Abuse – Bitch Flicks

‘Jessica Jones,’ The Kilgrave Mirror and the Distancing Effect of Negative Masculinity

The result is that while many viewers are no doubt cishet white men, few will truly identify with what Kilgrave illustrates not just about rapists and abusers, but about negative ideas about masculinity itself.

This is a guest post by Scott Remington.

When Netflix announced their new series Jessica Jones featured a villain who was not just evil, but an actual emotionally abusive manipulator, there was a rush on various social networks to remind fans that despite being a superhero show, his actions would not be unlike ones real people have experienced. In Jessica Jones, they seemed to suggest, we can see more than just a superhero trying to triumph over a villain, but reflections of real people’s struggle with the emotional wreckage of abuse and rape and the difficulty survivors face in having to move past it while the abusers remain at large. The show has been praised for its ability to illustrate what abusive techniques like gaslighting, victim-blaming, and emotional coercion can feel like, thanks to the way viewers identify with the title character and her struggle to overcome her PTSD. Yet Jessica Jones falters in one key area, and that is with viewer identification with the negative aspects of masculinity displayed by the abuser, Kilgrave.

Kilgrave’s ability is mind control, but within the context of the show it’s not just how he can make anyone do anything, it’s how getting anything he wants simply by asking for it has led to him growing up with an enormous sense of entitlement to the world and the people in it. Series creator and showrunner Melissa Rosenburg reflected on this in an article where she drew parallels from Kilgrave’s power to the privilege and entitlement white men have normalized for themselves through media and the principle of American bootstrap logic. When he’s denied what he believes is his (Jessica’s love), Kilgrave becomes fixated on changing her mind much the way men try to reason with women who reject their advances.

Throughout the series, Kilgrave obtains money, fancy dinner reservations, and yes, even people, with barely a thought to whether he should have them. His manipulation results in trauma and death for many of those around Jessica. While this makes him a powerful avatar of privilege and colonialism, it also has the consequence of making Kilgrave and all he represents into “the other.” As long as his actions so clearly violate laws of viewer’s morality, and are portrayed as such by the main character, it’s unlikely viewers will reflect on what they mean coming from a man motivated by ideas about masculinity and not just free will. The result is that while many viewers are no doubt cishet white men, few will truly identify with what Kilgrave illustrates not just about rapists and abusers, but about negative ideas about masculinity itself.

Kilgrave does many things representing male fantasies, such as when he joins a high stakes game of poker and forces all the other men to let him win. He eggs them on with emasculating insults, (“Where are your balls?”) and boosts his ego even further by compelling the non-participating women in the room to echo his words at them. When threatened by a man for leaving without giving them a chance to win their money back, Kilgrave slips out by getting him to pound his head against a pole. It’s a twist on the “underdog outwits the bad guys” formula, the masculine idea of triumphing against the odds through brains, not brawn, but given a bad taste when we later learn Kilgrave will use the money to buy Jessica’s old house to enact a disturbing parody of a marriage and the American Dream.

No less disturbing, but far more culturally relevant is Kilgrave’s ability to blackmail Jessica into sending him photos of her under fear of reprisal against those she cares about. While male viewers no doubt see his actions to control her via the threat of violence as abusive, it’s unlikely many would associate his desire to have them with the way men casually request similar from women on dating sites as though it were a normal and not potentially dangerous request (see the celebrity photo hack). A phenomenon often observed in scenes where women fight sexism is how male viewers identify with the character “triumphing” yet don’t see how they have more in common with the male perpetrator than the character.

Jessica Jones features several examples where men’s seemingly innocuous entitlement to a woman’s body or her attention is shown as an annoyance, such as when a man harasses Patsy and Jessica in the bar with suggestive comments, to actively dangerous, such as Simpson’s insistence that he be allowed to make up for trying to kill Patsy while under Kilgrave’s control. Simpson’s struggle to overcome his mind control manifests in increasingly dangerous ways, yet overlooks the fact that as a white male in a position of authority his insistence on being “forgiven” by Trish is a function of privilege and abuse and not just personality. When the perspective shifts to actions, viewers are often given an excuse not to identify with the masculinity the character expresses, or else they excuse it by suggesting the characters’ actions are “not what I would do.”

This is nothing new however, as the cognitive flip that allows viewers to enjoy watching and rooting for male anti-heroes/villains while ignoring their own ties to the message is so common it’s basically accepted as part of the cishet white anti-hero character. The distance viewers establish from the characters is present in the so called “morally grey character,” a simultaneously cautionary tale/wish fulfillment vessel who follows a path of masculinity leading them to make terrible decisions most viewers innately reject. Often the characters justify this as being either about “surviving” or “protecting,” two feelings viewers identify with even when the result twists into something amoral.

For examples of the dark side of control and protection, look no further than the darkly comedic serial killer drama Dexter. The series urged viewers to root for and identify with a white male anti-hero who compartmentalized his life in order to exercise the ultimate form of control by killing those who the viewer saw as “monstrous” as their actions made them unforgivable. It’s notable that the titular character always painted his targets in black and white terms based on their actions, while he (and many viewers) dismissed his own horrendous behavior as not under his control, thus absolving him from similar judgment. A closer look often revealed Dexter’s “good” side to be both a shield, as well as genuinely relatable in how he struggled with being a father and husband while hiding his need for homicidal behavior.

Throughout the series, Dexter faced other murderous men who reflected parts of him — men equally control obsessed and claimed just as many lives — yet viewers were always allowed to identify with Dexter’s paternalism and vigilantism enough to brush off lies and deceptions. This distancing from his obsession with control remained so strong that it was only by the end of the series that people saw the true damage wreaked by his attempts to hide his secret from his loved ones. Dexter’s killer masculinity may have been an exaggeration, but his selfishness is all the more dangerous because of how easily men identify with lying for the “sake” of others’ safety.

The theme of “protecting” is central to the masculinity of the “good” anti-hero, even when that protection is not necessarily wanted. For a shining example, look no further than the forever-entitled patriarch Walter White (See what they did there?) in Breaking Bad. Viewers were quick to identify with Walter’s meek, emasculated everyman who nonetheless possessed an aptitude for the sciences that made him capable in entertaining yet deadly ways. Like Dexter, the fun was seeing how Walter could regain control when under pressure. However, where Dexter kept his life secret from his loyal wife Rita, Walter’s wife bore the brunt of Walter’s anger and dissatisfaction. Skyler White was accused of second guessing and belittling her husband on numerous occasions, even while she tried desperately to free her family from the dangerous life he made them a part of. Viewers identified with Walter’s amoral antics while despising Skyler for talking back or lashing out against her husband’s poisonous control “with such venom” that actress Anna Gunn wrote an entire essay on how easily the annoyance with Skyler conflated annoyance with her in real life and what this indicates about our perspectives on gender and misogyny.

When viewers analyzed Walter’s pathological refusal to take “charity” or his pride and belief he DESERVED to be more than a high school science teacher, they rarely scrutinized the connection to masculinity. When he manipulated his former student Jesse Pinkman under the guise of security and partnership, viewers excused it as necessary to keep him safe, and rarely saw it as the same kind of entitlement that Kilgrave practiced. When Walter himself admitted he’d done what he’d done not just for his family, but because he enjoyed the power and control he got, viewers saw him as a figure consumed ambition, not a man like themselves who had grown up believing they had a right to wealth and fame simply by growing up in the “land of opportunity.”

But the most unnerving example of these toxic avatars whose critique of masculinity goes unacknowledged is the one whose popularity is itself evidence of how far male viewers will identify yet differentiate themselves from negative masculinity. Tyler Durden of Chuck Palahniuk’s ode to lost manhood and twisted revolution, Fight Club, and portrayed by Brad Pitt in the much-lauded David Fincher film. Acting as both a charismatic cult leader to young men who feel emasculated and beaten down by corporate culture, and a dangerous realization of the Alpha Male archetype, the narrator, like the audience, is at first captivated by the controlled presence of Tyler.

In Tyler’s own words he is: “smart, capable, and most importantly, I am free in all the ways that you are not,” a real life masculine fantasy being sold to the yearning men of the world, including the young cishet white viewers. Yet, the narrator’s relationship with Tyler is not portrayed as a healthy one, ranging from him excusing bruises on his face with explicit reference to domestic violence, to him tricking his boss to let him leave work by making himself look like a victim of him. As corporate skyscrapers fall, male viewers reject Tyler’s actions, but have they really understood how Tyler Durden’s masculinity exists all around us? In the white terrorism from the rage at not feeling recognized? Or in the men who see women as only virgins or whores?

Melissa Rosenberg referred to Kilgrave as “Jessica’s Chinatown,” alluding to the legendarily bleak film by the convicted sex offender Roman Polanski, whose most haunting scene is the failure of the male hero Jake Gittes (Jack Nicholson) to save Evelyn Mulwray (Faye Dunaway) and her sister/daughter from the clutches of her predatory father. What the film doesn’t dwell on is how Jake learns this information: a desperate interrogation wherein his masculine desire to “find the truth” motivates him to hit a woman and (unknowingly) an abuse survivor, while ignoring her tears and pleas.

Movies are mirrors, and just because we don’t like the reflection they display doesn’t mean viewers can shatter them and then claim it’s not accurate. Because movies aren’t mirrors individually: they represent diverse people’s experience of the world and the people in it. If we’re willing to accept Jessica Jones as the story about one woman’s struggle with a male abuser, why can’t we accept that, on some level, it’s just as much a story about women’s experience with harmful masculinity as it is about “monstrous” abusers?

Scott Remington is a TV aficionado and prospective writer, currently examining privilege and gender via social media. Graduated with a Bachelor of Arts in English and multiple credits in religious studies, he analyzes movies at (https://myfearfulsymmetry.wordpress.com/) and provides support to others at @RemingtonWild on Twitter. He has no cats but would like to someday own several.

‘Jessica Jones’: A Discomforting Yet Real Portrayal of Abuse

If ever there was a personification of this psychological abuse that goes along with physical abuse, it’s in Kilgrave. … He gaslights Jessica, telling her it’s her fault he uses his powers to make people do things they don’t want to do, namely kill others and themselves.

This guest post is written by Scarlett Harris.

[Trigger warning: discussion of intimate partner abuse] | Spoilers ahead.

There’s TV that, when you watch, makes you feel all warm and fuzzy and can be likened to a hug. For me, it’s Grey’s Anatomy. And then there’s TV that doesn’t necessarily fall within this category that I still love, such as Orange Is the New Black, with its focus on crime, drug addiction, broken families and poverty, and that upon marathoning makes you ache to get back to the trials and tribulations of Sophia, Taystee, Poussey, and Red.

Despite binging Jessica Jones over my Christmas and New Year’s break, I almost dreaded sitting down for a few hours every afternoon to check into Jessica’s world. I guess that’s what a series directed so heavily at abuse is wont to do.

https://twitter.com/mojorojo/status/670495742503489537
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In the six weeks or so since Jessica Jones was released in full on Netflix, the internet has been abuzz with its brilliance. Many feminists asserted that this is what it feels like to watch content created for women, by women, while others marveled (pun intended) at the show’s gritty portrayal of New York City and an actually villainous villain, a departure from some of Marvel’s other offerings.

Jessica Jones’ emphasis on abuse was also heavily discussed. Kia Groom at The Mary Sue wrote about her experience in a similarly abusive relationship as the one central to the TV series. Stassa Edwards at Jezebel wrote:

“If Jessica Jones is a feminist show, as many critics have said that it is, it’s not simply because it presents a complicated woman, but rather because it understands how strength and control play out in the lives of women.”

To return to OITNB, for example, the fellow Netflix offering isn’t necessarily littered with likable characters (*cough* Piper *cough*), but there are enough peripheral characters whose backstories come ‘round every now and then to tide you over while the story pivots back to Piper, Alex and the more boring inmates. Despite a couple of likable characters in Jessica Jones (I can only think of Malcolm and Trish), they weren’t enough to get me excited to come back to the rollercoaster of emotions. This is understandable: pretty much all of the characters are victims of some kind of abuse, whether it be villain Kilgrave’s mind control or otherwise, so if anyone has an excuse to be pissy, it’s them.

Edwards writes:

“…[Jessica Jones’] expression of anger — her inability to contain it — is what makes Jones deeply unlikable. But then, being unlikeable is part and parcel of being a woman on the edge. The emotional expression of anger has always been coded as an indelible marker of trauma and of difference.”

But what even are “likable” characters? Roxane Gay, a couple of years ago almost to the day, wrote about this phenomenon at Buzzfeed, touching on points from unlikable female characters being perceived to be suffering from mental illness, being inconveniences and coming across as having more humanity than likable ones. (Gay, as a survivor of sexual assault herself, has also written about the futility of trigger warnings, however this piece makes the case for them in Jessica Jones.) Jessica Jones works so well because most of its characters reek of humanity, however unflattering.

What’s more important than likable characters, though, are relatable ones and Jessica Jones has that in spades. We get impressions of this when Jessica tells Trish she can’t comfort her when she’s tased in an attempt to capture Kilgrave and when Jessica pushes those close to her away.

Perhaps the most human character, despite his villainy, is Kilgrave. We are first introduced to him through Jessica’s perspective as a cold and calculating abuser, which he is. But as the season progresses, we see glimpses of Kilgrave’s humanity and that he himself was embroiled in the cycle of abuse perpetrated by his parents who performed experiments on him as a child in an attempt to understand his mind control powers. While Jessica Jones seems to want us to believe that Kilgrave’s parents were trying to protect him and others from his “gift,” to me it was unclear as to who was abusing whom.

As I started to fathom Kilgrave’s past, I was reminded of an article written in 2014 for White Ribbon, an Australian campaign for the prevention of violence against women (which has its own problems), by Tom Meagher whose wife Jill Meagher was raped and murdered in Melbourne in 2012. He asserted that, despite the attack perpetrated against Jill by a known criminal, rapists, murderers and abusers of women aren’t “monsters” lurking in dark alleyways and behind bushes in the dead of night: they’re most often known to, trusted and/or loved by those they choose to abuse. Meagher wrote:

“By insulating myself with the intellectually evasive dismissal of violent men as psychotic or sociopathic aberrations, I self-comforted by avoiding the more terrifying concept that violent men are socialised by the ingrained sexism and entrenched masculinity that permeates everything from our daily interactions all the way up to our highest institutions…

“The only thing more disturbing than that paradigm is the fact that most rapists are normal guys, guys we might work beside or socialize with, our neighbors or even members of our family.”

Groom echoes this at The Mary Sue:

“Yes, Kilgrave is a rapist, but his sexual abuse is not of the kind we often see represented on television; he abuses in the context of relationships that seem, to the outside observer, consensual, and it is this — his psychological abuse of his victims, his absolute and total control and manipulation of them, his dominance over their agency and their free will — that make[s] him so utterly terrifying.”

Edwards further expands on this at Jezebel, asserting that Kilgrave is a different kind of villain — and a more terrifying one — from your typical Marvel fare in that:

“…The mundanity of control he exercises over Jones, over nearly every woman who crosses his path, is what makes him so evil, even more menacing than the typical villain. Kilgrave is every woman’s worst nightmare: he is a rapist, an unrepentant stalker, a man who, at any moment, can exercise his power and does.”

This “monster myth” and the cycle of abuse can also be seen in Officer Will Simpson, who begins a relationship with Trish after he tries to kill her whilst brainwashed by Kilgrave. Cate Young at Batty Mamzelle (cross-posted here at Bitch Flicks) explores this in depth. The fact that the actress who plays Trish Walker, Rachael Taylor, also survived abuse by her high profile ex-partner in 2010 adds yet another layer to the series.

As these examples attest, what Jessica Jones arguably has more of than relatable characters is relatable situations.

Not everyone can relate to being in an abusive relationship, and thank god. I haven’t personally been abused by a partner, but I grew up in a violent home as well as abuse being a big part of my life in recent years in reading about it, watching it take place on screen and in the news, and working towards changing attitudes about it through my writing and in everyday conversations (though I could be doing more; we all could). One of the more pervasive attitudes surrounding intimate partner violence is asking why the survivor “doesn’t just leave” without paying mind to the isolation from loved ones and external support systems by the abuser; the abuser’s reinforcement of worthlessness in the survivor; the depletion of their resources, such as money and their ability to make a living; and the threatening of children, pets and other loved ones. If ever there was a personification of this psychological abuse that goes along with physical abuse, it’s in Kilgrave.

Kilgrave preyed on a once vibrant and happy young Jessica Jones, glimpses of whom we see in a bar scene with Trish in episode five, “AKA The Sandwich Saved Me,” trauma which caused her to suffer from paranoia and alcoholism. Even after she manages to escape him, her life in tatters and suffering from PTSD, Kilgrave infiltrates himself back into her life, turning even the most tenuously connected people to her into his pawns, such as Malcolm, her — again — once vibrant and now drug-addicted neighbor. In a metaphor for the disbelief domestic violence survivors often face, Kilgrave manipulates Jessica’s allies into helping him, as seen with Jeri Hogarth assisting him in his escape, partly of her own free will but also under his mind control. He gaslights Jessica, telling her it’s her fault he uses his powers to make people do things they don’t want to do, namely kill others and themselves. He tries to win back her affections by buying her childhood home and restoring it to its former glory, another allegory for entrapment and, frankly, is just plain creepy. He tells her he can’t live without her and how much better she makes him, exemplified in their short-lived foray into tandem superheroism in episode eight (“AKA WWJD?”) when they save a family from another, perhaps more archetypal domestic abuser. This is also a pitch perfect portrayal of the hope an intimate partner violence survivor might face in seeing the “good” side of their partner and is transferred onto the audience: maybe Kilgrave can be good, I wondered.

Hope is a guiding force in Jessica’s pursuit of Kilgrave, embodied by the character of the same name. Jessica resists the easy way out — killing Kilgrave — for much of the thirteen episode arc as she needs him alive as proof of Hope’s innocence in her parenticide charges, committed under Kilgrave’s control. Proof is also something intimate partner abuse survivors are perpetually demanded to demonstrate — by law enforcement, the criminal justice system, society, even friends and family — even when it’s on their bodies in the form of blood and bruises and, in Hope’s case, in her uterus. Also, as previously stated, not all abuse is physical and society should believe, rather than disregard or dismiss, intimate partner violence survivors.

Despite Kilgrave’s rape of both Jessica and Hope, and his intention to do the same to Trish (and who knows how many others), showrunner Melissa Rosenberg was very conscious of depicting rape and abuse differently from a lot of other media that uses it as a “titillating” plot device, telling The Los Angeles Times:

“With rape, I think we all know what that looks like. We’ve seen plenty of it on television and I didn’t have any need to see it, but I wanted to experience the damage that it does. I wanted the audience to really viscerally feel the scars that it leaves. It was not important to me, on any level, to actually see it. TV has plenty of that, way too often, used as titillation, which is horrifying.”

Despite the influx of shows dealing with abuse, such as Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, Game of Thrones and mainstay Law & Order: SVU (which Emily Nussbaum and Lindy West discuss on The New Yorker Radio Hour), how often do we actually hear the confident pronouncement of the word “rape” that Jessica spits at Kilgrave in other media? Jessica Jones succeeds in depicting sexual abuse in a more harrowing and real way than shows that throw it around willy-nilly for shock value and not much else.

Scarlett Harris is an Australian writer and blogger at The Scarlett Woman, where she muses about femin- and other -isms. You can follow her on Twitter here.

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!

New “Star Wars” trailer, new hope: Leia finally picks up a lightsaber — and the little girl inside me cheers by Sonia Saraiya at Salon

There’s a raging controversy over Princess Leia’s bikini by Elizabeth Shockman at PRI

Teyonah Parris Delivers a Monologue That Gets to the Core of ‘Chi-Raq’s’ Message in New Clip from the Film by Tambay A. Obenson at Shadow and Act

Decades in the Making, ‘The Danish Girl’ and ‘Carol’ Show LGBT Films Aren’t Risky Anymore by Jennifer Swann at Take Part

‘Smile!’ How a villain’s phrase in ‘Jessica Jones’ exposes modern-day sexism by Libby Hill at LA Times

Marvel Show “Jessica Jones” Names a Most Evil Villain: Abuse by Stephanie Yang at Bitch Media

“The Wiz Live!” Finds a Brand New Day on the Small Screen by Nina Hemphill Reeder at Ebony

New Film “Mustang” Explores Young Women’s Vitality–and Patriarchy’s Brutality by Stephanie Abraham at Bitch Media

Why This Film About Pre-WWI London Rings Too True Today by Patricia Nugent at Ms. blog

Barbra Streisand’s First Directorial Project in 20 Years Will Be Catherine the Great Biopic by Inkoo Kang at Women and Hollywood

What TV Shows Still Haven’t Learned About Writing Female Leads of Color by Princess Weekes at The Mary Sue

12 of BFI’s Top 20 Films About Girls and Women by Laura Berger at Women and Hollywood

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

Empowerment in the Imaginary Spaces of Zach Snyder’s ‘Sucker Punch’

By creating her own worlds where she is a force to be reckoned with, Babydoll reclaims that very thing that was taken away from her by her stepfather and the hospital: her humanity.

The women of Sucker Punch — The women of *Sucker Punch*

This guest post by Toni McIntyre appears as part of our theme week on Dystopias.

At first glimpse, I’ll admit that Sucker Punch looks like little more than Zach Snyder’s latent schoolgirl fantasies brought to life. That Emily Browning, who plays main character Babydoll, has: A) that patronizing name and B) the dewy wide eyes of an anime heroine don’t exactly help. That said I’ve never been one to dismiss a film on wardrobe choices alone, even if they do cater a whole buffet’s worth to the male gaze. Snyder himself has even hinted that the aesthetics of Sucker Punch were chosen deliberately to mock geek culture’s sexualized fantasy version of women. Whether he was successful in that endeavor or not is fodder for another essay. The point is that as waifish as Babydoll appears, and however we may be tempted to dismiss Sucker Punch as just another male fantasy, a close look at the dystopian spaces within the film and how Babydoll exists in those spaces reveals a more woman-friendly, if bittersweet, reading.

The tragedy that starts the movie in earnest takes place in a very tight space. Babydoll attempts to shoot her abusive stepfather as he breaks down the door to a closet where Babydoll’s sister is hiding. The shot misses its intended target, ricochets in a way only bullets in movies can, and fatally wounds Babydoll’s sister inside the closet. Taking immediate advantage of the situation to unburden himself of his remaining stepdaughter, Babydoll’s stepfather carts her off to a mental hospital. Babydoll trades one menacing patriarchal force for another as crooked orderlies loom menacingly over Babydoll and the other broken but beautiful patients.

Rocket, Sweet Pea, and Blondie in the bordello world of Babydoll’s creation

Unable to cope with the reality of being in the hospital, Babydoll escapes inward and creates the first of two imagined worlds in her own mind. The first space is a richly adorned bordello and exists as the real world askew. The women from the hospital are still trapped, to a degree, in the bordello, but they have noticeably more power in how they present themselves to each other and to their male customers than they do in the hospital. It’s enough for Babydoll to become much more vocal once she’s imagined to be in the bordello—she becomes a plotting, rallying force for the other women.

It’s Babydoll’s second imagined world, one she accesses while she dances and enters a trance-like fugue state within the bordello, that Babydoll acts out her readiness to fight. While in the bordello everything is secrets and plans, in this second world, it’s all action. This second space is where things expand, where we get wide shots of extravagant landscapes—feudal Japan, a dragon’s den, a maze of soldier’s trenches. This second world is the tiny space of the closet where Babydoll fought her first battle, and where she lost in every sense of the word, blown wide open, given the space Babydoll needs in order to imagine battles she can fight and win.

Babydoll in her second world, armed and ready

Famed author and neurologist Oliver Sacks was observing a patient who experienced “transports” similar to Babydoll’s. Sacks pitied his patient and described the man’s imagined worlds as a “deceiving surface of illusion” that lacked anything deep or true. I’m not going to say Oliver Sacks is wrong in his observation, but I think it’s a simple way of looking at mental worlds or spaces—as untrue. I don’t think we’re meant to view any of the worlds Babydoll creates as false. And to quote another very wise and bearded man, Albus Dumbledore, even if something is happening only in your head, “Why on earth should that mean it’s not real?”

Babydoll had to travel within herself to worlds she created and could control, in order to discover a truth. We get a glimpse of what that truth is in a bit of dialogue delivered by the older matriarch figure the bordello:

“You see, your fight for survival starts right now. You don’t want to be judged? You won’t be. You don’t think you’re strong enough? You are. You’re afraid. Don’t be. You have all the weapons you need. Now fight.”

By creating her own worlds where she is a force to be reckoned with, Babydoll reclaims that very thing that was taken away from her by her stepfather and the hospital: her humanity.

Sucker Punch strives for optimism. The film wants to tell us that we have all the power within ourselves to rally against an unjust system. For a film bleeding special effects, it hits a real gut-punch worthy note of reality when we watch Babydoll fight—and fail. Again. The patriarchal forces at the hospital resurface and Babydoll sacrifices herself to ensure the escape of one of her fellow patients. Babydoll is lobotomized, her physical being trapped in the hospital, her mind free to sink down within the worlds she made for herself. Sucker Punch wants to tell us we have all the power we need to fight a unjust system, but, also, that that system sometimes still wins. It’s honest and brutal. Babydoll is made a prisoner twice over, and it’s a cold comfort that at least the second time, the decision to become locked in her own mind is hers. Sucker Punch is a story of finding your strength. It’s about looking in when those in control take away your ability to look out. It’s about making your own space when the space they give you is too small and too controlled for you to actually be. It’s equal parts a suggestion and a warning of what happens when you travel far enough into your own subconscious to really know yourself and all you’re capable of when the world outside may still beat you down. When I think about Babydoll, locked in her own mind, I think about when Gatson Bachelard warned that “he who buries a treasure, buries himself with it.”

Toni McIntyre is a native of Philadelphia but a Pittsburgh hockey fan. She once wrote a paper in grad school on Inception and couldn’t sleep for a week. She’s very often, too often, on Twitter.

The Courage to Cry: Men and Boys’ Emotions in ‘Naruto’

However, when boys are told that “boys don’t cry” and that men should “man up,” their emotions are not respected, and they often internalize this stigma, sometimes with devastating consequences. Of course, simply crying won’t cure a condition as severe as PTSD, but men being shown that they are not “weak” for experiencing emotions and needing help will undoubtedly aid in the road to recovery.

This post by Jackson Adler previously appeared at The Windowsill and appears here as part of our theme week on Masculinity. Cross-posted with permission.

CONTAINS SPOILERS for the Naruto franchise.

It’s still pretty rare to see boys and men cry in TV and film. Male characters shedding a tear or two has become slightly more common (thank you, Scandal), but rarely anything more, even when a character is grieving over the loss of a loved one. TV and film, with or without intention, often spread the stigma against men and boys expressing powerful emotions in healthy ways such as crying. According to Dr. Christia Brown in her Psychology Today article “Boys Who Cry Might Have It All Figured Out,” “For boys, they are taught that sadness is not okay, and expressing sadness is definitely not okay. But emotions don’t evaporate, they have to be expressed somehow. For boys, an acceptable emotion is anger. They can fight, [and] show aggression.” If emotions are channeled into verbal or physical violence, such as when men with PTSD become physically abusive to their partners or spouses (such as in the case of Sir Patrick Stewart’s father), the consequences can be absolutely devastating, and sometimes fatal. This is not to say that anger should be ignored or that anger cannot be expressed in a healthy and non-abusive manner. For example, righteous anger at injustice leads many into lives of activism in which they create positive changes in their communities. However, when boys are told that “boys don’t cry” and that men should “man up,” their emotions are not respected, and they often internalize this stigma, sometimes with devastating consequences. Of course, simply crying won’t cure a condition as severe as PTSD, but men being shown that they are not “weak” for experiencing emotions and needing help will undoubtedly aid in the road to recovery.

For these reasons, I am proud of Kishimoto Masashi, the man who created the Naruto manga series, for creating male characters who unabashedly cry, and who are emotionally supported by their peers when they express their emotions in this way. His manga series, which will conclude on Nov. 10, has since been adapted into two anime series (Naruto and Naruto Shippuden) and several animated films. In Naruto, a story that is set among militarized warrior states and focuses on the ninja who act as their soldiers, men and boys, whether soldiers or civilians, experience severe trauma and great loss. Most of the scenes when a male character cries take place when that character is grieving over the loss of a loved one, but a number also take place when a character is emotionally touched, when they are pleading for the protection of a loved one, when they are seeking forgiveness, when they are lonely, or when they are tortured, persecuted, bullied, or ostracized. When these characters express their emotions through crying, they are not emasculated in the slightest. Heroes, villains, gray-area characters, top-notch soldiers, political leaders, medical professionals, and average civilians all cry in Naruto.

Even the most powerful and intimidating of characters are told by their peers that it is all right for them to cry, and are shown empathy and support. In Naruto Shippuden in the episode “Disappearance,” the characters Itachi and Kisame, elite members of the terrorist organization Akatsuki, receive a false report that Itachi’s younger brother has been killed. When Itachi steps out into the rain for what seems to be a private moment, Kisame says to Itachi, “I don’t know what someone as cold as you could be thinking right now, but from here, you look as though you are crying.” Far from mocking him, Kisame goes on to say, “It’s too bad about your younger brother,” and expresses that it must be lonely for Itachi to be “the sole survivor of [his] clan.” Though Itachi then reveals that he knows the information they received is false, it is a surprising moment of closeness and support between characters whose professions are so violent.

The storyline of the Naruto franchise is an action/fantasy one about a boy named Naruto, who trains to be a ninja and to serve his country. Like Naruto, many of the characters in the story are children who have been affected by war and are trained to become child soldiers. Though the story is written for children, and even contains a fair amount of slapstick and goofy humor, it certainly does not shy away from serious content. “War is hell,” one character says. Many of the child characters experience severe trauma, often, but not always, from war, long before they are permitted to fight in combat. Naruto’s grows up rather alone, even being ostracized and otherwise bullied by his community, and the second main character, Sasuke, who is Naruto’s friend and rival, and Itachi’s younger brother, witnessed the murder of his parents and the genocide of his clan when he was very young.

Naruto wears his heart on his sleeve, and cries often in the story, which frequently stems from his great amount of empathy and love for others. Naruto cries in the first episode when he overhears his teacher Iruka say to another teacher that he believes in Naruto, and Naruto realizes that someone cares about him after all. Sasuke cries much more rarely, often feigning indifference instead, but frequently channels his emotions into rage or violence. Much of the story revolves around Naruto and other characters trying to help Sasuke to heal, to connect with others, and to let go of rage, violence, and an all-consuming, overwhelming, and relentless quest for revenge. Sasuke and a number of other characters in Naruto either start the story with signs of PTSD or develop symptoms of it along the way.

The Naruto manga series ends in only a few weeks, and has culminated in a confrontation between Sasuke and Naruto. They each have the same goal – to make the world a better, more loving, and more peaceful place. Sasuke believes that he has to take the fate of the world on his own shoulders, and that he cannot ask for help. Naruto hopes to help Sasuke to see that he does not have to face all the pain and hatred in the world, and in himself, on his own. Many men are afraid to ask for help or support when they need it because of the stigma that they are weak if they do. Their emotions and healthy expressions of them are often ignored or mocked. Naruto sets a good example for everyone – that crying, that suffering, and that asking for help do not make a person weak. Naruto is also a good example of someone who shows empathy and support for others’ emotions and needs. I certainly hope that more people emulate Naruto and reach out to those is pain, and that those is pain start to feel comfortable asking for help and expressing themselves in a healthy way. Naruto is a hero who cries, who suffers, and who helps others. If there were more heroes like that in the media, maybe the stigma against men crying or asking for help would cease.

Jackson Adler is a transmasculine aromantic bi/pansexual skinny white middle class dude with an Auditory Processing Disorder and a Weak Working Memory who enjoys cartoons, musical theatre, and vegan boba drinks. Jackson has a BA in Theater, and is a writer, activist, performer, director, teacher, and dramaturge.

‘Dogtooth’: The Blindfold of Socialization

By introducing the audience to a tight-knit family with a very peculiar upbringing, the film allows a glimpse into socialization, explores gender politics, and shows how art can lead to individualism.

This is a guest post by Janie Contreras-Johnson.

On a micro level, Yorgos Lanthimos’s film, Dogtooth, is a portrayal of one family’s socialization, yet on a macro level, it challenges its audience to reflect on the ways in which society accepts and perpetuates social norms. By introducing the audience to a tight-knit family with a very peculiar upbringing, the film allows a glimpse into socialization, explores gender politics, and shows how art can lead to individualism.

The film is set in a non-descript location that—only by the language spoken—the audience knows is Greece. The film revolves around a family wherein the parents employ bizarre methods to keep their three adult children safe and obedient under their roof.

Lanthimos immediately introduces the audience to the unusual development of this family; the first scene finds the three adult children listening to a taped recording of their mother giving a vocabulary lesson. We hear common words, but the definitions the tape is providing are inaccurate (“Highway: a gently blowing breeze”). It is one of the many times in the film Lanthimos establishes the childlike innocence and obedience that puts the children at the mercy of those meant to care for them. This sentiment is reiterated later in the film, when the father speaks with a dog trainer who explains that “dogs are waiting for you to show them how to behave.” The children live in a world where yellow flowers are called “zombies” and one is old enough to drive and move out on their own when their “dogtooth falls out.” Through this family, we are shown that we process information and beliefs by what we are told, whether that is from parent to child, or on a larger scale, government to society, or media to audience.

Initiating one of the children's many games and competitions — Initiating one of the children’s many games and competitions

The film also illuminates the perpetuation and acceptance of patriarchy in society. We see the parents show a great deal of concern with the male child’s sexuality, even going to the lengths of hiring the father’s co-worker, Cristina, as a sexual partner for their son. Yet never is there any concern for the two female children’s sexuality. The girls accept this as normal and do not attempt to exercise any form of sexual freedom. When Cristina offers to trade a headband for oral sex from the eldest, the eldest sister does not question her sexuality, and acts on the arrangement but only in a perfunctory manner, devoid of any insight into the act she’s being asked to perform. When the son’s arrangement with Cristina dissolves, the parents allow their son to choose which sister he would like to sleep with, and at the cost of their daughter’s sexual freedom, encourage incest to satisfy the son’s sexuality. Again, neither sister fights their parents’ or brother’s decision to dehumanize and objectify them, and instead the sisters accept it—like many other things in their upbringing—as normal.

Cristina, being carefully taken to the family's secluded home as part of the arrangement — Cristina, being carefully taken to the family’s secluded home as part of the arrangement

But the film acknowledges the possibility of escape from these norms by establishing how art can lead to critical thinking. The only child to make an effort to leave is the eldest sister. We see her capacity for free thinking expand throughout the film, beginning with art’s influence. She is loaned two videos—Jaws and Rocky—by Cristina. We know that these are the only films the eldest has been exposed to, as it is established previously that the only videos the children have seen are home videos, which have been viewed so many times that the youngest can mouth every word as they are played. The eldest is transformed by these new films: she no longer participates in the other children’s games, and instead chooses to re-enact scenes from the movies. She holds a sip of water in her mouth and mimes being punched in the face while channeling Rocky Balboa, then cites lines from Jaws while lunging at her brother in the pool. Finally, after being forced into incestuous sex, we are shown the culmination of this exposure to new ideas. She mouths a phrase that is neither from the films nor the sheltered world she was raised in, but is inspired by the language of the art she has seen: “Do that again, bitch, and I’ll rip your guts out. I swear on my daughter’s life you and your clan won’t last long in this neighborhood.” From then on, we witness the eldest navigate the strange milestones she has been taught. In a disturbingly gory scene, she uses a dumbbell to knock out her dogtooth, and attempts to escape. In the ambiguous conclusion, we are never shown whether this escape is successful, but are left wondering, contemplating how warped socialization occurs and whether anyone is exempt from it.

Janie Contreras-Johnson is a Mexican American feminist who loves books, music, and movies, especially Charles Bukowski, Courtney Love, and GoodFellas. She co-hosts Fifth Opinion, the movie podcast dedicated to dissent, discourse, disagreement, and debate.