Seattle’s Aurora Avenue is infamous for being an epicenter of prostitution. However, this generalized reputation fails to recognize the individuality and humanity of the sex workers who inhabit the area. This issue is a microcosm of the general ambivalence and disdain with which American society treats vulnerable communities.
“Sweetheart Deal,” directed by Elisa Levine and Gabriel Miller, gives faces, names, and stories to four of these sex workers: Krista, a slight, sweet artist and food lover; Sara, an introverted, determined mother of two, who estranged from her children, is fighting her way back to them; Tammy, a headstrong, reliable friend who supports her parents with her sex work; and Kristine, a sardonically funny welder pushing her way back to a life not motivated by sheer necessity.
Each of them, battling addiction and life on the streets, find community with each other and the open-door policy of Laughn “Elliott” Doescher, a local man deemed the “Mayor of Aurora,” for his reputation as a safe space for sex workers. He offers them a place of refuge in his curbside trailer, whether it’s sleep, food, space to detox, or a friendly face that they’re in need of.
The film inserts us into the group, allowing us to witness the dynamics of these women and the caregiver who provides empathy and reliance to a community so often thrown to the wayside. So when a shocking betrayal comes to light, as the women find their worlds rocked and themselves devastated, we too feel our hearts fall into our stomachs. “This is one of the most vulgar ironies I could possibly conceive of,” says Kristine.
“Sweetheart Deal” excellently inserts you into the world of these women, portraying not by the rubric of monolithic stereotypes with which sex work and addicts are perceived, but with full humanity, empathy, and even humor. We are beside them during emotional testimonies of both their pasts and future ambitions. The film is profoundly intimate. Levine and Miller introduce us to Elliott the way that he is known at the time. As we come to love each of these women and root for them like sisters and friends, we start to feel grateful that they have him.
We are across from them in the booth at the Mexican restaurant where he takes Tammy to celebrate her birthday. We are in bed with him and Sara, as he turns on “The Sherlock Holmes” series to help lull her to sleep during a comedown. We are in the trailer with him and Krista while he helps find and report the man who attacked her. We are on the couch with him and Kristine, while they laugh and joke with each other as he expresses his concern with her drug usage. And always, we watch them depart in the mornings with loving hugs and pecks. We are with them through just about everything. This is the film’s empathetic feat, as beside them, we also feel the acute gut punch of their monstrous discovery.
“Sweetheart Deal” is a human tale at its core. The making of the film is reminiscent of artists like Nan Goldin, who lived among the communities she photographed, becoming a part of them. Levine and Miller’s film take us as plus-ones to the trailer, to the motels, and to the streets of Aurora Avenue. Neon signage and sidewalks become characters in this landscape, a portrait of a “fringe” community deserving of eyes, care, and attention.
The story of “Sweetheart Deal” isn’t addiction, prostitution, or the subversion of Elliott Doescher. The film is a series of portraits of Krista, Sara, Tammy, and Kristine, holding the knowledge that they are each individual women, but a microcosm of a community wracked by misogyny, neglect, and apathy. “Sweetheart Deal” is a call to action: a rallying cry for care and a demand to open your eyes to society’s blind spots and acknowledge the humans who live within their generalized populus.
Abramorama will release the film in theaters beginning on September 13, 2024, opening first in New York at the Village East Cinema by Angelika.
