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: Blue Jean (2022)

Magnolia Pictures

By Andrea Thompson

In the simplest of terms, as defined by Britannica, color is the aspect of any object that may be described in terms of hue, lightness, and saturation. But how do we define how it defines us? How do we describe a phenomenon which so casually evokes a range of reactions and emotions to those who, for whatever reason, have never encountered it? How do we define what defines us, especially when it’s so intertwined in our lives we practically forget it exists?

Apropos for a film that takes such a concept into its very title, “Blue Jean” is above all evocative - of feeling most of all. The Jean of the title (played with tenderly compassionate vulnerability by Rosy McEwen) is a woman who is living what can be simply defined as a closeted life. It’s a phrase tossed off so casually, often even humorously, that we can forget what it really encompasses to have to hide the most loving, and thus often best part of yourself, from others, sometimes in plain sight.

Blue isn’t merely the film’s aesthetic of choice which winds its way through Jean’s life as she attempts to reconcile her precarious balancing act, at times it literally cradles her in her arms. Her bathroom is wrapped in blue, and of course, much of her wardrobe is various shades of it, the various settings gorgeously rendered by cinematographer Victor Seguin incorporate it, and the student uniforms during gym at the secondary school where Jean teaches are also sky hued.

It’s easy to see how another film could take a lesbian gym teacher and embrace what has long become a kind of running joke. But Jean is working and living in Newcastle in 1988. It’s relatively small, conservative, and a world away (on the other side of the country really) from the more metropolitan London, when Margaret Thatcher’s government is about to pass a law criminalizing homesexuality. Nothing funny about it.

It is, in essence, easy to get the blues, living as Jean does in a time when her very existence is seen as an offense. No wonder her more out and proud girlfriend Viv (Kerrie Hayes) uses the phrase deer in the headlights to describe Jean at one point. So what then, can a life look like?

For Jean, it can actually look pretty good, as long as nothing changes. She is mostly uninterested in joining her coworkers for a pint with their talk of pairing her up with a guy, SlimFast diets, and their general agreement with the reports that extol thinking of the children whenever anyone rebels against the concept of gay people as a threat to society. She’d rather head out to the warm vibes of the lesbian bar she frequents, where she’s earned the nickname Baby Jean, and enjoy some good sex with Viv,  who is quick to push back against her girlfriend’s own internalized homophobia.

But no cerulean shield will be enough when Lois (Lucy Halliday), one of Jean’s students, becomes a frequent attendee at the local lesbian bar and of course, recognizes her teacher. Suddenly, the microaggressions become harder to take, from her supposedly supportive sister who still keeps Jean’s wedding picture on her mantle and all but clutches her pearls at the thought of her five-year-old son being introduced to Viv as Jean’s girlfriend, the neighbor across the way whose coldly hateful gaze has all the wrath of an auto-da-fé, to the dating shows where women are asked to be appropriately feminine enough for whatever random man is chosen as the catch of the night.

As Drew Burnett Gregory wrote in her Autostraddle review of the film, “‘Save the children’ is just about the easiest manipulation tactic those who want us dead can use.” It’s an apt summary of how concern is so often weaponized to the detriment of all, including nearly every life writer-director Georgia Oakley chronicles, however briefly, in “Blue Jean.” A queer woman herself who was born in 1988, Oakley so compassionately depicts her subject and the way she at times fails the very people who need her most it’s occasionally difficult to believe she didn’t live out the period and the havoc it left in its wake, which is threatening to repeat itself, and in some cases already is.  

The thing about the color Oakley chooses for her metaphor though? It tends to always be there, waiting for those to acknowledge its presence. It’s the color of the sea and sky, some of our most common trouser choices, and it can also be indicative of how warm it can be when we find a communal safe space that lends it support.

Directed By Women: The People's Joker (2022)

By Andrea Thompson

Ah, autumn. For others, it means leaves changing, pumpkin spice lattes, spooky fun, and sweaters. For film critics, it means a whole lot of film festivals that we insist on running ourselves ragged for. Why should that change? For those afflicted with cinephilia, it’s a fantastic way to experience films that wouldn’t otherwise be discoverable, even in our supposedly stuffed-with-options streaming content era. 

Personally, I have immersed myself in the Chicago Underground Film Festival, the Reeling International Film Festival, and am now turning my attention to the Chicago International Film Festival, which features an absolute beauty of a lineup this year. And one particular offering seemed to almost beg for a place in this recently revamped Directed By Women column: “The People’s Joker”. 

Like last week’s focus, “T Blockers,” “The People’s Joker” is a trans film, and there’s a whole lot of horror contained in it without its characters being reduced to their oppression. But where “T Blockers” is a Gen Z anthem of defiance made by a budding artist just on the cusp of what will hopefully be a long and promising career, Vera Drew’s “The People’s Joker” is a millennial tale full of hard-lived wisdom and steeped in meta.

It’s also an incredibly low budget movie that’s equal parts queer coming-of-age story, extremely unauthorized superhero parody, and love letter to queer creatives. And filmed in a style that I can only describe as mixed media dystopian zine fused with pure camp. 

If that sounds baffling, that’s nothing against you or me, it’s merely part of the gleefully deranged, utterly fearless experience that is viewing this movie. IP doesn’t generally lend itself to much creativity in our incredibly corporatized environs, but Drew, who not only directs, but co-writes and stars as the lead, a trans girl who eventually blooms into her true identity as Joker the Harlequin, makes gleeful use of beloved fan favorites of the DC universe, as well as her many inspirations.

Batman’s problematic nature has been discussed and dissected long before this, but in “The People’s Joker” he’s not only a corporate fascist who’s unleashed a vicious army of drones onto Gotham, he’s also a predatory closeted gay man who grooms and exploits the penniless orphans he takes in. When Joker arrives in Gotham to pursue a comedy career after a harrowing childhood in Smallville - the kind only sunny Midwestern repression can dish out - she meets and falls for one of them, Jason Todd (Kane Distler), a young queer boy who has since refashioned himself into a Leto-esque Joker.

This isn’t only a setup for a toxic relationship that the older, wiser Joker the Harlequin uses as a guide for how to recognize abuse, it’s also a way for Drew to throw a whole lot of shade, with much of her ire reserved for Lorne Michaels and his toxic stranglehold on the state of comedy itself. He may be the catalyst for Harlequin’s rebellion and subsequently forming her own anti-comedy troupe that becomes her found family of recognizable DC villains, but Drew isn’t about to allow her own story to become subsumed in any sense.

And what a story, which doesn’t only incorporate fan conspiracy theories, Michelle Pfeiffer’s legendary Catwoman transformation, but shout-outs to “Goodfellas,” with Harlequin proclaiming she “always wanted to be a Joker,” and bringing in the Necronomicon itself for a cameo.

It’s a lot for a tight, 92 minute runtime that’s also a sincere laugh riot in the way stories from those who have not only survived but thrived tend to be. Drew’s most important inspirations get their due right away however. The film is dedicated to “Mom and Joel Schumacher.”

Directed By Women: T Blockers (2023)

By Andrea Thompson

Yes, the prodigal column has returned, just in time for spooky season, and my favorite holiday no less. Choosing a film to focus on was something of a dilemma, at least until I came across Alice Maio Mackay’s “T Blockers” while I was writing up a festival preview for the Chicago LGBTQ+ International Film Festival Reeling. Then it became something of an easy choice.

Mackay was all of 17 when she made “T Blockers,” already has a respectable chunk of IMDB credits as well as a host of other accomplishments to her name, all of which shout upcoming filmmaker. Mackay is also trans, and the slim 74 minute runtime contains a multitude of complications her surrogate heroine Sophie (Lauren Last), also a trans filmmaker, must wrestle with once she discovers an ancient parasitic worm is preying on the bigots in her small Australian town.

Some of “T Blockers” is about exactly what you’d expect, and a fair amount of it is the rage of it all. There’s the viciousness of the anti-LGBTQ+ politicians, the minefield of attempting to find love in the midst of what seems like a neverending oppression in their daily lives, the crappy jobs the characters have to sustain themselves with as they struggle with every step in fulfilling their artistic ambitions, and the rising hordes of fascists who are rallying against any attempt they make at proclaiming their humanity.

No, the kids are not alright, but they are an extremely tight-knit group in the way people under siege tend to be. But bring on the camp, because Sophie and her bff and roommate Spencer (Lewi Dawson) refuse to be all gloom and doom. The gross-out humor isn’t only reserved for the worms which find plenty of willing hosts, but some of the less than healthy coping methods Spencer and Sophie utilize, which include drugs and vomit. Learn your limits kids, but in the meantime it fits well with the movie’s punk sensibilities, with the more obvious influence John Waters getting himself a name drop later.

These kids also have a kind of clear-eyed, lived wisdom it often takes their more privileged brethren years to acquire. They wait for no one’s approval and make no apologies for immediately fighting back once the possessed gather and go on the prowl, but they have no illusions that this will make their problems vanish, or even their lives necessarily easier. As Sophie tearfully acknowledges after facing a devastating personal loss, the bigots they’re really fighting can win even when they lose, and the battle will have to be fought again and again.

“T Blockers” isn’t merely a salute to Mackay’s B-movie sensibilities and their accompanying idols, it’s also a heartfelt tribute to queer filmmakers of the past, some of whom ultimately lost the battle with their own demons, but managed to create something for future generations to stand on. The movie’s framing device is a film made by a fellow trans filmmaker in the ‘90s who later committed suicide, but which nevertheless acts as both warning and guide so Sophie and her friends can put out the fire this time. In some cases by burning it all down, but I digress.

It’s so damn fun that the movie’s real flaw is all that more irritating (and somewhat spoilery), namely that the whiteness of it all somewhat bogs things down. The first victim of the parasites is Thai Hoa Steven Nguyen, and the other good guy casualty is another actor of color, Toshiro Glenn. In any other movie this would absolutely reek of hypocrisy, yet Mackay shows such promise, namely by making the most of the screen time both of them get. And Glenn’s is infused with a special tenderness due to his budding romance with Sophie, which finally gives her a taste of romantic love, untainted by fetishization.

So “T Blockers” is a success at getting its audience to consider the very questions it brings up. Namely, whether we really know an oppressive regime when we see one, and what exactly makes a monster.

52 Films By Women: Lingua Franca 2019

Lingua Franca

By Andrea Thompson

Urban isolation isn’t a new theme, but the protagonist of the tender drama “Lingua Franca” has a damn good reason to feel not just sequestered, but under siege. Olivia (Isabel Sandoval) is an undocumented Filipino transwoman living in Brighton Beach neighborhood in Brooklyn, and she is under constant threat of violence; not from any individual, but rather, an entire system built on her dehumanization. 

Watching it, I was reminded of a similar film, “The Garden Left Behind,” which in fact screened in the Film Girl Film Festival, and also followed an undocumented transwoman in New York City. But where Tina (Carlie Guevara) struggled to fathom individual intentions and their potential for harm, Olivia is facing far more sinister forces she is unable to predict, and which would deport her on a whim.

It is deportation rather than death which is Olivia’s ultimate fear, and Sandoval manages to capture the quiet terror of that word, one which is often, and very casually, tossed around by those who are wholly unaware of what it means for those it threatens to catch in its ever-widening maw. And Olivia is constantly aware that she could be literally snatched off the street at any moment with no consequences to her abductors. 

Even the tenuous stability she’s achieved perversely heightens her anxiety that it could all be taken from her. Unlike other transgender stories, Olivia has already transitioned, is mostly seen as a woman by the world at large, and has a mostly reliable source of income as the kind of caregiver we all wish could be looking after our loved ones. 

Lingua Franca

But it can, and often does, feel like a razor’s edge to Olivia even at the best of times, and Isabel Sandoval, who writes and directs in addition to playing the lead, emphasizes this tension with muted colors even as the characters and extras array themselves in brightness, as if attempting to deny the darkness which threatens to envelop their lives. Even home barely serves as a refuge, with the unsettling silence in the most intimate of spaces stretching on just enough to leave us wondering if there’s a shadowy threat lurking just beyond our vision. Which for Olivia, there is, perhaps even in plain sight.

It can be difficult not to define such a character by her pain, and Sandoval, who is a trans woman herself, takes care not to make Olivia a symbol, even when Trump’s voice is heard as he encourages everyone to give in to their worst instincts, only to be cut off as Olivia reaches her destination. Such politics may play a role in her life, but neither the film or Olivia define themselves by them.

And it doesn’t stop Olivia from yearning for more, as we discover shortly after she meets Alex (Eamon Farren), the adult grandson of the elderly Russian woman Olivia looks after. The two have more in common than they initially appear, Alex hailing from an immigrant background himself, and also feeling lonely despite his so-called friends, who are mostly toxic bro types he is unable to confide in. Alex may project confidence, but he is vulnerable in a way men are never supposed to be, struggling to maintain his sobriety after a stint in rehab. His and Olivia’s eventual connection is more than a meeting of souls though, with Olivia not only having some hot and heavy fantasies shortly after meeting him, but the two actually having passionate sex that is actually pretty sexy.

It seems like the perfect way for Olivia to combine love and security rather than saving up for a green card marriage of convenience. But Alex also royally screws up, telling her that a masked intruder was responsible for her stolen belongings rather than his friend searching for easy money, increasing Olivia’s fears of deportation. 

Lingua Franca

It’s especially cruel given how much Alex is privy to Olivia’s terror of the ICE, and when Alex does eventually propose, Sandoval cranks up the swooning music to romcom levels, underscoring how their life together is a fantasy. It seems strange for Olvia to hesitate at being offered what she’s basically been spending the entire film searching for, but as Sandolval said in an interview with The Cut, “At that moment, Olivia becomes more than a trans woman looking for love or an undocumented immigrant looking for papers...It’s Olivia’s journey toward agency and dignity and the ability to determine the course of her own life.” 

That taste of love leaves Olivia wondering if there isn’t something even better than she initially dreamed, and the film’s ending, which leaves her in an ambiguous state but committed to her own version of a happy ending, is nevertheless tinged with melancholy. Life will go on, “Lingua Franca” indicates, sometimes for no other reason than that’s what it does until it stops.

52 Films By Women: Suicide Kale (2016)

Screenshot

By Andrea Thompson

Can be a groundbreaking and a little cliche at the same time? I’d say yes, because the indie film “Suicide Kale” embraces this inherent contradiction. Note that I say indie film, a label which has been somewhat co-opted by major studios, mostly as an excuse for an endless series of cutesy quirks which typically act as a sort of substitution for an actual plot. But “Suicide Kale” is very much an indie film, and was actually shot over the course of a few days at the home of one of the leads using natural light and equipment filmmakers already owned.

In other words? “Suicide Kale” was clearly a labor of love, and not just because it revolves around two couples, one five years married and other other a mere month into dating. The same old story? Most definitely. But cliches can also be something of a privilege only granted to a select few, and “Suicide Kale” is on one level about taking a story that has been almost exclusively set among straight white people and enacting it among queer women, three of four of whom are women of color. 

These women are also given all the depth and character they are seldom granted by straight filmmakers, and that this movie is even came to exist is due to close collaboration, both among the crew, most of whom were queer women, and the four lead actors, who also improvised additional dialogue. Nearly the entire film also takes place in the aforementioned donated home, director Carly Usdin’s wife is one of the film’s producers, and also takes on cinematography duties, doing a damn good job exploiting the natural beauty of Southern California to even greater perfection, and screenwriter Brittani Nichols also plays one of the leads. 

Nichols couldn’t be accused of lazy writing, since her character Jasmine and new girlfriend Penn (Lindsay Hicks) find themselves in a situation where there is no script when they head to the home of their married friends Billie (Jasika Nicole) and Jordan (Brianna Baker, also the house loaner) for a dinner party and discover a hidden suicide note. What’s a houseguest and friend to do? Head back into the kitchen and continue as usual? Certainly not talk openly and honestly about what they’ve found, as that would put something of a damper on the film’s comedic spirit. 

And “Suicide Kale” is very much a comedy, one that allows for plenty of darkness in a place so brightly bohemian and liberal that couples share their dog with another family out of fear of placing it in a toxic environment. Good gravy. 

Anyhow, anyone expecting the wit to flow long will be disappointed, as the dialogue has more in common with the stuff of mumblecore than your typical romcom. If the note’s author is a mystery, other things are clear enough, like the fact that ‘perfect couple’ Billie and Jordan are experiencing difficulties. Jasika Nicole is the film’s standout, revealing everything not through dialogue, which is unremarkable by choice, but through her tone, which becomes almost unbearably fraught whenever she’s alone with her wife, to her wide, fake smile as she casually reveals how her marriage has decayed. Your heart breaks for her, and for the complexity women like her are rarely allowed to portray on-screen.

Screenshot

It’s revolutionary in its quiet way, as is (spoiler!) the lack of suicide in a film which not only consists of soley queer of characters, but is completely devoid of men. Bechdel test? Not needed here. If the film’s ending is also ambiguous, it packs more progress and general boldness in a mere 80 minutes than most films do in two hours, even managing to put the so-called healthy couple on ground that becomes nearly as shaky as the marriage which seems on the verge of shattering. Now that studios are supposedly hungry for diverse content, I’m hoping “Suicide Kale” isn’t a complete fluke, and that these kinds of stories will be told by a greater variety of people.

Suicide Kale is streaming on iTunes, Apple TV+, Amazon Prime, and Kanopy.

52 Films By Women: Appropriate Behavior (2014)

Appropriate Behavior

By Andrea Thompson

Can a film not be groundbreaking but still do something new? Take the 2014 film “Appropriate Behavior,” which follows another aimless twentysomething who finds herself completely adrift after a breakup. Such a plot couldn’t be called anything close to original, but the aimless young woman in question just happens to be Shirin, played by Desiree Akhavan, who also writes and directs. 

Shirin isn’t just a bisexual woman who couldn’t even bring herself to tell her parents that she and her ex Maxine (Rebecca Henderson) were dating in the first place, said parents are also Persian immigrants, and while they’re far more liberal and open-minded than on-screen immigrant parents typically are, they also have clear expectations for Shirin. Ones that aren’t up for discussion even after they visit the apartment where their daughter and Maxine are cohabitating and note that it only has one bed.

Bisexual representation isn’t just woefully lacking, it’s also extremely misrepresented, or more often, ignored in favor of characters whose sexuality could be firmly placed in the far less complicated category of gay or straight. But Akhavan, who identifies as bisexual herself, ensures that Shirin’s journey never veers into territory that cold be called stereotypical or exploitative, which is even more impressive given that it also consists of a series of graphic sexual (mis)adventures with both men and women in a Brooklyn now firmly hipster and gentrified.

If you can get past that, “Appropriate Behavior” is a damn delight as Shirin physically and emotionally gropes for some sort of solid ground, following Maxine around in an attempt to reconnect, and teaching a class of five-year-olds how to make films, in spite of the fact that she has no experience whatsoever in filmmaking. You’d think that her unused journalism degree would practically mandate at least an interest, but there clearly are exceptions. Luckily for Shirin, the parents clearly don’t care much about their kids’ education. In an age of helicoptery overparenting, it’s actually kind of sweet.

If “Appropriate Behavior” ever does risk veering into the stereotypical, it’s ironically when exploring Shrin and Maxine’s relationship, which is delved into in a nonlinear fashion. At first it’s hard to see just what drew these two together in the first place, and why Shirin is so eager to reunite with a woman who comes off as another uptight, pretentious hipster who is so humorless that when Shirin tells her about an encounter with a guy that involved a soft dick (when they first meet no less), Maxine makes a snide remark...in the guy’s favor. If that isn’t a violation of the girl code, I don’t know what is.

Thankfully, Maxine doesn’t deteriorate into a shrew or a symbol of all the wrong choices Shirin has made in her life. She actually becomes human (eventually), and their time together quickly seems less like a waste than well spent, only to curdle in large part due to Shirin’s refusal to be honest with her parents. Or at least, completely open with them, as their denial seems clear enough.

Humanization has always been the gift that keeps on giving, so when Shirin finally starts to get it together, we actively root for her. Yeah, there’s the usual results, such as a friendlier state of coexistence with Maxine, and actually being honest with her family, some of whom are supportive, some not. One achievement though, will remain uniquely her own, as she decides to take the lead from the kids in her class and help them make a short, uplifting film about...zombie farts. Between this and “The Miseducation of Cameron Post,” I hope Akhavan continues to make films that are so truly, uniquely, her own.

52 Films By Women: Circus of Books (2019)

IMDB

By Andrea Thompson

Are the filmmakers behind “Circus of Books” here to give us what we need or what we want? Well, it depends on your definition of both. Subversive is an overused term, but part of what makes the Netflix documentary so damn enjoyable isn't just how it does indeed subvert our expectations, but how much sheer delight director Rachel Mason takes in it.

Not all of the enjoyment is intentional; certain family dynamics can only come through lived experience. Objectivity has been dead for a while, but it was still an incredibly wise decision on Mason's part not to distance herself from the fact that she's making a movie about her own family. “Circus of Books” is and remains a family affair, and Mason allows those aforementioned family dynamics to shine as she makes an incredibly personal vision of her own, often while examining how the term family itself was hijacked in the name of conservatism. Or more accurately, a conservative crusade that would only accept one definition of family and sought to remake the world in that image.

Karen and Barry Mason violated that definition by the nature of their work, even as they upheld the image of a close-knit, conventional life in the midst of secular, liberal West Hollywood. They were careful to keep their work life hidden, not just from their children, but everyone. This commitment to secrecy was so extensive that when Karen asks them to explain what their store, the titular Circus of Books, actually was, Karen and Barry look at each other in that uncomfortable way parents often do whenever they're forced to discuss anything related to sex. And why not? The store that they ran didn't just sell sex, it sold porn, and was actually the largest distributor of gay porn in the United States.

IMDB

Their paranoia was probably justified. The word porn alone is enough to send people scrambling for their pearls even today, but adding the word gay most likely would have sent the Masons' neighbors screaming in the other direction back in the 70s and 80s, and most likely well into the 90s, since Karen and Barry ran the store together for about 30 years. As magazine publisher Billy Miller puts it in the film, “To be a homo was unspeakable, basically.” In such a time, when even mentioning homosexuality was considered disgusting, the Circus of Books was a safe place, the center of the gay universe, where the men (and this was very much a business that catered to male tastes) could see other gay men “naked and unafraid,” and feel free to openly connect with each other. In some cases, they were very open, with the alley behind the store quickly becoming known as Vaseline Alley.

So how did a nice Jewish couple who regularly went to synagogue get into this? Like some of the best things start, mostly by accident. They needed to order a living, saw an ad in the paper from Hustlers publisher Larry Flynt, who was looking for magazine distributors, and jumped on it. From day one, the cash started flowing in, and the two quickly set up the business that would end up sending their kids to college. It was also a life that was strictly segregated, even from themselves, since Barry and Karen apparently never even watched the videos they sold, and in some cases, made themselves, albeit through others. To them it was a job, and to this day their employees speak highly of their honesty and trustworthiness, very rare qualities in themselves, but all the more so in the adult industry.

Even if “Circus of Books” doesn't directly address it, the Masons became bigamists in a sense, with a newfound family on the side as well, even if it was more of a response to the devastation of the AIDS epidemic. The Masons were often a source of support, even acting as surrogate parents in cases where biological parents refused to visit their dying child. Such attitudes didn't have to look too far for justification, given that it was upheld in the highest levels of government. Rather that funding treatments, the Reagan administration threw its money into a task force dedicated to arresting those who sold explicit materials. That the Masons would be swept up in it was feasible, and soon became a reality when Barry was arrested and charged. But the culture of silence and shame remained strong, with even the couple's children remaining ignorant of their father's imprisonment. Things only resolved happily because Clinton was elected, and suddenly, not only were the prosecutors switched, there were a whole new set of priorities that didn't involve controlling people's viewing and sexual habits.

IMDB

In the end, it wasn't their business that did the most damage to the family, but the culture of silence and shame they'd enabled. When Rachel's brother Josh came out as gay, Karen was so unprepared she initially believed god was punishing her for her work, and had to come to terms with what she'd absorbed from her conservative upbringing. Even if she worked with and was fine gay people, she felt the need to justify what she did as being for her family, and that meant she was unprepared for anyone in it being gay. Her decision to make the commitment to not just examine her beliefs, but join PFLAG (Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays) and become an activist are some of the most touching moments in the film, especially since older people are often depicted as frozen in time.

Karen embarking on a new stage in her life is also thoughtfully juxtaposed with the decision to finally close the store. The reasons why the business model it was based on is no longer economically feasible hardly need to be stated, but even if its heyday is long past, the lights going off for the last time at the Circus of Books feels like a tribute. The past may be gone, but everyone involved in the doc, whether behind the camera or in front, seems ready to embrace and ensure a future many wish to prevent.