappings of the romance genre, in which the young women eventually marry the men that they love, who fortuitously possess more than ample funds to elevate them and their families from poverty, thereby “saving” them. …If we delve a little deeper into Lee’s adaptation it becomes clear that the sisters are not saved by the men they marry, but rather by each other, and multiple times throughout the story.

This guest post written by Melissa-Kelly Franklin appears as part of our theme week on Sisterhood. | Spoilers ahead.

Much is made of the erotic undertones of recent adaptations of Jane Austen’s work, particularly the wildly popular BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice directed by Andrew Davies, and so it is easy for one of Austen’s most prevailing and insightful themes to be forgotten. Austen is deeply interested in the relationship between sisters and the almost mystical intimacy that stems from it. For Austen’s women characters, this sibling connection is vital in being able to cope with all the trials that family life, social circumstances, and a patriarchal world casts in their direction.

Amidst the clamor of swooning over Mr Darcy’s wet-shirt and Pride and Prejudice’s subsequent pop-cultural appropriations, the importance of the friendship between the eldest two Bennet sisters can sometimes be overshadowed. Indeed, the sensation around the “sexing up” of the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice somewhat sidelines the memory of another superb adaptation of the Austen canon, released in the same year: Sense and Sensibility. Emma Thompson’s Oscar-winning adaptation of Austen’s novel, beautifully directed by Ang Lee in his English-language debut, focuses on the relationship between sisters Elinor and Marianne, not only to highlight their divergent personalities and thus the “sense” and “sensibility” of the title, but how necessary the sisters are to each other’s survival.

The family of wealthy Dashwood women find their fortunes irrevocably altered on the death of their father, whose home and fortune legally passes to his eldest son from a previous marriage and his selfish, insensitive wife. The four women are left without a home and a mere £500 a year to live on (to put this into perspective, this translates to roughly £16, 980 in today’s currency — $22, 580 in U.S. dollars — according to the National Archives’ currency converter). By the end of the story, the two eldest sisters are happily married: Elinor (Emma Thompson) to a comfortably-off, kind-hearted gentleman turned vicar, and Marianne (Kate Winslet) to an exceptionally wealthy and honorable colonel.

Some may argue that this preoccupation with handsome, eligible men makes it “fluffy” or even unfeminist. On this point, I agree with Samantha Ellis, who recently discussed the application of the Bechdel Test and why it “doesn’t always work.” She believes it is a useful tool in holding us accountable to creating complex female characters, but it should not be the only way in which we measure gender equity in film — indeed this was never its intended purpose. Ellis asserts that “sometimes women’s conversations about men are feminist”; Sense and Sensibility certainly falls under this umbrella. In the film, women’s survival is inextricably bound to marriage, when legal traditions like primogeniture prevented them from inheriting financial independence, and social propriety prevented them from earning money professionally, as Elinor so eloquently expresses to Edward (Hugh Grant):

“You talk of feeling idle and useless; imagine how that is compounded when one has no hope and no choice of any occupation whatsoever… At least you will inherit your fortune, we cannot even earn ours.”

On first glance, it may well appear that the film follows the usual trappings of the romance genre, in which the young women eventually marry the men that they love, who fortuitously possess more than ample funds to elevate them and their families from poverty, thereby “saving” them. I would argue however, that if we delve a little deeper into Lee’s adaptation it becomes clear that the sisters are not saved by the men they marry, but rather by each other, and multiple times throughout the story.

When considering which sister is the “savior” of the Dashwood family, Elinor immediately springs to mind. The opening scenes in the film reveal Elinor to be a self-contained, capable young woman, holding together a family falling apart at the seams as she navigates the grief of her mother and sisters. While the others are stricken at the loss of their father, Elinor is already pulling herself together and thinking pragmatically about their physical survival, comforting her mother and even initiating her youngest sister Margaret (Emelie Françoise) into the realities of their situation.

The importance of Elinor’s capability in this situation cannot be overstated: she is the only one of the women who fully grasps the finer details of their financial situation. In a private meeting between Marianne, Elinor, and their mother as they search for a new home, the widowed Mrs. Dashwood (Gemma Jones) suggests a small manor house, which is certainly a down-size from their expansive home Norland Park, but Elinor has to remind her that it is well outside what they can afford on their small stipend. Even after they move to the tiny Barton Cottage which is to become their home, Elinor monitors the housekeeping expenses with even greater vigilance, even cutting “beef as well as sugar” from their already meager diets. Without Elinor’s practicality, the Dashwood women may well have found themselves in even more dire circumstances.

As much as Marianne relies on her eldest sister’s good sense to ensure her immediate survival, Marianne’s spirited nature provides Elinor some respite from the gravity of the path that lays before them. Where Elinor would politely hold her tongue at their sister-in-law’s money-grubbing behavior, Marianne refuses to surrender her family home without highlighting the injustice at every opportunity. Marianne is appalled at Fanny’s request for the key to the silver cabinet for example, and rather than keeping her candid remarks between herself and Elinor, she pointedly throws the question across the breakfast table the next day: “How was the silver? Was it all genuine?” Elinor sweeps in to change the subject to something more appropriate, but one cannot help but wonder if she sometimes wished she had Marianne’s free-spirited belief in not “hiding her emotions.” Further to this point, Marianne is an important confidante for Elinor: teasing, probing and encouraging her to open up about her feelings for Edward. The confidences the sisters share when alone become an imperative cathartic release from the social restraints of the day, particularly for the propriety conscious and emotionally reserved Elinor.

The sister’s relationship, like that of any sisters, is fraught at times: their divergent attitudes towards social propriety and emotional openness sometimes puts distance between them. Marianne laments to her mother that at times she does “not understand” her sister, while Elinor privately confides to Colonel Brandon (played with the perfect combination of sensitivity, warmth and tortured sadness by the late Alan Rickman) that “the sooner [Marianne] becomes acquainted with the ways of the world, the better.” Despite her wariness of the way in which Marianne’s free behavior can “expose [her] to some very impertinent remarks,” Elinor remains unwaveringly loyal to her sister. When Marianne espies her faithless lover Willoughby (Greg Wise) across a ballroom in London, it is Elinor who is by her side, sharing in the indignity of being socially snubbed by him and his wealthy new fiancée, and it is Elinor who catches her sister when she faints (unlike that other version in which Brandon, in a cheesy “hero” shot, catches Marianne while glowering in Willoughby’s direction). In Thompson’s adapted screenplay, Elinor is there for Marianne through every indignity and public embarrassment, without agenda and in spite of her private thoughts on her sister’s past behavior.

Marianne similarly supports her sister in potentially uncomfortable social situations. Despite her public humiliation and unequivocal rejection from Willoughby by letter, Marianne leaves the sanctuary of her room and puts aside her grief to greet Edward — the man she knows Elinor is deeply in love with — when he finally visits them. Marianne’s warmth and friendliness towards him is to both make him feel at ease in their family circle, and show her support for her sister’s choice, whatever her humorous misgivings about his passionless reading and reserved nature she expresses earlier in the film. She selflessly dismisses his questions about her own health and redirects the attention to her sister, insisting “do not think of me, Elinor is well you see? That must be enough for both of us.” Little does she know that Edward is secretly engaged to the other woman in the room, Lucy Steele (Imogen Stubbs), an uncomfortable fact that only she is unaware of. At times, Marianne resents the secret she senses that lurks between her and Elinor and accuses her of hypocrisy when probed for the details of her intimacy with Willoughby: “That is a reproach from you, you who confide in no one.” Elinor replies that she has nothing to tell, but the audience knows she would share the secret if only Lucy had not elicited her vow of silence. Marianne retorts: “Nor I, we neither of us have anything to tell. I because I conceal nothing, and you because you communicate nothing.” However, when the truth comes out, Marianne rallies to her sister’s side, insisting that she for once put her own desires above those of others.

It is not until we see Elinor open up to Marianne as she lays unconscious, begging her to live, that we fully understand that not only does Marianne’s survival depend on Elinor’s practicality and pragmatism, but Elinor’s survival equally depends upon Marianne. In the dead of night, after a day of nursing her sister and the doctor’s warning for Elinor to prepare herself for the worst, Elinor begs her sister to find the willpower to fight for her life. Emma Thompson’s performance in this moment is utterly wrenching; she runs her hand along Marianne’s leg, as if to memorize the details of her beloved sister’s body before gripping her hand. She barely contains the wall of emotion threatening to overwhelm her: “Marianne, try. Please, try. I cannot do without you. I try to bear everything else. Please, dearest. Do not leave me alone.”

The first conscious words Marianne utters after her life-threatening ordeal are, “Where’s Elinor?” which further emphasizes the symbiosis of their lives. Despite their differences and the tensions they create between them, the two sisters could not survive without the succor they provide each other by simply existing, let alone the many moments of tangible support they afford one another when life in many ways, has been unrelentingly hard on them both.

Too often, Jane Austen’s work and its various screen adaptations is dismissed as trivial or thematically narrow; a period “chick flick” chiefly concerned with the pursuit of a husband to save the protagonist and her family from poverty as a result of the evils of primogeniture. It is worth remembering however, that Austen herself was a pioneer in her day as one of the first women to earn a living by her writing. Equally unconventional was her active choice to remain unmarried, after causing quite the local scandal when she accepted and then rejected the proposal of a wealthy neighbor within a twenty-four hour period. She instead chose to live with her beloved sister Cassandra for the rest of her life. Such was the closeness of their relationship, that their mother is reported to have said, “If Cassandra were going to have her head cut off, Jane would insist on sharing her fate.”

Austen’s own experiences of sisterhood make her renderings of sisterly relationships nuanced and detailed. Her works explore the complexity and intimacy of that connection — which may make the relationship fraught at times, but no less vital. Emma Thompson’s screenplay of Sense and Sensibility depicts this beautifully, revealing through Ang Lee’s insightful direction, that the story is much more about sisterhood than it is about romance or finding the right man.

Melissa-Kelly Franklin is an Australian-born, London-based writer and director of independent short films, with an honors degree in English Literature and History. Her feminist period short film Portrait is soon to premiere at international festivals, and she has two other film projects cooking in pre-production. Updates about her work can be found at melissakellyfranklin.wix.com/writer-director/ and she occasionally tweets @MelissaKelly_F.

Sisterhood and Salvation in ‘A League of Their Own’

Though the simmering sibling rivalry between Kit and Dottie is a thread that runs through the entire film, the importance of sisterhood goes far beyond this. For both women, sisterhood becomes a ticket to another world: a ticket out, but also a ticket in; to friendship, to competition, and to independence. As such, sisterhood exists as a source of empowerment.

This guest post written by Katie Barnett appears as part of our theme week on Sisterhood.

Early in Penny Marshall’s A League of Their Own (1992), Marla Hooch (Megan Cavanagh) is coaxed by her father into leaving him – and their small town – behind for a shot at a place in the newly-established All-American Girls Professional Baseball League (AAGPBL). “Nothing’s ever gonna happen here,” he tells a tearful Marla, as they wait for her train. “You gotta go where things happen.” It is a sentiment that drives many women in the film, not least Kit Keller (Lori Petty). Unlike Marla, however, Kit cannot count on the support of her own parents. Instead, she turns to her older sister Dottie (Geena Davis) in her desperate bid to leave their sleepy Oregon farm life behind, forcing Dottie to make a decision about her own life in the process. Dottie’s sisterly sacrifice paves the way for both women to become part of the inaugural intake of the AAGPBL.

Sisterhood is central to A League of Their Own, and the film does not shy away from depicting its less grateful, more fractious elements. From the beginning, Kit strives to prove herself against an older sister who is always, it seems, a little bit faster, a little bit prettier, a little bit better. “Can’t you even let me walk faster than you?” Kit snaps as they walk home from a baseball game in which Kit has struck out, only to see her sister hit the winning run and secure the team’s victory. As the younger sister, Kit is doomed always to play catch up. “You ever hear Dad introduce us to people? ‘This is our daughter Dottie. And this is our other daughter, Dottie’s sister.’” Later, news reporters refer to Kit as Dottie’s “kid sister”; Kit fumes that their parents “should have had you and bought a dog.” It is perhaps particularly galling for Kit that, despite her own evident passion for the sport, it is Dottie who excels on the baseball field without seeming to break a sweat. It is testament to A League of Their Own that this sisterly rivalry is confined almost entirely to sports; refreshing that it is Dottie’s killer swing that Kit covets most of all. While Dottie is around, Kit is relegated to being the scrappy sidekick – the sister who will always struggle to measure up.

Most obviously, it is Dottie who offers this alternative life to her younger sister. Their mother and father are nothing more than a barely-glimpsed specter of parenthood in the film. Only their mother speaks; when she does, it is to chastise her daughters for running, and to tell Kit to keep her voice down. At home, Kit knows she will always be stifled. It is to her sister whom she turns to facilitate her escape. “Please, Dottie,” she pleads, as the two of them prepare dinner in the Kellers’ claustrophobic kitchen. “I gotta get out of here. I’m nothing here.” Dottie is able to save her sister from a life where the best she has to look forward to is huddling around the wireless with her parents and fending off men like Mitch Swaley (Gregory Sporleder), who Kit declares is “one step up from a pig.” When the scout Ernie Capadino (Jon Lovitz) refuses to take Kit to the try outs in Chicago unless Dottie comes along too, Dottie realizes she holds her sister’s future in her hands: to refuse would preserve her own quiet life, but would crush Kit in the process.

Inevitably, Dottie’s sisterly sacrifice becomes a weapon with which to hurt Kit when the two fight over Kit’s trade from Rockford to Racine towards the end of the season. “I got you into this league, goddamn it!” Dottie hurls at her sister, to the frantic whispers of their teammates. For all that Dottie has done to aggravate Kit – being hailed as the league’s ‘Queen of Diamonds,’ pulling Kit from the pitcher’s mound in a crucial game – this is the one that cuts Kit the deepest. Her sister may have facilitated her escape, but she will always be there to remind Kit of that fact.

If sisterhood saves Kit, however, it also saves Dottie. At first glance this is perhaps less obvious. Unlike Kit, Dottie feels no need to “go where things happen.” “I’m married. I’m happy. That’s what I want. Let’s not confuse things,” she counters, when Kit begs her to try out. Kit, however, is unrepentant. Though Dottie is apparently happy with her neat, conventional existence – once her husband returns from overseas, they will settle down, have their children, and settle into an unremarkable, if pleasant, life – Kit urges her sister to take advantage of the opportunity being presented to them. “But can’t you just have this first? Just so you can say you once did something? Something special?” she asks. Dottie’s desire not to “confuse things” does not convince Kit, who pushes her sister to seek something that will belong only to her – not to her husband Bob (Bill Pullman), not to their future children, but to Dottie.

Being married is a defining aspect of Dottie’s character, both before and after she joins the league. Her first reaction to Capadino’s attempts to recruit her to the league is to tell him she is a married woman, and therefore has no need of the opportunity he offers. News coverage of the Rockford Peaches reminds viewers that although Dottie “plays like Gehrig, and looks like Garbo,” she is romantically off-limits: “Uh-uh fellas, keep your mitts to yourself. She’s married.” She turns down an invitation to join some of the other players at a local roadhouse because – you guessed it – “I’m married.” Kit’s determination to have Dottie join the league is not an attempt to erase this identity, but rather to supplement it. Kit serves to remind Dottie that sure, she can be married to Bob, but she can have this, too. She can be Bob’s wife Dottie, but she can also be – as Coach Jimmy Dugan (Tom Hanks) might have – “a goddamn Peach.”

Kit’s conviction is borne out in Dottie’s decision to return to the league to play in the World Series, despite earlier leaving with Bob to resume their married life together. For all her words to the contrary, the competition and the camaraderie has left its mark on Dottie. In this instance, her kid sister was right. “You are gonna miss this,” Kit insists as the sisters say goodbye following the Belles’ victory. “I don’t care what you say.” Though Dottie demurs, she does admit that she will miss the girls, and Kit most of all. There is an undeniable poignancy here, as the sisters say goodbye, as it seems clear that, as they climb onto different coaches outside the baseball ground, this will be the last time they will ever be together in the same way.

Yet there is also a quiet triumph, for Dottie, as she witnesses Kit finally get what she wants. If Dottie is happy to go back to Oregon with Bob and have children, Kit is equally thrilled to be staying in Racine with some of the other girls and carving out a slice of independence for herself. At the beginning of the film, the local crowd chant Dottie’s name, much to Kit’s disappointment; this is reversed at the end of the film, when Kit’s winning home run has her own name echoing around the stands. It is the moment when Kit finally steps out of Dottie’s shadow, and the moment when Dottie can rescind credit for Kit’s success:

Kit: Thank you for getting me into the league, Dottie.
Dottie: You got yourself in the league. I got you on the train.

Dottie and Kit, it seems, do not maintain a close relationship over the ensuing years. The bookends of the film – older Dottie’s journey to the Baseball Hall of Fame, to see the induction of the women’s league – make this clear; Dottie grumbles to her adult daughter that Kit “probably won’t even be there,” and their surprise at coming face to face hints at limited contact since the days of “dirt in the skirt.” And yet their tearful embrace is a testament to the power of sisterhood, and an acknowledgement not simply of time spent apart, but of gratitude for the life they – however briefly – gave each other as young women.

Katie Barnett is a lecturer in film and media at the University of Worcester (UK) with an interest in representations of gender and family in popular culture. She learned the rules of baseball from Penny Marshall, the rules of espionage from Harriet the Spy, and the rules of life from Jim Henson. Find her on Twitter @katiesmallg.

Sisters in ‘Downton Abbey’ and ‘Fiddler on the Roof’ and the Slow March Toward Equality

The narratives surrounding the television series ‘Downton Abbey’ and the musical film ‘Fiddler on the Roof’ are about change and more specifically, how the daughters within both families represent the small, but important contributions that these characters make to modern feminist narratives. … In both ‘Downton Abbey’ and ‘Fiddler on the Roof,’ each trio of sisters takes a step in determining her own fate.

This guest post written by Adina Bernstein appears as part of our theme week on Sisterhood. | Spoilers ahead.

Progression, especially for women, is often a slow march toward equality. It’s easy for this generation of women to take for granted some of the rights we have: K-12 education, the opportunities for a fulfilling career, and — for cis straight people — the right to marry or not marry and choose a spouse. Although we still have a long way to go as we still contend with barriers to justice, such as abortion restrictions, wage inequality, police brutality, lack of healthcare for trans people, and only last year did the government pass nationwide marriage equality for same-sex couples.

While many modern women don’t think twice about some of these rights, there was a time in history, not too long ago, when these questions coming from women were unthinkable. Women were supposed to marry by a certain age, bring children (and by children, I mean boys) into the world, take care of the home, and ensure that their husband was happy; that was the extent of a woman’s life (except for poor women and women of color who worked outside the home).

Modern feminism often refers to the term “glass ceiling,” which represents the barriers and boundaries that have prohibited women (as well as people of color, LGBTQ people, and people with disabilities) from advancing in their careers the same as men have. It’s sometimes easier to see the larger cracks in the glass ceiling (represented by Hillary Clinton accepting the Democratic nomination for President, for example). But while we cheer on the larger victories, we must also pay attention to the smaller achievements as well.

In the early 20th century, some women may have been content to live out the lives pre-planned for them, fulfilling the traditional roles of marriage and motherhood. But some women did question if it was right or fair that a woman was forced to live a life with rigid parameters while her husband or brother was given freedoms that seemed out of reach.

The storylines and themes in the television series Downton Abbey and the musical film Fiddler on the Roof are about change and more specifically, how the daughters within both families represent the small, but important contributions that these characters make to modern feminist narratives.

Downton Abbey starts in 1912 in an aristocratic estate in Yorkshire, England. Robert Crawley (Hugh Bonneville), the Earl of Grantham and his American-born wife, Cora (Elizabeth McGovern), the Countess of Grantham, have three daughters: Mary, Edith, and Sybil. As they have no son, this poses a problem as the title and Robert’s fortune will not pass to his daughters. An unbreakable entail was set up years ago. Without a son, the title of the Earl of Grantham and the money tied to the estate must go to the closest male relative. Robert’s cousin and heir is dead, he is among those who did not survive the sinking of the Titanic. The closest living male relative is a distant cousin, Matthew Crawley (Dan Stevens), a middle-class lawyer who is shocked to find out that he will one day be a member of the aristocracy.

Adapted from the Broadway musical, Fiddler on the Roof is set in 1905 during the Russian Empire. Tevye (Chaim Topol), a poor Jewish milkman and his wife, Golde (Norma Crane), have five daughters — three of whom push the narrative forward: Tzeitel, Hodel, and Chava — and no sons. In that community at that time, young people did not choose their spouse. A match was arranged by the town matchmaker and if the marriage was agreeable to the parents (and the father, specifically), then the couple would wed. Tevye agreed to betroth his eldest daughter, Tzeitel (Rosalind Harris) to the town butcher, Lazar Wolf (Paul Mann). But there is a major hitch to the plan: Tzeitel wants to marry her childhood sweetheart, Motel (Leonard Frey), the tailor.

In both Downton Abbey and Fiddler on the Roof, each trio of sisters takes a step in determining her own fate. While the decisions these girls make may seem innocuous, these steps represent the larger cultural and societal fate that will impact future generations of women.

Mary/Tzeitel: At the outset of both stories, the eldest of the sisters know what their lives will look like: marry, have children, and generally live out the same lives that their mothers and grandmothers lived. Mary (Michelle Dockery) understands her status and value as an earl’s daughter, but as she’s stubborn and opinionated, she will not take the first man that comes her way. Mary initially rejects Matthew as an interloper when he is announced as her father’s new heir; it’s not the greatest start to what would become one of the great TV relationships of this era. But over time, Mary Crawley will prove herself to be much more capable than just being an earl’s daughter, as she eventually becomes a widow, a single mother, and a savvy agent of the estate.

Tzeitel is very much her mother’s daughter. Strong, outspoken, and very smart, she makes the world-shattering decision to ask her father for permission to marry Motel; not an easy feat in that community and time period. Her father balks, knowing that not only does her request break with tradition, but also fractures the verbal contract he already made with the much older butcher. Tevye finally agrees, putting his daughter’s happiness above the accepted practice of allowing the matchmaker to present a future spouse to the young person’s parents. Not only do Tzeitel’s actions pave the way for her sister’s choices, but they also encourage her future husband to achieve his goals.

Edith/Hodel: Lady Edith (Laura Carmichael) is the classic middle child and creator Julian Fellowes’ answer to Jan Brady. Caught in between her beautiful elder sister and her independent younger sister, Edith starts out the series as a mean spirited, angry young woman, especially towards Mary as the two share a rivalry. She begins to find her purpose at the beginning of season two during the changes that World War I brings. After Edith is dumped at the alter by her fiancé, she finds her purpose in life in unconventional ways that would have been unthinkable for the daughter of the aristocracy a generation before. She becomes a journalist and a magazine editor. She starts a romantic relationship with her editor Michael Gregson (Charles Edwards), becoming pregnant. After finding out that Michael is dead and after many emotional hurdles, she eventually makes the decision to openly raise her child. Edith finally finds marital happiness with Bertie Pelham (Harry Hadden-Paton), the newly titled Marquess of Hexham. Surprising everyone, including herself, Edith now ranks above her father and her entire family in terms of aristocratic rank and social standing.

While Hodel (Michele Marsh) is not writer Sholem Aleichem’s answer to Jan Brady, Hodel experiences a similarly unconventional story arc to Edith. Like her older sister, Hodel knows that she must marry. Her choice of husband in the beginning of the film, if she had one, is the rabbi’s son. But like any society, there is a social hierarchy. The daughter of a poor milkman is unlikely to marry the rabbi’s son. Hodel will marry Perchik (Michael Glaser), a traveling teacher with radical ideas that do not sit well with the denizens of Anatevka. When Perchik is arrested in Kiev at a protest and sent to Siberia, Hodel makes the unconventional decision to follow her fiancé to Sibera. Traveling alone to meet up with her fiancé, Hodel makes the brave choice to leave her family and everything she knows behind, not knowing when she will see them again.

Sybil/Chava: If one were to look the definition of rebellious in the dictionary, one might see a picture of Lady Sybil Crawley (Jessica Brown Findlay). The youngest of Robert and Cora’s three daughters, Sybil not only gets along with her two older sisters due to her kind spirit, but she’s also unafraid to step away from a traditional life. Whether she attends dinner wearing blue harem pants or her passionate political activism, she charts her own course. While attending a political rally, Sybil is knocked unconscious during a riot. Finally, she shocks her family with her marriage to Irish socialist chauffeur, Tom Branson (Allen Leech). Sybil dies in season three, leaving a grieving husband, a newborn daughter who would never know her mother, and a devastated family. In the end, Sybil’s legacy of love, independence, and acceptance that change was a good thing would forever leave a mark on her family.

If Tzeitel and Hodel made small steps outside of a traditional life, Chava (Neva Small) jumped across the boundary of tradition. Her marriage to Fyedka (Raymond Lovelock), a Christian boy, breaks all the rules. By marrying out of her faith and converting to her husband’s religion, she does not even think twice about asking for permission the way her elder sisters had; she just goes for it by eloping. Her parents and her father especially, are extremely upset and Tevye disowns her. In the end, Chava and Fyedka receive a reluctant blessing from Tevye as the Jewish denizens of Anatevka are forced out of their homes.

Looking back, the cracks in the glass ceiling that these women made may seem small and insignificant, but in the long run, the cracks are substantial. This generation, the great-granddaughters of the young women who lived in that era, owe a huge debt to our great-grandmothers who lived in the early 1900s. Without the bold and unconventional choices they made, we would not have the rights and opportunities that many of us take for granted today.

Adina Bernstein is a Brooklyn-born and raised writer who finds pleasure and release in writing. You can find her on Twitter @Writergurlny and on her blog at writergurlny.wordpress.com.

Sisterhood with a Capital “S”: ‘The Triplets of Belleville’

Sisterhood is powerful, magical, and resilient: that’s the sororal message in the celebrated 2003 animated film… Character distinction between the sisters as individuals is not a major focus for writer/director Sylvain Chomet, although each Triplet has different functions/feelings at specific times. The bond of the sisters as a more monolithic force is depicted instead: Chomet presents the unity of sisterhood. … The agency of older women, including the eponymous trio, is vital to ‘The Triplets of Belleville.’

This guest post written by Laura Shamas appears as part of our theme week on Sisterhood. | Spoilers ahead.

Sisterhood is powerful, magical, and resilient: that’s the sororal message in the celebrated 2003 animated film The Triplets of Belleville (Les Triplettes de Belleville), written and directed by Sylvain Chomet. The film was nominated for two Academy Awards in 2004 in the categories of Best Animated Film and Best Music/Best Original Song (for “Belleville Rendez-vous”), and won many other awards.

Initially presented in nostalgic sepia and white tones, the fictional city of “Belleville” is a combination of Paris and New York. When the film begins, the youthful Triplets are a singing jazz sensation, part of a smashing show at the “Swinging Belleville Rendez-vous,” featuring Josephine Baker, Django Reinhardt, and Fred Astaire, whose own shoes devour him.

Chomet’s film is nearly dialogue-free, and the repeated chorus of the sisters’ hit song underscores the importance of engine motion to the women, and to the film: “Swinging Belleville rendez-vous/Marathon dancing doop dee doop/Vaudou Cancan balais taboo/Au Belleville swinging rendez-vous.” In a 2004 interview, Chomet said the lyrics are onomatopoeic, without meaning, and drawn from English and French. So the music “swings,” and evokes a train and train whistle; there’s a suggestion of movement in it musically and lyrically.

The story then shifts to the older woman Madame Souza and her melancholy toddler grandson Champion, who watch the famous Triplets sing on television; the “present” is depicted by a shift to color in the animation. Widowed Souza, who raises orphaned Champion, nurtures the boy’s love of cycling and devotes herself to training him, most notably by blowing a loud whistle as she trails along behind him. She also gives him a puppy named Bruno. When we first see their little home, it’s in the middle of farmland, a pastoral setting. But after Champion and Bruno mature, trains run right next to their home, and Bruno barks at them all day long. “Progress” has arrived.

As “mother,” trainer, and de facto mechanic, Souza balances the wheels of Champion’s bicycle each evening, after she gives him a post-workout rubdown with a vacuum cleaner. She spins a tire wheel at the dinner table — an image that evokes a spinning “wheel of fortune” or perhaps the classical image of the Fates, who were depicted with a spinning loom as they decided an individual’s future by cutting the Mother thread of Life.

At a remote mountaintop, Champion is kidnapped from his Tour de France race by the mafia, and forced onto a huge ship along with two other cyclists in the race. Souza, Bruno, and a driver find Champion’s abandoned bike on the peak — the only clue to his disappearance. The grandmother and dog paddle across the ocean in a small rented boat, and track the ship to Belleville. Bruno sniffs the way, detecting Champion’s scent. Eventually, Souza and Bruno find themselves down and out at night in Belleville, sitting around a lonely fire in a deserted part of town, unsure of Champion’s location. A forlorn Souza spins her wheel rhythmically in a back alley, as a full moon rises.

The Triplets of Belleville suddenly appear and perform their hit song to the percussion of Madame Souza’s wheel. Much older, they still sound great. The trio kindly takes in Madame Souza and Bruno.

The three eccentric women live together in one-bedroom apartment near a train track, decorated with posters from their former glory days. At home, the trio let down their long silver hair, brushing it out, in one case. When the Triplets start to make supper, hungry Souza and Bruno anticipate a traditional meal. Instead, one of the Triplets goes into a nearby marsh and collects frogs to boil, via a stick grenade thrown into a pond that propels frogs into the air. She catches them with a net. The five then feast on frogs, prepared in a large pot.

Afterwards, Souza offers to help clean up the kitchen, but discovers that the fridge is completely empty; a Triplet indicates that the appliance mustn’t be touched. Likewise, the vacuum cleaner is puzzlingly off-limits to Souza, too; a newspaper must not be read or tossed, either. The sisters soon retire to their one bed, which they share; they watch an old bicycle race on television and laugh. The grandmother and Bruno sleep in the other room, with Souza on the couch.

The three sisters are presented in two different eras in the film: young, when they are big stars at the Rendez-vous club, and then, at this later point, as elders. In fairy tale terms, they appear in the second part of the film as “crone” characters, related to witches. They show up at night; they eat boiled frogs from a cauldron-like pot. Their work is “nocturnal,” as they still have music gigs, and there are three of them, like William Shakespeare’s Weird Sisters in Macbeth. But even though the Triplets are no longer in their heyday, they have stayed together as a collective, and seem content. They are still experimental musicians with regular gigs in Belleville.

Character distinction between the sisters as individuals is not a major focus for Chomet, although each Triplet has different functions/feelings at specific times. The bond of the sisters as a more monolithic force is depicted instead: Chomet presents the unity of sisterhood.

The Triplets invite Souza to join them onstage at a restaurant, playing her spinning bike wheel so that it sounds like a xylophone; they instantly become a quartet. As experimental music-makers, the three sisters subvert traditional tools of domesticity; they play the unused refrigerator, the vacuum cleaner, and the newspaper as musical instruments in an avant-garde performance. This is also part of the sisters’ special powers; they transform everyday objects by finding new functions for them, and in the process, they create something brilliant together, not as individuals.

Members of the mafia come to this venue to dine; Bruno and Souza track the criminals later, and surmise that Champion and two other cyclists are being used as part of a bizarre underground betting scheme. Three chained, exhausted bikers pedal to power a movie projector that displays an open road on film. Bets are placed on their never-ending race by a shouting unruly mob, maintained by the mafia. The four women, with Bruno, formulate a plan to free Champion. The Triplets and Souza maneuver their way into the rowdy betting arena, dressed as one of the syndicate guys (who, throughout, have been visually distinctive as black square “suits”).

One exhausted cyclist is shot. In a scuffle, Madame Souza and the sisters manage to free the pedaling platform, throw another stick grenade, and escape together to the road. One sister steps onto the vacated empty bicycle and they bravely pedal the platform into Belleville’s streets. Pursued by the mafia, Souza and the sisters block incoming bullets with a frying pan — again, subverting a tool of domesticity into something else. In the chase scene, a train intercedes to slow the bad guys down, and finally, on a steep hill, Souza trips one remaining foe with her big clog. The Triplets, Souza, Bruno, Champion, and the other cyclist all pedal away up a hill into the nighttime, with the film of an open road still projecting on a screen in front of them.

The film concludes with Champion, now an old man, watching this very film on television. He turns and answers a question posed by Souza at the very beginning: “Is that it, then? Is it over? What do you think?” Champion: “I think that’s probably it. It’s over, Grandma.”

The agency of older women, including the eponymous trio, is vital to Chomet’s The Triplets of Belleville. Familial sisterhood becomes “Sisterhood” with a capital S in this film. Chomet’s Sisterhood is inclusive, because it’s not just the Triplets; by the end, Souza’s in it, too. One foreshadowing of their symbolic Sisterhood is Souza’s early use of a vacuum cleaner as a post-workout rubdown tool; like the Triplets, Souza, subverts a domestic tool for another purpose.

The idea of engine/wheel motion, prevalent throughout the film in “swinging” music, trains, bicycles, and separate wheels, is also part of this powerful Sisterhood. It represents the agency Sisters have to go places and do things; they solve mysteries and bring down the mafia, all while making their music. Spinning wheels also represent a connection to a wheel of Fortune and Fate/the Fates: these Sisters know how to work with it. The Triplets fearlessly “swing,” have a train whistle motif in their anthem, and live by a train track. Souza, too, lives by a train, manages a cyclist, and balances a spinning wheel each night, which she eventually turns into a musical instrument.

When they hit hard times, the Sisters are resilient and resourceful. They always find a way. They use domestic tools for music (the Triplets), or post-workout massages (Souza), or as shields (as in the final mafia chase). Magical sisters stick together and get things done; one elderly sister is magical enough to be able to pedal along with Champion and the other outstanding cyclist in the final sequence.

Sisterhood is long-lasting: Chomet opens with the Triplets as young stars, and ends with them as heroines in their dotage, with a new Sister in Souza. The ending is happy, as we see the long-term results of their adventure: Champion has lived into old age, and is grateful to them. He honors their story by watching it with us.

Laura Shamas is a writer, myth lover, and a film consultant. For more of her writing on the topic of female trios: We Three: The Mythology of Shakespeare’s Weird Sisters. Her website is LauraShamas.com.

‘The Virgin Suicides’: Striking Similarities Between the Lisbon and Romanov Sisters

Two sets of sisters, different in circumstance but alike in experience: the four Romanov Grand Duchesses of Russia and the four Lisbon sisters from 1970s Michigan in ‘The Virgin Suicides.’ … Clear links between the two sets can be drawn, but ultimately reveal that in both situations, living in a gilded cage only leaves behind a haunting memory.

This guest post written by Isabella Garcia appears as part of our theme week on Sisterhood.

Two sets of sisters, different in circumstance but alike in experience. The first sisters are the four Romanov Grand Duchesses of Russia: 22-year-old Olga, 21-year-old Tatiana, 19-year-old Maria, and 17-year-old Anastasia. The second are the four Lisbon sisters from 1970s Michigan in Sofia Coppola’s The Virgin Suicides: 17-year-old Therese (Leslie Hayman), 16-year-old Mary (A.J. Cook), 15-year-old Bonnie (Chelse Swain), and 14-year-old Lux (Kirsten Dunst). Cecilia (Hannah Hall), the fifth Lisbon sister, is excluded here because the similarities between both sets of sisters come rushing in after her suicide in the beginning of the film. Clear links between the two sets can be drawn, but ultimately reveal that in both situations, living in a gilded cage only leaves behind a haunting memory.

As Grand Duchesses, the Romanov sisters were normally in the public eye and considered to be the most photographed royals of the early 20th century. From the outside, they were thought to be fashionable, charming, pretty, and inaccessible. Rarely apart, they were seen as a single force rather than individuals, wearing the same white lace dresses and hats. This didn’t seem to bother the girls, and instead, the sisters would reinforce this by collectively referring to themselves as OTMA, the first letters of their names. While the Romanov sisters were continually in the limelight, the Lisbon sisters in The Virgin Suicides were under the watch of the neighborhood boys’ eyes. Seen as unattainable and ethereal in their white peasant dresses, much like those that the Romanov princesses wore, the boys fell for them. They become so enamored with the idea of them that at one point after Cecilia’s suicide, the boys pore over Cecilia’s discarded diaries in an effort to get into the sisters’ minds, much like what historians do with the preserved Romanov sisters’ diaries:

“We started to learn about their lives. Coming to hold collective memories of times we hadn’t experienced. We felt the imprisonment of being a girl. The way it made your mind active and dreamy and how you ended up knowing what colors went together. We knew the girls were really women in disguise, that they understood love, and even death, and that our job was merely to create the noise that seemed to fascinate them.”

Despite what fantasies others created of them, both sets of sisters were just simple girls. Helen Rappaport’s book The Romanov Sisters: The Lost Lives of the Daughters of Nicholas and Alexandra sheds light on this very fact, delving into the duchesses’ often speculated private lives. It may come as a surprise that they weren’t treated as royally as everyone thought; instead, they were brought up quite humbly, living rather repetitive lives. In an article about Rappaport’s book, writer Yelena Akhtiorskaya comments on her bewilderment at the fact that “the girls take baths, play hide-and-seek, drink tea, get measles, [and] love each other” when she was expecting something more grandiose and compelling. The Romanov and Lisbon sisters fell in love with unattainable boys, complained about not being able to go out, and silently worried about their future. Even their rooms, which carried an ethereal quality to them, seem to be alike. The duchesses covered the walls with colorful throws and shawls and placed small knick-knacks, icons, and pictures on their bedside tables to make the room more welcoming.

Although the Grand Duchesses would seldom go out, their birthdays were events to be celebrated. Most likely the sisters’ favorite night was Olga’s 16th birthday debut in the Palace in Livadia at the Crimea. Escorted to the ball by her favorite officer Nikolay Sablin, Olga beamed with joy and danced for the rest of the night. Tsarina Alexandra wasn’t fond of frivolous aristocratic balls and only allowed Olga and Tatiana, whom she called the “Big Pair,” to attend three more balls in their lifetime. Even so, this quick appearance from the girls caused partygoers to realize that “despite the limitations of their till now sheltered lives, ‘they were simple, happy, normal young girls, loving dancing and all the frivolities which make youth bright and memorable’.” In much the same way, the Lisbon sisters’ last taste of freedom comes when Mrs. Lisbon (Kathleen Turner) begrudgingly allows them to attend the homecoming dance with dates from the football squad. The sisters attend the dance wearing four identical white flowery dresses with slight variations, but they don’t complain as they’re too excited to finally get a chance to go to a school dance. During the night, the girls have their first kisses, slow dance with their dates, and Lux and her date Trip Fontaine (Josh Hartnett) win homecoming king and queen. Nearing the end of the dance, the eldest sister Therese turns to her date and delightedly tells him that she’s having the best time. Unfortunately, the girls get thrust back into their restrictive reality after Lux doesn’t make it home with them that night. She spends the night on the football field with Trip and doesn’t come home until the next morning, much to her parents’ anger.

It’s because of this and their exposure to the dangers of the outside world that Mrs. Lisbon and Tsarina Alexandra chose to isolate their daughters from everyone. Seeing it solely as a benefit to their safety and well-being, both mothers tucked them away — into the Lisbon household and the Romanov palaces. For Mrs. Lisbon, she seeks to protect her daughters from the prying eyes and hands of high school boys, while the Tsarina wished to keep OTMA away from the charged political climate of the time and possible assassination threats against the family. Mrs. Lisbon pulls the girls out of school after Lux’s failure to make curfew, while the Grand Duchesses were privately tutored at their home. Both sets of girls didn’t make or have friends their age apart from each other. The Romanov girls could only make friends with their tutors and the soldiers that oversaw their daily lives. Desperate for any contact with the outside world, Anastasia and Maria would routinely ask the soldiers to tell them stories about people on the outside. Rappaport sympathizes with them:

“With hindsight one might say that in being denied contact with young men and women of their own social standing and the life experiences that went with it, the sisters were trapped in a stultifying, artificial world in which they were perpetually infantilized.”

This also applies to the Lisbon sisters where at one point in The Virgin Suicides, Lux tells her mother, “I can’t breathe in here.” To which Mrs. Lisbon responds, “Lu, you are safe in here.” For both Mrs. Lisbon and Tsarina Alexandra, their children are their life. Even Alexandra’s lady-in-waiting Elizaveta Naryshkina recognized this, but knew that Alexandra “does not understand that there are consequences to all mistakes, and especially her own.” Both mothers ardently desired for their children’s safety, but it only did more harm than good: pushing them further away from society. Little did both mothers know that hiding their families away would help incite their downfalls: the Lisbon girls’ suicides and the public’s distrust and then imprisonment and deaths of the Romanovs.

Tsarina Alexandra was quickly disliked by Russian citizens for seeming too distant and cold, which wasn’t helped by the fact that she made her family shy away from the public eye as often as possible. With the revolution breaking out in 1917, Tsar Nicholas was forced to abdicate while Alexandra and her children were placed under house arrest. It was only a year later when they were imprisoned in Ekaterinburg and ultimately met their demise. While there, the Romanov sisters lived a much stricter life than their house arrest. Like the Lisbon sisters, they weren’t allowed out apart from a stroll in their gated garden once a day. The Romanov sisters noted in their diaries their boredom and monotony, with each day passing just as the day before. Their dreary isolation didn’t go unnoticed by outsiders. Russian writer Nadezhda Mandelstam, who was the same age as Maria, wrote in her book:

“I suddenly understood that I was much happier than these unfortunate girls: after all, I could run around with the dogs on the street, make friends with the boys, not learn my lessons, make mischief, go to bed late, read all kinds of junk and fight — with my brothers and anybody else…”

After not seeing the Lisbon sisters for a couple of weeks, the neighborhood boys that longed to save them from their confinement believed them to be “living in the dead, becoming shadows.” The girls would have disappeared from their lives altogether if they hadn’t reached out to the boys by speaking with them via Morse code using their lights. When that doesn’t work as well as it should, they take to calling each other and playing songs that represent their feelings — from “Alone Again” by Gilbert O’Sullivan to “Run to Me” by the Bee Gees. When allowed over one night by the girls, the boys believe they’re helping the girls escape, but they end up being witnesses to some of their suicides. Although the Romanov family was under strict lockdown, two boys, Vladimir and Dimitri Storozhev, sons of a priest that would occasionally visit the family, also managed to get in contact with the girls by gesturing and talking over the fence to them. But nothing resulted of this contact. The Romanov family was violently executed by Bolshevik soldiers in a cellar on the night of July 16-17, 1918.

Both sets of deaths, the Lisbon suicides and the Romanov murders, were shrouded in mystery for some time after. For the Lisbon girls, people wondered why they did it; for the Romanov girls, people fantasized that maybe one of them managed to escape death. This theory has since been proven false, but that didn’t stop people from hoping. In The Virgin Suicides, the neighborhood boys describe their confusion about what happened to the Lisbon sisters as having only some “pieces of the puzzle, but however we put them together, gaps remained — oddly shaped emptiness, mapped by what surrounded them, like countries we couldn’t name.” And yet, only one thing is for certain. Despite being lumped together as a group and despite being seen as ethereal beauties, they were just girls. They wanted freedom to live their lives. They had hopes and dreams for a future taken from them too soon.

References: Rappaport, Helen. The Romanov Sisters: The Lost Lives of the Daughters of Nicholas and Alexandra. New York: St. Martin’s, 2014. Print.

Isabella Garcia is a California-based aspiring TV writer who can be found crying over movies, books, and TV on Twitter @isabellagrca and It’s Just About Write.

My Sister’s Keeper: When Sisterhood Sours in Horror Films

But there’s also a darker side to sisterhood, where rivalries take violent turns and where bonds are almost too strong, superseding everything else including reality. When sisters are pushed to the extremes, when women don’t meet society’s expectations, what does this tell us about the constraints on women to conform to idealized versions of femininity and sisterhood? Are bad sisters just failures or are they simply women with complicated narratives that a patriarchal society doesn’t allow room for?

This guest post written by Jamie Righetti appears as part of our theme week on Sisterhood. | Spoilers ahead.

[Trigger warning: discussion of suicide and abuse]

The beauty of sisterhood has been extolled in cinema for generations, where undeniable bonds and deep love carry women through a multitude of obstacles and life-altering events. In A League of Their Own (1992), the rivalry between Dottie (Geena Davis) and Kit (Lori Petty) drives them to achieve greatness when the country needed it most and their undeniable love for one another helps them mend their relationship in the long run. In Eve’s Bayou (1997), two sisters, Eve (Jurnee Smollett-Bell) and Cisely (Meagan Good), take turns sheltering each other from the truth behind a dark childhood trauma and help each other heal after death of their father. Despite the variety of stories, the message is clear: the love between sisters can overcome anything. It is a powerful, transcendent bond that can even be inexplicitly supernatural at times.

There’s possibly no greater example of female sibling rivalry gone wrong than Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? (1962), a Robert Aldrich film about two feuding sisters living in a crumbling mansion, which was fueled in part by the notorious rivalry between stars Bette Davis and Joan Crawford. In the film’s opening sequence, the stage is set for conflict. Baby Jane (Davis) is a child star and adored by the girls’ father, but later in life, it is Blanche (Crawford) who finds success in Hollywood as Jane’s star wanes. One evening, the Hudson sisters return to their mansion and when one sister gets out to open the gate, the other tries to run her over. Although we cannot see who is behind the wheel, the accident leaves Blanche permanently paralyzed.

Blanche now uses a wheelchair and Jane’s mental health declines, her behavior having grown more erratic over the years. Jane’s desperate attempts to regain her childhood stardom are in many ways directly tied to the death of her father, but her adoration (which isn’t matched by Blanche) also hints at sexual abuse. It is this correlation between success and warped love that causes her to lash out at her sister, whose success she sees as the reason her own stardom ended, which in turn brought an end to the abuse that she had categorized as love. The seeds of bitterness and dysfunction run deep for both sisters.

In the end, we discover that Blanche endures Jane’s senselessly cruel behavior because she was the one driving the car that fateful evening and it was Jane, not Blanche, who was pinned against the gate and nearly killed. Blanche has endured decades of abuse as penance for her anger, choosing to keep the truth of the accident a secret not just to punish herself but to punish her sister as well by never revealing the truth behind the story and allowing Jane to believe she was capable of such a heinous act against her own sister. As a result, Jane unleashed a torrent of abuse on to Blanche. The downfall of the Hudson sisters did not come from faded stardom but from a sibling rivalry that warped itself into a vicious cycle of abuse in place of affection.

But just as bitterness can tear two sisters apart, love can also distort into an obsession so strong that it clouds reality and puts everyone else at risk. In Sisters (1973), director Brian De Palma continues his early career homage to Hitchcock with a twist on Rear Window (1954), as well as a small nod to Vertigo (1958), with the story of Danielle (Margot Kidder), a beautiful model sheltering her dangerous sister, Dominique (also played by Kidder). The film opens with a hidden camera game show, where an unwitting salesman, Phillip (Lisle Wilson), is pranked by Danielle. He wins dinner for two and decides to take her out that evening. The two make it back to Danielle’s Staten Island apartment. Although they are menaced by Danielle’s ex-husband, Emil (William Finley), they spend the night together. In the morning, Phillip overhears Danielle arguing with her sister, Dominique, in the bedroom. Danielle is unwell and asks Phillip to pick up a prescription for her as well as a birthday cake, so she can celebrate her sister’s birthday. Upon his return, Phillip is attacked by a frenzied Dominique, who stabs him to death in the living room while Danielle is sick in the bathroom.

The murder is witnessed by one of Danielle’s neighbors, Grace (Jennifer Salt), a journalist known (and disliked) for exposing police corruption. In the film’s more overt Hitchcock homage, Grace struggles to get the police to take her claims seriously, and when they finally do search Danielle’s apartment – which Emil hastily cleaned up – they find no trace of Phillip’s body or Dominique. Although the audience knows the truth, Grace’s sanity is continuously called into question as she tries to uncover the truth about what happened. Finally, Grace discovers the truth about Danielle and Dominique: the two were Canada’s first conjoined twins, however Dominique died shortly after an operation to separate the two women. Armed with this revelation, Grace tracks down Danielle, who is once again under the control of her ex-husband, and realizes that Danielle has split her own personality, assuming the identity of her long-dead twin as a means of keeping her memory alive.

Although Sisters subtly highlights Danielle’s condition, by showing her reliance on pills and her violent withdrawal shortly before Phillip’s death, in many ways, the film is less about a diagnosed mental illness and more about Danielle’s inability to cope after the loss of her twin. For Danielle, and in turn “Dominique,” there is no greater intimacy than the one shared between twin sisters. Although a part of Danielle yearns to break free and live her life as she wishes, as evidenced by her date with Phillip, ultimately she is powerless to the bond she shares with her twin, which will take over to eradicate any threat. By quantifying Danielle and Dominique as conjoined twins, there’s an added sense of symbolism – the two are quite literally part of each other; even after the death of Dominique, part of her would inevitably live on in Danielle.

The powerful, protective bond between sisters is a theme that is also explored in A Tale of Two Sisters (2003), a South Korean horror film written and directed by Jee-woon Kim. Based on a Korean folk tale, the film introduces Soo-mi (Su-jeong Lim), a young girl questioned by doctors about an unnamed event which caused her significant trauma. Although she refuses to answer any of their questions, she is allowed to return home to her family’s large estate where she lives with her father (Kap-su Kim), her younger sister Soo-yeon (Geun-young Moon) and her stepmother (Jung-ah Yum). Although the film initially brings in a supernatural element — bloody ghosts and strange noises set us up for a ghost story — there is also a very real conflict between the sisters and their stepmother. Family photos reveal that the girls’ hatred of their stepmother is rooted in the death of their own mother. Their stepmother was a nurse who worked with their father and worked as an in-home nurse while their mother was sick. In turn, Soo-mi finds vicious bruises on her sister’s arms, indicating that the hatred is quite mutual.

Soo-mi becomes increasingly protective of her younger sister, who seems to be the target of their stepmother’s aggression. When Soo-yeon finds their pet bird has been killed, she goes into her stepmother’s room where she finds photos of herself that have been defaced. Her stepmother then grabs her and locks her in a giant armoire, ignoring the girl’s terrified pleas to be released. Finally, Soo-mi releases her sister, begging her forgiveness for not hearing her cries for help. When Soo-mi confronts her father about Soo-yeon’s ordeal, he blames her for the problems and drops a bombshell: Soo-yeon is dead. Soo-mi refuses to accept this and her father decides to send her back to the institution which she was released from earlier in the film.

But instead of just mirroring one sister’s inability to process her grief, which is at the center of Sisters, A Tale of Two Sisters offers us one more twist. It is also revealed that Soo-mi is not only seeing her dead sister, but she has split her personality and is also acting as her abusive stepmother. The film’s final sequence offers insight into Soo-mi’s fractured psyche. After the abrupt marriage between her father and stepmother, Soo-yeon discovers the body of her biological mother, who was terminally ill, hanging in the armoire. While attempting to save her mother, the armoire collapses onto Soo-yeon, who is slowly suffocating and being crushed to death. Her stepmother comes to investigate the source of the crash and notices Soo-yeon’s hand reaching out of the tipped armoire but before she can intervene, she is dragged into an argument with Soo-mi, who inadvertently facilitates her sister’s death by arguing with her stepmother. Soo-mi’s grief makes it impossible to accept her sister’s death, because by doing so she must accept her own role in it. To avert this and to demonstrate her love for Soo-yeon, she not only mentally resurrects her sister but she also assumes the identity of her stepmother, acting as both savior and torturer. Soo-mi’s ritual is almost akin to self-flagellation, where she instigates a cycle of imagined abuse and rescue to try and blur a reality in which she was too late.

While the inability to process the death of a loved one is very real, distorting both love and grief allow horror films to explore and subvert traditional gender roles, particularly where women are concerned. Both Danielle and Soo-mi could be considered good sisters because they are devoted to the memory of their dead sisters. They demonstrate the unbreakable bond that sisters can have, but in doing so, they destroy their own view of reality, unleashing violence on both themselves and those around them. Furthermore, by role-playing her dead sister’s savior, Soo-mi is adopting the maternal, nurturing instincts expected of her as a woman, but in the context of A Tale of Two Sisters, this becomes a symptom of her mental illness and eventually leads to her institutionalization. Likewise, Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? not only warps sibling rivalry into something unhealthy, but it also allows the Hudson sisters to break free of the stereotypical constraints of both sisterhood and womanhood by allowing them to be abusive and even murderous towards one another. In doing so, the women are able to step away from acceptable gender roles (particularly for the film’s time period), which is something normally confined to masculine depictions of a Cain and Abel-esque brotherhood.

While sisterhood is something to be celebrated and has given us memorable depictions of love and life-long devotions, we can still glean important lessons and commentary from its darker side about our own limits as women who must juggle and adapt to multiple roles within an ever-changing society.

Jamie Righetti is an author and freelance film critic from New York City. Her work has been featured on Film School Rejects and Daily Grindhouse, as well as in Belladonna magazine. Jamie is the host of the horror podcast, ScreamBros, and she has just released her debut novel, Beechwood Park, which is currently available on Amazon. You can follow her on Twitter @JamieRighetti.

‘Little Women’: Learning to Love All of the March Sisters

This guest post written by Allyson Johnson appears as part of our theme week on Sisterhood.

Few films have shaped my life so far in the way that Gillian Armstrong’s adaptation of Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women did. Being one of the very first films I remember watching and seeing Jo (Winona Ryder) and her bookish ways, brazen behavior, and “unconventional” beauty created a role model for me. She was someone I identified with and also strived to be. Our perception of this film (and book) is expected to change as we grow older.

Despite the overabundance of affection I hold for Christian Bale’s Teddy, as an adult, I understand why Jo chose not to pursue him romantically. But that heartbreak of a lessened friendship stings greater. The appeal and natural oozing chemistry between her and Bhaer (Gabriel Byrne) is more tangible to a 25-year-old than a 10-year-old who would see Amy and Teddy’s marriage as a deception. Now, there’s the sorrow of their union along with the joy of Amy getting her girlhood crush — who promised her he’d “kiss her before she died” — and Teddy becoming a member of the March family after all that time.

However, the clearest, most poignant development that comes through growing with the films is how ultimately, the love story between Jo and Bhaer and the unrequited love story between Jo and Teddy mean little juxtaposed to the love shared between the four sisters. They are one another’s hearts and souls, evident as Jo writes her novel at the end of the film. It’s her sisters’ words that fill her memories and come pouring out from her fingertips, to her pen and onto the page, forever marked in ink with the spirits of the women who helped frame who she grew to be.

My idolization of Jo was never much of a surprise, from her tomboy nature to her passion for storytelling. Her burnt dress, her hair being her “one beauty,” her conflicting feelings over growing older and carving out a place for herself in the world, it all struck that resonating chord where I could see pieces of myself for better and worse. She is the character I first truly latched onto and that affection never faded, instead growing over time as her flaws became more apparent and more relatable too. She was human and beautifully imperfect; growing older is learning how to love that imperfection in both yourself and in others.

What has taken longer has been my appreciation for the rest of the March clan, the sisters for the most part. In my childhood, Beth (Claire Danes) had been most notable for her death and how it affected Jo. The scene where she’s gifted a piano never failed to drive me to tears but Beth, as she admits herself, has never been the one that stood out. She was there to listen and encourage; to be Jo’s best friend and confidant. She saw herself as someone who was never really meant to lead but follows in her mother’s and sisters’ footsteps happily. As we grow, we see what made her so integral — beyond her obvious generosity and kindness. Her soul was sweet, to the point that even in her last, dying breaths she comforts Jo, saying that for once it will be her turn to go first before the wind comes, knocking the windows from their latch, and sweeping Beth’s spirit along with it, leaving behind all the lives she has touched. The empathy Beth possessed and the means in which she delivered upon it are highlighted once we’re past the point in our adolescence when selfishness can be somewhat second nature.

Meg (Trini Alvarado) was an even trickier character to relate to because I (as I’m sure many of you did too) saw her as Jo did at the start: someone caught up in what was expected of her rather than someone who proudly owned her identity. It was and is an immature point of view to take on such a world-weary character. As the eldest sister, she’s played second-in-command for her mother for so long, so how do we begrudge her a night of frivolity — of senseless fun? Meg, in the most rudimentary sense of the world, leads the simplest life. She’s married and has children with a good, dependable husband. But one can’t help and wonder what a film told from her perspective might entail as she watches her sisters, one by one, depart from home.

And then there’s little old Amy (Kirsten Dunst and Samantha Mathis). Amy, who has taken me the longest to come around to, but now is a character who I hold dearly with as much adoration as I do for Jo, but in a juxtaposed manner. Curious, clever, and yes, sometimes selfish, as so often little kids are, she is so often poised as Jo’s opposite despite so many similarities. Both artistic but Amy’s painting lends itself more to what is expected out of a woman of that time, as opposed to Jo and her writing. Where Jo bucks at conformity, Amy desperately wants to fit in.

As a child, it was so easy to see Amy burning Jo’s book and label it a heinous crime; a moment where as an eldest sister, seeing a younger sister get away with something so purposefully spiteful was damn near irredeemable. As I grew, I saw the desperation in the act, the malice in Jo’s words towards Amy, and how the two should have been allowed lost time to make up, if their words to one another after Amy falls into a frozen lake mean anything. Amy looks like a doll, is naturally considered beautiful, and falls in line with latest trends, even if they’re as silly as limes. But she’s young and impulsive, and there is something so stiflingly sweet natured about her that allows for her more selfish acts to be forgiven. It just took me growing out of my tweens and teens to find those traits endearing rather than aggravating. It was never Amy’s fault that she was favored, it was society’s and how and who they deemed to be women of value. Amy simply existed in a world where the rules of who women should be and how they should behave were already dictated. Learning that crucial element brings a whole new clarity to Amy and her dynamic with Jo. Amy never tried to beat Jo at anything.

Little Women, both in novelization and cinematic form, is a remarkable story and one that I predict I’ll hold dear to me for the rest of my life; so embedded is Jo in my skin that I can’t fathom a time where I won’t see her influence. When I was younger, I thought that it was Jo’s writing abilities, her understanding of what it meant to be set apart that made her so appealing and a character to be reckoned with. However, I now understand that it’s her relationships with her sisters, her empathy with Beth, reliance on Meg, and protective nature of Amy that makes her so wonderfully tangible. Her sisters and their bond inform her being; it’s only natural that they should also allow her to shine as brightly as she does.

Allyson Johnson is a 20-something living in the Boston area. She’s the Film Editor for TheYoungFolks.com and her writing can also be found at The Mary Sue and Cambridge Day. Follow her on Twitter for daily ramblings, feminist rants, and TV chat @AllysonAJ.

‘A League of their Own’: The Joy and Complexity of Sisterhood on a Baseball Field

The bond between the sisters is at the heart of the wartime baseball movie, directed by Penny Marshall… Their competitive nature is a motivation to be the best… It’s obvious that Dottie always seems to have one up on Kit, which sets up the relentless struggle of the spirited Kit who wants, finally, to be better than Dottie. … Kit and Dottie are the embodiment not just of sisterhood, but of the true nature of a teammate relationship.

This guest post written by Jessica Quiroli appears as part of our theme week on Sisterhood.

It only takes a few minutes into A League of Their Own that we learn what drives the Keller sisters, Dottie and Kit, as individuals. Their competitive nature is a motivation to be the best, even in the smallest ways, like racing home to see who can run faster. It’s obvious that Dottie (Geena Davis) always seems to have one up on Kit (Lori Petty), which sets up the relentless struggle of the spirited Kit who wants, finally, to be better than Dottie. It’s immediately clear they genuinely love each other and are devoted to family, and Dottie (now Hinson) to her husband Bob. When a scout comes calling, it’s obvious that they’ve always played the game, and he considers Dottie the bigger talent. But Kit is the driven one, filled with an intense desire to play, and not just to compete, but to win.

The bond between the sisters is at the heart of the wartime baseball movie, directed by Penny Marshall, and it serves as the energetic force in many key scenes. There are many female-bonding movies, but this is a rare one that passes the Bechdel Test with flying colors. There are few sports movies focused on women, and none like this. Add to that the driving theme of sisterhood, both forged and biological, and it makes for a complex and emotional ride.

There are a lot of themes at work here. World War II created a lack of spirit in the U.S., with many of the men who once played sports serving their country overseas. Based on the real All-American Girls Professional Ball-League, the film shows the unfolding drama of the Rockford Peaches: women learning to be professional ball players and prove that they’re perfectly capable of playing the game, mixed with the fear of losing their husbands, which throbs beneath the surface every moment.

When scout Ernie Capadino (Jon Lovitz at his acerbic best) finds them on the farm, there’s something striking about the parallels to other jobs in sports; slots are few, so women must battle harder, and, hopefully, uplift each other along the way. Dottie wants to help her sister succeed and does what she can to make sure she too has a slot. Kit’s opportunity is a hard-fought chance, something any woman in any area of sports can relate to. In 2012, A League of Their Own was selected for preservation in the United States National Film Registry by the Library of Congress for being “culturally, historically or aesthetically significant.”

The theme of overcoming barriers and refusing to settle is threaded throughout the stories of some of the single women, like Doris Murphy, portrayed so beautifully nuanced by Rosie O’Donnell in one of the most tender, throat-tightening moments (at least for me). She quietly tells her teammates on the team bus about her boyfriend who treats her poorly. She explains that she stays with him because, “They always made me feel I was wrong, you know? Like I was some sort of weird girl… I believed them too. Not anymore. There’s a lot of us. I think we’re all alright.” In a moment of inspired strength, surrounded by support, she tears up his photo and throws the pieces out the window.

Similarly, Megan Cavanagh, in one of the more memorable roles, has a heart-wrenching scene with her father, as he sends her off at the train station. Her character embodies the constant struggle women, particularly those in sports, endure as “tomboys” (let’s ban that word). As women we’re judged first by appearance, and judgments hold even after we’ve proven our ability. Marla plays through taunts from fans, and being openly mocked in a team introductory video. In these days of social media, women athletes are subject to that verbal abuse every day at an overwhelming level. Hooch, like any female athlete, just keeps on playing.

Everything always comes back to Dottie and Kit’s push-pull relationship. Dottie’s quiet leadership guides the team, while Kit’s frenetic nature pops in almost every moment she’s on-screen. On the field, their teammate relationship is tempered by that leadership. Dottie is asked to be honest about her sister’s limitations when Jimmy Dugan (the unbelievably perfect Tom Hanks) wants to lift Kit for another pitcher. Kit’s explosive anger is a snapshot of the experience of women in sports, today and throughout history. Women, especially in that era, were made to feel small, incapable of physically achieving what men could. In this story, however, Kit’s main adversary isn’t a man with an agenda, but a sister whom she regards as a more capable rival. Dottie’s loving and supportive (she’s the reason they’re on the team after all), but she takes the upper hand when necessary. That pivotal moment in the game embodies the rich, emotional bond of sisterhood.

There are no male heroes in the traditional sense. There’s an equal respect that grows between Dottie and Jimmy. She doesn’t stand down. He stands up. In the scene that is a turning point for Dugan, he and Dottie give competing signs to Hooch. It’s a classic moment, perfectly performed. And, more pointedly, a man and a woman, on equal ground, communicate (argue really) through the language of baseball.

Other characters emerge in their own way and aren’t lost by the central storyline. But how could Madonna ever just blend in? Not here. As Mae Mordabito, she’s the other half of the comedy duo with O’Donnell and, although opposites in a number of areas, their relationship shows what drives the soul of sisterhood. She’s flirtatious and free-spirited, while Doris struggles with self-confidence, but is also good for a scrappy on-field fight. Their loyalty and love for each other shines through, despite personality differences.

Watching A League of Their Own is a meditation of sorts for me as a baseball writer and fan. My heart swells, and my eyes fill, and I feel tremendous pride. I’m moved by the loss, the confusion, and the struggle the women face to keep going and to, eventually, let go. Kit and Dottie are the embodiment not just of sisterhood, but of the true nature of a teammate relationship.

We need these images of women physically competing, motivated by a love of a sport, winning, and the unique bonds of teammates and sisters.

Jessica Quiroli is a minor league baseball writer for Baseball Prospectus and the creator of Heels on the Field: A MiLB Blog. She’s also written extensively about domestic violence in baseball. She’s a DV survivor. You can follow her on Twitter @heelsonthefield.

‘Our Little Sister’: Making Enough Room for the Half-Sister

Hirokazu Kore-eda’s ‘Our Little Sister’ is a mature and subtle exploration of the place of the half-sister within family life; how she fits in and how she transforms what we think the family means. … The camera lingers on Suzu’s face in a moment of indecision: will she go on as before, having no feelings for what are essentially strangers anyway, or will she take a leap of faith that will mean her identity will be forever tangled with theirs?

This guest post written by Katherine Parker-Hay appears as part of our theme week on Sisterhood. | Spoilers ahead.

Ideas of the family seem to come interwoven with requirements of unconditional love. Whether we really like our siblings, whether we would have picked them out of a crowd, is beyond the point. The task is to love them as unthinkingly and uncritically as we can manage. But, with such black and white ideologies attached to what family means, the half-sister is surely always on precarious ground; her role seems like an oxymoron by nature. After all, when we think of sisters we tend to think less in halves and more in terms of too much: too much frustration, too much jealousy, too much love. From my experience at least, sisterhood is not something we do in half-measures. So when the half-sister encroaches on the space of the traditional family unit, what do we do with her? How do we make room for her? How does she transform us, if we let her?

Hirokazu Kore-eda’s Our Little Sister is a mature and subtle exploration of the place of the half-sister within family life; how she fits in and how she transforms what we think the family means. The story follows three adult sisters: Sachi (Haruka Ayase), who works in a hospital and is struggling because of an affair with a married man; light-hearted Chika (Kaho), who works in a sports shop; and Yoshino (Masami Nagasawa), who works in a bank and has an insatiable appetite for beer and dating. The three live comfortably together in a house left to them by their grandmother. Though not openly discussed, it is apparent that their parents had a difficult breakup, with their father having an affair and their mother disappearing. The siblings now live harmoniously together; however, this balance is disrupted when they are called to their father’s funeral, where they meet their long-estranged half-sister.

On meeting agnate-sibling Suzu (Suzu Hirose), the close-knit trio are forced to question whether a stranger could ever approximate the bond formed through having grown up together. Could this officious girl of a different generation meaningfully be a sister to them? With her nearing proximity, the girls are forced to consider the nature of relationships that seemed entirely natural and obvious. With so few shared points of reference, it would be easy for the sisters to turn away. However, something stops them. Saying a stilted goodbye at the station, the sisters on one side of the glass and the half-sister on the other, Sachi blurts out, “Come and live with us.” The camera lingers on Suzu’s face in a moment of indecision: will she go on as before, having no feelings for what are essentially strangers anyway, or will she take a leap of faith that will mean her identity will be forever tangled with theirs? As the doors close, she calls out, “I will.” Watching this as a child of a broken home left me near to tears. Suzu’s situation, as she considers whether to take the chance, seemed to encapsulate to me the position that a breakup can so often leave a child in: suddenly having to choose over what their family will look like and where its emotional and psychic boundaries will fall. Vulnerable and confused, we witness Suzu in the moment where she has to decide on what she can find enough room for within herself.

The film ambles subtly, Suzu having thrown in her lot with Sachi, Chika, and Yoshi, as it documents the small acts of the sisters making one another feel at home. This is not a simple task when all share such uneasy structural relationships with one another. Suzu starts off feeling awkward, inauthentic – a guest at the house belonging to the “real sisters.” To a friend, she confesses the precarious place that her family history has left her in: her “existence is the reason for other people’s pain.” However, as we watch the three girls in everyday activities like cooking, bathing, and lounging on the floor, we come to see that so much of what matters about being a sister is not the structural relation, the label imposed on the relationship from the outside, but the daily routines. It is the running to the bus together, the annual traditions like making plum wine.

As Suzu gradually becomes more comfortable, they even come to realize that there might be something very special about bringing a half-sister fully into their lives. They have chosen the relationship, chosen each other in the way that one might choose a partner or a best friend. Though not quite that. It is a choice far more willful, because they choose her against the weight of family history and against all the reasons that could have made it so easy to turn away.

Of course, the adult sisters find themselves in a situation that few children of divorced parents could dream of: on fleeing, the mother leaves the family home solely in their hands, to do as they wish. This situation could not be more different than when parents, siblings, half-siblings, and step-siblings, wounds still raw, are all brought together to cohabit under one roof. In such volatile living situations, the bloodlines seem almost fluorescent and, with just the slightest friction, can so quickly demarcate who belongs to whom. In contrast, Our Little Sister hands the protagonists a blank slate in the form of this expansive house that is all their own. They have the chance to establish relationships at a remove from the identity of their mothers and fathers. The empty house, with its excess of uninhabited rooms, becomes symbolic of a new kinship model. It is an elastic space, where they can encounter each other beyond the psychic confines of the Oedipal.

For the sisters, the house becomes a means of shutting out the wider world that would delegitimize their budding yet fragile relationship. The value of the neutral, insulating space of the house is made clear with a surprise visit from the three girl’s mother. During the visit, she casually relates that she is selling the house. She had been unhappy there and does not stop to imagine that her girls could relate any differently to the space. This is a failure of imagination – a failure to allow the children of divorce to move beyond the pain that their parent’s have left them as an inheritance. Similarly, their aunt warns the girls that they should be on their guard against the half-sister, after all, she reminds them, Suzu is “the reason for the breakdown of the parents.” For the aunt, the emphasis falls almost entirely on the half in half-sister, where it is synonymous with tainted and impure. Sachi has to remind her aunt that the affair had been well underway before Suzu was even born. Sachi refuses to reject her half-sister based on a sense of loyalty to her parent’s past, and so refuses the idea that she and her sisters must spend their lives forever reproducing the narrative of their parents’ pain.

Our Little Sister is a gentle probing of how much psychic room we have to create kinships that are more flexible and generous. This is a question often forced upon children of divorced families but, tragically, tends to come at a time when they are too young and too vulnerable for generosity. On the other hand, as adults these sisters have the distance and emotional availability to make space for their half-sister. The idea of this, making enough room for the half-sister, is beautifully illustrated in one of the film’s final scenes. The girls look at their heights at different ages, penciled onto a door frame. This remains an iconic image of family, where each penciled mark seems to boast so much: “my identity is here,” “I belong here, in the family home,” “I was here all along.” How can the half-sister find a place for herself when face-to-face with this? Here is an archive of proof that she came too late and has missed out on too much. Suzu gazes at this height-chart with deference, a late observer of the years already past. But then her sister nudges her and, in a moment that seems to willfully bend time, places a pencil line that definitely marks Suzu’s presence on the frame, in tandem with the others.

Katherine Parker-Hay has a BA in English from Goldsmiths University of London and an MA in Women’s Studies from University of Oxford. She writes on queer theory, women’s cultural output, temporality, and comic serials.

“A Truth Universally Acknowledged”: The Importance of the Bennet Sisters Now

But more and more it seems you can judge the quality of modern adaptations on how the filmmakers view Lizzie in relation to her sisters. Even though the representation of women has greatly expanded since Austen’s time, a story that revolves mostly around sisterly relationships remains rare, which makes it even more vital. And while it is true that Austen’s romance has a timeless quality that makes it popular, the narrative of sisterly love remains transcendent.

This guest post written by Maddie Webb appears as part of our theme week on Sisterhood.

The Bennet sisters are some of the most enduring characters in fiction and Pride and Prejudice remains a beloved story. Can the modern incarnations of Lizzie, Jane, Lydia, Kitty, and Mary explain why people keep falling in love with their story?

Pride and Prejudice, for most people in popular culture, is seen as an early example of the “rom-com” genre. Boy meets girl, boy and girl hate each other, but despite their clashing personalities, they grow, develop and eventually, inevitably, fall in love. But Pride and Prejudice is more than just a first in its genre; it’s also one of the most adapted, readapted, spun off, and reworked pieces of fiction. I think the reason for that isn’t about how hunky Darcy and Wickham are or even the comic stylings of Mrs Bennet; I think it’s because of the Bennet sisters.

Like most of Jane Austen’s work, there is so much more going on under the surface and it’s easy to miss how her plots or characters often subvert societal norms, which is part of the reason her stories endure. In the case of Pride and Prejudice, this subversion comes in the form of the Bennet sisters, who are at once relatable and thoroughly atypical female characters in Regency fiction. Even within the confines of the 19th century, the Bennet sisters, for better and worse, have agency and personality coming out their ears. Though I didn’t watch every single adaptation of Austen’s classic (you’ll have to forgive me but my spare time is not that abundant), the most successful ones choose to make Lizzie’s happiness as dependent on her relationship with her sisters as her relationship with Darcy.

Three modern versions of Pride and Prejudice I did watch recently are Bride and Prejudice, the web series The Lizzie Bennet Diaries and Pride and Prejudice and Zombies — all of which I can recommend for different reasons, but all ground the heart of the narrative in the Bennet sisters’ bond. My personal favorite retelling of the Elizabeth Bennet story is The Lizzie Bennet Diaries, an Emmy-winning web series that reimagines Lizzie as a grad student who starts a video series while studying mass communication. Although only two of the sisters, Jane and Lydia, make the cut for this adaptation (there is a cousin Mary and a cat replaces Kitty), they are unquestionably more important to Lizzie than her love life, a good thing considering Darcy doesn’t even appear in person until episode 50. The vlogging format of the show gives the story enough room to fully flesh out both Jane and Lydia and shifts large amounts of Lizzie’s character development onto her relationships with her sisters. Lydia even gets her own spin-off series, which in her own words is “totes adorbs.”

I also enjoy Bride and Prejudice, the 2004 Bollywood film, mostly because of some killer musical numbers, but also because of the Bakshi sisters’ camaraderie. Our Elizabeth character, here called Lalita Bakshi, has three sisters, only losing Kitty in the translation (poor Kitty). Having the concept of arranged marriages still in place within the culture makes it a modernization that maintains more of the plot than The Lizzie Bennet Diaries. But again the alterations made to the story are largely to do with the sisters. The frame of the plot is largely the same, but the chemistry, affection, and bickering between the women feels honest and refreshing; it’s given more screen-time than the period adaptations. Bollywood and Regency fiction may not seem like a natural pairing, but keeping the family dynamic central is key to why this version is so charming.

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies may be ridiculous but it’s both a period film and an action movie, making it my kind of ridiculous. Even though this is still technically a period piece it has much in common with the other modern spins on the story. The action in Pride and Prejudice and Zombies is focused on the power of the sisters as a team and helps develop their characters. The opening fight scene — when the girls slaughter the zombie hoards — is a moment where an otherwise muddled film comes alive, while the training scenes are used to smuggle in some sister bonding time, over their love lives. Considering how easily this could have ended up as the period version of Sucker Punch, the Bennet sisters ensure that the film, while occasionally brainless, is never heartless.

Another key point of change in these versions is how the Wickham/Lydia plot is handled. I can only speak for myself, but in the book, Lydia’s behavior for me is just another annoying inconvenience in the path of Lizzie and Darcy’s happiness. In the original, the issue of Lydia running off isn’t about what will happen when Wickham abandons her, but more that it’ll ruin the family’s standing in society (read: Lizzie and Jane, the characters we actually care about). However, placed in a modern context, the Wickham/Lydia plot reads more like an abuse story. She is still young, naïve, and silly but crucially, not vilified because of it. As a result of this subtle but important distinction, Wickham is elevated from cad to full on monster. Hell, in Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, he literally locks Lydia up and is unmasked as the cause of the zombie apocalypse. It’s another element of this version that is a bit ridiculous, but again, no one can accuse Pride and Prejudice and Zombies of being subtle.

The Lizzie Bennet Diaries variation on Wickham, while more restrained, is equally as menacing and monstrous. Over the course of the series, a subplot of party girl Lydia becoming isolated from her family slowly unravels. Now career women, Jane and Lizzie are too busy for their little sister, with the latter dismissing her as a “stupid whorey slut” in the second episode. This leads her to be emotionally manipulated by Wickham, which we get to see painfully play out in her own spin-off series. The episode in which Lizzie confronts her and Lydia realizes Wickham’s true nature, is devastating. Not because it messes with Lizzie’s happiness, but because we truly care about Lydia. Creators Hank Green and Bernie Su have spoken at length about the importance of their alterations to Lydia’s story, resulting in a heartbreaking and insightful portrayal of abuse, within a light comedy series.

A similar situation unfolds in Bride and Prejudice, perhaps to a more satisfying conclusion since we get to see both Bakshi girls slap Wickham before walking out hand in hand. It’s only fitting that, in each of these adaptations Lydia is (sometimes literally) saved from Wickham and her crime of being an impressionable and impulsive teenage girl is no longer worth a life sentence. This area of the story has always left a bad taste in my mouth when it comes to the otherwise completely serviceable 2005 Joe Wright film adaptation. Despite bringing a modern filmmaking sensibility to the rest of the narrative, Lydia is still just another silly, inconvenient hurdle on Lizzie’s path to happiness, a real wasted opportunity to show how crap it was being a woman in Regency England.

People love Pride and Prejudice for all sorts of reasons: for example, my mother is rather attached to Colin Firth’s Darcy. But more and more it seems you can judge the quality of modern adaptations on how the filmmakers view Lizzie in relation to her sisters. Even though the representation of women has greatly expanded since Austen’s time, a story that revolves mostly around sisterly relationships remains rare, which makes it even more vital. And while it is true that Austen’s romance has a timeless quality that makes it popular, the narrative of sisterly love remains transcendent.

Recommended Reading: Lizzie Bennett Diaries #2 by Hank Green (on the Lydia Bennet story)

Maddie Webb is a student currently studying Biology in London. If she doesn’t end up becoming a mad scientist, her goal is to write about science and the ladies kicking ass in STEM fields. In the meantime, you can find her on Twitter at @maddiefallsover.

Sisters in Catherine Breillat’s ‘Fat Girl’

The core of ‘Fat Girl’ is these two girls, who contrast each other in some very essential ways, but are inexorably bound together by shared experiences. Both are adolescents grappling with the early throes of sexuality, but their divergent appearances and ages leave them in different positions socially, affecting their worldviews.

This guest post written by Tessa Racked originally appeared at Consistent Panda Bear Shape and appears here as part of our theme week on Sisterhood. It is cross-posted with permission.

[Trigger warning: discussion of rape]

Fat Girl is a coming-of-age story about two sisters on summer vacation with their family: chubby 13-year-old Anaïs (Anaïs Reboux) and slender 15-year-old Elena (Roxane Mesquida). A scene in the middle of the film serves as a cypher for the central paradox of the sisters’ relationship. Elena and Anaïs stand cheek to cheek, regarding themselves in the mirror. “It’s funny. We really have nothing in common,” Elena says. “Look at you. You have small, hard eyes, while mine are hazy. But when I look deep into your eyes, it makes me feel like I belong, as if they were my eyes.” The core of Fat Girl is these two girls, who contrast each other in some very essential ways, but are inexorably bound together by shared experiences. Both are adolescents grappling with the early throes of sexuality, but their divergent appearances and ages leave them in different positions socially, affecting their worldviews. Their different experiences come up in the first conversation we hear between them: Anaïs claims that boys run from her sister once they see that she “[reeks] of loose morals,” while Elena counters that boys don’t come near Anaïs in the first place because she’s a “fat slob.”

The ways in which Anaïs and Elena deviate from cultural standards of conduct are notably different. The Criterion DVD of Fat Girl includes an interview with Breillat after the film’s debut at the 2001 Berlin International Film Festival, in which the director describes Anaïs’ fatness as her coping mechanism to deal with having her body and sexuality denied by those around her. It would be liberatory if Anaïs’ body could exist without rationalization, but by now, reader, I think you and I have become used to a fat body paying the admission of meaning in order to be present in a film. Anaïs is frequently shown eating in Fat Girl. When Elena meets her summer love Fernando (Libero de Rienzo) at a cafe, their flirtation and first kiss is paralleled with Anaïs ordering and eating a banana split, “[her] favorite.” The girls’ mother (Arsinée Khanjian) initially defends Anaïs when Elena criticizes her for eating “like a pig.” At the end of the film, however, fed up with her daughters’ adolescent shenanigans, Mother snaps at her for opening a snack after they have a meal. Anaïs’ transgression is explicitly evident on her body, making her an easy target of criticism by her family. Elena’s sexual activity, however, is also transgressively excessive by cultural standards, especially considering her age. She is waiting to have PiV sex with someone special, but has been sexually active with casual partners. Elena is able to have her metaphorical cake and eat it too, satisfying her desire for sex without the effects of those desires physically manifesting on her body that would open her up to criticism and judgment, the kind of which she lavishes on Anaïs. Breillat’s Berlin International Film Festival interview delves more directly into her philosophy of the two sisters:

“Since [Anaïs’] body makes her unlovable, since she isn’t looked at and desired, she’s more intelligent about the world. She can create herself and be herself, with a kind of rebellion, certainly, which is painful, but all the same, she exists. While her sister, to her internal devastation, isn’t able to exist.”

Her analysis reduces the characters to what they experience based on their looks, but it is certainly an applicable factor to understanding not only the girls of Fat Girl, but the majority of female film characters. Anaïs desires sex without romanticizing it, whereas Elena denies her desire for sex because she romanticizes it. Anaïs wants her own sexual debut to be with a casual partner who won’t have the ability to brag about deflowering her, whereas Elena seeks a partner whose love will validate her decision. Fernando is able to coax a reluctant Elena into sex acts through hollow declarations of love. Anaïs, on the other hand, playacts being a manipulative lover, pretending two ladders in their swimming pool are different sex partners of hers. She swims back and forth between each, whispering cliche lies and practicing kissing. “Women aren’t like bars of soap, you know,” she tells her pretend-partner, “they don’t wear away. On the contrary, each lover brings them more.”

Anaïs’ sexual frustration means she observes and contemplates the sex lives of others, namely Elena’s. Her observations are cynical, but more attuned to the film’s reality. The audience may be accustomed to thinking of shots of Anaïs eating as grotesque or pitiable, but would a similar reaction be expected to the very long scene during which Fernando hounds Elena until she consents to anal sex? Elena is too emotionally involved in the scene to see it for what it is, but Anaïs, who watches from across the room, is not. The sex scenes in the film are shot from far away, putting Elena and Fernando on a stage of sorts. We aren’t used to sex scenes looking like this; we usually see closeups of hands and faces – how Anaïs is shot as she tosses and turns in bed, awkwardly watching and trying to ignore the couple. The audience is invited to empathize with her over Elena and Fernando.

Despite all the talk between Anaïs and Elena about sex, the act causes a rift in their relationship. When Elena shows Anaïs the engagement ring that Fernando gave her as a proof of his love, Anais immediately smells a rat and begs Elena not to trust him. While Elena and Fernando “go all the way,” we see Anaïs in her bed in the foreground, quietly crying. Later, Fernando’s mother (Laura Betti) – a tacky woman who is the only other fat character – explains that Fernando stole her ring. The girls’ mother asks Anaïs where Elena is, to which the girl impertinently replies that she is “not her keeper.” Enraged, their mother ends the family vacation early. On the way home, Anaïs attempts to comfort her sister. “It’s sick that people think it’s their business. It’s sick, being a virgin,” she tells Elena, who is worried about their father’s reaction and can’t get over Fernando.

The film’s climax further parallels and separates the sisters. Asleep at a highway rest stop, a trucker murders Elena and their mother, chases Anaïs into the woods, and rapes her. Once again, the introduction of a male character demanding sex disrupts the relationships between the female characters. And, as with Elena’s experience with Fernando, the rape is a desecration of the sex that she wants to have. However, Anaïs’ reaction is to assert agency within the horrible situation. She puts her arms around her assailant. When the police find her in the morning, one tells another, “She says he didn’t rape her,” to which she defiantly adds, “Don’t believe me if you don’t want to.” It’s a troubling ending; what first sprang to my mind when I saw it was how fat rape survivors are often met with disbelief or derision. Breillat is a feminist, it would be difficult to believe that she would be dismissive of young girl being raped. The film doesn’t excuse the attacker’s actions, but it does disturb the notion of Anaïs as a passive victim. Elena’s experience was a subversion of her idealized notion of having sex (by her own definition) for the first time with someone she loved; once it became obvious that Fernando had duped her, she felt sadness and shame. But according to Anaïs, “the first time should be with nobody.” What happens to her at the end of the film should never happen to anyone, ever, but given that she refuses to describe it as a rape to the police, it seems she interpreted the trucker’s attack as a removal of the vulnerability she feared from a sexual debut with a future boyfriend. She certainly does not want to be seen as vulnerable by the uniformed men surrounding her and her dead mother and sister. Elena, whose appearance and ideas about sexuality conform to patriarchal values, has been destroyed by the events of the film. But the outsider, Anaïs, defiantly survives.

I do agree with Breillat that being an outsider allows a critical vantage point; my own adolescent experience of feeling ostracized due to my weight was a major catalyst of my journey to become the faux-academic, buzzword-dropping, far-left feminist you’ve all come to know and tolerate. On the other hand, Anaïs verges on being a didactic mouthpiece at times, and it’s undeniably problematic to suggest that her value system is so outside of the mainstream that she would be okay with being violently raped. Fat Girl provides an effective critique of patriarchal sexual values, but beyond that, only a bleak non-alternative.

See also at Bitch Flicks: Catherine Breillat’s Transfigurative Female Gaze

Recommended Reading: ‘Fat Girl’: About the Title by Catherine Breillat via Criterion

Tessa Racked blogs about fat characters in film at Consistent Panda Bear Shape. They have had “(I’ve Had) the Time of My Life” stuck in their head for over a week now.