For many women, sexual discovery is a kind of reckoning. It comes in waves. Answering the question of “what was your first sexual experience?” can be immensely complex when bearing witness can be as impactful as direct participation. Having to brace against sexualization, consent, and confusion often occurs long before we’ve taken an active role in sex itself. The films that compose this dispatch examine these lessons in sexual politics and survey the imposition of coming of age.
One of this year’s most harrowing Sundance films was Beth de Araujo’s “Josephine.” When eight year old Josephine (Mason Reeves) goes on a run with her father, Damien (Channing Tatum), in Golden Gate Park, when he stops to catch his breath, she runs ahead. In the few moments she’s out of sight, she takes a wrong turn. She’s only alone for minutes, but in that time, she witnesses the beating and rape of a lone jogger (Syra McCarthy). It’s a horrifying long take that plays out in real time as Josephine hides behind a tree.
Damien arrives just as the man (Phillip Ettinger) dresses himself and takes off. He takes swift action, chasing the man down and phoning the police. Caught and apprehended within minutes (about as long as the attack took place), there’s only a beat’s worth of relief, for we know that the fallout has only just begun. For one, Josephine was the only witness to the crime, making her instrumental in the state’s prosecution.
“Josephine” unfolds completely from its titular character’s point of view, making the plundering of her innocence all the more poignant. Her first instinct is to react with confusion and curiosity. She barely understands what sex is, let alone rape. But as the seriousness sets in, so does the fear. She’s haunted by visions of the man everywhere she goes, and she begins acting out.
Reeves is compelling as the young protagonist, managing the gravity of Araujo’s unflinching screenplay with a tactile vulnerability that rivals the stress levels crafted throughout the whole film. Watching her wrestle with Josephine’s frustration, fear, and desperation is painful, the grounding realism of it all aches with empathy for the child. Meanwhile, we also adopt the desperate cluelessness of her parents, including her mother, Claire (Gemma Chan), who not only as a protector, but also as a woman, is reeling. How do you explain this to a child, let alone help them heal?
Damien insists on self defense classes and prompts Josephine to pursue justice: to testify in court and work with the police. Claire wants to sever her from any further engagement with the attack and instead focus on having her meet with a psychologist. Both parents’ point of views make sense, but the struggle here is another layer of consent: as an eight year old, how can she be informed enough to make her own choice? What can’t be unseen is now an enormous consequence, with innocence stripped bare either way. Araujo’s film is a giant interrogation, profoundly dissecting the clumsy motivation inherent to healing.
Another film with a titular character, Olive Nwosu’s “LADY” has similar themes, though it lets them run in the undercurrents of its sprawling portrait of Lagos, Nigeria. Lady (Jessica Gabriel’s Ujah) is a wide-eyed (more intense than doe-ish) cab driver who has a resentment towards the patriarchal culture of the metropolis where she resides. It’s a man’s world, both the city and her profession. And though her car provides a level of economic freedom for her, she still feels stuck.
Disturbed by visions of a traumatic childhood event (the apparent sexual assault of her mother), Lady desires a future in Freetown, Sierra Leone (perhaps motivated in part by the promise of its name). The only thing in her way are the funds needed, which leads her to accept a job, however begrudgingly, that picks at her comfort, history, and facade. It’s thanks to Pinky (Amanda Oruh), a long lost friend, now a sex worker, who pops up with a proposition: drive her and her cohort around to different parties and jobs in exchange for a nightly lump sum. She agrees, but the women’s sexual freedom (which she views as willing subjugation) nags at long buried memories and emotions.
Nwosu’s portrait of Lagos is painted two ways: the arid, claustrophobic daytime and the vibrant, precarious night. Alana Mejia Gonzalez’s cinematography captures the city beautifully, giving complete life to the metropolis in all of its dichotomies. And as Lady traverses these spaces, she does so with a steadfast yet cautionary pride. Ujah’s performance is immersive. She holds herself with a masculine, rough guardedness that she uses for protection, along with a high-falutin judgmental eye, her believed moral high ground a shield from vulnerability. But in the moments where she allows it all to dissipate, she fades into a tender softness that’s palpable and empathetic.
The sisterhood Lady finds with the sex workers is volatile: they provide closeness and feminine support but they also unearth her repressed shame and fear, which she then projects onto them. Lagos itself is under equally disparate circumstances, the oil rich city is placing sanctions on fuel for its citizens. This constant push-pull mechanism of Nwosu’s film incites tension and paves the way for its characters to insist on breaking through it.
“LADY” succeeds best when it inserts us into Lady’s point of view – when we witness indulgence, debauchery, desperation, joy, and connection through her eyes. As a political picture of Lagos, it can be disjointed, losing focus in the venture of making a point. The turn to a conclusion comes a bit too quick, but both the gut-punch and lithe definition of redemption it proposes are complementary with Nwosu’s vision. This film is indicative of a filmmaker with a pointed, clear-eyed perspective, as well as an excellent capture of the limber complexities of womanhood.
Paloma Schneideman’s “Big Girls Don’t Cry” puts the volatility of teendom at the fore, primarily the role of discovery as both an ideal and a personal hell. As it pertains to adolescents seeking sexual relationships as a ticked box towards womanhood, the film recalls the same tender but uneasy traipse through sexual learning as Molly Manning Walker’s “How to Have Sex.” This film takes place in 2006, centering on Sid (Ani Palmer), an angsty, adrift 14 year old as she grapples with sexuality and self discovery over the course of a scorching summer in rural New Zealand.
Like most teen girls, Sid is willing to try on different masks to ascend the social ladder (as well as try to stumble closer to adulthood). These facades can be unnerving, like when she pretends to be 18 on an online video chat with a predacious older man, and relatable, as she tries on a nonchalant, rebellious disposition to get closer to the popular girls, piercing her own belly button in the process. She’s also navigating, to her waxing and waning awareness, her own queerness.
In a charming, laughable sequence, she masturbates to a poster of rapper Chingy, but her eyes drift from the muscled rapper and over to the bikini-clad model that stands over his shoulder. Schneideman’s writing of Sid wonderfully circumvents the obvious for the implied. Sid will do anything to become proximal to “cool girl” Lana (Beatrix Wolfe) and her older sister’s college friend, Freya (Rain Spencer). At first, it feels like a social-climbing endeavor, but really, it’s affection and desire.
For the sake of this closeness, Sid starts smoking weed, hanging out with older boys, drinking, and pushing away her flippant father (Noah Taylor) and best friend, Tia (Ngataitangirua Hita). Palmer’s performance is touching and vulnerable, conveying a sense of lostness and yearning through her eyes. We at times want to shield ourselves from her cringe-worthy endeavors, and at others, we want to wrap her in a comforting, protective hug.
As Schneideman puts it best, “[Sid] wants to be seen as an adult, but needs to be loved like a child.” It’s a profound diagnosis of which many can relate, and the film handles the power of sexual exploration with the care, anxiety, and terror integral to it. “Big Girls Don’t Cry” is utterly relatable, recalling memories of the capricious wiles of coming of age. It prompts nostalgia (for the high feelings and the low), empathy, and recognition of the growing pains that time heals but does not forget.
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