Quote of the Day: Sherrie A. Inness

Last weekend, I attended a birthday party for all three of my nieces. My 5-year-old niece Chloe became very excited when she opened a present that turned out to be a baby doll. I didn’t understand why this particular doll was so special until she showed me … this doll poops and pees when you feed it! Yay! This doll is one of the many versions of the Baby Alive doll and is exclusively marketed to young girls in a creepy 1950s way. I don’t doubt that Chloe saw a commercial for this and begged for Baby Alive for her birthday, and who doesn’t want to make a kid happy on her birthday? But this doll upset me. Chloe and her little sister Penelope became obsessed. They kept feeding this thing some disgusting-looking green “food” that immediately leaked out of a circular hole where a vagina should be, thereby queuing Baby Alive’s “mommy” to change the doll’s diaper. (When Chloe and Penelope ran out of the tiny diapers that came with the doll, they started using their own diapers, which was the most hilarious and awesome part of my Baby Alive experience.) 

I talk to my nieces about feminism as often as I can. I don’t call it “feminism,” (yet) but we certainly talk about feminism. They know I’m adamant in my refusal to buy them anything Barbie, and they know they’ll end up with at least one book and/or movie about Girls Being Awesome whenever they open presents from Aunt Stephanie. (I’m also a huge fan of playing dinosaurs with them; their collection rocks, and one of my favorite all-time aunt experiences was playing dinosaurs with Chloe when she insisted that I let her use frozen grapes as their pillows when she put them to bed. Everything got fairly wet and messy after about ten minutes of that weird/amazing shit.) So even though I’m all about discussing with them the airbrushing techniques used on magazine covers, or insisting that we watch Kiki’s Delivery Service instead of the boy-helmed Toy Story 3, or reading Sojourner Truth’s Step-Stomp Stride in favor of any male-dominated Dr. Seuss book, I didn’t know quite what the hell to say about Baby Alive. 
Except that this gender indoctrination–specifically aimed at children–isn’t getting better; in fact, with the media’s increased venues from which to market their products (television, internet, advertisements all over the damned place) I see it worsening. The documentary film The Corporation lets us in on some terrifying secrets about how marketers and advertisers view the children’s market–and it’s fucking sociopathic. (It’s quite an apopro issue to look at, too, in light of the Occupy movement.) All in all, my struggle to accept Baby Alive reminded me of an essay I read a few years ago from the book, Action Chicks: New Images of Tough Women in Popular Culture, edited by Sherrie A. Inness. She writes an awesome essay in the book called, “‘It’s a Girl Thing’: Tough Female Action Figures in the Toy Store.” As one might imagine, the chapter focuses on the absence and even exclusion of the tough female action figure and takes on the idea of gender-typing.
One place where gender-typing is most vivid is the baby doll section, filled with baby dolls that drink bottles of formula, crawl, talk, wet their diapers, and cry until pacified. They are marketed and targeted at an audience of girls. None of the packages shows boys taking care of the dolls; the boxes display beaming, blissfully happy girls rocking their crying “babies” to sleep. In this realm, it is clear who is supposed to care for children. Despite the tremendous strides that women have made in society and the greater freedoms they now experience, this gender stereotyping of dolls has changed slowly in recent decades. Karen Klugman writes, “For all that some members of society advance notions of empowering women and making responsible caregivers of men, girls’ collections of dolls reinforce the traditional female preoccupation with physical appearance and homemaking, while the boys’ collections embody conflict and superhuman power.” She continues, our “childhood experience with fantasy play remains forever segregated into bride side and groom side.” Countless toys, including baby dolls and army soldiers, are resistant to change, perpetuating gender roles that seem to have changed little since the 1950s.

The traditional gender roles that children are usually immersed in when young remain lurking in their psyches as they mature. Although a boy might not want to become a gun-toting G.I. Joe when he grows up or a girl a mall-hopping Barbie, those gender roles influence how children and adults construct their identities, even if they choose to question or reject such stereotyped roles. Also, this stereotyping proves remarkably durable in mainstream American society, where millions assume that females are responsible for child care and males for warfare. Myriad forces shape such stereotypes, but toys are one of the earliest and most influential for young children. Thus, action figures–and all toys from board games to baby dolls–deserve more scholarly scrutiny to tease out their gendered messages. If we are to understand how girls and boys mature into adults, we must explore the process through toys. 

I wholeheartedly agree. Our theme week for November will be Animated Films (stay tuned for our Call for Writers), and this gender-typing extends to films and television targeted at children, too. The Geena Davis Institute for Gender in Media is all over that–check them out if you haven’t already. 

Horror Week 2011: Rosemary’s Baby: Marriage Can Be Terrifying

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This is a guest post by Stephanie Brown.  
Rosemary’s Baby is one scary movie. It’s about a woman’s lot in a hostile world. It is about a terrible marriage to a narcissistic and selfish person. It is about the fear of motherhood and giving birth. It is convincing as a terrifying movie about the supernatural, and as a life lesson about selling your soul to a metaphorical devil. I like horror to convince me that I have learned something about the dark side of human nature…not just play with gore, or supernatural themes, or catastrophic nightmares. It has to name a fear that we really have, or a truth we find hard to believe, and the best horror enlightens us by showing us the darkness that haunts our lives.
The film, directed by Roman Polanski and released in 1968, has been written about at length, for its link to the era’s zeitgeist, its use of everyday people as agents of evil, even its shooting locations. Urban legends have been told about it; real-life events surrounding and following the film have been scrutinized. Rosemary’s Baby is essentially a fable about marriage and motherhood, and its magic is in the sleight of hand that all effective horror movies use: we focus on the scary yarn and are fascinated by it, so that the truth told (in this case, domestic unhappiness) goes down entertainingly. If it were told in a straight narrative arc, it would be kitchen-sink-drama depressing. Ira Levin, who wrote the novel the movie is based on, also wrote The Stepford Wives. How did we ever function without the phrase “Stepford Wife,” such a useful pejorative that has entered our lexicon? We all understand this shorthand phrase to describe a certain kind of too-perfect woman who seems to have lost the ability to articulate thoughts of her own. In Levin’s upper-middle class America of the 1960s, a male-controlled, male-centered marriage meant a slow death for a wife, as she loses control of her mind, her choices, and especially her body. In both novels, the husbands are able to transform the women’s bodies against their will—this is what marriage amounts to. Levin was acutely tuned-in to embarrassing truths about self-centeredness—the man who programs his robot wife to yell, “You’re the champ!” while having sex in the Stepford Wives; Guy Woodhouse, Rosemary’s husband in Rosemary’s Baby, eager to sacrifice his wife for his acting career. And while we all know a Stepford Wife, we probably have met these husbands as well. I find them recognizable. Levin’s characters found themselves in predicaments that were hard to imagine coming true—but the motivations for their behavior (wanting a pliant spouse, selfish ambition) were not hard to imagine at all. These human foibles are at the heart of the matter.
In the film, Mia Farrow is Rosemary Woodhouse, and John Cassavetes is her husband, Guy, an actor whose career is stalled and going nowhere. The two of them move into a spacious apartment in the Bramford building (shot on location at the Dakota building) in Manhattan. Rosemary meets a neighbor in the laundry room, a young woman who speaks highly of the people she lives with, Minnie and Roman Castavet whom, she says, took her in off the streets and saved her life. Just a few days later she is found dead on the sidewalk outside the building, a suicide. Rosemary and Guy meet Minnie and Roman that night; they are both strolling home to the building and arrive at the same time. Minnie and Roman are an older couple, in their late 60s or 70s, played by Ruth Gordon and Sidney Blackmer. They soon insinuate themselves into the younger couple’s lives, forcing themselves onto the couple, who are too polite to reject them, but soon Guy is seduced by them. You don’t see it happen but later you come to understand that Roman has proposed a deal to Guy and Guy has accepted it. Guy has sold his soul to the devil so that he can have success in his career, and it works. The man playing the role he covets suddenly goes blind, and Guy gets the part.
The price for his success? His wife will be impregnated by the devil and bear his child. The young woman who has fallen to her death was supposed to bear the child, but maybe killed herself or was killed when she realized what she was involved in. In a terrifying scene, Rosemary, surrounded by the coven that includes Minnie and Roman, is held down and raped. She is hallucinating as this happens but some of the action she sees is taking place, and eventually she screams what has become a signature line from the film, “This is not a dream! This is really happening!” The next day, Rosemary discovers long claw marks on her back, and Guy tries to pretend that he made the marks during sex with her the night before. Rosemary looks at him differently than she has; she had seemed to adore him and now she looks at him with confusion and fear. If he scratched her like that, it’s very strange; if he is lying, it’s worse still. Much of the rest of the movie is about Rosemary trying to figure out what is happening to her, understanding what is happening, and trying to convince others that it is “really happening.” After she gives birth, the coven members tell her that her baby has died, and Guy expects her to move on and forget about it. The baby hasn’t really died, and the ambiguous ending makes it clear that the coven will use the baby to gain power and wreak havoc.
One of the reasons the film is so effective is because of the fine performances by all of the actors, even those in small roles such as Patsy Kelly as Minnie’s dim-witted friend, and Ralph Bellamy as a bellicose doctor. Ruth Gordon’s Academy Award winning performance, however, is a stand-out. She makes the conceit of devil-worshippers-who-look-like-your-grandma work, and it works beautifully. Her Minnie seems to be a batty old lady, kind of nosy but endearing and well-meaning, eccentric but not dangerous, and most importantly, harmless. It is hard to believe—nearly impossible to believe—that this old woman with her badly applied lipstick, gaping handbags and herbs from her herb garden, is sinister and evil. Gordon is entirely convincing as someone who is a skilled liar and con artist. She wiles her way into their lives because a person like Rosemary is too polite to refuse her. By the time she is sick of the Castavets and is ready to politely refuse them, Guy has been seduced and will not hear of her rejecting them.
If you take away the supernatural element, Guy could be any man who is seduced by his neighbors—wanting to keep up with the Joneses, wanting to get in on the deal, wanting to be famous, wanting to impress the others, whether it be in the building, on the job, or to the world. These people are a ticket to a bigger life and more success, money, and fame. He is willing to use his wife’s body to make it happen. Surely this is a metaphor for a person who sells his soul for success. The wife in this situation can be sacrificed in many ways to make it happen: to work hard while he pursues his dream, to be ignored or be ashamed of when he realizes he wants another kind of life than the one she can offer, to help him become a success until he is successful enough for a trophy wife. One of the tenets of a religious marriage vow is the promise to keep sexually faithful and even, in some vows, to “worship” each other’s bodies, perhaps in a holy sense of worship; what happens in the Woodhouse marriage is a complete blasphemy of this idea. A selfish person puts his or her own desires ahead of the other—with that person, there can really be no union. Stories of the “black mass” and Satanic stories may even reinforce the validity of the religious idea that they purport to trample, as may Satanic fables reinforce our most basic values: when you think about it, there could be nothing more appalling than betraying your spouse, and when it happens to you it feels horrific, like being fucked by the devil.
I’ve watched Rosemary’s Baby at different points in my life, and when I watched it after giving birth, it resonated with me about the experience of childbearing. Rosemary finds herself craving raw meat and having terrible pains—due to the fact that she is birthing a devil baby. However, cravings, pains, sickness—these are real and miserable parts of pregnancy. Having had my pregnancy nausea and sickness start around Valentine’s Day, I only have to think of Valentine’s Day to feel nauseous, and that happened to me nearly twenty years ago! I remember the fear and mixed feelings I had about having a baby, and I wanted to have a baby, and so did my husband. But I had sensitivity to smells, felt dizzy, threw up every day, and felt completely out of control of my body; I felt invaded as well as afraid, in the first part of my first pregnancy. That changed; I felt happy and calm as time progressed. But having a baby is a change that marks your life forever, and there is no turning back once it happens. It’s something that is seldom talked about or admitted to; we are annoyed or disgusted by women who feel that their pregnancy is less than ideal, or that their passage into motherhood was not easy. We do not talk about how we fear that we could be bearing a monster or a “bad seed,” how we may not know what to do, that we fear we may not have enough love or patience or mothering instinct. We do not want to hear about those fears, and we do not want to hear about how pregnancy changes a man and woman’s relationship, maybe for the worse. In Rosemary’s Baby, Guy is shown as not caring much about the baby; he knows that it will be taken away and given to the coven. How many women have found that their husband is not really interested in their pregnancy, or feels it interferes with the attention given to them, to their needs? Guy is really only interested in his burgeoning career. The knowledge that one has made a mistake, that the person one is tied now to is not the person you thought you married—Rosemary’s Baby reveals that bleak, depressing, and real-life scary story. Rosemary realizes it when she sees the scratches on her back, and she never feels the same way about him again. When Guy sees what is waiting for him in a glittering future, he realizes he’s set his sights too low in a life with Rosemary. He is no longer an understudy and is ready for more.
Horror stories like Rosemary’s Baby tell the truth about our darker natures. We can look at our bad feelings, hatreds, misgivings and betrayals without knowing too well what the story really reveals about our feelings—it’s displaced onto a monster, a Thing, a killer, a mist, a contagion. We can see the truth and the horror refracted, like looking at a Medusa head in reflection so that we do not turn to stone. We can look at our darker natures, and accept that they exist somewhere, displaced into a place we call the supernatural.

Stephanie Brown is the author of two collections of poetry, Domestic Interior and Allegory of the Supermarket. She’s published work in American Poetry Review, Ploughshares and The Best American Poetry series. She was awarded an NEA Fellowship in 2001 and a Breadloaf Fellowship in 2009. She has taught at UC Irvine and the University of Redlands and is a regional branch manager for OC Public Libraries in southern California.

Horror Week 2011: House of 1000 Corpses

Too often horror is criticized for being antifeminist. Yes, most often men are the aggressors in these films, and women are shown as the helpless, one dimensional victims. Unfortunately the problem of flat female characters and dominant male leads is not isolated to just the horror genre. In fact, that is a major issue for all of Hollywood. Every day we are bombarded with images of spineless women who need their men to help them fix the car, or assemble furniture, and this might go unnoticed by people because we are so accustomed to these characters. The side effect of the brutality and raw emotion in horror makes it a much more obvious venue for showing our society’s overall angst when it comes to gender issues. Shouldn’t we be equally concerned about the portrayal of all one dimensional characters, regardless of their state of distress? Why is horror the problem here?
When discussing horror as a genre it is helpful to boil it down to basics. Watching horror is a sadistic act. People go to horror films to watch other people be tortured, killed, or humiliated. And we, the audience, get a thrill out of those acts. Whether is it because we like to see those who deserve it be punished, or we just like to feel fear, or we enjoy the thrill of watching pure emotion pour out of the screen, we like it and we want more of it. When it comes to horror films, I think the most feminist act of all is equal opportunity sadism. When the aggressor of this violence (mental or physical) is a woman acting of her own twisted free will, enjoying tormenting her victims, only then do I feel satisfied as a feminist viewer. The character of Baby is why Rob Zombie’s 2003 film House of 1000 Corpses a solidly feminist horror film. More on that later.

The film starts with a set of four college kids as they pull into a gas station and get more than they bargained for. Sounds horribly cliché, right? This is where the genius of Zombie’s film begins to shape up . You see, the film can essentially be broken in to two parts. The first half is essentially a love letter from Zombie to all of the great horror movies of the past. Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Hills Have Eyes, and even The Munsters gets a reference or two. Zombie spends the first half of the film showing you that he has the knowledge of horror to be able to pull off the second half of the film. From there he takes us down the rabbit hole (literally) to a horrific, indulgent world of his own making.

The college kids’ predicament starts after a brief stop at a roadside attraction run by a local character Captain Spaulding (played by genre favorite Sid Haig). The good Captain has just killed two bumbling robbers, but the kids arrive just after that mess was cleaned up. While filling up on gas, kids tour the Captain’s haunted house that rehashes the local legend of a murderer and torturer, Dr Satan.

Stereotypically, the two college guys, Bill and Jerry (The Office’s Rainn Wilson and Chris Hardwick), love the haunted house and the two women, Denise and Mary (Erin Daniels and Jennifer Jostyn), are bored by it. While I do take fault with Zombie for following the general premise that women don’t like that sort of thing, it reads more like an homage to all of the uninterested and nagging girlfriends in past horror films. These four are mostly uninteresting and uncharismatic. But crucially they are equally so. Both the women and the men in this (let’s face it) doomed group are superficially and poorly developed characters. Even Denise’s call home to her ex-cop father doesn’t do much for her. Zombie is saving all of his interesting characterization for the sadistic Firefly family.

Inevitably the college kids pick up a hitchhiker, which is where the plot starts to get interesting. This hitchhiker, Baby Firefly (played by Zombie’s wife Sheri Moon), seems odd and off in her own world. She messes with the radio and giggles at the college kids. Both Denise and Mary instantly despise her and are obviously threatened by her sexuality, and as expected both Bill and Jerry like her. While this little battle starts to play out, and Baby is loudly drumming on the car’s dashboard, the car gets a flat tire. Of course the sexy female hitchhiker is a local and her brother can help fix the car. It is when Baby insists that the whole gang come over to dinner that this story finally becomes interesting.

Baby’s house, and presumably her brother’s tools, isn’t far, so the gang is whisked away to the house for shelter and a quick meal with the Firefly family. If the group of college students had any doubts about whether or not they were in a horror film, all of these doubts were erased at dinner. The whole family shows up to nosh and it reads like a casting call for characters out of horror film history. There is the terrifying and unhinged older brother Otis (Bill Mosley in a career rescuing role), the younger but gargantuan and deformed brother Tiny (Matthew McGrory), the elderly Eddie Munster looking Grandpa (Dennis Fimple’s penultimate role), and the aloof and spineless mother (played by Karen Black). Throw in the required Halloween masks to be worn at the table, and we have a truly motley dinner party.

After dinner the college kids are all but forced to attend the Firefly’s Halloween eve floor show in the barn next the house. The vaudevillian show starts with Grandpa yoking it up on stage. Grandpa’s jokes are sexual, astoundingly offensive, and old fashioned. Both Denise and Mary are obviously disgusted by the whole thing. Jerry loves it. He is eating the provided popcorn and having a great time while he is there. After Grandpa finishes his act Mary and Denise try to talk to Bill and Jerry about leaving. They want to head out on foot to find someone else who can help them. Bill and Jerry quickly dismiss their request because they are in the middle of nowhere and the odds of them getting somewhere safely are nil.

It is a good thing that they stayed. Good for us, the audience who is waiting for the torturing to begin, but not good for our sitting duck college kids.

The next, and final, act in the Firefly show belong to Baby. She starts of stage looking like the type of woman that is created specifically for the male gaze. Her hair is teased up to nearly an afro. She is wearing a skin tight, floor length beaded dress. Her makeup is so extreme it looks like an almost kabuki costume: drawn on lips, exaggerated eye lashes and rosy cheeks. Baby then proceeds to lip sync to “I Want To Be Loved By You” and flit with the male members of the audience.

While Baby does seem to be enjoying herself while performing, it seems more like she is putting on a show for the available young men there. Both Bill and Jerry are enjoying the show very much (to the annoyance for Mary and Denise) but they are not about to act of these impulses. They like to watch Baby dance, but only from as an object and have no real desire to interact with that object. Baby seems to be going through the motions of the show, but ultimately it is an awkward performance. We have seen the real Baby, and this is not her. The real Baby likes to listen to loud rock music and torture cheerleaders. Her empowered version of sexy is wearing ass-less pants and buying cases of alcohol. By performing just for the men, and playing up to the expected male gaze, Zombie is making a comment on the problematic representation of the feminine in film. Here Baby is doing everything right to act the part of a typical Hollywood woman, but it isn’t successful in wooing anyone, and is making more enemies than friends. This antiquated representation of the female is no longer attractive to an audience.

As the performance is going along, and Baby is approaching Bill to sit on his lap while lip syncing, Mary’s jealousy gets the better of her and she tosses Baby from Bill’s lap. Mary shouts at Baby, calling her a slut and a redneck whore. This is totally uncalled for. Yes, Baby was heavily flirting with Mary’s beau, but calling her those names was a bit harsh. Interestingly this is where the film goes rapidly downhill. Baby pulls a straight razor from out of her dress and threatens to cut off Mary’s tits. Here is where Baby really hits her stride and becomes the proactive, violence loving woman that she is meant to be. When Mary insults her misguided attempt at performing the assumed male concept of femininity Baby’s first reaction is to remove one of the most obvious objects of Mary’s femaleness. Insulting another woman with those sexualized names should then make the insulter less of a woman. And by bringing down another woman, she should be punished accordingly.
At this very second the mechanic brother Rufus shows up and declares that the car is fixed and they can leave. We all know that the group can’t leave and that they will be eradicated one by one in very interesting ways. At that moment, though, they all scurry off to the car in hopes of escape.

Throughout the rest of the film Baby and the Firefly bunch torture and terrify each of the college kids, and even Denise’s dad and a sheriff killed after a botched rescue attempt. Each kill is more interesting and inventively than the last, and Zombie has fun showing the audience how sick and creative he can make a modern horror film. Firmly throughout the film Zombie balances the female characters and the male characters equally. There are uninteresting flat college kids of both genders, and both men and women as tormentors. Baby seems to get just as much satisfaction in maiming Jerry as Otis gets in turning Bill into a taxidermy display. It is this even handed approach to the horror of the Fireflys that ultimately makes House of 1000 Corpses a feminist entry into this classic genre.


Deirdre Crimmins lives in Boston with her husband and two black cats. She wrote her Master’s thesis on George Romero and works too much.

Horror Week 2011: Let This Feminist Vampire In

This piece by Natalie Wilson previously appeared at Bitch Flicks on October 13, 2010.
 
Cross-posted at Ms. Magazine
Warning: spoilers
Vampires have become so common in contemporary texts that they have lost some of their bite. With most of them falling into the emo, brooding, love-struck and angst-ridden variety (Edward of Twilight, Damon of The Vampire Diaries and Bill of True Blood), the female vampire featured in Let Me In (the U.S. remake of the Swedish film Let the Right One In) presents a refreshing change. Abby (Chloe Moretz), the 12-year-old lonely-yet-resilient vampire in a world populated by male violence, is a feminist vampire worth rooting for.
While the original film was also excellent, it lacked some of the more overt gendered analysis of the U.S. version. Though this may be due to discrepancies in translation (I saw the film both in Swedish with English subtitles and dubbed in English), the bullying theme running throughout the narrative was framed very differently in the Swedish version. In it, the young male protagonist, Oskar, was repeatedly told to “squeal like a pig” by his tormentors. In contrast, the male protagonist in the U.S. version, now named Owen (played by Kodi Smit-McPhee), is attacked by bullies with taunts such as  “Hey, little girl” and “Are you a little girl?”
Owen’s burgeoning friendship with the young vampire Abby (named Eli in the original) furthers this gendered meme when she advises him “You have to hit back … hit them back harder than you dare.” When she promises to help him, he says “But you’re a girl,” exhibiting the belief the bullies have instilled in him that girls are scared and weak. Even though an earlier scene showed Owen smiling as he views a girl punching the lead bully in the arm, this approval of female resistance has not erased the anti-girl taunts the bullies have polluted his brain with.
With an existence shrouded by his parents’ ugly divorce, the film suggests Owen has turned to voyeurism as an escape from his prison-like existence at both home and school. As Owen watches the world from his bedroom telescope and from behind his wide-eyed gaze, we see the daily injustices humans enact upon one another: bedroom fights, schoolyard torture, sibling abuse, interpersonal violence. Much of this violence is linked to codes of masculinity, including the muscling-up men do to create bodies capable of violence.
In comparison, vampire Abby’s thirst for blood becomes less violent and a lesser evil: Killing is something she resorts to in order to survive, in contrast to it being a sport (as with the bullies) or a means to secure and keep a mate (as with her “father” figure). The everyday violence in the film is more horrific and has more lasting effects than Abby’s monstrous thirst.
Unfortunately, the opportunity to further the suggestion that “average humans” are plenty monstrous is rendered less horrific in the American version by removing the references/suggestions of pedophilia in the original novel and film. Nevertheless, the remake provocatively suggests that our cultural proclivity to focus on exceptionally violent crimes of the “stranger danger” variety allows enduring, daily acts of violence to go comparatively unnoticed. Owen has adopted this view as well–he never mentions evil until he learns Abby is a vampire, failing to see that what the bullies do to him is actually more evil.
Though the film drips with gendered representations (although ones not as graphic, nor as queer as the original novel, as discussed here), reviews such as those in The New York Times and at MovieFone offer no gender analysis–an omission that seems particularly odd given the misogynistic bullying the film depicts as well as its focus on a girl vampire, a rarity in our male-dominated vampire tales of late.
To find such analysis, one most go back to reviews of the original film, including here at Feminist Review. Noting the tendency for a “queer sensibility about female vampires in film, whether explicit or subtextual,” Loren Krywanczyk argues the “gender non-normativity” of the two young protagonists presents us with a queering of gender as well as of childhood sexuality. Such queer readings are even more apt if Abby/Eli’s centuries-earlier castration (cut in the American film and only alluded to in the Swedish version) is taken into account.
While there has been much rallying against the necessity of remaking the film to appease Americans subtitle-avoidance (as here), I feel this new version offers yet another useful spin on a very complex tale–one a bit less queer but also one that  links the cultural disdain for femininity to the ubiquity of horrific daily acts of violence. If only our mainstream news media would similarly let that argument in.
Natalie Wilson, PhD is a literature and women’s studies scholar, blogger, and author. She teaches at Cal State San Marcos and specializes in the areas of gender studies, feminism, feminist theory, girl studies, militarism, body studies, boy culture and masculinity, contemporary literature, and popular culture. She is author of the blogs Professor, what if…? and Seduced by Twilight. She is a proud feminist mom of two feminist kids (one daughter, one son) and is an admitted pop-culture junkie. She previously contributed posts to Bitch Flicks about The United States of Tara, Nurse Jackie, and Lost.

Horror Week 2011: The Descent

When I first heard of The Descent, around the time of its 2006 theatrical release, it was described to me as “a movie about a bunch of lesbians who go into a cave and there are monsters.”

As it turns out, the entire six-woman cast of characters is ostensibly straight, if their boy talk in the early character-establishing scenes is anything to go by. I suspect my friend saw an all-female cast in a horror movie and assumed there MUST be lesbianism going on, because what’s a horror movie without sex? Or, for a more sexist explanation, chicks doing something interesting together without male supervision reads lesbian.
[Warning: If you are a group of friends in a movie, and you take a picture like this, at least half of you will be killed.]
Regardless, The Descent IS a movie about a bunch of women who go into a cave and there are monsters. What makes it such a brilliant movie is that you can chop the last three words off that plot description and you still have the makings of a terrific scary movie. It’s almost a full hour before the monsters appear, but that doesn’t mean the horror can’t start before the opening titles. After establishing a group of adventuresome female friends, we’re subject to witness the gruesome auto accident that kills main character Sarah’s husband and child. One year later, the friends have reconvened in the Appalachian mountains in the United States for a caving expedition to help a grief-wracked Sarah get her groove back. Only Juno, the alpha dog in the group (who just happened to have been schtupping Sarah’s husband before he was killed) knows that they are actually venturing into an unexplored cave system. In Juno’s mind, this surprise is an even greater gift to Sarah, who will get the honor of naming the cave system, perhaps after her dead daughter. But after a tunnel collapse blocks off their return path, Juno’s surprise means the group has no map and no one on the surface knows where they are.
Being trapped in an unknown cave with limited resources and no hope of outside rescue is in itself a terrifying situation, and The Descent plays it for all it is worth. A seemingly bottomless chasm must be crossed with only half the cams needed. One caver’s hand is sliced open by a ropeline when she saves her friend from plummeting to her death. Another caver follows the illusion of daylight, falls down a hole, and suffers a compound fracture in her leg. I’m already watching about half of the scenes through a finger screen and demanding that we turn the lights back on.
And then, the monsters come. Humanoid creatures with waxy pale skin, unseeing bleached-out eyes, and a tendency to rip people’s throats out and then chomp on their guts. Because the creature design is so simple, The Descent can afford to show them to us without your typical monster-movie restraint. And because the creatures are blind, we’re forced to endure several close-quarters silent standoffs recalling the T-Rex vs. Jeep scene in Jurassic Park. Only this is an R-rated horror movie, so some of those encounters end in stomach-turning gore.
All of this adds up to a horror movie so over-the-top terrifying I can’t believe I was willing to watch it again to write this review. But the gender implications of The Descent are too rich for me to deny, even though the film is sadly bereft of lesbians.
According to the iron-clad authority of Wikipedia, The Descent was originally conceived with a mixed-gender cast, until director Neil Marshall’s business partner “realized that horror films almost never have all-female casts.” But the female cast of The Descent brings more than novelty. I also don’t ascribe to Marshall’s suggestion that the chief advantage of the all-female cast is more naked emotion in a terrifying situation [“The women discuss how they feel about the situation, which the soldiers in Dog Soldiers [Marshall’s previous horror film] would never have done.”] The women of The Descent actually approach their situation with what is, at least to my American eyes, quite the stiff upper lip.
[Sidebar: Wikipedia also notes that Marshall gave the women different accents “to enable the audience to tell the difference between the women,” which is maybe the most depressing thing I’ve ever read. Who needs to bother with characterization when you have ACCENTS?]
I’m not buying the story that the all-female cast was to grab attention (if that were the case, maybe they would have been lesbians) or to allow for deeper exploration of feelings.  I think the all-female cast of The Descent is designed to clue the audience into a particular subtextual layer to this horror story. Because what’s more terrifying than being trapped in a cave with monsters? Women. Women’s bodies.
While a cave setting evokes female reproductive organs almost inherently, the set design here takes this metaphor to extremes. The women descend into the cave through a slit-shaped gash in the earth, and then must crawl head-first through a narrow passageway into the greater cave system, where the true danger of the monsters await.
The monsters, depicted as the products of evolution motivated only by a primal drive for survival, are the perfect elaboration of this cave-as-womb horror metaphor. And as a cherry on top, they rip the guts out of these women.
Wait, the actual cherry on top is our heroine Sarah emerging Apocalypse Now-style from a pool of blood in the cave gallery that functions as the monsters’ killing fields, the signature image from the film.  And the cherry on top of that cherry is that Sarah fights the only female creature in the film while still wading in the pool of blood and kills her by stabbing her in the face with a phallic bone.
After this menstrual baptism, Sarah shifts from a wounded woman paralyzed by grief into terrifying killing machine, fighting off the creatures so gruesomely it seems almost dangerously inefficient (Eye gouging? Really? They can’t even see!) 
After all this, there’s still time for two more twists that rely on the gender of the cast for maximum effectiveness. [SPOILER ALERT, obviously.] First, we have Sarah in Creature Terminator Mode turn her rage against Juno, the only other human survivor, after discovering Juno’s affair with her late husband, by wounding her and leaving her to die at the hands of the creatures. It’s a moment that doesn’t sit quite right with me, in part because it is almost impossible to imagine a similar situation playing out between two male characters. 
Shortly after this betrayal, Sarah escapes from the caves and is able to return to their parked vehicle. As she takes a moment to collect herself, she sees a bloody Juno in the passenger’s seat. In the American theatrical release, the film ends here, but in the original edit and the DVD Director’s Cut there’s an additional minute of footage where we see that Sarah’s entire escape was a hallucination, and she is still in the cave, with no exit in sight. Sarah then hallucinates her daughter sitting with her in the cave with a lit birthday cake, and looks peaceful and accepting as the camera pulls out to reveal the enormity of the cave and the great number of creatures closing in. I prefer this ending, not only because I’m a sucker for bleak endings.  Throughout the film we’re given suggestions that Sarah’s grief is so great it has become a mental illness, including earlier depictions of hallucinations. And as much as I tire of cinema’s endless fascination with mentally ill women, in this case, it feels like a more honest character arc than the idea that fighting for survival and exacting cruel vengeance could snap her out of her grief haze. 
Whether it was done to cash in on these female tropes, to underscore the metaphors to the female anatomy, or just to grab our attention, the all-female cast undeniably serves in The Descent’s favor. And it sure is a nice treat for us horror-flick loving bitches.  
Robin Hitchcock previously reviewed Michael Clayton for Bitch Flicks. You can read more of her movie reviews at her blog HitchDied and plenty more feminist pop culture analysis at her other blog The Double R Diner.

In ‘Women, War & Peace’s ‘I Came to Testify’ Brave Bosnian Women Speak Out About Surviving Rape as a Weapon of War

 

This is a guest post from Megan Kearns. It originally appeared at The Opinioness of the World.

 

When we discuss war and security, we don’t often explore its ramifications on women. Rape and sexual assault are common threats women face globally. But of all the artillery and tactics soldiers use, we rarely think of rape as a weapon of war. And yet too often, it is.

 

On Tuesday night, I watched I Came to Testify, the first in the 5-part documentary series, Women, War and Peace, on PBS showcasing women’s role in war and its impact on women. Produced and written by Pamela Hogan, one of the series’ executive producers, I Came to Testify highlights the courageous women who testified about the rape camps during the Bosnian genocide.

 

The powerful film examines women’s horrific experiences in the town of Foca in Bosnia (formerly Yugoslavia), a site of one of the rape camps. Before the Bosnian War, journalist Refic Hodzic said that brotherhood and unity was the “ideology” in Yugoslavia; “no one cared who was Croat, who was Serb, who was Muslim.” But overnight, things changed. Many Serbs pulled their children out of school and fled town. The Bosnian Muslims were eventually dehumanized by Serbian soldiers, pitting neighbor against neighbor.

 

In Foca, soldiers rounded up the Bosnian men, women and children. Men “were beaten, starved and executed in concentration camps” while the women “were locked in hotels, schools, private homes & makeshift prisons around the city.” After they were gathered, the rapes began. Soldiers threatened women; to cut off their breasts, slit their throats and kill their daughters. Hundreds of women and girls were held captive in rape camps.

 

Established by the United Nations Security Council in 1993, the Yugoslav War Crimes Tribunal in The Hague, Netherlands was the first tribunal established in Europe since Nuremberg and the first ever convened during a war. 16 women agreed to travel to The Hague to share their nightmarish ordeal. As narrator Matt Damon (who wanted to be a part of the documentary because of his 4 daughters) said:

“Their testimonies would embody the experience of hundreds of women held captive in Foca.”

One of the witnesses, called Witness 99 to protect her anonymity, recounted how on the day they were rounded up, she was raped in front of her in-laws and then they were murdered in front of her. Witness 99 escaped to a refugee camp where the horror of rape continued. Another witness said she “cried and pleaded” for the soldiers to let her go “but they just laughed.” Another witness testified that one of the soldiers told another, “You have to learn how to rape Muslim women like we are doing.” The women said fear “paralyzed” them.

 

In Foca, half the residents, 20,000 Muslims were just gone. All 14 mosques were destroyed. Evidence in Foca showed that a campaign could be built to prove that a systematic, organized campaign of rape had been “used as an instrument of terror.” While the UN estimated 20,000 women raped in Bosnia, others say it was more like 50,000.

 

Peggy Kuo served as a trial attorney with the tribunal. She declared that “rape has always been an undercurrent of war.” When talking about war, the term “rape and pillage” frequently arises. But we don’t really think about what the words mean. Kuo said the soldiers raped the women, objectifying them and attempting “to strip them of their identity.” Journalist Hodzic explained:

“Rape was used not only for the immediate impact on women but for the long-term destruction on the soul of the community.”

Witness 99 asserted:

“Rape is the worst form of humiliation for any woman. But that was the goal: to kill a woman’s dignity.”

The women heroically faced their fears to share their stories. They were astutely deemed heroes by those interviewed in the film. As Kuo articulated:

“…The people who came and testified were able to maintain their dignity and they didn’t let the perpetrators take their humanity away from them. So yes in one sense they were victims. But in another sense, they were the strong ones. They survived.”

While rape had been charged as a crime before, it usually falls under the umbrella of hate crimes. With this groundbreaking tribunal, for the first time rape was charged as “a crime against humanity.” The case wouldn’t prevent all rapes. But Kuo said that even though they couldn’t prosecute every rape, it was a significant statement to acknowledge what happens to women during war. The case “transformed the definition of wartime slavery,” laying the “foundation of trials involving violence against women in international courts.”

 

War leaves devastation in its wake. Yet historically, when we talk about war, we talk about it in terms of soldiers and casualties; too often from a male perspective, forgetting that it equally destroys women’s lives. Kuo explained:

“Looking at pictures of Nuremberg, it’s mostly men…women aren’t given a place at the table, even as a witness…”

And that still holds true today. We need to reframe security issues from a gendered lens.

 

Genocide frighteningly still occurs; people systematically killed because of their ethnicity, religion or the color of their skin. As tragically seen in Sierra Leone and the Democratic Republic of the Congo, soldiers utilize rape as a weapon of war again and again. Rape and sexual assault occur beyond conflicts and don’t only threaten women as men face rape in wartime too. It’s an epidemic we must combat.

 

Bravery bolstered the 16 Bosnian women to come forward, speaking out against the unspeakable atrocities they survived. As Witness 99 so eloquently said:

“War criminals wouldn’t be known & there would be no justice if witnesses didn’t testify…I was glad to be able to say what happened to me and to say who had done this to me & my people. I felt like I had fulfilled my duty. I came to look him in the face. I came to testify.”

We live in a rape culture that continually silences women’s narratives. The survivors’ horrific experiences shock and haunt. If we ever hope to change things and obtain justice and peace, I Came to Testify reminds us that women’s voices must be heard.

 

Watch the full episode of I Came to Testify online or on PBS.

 

Megan Kearns is a blogger, freelance writer and activist. She blogs at The Opinioness of the World, a feminist vegan site. Her work has also appeared at Arts & Opinion, Fem2pt0, Italianieuropei, Open Letters Monthly, and A Safe World for Women. She earned her B.A. in Anthropology and Sociology and a Graduate Certificate in Women and Politics and Public Policy. Megan lives in Boston with more books than she will probably ever read in her lifetime.

Megan contributed reviews of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The Girl Who Played with Fire, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest, Something Borrowed, !Women Art Revolution, The Kids Are All Right (for our 2011 Best Picture Nominee Review Series), The Reader (for our 2009 Best Picture Nominee Review Series), Game of Thrones and The Killing (for our Emmy Week 2011), as well as a piece for Mad Men Week called, “Is Mad Men the Most Feminist Show on TV?” She was the first writer featured as a Monthly Guest Contributor.

Occupy Wall Street and Feminism and Misogyny (Oh My?)

 

I’ve been 100% on board with Occupy Wall Street since it began almost a month ago. I wrote about my experience protesting with them on October 5, and—leading up to the Times Square Occupation—I almost had goose bumps. I was ready to take the square. And then, it happened—I browsed Facebook. In my defense, I went to the Facebook community page for Occupy Wall Street to find out exactly when and where I should meet my fellow protesters, but instead, I found a YouTube video posted by the page administrator that more than seven hundred people had shared and on which hundreds of people had commented. I had to watch it. I wish I wouldn’t have. The “comedian” ranted with so much repressed disdain for women that it couldn’t help but leak out, turning his tirade from something intended to critique Wall Street and the Banks into an opportunity to degrade women directly; when he ranted about the true Economy Tankers, or the mainstream media, or those who don’t support the movement, he conveniently addressed them as an abstract and general “you.” I created a transcript of the entire video just to make sure I wasn’t going all woman and not understanding comedy and getting unnecessarily pissed about little things that don’t matter. Let’s see! Video and transcript below, with bullshit in bold:

The New York Times, the highly respected New York Times, did a great article yesterday about Occupy Wall Street. The entire report revolved around how Occupy Wall Street is a big pain in the ass to the area’s public bathrooms. Now there’s two things you need to know about the last sentence I just said. A: I’m not kidding. B: The double entendre was unintended. There will be several more of those in the following three minutes, and all of them are unintended except for seven. The New York Times, which is a so-called liberal media outlet, is more concerned about the harm done to the public restrooms than they are with the harm done to the American people by corporations and Wall Street titans who make Charlie Sheen’s moral compass look like that of Harriet Tubman. As billionaires continue to shit all over this country like it’s a bathroom near Occupy Wall Street, the media is more worried about the bathrooms near Occupy Wall Street? Are you fucking serious? Get your head out of your ass, and maybe you’ll be able to better see your priorities. This world is a shit storm of greed that desperately needs mopping up. We’re talking about people’s homes, people’s lives, people’s dreams, and the media wants to make it about the discomfort of millionaires who live around Liberty Square? The article said mothers have trouble getting strollers around police barricades. God forbid the revolution should get in the way of your evening stroll with pookie wookie. This may not be a revolution in the traditional sense, but this is a revolution of thought. Americans are tired of greed over good, profitable pollution over people, war for wealth over the welfare of average workers. This is a thought revolution, and the revolution will not be sanitized. It will be criticized, ridiculed, intentionally misconstrued, and misunderstood. But it’ll push through. Shit all over it all you want, but the floodgates are open now. The revolution will not be tidy. The revolution will not fit with your Pilates schedule. The revolution will not be quiet after 10 pm, and it will not fit easily into a mainstream media- defined paradigm. The revolution will affect your bottom line. The revolution will affect you whether you ignore it or not. The revolution will not be dissuaded by barricades or pepper spray, driving rain, police raids, or ankle sprains. It’s like the postal service on steroids; pepper spraying us is like throwing water on gremlins—the more you do it, the more of us show up. The revolution will be annoying to the top 1% and those who aren’t open minded enough to understand it. The revolution does not care if you satirize it; you still won’t be able to jeopardize it. The revolution will not wait until after your hair appointment, your dinner party, tummy tuck, or titty tilt. The revolution does not care about your lack of intellectual curiosity. The revolution will not be televised, but it will be digitized and available on YouTube, Facebook, Twitter, and anywhere real ideas are told. The revolution will not be hijacked by your old, tired, rejected political beliefs. The revolution will make politicians squirm, bankers bitch, elites moan, and those with Stockholm Syndrome scream, “Hit me, punk criminal assholes. Shut up and do what our captors told you. There’s a sitcom on about a chubby guy who hates his wife, and we’re supposed to watch it. Now fall in line.” The revolution will not be monetized, commercialized, circumcised, or anesthetized. Good god, don’t you get it? Greed is no longer good, and it’s not god. The thought revolution is here to stay whether you give two shits about it or not. The revolution would, however, like to apologize for shitting all over your apathy. Now pick a side.

Damn me! It’s not like I wanted to be right about this guy being a total misogynist profusely praised by hundreds. (Okay, they didn’t say, “You hate women! Awesome!” but I’m inclined to believe that ignoring the hatred for and alienation of more than 50% of the population, especially among a group of people that claims to represent the needs of 99% of the population, doesn’t exactly bode well for the group’s collective message of inclusion. Remember, the Facebook page administrator for Occupy Wall Street posted this video.) Many women and people from minority groups have written important pieces about their hesitation to fully engage with the Occupy Wall Street movement. I guess up until I watched that YouTube video, as tiny a thing as it may be (it somehow got under my skin), I didn’t truly understand where they were coming from. I’ve mistakenly been abiding by that ol’ standby, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” which meant to me that, yeah, I’m pissed at Wall Street and the Banks; the protesters are pissed at Wall Street and the Banks; therefore, we’re in this together, regardless.

That idea of working toward a common goal, often at the expense of women, has been around forever. We encountered it with Voting Rights. We even encountered it with the identity politics surrounding the 2008 presidential election. The message is always something like, “Don’t worry, ladies; your time will come eventually! We’ll worry about your oppression later.” But while I agree with most of what that video transcript says, I can’t simply ignore the specific rage toward women. I’m a woman. That kind of rhetoric negatively impacts all women. I might not be a mother; I don’t take Pilates classes; I make hair appointments maybe once every eight months; and I haven’t had plastic surgery. But I’m still a woman—regardless of whether I’m as privileged as the women his rant carelessly mentions or whether I’m part of the 99%; I’m not immune. Suffice it to say, by the time Occupy Times Square rolled around, I forced myself down there. For the first time since the movement began, I felt apathetic, confused, and just … icky about it.

But then! After hanging out under a giant rainbow tarp with my fellow protesters in Times Square, and listening to the wonderful street musicians, and chanting, “This is a peaceful protest” when the cops started to get a little edgy, and clapping like crazy when a nice police officer tossed our beach ball back into the crowd, I left with a feeling of … hope? Again? Just like when I participated my first time? And it didn’t feel like that crap hope Obama tried to sell sold during his advertising presidential campaign. It felt … dare I say … real? What is wrong with me?

Like I said—I felt confused. But the thing I realized is I truly believe that most of the organizers and participants I’ve personally met are trying. We live in a patriarchy, which means that smaller groups organized by men and women often inevitably turn into mini-patriarchies. The difference with this movement (I hope) is that the protesters at least recognize the intersecting oppressions of gender, race, class, and sexuality and are trying to change the group dynamics; we’ve had fairly shitty models thus far (visited any matriarchies lately?). It may seem small to merely recognize something, but it’s a pretty big fucking step in the right direction. That isn’t to say that each individual who makes up the group’s members necessarily examines her or his relative privilege as much as she or he should, if at all; but I honestly believe the group wants to get there. The media certainly doesn’t help by painting Occupy Wall Street as a movement organized by a bunch of entitled, young, lazy, pot-smoking white boys who got bored playing video games in their parents’ basements. I can attest—it ain’t like that. Women abound!—a very diverse group of intelligent women whose visibility shouldn’t be minimized, let alone relegated to the sexist bullshit that is Hot Chicks of Occupy Wall Street. (UGH.)
Now, before I unveil my counter-Tumblr blog to showcase the Women Occupiers, I want to first discuss the main reasons this movement, even after my recent reservations, still works for me as a woman and a feminist.

Consciousness Raising: If that douchebag said anything important in the video, he said that Occupy Wall Street is a thought revolution. I agree. And the particular form of activism this movement employs comes directly from consciousness-raising groups formed by feminists in the 1960s. (That may explain why the mainstream media remains clueless about how to discuss it; it’s got that “woman stench” all over it.) Wikipedia briefly defines consciousness raising as “a group of people attempting to focus the attention of a wider group of people on some cause or condition.” The meetings helped women become more politically conscious while also illustrating that individual problems “reflected common conditions faced by all women.” Occupy Wall Street began as a small group of people camping out in Liberty Plaza and—as the direct result and success of their consciousness-raising tactics—the movement has literally gone global. Not only do people march in protest, but they also occupy public spaces for extended periods in smaller groups, often bringing in speakers and setting up scheduled talks that are open to the public (including their General Assemblies). The We Are the 99 Percent blog on Tumblr also represents a viral version of consciousness raising, where a diverse group of individuals impacted most by the Economy Tankers take to the blog and share their personal experiences in order to raise consciousness about the tangible consequences of the rising economic inequalities. It’s working. Go 1960s feminists!

General Assemblies: I have yet to attend a General Assembly, so here’s a quick explanation from the downloadable guide: “The General Assembly is a gathering of people committed to making decisions based upon a collective agreement or ‘consensus.’ There is no single leader or governing body of the General Assembly—everyone’s voice is equal. Anyone is free to propose an idea or express an opinion as part of the General Assembly.” And in their working draft of the Principles of Solidarity, two of the points of unity include: “recognizing individuals’ inherent privilege and the influence it has on all interactions;” and, “empowering one another against all forms of oppression.” I very much like this. As I stated earlier, the effort to examine privilege, even if it occasionally fails, still represents something important and fairly new as a mainstream ideal. (As Occupy Wall Street continues to gain momentum, I don’t see how it can continue to be described as “fringe.”) I have no doubt that this system works sometimes and implodes other times, and I’ve read accounts from women, specifically women of color, who’ve attended a General Assembly and felt that their voices weren’t heard or their views respected. I find those occurrences unacceptable and disheartening to say the least, but I don’t find them shocking either. I can only hope that the values defined in the group’s literature prevail as everyone struggles to examine her or his privilege. After all, that struggle is, in itself, a feminist act.

Economic Inequality: This issue represents my main reason for staying onboard with Occupy Wall Street. Their proposed list of demands from a few weeks ago (not to be confused with any “official list of demands”) includes raising the minimum wage to twenty dollars an hour, instituting a universal single payer healthcare system, free college education, a racial and gender equal rights amendment, and debt forgiveness. It’s no secret (I hope) that single mothers and women of color make up the majority of the poor in the United States. RH Reality Check ran an important piece in August of 2010 that broke down the unemployment rate for these two demographics. Basically, as of around this time last year, the unemployment rate for women who head families climbed to its highest rate in over 25 years. The unemployment rate exclusively for women of color without children jumped to its highest rate since 1986. Newman concludes her article as follows:
If we are not willing to invest in the very programs that will help pull some of our poorest Americans—single mother led households and women of color—out of the spiral, then we are not rebuilding the economy. We are only as strong as our most vulnerable, as the saying goes. To continue a national discussion on unemployment and the recession without acknowledging that our women and children are suffering the most, not because we aren’t able to implement programs and pass legislation like universal, affordable child care, paid sick days, increased food stamp benefits, fair pay standards and more but because we aren’t willing to do so, is something we must own up to and do something about if we are to rise above these hard times and come out stronger than we were when we headed into the recession.

Exactly. And I believe the Occupy Wall Street movement desires to motivate the people to do just that—to push for the necessary programs and legislation that will help the poorest members of our community, you know, not starve, and to challenge our ingrained notions of power—more importantly, who gets to have that power and therefore who gets to make the decisions. The movement makes clear, even though the media keeps pretending it’s an unfocused mess, that what unites the 99% is a collective lack of economic power, which, in an unregulated capitalist society, translates into no fucking power. When your government representatives make decisions about the welfare of the people based on how much money Wall Street pays them, then it’s likely that “the welfare of the people” quickly turns into “the welfare of the people who paid us the most money to look out for their welfare.” Ha. An article from Ms. called, “We Are the 99%, Too: Creating a Feminist Space Within Occupy Wall Street,” further examines this issue of power, privilege, and oppression:
When we think about the elite 1 percent in a position of economic and political power in America, we have to recognize that those elites are predominantly straight, white men. Their position of power is upheld by patriarchy, by white privilege, by heteronormativity. If we want to dismantle oppression in our society, we can only hope to do so by recognizing the ways in which these various systems of oppression intersect and support one another. That doesn’t mean we can’t focus on the economy as a nexus of inequality; clearly, the occupation of Wall Street speaks directly to fighting corporate power and economic privilege. But we cannot imagine creating a society rooted in equality without fighting for all forms of equality, and that includes embracing feminist values. 

I encourage everyone to read the article in full because this discussion is important. The disturbing videos on YouTube—one showing a police officer pepper spraying a group of women, and another showing a police officer picking up a woman and dragging her into Citibank—I’m sure only begin to scratch the surface of what women deal with while occupying. Women deserve to start the conversations about the impact of economic inequality, to participate in the conversations, to change the conversations, and to end the conversations—and they deserve to do those things while not facing police brutality, while not experiencing sexist attacks from a random YouTuber who thinks he’s a comedian, and while, for once, not being sexually objectified. All those things work in tandem to further take away power from women, and we need women in this fight. So, being only one person, but wanting to combat some aspect of this shit, I created Women Occupy, a no-frills Tumblr blog where anyone can upload photos and videos of women occupying, whether that occupation takes place on Wall Street or in Madrid (or wherever). This is also what giving a fuck looks like. Now go. Upload. The end.

 

Movie Preview: Tomboy

I don’t have much to say about this film: it looks amazing, and I can’t wait to see it. Here’s the movie synopsis from Rotten Tomatoes:
A French family with two daughters, 10-year-old Laure and 6-year-old Jeanne, moves to a new neighborhood during the summer holidays. With her Jean Seberg haircut and tomboy ways, Laure is immediately mistaken for a boy by the local kids and passes herself off as Michael. Filmmaker Céline Sciamma brings a light and charming touch to this drama of childhood gender confusion. Zoe Heran as Laure/Michael and Malonn Levanna as Jeanne are nothing less than brilliant. This is a relationship movie: relationships between children, and the even more complicated one between one’s heart and body. 

It’s gotten wonderful reviews so far, which isn’t surprising since it’s written and directed by Céline Sciamma, who also wrote and directed Water Lilies. The film doesn’t officially start playing (in limited release) until November 16th (I’m so there), but I’ll post the trailer to tide us over until then. 

Quote of the Day: Suzanna Danuta Walters

Hi, did we get stuck in 1995? I’m about to offer an excerpt from a book by Suzanna Danuta Walters called Material Girls: Making Sense of Feminist Cultural Theory, which was published in 1995. I’m honestly trying to figure out how this entire excerpt (hell, book?) was written sixteen years ago as opposed to five minutes ago. The chapter “Postfeminism and Popular Culture: A Case Study of the Backlash” focuses mostly on Hollywood films like Baby Boom, Pretty Woman, Fatal Attraction, and Basic Instinct, and looks at how those films portray women and motherhood (where applicable) and violence perpetrated by women. Walters compares the Hollywood backlash of the 1940s and 50s with the current Hollywood backlash–and by current I mean the Hollywood backlash from the 90s that we’re still somehow in, even though sixteen years have passed. I’m excerpting from this book on one hand because I think it’s hilarious that Hollywood has completely given up on even trying to portray women like human beings, and on the other because it makes me want to curl up in a ball when I think about how So Not Far we’ve come, especially since this book (have I mentioned it was published in 1995?) spends a significant amount of time discussing how So Not Far we’ve come. In fact, it might be fun for someone to “rewrite” this passage using current examples from film/television/politics/pop culture. Any takers? We’ll totally publish it.

The recent backlash is somewhat different, however. Whereas the backlash in the late 1940s and 1950s carried an explicit message–get out of the workforce and into the kitchen–this time the backlash is couched in the language of liberation, made to seem trendy, even mildly feminist, as in the film Working Girl. In addition, this backlash is more clearly antifeminist: it responds directly to the women’s movement and often pits one woman against another (Fatal Attraction, Working Girl, The Hand That Rocks the Cradle). This backlash is different because it has to push motherhood; it must sell motherhood and domesticity after those ideologies have already been so soundly critiqued by feminists (unlike in the late 1940s). Furthermore, this backlash contains real violence, as evidenced by the vehemence with which film audiences urge the deaths of femme fatales.

The current period is thus not one of simple backlash (such as that of the late 1940s and 1950s) but is characterized by a rewriting of the women’s movement to define our era as postfeminist, creating an image of a movement both victorious (the myth that we have achieved equality) and failed (look what feminism got you: double duty, burnout, and the explosion of your biological clock).

These media images did not, of course, arise in a vacuum. They emerged in a historical period marked by the rise of the New Right and by the governments of Reagan and Bush. These years have seen a growth in antichoice activism (to the point of terrorism and murder), cutbacks on civil rights and equal opportunity legislation of all kinds, and an epidemic of violence against women. The backlash was supported and perpetuated by a government and presidency that spoke to the assembled throngs at the annual Right-to-Life demonstration in Washington, D.C., but maintained a stony silence toward the millions of women who are battered, raped, denied accessible and affordable child care, and paid consistently less than are men. It is disturbing that we see numerous films in which women are depicted as crazed killers when women are more likely to be terrorized by men: the sad irony of Fatal Attraction, and the rash of news stories that emerged confirming the “reality” of killer ex-girlfriends, is that it is women not men who are most likely to be hurt at the hands of an ex-lover or ex-spouse.

It is in this climate that we witness the popularity of both Fatal Attraction and Pretty Woman. These movies are indeed two sides of the same coin: the coin of male control over women’s lives, the equation of work for women with death and prostitution. One of the classic ways Hollywood tells a woman to get back in the kitchen and obey her master is by punishing her for wayward behavior. Hollywood films include countless examples of single women, working women, women who are not fulfilled as wives and mothers, sexually active women, and just plain feisty women being summarily killed, humiliated, or simply beaten down. Hollywood has always maintained its support of oppressive social roles for women by refusing to acknowledge that women are both sexual beings and potential parents at the same time. . . .

Is it not premature to declare a social movement/social theory over when it has yet to achieve even a modicum of egalitarian goals? How can we possibly speak of “postfeminism” when a woman is still raped or beaten every twenty seconds? When women earn roughly half of what men do? When decisions about our bodies are decided by courts and legislatures that are filled with male voices? When the inclusion of women into the academic curriculum is still a piecemeal and embattled process? When fetal rights (really male rights) still assert themselves over the rights of women? When feminist is still a dirty word, designed to deny self-determination, power, and legitimacy?

Bitch Flicks’ Weekly Picks

What if women were piloting the scripts rather than just starring in them? A review of Pan Am from Professor, What If …

I Watched the Fall Premieres So You Don’t Have To from Feminist Frequency

“Law and Order: Mutilated Women Unit” ep cleverly appeals to multiple niche fetishes at once from I Blame the Patriarchy

No, Kirsten Dunst does not like the term “Manic Pixie Dream Girl” from A. V. Club

The Highest Paid Women in Entertainment — 2011 from Women and Hollywood

Sigourney Weaver’s preference for ‘pure’ parts from Canada.com

Brooklyn Readies for the 14th Annual Reel Sisters Film Festival from FortGreenPatch

Lynne Ramsay: ‘Just talk to me straight’ from The Guardian


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We Interrupt This Broadcast … for an Occupy Wall Street Update

Yesterday, I participated in my first Occupy Wall Street march. I’ve followed the movement—through blogs, twitter, and the live video stream—since it began three weeks ago, so when I left my apartment yesterday, I certainly had a shit-ton of information about the protest. I didn’t, however, really know what the hell to expect (aside from the beatings, gratuitous use of mace by the NYPD, and mass arrests of people exercising their constitutional right to protest, I mean). I kept hearing stuff, like how the protesters aren’t united over a single issue; that they don’t have concrete demands; that they’re leaderless and unorganized; that they’re a bunch of bored college kids who got sick of hanging out in their parents’ basements; that they’re just ungrateful vegan hippies who don’t understand how the world works; that they’re radical anarchists socialists atheists communists artists humanists and—to top it all off—that they’re engaging in all this unacceptable class warfare.

Well.

First, these amazing protesters seriously have it together. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so … opposite of unorganized. We knew exactly what was happening at all times, including where we were marching, what we were yelling, when we needed to stop, and when we needed to speed up. This group may officially be leaderless, but it certainly knows how to coordinate, plan, and carry out tasks. At one point, a man handed me a piece of paper with a list of my rights as a protester, and it included a protocol to follow if an officer attempted to question or arrest me. Helpful! A woman walked by and insisted I take a bottle of water to keep with me while I marched. Thank you! And any time I bumped into someone, whether attempting to take a picture or just, you know, tripping for no reason (as I’m wont to do), my fellow protesters steadied me or laughed with me or apologized profusely even if it clearly wasn’t their fault. It was fun. We were peaceful and chill. It kind of felt like … solidarity.

I mean, sure, people carried different signs for and against various issues. I saw signs about protecting the homeless from police brutality; signs directed at corporations; signs for going green and protecting the environment; signs for abolishing the death penalty; signs for animal rights; some anti-Obama stuff; some anti-Bush stuff; and many signs representing protestors’ specific unions. I didn’t have a sign—I just yelled with the rest of them, my favorite slogan being, “Banks got bailed out. We got sold out.” Truth! Having said all that, I would hardly call this movement divided or unclear in its goals. All these concerns fall under the umbrella of a much larger issue—the fact that 99% of the population is at the mercy of that tiny little 1% at the top of The Money Pile.

I took an Introduction to Political Science course when I was about eighteen and an idiot. I remember my teacher asking us, “Is money speech?” We were all, like, “Um, like, I don’t get it.” The class that day was focused on the concept of free speech in our country, which we all agreed was a constitutional right. But our teacher had to go and make it all complicated. “Is money speech?” he asked again. Our class ultimately decided it was the most ridiculous thing we’d ever heard. I wish I could go back to that classroom, knowing what I know now. One finds out fairly early in her adult life that when she graduates from college, and the bills start rolling in, and the bills start eating up the paycheck, and that emergency room visit happens for that fucking hive outbreak, and wait—how is this visit a thousand dollars when I have health insurance?!—and the bank wants her student loan repaid at this new interest rate, right when her brakes go out, and every broke neo-con in her family is somehow still convinced this whole bootstrap thing is real (and possible)—yeah, she learns that money is, in fact, speech. But how is it speech, you ask?

Well.

In a capitalist society, money matters; but in an unregulated capitalist society, the only thing that matters is money. The people’s right to free speech; our right to democratically elect our government officials; our right to affordable healthcare; our right to breathe clean air; our right to have access to pesticide-free foods; and our right to peacefully protest against, you know, all of our rights being violated; well—you can throw that garbage out the window.

Because, in an unregulated capitalist society, the 1% at the Top of the Money Pile gets to exercise its right to free speech, too, which its elite members happily and unapologetically do in the form of: donating millions of dollars to campaigns, ensuring that when their candidate is elected, they have effectively bought a politician who will work tirelessly to keep them comfy on the Money Pile (in exchange for those pesky campaign contributions again next year, score!); profiting, literally profiting financially, off people who have chronic illnesses, people who become sick and don’t have access to healthcare, people who become sick and have access to healthcare, people who don’t have health insurance, people who do have health insurance, and people who die (pretty good deal for you, insurance companies, amirite?!!); and basically doing whatever the hell they want with our environment and our food supply—the welfare of the people be damned—as long as they make a profit.

The problem with that “I’m using my billions of dollars as speech” thing is that we don’t all have billions of dollars. The 99%, in fact, certainly doesn’t have billions of dollars to throw at politicians as some kind of motivational force to get them to act on our behalf; all we have is our lousy vote. That issue—and this is why the 1% is quaking in its collective [insert expensive brand of shoe here]—transcends political parties and affiliations. My conservative uncle and I can’t post a link on Facebook without each of us having partisan cyber-feuds on each other’s walls. But this issue? It ain’t like that. We’re both pissed that we, the 99%, bailed out The Economy Tankers with our tax dollars, only to stand back helplessly and watch them dole out bonuses and other unaccounted for luxuries to themselves. I mean, are ya serious, assholes?

Now that the mainstream media finally wants to pretend-acknowledge the Occupy Wall Street movement, and its global impact (wait, are they pretend-acknowledging that yet?), I’m not surprised that much of its “coverage” centers around how the protesters aren’t united over a single issue, that they don’t have concrete demands, that they’re leaderless and unorganized. The reality is that the 1% owns the media too, and it’s in the best interest of the 1% to keep this movement from gaining momentum, lest its constituents suffer actual tangible consequences for their thievery. So, they get their media to make Occupy Wall Street about how young liberals are just pissy that Obama isn’t as hopey-changey as they’d hoped; or they get their media to say that those clueless Wall Street kids don’t have any real goals so this can’t be a real thing that we need to pay real attention to; or—their most effective tactic—they get their media to start comparing and contrasting Occupy Wall Street and the Tea Party as if this movement is just the eruption of another political fringe group with an exclusively left-wing agenda, rather than what it is: A Call to Action for those of us who don’t get to throw down a cool million here and there and call it “speech.”

But they forgot that we do have ways of speaking up. And that the whole world is watching.

Guest Writer Wednesday: ‘The Help’: Same Script, Different Cast

 
This guest post by elle previously appeared at Shakesville.

A caveat: I have not seen The Help. I do not plan to see The Help, yet I feel pretty confident that I have The Help all figured out. If you don’t know about this film, please see this post. I’m going to ground my thoughts about The Help in two other documents I will link: Valerie Boyd’s review entitled, “‘The Help,’ a feel-good movie for white people” and “An Open Statement to the Fans of ‘The Help’” from the Association of Black Women Historians (ABWH). A brief description from Boyd:
“The Help”—the film adaptation of the best-selling novel by Atlanta author Kathryn Stockett—is a feel-good movie for a cowardly [wrt to the ways we deal (or don’t deal) with issues of race] nation.

Despite its title, the film is not so much about the help—the black maids who kept many white Southern homes running before the civil rights movement gave them broader opportunities—as it is about the white women who employed and sometimes terrorized them. 

And there you have it, the problem at the heart of works like The Help that blossoms into myriad other problems—the centering of white women in a story that is supposed to be about women of color, the positioning of white women as saviors who give WoC voice. As my colleagues in the ABWH note:
Despite efforts to market the book and the film as a progressive story of triumph over racial injustice, The Help distorts, ignores, and trivializes the experiences of black domestic workers.

I want to meld these critiques of The Help with my own critique of phenomena that make movies like this possible. My critique is rooted in who I am: My name is elle, and I am a granddaughter of The Help. And while I can never begin (and would never want) to imagine myself as the voice of black domestic workers, I can at least share some of their own words with you and tell you some places you can find more of their words and thoughts.

I. The Help’s representation of [black domestic workers] is a disappointing resurrection of Mammy… [p]ortrayed as asexual, loyal, and contented caretakers of whites… —ABWH
Early on in “The Help,” we hear the maids complain that they’ve spent decades raising little white girls who grow up to become racists, just like their mothers. But this doesn’t stop Aibileen from unambiguously loving the little white girl she’s paid to care for. —Boyd

When you put white women at the center of a story allegedly about black women, then the relationships between those two groups of women is filtered through the lens and desires of white women, many of whom want to believe themselves “good” to black people. That goodness will result in the unconditional love, trust and loyalty of the black people closest to them. They can remember the relationships fondly and get teary-eyed when they think of “the black woman who raised me and taught me everything.” They fancy themselves as their black nanny’s “other children” and privilege makes them demand the attention and affection such children would be showed.
I hated, hated, hated that my grandmother and her sister were domestics.

Not because I was ashamed, but because of the way white people treated them and us.

Like… coming to their funerals and sitting on the front row with the immediate family because they had notions of their own importance. “Nanny raised us!” one of my aunt’s “white children” exclaimed, then stood there regally as the family cooed and comforted her. 

But, as the granddaughter of the help, I learned that the woman my grandmother’s employers and their children saw was not my “real” grandmother. Forced to follow the rules of racial etiquette, to grin and bear it, she had a whole other persona around white people. It could be dangerous, after all, to be one’s real self, so black women learned “what to say, how to say it, and sometimes, not to say anything, don’t show any emotion at all, because even just your expression could cause you a lot of trouble.”** They wore the mask that Paul Laurence Dunbar and so many other black authors have written about. It is at once protective and pleasant, reflective of the fact that black women knew “their white people” in ways white people could never be bothered to know them. These were not equal relationships in which love and respect were allowed to flourish.

Indeed, with regard to the white children for whom they cared, black women often felt levels of “ambiguity and complexity” with which our “cowardly nation” is uncomfortable. Yes, my grandmother had a type of love for the children for whom she cared, but I knew it was not the same love she had for us. I think August Boatwright in the film adaptation of The Secret Life of Bees (another film about relationships between black and white women during the Civil Rights Era that centers a white girl) voiced this ambiguity and complexity much better. When her newest white charge, Lily, asks August if she loved Lily’s mother, for whom August had also cared, August is unable to give an immediate, glowing response. Instead, she explains how the situation was complicated and the fragility of a love that grows in such problematic circumstances.
Bernestine Singley, whose mother worked for a white family, was a bit more blunt when the daughter of that family claimed that Singley’s mother loved her:
I’m thinking the maid might’ve been several steps removed from thoughts of love so busy was she slinging suds, pushing a mop, vacuuming the drapes, ironing and starching load after load of laundry. Plus, I know what Mama told us when she, my sister, and I reported on our day over dinner each night and not once did Mama’s love for the [white child for whom she cared] find its way into that conversation: She cleaned up behind, but she did not love those white children.

II. The caricature of Mammy allowed mainstream America to ignore the systemic racism that bound black women to back-breaking, low paying jobs where employers routinely exploited them. Furthermore, African American domestic workers often suffered sexual harassment as well as physical and verbal abuse in the homes of white employers. —ABWH
From films like The Help, we can’t know what life for black domestic workers is/was really like because, despite claims to the contrary, it’s not black domestic workers talking! The ABWH letter gives some good sources at the end, and I routinely assign readings about situations like the “Bronx Slave Market” in which black women had to sell their labor for pennies during the Depression. The nature of domestic labor is grueling, yet somehow that is always danced over in films like this.

As is the reality of dealing with poorly-paid work. In her autobiographical account, “I Am a Domestic,” Naomi Ward describes white employers’ efforts to pay the least money and extract the most work as “a matter of inconsiderateness, downright selfishness.” “We usually work twelve to fourteen hours a day, seven days a week,” she continues, “Our wages are pitifully small.” Sometimes, there were no wages, as another former domestic worker explains: “I cleaned house and cooked. That’s all I ever did around white folks, clean house and cook. They didn’t pay any money. No money, period. No money, period.”**
Additionally, the job came with few to no recognizable benefits. The federal government purposely left work like domestic labor out of the (pathetic) safety net of social security, a gift to southerners who wanted to keep domestic and agricultural workers under their thumbs. After a lifetime of share-cropping and nanny-ing, my grandmother, upon becoming unable to work, found that she was not eligible for any work-based benefit/pension program. Instead, she received benefits from the “old age” “welfare” program, disappearing her work and feeding the stereotype of black women as non-working and in search of a handout. (I want to make clear that I am a supporter of social services programs, believe women do valuable work that is un- or poorly-remunerated and ignored/devalued. So, my issue is not that she benefited from a “welfare” program but how participation in such programs has been used as a weapon against black women in a country that tends to value, above all else, men’s paid work.)
The control of black people’s income also paid a psychological wage to white southerners:
[Their white employers gave] my grandmother and aunt money, long after they’d retired, not because they didn’t pay taxes for domestic help or because they objected to the fact that our government excluded domestic work from social insurance or because they appreciated the sacrifices my grandmother and her sister made. No, that money was proof that, just as their slaveholding ancestors argued, they took care of their negroes even after retirement!

The various forms of verbal and emotional abuse suffered are also glossed over to emphasize how black and white women formed unshakeable bonds. By contrast, Naomi Ward described the conflicted nature of her relationships with white women and being treated as if she were “completely lacking in human dignity and respect.” In Coming of Age in Mississippi, Anne Moody says of her contentious relationship with her employer, Mrs. Burke, “Mrs. Burke had made me feel like rotten garbage. Many times she had tried to instill fear within me and subdue me…” Here, I wrote a bit about the participation, by white women, in the subjugation of women of color domestic workers.
And what of abuse by white men? “‘The Help’s’ focus on women leaves white men blameless for any of Mississippi’s ills,” writes Boyd:
White male bigots have been terrorizing black people in the South for generations. But the movie relegates Jackson’s white men to the background, never linking any of its affable husbands to such menacing and well-documented behavior. We never see a white male character donning a Klansman’s robe, for example, or making unwanted sexual advances (or worse) toward a black maid.

This is a serious exclusion according to the ABWH, “Portraying the most dangerous racists in 1960s Mississippi as a group of attractive, well dressed, society women, while ignoring the reign of terror perpetuated by the Ku Klux Klan and the White Citizens Council, limits racial injustice to individual acts of meanness.”

Why the silence? Well, aside from the fact that this is supposed to be a “feel good movie,” when you idolize black women as asexual mammies in a culture where rape and sexual harassment are often portrayed as compliments/acknowledgements of physical beauty (who would want to rape a fat, brown-skinned woman?!), then the constant threat of sexual abuse under which many of them labored and still labor vanishes. But black women themselves have long written about and protested this form of abuse. My own grandmother told me to be careful of white boys who would try to make me “sneak around” with them and an older southern man who was a fellow grad student told me that he and other southern men believed it was “good luck” to sleep with a black woman. Here, in the words of black women, are acknowledgements of how pervasive the problem was (is):
“I remember very well the first and last work place from which I was dismissed. I lost my place because I refused to let the madam’s husband kiss me… I believe nearly all white men take, and expect to take, undue liberties with their colored female servants.”*
“The color of her face alone is sufficient invitation to the southern white man… [f]ew colored girls reach the age of sixteen without receiving advances from them.”*
“I learned very early about abuse from white men. It was terrible at one time and there wasn’t anybody to tell.”**
These stories abound in works like Stephanie Shaw’s What a Woman Ought to Be and Do, Paula Giddings’s When and Where I Enter, Deborah Gray-White’s Too Heavy a Load, and other books where black women are truly at the center of the story. Black women’s concern over sexual abuse is serious and readily evident, but The Help, according to the ABWH, “makes light of black women’s fears and vulnerabilities turning them into moments of comic relief.”
III. The popularity of this most recent iteration [of the mammy] is troubling because it reveals a contemporary nostalgia for the days when a black woman could only hope to clean the White House rather than reside in it. —ABWH
This mention of the White House is not casual (Boyd opens her review with an Obama-era reference, as well). I’m currently working on a manuscript that examines portrayals of black women and issues of our “desirability,” success, and femininity in media. To sum it up, we, apparently, are not desirable or feminine and our success is a threat to the world at large. Many black women are trying to figure out why so much is vested in this re-birthed image of us (because it’s not new). One conclusion is that it is a counter to the image of Michelle Obama. By all appearances successful, self-confident, happily married and a devoted mother, she’s too much for our mammy/sapphire/jezebel-loving society to take. And so, the nostalgia the ABWH mentions comes into play. It’s a way to keep us “in our place.”

It happens every day on a smaller scale to black women. I remember someone congratulating me in high school on achieving a 4.0 and saying that maybe my parents would take it easy on me for one-six weeks chore-wise. The white girl standing with us, who always had a snide comment on my academic success, quickly turned the conversation into one about how she hated her chores and how she so hoped the black lady who worked for them, whom she absolutely adored, would clean her room.
Even now, one of my black female colleagues and I talk about how some of our students “miss mammy” and it shows in how they approach us, both plus-sized, brown-skinned black women with faces described as “kind.” I do not need to know about the black woman who was just like your grandmother, nor will I over-sympathize with this way-too-detailed life story you feel compelled to come to my office and (over)share.

IV. [T]he film is woefully silent on the rich and vibrant history of black Civil Rights activists in Mississippi. Granted, the assassination of Medgar Evers, the first Mississippi based field secretary of the NAACP, gets some attention. However, Evers’ assassination sends Jackson’s black community frantically scurrying into the streets in utter chaos and disorganized confusion—a far cry from the courage demonstrated by the black men and women who continued his fight. —ABWH
Embedded in this is perhaps the clearest evidence of the cowardliness of our nation. First, we cannot dwell too long on racism, in this case as exemplified in the Jim Crow Era and by its very clear effects. “Scenes like that would have been too heavy for the film’s persistently sunny message,” suggests Boyd. I’d go further to suggest that scenes like that are too heavy for our country’s persistently sunny message of equal opportunity and dreams undeferred.

Second, when we do have discussions on the Jim Crow Era, we have to centralize white people who want to be on what most now see as the “right” side of history. They weren’t just allies, they did stuff and saved us! And so, you get stories like The Help premised on the notion that “the black maids would trust Skeeter with their stories, and that she would have the ability, despite her privileged upbringing, to give them voice.” Or like The Long Walk Home, (another film about relationships between black and white women during the Civil Rights Era that centers… well, you get it) in which you walk away with the feeling that, yeah black people took risks during the Montgomery Bus Boycott, but the person who had the most to lose, who was bravest, was the white woman employer who initially intervened only because she wanted to keep her “help.”

These stories perpetuate racism because they imply that it is right and rightful that white people take the lead and speak for us. (On another note, how old is this storyline? Skeeter’s appropriation of black women’s stories and voices, coupled with the fact that “Skeeter, who is simply taking dictation, gets the credit, the byline and the paycheck” reminded me so much of Imitation of Life, when Bea helps herself to Delilah’s pancake recipe, makes millions from it, keeps most for herself and Delilah is… grateful?!) The moral of these stories is, where would we have been without the guidance and fearlessness of white people?
I know this moral. That’s why I have no plans to see The Help.
_______________________
*From Gerda Lerner, Black Women in White America.
**From Anne Valk and Leslie Brown, Living with Jim Crow.



elle is an assistant professor who does a little of this an a little of that—primarily social history courses, some Women’s Studies and African American Studies classes, and seminars on the historical construction of race, gender, and class with a focus on how those constructions influence and are reinforced by popular media. She writes about the South and about black women’s paid and unpaid labor. She’s also a single mama to a teenaged boy that would test the patience of Mother Teresa, has an unhealthy love for TV shows with “forensic” and/or “crime” in the title, and is an amateur caterer.