Bitch Flicks – Page 31

Children: The Great Qualifier of Female Violence

True, the rape revenge trope has been put at bay, but there is still a gender issue behind the remaining motivation. It focuses around the assumption of maternity being the all-encompassing passion. Until female characters can be violent for reasons that have nothing to do with their womanhood, there still isn’t complete equality in media.

This guest post by Katherine Fusciardi appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.

Quentin Tarantino’s Kill Bill movies are often used in the discussion on the Rape Revenge genre of films. However, Kill Bill is actually one of the movies that falls under that genre, but doesn’t actually have much to do with rape revenge. Kill Bill’s “The Bride” character is an example of when other reasons for revenge are presented, when a woman is allowed to be violent for reasons other than seeking vengeance for a sexual assault. Aside from avenging her dead fiancé, the bride also seeks vengeance for the death of her child. Through further examination of well-liked violent female characters in popular media a pattern appears. Violent women can be loved as characters, as long as their reason for violence is sound in the mind of the viewer. Rape revenge is one of those acceptable reasons, another is the violent loss of a child.

As stated in Tammy Oler’s “The Brave Ones,”

“Kill Bill Vols. 1 and 2 and The Brave One are notable not just because they are among the most commercially successful films about revenge ever made, but also because they don’t use rape as their starting point” (Oler 34).

Beatrix Kiddo, “the bride,” makes it very clear that she is after revenge for her fiancé and child. When she confronts Vernita Green she claims she will not attack while Vernita is near her own child, but makes it clear she will still kill Vernita.

“No, to get even, even-Steven… I would have to kill you… go up to Nikki’s room, kill her… then wait for your husband, the good Dr. Bell, to come home and kill him. That would be even, Vernita. That’d be about square” (Kill Bill).

Beatrix goes back on this promise when Vernita attacks, resulting in Vernita’s daughter witnessing the whole incident. Given that this is the first fight the viewer sees Beatrix in, it shapes her character. Beatrix’s response to the situation shows how cold she can be expected to be. She tells the little girl,

“It was not my intention to do this in front of you. For that I’m sorry. But you can take my word for it, your mother had it coming. When you grow up, if you still feel raw about it, I’ll be waiting” (Kill Bill).

With that amount of motivation behind Beatrix’s revenge, the rationale for her violence should be covered. However, even Oler’s article admitted that despite the different reasons for revenge presented, there is still a sexualizing to that female character, such as the rape seen in the first Kill Bill movie, in which Beatrix wakes up from her coma to find that she has been raped repeatedly in her sleep. Tammy Oler questioned whether that was necessary or not:

“Is it because it heightens the sense of victimization or because we believe that rape, real or otherwise, is the only believable crime that prompts women to such anger and violence?” (Oler 34)

A proper response to that question can be found by delving into other popular violent female characters, such as Carol and Michonne from the hit AMC television series The Walking Dead. In the beginning of the series the viewers are introduced to Carol Peletier, a housewife trying to survive the zombie apocalypse with her abusive husband and their daughter Sophia. When the abusive husband dies in season one there is the expectation that Carol will be able to develop more as a character without her husband around to push her back down. However, that development doesn’t happen. It isn’t until her daughter dies in season two that the viewer sees any change in Carol’s character.

At the beginning of season two, Sophia, Carol’s daughter, goes missing after a “walker” (zombie) attack. Sophia is not confirmed dead until she is found as a walker at the end of season two, episode seven: “Pretty Much Dead Already.” In episode eight, “Nebraska” Carol says,

“That’s not my little girl. It’s some other… thing. My Sophia was lost in the woods. All this time, I thought. But she didn’t go hungry. She didn’t cry herself to sleep. She didn’t try to find her way back. Sophia died a long time ago” (The Walking Dead S2EP8)

when asked to attend her child’s funeral. This attitude is the first indication of the transformation Carol will undergo.

In season four of The Walking Dead Carol is asked to take two girls, Lizzie and Mika, under her protection by their dying father. As part of their education the girls are required to learn the proper way to kill walkers and are instructed to never call Carol “Mom.” When asked by Lizzie why Carol’s daughter wasn’t there anymore Carol responds “She didn’t have a mean bone in her body” (The Walking Dead S4EP14) and insists that the girls learn a lesson from that, which is to do whatever it takes to survive; kill walkers and kill people. Killing people is something Carol had recently come to terms with, killing two influenza infected members of their group to protect the rest.

When it becomes apparent Lizzie has become mentally disturbed, and refuses to kill walkers because she believes they are good, Carol labels Lizzie as weak and begins grooming Mika, the younger sister, to be the tougher survivor. However, in that same episode, Lizzie murders her little sister in order to turn her into a walker. Once Carol realizes Lizzie will never be able to live among people again, Carol shoots Lizzie and never speaks about either girl ever again.

Though out the series the viewers are also introduced to a new character, Michonne. Michonne is a katana wielding woman that instantly became a show favorite. When Michonne was introduced into the series in season three she was accompanied by two jawless, armless walkers kept chained to her person. Later in the season she reveals that the two walkers were her boyfriend and his friend. Her boyfriend was also the father of her child, which died after the apocalypse began. She blamed those two men, whom she found undead along with the child in their camp, for the death of her son. When telling the story of her son’s death, Michonne describes going on a supply run and returning to her camp only to find her son dead and both men bitten. “They were high when it happened,” she said, “And they were bit. I could have stopped it, could of killed them, but I let them turn” (The Walking Dead, S4EP16). To punish them, and herself, even after death she mutilated their walker bodies so they would no longer be a threat and kept them chained to her at all times. This was her way of ensuring that neither of the men would find rest. “It was insane. It was sick. It felt like what I deserved” (S4EP16).

The popularity of these characters shows that the masses can accept the motivation of violent women for more than rape revenge. So, why is rape revenge is still considered the go-to reason for female violence? In a paper written and presented by Ruby Tapia at the Visual Culture Gathering, the issues of race and feminism as they relate to Kill Bill are discussed. The paper uses quotes from Quentin Tarantino to explain his motivation. As stated earlier, the rape scene in Kill Bill changes the motivation of the character and introduces rape-revenge as a fall back reasoning for Beatrix’s violence. To Tarantino it was his way of addressing issues he saw n society:

“Once I got this idea in my mind, I couldn’t get it out. It would be a lot easier if I didn’t go down that road, but then that would be cowardice to me. Because there have been reports about, you know, comatose patients being raped” (Ruby Tapia, Quentin Tarantino 33).

The conversation continues with Tarantino describing an obsession with the idea, and described it as the spice that would get viewers addicted to his film. To which Tapia had to say, “Thus, buried so deep inside the filmic narrative as Tarantino might suggest, is the rape fantasy turned real” (34).

Taken straight from Tarantino, we can see that the rape scene was never meant to be a factor into Beatrix’s motivation. It was simply thrown in out of Tarantino’s whim, as both a nod to feminism and a lure for his movie. With that in mind, it means the rape scene has zero meaning to the plot. Rape revenge has nothing to do with Kill Bill, outside of that one scene.

Rape revenge ceases to the only viable motivation for violent women when these three popular characters are analyzed. Beatrix Kiddo was not seeking revenge for her rape, she was seeking revenge for her fiancé and child. From The Walking Dead, neither Carol nor Michonne was raped. They became violent following the violent losses of their children. The reasoning behind the violent acts committed by these women does bring to mind a different issue. True, the rape revenge trope has been put at bay, but there is still a gender issue behind the remaining motivation. It focuses around the assumption of maternity being the all-encompassing passion. Until female characters can be violent for reasons that have nothing to do with their womanhood, there still isn’t complete equality in media.

Works Cited

Oler, Tammy. “The Brave Ones.” Bitch Magazine: Feminist Response to Pop Culture Winter, 2009, 30-34. Print.

Kill Bill Vol. 1. Dir. Quentin Tarantino. Perf. Uma Thurman, David Carradine. Miramax Films, 2003 DVD.

Tapia, Ruby. “Volumes of Transnational Vengeance: Fixing Race and Feminism on the Way to Kill Bill.” Visual Arts Research Vol. 32. No 2 (2006): 32-37. Print.

“Nebraska.” The Walking Dead Season Two. Exec. Producer Frank Durabont. Perf. Mellissa McBride. AMC, 2011. DVD.

“A.” The Walking Dead Season Four. Exec. Producer Frank Durabont. Perf. Danai Gurira. AMC, 2013. DVD.

Katherine Fusciardi is a senior in the English program at Kutztown University of Pennsylvania. Katherine created the student organization known as SCAR (Student Campaign Against Rape) and is currently using her position as president to increase awareness, action, and support on her campus.

‘Stoker’–Family Secrets, Frozen Bodies, and Female Orgasms

Her uncle’s imposing presence has awakened in her at the same time a lust for bloodshed and an intense sexual desire, and she promptly begins to experiment and seek out means with which to satisfy both.

This guest post by Julie Mills appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.

Turning 18 is a big deal for any teenager. It’s a huge milestone on the rough road to adulthood, a time of change and discovering one’s true self. For India Stoker (Mia Wasikowska), it is so much more. Her whole world is about to be turned upside down.

Right from the beginning, Stoker pulls you into India’s own special microcosm, which is as captivating as it is haunting. This girl is highly intelligent, but introverted and socially awkward, and it is hinted that she has a mild autism spectrum disorder. She is playful and ever curious to feel, to experience, to know everything. She has been raised in a privileged, protective environment and is quiet, shy, and innocent–innocent as a baby predator before she has made her first kill.

India surrounded by her shoe collection. She gets a new pair every year for her birthday.

India has just lost her father, and the arrival of her uncle Charlie (Matthew Goode), who seems to appear out of nowhere and whom neither India nor her mother Evelyn (Nicole Kidman) have ever met before, throws her life off balance even further.

Uncle Charlie is handsome, charming, and creepy as hell. He has “danger” written all over him, and Evelyn falls for him right away, seeing in him a younger version of her late husband. While expertly weaving his web of charms around his sister-in-law, Charlie also immediately starts to subtly influence his niece, deliberately provoking her and testing her reactions, following her every move with his piercing blue eyes. His moving in with India and her mother sets off a new dynamic that might have been a love triangle, but turns out to be more of a three-way power struggle.

A rare moment of intimacy between mother and daughter.

India’s relationship with her mother is distant at the best of times. In focusing all his attention on their daughter, India’s late father had severely neglected his wife Evelyn, who has turned lonely and bitter over the years. There is hardly a scene with her in it where she is not holding on to a glass of wine as if it were a lifeline. Her husband’s death might have finally provided an opportunity for the two women to bond, but their intense jealousy over Charlie threatens to drive them even further apart.

Stoker was Hollywood actor Wentworth Miller’s stunning debut as a script writer, as well as the first English-language work of South Korean director Chan-wook Park (Oldboy), which explains why in some places the film comes across as a little rough around the edges, but on the whole is fresh and highly intriguing. As with Tideland, Pan’s Labyrinth, or Hannah, to truly appreciate the story you must allow yourself to take on the lead character’s unique perspective, to lay aside your judgment and morality and simply enjoy the disturbing yet engrossing visual ride. Just don’t expect an orgy of violence or bloodbath as can be found in some of Park’s previous movies. This is a psychological thriller, not an action movie. The pace is slow, peeling away layer by layer of deceit and building the suspense gradually like a Hitchcock film (the name “Uncle Charlie” is actually a reference to Shadow of a Doubt).

Who knew how much sexual tension can be in a piano duet?

Among other portrayals of violent women, Stoker stands out because there aren’t many stories about female psychopaths around, and because India’s attraction to violence is closely intertwined with her budding sexuality. Her uncle’s imposing presence has awakened in her at the same time a lust for bloodshed and an intense sexual desire, and she promptly begins to experiment and seek out means with which to satisfy both.

What bothered me most about the story was the fact that in the beginning India is presented as passive like a stereotypical female, waiting and longing to be rescued. Apparently she has to rely on male assistance and guidance in order to discover and awaken her full potential. Her father had, not unlike the father of TV’s Dexter, been systematically grooming her all her life, training her to deal with any “bad” feelings by keeping her isolated and taking her hunting regularly, teaching her that “sometimes you need to do something bad to stop you from doing something worse.” And after his death his brother Charlie takes over, leading India in a completely different direction, but still exerting control over her.

This doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, even in the story’s universe, because India’s dark urges are presented as an inherent part of her nature (her uncle mentions the two of them sharing the same blood), yet have remained inexplicably inert. If her violent impulses had been so strong as to warrant the long lasting control by her father, she wouldn’t have needed her uncle’s encouragement to be set free, and vice versa. In contrast, Charles had discovered his lust for killing on his own, when he was just a boy. Also, when her uncle gives India her first pair of high-heeled shoes that somehow instantly completes India’s transformation into womanhood, which feels like a weird variant of the makeover trope.

BAM.

Personally, for me the most gratifying parts are when India resists Charlie and questions what she has been told, even while she is becoming increasingly infatuated with him. She sets off to seek out her own answers, going through her late father’s things and uncovering dark secrets both her father and her uncle had been keeping from her. In the end, the student surpasses the teacher. India breaks free of her uncle’s control and acts out of her own volition, leaving her old life behind.

I would just love a sequel to this, to see the story escalate from here, preferably in the style of Natural Born Killers or The Devil’s Rejects. Unleashed, India is glorious. She is a true psychopath, hurting people and killing without remorse, simply for her own pleasure. She was neither forced to become violent to fight for survival, nor is she looking for retribution for something that has been done to her in the past. It’s just in her nature.

At first glance this appears to be a classical story about a dangerous predator seducing and corrupting the innocent. But maybe India was never innocent to begin with. Maybe she was simply inexperienced.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YJWrXKoTpL0″]

Julie Mills is in the process of throwing away a perfectly fine, well-paying career to become a full-time writer. At the moment she is working on her first NaNoWriMo project, which is about a female serial killer. You can find her on Twitter @_Julie_M_

TV and Classic Literature: Is ‘The 100’ like ‘Lord of the Flies’?

On the contrary, Octavia moves away from the explicit sexuality of her role in the pilot, and although her initial training is linked to Lincoln, she gravitates toward a warrior’s life to gain the respect of Indra. Although some critics have seen this as a drastic change in her characterisation, looking back at her first scene in the pilot, where she is held back by Bellamy while trying to attack the others for repeating rumours about her, it feels more like a development.

This guest post by Rowan Ellis appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.

A group of delinquent teenagers are dropped (literally) on an uninhabited hostile land and left to fend for themselves–sounds just like my GCSE English required reading Lord of the Flies, right? And, I mean spoilers, but that book doesn’t turn out great in the end; there’s fascism and death and the simulated rape of a pig, so we all know leaving teenagers on their own in survival mode doesn’t have the best track record. Sure enough, within the first 15 minutes of the first episode of the CW’s The 100, guards are pulling these teens from their cells and forcibly tagging them while there’s talk of executions, shooting them in a spaceship to Earth, and then Murphy and Wells get into a fist fight. The pilot episode of the show plays very much into what is expected- the teen boys are into violence and rebellion, the girls are giddy objects of desire or the nagging voice of reason. But then you keep watching, and the unexpected complexity of the show becomes apparent.

William Golding, author of The Lord of the Flies, talked about his time teaching at a boy’s school as an inspiration for his novel–he saw in his young pupils the capacity for being brutal little shits (I’m paraphrasing him here), and as the thin veneer of society is removed from his characters’ lives, so too are the restraints on their innate animalistic nature. The 100, however, focuses less on the propensity for evil away from society, and more on violence as a direct product of the society they’ve grown up in; when Clarke insists in Season One that Murphy be brought to justice for killing Wells, the response is “float him,” language used to describe capital punishment on The Ark. A swift and harsh system of justice on their old satellite home is arguably about survival by reducing population, but to these teens the death on the ground seems even more justified than floating people for the smallest of crimes. But the floating on the Ark, and the hanging on the ground have another crucial difference centred around physicality, violence, and distance. The literal and figurative difference in distance between pressing a button to open an airlock, versus watching someone blooded and gasping on the end of a rope you tied, versus stabbing someone with a knife, gives an ambiguity to violence and the way it is viewed on screen.

Violence on a basic level has unavoidable connotations of great physical force, fighting and hurting directly, but I would argue that this idea should be expanded out to include instances of harm and death doled out at a distance. The sacrificial death of the 300 citizens on the Ark might not have been in combat, but it is a vital act of violence by the Council, which further continued The 100’s breakdown of good vs bad characterisations on the show. In turn, the finale of Season Two sees Clarke’s own desperate act of violence, in a direct mirroring of her mother’s decision the previous season, to kill off a population for the good of “her people.” The show has an impressive amount of women in leadership roles, and much of its exploration of violence is around the lengths they will go to ensure the survival of their individual communities. In the world of The 100, which seems to be implicitly a world which has moved beyond modern sexism, this is removed from gender… but as viewers now, in a world which very much still has issues with gender inequality, these make for complex women with strong and uncompromising characterisation. They are allowed to make decisions which affect the plot as well as their own emotional state and relationships.

The violence of women in The 100 is different from most female violence on screen in that it is not itself sexualised or derived from the sexual. There are no skintight leather outfits (as seen in movies like Sucker Punch), no sexual violence (every rape revenge film ever…also Sucker Punch), no girls fighting over a boy. On the contrary, Octavia moves away from the explicit sexuality of her role in the pilot, and although her initial training is linked to Lincoln, she gravitates toward a warrior’s life to gain the respect of Indra. Although some critics have seen this as a drastic change in her characterisation, looking back at her first scene in the pilot, where she is held back by Bellamy while trying to attack the others for repeating rumours about her, it feels more like a development. Her willingness to fight is not solely centred around a Father figure or the excuse of “oh, I have three brothers” to answer the question of where this unladylike behaviour stems from, as seen in films like Hanna and Kick-Ass, but instead comes from her own anger. This individualistic anger at her history with the oppressive authority of The Ark manifests itself in a breakdown of social loyalties to her Sky People and a willingness to attach her communal identity to the Grounders.

Octavia’s identity is somewhat extraordinary, because of the immediate violence that ensues when different cultures and societies typically cross paths; from Jasper’s spearing at the end of the pilot, to the use of Grounder blood to sustain the lives on Mount Weather, the very act of creating a cohesive society seems to rely on the demonising and destruction of all others. In Lord of the Flies, the human deaths begin after the group splits themselves up into “tribes,” creating an artificial but all too real divide. Similarly, in The 100, after it is revealed that Wells was not killed by Grounders, Bellamy insists that they lie to the others, to give them a common enemy. Although at this point we are still looking to Clarke as the earnest moral compass (“The people have a right to know”), it quickly becomes obvious that this cookie cutter idea of fairness is a naivety that they can’t afford, when she inadvertently starts a murderous mob. When she boldly proclaims, “We don’t decide who lives and dies,” as if it’s her manifesto, we as an audience imagine that this is the best path forward and cheer her breaking away from the oppressive regime of The Ark. But the writers refuse such an easy way out and deny her the ability to shy away from making the harsh decisions needed in a leadership role as the world they inhabit becomes increasingly hostile. Clarke starts as a supporter of absolute morality, viewing violence as a destructive chaotic force, but her voice of reason quickly breaks down as her superior sense of morality is revealed to do more harm than good. Clarke’s first act as leader is to banish Murphy from their camp, marking him as other, essentially sentencing him to a de facto death, and ultimately becoming the start of her journey into a grey moral leadership that seems unavoidable in the world of the show.

While the visceral and hypnotic nature of the hunting and killing in Lord of the Flies is graphically horrifying in its violence, the reality of the “distanced death” in The 100 is equally disturbing. In the Season 2 finale, Clarke forces herself to watch through security footage as her actions kill every inhabitant of Mount Weather, and through tear-streaked eyes keeps watching the scene as she says “let’s go get our people.” For her, as with so many other acts of violence in both the real and fictional world, it was a terrible decision but for the “right reasons,” because it was to protect her people, her family, her loved ones. However, the edge of bitterness that permeates Eliza Taylor’s delivery of that line suggests a growing understanding in Clarke of the arbitrary nature of these divides, particularly with the cross-population romances, Octavia’s acceptance into Grounder culture, the rift between The 100 and the Ark adults, and her own relationship with Lexa. As she walks through the room of corpses and hears Jasper’s voice crack as he asks her “what did you do […] if you’d have just given me one more minute,” you can see the mirroring of the Ark culling from the previous season, and the toll it is going to take on her. One major criticism of Golding’s novel is the “cop-out” ending where the boys are rescued from the island just as the story reaches its bloody climax, but Season 3 of The 100, at least for Clarke, looks to be ultimately concerned with aftermath. The psychological backlash that Clarke experiences after her role in the massacre will undoubtedly shape her story arc next season as she journeys off alone.

Rowan Ellis is a British geek using her YouTube videos to critique films, TV, and books from a queer and feminist lens.

‘Monster’: A Telling of the Real Life Consequences for Violent Women

Throughout her life, Wuornos experienced horrific instances of gendered abuse, which eventually lead to a violent outlash at her unfair circumstances. ‘Monster’ vividly documents the life of a woman whose experiences under a dominant patriarchal culture racked with abuse, poverty, and desperation led to a life of crime, imprisonment, and eventually death.

This guest post by Danika Kimball appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.

American film audiences love the idea of violence, especially in regard to justice. From Bruce Wayne’s masked forays as Batman, to Frank Underwood’s signature House of Cards sneer, pop culture and media landscapes are bombarded with the image of a vigilante bringing matters into their own hands to enact justice. But what is almost more widely revered is the concept of a woman taking matters into her own hands, as it defies societal norms on numerous levels.

We see this depiction in numerous films. To the audience’s delight, heroine Beatrix Kiddo takes vengeance on her abusers in the Kill Bill series, and Furiosa defiantly defends her right to redemption from evil doers in Mad Max: Fury Road. But sometimes, females who resort to violence aren’t celebrated, and there is perhaps no greater depiction of this than Charlize Theron’s embodiment of Aileen Wuornos in the widely acclaimed dramatic film, Monster.

Monster is a film based on the life of Aileen Wuornos, who was one of the first female serial killers in the United States. Wuornos, an impoverished former prostitute, was executed in Florida in October 2002 for the murder of six men, each of whom were her former customers. She was only the second woman in Florida and the tenth women in the United States to receive the death penalty since the landmark 1976 Supreme Court decision that restored capital punishment.

The film made an impact on most for its graphic depictions of murder, but upon re-watching the film 10 years later, the portrayal of Aileen’s life in Monster was a cruel visualization of the impacts of patriarchy, poverty, and the ways in which the criminal justice system fails violent women.

In the opening scenes of Monster, we see Aileen as an adult sitting under a busy highway overpass, replaying her life story. We see her as a young child, dreaming of being an icon like Marilyn Monroe, wealthy, loved, and the center of attention.

Her fantasy fades as she walks into a gay bar with the five dollars she had just earned from a John which she was determined to spend before she ended her life. It’s here she meets a woman named Selby, a person she would later devote to protect at any cost.

The pair eventually find solace in their shared loneliness and fall in love, which pushes Selby out of her compulsory heterosexuality. Aileen, finally having someone to care for, takes it upon herself to be a provider for Selby. The film follows Aileen’s struggle to support her newfound family, her efforts in making sure that Selby is happy, and the struggle to maintain her own dignity.

After being raped and brutalized by a client, Aileen kills him in self-defense, vowing to quit prostitution. She confesses her crime to Selby, as Selby has been angry with her for not supporting the two of them.

Aileen’s efforts to find a job prove to be difficult she has no marketable skills, and no job history outside of her years of prostitution. Any prospective employers reject her, some openly volatile, accosting her for wasting their time. We see throughout the film that everyone in Aileen’s life believe that no man will ever pay her for anything aside from her body.

With nowhere to turn, Aileen returns to a life of prostitution, each time killing and robbing her Johns more brutally than the last, as she is convinced they are all trying to harm her.

In this context, it becomes difficult for a viewer to see her actions as evil. Aileen’s actions almost appear to be rational, even moral decisions, when viewed through the lens of extreme gender and class oppression. We see this in her explanations to Selby later, where she implores that she is helping to protect the other women in the world, who might also be victimized these men. She says,

Who the fuck knows what God wants? People kill each other every day and for what? Hm? For politics, for religion, and THEY’RE HEROES! No, no… There’s a lot of shit I can’t do anymore, but killing’s not one of them. And letting those fucking bastards go out and rape someone else isn’t either!

Eventually Aileen’s murders catch up with her, and she is arrested at a biker bar. While speaking to Selby on the phone, Selby reveals incriminating information over the phone while the police are listening in. As her last display of protection, Aileen admits she committed the murders alone. During the subsequent trial, Selby testifies against her in the courtroom hearings. Aileen is executed by lethal injection on October 9, 2002.

Part of what makes Monster so honest and relevant to feminists is the way that it recognizes and points to the patriarchal conditions in place that frame and constrain women’s choices, sometimes leading to a life of crime.

Throughout her life Aileen has been victimized, raped, and violence is a part of her day-to-day existence.

Emily Salisbury, a professor at Portland State University’s Criminology and Criminal Justice Program, suggests that patriarchal conditions are often a huge part of the reason for women’s participation in criminal activity and subsequent incarcerations. She remarks,

With the work of feminist scholars such as Mita Chesney Lynn, Kathleen Daly, Regina Arnold, Barbara Owen and many others, new ideas about female offending were established. The qualitative life history interviews that these scholars conducted with girls and women suggested that their lives leading up to criminal justice involvement were extremely complex and disadvantaged, with unique daily struggles…such as struggles with child abuse, depression, self-medicating behavior, self-hatred, parenting responsibilities, domestic violence and unhealthy intimate relationships. It’s argued that these problems create unique pathways to crime for women.

Many of the struggles listed are applicable to Aileen’s incarceration. In a documentary called Aileen Wuornos: Life and Death of a Serial Killer, director Nick Broomfield speaks to the infamous murderer, where she expresses that if her life leading up to adulthood had been more ideal, she wouldn’t have entered a life of crime in the first place. Family members and close friends remark throughout the film that she was the product of homelessness, violence, abuse, prostitution, poverty, incest, rape, and mental illness.

Throughout her life, Wuornos experienced horrific instances of gendered abuse, which eventually lead to a violent outlash at her unfair circumstances. Monster vividly documents the life of a woman whose experiences under a dominant patriarchal culture racked with abuse, poverty, and desperation led to a life of crime, imprisonment, and eventually death.

Though on-screen depictions of violent women are portrayed as empowering, as is the case with vengeful Furiosa in Mad Max, or the cathartic revenge plot for Beatrix Kiddo in Kill Bill, Aileen Wuornos’ story tells a different story for violent women. Monster illustrates that all too often, violent women’s pasts are rifled with oppression, and in defending themselves, they face consequences from legal systems that have proven to fail them in the past. For Aileen, violent self-preservation ended in demise.

Danika Kimball is a musician from the Northwest who sometimes takes a 30-minute break from feminism to enjoy a TV show. You can follow her on twitter @sadwhitegrrl or on Instagram @drunkfeminist.

The Real Mother Russia: Modernising Murder and Betrayal in ‘The Americans’

The ideological battle between the FBI and KGB is thus a gendered one, as the national characters of Uncle Sam and Mother Russia are pitted against each other on a more even world stage.

Elisabeth

This guest post by Dan Jordan appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.

Trigger warning for discussion of rape and torture.

The spy thriller achieved prominence in the early 1960s as a way to compensate for Western Imperial decline. Often featuring male, upper class agents travelling to exotic but foreboding countries with the use of up to date technology, defeating a foreign villain and exercising their heterosexual prowess over whatever damaged or naïve island nymphs they came across, these fantasies of colonial power achieved global appeal. This is nowhere more evident than the continued relevance and success of the James Bond films. Typically, the narrative follows Bond being somehow symbolically emasculated by M before eventually regaining his authority by crushing the plans of an unwieldy megalomaniac using the latest in spy tech and sexually dominating the Bond Girl. This pattern serves to ritualistically modernise the principally British but more broadly Western national character into a stylish, sadistic macho ideal to maintain a semblance of Imperial authority over increasingly independent countries.

The Americans alters such conventions in its setting of 1980s Washington, DC where American and Russian espionage operations in the post-Cold War race for advanced technology only ever results in a hollow stalemate or opportunities for petty revenge. Also, the influence of second wave feminism, interpreted in Bond as having freed women to choose their submission to men, is instead conceived as granting access to the requisite sexual agency and dominance of the spy thriller to women. The ideological battle between the FBI and KGB is thus a gendered one, as the national characters of Uncle Sam and Mother Russia are pitted against each other on a more even world stage.

The series centres on the lives of married, suburban travel agents Philip (Matthew Rhys) and Elizabeth Jennings (Keri Russell). Though better off than their parents, they still struggle to balance their commitments to their jobs and each other within the changing dynamics of family life. Receiving orders from their native Moscow to infiltrate, undermine and expose the rotten, oppressive soul of capitalism and build a power base for Western communism to flourish as deep cover agents for the Soviet “Directorate S” only complicates matters.

Family pic

As Philip grapples with maintaining loyalty to The Cause while enjoying the indulgences and privileges life in America grants him, Elizabeth remains committed to making socialists of their children Paige (Holly Taylor) and Henry (Keidrich Salati), using sex to leverage high ranking intelligence contacts and murdering just such contacts in a way that rejects their connection to her mission, her country and her true self.

At first refusing both protection and trust to remain independent and unknowable, Elizabeth’s lack of immunity to the strains of sexual deception and death dealing jeopardises her role as a representative of Mother Russia. Her failure to birth or sustain new revolutions and forge genuine connections with anyone besides Philip leaves her at odds with the mission she committed her life to. In this way, The Americans depicts initially validating, mature and self-sacrificing female violence as increasingly deadening and traumatic, removing the ability to be either a nurturing or controlling mother. However, this internal division is a necessary part of individuality outside the constant cycle of brinkmanship, betrayal and revenge.

Elizabeth’s ability to trust Philip as more than just her fellow agent is central in The Americans’ approach to violent women’s independence. At first, she sees their 15-year marriage as a necessary role play to maintain their cover before acknowledging that he genuinely values her and her choices. We are introduced to the Jennings as they bring Colonel Timoshev (David Vadom), an ex-Soviet defector, home in the trunk of their car having missed his deportation ferry. Awaiting further orders from The Centre, Elisabeth shatters the happy family surroundings by almost stabbing Philip when he tries to kiss her.

The root of Elizabeth’s distrust of Philip is developed later in the episode, as she confronts Timoshev for beating and sexually assaulting her in combat training, a reference to the mass rapes committed by the Red Army in Germany and Poland after the end of the Second World War. As Tymochev’s transport is continually delayed, Elizabeth uncuffs, fights and defeats him and prepares to cave his head in with a tire-iron to avenge herself. Before doing so, however, she accepts Timoshev’s dismissal of the rape as “a perk” of his position rather than a punishment for her inability to defend herself. As Elizabeth accepts that the experience was as much a part of the job as her family life is, Philip realises exactly what was done to her and kills Timoshev. Having himself considered defection because of the pleasure he gets from his American life, Philip chooses to reject the unchecked, unseen dominance of male authority he was otherwise committing to.

Showing he values Elizabeth’s choice more than a high ranking Soviet officer and that their relationship is more than a job to him, their status as husband and wife becomes more than a meaningless disguise for the first time. The Americans shows that trust does not infringe on the capability of women to avenge and empower themselves over past instances of violation and reduced status but is reliant upon treating choice as not only possible but valuable.

Sadly, Philip routinely fails to learn this lesson over the course of the first season. By constantly feeling the need to protect Elizabeth from the necessary risks and harm she experiences in the field, he becomes the main source of tension in their relationship. This split between the violent outside world and the Jennings’ house in turn sets up The Americans’ dynamic of false and genuine relationships. In episode five, Elizabeth disguises herself and seduces an FBI intelligence contractor (Eric McKay) to gain access to FBI radio car frequencies. Suddenly and non-consensually, he begins whipping her with a belt. After screaming, crying and begging him to stop, Elizabeth smiles as she stands and faces away from him. The scars she gained from the encounter have given her the visible leverage she needs to probe the contractor for the information she needs, validating her capability and commitment to suffering for The Cause.

When Philip sees the scars back at home and insists on getting revenge, Elizabeth chides him for trying to be her “daddy” and reminds him the violent acts committed against and by her are neither his responsibility nor do they impact on their personal relationship. Further invalidating personal relationships in the realm of counter-intelligence, Elizabeth is then tasked with killing faltering anti-ballistics contractor and KGB informant Adam Dorwin (Michael Countrymen). Having relied on the “friendship” of the head of the Russian embassy to avoid being turned by the FBI, his vulnerability after the death of his wife is comforted by a bullet in the head from Elizabeth. With this, The Americans establishes that genuine connection with the KGB or Elizabeth is unreliable because of their higher connection to Russia and the Communist project.

Elizabeth’s commitment to The Cause is also under-estimated by her and Philip’s KGB “handler” Claudia (Margo Martindale), an older and more experienced representative of Cold War Russia. Elizabeth’s ability to not let physical and emotional turmoil overrule her orders as Claudia eventually does marks her as the more modern and capable generation of Mother Russia. In episode six, Elizabeth is submitted to psychological torture by seemingly freelance counter-intelligence agents. Placed in a disused factory closet decorated with photographs of Paige and Henry, she is confronted by implicit threats being made against them and the falsity of her status as their “real” mother.

Before she is physically tortured in front of Philip, Claudia intervenes and reveals the whole ordeal was a test of their loyalty. The suggestion that her willingly receiving physical harm was the cut-off point for Claudia’s trust infuriates Elizabeth, who savagely beats and water-boards her handler. Inflicting on Claudia what she herself would’ve suffered for her mission, she rejects an older generation’s definition of mercy and, once more, her need for protection. As well, she reveals to Philip she had told The Centre about his considered defection, betraying his trust and invalidating his perceived duty to protect her simultaneously. Elisabeth’s willingness to be harmed, to hurt, kill and betray others for her country fulfill The Americans’ requirements of a true patriot.

Claudia disguises the wounds of her distrust

However, patriotism in The Americans infringes on the individuals ability to have their own lives and identities outside their ideological commitments, eventually justifying their need for revenge as the righteous will of their country. Elizabeth reaches this crossroad of identity once the head of Directorate S General Zhukov (Oleg Krupa) is assassinated by the FBI in episode 11. Ordered to end the escalation of violence by Claudia, Elizabeth instead abducts the US military colonel Richard Patterson (Paul Fitzgerald) who oversaw the operation that took the fatherly general away from her. Detailing the love she had for the general as she prepares to kills him, the colonel taunts her that living only to feed information to The Centre and undertake ideological revenge shows she doesn’t understand loving or being loved and has no basis for revenge.

After releasing the colonel, sacrificing her personal relationship with Zhukov and obeying her orders from Moscow once more, Elizabeth discovers this too was a manipulation by Claudia. By giving Elizabeth the colonel’s name and telling her not to go after him, Claudia attempted to prove Elizabeth’s lack of commitment to The Cause when she is damaged emotionally. Instead, Claudia avenges Zhukov herself by murdering the colonel in the season finale. The generational conflict between representatives of Mother Russia past and present is resolved as the jaded Claudia chooses her personal revenge for Zhukov over her commitment to orders and her agents. Elizabeth proves her connection to Russia is more genuine than Claudia and shows the role of Mother Russia in The Americans is based on repeated self-sacrifice.

Even as Elizabeth attempts to avoid becoming Claudia by committing to a trusting, genuine relationship with Philip to stave off a lifetime of trauma, loneliness and betrayal, the comfort they take in each other barely sustains them throughout season two. As Elizabeth recovers from a mortal gunshot wound, she loses influence and power in her home and work lives, forcing her to mould a new agent in the interim. Less willing to use sex to gain information and affronted that Paige is converting to Christianity rather than socialism in her early teens, Elizabeth channels her frustration into mentoring a young Nicaraguan communist named Lucia Chena (Aimee Carrero). On their first mission together in episode two, Elizabeth listens in as Lucia seduces a congressional aide (Nick Bailey) to reacclimatise to the demands of field work after her trauma.

After securing proof that America is training contra forces after Nicaraguan elections result in a communist victory, Lucia reluctantly agrees to kill the aide on Elizabeth’s order. Lucia now lives by Elizabeth’s demands and must imitate her to establish communism in Nicaragua, her own motherland. Elizabeth’s controlling influence here establishes an uneasy mix of handler and maternal roles, leaving the possibility for genuine connection with other women and new revolutions dependent on self-sacrifice once more.

Not long after, Lucia’s revolution falls to the cycle of revenge as she sets out to avenge her father and forces Elizabeth to sacrifice her role as a nurturer for The Cause. Blackmailing closeted gay military captain Andrew Larrick (Lee Tergesen) into giving them access to the contra training camp, Elizabeth attempts to regain her capability for violence and manipulation remains in the absence of sexual threat Larrick poses. Unfortunately, Lucia does not stop attempting to murder Larig for training soldiers who tortured her father to death. In episode eight, Elizabeth is given the ultimatum to kill Larrick and lose access to the camp or letting him kill Lucia in self-defence. Elizabeth lowers her gun and watches as he chokes her to death.

As Lucia fails to pragmatically sacrifice her emotions for her mission, Elizabeth must do it instead. Cracks of trauma begin to show at last, as Elizabeth cries alone in her dark house.

Even as Elizabeth’s “recovery” has resulted in a redoubling of trauma, loss and isolation while she loses control over her children’s development, the distractions of her work have led her biological daughter to adopt similar values to her own. Where forcing Paige to do rigorous housework in the middle of the night as Elizabeth did in Russia to learn maturity fails, allowing her to protest the American nuclear weapons programme succeeds in instilling a measure of socialist enterprise into Paige. Elisabeth, having rationalised her unquestioning loyalty to The Cause as adults “doing things that they don’t want to do” learns to support things Paige chooses for herself. Without the need for violence or manipulation that now inevitably result in revenge and betrayal, Elisabeth’s previously fake identity as Paige’s mother has delivered real change. As The Centre send out orders to begin training Paige as a KGB agent at the end of series two, Elisabeth is faced with the final choice of betraying her motherland or betraying her new found motherhood.

In The Americans, conventions of the spy thriller are altered by the context of its setting to create a crisis of gendered nationalism. As Elisabeth fights for the trust to sustain harm for her cause and remain independent over even the demands of her KGB handler, she becomes increasingly isolated and inhuman. In turn, her investment in genuine relationships limits her influence over her mature, ideological commitment to representing a modern, capable Mother Russia. Neither entirely nurturing or controlling, she slowly recognises the value of her own daughter’s independence as well as her own. In seasons to come, though, she may choose to sacrifice this as well.

Dan Jordan is an insightful, eclectic writer, aspiring media critic and University of Leicester Film and English graduate. Frequently submerged in new and classic movies, TV, video games, comics and criticism thereof, he still finds time to eat and sleep. Follow him on Twitter and at his regularly updated blog The Odd Review.

Nine Pretty Great Lesbian Vampire Movies

Almost unfailingly exploitative in its portrayal of queer women, this specific sub-genre of film stands alone in a few ways, not the least of which being that the vampires, while murderous and ultimately doomed, are powerful, lonely women, often living their lives outside of society’s rules.

This guest post by Sara Century appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.

Vampires. Lesbians. These two things are as intertwined as the stars and the sky, at least in popular fiction. The vampire lesbian sub-genre finds its basis in an unfinished poem by Coleridge 1797-ish, and continuing onward and up to the modern era with entries such as 2010 German film We Are the Night, and beyond. There are hundreds of lesbian vampire stories in the world, and very few of them deviate from the basic plot of the 1872 novella Carmilla by Joseph Le Fanu. You can just read that story and you’ll have the basic gist: lesbian vampire seduces straight woman, is murdered by men. If that sounds like a flimsy plot excuse for violence against women, that’s because that is 1,000 percent what it is. On the other hand, if there’s hundreds of anything, at least a few of them are bound to be good. I personally have a pretty strong love for lesbian vampire films, which, for better or worse, helped me to define my own images of sexuality as a young gay. Almost unfailingly exploitative in its portrayal of queer women, this specific sub-genre of film stands alone in a few ways, not the least of which being that the vampires, while murderous and ultimately doomed, are powerful, lonely women, often living their lives outside of society’s rules. And I love everything about that… except the part where they’re all mass murderers. When there is so little representation of powerful queer women in film, it becomes difficult to fully dismiss the few that exist, even if they are ultimately negative or problematic.

For all these reasons, I felt a need to compile a list of lesbian vampire films that impacted me in some way, or that I found particularly enjoyable to watch. Without further ado, my nine favorite lesbian vampire films.

9. The Moth Diaries – 2011

I liked this one. It’s a little meta, in that the girl is reading and narrating the short story Carmilla while in a movie based on the short story, Carmilla. If you can handle that, you’ll be pretty down with most of this film. There’s no organ music, which is a solid fail on the part of many films, but it’s from a female writer/director team, and I don’t think it gets enough props for being as enjoyable as it is. Lily Cole is impressively creepy as Ernessa, the Carmilla analog of the film. The main character Rebecca is immediately distrustful of Ernessa, but her friend Lucy (yep) falls under Ernessa’s sway. And so on, and so forth. There’s some pretty disturbing stuff in here: suicide features prominently in the story, the general lack of consent during sex scenes that you often see in lesbian vampire movies is definitely in there, and Rebecca makes out with her teacher, which freaks me out more than most of the rest of the movie. My critique would be that, as meta as the story gets, it never really resolves any of the questions it asks itself. There’s little in the way of socially relevent commentary here, which seems odd for a film that immediately opens a gaping hole in the fourth wall and then leaves it there for the entire course of the narrative. That said, I like this film’s self-awareness, and there’s definitely a few creepy moments that are worth the price of admission.

8. Blood and Roses – 1960

This movie makes a lot of “best of” lists, mostly because it was the first lesbian vampire film that explicitly expressed the queerness of its main character in no uncertain terms. We see a lot of what would ultimately become alternately beloved and maligned tropes of the genre: the love triangle, the arty dream sequence in the middle of the narrative, the bizarre similarity of a character to a portrait of a long-dead ancestor, and the sexually confused girlfriend character.

Our vampire Carmilla’s sexual agency, as well as her frustration, are equally compelling. She flirts with her crushes, and is upset by their rejection of her. She feeds on village girls after playing with them like a cat with a mouse. She is clearly doomed from the very moment she first appears onscreen, and yet, for all these reasons, she’s by far the most interesting character in the film.

What Blood and Roses said to me when I watched it as a young queer woman could be a much longer piece of writing, but, briefly, these images were among the first moments of queer visibility in North American cinema. As problematic as they are, they deserve analysis, and they deserve to be considered for their impact on both queer and straight audiences of their time. Besides all that, though, Blood and Roses is a campy and fun horror film from the 1960s, so if that sounds up your alley, definitely check it out.

7. Daughters of Darkness – 1971

In the 1970s, there was a fad in horror films where privileged, angry men with Beatles hair and snappy wardrobes were the main characters of pretty much every single movie. That’s going strong here, where the main character looks exactly like this:

Wowza. Anyway, the real main character is obviously not that guy, but this extremely fictionalized version of Elizabeth Bathory, at this point hundreds of years old, played by the wonderfully over-the-top Delphine Seyrig. Delphine has a respectable history in art house films of the 1970s, and worked with several of the best directors of her day. She seems to have great fun with the hypersexualized Bathory, and the whole film gets much more interesting when she shows up. The beginning of the movie is just the straight couple getting married and talking a lot, so bring on the lesbian vampires, my friends. Can I just say, as messed up as she is, Bathory is just shockingly beautiful through this whole movie. All of her outfits are the best outfits I have ever seen, and she is my style icon from here to eternity. Also perfectly fashionable, her vampire sidekick, whose simple style and bobbed hair are based on the glorious silent film star, Louise Brooks. I’m just letting you know, this movie rules. Persistent themes of the sexually aggressive and sadistic vampire focusing on the confused, flippant blonde woman are in full force here, and I would say this portrayal of the ancient and wicked lesbian vampire character is one of the more fascinating.

6. The Countess – 2009

This film is about Countess Elizabeth Bathory, widely considered to be one of the most sadistic mass murderers of all time. I say “considered to be” because, to be honest, nobody has the slightest damn idea what actually happened there. Was she a mass murderer? Probably? People were not keeping extensive records of this sort of thing in 1610, and, in fact destroyed all evidence of wrongdoing to prevent a scandal. She was of royal blood, and therefore never went to trial. What I’m saying is that all the information currently available surrounding this case is strongly based in rumor. Still, she is the person on whom much of Western World vampire mythology is based on, so if anyone has the right to be on a list about lesbian vampires, it’s the countess. The story follows the legends of what we believe to be true about her life, and carries us all the way through to her bitter end, with the entirely fictional subplot of a doomed affair with a younger man. I wasn’t personally that into the added love story of the film, but it definitely sets up some of the creepiest scenes in the whole movie, so I’ll allow it. This movie was done by Julie Delpy, who both directs and stars as Bathory, like a boss. Honestly, this film is just flat out better made than anything else on the list in concern to production values, budget, and acting skill, so if you’re into watching something less campy and more real, this is the one for you.

5. The Blood Spattered Bride – 1972

This movie starts with one of my least favorite opening scenes of all time, but if you can get through the weird rape fantasy that kicks it off, the feminist commentary actually gets really interesting as the movie goes along. The tale follows two newlyweds, Susan and her nameless husband, who exists not so much as a character, but as a representation of director Vincente Aranda’s perception of the fascist patriarchy. He comes across about as likeable as a fascist patriarchy, too, more or less crying a river every time his wife doesn’t respond to his aggressive sexual advances. A great portion of this film is Susan progressing through the story arc tropes of most major feminist characters of the 1970s: bride, to unhappy bride, to lesbian, to misandrist, to murderer. That said, honestly, I don’t really blame her, because she is literally married to the human embodiment of misogyny. As an audience member, you’ll find yourself rooting for this guy’s death pretty hard I think, so I can’t imagine what it’d be like to be married to him. She literally locks herself in a cage to get away from him, uses quotes from a book to tell him she hates him, and finally flies into a full-out screaming fit that, let’s be real, is not entirely unprovoked. So, when the dreamy and beautiful Carmilla shows up in a totally bizarre scene that I’m not even going to describe right now because you should just watch it, it’s obvious that Susan is about to get straight up seduced. When your options are “man you hate who borderline rapes you a lot” or “ghostly vampire with really pretty eyes that tells you to kill your legitimately terrible husband,” I guess I’d probably go with the latter, too. I mean, let’s be real, the third option of “get the Hell out of there” is the only real option, but if she did that, there’d be no movie, so spree of murder and terror with dreamy girlfriend it is. To the credit of the film, Susan is a very interesting character. She ultimately goes the really wrong direction with it, but her feminist theory begins in a good place. Societal loathing of queer women ultimately causes her to snap when she realizes that, as a lesbian, the world will punish her sexuality and turn her into a pariah. That is a totally legit concerns for 1972. Susan is by far the best and most interesting part of this film, which is otherwise mostly a campy horror film with unsettling moments of sexual violence and the familiar art house dreaminess of most of the films on this list.

4. The Hunger – 1983

The Hunger is one of the more famous entries in the lesbian vampire canon, so, if you’ve seen one movie on this list, the law of averages would imply that it’d be this one. The beginning of this movie finds David Bowie as John Blaylock and Catherine Deneuve as Miriam Blaylock in a goth club watching Bauhaus. They are vampires, swinger vampires. They pick up another Goth couple and kill them with a tiny blade kept inside the ankh (yes, ankh) Miriam keeps around her neck.

It. Is. Nine. Teen. Eighty. Three. As. Fuck. Right. Now.

There’s a lot of cool stuff in this movie. It’s really well shot, Catherine Deneuve is pretty much the greatest actor on the planet, the soundtrack rules, and David Bowie… just, David Bowie. This film also has one of the most famously great lesbian sex scenes in cinema history. Miriam and Susan Sarandon’s character, Dr. Sarah Roberts, hook up for the first time (only time? I don’t know) to the most lesbian song EVER, aka “The Flower Duet” from Léo Delibes’ opera Lakmé. “Sounds like a love song,” says Sarah. “Then I suppose that’s what it is,” says Miriam. You bet it is, Miriam! Moments later, those two are making out. Another slight alteration on the standard lesbian vampire tropes is that Dr. Roberts, the supposed victim of the film, is the one that initiates sex, here, rather than, as we so often see in film, the vampire preying on a human’s naiveté and weakness.

Sticking well within queer tropes, however, Miriam is honestly a real U-Haul vampire, and waits all of 10 seconds after John’s death before she tries to marry Sarah pretty much out of nowhere. We are talking about someone that has an eternity ahead of her that can’t even wait like a month after her husband’s “death” before she starts moving her girlfriend in. Which is cold as Hell, because they were married for something like 300 years. Well, I don’t want to spoil the twists and turns this story takes for y’all, so I guess I’ll cut myself off there, but, more or less, this movie is famous for a reason, and if you’re in the mood to watch a scary film that is just the most ’80s thing you’ve seen in your life, this is likely going to be your best option.

3. Nadja – 1994

I feel like this film gets overlooked by both the vampire crowd as well as the indie crowd, and it’s kind of a shame, since it has all the requirements of being a cult classic. There’s nothing particularly new in this film, but there’s a lot to like about it. The creepy vampire as played by Elina Lowensohn really sells the film. She’s one of my all time faves. The cinematography is really great, and the film looks just stunning in black and white. Especially interesting is the use of a child’s toy camera for some scenes, lending a simple, stylized perspective at key moments. There’s a lot of pretty amusing mid-90s, Generation X style soul-searching from the white, heterosexual couple at the center of the film, as well as some genuinely on point observations on the human condition from the impressively coherent vampires. As many of these films are products of their time, I must say that Nadja is about the most 1994 film you’re liable to watch in your life. Instead of the standard skintight dress fluttering softly in the wind, the female love interest of the vampire is wearing a straight up flannel shirt and jeans, and if she had slight stubble I would definitely mistake her for Kurt Cobain. At certain moments, the film looks and sounds a bit like a music video for a Portishead song, but the aesthetic is pulled off to perfection, and it really works. The overall stylishness of Nadja has only aged for the better in the two decades since its release.

2. Vampyros Lesbos – 1971

This is where I start to get emotional. Vampyros Lesbos features my favorite opening to a film probably ever, with a bizarre shot of the vampire accompanied by noise music as the credits roll, followed immediately by our hero, the vampiric Nadine Carody, doing an erotic dance in a mirror with herself. She kisses herself in the mirror while holding a candlebra, while a blond-haired mannequin watches her. Ultimately, the countess turns, and begins kissing the mannequin, while her future lover Linda Westinghouse looks on, as intrigued as her mustached boyfriend is uncomfortable. The whole time, one of my all-time favorite songs is playing, a dark, dreamy song with an irrestistably basic Hammond organ pre-recorded drumbeat and chilling yet seductive organ sounds. And that is how you start a movie, everyone. You now have my full attention. Vampyros Lesbos is honestly just a flawless victory. It’s over-the-top, set very much with a psychedelic backdrop, and Soledad Miranda is absolutely enchanting as the countess. The comparatively less interesting “girlfriend” character Linda Westinghouse is really great in this movie. Her acting is stilted, but it works perfectly for this agonized and hestitant character, who is as attracted as she is repelled by the beautiful vampire. What I’m getting at here is that Vampyros Lesbos is a great movie (greatest movie?), and well worth your time if you’re a horror fan, a lesbian fan, an art house fan, or basically anyone (who is over the age of 18). Yes, this film is just as exploitative to queer women as any other lesbian vampire movie, but if you just focus on the intriguing, mysterious countess and her compelling monolgues, the brilliant soundtrack, and the beautifully shot and haunting love scenes between Linda and Nadine, you’ll do OK.

1. Fascination – 1979

The No. 1 spot is a tie between Vampyros Lesbos and Fascination, because I definitely love both equally, but loving things equally is not how internet listicles work, so Fascination it is. I’ve seen dozens of lesbian vampire films, but there’s something about this one. It doesn’t just slightly deviate from the tropes, it starts with a weird premise, introduces multiple tropes, and then just goes completely off the rails with them, until it concludes on a note that could only be described as utterly bizarre. To me, adding art house weirdness to horror films just makes a good thing even better, so I find Fascination to be delightful, haunting, and aesthetically beautiful. The movies of Jean Rolin are often about vampires, definitely well within the realm of art house cinema, and always highly eroticized. Fascination in specific has a just bananas plot trajectory: it pretty much starts with a whole lot of lesbian sex, which then becomes straight sex, which then goes back to being lesbian sex. They’re kind of vampires, or not? One of the main characters terrorizes the countryside with a scythe, there’s a coven of witches, someone gets devoured alive… it is goddamned epic. I especially love the characters, despite how weird and evil they all are. I particularly love the character of Eva, who is very much a problematic favorite, in that pretty much every action she takes in the film ends with her committing murder at some point. The scenery is gorgeous, the cinematography is simple and beautiful, the actors seem like they’re having fun… it’s all in all a perfect 1970s horror film.

Sara Century is a multimedia performance artist, and you can follow her work at saracentury.wordpress.com.

Domestic Terrorism: Feminized Violence in ‘Misery’

Annie is a human being, dangerous not because of an evil supernatural force, but rather a severe and untreated mental illness. Although Annie is not given an official diagnosis in the film or the novel, an interview with a forensic psychologist on the special edition DVD characterizes her as displaying symptoms of several different conditions, including borderline personality disorder (BPD).

This guest post by Tessa Racked appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.

Content Note: This essay contains discussion of physical and emotional abuse.

Misery, directed by Rob Reiner, is the 1990 film adaptation of the 1987 Stephen King novel of the same name. The scenario is as chilling as it is simple: romance novelist Paul Sheldon (James Caan) is saved from a car accident during a blizzard by Annie Wilkes (Kathy Bates). He is trapped in her house due to his injuries; she has an unhealthy obsession with his novels and violent temper. Paul’s latest novel, on the verge of being published, ends with the death of her favorite character, the titular Misery. Annie is widely considered Kathy Bates’ breakout role; she won both an Oscar and a Golden Globe for her portrayal, and Annie is listed as 17th on American Film Institute’s list of top 100 villains.

King has explicitly stated that Misery is about his personal battle against addiction: “Annie was my drug problem, and she was my number-one fan. God, she never wanted to leave,” he said in an interview with The Paris Review. It also expresses King’s frustration with his career, feeling trapped in the horror genre. (Similarly, the film adaptation was a departure genre-wise for Reiner, who had until this point made more comedic, sentimental fare like The Princess Bride and When Harry Met Sally…) The bulk of the story is the conflict between Paul, who wants to move on from writing the Misery series, and Annie, who forces Paul to languish in that stage of his life due to her unwavering fixation with both the series and her own idea of who he is as an author. A flashback scene between Paul and his agent (Lauren Bacall) foreshadows his ordeal, as he explains his decision to end his popular romance novel series by killing off the protagonist: “if I hadn’t gotten rid of her now, I would end up writing her forever.” Annie’s prison from which Paul must escape is her home; the violence she enacts is twisted versions of caregiving and romance. Not only is the antagonist of Misery a woman, but her modes of terror are coded distinctly as feminine.

Misery is a departure from much of King’s earlier work (and the resulting film adaptations), as it is not a work of speculative fiction. Annie is a human being, dangerous not because of an evil supernatural force, but rather a severe and untreated mental illness. Although Annie is not given an official diagnosis in the film or the novel, an interview with a forensic psychologist on the special edition DVD characterizes her as displaying symptoms of several different conditions, including borderline personality disorder (BPD). BPD is commonly thought of as a mental illness that primarily affects women, who make up 75 percent of the diagnoses in the United States. However, this trend may be caused by gender biases in the mental health field for various reasons; some symptoms of BPD are similarly feminized (eg. a frequent co-occurence with eating disorders), while others are considered “normal” male behavior and therefore more pathologized in women (eg. promiscuity).

Misery is not the only thriller that dramatizes symptoms of BPD to create a female antagonist who becomes obsessed with someone she desires and terrorizes that person with emotional outbursts and impulsive, violent behavior. Consider Alex (Glenn Close) in Fatal Attraction (the highest grossing film of 1987), Hedy (Jennifer Jason Leigh) in Single White Female, or Evelyn (Jessica Walter) in Play Misty for Me, all of whom have been described as having BPD. Although they resemble each other as far as the threat they present their films’ protagonists, Annie is a markedly different sort of woman; in her own words, she is “not a movie star type.” Her clothing is plain and modest. She is older and larger-bodied than the other female villains. One of her most memorable characteristics is her frequent use of bowdlerized profanity, such as “dirty birdy” and “cockadoodie.” She is a hopeless romantic, but in short, she lacks sex appeal. Annie is also different in that she is coded as working class and rural. She lives by herself on a farm. She pays tribute to Paul by naming her sow after the literary heroine he’s created. (Misery is one cute pig, to be fair, but her captive seems less than flattered.) Her idea of a fancy dinner is making meatloaf with SPAM added in, and she mispronounces Dom Perignon. She contrasts sharply with, for instance, Fatal Attraction’s Alex, a sophisticated book editor who lives in New York City. Unlike Alex, Annie isn’t positioned as an exciting temptress, or an embodied punishment for lustful transgression. Rather, she is a smothering maternal figure, forcing Paul into an arrested state of mediocrity as a creative and infantilizing him as the helpless prisoner in her guest bedroom.

Although Annie talks about Paul both as the object of her romantic love and her literary idol, their relationship as portrayed in the film more closely resembles that of a mother and child. In their first interaction, Annie extracts an unconscious Paul from the wreck of his car, administers CPR, and carries him back to her home. In the next scene, we meet Annie as she gently reassures Paul that she is his “number-one fan” and that he’s going to be all right. Annie giving Paul life, bringing him into her home, and reinforcing to him that she is there to care for him because she loves him more than anyone else is strikingly similar to a basic narrative of a woman giving birth. Even the way the audience sees who she is for the first time is through visual and auditory tropes often used to convey a newborn baby: the scene is shot from Paul’s point of view, initially blurry and echoing, then coming into focus and resting on a low angle shot of Annie’s face. These low angle shots of Annie from Paul’s point of view are a recurring image in the film, often used when she spiraling out in an angry rant that hints at (or culminates in) the violence she is capable of enacting.

Annie’s treatment of Paul is nothing short of abusive, but also reinforces the maternal quality of her control over him. The harmful aspects of her caregiving are one of the main sources of horror in the film. She proudly shows off her nursing skills through the homemade braces she’s fashioned for his broken legs, as the camera pans down the horrific sight of his severe injuries that would normally be covered by casts. An early suggestion of menace comes when she coyly admits that she made pilgrimages to the lodge where he was working on his latest novel and would stand under his window, as she shaves him with a straight razor: “Like a baby!” she pronounces upon finishing both her task and her description of stalking him. This scene is followed by our first glimpse of her temper. She chastises Paul for his use of profanity in the manuscript he has allowed her to read– his first novel outside of the Misery series to be published– and her indignancy quickly grows into anger. She yells and spills the soup she is holding. “Look what you made me do!” she cries, showing both a mother’s frustration with a child making a mess and an abuser’s displacement of blame for their own actions.

Although she seems to be a simple person at first, her awareness of the situation’s dynamic is made abundantly clear after she flies into a rage over Paul’s latest published work, Misery’s Child, in which the main character dies. Not only is she distraught over losing Misery, but she is angry at Paul for defying her perception of him as an ever-obliging font of “genius” romance novels, or, as she describes it, being a “lying old dirty birdy.” She just barely prevents herself from smashing an end table over Paul’s head. Instead, she wields his dependency, and the potential removal of her love and care, as a threat: “don’t even think about anybody coming for you… nobody knows you’re here, and you better hope nothing happens to me, because if I die, you die.” Annie’s violent mothering reaches its summit in the dramatic reveal of her past: Paul discovers, through a remarkably convenient scrapbook that she keeps in her living room, that her nursing career was fraught with the mysterious deaths of infants in her care.

Although Annie enacts her relationship with Paul through caregiving, she is motivated by romance. It is evident from her perspective that she sees their relationship as a budding love story: when she is calm, she often talks to him in a shy, girlish manner, in awe of his “genius.” Once she manages to coerce him into writing a satisfactory retcon of Misery’s death, she celebrates by blasting Liberace records, as she considers his music to be very romantic. The subsequent montage of Paul feverishly working on Misery’s Return is set to Liberace’s rendition of Tchaikovsky’s dramatic “Piano Concerto Number 1.” Paul tries to escape by playing along with her, even suggesting they have a candlelit dinner together so that he will have an opportunity to drug her wineglass (which she clumsily knocks over during his toast, being unused to navigating a romantic setting like their dinner in the real world). After she murders the sheriff (Richard Farnsworth) investigating Paul’s disappearance, she informs her prisoner that their only option is a murder-suicide. However, she does so in rapturous tones, using language that could be lifted from a darker version of Paul’s own novels: “You and I are meant to be together forever. But now our time in this world must end.”

The relationship Annie wants to have with Paul is toxic, as it is based on her preventing him from growing/healing, from being his own person. She prevents him from physically walking away from her home, and she prevents him from professionally walking away from the Misery series. The infamous “hobbling” scene is a perfect illustration of how she objectifies Paul. Setting up the grisly procedure, she explains that it was how workers “in the early days of the Kimberley Diamond Mines” were punished for stealing, and how she will punish him for leaving his room. As she prepares to break his ankles with a sledgehammer, she blithely compares the victims of this procedure to cars and tells him that it’s “for the best,” dehumanizing him and denying the pain that she is about to put him through. The scene ends with the camera zooming in on her gazing down at the agonized Paul as she whispers, “God, I love you.”

In most horror films, the threat that the villain poses is annihilation: their aim is to maim and kill the protagonist. Annie’s goal is different. She too uses violence, but it is a tool that she wields to enforce a much different threat: inertia. She embodies this threat by adopting roles that are closely tied with femininity: she is the nurse who refuses to let her patient heal, the “mother” who prevents her “child” from gaining independence, the muse who forces her author to continue writing long after the story has concluded. The inability to grow is an obstacle that confronts people of all genders– after all, empowering women to transcend confining social roles is a ubiquitous concern among feminists– but Misery is an expression of this conflict as a potential threat that women pose men.

Recommended Reading:

“Borderline Personality Disorder- a Feminist Critique”

Tessa Racked lives in Chicago. They write essays about fat characters in cinema at Consistent Panda Bear Shape and make condensed observations about a variety of subjects @tessa_racked. Tessa celebrates the completion of every tweet with a cigarette and a glass of Dom Perignon.

The Rising “Tough” Women in AMC’s ‘The Walking Dead’ Season Five

This season seems to present a large change in representational issues by including complex characters of color that we actually know something about and care for, presenting the couple of Aaron and Eric from the Alexandria community and self-pronounced lesbian Tara, and doing away with the innate equation of vagina equals do the laundry while the men go kill all the zombies.

Our core group of survivors in The Walking Dead season five

This guest post by Brooke Bennett appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.

The Walking Dead has long been plagued with criticism in relation to its portrayals of gender roles (for example, see both of Megan Kearns’s posts and Rebecca Cohen’s). in addition to relegating characters of color to the background at best, killing them to further the plot surround the white characters at worst. Further, queer characters have been completely absent within the show’s first four seasons, though some have suggested that the relationship between Andrea and Michonne during season three can be read as implicitly queer. That being said, season five is very different. In summary, season five finds our group of survivors escaping from the cannibalistic community of Terminus (thanks to Carol), attempting to survive on the road, then finally coming across the community of Alexandria, which seems to be extremely well off (and not full of cannibals thankfully). This season seems to present a large change in representational issues by including complex characters of color that we actually know something about and care for, presenting the couple of Aaron and Eric from the Alexandria community and self-pronounced lesbian Tara, and doing away with the innate equation of vagina equals do the laundry while the men go kill all the zombies. All of these areas of increasingly representation are extremely important in any examination of the show, but this post will dive deeper into the specific portrayal of the “tough” women of season five.

Michonne and Carol as “tough women” in The Walking Dead season five

Carol and Michonne are definitely some of the most intriguing (and my favorite) characters during season five of The Walking Dead. First off, thinking about Carol during season one to how she has completely changed over the last five years of the show is striking. In the beginning, she was in an abusive relationship with soon-dead husband Ed. Upon his death, as Megan Kearns points out, she becomes reliant on Daryl as the group searches for her daughter, Sophia, in the second season. The third season, once again, shows Carol (and some of the other women, especially Beth) as relegated to doing all the boring domestic chores and taking care of Rick’s new daughter Judith after Lori dies in season three. Season four presents a more active role for Carol, but season five is the most crucial to her character development. In season five, Carol constructs a persona of herself for the Alexandria community, acting like she is some innocent, helpless upper-class suburban housewife. She even tells Deanna, the leader of Alexandria, that she “really didn’t have much to offer” to Rick’s group, which is obviously not true because she’s the reason they all escaped Terminus without becoming someone’s dinner.

Carol and femininity as masquerade

One of my absolute favorite scenes of season five is when Daryl is sitting on the porch of one of the fancy houses while Carol walks outside all made-up in her housewife outfit. Daryl scoffs and tells her, “You look ridiculous.” To us this is hilarious because we agree with Daryl; we know she is not this housewife type character any longer. Carol intelligently masquerades as this feminine role in order to make those in Alexandria purposely underestimate her. In essence, this dynamic also seems to point out how gender is something we do – it’s a performative activity that we have to continuously work at because it’s a socially constructed idea. Carol performs this weak embodiment of women in order to be able to sneak around the community and do as she wishes. At one point Carol even remarks to Rick, “You know what’s great about this place? I get to be invisible again.” Carol challenges the innateness of gender by not only being a extremely strong, capable female survivor, but also by masquerading as the opposite find of woman she has become now.

On the other hand, Michonne has evolved greatly as a character as well. When she was introduced in season three, Michonne was largely unresponsive to other people and seemed very confrontational. Problematically, Michonne is used as an object of trade in relation to Rick and the Governor – the Governor claims he will leave Rick and his group alone if he gives him Michonne, which Rick actually tells Merle (of all the characters, of course the most overtly racist character is chosen) to go through with this. As the show continues into season four, Michonne emerges with actual dialogue (about time) and, once again, demonstrates how she is arguably the toughest character of the entire group. We finally learn more about her backstory – she apparently has lost a child due to the zombie apocalypse which is, significantly, similar to Carol as well (I’ll return to this connection in a bit). Michonne consistently tries to convince Rick that they need to find a new community or start their own; they cannot survive by living on the road anymore. This obviously rational thinking is invoked continuously in season five, and is in stark comparison to Rick’s questionable, impulsive choices throughout season five.

Sword-wielding badass, Michonne

One of Michonne’s most crucial scenes in season five surrounds an episode later on, when the group is in Alexandria. Significantly, Deanna (the leader of Alexandria) gives both Michonne and Rick the job of constable – they are responsible for enforcing order. Obviously, Rick has always had this role both in the post-apocalypse and in his professional career choice as a cop before the apocalypse. On the other hand, Michonne being given this role provides an alternative mode of leadership, one which looks increasingly more appealing as Rick seems to be losing his ability to lead responsibly and effectively. After Carol tells Rick that she knows Pete is abusing Jessie (a married couple within Alexandria), and likely their young child Sam, Rick immediately wants to kill Pete, no questions asked. This is certainly motivated by the obvious attraction Rick has to Jessie; he’s reacting to his feelings for her and need to save the damsel in distress, hoping to make her his own. Rick and Pete end up in a physical fight that pours out into the street, with a large part of Alexandria coming to watch and attempt to break it up, which is ultimately done by Deanna. Rick, who seems to be very distraught and hysterical, yells back at Deanna and the other residents, faces bloodied, that they are not going to survive if they don’t change the way they do things.

Hysterical Rick after beating up Pete

This is probably good advice, but Rick somehow thinks that this is an excuse to go against what the society’s leader, Deanna, has told him to do (not kill Pete). Either way, Rick goes on a rant yet again about how they are all doomed and he isn’t just going to sit by and watch this community fall apart, but, in mid-sentence, Michonne comes in and hits Rick over the head, knocking him unconscious, and ending the episode. Unlike Rick, Michonne knows what he says to be true but doesn’t go about changing the group via violence and rash decision-making. Michonne is, by far, the better leader of the two. In her constable uniform, she knocks Rick out, powerfully making the connection between her embodiment of moral law enforcement that is completely in opposition with Rick’s way of doing things.

Michonne after knocking out Rick

Overall, Carol and Michonne provide the most compelling roles of “tough” women within season five of The Walking Dead. As I mentioned earlier, both women had experienced the loss of a child because of the zombie apocalypse, which deserves further analysis as it complicates their role of powerful women characters within the show. Over the show, both Carol and Michonne are presented as being a sort of maternal figure for other children. For Carol this is seen in her relationship with Lizzie and Micah, whereas Michonne is presented this way with Carl when she helps him get the family picture so that Judith will know what Lori looks like.

Michonne as maternal figure for Carl

Carol as maternal figure for Lizzie and Micah

Interestingly, tough women being shown as maternal figures is a common theme in female-centered action narratives. For example, in Kill Bill, The Bride is a brutal, unstoppable character as she takes revenge upon those who tried to kill her. Yet, in Kill Bill: Vol. 2 she finds out that her child is alive, thus reasserting her role as mother. This can be read as reminding The Bride that she can be as tough as she wants, but at the end of the day she is still biologically female and her duties should/need to revolve around the realm of domesticity. Since Carol and Michonne are presented as maternal figures within The Walking Dead, this can complicate a reading of their toughness as being completely empowering since we are reminded of their biological femaleness. Yet, Carol’s gender performance in season five would seem to argue that gender is more socially constructed than anything. In the end, the action heroines of The Walking Dead, like other “tough” heroine narratives in film and television, cannot be taken as completely, 100 percent empowering just because the women are able to take care of themselves and display how they can totally kick some ass.

Sasha and Rosita during season five of The Walking Dead

Any discussion of strong women in season five would be mistaken not to mention Rosita and Sasha. Unfortunately, these two characters are underexplored (along with Tara, as well) at this point, though they are portrayed as being strong like Michonne and Carol are. Sasha, as Rick even comments when the group reaches Alexandria, is the best shooter, leading her to get the job of being on watch and shooting zombies from a sniper tower. Rosita originally was shown being completely oversexualized when we first met her. She worn tiny shorts and a tiny top, showing off her body, and also consistently had pig tails. For the action heroine, this fetishistic presentation is super common – think Lara Croft in Tomb Raider or Alice and Jill in the Resident Evil franchise.

Oversexualized Rosita in The Walking Dead

Oversexualized Lara Croft (Angelina Jolie) in Tomb Raider

Thankfully, when the group gets to Alexandria this trope is reversed, and Rosita finally wears dons a reasonable clothing choice for the zombie apocalypse and no longer wears girlish ponytails. Other than serving a minimal role is Abraham’s sidekick, Rosita doesn’t seem to do anything else within the show. On the other hand, Sasha is a somewhat more developed character, especially in her relationship with her brother, Tyreese, and in her romantic relationship with Bob, who both die within season five – Sasha gets a pretty emotionally tough hand during the fifth season. Like Michonne, Sasha also makes some more rational and intelligent, in comparison to Rick, comments to the group. When at the welcoming dinner party, some residents ask Sasha what her favorite meal is because it would just be awful if they cooked her something else. She responds, “that is what you worry about?!” in utter shock as to the hierarchy of their priorities. Of course, Sasha is much more realistic and doesn’t buy into this cookie-cutter “fake” community of Alexandria, with its $800,000 homes (as Deanna mentions to Rick) and no longer existent lifestyle it symbolizes.

Overall, I hope Rosita and Sasha will continue to be explored an developed as season six (which just premiered Sunday, October 11 this year) progresses, alongside Tara who is also a very underutilized character within The Walking Dead. Additionally, it will be interesting to see who becomes the authoritative power in Alexandria, as the return of Morgan in the season five finale further complicates Rick’s role as authoritative leader, or the “Ricktatorship” as some critics have put it. Either way, I’m excited to see where the development of these awesome, ass-kicking tough women goes in the episodes to come.

Brooke Bennett is an undergraduate student and honors candidate majoring in English at the University of Arkansas. Her academic work revolves around horror in film and television, with an emphasis on feminist media studies, especially looking into The Walking Dead. When not in school, Brooke binge watches horror movies on Netflix and hopes to be a popular culture critic and academic in the future.

Violence and Morality in ‘The 100’

This act of mercy killing is the first of many moments when Clarke is forced to be violent for the good of others. It not only prompts an important change within herself – she loses her idealistic ways – but it prompts a change in the group dynamics. After this moment, Clarke begins to pull away from the co-leadership she and Bellamy had operated in and moves toward becoming the sole leader of the delinquents.

This guest post by Esther Nassaris appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.

We see violence on screen a lot. In fact, some would argue we’ve become desensitised to it. And in a way I think that’s true. After all, a lot of the time it is used solely for shock value, something to make the audience gasp during sweeps week. Or in the case of women, a vile way to sexualise a character further and to feed into the male gaze. Yet violence on The 100 isn’t like that. It’s ingrained in the plot because of the world the show is set in, not thrown in to shock or titillate. It’s explored in an intelligent and thought provoking way. In short, it’s one of the many things that The 100 is doing right.

The premise of the show was brilliant from day one and from the moment one of the leads, Wells (Eli Goree), was killed off in episode 3 “Earth Kills” I knew that this show was different. The show picks up 97 years after a nuclear war is thought to have destroyed all life on earth. The rest of humanity survives on a massive space station, known as The Ark. Yet when resources run low and systems begin to fail they send a group of 100 expendable juvenile delinquents to Earth to see if the land is survivable. The delinquents quickly find out that they are not alone on Earth, and from day one have to fight to survive. In the futuristic world of The 100, discrimination has become a non-issue. The only way to differentiate between people is what clan you’re part of. Everything else just simply doesn’t matter. It’s the shows modern approach to gender, race, and sexuality that allows us a wealth of well-written women who encompass violence in different ways.

Like many sci-fi shows, The 100 is no stranger to violence; however, its relationship with it is complex and ever-changing. As Clarke (Eliza Taylor) is the protagonist of the show, we first consider violence from her perspective. Clarke is initially seen as a more idealistic character, hesitant to use violence and more likely to resist the use of force. This is shown through her immediate disagreements with Bellamy (Bob Morley) when he becomes a leader of the delinquents in a very Lord of the Flies-esque way. However, when one of the delinquents is critically injured in episode 3 “Earth Kills” and begs Bellamy to kill him, Clarke is the one to do it. This act of mercy killing is the first of many moments when Clarke is forced to be violent for the good of others. It not only prompts an important change within herself – she loses her idealistic ways – but it prompts a change in the group dynamics. After this moment, Clarke begins to pull away from the co-leadership she and Bellamy had operated in and moves toward becoming the sole leader of the delinquents.

As a leader Clarke swiftly becomes a much more pragmatic character, understanding that violence is a necessary part of life on the ground. In episode 7 “Contents Under Pressure” we can already see the change in her character as she authorises the use of violence against an enemy clan member. And while she is hesitant at first, she allows it to happen once she realises that it’s necessary to gain the information that she requires. Although she isn’t the one to directly inflict the violence, as a leader of her people it is her that is directly responsible for the actions of her people. While this is a more calculated version of the violence that Clarke has adopted, we see a more instinctual version in episode 11 “The Calm.” While captured by the Grounders, in a desperate attempt to escape Clarke brutally attacks and kills her guard. In this moment violence is clearly the resourceful thing to do. It is a sign of intelligence and strength of character that Clarke not only recognises that she must act quickly, but that she has the ability to do so.

As a sharp juxtaposition to Clarke, we have Octavia (Marie Avgeropoulos). An outsider from day one, Octavia is the first to adapt to the harsh way of life on the ground and is the first to transition into the Grounder clan. This is mainly because of her early acceptance of violence. While Clarke is a master of the calculated and strategic violence; Octavia is a front line kind of fighter. Yet even when Octavia finds her way into the Grounder clan we still see her as an outsider. The 100 plays with the idea that this type of violence isn’t appropriate for femaleness. It makes us challenge our own perceptions. If women are unable to be so powerfully violent, then why does Octavia thrive this way? It’s a very typical male role, and thus The 100 subverts expectations of traditional gender roles.

The Grounders offer the audience yet another viewpoint into violent women. As survivors of the nuclear war, The Grounders have adapted into a survival first way of living. In episode 11 “The Calm” we see that violence is taught from a young age when Anya’s (Dichen Lachman) second is a young girl. Violence is intrinsic for them. They know no other way. In the midst of their fight for survival, concepts of gender, sexuality, and race have largely fallen away. This allows many of the Grounder leaders to be women. Most notably Commander Lexa (Alycia Debnam-Carey), who leads the Grounder clans. However like the Sky People do, we initially distrust the Grounders. We see them as an enemy, and their way of living barbaric and ruthless. While Clarke has some clear reservations about making the harsh decisions to kill or torture, Lexa makes them without questioning it. She knows when these methods are necessary. It is interesting to consider if perhaps this is why some people dislike the character. It is harder to accept a violent woman who is completely committed to these acts. There’s no softening of the blow for the audience. This is who she is and these are the harsh actions that she will not hesitate to make.

As the stakes are raised in season 2, the level of violence also increases and thus morality becomes an even more prominent question on the show. It’s not just the characters that are left wondering whether their choices were right, the viewer is forced to ask the same question. Would we go to such a dark and brutal place? Could we? Often times when you watch a show or a film in which violence is a main theme, there’s a clear right and wrong, a good and evil. We don’t feel bad rooting for someone who’s inflicting so much damage because we know they’re on the good side. But violence on The 100 is presented in a morally grey area. Most importantly, there’s never a separate type of violence for men and women. When Clarke kills hundreds of people to save less than 50 of her own it doesn’t take away from her femininity. It doesn’t make her a masculine character. In fact gender is not taken into account. It makes her a good leader, and perhaps a flawed person, but never any less female.

Esther Nassaris is a Media and Communication student at Glasgow Caledonian University who is passionate about all things television, feminism, and pop culture. She spends most of her time either writing about, or watching television, and would like to become an entertainment journalist. Find her on twitter at @EstNas or blogging on https://tvforfeminists.wordpress.com/

Emotional Violence, Kink, and ‘The Duke of Burgundy’

Cynthia and Evelyn together

This guest post by Rushaa Louise Hamid appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.

Note: The best viewing of The Duke of Burgundy is without any prior knowledge. Spoilers are contained throughout this piece.

Lesbian relationships in film often carry the burden of limited storytelling which focuses on coming out stories, pregnancy, affairs, and/or death. Peter Strickland’s The Duke of Burgundy has none of these traits. Rather it is a universal story about love and the ways in which we can be undone by it, exploring the emotional violence that can be carried by a relationship. Most importantly, unlike another film that shall not be named, The Duke of Burgundy highlights this as a failure of communication, not as an evil of kink itself. Evelyn (Chiara D’Anna) is neglectful, Cynthia is avoidant (Sidse Babett Knudsen), and these are aspects that can be found in all relationships.

In much of feminist literature from the past, kink is seen an act driven by patriarchy, with submissive women reproducing their oppressions in the bedroom and capitulating to gendered norms of women as silent and subservient. Even nowadays as the tide gradually changes, there is still a large amount of ire reserved for those who practice BDSM. Yasmin Alibhai-Brown writes in 2012, “When young women become instinctively assertive and free of gender constrictions, their liberty threatens the ‘natural’ order. So they have to be reminded of their place, taught they can never be good enough and must relearn submission.” Thus it is often hard to find films which explore serious issues in BDSM relationships without casting the assumption that the protagonists themselves are dis-empowered or damaged in some way.

The Duke of Burgundy in contrast demonstrates that submissive desires are not necessarily borne out of an instinct to please men and that acting in a role with limited power does not mean that a women actually has limited power in the relationship. In fact whilst the physical aspects of subservience we see in the film are consensual and empowering for Evelyn, it is Cynthia (the Domme) who suffers from emotional violence as both she and Evelyn accept the subordination of Cynthia’s own personal desires. This can sometimes be hard to recognise as quite as extreme as it is – indeed, in looking through reviews the level of the emotional conflict present is not addressed, instead viewed simply as lesbian love story with a kinky flair. In part this is perhaps due to the expectation that women perform the trope of martyr for love. The film though clearly presents that it is not the adopted role itself that determines the power balance within a relationship, but rather it comes about through the care of the individuals themselves.

The opening scene clouds this perception, deliberately obscuring who we can “root for.” We first see Evelyn approach the house, where she is aggressively greeted by a cold and cruel Cynthia. She is made to scrub floors and massage feet, eventually making an easily fixable mistake that results in the punishment of having her mouth urinated in. Without background information we assume that Evelyn is meek, and conforming to the past feminist conception of the submissive woman, and that Cynthia is controlled and sadistic. We are unsure throughout the scene of the degree of consent that is present. This is similar to the set-up for Secretary – of which The Duke of Burgundy has occasionally been described as the lesbian version of – where Mr. Grey belittles Lee before the two of them develop a romantic relationship; expectations have been put in place that this film will continue the cinematic trend of cold dominants learning to love. Yet once the scene cuts we see the two characters in bed together, Cynthia removing her wig and wanting to know if her performance was “too cold.”

Evelyn

We then get the opportunity to see the role-play from Cynthia’s perspective. We see her nervously preparing by guzzling water and frantically trying to memorise handwritten cards on which Evelyn has laid out every detail of the scene she wishes to enact. We see her struggling to maintain her icy composure, and suffering through back pain as she tries to maintain an upright posture. The violence is an illusion. Like the titular butterfly, Cynthia is mistaken for one type of person but is actually a completely different one.

In essence the film frames the physical act of “violence” and domination/submission as a representation of love and devotion; it is what the characters do because they want to share intimacy. This contrasts with the truer emotional violence – first with Evelyn’s increasing push of her kinks, wilfully ignoring the growing distress of Cynthia, then later with Cynthia’s violation of Evelyn’s safeword. Cynthia throughout takes on a “traditional” feminine obligation to provide support on things she is not comfortable with for love at the detriment of herself, suffering through the emotional trauma of a partner who increasingly ignores all her needs.

There are no men in this realm – everyone, down to the background characters (and even mannequins), are women. This is an interesting set-up, since even in this women-only world Cynthia cannot escape a gendered expectation of taking on the emotional burden of a relationship. On top of this, by divorcing the relationship from heterosexual narratives Strickland is allowing for more focus on Cynthia’s struggle as a dominant role-player since the character does not have to live up to the audience’s stereotype of the hyper-sexualised and commanding masculine ideal.

In a key scene, the emotional care of Cynthia contrasts with the selfishness of Evelyn. “Are you sure you’re going to be OK?” Cynthia asks having shut the heavy lid of the truck containing Evelyn tied up inside for the night. The silence panics her and so again she questions and is responded to with a sharp “Yes!” Cynthia’s legitimate need for a simple word of reassurance aren’t considered valid by her partner – instead there is an anger that Cynthia would dare break the fantasy role that Evelyn has placed her in.

Cynthia

Consent is a key aspect of BDSM, and is not just “no means no” or “yes means yes” but much more fluid and active – it requires partners to consider situations in which their lover might not feel comfortable or be physically able to speak out and so paying careful attention to body language is key. Evelyn is the true inflicter of violence in The Duke of Burgundy by ignoring these signs. If she was presented as a dominant man these acts of control would seem overt – pressuring her lover into a particular type of sexual activity, pressuring her lover to act in a particular way, pressuring her lover to dress in a particular way, ignoring her lover’s discomfort, using “I wasn’t getting what I wanted” to justify seeking things outside the relationship, and pressuring her to perform despite physical injury. Though Cynthia is making these choices too, she is also motivated by a fear that she will be abandoned if she refuses. Only in the end when Evelyn realises the sheer level of strain she has put her partner through (following Cynthia’s breakdown) does Cynthia get that reassurance that her no’s will not lead to Evelyn leaving her. Evelyn relies on Cynthia’s devotional love to continue to be egocentric and aggressive and ignores her responsibility to check in on her lover’s well-being.

In contrast to this slow drip of pressure from Evelyn, Cynthia expresses emotional violence all at once, choosing to violate their safeword on Evelyn’s birthday. The scene is aggressive and uncomfortable to sit through – by continuing through Evelyn’s cry of “pinastri” she has dragged Evelyn into a realm where her explicit consent no longer matters. Evelyn goes from a woman in charge of her sexuality to an object to be acted on, voiceless. “If only pinastri could make all our troubles go away,” Cynthia says as she presses onto her lover’s face, as if the only way the relationship can ever work is if one person is always suffering. Unfortunately this major violation is never addressed again in the film.

It is perhaps one of the best merits of The Duke of Burgundy that the resolution does not provide an escape from the duty to provide for love – rightly compromise is portrayed as an essential part of a relationship, and shifting the balance to entirely favour Cynthia would just leave the two cycling through the same mistakes and feelings of frustration. Though it is left ambiguous, with the closing scene featuring Cynthia back in her Domme persona, there is an element of confidence that these characters have learnt a little more about supporting each other. In Strickland’s world the true emotional violence is not defined as doing something you don’t want to do, but rather feeling trapped and ignored and unloved when doing something you have no interest in; it is about intent more than action. When Evelyn can grow and recognise the pain that she causes and Cynthia can articulate her needs they create a more tender relationship that can include the roles that each are willing to perform for the other, without carrying the emotional pain.

Rushaa Louise Hamid is a writer-for-hire normally located in London, UK. She enjoys politics, the issues of identity, and perfecting her Dalek impression. You can find her @thesecondrussia or more of her writing over at rulohamid.wordpress.com.

‘Salt’: A Refreshing Genderless Lens

This guest post by Cameron Airen appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.

Violent films with a female at their center tend to be viewed differently than violent films with a male lead. When a woman is in this role, it’s controversial. When a man is in the same type of role, it’s a part of who he is as a human being. We’ve become numb to the violence that men engage in onscreen. As a result, we don’t criticize it like we do when a woman is engaging in it. Also, female leads in violent films are usually represented differently than male leads in the same type of film. Because we are more accepting of violent films with male leads than with female leads, she needs to be constructed differently. Usually it’s her sex appeal that makes her more tolerable to conduct violence, fetishizing her in order to justify her acts. Or her sexual power is her weapon and she succeeds at getting what she wants with it. Or, she’s guided by a male partner almost the entire way through who seems to somehow “know the way” and it’s often the “right way.” She wouldn’t succeed without him. Somehow, we are unable to see her as an independent, powerful being just by her human self-without a man, without needing to be sexy, without needing to give sex in order to have more power.

The film Salt (2010) takes a different approach.

In many ways, Salt is the action film that feminists have dreamed of. Its female lead character, played by Angelina Jolie, does not depend on her being female. What Salt does well is eliminate gender from its focus. Most action films with a female lead are clearly marked by gender. Instead of her character being motivated by experiences that have happened to her because she’s a woman (like in Thelma and Louise or Kill Bill), she’s driven by non-gendered circumstances. In fact, Salt is never once referred to as being a woman/female in the film. She is only referred to as “Salt” or a spy. Whereas, in other films like Kill Bill, she is known as The Bride and is committed to take revenge based on what happened with her wedding and an unborn child. The Bride’s character, experiences, and revenge is all about gender. Even though the lead in Salt was originally meant for Tom Cruise and the film was slightly changed for a female, Salt isn’t characterized by gender. Salt crosses all kinds of gender lines, including going as a “male” disguise, towards the end of the film, to kill the president of the United States. Since Salt’s character isn’t motivated or marked by gender in a way that fuels the story, any gender could easily play her.

Despite its plot holes, Salt is a solid action film. Evelyn Salt is a CIA officer accused of being a Russian spy. One of the most interesting points of the film is how ambiguous her character is. We don’t know whose side she’s on and whether we should root for her or not. While the plot is confusing, it’s refreshing to have a female action lead whose intentions are ambiguous, as we are starting to see onscreen more today.

Salt has some of the best violent scenes seen in an action film. After Salt has been accused of being a Russian spy, she tries to escape the CIA building. Her colleagues try to trap her but she makes a bomb to blow down the doors and runs away. Have we ever seen a woman make a bomb in a film before? This might be a first for women in film and it’s no surprise that Jolie is the one to instigate it. Not only is Salt’s action unrestricted by a female lead but Jolie performed her own stunts.

After Salt escapes and scales a tall apartment building, she gets cornered by the CIA and jumps off of an overpass onto a moving semi truck driving on the highway. The film’s already frenetic pace ratchets up another notch and actually gets even better when Salt meets up with Orlov, the Russian man who trained her. At a barge, Orlov has her husband killed right in front of her eyes by her Russian comrades. Salt has to hide her tears and emotions so that her comrades don’t suspect her as being a traitor. Later, when alone with Orlov, she makes no hesitation in killing him with a broken liquor bottle, then goes on to wipe out the rest of the men on crew with a machine gun and hand grenades. Salt doesn’t stop there. She lets herself get arrested after appearing to kill the Russian president. Handcuffed in the back of a police car, she knocks out the officers next to her, then tasers the driver and tries to steer the car. At this point, we have no idea why Salt let herself get caught, but the action scenes keep you at the edge of your seat.

One of the best scenes in Salt is after Salt is placed in handcuffs once again, and is being escorted out of the White House up a flight of stairs. Winter, her colleague who betrayed her and orchestrated her husband’s kidnapping, is waiting for her at the top of the stairs with a pair of scissors in hand. When she approaches him, Salt manages to wrap her handcuffs around Winter’s neck as her body jumps over the stair railing and chokes him to death. The way she fearlessly snatches Winter’s neck with her chain and lets her body dangle from the top of a staircase with her face bloody from fighting Winter is a creative and incredible scene that I’ve never seen in a film before.

One of the more interesting parts that the film lacks is a sex scene. We don’t once see Jolie in her underwear or naked. In fact, she is fully clothed the entire time except in the very beginning scene when she’s being tortured in a non-sexual way. As much as I wanted to see a sex scene with Jolie, I was happy that the film didn’t actually have one. When do we ever not see a hot, steamy scene with the beautiful and sexy, Jolie? This film somehow got away with it and it’s a breath of fresh air. It wasn’t her sexuality that saved her. Typically, a woman is identified by her “sex,” but in Salt, she is simply a human being. Sexual or not, we don’t know. But, her “sex/gender” makes no difference and is not a signifying factor of her character or action. We rarely see a woman kick ass without sexualizing her in some way. It’s great when women can be sexual beings and kick ass onscreen, but they tend to be oversexualized in a way that guides their character.

My biggest criticism with Salt is that it lacks diversity. Even though there is a female lead and a main Black male character (who doesn’t get killed), the rest of the main cast is white and male. There are barely any other women in Salt besides Jolie. Sometimes, we think that diversity is achieved simply by having a female lead even if the rest of the cast is male. But, this is false, and it would have been an even better film if there were more women in it. What Salt succeeds in is by having a mostly genderless lens in terms of the main character, and not defining her by sex. Salt is a refreshing action film with a female lead who has some serious violent scenes that will make one hunger for more.

Cameron Airen is a queer feminist with a M.A. in Anthropology and Social Change. When she’s not getting her fix from watching women in violent action films, Cameron is working on creating a (mostly) vegan cookbook. She resides in Berkeley, Calif. You can follow her on Twitter @cameronairen.

‘Hard Candy’: The Razor Blade Hidden in an Apple-Cheeked Confection

Hogtying and drugging Jeff is only the tip of Hayley’s sadistic iceberg: over the course of the next several hours, she subjects him to a series of tortures more at home in Guantanamo Bay than a sleepy suburban neighborhood, including spraying his screaming mouth with chemicals, temporarily suffocating him with cellophane, and attacking him with a taser in the shower.

This guest post by Emma Kat Richardson appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.

Even around Halloween time, Hollywood doesn’t hand out movies like Hard Candy all that often. It’s a difficult morsel to swallow, and, despite the presence of adorably teenaged Ellen Page peering meekly from the cast list, not the slightest bit sugary – indeed, much of the exposition is skin-crawling enough to make the hardiest of trick-or-treaters lose their appetites. And yet, beneath its decidedly gruff exterior (understatement of the year, perhaps?) lies the timeless tale of a boy and a girl. But in this case, he’s a man merely masquerading as a responsible adult, and she’s a girl wearing the wiles of a woman in order to achieve a purpose much more sinister than the initial set up would lead one to believe.

Just five minutes into the film, and you’d think it was easy to ascertain the obvious villain: Patrick Wilson, playing a 30-something photographer named Jeff, seduces Page’s 14-year-old Hayley Stark through an online chat window, with the practiced precision of a well-equipped Internet predator. The two agree to meet at a coffee shop, where awkward flirtations quickly lead them back to Jeff’s house. Feeling sick to your stomach yet? You should be, but not because Hayley is dangling on the precipice of statistical tragedy. No, she’s far from being some helpless victim, as Jeff quickly learns when he finds himself waking up in a state of confusion, limbs bound to an office chair as Hayley gleefully rummages through his drawers and cabinets. “You know how they tell us pretty young things not to drink anything we haven’t mixed ourselves? That’s good advice…. for anyone.” Touche. Seems like the only thing more humiliating that being exposed as a pedophile is to be outwitted by the expected target of one’s predatory efforts. Hogtying and drugging Jeff is only the tip of Hayley’s sadistic iceberg: over the course of the next several hours, she subjects him to a series of tortures more at home in Guantanamo Bay than a sleepy suburban neighborhood, including spraying his screaming mouth with chemicals, temporarily suffocating him with cellophane, and attacking him with a taser in the shower.

May December, or murder and dismember?

But Hayley’s plan isn’t merely to make Jeff suffer the consequences of what he might have intended for her. She’s on a mission to find out what happened to Donna Mauer, a local teenager who’s gone missing. Did Jeff have something to do with it? He lives in a house decorated with near-naked pictures pubescent models; he brought Hayley back home and let her drink copious amounts of alcohol while stripping. Most tellingly of all, he has a picture of Donna locked away in a hidden safe, beneath a decorative living room rock garden. Poor Donna likely fell into a trap from which very few victims of sexual violence manage to emerge unscathed, and Hayley is determined to see that justice is served, no matter what lengths she’s forced to go to in Jeff’s kidnapping and torture.

And speaking of torture, do we need to get into detail about the castration scene? Yup, Hayley is so committed to defanging this predator (to use a rather pointed analogy) that she rigs up a makeshift operating table, lashes an unconscious Jeff down to it, and proceeds to undergo such a wicked game of psychological fuckery, it’s hard to know who to keep rooting for. The scene itself is exquisitely shot – all agonizing closeups and angles designed to elicit maximum proxy discomfort. The dialogue exchanged between the two principle actors is a mastery in cat and mouse tension; best of all is when Hayley draws a brilliant comparison between Jeff’s forthcoming mutilation and the anguish suffered by the victims of rape and abuse on a daily basis. Do your friends know? Do your neighbors know? Who can tell just by looking at you that you’ve been subjected to the most vile sort of personal attack?

Should have just signed up for Ashley Madison.

It’s perhaps this sentiment that best exemplifies what sets Hayley’s violent tactics apart from the intent of her would-be attacker. While it’s safe to say her methods are probably too extreme for the To Catch a Predator crowd, her purpose is – on paper, at least – a noble one. You get the sense that she’s adequately prepared for taking down every neighborhood scumbag that slimes his way into her chatroom; there’s more than subtle indication that she’s done all of this before. For a kid not even in high school yet, she sure knows her way around a taser. It’s disturbing, but in a way that renders the viewer in a challenging state of narrative confusion. Indeed, one of very best elements to Hard Candy is that the primary action sequences make it almost impossible to sympathize with one protagonist over another. Even the most strident of feminists probably can’t help but shudder at Jeff’s predicament – sure, he seems to be a major sleeze-ball, but does Hayley really have to go to these lengths just to make him pay for crimes she can’t confirm that he committed?

In the end, one is forced to conclude that Hard Candy is no easy cinematic meal to digest. It’s a gripping, challenging, often-exceedingly painful film to take in. But like Hayley herself, the movie’s genius lies in its ability to construct so much thought-provoking narrative with so little in the way of material tools. Shot for less than a million dollars, the sets are simple, the cast consists mainly of just Page and Wilson (Sandra Oh, who gets top billing alongside the two principle actors, appears in just one fleeting scene). It’s rare to see a story accomplish such a lasting impression with a decidedly minimalist approach. Page’s performance is a hurricane of emotions; she’s the perfect foil to Wilson’s doughy and desperate Jeff, who probably wished he’d kept his freaky tendencies limited to just porn. If Hayley Stark is a prime example of a violent woman, than she represents the very strongest in lashing out to evade victimhood. She is the anger that lives inside us all when we are harmed or abused. As she declares to a defeated Jeff in the film’s climactic scene: “I am every little girl you ever watched, touched, hurt, screwed, killed.”

Emma Kat Richardson is a Detroit native and freelance writer living in Austin, Texas. Her work has appeared in xoJane.com, Bitch, Alternative Press, LaughSpin.com, Real Detroit Weekly, 944, and Bust.com. She’s enough of a comedy nerd and cat lady to have named her Maine Coon Michael Ian Cat. Follow her on twitter: @emmakat.