Understanding the Oppositional Gaze in LionHeart

 

Oppositional Gaze in Lionheart

The concept of the oppositional gaze, introduced by feminist scholar bell hooks, invites viewers, particularly Black women, to resist the dominant ways of seeing, especially the cinematic representations that have historically marginalized or stereotyped them. Rather than passively consuming visual culture, the oppositional gaze is active and critical. In Lionheart, Genevieve Nnaji doesn’t just encourage this kind of viewing, she builds the film around it. Her work becomes both a mirror and a rebellion, showing Nigerian women, especially, in ways that push back against the visual erasure or distortion they’ve experienced for decades.

From the first scene to the last, Lionheart positions Adaeze Obiagu as a character who invites a deeper, more critical gaze and not as a sexual object or a victim of patriarchy, but as a complex, capable woman operating in a deeply patriarchal environment. The film challenges viewers to look at Adaeze not through the lens of stereotypical Nollywood tropes (the helpless daughter, the overly emotional female executive, or the romantic interest), but as a leader, thinker, and strategist. This is where the oppositional gaze thrives, in the refusal to accept what’s typical and the insistence on seeing more. Adaeze’s intelligence, her calm resilience, and her competence in a male-dominated corporate world are emphasized more than her beauty, her vulnerability, or her romantic entanglements. Her story is not centered on love or heartbreak but on business, family legacy, and personal growth.

An important moment where the oppositional gaze is reinforced is when Adaeze is passed over by her father, Chief Obiagu, for the role of Acting MD in favor of her uncle, Godswill. In a typical patriarchal narrative, this might signal a descent into bitterness or a subplot about betrayal. But here, Nnaji flips the expected emotional script. Adaeze neither whines nor collapses, she collaborates. She plays the long game. She watches, learns, adjusts her strategy. And in that quiet power, she resists the dominant ways that women, especially African women, are often visually represented, weak, loud, dramatic, or hysterical. Instead, we are invited to watch a woman who moves with calculation, who absorbs disrespect without allowing it to defeat her, and who uses her silence and emotional control as a kind of rebellion.

Through cinematography and performance, the audience is encouraged to view Adaeze with admiration. The camera lingers on her face during meetings, showing her reactions to sexist comments from board members. Rather than sensationalizing these little aggressions, the film trusts the audience to notice and analyze them. This trust between director and viewer is key to the oppositional gaze, the understanding that Black women watching this film will see what’s happening beneath the surface and respond with understanding.

Beyond Adaeze, the film also subtly includes other women who defy expectation. Her mother, Abigail Obiagu, played by Onyeka Onwenu, is not a typical sidelined housewife. She’s wise, firm, and emotionally intelligent, a grounding force in the chaos of corporate and family politics. She encourages Adaeze without telling her to shrink herself or accept less. Even the brief but significant appearance of other women in corporate scenes shows a different Nigeria, one where women are increasingly claiming space, even if it’s still hard-won. These characters collectively shape a world that viewers,especially women, can critically engage with. They don’t just exist to serve male narratives. They exist to push their own.

Genevieve Nnaji’s direction deliberately avoids over-sexualization. Adaeze wears fitted but professional clothes. Her beauty is acknowledged, but not worshipped. Her power is framed through her work ethic, decisions, and internal struggle, not through male validation. This refusal to cater to the male gaze helps sharpen the oppositional one. When women see this film, especially those used to being shown either as accessories or plot tools, they are invited to sit up, observe, and maybe for the first time, see themselves in control of the narrative.

In this way, Lionheart doesn’t just allow the oppositional gaze, it encourages it. It teaches us how to look differently, how to reject the usual ways of seeing, and how to search for representation that feels true, empowering, and human. In the place of fantasy or stereotype, it gives us reality. Not a perfect woman, but a powerful one. That’s the strength of Nnaji’s work, she doesn’t just direct a film, she creates space for Black women to watch with pride and with power.