Lena Dunham Gives Us Several Lessons in “Sharp Stick”—Don’t Listen to Them
Lena Dunham emerged into the film scene with much prospect: her first feature length film, Tiny Furniture, met with positive reviews and even managed to earn a spot on the Criterion Collection (although I do wonder what Dunham’s parents’ reputation as established visual artists led to this).
Tiny Furniture was most viewer’s first exposure to the woman most known for her HBO series Girls.
Lena Dunham’s work in film and television has drowned in cringe, tone deaf comments, rape apologia, and racial microaggressions that it seems as though she thinks it’s a competitive sport.
Now, twelve years since Tiny Furniture, Dunham returns with her second full length feature film entitled Sharp Stick. The film stars Kristine Froseth as Sarah Jo, a protagonist so empty that her most humanizing characteristic is the way she sloppily eats her yogurt.
Sarah Jo lives with her mother (Jennifer Jason Leigh) and sister Treina (Taylour Paige), who wax poetic about their current and past romantic tristes. It is never revealed why there is an emotional disconnect between Sarah Jo and her mother and sister—it is made obvious to us with seemingly no purpose.
We Are Robbed of a Connection With Our Protagonist, Sarah Jo
Sarah Jo’s personhood is defined by her love of yogurt and the way she traces the scar she sustained from an emergency hysterectomy in high school.
Dunham writes the serious medical procedure as a quirk, completely missing the opportunity to reflect on the emotional and physical impact this could have on a young girl.
A hysterectomy can cause early menopause, infection, vaginal issues, and other complicated side effects. It would have been interesting to hear about a young woman’s journey through menopause in high school and how it affected her self-concept, but we are only shown that it delayed Sarah Jo’s first sexual experience.
The hysterectomy is first, and only, addressed in the same conversation that Sarah Jo asks Josh (John Bernthal) to take her virginity.
The Sin of Virginity
Dunham attempts to make a sex positive film but does just the opposite.
Celibacy, whether voluntarily or not, can be othering. We have a natural yearning to relate to the people in our lives, and our sexuality can often be alienating when it differs from the norm.
Arbitrary notions of virginity contribute to this alienation. It is a tool of shame, and it is a concept historically rooted in male ownership.
Sarah Jo’s fixation on her own virginity as a disadvantage is a tired message and points to lazy writing, but we can make some sense of it when considering the context Sarah Jo exists in. Sarah Jo’s mother and sister Treina are defined by the men they are loving or hating or missing or fucking.
Sex is important and human, but Dunham lazily relies on sexuality as the singular, foremost expression of oneself and the ultimate method of knowing another person.
That is certainly a valid belief for many people, but Dunham fails to show why Sarah Jo wants this, only that she should want it to be that way. The difference between the two is that the latter supports the social norm, while the former is a personal experience.
The Younger Student and Her Older Teacher
Can we all agree that we are sick of this story arch?
The young inexperienced girl who wants nothing else than a man to show her the world through his penis. Sarah Jo is blind until she meets Josh, a middle-aged affluent white man with a love of mid 90s rap. Sarah Jo has her yogurt; Josh has his rap--that is what we get from this pair. Never mind the fact that Josh is married to an unnamed woman (played by Dunham herself).
Sarah Jo and Josh are inevitably found out
Before the Sarah Jo and Josh are inevitably found out he gives Sarah Jo his the most valuable knowledge to her: pornography.
The Porn Hero
Dunham Succeeds in writing a funny, sweet character in Vance Leroy (Scott Speedman), the porn star Sarah Jo settles on when searching for a favorite actor. Vance is shown in only a few short clips, yet he is the most well thought out character. He has an earnest respect for sex work; it comes across as warm, inviting, and without shame. Vance’s small presence in the film represents another missed opportunity.
Taylour Paige as Treina
Patron Saint of White Feminism
Dunham paints a picture of white feminism and forgets the rest. For instance, she lazily writes Treina and Arvin into the script, who are the only two POC characters in the film. Not that it is solely about quantity, but the quality of the characters also lack.
Treina is Sarah Jo’s half sister whose addiction to social media and accidental pregnancy serve, I guess, as a foil to Sarah Jo’s disinterest in internet popularity and inability to become pregnant. Arvin is the young, attractive man who meets Sarah Jo for a casual hook up. He serves as a messenger between Sarah Jo and her hero, Vance Leroy.
Dunham’s treatment of these characters once again present great promise and opportunity, but it falls short on its face.
What stands out the most throughout Sharp Stick is the difference just 12 years has done to change how we view feminism, sex positivity, and inclusion. It was much easier back then to slap a “feminist” seal of approval sticker across a project and have it be just that. These days audiences are looking for something more nuanced and thorough.
Whether you’ve seen the film or not, how do you feel more surface level feminist messaging is working these days? Does it give you hope for more critical thinking, or fear of more reactionary politics?
