ten female directors of the decade that i like, or love, and one that i don't (anymore).

A.O. Scott wrote of his decade in the movies in the NYT mag, a moon or two ago, and I had to read it, like, three times to be sure. No. Not a single female director. But really? I needed to make an alterlist. And then, ironically?, I needed a man's help. G & I put heads together, and off the top, came up with ten. (He even wrote a bit or two, you'll see.) Copy it by hand like it's the first grade, slip it over the counter at your local video shop, and brace yourself to fall hard.

Arnold, Andrea. Fish Tank is about a smart, yearning girl* in love with a charming man, but without the morality of An Education, and it would be unbelievable if it weren't so bloody real. Could be the best movie you won't see on a best-of list this year (it's yet to be released in North America). I saw it alone on my first tired-happy night in Paris, in an exquisitely sixties cinema, eating nougat. Maybe I couldn't help but love it? But no, for so long it stuck to me like dirt under nails.

*Arnold found this girl, Katie Jarvis, bickering on a subway platform with her boyfriend and cast her on the spot. Stuntcasting, you could say, but Arnold and Jarvis land all the jumps.

Bigelow, Katherine. She blew James Cameron, she blows shit up. Bigelow's The Hurt Locker cracks year-end lists of populist junk writers and film theorists alike, but just as importantly, G. says, "we need to mention Point Break." Done.

Coppola, Sofia. Sofia Coppola is every fucking ounce as important to girls growing up too fast, in a headlong delirium, as Wes Anderson is to boys who won't ever grow up at all. A.O.'s neglect of her is criminal. I'm still upset. P.S. Yes, we even loved Marie Antoinette, and no, not only for the s/t.

Corsini, Catherine. Her recent Partir (Leaving) has all the bourgeois romantic drama of a Nancy Meyers movie, but in French, and humourless (which, if you've tried to sit through a recent Meyers movie, you'll recognize as a compliment). Opens and shuts with a gunshot. Holds your breath all the way through. (Seen at TIFF; not sure when released?)

Harron, Mary. Sure, Harron directed I Shot Andy Warhol, and we liked it because it was about an artist (?) and the hardened lesbian who tried to wack him, but the film is actually terrifically boring, more so than the story even. So we include Harron on the merits of the wondrous American Psycho. In the same gushing cut, Harron could castrate the hyper-wealthly misogynists plaguing the 80s and slice the legs out of the argument that it was an anti-feminist movie. Plus: there'd be no Chuck Bass without Bateman.

Heckerling, Amy. Sorry, Amy. You ruled back-to-back decades: Fast Times at Ridgemont High is wickedly 80s; every female alive in the 90s can quote Clueless in her sleep. But what of this millennium? Oh look: you will be directing Vamps. Promising. Love a good vamp. But what, there are three little letters missing: i-r-e. And how apt, because nothing raises mine like vampires and the making of romantic movies about them. Go back to 1995, Amy Heckerling.

Jenkins, Tamara. I've only seen one Jenkins movie, The Savages, which meditates on death without sermonizing (rare), makes Hoffman's hangdog act look like a new trick, and wreaks pathos unexpectedly. Her previous film, The Slums of Beverley Hills, is alleged to be awesome.

Peirce, Kimberley. Right, so Boys Don't Cry was actually made in '99, but its influence on the decade is significant and precious. I can't think of a film that did more to dislodge "the heroine" from her pedestal. (Like, can't we all just be heroes?) And Stop-Loss (2008) is... well, I'd have to be taken hostage to watch an Iraq war movie, but G. proclaims it alright.

Ramsay, Lynne. I'd never even heard of Morvern Callar til it was on Bravo, one night in the rain, and I only watched it because of Samantha Morton. That's still a good reason. But also, Ramsay's sometimes-realist, sometimes-fantastical bildungsroman is a trip, while most directors would have been content with a journey.

Reichardt, Kelly. Reichardt's Wendy and Lucy follows her earlier Old Joy in its revitalization of the classic American road movie. While Sean Penn's Into the Wild chronicles a fools journey to a solitary death, Wendy and Lucy trails Michelle Williams' on her drive north from Portland to Alaska. Subtle, yet astute, in its response to the economic recession, the film's success resides in its unspoken comment that a story lived through -- not thought on -- is the first rule of the road movie. (Ed: But come on, she couldn't shoplift a change of clothes? SNP.)

Varda, Agnes. Out of time and thoughts, and besides, like you don't know why to love Agnes Varda. Read this!