Women in the director's chair

After Helen Mirren's comments at the Empire Jameson Awards, what does the future hold for women in the movie business?

In the 84 years since the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences began its annual award bonanza, only 4 of over 400 Best Director nominations have been women. Could there be change on the horizon? And, if so, what does it mean for modern leading ladies?                              

On Sunday night at the Empire Jameson Awards, Dame Helen Mirren expressed her disdain for the massively disproportionate representation of female talent in the film industry, following an acceptance speech by Skyfall director Sam Mendes in which he cited male influences such as Martin Scorsese and Paul Thomas Anderson.   

"I just hope, I pray, I know that in five or ten years’ time, when the next Sam gets up and makes his or hopefully her speech, there will be two or three or four women's names in there."

As female directors have slowly begun to be allowed passage into the commercial and critical pantheons that bloom in awards season, some thought must be given to the ultimate effect this will have on the portrayal of women on-screen. It is a commonplace stereotype that harks back to the archetypal characters of Carl Denham and Ann Darrow in the original King Kong: a headstrong, macho filmmaker takes a vulnerable but beautiful actress under his wing with the promise of a better life, instead leading her to a land of monsters.

This scenario is one that has played out time and again in the real world: from Tippi Hedren’s rejection of Alfred Hitchcock’s alleged sexual advances, to the highly publicised affair between Kristen Stewart and her director Rupert Sanders, a man twice her age, much to the chagrin of tweeny-boppers everywhere.

But with the emergence of new female directing talent, could these roles be tranformed?

The tabloids revelled in the emergence of a romantic relationship between Sam Taylor-Wood, director of the John Lennon biopic Nowhere Boy, and her "toyboy" leading man Aaron Johnson. The two began dating following their work together on the film, a piece which focused primarily on Lennon’s childhood experiences with his mother and aunt. Significantly, Nowhere Boy leaves the all-boy antics of founding the biggest rock’n’roll group of all time as a meagre bookend, focusing almost exclusively on the maternal influence these women had on his life and work. Could this be the first step away from the overplayed damsel, moving towards a postmodern "dude-in-distress"?

Although Kathryn Bigelow was overlooked for this year’s Best Director award for Zero Dark Thirty, it was her success with The Hurt Locker in 2010 that saw her crowned the first woman to win the award. Hopefully it won’t be too long before this injustice is accordingly levelled out.

Lynne Ramsay is another female director, hailing from Glasgow, who has drawn her fair share of both acclaim and attacks. Her feature film We Need To Talk About Kevin, the story of a mother dealing with the aftershock of her psychopathic son’s violent attacks in a local high school, was met with universal acclaim. Ramsay hit the headlines recently after refusing to turn up to the first day of shooting on Jane Got a Gun, reportedly due to budgetary and script issues. One of the film’s producers, Scott Steindorff, described her departure as "insane" and "irresponsible", yet when leading man Jude Law dropped out just a few days later, no such statements were made. Could this be a knee-jerk reaction to a woman getting out of line?

According to industry insider Women Make Movies, women comprise just 18 per cent of all directors, producers, writers, cinematographers and editors working on the top 250 grossing films of the day. After Mirren’s comments, maybe studios will consider taking greater risks on female talent, as they should.

Kathryn Bigelow at the Academy Awards in 2010. Photo: Getty Images.
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Netflix's Ozark is overstuffed – not to mention tonally weird

Could the channel use a hit? Every time my subscription leaves my bank account, I think again that it could.

The main reason why Ozark, the new Netflix series, feels so underpowered has to do with its star, Jason Bateman (who also directs): a good actor who badly wants for charisma, he simply can’t carry it alone. Watching the first few episodes, I kept thinking of Jon Hamm in Mad Men and (a better example here) Bryan Cranston in Breaking Bad, both of whom played, as does Bateman, characters around which the plots of their respective series turned. When they were on screen, which was often, it was all but impossible to tear your eyes from them; when they were off it, you felt like you were only biding your time until they returned. But when Bateman disappears from view, you hardly notice. In fact, it feels like a plus: at least now you might get to see a bit more of the deft and adorable Laura Linney.

In Ozark, Bateman is Marty, an outwardly square guy whose big secret is that he is a money launderer for the second biggest drugs cartel in Mexico. When the series opens, he and his wife Wendy (Linney) and their two children are living in Chicago, where he nominally works as a financial advisor.

By the end of the first episode, however, they’re on their way to the Lake of the Ozarks in rural Missouri. Marty’s partner, Bruce, has been on the fiddle, and the cartel, having summarily executed him, now wants Marty both to pay back the cash, and to establish a few new businesses in which future income may be cleaned far from the prying eyes of the law enforcement agencies. If this sounds derivative, it is. We’re in the realm of Breaking Bad, only where that show gave us out-of-control Bunsen burners and flesh-eating chemicals, this one is more preoccupied with percentages and margins.

Where’s the friction? Well, not only is the FBI on Marty’s tail, his wife has been cheating on him, with the result that their marriage is now just another of his business arrangements. The locals (think Trump supporters with beards as big as pine trees) have proved thus far to be on the unfriendly side, and having paid off their debts, the only house Marty can afford has a cliché – sorry, crotchety old guy – living in the basement. On paper, admittedly, this all sounds moderately promising. But hilarity does not ensue. As dull as the Lake of the Ozarks when the tourist season is over, not even Linney can make Bill Dubuque’s dialogue come alive. Her character should be traumatised: before they left Chicago, the cartel, for reasons I do not completely understand, pushed her podgy lover – splat! – off his balcony. Instead, she’s fussing about the crotchety old guy’s sexism.

Ozark is overstuffed and tonally weird, so I won’t be binge-watching this one. This completes rather a bad run for me and Netflix; after the lame new series of House of Cards and the egregious Gypsy, this is the third of its shows on the trot to bore me rigid. Could the channel use a hit? Every time my subscription leaves my bank account, I think again that it could.

And now to The Sweet Makers: A Tudor Treat (19 July, 8pm), in which we hear the sound of the “living history” barrel being scraped so loudly, those attending the meeting at which it was commissioned must surely have worn ear defenders. Basically, this is a series in which four confectioners “go back in time” to discover how their forebears used sugar (first, the Tudors; next week, the Georgians).

What it means in practice is lots of Generation Game-style faffing with candied roses and coriander comfits by people in long skirts and silly hats – a hey-nonny-nonny fiesta of pointlessness that is itself a sugar coating for those nasty things called facts (ie a bit of tokenism about slavery and our ancestors’ trouble with their teeth).

Resident expert, food historian Dr Annie Gray, strained to give the proceedings urgency, sternly reminding the confectioners that the sugar house they’d spent hours building did not yet have a roof. But who cared if it didn’t? Destined to be eaten by fake Tudor guests at a fake Tudor banquet, it wasn’t as if anyone was going to lose their head for it – not even, alas, at Broadcasting House. 

Rachel Cooke trained as a reporter on The Sunday Times. She is now a writer at The Observer. In the 2006 British Press Awards, she was named Interviewer of the Year.

This article first appeared in the 20 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The new world disorder

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