The MacGuffin

As the tagline says: Aura would like you to know that she’s having a very, very hard time. The main character of the indie comedy Tiny Furniture (2010)—played by writer-director Lena Dunham—has just graduated college with a major in film theory, moved back in with her mother and teenage sister, and seems to have no idea what to do with herself. There are worse places to have no idea what to do with yourself than your mother’s incredible New York City loft, but I can still relate to Aura’s ennui. I graduated college with a major in English, moved back in with my mother (not in an incredible New York City loft) and proceeded to spend a year working about 15 hours a week at my old summer job, sending my resume out to a lot of people who preferred not to ever respond, and watching all seven seasons of Gilmore Girls holed up in my tiny bedroom. It can be a rough time.

Where the pathetic numbers in big budget Hollywood are stagnant at best concerning female filmmakers, women in indie film continue to prove that it is the system, not a lack of ability, that keeps women from these positions of creative power. It is, of course, doubly satisfying to watch a woman of color make this point, since Hollywood’s problem with women has a partner in its problem with minority filmmakers. We got to see one of these moments on January 28, 2012, when Ava DuVernay won the U.S. Dramatic Directing Award at the Sundance Film Festival for her film Middle of Nowhere, the story of a woman dealing with life while her husband is in prison. DuVernay was the first black woman to win this prestigious prize at the festival.

It’s often much more difficult to evaluate a screenwriter’s career than that of a director or an actor. Sure, movies are always collaborative—the actor hopes the director and editor choose good takes, the director hopes the producer doesn’t insist on modifying their vision, etc, etc—but the screenwriter is often the one who has done the most to begin shaping the film, and has the least control over what their contribution ends up looking like. Most screenwriters end up less known to the public than their directing counterparts; it is also uniquely possible to make a living at screenwriting and never see any of your sold scripts actually hit the screen.

For a period of time in the mid-to-late 1980s, first-time documentarian Jennie Livingston took her camera into the world of New York City’s “ball” scene, a phenomenon amongst minorities in the gay community of that area and time. Many participants competed in the raucous events; with a form modeled on fashion shows, they allowed just about anyone to show off their look in a number of different, often highly creative, categories. It feels hard to explain; seeing it in action is the best way to understand the process and significance of the events. Though one participant sums up the value as “I went to a ball, I got a trophy, and now everyone wants to know me,” something much deeper than that was also happening. Livingston’s film captures some of a fascinating moment in social history.

I’ve written in this space about Claire Denis before, discussing the remarkable film White Material (2009). Just from that one film, I knew that she could be classified as a master of creating tension. I’ve wanted to go back and watch more of her work, and recently sat down with perhaps the odd film out on her resume, an entry in horror: 2001′s Trouble Every Day. Though it differs from the types of dramas she’s best known for, I was eager to see what her skill could create in a genre film. And, of course, I am always enthusiastic about exploring horror made by women. But after watching, I almost chose not to write about it.

Among the rules of life if you are a character in a movie is: always be nice to the office freak. This person is about 5000% more likely than other characters to either go on a killing spree or become incredibly successful, by my scientific estimation. Either way, you want to be on their good side. I’m pretty sure the title of Cindy Sherman’s 1997 horror comedy gives away which situation we’re in this time.

One of my favorite things about writing this column is the motivation it gives me to poke around the depths of Netflix’s streaming catalogue, searching for women-directed films I may not have heard of, that I can check out instantly from the comfort of my couch (I would also search for women-written films, but Netflix hasn’t quite figured out that people might want to know who wrote a film). This was how I stumbled upon Entre Nos (2009), co-written and co-directed by Gloria La Morte and Paola Mendoza, a worthy indie film that tells one story in the vast picture of immigration in the United States.

If there’s one thing I hope I’ve done with this column so far, it’s show that though the overall percentages may be very skewed toward male filmmakers, there are many, many interesting projects out there being made by women. The numbers are getting better all the time, too—for this list of my five anticipated projects, I really had a hard time narrowing things down. Creating excitement and buzz for these films before they’re released is almost as important as seeing them when they are, so if I can contribute to that just a little bit, I’ll be a happier person.

Dear Ms. Marshall,

Charm is a very hard thing to achieve. Charm is borderline undefinable, yet when someone is reaching for it and not getting there, everyone can tell, and the result is awkward and painful. As I write this, I’m watching, probably for the fiftieth time, your wonderful film Big (1988). Not only does the film itself exude charm, its very storyline relies on it. We have to understand how Elizabeth Perkins’s character, Susan, can’t help but be drawn to Tom Hanks’s Josh, both despite and because of his 13-year-old boy behavior. His sincerity is crucial, and the rest of the film has to balance around that. Tom Hanks’s brilliant performance would have been wasted without the sure mood that surrounds it. That came from you. The combination makes for a film that charms completely, and is one of the few films to come out of the 80s to feel somehow timeless.

In desperate need of something to cheer me up after an awful day, and also in desperate need of something to write about for this column this week, yesterday I marched to the video store with one mission: get . This was actually a bit of a gamble, because I hadn’t seen the movie in a good dozen years, and didn’t remember much beyond the most quoted bits. Would it hold up at all? Would it be the light, warm, funny rumination on male friendship I thought I recalled, or just a series of dated, silly gags? The suspense! My entire will to live was essentially resting on a comedy based on a Saturday Night Live sketch, made 19 years ago.