How The Searing Short Film 'Haven' Hones In On The Beauty And Horrors of Black Girlhood

Some films remain forever embedded in your psyche and stick with you long after the final credits roll. Writer/director Kelly Fyffe-Marshall’s searing short story Haven is exactly this type of film. In a few short minutes, Haven hones in on the beauty and horrors of black girlhood -- tackling a subject that is often buried in the black community. After the film’s premiere at the South by Southwest (SXSW) Film Festival, I chatted with Fyffe-Marshall and Haven executive producer Tamar Bird about the film, its perfect casting and why it’s so important to tell painful stories. The idea for Haven was sparked by a conversation that Fyffe-Marshall had one day with her director of photography. "My DP Jordan Oram (Drake’s “God’s Plan") had shown me another film, and it was about two people in a room," she remembered. "So he sparked something in me. I thought, ‘What's something that as black women we don't see a lot of on TV?’ For me, it was a black daughter getting her hair done. That's something that nearly all black women went through at least once a week as a child. So, I started with that, and it just became Haven.”

Once the idea was formed, Fyffe-Marshall found the perfect collaborator in Bird, an actress and award-winning Canadian filmmaker. "Kelly and I have known each other for about six years," Bird revealed. "When she presented this to me, I remember saying, 'This is it. Don't do anything to it, don't change anything. This is perfect. This is what we need; this is what the world needs.' From there we just wanted to make it as true to our childhoods as possible — that nostalgic feeling of listening to reggae music in the background and watching TV while you're getting your hair done."

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In Nia DaCosta's Tessa Thompson-Starrer 'Little Woods,' Women Save Themselves (Tribeca Review)

Women are constantly underestimated – shoved in corners and preyed upon as if we’re supposed to shrink into ourselves and wait for someone (typically a man) to come save us. And yet, for as long as hardships have existed and sexist rules and regulations have tried to box us in, women have found ways to rebel against societal norms and write our own stories. In her feature film debut, Little Woods, writer/director Nia DaCosta tells the story of two women determined to make a better life for themselves. In the poverty-stricken and depressing town of Little Woods, North Dakota, DaCosta paints the story of two sisters, Ollie (Tessa Thompson) and Deb (Lily James) who are trying to piece together a life for themselves after the death of their mother. Scrappy and determined, Ollie has set up a coffee stand out of her pickup truck, serving hot beverages and sandwiches to the men working in the town's plant. It’s a long way away from her days as a prescription drug dealer -- a job she started out of necessity to help her ailing mother. As the final days of her probation loom, an opportunity for a new start elsewhere keep her determined to stay on the right path despite foreclosure notices on her mother's house and her sister Deb’s frantic cry for help.

Deb isn't faring much better than her sister. A single mother with a deadbeat drunken ex (James Badge Dale), she can’t make a sound decision to save her life. Desperate for her independence and yet hopelessly reliant on her sister for help, Deb is too overwhelmed to think straight, and it’s up to Ollie to save her and her young son.

Little Woods is a bold feminist tale of sisterhood, tenacity and the weariness of being female in a world always trying to harm you. Set against the sparse but immensely beautiful Great Plains, DaCosta paints an empathetic portrait of America's opioid problem. For Ollie, selling drugs becomes a means of survival. However, she suffers in a constant state of anxiety, and she finds herself in the crosshairs of Bill (Luke Kirby), Little Woods' big-time drug dealer whose volatile outbursts leave her on edge. The nation's broken healthcare system is also a major thread in this film. Affordable healthcare and prescriptions are difficult to come by in general. The impoverished folks in Little Woods have it worse. Women, in particular, have no real access to complete healthcare and abortion services because North Dakota is a conservative state -- despite 1973's Roe v. Wade ruling.

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Nijla Mu'min On Her Stellar Coming-Of-Age Film 'Jinn' (SXSW Interview)

Girlhood, Black girlhood specifically can be examined through a variety of different lens. From locations to characters, girlhood can look drastically different. And yet, when told correctly, these stories can be a tapestry for representation, identification, and understanding. With her debut feature film Jinn, director Nijla Mu’min examines Black girlhood from the perspective of a mother-daughter relationship. Jinn centers around Summer (Zoe Renee), a bold and vivacious high school senior on the cusp of womanhood just as her mother Jade (Luke Cage’s Simone Missick) converts to Islam –effecively shattering Summer’s world as she knows it. Dorian Missick and Kelvin Harrison, Jr. also star in the film. Just before Mu’min won the SXSW Special Jury Recognition for Writing, we sat down to chat about her semi-biographical film, girlhood, and how cultures meld and clash with one another.

Mu’min’s upbringing and background helped her birth Jinn — it was a story that she’d been crafting all of her life. “I grew up in the Bay Area," she explained. "My father is Muslim, and he converted to Islam in the late 1960s in Oakland. When I was born, I was born into that community. My mother had converted to Islam when she married my father. I grew up going to the masjid, being immersed in that culture, and being around so many different Muslims and so many distinct personalities. The masjid that we went to was in this beautiful Victorian building with all these rooms and colors. I always knew that I wanted to tell a story that was centered in that community; in that space.”

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Identity And The Glory of Girlhood Stand At The Center Of Nijla Mu'min's 'Jinn' (SXSW Review)

Freedom. It’s a word that epitomizes our teenage years – a time that seems endless and glorious. However, it’s also a period where we often feel confined — boxed in as we rebel against our parents’ rules and traditions while trying to step into our own identities. Writer-director (and Shadow and Act contributor) Nijla Mu'min’s debut feature Jinn paints a picture of a teen we don’t often see in film. Jinn tells the story of a Black girl who wears her freedom and individuality like a coat of armor, while those around her — including her mother, are still trying to grapple with who they are. Summer (portrayed by The Quad’s Zoe Renee) is a carefree high school senior who embraces girlhood full throttle. A dancer with her sights set on securing admission to California Institute of the Arts, Summer spends her days hanging with her homegirls, flirting with anyone who catches her eye, dyeing her lush fro a variety of colors, and chomping down on pepperoni pizza and churros. Her relatively stress-free life is upended when her mother Jade (portrayed by Luke Cage's Simone Missick) decides to convert to Islam.

Though this is mostly Summer’s story, Mu'min also turns her lens on Jade. A prominent meteorologist on a network channel, Jade's life seems to be in order professionally, but her desire for something more profound leads her to Islam. While Summer is fearless — diving headfirst into exploring her sexuality, identity, friendships, and even Islam, Jade is wary and fearful. Missick brings a warmth, cautiousness, and strength to the role, even when Jade berates her daughter for not being who she wants her to be. It was intriguing to watch the relationship between Jade and Summer crackle and fade between friendship and guardianship. The mother-daughter relationship is central here, as we watch two very different women come to terms with who they are and who they are desperate to become. This juxtaposition was one of the most profound aspects Jinn. After all, our relationships with our mothers, though imperfect are often deeply embedded in who we are as Black women.

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