Bitch Flicks – Page 132 – The radical notion that women like good movies

There’s More to Love in ‘Loverboy’ Than “Extra Anchovies”

Randy defines the male sex worker in ways that are diametrically opposed to more traditional depictions of female sex workers. He is not oppressed by his clients, controlled by a pimp, or violently threatened until the very end. Even then, such “threats” are delivered as a comedy of errors after a group of husbands discover their wives have been ordering a lot of pizza with “extra anchovies,” the code for Randy’s clandestine services. Thus, he enjoys a much more privileged kind of work as a casual summer gigolo than as a professional prostitute who is often trapped in such work for extended periods of time and trapped by dominating patriarchal forces.

Movie poster for Loverboy — Movie poster for *Loverboy*

This guest post by Kristina Fennelly appears as part of our theme week on Representations of Sex Workers.

At first glance, the 1989 comedy Loverboy, directed by Joan Micklin Silver and starring Patrick Dempsey, may not seem a likely choice for inclusion in films specifically focused on sex workers. After all, how could a seemingly trivial movie about a failing college student, a pizza parlor, and a group of rich yet unhappy California wives possibly inform and challenge dominant definitions of sex workers, traditional gender roles, and even heteronormativity?

Yet this film, largely derided in the late 1980s as “hopelessly tacky,” and “a pitiful waste,” speaks to these issues as it chronicles the maturation of college sophomore Randy Bodek (played by Dempsey). The film makes the claim that the education Randy gains through his summer employment, both as a pizza delivery boy and as a gigolo, prepares him to return to college in the fall as a man: a man more serious about his academic goals, his professional future, and his long-sought-after girlfriend, Jenny. Just as Randy gains a great deal of knowledge about himself, so, too, can viewers today gain a great deal of insight when analyzing this film through a feminist lens.

In the March 2008 issue of the journal Gender Issues, scholar Jeffrey Dennis gives voice to the often ignored and silent male sex workers in his article “Women are Victims, Men Make Choices: The Invisibility of Men and Boys in the Global Sex Trade.” Dennis argues that the accounts of men and boys as sex workers have largely gone unnoticed, which seems ironic given Dennis’s observation that, “Male sex workers are easy to spot anywhere in the world…Yet they are almost completely ignored by social service agencies, administrative bodies, the mass media, and scholarship” (11-12). Critically examining Randy’s profession as a sex worker in this film seeks to do the kind of intellectual and gender-conscious work that Dennis calls for: “a re-evaluation of scholarly preconceptions about male and female bodies, about objectification, about the inevitability of heterosexual identity and about the impossibility of same-sex desire.”

At the onset of the film, Randy concludes his sophomore year of college where he has failed, yet again, to make the grade. In addition to failing at school, Randy has also failed in his relationship with his live-in girlfriend, Jenny. When Randy returns home for the summer, he is admonished by his father, Joe, for his lack of any visible work ethic. Thus Randy must pursue a job as a pizza delivery boy in order to earn $9,000 to pay for his own tuition. While working for $4.80 an hour—a rate that Randy and his co-worker crassly describe as less than wages earned by “people who swim here from Mexico”—he realizes that his life of privilege as a young, white, middle-class male is not automatically guaranteed. Gone is the financial protection from his parents, Joe and Diane. Now he must venture forth on his own to earn the money. His goals, at this point, are not based whatsoever in academic or professional ideals; rather, he wants to earn the money simply so he can return to college, recapture his girlfriend, and continue on with his “party hard” lifestyle.

Randy, having returned home from college, explains to his parents that he is failing at school

One day, a chance encounter leads him to meet Alex Barnett (played by Barbara Carrera), a wealthy Italian businesswoman (presumably in her 40s) who owns a chain of high-end clothing stores. Soon, Alex lavishes Randy with expensive clothes, allows him to drive her racy red sports car, and seduces him. Randy is not a morally bankrupt character, however. He quickly tells Alex that he is in love with Jenny, to which she replies: “I think I can handle it.” She understands the arrangement before Randy does because she has established the parameters of such an arrangement. At this point, the viewer cannot help but pity Randy’s naiveté and obvious lack of experience with an accomplished and mature adult; after all, his social circle in college has consisted primarily of party-driven peers with a similar penchant for goofing off.

Alex, however, shows him the kind of privileged lifestyle he is missing out on at making only $4.80 an hour. When she awakens him the following morning by dropping $100 bills on his pillow, he tries to refuse the payment by telling her, “Alex, I can’t. It makes me feel…” Though Randy does not explicitly give voice to his feelings in this scene, the audience can infer that he feels bought and paid for, much like a traditionally-defined prostitute. He even acknowledges the quickness of the exchange when he says, “I’m never going to see you again, am I?” Their brief and fleeting affair is framed in more financially pragmatic terms by Alex who explains that if their roles were reversed and she needed the money, she knows he would give it to her. “So what’s the difference?” she asks as she gets up to leave. It is at this point in which the film seems to ask this exact question of its audience: What’s the difference between a male sex worker and a female sex worker? What’s at stake for a “gigolo” versus a “prostitute,” even from a purely rhetorical analysis of those classifications? Does sex work involve the same kind of possession, objectification, and violence for men as it does for women?

Randy, a pizza delivery boy, meets Alex, the owner of high-end clothing stores

These questions do not go unexplored or entirely unanswered in the film. Randy defines the male sex worker in ways that are diametrically opposed to more traditional depictions of female sex workers. He is not oppressed by his clients, controlled by a pimp, or violently threatened until the very end. Even then, such “threats” are delivered as a comedy of errors after a group of husbands discover their wives have been ordering a lot of pizza with “extra anchovies,” the code for Randy’s clandestine services. Thus, he enjoys a much more privileged kind of work as a casual summer gigolo than as a professional prostitute who is often trapped in such work for extended periods of time and trapped by dominating patriarchal forces.

Randy, by contrast, appears to benefit greatly from his work as he grows attuned to romance and intimacy, cultured in ballroom dancing and photography, and refined in his ability to genuinely listen to women and their needs. For example, he fulfills the fantasy of his Asian client, Kyoko Bruckner (played by Kim Miyori), whose husband has stereotypically assumed she, like “all” Asian women, will submit, remain silent, and above all, satisfy his every whim. Randy also provides much-needed validation to Monica Delancy (played by Carrie Fisher), a photographer whose husband personally trains women with “Barbie doll”-type bodies. Finally, he reminds the cynical doctor Joyce Palmer (played by Kirstie Alley) that romance still exists when he engages in an act perhaps even more intimate than sex: ballroom dancing.

Dr. Joyce Palmer (left) teaches Randy how to dance

As he seeks to explain his time with Alex to his horny co-worker, “That isn’t all we did. We talked…,” he again tries to resist traditional definitions of sex workers as objects of pleasure. Unlike heteronormative prostitution, which tends to rely on an exchange of sex for money and positions women as the object of men’s desire, the kind of “work” Randy finds himself doing requires him to be more of a companion than a lover, more of a listener than a performer, more of an adored “loverboy” than a mere sex object.

It is no accident that Randy’s first delivery of “extra anchovies” is to Alex (short for Alexandra), a woman with a name typically considered for boys. She, in fact, assumes a traditionally masculine role as she—a powerful, successful, and rich businesswoman—pursues a partner for her own sexual satisfaction. It should not surprise the discerning viewer that just as Alex showers Randy with expensive clothes, so does Edward Lewis (played by Richard Gere) provide prostitute Vivian Ward (played by Julia Roberts) with a new wardrobe in Pretty Woman, a popular film which proved a box-office hit the following year in 1990. The inclusion of Randy’s improved clothes, combined with Alex’s more masculine name and behavior, are not incidental matters in this film.

In an effort to further the comedic effect of the movie, Randy’s first gift from Alex—a $500 sports coat—is delivered by his co-worker, Tony, who drops it off at Randy’s house after it arrives at the pizza shop. Randy’s father, Joe, who has already told his wife, “Our son is a fruit,” reads the attached note from Alex and believes the coat is actually a gift from Tony, the presumed gay lover. It is not a stretch to qualify his father’s comments as homophobic when he tells his wife Diane, “A guy shows up at our door wearing enough cologne to make me puke.” After bemoaning the fact that Randy never talks about any girls, he tells himself, “You always think it happens to the other guy”—as if the reality of a gay son has now become an affliction, an “it” that one “always think[s]” (read as “always hopes”) will happen to, or pain, someone else. Thus, not only is Randy atypical in his role as a male sex worker, but he is also cast as aberrant (especially in 1989 at the height of the AIDS crisis) in his presumed homosexuality.

Randy, unsurprisingly, is clueless about his father’s fears. Instead, his primary concern is to improve his own identity, to transform himself from a part-time gigolo, defunct college student, and inconsiderate boyfriend into a mature student, respectable son, and loving boyfriend. Inevitably, he must answer to Jenny, who shows up on the day of his parents’ twentieth wedding anniversary. Ironically, it is on this same day that his mother places a pizza order for “extra anchovies” as revenge against her husband, whom she believes has cheated on her. As Randy’s parents try to sort out their mistakes, Randy tries to explain to Jenny that he engaged in such work for the money so that he could return to college and ultimately return to her. His actions prove unforgivable, at least initially. Soon, though, Jenny comes to see Randy as a matured man willing to go to great lengths for love: not only for her love, but also to preserve the love between his two parents. She is heartened and warmed by him and his parents who welcome her with open arms. How could they not since they are so happy and grateful to have a heterosexual son? All is forgiven when Randy promises to return the money, and Randy’s father even promises to pay for his tuition.

Randy's girlfriend, Jenny (right), is not forgiving of his work as a gigolo at first — Randy’s girlfriend, Jenny (right), is not forgiving of his work as a gigolo at first

If this film succeeds in doing the kind of work Dennis calls for, to acknowledge male sex workers largely ignored by “mass media,” does it fail in its treatment of homosexuality? Does it insist on “the inevitability of heterosexual identity”? Not entirely. Before Jenny is identified as Randy’s girlfriend, Randy’s father embraces him and tells him: “You’re my son. I love you.” Certainly, this father-son relationship appears progressive for 1989, especially from where we sit 25 years later when gay marriage is one of the most contentious political and social issues of our time. What’s most potent is the way in which the film anticipates Pretty Woman by framing sex work as a means to a financially and emotionally secure future…when we know it rarely fulfills such dreams. Yet before we toss this movie aside as irrelevant, as “instantly forgettable…the kind of movie that’s perfect for a lazy summer afternoon,” it behooves us to acknowledge how this film can and should encourage conversations about male sex workers that have heretofore been silenced.

Kristina Fennelly is a Visiting Assistant Professor at Kutztown University in Kutztown, Pennsylvania. Her research and teaching interests focus on composition and rhetoric, gender studies, and digital texts.

Porno Moms and the Sexual Healing of Family in ‘Boogie Nights’

The vision of Eddie/Dirk’s home life at the beginning of the film shows us that no family is without its failures, and that true family and community bolsters individuals while forgiving and healing these flaws. The film is progressive in its inclusivity (of male, female, and queer characters), and specifically in its treatment of Amber as she constructs her own version of motherhood and family, for better or worse.

This guest post by Rebecca Willoughby appears as part of our theme week on Representations of Sex Workers.

In Brian McNair’s recent book, Porno? Chic!: How Pornography Changed the World and Made it a Better Place (Routledge), he notes that navigating what he calls the “pornosphere” of contemporary culture is made more difficult by the fact that porn is still, in spite of all kinds of liberating cultural changes, a bit of a taboo. One of McNair’s laments is that we can’t all just admit that porn exists, that we might have even seen or used it in our own lives/sex lives, and why we can’t talk openly about it as we would any other cultural issue. Boogie Nights (1997) pushes at the boundaries of this taboo by exposing the lives of sex workers—they refer to themselves as actors—within the porno-film industry in the late 1970s and early 80s. It does so, at least on the surface, without making many judgments about the characters, lending the narrative a layer of realism that helps to dispel any ideas of glamour we might have about being “porn-stars,” and attempting to depict the “real life” of these sex workers in their natural habitat.

While the main body of the narrative is primarily concerned with the story of Eddie Adams, a.k.a. Dirk Diggler (come up with your own porno name here), there’s another story being told here: that of motherhood and family functioning within the context of the porn industry. Our perception of sex workers is typically fraught with concerns about the circumstances that bring about sex work: is this work voluntary? Is it fair? Safe? But add to those concerns the idea of mothers, parents, and children in sex work, and a whole different set of concerns surface. Parent-child relationships in Boogie Nights are varied, but none of them initially seem to be entirely positive or negative. Just what is this film attempting to say about family, and, about families that work in sex?

Our first encounter with the sex-worker family is a Goodfellas or Fight Club-esque shot that follows porno film director Jack Horner (Burt Reynolds) and his… co-worker? live-in? girlfriend? Amber Waves (Julianne Moore) as they navigate through a nightclub. It might be worth noting that these other films also depict non-traditional, somewhat subversive, somewhat familial groups: the mob, and an underground boxing ring, respectively. It might also be worth noting that both of these groups are almost entirely comprised of men, while the underground or subversive element in Boogie Nights contains men and women, and some variety in sexual orientation as well. The nature of Jack and Amber’s relationship is foggy: she lives in his sprawling house, he calls her “honey tits,” and she is the star of most of his films, but we never see much more intimacy between them than a peck on the cheek. We get a much clearer view of Amber and Jack’s archetypal roles once Eddie (Mark Wahlberg) enters the “scene.”

Eddie is an economically disadvantaged sort, not too bright, and suffering in a home life that features a submissive father and an alcoholic mother. In one of the film’s most painful scenes, Eddie’s mom (Joanna Gleason) tells him he’s stupid, that his girlfriend is a slut, and that he’ll never amount to anything—all in a hyper-aggressive, booze-filled rage when he comes home late one night. Clearly this is not stellar parenting, but it’s also Eddie’s mother viewers are encouraged to dislike, whereas Dad gets our sympathy. Eddie’s is very clearly a broken family. His mom ignores and even vehemently derides his vague ambition to be “a bright, shining star,” effectively driving him from his home and into Jack’s palatial porn-estate, where he is valued—albeit at least partially for the material gain he will bring to Jack’s films. Whether Eddie’s mom’s anger at her son is fueled by her drinking, or by his seemingly casual disregard for advancing himself in some traditional way (such as education rather than low-wage employment in his two jobs) is unclear.

What Eddie’s mother doesn’t know, however, is that his sex work is far more lucrative than his traditional work, even at the early stages of the film: he’s likely earning more each night in various sexual postures (“if you want to see me jack off, it’s ten [dollars], but if you just want to look at it, it’s five,” he tells Jack on their first meeting) than he is from his dishwasher or car-wash gig. He’s ostensibly taken a job far from his home in order to make this extra money in a more metropolitan place where he is not as well-known, rather than in his hometown. This means Eddie is already participating in the obfuscation of his sex work, acting as if it is something to be ashamed of. He’s already been conditioned by cultural mores, in spite of his assertion to his girlfriend that “everyone is given one special thing,” and he knows his “special thing” to be his large penis and his skill at sex. Jack tells Eddie that there is “gold” in Eddie’s jeans, and this jives with Eddie’s view of himself, a dynamic which casts Jack as the supportive and strong father that has been missing from Eddie’s life thus far.

To further facilitate Eddie’s transition into the world of adult film, the mother who will accept Eddie/Dirk as a whole person appears in Amber Waves. Even early on, the camera singles out Amber as she gazes on Dirk, a replacement (we later learn) for her own lost son, whom viewers never see. This original son is lost seemingly because of Amber’s “choice” to work in pornographic films, though viewers are never privy to her reasons for choosing this profession (or whether it was a choice at all). Her husband’s refusal to allow her to see her son because of the “environment” he might be exposed to is emblematic of the broad cultural attitudes toward Amber’s work. Amber’s strong maternal drive is therefore shifted from her own child, taken from her, to the younger actors in her company: Dirk and Rollergirl (Heather Graham). Later in the film, Rollergirl begs Amber in a cocaine-induced frenzy: “say you’ll be my mom.” She, too, is a lost child. Amber is portrayed as a sort of lost mother, and she willingly pledges to act as Rollergirl’s surrogate parent. But oh yeah… all these parents and children and subsequent by-proxy siblings have sex with each other while “father-figure” Jack runs the cameras. Not your typical family, for sure.

Amber, gazing on her "lonely boy" — Amber, gazing on her “lonely boy”

Language in consumer reviews of the film graphically illustrate the mainstream response to Amber’s work and lifestyle, calling her (among other things) a “coked-up porn queen.” Such labels fail to take into account that drug use is perhaps not expressly part of the work but rather an occupational hazard linked to the porno subculture depicted in the film. These epithets also function to support the normative view of sex work as either forced labor or poor decision-making, perhaps the result of impaired judgment. What is erased in these generalizations is that Amber’s career is just that: a career. She makes money, as does Dirk and pretty much everyone depicted living and working in the porno world. Sex is their job, and if viewers are to draw any conclusions from what they see, they are successful. They may not make the best decisions about what to do with that success (a lot of it goes up their noses), but the film also shows us that characters who DO try to make good decisions are stymied by a culture that vilifies their work. Buck, another actor in Jack’s pornographic films, is denied a loan he clearly qualifies for, intended to help him to open his own business and leave the porno life to build a more traditional life with his more traditional family. The reason for this denial is identified as Buck’s status (according to the bank officials) as a “pornographer.” So while Amber, Dirk, and other characters move freely within the world of adult film, Boogie Nights makes it clear that mainstream society has passed judgment.

Perhaps to their credit, Jack and Dirk never attempt to be anything other than a porno director and a porno actor. Both men are good at their jobs, so why try to change? The film shows Dirk traversing the difficult landscape of addiction and emerging on the other side to return to sex work; the work he’s found success in. Jack supports not only actors by continuing his business, but also a cache of film crew folks. It’s not immediately evident how many families his work provides for. More significantly, the end of the film finds Amber continuing to act as mother to Dirk and Rollergirl, thereby embodying BOTH the sex worker role that brings her material success, as well as satisfying her maternal instincts. In spite of how mainstream culture may view sex work, Amber is treated fairly, and her physical AND emotional needs are being met. Her family—this group of people not directly related to her, but who care about her and support her goals—has sustained her.

The grace of Boogie Nights is that it allows viewers to be aware of the tribulations of sex work as WORK—these workers navigate particular pitfalls of their employment and industry, just as other workers do. The film illustrates the hazards of working in porn, just as another narrative might illustrate the hazards of working in management or finance or data entry (see, perhaps, Office Space (1999)? Doing a job well does not always guarantee happiness. Life does not always treat workers fairly. Even with success, people want things that they can’t have. But in Boogie Nights, sex workers are shown to have their own community, as flawed as that family structure might be. The vision of Eddie/Dirk’s home life at the beginning of the film shows us that no family is without its failures, and that true family and community bolsters individuals while forgiving and healing these flaws. The film is progressive in its inclusivity (of male, female, and queer characters), and specifically in its treatment of Amber as she constructs her own version of motherhood and family, for better or worse. Boogie Nights ends with another tracking shot to bookend the first, this time following Jack through his house as he interacts with his “family”: bantering with Maurice, a club owner, who is cooking in the kitchen; telling Rollergirl to clean her room; visiting with former porn actor Jessie and her baby, who are poolside. It’s difficult to ignore the domesticity in this sequence. This family has supported each other through some very tough times over the course of the film. Whether viewers accept or reject working in pornography as a career in Boogie Nights seems beside the point—these characters are on a journey, and they are surrounded by the ones they love.

Rebecca Willoughby holds a Ph.D. in English and Film Studies from Lehigh University. She writes most frequently on horror films and melodrama, and is currently a lecturer in Film/Media Studies at Bucknell University in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania.

Beyond the Mainstream: How Indie Films See Sex Workers

‘Welcome to the Rileys’ and ‘Starlet’ are not flawless examples of how to depict sex workers in film, but they are a step in the right direction. With Hollywood’s repetitive use of sex workers as one-dimensional cardboard cut-outs with a single purpose, the indie genre often gives sex workers, both supporting characters and protagonists, expressed thoughts and feelings, making them fleshed out and human.

This guest post by Nicole Elwell appears as part of our theme week on Representations of Sex Workers.

It’s no secret that Hollywood has issues with accurate representations of the daily life it tries to capture. Society is a film’s subject and audience, but that fact doesn’t always guarantee accuracy. It’s also no secret that certain aspects of society are captured more often and more thoroughly than others, creating a majority that’s up on screen and a minority that shakes their heads from their theater seats. Representation isn’t just about numbers and how often one gets screen time, but it also concerns the details of that screen time. In the case of representation of women in Hollywood, it’s not always the quantity but rather the quality. A film could have numerous female characters on screen and still create a qualitative representation issue.

This ties in with how Hollywood often portrays female sex workers. They exceed in quantity and fail in quality. Despite my lack of knowledge for all Hollywood films that depict sex workers and of actual experiences of a sex worker in modern American society, it’s easy to question and criticize the repetitive formula most sex workers are expected to exist under: be untrustworthy, manipulative, grotesque, or perhaps–worst of all–simply nothing. Most sex workers are written to be as impactful to the story as an out-of-focus desk lamp. They may appear for a single moment, create obstacles for the protagonist, or function as décor or pure entertainment for other characters. If they do serve a greater purpose to the story, it’s usually to flesh out the protagonist or motivate them in some way. With these limits as to what a sex worker can be in Hollywood, one can wonder if this serves as a subtle way of telling society this is how we should view sex workers in general. After all, society is a film’s subject and audience.

The independent film industry is often seen as the antithesis of Hollywood: with no major studios to answer to, the ever-present concern of profit is not always the motivation behind a film’s production. But does the indie genre really use its freedom to break barriers and create a more accurate picture of otherwise inaccurate and potentially damaging stereotypes? Well, yes and no. The independent industry is far from a haven of precise and meaningful stories, but considering that how good an indie film is will usually determine how many people see it, most truly terrible indie films stay buried. Much like Hollywood, the indie genre’s relationship with sex workers is hit or miss. With a far greater number of hits, the indie genre at times feels like the best hope for better representation of sex workers in film.

The film Welcome to the Rileys follows Doug Riley, a man distraught with martial problems and grief over the death of his daughter eight years ago. On a business trip to New Orleans, Doug befriends a prostitute named Mallory and finds new meaning in his life and a surrogate daughter through his growing friendship with her.

James Gandolfini and Kristen Stewart in Welcome to the Rileys — James Gandolfini and Kristen Stewart in *Welcome to the Rileys*

Doug’s wife eventually comes to New Orleans and sees the same opportunities in Mallory, so they all begin to live together. Despite the Rileys’ offers to help Mallory leave her life of prostitution, she repeatedly refuses and, fed up with the lack of acceptance, runs away only to be arrested and bailed out by Doug. The two have a confrontation, and Mallory asserts that she’s “not somebody’s little girl. It’s too late for that.” Doug comes to accept this and heads back home with his wife. This film could have easily been yet another example of how sex workers are catalysts for a male protagonist’s development, and for a large part of the movie that is the case. With Mallory’s refusal to submit to this cliché, the film becomes a hit rather than a miss because it dismisses the same formula that it used for the majority of the movie, while also giving Mallory her own character and declaring that prostitution is not something all women are looking to be saved from.

The film Starlet (available to stream on Netflix) follows the unique and charmingly awkward friendship between 21-year-old Jane and 85-year-old Sadie. After crossing paths with Sadie at a garage sale, Jane becomes increasingly interested in Sadie’s life, mostly to escape the constant drugs and apathy that fills her own. The majority of the film focuses on forming their bond while also exemplifying a generation gap that makes the friendship both refreshing and difficult.

Dree Hemingway and Besedka Johnson in Starlet — Dree Hemingway and Besedka Johnson in *Starlet*

About 50 minutes into the film, the suspicious daily lives of Jane and her friends are brought to life: they are all a part of the porn industry. What Starlet does right is holding off the fact that Jane does porn. Rather, the film makes sure the audience understands that above all else, Jane is a person and shouldn’t be defined by her job. The film establishes raw character before anything else, which serves to not only dismiss multiple stereotypes associated with sex workers in film, but also establish the notion that sex workers are not defined by their professions. The film doesn’t judge or punish Jane, and in its execution encourages its audience to the same. Starlet is an innovative rejection of society’s obsession with careers by asserting that profession doesn’t trump character.

Welcome to the Rileys and Starlet are not flawless examples of how to depict sex workers in film, but they are a step in the right direction. With Hollywood’s repetitive use of sex workers as one-dimensional cardboard cut-outs with a single purpose, the indie genre often gives sex workers, both supporting characters and protagonists, expressed thoughts and feelings, making them fleshed out and human. With the ever-changing and diverse nature of humans, it’s virtually impossible to ever capture a perfect and flawless representation of any type of person, but Hollywood could learn a thing or two about representation from the independent film industry.

Nicole Elwell is a sophomore at the University of Baltimore, majoring in Psychology and minoring in Pop Culture. She hopes to bring psychology and feminism into a future career in writing for the movies.

‘For a Good Time, Call …’: A Modern Rom Com About Friendship

But ‘For a Good Time, Call…’ doesn’t think of itself as better than other films with sex workers as their protagonists, with Lauren using Katie’s virginity against her as a metaphor for her insecurity when they have their first major fight, a prevalent attitude that buys into virgins being lesser versions of sex-having humans. As Vivian in ‘Pretty Woman’ resents Edward for making her “feel cheap,” Lauren’s treatment of her housemate brings up feelings of worthlessness for Katie. “You make me feel like I’ll never be good enough for you,” she cries. It seems we can’t win either way: women are slut- and prude-shamed no matter our real or perceived bedroom habits.

Ari Graynor, Justin Long, and Lauren Miller in For a Good Time, Call ... — Ari Graynor, Justin Long, and Lauren Miller in *For a Good Time, Call …*

This cross-post by Scarlett Harris was previously published at Filmme Fatales and appears as part of our theme week on Representations of Sex Workers.

Sex workers get a bum rap in most aspects of society. In April 2013, publisher Mia Freedman and author of The Secret Diary of a Call Girl, Brooke Magnanti, butted heads about the use of the word “prostitute” and whether it’s a valid career choice for our daughters on Aussie talk show Q&A; the murder of sex worker Tracy Connelly in Melbourne in July sparked protestations as to why her death wasn’t given as much attention as, say, white, middle-class Irish immigrant beauty Jill Meagher’s, also occurring in Melbourne; and we still stigmatise the exchange of sex for money despite it being one of the oldest occupations in the world and, to my mind, a necessary one.

Many pop cultural representations of sex workers tend to play into the notions that they need to be “saved” or are less than: Leaving Las Vegas, Lovelace, Pretty Woman. One that shines a refreshingly progressive and nonchalant light on sex work is 2012’s For a Good Time, Call…, starring Ari Graynor and Lauren Miller (who also cowrote the effort).

College enemies Katie (Graynor) and Lauren (Miller) are forced to move in together by their mutual gay bestie, Jesse (played by Justin Long), after a series of unfortunate events sees neither one being able to afford to live alone in the Big Apple. When Lauren discovers Katie pays the bills by working for a phone sex line, she decides to help her make it into a viable small business, and before long Lauren’s in on it, too.

Lauren Miller in For a Good Time, Call ... — Lauren Miller in *For a Good Time, Call …*

While the roommates and their friends don’t bat an eyelid at their supposedly sordid occupation—Jesse wants to be involved, Katie meets her sweet, unassuming boyfriend via the hotline, and a prospective employer of Lauren’s applauds her for her newfound laidback demeanor—not everyone is so impressed. Lauren’s WASPy parents are mortified she ditched (read: was fired from) her long-time publishing gig in order to “listen to guys jack off,” as her father puts it.

Not to stoop to their level, but phone sex is probably the most banal of all possible sex work avenues to go down (pardon the pun!); big bucks can be made from any location without mandatory sex or nudity. Talk about a low-risk, high return investment! If anything, Lauren’s parents should be proud of their daughter’s entrepreneurial skills and her ability to turn a profit in a hostile economy, not slut-shaming her based on very little information. (Granted, the dildos on the coffee table and the g-string bunting strewn across the lounge room as the revelation is made probably don’t lend themselves to acceptance.)

If they looked beneath the surface they’d see that Lauren’s sexy, loudmouthed pole-dancing roommate who once peed in their daughter’s car (“It was a graduation present!”) has actually never had sex. And that the seemingly successful career woman was unhappy in her “boring,” passionless relationship and uninspiring publishing gig. The differences that once saw Lauren and Katie clash in college now bring them closer together in an alternate version of the heteronormative rom-com, where female friendship reigns supreme. Quite a contrast from the hooker sex-worker-with-a-heart-of-gold-who-needs-saving-by/from-a-man trope of the above mentioned Pretty Woman, Lovelace, etc.

But For a Good Time, Call… doesn’t think of itself as better than other films with sex workers as their protagonists, with Lauren using Katie’s virginity against her as a metaphor for her insecurity when they have their first major fight, a prevalent attitude that buys into virgins being lesser versions of sex-having humans. As Vivian in Pretty Woman resents Edward for making her “feel cheap,” Lauren’s treatment of her housemate brings up feelings of worthlessness for Katie. “You make me feel like I’ll never be good enough for you,” she cries. It seems we can’t win either way: women are slut- and prude-shamed no matter our real or perceived bedroom habits.

Above all, For a Good Time, Call… is a rom com about best friends; screw the menz. Unlike in the above mentioned sex worker movie cache, men are not the moral of this love story.

Scarlett Harris is a Melbourne, Australia-based freelance writer and blogger at The Early Bird Catches the Worm (soon to be undergoing a revamp; stay tuned!).

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!

Black Film Theory: Fighting the Illusions of White Supremacy in Cinematic Narration – Part Two by Andre Seewood at Shadow and Act

New Film “Obvious Child” is Much More Than a Romantic Comedy About Abortion by Gabrielle Moss at Bitch Media

Sundance: Dear White People Gets Their Attention by Jada Yuan at Vulture

Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg’s ‘Lean In’ Scores Movie Deal by Rebecca Ford at The Hollywood Reporter

L&O: SVU by Melissa McEwan at Shakesville

Why 2014 Should Be The Year We Talk About Abortion on TV by Laura Stampler at TIME

Heroines of Cinema: Where Are The Leading Roles for Black Actresses Over 50? by Matthew Hammett Knott at Indiewire

Un-feisty women on film by Kathryn Bromwich at Dazed

Iranian-American Actress Gets Fed Up With Hollywood’s Racism by Jamilah King at Colorlines

Sundance 2014 Coverage at RogerEbert.com

6 reasons female nudity can be powerful by Soraya Chemaly at Salon

TV: Six More Makers Docs to Air on PBS This Summer by Inkoo Kang at Women and Hollywood

Athena Film Festival: February 6 – 9 in New York City

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

Consent, Taboo Reading and Vanity: Lifetime’s ‘Flowers in The Attic’

If you were once a certain type of precocious, fanciful preteen girl chances are you encountered ‘Flowers in the Attic.’
Maybe it was the cover drew you in, the face of a young girl, pale and uncertain, peering through red shutters, and when you opened it, three other eerie blonde children huddled together under the spectral form of a sinister old man. Who were these strange beautiful children? And why was unquestionably evil figure about to crush them with his bare hands? If you saw the cover, surely you had to wonder.

Lifetime promoted their 2014 TV movie with full knowledge of the book’s significance to readers

If you were once a certain type of precocious, fanciful preteen girl chances are you encountered Flowers in The Attic.

Maybe it was the cover drew you in, the face of a young girl, pale and uncertain, peering through red shutters, and when you opened it, three other eerie blonde children huddled together under the spectral form of a sinister old man. Who were these strange beautiful children? And why was unquestionably evil figure about to crush them with his bare hands? If you saw the cover, surely you had to wonder.

And then you had to read it, in secret most definitely, huddled under your covers gasping, passing it around at a sleepover, maybe you snooped through your parents’ or other sister’s copies or pursed through it at the house where you babysat. Or that one loud friend who gave you all the facts on sex recapped the story over school lunch.

The famous keyhole cover for Flowers in the Attic — The famous keyhole cover for *Flowers in the Attic*

Even if you didn’t read it, a lot of us did. First published in 1979, V.C. Andrews’s trash-classic has since sold more than 40 million copies worldwide and spawned 4 bestselling sequels known as the Dollanganger series. It also was the beginning of a ghostwritten empire of family saga books, full of Andrews’s favorite themes: incest, child abuse, rape, imprisonment, slut-shaming and beautiful girls wandering around in flimsy peignoirs.

Flowers is the story of four children hidden away in their grandparents’ attic so their mother can inherit a fortune from her father, who will disinherit her if he ever learns she had children with her late husband, her father’s brother and her half-uncle.

Like any book that couples salacious elements with overwrought highly purple prose, it’s both chilling and laughable, part fairytale, part gothic horror story, and as its success makes clear, it’s a delicate formula. The 1987 film adaptation starring the original Buffy (Kristy Swanson) and Nurse Ratched (Louise Fletcher) was reviled by fans for excluding one element they felt crucial to the story: the incestuous relationship between brother Chris and sister Cathy. So when Lifetime announced plans for a TV movie remake they were quick to note their version would keep the incest intact.

Despite poor reviews, ratings-wise it was a huge success; according to the Hollywood Reporter , 6.1 million viewers tuned in to the film’s premiere Saturday night. The 1950s-set drama was also the highest rated basic cable TV movie since 2012.

Like the book, the film is full of heightened emotions. Every other line is delivered with a slap and an exclamation mark and the acting vacillates between wooden and frighteningly animated. Mad Men ’s Kiernan Shipka (maybe someday we’ll see her in a modern day role) who plays Cathy does as well as she can with a poorly paced script and clunky dialogue, often lifted directly from the book. It’s really not such strange territory for Shipka after playing Sally Draper through her difficult adolescence. Mason Dye as her onscreen brother/lover and Ava Telek and Maxwell Kovach as twins Carrie and Cory gave unremarkable performances, with the twins just hovering around the room not given anything to do.

Ellen Burstyn gave a nuanced performance as the children’s grandmother

As the children’s cruel grandmother, Ellen Burstyn gave her character some degree of ambiguity and humanity, particularly in her reaction to the children’s Christmas present. Burstyn allows the grandmother to become an interesting character when she visibly struggles with her affection for the children and at the film’s end, her own fears of the attic. I’ve gone back and forth on Heather Graham’s portrayal of the children’s mother, Corrine. Her line reading range from flat and vapid to manic and bug eyed with no sane middle ground, but if it’s an acting choice, it may be a good one as it does suit the character.

The Grandmother teaches the children a lesson about disobeying her by showing them their mother’s whipped back

For a story about people tempted to inflict and endure suffering for the promise of wealth, the film has cheap production values and poor effects (such as the whip marks on Corrine’s back that look like lipstick streaks) and never shows viewers the house’s glamour or gives the sense of opulence that gave the children their hopes even in the darkest moments. We are also informed of the passage of time, but never truly feel it, so it becomes difficult to relate to the characters’ ordeal. Though most of the creepy elements from the book are there: the beatings, the taring, the poisoned doughnuts, the film never becomes creepy as it should. For all its Gothic dressing, it’s still a Lifetime movie, cheesy and tonally awkward.

There are interesting ideas about vanity and appearance carried over from the book that become more significant in the film as a visual medium. The book’s premise, that Corrine refuses to work to support her family after her husband’s death, is given more sympathy in the film thanks to the constant reminders from the backdrop and clothing that the film is set in the 50s where this would be difficult for a woman.

Corrine explains why she needs her parents’ money

Born wealthy and raised to be a wife, she is also given a sad Daisy Buchanan quality, absent in the book, as she tells the children, she can’t support four children because she only knows how to look pretty. Her assertion in the book, that her incestous marriage was not sinful because her children are not physically deformed and are “perfect” is given more weight as the viewer can actually see the children and their grandmother’s appraisal of them. Here and in Cathy’s refusal to cut her hair when given the choice of cutting it or allowing herself and her siblings to starve, vanity is heightened to hubris as it leads Chris and Cathy into their relationship, which shows they are far from the perfect children their mother had assured herself they were.

There are some changes from the original story, the addition of electric fence as a pointless obstacle, the heavy handed symbolism of the deer being shot, but the most problematic (though it does make the film easier to watch) is the change of the main incest scene from a rape into a consensual encounter between siblings. I have to wonder if Lifetime felt they could tell story of incest and imprisonment, but that incest and imprisonment punctuated by rape (a Lifetime staple) would make the story too dreary.

Chris and Cathy engage in consensual romance

Though Chris explicitly acknowledges that it was a rape in the book, Cathy forgives him saying it was her fault because she could have fought him off if she didn’t want it, leaving it unclear to young readers what they supposed to believe about Cathy’s rape and who to blame in real life. A blogger who writes as The Fifth Dollanganger runs the blog, The Complete Annotated VC Andrews Blog-o-Rama frequently posts the search terms readers use to access her blog. Some of them include things like “flowers in the attic chris and cathy make love” and “flowers in the attic sex excerpt”, showing at least some readers misinterpreted the dynamics of the scene. By making a rape scene into a love story, Lifetime lessens the gothic horror of the story, as well as romanticizing and confusing the abusive conditions Cathy faces. Though there is one scene where Chris is rough towards Cathy and grabs her wrists, he stops quickly when he is asked to, suggesting Cathy has the power in the situation and could indeed stop him if he wanted to hurt her, a very problematic message for the film to give.

The removal of Chris’s aspiration to be a doctor from the film takes away the authority the book allows him, adding power imbalance to the conditions leading up to the rape. As a would-be doctor, he approaches the removal of the tar from Cathy’s hair as an experiment and gives the excuse of clinical interest for his fascination with Cathy’s naked body and developing breasts. Whittled down to such easy gender roles, Chris and Cathy are starkly contrasted as boy doctor doll and girl ballerina doll. In caring from their young siblings, Chris’s aspiration towards this ideal 50’s husband profession casts him as the ideal masculine father, paired easily with ballerina Cathy as a feminine mother. It also allows his to take over from his father in his authority over his sister, as he frequently knows more about Cathy’s body than she does. It is Chris who tells their mother to buy bras and pads for Cathy and instigates the sex talk between mother and daughter. Cathy’s relationship with her father is given an incestous element in the film as she refers to the ring her gave her as a promise ring, a deeply creepy custom which allows him guardianship of her virginity. As Chris becomes the male head of the family, her also takes “ownership” of Cathy.

We’ll have to see what happens with the upcoming sequel based on the second Dollanganger book, Petals on the Wind, which Lifetime green-lit even before the first film aired. The book includes three additional rapists as love interests for Cathy.

Corrine lounges on the legendary swan bed, living in luxury while her children suffer

But I have to wonder who is meant to enjoy this movie. There’s no fun at all if you have no familiarity with the material, be it nostalgia or morbid curiosity. Though its suggested for teens on Lifetime’s website, the film has a mature content warning and airs on a channel targeted to older women. And anyone who read the books when they were younger is at that stage where their former interest amuses or embarrasses them, to watch it and talk comfortably about it, I think you need a mix of both.

Flowers in the Attic is ultimately the kind of story you’d act out with your Barbies, it’s appeal belongs in your youth, before you’re too self aware, too conscious of reality, the workforce and job training, of sex and money. They belong to that time when you think adult women just lie around in silks and feathers, eating pastel candies and periodically putting on gowns and dancing with gentlemen. They have to pass into your consciousness like a young girl’s daydream, Cathy’s salacious horror, her sexual curiosity, her bright ambition for attention and beauty and love. When you encounter it you have to be the type of girl who reads too much, plays elaborate fantasy games at recess and runs through long scenarios in math class of what she’d do with millions upon millions of dollars. A girl who wanted to be a ballerina, then an actress, then an artist, then a witch and then an impossibly glamourous authoress lounging around in marabou heels and furs. A girl who puts on Shakespeare plays in the backyard and wears cat’s eye sunglasses, a feather boa and jean shorts and it never occurs to her to find it crazy.

Cathy looks out the attic window, uncertain if she will ever be free

I think the film’s real failure is in its removal from the forbidden environment of taboo consumption, presented onscreen and sanitized for grown-ups where there’s nothing to fear in engaging. As with the books, the only way to give the story its enduring significance is to watch in secret, imposing your prepubescent imaginings over the narrative. It’s the type of story that needs the constant fear that someone will burst in the door and find you, engaged in the literary equivalent of masturbation.

_______________________________________________________

___________________________________________________________________________________________

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.

‘August: Osage County’ and What It Means to Be a “Strong” Woman in America

The strength of ‘Osage’ is that it never once sentimentalizes women’s relationships with one another. It does not allow for trite Hollywood portrayals of women as somehow less violent, less complex, or less serious than men. ‘August: Osage County’ is an odd sort of respite for those of us who don’t relate to stories of quirky, privileged, white girls from Brooklyn. The women of ‘Osage’ would destroy ‘Girls’ Hannah Horvath with a word and look. For me, it’s a kind of comfort to see these steely women on screen.

August: Osage County. Carloads of fun! — *August: Osage County*. Carloads of fun!

This article by Lisa Knisely was originally published on Bitch. Read more feminist film reviews at Bitch.

August: Osage County has garnered mostly lukewarm reviews. This is somewhat of a surprise: the movie is based on the Pulitzer-winning play by Tracy Letts and the film’s cast is packed with talented actors. Although both Meryl Streep and Julia Roberts were nominated for Golden Globes for their powerful performances, both of them walked away from the award ceremony last Sunday night empty-handed.

But then, this is a movie that is, unambiguously, about women. August: Osage County is about morally flawed, sometimes cruel, and often unlikable women.

And that’s what makes August: Osage County good.

At its essence, the film is about Julia Roberts’ character, Barbara Weston, and her struggle to both claim and reject her identity as a “strong woman.” She inherits her strength from her mother, Violet (Meryl Streep), and it’s a mixture of involuntary responsibility for others and a hardness necessary for survival. At one point midway through the film, Barbara and her two sisters (Julianne Nicholson and Juliette Lewis) sit together discussing their mother. Ivy, the reserved middle sister played by Nicholson, distances herself from affiliation with the rest of the Weston clan by claiming that family is simply a genetic accident of cells. Despite this bit of wishful thinking on Ivy’s part, we see clearly throughout the film that this is far from true. August: Osage County hammers home the idea that our upbringing shapes us no matter how much we may want to escape our complex relationships with our less-than-perfect mothers. The film is deeply evocative of how the familial, social, and physical landscapes of our childhoods leave indelible marks on our adult identities.

Film poster for August: Osage County — Film poster for *August: Osage County*

In his review for the L.A. Times, Kenneth Turan writes that the film “does nothing but disappoint,” comparing it to “that branch of reality TV where dysfunctional characters… make a public display of their wretched lives.” The problem with the film, according to Turan, is that its high melodrama doesn’t make the audience care about the characters, but instead makes the audience feel trapped.

But, this, I think, is the point. The experience of watching the film is stifling and emotionally difficult, much like the experience of growing up in a dysfunctional, addiction-fueled family like the one we see on the screen. If Turan feels like a voyeur looking in on the “wretched lives” of the Weston family, other viewers of the film will recognize, perhaps with too much familiarity, the uncanny mixture of very dark humor and gut-wrenching trauma at the heart of Weston family life. In the tradition of Faulkner and McCullers, this is a story that holds no punches.

Like Turan, New York Times’ critic A.O. Scott reviewed the film poorly, though he was slightly less negative in his review, writing that it lacked “fresh insight into family relations, human psychology or life on the Plains.” Randy Shulman also gave it an unfavorable review claiming, “The film has one electrifying scene, in which a husband (Chris Cooper) takes his bitchy, critical wife (Margo Martindale) to task. It’s a bracing moment that, for an instant, jolts us out of our lethargy. Had the entire film been on this level of engagement, August: Osage County might have been one of the year’s best films.”

Reading Shulman’s opinion struck me. That same moment in the film was my least favorite scene. I was, indeed, jolted by the scene that Shulman lauds, thinking it seemed too easy in its moral righteousness. It was at that moment of Osage that most of the men in the film (played by Chris Cooper, Sam Shepard, Ewan McGregor, and Benedict Cumberbatch) suddenly seemed to be the innocent and heroic victims of a pack of soul-devouring, child-eating, Gorgon harpies from the hilly plains of Oklahoma. This struck me as strangely out of tune with the rest of the film, which walked the line between making viewers simultaneously despise and sympathize with the women characters who forcefully drive its plot.

The strength of Osage is that it never once sentimentalizes women’s relationships with one another. It does not allow for trite Hollywood portrayals of women as somehow less violent, less complex, or less serious than men. August: Osage County is an odd sort of respite for those of us who don’t relate to stories of quirky, privileged, white girls from Brooklyn. The women of Osage would destroy Girls’ Hannah Horvath with a word and look. For me, it’s a kind of comfort to see these steely women on screen.

The women of August: Osage County looking mightly unlikable. — The women of *August: Osage County* looking mightly unlikable.

Despite its relative strengths, though, the film has one glaring failing: its treatment of race. Actress Misty Upham plays Johnna Monevata, a Native American woman hired at the start of the film to take care of the cancer-stricken, pill-addicted, racist Violet. That Violet is raw and unflinching in her racism against Native Americans isn’t the problem, as this seems realistically in accord with her character. What is an issue though is that the film’s attempt to deal with Native-White race relations in Oklahoma comes off hollow and under-developed. While she was a central figure in the original play, in the film, we never get to know Johnna beyond the fact that she can bake good pies.

While most of the narrative is so adept at portraying the mixture of intimacy and violence in the Weston household, the relationship between Johnna and the rest of the characters is flat. Toward the very end of the film, a disoriented and distraught Violet seeks solace and comfort from Johnna. This scene could have been a striking commentary on the way that people of color are often compelled within racist social structures to provide emotional labor and physical care for white people when their own kin will not. If this was the intended subtext of Johnna’s presence in the story, her character ultimately registers more like a problematic aside to the “real” action of the white characters in the film. This is really a missed opportunity for a film that is otherwise so successful at highlighting the complexities of being a strong woman from the Plains.

Dr. Lisa C. Knisely is a freelance writer and an Assistant Professor of the Liberal Arts in Portland, Ore.

Seed & Spark: Rape as a MacGuffin: The Hollywood Cop Out

But why are stories of female characters taking aggressive or assertive stances allowed to happen only after they have been victimized? In men’s revenge stories, oftentimes a woman has been killed off and he sets out to even the score. In a female revenge story, more often than not she has been assaulted and wants to get even. In both cases, women are victimized and the female body is used to move the narrative forward.

This is a guest post by Mara Gasbarro Tasker.

MacGuffin: an object or device in a movie or a book that serves merely as a trigger for the plot.

Everyone loves a revenge story. Yet no one mentions the disturbing trend–in both television and film–of victimizing women to kick start the narrative. From modern procedurals like SVU, to older films such as I Spit on your Grave or newer films like Irreversible, women are repeatedly given the Hollywood shaft. I won’t reference SVU much beyond this because I can hardly stomach the show given that every episode I’ve seen features an opening that is 10 minutes of female sexual victimization. Now think of all of the revenge films you have seen in your life. Starring men or women. Think back to what starts the story. A disturbing number of them begin with rape. They use brutal violence against women to get the ball rolling. Let’s look at a few examples.

In both the 1978 version and the 2010 remake of I Spit on your Grave, our young, beautiful and somewhat reclusive female protagonist leaves her worries behind for a summer to focus on writing. But not long before she arrives in her hideaway cabin, she is brutally, violently, and sadistically gang raped in the woods and her rental home. Later in the film she comes back for revenge. But her motive and her actions for the rest of the narrative are all defined by that senseless assault.

In the case of Abel Ferrara’s 1981 B-movie hit Ms. 45, Thana, a mute and beautiful young seamstress is raped on her walk home. Unable to scream, it hardly seems to happen. When she gets home, however, a second intruder breaks into her house and has his way with her. It was a tough day for Thana. These are both “B-Movies” and yes, there is a tendency in this kind of film to exploit violence. But before we write off this brutality to just one less-prevalent genre, let’s look at mainstream cinema.

American Psycho. Patrick Bateman is the world’s weirdest man. A total power player, a stud, a dick. He lures women in and takes pleasure, on screen, in killing them. The infamous chainsaw scene comes to mind. Bateman commits one murder in his bed before spending the next few minutes chasing a second prostitute to her death. It’s an extreme example, but this act of casual violence against women happens again in other forms and its effect is the same. As another example, Gaspar Noe’s powerful film, Irreversible, sets violence into motion from minute one. While it’s led by a male character and mostly affects a male population in the film, we later see that the center of the tale, the very object that put all of this aggression into motion, is the brutal, hate-filled rape of his girlfriend. This film features a male lead on a revenge quest, but it all hinges entirely on the abuse of a woman. We could go on–films like The Skin I Live In and remakes such as Last House on the Left and The Evil Dead all perpetuate the practice of using brutality as a narrative tool.

Rather than harp on the fact that sexual abuse is used frequently in film, let’s pay closer attention to how it’s used. I Spit on your Grave and Ms. 45 are ultimately female revenge stories that feel satisfying, but it’s only after brutal and forced, criminal sexual assaults that these women come into their power and their own violence. The abuse at the start of the story is what sets their lives on screen into motion. I know I was not alone in thinking hell yes! when these women struck back. But why are stories of female characters taking aggressive or assertive stances allowed to happen only after they have been victimized? In men’s revenge stories, oftentimes a woman has been killed off and he sets out to even the score. In a female revenge story, more often than not she has been assaulted and wants to get even. In both cases, women are victimized and the female body is used to move the narrative forward.

Men can seek revenge. Men can become monsters. Walter White can justify his actions because it was driven by the need to earn money for his family in Breaking Bad. Travis Bickle can become a sadistic psychopath in Taxi Driver without being forced into it by trauma. Patrick Bateman can kill for the pleasure of it. Men are given the freedom in film to seek revenge for any perceived slight. But women are only granted that unadulterated kind of freedom, that get-out-of-jail-free card, if they have first been victimized. How many films feature women being assertive or dangerous who don’t have their bodies forcibly violated first?

Storytelling has a responsibility. To the men and women writing any form of media, if it isn’t absolutely necessary to tell a truthful story, I challenge you to find a different reason to seek revenge. Look for a better technique to get your characters moving. Find a better reason for the action to start. Rape is not excusable. If we don’t want to normalize violence against women, we must be smart about what we normalize on screen. When teenage girls sit down at the movies or on their own couches, they’re quietly–if not openly–reminded that they are the “weaker” sex and can be taken and brutalized with ease. It may bring out some interesting male characters, but it comes at the cost of a woman’s body. Rape is not, and should not be, a MacGuffin. Let’s tell a better story.

Mara Gasbarro Tasker is a filmmaker based in Los Angeles. She’s currently working as an Associate Producer at Vice Media and has co-created the Chattanooga Film Festival, launching later this spring. She holds a BFA in Film Production from the University of Colorado at Boulder. She is directing a grindhouse short in April and is still mourning the end of Breaking Bad.

‘Switched at Birth’ and Ableist Romance

It’s safe to say that you’d be hard-pressed to find a more disability-friendly show on television. That level of representation for disabled actors continues to be virtually nonexistent, not to mention fleshing them out as actual characters instead of forcing them to be background token minorities.

Switched at Birth promotional poster. — *Switched at Birth* promotional poster.

Written by Erin Tatum.

In today’s unapologetically ableist media, Switched at Birth is a diamond in the rough in many respects. The narrative follows two teenage girls, Bay Kennish (Vanessa Marano) and Daphne Vasquez (Katie Leclerc) after they discover that a hospital mixup led to them being switched at birth and deal with the fusion of their two families. Daphne also happens to be deaf as a result of early childhood meningitis. Bay’s entire family learns sign language, meaning that coupled with Daphne’s other family and friends, pretty much everyone in the cast had to already be or become fluent in American sign language for the role. The show features Marlee Matlin prominently and casts actual deaf actors to authentically represent Daphne’s life in the deaf community. It’s safe to say that you’d be hard-pressed to find a more disability-friendly show on television. That level of representation for disabled actors continues to be virtually nonexistent, not to mention fleshing them out as actual characters instead of forcing them to be background token minorities.

Emmett finds himself falling for Bay pretty quickly.

In spite of all the progressivism, arguably the main appeal of the show for most viewers annoys the hell out of me: the relationship between Bay and Emmett. Emmett (Sean Berdy) is a motorcycle bad boy literally described by the writers as a “deaf James Dean.” A staunch advocate of Deaf culture, Emmett prefers his way of life and repeatedly insists that he only wants to date a deaf girl. Of course, this desire is portrayed as stubborn and naively foolish. Emmett initially sulks over a long time unrequited crush on Daphne, but it only takes a few episodes for Bay to start winning him over. This would all be well and good if Bay and Emmett’s blossoming romance weren’t used to paper over and invalidate his original desire to maintain his culture. A firm belief system is only relevant to illustrate how much you’ll change for love! Every character teases Emmett or acts surprised by his feelings for Bay, as if the fact that he fell for a hearing girl proves the inevitable dominance of the status quo. Again, portraying his commitment to deaf values as laughably myopic and unsustainable is unfortunate because it belittles the historic and everyday prejudices against the deaf community. Bay should not be Emmett’s ambassador to the hearing world. Minorities do not “reform themselves” by learning to accept total immersion in the majority. That’s not how that works. Bay’s just another generic Mary Sue whose informed exceptionalism is enough to convince those alleged radicals that integrating into the mainstream is better! Isn’t everything more romantic when you can make the challenges of your marginalized partner all about you?

Emmett practices his speech to make Bay happy.

Predictably, the relationship becomes… all about Bay, and not just because she’s the main character. Bay has to contemplate dating a deaf guy. Bay can’t learn sign language fast enough. Bay wants to know why Emmett insists on remaining nonverbal. To clarify, Emmett chooses not to speak and communicate solely in sign language. I think Daphne is actually the only hearing impaired character thus far who is also verbal. As I understand, it’s a matter of personal preference. Bay assures Emmett that he shouldn’t be self-conscious about his voice around her. She wants them to speak so badly that Emmett takes speech lessons and even considers getting a cochlear implant to please her. We’re supposed to see this as proof of his commitment to her, but this is fifty shades of fucked up. You should never be expected to change a fundamental aspect of your identity for your partner. Emmett already told her that speaking aloud makes him uncomfortable. End of discussion. Curiosity is understandable to an extent, but not if you’re going to pick apart their private lives to see if they live up to your standards. The ableist impulse to “help” disabled people by making them seem more “normal” is disgusting. Making matters worse, Bay is portrayed as the accepting supportive girlfriend when she eventually let go of the idea that Emmett had to become verbal.

Things get heated between Emmett and Daphne when Daphne confesses her feelings for him.

Bay finds time to play the victim even in the earliest days of her relationship. Daphne has particularly unfortunate timing and decides that she actually does have feelings for Emmett just when Bay and Emmett have made things official. Bay feels threatened due to Emmett and Daphne’s shared deaf experience, rather than worry about more obvious red flags like their deep friendship or Emmett’s massive crush that apparently evaporated. Infuriated by Daphne’s sudden realization, Emmett turns Daphne down and tells her that he is with Bay (but not before kissing Daphne, which is somehow never brought up again because I guess their entire friendship was an elaborate plotpoint to give Bay drama). Emmett rushes to tell Bay that he’s chosen her. God, I hate this trope. Nothing kills the romance in a new relationship more than anxiously waiting to see if you’re someone’s second choice in a love triangle.

Bay has already let her insecurities get the best of her and melodramatically announces to Emmett that he might as well be with Daphne since she (Bay) will never understand what it’s like to be deaf. She also makes it seem like Emmett was setting her up to be let down all along with his ~deaf elitism~, when it’s actually been her pushing Emmett to live up to her standards from the beginning. Fuck you, Bay. If you can’t tell, I hate Bay with a fiery passion and I think that she’s a whiny, entitled asshat. God forbid that the privileged able girl feels inferior to – gasp – someone who she knows is widely perceived as socially unworthy! (Her paranoia emcompasses more than just rejection, clearly.) As his final ace in the hole to prove that he really is committed to her, Emmett whirls Bay around and struggles to enunciate the words “I – just – want – you,” the first and only time he has spoken onscreen.

The fandom collectively swooned.

That single sentence was viewed as the ultimate romantic gesture. He overcame his biggest barrier to profess his love to her! So dreamy.

Let me pause for a second before I dissect the worlds of no that accompany that sentiment.

Here’s the thing: disabled people should never, ever have to transcend into “ableness” to make a case for themselves as viable romantic interests. Ever. A romantic relationship can never work if it’s built upon one person patting themselves on the back for being gracious or self-sacrificing enough to be with the other person. That’s not a relationship, that’s elaborate, sociopathic ego masturbation.

By forcing Emmett to speak to keep her from walking away, Bay is essentially admitting that she’ll only stay around if he lets her mold him into the person that she deems acceptable – that is, either a more able person or a person that perpetually highlights her greatness as able savior. Why is the burden on him to prove he’s not that committed to deaf exclusivity? See, it’s not Bay who has to understand a different perspective, Emmett is the one who needs to change and open up his mind! Again, Bay’s exceptionalism is reasserted when the audience is reminded that it’s allegedly Emmett’s agency at work here, because Bay is great enough to throw his lifelong belief in deaf solidarity out the window after a few short weeks of flirting. Yeah, okay.

Emmett teaches Bay the sign for "I love you." — Emmett teaches Bay the sign for “I love you.”

Ultimately, audience response naturalizes passive ableism far mare than the portrayal of Bay and Emmett’s romance in itself. Reaction to the couple often reveals cringe inducing depths of ignorance. The consensus generally seems to be adoration for Bay’s selflessness in wanting to be with a deaf person and learning sign language for Emmett (so she’s a saint for… wanting to talk to the boy she likes?). Most bizarrely, Bay and Emmett’s relationship has produced a desire in many fans to have a deaf boyfriend. Yes, you read that right.

You have to admit the idiocy here is blatant and undeniably impressive.

No other sentiment could better encapsulate the habitual dehumanization of people with disabilities as well as the pervasiveness of ableism.

Even as Switched at Birth‘s resident heartthrob, Emmett is never respected on his own merit. He is only valuable in the ways that he can benefit Bay’s character. If they’re together, the able community can find a palatable way to pretend to embrace trans-ability romance through compulsive and obligatory worship of the able savior.

Disabled people are never equal partners, they’re pets and ego boosts.

People want a deaf boyfriend so that they can relish the idea that they’ll be the only ones who can communicate with them and that closeness will create some sort of special bond.

Do I need to explain why that’s problematic?

You can’t specifically engineer a situation so that your partner is isolated to the point where they’re only physically able to talk to you. That’s unhealthy and abusive, to say the least. And just, the fetishism and infantilism and jesus, everything about the half-baked romanticization of deaf/hearing relationships because of this silly show is so fucking wrong.

Emmett paints a timeline of their relationship milestones to impress Bay.

Bay and Emmett get in a fight and Emmett sleeps with another hearing girl (conveniently casting Bay as the victim yet again, surprise). They break up. Despite several attempts to win her back, Emmett has thus far been unsuccessful. They’ve actually been apart as just friends with very little interaction for quite a long time, not that I’m complaining. They’re obviously endgame, but I’m hoping when they do get back together, they’ll be on more equal footing.

Romances shouldn’t be about falling in love with the idea of yourself being virtuous enough to tolerate someone else.

‘Blue Jasmine’ and Other Art By Abusers

It’s the feminist fan’s eternal conundrum: can I support art made by abusers of women? (For any value of support: consuming it to begin with, paying to consume it, or—gulp—enjoying it). But I watched ‘Blue Jasmine’ this week, even with Woody Allen’s sexual abuse of children in his family freshly in mind after the controversy surrounding his Golden Globes lifetime achievement award. And maybe it was my feminist guilt seeping in, but I was disappointed with it.

Movie poster for Blue Jasmine — Movie poster for *Blue Jasmine*

It’s the feminist fan’s eternal conundrum: can I support art made by abusers of women? (For any value of support: consuming it to begin with, paying to consume it, or—gulp—enjoying it.)

The incredibly sad truth of the matter is that switching off art by abusers can feel like switching off art entirely. It’s not just a matter of changing the station when “Yeah 3X” comes on, it means not listening to The Beatles and James Brown. It’s not just a matter of not watching Chinatown or Annie Hall; you have to decide if it is OK to watch 12 Years a Slave because it features Michael Fassbender, whose ex-girlfriend took out a restraining order on him after he broke her nose. Maybe that’s OK because he’s not the “author” of the film. But, well, supporting it supports his career (he got his first Oscar nom out of it), so, well… was my ticket for the best movie of the year, that’s also a landmark achievement for black filmmakers and actors, and moreover a powerful condemnation of systems of oppression intersecting with rape culture, now a betrayal of feminism and human dignity?

Everyone has to make these personal negotiations themselves. Maybe you can choose to tolerate work featuring actors who beat women, but not work “by” them. So watching Sean Penn in Milk is OK, but you must not watch The Crossing Guard and his other directorial efforts. Maybe you will only shun the work of sexual abusers, or maybe only sexual abusers of children, like Roman Polanski and Woody Allen.

A relatively easy approach is to lean heavily on the word “allegedly.” Other key vocab words: “rumor” and “gossip.” Ignore the myriad failures of the legal system in bringing abusers to justice, ignore that celebrity often compounds those failures, and remind everyone that these artists have “never been formally charged with/convicted of” their crimes. This is very nearly a free pass! [Speaking of free pass: let’s apply a blanket “alleged” to everything in this piece! Don’t sue me!]

I truly respect people who refuse to consume art by abusers, and I hope I can be forgiven for being too much of a pop culture completist to take that hard-line stance. Again, I think this is a choice everyone has to make for themselves, and I think the only wrong answer is the one that Hollywood appears to cling to: sweep the sins of its darling “geniuses” under a rug, so we can enjoy their work without internal conflict. (That is, if those sins were not against Hollywood itself, for that is UNFORGIVABLE!)

So: I watch Woody Allen’s movies, and I like a lot of them (although I feel compelled to clarify, when I wrote that I wanted “the next Woody Allen” to be a woman, I certainly did not mean a woman who is a sexual predator). I watched Blue Jasmine this week, even with Woody Allen’s sexual abuse of children in his family freshly in mind after the controversy surrounding his Golden Globes lifetime achievement award.

blanchettsagawards — Blanchett accepting Best Actress at the SAG awards

In Cate Blanchett’s Best Actress acceptance speech at the SAG Awards last week, she thanked Woody Allen for creating “role after role after role” for women. This praise of Woody Allen as a great giver to women left a bad taste in a lot of feminist mouths. But he has written many great female characters, even the elusive meaty roles for women over 40, like Blanchett. I watched Blue Jasmine because I didn’t want to miss out on a new iconic female character and one of the most-praised female performances of the year.

And maybe it was my feminist guilt seeping in, but I was disappointed with Blue Jasmine. It’s a solid film, and sort of the polar opposite of To Rome With Love on the “effort expended by Woody Allen as filmmaker” scale. But the cracks still show: the class commentary central to the film can be cartoonish, the Ruth Madoff character analogy feels a bit dated (at least coming from guy who makes a movie every seven months or so), and the pivotal moment in the third act is a chance encounter on the street, which is somewhere on page one of “Hacky Screenwriting for Lazies.”

Jasmine, not only from Allen’s writing but also from Blanchett’s performance, is a captivating character. But she never transcends “character” for me. I took particular issue with the jumbled mental illness cliches cobbled together: Nervous breakdown! Talks to herself! Medication “cocktails”! Excessive intake of actual cocktails! Electroconvulsive therapy! Delusions of grandeur! Relying on the kindness of strangers!

I am a mentally ill person myself, and I saw nothing recognizable in Jasmine. Silver Linings Playbook caught some flack last year (including from me!) for being a little too lighthearted and breezy on the subject of mental illness, but I found the characters in that film PROFOUNDLY relatable. One of the things Silver Linings Playbook did right was craft mentally ill characters not solely defined by their illness. Jasmine’s only other characteristics are being selfish and mean and generally unpleasant, all too easy to conflate with her illness itself.

This hodgepodge characterization makes Blanchett’s acting seem more awards-bait-y than it actually is. She is fantastic in the film, especially because she manages to win some small amount of sympathy from the audience despite her character’s thorough terribleness. Sally Hawkins is also great as Ginger, Jasmine’s semi-estranged adopted sister, and I appreciated that she had her own storyline instead of existing merely as Jasmine’s grounded foil.

Blue Jasmine is the kind of movie I would normally say “is worth seeing” even though I didn’t personally like it very much. Multiply that lukewarm semi-endorsement by the sum of your personal “comfort with consuming art by abusers” coefficient and your awards-season completist factor to determine if you should give it two hours of your time.

Robin Hitchcock is an American writer living in Cape Town, South Africa.

‘Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit’: Oil, War, Money, Movie!

Not surprisingly, ‘Jack Ryan’ gloriously fails the Bechdel test. While there are several female characters, they are disconnected and they spend their screen time helping Ryan in various ways. There’s the fresh-faced girl-next-door office assistant in a Catholic-school jumper (Hannah Taylor Gordon) that Ryan’s sketchy coworker ogles around their male-dominated office. On the other end of the super secret CIA cell phone there’s the phone-sex voice that arranges for Ryan’s suite to be cleaned after the assassination attempt. There’s the icy Russian assistant (Elena Velikanova) that escorts Ryan to Cheverin’s office. There’s the token female asian tech (Gemma Chan) in the spy van and the token black female tech (Montego Glover) in the spy plane.

hr_Jack_Ryan-_Shadow_Recruit_14 — Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit U.S. Theatrical Release Poster

Written by Andé Morgan.

It’s the summer of 1990. You’ve gone down the ocean (this means you’re from Baltimore and you’ve gone to the beach). Blissfully unaware that UV light is a potent mutagen, you look upon the masses sitting in the sand. What are they reading? Does the cover art feature Bodoni typeface and a stylized tank or a fighter jet or a fucking grenade strapped to a knife carrying a gun? It does, because it’s one of the legion of techno-spy thrillers authored by Tom Clancy. Five have been made into feature films: The Hunt for Red October (1990); Patriot Games (1992); Clear and Present Danger (1994); The Sum of All Fears (2002); and now, Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit (2014). Continue reading “‘Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit’: Oil, War, Money, Movie!”

When I Say Go We Go: Popular Feminism and ‘Spice World’

Some people see the Spice Girls as champions of female empowerment, and others as mindless actors in a consumerist pantomime of feminism. Like most artifacts of pop culture feminism, the Spice Girls presented an image that was neither perfectly laudable nor perfectly awful and shaming – they gave us a sincere attempt at female empowerment that wasn’t entirely free from the culture they lived in.

Some people really hate the Spice Girls. I’m not one of them.

We can’t really talk about Spice World without talking about the Spice Girls, in general, and why everybody seems to love and hate them.

Since “Wannabe” first topped the charts in 1996, the public attitude toward the Spice Girls has whipped back and forth between love and rejection faster than Willow Smith’s hair (because remember when that was a thing? This is a timely pop music joke). Some people see the Spice Girls as champions of female empowerment, and others as mindless actors in a consumerist pantomime of feminism. Like most artifacts of pop culture feminism, the Spice Girls presented an image that was neither perfectly laudable nor perfectly awful and shaming – they gave us a sincere attempt at female empowerment that wasn’t entirely free from the culture they lived in.

It’s hard to remember, because they looked so old when we were twelve, but the Spice Girls were a group of very young women (aged 18-22, when the band first formed) who wanted to be professional entertainers and answered a casting call beginning with the words, “R. U. 18-23 with the ability to sing/dance?” This is not an auspicious beginning for ground-shaking social and political work.

If you’re curious, or hungry to hear all the details of how terrible the pressure-cooker of fame really feels when the whole world is calling you fat, the one-hour documentary, Spice Girls: Giving You Everything, includes footage of the shockingly young, shockingly ordinary-looking Spices auditioning and rehearsing their first songs. It also includes some fairly well-spoken and introspective reflections on what it was like to live in the whirlwind of temporary Spice fame, and stories that should put to rest the idea that these women were mindlessly doing whatever a man said to do.

It isn’t hard to attack them; if I were a baby feminist scholar in undergrad, still getting used to my claws, the Spice Girls would make for some easy, delicious prey. They dress really sexy; they’ve each been reduced to a single personality trait; one of them is supposed to be childlike and that’s kind of creepy; the Black one is “scary” and that feels weird; the band was forged in the fires of consumerism, and that seems pretty evil to me – I’m licking my chops just thinking about it, but wait!

To paraphrase Camille Hayes, let’s remember that not everyone has a degree in Sociology and Gender Studies. Some people are just doing their best on their own, and, rather than demonizing them for not doing well enough, let’s at least acknowledge that we’re on the same team.

Considering that they were a bunch of 20-year-olds in a manufactured pop band, the Spice Girls did a pretty good job of carrying the feminist flag. They didn’t say or do anything radical and challenging; they didn’t provide stunning new insights into gender equality. The explicit message they preached (to their core audience of tween-aged girls) was that friendship is important, and so is self-expression, and girls are just as good as boys. That’s not earth-shattering stuff, but they also modelled through their behaviour that women can be confident and ambitious – outspoken, funny, loud, accomplished – and still receive mainstream acceptance.

The Spice Girls were competent performers who made decisions that they believed would further their careers. Were they perfect? No. Is it important to discuss the ways that Spice feminism falls short, in order to shed light on larger cultural and societal problems? Yes. But they were rowing in the same direction as the rest of us, even if their strokes weren’t especially powerful, so let’s all just ease up a bit, yeah?

The Part Where I Actually Talk About The Movie
Okay, right. So, there was a movie. Spice World was filmed at the height of the band’s popularity in 1997, and released five months before Geri Halliwell announced she was leaving the group. As of this writing, it enjoys as 29 percent Fresh Rating on Rotten Tomatoes.

The film follows the Spice Girls’ fictionalized Spice adventures as they tour in a massive, double-decker Spice bus and learn lessons about the importance of friendship, etc, etc. The adventures range from the commonplace (going to a fancy party) to the outlandish (making first contact with aliens), and the whole thing is wrapped in a framing story about movie executives pitching the worst, most random, half-assed tie-in movie ever (i.e., the movie we’re watching). Add to that roughly a million cameos from other celebrities, a whole bunch of singing, and a villain who makes cryptic pronouncements under the soft cloak of darkness, and you have not yet begun to imagine all of the nonsense packed into this film.

I don’t know why so many people hate it.

It’s bad, but it’s purposely bad – it’s a campy, ironic comedy that makes fun of the idea of the Spice Girls as a manufactured, highly commercialized product. It sells the central Spice Girl fantasy – that being a pop star means hanging out with your very best friends and occasionally rehearsing in between wacky adventures – and it includes a fake Spice Girl origin story – that they began as best friends who spontaneously formed a band one day – but it also addresses many of the criticisms people had of the band in a tongue-in-cheek way. It’s actually kind of smart.

For example, one of the (valid) criticisms people have made of the Spice Girls is that, by reducing each member to a single personality trait or caricature, the band is participating in an ugly interaction of consumerism and patriarchy in which women are a commodity that comes in five types. Spice World is full of scenes that make fun of these simplified personas and highlight the fact that these women are actually whole human beings. They talk about things that have nothing to do with their Spice personalities, like chess, and manta rays; they do unflattering impressions of each other performing their Spice personalities; and they complain that everyone stereotypes them while (deliberately and obviously) acting out the stereotypes in question.

They also drive a bus over a model bridge and sleep in a haunted mansion. It’s not The Color Purple. But the movie is self-aware enough, and self-reflexive enough, that it ends up being a fun, playful story that ultimately resists the idea that there are Five Types of Women defined by specific traits.

It’s also a mainstream movie aimed at young girls where the heroes are all women who make their own decisions and who are way more concerned with their careers, their friendships, and chasing their dreams than they are with meeting some boys. In fact, the topic of boys comes up very rarely in Spice World, as though it’s possible for a woman to get through the day without raising the subject at all.

There’s this scene early on in the film, where the Spice Girls are meeting with fans, and they decide to ditch the planned trip on the Spice bus and run off to make their own fun. Mel B. says, “When I say go, we go,” and then they sprint away from the bus, dragging ten-year-old girls behind them, into adventure and freedom and Doing Your Own Thing and other big movie clichés – and maybe I’m getting soft in my old age, but I can think of worse heroes for those girls to have.

Spice World isn’t going on my imaginary shelf of Greatest Movies, but it captures a really interesting moment in pop culture history, and an interesting look at feminist ideals, as filtered through and expressed by mainstream entertainers.

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