What Is Fucktoys Really About? Annapurna Sriram on Sex, Curses, and Taking Up Space in Film

16MM FILM STILLS courtesy of ANNAPURNA SRIRAM

INTERVIEW with WRITER/DIRECTOR

Who would have thought a scrappy movie called Fucktoys, would make a striking impression in the narrative feature competition at South by Southwest?

Such is the case for director, writer and actor Annapurna Sriram. The film dives into the life a woman living in an alternative reality called Trash Town when finds herself increasingly addicted to psychics and chasing cash through erotic labor to lift what she’s been told is a life-threatening curse. Did we mention Sriram plays the character as well? With a blend of dark comedy and poignant storytelling, inspired by John Waters and Gregg Araki (with a distinctly feminine spin,) Sriram’s on-screen and behind the camera charisma crafts a narrative that is both unflinching and empathetic. 

In this interview, Sriram discusses the inspirations behind Fucktoys, the challenges of portraying complex characters within the sex industry, and her vision for creating cinema that sparks conversation and introspection.

PETIT MORT

Why did you choose the title “Fucktoys”?

ANNAPURNA SRIRAM

The title was originally a kind of joke, a purposeful twist on the term and on the common phrase “fuckboy.” I felt like I was often on the other end of the “fuckboys,” and wanted to create a satirical and campy nod to that circumstance. I felt like American filmmaking was trending toward increasingly safe and sanitized storytelling, and I wanted to find a title that was not only funny, but also unapologetic and bold. During the years I was searching for my producer, I was told by numerous people, both in and outside of the industry, that I had to change the title. I was also told that I was not experienced enough to direct a movie, or that I shouldn’t shoot on film. That I couldn’t have a script with this much sexual intimacy, or that I was not the right “pedigree” for their high net worth investors and silent partners. I was rarely taken seriously by men in the industry. They would invite me to meetings that were a ruse to schedule a date at a bar, or I would receive unwelcome physical advances from financiers promising me money. I was regularly fetishized or dismissed by the very people I was seeking advice, support, or collaboration from.

Is this double standard not obvious? Men in film are free to explore sexually explicit and fetishistic narratives, but for women these themes are tacitly forbidden. While cis male writers and directors are celebrated for pushing boundaries in storytelling, or for examining the sexuality of themselves and their counterparts, finding the financing and support for women to do the same is nearly impossible. The amount of condescension I faced as an independent filmmaker was frustrating to say the least. The more I was told “no,” the more I felt inspired and emboldened to make my film exactly the way I envisioned it. That’s how the title formally evolved from just an in-your-face gag, into a symbolic act of rebellion against the implicit “rules” of making art and the industry norms of what I, as a woman, am “allowed” to do.

So what was I to do with such an active awareness of these biases? Fucktoys. Not as degradation to a mere sex object, but as a term of endearment. Fucktoys—a powerplay, an embrace of human sexuality and play, a space hijacking, a punk femme mantra of reclamation. I have learned to embrace my sentimentality, my sexuality, and my vision without backing down because I’ve been told ad nauseam that I’m not allowed to. I can be bold in my decision-making because I understand the structures I work in and the knee-jerk censorship so many feel compelled to use to restrain and condition women, especially queer women and women of color. I became confident in my own duality both as the slut and as a sentimental, both the Fool and the serious film director. Confident that all aspects of myself can exist and be true and positive all at once. How rare is it that women and queer storytellers are given full permission to express and explore their experiences? We are punished or imprisoned in a pattern of narratives devoid of nuance, with only the bleak promise that it is through these molds that one can experience industry-sanctioned commercial success and mainstream appeal. I reject these molds. I, too, have the right to sex. Coming from a place of fear had dissuaded me, demoralized me, and censored my ethos. At what point do we need to take the risk to evolve the culture of American filmmaking beyond a fear of these taboos? To push boundaries despite the opposing social or commercial pressures?

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