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In Memoriam: Elizabeth Taylor

Elizabeth Taylor 1932-2011

 

As you all likely know by now, Elizabeth Taylor died yesterday from congestive heart failure. There’s not much I can think to say about her that others haven’t said–and likely said better. Here are some highlights of her career as an actress, successful businesswoman, and HIV/AIDS activist.
  • Other awards Taylor won include a BAFTA, a GLAAD Media Vanguard Award, three Golden Globes–including the Cecil B. DeMille Award (one of only twelve women to win since the award’s inception in 1952), a SAG Lifetime Achievement Award, and many others–even a Razzie, for her role in 1994’s The Flintstones.
  • Her first film role was in the film There’s One Born Every Minute, when she was only ten years old, which led to her status as a child star. Adulthood brought her hit after hit, including Cleopatra in 1963, which was the most expensive movie to date with a budget of a million dollars. Her final feature film role was, unfortunately, in The Flintstones, though she appeared on television twice in 2001 and once on stage in 2007.
I must confess that the only film I’ve ever seen starring Elizabeth Taylor is Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf (not even Cleopatra, for shame!), which was amazing. In the past few decades, she’s been more active in business ventures and activism (and, of course, she remains known not only as a classic Hollywood actress, but also for her eight marriages, celebrity friendships, and pricey jewelry collection).
  • Not only did Taylor collect jewelry, but she also designed a successful collection. Her perfume line, which includes Passion, White Diamonds, and Black Pearls, earns roughly 200 million dollars a year. Many celebrities followed in her footsteps, creating signature fragrances as part of their branding initiatives.
  • Perhaps her most lasting legacy, other than her acting, is her HIV/AIDS activism. She raised over 100 million dollars to fight the disease, helped found the American Foundation for AIDS Research, and founded The Elizabeth Taylor HIV/AIDS Foundation.  

This isn’t, by any means, an exhaustive list of her accomplishments and influence. Check out her obit at the New York Times and the interactive media imbedded within, including a clip from Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, and leave your links to Elizabeth Taylor related pieces in the comments.

Guest Writer Wednesday: The Blind Side: The Most Insulting Movie Ever Made

This cross-post first appeared at Rage Against the Man-chine on June 11, 2010.
Davetavius and I consider ourselves the world’s foremost authorities on watching movies for reasons other than those intended by their producers. As such, we go way beyond just watching “cheesy” (whatever that means) movies, 80s movies, or kung fu movies (which I refuse to watch but which every dork on Earth has been pretending to like in some attempt at letting everyone know how “weird” they are since Quentin Tarantino’s ridiculous ass popularized kung fu movie fandom as the #1 route to instant eccentricity cred in True Romance) to focus our attention on recently-released romantic comedies, those obnoxious movies in which two assholes just sit around and talk to each other for 98 minutes, and “serious” movies for which people have been given gold-plated statuettes. One can learn an awful lot about the faults and failings of our social system and corporate entertainment’s attempts to sell us its version of culture by watching movies created by and for the anti-intelligentsia, and if one were to try hard enough, I’m sure one could find the string that, if tugged, would unravel the modern world system buried somewhere in a melodramatic Best Picture Oscar contender intended to make people who refer to beers as “cold ones” feel like they’re considering The Big Issues. There was no way we were going to miss The Blind Side.
Spoiler alert: this is the worst movie I’ve ever seen, and I’m going to spoil your desire to see it yourself by writing this post. Also, I may, if I can manage to give a fuck, divulge important plot elements. But it’s based on a true story that everyone has already heard anyway, so who cares.

Let me say up front that I’m aware that I’m supposed to feel sorry for Sandra Bullock this week. She’s purported to be “America’s sweetheart” and all, she has always seemed like a fairly decent person (for an actor), and I think her husband deserves to get his wang run over by one of his customized asshole conveyance vehicles, but I’m finding it difficult to feel too bad. I mean, who marries a guy who named himself after a figure from the Old West, has more tattoos than IQ points, and is known for his penchant for rockabilly strippers? Normally I’d absolve Bullock of all responsibility for what has occurred and spend nine paragraphs illustrating the many reasons Jesse James doesn’t deserve to live, but I’ve just received proof in the form of a movie called The Blind Side that Sandra Bullock is in cahoots with Satan, Ronald Reagan’s cryogenically preserved head, the country music industry, and E! in their plot to take over the world by turning us all into (or helping some of us to remain) smug, racist imbeciles.

The movie chronicles the major events in the life of a black NFL player named Michael Oher from the time he meets the rich white family who adopts him to the time that white family sees him drafted into the NFL, a series of events that apparently proves that racism is either over or OK (I’m not sure which), with a ton of southern football bullshit along the way. Bullock plays Leigh Anne Tuohy, the wife of a dude named Sean Tuohy, played by — no shit — Tim McGraw, who is a fairly minor character in the movie despite the fact that he is said to own, like, 90 Taco Bell franchises. The story is that Oher, played by Quinton Aaron, is admitted into a fancy-pants private Christian school despite his lack of legitimate academic records due to the insistence of the school’s football coach and the altruism of the school’s teachers (as if, dude), where he comes into contact with the Tuohy family, who begin to notice that he is sleeping in the school gym and subsisting on popcorn. Ms. Tuohy then invites him to live in the zillion-dollar Memphis Tuophy family compound, encourages him to become the best defensive linebacker he can be by means of cornball familial love metaphors, and teaches him about the nuclear family and the SEC before beaming proudly as he’s drafted by the Baltimore Ravens.

I’m sure that the Tuohy family are lovely people and that they deserve some kind of medal for their good deeds, but if I were a judge, I wouldn’t toss them out of my courtroom should they arrive there bringing a libel suit against whoever wrote, produced, and directed The Blind Side, because it’s handily the dumbest, most racist, most intellectually and politically insulting movie I’ve ever seen, and it makes the Tuohy family — especially their young son S.J. — look like unfathomable assholes. Well, really, it makes all of the white people in the South look like unfathomable assholes. Like these people need any more bad publicity.

Quentin Aaron puts in a pretty awesome performance, if what the director asked him to do was look as pitiful as possible at every moment in order not to scare anyone by being black. Whether that was the goal or not, he certainly did elicit pity from me when Sandra Bullock showed him his new bed and he knitted his brows and, looking at the bed in awe, said, “I’ve never had one of these before.” I mean, the poor bastard had been duped into participating in the creation of a movie that attempts to make bigoted southerners feel good about themselves by telling them that they needn’t worry about poverty or racism because any black person who deserves help will be adopted by a rich family that will provide them with the means to a lucrative NFL contract. Every interaction Aaron and Bullock (or Aaron and anyone else, for that matter) have in the movie is characterized by Aaron’s wretched obsequiousness and the feeling that you’re being bludgeoned over the head with the message that you needn’t fear this black guy. It’s the least dignified role for a black actor since Cuba Gooding, Jr.’s portrayal of James Robert Kennedy in Radio (a movie Davetavius claims ought to have the subtitle “It’s OK to be black in the South as long as you’re retarded.”). The producers, writers, and director of this movie have managed to tell a story about class, race, and the failures of capitalism and “democratic” politics to ameliorate the conditions poor people of color have to deal with by any means other than sports while scrupulously avoiding analyzing any of those issues and while making it possible for the audience to walk out of the theater with their selfish, privileged, entitled worldviews intact, unscathed, and soundly reconfirmed.

Then there’s all of the southern bullshit, foremost of which is the football element. The producers of the movie purposely made time for cameos by about fifteen SEC football coaches in order to ensure that everyone south of the Mason-Dixon line would drop their $9 in the pot, and the positive representation of football culture in the film is second in phoniness only to the TV version of Friday Night Lights. Actually, fuck that. It’s worse. Let’s be serious. If this kid had showed no aptitude for football, is there any way in hell he’d have been admitted to a private school without the preparation he’d need to succeed there or any money? In the film, the teachers at the school generously give of their private time to tutor Oher and help prepare him to attend classes with the other students. I’ll bet you $12 that shit did not occur in real life. In fact, I know it didn’t. The Tuohy family may or may not have cared whether the kid could play football, but the school certainly did. It is, after all, a southern school, and high school football is a bigger deal in the South than weed is at Bonnaroo.

But what would have happened to Oher outside of school had he sucked at football and hence been useless to white southerners? What’s the remedy for poverty if you’re a black woman? A dude with no pigskin skills? Where are the nacho magnates to adopt those black people? I mean, that’s the solution for everything, right? For all black people to be adopted by rich, paternalistic white people? I know this may come as a shock to some white people out there, but the NFL cannot accommodate every black dude in America, and hence is an imperfect solution to social inequality. I know we have the NBA too, but I still see a problem. But the Blind Side fan already has an answer for me. You see, there is a scene in the movie which illustrates that only some black people deserve to be adopted by wealthy white women. Bullock, when out looking for Oher, finds herself confronted with a black guy who not only isn’t very good at appearing pitiful in order to make her comfortable, but who has an attitude and threatens to shoot Oher if he sees him. What ensues is quite possibly the most loathsome scene in movie history in which Sandra Bullock gets in the guy’s face, rattles off the specs of the gun she carries in her purse, and announces that she’s a member of the NRA and will shoot his ass if he comes anywhere near her family, “bitch.” Best Actress Oscar.

Well, there it is. Now you see why this movie made 19 kajillion dollars and won an Oscar: it tells a heartwarming tale of white benevolence, assures the red state dweller that his theory that “there’s black people, and then there’s niggers” is right on, and affords him the chance to vicariously remind a black guy who’s boss thr0ugh the person of America’s sweetheart. Just fucking revolting.

There are several other cringe-inducing elements in the film. The precocious, cutesy antics of the family’s little son, S.J., for example. He’s constantly making dumb-ass smart-ass comments, cloyingly hip-hopping out with Oher to the tune of  Young M.C.’s “Bust a Move” (a song that has been overplayed and passe for ten years but has now joined “Ice Ice Baby” at the top of the list of songs from junior high that I never want to hear again), and generally trying to be a much more asshole-ish version of Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone. At what point will screenwriters realize that everyone wants to punch pint-sized snarky movie characters in the throat? And when will I feel safe watching a movie in the knowledge that I won’t have to endure a scene in which a white dork or cartoon character “raises the roof” and affects a buffalo stance while mouthing a sanitized rap song that even John Ashcroft knows the words to?

And then there’s the scene in which Tim McGraw, upon meeting his adopted son’s tutor (played by Kathy Bates) and finding out she’s a Democrat, says, “Who would’ve thought I’d have a black son before I met a Democrat?” Who would have thought I’d ever hear a “joke” that was less funny and more retch-inducing than Bill Engvall’s material?

What was the intended message of this film? It won an Oscar, so I know it had to have a message, but what could it have been? I’ve got it (a suggestion from Davetavius)! The message is this: don’t buy more than one Taco Bell franchise or you’ll have to adopt a black guy. I’ll accept that that’s the intended message of the film, because if  the actual message that came across in the movie was intentional, I may have to hide in the house for the rest of my life.

I just don’t even know what to say about this movie. Watching it may well have been one of the most demoralizing, discouraging experiences of my life, and it removed at least 35% of the hope I’d previously had that this country had any hope of ever being anything but a cultural and social embarrassment. Do yourself a favor. Skip it and watch Welcome to the Dollhouse again.

Nine Deuce blogs at Rage Against the Man-chine. From her bio: I basically go off, dude. People all over the internet call me rad. They call me fem, too, but I’m not all that fem. I mean, I’m female and I have long hair and shit, but that’s just because I’m into Black Sabbath. I don’t have any mini-skirts, high heels, thongs, or lipstick or anything, and I often worry people with my decidedly un-fem behavior. I’m basically a “man” trapped in a woman’s body. What I mean is that, like a person with a penis, I act like a human being and expect other people to treat me like one even though I have a vagina.

Miniseries Preview: Mildred Pierce

Mildred Pierce, the new miniseries from HBO starring Kate Winslet, Evan Rachel Wood, and Guy Pearce, premieres Sunday, March 27th at 9pm. The miniseries is based on the novel by James M. Cain, with a hat-tip, I’m sure, to the 1945 film of the same name, which won Joan Crawford a Best Actress Academy Award for her performance in the title role. 
From the wikipedia plot summary (of the novel): 
Set in Glendale, California, in the 1930s, Mildred Pierce is the story of a middle-class housewife’s attempt to maintain her and her family’s social position during the Great Depression. Frustrated by her unemployed cheating husband, and worried by their dwindling finances, Mildred separates from him and sets out to support herself and her children on her own.

After a difficult search, she finally finds a job as a waitress, but she worries that it is beneath her middle-class station. Actually, Mildred worries more that her ambitious elder daughter, Veda, will think her new job is demeaning. Mildred encounters both success and tragedy, opening three successful restaurants and operating a pie-selling business, and coping with the death of her younger daughter, Ray. Veda enjoys Mildred’s newfound financial success, but increasingly turns ungrateful, demanding more and more from her hard-working mother and letting her contempt for people who must work for a living be known. Mildred’s attachment to Veda forms the central tragedy in the novel. 

The miniseries has been getting great reviews. Dan Callahan of Slant Magazine writes:
…Mildred Pierce is a triumph from beginning to end, and the casting in supporting roles couldn’t be bettered: Melissa Leo does her best Aline MacMahon as Mildred’s next-door neighbor Mrs. Gessler, while Mare Winningham seems to have sprung straight out of a 1930s diner as Ida (in the Crawford version, the sardonic Eve Arden played Ida like a valued secretary doing a bit of slumming in the restaurant trade). Haynes lets his female characters operate as they would have at the time in this milieu. He doesn’t do any modern editorializing on their plight and he doesn’t outright celebrate their resourcefulness; instead, he sets up a panorama of female struggle and solidarity and views it distantly, like somebody writing a history book and trying to keep personal opinions out of it.

And Dennis Lim of the New York Times discusses Todd Haynes’s affinity for “the woman’s picture”:
Asked recently about his longstanding attraction to the melodramatic form known as the woman’s picture–“the untouchable of film genres,” as the critic Molly Haskell once put it–the director Todd Haynes had a ready answer.

“Stories about women in houses are the real stories of our lives,” he said. “They really tell what all of us experience in one way or another because they’re stories of family and love and basic relationships and disappointments.”

Lim later writes: 

Framed as a whodunit–it opens with the killing of Mildred’s second husband, the rakish Monty Beragon–the original “Mildred Pierce” has long been a staple of feminist film theory, which generally views it as a conflicted genre hybrid that combines the masculine conventions of film noir and the feminine ones of melodrama.

I haven’t seen the Joan Crawford film or read the book, but I’m aware of the feminist and queer discussions of the first film. I’m excited that HBO has decided to turn this into a five-part miniseries, too, because I’m starting to wonder (especially after reading Total Film’s ridiculous list of the Greatest Female Characters) if television might offer more opportunity for complex women–and feminist–characters to shine. (I’ve been thinking about HBO shows in particular, like Big Love, The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, and Deadwood, but Showtime certainly doesn’t shy away from strong women, with shows like Nurse Jackie and The United States of Tara, which both have season premieres on Monday, the 28th. I also wouldn’t rule out the latest season of Dexter–because it took on some serious feminist issues as well. But, alas, this is all for another long-ass blog post.) 
In the meantime, here’s to hoping Mildred Pierce doesn’t disappoint! 

Documentary Review: Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work

Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work (2010)

Most reviews of the documentary Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work begin by describing how the film opens–with a close-up shot of Rivers’ face, without make-up. This is, of course, a metaphor for the goal of the film (to get behind the facade) and an acknowledgment of  what Rivers has come to be most famous for–her surgically-altered appearance. While her face is surely a piece of surgical work, the far more fascinating work is that of her long life in the spotlight, and her drive to keep going, keep performing, keep selling, when the culture tells her she should stop (or that she should have stopped long ago).
I went into this film feeling ambivalent. On the one hand, it’s a documentary about an extraordinary woman, made by two women–Ricki Stern and Anne Sundberg, who are known for their previous films The End of America, The Devil Came on Horseback, and the forthcoming Burma Soldier, among others. It’s about a mouthy broad (and I love mouthy broads, women who speak their minds and aren’t afraid to put themselves out there), who is funny, and who has been at it since 1966. On the other hand, it’s yet another film about a wealthy white woman (I just watched and reviewed The September Issue, about Vogue editor-in-chief Anna Wintour) who lives like “Marie Antoinette, if she’d have had money.” Though I enjoy most of her comedy, I–like many others–had come to see her primarily through her surgically-altered appearance, her anything-for-a-buck business approach (A comedy icon selling jewelry on QVC? Starring on Celebrity Apprentice?), and her less-than-feminist years hosting the red carpet.

Watching the film, however, gave me a new appreciation for Rivers–even while not sharing a number of her perspectives. A Piece of Work documents a year in Rivers’ life: she turns 75, faces down a heckler at a stand-up show in Wisconsin, honors George Carlin in a tribute, gets roasted by Comedy Central, and injects new life into her career by winning Celebrity Apprentice. All while still selling that damn jewelry. Her energy level is astounding, and I wonder how she manages to do all she does at the age of 75.

Rivers is an odd character. Being a superstar female comic alone is odd in the U.S.–only a few came before her–but we get a very real look at her life, at the troubles she has faced  (her husband’s suicide) and continues to face, and at the loneliness that certainly helps her drive to fill her daily calendar. She is vulnerable and still nervous when going on stage, especially when pursuing what she calls the one sacred part of her life–her acting–in which she hasn’t seen a lot of personal success. I came to find her more compelling and interesting than my initial perception of her, and encourage anyone to see this film and learn more about a woman who refuses to stop.

Guest Writer Wednesday: The Girl Who Played with Fire

Good Girl Gone Bad: Noomi Rapace as Lisbeth Salander Burns Up the Screen in The Girl Who Played with Fire
This is a cross post from Opinioness of the World.
I’ve been utterly consumed by Swedish author Stieg Larsson’s gripping Millennium Trilogy (I’ll be reading the third book soon…so excited!).  I loved the first film, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, entranced by the burning intensity of the controversial heroine, Lisbeth Salander.  So I eagerly watched the second film in the series, The Girl Who Played with Fire.
Picking up one year after the first film ends, a young journalist and a doctoral student are researching the sex trafficking trade in Sweden.  Publisher and journalist Mikael Blomkvist’s magazine Millennium decides to publish the controversial work, essentially exposing the identities of the men who purchased young women for sex.  As they are about to go to print with the story, three violent murders are committed.  When the police suspect brilliant hacker Lisbeth Salander’s involvement, Blomkvist is determined to clear her name.  But Salander plots her own vengeful agenda against her enemies, plunging the audience even deeper into the mysterious heroine’s troubled and painful past.
I enjoyed the gritty, tense film.  With a different screenwriter and director at the helm, the movie surprisingly retains the same mood as the first film yet not the same depth.  Director Daniel Alfredson provides some visually stunning camera shots.  The ominous and eerie score perfectly sets the suspenseful tone.  Unfortunately, the movie doesn’t live up to the riveting novel.  So much of what I loved about the book is missing as an exorbitant amount of the plot and dialogue are cut from the movie.
The beauty of Larsson’s books lies in his fusion of societal analysis with compelling characters and gripping suspenseful plots.  In The Girl Who Played with Fire, he focuses his commentary on human trafficking, mental health care, espionage, LGBT discrimination and domestic violence.  Regarding the central theme of trafficking in the book, the young journalist Dag Svensson goes into great detail about the johns and researcher Mia Bergman provides the point of views of the women trafficked as she relays their harrowing tales.  According to Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn in their book Half the Sky, 3 million women and girls are forced into prostitution, as many traffickers coerce, beat and rape women into submission.  As with sexual assault in the first novel, Larsson gives you a sense of the horrors these women face.  But this and other vital themes are completely glossed over in the film.
Part of what makes the book so captivating is that it’s a whodunit; you feel as if you’ve stepped into an episode of Law and Order: SVU (I kept waiting for Mariska Hargitay and Chris Meloni to leap out and bust the perps).  The police investigation into the murders comprises a huge component of the story.  The plot twists and turns and you don’t know the identity of the killer or killers.  Salander’s involvement is ambiguous, as the book doesn’t follow her whereabouts for roughly 100 pages following the murders.  But the film basically tells you right up front, forgoing most of the mystery.
By its end, the movie (and book too) spirals into a violent frenzy, reminiscent of a slasher film with SPOILER ALERT!! characters wielding axes and chainsaws, along with numerous dead bodies buried outside a warehouse and someone buried alive.  Ending on a cliff hanger, it leaves us yearning to know the characters’ fate.
Anything lacking in the film, is made up for by the outstanding performances of the two powerful leads.  While he gave a solid performance in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, I kept yearning for more emotion from actor Michael Nyqvist as the impassioned journalist Mikael Blomkvist.  In The Girl Who Played with Fire, he delivers, bringing Blomkvist’s obstinate and obsessive compulsion to solve the murders to life.  Devoted to Salander, his former research partner and lover, Blomkvist races to piece together the puzzle of the murders.  Nyqvist captures the essence of Blomkvist’s stubborn optimism and charisma.
But the spotlight still belongs to actor Noomi Rapace.  While she blew me (and numerous other critics) away with her performance in the first film, I am even more impressed with Rapace as the tattooed researcher Lisbeth Salander this time around.  She stepped into the role through physical training, 7 facial piercings and obtaining her motorcycle license.  Yet she also emotionally transformed herself.  In an interview, Rapace said that she would sit alone, away from the cast and crew, channeling Salander’s anger. Rapace effortlessly evokes Salander’s shrewd intellect, stubbornness and wrath.  We also get to see Salander’s tenderness in her scenes with her trusted former guardian Holmer Palmgren and her lover Miriam “Mimmi” Wu.  She doesn’t have a lot of dialogue, a challenge for an actor, yet Rapace lets us into the wounded character’s world through her subtle yet stellar portrayal.
Lisbeth Salander has generated an enormous amount of press.  It’s unusual to see a female character exude such ferocity.  Usually when we see violence from women in films, they are subordinate to a male counterpart or lover, re-articulating gendered stereotypes. But not Lisbeth.  An unlikely feminist, she despises misogyny, yearning for fair and equal treatment of women.  Salander refuses to be a victim after her own sexual assault.  Despite her pained and troubled childhood, she never wallows in self-pity.  Salander follows her own moral code, wreaking vengeance on those who have abused her with little regard to the law.  She takes responsibility and accepts the consequences of her actions.  Some may argue that she’s not feminine enough, acting like a male disguised in a female form.  But I think that ignores what makes Salander so refreshing.  Self-reliant and clever, she’s a resilient survivor, never backing down from a fight.  A fascinating and fearless character, she is defined neither by her gender nor her fluid sexuality.
While not living up to the book or the first film, it’s still worthwhile to watch for the phenomenal performances by Rapace and Nyqvist.  Each of them truly embodies their alter egos.  Rapace in particular mesmerizes with a smoldering strength.   I cannot wait to see (and read) what happens next in the third installment, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest.

Megan Kearns is a blogger, freelance writer and activist. A feminist vegan, Megan blogs at The Opinioness of the World. She earned her B.A. in Anthropology and Sociology and a Graduate Certificate in Women and Politics and Public Policy. She lives in Boston. She has previously contributed reviews of The Kids Are All Right and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo to Bitch Flicks.

On Rape, the Media, and the ‘New York Times’ Clusterfuck

the-new-york-times1
On Tuesday, March 8, The New York Times published an article by James C. McKinley Jr. titled, “Vicious Assault Shakes Texas Town.” Eighteen men held down an 11-year-old girl and repeatedly raped her in an abandoned trailer while recording the rape with cell phones. Much has been written about McKinley’s—and the New York Times’—irresponsible, victim-blaming, rape culture-enforcing report of the rape.  Or should I say lack of report of the rape. While the entire article is a catastrophic joke, this paragraph warrants specific mention:
Residents in the neighborhood where the abandoned trailer stands—known as the Quarters—said the victim had been visiting various friends there for months. They said she dressed older than her age, wearing makeup and fashions more appropriate to a woman in her 20s. She would hang out with teenage boys at a playground, some said.
Shakesville breaks down the story, and it’s a must-read piece. The writer points out, “Nowhere in this story is the following made clear: … that our compassion and care should be directed first and foremost toward the victim rather than the boys, the school, the community, or anyone else.”  The NYT piece is such an obvious case of victim-blaming, and terrifyingly unapologetic, that it wasn’t surprising to see an immediate petition go up at change.org, “Tell the New York Times to Apologize for Blaming a Child for Her Gang Rape.” The creator of the petition, Shelby Knox, writes, “1 in 4 American women will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime. A culture that blames victims for being raped—for what they were wearing, where they were, and who they were with—rather than blaming the rapist, is a culture that tacitly condones rape.” As of now 43,820 people have signed the petition, and Arthur S. Brisbane of the New York Times has issued an apology—not without its flaws—regarding the lack of balance in the piece.
*****
That apology should’ve felt good to read. But about an hour before it was issued, I’d posted the petition on my Facebook wall, urging friends to sign it. And this was one of the first responses:

Actually…no. I just read the “offending” comments of Mr. McKinley. The complaint is that he “gave ink” to the opinions of some idiots from Texas? He’s a reporter for Christ’s sake. He’s SUPPOSED to present all angles of the story. Looks like responsible journalism to me. Attack the idiots in Texas for this. Attack the wretched perpetrators. Why in the world is anyone mad at The New York Times for telling the whole story? If anything its GOOD that they reported on those folks as well. Its important for people to know that there are idiots like that everywhere. This is wildly misplaced rage here. Wasting time on things like this is why no real problems ever get solved in this damn country. Let the public burning commence. I’ll be tied to the stake willingly. =)

Another person immediately agreed.  Thankfully, others jumped in to defend the petition, but I didn’t walk away from the thread feeling good about it. I felt defeated. Exhausted. Like I might burst into tears. So when the NYT finally got around to “apologizing” for publishing an article that never should’ve seen the light of day to begin with, I wanted to revel in the success of a group of people coming together to affect change. I couldn’t, though. And I started to think about why I couldn’t.
*****
The same day the New York Times published its story, the newspaper in my hometown published a report of another young girl’s rape, “Man accused of raping 12-year-old girl.” I read the opening paragraph: “A Middletown man has been charged with rape and intimidation of a witness after allegedly conducting a sexual relationship with a 12-year-old girl.” I read it again … “a sexual relationship” … “with a 12-year-old girl.”  I kept reading … “accused of having sex with a child younger than the age of 12” … “alleged abuse of the female juvenile.”What the hell? A child cannot consent to sex. Ever. Under any circumstance. So how does a man conduct a sexual relationship with her? How does a man have sex with her? And why does “the girl” suddenly become “the female juvenile”?  If I’d ever gone a moment without thinking about Rape Culture (and it’s hard to do), two newspaper articles published back to back—discussing the rapes of two girls as if one girl could consent to having sex with a man, while another could facilitate her own fucking gang rape—would make sure I spent a good few days and nights obsessing about the most recent media onslaught of violence against women.
*****
Three years ago, on March 28, 2008, Amber and I started Bitch Flicks. We respected blogs like Women and Hollywood that focus on women in film and explore how difficult it is for women to navigate the sexist terrain of Hollywood. And we wanted to be a part of that conversation, by looking closely at how popular films, television, music videos, movie posters, and other forms of media contribute to misogyny, violence against women, and unattainable beauty ideals. Because more than anything, we believe the blind and uncritical consumption of media portrayals of women contributes to furthering women’s inequality in all areas of life.

And we’ve noticed a few things here and there: rape being played for laughs in Observe and Report; the sexual trafficking of women used as a plot device in Taken; the constant dismemberment of women in movie posters; the damaging caricatures of women as sex objects in Black Snake Moan and The Social Network; and we’ve often pointed to discussions of sexism and misogyny around the net, like the sexual violence in Antichrist and, most recently, the sexualized corpses of women in Kanye West’s Monster video. It barely grazes the surface. I mean, it barely grazes the fucking surface of what a viewer sees during the commercial breaks of a 30-minute sitcom.

Yet, this constant, unchecked barrage of endless and obvious woman-hating undoubtedly contributes to the rape of women and girls.

The sudden idealization of Charlie Sheen as some bad boy to be envied, even though he has a violent history of beating up women, contributes to the rape of women and girls. Bills like H. R. 3 that seek to redefine rape and further the attack on women’s reproductive rights contributes to the rape of women and girls. Supposed liberal media personalities like Michael Moore and Keith Olbermann showing their support for Julian Assange by denigrating Assange’s alleged rape victims contributes to the rape of women and girls. The sexist commercials that advertisers pay millions of dollars to air on Super Bowl Sunday contribute to the rape of women and girls. And blaming Lara Logan for her gang rape by suggesting her attractiveness caused it, or the job was too dangerous for her, or she shouldn’t have been there in the first place, contributes to the rape of women and girls.

It contributes to rape because it normalizes violence against women. Men rape to control, to overpower, to humiliate, to reinforce the patriarchal structure. And the media, which is vastly controlled by men, participates in reproducing already existing prejudices and inequalities, rather than seeking to transform them.
And it pisses me off.
*****
“This is wildly misplaced rage here. Wasting time on things like this is why no real problems ever get solved in this damn country.” I decided to respond to that portion of my friend’s Facebook comment by quoting a passage from a piece on Shakesville called, “Feminism 101: ‘Feminists Look for Stuff to Get Mad About,'” in which Melissa McEwan makes the following argument:
 … in a very real way, ignoring “the little things” in favor of “the big stuff” makes the big stuff that much harder to eradicate, because it is the pervasive, ubiquitous, inescapable little things that create the foundation of a sexist culture on which the big stuff is dependent for its survival. It’s the little things, the constant drumbeat of inequality and objectification, that inure us to increasingly horrible acts and attitudes toward women.
People can argue that “the little things” are less important to point out than “the big things” all they want to. They can accuse feminists of misplaced anger, irrationality, man-hating, overreaction.  But the reality is that violence against women has become so commonplace in film and television, in advertising, in stand-up fucking “comedy,” in video games, that it’s the absolute default treatment of women in media, and we can’t pretend that doesn’t extend to how women are treated in the rest of society. It contributes to rape.  And it certainly contributes to a “liberal” newspaper’s inability to effectively report an 11-year-old girl’s gang rape without victim-blaming and slut-shaming, which, incidentally, also contributes to rape.
So. I gave myself a break. I let myself feel shitty and helpless for a minute. I’m over it now and ready to fight back. Stay tuned for our regularly scheduled programming …

2011 NAACP Image Awards

The 42nd annual NAACP Image Awards
The NAACP Image Awards, honoring people of color in television, recording, literature, motion picture, and writing & directing, took place last weekend. We (and so many others) have decried the consistent whiteness and maleness in Hollywood, both of which were displayed in this year’s Academy Awards. 
The Image Awards, on the other hand, are a “multi-cultural awards show from an African-American perspective.” An explanation of the award’s history and necessity emphasizes the importance of images we see and ideas that are reinforced by the media:
Ideas and images create the belief systems that control our individual and societal actions. When it comes to forming ideas, reinforcing stereotypes, establishing norms and shaping our thinking nothing affects us more than the images and concepts delivered into our lives on a daily basis by television, motion picture, recordings and literature. Accordingly, there is ample cause for concern about what does or does not happen in these mediums when there is little or no diversity in either opportunities or the decision making process.

For a complete list of nominees and winners in all categories, visit the official site. Here is a selection of categories in film.

Outstanding Motion Picture:
For Colored Girls – winner
Just Wright
The Book of Eli
The Kids Are All Right
Tyler Perry’s Why Did I Get Married Too?

It’s noteworthy that only one of these received an Oscar nomination in the Best Picture category–which now features ten films. It’s also worth noting that two of the five are directed by women (Sanaa Hamri for Just Wright and Lisa Cholodenko for The Kids Are All Right), while two of the ten Oscar nominees were directed by women. Finally, I can’t help but mention that this site has reviewed exactly one of them (Kids). Why? One reason must be our own failing–not paying enough attention to films by and about people of color. That’s on us. Another reason is that the culture at large still isn’t paying enough attention to films by and about people of color. Films about women are typically marginalized to the category of “women’s films,” and thus not considered “mainstream” enough to attract wide (read: white male) audiences. Similarly, films about the lives and experiences of people of color are often reduced to “black films,” and not given the cultural and critical attention they deserve. Are these all outstanding films, deserving of mass critical attention? I don’t know–and the not-knowing is a problem. But they’re certainly deserving of an examination of gender politics…which is what we do. Here is the rest of the list, uninterrupted.

Outstanding Actress in a Motion Picture:
Halle Berry for Frankie & Alice – winner
Janet Jackson for Tyler Perry’s Why Did I Get Married Too?
Kerry Washington for Night Catches Us (check out Arielle Loren’s guest post)
Queen Latifah for Just Wright
Zoe Saldana for The Losers

Outstanding Supporting Actress in a Motion Picture:
Anika Noni Rose for For Colored Girls
Kimberly Elise for For Colored Girls – winner
Phylicia Rashad for For Colored Girls
Whoopi Goldberg for For Colored Girls
Jill Scott for Tyler Perry’s Why Did I Get Married Too?

Outstanding Independent Motion Picture:
Conviction
Frankie & Alice – winner
La Mission
Mother and Child
Night Catches Us

Outstanding Directing in a Motion Picture (Theatrical or Television):
Geoffrey Sax for Frankie & Alice
George Tillman, Jr. for Faster
Tanya Hamilton for Night Catches Us
The Hughes Brothers for The Book of Eli
Tyler Perry for For Colored Girls – winner

Be sure to check out all the nominees and winners. Which nominated films have you seen? What do you think of the winners? Share your thoughts in the comments.

Guest Writer Wednesday: Bridesmaids Preview

Judd Apatow puts on some panties in Bridesmaids
This is a cross post from The Feminist Bride.

Having turned 18 at the birth of the Sex and the City era, college and adulthood came at a time when sexual expression and alcohol could be worn like Girl Scout badges, proudly and with accomplishment. It was the best of times (that I could remember) and the worst of times (that were gladly hazy). The graduates of the millennium celebrated leaving the sophomoric comedy of American Pie and blissfully embraced the gratuitous ass shots of Will Ferrell. And just as quickly as we got on “double-secret-probation” in college,” we just as quickly matriculated from it. Now working stiffs and pissed off about having $160,000 in college debt, Judd Apatow appeared to ease our pain with raunchy and outrageous humor.

In the back of my mind, I always noticed the boy’s club atmosphere in today’s comedies, but between attending a college where 70% of the student body were men, being one of the few women on the track team and working in finance, I was always “one of the guys,” so I never paid it much mind.
In appropriate timing, like all comedies, The Hangover came out in the year of my bachelorette party (also in Vegas). Brushing the dust off my Girl Scout sash and admiring a few of my own badges – “Held my own hair back” and “Boot n’ rallied twice” – I reveled in the excitement that this was going to be a weekend of epic proportions, with new badges earned in Seth Rogen-esque fashion. No one threw a mattress from the roof of Caesars Palace, but we would have thrown some rebellious tampons from the Mirage’s windows…if they opened. As ladies, we’ve enjoyed the jokes and vulgarity of Apatow and his predecessors; however, the truth is we’ve been outside the men’s room peering in. Creepy, but true. The film industry has failed to give women a true comedy on par with our male colleagues without the trite themes of dating, childbirth, weddings and fashion. Instead, we’ve resigned ourselves to live vicariously through the mishaps of Jonah Hill and Michael Cera.
So I was more than ecstatic to hear that Apatow was finally putting on a thong and producing a comedy expressly for women. Business Trip, starring Leslie Mann, is set to start production in 2011. Characterized as the female version of the The Hangover, Business Trip features a group of women on a trip where they do anything but business. Having existed in the 9 to 5 world for too long, it’s about time women had their own Office Space; our cubical suffering has reached comical proportions too.
But then my heart sank as I read about the other comedy he’s producing, unimaginatively called Bridesmaids (release date May 2011). Written by and starring Kristen Wiig, the movie is about “a maid of honor trying to please the snobby, eccentric or really awkward bridesmaids at every pre-wedding event before her best friend’s nuptials.” Given Wiig’s successful comedic record, it’s clear she can hang with the funniest of dudes, and I’m willing to bet she lays down some solid jokes in Bridesmaids, but that type of movie has graced the big screen before with lamer jokes and interchangeable blondes and brunettes – cue the bridezilla, bridesmaid dress fat jokes, Vera Wang and a heart warming, seen-the-error-of-our-ways ending.
Around the release of My Life in Ruins (2009), Nia Vardalos revealed that some studios decided to no longer make female-lead movies because of low financial return. If studios continue to produce “chick-shit” movies with a shoddy script and characters limited to romantic roles, sexy roles, marriage roles, mommy roles or nagging wife roles, of course a movie won’t make any money. The question for Wiig and Apatow is “How will this movie differ from similarly themed ones?”
As women, Wiig and Mann have the resume and the resources to set new theatrical standards for women. But to Ms. Wiig, Ms. Mann and Mr. Apatow – be forewarned, you have some huge hurdles to overcome in order to break new ground and old stereotypes. If Gloria Steinem can tell you anything it’s that we’ve had to work twice as hard to prove ourselves. You’d better add some barbed wire to those Manolos before walking down that aisle.

Katrina Majkut is the founder and writer of the website TheFeministBride.com. As a “wedding anthropologist,” she examines how weddings and relationships are influenced by history, pop culture and the media. Her goal is to bring to light the inherent gender inequality issues that couples may not even be aware of within wedding traditions and the wedding “industry,” and to start dialogue around solutions that empower women to take positive action toward equality in their relationships and marriages.

Documentary Review: The September Issue

The September Issue (2009), directed by R.J. Cutler.
Fashion is a bit of an anomaly in capitalist enterprise, in that its major players are primarily women and gay men. Anna Wintour, editor-in-chief of Vogue, is the “single most important figure in the 300 billion dollar global fashion industry.” The September Issue chronicles the assembly of the massive 2007 fall fashion issue of the magazine.
Before getting into any specifics about the film, I want to say a thing or two about fashion, because it’s a subject–and an industry–about which I feel a great deal of ambivalence. Last March, when Stephanie and I reviewed Sex and the City: The Movie for this website, I struggled to pinpoint my perspective on fashion, and left it at this:
I like fashion. It’s an art form, and its creators are capable of beautiful design and cultural statements. It’s also an industry, and like all major industries, has a very ugly side. I liken it to professional sports: I watch from the sidelines, aware of the way I’m being manipulated, but enjoy it nonetheless—all without expressly participating.

I don’t think my perspective today is as sunny, nor would I necessarily choose the same sports metaphor. Yes, fashion is an art form, and designers truly do create magnificent works of art. Its “ugly side” isn’t so easy to overlook, though–particularly the endless number of rail-thin, anorexic-looking models reinforcing society’s ideal body type, which is unachievable for a vast majority of women. Fashion magazines not only perpetuate the idealization of the stick-skinny model, but also tell women, in page after page, that they aren’t good enough, and that they need to spend massive amounts of time, energy, and money on looking (read: being) better.
Here’s the thing, though: Despite my problems with the industry on display, I really like The September Issue, for a number of reasons.
Sitting down to watch TSI, I expected the film to explore the glamorous life of Anna Wintour. At least I expected that to be a major element of the film, but viewers actually learn very little about her–there isn’t a lot of insight into her life or her motivations, aside from what appears in the film’s trailer (which appears at the bottom of this post). Perhaps it was foolish to believe that this notoriously private woman would reveal herself in a documentary focused on her magazine, but we do get a few poignant moments of insight amidst all the meetings, photo shoots, disagreements, and jet setting.
Anna Wintour has Power. She jokes that her siblings find what she does for a living “peculiar,” because maybe editing a fashion magazine doesn’t affect world politics, or cure diseases, or save the world. But high fashion is art, and art is peculiar. Amid the ads for cosmetics (which probably contain ingredients that no one should be putting on her or his skin) and accessories few of us can afford, there are stunning photographs of beautiful clothes. Most of the clothes aren’t really meant to be worn in Real Life, but they are pieces of art, and the people who make this wearable art fall all over themselves hoping that Wintour will notice them. They cater to her every whim, her every pointed critique.
Perhaps Wintour finds her position a bit peculiar, as well. There’s a drive viewers can see in her, and it seems as if she’s blindly plowing ahead, following success after success with little reflection about the why of it all. Her daughter appears to have no interest in the fashion industry, even though there’s a simple, ready-made path for her there. Like her mother, she doesn’t elaborate on her opinions, but knows that the industry isn’t for her. Wintour herself doesn’t really have much to say about what she’s achieved; she’s not the type to wax philosophically. Instead she states–and shows viewers–very plainly that she works hard and that the magazine has earned her a lot of money.
Fortunately, the movie also features Wintour’s team at Vogue, one of whom emerges to become the real star of The September Issue.
Grace Coddington is a former model and the creative director at Vogue. She even started working there on the same day as Wintour. She is intelligent, reflective, and an artist to Wintour’s manager persona. Coddington isn’t afraid to stand up to Wintour (whose lack of empathy was famously fictionalized by Meryl Streep in 2006’s The Devil Wears Prada) either, and flawlessly uses her every resource, including the documentary film crew, to her advantage. Viewers may see her as being cutthroat, but she’s an artist fighting for her vision, her work, and she’s earned it. She’s 68 and has spent her whole life in this industry, working for British Vogue and Calvin Klein before joining Wintour. Gawker points to one of my favorite moments in the film, in their piece “How Grace Coddington Stole The September Issue from Anna Wintour”:
Eventually, Coddington gets so palsy-walsy that she puts one of the September Issue cameramen into a last-minute photo shoot as a prop. The resulting pictures are fresh and fun and even manage to make Anna smile, although it’s not clear if she likes the pics or is just enjoying telling a middle-aged cameraman that he’s too fat. When Coddington hears that Wintour wants to Photoshop out his belly, she gets on the phone and threatens the art director and tells him that he has to leave it alone. “Not everything can be perfect in the world,” she rails. It is the climax of the movie, where Coddington eventually triumphs over the tyrant, who has been chipping away at her artistic integrity for the entire 90 minutes.
Of course, Gawker can’t help but pit these two women against each other–using words like “stole,” “palsy-walsy” (whatever that means, it doesn’t sound like a compliment), “rails,” and “tyrant” to pigeonhole their working relationship as a catty, woman-against-woman, oh-so-typical drama. While I love that Coddington fights to keep the photo of the cameraman un-retouched, I do wish that a woman with a belly could appear in the pages of Vogue. The moment, however, is a stroke of genius. The issue of the magazine had certainly been affected by the film crew being there, and Coddington found a way to literally put them into it.

While Coddington expresses enormous respect for Wintour, she isn’t afraid to speak her mind. Pontificating on the magazine in the back of a car, she mentions how little she likes the rise of celebrity culture and the practice of using actresses as cover models (the fall fashion issue features Sienna Miller on the cover), but concedes that Wintour knew this was the future of fashion mags and put the idea into action first.

At times we get the feeling that Coddington doesn’t really know how or why she got to this point in her career, but she’s very good at her job. Throughout the film we see exquisitely detailed photo shoots where she seems to be in her element and having a genuinely good time.  The squabbles with Wintour over keeping her work in the issue upset Coddington, however, and make her nearly question the whole enterprise. Somehow, I get the feeling that if she walked out the Vogue office doors and never came back, she’d be just fine. Wintour never lets viewers in enough for us to even speculate, maintaining her ice queen reputation and doing so with less humor than her fictional counterpart.

Yes, there is drama in the film, and some of it even seems like stereotypical fashion magazine fare, but what remains remarkable is seeing two talented women in their sixties running a fashion empire, working together, clashing over their visions for the issue, all while expressing enormous respect for one another, and doing it all with intelligence and glamour.


Guest Writer Wednesday: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

Rebel with a Cause: A Feminist Heroine Emerges in film The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

This is a cross post from Opinioness of the World.

Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past year, you’ve undoubtedly heard about the international phenomenon that is Swedish author Stieg Larsson’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. As I often lament the lack of strong female characters in books and film, I was intrigued to descend into the world where one of the most exciting and controversial heroines resides. I’ve been voraciously reading the books in the Millennium Trilogy (I’m currently reading the 2nd). Having thoroughly enjoyed the book, I was curious how the film adaptation of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, directed by Swedish filmmaker Niels Arden Oplev, would measure up.

The story revolves around the disappearance of Harriet Vanger, the niece of a wealthy business tycoon, who vanished without a trace 40 years earlier. Harriet’s uncle has been tortured by her absence all these years. Journalist Mikael Blomkvist, who’s been convicted of libel, and Lisbeth Salander, an introverted punk who’s a brilliant researcher and hacker, seek to solve the baffling mystery. The book is a riveting twisting thriller with numerous suspects.

Blomkvist is an interesting character. A charming and passionate journalist championing for the truth, he vacillates between cynicism and naïveté. Dejected after his conviction, he yearns to clear his name. He also frequently bed hops yet has enormous respect for women, often befriending them. While acclaimed Swedish actor Michael Nyqvist gives a valiant effort, he does not imbue the character with enough charisma.

But the sole reason to go see the movie (and read the book too) is for Lisbeth Salander. Noomi Rapace, who won a Guldbagge Award (the Swedish Oscars) for her portrayal, plays her perfectly. She stepped into the role by training for 7 months through Thai boxing and kickboxing (in the books Lisbeth boxes too) as well as piercing her eyebrow and nose, emulating Lisbeth’s punk look. A nuanced performance, Rapace plays the tattooed warrior with the right blend of sullen introvert, keen intellect and fierce survivor instincts. Salander is a ferocious feminist, crusading for women’s empowerment. Facing a tortured and troubled past, Salander is resourceful and resilient, avenging injustices following her own moral compass. An adept actor, Rapace conveys emotions through her eyes, never needing to utter a word. Yet she can also invoke Salander’s visceral rage when warranted.

 

While not quite living up to the book, the film is fantastic. It’s a very stripped down, gritty portrayal, particularly when compared to slick stylized American movies (which is I’m sure how it will be produced in the American re-make). Seeing all of the Swedish locales described in the book on-screen plunged me even further into the story. While the film stays fairly faithful to the book regarding the plot and the protagonists Blomkvist and Salander, there are notable differences between the book and film. As the movie condenses the book (even as it clocks in at 2 hours and 32 minutes), it lacks the same suspense. However Oplev does a superior job streamlining the story’s flow and evoking the tense mood.
But there are a few missteps. The score is distracting at times (the 80s called and they want their synthesizer back) and the end following the murder mystery portion, feels rushed and thrown together. The biggest complaint from viewers has been that the film lacks character development. Female characters, such as Erika Berger, Millennium’s editor and Blomkvist’s best friend/lover, and Cecilia Vanger, a suspect in Harriet’s disappearance, have their roles drastically reduced; interesting for a story that focuses so prominently on women. Yet Oplev diminishes other characters in order to put the two sleuths front and center.

Also, if you’re like me and reading each book before you see the film and you haven’t read the second book yet, be prepared for spoilers as there are scenes NOT in the first book that are taken from the second book and integrated into the film, such as Lisbeth’s flashbacks and the topic of her conversation with her mother.

 

In the book, Larsson makes social commentaries on fiscal corporate corruption, ethics in journalism, and the role of upbringing on criminal behavior. Larsson also provides an interesting commentary on gender roles with his two protagonists. Despite Blomkvist’s social nature and Salander’s private behavior, they both stubbornly follow their own moral code. Both also possess overt sexualities. Yet society views Blomkvist as socially acceptable and perceives Salander as an outcast. These themes are absent from the movie adaptation.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo has received an exorbitant amount of attention for Larsson’s controversial central theme of violence against women. It’s true that both the book and film portray graphic violence. The movie does not shy away from the uncomfortable subject matter. In the book, women fall prey to being assaulted, murdered, and violently raped. A pivotal rape scene disturbs and haunts the viewer. But sexual assault is a reality women face, albeit an ugly truth that we as a society may not want to see. Yet Larsson in the book and Oplev in the film never made me feel as if women were victimized. On the contrary, women, particularly in the form of Salander, are powerful survivors. She fights back, not merely accepting her circumstances.

As Melissa Silverstein of Women & Hollywood wrote in Forbes,

As my friend playwright Theresa Rebeck says, “The world looks at women who fight back as crazy.” We constantly see movies, TV shows and plays where men commit violence against women. That’s our norm. Here we have a woman who is saying no more and exacts revenge. Larsson is very clearly saying what we all know and believe. Lisbeth is not crazy. She is a feminist hero of our time.

Violence against women is a pervasive issue. According to the anti-sexual assault organization RAINN, “every 2 minutes in the U.S., someone is sexually assaulted; nearly half of these victims are under the age of 18, and 80 percent are under 30.” And in Sweden, the problem is just as pervasive. Larsson states that “46 percent of the women in Sweden have been subjected to violence by a man.” We must not continue to brush these crimes aside. The original Swedish title of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (both the book and the film) is Män Som Hatar Kvinnor, which translates to “Men Who Hate Women.” I’m glad that Larsson devoted his books to shedding light on misogyny in society.

A provocative and haunting film, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is worthy of watching for Rapace’s subtle yet powerful performance. It’s rare for an audience to see a strong, self-sufficient woman on-screen. It’s even more unusual for a movie to address the stigma of sexual assault as well as the complexity of gender roles. Watch the movie and read the book. Get acquainted with Lisbeth Salander; she may be the most exhilarating, unconventional and surprising character you will ever encounter.





Megan Kearns is a blogger, freelance writer and activist. A feminist vegan, Megan blogs at The Opinioness of the World. She earned her B.A. in Anthropology and Sociology and a Graduate Certificate in Women and Politics and Public Policy. She lives in Boston. She previously contributed a review of The Kids Are All Right to Bitch Flicks.
 


Best Picture Nominee Review Series: 127 Hours

 
I didn’t go into 127 Hours expecting to see any women in the film.  After all, it’s about a man who goes out for a day of canyoneering fun, doesn’t tell anyone where he’s going, bikes through some amazing scenery while occasionally performing random, impressive athletic moves for no reason, decides to do some hiking, and ultimately falls off (and into) a cliff-type structure that becomes a trap. Basically, he smashes his right arm between a giant rock and the wall of a canyon. And gets stuck. I mean stuck.
We know what’s in store for us–at least an hour of watching this guy attempt to get the hell out of there (and, as it turns out in the end, by any means necessary). I immediately caught myself thinking, “Where can the filmmakers possibly go with this? You mean I’m going to have to sit here and watch this d-bag James Franco chip away at a boulder with a dull knife for an hour? While he makes jokes about his shitty Made-in-China adventure-equipment and urges us to Buy American?” Well, yes. And no. While the film certainly has its problems, especially in its presentation of women (and there are only, like, two, so it’s disheartening that they manage to still fuck that up), dare I say I walked away kind of loving it? With a renewed respect for James Franco?
Ha. Well. First, let’s talk about Danny Boyle. I had the same problems with Slumdog Millionaire that every film-goer with a set of critical thinking skills had. So walking into 127 Hours, I was already all “meh.” But damn did he manage to make some bike riding exciting.  Seriously. After ten minutes of watching Franco pedal across the horizon accompanied by A. R. Rahman’s soundtrack of tribal drums with violin and brass combo beats, I wanted to leave the theater and go buy a mountain bike.  That feeling lasted all the way up until the first two women were introduced three seconds later.  
They’re lost.  And they need Franco to help them navigate the terrain.  He does.  Franco hangs with them for a while and they do some canyon-climbing and they record themselves swimming and they splash around and they flirt a little bit and it’s actually pretty fun to watch.  This scene, which doesn’t seem like it has much of a point at first, becomes essential, especially considering it’s one of only a handful of real-time scenes that exists outside of his entrapment.  We get to know him here, and the truth is, it’s difficult not to fall in love with him.  He plays Ralston as a full-of-life, thrill-seeking sweetheart who’s hellbent on having as much fun as possible before the day ends. So when he and the women part ways, and his new friends invite him to a party later, it’s impossible not to experience a little unease.  We like him now.  And we know there’s no fucking way he’s making it to that party.

The rest of the movie takes place in the canyon–a claustrophobic nightmare that only works because Franco is apparently an amazing actor–and inside Franco’s mind, through flashbacks of his super hot  (gasp) blond ex-girlfriend and the phone calls from his mom and sister that he clearly stupidly ignored prior to his departure.  He also hallucinates some crazy shit, like a giant Scooby-Doo blowup doll that’s soundtracked to that ghoulish laughter reminiscent of the last few seconds of Thriller.  Yeah!  And though it sounds absolutely insane, it’s why the film works.  Boyle takes a narrative about a guy struggling to get out of a hole and turns it into an action film, a radio show, a documentary, a commercial, a disaster movie, a cartoon, and a comedy.  About a guy struggling to get out of a hole.

Not that there aren’t a few impossible-to-deal-with moments. The final scene, which is poignant enough on its own, insists on beating the audience over the head with its call to EXPERIENCE EMOTION, courtesy of this ridiculous Dido & A.R. Rahman song. And I still can’t quite figure out how the closeup shots of ice-encased Gatorade and Mountain Dew add anything more than advertising revenue, as much as I’d like to argue that, “If I were trapped in a cave, about to die, drinking my own urine, toying with the idea of amputating a limb, I’d totally hallucinate all these brand-name beverages from Pepsico.”

And yes, god, seriously, The Women.  I know this is a movie about Ralston’s journey.  I respect that and enjoyed watching the innovative ways Boyle used split screens, reverse zooms, fantastical elements, warped focus, and speed variations to tell Ralston’s story in a way I can’t imagine another director successfully telling it.  That doesn’t mean I could ignore my own cringing every time a woman entered the frame.  The ex-girlfriend clearly serves as a vehicle to show Ralston’s loner-ness; see, he pushed her away all cliche-like. We know this because she says Very Important Things to him. “You’re going to be so lonely,” she yells, after he silently (but with his eyes!) asks her to leave a sporting event they’re attending.  (I want to say hockey?)

His hallucinations suck, too.  His sister shows up in a wedding dress.  His sister showing up in a wedding dress clearly serves as a vehicle to make us feel bad that he’ll be missing Very Important Life Events if he dies, like his sister’s wedding.  More pointlessly, the hallucinated sister, who might have one speaking line if I’m being generous, is played by Lizzy Caplan, an actress who’s had large roles in True Blood, Party Down, Hot Tub Time Machine, Cloverfield, and Mean Girls.  Instead of engaging with the film, I found myself taken completely out of it, as I wondered why they would cast an actress who’s clearly got more skills than standing in a wedding dress, looking sullen and disappointed, to stand in a wedding dress looking sullen and disappointed.

So, the first two women (the lost ones) show Ralston’s carefree coolness.  The ex-girlfriend illustrates Ralston’s darkness and his need for independence–as do the voicemails he ignores from his mother and sister, which are played in flashback.  His sister reminds the audience that Ralston has Things to Live For.  Hell, Ralston even tries to console his mother in advance (when he records his deathbed goodbye with his video cam) by saying things like, “Don’t feel bad about buying me such cheap, crappy mountain climbing equipment Mom … I mean, how were you supposed to know this would happen!”  Hehe.  What? Apparently it’s easier to use every possible cliche ever of how men and women interact (as a way to reveal information about the hero’s personality and psyche) than it is to, I don’t know, show him interacting with some guys? Have him flashback-interact with Dad? Nope, we get Lost Women in Need, Wedding Dresses, and Mommy Blaming.  And I haven’t even gotten to the masturbation scene yet.

[This is your Spoiler Alert.]

I struggled with the masturbation scene.  Because it’s a failed masturbation scene.  I mean, it’s a scene where masturbation is attempted unsuccessfully. I didn’t like that he took out his video camera and freeze-framed and zoomed in on a woman’s breasts from earlier–as far as I’m concerned, there’s no other way to look at that than as classic Objectification (and dismemberment) of Women.  (Also, the audience laughed, and I was taken out of the film yet again.) But at the same time … whoa. Ralston knows he’s about to die.  He’s out of water.  He’s got no hope of being rescued. Ultimately, masturbation for him is an act of desperation, the desire to feel something that his body has already let go of.  Yes–it’s powerful stuff. Watching Ralston’s body betray him shows his imminent physical death.

But it felt too much like The Ultimate Betrayal.  As much as I sympathized with Ralston–and Franco is brilliant in this scene–I don’t want to let the film off the hook entirely.  I mean, what’s with men and their dicks?  If I’m trapped down there, I’m thinking, “A little less masturbation, a little more amputation.” Honestly. The scene played too much like a metaphor for his final loss of power (read: masculinity), as impotence usually does on-screen.  In that moment, I no longer identified with the film’s initial overarching theme of hope and possible redemption; I just thought, “Oh man, he can’t get  it up it. SNAP.”  I guess I’m just wondering if the film really needed to go there …

So, aside from the women “characters” being cliched, pointless, slightly offensive insertions used  only to further our understanding of Ralston, 127 Hours is a fabulous film.  I’m not even being sarcastic. I’ve never been much of a Franco fan–I mean, apparently he’s teaching a class about himself now?–but this performance is a game-changer for James and me.  Boyle certainly showed his directing chops, too; this movie goes places a viewer would never expect–in fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.  I cried. I eye-rolled. I looked away (often). And I laughed.  Especially at the end of the film, when the woman behind me said, “Wait.  You  mean that shit was a true story?!”