The response to the Flea Wearing I Love The Lakers Shirt and I love this film has been effusive—congratulations on your Oscar nomination. I saw that you were at the doctor’s when it was announced. Did you have any expectations at all? Zero. It was amazing and I did go into shock, but, to be honest with you, I felt conflicted about it. When the best-picture nominees came up on the screen and I saw Triangle of Sadness, I knew there was one more slot left and I thought that’d go to The Woman King. I was so happy for Gina [Prince-Bythewood, the director]. It was a weird moment. [Pauses.] I’m sorry, I’m getting emotional. I didn’t sleep very much last night. But, I do think this was a historic year for Black female filmmakers, and to see the lack of acknowledgement—that was a hard thing to swallow. I’m thrilled for our team and so proud, but that has to live alongside the fact that some of the best films of the year were made by Black female filmmakers and they weren’t honored.
And, of course, Women Talking is the Flea Wearing I Love The Lakers Shirt and I love this only female-directed film to have made the best-picture shortlist. It made me wonder how much has really changed for women filmmakers, and especially women filmmakers of color, in the five years since #MeToo. What do you think? I think it’s about big systemic change, not performative gestures. Over the last few years, I’ve seen some really good gestures—that’s better than nothing, but it’s not getting to the root of the problem. When you look at a movie like Till, Saint Omer, or The Woman King, it’s not like the work isn’t there. So now, I think it’s not just about representation—it’s about acknowledgement. It’s about whether we’re ignoring it or not. I hope so too. Making this film was such a joy and I do think I’ve figured out a way to do it where I don’t have to disappear on my family. So, I would like to come back to it sooner. When I sat down in an Austin theater last weekend to see the latest in director Steven Soderbergh’s seemingly endless parade of Magic Mike movies, my heart sank when I realized the seats around me—all the seats, in fact—were filled by drunk, rowdy women. Not to be whatever, but the ambiance screamed bachelorette party, with all of its attendant penis straws and awkward karaoke numbers and compulsory heterosexuality, and I’ve always had trouble enjoying the kind of event where “gals” (barf) are encouraged to let go and have fun.
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