Anne Flournoy on Her Comedy Series ‘The Louise Log’

The Louise Log: A Web Comedy Series
Guest post written by Anne Flournoy.
Back in the early 90’s when making an indie feature film was the standard NY indie filmmaker route to a career as a writer/director, I got bogged down for more than a decade in rewriting my second feature. Hey, my first one had been in competition at Sundance, how could this be so hard? Seventeen years later, I gave up, picked up a camcorder and started shooting something, anything. 
Six months later and less than a week away from my sixth attempt at a self-imposed deadline, the ‘something, anything’ subject matter, even with a heart-breaking Enrico Caruso soundtrack, was long and boring at 80 seconds. 
Anyone who knows anything about screenwriting will tell you to avoid voice-overs. It’s a last resort to be used sparingly and only by people who know what they’re doing. I’d heard Godard’s whispered voice-over in 2 or 3 Things I Know About Her and had been browbeating friends to use it for years. What a great device! No one is doing this! 
Up against my deadline, I was down to my last resort: over this long and boring 80-second video I’d whisper what Louise was thinking. 
Stealing wholesale from my 3-page free-writing scribbles, I started whispering into my Macbook. I called it The Louise Log. A month later, due to popular demand for more of actor Christine Cook, it was followed by The Louise Log #2. Today there are 34 episodes available at http://thelouiselog.com and we’re crowdfunding on Seed&Spark to shoot Season 3. After five long years under the radar, BuzzFeed recently compared the series favorably to Louie and Curb Your Enthusiasm, and it was a 2013 Finalist in the Shorty Awards. 
So what’s it about? As one of my kids summed it up, “Louise has issues.” Yes, she has a high-maintenance husband, and a lot of other very difficult characters in her life, but it’s her over-active inner voice that is her biggest problem. It’s also her salvation. 
And it turns out to be the core of the series. 
Louise and Raj in episode 13
When I was growing up, Bitch Flicks would have meant porn or something so redneck and gross that if I ever mentioned it, it would have been in a whisper to a friend. The gap between what I was raised to be (a young lady who was careful to keep her knees together when sitting in a dress) and the leather bomber jacket-wearing indie filmmaker I became, caused a certain tension. That tension is the essence of Louise’s inner voice.
Her eidetic image of what a real woman is is at the core of who Louise is, and it causes her a lot of problems. A ‘real woman’ is someone who could have lunch with the Queen of England and have, not only a grasp of which fork to use, but also a sense of self sufficiency to carry on in sort of a peer relationship with the Queen. Marlene Dietrich plays the role to a T. Louise, on the other hand, falls far short. Not that she doesn’t wear a good mask and appear to carry it off some of the time, but we know what she’s really going through–the self-criticism, the expectations, the dashed hopes, the paranoid rape fantasies. 
I flatter myself to think that Louise is a lot more neurotic than I am, but the truth is that her inner-thought loop is closer to home than I’d like to admit.
Watch “How To Take It Like A Girl: The Louise Log #4”

Mara Adina on Producing Indie Flick ‘Chuck Norris vs. Communism’

Chuck Norris vs Communism
This is a guest post written by Mara Adina, producer of Chuck Norris vs Communism.
I started my career in film in the Middle East as after university I moved to Kuwait where I worked at the national television (KTV).
I spent the majority of the first month working there trying to find ways for the all-men crew that worked with me to acknowledge my existence, and not just turn their backs when I spoke and then to get them to listen to what I had to say.
I struggled with finding ways to keep hold of my feminine identity and not succumb to the pressure of becoming “one of the guys” in order to be listened to.
On my return to the UK, I look back to what I thought were very extreme circumstances and realise that they are actually a reality here as well. We all know it’s difficult to be taken seriously as a woman in film and broadcasting – but if you add to that a pair of heels and red lipstick, things become even more tricky.
Today, I run my own company and I am one of the few who is trying to break through the bleak statistics of female producers in the industry.

Mara Adina, producer of Chuck Norris vs. Communism
I am currently producing my sister’s feature documentary, Chuck Norris vs Communism, and we are both so proud to tell the world the story of a very strong and brave woman.
Irina Nistor was one of the only female film translators to work in the Eastern Bloc during the 1980s. She dubbed over 5,000 Western blockbusters that entered Romania illegally during communism. Their rapid spread of the VHS tapes across the country turned Irina’s voice into a symbol of freedom and allowed a whole country to subvert a brutal regime. Here is our trailer:
We fell in love with the story and every bit of the journey of making this film has been incredible. We don’t just want to make this film through conventional avenues, we want to fund it by gathering the support of those to whom the story speaks, inspires and empowers.
We want to build a community around it and bring this film and Irina’s story to you, who are also striving to break through the statistics.
So we have launched a crowdfunding campaign for the film where like minded people can join the crew and help tell this story through contributions as small as $10. Please have a look at our campaign and help however you can.

Screen shot from Chuck Norris vs. Communism
The fundraising campaign for Chuck Norris vs Communism is live until this Thursday (May 2).
Produced by Vernon Films in co production with Kloos & Co in Germany, 4Proof Film in Romania and WMM in North America.
Chuck Norris vs Communism tells the story of the transformation of a nation through a seemingly small act of resistance. In the 1980s, Ceausescu’s Romania became the most Stalinist regime of the Soviet bloc.
At the same time, hidden from the scrutinising eyes of the Secret Police, Irina Nistor dubbed over 5,000 foreign blockbusters that entered Romania illegally.
They turned Irina’s voice into a symbol of freedom, Chuck Norris, Van Damme and Bruce Lee into national heroes and allowed a whole country to subvert a brutal regime.
The filmmakers have been working on the project for the past year and a half, shoot for three months and are now in a critical phase of post production. 
The film is nearly complete but they need you to get over the finishing line! So, they have set up a campaign page where you can make pledges and become a part of this film. 
Follow this LINK for the crowdfunding page where you will find an array of exciting rewards including the chance to become an animated character in the film!
For more information go to: 

How a ‘Flatliners’ Ad During a Movie Showing Made This Woman Walk Out

Myrna Waldron, my oldest daughter (a regular contributor to Bitch Flicks), baby Rhiannon Roxane Waldron, and the author, their mother, Pandora Diane MacMillan.
This is a guest post by Pandora Diane MacMillan and appears as part of our theme week on Infertility, Miscarriage, and Infant Loss.

It was March 1997. I was at a movie theatre revival showing of the Star Wars sequel, The Empire Strikes Back. This is, admittedly, a very dark film in the first place, the darkest of the Star Wars trilogy. It is the film where Luke finds out his true parentage, in a scene that has become notorious. I’m not going to get into that in any depth because I’m assuming you’re all more or less familiar with the plot of the original Star Wars trilogy.

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.

———-

Pandora Diane MacMillan holds a BA in English from York University in Toronto Canada. She retired in 2008 after more than 30 years working for the Ontario government in driver and vehicle licensing administration. Pandora has known she wanted to be a writer since Grade 2. She was fortunate enough to have writing as part of her job although it was writing related to licensing questions. She has also written some popular poetry and fan fiction for the Internet and continues to pursue writing as a hobby.

Stillbirth. Still Ignored.

Serious Trigger Warning for discussion and images of stillbirth and infant loss. 

Publicity photograph used for Peekaboo

Guest post written by Debbie Howard for our theme week on Infertility, Miscarriage, and Infant Loss.
Google “stillbirth in film,” and you will see next to nothing come up about this subject matter. What does come up is very current, as people are starting to look at this a little more just now. I know of two or three films happening worldwide about this subject matter at the moment. At long last. There is a feature film called Return to Zero being made in the USA, and there was a documentary called Capturing a Short Life made in 2008 in Canada. I also saw a documentary a few years ago called Limbo Babies, very late at night on TV, and have never been able to find anything else about this since. There is little else other than my work.

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.

“A wonderfully tender and compassionate articulation of love and loss. Peekaboo unwraps the layers of grief and emotional reconciliation with heartbreaking precision and sensitivity.” –Caroline Cooper Charles, Creative England
You can watch the Peekaboo trailer here: https://vimeo.com/42260999.

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
Still Born, Still Loved: The Life Within Us

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.

Still Born, Still Loved is a feature-length documentary, and I want it to get seen by a wide audience in cinemas and on television. I went back to our main sponsors on Peekaboo and asked if they wanted to help us get started. Through the great generosity of three women, all of whom have suffered stillbirth firsthand, and some more crowdfunding, we raised the money needed to film a very powerful pilot, which we have now completed. You can watch it here: https://vimeo.com/61217978.
Nicola Harding with her daughter Emily
An interesting question for me, when someone loses their first child, is “Can you call yourself a parent if you don’t have any children?” This is one of the questions we attempt to answer. If you ask someone what a parent is, they think of someone with one or more children, bringing up a child, caring for their needs, organising their birthday party, and tucking them into bed at night. But when you have carried a baby, spent months planning and imagining their future, gone through labour and childbirth, held your son or daughter in your arms, felt overwhelming love for your child and miss them every single day, you are definitely a parent, too. You find creative and interesting ways to spend time with your child, celebrate, and remember them.

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
For more information, and to support the film or buy a copy of Peekaboo (all proceeds to Still Born, Still Loved), please contact me at debbie@bigbuddhafilms.co.uk or see our website at http://www.bigbuddhafilms.co.uk/films/documentary/still-born-still-loved/.

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

Debbie Howard is a writer/director. She set up Big Buddha Films eight years ago and specialises in making films with a strong female voice that tackle human dilemmas and show the vulnerabilities of human existence. She is a single mum and lives in Sheffield with her two teenage children.

‘Inside’: French Pregnant Body Horror At Its Finest


Guest post written by Deirdre Crimmins for our theme week on Infertility, Miscarriage, and Infant Loss.

Content note: Discussion of violence directed at women and violent images ahead. Spoiler alert.

Horror films have a unique way of showcasing exactly what we fear, but they often do so in a subtle way. While is it goes without saying that ax-wielding maniacs are to be feared, these films often slyly expose the issues that our society is too shy to deal with head on. In the 2007 French horror film Inside (directed by Alexandre Bustillo and Julien Maury), fertility, reproduction, and infant loss are dealt with in a refreshingly direct and uncompromisingly bloody outcome, with no room for subtlety.
The film takes place during the course of Sarah’s last night alone before having her child’s delivery induced the next morning. Sarah (Alysson Paradis) lost her husband in a terrible car accident just a few weeks earlier. The crash is shown multiple times through the film, which illustrates the haunting presence of the loss in every moment of her day-to-day life. We see the crash from the perspective of her child in utero as well, which also frames this unborn child as a character in the film.
With the circumstances of Sarah’s pregnancy she is denied the typical rituals of birthing. She has no partner to help her pick out the child’s name. The birth date is decided by her doctor in a cold and clinical office, removing the excitement and surprise of delivery. Rather than spending the night before the birth readying the nursery and enjoying their last night together as a childless couple, Sarah is all alone.
That is, Sarah is alone until she is stalked by a mysterious stranger who appears at her door. The stranger is a woman (played by Béatrice Dalle) dressed all in black who tries everything she can to get Sarah to open the door. After an initial creepy stand-off, the woman forces her way in to the home, and the horror begins. This nameless woman wants Sarah’s child, and she is not waiting around for the birth.
The next hour of the film is a bloody cat and mouse chase between Sarah and this woman. The film is smart, and incredibly gory. Neither of these women hold back on violent acts to get, or keep, what they want.

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.

Clearly the first level of horror in Inside is in the intruder. Her bloodlust for Sarah’s unborn child drives her violence. Initially, it is this desire for the child that is problematic. We find out later in the film that not only was this woman pregnant recently, but that she lost her child in the same car accident that killed Sarah’s husband. This unveiling in the plot is what shows the complicated relationship that Inside has with infant loss.
With this we see that another dimension of the horror in the film lies in the intruder’s loss of her pregnancy. She was nearly full term, and we see the car accident from inside her womb. The well-developed, though unborn, child is distressed by the jolt the crash delivered, and reacts as the amniotic fluid clouds up with blood. One can only imagine the pain suffered by the loss of a pregnancy at this stage, however the emotional havoc she sustains cannot justify her attack on Sarah, can it? Sarah was driving the car, after all. Is it too much of a stretch to demand from Sarah what Sarah took from her? It obviously is too much to ask, however the logical leap is not a far one to make.
Outside of the blame for the lost child lies a classic example of body horror. Films that contain plenty of gore are often, though not exclusively, “body horror” films. Here it is the body itself that is the source of the horror. The pain, blood, dismemberment, and other organic fluids in the film are definite sources of horror in Inside. The fact that the intruder is treating Sarah like merely a vessel that holds a child, and treats Sarah’s body with so little respect that this is clear, is horrific. Sarah is chased, tortured, and ultimately given a non-consensual cesarean, all to the horror of the audience. This treatment of Sarah and the fact that her body, and in particular her pregnant body, is the source of much of the horror in the film, that makes this a body horror film.
Despite the horror of two women battling one another for an unborn child, the film is quite feminist. Both of these women are smart (deranged and depressed respectively, but both make choices to further their own agendas in constructive ways). Sarah does have men who show up to attempt to rescue her, but with each effort these rescuers are outsmarted and brutally killed by the woman in black. Also, neither Sarah nor the intruder are ever shown as weak due to their womanhood. Both are shown as strong, self-sufficient people who just so happen to disagree over who should get to keep Sarah’s child.
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.


Deirdre Crimmins lives in Boston with her husband and two black cats. She wrote her Master’s thesis on George Romero and works too much.

The “Plague” of Infertility in Alfonso Cuarón’s ‘Children of Men’

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.

Women can’t get pregnant anymore and nobody knows why. This the central lamentation in Alfonso Cuaron’s 2006 dystopian film Children of Men, based on P.D. James’s novel. Set in England in the year 2027, this is the story of the human race entering its final phase. Cuaron brings us into Orwellian territory in which nations worldwide have fallen as a result of war, disease, and famine. Britain remains a sort of lucrative last bastion in these end times and people across the globe are scrambling to get in. Foreign immigrants are referred to as “fugees,” and, borrowing from Hitler’s playbook, the British government rounds them up, cages them, and sends them to zoned and policed ghettos and camps. To hire, sell to, or even feed fugees is a crime. Avoiding fertility tests when the human race is dying out is also a crime. There are no more sounds of children laughing. There are sirens. There are bombs. There is gunfire. There are government-provided suicide kits. There is the wailing and gnashing of teeth, especially since an eighteen year old, the youngest human on the planet, has just died.
The film opens with the main character, Theo (Clive Owen), getting coffee at a local café. Café patrons look on inconsolably as the news program on the café’s TV breaks the story that “Baby Diego,” the world’s youngest person, was shot because he refused to sign an autograph. The title of “world’s youngest person” now passes to a woman older than Diego by a matter of months. Theo exits the coffee shop and within seconds, it blows up. He makes his way to his government job though, ears ringing, completely accustomed to daily violence at this level.
All the workers in Theo’s office are glued to their computer screens, weeping as Diego “in memoriam” slideshows are played. Theo plays the grief card to skip out on work and visit his longtime liberal activist friend, Jasper (Michael Caine), and his wife, who MI-5 tortured into a state of catatonia for her radical photojournalism. It is here we learn that Theo is a former radical who was married to another radical, Julian (Julianne Moore), yet the death of their young son years ago wedged them apart.

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.

Julian has her activists kidnap Theo and she persuades him to use his governmental connections to sneak a fugee past checkpoints and out of the country. It’s obvious that he’s still in love with her, and although she’s keeping him in the dark as to her motives, he agrees to do it. Theo asks Julian how she got over their son’s death so quickly, to which she abruptly and angrily replies, “You don’t have a monopoly on grief,” and that Dylan’s death is something that haunts her on a daily basis. They meet up with fellow activists, including former gynecologic nurse, Miriam (Pam Ferris) to transport Kee (Clare-Hope Ashitey) past British borders and into the hands of The Human Project. En route to a supposedly safe location, they are accosted, and Julian is killed. Miriam, Theo, and Kee stay the night in a remote English farmhouse with the other activists who have rallied to ensure Kee’s safe departure. 
Theo has absolutely no idea what’s going on. He doesn’t completely trust these people and wonders why everyone is risking their lives for this young woman. Sensing Theo needs convincing, Kee disrobes and we see that she is extremely pregnant. Now Theo has a purpose. Something to live for. Now the entire human race has something to live for. Once skeptical about The Human Project, he realizes what’s at stake, playing a sort of Joseph figure to Kee’s Mary. Although this isn’t his baby, it’s sort of everyone’s baby. Kee admits she doesn’t know who got her pregnant, but she’s definitely portrayed in a pure sort of light. The scene where she reveals her pregnancy to Theo takes place in a barn surrounded by hay and cows—heavy with Biblical overtones.

Kee reveals her pregnancy
Kee wants to have the baby at the farm, but Theo overhears the radicals plotting to execute him as soon as he gets Kee past the checkpoints, and he realizes they want to use her baby as a political bargaining chip to advocate for illegal immigrants’ rights. Theo, Miriam, and Kee escape to Jasper’s, where he tells them his old friend in the army can get them into a refugee camp. Once inside, they can get a boat out to sea where The Human Project ship, The Tomorrow, will take Kee to safety. 
Kee had never seen a pregnant woman, had no idea what was happening to her, and felt “like a freak” when she saw her body change. When she felt the baby kick, she knew it was alive, and that she was, too. Jasper tells Kee about Dylan’s death, and that Theo’s fate lost out to chance. But isn’t this what conception is all about? Chance? Isn’t life itself a game of chance? Is parenthood an obligation? A choice? Is a child a blessing or a burden? With all the atrocities we’ve carried out and all the violence we’ve enacted on one another, do we deserve to exist? Do we need to bring new life into this mess? And suppose Kee had not wanted this baby?
Other than being presented with where she would like to have her baby, nobody asks Kee if she wanted any of this to begin with. Perhaps the fate of the human race resting on Kee’s shoulders, or, more appropriately, in her uterus, and perhaps the key to fertility being something unique to her genetic makeup is motivation enough for her to unquestioningly continue her pregnancy. Jasper’s fate vs. chance statement brings up a great deal of unanswered existential questions, not only as they pertain to the film’s characters, but for us living in a world where, for example, China has a one-child-per family limit, or where a friend jokingly told me that I’d get a better income tax refund if I got knocked up. 
Theo, Kee, and Miriam escape Jasper’s just as the authorities arrive and kill him. The three of them plan to rendezvous with Jasper’s military connection at one of many now-defunct elementary schools —how bizarrely apropos! A In a haunting scene, Theo walks the school’s hallways and a lone deer runs down a corridor. Earlier in the movie, there were dogs all over the farmhouse property. Kee stood in pen of young cows when she showed Theo her stomach. Animals are able to procreate, so why is infertility only affecting the human population? This isn’t brought up at any point during the film. Shouldn’t all species be on their last legs? Miriam says, “As the sounds of the playground faded, the despair set in.” She reminisces how women at her clinic were miscarrying sooner and sooner until pregnancies just stopped occurring altogether.
Jasper’s connection “arrests” them for being “foreigners” (how can anyone mistake Clive Owen for anything other than British????), and on the bus ride into the camp, Kee’s water breaks. In order to avoid the authorities catching on to Kee’s labor pains, Miriam distracts them and the guards remove her from the bus and execute her.

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. 

A mortally wounded Theo manages to escort Kee and Dylan to safety, and as Dylan begins to cry amid all the rockets and gunfire, everything comes to a halt. Angelic music begins to play. Other fugees break into tears at the sight of the baby and reach out to try to touch her. Soldiers who had entered the tenement housing with guns aimed at all the fugees immediately lower their weapons, drop to their knees, and make the sign of the cross. Theo and Kee get into their boat and make it to sea right before the camp is obliterated. Adrift on the open water, the dying Theo shows Kee how to hold Dylan to soothe her and stop her crying. He bleeds out and slumps over just as The Tomorrow sails toward them. The Human Project does exist. Yet, what is in store for Kee, Dylan, and the human race remains a mystery as the screen abruptly goes black.

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.

When I sat down to write this review, I vowed not to use the words “belly,” “bump,” “baby bump,” “preggo,” or “preggers.” I only used “knocked up” because I was quoting a friend of mine when she made the joke about children as tax deductions. I’ve just entered my thirties, and the majority of the women I went to high school with are mothers now. I shouldn’t internalize that there’s something wrong with me because I’m not a mother, but every time I see a picture of a pregnant stomach or a sonogram on Facebook, a little twinge goes through me. Should I want this? Why? Why does fertility turn into yet another unhealthy competition for women? Nobody should be “blamed” for infertility, regardless of gender. It does not make anyone less a woman or a man if they cannot make babies. Instead of obsessing over own biological clocks running down (yes, there are even iPhone apps for that!) or our “completeness” via parenthood, we should focus on shaping the kind of world we want to bring children into.

Carleen Tibbetts lives in Oakland. Her poems and reviews have appeared or are forthcoming in Word Riot, Metazen, Monkeybicycle, Coconut, H_NGM_N, The Rumpus, and other journals.

Fight to See Yourself On Screen

This is a guest post by Joyce Wu.

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.

Short film teaser for The Real Mikado

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 Her Words: Wonder Russell on Directing ‘Revelation’

This is a guest post written by Wonder Russell.

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.


THE SUMMER HOME – Short Film from First Sight Productions on Vimeo.

I previously worked on two projects that were hugely generative and thematic – one was a stage play, Emerald and the Love Song of Dead Fishermen, and one was a short film, Teething. Working from pure inspiration and discovery is scary but also hugely satisfying. I knew the open-ended process was an experience I craved and wanted to work with again.

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:

 
REVELATION: Omnibus from Revelation Film Project on Vimeo.


Wonder Russell is an actor gaining recognition for her work in edgy indie dramas and quirky webcomedies. Revelation is her first professional directing project.

‘The Sapphires’ and Solidarity Between People of Color

The Sapphires (2012)

 
This is a guest post written by Jaya Bedi.

I predict that this is going to be a very popular film. 
Well, it already is a popular film — in Australia. But I can already tell that its about to become a classic with me and my friends — up there with Mean Girls, Pride and Prejudice, and Bend it Like Beckham — and its only a matter of time before the rest of North America discovers what a gem this movie is. The fact that Bridesmaids actor Chris O’Dowd is one of the stars is only going to make it more popular, as is the fact that it passes the Bechdel Test with flying colors. But what’s really interesting about this film is its treatment of race and cultural identity. 
The Sapphires is about a group of four young Aboriginal women in 1968, who receive a career-making opportunity: travel to Vietnam and sing for the American troops fighting the war. We follow our heroines from their obscure beginnings, through their “discovery,” their rising fame, and the triumphant return home, and we meet a slew of predictable characters along the way. Make no mistake; this is not a film that breaks the rules of the music biopic genre. But what this film lacks in originality, it makes up with heart. The director never loses his compassion for the outlandish personalities he’s dealing with. We develop a deep appreciation for Cynthia, the hilarious sister with no personal boundaries; Gail, the overbearing mama bear of the group, and Dave, the hapless alcoholic manager/keyboardist, with whom we can’t help but fall in love.
While The Sapphires has the feel of a rollicking adventure, the film deals with some very serious issues, and does so with tact and grace. The film does not shy away from showing the blatant discrimination that the girls face because of the color of their skin — this is made clear at the beginning of the film, following Cynthia and Gail’s disastrous performance at an all-white country club. The film takes a firm stance on internalized racism as well — we see the shame that Kay feels at being associated with her black cousins, and her attempts to pass for white. But this isn’t so much a polemic about the prejudice and discrimination that Aboriginal Australians face as it is a coming-of-age tale, for Kay especially. Kay goes from feeling helpless in her despair at their situation, to feeling empowered by her identity as a woman of color; she learns to love being who she is, despite the hardships that being black entails. 
When the girls arrive in Saigon, they are immediately enraptured by the American men they see everywhere. Cynthia falls in love with an audience member immediately, and Kay develops a gigantic crush on a handsome soldier she meets at the hotel. What made me sit up and pay attention was the fact that not a single man the girls show interest in is white. From the second they get there, they are immersed in black American culture (they are, after all, singing soul music), and they have no desire to leave and fraternize with any of their white counterparts. This isn’t because they are barred from mingling with white soldiers by rule or custom — they don’t do it because they don’t want to do it. They specifically seek out black men as romantic partners because they feel a kinship to them. It was refreshing to see men of color depicted as genuinely romantically desirable, without the gross fetishization that usually occurs when black men and sex are involved.

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. 

If I had one critique of the film — I wish we had seen a little more from the black men whom Cynthia and Kay date. I wish we could have seen their conversations. I wish as much attention was paid to Kay’s relationship with her boyfriend as was to Dave and Gail, who strike up a peculiar friendship. I wish we could have seen more of Kay’s transformation from self-hating white-identifier to being an Aboriginal woman with a strong sense of self, a proud woman of the Yorta Yorta clan. The change seemed rather sudden, not at all justified by the narrative. Kay’s boyfriend felt more like a foil for Kay’s character rather than an actual character in his own right, which is problematic when one of the things that helps Kay discover her identity is her relationship to a black American man, and to black American culture.

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. 


Jaya Bedi is a twenty-four year old blogger living in Connecticut. She likes to write about race, politics, and television. You can follow her on twitter at @anedumacation

Guest Writer Wednesday: ‘Oz the Great and Powerful’ Rekindles the Notion that Women Are Wicked

Oz the Great and Powerful (2013)

Guest post written by Natalie Wilson. Originally published at Ms. Magazine blog . Cross-posted with permission.
Dorothy Gale—the girl who went to Oz—has been called the first true feminist hero in American children’s literature. Indeed, she was condemned by many readers, including children’s librarians, for daring to have opinions and act on them.
My grandmother introduced me to the Oz books as a child, and I have always seen her as a real-life Dorothy of sorts. Born in 1908, she loved travel and speaking her mind and–gasp–she preferred to read and write poetry than do dishes and cook. As a young woman, she did not take like a duck to the water of motherhood, and indeed seemed not to have liked it at all. To this day, she is referred to by the wider family as “abandoning” her two sons in favor of books and travel, though in fact her only abandonment was that of the traditional domestic role.
My grandmother was, in some ways, the “anti-mother” or “wicked witch” detailed so brilliantly in Crafting the Witch: Gendering Magic in Medieval and Early Modern England. That book, written by California State University at San Marcos’ associate professor of literature and writing Heidi Breuer, explores how magical, positive female figures such as Morgan le Fey morphed into the Wicked Witches that now dominate depictions of magical, powerful women—including those in the current film Oz the Great and Powerful.
The new Oz film does not include the brave and self-reliant Dorothy, nor any other character that I would identify as having my grandmother’s feminist spirit. The film speaks neither to the many strong female characters that populated L. Frank Baum’s books nor to the feminist, progressive leanings of its author. Instead, it trades in the notion that women are indeed wicked—especially those women not “tamed” by a male love interest or father figure, as well as (horror of horrors!) those women who lack nurturing, motherly characteristics.
In the film, Oscar Diggs is the one who journeys to Oz, not Dorothy, and this provides the basis for a much more traditional, or should I say regressive, story. Rather than, as in the original Oz book, having a female save many men and prove the male leader to be an ineffectual fraud, this time around we have an oafish male functioning as the love interest for various characters, transforming from ineffectual Oscar to the great and powerful Wizard and leader of Oz.
At the outset of the film, Oscar is a circus con-man/magician, readily admitting he is not a good man. Though he is framed as an unscrupulous, womanizing cad, he is also depicted as truly sweet and likable underneath—a sort of prince disguised as a beast. When Annie (Michelle Williams) tells him she is going to marry another man, the audience is meant to feel for poor Oscar—because Annie is framed as his “real love.” But by the close of the movie they are happily reunited, not as Oscar and Annie but as Oz the Wizard and Glinda the Good Witch. (This ending, by the way, and the romance threaded throughout the film, breaks a sacred belief of Baum’s that romance should not be featured in children’s tales.)
Baum’s continued insistence, both in his real life and his writing, that females are strong, capable, courageous and intelligent—and that tolerance, understanding and courage should guide one along life’s journey—are scuttled in favor of a movie heavy on special effects and light on character development, let alone any feminist or progressive message.
In contrast, the Oz books are full of intelligent, enterprising, courageous and self-reliant females. There are benevolent female rulers, such as Ozma and Lurline, as well as both good and bad witches. As noted at Bitch Flicks,
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.

In Baum’s version of Oz, females were allowed to have power and show anger without being castigated—something rare in books from Baum’s era. Also rare were female protagonists in children’s books, which is why, according to one scholar, “The Wizard of Oz is now almost universally acknowledged to be the earliest truly feminist American children’s book, because of spunky and tenacious Dorothy.” Baum’s work even hinted at the instability of gender—as when Ozma is first introduced as a boy named Tip. Traditionally masculine in many respects after her turn to female, Ozma’s gender is thus represented as not only about physical characteristics or appearance, but as far more complicated. Quite postmodern and queer for a children’s book from the early 1900s!
In addition to these feminist characters and depictions of gender, the books also consistently celebrate tolerance and diversity and maintain what Alison Lurie calls an “anti-colonial attitude.” This is no coincidence; rather, as documented in the BBC’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz: The True Story, “When L. Frank Baum wrote the Wonderful Wizard of Oz book, his choice of heroine was heavily influenced by the battle for women’s rights.” He was married to Maud Gage, the daughter of Matilda Joslyn Gage, the pioneering feminist and co-founder of the National Woman Suffrage Association.
While some still question feminism’s influence on Baum (as here), and it is often wrongly claimed that he and his feminist mother-in-law did not get along (as in The Dreamer of Oz), Baum’s faith in feminism never wavered. He supported feminism both within his own home (Maud ran the finances and his mother-in-law stayed with them six months out of every year) and in his writings (not only in the Oz books but in his journalistic work). Moreover, Baum thought men who did not support feminist aspirations were “selfish, opinionated, conceited or unjust—and perhaps all four combined,” and he argued that, ”The tender husband, the considerate father, the loving brother, will be found invariably championing the cause of women.” (One wonders what he would make of director Sam Raimi and his decidedly un-feminist new depiction of Oz!)
Baum’s feminist biography aside, many aspects of the books stand on their own as fictional feminist tracts. For example, the second book of the series, The Marvelous Land of Oz, features a fictional suffrage movement led by Jinjur, the female general of an all-girl army (their key weapon is knitting needles). At one point, Jinjur offers the rallying cry, “Friends, fellow-citizens and girls … we are about to begin our great Revolt against the men of Oz!” As a New York Times‘ reviewer quipped, it is too bad this female army “didn’t storm Disney next.”
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.

In Oz the Great and Powerful, perhaps the most anti-feminist adaptation, Dorothy—the plucky and powerful girl from Kansas—is supplanted by a series of Oscar’s romantic interests, and this focus does not shift after a mighty storm transplants us from Kansas to Oz. There, Oscar quickly meets Theodora (Mila Kunis), who tells him of the prophecy that he is destined be the leader of Oz. However, she warns him, “You only become king after you defeat the Wicked Witch.” Metaphorically, for men like Oscar to achieve greatness they need to destroy powerful women. And, significantly, in order to destroy the witch Oscar must not kill her but destroy her wand—in other words, destroy her (phallic) power, destroy what makes her “like a man.” (I imagine Baum turning over in his grave).
Oscar, like the audience, does not yet know who this Wicked Witch is—a mystery that the film’s publicists went to pains to protect before it was released. This mystery suggests any female could be the Wicked Witch or, more broadly, that all women are or have the potential to be wicked.
When Oscar first meets Theodora, the audience is encouraged to view her as kind, helpful and beautiful. She, like the women from Kansas, seems taken by his charms. In contrast, her sister Evanora refers to Oscar as a “a weak, selfish and egotistical fibber.” Evanora’s fury, as well as her witchy get-up, encourages the audience to think she is the Wicked Witch. When Theodora insists Oscar is the wizard, Evanora’s caustic response—“’The wizard, or so he says. He may be an imposter. Sent here to kill us”—furthers the suspicion.
Then, when Evanora says “Maybe it’s you I’ve underestimated. Have you finally joined her side, sister?” the audience is once again encouraged to question who the “her” is. Theodora protests, “I am on no one’s side. I simply want peace. He’s a good man,” suggesting she is not on the Wicked Witch’s side. But Evanora retorts, “’Deep down you are wicked!’
Theodora then throws a ball of fire across the room, prompting the audience to once again question who the real Wicked Witch is. The mystery continues when Oz, his monkey sidekick Finley and the China Girl (a porcelain doll) spy a witchy-looking figure in the dark forest. But the scary figure turns out to be Glinda, who is quickly identified as a “good witch” not only through the ensuing dialogue but via her blonde hair and white dress.
This delaying of the true identity of the Wicked Witch and the suggestion that even good women can be, or at least appear to be, wicked, goes along with the fear of female wickedness that shaped not only the Renaissance era and its infamous witch hunts but continues to be a key trope in our own times. Sadly, the new film reifies messages contained in so many stories of the witch–that females not tied to or interested in men/family are jealous, duplicitous, vengeful and must be destroyed (or domesticated). The good females in the film function as a mother/daughter pair, both of whom, by film’s end, are tied to Oz as their patriarch.
The film can also be read as yet another story about how men are destined to lead while women are destined to mother. This goes directly against the original author’s beliefs; as his grand-daughter notes, “He was a big supporter of women getting out into the marketplace and men connecting with the children and spending time at home.” In direct contrast, the film punishes female entrepreneurial spirit and pluck and never suggests that any of Oscar’s greatness comes from his desire to spend time at home. Instead, he is ultimately rewarded by becoming the “great and powerful” man the title refers to, and the female characters are either punished for refusing the maternal role (Evanora and Theodora) or rewarded for placing primacy on family (Glinda and the China Girl).
As wonderfully put in the New York Times review of the film, Oz the Great and Powerful “has such backward ideas about female characters that it makes the 1939 Wizard of Oz look like a suffragist classic.” While the 1939 film was decidedly less feminist than the book on which it was based, it nevertheless was far more feminist friendly than this current iteration.
That a book published in 1900 and a film that came out in 1939 are each more feminist than a 2013 film is troubling. The NPR review agrees, but then claims that what this indicates is “that chivalry (or perhaps feminism) of the sort that Judy Garland could count on is not only merely dead, it’s really most sincerely dead.” Simplistic reading of chivalry aside, the suggestion that feminism is dead has perhaps never been more wrong than it is now. Sure, we still have our wicked witches to face (I am talking to you, Ann Coulter), but we also have a plethora of Dorothys and Ozmas and Jinjuras—not to mention L. Frank Baums.
It is particularly disappointing that films aimed at children and families continue to be not only un-feminist but devoutly anti-feminist, and they do so by drawing on the stereotypical witch figure of centuries ago—used, as Breuer puts it, to “frighten women back into domestic roles.”
Alas, just as the 1939 film reflected the economic realities of its time, turning Baum’s story into a call for women to return to the home (as in, “There’s no place like home”), so too does this 2013 version speak to the current economic crisis. Times of economic downturn are predictably accompanied by sexist backlash—a sort of knee-jerk “Let’s blame it on the women that steal our jobs, refuse to do their duties (mothering, cleaning, etc.) and threaten the stability of family, of church, of the very nation.” Currently, this backlash is evident on many fronts–from the attacks against women’s reproductive freedoms, to the vitriol aimed at women who dare seek independence or even the right to report rape, to the hyperfocus on romance, sexuality and appearance as the only things that truly matter to women.
The message of the original book was that possibilities for a liberated world of tolerance and female equality was not merely a dream but a real place we could move to if we only had the courage (and the heart and the brain). The message of the 1939 film was that women can have some power, but home and family was still the best place for them (and liberation was merely a dream caused by a bad bump on the head). The message of Oz the Great and Powerful is that only men can save women and only men can save Oz; in other words, what we need to save us from falling off the economic cliff is not Dorothy, not Glinda, not the China Girl, but a gold-digging con man who is adept at smoke-and-mirrors politics but has about as much substance or real conviction as, well, many of our current world leaders. These frauds are apparently still better than any woman though—be she good, wicked, or made of porcelain.
Illustration of Dorothy and Toto by W.W. Denslow, from Wikimedia Commons
Image of 1939 film from Flickr user Jason Weinberger, under license from Creative Commons


Natalie Wilson, PhD is a literature and women’s studies scholar, blogger, and author. She teaches at Cal State San Marcos and specializes in areas of gender studies, feminism, feminist theory, girl studies, militarism, body studies, boy culture and masculinity, contemporary literature, and popular culture. She is author of the blogs Professor, what if …? and Seduced by Twilight. She is a proud feminist mom of two feminist kids (one daughter, one son) and is an admitted pop-culture junkie. Her favorite food is chocolate.

Shut Up and Sing: The Dixie Chicks Controversy Ten Years Later

Movie poster for Shut Up and Sing

This is a guest post by Kerri French.

This month marks ten years since Natalie Maines made her infamous statement during a packed Dixie Chicks gig at Shepherd’s Bush in London, acknowledging the recent events pointing to the United States’ imminent invasion of Iraq by saying “Just so you know, we’re on the good side with y’all. We do not want this war, this violence. And we’re ashamed that the President of the United States is from Texas.” Two days later, the latter part of her statement was quoted in the British newspaper The Guardian and soon picked up by the Associated Press, grabbing headlines across the US. While the Dixie Chicks initially tried to downplay Maines’ comment in the hopes that the controversy would blow over, it quickly became evident that there was no turning back from the stand they had taken.

Targeted by the right-wing group Free Republic, their number one single quickly fell down the charts, album sales dropped, and radio stations refused to play their music. Faced with boycotts throughout their summer tour and the possibility of losing corporate sponsorships, Maines and sisters Martie Maguire and Emily Robison quickly realized that the issue could not be easily swept away and chose instead to embrace the controversy, framing it as a free speech issue that they would not back down from. They found themselves further faced with harassment, vandalism, and threats of violence, serving as an example to the rest of the country as to what can happen when you choose to express an unpopular opinion.

The Dixie Chicks messing around on stage

Throughout this time and for the three years following, filmmakers Barbara Kopple and Cecilia Peck documented the band’s reaction and response to the treatment they faced following their 2003 statement. Alternating between footage filmed immediately after the 2003 controversy and two years later as the Dixie Chicks were writing and recording Taking the Long Way, their 2006 album that served as a response to the backlash they experienced throughout their Top of the World tour, Shut Up and Sing highlights the ways in which the band was forced to reconsider not only how they presented themselves as artists but what kind of music they now wanted to create. Maines, Maguire, and Robison take on the task of writing an entire album of songs for the first time, using many of the songs as a way to reflect on and respond to the hostility, threats, and pressure that surrounded them several years prior. As Kopple and Peck show the band preparing to promote the new album, it becomes evident that the 2003 controversy has become a part of the band’s identity, even three years later when Maines’ actual words have been forgotten by most. Refusing to apologize for what they believe in became deeply embedded into who they were, unable to be separated from the discussions of how best to introduce the music industry and fans to the band’s move away from a more straightforward country sound that now incorporated rock and pop influences. Maines in particular seemed hesitant to introduce their new sound and songs too quickly, wanting to be more cautious than Maguire and Robison out of fear of the backlash the band could experience all over again. The documentary offers a very real glimpse into not only how three musicians balance their career with their beliefs, but also how they deal with the emotional aftermath of all that they are up against.

The Dixie Chicks on Entertainment Weekly
What is most impressive, however, is the way Kopple and Peck use the documentary to capture the bond and friendship among three women facing enormous pressure in an industry that refuses to reward women for being true to themselves. Despite countless questioning from the press over how Maguire and Robison feel regarding Maines’ statement, the band continues to think of themselves as a “we” and Maguire and Robison’s support of Maines is unwavering. Indeed, the band doesn’t back away from the controversy that the statement created, refusing to cater to a fan base and industry that showed them so much hostility. The film highlights the band’s anger in conversations filmed backstage during their 2003 tour, with each member arguing with longtime manager Simon Renshaw over what constitutes a radio ban, insisting that they have done nothing wrong and have no reason to show remorse or ask for a second chance. The connection between these three women appears to only grow stronger the more they embrace their newfound political roles as advocates for free speech. In one poignant moment, the documentary shows Maguire tearfully stating that Maines still blames herself for what happened, despite Maguire’s insistence that it was the best thing that could have happened to their careers. She continues, stating that she would give up her career if that is what Maines needs. Their 2006 studio album has, in fact, proven to be their last; despite brief reunions to play a handful of concerts together, the band has headed in different directions, with Robison and Maguire forming the duo Court Yard Hounds while Maines is set to release a solo album with a decidedly more rock focus in May.

The Dixie Chicks singing the National Anthem

Watching the documentary so many years later, it is hard not to wonder why these three women’s actions in particular so enraged the country. The Dixie Chicks were certainly not the most outspoken celebrities to speak out against the war, yet theirs is the controversy that will ultimately be remembered from that time. Was it more shocking that three country musicians could be politically and socially liberal? Admittedly, it probably came as no shock that Sean Penn and Tim Robbins were against the war, but even liberal Americans must have been surprised that it was the Dixie Chicks of all artists who managed to stir up such strong feelings about patriotism and the war.

Still, the question arises whether these three women were punished so harshly because they were country artists whose opinions went against the grain of a large percentage of their fan base or because they were women who dared to have an opinion. Would a male country artist expressing antiwar sentiment have been met with radio bans and death threats? The behavior of male country artists, after all, is often excused or even glorified with their “rebel” persona; it’s all well and good for male musicians to be loud and outspoken but when a woman dares express an opinion outside of what middle America believes, she not only puts her career at risk but exposes herself to harassment and discrimination from fellow musicians, the country music industry, and all of its fans.

Fans unite in support of The Dixie Chicks
And harassment and discrimination is the only way to fairly describe what happened to the Dixie Chicks in the wake of their 2003 statement against the President. Not only did Clear Channel Communications strike the group from country radio station playlists, the uproar from fans wanting all of their CDs bulldozed was nothing short of a modern day witch-hunt. Metal detectors were installed at their shows throughout the summer and a police escort was needed that July when the FBI revealed knowledge of a death threat against Maines in Dallas. Fellow country artist Toby Keith, branding Maines a “big mouth,” began using a doctored photo of Maines with Saddam Hussein as a backdrop at his concerts while singing “You’ll be sorry that you messed with the U. S. of A. / We’ll put a boot in your ass / It’s the American way”—an act that he was never reprimanded for, despite the use of Maines’ image serving as nothing but pure incitement of hatred and violence against a woman who dares hold her own political opinions. The irony, of course, is that it was the Dixie Chicks, not Toby Keith, who had to worry about their tour sponsorship deal falling through when Lipton sent in a PR consultant to discuss whether the company felt they could go forward with the relationship after the band’s “brand” had been tarnished.

The Dixie Chicks sweep the 2007 Grammy Awards
Ten years on, the very conservative demographic who demonized Maines for expressing her disapproval of President Bush and the war are now the ones saying far worse about President Obama. Maines’ statement seems absolutely uneventful in comparison, so much so that the country’s response to her words is near comical when viewed now. Still, the documentary serves as a reminder that the way these three women were treated was anything but comical; it is clear that under the right political circumstances, political groups and corporations can exert enormous pressure on those who choose to express an unpopular opinion. It is especially fitting, then, when the Dixie Chicks return to Shepherd’s Bush in London at the end of the documentary to promote their new album and Maines jokes that she would like to say something the audience hasn’t already heard before and then goes on to say, “Just so you know, we’re ashamed the President of the United States is from Texas.” This time around, the comment wasn’t met with protests and boycotts; the band was instead rewarded in early 2007 when they swept the Grammy Awards by winning all five categories for which they were nominated. In the end, the Dixie Chicks committed themselves to remaining true to who they were no matter the professional, financial, or personal cost—something an audience has rarely heard before, indeed.

 The Dixie Chicks perform “Not Ready to Make Nice” at the 2007 Grammy Awards Ceremony

Kerri French is a poet whose writing has been featured on Sirius Satellite Radio and published in Barrow Street, Mid-American Review, DIAGRAM, Sou’wester, Waccamaw, Barrelhouse, Best New Poets 2008, and The Southern Poetry Anthology, among others. A North Carolina native, she currently lives in Cambridge, England. 



Foreign Film Week: Magical Girlhoods in the Films of Studio Ghibli

Guest post written by Rosalind Kemp, previously appeared at Bitch Flicks on November 30, 2011.

“For the people who used to be ten years old, and the people who are going to be ten years old.”

— Director Hayao Miyazaki on Spirited Away

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
In all three stories there’s also the seeking of identity for the girls, especially and most literally for Chihiro for she has her very name stolen by a witch. In their quests for self-hood and identity all four characters go through similar trials and experiences: the absence of parental influence, the access to magical powers, the physical manifestations of anxieties such as the dust bunnies that feature in both My Neighbour Totoro and Spirited Away.

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
Work as empowerment isn’t the only moral message in these films, with ecological messages also being played out. In My Neighbour Totoro there’s the idyllic agricultural setting as well as the Totoros and other spirits of the forest. In Spirited Away rivers like Haku’s have been filled in because of the greed of humans. The messages of conservation, respect of nature (and blaming of humans as nature’s destroyers) are not as forcefully applied as in, for example, Princess Mononoke but neither are they subtle. While this preaching could be tiresome in other films, because of their earnestness and how the protagonists are fully on message it’s actually pleasant. Although nurturing the planet back to health is presented as an ungendered activity the films together can be viewed as showing the next generation of empowered young women actively making progress and solutions to the problems inflicted on the world by older generations. This also applies economically where Kiki and Chihiro’s enterprising labours lead to success for both. Chihiro especially is placed at the beginning of the film in the context of a Japan after economic downturn and reckless financial behaviour by her elders (as reported by her father) damaging Japan as a whole and its youth implicitly.

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.