Ladies of the 1980s Theme Week

Ladies of the 1980s Week: The Roundup

Check out all of the posts from our Ladies of the 1980s Week here.

‘Pretty in Pink’: A Desire for Autonomy by Siobhan Denton

Re-watching the film recently, it seems apparent that rather than Andie allowing herself to submit to Blane and all that he represents, her narrative arc is really a search for a sense of autonomy rather than a desire to transition into a world of privilege. … Andie is not happy, despite outward appearances, and it is clear that for her, Blane represents an opportunity to take control of her life, to become increasingly autonomous in her decisions.

‘A Different World’ Shook Up My World by Shara D. Taylor

A Different World will forever hold a special place in my life. Set at the fictional, historically Black school Hillman College, it became my North Star to an experience largely foreign to me — undergraduate life. It gave me insight into the strength gained from friendships with Black women. … Seeing images of young, gifted, and Black women pursuing higher education at a historically Black college or university (HBCU) shaped my vision for my life.

Historical vs. Modern Abortion Narratives in ‘Dirty Dancing’ and ‘Fast Times at Ridgemont High’ by Tessa Racked

Given this climate, it is somewhat surprising that two mainstream Hollywood films, Dirty Dancing and Fast Times at Ridgemont High, would take progressive approaches to a topic like reproductive justice. While Dirty Dancing remembers the realities of abortion pre-Roe v. Wade and illustrates the role that class plays in access to abortion, Fast Times at Ridgemont High shows a main character who exercises her right to choose without trauma or punishment, while managing to keep a relatively light tone.

Feminism and Classism in ‘The Legend of Billie Jean’ by Horrorella

The Legend of Billie Jean addresses questions of gender and class that are as real today as they were in 1985 and sets its story within the struggles against the patriarchy and the ruling wealthy class by people who all too often fall victim to those oppressions. … As the story progresses, Billie Jean’s flight becomes more than just the desire to escape from a situation that sees her and her friends unfairly on the wrong side of the law. She wants wrongs to be set right. … She wants dignity, and respect – truly, what she is after is equality.

10 of the Best Feminist Comedies of the 1980s by Jessica Quiroli

9 to 5. If I may, this is the greatest women’s comedy of all-time. So perfect on every level, it’s hard to know where to begin; but how about with the three main characters? … Played by Jane Fonda, Dolly Parton, and Lilly Tomlin, this wild ride is a classic in any era, but a rare, feminist gem of the 80s.

“You Have No Power Over Me”: Female Agency and Empowerment in ‘Labyrinth’ by Kelcie Mattson

So what distinguishes Labyrinth from the Hero’s Journey tropes it so closely follows? Its protagonist. Sarah is the hero of the story. She doesn’t need to be saved because she’s the rescuer, and she carries the plot forward with her resourcefulness, tenacity, and self-actualization. … But Labyrinth’s dramatic tension is centered entirely in a young woman’s mind as she navigates a tricky tightrope between fantasy and reality, dreams and goals, past and future, and discovers the kind of woman she wants to be.

‘Working Girl’ and the Female Gaze by Allyson Johnson

We so often view films through the Male Gaze with camera shots that are more interested in capturing the way a woman’s body looks under the guise of “sex sells” that it’s become somewhat of the norm. While Working Girl is appreciative of the beauty between Sigourney Weaver and Melanie Griffith, it employs a “female gaze” so to speak with Harrison Ford. … Also a change of pace is the fact that by the end of the film, Katharine and Tess aren’t fighting over Jack. They’re fighting over their place in the working world and, to narrow it down to a single moment, they’re fighting over a great idea that Tess had, one Katharine wishes she could have come up with and resents Tess for.

‘Videodrome’ and the Pornographic Femme Fatale by Dr. Stefan Sereda

Blade Runner (1982) featured two fembots-turned-fatale (and another faux–fatale) whereas David Cronenberg’s sci-fi-horror-noir Videodrome updated the femme fatale as a response to media-saturated late twentieth-century culture. … Regardless, in Cronenberg’s prophetic film, the femme fatale is reborn and unleashed to warn of contemporary dangers, including how women’s media representation as sex objects is connected to capitalist propaganda, often with the intent of making a violent agenda seem pleasurable.

The Feminisms of ‘Born in Flames’ by Heather Brown

It’s no coincidence to me that three years later Lizzie Borden would direct Born in Flames, a film that depicts a collection of different feminist voices all aligned in a common goal of resisting what bell hooks terms the white-supremacist-capitalist-patriarchy. … Instead of acting out carceral feminism, which relies on law enforcement and state violence to combat violence against women, the feminisms of Born in Flames create justice rather than restore “order.”

Did Gender Alter the Tone of the ‘Alien’ Franchise? Implications of Narrative Femininity by Kayleigh Watson

It is science fiction fact however, that Ellen Ripley should not have been “Ellen Ripley” at all. Dan O’Bannon’s original script for Alien stated: “The crew is unisex and all parts are interchangeable for men and women.” …In Aliens – the 1986 sequel directed by James Cameron – both Ripley and the alien are further solidified as female. Cameron pushed the series into being specifically feminist, having Weaver reprise the role in more extreme circumstances. She gained a surrogate daughter – Newt – to protect, more men to fight, and an Alien Queen – one who breeds – to defeat. … Through the course of the film, we come to an implied understanding that is wholly complicit in their both being mothers, adding a subliminal layer that would not have been present had either Ripley or the alien been male.

‘She’s Gotta Have It’: The Audacity of Sex and the Black Women Who Have It by Reginée Ceaser

Looking back on the film today, I appreciate this film now because it centers on a Black woman who unabashedly is exploring and thoroughly enjoying her sexuality. By doing this, Spike Lee took long held beliefs and perceptions of Black women and pushed back on the constrictions and perceptions of society.

‘Jem and the Holograms’: Diversity and Female Empowerment by Horrorella

What I didn’t remember, and was pleasantly surprised by, was all of the diversity present in the show and the incredibly positive female role models that it presented to its young viewers. … It offered a positive statement on cultural acceptance and feminine strength at a time when children’s programming was lacking in both areas (and often still is today). The Holograms celebrated an ethnically and culturally diverse group of characters who came from a variety of different backgrounds.

Reagan’s America: Waiting to Die in ‘Testament’s Radiation Zone by Angela Beauchamp

[Atomic Bomb Cinema author] Jerome Shapiro disregards Testament because it is primarily about women’s suffering, yet this very acknowledgement of women’s powerlessness in a world that patriarchal governments have just blown up is feminist at its core. … This 1983 film created by women gave the audience such a grim picture of the near future, without the excitement of special effects or the hope brought by overcoming obstacles, that it was a call to action, a message to avoid this outcome at all costs.

‘Crossing Delancey’: Isabelle Needs a New Perspective on Life and Love by Susan Cosby Ronnenberg

This romantic comedy has always been more of a cult classic. But it was unusual in its female writer and director, along with its distinctly Jewish cultural setting, its generational custom-clash regarding matchmaking, and its conflicted independent protagonist, Isabelle, who could be read as a late 1980s precursor to ‘Sex and the City’s protagonist Carrie Bradshaw. An independent, straight single woman with a successful career, Isabelle has professional and romantic options, ambitions, and flawed preconceptions about the incompatibility of those options and ambitions as she tries to decide between an internationally acclaimed poet or a neighborhood.

Women Muscians in the 80s Used Music Videos to Expand Notions of Womanhood by Gwen Hofmann

…Women in music broadened visual representations of gender as their cacophony of voices inoculated the population to women of all ages, races, and socioeconomic backgrounds. Most intriguing about this “kaleidoscopic” decade is the way women in 80s music videos displayed these distinct portraits of womanhood. … The ladies of 80s music video brought forth new visual representations of women including: experiences in the workforce, issues of class, messages of power, and unique expressions of love and sex.

‘The Golden Girls’: The Legacy of a Lifetime of Wisdom and Laughter by Adina Bernstein

In 1985, television audiences were reminded that women of a certain age are just as vibrant, sexual, and as full of life as women half their age. They may also share a few life lessons along the way. The TV series ‘The Golden Girls’ — which aired for seven seasons — reminded audiences of all ages that life does not end at fifty for women.

‘Fast Times at Ridgemont High’: The Wisdom and Confidence of Linda Barrett by Angela Morrison

Phoebe Cates brings life to the energetic, worldly, confident-yet-vulnerable Linda. Her character is the heart and soul of the movie, as she gives Stacy (Jennifer Jason Leigh) advice on sex, relationships, and navigating her way through high school. … Linda’s attitude toward sex – which she passes on to Stacy – is that it needn’t be a big deal, but rather, should be seen as a fun and pleasurable activity for young women such as themselves. … She urges Stacy to make her own decisions, letting her know that she has the power to decide who she wants to have sex with, and when. The film never takes a judgmental attitude towards these young women, their sexual activities, and their frank discussions of sex.

The Vietnam War Through a Teen Girl’s Eyes in ‘In Country’ by Caroline Madden

Sam is an underrated, if not widely unknown 1980s heroine. She serves as a symbol for America’s 1980s attempt to reconcile with its most controversial war. The 1980s experienced a boom in Vietnam War films, as the temporal distance from the war allowed filmmakers to fully deconstruct the experience. Rarely is the locus of these films a woman. Sam’s character manages to break through the barriers of a primarily masculine film genre. In Country uniquely explores both the female and child experience of the Vietnam War and its aftermath. This is a departure from the wide variety of films depicting the male veteran’s assimilation into post-Vietnam life, such as Born on the Fourth of July (1989) or First Blood (1982).

Revisiting ‘Desert Hearts’ and Its Lesbian Romance by Angela Beauchamp

‘Pretty in Pink’: The Only Team to Be on Is Team Andie by Isabella Garcia

I fixated on the Team Duckie vs. Team Blane aspect of the film so much that I entirely missed the point. I was so Team Duckie that I blamed Andie for not choosing him. … It wasn’t until I grew up some more, graduated high school, and went through several re-watches that I realized I had fallen into a trap that society has conditioned us to fall into: the dreaded sexist “friend zone.” … It was wild to me that Andie didn’t like Duckie back, but after recently re-watching the film I don’t know why I ever blamed her. She stuck true to what she wanted.

How ‘Big Business’ Made Big Business with Two Women Big in the Business by Kyle Sanders

Yet what sets this 80s flick apart from most films of that era is the fact that the four protagonists are all women AND completely independent. … Ultimately, it is Midler and Tomlin who save the film from being just another forgotten comedy of the 1980s. The two stars bring a certain gravitas to the screen — a perfect combination of comedic timing and contagious chemistry in scenes that might otherwise fall flat in the hands of other capable actresses.

‘The Stepfather,’ Toppling Patriarchy, and Love of 80s Horror Ladies by Eva Phillips

Stephanie emerges as a poised, perspicacious, and resilient female lead. She is a wonderfully surprising alternative from most of the panoply of horror heroines who are tortured, fight, and scream their way through the terrifying films of the 80s. … Stephanie embodies what each of the archetypally male characters in the film fails to, and in doing so transcends the clutches of gender expectations in the film and in a genre that is so often besotted by explicit or implicit gendered presumptions.

Sheila E.’s Agency as an Artist in ‘Krush Groove’ and Beyond by Tara Betts

But Sheila E. represents a woman’s creative musical power in an early hip hop film dominated by male artists. … As we consider hip hop’s presence in U.S. films and documentaries spanning the globe, it is also reasonable to consider that Sheila E. has one of the biggest roles for a woman that was written in the spate of films that began portraying hip hop culture.

Ripley, Sexism, and Classism in ‘Aliens’ by Adam Sherman

One of the most enduring female action heroes in the 80s is Ellen Ripley. In the 1979 movie Alien, we were introduced to her as a competent, no-nonsense space trucker who survived where the rest of her crew did not. However, it was not until 1986 that her status as a female badass was truly confirmed in the follow-up, Aliens. Yet, in-universe, it took Ripley much of the movie to gain any respect. The mix of classism and sexism Ripley faced is something that I think made many women identify with her even more.

‘The Fog’: 5 Women, an Environmental Crisis, and No Forecast for Friendship by ThoughtPusher

Before watching the movie with a more critical lens, I reminisced that these strong female characters drove the community response to crisis as they began to interact and even came to depend on each other. … But upon further examination, these characters only come together in a geographic sense rather than develop significant strength through the social bonds of supporting each other. … It seems like The Fog exposes the idea that strong women can’t have any meaningful relationships that might endure and even help them survive and understand themselves better through tough times.

Rethinking ‘Say Anything’ and the Film’s Actual Protagonist Diane Court by Charlotte Orzel

The problem isn’t that audiences misremember Lloyd Dobler; it’s that they forget about Diane Court. Even though the two characters share the screen more or less equally, Diane (Ione Skye) is often treated more as a love interest than a romantic lead. … Not only is Diane an equal player in the action; she’s the film’s protagonist. While we spend a great deal of time with Lloyd, the movie’s story is structured around Diane’s life. … While Diane has a clear narrative of growth, Lloyd is a static character.

Black Women in 1980s Horror Films: Tokenism and Regression by Ashlee Blackwell

However, I do thoroughly enjoy and sometimes defend 80s horror and the Black (female) characters I can find, but it’s crucial to examine the narrow confines of their characterization. … The 80s opened up a dialogue about where Black women’s place was not only in society, but in horror. Katrina demonstrates a stark fear of “the Other” who dwells beyond the parameters of the safe, White institutions, Sheila is a marker of assimilation and the rise of the Black middle class with a Huxtable like allure, while also being a Black girl nerd we like, and Epiphany is rooted in a past that Reagan’s message to America desired; a return to the good ‘ole days when miscegenation was taboo if not illegal.

Black Women in 1980’s Horror Films: Tokenism and Regression

This guest post written by Ashlee Blackwell originally appeared at Graveyard Shift Sisters and appears here as part of our theme week on Ladies of the 1980s. It is cross-posted with permission.

Horror in the 1980s saw its most economically prosperous boom ever with droves of young audiences flocking to the theaters each weekend to catch the latest mainstream fare and the independent distribution circuit got a taste for massive dollar returns thanks to VHS technology, video rental stores, and small film companies not yet chewed and swallowed by the landmark Telecommunications Act in 1996. The abundance of films were endless. So much so, myself and other horror aficionados are still combing purposely through the virtual racks to find untapped treasures, and others we loved but don’t remember by name. Unsurprising, diverse character representations weren’t necessarily a part of this equation.

The best description of Black characters in horror films in the 1980s is “fairly fleeting or nonexistent.” With major horror films in settings that reflected the “white flight” from “urban” (read: poor/working class, people of color) spaces, the reality of camps, suburbs, and modern, renewal terrains is where supernatural forces found a home away from the reality-based, city horrors. Of course, you had both non-White interlopers as insignificant, stand-in characters (actor Richard Lawson as Ryan in Poltergeist comes to mind) and the fly in the buttermilk characters I often mirror with the trend of the Black middle class during this time.

With sparse African American presence on this foundation, “Black characters’ value was confined to their ability to affect an assimilable air in cross-racial, interpersonal encounters,” often reduced to tokenized roles that saw them “blend” in with the group with no discernible interest in fleshing their characters out, making them just as multi-faceted, whole individuals as their white counterparts. However, I do thoroughly enjoy and sometimes defend 80s horror and the Black (female) characters I can find, but it’s crucial to examine the narrow confines of their characterization. While it was important for them to be “seen,” it’s disheartening that they were left to our imaginations to assess their merit.

Below are three of note, as they are as diverse in characterization as they are in setting. Within the realm of Black women in 1980’s horror films, they are standouts and widely recognized; funny enough because they are amongst the few.

Grace Jones as Katrina in Vamp (1986)

There’s one self-indulgent wish I have: to go back a few years to the pop culture conference I attended and to not have another meeting conflict with one graduate student’s presentation on Grace Jones’ vampiric performance in this film. I’m still wildly interested in the author’s thoughts on the dynamics of this character. There’s a lot to say about a significant character who does not speak. Your understanding comes from Katrina’s movements and reactions to those with whom she interacts. Katrina is feared, respected, and desired as any head vampress of a seedy strip club should be. Regardless of the film’s camp, it’s sort of an original step with Jones’ personae bringing to life such art and terror to a memorable character.

Toy Newkirk as Sheila Kopecky in A Nightmare on Elm Street 4: The Dream Master (1988)

It’s not without surprise to those in-the-know that this character is a personal favorite. Sheila is the first casualty of the barrier broken between the “Elm Street children” and the “fresh meat.” She is the Black friend who her white high school co-horts depend on for math tutoring and bug zappers. She is a part of the white female protagonist’s (Alice) arc in avenging her fallen friends and defeating Freddy. And in step with this particular Elm Street franchise installment and the famed sentiment, she proves the rule loosely solidified in this decade that the Black person does die first.

We don’t learn much about Sheila: we don’t see her at home, with family, taking interest in anyone romantically, or alone with her thoughts. To be fair, that’s not the tone of this film with a clear focus on Alice vs. Freddy. A small grace that Sheila offers is the fact that she strays heavily from caricature often associated with Black women in mainstream films. She wasn’t a “sassy, eccentric, magical servant,” a trope long associated with Black women in horror films long before the blaxploitation period in the 1970s. In fact, she was an extroverted nerd. Because this is a character so rare, if arguably non-existent for Black women on screen, it makes A Nightmare On Elm Street 4 revolutionary.

Lisa Bonet as Epiphany Proudfoot in Angel Heart (1987)

An ethereal presence in a surreal mystery, Epiphany provided both distraction and information to Harry Angel (Mickey Rourke), a private investigator who travels down to the American south to find the whereabouts of a musician named Johnny Favorite. The story was Angel’s; Epiphany’s presence had its share of significance considering the structure of the story. Bonet’s role was of a mystical practitioner of voodoo, more inclined to offer Angel rather cryptic facts about her mother, Evangeline who was the deceased lover of Favorite’s. Angel Heart‘s place in genre as a period mystery has me refraining from revealing too much of the story, but the beats that addressed matters of race are much better for analysis than the prior two films mentioned.

It is difficult to separate artist from the art here. Bonet was on a highway to super stardom during the film’s release, and her explicit love scene with Rourke’s character, considering their age difference and grisly imagery accompanying, sent a tizzy of rumors spiraling, citing this role as possibly being one of the reasons she and Bill Cosby were infamously at odds which Bonet has disputed.

In what may be considered more cult than mainstream, Angel Heart has earned its stripes as being one of the more bold and richly dark thrillers of the decade.

With a significant absence of Black filmmakers creating work in horror during the 1980s, representation was scant. Black characters were villains, supportives, and ultimately, victims just like other disposable characters. The problem lies in a lack of consideration for non-White actors to receive fulfilling, leading roles, not matter how slashery a horror film in the 80s was. It took the renaissances of Black cinematic genre storytelling of the 1970s and 1990s to bring more compelling roles back to these characters, Black women in particular. They have set the tone for what mainstream and independent horror filmmakers of any background are slowly but steadily doing today.

However, the 80s opened up a dialogue about where Black women’s place was not only in society, but in horror. Katrina demonstrates a stark fear of “the Other” who dwells beyond the parameters of the safe, White institutions, Sheila is a marker of assimilation and the rise of the Black middle class with a Huxtable like allure, while also being a Black girl nerd we like, and Epiphany is rooted in a past that Reagan’s message to America desired; a return to the good ‘ole days when miscegenation was taboo if not illegal. This may not have been a time to necessarily celebrate representation and diversity in the genre. But there’s enough open for much discourse that, whether intended or not, these films have left for its consumers to chew on for years to come.

References:

*Additional information and references not linked are from Dr. Robin Means Coleman’s book, Horror Noire: Blacks in American Horror Films from the 1890s to Present. New York: Routledge, 2011.

Ashlee Blackwell is the founder and managing editor of Graveyard Shift Sisters, a website dedicated to highlighting the work of women of color in the horror and science fiction genres. She holds a MA in Liberal Arts from Temple University and aspires to bring intersectional horror into the college classroom.

Rethinking ‘Say Anything’ and the Film’s Actual Protagonist Diane Court

The problem isn’t that audiences misremember Lloyd Dobler; it’s that they forget about Diane Court. … Not only is Diane an equal player in the action; she’s the film’s protagonist. … While Diane has a clear narrative of growth, Lloyd is a static character.

This guest post written by Charlotte Orzel appears as part of our theme week on Ladies of the 80s. | Spoilers ahead.

In the fall of 2014, an early example of “peak nostalgia” saw a television adaptation of Cameron Crowe’s 1989 rom-com Say Anything announced and then canceled within twenty-four hours at NBC. According to Deadline, the series would have continued where the film left off:

“Set in present day, the Say Anything series picks up ten years later. Lloyd has long since been dumped by Diane and life hasn’t exactly turned out like he thought. But when Diane surprisingly returns home, Lloyd is inspired to ‘dare to be great’ once again, get Diane back and reboot his life.”

This pitch gets straight to the core of the troublesome way Say Anything has been remembered. People think of the film as synonymous with its iconic image of Lloyd Dobler (John Cusack) holding a boombox over his head with his heart on his sleeve. Audiences remember Lloyd as the rare romantic lead who approaches the girl he loves with respect, earnestness, and unshakable optimism. They appreciate the way love let Lloyd “dare to be great.”

The problem isn’t that audiences misremember Lloyd Dobler; it’s that they forget about Diane Court.

Even though the two characters share the screen more or less equally, Diane (Ione Skye) is often treated more as a love interest than a romantic lead. Take this example from Total Film’s 50 Best Romantic Comedies:

“The sweet Lloyd Dobler (John Cusack) might be an average student, but he aims high when he asks valedictorian Diane Court (Ione Skye) out on a date. Her affluent lifestyle and his humble upbringing make the two a perfect ‘opposites attract’ pair as he helps her overcome her shyness and the ability to drive a stick shift, and she… well, loves him.”

From this summary, and others like it that have been published since the film’s release, you get the picture of a romance that sees Lloyd Dobler as a sweet, earnest slacker, rise to his potential to win the heart of a beautiful, sheltered girl. He teaches her how to live, and she is eventually won by his charm, wit, and ability to raise a boombox over his head for the entire length of “In Your Eyes” (an admittedly impressive five and a half minutes).

What really happens is quite different. Not only is Diane an equal player in the action; she’s the film’s protagonist. While we spend a great deal of time with Lloyd, the movie’s story is structured around Diane’s life. In the summer after graduation, she has much more on her plate than Lloyd, who when asked about what his summer job is, replies, “I want to see you as much as possible before you leave.” Lloyd’s future is uncertain, but he’s not too worried about it, as long as it includes Diane. Diane, on the other hand, is incredibly anxious about what lies ahead — she has been offered a prestigious fellowship to England and her father is being investigated by the IRS — and her growing feelings for Lloyd complicate things considerably. We watch her navigate her fears for the future and reconcile them with Lloyd’s idealism which, despite her crushing sense of responsibility, she finds incredibly appealing. These issues are not merely set dressing for the romance, like many romantic comedies that give their heroines a wisp of a life to differentiate them from one another, like a set of Career Barbies. Her father’s investigation forms a solid B-plot that is frequently left out of retellings.

In the first few minutes we spend with Diane, she gives a valedictory speech which communicates not only the tremendous expectations on her shoulders, but her own ambivalence about life after high school. It becomes immediately apparent that Diane’s fears run far deeper than a kiss from Lloyd can soothe. In a later scene with her father, when she learns that she’s won a competitive fellowship in England, her initial response is to sink to the ground, worrying: “I’ll have to go on a plane” (we later learn that she has been afraid of flying since she was young). Diane is not only brilliant, shy, and beautiful, but desperately afraid of what the future holds.

Meeting Lloyd opens Diane up to the possibilities of life outside the rigor of constant achievement. Their first date is not a swoony, candlelit affair or a twee romp, but a bustling graduation party where they spend little time together, but keep track of each other over the heads of their classmates. Diane, initially asking if it would be “terrible if [she] wanted to go home early,” enjoys herself and talks eagerly, if awkwardly, with the other students, eventually calling her father to tell him that she’ll be home before dawn.

In the car on the way back from the party, the two finally connect in a conversation about how their classmates perceive them. Unlike her father, who constantly and almost unconsciously affirms her, Lloyd listens with a kind ear to Diane’s insecurities and doubts. Lloyd represents more than the potential for romance, which Diane has in the droves of suitors (and their droves of cars) her father fields on the phone. He offers her a chance to be afraid, imperfect, and vulnerable, to reach out and connect genuinely with other people, and, most importantly, to be known in turn.

Rather than holding Lloyd at a distance, Diane brings him into her world, introducing him to her father and showing him around the nursing home where she works. He teaches her to drive stick shift, gently letting her be bad at something for what might be the first time in her life. They share their first kiss. Inseparable after that, they soon have sex, which Diane awkwardly has to explain to her worried father when she doesn’t come home that night. Tentative but sure, she pushes at the boundaries of her old life, neglecting to call her father and unable to reason her way out of her attraction to Lloyd.

Then, with her fellowship in England looming on the horizon and the IRS investigation growing ugly, Diane breaks it off suddenly when Lloyd tells her he loves her. She shares her feelings, but begs him not to “put things on this level.” The seriousness of their relationship seems to only deepen her worries about the murky future. Both parties despair, Lloyd leaving Diane a string of voicemails that she screens anxiously, clearly longing for him. Though she is touched by his attempts to change her mind, including the iconic boombox scene, these gestures are not what eventually move her to return to him. Far from the popular idea of Lloyd as the persistent, charming guy who wins the girl through earnest passion, he doesn’t win her back at all. Instead, she turns to him when she discovers her father is guilty of tax fraud. This revelation not only shatters any hope of her returning to her sheltered life, but reminds her of the value of her relationship with Lloyd, who is as open and honest with her as she is with him.

Confronting her father, she is devastated that he lied to her and shrinks from the idea that he wants to use his illegal gains to “set [her] up so [she] doesn’t have to depend on anybody.” When she goes back to Lloyd, she tells him that she needs him. Lloyd asks, “Are you here because you need someone, or because you need me?” following it up by telling her, “Forget it. I don’t care.” But Diane does. The girl who kept everyone at arm’s length has finally found someone she truly knows and can rely on.

The final scene of the film seals this realization, as Diane embraces the uncertainty of her future in England with Lloyd by taking on her major fear: flying. Diane confronts the doubts surrounding her relationship with Lloyd and her fear of flying by accepting the potential for failure. Like Diane, the ding of the smoking light that signals the most dangerous part of the flight is over reassures us, but doesn’t eliminate our worries about the couple’s fate. We don’t know what their future holds, only that the scariest part is over. The plane could still crash. It’s just more likely that it won’t, and that’s enough.

While Diane has a clear narrative of growth, Lloyd is a static character. The film opens on him declaring his intention to win Diane’s heart, and closes on him having achieved his goal, but he remains earnest, steadfast, and optimistic throughout. Diane’s choices, not his, push the story forward. The movie flirts with remedying his lack of career ambition, having first his guidance counselor and then Diane’s father scorn his refusal to commit to a plan for the future. However, he ultimately concludes that his relationship with Diane is enough to sustain him. The movie cheekily points out his lack of development in a scene when he visits her father in prison, and tells him that he probably should start working on his own goals, but has decided to go to England with Diane instead.

This lack of ambition is what has led some to argue that Lloyd and Diane never would have made it work in the long run. In what may be the most cynical article of all time, Dustin Rowles speculates about how things turned out for the characters, concluding that Lloyd’s slacker attitude would wear on Diane and sooner rather than later, she would have cut him loose to go after a graduate student. The NBC pitch also suggests that a breakup between the two was inevitable. But assuming that Lloyd and Diane would split reveals a fundamental misunderstanding of what brought them together in the first place. Lloyd doesn’t win Diane with his wit and laid-back attitude; his honesty and warmth encourage her to open up and make herself vulnerable enough to forge a real connection. Eventually, she chooses him because his unflagging optimism balances out her stymieing fear of the unknown. If we imagine that Lloyd won Diane over with his persistence, it’s easy to imagine her becoming disillusioned later on. If we remember that she chose him, and in doing so, took a step forward in becoming the kind of person she wanted to be, writing off their relationship as misguided becomes much harder.

In light of Diane’s place at the center of the story, why is Lloyd given so much more prominence when we talk about Say Anything?

In the years before and since the movie’s release, John Cusack’s star has burned brighter than Ione Skye’s. Since the two actors have almost an equal amount of screentime, that may make it slightly easier to imagine Cusack as the lead. While one could conceivably argue that Lloyd is a more unique and fully realized (or better acted) character, a close look at Diane suggests that conclusion is unfair. Not only is Diane’s shy, anxious braniac just as uncommon a sight onscreen as Lloyd’s witty, earnest slacker, but Crowe and Skye fill her in with loving detail. Diane is just as complex and interesting a character as Lloyd. However, for the audience of teen romance, imagined by marketing executives as young, female, and heterosexual, the male character is often made the object of desire and attention in both marketing and the film itself. This is particularly true in a genre that often makes its female characters bland and one-dimensional on the assumption that it will allow female viewers to more easily insert themselves into the story. And naturally, when male protagonists are more common and valued more highly than female ones, many viewers are already in the habit of bending over backwards to sympathize with the male perspective. These ways of watching are so ingrained that we may end up imposing them ourselves, even when films like Say Anything offer us a more nuanced alternative.

The NBC series pitch leans on these viewing habits by setting Lloyd up as the main character of the show. He is the one whose “life hasn’t turned out like he thought,” who must “reboot” to regain his old energy and idealism. But the movie worked in the first place by watching Diane grow out of her fear of the future. By undermining the ambiguity of the original ending, the TV pitch ignores the way that accepting both the hope of success and the possibility of failure was an essential resolution for Diane’s character arc. The pitch assumes that Diane was a catalyst for change in Lloyd once before and will be again, even though the movie works precisely the other way around. Say Anything didn’t dare Lloyd to be great. It dared Diane to embrace her greatness, and let us watch as she rose to the challenge.

Charlotte Orzel spent a few formative years scooping popcorn at an independent movie theatre, and in the process fell in love with film, television, and criticism of all kinds. She is a Master’s student in Media Studies at Concordia University in Montreal where she studies new initiatives in film exhibition. She tweets about her interests and adventures in writing and academia at @charlotteorzel.

‘The Fog’: 5 Women, an Environmental Crisis, and No Forecast of Friendship

Before watching the movie with a more critical lens, I reminisced that these strong female characters drove the community response to crisis as they began to interact and even came to depend on each other. … It seems like ‘The Fog’ exposes the idea that strong women can’t have any meaningful relationships that might endure and even help them survive and understand themselves better through tough times.

This guest post by ThoughtPusher appears as part of our theme week on Ladies of the 1980s. | Spoilers ahead.

When I saw the theme for this month, I assumed John Hughes and cult-favorites with coming-of-age individuality would be well-covered territory; so as I considered topics that might extend beyond teen angst and stellar soundtracks, I started thinking about friendship. Honing in on my beloved 80s-era references, I would like to say that I immediately jumped into an ocean of examples of empowering female friendships such as the spot-on interpretation of The Golden Girls that Megan Kearns published awhile ago. But instead, I thought of a horror movie that stood out to me as presenting more women than men — and three really different kinds of women — who come together to survive an onslaught of vengeful ghosts.

Before watching the movie with a more critical lens, I reminisced that these strong female characters drove the community response to crisis as they began to interact and even came to depend on each other. But now in retrospect, I see that they remain isolated from each other and do not develop any mutually fulfilling relationships like the sense of family in my nostalgic memory of The Golden Girls household. I originally thought this month’s theme would provide an opportunity to examine the genesis of female friendships through crisis. But upon further examination, these characters only come together in a geographic sense rather than develop significant strength through the social bonds of supporting each other. And with that, I welcome you back to the early scream-queen transition into the 80s in the John Carpenter classic The Fog (1980).

The film opens with John Houseman telling a campfire story about the intentional shipwreck of colony settlers with leprosy and their vengeful ghosts who return with the fog to search for the six people who conspired to destroy them and steal their gold. With the ghost story told, Carpenter progressively introduces three kinds of women — literally progressing from the first to the second to the third, cut back to one, to two, to three — for the first half of the movie until their storylines start to converge.

Stevie Wayne (Adrienne Barbeau) speaks from her lighthouse radio booth “on top of the world,” wishing the town of Antonio Bay a happy 100th anniversary, and questioning the foreboding weather forecast since she sees a great view of clear skies. It’s significant that this introduction to her character indicates her presence at all of the town locations in establishing shots during her broadcast, rather than any camera shots of her talking into the mic. A few fishermen drinking on a ship in the bay also question the reported fog bank as they discuss the voice on the radio, and one is surprised to find out that another once met her at a little league game. From the outset, one star of the film is more a presence in voice than body.

Stevie is the most basic female archetype: a Mother to young son Andy (Ty Mitchell) and later to the community. As a local radio broadcaster who at one point identifies herself as Antonio Bay’s “nightlight,” she is the steady voice that informs the town of what is happening and what they should do — quite like many of us hear that inherited parental voice in the back of our heads providing a stream of thoughts, advice, and occasional criticism. There are almost as many shots in the movie of different radios while Stevie’s broadcasting as there are of her embodied agency in the booth. There’s no father in the picture (well, not in the story, although we see a few pictures of a happy family presumably with a young Andy); so Andy’s babysitter, Mrs. Kobritz (Regina Waldon), fills in at home when Stevie is at work. As the Surrogate-Mother, she’s the physically present caretaker for Andy in the absence of his professional mom. In fact, both women ask Andy at different times about the other, so it doesn’t seem like the maternal mind and body interact except through the son.

Further, in an amazingly strange representation of motherhood, Stevie and Andy share one scene together that is not mediated by either the radio or phone when Andy wakes up his mom after finding a gold coin that turned into a plank of wood from the crashed ghost ship on the beach. They are in the same bedroom set, but the entire conversation is edited shot-reverse-shot conversational style so that they don’t share any eye lines. Even in the one clear two-shot, Stevie has yet to open her eyes as she rises from bed with Andy talking excitedly in the background. In this entire scene, they don’t even touch! Not a hug, not a pulling up of the jacket zipper, not even a tussle of Andy’s hair as the kid goes about his day searching the shoreline for washed-up treasure. In The Fog, Stevie becomes a completely isolated and disembodied Mother, especially since all of the other characters look at radios to an objectified Voice rather than an embodied woman.

During the night of glowing ghost-fueled fog, and after she learns it’s homicidal, Stevie watches it approach her house in the distance. On the air, she announces: “My son is trapped by the fog. Andy, get out of the house! Run!” She begs for someone to help as she watches the fog bank invade her dockside home. Shortly thereafter, the fog moves away and, without knowing if anyone heard her call, Stevie apologizes to her son in a disturbingly unmotherly way: “Andy, I don’t even know if you can hear me. I’m sorry that I didn’t come for you… that I wasn’t there.” She can’t leave her post since she has responsibilities to her job and the listening audience in town? I mean, what the fuck?! She’s standing in her booth asking her kid to understand because, stifling of tears (and sounding more like she’s either a ghost to him or standing on his grave), “I have to stay here.” Then Stevie swallows her fear or pain or what should be an emotional transition from a son’s Mother to a community’s Voice and she begins objectively reporting the movement of the fog through town. Street by street, she describes locations in a distanced public-broadcasting tone. She alerts her listeners to seek shelter and “stay away from the fog.” For those who can get out of town, she announces the changing clear path to get to the old church. Amazingly(ish), the surviving primary characters all gather there for a showdown with the fog-ghosts.

When Stevie apologizes to Andy, she says goodbye and sheds her working mother identity for a civic-minded character, where the good of the community takes precedence over familial obligations. This is certainly character development, but I can’t shake the abruptness of this sudden shift from family to community protection — it’s not like she’s a cop or other public official. Yet her transmission becomes the stationary lighthouse perspective as it blares through the fog and alerts the community about the dangerous environmental threat and how to reach safety. Strangely, according to the setting of the lighthouse, Stevie does not have a superior perspective of the town, but much more a lateral cliff-side view; so there is no implied omniscience but only relational distance from the danger observed through the night with limited ability to know if her message is being heard by anyone, including the son who may or may not have been slaughtered. By the end of the film, Stevie transitions from Mother to a fully disembodied Voice. But more to come on that shipwreck of character…

Elsewhere in the universe of strong women illuminated by the supernatural fog, Elizabeth Solley (Jamie Lee Curtis) hitches a ride with Nick Castle (Tom Atkins) even though he says he’s on his way to “the other side of town.” Sure she probably could have walked that distance in an hour, but why not jump into his truck, directly ask if he’s weird, and then roll to his house after sharing a scare when the truck windows mysteriously smash in. Elizabeth and Nick have sex, so she is neither the archetypal Whore required by The Cabin in the Woods standards nor hindered by the “sex equals death” rule of Scream. Elizabeth enters the film as a drifter, hitchhiking her way to Vancouver when Nick drives by in his pick-up. She then stays attached to Nick (quite literally for much of their screen time outside of the truck) during the ensuing events — so I’m going with the double-meaning characterization of Hitcher for her.

In the scenes leading up to the nighttime crisis, Carpenter posits a physical relation between the Hitcher and Andy which appeals to an initial shared innocence. As Nick tells Elizabeth the scary story of his father’s supernatural encounter at sea, she pulls her legs in to hold them in a self-comforting embrace. Andy maintains a similar posture as he fearfully sits on his bed while the invading ghosts start to break into his room.

At a point of character development beyond an innocent drifter, Elizabeth is in the truck with Nick when Stevie yells out commands to her son to leave and run away from the fog. As Stevie pleads for help from listeners, Elizabeth and Nick heed the panicked Mother-Voice and rescue Andy. Where Stevie drops out of the Mother role (and the Surrogate has already been murdered in ghostly revenge), the Hitcher picks up the maternal responsibility. In various scary moments after the rescue, Elizabeth breaks away from her distressed damsel reactions of screaming and reaching for Nick. Instead, she holds Andy to her body in a protective frontal embrace to shield him physically in a way that the Mother and the grandmotherly Surrogate did not — they both told him to run for cover and the Hitcher actually provides him cover.

Elizabeth ventures into the uncharted waters of Motherhood by grasping a child; she’s now Hitched to a son rather than a lover. And for all we know, she might even become Andy’s Mother; because by the end of the movie, Stevie broadcasts a “keep watching the skies” kind of warning to all those in town and at sea, before she does any damn thing to try to find out if her own son lived through the night! There’s no mention of “I hope to see you again” or “meet me at the dock,” much less giving the impression that her recently ghost-hook-stabbed shoulder might hurt. This is the shipwreck of the Mother: Stevie moves on from the (possible) loss of her son and becomes the fully disembodied Mother-Voice for the community.

Thus Carpenter distinguishes different kinds of Mother characters that remain severed, even if their narratives overlap: a Mother loses touch with her son and his Surrogate as she becomes the town’s Mother-Voice who tries to explain the best route to survival to listeners, including a drifter who falls into bed with a man and stays attached to him through danger until she becomes a Mother/Surrogate to an abandoned child. Sure, the Hitcher becomes the savior of the Mother-Voice’s son; but she answers the on-air pleas unbeknownst to the Mother herself. There is no interaction between them. The woman who begins in the maternal role acts for the community so she is unable to save her own child from danger while a stranger passing through town can. The woman who fills the carefree Hitcher role is embroiled in the strange happenings of the cursed town and answers the call to save a child in need. However, Elizabeth takes on that burden without any mutual involvement with Stevie, and both women extend their characters beyond their initial tropes without even a chance meeting or conversation.

Finally, the last of The Fog‘s three lead women characters, the ever-talented Janet Leigh portrays civic leader Kathy Williams. She’s in the stressful waning hours of planning the town’s centennial celebration and statue dedication. She has an aide, Sandy (Nancy Loomis), whom she depends on, talks to, and thus provides Bechdel checkmarks next to all three boxes. But with that criteria fulfilled, Sandy plays the role of Assistant to Mrs. Williams, so even the personal discussions between them seem like the kinds of conversations that are the norm between close coworkers rather than friends. Yet Mrs. Williams consistently maintains a community-focus. Before leaving a meeting with the Priest (Hal Holbrook) who is troubled by the recent revelation of the town’s foundation on the demise of the ghastly (and now ghostly) lepers, Mrs. Williams wants to ensure he’s okay and offers to send for the doctor. Sandy indicates the time and implies their need to get on with their agenda, but Mrs. Williams is the epitome of the Civic Leader: she really cares about others, despite Sandy pointing at her watch to stress the importance of wasting time during a busy day.

Further establishing herself as Civic Leader, the power goes out and the crowd’s candles are already lit for the dedication ceremony, so Mrs. Williams calmly announces over the now-dead microphone: “We should all proceed over to the statue.” The patrons move through in a calm and orderly fashion, and Mrs. Williams wants everyone to be able to participate and then leave the ceremony safely. Unlike Stevie’s panicked-Mother freak-out session directing Andy to get out of the house, Mrs. Williams focuses on civic responsibilities distinct from her personal upheaval. Carpenter makes use of a really effective long take to focus on Mrs. Williams’ emotional processing of a personal crisis in the midst of her civic responsibilities, but she lives this moment isolated in a crowded frame. After the Sheriff leaves the shot, Sandy tries to comfort her; but Mrs. Williams only brings her eyes to Sandy’s hand on her arm. When she finally meets Sandy’s eye line, she has shifted the topic from personal loss to an obligation to keep it together for the ceremony. She dabs her eyes and reestablishes her firm, professional tone: “We can’t have the chairlady of the birthday celebration in tears, can we?”

As the two community-centric women leave the shot, the camera backtracks through the narrow bar with Nick to reveal that Elizabeth has been there the entire time. Sure, she’s not a member of this community and may not know Mrs. Williams’ role or identity beyond this emotional outburst, but she doesn’t say or do anything? Really?? Granted, Jamie Lee Curtis is in character at the time, and demonstrates her chops alongside the set watching her mom (Janet Leigh) cry — take after take for the dozen or so attempts to get this long tracking shot right — and not reacting like a daughter in the vicinity of her own mom’s gut-wrenching performance. But wouldn’t someone who eventually heeds a distress call to rescue a child in danger also be someone who would find a way to try to comfort someone going through a personal crisis?

This one long tracking shot seems to finally rest on a two-shot of Nick sidling up to the bar next to Elizabeth, but then there’s a broadcasting radio on the back shelf of the bar. Stevie’s updates grab Nick’s attention, and he goes to the payphone to make contact with the Voice. This is the first scene where we get a sense that the three primary women in the movie are actually in the same movie, and it is when none of them share a shot or directly speak to either of the others.

Stevie’s awareness is established as one of independent authority, and her relationship to the other female characters are sequentially constructed in the editing room. Once the stage is set, Carpenter cuts through the gradually overlapping events of these women in an orderly fashion. Eventually, we reach the climactic crisis: Surrogate murdered, the Hitcher and Civic Leader along with the Assistant come together in obedience to the supreme Voice of the Mother (along with a motherless son wandering around with a local guy who happens to be able to engage directly with all the women) in the church to hold off the invading ghosts while the local Priest tries to break the curse his grandfather helped catalyze. But come on, what the fuck is going on here? Even in the barricaded confines of the church with leper-ghost arms swiping into the windows, Elizabeth and Mrs. Williams do not speak to each other or even seem to acknowledge the other’s existence. They are in survival mode against invading ghosts of a cursed past! By no means do I need (or frankly even want) a gushy-emotional “wind beneath my wings” kind of friendship to be imposed on these strangers who met about an hour ago in narrative time, but not even a damn glance of mutual recognition? And when they leave the church as a successful kick-ass team of survivors, all the embodied primaries stand gazing at the dissipating fog as if they’ve become distinct statues memorializing fierce independence.

Would it end the whole narrative world if we got to see these women battle vengeful ghosts in close quarters and leave the arena with a celebratory fist-bump, or a relieved hug, or even a little wink or smirk in a shared eye line?! Much less if they could walk away from the destruction as they catch up on what’s been going on aside from the apocalypse. (So, yeah, maybe the Buffy-Willow friendship is more to my taste; but seriously…) These are all strong women; all survivors of a shared catastrophe, all indirectly related protectors, yet all isolated identities who remain without equal, friendless.

It seems like The Fog exposes the idea that strong women can’t have any meaningful relationships that might endure and even help them survive and understand themselves better through tough times. The whole foundation for mutual recognition in friendship (at least in a classic Aristotelian sense) would be to have a reflection in peers to better understand themselves as individuals. Instead, we’re presented with dynamic women cut off from those who should have the most impact on their lives, and they apparently know it. For instance, Stevie talks to the weatherman who calls to report movement of the fog bank rolling against the wind, and they seem to have a cordial professional relationship until we see how easily she deflects his advances. He asks her to dinner, but with a humorous revelation she lets him down: “My idea of perfection is a voice on the phone.” Maybe this only expresses Stevie’s independence from a conventional relationship, but her movement toward disembodied-Voice isolation is already established in her sole on-screen encounter with her son. When he wakes her the morning of the ghost ship plank washing ashore, she says to him in a rather put-off tired voice: “I love you… but sometimes you’re a real pain.” This attitude (along with not sharing an eye line with her son in that whole mess) distances Stevie from the physical relational expectations of a Mother.

A similar kind of distance is established by Mrs. Williams with her Assistant. Sandy supports Mrs. Williams throughout the hectic day and into the crisis, but even this relationship stays fairly hierarchical as a professional arrangement. We can assume that a Civic Leader would have an Assistant in planning and executing community activities, but Mrs. Williams expresses a playful exasperation with Sandy, calling her “a little annoying” but right about leaving the public ceremony to deal with personal loss — as if those two ways of existing must remain distinct. As the supernatural events unfold, even though Elizabeth stays attached to Nick, she keeps reiterating her intention of leaving town to get to Vancouver. Each of these women thus have relational attachments in their lives, but no sign of friendship that matters beyond practical concerns. What the fuck does that tell us about ladies of the 80s? Women can be strong as individual types and even experience dynamic growth, but they don’t interact as equals.

Nerd Alert: In a social satire published in the previous century’s 80s, fog was referenced as something that could illuminate identity and dictate proper social relations. In Edwin A. Abbott’s classic novella, Flatland, the upper-class Art of Sight Recognition is enhanced by Fog, an environmental condition which augments a finer quality of depth perception in two-dimensional reality. Fog becomes a superior blessing in the landscape of Flatland because it entails the possibility of seeing acceptable interpretations of social status that remain hidden from clear perception. Just as visual perception in Flatland is enhanced by Fog, Carpenter distinguishes these female identities in their encounters with the glowing fog and its ghostly apparitions. But the undeveloped idea latent in Abbott’s world — whether or not the inferences based on Fog-enhanced perception are appropriate to determine the value of an encountered subject within the preconceived social hierarchy — becomes an issue of social interpretation of ladies of the 1980s.

Even if we get a sense of strong women capable of being independent, protecting children, or maintaining civic-mindedness; these are distinct personal identities which each impose their own proper social relations (or absence thereof). We do not witness any overlap within individuals or immediacy of female friendship. This is even more surprising considering the screenplay was co-written by Debra Hill. Each female trope becomes a species in itself, incomparable to other kinds of women and apparently cut off from previous character identities, such as Stevie shedding the Mother role for community-Voice role and not forging a more complex union of the two. The Fog illuminates the boundaries of different types of women. To strong women out there on an individual level: Sure you can be a good mother, a free spirit, or a community leader; but those things don’t really all go together. And to strong women out there on a social level: Sure you can be individuals and even wear different hats when it comes to character development, but you and other kinds of women are just ships blindly passing through a foggy bay with access only to indirect communication — mediated by technology, hierarchical relations, or some local guy like Nick.

Through The Fog, we see the emergence of these starring women — town-defending, child-protecting, ghost-fighting women — who all develop beyond their initial molds. Yet they don’t seem to have any potential to build relationships or mutual respect for each other across those boundaries. Carpenter edits a vision of three distinct kinds of women of the early 80s — roles which can be broadened for potential character development, but remain distinct enough to offer only indirect support from other women. I can only imagine how much these different women would benefit from meaningful interactions with each other through this crisis. But I’m left merely to speculate on the respect and support that friendship could provide to each of these completely different personalities… like imagining a sudden onslaught of vengeful ghosts invading The Golden Girls’ household. Oooh, I think I just got a totally wicked crossover sequel idea!

In retrospect, what The Fog reveals is a glimpse of some really strong ladies of the 80s; but it falls short of giving us any clear view of what strong women can be, do, and become together.

ThoughtPusher might live somewhere near you (especially if you have a neighbor who blasts New Order or Tears for Fears records most nights), but certainly is a cinephile who has no interest in being followed or asking to be liked, unless it’s for access to an embarrassingly extensive VHS collection.

Ripley, Sexism, and Classism in ‘Aliens’

However, it was not until 1986 that her status as a female badass was truly confirmed in the follow-up, ‘Aliens.’ Yet, in-universe, it took Ripley much of the movie to gain any respect. The mix of classism and sexism Ripley faced is something that I think made many women identify with her even more.

This guest post written by Adam Sherman appears as part of our theme week on Ladies of the 1980s.

One of the most enduring female action heroes in the eighties is Ellen Ripley. In the 1979 movie Alien, we were introduced to her as a competent, no-nonsense space trucker who survived where the rest of her crew did not. However, it was not until 1986 that her status as a female badass was truly confirmed in the follow-up, Aliens. Yet, in-universe, it took Ripley much of the movie to gain any respect. The mix of classism and sexism Ripley faced is something that I think made many women identify with her even more.

Ripley’s struggle to be taken seriously began almost as soon as she wakes up from cryosleep. As soon as she recovers from her physical injuries, she’s sent in front of the Weyland-Yutani board to account for the loss of her ship. If the titular Alien’s reproductive cycle is a metaphor for rape, then that scene is possibly a metaphor for the often hostile legal process survivors of rape go through. Ripley is thrown into a room with overtly hostile men (and one hostile woman), where they pick apart every detail in her story.

Her one (not very vocal) defender in that room is Carter Burke, a low-level board member. The first time I watched Aliens (I think I was in high school,) I thought he was a decent guy… until he stabbed everyone in the back, of course. Now, rewatching the movie for this article, I realize that he wasn’t. From his introduction, he reeks of corporate pandering. His way of speaking seems to be straight-talk, but upon closer inspection, it seems like just a bunch of buzzwords thrown together to make Ripley do what he wants. Speaking of buzz words and manipulation, compare his recruitment of Ripley to how for-profit-schools recruit students. Throwing the shame of working at the docks in her face and reminding her she used to be a lieutenant on a starship is some pretty good use of pain points.

Speaking of “the shame of working at the docks,” the way Burke treats Ripley parallels how our society treats blue-collar workers. It makes sense. After all, her previous job was basically being a trucker… IN SPACE! While not glamorous, Ripley seemed to think that job was fine, just like dockwork was fine. And if Burke was going to look down on her for that… well, she would just tell him what to do with his classism and Scrooge McDuck piles of money. The only reason she returned to LV-246 was that people were in danger.

That brings us to the marines. Despite a surprising number of female marines in the team, they are obviously fueled by hyper-masculinity and testosterone and, in Sergeant Apone’s case, nicotine. Of course, some of that aggressive bravado might just be for show. After all, it is hinted that nothing they do is completely safe. On the ride down, it is subtly suggested that their drop ship could blow up randomly.

The marines are also quite dismissive of outsiders. They complain that the colonists they are supposed to rescue are “morons” who probably broke the transmitter by accident; either that or the emergency is actually that “their daughters need to be rescued from their own virginity.” Ripley, at the start, is treated dismissively, as if she’s merely rambling about aliens. During her briefing, it is readily apparent that the marines think she is wasting their time. They start to warm up to Ripley when she shows that she’s ready to roll up her sleeves and get dirty alongside them by piloting a power loader to arm the dropship. (By the way, this is a nice bit of foreshadowing to the final battle. But I probably don’t need to tell you that.)

The marines are also particularly disdainful of their fearful leader, Lieutenant Gorman. During the drop (which was established as dangerous) he annoys his subordinates by showing fear and his lack of experience. But his worst crime before setting down was refusing to eat with the marines, as if he’s better than them. Instead, he sat with the two civilians, conveying his elitism.

On the other end of this spectrum is Vasquez. Vasquez is one of the three female marines, yet she appears to be attempting to be the most stereotypically masculine. While most of the other marines groggily awake from cryosleep and put their clothes on, Vasquez is already doing chin-ups, using the ship’s structure as a gym. She also adopts her comrades’ prejudices to a greater degree. Before Ripley is accepted, Vasquez is one of her harshest critics. She also goes so far as to attempt to beat an unconscious Gorman, only restrained by her fellow survivors.

Yet underneath much of the marines’ seemingly emotional outbursts is a cold logic. Cowardice is despised because when one person panics, others will quickly follow. And if the person panicking is high enough in rank, like Gorman, lives are more likely to be lost. Both points were proved effectively in the masterfully shot first battle between the xenomorphs and the marines. They are quick to call for the incompetent Gorman and the treacherous Burke to be executed because both men proved to be a liability. They distrust civilians because, well, civilians don’t know anything about military operations. The marines eventually listen to Ripley not only because of her prior experience, but also because of her quick thinking and decisiveness; she fits the mold they believe makes a good leader.

Ripley eventually earns the marines’ respect. The first sign, as stated before, was Ripley’s willingness to step up and get on the power loader when the least-liked Marine, Hudson, refused. What really earns their respect, however, is Ripley taking control of the APC to save the marines, despite Gorman’s orders to wait. If Ripley hadn’t acted, all eight of the marines who went down into the xenomorph nest would have died. Losing almost sixty-three percent of the combat-ready troops may seem unsustainable (which it was). But you have to remember: it was better than what Gorman could have done. Ripley is even able to keep the momentum of her victory going by coming up with a plan to survive after the destruction of the dropship. In doing that, the only person who could legitimately challenge her leadership would be Hicks. Between the two of them, they manage to mount an effective defense against a highly intelligent foe that both outnumbered and outmaneuvered them.

This journey from marginalized victim to survivor to respected leader is I think one of the more subtle reasons why people love Ripley. People will talk about her killing xenomorphs, or her motherly instincts towards Newt, or that awesome gun she jerry-rigged together when fighting the queen. Yet people don’t always discuss how Ripley earned the respect of people who previously dismissed her. Many of us believe that if we can be smart enough, strong enough, funny enough, creative enough, talented enough, or some other simile for good enough, everyone who ever doubted us will be forced to accept us. Ripley isn’t just an action hero in Aliens, she’s the embodiment of that belief. And so many of us love her for that.

Adam “T4nky” Sherman is the writer of Nowhere Island University and also doessemi-related blog stuff. You can also follow him on Twitter @NowhereIslandU.

Sheila E.’s Agency as an Artist in ‘Krush Groove’ and Beyond

This guest post written by Tara Betts appears as part of our theme week on Ladies of the 1980s.

The film Krush Groove opens with rap group Run–D.M.C. (Joseph “Run” Simmons, Darryl “D.M.C.” McDaniels, and Jason “Jam Master Jay” Mizell) recording “King of Rock” in a makeshift studio for producers Rick Rubin (as Rick), Kurtis Blow (playing himself, as did most of the musicians in the film), and Blair Underwood (as Russell Walker), loosely based on Russell Simmons’ life. Two quiet girls listen in the studio, and the other group featured in the opening as the credits roll include The Fat Boys featuring the late Darren Robinson, also known as Human Beatbox. The Fat Boys (called The Disco Three here) portray high school students who dream of being famous rappers. Women and girls had minor roles or silent roles in the background. But one woman who received top billing and appeared on the posters in this 1985 film was none other than singer, drummer, and percussionist Sheila E., playing herself in the film. Shortly after drumming during Purple Rain with friend and collaborator Prince, the success of Sheila E.’s first single and album The Glamorous Life and the single “The Belle of St. Mark” helped her segue into her role in Krush Groove.

“The Love Bizarre” is heard before Run DMC even enters the tiny club called Disco Fever, where snippets of “King of Rock” are shot and The Disco Three dream of getting onstage. Sheila E.’s flyness come off with a singular style — asymmetrical short hair with bleached tips and gold coins dangling from her ears, her strings of pearls, a shimmery orange jacket with padded shoulders, and a black fingerless glove. She has a magnetic presence and controls the stage; she sings on her back and slides along the length of the stage, then pops back up to sing the chorus with a big-haired band member mouthing Prince’s voice on the chorus of “A Love Bizarre.” In the meantime, Russell (Blair Underwood) and Run are both watching Sheila. She ends the performance with plucking a chord or two and walks offstage to confront her manager about getting her better gigs. Sheila E. asserting herself here is one of several scenes where she speaks her mind and acts with agency on her own behalf. Of course, a snippet of the Force MDs’ song “Tender Love” foreshadows the romantic interest between Russell and Sheila E. But Sheila E. represents a woman’s creative musical power in an early hip hop film dominated by male artists.

Sheila E. practices what becomes the song “Holly Rock” later in the film. While Run and Darryl sit on the couch, Sheila stops playing to tell Run to rehearse and stop ordering shell toe Adidas. She is not one of the background vocalists on either side of Kurtis Blow when he raps “If I Ruled the World” at a scene in a club. When Sheila E. joins Blow and Run–D.M.C. onstage at The Beverly, their wardrobe takes cues from Prince’s Edwardian style suits, but the more significant element is how Sheila E. occupies the entire stage. She plays timbales, throws her drumsticks in the air and catches them, sings while prancing from one end of the stage to the other, and works the microphone while effortlessly singing and rapping.

When Run and Darryl leave Krush Groove Records, Russell looks to sign Sheila E. as part of his last ditch efforts to pay back a loan shark. Later, after Sheila and Russell fall for each other, Sheila slaps Run for cursing and bashing her for having sex with Russell. She insists on going to help Russell when the loan shark sends bodyguards to the Krush Groove office/college dorm room. Sheila E.’s reprimand convinces Run to help defend his brother. In the closing scene at Disco Fever, The Fat Boys, Run–D.M.C., Kurtis Blow, all line the stage and kick a verse. Sheila rhymes on par with any of her counterparts, and it becomes evident that her rapping becomes a recurring skill in later songs like Prince’s “Beautiful Night.”

Sheila E.’s prowess with words is only part of what makes her role distinct in this film. She stands out because she is a skillful musician who mastered various instruments and she is not necessarily a rapper in a film dominated by the then successful Run–D.M.C., a teenage LL Cool J, pop sensation New Edition, the Beastie Boys, two members of the R & B group Full Force playing bodyguards, and the future Uptown Records founder and eventual president and CEO of Motown Records Andre Harrell as half of the rap duo Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde.

Sheila E. grew up surrounded by significant musicians: her percussionist father Pete Escovedo; her uncle singer and songwriter Alejandro Escovedo, her uncle The Dragons frontman Mario Escovedo, her uncle Javier Escovedo, who founded the Zeros; her uncle percussionist Coke Escovedo, who performed in Santana and started his own band; and her godfather Tito Puente, a legend of mambo and Latin jazz percussion, associated with Fania Records and movies like The Mambo Kings and Calle 54. As a child surrounded by these influential musicians, it is not surprising that she honed her talents and eventually told Prince what she was making on tours with her father and other musicians, to which he replied, “Okay, I can’t afford you.”

After starring in Krush Groove, Sheila E. recorded and released Romance 1600. In 1987, Sheila E. recorded a self-titled album on Paisley Park Records that included the U.S. singles “Hold Me” and “Koo Koo.” The video for “Koo Koo” featured dancer Cat Glover and both women later appeared in the live concert movie Sign o’ the Times as members of the band.

As we consider hip hop’s presence in U.S. films and documentaries spanning the globe, it is also reasonable to consider that Sheila E. has one of the biggest roles for a woman that was written in the spate of films that began portraying hip hop culture. In addition to this, she starred in a musical vehicle outside of Prince’s poetic universe. Sheila E. was not in Purple Rain with singers/actresses Apollonia Kotero or Jill Jones, nor did she appear in Under the Cherry Moon (1986) where Kristin Scott-Thomas plays a wealthy romantic interest. Sheila did not require a hero like martial arts actor Taimak as Leroy Green opposite Laura Charles (portrayed by singer Vanity, Prince’s partner and collaborator) in The Last Dragon (1985) either.

Earlier hip hop films included the 1983 classic Wild Style with graffiti artist Lady Pink as Lee Quiñones’ love interest and Stan Lathan’s 1984 film Beat Street, which billed Rae Dawn Chong as its most well-known star. Chong’s character Tracy Carlson offers a television opportunity to DJ Kenny Kirkland, his breakdancing brother Lee, and the graffiti writer Ramon, but she is not necessarily the main character driving the plot of the film. Lucinda Dickey, a former Solid Gold dancer who was one of the main characters in Breakin’ (1984) and she reprises her role as Kelly/Special K in Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo (1984). But her role as a classically trained dancer who went to learn from Ozone (Adolfo “Shabba-Doo” Quiñones) and Turbo (Michael “Boogaloo Shrimp” Chambers), both stigmatized as “street dancers,” offers a subtle critique against classist snobbery while still excluding women of color, even after Jennifer Beal’s stunning audition scene in the 1983 Flashdance where none other than Rock Steady Crew’s Crazy Legs acted as Beals’ breakdancing stunt double (in addition to stunt doubles dancer Marine Jahan and gymnast Sharon Shapiro).

Although Sheila E.’s notoriety skyrocketed during the 1980s, she continued in the subsequent decades to open musical doors as a musician. She was a bandleader on “The Arsenio Hall Show” and Magic Johnson’s short-lived “The Magic Show.” She released four albums after the 1987 release Sheila E. This Afro-Latinx percussionist continues to tour, perform at festivals, and share billing with notable musicians in various genres. Krush Groove was one place that showcased her talents just outside Prince’s umbrella. In 2014, she published a memoir The Beat of My Own Drum. Lately, she has been speaking with Prince’s surviving band members and coordinating events. Sheila E. also appeared in the BET tribute to Prince, along with The Roots, Bilal, Erykah Badu, Jennifer Hudson, Stevie Wonder, and Janelle Monae. Sheila E. led the electric finale with dancer and choreographer Mayte Garcia (and Prince’s ex-wife) and Jerome Benton dancing with a full crew of dancers and musicians. Sheila E. continues to captivate, entertain, and inspire audiences.

Tara Betts is the author of two full-length poetry collections Break the Habit and Arc & Hue. She is also the author of the chapbooks 7 x 7: kwansabas (Backbone Press, 2015), the upcoming Never Been Lois Lane (dancing girl press, 2016), and the libretto THE GREATEST!: An Homage to Muhammad Ali (Argus House/Winged City Press, 2013). Tara’s writing has appeared in The Source, XXL, Black Radio Exclusive, Essence, NYLON, and the hip hop-inspired anthology The Break Beat Poets.

‘The Stepfather,’ Toppling Patriarchy, and Love of 80s Horror Ladies

This guest post written by Eva Phillips appears as part of our theme week on Ladies of the 1980s. | Spoilers ahead.

Following the banal images of a brutal murder scene in a quaint, thoroughly 80s suburban living room that kick off the wildly underrated 1987 Josef Ruben film The Stepfather, there is a fantastic tracking shot that careens through a blissfully undisturbed, quintessential American upper-middle class neighborhood: we see the blooming, verdant trees, pristine yards, immaculately manicured homes — the whole shebang. The shot, which as a narration tool serves to show the titular stepfather Henry Morrison/Jerry Blake (unnerving and under-used Terry O’Quinn) exodus from one domicile — or, as the film later shows, one arena for him to futilely commandeer another single mother and her children — and move onto another, as he progresses from home-to-home, insidiously usurping them as he sees fit. But on a more subversive level, this opening tracking shot, which unintentionally parodies idyllic tracking or panoramic shots of 80s and 90s films that featured goofy but affable dad protagonists (think Uncle Buck or Father of the Bride or any film in which kids are shrunk) speaks to the film’s more profound subversive qualities. The shot indicates a sort of potential for undisturbed perfection, but it is a perfection that is violated and infested by the nefarious threat the stepfather symbolizes.

While many of the memorable and crucial aspects of The Stepfather are the flailing, if not furious, impotent attempts at O’Quinn’s menacing nomad in securing some draconian ideal family life, the true power of Stepfather lies with the groundbreaking dynamic between the two women who are preyed upon — Stephanie and Susan Maine (Jill Schoelen and Shelley Hack, respectively) — and the intuitive resilience of the daughter Stephanie in prevailing against her “new dad.” The introduction to Stephanie and Susan, mere moments after the grisly scene by Henry Morrison (who changes his name to Jerry Blake, real estate wizard, like any good homicidal villain would) is one of such unadulterated, unsullied bliss, that in my years of film watching it has yet to be rivaled by any moment of mother-daughter conviviality on screen. The two very jovially, un-eroticized and un-infantilized, play in a leaf pile, genuinely enjoying the frivolousness and love between them. What intrudes upon this mother-daughter euphoria, of course, is Susan’s mention of her new husband — aforementioned, newly reminted killer Jerry — who greets the glowing Susan and the less-than-enthused Stephanie with a puppy (which, mercifully defying the awful tropes 80s horror, LIVES TO THE END) and the hope that he’ll finally make a good impression on his surly stepdaughter.

What is most sensational about this cult classic (which, if it hasn’t officially been elevated to this status, I’m empowering myself to do so) is how, in the wake of the disquietingly erratic invasion of Jerry and his hauntingly traditional family values — the family must get along, the family must eat together, the family must not mind if the new stepfather has a completely savage break in the basement during a cookout — Stephanie emerges as a poised, perspicacious, and resilient female lead. She is a wonderfully surprising alternative from most of the panoply of horror heroines who are tortured, fight, and scream their way through the terrifying films of the 80s. Stephanie’s sexuality originates and exists organically (except when the rapidly unhinging Jerry accuses her crush of “raping” her when they kiss on the front step) and the film never once fetishizes her sexual development, or lack thereof, in the tradition of much of 80s horror cinema — built on a preexisting set of standards for horror women.

More importantly and gratifyingly, Stephanie’s fortitude and cleverness, and her determination to restore the blissful perfection between mother and daughter displayed at the beginning of the film, is in the face of the absolutely bumbling antics or brutal tendencies of the men around her. The men completely fail or are violently disconnected from reality: whether it is the well-intentioned but mainly hapless chisel-faced brother of Jerry’s slain first wife, always 10 minutes too late in trying to sniff Jerry out; the perpetually denying, stagnating police officers; or the earnest therapist who is brutally murdered by Jerry in his foolish attempt to confirm Stephanie’s feelings of unease about Jerry. Stephanie embodies what each of the archetypally male characters in the film fails to, and in doing so transcends the clutches of gender expectations in the film and in a genre that is so often besotted by explicit or implicit gendered presumptions.

Stephanie’s formidability and indefatigable stamina, despite being thwarted by Jerry at many turns throughout the film, is also a sub-textual nod to a profound reversion of a patriarchal predominance, one which looms over the film and certainly taints many films in the 80s horror tradition. The brand of paternal instincts and familial preservation that Jerry is so ruthlessly fixated on is a hollow, ghastly farce. He is joltingly compulsive, and when the family unit does not function as he wants it to (which is to say, in defiance of picturesque happiness and groveling at the shrine of Jerry-Or-Whoever-He-Is), he must resort to abhorrent violence to embody the dismay over the shambolic domestic unit “failing.” Selling real estate and life insurance in his various assumed identities, every orchestrated move Jerry makes is a testament to the meretriciousness of the type of “home” for which Jerry strives. And so, in tandem with this vicious, empty patriarchal presence, is the true domestic perfection that Stephanie stands for — one established and centering around matriarchal and even Edenic love; one based on respect and value and ass-kicking bulwarks of women. Restoring this order is not only the be-all-end-all for Stephanie, it symbolizes the natural order of things and the film, critically, supports this perspective. The culminating, relentless fight scene is cleverly staged like so many chaotic 80s horror slaying scenes: Susan is abruptly and unflinchingly assaulted by Jerry upon realizing his farce and unearthing his true identity. As she stumbles helplessly into the basement, the chiseled brother of Jerry’s former victim swoops in, only to be maniacally stabbed by Jerry. It is only Stephanie who can effectively enter the domestic sphere and overcome her despotic stepfather, ending not only his reign of terror but reclaiming the domestic sphere for herself and her mother.

For a film that gets too frequently billed as a B-Movie, or disregarded or lost in the canon of slasher-centric 80s horror, The Stepfather is outstanding for the distinct feminine strength and unity it lionizes. Moreover, the film is a brilliant experiment in subverting expectations. Despite the title’s implications, the film is not some nauseatingly machismo feature of masculine power and reconstruction in which a destabilized family unit (weakened, of course, by the lack of a “father”) is consumed by the diabolical machinations of a traditionalist murderer. Rather, the film is one of the feminine-centric family unit prevailing, and the love between a mother and daughter being the prized, organic form of love that champions the aberration of the male intrusion and the male buffoonery that ensconces it. The haunting poster for the film shows Jerry pensively staring at a fogged over mirror, the words “Who Am I Here” traced on the glass. It is not so much indicative of Jerry’s delusional mania, but indicates the emptiness and futility of the forced patriarchal order on a domestic sphere. Importantly, too, Stephanie does not function as some Carol Clover-esque horror heroine — her body and her actions exist outside of an eroticized or fetishized realm, and she is not operating within some sort of phallic terror-dome, but, rather, transcends it. And, sure, the movie has some wonky moments: laughably oblivious characters, awkwardly 80s-tastic quips, and perhaps one of the most heinous scores of any 80s horror film (think a synth-focused Def Leppard instrumental cover band with no sense of dramatic irony). But it should be valorized for its uniquely feminist message that is never pandering, unequivocally unique, and woefully difficult to replicate (case in point: the miserably dude-centric 2009 remake). The Stepfather’s sly championing of female strength and domestic reclamation is no more evident than the masterful final scene: Susan and Stephanie, shaken but stalwart, reassess their home in the backyard, as Stephanie takes an ax the birdhouse Jerry erected in the backyard, therein violently and resolutely toppling the specious emblem of his false domesticity, his pseudo-colonization, and literally dismantling the patriarchal presence. Get it, girl.

See also at Bitch Flicks: Patriarchy in Crisis: Power and Gender in ‘The Stepfather’

Eva Phillips is constantly surprised at how remarkably Southern she in fact is as she adjusts to social and climate life in The Steel City. Additionally, Eva thoroughly enjoys completing her Master’s Degree in English, though really wishes that more of her grades could be based on how well she researches Making a Murderer conspiracy theories whilst pile-driving salt-and-vinegar chips. You can follow her on Instagram at @menzingers2.

How ‘Big Business’ Made Big Business Thanks to Two Women Big in the Business

This guest post written by Kyle Sanders appears as part of our theme week on Ladies of the 1980s.

When you combine the talents of Bette Midler and Lily Tomlin, you wind up with three Academy Award nominations, four Grammy awards, three Tony awards, and ten Emmy awards — not too shabby for two women in show business. Both have shined so brightly in their respective fields, that it was only a matter of time before the two starred together in a film, which ultimately became 1988’s Big Business. Loosely based on Mark Twain’s The Prince and the Pauper and William Shakespeare’s Comedy of Errors, the film stars Midler and Tomlin as two sets of twins mismatched at birth, who eventually reunite over the fate of a small town. The film was a modest box office success at the time, but decades later, their comedic chemistry still remains intact, and stands as a testament to successful female-driven comedies.

Big Business begins with the coincidental timing of two births: one from a wealthy couple traveling through Jupiter Hollow (an Appalachian town in West Virginia) and the other from a family of impoverished locals. Both women give birth to identical twin girls. In a hilarious mishap, both sets of twins get mixed up thanks to the confused nurse. Nearly forty years later, wealthy “twins” Sadie (Midler) and Rose (Tomlin) Shelton are co-chairwomen of Moremax — the successor to their father’s business located in New York City — and ultimately want to sell Hollowmade, a furniture factory located in the very town where they were born. Naturally, there is some resistance from Jupiter Hollow’s townsfolk, led by the factory’s forewoman, Rose Ratliff (Tomlin, again), who plans to travel to New York and protest with her “twin sister” Sadie (Midler, again) to “raise some heck” and “kick some snooty New York ass.” As luck would have it, both sets of twins end up staying at the Plaza Hotel, causing much comical confusion and physical hijinks amongst the women’s suitors and hotel employees. It’s not until the end of the film that all four women become acquainted, recognizing their familial bond and end up saving the rural town from being completely strip mined.

This film came out in the summer of 1988, so of course, there are some choice fashionable references of the era — shoulder pads, stark white Reebok sneakers, polka dots — but also gnarly pop cultural references of the 80s as well. Sadie Ratliff is mesmerized by an episode of Dynasty, a Times Square marquee features Disorderlies and Monster Squad (both films from 1987), and a totally bogus movie ending features Steve Winwood’s “Higher Love” playing over the credits (hey, it was the 80s!). Yet what sets this 80s flick apart from most films of that era is the fact that the four protagonists are all women AND completely independent.

Sure, it’s clear that Midler’s Sadie Shelton had once married and had a child, but has chosen business over family, maintaining heavy control over her father’s corporation instead of devoting attention on her out of control son (played by a young Seth Green). Although Tomlin’s Rose Ratliff has a boyfriend who expects her to cheer him on at his miniature golf tournament (tubular!), she chooses to save her town’s way of life over standing at her man’s side. These women are ambitious and too focused on their professional futures to be restrained by traditional standards. The film makes it clear that these women are forces to be reckoned with.

Let us not forget the other sisters either. Rose Shelton may not be as hard edged or ruthless as her sister Sadie, but she too remains independent. She feels out of place in the corporate world, struggling to maintain even a flimsy shoulder pad slipping down her sleeve (a metaphorical rejection of the big business lifestyle, perhaps?). She’d rather exchange it all for a simpler existence involving “a goat and some ducks.” Meanwhile, Sadie Ratliff feels stuck in the sticks and dreams of a totally glamorous, upscale lifestyle. As she reenacts a scene from Dynasty (involving bitchin’ iconic businesswoman Alexis Carrington, no less), it’s clear how much she’s yearned for a dazzling position in power, of which her rural upbringing has very few resources to offer.

These diverse options provide a radically different perspective of living compared to the mothers that birthed them in the 1940s: Mrs. Shelton’s pregnancy was more of a negotiation in exchange for an extended wardrobe and jewelry, while Mrs. Ratliff’s pregnancy seems to be business as usual, commenting on what’s changed in the delivery room since “the last time” she was there. In a way, the film specifically opens during that time to suggest how women have evolved in the “modern era” of the late 80s.

And who better to portray the modern woman? The four varied, fully dimensional characters in Big Business could only be compellingly and hilariously portrayed by Midler and Tomlin. Between Midler’s big-eyed glares and Tomlin’s dizzying hysterics, both actresses’ comedic physicality provide specific mannerisms to each version of Sadie and Rose that when all four do share the same screen (thanks to some bogusly dated 80s special effects), it’s easy to distinguish these characters.

As different as each woman is, they all share one thing in common: respect amongst their peers. The Shelton sisters are president and senior vice president of Moremax, surrounded by men who await their professional decisions. While Rose is the “wispy” sister, Sadie holds court at Moremax. Sadie’s grand introduction (in a setup that clearly inspired Miranda Priestly’s entrance in The Devil Wears Prada) has her entire staff racing around the office to prepare for her appearance, and within seconds upon arriving she’s already ripping into her employees, be it with their choice of attire or failure of completing tasks. Her cold composure and piercing stare are intimidating; she is never intimidated or buckles to corporate pressure. It’s surprising then that not once throughout the entire film is she ever referred to as the proverbial “bitch.” Sadie is one bodacious businesswoman, and no man ever undermines her decisions.

The Ratliff sisters also are shown a great amount of respect. The entire community calls upon them to save their town from getting strip mined, which is surprising considering how rural culture is often depicted as placing women either in the kitchen or in the nursery — like their mother 40 years prior. Once Rose and Sadie Ratliff arrive in New York, completely out of their comfort zone, they quickly adapt to their surroundings. Through a string of cheesy 80s montages, Rose infiltrates the ins and outs of the Plaza Hotel, spreading word of Moremax’s devious intentions with Jupiter Hollow through various disguises (“Guten morgan!”), while Sadie explores the city, learning how to (aggressively) hail a taxi cab. The Ratliff women might be from a small town but they are not small minded.

For a film centered on strong-willed women, the weakest part of the plot comes from their interactions with men. Sadie Shelton’s ex-husband is judgmental of his wife’s monetary bribes to their spoiled son, yet instantly falls back in love with her once (unbeknownst to him) Sadie Ratliff does some quick-thinking discipline inside the toy store FAO Schwarz (??). Rose Shelton’s spineless boyfriend won’t propose marriage because he’s scared of her sister, but Rose Ratliff rebuffs his advances later on and somehow inspires him to buy a ring (??). I don’t buy it. As palpable as Sadie Shelton’s sexual power plays with Fabio Alberici (the man who plans to buy out Jupiter Hollow from Moremax) are, the deal ultimately falls through, and seems to have no consequences on their romantic chemistry. The only relationship that seems to have enough substance to continue on occurs between Rose Shelton and Roone, Rose Ratliff’s boyfriend. He sets out to New York in a quest to rescue Rose Ratliff, but instead ends up saving Rose Shelton from a life she’d rather not live. He senses the insufferableness of her situation, which in turn helps her discover her true nature, allowing her to focus and feel comfortable about herself for the first time in her life. Sure, it plays out like a grody Damsel in Distress scenario, but it ultimately makes Rose a fully realized individual by the end of the film, and it’s because of her solid plea to the stockholders to not sell out Jupiter Hollow that eventually saves the day.

Ultimately, it is Midler and Tomlin who save the film from being just another forgotten comedy of the 1980s. The two stars bring a certain gravitas to the screen — a perfect combination of comedic timing and contagious chemistry in scenes that might otherwise fall flat in the hands of other capable actresses. The material provided from the script (co-written by Dori Pierson, who unfortunately never penned another screenplay after this one), isn’t entirely fresh, yet Midler’s and Tomlin’s performances keep the comedy from going stale.

These women are no strangers to the medium, as Midler got her start gaining a following in a gay bathhouse, thanks to her vibrant showmanship and bawdy humor. Tomlin, on the other hand, is considered a female pioneer of standup, who in the 1960s presented cerebral character sketches instead of self-deprecating jokes about marriage and motherhood. Both women proved their star power throughout the 1980s, in previous female-driven comedies such as 9 to 5 (1980) and Outrageous Fortune (1987). Thanks to them, Big Business earned a solid box office return, ranking in the top 30 highest-grossing films of 1988. Their solid comedic teamwork — much like the combined efforts of all four Shelton and Ratliff sisters — saves the film from being a run-of-the-mill, haphazard case of switched identities, into a film that shows how the ladies of the 1980s are able to run businesses and conserve communities at the same time — even if it means kicking some snooty New York ass!

Kyle Sanders lives in Chicago, where he studies improv at iO whenever he can afford it. He has previously written for Bitch Flicks, as well as NewsCastic: Chicago and GIGA: Geek Magazine.

‘Pretty in Pink’: The Only Team to Be on Is Team Andie

I fixated on the Team Duckie vs. Team Blane aspect of the film so much that I entirely missed the point. I was so Team Duckie that I blamed Andie for not choosing him. …I realized I had fallen into a trap that society has conditioned us to fall into: the dreaded sexist “friend zone.”

This guest post written by Isabella Garcia appears as part of our theme week on Ladies of the 1980s.

I first saw Pretty in Pink in middle school. Seated next to my mother, who was working through her list of favorite 80s films to show me, I fell in love with it almost immediately. I saw in Andie (Molly Ringwald) what I wanted for myself. She was confident and outspoken in the ways I wasn’t; she didn’t care what people thought about her clothing and she rocked it. I wanted to be her so badly that I scoured swap meets for “vintage” clothing (and am still on the lookout for some of Duckie’s scuffed, white duck shoes). My closet consisted of blazers with large shoulder pads, lacy shirts, flower earrings, and one t-shirt that has a picture of Duckie (Jon Cryer) and reads, “I would have picked Duckie.” Oh yes, I was one of those.

I was Team Duckie through and through. I couldn’t even hide my disdain when my mom told me that her and her friends were Team Blane. Not only did I try to channel Andie in my everyday style, I also longed for a Duckie: a best friend who was hopelessly devoted to me, who would pine for me while listening to The Smiths’ “Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want,” who would only want what’s best for me. And in the end, I would open my eyes and realize what I had been missing out on all along. When Andie saw Duckie at the prom and asked to admire him, in the same way he asks to do that with her, I would’ve chosen him right then and there. Blane who? I would’ve righted what I thought was Andie’s wrong when she chose Blane. I fixated on the Team Duckie vs. Team Blane aspect of the film so much that I entirely missed the point. I was so Team Duckie that I blamed Andie for not choosing him. I thought she was foolish for not loving him romantically. How could she be so clueless?!

It wasn’t until I grew up some more, graduated high school, and went through several re-watches that I realized I had fallen into a trap that society has conditioned us to fall into: the dreaded sexist “friend zone.” The general definition is when one of two friends seeks to turn their friendship with the other person into a romantic and/or sexual relationship, but the other person doesn’t want to. That person just wants to remain friends. And so, the first person is “stuck” in a friendship when they really want it to be a romantic relationship. The “friend zone” comes with very common side-effects that usually disparage women. If a man, in this case Duckie, falls in love with his friend, it’s up to her to return the favor and love him back. If she doesn’t or, heaven forbid, she likes someone else, she’s seen as being in the wrong and at fault. I, unfortunately, had this mentality as a young girl, which a lot of people still have: if your best friend likes you, you owe it to them to choose them over the person you actually have a crush on. It’s harmful for girls to grow up with this outlook because it further discourages them to act on their actual feelings. It makes girls scared of being accused of leading their friend on so they feel they have to reciprocate. Women and girls don’t owe anyone a relationship.

On one of my re-watches after I graduated high school, I noticed that my reaction to Andie not loving Duckie the way he loved her paralleled Steff’s (James Spader) reaction after he asked her out towards the beginning of the film. When he starts to notice the animosity Andie holds for him, he retaliates in anger. Not only is he leaning against her car door, forbidding her from escaping, but he begins to put her down. He doesn’t see what makes her so special from all the other girls that won’t go out with him, he calls her a “bitch,” and tells her to go to a doctor to get that condition checked out. Sure, I didn’t do all these things, but I definitely thought that Andie was wrong to not get with Duckie. I wanted her to open her eyes and just see him there. Steff and I shared the same disbelief when she didn’t show interest. If Duckie loved her so much then she should love him too, right?

It was wild to me that Andie didn’t like Duckie back, but after recently re-watching the film I don’t know why I ever blamed her. She stuck true to what she wanted. She didn’t feel guilted into pursuing a romantic relationship that she didn’t want with Duckie. She acted the way she did with him because they’re friends and that’s it. The way that Andie platonically acts with Duckie can be — which I did — misconstrued to be romantic. They’re touchy, they talk “20 times” a day, they care about the other’s feelings. All of these are friendly behaviors; Andie didn’t lead him on in any way.

If you still like Duckie and Andie together and you’re now feeling bad about it, don’t. There’s nothing inherently wrong with liking the idea of Duckie and Andie together. They are cute. He really cares about her and she for him. But what is wrong is to belittle Andie and her emotions and blame her for not loving him. You can’t help the happiness you feel when Duckie shows up at the prom for Andie. You can’t help but feel a sense of hope when they run to each other, hug, and reconcile by walking into prom together. But what you can help is how you react to her not “choosing” him.

Andie’s father, Jack (Harry Dean Stanton), puts it perfectly when Duckie first tells him that he loves her: “You can love Andie, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to love you back. I mean, it doesn’t mean that she won’t, but what I’m trying to say is you can’t make it happen, you know? It either will or it won’t. It’s all in the heart.” Andie stayed true to her heart. Although she could’ve gotten with Duckie, she defied expectations and didn’t. She didn’t waver. She was strong. Now that I watch it, I can see the appeal of both Blane and Duckie, but I can’t choose a side anymore. The only team I’m on is Team Andie.

Isabella Garcia is a California-based aspiring TV writer who can be found crying over movies, books, and TV on her Twitter @isabellagrca, PopInsomniacs and It’s Just About Write.

Revisiting ‘Desert Hearts’ and Its Lesbian Romance

This guest re-post written by Angela Beauchamp appears as part of our theme week on Ladies of the 1980s.

We all hold dear particular films that made an indelible impression on us. Somehow they connected to us as a viewer on an emotional or even a spiritual level; we identified with the story or characters in unusual ways; or we appreciated the craftsmanship so much that we could recite lines or remember the sequence of shots and all of the details in a scene. That ability to touch individuals while also reaching very large groups of viewers is part of what makes film such a powerful medium.

Desert Hearts is one such film for me. In the fall of 1986, still a kid of 22 who had just moved to the city from Podunk, Indiana, I went to the theater in a Boston suburb. There I remember looking around at the audience. I had a hard time believing that I was watching a lesbian romance film in a public place. I don’t think I breathed during the love scene. For the first time in my life, in a mainstream movie theater, I watched a film that gave me a model for what love could be. It made me want to fall in love, to find my own Cay or Vivian, and hop on the train to start a life together.

For heterosexual women, movies and television series show them every day what a loving relationship is and what the expectations are to grow up, fall in love, and find a handsome prince (however flawed that may be). For lesbians prior to Donna Deitch‘s Desert Hearts, nothing of the kind existed on-screen. We relied on romance novels from mail order houses like Naiad Press and feminist bookstores if we were lucky enough to live in a large college town or progressive city. Desert Hearts had a limited distribution (i.e. it was not shown in Podunk, Indiana), but it did find an unheard of large audience on screens across the country and abroad.

It is a conventional romance, which is one of the reasons that it is so successful. As Jackie Stacey points out, “it uses the iconography of romance films: train stations, sunsets and sunrises, close-up shots, rain-drenched kisses, lakeside confessions, ‘I’ve never felt this way before’ orgasms.” It is those Hollywood conventions that conjure shared memories of hundreds of heterosexual romances. Thus the filmmaker uses what are sometimes clichés as shortcuts to elicit particular emotions and reactions from the audience. Although the world of 1959 would certainly have been more challenging for these two lovers in the real world, the cinematic world Deitch created signals that there is an all-important happy ending coming up: a romantic Hollywood ending.

Deitch’s use of music also contributes to the romance convention. The country songs of Patsy Cline, Jim Reeves and Johnny Cash are very emotionally evocative. In particular, they evoke a feeling of wanting that comes from knowing the themes and voices that accompany these artists’ work. The soundtrack, which took up a large portion of the film’s budget, makes brilliant use of the audience’s previous knowledge. We know how we should feel before the scene plays itself out.

Placing the film’s setting in Reno also taps into our shared impressions of the West from movies and popular culture. It is a place in which one can start a new life and throw caution to the wind. The chances for romance certainly would not have felt so hopeful without the wide open spaces and bright, beautiful colors of the Nevada desert. Cay’s cowboy boots and western clothes make her the equivalent of the cowboy who sweeps the newcomer to town off of her feet. It’s the wild westerner who charms the shy school marm, just like we’ve seen a million times in the movies.

Others (like Mandy Merck) discuss Desert Hearts as conventional, criticizing it for not being challenging enough, not tackling issues of lesbian identity, for example. For me, that criticism totally misses the point. Deitch intentionally did not make an issues kind of film. She took a Hollywood formula and tilted it on its ear, creating a lesbian love story that audiences still crave today.

Angela Beauchamp is a cinema lover, film scholar, and most recently, a zombie mashup junkie. She is preparing to teach a course on Post-Apocalyptic Cinema in the fall.

The Vietnam War Through a Teen Girl’s Eyes in ‘In Country’

This guest post written by Caroline Madden appears as part of our theme week on Ladies of the 1980s. | Spoilers ahead.

Norman Jewison’s 1989 film In Country is based on Bobbie Ann Mason’s young adult novel by the same name. The story revolves around eighteen-year-old Samantha Hughes (Emily Lloyd), a.k.a. Sam, during the summer after high school graduation in Hopewell, Kentucky. Sam struggles to understand her Vietnam veteran uncle as she tries to learn more about her father, who died in the Vietnam War before she was born. Sam’s Uncle Emmett (Bruce Willis) wrestles with the symptoms of his PTSD, but refuses to tell Sam about his triggers or experiences. She barely knows anything about her father; her mother only knew and was with him for a few months before he was sent off to war and now she rarely discusses him. Sam spends the summer trying to solve the mysteries of the Vietnam experience and the patriarchal figures in her life.

The exclusion of the female is central to both real life and cinematic Vietnam War narratives. As laid out in Susan Jeffords’ seminal gender study of Vietnam, The Remasculinization of America: Gender and the Vietnam War, she discusses this idea of male bonding, or male collectivity. Men’s fellowship is predicated upon the segregation of the woman — they must bond together to reclaim their lost masculinity from the war. “Why don’t any of the vets I know get along with women?” Sam asks Emmett’s friend Tom. Sam hears the same mantra from various veteran characters throughout the film, “You ain’t never going to understand it. You don’t want to,” Emmett says. “Well, you weren’t there. So you can’t understand it,” says Tom. To the veterans of In Country, Sam will never share in their communal brotherhood of war and thus they must always exclude her. Sam frequently witnesses the impairment in the veteran’s post-war masculinity that keeps them from connecting and actively disengaging from women in primarily romantic and even friendly ways, such as her uncle’s rejection of Sam’s set-up with a local nurse and Tom’s inability to sexually perform.

Women in Vietnam War films are often pushed away from men who refuse to discuss the war. However, many of these characters remain passive and do not pressure them to divulge information. In Country portrays a woman as an active investigator that truly longs to understand the men’s minds. Sam constantly engages with her uncle and his friends about the war, but any of her sincere questioning about their wounds or memories are met with sarcastic jokes or proclamations that she would not understand. Just as Emmett and his friends dismiss Samantha, her father, Dwayne, also excludes her from the dead. Her friend Dawn finds a box of his letters, photographs and war memorabilia. The text of the letters revolves around soldier camaraderie, emphasizing the bonds of brotherhood. Dwayne excludes his female reader by insisting, “Don’t ask me to tell you how it is here. You don’t want to know.” This feminine segregation, a key component of most Vietnam narratives, is mobilized by all the men in In Country.

These letters begin to change Sam’s idea of her father, who was once a phantom figure in her life, now becomes idealized and heroic. Since Sam is not able to see the ramifications of Vietnam in her father’s post-war life, she can only picture him as a romantic war hero with a good heart. She pins his photograph onto her mirror and speaks to it, “You missed everything. You missed Watergate, E.T., the Bruce Springsteen concert. You were just a country boy and you never knew me.” By defining him as a ‘country boy,’ she envisions him as the embodiment of wholesome heartland America, a beacon of innocence who was harshly victimized after being thrown unwittingly into the dangers of Vietnam. The image of her father becomes as revered as that of a pop star — akin to the Bruce Springsteen posters that loom over her — an unattainable figure which exists as a pure, steadfast body of goodness that is constantly present but ultimately unreachable.

Sam mourns that her father has not only missed her entire life, but that her father never got to see what life has been like for Americans in 1980s post-Vietnam. She prioritizes Watergate, which changed American political culture forever, and iconic 1980s pop culture. Sam particularly engages with the rock icon Bruce Springsteen, whose career skyrocketed in 1984. Although his presence is more prevalent in the novel, the film still positions Springsteen as important to Sam. It is necessary to consider In Country’s engagement with the text of Springsteen’s hit song “Born in The U.S.A.,” which no doubt speaks to Sam’s observations of the Vietnam veteran’s predicament. The song discusses veterans’ disillusionment and disappointment upon returning to America after fighting its unpopular war, which Sam sees daily living with Emmett. Part of the song’s lyrics reflect his state of being, “You end up like a dog that’s been beat too much/Till you spend half your life just covering up.” Emmett has been both literally and metaphorically covering up. He fears the outside world, confining himself to the home, remaining unemployed, and refusing to work at the tire plant. He is plastered to the couch playing Pac-Man or spends his time digging a hideaway hole under the house. To Sam, Emmett is a living embodiment of Springsteen’s struggling small-town and blue-collar protagonist.

Another song off the iconic 1980s album is used non-diegetically in the film, “I’m On Fire.” The lyrics play as Sam jogs throughout the town. The lyrics, “Hey, little girl is your daddy home?/Did he go away and leave you all alone?” is an on-the-nose reference to Sam’s absent father. The amalgam of the song’s sexual nature and reference to a patriarchal figure reflects Sam’s complex sexual relationship with the significantly older Vietnam veteran Tom, who she attempts to sleep with after a dance. Tom is both an agent of her growing sexuality, as she develops into a young woman, and a platform for Sam to mediate her lost childhood role of father’s daughter, for Tom can be seen as more of a father figure than a potential boyfriend. Her connection and relationship to him can be read as a strange way for her to reconnect with her father. Sam is torn, particularly in this relation to Tom, between seeing herself as the little girl within the family she never got to have and growing up as a young woman.

In addition to understanding the Vietnam experience, In Country depicts a young woman at a crossroads in her life that many can relate to. All throughout the film, characters ask Sam if she is going to marry her boyfriend Lonnie. Her mother married her father and got pregnant at a young age, and now that Sam is freshly graduated from high school, many expect her to follow in those footsteps. Sam repeatedly tells her interrogators she has “other things on her mind.” It never occurs to them that she could have other ideas for her future, such as college or a career. Sam’s conflicts of these feminine roles are embodied in the character of Dawn, her friend that deals with an unplanned pregnancy. Dawn serves as a reflection of Sam’s alternate path, to marry Lonnie and start a family, and of the past, her mother’s young marriage and pregnancy.

Interactions with Dawn also trigger Sam’s unrest about her familial relationships. In one scene, Dawn pierces her ears and asks if her mother will be upset. Sam insists that her mother is “provincial and misguided” and brags that Emmett lets her do anything she wants to do, including let her boyfriend sleep over. Dawn responds that her father would never let her do that. Dawn’s insistence at having a protective father rubs salt in Sam’s wound about her own father’s absence. Sam does not truly celebrate her absent and misguided parental figures, (as her mother lives with her stepfather and half-sister in the city) they have left her unmoored and bereft. There are no parental figures that care enough to stop and discipline Sam from having sleepovers with her boyfriend. Sam is torn between attending college in the fall and marrying her boyfriend — two seemingly disparate feminine ideals. But overall, she is conflicted because she has never been able to see herself as a daughter within a nuclear family.

Sam’s volleying between the female roles of daughter and independent young woman and her struggle to relate to the Vietnam veterans in her life are resolved within the finale. Throughout the film, Sam had been constructing an idealized picture of her father as a perfect war hero. She obtains his war diaries from her grandparents, and their candor causes her to confront the reality of his wartime experiences and his ultimate humanity. The diaries describe his unremorseful killings of the Vietnamese enemy. Up until now, the letters she has read have only been of fraternizing with his war buddies or fantasizing about home. It never occurred to Sam that her father had to kill, the equation of murder and war was far from her mind as she envisioned her heroic father fighting for his country. Sam spent the majority of the film trying to determine why the Vietnam veterans she knows are so troubled, what happened over there to cause their problems. But when the truth of Vietnam is exposed to her through her father’s experience, she recoils, frightened and upset. It tarnishes her sainted image of the innocent ‘country boy.’ As Sam reveals this to Emmett, he finally unloads the memories that he has been keeping inside, the wounds in which he spent the film “covering up.” The uncovering of these wounds allows Sam to recognize just how Vietnam’s turmoil affected those she loves, unraveling the romantic notions of her father while allowing her to fully support her troubled uncle. Through this confession, the Vietnam veteran’s feminine exclusion, regulated through silence and hostility, is finally closed off.

In the final scene, Sam and Emmett travel to the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial. Sam leaves a portrait of herself at her father’s spot on the wall. At the end of one of his letters, Dwayne said he wanted to see a picture of his child. This gesture allows her closure in the lack of connection she felt to him. Now, Dwayne is able to “see” the picture of his child, fulfilling his wish and thereby “acknowledging” her as his daughter. This allows Sam to fully heal and move on. We learn that she decides to attend college in the fall, pursuing her passion for higher education instead of others’ wishes for her to become a young housewife.

What is important about In Country is that it depicts a 1980s female protagonist with agency who carves out a path for herself, makes choices amidst the confusion and pressures of dominant ideologies and complex relationships. Sam Hughes is neither iconic nor well-remembered, but she should be. In Country depicts perhaps the most delicate time in a woman’s life: the transition from girl to young woman. Furthermore, it places the feminine experience within the canon of the Vietnam veteran film, a genre in which male narratives are overwhelmingly present and female characters are often reduced to largely invisible or supporting characters.

Caroline Madden has a BFA in Acting from Shenandoah Conservatory and is currently an MA Cinema Studies student at Savannah College of Art and Design. Other writing can be found on Screenqueens, Pop Matters, and her blog Cinematic Visions. Film and Bruce Springsteen are two of her most favorite things.

‘Fast Times at Ridgemont High’: The Confidence and Wisdom of Linda Barrett

This guest post written by Angela Morrison appears as part of our theme week on Ladies of the 1980s.

The only thing people seem to remember about Amy Heckerling’s 1982 film, Fast Times at Ridgemont High is Phoebe Cates emerging from a swimming pool in her red bikini, removing her top as she tells Brad (Judge Reinhold) how cute she always thought he was, The Cars’ “Moving in Stereo” playing on the soundtrack. First of all, this is ridiculous because the entire movie is memorable, and there are much better scenes than Brad’s masturbation fantasy. Secondly, it is completely unfair to reduce Phoebe Cates’ character to a mere sex object, existing only for male viewers’ pleasure.

Phoebe Cates brings life to the energetic, worldly, confident-yet-vulnerable Linda. Her character is the heart and soul of the movie, as she gives Stacy (Jennifer Jason Leigh) advice on sex, relationships, and navigating her way through high school. Linda is a few years older than Stacy, so she takes on the role of mentor, passing on her knowledge about the world to her younger friend. She is also Stacy’s number one supporter when her heart gets broken by both Ron Johnson (D.W. Brown) and Mike Damone (Robert Romanus).

One of the most striking things about this film is the casual way that Linda and Stacy discuss sex. Linda often expresses surprise at 14-year-old Stacy’s sexual inexperience, and she quickly reassures Stacy that “it’s just sex.” Linda’s attitude toward sex – which she passes on to Stacy – is that it needn’t be a big deal, but rather, should be seen as a fun and pleasurable activity for young women such as themselves. Part of the fun for Linda is deciding who she wants to have sex with – she assures Stacy that if she was not in a relationship with an older boy named Doug, she would go after Ron Johnson herself. She urges Stacy to make her own decisions, letting her know that she has the power to decide who she wants to have sex with, and when. The film never takes a judgmental attitude towards these young women, their sexual activities, and their frank discussions of sex.

Stacy takes Linda’s advice and has sex (for the first time ever!) with Ron Johnson. For some people, having sex for the first time is a big deal, an important event in their lives. However, Linda lets Stacy know that it is okay for it to not be a big deal, for it to just be a pleasurable part of going on a date – it does not mean she has to get married, and she does need to be in love with her sexual partner. Having sex with Ron Johnson is a positive experience for Stacy, although she ends up feeling rejected when he does not call her for another date. Linda is right by Stacy’s side as always, supporting her and telling her that she can do better than a 26-year-old stereo salesman. Linda lets Stacy know she is loved and supported, and that she need not worry about Ron Johnson disappearing from her life. This film portrays women supporting women, and the power of female friendship.

Most 1980s teen movies feature female characters who are insecure for any number of reasons – films such as Pretty in Pink and The Breakfast Club portray characters who are unsure of themselves and the world they are growing up in. While these films are realistic in their portrayals of the pain that comes with being a teenage girl, Fast Times at Ridgemont High gives us a character such as Linda, who exudes confidence in everything she does. She gives Stacy expert advice on how to give a blowjob, she lounges by the swimming pool and tells Stacy she and Doug always climax simultaneously, and she moves through the school hallways and her job at Perry’s Pizza as though she always knows what she is doing. When Damone does not show up to drive Stacy to the abortion clinic, Linda does not hesitate to call him out publicly, and humiliate him by telling the school he is – and has – a “little prick.”

Of course, Linda is a more complex character than simply being “confident.” She has a vulnerable side, which is evident at many points during the film. Stacy points out discrepancies between Linda’s claims about Doug – that he lasts 30-40 minutes in bed, rather than 20-30, as she previously said. After she tells Stacy that she and Doug always climax at the same time, she follows up with “I think…” And at the end of the movie, when Doug does not show up to her graduation, she is seen crying in the bathroom, reading an angry letter to Doug out loud. She confesses that she wrote two versions of the letter, one in which she calls Doug an “asshole.” Stacy assures Linda that the first version is more “mature” – Stacy knows that Linda only wants to portray herself as mature and self-assured, and she is there for her friend in her time of need, as Linda was for her. Just like everyone else, there are times when Linda is also unsure of herself – but she does not let that stop her from dancing elatedly at the prom, and going on to have a relationship with her abnormal psych professor in college, as the epilogue informs us.

Fast Times at Ridgemont High remains one of the most honest, smart, and funny teen comedies of the 1980s. The frank portrayal of female sexuality sets this film apart from many of the other “classics” of the teen movie genre. The film ends with Stacy deciding that she’d rather have romance than sex – she decides that anyone can have sex, but she wants to find someone she can connect with on every level. Linda of course has one final gem of wisdom to impart on Stacy: “You want romance? In Ridgemont? We can’t even get cable TV here, Stacy, and you want romance!”

If only we all had a Linda to guide us through our lives.

Angela Morrison is a recent graduate of the University of Toronto Cinema Studies program. She loves classical Hollywood, French cinema, John Waters, and feminist film theory. She hopes to one day be a Cinema Studies professor, one who will not teach movies made solely by boring straight white males. She writes about cinema on her blog Les Demoiselles du Cinema.