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Girly Girl Vindicated: The Rise of Sansa Stark on ‘Game of Thrones’

Strength is more than fighting with swords, and no one has proved that more often than Sansa Stark. She’s gone from being a (honestly, pretty annoying) starry-eyed teen to a brave and complex heroine, capable of making tough decisions in the face of tremendous personal pain. Perhaps most importantly, she’s done it without attempting to remake herself in the image of men or by diminishing the strongly feminine traits that set her apart from many of Game of Thrones’ other women.

This guest post is written by Lacy Baugher. | Spoilers ahead.

Sansa Stark has never gotten a lot of love in the world of Westeros. (Or in the world of Game of Thrones fandom, if we’re being honest.)

Not only has she suffered arguably the most of any character on television in recent memory, she’s been constantly underestimated, belittled, and/or generally disregarded by almost every other character on the show – and half of the series’ fans, to boot. It’s kind of disturbing, actually. No matter what Sansa does, she can’t seem to win; her every decision has been questioned or mocked. She’s been repeatedly dismissed as everything from a vapid teen, to a mindless sycophant, to a selfish “bitch,” to someone hated and despised.

Why does no other female character on Game of Thrones get subjected to this kind of treatment – either inside or outside the narrative? After all, Sansa’s biggest offense appears to be merely that she’s a teenage girl. A girly teenage girl.

From the beginning of the series, Sansa’s character has been positioned as super feminine – she likes pretty dresses and stresses over her hairstyle; she loves lemon cakes; and she has dutifully memorized every basic rule of etiquette. Once upon a time, her biggest dream involved marrying a prince, having his children, and becoming a queen someday.

Sansa isn’t a tomboy, or a warrior, or an epic schemer, like so many of the other women who are cited as examples of Game of Thrones’ slate of “powerful female characters.” She’s basically everything an ideal young Westerosi noblewoman is supposed to be, which immediately sets her apart from characters like Daenerys Targaryen, Cersei Lannister, Arya Stark, Yara Greyjoy, and Brienne of Tarth — women who actively reject traditional female roles and attempt to carve out different kinds of lives for themselves. And who, incidentally, are all the sort of gender-defying heroines who are seen as exceptional precisely because they emulate stereotypically perceived masculine traits or they compete with the example of men. Sansa doesn’t do that, but this doesn’t mean that she is weak, nor does it mean that she possesses no agency within her own story.

This is why her ultimate transformation into the resident Stark family badass is so satisfying. Strength is more than fighting with swords, and no one has proved that more often than Sansa Stark. She’s gone from being a (honestly, pretty annoying) starry-eyed teen to a brave and complex heroine, capable of making tough decisions in the face of tremendous personal pain. Perhaps most importantly, she’s done it without attempting to remake herself in the image of men or by diminishing the strongly feminine traits that set her apart from many of Game of Thrones’ other women. She still retains and embodies all the traits the series used to punish her for – and that fans made fun of, back during the show’s first couple of seasons – only now, she’s learned to use those traits and skills to her advantage.

Sansa’s indomitable strength has been built on the things that many mock her for – her embrace of femininity, etiquette, and kindness doesn’t get a lot of respect in the world of Westeros. But, in her case, these are the reasons, along with her adaptability, why she has survived as long as she has and why she’s able to find some measure of success. Her small acts of courtesy, her conversational skills, and her understanding of the relationships between people – these are the qualities that many of the other major players in “the game of thrones” either scorn, ignore, or ridicule.

But Sansa has fought for her life with words and smiles and patience. While her battles may look very different from Arya’s or Daenerys’, her victories, though perhaps smaller in scale, are no less legitimate.

Sansa learned from a very young age that her job was to be polite, kind, and obedient – to follow the rules of etiquette laid out for all “good” young women. “Courtesy is a lady’s armor,” Septa Mordane told her, and it’s advice that Sansa constantly returns to, whether she’s trying to survive the Lannisters, manipulate the Vale lords, or get through a wedding (or two) to a man she doesn’t love.

She adapted to the revelation that almost everything she ever believed in turned out to be a lie; she’s literally been hit in the face with the fact that the chivalrous world order she idealized for so long doesn’t actually exist. However, that doesn’t make her Septa’s advice wrong, and Sansa’s survival is due to the fact that she learns to repurpose – and even to weaponize – the same skills she was once told would make her the most proper of ladies.

In the end, Sansa draws her strength from traits and skills that almost everyone else dismisses and thinks are useless – the way that almost everyone thinks she is useless. No one taught her survival skills, or swordsmanship; she was taught how to be a good conversationalist, sew pretty embroidery, and to make people feel at ease. The amazing thing about Sansa is that she manages to turn domestic tasks into survival skills.

Because of these lessons, Sansa is able to sit down across the table from monsters, smile blankly into the middle distance, and ask about the weather over her food as they insulted her family and threatened her life. (Although the addition of rape in Sansa’s storyline is troubling.) She never forgot a thank you or a curtsy. Her unfailing courtesy allowed her to shield and protect herself, so that she could survive and fight another day. (In the Stark family, sometimes just not getting yourself killed in the name of honor is probably the best you can do.)

Sansa’s perfectly polished facade even allows her to rebel against her oppressors to some extent – grand dame Lady Olenna Tyrell is the only other character on Game of Thrones who can rival Sansa for throwing shade at other people, all while masking her active wish for their death in concern or a compliment. Her rebellion is an internal one, for the most part, but her ability to strategically play the role that’s expected of her has assured her survival more than once.

Part of Sansa knowing her courtesies also means that she’s well read in the subject of other people – or at least in a set of specific people. The idea of courtly behavior in Westeros, especially for a girl like Sansa, means that she would have learned about all the other noble greater and lesser Houses – who the families were, where they were from, how they were all related, and their histories.

Sansa knows what it is – perhaps more than the younger version of herself could have ever dreamed – to be a Stark. Her name still commands the most respect out of anyone in the North. Familiar with the Northern families, she knows the debts they owed to her father, her grandfather, heck all the way back through the generations to Brandon the Builder, the first King in the North. Sansa understands the importance of the Stark name, the Stark history, and the Stark symbols; she is willing to harness the power in that imagery.

As it turns out, one of Sansa’s other frequently remarked upon, extremely feminine talents is sewing. As the seasons progress, she’s used clothing to either reimagine, hide, or reinforce her identity several times. At Castle Black, she makes herself a new dress, one emblazoned with a very obvious direwolf — not just because it’s pretty or because she certainly deserves a wardrobe upgrade after an entire season stuck in her drab Bolton prisoner attire. It’s because she understands that she is the face of this new rebellion, that she is the face of the Starks, and as such she will play her role both physically and visually. She must look the part. “The North Remembers,” “there must always be a Stark in Winterfell,” and all that, but it doesn’t hurt to give them a reminder.

Sansa even makes her half-brother Jon Snow a new greatcloak, one that looks exactly like the one that used to belong to beloved, martyred Stark patriarch Ned, because she knows that some Northerners will need the visual aid to remind them that Jon is a Stark too, and that their duty is to support Ned’s children. The wolves have come again to claim their own, that’s the message these clothes are meant to convey. They themselves are the banner the North is meant to rally behind. While Jon may be positioned as Northern army’s great leader, it’s Sansa who shows them the symbol they need.

This isn’t the first time that Sansa has displayed a stereotypically feminine gift for reading people and understanding how to present herself to match or take advantage of their expectations. As part of her upbringing, she was taught that part of the job of a proper noble lady was pleasing those around her, and anticipating their needs before they could think to ask for whatever it was they wanted. This has made her very observant, thoughtful, and aware of the relationships between the people around her – and she’s (finally!) learning how to use this information to her advantage.

Perhaps as a byproduct of the destruction of her own idealistic view of the world, Sansa has developed an uncanny understanding of people’s images of themselves and how they want others to see them, which is how she manages to survive living with both Joffrey and Ramsay for so long.

Her understanding also gives her the insight that Jon lacks about facing the Boltons in battle. She is intimately familiar with Ramsay’s sadistic streak, and she’s watched him enough to know how he wishes to present himself to his men, the other Northern lords, and even to the remaining Starks. Because of this, Sansa accurately guesses the general shape his plan will take – Rickon will likely be sacrificed because he’s a threat to Ramsay’s claim to legitimacy, some action will be taken to try and force Jon to make an emotional and/or rash decision in the heat of battle, etc.

In the end, the fact that the good guys emerge victorious in the Battle of the Bastards is almost entirely due to Sansa — a victory achieved despite the fact that Jon openly and repeatedly ignores his sister’s advice and commentary about how the encounter with Ramsay should go. Sansa, admittedly, doesn’t know anything about the actual art of fighting, and therefore can’t articulate how to incorporate her insights into the attack on Winterfell. As a result, Jon seems to dismiss her opinion outright – and then proceeds to ignore all her warnings entirely once Rickon is threatened (just as Sansa feared). Is her advice discounted because she’s a feminine woman unfamiliar with warfare? Would the same concerns have been taken more seriously coming from a character like Daenerys Targaryen or Yara Greyjoy? And why is Sansa’s tactical realization that Rickon was likely lost no matter what they did disparaged as heartless while Jon basically got a pass for almost getting everyone killed because he reacted emotionally? These seem like questions worth asking.

Unfortunately, Sansa is also not given space to explain her decision to keep Petyr Baelish’s presence a secret from her half-brother. Does she hold back the information about the possible arrival of the Vale knights because she wasn’t sure they were actually coming? Because she knew Jon would do something rash and their army would need extra support later in the battle? Did she want the chance to be a hero herself? Frustratingly, the show offers no insights on her thoughts at this key moment, and in some ways seems to imply that her decision was possibly due to the fact that she’s a flighty emotional girl who didn’t know any better. That such a reading would be a step backward for her character is both obvious and kind of gross, but it also isn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility, as uncomfortable as that may be, particularly given her treatment at season’s end.

The Season 6 finale sees Sansa’s contributions yet again diminished. During the half dozen speeches urging Jon (her half-brother/cousin/whatever he is) to take up Robb’s King in the North title, not one person (including Jon) acknowledges her; in fact, I’m not even sure that anyone even speaks to her during that scene. This happens despite the fact that she has a stronger claim to Winterfell as a trueborn Stark daughter and that her efforts were what really saved the lot of them in the battle with the Boltons. If it hadn’t been for Sansa’s timely arrival with Baelish’s (“Littlefinger”) army – whatever her motivations for holding them in reserve during the initial phase of fighting – all these Northerners praising Jon’s leadership ability would probably be dead.

That Lyanna Mormont, a young girl who herself leads her own House, first dismisses Sansa in favor of her brother is especially difficult to stomach, particularly in a season that has been so focused on seeing the women of the show claim their power. It’s probably not a mistake that Lady Lyanna has very little in common – in attitude or leadership style – with Sansa, and further perpetuates Game of Thrones’ general ideas of what “empowered women” are “supposed” to look like.

Perhaps the question we’re meant to ask is: What does real power for a woman like Sansa look like? What does it mean to be a feminine woman with real agency? Does that power make people uncomfortable? If so, why? It’s a conversation worth having, particularly given how far Sansa, specifically, has come.

Jon and Arya are perhaps the Starks that have displayed more flashy heroic traits, what with his resurrection and her assassin training. But that doesn’t discount the fact that Sansa too, is a survivor, and has been through just as much – probably more, if we’re honest – than any of her siblings. Sansa may not be a warrior, but she is a fighter and a leader, and she’s learned how to be better at being both of those things because of who she is, not in spite of it – girly dresses, lemon cakes, and all.

See also at Bitch Flicks: I’m Sick to Death of Talking About Rape Tropes in Fiction and all our other articles on ‘Game of Thrones.’

Recommended Reading: Don’t Hate on Sansa Stark’s Powerful Femininity via Bitch Media

Lacy Baugher is a digital media strategist by day, and a lover of all things geeky all of the time. Her major interests include British period dramas, complex ladies in superhero stories and the righteousness of Sansa Stark’s destiny as Queen of the North. Stop by and say hello on Twitter at @LacyMB.

‘The World Is Not Enough’ and the “Believability” of Dr. Christmas Jones

Dr. Jones went from being a promising step forward for Bond girls to one of the more maligned female characters of the franchise. … And this is what is the most disappointing thing about Dr. Jones. She’s a tough-talking woman whose best moments in the film come when she grows impatient with Bond’s testosterone-driven idiocy and counters his quips with her own formidable sarcasm, yet in the end, she’s just like any of those earlier Bond girls that Denise Richards dismissed as lacking depth…

This guest post written by Lee Jutton appears as part of our theme week on Women Scientists.

The character of the Bond girl is nearly as iconic as that of James Bond himself. After all, one of MI6 Agent 007’s defining features — and indeed, one of his biggest weaknesses, one that his enemies exploit time and time again — is his love of the opposite sex. Over the course of 24 films spanning 54 years, Bond has met his match — whether it be intellectually, sexually or a combination of both — in numerous women. While some seem to exist only as a pretty face and body for the audience to ogle as Bond utters some his infamous double entendres, many others stand on their own as vibrant, complicated characters. These are women with their own inner lives, their own professions, their own reasons for being beyond just being eye candy. However, that doesn’t mean they aren’t still conventionally attractive; the more modern version of the Bond girl often has brains, but you better bet she still has beauty, too.

The World Is Not Enough is a perfectly acceptable James Bond adventure directed by Michael Apted and starring Pierce Brosnan as 007. Story-wise, it doesn’t reach the heights of From Russia With Love or GoldenEye. But it’s an exciting, action-packed romp featuring a great Bond girl performance by Sophie Marceau as Elektra King, the daughter of an oil tycoon who is not what she seems. The film’s other female lead is a nuclear scientist with the unfortunate moniker of Dr. Christmas Jones, played by a 28-year-old Denise Richards. Previous Bond girls have included fellow agents (both allies and enemies), assassins, thieves, and heiresses (like Elektra King), not to mention the occasional pilot or fortune-teller; adding a nuclear scientist to their ranks could be viewed as a step forward into a more feminist future for the franchise. When asked about the role, Richards told BBC News that she felt the “brainy and athletic” Dr. Jones had more substance than Bond Girls of the past:

“The female roles now have a lot more depth – it’s more than just running around on Bond’s arm. Christmas is strong, intelligent and sassy and there’s an infectious one-upmanship and clever banter between her and James Bond.”

Unfortunately, not many people agreed with her. Upon The World is Not Enough’s release in 1999, a sizeable portion of the criticism was leveled at Dr. Jones — much of it bemoaning the curve-hugging wardrobe she sported throughout the film and insisting that Richards just wasn’t believable as a nuclear scientist. Richards ended up being the recipient of the Bond franchise’s first-ever Razzie Award, while a 2006 Entertainment Weekly list of the 10 worst Bond girls ranked her #1: “Let’s review: Denise Richards played Dr. Christmas Jones, a nuclear physicist who wore a tank top and hot pants. Bloody hell, even Q didn’t have a gadget to help Bond escape from that disaster.” Yet such skin-deep criticism of this character is unfair, and barely skims the surface as to why Dr. Jones went from being a promising step forward for Bond girls to one of the more maligned female characters of the franchise.

Dr. Jones is introduced about halfway through The World is Not Enough, when she emerges from a protective jumpsuit at a Russian intercontinental ballistic missile base in the middle of the Kazakhstan desert. Bond is posing as a Russian nuclear scientist to figure out what notorious terrorist Renard (Robert Carlyle) is doing at the base when he is introduced to Dr. Jones, an American nuclear physicist who has been recruited by the International Decommissioning Agency to help reduce Russia’s stockpile of nuclear weapons by dismantling its nuclear warheads. A tough job, to be sure, and Dr. Jones’ frosty reception of Bond at the base immediately establishes her as someone who has had to be very tough to get where she is in life. Despite being the head of the project, she is clearly not used to being taken seriously, and so overcompensates by being extra imperious towards the men around her to ensure that they keep in line. As Bond ogles her long, tanned limbs as she emerges from her jumpsuit clad in, yes, a tank top and shorts, his guide describes her as the base’s bit of “glimmer” and glumly notes, “Not interested in men. Take my word for it.” Naturally, Dr. Jones overhears, and immediately assumes that Bond’s intentions towards her are along the same lines:

Dr. Jones: Are you here for a reason, or are you just hoping for a glimmer?
Bond: Mikhail Arkov, Russian atomic energy department. And you are, miss?
Dr. Jones: Doctor Jones. Christmas Jones, and don’t tell me any jokes, I’ve heard them all.
Bond, innocently: I don’t know any doctor jokes.

It’s ironic that the character of a beautiful young scientist who is bitter about being dismissed by the men around her as just a bit of “glimmer” was then just as easily dismissed as such by audiences. One can argue that Dr. Jones’ costume caters to the male gaze and that yes, she might have been taken more seriously if she had worn a less-revealing wardrobe, rather than one reminiscent of another sexy scientist: archaeologist Lara Croft in Tomb Raider. Yet the notion that beautiful women should have to diminish their appearances in order to be taken seriously — especially when working in a traditionally male-dominated field — is just as outdated as anything in the Bond films of the 1960s. In 2006, Casino Royale addressed this issue in regards to Bond girl Vesper Lynd (Eva Green), an accountant from HM Treasury with a brusque manner of speech and a stylish but severe black suit that she wears like a suit of armor. Lynd is smart, tough and, because she’s a Bond girl, also incredibly beautiful. After a conversation about the art of reading one’s opponents during poker, Lynd then asks Bond to read her:

Lynd: What else can you surmise, Mr. Bond?
Bond: About you, Miss Lynd? Well, your beauty’s a problem. You worry you won’t be taken seriously.
Lynd: Which one can say of any attractive woman with half a brain.
Bond: True. But this one overcompensates by wearing slightly masculine clothing. Being more aggressive than her female colleagues. Which gives her a somewhat prickly demeanor, and ironically enough, makes it less likely for her to be accepted and promoted by her male superiors, who mistake her insecurities for arrogance.

Bond could also have been talking about Dr. Jones, who shares Lynd’s “prickly demeanor” and is viewed as arrogant by the men around her, who can’t believe that she isn’t interested in them. But, she never got the memo about the wardrobe, and one wonders that if Dr. Jones just bothered to put on a pair of slacks, perception of the character would have been different. Indeed, once one is able to suspend any disbelief that they might have over a nuclear scientist being capable of looking good in short-shorts, one realizes that Dr. Jones isn’t a terrible character — like many Bond girls from the series’ earlier era, she’s just a mediocre one.

Soon after Bond and Dr. Jones are introduced, they team up to track down Renard, who has run off with a stolen bomb. When they find the bomb hidden in an oil pipeline, they rocket in on an inspection car so that Dr. Jones can dismantle it, only to find out that half of the device’s plutonium is missing. Even though she doesn’t exactly enjoy spending substantial amounts of time running around with a man who only “speaks spy,” Dr. Jones is determined to help Bond track down the plutonium, noting, “The world’s greatest terrorist running around with six kilos of weapons-grade plutonium can’t be good. I gotta get it back, or someone’s gonna have my ass.” Bond, ever the gentleman, responds, “First things first.”

Now, Richards’ performance is not one that will go down in the history books as a landmark of great acting. But, it doesn’t deserve to be remembered as one of the worst, either. She does her best with the dialogue that is given to her — some of which is, as Richards mentioned when discussing the role, surprisingly sassy and snarky, reflecting her dismissive attitude towards Bond’s heavy-handed, uber-masculine tactics. The problem is, screenwriters Neal Purvis and Robert Wade just don’t give her enough, and when they do, it is too often bland statements of the obvious. It’s not that she isn’t believable as a nuclear scientist; it’s that after awhile, we just forget that she is one. Dr. Jones wastes more breath bluntly stating what is happening than she does explaining why; she’s the smartest person in the room for most of the movie, but is rarely given the chance to show it. I refer to this phenomenon as the Legolas Effect, named for the handsome elf archer played by Orlando Bloom in the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Legolas rarely shows the wisdom of elves, and instead periodically utters pointless lines like “A diversion!” to remind the audience that he’s more than just a pretty piece of scenery placed in the background of Aragorn’s epic speeches. The same goes for Dr. Jones, who at one point screams, “It’s flooding!” while tons of water gushes into the submarine where she and Bond are waging war with Renard. Moments like this demolish any credibility that Dr. Jones built up while dismantling nuclear bombs and just make her look silly.

Speaking of silly: The World is Not Enough culminates in the stereotypical closing-credits sex scene with Bond that is chock full of the terrible Christmas jokes that Dr. Jones was so firmly against when she was introduced earlier in the movie, including what is the most cringeworthy closing line in the entire franchise: “I thought Christmas only comes once a year.” And this is what is the most disappointing thing about Dr. Jones. She’s a tough-talking woman whose best moments in the film come when she grows impatient with Bond’s testosterone-driven idiocy and counters his quips with her own formidable sarcasm, yet in the end, she’s just like any of those earlier Bond girls that Richards dismissed as lacking depth: she helplessly collapses into the arms of Bond and allows him to turn her into a punchline after all.

Watching The World is Not Enough seventeen years later, one can’t help but feel that both Dr. Jones and the woman who portrayed her were treated somewhat harshly. The role is unfortunately underwritten, and Richards’ performance in the film pales in comparison to that of the fiery Marceau (to see the two women side by side is to automatically see Richards in a less complimentary light), but to only describe the character’s failings in terms of her appearance says more about the audience than it does about the character. At this point, it should go without saying that scientists come in all shapes, sizes, colors and genders. Instead, our perceptions and prejudices have colored our negative impressions of Dr. Jones. While she isn’t one of the best Bond girls, she doesn’t deserve all of the worst-ever criticism that have been bestowed upon her — nor does Richards deserve the majority of the blame for why the character just doesn’t quite work.

Lee Jutton has directed short films starring a killer toaster, a killer Christmas tree, and a not-killer leopard. She previously reviewed new DVD and theatrical releases as a staff writer for Just Press Play. You can follow her on Medium for more film reviews and on Twitter for an excessive amount of opinions on German soccer.

1950s B-Movie Women Scientists: Smart, Strong, but Still Marriageable

While the happily ever after scenario in these 1950s B-movies comes with an expectation that women give up their careers in science to become wives and mothers once the appropriate suitor is identified, it seems there are women in B-movies who do have it all — they maintain the respect afforded to them as scientists and also win romantic partners, without having to sacrifice their professional interests to assume domestic roles instead.

This guest post written by Linda Levitt appears as part of our theme week on Women Scientists.

A study published by the University of Denver in 2012 shows that less than one third of women completing degrees in STEM fields end up pursuing careers in the disciplines they studied. In fact, one in three women leaves the technology workforce within the first two years. Since the number of women pursuing and succeeding in careers as scientists remains quite small, it is surprising to find a particular characterization of women as scientists in 1950s science fiction B-movies. The abundance of female scientists in these films does not reflect the reality of women in the sciences at the time. We could argue that including female scientists enhances the moviegoing experience by creating “eye candy” for male audience members. If the moviegoer identifies with the heroic male lead, as film theorist Laura Mulvey and others would assume, then the film’s satisfying conclusion includes winning the heart of the “leading lady” and enabling the “happily ever after” for the heroic male scientist who saves civilization from deadly creatures, nuclear meltdown, or another apocalyptic scenario.

Science fiction routinely offers an alternative present or a possible future: some of these realities are promising, and some are apocalyptic. The possibility of gender equality in the workplace is not far-fetched for an alternative reality, especially in light of a long history of women working quietly in the background in the sciences. Thus another perspective would be to argue that the inclusion of female scientists in B-movies allowed young women in the audience to see the possibility for an intellectual career for themselves.

In the decades since these films first played in theaters and drive-ins, it has become relatively commonplace for women to have fulfilling careers, although gender equality remains a daunting challenge across all professions. The recent proliferation of discussions about “work-life balance” indicates this inequality: the need to find a balance between professional and personal lives is addressed almost exclusively to women. While the happily ever after scenario in these 1950s B-movies comes with an expectation that women give up their careers in science to become wives and mothers once the appropriate suitor is identified, it seems there are women in B-movies who do have it all — they maintain the respect afforded to them as scientists and also win romantic partners, without having to sacrifice their professional interests to assume domestic roles instead.

Women scientists featured in 1950s B-movies span a broad variety of expertise: paleontologist Lee Hunter in The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms (1953), Dr. Patricia Medford, an etymologist in Them! (1954), biologist Stephanie Clayton in Tarantula (1955), and three scientists — Joanna Merritt, Marna Roberts, and Madame Elzevir (truly, she was not afforded a first name), wife of the esteemed Dr. Pierre Elzevir — in Gog (1954). These women often have the answers to save civilization, or willingly brave deadly encounters with the unknown, but many of the depictions of female scientists also reify gender stereotypes about women, regardless of their intellectual prowess and independence.

The 1954 Cold War sci-fi thriller Gog offers several good examples. A feminist critique would address some of the blatantly sexist events, such as the research assistant who weeps hysterically when the scientist she works with dies suddenly, only to be slapped across the face by another male scientist who implores her to “get some men up here and restore order.” Just the same, three women scientists are at work in this underground laboratory where a space station is being built. One of the scientists, Joanna Merritt (Constance Dowling), is portrayed as serious, intellectual, and devoid of much emotion. She does, however, have a quick wit.

Merritt and Dr. Van Ness (Herbert Marshall), the lab supervisor, take security agent David Sheppard (Richard Egan) on a tour of the facility. They observe an experiment in weightlessness, where a man and woman are training for a zero-gravity environment in space. After watching them for awhile, Sheppard asks: “Why the girl?” Merritt replies: “We think women are better suited for space travel than men.” Lest she have the opportunity to make an argument favoring women over men, Van Ness quickly adds, “For one thing, they take up less space in a rocket.”

Sheppard objectifies the female astronaut in training, referring to her as “the girl” and questioning the appropriateness of her place in the space program. Then Van Ness adds that women are better because they are smaller, providing an idealized stereotype of the petite, fit woman. Nonetheless, there is still an opportunity for Merritt to offer what rhetorically sounds like a scientific truth: “We think women are better suited for space travel than men.” She has a strong and present personality, and the perspective she voices is not easily dismissed. Spoiler alert: There have already been hints that David Sheppard and Joanna Merritt are… well… romantically acquainted, and by film’s end, they appear destined for the happily ever after. Still, her position as a scientist of regard does not seem diminished. The presence of women in positions of intellectual power seems tacitly accepted here, in a filmic world where imagination is boundless.

Merritt has no internal conflict — she is not concerned about making choices about her life. Yet the taken-for-granted nature of female scientists in these films differs markedly from recent films: for characters like Dr. Ellie Sattler in Jurassic Park (1993) or Dr. Eleanor Alloway in Contact (1997), their choice of careers leads others to question their scientific authority and personal motivation.

Women’s studies scholar J. Kasi Jackson points out that “in addition to negotiating between detachment and empathy, the female scientist must balance professionalism with femininity.” The woman scientist is an outsider both in science, where her “feminine” empathy is not objective, and in society, where scientific rationality conflicts with assumed “feminine” traits. Jackson’s observations relate well to Lee Hunter (Paula Raymond), a paleontologist in the 1953 giant creature movie The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms. Hunter is a social outcast: as a woman, she doesn’t comfortably fit in with her male colleagues, nor does she seem to connect with any other women. She is, in fact the only woman with any substance in the film, and no one doubts her place on the scene or the veracity of her research and observations. The other female characters are empty stereotypes: a nurse, a nun, a telephone operator, a screaming mother, and a bank of phone operators handling calls in the monster-created emergency. The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms fails the Bechdel Test, since it does not have: (1) at least two women in it, who (2) talk to each other, about (3) something other than a man.

Although it is unlikely that a 1950s science fiction B-movie would pass the Bechdel Test, it is employed here to draw attention to the strength of the female scientist in this film. Like Joanna Merritt, Lee Hunter is poised, confident, and smart. She is the assistant to Dr. Thurgood Elson (Cecil Kellaway), who is visited by a physicist named Thomas Nesbitt (Paul Hubschmid), who believes he has seen a dinosaur. No one takes Nesbitt very seriously, but Hunter does. She establishes both her scientific prowess and her compassion after Nesbitt leaves Elson’s laboratory. Of Nesbitt, she tells Elson, “When he first came to this country, I attended his lectures on the curative properties of radioactive isotopes. He’s a brilliant man. Isn’t his story in any way feasible?” Despite Elson’s refusal, Hunter decided to visit Nesbitt’s office to offer her support.

Nesbitt’s secretary informs him of Lee’s arrival: “There’s a Lee Hunter waiting for you. She’s very pretty.” In this moment, the narrative privileges Lee’s femininity and sexuality over her intellect. Yet when Nesbitt later asks why she would believe his claims, she says, “I have a deep abiding faith in the work of scientists. Otherwise I wouldn’t be one myself.” Hunter ties her identity to science, a theme which is repeated throughout the film.

Science fiction B-movies from the 1950s are rife with female characters who do not have the independence or determination of Joanna Merritt and Lee Hunter. Some female characters are primarily sexualized and seductive, where others are hyper-emotional and present themselves as weak and needy. Despite the depiction of some women scientists, these films still reflect the gendered reality of their time: the cultural framework in which these films are set is undeniably sexist. Teresa De Lauretis argued that female characters are made to conform to the ideal image that the male protagonist has for them. Regardless of their intellect or achievements, these characters are the object of the male gaze.

Writing in 1971, political scientist Jo Freeman argued that one of the core concepts of sexism is that “women are here for the pleasure and assistance of men.” Freeman goes on to say that:

“It is this attitude which stigmatizes those women who do not marry or who do not devote their primary energies to the care of men and their children. Association with a man is the basic criterion for participation by women in this society and one who does not seek her identity through a man is a threat to the social values.”

Identity formation is a complex process, and every person forms and performs their identity in the context of their interpersonal relationships. In other words, self-identity reflects, but is not dependent upon, the presence of others. Freeman’s claim, then, has validity, especially when viewed with contingency. For women scientists in the 1950s, “association with a man” was “the basic criterion for participation by women” in society: science has been and remains patriarchal. As previously noted, women tend to abandon or simply not pursue professional life in the sciences; the lack of a welcoming, balanced space for women is one reason. With this in mind, it is noteworthy that B-movie women scientists seem undaunted by the patriarchal cultures in which they choose to work.

Although men significantly outnumber women in the B-movies discussed here, women were frequently featured in significant scientific roles, battling aliens, mutant forces, or giant bugs. A survey of these films indicates a spectrum of reception in which female scientists may be welcome or othered, depending on their circumstances and relationships to men within the patriarchal culture of a scientific organization.

Linda Levitt’s research focuses on gender studies, media, and cultural memory. Her work is often situated at the intersection of these ideas.

In Praise of ‘Jurassic Park’s Dr. Ellie Sattler

Dr. Sattler is awesome. She’s a character who doesn’t fit into any typical Hollywood box: A friendly, stable, super-smart woman who wants to be a mother, has her own nerdy career, and doesn’t think twice about being a badass. … I saw ‘Jurassic Park’ when I was seven and from then on wanted to be Dr. Ellie Sattler.

This guest post by Sarah Mirk originally appeared at Bitch Media and appears here as part of our theme week on Women Scientists. Cross-posted with permission.

So I saw Jurassic Park 3-D last night. I know. It was $17. That’s ridiculous. But if there’s one movie from my childhood worth revisiting on the big, three-dimensional screen, it’s Jurassic Park. This was actually the very first movie I remember seeing on the big screen when I was a kid and I vividly remembered all the famous dino scenes — the dilophosaurus melting Newman’s face, the T-Rex eating the lawyer, the “clever girl.” But I had forgotten one major element of the film: Dr. Ellie Sattler is the best!

At first, it seems like Sattler (played by Laura Dern) is doomed to just be Dr. Alan Grant’s pretty sidekick. In the first scenes, out in the fossil fields of Montana, she hangs off Dr. Grant’s shoulders while he takes center stage, lecturing a snotty child on how a velociraptor would totally eat his intestines, given the chance. While she plays a somewhat traditionally feminine role — telling Dr. Grant he should love kids, being the object of the lounge-lizard-chaos-theorist Dr. Ian Malcolm’s lust — that all changes in one key moment: The shit-digging scene. You remember it.

That’s the point where it clicked for me, rewatching the film. Oh yeah. Dr. Sattler is awesome. She’s a character who doesn’t fit into any typical Hollywood box: A friendly, stable, super-smart woman who wants to be a mother, has her own nerdy career, and doesn’t think twice about being a badass. Instead of Tomb Raider gear, she rocks the practical khaki shorts and hiking boots. As Dr. Sattler stripped off her Triceratops shit-covered gloves — much to Dr. Ian Malcolm’s horror — I remembered being a kid at the drive-in theater, watching Jurassic Park from the backseat of my parent’s Volkswagen Rabbit and thinking, “Yes! That’s me!”

In the film, Dr. Sattler makes her own plans and rules. When everyone else heads back to the visitor’s center as planned, she sticks out in the field to keep investigating a sick triceratops. When the park’s power fails to come back on as expected, she doesn’t sit in the emergency bunker waiting for rescue. She makes a plan and grabs a walkie-talkie, heading out to find the power switch.

“I should really be the one going,” mutters park owner John Hammond before she sprints off.

“Why?” says Dr. Sattler.

“Well, because you’re a… and I’m a…” stutters Hamond.

“Look,” she says, “We can discuss ‘sexism in survival situations’ when I get back.”

All that, and she can ID cretaceous-period plant life from 100 yards. What a star.

I saw Jurassic Park when I was seven and from then on wanted to be Dr. Ellie Sattler. As a teenager, I actually went to archaeology science camp, spending summers hunched over a dental pick in the middle of the desert, digging up Tertiary Era mammal teeth. After a couple months of that tedious work, I determined that a life like Dr. Sattler’s isn’t for me. But along the way developed a life-long love for science. And practical khaki shorts. Thanks, Jurassic Park.

Sarah Mirk is Bitch Media‘s online editor. She’s interested in gender, history, comics, and talking to strangers. You can follow her on Twitter.

Beverly Crusher (‘Star Trek: TNG’) and Dana Scully (‘The X-Files’): The Medical and the Maternal

The impact of Dr. Beverly Crusher and Agent Dana Scully cannot be understated, not just on the landscape of female representation on television or the portrayal of women scientists but the way they also drove young women to pursue STEM fields in reality. …They transcend mere descriptors like woman, lover, mother, caregiver, skeptic, scientist — because they’re all that and more.

This guest post written by Carly Lane appears as part of our theme week on Women Scientists. | Spoilers ahead.

In the vast, diverse spectrum of science fiction worlds, it often seems as if no role, no profession, is off-limits to female characters. To that end, it has often been cited as a deeply progressive genre for fictional women, depicting the importance of their contributions as being equal to their male counterparts. When compared alongside the investigation of extraterrestrial life or the exploration of worlds other than our own, a strong and competent woman doesn’t seem that extraordinary by comparison.

Although science-fiction has been guilty of relying on outdated sexist tropes on occasion, it should be celebrated for the avenues where female characters are allowed to become more developed and three-dimensional. It’s these women that we often look up to as role models, even though they sometimes come from a future very far away from our own. Two of those characters appeared on television shows which spanned nearly fifteen years — Dr. Beverly Crusher, from Star Trek: The Next Generation, and Dana Scully, from The X-Files. Maybe not surprisingly, there’s more that links these two fictional ladies than the fact that they share the same hair color, or that they both have backgrounds in STEM fields. Over the course of their respective programs, they were allowed to become fully realized characters who had journeys independent of any influence from men — and though both women do have important relationships with several men in their lives, it isn’t what defines them.

When we’re introduced to Dr. Beverly Crusher (Gates McFadden) at the start of The Next Generation we learn two things up front: first, that she’s a single mother to young son Wesley (Wil Wheaton), and second, that she has a personal history with Jean-Luc Picard (Patrick Stewart), who captains the Starfleet vessel the USS Enterprise. In spite of the tie that binds them, which is revealed to be the death of Crusher’s husband Jack, the doctor assures Picard that it will in no way affect “the way [she] serves [him], the vessel or the mission” as Chief Medical Officer (“Encounter at Farpoint”).

And, for the most part, it doesn’t — at least not early on. In fact, it seems like she’s barely joined on with the Enterprise before she accepts a position as head of Starfleet Medical less than a year later. Granted, the decision of the character was heavily informed by the departure of actress Gates McFadden at the end of season one; both McFadden and Crusher returned to the show for season three after fans campaigned to bring the character back. While the reason for Crusher’s return is never provided in dialogue, we see the toll her absence has taken — especially in her relationship with her son Wesley, who had remained on the Enterprise as acting ensign. The interactions between them are initially strained and awkward, and eventually Crusher goes to Picard to ask him about how her son has been during her time away (“Evolution”).

Mother and son don’t resolve their tension right off the bat, either; when Crusher suggests to Wesley that he might have taken on too many responsibilities, he snaps at her, invoking her absence. “I’m here now, Wesley,” she says, and over the course of the remaining episode Wesley allows himself to rely a little more on his mother for a change. It’s one of the few instances in TNG where Wesley does lean on Crusher in some way; more often than not, when it comes to asking for advice or venting his problems, we usually see Wesley seek out a male member of Starfleet, or even Guinan (Whoopi Goldberg), the proprietor of Enterprise’s bar Ten-Forward. Whether that was unintentional or stemming from the belief that an adolescent man shouldn’t be running to his mother with his problems, it definitely contributed to a number of missed opportunities for more meaningful interaction between Crusher and her son.

On the other hand, TNG doesn’t define Crusher solely by her role as a mother — and it shouldn’t. As Chief Medical Officer on the Enterprise, she’s the head of the team responsible for administering care not just to the other vessel’s crew members but also to the alien races they encounter over the course of their mission. Her background in science and medicine requires her to be familiar with unique anatomy, to develop cures for foreign illnesses, or to handle emergency medical situations with a calm demeanor. As a certified bridge officer, she is afforded command of the bridge on several occasions in the absence of other crew members. She has her own friendships forged outside professional boundaries, namely with ship’s counselor Deanna Troi (Marina Sirtis); the two women frequently go to each other for advice and recommendations. She also finds herself pursuing potential romantic attachments, though they don’t tend to last beyond the confines of an episode. And she even dances around a potential relationship with Picard, even though neither of them truly act on what appear to be mutual romantic feelings. Over the course of TNG, we’re afforded the opportunity to glimpse Crusher as a mother, a doctor, and a woman with feelings and strong convictions.

While Crusher’s journey begins as that of a mother and branches outward, the story arc of Dana Scully (Gillian Anderson) is something of the opposite. In The X-Files, it’s the skeptical Scully who serves as an avatar for the audience, our way in; it’s through her science that the FBI intends for her to debunk the X-Files and thereby discredit former golden boy Fox Mulder (David Duchovny) as a result. She’s immediately defined by her science, by her medical background; the frequency of Scully introducing herself by her profession in early seasons is a long-running joke among die-hard X-Philes, but there’s some part of it that’s almost necessary due to the occasional sexism she faces from men working in her field. When a male detective questions “the wisdom of assigning female law enforcement officers to certain types of cases” during a murder investigation, Scully assures him that his “concern” is misplaced (“2Shy”). Fortunately, she doesn’t find herself on the receiving end of any gross comments from her partner Mulder; although the two of them usually disagree on the whodunit, their verbal sparring matches are often a means to allow both parties to bounce potential hypotheses off one another.

It takes some time, but inevitably we learn that Scully occasionally harbors thoughts of having a social life, building relationships, and perhaps even starting a family someday outside of her work on the X-Files. Her attempts at dating never quite end the way she expects (“The Jersey Devil,” “Never Again”). Her alien abduction comes with its own set of side ramifications after Mulder learns that some of her eggs had been harvested during the process, eventually leading to the creation of a child (“Emily”). Scully experiences an overwhelming sense of connection with the girl and is heartbroken when Emily dies from a genetic infection, especially since this comes in the aftermath of Scully learning of her own infertility as the result of her abduction — or so she thinks.

Scully’s desire to be a mother again never truly goes away, and when she eventually decides to have a child through in vitro fertilization she asks Mulder to be the donor (“Per Manum”); although the initial attempt at in vitro fails, Scully later learns she is pregnant shortly after the alien abduction of Mulder, suggesting that the two were intimate long enough to conceive naturally (“Requiem”). While she is overjoyed to finally have a child of her own, Scully soon realizes that she and her son William will never find peace given the threats to his life that exist in her world, and makes the devastating decision to give him up for adoption so that he can grow up safely. In the revival of The X-Files, we learn that Scully frequently reminisces about the life she could have had with William if he had stayed with her, but the question of whether she will ever be able to reunite with her child even after all this time is still open-ended.

After all, as often as we’ve seen Scully try to leave the X-Files (and Mulder, by extension) behind and start anew, something always seems to occur to bring her back in somehow. And there’s value in that, in depicting a female character who wrestles with her convictions both as a woman of science and a woman of faith, in allowing her to explore her own wants and needs while not necessarily prioritizing that of her male partner’s. On The X-FIles, it never felt as though Mulder and Scully were on anything but equal footing; in his absence, she’s given the opportunity to fully champion the truth she had originally been assigned to dismiss.

The impact of Crusher and Scully cannot be understated, not just on the landscape of female representation on television or the portrayal of women scientists but the way they also drove young women to pursue STEM fields in reality. (Scully even has this effect partly named after her.) Maybe it’s because they’re impossible to sum up in just one word; they transcend mere descriptors like woman, lover, mother, caregiver, skeptic, scientist — because they’re all that and more. It’s the full representation of the many facets of their character that’s given these fictional women their long-lasting appeal for so many years already, and hopefully for many more years to come.

Carly Lane is a writer based in New York City who specializes in obscure pop culture references and miscellaneous geekery. Her work has been featured on The Mary Sue, Teen Vogue, The Toast and more. You can find her on Twitter at @carlylane.

‘Jurassic Park’: Resisting Gender Tropes

Yet in rewatching ‘Jurassic Park,’ it struck me that not only is Laura Dern’s Dr. Ellie Sattler a portrayal of a female scientist that is largely unseen in film, but she is, on numerous occasions, keenly aware of her gender and how this leads to her treatment.

This guest post written by Siobhan Denton appears as part of our theme week on Women Scientists.

Largely, Steven Spielberg is not known for overtly feminist portrayals of women in film. His work primarily focuses on similar motifs, chiefly that of father/son relationships. Yet in rewatching Jurassic Park, it struck me that not only is Laura Dern’s Dr. Ellie Sattler a portrayal of a female scientist that is largely unseen in film, but she is, on numerous occasions, keenly aware of her gender and how this leads to her treatment.

A paleobotanist, Dr. Ellie Sattler is clearly respected in her field of her work. Unlike previous female scientists, Ellie is not merely present to fulfill the Male Gaze, or to act as a plot device driving the narrative forward. Too often in film and TV, women scientists are there to either look attractive, or to simply proffer information to their male counterpart without little discussion. Here, Ellie is not only an expert in her field; she is respected by her colleagues.

Take for example the scene in which Ellie offers her ideas as to the reason the triceratops is ill.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JylK4HuKMvQ”]

Both Ellie and Dr. Alan Grant (Sam Neill) are overcome with emotion, seeing the real life incarnation of a species to which they have spent their lives devoted to. But while Alan remains enamored, Ellie quickly acts, readily questioning the other men around her as a means to solve the reasons behind the illness of the animal. She does not act subservient or submissive. While Ian Malcolm (Jeff Goldblum) balks at the nature of Ellie’s investigations (determining the animal’s food source by inspecting its droppings), Ellie remains unfazed. Until this point, Ian has seen Ellie as a potential love interest, and while he acknowledged her education, he readily used his interactions with her to both showcase his own knowledge, and as an opportunity to educate Ellie. He attempts to highlight her intellectual failings because she, as a paleobotanist, does not have an understanding of chaos theory.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n-mpifTiPV4″]

It is not until Ian witnesses Ellie demonstrating her own knowledge that he acknowledges that her function is not to simply act as a love interest, prompting him to remark upon her “tenacious” nature. This remark, acknowledged by Ellie’s colleague and partner Alan, is said both admiringly and begrudgingly — almost as if Ellie’s refusal to conform to the role of an archetypal love interest is both pleasing to see and frustrating.

It would have been easy for Dern’s character to have simply performed the role of love interest for the men in the film, and indeed the men in the film often try to impress upon her (and each other) that this is the role that she can perform. Ellie is aware of this, and makes this clear when Ian, again demonstrating his intellect, remarks, “God creates dinosaurs. God destroys dinosaurs. God creates man. Man destroys God. Man creates dinosaurs.” Ellie’s wry response, in which she states, “Dinosaurs eat man. Woman inherits the earth,” demonstrates her awareness of her gender and her status.

While Ellie is Grant’s partner, her narrative is not dependent on her involvement with him, and indeed, much of her narrative development takes place away from Grant. Returning to the compound while Grant is left to look after the children (arguably taking on the maternal role), Ellie is compelled to offer her help in order to reboot the system. She is aware of the dangers, but does so anyway. Her action, which she quickly undertakes with little debate, is decisive. She knows that her help is needed and despite her fears, she rapidly offers her services. Both Muldoon (Bob Peck) and Arnold (Samuel L. Jackson) accept Ellie’s participation without question. It is only John Hammond (Richard Attenborough), far older than the rest, who questions her decision. It is interesting that it is Hammond who expresses his displeasure with her involvement in the mission, largely given the noticeable generation gap between the three men in the room. Perhaps this is Spielberg’s attempt at noting the necessary progression in the treatment of women. Ellie herself explicitly draws attention to Hammond’s objections, bluntly stating, “Look … We can discuss sexism in survival situations when I get back.”

Ellie is willing to get involved and does not require rescuing, unlike her partner Alan, who spends the majority of the film both fulfilling a maternal role, but also hoping to find safety. Ellie is already safe through her decision to stay with the triceratops, but she is prepared to risk this in order to guarantee the safety of others. Ultimately, it is Ellie that rescues Alan, Lex (Ariana Richards), and Tim (Joseph Mazzello) as it is through her actions that they can retreat from danger.

Despite this, Alan does still attempt to protect Ellie, requesting that she try to reboot the system while he holds the velociraptor at bay. Ellie recognizes that Alan will not be able to hold the door on his own, so once again acts to help him, and in doing so fulfills the same role as him. As the pair hold the door together, their roles are no longer gendered. Notably, it is the other female character in the room that saves the four here. Lex’s superior technological knowledge successfully reboots the system, meaning that she, along with Ellie, has helped to save those remaining on the island.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GFJekvpaua4″]

Importantly, Ellie is not an overtly sexualized character nor is she there to serve as simple set decoration; her clothes and styling are functional and appropriate to her job. She is allowed to be intelligent and brave without acting hysterical or panicked. The film affords her a fully developed, engaging, and interesting role.

Given that such a representation can be present in a successful film, it seems even more of a misnomer that so few female scientists are depicted on-screen. As has been noted, the original Jurassic Park is arguably more positive in its portrayal of women than the recent Jurassic World. Why this regression?

It is easy to list some of the representations of female scientists, as if the exception proves the rule, but until such representations are entirely normalized, not enough work is being done.

Siobhan Denton is a teacher and writer living in Wales, UK. She holds a BA in English and an MA in Film and Television Studies. She is especially interested in depictions of female desire and transitions from youth to adulthood. She tweets at @siobhan_denton and writes at The Blue and the Dim.

‘Dragonslayer’: A Disappointing Attempt to Update the Princess and the Dragon

‘Dragonslayer’ attempts to modernize the tale by diminishing the hero and splitting the princess into two women who are both brave at first glance, but it ultimately reinforces traditional roles. … Valerian’s fall from village leader (in disguise as a man) to hero helper, and finally damsel in distress that can only be rescued by the losing of her virginity (itself a patriarchal construct, often “used to control women’s sexuality”), is a particularly depressing character arc.

This guest post is written by Tim Covell. | Spoilers ahead.

Dragonslayer (1981) is a dark ages fantasy, written by Hollywood veterans Matthew Robbins and Hal Barwood, and directed by Robbins. Marketed in some areas as a Disney film, it is unusually mature for Disney, and was a co-production with Paramount, in the days before Disney formed Touchstone to handle more mature films. Dragonslayer draws on the long history of dragons in western folk literature, eventually linked with Christians in the legend of St. George and the Dragon.

In the purest form of this story, identified as ATU-300 in a folktale classification system, the hero rescues the princess from the dragon, kills the dragon, and marries the princess. These are traditional gender roles with a vengeance. Dragonslayer attempts to modernize the tale by diminishing the hero and splitting the princess into two women who are both brave at first glance, but it ultimately reinforces traditional roles.

Twice a year, the King of Urland conducts a lottery, selecting a virgin girl to sacrifice to a fire-breathing dragon. In exchange, the dragon leaves the kingdom alone. A group of villagers, unhappy with this arrangement, find and hire an older sorcerer (Ralph Richardson) to kill the dragon. The king’s men, following the villagers and determined to maintain the status quo, demand a test before they will allow someone to come and “stir things up.” The test results in the death of the sorcerer. His young apprentice, Galen (Peter MacNicol, making his film debut) takes on the role of dragon slayer/hero, and joins the dubious villagers.

Galen soon learns that the boy leading the villagers, Valerian, is in fact a young woman (Caitlin Clarke). The revealing swimming-hole scene, with brief and non-exploitative shots of male and female nudity, is sometimes cut from television showings. Valerian justifies her deception by noting that the lottery is rigged, and only chooses girls from poor families. This injection of class conflict and official corruption is an attempt to make the story more character driven, but it remains largely faithful to the mythic form.

On arrival in Urland, Galen enters the dragon’s lair, a cave accessed by a damp vertical cleft. We later learn that the dragon is a mother, and deeper in the cave is a lake. A teenage boy exploring a dark and dangerous cave is clear symbolism for male coming-of-age, and suggests the dragon represents female sexuality (and in a negative light). The association of the dragon with virgin girls supports this interpretation. However, the film refuses to let viewers ponder this symbolism too much. Some characters suggest the dragon is the negative aspect of magic in the world, while others argue that it is a manifestation of Christian evil, and still others claim that it is simply a flesh and blood monster. The dragon is individualized by its name and its age-related moodiness. While its death appears to be brought about through magic, cross-cut editing shows the villagers being baptized during the final battle, and there are fleshy and bloody remains. It is entertaining for the nature of the dragon to be in dispute, but the lack of resolution weakens the story.

Galen uses a magic spell to create a landslide, sealing the dragon in its lair. With the threat apparently removed, Valerian comes out as a woman. Her father remarks that “she was twice the man of anyone else in the village, and now she’s twice the woman.” As a man, she led villagers on a long and challenging journey to find a hire a sorcerer, and demanded his assistance after initially being turned away. As a woman, she emerges quietly and shyly from her home in a delicate dress. Galen grabs her arm, drags her into the shocked crowd, and calls for music, legitimizing her existence.

Galen is arrested and imprisoned, while the king waits to see if the dragon is truly dead. The princess comes to see him, and defend her kingdom’s approach to the dragon. She is surprised by Galen’s claim that she is excluded from the lottery. He escapes in the chaos of the dragon’s rampage.

The king declares a special lottery to restore order, but Princess Elspeth rigs it so that she is selected. She publicly defies her outraged father, and tells the kingdom that her sacrifice is necessary to certify the lottery. The king steps into his traditional role, and asks Galen to save his daughter.

Valerian’s father is a blacksmith, and supplies Galen with a spear. On his way to rescue the princess and battle the dragon, Galen meets Valerian. She presents him with a concave shield made from dragon scales, to protect him from the fire. The presentation of the symbolically female magical protective object, often a sheath, is a traditional female folktale role. To give credit where credit is due, many tales of sword and sorcery ignore the role and symbol, excluding women completely. King Arthur’s sword Excalibur is widely known, but its unnamed sheath, which protects the wearer from injury, is rarely mentioned.

Valerian demonstrated bravery in obtaining scales for the shield. But in conversation with Galen, she becomes an insecure girlfriend, assuming Galen plans to rescue the princess out of love inspired from her bravery in sacrificing herself. Valerian also laments her virginal status, which leaves her vulnerable in future lotteries. A kiss, a cut, and a passage of time suggest that “problem” is resolved.

Removing yourself from the lottery by losing your virginity as quickly as possible is an obvious solution, noted by critics from Roger Ebert to Mad Magazine. In Wayland Drew’s novelization, he added backstory, and among other things clarified that lack of virginity does not remove you from the lottery. Valerian’s mother is one of many missing mothers in the film, but in Drew’s version she was sacrificed to the dragon. While the sacrificial victims are female, the dragon has also killed men who provoked it, including the king’s brother and an ambitious priest.

One of the king’s soldiers is at the lair, to ensure the sacrifice of the princess proceeds without interruption. Galen kills him, but is unable to prevent Princess Elspeth from walking to the cave. She is promptly killed and partly eaten by baby dragons. The princess is brave and independent, but it remains hard to celebrate her defiance of her father and the hero, and her dedication to her kingdom, when this results in her death. It is too reminiscent of the movie cliché of killing or otherwise punishing the rebellious/independent woman. Nor did the princess need to die to establish the evil nature of the dragon; the structuralist death of innocents has already been shown. However, Princess Elspeth’s death does draw attention to the impotence of the hero.

Galen kills the baby dragons, yet he is unable to defeat their mother (more impotence). Galen and Valerian resolve to run away together (he still gets the girl). Then Galen realizes the sorcerer prepared himself to be reincarnated, at the lair, to battle the dragon. When the two return to the lair, Galen warns Valerian of the scary environment, and she defiantly claims that she is not afraid. “After all, I was a man once, remember?” The words are no sooner said than she is frightened by the sight of the dismembered and bloody princess, and retreats in fear.

The sorcerer uses magic to destroy himself and the dragon together, with Galen and Valerian providing minor assistance. The villagers arrive to thank God for their deliverance, the king arrives to claim victory for defeating the dragon, and Galen and Valerian ride off into the sunset on a magically procured horse.

Dragonslayer is visually impressive. Many scenes were shot in Scotland and Wales, and the design and fully practical realization of the dragon (including 16 puppets) holds up well in this CGI era. Author George R.R. Martin (A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones) claims Dragonslayer has “the best dragon ever put on film.” Unfortunately, the attempts to add moral complexity and character motives to myth, without addressing the underlying assumptions about gender roles, only succeed in making the story uncertain. Valerian’s fall from village leader (in disguise as a man) to hero helper, and finally damsel in distress that can only be rescued by the losing of her virginity (itself a patriarchal construct, often “used to control women’s sexuality“), is a particularly depressing character arc. The arc of the hero is not much better: his path to maturity is killing one bad guy and having sex with a woman.

The film did poorly at the box office and in hindsight, perhaps the film makers should have been braver with their characters. For example, Valerian could have stayed brave, and been the hero instead. That approach worked for Robert Munsch, who published The Paper Bag Princess in 1980. A related option would have been to extend a backstory plotline Drew introduced in the novelization, where Valerian, in her disguise as a young man, had a close relationship with another girl. As it stands, Dragonslayer merely hints at the possibilities for updating myths, before retreating to traditional sexist approaches.

Tim Covell has degrees in English Literature, Film Studies, and Canadian Studies. He studies film censorship and classification systems, which are largely about managing representations of sexuality. More at www.covell.ca.

Star Wars’ Rey: Feminist Heroine or Mary Sue?

The heroine of the story turned out to be Rey: a lone scavenger using her brain and her strength to survive. … In a world of fantastical male heroes, is there not room for a legendary woman? Isn’t the whole point of a fantasy story some sort of wish-fulfillment? An epic triumph over evil rarely achievable in real life?

This guest post written by Amy Squire originally appeared at Fanny Pack. It is cross-posted with permission. | Spoilers ahead.

If you haven’t heard of the latest Star Wars movie, Episode VII: The Force Awakens, you might want to check your pulse. The latest installment of the space fantasy franchise has so far taken $1.5 billion at the global box office, a total which is still climbing. Expectations were high, yet with little information leaked and deliberately vague trailers, no one knew quite what to expect from the new episode.

For all its success, the film has received mixed reviews from critics, being both lauded and criticized for the same reasons, namely that it’s a retro movie for the fans that doesn’t introduce many new ideas and actually repeats old character archetypes and plot devices. Yet, I found myself massively enjoying it, and for one major reason: its variety of female characters – both heroic and villainous. But the hero Rey is a victim of her own success. She has been criticized for being too much of a Mary Sue; an ordinary girl who excels at whatever she tries her hand at: engineering, fighting, flying, using a lightsaber, and of course her fledgling use of the force. She even seems to show more talent and power for a new Jedi than Luke did.

Like most people, I expected the male protagonist Finn – the former stormtrooper who found he had a heart – to be the lightsaber-wielding hero, and the mysterious woman in the trailer to be a supporting character. Just another kick-ass woman who nevertheless needs rescuing by the male hero and inevitably starts to fall for him. I was delighted to be wrong.

The heroine of the story turned out to be Rey: a lone scavenger using her brain and her strength to survive. Her world is turned upside-down when she finds the droid BB-8 who holds the key to finding the last Jedi in the universe – the now mythic Luke Skywalker. Despite Finn’s exciting start rescuing a rebel fighter pilot, Rey soon takes over, using her engineering, fighting, and flying skills to get them through one trial after another.

The film actively strives to playfully and knowingly break the Damsel in Distress trope that seems to have annoyingly survived in modern blockbusters. On Finn’s first encounter with her, Rey is in the midst of fighting off two attackers. Finn leaps into action to help but by the time he reaches her, she has already dispatched them. In one of my favorite moments of the film, Finn and returning hero Han find their damsel-rescuing skills yet again redundant when she is captured. Instead they discover her climbing out of the cavernous First Order base to safety, having used her new-found Jedi powers to escape, blissfully unaware her friends are behind her panicking in their search to rescue her. She eventually defeats the dark warrior Kylo Ren in a lightsaber duel and sets off at the end of the movie to attend her destiny (leaving Finn behind completely): to find Luke Skywalker who will presumably guide her in the force.

However as this author points out, would these amazing new skills be so unbelievable if Rey were male? Or would we just assume the character has previous experience of flying, or that men make natural pilots? Was Luke criticized for being too good at being the hero?

In a film series so rooted in the power of mythology and mysticism, I don’t believe it’s too far a stretch to believe Rey could have messiah-like ability in the force. Legends of the Jedi are famous in their world and so her already knowing what new powers she has at her disposal, such as mind-control, is a given. When Kylo Ren, a dark agent of the force, connects to her mind to get information out of her, both she and he are surprised to find she can do a little delving of her own, so who knows what kind of secrets she found inside him. We don’t know how her future will pan out but it’s clear she is destined for great things in a universe where the Jedi have become almost extinct.

It would be wrong to say Rey is the perfect heroine though. She has her own weaknesses and fears. When she experiences visions of her future she tries to run. She’s afraid of her powers and leaving her old life behind. She’s effectively an orphan, wondering if her family will return and why they even left her in the first place. She also visibly wants to take a job with Han and learn more from him. And don’t forget this is just the first part of her story. She has at least two more films to make mistakes.

A feminist hero isn’t just tokenism in a ‘PC world gone mad,’ it’s pretty sound business sense. People want to relate to as well as admire their heroes. I’ve seen all the Star Wars films and I’ve always been a sci-fi/fantasy fan, but I was never that impressed by Luke (perhaps because he did exactly what was expected of him), and the less said about the prequels the better. With The Force Awakens, I feel a whole new young, female fanbase opening up for the franchise who may not have been interested before. Instead of being told, “Star Wars isn’t for girls,” or “You can be the princess,” little girls can now batter their brothers’ action figures with their very own Rey ones (provided they can get hold of one… #WheresRey).

In a world of fantastical male heroes, is there not room for a legendary woman? Isn’t the whole point of a fantasy story some sort of wish-fulfillment? An epic triumph over evil rarely achievable in real life? The world certainly has its share of Gary Stus, the inexperienced yet perfect male hero. Captain America, Batman, and Harry Potter could all be described as Gary Stus if we put Rey in that pigeonhole. However I think she has the experience to back up her achievements. She has had years to hone her mental and physical skills on Jakku. She, along with everyone in the Star Wars universe, knows what a Jedi is capable of. She doesn’t rely on anyone else to rescue her because she has never had anyone around to look after her before. Still, her emotional weaknesses and willingness to learn show she isn’t fully-formed yet.

It remains to be seen if the latest trilogy can develop beyond the nostalgia for episodes 4, 5, and 6, but I think Rey is the fulcrum for this. She has so much room to turn further stereotypes on their head. Personally I would love to see her character develop with no love interest whatsoever. She is a born leader, a path beset with pitfalls. I’d find it far more interesting to see how she develops in her Jedi training, find out if she is tempted by the dark side, and see how her abandonment backstory is played out. Screenwriters, take note!

Amy Squire is a Fanny Pack contributor. She is from Essex and works in London. Raised a feminist in an all-female household (much of the time in her mother’s student digs), her approach is that feminism is inclusive, common-sense, and applicable to all our daily lives. Her passion for equal rights and opportunities for women and the next generation of girls developed during her midwifery training. She learned about women’s issues such body image, domestic violence, and female genital mutilation and how they often come to a head during childbearing. She now wants to use her writing to spread the positive message of feminism.

Did Gender Alter the Tone of the ‘Alien’ Series? Narrative Implications of Femininity

It is science fiction fact however, that Ellen Ripley should not have been “Ellen Ripley” at all. Dan O’Bannon’s original script for ‘Alien’ stated: “The crew is unisex and all parts are interchangeable for men and women.” … In ‘Aliens,’ both Ripley and the alien are further solidified as female. …We come to an implied understanding that is wholly complicit in their both being mothers, adding a subliminal layer that would not have been present had either Ripley or the alien been male.

This guest post written by Kayleigh Watson appears as part of our theme week on Ladies of the 1980s. | Spoilers ahead.

When Ridley Scott cast Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) in Alien, he created The First: The First Action Heroine; The First Female in a Science Fiction Film That Did Not Have To Be Rescued or Was Not Brunch for a Swamp Monster. Such titles may as well be monikers attached to her name. Ripley was important, and still is, her legacy living on in many an action heroine that followed: Buffy (the Vampire Slayer), The Bride (Kill Bill), G.I Jane, Trinity (The Matrix), Furiosa (Mad Max: Fury Road) and Sarah Connor’s transformation in Terminator 2.

It is science fiction fact however, that Ellen Ripley should not have been “Ellen Ripley” at all. Dan O’Bannon’s original script for Alien stated: “T he crew is unisex and all parts are interchangeable for men and women.” In the climate of the time, it is wholly plausible that Ripley was intended to be a male, as despite the script’s stated gender ambiguity, the original name for the character was still “Martin Roby.” So far so standard for horror and sci-fi, for the genres had always been male-dominated whether it be characters on-screen or in literature or those who create them. After all, it was not until the New Wave of sci-fi that women began to truly stake their claim on the genre, birthing feminist science fiction and writers such as Margaret Atwood, Joanna Russ, Marge Piercy, Ursula K. LeGuin and the singular entity that is Octavia Butler — C.L. Moore and Leigh Brackett being exceptions in the “Golden Age,” and Brackett went on to contribute to the screenplay of The Empire Strikes Back.

O’Bannon once stated that:

“I don’t see it as that revolutionary to cast a female as the lead in an action picture,” said O’Bannon. “It didn’t boggle me then, and it doesn’t boggle me now. My conception from scratch was that this would be a co-ed crew. I thought there was no reason you had to adhere to the convention of the all-male crew anymore.

After all, Star Trek had already had a mixed gender crew for years, and Ridley Scott had a similar reaction when the prospect of making the character female was pitched to him (“I just said, ‘That’s a good idea.”’). Scott later said in an interview:

“My film has strong women simply because I like strong women… It’s a personal choice. I’m no male chauvinist, nor do I understand female chauvinism – I just believe in the equality of men and women. It’s as simple as that.”

In Alien itself, Ripley – portrayed by the then largely unknown actress Sigourney Weaver – blended into the background of the team of the Nostromo crew; she was straightforward in conduct, voicing her opinion, making decisions, contributing to physical work and not waiting for someone else to save her. It can be intrinsically interpreted that these factors are entwined with the fact that Ripley’s character was intended to be male and, should “Martin Roby” have existed in her place he would have led the way as a main protagonist, one that is ultimately smarter than crewmembers with more authority.

Except nobody expected that of Ripley, solely because she was female. She was the ultimate unexpected protagonist, with the audience wholly expecting her to be snuffed out somewhere between the second and third act – because they had been conditioned their entire lives to do so. Her gender made her disposable – one only has to recall the aforementioned damsel vs. swamp monster scenario to consider how this should have played out. Yes, Ripley was female, but she was not feminine. That is the distinctive line here; she was not overtly sexualized (until she strips to her underwear near the culmination of the film: you can’t have it all, it seems), she fought back, she did not need to be rescued by a male, she wielded weapons: she defeated the “bad guy.” Due to the duality of the writing, Ripley became an androgynous entity in a fictional universe so symbolically enveloped in gender.

The Alien universe is primarily constructed around the perception of the “monstrous feminine” and plays into a lot of male-centric fears to do with gender alienation, with an aesthetic to follow suit. Renowned artist H.R Giger was in charge of designing the alien and set, and his explicit and sexually symbolic imagery can be viewed throughout, with phallic monsters hiding in a womb-shaped interior ready to pounce on unsuspecting victims. The Nostromo is the monstrous womb that births death, the gestation of that alien creature involving male rape – orally, impregnation and birth via the destruction of the male body; who can forget that iconic scene mid-film where the baby alien bursts through John Hurt’s chest, takes a look around at the crew’s horrified faces, before scurrying off into the unknown?

This narrative decision turns gender roles on its head and plays into male fears of human reproduction and that which they will never experience. It also draws from 1970s fears of “no longer being in control of our bodies,” as film studies professor Mark Jancovich asserted, thanks to “pollution, pesticides, food additives, man-made cancers” causing mutation. Extrapolating and combining the two sure makes for one horrific film. This monstrous amalgamation is culminated in a predatory creature that was designed by Giger to be both vaginal and phallic with a mysterious omnipresence onscreen. No character is sure what it is that they are facing.

Yet gender implications are reinforced in the making of the antagonist – the alien itself – female. Had Ripley’s character been “Roby” and the alien been male, the conflict would have been conventional. Had there been a binary gender-based conflict, e.g. Roby fought a female alien or had Ripley been a woman and the alien been male, it would have played into the perception of the “monstrous feminine” on alternate sides; the alien being primarily grotesque and man eating, with Ripley being similarly so for possessing male attributes of character. However, both Ripley and the alien are female, which makes for an interesting dilemma: both are considered to be “monstrous” and “feminine” despite neither possessing attributes of human femininity. Both are also capable of deploying death, to which men are either a spectator or a victim, which sparks Freudian psychology, simultaneously castration anxiety in males and possession of the phallus in females. So even though Ripley is female, are viewers actually still watching a protagonist that is essentially male?

This crisis of gender is complicated further as the Alien series progresses, as in Aliens – the 1986 sequel directed by James Cameron – both Ripley and the alien are further solidified as female. Cameron pushed the series into being specifically feminist, having Weaver reprise the role in more extreme circumstances. She gained a surrogate daughter – Newt – to protect, more men to fight and an Alien Queen – one who breeds – to defeat. Both the protagonist and antagonist (not the same alien) have graduated from being maidens to mothers. Both have dependents to protect. We first saw this side of Ripley when she went to find Jones – the Nostromo’s cat – in Alien, however it is important to point out aspect was part of the original script and not dependent on Ripley being female. Through the course of the film, we come to an implied understanding that is wholly complicit in their both being mothers, adding a subliminal layer that would not have been present had either Ripley or the alien been male.

By the time Alien 3 rolls around, it is quite clear where we stand, for whilst Alien subverted the genre and Aliens showed itself to be intrinsically feminist, Alien 3 fulfills the cycle of female purpose by casting Ripley as the “crone” of the “maiden-mother-crone” of the Triple Goddess interpretation of the female life cycle. She chooses to perish after discovering she is hosting an alien queen inside of her body, and as such, despite the franchise being perceived as a feminist one, the female protagonist has still been dragged back into a trope. It is an end that feels almost inevitable for the character – one that could have still been plausible had Ripley been “Roby” instead – yet is far more telling: the genre has to regain control of this strong female protagonist. Perhaps, in that manner, the real winner in this is the alien itself, for despite its specified gender, both it and its children continue to persist as a threat to humankind. Perhaps, the alien queen is the true exemption of this 1980s franchise.

See also at Bitch Flicks: Ellen Ripley, a Feminist Film Icon, Battles Horrifying Aliens… and Patriarchy

Kayleigh Watson is a writer and occasional illustrator from the UK. After realizing that her childhood ambition of being a vet would mean she would actually have to cut up pets (ew), she decided life would be better spent absorbing art and telling others about it. Her years spent studying for her BA (Hons) English and Creative Writing also involved music blogging, reading SF, and watching lots of Buffy. She currently writes about music for female-centric site The Girls Are as well as talking film and TV (or trying to) at her new blog Post-Modern Sleaze. A collection of her work can be found at what kayleigh said, and she tweets about all of the above under @kaylwattson. Her GIF game is strong.

“You Have No Power Over Me”: Female Agency and Empowerment in ‘Labyrinth’

So what distinguishes ‘Labyrinth’ from the Hero’s Journey tropes it so closely follows? Its protagonist. Sarah is the hero of the story. She doesn’t need to be saved because she’s the rescuer, and she carries the plot forward with her resourcefulness, tenacity, and self-actualization. …She navigates a tricky tightrope between fantasy and reality, dreams and goals, past and future, and discovers the kind of woman she wants to be.

This guest post written by Kelcie Mattson appears as part of our theme week on Ladies of the 1980s. | Spoilers ahead.

Adolescence is tough, no matter who you are. Your emotions, perspectives, and body are changing, and the prospect of entering the complex, confusing world of adulthood can seem frightening. It’s especially hard for teenage girls. Life is capable of hideous cruelty: society has pre-set expectations it demands women meet, and there will always be those who attempt to control and oppress female agency. But there’s also freedom — the freedom to choose your own path, to explore, to express, and to discover who you are and the power within you.

Those are the major themes behind Jim Henson’s 1986 film Labyrinth. Although it wasn’t popular at the time of its theatrical release, over the past thirty years it’s become a deeply loved cult favorite for its coming-of-age themes, vivacious imagination, and David Bowie’s amazingly outrageous clothes. (Oh, dear David.) But beneath the puffy ball gowns and sparkly technicolor makeup lies a palpably feminist treatise.

On the surface Sarah Williams (Jennifer Connelly)’s story is about her maturation into an adult, but bound inherently to that is the development, and realization, of her personal agency. When we first meet her she’s a clever, imaginative girl who prefers the company of books, stuffed animals, and made-up fantasy lands over the mundane demands of suburban life. To this end Sarah is also an embodiment of the stereotypical characteristics unfairly assigned to teenage girls — immature, petulant, and selfish. She throws a temper tantrum when tasked with babysitting her younger brother Toby so her parents can, gasp, enjoy an evening out by themselves. Why should she be forced to look after a crying baby when she’d much rather dress up in a flowing white gown and play pretend? Sarah’s defense mechanism against her growing responsibilities is to cast herself into a skewed fantasy where she’s an innocent victim terrorized by evil parents.

It’s immature, yes, but so very relatable. Sarah feels isolated, confused, and jealous of her brother, and fueling the core of those frustrations is the desperate desire to do what she wants. “Life isn’t fair,” she cries when things don’t go her way, as I’ll bet most of us have. She’s a normal adolescent girl yearning for the independence to make her own choices. And that first choice happens to be asking the trickster Goblin King from her play to take Toby away.

Enter David Bowie’s Jareth in a shower of glitter, who offers Sarah a decision of his own design. If she solves the mysteries of his labyrinth within a thirteen-hour window, he’ll return Toby to her. If not, Jareth keeps custody of the baby in his goblin kingdom. It’s Sarah’s choice whether or not to rescue her helpless brother.

This is where Labyrinth dovetails nicely into several synonymous identities. It’s a fairy tale homage with modern-day values; it matches beat-for-beat the plot structure of the typical Hero’s Journey; and it’s a tale of internal strength that’s unabashedly, specifically feminine in nature.

As a fairy tale, admittedly it’s nothing too new. It follows in the footsteps of its predecessors (The Brothers Grimm, The Neverending Story, Where the Wild Things Are, The Wizard of Oz) by imparting life lessons through symbolism — the magical alternate reality is a safe place where our conflicted protagonist can decipher the fundamental difficulties of growing up. As a Hero’s Journey it’s nothing revolutionary, either: the “character embarks on a quest, encounters personal trials to stimulate his/her growth, hits their lowest point before rising up stronger” template has become such a commonplace backbone for popular media you can find it almost anywhere you look. Even Sarah reconciling herself to the obligations of adulthood is a commonly explored arc, from 1977’s Star Wars to 2014’s Boyhood.

So what distinguishes Labyrinth from the Hero’s Journey tropes it so closely follows? Its protagonist. Sarah is the hero of the story. She doesn’t need to be saved because she’s the rescuer, and she carries the plot forward with her resourcefulness, tenacity, and self-actualization.

At first glance it’s easy to write her off as a passive character seemingly helpless to Jareth’s erratic whims and elaborate traps. But although Sarah reacts to the obstacles Jareth throws into her path, she actively resists his narrative, twisting the conflicts around to suit her needs until Jareth becomes the one reacting to her. When he tries to disempower her by casting her in the role of a lost princess needing his protection from a horde of masked strangers, Sarah rejects his fantasy by literally breaking it with her fists. She’s not tempted by the pretty trinkets he offers nor quelled into submission by his magnetism; she’s steadfastly resolute in her goal. Of course she gains quirky Muppet allies along the way, but as she tells her newfound friends, “I have to face him alone. It’s the way it’s done.” And, and — she doesn’t win through brute physical strength, but through an emotional, mental acknowledgment of her own power.

Before the labyrinth, the idea of personal power was all fantasy. A book to read, lines to recite. Sarah has to endure practical life experiences, albeit in a fantastical setting, to recognize the full extent of her capability and then apply that knowledge in order to survive in a treacherous, unpredictable world. A man’s world.

“You have no power over me,” she declares to Jareth’s face; thematically, to outside forces at large. Once she claims ownership of herself, she triumphs in her dual goals: rescuing Toby, and finding happiness. A girl declaring what she wants without shame brings down an empire.

When you look closely, even the movie itself emerges from the decision Sarah makes to sacrifice her brother. She regrets her wish immediately, but that doesn’t change the fact she serves as the action’s primary catalyst. That’s rare, in the 1980s and today. Sarah alone directs her destiny by challenging the labyrinth’s infinite parade of decisions, even as she accepts that not all choices are simple, clean, or fair, and all of them have consequences that can’t be neatly resolved.

In that sense Sarah’s Hero’s Journey isn’t treated any differently by the script than if she were a boy — except for the fact her gender identity informs the film’s proceedings. The execution isn’t perfect: her emotional outbursts are treated as juvenile things to leave behind, and her faults (jealously, selfishness) are ones that tend to be assigned only to girls. But Labyrinth’s dramatic tension is centered entirely in a young woman’s mind as she navigates a tricky tightrope between fantasy and reality, dreams and goals, past and future, and discovers the kind of woman she wants to be. Compassionate, quick-witted, and iron-willed, willing to trust others and open to evolution of thought, while also prone to pre-judgment, naivety, and her fear of the unknown — all of which she overcomes. This makes Sarah not a weak token effort at inclusivity but a character who boasts a full, varied emotional life. She’s not there to service a guy’s development, to just be his victim or his love interest.

Which brings us to that pesky Goblin King. My adoration of Bowie aside, my interest in Jareth is in what he represents to Sarah — a deliberately disturbing mix of childishness and sexuality. Arrogant and assured, he first infantilizes Sarah by offering her gifts to win her submission. When charm fails, he tries intimidation, using his age, power, and authority to order her “back to her room” to “play with her toys.” When Sarah’s ingenuity continues to surpass his expectations, he flat-out presents himself as a distraction. Their dynamic becomes (perhaps always was) a choreographed seduction instead of the normal villain-hero relationship. Jareth’s threats read more like flirtations, especially in tandem with Bowie’s preening, charismatic performance and those, err… very tight pants. That blend makes him both a domineering father figure trying to restrict her autonomy and a potential lover.

Sex is mysterious, dark, and completely adult. Playing with lipstick in the bedroom mirror might be the first step of Sarah’s path toward romance (“I’d like it if you had a date,” her stepmother laments, “you should have dates at your age” — somehow I doubt she meant David Bowie), but Jareth personifies the seductive allure of the unknown, that elusive discovery of more. This is a movie with farting rocks and puppet dance parties, though, so the undertones remain subtle. But intentionally or not, Jareth’s both the embodiment of the patriarchy and the loss of Sarah’s innocence — a man dictating to a woman what he deems is the best thing for her, while also introducing an initiation into the sexual world as reward for her coming to heel. Those threats are very real, very relevant ones.

In a normal fairy tale, Sarah’s happy ending would be to marry him. Jareth fits the love interest archetype: rich, powerful, and regal, with control issues to boot. As tempting as his proposal can be from a certain perspective (I do swoon a bit), it’s a tangible power imbalance and unsettling in a way that borders on emotional abuse — of which Sarah is instinctively, if not implicitly, aware. She may have matured in her understanding of how the world works, but her white clothes signify she sees herself as the innocent in a sea of cruel lasciviousness. So despite the reciprocation and recognition of her desire, she knows she isn’t ready for that major step. That could be interpreted as a reinforcement of the damaging notion that a “good” woman must be chaste. But although Sarah rejects Jareth’s advances (and, impressively, his piercing male gaze; the camera never objectifies her), he still functions as the spark to her burgeoning sexual awakening. She’s curious and aware, but it has to happen on her terms at the right time.

For all his, “Fear me, love me, do as I say, and I will be your slave,” declarations (cool story, bro, but she’s sixteen), in the end Jareth’s just a privileged, lonely, petty man. He doesn’t get the happy ending he wants. Sad Goblin King is sad.

Of the things Sarah discovers along her labyrinth adventure, above all she learns the power of choice. She chooses between bravely confronting the uncomfortable uncertainties of real life or surrendering her free will to a fantasy. She chooses who she wants to be — a healthy balance somewhere between no longer a child but not yet a grown woman. One of my favorite things about Labyrinth’s message is Sarah doesn’t entirely dismiss her material possessions, but rather finds space for creativity and wonder alongside everything else. She can face her nebulous future with clarity, solid in her convictions and rooted in the understanding of her personhood.

Labyrinth teaches us that women have power. We can say what we want no matter the overwhelming pressures otherwise. We can shape a path for our lives and choose what’s right for us at the right time. We alone determine our self-worth; our stories matter.

We just have to remember the words.

Kelcie Mattson is a multimedia editor by morning, aspiring critic by afternoon, and tea aficionado 24/7. She’s been a fangirl since birth, thanks to reruns of Star Trek and Buffy. In her spare time she does the blogging thing on feminism, genre films, minority representation, comics, and all things cinephile-y at her website. You can follow her on Twitter at @kelciemattson, where she’s usually overanalyzing HGTV’s camerawork and sharing too many cat pictures.

Scarlet Witch and Kitty Pryde: Erased Jewish Superheroines

Not only is erasing Judaism a disservice to both Scarlet Witch and Captain America, it’s also disrespectful to the Jewish writers who invested so much in making a statement about Jewish resistance in their artistic expression. … What’s aggravating about the omission of Kitty Pryde’s faith is the fact that the filmmakers didn’t do this to Magneto’s character…

This guest post written by Sophie Hall appears as part of our theme week on Superheroines.

Captain America: Civil War was released earlier this month, marking it as Marvel’s 13th feature film and it satisfied critics and audiences alike. Not only did it pass the billion dollar gross mark, it passed the DuVernay test, having not two but three Black superheroes (Falcon, War Machine, and introducing Black Panther), making it one of the few superhero films to do so.

Sadly though, the film was let down by its superheroines (and I’m not just talking about it failing the Bechdel test.) The two female superheroes we are presented with are Black Widow/Natasha Romanoff and Scarlet Witch/Wanda Maximoff; don’t get me wrong, both are distinguished heroines in a film overstuffed with testosterone, with the filmmakers taking their time with them in establishing their flaws, strengths, vulnerabilities and powers. The problem, then? The pair are similar in race and religious ambiguity — and they shouldn’t be. While Black Widow’s portrayal remains true to her comic book origin, Scarlet Witch’s does not, as her comic book counterpart is Romani and Jewish.

In a featurette for the film Avengers: Age of Ultron, actress Elizabeth Olsen who portrays Scarlet Witch states that writer/director Joss Whedon “is really interested in creating another female character that is strong” for his sequel. This is understandable; Black Widow had been the only prominent female character thus far to receive any sort of a storyline outside of being a love interest or revolving solely around a man.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=33dnL_TSP5k”]

However, given the fact that the whole team (at this point), including Black Widow are white and religiously ambiguous, why did Whedon feel that Judaism and a ‘strong female character’ were mutually exclusive? Whedon could have used Scarlet Witch’s Romani heritage as a visual and cultural exploration of her powers, benefiting her character as on the whole.

Not only does Whedon erase Scarlet Witch’s religion in his portrayal — he has her go against it. When the audience is first introduced to Scarlet Witch’s character in Age of Ultron, we discover that she and her twin brother Quicksilver have willingly volunteered to be experimented on for the Nazi organization Hydra to gain powers. Their motivation for this was so that they could seek revenge on Iron Man/Tony Stark, whom they feel is responsible for the death of their parents — but does the end of this narrative choice justify the means? Because that’s a huge creative license to reconcile with the superheroine’s comic book origins.

Some may see keeping Scarlet Witch’s Jewish heritage as not only a duty, but a necessity, if she is to be an Avenger under Captain America’s leadership. In an article on Captain America’s character conception, Jessica Plummer at Panels writes:

“He was famously depicted punching out Adolf Hitler on the cover of his first appearance, in Captain America Comics #1 — which hit stands in December 1940, a full year before Pearl Harbor and before the United States joined World War II, making that cover a bold political statement. […]

“Like most of the biggest names in the Golden Age of comics, they [Captain America creators] were Jewish. They had family and friends back in Europe who were losing their homes, their freedom, and eventually their lives to the Holocaust. The creation of Captain America was deeply personal and deeply political.”

Not only is erasing Judaism a disservice to both Scarlet Witch and Captain America, it’s also disrespectful to the Jewish writers who invested so much in making a statement about Jewish resistance in their artistic expression. With these brave Jewish writers using their art to combat anti-Semitism, respect and inclusion of the religion should always outweigh a filmmaker’s personal creative preference.

Similarly to Scarlet Witch, another superheroine whose Judaism has been erased in their cinematic portrayal is Kitty Pryde/Shadowcat of the X-Men universe. In the comics, Kitty Pryde is a feisty, spirited, and proudly Jewish member of the X-Men. Yet disappointingly in her 2006 big screen debut in X-Men: The Last Stand, her religion is never mentioned and she’s part of a love triangle designed to progress the character of Bobby Drake/Iceman.

What’s aggravating about the omission of Kitty Pryde’s faith is the fact that the filmmakers didn’t do this to Magneto’s character (who ironically is Scarlet Witch’s father in the comics.) The Jewish faith was necessary for them to progress a male character’s storyline but not for a female character. Supervillains can keep their faith whereas superheroines can’t.

Kitty Pryde and Scarlet Witch went on to have another screen outing each, but their faith was still nowhere to be seen. Civil War did a great job at progressing Scarlet Witch’s character (read Maddie Webb’s brilliant Bitch Flicks article). However, without her faith, she is just another white superheroine alongside Black Widow and Sharon Carter, adding nothing new for viewers to take in.

Where Scarlet Witch was blessed with complexity, Kitty Pryde was cursed with none in her on-screen follow up, X-Men: Days of Future Past. In the comic book storyline on which the film is based, it is Kitty who travels back in time to stop the sentinels from creating an apocalyptic-like future in wiping out not only mutants, but most of humanity. The film adaptation? Of course it was Wolverine sent back, a reliable character for a box office draw. Not only was this a missed opportunity for a superheroine to truly shine on the big screen, but the filmmakers missed out on a more poignant story. Kitty Pryde would have faced what her ancestors faced generations ago; where they were targeted for their religion, Kitty was now being targeted for her mutation. The story would have showcased a seemingly endless cycle that this heroine actively fights to end.

More troubling still was who replaced Kitty Pryde as the female lead in X-Men: Days of Future Past; the blonde haired, blue eyed (and occasionally blued skinned) Mystique, played by global superstar Jennifer Lawrence. Critic Helen O’Hara at Digital Spy highlights the inconsistency of making Mystique the leading superheroine of the recent X-Men films:

“It’s a sea change for the character. In the entire history of the comics she joined the X-Men precisely once, only to betray them almost immediately and reveal herself as a double-agent. During the comics’ Age Of Apocalypse saga, she at least didn’t work against them, but she was basically a war profiteer, ferrying mutants to safety in return if they could afford the price.”

Likewise with Wolverine taking Kitty’s role in the film, it’s easy to see why Mystique would be given center stage over her character. Jennifer Lawrence has an Oscar and the Hunger Games franchise under her belt, proving that she too is reliable in filling seats in a cinema. Still, the studio replacing a pivotal Jewish heroine with two reliable crowd pleasers goes to show how easily they will forgo significant storytelling for easy money.

Given the overall treatment of Scarlet Witch and Kitty Pryde, will we ever see diversity progress for superheroines? In the newest X-Men entry, X-Men: Apocalypse, the front and center superheroine is again Mystique, with Jean Grey appearing as her ally. However, the film poises the two women of color (Storm and Psyclocke) as the antagonists; seeing as the white western heroines are the heroes, you can guess who will most likely dominate the screen-time. The female characters who are minorities get sidelined while the white superheroines shine.

For Disney owning two franchises, they are much slower with female diversity in Marvel than with Star Wars. Granted, the heroines in The Force Awakens were white, but the follow-up Episode 8 will have another female lead played by Asian-American actress Kelly Marie Tran. That will be Disney’s third Star Wars feature, whereas Marvel still only has white women as lead and supporting characters in their 13th feature, which is why Scarlet Witch’s Jewish identity was missed more than ever.

On the other hand, Lupita Nyong’o has been cast in an unspecified (but hopefully badass) role in the upcoming Black Panther film. The character of Valkyrie will be played by the talented Tessa Thompson in the upcoming Thor sequel (presumably due to the backlash of Tilda Swinton’s casting in the upcoming Doctor Strange film). However, I still can’t help but feel a bit bittersweet about this; we should already be basking in the afterglow of diverse heroines, instead of playing what seems like a never-ending waiting game.

See also at Bitch Flicks: Why Scarlet Witch May Be the Future of the Marvel Cinematic Universe

Sophie Hall is from London and has graduated with a degree in Creative Writing. She is currently writing a sci-fi comic book series called White Leopard for Wasteland Paradise Comics. Her previous articles for Bitch Flicks were on Mad Max: Fury Road, Star Wars: The Force Awakens, director Andrea Arnold and Game of Thrones. You can follow her on Twitter at @sophiesuzhall.

Stop the Fridging: The Invisible Feminism of ‘Arrow’

So while ‘Arrow’ seems pretty reluctant to move away from the traditional stance on women existing to be love interests and to be rescued, the individual female characters themselves sometimes show some hints of progressiveness… if only they’d be allowed to live long enough!

This guest post written by Becky Kukla appears as part of our theme week on Superheroines. | Spoilers ahead for seasons 1-3.

Is TV series Arrow feminist? Being brutally honest, it almost certainly is not. Does Arrow have characters with feminist undertones, or female characters with more depth than meets the eye? Well, that’s where it gets more interesting.

The premise of Arrow reads incredibly similarly to that of Batman; rich and spoiled son of millionaire family undergoes a grueling, life-changing event which forces him to become a ‘good guy’ (unlike the playboy he was once) to save his city. Pre-Arrow Oliver Queen (Stephen Amell) is a cheater, drug-taker, party-goer, and generally not a great guy. He is the epitome of the whole silver spoon thing, and not only this but he treats everyone in his life terribly. His parents (as he later learns) are both semi-responsible for a plot to destroy the poorest parts of Starling City, and this becomes his motivation to try and right the wrongs that his father (and his mother) did. It’s also clear that pre-Arrow Oliver didn’t have a lot of respect for women — cheating on his then girlfriend Laurel, with her sister Sara — and consequently almost getting himself and Sara killed in the boating accident that left him stranded on an island.

So where am I going with this? All things considered — Arrow is clearly not going to win any feminist awards any time soon. This is mostly because pretty much every single female character in the show is either related to Oliver (Moira, Thea) or has been romantically involved with him in some way (Helena, Laurel, Sara, Felicity, Shado, and Isabel have all had romantic relations with Oliver to some degree). The show also has a worrying trend of having its villains use the women characters as some sort of bait. I’m only on season three, but poor Laurel has been kidnapped 4 times since the show started! However, the representation of female heroism in Arrow starts to get a little more interesting from the end of season 1 with the introduction of at least 3 superheroine-type characters. Oliver also regularly comes into contact with supervillains, many of whom are women.

So while Arrow seems pretty reluctant to move away from the traditional stance on women existing to be love interests and to be rescued, the individual female characters themselves sometimes show some hints of progressiveness… if only they’d be allowed to live long enough!

Shado

Chronologically, the first superheroine to appear in Arrow is Shado (Celina Jade). Technically, she isn’t actually a superheroine, but she is certainly super and saves Oliver’s life several times on the island so I think it’s safe to put in the category of superheroine. Shado is the daughter of Yao Fai — the man who first rescues Oliver when he is dying on the island. Her main reason for existence seems to be to ensure that her father toes the line, otherwise she will be killed. However, Shado quickly reveals that she is every bit as tough as her father when it comes to fighting — and single handedly rescues Slade and Oliver from certain death. She then goes on to teach Ollie pretty much everything he knows, including the whole slapping the water thing, and generally being useful with a bow and arrow. Shado is tough and strong, she’s obviously had some intense training and she’s a pretty cool character in general. That is, until two things happen. First, Oliver falls in love with her. We can understand this from Oliver’s perspective — at this point, he still behaves somewhat like the playboy he once was and in general terms, Shado is the only woman he has been in contact with in a long while. The issue is that 1) Shado falls for him (he’s a spoiled brat, ammiright!?) and that Slade also falls for Shado. Instead of seeing Shado as the strong and tough woman that she is, she becomes steadily reduced to the crux of an odd love triangle with one immature playboy and a man old enough to be her father.

Shado is also brutally murdered when Ivan forces Oliver to choose between saving her or Sara. This is the first of many ‘choose between two women you love’ scenarios that are set up for Oliver throughout the series, and this one is quite possibly the worst. Oliver doesn’t so much as choose Shado, but the whole event sends Slade spiraling into revenge city where he blames Oliver for the murder of the ‘love of his life.’ Reality check here; Shado is only the love of his life because Slade literally knew no other women. And also, she didn’t even love him back. Either way, Shado’s death is the sole reason for pretty much all of the events in the second season — so I guess it might be the most successful fridging of all time?

Fridging itself is boring, old, and a great waste of time but it feels even worse when you have a really wonderful female character with huge potential, who is killed only to further the storyline of a male character. It also doesn’t help that Shado was also murdered so that Sara (another superheroine type) could live. Which brings me to…

Sara (The Canary)

Sara (Caity Lotz), sister of Laurel and part-time lover of Oliver, was presumed dead along with Oliver when their boat sank off the coast of the island. Imagine everyone’s surprise when it turns out (like Oliver) Sara actually survived and is back in Starling City, also fighting crime. Imagine our even greater surprise when Sara turns out to be a fighting machine, fresh from The League of Assasins. Surprise!

Our first actual introduction to the new and improved Sara 2.0, is as her alter ego (fondly named The Canary). She saves a woman from a group of menacing looking men in a dark alleyway. I don’t believe this is by accident. Sara also takes care of Sin, Roy’s friend from The Glades, and it’s this protection of the women around her that make Sara an almost-feminist superheroine. As soon as her and Oliver are reunited in Starling City, it becomes immediately clear that Sara has been through a bit of a wringer – possibly even more so than Oliver. Sara (at some point in the last five years) was taken in by The League of Assassins and is riddled with guilt and anger about some of the things she was made to do whilst under their command. Sara wants to let her parents and Laurel know she is alive, but she is consumed by the things she has done to survive and is convinced she isn’t worthy of love from anyone — even her own family.

As we see in flashbacks, Sara was incredibly savvy to survive her ordeal aboard what was essentially an illegal prison ship. She knew how to play the game, and waited patiently for an opportunity to escape. Though her and Oliver reunited on the island, Sara has clearly changed and is prepared to do whatever is necessary to survive. The Sara that returns to Starling City five years later is equally prepared to do what is necessary – and this causes friction with Oliver’s sudden ‘no killing’ rule. Similarly to how Oliver’s family are often used as bait to coax him into situations as the Arrow, Sara’s family are also kidnapped and used as bait when The League of Assassins try to force Sara to rejoin them. Of course, it is the women members of Sara’s family that are kidnapped (her mother and Laurel).

Sadly, Sara’s story comes to an incredibly abrupt and untimely end. She makes it a few minutes into season 3 before she is killed, as witnessed by Laurel. For a character who had so much potential, and a captivating backstory — her demise was a little more than cold on behalf of the writers.

Felicity Smoak

Ah, Felicity Smoak . Poor, lovely Felicity. Oddball, geeky Felicity (played by Emily Bett Rickards) who somehow went from obscure computer girl to the object of Oliver’s affections within about thirty seconds at the end of season 2. Felicity is employed at Queen Consolidated (Oliver’s family’s company), and consequently joins team Arrow when Oliver realizes a) how smart she is and b) that she knows too much to not be on the team. If Diggle, Roy, and Oliver are the brawn of the group then Felicity is certainly the brain. She is proficient at hacking, tracking, and generally getting into other people’s computers or CCTV cameras when she shouldn’t be.

Something really odd happens to Felicity between working in the IT department in the basement of QC, and becoming part of team Arrow. It has a lot to do with the way she dresses. When Felicity is at QC, she dresses… well for work. She looks comfortable, she is wearing flats and she looks smart but not overdressed. As soon as Felicity begins working with Team Arrow, she is suddenly turning up to their basement lair in five inch heels and a dress suitable for a nightclub scenario. You could argue she is trying to blend in (the lair is situated underneath Oliver’s nightclub) but I can’t help thinking it’s more to do with Felicity (as the only recurring woman in Team Arrow) needing to be eye candy. Eye candy, which coincidentally ends up on Oliver’s arm. Which in itself isn’t inherently an issue, but Felicity’s character then became far less about her abilities and talents in the IT department — and far more about her relationship with Oliver. Apparently, as a woman, you cannot have both a career and a boyfriend.

I am only on the third season of Arrow but I’ve heard rumors that not many good things happen beyond that. Moira’s death at the end of the second season seemed to serve only to motivate both Oliver and Thea onward, which is just truly original use of fridging by the show’s writers. I guess the saddest thing about it is that Arrow has (or had) some truly unique and interesting female characters, but refused to do anything worthwhile with them.

Becky Kukla lives in London, works in documentary production/distribution to pay the bills and writes things about feminism, film and TV online in her spare time. You can find more of her work at her blog, femphile or on her twitter @kuklamoo.