The Dangerous Closed Loop of Film Awards | Opinion

If you were an American over the age of 5 last summer, you were probably aware of Barbie, the movie that set theaters awash in pink. It prompted viewing parties and widely-circulated memes; it was a legitimate cultural event. The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has recognized the film with a 2023 Best Picture nomination. Barbie's proposed takedown of patriarchy, however, seems to have not yet truly reached the Academy—no nod for director Greta Gerwig. The missed nomination is a loss for Gerwig individually, but it presents an even greater loss for the future of filmmaking.

Movies tend to tell the stories filmmakers know, the ones rooted in their own experience, or at least the ones centered on narratives they find compelling. This is how we get films like Steven Spielberg's recent memory-based The Fabelmans, Damien Chazelle's drawn-from-life Whiplash, or any number of offerings from Woody Allen. That connection can produce astonishing results that make us laugh, cry, consider the world differently, or affirm our views. While Barbie was clearly not Gerwig's Manhattan, it absolutely dug at existing gender roles and expectations and maybe even produced a warmer attitude toward feminism. The movie was pastel, but it was far from fluff. Gerwig has commented that she identifies with strong, driven women like Jo March in her Little Women; it's unsurprising, then, that her Barbie develops into a strong, mature woman as well.

Directors often talk about finding material that speaks to them, which typically means material that resembles their worldview. If directors skew heavily cis, white, and male, therefore, it stands to reason that cis, white, and male stories are those we see most often. These are the films held up as exemplars and cultural touchstones, and frequently become those destined for future reference. If you have any doubt, check out what's generally included on "best of" or "greatest ever" lists of movies. Even more tellingly, take a look at the "canonic" works included on most film school syllabi—works which, in turn, influence what young artists emulate going forward.

The effect is that the next generation of female-identifying creative minds struggle to belong, both in what they see and what they're allowed to create. In what they see because the narratives they experience don't resonate for them or their worldview. Representation matters, as the book world is beginning to address this through organizations like We Need Diverse Books and initiatives like #ownvoices. Hollywood needs to follow suit—fast.

Lack of representation prevents the connection that forms future artists, but it doesn't stop there. Those who persist and forge ahead are likely to feel the absence of a precedent for telling their stories, because success begets success. As Professor Ewa Mazierska wrote for The Conversation, "[Nominations and awards] can have a huge impact on which films [get] financed, how much actors and directors get paid for subsequent projects, and can impact whole film industries in certain countries." The cascading impact of the Oscars imprimatur means that those recognized are likely to gain further recognition—and those not acknowledged are further behind.

As a film teacher, I've witnessed firsthand how entrenched these norms are. Students sometimes approach me to say that they don't think they've ever seen a movie directed by a woman. Sometimes they point to one of the rare offerings directed by a female creative and say that it wasn't any good, with the obvious subtext that this means women can't direct. But both of these situations speak to the damaging effects of limited opportunity. If you've never seen it, how can you support it? If you judge based on a minuscule pool of options, how can you know what else is possible?

I've also seen how expectations like this can quickly mean the end of creative ambition. It's clear how readily young people internalize limits. Students occasionally mention that they'd never thought about pursuing a career in directing, or editing, or cinematography—because they didn't think of those as options for people like them. Often these students are female, but they're also young people of color, or LGBTQ, or represent other less-represented voices. "I didn't know I could do that," they say.

Barbie was a cultural powerhouse that brought people back into theaters and compelled many of us to reconsider social norms, gender expectations, and whether to wear pink. As Billy Crystal joked at the 1992 Academy Awards, when Barbra Streisand met a similar reaction for The Prince of Tides, "Did this movie direct itself?" More than three decades later, though, it's depressing to repeat the joke—one that has worn thinner than Barbie herself. Movies don't direct themselves, and it's long past time to give female directors their due.

Madeleine Deliee is a freelance journalist and educator. She has bylines with CNN, The Washington Post, InStyle, Southern Living, Playboy, Shondaland, and others.

The views expressed in this article are the writer's own.