Zola Review: Citation Needed?

Alternate Title: Get Blocked, Bitch!

I grew up in an era of digital stranger danger. For the first few years of being a kid using a computer, the rules were simple and strict: don’t talk to anyone you don’t know, don’t use your real name, don’t give out any personal information whatsoever. These rules have changed somewhat during the intervening years; in 2004, Facebook and I were both born, the former revolutionizing online communication so the latter could have the privilege of joining random Discord servers with 35-year-olds I didn’t know. Now, it’s practically unchic not to offer up your innermost thoughts and experiences online for everyone to consume. With the evolution of vlogs, Instagram stories, and the ever-ravenous world of online gossip, many people have begun trusting the internet with their most personal secrets. When A’Ziah “Zola” King (Taylour Paige) took to Twitter in 2015 to get her story out there, she was just going with the flow.

Her prose, if a series of 148 tweets can be categorized as such, is cheeky, confessional, unabashed, and tailored exactly for its intended platform. It also conveys a story that reaches both sensational highs and tragically grim lows. The question of digital integrity presses in on her tale. Is anyone really who they say they are online? Is it wise to doubt A’Ziah, or even necessary? Janicza Bravo’s 2020 adaptation Zola takes these questions and decorates the margins of her film with them, presenting a pastiche that is both glittery and grimy, artificial and honest. Never hiding the fact that we are viewing a highly constructed narrative, Bravo nestles signifiers of potential falseness within the larger visual style that utilizes point-blank framing and direct-to-camera narration to spell out that this is a story, and you have a choice whether to believe it or not.

However, the acknowledgement of potential doubt fosters a sense of trust in the spectator. In addition to the bare honesty that contextualizes Zola’s online origins, the story itself is not out of the realm of possibility at all. Yes, the characters are exuberantly weird and the tale is frightening, but I can’t say that the prospect of a stripper being lured into a sex trafficking ring stretches the boundaries of my imagination. In addition, the film was released during the midst of a movement that urged us to believe women when they come forward with their experiences of sexual assault and harassment. It very clearly takes Zola’s side in a way that allows the viewer to sink into the narrative rather than doubting everything. The very invitation to confront doubt assuages it.

There is one female character with whom the narrative does not side: Stefani (Riley Keough), or Jessica in real life, whose appearance in Zola’s life triggers the weekend-long crashout that the film follows. Stefani, the Platonic ideal of a ratchet white girl, lays it on thick from her first meeting with Zola. Bravo represents their immediate spark with the Instagram “like” heart flickering between them, a superficial expression of appreciation that reflects the skin-deep friendship Stefani and Zola will come to share. Their first night out together is a whirlwind of glass, mirrors, and refracted light, visually confusing the women’s bodies and identities. The girls dress similarly, they talk similarly (though Stefani’s Black-inspired mannerisms are clearly appropriative), they seem to vibe on every level, melting into each other as their commonalities erase Zola’s boundaries.

Zola narrates the story from the beginning: “You wanna hear how me and this bitch fell out?” We regard Stefani from suspicion at the outset, so her manipulation peeks through every seemingly innocent interaction. The invitation to spend a weekend in Tampa comes across as especially peculiar– I mean, you just met this girl, and now you’re road tripping with zero details? At this point, the urge to judge Zola may begin to fester. It’s not completely unfair; I wouldn’t do what she’s doing, and I’m sure many other viewers could say the same. However, I also have never been in any of the many situations that have led Zola to the point she’s at now. Her staunch refusal to abandon Stefani, even when it’s clear that their weekend is going south, speaks to a sense of loyalty borne from the knowledge of what happens to working girls left to their own devices. Zola’s failure to defend her own safety also could indicate a history of repeated exposure to violence and danger. She may come across as somewhat passive, but tell me honestly: if your friend’s pimp started yelling at you in a Nigerian accent that came out of nowhere, wouldn’t you freeze up too?

We don’t learn that scary pimp’s name until way past halfway through the film. Abegunde Owale (Coleman Domingo), primarily known as X, appears to be threatening and manipulating Stefani into prostitution. Her tearful plea to Zola not to abandon her with him is genuinely moving, even though the spectator is aware that it’s likely a ruse. X’s relationship with Stefani may not be exactly as she may represent it, but it’s clear that the power is not hers to hold. Zola has to create an online profile for her to contact her own clients and make some real money because X was pimping her out for a measly hundred bucks per john. These layers of agency and control are difficult to peel apart, creating a dense babka of sexual exploitation. It’s easy and frankly justified to condemn Stefani for her trafficking of Zola and likely other vulnerable women, but it’s clear that she herself is subject to the cruel and greedy whims of violent men.

A standout aspect of Zola’s construction is its frank depiction of stripping and sex work, neither of which is glamorized. You are meant to feel a sinking in your stomach when you see Stefani don a schoolgirl outfit and have sex with 16 Floridians in one evening, or watch her on her knees surrounded by predatory male bodies. Zola and Stefani don’t live in a world of upscale champagne rooms and Wall Street clients, nor do the vast majority of sex workers. This movie knows that you’re more likely to have a meth addict tell you that you look like Whoopi Goldberg than to have Richard Gere take you to his penthouse suite. Bravely confronting a reality that many films don’t have the guts to face, Zola never allows the transgressive and soul-crushing world of sex work to take on an unrealistic veneer of glitz.

Zola is something of a Choose Your Own Adventure type of experience. Its hazy, softly glowing visuals and absorbing narrative invite the spectator to immerse themselves in its truth. Meanwhile, the conspicuous editing and stylization urge us to look closer at what’s really going on. For the record, I think Zola was telling the truth. But does that really matter? It all could be true, and that’s part of what makes it interesting. The many facades and artifices donned by the characters reflects the identity-stripping effect of online pseudo-connection: Zola and Stefani’s friendship really took off once they connected on social media, after all. In a space where anyone can be anything, maybe we’re all just nobodies.