Travel Films Week: Protecting Olive in ‘Little Miss Sunshine’

Movie poster for Little Miss Sunshine
This is a guest review by Melissa Richard.
Look around… this place is fucked! I don’t want these people judging Olive—fuck them! You’re the mom—you’re supposed to protect her! Everyone is gonna laugh at her, Mom… please don’t let her do this. Look, she’s not a beauty queen. She’s just not.

So says Dwayne to his mother Sheryl moments before his sister Olive hits the stage for the talent portion of the pageant that gives Little Miss Sunshine its title. Olive and Little Miss Sunshine are who and what pile the extended Hoover family into a yellow VW van and carry them across 800 miles from New Mexico to California. In the process, the Hoovers lose dreams and careers, gear clutches and horn capabilities, not to mention the heroin-snorting Grandpa. Dwayne’s outburst comes at the near-end of a trip filled with heartache and disappointment (often simultaneously gut-wrenching and hilarious), and not only because he recognizes the damage participating in the contest might cause to his younger sister. He also expresses the collective fear of the male Hoovers who have generally, through their own failures, come to see (and protect) Olive as a symbol of personal redemption.
Sheryl checking in with Olive before her talent act, with Richard and Dwayne looking on
Little Miss Sunshine is like many classic road trip films in that the trip itself is a vehicle (pun intended) for the characters to learn something about one another, about themselves, and/or to come to a kind of acceptance of one another, and of themselves, by the film’s end. And Little Miss Sunshine’s characters certainly have a lot to learn because, like most of us, they are deeply and, in some cases tragically, flawed.

Olive’s dad Richard Hoover (Greg Kinnear) is a failing motivational speaker (a complete contradiction); brother Dwayne (Paul Dano) is in teenage-boy training to become a jet pilot (which later goes down the tubes when it’s discovered that he’s colorblind); Uncle Frank (Steve Carell), the “number one highly-regarded Proust scholar” in America, is recovering from an attempted suicide after his love interest, a graduate student, dumps him for the “number two highly-regarded Proust scholar” in America; Grandpa Edwin (Alan Arkin) is a heroin addict who’s been kicked out of his retirement community and has an abiding love of women, porn, and Rick James (and has, possibly, a knack for choreography); and then there’s mom Sheryl (Toni Collette), whose only major flaw seems to be furtively smoking cigarettes (and possibly marrying a failed motivational speaker). Olive (Abigail Breslin) and the pageant represent the movement toward something better, something successful (by literally moving toward the land of sunshine, California), even when it’s clear to everyone that Olive is just not a beauty queen, as Dwayne says. It’s not that she is a real contender that drives the Hoovers toward redemption. It’s the symbolic value of her possible success in the type of contest that society sanctions as a visible indicator of success (however troubling or, well, foolish a beauty contest is as an indicator of success for young girls and women). In other versions of these contests—careers, dreams of careers—Richard, Frank, and Dwayne, in particular, have failed.

Olive as a symbol of redemption (and the need to protect her as such) is established early in the film, when the frazzled Sheryl arrives home with Frank, and the family sits down to a working-mom meal of a bucket of fried chicken, salad, and Sprite Zero. Everyone else seems suited (or apathetic) enough to ignore the bandages on Frank’s wrists, but not Olive. She looks at Frank, gasps, and exclaims, “What happened to your arms?” Richard changes the subject to Olive’s pageant dance routine, but Frank interrupts, saying he’s had an accident and shifts the conversation to Dwayne’s vow of silence. Olive, however, insists. Frank says it’s “okay” to talk about it, which leads Sheryl to indicate that she’s “okay” with talking about it (she’s “pro-honesty”) if Frank is. After Frank permits Sheryl to tell Olive that he attempted suicide, which she does, Richard flips, suggests that it’s not an appropriate conversation to have at dinner, and “shushes” Olive. She’s nonplussed, however, and poignantly asks why Frank would want to kill himself.

Richard explaining to Olive why Uncle Frank may be a loser, but she’s going to be a winner, in the dinner scene
Professional pusher of motivational success that he is, Richard is having none of it. After listening to Frank’s building tale of unrequited love and academic failure, he spins the story into his own type of motivational-speak, interpreting Frank’s narrative as a series of “foolish choices” and “giving up on himself” for Olive. On the one hand, the interpretation is a way—albeit a clumsy, ineffective, and completely ridiculous one—to package the “why” of an attempted suicide to a seven-year-old. On the other hand, it’s a clear reflection of the underlying fear of failure that Richard himself is facing in the attempted sell of his “Refuse to Lose / 9 Steps” program (which does, indeed, fail). Richard may not realize this consciously, but as he spins Olive’s desire to compete into a similar “winner or loser” narrative to that of Frank’s, the family, as well as the audience, does—especially since the Hoovers can hardly afford to take the trip. Green-lighting the road trip is Richard’s way of explicitly protecting Olive’s dream and implicitly protecting his own.

The reasons for the Hoovers to protect Olive are not always as selfish as those that Richard might have for protecting her (and, on occasion, they have to protect Olive from her father’s philosophy). In fact, the literal protection of Olive from the social pressures that break us down as adults is often incredibly touching, as it is in the diner scene wherein Olive orders her waffles “a la mode-ee.” Although Sheryl questions Olive’s choice of ice cream on the grounds of it being so early in the morning, Richard objects because he’s still got his eye on her success (as a beauty queen specifically, but replace the pageant with anything else and he’d likely have a similar objection). He breaks into a patronizing lesson on how ice cream comes from cream, which comes from cows, and notes that “cream has a lot of fat in it.” Sheryl, bless her, knows where he’s going with this and mutters under her breath “Richh-eerd.” As usual, Richard turns Sheryl’s earlier “pro-honesty” defense of telling Olive about Frank’s suicide attempt against her (“she’s gonna find out anyway”). When Olive asks what she might find out, Richard replies, “Well, when you eat ice cream, the fat in the ice cream becomes fat in the body.”

The Hoovers at their first pit stop on the road, looking totally enthused as Richard explains to Olive how cream makes you fat
To her credit—and displaying the role she plays in the protection of her daughter—Sheryl looks at Olive and says, “I just want you to understand that it’s okay to be skinny and it’s okay to be fat, if that’s what you wanna be. Whatever you want, it’s okay.” While Olive is processing this, Richard asks Olive to consider whether beauty queens are “skinny or fat,” to which she quietly replies “They’re skinny, I guess.” And Sheryl shoots Richard a death-ray stare as the waitress comes over and serves Olive her “a la mode-ee” side dish.

“Does anyone want my ice cream?” Olive sadly asks.

Grandpa to the rescue. “Yeah, I’d like a little…” he says, and then he invites everyone else to have some, as well, until Olive protests “Wait! Stop! Don’t eat it all…” and digs in. (And Sheryl cuts Richard’s attempted interruption of this as Dwayne shoots a spitball through a straw directly into Richard’s face.) Taking their cue from Sheryl, Grandpa, Dwayne, and Frank are not only protecting Olive’s desire to eat ice cream; they are ultimately protecting her right to make her own choices and to disregard what society (a patriarchal society represented by Richard, maybe?) tells her to choose.

This particular scene foreshadows the protection the Hoover men give Olive during her dance performance during the talent portion of Little Miss Sunshine. Having made it to California and only losing one person (poor Grandpa), the Hoovers have everything invested in Olive, including the emotional toll their own failures have taken on them. Olive’s routine to Rick James’ “Super Freak,” choreographed by the recently departed Grandpa, is the film’s true highlight because it does so much in a few minutes: it makes explicit the sexualized undertones of the child glitz pageant world (Olive might be shaking her bootie and doing the ever-lovable “growl crawl,” but the little dolls in their make-up and teased hair represent something similar on a different frequency); it provides the context through which the Hoovers are able to pull together and to accept themselves as they are; but it also provides the moment when Richard, as well as Frank and Dwayne, are really able to protect Olive for who she is and what she’s chosen. With the head pageant judge in a tizzy over the routine, Richard jumps on stage to protect Olive from being pulled off, but instead of quietly suggesting to his daughter that it’s time to go, he begins dancing with her (and is joined by the rest of the Hoovers in quick succession).

Frank, Richard, and Dwayne rockin’ out on stage with Olive
The Hoover boys may not like what the pageant represents, which they become clearly aware of once they arrive, and it’s not about protecting Olive as a symbol anymore. It’s about representing her choice to be in the pageant, whether she’s truly a contender or not.

Which brings me back to the quotation from Dwayne I opened with.

Dwayne and Richard are now mentally awake enough to be concerned about Olive competing in the show; they’ve now seen the polished contestants strut and pose for the judges, and they know she’s not made of that stuff. As Dwayne points out, she’s just not. At first flustered by the sudden concern toward Olive, Sheryl finally explains to them: 

Olive is who she is. She has worked so hard, she’s poured everything into this. We can’t just take it away from her—we can’t! I know you wanna protect her… but we gotta let Olive be Olive. 

Like in the diner scene when she tells Olive she can be skinny or fat or whatever she wants to be, Sheryl has been protecting Olive all along—not because she herself is missing something, not because she’s failed personally, but because she recognizes the importance of a little girl being able to be, well, who she is. Sheryl isn’t your typical pageant mom… she’s not a “pageant mom” at all. She’s far removed from those types of moms you see on shows like TLC’s Toddlers and Tiaras, women who put out big bucks for high-teased hair pieces, spray tans, and “flippers” that transform mere babies into miniature adult likenesses, who act out routines for their daughters to follow from the audience, who train, coach, and, sometimes quite literally, push these girls toward the stage. In fact, Sheryl is clearly removed from the process in a positive sense: from the moment she hears the phone message from her sister, Cindy, indicating that Olive is eligible to compete in Little Miss Sunshine (and rolls her eyes at the revelation that the first-place winner set to compete was disqualified because of “diet pills or something”), Sheryl is proud and supportive of Olive no matter what. She’s not pushy, but she’s not disconnected, either. She is being what Dwayne reminds her she is—“the mom”—by allowing Olive the freedom of her own choices.

Letting “Olive be Olive”—and learning to protect the choice Olive can make to be herself—is ultimately what allows the Hoovers to accept themselves and one another. We don’t know what life will be like for the Hoovers once they return to New Mexico, but one thing is for certain by the film’s end: they’ve broken through a lot more than the barrier gate in the parking lot of the Redondo Beach Inn.

Melissa Richard is a part-time English instructor at High Point University in the Piedmont Triad area of North Carolina. She writes about work and women in nineteenth-century Britain (as well as less esoteric topics), likes to take photographs of things and stuff, and thinks that dancing is really fun.



Travel Films Week: ‘Easy Rider’: Searching for a Free America That Doesn’t Exist

Easy Rider poster: “A man went looking for America. And couldn’t find it anywhere…”
“Although the masters make the rules / For the wise men and the fools / I got nothing, Ma, to live up to… For them that must obey authority / That they do not respect in any degree… My eyes collide head-on with stuffed graveyards.” – “It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding),” Bob Dylan

Written by Leigh Kolb

In 1967, the president of the Motion Picture Association of America told an audience that “we have to stop making movies about motorcycles, sex and drugs.”

Peter Fonda, who was in that audience, got an idea: “Suddenly, the lesson of the day came floating in… ‘No more movies about motorcycles, drugs and sex.’ And I went, ‘Boom! That’s it!’”
Wyatt (Peter Fonda), left, and Billy (Dennis Hopper) search for America.
Easy Rider, which, on the surface, revolves completely around motorcycles, drugs and sex, was released in 1969. Peter Fonda wrote the screenplay, along with Dennis Hopper and Terry Southern, and Hopper directed the film. 
Easy Rider encapsulates a series of moments in American history–the counterculture hippie movement, the New Left, the civil rights movement, the women’s movement, the sexual revolution–that, at their core, sought to challenge and dismantle the status quo of the “Establishment,” the capitalistic white-supremacist male-dominated patriarchy. 
While the film features gorgeous scenery, cool bikes, an amazing soundtrack and shows a multifaceted American landscape, it also reminds us that to eschew understood social norms can be deadly. 
Wyatt (“Captain America”) and Billy ride toward what they expect to be the American Dream.
The movie poster includes the caption, “A man went looking for America. And couldn’t find it anywhere…”
It is this reality–that the nebulous idea of “America” (freedom, possibility, liberty and adventure)–that permeates the film. This idealized America doesn’t exist, even among the beautiful natural landmarks and infrastructure. 
In the end, it’s not running drugs that gets the riders killed. It’s their propensity for moving against the current, for having long hair.
The themes of socially defined and limiting masculinity throughout Easy Rider go hand in hand with the theme of an elusive America. In fact, the idea that this idyllic America can be found is as entrenched in our mythology as the idea that gender performance is set and rigid. Both are myths that are central to our being as a society, and both are myths that are incredibly destructive.
Fonda’s character, Wyatt (called “Captain America”) wears a large American flag stitched across his leather jacket, with a flag on his helmet and bike. His hair is long, but he looks the part of an American hero. His foil, Dennis Hopper’s Billy, wears fringe on his leathers, wears a weathered cowboy hat and has flames painted on his bike. His hair is longer and disheveled, and he’s consistently irreverent and mouthy, while Wyatt is contemplative and reserved.
Their journey takes them across the Southwest and South. Their destination is New Orleans, and they want to make it in time for Mardi Gras. Mardi Gras itself represents tradition somewhat turned on its head. The roots of the holiday are firmly religious, but the celebrations typically include hiding one’s face, dressing without gender norms, and over the years, increasing substance use. Their goal was to make it there–a celebration representative of both being free and out of control before lent begins, which is all about control.

On the way, they stop at a ranch for a tire fix and dinner. Wyatt is clearly taken by the “simple” life of the rancher and his wife and children. The rancher notes, after learning that Wyatt and Billy are from Los Angeles, that he set out to go there long ago, but “you know how it is,” he says, indicating that he got married and had children instead. His “settled” life isn’t maligned, but is shown as a respectable choice. Wyatt tells the rancher he should be “proud” that he can live off the land. They eat together and are connected by this communal act.

Wyatt and Billy pick up a hitchhiker, and he takes them to his commune. This is a largely feminine space–the women are leaders and nurturers, and have sexual agency. While they are attempting to create an idyllic society, it’s clear that they have substandard soil and questionable farming expertise. Wyatt is optimistic about their future (while Billy thinks they don’t have a chance). The two swim with two women, and they are nude and playful. Male nudity is more present in this baptismal scene than female, and it’s clear that they are having fun. The women are not objects in this film–they are supporting characters, but they are individuals. Throughout, the female characters’ names are more prominent than the men’s, which indicates their individuality.

The women in Easy Rider are nurturers, caretakers, mothers and lovers. Two of the soundtrack’s most prominent songs–“It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)” and “Born to Be Wild”–address women. While we often think that a story like this is made possible by the male privilege of being able to be safely alone on the road, it’s clear that that notion is supposed to be challenged.

When Wyatt and Billy arrive in a small town, they are arrested and thrown in jail for riding along in a parade. While their stops so far have been welcoming and seem to embrace diversity, this all changes as they enter the “civilization” of a small town. George (Jack Nicholson) is in jail with them, as he was drunk the night before. George is a southern lawyer who has worked for the ACLU, and immediately jokes with Wyatt and Billy about how they look like outsiders. He notes that the townspeople here took “rusty razor blades to long hair.” He also says he imagines they can get out of jail easily if they haven’t killed anybody–“at least nobody white.”

George has an influential father in town (the sheriff promises to not tell his father he was so drunk), and it’s clear that he has a strong desire to be an activist and effect change, but he’s stuck in between his father’s footsteps and alcoholism, feeling like he can’t move forward because people are so backward. He is another model of American masculinity, not quite fully counterculture, but enough to feel excluded. In jail, he says to Wyatt and Billy, “We’re all in the same cage here.” For these three, that cage is a white patriarchy that has strict social norms that they do not adhere to.

George goes along with Wyatt and Billy (wearing a football helmet–his mother thought he should save it to give to his son someday, even though she hadn’t wanted him to play football, showing mixed messages of what it means to be a man) toward Mardi Gras. He says that he’s tried to go there “six or seven times,” but never makes it across the state line. He shows them a card for a brothel in New Orleans and jokes about the women there. He’s enough of a good-old-boy to see women as objects. To Wyatt and Billy, George represents the Establishment in a congenial way. He’s not threatening to them, but he has short hair and privilege; he fits the mold–to an extent–of what a man should be. His inability to fully function without binge drinking shows how damaging those expectations can be.

Wyatt, George and Billy get out of jail free–but not quite.
When the three stop at a diner, a booth full of teenage girls respond excitedly to the three men, but a booth of men react with homophobic, sexist and racist slurs against them. They mock their long hair and call them “Yankee queers.” These men operate under the guise of protecting white southern womanhood, which played a large part in racist violence–including lynchings–throughout modern history. When the girls follow the men out to their bikes and want a ride, the trio knows that to take them would be a sure death sentence.

Wyatt, Billy and now George by association are otherized because they don’t look or behave like “real” men should. The three are attacked that night at their campsite, and George is killed. This violence would surely be justified by the entrenched idea that the townspeople were protecting their women, or even protecting the order of their town by eliminating those who don’t fit.

A local says, “I guess we’d put him in the women’s cell, don’t you reckon?”
Before he’s killed, George talks to the other two about freedom. George says that Wyatt and Billy scare them because they represent freedom. When Billy argues that freedom is what it’s all about (“it” being their lives, and America), George responds:
“But talkin’ about it and bein’ it, that’s two different things. I mean, it’s real hard to be free when you are bought and sold in the marketplace. Of course, don’t ever tell anybody that they’re not free, ’cause then they’re gonna get real busy killin’ and maimin’ to prove to you that they are. Oh, yeah, they’re gonna talk to you, and talk to you, and talk to you about individual freedom. But they see a free individual, it’s gonna scare ’em.”

They don’t run from fear, though, they get “dangerous.” Resistance to civil rights, to women’s rights, to questioning gender norms–this resistance is typically violent, and is bred by fear of disrupting the social order (that is, the white-supremacist patriarchal order).

Wyatt and Billy make it to New Orleans, and go to the House of Blue Lights (the brothel that George had been excited about). There is heavy religious imagery in this scene–the Latin “Kyrie Eleison” (“Lord have mercy”) as a soundtrack and images of Madonna and child, the Virgin Mary and Jesus Christ are everywhere.

While Billy is awkward yet eager with Karen, a prostitute, Wyatt seems uncomfortable and disinterested in the woman he’s “chosen” (her name is Mary–of course).

The four wander into the streets, where Mardi Gras is in full force. Out in the crowded streets, Wyatt kisses Mary and lifts her up, finally feeling comfortable and free.

The four split LSD in the cemetery. 

The four take LSD, and the iconic scene at the St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 gets under way. The sounds of construction are a backdrop to children reciting Catholic prayers as the four characters strip, have sex, weep and trip their way around the cemetery. This is America. Wyatt cries and begs atop a statue of the Virgin Mary (Hopper had directed him to act like he was speaking to his mother, who committed suicide when he was a child). A film critic calls this scene a “eulogy” to the 60s, the end of the hope and optimism that drove liberation and counterculture movements. The trip is chaotic and disappointing.

Wyatt weeps in anger over his mother.

Wyatt and Billy camp out, and Billy is ecstatic about their journey. “We’re rich man, we’re rich.” Wyatt responds, “We blew it,” without the same pride and excitement for their future. “You go for the big money and then you’re free,” Billy says, encapsulating the American Dream. “Goodnight man,” Wyatt says, rolling over so the large American flag on the back of his jacket is prominent. 

They continue riding across America, through its towns and countryside, with shipyards, industry, bridges, factories and the automobile as reminders of the American landscape.

Billy’s defiance and his death.


Two locals drive by, wanting to “scare the hell” out of Billy. Billy flips them off, and the man asks him why he doesn’t get a haircut. He then shoots him point-blank. Wyatt turns around and promises to go for help as he drapes his flag jacket over Billy. The America that Wyatt has been searching for is lost. As he rides away, the same truck turns around and shoots at him, and his bike erupts in flames.

The camera slowly pans out, so that the speck of fire becomes less and less prominent in the beautiful countryside.

The murder of Wyatt and Billy at the end of the film is senseless, and based in the fear that George described and also the killers’ desire to prove and establish power and dominance. This death is symbolically a death of a hope in an America that is truly free and worth finding. The disappointing freedom of Mardi Gras has made way for the rigid control of lent. 

In the almost half a century since Easy Rider was released, it’s chilling how much of the rhetoric and violence against non-conformity and social progress still exists. This dream of an America that Wyatt so desperately wanted to find–a place of freedom and equality where you could live as you desired and “do your own thing in your own time”–went up in flames, just like his flag-emblazoned bike.


 
Leigh Kolb is a composition, literature and journalism instructor at a community college in rural Missouri. 
 
 

Travel Films Week: The Leading Women of Travel Films

This is a guest post by Marcela De Vivo. 

Movies that speak to the action hero or war veteran in us are not hard to come by. More often than not, those movies present a distinctly masculine vision of what adventure and life’s dilemmas look like.

While there’s certainly nothing wrong with that, finding movies that present travel and adventure from a woman’s point of view, while addressing the inward issues that a woman might typically face, is far more difficult to come by.

The following films do quite an admirable job of capturing the inner workings of a woman’s heart by providing stories and situations that most can identify and relate to.

More than just romantic comedies or “chick flicks,” these movies are all excellent windows into the soul and thought of the modern heroine.

Julia Roberts in Eat, Pray, Love
Eat, Pray, Love — Eat, Pray, Love is the story of Elizabeth Gilbert who, after going through a difficult and long divorce process, spends all of the money she receives from a book deal to travel through Italy, India, and Indonesia, concluding with the eventual pursuit of a relationship with a Brazilian businessman.

Her journey is marked by a pursuit of good food, spiritual fulfillment, and relational fulfillment, embodying three of the most relatable aspects of life.

Scarlett Johansson in Lost in Translation
Lost in Translation — Scarlett Johansson plays the role of a young woman in a struggling marriage with a celebrity photographer, who she believes is more interested in other women.

Upon meeting Bob Harris (played by Bill Murray), she forms a friendship with him (who is also depicted as having a loveless and tumultuous marriage) and the two share a series of adventures together in Tokyo before tearfully departing at the end of the movie. The film depicts the value of friendship and companionship between two people who at first were complete strangers and then bonded simply by exploring a city together.

Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday
Roman Holiday — Audrey Hepburn plays Ann, a disgruntled princess who is becoming increasingly jaded with her life in the public and political eye. The film follows Ann’s stop in Rome during her tour of several major European cities. She meets and eventually falls in love with Joe (played by Gregory Peck), an American reporter working in Rome. Joe represents to her a simpler, more private life that’s free of her currently restrictive responsibilities.

The two eventually determine that a relationship is impossible and end up parting ways.

This movie focuses heavily on a woman’s desire for simple freedom and how social restrictions and responsibilities can challenge those desires and make them difficult to realize.

Diane Lane in Under the Tuscan Sun
Under the Tuscan Sun — Diane Lane plays the role of Frances Mayes, who leaves her home in the United States to go on a vacation in Tuscany after a difficult relationship. Mayes eventually falls in love with her life in Tuscany and buys a home to start fresh in a place where she planned to spend only a short amount of time.

The film connects with the need to go outside one’s comfort zone and how sometimes we need a restart in life. Mayes just happened to find that restart button in Tuscany.

What all these movies have in common is that they take women who are having personal, relatable conflicts and show that a good adventure and a strange city can revive one’s outlook on life.

While it might not be difficult to find a good female action movie, or even a solidly entertaining “girl time flick,” these movies are unique in their pensive and thoughtful approach to the difficulties women face in life. They show that a little adventure and new surroundings can create a whole new perspective.

They’re certainly worth the watch.

Marcela De Vivo is a writer from Southern California that specializes in tech, travel, health and fitness, and skin care. In her spare time, she enjoys watching films about travel that inspire her own adventures and works with GuestDoor.com to find the best vacation rentals.

Travel Films Week: ‘The Go-Getter’: A Male-Led Feminist Film

The Go-Getter movie poster


This is a guest post by Melanie Killingsworth.

The Go-Getter doesn’t scream “feminist.” The central character is a guy named Mercer; in fact, the movie doesn’t actually pass the Bechdel test, because no one really talks to anyone besides Mercer.

Mercer’s first words – to himself and the audience at large – are about Huckleberry Finn, not remotely feminist literature. After a little soliloquy, Mercer steals a car and starts a road trip in search of his older half-brother, Arlen. Along the way, the imagination interludes and fantastical sequences give the movie a dreamy, slightly drugged quality. Where am I going with this, and how is The Go-Getter feminist? Perhaps I should sum up the plot first.

Mercer stops at a pottery collective where Arlen used to live, only to get punched in the mouth by someone Arlen stole from. The puncher repents and offers Mercer some pot, which Mercer tries for the first time. All the collective members sit down for dinner with Mercer, and a few details about his mother come out. She was a substitute teacher and mom at 45, and though those things are hardly for the faint of heart, Mercer feels a need to portray her as a sled dog racer and later someone who travelled the Australian outback. The conversation and the pot help Mercer air some of his feelings, but he’s not much closer to finding Arlen.

The collective a bust, Mercer goes to find his middle-school crush, Joely, whom he obviously idolized; the camera angles point up at her and down at him while she climbs onto the pedestal of bleachers. Joely joins the road trip for kicks in the hopes of taking Mercer’s virginity, while Mercer dresses up and takes ecstasy to impress her before they have sex. In the end, she’s underwhelmed, and he’s apologetic.

Joely in The Go-Getter

Mercer goes from his first sexual experience to the set (shack, really) of a pornographic film where Arlen fleetingly “worked.” The director claims he’s “making art” about “making love,” but the boys in the waiting room talk about girls in dehumanizing ways, and one of the actresses dissolves into tears in the background. “What good is it if she cries before she gets fucked?” the director asks. Mercer isn’t at all sure how to respond, so he steals the camera and runs. They can’t film without it, he figures.

Mercer goes back to find Joely in the hotel with her cousin and a friend. When Mercer tries to take off by himself, the threesome steals Kate’s car and leaves. Mercer hitches a ride after them and steals the car back, again. Next stop is the pet store where Arlen ran a check-scam with an older woman. Said woman ponders Mercer, decides to take a maternal attitude, rambles a bit about free love and choice, then charms Mercer into singing hymns with her not-a-band to fulfill her community service requirements.

All this time, Mercer has been chatting with Kate, the girl from whom he stole the car. One of my favorite sequences is when Mercer is on the phone trying to imagine what Kate might look like, and the visualization runs through several women. It shows only their faces, not their bodies, and some of the suggested mental connections – the oldest of the group liking beer, one of the younger ones coming up on the suggestion of fake teeth – eschew stereotypes.

As Mercer parts ways with the pet shop woman, Kate finally shows up, more angry that Mercer lied than the fact that he still has her car. “Doesn’t anybody know anybody at all?” she asks. The two of them talk as they drive, getting closer emotionally and physically. Eventually, Mercer catches up to Arlen and gets scorn and a bloody lip for his trouble. Kate comforts him, and later they have sex.

Kate as both nurturer and protector

Mercer is finally able to sit down civilly with Arlen. Mercer is not crushed by Arlen’s anger; he addresses Arlen as an equal. No begging, no insecurity or needing a big brother’s acceptance. All the things Mercer has learned about women along the way led Mercer to his brother. Sex may be the turning point that leads to this conversation, but it’s the conversation that causes Mercer to realize he has “become a man,” and a man mostly shaped by women, at that.

So what makes a man’s coming-of-age story a “feminist” travel film? The fact equal-opportunity is still so rare these days? No, (though on a side note: sadness and anger!). It’s because as Mercer’s trip progresses, the catalysts are fully-realized women who exist for more than just his gratification. His trip is prompted by his mother’s death. All his stops along the way involve women who reveal something about themselves and/or Mercer. Finally, Kate, from whom Mercer stole the car, tracks him down and finishes the road trip with him. In a moment near the end, Mercer asks Kate, “Want to go to Louisiana with me?” and she raises her eyebrows and notes, “It’s my car,” as if to sum up that though Mercer has been making his own way, it’s women who are enabling and teaching him. It’s women he has learned to be like or not-like, from his mom to his first crush to this girl he just met over the phone.

Mercer talking to Kate on the phone, while imagining her as his shoulder angel

Women are sexual beings who initiate all Mercer’s intimate interludes. Women make small talk about weather and geography and deep conversation weighing fate versus coincidence. Women are nurturing (they cook food and tend to Mercer’s various injuries), but also capable (they make pottery, paint doors, and run stores). Mercer – and at times other men – are also portrayed as nurturing and loving, and none of these are seen as undesirable or distinctly “female” qualities.

A potential negative to the feminist theme is the porn shack scene. Coming-of-age must deal with sex, but since Mercer deals with it in other ways, is this underdeveloped side trip necessary? It has at least one damsel in distress, one predatory director, and three young boys who are likely being taken advantage of by the director, but who are also looking at the experience as their license to take advantage of the girls. Mercer weakly condemns it, then runs from it. The only real reason for its inclusion is – in leading to Mercer stealing the camera – girls again become a catalyst and point out the uncertainty in Mercer’s actions. He won’t be confident in his decisions until the end of the film when he reaches “manhood.” Of course, it also gives Mercer another noble reason to steal a prop useful to the story, so one could argue for pragmatism.

Another possible negative, Joely’s sexual manipulation of various men, is seen as an individual choice. Her “sins” aren’t sex or promiscuity or drugs; they’re theft of things Mercer already stole. She’s only his equal there, and none of her choices are representative of womanhood, just as Mercer’s choices aren’t representative of manhood.

Neither of these quibbles takes away from the overall woman-positive tone of the story. Kate responds to Mercer stealing her car with frustrated intrigue and working things out verbally. In opposition to this method, violence, the “male” answer to problems (as in, here always perpetrated by males), happens four times – the potter lashing out at Mercer because of Arlen; the three friends physically assaulting Mercer to steal Kate’s car; Mercer attempting to steal the car back, being mocked until someone discharges a gun; and finally, after years of repressed emotion, when Arlen demeans their mother and he and Mercer exchange blows. “Get yourself a hunting knife, can’t nobody take your hat,” the liquor salesman advises.

Mercer’s fantasies imagine how the violent road taken would end

Instead, Mercer becomes strong without violence, has sex without unrealistic idealizations, comes to terms with his brother, and realizes much about himself. All this he learns from women, while he and the story embrace and accept women as equal, strong, complex creatures with agency. Add to that a car trek cross-country to Louisiana – voila! – feminist travel film.

A film doesn’t have to have a woman as the main character to be feminist. This story unabashedly demonstrates the importance of women, not just in relation to men, but to themselves and the world in general.

Melanie Killingsworth is a writer and filmmaker in Portland, OR. Her feminist noir The Lilith Necklace is currently applying to a film festival near you.

Travel Films Week: ‘Spring Breakers’ Forever

This is a guest review by Marcia Herring.
Movie poster for Spring Breakers
In a lifetime, how many chances are we granted to truly reinvent ourselves? Growing up, I would often daydream about taking a trip: leaving my conservative duds, Midwestern accent, and semi-closeted life behind me. I would wake up and magically be able to fill the shoes of an exaggerated version of myself. I could experience life on the other side without the backlash of disapproving parents, poisonous social norms, and my own fear of change. 

Many viewers may not consider the 2013 film Spring Breakers a discussion of how a little change of location can open the doors wide for reinvention — after all it is easy to get distracted by the bright lights and dubstep of Harmony Korine’s portrait of excess and meaninglessness. The plot of Spring Breakers centers around four girls; daydreaming their way through a semester at college in their Kentucky hometown, they become driven by the idea that they might escape and finally have some fun — or discover themselves, depending on which girl you asked. 
Being typical college students, Faith, Candy, Brit and Cotty are broke. How, then, will they get away from the copy-of-a-copy existence they lead? The idea comes — a strange bubble of a thing — to rob a convenience store. It goes down without Faith’s knowledge; she is busy singing half-hearted worship songs at a Christian campus group, and would never approve anyway. Cotty plays getaway driver while Candy and Brit don ski masks and water guns and terrorize their way into enough money to get all four girls to Florida. 
Once there, the freedom proves heady. The girls overindulge in drugs, late-night scooter rides, flirtations, and alcohol. St. Petersburg is already full to the brim of people just like them — here for the week and ready to party, their “real” selves be damned. 
Of course, the hedonistic bliss cannot last long. After all, spring break isn’t forever. Spring Break is not some magical concept that, although it certainly feels like it, exists separate from the rest of the world. The girls get caught. They spend the night in jail, miserable and worried. A judge passes their (relatively tame) sentence, and the girls are rescued from having to call their parents by local “businessman” named Alien (James Franco, in the role he must have been born to play). Conversation with Alien quickly reveals that he is far from the lifeless folk the girls are used to encountering. Alien has his hands in the drug trade of St. Pete, engages in petty crime for entertainment, and even has a rival (Gucci Mane). Alien’s dream is the American Dream, the dream of more, better stuff … and he wants to share that dream with the girls. 
Alien (James Franco) and his girls (l to r: Rachel Korine, Selena Gomez, Ashley Benson, and Vanessa Hudgens)
The film, which stars Selena Gomez (Wizards of Waverly Place) as Faith, a sheltered good girl gone bad, Vanessa Hudgens (High School Musical) as Candy, Ashley Benson (Pretty Little Liars) as Brit, and Rachel Korine (known mostly as director Korine’s much-younger wife) as Cotty, would be easy to read as exploitative. After all, three of the four female stars are known for their roles in relatively-wholesome entertainment. Both Hudgens and Gomez have been a major part of the Disney generation of girls (including Miley Cyrus). Upon reaching late adolescence and the chance to become “real” stars, they have taken career moves that bared skin. They’ve also been subjected to sexual scandals. Is this casting intentional? I don’t doubt it! Does it play into our culture’s obsession with the graduation of young girls into women by subjugating them to a particular brand of role? Yes — in a way. 
Caveat: I am certainly not an advocate for the nudity = mature film career movement; I wanted to touch on a few of the ways Spring Breakers might, depending on how you view the thing, do this a little better than most. For one, none of the “Disney girls” is ever shown nude. The sex scene that focuses on Brit and Candy is much less explicit than the earlier scene where the camera is on Alien. The only top-billed nudity comes from Korine, who is quite a bit older than the other girls — and as director Korine’s wife, I’m sure she had a voice in how to appear in the film. Rachel Korine also spoke to Vice Magazine about being a mentor to the other girls. Many party scenes featured a large number of extras, and Gomez had some hesitance about being in such a mob. Korine physically protected Gomez, and announced that any inappropriate behavior toward Selena would not go unpunished. End caveat! 
I don’t think that Spring Breakers, despite its perpetually-bikini-clad bodies, is an addition to the list of ways these young female bodies have been exploited. Instead, Spring Breakers turns that sexualizing gaze back onto the audience members who may have been enticed to see the film based on the promise of nubile bodies. The opening scene — a montage of spring breakers partying hard set to dubstep — is full of drunk white kids, many of the girls flashing their breasts in true Girls Gone Wild fashion. On a small scale, this may have been titillating, but Korine returns to the theme of careless youth partying with a regularity and focus that not only de-sensitizes the flash of nudity, but eventually makes us grimace. This is a generation partaking in activities they’ll regret because they are bored and aimless. The nudity and partying have no meaning, no purpose, because life for these co-eds has no meaning, no purpose. Korine notes that the film “is more music-based than cinema-based. Music now is mostly loop and sample-based … ” — not even the music of this generation is original. We rely on copies of copies for entertainment. Nothing is real. And when nothing is real, nothing matters. 
Here lies the generational gap when it comes to perception of the film. I went to see Spring Breakers on opening night with my little sister, who happens to be the age of the protagonists. Because she grew up with me for a sister, someone who is constantly looking at media as a reflection of society, my sister could appreciate the self-examination of her generation — after all, a few years ago she was just as lost and aimless as many in the film. A quick look at twitter reviews, however, suggest that many other teens — who were lured in with the promise of a party flick — left the theater frustrated and angry. They keep doing the same things, saying the same lines, these viewers critique, unable or unwilling to look at their own lives, their own twitter accounts and see that cyclical action and speech is indicative of an entire movement of youth. (Oddly enough, if viewers were familiar with Harmony Korine’s previous work, they would be surprised by the strength of the narrative plot in Spring Breakers!) 
That narrative plot is purposefully left open to interpretation. Korine himself has said that just about any interpretation of the film is a valid one. I’ve written previously about the economic implications of the world Korine shows us, but Spring Breakers is also rich with discussion of the female body (as evidenced above!), sexuality, and female power. 

The key for my enjoyment and promotion of this film is that, unlike many other woman-centric narratives, the women make choices and are not unduly punished for them. [The rest of this review contains specific spoilers for the film. Read with caution.] Faith chooses, despite her (ahem) faith, to explore herself with drugs and sexual behavior. She “finds herself” but when threatened with real life consequences, she chooses to return to Kentucky. The other characters are sad to see her go, but never shame her for making this decision. Cotty parties hard, strips down, and flirts with sexual situations. She is not raped — the fact that I was expecting her to be raped really says something about our culture and media depictions of our culture — and when she is shot during a street showdown, it is a wake-up call. Cotty’s wound is directly related to hanging out with a known criminal, not her sexual choices. Again, when she returns home, she is not shamed. 
Brit (Ashley Benson) and Candy (Vanessa Hudgens) dress the part

Brit and Candy are in the film for the longest time, so it makes sense that their story has the most to say about women. Early in the film, they are shown using drugs and not caring about school. They flirt with each other but don’t appear to have a romantic history. Spring break is, for them, not an escape from reality, but a new reality in which they can truly come to life. Something awakens in them when Brit and Candy rob the convenience store — something tied in this narrative with sexuality, violence, and self-awareness. Different readings of the film can boil this awakening down to any one of these aspects, but again, the key for me is that Brit and Candy are not punished for their choices. At first, they seem to need Alien’s presence and permission to embark on these new levels of claiming power through violence and sexual attraction, but as the film unwinds, Brit and Candy leave Alien behind. 
Alien’s own weirdness — he feels, and sometimes acts, like an alien in his own surroundings — lay the groundwork for Brit and Candy to feel safe enough to explore what they want. And what do they want? They want weapons, and the skills to use them well. They want sex, with each other, with someone who loves them. They want to have agency in relationships. They want to flip traditional gender roles around, listening while Alien gets sentimental about Britney Spears, holding the gun Alien simulates fellatio on, committing violent acts without motive or feeling. They want freedom — to display their bodies how they want, to claim power and use it in all aspects of life, to live the life they choose and not one that has been prescribed for them by a culture obsessed with non-reality. True, the extreme new lives of Brit and Candy are also laced with non-reality, but how much of that is because our culture refuses to let this sort of narrative be real? None of these things is granted to women in media, or, for the most part, in life. 
Spring Breakers brings something new to the discussion of women in film. Young female characters with agency populate this critique of youth culture, and young female characters with agency walk away from the narrative unscathed. For some, spring break may be a break from reality. I, for one, hope it is the new normal. 
Marcia Herring is a writer from Missouri. She is still working on her graduate degree, has a day job in retail, and writes freelance for the Lesbrary. She spends most of her free time watching television and movies. She wrote an analysis of Degrassi, Teens and Rape Apologism, contributed a review of X-Men First Class, V/H/S, and reviewed Atonement, Imagine Me & You and The Yellow Wallpaper for Bitch Flicks. 

Travel Films Week: In Defense of ‘Eat, Pray, Love’

Julia Roberts in Eat Pray Love
Written by Megan Kearns. A version of this article was originally published at The Opinioness of the World. Cross-posted with permission.

I had been looking forward to watching Eat, Pray, Love ever since I saw the trailer. I read the book a few ago, its popularity piqued my curiosity. The prospect of leaving life behind to travel for a year intrigued the armchair traveler in me. I picked the book up…and couldn’t put it down. I loved it. Author Elizabeth Gilbert drew me in with her honesty, humor and raw vulnerability. So I was eager to see the film adaptation.

The film follows Elizabeth “Liz” Gilbert, a successful writer with a seemingly perfect husband and home. Yet as she attains more and more of what she thinks she wants, Liz’s unhappiness grows and her world begins to crumble. Liz endures a devastating divorce followed by a fling with an actor. When that relationship falls apart, her pain consumes her and she’s unsure where to turn. Yearning to reignite her passion for life, Liz decides to travel, living abroad for one year. She chooses to live for four months in Italy to focus on pleasure (“eat”), then India to connect with her spirituality (“pray”) and finally Bali to learn how to balance the two and ultimately lead a life in harmony (“love”).

Julia Roberts eating pizza in Eat, Pray, Love

Lush and gorgeous, the film exhibits breathtaking vistas. It spurs you to want to pick up, leave everything behind and move to Italy, India or Bali. And megastar Julia Roberts is likable, capturing Gilbert’s curiosity about the unfolding world around her. My inner foodie enjoyed the decadent food scenes, which are a big part of the book, reminiscent of those in Julie and Julia. The film boasts a stellar supporting cast, particularly Viola Davis (love her), Mike O’Malley and Richard Jenkins. However, Javier Bardem’s talents are wasted here.

In the book, we have the pleasure of Gilbert’s humorous and vulnerable voice to guide us. While it’s sort of present in the film, it’s somehow diluted. One of the most heartbreaking yet touching moments for me in the book is when Gilbert sobs on her bathroom floor, begging god for help, as she doesn’t know what else to do. She prays that she’s not pregnant, even though she thinks a baby is what she’s supposed to want. Although the film sadly erases her pregnancy scare. I never felt, as much as she tried, that Roberts captures Gilbert’s depression and how she hit rock bottom.

I’m glad the movie retains the female friendship between Liz and Wayan as well as Wayan’s struggle to buy a house in Bali after she leaves her abusive marriage. But in the book, Gilbert spends far more time with Wayan and her daughter Tutti than the movie would lead you to believe, preferring to focus instead on the romance between Liz and Felipe, a Brazilian businessman in Bali.

Gilbert, with the help of friends and teachers along the way, finds the answers she seeks. Yet she also finds them within herself. But the film ignores this important distinction. Especially at the end, it’s as if Liz needs others to tell her what to do, rather than coming to decisions on her own accord. The book, while ending on a fairy-tale ending, focuses on Gilbert’s self-transformation, shifting from always revolving around a man to finding herself and what she wants. She realizes that you have to truly love yourself before you can love another. Gilbert learns to forgive herself, lets go of her unhappiness and embraces life.

Eat, Pray, Love
The movie makes interesting commentaries on gender. When Liz eats dinner with Felipe, he tells her how he stayed at home with his kids while his wife worked. Liz calls him “a good feminist husband.” In Italy, there’s a great scene where Liz and her friends celebrate an American Thanksgiving dinner to say goodbye. Her Italian tutor’s mother asks if she’s married. When she replies no, the mother declares that she doesn’t understand why a woman would go off and travel by herself. Her friend Sophie comes to her defense saying that no one would say that to her if she were a man and calls her brave for traveling alone. Another woman at the dinner comments on the difficulty of women’s choices.

There’s a pervasive notion that women will go see movies in the theatre about men as well as films about women, while men will only go see films starring men. Women and Hollywood’s Melissa Silverstein writes about Eat Pray Love and how “if women like it, it must be stupid” all about how women’s stories and interests are devalued and treated as less important than men’s interests. Silverstein writes:

“Why is it that things that appeal to women are made to seem trivial, stupid and less than? Is it about the fact that large groups of women are embracing something? Is it a fear that if enough women like something we’ll figure out how screwed we’ve been on so many issues that we will all just come together and revolt? Pleeze. Newflash — we aren’t that organized. Shit, we buy more books and see more films, yet stuff that appeals to women is constantly demeaned. Aren’t our dollars as green as the guys?”

Eat, Pray, Love

In her articulate and fascinating Bitch Media article, “Eat Pray Spend”, Joshunda Sanders Diana Barnes-Brown look at the gender theme of Eat Pray Love in a different light. Talking about the book, they write about the pervasive problem of privileged literature (“priv-lit”), asserting that women like Gilbert, Oprah and other self-help gurus tell women to buy their way to happiness. She writes:

“Priv-lit perpetuates several negative assumptions about women and their relationship to money and responsibility. The first is that women can or should be willing to spend extravagantly, leave our families, or abandon our jobs in order to fit ill-defined notions of what it is to be “whole.” Another is the infantilizing notion that we need guides—often strangers who don’t know the specifics of our financial, spiritual, or emotional histories—to tell us the best way forward. The most problematic assumption, and the one that ties it most closely to current, mainstream forms of misogyny, is that women are inherently and deeply flawed, in need of consistent improvement throughout their lives, and those who don’t invest in addressing those flaws are ultimately doomed to making themselves, if not others, miserable.”

Sanders and Barnes-Brown raise many valid points on sexism and consumerism. There’s something to be said for how our capitalist culture continually purports money and possessions as the path to happiness. If we buy this skin cream that erases wrinkles…if we lose weight…if we buy new clothes…we’ll fix ourselves, shed all our problems and finally attain happiness. But in all their Eat Pray Love criticism, Sanders and Barnes-Brown fail to mention Gilbert was able to travel in the first place due to an advance on a book deal from her publisher. So technically, she was still working. Of course this crucial piece of information IS woefully absent from the film. And the Eat Pray Love “merchandising machine” certainly works to undercut existential messages in the film. Regardless of how Liz funded her trip, it doesn’t invalidate the lessons she learned. Gilbert didn’t intentionally write a self-help manual — she shared her individual experiences. Rather, she wrote a manifesto to let go of fear and follow your dreams, whatever they may be.

Now, I’m no fan of director Ryan Murphy. Too often he erases bisexuality, perpetuates racist stereotypes and reinforcing misogyny in his TV series. But I don’t think the film perpetuates the misogynistic idea that all women are flawed and must be fixed. Liz was incredibly depressed and unhappy in her marriage. She struggled to get pregnant only to realize she didn’t want to have children. She wanted to finally stop putting off learning Italian and embrace her love of yoga. Although it could certainly be because I read the book which shares Liz’s background and her internal monologue, many details which the film glosses over or eliminates. “But if all you have to go on is Movie Liz, she seems like kind of a selfish jerk, and that makes her voyage to better self-care very hard to care about.”

Eat, Pray, Love

While most people can’t jet off to Europe and Asia on a year-long trip (um, I sure as hell can’t afford that), I still think there are aspects of the film and Liz’s journey people can relate to. In addition to being eye candy, Eat Pray Love raises interesting questions about gender and expectations. Women are supposed to want marriage and babies. And yet what we want may differ from societal standards. Society rigidly dictates what women are supposed to want but may feel disillusioned when they achieve those goals and still aren’t happy. Too many women sacrifice their own happiness for others. There’s nothing wrong with putting yourself and your needs first.

Many people often let things hold them back from going after what they want. If people want to go back to school to earn their degree, they think they’re too old. If they want to travel, they think they don’t have the money or the time. As someone raised in a financially-struggling, working class household, who’s often worked two jobs to make ends meet, I’m well aware of the fiscal and time constraints in people’s lives. Yet I think Liz’s story is a testament to seize the moment, to pursue your passions. Walking away from the life you have always known to dare to try something different, to push yourself out of your comfort zone is not only daunting but incredibly brave.

Many will bemoan that Liz is a wealthy privileged white woman who could afford to take a year out of her life. And she is. But would anyone utter this complaint if she were a man? Gilbert emphasizes that you don’t need to travel around the world to find happiness. Despite its flaws, the film (and book) reminds us to chart our own course, no matter what anyone tells us. And that lesson is priceless.

Travel Films Week: ‘Sex and the City 2’: Hardcore Orientalism in the Desert of Abu Dhabi

The story of Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha continued in Sex and the City 2 (2010)

This is a guest post by Emily Contois.

I’m not embarrassed to admit it. I totally own the complete series of Sex and the City—the copious collection of DVDs nestled inside a bright pink binder-of-sorts, soft and textured to the touch. In college, I forged real-life friendships over watching episodes of the show, giggling together on the floor of dorm rooms and tiny apartments. Through years of watching these episodes over and over again, and as sad as it may sound, I came to view Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha like friends—not really real, but only a click of the play button away.

On opening night in a packed theater house with two of my friends, I went to see the first Sex and the City movie in 2008. Was the story perfect? No. But it effectively and enjoyably continued the story arc of these four friends, and it made some sort of sense. Fast forward to 2010 when Sex and the City 2 came to theaters. I had seen the trailer. I’ll admit, I was a bit bemused. The girls are going to Abu Dhabi? Um, okay. Sex and the City had taken us to international locales before. In the final season, Carrie joins Petrovsky in Paris and in this land of mythical romance, Mr. Big finds her and sets everything right. When their wedding goes awry in the first movie, the girls jet to Mexico, taking Carrie and Big’s honeymoon as a female foursome. But the vast majority of this story takes place in New York City. It’s called Sex and the City. The city is not only a setting, but also a character unto itself and plays a major role in the narrative. So, it seemed a little odd that the majority of the second movie would take place on the sands of Abu Dhabi.

In Sex and the City 2, the leading ladies travel to Abu Dhabi

Before the girls settle in to those first-class suites on the flight to the United Arab Emirates, however, we as viewers must suffer through Stanford and Anthony’s wedding. From these opening scenes, there’s no question why this dismal film swept the 2011 Razzie Awards, where the four leading ladies shared the Worst Actress Award and the Worst Screen Ensemble. How did this happen?? These four ladies were once believable to fans as soul mates—four women sharing a friendship closer than a marriage. And yet they end up in these opening scenes interacting like a blind group date—awkward, forced, and cringe-worthy.

As our once favorite characters slowly warm up to one another, Michael Patrick King’s weak screenplay lays some groundwork for the film’s plot, all of which establish that these women are not traveling to an exotic locale for fun and adventure. They’re escaping—and from decidedly white people problems at that. Carrie from a hot marriage settling all too quickly into a routine of couch, TV, and takeout. Miranda from the stresses of a job she just quit. Charlotte from an always-crying-terrible-two-baby-girl and a worrisomely, buxom nanny. And Samantha, well, isn’t escaping anything. Her entire life has been reduced even further to beating menopause with an army of all natural pharmaceuticals, which fuel full-volume sexual interludes. As such, this all-expense-paid vacation to the Middle East serves as an escape filled with a little girl time and a lot of bold, overt, and luxurious consumption.

From the moment our Sex and the City stars have decided to take this trip together, however, Abu Dhabi is viewed through a lens of Orientalism, demonstrating a Western patronization of the Middle East. Starting on the first day in the city, Abu Dhabi is framed derisively as the polar opposite of sexy and modern New York City. It’s also stereotypically portrayed as the world of Disney’s Jasmine and Aladdin, magic carpets, camels, and desert dunes—”but with cocktails,” Carrie adds. This borderline racist trope plays out vividly through the women’s vacation attire of patterned head wraps, flowing skirts, and breezy cropped pants. Take for example their over-the-top fashion statement as they explore the desert on camelback, only after they have dramatically walked across the sand directly toward the camera of course.

Samantha, Charlotte, Carrie, and Miranda explore the desert, dressed in a ridiculous ode to the Middle East via fashion

The exotic is also framed as dangerous and tempting, embodied in Aidan, Carrie’s once fiancé, who sweeps her off her feet in Abu Dhabi and nearly derails her fidelity. This plays out metaphorically as they meet at Aidan’s hotel, both of them dressed in black and cloaked in the dim lighting of the restaurant.

Carrie “plays with fire” when she meets old flam, Aidan, for dinner in Abu Dhabi

Sex and the City 2 also comments upon gender roles and sex in the Middle East. For example, in a nightclub full of belly dancers and karaoke, our New Yorkers choose to sing “I Am Woman,” a tune that served as a theme song of sorts for second wave feminism. As our once fab four belt out the lyrics, young Arabic women sing along as well. And yet the main tenant of the film appears to be an ode to perceived sexual repression rather than women’s rights.

The ladies of Sex and the City 2 sing “I Am Woman” at karaoke in an Abu Dhabi nightclut

Abu Dhabi is a place where these four women—defined in American culture not only by their longstanding friendship, but also by their bodies, fashionable wardrobes, and sexual exploits—must tone it down a bit. For example, Miranda reads from a guidebook that women are required to dress in a way that doesn’t attract sexual attention. Instead of providing any context in which to understand the customs of another culture, Samantha instead repeatedly whines about having to cover up her body. Our four Americans watch a Muslim woman eating fries while wearing a veil over her face, as if observing an animal in a zoo. The girls poke fun at the women floating in the hotel pool covered from head to ankle in burkinins, which Carrie jokingly comments are for sale in the hotel gift shop. In this way, Arab culture is both commodified and ridiculed. And rather than finding a place of common understanding, the American characters are only able to relate to Arab women by finding them to be exactly like them, secretly wearing couture beneath their burkas. While fashion is the common thread linking these American and Arab women, the four leading ladies don’t really come to understand the role and meaning of the burka. Instead, after Samantha causes a raucous in the market, the girls don burkas as a comedic disguise in order to escape.

At this point in the film, the main narrative conflict is again a very white problem—if the ladies are late to the airport, they’ll (gasp!) be bumped from first class. Struggling to get a cab to stop and pick them up, the women have to get creative. In a bizarre twist that references a scene from the first twenty minutes of the film, Carrie hails a cab by exposing her leg, as made famous in the classic film, It Happened One Night. While she gets a cab to stop, one is struck by the inconsistency. The women were just run out of town for Samantha’s overt sexuality and yet exposing a culturally forbidden view of a woman’s leg is what saves the day? Or is the moral of the story that a car will always stop for a sexy woman, irrespective of culture? Either way, our leading ladies make it to the airport, fly home in first-class luxury, and arrive home to better appreciate their lives. No real conflict has been resolved—though a 60-second montage provides sound bites of what each character has learned.

In homage to It Happened One Night, Carrie bares her leg to get a cab to stop in Abu Dhabi

Throughout the course of Sex and the City 2, the United Arab Emirates doesn’t fair well, but neither does the United States, as the land of the free and home of the brave is reduced to a place where Samantha Jones can have sex in public without getting arrested. Sex and the City 2 stands out as a horrendous example of American entitlement abroad, a terrible travel flick, and a truly saddening chapter for those of us who actually liked Sex and the City up to this point.


Emily Contois works in the field of worksite wellness and is a graduate student in the MLA in Gastronomy Program at Boston University that was founded by Julia Child and Jacques Pépin. She is currently researching the marketing of diet programs to men and blogs on food studies, nutrition, and public health at emilycontois.com.

Travel Films Week: Why I Reject the Ending of ‘The Wizard of Oz’

Written by Lady T.  

Dorothy and friends skip to the Emerald City
The Wizard of Oz is my favorite movie. There are movies that are more artistically accomplished, movies that are more sophisticated, and funnier films that make me laugh my butt off, but no film I’ve seen has the same sentimental, emotional effect on me as The Wizard of Oz.
I love this movie as I love no other movie. And I hate the ending.
Let me explain.  
The plot of the movie is fairly straightforward. Dorothy and her three male companions go on the same quest: to meet the Wizard of Oz. Each member of the original Fab Four has a different reason to meet the Wizard. The Scarecrow wants a brain, the Tin Man wants a heart, the Cowardly Lion wants courage, and Dorothy wants to go home to her Auntie Em and Uncle Henry in Kansas.
In the end, their quests prove to be unnecessary, and not just because the Wizard is a charlatan who cannot give the characters what they desire. As it turns out, each character already possesses the quality he or she was seeking. The Scarecrow doesn’t need a brain — he’s already the smartest person in the group, a quick thinker and problem-solver who comes up with the plans to break into the Wicked Witch’s castle. The Tin Man doesn’t need a heart — he’s already emotional, crying whenever his friends are in trouble. The Lion doesn’t need someone to give him courage — he already steps up to every challenge that’s presented to him, even when it scares him. And Dorothy doesn’t need to go home — she’s been there the whole time, because the entire colorized section of The Wizard of Oz was all just a dream!
BOOOOO. (Just to make myself perfectly clear, I am, in fact, saying “Boooo!” and not “Boo-urns!”)

“Wait – I thought it was a trip, but I was really just tripping?”

I hate “it was just a dream!” endings on principle, because if the entire conflict takes place in the main character’s head, there’s no real urgency, nothing really at stake.
I hate that the message — “What you thought you wanted is something you really had all along!” – is applied differently to Dorothy than it is to her friends. The Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Lion are told that they always had a brain, a heart, and courage, and the Wizard giving them their “gifts” is affirmation of their strengths. Dorothy, on the other hand, gets a lecture from Glinda and has to realize that “if I ever look for my heart’s desire again, I won’t look any further than my own backyard.” Her friends get to realize that they were always smart, emotional, and brave, while she has to learn a lesson about being grateful for what she already has.
I hate the ending because it breaks my heart to think that Dorothy’s friendships were all a product of her fantasy.

Dorothy yearns for life somewhere over the rainbow

The truth is, Dorothy doesn’t have a bad life on her farm in Kansas. Her aunt and uncle love her and take care of her, and the hired hands on her aunt and uncle’s farm treat her with kindness and consideration. I don’t mind that she takes a minute to appreciate that and realizes that running away is not the best idea.
But even though a loving family is invaluable, guardians are not the same thing as friends.
In Oz, Dorothy has friends and equals. She and the Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Lion share the same adventures and support each other. She invites them on her quest to find the Wizard, giving them hope where they had none before, and in turn, they save her from the clutches of the Wicked Witch of the West. They don’t treat her differently because she’s a girl; any concern they have for her is because they fear for her life in an enemy’s hands, not because they doubt her abilities or strength.
There’s mutual respect and love among Dorothy and her friends and equals, something she doesn’t have in Kansas because there’s no one her age to relate to her — and we’re supposed to happily swallow that this is all just a dream, and there’s no place like home?
Well, I don’t accept it. I refuse. In my mental version of the ending, Oz is real. Dorothy traveled there and came back, and even though she has a renewed appreciation for her day-to-day life, the door is still open for her to return, where the new rulers of Oz — the Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Lion — will all be waiting for her, ready to go on their next adventure.

Dorothy and her three best friends


Lady T is an a writer and aspiring comedian with two novels, a play, and a collection of comedy sketches in progress. She hopes to one day be published and finish one of her projects (not in that order). You can find more of her writing at The Funny Feminist, where she picks apart entertainment and reviews movies she hasn’t seen.

Travel Films Week: Let’s Keep Goin’: On Horror, Magic, Female Friendship & Power in ‘Thelma & Louise’

This guest post by Marisa Crawford previously appeared at Delirious Hem as part of their CHICK FLIX series and is cross-posted with permission.

Geena Davis as Thelma and Susan Sarandon as Louise
When I think about Thelma & Louise, I have to start at the end. When Thelma says, Let’s not get caught. When she says, Let’s keep goin’. I’ve wanted to incorporate that line into a poem for years now. But I’m not sure I’ll ever find anywhere to put it because it’s just too powerful to me.

After its release in 1991, Thelma & Louise stirred up controversy mainly surrounding its connection to feminism, its use of violence, and its presentation of male characters.[i] It was criticized for its portrayal of men as one-dimensionally negative. The two heroines were accused of male bashing. It was condemned for advocating violence as a solution to women’s problems. Over twenty years later, though, I think that Thelma & Louise is most often thought of as a wild, raucous outlaws-on-the-run movie, but with girls. A buttered-popcorn, butt-kicking chick flick about female empowerment. Two strawberry blondes in a sea-foam T-bird convertible. Lite feminist fizz.[ii] It’s unthreatening. And yet, it threatens me.

I find it deeply and profoundly scary.

Chrissy and I watching it, drinking whole bottles of vodka in my studio on Mission Street. Her curly hair/my straight hair.

We called it a horror movie.

Because of the end. Because they almost made it. Because they maybe could’ve made it. Because they never could’ve made it. Because the world we live in wouldn’t have let them. And because they knew it.

Still from Thelma & Louise

There’s a trail of breadcrumbs that Thelma and Louise follow out of the confines of the real world. And there’s a thread of mistrust in that world that leads them out of it. After Louise shoots & kills the man who tried to rape Thelma, she says they can’t go to the police because nobody would believe them. Because everyone saw Thelma dancing with him all night, cheek to cheek. And I saw her shirt keep falling off her shoulder.

It threatens me because it happens in my world too. It obscures my view.

When Thelma says shouldn’t we go to the police & Louise says we just don’t live in that kind of world.

When Thelma says how do you know ‘bout all this stuff anyway.

When Thelma says it happened to you, didn’t it.

The trail of breadcrumbs starts with rape & the thread is a product of rape.

They follow the thread in circles, refusing to go through Texas.

Still from Thelma & Louise
When Steph and I were wailing along to “I Can’t Make You Love Me If You Don’t” while driving down Highway One. Her blonde hair/my brown hair.

In Europe when Jenny and I slept in the same bed every night even though there were two.

How in Spain Lana and I would sit in coffee shops for hours and get drunk on the beach and take pictures in Zara.

When we were in Western Mass and Tina brought me to the train and I didn’t want her to leave.

Geena Davis as Thelma in Thelma & Louise
Road trip logic: How you start off making small talk and three days later your hair is dirty, and you lost all your makeup and you’re attached like Siamese twins. And the top is down, and you’re singing into the hot desert wind.

Thelma and Louise being pursued by police
In Thelma & Louise, adult female friendship is a rock-solid and ecstatic alternative to female subjugation and the traditional romance plot. A joyful, vibrating vehicle through which one can achieve true freedom and meaningful self-expression. Until that vehicle drives itself off a cliff.

If men didn’t rape, Louise wouldn’t have shot the rapist. If the system didn’t blame rape victims, they wouldn’t have gone on the run. If men didn’t rape, they could have driven through Texas. If the system didn’t blame rape victims, Louise wouldn’t have been so afraid. If women weren’t taught they deserve to be treated like shit, they wouldn’t have had to become fugitives in order to feel free. If there was a place for liberated, powerful women who live on their own terms in this world, they wouldn’t have had to create their own. If there was a place for liberated, powerful women who live on their own terms in this world, they wouldn’t have had to plummet into the Grand Canyon in order to feel free.

The logic falls in on itself. Like a sea-foam T-bird falling into the Grand Canyon.

When there’s a wall of cop cars behind them and the canyon is in front of them and Thelma says let’s keep goin’.

Thelma with a gun

There’s an alternative ending to Thelma & Louise that you can watch on the Internet.

It shows the car falling all the way into the canyon instead of freezing the frame with the car in mid-air, flying outward on an upswing. Watch it. Because you can see the car getting smaller and smaller, as the canyon gets bigger and bigger. And it starts falling at an angle that no longer looks controlled, no longer looks triumphant. Which is exactly how it should look — the logical conclusion that joyful, strong women have no place in this world.

 

The way they freeze the frame with the car on an upswing at the end is why people call Thelma & Louise a “chick flick.” It’s why it’s remembered as a girl power-powered outlaw movie, rather than a horror one.

How me and Carrie wrote a song about Kim while she was in the other bedroom.

When Tina and I were drinking sangria in San Francisco, and we couldn’t stop prank-calling you and laughing into our sleeves.

How we were in the Catskills and I yelled at Janie, well why don’t you just eat.

Louise with a gun

Roger Ebert says that the film’s last shot, the freeze-frame of the car going off the cliff, fades to white with “unseemly haste.” He writes, “It’s unsettling to get involved in a movie that takes 128 minutes to bring you to a payoff that the filmmakers seem to fear.”[iii]

Before the credits start to roll, the white screen flashes with a montage of images showing the two women, happy and alive, suggesting a weird kind of magical realism.

It’s all in that phrase: let’s keep goin’. As if by driving off the cliff they really did keep going. As if they had reached a parallel universe in which their journey did not have to end. It reminds me of the end of Pan’s Labyrinth, before the little girl is shot in the labyrinth. In the scene where we see her stepfather watching her talking to thin air, we see a crack in the magic into a horrific reality. The last scene in Thelma & Louise shows no definitive cracks in the magic. Only a triumphant freeze-frame that loops back almost instantly to images of the heroines’ lives.

Thelma and Louise going over the cliff
Rock journalist Ellen Willis writes about how Janis Joplin’s music captured a specifically female pain and longing; pain that was caused by men — and how the emotional risk of expressing that longing was ultimately perhaps what destroyed her. Willis suggests that Joplin opened up this territory for later women artists, and brilliantly frames Thelma & Louise as “perhaps the memorial Janis deserves.”[iv]

I think, for instance, of two movie heroines, born-again desperadoes, who smash one limit after another, uncover the hidden places where anger and despair, defiance and love converge, and finally leap into the Grand Canyon because freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.

I can’t decide if I think Willis is letting the film off too easy here, but I love this comparison anyway. Janis Joplin was real; her struggle was real and her death was real. But for me, growing up in the 80s and 90s, she wasn’t a real woman so much as an icon; a symbol of wild, defiant love and art, tough, complex femininity and unrelenting sexuality, her life remembered for the spirit of freedom that she embodies, rather than for the sense of tragedy. And so are Thelma and Louise, for better or for worse — their car still goin’, the music still blasting, the camera still clicking images of them, first in red lipstick, sunglasses and hair kerchiefs, and later in dirtied jeans and cut-off t-shirts, their hair whipping wildly in the wind.

Thelma & Louise DVD cover

[i] This info was found in Karen Hollinger’s book, In the Company of Women: Contemporary Female Friendship Films, University of Minnesota Press

[ii] “Light feminist fizz” is borrowed from Bill Cosford, Miami Herald movie reviewer

[iii] Roger Ebert, “Thelma & Louise,” Chicago Sun-Times

[iv] Ed. Nona Willis Aronowitz, Out of the Vinyl Deeps: Ellen Willis on Rock Music, University of Minnesota Press

Marisa Crawford is a poet, writer and editor living in Brooklyn, NY. She’s the author of the poetry collection The Haunted House (Switchback Books, 2010), and the chapbook 8th Grade Hippie Chic (2013 Immaculate Disciples Press). Her writing has recently appeared in Fanzine, Black Clock, Delirious Hem and HER KIND, and on Feministing’s Community blog.

The Ten Most-Read Posts from April 2013

Did you miss these popular posts on Bitch Flicks? If so, here’s your chance to catch up. 


“Gratuitous Female Nudity and Complex Female Characters in Game of Thrones“ by Lady T

“How to Recognize the Signs of Feminist Burnout” by Myrna Waldron

“Nothing Can Save The Walking Dead‘s Sexist Woman Problem” by Megan Kearns

“In Game of Thrones the Mother of Dragons Is Taking Down the Patriarchy” by Megan Kearns

“Where Is My Girl Ash? On Evil Dead 2013″ by Max Thornton

“Sex Acts: Generational Patriarchy and Rape Culture in Gurfinkel’s Six Acts“ by Rachel Redfern

“Empty Wombs and Blank Screens: The Absence of Infertility and Pregnancy Loss in Media” by Leigh Kolb

“No Gentleman Is Psy” by Rachel Redfern

“The Hours: Worth the Feminist Hype?” by Amanda Rodriguez

“Claire Underwood: The Queen Bee in House of Cards“ by Amanda Rodriguez

To Romance Film Casting Directors: Without Further Ado–Hire Lucy Liu

Lucy Liu is dying to show off her comedic chops in the romance department.

“People see Julia Roberts and Sandra Bullock in a romantic film, but not me,” speaks Lucy Liu, frankly voicing an issue that refuses to die in Hollywood.
While Roberts and Bullock don’t dominate romantic comedy genre as they did in the nineties, their heavyweight torches have been passed down to Reese Witherspoon, Kate Hudson, and Emma Stone–actresses who can easily score roles without directors questioning color lines.

 Ally McBeal creator David E. Kelley wrote Ling Woo specifically for Lucy Liu. 
In Net-A-Porter’s Graphic Issue, Liu implores intimate details about racism.
As an educated, finely trained artist, Emmy-nominated Liu is right to wonder why her roster mainly consists of playing the stereotypical emotionless Asian (Ally McBeal’s Ling Woo) or the kick butt martial arts diva (Alex Munday in Charlie’s Angels and O-Ren Ishii in Kill Bill V.I & II). She deserves better.
Well, at least there is one joy to celebrate. 

Dr. Joan Watson (Lucy Liu) and Sherlock Holmes (Johnny Lee Miller) are renewed for a second helping of eclectic crime solving this fall.
Liu just wrapped up the freshman season of CBS’s hit Elementary, an intriguing television series drama adaptation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s classic–Sherlock Holmes. Out of London and into modern day New York City, Holmes is a former drug addict residing with live-in sober companion and ex-surgeon Dr. Joan Watson–typically a male character named John. That’s wherein lies the exciting twist–a part Liu was born to play. 
Those boycotting Elementary due to Liu’s Asian background are missing out on an entertaining spin on history and a gracious opportunity rarely given to Liu. Holmes and Watson have a quirky charismatic relationship filled with warm humor, spontaneity, and charm, but I personally don’t want them to become more than that. Shows like Castle and Bones have their two leads together, and it would be a nice stretch if male and female relationships could stay strictly platonic and professional despite close quarters.
However, Liu deserves to be a female lead in a romantic comedy. She has terrific comedic timing (a huge plus, right?), irresistible chemistry with many male co-stars, and showcases a range of emotions.

More than the girl next door in Lucky Number Slevin, Lindsey is one of Lucy Liu’s favorite roles to date.
“I was thinking that if you’re still alive when I get back from work tonight… maybe we could go out to dinner or something?”
Liu’s delivery of the above line is expressed in such sweet precision in my recent discovery Lucky Number Slevin. She plays a witty sleuth of a coroner named Lindsey. Like Dr. Joan Watson, as the primary female presence in the male dominated cast, ethnicity isn’t focused on in this enigmatic action-packed thriller. From bloodthirsty beginning to grisly end, it proves to be no romantic comedy, but Liu is so charming, refreshing, and intelligent in her scene-stealing capabilities that one wishes that it was. Although Lindsey’s story isn’t as fully fleshed out as the male lead’s, in every affectionate laugh and soft smile, Liu shines bright from pigeonholed prison.

Alex Munday (Lucy Liu) in Charlie’s Angels.
Now if Elementary and Lucky Number Slevin both tap into Liu’s versatile potential, shouldn’t other casting agencies take note?
Despite Hollywood still being controlled by white men’s dominance, romantic comedies should give equal chance to the one who fits the role regardless of race. I have read articles where directors want Anne Hathaway or the next big non-ethnic actress for an audition, but no one asks for Lucy Liu or any other minority actress. Isn’t the primary importance of a romantic comedy to center on an adoring female lead who can seduce the audience with captivation and humor? Why must we continue cheering on the same type of woman when others desire the same role?
Liu proves that she can handle acting as both a love interest and a strong, fiercely independent woman. Often valiantly fighting to continue breaking role barriers, Liu’s ambition alone should drive considerable notice.

O-Ren Ishii (Lucy Liu) is ready for battle dressed in her lily white kimono.
“It’s really taking a while,” Liu states. “But I do think it’s becoming more acceptable to cast Asians in roles that weren’t originally slated for someone who is Asian, which is so great.”
That is true, especially in Liu’s case.
Yet as much as women desire very well-written romantic comedies and comforting “chick flicks,” we’re getting impatient with waiting for Liu’s turn on the merry-go-round.
C’mon. It is about time to let her be the star for once, Hollywood.

How The Office’s Jim & Pam Negotiated their Conflicting Dreams

Written by Robin Hitchcock

Jim and Pam of The Office
The US iteration of The Office concluded its nine-year run last week with a somewhat mawkish but nevertheless emotionally satisfying finale. We left these characters in a place of personal fulfillment—Dwight and Angela marry, Dwight is regional manager of the Scranton branch of Dunder Mifflin, Andy has turned his embarrassing experiences into something positive and returned to the site of his glory days, Kelly and Ryan foolishly and selfishly run off into the sunset, Erin meets her birth parents. And Jim and Pam, the emotional core of the series, leave Scranton together for Austin so Jim may rejoin the sports marketing startup he and Darryl began working for earlier this season. 
In case you haven’t been watching The Office in its autumn years, Jim and Pam’s relationship has followed the push and pull of the conflict between their commitment to each other and their own personal dreams. In season 5, aspiring artist Pam moved to New York for a graphic design program. The series mined the pressures of long-distance relationships for both comedy and drama, but Jim and Pam’s partnership stayed strong and they got engaged at the gas station midpoint between Scranton and New York. Shortly thereafter, Pam left New York “the wrong way” because she failed a class and doesn’t want to remain in the city for another three months to retake it. She insists it is not because of Jim, but because she doesn’t actually like graphic design, but the viewer knows it is a complex combination of those two forces. 
Pam and Jim after the birth of their first child.
This dynamic is flipped in the final season when Jim joins a friend in Athlead, a new venture connecting famous athletes to sponsorship opportunities. With Athlead, Jim is finally able to work a job he feels passionate about, in stark contrast to his years as a paper salesman. But Jim’s new job puts an immense strain on his marriage with Pam—with whom he now has two children—as he divides his time between Philadelphia and Scranton and has less attention to give to his family. 
Pam is driven to tears by the growing conflict between her and Jim
This is exacerbated by a lack of communication as Jim inexplicably keeps his initial involvement with Athlead from Pam, and increases his commitment to this new job without consulting her several times over. Jim and Pam’s relationship reaches the breaking point, and Jim finally decides to leave Athlead and return to Scranton full-time to save his marriage. 
Pam is wracked with guilt and fears that she is “not enough” to justify Jim abandoning his new career direction. Notably, we saw nothing of this type of guilt in Jim when Pam left art school. With the help of the documentary crew that is finally explicitly woven into the story in this finale season, Jim presents Pam a video montage of their relationship and tells her “not enough for me? You are everything.” 
The series finale is set some time in the future, after the documentary has aired on PBS and Jim and Pam’s relationship is as important to in-universe fans as it is to those of us watching The Office in the real world. During the public Q&A at a reunion panel, several women criticize Pam for stifling Jim’s career. Jim does a satisfactory job of dissuading these questions, but they clearly affect Pam. She’s also moved by seeing the success and happiness Darryl, who has followed Athlead (now Athleap) to Austin. So she secretly sells her and Jim’s house (secrecy is a recurring and frustrating undercurrent in their relationship; this is the same house Jim bought without consulting Pam first) and tells Jim it’s time for them to move on from Dunder Mifflin and relocate to Austin. 
Pam and Jim decide to move on from Scranton
From a Doylist perspective, this gives the audience closure; without Jim and Pam present, the story of The Office feels complete. But on the Watsonian side of things, it means Jim’s career path decidedly beats out Pam’s after many years of back and forth, which puts a damper on my personal satisfaction as a viewer. 
My personal life is clearly influencing my reaction to this storyline: I moved 8,000 miles away from home so my partner could accept his dream job. Obviously, every couple needs to resolve these issues on their own, and it is dated and heteronormative to think this is always going to be a gendered struggle. But for many mixed-gender couples, gendered expectations of whose career matters more and the importance of career vs. family often play a part. And it’s a bit of a let down to see one of the iconic on-screen couples of the last ten years fall into the traditional resolution of the man’s career coming first.
Robin Hitchcock is an American writer living in Cape Town who works out her personal issues by writing about sitcoms.