Why The Florida Project should be on your Oscars watch list.
(Even though its not nominated.) Growing up a movie obsessed kid in a small town there was one night of the year that summed up everything magical and untouchable about film, and that night is Oscar night. I quickly came to regard the mysterious Oscar committee as some saint like group of film appreciators and experts, kind of a collective movie god. Now, at twenty seven I find myself questioning their choices and wondering if in all their cinematic wisdom they may have missed, or for some reason, alien to my mind, left out a few of the years shining examples of the ever popular art form. With this years glitzy and sometimes gleefully awkward evening fast approaching, I, like many others made the Oscar movie marathon my weeks priority. As I rattled my way through the options there was one that caught my eye from the very release of its trailer, capturing my inner movie geek with its pallet of pastels and compositions laden with candied buildings encasing poverty and tangible humanity. Oh and Willem Defoe is in it! It is to be said that this is a strong year, with many varied options hitting the glass top of the academies table of attention. And, with the nominees announced they were indeed bold, and rightly so, even refreshingly so. Jordon Peele and Greta Gerwig’s nominations uniting everyone, it would seem, in genuine appreciation. Oh and Willem Defoe! He made it to the table and straight to the best supporting actor role call. It is, however, to the best picture category where my attention is drawn. For the most part its a great list, a solid and mixed list of big and small, new and dab hands, but there is a space that remains empty. With only nine of the ten slots filled, I would like to argue that last space, that gaping hole in the penultimate category should be graced with the candy colours and vibrant reality of, yes you guessed it. The Florida Project. Directed by Sean Baker, whose previous work includes Tangerine, shot solely on iPhones to tell the story of two transgender prostitutes, Baker takes his delicate yet fearless approach to real people and real problems from his first feature to his next set. This time telling the story of a young mother and her daughter living in a motel on the outskirts of Disney Land. The setting providing an achingly stark reality of worlds so close yet worlds apart. This time he’s swapped iPhones for cameras and he, and his cinematographer, have captured a world so in touch with its main protagonists; the kids who rule this land, the imagery presented is capable of awakening the audiences inner child. The casting is worth mentioning, as not all the cast are professional actors. The lead female was spotted via instragram, and despite the lack of experience, Bria Vinaite brings an undeniably raw and organic performance. She plays most of her scenes off of Willem Defoe whose creative generosity towards his rookie colleagues features in every frame. It is , for me, a masterclass of playing the supporting role. But, as previously mentioned it is the kids who rule this motel and steal our hearts, lead with boundless exuberance by Brooklyn Prince. She’s one to watch, now and for the future. It is, a real shame she’s not gracing the best actress category this year. So, incase there is any doubt The Florida Project is a cracking film, sporting an ending so touching, exhilarating and rightfully abrupt it will leave you gasping for air and thirsty for more. I rest my case.
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Looking in the bathroom mirror, closely inspecting my face, contemplating the spots that had set up home on my now oily t zone, I said to my twelve year old self “I’m too young for spots”. And there and then marked a journey, full of highs and lows that would not last a couple of years as I was promised but would take me right up to now. Now, I stand looking in the bathroom mirror, closely inspecting my face and contemplating the spots, the marks, the angry blotches which had not moved out of my still oily t zone, I said to my twenty six year old self “I’m too fucking old for acne”.
Lets start with this. And its important to say. Acne is a trivial thing in comparison to what many people have to deal with. That I know. And, yes vanity does come into it. Anyone who has suffered with acne, which most often arrives during your most confusing and sensitive years will know all too well just how shitty a thing it can actually be. Teenagers have enough problems as it is. They feel uncomfortable and awkward in their own bodies and those who have to deal with particularly bad acne feel the added weight of wanting to conceal their faces, even from their nearest and dearest. My acne during my teens became easier to accept once my mother told me “all teenagers get it”, “it will go”, “I had spots at your age too” each word, each comforting phrase conjured up sighs of relief. But mine was worse than everyone elses. Mine was worse than my friends, worse than what my brother and Mam had had. Mine was the worst I had seen. It was the worst my Mam had seen. I was a bit unlucky, but it would go. And there are far worse things. I was fairly quiet and not a troublesome teenager, I was generally calm and for a while I suffered in silence. My Mam didn’t put up much, if any resistance when I nervously asked if I could get foundation. She did, however, begin to wonder if I was putting on a bit too much. She tactfully suggested it would look better if I used a little less. I was adamant I was not using too much and it was infact just not pale enough for my super pale skin. I was right. It wasn’t pale enough. Mam was also right. I was using a lot of it. I looked ridiculous. Luckily that was the look amongst teenage girls in the early naughties in Middlesbrough. A town awash with Orange girls. Some of which had lots of spots. I started picking despite knowing I shouldn’t. My Mam kept telling me I was making it worse but I couldn’t control the overwhelming urge to look, to touch, to pick. I was on the brink of ripping off my face and I really, really wanted to rip off my horrible looking face. It brought about tears, lots of them and somehow I kept feeling too ill to go to school. “Have you seen her face?” said one orange girl in class to another orange girl. And something told me they weren’t referring to my slightly orange face. And I thought I had covered up so well. Wiping off my make up before bed fast became the most dreaded part of the day. Avoiding sleep overs became a practise and the sleeping in my make up phase began. Gross. The doctors were visited. Tetrecycline was the first. An anti biotic. Creams and gels followed. They turned my face red and bleached my bedding but they were no match for my army of acne. I did wake up one morning with ginger eyebrows though. That was amusing. Oh no, it wasn’t at all funny. Acne has a bonus feature you see, as well as removing your confidence it also takes away your sense of humour. I do laugh at those brows now. Never mind seeing a doctor, everyone has an opinion about acne: “Its dairy.” “Toothpaste, put toothpaste on your spots.” “Do you wash your face?” “Dont use soap.” “Only use soap.” “Chocolate. Don't eat chocolate.” “Stop wearing make up.” “Try Clearasil” I will boldly say this on behalf of anyone with hormone induced acne… Kindly shut the fuck up. No success with anti biotics or anything else, the pill was finally brought up. Now we arrive at the miracle. The little pill thats not licensed as a pill, its a special acne pill known as Dianette. And it saved my teenage life! My skin was flawless. Not bragging, but it was even smoother than people who had never had spots. I was popping those like my mates were popping Sambuca shots. And here we are, on the road to happiness. It does have some risks and some potential, scary side effects so there were periods when doctors became wary. Breaks from Dianette and trying new anti biotics or other pills were encouraged and yes, enforced! And no, I didn’t like it. These breaks throughout my twenties brought about more tears, less confidence, more make up (not orange this time) and one fine day in acting class. During a warm up someone bumped into me rubbing their shoulder against my face. When someone touches and potentially rubs off your meticulously applied concealer the thought of the true you being revealed really does grip your body with such tension slow motion ensues… “Gemma, your face is bleeding”. I screamed in reply “never touch my face!”. I didn’t actually. I just went to the bathroom and very carefully dabbed it away. There was a round of impetigo which actually didn’t look much worse. Kissing boys can be a problem, rubs off your make up. Getting ready on a morning is a nightmare. First you have to take a deep breath and look in the mirror, see what you’re dealing with and if you wake up late, you’re really fucked. You need at least half an hour just to conceal. Swimming, wipes off make up. Exercise, sweat can aggravate your acne. It hurts. Your face hurts to touch and sometimes just plain hurts. Get a big ugly fringe, that will hide it, tried that. Kind of suited the fringe. Back to the doctors again and with a little green prescription slip for Dianette in my hand I was back on track. Dianette: Can cause mood swings, increased risk of blood clots, dry eyes, sore breasts, weight gain. I hadn’t experienced these before. I was fine. But now my eyes were dry and I couldn't wear my contacts. I was bloated all the time. My breasts were sore. I wasn’t interested in sex. I put on some weight. After asking (begging) for it back, after multiple appointments with different doctors, years of asking for dermatology referrals and not being granted them, I finally had Dianette back on my bedside table… and one year later I took myself off it. A while after stopping I told my mam over the phone that I felt so much happier even though my acne was back in full force and she replied “its like having you back again” and it hit me right in the spotty face that my Mam had been just as miserable as me. She said I had been on the pill for so many years she couldn’t remember what the real me was like. And it was only then I realised this miracle pill had changed me. I argued with my Mam. A lot. I was sensitive. Quick to shout or get upset. Dianette actually made me a monster. A monster with beautiful, porcelain skin but a real miserable, moody monster. And my Mam who had been so supportive had to put up with the new me. For years. As did my brother, my closest friends, classmates, colleagues, boyfriends and my newest flatmate. Dianette works in exactly the same way as the pill which many women take. The list of side effects are almost exactly the same. The pill is a wonderful thing, it gives women a choice, its gives them control and freedom. It can however make them miserable, it can cause mood swings, weight gain, loss of interest in sex (how ironic) and has an increased risk of cancer. Having finally had a consultation with a dermatologist it seems Roaccutane is my final choice. A pill that carries with it it's own controversy. A course of it lasts only a few months and most people will then be acne free for life. Despite the obvious appeal it is with a deep breath and some hesitation that I step foot down that path to clear skin. Fear of undesirable side effects barricading a wave of excitement and relief. But before I can take this acne cure I have one final step to take and that is to go back on a birth control pill. And thats not something we women should take lightly. So when we hear a woman described in these terms, “shes high maintenance” “shes moody” “must be her time of the month” “shes emotional” she could just be on the pill, and in many cases that pill could be for your benefit too. Recently my very open minded yet stubborn flatmate sent me a link to a youtube video titled “the problem with feminism in the twenty first century”. We often clash on these subjects thinking each other too pig headed to listen to the other. Both guilty. Equally. But he's worse than me. I didn't mean that. It was a joke. Its safe to say I found the video completely infuriating. I, as a self proclaimed feminist, and I’m super happy to be one, often feel I have to defend feminism. Which, in itself is ludicrous as we all know a woman, most of us love or care for a woman in our lives so why would we all not declare ourselves feminists? Well, it appears that there are a number of men, and indeed women, friends and family members of mine included, that also feel under attack and have to defend themselves. Only they feel they're attackers are feminists. The video talked about the first, second and third waves of feminism; in the most patronising of manners. The man who made it, kindly went into detail of how we women should go about being feminists, being a feminist isn't gender specific of course, but I'm sure he knows that. He suggested how we could all re-think our approach as we’re currently unlikable and, the third wavers are indeed whats wrong with feminism in the twenty first century. Somewhat understating my response I'll just say I didn't take kindly to being accosted with this idiots opinion in the middle of my day. Particularly as it felt completely irrelevant to me as I have always believed in equality only. It did, however, cement the thought that a lot of people believe that modern feminism is being led by these men hating, angry, shouty women who want to take over the world. What I'm sick to the back teeth of and I'm sure many others are too is being unceremoniously plonked in the same category as these unbearable fools. I personally don't know who these ladies are. I cant think of one friend or acquaintance who believes in anything other than equal opportunities for women. I’m not denying their existence. Only because I can't see them doesn't mean they're not there; much like the Loch Ness Monster right? Wait, does that exist? Not all Loch Ness Monsters are imaginary and not all feminists are arseholes. Wait. Does that mean some feminists are arseholes? Yes, it does. Some men are too. Some kids are arseholes and even some cats are arseholes, but we shouldn't let one cat or brat tarnish our opinion of the whole community. With that strange thought in mind maybe in a gesture of moving forward we could start collectively turning the cheek to those bad eggs. There’s always one person who ruins the party by shitting in the sink. They're gross. They probably weren't invited to the party in the first place, but it doesn't mean you cancel it and kick all of your mates out. Being wholly committed to this metaphor I think we should turn up the music, dance together and let the good times roll. |
AuthorI'm an actor and writer living in Manchester. I have a lot to say. Archives
November 2018
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