Sean Baker #2: Tangerine

PART FOUR

The first time I heard of Sean Baker was through his film Tangerine. I clearly remembered it had won some big awards, but I just looked it up and found that it was actually just acquired by Magnolia for distribution—it hadn’t won anything. If that’s the case, then what shocked me most at the time might have been the fact that the whole film was shot using three iPhone 5S. That proved one thing: a good story doesn’t care about gear—it still gets bought and shown.

The first time I saw this film, I was still pretty young, just out of college. I didn’t really understand why the director went through so much trouble to make a film like this. Beyond being amazed by the equipment, I looked into the gear and software he used, and quietly wondered whether I could try doing something like that too. Truth is, to this day, I still haven’t written a script I think is ready to shoot. Gear was never the issue—the problem is the story, and all the production details. It wasn’t until a few years ago when I saw The Florida Project that I went back and rewatched Tangerine. Now I’m 32, no longer that recent graduate, and clearly my mood watching it is very different.

Tangerine is centered on two transgender sex workers. I didn’t know much about their lives before—until I moved to Oakland. Coincidentally, near my favorite pho spot, you can often see very obviously identifiable sex workers on the street. That’s when I slowly started paying attention to the lives of this marginalized group. In my memory, prostitution was always a semi-public thing—illegal, but never really cracked down on. I remember when I was a kid, not far from home, under Guangji Bridge which I passed every time I went to an extracurricular class, there were always neon lights, pinkish glows, and behind white lace curtains, a few lightly dressed women always sitting in a row of chairs. I always thought that was just part of society. Where there’s demand, there’s supply—both sides get what they need. I never really thought there was anything wrong with it. I knew it wasn’t a glorious thing. In adolescence, I gradually learned that some male friends around me would go to such places. I don’t recall feeling much about it—I didn’t stop hanging out with them. Now that I think about it, maybe I’ve always had a slightly flexible moral compass.

It wasn’t until I watched Anora that, while visiting some friends in Chicago ( @junyumatt @keliyew), I chatted about how in the city I live in, there’s a block that seems to be a fixed working area for sex workers. Just that one block, from around noon, someone’s already out there. I was curious—how do they charge? My friends were shocked: “What? Oakland is like that?” I said, “Yeah, I thought all major cities are like this—I know LA has it too.” We started discussing whether it’s legal. I had always assumed prostitution was legal in the U.S. They were still shocked—“Since when?” I said I didn’t know, I just assumed it was, because so many people do it. We looked it up and found out that aside from some counties in Nevada where legal brothels are allowed with government permission, even Vegas itself does not allow legal prostitution. Which means, everything I’ve ever seen has been illegal. In San Francisco, prostitution, solicitation, and pimping can be punished with up to 6 months of jail time and fines up to $1,000. There are some decriminalization initiatives that advocate not prioritizing prosecution of voluntary sex workers, but the law itself still does not legalize it. I had always thought the U.S. would be more progressive on this. Turns out, it isn’t.

My friend immediately nodded and said, “That’s the version I know.” But I was shocked—because this has always been so common, and one of the oldest professions in human history. The history of prostitution dates back to the early formation of cities and commercial exchange—around 3000 BC in Mesopotamia. In the Sumerian civilization, there were temple prostitutes who participated in religious rituals, symbolizing sacred unions. They weren’t looked down upon, but rather held religious positions. In ancient Greece and Rome, there were various types of sex workers. Some high-class companions were well-educated and could discuss poetry and politics. Ancient Rome treated prostitution as a legal profession—but required registration and distinguishing clothing like yellow cloaks. In China, as early as the Qin and Han dynasties, there were established institutions. During the Tang and Song dynasties, the courtesan culture flourished—artists and scholars often formed relationships with talented, high-status sex workers. By the Ming and Qing dynasties, a strict hierarchy emerged: government courtesans, refined entertainers, flirt-for-hire, and those who sold their bodies all had distinct classifications.

PART FIVE

I went down a rabbit hole researching the global legal status of prostitution. It seems there are four main models: fully legal and regulated; legal but poorly or non-regulated; illegal for both buyer and seller; and legal for the seller but criminalized for the buyer.

Take Germany, for example—prostitution is legal. In 2002, Germany passed the Prostitutionsgesetz (Prostitution Act), and in 2017, it further strengthened oversight by introducing the Prostituiertenschutzgesetz (Prostitute Protection Act). Under this law, sex workers must register with local authorities and obtain a “sex worker license.” Annual or biannual non-mandatory health counseling is recommended. Sex work is classified as freelance labor—meaning sex workers can legally pay taxes, sign contracts, and have access to pensions and health insurance. Brothels can also legally operate, but must obtain licenses and comply with hygiene, safety, and employment regulations.

It sounds good on paper. Many smaller cities have designated “sex work zones.” Places like Berlin, Hamburg, and Frankfurt have relatively open red-light districts. But in practice, the registration system can increase stigma, which leads many to refuse registration. A large number of sex workers still operate in the grey zone, especially immigrants. Many so-called “legal” brothels hide exploitation behind their permits. A significant number of sex workers from Eastern Europe (like Romania and Bulgaria) technically work under legal conditions, but are still controlled by underground economies.

Other countries—like the Netherlands, New Zealand, and some states in Australia—have been slowly building formal legal frameworks. In the Netherlands, prostitution has been fully legal since 2000. There are sex worker unions and professional support services. Their goal is “transparency, regulation, and de-stigmatization.” New Zealand, after passing the Prostitution Reform Act in 2003, became one of the most protective countries for sex workers. They are not required to register their identities, and the law explicitly bans coercion, control, and exploitation. In other places—like Sweden or France—Nordic-style models legalize the seller and criminalize the buyer, aiming to protect the typically oppressed worker while punishing the demand that sustains the industry.

Personally, I don’t think either the buyer or the seller needs to be punished. What’s important is de-stigmatization and building regulations. During my research, I found myself increasingly confused: sex-for-money transactions have existed for as long as human civilization, so why haven’t we figured out how to regulate it? The demand exists, the market exists—there are people willing to sell, people willing to buy. So why, for some reason, is the seller always the one exploited, unprotected, casually insulted, or abused? Why isn’t it just money for services?

Obviously, within the current legal ecosystem, people with better options won’t enter this industry. And because so many don’t have better options, protection for marginalized people becomes even more important.

But the answer isn’t as simple as “just legalize it.” Even in countries where prostitution has been gradually legalized—New Zealand being the rare exception—legalization hasn’t been very effective in removing stigma. In Germany, the Netherlands, and other places, societal and cultural biases still remain, especially against women. In Nordic countries, China, the U.S., and others where prostitution is completely banned, it is even more strongly viewed as pitiful, depraved, or criminal.

Even in legal brothels, bosses often take huge cuts, offer unfair contracts, use psychological manipulation, or tolerate violence from clients—including unsafe sex in exchange for extra money. Even if the law exists, many still don’t dare to report or seek justice—afraid of losing their jobs or facing discrimination. These women should have rights. They should be protected in terms of health and safety, so they can save money, buy homes, retire, and exit the industry gradually.

Among them, migrant women are often the most marginalized: facing language barriers, unstable visas, and invisible identities. As a migrant woman myself, I deeply understand how sometimes people end up in “no choice” choices—and I wouldn’t mind trying such paths myself. What they need is not just the right to report and seek justice—they also need safe environments, access to therapy, and support services.

PART SIX

What Sean Baker has been doing is covering this same theme year after year, ten years and counting, drawing attention again and again—urging people to care, to discuss, to reflect. Because aside from changing public perception and reducing the stigma on this group, we honestly have no other way to change the reality. Other than shouting, “There’s a problem here—please look here,” we have no other effective strategy. That’s actually quite despairing.

Especially for someone like Sean Baker, who came from a wealthy background but encountered the darkest corners of society—I imagine it was a huge shock, and that’s why he keeps covering this theme. It probably made him restless, unable to pretend he didn’t know, unable to just enjoy his privileged life.

I understand that feeling. I feel restless too. I can’t pretend I don’t know. We chose to point the camera directly at them. We chose to write for them, to create for them. Even if it’s a romanticized version in a film—as long as more people watch, we’ve succeeded. People complain that films romanticize the marginalized. But they don’t realize—if we showed the brutal truth without any narrative filter, chances are, you’d never watch that film, and we’d fail. I’ve realized audiences almost never understand the intention and burden directors carry. Our pain—we deconstruct it, digest it, rebuild it into something you can handle. And even then, it still has to be beautiful, well-composed, well-acted. And you? You casually say, “Society has collapsed—now even movies about prostitutes can win Oscars.”

The one who’s collapsed isn’t me—it’s you, for thinking sex workers are beneath you. If you know someone in your life has purchased sex, would you call him low? If not, why is the seller automatically considered shameful? That’s the question I want to ask you. That’s the real soul-question.

And what if the sex worker is male? Would you still consider him just as “low” as a woman?