The Louise Log: A Web Comedy Series |
Louise and Raj in episode 13 |
The radical notion that women like good movies
The Louise Log: A Web Comedy Series |
Louise and Raj in episode 13 |
Chuck Norris vs Communism |
Mara Adina, producer of Chuck Norris vs. Communism |
Screen shot from Chuck Norris vs. Communism |
Myrna Waldron, my oldest daughter (a regular contributor to Bitch Flicks), baby Rhiannon Roxane Waldron, and the author, their mother, Pandora Diane MacMillan. |
I think this was one of the very first film showings that included a special, movie-only commercial meant to promote a new line of Levi’s jeans. The new line was apparently to be called “Flatliners,” yes, a promotional tie-in with that film, with the association that Flatliner Jeans would make the wearer look slim and “flat.” They also apparently thought it would be cute, hip, and hilarious to display the young male wearer of said jeans as DEAD and FLATLINED and to have someone jumpstart the person’s heart with defibrillators(!)
So I am part of a captive audience in the theatre at the time when this commercial comes on, in the intermission of The Empire Strikes Back showing. When I heard the flatline sound and saw the picture of the hospital monitor with the flatline showing on its screen, I stood right up and started swearing loudly. I didn’t even know where I was, I was so shattered. The tears were streaming down my face, and I didn’t even feel it. Once I finished swearing, my husband and daughter escorted me out to the lobby. They were equally upset and horrified by the commercial. They didn’t need to ask why I erupted like that.
Only the week before, I had buried my beloved one-month-old baby daughter Rhiannon Roxane, my second daughter. She stopped breathing in my arms when I was burping her, about 3:00 AM on March 4, 1997. It was diagnosed as Sudden Infant Death Syndrome – SIDS. Because my husband and I were awake and aware when little Rhiannon stopped breathing, we called 911, the paramedics came, and they resuscitated our baby. Then they rushed her to the hospital emergency.
I was in despair at the time but nursed a desperate hope. I knew she had probably stopped breathing for at least 5 minutes before I became aware she hadn’t fallen asleep against my shoulder. I had just taken the St John’s Ambulance course at my office so I could give first aid to my co-workers if needed. The course had taught me one important thing: if the brain is deprived of oxygen for more than 5 minutes, that person is likely brain dead. So I was crying and not hoping for very much as we joined the paramedics at the emergency ward.
They spent a long time at the hospital trying to revive my baby girl. I was sitting in a dazed, surreal state, looking down the hallway at the room where baby Rhiannon Roxane lay, our little Rhi-Rox. Then I saw the green line going level across the hospital monitor, no twitches in its movement, straight along, over and over. And I heard that long loud beeeeeeeeeeeep. The flatline sound. The sound of no hope at all when it’s someone you love who is hooked up to it. There will be no defibrillators hooked up to this baby. She is brain dead.
Soon we are called one by one to the telephone in the emergency department. It is the consultant pediatrician on the hotline from Sick Kids Hospital downtown. She has a request for each of us, my husband and me. “Do I have your permission to disconnect life support?” Her voice is cold, clipped, and empty of emotion. I say yes, with a heavy heart. She asks it again. This time she adds, “You do realize she will be a VEGETABLE if I leave her connected to life support?” Oh God, did she have to say that? Feeling punched in the stomach, I say yes again. She asks the question yet a third time. Yes.
I say to my husband, you talk to her. What I hoped for, I don’t know. Anything, but that merciless clinically cold voice. Does she make this call every day? I wondered. Is she dead to all feeling now? Then I hear my husband saying Yes, Yes, Yes three times, and I realize she has asked him the same terrible question.
Now they have official permission to pull the plug. There is nothing for the hospital staff to discuss anymore, except do we want an autopsy. We do. Then we follow the rest of the routine in these circumstances, of which I will spare you the details.
Back to the movie theatre. I am standing in the lobby next to the snack bar. I ask for the theatre manager, to complain about that heartless, insensitive jeans commercial we have just endured. The one where they think the sound and the appearance of a hospital monitor going flatline is terribly funny, and a great way to market a new line of jeans. Why bother with sex as a motivation for buying clothing when you can promise virtual resurrection from the dead if you just put on these “Flatliner” jeans!
But no manager is on duty right now. I’m reduced to talking to the only theatre staff member there, a young man who is sweeping the floor in the lobby. No one else is there, not even the snack bar staff. He is the target audience for this commercial, because he’s barely out of his teens. I talk to him about the commercial. In a sad, resigned voice, he replies, “I didn’t like it either.” His head is down and he looks nearly as bereft of hope that things will ever get better as I feel at that point. Nobody cares anymore. Not that pediatrician on the emergency department hotline. Certainly not the marketing department at Levi’s jeans, I could only conclude.
I give it some thought and realize I need to phone the head office of the jeans company and make a complaint there. I did so the next day. I couldn’t get hold of any top management there, but I was asked by their public relations guy to leave a voice mail for the CEO. I don’t remember everything I said, except that we had just lost our infant daughter the week before. “No one,” I said in my voice mail, “who had lost someone they loved while in hospital and heard again that awful flatline sound, would think that was funny.” But the Flatliners movie, replied the PR guy. Didn’t you see it? Didn’t you get the joke? No, I said. I was 100% certain that at this point I didn’t want to see that movie, ever. Finally, I said with a voice of rage that the commercial had offended me so deeply, that I felt the company had spat on my baby daughter’s grave!
All I wanted was for the commercial to stop, to stop right away, before some other bereaved family had to hear it, had to watch it. But apparently, when they played the voice mail for the Levi’s CEO, and he heard my remarks, he said, “That’s it. We pull the whole campaign. The Flatliners jeans line is cancelled as of now.” I wouldn’t have known about this, except the PR guy phoned me back and told me that this happened. Incidentally, Levi’s sent us two T-shirts by way of apology. I hadn’t expected they would decide to actually stop production of the jeans with that offensive name. I just hoped they would pull the commercial. Obviously, I am relieved that once I brought the issue to their attention, Levi’s immediately did the right thing.
So here’s a case study in how death as a concept was initially handled insensitively by the ad men (who may not even have been employed by Levi’s), and the outcome of that – with an outraged, bereaved mother: me. I can never bring my baby girl back. But I wanted to spare other families who’d lost someone they loved some small portion of the heartache that my family and I had gone through.
———-
Publicity photograph used for Peekaboo |
I completed my short drama Peekaboo nearly two years ago, but I started writing it about three years before that. I had two friends who had experienced baby loss, one to miscarriage and one who had given her baby up for adoption. I had a dream one night that merged these two stories together; this was the beginning of Peekaboo, which is about a couple who has lost three babies to stillbirth. I wrote a first draft of the script then started researching in great detail as I developed the script. I was shocked to discover that hardly anything had been made about this subject before.
Because I had no funding to make Peekaboo, I had to crowdfund, asking for donations to help me raise the money I needed for the film. This was a blessing in disguise, because as well as raising the money, I met a great number of parents via social media who had lost babies, and I got to know some of them well. With their help, I was able to complete the film to a high standard and use two of the UK’s finest actors in the lead roles.
I was very happy with Peekaboo when it was completed, and it was met with great acclaim from those who saw it. However, I was very disappointed with the lack of film festivals that programmed it. Compared to my previous films, this screened at far fewer festivals. The subject matter was seen as too depressing. This was very frustrating as I made the film to show people who hadn’t been through losing a baby what really happened. It told me audiences still aren’t ready to look at this. There is such a silence around baby loss. While I was in the process of making the film, many people asked me, “Why are you making a film about that?” On top of the grief that the parents have been through, there is another burden for them–to keep quiet and not upset people by mentioning their baby.
Not being one who’s put off easily, this fueled me to want to look at the subject matter again, and I felt a documentary would be more powerful. There is no one better equipped to tell stories of baby loss than the parents themselves. Due to the fantastic contacts I’d already made on Peekaboo, I had a pool of parents all very keen to take part in the film, and I started selecting the right characters and stories for Still Born, Still Loved.
Mel Scott with her son Finley |
Synopsis:
How do you survive when the baby you’ve been expecting for months dies before you have the chance to ever really know them? When on the day you were supposed to be bringing your baby home, you have to carry a tiny coffin and see them buried in the cold, hard ground? What happens to all the love you feel for your child? How do you move forward with your life with a heavy heart and empty arms?
This documentary goes right to the heart of the human suffering caused by the loss of a tiny life. There is no greater suffering for any parent to bear than the death of their child.
Our film is special because each of the stories within it has a powerful, life-affirming message, as the parents involved work through their suffering to accomplish something really spectacular in memory of their baby. The outcome will be uplifting and inspiring and will highlight how even the most vulnerable people can triumph in the face of adversity.
Nicola Harding with her daughter Emily |
In our film, we also use parents’ own photographs and video footage of their time spent with their babies when they were stillborn. This, of course, is both very powerful and greatly upsetting, but I feel it is important for people to really see this firsthand. It certainly makes a huge impact and shows that these babies were a real-life son or daughter to these parents who love them dearly and always will.
Christmas decorations in memory of Harriet and Felicity Morris |
I’m really proud of the work we’re doing around stillbirth and baby loss, and I’m very grateful to all those who are supporting us. Together we will break the silence.
Finley Scott in his coffin |
Content note: Discussion of violence directed at women and violent images ahead. Spoiler alert.
Sarah |
To begin to examine a horror film, there are several questions that can aid in the dissection of its purpose. When looking at Inside it can be helpful to pose this question: Where is the horror? By looking at the source of horror in the film, we can better understand what we are to fear.
Woman in Black |
Though Inside deals with the horrors of the body, and the emotional response to losing a child, it does not treat pregnancy with romanticism or nostalgia. Sarah and the intruder are treated as believable characters that are each reacting to the extreme situations that they have found themselves in. It is this even-handed treatment of pregnant women as still functioning members of society, and not dainty figurines that have no autonomy, which makes the film a horror that you can empathize with. By putting well rounded, relatable characters in (hopefully) unrelatable situations you can just sit back and watch the blood flow.
Dire times in Children of Men as “The World Has Collapsed” |
Guest post written by Carleen Tibbetts for our theme week on Infertility, Miscarriage, and Infant Loss.
Theo, his former spouse, Julian, and their son. |
Jasper begins telling Theo about “The Human Project,” a seemingly mythic organization aimed at getting to the root problem of the infertility pandemic. Theo remains apathetic and unmoved by Jasper’s enthusiasm for this cause. He’s unconvinced they exist and claims that even if they do find a cure for infertility, it’s too late, because the world “went to shit” already. There is always blame associated with infertility, and it’s usually placed on the woman, as if somehow she is not doing her part, as if her “defunct” biology renders her useless, as if her sole purpose is procreation. These future scientists don’t know if it’s due to pollution, radiation, pesticides, global warming, or even low-sperm count (lest we forget that men are not always completely virile), and the fanatical religious right element views the infertility pandemic as a righteous punishment handed down from God. For them, it’s just another pit stop on the road to Armageddon.
Kee reveals her pregnancy |
Theo delivers baby Dylan |
Once in the camp, Theo and Kee find sheltered room. Kee lies on a squalid mattress and Theo pours alcohol on his hands to deliver her daughter in a matter of minutes. The slightly premature (and horribly CGI-enhanced) baby Dylan (named after Theo and Julian’s son) is presumably healthy. Like most birth scenes, this one is completely ludicrous. Why do most directors hold back when depicting birth scenes? We see so much senseless violence (and this film is violent from beginning to end) and so much life leaving the world, so what’s wrong with showing the realistic way in which life enters the world? Kee is surprisingly light on her feet when she and Theo find out they have to evacuate STAT because the government is planning to wipe that camp off the map. Granted, her legs are caked in blood and afterbirth from the delivery. That was believable. Although it’s hard to nurse in a war-torn ghetto, there are no shots of Kee feeding Dylan—kind of central to the baby’s survival and mother-child bonding.
Kee and baby Dylan |
I did not read James’s novel, and therefore, don’t know how closely Cuaron’s version followed the book. Perhaps the book delved into more of the science or other global issues that occurred at the onset of the mass infertility. One of the main issues for me was that it was unclear whether women were unable to get pregnant, whether men were unable to get them pregnant, or if there was just complete reproductive failure for both sexes. The fact that infertility was limited strictly to humans also didn’t make sense. The fact that outspoken female activists like Julian and Jasper’s wife were brutally hunted and tortured for their resistance was sort of glossed over, as was the strain that Dylan’s death had on Julian and her marriage to Theo. I’d have liked more backstory there.
I’ve always loved movies. When I was a kid, nothing brought me greater pleasure than walking across those sticky floors to find the perfect seat, the scent of stale popcorn hanging in the air. My dad, my big brother, and I would always share a box of Sour Patch Kids. I loved spending those two hours inside the theater on thrilling adventures, falling in love, traveling to exotic locales, suffering terrible tragedies.
But Asian Americans didn’t seem to go on these adventures; they didn’t seem to fall in love; they didn’t travel to exotic locales. If anything, they were merely set decoration when the real protagonists of the stories got to those places. People of Asian descent didn’t seem to exist on screen at all, and when they did appear, bucktoothed and bumbling, their fleeting presence filled me with a burning shame, as if watching a family member humiliate himself in front of someone I was trying to impress.
When you hardly ever see anyone who looks like you on screen, and when the only people who look like you don’t seem like people at all, you begin to have a very limited notion of your own possibilities. This nagging insecurity I’ve lived with my whole life (and truthfully, what will always be a part of me and what drives my work) was nagging particularly loudly a few weeks ago.
Still from Screaming in Asian |
I was at CAAMfest, an Asian American film festival in San Francisco. For the last two years, I’ve been trying to raise the money to make my first feature film, The Real Mikado, a comedy about an out-of-work Asian American actress who moves back in with her parents and directs a production of Gilbert & Sullivan’s opera The Mikado to try and save the community theater. I was at the festival to sceen the first ten minutes of the film as a short and to pitch the feature for the chance at a grant.
The day before the pitch, all of the filmmakers did a practice run-through of the event, and I was the last to present. I saw these passionate, talented people pitch their films about victims of war and impoverished children, and when it was my turn, I couldn’t find my words. All I could think was, “Why should anyone care about me or my stupid movie?” After years of struggling, I was so exhausted from pretending to be far more confident than I really was and so frustrated and hurt by the constant rejection that it all finally got to me.
Still from Screaming in Asian |
I did the one thing that a woman who wants to be taken seriously is never supposed to do. I cried. I couldn’t even hold it together long enough to wait until I was in the privacy of a bathroom stall. I did it in front of everyone. Fortunately, the other filmmakers were incredibly supportive. Some of them cried too. That night, I stayed up all night revising and rehearsing my pitch. I stood in front of a mirror staring into my own bloodshot eyes and tried to convince myself that my movie was worth making.
The next morning, on about two hours of sleep, I walked up to the podium and told a panel of judges and an audience of about 70 people about The Real Mikado. I summoned everything I had from the deepest places of my soul and gave those people everything I could about who I am and why my film needs to be made. I killed it. I did as well as I possibly could have.
Even though I gave it my all, I didn’t win the grant (that went to a wonderful documentary), but when I finished, a throng of young women from the Center for Asian American Media student delegate program came up to me and told me how excited they were about my film. They asked to take pictures with me and for advice on how to be an actor and whether or not I would watch their videos on YouTube and give feedback. One of them exclaimed, “Everything you said is what I feel!”
I had been feeling so defeated and so trivial that I failed to remember how powerful movies can be in shaping a person’s imagination and sense of self. These young women are yearning for the same thing I did and do: they want to see themselves as protagonists in their own stories; they want to go into a theater and see themselves.
Maybe this is too simple or wide-sweeping a generalization about white male privilege, but I doubt that Wes Anderson or Noah Baumbach ever wondered if their stories deserved to be told. The fact that I was filled with so much self-doubt speaks to a vicious cycle we’re all in, and we need to work together to stop it. How can we expect young girls (especially those of color) to grow up with enough confidence to be filmmakers when everything they watch is telling them that they are not valuable and that their stories don’t matter?
My film, like a lot of first features, is a personal one. It’s a little embarrassing to admit that I’m acting in and directing a movie that I wrote based on my own life. It feels more than a little self-involved to put myself on screen for all the world to see. But I realized a long time ago that if I don’t do it, no one else will.
Joyce Wu grew up outside of Detroit. Her short films have screened at festivals around the world. She was awarded a full-tuition scholarship to attend New York University’s prestigious graduate film program, where she completed her course work and is in pre-production on her first feature film, The Real Mikado. To find out more about the film, please visit: http://www.seedandspark.com/studio/real-mikado.
In 2011 I was captivated by a series of vignettes the New York Times created, called “Fourteen Actors Acting.” They were interesting but also campy; nevertheless, I enjoyed the idea behind them as a jumping off point. At the same time, I was journaling in an earnest way about finding my passion, my path, and creating artistic renewal. I was feeling burned out and over-commercialized after hyping, pitching, and paying for a short film I acted in and produced, The Summer Home.
Out of my journal came an idea, the image of many paths that lead to the same goal. I played with expressing this idea through the interconnected lives of several women. I found a theme to guide me into the new year, 2012, when the word ‘revelation’ flowed across my page. Suddenly I had my structure, my process, and my theme. Revelation’s inception moved swiftly after that moment.
Wonder Russell |
I’m an actor myself, first and foremost, and I am blessed to know actors I admire deeply for their authenticity and bravery. I think acting is terribly brave. Great actors allow themselves to be open, raw, and vulnerable, even as villains. They can’t hold back – everything must be on the table. Openness doesn’t mean emoting all over set like a Vaudeville performer, it refers to a complete dedication to the life of the character, free of self-censorship. I am very lucky that I knew instantly who I wanted to work with, and that when I pitched the idea, all of the actors said, “Yes, let’s!” As far as I’m concerned, a director’s job is pretty much done at that point! Strong, reliable, fearless talent will always elevate a project.
True to the nature of generative work, we entered six weeks’ worth of rehearsals. Film rarely rehearses, and if they do, it’s usually focused on locking down performance rather than exploring relationship. The joy of rehearsing Revelation was that it was all exploration! We played with masks and characters, we played with rasa boxes. I brought in guest instructors to teach us to move differently and break down preconceived notions of how the stories “should” be physicalized. I challenged each actor to complete homework that included journaling from dreams or memories, or listening to a piece of music and responding purely from instinct. It was immensely freeing. But more importantly, it worked –stories developed and took shape. Sometimes the story an actor thought they were telling had changed drastically by the time we were ready to shoot.
My goal with rehearsals was to unlock the actor’s creativity, and to get to the heart of a revelation that resonated deeply for them. Once we found that bright kernel of truth, we worked on how to portray it on film and without dialogue by finding a physical expression or series of actions that represented the internal journey.
Bridget O’Neill in Revelation |
Sometimes I didn’t know how we would pull off this film, or if it would be a giant failure. I remember having lunch with a more experienced director and telling him, “People will either be moved by it, or think it’s pretentious bullshit.” He laughed and said that I was probably on the right track if I could keep things realistic while taking such a big risk with experimental film.
I trusted the process, and I allowed myself to be surprised at whatever showed up instead of trying to force anything. I really felt like I took on a role of midwifery to the actors’ process. And perhaps that’s because as an actor, I like direction that is a mutual journey of discovery.
The day we finally stepped onto our set was absolutely magical. I attribute that to the amazing crew including Ty Migota, DP, red-headed and funny as hell AC Nick Davis, Kris Boustedt, fellow Producer and constant source of help, my boyfriend at the time Paul Vitulli who was producing and keeping me happy, sane, and productive, the amazing art team known to Seattle filmmakers simply as the Gore Sisters, our MUA Kari Baumann, and game-for-anything grip Forest Coughtry. That’s it. Small set. Small crew. Intimate.
By the time we were rolling cameras and I was actually “directing,” it was a dream come true. I felt completely in my element and deeply in-tune with each actor. Actors intrinsically want to be authentic and bring the best of themselves, and I felt grateful to help guide that process. My directing style grows organically out of my acting, and it’s no coincidence that I share a short-hand with the actors I cast. Specifically, we work best within very detailed, imagined circumstances that we call “Let-it-be-trues.”
Jillian Boshart in Revelation |
My directing approach is to warm up with the actor, run through the vignette’s physicality at least once, and then narrow the imagined circumstances. For example, a let-it-be-true for one actor was that she had a younger sister who looked up to her, but was in a very dark place and nearly suicidal – then I asked the actor to look into the camera and let her (imaginary) sister know how perfect, and how loved, she truly was. The take was stunning.
We shot for two very long days (one location, thank goodness), and it felt like Christmas day – or maybe more appropriately my birthday – every day. Every moment felt free, inspired, and like a gift. I know that’s a rare experience, and I know how very lucky we were to have a dedicated team and minimal technical difficulties (I’m looking at you, dry ice!) Each actor’s story moved me to tears. My heart wanted to burst from love and compassion.
If this all sounds too good to be true for a first time director, I’m sure it is! I am no stranger to production horror stories, but this shoot was like breathing inspiration.
The biggest challenge I faced on set was accepting that I was in charge. As an actor I think I come from a place of asking for permission first, and the role reversal took me a bit by surprise. My initial reaction was that I didn’t want to offend anyone! I quickly realized that I did the set no favors by playing small, and needed to take charge. I had to own that part of my job and not just commune with the actors backstage, but to ask for certain shots or decide when it was time to move on.
That ownership carried me through a very long post-production process. I found the courage to be honest with my vision, so that I could give clear feedback on what was missing and what was working. Editor Lindy Boustedt and composer Catherine Grealish were game to try different approaches as well as challenge me when they felt something needed to be fought for. My acting coach calls this “going to artistic war,” and taught me to welcome it as a way to find the solution that is in the film’s very best intentions. You have to be passionate in order to make the bold decisions that banish mediocrity.
Ultimately, Revelation stands out not only as my directorial debut, but the project I am most passionate and clear about. My vision carried me from those questing moments alone with my journal, through the realization of a work of art that will make me forever proud.
Watch Revelation:
In Australia, Aboriginals are considered to be “black.” |
The girls feel connected to the black American soldiers whom they meet, because in Australia, Aboriginals are also considered to be “black.” To be black is to be hated, feared, and shunned — as it is all over the world. No wonder that their struggles as marginalized people in their own land would resonate so strongly with black soldiers, who faced similar discrimination back home. The story is a microcosm of the greater alliances that were being built between Australian Aboriginals and black Americans at the time. Black American soldiers on shore leave from the Vietnam War often spent time in Australia, and, fed up with the racist treatment they received from white Australians, would gravitate to the black neighborhoods, where they would share the latest in black American music and political ideas. Inspired by black American thinkers, Aboriginal activists launched a domestic Black Power movement in Australia, with the intention of reclaiming the pejorative implications of the word “black,” to turning it into something to be proud of, and to fighting for more self-governance and an end to racial discrimination within Australia.
This is a story about American empire, in a way. After all, it takes place on the periphery of the Vietnam War, which was fought in order to strengthen the influence of the American empire on Southeast Asia. It’s a story in which representatives of two racist nation-states meet and exchange ideas — but in an ironic twist, the actors happen to be racially marginalized minorities. Instead of reinforcing the racist hegemony, these people of color resist by sharing ideas of self-love. And amid all the larger questions and issues that this film brings up — it is also an intensely human story, one of family ties and reconciliation, of falling in love, and remembering who you are. For these reasons, The Sapphires is ultimately successful.
Dorothy, Ozma and Glinda serve significant leadership positions in Oz. Princess Ozma is the true hereditary ruler of Oz—her position having been usurped by The Wizard. Glinda is by far the most powerful sorceress in Oz, and both Dorothy and Ozma often defer to her wisdom. Dorothy, of course, is the plucky orphan outsider who combines resourcefulness and bravery.
Illustration of Dorothy and Toto from L. Frank Baum’s 1900 novel. |
Indeed, the books would pass the Bechdel test with flying colors. Strong friendships between women, as well as women helping other women (and various and sundry other creatures, men included), run through the 14 original books. (Some current readings posit these relationships as more than friendship, as with the queer readings of the Dorothy/Ozma relationship, but that’s another story.) There are wicked women, but they are not wicked to the extent they are in the film iterations, the current one included, nor are the wicked/bad characters very powerful. In fact, the Wicked Witch of the first Oz book fears the Cowardly Lion and the dark, and is destroyed by an angry Dorothy with a bucket of water. Before dying she concedes, “I have been wicked in my day, but I never thought a little girl like you would be able to melt me and end my wicked deeds.” The Wicked Witch in Baum’s book did not have green skin or wear an imposing outfit; instead she is a rather funny-looking figure with one eye, three braids and a raincoat.
Symphony rehearses live performance of 1939 Wizard of Oz soundtrack. |
In contrast to the consistently anti-feminist Disney, Baum’s books can be viewed as children’s stories with distinctly feminist and progressive messages. Given that they were akin to the Harry Potter books of their day in terms of popularity and sales, this is hugely significant. Today, however, the books’ undercurrents of feminism and progressive politics have been overshadowed by the less-feminist 1939 film, The Wizard of Oz, and the many subsequent de-politicized adaptations.
Movie poster for Shut Up and Sing |
This is a guest post by Kerri French.
The Dixie Chicks messing around on stage |
The Dixie Chicks on Entertainment Weekly |
Fans unite in support of The Dixie Chicks |
The Dixie Chicks sweep the 2007 Grammy Awards |
“For the people who used to be ten years old, and the people who are going to be ten years old.”
The films of Studio Ghibli provide their viewers with a rich variety of female characters from warrior princesses to love-struck adolescents, curious toddlers to powerful witches. These characters owe a great deal to the prototypes of European fairy tales and Japanese folklore and in many ways are traditional versions and depictions of femininities, but there’s an underlying sense of joy for feminist viewers in that these girls and women are active, subjective and thoroughly engaging. I’m focusing here on young girls in the lighter end of Ghibli’s production including sisters Mei and Satsuke in My Neighbour Totoro, Kiki in Kiki’s Delivery Service and Chihiro in Spirited Away.
Spirited Away |
Ghibli films tend to blend fantasy and reality so that magic and flight are acceptable parts of the worlds the characters inhabit. Girls especially tend to possess magic powers or particular appreciation of them and this is shown in an unexceptional manner. While Kiki raises some eyebrows in her new town, it’s because the townsfolk don’t see many witches, not because they don’t believe in their existence. Similarly, although Kiki is an outsider, there is a distinct lack of threat to her for being so. In Ghibli worlds girls are fully entitled to fly on broomsticks, as long as they don’t congest traffic, and 13 year olds are allowed to pursue their cultural practices of living alone. In My Neighbour Totoro when Mei tells Satsuke and their father about her encounter with Totoro, after initial disbelief they embrace the truth that there are friendly nature spirits in the area, even leading to father taking the girls to pay their respects to the forest’s deities.
This acceptance of magic is refreshing and marks a clear difference to American cartoons where ironic references are embedded in children’s fantasy to appeal to parents. In this way parents are encouraged to indulge, but secretly laugh at their children’s engagement with fantasy. There’s no knowing irony in Ghibli films, instead they are focussed on telling children’s stories for children and the lack of distinct boundaries between the magic and the mundane are part of this child-centred view. That the protagonists are predominantly female makes for a collection of films focussed on girls’ adventures and triumphs where girls’ experiences are trusted and valued.
Children, like women, are often depicted as having a close connection to the supernatural; that they can see things the rest of us cannot. Indeed Mei and Satsuke seem privileged more than anything to be invited to join the Totoros’ night-time nature ritual. Dancing and flying with creatures the rest of the world (the Ghibli world at least) would revere but aren’t lucky enough to encounter. Chihiro doesn’t have a natural affinity for magic but she’s gifted in the solving of magical problems like how to clean a dirty river spirit.
Mei, Satsuke, Kiki and Chihiro all work within the magical world as part of their quest narratives. Mei and Satsuke are dealing with the illness and potential death of their mother and a move to a new home. Kiki has moved away from her parents according to witch culture and Chihiro seeks the return of her parents from the spiritual realm where she’s been trapped and they’ve been turned into pigs.
My Neighbor Totoro |
The absence of parents is a common way to allow independence to young females from fairy tales to Jane Austen and unlike for orphaned boys in fiction it can also represent a removal of patriarchal influence in general. It’s not just that these girls don’t have parents guiding them or checking up on them; they are also free to create their own rules of engagement with the world.
One way that all four girls find meaning and self is through work. Satsuke in school and house work, Mei despite being very young does gardening, Kiki sets up her delivery service and Chihiro works in the bath house. All of them do a lot of cleaning. There’s an interesting mix of public and private here and certainly the suggestion that domestic labour can be especially rewarding (for example Kiki’s paid work can provide anxieties and problems). But is the culturally feminine nature of this work an issue? In Chihiro’s case cleaning is linked to subservience and being a captive to the domestic but for the others (and eventually for her) it’s a tool of empowerment and liberation. Does such labour inevitably have negative associations of female drudgery?
Another way that selfhood and identity is achieved by these girls is by flight. Most obviously for Kiki where her broomstick is literally the means of earning a living and saving a friend’s life but also in how Totoro and Cat Bus fly Mei and Satsuke away from their worries and later to their mother. Chihiro’s flight is more anxious, as her encounters with magic are generally, but still serves to move her closer to self discovery by being the time she gives Haku his name so leading her to the rediscovery of her own.
Kiki’s Delivery Service |
Not everybody believes that Ghibli heroines represent empowered femininities. I’ve been rather selective in the choice of films to cover but even if I’d widened the selection I stand by my view. Ponyo for example wasn’t included as its heroine isn’t really a girl but although it’s a variation on the disempowering The Little Mermaid the core message is rather different. Ponyo accepts a loss of powers because they were never entirely hers and the sea’s power remains with the feminine; Ponyo’s sea-goddess mother.
There’s been significant note of the glimpses of knickers we get in Ghibli films like when Kiki is flying and generally when there’s any rough and tumble. There’s merit in the argument that this could be voyeuristic representations of young girls but it can also be seen as further expressing their freedom and activity. These girls don’t worry about skirts riding up because they totally lack vanity and are preoccupied with altogether more important missions. We’re not given alluring peeps at nubile bodies but girls in action which female bodies so rarely are; that gaze is usually reserved for male bodies. If female passivity is alluring then the kinetic energy of these girls places them beyond that.
What’s pleasurable about these films from a feminist perspective is their alliance with joyful, engaged and active girlhoods. These girls don’t wait for princes and don’t focus on their appearances but determinedly pursue their missions, however difficult.
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Rosalind Kemp is a film studies graduate living in Brighton, UK. She’s particularly interested in female coming of age stories, film noir and European films where people talk a lot but not much happens.