Bitch Flicks – Page 47 – The radical notion that women like good movies

Mina Harker Should Have Her Own ‘Dracula’ Adaptation

Bram Stoker’s Dracula, published in 1897, is an epistolary novel and the equivalent of found footage horror movies today. The protagonists, including Wilhelmina “Mina” Harker (née Murray), are tech-savvy and modern, using resources and skills such as phonographs and shorthand in their efforts to find and vanquish Dracula. As far as heroines of Victorian novels written by men go, Mina is a pretty decent heroine – smart, resourceful, (relatively) observant, and eager to protect those around her – particularly her best friend Lucy and her fiancé/husband Jonathan Harker. Mina reflects the “modern” woman of the time, as she is an employed young woman who is ambitious, determined, and an excellent archivist, gun brandisher, and coach-driver (I can’t overemphasize how big a deal that last one is!). She rightfully demands respect from her husband and the other male characters. She also treats others with respect, even the mentally ill, who were and are looked down upon by society. Due to her respectful treatment of the insane asylum inmate, Renfield (one of Dracula’s minions), he in turn gives a warning about Dracula’s plans, including the vampire’s dangerous plans for Mina.

Judi Bowker as Mina in "Count Dracula" (1977) — Judi Bowker as Mina in *Count Dracula* (1977)

Something not often explored in film and TV movie adaptations is that Mina and other female characters are often inadvertently endangered by the pride of the male protagonists. It is out of misguided respect for Mina that the male protagonists try so hard to protect her, and yet fail so miserably. They fail so miserably that when I first read the novel, I confused my family by laughing out loud at Bram Stoker’s (what seems to be unintended) irony (and I learned that laughing out loud at a classic horror novel tends to raise eyebrows).

Allow me to summarize one particular section of the plot:

Male protagonists: “Let’s go hunt Dracula at his house, which is right next door to where we are!”

Mina (the female lead): “Yes, let’s go!”

Male protagonists: “No, Mina! We want to protect you by leaving you all alone and vulnerable in a house right next door to Dracula’s! All of us demand that you stay here! And try not to think about the warning Renfield gave about how Dracula, a being far more powerful than any of us combined and who can literally get into a room through a crack in the floor by turning himself into mist, is going to target you!”

Mina: “Fine! Ugh!” (Curls up in bed, trying not to feel paranoid.)

(Male protagonists show up at Dracula’s house.)

Male protagonists: “Well, here we are at Dracula’s house. ‘Guess Dracula’s not home. Weird. ‘Wonder where he could be. Ah, well. Good thing we protected Mina!”

(Male protagonists return home to find an ill-looking Mina unconscious with two puncture wounds in her neck, and mist everywhere.)

Male protagonists: “Aw, look! Mina was so worried about us that she cried herself to sleep. So cute! It’s a good thing we decided to protect Mina instead of treating her like an equal.”

Thus, the male protagonists inadvertently provide Dracula with the opportunity to assault Mina – which is oh just sort of reminiscent of how everyday sexism and benevolent sexism both directly and indirectly support rape culture. The very people who claim they desire to protect (White) women are the ones contributing to the danger. They have faulty logic, which can be funny at times, and yet that faulty logic is clearly harmful.

Louis Jourdan's Dracula encourages Judi Bowker's Mina to "feed" from him/please herself, encouraging her to "come" (pun implied). — Louis Jourdan’s Dracula encourages Judi Bowker’s Mina to “feed” from him/please herself, encouraging her to “come” (pun implied).

The novel is heavy in racist, colonialist, and anti-immigration messages. Stoker heavily implies that Northern-European and American White people, especially if they’re Catholic (Stoker’s religion), are awesome, and they should totally be welcomed everywhere. Literally all other peoples (especially those who want to immigrate to Northern-Europe or America)? F*** those guys. (Especially if they’re “dark,” and certainly if they’re Roma.) Stoker demands that (White) men protect their (White) wives and love interests against “dark” men, particularly immigrants (in Dracula’s case, from Eastern Europe). These men are so sinisterly hedonistic in their values, they may actually corrupt a Victorian woman’s purity not only through sex, but by sexually pleasing the woman and not just themselves! (Gasp! Female orgasms?! The horror!) The chauvinism of the (White) male protagonists (three British, one Dutch, one Texan) and their masculine need to “protect” Mina nearly lead to her death, and almost result in her going full vampire.

Peta Wilson as Mina in "The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen" (2003) — Peta Wilson as Mina in *The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen* (2003)

Hollywood has a trend of attempting to make female characters seem more important to the story by making them more “badass,” and while I have no problems with the idea of seeing Mina hack up vampires, or seeing a heroic Vampire!Mina (thank you, The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen), another way of empowering women and combating sexism other than positive representation of women is to point out everyday and even “benevolent” chauvinism. This is exactly the kind of sexism the male characters exhibit in Dracula – even Dracula himself, to an extent, with the female vampires who live in his castle and for whom he provides.

Winona Ryder's Mina is the reincarnated wife of Gary Oldman's Dracula in "Bram Stoker's Dracula" (1992) — Winona Ryder’s Mina is the reincarnated wife of Gary Oldman’s Dracula in *Bram Stoker’s Dracula* (1992)

More Mina representation seems to be on its way, with the reboot of The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen evidently to be “female-centric.” Hollywood is always cranking out more Dracula adaptations, but just how many have there been that point out benevolent sexism? How many feature Mina getting frustrated with the male protagonists, delivering them an angry monologue in which she points out all the ways they’ve almost led to her death? Instead of this, Hollywood has been repeatedly attempting to make Dracula, her attacker, redeemable – a tragic anti-hero, often on a quest to find the reincarnation of his long-lost love, who is revealed to be Mina. Wait, so reincarnation is supposed to justify sexual assault? No, Hollywood. No. Nor is stalking romantic (even if it’s done through the magic of musical theatre, Frank Wildhorn).

As this book review points out, there are no films entitled with Mina’s name, while there are many with Dracula’s and at least one with Van Helsing’s. Though not the only protagonist to be left out of titles, most notably Jonathan (the leading male protagonist), Mina deserves a film completely centered on her. And hopefully this Dracula adaptation, unlike most (if not all) adaptations (I’m looking at you, Dracula Untold), finds a way to rid itself of the novel’s racist, colonialist, and anti-immigration messages.

‘Older Than America’: Cultural Genocide and Reparations

Children are “the hope” of any culture. When entire generations of youth are traumatized or killed by the church and state, what is the remedy? ‘Older Than America’ looks for answers to this key question.

This is a guest post by Laura Shamas.

In July 2015, Canada’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission released a major report entitled “Honoring the Truth, Reconciling for the Future” about the cultural genocide against aboriginal children, due to abuse in Canadian residential boarding schools run by churches and funded by the state. The report is based on testimony from over 6,000 survivors; there are 94 proposals for reparation recommended. The Canadian Broadcasting System notes that the odds of dying in a native residential school in Canada (“1 in 25”) were higher than dying as a Canadian serving in World War II (“1 in 26”).

One female-helmed film that directly addresses the horrific psychological, cultural, and spiritual legacy of native boarding schools on indigenous families in the United States is Older Than America, a 2008 release, directed and produced by and starring Georgina Lightning, from a script by Lightning and Christine Kunewa Walker. Lightning is a Canadian First Nations filmmaker, and a Maskwacis Cree, registered with the Samson Cree Nation. As the film begins, a graphic informs us: “This story is inspired by actual events.”

Tracing the devastating intergenerational effects of cultural and physical genocide, as part of colonialism, in a film about native people is difficult and daunting, but Lightning’s approach is original and compelling, aided by a strong ensemble cast that features native actors. The film begins on the Fond Du Lac reservation in northern Minnesota, as schoolteacher Rain O’Rourke (Lightning), awakes in the middle of the night from an ominous dream about a young man in a Sun Dance ceremony. Rain lives with her longtime boyfriend, reservation Police Officer Johnny Goodfeather (Adam Beach). She mentions to Johnny that they need to secure the door latch; it’s clear that “something” is getting in.

The film’s storyline is bifurcated, propelled by time; the plot of the present is jarringly interrupted by traumatic, haunting memories of the past, depicted in grey flashbacks. And the present is also connected to the future, as few are able to take action until the truth about the past is acknowledged. Ghosts also populate the present, filmed in color.

We follow Rain, the film’s protagonist, as she comes to terms with her past through visions and dreams, and her future, too, when she learns the disturbing truth about what happened to her mother and uncle at the nearby Catholic native residential school. Rain’s journey is part of the collective story of her community and her tribe; until the facts about what happened to native students locked in a school cellar in the 1950s are revealed and the children properly mourned, Rain and the future of her tribe are in jeopardy. Children are “the hope” of any culture. When entire generations of youth are traumatized or killed by the church and state, what is the remedy? Older Than America looks for answers to this key question.

As Rain works in her job as a schoolteacher on the rez, she begins to have upsetting flashback episodes. An adult male spirit (Dan Harrison), the same one who was in her initial Sun Dance dream, appears more often, as her guide.

The importance and condemnation of the Catholic church, in regards to what happened to the community, is explored early in the film. Rain’s guardian, Auntie “Apple” (Tantoo Cardinal), consults in confession with Father Bartoli (Stephen Yoakam). We learn that Apple feels guilty for helping to commit Rain’s mother Irene (Rose Berens) to the Penrose Psychiatric Hospital. Father Bartoli says that Irene is delusional and must remain there for her own good.

Luke (Bradley Cooper), a geologist from Minneapolis, embodies the “non-native” perspective in the film; as an outsider, Luke functions as a device to help a non-native audience understand what’s happening on the reservation, since he can ask a lot of questions. He arrives to investigate a strange earthquake near a cemetery on the old residential boarding school property on the outskirts of town—now closed and condemned. Luke connects with policeman Goodfeather, whose father Pete is the tribe’s medicine man (Dennis Banks). Luke has his own vision in his car when he suddenly sees a former college roommate with a gun to his head. A significant line of dialogue in the film is said by Pete to Luke: “Some stories never make the history books.”

Luke has a theory about “plate collisions” that he’s exploring through his research in the region—a concept with metaphorical resonance throughout the rest of the film, applicable to the tension between: native and white cultures; physical and spiritual worlds; Christianity and traditional native beliefs.

It turns out that a wealthy developer is working with the current mayor of the town to turn the boarding school property into a deluxe resort. Luke continues his research at the Historical Society of Penrose County, where he eventually uncovers another earthquake story related to the school from the 1950s, involving native students who died in a cellar.

The haunting ghosts of these dead native students populate the film, and there’s a key line of dialogue that emphasizes “ghosts coming out of the closet.” Atrocities depicted in the film include a child being forced to swallow soap because she spoke in her native language, and native children called “base savages” and then beaten.

The old school site affects Luke, as he goes back later to investigate the quake. He descends into a haunted cellar, where he finds an weathered sign inscribed with General Richard H. Pratt’s famous motto: “Kill the Indian – Save the Man.” Pratt is the founder of the Carlisle Indian Industrial School; it’s considered the prototype for all native residential schools in the United States, and based on a military model.

Luke asks Johnny, “Do you believe in spirits?” It’s revealed that Luke once had a native American college roommate who killed himself, after the roommate’s father killed himself. Here, the theme of intergenerational native suicide, due to the fracturing of families, is noted by a non-native character.

Throughout the film, Lightning explores what happens when the trauma of genocide is disbelieved or forcibly silenced. We learn that it is Father Bartoli, aided by a complicit Auntie Apple, who is responsible for Rain’s mother Irene receiving electric shock treatments, for revealing what happened at the Catholic native residential school. Irene was silenced through the shock treatments and sedation, and Rain realizes how wrong this is: “You want to talk about crazy…”

Medicine man Pete educates outsider Luke on how cultural genocide works on families and identity, starting with taking children right from their mothers’ arms: “They tried to beat the Indian right out of us.” And: “There are two ways to conquer a nation: kill ‘em or take away everything that defines who they are.” A mysterious murder near the school grounds in the present day is hushed up, related to what happened at the native school years ago and Christianity.

One poignant part in the Third Act illustrates why Rain didn’t marry earlier in her life: out of fear, because she thought there was something wrong with her and her fractured family. But she comes to understand that it was due to the unreported abuse from the boarding school – as Rain, too, was separated from her mother by Father Bartoli and Apple when Irene tried to out the abuse. Rain finally confronts Apple, whose name means in native culture “red on the outside, white on the inside.” Eventually, Rain frees Irene, and ensures that the children who had been killed at the native school in the 1950s are given a proper burial.

One of the important themes of this film is how to heal from a century of cultural and physical genocide—a topic entirely relevant to what’s happening in the world right now. Writer-director-actor Lightning provides several answers: truth, ceremony, and honoring the old ways – “things that are older than America.” In a sweat lodge ceremony, Rain learns that the adult male spirit who has guided her journey was her uncle, Walter Many Lightnings, who was punished at the school (Dan Harrison). In the sweat lodge, Rain is told, “Our dreams and our spirits cannot be taken.” Rain also learns the power of forgiveness: “The truths of the past…Forgive these people for what they don’t understand.”

Near the end of the film, rez radio announcer Richard Two Rivers (Wes Studi) observes, “Everything we Indians do is in a circle.” As Rain finally welcomes her mother Irene home, everyone gathers for a ceremony. Apple and Irene hug, a start on the road to forgiveness. But a card at the film’s end reminds us of grim facts: native Americans were forced to enroll in boarding schools are recently as 1975, and Amnesty International reports that the death rate of the native population is six times higher than any other ethnic group.

Older Than America traces the collective intergenerational trauma that cannot heal until the truth of it comes to consciousness, in a country, a community, a tribe, and in a family. The bond between mother and daughter is the main connection that galvanizes the reckoning of truth in Older Than America. Rain and Irene are united at the end, and we see the ghosts of the native school children and Uncle Walter fade away into the woods.

This film has been categorized as horror and sold under the title American Evil in the United Kingdom for its 2012 DVD release, probably because of its use of supernatural ghost characters. The atrocities that have been committed at native residential schools in the U.S. are horrific. The United States of America should follow Canada’s example and begin serious discussions about reparation in America for abuse at native residential schools. It is long overdue.

Laura Shamas, Ph.D., is a writer and mythologist. She is a member of the Chickasaw Nation. In 2014, she was part of “The Undisciplined Research Project” at the Autry Museum in Los Angeles and wrote about researching native boarding schools: “Memories That Haunt and Reaffirm.” Website: laurashamas.com.

‘Moolaadé’: Female Genital Mutilation And Geographical Morality

Unlike most things, injustice appears bigger when it is further away.

“Geographical morality by which the duties of men… are not to be governed by… their relations to men, but by climates, degrees of longitude and latitude… As if, when you have crossed the equinoctial line, all the virtues die.” – Edmund Burke

The 18th century Irish politician Edmund Burke coined the term “geographical morality” to slam Britain’s Governor General of India, Warren Hastings, for excusing his own corruption by claiming it met Indian cultural norms. Burke fought a 10-year campaign to hold Hastings accountable for the colonial exploitation of India, under the belief that “there is no action which would pass for an act of extortion and of oppression in England, that is not an act of extortion and oppression in Europe, Asia, Africa and all the world over.” Such criticism of geographical morality challenges ideas of cultural relativism. Yet, it was Burke who debunked his peers’ assumptions about the Oriental barbarism of the Koran, by an extensive study that demonstrated that it could serve as a culturally appropriate guarantor of civil rights. He aimed to oppose geographical morality through the defense of personal liberty worldwide, while respecting established cultures rather than imposing foreign norms.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NROlfuV5HJ4″]

“When writers, painters, musicians and filmmakers suspend their judgment and blindly yoke their art to the service of the nation, it’s time for all of us to sit up and worry.” – Arundhati Roy

One major risk of the defensive patriotism of colonized nations, is that it censors internal critics in the name of patriotic solidarity. 2004’s Moolaadé was the final film of Ousmane Sembene, the “Father of African cinema,” who died in 2007. Sembene was an artist never intimidated by controversy, nor did his patriotism lead him to self-censorship. His 1975 film, Xala, confronted institutional corruption in his native Senegal. 1977’s Ceddo was controversially frank about sectarian conflict between Muslims, Christians, and traditional spirituality. His vision in Moolaadé is a culturally specific condemnation of West African practices of female genital mutilation (FGM), but also a universally relevant exploration of cultural inertia and the personal cost of change. Surely, no reader of Bitch Flicks needs to be told that the forced mutilation of a girl’s genitals is wrong. However, if we cannot see that this struggle goes on, in another form, in our own cultures, then we are lost in the imaginary superiority of geographical morality. Here in Ireland, we know that international outcry is vital to force decriminalization of abortion, yet it remains intensely uncomfortable to feel one’s own culture reduced to an inferior evil in a foreign onlooker’s rhetoric. But the Irish have long cited American gun laws, use of the death penalty and armed police force, to define and defend our own imaginary cultural superiority. Unlike most things, injustice appears bigger when it is further away.

Village girls, seeking self-determination

“By making films, we have the opportunity to view ourselves, for the first time, through a mirror made by ourselves.” – Ousmane Sembene

In a conservative, rural community that practices polygamy as well as the “purification” of FGM, Moolaadé opens with four girls fleeing the ceremony and seeking refuge with Mother Collé, who already resisted pressure to have her own daughter, Amsatou, cut. Collé does not defend the girls in the name of international human rights, nor in the name of the African Charter for Human Rights (the Banjul Charter), nor even in the name of existing laws prohibiting FGM in Burkina Faso, where Moolaadé is set. She defends them in the name of her village’s established cultural tradition of a protective spirit that can be evoked: the moolaadé. By wielding moolaadé to create a magical boundary around her compound, Collé declares herself, like Sembene, an equal inheritor of her own culture. Collé’s compound becomes a refuge, whose boundary rope even female goats can cross to escape rutting males. To force her to undo her spell, the village authorities are driven to whip Collé as “sacrificial lamb” on behalf of her community’s women, provoking the film’s climactic showdown.

As we try to unthink centuries of colonial ideology and develop respect for the self-determination of other societies, we never forget that the right to self-determination belongs not only to cultures, but to individuals and marginalized groups within those cultures. As the outsider, Mercenaire, is sacrificed for opposing violence against women in Moolaadé, we must ask how his freedom of conscience, or the self-determination of Collé’s girls, can be defended, if the authority of village elders is upheld? A White Savior’s approach would speak on behalf of its “saved,” just as the village elders seek to. The solution to Sembene’s “little tyrant” is the same as to White Saviors: amplifying the power of women and minorities to advocate for themselves. Defensive patriotism, that provokes the village men to oppose foreign contamination by destroying their radios, may be justifiably provoked by colonial stigma. In Ireland historically, and in Poland more recently, the disproportionate power of Catholic dogma stemmed from the Church’s role in resisting foreign oppression (British or Soviet), associating our patriotism with obedience to the social rulings of a celibate, exclusively male hierarchy. But culture is not a static concept that can be defended. It is a dynamic, living process of interpretation, and Collé Ardo’s conflict with the village elders strikes to its heart: who is empowered to interpret?

Colle, creating and transmitting female cultural precedent — Collé, creating and transmitting female cultural precedent

“Indeed, culture may be the missing link in the development of Africa. Culture is dynamic and evolves over time, consciously discarding retrogressive traditions, like female genital mutilation (FGM), and embracing aspects that are good and useful.” – Dr. Wangari Maathai

Poised between the imported influences of Islam and the radio, the village debates what the men consider “a minor domestic issue” and Collé brands “a matter of life and death.” She bears the scars of a life-threatening Caesarean, forced by complications from her own cutting and stitching. A sister of one of the fleeing girls died from this procedure. As Amsatou’s prestigious fiancé is pressured to reject her because she is a bilakoro (uncut), we witness the fearful prospect of a daughter’s becoming unmarriageable and unprotected, which has inspired loving mothers down the ages to enforce the cutting of their daughters. Yet, as girls kill themselves rather than be cut, and yet another dies from the procedure, Sembene questions whether it is worth torturing and risking lives for the sake of marriage value. In the face of cultural inertia and the threat of becoming outcast, it is still society that must be somehow changed, not the bilakoro.

Somali supermodel Iman, whose parents, like Sembene’s fictional Collé, withstood cultural pressure to subject her to FGM, has spoken against the practice, while Somali supermodel and Bond girl Waris Dirie, who was traumatized by FGM at age five before fleeing forced marriage at thirteen, was appointed a UN Special Ambassador in the struggle against it. It is no coincidence that both are supermodels. Only truly extraordinary genetic perfection grants African women their global visibility.

“Genital mutilation is not my thing… Listen, girls cannot go to school. I can’t tackle all the issues, otherwise I’m spreading myself too thin.” – Iman

Iman recently protested attempts to solicit her opinion yet again on FGM, in an interview focussed on her advocacy of education for girls. To question her priorities is to miss the point. There is a reason why Iman is expected to serve as the sole spokeswoman for, among other things, Somalia (any aspect thereof), the economic development of Africa (the entire continent), female education in Africa, female genital mutilation, and Black beauty. That reason is the widespread silencing and invisibility of African women’s perspectives in global culture. There is also a reason why so many young African girls have their genitals forcibly cut. By astonishing coincidence, that reason is also the widespread silencing and invisibility of African women’s perspectives in global culture. Waris Dirie is tackling FGM with her NGO, Desert Flower Foundation. But Iman also tackles the root causes of FGM, by addressing the neglect of girls’ education. Where Desert Flower Foundation understandably resorts to White Savior rhetoric in its pressing need for funds – “save a little Desert Flower!” – Iman tackles root causes of FGM, simply by existing as an assertive, outspoken and glamorously uncut African woman in the public eye, let alone by her packed schedule of activism. Conversely, when we accept the glaring absence of African women and their stories from our global culture (the legal struggles of Beatrice Mtetwa? The ongoing attacks against human rights defender Aminatou Haidar?) we are actively contributing to the root causes of FGM, by lowering the status of African women. Acknowledging that complicity feels less comfortable than the warm glow of donating to fight a foreign evil.

“If a white man or woman saw a white child that is mutilated, there would be screaming. I guarantee it would end. This is abuse against a child, so to say it’s to do with your religion or race, it’s all wrong. This is about child protection,” – Waris Dirie

The wording of the Banjul Charter‘s Article 18 states, “the State shall have the duty to assist the family, which is the custodian of morals and traditional values recognized by the community… The State shall ensure the elimination of every discrimination against women.” The Irish Constitution has similar wording about the State’s duty to “protect” (read: enforce) family, used to prohibit divorce until 1996, to criminalize homosexuality until 1993, to coerce unmarried mothers into surrendering their children for adoption and to bar married women from the civil service. If family organization has been traditionally patriarchal, how can the upholding of its “morals and traditional values” avoid discrimination against women? Yet, the Banjul Charter’s Article 18 also explicitly forbids discrimination against women, allowing its interpretation as a tool of liberation: who will be empowered to interpret? Similarly, the Koran forbids compulsion in religion, but contains verses justifying battle against “infidels” (composed when Mohammed’s followers were actively persecuted by nonbelieving Arabs). It can be read as advocating women’s equality – “any of you who labors in My way, be it man or woman; each of you is equal to the other (3:195)” – but contains verses that support gender discrimination. The Koran even supports queer-positive readings. As Burke claimed, the Koran can be interpreted as a basis for liberation and just rule: but who is empowered to interpret? At the joyous climax of Moolaadé, Amsatou’s fiancé, heir to the village’s throne, unites with the village women to collectively withstand traditional authority and reject genital mutilation. They empower themselves to interpret.

“We were taught at school, or even in tales and legends, that the hero was the soldier. It’s the leader, the one who can kill, who comes back as a hero. However, to me, from a moral point of view, it takes much more honesty and courage to resist the everyday without getting tainted by it.” – Ousmane Sembene. R.I.P.

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Brigit McCone has been fangirling over Wangari Maathai since her Lion King post, writes and directs short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and terrible dancing in the privacy of her own home.

Straight Outta Women: NWA Biopic and Lack of Female Representation

Director and Compton native F. Gary Gray and the two rappers, who also serve as the film’s producers, made sure to include some of their best male comrades like Snoop Dogg and Tupac, but there are no signs of the women they helped bring into the music scene.

Clip from Murder She Wrote (YouTube) — Clip from “Murder She Wrote” (YouTube)

This guest post by Tamara Dunn previously appeared at Standard-Speaker. Cross-posted with permission.

Pioneer rap group NWA has its rise in the music business projected on the big screen in Straight Outta Compton. The young lives of Dr. Dre, Ice Cube, Eazy-E, MC Ren, and DJ Yella are illustrated with scenes from their upbringing on the unforgiving Compton, California, streets to NWA’s formation in the late 1980s. Any fan of “Rap City” on BET or “Yo! MTV Raps” was familiar with their music videos, depicting violent environments that reflected their rhymes and beats and the troubles of youths all over.

Aldis Hodge, from left, as MC Ren, Neil Brown, Jr. as DJ Yella, Jason Mitchell as Eazy-E, OShea Jackson, Jr. as Ice Cube and Corey Hawkins as Dr. Dre, in the film, ”Straight Outta Compton.” (Jaimie Trueblood/Universal Pictures via AP) — Aldis Hodge, from left, as MC Ren; Neil Brown, Jr. as DJ Yella; Jason Mitchell as Eazy-E; O’Shea Jackson, Jr. as Ice Cube; and Corey Hawkins as Dr. Dre, in the film *Straight Outta Compton*. (Jaimie Trueblood/Universal Pictures via AP)

Looking at the Straight Outta Compton cast members listed at Internet Movie Database, there’s a clear lack of women in the NWA biopic. There are relatives and some significant others who have small roles in the movie, but there are key people who are missing from the frame. As NWA was making their first records, Dr. Dre and Ice Cube produced solo female acts as part of the fledging empire. Director and Compton native F. Gary Gray and the two rappers, who also serve as the film’s producers, made sure to include some of their best male comrades like Snoop Dogg and Tupac, but there are no signs of the women they helped bring into the music scene.

Here are three influential women who didn’t make the cut:

Michel’le

The songstress with the deep singing voice but high-pitched speaking voice was previously engaged to Dr. Dre and married to controversial music mogul Suge Knight. Michel’le appears as a Jackie Kennedy type figure to Dr. Dre’s John F. Kennedy in the 1989 music video “Express Yourself.” She also made her own music, with her 1989 debut album Michel’le going double platinum with Eazy-E’s Ruthless Records. In a March 20 interview with The Breakfast Club, from New York’s Power 105.1, Michel’le described the abuse she endured during her six-year relationship with Dr. Dre. She currently appears on the reality show R&B Divas: Los Angeles on TV One.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fHC-zIvtgt0″]

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u31FO_4d9TY”]

Yo-Yo

The Compton native broke out with anthems like “Can’t Play with My Yo-Yo” with producer and collaborator Ice Cube in 1990 and “Black Pearl” in 1992 long before Spice Girls were promoting girl power. Yo-Yo created songs and a new sound that contradicted hyper-masculine gangsta rap that NWA was making and released positive messages for women. Her rapping success led to acting roles in Boyz n the Hood and Menace II Society as well as television roles on Martin and The Jamie Foxx Show.

These days, Yo-Yo’s focus is on an organization promoting the performing arts and academics among young people called the Yo-Yo School of Hip Hop. According to IMDb, she also has two acting roles in the works.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MZ-UEn11aDs”]

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=10nZly0tTlU”]

Tairrie B

From Anaheim, California, Tairrie B is one of the first white female rappers in the 1980s and 1990s. Her music video for her 1990 single “Murder She Wrote” is a mix of Madonna’s “Vogue” laced with gangster cliches, but it shows that she can be just as tough as her producer Eazy-E. Tairrie has also accused Dr. Dre of physical abuse during the time she was recording her debut album Power of a Woman for newly formed Comptown Records. It was her only rap album with her labelmate. After Eazy-E’s death in 1995, Tairrie switched to alternative rock and metal, fronting various bands.

This year, Tairrie released her first rap album in 25 years titled Vintage Curses. With a deeper voice and years of forgiveness, she pays tribute to NWA and her former mentor. In a July 2 interview with the Daily Mail, Tairre shares no hard feelings and sees their impact on her music.

“Their music and lyrics had a significant impact on me, which has resonated for over two decades, much like it has with many people. They put gangster rap on the map and there is a reason NWA are considered a monument and the root of it all which makes their story hugely important.”

Her new album was released on the same day as Straight Outta Compton was released in theaters.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yG45At8jhd8″]

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=epAVR82R6J4″]

The failure to include their stories should come as no surprise following a damaging casting call released last year for the film. The call was for women ages 18-30 who lived in the Los Angeles area during the time of shooting. However, the women were classified and ranked according to skin color, hair, and size. In a July 17, 2014 Gawker article, the release described “A Girls” the top of the list, as the “hottest of the hottest” models of any race with real hair and no weave. On the opposite end were the “D Girls,” African-American women who were “medium or dark skin tone” and were “poor, not in good shape.” The casting call, from Sande Alessi Casting, went viral, with Internet users sharing their unfavorable opinions on TMZ and The Huffington Post.

There’s plenty of room for women in hip hop to be well portrayed in movies. While it may not be happening with Straight Outta Compton, it’s time for their light to shine in Hollywood.

Tamara Dunn is a card-carrying cinephile and the resident film expert at the Standard-Speaker. Her favorite films are The Battle of Algiers and Traffic.

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!

Director F. Gary Gray Discusses How Today’s Racial Climate Impacted ‘Straight Outta Compton’ at Essence

Why you should see ‘Straight Outta Compton’ by Lisa Respers France at CNN

Straight Outta Rape Culture by Sikivu Hutchinson at The Huffington Post

Ten Years Ago This Month, Katrina Struck. Here Are Some Films That Address the Hurricane & Its Aftermath… by Tambay A. Obenson at Shadow and Act

Rose McGowan Is Starting A Revolution by Kate Aurthur at BuzzFeed

Top Films Fail to Feature Women and Minorities by Julia Robins at Ms. blog

Praise for “Losing Ground” and Black Female Film Pioneers Is Long Overdue by Nijla Mu’min at Bitch Media

Patti Smith’s Memoir ‘Just Kids’ to Become Showtime Miniseries by Inkoo Kang at Women and Hollywood

Black Girls In Science Fiction Film: “Spark” by Ashlee at Black Girl Nerds

5 Reasons You Should Revisit ‘Taina,’ Nickelodeon’s First Latina-Led Sitcom by Isabelia Herrera at Remezcla

A Historic Fight Over Public Housing Makes For Fine Drama On HBO by Linda Holmes at NPR

Your Daily Reminder That Hollywood Is Full of Sexist Trashbuckets by Carolyn Cox at The Mary Sue

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

Seed & Spark: ‘Stonewall’ Movie Fail

The movie adaptation of the Stonewall Riot entitled ‘Stonewall,’ directed by Roland Emmerich, is harboring unprecedented criticism from the entire LGBTQI community. Countless blogs, online publications, and social media pages have each blasted the movie with comments on whitewashing and altering of the historical facts.

Huffington Post Gay Voices released an article with the headline title “#NotMyStonewall: Why I’m Not Giving the Movie “Stonewall” a Chance.” The bbc.com entertainment section focused on the petition against the movie that reached more than 20,000 signatures.

I personally feel embarrassed for the director. No matter how hard he and his team try to damage-control this situation, I don’t think they will have any way out.

This is a guest post by Jethro.

The movie adaptation of the Stonewall Riot entitled Stonewall, directed by Roland Emmerich, is harboring unprecedented criticism from the entire LGBTQI community. Countless blogs, online publications, and social media pages have each blasted the movie with comments on whitewashing and altering of the historical facts.

Huffington Post Gay Voices released an article with the headline title “#NotMyStonewall: Why I’m Not Giving the Movie “Stonewall” a Chance.” The bbc.com entertainment section focused on the petition against the movie that reached more than 20,000 signatures.

I personally feel embarrassed for the director. No matter how hard he and his team try to damage-control this situation, I don’t think they will have any way out. The director released this statement on his Facebook page:

“When I first learned about the Stonewall Riots through my work with the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Center, I was struck that the circumstances that lead to LGBT youth homelessness today are pretty much the same as they were 45 years ago. The courageous actions of everyone who fought against injustice in 1969 inspired me to tell a compelling, fictionalized drama of those days centering on homeless LGBT youth, specifically a young midwestern gay man who is kicked out of his home for his sexuality and comes to New York, befriending the people who are actively involved in the events leading up to the riots and the riots themselves. I understand that following the release of our trailer there have been initial concerns about how this character’s involvement is portrayed, but when this film – which is truly a labor of love for me – finally comes to theaters, audiences will see that it deeply honors the real-life activists who were there — including Marsha P. Johnson, Sylvia Rivera, and Ray Castro — and all the brave people who sparked the civil rights movement which continues to this day. We are all the same in our struggle for acceptance.”

Marsha P. Johnson

No matter how he reassures his audience against his misappropriation of a widely known struggle for civil rights, it’s almost impossible to fictionalize an important and pivotal piece of LGBT history. This is utterly unforgivable in my opinion.

Where did this director grow up? Does he live on the same planet as us? Did the civil rights movement just pass him by, and he hardly even noticed?

As a filmmaker, I would seek to educate myself about historical movements that are intersectional or closely interrelated to what I am conveying in a movie, especially one that’s so pivotal in LGBT history.

This is not ignorance but unconscious racism on the part of the director and screenwriter, which plagues most big-budget Hollywood films. The first person that threw a brick at the Stonewall Riot is Marsha P. Johnson, an African-American, transgender woman. Why on earth would you replace her with a White, cisgender gay man?

This is not only dumbfounding but outrageous. Is it because White, cisgender gay men have more commercial value than African-American, transgender women?

Why is this still an issue we fight at our level of cultural awareness and gender identity critical-mindedness? It’s possible that this could be a reflection of a deeper problem that exists within our cultural consciousness. Interestingly, this parallels events that are taking place today, with most of the media transfixed on Caitlyn Jenner and Black Lives Matter.

I find it ironic that on one hand we have a transgender woman who single-handedly takes the world by storm, and on the other, black people continue to be brutally discriminated against, harassed, even killed by criminal authorities.

In the eyes of Hollywood, some historical events cannot be adapted into a multi-million dollar blockbuster movie. Perhaps, the Stonewall riot is one of them. It’s impossible to replace iconic personalities in history when the point is to cater to a wider audience. I consider this a crime.

Denying younger generations the truth of history only allows it to repeat. Sadly, this isn’t a new trend in the film industry. Hollywood is known to appropriate and alter history for the sake of profit. I believe this has to stop.

When dealing with history, filmmakers have a responsibility to be accurate about the facts and events. A movie adaptation such as the Stonewall is nothing short of a failure, and it’s downright disrespectful to a movement that is still continuing at present.

Recently, I came across a short film that promises a more accurate portrayal of the Stonewall Riots, entitled Happy Birthday Marsha, written and directed by Reina Gossett and Sasha Wortzel. It’s a film about the transgender artist and activist, Marsha “Pay it No Mind” Johnson and her life in the hours before Stonewall.

Like any other historical event, the story of Stonewall did not start at the Riot itself. The LGBT movement had been brewing years before. In the 1960s, when it was illegal to be gay, there had been an insurgence and uprising against institutionalized discrimination both in the East and the West.

In San Francisco, a man named Jose Sarria became the first openly gay individual to run for public office in an attempt to counteract the hatred that was the norm. He later founded an organization called the Imperial Council of San Francisco, the oldest surviving LGBT charity organization in America, which later gave birth to the International Court System composing of 64 affiliates in the US, Canada, Hawaii, and Mexico.

My documentary film 50 Years of Fabulous: The Imperial Council Story chronicles the 50-year history of the organization that became the pioneering nonprofit organization fundraising millions of dollars for HIV and AIDS organizations and causes throughout the decades. The film is set for postproduction and is raising funds to finish.

Please check out our Seed and Spark campaign at www.seedandspark.com/50yearsoffab.

Jethro is a filmmaker/video producer based in San Francisco, California. He is currently working for Adecco at Google producing marketing and training videos for Google Maps Street View and Business View. He is the director of the award winning documentary film My Revolutionary Mother and two upcoming documentaries 50 Years of Fabulous: The Imperial Council Story and My Name Is Protest.

‘Mistress America’: Passing The Bechdel Test All The Way Through

I didn’t expect Gerwig and Baumbach together to create in the second film (‘Frances Ha’ was the first) the two offscreen romantic partners have written in which Gerwig plays the lead and Baumbach directs, a movie that (in spite of its terrible title) is one of the delights of this summer: ‘Mistress America’.

I haven’t seen a movie directed by Noah Baumbach since The Squid and the Whale, a film that made me hate every critic who praised it and made me mistrust any person who said, “I liked it.” For the past decade he has been one of the filmmakers whose career infuriates me; his output makes me think of all the more deserving work (much of it from women) which hasn’t been funded

I first took notice of Greta Gerwig when she was in the execrable Whit Stillman film Damsels in Distress. Although I walked out at the halfway point of a preview screening (past a standing figure in the dark by the doorway whom I now recognize was Stillman himself). I could see Gerwig’s talent underneath the ridiculously mannered dialogue and stilted action. I didn’t expect Gerwig and Baumbach together to create in the second film (Frances Ha was the first) the two offscreen romantic partners have written in which Gerwig plays the lead and Baumbach directs, a movie that (in spite of its terrible title) is one of the delights of this summer: Mistress America.

The protagonist, Tracy (played by Lola Kirke: sister of Girls’ Jemima Kirke: I wondered why she looked so familiar) is in her first semester at Barnard in New York City and is having trouble finding the fun and stimulation college life–and New York–is supposed to be brimming with. Her dorm-mate alternates between chastising her and making fun of her (much more realistic than Boyhood‘s dorm-mate, embarrassed but politely deferential when she walked into her own room and found her roommate’s brother in bed with his girlfriend) and Tracy falls asleep in one of her literature classes–which leads to her making her first college friend, Tony (Matthew Shear) who surreptitiously wakes her. The two of them share writing ambitions and commiserate over screwdrivers in his room when they both have stories rejected by the campus literary magazine. But when he gets a girlfriend, Nicolette (Jasmine Cephas Jones) Tracy finds herself alone again, and her mother suggests she call Brooke (Gerwig) the 30-year-old daughter of the man the mother is engaged to marry.

MistressParty — The two have a night that is full of everything Tracy feels she’s been missing

Brooke meets Tracy in the chaotic, tourist-ridden Times Square where Brooke has an apartment. She explains,”I got off the bus from Jersey. I thought this was the cool place to live.” The two have a night that is full of everything Tracy feels she’s been missing: they first have a good, cheap, dinner, get backstage passes for a band who invite Brooke to join them onstage (she makes out with the bass player at the afterparty while Tracy looks on). Brooke and Tracy dance and talk, not about boyfriends (except very briefly) but about their own ambitions: Brooke cobbles together a living with interior decorating, a little tutoring and as the teacher of a spin class, but she also has concrete plans to open a restaurant. After that first night (when Tracy crashes on the couch in Brooke’s apartment) they spend time together throughout the semester, which helps Tracy come out of her shell.
Brooke doesn’t just have cool friends and know the right places to go (not to mention the savvy to find a place in the middle of Times Square where she can live by herself for not much money) but is also hilariously, gloriously opinionated. When she’s caught on camera kissing the band’s bass player she says, “Must we document ourselves all the time? Must we?”

When an old high school classmate confronts Brooke in a bar about her treatment of her when they were younger, Brooke is dismissive, saying that she doesn’t care what the woman thinks of her–and the woman shouldn’t care either. In the middle of a confrontation between Tony, a jealous Nicolette and Tracy, Brooke says, “There’s no cheating when you’re 18, you should all be touching each other all the time.”

MistressAl0ne — The real revelation here is Lola Kirke, who, as Tracy, starts off unsure of herself but accrues confidence at a record pace.

Tracy writes the title short story, revolving around a very lightly fictionalized Brooke, “Claudia” which contains some truths that Tracy would never say to her face, an interesting development considering Baumbach wrote The Squid and The Whale about his own parents–and his portrait of them was not a flattering one. But Tracy’s story seems far too knowing and polished for an 18-year-old college student to have written: Gerwig and Baumbach missed an opportunity to parody a faux-sophisticated writing style as we hear Tracy read parts of the story as the film’s voiceover. Tracy also becomes less hesitant to express her opinions off the page: before she met Brooke , when Tony asked for “notes” on his story she had none, though he had plenty of suggestions for hers. Afterward she tells him he should stop trying for humor in his writing, because he doesn’t have a sense of humor in real life. At a later point he says to her, “You used to be so nice,” reminding us that, especially in describing young women “nice” is another way of saying “unformed”, “overly polite” or “afraid to say what she’s really thinking.”

I kept waiting for this film to go terribly wrong. The movies in which a younger man gloms onto an older one as an inspiration or role model usually show the older man has some great flaw, and free-living, fun women like Brooke in films (not just narrative ones) are usually punished, so I wondered if she would turn out to be a compulsive liar (since a lot of what she claims seems to be far-fetched) a drug addict or would have an untreated bipolar disorder and we would see her depressive side of in the latter half of the film. But Brooke’s downfall (which is more like a reckoning) doesn’t lie within herself but within the changes New York and other large cities have undergone in the past two or three decades. At one time someone like Brooke could make her way with nothing but ideas and ambition, but now young creative types and the places they like to hang out are at the mercy of the very rich, the only people who can afford to live in great swaths of those cities. The real-life restaurant where Brooke and Tracy have their first dinner closed one of their locations, unable to make a profit in today’s high-rent Manhattan.

Gerwig has, with Baumbach, written a role that she was born to play: her slightly spacy delivery serves as a disguise for Brooke’s razor-sharp observations. When a wealthy patron tells her that she’s funny and doesn’t know it, she corrects him, “”I know I’m funny. I know everything about myself.” But the real revelation here is Lola Kirke, who, as Tracy, starts off unsure of herself but accrues confidence at a record pace. In some ways, Tracy, with her brown shoulder-length hair in bulky, unflattering, outdated sweaters (which may be Baumbach reaching back to his own college years, the way the soundtrack includes familiar ’80s synth pop) is much more ordinary and natural than the young women we’re used to seeing in film but when she smiles and her eyes gleam at her newfound naughtiness, she burns a hole in the screen.

By the end both women have come into their own in a way films rarely acknowledge women do: the closest example I can think of is An Education but the focus in that film was on only one character. I would have liked to see this film explore the characters’ sexuality a little more: Tracy says (in the voiceover) that she’s “so in love” with “Claudia” and their chemistry together does seem to teeter to the non-platonic, though they never even kiss. Still I can’t complain when not just one but both of the main women characters end up single—and happy in their independence. When you leave the theater you’ll be smiling too.

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Ren Jender is a queer writer-performer/producer putting a film together. Her writing, besides appearing every week on Bitch Flicks, has also been published in The Toast, RH Reality Check, xoJane and the Feminist Wire. You can follow her on Twitter @renjender

‘Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom’: Childhood Is The Pits

The heroic journey of Short Round is the catalyst for both Willie’s and Indy’s own growth and transcendence, as Willie becomes proactive and Indy becomes responsible.

Ke Huy Quan as Short Round, facing the pits

Written by Brigit McCone.

Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom is the coolest kids’ movie ever made about severe child abuse. Just as Roald Dahl’s Matilda does for daughters and mothers, so The Temple of Doom affirms that the good father must empower his son, and defends the child’s right to reject and resist abusive behavior. Critics who strive to dismiss the film as the original trilogy’s “weakest” often snark about the allegedly annoying chirpiness of Ke Huy Quan’s heartfelt performance. I suspect they are actually uncomfortable that Spielberg’s film narratively centers Short Round as its protagonist, while casually assuming that an adult audience identify with him. From his hero-worship of Indy to his glee at the film’s thrill rides, Short Round’s emotional responses cue our own, including an assumed desire to break up kissing couples and see squealing girls get giant millipedes down the back of their necks.

The film embodies the sensibility of a twelve-year-old boy, wholeheartedly and without ironic distance. The mighty Indiana Jones himself is regularly “fridged,” disempowered by the mind-controlling Black Blood of Kali Ma (Mother Kali) and voodoo dolls, to further Short Round’s heroic journey. As much as Spielberg’s E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial, his Temple of Doom showcases the director’s extraordinary empathy for a young boy’s worldview, though it conjures a nightmare of parental abuse rather than E.T.‘s fantasy playmate, leading to accusations that the film is “too dark”. Validating a child’s experiences by confronting the terror of abusive parents is apparently less acceptable than Nazi torturers to mainstream (adult) viewers. Just as audiences can only fully appreciate Spielberg’s film by identifying wholeheartedly with Short Round, so Indy must learn to identify with the child’s perspective to grow into the role of good father, from careless and selfish beginnings. His newfound identification is showcased when begged to flee the hellish Thuggee lair. Harrison Ford turns, jaw set in iconic resolution, and growls “right! All of us” before battling for the cathartic liberation of every last one of the film’s abused children. Coolest. Dad. Ever.

"Left Tunnel, Indy!" - good father. Crap navigator. — “Left Tunnel, Indy!” – good father. Crap navigator.

Because Short Round is positioned as the protagonist of the film in terms of agency, I don’t read it as a conventional White Savior narrative. Indy’s swaggering Fedora the Explorer is repeatedly punished for assuming he knows better than the film’s Asian boys. As Short Round puts it, with a frustration familiar to any child, “I keep telling you, you listen to me more, you live longer!” Interestingly, the Prime Minister of Pangkot explicitly accuses British colonials of viewing Indians as children, while the Thuggee appropriate the village’s power source and indoctrinate their children like nightmare colonizer-fathers (yes, Indians are the film’s primary representatives of Patriarcho-colonialism. “Projection” has many cinematic meanings). The film’s paternalist Brits monitor and stifle, but fail to figure out what’s really going on until it’s too late. Only the holy fire of Short Round’s torch, that awakens Indy as Indy’s fiery wrath awakens the Sankara stones, can defeat the Thuggee menace.

Where British colonizers infantilize adults, Indiana Jones lets children drive (a powerful metaphor, if inadvisable from a vehicular manslaughter standpoint). The supernatural power of the stones confirms that Indiana Jones operates in a syncretic universe, in which the divine can manifest equally as Shiva or Jehovah, marking no culture as inherently superior. However, the failure of The Last Crusade to even mention Short Round’s fate, in its meditations on the meaning of fatherhood, reinforces the vilest stereotypes of interracial adoptees as disposable rent-a-kids. Indian culture is also caricatured and distorted by the film, even granted the disturbing true history of the Thuggee death cult. Where in Hinduism the god Shiva and goddess Kali are consorts, each representing forces of combined destruction and creation, Spielberg and Lucas create a simplistic opposition between a heroic Shiva and an evil Kali.

The historical Thuggee did kill in Kali’s name, indoctrinating young boys into their cult, but did not target women. The film’s plot, with Indy possessed by his skull-faced mother goddess and compelled to destroy his blonde love interest, therefore resembles a Bollywood reimagining of Hitchcock’s Psycho more than Hinduism. Spielberg’s Thuggee are a cult that brutally enslave children, both boys and girls. The boys are terrified that their puberty will force them to become mindless abusers themselves: “will become like them. Will be alive, but like a nightmare. You drink blood, you not wake up from nightmare”. We see no adult women among the Thuggee which, along with the attempted sacrifice of Willie, forces us to conclude that the enslaved girls have their hearts torn out and are fed to the flames when they hit puberty. The film’s vision of the Thuggee is thus a nightmare caricature of patriarchy: consuming women heart first, enslaving children and turning terrified boys into inevitable replicas of their abusive fathers, for fear of sharing the sacrificial woman’s fate (“projection” has oh so many cinematic meanings). How appropriate, then, that the surrogate family at the film’s heart – Indy, Willie and Short Round – caricature traditional gender roles. Indy is an overtly macho leader who lusts after “fortune and glory”; Willie is a squeamish, passive beauty who seeks to control violent men with sex appeal; Short Round is a colonized kid who models his whole identity on his father-figure. When Indy is forced to drink the Kool-Aid of Kali Ma, this substance abuse terrifyingly alters his personality, becoming a violent and unloving nightmare father. It is up to Short Round to break this cycle and fight back (dun-ta-dun-tah, dun-ta-daaah!)

Kate Capshaw as Willie, facing the pits of Mommy-goddess issues — Kate Capshaw as Willie, facing the fiery pits of patriarchy’s Mommy-goddess issues

Willie is a perfect deconstruction of the myth of female sexual power, and Kate Capshaw plays her with tongue firmly in cheek. She attempts to secure her position in Shanghai by her sexual power over an influential mob boss, but he hardly cares if she dies. She tries to bolster her shaky self-worth by accusing Indy of being unable to take his eyes off her, only to be humiliated as he pointedly pulls his fedora over those eyes and naps. Further outraged as Indy seems more interested in feeling up a statue than in making love to her, the objectified Willie is reduced to being farcically jealous of a literal object. After Indy becomes evil through drinking the Black Blood of Kali Ma (what is it with women and their wicked bleeding, amirite?), Willie attempts to cure him using traditionally female strategies of appeasing, pleading and crying, that are shown to be totally ineffective. The audience is lured into a contemptuous “girls are stoopid” view of Willie, that reflects the typical psychology of children in abusive families, who cope with their own terrifying helplessness by identifying with the seeming strength of the abuser, and redirecting their angry frustration at the apparently weaker, appeasing parent. If you are one of the many feminists who hate Willie, ask why you intensely dislike a woman who struggles to secure her safety nonviolently, and is out of her depth in a situation where we would be likewise. Battling to be more than some man’s Willie, Willie shows great guts, becoming a partner in adventure who courageously fights for Short Round, braving hideous bugs to free him and forcefully stamping on the fingers of the villainous Mola Ram as he climbs to get them. Willie even develops a sense of humor about being hosed by Short Round’s elephant. Coolest. Mom. Ever.

Of course, there are problems with this model. The Indiana Jones trilogy follows the usual pattern of male-authored feminist empowerment, in proposing that women can become equal to men by proving that they can be masculine, with no self-scrutiny or uncomfortable adjustments necessary in the underlying ideology of male domination. Insecurity over female sexuality pervades these representations. If a woman tries to get her way using sexual power, like Kate Capshaw’s Willie, she is ruthlessly mocked. If she succeeds in getting her way using sexual power, like Alison Doody’s Elsa of The Last Crusade, she is dropped screaming into a bottomless abyss. Only Karen Allen’s Marion Ravenwood, of Raiders of the Lost Ark, is a truly Cool Girl, because she can drink more than men, doesn’t dress too sexy and has no problem with violence. By contrast, many Asian philosophies teach that our full humanity is a balance between the forces of shiva and shakti, yin and yang. To impose a rigid gender binary, society must code shiva/yang as exclusively male, and shakti/yin as exclusively female. Each of these exclusions, enforced by strict gender policing, serves to suppress full human potential. Yet, just as Spielberg and Lucas reject the positive potential of shakti in their distortion of Hinduism, so they reject the positive potential of femininity in their distortion of women. Through Cool Girls like Marion Ravenwood, the trilogy accepts that the female is not necessarily feminine, but does nothing to question the demonization of femininity itself.

"Kali Ma Shakti De!" - Mola Ram summons his feminine side — “Kali Ma Shakti De!” – Mola Ram summons his feminine side

As for the boy-child, Short Round is repeatedly shown humorously mirroring Indy, underlining his hero worship, which is also expressed in his contempt for Willie: “you call him Dr. Jones, doll!” Trapped in the nightmarish Thuggee model, however, in which Indy has become corrupted into a violent Thug, Short Round breaks his identification with him and, with tears in his eyes, symbolically rejects him by burning him, before fighting to save mother-figure Willie from the sacrificial pit. Spielberg’s Temple of Doom resembles a Euro-American vision of hell, that Short Round must escape by braving its fires and learning to wield them himself. The abused child’s empowerment fantasy allows Short Round to locate the voodoo doll that is controlling his parent, and remove the pin, so that Indy can be magically admirable again. Indy’s own fury, at being manipulated into a mindless slave of the wicked Temple of Patriarcho-colonialism, can then awaken Shiva’s righteous flame and destroy Mola Ram’s arch-abuser. Only through such painful awakening, not appeasement, can the cycle be broken and the nightmare escaped.

The heroic journey of Short Round is the catalyst for both Willie’s and Indy’s own growth and transcendence, as Willie becomes proactive and Indy becomes responsible. Ultimately, Indy renounces “fortune and glory” in favor of giving back to the community. A reconciliation with feminine values, after all? Since community values are represented by Shiva’s Penis… perhaps not. By breaking his chains and rejecting the abusive father, it is Short Round who single-handedly turns the film around. If Ke Huy Quan doesn’t break your heart as he croaks “I love you! Wake up, Indy!” before swinging that torch, you may need to check your pulse. Annoying? Bah! Give that kid an Oscar.

Short Round and the Father Figure of Doom

The Indiana Jones trilogy commands a rabid devotion that none of its many imitators can match, because its thrill rides cover a masculine psychological journey of archetypal power. In Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indy must defeat his shadow self in Belloq, and reconcile with his female counterpart in Marion, by embracing humility and accepting his limits. In The Temple of Doom, he must accept the responsibilities of the father and confront his fear of becoming the abusive father. Finally, in The Last Crusade, Indy must forgive his own father, and consciously walk in the footsteps of his father’s teaching. The films have less to offer female audiences: a promise of equality through rejecting femininity, and an opportunity to overidentify with an Asian boy. But societies are defined by the freedom and dignity granted to their most vulnerable members. By unabashedly celebrating the empowerment of children, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom becomes a manifesto for the liberation of Shorties everywhere. Wake the hell up, Indy.

Brigit McCone has a lingering fondness for fedoras, writes and directs short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and pretending The Crystal Skull never happened.

Meryl Streep Has a Blast in ‘Ricki and the Flash’ and You Will Too

Meryl Streep is having the time of her life in ‘Ricki and the Flash’ — playing rock star, acting alongside her daughter Mamie Gummer, macking on Rick Springfield, and wearing leather pants. Her joy is infectious, and lends an overall lighthearted tone to what could be a very sad movie about estranged families.

Written by Robin Hitchcock.

Meryl Streep is having the time of her life in Ricki and the Flash — playing rock star, acting alongside her daughter Mamie Gummer, macking on Rick Springfield, and wearing leather pants. Her joy is infectious, and lends an overall lighthearted tone to what could be a very sad movie about estranged families.

Streep plays Ricki Randazzo, formerly known as Linda Brummer back in her square suburban mother days. She left her marriage and her three children to escape intractable dissatisfaction; basically, imagine if Streep’s character in Kramer vs. Kramer went on to become frontwoman for a dive bar’s house band.

Ricki’s life is far from perfect: she struggles to get by with her cashier job at a Whole Foods stand-in, she won’t commit to her boyfriend/lead guitarist Greg, but she doesn’t seem to regret her life or her choices.

Then: a phone call. Her daughter Julie’s husband has abruptly left for her for another woman. She’s falling apart and “needs her mother,” a role Ricki hasn’t played in decades.

Mamie Gummer is fantastic in her role as Julie. She genuinely portrays the devastating depression of grief while milking plenty of humor from her character having absolutely zero fucks left to give. Streep and her daughter perfectly utilize their natural chemistry as Julie’s inability to play at normalcy jibes with Ricki’s counterculture vibe, both sticking out awkwardly behind the Brummer’s white picket fence.

There’s a fantastically tense dinner where Ricki’s also reunited with her sons Josh (Sebastian Stan) and Adam (Nick Westrate), who are revealed by Julie to be respectively engaged and gay, though they haven’t felt moved to tell their biological mother either of those things. As strained as Julie and Ricki’s relationship is, there’s a wider chasm between Ricki and her sons.

Even though Ricki does bond with Julie and with her ex-husband Pete (Kevin Kline), Diablo Cody’s smart script avoids excessive sentimentality; it is clear that Ricki can never make up for lost time, and that her children will always have a family she’s not entirely a part of, including their seemingly perfect stepmother Maureen (Audra McDonald). Maureen is stunningly polite and kind when she basically kicks Ricki out of her house, and subsequently reaches out to Ricki with an invite to Josh’s wedding. I really liked seeing these two women not hate each other despite their obvious conflict, and Audra McDonald is really good in her few scenes.

At the big wedding in the end, everyone gets along despite some awkward moments, and when Ricki and the Flash crash the wedding stage (sorry, other band!) they get all the uptight rich people in their boogie shoes. (The third act felt a bit like a condensed version of director Jonathan Demme’s previous wedding movie, Rachel Getting Married.) We know it can’t really be happily ever after for this family, but there is hope for much-less-unhappily ever after.

A significant portion of the film’s run time is Ricki’s band rocking out, so if that’s not your jam, you might get bored (my husband sure did). But director Jonathan Demme has made some incredible concert movies (Stop Making Sense and Neil Young: Heart of Gold), and he puts those talents to use here. And giving the band significant screen time allows us to see the joy in Ricki’s life, so she’s not just some pathetic deadbeat mother who ruined her life. And also lets us see Meryl Streep sing “Bad Romance,” which is worth the price of admission.

Ricki and the Flash is not a movie of great consequence, but it is nearly perfect for what it is. Unless you’re a weirdo like my husband who hates rock ‘n’ roll, you should see it.

Robin Hitchcock is a writer based in Pittsburgh who was born in the same hospital as Meryl Streep.

‘A Gay Girl in Damascus: The Amina Profile’: Telling the Story of the Hoax Heard ‘Round the Blogosphere

Directed by Sophie Deraspe, ‘A Gay Girl in Damascus: The Amina Profile’ begins as a love story, turns into a story of fearless resistance, collapses into terror, and then transforms into the investigation of a…man who breaks strangers’ hearts.

Written by Colleen Clemens.

Sophie Deraspe (click here to read an interview with her) wrote and directed this recently released documentary that moves the viewer through a large gamut of emotions. A Gay Girl in Damascus: The Amina Profile begins as a love story, turns into a story of fearless resistance, collapses into terror, and then transforms into the investigation of a sure-to-be psychotic man who breaks strangers’ hearts. All in an hour and a half. The quick pace and the story left me with my mouth agape several times, even though I remember the story of the film’s eponymous blog–and the hoax that ensued.

The film begins as Amina Arraf in Syria and Sandra Bagaria in Canada begin an online relationship. They share stories of their studies, their sex drives, and quickly move to their concerns about the Arab Spring’s impact on Amina’s world. Amina decides to start a blog about being out in a dictatorship and she begins to write. “Gay Girl in Damascus” is born.

Amina and Sandra are unable to meet, so they share the details of their lives over messaging. Amina tells Sandra Skype is blocked in Syria. And then Amina goes unheard from for several days. Sandra gets a message telling her Amina has been kidnapped.

Through interviews with reporters, social activists, and personal friends, the story moves from Sandra’s heart breaking to realizing she has been the victim of a months-long hoax enacted by a dude living in Edinburgh at the time. I won’t give too much away about how they come to learn this information, but watching the story unfold is worth watching.

The part of most interest to me is when the activists discuss how this white male hijacked the story of Syria for an entire week. Instead of focusing on the cluster bombs and mass arrests being recorded by citizen journalists, the news chose to tell the stories of Tom MacMaster, a guy who thought it was fun to create a persona and see how far he could go with it. We watch how a white, Western, male coopts the story of a marginalized woman for his own jollies and takes away the voice of men and women dying in the streets of Syria. If white male privilege needs a metaphor, the story of MacMaster sure seems like the perfect fit.

Women Who Were Actually Jailed and Didn’t Get the Attention a Fictional Woman Did

Once the movie turns on its heels, the viewer watches Sandra come to terms with the humiliation this man has foisted upon her. She works to confront him, and the film climaxes with them in a room together. While the beginning of the film sets the viewer up to think the climax of the film will be Sandra and Amina meeting and climaxing, the end feels creepily analogous as this guy talks about how he uses Sandra. I won’t say too much more because their conversation is a lesson in what-the-fuckery.

So what feels like a film about the triumph of a young woman speaking truth to power morphs into a story of a white, Western male appropriating a marginalized voice for his own whims. Sigh. And sigh again. Watching the films feels like bearing witness to the sufferings of Syrians who want to be heard–and to the Western privilege that silences them.

See it. We all need to be vigilant about listening to those who are speaking. And those who are taking the mic for their own pleasure.

Colleen Lutz Clemens, Ph.D., is an assistant professor of Non-Western Literatures at Kutztown University in Pennsylvania. She earned her Ph.D. in Post-Colonial Literature at Lehigh University and is a Bitch Flicks staff writer.

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!

Report Finds Wide Diversity Gap Among 2014’s Top-Grossing Films by Manohla Dargis at The New York Times

Confronting Teen Sexuality in “The Diary of a Teenage Girl” by Andi Zeisler at Bitch Media

What to Watch This Weekend: 15 Short Films That Say #BlackLivesMatter by Tambay A. Obenson at Shadow and Act

11 Times Jon Stewart Threw Down For Feminism by Amanda Duberman at The Huffington Post

7 Feminist ‘The Daily Show’ Moments To Rewatch Over & Over, Because These Women Are Totally The Best News Team On Television by Maitri Mehta at Bustle

Over 15k Sign Petition to Boycott ‘Stonewall’ And Its White/Cis-washing of History by Sameer Rao at Colorlines

The Women of Color Heroes We Both Need and Deserve by LaToya Ferguson at Women and Hollywood

We Heart: Hannibal’s Stance on Sexual Assault by Carter Sherman at Ms. Blog

How Halt and Catch Fire is taking on sexism in the tech industry by Andy Meek at The Week

Julie Klausner Of Hulu’s ‘Difficult People’ Turns Unlikability Into An Art Form by Sara Benincasa at BUST

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

‘Don’t Think I’ve Forgotten’: Rock ‘n’ Roll, the ’60s and Genocide

Because no archival photos and footage of most of the Pol Pot era exists, films about the Cambodian genocide have had to use creative ways to tell what happened. The Oscar-nominated documentary ‘The Missing Picture’ from a couple of years ago used clay figurines as a visual complement to the narration. John Pirozzi’s ‘Don’t Think I’ve Forgotten’ uses the popular music of Cambodia in the ’60s and ’70s (and the artists who made it) to detail the country’s trajectory.

Do we need to see atrocities to fully absorb their horror? It’s a question I ask whenever a new video turns up showing a police officer killing an unarmed person. The answer for me is no: I don’t need to see suffering and death to believe they happen. But I know I’m not in the majority. A year ago the photos of Mike Brown’s body lying in the street and video of police gassing participants in the peaceful protests afterward were the catalyst for many to join protests of their own–though a much smaller band of activists had been exposing and protesting police violence, especially that against Black people, for decades.

The same way many police departments want to keep dashboard and body cameras far from their officers, The Pol Pot regime in Cambodia kept cameras–and “outsiders”–out of the country so that their slaughter of their own people (an estimated 3 million, over 25 percent of the population) could escape the notice of much of the rest of the world. Because no archival photos and footage of most of the Pol Pot era exists, films about the Cambodian genocide have had to use creative ways to tell what happened. The Oscar-nominated documentary The Missing Picture from a couple of years ago used clay figurines as a visual complement to the narration. John Pirozzi’s Don’t Think I’ve Forgotten uses the popular music of Cambodia in the ’60s and ’70s (and the artists who made it) to detail the country’s trajectory.

MadMenInCambodia — “Mad Men”–and women–in Cambodia.

We see a woman with high teased hair in a tight, tight dress singing as couples dance in the early ’60s (a lot of the pristine film footage is from the estate of King Sihanouk, Cambodia’s leader from when it first broke free from French colonial rule in 1955 to 1970), which could be a scene from the early seasons of Mad Men, except the people dancing are all Cambodian and even though they move their bodies like Westerners, their hands move more freely in graceful swooping gestures. The music seems familiar too: the way one of the main male stars Sinn Sisamouth, is posed (always wearing a suit or tux) on his records’ cover art and the type of songs he sang (and his lasting popularity) bring to mind Frank Sinatra–especially his later efforts to seem more relevant by collaborating with younger performers.

Musicians of the time tell us the capital, Phnom Penh “was the hub where bands from the countryside met.” The film spends as much time documenting the careers of women musicians as it does male ones–and the most knowlegable “fan” of the music interviewed (who was a teenager in Phnom Penh when the music was new) is also a woman, which should not be a rarity in films about contemporary, popular music, but is.

gogobootsForgotten — The film includes as many women as men in its story.

She tells us, “I was not a shy kid. I was like, ‘Just give me the music. I’ll dance.'” She shares with us details about the most popular woman singers of the time that a male fan might have left out. When she talks about the biggest woman star, Ros Serey Sothea she notes that she was a farm girl (her father had abandoned the family and she sang to support her mother and siblings) and that she was “dark-skinned” (which is not always apparent in early cover art for her records).

Like music from the ’60s in Britain and the US we see and hear (the film is chock full of songs from the era) the scene evolve with time, from kicky cocktail and Afro-Cuban style music in the early ’60s to poppy guitar bands with pretty boys in matching suits a few years later. Members of one of the first of these bands tell us they copied the choreographed moves of Cliff Richard and his band in the 1961 British film The Young Ones which we see confirmed as scenes of the Cambodian band’s live performances and scenes of performances in the film are intercut. Later in the ’60s and into the early ’70s we see Cambodian bands adopted more free-form fashions and dancing along with a harder rock sound. We hear a version of Santana’s “Oye Como Va” sung in Khmer that sounds as good if not better than the original.

Some of politics of the time we notice in subtext: early ’60s street footage shows children living in abject poverty: most of the musicians, besides Serey Sothea, were from wealthy families. We also hear explicitly from an American commentator that Cambodia was not a democracy and see Sihanouk, during an interview, coolly defend his execution of communists. But he apparently didn’t kill enough of them to satisfy the American government’s tastes (the US was fighting Communists just over the border in Vietnam) and Sihanouk was overthrown in a military coup, the leadership of which openly allied itself with the US (Sihanouk had declared Cambodia “neutral” in the Cold War). During this time the US relentlessly bombed Cambodia in a badly thought-out effort to destroy Communist strongholds: instead the bombing (which killed an estimated one million people) galvanized most of the people in the countryside to join the anti-Western communists, The Khmer Rouge (and Sihanouk in exile had, in desperation, allied himself with them too, in hopes of returning to power).

ForgottenRecordCoverArt — Ros Serey Sothea and Sinn Sisamouth,

The military leadership used singers Sisamouth and Serey Sothea in propaganda (we see Serey Sothea in military fatigues parachuting from a plane) but their popularity couldn’t counteract the devastation the bombing brought. Phnom Penh, the last holdout against Communists was eventually “liberated” by The Khmer Rouge and its leader Pol Pot. At first, the residents, including musicians, celebrated. But as a surviving member of the royal family tells us (in translated French) “If you want to eliminate values from past societies you have to eliminate the artists, because artists are influential.” The Western-influenced capital was evacuated and everyone who had lived there, including musicians, were put to work in rice fields and other manual labor in the countryside, much as we see the “decadent” gay men of Fidel Castro’s 1960s Cuba were put to work in the sugar cane fields in Before Night Falls.

I was hoping the film would employ a similar technique to How To Survive a Plague and show us musicians who survived the genocide but whom we had not yet seen in contemporary interviews. But the vast majority of musicians we come to know in the film (and sometimes even their children) were either killed for not following orders, for being affiliated with the previous government or for simply being a “bad” (counter-revolutionary) influence. Some, though they succeeded in escaping detection, died of starvation. One woman, whom we see dancing wildly and joyfully onstage as a member of a popular late ’60s band cries as she tells us that during Pol Pot’s reign when anyone asked about her past in the city, “I told them I was a banana seller… I lied to them. That saved my life.”

The musicians who survived thought they would be killed too, but when Vietnamese forces invaded the country in 1979, the genocide stopped. But because no records were kept, no one knows how most of those killed, including the most famous musicians, died or where their bodies are buried. Now not just the surviving musicians but the fans–as well as those of us in the audience–hear something deeper and more resonant than nostalgia in the music that came before Pol Pot (and which was banned under his regime). As the dedicated Phnom Penh fan tells us, when she and others worked the rice fields and no Khmer Rouge official could hear them, “We would sing.”

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ipq4FefX5Ps” iv_load_policy=”3″]

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