Quarterly Review

Well, my project is nearing the 25% completion mark. Therefore, I’ve decided to write a broader quarterly review regarding the overall depiction of the women I’ve witnessed in modern cinema. I’ve missed a few movies due to time constraints and what not, but I will definitely (and unfortunately) catch up on those flicks (The Hottie and the Nottie, Untraceable, Mad Money, etc.) when they hit DVD. I promise.

In short, I’ll state the obvious: I think modern cinematic women would be A-OK if they didn’t have to deal with the traditional feminine conflicts of such “blessed” events as marriage, love, or children. Most of the gals’ possess advanced educational degrees, have high-level careers, and, judging by their clothes, seem to support themselves fairly well. Then again, Joan Crawford wore “shop girl” costumes designed by the fabulous Adrian in her woman‘s pictures. The only difference being Joan Crawford’s films empower women and today’s…just don’t. The clothes don’t always fit the lady, which is why the modern women’s film doesn’t fit the woman.

But who could fit into the tight, air locked corner filmmakers push their women into, anyway? More often than not, one of those darn feminine conflicts comes along and torpedoes the female character straight into a situation in which she has to make some sort of a life decision, but the creators don’t give her any resources to help her out with the decision-making process. She has no friends, or if she does, then they’re catty bitches who would rather criticize than empathize. Nor do the women rarely, if ever, have a significant other to back them up since most of the films I’ve watched have been about attaining a relationship instead of keeping one.

What’s worse is that creators don’t give enough personality to their characters to make them even question why they’re being forced to make a decision in the first place. Women are pushed into the corner without any accessible internal resources to pluck out when they need them. One of my favorite aspects of the Joan Crawford persona is her anger - she gets mad! She gets furious! And she does something about it. Few moments in cinema make me smile more than the first act of The Damned Don’t Cry (1950) when Joan Crawford ups and leaves her abusive husband and unsupportive mother and father after her son dies because she has nothing to keep her there anymore.


Her dad says: “Let her go, she’ll be back. She’ll find out what it’s like.”

Joan Crawford replies: “Whatever it’s like, it’ll be better than this. I want something more out of life. And I’m gonna get it.”

None of the actresses or the characters they’ve played in today’s world have that kind of fiery pepper coursing inside their veins. They’re just not written well-enough. Even female screenwriters don’t know how to write women. The worst film I’ve watched so far, 27 Dresses, was even directed by a woman and sure, Katherine Heigl’s character gets mad for five minutes, but she’s ridiculed beyond belief for it and is down for the submissive count in no time at all. It’s almost as if filmmakers are putting women on the battlefield and not giving them any weapons or protection to help them fight their own battles. Of course they’re going to perish within minutes. I just wish I could be the one to bayonet them before they hit the big screen.

Off the Record

Though this doesn't relate to female cinema specifically, I feel that it certainly does relate to the grander scheme of womanly things.

The Tale of a Loner Girl - Sara's Night Off (3/1/08)

Jake went to work around 3:00 yesterday. From basically 3:00 until 9:00 I worked my ass off editing an essay for the consideration of publication and doing random bits of homework. When the time came for me to leave my lovely apartment and venture into the outside world to see The Other Boleyn Girl, I felt solid, confident, and happy.

Before I got ready, I checked the temperature outside and deemed it warm enough to wear a skirt with warm tights instead of wearing blue jeans for the umpteenth time since winter started. In case you can't tell, This is what I decided to wear:

- Green turtleneck sweater
- Black knee-length skirt
- Warm, artsy black tights
- Black high-heeled, knee-high boots
- Black Beret

All of which were covered with my heavy black winter coat and rainbow-colored scarf.



To be honest, I thought and still think I looked cute. I’ve been having a plethora of self-esteem issues lately and yesterday was the first day in a very long time that I felt “OK” with my appearance.

Until I stepped outside.

I left home with my warrior make-up on and came back with runny mascara and cheeks full of tears.

As I neared the train station, the first incident occurred - some gentlemen who had just left the train station saw me, stopped dead in his tracks, looked me up and down and proudly asked: “Where’s your papa?” My warrior make-up was untarnished then - I scowled at him and he quickly walked away.

By the time I got to the platform, I realized I was going to be in for a bumpy night because I had chosen to wear a skirt instead of a pair of jeans.

On the train, men looked at my legs while I read Homer’s The Odyssey. Some boys at the end of the car screamed and hollered with cigarettes and booze in their hands. My comfort level began to decrease.

I got off at Grand and walked as fast and carefully as I could through the smelly passageways to the AMC Rivereast theatre. I always hear screams in those passageways when I’m alone at night. It’s quite terrifying. But my eyes were on the prize - I had a mere ten minutes to make it to my movie on time as the train had stalled between North and Clybourn and Clark and Division for fifteen minutes. I couldn’t think about being alone and afraid just yet. And, besides, there were a few people wandering around that dimly lit path so I knew if I screamed someone would be able to hear me at least.

Got to the movie on time. Watched it. Left the theatre around 12:15. Piles of people filed out of the building side by side and we were all going in the same direction - or at least I thought we were. At St. Clair, they all took a right while I kept going straight, through those dimly lit passageways yet again. I didn’t realize I was alone until I hit the first intersection. I began to quiver. I couldn’t hear any noise, which, for Chicago, means bad news.

I looked in my purse for my handy, legal three-inch blade. Left it at home. So, I plucked my ball-point pen out of my purse and took the cap off and held onto it like a knife in my pocket as I quietly walked through the remaining nooks and crannies to get to the train station. I peered around every corner, object, and suspicious-looking doorway. No one was there.

Two cars drive-by at different times and each one slowed down to honk at me. Lovely. Now, not only do I feel vulnerable for being by myself at 12:30 in the morning, I feel objectified and freaked out by the loud car horn. Thanks guys. That makes me feel so special.

I near the end of my journey through the dimly lit passageways. But, shit! I forgot the sidewalk was out. I have to cross the street. I had been talking to Jake off and on during this trip, but his phone just died. I have this crazy idea that if I’m talking on the phone then people will be less likely to bother me. I’m usually wrong.

And, of course, as I cross the street, a gang of drunken (mostly male) friends walk down the staircase by the bookstore and start in with the comments and whistles. I basically run away from them. Nothing feels worse than having several sets of eyes on you when your heart is beating this fast.

I finally make it to the train station. No northbound trains you say! I have to go to Lake and then, walk to another train station, and then go northbound? Isn’t that fitting? In the pit of hell that is the Grand train station lately there is not one woman to speak of besides myself in a crowd of over thirty. I must be imagining things, but I feel all of their eyes looking me up and down. This feeling is heightened even further by the extremely loud sound of construction taking place ten feet away from me. I have to wait for the southbound train for twenty minutes. My eyes well-up with tears.

I finally get to Lake and walk as quickly as possible to the train station that will take me to Jake at the Fullerton stop. Again, there is perhaps one woman on the platform in a crowd of several men. One guy says “hey baby” to me as I walk by. I’m too terrified to say anything which is the most frustrating part of the entire evening because I should say something in the minimal hope that my fighting back will change his ways. But I can’t. I can hardly walk because I’m so scared. All I can do is turn and stare at him with the tearful look of disgust on my face. He just smiles.

My warrior make-up is gone.

I get on the train and Jake gets on board with me at Fullerton. He comforts me to the best of his ability and we go home.

I realize that this might sound like a lot of female neuroticism coming to life. But it’s not. Honestly. When men look at women up and down with that one-track mind mentality, it feels like our souls are being stripped bare - we feel naked and judged. Nothing in this world feels worse. I’ve had many, many conversations with other women about this topic and all who know better understand the feeling. Some girls get turned on by this attention. I definitely don’t.

There are several things wrong with the story I just presented to you, but the one I hate to admit most is the one I already tried to explain - that when I get so terrified by the so-called flattery men are bestowing upon me, I can’t say anything. It’s incredibly frustrating and I feel like a hypocrite to my ideals. I just freeze because I know that if I say the wrong thing to someone, I could very easily get hurt.

And why did I feel this way to begin with? Because I decided to wear a skirt instead of a pair of jeans - a skirt that sticks out like a horrendously sore thumb among the masses of blue-jeandom other girls were wearing yesterday. I might as well have been wearing a goddamn target. It’s not right that I shouldn’t be able to wear what I want to, when I want to because of the very realistic fear that someone may rape me, hurt me, or just verbally abuse me with their comments. It’s just not right. I should be able to wear what I want when I want - no matter what.

Today I wore that same outfit just to test the waters of going out into the world with Jake by my side. No one said a word. No one even took a glance.

I know it’s a long shot, but last night as well as many others like them just remind me of how valuable my project really is. By bringing to light all of the bad representations of women in modern, mainstream cinema, perhaps it’ll make a difference in the way both women - - and men perceive the female gender. I doubt any man would want to harass Pam Grier after watching Coffy or Foxy Brown. Maybe there will be more of those types of women in the future? I can only hope because I’ve got to keep on truckin‘.


Thankfully, my pals over at www.feministing.com wrote several letters to the creators of this shirt and it was taken out of circulation. However, they just created this t-shirt:


Lovely, huh?
I'll review The Other Boleyn Girl after I see Penelope sometime this week.

Fool's Gold and Definitely, Maybe

**SPOILER WARNING** (Not that anyone who reads this will care about narrative giveaways for these movies...but still, it's nice to be considerate!)

Fool’s Gold (2008, Andy Tennant)

Ah, an old-fashioned tribute to both the classic adventure film and the “battle of the sexes” genre. But Matthew McConaughey is no Clark Gable or Tyrone Power and Kate Hudson is certainly no Jean Harlow or Linda Darnell - not in the least. Instead, they are the lovelorn lollies and co-conspirators in this retarded treasure hunt film. Not only is there no chemistry between them to speak of, but Matthew McConaughey (perhaps the blandest actor in Hollywood) is given all of the masculine kudos and gold-digging chutzpah. His character is also oddly rewarded for his mental deficiencies and irresponsibility, which includes flying a plane based on knowledge he learned from playing his play station. Lovely.

Though Hudson basically holds her own during the chase/fight sequences and vocal disputes (and is apparently working towards her PhD), any progression her character may have made for women in that regard is entirely discredited by the film’s ending - which shows a pregnant Hudson stroking her belly by her newly regained McConaughey husband’s side as he is applauded at a museum opening. I look forward to seeing Hudson in the kitchen with the kids while McConaughey hunts treasure in the future.

Most appalling sequence: Character introductions!

McConaughey: He’s looting around for treasure under water and discovers the first piece of the physical puzzle for their epic treasure hunt after an accident he causes sinks his boat.

Hudson: She’s hysterically crying and screaming at herself about her self-confidence while she looks in a mirror.

She is clearly the smarter, braver, and more successful of the two, but for some reason she’s made to look like a fool next to McConaughey’s swaggering, imbecilic self.

Definitely, Maybe (2008, Adam Brooks)

This is probably my favorite of the romantic comedies I’ve had to sit through so far this year.

The film is mainly about a man, namely, Ryan Reynolds’ Will Hayes, but women are the force behind all of his life decisions and career goals. You’ve probably already seen the trailer, but Hayes’ job is to weave a web of intrigue for his young daughter, Abigail Breslin, regarding the myth of how he met her mother, which coincides with his decisions and goals. He settles upon three past girl friends to tell the tale - Emily (Elizabeth Banks), Summer (Rachel Weisz), and April (Isla Fisher).

Each woman represents three diverse, and slightly clichéd stereotypes - Emily is the blonde college sweetheart and girl next door, Summer is the raven-haired, sexy career gal, and April is the flighty, artsy, best friend and redhead. Despite their clichéd nature, these characters do not fall prey to their roots in the least. For instance, Emily decides she doesn’t want to be the Jackie O to Hayes’ half-baked ideas of political candidacy and hit’s the road, Summer, a journalist, chooses her career over her love for Hayes by doing her job and writing a slandering article about his boss when she had to, and April gets her act together, goes back to graduate school, and earns a high-level career at Amnesty International.

And instead of ridiculing these women for their decisions like other romantic comedies tend to do, Hayes’ respects their decisions and in the end, admires each for their guts and determination. This is of the utmost importance because he is telling the story to his daughter - obviously, a young, impressionable mind, and he shouldn’t want her to get the wrong, un-feminist idea about the break-up of a relationship. By showing his daughter that he’s attracted to strong women, she’ll be more inclined to be one herself.

Though the film doesn’t really dive into the real reasons Reynolds is attracted to these women (despite the obvious) or even why they‘re attracted to him, I think the fact that he’s attracted to and relates to each instead of their Fool’s Gold or 27 Dresses counterparts in the first place is potent enough evidence to gain my certified seal of approval.

Definitely, Maybe is truly a refreshingly inoffensive romp into rom-com land.

4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days (2007, Cristian Mungiu)

Sorry folks, it's been a busy week. I'm catching up on homework, some capsules, and a mini-essay on my observations thus far in my project. Hopefully I'll have everything done soon! Plus, it's my birthday! Yay!

Without further ado:



While I appreciate the film and the filmmaker for addressing the cinematically taboo subject of abortion directly, I can’t help but be disappointed with the heavy-handed pessimism and victimization felt throughout the entirety of 4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days. To put it bluntly, every man is a predator and every woman is prey. It’s exhaustingly manipulative in both aesthetics and themes, especially the use of the "box" framing device which is constantly used on the female characters to further imply their persecution.

Otilia (Anamaria Marinca), the film’s central character, is supposed to be seen as some sort of a feminist hero because she “fights” the oppressive forces that bind her to the situation she’s in - namely, helping out her best friend, Gabriela “Gabita“ (Laura Vasiliu), secure an illegal abortion in pre-revolutionist Romania. But that’s just surface level.

Instead, the film depicts Otilia as well as all of the other women (especially Gabita) as helpless victims who somehow know they’re being victimized yet never do anything about it (except pray on each other for some reason). The most blatant offender is Gabita, who manipulates Otilia several times without any consequence befalling her - she seems to like all of the ill-treatment she’s receiving because it ups her “woe as me” ante and even that’s giving her more foresight than I think she deserves.

The only way I can understand Otilia as a feminist hero is through the idea that she’s the only woman in the film who is seen as active - she’s basically the lone female character seen outdoors aside from the abortionist’s senile mother who, when on screen, is being ushered back inside her home (notice Otilia‘s blank and uncaring stare while she watches from afar). Yet even when Otilia is outside she’s always doing errands for other people and I never, for one instance, feel as if Otilia is performing any of these exhaustive labors for herself or the good of her community.

She’s more than happy to serve up anything from perfunctory sex to hotel reservations as long as she never thinks to herself - "why am I doing this?" Her character is entirely stripped of independence, ambition, and thought, which I suppose could be the point of the film, but the mere fact that we are forced to understand her perspective only when considering that she’s running on survival instincts that aren’t hers speaks volumes about the failure of this film.

The setting of this film is the Romania of 1987. Two years later, a (partially) student-led revolution ended communism in the country. What’s clear to me after 4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days is Otilia had absolutely nothing to do with it - which begs the question - why am I watching her?

I wanna be loved by you...wait, life can't wait?

From www.lifecantwait.com:

LADIES, have you noticed that while we're in a flap over what shoes to wear (it’s difficult, right?), life's flying by, waving at us in the full-length mirror. Enough! It’s time we realized life can’t wait.

We girls need inspiration. And, inspiring people don't come much bigger than MADONNA, MARILYN MONROE and SHAKIRA. Women who know life just can't wait. See just how they've made their lives happen through their timelines, and how their hairstyles have followed. But we all know the girl next door can be just as inspiring. Soon you'll be able to share your own life-can’t-wait moments, too, for the chance to become one of 25 international female icons, selected by us.

I think I'm going to enter the contest because I want to bad mouth them from the inside out.



Before I get started, I'd like to address an issue very close to my heart -


Hasn't Marilyn Monroe been through enough? Everyone owes her an enormous apology, namely, the past generation of women who hated her for being a sexual object and the men who made her one. My generation owes her an even bigger apology for thinking she's "cool" because she was regarded as a sex symbol. People put pictures and clips from her films on their Myspace pages or blogs without ever seeing a single one of her films or even reading anything about her. It's quite disgusting.

Marilyn Monroe may not have been the best actress of her day, but she certainly acted in quite a few worthwhile films that amply display her comedic abilities. Films like Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (1953), Some Like it Hot (1959), Monkey Business (1952), and The Seven Year Itch (1955) all play into her sex-bomb status by making her the object of alluring lust, but it's rarely degrading because she sarcastically plays into it by knowing she's better than what she's portraying. Monroe isn't known for being much of a thinker (though she tried!), but she's always thinking on screen.

Her biggest misstep came in the mid-1950’s when she decided to take a break from Hollywood and get some genuine dramatic acting training from Lee Strasberg‘s famous acting institute in New York City. This caused quite an uproar because it displayed Monroe’s true ambitions to better herself - something men and women couldn’t comprehend with their love/hate relationship towards her.

Alas, that relationship sustained itself until she committed suicide in 1962. Bus Stop is the first film she made when she returned from New York City with all of that freshly learned dramatic skill and it is probably my most hated film of all time. Monroe plays a character named Cherie and she is the absolute epitome of what society thought of Monroe at the time - sleazy, slutty, stupid, and, susceptible to the whim of any man. In Bus Stop, it’s a barbaric cowboy who wrangles her heart by literally flinging her over his shoulder and telling her she’s going to marry him. But that’s acceptable because he apologizes at the end of the film and she sees all of his “little boy” insecurities come to light. Can you figure out the ending? I thought so.

If Monroe hadn’t acted in Bus Stop and held out for a more empowering role (like Susan Hayward’s part in I’ll Cry Tomorrow also released in 1956), I believe the next few years of her life would have been radically different. Namely, it would have shook the world’s core into acknowledging her acting prowess. It wasn’t in the cards though and she endured the latter part of her life with the barest of grins and the saddest of sorrows. Her marriage to Arthur Miller failed because her insecurity overpowered their relationship - the world loved her for one thing and one thing only and she needed a different kind of love. No one could fully give her what she needed.

Now she’s sentenced to stereotype/caricature hell and I don’t think she’ll be able to turn her high heels around any time soon. She’s stuck on billboards advertising hair care products that flat out lie to the girls they’re trying to entice by saying their particular kind of hair care will set them free and let them live life to the fullest. Because we all know how important one’s hair history is to the progression of our minds and lives.

Some girls can’t wait
To make life happen
Their hair tells their story
Make your hair happen
Life can’t wait

Monroe’s simulacrum has permanently taken over the original. I don’t really care about Madonna or Shakira - I’m just wondering what these three ladies have in common other than they’re all blonde occasionally. This ad is problematic, to say the least, and other than the apparent feminist issues I have with it, I’m mostly concerned with the fact that a troupe of even younger little girls will associate Monroe with this ad and think she’s synonymous with hair care products. I’d metaphorically equate that offense to be like the lone pedophile in a court room full of arsonists or something of the sort.

Puh-leeze.

P.S. I'm sorry if this isn't very eloquent - it's 3:00 in the morning and I spontaneously felt compelled to write about this ad and Ms. Monroe.

Sara Freeman's Favorite Films of 2007

Frankly, I don’t have the time to create an extensive top ten list. I would really like to, but I’m busy doing other things. Therefore, I’ve decided to create the abridged version of Sara Freeman’s favorite films of 2007. The only film I will expand upon is my absolute favorite film of 2007:

"Waitress" (Adrienne Shelly)


I’ve been putting off writing about this film for some time because I’m afraid I can’t do it justice. I honestly love it with all my heart. Before I watched Waitress, I was a very unhappy person - I didn’t feel “right” in my own skin. I worked in a customer service position in which people treated me like I was lower than dirt on a daily basis, I wasn’t writing, and, most annoyingly, I didn’t know how to fix it. Writing about women’s films had always been enjoyable for me and I knew how to dig deep into their themes, but I had never considered making it a goal in my cinematic life to write about “chick flicks.”

Well, obviously, that changed. One day, after a particularly disheartening shift at work, I decided to watch "Waitress." It revolutionized my way of thinking about modern women’s cinema. The film is not epic in any traditional sense of the word, it doesn’t have A-list stars, and many people consider it to be “schmaltzy” because of its supposed feel-good ending.

So what!

Waitress’ cinematic progression is unique because it is entirely societal - it colors new shades into our ideas of certain stereotypes (the abusive husband being the most radical) and most importantly, it shows the world that a woman - an average, simple waitress, can shed her circumstances and live life as a strong, ambitious person. That goes a long way in my book.

I loved the film instantly, but it took me a couple of months to figure out what a rarity it really is. I started taking note of the other terrible chick flicks coming out, read a great deal of feminist literature, and had to begin formulating my idea for this project before I fully grasped the power of the film. The critical and public reaction to "Elizabeth: The Golden Age" was the cincher to my blog decision.

And I think I’ve finally found my cinematic calling in life. I love what I’m doing. It’s tough sitting through terrible movie after terrible movie, but I honestly feel like I’m benefiting the cinematic world in my own small way. And it's all thanks to the care and consideration of one film and one filmmaker, Adrienne Shelly, who is sadly no longer able to create more wonderful femicentric films.


These are the other films released in 2007 that really knocked my socks off:


(In no particular order)

- "Romance and Cigarettes" (John Turturro)
- "Lady Chatterley" (Pascale Ferran)
- "There Will be Blood" (Paul Thomas Anderson)
- "Youth Without Youth" (Francis Ford Coppola)
- The Jacques Rivette retrospective, specifically "Out 1" and "Celine and Julie go Boating"
- "Private Fears in Public Places" (Alain Resnais)
- Films by Jake Barningham (honestly!): "Cinema Poetics 1-3"(though 1 is unfinished) and "Lola Lane Listens"


To a lesser extent:

- "Bug" (William Friedkin)
- "Elizabeth: The Golden Age" (Shekhar Kapur)
- "Away from Her" (Sarah Polley)
- "Hot Fuzz" (Edgar Wright)
- "Broken English" (Zoe Cassavetes)

And:



- "Death Proof" - a film I’ve spent months digging through my brain trying to figure out why I like it so much. I believe I’ve figured out the looser meaning of my adoration, but now I’m wondering why I devoted such thought to a movie as convoluted as Death Proof is. Shame on me.

I wasn’t able to attend the Chicago International Film Festival for personal reasons, so these selections are strictly based to theatrical showings at the Gene Siskel Film Center, The Music Box, Landmark Century Centre Cinema, and AMC Rivereast 21.

An Odd Threesome: The Eye, Over Her Dead Body, and Persepolis

The Eye (2008, David Moreau): While the film is about as memorable as a dirty, wet piece of cardboard on the sidewalk, Jessica Alba’s character, Sydney Wells, does act as a strong female protagonist. She’s independent, saves a few men and women from utter death, and uses her instinctive feminine voice to guide her decisions. But her character isn’t fleshed out well enough to garner any sort of a feminine stance. She’s just…nothing. Perhaps if Alba were a more capable performer, the film and its central character could be elevated a little farther up from the filthy ground.



Over Her Dead Body (2008, Jeff Lowell): This film is honestly a lot smarter than it has any right to be. It teeters on the edge of offensiveness like a mini-skirt in a Catholic church yet never crosses that forbidden line. Though in its most basic sense the film is a catfight between two women over a man, I rarely felt my feminist “no-no” button being pushed because they don’t play dirty, meaning they don’t (or rarely) make fun of the stereotypes women are socially ordained to bestow upon one another in films, i.e., fat jokes, cosmetic jokes, clothes jokes. They’re earnestly fighting over the love of the same man and who wouldn’t adore a surly, bitter Paul Rudd? Eva Longoria is a delightful bitch without too much of a sting and cinema newcomer Lake Bell is charming and sprightly. I would never call Over her Dead Body a good movie, but I certainly didn’t want to peel my eyes out layer by layer while watching it either.



Persepolis (2007, Marjane Satrapi & Vincent Paronnaud): Phew, a good movie! A really good one! This is technically a 2007 release, but it didn’t debut in Chicago until the middle of January.

Marjane Satrapi delivers a one-two punch to misogynists, bigots, warmongers, and the simple minded sheep who follow in their footsteps. It’s very refreshing to witness a female main character, animated or not, who is so sure and righteous of her beliefs and actually acts upon them. She leaves little doubt to where she received her fine moral education - she learned how to respect her womanhood from her mother and grandmother and her faithful father pointed her in the right philosophical direction. The film is also refreshing because it subverts the notion of the “coming of age” tale which has been told too many times to count in American cinema. Marjane doesn’t really sweat the small stuff like the teenagers do in American films so much as she takes it all in her stride to make herself a better, more well-rounded gal. She handles the repression of her rights in Iran in the same way she handles the divorce of her first husband - like the warrior she really is. It’s terrible when it happens, but why dwell on it when you could be fighting your next battle? Marjane is fierce and fiercely intelligent and we need more characters like her in our cinematic culture.