The divide, Hollywood style

Two movies about women. Two vastly different views of female power. Two contrasting directorial approaches. Roma and The Favourite both landed 10 Academy Award nominations this year, splitting the top honors. Both are impressive contenders and showcase a range of what cinema has to offer. Though it’s hard not to see the conflicting stories they tell when it comes to their portrayal of women.

The Favourite seems the perfect film for the Trump era. What’s not to like about a black comedy these days? This film delivers imperialistic intrigue, palatial settings, and triumphantly big hair. The story centers on England’s Queen Anne (Olivia Coleman) and two cousins who compete for her attentions: the queen’s close friend and ally Lady Sarah (Rachel Weisz) and the ambitious servant Abigail (Emma Stone).  

Plagued by gout and given to uneven psychological outbursts, Queen Anne isn’t able to focus on the needs of her country and its people, leaving her vulnerable to the wiles of those around her who are only too happy to help. The queen searches for distractions from her pain through sexual trysts with Lady Sarah and Abigail, but her hunger for love and comfort can never quite be satiated. Weisz’s and Stone’s characters smell opportunity and go in for the kill. They pursue personal and political power with an anything-goes vengeance that includes shooting at, slapping, or psychologically tormenting each other in an effort to be the queen’s favorite.

There is so much clichéd catfighting in this film that it’s not worth calling out. No female nurturing of any kind is allowed, unless you count the bunny snuggling. The film practically shouts, “Women must be men and beat them at their own game to be powerful!” It’s not a flattering portrayal of strong women. With the possible exception of Queen Anne, a bereft monarch who seems refreshingly innocent when compared with the barracudas around her.

The Favourite is certainly beautiful to look at and the acting, particularly of Colman, is duly lauded. The opulent set and costumes offer delicious cinematic porn. Director Yorgos Lanthimos (The Lobster) upends expectations with a combination of glee and distaste at nearly every turn (“Look at me! Don’t look at me!”). Even the trailer, which hints at satire, misleads those who enter the theater looking for a lively costume drama.

Some find The Favourite to be a delicious and witty romp. Others see it as a uniquely female saga depicting fierce women doing whatever they must to survive in a male-dominated world. For me, it was just sort of vile and uncomfortable. And not all that funny. Maybe in part because, no one, including the queen, seemed terribly concerned about what was best for the country. These characters only cared about their own self interests. The film left me longing for a kinder and more authentic view of womens’ relationships.

And that’s just what we get in Roma. The film opens as the protagonist, Cleo, a live-in maid in Mexico City, mops the outer entryway of her employer’s home to clean up dog poop. We see a reflection in the soapy water puddles she leaves behind of an airplane passing overhead in the skies above the rooftops. We know right then that Cleo’s life may seem small by other peoples’ standards, yet she holds the keys to a rich world in her calloused hands.

Tonally, Roma is everything The Favourite is not. Filmmaker Alfonso Cuarón’s black-and-white footage and slow-moving sequences of sparse dialogue give it a personal, naturalistic feel. The tenderness of Cleo’s character and her empathetic human relationships are conveyed effortlessly as she tucks the children into bed each night or cuddles with them as they watch television with the entire family in their living room.

At its core Roma is a story about female relationships, specifically between an employer and an employee. The ties that bind Cleo with the matriarch of the family become a central storyline. These women love each other, which doesn’t mean they don’t snap at each other occasionally. But there’s no back-stabbing vitriol in the face of life’s biggest challenges (divorce, death, political strife). When these women face difficult crossroads, they turn to each other and find respect, caring, and support.

Cuarón’s long, languid shots invite you to pay attention to life’s simpler moments: clothes drying outside on a line with water dripping from them, the skyline of the neighborhood’s uneven rooftops, the gossip between the domestic help in the kitchen while washing dishes. The artifacts of an everyday life, too often overlooked but essential to survival.

In Roma we bear witness to the intensely challenging moments too—the ones that befall us and we’re forced to face. This is unlike the characters in The Favourite who spend as much time manufacturing their drama as reacting to their circumstances. Cuarón’s honesty is in his willingness not to flinch at the hard stuff—staying seconds too long on a young woman screaming in anguish as she cradles a dying man who’d been shot in the streets, or lingering on a shot in which a mother and her stillborn baby lie on parallel hospital beds.

Like Abigail in The Favourite, Cleo does what she can to survive. To survive in her world, Cleo trades in the only currency she has to offer: kindness. This is in stark relief to the characters in The Favourite who’ve forgotten how to barter humanely. It’s not clear they ever would.

As for women’s empowerment, much has been made about The Favourite’s screenplay having been co-written by a female, Deborah Davis, who is a favorite to take home an Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay along with Tony McNamara. Instead of bringing deep complexity and richness to womens’ characters, these writers trotted out old tropes and masked them in a quirky tale with witty repartee. Hardly groundbreaking for women writers. In particular, how are we to reconcile female characters who use sexual favors to advance their power and influence in light of the #MeToo movement?

Oh, but these are just movies, right? In our entertainment-obsessed country where the real media is often viewed as fake news, I’m not so sure. I think movies may matter more than ever.

I know both films can be enjoyed for what they are. If you like provocative filmmaking that makes you stand up and take notice of malevolent actions and people you don’t want to be near, The Favourite is the film for you. Maybe it’s a necessary reminder of how power is misused and the lengths people will employ to keep it. 

Or you can hang out with Cleo for a few hours and immerse yourself in kindness.

Why John McCain’s loss feels personal

I can’t quite put my finger on why I’ll miss Senator John McCain so much. I seem to have this feeling that I knew the man, which of course I didn’t. What made him seem so familiar and special? I suppose it has something to do with the personal attachment to presidential candidates that we feel here in New Hampshire during primary season.

I always made a point to see McCain when he was in my hometown of Peterborough. The first time was at an ice cream social in the summer of 1999, early in the run up to the 2000 primary. A small crowd of about 30 people partially filled a meeting room in the 100-year-old brick Town House. My husband and I brought our nine-year-old daughter to see grass-roots politics in action, basically bribing her with ice cream.

McCain, along with his Straight Talk Express bus, was about to become the darling of that New Hampshire primary, which he won by 17 points defeating George W. Bush. But on that day, you wouldn’t know it. He gave a short, no-frills stump speech in the basement of the Town House and then opened the floor to discussion.

When he asked for questions, my nine-year-old’s hand shot up as if she were vying to be chosen for an elite kickball team. I pressed lightly on her outstretched arm to push it back down. I figured that talking to Senator McCain was serious business for the adults in the room. Besides, I had no idea what was about to come out of my kid’s mouth. McCain took notice (it was hard not to), nodded his head in my daughter’s direction, grinned, and said, “Yes, young lady, what is your question?”

She framed it succinctly without hesitation, “There are too many kids smoking at my school. What are you going to do about it?”

McCain seemed to take great pleasure in that moment. I’m guessing it had something to do with our daughter’s spunk. But no doubt he was also delighted to answer a question that led directly to some talking points about anti-tobacco legislation that he was currently sponsoring. Our daughter had unwittingly thrown him a softball.

After a 15-minute question-and-answer session, McCain went around the room and shook everyone’s hand. Each and every one of us. He chatted up my daughter with special attention.

After that, we were hooked. We saw him multiple times at the Town House. I even ran into him on the street in front of the bookstore once as he was walking downtown with a small swarm of reporters around him. I later discovered that McCain was often in town because he’d developed a particular fondness for Peterborough, holding the last Town Hall meetings of both his 2000 and 2008 primaries there.

Regardless of the setting, McCain was a perfect fit for the Granite State. He always came across as an affable, charming rascal. A maverick and a middle man, the senator had no airs. He just spoke his mind. He deeply appreciated bipartisanship and his ideas often resonated with Democrats, Republicans, and Independents alike. His record backed his words. His bipartisan initiatives in Congress included major legislation on campaign finance reform and the pursuit of significant immigration reform as a member of the Gang of Eight. He pursued these aisle-crossing alliances for one simple reason: he thought it was good for the country.

Beloved by many in our state, McCain was sometimes referred to as New Hampshire’s senator from Arizona. This is high praise in a place where participation in the presidential primary is considered an intramural sport. We talk politics along with Red Sox scores as a matter of course. Our state representatives comprise the third largest legislature in the English-speaking world (after the British Parliament and the United States Congress). In a state of 1.3 million people, this means that virtually everyone in New Hampshire knows someone who has held state office and we freely share our opinions with them.

We feel it is our duty to talk straight. And we live by our words in small cities and towns in which we need to get along with our neighbors. We speak our minds respectfully (mostly) and move on. We don’t like bullies. And we loved McCain for playing the game in much the same way.

McCain’s appeal also had to do with his willingness to buck his own party when he felt it was warranted—most recently when he voted against repeal of the Affordable Care Act. Of course, this doesn’t mean he wasn’t a conservative Republican most of the time. He was. He just didn’t let his pack dictate his every move.

He made mistakes. The selection of Governor Sarah Palin as his vice presidential running mate in 2008 was a major error. Refreshingly, he was able to publicly admit this and other mistakes too. This characteristic elevated him to the kind of citizen our founders imagined: imperfect, yet principled and dedicated to the flourishing of the republic. No one needed to tell McCain the difference between right and wrong. He had an innate moral meter. This didn’t mean he used it all the time. Who does? But he knew when he’d overstepped his bounds and accepted the consequences.

Mercurial at times, McCain could be a hothead, a statesman, a taskmaster, and a truth teller. He was quick with a quip. It made him all the more relatable; he was human like us. He took chances and, yes, failed at times. When he did speak forcefully it was often to defend not just policies, but the truth. As in a frequently quoted video clip in which he corrected an attendee at one of his 2008 campaign rallies who called President Obama an Arab: “No, ma’am. No ma’am. He’s a decent family man and citizen…”

Even as he entered his eighties, McCain never felt like an old-school relic. He was a walking, talking Golden Rule who was unafraid to take down jerks and tyrants in defense of his country. His virtues—the ones that columnist David Brooks talks about as eulogy virtues—were on display each day. We didn’t need McCain to die to recognize his character traits of courage, honor, duty, and honesty. 

My 28-year-old daughter texted me several times in the 24-hour period that began with McCain’s decision to stop treatment for brain cancer. She was deeply saddened by the news. She now works in D.C., in politics herself. I have no doubt that her career was influenced in some small part by her brief encounter with McCain when she was nine.

When his death was announced, I heard it first from her. Neither of us are Republicans and, still, the loss was searing. She and I agreed that his death represented more than the passing of an elder statesman. It felt like the death of the country’s integrity, a loss of someone who knew how to defend our institutions in essential and necessary ways. Then she said something you rarely hear about any politician these days.

“He was wonderful,” she said.

Just that. He was.

What Gate 35X can teach us about chaotic times

American Airlines Gate 35X may be one of the most dreaded airport gates in the country. Tucked into a terminal at Reagan National Airport in D.C., it’s a gateway for small flights to minor markets. Going to Syracuse? Dayton? Birmingham? Well, take a seat. You’re likely to be part of the herd at 35X.

Whenever someone I know travels in and out of Reagan, she checks the gate assignment with a combination of anticipation and trepidation. There’s not a single person who says “I got 35X” without an eye roll and a sigh.

I travel to and from D.C. frequently and have managed to avoid 35X until about a week ago when my flight from Reagan to Manchester, N.H., was delayed for four hours and eventually canceled. I’ve never been more confused by a gate experience in my life.

When I arrived at the gate, I searched for a reassuring monitor to display my flight number, destination, and departure time. Instead I was greeted by what looked like another departures board. It listed about a dozen flights; several of which were leaving from 35X at the same time.

It took about ten minutes for me to figure out exactly what the boarding process entailed. It went something like this. An announcer would call your flight and tell you which bus line to get into. Yup, a bus. You then would take an escalator down one floor and line up for your shuttle bus, being careful to pick the right bus line since God forbid you end up on a flight to Kansas when that was not your intention. The bus would take you to your small airplane parked on the tarmac in an out-of-the-way location that made it look like the plane was being punished.

I, of course, never got that far. I stayed stuck in the purgatory of the 35X waiting area, an unwelcoming place sectioned off in ways that inhibit pedestrian flow. It wasn’t entirely obvious where to sit and wait for my flight. It felt more like a bus station than an airport gate. I found myself literally sitting on the edge of my seat, afraid to go to the bathroom and miss my cattle call.

After the first several flight delays, I had a sixth sense about this flight’s eventual cancellation. I caught myself looking longingly at nearby Gate 35. I was so envious of its single destination, clear display on the monitor, and neatly carved-out seating. Right. Next. Door. It made me slightly weepy.

But the numerous delays did provide me with plenty of time to contemplate the absurdity of the 35X experience. It felt a lot like the era we live in. While I was at 35X, there was a lot of untrustworthy information displayed on the monitor. Sometimes the monitor listed my flight’s original departure time; other times the delayed departure time displayed. Then it would switch back. A few times the flight was listed as “closed”; other times the flight disappeared from the board entirely only to reappear fifteen minutes later.

Some of the “facts” displayed on the monitor were completely untrue. I was forced to make sense of the incongruent information by asking a lot of questions: of fellow travelers, of people at the services desk, and of the really nice young woman who stood at the top of the escalator, calling out the flight information like an old-fashioned train conductor, “PRO-vi-DENCE! Line #1!”

Basically, at 35X, it’s pretty difficult to know what’s happening. All of the time. It almost feels intentionally confusing. I longed for the norms and conventions of a typical flight experience, but that was a quaint notion in the 35X vortex. I learned to rely on the many new friends I made in the waiting area since we couldn’t help but talk to one another in order to understand what the hell was going on.

Throughout it all, I continued to hope for the best and trust that I’d arrive at my destination. Even though it turned out I’d be arriving the next day.

A few days after I returned from D.C., I saw that Gate 35X stumbled into its own fifteen minutes of fame. Robert Mueller and Donald Trump, Jr. were spotted waiting at the same time for flights from this infamous gate. A wonderful photo from Politico captured the moment.

When I saw the photo of the two men within a few feet of one another at 35X, it made me giggle. Even powerful people have to travel together through difficult circumstances. As journalist James Fallows tweeted in response to the photo, “If you’ve been to Gate 35X at DCA, you realize that these two opposing figures were momentarily unified by a greater common enemy, namely 35X.”

If only it could be so. Mueller and Trump both looked unfazed. Maybe 35X has some magic in it after all.