Let’s just say it: President Joe Biden’s State of the Union address Thursday night was a campaign rally. 

Amid cheers and chants from fellow Democrats in Congress, a fired-up President Biden took the 2024 race right into American living rooms as he went after his “predecessor” and framed the future in existential terms.

“Freedom and democracy are under attack, both at home and overseas,” Mr. Biden said, referring both to Russia’s invasion of Ukraine and to former President Donald Trump, though not by name. “History is watching.” 

The event was classic Biden. He arrived late – in part because pro-Palestinian protesters blocked the main route to the Capitol – and then worked the room before taking the podium nearly a half-hour late. 

Once onstage, the tableau suggested a coordinated effort by both parties to support and oppose the president. Democratic female members of Congress who were dressed in white – the color of old-time suffragists and now women’s rights – presented the most visible evidence. Democrats also chanted “four more years” on multiple occasions. 

On the Republican side, every heckle and jeer brought a “bring it on” expression to Mr. Biden’s face. Republican House Speaker Mike Johnson had told colleagues to show “decorum” during the speech, but to no avail – and Mr. Biden was clearly ready. 

On the fraught issue of immigration, the president didn’t flinch; he dove headfirst into perhaps his biggest political vulnerability, holding up a pin handed to him moments before by Georgia GOP Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene, who was wearing a “Make America Great Again” red hat. The pin bore the name of Laken Riley, a Georgia nursing student killed last month; murder charges are now pending against a migrant who entered the country illegally.

Andrew Harnik/AP

President Joe Biden holds up a Laken Riley button as he delivers the State of the Union address to a joint session of Congress at the U.S. Capitol, March 7, 2024, in Washington. The Georgia nursing student was killed last month, and murder charges are pending against a migrant who entered the country illegally.

Representative Greene had dared Mr. Biden to “say her name,” which he did – though a bit incorrectly – and then pivoted to a “feel your pain” moment as he referenced his own experience with losing children. He also challenged Republicans to support bipartisan border legislation that failed after former President Trump objected. 

This year’s presidential speech before a joint session of Congress was Mr. Biden’s biggest and best opportunity to reach out directly to American voters before the November election. He trails Mr. Trump in opinion polls on a likely 2024 rematch, and has struggled to convince Americans that the economy is doing better post-pandemic, though economic optimism is on the rise. 

On Friday, the February jobs number was solid – an increase of 275,000 – but whether Mr. Biden can benefit is unclear. A post-speech poll by CNN showed the president doing well, with more than 60% of viewers reacting positively. 

The president’s address Thursday contained the usual recitation of proposals and perceived accomplishments. Aside from immigration, another major hot spot for Mr. Biden was the war in Gaza. The president, a decadeslong supporter of Israel, leaned on the Jewish state to allow humanitarian aid and affirmed his support for a two-state solution. But the biggest issue on the table was age. The octogenarian needs above all else to convince enough Americans he’s up to the task of another four-year term. And he waited until the end of his speech to go there.  

“My fellow Americans, the issue facing our nation isn’t how old we are; it’s how old our ideas are,” Mr. Biden said. “Hate, anger, revenge, retribution are the oldest of ideas. But you can’t lead America with ancient ideas that only take us back.”

Democratic members of Congress praised the speech as evidence of the president’s vigor, and characterized him as the leader who can unite the country. But Republicans heard a different message.

Speaker Johnson looked by turns bemused and beside himself during the speech. He would sigh, furrow his brow, and then periodically tilt his chin upward as if to try to reset with a dignified expression.

“I tried to keep a poker face, but it was very difficult,” the Louisianian told reporters afterward. “I disagreed so vehemently with so much of what he said.”

“I mean, look, usually in a State of the Union, you have at least segments of it that are bipartisan, where we can unify and agree on things,” he added. “President Biden gave none of that. ... It was a campaign speech and a pretty vitriolic one at that.”

Indeed, long after Democrats had cleared out of the media zone set up in Statuary Hall, Republicans lingered to criticize the president for campaigning instead of taking the opportunity to unite the country as it faces challenges within and rising aggression from autocratic leaders in Russia, China, and Iran. 

“He didn’t try to find the best in people tonight,” said GOP Rep. Jake Ellzey of Texas, a former Navy fighter pilot. “There are enemies of ours outside. And Americans need to be uniting together in a very difficult and dangerous time.”

Unlike last year, when he found reasons to stand and applaud things he agreed with, Representative Ellzey said he only found two opportunities to do so Thursday night – and he couldn’t remember what one of them was. The other was calling out Russian leader Vladimir Putin. 

As for questions about the president’s mental acuity, even Republicans had to admit he was fired up. House Freedom Caucus leader Bob Good called it “impassioned.” Louisiana Rep. Garrett Graves conceded, “It wasn’t his worst performance.” 

The GOP outbursts during the speech gave him a chance to demonstrate spontaneity, and some took his response as a positive sign.

“He handled the Republican heckling and nonsense very well,” said Democratic Rep. Glenn Ivey of Maryland. “He was very statesmanlike in dealing with that and got back onto the points he needed to make.”

On the farthest northeast edge of Ukraine’s front line against Russian invaders, east of Kupiansk and not far from the Russian border, the rows of “dragon’s teeth” stretch across frigid, muddy fields as far as the eye can see.

Designed to slow an expected Russian armored advance, the lines of solid concrete pyramids are bound by cables, on ground laced with land mines and spun with endless coils of razor wire.

Farther back are multiple sets of muddy trenches – all indications Ukraine is digging in for a long defense. Even as Russia mounts scores of attacks daily along the 600-mile front, Ukraine’s outnumbered and outgunned forces await supplies from the United States and Europe.

“The Russians have been having some tactical advantages; the situation is hard, but controlled,” says officer Maksym Radchenko of the 123rd Kupiansk Separate Battalion of Ukraine’s Territorial Defense Forces, as darkness falls and distant explosions sound.

At this point, Russian units are north, east, and south, less than a mile away as the shell flies.

“The advancing capacity of the Russians is very low; it’s exhausted,” says the officer, when asked about reports Moscow has amassed armor and troops just over the border.

“Our enemies are looking for weak spots. ... We look for their weak spots,” says officer Radchenko. “The changes here are tactical, not strategic.”

Scott Peterson/Getty Images/The Christian Science Monitor

Ukrainian medical volunteers of the Hospitaliers Battalion evacuate soldiers wounded in the critical but losing battle for Avdiivka to safer cities with better care, in Dnipro, Ukraine, Feb. 20, 2024.

Ukrainian military planners hope that assessment and all their defenses hold, as Russia seeks to capitalize on momentum gained in mid-February by capturing Avdiivka, much further south, after a costly four-month onslaught.

Visits by the Monitor to half a dozen points along Ukraine’s front line indicate that the quiet expectation of extensive battlefield progress on display a year ago has given way to much more subdued ambitions.

After the failure last summer of a heavily promoted Ukrainian counteroffensive, and with critical American military supplies held up by U.S. congressional gridlock, the prospect now is of a gritty and determined defense, with no end in sight.

Commitment to fight

President Volodymyr Zelenskyy said last month that 31,000 Ukrainian soldiers had died during two years of war – though Russia is estimated to have lost tens of thousands more, including 17,000 dead to seize Avdiivka alone. Yet despite obvious exhaustion and a host of sacrifices, Ukrainian troops still exude confidence and often a personal commitment to fight.

The bearded and bespectacled officer Radchenko, for example – who has a soft spot for American culture – closed his Wild West-themed bar and grill in Kharkiv when Russia invaded, donated the cooking equipment to the military, and volunteered to fight. He is certain that the U.S. will “never abandon” Ukraine, despite the lull in support.

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Institute for the Study of War

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Similar resolve is found in a cramped bunker dug out of the earth, outfitted with a small stove and cans of Non-Stop energy drink. There, a stocky sergeant nicknamed Tyson – a graduate of boxing school in nearby Kupiansk – says his “main job” is to keep building the defensive line.

In past fighting, three of the seven members of his squad were killed, the others wounded – including Tyson, in his leg and stomach. He could have taken longer to convalesce, instead of manning a sodden trench system where his soldiers captured 600 mice in one multiday shift.

But the army veteran of seven years saw his stepfather, more than twice his age, at the front, and knew that was also where he belonged.

“For me, this is not abstract,” says Tyson, matter-of-factly. “This is my house. I don’t have any place to go. ... We are here until the end. The minimum that I ask for is to survive.”  

“On the same spot”

Some reasons for Ukraine’s defensive posture can be found at a position 55 miles to the southeast, near the Kreminna Forest, where the sound of explosions never stops.

The artillery unit was lauded as an elite battalion when formed for last summer’s counteroffensive, which was stopped by Russian defenses choked with mines. Even during training, the soldiers say, they realized there was a shortage of ammunition and equipment.

And when they went to the fight?

“We had some Iranian mortars we got from somewhere, but it was not the Western equipment we were promised,” says one soldier, Vadym, clearly disappointed after such fanfare. “We lost a lot of good specialists.”

These days, when they get coordinates for their 105 mm gun – an aging Italian howitzer – the Ukrainians race from their underground bunker, remove camouflaging, and fire several rounds.

But this unit has also just been ordered to substantially cut back the number of shells it fires each day.

“Don’t underestimate the enemy; our enemy is very smart, and he is developing and progressing,” says Sasha, a squad leader of the 1st Presidential Brigade of the Ukraine National Guard.

He understands Russia is preparing for a spring offensive. “We can’t see the larger picture,” he says. “But what we can see is we are on the same spot for a long time, and short of ammunition.”

Scott Peterson/Getty Images/The Christian Science Monitor

Ukrainian soldiers of the 108th Territorial Defense Brigade test fly a Ukrainian-made Vampire drone, with six rotors, night vision, and thermal imaging, and capable of carrying four 82mm artillery shells, in Zaporizhzhia Oblast, Ukraine, Feb. 21, 2024.

Humor in a dark bunker

Some miles away, a 120 mm mortar position is carefully hidden among trenches in the forest. Half a dozen soldiers eat, drink, and sleep, in an underground command center filled with the rich scent of earthen walls.

When the order comes to fire, the team sights the mortar and a soldier nicknamed Yakut shouts, “Welcome to Ukraine!” as he drops the shell into the tube and ducks for cover.

These troops know what they are firing at: Russians in trenches the Ukrainians themselves built, but which they withdrew from in December. A commander points out the precise firings on an iPad. Aboveground, trees are shredded from months of shrapnel.

In the dark bunker, a dark humor pervades. A rucksack in a corner has a velcro patch that reads, “Mom says I’m special.”

“I am working well with a shovel,” jokes one soldier, about the need to dig even deeper defenses.

At another artillery position in the Donetsk region, the battery commander, who asks not to be named, says, “The gods kissed us on the forehead and gave us this gun.” But ammunition has dwindled.

The unit’s gunner was trained in Germany, by New Zealand officers. Back then, he says, optimism about defeating Russia ran high, and there was no doubt NATO support would see the conflict through.

Still, the unit has other means of fighting. At a command center a few miles from the front, large screens show live footage seen by Ukrainian drones as they hunt for targets. At 5:05 a.m., the drone’s thermal imaging camera shows a cluster of Russian troops.

The screen then also shows grenades dropped from drones on the Russians, apparently killing or incapacitating them.

Drone wars

Along the far southeast of Ukraine’s front, the Russians, too, have stepped up their drone expertise.

At the back of an evacuation bus carrying wounded soldiers for treatment is a somber scene of gauze-covered wounds and exhaustion following the retreat from Avdiivka. The bus carries six seriously wounded men in beds, and a cluster of others, many wounded by drones.

Artilleryman Lt. Oleksandr Lytvynenko – his hands wrapped in bandages – recalls firing through a truckload or more of ammunition every day a year ago to stop waves of advancing Russian troops, what he calls “meat assaults.”

“The meat assaults are continuing,” he says, but as Avdiivka fell, his gun was lucky to have one truckload of ammunition per week.

Scott Peterson/Getty Images/The Christian Science Monitor

Ukrainian soldiers deploy in recently dug trenches, this one filled with rainwater, as they strengthen multilayered defensive positions along the front with Russia, east of Kupiansk, Kharkiv Oblast, Ukraine, Feb. 13, 2024.

Lieutenant Lytvynenko still seems in shock at the loss of his position, after not retreating an inch for 1 1/2 years. He asks about apocryphal rumors of a forgotten NATO ammunition stockpile.

“If we had as many shells as they have, we would be in Belgorod by now,” he says wistfully, referring to the Russian city 25 miles northeast of Ukraine.

“I am in an optimistic mood,” says Lieutenant Lytvynenko. “I want to get back and keep kicking them in the teeth.”

That is happening at some points along the front, some 90 miles west of Avdiivka toward Zaporizhzhia, where the 108th Territorial Defense Brigade is testing a six-rotor attack drone they call the Vampire. It can carry four 82 mm mortar shells and sees in the dark.

Pilot Artem wears a camouflage balaclava and says the drone recently killed 16 Russian soldiers advancing in two groups, with two separate flights.

“A mortar unit would take seven to eight shots to get the target,” he says. “But we can do that with one flight, because we can see.”

That doesn’t mean that drones like the Vampire make Ukraine’s urgent need for artillery shells any less desperate. A commander, who gives the name Andrii, talks about drone battles with the Russians, and Ukraine’s overall needs.

“Americans, don’t let us down. We rely on you,” he says in English. “We have the spirit and the will to fight, [but] without help it’s going to be much harder for us, and there will be many more victims.” 

Oleksandr Naselenko supported reporting for this story.

Thousands of pounds of flour, rice, sugar, ready-to-eat chicken, and I flew over Gaza on Friday.

I was the least important cargo, and I stayed aboard the Royal Jordanian Air Force plane. Everything else ended up on the ground. As a journalist, the closest I could get to the war zone was flying over the rubble and ash.

It will be weeks before the floating offshore pier that U.S. President Joe Biden announced Thursday will be ready to handle aid to Gaza. United Nations trucks, meanwhile, are finding it increasingly difficult and dangerous to navigate Israeli military checkpoints and mobs of looters.

So the nine cargo planes taking part in Friday’s daily airdrop were carrying the bulk of the aid that would reach 2.2 million Palestinians in the Gaza Strip.

This is thanks to Jordan, a tiny, resource-poor kingdom with barely any water, but lots of heart.

A humanitarian provider for Palestinian refugees since 1948, Jordan has been a logistics hub for humanitarian efforts since the Israel-Hamas war erupted. The Jordanian air force began airdrops into northern Gaza two weeks ago – with one of the first flights overseen by King Abdullah himself.

Jordan has since flown 34 aid drops, an operation that has recently been bolstered by aircraft from a burgeoning coalition, including Britain, France, the Netherlands, and the United States.

Nine aircraft, less aid than one truck

To witness a Jordanian drop over Gaza, I drove out early this morning to a remote military airfield east of Amman, where sheep outnumber people.

Parked on the tarmac, awaiting final Israeli flight clearance was the fleet providing today’s aid: four Jordanian cargo planes and a handful of foreign aircraft, including just one U.S. Air Force C-130. 

Taylor Luck

Taylor Luck prepares to board a Jordanian air force C-130 bound for Gaza, on the runway at the King Abdullah Air Force Base in Ghabawi, Jordan.

I watched as the planes were loaded with crates of rice, sugar, powdered milk, and packages of ready-to-eat meals of rice and chicken. That was enough to feed just 45,000 people, when over half a million Palestinians in Gaza are facing starvation, according to the U.N. Altogether, the fleet carried less than one truck could have managed.

As a lifeline, it is a fraying thread.

But the cargo of these nine C-130s, if landed and distributed properly, could be the difference between life and death for thousands, at least for a few days.

“It is a huge feeling of responsibility,” Jordanian airman Mohammed Gharaibeh told me as he helped load a pallet onto a Jordanian C-130. “Cutting that rope and watching the packages drop, it feels good to know that you are helping. We are able to do something to ease the suffering.”

Jordan’s air force has been involved in dozens of humanitarian operations in the Middle East and North Africa – most recently in Sudan and earthquake-struck Turkey – but never before has it been limited to simply parachuting in aid and then returning to base.

That is now these Jordanian airmen’s daily routine.

Taylor Luck

A Jordanian airman sits atop pallets of food aid – enough to feed 6,000 people – on a Jordanian C-130 bound for Gaza, March 8, 2024.

Thirty minutes after takeoff, as we flew over the sea, loadmaster Saif Zahrawi tapped my shoulder, pointed out of the window, and said, “This is Gaza.”

I saw a Mediterranean coastline that, from a distance, appeared normal. As we got closer and descended to 3,000 feet, however, rubble-strewn plots and crumbling buildings came into view.

My thoughts immediately went to my colleague Ghada Abdulfattah in central Gaza, with whom I am in daily contact. The stretching landscape of charred houses and missile craters gave me new insight into the life-or-death obstacles she faces as she goes about her work. And I was a half-mile above her head.

I remembered her lack of water, heat, and food, her mother’s hunt for medicine. My heart was heavy; I wished, impossibly, that I could have brought everything in my kitchen and dropped it out of the plane to her. I felt futile at 3,000 feet.

Hope marred by tragedy

As we flew north, the crumbling buildings beneath us gave way to gray and blackened earth, as if a permanent shadow had been cast over Gaza City.

Suddenly, it was drop time. Three airmen opened the rear cargo door of the plane, and the two rows of eight parachute-packed cartons slid out neatly, one after the other. Within a few seconds, the drop was done.  

The loadmaster at the very rear of the plane, nearly dangling out the door, raised a thumbs-up in the air. A successful drop. Our plane circled Gaza City to watch the parachutes’ trajectory.

And that was it. There was no clapping nor cheers, no high-fives. Just a simple thumbs-up and silence to mark another day’s work.

Tragically, as I discovered when I returned home to Amman, Friday’s operation carried a heavy cost. One of the parachutes – it is unclear from which plane – failed to open: The falling pallet of humanitarian supplies killed at least two of the hundreds of people who were racing to the site of the airdrop so as to ensure they got their hands on something to eat. Reports later indicated that the number rose to five.

Not the first time, I reflected, the Gaza Strip had proved resistant to good news.

Armando Franca/AP

André Ventura (center), leader of populist and nationalist party Chega, campaigns on the street in Almada, Portugal, Feb. 23, 2024. Mr. Ventura could be cast in the role of kingmaker after Portugal's March 10 general election.

Rodrigo Mira, like many Portuguese voters, has had enough of Socialist Party governments.

“We are tired of left-wing politics and left-wing policies,” says Mr. Mira, a security-sector worker who previously lived in Texas. “We want to have a chance to change and have a better country like [the United States] will with [Donald] Trump.”

That is why Mr. Mira is planning to vote for Chega – whose name indeed means “enough” – in Sunday’s parliamentary elections in Portugal. Led by André Ventura, a rising star of Europe’s radical right movement, Chega looks set to be the kingmaker in what is expected to be a hung parliament. While the ruling Socialist Party and the opposition Social Democratic Party will still likely be the two top seat-winners, upstart Chega has been polling in the mid-to-high teens, allowing them to potentially determine the next ruling coalition.

That would be a change for Portugal, which in April celebrates the 50-year anniversary of a bloodless military insurrection that overthrew the country’s right-wing dictatorship. While Mr. Ventura doesn’t have a feasible path to the prime minister’s office, he does espouse a conservative ideology long unfamiliar to the country, focused on the “threats” posed by “gender ideology,” “uncontrolled” migration, and Portugal’s Roma community. He speaks of restoring respect for and obedience to the police, and eliminating the black market and corruption.

“This is the first time we have a competent populist being a populist in Portugal. He has very good communication skills. He is intelligent,” says Vítor Matos, a Portuguese journalist and author of a book on Mr. Ventura. “He is a modern, right-wing, radical populist – against the system.”

Dominique Soguel

A Chega campaign poster featuring Mr. Ventura in Santarém, Portugal, reads, “Portugal needs a cleanup,” March 4, 2024.

Portugal’s new populism

Portugal has been facing tough times economically over the past couple of decades. The country’s traditional industries like agriculture and fishing have foundered in the European Union, and wages have yet to recover from the country’s 2011 bailout and associated austerity measures. Portuguese people have long migrated in search of opportunities abroad, and many who stayed hold multiple jobs to stay afloat. Housing prices have skyrocketed as the country has focused on tourism, and public health services have deteriorated.

For much of the public, the country’s current state of affairs is a confounding contrast to its former status as the heart of the Portuguese Empire. “The Portuguese can’t understand why they went from being an imperial power to such a poor country,” says Carlos Matos Gomes, a retired army colonel who participated in the 1975 Carnation Revolution and historian.

It is amid these conditions that Chega was created in 2019, centered largely on its leader. Mr. Ventura has an eclectic background: He is a former seminarian with a doctorate in criminal law from the University College Cork in Ireland, and his CV includes stints in the national revenue service, private law, and even soccer commentating on television. He originally entered politics as part of the Social Democratic Party.

On paper, Chega’s political program is populist and nativist, putting a high emphasis on security, independence, and the need to tackle “uncontrolled” migration. Mr. Ventura has floated the idea of slashing social and health benefits for migrants until they have made five years’ worth of contributions to the state.

On the economic front, he promises lower taxes and higher pensions. And he promises a Portugal where young people can make a living and feel safe. Mr. Ventura is not anti-Europe, although he criticizes Brussels for regulatory heavy-handedness to whip up support in farming and fishing communities.

Dominique Soguel

Chega supporters wave the party's flags and Portuguese flags at a campaign rally held by Mr. Ventura in Portalegre.

“Ventura is a natural-born politician and an extraordinary communicator,” says Jaime Nogueira Pinto, a right-wing political thinker and author of many books on contemporary Portuguese history. “He found a vacuum because the ideas of national independence and conservative set of values” were not championed by the mainstream parties.

“There is also an element of protest,” he adds. “People in Europe feel a sense that politicians don’t care about them. That’s the reason why these new parties appear and have success.”

In the run-up to the elections, Mr. Ventura’s speeches have centered on messages of anti-corruption and “cleaning up” Portugal. That appeals to a broader swath of the Portuguese public, particularly because the previous government came down amid several headline-dominating corruption scandals. So do his promises of boosting pensions and relieving the tax burden.

“In the abstract, it is not a radical agenda,” says Mr. Matos, the journalist. “But then he has all this speech about immigration that [is fodder] for the nationalist right. He is very against Muslims, immigrants, and Islam. But Portugal has no problem with its Islamic communities. They are not so large, and there has never been a terrorist attack.”

“We are regular people”

At a luncheon rally this week organized by Chega, the mood was jubilantly optimistic. Mr. Mira waved the Portuguese flag and his broom (to clean up Portugal) with equal gusto. Others shouted out, “André Ventura for prime minister” and flashed the V-for-victory sign.

“Ventura is very balanced,” says Mr. Mira, preemptively rejecting the far-right and extremist label often hurled at the party. “Sometimes he talks too loud, but he is not like Trump. It is common opinion to try to put Chega and Ventura in the extreme right wing. But we are regular people. We are nice people.”

Tiago Silva, an environmental engineer who also runs a bakery in Lisbon, is at the rally, too. He has several complaints about the current state of Portugal, including that taxes are too high, the black market economy is too large, and Lisbon feels unsafe, which he links to the presence of migrants in the capital.

Dominique Soguel

Tiago Silva (right) and his mother, Constança Pinto, from Lisbon sit at a campaign rally lunch organized by Chega in Santarém.

He also takes issue with what he says is “gender ideology” being pushed by the government. A law approved in December 2023 stipulates that schools should respect the gender identity of students as they define it. Mr. Silva pulled his daughter from public school to put her in a private Catholic one.

“Gender ideology is very dangerous for Portugal, and it is dangerous for all societies,” he says. “It goes against family values.”

Mr. Ventura and Chega supporters have also singled out the Roma community for vilification, accusing the country’s 200,000 members of the ethnic minority of making the country unsafe. The latest edition of Global Peace Index ranks Portugal as the seventh-safest country in the world.

Such tropes have earned the party the far-right label from some analysts and journalists. Critics call Mr. Ventura an opportunist at best, and some go as far to call him a fascist.

“Chega is without a doubt a fascist party,” argues Zézé Gamboa, an Angolan Portuguese director of documentary films. “It is evident in their program and the way they speak lies about migrants. It is a brand of populism that doesn’t square with the Portuguese reality.”

But for Chega voters, including young people, their party is devoted to making a difference. “This is the party that represents the majority of young people that want to stay in the country, a country that is still nice and safe,” says Mariana Guerra, a law student from Portalegre, a town along the eastern border with Spain.

“I never felt represented by the mainstream parties,” Ms. Guerra adds. “Chega is like a fresh breeze. It is the party of what everyone thinks and says at home but not in the streets.”

Melinda Sue Gordon/Apple TV+/AP

Lily Gladstone and director Martin Scorsese are shown on the set of “Killers of the Flower Moon.” Ms. Gladstone has been nominated for an Academy Award for best actress.

Lily Gladstone’s high school yearbook named her “Most likely to win an Oscar.”

But in 2020, the actor’s career was faltering. Four years earlier, film critics associations in Boston and Los Angeles voted her best supporting actress for the drama “Certain Women.” Yet Ms. Gladstone faced a similar challenge as other Native American actors – a dearth of roles. She questioned whether acting was a sustainable path.

“I had my credit card out, registering for a data analytics course,” the actor told The Hollywood Reporter. At that moment, she received an invitation for a Zoom call with Martin Scorsese. He subsequently cast her in “Killers of the Flower Moon.”

On March 10, Ms. Gladstone’s performance could win an Academy Award for best actress. (If she does, there will be a stampede to see whom her yearbook picked as “Most likely to become president.”) A victory would be historically significant: She would be the first Native woman to receive an Oscar. 

Indigenous actors don’t often appear at the podium at the Academy Awards. A recent study helps explain why. Stacy L. Smith, founder of the Annenberg Inclusion Initiative at the University of Southern California, discovered that less than a quarter of 1 percent of top-grossing movies released between 2007 and 2022 featured Native Americans in speaking roles. Just one movie starred a Native character in a lead role.

Native actors are often pigeonholed in Westerns, a genre that does not tend to reap statues during awards season. By contrast, television has started hosting more varied stories about Indigenous people. “The Lily Gladstone effect” – to use the term coined by Dr. Smith – may be to lift up other Native talent. And bring belated recognition to forebears in the industry.

“Native American actors and filmmakers have impacted movies for more than a century, but until recently their presence has passed largely unrecognized,” says Dr. Angela Aleiss, author of “Hollywood’s Native Americans: Stories of Identity and Resistance,” in an email. 

Chris Pizzello/AP

Lily Gladstone arrives at the Film Independent Spirit Awards, Feb. 25, 2024, in Santa Monica, California.

Even many film buffs have never heard of Lillian St. Cyr. In 1914, Cecil B. DeMille cast her as the first Native American woman to play the lead role in a feature film. At a time when Westerns were more prolific than today’s Marvel movies, Minnie Provost also made her mark. The silent-movie comedian memorably sparred with Fatty Arbuckle in “Fatty and Minnie He-Haw.” 

“Native characters have evolved in cycles over the past century,” says Dr. Aleiss. “The most negative cycle occurred during the late 1930s, where Natives were often portrayed as obstacles to frontier settlement (like in ‘The Plainsman’ and ‘Stagecoach’). Before and after that period, many sympathetic – although not always accurate – images existed.”

Nanticoke tribe member James Young Deer, who briefly ran Pathé studio in California, produced some of those films. In 1926, he directed “Tragedies of the Osage Hills.” It highlighted the systemic murder of Osage tribe members almost a century before Mr. Scorsese’s “Killers of the Flower Moon.” 

Over subsequent decades, Native Americans seldom occupied positions of power in Hollywood. Those who did lifted others up. Jim Thorpe, the Olympic gold medalist and extraordinary baseball, basketball, and football star, lobbied for equal wages for Native American movie extras. Actor Will Sampson (“One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”) co-founded the American Indian Registry for the Performing Arts in 1983. The nonprofit helped Kevin Costner’s best picture winner “Dances With Wolves” find its Native American cast, with Oneida member Graham Greene earning a nomination for best supporting actor.

Demand for Native actors still tends to fluctuate. Rick Mora often gets cast in what he calls “skin and bones” roles – half naked and wearing feathers. One such part was in “Twilight.” The 2008 teen vampire movie accounted for 29% of speaking roles in Dr. Smith’s aforementioned study. Even so, the blockbuster was criticized for casting Taylor Lautner in a major role as a Native character.

Hollywood is more mindful about casting Indigenous players today, says Mr. Mora, who’s grateful for the “Twilight” career boost. There’s an audience hunger for authenticity.

“Every culture is feeling the beauty of it,” says Mr. Mora, whose heritage is Yaqui and Mescalero Apache. “The African American culture is feeling the beauty of it. The Asiatic community is feeling the beauty of it. ... Now, our entire people are being sought after and viewed in a beautiful way.” 

Cherrilyn Silva

Actor Rick Mora, whose heritage is Yaqui and Apache and whose credits include “Twilight,” says Hollywood is more mindful about casting Indigenous players today.

Television is leading the way. “Yellowstone,” like “Twilight,” features a mix of actors playing Native roles. Among them is Indigenous actor Q’orianka Kilcher, whose breakout role was Pocahontas in Terrence Malick’s “The New World.” Tribe members behind the camera are expanding the scope of Native American stories. Jhane Myers produced Hulu’s “Prey.” The prequel to the sci-fi horror movie “Predator” stars Amber Midthunder as a Comanche hero. Sierra Teller Ornelas co-created Peacock’s “Rutherford Falls,” a comedy about the fictitious Minishonka Nation seeking cultural recognition in a small town. And in Sterlin Harjo’s “Reservation Dogs,” a gang of teenagers commits petty crimes trying to scrounge enough money to leave their Oklahoma reservation.  

“I don’t know how many times I’ve been in meetings throughout my career where people have said our Native stories don’t sell,” says Mr. Harjo in a phone call.

The humor in his hit series challenged outsider views of reservations as depressing and poor. It also illuminated the importance of women in those communities. To that end, Mr. Harjo cast Geraldine Keams in a matriarchal role. The Navajo actor launched her career in 1976 as an empowered, gun-toting character alongside Clint Eastwood in “The Outlaw Josey Wales.” 

“I had known her work,” says Mr. Harjo, who adds that Native Americans in Hollywood are a small community. “We grew up on each other’s films and TV shows. ... Lily Gladstone probably wouldn’t be where she’s at right now without the people that came before us.”

Ms. Gladstone, who has a white mother and whose father is of Blackfeet and Nimíipuu heritage, spent her childhood on a reservation in Montana. She guest-starred in Seasons 2 and 3 of "Reservation Dogs" as Hokti, a character who is in prison. A non-Native writer might have envisioned Hokti as a male, says the showrunner. He wanted to reflect the reality that Oklahoma has a high number of incarcerated women, many of them Native. Mr. Harjo marveled at the depth Ms. Gladstone brought to the role.

“It’s not something that you can get from acting class,” says the writer. “That’s what I think is on display in ‘Killers of the Flower Moon,’ because she doesn’t talk a lot. She is this sort of moral center to the film. ... She’s representing all of us.”

Mr. Harjo and Ms. Gladstone recently reflected on the significance of her awards season. In February, she became the first Native actor to win a Screen Actors Guild Award. They agreed that those who open doors need to hold them open for others.

“This is going to be a celebrated time,” says Mr. Harjo, who will be watching the Academy Awards at home. “But it’s only the first step in this bigger thing that’s happening.”

On a dusty Monday afternoon, the hallways of the Kourtrajmé film school buzz with nervous chatter and excitement. 

It is pitch day, and soon everyone files into a classroom to listen to the students present their screenplay ideas.

The topics cover a wide sweep of Senegalese life, from the story of a 19th-century slave insurrection to a supernatural drama about a woman who can read people’s thoughts.

When Leida Ndiaye’s turn comes, she is sweating. “It’s hot in here,” she jokes; the thermostat is blinking 67 degrees Fahrenheit. But soon, she finds her rhythm, describing her idea for a rom-com about a woman in her early 30s who uses her job in human resources to “interview” prospective dates to her birthday party. Ms. Ndiaye explains that she wants to provoke new conversations about dating and marriage.

“A lot of financially independent women are living the same situation here in Senegal,” she says. “The tension between her professional life and her chaotic emotional life leads her to a deep introspection on her true desires and the nature of love.”

Ms. Ndiaye and her classmates at Kourtrajmé are part of a new generation of Senegalese filmmakers who are setting out to tell their own stories on their own terms. With a film about Senegalese migrants, “Io Capitano,” up for best foreign film at the Oscars on Sunday, they know the world is eager to hear about their lives. 

But Io Capitano’s success also highlights the challenges they face. The movie was made by Italian filmmakers, igniting conversation about what types of stories get told about Africa and by whom. 

“The Italian film is amazing, but it’s another story about migration,” says Emma Sangaré, an American producer and screenwriter, and Kourtrajmé’s co-founder.

For her students, she adds, there is so much more to say.

Ayen Deng Bior

Leida Ndiaye, a student at Dakar's Kourtrajmé film school in Senegal, pitches a rom-com to her fellow students.

“All that the cinema world needs”

Kourtrajmé’s popularity is a testament to hunger of young Africans to showcase a different kind of story. The school, which opened in 2022, gets hundreds of applications from all over the continent for about two dozen spots in its screenwriting and directing courses. Both six-month programs are fully funded.  

The Dakar school is the third branch of Kourtrajmé, which French director Ladj Ly started in 2018 in a disadvantaged suburb of Paris in order to bring new and different voices into the film industry. Senegal’s Kourtrajmé was founded by Mr. Ly, Ms. Sangaré, and her husband, French Malian director Toumani Sangaré.

For Racine Fall, a current student, the experience of studying at Kourtrajmé has given him belief in the Senegalese film industry.

“We have amazing ideas; we have very good screenwriters; we have good directors,” he says. “We have all that the cinema world needs.”

Last year, “Banel & Adama,” a magical realist romantic drama by French Senegalese director Ramata-Toulaye Sy, premiered to positive reviews at the Cannes film festival. But for many Senegalese filmmakers, a lack of resources and connections still makes the global film circuit hard to break into.

“Io Capitano,” for instance, had budget of more than $8 million, allowing filmmakers to shoot in three countries: Senegal, Morocco, and Italy. That kind of money could transform Senegal’s entire movie industry, Ms. Sangaré says.

But getting funding like that often means turning to American or European producers. In these situations, Ms. Sangaré says the power dynamic makes it hard for young Senegalese filmmakers to assert their authority about the kinds of stories they want to tell.

“[The students] think that they have to write those kinds of stories ... where we often see Africa poor and miserable,” she says. “How can you be independent in your narration and your stories if the ... money and the producers are not from [here]?” 

“Why not us?”

Mariama Niang is in director mode, supervising her team as it prepares to shoot an interview for her documentary, “Elle,” on a recent afternoon.

Ayen Deng Bior

Director Mariama Niang and assistant director Pape Samba Tine work on the set of their upcoming documentary, “Elle,” in Dakar, Senegal.

On a sun-filled Dakar rooftop, she moves with authority between the audio engineer, who is setting up the microphones, and the makeup artist, who is dabbing foundation on the interviewee’s forehead. Her assistant director waves her over to approve the framing of the next shot. All the while, she chats away with the woman being interviewed, putting her at ease.

For Ms. Niang, an alumnus of Kourtrajmé who has wanted to be a filmmaker since she was a child, this moment has been a long time coming.

“Cinema is the world,” she says. “In cinema, you can see everything. You can see one movie, and you see all your life in that movie.”

“Elle,” whose title means “she,” follows five Senegalese women who have made names for themselves in their respective industries – from photography to financial consulting – while challenging the common narrative here that women are “just” homemakers and childbearers. It’s a contentious topic that Ms. Niang has wanted to tackle for years, but she couldn’t figure out how to pay for it.

Kourtrajmé changed that. The film school funded half the production, and Ms. Niang used the pitch skills she honed there to convince a private investor to pay for the rest.

Back at Kourtrajmé, Ms. Ndiaye wraps up her own pitch for her rom-com to thunderous applause. Ms. Sangaré says these pitch days are central to the school’s curriculum because they ensure that young filmmakers have the confidence to approach potential funders. Ms. Ndiaye agrees.

“It’s better to tell our own story because if you don’t do it, people won’t know what exactly African people are living,” she explains after her presentation. “Westerners are doing it; they share their history; they share their culture. Why not us?”

Reuters

India's Harmanpreet Kaur scores during a match in the Women's Cricket World Cup in 2017.

One of the top news items in sports this week was about a player on an all-female cricket team in India breaking the world record for the fastest delivery of a ball by a woman in a match. Coming just before International Women’s Day on March 8, the feat was another sign of progress for women. Yet for India – which still emphasizes that a woman’s place is at home – it was one more milestone in the rapid rise of girls and women playing the nation’s most popular sport.

In many countries, access to organized sports has been a liberating force for young women. In the United States, passage of Title IX in 1972 ignited greater equality for girls in school athletics, giving them skills and confidence for later success. In India, with nearly 20% of the world’s population, a similar gender revolution would be a giant leap for humanity. India currently ranks 122nd out of 191 countries in a global index on gender inequality.

Only last year India created the first women’s cricket league equal to the men’s league. It has attracted massive private investments and motivated girls in the remotest villages to take up the sport. A women’s match can now draw a crowd of more than 30,000 people and millions of viewers on TV.

Yet the impact for women is greater than opportunities to play a sport. “Cricket is likely to be seen as a more important avenue of upward economic and social mobility,” stated The Times of India in December.

Last year, India’s governing body for cricket decided that all contracted female cricketers would be paid the same as men. Some of the most famous players are now national models for girls.

“In a country like India, there is a question mark over everything women do,” one former player, Jhulan Goswami, said in a 2022 interview with The Cricket Monthly. “To me it really matters to be able to lift the women’s game in my country, and that feeling has always been inside me. It’s a space occupied by nothing but you and that pure passion for your dream.”

Two years ago, a well-known male cricketer, Sachin Tendulkar, posted a video of girls and boys playing cricket together. It went viral. One reason may be what Mr. Tendulkar wrote in the post: “Sport can be a great enabler for equality.”