Films By Women – Page 25

‘Whale Rider’: Women And Children First

Lisa Gerrard of Dead Can Dance, one of the few successful women musicians who made the transition to film composer (she won a Golden Globe for her work on ‘Gladiator’), wrote and performed the music for 2002’s ‘Whale Rider’–and she didn’t have to date writer-director Niki Caro to do so. Gerrard might seem an unlikely choice: when I briefly worked in a women’s sex shop in the 90s, the store owner told me not to play Dead Can Dance on the sound system because they scared away customers. But Gerrard’s score for ‘Rider’ does what the best movie music is supposed to do: reinforcing the drama of the film without calling unnecessary attention to itself.

This post by Ren Jender appears as part of our theme week on Movie Soundtracks.

When I listened to post-punk and New Wave bands as a teenager in the ’80s I never dreamed that members of some of those bands would someday write the scores for successful, mainstream films: Mark Mothersbaugh of Devo composed the music for many movies including Rushmore and The Royal Tenenbaums. Danny Elfman of Oingo Boingo is the composer for Edward Scissorhands, Good Will Hunting and more. These two men followed a path that Randy Newman–who was a great, satirical songwriter before he became the composer for films like Toy Story–and Henry Mancini, composer of the score for Breakfast at Tiffany’s and The Pink Panther, tread before them. This pipeline has not, historically, been open to women musicians, even though Kate Bush, for example, was popular at the same time Devo and Oingo Boingo were, and during that time put out music that could already pass for the soundtrack to a movie. Although Karen O of The Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs was nominated for an Oscar this year for her work on the movie Her, she also, at one time, dated the film’s director which shouldn’t be a prerequisite for a woman (or anyone else) getting the job.

Lisa Gerrard of Dead Can Dance, one of the few successful women musicians who made the transition to film composer (she won a Golden Globe for her work on Gladiator), wrote and performed the music for 2002’s Whale Rider–-and she didn’t have to date writer-director Niki Caro to do so. Gerrard might seem an unlikely choice: when I briefly worked in a women’s sex shop in the 90s, the store owner told me not to play Dead Can Dance on the sound system because they scared away customers. But Gerrard’s score for Rider does what the best movie music is supposed to do: reinforcing the drama of the film without calling unnecessary attention to itself.

Whale Rider is an adaptation of the book of the same name by Māori author Witi Ihimaera about an 11-year-old girl (played by Keisha Castle-Hughes with the same confidence and solemnity Quvenzhané Wallis brought to Beasts of The Southern Wild; both girls received well-deserved Oscar nominations) who believes she is destined to become chief of the Māori living in the small community of Whangara, New Zealand, and her conflict with her grandfather, the aging chief, who believes only men can lead.

Pai’s grandfather (Rawiri Paratene) is often cold toward her, seeming to blame her for the death of her twin brother at birth, whom he believed was destined to be the community’s leader. Pai says, “(He) wished in his heart that I’d never been born, but he changed his mind.” In spite of himself, the grandfather sometimes shows great affection for and great pride in his granddaughter, letting her ride with him on his bicycle and telling her the legend about an ancestor (for whom Pai is named) migrating to New Zealand on top of a whale.

Although sexism seems entrenched in their traditions (as they are in so many Western ones) the Māori women (played, as all of the nonwhite characters are, by people who are actually Māori) in the film are hardly doormats. When the grandfather is so upset at the loss of his newborn grandson that he barely acknowledges his granddaughter, the grandmother (Vicky Haughton) ignores her husband and coos to the baby girl, “Just say the word and I’ll get a divorce.”

The grandmother’s friends aren’t above teasing and laughing at Pai and are bawdy when they talk to each other. When Pai tells these older women to stop smoking because it will interfere with their reproductive capabilities, the women raise their eyebrows and after she leaves, one retorts, “You’d have to be smoking in a pretty funny place to wreck your childbearing properties.”

Pai is given the chance to stay with her father, a successful artist in Germany, who says of his father (the grandfather) and his hopes that a young male leader will rid the community of the poverty and malaise we see, including casual drug and alcohol abuse, “He’s just looking for something that doesn’t exist anymore.”

Pai agrees to go live with her father, and the shiny, new SUV they ride in as they leave the grandfather’s modest house is a world away from the bicycle the grandfather uses to get around. But when they pass the ocean we hear Gerrard’s distinctive vocals, akin both to whale “singing” and to the traditional Māori chants we hear in the film. Pai, feeling like the whales are calling to her, opts to stay.

Pai passes her grandfather's test — Pai passes her grandfather’s test

While her grandfather starts to train the ragtag group of “first-born sons” in the ancient ways. Pai, with encouragement from her grandmother and some coaching from her uncle, masters songs, dances and weapon training–without letting her grandfather know she is doing so–too. The grandfather throws his carved whale tooth pendant into the ocean from his boat and waits for one of the boys who accompany him to bring it back, but he takes to his bed when none of the boys can pass this final “sword in the stone” test. Pai, later on a boat with her uncle, his drinking buddies and girlfriend, dives to the bottom and retrieves both the pendant and a lobster at the same time.

Gerrard’s ethereal vocal style combined with electronic flourishes make for an unusual soundtrack, but one that meshes with the film’s bracing mixture of mysticism and realism set against the strange and beautiful New Zealand landscape with its high grey cliffs and bright green hills (which audiences might recognize from The Lord of the Rings movies) better than a more traditional soundtrack from John Williams (or Randy Newman) would. When Pai pushes her forehead into the skin of a beached whale, then climbs the clusters of barnacles on its side to steer the animal into the water, the sound of the waves melds with the music and we feel like we are taking off with her.

[youtube_sc url=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vtZC5OOxoAQ”]

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

Running Away With ‘The Runaways’: Sex, Rock ‘n Roll, and the Female Experience

The music throughout the film deals with the lost and rebellious feelings during coming of age for young women. The movie tells the story of these two individuals and how their lives were affected by fame, but underneath that is the coming of age experience for young girls realizing their power and sexuality within a culture that seeks to suppress them.

The Runaways movie poster — *The Runaways* movie poster

This guest post by Angelina Rodriguez appears as part of our theme week on Movie Soundtracks.

The Runaways, based on Cherie Currie’s autobiography Neon Angel: The Memoir of a Runaway, starring Dakota Fanning and Kristen Stewart, takes us on an adventure through the early lives of rock legends Joan Jett and Cherie Currie.

The actors bring the characters to life right down to their mannerisms. — The actors bring the characters to life, right down to their mannerisms.

The actresses go as far as pretending to be left handed when they are both right handed, playing and performing the songs themselves. These women really gave lively and compelling performances. The Runaways encapsulates life for women during the 1970s. It addresses the overt sexism that the all-girl-rock-band experiences, and the loud rock and roll statement they made by harnessing their sexuality and their aggression. These two tough, street smart kids from broken homes helped to pave the path for female rockers of our time. This film does justice to the music the band made in the best way– with an incredible soundtrack.

The film opens with the young Cherie Currie dripping menstrual blood on the sidewalk to the musical stylings of their idol, Suzi Quatro, with “Wild One.” This sets the tone for the film. She is going to be unapologetic, in your face, and confessional about being a girl. Later, the song “Cherry Bomb,” The Runaways’ most famous hit, talks about Cherie’s blossoming sexuality. Women are often sexualized in the media and within their day-to-day lives, but women actually choosing to be sexual and to enjoy their sexuality is a relatively new and radical notion. The song encourages young women to tap into their own power, angst, and sexuality, regardless of what authority figures have to say about it.

“Hello Daddy, hello Mom
I’m your ch ch ch ch ch cherry bomb
Hello world I’m your wild girl
I’m your ch ch ch ch ch cherry bomb”

The introduction scenes for each character parallel in an interesting way. We get to know our Cherie as she lip syncs “Lady Grinning Soul.”

Badass. Just sayin. — Badass. Just sayin’.

She mimics the movements of this androgynous, iconic male star with precision. She is essentially in drag during this scene. Then we see something similar, as the young Joan Jett lurks around a leather store until she finally buys a jacket. “I want what he’s wearing,” she says and dons what would later become her signature look.

Joan Jett is just not Joan Jett without that leather jacket.

The characters are shown, subverting the gender norms in a very obvious way in the start of the film. They are rebels who simply don’t want to play by the rules of their time. “My brother says guys like girls who are soft and flirty,” Joan’s friend explains to her. “That’s because he’s a pussy.” This statement, although the word “pussy” itself is far less than progressive, explains that Joan feels that men that don’t support female empowerment are simply intimidated. “I Wanna Be Where the Boys Are” is the musical embodiment of this feeling. Both of these girls are desperate for the liberty to express their aggression, their rebellion, and their sexuality like their male peers. There are several songs on the soundtrack that deal with gender, among them “Rebel Rebel” by David Bowie and “It’s A Man’s Man’s World” by MC5.

It’s kinda weird how infatuated fans are about two 15-year-olds kissing.

During the infamous roller rink kissing scene between Joan and Cherie, the mood is set by one of the sexiest songs on the soundtrack; “I Wanna Be Your Dog” performed by The Stooges is heavy with mood and has the kind of bass line you can feel below the belt. Although this scene was likely added for shock value, it’s empowering to see our characters expressing their sexuality in nontraditional, non-monogamos ways. The characters kiss boys and girls, without any need to really speculate on what that means or what their “true identities” are. Seeing the girls behaving outside the confines of labels and societal expectations is liberating. A lot of the other songs seek to sexually empower women, such as “You Drive Me Wild,” “Queens of Noise,” and “Cherry Bomb.”

However, the result of these young stars and their early rock ‘n’ roll careers was a somewhat downward spiral involving drug use and several underplayed abuses. The rock ‘n’ roll engineer, Kim Fowley (played by Michael Shannon), essentially created the band from thin air.

“That Frankenstein looking motherfucker did it.” — “That Frankenstein-looking motherfucker did it.”

There’s an almost meta dynamic inside the film as we observe one of the most important all-girl rock bands being brought together and greatly influenced by a man. His gaze and his expectations directed the music, the dress, and the attitudes of the band. Of course, some of this came naturally. As Cherie explains in one interview,“We didn’t have to push the envelope, we just had to show up and be ourselves.” The film touches on this when Fowley makes Cherie pose for a scandalous photo shoot even though she doesn’t want to, and gains more media attention than the rest of the band.

As the film ends we are shown the beginning of Joan Jett’s extremely successful solo career with her songs, “I Love Rock n Roll,”“Bad Reputation,” and “Crimson and Clover.” The music throughout the film deals with the lost and rebellious feelings during coming of age for young women. The movie tells the story of these two individuals and how their lives were affected by fame, but underneath that is the coming of age experience for young girls realizing their power and sexuality within a culture that seeks to suppress them. This is close to the hearts of many viewers because we have so much progress to make in the world of arts and entertainment for women. As Joan Jett states in an interview for NYDailyNews, “I don’t think much has changed, to tell you the truth. The media says that equality for women has arrived, but if you look around, you still don’t see girls playing guitars and having success with it.”

Angelina Rodriguez grew up in West Virginia. She will be attending Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio this fall. She spends her time making art and interning with Literacy Volunteers of Harrison County.

Seed & Spark: Inviting Global Celebration of Films #DirectedbyWomen

We are living in an age where there is an explosion of films #DirectedbyWomen. That’s cause for celebration, but an enormous number of women filmmakers are working below the radar or on the fringes of awareness in the global film community. The result? Many film lovers are being left in the dark. They’re missing out on a rich vein of film treasures. Let’s draw films #DirectedbyWomen up into the light, so we can explore and appreciate them. Let’s help the world fall madly in love with and wildly celebrate women filmmakers and their films.

This is a guest post by Barbara Ann O’Leary.

Go ahead… fall in love! No need to wait. Any moment is a perfect moment to relish films #DirectedbyWomen, but we want to concentrate that love by bringing the global film community together for a powerful 15-day worldwide film viewing party next year: September 1-15, 2015. During this intense and exuberant celebration, film lovers will gather together in their communities around the world for film screenings, guest filmmaker visits and other celebrations, focusing attention on and offering appreciation for women filmmakers and their work.

We want to be sure to give everyone plenty of time to plan, so we’re launching this initiative with over a year to prepare. Film lovers/makers – women and men – everywhere are invited to create #DirectedbyWomen film viewing parties in every corner of the world.

There’s so much beautiful work unfolding and so much more ready and eager to burst forth. Let’s embrace films ‪#‎DirectedbyWomen with open arms. Let’s stand ready to receive them. Let’s say YES to the films women are creating. Let’s say “I WANT TO SEE FILMS #DIRECTEDBYWOMEN!” Let’s bring the films into our lives… into our communities… proactively. Let’s watch the films with attention and appreciation. Let’s share our responses to these films with the makers and with each other passionately. Let’s say “THANK YOU!” to the makers. Let’s say, “MORE please!” Let’s open greater opportunities for women filmmakers to create and share their work through the power of celebration and appreciation. Let’s step up to repeat this process.

I think it’s time for a worldwide film viewing party. I’m sending out this invitation to you and to every film lover on the planet. Everyone’s invited to co-create a global celebration next year. The only thing required in order for us each to gather with friends next year in September to watch films ‪#‎DirectedbyWomen is our intention to do so, BUT if we want to be able to create a celebration that raises awareness about women filmmakers and their work on a global scale, we need resources to reach as many people as possible, extend invitations, brainstorm event celebration ideas, share information about films #DirectedbyWomen and how to arrange screening rights, coordinate event and venue information, create podcasts, generate Wayfinder Tributes to honor the individuals and groups who pour their energy into supporting women filmmakers, and other actions that will help the celebration flourish everywhere.

We’re thrilled to be offering our crowdfunding campaign on Seed & Spark. Their invitation to include this project on their Independent Film Championing platform signals that major perceptual shifts within the film community are happening now and will continue to unfold rapidly as more filmmakers and film lovers stop up to embrace films #DirectedbyWomen. Seed & Spark’s innovative approach to crowdfunding, which includes opportunities for supporters to back financially or to provide in kind contributions, makes it a tremendous place to build community and come together to bring this global celebration into being.

It’s exciting to be part of this adventure into deep appreciation and wild celebration of films #DirectedbyWomen. Let’s celebrate!

Barbara Ann O’Leary, Indiana University Cinema’s Outreach Specialist, loves to help people engage authentically. Recent projects include: #DirectedbyWomen, a worldwide film viewing part; Every Everything: The Music, Life & Times of Grant Hart (Executive Producer); Indy Film Festival (World Cinema Jury [2014] & Screening Committee [2013]); Indiana Filmmakers Network Made in Bloomington Film Series (Programmer); Bloomington Screenwriting Community (Founder/Facilitator). She’s available to work one to one with people who would like support in making the perceptual shifts that will align them more deeply with their authentic creative core.

‘One Cut, One Life’: Love, Death, and Jealousy

First person documentary filmmakers Ed Pincus and Lucia Small are no strangers to letting an audience in on their family “secrets”: Small in ‘My Father, The Genius,’ a film about her own father and their ambivalent relationship, and Pincus in ‘Diaries,’ in which he filmed both his girlfriend and wife in 1970s Cambridge, the latter–in one scene that seems to sum up the post-hippie atmosphere of the time and place–nude and playing a flute.

Artists who use their own lives as the subject matter for their art always have to make a decision about how much revelation is too much. David Rakoff, whom many know from his work on This American Life, wrote frankly and transcendentally about his declining health (including an inability in his last years to use one of his arms) after he was diagnosed with the cancer that would eventually kill him. But Rakoff didn’t have to worry that his revelations would hurt those closest to him: he lived alone, without a partner or children.

When they reveal “everything,” those artists who are in relationships aren’t just exposing their own lives to the public–they can’t help also exposing intimate details about their loved ones. Author Ayelet Waldman has received criticism for revelations about both about her husband (author Michael Chabon) and her kids in her work. Sex writer and essayist Susie Bright swore off using her personal life as fodder for her work years ago and though she seems to be in a successful decades-long relationship (and sometimes collaborates with her now adult daughter), her writing doesn’t have the same spark as it did earlier in her career.

First person documentary filmmakers Ed Pincus and Lucia Small are no strangers to letting an audience in on their family “secrets”: Small in My Father, The Genius, a film about her own father and their ambivalent relationship, and Pincus in Diaries, in which he filmed both his girlfriend and wife in 1970s Cambridge, the latter–in one scene that seems to sum up the post-hippie atmosphere of the time and place–nude and playing a flute.

Near the beginning of their excellent documentary One Cut, One Life (which will be shown as part of the Woods Hole Film Festival July 28), Small and Pincus, each seeming to take a turn behind the camera, discuss plans to collaborate on their final film together (they had previously worked on the post-Katrina documentary The Axe In The Attic). Ed has been diagnosed with a fatal disease which would eventually turn into leukemia. Lucia is working through her grief over the deaths of two of her close friends, one from a hit-and-run driver, the other murdered by an ex-boyfriend.

Ed, who is over 70, has other health issues (he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s some years before and speaks slowly and carefully), but they agree that they can probably work around them. The problem is Ed’s wife, Jane, who is adamant that she doesn’t want them to film what might be the last months of his life. We’re so used to wives being a drag on “great” men in film (Pauline Kael referred to this role as the “‘please don’t go up to break the sound barrier tonight, dear’ type”) that we’re ready to think of Jane as the villain until she tells us, “I have enough to deal with in my life right now. My husband has received a death sentence, and I don’t see why I have to give him over to anybody else.”

Jane, who was filmed over five years in Diaries, is familiar with the intrusion a camera is in one’s day-to-day life and has no desire to relive it. She’s also insecure about Ed’s feelings for Lucia.

Ed documented his and Jane’s open marriage in the 70s, but after Diaries was completed they moved to Vermont to run a flower farm. When they made an appearance at a screening of Diaries in the 90s, with matching glasses and grey hair, their arms around each other, they seemed to have become a more conventional couple.

In the 2000s, Ed’s introduction to Lucia reignited his interest in filmmaking (though he still kept the farm). Lucia tells us that she became close to both Ed and Jane (who was a member of the feminist health collective that wrote the original Our Bodies Ourselves) during the making of Axe, but then they, by mutual agreement, distanced themselves when the film was finished. Lucia tells us that aside from a few “flings” she hasn’t been in a relationship in years and that working together for as many hours as a film takes, mixes up her feelings of love and intimacy, though she clarifies that her relationship with Ed is platonic.

Ed seems less intent on keeping boundaries clear. He tells Lucia he loves her and at one point Jane catches them alone in a situation that sets off alarm bells for her–and like photographers in a war zone, Ed and Lucia immediately pick up their cameras and start shooting the conflict. Whenever we see Lucia talking to the camera, she looks drained; the elements in her life that might distract her from her grief instead serve as reminders. Her big, black dog originally belonged to the woman who was murdered. Her cute New York apartment was the one she shared with the woman who was killed in the hit-and-run. But when Jane looks at Lucia she sees a blonde 25 years younger than she is, whom her husband seems to adore.

Mixed up in all of this drama is Ed’s worsening health. Receiving bad news on camera he simply says, ” Well, that’s sobering.” In stunning cinematography we see the seasons at the farm: fall, winter, spring, summer and then spring again, when a newly cue-ball-bald Ed tells the camera that the doctor had said he probably wouldn’t live past March, so he’s grateful. Ed lived two seasons longer and died this past November. When I saw the film in April as part of the Independent Film Festival of Boston, Small did a poignant Q & A after the screening. One of the first things she told us was Jane had chosen not to attend.

One Cut, One Life Trailer from Lucia Small on Vimeo.

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

Facing Down the Devil in ‘The Lesser Blessed’

Dreamlike images of a body immersed in bathwater intermingle with images of fire and shadowy figures running. The camera settles clearly on the deeply scarred back of the young man in the tub as the opening sequence to The Lesser Blessed comes to a close and the camera travels across a remote landscape split by a single road. The narrator, also the protagonist, tells us we are in Fort Simmer, Northwest Territories where “there’s not much to do if you’re not into booze or sports.” Hero and protagonist Larry Sole (Joel Evans), a kid from the Dagrib (Tlicho) First Nation in Canada, “has to face down the devil right in the eyeball before he can set free his romantic heart,” according to director Anita Doran.

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

Based on Richard Van Camp’s (Tlicho) novel of the same name, the dramatic film tells the story of a kid who runs when threatened by a bully, who dreams of a girl who doesn’t love him back, and who quietly lives with his past and his stories until Johnny Beck (Kiowa Gordon) comes to town and suddenly Larry’s past explodes into his present. When Larry tells Jed the story of his tapeworm with complete deadpan delivery, Jed chuckles and says, “Larry Sole, the most interesting thing in this shit town.”

Joel Evans is Larry Sole in *The Lesser Blessed*

Soon after, Larry’s dream girl, Juliet (Chloe Rose) pays $200 for Jed at a charity slave auction that is raising money for the school dance. Larry closes his eyes and thinks, “I bet she would have paid more.”

Chloe Rose plays Juliet Hope in *The Lesser Blessed*

The devil that Larry must face is the story of why he burned his dad. After Larry punches his tormenter, Darcy McManus (Adam Butcher), at a party, Darcy tells everyone at school that Larry set his father on fire. The entire school shuns him and Larry must face his past, his truth, his story. No matter how painful, Larry must confront his truth. When his mother’s boyfriend, Jed (Benjamin Bratt) finds him in the wilderness, Larry says, “We both burned to death that night. Except I’m still alive.”

Benjamin Bratt plays Jed in *The Lesser Blessed*

This story is as much about compassion for self as it is for reconciling the past. Larry’s journey is moving and relatable for anyone who has suffered a traumatic experience, especially sexual abuse, and found a way to survive it. On the surface, the friendship and love triangle of three teenagers is as serious and angst-filled as any teen movie, but The Lesser Blessed offers something more. It offers the viewer a glimpse at redemption on a very human level.

The Canadian Film Review spotlighted this film in 2013, interviewing the cast and Richard Van Camp, and providing some insights about the making of the picture:

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yNtgsT5JjPk”]

Winner of the Best Picture and Best Lead Actor at the Red Nation Film Festival, winner of the Best Supporting Actor at the American Indian Film Festival, and an Official Selection for the Native Cinema Showcase at the National Museum of the American Indian, The Lesser Blessed would be an excellent addition to any classroom discussing film, contemporary Native peoples, sexual abuse, or teenage experiences. The film handles its serious subject matter with honesty and lyricism; it is poignant and a joy to watch.

The Lesser Blessed is available to stream on Netflix, Amazon, iTunes, and Vudu.

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

Seed & Spark: Beyond the Bechdel Test: Strong Female Friendships on Screen

On screen male friendships are portrayed completely differently than their female counterparts. Boys have rebellious adventures together for adventures sake (e.g. ‘Kings of Summer’). Boys pull off heists together (e.g. ‘Oceans 11′). Boys are “bros” and seem to get along for the most part.

But girls are a different story. Girls fight over boys (e.g. ’27 Dresses,’ ‘Something Borrowed’). Girls are catty (e.g. ‘Bride Wars’). Girls are overly dramatic (e.g. ‘I Hate Valentines Day’).

This is a guest post by Molly McGaughey.

When I was 10 years old, there was one thing I knew I needed more than anything else—even more than a drum set (and I was pretty sure I had to have one of those). There was one thing that trumped most other prized possessions.

I always knew that I needed to have a bosom friend. Why? Anne of Green Gables told me so. A few hours each week were spent playing the movie over and over and watching the overly imaginative redhead get into mischief with her kindred spirit, Dianna.

I related so much to Anne: the way she let her imagination get the best of her, the way she went on adventures with Dianna and the way that, though they didn’t quite turn out as planned, those adventures were poetic just the same. Because anything can be marvelous when you have imagination and a bosom friend, of course.

For my 11^th birthday, I finally got that drum set that I wanted. Sure it was patched up with duct tape and from a yard sale, but it was mine and it was wonderful.

I was thrilled. That is, until I told a neighbor about it. He promptly informed me: “Drums aren’t for girls.”

Though new to me at the time, the process of deciding what is and isn’t for girls or boys started centuries ago. Strangely, it often applies to more than objects, extending even beyond hobbies and careers to relationships. Certain kinds of relationships have been deemed “normal” for each gender.

And, as a film-lover, I can’t help but wonder if the stories told on screen affect why we have certain expectations of same gender friendships.

On screen male friendships are portrayed completely differently than their female counterparts. Boys have rebellious adventures together for adventures sake (e.g. Kings of Summer). Boys pull off heists together (e.g. Oceans 11). Boys are “bros” and seem to get along for the most part.

But girls are a different story. Girls fight over boys (e.g. 27 Dresses, Something Borrowed). Girls are catty (e.g. Bride Wars). Girls are overly dramatic (e.g. I Hate Valentine’s Day).

As I grew older and watched less of Anne and Dianna and more of modern day “chick flicks,” I felt my expectations about female friendships shift. But let’s get one thing clear: I think it is unlikely that female friendships are drama-filled because that’s how our gender is programmed to behave. It is time to consider that this is a reflection of what we’ve seen portrayed on screen.

We’ve all hopefully heard about the Bechdel test at this point. We know that strong female protagonists are few and far between in the world of motion pictures. But a vital facet that often gets overlooked is that even when women are portrayed, strong female friendships are not.

Time and time again, when two guy friends are in a movie, it’s an adventurous buddy comedy romp, but the minute that girls are paired together it’s because they are competing for a guy. Or, when that is not the case, one exists just to listen to the other’s problems (and, thus, speed up the storytelling). A third option is that the friends backstab, gossip, and their friendship breaks up. These female friendships are not often a semblance of a healthy relationship.

Have you ever noticed how much girls fight on screen? Whether it be friends or sisters or an evil stepmother, it seems to be a much more common trope for female characters. Can you imagine the latest buddy comedy featuring two guys that try to sabotage each other to get the girl while an evil stepfather looms in the background? Why is that not a thing?

Think about it next time you pop in a “mindless chick flick” starring a group of girlfriends who tend to be dramatic or the next time you stop by the theatre to see the latest action adventure featuring two guys that pull off insane heists together, without an argument. Think about it the next time you see an evil stepmother paired with a father that is totally chill. Are we allowing what’s on screen to dictate what kind of interpersonal friendships each gender should or probably will have?

Movies show us what’s normal. They show us how to be, giving us something to aspire to. When we see dream chasers, friendships, and true love on screen, we want it. So it’s important to have a better representation of what friendship, sisterhood, and girlhood really means.

As an independent filmmaker, I want to tell stories that better represent female friendships and the adventures to be had through kindred spirits on screen.

The latest short film I’m directing, Live a Little, while totally unique from Anne of Green Gables, just happens to be about a spunky, imaginative, talkative redhead and her best buddy. They must conquer an overly ambitious bucket list by the end of the day. Chick flicks don’t have to be about romance or cattiness. It can also be a genre about kindred spirits doing what kindred spirits do best—having adventures.

Molly McGaughey is a director, writer, performer based out of Manhattan. She is crowdfunding for her latest film “Live a Little” on Seed & Spark. She can be found on the internet at mollyvivian.com and also founded The Not So Starving Artist, an online resource for Performers, Filmmakers and Writers. Her comedic directing work has been featured on comedytvisdead, funnynotslutty, playbill, backstage and more. Molly is also a character actress with an affinity for improv and standup. You can find her on Twitter at @Molls_MCG.

Seed & Spark: What Is a Woman’s Story, Anyway?

Nothing has made me more appreciative of my upbringing than the Verizon spot that’s gone viral in the past few weeks, about all the little micro-aggressions that bully women into a societally accepted mold, away from the common interests that all kids share like building and dinosaurs. The spot made me wonder about other ways this belittling behavior has affected women, especially in the way it affects the kind of films women want to watch—and make.

This is a guest post by Elle Schneider.

Blade Runner has been my favorite film since a sleepover in sixth grade, and I have 200 Star Wars figures and thousands of Marvel cards stashed away in in my childhood closet (in protective cases, obviously, what kind of barbarian do you take me for?).

It was Wes Craven’s Nightmare on Elm Street that made me realize I could make a film by splattering blood on some friends, and James Bond became my directing aspiration. And as far as I knew, this made me just like any other girl growing up in the 80s and 90s.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/embed/XP3cyRRAfX0″]

What if you grew up hearing, “Isn’t this movie a little too scary for girls?”

We worry rightly about girls having heroes to look up to and there is an undeniable need for gender parity in onscreen protagonists. But why must we designate girl heroes for girls, and boy heroes for boys? What’s wrong with a character like Indiana Jones being a hero for both boys and girls? Because it teaches girls to be adventurous? And why, as an industry, are we so massively afraid of letting a woman make a film like Raiders of the Lost Ark?

We tell boys that they should tell any story they want—whether it’s their own struggle or Indiana Jones’ struggle. We laud men who adapt Austen, or make a great biopic about a female heroine like Hawaiian Princess Ka’iulani, as my friend Marc Forby fought for nearly ten years to do. At Cannes 2012, when no women appeared in Competition, filmmakers like Michael Haneke and Jacques Audiard were praised for making great films about “powerful” female characters. The question was raised: does it really matter how many women are represented as directors so long as stories about women are being told?

Sharon Waxman of The Wrap held court at a panel at the American Pavilion that year to discuss the issue of gender at Cannes, and I raised my own question: how can we help the women who want to work in genre films? Her response was one I’ve often heard from women disinterested in genre: “Women shouldn’t feel like they have to make the movies that men make.”

But what if that’s what I want to make? And why is that a bad thing? What if I want to make the same kind of film that excited me as a child, just like Gareth Edwards, Ryan Coogler, Rian Johnson, or any other male filmmaker has had the opportunity to do?

My first film, made in summer 2001. It was a ripoff of EVIL DEAD about kids getting mixed up with the supernatural after finding a tarot card deck in a shack in the woods, and starred Margaret Thomas, Josh Fairchild, Jaya Saxena, Lily Harden, and a young Matt McGorry, who has gotten a better agent in the last 13 years. — My first film, made in summer 2001. It was a ripoff of *EVIL DEAD* about kids getting mixed up with the supernatural after finding a tarot card deck in a shack in the woods, and starred Margaret Thomas, Josh Fairchild, Jaya Saxena, Lily Harden, and a young Matt McGorry, who has gotten a better agent in the last 13 years.

When women filmmakers get that rare chance to make a film, we’re usually encouraged to use the opportunity to focus on a “woman’s story” with a “strong female protagonist,” as if a female filmmaker’s first duty is to social issues rather than storytelling or forging a career. But what the hell is a woman’s story, anyway?

Try as society might, women are not one homogenous group; women are not a hive-minded audience solely interested in stories that reflect a single shared experience. Ticket sales show that women make up 50 percent of the theatrical box office, despite the low number of female protagonists on screen, and that’s because women are not myopic viewers. On the contrary, women see men and women as people; men see men as people and women as women. Unlike male viewers, a woman’s story really could be anybody’s story, if only we were encouraged to tell anybody’s story.

I recently had a conversation with a group of women filmmakers who were insistent that men and women are just different kinds of storytellers—women are just naturally more “grounded” and “realistic” in their characters and settings, and that’s why women can’t get work in the testosterone-driven studio system. Studio films are male-power fantasies anyway; one participant mentioned that average white guys are constantly writing action movies, imaging themselves as Ethan Hunt, when they look nothing like Ethan Hunt. Women don’t project fantasies like that; we write what’s real.

Except that’s not true. As the National Science Foundation study cited in the Verizon spot, 66 percent of fourth grade girls express an interest in science. Many young girls I knew growing up were writing amateur versions of Lord of the Rings, as George Lucas and James Cameron did on their path to making Star Wars and Avatar. These were personal fantasies, stories where we played out our day-to-day dramas, angst, and adolescent ideas about the world through the avatars of fictional characters and settings. As a 12-year-old, this was natural. But as a 28-eight year-old? Why bother writing what you know you can’t afford?

As Lexi Alexander succinctly put it: “What do we say to a 12-year-old girl who watches Star Trek for the first time and says: ‘I want to make movies like that.’ Do we say: ‘Yeah, try to reduce your vision to something that’s crowdfundable, you’re a girl after all’?”

The reality is we do say that, as a society, if not in so many words. Women’s stories do tend to be “small” and “personal” because we’re taught to pare down from the get go, to trim our own wings before we can fly. Women are taught to expect limited resources, to envision the world through the scope of our often purposely sheltered life experience. Women are not taught to ask for more, and worse, are not taught that asking is even an option. Women’s stories are the stories of those without a voice.

It’s a myth that women are inherently unable to envision or execute large scope or genre-driven projects, a myth that too many women buy into themselves. That myth is what keeps women from being studio contenders, as Indiewire blog The Playlist recently illustrated in their article “10 Indie Directors Who Might Be The Next Generation Of Blockbuster Filmmakers.” The article features 10 eligible white, male heirs to the throne of Hollywood—because the (male) writers at Playlist can’t envision even someone as accomplished as Debra Granik—whose Winter’s Bone launched the career of blockbuster and Reddit darling Jennifer Lawrence, and whose Vietnam vet doc Stray Dog just won the LA Film Festival—successfully helming a big-budget feature.

The Playlist’s top pics for the future of Hollywood. Such white. Many scruff. Wow. — *The Playlist*’s top pics for the future of Hollywood. Such white. Many scruff. Wow.

Granik has more than proved her chops as a storyteller, and she’s done it by with compelling, award-winning portraits about strong men and women. Brit Marling, Lexi Alexander, and countless others have done the same. When do we get to see their takes on Star Wars, whose best installment was written by a woman, Leigh Bracket, back in in 1979? That’s the kind of woman’s story I want to see.

Elle Schneider is a writer and director of the genre persuasion. Award-winning graduate of USC’s School of Cinematic Arts, she was the cinematographer of SXSW Film Festival selections I AM DIVINE and THAT GUY DICK MILLER, and is a co-developer of the Digital Bolex cinema camera. She is raising production funds for her action comedy HEADSHOTS this month on Seed&Spark. You can find her on the twitters @elleschneider, and she is deeply sorry to have exceeded 1,000 words.

Seed & Spark: Hollywood’s Leading Ladies: To Be a Mom or Not to Be; What Role Will You Choose?

For a very long time, women who didn’t want to have children were deemed “selfish,” because — well, I’m not quite sure why. Men, however, although maybe a disappointment to their mothers, weren’t really labeled anything. They were bachelors, at worst.

In many movies, the struggle that men have is not a result of a decision involving kids. But in most romcoms and dramas, if there is a female role of a certain age, it centers upon the subject of children.

I wanted to look at three current movies and their depiction of parents, particularly how their children influence their decision making and where the children fit into their lives.

I chose to examine three movies where the lead was nominated for Best Lead Actress in 2014 and in a fertile age range, which led to the movies ‘Blue Jasmine,’ ‘American Hustle’ and ‘Gravity.’

This is a guest post by Kelsey Rauber.

I wanted to look at three current movies and their depiction of parents, particularly how their children influence their decision making and where the children fit into their lives.

I chose to examine three movies where the lead was nominated for Best Lead Actress in 2014 and in a fertile age range, which led to the movies Blue Jasmine, American Hustle, and Gravity.

As I told a friend about the idea of this article, she immediately interjected: “But it’s not just film! It’s across the board!” She proceeded to name at least four of her very good female friends, whose husbands travel a lot, while they hold a full time job as are the primary person responsible for the child’s well-being. Is this still justified in a world where nearly two-thirds of women are the primary breadwinner of the household?

(May contain some spoilers.)

Blue Jasmine by Woody Allen

Jasmine, recently widowed, with no kids of her own but a stepson that no longer speaks to her, makes a good case for child-free living. Her husband cheated on her and embezzled lots of money. To top it all off, her mental health is questionable.

Blue Jasmine, as a movie, feels like a possible realistic take on women–who they can be, how they can fail and the choices that they make. Jasmine, obviously blinded by wealth, doesn’t quite understand what it means to care about other people.

On the other hand, we have Jasmine’s sister, Ginger, who is probably the truest depiction of an underpaid, divorced woman that I have seen in a movie in a long time. The supporting role is her role in life.

She works hard (in a grocery store), doesn’t get out often (hasn’t been to a party in years), and looks for love in all the wrong places because she was never made to believe that she is worthy.

She and her ex-husband share custody of their two boys, but the boys live with their mother. The one thing I find most fascinating about her: She doesn’t complain. She has her life and she lives it. She isn’t unhappy. As far as she’s concerned, she is doing her best and it is good enough.

None of the men that either Jasmine or Ginger date throughout the movie comment on having kids.

American Hustle by Eric Warren Singer and David O. Russell

Though I wasn’t a huge fan of this movie as a whole, it is interesting in its different take on the paternal role. Here, it is actually the protagonist, Irving Rosenfeld, who makes a sacrifice for his adopted son. When an FBI agent busts Irving and his partner in crime/mistress, Sydney, she proposes they pack and leave the country. Irving isn’t willing to do it, because he feels a strong sense of responsibility toward his son.

Irving’s wife, Rosalyn, is depicted as a pretty terrible mother. She constantly blows things up seemingly out of sheer boredom. She’s also portrayed as an alcoholic, which fuels her inability to take care of her child (which is her full-time job).

What is interesting here is that the viewer walks away with a feeling that Irving is a good dad. I’m not saying he is a bad father, he clearly cares about his son, but the information that we don’t get in the film is how long he disappears for when he is with his mistress— he manages to have a whole other life with Sydney. I can’t help but feel that this movie sets the viewer up to feel a certain way toward the father/son relationship, even though we really only know part of the story.

If they decided to make a sequel to this movie about the boy, I think we’d see that there is no hope for this kid; his male role models are his adoptive father, a crook, and his mom’s new boyfriend, who works for the mafia.

Gravity by Alfonso Cuarón and Jonás Cuarón

Gravity is easiest to discuss given its confinement to two main characters. The viewer is left alone with two strangers for more than two hours, so inevitably things get personal.

Ryan Stone, a medical engineer, specialized in hospital scanning systems and is on her first mission in space. She gets stranded with Matt Kowalski, who is on his final mission, about to retire.

Very early in the movie, Ryan opens up about her deceased daughter: “She was playing tag—she slipped, hit her head, and that was it.”

This revelation sheds some light on Ryan’s passivity. Any loss of this magnitude would change a person’s perspective on life. The viewer is left to wonder, who was Ryan before the loss of her daughter? Was she fun and optimistic? Was she absent a lot because of her job? Would she be in space right now if her daughter was still alive?

Matt, like most Clooney characters, is a recently divorced, childless, charismatic individual. He doesn’t open up about why he doesn’t have kids. The question is never posed.

I can’t help but wonder, if Matt would’ve been replaced by a female character, would the fun, charismatic individual, who knows the ins and outs of space, not fight a bit harder to save both their lives, rather than sacrificing her own life for a woman who doesn’t give anyone the impression there’s much to live for?

I’m usually fan of movies that defy stereotype. (Un)fortunately, it still seems like a niche quality, mostly found in Indie films.

All of these movies were written by men and some depict women better than others. Generally, women are given great jobs, great flaws, and a human touch, which is great since… you know, we are human.

What does it mean to not have children, or not want them as a woman? Where can we get answers to these questions? My first response would be: Not Hollywood.

My interest in this topic erupted from my recent diagnosis with PCOS, which is one of the leading causes of infertility in women. I’m also gay, so the thought of having children had already been slightly complicated.

I don’t know if I want kids. I do know that I’d like the option.

After consulting with family and friends, I took an interest in the portrayal of parenthood, as well as the absence of normalcy surrounding not being a parent for women in Hollywood movies, which led to this article as well as the short we are crowdfunding for, titled We Had Plans.

The production company I work with, CongestedCat Productions, drives content with a less generic, more realistic take on individuals whom are usually forced into a box based on gender, sexuality, race, etc. We portray people as people and expect our audience to look at them that way and relate to them on an emotional level. We don’t do caricatures or stereotypes. If this is something you can get behind, we are making films you’ll want to see.

Kelsey Rauber is a New York City-based screenwriter and an integral member of CongestedCat Productions. She was named Grand Prize Winner in the comedy division for her feature About a Donkey by the 2012 New York Screenplay Contest. That same screenplay was also a semi-finalist in the 2013 LA Comedy Shorts Festival. She is the writer and co-creator of the comedic web series Kelsey, which premiered on blip.tv in September 2013 to rave reviews and consistent press coverage, being named a Critic’s Pick and one of the best comedy web series of 2013 by Indiewire. She is currently crowdfunding on Seed&Spark for her next projects.

‘Our Spirits Don’t Speak English: Indian Boarding School’

Time for a serious interlude. ‘Our Spirits Don’t Speak English: Indian Boarding School’ is an 80-minute documentary that tells a story about the Indian boarding school experience from the Native American perspective. The dark history of Indian boarding schools sanctioned by U.S. government policy is a stain on this nation, but one that very few people know about. This film provides an emotional and logical overview of these boarding schools and the continuing effects on today’s Indigenous populations.

Time for a serious interlude. Our Spirits Don’t Speak English: Indian Boarding School is an 80-minute documentary that tells a story about the Indian boarding school experience from the Native American perspective. The dark history of Indian boarding schools sanctioned by U.S. government policy is a stain on this nation, but one that very few people know about. This film provides an emotional and logical overview of these boarding schools and the continuing effects on today’s Indigenous populations.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G1TCQf2NTFc”]

The film begins with a voiceover by August Schellenberg as white text punctuates a black screen to emphasize certain words and phrases. Interviews with Native peoples who survived the boarding schools and those who had parents or grandparents who survived them provide some of the most compelling information – the first-person story. Produced by Rich-Heape Films, a Native American owned company, Our Spirits Don’t Speak English weaves interviews, narration by Gayle Ross, a Cherokee historian and storyteller, historical photographs, and contemporary stories of experience for the Indigenous peoples who continue to be affected by the cultural, emotional, and spiritual damage done by these boarding schools.

Cherokee historian and storyteller, Gayle Ross

Gayle Ross explains after the opening segment, “In the beginning, going to school for Indian children meant listening to stories. These tales were metaphors for life experience, often involving heroes and monsters, conquest and survival. It’s not unlike the story we’re here to tell today, for one of the most formidable challenges in our past was the Indian boarding school experience.”

Dr. Clifford Trafzer, professor of American Indian history, director of public history, and director of graduate studies at the University of California, Riverside, provides some historical perspective: “Columbus, and those who came in his wake, expected Indian people to become European-like. That has been the educational system of Europeans and Americans from the start, to try and destroy that which was Indian.”

This perspective leads into a personal story told by Rose Prince Prince (Yupik, Wrangell Institute). Her anger and emotions are held in check, but clearly bubbling beneath the surface of her words and eyes: “I want to tell you where I came from. A safe, warm, loving home. I was never hungry, I was never cold. My parents took good care of me. I was well-dressed, had all that I needed, I was loved. And I was taken from that and put in a cold institutional environment, made to strip. My identity was taken away. Who I was was gone.”

One of many Indian boarding schools: Carlisle, 1885

These stories and perspectives continue throughout the film, deepening the viewer’s understanding of the cultural genocide that occurred here not that long ago. In 1819, the American Congress pass the Indian Civilization Act, designed to “civilize the Indians and, indirectly, Christianize them” (Boarding School Blues 10). Established in 1879 by Captain Richard Henry Pratt, the Carlisle Indian Boarding School in Pennsylvania was a “living experiment” in which to “destroy the cultural foundation of Native Americans so that they could enjoy full citizenship” (Boarding School Blues 14 and 101). If any of this surprises or shocks you, or if it is new information, you should spend the 80 minutes to watch Our Spirits Don’t Speak English. Begin your education anew and while watching this film, remember that it presents a decidedly negative view of the boarding school experience.

There are Indigenous peoples for whom the experience was more positive. However, most scholars accept that the over-arching experience was ultimately a negative one for most who lived through it. The range of stories and perspectives on this cannot be contained by one 80-minute documentary, but it is a good start.

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Recommended reading for anyone interested in the subject and history of Indian boarding schools:

Boarding School Blues (2006), edited by Clifford Trafzer, Jean Keller, and Lorene Sisquoc
They Called It Prairie Light: The Story of Chilocco Indian School (1994) by K. Tsianina Lomawaima
Education for Extinction: American Indians and the Boarding School Experience 1875-1928 (1995) by David Wallace Adams

Our Spirits Don’t Speak English is available from Rich-Heape Films for home or public viewing use and can also be purchased from such retailers as Amazon, but is not available to stream. This film would make an excellent addition to any curriculum discussion of American education, Native American experiences, American history, or government treatment of citizens.

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

‘Obvious Child’: Allowing Women To Be Funny

Women in comedy are often held to a double standard that’s rarely talked about, even in the tiresome and wrongheaded “Are Women Funny?” debates. A better question might be “Are women allowed to be funny?” Because while male comedians famously defend their right to make jokes about any topic they want to women who draw on their own outrage, experience and even their own bodies receive an extra layer of censorship.

Women in comedy are often held to a double standard that’s rarely talked about, even in the tiresome and wrongheaded “Are Women Funny?” debates. A better question might be, “Are women allowed to be funny?” Because while male comedians famously defend their right to make jokes about any topic they want to, women who draw on their own outrage, experience and even their own bodies receive an extra layer of censorship. Elayne Boosler, a comedian popular in the 80s, talked about asking the powers that be why she hadn’t yet gotten her own cable comedy special. The executives told her that featuring her in a special of her own was out of the question, because she touched her breasts during her act. When she watched the specials of other comedians popular at the time, like those of Robin Williams she said, “I realized I had my hands on the wrong thing.”

Later when Sarah Silverman was with Saturday Night Live, she wrote in response to legislation that required abortion waiting periods: “I think it’s a good law. The other day I wanted to go get an abortion. I really wanted an abortion, but then I thought about it and it turned out I was just thirsty.” Even though SNL, then as always, was in dire need of lines that actually make people laugh, she wasn’t allowed to include it. She made it part of her stand-up act instead.

The protagonist of writer-director Gillian Robespierre’s Obvious Child, an aspiring stand-up comedian in Brooklyn named Donna (Saturday Night Live’s Jenny Slate) starts out the film doing a routine that breaks the taboo about women speaking about their own body parts and functions (which leads to a great payoff scene later in the film) as well as making fun of her relationship with her current boyfriend. After she comes offstage, triumphant, her boyfriend informs her he’s dumping her: he and her best friend have been having an affair and want to get together. Instantly Donna is reduced to a pile of tears and insecurity, soothed at home by her level-headed, caring roommate, Nellie (Gaby Hoffmann).

SlateObviousChild — Jenny Slate as Donna

One night, still vulnerable, Donna gets drunk with her gay comedian friend Joey (Gabe Liedman) after she bombs onstage and meets Max (Jake Lacy), a blue-eyed computer nerd, who is dazzled by her. Although the trailer often shows Slate in unflattering hats and poses, we can see why Max is drawn to her: even though she’s still an emotional mess, she looks great (while not at all resembling most kewpie-doll model-actresses) with her long, dark, hair loose, wearing a tight sleeveless t-shirt, and, after she embarrasses herself onstage, has a fun, nothing-left-to-lose affect. He gets drunk with her and they end up having a one-night stand (after raucously stumble-dancing in his apartment to Paul Simon’s title song).

Weeks pass and a casual remark from her roommate causes Donna to think that she might be pregnant. She tells Nellie of her drunken encounter with Max, “I remember seeing a condom. I just don’t know…what exactly it did.” After a pregnancy test confirms her suspicions, she schedules an abortion at a clinic.

Here Obvious Child also veers away from other films, which sometimes mention abortion as an option for unplanned pregnancy, but make sure it’s never something nice girls, like Juno, the Michelle Williams character in Blue Valentine, or the character Katherine Heigl played in Knocked Up ever go through with–even though, in real life, 30 percent of women in the U.S. opt to have an abortion during their reproductive lifetimes. In keeping with that reality, Nellie has had an abortion (when she was much younger) and tells Donna what to expect.

In the middle of this crisis, Max reappears and he and Donna still have a spark between them, but she’s reluctant to go out with him because she doesn’t want to tell him about the abortion–and risk his disapproval. During a wine-fueled dinner Nellie, Joey, and Donna debate what she should do. Nellie offers a spirited defense that the abortion is none of Max’s business, after which Joey tells her he agrees with her but adds, “You’re scaring the dick off me right now.”

As interviews and other reviews have mentioned, no one in Obvious Child is anti-choice, again a nice respite from other movies, but this film, which hews so closely to the romantic comedy formula in most ways (except in its attitude to abortion), could use some tension. Everyone, even Donna’s business professor mother (Thirtysomething’s Polly Draper), who disapproves of Donna’s unremunerated comedy career, supports Donna wholeheartedly in her decision to abort, so the stretching of this film from its origins as a short begins to show. Max, in particular, could use some fleshing out, but instead with his big, clear eyes and irreproachable behavior at every turn he’s more like a fantasy of the perfect man than a character.

Where Obvious Child succeeds is in letting women be funny, not in the faux-humor of humiliation that too many comedic actresses in movies are subjected to these days, but in actual laugh-out-loud funny lines and situations (most of which are woven deeply into the context of the movie, so they don’t make it into the trailer) that reminded me, in spirit if not in content, of Roseanne Barr during her 80s heyday (before her current incarnation as an unfunny, anti-trans crank). Slate is wonderful as Donna (the role she also played in the short) and pulls off a late laugh line about the abortion (yes, there is one) with aplomb. Former child star Hoffmann who radiates no-nonsense kindness and compassion makes us wish more movies featured her. And Lacy, although he isn’t given much to do, is a believable Max and has a nice chemistry with Slate.

HoffmannSlateObviousChild — Nellie and Donna

My main quibble with this film is one that many of us bring up repeatedly with similar works, but it still doesn’t seem to ever be addressed. In a film that takes place in Brooklyn, the only person of color who has a name is Donna’s Asian American gynecologist. The only Black people we see are, first, a woman with no lines who crosses a street (really) and, second, a comedian onstage who talks about his father being a crack addict. In a film that rights so many wrongs about gender-stereotyping a lot of us would like (and, at this point, expect) a cast that better reflects racial as well as gender (and sexual orientation) diversity especially when that film takes place in Brooklyn. Hoffmann is actually part Latina (her father’s last name was Herrera), but we never get any hint that her character is less than 100 percent white.

Geena Davis recently wrote that screenwriters could automatically achieve gender parity in scripts simply by making half of the characters women, and the writers of Obvious Child (along with Robespierre, Karen Maine, Elisabeth Holm and Anna Bean) could have done something similar with this script to make it less white: Nellie could easily have been made a Latina (instead of just played by a part Latina actress), Joey could have been played by a Black actor (a Black comedian from Brooklyn is not terribly unusual). Hoffmann even could have played the lead with a Latino actor cast as Donna’s father instead of Richard Kind: although in many ways, Slate is the incarnation of Donna, Hoffman and Draper would make a more believable daughter and mother, both physically and temperamentally.

Yes, women should support Obvious Child when it opens in theaters this coming weekend, but as more filmmakers attempt to expand the limits imposed on white women in film and on television, we (critics and audiences) need to continue to put pressure on them to provide roles for others who have traditionally been ignored or stereotyped. White people shouldn’t be the only people we see as fully formed characters onscreen, any more than white men should be.

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Ren Jender is a queer writer-performer/producer putting a film together. Her writing has appeared in The Toast, xoJane and the Feminist Wire. You can follow her on Twitter @renjender.

Catherine Breillat’s Transfigurative Female Gaze

The grotesque is enmeshed with sexual pleasure and violent death–all images and storylines that patriarchal cultures have been weaving together for centuries. A woman’s sexual desire and her actions stemming from those desires are often presented as horrifying and punishable: “unwatchable.” Much of what Breillat shows supports the reality that female sexual desire is real, and the societies in which we must function are at best, uncomfortable with that desire, and at worst, violently hostile.

Written by Leigh Kolb as part of our theme week on Representations of Female Sexual Desire.

“… a person who can find the transfiguration of sex in her life is no longer a person who can be directed.”

– Catherine Breillat

French filmmaker Catherine Breillat has spent her career exploring female sexuality. She hasn’t done so in a comfortable, easy way. When The Woman says to The Man, “Watch me where I’m unwatchable” in Anatomy of Hell, this could very well be Breillat’s message to her audiences as she presents female desire in harsh, jarring narratives that completely subvert the male gaze.

Normally, if we talk about subverting the male gaze and focusing on the female gaze in film, it’s cause for celebration. Finally! We scream. We’re coming!

Breillat’s female gaze is different, though. It pushes us to places of complete discomfort and sometimes disgust, and forces and challenges us to think about the deeply twisted cultural expectations surrounding women and sex.

Sometimes a shock is what it takes to bring us to places of transfiguration. We can’t smoothly transition to the female gaze after centuries of being surrounded and objectified by the male gaze. Breillat delivers shock after shock that serve to transfigure how we see ourselves and our culture. This isn’t comfortable, but it’s powerful.

Breillat’s first film, based off her novel, Le Soupirail, was A Real Young Girl (Une vraie jeune fille). Produced in 1976, it was quickly banned and wasn’t released in France until 1999. The film centers around 14-year-old Alice, who is discovering and attempting to navigate her sexual awakening. A Real Young Girl is avant-garde puberty.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z4FXxS9VevE”]

There are moments in the film that are confusing and grotesque (most notably one of her fantasies that involves barbed wire and a ripped-up earthworm). While I found some of these scenes disturbing, I like being disturbed. The worm scene horrified me at first, but then I realized that when I was in high school, the hit teen comedy involved a dude literally fucking a pie. Teenage sexuality is weird and when we are faced with a teen girl’s sexuality–something we are not used to seeing (unless she is a sexual object)–in all of its confusion and vacillation between intense desire and disgust, we are uncomfortable. Breillat wants us to be uncomfortable; she wants to push us to the edge to that visceral experience that will challenge how we see both female sexuality and film depictions of female sexuality.

Fat_Girl_poster — *Fat Girl* (*À ma sœur!*)

Fat Girl (À ma sœur!), released in 2001, follows two sisters–Elena, 15, and Anaïs, 12–as they vacation with their parents. Elena is conventionally beautiful, and while she likes boys and has experimented sexually, she wants to remain a virgin until she’s with someone who “loves” her. She quickly develops a relationship with a young man who is frustrated with her desire to not have sex. He pressures her into anal sex (which hurts her), tries to force her to have oral sex, and finally convinces her he loves her and she has sex with him. In all of these instances, Anaïs is in the room–feigning sleep, asking them to stop, or, when they finally have sex, crying.

Anaïs’s views on sex are very different than Elena’s. She is starting to feel sexual–she’s not a teenager yet, but she’s not a child. Her desires range from banana splits to having sex just to get it over with. She has sexual desires, and her responses to Elena’s sexual experiences show both naiveté and jealousy. Their ages, their exterior looks, their sexual experiences (or lack thereof) all inform Breillat’s treatment of the sisters’ relationship with one another, with their own burgeoning sexuality, and with a culture that insists on sexualizing Elena and ignoring Anaïs. Their desires–Elena as internalized (and then disappointed) object, Anaïs as frustrated subject–are common categories for adolescent girls to fall into.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rHRJRbM2EAg”]

Fat Girl (read Breillat’s commentary on the title here) is disturbing in its depictions of some of Elena and Anaïs’s experiences. However, the end of the film is shocking and violent. After Elena and her mother are brutally killed at a rest stop, the murderer rapes Anaïs in the woods. The next morning, she tells the police she wasn’t raped, and she looks at the camera, in an ending that clearly reflects The 400 Blows. Like the Truffaut classic, we are saddened and disturbed at the life trajectory of our young protagonists, and have no idea where their lives will go from here. We just have a frozen young face staring at us, implicating us in their fate.

Anaïs, at the end, seems to embrace her rape (as her meaningless loss of virginity that she wanted) and deny its violence. This is made even more traumatic since her rapist murdered her mother and sister (her sister who had just become sexually active, and her mother who wanted to punish her for it).

The message here is that girls cannot win. A patriarchal culture–full of boys who think they’re entitled to sex and men who violently rape and kill women–cares little for female desire and agency. This world is a dangerous place for girls. This world treats pretty girls like objects, and unpretty girls like nothing. Their desires are complicated and real, but are eclipsed by toxic masculinity.

Released in 2004, Anatomy of Hell (Anatomie De L’Enfer) is a film that pulls together pornography, misogyny, and female sexuality in a way that shocks and disgusts (male reviewers in particular wrote scathing, condescending reviews of the film). The Woman visits a gay bar and attempts suicide in the bathroom–she is tired of being a woman and being hated by men, and surmises that gay men hate women the most. The Man, however, saves her and she offers to pay him to stay in her home for four days to “watch her where she is unwatchable.” What follows is, for some viewers, unwatchable.

The Woman is naked for most of the film (a body double is used for vaginal shots), and The Man is played by an Italian porn star. His homosexuality serves to completely upend the typical male gaze. He’s disgusted by much of what he’s seeing and experiencing, and the understanding that this primal, visceral, shocking female desire is at the focus of the film (and has absolutely nothing to do with male desire) reflects a culture that typically focuses only on the male gaze and male pleasure. In this culture, female sexuality isn’t a consideration.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BbFSZiT2-a4″]

When The Man drinks a glass of water with a used-tampon teabag, certainly the audience is meant to feel disgust. Perhaps some audience members actually gagged at the sight. How many scenes, however, in porn (explicitly) or mainstream film (suggested), feature women swallowing male excretions? Do we blink? Or is it just part of what we expect it means to be a heterosexual woman?

Jamie Russell astutely observes at the BBC, “For all the shocks, though, this is a stoically serious movie: it’s anti-porn, a transgressive sex movie that’s not against pornography but against the (male-dominated) objectification of women’s bodies.”

Breillat’s complete oeuvre (which certainly demands our attention beyond these three films) delivers continually shocking treatment of female sexuality presented though the female gaze. She wants us to be uncomfortable and to be constantly questioning both representations of female desire and our responses to those representations, and how all of it is shaped by a religious, patriarchal culture.

In an interview with The Guardian, Breillat articulated that her female gaze should directly threaten the male gaze, and that men should examine their own sexuality in the face of female desire:

“It’s a joke – if men can’t desire liberated women, then tough. Does it mean they can only desire a slave? Men need to question the roots of their own desire. Why is it that historically men have this need to deny women to be able to desire them?”

The reporter points out that Breillat had said “that censorship was a male pre-occupation, and that the X certificate was linked to the X chromosome,” and Breillat goes on to discuss the religious and patriarchal reasons to censor female desire, which is directly connected to keeping power away from women.

Breillat’s 1999 Romance was originally given an X rating (or banned in some countries). At Senses of Cinema, Brian Price notes that “Breillat’s statement was echoed in the French poster for the film, which features a naked woman with her hand between her legs. A large red X is printed across the image, thus revealing the source of the trouble: a woman in touch with her own sense of sexual pleasure.”

And that’s always the problem, isn’t it? Breillat’s work pushes boundaries and forces us to live in the intense intimacy and discomfort of a female gaze that we are unused to due to social oppression of women and women’s sexuality (at the hands of patriarchal religious and government systems). The literal and figurative red X over Breillat’s work–and female sexuality–needs to be stripped away to reveal what’s underneath–which isn’t always pretty.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jpH-V6kkOwI”]

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

‘But I’m a Cheerleader’: Stripping Away the Normalcy of Heteronormativity

‘But I’m a Cheerleader’ literally queers the stereotype of the popular cheerleader going steady with a handsome football player. The film’s overt display of oppression over queer sexuality speaks to the dominant patriarchal society that strives to eliminate all non-normative ways of living.

'But I'm a Cheerleader' movie poster — *But I’m a Cheerleader* movie poster

This guest post by Abeni Moreno appears as part of our theme week Representations of Female Sexual Desire.

But I’m a Cheerleader literally queers the stereotype of the popular cheerleader going steady with a handsome football player. Natasha Lyonne, who plays the main character, Megan, is confronted by friends and family who suspect her of being the “L” word. That’s right…a lesbian. Megan keeps provocative pictures of women in her locker, despises kissing her boyfriend and sexually fantasizes about her cheermates. It is then that she is sent off to a correctional program called “True Directions.”

But I’m a Cheerleader‘s overt display of oppression over queer sexuality speaks to the dominant patriarchal society that strives to eliminate all non-normative ways of living. In this case, the film focuses on Megan’s experience of discovering her queer sexuality ironically through her participation in “True Directions.” There she meets love interest Graham, Clea DuVull, who is portrayed as the bad girl with a trust fund. It is within their romantic involvement that the film makes painfully apparent conversation therapy fails miserably. Both characters find love and sexual desire in a place that is made to consist of homophobia, stereotypes, and internalized gender roles.

Graham and Megan find love in 'But I'm a Cheerleader' — Graham and Megan find love in *But I’m a Cheerleader*

But I’m a Cheerleader exaggerates gender-“appropriate” color schemes throughout the film, presenting the audience with the ridiculousness of assigned gender roles that people are expected to embody throughout their lives. The Pepto Bismol pink and baby blue uniforms along with the decorated living quarters help illustrate the defined “normalcy” of gender and sexuality often forced upon people by our society. When Megan arrives at True Directions, she is unaware that her sexual fantasies about women and undesirable boyfriend are “abnormal.” The definition of normal is pushed even further when a more tender, intimate, and sensual love scene between Megan and Graham is highlighted as beautiful and loving. In comparison, Megan and her boyfriend are sloppy, awkward, and unaffectionate. But I’m a Cheerleader shows heterosexuality as mundane and unattractive. The film’s focus on a woman sexually desiring another woman is a creative protest of normative sexuality.

The film challenges other forms of gender/sexual expectations. For example, an androgynous character named Jan realizes she is heterosexual during a group therapy session. Her epiphany brings up a vital point that we should not pre-judge and categorize other people’s sexuality based on their gender, whether it be butch, feminine, trans*, etc. Jan states, “Everybody thinks I’m this big dyke because I wear baggy pants …play softball and I’m not as pretty as other girls, but that doesn’t make me gay… I like guys.. I can’t help it.” The other characters believe Jan is in denial because her outer appearance is masculine. Mike (RuPaul) even bluntly suggests, “Who is she trying to fool?” But I’m a Cheerleader uses Jan to comment on the way people label their peers and define their ways of love and sexuality for them even within the queer community.

Overall, But I’m a Cheerleader shows that there are few safe spaces for alternative sexuality and desire. The characters suppress their identities during their time at True Directions, showing how society often leaves little space for the queer community to be open and out. Megan and Graham hide their relationship, Sinead uses aversion therapy and Andre fails at being butch. These are all common obstacles that many people can relate to. Plus, the film’s 1950s nuance and decor displays the decade’s reputation for the nuclear family and cisgender children as commentary on a time where the majority of the queer community was not out and proud but underground. But I’m a Cheerleader makes it clear that we sometimes internalize discrimination and homophobia to try to fit in. But in the end, we can’t change who are or how we love no matter how much we try to drown ourselves in pink clothes and do our best to throw a football. It’s inevitable that we will break out of the 1950s definition of “normal” that seeks to determine sexual desire and lifestyle.

Abeni Moreno is a Chicana feminist and a recent graduate from California State University Long Beach. She is also a volunteer radio host at Kbeach Radio and KPFK in Hollywood California.