Directed By Women: Kokomo City (2023)

By Andrea Thompson

Holiday breaks are wonderful for many reasons, but as I return for a new year after a self-imposed hiatus, one of the benefits I reaped is getting to view D. Smith’s remarkable documentary “Kokomo City” multiple times. In the constant hustle that is the life of a freelance writer, getting to really soak in and absorb a film has become something of a luxury in the age of content, AI, and ever present deadlines.

And there is so much to appreciate in “Kokomo City,” which follows the lives of four Black trans women, all of whom are or were engaged in sex work. Want to think, consider, and laugh out loud within the first five minutes? Then give this one a watch, because there’s a whole lot of ground to cover during the 73 minutes we spend getting to know these women.

This is the part where I tend to marvel at the fact that this is a filmmaker’s feature debut, but D. Smith had been working in the music world as a producer for years before she discovered a passion for filmmaking, an endeavor which was partly born out of necessity. Although she worked with household names in the early 2000s that included Lil Wayne and Ciara, among others, even winning a Grammy in 2009, she was “forced out of the music industry” (as Smith herself put it) once she came out as trans.

Finding herself broke, homeless, and somewhat adrift, “Kokomo City” isn’t just representative of a promising new direction, it’s something of a comeback, and the accolades have been pouring in. They damn well should be, since Smith makes good use of the access she was granted to each of these women’s lives, the kind it’s difficult to picture another filmmaker getting.

If Smith weren’t also Black and trans, would we have been privy to Smith’s own very individualistic take on the contemplative route, with the kind of intimate dialogue that includes everything from hair removal tips to discussion of class, race, and how such forces affect their ability to pay those bills while they’re lounging in bed or the bathtub?

Unlikely, since “Kokomo City” has, in many ways, an insider’s unblinking gaze of the world and topics it’s delving into. And although her previous career came to a painful end (for now at least), it seems to have been time well spent, with the doc’s gorgeous black and white aesthetic and stylistic flourishes giving it an edgy music video feel - the click of a gun, the sound of a roar as sexuality is discussed, and the killer use of music in general.

Those discussions about sexuality, complete with light reenactments and nudity, also come off as both naturalistic and raw, to use the most convenient cliche. But that rawness applies to other less flashy, but still arresting topics, namely the way all four women discuss their lives and how their identities affect not only their daily circumstances but those of their clients. These women are older - to use the more gentle euphemism about anything having to do with women in pop culture who’ve left their 20s behind - having successfully entered various phases of their 30s, and are thus savvy survivors; not only more aware of the bullshit but less likely to take it.

That bullshit manifests in film’s most constant thread: the vicious hypocrisy of the many ways men take advantage of and sometimes actively harm them, and how cis women are typically all too willing to let it happen, but are likewise unable to imagine their partners even being attracted to them. And all four of the film’s subjects, as well as the men who are willing to speak of that attraction, are willing to make some truly jaw-dropping statements about it.

Daniella Carter in KOKOMO CITY, courtesy ofMagnolia Pictures

As one member of the film’s central foursome Daniella Carter sums it up: “The only thing he there for is escaping his own goddamn reality. And you know what that reality is? Ten times better than the one he’s giving you.” With such statements - and plenty more where that came from - it would be easy to think that “Kokomo City” revels in self-seriousness, but like many a pop culture offering from those who are traditionally marginalized, humor and joy are the primary defense mechanisms when you generally don’t have access to more official protection.

What’s left unsaid may be even more telling. How did the men who are willing to talk about homophobia in the Black community and their own attraction and encounters with trans women come to meet Smith and the other women on-screen? As the women themselves speak of how often their typical customers conform to the stereotypical tough guy image, it’s indicative of a long history of gender and sexual fluidity in hip hop, a community that has only recently begun to grapple with its history of vicious homophobia.

It doesn’t prevent “Kokomo City” from earning every bit of the oft-used descriptor unflinching, and sadly that includes a frustratingly common ending for one of the most jaded of the women the documentary follows: Koko Da Doll, who was shot and killed in Atlanta, and to whom the film is dedicated. If another piece of art must end up being a tribute to a vibrant, resilient person whose life still ended far too soon, this one at least is also a beautiful, powerful testament to a community which finds itself under siege yet nevertheless refuses to define itself by its oppressors.

Directed By Women: All Dirt Roads Taste of Salt (2023)

By Andrea Thompson

Can a setting and the feelings and experiences it invokes be curated? Can a place and a story not so much leap from the screen as gently surround us while we view it? 

I’d make the case for yes after viewing Raven Jackson’s spectacular “All Dirt Roads Taste Of Salt.” As Jackson explores one woman’s life over the decades in rural Mississippi, there’s minimal dialogue and not much more than the bare bones of a story. But the details are so immersive you can almost taste the night air on a quiet summer night, the almost impossibly rich lushness of the soil, and the water that bathes its characters (sometimes literally) as they wind their own way throughout their lives.

A human intruding on such a sensory experience to impose any kind of obvious framing device seems unnecessary to the point of ridiculous, and sure enough, the film rejects narration to the extent that it isn’t until about 35 minutes in until we learn the name of lead Mack, who is mostly played by Charleen McClure. And since the views on framing also extend to linear time, Jackson is clearly counting on her audience to pay close attention to the details she does provide, and appreciate how she lingers on the moments of tenderness she captures.

There’s been plenty of willingness to do so if the reviews are any indication, which have used words like powerful, achingly beautiful, and rapturous. Why not? Even if other filmmakers have expressed a longing for childhood and a world that seems both far simpler and forever lost to us, not since perhaps “Daughters of the Dust” - to cite one of the more obvious influences for “All Dirt Roads” - have sound and imagery fused together to such poetically awe-inspiring ends.

For outsiders, the American South can practically feel like a foreign country in itself. That’s been played up to the heights of epic historical drama, for laughs in films such as “My Cousin Vinny,” and this time it’s worthy of the choice to shoot on 35mm film. Whoever has the privilege of such a viewing, congratulations on being the object of my envy.

“All Dirt Roads” would be remarkable if it was content to be an ode to Black rural life as told through one woman’s experience, but it’s also a loving homage to what we create by handmade means. It’s no accident that one of the first things on-screen is a child’s hands as she’s being instructed by an adult on how to slowly and surely reel in the fish she’s hooked while an equal amount of care is lavished on the sounds of the water swirling and the life that congregates around it.

It’s usually pointless to hope that a cinematographer becomes a household name, but hopefully Jomo Fray defies the odds for his work, and editor Lee Chatametikool is also acknowledged for his skillful transitions, where tiny details like a little girl’s hair ribbons pass as markers for whichever point in time that’s getting a lingering look.

There are a few drawbacks to this approach, even if it’s all art. Such journeys still tend to require some manner of human anchor, and the main pivot becomes the relationship between mother and child, which reveals itself as one of the most potent forces in a film that’s all about the nature of it all. Even when I wish I knew more about what exactly was happening, or maybe just the bare minimum of this movie’s version of exposition, I can only respect a filmmaker who is so skillfully determined to take her time and create a kind of memoir that asks us simply to take our time and consider things.

 Hell, “All Dirt Roads” practically begs us to take our time and appreciate our present moments; that there’s plenty of room for modern implements and the old ways of appreciating the natural world.  As another film once proclaimed, “An artist is never poor.” The richness of the world in “All Dirt Roads” clearly doesn’t extend to things like bank accounts for any of its characters, but with such faces to do all the talking, and the wealth of music and natural bounty on display, it’s certainly hard to argue.

Directed By Women: The Marvels (2023)

Marvel Studios

By Andrea Thompson

Just when I thought I was out, Disney pulls me back in.

I thought the superhero fatigue was real for me, so much so that I completely opted out of “Blue Beetle.” But Disney does what it does, and since it insists on continuing its now sprawling universe, I couldn’t help but be intrigued by “The Marvels.”

How could it be otherwise? “The Marvels” is a concept that’s still relatively rare for a Marvel Cinematic Universe offering that doesn’t go straight to streaming - it’s about a superheroine who gets backup from not just one, but two others in supporting roles, each with their own rich history and complexities. 

Teyonah Parris gets some needed development as Monica Rambeau, who finally gets to sort things out with Captain Marvel, aka Carol Danvers (Brie Larson), currently hanging out in space with Nick Fury (a very much missed from the big screen Samuel L. Jackson). 

But one of the most radical turns “The Marvels” takes is to make their story a continuation Kamala Khan’s (Iman Vellani), who has only recently taken up the Ms. Marvel moniker. Her miniseries of the same name is what is required viewing, not to mention the first Marvel product in a while to make me not only tear up, but reminisce at what it’s still possible to accomplish within corporate guidelines.

The Marvels” actually picks up where “Ms. Marvel” left off, with Carol finding herself transported to Kamala’s room, much to her confusion. This development is both central premise and running gag, with Carol, Kamala, and Monica switching places with each other whenever one of them uses their powers, which is justified by the sciencey explanation that it’s all because each of their abilities make use of light.

Marvel Studios

Either way, Iman Vellani is a standout, with her fangirling over Captain Marvel proving to be even more adorable than when Tom Holland’s Spider-Man first met Iron Man. In a time where the Marvel universe and multiverse and prequels and sequels seem to be on the verge of becoming an exhaustive, never-ending sprawl, Vellani might prove to be its savior. 

She is already its heart, since the movie is aware that Kamala is a package deal, with her family already proven to be so central that matriarch Muneeba Khan (Zenobia Shroff) is the one who creates her daughter’s on-screen superhero look, and patriarch Yusuf Khan (Mohan Kapur) is the inspiration behind his daughter’s decision to choose an alias that fuses her history and hero worship.

The Khans are the ones who emphasize how the simple act of trashing a house has serious consequences in a movie about traversing space and different realities. When Captain Marvel shows up, one of their first questions is whether she’s pressuring their daughter, and they are a centering influence even when they’re whisked from Earth to Fury’s base of operations.

So who cares that the actual plot of “The Marvels” is actually kind of a mess, with a premise that could be lifted straight from “Spaceballs”? With very few exceptions, it’s the heroes that are icons in this franchise, so Dar-Benn (Zawe Ashton) follows the usual pattern of being rather lackluster in comparison to the good guys, plotting to steal the atmosphere and suns of other worlds in order to revive her homeworld, which has been stripped of much of its wealth and resources. It’s so old school that the only development which veers slightly into originality is the climax involves a big beam of light in space rather than the plain ol’ sky. 

Thing is though, “The Marvels” is also old school in another, more unfortunate way, sticking to a thin veneer of heteronormativity to the point that Monica’s admission that she was just a kid who wanted her…aunt brings the kinds of tears that we can all see for what they really are. Because right, Sailor Uranus and Sailor Neptune were cousins, and Xena and Gabrielle were merely best friends. 😉

Marvel Studios

You wouldn’t think such pretense would be necessary in these times, but Captain Marvel is a heroine so queer-coded she brings her cat into space with her. Hell, “The Marvels” might actually be the closest thing the MCU has gotten to a queer party, with Tessa Thompson showing up for a Valkyrie cameo fabulously attired in a suit, and the central trio journeying to another planet where the language is based in song, and sees Carol dancing with a gorgeously androgynous prince.

If it seems like the movie ricochets in all kinds of directions, that’s because it does, and the result is a gorgeous mess that never loses its sense of fun. In that sense, it bears a passing resemblance to “Ant-Man and the Wasp: Quantumania,” which saw communing with ants as the key to saving the universe. But that has nothing on one of the later developments of this movie, where otherworldly kittens prove to be the key to saving lives. Whoever thought of that particular development was either high, a genius, or possibly a combination of the two.

You’ll just have to see it to believe it, and it’s a kick to see a movie that proves Nia DaCosta is still the director of the excellent, woefully underseen “Little Woods” after the dismal experience that was the new “Candyman,” with “The Marvels” also written by women. It shows, and it also explains the exhaustively predictable backlash this one is earning. If you do give it a watch though, you might just get excited about what the MCU has in store for the first time in a very long time.

52 Films By Women: At the Ready (2021)

At the Ready

By Andrea Thompson

It’s been an interesting set of weeks collaborating with Milwaukee Film for Hispanic Heritage Month...no less because of the two films I chose to write about in honor of it.

Case in point: in my previous 52 Films By Women column I discussed “Luchadoras,” a documentary that followed female Mexican wrestlers who were fighting for a better life in and out of the ring in Ciudad Juárez. But this week is all about (well, mostly) Maisie Crow’s “At the Ready,” which sees many of its subjects grappling with similar forces in El Paso, Texas. 

When I wrote about “Luchadoras,” I mentioned that Juárez and El Paso were separated by a mere fence, but the latter enjoyed safety and prosperity, while the former has come to be known as Murder City. And judging by El Paso’s depiction in “At the Ready,” it truly does seem like a world away. 

If anyone in “At the Ready” is in the line of fire, it’s because they’re choosing to be, since the film’s subjects are high school seniors who are training to be police officers and Border Patrol agents. Most of them are Hispanic, and the profession they’re already actively planning to join has them training for active shooter situations, drug busts, and raids in their high school itself. So prepare to be disturbed, since the doc kicks off with kids suiting up in paramilitary garb and going through drills.

As intense as it often is to see teenagers holding fake guns and intending to use the real thing, it’s often just as disturbing to see other people’s reactions as they go through their exercises. Other kids smile and laugh, but to others it’s clearly been normalized, which includes many of the teachers, one of whom is so unfazed they merely mumble a greeting and continue on with their day.

At first glance, their lives seem to have little in common with those in “Luchadoras.” They can leave the house and go where they wish with relative freedom, since being watched and followed by cartels - or possibly getting shot in general - certainly doesn’t figure into their daily lives. And while none of them could be remotely called wealthy, their families have been able to build a measure of success and a general safety net that ensures a measure of stability.

It may be the bare minimum, but I can’t help but make the comparison. The longer “At the Ready” goes on however, the clearer it becomes that many are indeed being harmed by the increasingly vicious immigration system. It’s simply less apparent, and reflective of the insidious ways even the seemingly privileged are often used to maintain the status quo and invest in a way of life that harms us all.

Crow may keep herself out of the story she’s telling, but it’s clear enough where she stands - where any sane person would. But she mostly takes the classic route of allowing her subjects speak for themselves as she waits for them to open up and be vulnerable while attempting to portray them as truthfully as she can. The main focus are three young trainees: Cesar, Cristina, and Kassy, who quickly emerges as the most compelling, and has since come out as trans and changed their name to Mason.

Before that though, he will break your heart as he comes across as both spectacularly competent in his work and clearly unsuited to it. As Mason slowly opens up, it’s also quite clear that he’s a part of this group out of a desperate need for a sense of family, even if he must hide who he is. He’s not out to many of these so-called friends, and his father is absent much of the time. Work is a convenient explanation, but when Mason’s father does have free time, he chooses to spend it with his girlfriend and her children, leaving Mason to his own devices and to essentially raise himself.

The motives of Cristina and Cesar are less emotional, but no less complicated. They both clearly want to make good on the sacrifices their parents made for a better life, even if Cesar’s father is unable to return to the U.S. after he was arrested for drugs, and Cristina’s own father is an immigrant. 

Crow more or less spells out why they or anyone else would get involved in this type of work in the first place though. As jobs get scarcer, one that is willing to hire young and pay $50,000 the first year, $100,000 after five, no college degree required, is bound to attract a fair amount of people, ethics be damned, especially in families where money is a constant consideration.

Politics also can’t help but play a role, as Trump’s outright racism and the increasingly cruel border policies quickly make Cristina, Cesar and Mason doubt whether they even want to remain involved in law enforcement. Even one of the instructors eventually acknowledges how hypocritical he feels in training these children to join his former profession, revealing that he suffers from PTSD and his belief that his job played a large role in his divorce.

But it’s funny the way things do and don’t work out. After the central trio graduates, it is Mason, who once felt bereft of so much, who seems the most well-adjusted and accepting of who he is. An amount of uncertainty is generally a given during young adulthood, but Cesar and Cristina seem a bit more lost than most. They spent much of their last year of high school preparing for a career they now feel incapable of doing well or at all, and they’re clearly still floundering in the wake of their disillusionment. Where they’ll end up is anyone's guess, and it’s something of a relief that Crow withheld judgements about them as she exquisitely allowed their lives to reveal just what might be in store for us all if our immigration policies continue unchanged.

52 Films By Women: Luchadoras (2021)

By Andrea Thompson

There’s no doubt that co-directors Paola Calvo and Patrick Jasim wanted to make a powerful statement with their documentary “Luchadoras,” currently streaming as a part of Milwaukee Film’s Hispanic Heritage Month, which follows three female wrestlers struggling to make a better life in Ciudad Juárez, which has seen so many of its residents disappear it’s come to be known as Murder City.

The roots of such a brutally infamous moniker can be blamed on a familiar culprit - the vicious force we quaintly refer to as global capitalism. It makes the most twisted kind of sense, then, that many of the disappeared are women who worked at assembly factories, which are themselves the result of the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA). All three of the documentary’s subjects, who mostly go by their wrestling alter egos of Lady Candy, Baby Star, and Mini Sirenita, see wrestling both as a source of income and empowerment, a way to fight for a better life in and out of the ring.

They all have many things in common, most of which involve how they cope with the gender limitations in their work and daily lives. The stories, the jokes, the memories they all share, with each other and those around them, are no less horrifying for being normalized. They speak of their memories of women screaming for help who they were too afraid to assist, of others who were abducted and raped by bus drivers, the discovery of mutilated bodies in the desert, and the police corruption and incompetence that enables it all. 

Their personal lives are about as healthy as you can expect, as many recount stories of the toxic men in their lives, from those in the ring to their families and their partners, many of whom forbade them from working, and who were generally a source of emotional and physical violence. 

The truly remarkable thing is how determined each of them are to have the last word. They may be under siege, but the women in “Luchadoras” have reached the stage where they’ve become very aware that they’re under siege together. Such solidarity, born of their brutal circumstances, has led them to become activists fighting for change in their communities and personal lives, from teaching self defense classes in the ring to using it as a platform to organize and protest against femicide. 

No, there are no mere victims here, and no one is helpless by any means. Lady Candy, Baby Star, and Mini Sirenita are pushing back as best as they can, living their lives, and trying to make them better. All of them pin their hopes on their wrestling careers despite the very real dangers, and attempt to provide more stability, for themselves and their families.

Given all that, it’s sometimes frustrating how little context Calvo and Jasim provide, even if their reasoning is obvious. They have a great deal of trust in their audience, and centering their subjects above all, even at the expense of that audience at times, is how they avoid reducing this remarkable trio to victims or invulnerable superwomen. 

Candy, the youngest, may have the most painful story of all, one whose twists and turns beg for a little outside guidance. She is the one who works in a funeral home and is grappling most directly with the consequences of not just economics but how the system is stacked against potential immigrants. Candy left her husband due to domestic violence, but he’s still able to keep her children from her in the safety and prosperity of El Paso, Texas, despite the fact that the two cities are separated by a mere fence. To see them, Candy must attempt to get a visa, in spite of the bureaucratic hurdles, and the fact that fewer of them are being granted.

If only Calvo and Jasim were willing to assert themselves into the film, or just more information outside of what people are willing to say aloud, “Luchadoras” would practically be a textbook example of how the unfettered, unchecked, so-called free market wreaks havoc, especially among populations of color. But then, the filmmakers clearly aren’t interested in arguing, merely showing how those who should be helpless can and do resist, even under constant pressure.

52 Films By Women: Cléo from 5 to 7 (1962)

Screenshot

By Andrea Thompson

It’s strange to imagine a world unfamiliar with Agnès Varda, but it was still in the process of getting to know her when she made the 1962 masterpiece “Cléo from 5 to 7.” It was only her second feature, and it took a subject other films would stretch across days, weeks, months, or more, and compressed it into real time.

Over the course of a mere 90 minutes, a young, beautiful, vain singer named Cléo (Corinne Marchand) is not just awaiting the results of a biopsy that will inform her whether she has cancer, she comes to terms with her own mortality. It would feel like paranoia or the hypochondria everyone assumes it is if the film didn’t heavily imply that Cléo not only has cancer, but that she will eventually die from it.

Thank goodness for Varda, because a lesser filmmaker, even a female one, would merely be punishing Cléo for her flaws. But Varda knows there’s more to it than merely portraying Cléo’s self-absorption and humbling her accordingly. As one of a very few female filmmakers during the male-dominated French New Wave, her signature touch, full of compassion, realism, and symbolism doesn’t just burst from the screen, it seems to swirl around us, gently sweeping all into her vision.

Yes, Cléo is focused on her appearance and her beauty, and she is well aware that it is her source of her power. It’s no accident that mirrors are a heavy presence in this film, appearing twice in the first ten minutes alone. But the kind of power Cléo possesses flows from others. It is the outside world who bestows Cléo with power, attention, and her career, and Varda’s camera, rather than lingering on Cléo and her, ahem, assets as she walks down the street, pulls back as both men and women stare and lavish her with attention. 

But not comfort. Every friend Cléo interacts with fails to give her the emotional support she needs, and almost all of them, from friends, confidantes, and colleagues, refuse to take her illness, or even her, seriously. It’s an old, practically classic revelation for women who supposedly enjoy all manner of power and privilege: the discovery of just how fragile their position really is. One of the first, and only, clearly spoken revelations Cléo has about halfway into the film is when she says, “Everyone spoils me. No one loves me.” It’s also when she strips herself of her wig, dons a black dress, and leaves her luxurious apartment to wander alone in search of consolation.

It proves to be an evasive thing. This poor woman must grapple with death all day, from shattered mirrors which she interprets as bad omens to various films and even taxi drivers casually referencing the ultimate end. Even the tarot reader at the beginning, the only portion of the film in color, sets the tone, casually predicting nearly every event to come, and privately stating that she believes Cléo is doomed. 

Varda refuses to give a final verdict, but just as another great film concluded “the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world,” Cléo’s comfort arises from being able to see beyond herself. Or perhaps she just finally meets the right person-a young, talkative soldier named Antoine (Antoine Bourseiller). Unlike the other people Cléo encounters, who are still fully immersed in life, Antoine also has to grapple with the possibility of impending death as a soldier who will soon return to the battlefield of the Algerian War.

It is then when Cléo is finally able to lose her fear of her own possible end, and finally be at peace with herself in the Paris of the 60s Varda fully embraces in all its splendor. In this beautiful, fully alive world, perhaps Varda just found it unthinkable for despair or even death itself to emerge as the dominant force.

52 Films By Women: Jinn (2018)

By Andrea Thompson

Nijla Mumin’s 2018 film “Jinn” is a rarity. It doesn’t just center women of color, nearly all of them are also Muslim women who wear hijabs. It’s a tough subject to even make a film about in an industry that is supposedly committed to diversity, but it’s especially difficult to do it justice as Mumin does. “Jinn” doesn’t merely preach the beauty of Islam and being yourself in a world that is likely to attack you for it, it grapples with the ramifications of faith, freedom, and identity.

In can be difficult for adults to fight their way through such complex intersections, so the carefree, teenage Summer (Zoe Renee) suddenly has far more on her plate than college applications when her mother Jade (Simone Missick) suddenly converts to Islam and becomes someone Summer doesn’t recognize.

When Jade starts to bring Summer to the mosque, things get even more complicated. Jade is all aglow in the zeal of a convert, a godly light that Summer envies but feels too far away from to share in, even when she eventually decides to go along. So she converts, starts wearing the hijab, and refuses to let anyone talk down to her about her decision. But Summer also chafes at the restrictions her mother and her newfound community place on her. It’s the classic dilemma - all the comforts and trappings of faith can suddenly become chains when faced with the simple reality of being a human in a very messy world.

Islam does provide Summer with a new way of defining her struggles though, and she becomes more and more fascinated by stories of spirits called jinn. Neither of god nor hell, they can motivate humans to do good or evil. The turbulence inherent in the concept fits Summer’s own worldview, as she becomes increasingly aware of the limitations on her, especially as her attraction to her classmate Tahir (Kelvin Harrison Jr.), who also attends the same mosque, grows. 

One of the great ironies is that there’s nothing like repression to make a love story progress, so when Summer and Tahir lock eyes during the Imam’s (Hisham Tawfiq) preaching, it’s in a way that speaks of far more worldly attractions, likely made more delicious by the knowledge that those around them would condemn them for it.

But even as “Jinn” refuses to deny the darker side of Islam and how women are often shamed far more for not living up to expectations, Mumin also gives the mosque a warmth and a glow seldom seen in film. It embraces the comfort such an environment can provide, and none of the women who bask in it are victims. They are fully in control of their own decisions, even Jade, whose fanaticism begins to drive a wedge between her and her daughter.

The conclusion is about as messy as people generally are, with freedom being the ultimate goal for mother and daughter. That freedom may look different to both of them, but it is ultimately the ultimate prize with all that beautiful messiness inherent to them and others.

Jinn is streaming on Amazon Prime, YouTube, Apple TV, and Vudu.

52 Films By Women: Girlfriends (1978)

The Criterion Channel

By Andrea Thompson

For our latest entry in films that were ahead of their time, we have Claudia Weill’s 1978 gem “Girlfriends.” In a sense at least. Any film that takes place in New York City during this particular era (or really any time before the early 2000s) is going to be a time capsule, and “Girlfriends” is very much that, with the quickest communication happening not just through landline (!) phones, but without any kind of voicemail or answering machine.

Plodding through this now strange and alien landscape is Susan Weinblatt (Melanie Mayron), an aspiring photographer who happily resides with her best friend and roommate Anne (Anne Munroe), an aspiring writer. At least, until Anne moves out to get married, leaving Susan feeling alone and betrayed. 

As the title promises, Susan and Anne’s close, intense, and rather symbiotic relationship is the film’s heart. It’s also the common thread in what is more accurately described as a series of episodes as Susan struggles to pay the bills and make a living as a photographer. 

That less than cohesive narrative works though, and to watch “Girlfriends” is to see a forerunner to the great pop culture womances, the most obvious being “Sex in the City” and Lena Dunham’s “Girls.” Its true heir, however, might just be the 2012 film “Frances Ha,” which saw the title character, played by Greta Gerwig, similarly flailing personally and professionally after her best friend marries. 

IMDB

And flail Susan does, screaming aloud out of sheer loneliness in her apartment, contemplating a relationship with an older, very married rabbi (who also has a son), and just dealing with the everyday sexism that includes a creepy cab driver, condescending men who have something to mansplain to her about her photos, and devastatingly, her own self-destructive tendencies that harm both Anne and Susan’s relationship with her boyfriend Eric (Christopher Guest).

The wedge between Susan and Anne is especially devastating though, and reflective of the starkly divergent, limited crossroads many women faced at the time-the often devastatingly lonely path of the independent career woman or losing themselves in marriage and motherhood. The growing distance between Susan and Anne reflects that dichotomy, with the former envying Anne’s stability and home, and the latter resentful of Susan’s independence and freedom. 

A bond like theirs may fray, but we all know it can’t be completely dissolved. When the two reconcile, as we know they will and must, it’s through the quiet familiarity of inside jokes and simply how they share space with each other, which wordlessly conveys the strength and deeply loving nature of a bond born of years of shared experiences.

When they are interrupted by the arrival of Susan’s husband, theirs is a shared look that speaks of a spell being broken. But just as Gerwig is able to gaze across the room at her platonic love and say, “She’s my best friend,” Susan and Anne have found their person again, and it’ll always be each other.