New Zealand International Film Festival—Some statistics

I really really didn’t want to do this. I’m sick of counting. Hated it when an interviewer recently called me an ‘academic’. (My on-paper-that-lasts-500-years PhD certificate now in a battered file box, next to a fading Fiona Clark photo of me in Ruatoki, wearing a big black hat and shades, eating a feijoa, back in 1980.)

But my tax return was done. And the washing. And the dishes. It was too wet to mow the lawn. Too cold to weed or prune. And anyway I was a bit crook. Though I made it to the Sunday market for this week’s pumpkin, eggs, tomatoes, limes, apples, onions. Enjoyed the big electronic sign that said “SEA SIDE ONLY” (some big run along Oriental Bay): appreciated the direct message, as I consider going to live in Berlin.

So I read the papers (nice Kerre Woodham piece on illegal downloads in the Herald on Sunday). And did those things that I said I’d do. And refrained from doing the things I agreed not to do (often a bit more difficult). And wished I hadn’t finished T Jefferson Parker’s The Renegades (he has this great little obsession with sunset language). And felt sad that I missed the Thomas Oliver Band gig the night before. (Wanted a listen and a dance, so much, but would have been crazy to risk the night cold and get crooker.) Wished I hadn't forgotten to buy sugar, so I could make lime marmalade.

And, as I mooched about, I kept noticing the New Zealand Film Festival’s Wellington catalogue.

Most years I book far too many sessions and end up giving away some tickets. I need lots of breaks between films to absorb them. So this year I wasn’t going to book, except for Kathy Dudding’s Asylum Pieces, a treat with a dear mate who lives out of town, and Yael Hersonski's A Film Unfinished. So I could have shoved the catalogue under some books, and gone to look for our recycling bin; it disappeared on Thursday and maybe blew into the Town Belt, or to Johnsonville, or to the airport. And, after all, in the last few weeks I’ve had some very beautiful conversations with the youngest generation of women scriptwriters and filmmakers (including the chat that gave me ideas about Berlin). I became convinced that their talent and tenacity and entrepreneurship, gorgeous energy and utter charm will ensure that —soon—women will write and direct 50% of New Zealand’s feature films.

But. I’ve noticed that many of the most recent New Zealand women-directed features have male protagonists: Home by Christmas, The Vintner’s Luck, Apron Strings (maybe, that one’s arguable), The Strength of Water, After the Waterfall (all NZFC-funded) and The Insatiable Moon. Athina Tsoulis’ Jinx Sister, Christine Jeffs’ Sunshine Cleaning (from memory the eighth most commercially successful indie film last year) and Emily Corcoran’s Sisterhood, all about sisters and none funded by the NZFC, are exceptions. And Jane Campion’s Bright Star. I can think of just one New Zealand woman protagonist over the last while whose impact comes near that of real-life Topp Twins in their doco, or Robyn Malcolm's Cheryl West in tv's Outrageous Fortune: Geraldine Brophy's Jill Rose in Second-Hand Wedding (also developed outside the NZFC).  Of recent telefeatures Until Proven Innocent (written by women) had a male protagonist, but not Fiona Samuel’s Piece of my Heart. 

And I've wondered why so few features—by men or women—pass the Bechdel Test, with at least two women in them, who talk to each other about something besides a man? I’m all for women writing about men, but I hunger for more films about women. And I’ve begun to wonder whether the smart thing to do, if you want to get a film funded—or to win an Oscar—is to write about men. Or is it even smarter to write films about women, because there are so many of us who long for them? (Sometimes I forget that this blog is for Development-the movie and about the context it's being made in, so here's a wee plug for our movie, filled with women, who talk to each other about all kinds of stuff: line up to buy your virtual ticket to Development-the-movie here, and if you buy a couple, we’ll send you a souvenir tea-towel. Aprons for special people, soon(ish)).

And then, mooching towards yet another piece of toast and cup of tea, I thought about features with women protagonists that recently stalled in development.

And, finally, remembering the You Cannes Not Be Serious campaign, and that lovely sense of connection to a larger world through the WomenDirecting4Women and Women & Hollywood solidarity, I felt kinda obliged.

So I downed the tea and toast, stopped mooching, opened the catalogue and started counting. Fictional features only, because women are traditionally strong in documentary, though a check would be interesting.

I identified 77 fictional features in the Wellington programme. Women wrote and directed ten, 13%, even less than the 16% of women-written and directed features that the NZFC funds annually: Puzzle (Natalia Smirnoff); Lourdes (Jessica Hausner); White Material (Claire Denis); Please Give (Nicole Holofcener); After the Waterfall (Simone Horrocks); Father of My Children (Mia Hansen-Love); The Runaways (Floria Sigismondi); The Tree (Julie Bertuccelli); Winter’s Bone (Debra Granik); Women Without Men (Shirin Neshat). Of these, Puzzle, Lourdes, The Runaways, White Material, Please Give, The Tree, Women Without Men and possibly Winter’s Bone seem to pass the Bechdel Test (just on 10%). There are a further five features where women share the principal storytelling roles: Melody for a Street Organ (Kira Muratova, director); Love in a Puff (Heiward Mak, joint writer); Amer (Helene Cattet, co-writer/director); My Dog Tulip (Sandra Fierlinger co-director/animator); Summer Wars (Okudera Satoko, writer).

No wonder I didn’t want to do the count. By late Sunday afternoon, I was a bit cranky, wondering who was responsible for this gender skewed programme. Director Bill Gosden? Programmer Sandra Reid? Or the New Zealand Film Festival Trust, which presumably sets the festival policies? Catherine Fitzgerald (also WIFT New Zealand's president) chairs the trust, and, surprisingly—because sometimes people say that if a higher percentage of women are involved in governance things will improve for women—half the trustees are women: Andrea Haines, Robin Laing, Jane McKenzie, and Catherine. The guys? Lindsay Shelton, Peter Hay, Tearapa Kahi, Andrew Langridge.

I know that many of us who love film look out for a good film regardless of who made it, and there are plenty of them on the programme. I can’t wait to see I am Love, Animal Kingdom, The Illusionist, Kawasaki’s Rose, Farewell, Predicament. I’m a sucker for the Doors, so hope I get to When You’re Strange. I want to see Clio Barnard’s The Arbor, because it’s about a woman playwright. I want to see Suzanne Raes’ The Rainbow Warriors of Waiheke Island, Gillian Armstrong’s Love, Lust and Lies, Sabina Guzzanti’s Draquila—Italy Trembles. But where is Cheryl Dunye’s The OWLS? Lisa Cholodenko’s The Kids Are All Right, which made it into the Sydney Festival? Belinda Chaykor’s Lou, getting great reviews in Australia? Nicole Conn’s Elena Undone? Claire McCarthy's The Waiting City? Sophie Letourneur's La Vie Au Ranch (Chicks)? Claudia Llosa's The Milk of Sorrow? If the makers of these films didn’t apply for inclusion, why were they not invited? 

I believe that those of us women who make films need more models of women’s fictional filmmaking, especially models of films that pass the Bechdel test (if there were more of them, it might become more 'normal' to fund them?) and especially experimental films, given that many of us tend to eschew traditional narrative forms. We also need films about women artists: Where’s the well-regarded doco The Heretics in this programme, where almost 80% of the films about artists are about men? Is the Film Festival programming making a negative contribution to women’s participation in filmmaking? After doing the maths, I protest. If the legendary Kay Armatage could often manage 50% women’s films at the Toronto Festival, we can do better here.

And—this exercise has changed me. I’m prioritising the NZIFF features that pass the Bechdel Test. Yes. Even if it means I miss out on Tilda Swinton. I might even book some seats.