100 great movies by female directors – part 8 | Little White Lies

Women In Film

100 great movies by female direc­tors – part 8

17 Jul 2015

Poster featuring text "100 GREAT MOVIES BY FEMALE DIRECTORS 71-80" against a textured background.
Poster featuring text "100 GREAT MOVIES BY FEMALE DIRECTORS 71-80" against a textured background.
Gold­en Bear-win­ning dra­ma from Peru and Essex social real­ism star in this part of our female film­mak­er compendium.

This heart­break­ing twist on the tra­di­tion­al father-son/­fa­ther-daugh­ter bond­ing tale sees a work­ing stiff from a Uruguayan fish­ing vil­lage com­ing to terms with being a sin­gle par­ent to a child in pos­ses­sion of both sex organs. Though Ricar­do Darín – the George Clooney of Argenti­na – might be con­strued as the cen­tral draw, the real emo­tion­al core of Lucia Puenzo’s emo­tion­al­ly har­row­ing film is pro­vid­ed by the young actress Inés Efron, who grasps her character’s gen­der flu­id sta­tus with­out ever sug­gest­ing it’s the sole defin­ing trait of a young life. The film takes place at the age when Efron’s char­ac­ter, Alex, is reach­ing sex­u­al matu­ri­ty, and there’s a dri­ve to try and expe­ri­ence love in a way which casts her poten­tial out­sider sta­tus to the side. The movie is alter­nate­ly joy­ous and upset­ting, pre­sent­ing the empa­thy and sup­port Alex receives from pro­gres­sive friends and peers – who inci­den­tal­ly refuse to accept that he/​she would be nat­u­ral­ly vil­i­fied – as well as the pain of accept­ing your place in the world and pre­dict­ing what an unknown future might bring. David Jenk­ins

In the months pre­ced­ing the cin­e­ma release of Lucre­cia Martel’s mas­ter­piece, The Head­less Woman, there was a trend of film crit­ics offer­ing foren­sic read­ings of the film and offer­ing blurred screen caps to sup­port their have-a-go the­ses. An afflu­ent woman played by María Onet­to is dri­ving down a coun­try road. She is momen­tar­i­ly dis­tract­ed by her mobile phone, the car jud­ders as it dri­ves over… some­thing… and, with a brief glance in the rear-view, she car­ries on with her life. It’s just a stray dog, sure­ly. For the remain­der of the film, the thought of what actu­al­ly went under her wheels remains in her mind, like blood that won’t wash away. She receives a mild con­cus­sion from the inci­dent, and the film makes an attempt to look at and deci­pher the world through her slight­ly dis­com­bob­u­lat­ed eyes. More than a bland cri­tique of bour­geois com­pla­cen­cy, The Head­less Woman is a film about exis­ten­tial tor­ment and the seem­ing­ly insignif­i­cant moments in life that can send us into a tail­spin that might be psy­cho­log­i­cal, but it could just be phys­i­o­log­i­cal too. Martel’s direc­tion, her order­ing of mate­r­i­al, her mar­shalling of the actors, her frac­tured edit­ing pat­terns, her meld­ing of gen­res, her explo­ration of social and polit­i­cal mores, is with­out equal in the 21st cen­tu­ry. DJ

For more cin­e­mat­ic exam­ples of watch­ing what hap­pens when tod­dlers are aban­doned by their par­ents, see also Valérie Massadian’s Nana (num­ber 87 on our list). Here, Kore­an-born, US-based direc­tor So Yong Kim tells the tale of two young sis­ters who are charged with mak­ing their own enter­tain­ment when their moth­er shapes up and ships out in a bid to locate the girls’ estranged father. Big Aunt” is hand­ed the par­ent­ing reigns, and her strat­e­gy for child-rear­ing is lais­sez-faire to the max, so the girls spend their time tra­vers­ing the con­crete waste­land which makes up the direct envi­rons of their tem­po­rary home, and attempt to keep them­selves out of trou­ble. Kim’s film looks at the ways in which the very young employ their bur­geon­ing sense of imag­i­na­tion to pro­tect them­selves from the hor­rors of the world, but also as way to inter­pret the mys­te­ri­ous actions under­tak­en by adults. At one point, the girls cre­ate their own eco­nom­ic eco-sys­tem by cre­at­ing a snack busi­ness based the sale of grasshop­per kebabs. Aww… DJ

The sto­ry of Wendy & Lucy is a sim­ple one. On her way to Alas­ka where she hopes to find a job, young Wendy stops off in a small town in Ore­gon. She is trav­el­ling with her dog, Lucy, the only being who tru­ly cares for her, and the only one that she cares for. But mon­ey runs short after a series of inci­dents, and Lucy dis­ap­pears. From such an unex­cit­ing, not to say banal, premise, Reichardt cre­ates a neo­re­al­ist film for 21st-cen­tu­ry Amer­i­ca. By sim­ply observ­ing the harsh real­i­ty of unem­ploy­ment, home­less­ness and the absence of health­care, she avoids all sen­ti­men­tal­ism to leave only the raw emo­tions ema­nat­ing from an encounter with unfair­ness in a very real world. Sim­i­lar­ly, Wendy bare­ly cries at all despite her hard­ships – she only accepts oth­er people’s help with great res­ig­na­tion. She is at odds with her envi­ron­ment, a small fig­ure against a grand back­ground. She is rarely pho­tographed at the cen­tre of the frame, except when she is with Lucy. Cir­cum­stances have no com­pas­sion, but this film is about how Wendy is strong enough to accept them. Manuela Laz­ic

Cin­e­ma is lit­tered with men who objec­ti­fy women as their mus­es, fig­ures to be looked at, adored but nev­er tru­ly under­stood. In Bright Star, the Roman­tic poet John Keats (Ben Whishaw) – a lit­er­ary fig­ure prone to objec­ti­fi­ca­tion – is addressed by Jane Cam­pi­on, who rep­re­sents him from the per­spec­tive of his muse’, Fan­ny Brawne (Abbie Cor­nish). But this muse is any­thing but sub­mis­sive: Bright star, would I were stead­fast as thou art,” writes Keats, a frail man at this woman’s mer­cy. The film secludes us in the emo­tion­al clois­ter that Keats builds around Brawne, but it is res­olute­ly her jour­ney we are on. Yet no mat­ter how mys­te­ri­ous and mis­er­able her lover might appear, stead­fast Brawne is nev­er sus­pi­cious of him. She claims to see things in his failed poet­ry that no one else does. Once in love, he starts writ­ing more and the film is care­ful to let his poet­ry alone so as to reveal the deep­ness and beau­ty of his char­ac­ter, and most of all of his sen­ti­ments for Fan­ny. A per­fect homage not only to Keats’ words but also to the lovers them­selves, Bright Star is a refresh­ing take on the pro­to­typ­i­cal­ly male’ sto­ry of cre­ative endeav­our. Ele­na Lazic

It’s unlike­ly that an audi­ence or its mak­er would describe the mas­ter­ful Craneway Event as a fea­ture film”, much less a doc­u­men­tary (she has described it as a doc­u­ment,” how­ev­er), though that does not pre­clude us from want­i­ng to flag it up in this list. British artist/​filmmaker Taci­ta Dean opt­ed to cap­ture dance rehearsals of what were to be the last hur­rah of laud­ed chore­o­g­ra­ph­er, Mer­ce Cun­ning­ham, who intones his pre­cise com­mands from a wheel­chair on the side­lines of an ad-hoc mod­ernist ball­room. What makes this a thing of mirac­u­lous beau­ty is the fact it takes place in a repur­posed car assem­bly plant locat­ed on a dock­side in Rich­mond Cal­i­for­nia, and while the shal­low focus remains on the sup­ple bod­ies of the dancers, the deep focus reminds of the sur­round­ing envi­ron­ment and the ghosts of the past, always present through the giant bay win­dows. Mer­cer died short­ly after the film­ing, and this stands as a mov­ing mon­u­ment to his genius and the way he saw the human body as pri­mal con­duit for great art. A the­sis which Dean con­firms with this film. DJ

Nine­ty sev­en min­utes and two shots is all it took to make this qui­et­ly tran­scen­dent epic by Amer­i­can direc­tor Sharon Lock­hart. Though her cam­era is trained on two vis­tas for rough­ly 45 min­utes a piece, your eye is invit­ed to drink in the details that speck­le the frame. All of a sud­den, a bird fly­ing through the sky, a par­tic­u­lar­ly strong gust of wind, the shape of a cloud or the inten­si­ty of the light become the the­mat­ic mar­row of this hyp­not­ic work. At its cen­tre, though, is a woman dig­ging for clams on a mud­dy, water­side verge in Maine, and Lock­hart draws on both the musi­cal­i­ty of her repeat­ed move­ments, and the image of a woman, alone, in union with the earth as the sun ris­es and sets above her. It’s about time and work, and the time we spend work­ing. DJ

This daz­zling film deserves to be spo­ken of in the same breath as clas­sics such as Rossellini’s Jour­ney to Italy or Bergman’s Scenes From a Mar­riage. A young, hip Ger­man cou­ple who lounge around in chif­fon gym shorts and low-rid­ing jeans in a seclud­ed Sar­din­ian apart­ment, engage in a drawn-out war of emo­tion­al attri­tion, far enough along in their rela­tion­ship to be bru­tal­ly hon­est with one anoth­er, but not far enough to feel like they some­times oper­ate dan­ger­ous­ly close to the edge when it comes to friend­ly goad­ing and light humil­i­a­tion. As played by Lars Eidinger and Bir­git Minich­mayr, this grue­some two­some are a hip­ster hotbed of com­bustible feel­ings, their rela­tion­ship seem­ing­ly bound togeth­er through their abhor­rence towards oth­ers. Maren Ade just stands and watch­es as the pair’s bick­er­ing turns to anger turns to resent­ment turns to for­give­ness turns to self-abase­ment turns to pas­sion turns to bore­dom, each scene offer­ing a sur­prise emo­tion­al twist, the cou­ple unable to main­tain a hap­py sta­sis. The moment the film ends feels like it could be a moment of high tran­scen­dence, with Ade bold­ly offer­ing a solu­tion to all life’s prob­lems which is on a par with a pie fight in the War Room. Films about cou­ples tend to want an audi­ence to pine for them to stay togeth­er or to break up – with Every­one Else, the idea of such sim­plic­i­ty is laugh­able. DJ

In a year that, for bet­ter or worse, British film made a fair amount of noise on the inter­na­tion­al stage (for every An Edu­ca­tion there was a The Boat That Rocked), Andrea Arnold’s stag­ger­ing­ly good sec­ond fea­ture demand­ed that every­one just shut up and lis­ten. How could we do any­thing but? Boast­ing a pair of knock-out cen­tral per­for­mances from new­com­er Katie Jarvis – who famous­ly was approached by a cast­ing agent after being spot­ted argu­ing with her boyfriend on a rail­way sta­tion plat­form – as 15-year-old Mia and Michael Fass­ben­der as her mum’s new beau, the writer/director’s Essex dra­ma mix­es vital social com­men­tary with harsh com­ing-of-age real­ism while mov­ing to its own dis­tinct rhythm. It’s a film of dev­as­tat­ing moments in which Arnold’s sub­tle use of visu­al metaphor cre­ates a suf­fo­cat­ing atmos­phere that mir­rors the cramped hous­ing estate set­ting. Her next project, the Shia LaBeouf star­ring Amer­i­can Hon­ey, is cur­rent­ly in post-pro­duc­tion. We’ll be front of the queue when it’s released in 2016Adam Wood­ward

Like so many before her, direc­tor Clau­dia Llosa went and blot­ted a fair­ly clean copy book when she opt­ed to leave her native Peru to make a film in the Eng­lish lan­guage. Her 2014 film, Aloft, star­ring Jen­nifer Con­nel­ly, incit­ed smirks of deri­sion towards its po-faced sense of agony when it played at the Berlin Film Fes­ti­val in 2014, an inci­dent that must’ve hit her with dou­ble force con­sid­er­ing just five years pri­or to this, she had picked up the Gold­en Bear for her sec­ond fea­ture, The Milk of Sor­row. The film is an eccen­tric study of stunt­ed fem­i­nism which takes place direct­ly after a peri­od of polit­i­cal unrest – the late 80s under the rule of Shin­ing Path. Rape and abuse are com­mon­place in Lima, and so work­ing class women are forced to take the only pre­cau­tions avail­able to them. Mag­a­ly Solier’s Faus­ta is suf­fer­ing from a rare con­di­tion man­i­fest in her breast milk, and when doc­tors inspect her body fur­ther, they dis­cov­er a pota­to grow­ing in her uterus, placed there as a form of cheap, home­made con­tra­cep­tion. The film is a char­ac­ter study in which Fausta’s casu­al self-muti­la­tion speaks vol­umes about a coun­try dis­cov­er­ing wounds it didn’t know exist­ed. DJ

Read more 100 great movies by female direc­tors: 1 – 10 | 11 – 20 | 21 – 30 | 31 – 40 | 41 – 50 | 51 – 60 | 61 – 70 | 81 – 9091 – 100

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