Amanda Zanily Captures the Plight of Awkward and Lonely Young Women
The prevailing image of young womanhood typically evokes feminine camaraderie: Sleepovers spent strengthening bonds of sisterhood, balmy summer days consisting of aimless walks and pointed conversations, late-night phone calls filled with good advice and goofy observations. As far as pop culture is concerned, the act of becoming a woman is far from a solitary one – we learn to assume this role by observing the transformations that our mothers, sisters and friends routinely undergo, and by bouncing our own tentative trajectories (physical, romantic, emotional) off of each other.
What happens when a young woman doesn’t have the requisite female friendships and matriarchal connections to help her navigate the threshold that exists between girlish adolescence and feminine maturity? Italian writer-director Carolina Cavalli (who previously wrote the screenplay for Sundance critical darling Fremont, whose director Babak Jalali now serves as her editor) provides such an example with absurdist levity and probing earnestness in Amanda, her directorial feature debut.
The title character (rousingly played by Benedetta Porcaroli) is a socially adrift 24-year-old girl staying at her parent’s family home in suburban Italy. The true definition of a NEET (Not in Education, Employment or Training), she kills time during uneventful days by going to the local moviehouse and fostering one-sided crushes with lanky local alt boys. Despite being a thin, conventionally attractive woman, she can’t help but repel men and women alike, by possessing decidedly un-feminine traits: She’s brusque, boasts a lumbering gait and is prone to inelegant, expletive-laden outbursts (most often at her family’s dinner table). The only person she considers a friend is her lifelong nanny, who was recently commanded by Amanda’s posh mother (Monica Nappo) to distance herself so that her daughter can meet people her own age. When Viola (Giovanna Mezzogiorno), the mother of Amanda’s now-estranged childhood playmate, shows up at the house one day, she insists that her daughter Rebecca (doe-eyed, alluring newcomer Galatéa Bellugi) would love to reconnect. Initially resistant to the idea, Amanda decides that forging a female friendship might be the only thing that elevates her out of her festering pit of loserdom so that she can finally secure a boyfriend. What she doesn’t expect, however, is that Rebecca is perhaps even more isolated and reclusive than she is, and as a result intensely opposed to Amanda’s offer of friendship. The two eventually warm up to each other, but neither necessarily serve as a model of aspirational femininity. Obviously, being socially maligned together is preferable to treading the icy waters of encroaching adulthood alone.
The film’s singular brand of humor is one of its most successful virtues, delivered with deadpan poise by all parties. Sparse but effective visual gags heighten certain interactions, especially one between Amanda and a local grocery clerk. Vying for a store promotion of a free (with purchase) oscillating fan to boost her non-existent income, the clerk informs her that the fan is only eligible for redemption with 100 store points (essentially a $100 purchase). “That’s a lot of points,” Amanda murmurs. “For 20 points you could get Buston, the stuffed dolphin,” offers the employee. “But be aware that some batches have their eyes coming off.” After cutting to a reverse-shot of Amanda’s blank face, the scene cuts again to a gray-walled room where Buston sits on a prop Greek column, equally adorable and pathetic in his cutesiness. In essence, the dichotomy between these supermarket “freebies” also exemplify the frustration of Amanda’s idealized self and her current identity – the fan is practical and sleek, while Buston is winsome at a glance, but on the brink of physical wonkiness and, in the end, serves no tangible purpose in its environment.