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Batgirl / Oracle: A Superheroine with a Disability and Representation

Barbara Gordon as Oracle is a more accurate and positive representation of people with disabilities. She’s way more real because despite the fact that she sometimes needs the help of more able-bodied people, like a real person living with paralysis from the waist down, she still lives a positive and active life.

This guest post written by Adam Sherman pears as part of our theme week on Superheroines.

There aren’t a lot of superheroes with disabilities; many of the ones who do gain powers from their disabilities. Now, something many superhero stories never really have is permanence. Injury, in real life, can be quite permanent. But superheroes can often come back from the dead. So it was quite amazing to me that superhero Barbara Gordon (Batgirl/Oracle) was paralyzed from the waist down for twenty-three years.

Now, before I begin with why this is so important, I need to explain some things about my life and my family’s history. In 1952, paternal grandfather, Irving Sherman (who I know as Grandad,) came down with polio. Ironically, this was the same year that the second polio vaccine came out. In the very early days, he was even on an iron lung for a little while. In the end, he was unable to walk without crutches, yet still worked to support my grandmother and my father at Edgewood Arsenal. He is still alive, yet he was mostly deafened from his time in Europe during WWII and his polio leaves him unable to move from the living room to the dining room of his house without the aid of my grandmother.

My other grandad, Donald St. Germain (known to me as Grandpa St.,) also used crutches for most of his life as well as using a wheelchair at times. For the first part of his life, he was somewhat hard of hearing (and, we suspect, suffering from an undiagnosed learning disability.) Then, in the early sixties, he suffered a complicated series of accidents, diseases, and botched treatments. By 1964, the VA declared him a hundred percent disabled. Due to his lack of education, he was forced into the role of homemaker and stay-at-home dad while Grandma St. was the sole breadwinner.

I’m not sure when I noticed that popular media didn’t have very many people like my grandparents. I rarely see someone in popular media struggle to get up from a chair because they can’t work their legs or need to be helped into a car because their knees don’t bend, or need help getting dressed because they can’t stand. Film and television rarely depict characters with disabilities.

Like both of my grandfathers, people with disabilities do their best to support their families and themselves, despite being unable to do many of the things able-bodied people take for granted. My grandparents are heroes to me. People with disabilities deserve to see heroes that represent them.

Barbara Gordon is one of the few fictional characters I have seen that has provided an example of this type of heroism. From The Killing Joke, to DC’s 2011 recent reboot, she has been an active member of the DC universe. She led the Birds of Prey. She spied on supervillains. She has even coordinated The Justice League on many occasions. Yet some are not happy by Barbara Gordon’s transformation from Batgirl to Oracle.

The big issue, from what I understand, is how she lost the use of her legs, and what she was before that incident. Both of which are very thorny issues, and I can see how her transition from Batgirl to Oracle would upset people. She wasn’t the first female character in popular fiction to be brutally maimed or murdered just to shock an audience or motivate a male hero, but this, I think, was special. Barbara Gordon as Batgirl is a feminist icon. There is no getting around that. She could do anything Batman and Robin could do, from something as physically dangerous as kicking gun-wielding criminals in the face to things as mentally demanding as solving one of The Riddler’s terrifying traps. Not only that, but she did it well enough that Batman, a character not exactly famous for his reasonable expectations, deemed her worthy to wear the Bat-symbol.

In the comic The Killing Joke, The Joker shoots Barbara, causing her paralysis. Not only was she maimed, but it was to motivate her uncle, Comissioner Gordon. As pointed out by Barbara’s most iconic writer, Gail Simone, this isn’t an uncommon practice, as “Women in Refrigerators” is unfortunately a common trope with female characters killed (or raped or injured) for the sole purpose of motivating male characters. In fact, Alan Moore’s plot shocked artist Brian Bolland so much that he even mentioned it as one of his biggest regrets of The Killing Joke in his 2008 afterword.

Still, I think that the events of The Killing Joke made Barbara Gordon a much more interesting character. In her second act, she, like many real life people who suddenly find themselves disabled, had to struggle to find her place in the world all over again. For someone physically active like Barbara, the sudden struggle to deal with a lack of mobility is a huge blow to her self-esteem.

In Suicide Squad #23, Barbara reintroduces herself as Oracle. She goes on to become an information broker “gathering and disseminating intelligence to law enforcement organizations and members of the superhero community.” She continues to train and uses weapons such as firearms, fighting sticks, and batarangs.

Many superheroes with disabilities gain extra abilities. Daredevil can perceive the world in ways we can only dream of. Cyborg gets an awesome robot body that enables him to fly as well as have superhuman strength and stamina. You can even be forgiven for forgetting that Luke Skywalker is a cyborg, his artificial skin is so convincing.

Yet people who lose their limbs, or don’t have sight or hearing, or have any other physical or mobility or sensory disability, they don’t gain powers, they instead find ways to live with their disabilities. The characters mentioned above were power fantasies that rely on miracle cures or Stan Lee radiation. There’s nothing bad about that, it’s just Barbara Gordon as Oracle is a more accurate and positive representation of people with disabilities. She’s way more real because despite the fact that she sometimes needs the help of more able-bodied people, like a real person living with paralysis from the waist down, she still lives a positive and active life.

When I was first reading comics in the early 2000s, it felt like in certain comics it was inevitable that Oracle would show up and help with whatever needed doing. One of the biggest instances was during Infinite Crisis, when Ted Kord was running down a vast conspiracy (you know, average superhero stuff) one of the few people who believed him was Barbara Gordon. Early on in Harley Quinn’s spin-off comic, Barbara is even mentioned as a sort of boogeyman to costumed criminals. She also was the founding member and leader of The Birds of Prey.

However, the way I discovered her was that any time in the 1990s and 2000s that Batman got into trouble (Knightfall, Warzone, No Man’s Land, and Contaigon, to name a few), Oracle was one of the first people he would turn to for help. In every single Batman/Oracle team-up I’ve read, it has been outright stated that Batman completely trusts Oracle’s cyber abilities and it’s been implied that his investigations wouldn’t get anywhere without her help.

As a person who’s known people with disabilities, not just my grandparents but classmates as well, it is somewhat disturbing to notice that there are so few people with disabilities in popular media. Barbra Gordon filled a void in that area. I loved the idea that people who could literally break the world with their bare fists became reliant on someone who couldn’t move without the aid of a wheelchair. I also loved the idea of people like my grandparents getting someone to represent their identities and struggles. Yet, like a lot of comic lore I like (and a lot I don’t like,) this too has passed, as Barbara returns to being Batgirl, her mobility restored. I must admit, Gail Simone’s current run on Batgirl looks excellent, and I’m hearing rumors about a new Oracle. But we need more positive media representations of people with disabilities like Barbara Gordon.

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

Show Me a (Woman) Villain

Women are generally presented as easily manipulated and too emotional to be true villains. It is yet another characterization of the “soft” woman, dictated by her emotions, propelled by a propensity to nurture rather than destroy. But we need stories of women who hunger for power, who are willingly selfish, and who stick to their principles, no matter the cost. … No more scenes of men talking women into saving the world. Let them try their best to destroy it.

This guest post written by Mary Iannone appears as part of our theme week on Superheroines.

“The Marvel Cinematic Universe is kind of a sausage fest,” Stephen Colbert said last week. This was in response to the admission by director Shane Black that Iron Man 3’s villain was originally written as a woman, a choice that was definitively blocked by the studio. If this refusal wasn’t foolish enough to begin with, the reasoning behind it gets even more bizarre – they were afraid the toy version of a woman villain would not sell. “It makes sense,” Colbert sneered. “Girls don’t play with dolls.”

We all recognize the gross disparity of women superheroes, in the Marvel canon and beyond. But I would argue that the cinematic landscape is even less primed to allow women supervillains. After all, if some of us can barely accept the thought of a woman running our country, how can we tolerate even a representation of a woman hungry for world domination?

Villains like Loki, Ultron, Red Skull, and Killian are power-driven, tyrannical, reckless, murderous, and mostly devoid of sentiment. And it’s that last characteristic that seems to be so hard to reconcile with women characters. Time and time again, we see women introduced as villains only to be recruited to the side of the heroes. This usually comes after an “aha” moment when she realizes she is “in too deep.”

Take Scarlet Witch in Avengers: Age of Ultron. She has, as I argued in my last article, quite possibly the most powerful out of any character in the film. But suddenly, after witnessing Ultron’s full plan, her desire for revenge is neutralized. She is horrified by Ultron’s monstrousness: “You said we were going to destroy the Avengers – make a better world!” Just like that, Scarlet Witch becomes an Avenger. She only wanted to destroy a couple of people, not the world.

In Captain America: Civil War, Black Widow starts off on the side of Tony Stark (which is somewhat presented as the villainous side), but swaps midway to assist Steve Rogers. Lest we forget, this isn’t the first time Natasha has swapped sides – off-screen, she started off as a KGB officer who was turned into a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. This pattern can also be seen with Elektra in Daredevil, Mystique in X-Men, Gamora in Guardians of the Galaxy, and even another character in Iron Man 3, Maya. Go outside of the Marvel Universe, and you will see Catwoman following the same pattern in The Dark Knight Rises; she even ends up in idyllic Paris, having gotten the guy.

Of course, we must note that backlash over woman villains is not confined to the comic book world. Consider the frenzy when Star Wars: The Force Awakens cast Gwendoline Christie as Captain Phasma, commander of the stormtroopers (whose toy is currently out of stock at Toys R’ Us, by the way). The film industry too often listens to the loud corner of the internet that refuses to believe that a woman could be bad (though that same corner doesn’t seem too fond of women as heroes, either).

Women are generally presented as easily manipulated and too emotional to be true villains. It is yet another characterization of the “soft” woman, dictated by her emotions, propelled by a propensity to nurture rather than destroy. But we need stories of women who hunger for power, who are willingly selfish, and who stick to their principles, no matter the cost. People need to know that sometimes, women are just that (minus the desire to destroy the world — most of the time, at least). If audiences can be charmed by Loki, why can’t we react the same way to a woman villain? Why can’t they be just as nuanced?

The stereotype is, again, that women are ruled by their emotions. But why do those emotions have to be good? We’ve called for women superheroes who are not ruled by their ties to men. The same goes for our women villains. No more characters who are only motivated by personal revenge. No more balking when it “gets out of hand.” No more scenes of men talking women into saving the world. Let them try their best to destroy it.

Let’s imagine, for a minute, that the Aldrich Killian character in Iron Man 3 had in fact been a woman. In the finished film, Killian is left on a rooftop on New Year’s Eve, rejected and forgotten by Tony Stark. He then spends over a decade crafting a revenge plan that ends with him attacking the President of the United States (and Tony and Pepper along the way). Had Killian been a woman, this would have been yet another story about a woman scorned and driven mad by rejection. Killian, in his reappearance years after New Year’s Eve, has even gotten a makeover. The characterization is already flawed; crafted into a woman, this would have been a hackneyed, sexist plot that would have done nothing to support the need for deeper women in the comic book universe.

It is ironic, then, that one of the worst-reviewed superhero films of the 21^st century actually contains the best depiction of a woman supervillain. X-Men: The Last Stand is, of course, a dreadful conclusion to the series’ original trilogy. But surprisingly, it serves well its most powerful villain, Phoenix.

Jean Grey dies at the end of X2 (aka X-Men 2), only to be saved by her alter ego, Phoenix, whose powers explode outward with lethal force. When Professor Xavier reveals he had been mind-controlling Jean for years to keep Phoenix at bay, Phoenix kills him. “I don’t want to fix it!” she snarls at Logan. While Jean Grey begs to be killed, Phoenix is unrepentant; enraged at those who tamed her for so long, she is determined to destroy those who mean to destroy mutants. In the end, the only way to stop her is by killing her. There is no way to appeal to her emotions; she cannot be coerced into being a hero.

So what’s next? It’s been 10 years since Phoenix – the latest X-Men series has thus far allowed Mystique to only toy with villainy. Cate Blanchett has been cast as Hela in Thor: Ragnarok. Karen Gillan will return as Nebula in Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 (and director James Gunn alluded to an expanded role). But given the positioning of these films in Marvel’s vast Cinematic Universe (MCU), it is likely these women will not factor into the ultimate climax, Infinity War. The presence of Thanos has loomed large in the MCU for years, and he is widely considered to be the mega-villain at the end of Marvel’s Phase Three. Is there anyone who can compete? When will we see her on screen?

Mary Iannone holds a Master’s Degree in Media, Culture, and Communication from NYU, where she studied genre film, Hollywood archetypes, and pop culture’s representations of mental illness. Follow her on Twitter at @mianno.

Stop the Fridging: The Invisible Feminism of ‘Arrow’

So while ‘Arrow’ seems pretty reluctant to move away from the traditional stance on women existing to be love interests and to be rescued, the individual female characters themselves sometimes show some hints of progressiveness… if only they’d be allowed to live long enough!

This guest post written by Becky Kukla appears as part of our theme week on Superheroines. | Spoilers ahead for seasons 1-3.

Is TV series Arrow feminist? Being brutally honest, it almost certainly is not. Does Arrow have characters with feminist undertones, or female characters with more depth than meets the eye? Well, that’s where it gets more interesting.

The premise of Arrow reads incredibly similarly to that of Batman; rich and spoiled son of millionaire family undergoes a grueling, life-changing event which forces him to become a ‘good guy’ (unlike the playboy he was once) to save his city. Pre-Arrow Oliver Queen (Stephen Amell) is a cheater, drug-taker, party-goer, and generally not a great guy. He is the epitome of the whole silver spoon thing, and not only this but he treats everyone in his life terribly. His parents (as he later learns) are both semi-responsible for a plot to destroy the poorest parts of Starling City, and this becomes his motivation to try and right the wrongs that his father (and his mother) did. It’s also clear that pre-Arrow Oliver didn’t have a lot of respect for women — cheating on his then girlfriend Laurel, with her sister Sara — and consequently almost getting himself and Sara killed in the boating accident that left him stranded on an island.

So where am I going with this? All things considered — Arrow is clearly not going to win any feminist awards any time soon. This is mostly because pretty much every single female character in the show is either related to Oliver (Moira, Thea) or has been romantically involved with him in some way (Helena, Laurel, Sara, Felicity, Shado, and Isabel have all had romantic relations with Oliver to some degree). The show also has a worrying trend of having its villains use the women characters as some sort of bait. I’m only on season three, but poor Laurel has been kidnapped 4 times since the show started! However, the representation of female heroism in Arrow starts to get a little more interesting from the end of season 1 with the introduction of at least 3 superheroine-type characters. Oliver also regularly comes into contact with supervillains, many of whom are women.

So while Arrow seems pretty reluctant to move away from the traditional stance on women existing to be love interests and to be rescued, the individual female characters themselves sometimes show some hints of progressiveness… if only they’d be allowed to live long enough!

Shado

Chronologically, the first superheroine to appear in Arrow is Shado (Celina Jade). Technically, she isn’t actually a superheroine, but she is certainly super and saves Oliver’s life several times on the island so I think it’s safe to put in the category of superheroine. Shado is the daughter of Yao Fai — the man who first rescues Oliver when he is dying on the island. Her main reason for existence seems to be to ensure that her father toes the line, otherwise she will be killed. However, Shado quickly reveals that she is every bit as tough as her father when it comes to fighting — and single handedly rescues Slade and Oliver from certain death. She then goes on to teach Ollie pretty much everything he knows, including the whole slapping the water thing, and generally being useful with a bow and arrow. Shado is tough and strong, she’s obviously had some intense training and she’s a pretty cool character in general. That is, until two things happen. First, Oliver falls in love with her. We can understand this from Oliver’s perspective — at this point, he still behaves somewhat like the playboy he once was and in general terms, Shado is the only woman he has been in contact with in a long while. The issue is that 1) Shado falls for him (he’s a spoiled brat, ammiright!?) and that Slade also falls for Shado. Instead of seeing Shado as the strong and tough woman that she is, she becomes steadily reduced to the crux of an odd love triangle with one immature playboy and a man old enough to be her father.

Shado is also brutally murdered when Ivan forces Oliver to choose between saving her or Sara. This is the first of many ‘choose between two women you love’ scenarios that are set up for Oliver throughout the series, and this one is quite possibly the worst. Oliver doesn’t so much as choose Shado, but the whole event sends Slade spiraling into revenge city where he blames Oliver for the murder of the ‘love of his life.’ Reality check here; Shado is only the love of his life because Slade literally knew no other women. And also, she didn’t even love him back. Either way, Shado’s death is the sole reason for pretty much all of the events in the second season — so I guess it might be the most successful fridging of all time?

Fridging itself is boring, old, and a great waste of time but it feels even worse when you have a really wonderful female character with huge potential, who is killed only to further the storyline of a male character. It also doesn’t help that Shado was also murdered so that Sara (another superheroine type) could live. Which brings me to…

Sara (The Canary)

Sara (Caity Lotz), sister of Laurel and part-time lover of Oliver, was presumed dead along with Oliver when their boat sank off the coast of the island. Imagine everyone’s surprise when it turns out (like Oliver) Sara actually survived and is back in Starling City, also fighting crime. Imagine our even greater surprise when Sara turns out to be a fighting machine, fresh from The League of Assasins. Surprise!

Our first actual introduction to the new and improved Sara 2.0, is as her alter ego (fondly named The Canary). She saves a woman from a group of menacing looking men in a dark alleyway. I don’t believe this is by accident. Sara also takes care of Sin, Roy’s friend from The Glades, and it’s this protection of the women around her that make Sara an almost-feminist superheroine. As soon as her and Oliver are reunited in Starling City, it becomes immediately clear that Sara has been through a bit of a wringer – possibly even more so than Oliver. Sara (at some point in the last five years) was taken in by The League of Assassins and is riddled with guilt and anger about some of the things she was made to do whilst under their command. Sara wants to let her parents and Laurel know she is alive, but she is consumed by the things she has done to survive and is convinced she isn’t worthy of love from anyone — even her own family.

As we see in flashbacks, Sara was incredibly savvy to survive her ordeal aboard what was essentially an illegal prison ship. She knew how to play the game, and waited patiently for an opportunity to escape. Though her and Oliver reunited on the island, Sara has clearly changed and is prepared to do whatever is necessary to survive. The Sara that returns to Starling City five years later is equally prepared to do what is necessary – and this causes friction with Oliver’s sudden ‘no killing’ rule. Similarly to how Oliver’s family are often used as bait to coax him into situations as the Arrow, Sara’s family are also kidnapped and used as bait when The League of Assassins try to force Sara to rejoin them. Of course, it is the women members of Sara’s family that are kidnapped (her mother and Laurel).

Sadly, Sara’s story comes to an incredibly abrupt and untimely end. She makes it a few minutes into season 3 before she is killed, as witnessed by Laurel. For a character who had so much potential, and a captivating backstory — her demise was a little more than cold on behalf of the writers.

Felicity Smoak

Ah, Felicity Smoak . Poor, lovely Felicity. Oddball, geeky Felicity (played by Emily Bett Rickards) who somehow went from obscure computer girl to the object of Oliver’s affections within about thirty seconds at the end of season 2. Felicity is employed at Queen Consolidated (Oliver’s family’s company), and consequently joins team Arrow when Oliver realizes a) how smart she is and b) that she knows too much to not be on the team. If Diggle, Roy, and Oliver are the brawn of the group then Felicity is certainly the brain. She is proficient at hacking, tracking, and generally getting into other people’s computers or CCTV cameras when she shouldn’t be.

Something really odd happens to Felicity between working in the IT department in the basement of QC, and becoming part of team Arrow. It has a lot to do with the way she dresses. When Felicity is at QC, she dresses… well for work. She looks comfortable, she is wearing flats and she looks smart but not overdressed. As soon as Felicity begins working with Team Arrow, she is suddenly turning up to their basement lair in five inch heels and a dress suitable for a nightclub scenario. You could argue she is trying to blend in (the lair is situated underneath Oliver’s nightclub) but I can’t help thinking it’s more to do with Felicity (as the only recurring woman in Team Arrow) needing to be eye candy. Eye candy, which coincidentally ends up on Oliver’s arm. Which in itself isn’t inherently an issue, but Felicity’s character then became far less about her abilities and talents in the IT department — and far more about her relationship with Oliver. Apparently, as a woman, you cannot have both a career and a boyfriend.

I am only on the third season of Arrow but I’ve heard rumors that not many good things happen beyond that. Moira’s death at the end of the second season seemed to serve only to motivate both Oliver and Thea onward, which is just truly original use of fridging by the show’s writers. I guess the saddest thing about it is that Arrow has (or had) some truly unique and interesting female characters, but refused to do anything worthwhile with them.

Becky Kukla lives in London, works in documentary production/distribution to pay the bills and writes things about feminism, film and TV online in her spare time. You can find more of her work at her blog, femphile or on her twitter @kuklamoo.

Brown Girls Can Be Heroes Too: Why We Need a Ms. Marvel Movie

I’d internalized the rather damaging notion that only white girls deserve to have their stories told. Only white girls can slay the patriarchy without breaking a nail. Only white girls get to be the heroes, and get to be heroes of their own stories. And the rest of us? We don’t matter. … It’s important for young South Asian girls to see that just because they’re South Asian doesn’t mean that they have to be relegated to the sidelines, to being the sidekick, to being the brainy Indian doctor, and so on. They can be superheroes too.

This guest post written by Bhavna Vasnani appears as part of our theme week on Superheroines.

Fans of Scarlett Johansson’s Black Widow rejoiced when Marvel’s Kevin Feige finally raised the possibility of a Black Widow movie, which fans have been asking for for a long time now. It certainly is a cause for celebration: Black Widow has played a very significant role in almost all the Marvel movies so far, and she certainly deserves a full-fledged movie of her own. I was probably one of the few who wasn’t excited about this, though, because to me, a Black Widow movie just means yay, more movies about white superheroes!

Marvel may pride themselves on their diversity, but anyone taking a closer look at the racial makeup of the movies that have already aired would find them sorely lacking. Of the superheroes we’ve already seen on-screen, we have nine white characters, three Black men, three non-human characters voiced by white men, a green alien played by a Black woman, and a sentient tree voiced by a person of color (Vin Diesel, who is of ambiguous ethnicity). The recent Captain America: Civil War is an example of how overwhelmingly white the ensemble is, with only three non-white actors in the primary cast. Looking at the dismal number of women, the only Black actress in a major role in the Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU) so far is Zoe Saldana, who is painted green as Gamora in Guardians of the Galaxy. The others — Black Widow, Scarlet Witch, Sharon Carter, Pepper Potts, Maria Hill, and Peggy Carter, to name a few — are all white women.

Good job on your diversity, Marvel.

Anthony Mackie, who portrays Sam Wilson/Falcon in the MCU, has spoken up on the importance of having a diverse cast:

“I think we live in a day [and] age now where little black kids feel like they can’t connect to a character who doesn’t look like them. Or little girls feel like they can’t connect to a character who’s a guy, because they’re just different…It’s more so connecting about someone [sic] who looks like you, you know?”

As a Singaporean Indian, I grew up mostly on western media, like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Charmed, Angel, Sabrina the Teenage Witch… a lot of media with white leads and a predominantly white cast. Yet it never occurred to me until very recently in my 25-year life that I’d internalized the rather damaging notion that only white girls deserve to have their stories told. Only white girls can slay the patriarchy without breaking a nail. Only white girls get to be the heroes, and get to be heroes of their own stories. And the rest of us? We don’t matter.

The MCU in itself doesn’t do a very good job in diversity, but we can argue that the lack is somewhat made up in Marvel’s Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. The show has several people of color in prominent roles, including Asian-Americans, Black people, and Latinx characters. Chloe Bennet’s Daisy Johnson can be seen as the first Asian-American superhero on television, even though Bennet herself wonders why no one seems to consider her a superhero.

Yet despite the diversity, there’s still a lack of South Asians.

Yes, South Asian representation in Hollywood has increased in recent years, and, more importantly, has gone beyond the racist stereotypes we see in shows like The Big Bang Theory and The Simpsons — just take a look at Aziz Ansari, Mindy Kaling, Priyanka Chopra and Rahul Kohli, to name but a few. But there is also a need for South Asians to be represented in the superhero genre as well — why should we be left out of a genre that has blown up in popularity in recent years? China may be a major market for Marvel, but the Indian market is also important.

The Bollywood film industry is undoubtedly huge in India and is a part of every South Asian’s life, whether or not they actually live in South Asia. But it doesn’t offer much for women: in many, many films, women are relegated to the role of the sexy love interest, although there’s been a slow rise in the number of films that do away with this and bring in more rounded female characters in stories that do not revolve around the guy getting the girl. There have also been a lot of recent discussions on how Bollywood movies contribute to rape culture in India.

This is where we bring our discussion to Ms Marvel.

Kamala Khan is a Pakistani American teenage girl who discovers that she has superhuman powers after being exposed to Terrigen mist and takes on the name of Ms. Marvel, after her icon and role model Carol Danvers, who now goes by Captain Marvel. She’s a Muslim girl treading the lines between being American and Muslim and Pakistani, growing up in a house where her Muslim values seem incompatible with a typical American high school experience. She is a huge fan of the Avengers and writes fanfiction as well.

The first time I came across Kamala, I was blown away by how similar she was to me. This wasn’t the first time coming across a fangirl in fiction — Rainbow Rowell took care of that — but this was the first time a South Asian girl was depicted as a fangirl. Kamala’s struggle with the conflicting facets of her identity — Pakistani, American, Muslim, teenager, and later, inhuman — were so much like what I experience — minus the whole inhuman thing. And in a world rampant with Islamophobia, it is Kamala’s faith and religion that guide her when she’s lost.

Later on, she joins the Avengers, fighting alongside established names like Sam Wilson’s Captain America, Tony Stark’s Iron Man, and Jane Foster’s Thor, and fellow teenagers Miles Morales as Spider-Man and Sam Alexander as Nova — that’s a Black man, a white man, a white woman, a Black teenager and a Latinx teenager. With the inclusion of Kamala, that’s more diversity in the All New, All Different Avengers than we’ve seen in the MCU so far.

The issue with comics is that they aren’t as accessible as television shows or movies, which is why those who need Ms. Marvel may not have access to her… unless she makes the transition to the MCU. And she needs to make this transition, because it’s important for young South Asian girls to see that just because they’re South Asian doesn’t mean that they have to be relegated to the sidelines, to being the sidekick, to being the brainy Indian doctor, and so on. They can be superheroes too.

Kamala is also important because her struggles with the differing aspects of her identity are something that kids of South Asian immigrant parents deal with, especially when your parents are a Buzzfeed article come to life. The first issue sees Kamala sneaking out of her room at night to go to a party even though her parents have explicitly forbidden her to. Her desire to be a normal American teenager from Jersey City is at odds with her Pakistani heritage, and in embracing her superhero self as Ms. Marvel — rather than an imitation of Carol Danvers’ old identity — she embraces her identity as a Pakistani American teenager as well.

Since Iron Man was released in 2008, the MCU has become a brand name. What this means is that Marvel can afford to take risks in casting and in its lineup of movies. All we have to do is look at Guardians of the Galaxy for proof of this: Marvel took a risk with a lesser-known comic series, and it paid off, grossing $733.3 million. Marvel can afford to take risks, and yet, with the exception of Black Panther, they are sticking with the same formulaic stories revolving around white characters. We’re getting tired of the same old, Marvel — please give us the Ms. Marvel movie that we need and deserve.

See also at Bitch Flicks: Superheroines of Color and Empowerment in Fantasy on TV

Bhavna Vasnani is a Singaporean Indian, an English graduate, a former journalist, and a feminist. She’s also been a fangirl since before she knew what a fangirl was. She can be found tweeting @bhavvyyy intermittently and tumbling frequently.

How Does ‘Vixen’ Collide with Race, Gender, a Black Sense of Home, and the Video Vixen?

There is more to be said about how essentializing African identities around myth, folklore, the continent, and animals can impose limits on how Black people, particularly Black women, can be written, and how those Black characters are experienced in a more accessible, mainstream outlet. In other words, even Black superhero characters, carry the burden of limitations if the racial stereotypes outweigh the plot and character development.

This guest post written by Tara Betts appears as part of our theme week on Superheroines.

The web series Vixen, which will air a second season, started airing on CW Seed in August 2015, which led to a live-action appearance on the TV series Arrow. Vixen is the superhero alter-ego of Mari Jiwe McCabe (voiced by Megalyn Echikunwoke), whose powers involve taking on the abilities of animals. Unfortunately, Vixen is often cast as a hero collaborating with other superheroes and this rendering of Vixen is no exception. In some ways, she follows the tropes of previous superheroes. Comic book fans have definitely seen her as part of such animated and comic book coalitions as Suicide Squad, Checkmate, and Justice League Task Force. Mari is from a fictional African village called Zambesi, much like Black Panther’s home of Wakanda or Storm of the X-Men. Vixen is also bound to archetypes and folklore of African mythology with references to Vodun, Yoruba mythology, and Anansi the Trickster, a spider often evoked in storytelling who passes the Tantu Totem on to Mari’s people. Mari uses the power of the Tantu Totem to become the superhero Vixen.

Mari Jiwe McCabe/Vixen was created by Gerry Conway and Bob Oksner. Although many sources insist she appeared in Action Comics #521, she originally appeared in Cancelled Comic Cavalcade #2, and was supposed to have her own series in 1978. Vixen eventually got a brief 5-issue comic series Vixen: The Return of the Lion written by G. Willow Wilson and drawn by Cafu, who also worked on Black Panther between December 2008-April 2009. Since then, Vixen has appeared in a host of different animated series, including Cartoon Network’s Justice League Unlimited, the Batman: The Brave and the Bold episode “Gorillas in Our Midst,” and an episode of Teen Titans Go! Vamp, a variation on Vixen, appeared in Justice League: Crisis on Two Earths.

In CW Seed’s rendition of Vixen, Mari’s older sister, Kuasa (voiced by Anika Noni Rose), attempts to assume the power of the totem by killing her with a spider bite in the village of Zambesi. This idea of protecting and maintaining the heritage of the village also appears in the comic book, and is stated by Mari when she returns to Detroit to get closer to her past and her identity with her foster father. In the first episode, The Arrow and The Flash pursue her and she evades them. The potential alliance between the three heroes is considered from the beginning, as well as Professor Macalester.

One telling moment occurs when Arrow names her “Vixen” as part of her sexiness, beauty, and athleticism, which becomes mildly problematic. Oliver/Arrow calls her “Vixen,” and Barry/Flash immediately wonders if he is referencing a smaller or medium female fox, but Oliver says, “No, she IS a fox. Look at her!” In that moment, he is talking more about her sexuality and beauty, rather than the powers she assumes as the show progresses. Although Oliver/Arrow does begin to gradually express awe for her abilities, the comment may make some women think of video vixens in hip hop videos, like bestselling author Karrine Steffans, Melyssa Ford, Buffie Carruth, Darlene Ortiz, and many, many other women. These women are feminine, curvy, and fashionable, much like our shapeshifting superhero Vixen. The sexual connotations of the cat forms she assumes, like the lion or cheetah, are emphasized less and placed on par with the forms of the eagle, elephant, rhino, and other supernatural giant beings that assist Vixen in battle. Yet Mari’s vocational choices (a model in most plotlines, and a budding fashion designer in the CW Seed series) point to the parallels with the aforementioned sultry vixens, who are often seen as silent, powerless, and sexually available by the hampering efforts of respectability politics.

However, Mari is consistently compelled to learn her history, protect her village, and find her strength, whether she is confident in her power, recurs frequently in these storylines, and she is often encouraged by male peers and protectors. In the comics, she meets Brother Tabo, an elder outside Zambesi who guards the shrine to Saint Amica. Vixen is startled to see that animals of all species, predators and prey, peacefully gather at the shrine. This plot alludes to how Saint Amica (Latin for “friend” or a “female friend”) practiced her faith by syncretizing a Christian god with other gods, which is another parallel with Vixen’s ability to call on the strengths of various animals. However, Brother Tabo is one of many men who assists Vixen in her adventures. Superman is affectionate with her and comes to her aid with the Justice League, even though she has to save him. In this new series, Mari’s stepfather bails her out of jail and then treats her tenderly as she confides in him about her frustrations with work and learning more about her own identity.

In January 2016, Laura Prudom at Variety noted that “Vixen is the first female superhero of color to headline her own show, albeit in animated form…” Representation and the need for diversity and inclusivity is a pivotal issue in media. This question of representation plays itself out in comic book conventions across the country, not to mention on social media. Even Ororo Munroe/Storm of the X-Men has yet to receive a headline in a movie of her own in spite of widespread recognition and popularity. While the argument may be that Vixen, Storm, and other women of color cannot hold their own in terms of maintaining an audience, the reality is that an audience cannot be built if the stories are never offered, developed, produced, and inevitably challenging some of the stereotypes and representations of women and Black people as these characters do (actually and potentially).

The social and political issues in Vixen have only begun to be addressed. In Vixen: The Return of the Lion, readers can see how the villain Aku Kwesi colludes with the external colonizing forces to attempt to make Zambesi a central point of control on the African continent. The CW Seed series centers on how Mari considers post-industrial Detroit as her village and home that requires her protection. So, what does that mean to protect your people, even if she is often in situations saving people she does not know? As an adopted daughter on the CW Seed show, there is room to broach the impact of defining oneself in a family structured through interracial adoption. Although Vixen’s animalistic appearance has been discussed in books like The Blacker The Ink: Constructions of Black Identity in Comics & Sequential Art and Deborah Elizabeth Whaley’s Black Women in Sequence, there is more to be said about how essentializing African identities around myth, folklore, the continent, and animals can impose limits on how Black people, particularly Black women, can be written, and how those Black characters are experienced in a more accessible, mainstream outlet. In other words, even Black superhero characters, carry the burden of limitations if the racial stereotypes outweigh the plot and character development. In this case, Vixen has room for more episodes, a potential live-action series, and delving deeper into a host of issues on identity, power, and defining home.

See also at Bitch Flicks: Superheroines of Color and Empowerment in Fantasy on TV

Tara Betts is the author of two full-length poetry collections Break the Habit and Arc & Hue. She is also the author of the chapbooks 7 x 7: kwansabas (Backbone Press, 2015), the upcoming Never Been Lois Lane (dancing girl press, 2016), and the libretto THE GREATEST!: An Homage to Muhammad Ali (Argus House/Winged City Press, 2013). Tara’s writing has appeared in FreezeRay Poetry, Drawn to Marvel: Poems from the Comic Books, Near Kin: A Collection of Words and Art Inspired by Octavia Estelle Butler, Octavia’s Brood: Science Fiction Stories from Social Justice Movements, and PAC’N HEAT, an anthology of poems about Ms. Pac-Man. You can find out more about her work at her website. You can follow her on Twitter @tarabetts.

Why Black Widow Is the “Realest” Superheroine of the Marvel Cinematic Universe (Yes, Even After All Those Tropes)

It is this factor alone why Black Widow is so important. She is the longest standing female protagonist within the Marvel film franchise, having starred in ‘Iron Man 2,’ ‘The Avengers,’ ‘Captain America: The Winter Soldier,’ ‘Avengers: Age of Ultron’ and most recently, ‘Captain America: Civil War.’ She was the only female Avenger in both Avengers films (until Scarlet Witch switched sides at the end of ‘Age of Ultron’), and as such was subject to being the onscreen vessel of female representation in a superhero super-team otherwise occupied by straight white men.

This guest post written by Kayleigh Watson appears as part of our theme week on Superheroines.

Black Widow: the original female Avenger. Actually, up until recently, she was the only female Avenger. Scarlett Johansson had her work cut out in carrying the unspoken burden of representing women everywhere in one of the highest profile, highest-grossing franchises to ever exist onscreen.

To date, her character has only ever been written by and directed by men. It is apparent that the linchpins of the Marvel Cinematic Universe are very male skewed, with the only woman currently having contributed to screenplays being Guardians of the Galaxy’s Nicole Perlman, who is returning for Captain Marvel alongside recent recruit Meg LeFauve. Perlman herself stated that writing Captain Marvel has been a far more stressful project than Guardians of the Galaxy ever was, and that she and LeFauve will catch themselves saying:

“‘Wait a minute, what are we saying [here] about women in power?’ Then we have to say, ‘Why are we getting so hung up on that? We should just tell the best story and build the best character.'”

As nice – and preferable – as that would be, it simply is not possible currently. Every woman onscreen in the Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU) is a minority compared to the sheer amount of male characters and therefore automatically complicit in representing every woman, everywhere, all at once.

If there were more women, then this would be less of an issue, but with one female lead protagonist per area or sub-franchise within the MCU, it is simply not the case.

Let’s break it down; first, the love interests: Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow, Iron Man franchise), Betty Ross (the never-to-be-seen-again Liv Tyler, The Incredible Hulk), Jane Foster (Natalie Portman, Thor franchise), Peggy Carter (Hayley Atwell, Captain America franchise); the “super-heroines”/allies: Gamora (Zoe Saldana, Guardians of the Galaxy), Scarlet Witch (Elizabeth Olsen, Avengers: Age of Ultron/ Captain America: Civil War), Hope van Dyne (Evangeline Lilly, Ant-Man), Maria Hill (Colbie Smulders, as part of S.H.I.E.L.D).

And the antagonists: um, Nebula (Karen Gillan, Guardians of the Galaxy).

Of course, there is some crossover in the above – Scarlet Witch was once an active antagonist, whilst Peggy Carter morphed from Captain America’s (Chris Evans) sidekick to valued, rounded lead protagonist in the TV series Agent Carter (now regrettably cancelled after its second series) – but when it comes to the film series itself, female character progression is largely limited, unlike that of the male characters.

It is this factor alone why Black Widow is so important. She is the longest standing female protagonist within the Marvel film franchise, having starred in Iron Man 2, The Avengers, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Avengers: Age of Ultron and most recently, Captain America: Civil War. She was the only female Avenger in both films (until Scarlet Witch switched sides at the end of Age of Ultron), and as such was subject to being the onscreen vessel of female representation in a superhero super-team otherwise occupied by straight white men.

A lot of pressure rested on her shoulders and, for the most part, Joss Whedon — director and screenwriter of The Avengers, of Buffy the Vampire Slayer fame, and a writer renowned for strong female representation in his work – got it right. Black Widow was proactive and strong; professionally, she was not treated any differently onscreen by any male character (outside of an aside near the start of the film where a Russian captor declares her “nothing but a pretty face”). She embodied a typically male approach to the role – a spy, a fighter, trusted with liaising and retrieving individuals. She was not referred to in a sexual manner. She was valued for what she brought to the table as an active participant in the narrative, which is, quite often, a rarity in itself.

Yet when we step back from the film itself and regard Black Widow, her relations, backstory, and aesthetics in regards to the wider narrative of the character, it is clear that not everything is as perfect as it initially seems.

Yes, she is the only woman serving in the Avengers in an Avengers film to date – though no doubt that is set to change with Scarlet Witch joining the fray in Captain America: Civil War. That’s tokenism, and let’s not even get started with the lack of racial representation within the two Avengers films. Next door to that, we find voyeurism, for as wonderfully as Scarlett Johansson manages to pull off that skin-tight cat-suit, do varying camera angles of her rear really benefit, well, anything (the same goes for the bare male torso, to a degree)? She is a visual Fighting Fuck Toy for the Male Gaze in a manner that Johansson has been for a large portion of her acting career, her attractiveness having her very often typecast as various femme fatales in films including The Spirit, Under The Skin, Her (yes, even her voice is that sexy).

Black Widow manages to be sultry in a subtle way, yet one of which her male counterparts never feel the need to be, for even when they are removing their shirts (hello Thor and Captain America), their partial nudity is never really as overtly sexual as the implied, fully-clothed, alluring physicality of Black Widow. Male nakedness, even when recognized by other characters – such as Portman’s reaction as Dr. Jane Foster in the first Thor film – is presented in some practical purpose, even if it’s merely a change of shirt. Black Widow’s sexual allure is ever-present, to the point of it making her a femme fatale, which is itself apt, given her implied dalliances with, at some point, every member of the original Avengers team bar Thor.

First appearing as Natalie Rushman, the sexy secretary alias (yes, really) of Natasha Romanoff in Iron Man 2 of whom Tony Stark takes an interest (Pepper Potts declares Rushman as a “very expensive sexual harassment lawsuit” waiting to happen), then as Black Widow in The Avengers, she flits from thereon in between that femme fatale mode to mothering figure. Following Hawkeye’s (Jeremy Renner) possession by Loki (Tom Hiddleston), Black Widow makes it her personal (she owes him a debt) mission to wake him from his reverie, hinting at a less-than-professional past, whilst in Captain America: The Winter Soldier she and Cap share a tense bout of therapy whilst on mission.

Age of Ultron sees Johansson’s character haphazardly paired as the “beauty” in a “Beauty and the Beast” romance with green-eyed angry-guy the Hulk (Mark Ruffalo); she is the only one capable of calming him — thanks to her womanly ways — and the two bond over perceiving themselves as a “monster,” she due to her forced sterilization as part of the Black Widow program and subsequent inability to bear children (thanks Joss Whedon, for this clumsy handling of backstory vs. sideplot) and he for more, er, obvious reasons.

So yes, we are left as of yet with a monstrous, mothering femme fatale. We appear to be ticking off tropes here, so it almost appears laughable that a single character has somehow managed to embody every perceivable onscreen female threat towards men. In Black Widow being such a threat to masculinity – via the presumptuous attempts to consume with her monstrously suffocating, simultaneously mothering and seductive ways – it is only natural that the camera attempts to regain control of her via its voyeuristic lens, right?

Wrong. For in their attempt to expand on Black Widow’s backstory – something that intrigued many fans due to her persistent lack of a solo venture – all Whedon and company have resulted in is a fetishization of her emotional trauma. As stated by Johansson, Black Widow “never made an active choice. [She’s] a product of other people’s imposition.” The fact that her backstory contains emotional trauma and systematic abuse is not a surprise. But for it to be so trivially handled in a high-octane superhero menagerie instead of a solo film presumes that the perceived (aka Male 60%: Female 40%) target audience merely has no time for women matters, but in reality perhaps that is just the writers. Even had it been handled as part of a Captain America or Iron Man sequel, odds are that it would have fared better, given there being less clamor per character for screen time, and for it to have been handled instead during one scene of an Avengers film is simply lazy.

So yes, in trying to regain control of the female Avenger, the lens has to make her a sexual object whilst the narrative fetishizes her as emotionally damaged and such, less than. Black Widow’s past is her weakness, and she always tries to make up for her dark days as an assassin; as both she and Loki allude to in The Avengers, she has red on her ledger. In working for espionage agency S.H.I.E.L.D, she gets to make up for some of her murky past. She also serves the patriarchy, with it being an international, militarized organisation: this is a reconcile-or-die situation, and as such the character of Black Widow has effectively been tamed.

All of this sounds very ominous and, in reading this, you are probably wondering exactly why and how Black Widow can be perceived as the “realest” heroine within the MCU. The unfortunate truth is, despite her being the embodiment of so many tropes, she is the original female Avenger and equal (minus her and Hawkeye’s lack of supernatural ability – or expensive suits) to that of her male Avenger peers. She is not typically made a Damsel in Distress as love interests often are; she saves the other Avengers, albeit, occasionally in a mothering fashion. Throughout films she has been rounded out in a manner that many other token women of other MCU sub-franchises simply do not have the privilege of, and in that way, is it better that her character be fleshed-out in a contrived and melodramatic manner or not at all?

It is a tough call, but in Marvel films (not the television series) she is the only female character who surpasses one-dimensionality, and as sad as it is to say, in the MCU this is the best that we get.

Kayleigh Watson is a writer and occasional illustrator from the UK. After realizing that her childhood ambition of being a vet would mean she would actually have to cut up pets (ew), she decided life would be better spent absorbing art and telling others about it. Her years spent studying for her BA (Hons) English and Creative Writing also involved music blogging, reading SF, and watching lots of Buffy. She currently writes about music for female-centric site The Girls Are as well as talking film and TV (or trying to) at her new blog Post-Modern Sleaze. A collection of her work can be found at what kayleigh said, and she tweets about all of the above under @kaylwattson. Her GIF game is strong.

How Hawkgirl Saved Me

This is about my favorite chess-playing, mace-wielding, war-crying, winged superheroine role model: Shayera Hol. … Hawkgirl taught me to be observant. She taught me that it’s possible to come through trying times. She taught me that being able to think was just as important as being able to fight, and that good and evil aren’t always absolutes.

This guest post written by Maggie Slutzker appears as part of our theme week on Superheroines.

As a teenager, I was strictly a DC girl. My comic collection was World’s Finest, the Justice League, and everything Batman. I loved Justice League, Batman the Animated Series, Batman Beyond, and just about all of the accompanying movies. In my twenties, I still look back to those books and even watch those movies on occasion. I can’t tell you how many conversations I’ve had, as an adult, about Batman: Mask of the Phantasm. (If you don’t know who Andrea Beaumont is, you need to check it out.)

But something’s happened to DC. They just can’t seem to get it together. They have embraced that gritty “realist” style that’s so fitting of Batman, and yet they seem to have forgotten the core values of their most prominent heroes. When I was fourteen, nothing would have made me happier than a Batman/Superman movie. And for Wonder Woman to be involved? I would have cried sweet tears of joy. My friends and I would have flocked to the theatre, and then celebrated afterward by watching all the animated movies.

Now, things are different. When DC announced Batman v. Superman, I only felt worry in the pit of my stomach — worry that, I might add, turned out to be completely justified. (Killing off Mercy Graves before we’ve even been introduced to her? Why don’t you kill all my hopes and dreams before I live them, too?) And with a Wonder Woman movie on the horizon, well, I have my hopes…but I know better than to expect greatness from DC’s live action movies anymore.

Does it sound like I take comics too seriously? Maybe so. Definitely so. But if you’re a fan yourself, you can understand how important heroes are, and the part they play in our lives. So while I’m apprehensively excited for (FINALLY) a Wonder Woman movie, this isn’t going to be about her. This is about my favorite chess-playing, mace-wielding, war-crying, winged superheroine role model: Shayera Hol.

Hawkgirl.

Say it too fast and it sounds like you’re saying “hot girl.” This was very frustrating to me as a kid when I tried to tell people who my favorite superhero was. Sometimes I would just give up and say “Batman,” because technically I knew more about him anyway. But my entire obsession with superheroes and comics stemmed from watching the Justice League cartoon, and loving Hawkgirl. Let me clarify here and now that the Hawkgirl I’m talking about is the hero from the TV series, and not the comics. When I became a fan, it was about 2005. At that time, I really wasn’t interested in learning about Hawkman. I couldn’t find a lot of comics that were solely about Hawkgirl, and when she was involved she wasn’t quite the Hawkgirl I knew from the cartoons. I had the damnedest time finding Hawkgirl action figures, which I was only able to track down at theme parks and the Toys R Us at Times Square. And why was she Hawkgirl instead of Hawkwoman? I can’t speak to that. Still, I loved her so much.

Martian Manhunter couldn’t read her mind. Batman couldn’t beat her at chess. Dr. Fate’s magic couldn’t touch her. Even Aquaman, that irritable Atlantean snob, had a healthy respect for her. She wielded her Nth metal mace with a war cry. She saw faith as a crutch, a sort of oppression, and she expressed confusion about it to Wonder Woman and Aquaman. She stood up to the evil god Exthultu when he came for Earth and Solomon Grundy’s soul. Her bond with Solomon Grundy would later draw her back to the show, after being cast out.

Wonder Woman was the explicitly feminist character on Justice League, and in a way one could argue that Hawkgirl was made out to be the stereotypical “cool girl” of the group. Some might say she was the yellow Power Ranger to Wonder Woman’s pink, but their personalities and their relationship developed beyond that. Both women were foreigners, but Wonder Woman was more warrior princess, where Hawkgirl saw herself as a soldier. While they were different, they were both always totally willing to go into battle for their friends, including each other. Hawkgirl had a stronger bond with the Flash, and of course, Green Lantern. She could also identify with Superman and Martian Manhunter, the other lost “aliens” of the group. And she had some of the best lines. When Wonder Woman said, “[Men] can’t possibly be that essential to your life,” Shayera said, “Don’t knock it til you’ve tried it.” When, for the millionth time, Flash said he was the fastest man alive, she said, “Which might explain why you can’t get a date.” And, for Toonami fans who remember, “You think I need this mace to take you down?”

Hawkgirl also fell for John Stewart, the Green Lantern. Thanks to the Joker, their love was fulfilled, unlike that of Wonder Woman and Batman. Theirs was an interracial relationship, and while the show never mentions race or explicitly makes it a source of conflict, it was meaningful that it was shown and that fans became invested in it. The two came, literally, from different planets, but both were fighters with military experience, strategic minds, and truth to their own selves. For cartoon characters, they shared amazing chemistry.

Hawkgirl’s storyline on the show became more important as Justice League came to its end, and Justice League Unlimited began. (Amazing opportunity, or huge mistake? I’ll let you decide.) Within the confines of the TV series, Shayera Hol turned out to be a spy sent from her home planet, Thanagar. In “Starcrossed,” everything the Justice League has come to know and trust crashes down on them. Just in case there’s someone reading this who plans to watch the series, I won’t go too deep into detail. I will only say that Shayera has to choose between destroying her new home, Earth, and leaving her old home completely vulnerable to death in battle. To get critical, the writers made it a little too much about Hawkgirl choosing between two men, but as we know from popular YA fiction, movie producers can’t get enough of love triangles.

As someone who would later try her hand in fields related to justice, I was taught some important lessons by the “Starcrossed” episodes. The first is that, no matter what mask you wear, Batman will always know who you truly are. The second is that when you’re torn between two people, places, or situations that you care about equally, you must be able to objectively look at what is right, and what is wrong. When Hawkgirl realizes that Earth will be destroyed, she changes course completely. She makes this final decision without religious faith, without unfair bias, and, first and foremost, with the protection of Earth’s citizens in mind. We have human politicians who can’t even do that.

For all of her flaws and perceived treachery, Hawkgirl’s faith in her team inspired me. In the episode “In Blackest Night,” John Stewart is accused of an unthinkable crime. This is before any romance, and Hawkgirl isn’t the first of the group who is certain that John didn’t do it — that would be Superman, ever the boy scout. But when Hawkgirl leaves the courtroom to find that John’s friends deserted him, she’s enraged at their near-instant abandonment. She fights them, and not long after, the Green Lantern Kilowog goes to John’s defense. Something glossed over in the series is that Hawkgirl is a detective; that was her job on Thanagar. Hawkgirl follows and investigates a witness that she can immediately tell is a liar, and this is ultimately what saves John from a completely unbelievable mistake. (I have many more thoughts about this episode, mainly that the justice system in space is just as unorganized as the ones here on Earth.) She goes on to earn the respect of the entire Green Lantern Corps.

Because of her skill, her loyalty, and her ethics, nearly everyone Hawkgirl ever came into conflict with in a work-related capacity would eventually come to respect her. Aquaman, for instance. Dr. Fate. Amazo. Wonder Woman, twice. The Green Lanterns. The connections and reconnections she made after “Starcrossed” speaks volumes. And when her Hawkgirl disguise is no longer an option, Shayera becomes a superhero without an alternate identity: she is simply herself.

Watching Justice League enhanced my female friendships. I specifically mention female friendships because there’s an overarching idea that when young girls get into comics — and video games for that matter — they do it to impress boys. Nothing could be further from the truth. (The only boy who influenced my love of superheroes was my little brother, who as a three-year-old spent at least a year dressed as Batman. We still call my dad Robin.) I forced my friends to watch Justice League with me, because that’s just what I did with shows and books that I love. Guess what? They loved it, too. My best friend and I decided we were Wonder Woman and Hawkgirl.

My best friend and I had long debates about different episodes. We spent hours upon hours creating our ideal live-action cast. When Hawkgirl addressed that Wonder Woman had to be magic to fight in that outfit, we appreciated it. We definitely shipped Batman and Superman. And, since Netflix wasn’t an option, my whole family got involved when I watched Justice League and Justice League Unlimited every week. When I excitedly anticipated Shayera’s return to the show, they understood. My mother was particularly furious when Shayera and Green Lantern’s romance didn’t get neatly wrapped up. Super powers or not, a good story is a good story.

It’s simple, really. Hawkgirl and superheroes lead us to love and inspiration. Even as fictional characters, they give us hope. It means a lot to be guided in that direction by someone who in some way shares your identity. Hawkgirl taught me to be observant. She taught me that it’s possible to come through trying times. She taught me that being able to think was just as important as being able to fight, and that good and evil aren’t always absolutes.

And when all else fails, grab your electric mace.

Maggie Slutzker is a writer and feminist living in New York. Check out her Facebook page, “A Little Something for the Ladies,” or follow her on Twitter @suchaslutzker.

‘Barbarella’ and the “Savagery” of Futuristic Sexual Politics

One version of Barbarella draws her as a progressive, sex-positive, and role model-worthy character that saves the universe. … Barbarella the character might be the worst example of a superheroine by many of our contemporary expectations for a female lead not least because of the ambiguous dynamics of her (sexual) agency. … ‘Barbarella’ as a film remains a superheroine movie with a mission: save the future of sexual politics.

This guest post written by Olga Tchepikova appears as part of our theme week on Superheroines.

Oh Barbarella Psychedella… notorious campy Queen of the Galaxy and a retro sci-fi enthusiast’s dream come true. In my mind, she exists in two distinct versions: One — the more permanent one that I find to be true for the longest time between refreshing my memory — draws her as a progressive, sex-positive, and role model-worthy character that saves the universe. The other — which I become aware of every time I refresh my memory — reminds me that although Barbarella may be at the center of every scene during her mission she is not always the catalyst of action. Based on this conflict, I am hesitant to call Barbarella a superheroine. However, I think it is valid to label Barbarella a superheroine movie. But what exactly is the difference?

Barbarella has been praised for parodying the image of a hyper-sexualized astronaut woman especially with regard to the sexist organization of space travel programs in the 1960s and often classified as a feminist film for its display of a sexually active female protagonist. Lisa Parks wrote a wonderful essay on space programs and Barbarella in the book Swinging Single: Representing Sexuality in the 1960s (1999) edited by Hillary Radner and Moya Luckett. Indeed, the heroism we find in this movie seems inevitably bound to a fixation on sex. But precisely because the film’s iconography so strongly predicates Barbarella as intergalactic sex kitten, it is important to acknowledge that contrary to the popularized image of her promiscuous pursuit, she almost never actively seeks out sexual partners. Rather, she responds to other people’s sexual desire for her. But instead of dwelling on questions about erotic agency, I would like to point out that the sexual heroism we might associate with Barbarella is strongly contingent on the futuristic setting of the story — a setting we are completely detached from, but cannot help but read through our internalized socio-cultural conventions regarding sexuality. Consequently, in the story’s terrain, it is especially intriguing that sex as we know it has become irrelevant, or — in the characters’ own words — even “savage.”

In Barbarella’s version of the future ‘making love,’ or that which we refer to as romantic physical intimacy, does not exist anymore. “Love” may be the official motto of the Republic of the Earth, but there is no sex in it. In fact, the sexual future we see here is a neoliberal dystopia. Sex has been deemed too distracting — a threat to maximum efficiency. With the help of science, people in the 41st century take pills and touch hands for one minute “until full rapport is achieved.” For the best possible effect, their “psychocardiograms” must align. And to further emphasize the routine of this practice, we find out that only the poorest of the populace — the ones who cannot afford pills and psychocardiogram readings — have sex in the form of ‘genital intercourse with their clothes off.’

In a future shaped by such conventions, Barbarella is requested to find Durand Durand who is, as it turns out later, a scientist-turned-megalomaniac that wants to take over the universe. Her search leads to Sogo (the future’s abbreviated version of Sodom and Gomorrah) — a city where the “primitive state of neurotic irresponsibility” (Barbarella’s words) is alive and well. In Sogo, pleasure and death are the two main forces in action, making it an exceptional location in the pacified, hyper-scientific universe of 4000+ AD. And it is here that we realize that the “neurotic irresponsibilities” Barbarella is worried about strongly resemble the 1960s fantasies of counter-cultural hedonism and excess. Only in Barbarella’s era, their bad reputation is grounded in the disturbance of efficiency, not a lack of moral conventions.

Certainly, Barbarella’s main agenda is not to lay out the path our society might be taking in the coming centuries. It is a campy sci-fi film after all. But can we really fully dismiss that this could be our future? One where there is, as a rule, no sex in love and no love in sex?

There are plenty of ways in which sexuality (and love, for that matter) has been and continues to be regulated for the sake of a random status quo maintained through directed shaming and punishment. Aside from the long tradition of monitoring and restricting women’s physical, mental, and emotional faculties, ‘those in charge’ have also been persistently harassing individuals and communities displaying non-(hetero)normative desires and identities. And this rigid tenaciousness causes the personal to remain political until further notice, or at least until we live in a time like Barbarella’s day and age — where you don’t have to bother putting on clothes for discussing a diplomatic mission with the president because ‘naked’ is not synonymous to ‘sexual’ anymore. And even if it was, ‘sexual’ would merely mean a match of psychocardiograms, allowing for the best possible experience of touching hands for a minute.

The separation of sex and love exemplified in Barbarella’s universe is not as uncommon as it used to be — at least in newer public discourse and social behavior. Casual sexual encounters, or ‘hook-up culture’ in the mouth of people who disapprove, can be both a means to ridicule people who are interested in bonding with their sex partners — as suggested in Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World — or a convenient code to avoid the distracting nature of romance and emotions for the sake of personal fulfillment and success in other spheres of life. As of now, we like to exhibit emotionally detached sexual encounters for the sake of efficiency as a personal choice — something that can or even will be reversed if we choose. But what if, indeed, it were possible to achieve ‘full rapport’ with another person without going through the trouble of physical intercourse and being exposed to the dangers of disease contamination and emotional attachment?

The definite separation of sex and physical sensation à la Barbarella takes this idea far out of the already tense and fragile comfort zone defining our culture’s progressive and inclusive attitudes towards sexuality. From where we stand now, a social norm that dictates this separation seems almost dehumanizing. Do we really want to be that progressive? It is one thing to think sexual intercourse without emotional attachment, or sexual sensation without sexual partner(s), but it is hard to think sexual sensation without the respective physical, and maybe even emotional stimulation. However, the over-exaggeration of this idea, to me, is fundamentally what defines the sexually heroic nature of Barbarella from the vantage point of a culture that recycles this film’s iconography on a regular basis — not least because somewhere along the way, she makes the ‘efficient sex’ of the future look ridiculous.

Barbarella was created during a time of social and sexual revolt but placed in an age where the hyper-civilized earth community overrode this one human trait that continuously has been causing trouble throughout history. Despite being a strong believer in the futuristic world order, she reverts to ancient practices that go against a lot of the principles working to maintain the 41st century’s social order and recognizes the productive potential of sexual distractions. She chooses body fluids over pills, feeling over pragmatic ritual, quality over quantity. In the eyes of the future, she becomes “savage.” In other words, she becomes like us. Her choice for ‘the old-fashioned way’ champions sex — even the casual type — as an important form of social activity, not a disturbing call of nature.

Barbarella the character might be the worst example of a superheroine by many of our contemporary expectations for a female lead not least because of the ambiguous dynamics of her (sexual) agency. But that is now, and this was then. Barbarella as a film remains a superheroine movie with a mission: save the future of sexual politics. Indeed, it seems like the sexual libertinage of counter-culture might be a smaller evil than time-efficient, pharma-induced orgasms to be received through fingertips. But then again, it is another 2000+ years until the 41st century — more than enough time for sexual intercourse to be declared “savage.”

Olga Tchepikova has lived, studied, and worked across various places in Europe and the U.S.. Her mind in free time, as well as in research, is mainly occupied with films about and critical theory on subculture, outsider figures, horror, violence, death, sexuality, and the sex industry.

‘Supergirl’s Feminism and Why the TV Series Works

Even with her powers, Kara is the underdog who has to evolve to overcome insurmountable odds, thus making her relatable to viewers. With the series being entitled ‘Supergirl,’ it shouldn’t be a surprise that feminism is a prevalent theme. What is a pleasant surprise is how well the series tackles it.

This guest post written by Dennis R. Upkins appears as part of our theme week on Superheroines.

At 8 years old, I would wake up early every Saturday morning to tune in and watch Superboy. Over the years, I’ve been a faithful viewer of the original George Reeves Superman series, Lois & Clark, the Bruce Timm animated series, the live action films, and of course the comics. I’m a comic book guy through and through. For me, Superman isn’t just a superhero. He is THE superhero. I’m very protective of the Man of Steel’s mythos and legacy. Suffice it to say, I had my concerns when the CBS series Supergirl was announced.

Somehow when I wasn’t paying attention, my reaction evolved from, “The pilot was cute, I guess I’ll tune in,” to “Jesus Christ is it Monday night yet? I need my Maiden of Might!!!!”

There’s a number of reasons why the series works and works well. For starters, the cast. Actress Melissa Benoist embodies the essence of the eponymous heroine much like Christopher Reeves and Lynda Carter respectively encapsulated Superman and Wonder Woman. In addition, the series is a fresh take on Supergirl and her alter ego Kara Danvers. In previous incarnations, Kara was often depicted as headstrong, impulsive, reckless and angsty, often as a foil for her older and more mature cousin, Clark. For that matter, the same can be said for Conner Kent aka Superboy.

Whereas Clark’s meek and bumbling demeanor was often a facade to conceal his identity, for this Kara, it is who she is and her powers don’t change that fact. Case in point, the girl can’t keep her secret identity to save her life as the series illustrates numerous times. Kara is an ingenue with a huge heart. She often finds herself in over her head whether battling Fort Ross escapees or navigating through minefields often known as life.

Even with her powers, Kara is the underdog who has to evolve to overcome insurmountable odds, thus making her relatable to viewers.

With the series being entitled Supergirl, it shouldn’t be a surprise that feminism is a prevalent theme. What is a pleasant surprise is how well the series tackles it. Sadly in 2016, positive portrayals of powerful women outside of Shondaland continue to be rare. This is especially the case for speculative fiction. Too often, female characters are developed by undercutting other female characters. Not the case with this series. Whether it’s Kara, Lucy or Alex, all of the heroines and villainesses are different but formidable in their own right.

If there is a breakout MVP for the series, the title easily goes to Kara’s snarky boss and unlikely mentor, Cat Grant, played flawlessly by Ally McBeal herself. Calista Flockhart effortlessly steals virtually every scene she’s in with her performances. The sharp-tongued heart-of-gold mentor archetypes are typically reserved for male characters, thus making this iteration of Grant and her relationship with Kara rare for television and all the more amazing.

As the Flash crossover, “World’s Finest,” illustrates, this is a series that knows how to have fun and be creative. New fans and Kryptonian OGs like myself are on the edge of our seats wondering what surprises are in store: the introduction of Martian Manhunter, the Cadmus tease, or hints that Alex Danvers might one day evolve into this universes’s Alex Luthor. It is my hope that Vasquez’s role is beefed up next season and other marginalized DC alums are introduced be they Alysia Yeoh and/or Natasha Irons.

If I have one complaint to register about Supergirl it would be this is one of those times I wish I was a father. I wish I had a young daughter to watch the show with. Just as I tuned in religiously every Saturday as a kid to watch Superboy, it would be cool to pass along a family tradition to the next generation. Supergirl is a heroine that young girls can watch and look up to. Just as importantly, she is a heroine young boys can watch and learn from. One thing is for certain, season 2 can’t get here fast enough.

Is it Monday night yet?

See also at Bitch Flicks: ‘Supergirl’ and Room for the Non-Brooding Superhero

Dennis R. Upkins is a speculative fiction author, equal rights activist, and proud Atlanta, Georgia native. His writing credits include Stranger Than Fiction, Hollowstone, and West of Sunset. Upkins was a former staff writer for Comicbook.com. He regularly critiques and analyzes the representation and portrayal of minorities in media and has been a contributor to Prism Comics, Bitch Media, Black Girl Dangerous, Geeks OUT, and The Nerds of Color.

‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’ and the Humanization of the Superheroine

Often carrying the burden of representation in a genre overrun with male characters, superheroines were strong or weak, clear-headed or in constant need of saving, but rarely complex or allowed complicated internal lives, and even more rarely truly relatable. Buffy changed all that.

This guest post written by Kaitlyn Soligan appears as part of our theme week on Superheroines.

Before there was a girl on fire, or a woman in an office with a drinking problem and a dark history, before there was, even, a cheerleader whose salvation could save the world, there was the chosen one. She alone would stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness. She was the slayer.

Our generation’s slayer was Buffy Summers, and she was a mess. By turns bubbly and serious, flirtatious and driven, insecure and confident, Buffy Summers worried about boys and her birthright, rising demons and her parents’ divorce, algebra and the somehow ever-present threat of global apocalypse. While there were superheroines on page and screen long before Buffy – the iconic Wonder Woman, Batgirl, and X-Men like Storm were represented on both – none had ever been allowed to be so human, particularly on television and in movies, where they were mostly absent. Often carrying the burden of representation in a genre overrun with male characters, superheroines were strong or weak, clear-headed or in constant need of saving, but rarely complex or allowed complicated internal lives, and even more rarely truly relatable.

Buffy changed all that.

Buffy worried about make-up, her curfew, whether or not a boy liked her, and how she would ever get her homework done on time in the moments between plunging a stake into the heart of multiple attacking vampires. Over the objections of her guardian Giles, a stand-in for the stuffy and outdated rules about how superheroines should behave, she made friends and went on dates, and still managed to slay demons and kill monsters. She was funny and goofy and sweet and deadly serious when occasion called for it. Buffy broke hearts and had hers broken, said things she shouldn’t to lovers and friends and family, hurt people and stood beside them when they needed her most. She was phenomenally imperfect as a woman and as a heroine.

Buffy’s battles, real and metaphorical (and occasionally metaphorically revealing what was all too real), panned the camera to the battles of girls more generally and forced it to linger on what was uncomfortable and almost always previously unacknowledged. In “Out of Mind, Out of Sight,” Buffy fights an invisible foe who turns out to be a fellow classmate who disappeared for lack of attention. The episode examines the visibility of the female and the female body – and the ways these related to the feminine – in multiple ways, with Buffy and her classmate Cordelia battling for the title of May Queen before battling for their lives. Many episodes dealt with intimate partner violence; in “Ted” Buffy battles her mother’s violent boyfriend, while in “Beauty and the Beasts” she faces a classmate abusing his girlfriend. Throughout all of these episodes and arcs, Buffy is both average – experiencing jealousy, vulnerability, the need for company and compassion, pushing her friends and family away and then pulling them back in close – and superhuman, fighting against unnatural forces with equally unnatural strength.

Buffy’s humanity also marked one of the earliest moments of feminism brought to bear on the superhero genre – not a mere personal feminism limited to character portrayals, but a structural feminism, with an acknowledgement of structural systems of oppression, played out within and on characters and throughout story lines. In “Out of Mind, Out of Sight,” Buffy faces the structural systems that exploit women’s bodies and turn them against one another as competitors. In “Ted,” her mother’s boyfriend is controlling and manipulative, gaslighting her, an eons-long practice even before we had a succinctly encompassing term for it. In “Beauty and the Beasts,” Buffy faces her classmate’s reality as a victim of assault while simultaneously exploring her own past as a survivor of abuse. Buffy and the other female characters were constantly underestimated because they were women. No episode ended with a neat lesson in which every male character realized the error of their ways and repented, and this underestimation often had long-term, structural, and painfully realistic consequences for the characters.

While Buffy’s humanization broke new ground for superheroines, it also brought into relief against that image the limits of what was still possible on television. While the many white female characters on the show were deliberately complex, the first featured recurring Black character, Kendra, was largely two-dimensional. Bearing the burden of representation, Kendra’s efforts to find acceptance through perfection reflected the limits experienced by women of color, a choice between being “good” and acknowledged, or not good enough and ignored, pushed further back into the margins both visually and narratively. While Black male characters on the show – most notably the cool and organized Mr. Trick and the steady and almost unbearably sexy Principal Wood – were good and evil, kind and ruthlessly ambitious, flawed and righteous by turns, Black female characters came in by inches and retreated just as quickly back outside the frame.

In Season 7, at the end of the series’ television run, Buffy discovers that her powers come from a spell cast long ago by men in Africa who needed a protector. One girl was chosen – likely not voluntarily – to be that protector: the First Slayer. And her power passed from one generation to the next. Buffy’s power is literally drawn from a history of Black women around the world; their sacrifices over thousands of years have enabled her rebellion from girl soldier to human being over the objections of a system designed to imprison, use, and discard her. As a white woman in her own place and time, Buffy could do what they could not.

In the end, Buffy enlists another woman, Willow, a powerful witch and, not incidentally, one of the first recurring LGBTQ characters on television, to reclaim and redistribute that first power, allowing every girl in the world with the potential to become a Slayer to rise up simultaneously, together. The act was at its heart a symbolic gesture hearkening to the notion that white women whose privilege has been gained at the ongoing expense of many other women, particularly women of color, have a responsibility to both destroy the system and build a better one, one that has far more universal benefit. In her final moments, Buffy chose between being special – one girl in all the world – and building a platform on which she would be only one of many, only as special as she made herself, meaningful not at the expense of others’ lack, but of her own making – as her own woman.

She went to prom and saved her classmates from a giant dragon. She mourned the loss of her mother and fought a fallen God. She fell in love and died and got aggravated with her roommates and worked in fast food and slayed demons. 2017 will mark 20 years since Buffy first aired, and Buffy would be truly old for a slayer now – nearly 40. If she felt all her years and more at sixteen, with her outsized responsibilities, one can only imagine how she would feel today, and it’s understandable: Buffy is the grandmother of the modern superheroine. These dark, flawed, occasionally failed, damaged, traumatized, real girls and women onscreen and in comics – from Katniss Everdeen to Jessica Jones to Joss Whedon’s own later heroines like Firefly’s Zoe – owe a great deal to the strides Buffy made in her complexity, her humanity, her failings, and her growth alike, as do we. After all, she saved the world. A lot.

Kaitlyn Soligan is a writer and editor from Boston living in Louisville, Kentucky. She writes about that, and bourbon, at www.ivehadworseideas.com. You can follow her on twitter @ksoligan.

Daisy Johnson, Superheroine of ‘Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.’ — And Why She Matters

What makes Daisy special among superheroes is that she embodies all of these tropes as the centerpiece of a network television series — and is also a woman. Not only that, she is a mixed-race woman — and not a token one, but one surrounded by other women, of various ages, races and backgrounds.

This guest post written by Lee Jutton appears as part of our theme week on Superheroines. | Spoilers ahead.

Much more family-friendly and comic-book kooky than its dark, disturbing and acclaimed Netflix siblings, Marvel’s Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. is often treated like the black sheep of the Marvel Cinematic Universe by critics, audience members and even Marvel itself. Having just wrapped its third season, S.H.I.E.L.D. boasts one of the most underrated ensemble casts on television — not to mention one of the most diverse. Said cast features many amazingly complex, flawed, and fantastic women heroes who juggle trying to save the world with their own personal quests for family, love, acceptance, and peace of mind. In a television landscape where female characters frequently suffer and die just to further the storylines of their male co-stars, S.H.I.E.L.D. consistently gives these women their own stories and allows these stories to drive the show forward. Chief among them is Daisy Johnson, an ace computer hacker who joins S.H.I.E.L.D. to dig up information on her unknown parents and ends up discovering that she is a superpowered Inhuman.

When S.H.I.E.L.D. debuted in Fall 2013, the advertisements implied that it was a vehicle for Agent Phil Coulson, played by Clark Gregg, who was mysteriously raised from the dead after meeting a tragic end in The Avengers. I eyed these ads with trepidation, looking forward to an opportunity to enter the Marvel Cinematic Universe every week but worried that Coulson wouldn’t be able to carry a show. Turns out, the reason why S.H.I.E.L.D. excels is because he doesn’t. The true star of S.H.I.E.L.D. is Daisy, who over the course of three seasons goes from having no family to being torn between two — S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Inhumans — to finding herself alone again. This tumultuous inner conflict is what cements Daisy as S.H.I.E.L.D.’s emotional center and one of the more complicated characters in the male-dominated Marvel Cinematic Universe. She is not a perfect superheroine, but as one of only a few currently gracing our screens, she should not be taken for granted.

Daisy, played by Chloe Bennet, has evolved so much since the show’s pilot that she no longer goes by the same name. The series introduces her as Skye, a member of the hacktivist group Rising Tide who spent her childhood getting passed around a series of foster homes. Skye is trying to dig up information on her birth parents, who she believes were connected to S.H.I.E.L.D.; it is revealed partway through the first season that she was dropped off at an orphanage by an unknown S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. It says a lot about the lack of diversity in television that for awhile, everyone assumed that said S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and Skye’s mother, was going to be Melinda May, played by Ming-Na Wen. (Bennet’s father is Chinese-American; her given name is Wang, but she now uses her father’s first name as her surname.) Two Asian-American actresses on the same program? There must be a connection, many fans mused, despite not wondering the same about all of the white actors on the show.

At first, Skye is little more than a vehicle for the audience’s entry into the covert world of S.H.I.E.L.D. Many of the early episodes spend too much time debating Skye’s loyalties, and the repetition grows exhausting. Audience members who survived this slow-moving, low-stakes freshman year were rewarded with a much more exciting sophomore season and a much more well-rounded Skye, now a full-fledged S.H.I.E.L.D. agent with the trust of her team and top-notch training from known badass Melinda, definitely the most competent agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. (Another shout out to Ming-Na Wen, who beats up men twice her size and half her age on a weekly basis.) Skye has not yet found her birth parents, but in S.H.I.E.L.D., she has finally found some form of family and identity.

That long-sought sense of stability doesn’t last for long. Soon, Skye is introduced to her birth parents, given her real name — Daisy Johnson — and transformed into an Inhuman. Her power is a literal embodiment of the upheaval and instability that plagues her life — the ability to create earthquakes. As the only Inhuman member of S.H.I.E.L.D., Daisy finds herself once again feeling alone; her powers are viewed as a potentially dangerous liability while she is still struggling to gain control over them. Daisy turns to the Inhumans to find a new sense of belonging as well as an understanding of her powers, only to find herself with divided loyalties when her vengeful Inhuman mother tries to sell her on a war against S.H.I.E.L.D. In the end, Daisy sides with S.H.I.E.L.D., but not without a great sense of loss and regret for what might have been in regards to her all-too-brief time with her mother. Daisy comes away with a desire to use the powers of S.H.I.E.L.D. to find, train and protect other Inhumans; the conflicts that desire causes within both groups becomes one of the driving forces of the series. Literally everything that follows ties into this uneasy alliance, brokered by a driven and determined Daisy, which devolves into conflict when the ancient Inhuman Hive shows up with the goal of coercing other Inhumans to help him conquer humanity.

The arrival of Hive subjects Daisy to a horrific brainwashing experience that turns her against S.H.I.E.L.D. and makes her content to follow Hive’s every order — even if it meant nearly killing her old partner, Mack. The storyline is eerily reminiscent of Jessica Jones’ experiences at the hands of Kilgrave, but without the overt references to rape — though, watching Daisy contently nestle her head on Hive’s shoulder while he plots the downfall of humanity is enough to send shivers down one’s spine. Even after being cured of Hive’s brainwashing, Daisy suffers from aftereffects similar to a drug withdrawal, while simultaneously berating herself viciously for having put her team in danger. Her sense of personal responsibility for actions she committed without having any control over them is heartbreaking, to the point that it would verge on melodramatic if Bennet was not such a capable actress; like the character she portrays, she has definitely developed better control over her abilities over time. By the end of the finale, Daisy abandons S.H.I.E.L.D.– but, it’s not all bad. She returns to a state of isolation and mistrust similar to the one we first found her in, but there’s one big difference: now she knows who she is. That identity as an Inhuman, and the desire to use her powers to help others and to atone for her misdeed while under Hive’s control, is what drives her forward. Daisy might be a fugitive from justice, but in the moment that the woman who newspaper clippings refer to as Quake uses her powers to escape S.H.I.E.L.D., hot on their former agent’s tail, she truly comes into her own as a superheroine.

The character of Daisy is not perfect; some think that others save her too frequently, though I think she returns the favor just as often. Nor is her storyline terribly revolutionary; struggles of identity and the need to reconcile both the heroic and non-heroic sides of one’s personality are not uncommon in superhero stories. What makes Daisy special among superheroes is that she embodies all of these tropes as the centerpiece of a network television series — and is also a woman. Not only that, she is a mixed-race woman — and not a token one, but one surrounded by other women, of various ages, races and backgrounds. In the Marvel movies, there are hardly ever enough women to have a conversation together, while on S.H.I.E.L.D. the women converse regularly, and about all sorts of topics unrelated to men. They mentor each other and challenge each other. They frequently are the ones giving the orders (and defying them) and are respected by their peers. None of these things should be extraordinary any more — and yet, they still are. Dee Hogan sums up S.H.I.E.L.D.’s sense of equality pretty well in this description of a scene in the season three finale for The Mary Sue:

“During this stretch, the ladies to do [sic] a whole lotta butt-saving without having to die in the process, which helps maintain gender parity in terms of who saves whom this week while thankfully not adding to the year’s Dead Female Character tally.”

What can Marvel’s movies learn from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s small-screen superheroines? Why do the films, as enjoyable as I find them to be, always tend to disappoint in their depiction of women, and how can they improve? Representation at the highest levels definitely helps — co-showrunner Maurissa Tancharoen is an Asian-American woman, and Marvel’s other women-centric series, Jessica Jones and the dearly departed Marvel’s Agent Carter, had women literally running the show. It might seem like a deceptively easy solution, but it’s one that DC, at least, has taken to heart in giving Monster’s Patty Jenkins the reins on the much-anticipated Wonder Woman. One hopes that the perpetually-delayed Captain Marvel, adapted from Kelly Sue DeConnick’s iteration of the comics by Guardians of the Galaxy’s Nicole Perlman and Inside Out’s Meg LeFauve, will fill some of the void (if it ever makes it to the multiplex). Until then, I’ll continue keeping company with Daisy Johnson, superheroine of S.H.I.E.L.D.

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

Elektra in ‘Daredevil’: Violence, White Masculinity, and Asian Stereotypes

Elektra is in some ways, the most problematic character. … Yet there is something strangely compelling about Elektra, not as an extension of the show’s tired prejudices against Asian people, but as a woman who despite her questionable origins transcends the limiting Strong Female Character trope. …Her presence in and of itself disrupts the masculine hegemony of violence in the show.

This guest post written by Kelly Kanayama appears as part of our theme week on Superheroines.

When it comes to sensitive depictions of people of color, Marvel’s Netflix show Daredevil has a fairly terrible record. There’s Claire Temple, portrayed by Afro-Latina Rosario Dawson, who helps the white male hero but can never be with him; that privilege is reserved for Karen Page, the embodiment of pure, white womanhood. There’s Madame Gao, who checks all the boxes of the Inscrutable Asian stereotype: the exact nature of her Asianness can never be revealed, she appears to spend her time sipping tea and painting whatever this is, and her communication mostly consists of vague pronouncements. Then there are the hordes of nameless and – as a result of their face coverings – literally faceless ninjas, whose sole purpose is to be dispatched by Daredevil, as his skill in their own martial arts is just that impressive.

And then there’s Elektra Natchios, half-Asian, half-white, sexual, violent, dangerous, and in some ways, the most problematic character on the show.

Elektra functions partially as a contrast to Karen: the femme fatale of color tempting a moral white man away from his virtuous path and, because the two are linked, away from a good-hearted, white woman. To underscore this dichotomy, Karen typically wears whites, neutrals, and blues, like the Virgin Mary would, whereas Elektra’s wardrobe consists of red and black (the vamp’s colors) with accents of gold or the metal of a blade.

Although the series presents Elektra as Daredevil’s equal in terms of fighting prowess, the show disempowers her by attributing this to her status as a living weapon of the Hand. As a woman of color, she is inherently an empty vessel to be filled, with ultimately no agency regarding her actions. Even more worrying, the responsibility for her lack of self-determination lies with her fellow Asians; the Hand may have the occasional non-Asian member, perhaps highlighted to sidestep accusations of racism, but its operation and aesthetics are pure East Asian stereotype. This dynamic ties into other media depictions of people of color suffering the most oppression at the hands of their own – such as any Western news story about South Asian, Middle Eastern, and/or Muslim women – which often serves as justification for the exercise of white privilege over non-white individuals or communities. We might not be perfect, but we’re not as bad as them. It’s fine to bomb their countries, because otherwise they’ll just keep on oppressing.

It must also be noted that the only named Asian characters besides Elektra are Madame Gao and Nobu, whose name no one bothers to mention for most of Season 1 (I resorted to calling him Hot Suit Guy until then). For the most part, Asians in Daredevil are a monolithic mass, the menace of the Other against which a powerful white man must rise.

To meet this challenge, white men repeatedly prove their worthiness to rule by mastering Asianness. Daredevil and Stick are more proficient in Asian martial arts than the warriors of the Hand, while the Kingpin demonstrates his intelligence by speaking to Madame Gao and Nobu in their own languages. These men are thus “better” than their Asian counterparts, as seen in the Kingpin’s ability to convince Gao and Nobu to cooperate with him, or in the fact that both Elektra and Daredevil are both trained by Stick but the latter manages to not become a killer, due to a morality that the Asian Elektra can never have.

Daredevil is a white man’s world. Asians are just getting beaten up and dying in it.

Yet there is something strangely compelling about Elektra, not as an extension of the show’s tired prejudices against Asian people, but as a woman who despite her questionable origins transcends the limiting Strong Female Character trope. In addition to being half of a white woman/woman of color romantic polarity for Daredevil, her presence in and of itself disrupts the masculine hegemony of violence in the show.

Here’s a drinking game I wouldn’t recommend playing with Daredevil: take a sip every time the title character growls “my city.” You’ll pass out in the first fifteen minutes. It’s a key phrase in deciphering his motives behind defending Hell’s Kitchen, which aren’t simply rooted in the desire to stand up for victims of crime. If that was all he wanted, he would have stuck to his day job as a lawyer for the poor and the otherwise marginalized, without the need to sneak out after dark to break some bones. “My city” connotes ownership and, in turn, the right to treat the city’s occupants however he sees fit, since they as part of the city belong to him. The Punisher also comes to this situation from a (former) position of institutional authority. As a former Marine who was deployed in the Middle East, he represents the exercise of U.S. and largely white male-dominated power with the goal of establishing order, and still refers to himself as a “soldier.” This is the language of possession and imposition, spoken by the show’s white male leads.

Elektra displays little concern for such ideologies. Her accent marks her as an outsider in Hell’s Kitchen and in the U.S., and the phrase “my city” is absent from her conversation, as is its more neutral variant “this city.” She is a foreigner, a woman, and a person of color who is at least somewhat removed from her male counterparts’ battles of ownership and authority – and is their equal at what they do best in their efforts to impose the order of white patriarchal institutions upon their surroundings. To drive this point home, Elektra’s most sexualized moment is inextricable from her first display of physical power, as these are combined in that boxing ring scene – first through a fight where she and Matt are evenly matched, then through a passionate coupling where she spends most of her time on top.

In a show where violence equals authority, being the living weapon of the Hand grants her a status similar to those of Daredevil‘s male leads, investing her with the ability to fight alongside or against them as an equal. While Elektra’s is a different type of violence from that carried out by the Punisher or Daredevil with a different source, it is nonetheless effective.

Granted, this part of the plot is still highly objectifying. Perhaps I’m trying to justify my love for a character whose own backstory undercuts her power by finding alternate readings of the indefensible; even in 2016, as an Asian-American woman, I often have to settle for the problematic and compromised or nothing at all. It is a rare occurrence to see a powerful woman on-screen who looks like me and who isn’t entirely composed of racially fetishized tropes: the clingy schoolgirl, the murderous geisha, the dominatrix ninja, or some unholy combination thereof. Elektra may bear aspects of these tropes, but she is by no means reduced to them – in a show where authority is reinforced by successful acts of violence and such acts are the purview of white men, she undermines this supremacy through her own violence and her existence as a female Other of color among the male, the white, and the powerful.

Kelly Kanayama was born and raised in Honolulu but now lives in Scotland, where she is pursuing a PhD in comics research. She has written about comics and superheroes at Bitch Media, SciFiNow, NPR: Code Switch, Women Write About Comics, and Mindless Ones. Her poetry on comics and pop culture has appeared in Room Magazine, Ink Sweat & Tears, and the British Science Fiction Association magazine Focus. You can follow her on Twitter @kellykanayama.