Bitch Flicks – Page 7

‘Grey’s Anatomy’: Dr. Arizona Robbins, PTSD, and the Exploitation of Trauma for Shock Value

Dr. Arizona Robbins’ (Jessica Capshaw) leg injury, amputation, and subsequent PTSD in seasons 9 and 10 of ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ was depicted for shock value and entertainment. As a result, the narrative surrounding Arizona’s recovery is insufficient and flawed, ignoring the extent of the real mental health challenges she faces, ultimately blaming Arizona for her inability to completely recover mentally and emotionally from the trauma she experiences.

This guest post written by Madison Zehmer appears as part of our theme week on Unpopular Opinions.

[Trigger warning: discussion of rape, trauma, and PTSD]

Shonda Rhimes, the creator of Grey’s Anatomy, Scandal, and How to Get Away with Murder, is known for putting her characters in unpredictable, shocking, and even tragic situations. Over the course of Grey’s Anatomy’s 13 seasons, the surgeons of Grey-Sloan Memorial Hospital have faced a bomb explosion, a shooting, a plane crash, and multiple car crashes. Major characters, including Derek Shepherd, Mark Sloan, George O’Malley, and Lexie Grey, have been killed, and others have experienced serious physical and mental health problems as a result of the tragedies they have endured.

Because Rhimes and the writers of Grey’s Anatomy choose to put their characters in situations that in real life would yield enormous consequences, the writers arguably have a responsibility to portray the character’s responses to these events as realistically and honestly as possible. The writers also have to be careful not to exploit serious issues, such as posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD), for the sole purpose of entertainment. Dr. Arizona Robbins’ (Jessica Capshaw) leg injury, amputation, and subsequent PTSD in seasons 9 and 10 of Grey’s Anatomy was depicted for shock value and entertainment. As a result, the narrative surrounding Arizona’s recovery is insufficient and flawed, ignoring the extent of the real mental health challenges she faces, ultimately blaming Arizona for her inability to completely recover mentally and emotionally from the trauma she experiences.

The plane crash at the end of season 8 of Grey’s Anatomy leaves two surgeons dead and the other four wounded. Arizona, a bubbly, lesbian, pediatric surgeon, suffers a serious injury to her left thigh. When the surviving surgeons are rescued after 4 days in the woods, the doctors that treat the survivors in the immediate aftermath recommend that Arizona undergo an amputation of the majority of her left leg. She refuses and goes back to Seattle, where her wife, orthopedic surgeon Dr. Callie Torres (Sara Ramirez), attempts to treat the infection in the wound without resorting to amputation. When Arizona began to go into septic shock while Callie is operating on Dr. Derek Shepherd’s injured hand, Callie reluctantly gives Dr. Alex Karev permission to amputate Arizona’s leg, knowing that Arizona would die without the procedure.

Over the course of a couple of weeks, Arizona’s life changes dramatically. Before the plane accident, she is an able-bodied, characteristically joyful mom and surgeon in a relatively happy marriage. The wreck, serious infection, and amputation greatly restrict her ability to function the way she had before the accident; the aspects of her life that she deems to be most important no longer seem to be guaranteed. Arizona begins to question whether she will be able to perform surgeries and adequately take care of her child in the future. As she is extremely angry at Callie because she believes Callie amputated her leg, she resists her wife’s efforts to help her and to motivate her.

In the wake of the accident, Arizona develops a flat affect and stops communicating with her friends and her wife. This is especially striking, because prior to the accident she was the token “happy” character on Grey’s Anatomy, known for her enthusiasm and cheer in less than ideal situations. In addition to a blunted affect, Arizona experiences multiple symptoms of PTSD after the accident, including outbursts of anger, nightmares, panic attacks, and impulsive behavior.

Because of the brain’s plasticity, traumatic events often cause connections in the brain to “rewire,” which can cause the dysregulation of Cortisol (often called the “stress hormone”) and other hormones and neurotransmitters and the reduction of hippocampal volume, among other neurological changes. PTSD is a mental disorder that is helped by medical treatment (medication, counselling, therapy), just like other disorders or illnesses.

Although Arizona clearly suffers from many of the symptoms of PTSD, she does not receive any psychiatric treatment or therapy. Since her wife and the majority of her friends are medical doctors, it is surprising that they do not suggest that she pursue treatment and that none of the plane crash survivors receive therapy. As Grey’s Anatomy has set a precedent of characters going to therapy (Meredith in season 3, Owen and Cristina in season 6), it is concerning that the writers chose to ignore that aspect of Arizona’s (and Cristina’s, Meredith’s, and Derek’s) recovery.

Additionally, Callie’s and Arizona’s exchange in the first episode of season 9 is unsettling, demonstrating the attitude towards Arizona’s mental health that the show seems to take. Callie walks into their bedroom to find Arizona lying in a hospital bed, faced away from the door. Callie yells at Arizona to, “Get the hell out of bed and snap out of this!” Arizona turns to face Callie and replies as she pulls back a blanket to reveal her amputated leg, “Snap out of this?” Although it’s not inherently problematic for the series to show this exchange, it’s troublesome that they chose to perpetuate the idea that Arizona should have just “gotten over” her trauma without therapy. It’s also problematic that the writers used this scene to reveal the fact that Arizona had lost her leg, suggesting that the choice to put her character through this ordeal was for shock value.

In season 4, episode 7 of the Grey’s Anatomy spinoff Private Practice, Dr. Charlotte King is raped in her office by a patient. Although there are significant problems with this storyline (the rapist is a mentally unstable man who is a stranger to Charlotte, which perpetuates false stereotypes about rape and stigma surrounding mental illness), the Private Practice writers do a significantly better job in regards to the careful depiction of PTSD. KaDee Strickland, the actress who played Charlotte, Rhimes, and the writers consulted the Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network (RAINN) to realistically depict the aftermath of Charlotte’s rape with care and sensitivity. Strickland agreed to the storyline only after being assured that the aftermath would be handled realistically and the trauma would not be forgotten in a couple of episodes. The impact of the trauma on Charlotte is clear and visible, if not always explicitly stated, for the rest of the show’s duration. In addition, Private Practice and RAINN released a PSA for rape survivors. Charlotte’s recovery is depicted with care and discernment, demonstrating that the writers are aware of the responsibility they have to ensure that the storyline does not exploit trauma for shock value or for entertainment.

If the Grey’s Anatomy writers had treated Arizona’s storyline in seasons 9 and 10 with the same sense of sensitivity and responsibility in approaching PTSD that the Private Practice writers treated Charlotte’s storyline, they would have been able to portray a significant issue often overlooked in media in a realistic and respectable way. However, Arizona’s amputation seems to serve as a plot device to create shock and tension in Callie’s and Arizona’s relationship.

Before the accident, Arizona already has a difficult time expressing her emotions. Her PTSD and resentment for Callie in the wake of the accident amplifies her tendency to keep her problems to herself. After she suffers from a miscarriage (only shown in flashback scenes) that also seems to exploit Arizona’s grief and feeling of a loss of control for shock value, Arizona ultimately ends up cheating on Callie with a visiting surgeon in the season finale of season 9.

It’s wrong for Arizona to cheat on Callie. However, the way Arizona is depicted in an extremely negative light for the beginning of season 10 paints Arizona as some sort of cold-hearted villain and Callie as the helpless victim. This is a gross over-simplification of the complicated problems in their relationship and the factors leading up to the infidelity, including Arizona’s amputation and PTSD (of which impulsive behavior is a symptom), Callie’s repeated insistence that Arizona “get over” the accident. Arizona and Callie end up getting back together for a short time and going to couple’s therapy (which – again – highlights that Arizona did not receive therapy in the wake of the plane crash) before ultimately deciding to divorce. Now in season 13, Arizona’s personality is very similar to her personality before the crash. Although this is probably ideal for many fans, the show now tends to overlook the fact that Arizona has a disability, erasing part of her identity, only bringing it up back again when it can add to the drama of the show.

The depiction of trauma in media can be very powerful and informative when done correctly. However, when trauma is exploited to shock the audience and create drama, the film or television series often ends up perpetuating dangerous ideas surrounding trauma. Arizona’s recovery from an amputation in the wake of a plane crash could have depicted PTSD honestly and explored issues people with disabilities face, but the storyline mostly just serves to advance the drama that Grey’s Anatomy is known for.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Interracial Relationships on Grey’s Anatomy

A Love Letter to Dr. Callie Torres on Grey’s Anatomy

Being the Sun: Women and Power in Grey’s Anatomy Season 11

Madison Zehmer is a first-year student at Wake Forest University, where she studies psychology on the pre-med track. She enjoys writing in her spare time. You can find her at Twitter @maddieemz, where she mostly talks about politics and her love for cats.

Obsessed with Boyhood: The Latent Misogyny Running Rampant in Richard Linklater’s Films

On the surface, a lot of his female characters reflect strong ideals. … But take a deeper look and Linklater’s female characters tell another story: one of a creator deeply obsessed with ignorant male stereotypes and the women that encourage them. … Looking back through his films, they all contain this running theme of underdeveloped man-children who are routinely validated in their anti-woman approach.

This guest post written by Maya Bastian appears as part of our theme week on Unpopular Opinions.

Disappointed. That would be the first way to describe how I felt after walking out of Richard Linklater’s latest release Everybody Wants Some!!, 20 minutes into the film. Disgusted. That was my second response. These feelings quickly turned to outrage as I realized that I had just played witness to the reversion of cultural ideals that has overtaken our society as of late.

Hailed as “achingly perceptive” by Variety and “utopian” by The New York Times, Linklater himself refers to the film as a “spiritual sequel” to his earlier nostalgia-laden hit Dazed and Confused. In reality, it’s an intensely sophomoric and outdated romp through the lives of five college jocks who bandy around, seducing girls, and partying until they drop. The male protagonists refer to women as “bitches” when they get rejected and intelligent women are thought of as “dykes.” Set in 1980s Texas, it’s a throwback to Porky’s–era films, where the women are idly brutalized and consent is disregarded several times throughout the course of the movie.

What is astounding is that the glaring misogyny that runs rampant throughout is completely brushed aside by just about every critic. The Guardian gave it a rave review, saying, “The attitudes towards women are unenlightened but the freshman of Linklater’s joyful 80’s campus movie reveal occasional complexity.” RogerEbert.com called it a “gentle film” but I would argue the opposite. There is nothing gentle about flouting consent and flaunting camera angles that are meant to denigrate the female form.

The disappointing part is that I’ve been a fan of Linklater’s films for some time, excited by his subversion of narrative techniques and his bold commitment to strong characters that buck the status quo. Waking Life was startlingly moving and profound. Tape was cinematic genius in its execution.

On the surface, a lot of his female characters reflect strong ideals. Sooze (Amie Carey) in Suburbia is a hardcore third-waver and lashes out “angrily” about smashing the patriarchy. The lead female character Amy (Uma Thurman) in Tape presents as a strong woman and an accomplished lawyer. Celine (Julie Delpy) in Before Sunrise and the rest of the Before Trilogy, is intellectual, graceful, and human. Sure, they all seem like feminist role models. But take a deeper look and Linklater’s female characters tell another story: one of a creator deeply obsessed with ignorant male stereotypes and the women that encourage them.

After viewing Everybody Wants Some!!, I had to reassess my devotion to Linklater. It led me to review his earlier titles, only to realize that he is suffering from the classic virgin/whore rhetoric. Every one of his narratives are about male characters running rampant over women’s rights.

Looking back through his films, they all contain this running theme of underdeveloped man-children who are routinely validated in their anti-woman approach. These characters often appear fun and exciting. No one really challenges them on their behavior, most simply laugh it off. A glaring example is Steve Zahn’s character in Suburbia, aptly named Buff. He primarily exists to reflect an attitude that glorifies acting poorly, hurting others, and treating women as objects. Yet no one ever seriously addresses his behavior except for Sooze, the token feminist, who gets quickly shot down by her peers.

While he does include the occasional strong female voice, Linklater tends to tokenize these women. They are often one-note characters who are stereotypes of themselves. Even Celine in the Before Sunrise series falls victim to this pattern. Though she starts off as a thinking, feeling woman with complexity in Before Sunrise, by the end of the series, she has devolved into a bitter, nitpicky wife, treading alongside all of the female “married woman” stereotypes that we fight so hard to deflect and dismantle. In Before Midnight, her character presents as “flat” and one-dimensional, with Linklater adhering to the school of thought that strong, intelligent women are incapable of compromise and empathy.

Linklater marginalizes his female characters in almost every movie that he has made. Tape, while brilliant in its technical prowess, reduces the only female character (Uma Thurman), as an object to be fought over. Dazed and Confused is another glaring instance of hyper-sexualization, where practically every woman lacks definition. The only substantial female character is the nerdy redhead Cynthia (Marissa Ribisi), who ends up being objectified by the much older Wooderson (Matthew McConaughey) in what is considered one of THE classic lines of the film.

As Linklater’s oeuvre evolves, the sidelining of his female characters increases. In School of Rock, the only two adult female characters (Sarah Silverman and Joan Cusack) are both uptight, angry, and only serve as foils to guitarist Dewey Finn’s (Jack Black) brilliant plans. Even in the much lauded Boyhood, we see signs of the director’s tendency to tokenize women. In Linklater’s world, we can only ever be seen on one side of the virgin/whore rhetoric. Either he focuses his camera on our bodies and our loose morals or he martyrs us, as is the case with the long-suffering single mother (Patricia Arquette) in Boyhood. While it’s worth mentioning that Patricia Arquette’s performance is brilliant, it still serves as further proof that Linklater perpetuates male-centric stories where women exist as an afterthought, only putting them front and center when they can fulfill society’s categorization of women into tiny, little boxes.

Which brings us back to his latest effort. Shockingly produced by a woman, Megan Ellison of Zero Dark Thirty fame, Everybody Wants Some!! continues to receive rave reviews. Apparently bro culture has reached its cultural apotheosis.

Salon writer and self-proclaimed feminist, Joanna Novak, even professed that she didn’t see anything wrong with the throwback and glorification of bro culture, though she jokes that looking past the “casual sexism” and enjoying the “bro-centric ideology” might make her a “bad feminist.” But here’s the thing. The longer we as a society continue to glorify boys acting badly, laugh at a bunch of jocks using women and lying to get them into bed, jeer along with them at so called “imperfect” bodies, the longer rape culture will exist and the objectification of women will reign supreme. Why is it so hard to convict a rapist? Perhaps it’s because the media sees handsome, swagger-ful boys as cute and cheeky as opposed to predatory. Perpetuating this social construct of masculinity in a time when we need desperately to dissect it and deflect it instead, is a dangerous path.

While the reviews of this pointless, nostalgia-saturated narrative are shocking, the response isn’t surprising. The current swath of the films’ reviewers are primarily men who seem to be joyfully reliving their youth.

One shining light in this otherwise woeful collection of reviews is Jill Richard’s article in the Los Angeles Review of Books. She delineates that as a culture, we are past the age of Animal House style fraternity. Richard writes:

“If one is a bro, the bro squad looks like a great time. But I suppose I feel like that squad wouldn’t have me as a member, or would rape me, and that makes all the difference. […] …There is no non-sinister defense for the ‘American male birthright’ as a conceptual category.”

On a larger scale, Linklater has not just disappointed me as a filmmaker, but as an artist. We have reached an apex in our society, where art must be a voice for the under-represented. Artists have an obligation to create pieces that speak to the condition of our culture and of the world. The time to laud ego-centric films that glorify the glory days of its maker have passed. We no longer need to see work that makes us laugh but that does not make us think.

During the release of Boyhood, one Los Angeles Times critic refused to pander to the flow of warm reviews. While just about everyone was hailing the film as genius, Kenneth Turan took a solitary stance against the film, amid consternation from fellow critics. What he said rings profoundly true in our age of hyperbole and over-hyped cinema. While he did not end up reviewing the film, he did write an incredibly astute article on the nature of genius and the way our society creates cultural impunity by lauding films that don’t deserve it. Turan writes:

“…The fuss about ‘Boyhood’ emphasized to me how much we live in a culture of hyperbole, how much we yearn to anoint films and call them masterpieces, perhaps to make our own critical lives feel more significant because it allows us to lay claim to having experienced something grand and meaningful.”

As Indiewire‘s Sam Adams writes in response to Turan’s perspective, asserting the need for diverse opinions in film criticism:

“Masterpieces, however, are not made so by unanimous praise, but by careful scrutiny. Criticisms, and the extent to which they illuminate the fascinating imperfections beneath those ‘masterpieces’ surfaces, only make them stronger.”

Turan’s and Adams’ points ring true to many socially conscious ears. Richard Linklater is no longer a genius in my eyes, but simply a talented filmmaker who has achieved success by pandering to societal norms, sadly failing to use his indefatigable intelligence to see through them.

Disappointing at best, destructive and debilitating at worst.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

The Flattening of Celine: How Before Midnight Reduces a Feminist Icon

The One Night Stand That Wasn’t: Before Sunrise and Before Sunset‘s Jesse and Celine

Boyhood (Featuring Girlhood)

The Bad Mamas of Contemporary Cinema

Maya Bastian is a writer and award-winning filmmaker who focuses on socio-political issues. She sits on the board of Breakthroughs Film Festival, a short film fest championing new generation female filmmakers. Follow her on social media @mayabasti or check out her website for more info: www.mayabastian.com.

Manic Pixie Dream Girls Aren’t Problematic for the Reasons You Think

If Claire (‘Elizabethtown’), Sam (‘Garden State’), or Ramona (‘Scott Pilgrim vs. the World’) were paired with a male lead who saw them as full people rather than objects to derive inspiration from (and fuck), perhaps the MPDG label never would’ve happened. … Manic Pixie Dream Girls aren’t problematic because they’re quirky and girly; that audiences only see them as such is often indicative of shitty male leads who are intent on making women fit into their fantasies.

This guest post written by Ellie Carpenter appears as part of our theme week on Unpopular Opinions.

When Nathan Rabin wrote at The A.V. Club about Elizabethtown in 2007, he likely didn’t anticipate that four of the review’s 799 words would be the subject of apology seven years later. The disparaging label given to Kirsten Dunst’s character Claire and Natalie Portman’s Sam in Garden State — Manic Pixie Dream Girl — referred to the emerging trend of women characters in film who exist “solely […] to teach broodingly soulful young men to embrace life and its infinite mysteries and adventures.” His succinct identification of the trope didn’t inspire audiences to be critical so much as it inspired imitation.

After films such as Garden State and Elizabethtown, Manic Pixie Dream Girls (MPDGs) seemed ubiquitous. Free-spiritedness and quirky girlish charm manifested repeatedly on-screen throughout the mid-2000s and 2010s. In this time, the MPDG label was applied liberally to nearly any female character who might fit in the parameters even tangentially. Mainstream and feminist critics alike used it to indict female characters as poorly-written, misogynist, and shallow, but few questioned whether the supposed failings of the MPDGs may actually be the fault of the male leads in these films.

The criticism most commonly leveraged against MPDGs — and that which Rabin initially referred to — is that their only apparent purpose is being in service towards the male lead. A viewer who can only see this in a character such as Garden State’s Sam, though, has perhaps adopted the shortcomings of the film’s other lead. Out of context, Sam is an imperfect yet realized character. She lies, dances strangely, has epilepsy, and works as a paralegal. Some of these traits may now seem cliché, but they exist as part of Sam’s character whether or not she has an audience.

It is another of her traits, however, which has perhaps invited so much criticism. When his friends propose watching porn and doing coke, Andrew objects and says that Sam has already been corrupted enough. “I’m not innocent,” she responds, but Andrew insists: “Yes, you are. And that’s what I like about you.” He becomes angry until Sam seemingly begins to mock him: “He was protecting me. He likes me. You’re my knight in shining armor!”

Andrew sees only her whimsy, charm, and a host of other obvious projections. That he fetishizes these traits is no fault of her own, and to dismiss her character is to do the same. This pattern, though, is the one established by most of the characters who fell prey to the MPDG label. Much like Sam, Mary Elizabeth Winstead’s Ramona Flowers in Scott Pilgrim vs. the World was maligned as a shallow object of Scott’s fantasies. Overlooked, however, are her bisexual identity, job working for Amazon, and apparent ability to travel through dreams.

If Claire, Sam, or Ramona were paired with a male lead who saw them as full people rather than objects to derive inspiration from (and fuck), perhaps the MPDG label never would’ve happened. It is typical, though, that the women in these films be blamed for the projections and fetishization they are subject to from their male counterparts. This is never illustrated better than in the film that might have ended Manic Pixie Dream Girls once and for all: 500 Days of Summer. Zooey Deschanel’s Summer is the subject of infatuation for Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s Tom, but his objectification is revealed in retrospect after the relationship ends. Her initial appearance as little more than a cliché is the result of his immaturity rather than any character flaw on her part.

Manic Pixie Dream Girls aren’t problematic because they’re quirky and girly; that audiences only see them as such is often indicative of shitty male leads who are intent on making women fit into their fantasies. Perhaps we adopt these tendencies while watching films too, and maybe it is better male characters we should be lobbying for: ones who see women as autonomous beings and treat them as such. Many critics have now recognized the overuse of the MPDG label, but it was the originator of the term who touched on an enduringly problematic part of the trope.

In his 2014 apology, Rabin made clear what should have always been known: the Manic Pixie Dream Girl phrase was intended to identify misogynist trends in film rather than perpetuate them. He also shifted focus to the male characters in these films who had previously managed to largely escape critique. He identifies them as “miserable” and “mopey, sad white men” who rely on the cheeriness of a flighty muse to overcome their ennui.

Examining Manic Pixie Dream Girls reveals a group of characters with diverse interests, ambitions and stories, but unfortunately, that’s where the diversity stops. Rabin merely mentions whiteness as a hallmark of the trope, but it is this trait which is the most troubling. If there is a single attribute that all MPDGs model as an ideal, it is the obligatory whiteness that they all have in common. He specifically names “white men,” but the unanimous whiteness of the women in these films, too, suggests that to be white is a prerequisite for the relationships depicted.

One of the lesser known bearers of the MPDG label, Emily Browning’s character Eve in God Help the Girl, is the subject of Sarah Sahim’s Pitchfork essay The Unbearable Whiteness of Indie. She articulates what persists as a problem in indie film, music, and culture: “White is the norm,” and the “movie serves as a microcosmic view of what is wrought by racial exclusivity.” Indeed, Eve’s character succeeds in rejecting conventions of the MPDG trope by maintaining her autonomy and resisting the objectification of her would-be partner. Like Summer did, however, she also illustrates the presence of a much bigger problem. The casting call indicates producers are “open to Eve’s nationality” yet goes on to restrict it to British, French, or Australian (and there are plenty of people of color in these nations).

An unpopular opinion though it may be, MPDGs are not and have never been a major problem in film — at least not for the reasons typically cited. They sure are a great distraction from other issues, though! Instead of critiquing whether or not our idealized white characters are complex or empowering enough, perhaps we should turn our attention to advocating for the inclusion of more diverse casts and people of color, not to mention LGBTQ people and people with disabilities, in the films we watch. Manic Pixie Dream Girls haven’t been cool since 2012 anyways.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Elizabethtown After the Manic Pixie Dream Girl

Women Empowerment and LGBT Issues in Scott Pilgrim vs. the World

Movie Review: 500 Days of Summer, Take 1

(95) Minutes of Pure Torture: 500 Days of Summer, Take 2

Take Away This Lonely Man: 500 Days of Summer and Musical Storytelling

God Help the Girl: Sunny Glasgow Hosts a Twee Musical

Ellie Carpenter is a writer and graduate student from California currently living in Nashville. After barely surviving two years in Portland, she decided to move to the deep south, but don’t read too far into it. Areas of interest include relationships, feminism, sex work, pop culture, music criticism, and celebrity. Commentary on all of the above can occasionally be found on Twitter @ersatzelevator.

Privilege Undermines Disney’s ‘Gargoyles’ Attempts to Explore Oppression

Yet ‘Gargoyles’ is also a fantastic showcase of what can happen when creators possessing privilege write stories about the oppressed without their input. … ‘Gargoyles,’ with its “protecting a world that hates and fears them and has been fairly successful in enacting their global genocide” premise, seeks to be about marginalized peoples. At the same time, it consistently centers and prioritizes the lives of the privileged over those of the oppressed, and places the burden of obtaining justice on the latter.

This guest post written by Ian Pérez appears as part of our theme week on Unpopular Opinions.

[Trigger Warning: Discussion of allegorical rape]

The Disney animated series Gargoyles, created by Greg Weisman (The Spectacular Spider-Man, Young Justice) is often noted for being progressive in an industry that often was even less so than it is now. Debuting in 1994, it expressed this primarily via its co-protagonist Elisa Maza (Salli Richardson-Whitfield), the Black, Native detective for the NYPD who served as the secret-keeper, partner, best friend, and love interest to gargoyle-out-of-time Goliath (Keith David) decades before Sleepy Hollow raised our hopes and shattered our hearts with Abbie Mills.

Elisa wasn’t just a fantastic character in her own right, although she certainly was that. A large part of what made her special was that she was not dropped into the world of Gargoyles alone and contextless to be an accent in a white narrative. She has a family, whose members all take part in the story — her father, Peter (Michael Horse), who belongs to the Hopi nation and like Elisa works for the NYPD; Diane (Nichelle Nichols), her mother, an academic who we eventually see in Nigeria, connecting with her roots; and siblings Derek (Rocky Carroll), who flies helicopters for the NYPD (being a cop is in the Maza blood) and Beth, off in college. In short, thought was placed into this. While Elisa was not conceptualized with her canonical heritage in mind, once established, the writers did not shy away from it, and it seems on its own like solid evidence that Weisman, to some degree, gets the importance of diversity and inclusivity.

Yet Gargoyles is also a fantastic showcase of what can happen when creators possessing privilege write stories about the oppressed without their input. Weisman and his staff had good intentions, and yet that didn’t stop them from writing “Heritage,” a perennial contender for the award of Most Racist Story That Tried Not to Be Racist (Television). In the episode, Elisa essentially tells the chief of a failing First Nation village, whom she’s only just met, that he’s performing his identity wrong, and is proven correct by the narrative. While that episode is an outlier, it is not alone — despite the show’s attempts to be about oppression and about being the Other, it falls down in multiple and consistent ways featuring more than one episode where the message they wish to send is not the message they are actually sending.

The first of these episodes is “Revelations,” an episode focusing on Matt Bluestone (Tom Wilson), who is Elisa’s partner on the force and a white man. A conspiracy theorist, his private investigation into the Illuminati society leads him to discover that Elisa has been lying to him as part of her attempts to keep the gargoyles’ existence from him. Incensed, he one night insists on driving Elisa’s car (something she normally never allows) and then threatens to send it careening over a cliff with them in it unless she tells him the truth. The gambit works and Elisa not only spills, but actually apologizes for keeping the secret. Matt apologizes for threatening her and the episode acts as if the two offenses were somehow equivalent, and as if both characters are equally worthy of sympathy.

It’s entirely possible Matt’s threat was just a bluff, that Elisa was never really in danger; she takes control before tragedy can strike, so we can’t know. It doesn’t really matter; he threatened her. The way the episode shoves it under the rug indicates that his concerns, priorities, and feelings are more important than Elisa’s. Matt doesn’t need to accept Elisa’s secret-keeping, despite the fact that she has every right to keep secrets from him; Elisa will have to accept that she’s partners with a man who feels entitled to threaten her, and the show won’t even allow her to be uncomfortable or fearful about it. She just has to be the better person and forgive him.

This sort of false equivalency is part of a pattern for Gargoyles. Elisa is just as bad as Matt because she kept a secret. As seen in the episode “Shadows of the Past,” the would-be ally and actual traitor responsible for the death of Goliath’s clan gets to move on to the afterlife because he saved Goliath that one time, minutes after abandoning his own attempts to kill the gargoyle.

In another storyline, a rapist gets to get back together with his ex because he feels really, really bad about raping her. Okay, so it’s not technically rape, although there are certainly enough parallels in “Mark of the Panther” to make the comparison inevitable. The episode focuses on Tea (Roxanne Beckford), a Nigerian villager who breaks up with her boyfriend Fara Maku (Don Reed) because she wishes to start a new life in the capital. Consequently, Fara Maku seeks and finds Anansi (LeVar Burton), the trickster spider god, and implores it to turn him into a were-panther, so that he may then turn her into a were-panther, forcing her to remain and binding her to him. Granted this boon, Fara Maku attacks Tea and marks her, causing her to uncontrollably take feline form during moments of great emotional stress. Furious, frustrated, and ashamed, she becomes a poacher and returns to her village to hunt down panthers, and it is then that she discovers the truth. Upon doing so, Tea lays the blame for everything not on Fara Maku, but on Anansi, and after defeating the trickster god (with the help of the gargoyles and Elisa, who are also in this episode) both were-panthers decide that, as penance for what they’ve done, they should get back together and use their powers to protect the jungle. Note that for Tea, “what they’ve done” is “illegally hunt animals” and “attempt to kill the man who ruined her life in a situation where justice by legal means is impossible” (and all but impossible, had it been an actual rape) while for Fara Maku, it’s “violate his ex in a way that prevents her from having the life she wanted so that she would stay with him.” The show insists that these are equivalent. The show is wrong.

One could, if one wanted to, surmise that Gargoyles — in presenting Matt Bluestone and Fara Maku’s actions as the result of frustration and ignorance rather than malice and entitlement — is attempting to express that things are not always simple and that good people can do harm. If that is the case, it misses the mark entirely. What it does instead is normalize the male characters’ entitlement, obfuscate the misogyny behind it, and then reward the characters with what they wanted in the first place. In the face of injustice, women’s — Black women’s, at that — only recourse is to forgive and be okay with things because, hey, at least the men feel bad about what they’ve done. Their lives, safety, and comfort are secondary.

Gargoyles, with its “protecting a world that hates and fears them and has been fairly successful in enacting their global genocide” premise, seeks to be about marginalized peoples. At the same time, it consistently centers and prioritizes the lives of the privileged over those of the oppressed, and places the burden of obtaining justice on the latter. It is on Elisa to de-escalate the situation by giving Matt what he wants. It is on Tea to get used to circumstances which she never asked for, and to be okay with living the life Fara Maku wanted for her. More generally, it is on the gargoyles to continuously be the better species, until humanity decides that it is willing to treat them like people.

Perhaps no one exemplifies how the writers reward privilege better than David Xanatos (Jonathan Frakes). An Unscrupulous Billionaire™, he purchases the castle the gargoyles lived on and protected and breaks the spell that has kept them frozen in stone for a thousand years. He acts as their benefactor, but soon enough it becomes clear that his motives are not altruistic. What he actually wants is to have superhuman servants, and he’s willing to lie and manipulate the gargoyles in order to keep them under his thumb, or kill them if he cannot. Thanks to Elisa, Goliath and clan see the truth about who Xanatos is and leave him behind, although the plutocrat will remain one of their two core enemies, enacting multiple plots against them and Elisa — even hiring her brother Derek as his bodyguard so that he can then “accidentally” and permanently mutate him into a winged cat creature. (Derek, too, is forced to accept this turn of events.)

Eventually, though, Xanatos’ attitude towards the gargoyles softens, most notably after they help him save Manhattan from a spell that turned every person in it to stone — a spell whose execution he facilitated, if accidentally — and then even more so after the gargoyles prevent his son from being taken by the Faerie King Oberon, after which Xanatos considers himself to be in the gargoyles’ debt. Not long after, after the gargoyles’ second home is destroyed by gargoyle hunters, Xanatos invites his former enemies to return to their first one, in the process getting the super-human guardians he always wanted. He’s still the same bastard he always was; he’s just now the gargoyles’ bastard. (He is a fan favorite. He used to be one of mine.)

With the proper context, this wouldn’t necessarily be a problem: a world in which the people with the most privilege are the ones who win most often, and where the underprivileged must often make moral compromises in order to survive is, disappointingly, an accurate representation of the one we actually live in. However, the show’s worldview is incomplete and one-sided. It delegitimizes anger as a response to injustice — the only gargoyle who is consistently angry at human’s genocidal instincts and consistently questions gargoyles’ protective instincts is the villain, Demona (Marina Sirtis), and initially the series’ only female gargoyle. The series argues that marginalized peoples will always be alright, in the end, eliminating the need for reparations or actual change: Matt is the perfect partner after learning the secret; Derek will eventually find a measure of contentedness, as will the gargoyles; we have no idea what happens to Tea, but she is presumably not again being abused by her former attacker. This is not actually the case in real life: being the better people and turning the other cheek has not, traditionally, been a recipe for large-scale social change. The show might have understood this, with more women and people of color behind the scenes.

I first began watching Gargoyles during college, long after the series had ended and I’d stopped being its target audience. It is in many ways my Buffy the Vampire Slayer, catching my attention with its character relationships and cleverness and what was then an attractive version of social consciousness. Like with Buffy, it took time for its limits to become apparent. My love for the series has survived a thorough examination of its flaws, although now it becomes impossible to praise it as I may have once done. Elisa is still fantastic, sure, and I love her to pieces; but the series is now also largely a reminder of how little things have changed since 1994 and how good intentions aren’t enough.

Years after its cancellation, Gargoyles got resurrected in comic book form in 2006, continuing Goliath and his clan’s adventures under the hand of their creator. It is in some ways an improvement, reflecting an increased understanding of the importance of diversity in world-building. In other ways, however, it is still problematic in the same places. Its first original story has Xanatos invite the gargoyles to a Halloween party at his castle, ostensibly as a way for the gargoyles to befriend the New York City elite in a safe environment at a time when anti-gargoyle sentiment has spiked. The gargoyles, still acclimatizing to their new situation, are nothing less than over the moon about this. Elisa, who has been invited to the party independently from the gargoyles, also attends, in costume and with a date. If she has reservations about attending a party hosted by the person who destroyed his brother’s life, and who has neither apologized or attempted to mitigate the harm he has caused, they remain unsaid. It, too, shall pass.

Ian Pérez is a Puerto Rico-based translator, editor, and writer currently working on doing at least one of those professionally. He thinks a lot about Gargoyles and writes about it at Monsters of New York and about other things, which he writes about at Chasing Sheep. He is also @DoKnowButchie on Twitter.

Catherine Tramell in ‘Basic Instinct’ Is a Subversive Anti-Hero

The notion of Catherine as a subversive anti-hero develops when you view the film not as a story about the supposed protagonist Detective Nick Curran but as Catherine’s journey from mind games to almost domestic bliss but always returning to her basic instincts which threatens the Hollywood happy ending of established heteronormativity.

This guest post written by Alexandra West appears as part of our theme week on Unpopular Opinions.

What happens when we love something problematic? What happens when in the middle of something problematic there’s something unique, interesting, and incredibly refreshing? How do we as audience members look for the potentially progressive nuggets that drive a filmic narrative forward in new and interesting ways while also understanding that nugget can come wrapped in a basket of deplorable politics? One such case worthy of examination is Catherine Tramell (Sharon Stone) as a progressive anti-hero in Paul Verhoeven’s blockbuster erotic thriller Basic Instinct (1992). The notion of Catherine as a subversive anti-hero develops when you view the film not as a story about the supposed protagonist Detective Nick Curran (Michael Douglas) but as Catherine’s journey from mind games to almost domestic bliss but always returning to her basic instincts which threatens the Hollywood happy ending of established heteronormativity.

Set in San Francisco, notably one of the most queer-positive cities in North America, Basic Instinct centers on the murders of men possibly committed by Catherine, a beautiful, wealthy, murder mystery author with a degree in psychology. The murders all mirror crime scenes directly from her books and homicide detective Nick Curran becomes entangled in the crimes and obsessed with Catherine. Nick can’t decide if Catherine is behind the murders or if he’s in love with her or both.

Throughout the film, Catherine’s bisexuality is at the forefront of her character which marks her as transgressive to the hetro-male oriented police force while the other female characters in the film are also implied or explicitly coded as bisexual or lesbian. Any subtly or nuance in regards to the queer experience in a mainstream blockbuster is wiped away in favor of brash eroticism and the ultimate objectives of Nick who imposes his heteronormativity on his relationships, particularly with Catherine. Nick’s hope is that he’ll be enough for Catherine to settle down for. Catherine is framed in contradistinction to Nick’s almost girlfriend Beth (Jeanne Tripplehorn) a police therapist who plays the typical “good girl” with a maybe sinister past. Nick (and the film) can’t help but conflate both Catherine and Beth in his mind through the lens of the virgin or the whore. Ultimately, Nick’s desire to render Catherine as his own private virgin drives the film towards a mainstream conclusion.

But what of Catherine, the object and prize of the film? Through all the gross biphobia, homophobia, and misogyny of Basic Instinct, Catherine remains an enigma. Her role in the film as foil to Nick’s heteronormative dream is what’s most subversive about her as a character. Her alluring presence confounds those around her; her placement in the film is a clear nod to the femme fatale role, but Catherine occupies the role of narrative driver. The ultimate satisfaction of Basic Instinct in subsequent viewings stems from watching her manipulate the narrative and those around her, watching protagonist Nick succumb to her charms and power. Catherine continually and enjoyably plays with Nick prodding him towards his reckless ways of drinking, drugging, and indiscriminate sex. However, instead of attempting to create husband material out of Nick, Catherine utilizes him for her own purposes of her new book. Her means to an end finishes with her book, her creation, her narrative – not wedded bliss. Catherine’s role as an author is posited by the film as a potential red herring when in fact it actually marks her as the maker of meaning, conducting research through her own means.

It is her manipulation which allows Nick to reflect, grow and change throughout the film for better and for worse allowing him to be the hero he thinks he is. Nick completes the narrative she constructs for him. If he did not play along with her suggestions and supposed whims the film could have had a very different outcome but as Basic Instinct stands, Catherine developed Nick’s narrative of one of toxic masculinity viewing everything other as a threat which in its dark ending suggests that Nick’s white-picket fence goals are as unfounded as the film’s dangerous portrayals of homosexuality. As Nick views Catherine as a prize, she views him as a character in one of her books and just as disposable. Ultimately, Nick needs Catherine more than she needs him.

While Catherine does inhabit the role of the Dangerous Woman (a seemingly modern version of the film noir femme fatale character) cliché and the Murderous Bisexual Women trope, it’s important to acknowledge what is unique and perhaps even progressive about her. She is both the architect of the narrative and her own destruction as she struggles against giving up her agency in favor of a “normal” life. In order to act as a good mother or wife, she’d have to give up the things that made her interesting and alluring in the first place, illuminating the flaws of the patriarchal “happy ending” and ultimately mocking the very thing the film attempts to confirm as an “acceptable” way of life. The role she never gives up on is that of author and creator; her sexuality, identity, and motives are all fluid based on the situation but her God-like power in the film is unmistakable. The film even flirts with a near happy ending for Nick and Catherine which is where the film would have ended if Nick was the true protagonist but instead, the film ends with the vantage point of Catherine’s true intention.

Stone would go on to reprise the role of Catherine Tramell in Basic Instinct 2 (2006) as the only holdover from the previous film. Stone has had a problematic relationship with the original film herself, decrying that the infamous leg-crossing shot was achieved and exhibited without her consent which in essence is the film doubling-down on its problematic nature. Watching the film in this day and age, its troubling and problematic elements ring through clearer than church bells, but the film is also a hugely important cultural touchstone for 1992 as it was the 4th highest grossing film of 1992. The film is marked by Verhoeven and screenwriter Joe Eszterhas’ penchant for creating watchable chaos and mayhem (see also Showgirls) with the film perpetually creating a new audience for itself based on the film’s taboo-inclined nature. Looking back at Basic Instinct as a piece of media that was so widely and readily consumed, its façade is still marred by biphobia, homophobia, and misogyny, yet it’s satisfying to know that Catherine still remains at large, a threat to everything Hollywood deemed acceptable.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

The Trope of the Murderous Bisexual Woman

Biphobia in Basic Instinct

Alexandra West is a freelance horror journalist and playwright who lives, works, and survives in Toronto. Her work has appeared in the Toronto Star, Rue Morgue, Post City Magazine and Offscreen Film Journal. She is a regular contributor to Famous Monsters of Filmland and a columnist forDiabolique with “The Devil Made Us Watch It.” In December 2012, West co-founded the Faculty of Horror podcast with fellow writer Andrea Subissati, which explores the analytical side of horror films and the darkest recesses of academia.

‘Parks and Recreation’: Leslie Knope’s Problem with Women

For Leslie, feminism means, rather simplistically, that she admires women who are in power, believing that gender should be no barrier for achievement. Unfortunately, despite Leslie’s determination to highlight her dedication to furthering the feminist cause, her understanding is not only crude and rather rudimentary, but can, frequently, be damaging. Her identification as a feminist is, much like Tina Fey’s Liz Lemon on ’30 Rock,’ hugely lacking in intersectionality. This is even more frustrating considering that three of the four female cast members are women of color.

This guest post written by Siobhan Denton appears as part of our theme week on Unpopular Opinions.

Leslie Knope, the much loved and indulged protagonist of Parks and Recreation, is by her own account, a feminist. For Leslie (Amy Poehler), feminism means, rather simplistically, that she admires women who are in power, believing that gender should be no barrier for achievement. Unfortunately, despite Leslie’s determination to highlight her dedication to furthering the feminist cause, her understanding is not only crude and rather rudimentary, but can, frequently, be damaging.

Her identification as a feminist is, much like Tina Fey’s Liz Lemon on 30 Rock, hugely lacking in intersectionality. This is even more frustrating considering that three of the four female cast members are women of color. Leslie is a feminist when it comes to her own interests, or encouraging other women who resemble her. She is more than willing to actively encourage April Ludgate (Aubrey Plaza) in her pursuit of career success, but works hard to distance herself from women that are not aligned with her own personal beliefs. While she does advocate for comprehensive sex education and contraception access, Leslie’s version of feminism is entirely reliant on her own morals and desires. She never truly wants to further the feminist cause, but applauds her own personal efforts as achievements for the movement.

Leslie often finds herself threatened by other women, despite no reasonable impetus. Regularly, this threat is manifested into jealously. Take, for example, her numerous interactions with Shauna Malwae-Tweep (Alison Becker). Shauna, a journalist, is regularly critiqued by Leslie. Her initial issue stems from Shauna’s romantic interactions with Mark Brendanawicz. Mark has shown no romantic interest in Leslie, and in fact, seems to find her relatively irritating at the start of the series. Despite this, Leslie places blame on Shauna, and attempts to question her professionalism and worth.

Meeting Shauna again in a similar scenario, when Leslie observes Shauna speaking to and flirting with Ben, Leslie immediately pits herself Shauna. She perceives her as a rival, rather than a fellow professional woman.

Perhaps Leslie’s disdain for other women is highlighted the most when it comes to her interactions with Brandi Maxxxx (Mara Marini). Leslie has made her views on sex workers clear from the start of the series. Spending time in a strip club, she questions the women’s life choices without recognizing her own privilege as a white, educated, middle-class woman.

Leslie would rather silence Brandi during a public forum than be associated with her. Brandi offers Leslie her support, but Leslie consistently attempts to distance herself. Her character is held up to be a figure of humor, derived both from her occupation and her perceived lack of intellect.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zoDV7iacqg8″]

Take the scene in which both Leslie and Brandi are discussing the concept of hard work. Brandi, in recognizing Leslie’s work ethic and clearly admiring it, attempts to draw parallels between them. She states that, like Leslie, she too works hard. Rather than commend Brandi’s hard work, or thank her for her praise, Leslie is clearly horrified.

Leslie is not on Brandi’s side, and we, the viewer, are also told to treat Brandi in the same way. She should be laughed at, and ridiculed, not applauded.

The viewer, in looking at both women and their physical similarity, is effectively instructed to draw comparisons between the two. Brandi is clearly presented as an example of a vacuous woman who should be treated with disdain. While Leslie, thanks to her privilege and education, should be commended for her intellectual approach.

Notably, much of the praise surrounding Parks and Recreation has surrounded Leslie and Ann’s (Rashida Jones) friendship. Yet, as has been noted, for Leslie, Ann is never really her equal. Ann, rather than fulfilling an equivalent role, is content to act as Leslie’s sidekick, cheering on her aspirations rather than necessarily fulfilling her own.

Leslie’s friendship with Ann originally stems from her personal desire to further her career, rather than truly helping Ann’s plight. The dynamics of their friendship is entirely uneven. Leslie clearly holds power, and even in her hyperbolic praise, focuses more on Ann’s physical appearance than her intellect. When she does praise her career abilities, she does so in such an exaggerated manner, that it becomes supercilious, forcing Ann to downplay her skills and in turn, undermine her own ability and qualifications.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H5qUg6DQBeg”]

Many of her hyperbolic compliments are used to obscure Leslie’s real intention; asking Ann to support her without question or judgement, to be silent and supportive.

As the series progresses, Ann, under pressure from Leslie, begins to work at City Hall, despite being happy in her current occupation as a nurse. Leslie does not consider Ann’s feelings in this decision, but rather focuses on the benefits that it will bring her. Ann is a sounding board for Leslie; a compliant friend who will readily allow Leslie to offload with little in return.

Fans of Leslie will note that she is regularly applauded by other characters in the series for her kindness and consideration. She regularly provides friends with elaborate, carefully thought-out gifts, but these gifts, rather than being given selflessly are, too often, a means for Leslie to feel valued. Leslie revels in her ability to provide these presents, and gains much satisfaction from doing so. Ann and Ben both note in one episode, that they feel immense pressure to provide Leslie with a similarly thoughtful present. If Leslie’s habit of purchasing such gifts were to be truly selfless, it would not leave her loved ones feeling so despondent.

Leslie’s version of feminism is entirely informed through her own privileges and limited life experiences. Certainly the series is intentionally “small-town” in its approach, using this central conceit as the source of much of its idiosyncratic humor. Yet, when a show is going to be broadcast to such a large audience, and a character’s perceived feminism is so ingrained in character construct, it is damaging and short-sighted to allow this character to espouse the virtues of feminism when she displays so little interaction or understanding of wider intersectional issues.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Parks and Recreation: How Fat Phobia Is Invisible

Shirley, Donna, and Lana: African American Women in Thursday Night Sitcoms

Ann Perkins and Me: It’s Complicated

Why We Need Leslie Knope and What Her Election on Parks and Recreation Means for Women and Girls

Are You There, Hollywood? It’s Me, the Average Girl

What Baby Daddy Can Learn from Parks and Recreation

I Want to Establish the Ron Swanson Scholarship in Women’s Studies

Parks and Recreation Seasons 1 and 2

Emmy Week 2011: Leslie Knope

Siobhan Denton is a teacher and writer living in Wales, UK. She holds a BA in English and an MA in Film and Television Studies. She is especially interested in depictions of female desire and transitions from youth to adulthood. She tweets at @siobhan_denton and writes at The Blue and the Dim.

Does ‘Pitch Perfect’s Fat Amy Deserve to Be a Fat Positivity Mascot?

It’s great to see a character whose fatness is a part of her identity without being a point of dehumanization, but the films try to make Fat Amy likable at the expense of other characters, positioning her as acceptably quirky, in contrast to the women of color, who are portrayed in a more two-dimensional manner, or Stacie, who is unacceptable due to her promiscuity. Ultimately, the underlying current of stereotype-based humor puts the film’s fat positivity in a dubious light…

This guest post written by Tessa Racked appears as part of our theme week on Unpopular Opinions. An earlier version of this essay appears on Consistent Panda Bear Shape. | Spoilers ahead for Pitch Perfect and Pitch Perfect 2.

I’ve been writing about film from an intersectional feminist perspective for a little over two years now; most of that writing is unpacking how fat characters function in film on my blog, Consistent Panda Bear Shape. Multiple patterns have been emerging from that work; there are three trends in particular that make it difficult for me to write from an intersectional and/or optimistic perspective. I don’t think, reader, that you will find them too surprising:

Fat characters existing to receive the audience’s contempt, disgust, and/or pity. Mad Max: Fury Road is a great example, where the fat characters are autocrat Immortan Joe and his villainous ally, the People Eater, and the Milk Mothers, who exist as a grotesque example of how Immortan Joe objectifies and exploits the populace under his control.
Likable fat characters having some workaround where they aren’t “actually” fat, so when the character finds confidence or asserts themselves, it can be a feel-good moment without leading the audience to question established standards of acceptable bodies on a broad social scale. Two common workarounds are embodied by Olive in Little Miss Sunshine. While her story revolves around her transgression of physical beauty standards, these standards only apply to the strict, hyperfeminine pageant world; outside that context, her body is within the range of social acceptability. Additionally, actor Abigail Breslin wore a fat suit for the role, further disconnecting Olive’s story from the lived experiences of fat people.
Fat protagonists who are “actually” fat being men, usually of the straight, white variety. Of the 62 films featuring fat characters that I’ve written articles about thus far: 41 of the predominant fat characters were male, 35 of those male characters were white, and only 3 of them were identified as queer within the text of the film. Of the 2 non-human fat characters referred to male in their respective screenplays, both were voiced by white men. (The films I write about haven’t been curated in an objective manner, so take this anecdata with a grain of salt.)

The movies that I watch utilize at least one of these patterns time and time again, if they include fat characters at all. Considering this, when I do see a film featuring a decently-written character in a plot-significant role who is played by a fat actor and isn’t a straight white dude, I start having hopes for a bold new cinematic vision wherein fat people aren’t treated like garbage. Pitch Perfect is a perfect example of the kind of film that will stoke the flames of my high expectations, featuring Rebel Wilson as Fat Amy. When it was making its way into theaters, I remember seeing this exchange all over Tumblr:

This exchange says everything about why I and many others were excited: a female character, played by someone who looks like she gets relegated to the same measly section of clothing stores that I do, being funny and unapologetic about how she gets treated based on her size. (And on a more personal note, Fat Amy is also the cover girl for an AV Club article about humanized portrayals of fat characters that was an inspiration for Consistent Panda Bear Shape.) However, I didn’t actually get around to watching Pitch Perfect until it and its sequel, Pitch Perfect 2, were already out on DVD. I’ve seen a lot of positive press around Fat Amy, but for me, the viewing experience of the two films back-to-back was overall a four-hour anti-climax to my hopes for a new approach to fat representation in a mainstream comedy.

It isn’t all bad. There are some significantly refreshing aspects to how Fat Amy is represented, especially in the original movie. Where a fat body is often employed as visual shorthand for incompetence, she proves her ability as a singer in her introductory scene, impressing Aubrey (Anna Camp) and Chloe (Brittany Snow) with her voice despite their focus on finding women with “bikini-ready bodies” to audition for the Barden Bellas a capella choir. She is also the most self-assured of the Bellas by far. Her sense of humor is often outlandish but her deadpan delivery suggests that she gets more out of confusing the other characters than entertaining them. The majority of comments characterizing Fat Amy as fat are self-referential but, surprisingly, not self-deprecating. She casually remarks at her surprise that her “sexy fat ass” was chosen to be part of the Bellas. Fatness is part of how she sees herself, and isn’t a source of shame or something that needs to be sanitized; rather, it’s a part of her identity that she modifies appropriately to her mood and context. It felt oddly empowering as a fat viewer to hear her angrily threaten to “finish [someone] like a cheesecake.” Another detail that resonated with me was her fearlessness at calling attention to her body. She sprawls and flails. She has a habit of nonchalantly slapping a rhythm on her belly — a woman having fun with her fat! imagine! — or cupping her breasts during a performance. She inhabits her body and her personal space without apologizing or minimizing.

Beyond how Fat Amy is portrayed as an individual, Pitch Perfect also has progressive aspects to how Fat Amy functions as part of the Bellas. As opposed to what one might expect from a fat character in an ensemble cast, Pitch Perfect doesn’t put Fat Amy in a position where she drags the group down. There is a requisite joke about her avoiding physical activity (while the other singers jog, Aubrey finds Fat Amy lying down, or as she calls it, “horizontal running”), but her sloth seems less sinful in contrast to Aubrey’s drill sergeant seriousness about their shared extracurricular activity. Instead, both films focus on Beca (Anna Kendrick) as the problematic member of the group due to her lack of commitment. As a group, the Bellas have to deal with a change in their image from normatively attractive young women to one that includes singers who don’t meet stereotypical sorority girl standards. They are the classic rag-tag underdogs in a story focuses on competition. “I wanted the hot Bellas,” complains a frat brother who books the group to perform at a mixer, when shutting them down mid-song, “not this barnyard explosion.” Even the senior Bellas, thin and preppy Aubrey and Chloe, have bodies that defy expectations of femininity. It’s common to see fat female characters in comedies as a focal point of gross or bizarre body humor, but Pitch Perfect takes a more democratic approach. Aubrey struggles with stress-induced projectile vomiting, and soprano Chloe gains the ability to sing deep bass notes after a surgery to remove nodes on her vocal cords.

Although Fat Amy isn’t presented as more grotesque or cartoonish than the other characters, Pitch Perfect doesn’t extend the favor to other Bellas who aren’t straight and white, as Fat Amy is. The most glaring contrast is Cynthia Rose (Ester Dean), a Black butch lesbian (with an incredible set of pipes) who is also larger-bodied than the average young woman seen in a mainstream comedy. We first meet her at auditions, where she is immediately misgendered. She doesn’t come out as gay to her chorus mates until towards the end of the movie, although we get “hints” to her sexuality via shots of her leering at or groping other women, or other characters making snide comments about her sexual orientation and/or gender presentation. The audition sequence where we meet Cynthia Rose also introduces Lilly (Hana Mae Lee), who embodies the stereotype of the quiet Asian girl through a running gag where she says disturbing things in a soft voice that none of the other characters are able to hear.

Although all of the characters are part of the same underdog team, mining tired caricatures for humor reifies divides in the group via racism and homophobia. And while Fat Amy transgresses stereotypes about fat women, she is straight and white, which within the world of the film, puts her in an uncriticizable position to make snarky comments about Cynthia Rose’s sexuality and other uncomfortable remarks at the expense of marginalized groups (e.g. a clunky improv moment referring to her hairstyle as an “Orthodox Jew ponytail”).

The “fat positive” aspects of Fat Amy’s depiction aren’t just positioned against other characters who don’t share her privileged social identities. Stacie’s (Alexis Knapp) function in the group as the humorously promiscuous Bella complicates the praise Pitch Perfect gets for showing Fat Amy’s active sex life. Stacie’s sexuality is coded as excessive, a joke that becomes the majority of her screen time, whether Aubrey is trying to get her to tone down her dance moves or she’s referring to her vagina as a “hunter.” However, we never see Stacie involved with anyone. Fat Amy, on the other hand, is shown in the company of two hunks on her spring break and also makes comments about her own sexual prowess. So why is the line drawn between Stacie and Fat Amy, where one’s sexuality is the butt of jokes and the other’s is an empowering aspect of her character? When we see Bumper (Adam Devine) flirting with Fat Amy and getting shot down or hear Fat Amy talk about how she joined the Bellas because she needed to step back from her busy love life, we see her defying the expectations that we have for fat girls in movies, the assumption that nobody will want to have sex with her or that she won’t have the confidence to approach someone. Stacie, however, is thin and normatively attractive. The audience expects that she has no shortage of willing sexual partners and doesn’t restrain herself in the way she is expected to; thus, she is deserving of ridicule. The inconsistency between how the two characters’ sex lives are valued demeans Stacie and condescends to Fat Amy.

As Pitch Perfect 2 is helmed by a female director and writer with some skin in the game (Elizabeth Banks, who is in a supporting role in both films, and Kay Cannon, who wrote the original), one might hope that the sequel would amend the issues in the original, perhaps by giving more screen time to find some depth in characters like Cynthia Rose and Lilly. Unfortunately, the franchise loses more feminist cred by doubling down on the cheap stereotypes. Cynthia Rose is still a source for jokes about lesbians creeping on straight women, Lilly is still the quiet Asian girl, and now Flo (Chrissie Fit) has joined the Bellas, a Latina woman whose every comment is about how harsh and dangerous her life was in her unspecified Latin American home country.

Even the progressive aspects of Fat Amy’s depiction in Pitch Perfect largely erode in the sequel. The opening sequence is perhaps the most telling, where Fat Amy experiences a costume malfunction during a performance at President Obama’s birthday gala and accidentally exposes her vulva to the TV cameras and the concert audience. Typical to a comedy film, the audience reacts with disgust and terror, some even running away. Although unintentional, her body is deemed excessive and the resulting outcry nearly destroys the Bellas.

A similar scene of disgust comes later in the film, where a romantic moment between Fat Amy and Bumper (Adam Devine) causes his friends to run away in order to avoid looking at the couple. (While Bumper isn’t as outside the normative range of bodies seen on-camera, he is larger-bodied than the other Treblemakers.) The plotline of their relationship doesn’t meet the standards of a romantic partner that Fat Amy sets in the first film, where she brushes off his advances (though she raises the eyebrows of the other Bellas by having his number in her phone). In Pitch Perfect 2, she and Bumper are hooking up. He asks her to date him officially with a romantic dinner; she initially turns him down, saying that she’s a “free range pony who can’t be tamed,” but eventually realizes that she’s in love with him (for no discernible reason) and wins him back with a rendition of Pat Benatar’s “We Belong.” The main conflict of Pitch Perfect is the competition between the Bellas and the Treblemakers, which sets up Fat Amy and Bumper as well-balanced adversaries, both confident and ambitious. Fat Amy disdains Bumper’s advances and flirts with aforementioned hunks; Bumper quits school for an opportunity to work for John Mayer. However, in the second film, former antagonist Bumper has been humbled, now working as a college security guard and desperately trying to hang on to his past glory days as a college a capella big shot. It is at this point that he becomes a suitable partner for Fat Amy.

In Pitch Perfect, the Bellas achieve a competitive edge by using Beca’s mash-up arrangements instead of more traditional medley formats in their performances. This works as an apt allegory for Pitch Perfect as feminist films: there are some welcome updates, but ultimately it’s the same song. It’s great to see a character whose fatness is a part of her identity without being a point of dehumanization, but the films try to make Fat Amy likable at the expense of other characters, positioning her as acceptably quirky, in contrast to the women of color, who are portrayed in a more two-dimensional manner, or Stacie, who is unacceptable due to her promiscuity. Ultimately, the underlying current of stereotype-based humor puts the film’s fat positivity in a dubious light, compounded by the erosion of Fat Amy’s status as kickass fat girl, as well as any thematic content about female friendship.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Pitch Perfect and Third Wave Feminism

Tessa Racked can be heard as a guest contributor to film podcasts including Directors Club and Tracks of the Damned, on the Now Playing Network. They are good at modern dance, olden dance, mermaid dancing, and peppering the Internet with cleverness. You can follow them on Twitter @tessa_racked.

The Villainization of Claire Underwood on ‘House of Cards’

Much of what makes besmirching Claire Underwood villainous is also what I can’t help but find admirable about her — and at first, this made me question myself. … But then I thought, perhaps, it could be possible that we’ve vilified every aspect of Claire Underwood because our culture is inherently threatened by her. She’s the personification of what a patriarchal society is most fearful of… Claire Underwood has to be a villain because we aren’t ready for a world where she’s a heroine.

This guest post written by Abby Norman originally appeared at her blog on Medium and an edited version appears here as part of our theme week on Unpopular Opinions. It is cross-posted with permission.

From the beginning of House of Cards, Claire was the most compelling character for me — and I say this as a lifelong Kevin Spacey fan. But as much as Frank Underwood is an engaging protagonist, it’s never quite as interesting for me to see the inner workings of a bloodthirsty, power-hungry male character. As the seasons progressed, I found myself wishing that we were watching all of these events unfold not through Frank’s perspective, but Claire’s.

It may well be that she thinks much along the same lines as he does, so maybe the plot wouldn’t have been at all different — but if we want to watch upper-class, white, male politicians who lack empathy and engage in acts of greed and deceit, we just have to turn on CNN.

To me, Claire’s dichotomy, her struggle — her essence — is what has kept me watching the show season after season, even when certain elements of the plot grew stale. Within our culture, fictional and real, Claire Underwood should not be a heroine, she shouldn’t be likable or a character that we sympathize with. We shouldn’t logically be rooting for either of the Underwoods to succeed. They are at their cores very bad people. They are violent, ruthless, callous.

And yet…

I can’t help but be captivated by Claire Underwood, and it has troubled me to the point where I’m writing a think piece about it. I should not want to emulate any aspect of her personality, no matter how successful she is. I should not covet her wardrobe, her marriage of power, her profession, her curiously unfeeling attitude toward other women.

I should not want to be anything like Claire Underwood.

The internet has been quick to call Claire a feminist, but I think she’s kind of the anti-feminist. Claire isn’t interested in women succeeding, she’s only interested in her own success. She’s not trailblazing for other women necessarily; if she’s shattered any glass it’s not been thoughtfully. Claire isn’t in the game for anyone but herself — and maybe Frank? But that’s unclear.

One thing I’m rather ashamed to admit I like about Claire is that while she’s selfish, she’s very clear and intentional about it. It’s not that she’s against what good may come out of her success for other people, she’s just not motivated by it. If, through her quest for power, the groundwork is laid for other women, so be it.

There’s something about Claire’s selfishness that I yearn for; it seems odd to say, I suppose, but I have this strange admiration for her because she’s just so unapologetically concerned with herself. I think, deep down, I’ve been guilty of that intense self-focus when it comes to my career, and some might argue that very quality is what brought me a modicum of success.

Still — I feel ulcerously guilty about it.

There’s always the caveat that by being a successful woman, you’re inevitably making some kind of personal sacrifice. Whether it be your marriage, or raising a family, or other relationships — invariably, you are pitied because you don’t have it all if you have a career of that magnitude. That formula presiding, it’s quite jarring when you realize that Claire Underwood has never given us any indication that she doesn’t think she’s got it all with what she has. That certitude is bewitching to me.

This is one of my favorite exchanges in House of Cards, like, ever.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve flinched at this type of question. How I’ve never known how to retort, because I’ve always been made to feel as though I’m wrong. That I’m being pitied — or in some scenarios — being looked down upon because of my lack of maternal goals. Claire doesn’t even flinch when it comes to volleying this question back to the asker, and to me, this is really the only response necessary. First of all, it’s a very personal question to ask a woman — not in the least because many women are infertile, and are not choosing childlessness. Second, because it levels the playing field — if Claire can (if I can) be assumed to regret not having children, shouldn’t it be equally as possible for a woman to regret having them?

For those who choose to be child-free, there’s a constant barrage of, “Oh, you’ll change your mind!” — as if to say that we will, eventually, succumb to our biology, even if it doesn’t fit into our lifestyle — that somehow, motherhood is an inescapable reality for a woman and to actively side-step it makes you an unsympathetic, unfeeling, callous woman. If you choose to elevate anything above parenthood, you’re despicably selfish. Sometimes I’ve had these conversations with women and I’ve gotten the distinct feeling that the reason they continuously inquire about my decision about children is because they want me to be just as miserable as they are. They resent my freedom, my sense of self, and the success that I’ve achieved. They are, perhaps, second-guessing their choice but feel they cannot admit it without being perceived as a bad mother, a bad person.

I, however, could change my mind only to be lauded for it. It’s then I realize that the conversation isn’t about me or my choices. It’s about theirs.

Obviously, this isn’t always the case; I have plenty of friends who are very happy and fulfilled being mothers, and in fact, these women rarely, if ever, ask me about children. If it comes up casually in a conversation, these women are satisfied with my answer, because they recognize that it has absolutely no bearing whatsoever on them. What I do — or do not do — with my uterus doesn’t define them at all.

When it comes to men, to marriage, Claire goes beyond demanding equality; she wants more power than Frank. She has never been content to be the woman behind the man, because his success is not particularly valuable to her unless it benefits her agenda. Or, occasionally, their shared agenda. The self-possessed mercenary Frank Underwood and his clan of political marauders have figured out, after four seasons, that they must keep Claire close not because she is an asset but rather, because she’s an adversary. Claire Underwood could don those savage black leather gloves and destroy this entire game in one fell swoop. If House of Cards was about Claire, and her power, this show could have started and ended in a single episode.

The magnetic sexual energy that is the undercurrent between not just Claire and Frank — but Claire, Frank, and any number of other characters — is the singular, inescapable human foible that humanizes them. Her marriage to Frank is, in many ways, an abusive, detestable, festering hazard. The volatile core of their union is exemplified when they’re separated, but blisteringly magnified when they are reunited. They could, and do, succeed separately but together they are dynamic, unstoppable — and what they love about the other partner is what they can aggrandize in each other.

The Underwoods are not so much married to one another as they are married to themselves, and it’s a terrifyingly brilliant match. Still, we are given subtle signs over the seasons, that culminate with Frank’s physical weakness in season four, that Claire has a certain power over him. With a spine-tingling sensuality, she is the only person who calls him Francis rather than Frank, and while you could construe this as intimacy, it feels more possessive than affectionate. And something tells me that Frank actually finds this enduringly arousing.

Much of what makes besmirching Claire Underwood villainous is also what I can’t help but find admirable about her — and at first, this made me question myself. Do I have sociopathic tendencies? Am I, at my core, a heartless, ruthless shrew? But then I thought, perhaps, it could be possible that we’ve vilified every aspect of Claire Underwood because our culture is inherently threatened by her.

She’s the personification of what a patriarchal society is most fearful of, so, in characterizing her firstly as this strong, successful, indurated woman she must also, therefore, be a remorseless murderer too. Because God forbid she’s a career-climbing, child-free, influential, and tenacious woman without also being an unambiguously horrible person, devoid of a conscience; a heart. If women find themselves gravitating toward Claire Underwood, coveting everything from her wardrobe to her regency, it’s not because we’re all veiled villains or people who lack a conscience — it’s because we’re fascinated by the mating of power and evil, especially in a woman who should inherently and historically be neither powerful or corrupt.

The female archetype is perceived as naive, gentle, and kind. It’s classically warm and maternal, soft and practically soundless. So when a woman is smart and savvy, when she’s firm, tough, edgy, and cold, when she thwarts her feminine nature by being child-free, when she makes her voice heard, she becomes BAD because she is the antithesis of this widely held exemplar. She is no longer the opposite of man. She no longer complements him.

Claire Underwood has to be a villain because we aren’t ready for a world where she’s a heroine.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Ruthless, Pragmatic Feminism in House of Cards

Claire Underwood: The Queen Bee in House of Cards

The Complex, Unlikable Women of House of Cards

The Conflicting Masculinities of Frank and Claire in House of Cards

House of Cards Season 3: There’s Only One Seat in the Oval Office

Abby Norman is a journalist and writer. She’s currently working on a memoir for Nation Books. Her work has been featured in The Rumpus, The Establishment, Medium, Cosmopolitan, Seventeen Magazine, The Independent, Quartz, Bustle, and others. She lives in New England with her dog, Whimsy, and wishes Gilda Radner would haunt her apartment. She’s represented by Tisse Takagi in New York City. You can follow her on Twitter @abbymnorman.

Unpopular Opinions in Film: A Critical Re-Examination of ‘Twilight’

My intent is not to claim that ‘Twilight’ is a perfect movie, but rather, I want to argue that it has more virtues than it is given credit for, and to point out that its dismissal is frequently based on pervasive sexist attitudes. I am not speaking for the other films in the series — all directed by men — but rather, the first film, which was written and directed by women (Melissa Rosenberg and Catherine Hardwicke, respectively), based on a novel written by a woman. There are many valid reasons why one may not enjoy ‘Twilight,’ but it is important to recognize that it is unfair and sexist to dismiss the film and its fans based on the fact that it is a romance told from a female perspective.

This guest post written by Angela Morrison appears as part of our theme week on Unpopular Opinions.

“He looks at you like… you’re something to eat,” says Mike Newton (Michael Welch) to his friend Bella Swan (Kristen Stewart), regarding her sparkly new beau, Edward Cullen (Robert Pattinson). Mike’s comment serves as humorous dramatic irony, while also making it clear that Bella is desired by most of the men she comes in contact with. Mike’s simile is painfully, literally correct – Edward wants to drink Bella’s blood, and she knows it. Well, the foundation of any good relationship is honesty, right?

Catherine Hardwicke’s Twilight (2008), based on Stephenie Meyer’s wildly popular novel of the same name, deals with teenage romance, vampirism, female agency, and desire. In her brilliant article on Twilight fans, Tanya Erzen outlines exactly who likes the series and how they show their devotion. She writes: “There have certainly been fan crazes before, but what differentiates the Twilight phenomenon is that its fan base consists almost entirely of girls and women.” The specifics of these girls and women – race, class, sexual orientation, religion – is not clear, but one thing is for sure: overwhelming numbers of women are vocal about their passion for the tales of Bella and Edward.

There is an insidious trend in our North American society wherein anything beloved by women – specifically young women – is automatically dismissed. Twilight is frequently looked down upon by both film critics and casual moviegoers, including people who have not seen the film or read the books. Erzen smartly observes that “denigrating these female fans as rabid, obsessed, and hysterical is a favorite pastime for many media outlets.”

My intent is not to claim that Twilight is a perfect movie, but rather, I want to argue that it has more virtues than it is given credit for, and to point out that its dismissal is frequently based on pervasive sexist attitudes. I am not speaking for the other films in the series – all directed by men – but rather, the first film, which was written and directed by women (Melissa Rosenberg and Catherine Hardwicke, respectively), based on a novel written by a woman. There are many valid reasons why one may not enjoy Twilight, but it is important to recognize that it is unfair and sexist to dismiss the film and its fans based on the fact that it is a romance told from a female perspective.

I am personally not a fan of the Twilight books, as I do not connect with Meyers’ writing style. She has many good ideas, but they often do not come across clearly in her writing. Where the book fails, Hardwicke and Rosenberg are successful. Some of the cheesy lines make it into the movie (“You’re like my own personal brand of heroin…”), but it is so well-made that this is easily forgiven. Hardwicke has a strong authorial voice and presence, often focusing her films on young female protagonists experiencing strange and sometimes painful events. Both Twilight and Thirteen (2003) feature washed-out cinematography shot by Elliot Davis, and deal with teenage female protagonists living with a single parent. The similarities between the images and themes in these films represent a through-line across Hardwicke’s filmography. Twilight‘s icy grey-blue and deep green images beautifully portray the damp, rainy, sometimes mysterious setting of Forks, Washington.

Writers, such as Dr. Natalie Wilson, argue that Twilight upholds traditional gender roles, and romanticizes unhealthy behavior in romantic relationships. Twilight sends the message that a woman’s only purpose in life is to love and be loved by the man of her dreams. Bella loves Edward obsessively – towards the end of the first film, she stutters profusely when Edward suggests she spend some time with her mother, and says, “We can’t be apart” Edward is frequently cold and distant, and constantly tells her they shouldn’t be together – while at the same time, proclaiming his everlasting devotion to her. These mixed signals are confusing and painful for Bella, but readers/viewers interpret their relationship as transcendently romantic. Bella is willing to give up her life and her soul to become a vampire, so she can be with Edward forever. This all-encompassing, obsessive relationship is clearly unhealthy, and borders on being emotionally abusive. While I argue that Twilight has merits, it is also important for me to reiterate feminist critiques of its outdated gender roles and dangerous romanticization of heterosexual and heteronormative monogamy as the only option for women.

Bella is frequently dismissed as weak and passive, but she is more interesting and complex than meets the eye. Brigit McCone at Bitch Flicks points out that Hardwicke’s camera privileges Bella’s point of view – the female gaze. Here, Edward is the spectacle to be looked at – he is an alluring, seductive vampire, and Bella spends a lot of time considering her desire for him. Edward takes off his shirt and reveals to Bella that his skin glitters in the sunlight, and she breathlessly tells him, “You’re beautiful.” The camera is with Bella in almost every scene, and the audience experiences things as Bella does. There are simply not many movies where female experiences are centered, especially not big-budget films like Twilight.

The film also features many female characters who support one another, such as Bella’s friends Jessica (Anna Kendrick) and Angela (Christian Serratos). Bella assures Angela she is a “strong, confident woman,” and urges her to subvert gender roles and ask Eric (Justin Chon) to the prom, instead of waiting for him to ask her. Edward’s sister Alice (Ashley Greene) immediately takes a liking to Bella, letting her know that she has seen the future, and they are going to be great friends. Bella also risks her life out of love and loyalty in order to try and save her mother from the violent vampire James (Cam Gigandet). Twilight not only centers individual female experience, but female friendship and support.

I previously outlined some of the ways in which Bella and Edward’s relationship is unhealthy, but what is particularly striking to me is how they get together in the first place. Bella is enchanted by Edward and his golden amber eyes in biology class, and does her best to strike up a friendship with him – she remains pleasant and engaged, even when he is incredibly rude to her. She slowly realizes that there is something different about him – something magical, possibly dangerous — and through her own research, pieces together that he is a vampire. She is active, not passive — she is the one that pursues him most of the time. Bella finds herself faced with creatures out of a horror movie, and instead of running away in fear, she bravely embraces and accepts them (particularly Edward). Edward can read everyone’s mind except Bella’s – this gives one the sense that she has hidden depth, and constantly leaves us questioning why she is not vulnerable to Edward’s probing vampire powers. Bella is open-minded, easily willing to accept that there is more to the world than meets the eye. She follows her heart, and does not shy away from her desires: she wants to be with Edward, so she pursues him. She doesn’t let Edward’s icy glares stop her from being friends with Jacob (Taylor Lautner), and conversely, she doesn’t let Jacob and his father convince her to stay away from Edward. She is played with vulnerability, wit, and quiet passion by the incredibly talented Kristen Stewart, an actress frequently criticized for not conforming to traditional ideas of femininity.

One of my favorite things about Meyers’ story is its core concept: a family of vampires living in the lush, chilly Pacific Northwest, where one of the vampires falls in love with a human. It is a romantic and interesting, if not particularly unique, take on the literary (and cinematic) vampire tradition. Catherine Hardwicke’s film is the strongest entry in the cinematic series, largely because of the way she privileges the female gaze and point of view. The film is visually beautiful — one can almost feel the cold, damp air of Forks – and it can be seen as part of a larger whole: Catherine Hardwicke’s cohesive filmography. The film is perfectly cast, and features strong performances from many women and people of color (Eric, Tyler, Angela, Jacob, Laurent, and Billy, to name a few). The film was wildly successful at the box office, despite being criticized and dismissed by people who do not take female-centric projects seriously.

Surely, there are ideological problems with Twilight, but it is worth taking a closer look at. There are complexities and subtleties within the film and its performances that are not visible on the surface. Erzen said it best when she noted that critics should “…begin taking the complicated practices and pleasures of female fans seriously.”

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Tanya Erzen’s ‘Fanpire’ Blog Tour: Fans of The Twilight Saga

YouTube Break: The Twilight Saga: An Interview with Dr. Natalie Wilson

Movie Review: The Twilight Saga: New Moon

Shishihokodan: Ice Prince/Wolf Rivalry as Female Madonna/Whore

Violence Against Indigenous Women: Fun, Sexy, and No Big Deal on the Big Screen

Angela Morrison is a queer Canadian cinephile and feminist, and she is Team Jacob. She has written for Bitch Flicks before and writes about film on her blog.

In ‘Arrival,’ Amy Adams is the Superhero We Need Right Now

‘Arrival’ is yet another in a long line of alien invasion movies, but it’s also so much more than that. It’s the story of a single extraordinary woman who steps up to save the human race, armed with nothing more than her ability to communicate. It’s a story of hope — and it’s one that audiences need to hear right now.

This guest post written by Lee Jutton originally appeared at her blog. It is cross-posted with permission.

How do you make an epic about saving the entire world feel as intimate as a independent film? How do you tell a story with such high stakes while still managing to make the audience feel emotionally connected to the individual people involved? With Arrival, director Denis Villeneuve and his collaborators make this incredible task look easy — and utterly gorgeous to boot. Adapted by screenwriter Eric Heisserer from Ted Chiang’s short story “Story of Your Life,” Arrival is yet another in a long line of alien invasion movies, but it’s also so much more than that. It’s the story of a single extraordinary woman who steps up to save the human race, armed with nothing more than her ability to communicate. It’s a story of hope — and it’s one that audiences need to hear right now.

That said woman is played by Amy Adams, who makes her all the more compelling. Adams is not only one of the most consistent actresses working today — turning out brilliant performances in such diverse films as Junebug, Enchanted, The Master, and Big Eyes, just to name a few — she’s also one of the most subtle. Her performances never rely on flashy gimmicks or method madness; she can easily disappear inside a character without the aid of wigs and weight gain. Her presence as Lois Lane in the Man of Steel movies instantly classes up proceedings — at least, as much as is possible when Zack Snyder is involved. In Arrival, Adams portrays a very different kind of superhero than the ones she hobnobs with in the dour DC universe, and her quietly intense performance as linguistics professor Dr. Louise Banks is one that stands out even among her impressive body of work.

Louise is living a lonely life in a big house, teaching at an anonymous university during the day and gulping glasses of red wine at night, when she’s enlisted by Colonel Weber (Forest Whitaker) to do what seems to be the impossible. Twelve black obelisks have appeared out of nowhere and are floating above a diverse array of locations across the globe. Teaming up with brash astrophysicist Ian (Jeremy Renner), Louise is sent to the obelisk in Montana to find a way to communicate with the extraterrestrials inside. She uses written words on flashcards to get the aliens — dubbed “heptopods” for their seven squid-like legs — to share their own written method of communication, a series of intricate rings reminiscent of the stains produced by coffee mugs. Louise’s painstaking work seems slow to the military men around her, whose trigger fingers are growing itchy from watching too many giddily paranoid news broadcasts (an example of the power of communication used for ill if there ever was one), but gradually she produces results.

One doesn’t think of writing words on flashcards as the epitome of action-packed, but in Arrival these moments are surprisingly engaging. A scene in which Louise explains to an impatient Colonel Weber the numerous steps that need to be taken before asking the aliens what brought them to Earth — pointing out that one has to teach the aliens what a question even is before one can ask them one, then breaking down the various grammatical elements of the question on a whiteboard — is a phenomenal glimpse inside the weird world of linguistics, a world that I admit was almost entirely foreign to me going into the movie. So impressive is Louise’s mastery of language that it feels like a superpower — an unlikely one, to be sure, but one that proves highly effective.

I don’t want to reveal more of the plot of the film for fear of ruining it for others; suffice to say that in Arrival, humans are just as much of a threat to the future of Earth as their alien visitors, if not more so. Throughout it all, Louise remains the quietly heroic heart of the movie, determined to do whatever it takes to maintain the heptopods’ tenuous new relationship with humanity. One doesn’t necessarily root for the human race in Arrival; one roots for our heroine, and it just so happens that the fate of the human race is tied to her success. The story edges its way along a tightrope of tension and never grows boring despite the startling lack of such science-fiction standbys as spaceship shoot-outs and special effects-induced explosions (okay, there’s one explosion). It handles sophisticated topics in a way that feels accessible to the average moviegoer, though one shouldn’t be shocked that a film focused on communication expresses itself so elegantly; despite the potential for pretentiousness, one never feels talked down to by Arrival.

The success of Arrival is not entirely due to Amy Adams’ performance as Louise, though it is a substantial part of it. Jóhann Jóhannsson’s appropriately otherworldly score sets the mood throughout the film, and is an ideal match for Bradford Young’s ethereal cinematography. Young (Ain’t Them Bodies Saints, Selma) is a master of using only available, natural light to create beautiful images, and Arrival is no exception. This combination of sound and image results in perfectly crafted moments that are as epic as anything in Kubrick’s classic 2001: A Space Odyssey — the highest praise I can give any film in this genre. The first reveal of the heptopods will make your heart leap into your throat, and stands out in my mind as one of the most memorable cinematic moments of the year.

Arrival has entered theaters as the people of the United States are reeling from the result of our most recent presidential election, and it’s likely we’ll all continue to reel for quite some time. And while cinematic escapism is only a temporary solution to the anxiety that plagues so many of us, Arrival is that rare film that provides a much-needed escape from our real world while also containing a timely message for it. In a world increasingly on edge, with conflict always hovering on the horizon, it would do us all some good to be reminded of the power of communication to maintain peace. And for little girls around the world who long to see people who look like them saving the world, Arrival is a wonderful (and unfortunately necessary) reminder that yes, women can be heroes too.

Lee Jutton has directed short films starring a killer toaster, a killer Christmas tree, and a not-killer leopard. She previously reviewed new DVD and theatrical releases as a staff writer for Just Press Play and currently reviews television shows as a staff writer for TV Fanatic. You can follow her on Medium for more film reviews and on Twitter for an excessive amount of opinions on German soccer.

‘Certain Women’: Four Women United by Emotional and Under-Recognized Work

‘Certain Women’ belongs to the four women at its core: Laura Dern’s fragile, exhausted stoicism, Michelle William’s neutrality laced with sharp edges, Lily Gladstone’s quietly powerful grasp of the feeling of new love, and Kristen Stewart’s almost-sweet awkwardness, are what make Certain Women worth the trip.

This guest post is written by Deborah Krieger. | Spoilers ahead.

Perhaps 6:30 in the morning is not the best time to take in a film that begins with such a long, gentle shot of a train in the misty Montana morning, but that early hour is when the Vienna Film Festival chose to show it, on the final day of its screening schedule. In a way, Certain Women is an extension of said shot — picturesque, poetic, more than a little “blue,” so to speak — but once the action, as subtle and understated as it is, begins, it’s hard to not get invested in what might be accurately called Emotional Labor: The Movie.

Certain Women, directed by Kelly Reichardt and adapted from Maile Meloy’s short story collection Both Ways Is the Way I Want It, tells the stories of four women (Laura Dern, Michelle Williams, Lily Gladstone, and Kristen Stewart) in three loosely connected vignettes. While the women come largely from different backgrounds and have different jobs and relationships to their patch of Montana, their stories are united by the emotional and under-recognized work they perform for the others in their communities; hence my (joking) alternate title for this film.

What makes this film memorable is the juxtaposition of tension and understatement, of rising action undercut by mundanity. I kept waiting for something to “happen” — that is, for something to go the way of many feature films and turn bombastic and dramatic for its own sake, regardless of how well such a tendency fits within the style of this particular movie.

In the first segment of the film, Laura Dern’s character (also named Laura), is a lawyer whose client Fuller (Jared Harris), injured in a work-related accident and disgruntled with the useless settlement he received, breaks into his former workplace and takes a security guard hostage with a shotgun. Laura gets the call in the middle of the night, and is sent into the building by the police, with a bulletproof vest hidden under a stylish, simple coat, to coax Fuller into surrendering himself without any violence. As this particular scene unfolded, it must have been all of the conventional dramas and action movies I watched signaling to me that someone was going to die — or at the very least, get shot — but Certain Women, wisely, is not that kind of film. The emphasis in Laura’s story begins and ends with the work, both in the legal and quasi-therapeutic sense, that she must repeatedly do to help Fuller, even though he has no hope of suing the company whose neglect ruined his life.

Likewise, in the segment centering on Michelle Williams’ character, Williams plays Gina, who with her husband Ryan (James Le Gros) and daughter Guthrie (Sara Rodier) is looking to build a new home in the Montana countryside. Yet Gina finds that she must be the one to do the dirty work in this business of moving her family into this new life and getting this house constructed: her husband is all too happy to let Gina be “the bad guy,” as she puts it, where Guthrie is concerned; similarly, Ryan is also happy to let Gina do the work of acquiring building materials for their house from an older gentleman (René Auberjonois) in the area, even though said older man insists on talking to Ryan instead of dealing with her directly. In both scenarios, it is clear that Ryan (whom we meet by dint of his having an affair with Laura in the previous segment) is satisfied letting Gina take charge and do the necessary dirty work while he skims the surface — but is it because Gina wants to take charge, or because she feels she must in order to get things done? Like the segment about Laura, I kept waiting for some kind of climax, of some kind of apotheosis where Gina would finally let loose and dare to show a little emotion in the face of her husband’s passivity and her daughter’s petulance, but once again, Certain Women sticks to what is ultimately more realistic — with buried passive-aggression replacing a more fictional-seeming outburst, which is to its credit.

The final segment, which stars Lily Gladstone as Jamie, a ranch hand and a queer Native American woman, and Kristen Stewart, a freshly-minted lawyer named Beth, deals with this idea of labor in more subdued and ultimately more heart-wrenching ways. We meet Jamie moving through the slog of her routine handling horses on a snow-strewn farm; when she accidentally walks into a community college class on education law taught by Beth, Jamie instantly develops what is perhaps the most accurate depiction of a one-sided crush I have ever seen on film. As Jamie invites Beth to dinner after class several times and is content to just smile at her and talk with her sparingly, basking in the warmth of these new feelings, Beth — and the audience — grow increasingly more uncomfortable on both of their behalf. After an almost adorable sequence in which Jamie takes Beth to an after-class dinner on one of the ranch’s horses, Beth stops coming to teach the class — but is it because the class required an eight-hour round-trip and wasn’t even Beth’s real job? Or because Jamie’s obvious but unspoken affection made Beth uneasy? Or both?

Following Jamie’s discovery of Beth’s absence, she drives the four hours to Beth’s town to try and find her — a move that comes off as both sadly creepy and totally understandable. When you develop feelings for someone, you tend to magnify the smaller gestures and minimize the larger ones: a simple dinner at a diner becomes incredibly significant in the narrative of your “love story,” while the inadvisable move of tracking down someone you don’t really know, uninvited, in a town four hours away, seems like less of a bigger deal than it actually is. The scene in which Jamie finally finds Beth, who is unable to return Jamie’s affections, was so recognizable in its use of awkward, potent pauses and shades of things left unsaid that I wanted to sink through the floor with secondhand embarrassment. Yet the theme of labor still holds, as both Jamie and Beth curtail their actions and thoughts — Jamie hoping to not scare Beth, and Beth wanting to let Jamie down as carefully and painlessly as possible. It’s also notable, and refreshing, that this film doesn’t make a big deal out of Jamie’s same-sex crush on Beth — it’s treated with the same gentleness and empathy that a heterosexual romance with all the same trappings would have been given.

The cinematography, by Christopher Blauvelt, is pure loveliness, making rural Montana both desolate and alluring, and the four central performances are all fantastic. In a story about women, the male characters do fall short, especially, sadly, with Fuller’s narrative. Jared Harris is unfortunately miscast in this salt-of-the-earth American blue-collar role, as his accent (Harris hails from London) is all over the place, and is just not as convincing as Laura Dern, especially in the scenes where they play opposite one another. Similarly, James Le Gros does not manage to convey what would make two vastly different women find Ryan so appealing — but perhaps that is intentional.

Certain Women belongs to the four women at its core: Laura Dern’s fragile, exhausted stoicism, Michelle William’s neutrality laced with sharp edges, Lily Gladstone’s quietly powerful grasp of the feeling of new love, and Kristen Stewart’s almost-sweet awkwardness, are what make Certain Women worth the trip.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

The Women of the New York Film Festival 2016

Deborah Krieger is a senior at Swarthmore College, studying art history, film and media studies, and German. She has written for Hyperallergic, Hooligan Magazine, the Northwestern Art Review, The Stake, and Title Magazine. She also runs her own art blog, I On the Arts, and curates her life in pictures @Debonthearts on Instagram.

The Rise of Women with Mental Illness in TV Series

With the sleeper success of ‘Crazy Ex-Girlfriend,’ the increased focus on Kimmy Schmidt’s PTSD this season on ‘Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt,’ and Rachel Goldberg’s mental illness on ‘UnREAL,’ there seems to be a rise in depictions of mental health — in particular, women’s mental health — on television.

This guest post is written by Scarlett Harris.

With the sleeper success of Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, the increased focus on Kimmy Schmidt’s PTSD this season on Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, and Rachel Goldberg’s mental illness on UnREAL, there seems to be a rise in depictions of mental health — in particular, women’s mental health — on television.

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend deals perhaps most explicitly with mental health. Unfortunately, the series has an awful, ableist title. Unhappy in her high-powered career as a New York lawyer, Rebecca Bunch bumps into her summer camp boyfriend Josh Chan in the street and decides to follow him to West Covina, California, though she repeatedly claims that’s not the reason for her sea change. There we see her transition through depression, anxiety, and “smidges of [obsessive] compulsive disorder” in her quest to win back Josh, as Crazy Ex-Girlfriend’s co-creators Rachel Bloom (who plays Rebecca) and Aline Brosh McKenna told Vulture.

The hormones in play when you’re falling in love — increased dopamine levels and a decrease in serotonin — mirror those released when taking a hit of cocaine and having obsessive compulsive disorder. Not only is Crazy Ex-Girlfriend a commentary on Rebecca’s mental health struggles but it covertly examines the general absurdity of romance in our society. Romantic comedies, the glorification of violent couples such as Sid and Nancy and Harley Quinn and The Joker, and excusing playground bullying as affection all equate intense passion, and at times even abuse, with true love. Bloom and Brosh McKenna told Vulture that many characters in rom-coms exhibit extremely unhealthy or destructive behavior and they differentiate Rebecca’s behavior from this.

That brings us to UnReal, created by Marti Noxon and Sarah Gertrude Shapiro, which finished its second season on Lifetime. Despite its well–documented problems this season regarding race and its depiction of people of color, the show is another that portrays a woman living and working with mental illness to varying degrees of success. As Alyssa Rosenberg writes at The Washington Post:

“The most interesting element of UnREAL, though… is the idea that mental illness is an appropriate response to certain social conditions and expectations for modern women. The Bachelor-style show Rachel works for pushes the women who appear on it to their absolute limits, forcing them to adopt artificial personas and suppress their feelings to compete for the affections of a man who’s appearing on the show only to boost his business. Being the person involved in manipulating other women is a highly unpleasant task. And an on-air meltdown Rachel suffered shortly before the events of the first season of UnREAL may actually be the sanest and most humane possible reaction to the job.”

Though UnReal hasn’t done Rachel — nor most of its other characters, for that matter — justice this season, she manipulates people to get what she wants and struggles with mental illness internally in equal measure, showing that a woman with mental illness doesn’t have to be a traditionally sympathetic character.

On the other hand, though, Kimmy Schmidt is a character we can more easily empathize with due to her jovial, almost childlike (which is another trope of women with mental illness in itself) demeanor. Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt took us by surprise this season as it dealt savilly with the fallout from Kimmy’s imprisonment by Reverend Richard Wayne Gary Wayne. Bread crumbs like Kimmy’s stress burping, her behavior around war veteran Keith, and her involuntary responses to getting intimate with Dong are scattered throughout the earlier parts of season two, which lead to Kimmy seeking therapy from Dr. Andrea (Tina Fey, who also co-created the series) in later episodes. Kimmy’s reluctance to see a psychiatrist is realistic, as is the turmoil she increasingly sees her life devolve into as she ignores her problems. For so long, Kimmy played the role of therapist in her friends’ and fellow captives’ lives that she can’t see how much she herself needs one.

By bringing mental health issues to the forefront — along with other complex portrayals, such as those in Being Mary Jane, You’re the Worst, Bojack Horseman, Girls, Lady Dynamite, and Homeland — television is changing the perception of women with mental illness from fetishized objects to more nuanced and realistic portrayals, at once granting greater representation to women with disabilities and hopefully reducing the stigma of mental illness.

Scarlett Harris is an Australian writer based in New York City. You can follow her on Twitter @ScarlettEHarris and read her previous published work at her website The Scarlett Woman.