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The Storm Within , 2026, Acrylic, oil paint and oil stick on canvas, 30 × 40 cm I made this painting recently, and while looking at it again I realised how bodily it felt — almost womb-like. Womanhood in colour and movement. Perhaps the body sometimes knows before the mind does. Art that comes from the body often reaches back into it. That’s not weakness — that’s where its power is. This painting began as a physical act. I covered a previous canvas with white acrylic, a painting I had been stuck on and unhappy with for months. Over that blank surface I began working with oil paint and oil stick, not with brushes but with my fingers while wearing gloves. At one point the glove tore and the oil paint slipped beneath my nails, staining them deep red with a hint of blue. I remember looking down at my hands and thinking how strangely beautiful it felt — colour sitting under the skin like something elemental. Weeks later my nail is still stained with blue. That blue almost feels invasive. A colour so often coded by society as “masculine,” yet here it exists only as a small presence within the painting — and still it seeped into my body, into my skin and nails, as though claiming space. The painting that emerged feels intensely bodily to me. The palette moves through crimson, rose, mauve and deep brown — colours that feel almost internal, like flesh, blood, or the interior darkness of the womb. At the centre there is a softness, a pale luminosity surrounded by darker pigments that swirl around it protectively. It reminds me of those cinematic moments where light passes through the body during birth scenes, where life is suggested as something glowing and fragile within shadow. It feels maternal in a way that is difficult to explain. Not simply motherhood, but something older: the idea that women have always carried the possibility of life within them. The body as origin. The fact that the paint was moved by hand matters too. There is something intimate about touching the canvas directly, about feeling the oil drag and smear beneath your fingers. The painting wasn’t constructed at a distance. It was made through contact. While on a Zoom meeting with poet Nikita Gill — for a project I’ll be sharing more about soon — she noticed the painting behind me and said something that stayed with me: “It reminds me of standing in a storm.” I love that description. Storms are powerful, unpredictable, alive. They are not passive things — they reshape landscapes. Perhaps womanhood can feel like that too: movement, force, creation, endurance. The painting moves through colours historically tied to the body — blood, skin, flesh, interiority. Yet they also evoke something cosmic: nebulae, clouds, shifting atmospheres. That duality matters — the intimate and the universal at once. The composition pulls the eye inward. There’s a light, almost glowing centre surrounded by darker pigments that swirl around it. It feels protective, almost uterine. The darker edges could be read as the world pressing in — gravity, history, expectation — while the luminous centre suggests life, potential, creation. Finger painting is often associated with childhood, but here it becomes something more primal. My hands physically moved the paint like matter — like clay, like flesh. The broken glove and the pigment beneath my nails reinforce the idea of the body making the image. The painting isn’t distant or controlled. It is tactile, embodied. The small hint of blue remains intriguing to me. Because it is not dominant, it feels like something submerged, quietly breaking through the surface. Blue can suggest calm, depth, distance — even melancholy. Here it interrupts the red field gently, like breath within heat or thought within instinct. In a painting that feels so bodily, that blue might represent the mind within the body — a reminder that identity, especially female identity, is layered and never singular. Nothing in the painting is rigid. Everything swirls, presses and dissolves into itself, giving it a sense of movement. That fluidity echoes cycles often culturally associated with femininity — menstruation, pregnancy, birth, renewal. It feels less like a static image and more like something forming. To be a woman in the world is complicated. It is powerful and vulnerable, creative and exhausting, celebrated and overlooked all at once. But it is also the beginning of everything. Every life begins in the body of a woman. Every history begins there too. And as I write these words I find myself becoming emotional. Maybe that is why the painting feels less like an image and more like something alive. Today, on International Women’s Day, this painting feels like a quiet reminder: the body remembers what the world often forgets.

Still from King Kong (1933), directed by Merian C. Cooper and Ernest B. Schoedsack Classic Hollywood did not simply repeat the damsel in distress trope — it engineered it. Across adventure spectacle, espionage thrillers, and gothic melodrama, women are positioned in strikingly similar configurations: lifted, suspended, cornered, abducted, drowned, hunted. Their peril is rarely incidental. It is structural. The narrative moves because they are endangered. The damsel in distress is often dismissed as an outdated cliché — a relic of a less enlightened cinematic era. But to reduce it to naivety is to misunderstand its function. The trope is not accidental weakness. It is narrative architecture. Women in classical cinema frequently operate as: currency leverage emotional stakes moral alibi They are not always powerless. In fact, many begin as intelligent, spiritually complex, or sexually autonomous. But the narrative machine bends them toward vulnerability. It requires their exposure in order to justify male movement. The damsel trope’s persistence across genres and decades suggests something more systemic. The trope does not simply reflect patriarchy; it stabilises narrative tension. It converts male pursuit into heroism. It transforms aggression into virtue. The damsel is not a character flaw; it does not require women to be weak. It requires them to be positioned. She is a storytelling device that transforms male action into heroism. Still from The Night of the Hunter  (1955), directed by Charles Laughton Beauty and the Colonial Spectacle: King Kong (1933) In  King Kong  , directed by Merian C. Cooper and Ernest B. Schoedsack, the damsel trope is staged at operatic scale. Released in 1933, during the depths of the Great Depression, the film is frequently celebrated for its ground-breaking stop-motion animation by Willis O’Brien. Kong’s movement was revolutionary. The Empire State Building finale remains an early triumph of cinematic illusion. But technological innovation does not neutralise ideological structure. Ann Darrow played by Fay Wray Ann Darrow — blonde, pale, dressed in a light-toned gown that glows against jungle darkness — becomes the film’s emotional hinge. She begins as a poor woman — a beggar chosen from the street by Carl Denham to star in his adventure film. Her economic vulnerability already positions her as available — plucked, transported, displayed. The mise-en-scène repeatedly isolates her body in contrast to overwhelming environments: dense foliage, towering gates, cavernous New York skylines. She is framed as fragile against scale. Her whiteness is visually central. On Skull Island, Ann is offered to Kong as ritual sacrifice by Indigenous inhabitants depicted through heavily racialised imagery rooted in colonial fantasy. The island sequences rely on caricature: the “primitive” tribe, the exotic ritual, the dark, threatening landscape. Ann’s pale body is staged as luminous contrast — civilisation against savagery, purity against excess. Kong holding Ann as the pterodactyl attacks Translated by Captain Englehorn, the Native Chief describes Ann as the “golden woman.” Carl Denham responds flippantly: “Yeah, blondes are scarce around here.” The line is played for humour, yet it exposes the logic of fetishisation: her rarity is eroticised; her blondness becomes a commodity. The irony is sharp: Ann is impoverished and expendable in New York — yet on Skull Island her whiteness renders her mythic. Jack Driscoll, the ship’s first mate, initially declares he doesn’t like women on ships. Ann teases him: Ann Darrow: “I thought you didn’t like women.” Jack Driscoll: “Yeah, but you’re not women.” The line is revealing. Ann is singularised — elevated above “women” as a category. She becomes exception, ideal, object of protection rather than equal participant. Their flirtation is brisk, almost perfunctory, yet once she is taken by Kong, Driscoll’s devotion crystallises instantly. He risks his life repeatedly for a woman he barely knows. Her abduction authorises his courage. Jack holding Ann unconscious, surrounded by the ship crew. The hero’s stance crystallises: masculine strength defined through the display of a limp female body. Kong’s fascination with Ann is framed as monstrous — yet the film’s narrative logic mirrors that desire. She is captured, displayed, reclaimed. The camera lingers on her screams, her fainting spells, her thrashing body in Kong’s grip. Her distress fuels spectacle. Kong atop the Empire State Building Back in New York, the illusion of safety collapses into exhibition. Kong is chained and displayed on a stage — another spectacle of possession. When he breaks free and climbs the Empire State Building, the verticality intensifies the trope. Ann is suspended between earth and sky, reduced to a luminous figure in a giant’s hand. The planes circle. The city watches. The nation looks upward. All of it exists because she has been seized. The line — “It was beauty killed the beast” — appears to blame Ann. But what truly kills Kong is not beauty. It is the compulsion to own beauty. To capture it. To chain it. To exhibit it. Without Ann’s endangerment, there is no climb, no pursuit, no climax. She is not simply a victim. She is narrative ignition.   And in the end, she is rescued by a man. Jack Driscoll pulls her from the wreckage as Kong falls. The spectacle concludes not with her agency, but with her restoration to masculine protection. The beast dies. The woman survives. The hero remains. Jack holding Ann atop the Empire State Building The Garden and the Fall: North by Northwest (1959) By the time  North by Northwest  premiered in 1959, Hollywood had refined the damsel into sophistication. Directed by Alfred Hitchcock, the film introduces Eve Kendall not as helpless, but as commanding. She is elegant, perceptive, sexually assertive. On the train, she engineers Roger Thornhill’s escape. She initiates flirtation. She appears in control of her image and her intelligence. Eve Kendall played by Eva Marie Saint Her name is crucial. Eve. In Genesis, Eve is the first woman — associated with temptation, knowledge, transgression. She reaches for the forbidden fruit. She acts. Her agency destabilises paradise. She becomes origin point of the Fall. Hitchcock’s Eve similarly operates at the threshold of duplicity and revelation. She exists between surfaces — lover and spy, seductress and strategist. She possesses knowledge before Thornhill does. She manipulates appearances. She navigates masculine espionage networks with calculated composure. Like her biblical counterpart, she is associated with knowledge — and knowledge is destabilising. For much of the film, Eve is not a damsel. She saves Thornhill. She withholds information. She orchestrates deception. She occupies desire without surrendering authority. Roger Thornhill played by Cary Grant and Eve Kendall But classical narrative cannot allow such authority to remain uncontained. As the film progresses, the mise-en-scène increasingly situates her in enclosed or precarious spaces: train compartments, hotel rooms, the cliff edges of Mount Rushmore. The visual field tightens. Her composure gives way to emotional exposure once her double-agent status is revealed. The age gap between Cary Grant (in his mid-50s) and Eva Marie Saint (in her mid-30s) reinforces subtle hierarchy. Grant embodies polished maturity, paternal confidence. Eve’s modernity — sleek, intelligent, sexually forward — is gradually repositioned beneath his stability. Still from North by Northwest of Mount Rushmore The climax at Mount Rushmore literalises patriarchal monumentality. The carved presidential faces loom — monumental embodiments of national fatherhood, stone patriarchy carved into landscape. Against this backdrop, Eve slips. She dangles. The image is unmistakable: the woman named Eve suspended beneath monumental fathers, her body dependent on male grip. Her autonomy, once agile and strategic, condenses into vulnerability. Thornhill pulls her upward. Eve falling from Mount Rushmore as Thornhill rescues her The rescue restores order — not merely physical safety, but symbolic hierarchy. Immediately, Hitchcock collapses suspense into marital absorption. The cut from Thornhill pulling Eve up the cliff to pulling her into a train berth is famously suggestive. The train enters a tunnel — an unmistakable sexual metaphor, especially within the constraints of the Hays Code. The train entering the tunnel. Within the limits of the Hays Code, rescue converts seamlessly into consummation; danger gives way to sanctioned intimacy. From cliff to conjugal bed. From agent to bride. Her competence is not erased — but it is absorbed into heterosexual resolution. The Fall is reversed through marriage. Knowledge gives way to domestic containment. The garden closes. The damsel machine reasserts itself. Thornhill embracing Eve protectively while she appears emotionally restrained. Masculine assurance stabilises the frame. Her composure reads less as strength than absorption into his control. Light, Shadow, and River Water: The Night of the Hunter (1955) If  North by Northwest  disguises the trope within glamour,  The Night of the Hunter  exposes it within nightmare. Directed by Charles Laughton, the film is a singular work of American expressionism. Shot in stark black-and-white, its tonal contrasts are extreme — luminous whites against engulfing shadow. Criminal Harry Powell played by Robert Mitchum The narrative begins with male crime. Ben Harper steals money and hides it inside his daughter Pearl’s doll before being executed. The money becomes gravitational centre — innocence carrying adult corruption. Harry Powell, the false preacher with “LOVE” and “HATE” tattooed across his knuckles, learns of the hidden money in prison. Upon release, he seeks out Harper’s widow, Willa. Willa’s name derives from a Germanic root meaning “resolute protection.” The irony is devastating. She cannot protect herself. She cannot protect her children. Powell weaponises scripture. He reframes female sexuality as sin. He isolates Willa within domestic space, convincing her that desire is shameful. In a Depression-era context, her economic vulnerability intensifies her dependence. After murdering her, Powell tells neighbours she ran off. When asked what possessed her, he replies: “Satan.” He claims he did his best to save her. Religious language becomes cover for violence. The murder image is among the most haunting in American cinema. The image aestheticises spiritual purity into stillness, rendering Willa vulnerable yet serene, almost sacred, beneath the river’s surface. The camera submerges. Willa’s body rests in a car at the river’s bottom. Her pale dress billows. Her hair floats outward, merging with river plants. The bright fabric against dark water creates eerie serenity. The composition is painterly. She appears peaceful. Asleep. Angelic. A fisherman’s line catches on the car. He looks down and sees her. The image is shockingly clear from above water — as though the film insists we witness. Meanwhile, Powell sings “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms,” a Protestant hymn about divine protection. Its lyrics promise safety — “safe and secure from all alarms.” In Powell’s mouth, the hymn becomes threat. Faith is hollowed into performance. Here the damsel is not screaming from a tower. She is aestheticised into stillness. Yet the film does not leave vulnerability unchallenged. The children in the boat, Pearl clutching her doll The children escape by boat in a nocturnal sequence resembling a Grimm fairy tale. Animals watch from the riverbanks. Nature becomes witness rather than predator. They are eventually taken in by Rachel Cooper (often referred to as Miss Cooper), an elderly woman who shelters abandoned children. She sits with a shotgun across her lap and confronts Powell directly. When he arrives singing his hymn, she joins in — her steady voice meeting his in eerie duet. Where he weaponises religion, she embodies moral conviction. She protects the children. Miss Cooper holding a shotgun by the window as Powell waits outside Powell is arrested and ultimately executed. Unlike  King Kong  or  North by Northwest , this film transfers moral authority to an older woman. Yet Willa’s death remains structural. Her vulnerability grants Powell entry. Her elimination escalates threat. Her body becomes icon. She is both sacrificial and luminous.   Powell holding Pearl as she looks at him like a father The Machine Across these films — 1933, 1955, 1959 — the repetition is undeniable. The genres differ: adventure fantasy, gothic thriller, espionage romance. The function persists. Women become endangered so that men can: climb skyscrapers scale monuments pursue across rivers preach righteousness perform bravery The mise-en-scène repeatedly emphasises suspension and enclosure: heights, cliffs, underwater graves, train compartments, shadowed bedrooms and spaces charged with sexual tension. Eve clutching her injured arm on Mount Rushmore The body of the woman becomes a spatial problem to be solved. Even when she begins as competent — Eve Kendall’s strategic brilliance — the narrative bends toward vulnerability. Even when she is spiritually grounded — Willa Harper’s faith — she is economically and physically cornered. The damsel trope is not about female incapacity. It is about narrative control. To endanger a woman is to raise stakes without destabilising masculine authority. A man who acts for himself risks appearing selfish. A man who acts to save a woman is heroic. The damsel provides moral alibi. She converts male violence into necessity. Classic cinema did not merely mirror patriarchal values; it refined them into story architecture. The repetition across decades reveals not coincidence but design. The machine required women to be saved. Or silenced. Or suspended long enough to make the rescue — or the revenge — feel righteous. And once you recognise the pattern — the scream, the dangling wrist, the floating hair beneath water — you begin to see how deeply the structure shaped our visual memory of heroism. The damsel was never just a character. She was the engine. Bird’s-eye view of the children lying in the boat drifting downriver The Male Gaze and Moral Alibi In 1975, Laura Mulvey published Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema , arguing that classical Hollywood cinema structures looking through a male gaze. Women function as objects of visual pleasure, while men drive narrative action. Close-up of Ann screaming. The scream as cinematic engine — fear amplified into spectacle, the face of peril magnified for collective consumption. These films predate Mulvey’s essay, yet they exemplify its logic. Ann Darrow is spectacle. Eve Kendall is erotic intrigue. Willa Harper is spiritualised martyr. But Mulvey’s framework alone is not sufficient here. The damsel is not only looked at. She is endangered. Endangerment intensifies the gaze — fear and desire intertwine, making vulnerability not only visible but narratively indispensable. Willa in bed, arms crossed beneath a spotlight. Faith and repression converge; sanctified femininity framed in light before its annihilation. The gaze and the rescue operate together. Visual pleasure merges with narrative justification. The male hero not only sees the woman — he saves her. Or avenges her. The trope provides moral cover. A man climbing a skyscraper for conquest is hubristic.A man climbing to rescue a woman is heroic. A man pursuing across national monuments may seem reckless.A man saving a woman from falling is noble. A man hunting a murderer may appear violent.A community protecting children from a killer sanctifies resistance. The damsel converts violence into virtue.   Eve lighting a cigarette on the train Contemporary Echoes The machine has not disappeared. Modern cinema often appears to reject the trope — presenting “strong female characters,” action heroines, self-rescuing protagonists. Yet the structure frequently persists beneath updated surfaces. Superhero origin stories repeatedly hinge on female endangerment as catalytic event. In  Spider-Man  (2002), Mary Jane Watson is suspended from a bridge, her falling body literalised as moral test. In  The Dark Knight  (2008), Rachel Dawes’ death does not merely wound Bruce Wayne — it legitimises escalation. Her elimination authorises his transformation. The pattern extends beyond caped mythology. Revenge narratives frequently motivate male protagonists through murdered wives and daughters. The woman’s body becomes narrative ignition once more — less a subject than a trigger. Even when women fight — as in contemporary action franchises — they are often narratively instrumentalised. Their competence may be foregrounded, but their vulnerability remains a reliable mechanism for raising stakes. The damsel has evolved. She may wield a weapon now. She may deliver sharp dialogue. But her endangerment continues to stabilise masculine identity and justify violence. Classic cinema needed women to be saved because the rescue clarified heroism. Contemporary cinema often needs women to be harmed — or threatened — for the same reason. The machine adapts. But it rarely disappears. The fisherman’s view from above water of Willa in the submerged car

This interview began as a commissioned catalogue text for CAVES Gallery at Melbourne Art Fair 2026. The version published here extends beyond those initial parameters, shaped by a studio visit, a sustained conversation with the artist, and photographs I took within her workspace. Black lines — a close study of surface and tension in Mira’s studio. When I first spoke with Mira about her new works, she returned to the figure of Demeter — the mythic mother who moves between anguish and recognition, sensing her daughter’s passage between worlds. The myth becomes less about spectacle and more about perception. Not abduction or rupture, but attunement — a body alert to absence, to seasonal shifts, to the fragile oscillation between loss and return. That threshold — between darkness and emergence, containment and expansion — runs through the new twilight-blue drawings she is preparing. The Blue That Isn’t Infinite In the studio, Mira showed me a work still in progress. The surface carried a dense twilight blue — layered, modulated, built slowly through watercolour, acrylic, and repeated adjustments. She had spent weeks mixing it. “I’m trying to find the right nautical twilight blue,” she said, laughing at how long it had taken. Nautical twilight is a precise term. In the graduated stages of dusk — civil, nautical, astronomical — nautical twilight marks the moment when the horizon line remains visible and the first stars emerge. Before satellites, sailors used this moment to navigate: a space where darkness and visibility coexist. That idea — navigation within uncertainty — became central to the work. The sky appears open, infinite. Yet it is an optical illusion, a result of light particles refracting through atmosphere. The blue is expansive, but limited. Bounded. This paradox — openness contained within structure — quietly structures the drawings. Gesture, Music, and the Cave Detail: layered lines in slow accumulation. The works evolved from an earlier series of large black-and-white drawings. At the time, Mira had developed RSI from her sculptural practice and turned to drawing as a way to remain in the studio while resting her body. She would listen to music — often Steve Reich’s Music for 18 Musicians — and draw in a state of immersion. “You don’t judge,” she said. “You become the music.” The gestural lines began as fluid, unselfconscious movements. But inevitably, moments of self-awareness would intrude. A mark would feel wrong. Too controlled. Too deliberate. Instead of correcting it seamlessly, she began to paint those areas out. “That became a thing,” she explained. “What’s the next step after the mistake?” She described it as moving through a cave — feeling her way outward, line by line. The continuous lines expand rather than close in. They aerate the surface, much like her sculptures, which often involve cutting into solid forms to make them porous. Gesture, for Mira, is neither purely expressive nor purely formal. It occupies a space between language and movement. As Amy Sillman has observed, “gesture exists between abstraction and figuration, between language and image.” Gojak’s drawings sit deliberately within that in-between — where marks hover between thought and bodily impulse, articulation and atmosphere. In the twilight works, this gesture is slowed and complicated by colour. Violet That Turns Red Detail from drawing in progress for Melbourne Art Fair For this series, Mira introduced violet as a complementary counterpoint to blue — a chromatic decision that initially felt restrained, transitional. But something unexpected occurred. Against the blue ground, the violet began to read as red. Sinister, even. At first, she resisted it. Bushfires had been burning. Climate change loomed in the background of daily life. The red felt too literal, too charged. But she stayed with it. “It’s quiet,” she said of the finished work. “But it feels like something else is there.” That tension — serenity overlaying disturbance — mirrors the broader moment we inhabit. Catastrophe persists in the periphery. We continue working, living, navigating. The horizon remains visible, but only just. At certain points in the composition, Mira began seeing faces emerging in the layered gestures — grimaces, apparitions. She deliberately subdued them, not wanting the viewer to fall into a rabbit-duck optical trap where figuration becomes the dominant reading. The ambiguity remains. The suggestion of presence without declaration. Studio detail — textures and colours Demeter, Breath, and Curvature Drawings in the artist's studio The curved forms that inhabit these works carry a deeply personal resonance. Several years ago, Mira’s mother died of Alzheimer’s disease. Sitting beside her in hospital, she paid close attention to her breathing — the rhythm of inhale and exhale, the fragile continuity of life marked by rise and fall. Those arcs — gentle, expanding curves — enter the drawings as repeated shapes. Not literal representations, but embodied echoes. The Demeter myth returns here in another register. A mother attuned to loss. A body registering absence. A world oscillating between descent and return. These works are not narrative illustrations of myth, but mythic in structure: cyclical, seasonal, suspended between worlds. Joan Mitchell, Agnes Martin, and the Restraint of Emotion Mira cites Joan Mitchell and Agnes Martin as touchstones — two painters whose practices appear radically different yet share a generosity of vision. From Mitchell, she draws a muscular, expansive gestural energy. From Martin, a quiet discipline — grids and subtle modulations that hold emotion without theatricality. Both artists, she notes, feel “sane” and “generous.” Even at their most intense, they resist domination. There are also echoes of pre-Renaissance painting — particularly Fra Angelico — whose use of colour carries tenderness and spiritual charge, yet remains composed, measured. Mira’s drawings attempt to inhabit that intersection: movement and restraint. Speed and stillness. Expansion without collapse. Twilight Fills the Trees The central work carries the title Twilight Fills the Trees — elliptical, poetic. Mira often draws from poetry for her titles, including Louise Glück’s writing on Demeter and Persephone. The language is suggestive rather than explanatory. Twilight, she observes, is a busy hour. Birds return to roost. People move homeward. The world transitions. It is a time of navigation. In these works, twilight becomes both atmosphere and metaphor. The blue field holds potential infinity while acknowledging its limits. The violet-red gestures pulse beneath the surface. Lines expand outward, refusing enclosure. If Persephone’s myth foregrounds rupture, Demeter’s foregrounds attunement — a mother sensing the movement of her daughter between realms. Mira’s drawings inhabit that attunement. They are not dramatic. They are not declarative. They are navigational. Standing in her studio, the surfaces felt still. But not passive. They hold the horizon — just visible — and the first star. Studio floorboards marked by material and process.

Picnic Scene Still: Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975), directed by Peter Weir Every February 14, we rehearse the same ritual. Pink cards. Lace. Flowers. The language of possession disguised as devotion:  Be mine. Valentine’s Day is framed as soft, sentimental, harmless. But embedded within its rituals is something older — a quiet rehearsal of heterosexual destiny. To be chosen. To be admired. To be desired. The card is not just affection; it is a claim. In 1900, on St Valentine’s Day, a group of schoolgirls climbed Hanging Rock. Some never came back. Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975), directed by Peter Weir and adapted from Joan Lindsay’s 1967 novel, transforms Valentine’s Day into something uncanny. The film is not about romance; it is about disappearance. And yet it is saturated with longing — longing from men, longing between girls, longing for something that cannot be named. The film asks a question Valentine’s Day never does: What if a girl refuses to be chosen at all?   The Performance of Girlhood Still from Picnic at Hanging Rock  (1975) At Appleyard College, femininity is rehearsed like a discipline. The girls are corseted, gloved, encased in white muslin that resembles both communion dress and bridal gown. The costuming is deliberate — high collars, fitted waists, ribbons. They recite French. They practice posture. They are instructed in deportment and refinement. They are being prepared — not for adventure, not for intellectual autonomy — but for presentation, for marriage. Miranda Reflected Through Mirrors: Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975) The mise-en-scène inside the college reinforces this containment. Heavy Victorian furniture crowds the frame. Floral wallpaper presses inward. Mirrors recur throughout the film, quietly doubling the girls’ images. They are reflected, refracted, split. The mirror does not simply show them who they are; it reminds us they are always being watched — by the institution, by men, by the camera itself. Cutting the Cake: Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975) The film is set at the turn of the century — 1900 — a temporal threshold. The end of the Victorian era. The beginning of modernity. A cultural shift humming beneath corsetry and colonial propriety. The year itself feels symbolic: something is about to rupture. The Valentine’s Day picnic is supposed to be charming. A supervised outing. A controlled exposure to nature. Yet even before the disappearance, the atmosphere destabilises. The girls eat cake beneath filtered sunlight. Ants later crawl across the icing — sugary, ornamental, faintly grotesque. The sweetness is invaded. Clocks stop at midday. Time itself seems to suspend. Everyone falls into a strange, collective sleep. Romance curdles into unease. Miranda in Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975), played by Anne-Louise Lambert Miranda — luminous, almost mythic — floats through the film like an apparition. She is described by Mademoiselle de Poitiers as “a Botticelli angel.” The line is not accidental. Botticelli’s women are ethereal, distant, suspended between flesh and divinity. Miranda is framed in soft focus, often haloed by light. The film’s gauzy diffusion filter bathes her in an amber glow, washing the palette in creams, golds, and pale blues. She is less person than vision. Michael Fitzhubert’s fixation after her disappearance only intensifies this transformation. He clutches a fragment of lace as if it were a relic. Valentine’s Day promises love; the film delivers obsession. Miranda becomes most powerful once she is unreachable — frozen in absence, preserved in fantasy. Cinema has long taught us that a woman’s value increases when she becomes idealised, distant, untouchable. Miranda is no longer a girl; she is a projection.   The Rock as Refusal The Hanging Rock: Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975) Hanging Rock is volcanic, ancient, indifferent. It predates British settlement. It predates the school. It predates Valentine’s cards and corsets. Against its rough, shadowed surfaces and greenery, the girls’ white dresses look impossibly fragile — pure, virginal, bridal. The visual contrast is stark: colonial delicacy imposed upon Indigenous land. Still from the double-exposure sequence in Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975) The film feels dreamlike, almost hallucinatory. Weir uses slow motion, elongated pacing, and a technique often described as double exposure — layering images softly so that forms appear to bleed into one another. Faces dissolve into rock formations. Light flares across the lens. The boundaries between body and landscape blur. This is not a horror film in the conventional sense, but it carries the dread of one. The terror is atmospheric, not violent. The music deepens this instability. Zamfir’s pan flute drifts across scenes like breath — cyclical, hovering, unanchored. It refuses dramatic crescendo. It suspends us. Still from Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975) When Miranda, Marion, and Irma climb higher — with Edith trailing behind — they begin removing their gloves and stockings. The gesture is subtle, but radical. Gloves signify civility. Stockings signify modesty. To remove them is to shed discipline. To step barefoot onto rock is to feel something older than propriety. The last image of Miranda seen by Mademoiselle de Poitiers — blonde hair illuminated, body poised in stillness — feels almost sacred. Then she disappears behind stone. The landscape does not romanticise them. It swallows them. The police later theorise a male perpetrator — perhaps a bushranger, perhaps a madman lurking in the wilderness, perhaps even Michael Fitzhubert. The impulse is telling. Faced with female disappearance, authority reaches for a familiar narrative: a man must have done this. Violence must be masculine, external, explainable. The possibility that the girls slipped beyond patriarchal comprehension is more unsettling. Picnic Scene Still from Picnic at Hanging Rock  (1975) The film never explains what happens. And that absence matters. Joan Lindsay did write a final chapter — later published as  The Secret of Hanging Rock  — that offered a metaphysical explanation involving folds in time and space. In it, reality itself fractures. But her publisher insisted it be removed from the original novel. Mystery was preserved. The refusal of explanation is political. The girls are not returned to narrative order. They are not punished on-screen. They are not married off. They are not rescued. They are simply gone. What if disappearance is the only available form of autonomy?   Edith, Sarah, and the Girls Who Stay Edith Horton returns screaming, hysterical, disoriented. She becomes the sanctioned witness, yet her testimony produces no clarity. She is dismissed as overwrought. Her fear is feminised, trivialised. She survives, but survival brings no authority. Sarah Clinging to the Remnants of Miranda’s Presence: Picnic at Hanging Rock  (1975) Then there is Sarah Waybourne — the orphan who is forbidden from attending the picnic. Sarah’s attachment to Miranda is intense, devotional. She calls her an angel. She keeps tokens of affection. Her longing trembles on the edge of something romantic, though it remains unnamed. If Miranda represents transcendence, Sarah represents confinement. Denied the rock and denied Miranda, Sarah is left within the suffocating walls of Appleyard College. The mirrors return. The corridors narrow. Mrs Appleyard’s authority tightens. Where Miranda slips into myth, Sarah collapses under repression. The film allows queer undercurrents to pulse quietly beneath the surface. The girls brush each other’s hair. They recline together in dappled sunlight. They exchange glances that linger too long. Valentine’s Day insists on heterosexual pairing; the film suggests desire does not move so neatly. Desire circulates — between girls, between teacher and student, between absence and obsession.   The 2018 Series: Reframing Desire and Power In the 2018 adaptation, Marion is portrayed by Arrernte, Kalkadoon and Bundjalung actress Madeleine Madden, a casting choice that reframes the colonial landscape of the original narrative The 2018 television adaptation pushes these tensions forward. Marion is portrayed by Indigenous actress Madeleine Madden, reconfiguring the colonial landscape of the original. The presence of an Indigenous girl at the centre of the narrative unsettles the whiteness of Appleyard’s world and reframes the Rock not merely as backdrop, but as land with history and ownership. The series also renders explicit the romantic attachment between Miss McGraw and Marion. Miss McGraw’s decision to follow the girls is no longer abstract intellectual curiosity — it becomes longing. The repression is named. By foregrounding queer desire and colonial tension, the adaptation surfaces what was latent in Weir’s film: the Rock is not simply a site of mystery, but a rupture in systems of control.   True Story or Beautiful Lie? For decades, audiences believed the story was based on real events. Joan Lindsay was evasive in interviews, allowing speculation to flourish. She had attended school near the region; Hanging Rock was real; the date was precise. Tourism increased. The myth thickened. But whether it “really happened” is almost irrelevant. The story endures because it reflects something structurally true: that girlhood is often a site of projection, containment, and aestheticisation. And sometimes, rupture.   Valentine’s Day and the Politics of Being Chosen Valentine’s Day is about being selected. Desired. Claimed. Be mine. The phrase implies ownership. It suggests that love is acquisition. Still from Picnic at Hanging Rock  (1975) In  Picnic at Hanging Rock , the girls slip out of that economy entirely. They do not become wives. They do not become mothers. They do not grow into respectable Edwardian women shaped for marriage markets. They vanish before the script can complete itself. The men are left searching. The police construct rational explanations. The institution collapses. Mrs Appleyard, clinging to order and moral rigidity, ultimately falls from the Rock herself — Victorian authority undone by the very landscape it sought to tame. What unsettles audiences is not simply the mystery, but the suggestion that structures designed to shape women cannot fully contain them. That beneath lace and etiquette and Valentine cards, there is something wilder. On that St Valentine’s Day in 1900, romance gave way to rupture. The card says:  Be mine. But the Rock whispers something else. Some girls, the film suggests, choose not to be possessed at all. Still from Picnic at Hanging Rock  (1975)

Cinema has always told women that love will change them. Sometimes this change is framed as growth, sometimes as maturity, sometimes as “finding yourself.” But more often than not, it is a quiet demand to become smaller, softer, more pleasing — to shave off the parts that disrupt desire or challenge male comfort. Across decades of film history, women are repeatedly rewarded for self-erasure and punished for remaining whole. What makes this pattern so insidious is that it is rarely presented as loss. It arrives dressed as romance. As healing. As empowerment. The woman who alters herself is not framed as compromised, but improved. She is celebrated for adapting — for understanding, for forgiving, for bending. Meanwhile, the structures that require her to change remain intact and unquestioned. Cinema excels at turning sacrifice into spectacle. A haircut becomes a character arc. Silence becomes emotional depth. Endurance becomes virtue. The audience is invited to root for transformation without ever asking what has been surrendered in the process. And because these stories are so familiar — repeated across genres, decades, and cultures — they come to feel natural. Inevitable. Even aspirational. This is not an argument against love, nor against change. People evolve in relationships; intimacy reshapes us. But there is a fundamental difference between changing  with  love and changing  for  love. The former implies reciprocity and expansion. The latter asks women to contort themselves into versions that are easier to desire, easier to manage, easier to keep. Films like Grease,  The Blue Lagoon,  and  Paris, Texas  — each directed by men —  r eveal how deeply embedded this logic is within cinematic traditions that repeatedly frame women’s self-erasure as romantic, necessary, or redemptive . These stories do not simply reflect cultural attitudes; they help produce them — teaching women what is expected of them in order to be loved, and teaching audiences to read self-erasure as emotional growth. What follows is not a ranking of “problematic” films, but a close look at how cinema repeatedly frames women’s disappearance as romantic fulfilment — and what that framing asks us to accept, again and again, as normal. Grease (1978): Empowerment as Disguise Sandy’s original presentation in Grease Few films have sold this fantasy more effectively than Randal Kleiser’s Grease . Sandy’s transformation is still widely defended as liberating: she chooses to change, she “takes control,” she gets the boy. But this reading collapses choice into context, ignoring what pressures that choice — and what, exactly, she is being asked to abandon. Sandy does not grow into herself; she sheds herself. The transformation is total and carefully choreographed. Her soft Australian accent is flattened. Her curls — a signifier of innocence, gentleness, even awkwardness — are replaced with a rigid, hyper-styled silhouette. Her clothing shifts from light, flowing fabrics to tight black leather, visually aligning her with sexual confidence rather than emotional presence. Even her body language changes: shoulders back, hips forward, gaze sharpened. This is not a woman discovering desire — it is a woman learning how to perform it. The mise-en-scène reinforces this lesson. Sandy’s final appearance is staged as spectacle. The camera revels in the reveal, lingering on her body as a triumphant visual payoff. Music swells. The crowd reacts. Desire is externalised and confirmed through male approval. Danny does not need to reckon with his own insecurity, misogyny, or fear of vulnerability; Sandy absorbs the labour of transformation on his behalf. Sandy’s transformed persona What makes this so deceptive is that the film frames submission as empowerment. Sandy’s change is coded as confidence, as if sexualisation itself equals agency. But nothing in the narrative suggests mutual growth. Danny remains essentially the same — still smug, still emotionally avoidant — while Sandy is rewarded for learning how to be legible within a narrow, male-centred fantasy of femininity. The film teaches a devastating lesson with a smile: to be loved, a woman must be edited. Hardened. Rewritten. The final image is not romantic; it is instructional. Love,  Grease  suggests, is not something that meets you where you are — it is something you earn by becoming someone else.   The Blue Lagoon (1980): When Innocence Is Not Protected The Blue Lagoon  again directed by Kleiser is more difficult to place, but no less disturbing. It does not revolve around transformation so much as inevitability — and in doing so, it erases consent entirely. Marketed as a “story of natural love,” the film frames sexual awakening as organic and unmediated by power, culture, or history. Yet the camera itself betrays this fantasy. Aged just fourteen during filming, Brooke Shields’ body is framed through an unmistakably adult gaze: slow pans, soft lighting, a bare chest veiled by her hair, lingering close-ups that aestheticise vulnerability while disguising it as innocence. What the narrative insists is untouched by society is, in fact, meticulously constructed for consumption. Brooke Shields in The Blue Lagoon This is not love transforming a woman; it is cinema refusing to protect a girl. Childhood is collapsed into availability, and curiosity is mistaken for consent. There is no agency here, no selfhood to preserve or negotiate — only a visual language that normalises the disappearance of girlhood under the guise of romance. Placed alongside films like  Grease ,  The Blue Lagoon  exposes a continuum rather than an exception: whether through makeover or myth, cinema repeatedly prepares female bodies for desire long before they are allowed subjectivity.   It is not incidental that  Grease  and  The Blue Lagoon  share the same director. Both films were directed by Randal Kleiser — a man whose work repeatedly frames female transformation, sexual availability, and submission as natural progressions rather than ideological constructions. Across wildly different settings — suburban high school and tropical isolation — the same logic persists: female identity is shaped in response to male desire, while male subjectivity remains largely untouched. This is not an argument about individual intent so much as authorship and power. Kleiser’s films reveal how easily cinema normalises the idea that women must adapt, mature, or eroticise themselves in order for love to occur — whether through a makeover, a myth of “natural” sexuality, or the quiet erasure of consent. The repetition is the point. When the same story is told in different registers, it stops looking like romance and starts looking like ideology.   Paris, Texas (1984): Tenderness Without Accountability Paris, Texas  directed by Wim Wenders is often praised for its restraint, its melancholy beauty, its emotional seriousness. And visually, it is exquisite. But beneath that quiet surface lies a deeply familiar structure: a woman absorbs the damage so that a man can feel redeemed. The film’s most iconic scene — Jane and Travis reunited through a one-way mirror in a peep-show booth — is staged as intimacy through separation. They cannot touch. They cannot see each other directly. Jane performs behind glass, framed by artificial lighting and reflective surfaces, while Travis controls the terms of the encounter: when he speaks, when he listens, when the story begins and ends. The mise-en-scène is crucial here. Jane is positioned as an image first, a voice second, and a subject last. Her body is contained within a space designed for male fantasy, even as the film asks us to read the moment as emotionally sincere. Travis, unseen, is granted narrative authority. He speaks. He confesses. He reframes the past. Jane listens. Jane framed behind glass: blonde hair softened by pink, femininity carefully staged for consumption. The colour palette suggests tenderness, but the mise-en-scène confines her to an object of looking — visible, contained, and emotionally available on demand. What we learn is devastating: Travis was controlling, jealous, volatile. Jane fled for her own safety. And yet the emotional arc of the scene bends toward  his  suffering. His pain becomes the film’s moral centre. His regret is treated as sufficient acknowledgement. There is no demand for accountability, no confrontation with the long-term effects of abuse — only the quiet implication that love, once spoken gently enough, can undo harm. Jane softens in response. Her voice lowers. Her posture relaxes. She offers understanding. This is not healing; it is emotional labour reframed as romance. The woman changes by shrinking — by making herself safe again for the man who once made her unsafe. From a psychological perspective, this dynamic echoes patterns of trauma bonding and fawn responses: survival strategies mistaken for reconciliation. The film aestheticises this process, mistaking restraint for ethics, tenderness for justice. In doing so, it reinforces the idea that women’s endurance is a form of love — and that men’s remorse is enough to deserve it.   The Psychological Pattern What these films share is not just narrative structure, but psychology. They rely on a familiar internalisation: when something in a relationship fails, women are taught to look inward. To adjust. To soften. To try harder. Change becomes a moral responsibility rather than a mutual process. In real life, this looks like women abandoning careers, creative identities, friendships, or political beliefs to preserve intimacy. Sometimes this choice is conscious, even desired — and that distinction matters. But cinema rarely shows what comes  after  the honeymoon phase, when the self that was surrendered does not quietly return. Love that requires disappearance is not love; it is containment. Changing  With  Love To be clear, change itself is not the enemy. People evolve in relationships. The problem is asymmetry. Healthy love expands the space a woman can occupy — it does not ask her to step out of herself to make room for someone else. Cinema struggles to represent this because it confuses sacrifice with romance, endurance with virtue, and submission with growth. These films do not merely reflect cultural values; they help produce them, teaching women that love is something you earn by becoming less. The question these films never ask — and the one we must keep asking — is simple and brutal: Who are you allowed to be and still be loved? Agnès Varda’s Cléo from 5 to 7  (1962) — a landmark feminist film about self-recognition rather than romantic submission

Still from The Passion of Joan of Arc Joan of Arc was born around 1412 in Domrémy, France, to a peasant family during the Hundred Years’ War. As a teenager, she claimed to receive divine visions and went on to lead French troops into battle — an extraordinary act for a young woman in a rigidly patriarchal society. Captured at seventeen, Joan was tried by an English-controlled ecclesiastical court that scrutinised her faith, clothing, and obedience as much as her actions. She was condemned for heresy and executed by burning at the stake in 1431, aged nineteen. Her conviction was later overturned, and she was canonised as a saint. Carl Theodor Dreyer’s  The Passion of Joan of Arc  (1928) is not simply a historical retelling of a saint’s trial; it is a confrontation with how women’s bodies, voices, and faces are scrutinised, doubted, and punished when they exceed the roles assigned to them. Joan of Arc is condemned not only for heresy, but for the far greater crime of certainty — of speaking with conviction in a world that does not believe women are entitled to authority, especially spiritual authority. Joan’s faith is treated as delusion, not because it lacks sincerity, but because it inhabits a female body. Her visions are interrogated endlessly, her language dissected, her clothing policed. The court demands that she explain herself over and over again, as though repetition might reveal a crack, a lie, a hysteria they are already certain exists. This disbelief is gendered. A young woman claiming direct communion with God is intolerable to an institution built on male authority and hierarchy. Her trial becomes less about theology and more about control. Dreyer’s radical decision to construct the film almost entirely through close-ups transforms Joan’s face into the primary battleground. There are few establishing shots, little spatial relief. Instead, we are pressed uncomfortably close to Joan’s skin, her eyes, her tears. Béla Balázs described the close-up as cinema’s greatest discovery — a way of rendering subjective interiority visible — and here it becomes an ethical demand. We cannot look away. Joan’s face fills the frame so completely that it feels less like we are watching her than being forced into proximity with her suffering. The Passion of Joan of Arc Poster This proximity produces an unsettling intimacy. Joan’s face is stripped of glamour, framed in harsh light, her skin textured, her head shaved, her expressions unguarded. The judges, by contrast, are often shot from distorted angles, their faces looming, grotesque, fragmented. Power is inscribed visually: Joan’s vulnerability is exposed, while the men’s authority manifests as spatial dominance and visual aggression. Yet despite this imbalance, it is Joan’s face that carries moral weight. Her expressions are not theatrical; they are raw, contradictory, human. Fear and resolve coexist. Pain does not erase conviction. John Berger’s assertion in Ways of Seeing that “women appear” becomes crucial here. Joan is punished precisely because she refuses to merely appear. She acts. She speaks. She leads armies. She claims divine purpose. The trial is an attempt to force her back into passivity — to make her explain herself into submission. The relentless close-ups resist this erasure. Joan is not reduced to spectacle for male desire; instead, her face becomes a site of ethical confrontation. To look at her is to be implicated. Illustration of Joan of Arc depicted in the 1850s. Henrietta Palmer/Stratford Gallery The film’s treatment of Joan resonates disturbingly with later historical persecutions of women, particularly the Salem witch trials. In both cases, women who deviated from social obedience — who spoke too boldly, believed too fiercely, or existed too independently — were recast as dangerous. Male fear masqueraded as moral authority. Punishment was framed as righteousness. The spectacle of trial became a warning: step out of line, and your body will pay for it. What makes  The Passion of Joan of Arc  so devastating is not only Joan’s execution, but the sustained duration of her humiliation. Dreyer forces us to sit with her suffering without narrative escape. This aligns uncannily with Antonin Artaud’s later ideas of cruelty — not cruelty as violence alone, but as an assault on comfort, an insistence that art should unsettle the nervous system. Watching Joan feels like exposure. By the end, the viewer is left raw, opened, unprotected — mirroring Joan herself. Renée Falconetti’s performance is inseparable from this impact. Her Joan is widely considered one of the greatest performances in cinema history, yet it was also her only major film role. Much has been written about Dreyer’s demanding methods and the emotional toll the role took on her. Falconetti never returned to film and died young after a troubled life. This haunting afterlife complicates the film further. The spectacle of female suffering did not end at the frame’s edge. The cost of embodying martyrdom was real. As a viewer, I found myself profoundly moved, not in a sentimental way, but in a bodily one. Joan’s face felt almost too close — invasive, confronting, intimate. Her tears did not invite pity so much as responsibility. Emmanuel Levinas writes of the face-to-face encounter as an ethical moment, one that demands recognition of the other’s humanity. Dreyer’s camera enacts this philosophy cinematically. Joan’s face asks something of us. It refuses neutrality. Nearly a century later,  The Passion of Joan of Arc  remains devastating because it exposes a pattern that has not disappeared. Women who speak with certainty are still doubted. Women’s pain is still interrogated. Belief is still withheld. Dreyer’s film does not offer comfort or resolution; it offers confrontation. Joan’s martyrdom is not romanticised — it is endured, moment by moment, breath by breath, face by face. Joan’s power lies in refusal. Refusal to recant, refusal to disappear, refusal to be rendered small. Her face — immense, vulnerable, unyielding — becomes cinema’s quiet accusation. And once seen, it cannot be forgotten. Still from The Passion of Joan of Arc

Detail of Cover image from Don’t Shoot Darling! Women’s Independent Filmmaking in Australia (1987) Last year, I attended Don’t Shoot Darling: Women’s Independent Filmmaking in Australia , a lecture and screening held at RMIT’s Capitol Theatre in collaboration with the Australian Screen Research Collection. The evening foregrounded a lineage of feminist filmmaking that felt both urgently historical and deeply present — a reminder that women’s cinema has always been political, even when it has been intimate, domestic, or deliberately small. What struck me was not just the historical importance of the work discussed, but how insistently alive it felt. This was not a lecture about a closed chapter of feminist filmmaking; it was a reminder that feminist film practice has always been social, political, emotional, and collective. The lecture centred on the seminal feminist text Don’t Shoot Darling (1987), written by Annette Blonski, Barbara Creed, and Freda Freiberg — a book written not about women’s filmmaking from a distance, but from within the movement itself. Equally compelling was its emphasis on feminist filmmaking as a living practice: women making films, writing criticism, organising screenings, lobbying for funding, and documenting their own labour simultaneously. There was no clean separation between theory and practice, activism and art. This approach also extended to feminist film criticism. Don’t Shoot Darling rejected a singular theoretical framework in favour of contradiction, disagreement, and feeling. Articles ranged from reflections on funding structures to deeply personal statements by filmmakers about their own work. This refusal to tidy feminist history into a clean narrative felt especially relevant now, when cultural discourse often demands clarity at the expense of complexity. In the wake of the women’s liberation movement of the 1970s, women across Australia formed film groups, festivals, workshops, and funding bodies: the Sydney Women’s Film Group, the Melbourne Women’s Film Group, the Women’s Film Fund, and many others. These weren’t just production spaces; they were political ecosystems. Women made films, taught each other technical skills, distributed work locally and internationally, and lobbied for structural change in funding and film education. The screening of three short films — Woman’s Day (Sydney Women’s Film Group, 1973), Super Duper (Sara Dowse, 1976), and And TENO (Margot Nash, 1984) — offered powerful, varied representations of women’s labour: not just paid work, but emotional, domestic, bodily labour. These films resist spectacle. Instead, they insist on attention — to repetitive gestures, undervalued work, and the rhythms of women’s lives that mainstream cinema has historically ignored or aestheticised without care. This resistance to spectacle speaks directly to what John Berger famously articulated in Ways of Seeing : that “men act and women appear.” Within classical cinema, women have often existed to be looked at — their bodies framed as surfaces rather than sites of experience. What Don’t Shoot Darling foregrounds is a refusal of that logic. These feminist filmmakers were not interested in making women appear more beautiful or more palatable; they were interested in allowing women to act, speak, labour, and exist without translation for a presumed male viewer. Looking, here, becomes ethical rather than consumptive. Attention replaces surveillance. What emerged clearly in discussion was the importance of intimacy in feminist filmmaking. Many women working during this period chose to tell personal stories — not as confession, but as resistance. Family violence, reproductive labour, domestic routines, exhaustion, anger, absurdity: these were not marginal themes, but central political concerns. Violence, when depicted, was often intimate rather than sensational. Emotion was not smoothed out for academic distance; it remained present in the writing and the films themselves. What still feels radical is how openly these filmmakers claimed personal voice. Their films and writings were not neutral or detached. They were emotional, political, sometimes angry, sometimes playful. This challenges the myth that “serious” film criticism or filmmaking must be objective. Feminist film culture, as presented through Don’t Shoot Darling , insists that subjectivity is not a weakness — it is a method. Crucially, the technological accessibility we now take for granted — cheaper equipment, expanded modes of distribution, online communities — rests on groundwork laid by women who fought for access to resources when filmmaking was far more restrictive. As one filmmaker noted, “We were here all the time.” The problem was never women’s absence, but the structures that refused to see them. This legacy of feminist critique becomes especially relevant when thinking about contemporary conversations around gendered violence on screen, particularly in the wake of the Me Too movement — which has not so much revealed new behaviour as made visible what was long normalised. Take The Breakfast Club (John Hughes, 1985), a film often remembered fondly for its teen angst and character archetypes. One scene involves Bender hiding under a desk and placing his head between Claire’s legs without her consent. It’s played as a joke. The camera does not linger on her discomfort. The narrative moves on. At the time, this kind of moment was framed as harmless rebellion. Seen now, it reads clearly as sexual violation — normalised, minimised, and unchallenged. Feminist film criticism gives us the tools to name this violence retroactively — not to cancel the past, but to understand how deeply embedded these attitudes were (and still are). It reminds us that what cinema presents as “normal” shapes what society tolerates. Still from  A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night directed    by  Ana Lily Amirpour, 2014 What excites me is how many contemporary women filmmakers have reclaimed violence as something that can be reversed, reframed, or turned back against patriarchal power. Ana Lily Amirpour’s A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night (2014) is a striking example. The Girl targets men who prey on women — addicts, abusers, men who mistake vulnerability for access. Crucially, she is not framed as “fragile and ethereal” (Backman Rogers, 43), nor as a moral lesson. Her violence is quiet, deliberate, and unsettling. She seduces in order to expose. She punishes without spectacle. The film refuses to eroticise her actions for a male gaze; instead, it positions violence as a form of protection — even a grim, ambiguous justice. Power is not decorative here. It is dangerous. Similarly, feminist horror — from The Babadook (Jennifer Kent, 2014) to The Substance (Coralie Fargeat, 2024) — uses genre to explore women’s bodies, ageing, motherhood, and rage. Horror becomes a language capable of holding what realism often cannot: the internalised terror of living in a body that is constantly watched, judged, and disciplined. Still From  Promising Young Woman  directed by  Emerald Fennell, 2020 By contrast, not all contemporary films directed by women succeed in escaping spectacle. Promising Young Woman (2020), despite its feminist branding, feels misaligned with the values articulated in Don’t Shoot Darling . Presented as a candy-coloured revenge fantasy, the film mistakes stylisation for critique. Trauma becomes a device rather than a lived condition — flattened into pop songs, ironic costumes, and narrative “twists” designed for audience satisfaction. The so-called revenge does not feel healing or cathartic; it feels hollow, even cruel. Instead of sitting with the long, unglamorous realities of survival — insomnia, panic, intrusive memory, endurance — the film stages violation as performance. It asks us to applaud cleverness rather than confront harm. What makes this especially troubling is perspective. Promising Young Woman feels written for the viewer’s thrill, not the survivor’s truth. It weaponises flashback-like imagery in ways that feel invasive, daring the audience to confuse shock with solidarity. In this sense, the film reproduces the very logic feminist film culture has long resisted: turning women’s pain into spectacle. Don’t Shoot Darling reminds us that feminism in cinema is not about aesthetic provocation alone, but about responsibility — about who is being looked at, who is being heard, and who is being protected. What the Don’t Shoot Darling lecture made clear is that none of this emerged in isolation. Contemporary feminist cinema exists because of the groundwork laid by women in the 1970s and 80s — women who made films on tiny budgets, fought for funding, wrote their own histories, and refused to wait for institutional permission. Many of them only made one or two films. That does not diminish their impact. If anything, it highlights how difficult it was — and still is — for women to sustain creative careers within unequal systems. Feminist film history is shaped as much by refusal — to aestheticise, to simplify, to entertain at the expense of truth — as by production itself. It is fragmented, collective, and emotionally charged. But that is its strength. To revisit these works is not an act of nostalgic recovery; it is an ethical engagement with the past that sharpens how we look at the present. Watching these films, listening to these voices, I was reminded that cinema is never neutral — and neither is criticism. To write about film is to take a position. Feminist film culture teaches us that looking closely, feeling deeply, and speaking personally are not indulgences. They are political acts. Still from  The Babadook  directed by Jennifer Kent, 2014