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Film Features Film/TV

Barbie

When it was announced that a Barbie movie was in the works, it’s safe to say that one of the questions that crossed everyone’s mind was “Why?”

Barbie’s dream universe has covered everything from nutcrackers to mermaid lore, and it seemed like Barbara Millicent Roberts was past her prime. The Y2K aesthetic only made room for Bratz dolls, and the meme-ification of American Girl dolls transformed them from status symbols to internet mainstays. Meanwhile, the opinion of feminist scholars who had long criticized Barbie for the outrageous beauty standards she perpetuated had gone mainstream. Girls still love their dolls, but Barbie’s star has burned out.

My interest was piqued when I heard Greta Gerwig would be tasked with telling Barbie’s story. The plot has been kept tightly under wraps, with rumors ranging from a Wizard of Oz-esque storyline to something like The Truman Show. Those rumors were not entirely wrong, but Barbie exists as its own film.

From the beginning, it’s evident that the film is a meta-narrative, which adds to the satirical charm. Helen Mirren narrates Barbie’s zeitgeist origin story in a 2001 Space Odyssey-themed sequence, in which she explains that the Barbie doll was created for girls to aspire to something other than motherhood. Barbie is aware of her existence in the world, and aware of the impact that she has had on society as a trailblazing role model for career-minded women. As Mirren notes in her narration, Barbie has solved all the problems of feminism and equality – or at least, that’s the lore in Barbieland.

Margot Robbie stars as the Stereotypical Barbie. She lives in Barbieland with an endless array of Barbie variants, such as Doctor Barbie (Hari Nef), Writer Barbie (Alexandra Shipp) and President Barbie (Issa Rae), who preside over this matriarchal democracy.

Many Barbies live in Barbieland. But only Margot Robbie’s Stereotypical Barbie has flat feet.

Then we meet the Kens, who are just as varied as the Barbies, only less cool. Ryan Gosling’s iteration of Barbie’s companion lists “beach” as his profession. But it’s not easy being a Ken. Mirren explains that while Barbie has a great day every day, Ken has a great day only if Barbie looks at him.

Barbie’s perpetual string of great days takes a turn for the worse when she brings one of her nightly blowout parties/soundstage musical numbers to a record-scratch halt when she blurts out, “Do you ever think about dying?” The next morning, she wakes up with bad breath, falls out of her dream house, and discovers that her feet have gone flat. Realizing that something is wrong, she pays a visit to Weird Barbie (Kate McKinnon), who explains that the only way for Barbie to restore her perfect tiptoe and avoid cellulite is to trade in her heels for Birkenstocks and take a trip to the real world. Since Ken only exists as an ornamental addition to Barbie’s iconography, he joins her on the journey to reality, where they make discoveries that pose an existential threat to Barbieland’s women-run utopia.

Good morning, Barbieland!

The idea of a doll visiting the real world and learning to adjust to a life that’s not so fantastic was always in the cards for Barbie – the 2000 movie Life Size starring Tyra Banks walked so Robbie could run with Barbie. As she is catcalled by construction workers in Venice Beach, Barbie realizes misogyny did not end with Supreme Court Barbie. She suffers an existential crisis when she realizes that her very brand is determined by an all-male team led by Mr. Mattel (Will Ferrell.)  

Gerwig uses Barbie to explore the nuances of feminism, but the film never feels too heavy or takes itself too seriously. It helps that Mattel isn’t afraid to laugh at itself, like the recurring joke where Midge (Emerald Fennell), a pregnant version of Barbie that was deeply unpopular with kids, is banished to Skipper’s Treehouse. Gerwig’s attention to detail and dedication to the source material not only satiates a longing for nostalgia, but also showcases her intentionality. Since no child ever made a doll take the stairs in her Dream House, these Barbies float through the air from bedroom to dream car. Gerwig makes that floaty feeling last.

Categories
Cover Feature News

Ben Cory Jones’ Trip from Memphis to Hit-Making Hollywood Writer

“The great thing about what I do … I write Black stories,” says Ben Cory Jones, who started his professional life on Wall Street but found his true love in Hollywood. “Wall Street made me a smarter person, and it’s because I have a sophisticated worldview. I want to bring that to us.”

Jones, an original producer and writer for the HBO hit series Insecure, got his start telling stories in high school at The Commercial Appeal‘s teen newspaper, The Teen Appeal. “I am a product of Memphis journalism. I continue to read the Memphis Flyer in L.A.,” he says.

Jones began his journey at Memphis’ Central High school. It was there that he was convinced to pursue a career in writing. He knew he had a knack for it but it was his guidance counselor who pushed him to pursue writing as a career.

Christen Hill

Writer Ben Cory Jones wrote his way from the local The Teen Appeal to Underground and HBO’s Insecure — with a stop on Wall Street.

When Jones set out to find a college in 2001, his decision came down to either the University of Tennessee, Knoxville, or Morehouse College in Atlanta. Coming from a middle-class family in Whitehaven, UTK made more sense, financially. And Jones had already gotten accepted and knew he could afford it. But the guidance counselor who was impressed with Jones’ writing ability urged him to major in English at Morehouse. Fortuitously, he earned a full-ride scholarship to Morehouse and never looked back.

As an editor of the Morehouse College newspaper, The Maroon Tiger, Jones could never have imagined that he would one day be striking Hollywood deals and working backstage with film and television legends. But he wanted to go to work on Wall Street after college.

From Wall Street to Rodeo Drive

Jones was an English major and finance minor, and thought it would be best to go into a career where he knew he’d be financially stable. He began working as an investment banker in 2005, just after graduation. Engaging with the finances of some of America’s wealthiest families, he was privy to a life only a small portion of the nation gets to witness.

Then the 2008 recession hit, and the bank where he worked closed. Jones no longer wanted to stay in finance, so he went back to writing — this time as a blogger. It was after he started a movie review blog that he got the idea to become a professional writer for television.

He studied the television writing industry like a Wall Street commodity, calculating his next move.

“My job at the bank was ending because of the market crash of 2008, and I’m a calculated risk-taker.” Jones says. “I saw that there were all these different writing programs in L.A. that you could apply to.”

He was able to land several opportunities to participate in writing programs, including the ABC Production Associates Program. “As long as you can get your foot in somebody’s door …” he says. “Now you gotta learn how to work it. Now I gotta learn how to use my Southern-ness from Memphis, my Morehouse-ness, my gay-ness, my Black man-ness, my Wall Street-ness. I’m cobbling together everything about who I am in order to make an impact and be memorable to people.”

The opportunity to work on the hit HBO comedy-drama Insecure came from someone in his writing community, who happened to be an “awkward Black girl” — namely Insecure co-creator and star, Issa Rae.

“Issa has admitly said that I was one of the first calls she made [for the show] because we have known each other, socially, in the industry, trying to come up,” says Jones. “I think there was something about me being a Black dude from the South, who’s gay, who was also funny and interesting, weird and fly. Like, we just took to each other.”

The View from the Writer’s Room

Jones comes from a class of peers that includes Rae and Lena Waithe, known for shows such as The Chi and Master of None, as well as the movie Queen & Slim.

He and Waithe were in the car on the way to the 2018 GLAAD Awards when the idea of producing a BET spin-off of the ’90s movie Boomerang, which starred Eddie Murphy and Halle Berry, came up. Ironically, Berry was presenting Waithe with her award. Jones recalls: “She’s like, ‘Ben, I’m going to ask Halle if you and I do Boomerang, if she would executive produce it.’ After Halle presents her with her award, Lena goes back to the greenroom and says, ‘Hey, me and my friend Ben are going to do a reboot of Boomerang. Would you like to be an EP [executive producer]?’

“She said, ‘Yes.'”

Jones has produced movies such as Step Sisters, and was a writer for Underground, a thriller about the underground railroad in Antebellum Georgia starring Jurnee Smollett. It just so happened that Memphis was the show’s highest-viewing audience in the country.

Underground changed my life as a writer,” says Jones. “I thought I was gonna be known as the Insecure type of writer. Then I do Underground, they’re like, ‘Oh you can write that shit? You can write an epic thriller, drama, an adventure?’ I wanted that, because a lot of times in this industry, just as in life, people try to view you as one thing. I don’t want to just get pegged as a comedy writer.”

Jones has crafted his career after writers like David E. Kelley, whose writer credits stretch back to the late ’80s, his most recent being the critically acclaimed Big Little Lies. (Just Google him.) Jones touts his own ability to produce a variety of genres. His goal is to create high-octane shows, much like Westworld.

“You have to ingratiate yourself to people in order to learn this business; Hollywood is an apprenticeship business,” says Jones. “All the greats in Hollywood, they can point to the person that they were [an] apprentice to.”

Now, having directed, produced, and been showrunner to a multitude of shows, Jones knows it all goes back to his foundation of writing. “I don’t get my rocks off by being in front of the camera — the writers’ room is heaven to me,” he says. “It is my favorite place on Earth because it’s so fun.”

The distinct voice of Insecure beckons back to the authenticity of Black sitcoms in the ’90s. Yet now, it’s doused with a fresh perspective that transcends race. “When we got Insecure, we said, ‘This show is for us! Y’all can watch it, but this show is for us,'” Jones says. “The greatest compliment that we get about Insecure is that ‘this show sounds like conversations my friends and I have.’ And that’s all we ever wanted.”

There’s a Millennial voice that has impacted Hollywood in some beautiful ways. That may be attributed to the fact that the creators of the show derived from social media.

Hutchinsphoto | Dreamstime.com

Issa Rae

“The great thing about Insecure is that Issa Rae had those numbers on YouTube to show them that a show about Black women’s lives is important,” says Jones. The show’s cult following might contend this series delves into the journey of two exes, Lawrence and Issa, however, Jones describes Insecure as a love story between Issa and her best friend, Molly.

The show is a raw, funny, and endearing peek into Black life that isn’t driven by continual trauma or violence. It’s simply a show about Black people, living their Black-ass lives.

The Future After Insecure

“People are always like, ‘We need Black stories, we need Black movies,’ but the only way we get them is by having Black storytellers who are trained to do it,” Jones says. “They’re not trying to make us better; we have to make ourselves better.”

Jones noticed that there were fewer writing programs for young Black writers, so he built his own: @Benthewritersroom, a virtual writers’ room for new Black voices.

“Giving back, creating this program, has been one of the highlights of my life and career,” Jones says. “I’m the product of a lot of writers’ programs. I realized that these programs are fading in the industry, and I wanted to create a program that’s specifically for Black writers, specifically for underrepresented writers.”

Writers meet weekly for four months to develop their ideas. It’s his version of a boot camp for people who haven’t had the privileges he’s had. “I want to teach Black writers how to write. I want our skill level to be a level of excellence,” says Jones. “When you leave my program, you leave with a finished script. I’m going to teach you to have a product that is ironclad and sufficient to get your career started.”

Jones says he has a unique and valuable worldview that he is eager to unleash on the next crop of television writers: “One of the biggest lessons that I’ve learned in Hollywood is you don’t personalize things that happened to you, because if you do, then you will literally leave and pack your bags after a month. I don’t know a lot for sure, but I do know for sure that I have a God-given talent to write. And I have to protect it at all costs. I almost have to have an impenetrable barrier around me. My main concern is making sure that my writer brain stays intact no matter what experiences I have.

“The people who green-light shows in Hollywood are not Black,” Jones says, “so our job as storytellers is to make it appealing and give a view of why this would be important.”

Jones says he is a Memphian at his core. He bleeds Memphis and he wants nothing more than to make his home city better. He’s writing a show set in Memphis called Candy, built around a Black female mayor. “I want to bring the industry here to Memphis,” he says. “I can create a TV show that employs hundreds of people.

“Life is going to beat you up. This business is going to beat you up. But the thing that saves me is when I write. At the end of the day, no one can tell me anything when I’m writing.”

Categories
Film Features Film/TV

The Photograph.

In The Photograph, LaKeith Stanfield plays Michael Block, a feature writer for a fictional magazine called The Republic. As depicted on the screen, Michael’s job seems to consist mostly of lounging around the office looking really, really good — that is, when he’s not busy winging hither and yon on his unlimited travel budget. As someone who has actually made their living as a magazine feature writer, I have to give writer/director Stella Meghie credit for nailing the essence of the job.

I’m kidding. If Michael’s job was portrayed realistically, there would be a lot more hair pulling, imposter syndrome-inspired breakdowns, and late nights spent wondering if it’s too late to go to law school. He certainly wouldn’t be able to afford his spacious and immaculate apartment in New York.

Sorry to Bother You’s LaKeith Stanfield (left) and Insecure’s Issa Rae smolder sexily in Stella Meghie’s The Photograph.

But realism isn’t what people want out of a romantic movie. It’s one of the rules of the genre that our principals have to have aspirational jobs. Michael’s about-to-be girlfriend Mae Morton (Issa Rae) works as curator at the Queens Museum of Art — a job which would pay okay in real life, but not enough to afford an apartment with cathedral-high ceilings. It’s all part of the charm of the genre. Director Stella Meghie wants you to identify with Michael and Mae. They’re just like you, only a little better — the best version of you.

Besides posing in carefully placed pools of golden light, Mae’s current work duties include organizing a retrospective exhibit of her late mother’s photography. That’s how these two ridiculously good-looking people meet. Michael is working on a story about the disappearing culture of fishermen in rural Louisiana when he meets Isaac Jefferson (Rob Morgan). He sees a striking photograph on Isaac’s mantel, taken by Christina Eames (Chanté Adams). Christina, Isaac tells him, was once his girlfriend, but she moved to New York to become a photographer, and they lost touch.

When Michael returns to New York and tracks down the Louisiana mystery woman, it turns out she was Mae’s mother. When Michael and Mae come face to incredibly attractive face, sparks fly immediately. A few nights later, Michael scoops up an intern at the magazine office and goes to an artsy French movie at the Queens Museum, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mae. She sees him first, and their attraction is so electric, their respective wingman and wing-woman immediately fall into bed together.

Things take a little longer to develop for our classy protagonists, who, it cannot be emphasized enough, are just stupid hot. Before they get busy, they have relatable dinner conversation, like what the hell happened to Kanye West?

Seriously, what happened to that guy?

It will take an approaching hurricane to get them in the sack making the beast with two backs. As in King Lear, the intensity of emotion summons equally intense weather, only instead of grief and madness lashing the castle walls with rain, it’s the sexual energy released by these two hotties bumping uglies that’s knocking out power up and down the Eastern Seaboard.

Obviously, Michael and Mae need to be together for the good of humanity, but there are complications. Michael has applied for a job with The Associated Press in London, where he will cover Brexit with his smoldering sexuality several thousand miles away from his boo. Mae’s mom left her two letters when she died. One of them was for her, and the other for her father — but there’s no name on the father envelope. Turns out, the man who raised Mae was not her biological papa, and her mama has left her a posthumous parentage mystery.

So, in case you haven’t caught on by now, The Photograph is a fairly formulaic romance. As both a critic and a genre film fan, I don’t think there’s anything inherently wrong with following a formula. It’s how you execute that counts. Meghie knows what she wants, and she gets it from every aspect of the production. If anything, Stanfield and Rae are too perfect, and their relationship sometimes feels conflict-averse. The variation to the formula comes from the parallel story, told in flashback with the help of some acid-washed ’80s costume design, of how Christine escaped from poverty in Louisiana to become a famous photographer in the big city, and the personal price she paid for her success.

The question becomes, will Mae and Michael make the same mistake of sacrificing happiness for success? One thing’s for sure: They’re going to look good doing it.

Categories
Opinion The Last Word

Rooting Interest

A couple of Sundays ago, visionary writer, producer, and actress Issa Rae gave a red carpet interview at the 69th annual Primetime Emmy Awards. After a few minutes of routine celebrity banter, the interviewer asked Issa which stars she was rooting for to win the night. Issa answered with the brilliance and honesty that is a staple of her brand: “I’m rooting for everybody black. I am.”

Of course, that portion of the statement can be taken on its face, as in “I’m rooting for all of the historically excluded and underpaid black talent and staff to actually win something during this annual celebration of whiteness and white media,” and if one were to read her statement in that way, they wouldn’t be wrong. The post-“rooting for everybody black”-content economy is full of black writers agreeing that, yes, every time there is a black person in any sort of public competition and their opposition is whiteness, we are all casting our lots with the black contestants. But Issa Rae has consistently proven that she is a genius, and in her unapologetic expression of that statement during this heavily televised event, she gave black people young and old the freedom to plumb the depths of a long-held ideology that stretches well beyond the red carpet. If “rooting for everybody black” is personal, then, to quote radical feminists, it is also a deeply political act.

I am often accused of hating white people in this space. While individual white people have done a lot to me personally for me to justifiably dislike them, I don’t hate them. Honestly, I have better things to do with my time and energy than hate white people, like learning to speak Chinese or figuring out quantum entanglement. If there’s anything I hate, it’s white supremacy, the system that unfairly elevates white people and prioritizes their concerns and policies to the great detriment of my own ancestors and friends. And yes, while I do hate white supremacy, I love black people more. And I especially love black Memphians, having had the bulk of my positive formative experiences with them. I love black people here so much that, to borrow Rae’s phrase, I’m rooting for everybody black — everybody black in Memphis, in particular.

Mike Blake | Reuters

Issa Rae

Black Memphians should be winning; statistically, halls of power and paths to access should be swollen with black Memphians in leadership and administrative roles. Our governmental systems should be working to prioritize our concerns, concerns that intersect with those of most other marginalized groups in this city. We should not be locked out of the jobs that pay the highest wages. We should be considered at every phase of public planning that this city undertakes. We should not be this city’s footnote.

But we all know that these things are not the current state of affairs for black Memphians. We need supporters too. We need people to root for us, to make noise and rouse some rabble on our behalf, both publicly and privately.

Rooting for black Memphians is not some abstract concept. If you root for black people, you want them to win, and this is something that could totally be applied politically and systemically in real time. Issa Rae’s example is perfect. Rae is a showrunner and creator who, herself, is a black business. She’s employed black actors throughout the course of her career, many of them following her across her projects. She’s enabled black production staff to gain valuable experience at their positions, which sets them up for success further down the line. For you or me, rooting for black Memphians looks like this: creating opportunities for them to have the same economic, political, and social experiences and successes that have been historically denied. This means doing your part to create access to these experiences.

I do my best to support not only black success in a theoretical sense, but also in real time. I try to patronize black businesses. I sometimes de-prioritize my own comfort to put myself in the way of something that might harm a black person who doesn’t have the same privileges that I have. I strongly dislike talking on the phone, but I still call my elected officials when they are doing things that harm black Memphians. I advocate for causes that will positively affect black lives and have difficult conversations with people in my spheres of influence about bias, assumption, and prejudice.

We’ve long been told that it’s taboo, or even racist, to try and stack the odds in black people’s favor, both in Memphis and across the country. But as our city rockets toward its future, those Memphians who face the largest risk of being left in progress’ wake — or worse, exploited in the name of progress — need us to advocate for them more than ever.

Troy L. Wiggins is a Memphis writer whose work has appeared in the Memphis Noir anthology, Make Memphis, and The Memphis Flyer.