Bitch Flicks – Page 119 – The radical notion that women like good movies

‘Irreversible’: Deconstructing Rape Revenge

‘Irreversible’ deconstructs the ethically dubious pleasures of the rape revenge genre through its structure as well as its plot. Its reverse chronology inverts the formula of rape-then-revenge, thereby robbing the viewer of any sense, however questionable, of justice done, and subverting the whole economy of violence.

Written by Max Thornton as part of our theme week on Rape Revenge Fantasies.

This piece contains spoilers.

Confession: I didn’t actually rewatch Irreversible before writing this piece. Back in 2007, it was included in an A.V. Club article on “24 Great Films Too Painful To Watch Twice,” and if I was ever going to try to prove that piece wrong, it certainly wouldn’t be during the most important week in my religion’s calendar. (Rape revenge movies are kind of the antithesis of Jesus in basically every respect.)

But I feel no real need to rewatch this movie, because one viewing is all it took to sear it into my memory. Gaspar Noé’s second feature is a technically superb film, with a hook that would snag any cinephile: it happens backwards, with the scenes occurring in reverse chronological order. Like any rape revenge movie, this is a nasty, brutal film, telling a nasty, brutal story – and it does so deliberately, brilliantly, and harrowingly.

It’s probably fair to say that most rape revenge films have a female character doing the revenge part, whether it’s the rape survivor herself (as in I Spit on Your Grave) or her friend/relative (as in Last House on the Left), which makes the questions of morality, agency, message, and point of identification extremely complex (and no doubt my esteemed colleagues will have some incisive comments about this as the week goes on). There are elements of wish-fulfillment in the rape survivor’s violent vengeance – Carol J. Clover’s Men, Women, and Chainsaws is, of course, the classic text on the gendered complexities of viewer identification in films of this kind – and this entails all the moral quandaries of any grim fantasy: is it catharsis or titillation? Empowerment or exploitation?

In Irreversible, though, there’s no question of empowerment or catharsis, because here it’s a man who does the revenge as well as a man who does the rape. Monica Bellucci, as the film’s ostensible protagonist, doesn’t actually get to do a whole lot apart from get horrendously assaulted and viciously beaten. Her partner’s bloody revenge isn’t cathartic or gratifying for the viewer at all, not only because it’s not carried out by the survivor of the rape (nor, it turns out, against the actual rapist), but also because we see it before we see the rape.

From now on, I'm just going to use pictures of kittens and puppies who are friends, to try to mitigate the horribleness of what I am talking about. Source — From now on, I’m just going to use pictures of kittens and puppies who are friends, to try to mitigate the horribleness of what I am talking about. Source

In this way, Irreversible deconstructs the ethically dubious pleasures of the rape revenge genre through its structure as well as its plot. Its reverse chronology inverts the formula of rape-then-revenge, thereby robbing the viewer of any sense, however questionable, of justice done, and subverting the whole economy of violence.

To drive this point home, the vengeance takes place in a male gay bar, underscoring the total absence of female agency in this story. Men have all the agency here, and everything they do is awful. Women qua humans are irrelevant to the characters and the actions they take, whether those actions are nominally on behalf of them or against them.

Unfortunately, the final scene unintentionally reinforces the very dehumanization of women that the rest of the film so trenchantly unveils. The revelation that Bellucci’s character is pregnant serves only as a cheap additional twist of the knife, making her even more of a cipher by essentializing her to an incubator. It’s unnecessary, and only there to make an already devastatingly nasty film even more devastating. It’s a bit of emotional manipulation that weakens my ability to perform a feminist reading of the film, because it doesn’t let the awful violations of the protagonist be awful just because she’s, you know, a human being. Suddenly they’re extra awful because she had a BABBY inside her, and now her value as baby-maker/incubator is diminished. For the most part, Irreversible is deliberately grueling and horrible as an attempt to convey some of the true awfulness of a rape victim’s experience, but the choice to end the film on this moment seems to send the message that it was especially bad for both Bellucci and her partner because they were about to be a happy heteronormative family, which would have enabled her to find true fulfillment as a woman!!1

Despite this regrettable choice of ending, Irreversible is a valuable deconstruction of rape-revenge tropes. It’s an excruciating experience, but a crucial one for anybody interested in cinematic portrayals of sexual violence.

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Max Thornton blogs at Gay Christian Geek, tumbles as trans substantial, and is slowly learning to twitter at @RainicornMax.

Revenge Is a Dish Best Served … Not at All?

This guest post by Angelina Rodriguez appears as part of our theme week on Rape Revenge Fantasies.

The words “female hero” are likely to fill one’s media-enthused mind with images of scantily clad, predominantly white women wielding weapons–like Lara Croft, Xena, or Wonder Woman. Quentin Tarantino contributes many modernized reincarnations of this caricature in his films. One of his most famous films Kill Bill, starring Uma Thurman as Beatrix Kiddo (also referred to as The Bride) is a prime example. As a result of the male gaze, female heroes that fit a format created by men often fail as heroes in their own right as a result of the male gaze. Even though The Bride is a fierce warrior and martial artist, she is repeatedly raped and must step over the bodies of other women, specifically women of color, on her way to her implied equal, a man.

While The Bride is comatose, the hospital orderly rapes her and accepts money from people in exchange for access to her room so that they can also rape her. It is suggested that he has done this a number of times and the dialogue is delivered as darkly humorous. Why do we rape our female characters? Is it to show exactly what women must overcome? It is concerning that this is seen as an empowering message. Watching a woman, such as Beatrix, repossess her body is moving, but all reactions to rape are valid and require strength. During the film, Beatrix must overcome her foes in an order that mirrors the racial and gender hierarchies that exist within our culture. Her rapist is the first to die; he is at the very bottom of the barrel. His offense transcends race and gender and he is the lowest of the low.

Tarantino’s narrative requires The Bride to murder her rapist and to defend herself with some of the masculine characteristics that are used as institutionalized power to oppress women, such as physical strength and aggression. The film insists that she seek revenge, instead of demanding that men simply do not rape. This is barely better than teaching rape avoidance. It dictates that women must assimilate to a male culture of violence in order to have autonomy over their own bodies. In this scenario responsibility remains on the victim. If she does not prevent her rape she must avenge it. Although rape revenge fantasy can be cathartic, we must question the messages at work within these scenes. This scene, in particular, delivers her rape in a way that is almost humorous. It is disrespectful to our hero and to the countless victims of rape that have viewed the film. Despite Tarantino’s belief in the necessity of rape on the heroine’s journey, our female characters do not have to be raped to find liberation from the chains of rape culture and patriarchy.

Angelina Rodriguez studies Sociology at Fairmont State University. In her free time she thinks about things and pets puppies.

Bitch Flicks’ Weekly Picks

Check out what we’ve been reading this week–and let us know what you’ve been reading/writing in the comments!

Watch Shonda Rhimes Talk About ‘Scandal’s’ Season Finale by Jamilah King at Colorlines

Megan Ellison to Develop TV Show about Marlene Dietrich and Greta Garbo by Inkoo Kang at Women and Hollywood

When Women Take to the Sea to Provide Safe Abortions by Jessica Luther at Bitch Magazine

Heroines of Cinema: Mimi Leder and the Impossible Standard for Women Directors in Hollywood by Matthew Hammett Knott at Indiewire

Interview: Nadine Patterson’s Talks Her Reimagining Of Shakespeare’s ‘Macbeth’ Which Screens 4/23 In Harlem by Sergio at Shadow and Act

An Ode to My Four Favorite Women on Mad Men by Emilly Prado at Bitch Magazine

DreamWorks’ Latest Movie Will Have Something No Pixar Film Has Ever Tried by Zak Cheney-Rice at PolicyMic

How Many Of These Movies By Female Directors Have You Seen? by Alison Willmore at BuzzFeed

VIDEO: The “Orange Is The New Black” Season Two Trailer Is Here, Lovely, Amazing by Riese at Autostraddle

Naked if I want to: Lena Dunham’s body politic by Soraya Roberts at Salon

10 Women Directors to Watch in 2014 by Shannon M. Houston at Paste

What have you been reading/writing this week? Tell us in the comments!

Portrait of the Dead Girl: Victim, Saint, and Enigma of the Crime Narrative

More often than not, the victim of violent crime in film and TV is a woman. With your average procedural, almost every episode features a woman who has been raped or one who has been raped and murdered. In real life, women are disproportionately the victims of violent crimes and these stories increase awareness of the physical and psychological aftermath faced by these women, their friends and family and society.
However, by positioning a narrative to begin with the victim already dead and voiceless, she is only that, a victim in the story, never allowed to become a person.

More often than not, the victim of violent crime in film and TV is a woman. With your average procedural, take for instance, Law and Order: SVU, almost every episode features a woman who has been raped or one who has been raped and murdered. In real life, women are disproportionately the victims of violent crimes and these stories increase awareness of the physical and psychological aftermath faced by these women, their friends and family, and society.

However, by positioning a narrative to begin with the victim already dead and voiceless, she is only that, a victim in the story, never allowed to become a person. This structure also creates distance, so the viewer is less likely to identify with the dead girl and feel true fear and sympathy for experiences.

The exploitation of the her person and body is also seen as evidence of sexism in the crime narrative. As in horror movies where the murders of women are more graphic and garner more screen time then those of men, the dead girl usually suffers extreme sexual violence and disfigurement, which are shot it graphic, loving detail. The crime scene or crime scene photographs are frequently shown and her suffering is discussed at length in near fetishistic tones.

Twin Peaks begins with the discovery of Laura, dead and wrapped in plastic

There is an appeal to the public imagination in the image of a beautiful young woman in peril, particularly a young, white women known to be popular among her peers and viewed as sweetly, saintly, and virginal. The much-loved cult TV show, Twin Peaks, originally centered around the investigation of the murder of beautiful, blue-eyed blonde Laura Palmer (Sheryl Lee) and promotion for the series depended on viewers’ investment in the mystery of “Who Killed Laura Palmer?” When The Killing premiered in 2011, its advertisements asking, “Who Killed Rosie Larsen?” were clearly influenced by Twin Peaks.

Along with the evocative question, the series was known for two iconic images of Laura, the dead girl, that stand in for the show in popular imagination: the homecoming portrait, which shows her rosy cheeked and smiling, and her dead body, fished out of the water wrapped in plastic, shades of gray and blue. The central importance of the portrait, which hangs at Laura’s high school as well as her family home, was inspired for the 1944 Otto Preminger film, Laura, where a detective fixates on the portrait of a glamorous murdered ad-exec and falls in love with her through it (luckily, it’s a case of mistaken identity and Laura’s not really dead).

Viewers so latched onto the idea of Laura Palmer, that actress Sheryl Lee, originally brought on to appear in a few scenes in the pilot, made reoccurring appearances in flashbacks as Laura and regular appearances as Laura’s look-a-like cousin Maddie Ferguson, as well as starring in the prequel film after the series ended.

In early episodes of the show, it’s suggested that lead investigator FBI Agent Dale Cooper (Kyle MacLachlan) has romantic feelings towards her and has a dream/prophetic vision of a seductive Laura, sitting with him in a mysterious red room. At the end of the dream, she whispers in his ear the identity of her killer. Though Cooper forgets what she said upon waking, his eventual memory of her words gives him certainty of her murderer’s identity. A victim of incestuous rape, abuse, and murder at the hands of her father, Leland (with an ancient demonic spirit, BOB, inside him–or something), Laura is allowed the satisfying and cathartic opportunity to name her killer and help to catch him.

In the fantasy of the series, this room is described as a sort of way-station to the afterlife, a refuge between good and evil and a part of the dangerous realm of pure evil, the Black Lodge, that holds onto human souls while demons walk the earth in their bodies, so Cooper’s dream is not in fact a dream, but Laura’s first opportunity to speak for herself. Before her death, she wrote in her secret diary (different from her regular diary) about her dream of this same encounter with Cooper.

After her death, the dead girl’s reputation is often changed according to the flawed Madonna/whore dichotomy and her neighbors, family, and peers come to realize she was not the person they thought she was. In procedurals, boyfriends learn their girlfriends had other lovers, and parents learn their daughters had sex lives. Though it’s rare, sometimes there’s the opposite revelation, as the boyfriend who murdered his girlfriend for cheating learns she was always faithful.

When Laura’s body is found in the series, most people in town know her only as the Homecoming Queen, a model for the perfect American teenage girl. Early on, she shows up in flashbacks and home videos, kidding around with her best friend and smiling lovingly at her boyfriend (himself introduced as the perfect American teenage boy). However, as her murder is investigated, the people of Twin Peaks come to see a darker side of Laura, mired in sex, drugs and a heretofore unknown seedy underbelly of their picturesque little town. As Laura is no longer around, and the abuse she had suffered are originally unknown, her reputation is tarnished in the eyes of many townsfolk and she is unable to give any sort of explanation to the people who would condemn her.

Sheryl Lee also played Laura’s cousin Maddie, who meets a similar fate

The duality of Laura is suggested through the character of dark-haired identical cousin Maddie Ferguson. Maddie is everything Laura was not–innocent, naive and close to her family. While Laura is glamorous and sexual, making coy recordings for her therapist and advertising herself in adult magazines, Maddie is mousy and eager to please. Becoming more like Laura (by ditching her glasses and taking more control of her sexuality) gets Maddie killed as Leland mistakes Maddie for Laura.

Though there are other readings of the duality of Sheryl Lee’s two characters, it is easy to see them as Madonna and whore. Unusually for the trope of identical cousins, where the blonde is commonly presented as good and the brunette as bad, Twin Peaks suggests Maddie is the embodiment of goodness and purity. By contrast, Laura, a victim of rape and abuse, has one foot in darkness and is revealed to have had sex or sexualized dynamics with almost everyone she interacted with.

In addition, Laura questions her own goodness and independently seeks out a therapist to help cope. In her last week alive, she quits her position heading up the Twin Peaks Meals-on-Wheels program, suggesting she has given up on trying to help others. In the prequel movie, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me , it is clear she feels unworthy of salvation, as she tells Donna she believes the angels have abandoned her and she will burn forever. Later on, she watches as angels disappear from a painting in front of her.

This storyline, though suggestive of the self-loathing felt by abuse victims, makes the unfortunate implication that the abuse Laura has suffered has made her a bad person, or at least lesser than Maddie.

Laura realizes she is not a bad person when an angel appears to her in the red room after her death

The film allows Laura to emerge on the other side, in the Black Lodge’s mysterious red room, to see her own angel waiting for her. It ends with her smiling and laughing, assured that being abused did not “corrupt” her or make her undeserving of love, a great relief after watching her suffering throughout the TV series and film.

Focusing on the last week of Laura’s life with her as the main character, Fire Walk With Me has dark undertones of hagiography, the story of the life of a saint, as it revels in her suffering, allowing it to elevate her and cast her as a hero for enduring. It also gives her a chance to speak and show viewers who she was in her private moments, reconciling the two opposing views of her as both a saintly meals-on-wheels volunteer and cocaine-addicted prostitute into a complete person.

Perhaps what endears viewers to the dead girl as a character is our culture’s glorification of female victims, specifically for being tragic and fragile. In an essay at Rookie, Sady Doyle writes, “We love Laura Palmer, wrapped in plastic and bright blue, tortured and murdered just as surely as good St. Dymphna.” Accordingly, many dramatic teenage girls look to women like Sylvia Plath and Marilyn Monroe as heroes, not for their achievements but for the glamor and depths they see as going along with pain.

However, the film can also be criticized for its unflinching portrayal of the graphic violence visited on Laura and her friend Ronette Pulaski. They are shown tied up, screaming and bleeding, while they are brutalized for extended sequences. At one point, Laura is forced to look at her face in a mirror while she is raped, suggesting her abuser wants to make it impossible for her to pretend to be anywhere else or that this is not happening to her.

In her last moments, Laura is forced to watch her own abuse

There are a lot of reasons fans of the series disliked Fire Walk With Me; most wanted more time with the kooky inhabitants of Twin Peaks and missed its quirky moments. The film is much darker and more violent then the series and almost entirely lacking in comedy. Though it has David Lynch’s trademark surreal touches, the story at its heart is also much more real. The film forces viewers to try to understand the horror Laura has gone through as a victim of incest and abuse, how the Palmer house has become her own private hell and she has watched her death draw nearer, sure it would come for her soon. With this in mind, the film is harrowing and difficult to watch, but its existence is integral to the understanding of Laura’s character as a developed character and complex human being. The release of a book, The Secret Diary of Laura Palmer, intended to be the character’s diary discovered on the show, has a similar effect. It was a best seller, particularly remembered among people who were teenage girls at the time of its release.

Fire Walk with Me is often hard to watch due to Laura’s suffering at the hands of her father

The dead girl continues to be popular figure in crime narratives, though some more recent examples have tried to give her a voice in interesting ways. In the TV procedural Cold Case, the murdered character in each episode was shown in flashbacks throughout the episode, following him/her right until the moment of the murder. However, these flashbacks, and those on several other procedurals with similar narrative styles, are the memories of living characters, filtered through their perception of the events, rather than the way things were experienced by the victim. At the end of each Cold Case episode, the dead character’s ghost appears to watch their loved ones, allowing them a slight voice in the narrative, as if set free by the discovery of the killer.

The dead girl’s ghost hovering around postmortem and giving advice on the investigation is a storyline that’s been used on almost every fantasy series, from Buffy to Charmed. Unlike these stories, where the existence of something supernatural is undisputed, crime narratives often use the ghostly figure of the dead girl to suggest the inner workings of the protagonist’s mind. In the first season of Veronica Mars, the titular character’s (Kristen Bell) murdered best friend, Lilly Kane (Amanda Seyfried), often appears to her. Like Laura Palmer, Lilly managed to become one of show’s most beloved and enigmatic characters with minimal screen time.

Lilly appears to Veronica in the clothes she was wearing when she died, still bleeding from her head wound

Lilly appears to Veronica to comment on how much she has changed since Lilly’s death, becoming tougher and wiser and to give cryptic hints. In one scene, Veronica sees her out of the corner of her eye, running around the Kane house and leading Veronica to the scene of the crime.

She appears in several flashbacks and at the end of many episodes, in Veronica’s imagining of the murder taking place as she entertains new suspects.

Her appearance is also used as a reward for Veronica after she finally solves Lilly’s murder at the end of the season, when she imagines herself in paradise, lying in a pool full of flowers with Lilly. Lilly’s final appearance is in Veronica’s dream at the end of season 2, as the marker of what Veronica’s life could have been like if she wasn’t murdered. The scene doesn’t successfully give Lilly as voice as it focuses on how Veronica would have been different, not on the tragedy of what Lilly would have been able to experience if she had lived and will now never be able to.

Veronica imagines Lilly set free by the arrest of her killer, allowed to relax in paradise

The posthumous narrator is a rare and interesting devices, used most memorably in American Beauty and Sunset Boulevard, where murdered characters look back on their lives. As it’s already a rare concept, a posthumous female narrator is even more rare. A notable example, The Lovely Bones, focuses on Susie Salmon (Saoirse Ronan)’s family trying to rebuild after her death, rather than the search for her killer. Her murderer is not caught, either with her ghostly help or without, but is punished only by his own accidental death.

The dead girl is an interesting figure in the landscape of crime fiction–one who can easily become a victim or a caricature. Experiments with flashbacks, fantasy, dreamworlds, and narration are intriguing ways to give her a voice and return some humanity to her and the real life victims she mirrors.

See also on Bitch Flicks:

Hannibal’s Feminist Take on Horror Still Has a High Female Body Count

A Review in Conversation of Twin Peaks

Elizabeth Kiy is a Canadian writer and freelance journalist living in Toronto, Ontario. She recently graduated from Carleton University where she majored in journalism and minored in film.

‘American Indian Comedy Slam’: “Fighting hundreds of years of stereotypes”

While these Native American comedians are trained and practiced in Western stand-up forms, they are adept at mediating between the worlds of indigenous experiences and Euramerican ignorance of the mess, mayhem, and trauma of our shared histories. Native American stand-up comedy performances of today are commissioned and composed for a public purpose, as well as sharing an outsider status as simply entertainment rather than powerful and convincing forms of discourse that can create social and cultural change.

“Being around Indian people, there’s always laughter even in times of stress, sorrow, sadness, there’s always that undercurrent of humor. There’s something spiritual. There’s always something funny about it because joviality, lightness, laughter, they say laughter is the language of God. . . We’re fighting hundreds of years of stereotypes just by the fact that we’re up here.”

— Charlie Hill (intro to American Indian Comedy Slam)

Charlie Hill (Oneida), the “godfather” of Native American stand-up comedy

In 2009, for the first time ever, six Indigenous stand-up comedians gathered for a 90-minute performance, hosted and filmed by Showtime for their LOL Comedy Series. The American Indian Comedy Slam was a groundbreaking effort on the part of these Native comics to widen their audience and appeal. I’m still waiting for a second Slam that will hopefully feature some Indigenous women comics, but this initial show was an important first step toward decolonizing American minds about the existence and humor of living Indigenous peoples of the North American continent.

[youtube_sc url=” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aWW28eY5Du4″]

Native American stand-up comedy teases the audience, relies on self-deprecation for much of its humor, incorporates stories “built on the oral tradition,” and as a form of public discourse goes beyond entertainment into the persuasive realm by arguing for Native peoples’ inherent right to survival and sovereignty in the 21st century. As a result, Native American stand-up comedy potentially functions as a resistance strategy for cultural survival and as a criticism of mainstream culture, politics, and beliefs about First Nations peoples. Implicit in this resistance and criticism is praise for the living realities experienced by indigenous peoples. In fact, sometimes the praise and blame are explicit in Native American stand-up, as Howie Miller, Jim Ruel, Charlie Hill, Vaughn Eaglebear, JR Redwater, and Marc Yaffee show in their Comedy Slam performances.

The comics from left: Larry Omaha, JR Redwater, Jim Ruel Charlie Hill, Marc Yaffee, Vaughn Eaglebear, Howie Miller

At one point, Vaughn Eaglebear (Colville) comes onstage and says, “When I was in college, I took a Native American Studies class. . .I was the only Native American in the class. . .(long pause). . .I got a C.” At this point, the audience laughs sympathetically, to which Vaughn follows up with, “I should’ve cheated off that little Asian girl.”

Right after Vaughn, JR Redwater (Hunkpapa Lakota) first explains heyokas in his individual video interview introduction: “We have these special individuals in my culture that are called heyokas and they’re sacred clowns. We don’t have to take life so seriously, it’s okay to laugh and it’s okay to joke around, and so these people were revered in our culture to that level and so, I always believed that like, I’m a modern day heyoka.”

Each comic has his own video introduction during which he shares some personal history and background, as well as addressing the problem of stereotypes and the importance of comedy in reversing those ideas.

In Drew Hayden Taylor’s Me Funny (2005), Ian Ferguson writes, “The most surprising thing for most non-Natives is that Indians are funny in the first place” (127). Darby Li Po Price pre-dates Feguson’s sentiments in “Laughing Without Reservation: Indian Standup Comedians” (1998) from his very first line: “Contrary to the dominant conception of Indians as humorless, stoic, and tragic, humor and comedy have always been central to Native American cultures” (American Indian Culture and Research Journal 255). Cherokee intellectual Jace Weaver takes up the existence of Native peoples, writing in his introduction to That the People Might Live, “It is important that Native cultures be seen as living, dynamic cultures” (8) as opposed to the colonialist assumptions of cultural stasis and death: “It is a vision of the ‘Indian as corpse,’ and the stasis box is only a thinly disguised coffin. An extinct people do not change. Their story is complete” (18). In America especially, we have become disturbingly comfortable with this idea and perhaps this might be one of the reasons why, when we are confronted with Native American comedians exploring issues that touch on this sacred assumption, that we’re not quite sure how to react. Surely, not with laughter?! Thomas King actually offers a wise perspective on this, writing, “There are probably cultural differences in humour, but I suspect what makes Native people laugh is pretty much what makes all people laugh. . .We are at our best when we laugh at ourselves” (Me Funny 181).

Jim Ruel (Ojibwe) can be followed on Twitter @nativecomedian

If more people experience the comic stories of American Indian comedians where serious ideas are planted through the back door and not the frontal lobe, then over time American conceptions of Native peoples may change. For instance, one outcome might be that more people realize that indigenous peoples are still present and visible and are not vanished relics of the past. And quite frankly, getting these ideas through stand-up comedy is a lot more fun than reading a history textbook. Laughter opens up the brain and unlocks the back door, but even when laughter isn’t front and center, the ideas still penetrate.

Please consider watching the American Indian Comedy Slam, sharing the performances with friends and colleagues, and if you teach, incorporating this 90-minute movie into your class. My students love these comedians because they are accessible, even when they are giving us that spiritual spanking that they say we Americans deserve.

Watch the entire show for free: http://www.imdb.com/video/hulu/vi278898969?ref_=tt_pv_vi_1

Note: Charlie Hill of the Oneida Nation, considered by many of today’s Native American stand-up comics to be the “godfather” of Native American stand-up comedy, walked on in December 2013. Read Vaughn Eaglebear’s thank you letter to Charlie Hill at Indian Country Today Media Network.

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Dr. Amanda Morris is an Assistant Professor of Multiethnic Rhetorics at Kutztown University of Pennsylvania with a specialty in Indigenous Rhetorics.

Meet the Women of ‘The Flow’

The first season was released in February 2014, and features the animated banter of Linda Dianne, Delly P, Nicole Ryan, and Kelly Lyn. These women are earnest, joyful, and excited to talk with each and share their experiences about topics that include (but are not limited to): period shits, gender representation in the media, and their feminist roles models in real life and television.

If you’re in the mood for some candid and righteous yet light-hearted conversation among millennial feminists, then look no further than The Flow. Though the tableau is a familiar one—four women seated on coaches with mugs of tea in hand holding forth on popular culture—the content of their dialogue is far from the daytime registers of The View or The Talk, the likes of which I only catch when stuck in waiting rooms. That’s another way of saying The Flow is well worth your time (trust me, you have all of 20 minutes to spare). The first season was released in February 2014, and features the animated banter of Linda Dianne, Delly P, Nicole Ryan, and Kelly Lyn. These women are earnest, joyful, and excited to talk with each and share their experiences about topics that include (but are not limited to): period shits, gender representation in the media, and their feminist roles models in real life and television. Each of the three episodes has a companion confessional video wherein we get a snapshot of each woman’s perspective on the given topic of the main episode. This structure works well to help us viewers get to know each woman a bit more on her own terms, which isn’t something conveyed in the group discussions.

Delly P, Nicole Ryan, Linda Dianne, Kelly Lyn

Though season one is brief, The Flow manages to pack in a lot of intelligent talk about media that deserves the hype. Viewers will likely be familiar with films like Miss Representation, shows like Orange in the New Black, and especially the amazing actor/activist Laverne Cox, but I hadn’t heard of nor seen the video “Shark Week” by the Brooklyn-based rap group Hand Job Academy. Without spoiling too much—because there really are no words—let’s just say “shark week” is a euphemism for menstruation. But that’s where the politeness ends. This photo should be enough to entice:

In addition to running through their own shorthand, such as “Crimson Tide” and “The Original O.B.” (my favorite was always Antietam: the bloodiest day of the Civil War), the confessional episode reveals each women’s narrative of the memory of when she got her first period. Though the details differ from story to story, the common refrain was that Linda Dianne, Delly P, Nicole Ryan, and Kelly Lyn each took pride in their experiences, mostly made positive thanks to the supportive women who were there to supply them with reassurance and maxi pads(or in Delly’s case, chocolate, too). There’s a wonderful lightness and lack of shame in these stories that I found resonant and refreshing (particularly compared to the pain endured by many women of older generations; see The Vagina Monologues). Here’s to seeing where The Flows goes next month in season two.

‘Hannibal’s “Feminist Take on Horror” Still Has a High Female Body Count

Tip to showrunners: WE KNOW you can kill anyone off. We’ve been watching TV the last ten years. It is not that shocking anymore, and not even remotely surprising when it is a woman or person of color on the chopping block. Some cast members are more expendable than others, and it’s easy to guess who you think they are. Please stop sacrificing representation on the altar of high drama.

[Spoilers for all the aired episodes of Hannibal ahoy! Yar!]

Hannibal is a show about serial killers, so it’s no shock there’s a high body count. And it isn’t the usual death parade of butchered women that crime thrillers often present. Sady Doyle wrote that Hannibal “takes on the serial-killer cop procedural—one of the most irredeemably woman-hating genres on TV—from a feminist perspective.” Crime shows so often depict women as victims, and victims as bodies. (I’ve long been fascinated by the concept of struggling actresses getting the “break” of playing a cold, naked corpse on a medical examiner’s table, and their families excitedly tuning in to see her silently horizontal in blue-gray makeup, functioning essentially as a prop.)

Hannibal has flipped this archetype. The vast majority of the nameless victims, often naked, usually incorporated into inventively macabre art installations, have been men.

Equal-opportunity artful display of dead bodies.

But women are certainly not spared from violence on this gruesome show: the twist is that Hannibal‘s female victims have mostly been strongly developed as characters before being dispatched. The most devastating deaths on the show have all been women: last season’s long-time-coming murder of Abigail Hobbes, perhaps the only person we’ve seen Hannibal kill with any reluctance, and this season’s huge loss of FBI Agent Beverly Katz.

Even the one-off characters we’ve seen murdered (or at least victimized) have been given complex characterization over the course of their episode, for example the Cotard delusion-suffering Georgia Madchen (Ellen Muth), or Anna Chulmsky’s Clarice Starling stand-in Miriam Lass (recently revealed to be alive, although deeply damaged).

Because the female victims on Hannibal are well-written, sympathetic, and interesting, the audience grieves for them. They are not merely dramatic beats to generate manpain for the dude heroes. (Will Graham nevertheless suffers epic amounts of manpain. This is his design.)

Hannibal clearly takes the murder of women seriously, and uses it as a source of dramatic pathos, not titillation. But an unfortunate consequence of this pattern is that midway through the second season, only one female character in the regular cast remains: Caroline Dhavernas’s Alana Bloom. And she’s a love interest for both Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter (which is not to say she’s been weakly characterized, but does seem to explain her survival).

Hannibal is also running low on women in the recurring cast. Gillian Anderson’s Bedelia Du Maurier exited early in the second season, and the amoral journalist Freddie Lounds (one of several male characters from Thomas Harris’s novels that series developer Bryan Fuller rewrote as female) has only made brief appearances in two episodes this year.

The loss of Hettienne Park as Beverly Katz is particularly devastating, and not only because she was one of the precious stereotype-defying women of color on network TV. Katz’s sardonic sense of humor provided some much-needed comic relief, and her warm friendship with Will was perhaps one of the only psychologically sound relationships presented in the entire series.

And yes, it is immensely frustrating that when the powers that be decide someone important “needs to die” to up the stakes or prove “anyone is expendable” for that someone to be, yet again, a woman of color. (Tip to showrunners: WE KNOW you can kill anyone off. We’ve been watching TV the last ten years. It is not that shocking anymore, and not even remotely surprising when it is a woman or person of color on the chopping block. Some cast members are more expendable than others, and it’s easy to guess who you think they are. Please stop sacrificing representation on the altar of high drama.)

So while Hannibal has a refreshingly compassionate narrative approach to the murder of women (which is a phrase I never imagined I’d write), they’ve got to cool it with killing off the ladies in the cast. And they need to replenish the ranks with more well-crafted female characters, and they’re going to have to stay alive for a while. Because right now we’ve got too many dicks on the dance floor.

Robin Hitchcock is an American writer who is now afraid of mushrooms in the wild.

Doctor Who and the Women

Remember that uncomfortable moment when ‘Doctor Who’ became a story about how women destroy themselves to rescue an emotionally volatile man from his loneliness? It’s OK if you don’t; I’m going to remind you of it now.

Written by Katherine Murray.

Remember that uncomfortable moment when Doctor Who became a story about how women destroy themselves to rescue an emotionally volatile man from his loneliness? It’s OK if you don’t; I’m going to remind you of it now.

Doctor Who runs on a pretty simple dynamic. There’s a wizard god alien called the Doctor who travels through time and space in a magic futuristic magic police box and defends humanity from other aliens while encouraging people to be better humans themselves. He is joined on his travels by a human companion who, at least in the new series, is always female (although secondary male companions sometimes tag along).

The human companion’s job is to: 1) stand in for the audience by expressing surprise / bewilderment / excitement / low-simmering sexual desire for the Doctor / etc; 2) represent that which is Good and Noble about humanity through displaying traits like bravery and compassion; and 3) throw herself on metaphorical grenades to save the world.

Part of the strength of the show, in its rebooted form, is that, while we enjoy watching the Doctor run around being clever and wacky, the real emotional heft comes from watching ordinary people perform small acts of heroism. The Doctor doesn’t save humanity just by outsmarting the aliens; he does it by inspiring human beings to become their better selves.

Because the Doctor’s companions are our primary touchstone with humanity, it isn’t entirely surprising, then, that they make a lot of sacrifices and endure a lot of suffering along the way. The Doctor’s companions die, or their brains are erased, or they get stuck in some pocket of time where he can’t reach them, or they’re visited by a thousand other miseries they have to endure in order to travel through time. One of the eleventh Doctor’s companions, Clara “I was born to save the Doctor” Oswald, is actually distinguished by dying multiple times – this is why the Doctor takes an interest in her in the first place; because she keeps getting killed as an indirect result of helping him, only to come back again.

On the one hand, it seems like this is the price of heroism – that the tally of things these women have sacrificed is the measure of what they’ve accomplished. If the price were too low, the achievement wouldn’t be as great (and, certainly, the show often reminds us of all the things the Doctor has lost as a measure of his greatness).

On the other hand, though, there’s also a sense that we’re watching mortals destroy themselves to feel close to God, or women destroy themselves to feel close to a man. We’re invited to pity the Doctor for being alone – for literally standing in the rain and feeling sad while his companions walk away from him. There’s a sense of tragedy around the fact that these women couldn’t hang – that, no matter how much they wanted to be The One who could save him, human frailty prevented them from rising to the challenge.

And you might say, “No, that’s not what the story’s about, Katherine. He’s alienated, for sure, but nobody’s proposing that these women should just follow him around and sacrifice their own interests in an ugly, codependent way so he can have a friend.” You might say that, if it weren’t for this one really horrible moment in “The Angels Take Manhattan.”

That One Really Horrible Moment in “The Angels Take Manhattan”
The one really horrible moment happens like this: the Doctor and his companions and an honorary alien called River Song (who is more or less the Doctor’s girlfriend) are doing important time travel stuff in Manhattan when River gets her hand caught in a trap. The only way to get it out is to break her wrist, and the Doctor doesn’t want to do that, for important time travel reasons that would take too long to explain out of context. The point is that, instead of helping her, he leaves her there and tells her to find a way out of the trap without breaking her wrist.

In Doctor Who terms, it’s actually totally fine that he leaves River to find her own way out of the trap – she’s one of the most capable characters, and he’s respecting her as an equal by trusting that she can handle this herself. I have no problem with that.

It’s what happens after that that’s terrible.

River shows up again a few minutes later, free from the trap, and happily reports to the Doctor that she was able to escape just like he asked her to. He’s very pleased – and also, apparently, blind, because she’s holding her arm very stiffly through this – and he grabs her hand in joy only to have her scream like he’s pulling on her broken wrist, because – surprise – that’s exactly what he’s doing.

In the moments that follow, both the Doctor and his companion ask River why she didn’t just say her wrist was broken, and she explains – in this horrible, horrible moment – that the Doctor must be protected from knowing how much it hurts people to be around him; that humans must hide their weakness from him so that he will not feel upset.

In other words, a relationship is an endurance test where one person (here, a female person) has to pretend that everything’s OK when it’s not so that the other person (here, a male person) will be spared from either the inconvenience of having to deal with it, or the pain of feeling responsible, or the unwelcome reminder that the first person is not everything he hoped she would be. And, it’s his girlfriend who believes this. His girlfriend. Technically, she might even his wife. Oh, man.

The tenth Doctor’s girlfriend, Rose, never articulated the same idea, but their relationship was framed pretty clearly as one in which his magnificence rescued her from the boredom of leading a meaningless life and she, in turn, wanted to rescue him from the horror of being alone. The tragedy of their relationship, as it’s presented to us, is that, just as he allows himself to love her, and to carve out a place in his future for her to inhabit, she gets taken away. No matter how badly she wants to be the one to give him what he needs, she can’t live up to the challenge – she’s not alien enough to survive an attack from his enemies, and she’s trapped forever in a timeline he can’t enter. The icing on this tear-soaked cake is that he was never able to make himself say the words “I love you.”

So, now we have two women in romantic relationships with the same emotionally distant, volatile man, and one has to take it on faith that she’s loved, and one has to hide all her pain in order to save the relationship. Both of them are desperate that he shouldn’t feel alone.

If this sounds familiar to you, that’s because this is a pretty well-worn and disturbing trend in romance stories – the trend where women martyr themselves to win the hearts of isolated men. It isn’t a healthy dynamic in either direction, but it’s one that’s often repeated, and it’s a little bit uncomfortable to see it play out over and over again on what is otherwise a very fun, exciting, well-written show.

I don’t know what the solution is, exactly, because the premise of the series almost demands an asymmetrical relationship between the Doctor and his companions, and the attempt to balance gender by having a male and female lead means that that relationship will almost inevitably Say Something (awkward) about the dynamics between men and women.

That said, season four gave us a precedent for a female companion who at least didn’t want to sleep with the Doctor and told him when he was annoying (I miss you, Donna). It might be a nice change if more of the Doctor’s companions had a reason for travelling with him that wasn’t either total obsession with him or the belief they were born, in one way or another, to save him. I’d like to see more of that kind of thing and less of the thing where people hide their broken bones to be polite.

Katherine Murray is a Toronto-based writer who yells about movies and TV on her blog.

Recap: Season 4 Episode 2 of ‘Game of Thrones’ – The Lion and The Rose

Overall I thought the episode was excellent and I can’t wait to see the next one. One of my favourite things about ‘GoT’ is theorising about who might make what moves next.

This is a recap therefore there are ALL THE SPOILERS

Please note that I recap from the point of view of not having read most of the books.

The episode The Lion and the Rose opens with something that has sadly become a Game of Thrones staple – gratuitous violence against women to prove just how terrible a male character is. It’s not like they spent half of last season showing us just how terrible that character is you know, since we have been treated to him flaying and castrating someone. Apparently that wasn’t enough. Now you have to watch as Ramsay and one of his ladies, Myranda hunt a girl with dogs and arrows. The scene was gross and gratuitous and ends with the girl being ripped apart by dogs off screen. It could be argued that the scene serves to illustrate that Ramsay is not the only sick and twisted one in the Bolton household, but I am unconvinced.

Lord Bolton is similarly unimpressed with Ramsay’s sadistic tendencies and makes no bones about telling him so indicating that Theon was more valuable whole as a hostage. He puts Ramsay back in his place as a bastard reminding him that is name is Snow, not Bolton and that he has taken liberties he was not entitled to. However Lord Bolton sees things a little differently after Ramsay displays the unhesitating obedience of the thing called Reek that was formerly Theon Greyjoy by having him shave him – giving Reek ample opportunity to kill him, something Reek cannot do even when he finds out about the murder of Robb Stark. Bolton is impressed with the information Ramsay has managed to glean from Reek and gives him the opportunity to redeem himself by riding out to capture a vital Northern base Mount Cailin. Also of note is the man who chopped of Jaime Lannister’s hand, Locke is quite chummy with Ramsay.

Speaking of said Lannister, Jaime is unsurprisingly having trouble adjusting to not being the warrior he once was. It is nice to see a depiction of a character dealing with a sudden disability in a realistic way. Too often all we see in pop culture is the unrelenting positivity and determination of the newly disabled to succeed so that they can be inspirations to all of us currently able bodied folk. Depression is a normal reaction to suddenly having to figure out how to work with the body you have rather than the one you used to and it is really nice to see that on a mainstream television show. I also thought it was interesting how he says that he can fight with his left hand but that his instincts as a swordsman are all off with it, illustrating that rehabilitation is about more than just learning how to use the left hand in the way he used the right. .Jaime believes his reputation as Kingslayer puts him at risk in King’s Landing if he cannot defend himself the way he was once able to so Tyrion lends him Bronn to help him train to be as proficient with his left hand as he once was with his right.

Tyrion is only at the beginning of what will turn out to be a really really bad day. Varys “The Spider” informs him that Shae’s comings and goings from his rooms have been spotted and that Tywin has promised to behead the next whore he finds him with. Tyrion comes to the grim realisation that he can no longer protect Shae in King’s Landing. His speech to her ending their relationship, to convince her to get on the ship he has prepared to take her to the safety of a comfortable life is a piece of masterful acting by Peter Dinklage. It captures his grim determination to ensure Shae thinks he is as vile as possible to ensure that she will leave while simultaneously being unable to hide the love for her that seeps out from behind his eyes. We never actually see Shae leave, so I wouldn’t be surprised if she turns up again although Bronn swears to Tyrion that she has definitely departed.

Today is the wedding of Joffrey to Margaery Tyrell and that means another strenuous social occasion for the more marginalised members of the Lannister household. Joffrey continues to needle Sansa wherever possible with references to the murder of her father and brother. The Pièce de résistance is a mock war of the seven kingdoms by a theatre troupe made up of little people that manages to insult not just Tyrion and Sansa but anyone who was ever fond of Renly Baratheon. Tyrion’s continued refusal to play ball goads Joffrey into ever increasing demonstrations of his superiority, the last of which is to force Tyrion to act as his cupbearer and bring him a glass of wine. This is apparently a fatal mistake as not long after Joffrey expires, bleeding from the eyeballs and choking. It is quite a satisfying death for a character that has been rather one dimensionally vile. The culprit may not have been poisoned wine but the wedding pie which happened to have some dead doves in it. Or maybe it had something to do with the quest for the perfect necklace for the bride to be to wear. Such a juicy mystery! At the moment my money is on Lady Olenna, she is sufficiently crafty and well connected to pull of such a plot. The accusation that fell upon Tyrion also provided the opportunity to quietly spirit away Sansa.

Aside from the main event of the wedding there were some interesting side notes. Lady Olenna and Tywin Lannister have a conversation that brushes on a number of things 1) The Tyrells are very wealthy and 2) that the Kingdom is still in debt to the iron bank which is likely to come a calling soon. I cannot get enough of Lady Olenna; she is sharp, hilarious and always always gives as good as she gets.

Cersei Lannister, the woman who nearly had it all, what most woman in Westeros can apparently only dream of, real power over her own life and the lives of others, has watched it all slip from her fingers before it was even quite hers. Jaime is no longer the man she once loved although she will probably engineer the demise of any woman who goes near him. Her son who she hoped to influence turned out to be a socio-path and instead of marrying the biddable Sansa he will take the formidable Margaery Tyrell as his wife. She is reduced to enforcing her will on Maester Pycelle to have the left-over food from the wedding fed to the dogs instead of the poor to assuage her growing fears regarding the loss of her position as Queen Regent. She and Oberyn Martell also engage in some extremely cutting banter that reminds us of the cultural differences between the Dorinish and the fact that her only daughter is in the keeping of the Dornish who luckily frown upon the rape and murder of innocents as much as they here in King’s Landing look down upon the low born.

Elsewhere it is revealed that Bran can move in out of his wolf, Summer’s consciousness at will and that he must go North. He has a vision that seems to imply that his powers are connected to the weirwood heart trees in the Godswoods.

Overall I thought the episode was excellent and I can’t wait to see the next one. One of my favourite things about GoT is theorising about who might make what moves next. At this point anything could happen. I expect the Tyrells will endeavour to secure their position and an alliance with the Martells seems like it could be an option. It has not escaped my attention that the show has killed off it’s most horrible character only to replace him with someone perhaps even more terrible in Ramsay Snow. I am also not very hopeful that Tyrion will survive the aftermath of Joffrey’s death as usually as the show giveth it taketh away.

Gaayathri Nair is currently living and writing in Auckland, New Zealand. You can find more of her work at her blog A Human Story and tweet her @A_Gaayathri.

‘Game of Thrones’: The Meta-Feminist Arc of Daenerys Targaryen

The journey of Daenerys Targaryen is a prototype for female liberation, one that charts women’s emancipation over the centuries and encourages us to push harder and dream bigger for even more freedom now.

Written by Amanda Rodriguez
Spoiler Alert
Trigger warning: discussion of rape

The incredibly popular HBO TV series Game of Thrones is off and running as Season 4 gets under way, and as the devoted fan that I am, I’ve been thinking an inordinate amount about this show, in particular the character arc of one Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons (now that is a title). As I’m steadfastly staying behind the TV series in my reading of George R.R. Martin‘s ongoing book series, A Song of Ice and Fire, I don’t know what’s in store for Daenerys in the pages beyond the TV show. However, I see the journey of Daenerys Targaryen as a prototype for female liberation, one that charts women’s emancipation over the centuries and encourages us to push harder and dream bigger for even more freedom now.

Daenerys begins her life as property.

Cruel brother Viserys sells his sister for an army

Daenerys is a quiet, dreamy youth who has been physically, mentally, and sexually abused by her brother, Viserys, who sells her to Khal Drogo to buy an army of Dothraki. Her ownership then transfers to Drogo who repeatedly rapes her before Daenerys learns to assert herself and manipulate his desires.

Not really the wedding night every girl dreams of

It’s important to note that HBO chose to alter Daenerys’ wedding night by having Drogo rape her, using her as property. Martin’s book A Game of Thrones, depicts her wedding night as a sexual awakening and a revelation for Daenerys about the power of her desire and sexuality. This change from book to screen has several implications, and not all of them are good since it solidifies the racist depiction of the Dothraki as unfathomable savages and kicks off the show’s penchant for the sexual degradation of women. However, it’s hard to realistically imagine a child bride with Daenerys’ disposition enjoying her stranger-husband’s advances, and the TV version of Daenerys’ arc then shows us how she (like so very many women) must overcome the repeated violation of her body (in her case, by both brother and husband).

Like her sexual abuse, Daenerys must overcome many obstacles on her heroine’s journey for self-actualization.

"I do not have a gentle heart." - Daenerys Targaryen — “I do not have a gentle heart.” – Daenerys Targaryen

Our Khaleesi faces the death of her husband, brother, and child, the loss of most of her khalasar, starvation, and desperation along with many deaths in the Red Waste.

Our young Khaleesi faces starvation and loss in The Red Waste

Like the mythical heroine that she is, though, Daenerys’ struggles make her stronger. She ignores the protests of those who either don’t believe in her or who underestimate the magnitude of her power. She trusts her instincts and is reborn from her husband’s funeral pyre where she is thought to have burned. Instead she emerges The Mother of Dragons with her hatched dragons suckling at her breast. In her Bitch Flicks review, In Game of Thrones the Mother of Dragons is Taking Down the Patriarchy, Megan Kearns says, “Dany becomes the metaphorical phoenix rising from the ashes, purging the last vestiges of her former timidity to transition into her life as a powerful leader.” Yes. Symbolically, Daenerys has faced many trials by fire, and she is unbowed and unbroken by them. Not only that, but Daenerys and NOT her brother Viserys is the trueborn heir imbued with magical abilities and, perhaps, a destiny. Her story tells women that only each of us can know our own minds and our true worth, and it is much greater than our patriarchal society can imagine.

Daenerys proves that fire truly "cannot kill a dragon." — Daenerys proves that fire truly “cannot kill a dragon.”

The theme recurs of Daenerys having to constantly prove that she is a fit leader, that she knows what she’s doing, and that she can be ruthless when necessary. Her youth and femaleness make others underestimate her, including her own retinue (Jorah gets more than one tongue lashing for his continual doubts about her and her “gentle heart”). But Khaleesi proves herself again and again: in Qarth when she pits her magic against that of the warlocks, in Astapor when she outwits the chauvinistic slaver and acquires an army eight thousand strong of the renowned Unsullied warriors, and in Yunkai when she quietly liberates the slave city from its masters.

The liberation of slaves is the next step in Daenerys evolution as a feminist leader. Once acquiring the Unsullied, she immediately frees them and asks them each to make the personal choice to follow her. When she drops the whip that signifies her ownership of the Unsullied, I said aloud, “Fuck yeah!” Not only that, but in Yunkai, the former slaves rally around Daenerys, their liberator, and call her Mysha, meaning “mother.”

The freed slaves name Daenerys mysha meaning "mother" — The freed slaves name Daenerys Mysha meaning “mother”

Now, it is deeply problematic that Daenerys is a white savior figure to all these enslaved and impoverished brown people. It’s condescending and (ironically) paternalistic. However, the trajectory of Daenerys’ development as a feminist guide for the liberation and empowerment of women holds true because what is most important is that Daenerys cannot abide slavery and oppression. She embodies the civil rights quote, “No one is free when others are oppressed.” This means that Daenerys will not rest just because she has become a queen with an army. Though poorly (and racistly) executed, Daenerys embodies intersectionality because she believes that everyone deserves equality and freedom of choice regardless of life circumstances or the type of oppression that they face.

In fact, I like to think that Daenerys even inspired Emilia Clarke, the actress who portrays her to take a feminist stance when at the end of Season 3, Clarke stood up to HBO (one of the most powerful networks on the planet) and refused to do anymore nude scenes for Game of Thrones. Talk about a meta-feminist empowerment arc!

Daenerys and Drogon menace Yunkai slavelords

As someone who hasn’t finished the books, I ask myself, “What’s next for Daenerys?” I see Season 4 as her opportunity to grow as a leader, learning how to balance her personal quest for the Iron Throne with the will of the people she has liberated. She will, of course, falter along the way because, hey, this is Game of Thrones, and a series of wins can only result in some kind of tragedy or personal failings. Fact. Though she will undoubtedly make mistakes, I suspect Daenerys will overcome any newfound challenges, as she has done before. Just as all women must when we struggle to be so many things to so many people while holding true to our own goals and values.

Take What is Mine Game of Thrones — Maybe hubris will get in Daenerys’ way?

The ultimate question now becomes, “Who in the game of thrones is fit to rule?” All of the others with claims to the throne have had at least one major flaw: Robb Stark was too much his father’s son, valuing honor above all else (and is now dead); Stannis Baratheon is a charisma-less, rigid man with a chip on his shoulder and a dubious moral compass in the form of Melisandre; Mance Rayder will be lucky if he can even wrangle his own army and get beyond The Wall, Balon Greyjoy is powerless inland, and Joffrey Baratheon/Lannister is an evil fuck who everyone despises (and is now dead). Though others will undoubtedly enter the high stakes fray, Daenerys is without compare. Not only does she have dragons, she has proven her abilities time and time again. Most importantly, her liberation of slaves is a testament to her righteousness, her cunning, and her ability to evolve beyond outdated modes of rulership (not to mention that she’d be the first woman to ever sit on the Iron Throne in the history of Westeros). Jorah Mormont said it best:

“You have a good claim: a title, a birthright. But you have something more than that: you may cover it up and deny it, but you have a gentle heart. You would not only be respected and feared; you would be loved. Someone who can rule and should rule. Centuries come and go without a person like that coming into the world.”

***Please no book spoilers in the comments!***

Bitch Flicks writer and editor Amanda Rodriguez is an environmental activist living in Asheville, North Carolina. She holds a BA from Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio and an MFA in fiction writing from Queens University in Charlotte, NC. She writes all about food and drinking games on her blog Booze and Baking. Fun fact: while living in Kyoto, Japan, her house was attacked by monkeys.

Friendship and Loneliness in ‘The Station Agent’

I can remember hearing about a study which found many people use the characters on their favorite television shows as surrogate “friends.” I wonder what those same researchers would make of our post-Televison-Without-Pity cultural landscape, in which a endless stream of writer analyses–sometimes accompanied by roundtable discussions–dissects every detail of every episode of popular television shows, making up a big chunk of the internet. If online effluvia is an indicator, many viewers now spend more time thinking about characters on TV than they possibly could about their real-life friends and maybe even their own partners, family members and selves. We spend so much time thrilling to drug dealing, beheadings, poisonings, secret identities, sudden, improbable career success, zombies, and vampires that we decry as “boring” the few series that have realistically explored issues that are more likely to affect us day-to-day: relationships, work and friendship.

Independent films are much more likely to explore these themes than the latest hit series on cable. But even those of us impatient with the contrivances of yet another Sunday night saga have to admit this so-called “Golden Age of Television” has given meaty roles and great acclaim to actors (and to a much smaller number of actresses) who have previously done excellent but not widely seen work in independent films.

Peter Dinklage, who plays Tyrion Lannister on Game of Thrones (and has won several awards, including the Emmy and Golden Globe for the role and may very well win more) first came to my attention with his starring role in 2003’s The Station Agent (which is now streaming on Netflix) from writer-director Tom McCarthy . The cast is a who’s who of indie actors who have become more well-known through a variety of roles: Bobby Cannavale (from Boardwalk Empire), Patricia Clarkson (from Saturday Night Live‘s “Motherlovers”), a post-Dawson’s Creek but pre-Oscar nomination Michelle Williams and even, in a small role, John Slattery, years before Mad Men. But The Station Agent isn’t one of those curiosities in which a great cast with promising material becomes a mess, but the much rarer occurrence of excellent actors in a film which knows exactly how to make the best use of them.

Dinklage plays Fin, who lives in the building next to the model train shop in which he works. His boss, Henry (Paul Benjamin), a much older man, is his near-constant companion: he lives in the building as well, and they not only work together but eat lunch together, smoke together on the roof and roll their eyes in unison at the obsessives who gather in the shop after hours to watch homemade films of trains.

The boss is the first person we see defend Fin from the stares and harassment he receives. A teenager at the shop counter looks at Fin as if he were a ghost and Fin’s boss, with an edge in his voice, asks the young man, “You forget something?”

When Fin walks on the street or goes into a supermarket we see people taunt him with “jokes” or stare and then, not quite out of earshot, comment to each other about his appearance. The resolute, straight-ahead gaze that Fin adopts in these situations will be familiar to many girls and women (of every size) who also dare to walk unaccompanied in public.

When Fin’s boss drops dead in the shop, Fin is out of a job and an apartment– and finds out that he’s inherited an abandoned rural railroad depot his boss never informed him about. The estate lawyer tells Fin “I’ve seen you around… You’re one of those memorable people.” He continues that he’s been to the town where the depot is located and “there’s nothing out there: nothing” which appeals to Fin in a way the lawyer could never understand, but we in the audience do.

ClarksonStation-agent — Patricia Clarkson as Olivia

With a suitcase in hand Fin walks on the train tracks (which, in real life, no one should ever do. A train recently killed a woman on the tracks at a movie location) to the station and despite its state of disrepair makes a home for himself inside. After spending his first night there, he meets and buys a café con leche from Joe (Cannavale) the chatty, nosy, relentlessly social man subbing for his sick father as the proprietor of a food truck near the depot.

Joe’s efforts to engage Fin first in conversation and then in friendship are never ending: he’s like the person in seventh grade who decided to be your friend without consulting you first, sitting next to you in class, talking to you, asking to hang out until, because of your own inertia and exhaustion you finally did become friends. Joe even enlists wary, solitary Olivia (Clarkson) as part of the clique: he cooks meals for the three of them at his truck or at her waterfront home. Finn and Olivia first meet when she almost runs him over–twice–as he walks along the woodland road. Later she brings a bottle of bourbon to the depot as an apology. When they are drinking, she asks how he acquired the depot and he tells her that his friend died three weeks ago leaving the place to him.

She responds, “My son, Sam, died two years ago,” then immediately shuts her eyes and asks, “Would you mind not looking at me right now?” Fin, who often wishes not to be seen himself, complies with her request, directing his gaze elsewhere.

Clarkson was the queen of indie film for a time starting with High Art and, in a body of outstanding work, Olivia is one of her best performances: skittish, kind and something of a fuck up all at once. Cannavale makes Joe’s neediness charming, growing on us, the way Joe’s puppy-like presence grows on Fin–and Olivia. But this film is Dinklage’s and its greatness resides as much in his handsome, expressive face as it does in its spare, exacting script. Fin is a man who thinks he will be better off keeping other people out of his life and psyche and then finds they creep in anyway, like sunlight through cracks in a roof. When he is without Olivia and Joe, he is surprised that he misses their company. He also, in spite of himself, befriends the little girl (Raven Goodwin) who plays by the depot.

Joe, Olivia and Fin — Joe, Olivia, and Fin

The Station Agent is one of the few films that not only focuses on a disabled protagonist without condescension: it also doesn’t pretend non-disabled people behave better than they do–and unlike some other indie films doesn’t portray its small town as more tolerant and welcoming than the city. Although Olivia and Joe, the little girl and the town librarian (Williams) are good to Fin, and–in spite of Joe’s sometimes prying questions–they all treat him as a person, plenty of other townspeople, including Williams’ on-again, off-again boyfriend, the patrons at the town bar, at least one child at the little girl’s school and the woman behind the counter at the convenience store, treat him as a joke and sideshow oddity. The woman at the store even takes his picture, without his permission, as he shops. The film is also unusual among independent films–especially one that takes place mostly in a small town–in the matter-of-fact diversity of its cast: Fin’s boss is Black, as is the little girl, and Joe is Latino (Cannavale often plays Italian Americans, but is half Cuban).

McCarthy went on to make other stellar, independent films, the most recent of which was Win Win with Paul Giamatti and Amy Ryan and his next release is a movie starring Adam Sandler–which could either be very good for Sandler or very bad for McCarthy. But The Station Agent, his first film, is a bracing mixture of melancholy and uplift which deserves to be seen over and over again.

[youtube_sc url=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nTGUP0JK1cU”]

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Ren Jender is a queer writer-performer/producer putting a film together. Her writing has appeared in The Toast, xoJane, and the Feminist Wire. You can follow her on Twitter @renjender.

‘Hateship Loveship’: Mehship

With a slight tonal shift, this could have been a really interesting story. There are all kinds of interesting places this could go, but ‘Hateship Loveship’ doesn’t take this route. It’s a shame, because it winds up being rather a non-story.

We all know, and are deeply offended by, this story: the bad boy who is redeemed by the love of a good woman. We’ve spilled oceans of ink in our feminist critiques of the harm perpetuated by this cultural narrative. The man is allowed to have dimensions, flaws, agency, character; the woman can only be meek, conventionally pretty, good at traditional feminine pursuits like cooking and cleaning. She sacrifices all sense of self, existing only as a prop for his betterment.

It’s such a tedious cliché, we don’t even really need to rehearse the critiques anymore, taking them for granted as a baseline of feminist criticism. But have you ever wondered what this story looks like from the perspective of the woman?

Me neither.

Hateship Loveship, the new film by Liza Johnson of Return (non-)fame, does an uneven job of answering this unasked question.

Kristen Wiig takes on her first fully non-comedic role as Johanna, the stiff and taciturn caretaker whose employer passes away in the film’s first scene. Johanna is hired to be housekeeper and vaguely parental influence for teenage Sabitha (Hailee Steinfeld), who lives with her grandfather in a fancy house where her deadbeat dad is persona non grata. After briefly meeting said deadbeat dad, Johanna enters into a passionate correspondence with an email address she thinks belongs to him, but is actually run by Sabitha and her smirking, bratty friend Edith. Emboldened by “his” professions of love, Johanna throws away everything in one daredevil move, and goes to live with a man who barely knows she exists.

This is right where you’d think the story would get really interesting. Unfortunately, it doesn’t.

Hateship Loveship isn’t wholly without its merits. The main draws for me were Wiig and Steinfeld, two actors I (alongside, it seems, every feminist on planet earth) adore. Wiig’s performance in Bridesmaids had enough emotional nuance to give me confidence that she could deliver on a purely dramatic role, and she is solid here, using pointed silences and soulful stares to convey a woman whose depths and complexities are deeply suppressed by a difficult past only hinted at. Steinfeld, who knocked all our socks off a few years ago in True Grit, succeeds in giving depth and plausibility to a role that in lesser hands would seem two-dimensional.

Sabitha (Hailee Steinfeld) and Edith (Sami Gayle), being teens

Now, I have not read the Alice Munro story on which the film is based, and perhaps if I had the plot would have been more palatable to me, but it’s a poor film adaptation that cannot stand alone. I want to like a story centered on a woman who goes after what she wants and gets it, I really do. It’s just that apparently what this woman wants is to be a housewife for a hot mess of a man.

With a slight tonal shift, this could have been a really interesting story: a woman who has always been mousy and obedient is finally spurred to take decisive action to get what she thinks she wants, and her pride won’t let her back down from what, increasingly clearly, was not a very good idea. There are all kinds of interesting places this could go, but Hateship Loveship doesn’t take this route. It’s a shame, because it winds up being rather a non-story.

The screening I saw included a Q&A with Johnson and Wiig, and I had to fight the temptation to ask them: what was the point? What is the film trying to say?

Does Guy Pearce really deserve that look from Kristen Wiig? — Does Guy Pearce really deserve that look of devotion from Kristen Wiig?

As a potential subversion of the “bad boy saved by the love of a good woman” trope, it doesn’t subvert enough: Deadbeat Dad is a junkie and a crook, whose life is literally cleaned up by Johanna. Centering her doesn’t change the trajectory of the story. As a character study, it doesn’t give us enough character to work with: Johanna’s arc from quiet housemaid to, um, quiet housewife is frustratingly underdeveloped. As an unconventional love story, it has too much unexamined ick factor: who would actually enter into a relationship with a near-stranger who showed up on your doorstep claiming to have received love letters you definitely didn’t write?

There are a lot of angles this film could have taken to be something interesting, but it takes none of them and ends up as little more than a disappointment.

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Max Thornton blogs at Gay Christian Geek, tumbles as trans substantial, and is slowly learning to twitter at @RainicornMax.