Oscar-winning performances

Reflections on a Feminist Icon

Possessing mass and cult appeal, the bilingual, Yale-educated Foster has, moreover, been popular with both mainstream and indie audiences. Although the adult Foster fulfills conventional ideals of female beauty, she has never been a traditional Hollywood sex symbol. She has been both a figure of identification and desire. In many of her roles, she personifies female independence, heroism and resistance. As an actress, she brings a naturalism, intensity, and integrity to her performances. She engages audiences both intellectually and emotionally.

Written by Rachael Johnson as part of our theme week on The Great Actresses.

Jodie Foster occupies a unique place in modern American cinema. She is an exceptional, award-winning actress, charismatic movie star, pop culture heroine and feminist icon. Fêted for her memorable, ground-breaking roles in films like The Silence of the Lambs (1991) and The Accused (1988), Foster has dramaticized American femininity for decades. She was, of course, a gifted child actress–often playing precocious, self-possessed, street-smart girls–before making a highly successful transition to adult performing, and winning two Best Actress Academy Awards in her 20s. Very few actresses have, in fact, enjoyed Foster‘s international, inter-generational and cross-gender esteem and popularity. Possessing mass and cult appeal, the bilingual, Yale-educated Foster has, moreover, been popular with both mainstream and indie audiences. Although the adult Foster fulfills conventional ideals of female beauty, she has never been a traditional Hollywood sex symbol. She has been both a figure of identification and desire. In many of her roles, she personifies female independence, heroism and resistance. As an actress, she brings a naturalism, intensity, and integrity to her performances. She engages audiences both intellectually and emotionally.

There have been bad and mediocre movies, of course, like Stealing Home (1988), but Foster has starred in a string of good and great films. The Silence of The Lambs (1991) and Taxi Driver (1976) are, simply, masterpieces. Foster has worked with the likes of Martin Scorsese, Spike Lee, David Fincher, Jonathan Demme, and Neil Jordan. But although she has chosen American auteurs, she has not, interestingly enough, shown great interest in avant-garde and experimental cinema. The California native is, it seems, a populist. A child of the movies. In her autobiography, My Life So Far, Jane Fonda explains that she adheres to David Hare’s belief that “the best place to be a radical is at the center.” Foster has, of course, never been as politically engaged as Fonda in her public life, but perhaps she feels that cultural representations of femininity can be transformed from the center. Although there have been historical films, such as Sommersby (1993) and Anna and the King (1999), most of her films are set in modern America. Foster has always been of her time. Dramas, crime films, psychological and action thrillers appear to dominate her filmography (at least as an adult) although she has performed effectively in more comic roles. She is amusing and engaging in both Maverick (1994) and Nim’s Island (2008).

Foster has a distinctive screen persona. In films such as The Silence of the Lambs (1991) and Contact (1997), she has memorably personified female heroism and self-determination. Her characters destabilise old-fashioned ideals of girlhood and womanhood, and contest reactionary cultural attitudes. Audiences are accustomed to seeing Foster’s characters occupy professions traditionally dominated by men. She plays a scientist in Contact (1997), an aircraft engineer in Flightplan (2005), and a power broker in Inside Man (2006).

Foster, of course, plays an FBI agent in The Silence of the Lambs, Jonathan Demme’s masterful adaptation of Thomas Harris’s novel about a young woman’s hunt for a serial killer. Clarice Starling is a pioneering character in mainstream American cinema. Female protagonists have been traditionally rare in the thriller and horror genres and Clarice challenges masculinist power and privilege as well as traditional expectations of gender. Uncommon for a female character in the thriller and horror genres, she is an intelligent, resourceful, independent woman graced with self-will and self-control. Clarice is unusual in other ways. A woman of physical and moral courage, she makes goodness interesting. This is remarkably rare in cinema. Silence also deals with myths and sexuality in Gothic fashion and Clarice encounters two powerful charismatic father-figures on her quest. Clarice’s boss acts as a kind of paternal figure as well as mentor, and the man who helps her catch the killer, Buffalo Bill, is a seductive, patrician psychiatrist and cannibal serial-killer called Hannibal Lecter. Foster’s Clarice has an appealing sincerity and humanity, and her more naturalistic interpretation of the character contrasts beautifully with Anthony Hopkins’s theatrical incarnation of Lecter. We know, as Lecter knows, that Clarice will never give in and never sell out. The strongest and most moral character in the film, she treats everyone she meets with compassion and respect. Most of all, she represents the female victims of Buffalo Bill while embodying the aspirations of her fellow working-class women. For the orphaned Clarice’s origins are modest and her history is also marked by tragedy.

Foster‘s choices and performances reveal an awareness of outcasts and outsiders as well as an empathy with victims. She has played privileged women in films like Panic Room (2003), The Beaver (2011), Inside Man (2006) and Carnage (2011) but she has, I feel, secured her greatest performances playing women with disadvantaged backgrounds. Although they are often victims of patriarchy, male sexual exploitation and violence, they are not devoid of hope and strength. In Taxi Driver (1976), Foster plays a child prostitute and gives her character, Iris, both spirit and vulnerability. It is a performance that both impresses and disturbs. The actress was in her early teens at the time. The young woman of The Accused (1988), Sarah Tobias, is even less advantaged than Clarice and enjoys none of her esteem and authority. In The Accused, Foster personalizes working-class female pain. Based on a true story, Jonathan Kaplan’s drama is about a waitress who is gang-raped in a bar. The harrowing film chronicles Sarah’s fight for justice. It is one of Foster’s most socially-aware roles and fully-realised performances. Although a victim, Sarah is committed to bringing the men who witnessed and were complicit in the rape to trial. The film itself formally resembles a television drama but the characterization of the female protagonist is strong. Sarah is simultaneously vulnerable, child-like, spirited, all-too-human, tough and moral. Foster interprets her with understanding and humanity. It is an extraordinarily sensitive and multi-layered performance.

In the first decade of the Millenium, Foster’s iconic reputation as a figure of female independence and defiance was further consolidated. Panic Room (2002), Flightplan (2006) and The Brave One (2008) are all about women fighting back. In Panic Room, Foster’s privileged yet vulnerable character suffers a home invasion. Intruders, in fact, break into the Manhattan brownstone of the newly-divorced Meg Altman (her husband has left her for another woman) and her child the night they move in. The mother and daughter retreat to a panic room. Directed by David Fincher, Panic Room is a better, more stylish film than Flightplan and The Brave One. It is thrilling, and satisfying, watching Foster’s character outwit and defend herself, and her child, against the men. For the majority of the film, she is alone with them and when her ex-husband finally arrives to check in after being contacted, he is injured and disempowered by the intruders. It is, therefore, Altman who plays the dominant parental and conventionally heroic role. Flightplan is about a widowed aircraft engineer whose child disappears on a flight to the United States. The film replays Hollywood clichés- Foster is entirely alone and no one believes that she even has a child- and the plot, unfortunately, disintegrates. The role is, also, a somewhat reheated, more narcissistic, version of the part she plays in Panic Room. The Brave One is the tale of a talk show host who turns into a vigilante after her fiancé is killed in a street attack. Neil Jordan’s New York set film is politically suspect and lacks credibility, to say the least, and Foster’s character’s fate is highly unlikely. The actor is, of course, watchable in both Flightplan and The Brave One. She also exhibits a credible screen athleticism in the three films. But it is Foster’s turn as a fixer in Spike Lee’s Inside Man that is, arguably, her most interesting role of the last decade. Sleek, elegantly-attired, bare-legged, playful and ruthless, Madeleine White is, perhaps, the actor’s most seductive performance.

Foster is a beautiful woman but the cinematic display of her sexuality has never been conspicuous- not in the traditional Hollywood sense, at least. Regarding her screen and star personae, Foster is feminine, boyish, androgynous, athletic, cerebral, articulate, rational, charismatic and engaging. The fact that Foster is a gay woman who has only recently disclosed her recently–I shall come to this later–adds an interesting complexity and mystique to the gender representation and sexuality of her roles.

Foster has never been an average female movie star. She has, for the most part, successfully evaded the standard, misogynist discourse surrounding other Hollywood actresses. She has not been a regular target of tabloid-concocted crap about failed relationships, lovelessness and inner emptiness. Equally, we don’t associate the actor with Oprahesque confessional narratives. Nor does she seem to suffer what many stars have suffered from over the ages: culturally-constructed psychological and physical female self-hatred. Foster has never played a highly visible public role and has always fiercely guarded her privacy. Personally, I am not greatly interested in the private lives of Hollywood stars and have always admired her refusal to indulge in daily self-exhibitionism. Her devotion to privacy only enhances her mystique and coolness, of course. It also means that we do not know that much about her.

Although Foster is, it seems, liberal, we know very little about her ideological beliefs. She is not politically engaged like Susan Sarandon, George Clooney, Sean Penn, and Maggie Gyllenhaal. Regarding gender representation and politics, her feminist reputation has issued, for the most part, from her roles. She has, of course, never been a gay role model in a public, politically engaged sense. In fact, this has been deeply problematic for some. Indeed, Foster has been criticized for not coming out earlier in her career. America was, of course, a less liberal place in the 80s and 90s, in terms of gay visibility and rights, and perhaps she thought such a move would jeopardize her career. Did her reluctance to come out publicly reflect pure self-interest and moral cowardice? Was it simply judicious or fundamentally a reflection of a long-cherished commitment to keep her private life private? This fierce regard for privacy is understandable in the light of John Hinckley’s attempted assassination of President Reagan in 1981. A mentally unbalanced man, Hinckley shot Reagan to make an impression on the young actress. Foster has become more open over the last decade, and she does not seem to mind relating fun things about her family life (she has two sons) in talk shows. She came out publicly at the Golden Globes in 2013 (she won the Cecil B. DeMille award last year) but even her coming out was executed in a somewhat idiosyncratic fashion. The speech is an interesting one. A little nutty and cryptic, it is also a quite powerful plea for privacy and understanding. Relating how she came out in private when she was younger to people close to her, she referred movingly to her very public childhood. Foster also seemed to quit acting in the speech but I am somewhat skeptical about entertainers’ public pronouncements about retiring.

Her public image, of late, has, in fact, been somewhat tarnished. Her professional relationship with Roman Polanski–he directed Foster in Carnage (2011) (as well as her friendship with Mel Gibson)–has considerably undermined her status as a feminist icon. Her decision to work with Polanski was all the more disappointing because she is a well-regarded, beloved feminist icon, of course. Discussions about the morality of the artist are thorny, and I am not generally a fan of boycotts of artists and censorship, for art is ultimately about knowledge, but I found the actor’s decision to work with Roman Polanski not only deeply troubling but also perplexing. Sarah Tobias is, after all, the most iconic rape victim in mainstream US cinema and The Accused, as Foster knows, was not just a movie. It sought to educate and change attitudes about rape. Sarah represents victims of sexual violence and she embodies all women. In this way, Foster’s choice constitutes a betrayal. I don’t think any entertainment journalist asked her any searching, intelligent questions regarding her decision. What does it all mean? What were her motivations? We can only hope that she will make wiser, saner choices in the future and console ourselves with the thought that her iconic feminist roles still belong to us.

Foster’s odyssey has been unique. Her immense cultural significance in modern Hollywood history cannot be overstated. Some of the most unforgettable representative roles of popular feminism have been played by Foster and her great, prized performances constitute invaluable contributions to cinema. A pioneer as a child and as a woman, she will always be a part of America’s social and cultural history. Foster has represented girls and women in America and around the world- for over forty years. She will always be Clarice, and she will always be ours.

Portrait of a Girl: Reflections on the Role of Flora in Jane Campion’s ‘The Piano’

What is clear is that Campion is interested in the strategies women use to survive in patriarchy. But she is not only interested in the fate of women. She is also interested in how girl-children negotiate their way in a male-dominated world. It is through Ada’s daughter as well as Ada herself that Campion explores the feminine condition in the 19th century. Her rich, multi-layered characterization of Flora is, in fact, one of the most remarkable features of The Piano. She is as interesting and compelling as the adult characters and, arguably, the most convincing. The little girl also has huge symbolic and dramatic importance. This is, of course, unusual in cinema. There are relatively few films where a girl plays such a significant, pivotal role.

Written by Rachael Johnson as part of our theme week on Child and Teenage Girl Protagonists.

It has been 20 years since its release, but The Piano has lost none of its unsettling power. An intense, provocative tale of an “imported” Scottish bride in 19^th century colonial New Zealand, Jane Campion’s finest film still stimulates debate about the nature of female identity and sexuality in patriarchy. Both written and directed by the New Zealand filmmaker, The Piano won the Palme d’Or at the 1993 Cannes film festival and picked up three Academy awards at the 1994 ceremony. Holly Hunter won the Best Actress Oscar for her memorable performance as the bride, Ada McGrath, and Jane Campion was awarded Best Original Screenplay. There was another award that The Piano took home that night–that of Best Supporting Actress. Anna Paquin won the prize for her role as Ada’s young daughter, Flora McGrath. The award was seen as unexpected by many pundits. Paquin plays a child of 9 or 10 and she was only 11 when she won the Oscar. It should not, however, have been that surprising to anyone who had seen the film. Flora is a richly complex as well as hugely important character in the story. As for Paquin’s performance, it is, simply, exceptional. Roger Ebert rightly called it “one of the most extraordinary examples of a child’s acting in movie history.”

Let’s first take a closer look at the story and central characters of this original Victorian tale. From the very start, its heroine is portrayed as a remarkable, enigmatic soul. Ada McGrath is a mute widow whose identity is clearly bound up with her beloved piano. The most important person in her life is her spirited, headstrong daughter. Mother and child are exceptionally close. They are given no back-story. Their past remains a mystery. Although Flora expresses interest in learning about her father, she does not, it seems, even know his name. Neither does the audience. At the very beginning of The Piano, we see Ada married off by her father to Alistair Stuart (Sam Neil), a colonial frontiersman in New Zealand. It is manifest from the moment she arrives on the expansive shores of that beautiful land that Ada will never accept Stuart as her husband. When he refuses to transport her piano to his home, she protests spiritedly (Flora interprets Ada’s sign language) and continues to express her discontent. It is also obvious that Stuart, a staid Victorian gentleman with a severely limited imagination, will never understand Ada. Flora, for her part, declares that she will not accept him as her father.

Another man enters Ada’s life, a neighbor and overseer called George Baines (Harvey Keitel). Illiterate, earthy and sexual, he is characterized as the very opposite of the conservative, repressed Stuart. Baines offers Stuart an exchange: some of his land for the piano. He says that he wants to learn to play the instrument. Stuart’s wife is to teach him. Baines is, however, only interested in Ada. Their association is initially exploitative: Ada is coerced into giving Baines sexual favors in exchange for earning back the piano. Their relationship changes dramatically when they fall in love. Motivated by a belief that her mother is committing a wrong as well as, no doubt, by a fear that she is no longer the most important person in her life, Flora effectively exposes their affair and gives Stuart (whom she now calls “Papa”) proof of Ada’s enduring love for Baines. What follows changes all of their lives.

The Piano is a film of arresting visual beauty. It is, however, a rose with thorns. Strange, unsettling, powerful and problematic, it can be interpreted in a variety of ways. It does invite feminist readings. Its heroine is a sensual, romantic rebel who does not conform to culturally sanctioned norms of feminine behavior. As much as men try and control her, it is clear that her body and soul can never really be owned. It also acknowledges sexual coercion and patriarchal violence as an historical reality for women. The Piano, can also, however, be interpreted as dangerously regressive in its understanding and representation of female sexuality. At the end of the day, there’s no getting around the fact that Ada falls in love with a man who has exploited her. Baines himself is transformed into a romantic hero. Then again, we may ask if Campion is perhaps trying to underscore that Ada’s psycho-sexual state is the lot of female identity and sexuality in patriarchy? Her portrait of Ada is, ultimately, extremely complex. She portrays her heroine as a victim, sexual subject, self-directed woman, and survivor.

What is clear is that Campion is interested in the strategies women use to survive in patriarchy. But she is not only interested in the fate of women. She is also interested in how girl-children negotiate their way in a male-dominated world. It is through Ada’s daughter as well as Ada herself that Campion explores the feminine condition in the 19^th century. Her rich, multi-layered characterization of Flora is, in fact, one of the most remarkable features of The Piano. She is as interesting and compelling as the adult characters and, arguably, the most convincing. The little girl also has huge symbolic and dramatic importance. This is, of course, unusual in cinema. There are relatively few films where a girl plays such a significant, pivotal role.

Flora McGrath is an extremely smart, perceptive, imaginative and articulate child. She likes to get involved, to meddle even, and loves to tell stories. ‘”My real father was a German composer,” she tells fascinated colonial women at one point. Perhaps because she has been fatherless, Flora has not been shackled by patriarchal norms of femininity. She is lively and headstrong, the very antithesis of the archetypal meek Victorian girl-child. As Ada is, also, not an authoritarian mother, her childhood has been blessed by a great deal of love and freedom. In an early scene in The Piano, we see her tearing through her grandfather’s home on roller-skates.

Flora is also not afraid of speaking to adults, even paternal figures. She shares her mother’s innate, autonomous spirit and rightly perceives that her new father is a threat to their special bond. Amusingly, the closeness of the bond is even recognized by the dull Stuart. He is always tentative when he approaches Ada and her child. At the beginning of the story, Flora tells her mother that she does not want another father. She declares, “I’m not going to call him Papa. I’m not going to call him anything. I’m not even going to look at him.” Although she wants to hear stories about her own father, Flora is conceived, at least at first, as an anti-patriarchal child. The love between Ada and Flora embodies a utopian, gynocentric ideal and, as Flora is aligned with Ada, she too represents the feminine state.

From the very start of the film, Ada and Flora are shot together. Campion’s camera recurrently emphasizes their similarities–their brown eyes, extreme pallor, and sober style and color of dress–and makes them mirrors of each other. We see them tilt their head in the same way and when someone unfamiliar crosses their path, they alternate in standing behind each other. Mother and child are in the same portrait, and the same story.

Flora serves a concrete as well as symbolic role in the story. She is, literally, Ada’s voice. Although she may sometimes fancifully embroider her mother’s unvoiced words, she interprets her signing for others. If the piano is Ada’s non-verbal means of expression, Flora is her only human instrument of communication. The child also represents Ada’s freedom and female freedom in general. This is beautifully illustrated in a scene where we see Ada joyfully play the piano on the white sands while Flora dances with supreme self-confidence for her mother.

Flora is, however, not only her mother’s helper and beloved child. She is also her adversary. It is Flora who effectively reveals her mother’s transgressions to Stuart. “I know why Mr. Baines can’t play the piano,” she tells her stepfather. Although her view was limited and she did not, of course, fully understand what she saw, she was once a witness to the adults’ curious activity. She does, however, sense that her mother and Baines were doing something her stepfather would not like. Stuart soon learns the truth and attempts to rape Ada when he discovers her making her way to Baines’ home.

Flora is not an evil little girl. She loves her mother but simply does not understand the consequences of her words. Her betrayal should not, in fact, shock the viewer. Flora most likely feels like she has been betrayed. “I want to be in the photograph,” she says with a scowl when her mother’s wedding portrait is being taken. She fears that she will no longer be in her mother’s photographs. When Baines and Ada are together in the cabin, Flora plays alone outside. Hurt and angry, she fears that she has been replaced in her mother’s affections. Perhaps she even harbors feelings of hate towards her. That is why she starts calling Stuart “papa.” The fatherless child begins to side with convention and patriarchy. Interestingly, we hear Flora judge her mother like a fanatical Puritan. She calls her mother’s observation that people talk rubbish “unholy.” At one point, she screams that her mother is “going to hell.” When Stuart boards up their house to prevent Ada from visiting Baines, Flora gives him helpful directions. She betrays her mother a second–and last–time. Charged with giving a romantic message to Baines, she decides instead to give it directly to Stuart. Flora will, however, be traumatized by her stepfather’s brutal, life-changing punishment of her mother and will soon return to the fold. She becomes, once again, the loyal, ardent voice of Ada. Her mother’s lover, Baines, will be her new father.

Campion’s portrait of Flora is as fascinating and complicated as her portrait of Ada. Flora is a strong-willed, non-conformist girl-child allied with her mother in a land of male strangers. The close bond she shares with her is unique. Flora is Ada’s very likeness, as well as instrument and expression of freedom. Yet she reproduces the lines of preachers to condemn her mother and chooses–at least, for a time–to accept her austere stepfather’s ways. Flora’s disloyalty issues from feelings of abandonment and insecurity but it is also indicative of the insidious ideological power of patriarchy. Campion shows how girl-children may reproduce its values.

Holly Hunter, Jane Campion, and Anna Paquin at the Oscars

Campion’s take on childhood itself is unsentimental and truthful. Flora is a charming, expressive child but she is not Hollywood cute. Paquin’s performance is hugely charismatic. She perfectly captures her character’s individualistic, insubordinate ways. She also, however, embodies girlhood. Flora may be intelligent and imaginative but she is also a child. While she may have spent a great deal of time in the company of adults, witnessing adult anxieties and brutality, she does not yet fully understand the adult world. Like most children, she is self-centered and like most, she wants to monopolize her mother’s love and attention. Children can also, of course, be cruel as well as affectionate–almost in the same breath, on occasion. Flora is no exception. In one scene, we see the little girl torment then comfort a dog outside Baines’ cabin. With her mother, she can be both sweet and censorious in a darkly comic way. When Stuart locks Ada in the house upon discovering her affair, Flora says to her mother, “You shouldn’t have gone up there, shouldn’t you? I don’t like it, and nor does Papa.” Almost immediately, she makes the pleasant suggestion, “We can play cards, if you like.” She scolds as well as mothers Ada, in the same way she scolds and mothers her dolly and the dog. In the final scenes of The Piano, we see Flora busily attend to her mother’s needs.

Campion not only makes Flora a real child; she is also drawn as an emotionally complex human being with her own needs and wants. Thanks to her inspired, multi-layered characterization and Paquin’s natural, fully realised performance, Flora is consistently credible and authentic. Campion’s portrait of Flora is also a political one. The writer-director is interested in her place in the world. Through Flora, she explores the distinctive nature of the mother-daughter relationship as well as the hold of fathers. Flora is an intelligent, resilient child. Like her mother, she is portrayed as a survivor and sovereign spirit. We last see her cart-wheeling in the garden of her new home. Ultimately, her fate is fascinating one to contemplate.