52 Films By Women: To Wong Foo, Thanks For Everything! Julie Newmar (1995)

Universal Pictures

By Andrea Thompson

Critics may not have been ready for “To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar,” but a lot of other people sure as hell were. A comedy about three drag queens driving from New York to compete in a drag beauty pageant in L.A., the film received such mixed reviews that Rotten Tomatoes disgraced itself by giving it a rating of 39%. It clearly made an impression on audiences though, since it was the top grossing movie at the box office for two weeks.

The title refers to a signed photo by Julie Newmar that Vida (Patrick Swayze), the most maternal of the trio, steals as a kind of good luck charm on their journey. It seems to have done the trick, seeing as how Newmar makes a cameo as herself in the film. 

It also seems to have worked its magic on the remainder of the film as well, which remains charming, even if the ending veers too far into wish fulfillment. “To Wong Foo” doesn’t just take the concerns of Vida, her friend Noxeema (Wesley Snipes), and Chi-Chi (John Leguizamo), the newcomer they take under their wing, seriously, it reslishes their passionate appreciation of glamorous femininity.

Nor were any of these ladies defined by their oppression, or what so many outside of their tight-knit community and surrogate family thought of them. Aside from a brief glimpse of Vida’s disapproving mother from afar, Noxeema, Vida, and Chi-Chi are wholly themselves, with no need of validation from said family who are typically the focus, even as they constantly rejected those they deemed outsiders, only to tearfully embrace their choices by the end. 

Perhaps critics also expected the film to at least mention the AIDS crisis, which was the leading cause of death for adults aged 25 to 44 at the time, according to The Advocate. While suffering seems to be the industry’s go-to strategy to build compassion for the marginalized, “To Wong Foo” immerses us in the drag community from the beginning. It’s not only aware of the tough guy/heartthrob personas of Swayze and Snipes, it plays on them, both in the original trailers, and from the moment the film kicks off, with an objectified Patrick Swayze stepping out of the shower in all his swoonworthy, abtastic glory, only to objectify him in much different way as he begins to put on his feminine persona.

How this process is portrayed sets the tone. Just four years prior in “The Silence of the Lambs,” a man feminizing himself was depicted as the ultimate horror, but as the central characters delightedly, carefully adorn themselves with makeup, wigs, stockings and all around style, director Beeban Kidron likewise relishes their joy and the care that goes into it. It’s indicative of the movie’s respect, not just for femininity, but women in general.

Critics might have accused “To Wong Foo” of timidity, political correctness, and a lack of originality in terms of plot, and they weren’t completely wrong. There’s a certain suspension of disbelief required, not just for the over-the-top, utopian ending, but that almost none of the residents of Snydersville, the small town Noxeema, Vida, and Chi-Chi become stranded in, recognize them as men in drag. 

No, “To Wong Foo” couldn’t be accused of diving too deep. But it does mostly accomplish what it set out to do, which is be funny as hell. Snipes, Swayze, and Leguizamo are all in top form, and it’s not only the jokes that land perfectly, it’s the banter, which ranges from tough love to outright animosity, and finally, to camaraderie. 

It’s also not as if the movie is unaware of the very real danger these three face on a daily basis. They only become stranded in Snydersville in the first place because a sheriff attempts to assault Vida one night after he pulls them over. She fights him off, but believes she kills him in the process rather than merely knocking him out, causing all of them to flee in terror. That terror is also present from the moment their encounter with him begins, when Sheriff Dollard pulls them over while they’re driving in a remote area at night. As he comes up to them with his hand firmly on his gun we know is going to be unpleasant at the very least. The only question is whether it will also be horrific.

Thank goodness not all small towns are completely hellish, because while Snydersville proves to have the kinds of characters who benefit from the trio’s presence, it has its share of dangers as well. At one point, Chi-Chi gets harassed from a group of male rednecks in an encounter that threatened to become a gang rape, only to be saved by a nice local boy who actually becomes her love interest. 

One of them also gets his comeuppance from Noxeema in a scene that’s become both iconic and queer canon, and deeply reflective in how the women of Snydersville become stronger and more confident thanks to the three, who literally brighten up a place which initially appears as drab and almost colorless, only to become awash in a sea of red as Noxeema, Vida, and Chi-Chi decide to participate in the town Strawberry Social. By the time the despicable Sheriff Dollard tracks them down, the stage is literally set for a fabulous Western standoff that involves literally running the toxic men in their midst out of town. 

Interestingly though, one of the most difficult tasks wasn’t finding the movie’s leads, it was finding a director. Swayze, Snipes, and Leguizamo eagerly signed on, but practically every male director passed, with Beeban Kidron getting the gig, it seems, more out of desperation than any appreciation for her very considerable skills. 

The ending is also more bittersweet than intended, what with Dollard’s rant about how the Constitution doesn’t apply to such “deviants,” amidst the resurgence of an alt right determined to roll back every hard fought gain progressives have made, including recent court rulings. But at least he gets the clap back he deserves, and “To Wong Foo” also remains an unapologetic celebration of its leads and queer culture, (with cameos from icons that include Ru Paul) paving the way for much more to come.

52 Films By Women: Winter's Bone (2010)

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By Andrea Thompson

Life-changing is a cliché I hesitate to use, but that was certainly my experience when I saw “Winter's Bone” in theaters in 2010. I remember being in awe, not just of the film's magnificent characters, none of whom came off as stereotypical, but the actors who brought them to life with a tenderness that was in stark contrast to the harsh Ozark setting that director Debra Granik depicted with such quiet, unflinching intensity.

And of course, it gave us the one actress who came to rule them all, Jennifer Lawrence. It was how I and so many others were introduced to her, and there's a reason her performance as 17-year-old Ree was universally praised. I left the theater enraptured, and soon returned three more times to relive Ree's grueling ordeal to keep her family home and land. Lawrence was clearly a young woman who was going places, and I couldn't get enough.

I didn't know it at the time, but this was also the beginning of a lifelong love affair with Debra Granik. At least it hasn't faded yet, with her subsequent films “Stray Dog” and “Leave No Trace” becoming favorites of mine, even if they didn't have quite the same impact as “Winter's Bone.” Apparently I'm not alone in that, since practically everyone who reviewed “Leave No Trace” couldn't help but compare teenage lead Thomasin McKenzie to Lawrence, even though their characters take wildly divergent paths in coming into their own.

As someone who also grew up in a rural environment who would regularly hear about meth houses exploding, Ree's journey resonated with me. It's why I return to “Winter's Bone” again and again, but have yet to watch a single episode of “Breaking Bad.” Granik gave us a vision of meth underworld filled with people who destitute, who were both victims and villains, sans moralization or glorification. Maybe it was just relief that someone, somewhere, knew, and responded with compassion.

It was also a deeply feminist world enmeshed right in the midst of a brutal patriarchy that supposedly prized family but disposed of it with casual, brutal efficiency. The teenage Ree is her family's caregiver, not just for her younger brother and sister, but her mother, who has mentally deteriorated due to the daily stress she was ill-equipped to cope with. When Ree is informed that her missing father put up the house and land for his bond, she is the only one capable of searching for him in order to prevent them all from becoming homeless as well as destitute.

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Ree's uncle Teardrop (John Hawkes, who in many ways embodies the traditional tortured noir hero) may eventually become her staunch ally, but it is the other women with whom Ree has more complex relationships, whether it's as a source of sanity, as is the case with her friend Gail (Lauren Sweetser), tenuous allies, or at times, her victimizers and reluctant saviors, such as the Milton women who aid their male relatives in ensuring their meth activities remain an open secret in their community.

Ree is also allowed to have her limits, and be emotionally vulnerable as well as physically. She's almost unbelievably strong, but even she has her limits in a place and time where any triumph means holding onto a status quo that threatens to violently rip apart at any moment. The last shot of the film, where Ree knows her happy ending isn't escape but right back where she started, is the ultimate bittersweet moment.

52 Films By Women: Shirley (2020)

By Andrea Thompson

Do we really want to know how the sausage is made? Of course we do. If it were made humanely, it wouldn't be nearly as fun. Take the creative process for instance. How much more do we enjoy watching from afar as our favorite artists gloriously destroy in the name of our most beloved works of art? Conflict is, after all, the beating heart of so many of our favorite stories, and if our artistic heroes turn out to be jackasses, so much the better. Provided we ourselves can keep a safe distance.

The question in the film “Shirley” is what happens if this terrible artist happens to be a woman. In this case, she's horror writer Shirley Jackson (Elisabeth Moss), who is as formidable as the stories she wrote. How could this supposedly frail woman not be, given her disinterest in everything the conformist 1950s demands of her? She's everything her gender is told to reject: prickly, difficult, paranoid, agoraphobic, and merciless about prying into the lives of those around her, probing for their most vulnerable points. Even her body, wracked by depression, anxiety, and mental illness, resists being stifled by the rigid demands of the period, nearly bursting out of the attire that tries and fails to mold her into gentility.

Needless to say, newlyweds Fred (Logan Lerman) and Rose (Odessa Young) don't stand a chance. They have the kind of happiness that depends on innocence, and above all, ignorance. When they arrive in town to visit Shirley and her college professor husband Stanley (Michael Stuhlbarg), they come off as intelligently as the people who willingly walk in the creepy woods the locals avoid. Then again, these locals they're benevolently smiling at look as though they'd shove them right in.

If their arrival at Stanley and Shirley's home feels like a soothing balm, filled with laughter, debate, and intellectualism, it's quickly revealed to be a Venus flytrap. Rose is a fan of Shirley's who is fascinated, then unsettled by the off-putting writer, who has little taste for social niceties and less use for another adoring fan. It makes Rose reluctant when she's recruited by the husbands to live in the Shirley's home, basically as an unpaid servant, allowing Fred to fulfill his teaching ambitions at the college, and Stanley to have another watchful eye on his unstable wife, who is struggling with writer's block on her latest novel.

But if nice girls don't say no, neither do good wives, and Rose is under more pressure than most women in her situation. Not only is she pregnant, Fred married her even though his parents disowned him for it. Guilt can go a long way in silencing women, and it leaves Rose especially vulnerable to Shirley's manipulations. In another time, their friendship might have become a nourishing love affair, but part of the gendered horror of the film is the knowledge that for the few women who managed to rise above it all and find happiness, there were so many more who fell through the cracks. The missing college girl who inspired the manuscript Shirley is struggling with is merely one example. Cruelty and madness take many forms, many of them far more subdued.

Films like “In The Cut” explored the outright violence of everyday sexism when taken to extremes, but “Shirley” more subtly, psychologically explores how women are united and divided by their oppression. Shirley may at first be envious of Rose's youth, beauty, and supposed happiness, but Rose gazes upon the even younger, lithe college coeds who cluster adoringly around both husbands with much of the same envy for them and the carefree life she's already beyond. In such ways do men create monsters.

Rose is drawn to Shirley for much the same reason these girls are drawn to their husbands, but of course there's far more to it. For all her suffering and dysfunction, Shirley represents a kind of freedom, a rejection of the social mores Rose finds so suffocating but feels powerless to fight. As their friendship intensifies, so does the void in Rose's life, as she's forced to realize how much she isn't seen, by her husband or anyone. Shirley is the one who creates a meaning that is entirely hers, and she ultimately can't respect anyone who derives all the meaning in their life from someone else's work.

If writer Sarah Gubbins nimbly navigates the slow psychological terror of women on verge of a nervous breakdown, director Josephine Decker is her partner in crime, bringing the same splintered, manic energy that was so spellbinding in “Madeline's Madeline.” That their focus is insular is to be expected, but it outright refuses to address the fact that in reality, Shirley Jackson had four children and wrote irreverent stories on the topic when the image of the perfectly coiffed, smiling housewife was at its height.

What it might come down to is simply a disinterest in family life. Tortured artists may have always been all the rage, but seldom have they been as gloriously unhinged and female, or as capable of being understood without being excused. That “Shirley” ends with its title character's triumphant laughter and confidence that her latest book will be a smash hit says just as much about us as it does about her. It came about at much personal expense, but after all, the film posits, wasn't it all in the name of art?

52 Films By Women: Sword of Trust (2019)

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By Andrea Thompson

“Sword of Trust” is an odd little film, and sadly will now be director Lynn Shelton's last due to her unexpected death this month from a blood disorder. Calling her film small is by no means an insult, however. Much like 2007's “Waitress,” another final film from a female filmmaker whose life was tragically cut short, “Sword of Trust” quietly and firmly keeps a tight focus on its characters in a small Southern town.

Those characters veer quite sharply from the usual stereotypes who typically populate such environments, all of whom find themselves right in the middle of some of the worst topics of our national conversation, such as conspiracy theorists and our post-truth world. It also quietly offers hope from the beginning, establishing a case for the continued existence of a social contract, aka trust, between people, whether it's between Mel (Marc Maron) and a customer in a pawn shop he owns, or the fellow proprietor of another store, who casually mentions leaving it unattended.

This optimism doesn't fade, not even when married couple Cynthia and Mary (Jillian Bell and Michaela Watkins proving their chemistry in “Brittany Runs A Marathon” was no fluke) walk into his store looking to sell a sword that was left to Cynthia by her grandfather, who believed it was proof that the South won the Civil War. After some skepticism, they realize Cynthia's grandfather was by no means alone in this belief, and that the sword is worth a large amount to the right (for lack of a better term) people. Once they all realize what they're dealing with, Cynthia, Mary, Mel, and Nathaniel (Jon Bass), Mel's employee and the dimwitted comic relief, decide to work together to “take these fuckers for everything they're worth,” as Mel puts it.

Films which address such harsh truths often try to explore why people are drawn to such toxicity or outright ridiculousness, or at least explore if they can be drawn back out again. But in “Sword of Trust,” ours is not to reason why, even if reasons are present. Rather, it chooses another, relatively new way entirely of offering hope for the unpredictable world we find ourselves in, that of not focusing on the worst of us. Things don't get too serious, since “Sword of Trust” always remains a comedy first and foremost, and a damn funny one, all while allowing its foursome to talk like actual people, rather than exchanging far too intellectual and insightful barbs.

It also stays true to its optimism. Cynthia, Mary, Mel, and Nathaniel do continually choose trust, even if they shouldn't at times. Other films would most likely punish them for it, but “Sword of Trust” is more interested in rewarding those who keep their humanity in a time when it's becoming frighteningly easy not to. All four share an easy chemistry, and most importantly, an impeccable sense of timing that allows the jokes to land in a fashion perfectly suited to the low key humor in a style deeply emblematic of 90s indie meets mumblecore.

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Make no mistake though, “Sword of Trust” remains deeply embedded in our current times, and not just because it flings its characters right into the headlines of the day. There's a deep undercurrent of longing for something we've all lost, as a community, as individuals. In the case of Mel, what should've been a touching look at a lost love becomes a bittersweet elegy to the real life love story between Marc Maron and Lynn Shelton, who has a small role as Mel's lost love Deirdre. We'll never see more from Shelton, but “Sword of Trust” remains a touching tribute to an artist we lost too soon.

52 Films By Women: By the Sea (2015)

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By Andrea Thompson

“By the Sea” would be an interesting film on its own terms, if only due to the deliciously scandalous personal lives of its two leads. And what transpired shortly after its release in 2015 only thickens the plot. The film not only stars Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt as a married couple dealing with some serious issues, it was shot on Jolie and Pitt's honeymoon, with Angelina Jolie herself taking on the writing and directing duties. It was the first film the two acted in together since “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” in 2005, which sparked the beginning of a media frenzy around them after Brad Pitt left his wife Jennifer Aniston for Jolie, who gave birth to their first child in 2006.

But if it took one film to bring them together, this one seems to have driven them apart. Not only was “By the Sea” a box office bomb, making only $3.3 million of its $10 million budget back, Jolie and Pitt separated in 2016, then made it official by divorcing a few years after. Critics also almost universally panned the film, calling it a dull, plotless slog full of rich people problems in another gorgeous locale with some equally sumptuous visuals.

To be fair, there's some truth in this “By the Sea,” does have little plot to speak of, and it remains a mostly interior drama about the lives of some very wealthy people in a remote hotel in the south of France. It may take place in the 1970s, but the 60s vibes are strong with this one. Such familiarity doesn't seem to leave much of anything else to explore, but the real problem might just be how Jolie actually did succeed in subverting that familiarity in a fashion that didn't satisfy critics or audiences. Or maybe it was simply a matter of timing. “By the Sea” might have found more success if it had come out a year later, when it was once again not only finally acceptable to center a film around women's concerns, but for them to respond in a way deemed taboo for female characters: unlikably.

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Time also worked against “By the Sea” in another way. Its location and patterns may be evocative of 60s ennui, but there's little sense of a capsule meant to evoke a lost age of American optimism and prosperity. What does emerge is a beautiful fusion of modernity and timelessness. There's a dreamlike quality that springs not only from two almost impossibly beautiful, very sad people, but also their very real closeness, and the rhythms and routines they've built around each other. Familiarity hasn't bred contempt with Roland (Pitt) and Vanessa (Jolie), but there's an immediate sense that something's deeply wrong. Vanessa pulls away when Roland reaches out to her, emotionally and physically, which between that and his drinking problem has left him unable to write. At least he knows there really is no excuse for writer's block in such a breathtaking location, particularly when there's guys around like Michel (Niels Arestrup), the elderly owner of the local cafe, to muse about life and the deceased wife he still mourns and cherishes.

When Roland and Vanessa notice that a newlywed couple on their honeymoon has taken the room next to theirs, it initially appears as if they'll be the salt in their wounds. Vanessa finds her own method of coping though, like discovering she can spy on them through a hole in her wall, gazing at a happiness she clearly once experienced but now feels so far from. Her interest isn't overtly sexual at first; she's just as fascinated by the sweet nothings of their conversations as their bedroom activities, which she doesn't see until about an hour into the film.

For Roland, it's a chance to experience something with his wife again after he discovers the secret. Soon they begin to engage in a perverse kind of dance with their young counterparts by going on various public outings together, then eagerly spying to see how they react in private. Bizarrely, it seems to work for a time, with Roland and Vanessa becoming intimate again themselves, emotionally and physically. Their problems, however, are not going to be solved so easily, as Roland quickly realizes. He may be another struggling writer, but he's still a perceptive man who's mostly correct about his wife's flaws. In many ways, Vanessa does want to resist the possibility of happiness and play the victim, and lash out at their counterparts simply because she wants to punish people who can achieve what she cannot.

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Vanessa's repression and her very real oppression is also far more complicated than it first appears. Her husband's writing career may be floundering, but he still has the opportunity to continue. Vanessa, not so much. She was an exquisite dancer, but she aged out of a profession that probably disposes of women even quicker than the film industry. It's left Vanessa floundering, not just due to the abrupt end of her career despite her talents. She's also literally unable to produce new life in the next stage of her own, just as she finds herself so much more vulnerable. Being denied motherhood can be a devastating crux in itself, but what Vanessa is truly struggling with is the loss of her ability to create on every front.

Given this context, it's understandable why Vanessa is defined as much by her anger as her sadness. True, she may dramatically stay out in the rain, only to return home and tell her husband, “Now my outsides match my insides,” but the rage she's repressing and denying is an equally defining force. Complexity and unlikability in a female character can be a heavy burden for a film, but Roland does his share of damage to the concept of masculinity too. He's not the flamboyant, flailing writer who has to be reined in by his sadly understanding wife, he's the more moral of the two, quickly realizing that they should stop the sick game they're playing and just “stop being such assholes” in general.

Easy categorization, in other words, isn't something that can be applied to either of them. Neither a dreamboat nor a doormat, Roland is very aware of his wife's flaws and the reasoning behind her actions. It simply doesn't keep him from loving her, despite everything. It's a setup that doesn't lend itself to easy moral conclusions, and sure enough, “By the Sea” keeps them to a minimum. That these two deserve each other by the end is clear enough, but it's truly for better and for worse.

52 Films By Women: My Brilliant Career (1979)

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By Andrea Thompson

Some people just seem to be born dreamers, practically bursting out of the womb with not just plans, but the grit and determination to see them through. How else to explain Sybylla (Judy Davis) in “My Brilliant Career,” who has such remarkable self-possession, skill, and confidence, that anything less than a long, and yes, brilliant career that fulfills her writing ambitions feels like a tragedy?

Gillian Armstrong's most famous film will probably remain her 1994 version of “Little Women,” but her 1979 feature debut “My Brilliant Career” remains my personal favorite. Not only is it beautifully directed, capturing the unique beauty and lushness of 1897 rural Australia, Judy Davis is such a compellingly charismatic force of nature as she immerses herself into this role with relish, it seems entirely beside the point that she's clearly another adult playing a teenager.

Nevermind. Judy Davis does such justice to Sybylla, who has a complexity I've rarely seen in female characters. Or in male ones, for that matter, but it is especially noteworthy how well Sybylla avoids so many of the traps this type of character falls into, most of which are very gendered. She feels quite familiar at first, dreaming of a life in the world of the arts, the odd one out in her impoverished family's shanty in the middle of an Australian wilderness so bleak its name is Possum Gully. In spite of her passion, Sybylla feels helpless to change her situation, since her time is mostly spent working and sleeping. Then there's the complication of her mother wanting to get her a position as a servant, since they can no longer afford to keep her at home.

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It's a situation which speaks volumes about how so many voices, even those as vibrant and passionate as Sybylla's, are silenced. Such a fate could've easily befallen her had her wealthy grandmother not intervened and invited her to her luxurious home in a verdant countryside that is the antithesis of her family's drought-afflicted farm. Such a setting, which isn't just full of material comforts, but the freedom from harsh, neverending labor, to have time to discover herself.

Such freedom to think isn't always comfortable, and the beautiful thing about “My Brilliant Career” is how it reveals Sybylla's insecurities as well as her strengths. She may always have a laugh and a quip ready when people casually and constantly remark on not just her lack of beauty, but how much it falls short when compared to her aunts and her mother, but it's something she grapples with, at one point breaking down in tears. Davis is not another glamorous actress dressing down, and Sybylla is not conventionally beautiful, with her wild hair and freckles. Her attraction, however, is undeniable, no less so because of her intelligence, wit, and charm, much of which is a direct result of her uniqueness and disinterest in many social niceties and conventions.

But unlike other films about nonconformist women, Sybylla's free spirit and general tomboyishness doesn't mean she's uninterested in some aspects of traditional femininity. She willingly, freely partakes in various beauty routines, and enjoys the far larger selection of elegant dresses and accessories at her disposal. And in spite of her commitment to remain unmarried and become a famous writer, she also becomes genuinely conflicted about Harry Beecham, a wealthy young man who falls in love with her and proposes to her, and who is played by a very young and dreamy Sam Neill. Their courtship is as complicated as Sybylla herself, who is flirtatious, mercurial, innocent, and passionate, and she leads him on as much as she keeps him at arm's length.

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Sybylla’s family is all eager for her to accept him, and while Sybylla may be ahead of her time, she is not allowed to believe that she's the first to have such reservations about marriage, with her relatives warning her that loneliness will be the price of her independence, and that her dream could very well remain a dream. Practically every free-spirited, independent-minded young woman is warned of the danger of refusing marriage proposals from wealthy men, but Sybylla experiences the consequences of her refusal far more than other cinematic heroines such as Jo March, whom Sybylla most resembles. Jo at least had a warm and loving family to provide support and a safe home to return to, but Sybylla has no such luxury. If she needed a reminder, she gets quite a painful one after she's forced to work off her father's debt by becoming a governess to the children of a family that makes her own look like the Kardashians.

Sybylla's decision to reject Harry again, even after this brutal experience, is far more admirable, and quite similar to Jo March's decision to refuse Laurie's proposal. “I'm so near loving you,” Sybylla tells Harry. “But I'd destroy you. And I can't do that.” Much like Jo, Sybylla knows she has no place in the life her suitor is offering, and that they'd both end up regretting it. The 2020 adaptation by Greta Gerwig knew this, and chose to portray Jo and her book as the true love story.

I'm not the only one to notice the similarities, and Gerwig's vision received high praise from Armstrong herself. But “My Brilliant Career” is able to take it further. For Armstrong, leaving off with Sybylla right back where she started isn't a step back, it's acknowledging that Sybylla has begun to find herself as an artist to be able see a way out on her own terms, and mail out the book that inspired the film itself to a publisher. As she sends it off with a kiss, it's with the knowledge (both ours and hers) that her true romance has just begun.

52 Films By Women: Circus of Books (2019)

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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.

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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.

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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.

52 Films By Women: Lady Bird (2017)

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By Andrea Thompson

When Greta Gerwig’s masterpiece “Lady Bird” came out in 2017, it was lavished with much-deserved critical praise, and some record-breaking commercial success, given that it had the highest grossing limited theatrical release by a female director. It also inspired a highly contentious debate, one that seemed entirely beside the point, and often had misogynistic over and undertones. Was the film’s central relationship, that of between the title character played by Saoirse Ronan, and her mother Marion (Laurie Metcalf) abusive? Or more accurately, was Marion an abusive parent?

I suppose when you have a mother who is as imperfect, and yes, at times outright cruel to her daughter, such conclusions can hardly be avoided. Why did I call it beside the point? Because Gerwig captures each character, be they front and center or supporting, with such nuance and precision, that it doesn’t really matter. No one achieves that magical, wholly impossible state where they become so perfect they’re worth rooting for at all times. 

That includes Lady Bird, or Christine, a student at a Catholic high school in Sacramento, California, in 2002. Lady Bird feels stifled by her surroundings, referring to her hometown as “the Midwest of California,” longing to escape to college on the East Coast, specifically to New York City, that mecca of all who are even slightly artistically inclined, or just ambitious in general. It’s a move her mother vehemently opposes due to financial concerns.

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Nevertheless, Marion and Lady Bird’s bond is very real, strong, and complicated like many mother-daughter bonds tend to be. Marion may belittle her daughter when she doesn’t do simple things like put her clothes away, shame her for being unaware of her father’s depression, and constantly accuse her of being ungrateful, but the painful beauty of the film is that it’s understandable, albeit more so from our safe distance. Marion has endured the stress of a childhood which included an abusive alcoholic mother, and an adulthood where her financial situation remains tenuous, partly due to her husband’s mental health, and eventually, his job loss. Then there’s the money she shells out for the Catholic school Lady Bird finds so suffocating.

None of this excuses Marion’s behavior, which includes refusing to speak to her daughter after she discovers she’s planning on attending college in New York, despite Lady Bird’s tearful pleas and apologies, but it does make her human, and thus, forgivable. To paraphrase Cheryl Strayed, it’s a view of a relationship that’s “happy, humane, and occasionally all fucked up,” with an emphasis on the latter component. Most films refuse to acknowledge the role money has in shaping a person’s life and mindset, but the family’s class status dominates their decisions and how they interact with each other and the world.

In her influential essay A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf described how her mindset drastically changed after she inherited a substantial amount of money. Before, she had taken whatever odd jobs, writing or otherwise, that were available to her. It was a life of “fear and bitterness,” consisting of work that was hard yet difficult to live on, and always feeling the need to flatter because it seemed so necessary. Getting her own money, an amount that was enough to provide food and shelter, changed everything. She had everything she needed and always would. “Therefore not merely do effort and labour cease, but also hatred and bitterness,” Woolf wrote. “I need not hate any man; he cannot hurt me.” Very few women will experience such a reversal of fortune, and it’s the rare person who can maintain a mental equilibrium in the face of such constant pressures, which include the continual erosion of the social and economic safety net.

At least we are reassured that Marion’s sacrifices will eventually pay off, even if it isn’t explicitly stated. This movie is at least somewhat autobiographical, and while Lady Bird heads off to college in NYC, but it’s clear the naive teenager still has a lot to learn. She’s willing to learn it though, and her bond with her mother will remain strong, if only because distance is generally the first step in children actually being able to not only get along with parents, but see them as human.