DuVernay has said in interviews that when she inherited Paul Webb’s screenplay, she altered it to decenter its focus on President Lyndon B. Johnson (even though the controversy surrounding the film managed to once again re-center the story on white male power and its portrayal). Rather than criticize the director for shifting her gaze away from whiteness (or for getting certain historical details wrong), it may be more useful to consider the difference a woman behind the camera—and a Black woman in particular—brings to a motion picture.
This guest post by Janell Hobson previously appeared at the Ms. blog and is cross-posted with permission.
Last year was a stellar one for Black women filmmakers. First, there was Amma Asante’s exquisitely filmed Belle (starring an impressive Gugu Mbatha-Raw), followed later by Gina Prince-Bythewood’s emotionally layered Beyond the Lights (also starring Mbatha-Raw). The year finally closed out with Ava DuVernay’s critically acclaimed historical drama, Selma.
However, while Belle was summarily dismissed by movie critics as a “black Jane Austen drama,” and Beyond the Lights received more favorable reviews but was nonetheless ignored at the box office, DuVernay has a real shot at becoming the first Black woman to be nominated for a Best Director Oscar (having already made history with her nomination at the Golden Globes). Of course, there is something to be said for women receiving critical acclaim when the films they direct focus on the lives of men, but that’s another story. Nonetheless, the acclaim she has received is absolutely earned.
Selma is a rather subversive take on historical events: part sweeping epic drama, part intimate and domestic storytelling in its rendering of the voting rights march from Selma to Montgomery, Alabama in 1965 (led by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and played in the film with an understated grace by David Oyelowo). DuVernay imbues this Civil Rights-era film with a black woman’s sensibility, which makes the storytelling all the richer.
There is the opening shot, featuring King practicing his acceptance speech for the Nobel Peace Prize, before he is joined by his wife Coretta (played by Carmen Ejogo in an uncanny resemblance to the late icon) fixing his tie. Here, an international milestone is seamlessly intertwined with the space of domestic intimacy, just as the following scene depicting the four girls in Birmingham decked out in their finest Sunday best—as they gossip about how Coretta Scott King does her hair while descending into a church basement—resonates on the most mundane level. Although we have the benefit of history, it is still jarring when the bomb explodes, and, as occurs throughout the film, each death is doled out in slow motion, the camera (aesthetically positioned by the accomplished cinematographer Bradford Young to capture the brilliance of dark skin) refusing to turn our collective eyes away from the bloodshed and the casualties of “racial progress.”
DuVernay has said in interviews that when she inherited Paul Webb’s screenplay, she altered it to decenter its focus on President Lyndon B. Johnson (even though the controversy surrounding the film managed to once again re-center the story on white male power and its portrayal). Rather than criticize the director for shifting her gaze away from whiteness (or for getting certain historical details wrong), it may be more useful to consider the difference a woman behind the camera—and a Black woman in particular—brings to a motion picture. Because of the rewrite, we not only get a redirection on King and how his Southern Christian Leadership Conference group came into conflict with the younger Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, but women are also added to the picture, including movement participants like Freedom Rider Diane Nash (played by Tessa Thompson), Amelia Boynton (Lorraine Touissant) and Annie Lee Cooper (Oprah Winfrey). They are still marginal to the main story, but at least they are visible and part of the grassroots movement critical to King’s leadership.
We also see certain feminist approaches: from how the movement men can descend onto a woman’s home and make themselves quite comfortable as their very masculine dominance takes over her kitchen space (a subtle critique of the ways progressive men constantly rely on and exploit women’s labor, all wrapped up in the warmth of black Southern domestic comfort) to a scene featuring Amelia Boynton and Coretta Scott King discussing the struggles of activism and the challenge of maintaining hope (a scene Touissant has noted was DuVernay’s own conscious attempts at passing the Bechdel Test by including a scene where women are not talking about men). Through Coretta’s story, DuVernay also highlights how the iconic hero that we celebrate through King does not translate to admirable husband and father. King’s infidelities, however, are included not to tarnish his image but to undergird the real difficulties of committing to both a political movement and the personal sphere. King’s political involvement (including long stays away from home) also brings the constant fear of death, a fear Coretta quietly yet persistently underscores throughout her scenes.
More than anything, Selma is what we get when we intersect the personal with the political, the epic with the intimate, the historical with the present day (e.g. because King’s speeches were off limits, what we also get in the film are double entendres of what the Selma movement meant for 1965 and what present-day struggles mean for us here in 2015).
While the film’s budget is tiny by Hollywood standards ($20 million), what DuVernay does with the film is a real triumph in not only quality filmmaking but in accomplished storytelling, where black people and their allies stand in all their brilliant humanity and where women’s stories hold equal weight against the heavyweight often accorded men’s histories. Let us hope her triumphs will open the doors wider for other women filmmakers.
Of course we may find solace on smaller screens, where diversity reigns and where Shonda Rhimes dominates Thursday television with her Black women leads and multiracial casting. Nonetheless, there is a power that is felt when viewing images in a much larger medium with its expansive and colossal screen and booming soundtrack. DuVernay has shown why Black women still matter on big screens and why they matter more so behind the camera.
There is, nevertheless, something magical about Bessie’s life and career. How did an impoverished, orphaned Black girl who spent her childhood singing on the streets not only survive but succeed in a land that still lynched its Black citizens? There is something profoundly modern and heroic about the woman herself. An independent woman with attitude and talent, she has to be one of the most charismatic feminist icons of the 20th century.
HBO’s Bessie has to be one of the most exciting offerings on 2015’s cultural calendar. Helmed by Dee Rees and starring Queen Latifah in the title role, the telefilm will recall the extraordinary life of the “Empress of the Blues,” Bessie Smith. It has all the makings of a quality production. Dee Rees impressed us back in 2011 with her well-observed coming-of-age drama, Pariah. An attractive, charismatic presence, Queen Latifah is, equally, an excellent casting choice. But who was Bessie Smith? Although hugely respected by musicians throughout the generations, many of us remain unfamiliar with the entertainer. In anticipation of Bessie, let’s remind ourselves of the exceptional life and career of the “Empress of the Blues.”
Director Dee Rees
Born in Tennessee in 1894, Bessie Smith was one of the greatest Blues singers of the 20s and 30s. Her childhood was marked by poverty and she lost both of her parents by the age of 9. She sang on the streets before performing in touring groups. A dancer, at first, she was a member of the Rabbit Foot Minstrels, the same minstrel show as the great Ma Rainey, another Blues singer, by the way, who deserves her own biopic. Bessie signed a contract with Columbia Records in 1923 and was soon catapulted to fame–and riches. Earning an astonishing $2,000 a week, she became, in fact, the highest-paid Black entertainer of her era. She had her own show and her own railroad car.
Her private life was, by all accounts, pretty lively. Her marriage to husband Jack Gee was turbulent and she was particularly fond of gin. She broke many of the rules of her day. Reportedly bisexual, she had affairs with women during her marriage. Bessie Smith was sexual and successful as well as, of course, immensely gifted. The extraordinary depth and power of her voice is evident from this following clip from the short film, St Louis Blues (1929).
“Downhearted Blues,” “Nobody knows You When You’re Down and Out,” and “Baby, Won’t You Please Come Home” are among some of the songs Bessie recorded. Her popularity waned–music historians cite the Depression and changes in musical taste–but there were, it seems, indications that she was on the verge of a comeback. Tragically, Bessie Smith was killed in a car accident in 1937 at the age of 43.
Queen Latifah
There is, nevertheless, something magical about Bessie’s life and career. How did an impoverished, orphaned Black girl who spent her childhood singing on the streets not only survive but succeed in a land that still lynched its Black citizens? There is something profoundly modern and heroic about the woman herself. An independent woman with attitude and talent, she has to be one of the most charismatic feminist icons of the 20th century.
Another portrait of the “Empress of the Blues” by van Vechten
Bessie is a refreshing, tantalizing prospect. God knows, of course, that dramatizing the lives of female cultural heroines doesn’t seem to be much of a concern to the powers that be. This is particularly the case, let’s face it, with women of color. But that must change. Movie studios and television companies, moreover, need to pay tribute to people who create more instead of offering romanticized, revisionist accounts of snipers. The Empress of the Blues’s commanding voice and pioneering spirit resonate today. Hopefully, Bessie will help restore her to our collective memory. She occupies a unique, vital place in 20th century popular culture.
I can count on one hand the times I’ve fallen asleep in a theater; at ‘Vice’ I suspect my body was telling me this film was never going to get better, so why not do something more worthwhile with my time? I did rouse myself to catch the end of the scene and the rest of the film, but it never did improve. All of its scenes, save one, would have the same coherence if its talented actors barked instead of saying their lines–and if they did so, some Anderson fanboy would still (as I overheard one after the screening I attended) insist to the unlucky woman walking alongside him, “He’s playing with narrative!”
After I sat all the way through the adventures of Marky Mark and his 13-inch prosthetic penis in Boogie Nights, I thought I was finished with Paul Thomas Anderson films, but at the behest of a woman I was in a new relationship with, I absorbed the bullshit and bombast of her favorite film, Magnolia(though I remember very little of it), several years after it came out. As I watched, I remember thinking that the woman I’d dated years earlier who’d liked the same films I had (her favorite was The Unbearable Lightness of Being ) was otherwise a terrible girlfriend. So maybe the fact that this other woman (who would later become my spouse) loved Magnolia was a good sign. I was, of course, wrong.
Anderson’s latest film, Inherent Vice, takes place in a southern California hippie community just as the feel-good counterculture of the ’60s was slowly souring into the disillusionment and heroin and cocaine addiction of the ’70s. The main character, Doc Sportello (Joaquin Phoenix, decades too old for the role–the counterculture’s catchphrase was “Never trust anyone over 30”) lives by the beach and smokes a lot of pot, but he also works as a private detective, which is why his ex “old lady” Shasta (Katherine Waterston) comes to his place, in a sojourn from what was then known as the “straight” world, her hair pulled back with a barrette wearing the kind of clothes, the narrator (musician Joanna Newsom) notes, she had always sworn she never would. Shasta seems to be on the brink of tears as she says, “I need your help, Doc,” and we in the audience can imagine a complex history between these two.
Katherine Waterston and Joaquin Phoenix try (and fail) to make sense of it all
In 1970, hippies were so commonplace, the guy who drove the ice cream truck in my suburban Kansas neighborhood had a ponytail, a beard and a mustache, but in another few years hardly any hippies would be left, except for some scattered on communes, farms and “intentional communities.” Ray Magliozzi explained the end of the counterculture era as: all the previously “unemployed bums” and “wackos” “went out and got jobs.” Although writer-director Olivier Assayas’ Something In The Airtouches on a similar sea change in Europe, someone could make a good film about this largely unexplored time of transition (which could also be described as a defeat) in the US–but Vice is not that film and Anderson is not that director.
I don’t need a tight plot to have a good time at the movies, but I fell asleep during Vice. I couldn’t resist closing my eyes when Owen Wilson (whom many of us wish would go back to writing films: Rushmore and The Royal Tenenbaums are much better than any film he’s only acted in) playing one in a long line of the film’s ridiculously named supporting characters (none of whom I could keep track of or give a shit about) says, “And your question is: which side am I on?”
I can count on one hand the times I’ve fallen asleep in a theater; at Vice I suspect my body was telling me this film was never going to get better, so why not do something more worthwhile with my time? I did rouse myself to catch the end of the scene and the rest of the film, but it never did improve. All of its scenes, save one, would have the same coherence if its talented actors barked instead of saying their lines–and if they did so, some Anderson fanboy would still (as I overheard one after the screening I attended) insist to the unlucky woman walking alongside him, “He’s playing with narrative!”
Parts of this film are pretty to look at. Not enough reason to see it though.
Anderson has claimed in interviews that he was influenced by Robert Altman’s The Long Goodbyeand the original book’s author Raymond Chandler’s famous explanation to the screenwriters (including William Faulkner) who were adapting another of his novels, The Big Sleep, that he had no idea who the killer was. But Anderson hasn’t learned the first thing from either film or from Chandler who might not have known who the murderer was, but knew his characters inside and out, and let his readers know them too. Altman understood the value of a good script: he asked the same woman screenwriter who had adapted Sleep, Leigh Brackett to write Goodbye. Altman was also famous for encouraging his actors to improvise, but in his very best work (like Goodbye and McCabe and Mrs. Miller) he never sacrificed a deep attention to even minor characters’ moods and motivations–and probably also left a lot of flat, improvised dialogue on the cutting room floor. Altman knew that the audience needed to have a sense of the characters’ inner justifications, even if the audience disagrees with them or is shocked by them (as with the brutal violence against women Marlowe’s friend Terry Lenox and the gangster Marty Augustine perpetrate during Goodbye). Altman was a notorious pothead himself who was a part of the new school of directors who were able to thrive in the ’70s as a direct aftereffect of the counterculture, but even in his comedies (like M*A*S*H) he didn’t surrender story and character to some sort of vague, giggly, stoner aesthetic the way Anderson does in Vice.
For reasons I can’t fathom, Anderson always attracts good actors to his films and seeing the ones in Vice struggle to find something worthy in his shitty (Oscar-nominated!) script (based on the novel by Thomas Pynchon, whose work I’ve never read and, if it’s anything like the dialogue and narration in this film, never will) is painful. In odd moments with a gesture or line reading they succeed–Jena Malone chomping her teeth and Eric Roberts when he first catches the eye of Phoenix, but these shots last seconds and the movie lasts two and half hours. The only sustained rapport two characters have with each other (and the only time they connect with the audience) is in the scene when Shasta returns to Doc’s bungalow with her hair loose wearing the outfit the narrator has told us she wore when they were together. Waterston and Phoenix are both excellent as they talk and drink beer, sustaining a tension and a melancholy otherwise absent from the film. The sex they end up having isn’t the hearts and flowers we would expect from hippies either. But one good scene can’t save Inherent Vice, which seems more like a bet than a film. I can imagine Anderson stating to one of his cohorts, “$100 says I write a script that makes no sense and still get the money to make a movie out of it!” He won and everyone else–not just the audience but all the women and people of color whose great, coherent scripts are left unproduced–lost.
There is so much potential within ‘Mr. Jones,’ and yet so little awesomeness, resulting in a convoluted found footage misfire, another tired story about a Male Protagonist and his Girlfriend.
ESCAPE YOUR NIGHTMARES — unless your nightmares are about confusing movies, in which case ENTER YOUR NIGHTMARES
Lest you think I fall in love with everyfoundfootagefilm I see, I offer you my review of Mr. Jones — a film that takes fascinating approaches to its mythology, camerawork, and representations of gender, then smashes them on the ground into a boring, convoluted mess.
Written and directed by first-time writer/director Karl Mueller, Mr. Jones (2013) failed to impress reviewers:
Given the sloppiness of Karl Mueller’s directorial debut, it feels less like innovation and more like an attempt to cover up shortcomings, as if he had the kernel of an idea and only begrudgingly filled it out. (The Playlist)
Writer-director Karl Mueller has put in a lot of effort to make sure Mr. Jones looks different and is constructed differently from any contemporaneous indie-horror project and/or mockumentary. And that’s what makes Mr. Jones such a bummer. So much work, so much thought, put into something so shitty. (The Dissolve)
It’s difficult to write about Mr. Jones without revealing spoilers or my utter disdain for the two main characters, so here’s a recap:
A young, white, financially secure, beautiful, heterosexual, able-bodied, cis couple move to The Woods to live in a Cabin, isolated from society.
Meet Scott (Jon Foster), the Male Protagonistand Penny (Sarah Jones), the Male Protagonist’s Girlfriend*
Scott has this vague but enthusiastic notion that he’ll create the most super best amazing nature documentary of all time, revive his relationship with Penny, and reinvent his entire life. This lasts for approximately one minute of the exposition, voiced by Scott as a narration for his documentary:
Scott: Do you ever dream of waking up to birds instead of your alarm clock? Have you ever wanted to blow all your money on extremely nice camera equipment to make a nature documentary so beautiful people who saw it would never want to watch another movie again?…Do you ever wish you could kiss your wife the way you did on the night you first met?
Then he reveals that he’s stopped taking his unspecified meds and has no idea what the hell he’s doing with this project. He worries that he has dragged his girlfriend away from her successful career and her emotional support system on a half-baked fame-seeking whim:
Scott: Have you ever started to suspect you made a huge mistake?…Have you ever moved to the woods for a whole year to work on your relationship, only a month in you missed your TV more than you thought?…What if Penny put her photography career on hold for you, so you are too ashamed to admit that the documentary you moved here to make wasn’t that well thought out anyway?
Scott spends his days immobile in a hammock while Penny encourages him to take up his camera and make an effort to film. After a month and a half of this behavior, Penny is understandably upset about Scott’s neglect of the project for which she has made so many sacrifices:
Penny: I gave up everything to come out here with you, I left my job, my friends. And you promised me, you PROMISED me that you would be responsible.
But we are asked to forget about Penny’s frustration with Scott when birds start flying smack into their cabin in the middle of the night. (Do you ever dream of waking up to birds instead of your alarm clock?)
Then Scott encounters a creepy figure creeping around creating freaky scarecrow-like statues out of natural elements:
Meet the creations of Mr. Jones
Scott’s like, Woah, dude’s a psychopath! And Penny’s like, He’s Mr. Jones — a famous reclusive artistic genius living off the grid! Let’s make him the subject of your documentary and hey — I’ll make a coffee table book!
Penny makes a list for Scott of all the Mr. Jones experts in the world — conveniently, every one of them happens to live in New York! Here the film takes a more formal approach to the documentary style and gives us several interviews with one woman (art historian) and five men (art dealer, anthropologist, newspaper reporter, metaphysical author guy, and an “Alleged Scarecrow Recipient” — seriously, that’s how he’s titled in the doc).
This film is a total Bechdel Test FAIL. There are only two women in the entire movie and they’re never even in the same room. Two women, seven men.
Thus proceeds a convoluted download of Mr. Jones info, and while some of it is truly creepy, lots of it just don’t make sense. (More on this later.)
Meanwhile, Penny is in The Woods, taking pictures of Mr. Jones’s statues for her book.
Perfect for your coffee table!
She has an awkward encounter with Mr. Jones during the day, then has a scary night in The Woods. Her takeaway from the experience, as she documents it, is a sense that Mr. Jones helped her get home to safety:
Penny: I just feel like I need to record this before I forget, ’cause I feel like I just woke up from a dream…You know how in a dream you can tell if someone is trying to hurt you or help you?…It’s like I could feel his intentions…and I don’t feel scared.
Scott returns to The Woods and he and Penny decide together that the obvious next step here is to break into Mr. Jones’s abode and film his home, his studio, and his art without his consent.
Yes, they’ve just learned that this guy is not only a respected figure in the art world, but also a potentially dangerous (but maybe also protective?) magic man, and their response is to break in to his home and touch and film his things.
I understand that as a horror fan there are times when I must forgive a character’s blatant stupidity. Horror is a genre built on the backs of bad ideas. But the decision to violate Mr. Jones’s privacy and document his work without his consent is not only stupid, it’s disrespectful and douchey. Scott wants to make a famous documentary, Penny want to make a huge coffee table book; they want to create their own art, so they feel entitled to access his art and the space in which he creates it.
Their stupid and entitled plan gets even stupider and more entitled when Scott the brainiac decides to swipe one of Mr. Jones’s smaller creations. It just happens to be the creepy center piece in a huge creepy underground shrine, no big deal, he simply blows out its eye candles and shoves it in his backpack.
To steal or not to steal — that is the stupidest question ever OMG NOT TO STEAL
Scott and Penny make it back to their cabin safely, but now their car won’t start and the sun won’t rise and they’re trapped in a nightmare world in which alternate versions of themselves are evil enemies.
Here Mueller moves the film away from Scott’s POV documentary and features footage filmed by phantoms in the nightmare world — a surprisingly successful tactic.
Mr. Jones inexplicably gets sucked up into the sky (I THINK???). Ultimately, Scott must return to the shrine and replace the stolen figure, then don Mr. Jones’s mask and take on the role of creepy protector.
The only way to defeat the nightmare world is to don the trappings of nightmares and create nightmarish images — I love this concept, but alas! I found the execution super boring…
We watch Scott stumble around for a while, chased by his nightmare self, then — TA-DA!! — he’s the hero and he rescues his girlfriend! The Male Protagonist does it again: he makes a bunch of bad decisions and then he saves the day! Great job, Scott!
Scott maybe becomes the next Mr. Jones??? I’m not really sure because of the confusing final scenes and the mind-scramblingly frustrating mythology we’re offered throughout the film.
Let’s talk about the Mr. Jones mythology. First, the aspects I thought were great:
I love the concept of the Mr. Jones character: this amorphous being who is creepy as fuck in both aspect and artistry, and yet whose creepy creations actually offer protection from that which is truly terrifying, the real monster of this movie: the fear haunting our minds.
The statues are stunning, truly the scariest part of the entire film.
Mr. Jones suggests that creating something scary has the power to ward away fear. There’s a delicious paradox embedded in that idea, and a jumping off point for a conversation about the creation and consumption of horror movies. Why are horror fans drawn to scary stories? What purpose do they serve in our minds, our lives, our culture? Do we seek horrific images in order to confront and reject our fears?
Unfortunately, all of this is ruined by the sloppy slap-together of the convoluted, contradictory mythology presented in the film’s documentary-style interviews.
For example: In one of the interview-with-the-experts clips, we’re informed by the art dealer that “[t]here are nine verified Jones pieces in the world — nine.”
Yet in other clips, other experts make it sound like there are far more than nine Jones statues in existence:
Author: It is hard to believe that one person, after so many years, could be responsible for building all of these totems and sending them all over the world. So there’s some that posit that perhaps there is a secret group or a sect at work here, building these things and sending them out for ceremonial purposes.
So which is it? Are there nine Jones pieces, or dozens? And what exactly is the deal with the recipients of these statues? What is the impact of the Mr. Jones statues on their lives?
One of the experts, the art dealer, was a recipient of a Jones statue. He put it in his gallery window, experienced an uptick in gallery traffic for a while, then went back to life as usual.
Scott: So what happened next?
Art Dealer: Well, eventually they just stopped. And that was it. And I thought Mr. Jones was done.
Another expert, the metaphysical author guy, says that the people who received these statues went whackadoo and moved to The Woods.
Author: I met a lot of people that were mailed totems by Mr. Jones, and most of them just say that they were disturbed and moved on. But if you actually start talking to the people around them, their husbands, their wives, their friends, their colleagues, their parents — then you start to get a different story. And you dig deeper into the lives of these people, and you notice even more drastic changes, extreme personality shifts, disappearances, housewives leaving their families and moving into the woods, it’s disturbing.
The “Alleged Scarecrow Recipient” destroyed his Mr. Jones scarecrow, and now suffers from undisclosed life problems and ongoing nightmares that he’s chasing himself around and in danger of spilling evil out into the world:
Alleged Scarecrow Recipient: You have no idea what you’re dealing with, this guy — you don’t know what he’s capable of…You have no idea what these things do to your mind…they get inside your mind and they explode.
But according to the anthropologist, the scarecrows are protective figures:
Anthropologist: These talismans were created by the holy men to patrol the borders of these two worlds as they overlapped…to keep the chaos and insanity and nightmares of the dream world from entering our own.
So…are we to understand that the people who reject the scarecrow/dream-guardian figures go mad? Do they become the new versions of Mr. Jones? Is that what happens to Scott? If a recipient accepts the scarecrow, like the art dealer, nothing really happens? But if they are disturbed by the figures, then they abandon their families and move into the woods? And if they destroy the figures, then they live forever in a nightmare world of fear? Are we to understand that Mr. Jones is trying to protect the people to whom he sends his statues? Or is his aim to imbue more people with his magic powers and inspire them to create more creepy protective totems?
I can accept when a film refrains from explaining a major, obvious quandary — see, for example, my feelings about the final scenes of Mockingbird – but I cannot accept when a movie offers inconsistent, inconclusive explanations and paints a messy picture of its mythos. This shatters the credibility of the in-film documentary and craps on the interesting questions the movie raises about the creation and consumption of horrific images.
Speaking of horrific images, let’s talk about the camerawork in Mr. Jones.
First, the bad:
In the film’s exposition, we learn that Scott has rigged his camera so that it shoots both his POV and a close-up of his face, which Penny thinks is the most brilliant thing ever, and I think was a big mistake. Found footage films can be difficult enough to follow without jumping back and forth between a character’s POV shot and close up of the character. As one reviewer from The Dissolve puts it:
Also tedious: those two-way camera get-ups, which turn most of the action sequences in Mr. Jones into a hard-to-follow assemblage of “shaky face shot,” “shaky first-person shot,” “shaky face shot,” and so on, for minutes on end.
Found footage films get a lot of shit, but one of the coolest things they can do is put the viewer in the POV perspective of a character experiencing nightmare circumstances. The sequence with Scott in the tunnel system in particular would have been way more effective if Mueller had kept the POV shot through the entirety. This scene was an opportunity to offer viewers the nightmarish experience of navigating through an ever-changing underground maze. It could have been disorienting in a way that approximated the sensation of the maddening dream logic Scott is experiencing. Thanks to the shifting back and forth between POV and character close-up, it wasn’t.
I will generally tolerate confusing and/or uncomfortable camerawork if I think it’s trying to do something interesting or if it resonates meaningfully within the context of the larger horror in the story. But all this approach did was and take me out of the nightmarish nature of the tunnel sequence, and reinforce my feeling that Scott is a narcissistic dreamer who cares more about navel gazing than putting effort into creating something.
The good:
I appreciate that Mueller found a way to transition his found footage film from personal POV shots to something more flexible without smashing the film’s premise. (Another example of success with this is the use of telekeneticams in Josh Trank’s Chronicle.) The inclusion of the phantom film shot by the nightmare universe version of Scott is a clever way to explain the shift away from jerky-hand-cam character POV shots, the frequent downfall of many a found footage denouement.
Phantom filmed footage
Unfortunately, most of these phantom film shots consist of Scott stumbling around in fear and confusion, and Penny as alternately a scary nightmare universe version of herself and a helpless damsel in distress. Then Scott the Male Protagonist leads the way and saves the day!
So…lets talk about this film’s approach to representations of gender.
The good:
Penny, the main female character, has energy and agency, intelligence and ambition.
The bad:
Penny uses all of her energy and agency and intelligence and ambition to serve Scott and his project. Her project, the coffee table book, is a supplement to his creation. The Male Protagonist’s Girlfriend is a depressingly pervasive trope in film and television: she is a character who has no real purpose in a story except to support the Male Protagonist in his chosen journey. Penny gets Girlfriended from the get-go: from start to finish, she serves to support Scott. That’s all she is and all she does.
Scott is the impetus for the film, the creator of the documentary, the voice of the exposition, the hero in the resolution (I THINK???). We’re in Scott’s world, and Penny’s there to be supportive and get rescued. (Never mind that she has to be rescued because Scott was an idiot who stole from his creepy neighbor’s underground tunnel shrine.)
There is so much potential within this film, and yet so little awesomeness, resulting in a convoluted found footage misfire, another tired story about a Male Protagonist and his Girlfriend.
*Is Penny Scott’s girlfriend or his wife? In his expository voice over, he says “Do you ever wish you could kiss your wife the way you did on the night you first met?” But at one point in the film she calls him her “boyfriend.” Just one more confusing thing about this movie. I don’t think it really matters; the point is that they’re life partners but all that really seems to matter in the film is his life.
It seems Disney is saying that The Baker’s Wife is a “fallen woman,” and that it is making a firm decision on how it wants the audience to interpret the affair that occurred. This is made more problematic by how the affair was shot and choreographed. In the film, Cinderella’s Prince pins The Baker’s Wife against a tree and kisses her. There is nowhere for her to escape, even if she wanted to.
This cross-post by Jackson Adler previously appeared at his blog The Windowsill.
CONTAINS SPOILERS for the stage musical and subsequent film adaptation of Into The Woods.
Previously, I have written on the racism in Disney’sInto The Woods, a film adaptation of the Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine musical that interweaves various European fairy tales into one tragicomedy. Sadly, while the movie certainly has its merits (and some great performances), it has a few more faults I would like to point out – particularly in regard to its subtle sexism towards women.
Much of The Baker’s Wife’s story is still the same as in the stage musical, with one major change – that of her death. Disney’s interpretation of her death has everything to do with the scene beforehand. Cinderella’s Prince uses his power as a nobleman, and the charm he has been taught to use, to seduce The Baker’s Wife. The Baker’s Wife is star-struck by The Prince, having even told Cinderella earlier that “[she] wouldn’t run if a prince was chasing [her].” However, when Cinderella’s Prince starts attempting to seduce The Baker’s Wife, she at first protests and even says “no.” He follows her protestations with “right and wrong don’t matter in the woods,” and continues to kiss her. While certainly attracted to him and star-struck, the question must be asked – What if she had continued to protest instead giving in and allowing herself to enjoy something that seemed inevitable? Would he have forcibly raped her? Would he have had her arrested on a trumped up charge? Did her consent matter at all? Certainly, he is more culpable in their affair, since he is an authority figure.
Cinderella’s Prince (Chris Pine) comes on to The Baker’s Wife (Emily Blunt)
After the brief affair, The Baker’s Wife sings “Moments in the Woods,” as a way of coming to terms with what has happened and to bring herself to return to the beauty of everyday life with her husband and child. In the stage version, as the Giantess walks by and her large feet make the ground tremble, a tree falls on The Baker’s Wife and kills her. The stage musical leaves the meaning of these events open to interpretation. I personally never interpreted The Baker’s Wife’s death as some sort of punishment. It seemed fitting to me that The Giant, who is avenging the murder of her husband and asserting her role as a wife, should accidentally damage/condemn the life of a woman who slept with a man other than her husband. However, while the stage musical leaves interpretations up to the audience, the film makes a firm judgment call. In the film, as the ground shakes, The Baker’s Wife falls off a cliff and dies.
It seems Disney is saying that The Baker’s Wife is a “fallen woman,” and that it is making a firm decision on how it wants the audience to interpret the affair that occurred. This is made more problematic by how the affair was shot and choreographed. In the film, Cinderella’s Prince pins The Baker’s Wife against a tree and kisses her. There is nowhere for her to escape, even if she wanted to. After some kissing, the affair seems over and the prince leaves (which is very different from most stage adaptations, where a lot more than kissing is implied). So The Baker’s Wife is condemned by Disney and made into a literally “fallen woman,” just because a prince kissed her? And even after she decides to return to her husband and child, content not to have another affair ever again?
Mackenzie Mauzy as Rapunzel
While only one major change is made to The Baker’s Wife’s story, half of Rapunzel’s story arc is cut, which in turn takes away from the character development of The Witch. Unlike in the stage musical, Rapunzel does not have a mental breakdown, and she does not get squashed and killed by the giantess (who was annoyed by her raving and screaming) in front of her mother and husband. In Disney’s film, the only consequence of Rapunzel having lived a sheltered childhood is that she runs away from her mother with the first guy she has ever met. The film even cut the fact that she becomes a mother to twins, something that would change anyone’s outlook on life, and certainly take a lot of responsibility – a responsibility for which Rapunzel is not ready. These cuts in the story take away entire conversations that are important for us to have as a culture. The Witch was trying to protect her daughter by sheltering her, but it is the fact that Rapunzel was so heavily sheltered that leads to her undoing, and ultimately leads to her death. Not only that, but Rapunzel develops a mental illness, something that still (and wrongfully) induces a terrible stigma in our society.
In addition, Rapunzel’s and The Witch’s story in the stage musical shows how our most well-intended actions can negatively affect those we care for most. Rapunzel was damaged by her upbringing in a way that made it impossible for her to be a functional human being in society. Not even her prince can help her. The Witch’s song “Witch’s Lament,” in which she sings about how “children won’t listen,” comes after Rapunzel’s death in the stage musical, but in the film it comes after Rapunzel and her prince gallop off into the sunset.
The song is still emotional, as her daughter has rejected her and left her forever. However, the pain within the song is incredibly undermined by the change in circumstances. The Witch then does not have as much justification for her breakdown in “The Last Midnight.” In the song, The Witch rages against all the “nice” people who have brought ruin upon her, her daughter, and the kingdom itself. She is fed up with the world, others’ treatment of her, and possibly of herself. The Witch then vaguely kills herself by goading the spirit(?) of her own mother, challenging her to curse her. Without the death of the person whom she loved most in the world, The Witch is denied what is arguably the most essential part of her character arc, and the story of Into The Woods is deprived of some of its most important themes.
The Witch (Meryl Streep) watches as Rapunzel (Mackenzie Mauzy) rides into the distance with Rapunzel’s Prince (Billy Magnussen).
To make matters worse, the way the special effects were designed during The Witch’s death reminds one of images of Hell, as if to imply that The Witch was sucked down into Hell by the spirit of her mother. This most definitely goes against the messages of the story, and in fact even some of the lyrics in “The Last Midnight.” The Witch is not “good or bad,” but she is “right” about many things (though not about how she raised her daughter). It is the fact that she is “right,” and yet an older and powerful woman (a “witch”) that has drawn condemnation from the other characters, many of whom don’t even know about (most of) the drama between her and Rapunzel. The Witch not only has had a large part of her character arc taken away from her, but she is then metaphorically sent to Hell. For what? For being a complicated human being? By the same line of thinking, what about The Wolf whose only crime was doing what wolves do? What about the adulterous princes who were raised “to be charming, not sincere,” and therefore abuse their power and influence? No, none of them are sent to Hell. The older woman is. Not only is there sexism in this, but there is also ageism. After her death in the film, The Witch’s body is swallowed up by a bubbling tar pit. Women are already overly punished in this film, and it’s no small matter that one of the greatest examples of it is for an older and powerful woman. The stage adaptation took a character that is the villain in fairy tales, and focused on her as a human being, making her into one of the main characters and a complicated human being to be played by a leading actress. The audience is invited to sympathize with her and her intentions, despite the fact that some of them backfire on her and her daughter. To take away so much of her arc undermines what makes the story powerful, and it is a disservice to the role, to the actress (Meryl Streep), and to the audience.
Into The Woods is a complicated story about complicated people, ending with the understanding that no one is completely good or evil, and we all must love and support each other as best we can. It saddens me that the female characters’ stories were altered in the way they were. I can only hope that this newer generation of film-goers is inspired by the film to seek out the many adaptations of the stage version and appreciate the story for what it is – one of community and caring, and not judgment and debasement.
Jackson Adler is a transguy with a BA in Theatre, and is a writer, activist, director, teacher, dramaturge, cartoon lover, and vegan boba drinker. You can follow him on twitter @JacksonAdler, and see more of his writing on the blog The Windowsill at http://windowsillblog.com.
I suppose its no coincidence that many coming of age films feature runaways. The coming of age plot is, after all, the search for self realized through the search for something external. It doesn’t really matter what the search was originally for: an old home, a long lost father or a missed connection; in the end, it’s the journey, both literal and figurative, that matters.
Poster for Electrick Children
When I was a kid, I used to run away from home.
I’d pile on all my favorite things, all my most special clothes, until I could barely walk in all the layers and stuff my plastic purses full of necessities for my new life, like Barbie dolls and plastic dinosaurs.
But I only ever got a far as the end of driveway. I just sat in the car and imagined what my family would be reduced to without my presence. Eventually I went in again. After all he point was only to make a scene, I only wanted to show that my emotions were serious.
I suppose its no coincidence that many coming of age films feature runaways. The coming of age plot is, after all, the search for self-realized through the search for something external. It doesn’t really matter what the search was originally for: an old home, a long lost father or a missed connection; in the end, it’s the journey, both literal and figurative, that matters.
In Electrick Children, the 2012 debut of writer-director Rebecca Thomas, 15-year-old Rachel (Julia Garner) leaves her fundamentalist Mormon community to search for the father of her baby, whom she believes is the true love God has chosen for her. Likewise, Blue Car, a 2002 film written and directed by Karen Moncrieff, introduces us to Meg Denning (Agnes Bruckner), a 16-year-old girl who longs for a father figure, a parent who will love her unconditionally and believe in her specialness. Both Meg and Rachel set out on the road, not sure exactly what they’re looking for and what they’ll find standing at its end.
Rachel’s enjoyment of the cassette recalls a sexual experience
Electrick Children has a fiercely original set up: a sheltered religious teenager listens a song (a cover of “Hanging on the Telephone”) on a blue cassette tape. It’s the first rock song, even the first secular song she’s ever heard and as she listens, dancing alone in her nightgown, she experiences great pleasure, suggesting her first orgasm. When she later finds she has become pregnant, she is sure the singer on the tape is the father of the baby.
Despite all the sermons she has grown up hearing, about the evils of rock music and immaculate conception, no one in the community is willing to believe Rachel’s pregnancy is a miracle and religious leaders blame her brother “Mr. Will” (Liam Aiken) for impregnating her and try to force Rachel into a shotgun marriage.
Instead, she packs her things and escapes to the glittering lights of the nearest city, Las Vegas. A lost little lamb in the big city, Rachel limps along until she meets a group of skaters, musicians, and stoners. Naive Rachel and Mr. Will, who follows along behind her, would be easily exploitable prey, but because this is a movie, they are taken in by the group, who recognize them as fellow outsiders in need of their support.
The gang of Las Vegas teens welcome Rachel and Mr. Will
Along the way, Clyde (Rory Culkin), a sensitive skateboarder notices Rachel and they begin to fall in love with each other. Clyde’s friends tease him for desiring Rachel, as a pregnant girl she is “damaged goods,” he doesn’t care.
Electrick Children is a gorgeous film, stuffed with vivid colors and textures, beautiful scenery and indie rock. However, one might view it as troubling that the origin of Rachel’s pregnancy is never revealed. Commenters on IMDb suggest the film hints that Rachel was drugged and raped by her stepfather, the leader of the religious community, though this is never addressed in the film. Though Rachel’s views of both the religious and secular worlds complicate as she begins to think for herself, one thing that never changes is her belief that God fathered her child. In the main text of the film, her relationship with Clyde, who offers to marry her and raise the baby, suggests a modern update of relationship between Mary and Joseph in The Bible.
As his student, Meg relies on Auster to provide guidance
As Blue Car begins, Meg Denning is the new girl at school. Her parents have just separated and she is sullen and depressed. Her mother seems to work all hours, leaving Meg to take care of her troubled younger sister, Lily. Lily is taking their father’s disappearance much harder than Meg, refusing to eat and making delusional statements about her appearance and identity. Meg resents having to look after her and begins to hate her mother for failing to notice both sisters’ unhappiness.
In school, Meg tries her best to fade into the background, but all this changes when her English teacher, Mr. Auster (David Strathairn) begins to take a shine to her. Auster tells her she has the potential to be brilliant poet, if only she will allow herself to express the true depth of the pain and anger she feels and put it into words. He gives her a light at the end of the tunnel, a national poetry competition in Florida that she is a shoo-in to win, as long as she can find a way to get there.
As imagined Meg begins to come into her voice, with Auster’s guidance. Though his influence is initially set up as a positive force, as the film draws on, it slowly becomes clear that Auster’s own goals are tainting Meg’s newly realized talent. Meg constantly clashes with her mother and drives away everyone else in her life who had supported her or attempted to get through her hard exterior. She comes to view her father as a villain for leaving her and her mother as wicked for working, refusing to see them as three-dimensional people with their own lives.
Meg is lost and confused when Auster’s attentions become sexual
From here, the film’s trajectory is familiar. As viewers, we are not surprised when the older teacher takes advantage of his young protege, but Blue Car runs through this familiar plot in a way that is genuinely affecting to watch. The film refuses to allow either Meg or us as viewer to see her parents as cardboard cut-outs. Meg ultimately recognizes her mother is a person as well as a parent, an imperfect, broken person who had made missteps raising her but is trying her best. Even her father, who we only see briefly, comes across as well-meaning and kind, a marked contrast to the picture of him in Meg’s bitter poem.
In both films, the road ends with a discovery that the road never really ends. Self-discovery is a life long project, but at least Rachel and Meg know where to begin.
Whether we believe Vivian’s “white knight” fantasy is cheesy is beside the point; a film in which a woman explicitly negotiates the terms she wants for her relationship, and displays willingness to pursue her goals independently if those terms aren’t met, cannot be considered patriarchal.
Pretty Woman has already been reviewed negatively by Bitch Flicks as “one of the most misogynist, patriarchal, classist, consumerist, and lookist movies ever to come out of Hollywood” and by sex workers for portraying prostitution unrealistically and romanticizing the patronizing “Captain Save-a-Ho” client’s rescuer fantasy. There is justice to these criticisms, but I would like to examine the film more positively from another angle. Pretty Woman consistently shows greater respect for the bodily autonomy of its heroine, Vivian (Julia Roberts), than most traditional portrayals of romance and most feminist portrayals of prostitution. The debate whether Pretty Woman should be considered a feminist classic cuts to the heart of feminism itself: is it a liberation movement that prioritizes the freedom and agency of women above all, or a dogma that dictates gender roles to women? To explore this question more fully, I’d like to address the most common criticisms leveled at Pretty Woman:
Pretty Woman Glamorizes Prostitution!
It says something about our common perception of sex work that the film most often accused of glamorizing prostitution should open with a “dead hooker in a dumpster,” before our heroine is punched in the face and sexually assaulted by a creep who screams, “She’s a whore, man!” when challenged. Would a film be accused of glamorizing accountancy if it opened with a bankrupted accountant leaping to his death from the upper window of an office block? If anything, Pretty Woman may be accused of glamorizing the exit from prostitution, by making a future of monogamy with a patronizing rescuer-john into an unrealistically attractive option. The glossy, Hollywood production values of the film may glamorize prostitution, but only in the sense that Apocalypse Now glamorizes warfare, or Wall Streetglamorizes capitalism. I suspect that those who claim to be disturbed by Pretty Woman‘s “glamorizing” of prostitution are actually more disturbed by these key assertions: that a prostitute is an individual, that prostitution is work comparable to other forms of labor and that abuse of a prostitute is the sole responsibility of the abuser.
Vivian’s individuality is shown in Pretty Woman as she proves stereotypical assumptions wrong. She does not do drugs; her backstory involves some bad relationships but no explicit sexual trauma; her intelligence repeatedly surprises listeners. Arguably, this marks Vivian as the exceptional “tart with a heart” cliché, who deserves to be loved and rescued because she is “special” and “not like the others.” I would argue that the treatment of Kit de Luca complicates this reading. Through Vivian, we are encouraged to sympathize and feel solidarity with Kit, a streetwise prostitute and drug addict. Vivian gives Kit a large sum of money at the end of the film, respecting her right to choose whether to spend it on her drug habit. Vivian never dictates life choices to Kit, only supports her self-esteem and encourages her to regard herself as having potential to define her own dreams. Through Vivian’s attitude to Kit, the viewer is encouraged to extend their respect for Vivian’s agency to the agency and individual potential of all sex workers.
Sex worker advocacy groups have long claimed (and it’s now being discussed by Amnesty International and the World Health Organization) that the most effective way to combat trafficking, abuse, and other hazards of prostitution is by decriminalizing it and recognizing it as work, entitled to the same health and safety protections as any other labour. By repeatedly comparing Vivian’s work as a prostitute with Edward’s (Richard Gere’s) corporate work, Pretty Woman reinforces this message, albeit in cutesy Hollywood style. Vivian’s backstory also notably emphasizes that her reason for becoming a sex worker was her desire for financial autonomy and her struggle to pay rent.
Finally, virtually all cinematic depictions of sexual assaults on sex workers fall into one of two categories: those that pay no attention to the abuser’s character and treat him (almost always “him”) as a faceless “symptom of prostitution,” reinforcing the victim-blaming narrative that the heroine attracted inevitable assault by her choice of profession, or those that center the abuser as an “anti-hero” while treating the sex worker as disposable. Pretty Woman does neither. When Stuckey assaults Vivian at the climax of the film, we are already well-acquainted with both characters and understand the assault as a direct expression of Stuckey’s insecure manhood, repulsive entitlement and poisonous resentments, while the assault’s impact on Vivian is sympathetically centered. By allowing us to know both would-be rapist and intended victim, Pretty Woman succeeds in resisting victim-blaming and suggests that the assault of sex workers is an unjust and inexcusable act that reflects the character of the abuser. For that alone, Pretty Woman should be considered a feminist classic.
Pretty Woman Is Materialist!
As a film in which the monetary value of sex and companionship is negotiated, Pretty Woman is inevitably about materialism. But this does not necessarily mean that it is uncritically materialist. The film makes a point of highlighting how impersonal wealth is: “Stores are never nice to people, they’re nice to credit cards.” Vivian’s famous, triumphant confrontation with the shop assistants – “You work on commission, right? Big mistake!” – might be read as glorifying her newfound superiority as rich woman, but it satisfies because it allows Vivian to confirm that the shop assistants were judging her credit card all along. The scene shows Vivian that her personal worth is irrelevant to society’s hostile treatment of her, building her self-esteem. Since Vivian empowers herself in other scenes by implausibly rejecting cash payment to assert personal worth, this anti-materialist interpretation of her shopping triumph feels correct. Pretty Woman repeatedly highlights ironic contradictions between the performance of wealth and the personal self. Edward performs wealth by purchasing the penthouse as status symbol, but he cannot enjoy it as he’s personally afraid of heights. His elite peers can purchase opera tickets as status symbols, but Vivian can appreciate opera as personal taste – by choosing “La Traviata,” an opera about a sex worker, the film also highlights the ironic contrast between society’s mindless appreciation of sex worker pathos in elite entertainment and their mindless hostility to sex workers in life.
Elements in Pretty Woman satirizing materialism, and exploring the hazards of prostitution, are hangovers from the original script, $3000, in which Vivian was a drug addict and discovered Kit overdosed at the film’s end. That version might seem “edgier,” but is it truly edgy to echo and reinforce society’s dominant narrative of prostitution? By adapting $3000 into a commercial romcom, Disney accidentally spawned something far more challenging: a film in which prostitutes aren’t necessarily doomed, and men are individually responsible for their treatment of them. Wealth, likewise, is not presented as automatically good or bad in the film. It is his over-investment in wealth and status that drives Stuckey to become a vengeful would-be rapist. Money can destroy lives, or build “great, big boats.” Kit’s final choice, whether to spend her “scholarship fund” on her dream or her drug habit, shows that money has empowering potential but is no guarantee of happiness. If Pretty Woman‘s beautiful clothes and jewels distract from this message, that is a reflection of the viewer’s attitude to luxury, not the film’s.
Pretty Woman Is Patriarchal!
There can be few images more patriarchal than a white knight riding up to rescue his (usually comatose) princess, claiming her love as his inevitable reward. This is not, however, the ending of Pretty Woman. Pretty Woman ends with Edward role-playing Vivian’s explicitly requested fantasy, and thereby indicating willingness to comply with the conditions she laid down for their relationship. In fully accepting Vivian as his romantic partner, rather than conditionally accepting her as a mistress or object of pity, Gere echoes the “I like you the way you are, so what do I care how you got that way?” philosophy of Marilyn Monroe’s Bus Stop, another underrated affirmation of the bodily autonomy, emotional complexity, and romantic viability of promiscuous women. Whether we believe Vivian’s “white knight” fantasy is cheesy is besides the point; a film in which a woman explicitly negotiates the terms she wants for her relationship, and displays willingness to pursue her goals independently if those terms aren’t met, cannot be considered patriarchal. Whether we believe Edward is a slime-ball who looks like a peeled prawn in the bathtub is equally irrelevant; female emancipation must include the right to have questionable taste in men, or it is no true freedom. Gere serves here as a metaphor for sex work itself: whether one personally finds him icky should not distract from crucial issues of consent and agency.
Vivian displays her willingness to leave Edward and set boundaries on multiple occasions: when he embarrasses her by outing her sex worker status at a social gathering, she dictates the way she wishes to be treated; when he offers her the status of a mistress, she dictates the status of a full equal. Let us never forget that, when the prince rescues her, she rescues him right back. Pretty Woman should also be celebrated as one of the only romances to include explicit negotiation of condom use, initiated by the female sexual partner. By ultimately suggesting that a sex worker’s ethos of “we say who, we say when, we say how much” is the key to success in romantic relationships, Pretty Woman is deliciously subversive. A romantic “happy ending” only serves patriarchal goals if it is a reward, conditional on female compliance and chastity. If it becomes just an individual dream, that any hooker can define and negotiate for herself, then its coercive power collapses. That is the real reason why conservatives howl about the “glamorizing of prostitution” in Pretty Woman. That is why millions of women love and laugh with Pretty Woman worldwide. That is why Pretty Woman deserves to be considered a feminist classic.
Pretty Woman Is Heterosexist, White Supremacist, and Lookist!
Pretty Woman is about straight, white, conventionally pretty people, but it is not derogatory to other groups. While the film’s villain, Stuckey, is indeed short and balding, and this may fuel his competitive resentment toward Edward, Hector Elizondo’s hotel manager, Barney, is also somewhat balding, yet serves as the moral core of the story. Though nominally a supporting character, Elizondo delivers a master class in creating fully realized humanity with a few brushstrokes – subtly suppressed frustrations and resentments that co-exist with, and complicate, his character’s warmth and dignity, leading to a well-deserved Golden Globe nomination for the role. At the film’s end, an unnamed African-American demands the audience’s recognition for his humanity and dreams, while challenging them to define their own. Pretty Woman certainly marginalizes its minority characters, but it does not dehumanize them. For Hollywood, sadly, that remains a minuscule achievement.
Pretty Woman is not a realistic portrayal of prostitution; it is a Hollywood fairy tale and never claims to be otherwise. At the same time, the values that it embodies as fairy tale are both progressive and feminist: recognition of the agency and bodily autonomy of sex workers; categoric rejection of victim-blaming in assaults on sex workers; positive endorsement of a woman’s negotiating boundaries within romantic relationships; positive endorsement of the romantic potential of promiscuous women as life partners; positive endorsement of personal worth as founded on ethics, independent of wealth, education or sexual history. Pretty Woman is a beautiful freak; an accidental anarchy spawned from commercial compromise. To describe Pretty Woman as “anti-feminist,” or to fail to celebrate its feminism, is to prioritize the sexist surfaces of “whores” and “white knights” over real issues of agency, desire and consent. Big mistake. Big. Huge.
Brigit McCone always thought Vivian should have chosen Barney the hotel manager, but recognizes he’s probably married. She writes and directs short films, radio dramas and “The Erotic Adventures of Vivica” (as Voluptua von Temptitillatrix). Her hobbies include doodling and taking romcoms ridiculously seriously.
Why, then, are most mainstream movies and TV shows out there representing a world that does not seem to match the real world in which we live? And most importantly, why do we accept that as normal? Why do we buy it? Specially knowing that what we see in movies and on TV, whether we want it or not, shapes our minds and the way we behave and perceive reality. It shapes society as a whole.
This comedy-drama gives us an insight into the life of a father who reveals himself as trans later in life
This is a guest post by Rosa Rodriguez.
I am sure you have heard the terms “lead” and “character” actor/actress. The lead actor/actress is the one who plays the role of the protagonist of a film or show. The character actor/actress plays the sidekick, the friend, the co-worker, the villain, and the minor roles.
Lead actors are usually “attractive” by general, narrow standards: thin, slim, muscular; clear skin and flawless hair and makeup; generally tall and able bodied. They are normally white or, if they have “the right look,” sometimes of other ethnicities. They are young, or youthful. They are normally cisgender and straight. They are the big names that most of us remember.
A funny parody to Lorde’s “Royals” that definitely strikes a chord.
The character actors are more “unconventional-looking”: short, very tall, bald or balding, stocky, heavy set. They have the crooked noses or teeth, the big ears. They are the people of ethnicities other than white and oftentimes perform with an accent or a speech impediment. They are the middle aged and older guys and gals. They are the gay, transgender, gender fluid, etc. They are usually better known as “Whatshername” or “That guy from that thing” (check out a post on this blog called “Whatshername as a Great Actress: A Celebration of Character Actresses” for a beautiful explanation of what a character actress is and some interesting comparisons to the male counterpart).
These standards are widely spread on mainstream TV and movies, and generally accepted both by audiences and by actors and actresses, who want to be able to work and make a living. We are used to seeing the “attractive” people as the center of the stories. The belief is that the lead actors/actresses have the physical beauty and magnetism “needed” to play love interests and heroes, with whom the general population is meant to identify. The character actors fill the world around these main characters. Some of these supporting roles are quite strong and interesting, but they exist in relation to the leads. They are secondary characters.
The miniseries Olive Kitteridge is a beautiful example of a production where we get to follow the story of an older woman who is generally unlikeable, but who wins our heart anyway
A lot of character actors and actresses have managed to have long, successful careers playing supporting roles, and sometimes an offbeat lead here and there. It can be quite fulfilling to play a character with real, human flaws (other than the muted ones usually allowed to the leads, such as clumsiness, shyness, or naïveté). Even when said characters are underwritten, or do not appear in the film or show long enough, it can be very satisfying for the performer and the audience when these brief appearances show interesting, real human beings.
The problem I see with the accepted standards is that in real life every single person is the lead character of his or her particular story. We all have lives, passions, dreams, pursue careers and occupations, fall in love, have our hearts broken. All of us, the thin, the medium sized, the large, the blond, the brunette, the red-head, the bald, the balding, the young, the old, the loud, the quiet, the Hispanic, the Asian, the Middle Eastern, and so on, have goals and aspirations, battles, successes, loses. We all teach and learn lessons in life.
A message to Hollywood from a few well-known character actors. Funny and true.
Why, then, are most mainstream movies and TV shows out there representing a world that does not seem to match the real world in which we live? And most importantly, why do we accept that as normal? Why do we buy it? Specially knowing that what we see in movies and on TV, whether we want it or not, shapes our minds and the way we behave and perceive reality. It shapes society as a whole.
I find myself wanting more than what I am seeing. I want to see more movies and TV shows display a society where people of all looks, sounds, backgrounds, get to lead their own stories. I want to see a story about a Latina with an accent who is a college professor or a scientist. I want to see a story about a short guy with a receding hairline finding the love of his life. I want to see a love story between two senior citizens that is not meant to be a joke. I want to see main characters with some acne, or an apple shaped body, or frizzy hair. I want the full-fledged characters who look like everyday people to be the leads of stories, just like they are in real life. I believe if the audiences demanded more of that, it would be made.
Six Feet Under was so ahead of its time in many ways, including having one of its main characters, David Fisher, be a complex, realistic gay man with a compelling storyline
I am a founding member of a production company called Room 1209 Productions, together with Ravin Patterson, John Wiggins, and Patrick Avella. We define as our mission to generate opportunity for ourselves and our fellow actors, writers, directors, and other artists, through the creation of challenging, imaginative, quality content that represents the diversity found in real life.
Our first project is called Space Available, a character-driven web-series about a film student shooting a documentary in his seedy stepfather’s rehearsal studio, in an effort to expose the underground world he suspects exists behind the artistic façade. This is a project about people, about duality and gray areas.
So far we have been able to finish and release a prologue and two episodes, and are in the midst of a crowdfunding campaign, through Seed & Spark, to fund four more episodes that will complete season one. We have a myriad of characters of all colors, sizes, shapes, and backgrounds in the works, and are proudly committed to creating a space for character actors to take the lead in interesting stories. Should we have the opportunity to finish the first season of this project and move on to others, there will be a rich and diverse lineup of writers, directors, and other artists, that will get to work and tell their stories (to learn more about Space Available, and to view the prologue and first two episodes, visit our website at www.SpaceAvailableSeries.com, and our Seed & Spark campaign page at: http://www.seedandspark.com/studio/space-available-web-series)
Rosa Rodriguez
Rosa Rodriguez is an actress, singer, writer and producer living in LIC, New York. She was born and raised in the Dominican Republic and is proud of her roots and her accent. She has numerous stage performances, short films, commercials, and industrials to her credit. She also holds a degree in Civil Engineering, and earned her Master’s in Construction Management from NYU. For more about Rosa visit her website: RosaRodriguezNYC.com.
So while Nikki is a successful wrestler (she’s the current Divas Champion in real time), actress (she’s been in outwardly scripted productions as well as “scripted reality” TV), real estate agent and businesswoman in general, she apparently can’t be trusted to make choices that are best for her personal life at the age of 31.
For those unfamiliar with the E! reality show Total Divas, it follows the lives of eight female professional wrestlers—or Divas as they are better known—under the employ of World Wrestling Entertainment as they navigate through their personal lives, work, travel and health.
The first season delved into the machinations of the daily lives of twins Nikki and Brie Bella, veteran and wrestling family royalty Nattie, tag team partners Trinity and Ariane, and rookies Eva Marie and JoJo. By season end JoJo had decided to leave the show (but still ring announces on the WWE Network’s developmental program, NXT) for reasons that are unclear, but her absence was felt long before.
Bad girl Summer Rae replaced her in season two, also taking the title of the show’s villainess from Eva Marie who became perceived by the other Divas as one of them. And by season three, Rosa Mendes had joined the ranks, fresh from a bad breakup, cosmetic surgery and a stay in rehab for alcoholism.
Last Sunday marked the mid-season return of Total Divas and with it the departure of Summer Rae and Trinity, who was barely getting airtime before it was announced last year that newbie Diva Paige and Alicia Fox would be coming on board. Again, just because these Divas aren’t on Total Divas doesn’t mean they’re not continuing on with the WWE: Trinity (known in WWE as Naomi) is in a storyline with her husband, Jimmy Uso, while Summer Rae is now hosting the Total Divas aftershow on WWE.com.
Plenty of Divas make their mark on WWE programming without being involved in the reality show. For example, Paige won the Divas Championship on her very first day on the “main roster,” which was long before she signed on to the show, and the Slammy award (kind of like a Grammy but for wrestling) for Diva of the Year 2014 went to AJ Lee, the longest reigning Divas champion who, to the best of my knowledge, has never appeared in even a backstage shot on Total Divas.
It’s great that Total Divas is promoting women as athletes in a male dominated sport (or sports entertainment, rather), a portrayal that is rarely seen on reality television, but the women on the show are hardly the be all and end all of women in wrestling.
A.J. Lee has said that she “could” be on Total Divas, “but I wouldn’t do it. I’m just happy being who I am on TV two days a week and on live events and then going into my private life, and into my little hole in the middle of nowhere and having no one talk to me about my private life.”
The choice to be a Total Diva is vastly different from being a regular Diva.
The mid-season return of Total Divas saw the fallout between Nikki Bella and her partner, WWE Superstar John Cena, and their trial separation, the wheels of which were put in motion by her sister Brie and the rest of her family at the October finale.
Here’s the gist of the drama: before meeting John, Nikki was sure she was going to be a wife and mother. John’s been married before and doesn’t want to go down that road again. He also doesn’t want children. Nikki sacrificed her dreams to be with the man of them and she seemed happy (as happy as can be gleaned from a reality show, anyway) which her family can’t understand. Brie and the rest of Nikki’s family butted in and sat John down with an ultimatum: if he’s not going to give their sister what they believe she wants, let her go.
And so he did.
The thing that bugged me about this storyline—sorry, development in Nikki’s life—is that Nikki is a grown woman: if she decides to be with a man who won’t give her marriage and children, then that’s her choice. No one else is in the position to decide what makes her happy now, and what she’ll regret later. I get the same crap when I tell people I don’t want kids: but what if you regret it later? So what? That’s my regret to have.
Nikki pretty much echoed these sentiments when she found out that John “letting her go” was actually the doing of her family.
“You told my boyfriend what I want without me being there? You had no right to tell anyone how I feel. Who the hell do you think you are to make my decisions for me?”
So while Nikki is a successful wrestler (she’s the current Divas Champion in real time), actress (she’s been in outwardly scripted productions as well as “scripted reality” TV), real estate agent and businesswoman in general, she apparently can’t be trusted to make choices that are best for her personal life at the age of 31.
Speaking of marriage and kids, fellow Total Diva Eva Marie is facing the repercussions of having lied to her husband about wanting children. Eva has been plagued by reproductive health issues which saw her coming to terms with the possibility of not being able to conceive. In the second episode of the mid-season return, Eva is told that a medical procedure could cure her infertility but she’s scared of pregnancy and is okay with it just being her and her husband Jonathan for the rest of their lives. Jonathan has always been clear about his intention to have a lot of children, so he’s pissed that Eva hid this potentially life-changing choice from him. As the episode draws to a close the couples’ dilemma is tied up in a nice little bow as reality show storylines are wont to do: Jonathan tells Eva that when she eventually decides to have children she’ll make the best mother, and they agree not to discuss children again for the time being while they focus on their careers. Because all women want to be mothers eventually: they just don’t know it yet. And all women who are apprehensive about motherhood will love their children and make great moms once they inevitably make that choice.
Despite his insistence that Eva will one day want children, Jonathan brings up a good point: in not telling him that she didn’t want kids before they got married, Eva took away his choice not to marry her because of this. He says would have married her regardless because he’s madly in love with her, but he would have liked to have had that choice. Presumably Eva would also like the choice whether or not to have kids.
So whether it’s having the independence from your family and your partner to make the choices that are best for you or being confident enough in your athletic abilities to opt out of a reality show many of your peers are involved in a the potential detriment to your career, being a Total Diva—and, indeed, a regular Diva—is all about choice. Isn’t that why women, be they wrestlers or no, are called divas in the first place?
Scarlett Harris is a Melbourne, Australia-based freelance writer and blogger at The Scarlett Woman, where she writes about femin- and other -isms. You can follow her on Twitter.
Only one of the Best Actress nominations is from one of the Best Picture nominees, whereas four of the five Best Actor nominations are for Best Picture-nominated films. As I wrote in 2013, this trend suggests that movies with significant roles for women aren’t considered as great or important by the Academy. This year, it is even worse: four of the five Best Actresses were in movies not nominated outside of the acting categories.
White hands holding Oscar statuettes.
Nominations for the 87th Academy Awards came out today, and I should have been on the edge of my seat. I normally completely buy into all the Oscars hype. But this awards season just hasn’t been doing it for me, and now that the Oscar noms are out the stage is set for the Boringest Academy Awards In History (or at least since that year Lord of the Rings won everything).
Honestly, the most exciting nomination to me is “Everything is Awesome” getting a nod for Best Original Song. But everything is not awesome on this nominees list:
Eight out of the nine Best Picture nominees are primarily about white dudes. Two of them are historical dramas about real life white dude geniuses.
Selma, the only Best Picture nominee about people of color, was shut out in all the other major categories (its director Ava DuVernay would have been the first Black woman nominated in the category).
Snubbed Selma director Ava DuVernay
All of the acting nominees are white.
Nominees include Whitest Man Alive Benedict Cumberbatch
There are no women nominated for best director or in either screenplay category.
Only one of the Best Actress nominations is from one of the Best Picture nominees, whereas four of the five Best Actor nominations are for Best Picture-nominated films. As I wrote in 2013, this trend suggests that movies with significant roles for women aren’t considered as great or important by the Academy. This year, it is even worse: four of the five Best Actresses were in movies not nominated outside of the acting categories.
Still Alice shut out aside from Julianne Moore’s nomination for Best Actress
Note that the one Best Actress nominee from a Best Picture nominee is Felicity Jones in The Theory of Everything, as the love interest to White Dude Genius #2.
And aside from my disappointment at the total lack of representation in the slate of nominees, I’m also just BORED by these movies. The Grand Budapest Hotel tied with Birdmanfor total number of nominations. The Grand Budapest Hotel was released all the way back in February, before last year’s Oscars even aired, and I had no idea it was even in contention. And I still have no idea why. I fell asleep trying to watch that movie no less than three times. I thought Boyhood was mediocre (although I’m glad Patricia Arquette was nominated). Birdman was great, but I’d rather be rooting for it as an offbeat dark horse instead of a front runner in an incredibly weak field.
The Grand Budapest Ambien
The past few years I’ve mounted my own attempts at what Sarah D. Bunting calls the “Oscars Death Race” by trying to see every nominated film. I’ve never even come close to succeeding (it is hard to do in any circumstance, but basically impossible in South Africa), but through the effort I’ve seen a lot of great movies I would have otherwise missed. (I also subjected myself to The Wolf of Wall Street, but it has still been a net positive.)
I’m not sure I’m going to even bother this year. I mean, maybe one or both of the White Dude Genius Period Piece movies will actually turn out to be lovely. Maybe American Sniper will be this year’s Captain Phillips, a “dad movie” that is actually an incredibly well-crafted piece of cinema. Maybe Whiplash, which I honestly had not even heard of before today, will be my favorite movie of the year.
For all I know, Whiplash could be the greatest film of all time.
But I’m not optimistic. My love of Awards Season pomp and circumstance is waning in the face of my growing cynicism about Hollywood. Do I really want to throw more money at movies about white dudes just because the white dudes in the Academy voted for them? Maybe I should save my Oscars Death Race bib for next year.
How do you feel about the Oscar nominations? What would you have rather seen get recognition this year?
