No matter how much time passes, I will always have a special place in my heart for the films of Sundance’s 2014 line-up. It was the rare moment when my movie critic credentials meant anything and gave me access to press screening rooms where I was met with an odd mix of indie cinema from around the world. Before every showing, there would be montages of images from the various titles that could be added to my calendar. Given that I wasn’t the most organized, it meant that I often went day by day and didn’t get to see a lot of the big breakouts that would’ve given me clout. Part of me still regrets being a day late solely because the opening night movie was Whiplash (2014), which would’ve been quite the brag. At least I was there for Dear White People (2014), Eskil Vogt’s Blind (2014), and a pre-The Brutalist (2024) film from Mona Fastvold called The Sleepwalker (2014).
Alongside A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night (2014), the one I most envied not getting to see was the directorial debut by Desiree Akhavan. Upon its release, I was intrigued by reviews that labeled her as “a pansexual Woody Allen” (I promise that was a compliment) and provided a unique perspective on the familiar relationship dramas of the time. Given that this was during a period that I would consider a golden age of indie dramedies, I kept my eyes open for when Appropriate Behavior (2014) would hit iTunes so I could drop the rental fee. To put it simply, I had found someone that I would’ve considered a significant voice to watch out for. When she popped up on Girls for a few episodes, I was thrilled she was getting opportunities and connecting with like-minded creators. Ironically, Lena Dunham also had a film at Sundance 2014 that I would go on to consider one of Joe Swanberg’s worst, called Happy Christmas (2014).
Also like Dunham, Akhavan would eventually release a memoir that I was quick to jump on. While significantly less controversial, Akhavan’s “You’re Embarrassing Yourself” was just as candid, creating a larger sense of the mind behind the writing style that was captivating me in my Mid-20s. They were the voices I turned to in hopes of learning how to discuss the plight of my generation. If anything, Akhavan’s candidness was a lot more appealing than Dunham’s because her humility felt equally rooted in a larger cultural identity. The anger she expressed towards her parents were often just as rooted in youthful rebellion as it was code switching. She was a Persian American bisexual woman. There are endless ways to express the feeling of ostracization and, I’d argue, it leads to even more impressive work in The Miseducation of Cameron Post (2018) and the BBC series The Bisexual.
When I recently discovered her memoir, I found myself moved on a level that I don’t think I have been since Elliot Page’s “Pageboy”… at least not any from the pop culture lane. This was the story of an artist who started on such a personal level before shifting to TV gigs that allowed her to stay busy, but left me wondering when we’d get another work as enticing as The Bisexual.
As the final chapters would suggest, there’s a greater reason why that hasn’t happened. The Bisexual was enough of a hit that there was a green light for a second season. Akhavan ended up passing for personal reasons regarding her collaborators. The impression one gets from the memoir is that she is at an existential period of her life. Like most women, it’s the age-old story of wondering what the next chapter will be. Will she be married with children? As a bisexual, who will that be with? From what I could tell, Akhavan hasn’t publicly announced any changes worth mentioning as a postscript.
The more I’ve pondered over the art that speaks to the millennial experience, the more I’ve accepted that a major part of the narrative is disappointment. My first year of college was timed to the 2008 financial crisis. Even then, there was the conversation of older generations applying for jobs meant for younger types who needed their foot in the door. It was the start of hustle culture and side jobs becoming more of the norm, especially with the rise of YouTube and the pre-profitable days of podcasting. To watch films like Tiny Furniture (2010) is to notice how hard work didn’t lead to personal satisfaction. There was still the awkward need to find one’s place in the world, but this time it came with self-awareness that gossip had a digital footprint and trends were about to move faster than they had before.
Akhavan was one of those creators who I felt symbolized the ideology shift that millennials carried in the last days of a blissful America. For whatever criticisms could be lobbed at Barack Obama, they now come across as hopeful and even aspirational. It seems embarrassing to watch Girls and realize that existential conversations about bad relationships and workplace mishaps now seem outdated. It’s not that they’ve gone away, but things have only become more self-conscious as time went on. This was the last era where an old-fashioned dream could still be universal, before media became so splintered that suddenly the old adage of “checking sources” no longer is as simple as checking the journalistic heavyweights because they’re all behind paywalls that one day go under because nobody can afford to access what should’ve always been accessible.
Not unlike the 90s, it was a mythic time that feels strange to recall, and it’s a major reason that I read “You’re Embarrassing Yourself” and feel some hope for our generation. There was a sense of freedom. With access to the internet, the conversation could be reshaped into something more progressive.
To hear Akhavan talk about her life is to see a woman who lived life more openly than I ever have. She admits to having a desperate need for validation, which, at times, puts her in frivolous situations at parties that cause her to question just how connected she truly is to others. As one of the few writers I’ve read that actively engages with bisexuality, it’s refreshing to see how she navigates between her female and male relationships. There are even fun comparisons between how each approach intimacy. Even then, Akhavan seems more drawn to the women in her life who embody the chaotic young loves that she was attracted to. She treats them as learning lessons that help her understand aspects of herself that couldn’t have been achieved in a more disciplined structure.
The infatuation also gives her room to explore the various conditions women of her generation faced. Early in life, she was considered the ugly girl at her school. There was a desperate need to be loved, and it came with a lot of body issues. To see her describe it is to see someone whose insecurities largely inspired her personality to the point she might’ve been sabotaging her career. Not in the sense that she would fail to land two films at Sundance or have a consistent directing career, but that it kept her at arm’s length. Even the relationship with her producer friend has an intriguing arc that reflects how complicated female friendships can be, especially when their directions don’t fully line up. What happens when you’re left without a support group, let alone someone who inspires you with every trivial conversation?
Along with the personal stories, the reason “You’re Embarrassing Yourself” resonates with me is because it becomes a quest to overcome her impostor syndrome. The psychological deconstruction reveals how much at odds she is with the world around her, whether it be her friends, family, or the industry she’s trying to enter. She feels out of place in California, and yet is told that Hollywood is the only way to be deemed as a success. As someone who doesn’t fit into the commercial box, her personal stories have only so much marketability, and she needs every possible person she can to back her up. If nothing else, she is the embodiment of why I will always prefer indie cinema to the alternative. It may not always be “better,” but as Akhavan reflects through on-set meltdowns, she must take risks to find something greater.
Millennials may be the next generation to shape the culture, but where does Akhavan fit into the puzzle? In a time when reboots are the only surefire hits, what value does a story about a bisexual Iranian have? If anything, the culture’s shift back towards conservatism makes the chances of something like The Miseducation of Cameron Post receiving a wide-ish release seem more anomalous. Culture is becoming less personal. The creatives are still desperately calling out to be respected, only now they’re stuck facing the apocryphal potential of A.I. art to produce slop on a scale they’d never keep up with.
In other words, Akhavan’s struggle feels reminiscent of one I’ve faced on a much smaller level. The end of her personal journey includes a passage so bruising that it caught me off guard. Somewhere amid concern for a meaningful life was the recognition that it had ultimately left her feeling depressed. There’s talk about how the pressure to be “presentable” has ultimately weighed her down. Suicidal ideation enters the fray, if just to contextualize what everything means to her. The efforts to live up to the American stereotype of a happy adult, like everything else, are unachievable by contemporary standards. Even then, how far can art get someone when the passion fades and they’re left with filling quotas?
Most of all, the larger narrative works for me because this isn’t attempting to lionize a film career. While it’s central to her trajectory, it’s buried alongside the more personal revelations of how she became the woman she is. By the end, the reader understands every insecurity that comes with being young and impulsive. It’s about trying to make sense of her cultural identity alongside her sexuality as she channels it into her art. The fact that she didn’t take an easy gig making season two of The Bisexual shows one of the most difficult decisions she’s had to make. When she had access to follow her dreams, why didn’t she follow? This is a study of the soul, of motivations that drive each and every one of us to keep going. On some level, the embarrassments are what make Akhavan’s life worth living… even when the results are heartbreaking.
I still long to see where Akhavan’s career goes. Her outspoken support of LGBTQIA+ causes gives me hope that she’ll land on a project sooner or later that will inspire her to try narrative cinema again. For now, she’s produced a lot of great work, including this memoir that feels ingrained in the millennial experience. Our stories are indeed very different, but I feel they exist in a similar vein of trial and error searches for some greater substance. It’s somewhere between who we are, what we make, and why we love anyone. One day, I hope movie theaters can welcome back indie cinema like Appropriate Behavior so that I can see new generations deal with their own paradoxical struggles. They’re there, but I feel like the conversation isn’t. For now, I hold this book as a new favorite that gives me a lot to mull over. It’s an inspiration to never stop questioning what motivates us to create. The answer may sometimes be difficult, but I think it’s worth persevering just to know what’s on the other side.
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