The core of Fat Girl is these two girls, who contrast each other in some very essential ways, but are inexorably bound together by shared experiences. Both are adolescents grappling with the early throes of sexuality, but their divergent appearances and ages leave them in different positions socially, affecting their worldviews.
While many Black sitcoms revolve around a family, it’s rare that specific interactions between sisters are depicted. While “sisterhood” here often refers to the strong bond between friends, biological sisterhood is sometimes forgotten. Sisters with strong relationships on television display some of the deepest and truest kinds of family love out there.
But more and more it seems you can judge the quality of modern adaptations on how the filmmakers view Lizzie in relation to her sisters. Even though the representation of women has greatly expanded since Austen’s time, a story that revolves mostly around sisterly relationships remains rare, which makes it even more vital. And while it is true that Austen’s romance has a timeless quality that makes it popular, the narrative of sisterly love remains transcendent.
Both are critically acclaimed dramas directed by women documenting the coming-of-age of five teenage sisters under close scrutiny for their behavior — especially when it comes to their sexuality. And in both films, the girls’ response to this repression is to resort to desperate measures to regain control, resulting in tragedy that could have been averted if they were given the freedom for which they hungered.
So what makes sisters such fascinating subject matter for horror films? What makes them both scary and powerful, yet the most vulnerable, both to outside forces as well as to each other when they are threatened? … Sisters can behave as a single entity and fight for the same things, but there are two bodies — two physical forces — to reckon with.
Hirokazu Kore-eda’s Our Little Sister is a mature and subtle exploration of the place of the half-sister within family life; how she fits in and how she transforms what we think the family means. … The camera lingers on Suzu’s face in a moment of indecision: will she go on as before, having no feelings for what are essentially strangers anyway, or will she take a leap of faith that will mean her identity will be forever tangled with theirs?
The bond between the sisters is at the heart of the wartime baseball movie, directed by Penny Marshall… Their competitive nature is a motivation to be the best… It’s obvious that Dottie always seems to have one up on Kit, which sets up the relentless struggle of the spirited Kit who wants, finally, to be better than Dottie. … Kit and Dottie are the embodiment not just of sisterhood, but of the true nature of a teammate relationship.
The film shows how Satsuki struggles with this dual role of acting as the most present parent while still being only a child herself. … While Satsuki fulfills the role of mom to Mei, it’s her status as sister and child that ends up saving the day. … My Neighbor Totoro is one of Miyazaki’s best odes to sisterhood, portraying both the struggles but also the benefits of having a sibling at your side.
However, the clearest, most poignant development that comes through growing with the films is how ultimately, the love story between Jo and Bhaer and the unrequited love story between Jo and Teddy mean little juxtaposed to the love shared between the four sisters. They are one another’s hearts and souls, evident as Jo writes her novel at the end of the film.
Meredith doesn’t feel obligated to form relationships with Maggie and Amelia due to her sibling connections with them. She doesn’t deem it necessary to acquaint herself with Maggie simply because they share a mother, nor does she try to force a friendly relationship between herself and Amelia simply because she’s the sister of the man she loves. This means then, that when these close relationships are formed, they are all the more powerful. They are formed through choice, not responsibility.
But there’s also a darker side to sisterhood, where rivalries take violent turns and where bonds are almost too strong, superseding everything else including reality. When sisters are pushed to the extremes, when women don’t meet society’s expectations, what does this tell us about the constraints on women to conform to idealized versions of femininity and sisterhood? Are bad sisters just failures or are they simply women with complicated narratives that a patriarchal society doesn’t allow room for?
Two sets of sisters, different in circumstance but alike in experience: the four Romanov Grand Duchesses of Russia and the four Lisbon sisters from 1970s Michigan in The Virgin Suicides. … Clear links between the two sets can be drawn, but ultimately reveal that in both situations, living in a gilded cage only leaves behind a haunting memory.
‘Sisters’ displays an early concern with women’s liberation in mainstream American film (De Palma’s collaborator on the screenplay was Louisa Rose). Many of the film’s social complaints remain liberal talking points today: that police can be motivated by racism, that the legal institution can subject women to excessive scrutiny, and that the medical-psychiatric institution remains patriarchal and sexist in its diagnosing and treatment of women. Yet the film’s intersections with disability are more complicated.
Sisterhood is powerful, magical, and resilient: that’s the sororal message in the celebrated 2003 animated film… Character distinction between the sisters as individuals is not a major focus for writer/director Sylvain Chomet, although each Triplet has different functions/feelings at specific times. The bond of the sisters as a more monolithic force is depicted instead: Chomet presents the unity of sisterhood. … The agency of older women, including the eponymous trio, is vital to The Triplets of Belleville.
The narratives surrounding the television series Downton Abbey and the musical film Fiddler on the Roof are about change and more specifically, how the daughters within both families represent the small, but important contributions that these characters make to modern feminist narratives. … In both Downton Abbey and Fiddler on the Roof, each trio of sisters takes a step in determining her own fate. While the decisions these girls make may seem innocuous, these steps represent the larger cultural and societal fate that will impact future generations of women.
Though the simmering sibling rivalry between Kit and Dottie is a thread that runs through the entire film, the importance of sisterhood goes far beyond this. For both women, sisterhood becomes a ticket to another world: a ticket out, but also a ticket in; to friendship, to competition, and to independence. As such, sisterhood exists as a source of empowerment. It is only as sisters that Dottie and Kit ever make it out of Oregon and to the baseball diamonds of the Midwest.
On first glance, it may well appear that the film follows the usual trappings of the romance genre, in which the young women eventually marry the men that they love, who fortuitously possess more than ample funds to elevate them and their families from poverty, thereby “saving” them. I would argue however, that if we delve a little deeper into Lee’s adaptation it becomes clear that the sisters are not saved by the men they marry, but rather by each other, and multiple times throughout the story.
On first glance, it may well appear that the film follows the usual trappings of the romance genre, in which the young women eventually marry the men that they love, who fortuitously possess more than ample funds to elevate them and their families from poverty, thereby “saving” them. …If we delve a little deeper into Lee’s adaptation it becomes clear that the sisters are not saved by the men they marry, but rather by each other, and multiple times throughout the story.
Much is made of the erotic undertones of recent adaptations of Jane Austen’s work, particularly the wildly popular BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice directed by Andrew Davies, and so it is easy for one of Austen’s most prevailing and insightful themes to be forgotten. Austen is deeply interested in the relationship between sisters and the almost mystical intimacy that stems from it. For Austen’s women characters, this sibling connection is vital in being able to cope with all the trials that family life, social circumstances, and a patriarchal world casts in their direction.
Amidst the clamor of swooning over Mr Darcy’s wet-shirt and Pride and Prejudice’ssubsequent pop-cultural appropriations, the importance of the friendship between the eldest two Bennet sisters can sometimes be overshadowed. Indeed, the sensation around the “sexing up” of the BBC’s Pride and Prejudice somewhat sidelines the memory of another superb adaptation of the Austen canon, released in the same year: Sense and Sensibility. Emma Thompson’s Oscar-winning adaptation of Austen’s novel, beautifully directed by Ang Lee in his English-language debut, focuses on the relationship between sisters Elinor and Marianne, not only to highlight their divergent personalities and thus the “sense” and “sensibility” of the title, but how necessary the sisters are to each other’s survival.
The family of wealthy Dashwood women find their fortunes irrevocably altered on the death of their father, whose home and fortune legally passes to his eldest son from a previous marriage and his selfish, insensitive wife. The four women are left without a home and a mere £500 a year to live on (to put this into perspective, this translates to roughly £16, 980 in today’s currency — $22, 580 in U.S. dollars — according to the National Archives’ currency converter). By the end of the story, the two eldest sisters are happily married: Elinor (Emma Thompson) to a comfortably-off, kind-hearted gentleman turned vicar, and Marianne (Kate Winslet) to an exceptionally wealthy and honorable colonel.
Some may argue that this preoccupation with handsome, eligible men makes it “fluffy” or even unfeminist. On this point, I agree with Samantha Ellis, who recently discussed the application of the Bechdel Test and why it “doesn’t always work.” She believes it is a useful tool in holding us accountable to creating complex female characters, but it should not be the only way in which we measure gender equity in film — indeed this was never its intended purpose. Ellis asserts that “sometimes women’s conversations about men are feminist”; Sense and Sensibility certainly falls under this umbrella. In the film, women’s survival is inextricably bound to marriage, when legal traditions like primogeniture prevented them from inheriting financial independence, and social propriety prevented them from earning money professionally, as Elinor so eloquently expresses to Edward (Hugh Grant):
“You talk of feeling idle and useless; imagine how that is compounded when one has no hope and no choice of any occupation whatsoever… At least you will inherit your fortune, we cannot even earn ours.”
On first glance, it may well appear that the film follows the usual trappings of the romance genre, in which the young women eventually marry the men that they love, who fortuitously possess more than ample funds to elevate them and their families from poverty, thereby “saving” them. I would argue however, that if we delve a little deeper into Lee’s adaptation it becomes clear that the sisters are not saved by the men they marry, but rather by each other, and multiple times throughout the story.
When considering which sister is the “savior” of the Dashwood family, Elinor immediately springs to mind. The opening scenes in the film reveal Elinor to be a self-contained, capable young woman, holding together a family falling apart at the seams as she navigates the grief of her mother and sisters. While the others are stricken at the loss of their father, Elinor is already pulling herself together and thinking pragmatically about their physical survival, comforting her mother and even initiating her youngest sister Margaret (Emelie Françoise) into the realities of their situation.
The importance of Elinor’s capability in this situation cannot be overstated: she is the only one of the women who fully grasps the finer details of their financial situation. In a private meeting between Marianne, Elinor, and their mother as they search for a new home, the widowed Mrs. Dashwood (Gemma Jones) suggests a small manor house, which is certainly a down-size from their expansive home Norland Park, but Elinor has to remind her that it is well outside what they can afford on their small stipend. Even after they move to the tiny Barton Cottage which is to become their home, Elinor monitors the housekeeping expenses with even greater vigilance, even cutting “beef as well as sugar” from their already meager diets. Without Elinor’s practicality, the Dashwood women may well have found themselves in even more dire circumstances.
As much as Marianne relies on her eldest sister’s good sense to ensure her immediate survival, Marianne’s spirited nature provides Elinor some respite from the gravity of the path that lays before them. Where Elinor would politely hold her tongue at their sister-in-law’s money-grubbing behavior, Marianne refuses to surrender her family home without highlighting the injustice at every opportunity. Marianne is appalled at Fanny’s request for the key to the silver cabinet for example, and rather than keeping her candid remarks between herself and Elinor, she pointedly throws the question across the breakfast table the next day: “How was the silver? Was it all genuine?” Elinor sweeps in to change the subject to something more appropriate, but one cannot help but wonder if she sometimes wished she had Marianne’s free-spirited belief in not “hiding her emotions.” Further to this point, Marianne is an important confidante for Elinor: teasing, probing and encouraging her to open up about her feelings for Edward. The confidences the sisters share when alone become an imperative cathartic release from the social restraints of the day, particularly for the propriety conscious and emotionally reserved Elinor.
The sister’s relationship, like that of any sisters, is fraught at times: their divergent attitudes towards social propriety and emotional openness sometimes puts distance between them. Marianne laments to her mother that at times she does “not understand” her sister, while Elinor privately confides to Colonel Brandon (played with the perfect combination of sensitivity, warmth and tortured sadness by the late Alan Rickman) that “the sooner [Marianne] becomes acquainted with the ways of the world, the better.” Despite her wariness of the way in which Marianne’s free behavior can “expose [her] to some very impertinent remarks,” Elinor remains unwaveringly loyal to her sister. When Marianne espies her faithless lover Willoughby (Greg Wise) across a ballroom in London, it is Elinor who is by her side, sharing in the indignity of being socially snubbed by him and his wealthy new fiancée, and it is Elinor who catches her sister when she faints (unlike that other version in which Brandon, in a cheesy “hero” shot, catches Marianne while glowering in Willoughby’s direction). In Thompson’s adapted screenplay, Elinor is there for Marianne through every indignity and public embarrassment, without agenda and in spite of her private thoughts on her sister’s past behavior.
Marianne similarly supports her sister in potentially uncomfortable social situations. Despite her public humiliation and unequivocal rejection from Willoughby by letter, Marianne leaves the sanctuary of her room and puts aside her grief to greet Edward — the man she knows Elinor is deeply in love with — when he finally visits them. Marianne’s warmth and friendliness towards him is to both make him feel at ease in their family circle, and show her support for her sister’s choice, whatever her humorous misgivings about his passionless reading and reserved nature she expresses earlier in the film. She selflessly dismisses his questions about her own health and redirects the attention to her sister, insisting “do not think of me, Elinor is well you see? That must be enough for both of us.” Little does she know that Edward is secretly engaged to the other woman in the room, Lucy Steele (Imogen Stubbs), an uncomfortable fact that only she is unaware of. At times, Marianne resents the secret she senses that lurks between her and Elinor and accuses her of hypocrisy when probed for the details of her intimacy with Willoughby: “That is a reproach from you, you who confide in no one.” Elinor replies that she has nothing to tell, but the audience knows she would share the secret if only Lucy had not elicited her vow of silence. Marianne retorts: “Nor I, we neither of us have anything to tell. I because I conceal nothing, and you because you communicate nothing.” However, when the truth comes out, Marianne rallies to her sister’s side, insisting that she for once put her own desires above those of others.
It is not until we see Elinor open up to Marianne as she lays unconscious, begging her to live, that we fully understand that not only does Marianne’s survival depend on Elinor’s practicality and pragmatism, but Elinor’s survival equally depends upon Marianne. In the dead of night, after a day of nursing her sister and the doctor’s warning for Elinor to prepare herself for the worst, Elinor begs her sister to find the willpower to fight for her life. Emma Thompson’s performance in this moment is utterly wrenching; she runs her hand along Marianne’s leg, as if to memorize the details of her beloved sister’s body before gripping her hand. She barely contains the wall of emotion threatening to overwhelm her: “Marianne, try. Please, try. I cannot do without you. I try to bear everything else. Please, dearest. Do not leave me alone.”
The first conscious words Marianne utters after her life-threatening ordeal are, “Where’s Elinor?” which further emphasizes the symbiosis of their lives. Despite their differences and the tensions they create between them, the two sisters could not survive without the succor they provide each other by simply existing, let alone the many moments of tangible support they afford one another when life in many ways, has been unrelentingly hard on them both.
Too often, Jane Austen’s work and its various screen adaptations is dismissed as trivial or thematically narrow; a period “chick flick” chiefly concerned with the pursuit of a husband to save the protagonist and her family from poverty as a result of the evils of primogeniture. It is worth remembering however, that Austen herself was a pioneer in her day as one of the first women to earn a living by her writing. Equally unconventional was her active choice to remain unmarried, after causing quite the local scandal when she accepted and then rejected the proposal of a wealthy neighbor within a twenty-four hour period. She instead chose to live with her beloved sister Cassandra for the rest of her life. Such was the closeness of their relationship, that their mother is reported to have said, “If Cassandra were going to have her head cut off, Jane would insist on sharing her fate.”
Austen’s own experiences of sisterhood make her renderings of sisterly relationships nuanced and detailed. Her works explore the complexity and intimacy of that connection — which may make the relationship fraught at times, but no less vital. Emma Thompson’s screenplay of Sense and Sensibility depicts this beautifully, revealing through Ang Lee’s insightful direction, that the story is much more about sisterhood than it is about romance or finding the right man.
Melissa-Kelly Franklin is an Australian-born, London-based writer and director of independent short films, with an honors degree in English Literature and History. Her feminist period short film Portrait is soon to premiere at international festivals, and she has two other film projects cooking in pre-production. Updates about her work can be found at melissakellyfranklin.wix.com/writer-director/ and she occasionally tweets @MelissaKelly_F.
If Austen’s earlier ‘Pride and Prejudice’ and ‘Sense and Sensibility’ (both written by age 23) seem to represent “unnatural prudence” by justifying and approving the Madonna’s inhibitions, then her later Emma and Persuasion both defend “natural romance.” Between proper “prudence” and regretful “romance” hovers ‘Mansfield Park’; every avenue is intolerable and every gate locked.
In the 2007 biopic Becoming Jane, Jane Austen’s relationship with Tom Lefroy is turned into a period romance, ending with Austen refusing to elope with Lefroy for the noblest of reasons and vowing that her heroines will get the happy ending she has been denied. There is a problem with that theory. James McAvoy’s passionate, mischievous Lefroy resembles Austen’s early hero Henry Tilney, of Northanger Abbey, but is otherwise far closer to the archetypal Unsuitable Suitor: Willoughby, Wickham, Crawford and Churchill. If, as the tag-line of Becoming Jane claims, “their love story was her greatest inspiration,” this suggests not the wish fulfillment of “happy endings,” but intense conflict over the Unsuitable Suitor’s incompatibility with social approval.
In Clarissa Pinkola Estés’ female spin on Jungian psychology, Women Who Run With the Wolves, she chooses the African tale “Manawee” to represent the psychological challenges of romantic union. In the story, a man’s dog must discover the names of twins before the man can marry them, avoiding distractions of the flesh to deliver the names to his master. In Estés’ reading, the dog represents the man’s instinctual self; only by recognizing (“naming”) the civilized and wild aspects of woman as dual but inseparable (“twins”), while avoiding the temptations of instant gratification (“flesh”) in favor of deep knowledge, can man qualify himself as woman’s enduring mate.
The Madonna/Whore complex defines as “Madonna” any woman who wins social approval by conforming to convention, and as “Whore” any woman who violates social convention to act on desire (capitalized to distinguish the concept from sex workers). Patriarchal ideology demands that the Whore be rejected and the Madonna rewarded, to discipline female behavior. By contrast, Jane Austen’s writing has the logic of Estés’ “Manawee” fable: the inseparable duality of Madonna and Whore. Marianne Dashwood loves Willoughby, therefore Brandon must win Marianne by protecting his Whore ward who elopes with Willoughby; Elinor Dashwood loves Edward Ferrars, therefore Ferrars must prove his loyalty to the Whore, Lucy Steele, to win Elinor; Elizabeth Bennet falls for Wickham, therefore Darcy must protect her Whore sister who elopes with Wickham; sibling-doubles Henry and Mary Crawford are dismissive of Whore Maria, therefore must be rejected by cousin-doubles Fanny and Edmund; Frank Churchill loves loyal Jane, who Whorishly defies propriety with their secret engagement, therefore Churchill appreciates Emma; Knightley loves Emma, therefore he is protective of Jane and urges Emma to stop distrusting her; Captain Wentworth shows his love for Anne Elliot by appreciating Louisa Musgrove, whose Whorish passion Anne has suppressed. The pattern is too consistent for coincidence: no hero in any Austen novel wins the heroine without protecting her Whore counterpart. The intense resistance to sexual double standards that this implies is often unappreciated, because of the propriety of its expression.
Sense and Sensibility‘s Marianne is particularly fascinating in this light. Her binary with Brandon’s Whore ward establishes Marianne as Madonna, and therefore entitled to count as heroine. Her binary with super-Madonna sister Elinor, however, establishes Marianne as Whore, flaunting social conventions by writing to Willoughby and flirting openly. By centering dual Madonna and Whore heroines, Austen foregrounds the internal conflict over the love plots. Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick’s “Jane Austen and the Masturbating Girl“ points to convincing parallels between Marianne’s characterization and the symptoms of female masturbation pathologized as “hysteria” by that era’s medical literature. I’m skeptical, however, of Sedgwick suggesting eroticism in the tension between Marianne and Elinor, rather than drama of the divided self. Elinor’s romantic pain over Ferrars is exactly equal to Marianne’s over Willoughby; she attacks Marianne for daring to express what she herself suppresses, then mourns over Marianne’s fevered body as an inseparable part of herself. As Austen’s final completed novel, Persuasion, declares: “one half of her should not be always so much wiser than the other half.”
Andrew Davies, one of the most successful adaptors of Austen, has stated repeatedly that he believes elements of sex and love, even when pushed to the background by propriety, are always important (and faces Janeite wrath for this insight, as in this post dismissing the Whore as an irrelevant “bratty teenager.” As if women were all fine ladies, instead of rational creatures) Davies famously modernized the sexual tension of Pride and Prejudice by adding scenes of Colin Firth bathing and fencing. His version of Northanger Abbey explores the sexual overtones of Gothic horror to portray Catherine Morland’s craving for thrill and exploration as basically sexual curiosity, while JJ Feild’s Henry Tilney does justice to the ideal hero as playful liberator (is there a petition for JJ Feild, James McAvoy or Tom Hiddleston to play all future incarnations of Willoughby, Wickham, Crawford, and Churchill?).
Austen’s own relationship to the Whore is conflicted: Lydia Bennet is foolish for eloping with Wickham, but we’re encouraged to despise Mary’s smug moralizing over woman’s irretrievable virtue. Austen’s early Lady Susan stars a wickedly anarchic Whore, who flaunts society’s ageism and sexual propriety, like a slightly tamer Marquise de Merteuil but without real punishment (summon Diablo Cody to adapt!). Emma marks the full repentance of the Madonna for her self-righteous enforcement of social values. Persuasion lets the Unsuitable Suitor hold the Madonna accountable: “I could think of you only as one who had yielded, who had given me up, who had been influenced by anyone rather than by me.”
We prefer our Austen heroines spunky but not subversive. Elizabeth Bennet is the fan favorite, a spitfire Madonna, mistaken in her judgments but never “one who yielded” to social pressure, nor one who “forgot herself” (i.e. forgot social pressure) by eloping. In Becoming Jane, Anne Hathaway plays Austen herself as just such a spunky tightrope-walker. She would never just “give Lefroy up,” but martyrs herself nobly for his starving siblings. That Lefroy went on to marry elsewhere (whether he named his daughter after Jane or not), rather than waiting until he had independent means to win her, thus reflects poorly on his faithlessness alone. Our heroine is above reproach. The problem with such spunkiness, and the fantasy of social immunity it represents, is that it trivializes social pressure. Spunky heroines suggest any female failure be blamed on their lack of bootstrapping pluck, rather than on crushing social systems. From a patriarchal perspective, Pride and Prejudice, which Austen herself considered “rather too light,” is the most comforting of her novels: dominant ideology is never confronted because the patriarch just happens to be wryly wise, the Eligible Suitor just happens to be desirable and the Unsuitable Suitor just happens to be “one of the most worthless young men in Britain” (though it’s made clear that Elizabeth would heed Aunt Gardiner and reject him regardless).
Andrew Davies presents ‘The Strange Case of Lizzy Jekyll and Lydia Hyde’
Replace noble Darcy with foolish Rushworth, cynical Wickham with impulsive Crawford, and you have the brooding beast that is Mansfield Park, Austen’s most conflicted masterpiece. Instead of Dashwood duality, there are three sisters in the older generation: Lady Bertram married for prestige and became a pointless, pampered shell; Mrs. Price married for passion and became enslaved to her husband in crushing poverty; childless widow Aunt Norris is a nightmare spinster, channeling sexual frustrations and social resentments into interference in others’ lives. Against this universal failure, the younger generation struggles for happiness. Maria tries to choose Rushworth’s prestige, but revolts and pursues passion with Henry Crawford, before being dumped and joining Aunt Norris in hellish spinsterhood. Fanny is paralyzed by danger on all sides and favors her safely protective cousin, who actually craves Mary Crawford’s rebellious fire. Mansfield Park’s romance cannot be dismissed as insipid cousin-love; it offers real passion with the Crawfords, before tearing it apart through inhibitions and internalized whorephobia (if you liked Pride and Prejudice, you’ll LOVE Inhibitions and Internalized Whorephobia!). Though Henry has been amusingly described as the “original Nice Guy” for refusing to acknowledge Fanny’s lack of interest, what fascinates is Austen using her full powers to make us root for Henry, before mercilessly ripping him away. Henry is the hero who fails; he has “the open-hearted, the eager character” so prized in Persuasion, but he fetishizes a purity he cannot possess and disdains the love that sacrificed everything for him. Henry tantalizes with the promise of mental and sexual liberation, but his double standards turn his promise into Dead Sea fruit.
One of the most symbolic scenes occurs with Fanny stuck on a bench, watching Maria strain for liberation from fiancé Rushworth’s grounds. Rushworth runs for the key to properly release her, but Henry proposes dodging the iron gate: “I think it might be done, if you really wished to be more at large, and could allow yourself to think it not prohibited.” A locked garden was a medieval allegory for virginity. We can read similar symbolism into Louisa Musgrove’s ruinous leap in Persuasion, which says of heroine Anne: “she had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older: the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning.” If Austen’s earlier Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility (both written by age 23) seem to represent “unnatural prudence” by justifying and approving the Madonna’s inhibitions, then her later Emma and Persuasion both defend “natural romance.” Between proper “prudence” and regretful “romance” hovers Mansfield Park; every avenue is intolerable and every gate locked.
Bringing us to Patricia Rozema’s 1999 adaptation, Mansfield Park. In the book, the patriarch Sir Thomas’ trip to the West Indies is an excuse for his family to flirt freely, but Rozema confronts the implication that Sir Thomas is a slaver; his character is given a darker edge, while his eldest son is not feckless but traumatized by flashbacks of slavery. Rozema’s Mansfield Park can thus be compared to Mira Nair’s Vanity Fair, which uses Bollywood influences to foreground the colonized India merely mentioned in the book, or Andrea Arnold’s confrontation of racism in Wuthering Heights. It is notable that Austen chose to make her patriarch a slaver, particularly since the novel is commonly read as defending the Park’s “traditional values” against the modernizing Crawfords. In the book, Fanny’s question about the slave trade meets “such a dead silence,” while the estate shares the name of Lord Mansfield, the 18th century Lord Chief Justice who set a legal precedent for abolition. Rozema’s choice to highlight slavery’s implications is bold and refreshing, but her film frustrates with its compulsory spunkiness.
Rozema admits that she finds Fanny “annoying” and was trying to empower her by making her a “wild beast” and witty writer. Giving the lower class heroine a satirical tongue must have seemed like a good strategy for criticizing patriarchal values. But the spunky woman is gender’s Uncle Tom; her psychological immunity to suffering ultimately lets viewers off the hook. If you’re going to confront slavery in your radical Austen adaptation, you must equally confront the psychosexual torture of the Madonna/Whore complex. Instead, Rozema offers a stale reheating of Pride and Prejudice‘s comfort food:Fanny’s a smirking Elizabeth, Edmund’s a duller Darcy and Maria’s a bitchier Lydia. A really radical adaptation would treat Maria’s passion and confusion with the sympathy of Kate Winslet’s Marianne. A really radical adaptation would make Crawford the sexually magnetic center, giving Fanny the painfully paralyzed inhibition of Celia Johnson in Brief Encounter.
Mira Nair, Andrea Arnold, and Patricia Rozema are pioneering re-imaginings of classic literature, that confront our colonial past. But there can be no definitive adaptation of Mansfield Park, or confrontation of our patriarchal past, until we’re ready to get uncomfortable about sexual repression. Couldn’t Emma Thompson and Ang Lee take a crack at it?
These 18 Lionhearted Heroines in literature, television, and film echo Bullet’s spirit in their own unique ways–possessing faith, valuing friendship, and experiencing unrequited love or loving and expecting nothing in return–as portrayed by the “perfectly imperfect” actresses who embody them.
In the spirit of Bullet, the quintessential Lionhearted Girl, these 18 Lionhearted Heroines each embody the same steadfast strength and selflessness that Bullet possessed.
Part 2 in a series about “Lionhearted Heroines” inspired by The Killing’s Bullet; see Part 1 here
These 18 Lionhearted Heroines in literature, television, and film echo Bullet’s spirit in their own unique ways–possessing faith, valuing friendship, and experiencing unrequited love or loving and expecting nothing in return–as portrayed by the “perfectly imperfect” actresses who embody them.
In the spirit of Bullet, the quintessential Lionhearted Girl, these 18 Lionhearted Heroines each embody the same steadfast strength and selflessness that Bullet possessed.
Stephanie from Rust and Bone
Stephanie (Marion Cotillard) from Rust and Bone, directed by Jacques Audiard (2012)
“What am I for you? A friend? A pal? If we continue, we have to do it right.”
As the trailer (included below) suggests, this remarkable French film centers around a vagrant boxer, his young son, and a gorgeous woman who enters their lives under the most unlikely circumstances. The magnificent Marion Cotillard was nominated for an Academy Award for her portrayal of Stephanie, a tough, assertive orca trainer who courageously struggles to rebuild her life after a horrific accident.
Like Bullet, Stephanie’s tough shell cocoons a sensitive soul, one that is gravely tested after her accident. What is so touching about Stephanie–like Bullet–is her spirited strength and resilience in the face of a reality that most people could not survive. Even as she deals with her own daunting demons and defies overwhelming odds, she is selfless in her availability to others–in her willingness to share her heart and spirit with those around her. She forges a beautiful bond with Alain and his son and, like her devotion to the orcas, loves them unconditionally even though Alain rejects, marginalizes, and uses her. When the bond she feels toward Alain matures into romantic love, she fearlessly reveals her feelings honestly, telling him: “If we continue, we have to do this right.” Just as she asserts herself to Alain, she regains her desire to resume orca training–and in a silent scene (below), recites her training routine for the first time on the balcony of her apartment. Here, Marion Cotillard invests Stephanie with the outward demeanor of a woman completely at peace with her fate and effortlessly exudes an inner spiritual strength that is heightened all the more by Katy Perry’s inspired song, “Firework”:
Rust and Bone and Marion Cotillard’s performance as Stephanie take on an added resonance with the release of this year’s incomparable documentary, Blackfish, which chronicles the appalling treatment of orcas and their trainers at SeaWorld:
“I can’t just stand by while others give their lives.”
In this sprawling and superb beloved BBC series, young actress Jessica Brown-Findlay (a former trained ballet dancer who began acting after a career-ending knee injury) shines as the vivaciously independent, strong-minded, and free-spirited Sybil, who fights with fervor for women’s suffrage and offers her services as a nurse when World War I breaks out in England. Her passion for political causes is equaled only by her slow-burning love for Tom Branson, a young Irish chauffeur who introduces her to a more complicated world beyond the gilded gates of her family’s estate. Once she enters this world, she cannot go back to the way things were before, and her strength of character holds firm despite difficult social and familial circumstances.
[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ltRIQcTMAy8″] Jessica B. Findlay speaks about Sybil
Sybil is a great “soul-sister” to Bullet in her innate desire to help and protect others, despite what it costs her. Sybil’s fate is also akin to the unjust tragedy that befalls Bullet when her powers of protection reach their limit. Like Bullet, Sybil can no longer protect herself–but the legacy of her life is preserved in all she leaves behind.
“When it all goes quiet behind my eyes, I see everything that made me lying around in invisible pieces. When I look too hard, it goes away. And when it all goes quiet, I see they are right here. I see that I’m a little piece in a big, big universe. And that makes things right. When I die, the scientists of the future, they’re gonna find it all…they’re gonna know: Once there was a Hushpuppy, and she lived with her Daddy in the Bathtub.”
During a pivotal scene in Beasts of the Southern Wild, a spiritual journey of survival, Quvenzhane Wallis as Hushpuppy summons her entire miniature being to shout: “I’M THE MAN!” when her father challenges her in a dual-like shouting match. Only six years old at the time of filming, tiny Quvenzhane is much more than her claim to “man-hood”–she is a force of nature who packs a punch that won’t soon be forgotten. She embodies a little firecracker of a girl with a big desire to see and understand the world around her.
Hushpuppy lives a destitute, virtually parentless existence in the Louisiana bayou, a place called “the Bathtub,” with an alcoholic and, at times, abusive father and an assortment of local wild pets. Like Bullet, she is a “street-kid”–inhabiting the “streets” of the bayou and taking shelter in dilapidated shacks–who, despite seemingly hopeless circumstances, embraces the world as a beautiful place and makes a home amongst the animals and plants that afford her shelter and comfort. Even with the threat of a massive storm closing in on them, she never loses sight of the shoreline toward a bright future where people will “find it all” and “know” that she lived there.
Tiffany from Silver Linings Playbook
Tiffany (Jennifer Lawrence) from Silver Linings Playbook, directed by David O. Russell (2012)
“…There will always be a part of me that is dirty and sloppy, but I like that, just like all the other parts of myself. I can forgive. Can you say the same for yourself, Fucker? Can you forgive? Are you capable of that?”
The naturally aloof, mysterious, yet generous Jennifer Lawrence hit it out of the ball-park with her Academy Award-winning turn as Tiffany, a recently widowed young woman on a quest for human connection and belonging. When Tiffany literally “runs into” Pat (Bradley Cooper), a mentally-unstable man obsessed with reclaiming his former marriage, she falls head-over-heals for him instantly and offers to coach him in a new endeavor. Despite her somewhat hard and brash exterior, she thinks about and feels things acutely–and her determination to “read the signs” and bring Pat out of his shell is at once funny, frustrating, and, for her, heartbreaking as her feelings for him deepen.
While neither a street-kid nor a lesbian (well, apart from several trysts with female office co-workers as she recounts in this clip), Tiffany shares Bullet’s scrappy resolve to survive in a world that doesn’t appreciate or accept difference. Also like Bullet, despite her insecurities, she embraces her flaws and stalwartly refuses to apologize for them. She’s not afraid to put herself out there, make a fool of herself, or fail. In this sense, like Bullet, she’s the epitome of courage and heroism.
Jane from Jane Eyre
Jane (Mia Wasikowska) from Jane Eyre, directed by Cary Fukunaga (2011)
“Am I a machine without feelings? Do you think that because I am poor, plain, obscure, and little – that I am soulless and heartless? I have as much soul as you, and full as much heart.”
In this bold new vision of Charlotte Brontë’s timeless classic about an orphan girl starved for love and in search of a family, Mia Wasikowska, who–like Bex–was 18 years old at the time of filming, brings a youthful, intelligent, and heroic sensibility to the role of the plain, saintly Jane Eyre. Opposite Michael Fassbender as Mr. Rochester, Mia naturally holds her own during intensely kinetic moments when this brooding older man made bitter by the misfortunes of life and love, challenges her steadfast moral convictions and sense of self-worth. Having only read the novel for the first time several months prior to the start of shooting, Mia’s love for the character manifests itself in how much she respects the role which shines through her indelible performance.
Jane Eyre is arguably one of the most beautifully conceived characters ever written. What makes her so special and rare is her innate sense of self-worth and self-respect despite a succession of physically and verbally abusive situations in which she is told repeatedly by the people who are supposed to love her the most that she is not worthy or deserving of being loved. It is this inherent bravery and heart that tie her with Bullet in a profound and almost identical manner. She is also a strong soul-sister to Bullet in her long-suffering, seemingly unrequited love for a man who is forbidden to her because of a described “mere conventional impediment.” And, as soon as that love is finally realized in a brief period of pure bliss for Jane, it is just as abruptly and brutally taken away–as it is so cruelly for Bullet when Lyric rejects her. Still, sharing Bullet’s faith, Jane never gives up the hope that she will one day be free to love and be loved as she always dreamed.
Hermione from Harry Potter
Hermione (Emma Watson) from Harry Potter Parts 1-8 (2001-2011)
“Actually, I’m highly logical which allows me to look past extraneous detail and perceive clearly that which others overlook.”
Emma Watson, who won the coveted role of Hermione Granger in J.K. Rowling’s beloved series at the tender age of 9 and continued in the role until the series concluded when she was 19–Bex’s age–is perfect to play Hermione because she is Hermione. She embodies Hermione’s keen intelligence, studious nature, wit, logic, and foresight. She is so naturally Hermione that many Harry Potter fans see her as the wonderful character in real life. Emma’s success in the role also stems from her ease at befriending the boys who are Hermione’s best friends while, in the same breath, holding her own opposite them. Using her signature intelligence and foresight, she is quick to call out her male mates whenever she witnesses them doing, or about to do, something idiotic. This no-nonsense strength in her performance is akin to how Bex portrays the tough, no-nonsense Bullet. Both are unforgettable and able to keep those close to them “under their thumb,” to evocate Bullet’s expression.
However, while Hermione can wittily outsmart her male comrades during critical situations and events, she is unable to outsmart her own heart, which is nearly broken from her painful, seeming unrequited love for Ron. Being the clueless fool he sometimes is, Ron has no notion of Hermione’s affections and insensitively flaunts his relationship with another Hogwarts classmate in front of her until he tires of that relationship and that girl. During a poignant scene in The Half-Blood Prince, Hermione confides her broken heart to Harry who, as her best friend, is a prime witness to her silent suffering over Ron’s obvious lack of interest in her. Hermione’s suffering recalls Bullet’s nearly identical silent suffering over her unrequited love for Lyric, which she, too, confides to her best friend, Kallie.
Amy from Little Dorrit
Amy (Claire Foy) from PBS Masterpiece’s Little Dorrit (2008)
“Near the palace was a cottage in which lived a poor, little, tiny woman–all alone. She realized that for all of her gold and silver and diamonds and rubies, she had nothing so precious to her as that shadow was to that tiny woman.”
Charles Dickens gave us a precious gift with his lesser known, yet eerily foreseeing novel Little Dorrit, which was adapted into an award-winning 15-part BBC miniseries by Andrew Davies in 2008. The novel, and its sprawling adaptation, tells the story of the incandescent “little” Amy Dorrit, a tiny 18-year-old girl who has come of age devotedly caring for her widowed father, a 20-year inmate at the Marshalsea Prison for Debt. Although nearly 10 years older than Amy when she won the role, Claire Foy’s performance cannot at all be described as “little” by any stretch of the imagination. Instead, she seems to understand and empathize so profoundly with Amy that it is as if she and her character are one in the same. In a press interview during the miniseries release, Claire describes in vivid terms just how highly she regards Amy: “Nobody is or can be as selfless as Amy is at all–people give to charity and people do all these noble things, but they don’t possess the pureness of heart in the doing of these actions that Amy demonstrates in the numerous sacrifices of her everyday life.” Would that Amy could have known Bullet…
Just as Bullet devotes herself to protecting her vulnerable and abused street family, Amy Dorrit sacrifices her entire life for her unjustly imprisoned father and his family. While being hounded by an escaped murderer who threatens to reveal potentially devastating family secrets, she contracts herself as a seamstress to an elderly, wheelchair-confined woman named Mrs. Clenham, through whom she is introduced to Arthur Clenham–the employer’s generous and benevolent son. It is this meeting that opens Amy’s eyes to a world beyond the barred prison gates where she dreams of winning Arthur’s affections. And even though she forms a close friendship with him, all hopes she has for a shared future with him are dashed when she discovers–as Bullet does–that he has feelings for someone else. Indeed, the entire story itself can be seen as a web of unrequited affections: Amy’s unreturned and unappreciated devotion to her abusive father and her unrequited infatuation with Arthur Clenham; Arthur’s spurned love for his mother and for a wealthy village girl who is engaged to a reckless and vain chap; the heartbreaking love and loyalty of Amy’s childhood friend who dreams of marrying her himself. It isn’t until she is forced to leave the confines of the prison where she grew up that she gathers the courage to stand up for her heart and refute the perception that she is simply a “little woman” with no voice of her own.
The character of Amy Dorrit was based upon and inspired by Charles Dickens’s real-life muse Ellen “Nelly” Ternan, an 18-year-old stage actress with whom Dickens fell in love during his later years. Their little-known affair is chronicled in a new Sony Classics feature film entitled The Invisible Woman starring another rising young actress (yet 11 years older than the girl she is portraying), Felicity Jones opposite Ralph Fiennes as Charles Dickens. The film is due to be released in December 2013.
Ashley from Junebug
Ashley (Amy Adams) from Junebug, directed by Phil Morrison (2005)
“God loves you just the way you are, but he loves you too much to let you stay that way.”
In this independent feature depicting a dysfunctional Southern church-going family living in an provincial and isolated Southern church-going community in North Carolina, Amy Adams is a ray of sunshine as Ashley, a seemingly naïve, bright-eyed, bubbly yet sensitive young woman on the verge of motherhood. Like Bex as Bullet, Amy delivers a bravura performance that infiltrates hearts and minds, stealing the limelight from more known and seasoned actors. She was deservedly nominated for an Academy Award, although her incandescent portrayal transcends the simple “Supporting” Actress category. Indeed, from the first scene to the last, she casts a spell that makes us believe Ashley is the central character just as Bex’s onscreen presence as Bullet becomes the heart of The Killing.
The pivotal scene of the film comes when Ashley breaks down in the hospital — and Amy’s powerful gift as an actress is laid bare. In this heart-wrenching moment, she makes a young mother’s grief so naturally palpable and devastating. The inexplicable bond she shares with Alessandro Nivola, who plays her brother-in-law, recalls the cosmic connection Bullet shares with Holder, particularly echoing the moment he comforts her as she accepts that Kallie is most likely dead. Here, too, Ashley–with the help of her friend–must accept news of a devastating death. And, while she is overcome by intense grief and anger, she does not let it take root in her heart–and, like Bullet, ultimately demonstrates unwavering faith, positivity, and unconditional love and selflessness toward others. In a largely cynical world where most would succumb to despair rather than embrace hope, Ashley–like Bullet–demonstrates a rare, precious, and admirable resilience of spirit.
June from Walk the Line
June (Reese Witherspoon) from Walk the Line, directed by James Mangold (2005)
“No, I’m not an angel. I had a friend who needed help. You’re my friend. You’re not nothin’. You’re a good man, and God has given you a second chance to make things right, John. This is your chance, honey.”
Marking a career that has flourished since early childhood, Reese Witherspoon finally garnered a well-deserved Academy Award for her embodiment of June Carter-Cash opposite Joaquin Phoenix in the title role of Johnny Cash. Together, the two create a “ring of fire” as an on-screen couple–so blazing that it often seems as though they were made for each in real life, too. Reese channels June’s well-crafted sense of humor and vivaciousness that masks the disappointment and heartache she feels from being “left like a dutch boy with his finger in the damn” by a chain of unworthy men. She naturally exudes June’s “angelic” generosity of spirit–even during dark moments in her own life–and her no-nonsense strength and resilience, most notably demonstrated in her repeated rejections of Johnny’s disrespectful and self-destructive “stunts.” All this Reese accomplishes while also learning how to sing and play musical instruments to convincingly re-enact the musical performances and shows that June shares with Johnny.
Akin to Bullet, June Carter is a woman “on fire”–admirable for every aspect of herself. She is the very epitome of “a friend”–selfless, loyal, loving, honest, and completely devoted to Johnny’s addiction recovery–freely forgiving the many times he hurts or neglects her in return. Her patience and fortitude is unmatched as she bears the cross of the tumultuous, unsanctioned, yet unbreakable bond she possesses with her tour-mate in a saintly manner.
Giorgia from The Best of Youth
Giorgia (Jasmine Trinca) from The Best of Youth (Italian: La Meglio Gioventu), directed by Marco Tullio Giordana (2005)
In this multi-generational, epic Italian miniseries, Jasmine Trinca–a Natalie Wood-esque Roman actress–delivers a sensitive, stand-out performance as Giorgia, a young girl struggling with mental illness and the neglect that comes from the stigma of her condition, especially in 1960s Italy. Since Giorgia is a girl who cannot speak, or who speaks very little because she lives inside of herself, Jasmine–like Bex==reveals much of the girl’s vulnerable and heartbroken inner life simply through the haunting expressiveness and penetrating beauty of her intelligent, sad eyes – as in this pivotal scene:
Giorgia’s largely tragic journey in this miniseries mirrors the trials Bullet endures in The Killing. Like Bullet, Georgia is an outcast from society, alienated from her family and left to the merciless, unloving environment of a home for wayward and discarded youths. When Matteo, a handsome, young medical student volunteers at the home and is assigned to care for her, she is awakened for a time to the possibility of being loved and accepted by another human being who seeks to understand her. She falls for him, but when circumstances separate them, she sinks into the darkest time in her young life.
Ivy from The Village
Ivy (Bryce Dallas-Howard) from The Village, directed by M. Night Shyamalan (2004)
“Sometimes we don’t do things we want to do so that others will not know we want to do them.”
Bryce Dallas Howard carries a serene beauty and tomboyish self-confidence as Ivy Walker, the blind yet insightful daughter of the town “elder” played by William Hurt in M. Night Shyamalan’s spiritual thriller. Akin to Bex, Bryce makes an indelible mark in her debut role through the power of her onscreen presence and the expressiveness of her unforgettable face. She invests Ivy with a rare appreciation for life, for those who are outcasts within the isolated town that is all she’s ever seen of the world, and for the people she cares for the most. Juxtaposed with her uninhibited serenity, Bryce also manages to emanate Ivy’s overwhelming curiosity to explore the world beyond the confines of the town where she has grown up. She constantly seeks the truth and doesn’t allow her blindness to prevent her from seeking complete illumination. When a senseless crime grips the utopian community and endangers the life of Ivy’s beloved, she embarks on a harrowing journey to conquer “those we don’t speak of” once and for all. In portraying her heroine’s journey, Bryce balances the opposing traits of fear and bravery, revenge and forgiveness, despair and hope–all the while never losing sight of Ivy’s abiding faith, echoing the way Bullet describes her faith to Sarah Linden in The Killing.
Like Bullet, Ivy–a girl who “longs to do boy things” is left to pick up the pieces after her best friend, a village boy named Lucius Hunt who loves her, is brutally harmed. Before the attack, Lucius is painfully reticent to articulate his true feelings to Ivy–and he won’t even touch her for fear it might reveal his infatuation. She immediately picks up on this, and in her wonderfully bold and straightforward manner, confronts him about his suppressed love. What spurs the confrontation, however, is an event that tests the courage of the heroine and her fellow townspeople, most especially Lucius who, at last, confesses to her that “The only time I feel fear as others do is when I think of you in harm.” At the peak of the danger, when everyone else is hiding safe in basements, Ivy bravely stands at the entrance of the cabin with her hand outstretched, holding onto the faith that Lucius will finally take her hand in his at the perfect moment.
“You asked me to explain myself. I just wonder what needs to be explained? Look into your own heart. I swear to you, mine’s no different. You want a place in the trades and professions where you can earn your own bread? So do I. You want some means of self-expression? Some way of satisfying your own personal ambitions? So do I. You want a voice in the government in which you live? So do I. What is there to explain?”
Hilary Swank is outstanding as Alice Paul, the Pennsylvania-raised, Swarthmore-educated Quaker who leads the movement to secure suffrage for women in the early 1900s. The actress bares all, both physically and emotionally, with a striking authenticity as the bold, brave, selfless, and almost-martyred woman who becomes the willing scapegoat for all of the hatred and abuse thrown at the women during their cause for suffrage. Hilary’s intelligent eyes and eager yet patient smile, as shown in the above photo, are captivating even in the midst of the heroine’s great suffering, mistreatment, and adversity.
Alice, like Bullet, lives up to her name–she is every bit the “Iron-Jawed Angel” the public dubs her to be: a Christ-like figure who possesses an unflinching determination to see her cause through without resorting to violent or illegal, unethical means. She knowingly sacrifices an opportunity for a happy romantic relationship in the service of her cause, and when she is thrown in prison for picketing the office of the president during wartime, she remains undeterred in her conviction that women deserve to be treated equally before the law. She solicits the solidarity of her sisters-in-arms, including a prominent senator’s wife, to embark on a hunger strike, modeled after an old Irish tradition, until restitution is made and her goal is achieved. It is during this hunger strike that the women endure unconstitutional and unthinkable abuse which almost results in her death–along with countless others dedicated to the cause.
Paikea from Whale Rider
Paikea (Keisha Castle-Hughes) from Whale Rider, directed by Niki Caro (2002)
“My name is Paikea Apirana, and I come from a long line of chiefs stretching all the way back to the whale rider. I’m not a prophet, but I know that our people will keep going forward, all together, with all of our strength.”
Keisha Castle-Hughes, 13 years old at the time of filming, is one of the youngest actresses to ever have earned an Academy Award nomination for her breathtaking performance as Paikea, the sensitive yet determined Maori girl who shares a special connection with and understanding of the whales that figure so prominently in the ancient legends of her tribe’s ancestors in New Zealand. Keisha’s soulful eyes and calm, spiritual presence juxtaposed with her portrayal of Paikea’s fiery resolve against seemingly insurmountable family and cultural obstacles make viewers long to adopt this precious child–just as many fans of The Killing dreamed of adopting Bex as a daughter, sister, or best friend. Keisha’s onscreen relationship with the actor who plays her grandfather recalls Bex’s onscreen relationship with Joel Kinnaman in the sense that it is at once loving, intense, tumultuous, and heartbreaking as the two wrestle with each other over their character’s conflicting desires.
Nowhere is the power of this onscreen relationship more palpable than in the film’s most emotional scene where Paikea delivers a heart-wrenching tribute to her absent grandfather who doesn’t approve of girls displaying themselves in public arenas. Stuck in the old ways of his tribe and married to ancient traditions and customs, Paikea’s grandfather deeply resents the fact that the Gods saw fit to give him a female grandchild, while his grandson–Paikea’s twin brother–died shortly after his birth. In her speech dedicated to him, Paikea acknowledges and explains her grandfather’s traditional views and offers her full and free forgiveness to him, even though he she is devastated by the fact that he deliberately and humiliatingly does not show up for her performance. It isn’t until the tribe’s entire future is threatened that the grandfather begins to recognize and accept Paikea’s special gifts. As in Bullet’s case, Paikea is alienated by the one person whom she puts her trust and faith in, and just as soon as that faith has a hope of being recovered, Paikea’s life is endangered in an act of bravery and sacrifice.
Jamie from A Walk to Remember
Jamie (Mandy Moore) from A Walk to Remember, directed by Adam Shankman (2002)
“It’s like the wind…I can’t see it, but I feel it.”
Although not reaching the award-worthy caliber of performance that Bex brings to Bullet, nor the caliber of many of the actresses portraying the other 18 Lionhearted Heroines, singer-actress Mandy Moore is impressively understated, natural, and sensitive as Jamie Sullivan, a high school senior who is, according to Landon Carter (the film’s protagonist), “self-exiled” from the popular crowd and bullied by them. That is, until Landon, played intelligently and memorably by Shane West, recognizes her inner beauty and publicly declares his faith in her. Mandy’s performance is made more impactful through her pairing with West–the two are perfect together and play off one another with ease and genuine affection. Mandy is herself in the role–a caring, giving girl with a big heart and a gentle countenance. She embodies what we all strive to be: selfless, unpretentious, honest, strong, loyal, invested with integrity and that ever-elusive faith that Bex’s Bullet defines for Sarah Linden in The Killing.
Since the film effectively places us – the audience – in the perspective of Landon as he comes to know Jamie, we witness first-hand and intimately how he comes to fall in love with her. By extension, we fall in love with her, too. And we fall in love with Landon who transforms from a bully/tormentor into a troubled young man searching for his own identity and recognizing in her everything he would like to be. Despite his cruelty towards her, Jamie forgives him and willingly offers her friendship which, at first, he takes for granted. When he succumbs to peer pressure and dismisses her in public, she swiftly and courageously puts him in his place saying, “Landon, look, I thought I saw something in you — something good, but I was very wrong.” This instance of tough love which she steadfastly carries through until he admits his failing motivates him to want to “be better” and shows him that, despite her cold words, she “has faith in him [me] too.”
Danielle from Ever After
Danielle (Drew Barrymore) from Ever After, directed by Andy Tennant (1998)
“You have everything, and still the world holds no joy — and yet you insist on making fun of those who would see it for its possibilities.”
Drew Barrymore is a splendid ray of sunshine as Danielle De Barbarac, an intelligent and strong-willed girl in 16th century France whose world is turned upside down after her father dies suddenly of a heart attack when she is eight years old. Forced to relinquish all traces of her aristocratic heritage to an evil stepmother (Angelic Houston) and her two materialistic and envious daughters (although one of the sisters is actually a kind, giving soul) when she is orphaned, Danielle suffers years of hardship and mistreatment with no light at the end of the dark tunnel until she unintentionally meets the Prince of France, Henry, played by Scottish actor Dougray Scott. Despite being American, Drew Barrymore manages to make herself convincing in the role opposite a mostly British cast through her nearly flawless diction and delivery of Danielle’s often stinging, clever lines. As an actress who endured deep family strife in her youth, it is evident in how she captures Danielle’s indomitable spirit that Barrymore innately understands the emotional depths of her character. Her most impressive moments in the portrayal occur when she is depicting Danielle’s tumultuous and heart wrenching interactions with her tormenting stepmother. And then when she transitions to sharing her passionate vision of the world, and her place in it, with the Prince.
Although we know that, unlike Bullet’s story, Danielle’s story will have a “happily ever after” ending since it is the “Cinderella” fairytale, when this ending does finally manifest, it is as sweet and fulfilling as if we didn’t know how it would end at all. This is because, as we did with Bullet through her unjust trials, we come to regard Danielle as if she were our own sister, best friend, or close family member. We witness first-hand how much it costs Danielle to bear the unloving, abusive environment that she is thrust into, and how through it all–just as with Bullet–Danielle retains her innocence, purity of spirit, and her love for and faith in human kind.
Ellie from Contact
Ellie (Jodie Foster) from Contact, directed by Robert Zemekis (1997)
“For as long as I can remember, I’ve been searching for something…some reason why we’re here. What are we doing here? Who are we? If this is a chance to find out even just a little part of that answer, then I think it’s worth a human life. Don’t you?”
In one of the most emotionally brave and nuanced performances of her career, Jodie Foster is transcendent as Ellie Arroway, a driven scientist who, haunted by her father’s sudden death when she was eight, faces an existential crisis that sends her on a spiritual journey beyond the realm of normal human experience. Foster’s complete command of her character’s physicality, voice, countenance, and vast knowledge about the make-up of the universe makes Ellie a formidable force to be reckoned with as she vies with scientific pundits and religious scholars about the potential for other life forms in the solar system. Foster is adept at balancing Ellie’s skepticism about religious notions of the existence of God with her unwavering conviction that life inhabits other planets besides our own. As she tells some school children in a science class: “If it is just us in the universe that would be an awful waste of space.”
What ultimately endears us to Ellie, much like Bullet, is her stubborn insistence to always question and seek answers, despite the staunch discouragement of others and her own self-doubts. Her insatiable quest for enlightenment overcomes her skepticism and, during a near-death experience, she is forced to reckon with her own spirituality and faith. When called before a scientific committee to give her testimony about the enigmatic experience and challenged to admit that “all things being equal, the simplest explanation tends to be the right one,” she is humble and self-effacing in her assertion that “none of us are alone.”
“What do you know of my heart? For weeks, Marianne, I’ve had this pressing on me without being at liberty to speak of it to a single creature. It was forced on me by the very person whose prior claims ruined all my hope. I have endured her exaltations again and again whilst knowing myself to be divided from Edward forever. Believe me, Marianne, had I not been bound to silence, I could have provided proof enough of a broken heart even for you.”
Emma Thompson deservedly received double critical praise for writing this intelligent adaptation of Jane Austen’s classic novel in which she simultaneously portrays the eldest Dashwood sister, Elinor, who endures months of heartache at the loss of her father and her suitor, Edward, with an almost saint-like poise and dignity. Apart from her formidable acting history and training, Thompson’s brilliance in this role stems from her striking ability to balance comedy and tragedy, humor and melancholy, joy and suffering, contentment and grief–just as Bex does so movingly in her role as Bullet in The Killing.
Unlike her overly-zealous sister, Marianne (incandescently portrayed by an 18-year-old Kate Winslet), Elinor does not make a show of her feelings. Instead, she sensibly and selflessly chooses not to burden others with her heartache–just as Bullet endeavors to keep her unrequited love for Lyric and her suffering at the hands of Goldie to herself. Elinor’s contained emotions at times appears cold to those close to her, especially to her sister who criticizes her repeatedly for her seeming emotional indifference. However, as Marianne painfully learns, Elinor’s saintly discretion proves the wiser and more loving countenance, and in good and perfect time, Elinor is finally free to reveal the sentiments she holds so dear to her heart.
Beth from Little Women
Beth (Claire Danes) from Little Women, directed by Gillian Armstrong (1994)
“If God wants me with Him, there is none who will stop Him. I don’t mind. I was never like the rest of you – making plans about the great things I’d do. I never saw myself as anything much. Not a great writer like you. Oh, Jo, I’ve missed you so. Why does everyone want to go away? I love being home. But, I don’t like being left behind. Now I am the one going ahead. I am not afraid. I can be brave like you. But, I know I shall be homesick for you, even in Heaven.”
Then just 14 years old, Claire Danes brought an incomparable spiritual wisdom and tranquil maturity to the sweet, shy, and beloved Beth March, akin to what Bex brings to the beloved Bullet. Like Bex, Danes is natural and unpretentious in her portrayal–rare virtues for two teenage actresses whose remarkable artistic gifts (Danes was also a pianist, Bex is also a poet) transcend their tender years.
Claire Danes’ remarkable acting gifts are on full display in perhaps one of the most moving scenes in all of film history when Beth, weakened by the remnants of scarlet fever which she contracts from visiting a poor family, tragically dies. Knowing that death is upon her, Beth proclaims, “I am not afraid. I can be brave like you. But, I know I shall be homesick for you, even in Heaven.” She is, of course, telling this to her sister, Jo, with whom she was close throughout her brief life. In this intimate moment between them, Beth reveals her abiding faith, much like Bullet does in her intimate moment with Sara Linden in the car. She asserts her faith in God saying, “If God wants me with him, there is none who will stop him,” and her faith in her sister’s bright future, predicting that she will become “a great writer.” Although Beth’s death is difficult and heart-wrenching to watch, there is a certain serenity that accompanies the last moments of her life. Bullet’s violent death–not shown on screen–was certainly without serenity and peace; however, we can imagine that her faith was steadfast until the end.
Natalia Lauren Fiore received a B.A. in Honors English and Creative Writing from Bryn Mawr College and an M.F.A in Creative and Professional Writing from Western Connecticut State University, where she wrote a feature-length screenplay entitled Sonata under the direction of novelist and screenwriter, Don J. Snyder, and playwright, Jack Dennis. Currently, she holds a full-time tenure track teaching post at Hillsborough Community College in Tampa, Florida, where she teaches English and Writing. Her writing interests include film criticism, screenwriting, literary journalism, fiction, the novel, and memoir. Her literature interests include the English novel, American Literature, and Drama – particularly Shakespeare. She blogs at Outside Windows and tweets @NataliaLaurenFi.
