"Badly Behaved" Women in Adele Lim's JOYRIDE

A written response by Xuanlin Tham

The model minority myth paints a story in rather broad strokes. It’s a term of phrase used to summate the idea that ethnic minorities, particularly Asian Americans, face no barriers to upwards social mobility due to an inherent propensity for hard work, assimilative obedience, and general ‘good behaviour’ that sets them apart from other ethnic groups.

It’s less helpful to understand this as a homogenising and monolithic phenomenon, and more interesting to look at the ways these narratives – though clunky – have been internalised, reproduced in our cultural touchstones, our upbringings. Interesting, too, is the way the notions perpetuated by the model minority myth intersect with gender – and what expectations are then generated for Asian American or diasporic East Asian women, who are not only expected to be demure, but excellent, too.

On the terrain of representation, then, perhaps the greatest intervention we can make is to nourish a plurality of narratives: to populate our stories with images of Asian characters that engage with our two-dimensional construction, and the ways structural racism attempts to pit us against other ethnic minorities. Sometimes, these narratives should be allowed to be loud, vulgar: to encroach on the territory of comedy and bad taste previously deemed acceptable only to the white, male majority. When you’re fighting back against a politics of respectability, sometimes nasty is the way to go.

Adele Lim’s Joy Ride is one such nasty intervention. Audrey, an Asian American adoptee (Ashley Park) is a lawyer who embarks on a work trip to China – she has it on good word that if she can close this specific deal with a Chinese client, the promotion she’s dreamt of will be hers. She doesn’t speak Mandarin, though, so her childhood best friend, the irreverent, sexually liberated ‘struggling artist’ Lolo (Sherry Cola), tags along to be her translator. But soon enough, the trip transforms into a search for Audrey’s birth mother, and they’ve picked up two stragglers on the way: the socially awkward Deadeye (Sabrina Wu), and famous soap opera actress Kat (the Oscar-nominated Stephanie Hsu, of Everything Everywhere All At Once). It’s a wild, continent-hopping journey: stuffed to the bumholes (literally) with drugs, a highlight is its Girls Trip-esque sex montage that sees a very creative use of a basketball and a back massager. Where the long history of the movies – and fiction in general – has seen Asian women reduced to sex objects, fetishised and dehumanised, it is always refreshing to witness stories where their sexual agency is celebrated, and where they call the shots.

Yet some of Joy Ride’s most interesting aspects lie behind its neon-flashing, joke-a-mile-a-minute veneer: an unexpected twist that unravels the trip’s purpose near the film’s end challenges our preconceptions of what an ‘adoptee-returns-to-the-homeland’ story looks like. Other touches trouble the narrative in fascinating ways – an allusion to Audrey’s ‘internalised racism’ that sees her either consciously or subconsciously never date Asian men is among the film’s most subtle yet cutting flourishes. It’s all packaged in a rowdy, rude jack-in-a-box, but Joy Ride has heart – and the canon of the debauched girls’ trip deserves its foul-mouthed Asian protagonists, too. Not model minorities: not just A+ grades, and doctors, and lawyers; but badly-behaved, deranged women. Because if white men get away with it, why should the rest of us sit out of the fun?

KOKOMO CITY: Interview with director D Smith

Sundance Film Festival hit KOKOMO CITY gives us unfiltered access to the insights of four Black trans women sex workers in Atlanta and New York City - Daniella Carter, Koko Da Doll, Liyah Mitchell, and Dominique Silver - each telling their own no-holds-barred stories. Drawing on her experience as a two-time Grammy Award-winning music producer, director D Smith, brings a kinetic energy to the storytelling that parallels the quick-fire vitality of her contributors.

We spoke with D Smith about how she set out to humanize the experience of transgender sex workers, about her distinctive creative approach as a first time filmmaker, and about the solidarity that the film aims to galvanise. Speaking with D Smith is our Impact Producer Toni Lee.

Toni Lee:

Thanks so much for joining us. It's such a pleasure to speak to you about your debut feature Kokomo City - a really refreshing, bold and exciting film. Unlike anything I've seen. I also think that cold opening is something that should go down in storytelling history because it was just so smart and funny and so well-timed. Thank you. So obviously, you've experienced success in the music industry - a two-time Grammy Award winning producer, singer songwriter. So I'd just love to know, why did you turn to filmmaking and how Kokomo City was born?

D Smith:

Well, I've been producing music for over 15 years in the industry. I've worked with a lot of artists, and 2014 I decided to transition and when I did that yeah everyone was just like, peace. Good luck with that! And yeah, all of my connections, all of my contacts and relationships were just non-existent at that point. I've had a couple people still stay by my side, but it wasn't enough for me to sustain you know, my life. So I basically struggled for years - homeless and depending on people, relying on people, and when music is the only thing that you know, since a child, it’s very hard as a trans woman, trying to transition, to find work. How do you do this when people know that you're the producer of Shoot Me Down for Lil Wayne, or you work with André 3000. I was like, what am I supposed to do? So I went through a really dark space, trying to figure that out for years. But the idea to do Kokomo City came to me in like 2019 or so when I thought about it, and I just started to pursue looking for directors and people. Again, I was turned down by everyone. No one wanted to do it. And so it left me with no choice but for me to be the director and that's how I got here.

Toni Lee:

I mean, so often, especially for Black women filmmakers, they are left to kind of put everything together themselves and create something from scratch. I also think that this is to the credit of the film - as you can really feel the authenticity and honesty there. The music, as well as stylistically. It really stands out. The music is silky smooth, and shot in black and white - beautiful imagery, and the tone as well - so humorous and sometimes outlandish. I'd love to know more about your creative approach going into this being the main force creatively and having a distinct style?

D Smith:

That's exactly what it was. I really wanted to. It was very important for me. I didn't have a lot of options as far as how I am going to get back on my feet or take care of myself. I think the main motivation was damn like, if I am, you know, in this situation, imagine trans women that never had anything close to opportunities that I have, and that I've had, even though I've worked very hard, I avoided a lot of things that trans women have to go through to maintain a living, and so I was drawn to the story in the narrative of sex workers - the girls that aren't heard, that aren't protected, that aren't respected, that aren't seen. I wanted to tell the story in the most creative, but most dignifying, way. So it was like a cross, how do I serve them and serve myself at the same time as a director because I don't want to do a documentary that feels like your run of the mill, oh, my God, another LGBT, another transgender another… I just did not want to be in that boat at all - no matter what the story was. I didn't want to do it. Even if I did a documentary about horses, I wouldn't have been a normal documentary. I would have found a way to be creative and do that. But I definitely want to talk about something that had a purpose in which these stories are very important and extremely urgent. But how do I draw people in without them being turned off by the word “transgender”, or, you know, “LGBT”, so that was the fun part, too. That's creative. You know, that's creativity. It's trying to find that balance. And so that was it. It was fun for me to figure that out.

Toni Lee:

I’d just like to pick up on what you said about creating something that doesn't turn people off - the word “transgender”. You said you're interested in getting people from outside the LGBTQ community to be interested in the stories and the film, and also something you describe as a “red carpet narrative” which seemed prominent at the time you were making the film. In terms of transgender content. Could you explain a little about this and why you wanted to appeal outside instead of say, just looking internally for your community?

D Smith:

It's kind of like a church, right? Like growing up, we always had fundraisers. I don't even know what we were raising money for, but it was always reaching out to the world outside. I grew up in a very small church, and it was just four walls and always the same people, always the same approach to spreading the word of God. This is so boring. There were so many creative ways that we could have approached bringing people in. We just want people to not be afraid, or not be measured on how they speak to us with all the rules, all the protective orders, and all of the fortresses that are built around us as Queer people which which we want to be safe, but a lot of times the wording and the messaging could really drive people away. Personally, I miss a lot of things as a Black person. A lot of trans people or Queer people can say, you know, screw them, you know, fuck them. I don't care, but I do. I missed a lot of things, and I feel excluded from those because of who I am. So I wanted to find a way to bridge that to the outside world. So a lot of those components, a lot of the wording and a lot of things in editing. I really wanted to be careful not to censor the girls - to find a good balance.

Toni Lee:

One of my favorite scenes is when Daniela (Carter) is in the bath, really relaxed, wearing a bonnet and speaking really candidly about agency and survival, work and resources. It's just really amazing the way she links her particular experience as a Black trans woman and as a sex worker with a wider experience of Blackness and of patriarchy and of male violence - and that sense of freedom. Could you delve a little bit more into the literal process? How do you draw out those sincere moments with the cast members?

D Smith:

I am a great listener. If it's something of value, and I feel like it could lead to a resolution, I'm going to listen, I will listen, I don't care if it's two hours, I will listen and my approach was to just take as much time as I can, or that they needed to say what they wanted to say. But as a director, sometimes, honestly, I had to cut them off and kind of redirect them because they would get maybe too deep. No one villainized Black people or Black men in this film, but all of these girls had a chip on their shoulders from bad experiences. Who could blame them? Right? So, sometimes I would have to snap them out of how they're saying things, but continue to say it. Daniella on the other hand is a genius. I was in complete awe of how she explained things but I quickly learned her power and how to direct that power to the right space, because you can, no matter how smart or brilliant you are, if it's pointed in the wrong direction, it could backfire or it could just never be found. Finding the things that I thought she was really passionate about, but also that will strike a nerve in the mainstream Black community. And I don't mean that in the game kind of way, just in a way that they will respond to rather than watching the film or talking amongst ourselves as Black people, whatever that is. I had to find those things that really meant something to her, but direct it to the people that we need to speak with and yeah, so a lot a lot of times I did have to kind of let the girls talk but also remind them what we want. And sometimes I kept it raw because I really wanted the film to feel raw but overall, there was a message that we want to see Kokomo City.

Toni Lee:

There's a really great sense of balance between Daniella, Dominique (Silver), Lyhah (Mitchell) and Koko Da Doll. They all have distinct storytelling approaches and experiences, and it works so well together. But, your other tertiary characters like Lo. He's a really funny storyteller, and he's also quite honest. How did you actually choose to bring the cast together and where did you find them all?

D Smith:

It's very important for me as a filmmaker - or the leader of a project - to find someone with star quality. You want to find someone with that je ne sais quoi and sometimes it doesn't look like a supermodel. Sometimes it doesn't look like a politician. Some stars come in different shapes, sizes, colours and backgrounds - and I know personally, when people have that special thing. It's just a matter of them feeling as comfortable as you want them to, so I found it was very important that I connected with them and their story and what they wanted to say. It's okay if you have some past trauma, but also want it to be controlled enough that you could speak your mind where it's not just outrageous and no one could listen to it. So I need it to be about temperament, you know, vocal quality vocal tone or that something in their eyes, like Lyhah has in hers. It is transfixing. There's something very innocent and vulnerable about her eyes. And I'm drawn to that and Dominic's voice - there’s so much. I wanted to have a variety of uses and textures and emotions and energy in the film. So I kind of like to base it around what I have and what I don't have.

Toni Lee:

Now something I'm just quite curious about, is the actual title so where is Kokomo City? Is it a place? What is that song? Where does it come from?

D Smith:

Kokomo City is a state of mind. I feel like this is like the new LGBT. I feel like the state of mind of Kokomo City really represents who we are as Queer people. Or even where I wish it will go where we could talk freely more human-like, you know, two people? So when I was looking for copyright free music from the 1930’s. I wanted something Black and bluesy, like Leadbelly or Muddy Waters or these old Blues rock artists. I was doing some due diligence on songs and I found this song from 1937 called Sissy Man Blues by a black man in the 30s when Black men and people were still getting hung and lynched and murdered. One of the lines in the song said: “Lord, if you can't bring me a woman, please bring me some sissy man”. This guy was like the Usher of that time - he was cool. His name was Kokomo Arnold. I wanted to name the film something that wasn't predictable, or a cliche like ‘Transaction’, or a play on anything that felt LGBT or Queer. I wanted something that felt fresh. So a guy that was singing about something sexual like that, back in the day, how perfect! I didn't know about this guy. So it was really cool to just stumble on that it was just divine. I had to take his name.

Toni Lee:

I wanted to make space to honor Koko Da Doll who, since filming, was killed due to gun violence. That's something that comes out in the film as well - that despite the humor, the beauty, the honesty, there's this element of survival work and vulnerability and threat that comes with being a sex worker, and being a trans woman. I'd just love to know if there’s any ongoing impact or solidarity that you'd want to see from the film industry and audiences after viewing your film and learning about the cast, and with trans women more generally?

D Smith:

I mean, number one, Koko was an incredible spirit, an incredible person, a gift. And I'm just very happy that I was able to meet her and record her and talk with her every other day. I'm looking through our messages, and it's just so consistently humble and sweet and genuine. And it was very important. One of the most important things in the film was having her because it really showed how respectful and genuine and beautiful trans people could be. And trans people are so humble and it’s just a very unique personality, very calm, very funny - I don't even know if she knew how funny she was. She was just really country Southern, but very gifted in the sense that people were just drawn to her personality. So I think seeing more of those people, seeing trans people or Queer people in a space of just complete comfort, contentment and happiness. I want more of that and I think this is a great start. It's very important that the mainstream audience sees that.

KOKOMO CITY is out on general release on 4 August

For help, advice, information or support for the trans / LGBTQIA+ community please see here:

Stonewall UK

Mermaids

GLAAD

Terrence Higgins Trust

Medusa and neon-lit churches turned political headquarters

By Rafa Sales Ross

When Anita Rocha da Silveira’s piercing suspense Medusa began its festival run at the prestigious Director’s Fortnight sidebar at the Cannes Film Festival in July of 2021, Jair Messias Bolsonaro was the President of Brazil. The country still found itself in deep mourning for the thousands who lost their lives to COVID-19, with many citizens blaming the haunting number of victims (which currently sits at a staggering 700 thousand) on Bolsonaro’s loose grip on the public policies around isolation and vaccination.

Things have changed drastically in the two years between that Cannes premiere and the film’s UK release. Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva became president in October of 2022, returning to the chair he occupied between 2002 and 2010 less than a year after being released from an unlawful imprisonment that lasted 580 days. As I write this, it’s been mere hours since Bolsonaro became barred from running for office again until 2030, the byproduct of an investigation that concluded the politician abused his power and cast unfounded doubts on the country’s electronic system.

This brief foray into politics is vital to understanding the key themes in Silveira’s sophomore feature, which follows a group of highly-religious young women who spend their days preaching female prudishness at a neon-lit church and their nights as masked vigilantes ready to hunt and hurt sinful dissidents. The two heads of the group are the conservative dream of Brazilian perfection Michelle (Lara Tremouroux), pale-faced, blonde and homemaking, and her best friend, Mari (Mari Oliveira), framed as the meek sidekick whose existence revolves around her more popular counterpart.

The eerie yet well-established rhythms of the community are stirred when one of the vigilantes’ outings goes awry, leaving Mari both physically and emotionally scarred. With a throbbing gash on her once pristinely smooth face, the woman tastes both the freedom and the isolation that comes with imperfection. Kicked out of the plastic surgeon’s office where she worked as a nurse, Mari takes a new job at a rehabilitation clinic for comatose patients, finding in the company of the unconscious the catalyst for a much-needed awakening.

Medusa is one of the latest additions to contemporary Brazilian films to employ genre tropes to build a layered critique of Bolsonarism, joining the likes of Iuli Gerbase’s hauntingly prescient The Pink Cloud (2021) and Renata Pinheiro’s foray into animism King Car (2021). It is, however, in Gabriel Mascaro’s 2019 Divine Love that Medusa finds its perfect companion, both films tapping into the dangers of the ultra-conservative values of religion seeping into politics through nuanced character explorations taking place within a church drenched in neon lights.

While Divine Love focuses on the religious value of marriage and coupledom, Medusa investigates the harmful ripples of extremism through issues directly tied to womanhood. Here, women are constantly badgered by reminders of their inferior position and the strict moral conduct they should abide by. The church’s male youth is aptly named Watchmen of Zion, their military drills conducted to chants of “guardians of the family, morals and the Lord.” Such persistent misogyny is interiorised in all its hatred, the women nested in the thorny bosom of the church slowly but effectively stripped of any sense of self. Their existence is one of servitude — to their families, to men, to the church, to God.

When Mari’s skin is violently ripped, what oozes out of her isn’t just blood. Pullulating from the unhealing wound is anger, the body and blood of Christ once symbolically offered in communion now physically acting as the triggering agent for revolt. As Mari undergoes a metamorphosis, the viewer begins to see the church and the community through her questioning eyes, bright lights morphing from halos to flames, faith slowly detaching itself from creed.

Silveira forgoes subtlety when weaving criticism of Bolsonarism into the film. Although the politician’s name is never mentioned directly, there is a wealth of references to key moments of his ascension to power. In 2016, one of Brazil’s biggest and most influential magazines penned an article on Marcela Temer, the wife of then-vice-president Michel Temer. The headline, in literal translation, read “beautiful, demure and homely,” the three words turning the private fantasies of the conservatives public and quickly appropriated by the Brazilian feminist movement to comment on the country’s rapid descent back into the sexist patterns of yesteryear. Michelle Bolsonaro (Medusa finds no coincidence in the naming of one of its protagonists), Jair’s wife, banked on this triad of values during her husband’s campaign. Her promise? To give Brazil back its “traditional family,” a core term to Bolsonaro’s eventual election.

Uncoincidentally, both “beautiful, demure and homely” and the concept of a “traditional” woman and family are weaponised in Medusa by the church leader who, of course, doubles down as a politician, preaching the values to parishioners slash voters. In this sharp dissection of the machinations of churches dressed as bubblegum coloured, pop-music playing havens, paired with an exploration of female coming of age in tandem with violence and desire, Silveira taps into much of what crowned her 2015 directorial debut, Kill Me Please, finding the space in her sophomore feature to further dwell on themes of longing and loathing as the driving forces — and ultimate destroyers — of community.

The work of a director confidently spearheading a new generation of Brazilian genre filmmakers, Medusa builds a sobering snapshot of late 2010s Brazil while never forgoing the endlessly entertaining beats of its premise. The result is a politically layered text primed for many a rewatch — and one hell of a fun one, too.

Rafa Sales Ross is a film journalist and programmer with work published on Sight & Sound, Variety, BBC Culture and Little White Lies. A proud Brazilian who relocated to dreary Scotland, Rafa holds a Master's in Film & Visual Culture and has researched portrayals of suicide in film for over a decade. Other specialities include accessibility-focused and community-led programming, Latin American Cinema and cinematic explorations of the diaspora. You can find her @rafiews or contact her via www.rafiews.com