‘Outlander’ and A Modern Man

“What is her power over you?” Randall chides Jamie during his psychological torture. As manly as Jamie likens to be, he long ago surrendered himself to Claire’s power over him. In his deteriorated state, only a woman can heal this broken man. While Jamie’s brokenness is wholly justifiable, his extremist way of thinking shows his ideas of masculinity will need to continue to evolve if he wants to fully regain his soul.


This guest post by Alize Emme appears as part of our theme week on Masculinity.


Setting aside everything there is to know about the current television landscape, the Starz series Outlander might seem like a completely modern story about two people navigating the start of a new relationship — minus the time travel, two husbands, and lack of indoor plumbing. Outlander, the tale of Claire Randall (Caitriona Balfe) the Englishwoman who accidentally leaves the 20th century and her husband when she travels 200 years back in time and meets Jamie Fraser (Sam Heughan) and a love she cannot deny, actually is a modern portrayal of sex and gender on TV. But what makes Outlander modern is also what makes it rare: Masculinity as told for the female gaze.

Ronald D. Moore, Outlander’s creator, deserves credit for fully developing the masculine men Diana Gabaldon established in the book series of the same name. On one end of the masculinity spectrum there are characters like Frank Randall (Tobias Menzies), Claire’s husband, the scholarly gentleman who is considerably more sexually timid than his wife, and Ian (Steven Cree), Jamie’s brother-in-law who is remorseful after murdering a man and befriends a criminal because he’s the only one who treats him like a man. On the polar opposite end of the scale are Dougal MacKenzie (Graham McTavish), kin to Jamie and recreational adulterer at large, and Captain Jack Randall (also Menzies), an 18th century version of Dog the Bounty Hunter mixed with one of the Hulks buttoned into a red tailored coat whose very layered homoerotic tendencies make him a predator for women and men alike. Somewhere in the middle of this virility brigade is Jamie Fraser.

“There has never been a man on screen quite like this Jamie character. He’s tough and brash, heroic and noble, but he’s also invested in love and intimacy.” 

Jamie completely redefines the nuances of masculinity and what it means to be a man on screen. Where the traditional television narrative would dictate Jamie pushes, he instead pulls; where he could take the easy road, he takes the high road. Jamie challenges Jamie as much as any outside force and reveals himself a better man each time. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s built like a Greek god, with the hair of a cherub, eyes like the sky, and more often than not is covered in blood, sweat, or mud. Outwardly, Jamie is masculinity personified.

It’s hard to look so good while wearing a skirt, let’s be honest.
It’s hard to look so good while wearing a skirt, let’s be honest.

 

Inwardly, Jamie reserves no ego about being a virgin exploring sex and sexuality with his new bride and more experienced partner, Claire, on their wedding night. He takes the warnings from his fellow male friends that women don’t care for sex to heart when he sees this could be true for Claire. Jamie doesn’t just use Claire for his own agenda and roll over and leave once he’s satisfied; he cares for her in every sense that there is to be a lover. He wants to learn from her. He is swept up by the mysticism of their unusual love and doesn’t mind how it looks to serve Claire publicly or please her privately.

To the hyper-masculine Dougal, who knows the “importance” of keeping a woman waiting so she doesn’t fancy herself with too much power or control over her husband, this is a sign of weakness. But Jamie’s defiance of the MacKenzie Clan’s male domineering agenda is clear. “I said I was completely under your power and happy to be there,” he tells Claire after eagerly returning to her.

The MacKenzie Men
The MacKenzie Men

 

The rules of how to be a man have been clearly ingrained in Jamie. He struggles with the idea of how to uphold a masculine image while also respecting his wife. While Claire persists with being a huge factor in challenging Jamie’s pre-set thinking. Where Jamie sees fit to reprimand Claire for putting herself and others in danger by archaically spanking her, Claire bucks at this tradition and uses it as an opportunity to renegotiate the rules of their relationship.

Claire will not remain idle while Jamie follows blindly the regressive ways of his predecessors. She challenges him. She reminds him a woman’s voice is just as important as a man’s, that wives are not property. She is the force that whispers in his ear to pull when the status quo says to push. Instead of digging in his heels, Jamie takes a vulnerable turn and admits to Claire that the thought of losing her scares him. He is a man who can show emotion and understands that love allows for forgiveness.

“I saw a ridged man bend,” Jamie says before realizing traditions are not set in stone. Jamie comes to the conclusion that in order to make his marriage with Claire formidable, he cannot continue to abide by the rules of older generations. His mindfulness leads to the pledge that he will never again raise a rebellious hand to his wife.

By nature Jamie is a protector and he fiercely protects women. He takes two floggings to protect his sister, he takes a beating to protect Leary (Nell Hudson), and he’s married Claire to protect her from the Red Coats. Jamie quite easily fills out the honorable male role of providing security. The idea that women want to feel secure is sometimes correlated with money, but as true love stories go, Jamie can offer Claire only the skill of his two bare hands.

“You need not be sacred of me nor anyone else as long as I am with you,” Jamie tells her shortly after arriving at Castle Leoch. Despite the wealth of safety Jamie provides for Claire, she also saves him. She is as much his savior as he is her hero. She sews his wounds, she rescues him when he’s captured, but most importantly, her love sparks new life within Jamie. She gives him something no one else can; with her he is whole. Jamie doesn’t shy away from Claire’s ability to help him. But he does show resignation when he cannot provide for her.

Healing hands.
Healing hands.

 

After realizing his father’s savings, originally endowed for Jamie and Claire to raise a family, must now go to staving off a low-life criminal out for the bounty on Jamie’s head, Jamie tells Claire, “I’ve let you down”–words most men on TV never utter. His humility shows the side of a man who understands the weight of his actions and the reach of their consequences.

Jamie is an amalgamation for this time. He has taken the old traditions of patriarchy and retained only what is needed to be a survivor. He has expanded his own notions of male dominance and marriage for the woman he loves. He is tender, but still commanding. In many senses, Jamie is the evolution of the perfect modern man. And instead of being the hero at the end of the story, he is in turn, the victim.

Throughout this first season of Outlander, Jamie and Randall have crossed paths in a twisted juxtaposition of showmanship. Both of these men tether the series as pillars of opposing masculinity. Randall is filled with brute strength fueled by a sadistic mind charging at anything he wants to possess. He holds a sadistic domination over Jamie having personally whipped Jamie within an inch of his life.

Jamie and Randall, a long and storied history.
Jamie and Randall, a long and storied history.

 

During an exchange at Fort William, Randall taunts Jamie: “Who’s the man in this match, Fraser?” Jamie’s unwillingness to fight Randall is seen as weakness; he is less a man for not desiring bloodshed. While war and murder are commonplace in this time period, Jamie derives no pleasure from the passing of men, like Randall who feeds off the weakness of other. Jamie is a valiant warrior on the battlefield but when the opportunity presents itself for Jamie to avenge himself with Randall, he doesn’t follow through. “It never occurred to me to kill a helpless man, even one such as Randall,” Jamie says. This logic makes the brutality of their final meeting all the more agonizing.

As these things go on television, women are shown as the victims of rape and sexual assault. Outlander has plenty of this as well, and no matter how accurate it is to the time period, the bodice-ripping and men treating women like objects is still the show’s greatest fault. Men prove themselves in this era by taking whatever they can dominate, women or otherwise. And in a different twist on this theme, the show’s final culmination of sexual violence occurs not between a man and a woman, but between two men.

Through disturbing mind games and gruesome treatment, Randall breaks Jamie. For a series where the entire show is a metaphor centered on power and dominance — countries over countries, men over women, lairds over tenants — this is the ultimate domination.

The two men who have foiled each other the entire season act out the most gruesome rendition of good versus evil, Christ imagery and all, and evil triumphs. For Jamie and his traditional masculine mentality, this is a loss only death can free him from. He is defeated, victimized, and literally crippled, and the one person who can save him is Claire.

And love conquers all.
And love conquers all.

 

“What is her power over you?” Randall chides Jamie during his psychological torture. As manly as Jamie likens to be, he long ago surrendered himself to Claire’s power over him. In his deteriorated state, only a woman can heal this broken man. While Jamie’s brokenness is wholly justifiable, his extremist way of thinking shows his ideas of masculinity will need to continue to evolve if he wants to fully regain his soul. As will Outlander itself, if the series wants to show concern for victimization, parity is still needed.

How do you redefine masculinity on television? Outlander has only scratched the surface of potential for shows to portray more evolved men on screen. Jamie is the kind of man women want to watch. But he should also the kind of man other men want to emulate. A little old, a little new–a modern man for our modern world.

 


Alize Emme is a writer and filmmaker living in Los Angeles. She holds a B.A. in Film & Television from NYU and tweets at @alizeemme.

 

 

Being the Sun – Women and Power in ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ Season 11

Is this Rhimes saying to all us die-hard female ‘Grey’s fans that we as women need to take the focus off of other people and put it back on ourselves in order to be the best version of, well, us? It certainly seems that way.


This is a guest post by Alize Emme.


SPOILER ALERT: Do not read unless you have watched all current episodes of Grey’s Anatomy Season 11.

Grey’s Anatomy has long been a show about love stories. The show’s tagline when it premiered in March of 2005 was “Operations. Relations. Complications.” Relationships have always been part of the game. Showrunner and producer Shonda Rhimes has created characters who season after season will do just about anything in the name of love – specifically, the female characters. Type “Craziest Things Grey’s Anatomy Characters Have Done For Love” into Google and the Izzie Stevens entry page of Wikipedia is the first result.

But this season, Season 11, has turned that theme on its head. The female characters are no longer doing things just for love; they’re doing things for themselves.

Grey’s Anatomy
Grey’s Anatomy

 

Rhimes deserves a lot of credit for creating a show about women who embrace their sexuality. And while critics over the years have questioned the idea that a medical drama could also be a romantic soap, Rhimes has shown that women can be sexually active AND successful, which is why focusing on just women getting back to their true selves feels like a natural and important transition for this show.

So far, this season has been about women standing in their power and kicking ass. Meredith Grey (Ellen Pompeo), who is definitely not the least interesting Grey’s character, is especially kicking in the ass department.

At the end of season 10, which saw the departure of beloved character and Meredith BFF, Cristina Yang (Sandra Oh), the two twisted sisters dance it out one last time – but not before Cristina offers some crucial parting words. In her Cristina way, she tells Meredith that Derek Shepard (Patrick Dempsey), aka McDreamy, aka Meredith’s husband, is “very dreamy. But he is not the sun. You are.” After ten years together and a relationship Rhimes says is based on her own Cristina, this is what her last words are. Essentially, stop revolving your life around Derek, start revolving around yourself… Or, you know, something more eloquent and science-y, but nevertheless make yourself a priority!

Cristina’s wise parting words.
Cristina’s wise parting words.

 

If ever there were a theme that needed to be explored in 42 minutes not including commercials on network television, this would be it!

During the multi-episode absence of Derek McDreamy Shepard, Meredith has made herself a priority and is quite literally kicking ass and taking names. And those names? They’re the names of all the people Meredith has consecutively saved since Derek has been gone. Yes, while her husband is away on a fancy project for POTUS, Meredith is 90 names deep in the lifesaving department. She literally hasn’t lost a patient since Nov. 14 of last year (Grey’s is real time, real world so, a while). And when Derek does return? Streak over. Patient gone.

This idea, this storyline that Meredith is at the top of her game when all the other factors in her life are taken out of the equation is so impactful. Her husband is across the country doing a job he thinks is more important than hers; her kids are being doted on by a sister-in-law and a surprise half-sister. All Meredith has to do is focus on Meredith and that means focusing on surgery. Is this Rhimes saying to all us die-hard female Grey’s fans that we as women need to take the focus off of other people and put it back on ourselves in order to be the best version of, well, us? It certainly seems that way.

Meredith isn’t the only female character who’s seen a general life resurgence this season. Callie Torres (Sara Ramirez) makes the completely gut-wrenching, completely unforeseen, and completely sense-making decision to end her relationship with Arizona Robbins (Jessica Capshaw) because she has lost herself in the marriage. Callie used to dance around in her underwear; she used to be a badass bone surgeon. Despite still loving Arizona, Callie realizes being away from Arizona was the first time she truly started to find herself again. Callie makes the decision to stop trying to fix her marriage. A bold and heart-breaking choice, but Callie is choosing Callie and that’s what is most important.

Callie and Arizona’s heartbreaking break up.
Callie and Arizona’s heartbreaking breakup.

 

Amelia Shepard (Caterina Scorsone), who is not only Derek’s sister but also his replacement as head of neurosurgery, has also proven she can stand on her own two feet. After deciding she is the only brain surgeon who can remove Nicole Herman’s (Geena Davis) life-threatening tumor, she literally has to solidify herself not as Derek’s baby sister, not as a recovering addict, but as a badass brain surgeon. During a critical moment of self-doubt, when Amelia asks Richard Webber (James Pickens Jr.), her unofficial sober companion, to bring Derek back from Washington to save her in the middle of surgery, Richard gives Amelia a similar speech Cristina gave to Meredith. “Derek isn’t here,” he tells her. “YOU’RE here.” In other words, Derek can’t save her; Derek isn’t “the sun.” Amelia needs to step out of Derek’s shadow and own her power. She not only rocks her surgery, but saves Herman’s life. She also earns herself a spot in the Derek Is No Longer The Sun Club.

All other female characters are doing their part to be awesome this season, too. Stephanie Edwards (Jerrika Hinton) is off being a superhero with Amelia. Newcomer Herman saves unborn babies and beats a terminal brain tumor. Arizona is Herman’s living legacy, saving babies left and right with magical knowledge and was basically Herman’s life saving catalyst. Jo Wilson (Camilla Luddington) is the one who realized Meredith’s streak of bad ass-ness. April Kepner (Sarah Drew) is taking a tragedy and using it to better herself. And Miranda Bailey (Chandra Wilson) is using her voice to stand up for those who aren’t always heard. Bailey is also married to Ben, so let’s be real, Bailey wins by just waking up in the morning.

Let’s take a moment here to acknowledge Maggie Pierce (Kelly McCreary). I definitely had the thought earlier this season: Does Meredith Grey really need another sister? But Maggie is the sister Meredith needs and deserves. She’s the sister everyone needs and deserves. She fills a Cristina void, a Derek void and, most importantly, she’s just really good. She’s a good cardiothoracic surgeon, she’s a good sister, she’s a good friend. And she’s normal! Like, aside from not being able to form constructive sentences around attractive men, she is basically the most normal and balanced character Grey’s Anatomy has ever seen. So, yay for Maggie who apparently has been around in theory since Season 4.

Maggie Pierce just being her likeable self.
Maggie Pierce just being her likeable self.

 

The male characters this season, while always interesting, have definitely taken a step back story-wise to make room for these women to really shine. Seasoned Grey’s fans will remember the days when the male characters were much more of a force to be reckoned with, adding a sexual undertone to all hospital activities. And as much as I, and every other viewer, loved Mark McSteamy Sloan, he was basically a walking sex education class.

Really this season has been about self-reflection, loss, and healing for the male characters. Richard is coming to terms with discovering a daughter he didn’t know he had. Alex Karev (Justin Chambers) is navigating being Meredith’s “person” while realizing he’s in it for the long haul with Jo. Jackson Avery (Jesse Williams) is coping with the loss of his unborn child. Owen Hunt (Kevin McKidd) is dealing with the loss of Cristina. And Derek is busy crossing lines with a woman who is not his wife.

While we know now that Derek did in fact kiss his subordinate, we also know that Meredith has handled Derek’s suspected infidelity with serene stability. The moment that really solidified Meredith’s coming into her own? During last week’s episode (1117) when Derek came back from Washington D.C. refusing to reveal his assignations, he told Meredith he cannot live without her. To which Meredith says she can live without him. Derek is no longer the sun in this moment. Meredith has found who she is without her husband. Of course, Meredith then says she doesn’t want to live without Derek, but still, Meredith is now revolving around Meredith and Derek is just some passing comet, pretty to look at but not a crucial heavenly body in this planetary system.

“You guys are a freaking romance novel,” Callie says to Meredith about her relationship with Derek. Everyone is pulling for these two. But what happens next is anyone’s guess. Meredith can survive without Derek. So Derek needs to majorly step up.

MerDer, the Living Romance Novel – kidding.
MerDer, the Living Romance Novel – kidding.

 

Every once in a while I’ll catch a bit of fan-generated Grey’s Anatomy reviews online. And if you are one of the surprising number of confused people who have no idea why the end title card for episode 1112 was a freeze frame image of Meredith jumping on a bed in her underwear  — well, I’m going to tell you!

Season 11 has been all about Meredith getting back to who she really is. Instead of going to D.C. to work on her marriage, she checks into a crappy airport motel and works on herself. She watches movies, raids the mini bar, and, yes, strips down to her skivvies and jumps like a kid on the bed.

Meredith being the sun.
Meredith being the sun.

 

That whimsical image (set to the fantastic song “Priory” by The Weekend), is the message of this entire season and something we as women, and everyone, should be doing:

Get back to yourself, put yourself first, love yourself first.

A powerful message from Shonda Rhimes and the Grey’s writers, indeed!

 


Alize Emme is a writer and filmmaker living in Los Angeles. She holds a B.A. in Film & Television from NYU and tweets at @alizeemme.

‘Gone Girl’: How to Create the Perfect Female Villain

Kudos to the 20th Century Fox exec who decided to market ‘Gone Girl’ (2014) as a great date movie. This is not a date movie. This is a horror story about the sensationalized pitfalls of a doomed marriage.


This repost by Alize Emme appears as part of our theme week on the Academy Awards.


SPOILER ALERT.


Kudos to the 20th Century Fox exec who decided to market Gone Girl (2014) as a great date movie. This is not a date movie. This is a horror story about the sensationalized pitfalls of a doomed marriage.

As good horror stories go, this one has the perfect villain: Amy Elliott Dunne.

Calculating. Manipulative. Patient. Sinister. Genius. Female.

Dunne (Rosamund Pike) is perhaps one of the greatest female fictional villains portrayed on screen, with bonus points for doing something her male counterparts rarely ever achieve: getting away with it. Dunne, with the help of a highly colored narrative penned by Gillian Flynn, manipulates a vibrant cast of stereotypes as she weaves the perfect crime web and literally gets away with murder.

After feeling like her husband, Nick Dunne (Ben Affleck), has taken her “pride, dignity, hope, and money,” Dunne sets out with fierce discipline and a detective’s eye for detail to frame her unsuspecting husband for her own murder. She befriends “a local idiot,” tells tall tales about fear and the threat of violence, authors a journal’s worth of history–some true, some false, simulates a pregnancy, lights “a fire in July,” and sets the perfect crime scene. She transforms herself into someone “people will truly mourn.”

The premise of Gone Girl works because it plays off our preconceived notions about loss and tragedy. The Pretty Murdered Wife. We as an audience know this story: she’s missing, feared dead, might be pregnant. The narrative needs no back-story, but we do get a glimpse.

Nick Dunne. He is done. Gone. Finished. We know this about Nick the moment we meet him just by his name as he’s standing in the middle of the street next to garbage bins. He is something to be taken out and disposed of with the trash; he is never getting his life back, and Flynn wants us to be aware. The Nick Dunne we are introduced to is a schlubby, beer drinking, ice cream eating, 5 o’clock shadow kind of guy with a dissatisfied marriage and a concubine on the side.

The Smug Accused Husband
The Smug Accused Husband

 

When Dunne goes missing and morphs into the Pretty Murdered Wife stereotype, Nick Dunne’s general disposition puts him right into the Smug Accused Husband category. He’s too charming; he’s too arrogant; he’s too suspicious. He’s a man with secrets. “He’s being a good guy, so everyone can see him being a good guy,” Officer Gilpin (Patrick Fugit) observes. He’s a man whose marriage has taught him how to fake it, who happens to be surrounded by women. There’s lead detective Rhonda Boney (Kim Dickens) who gives him a fair run. A fictionalized Nancy Grace clone, Ellen Abbott, (Missi Pyle) who pulls him apart every night on her nationally syndicated television show, and his twin sister Margo (Carrie Coon) who’s been with him since before they “were even born” and offers a stable voice of reason.

“I am so sick of being picked apart by women,” Nick Dunne says. And he’s right, that’s exactly what’s happening now that he’s been labeled the Smug Accused Husband. This stereotype exists because there are men who do kill their pregnant wives and then go on TV and lie about it, and society remembers them. The case of Laci Peterson was one of the first things that came to my mind. And Affleck is clear to note that Scott Peterson was one of the models for his character. Even the “Missing” photo of Dunne is reminiscent of Laci’s with the bright smile, dangling earrings, and glossy lipstick. Gone Girl is a story that already lives on the edge of our thoughts.

As a couple, Nick and Amy have been pretending from the start. They have a perfect meet-cute, perfect dates, perfect celebratory rituals; they even buy the same sheets. He plays “hot, doting husband,” to her “sweet, loving spouse.” None of it is real; “I forged the man of my dreams,” Dunne says. And in doing so, she herself became the Cool Girl. Another stereotype of how women manipulate themselves to land a man.

Eating cold pizza, drinking beer, remaining “a size 2.” Dunne tailored herself to fit Nick’s taste. But “Nick got lazy.” Not holding up his end of the bargain was never the deal. When she sees that Nick’s sweet romantic gestures were not improvisations made up for her, but rather a well-rehearsed ruse easily tailored to the girl in front of him, Dunne makes a decision. She realizes her husband is no longer the man she married and decides to teach him a lesson he will never forget. “No fucking way,” she says, “He doesn’t get to win. Grown-ups suffer consequences.” She takes charge. She doesn’t let herself be walked on by this man. “Why should I die?” She asks, “I’m not the asshole.”

It’s an easy, cop-out that barely scratches the surface of accurate to diagnose Dunne as a psychopath. To say she’s an overly emotional, crazy woman who can’t handle daily life and descends into a PMS-filled rage, is falling pry to gender stereotypes. Dunne exhibits a perfectly cool demeanor, her emotions are consistently even, she is meticulous and complex. The layers of this character are masterful; she is the opposite of what every gender stereotype says women should be like. She is simply a great villain. “Show me that Darling Nicky smile,” Dunne coos like the Wicked Witch of the West as she stares at a video of her husband on a computer. She’s fascinated by her own work.

Amy Elliott Dunne, the perfect villain
Amy Elliott Dunne, the perfect villain

 

Pike’s performance is mesmerizing; she delivers Dunne’s words in this breathless manner like she’s seductively blowing out a candle. Pike makes us believe from the very beginning that Dunne is both sane and capable of deception. But seeing a female character portrayed so strongly on screen earns Dunne the unfortunate label of “controlling bitch.”

If Dunne were a man, none of these character and sanity accusations would hold true. Male characters that go on rampant murder sprees in movies are never labeled as psychopaths, when clearly they display the same behavior. Dunne is not a psychopath. Crazy people cannot mastermind murders and crimes and not get caught. Even her past acts of “insanity” should be taken with a grain of salt. The ex-boyfriend who calls Dunne a “mind fucker of the first degree,” still keeps a picture of her in his wallet. This woman has allegedly ruined his life, yet he’s still holding her image so close? This calls his authenticity into question while giving Dunne credibility.

Dunne is fiercely intelligent. She has plotted the perfect crime. And while she doesn’t succeed with her original plan, she still sets her husband up for decades of suffering with her pregnancy. For all the betrayed wives out there, Dunne is a hero with the perfect revenge. Her crime is personal, not random, which gets her sanity questioned. Flynn doesn’t touch the subject of Dunne’s mental state. She leaves that up to the audience. David Fincher also helms this story in a nonjudgmental way. He is respectful of Dunne and all the female characters. Dunne is never put on display as a woman, though several male characters make mention of her impressive physical attributes. The supporting female characters, which are all various stereotypes, are never blasted for it; they’re handled with care.

Detective Boney, for example, is the coffee drinking, slick talking lead on Dunne’s missing persons case. She’s an interesting foil to the other female characters that assume Nick Dunne is guilty from the start. Boney gives him the benefit of the doubt, refusing to arrest him because some “blonde dunce” on TV says so. Instead it’s her male partner, Officer Gilpin, who immediately makes up his mind when finding blood splatter in The Dunne’s kitchen that he is guilty.

Through Boney, we are offered the idea that not all women jump to conclusions and hate men. But as the story progresses, we discover that Boney didn’t properly handle her case. “We stained the rug,” she says “with a national spotlight” on her. Had Nick Dunne been left in Boney’s “deeply incompetent hands,” he would be on death row, Dunne conveniently points out. Therefore, Boney’s word is useless in bringing Dunne to justice. Men botch investigations all the time, but for Boney to do so, it’s suggesting a woman can’t properly handle the responsibly of performing a traditionally male job.

Noelle Hawthorne (Casey Wilson) is the wonderfully entertaining suburban mom down the street with triplets and another baby on the way. We know this woman. Everyone has that one inquisitive neighbor that if something were to happen, she would be the first one knocking on the squad car window trying to help the cops. There’s a sense of comedy to this hyperbolic character and her triple-decker stroller, but she is never mocked. We take her seriously. It’s a real feat.

Nick Dunne’s twin, Margo, is a cool girl who’s not the Cool Girl. She drinks bourbon with her brother at ten in the morning, she covers his back with Dunne’s mother, she knows the truth but that doesn’t change her opinion of him. She always speaks the truth with her perfectly snarky comments. “You look like hammered shit,” she tells Nick. He likes her. We like her. She is perhaps the one female character that deviates from a hardened stereotype and could exist in the real world.

Somewhat of a mysterious supporting character, Greta (Lola Kirke) acts as a catalyst for Dunne. She’s complex and calculating just like Dunne; she sees an opportunity, and she seizes it. “Did he put you up to this?” Dunne asks as Greta and her male accomplice rob her blind, “I put him up to it,” she replies. She’s a survivalist and essentially forces Dunne to abort her plan and switch to survival mode herself. Yes, Dunne then murders a man and fakes a sexual assault, but in the world of a villain, she’s just adapting to survive. And as someone who is “skilled in the art of vengeance,” Dunne doesn’t just survive; she thrives.

Dunne, as Nick asks: What are you thinking?
Dunne, as Nick asks: What are you thinking?

 

Seeing a female character like Dunne on screen is fantastic–a word she would deem “a little flippant,” but there has yet to be a female villain quite like her. Fincher draws us into this world, Dunne’s world, where everything is this perfect shade of monochrome with tungsten lighting, where the camera moves in slow and methodical push-ins and pull-outs just as calculating as Dunne is, where things change with such swiftness–a kiss to a tongue swab, just like real life. And as we return to real life, we have to wonder: What will Amy Elliott Dunne do next? We’re left with the image of her head, just where we started, much like a few scenes earlier; we are left with Nick Dunne standing before trash cans, just like we started. So much has happened, but what do we really know? And more important, what will we learn next?

 


Alize Emme is a writer and filmmaker living in Los Angeles. She holds a B.A. in Film & Television from NYU and tweets at @alizeemme.

‘Love & Basketball’: Girls Can Do Anything Boys Can Do

Prince-Bythewood’s ability to draw commentary about the Black family experience in America is so well-integrated we, as the audience, are able to enjoy the emotional ride the characters take us on without the feeling that we’re watching a heavy-handed representation of the social issues of the time.

This guest post by Alize Emme appears as part of our theme week on Black Families. 

“I’m gonna be the first girl in the NBA,” proclaims a young Monica (Kyla Pratt). “No, I’m gonna be in the NBA,” replies a young Quincy (Glendonn Chatman). “You’re gonna be my cheerleader.” Breaking down the idea that women can’t play sports, can’t do the same things men can (like in that late 90’s commercial) is the overarching theme of Gina Prince-Bythewood’s debut feature film Love & Basketball (2000). This is the kind of movie you can watch, like I did as a teenager, and think, “what a nice love story” and it’s not really about anything more. Or, you can take a step back, and with a more seasoned eye, find a story that is rich with nuances about race, gender, and relationship roles and realize Prince-Bythewood’s artful commentary is so subtle you’ve spent the past 15 years just really enjoying this movie about a sports romance.

Love and basketball and so much else
Love and basketball and so much else

As a film that revolves around 12 years in the lives of two African-American basketball stars, Monica Wright (Sanaa Lathan) and Quincy McCall (Omar Epps) and their neighboring families, it’s not really about basketball. “It’s about emotion,” as Robin Roberts says during a brief cameo. Prince-Bythewood’s ability to draw commentary about the Black family experience in America is so well-integrated we, as the audience, are able to enjoy the emotional ride the characters take us on without the feeling that we’re watching a heavy-handed representation of the social issues of the time.

This isn’t a Black film either. This is the Grey’s Anatomy approach to storytelling before Grey’s Anatomy existed. You look at these characters with a colorblind eye, only seeing their passion and emotion for basketball and each other. Race is directly mentioned a grand total of one time: at the start of the film when the two family’s matriarchs first meet. Nona McCall (Debbi Morgan), mother of Quincy, has just brought over a “freshly baked” cake for her new neighbors and Camille Wright (Alfre Woodard), mother of Monica, is happy to receive her. Nona explains their neighborhood at one time was “a little more mixed,” and jokes, “that was before the Black people down the street became the Black people next door, OK!” Camille, dutifully playing the role of good little domesticated housewife, looks at Nona with utter confusion – OK what? – before an embarrassed Nona quickly switches gears and that’s that.

Economic status is also never mentioned though it’s clear that both families are affluent. Both homes are spacious and have pools; the McCalls have a basketball court in the backyard. These are not struggling families; the passion Monica and Quincy share for the game comes from the heart, not the motivation to achieve a better life.

For the majority of the film, we see this very strained relationship between Monica and Camille. Monica is a basketball-obsessed, jersey wearing, make-up free tomboy whose mother “doesn’t know where [she] came from” because she “acts different” than her dress wearing, hair-styling sister and Camille, the classic country homemaker. Monica is our feminist heroine who personifies the idea that feminist women look down on women who choose more traditional roles. Camille has a longstanding belief that her daughter is disappointed in her “prissy” lifestyle, telling Monica she’s “a female superstar athlete whose mother is nothing more than a housewife.”

Misconstrued thinking creates nearly a decade of strife for these two women until it finally arises that Monica’s only shame for her mother lies in Camille’s inability to stand up for herself at home. Indeed, we see Camille falling deep into a submissive role with her husband. Camille has spent a lifetime silencing herself so her “husband can feel like a man.” The flip side of this coin is that Camille consciously put her life dreams on hold so she could “be there” for her family and create a loving home environment. But most importantly, we learn each woman was merely seeking the approval of the other. While Monica would rather “wear a jersey than an apron,” she wanted her mother’s approval both on and off the court.

Next-door to the Wrights, across a small grassy patch of lawn, resides the McCall family. Led by patriarch Zeke McCall (Dennis Haysbert) we find here another relationship being tested. From a young age Zeke has instilled in Quincy a resilience and confidence geared toward shaping a boy into a man he can be proud of one day. Quincy treats his father’s words as gospel and views him like “he [is] god.” Prince-Bythewood introduces this theme of “My Father Was a God” early and often throughout the film. Quincy wants to be just like his father, play for the same pro ball team, and wear the same number on his jersey and around his neck. But it is tantamount to Zeke that Quincy not be like him, to focus on school and not “care about the team.”

“'Can’t’ should never be in a man’s vocabulary.”
“’Can’t’ should never be in a man’s vocabulary.”

 

The crumbling of this immortal facade, the fall from grace, comes from the affirmation that all the years Zeke spent being the hyper-masculine bread winner, shutting out his wife, and running to business meeting after business meeting, were all actions masking a love affair which has now evolved into a paternity suit. What really gets to Quincy is that his father, his hero, addresses the accusation of infidelity head-on with a bold face lie. A lie their relationship will never recover from. The outcome is a harsh unveiling for the young phenom; he loses trust in all around him and no longer has an accurate idea of who his father was, and by extension, who he is himself. It’s clear to us that Zeke’s steadfast molding of Quincy was deeply rooted in the mentality that Zeke “just couldn’t” be that man himself. Quincy’s big revelation, and arguably a revelation many young men face, is that he can no longer try to be his father. He “needed ball when [he] was trying to be like [his] pop,” and now that the curtain has lifted, he must redefine himself on his own terms.

Young Monica and Quincy
Young Monica and Quincy

 

The relationship between Monica and Quincy, while romantic and passionate at times, is Prince-Bythewood’s way of knocking down long enduring stereotypes about women in sports. Monica challenges everything Quincy thinks he knows about girls and life in general. He has never met a girl who not only knows how to ball, but balls better than he does. Monica won’t ride on the back of his bike and would rather have Twinkies than his apology flowers.

Monica is a ball player, and she knows how to “show emotion” on the court. But she continuously finds that those around her view her passion as aggression. If Monica were a guy, she’d “get a pat on the ass,” but because she’s “a female” she gets told to “calm down and act like a lady.” There is a huge double standard exposed here. Not only are men, on and off the court, encouraged to be aggressors, they are rewarded for it. But when a woman does the same, she’s seen as this negative force, a beast that needs to be tamed, which those around Monica try to accomplish.

“I’ve loved you since I was 11, that shit won’t go away.”
“I’ve loved you since I was 11, that shit won’t go away.”

Despite Quincy being a serial offender of treating women like objects, he does share this very specific friendship, turned romance, with Monica. She gets him like no one else can. But the double standards in their relationship become clear when they arrive at USC to start their basketball careers. Quincy expects Monica to handle the spoils of his success, i.e., the friendly female fans eager to cheer him on, but he will not let her off the hook when she chooses a starting spot in her game versus “being there” for him. He’s already told her it doesn’t matter if she’s “not known as the first girl in the NBA,” she’ll “get more play” being “Quincy McCall’s girl anyway,” so it’s not surprising when he further diminishes her dreams by forcing her to make this decision.

Monica has spent her freshman year struggling on the court, she hasn’t had the “red carpet” treatment like Quincy, and when an opportunity finally does arise, her boyfriend guilt trips her. The idea that women must make this sacrifice between career and relationship is so antiquated but still so accurate. In a great twist of irony, Quincy, who has spent his childhood hearing Mom complain about how Dad doesn’t make time for her and always puts basketball first, accuses Monica of the same behavior and uses that as the catalyst in his hasty decision to break-up with her. Equally interesting, Monica at this point has fallen into a more submissive role in their relationship and blames herself for its demise, pleading, “Whatever I did, we can fix this.”

Lathan and Prince-Bythewood
Lathan and Prince-Bythewood

 

As someone who grew up going to sports camps, I heard girls comment daily that they wanted to play in the NBA. So, it was completely lost on me that Monica’s constant repetition of “I’m gonna be the first girl in the NBA,” was because there was no WNBA at the time. There is this prevailing idea throughout the film that these female players are good enough to be playing with their male counterparts, but instead are relegated overseas where, as Monica finds, it’s alienating, uninspiring, and also, unfair.

At the end of the film, Prince-Bythewood has shown us the struggles a Black woman faces when entering a highly competitive arena, the breakdown of a Black father/son relationship, a Black mother who has finally given herself a voice, and a Black relationship that through time and maturity is able to advance into its own sort of “Destiny,” all while never feeling like these are Black issues. But mostly she has taught us that women can do anything men can do. This could be any woman’s triumphant story. The film’s final scene shows Monica as the starting guard in the newly formed WNBA while Quincy and their young daughter clap for her on the sidelines, begging the question: Who’s your cheerleader now?

 


Alize Emme is a writer and filmmaker living in Los Angeles. She holds a B.A. in Film & Television from NYU and tweets at @alizeemme.

‘Gone Girl’: How to Create the Perfect Female Villain

Seeing a female character like Dunne on screen is fantastic–a word she would deem “a little flippant,” but there has yet to be a female villain quite like her. Fincher draws us into this world, Dunne’s world, where everything is this perfect shade of monochrome with tungsten lighting, where the camera moves in slow and methodical push-ins and pull-outs just as calculating as Dunne is, where things change with such swiftness–a kiss to a tongue swab, just like real life. And as we return to real life, we have to wonder: What will Amy Elliott Dunne do next?

This is a guest post by Alize Emme

SPOILER ALERT.

Kudos to the 20th Century Fox exec who decided to market Gone Girl (2014) as a great date movie. This is not a date movie. This is a horror story about the sensationalized pitfalls of a doomed marriage.

As good horror stories go, this one has the perfect villain: Amy Elliott Dunne.

Calculating. Manipulative. Patient. Sinister. Genius. Female.

Dunne (Rosamund Pike) is perhaps one of the greatest female fictional villains portrayed on screen, with bonus points for doing something her male counterparts rarely ever achieve: getting away with it. Dunne, with the help of a highly colored narrative penned by Gillian Flynn, manipulates a vibrant cast of stereotypes as she weaves the perfect crime web and literally gets away with murder.

After feeling like her husband, Nick Dunne (Ben Affleck), has taken her “pride, dignity, hope, and money,” Dunne sets out with fierce discipline and a detective’s eye for detail to frame her unsuspecting husband for her own murder. She befriends “a local idiot,” tells tall tales about fear and the threat of violence, authors a journal’s worth of history–some true, some false, simulates a pregnancy, lights “a fire in July,” and sets the perfect crime scene. She transforms herself into someone “people will truly mourn.”

The premise of Gone Girl works because it plays off our preconceived notions about loss and tragedy. The Pretty Murdered Wife. We as an audience know this story: she’s missing, feared dead, might be pregnant. The narrative needs no back-story, but we do get a glimpse.

Nick Dunne. He is done. Gone. Finished. We know this about Nick the moment we meet him just by his name as he’s standing in the middle of the street next to garbage bins. He is something to be taken out and disposed of with the trash; he is never getting his life back, and Flynn wants us to be aware. The Nick Dunne we are introduced to is a schlubby, beer drinking, ice cream eating, 5 o’clock shadow kind of guy with a dissatisfied marriage and a concubine on the side.

The Smug Accused Husband
The Smug Accused Husband

 

When Dunne goes missing and morphs into the Pretty Murdered Wife stereotype, Nick Dunne’s general disposition puts him right into the Smug Accused Husband category. He’s too charming; he’s too arrogant; he’s too suspicious. He’s a man with secrets. “He’s being a good guy, so everyone can see him being a good guy,” Officer Gilpin (Patrick Fugit) observes. He’s a man whose marriage has taught him how to fake it, who happens to be surrounded by women. There’s lead detective Rhonda Boney (Kim Dickens) who gives him a fair run. A fictionalized Nancy Grace clone, Ellen Abbott, (Missi Pyle) who pulls him apart every night on her nationally syndicated television show, and his twin sister Margo (Carrie Coon) who’s been with him since before they “were even born” and offers a stable voice of reason.

“I am so sick of being picked apart by women,” Nick Dunne says. And he’s right, that’s exactly what’s happening now that he’s been labeled the Smug Accused Husband. This stereotype exists because there are men who do kill their pregnant wives and then go on TV and lie about it, and society remembers them. The case of Laci Peterson was one of the first things that came to my mind. And Affleck is clear to note that Scott Peterson was one of the models for his character. Even the “Missing” photo of Dunne is reminiscent of Laci’s with the bright smile, dangling earrings, and glossy lipstick. Gone Girl is a story that already lives on the edge of our thoughts.

As a couple, Nick and Amy have been pretending from the start. They have a perfect meet-cute, perfect dates, perfect celebratory rituals; they even buy the same sheets. He plays “hot, doting husband,” to her “sweet, loving spouse.” None of it is real; “I forged the man of my dreams,” Dunne says. And in doing so, she herself became the Cool Girl. Another stereotype of how women manipulate themselves to land a man.

Eating cold pizza, drinking beer, remaining “a size 2.” Dunne tailored herself to fit Nick’s taste. But “Nick got lazy.” Not holding up his end of the bargain was never the deal. When she sees that Nick’s sweet romantic gestures were not improvisations made up for her, but rather a well-rehearsed ruse easily tailored to the girl in front of him, Dunne makes a decision. She realizes her husband is no longer the man she married and decides to teach him a lesson he will never forget. “No fucking way,” she says, “He doesn’t get to win. Grown-ups suffer consequences.” She takes charge. She doesn’t let herself be walked on by this man. “Why should I die?” She asks, “I’m not the asshole.”

It’s an easy, cop-out that barely scratches the surface of accurate to diagnose Dunne as a psychopath. To say she’s an overly emotional, crazy woman who can’t handle daily life and descends into a PMS-filled rage, is falling pry to gender stereotypes. Dunne exhibits a perfectly cool demeanor, her emotions are consistently even, she is meticulous and complex. The layers of this character are masterful; she is the opposite of what every gender stereotype says women should be like. She is simply a great villain. “Show me that Darling Nicky smile,” Dunne coos like the Wicked Witch of the West as she stares at a video of her husband on a computer. She’s fascinated by her own work.

Amy Elliott Dunne, the perfect villain
Amy Elliott Dunne, the perfect villain

 

Pike’s performance is mesmerizing; she delivers Dunne’s words in this breathless manner like she’s seductively blowing out a candle. Pike makes us believe from the very beginning that Dunne is both sane and capable of deception. But seeing a female character portrayed so strongly on screen earns Dunne the unfortunate label of “controlling bitch.”

If Dunne were a man, none of these character and sanity accusations would hold true. Male characters that go on rampant murder sprees in movies are never labeled as psychopaths, when clearly they display the same behavior. Dunne is not a psychopath. Crazy people cannot mastermind murders and crimes and not get caught. Even her past acts of “insanity” should be taken with a grain of salt. The ex-boyfriend who calls Dunne a “mind fucker of the first degree,” still keeps a picture of her in his wallet. This woman has allegedly ruined his life, yet he’s still holding her image so close? This calls his authenticity into question while giving Dunne credibility.

Dunne is fiercely intelligent. She has plotted the perfect crime. And while she doesn’t succeed with her original plan, she still sets her husband up for decades of suffering with her pregnancy. For all the betrayed wives out there, Dunne is a hero with the perfect revenge. Her crime is personal, not random, which gets her sanity questioned. Flynn doesn’t touch the subject of Dunne’s mental state. She leaves that up to the audience. David Fincher also helms this story in a nonjudgmental way. He is respectful of Dunne and all the female characters. Dunne is never put on display as a woman, though several male characters make mention of her impressive physical attributes. The supporting female characters, which are all various stereotypes, are never blasted for it; they’re handled with care.

Detective Boney, for example, is the coffee drinking, slick talking lead on Dunne’s missing persons case. She’s an interesting foil to the other female characters that assume Nick Dunne is guilty from the start. Boney gives him the benefit of the doubt, refusing to arrest him because some “blonde dunce” on TV says so. Instead it’s her male partner, Officer Gilpin, who immediately makes up his mind when finding blood splatter in The Dunne’s kitchen that he is guilty.

Through Boney, we are offered the idea that not all women jump to conclusions and hate men. But as the story progresses, we discover that Boney didn’t properly handle her case. “We stained the rug,” she says “with a national spotlight” on her. Had Nick Dunne been left in Boney’s “deeply incompetent hands,” he would be on death row, Dunne conveniently points out. Therefore, Boney’s word is useless in bringing Dunne to justice. Men botch investigations all the time, but for Boney to do so, it’s suggesting a woman can’t properly handle the responsibly of performing a traditionally male job.

Noelle Hawthorne (Casey Wilson) is the wonderfully entertaining suburban mom down the street with triplets and another baby on the way. We know this woman. Everyone has that one inquisitive neighbor that if something were to happen, she would be the first one knocking on the squad car window trying to help the cops. There’s a sense of comedy to this hyperbolic character and her triple-decker stroller, but she is never mocked. We take her seriously. It’s a real feat.

Nick Dunne’s twin, Margo, is a cool girl who’s not the Cool Girl. She drinks bourbon with her brother at ten in the morning, she covers his back with Dunne’s mother, she knows the truth but that doesn’t change her opinion of him. She always speaks the truth with her perfectly snarky comments. “You look like hammered shit,” she tells Nick. He likes her. We like her. She is perhaps the one female character that deviates from a hardened stereotype and could exist in the real world.

Somewhat of a mysterious supporting character, Greta (Lola Kirke) acts as a catalyst for Dunne. She’s complex and calculating just like Dunne; she sees an opportunity, and she seizes it. “Did he put you up to this?” Dunne asks as Greta and her male accomplice rob her blind, “I put him up to it,” she replies. She’s a survivalist and essentially forces Dunne to abort her plan and switch to survival mode herself. Yes, Dunne then murders a man and fakes a sexual assault, but in the world of a villain, she’s just adapting to survive. And as someone who is “skilled in the art of vengeance,” Dunne doesn’t just survive; she thrives.

Dunne, as Nick asks: What are you thinking?
Dunne, as Nick asks: What are you thinking?

 

Seeing a female character like Dunne on screen is fantastic–a word she would deem “a little flippant,” but there has yet to be a female villain quite like her. Fincher draws us into this world, Dunne’s world, where everything is this perfect shade of monochrome with tungsten lighting, where the camera moves in slow and methodical push-ins and pull-outs just as calculating as Dunne is, where things change with such swiftness–a kiss to a tongue swab, just like real life. And as we return to real life, we have to wonder: What will Amy Elliott Dunne do next? We’re left with the image of her head, just where we started, much like a few scenes earlier; we are left with Nick Dunne standing before trash cans, just like we started. So much has happened, but what do we really know? And more important, what will we learn next?

 


Alize Emme is a writer and filmmaker living in Los Angeles. She holds a B.A. in Film & Television from NYU and tweets at @alizeemme.

“I’m a Veronica”: Power and Transformation Through Female Friendships in ‘Heathers’

A snappy dark comedy set in a high school bubble, ‘Heathers’ touches on difficult subjects including murder and suicide, and nonchalantly addresses major social issues like female friendship and power. The friendships we are introduced to steer every aspect of the story as it progresses and bring us into a world where female characters aren’t just cardboard cutouts but multidimensional, seriously flawed, and sinfully interesting young women.

This guest post by Alize Emme appears as part of our theme week on Female Friendship.


The 1988 film Heathers, starring Winona Ryder as the hyper-aware, reluctantly popular girl trying to maintain her status with a powerful clique of girls all named Heather, is a cult classic. A snappy dark comedy set in a high school bubble, Heathers touches on difficult subjects including murder and suicide, and nonchalantly addresses major social issues like female friendship and power. The friendships we are introduced to steer every aspect of the story as it progresses and bring us into a world where female characters aren’t just cardboard cutouts but multidimensional, seriously flawed, and sinfully interesting young women.

When we meet Veronica Sawyer (Ryder) she is past the point of enjoying her new popularity and instead is wallowing in painfully self-aware and humorous ramblings in her diary. Her inner monologue serves as an honest look at the cruelty of high school girls, in this case, the clique’s ringleader, Heather Chandler (Kim Walker), with whom she walks a fine frenemy line.

The friendships these characters share are at best a soul-sucking 9-5 job and at worst a dictatorship. For them, being popular is a currency. They use it to inflict pain on unsuspecting peons and to manipulate each other. They are intelligent beyond their years. They relish in the misery of others. They rule the school with an iron fist.

Veronica with Heathers Chandler, McNamara, and Duke

A group of popular mean girls is nothing new, but the one thing Heathers does differently is showcase female power with amazing colors (literally). Specifically, we see female characters displaying traditionally masculine power.

Chandler is a shark. She navigates the power plays of high school like Leonardo DiCaprio’s character in The Wolf of Wall Street (2013) navigates the world of commerce. Perpetually dressed in a crimson shade of red, Chandler makes no apologies for her cutthroat behavior, proudly calling attention to her worshipped status by stating in regard to her peers, “They all want me as a friend or a fuck,” a sentiment relayed by male rap artists J. Cole and Mickey Avalon, and pro wrestler Ric Flair.

The power Chandler displays with Veronica and the other Heathers mirrors that of a macho guy. She tosses around profanity-laced vulgar phrases like an alpha male in a locker room. She’s got the brains and the brawn and the cutthroat mentality of a high-powered man. As other characters rise to power, they adopt the same masculine persona. Women in movies, especially high school movies, are rarely portrayed this way.

Chandler and Veronica

After Veronica tosses her cookies at a college party, an embarrassed Chandler vows to make her life hell across their entire Ohio suburb. Fed up with Chandler’s oppressive leadership, Veronica laments to dark and stormy bad-boy new kid Jason “J.D.” Dean (Christian Slater) that she wishes Heather Chandler was dead, rationalizing in a diary entry that it would be a public service to rid the school of such evil.

With slightly less sinister motivation, Veronica and J.D. sneak into the Chandler home and concoct a gag-inducing hangover cure. Veronica balks at J.D.’s suggestion to use liquid drainer but unknowingly serves it to Chandler anyway, killing her instantly. When a stunned Veronica stammers she just murdered her “best friend,” J.D. quips, “and your worst enemy.” Veronica replies, “same difference,” summing up their relationship completely.

Faking Chandler’s suicide comes easy to the morose J.D. and brainy Veronica, who effortlessly forges an eloquent suicide note which skyrockets Chandler’s popularity even higher in death. Veronica’s unsuspecting participation in two additional murders with J.D. drives her to break things off with him and reevaluate her choices.

But it’s the moment Chandler dies that the once-dominating clique experiences a huge power shift. Chandler’s body is in the ground for mere minutes when Heather Duke’s rise to power and eventual takeover of Chandler’s position begins. Duke, played by Shannen Doherty, had been a shy, bookish member of the group, clinging to a copy of Moby Dick in the shadows who in contrast to Chandler’s bright reds, wears green – with envy. She falls to Chandler’s body image pressures and submits herself to be used by Chandler as furniture.

Duke celebrates Chandler’s demise with a huge smile and a bucket of chicken wings, exclaiming, “fuck it,” when Veronica and Heather McNamara (Lisanne Falk) call attention to her sudden hunger. Duke is now hungry for power. When J.D. dangles Chandler’s coveted red scrunchie before her, Duke wastes no time seizing Chandler’s vacated position, promising she can handle the pressure of being a leader.

Duke in all her glory

As Duke’s power grows, pops of red appear in her wardrobe. A red belt here, red shoes there. Until finally, after getting the whole school to sign her prom singer petition, she reclines, covered head to toe in red, with her back arched and feet up, basking in the afternoon sunlight before exclaiming to a perplexed Veronica: “People love me.” Veronica is quick to call Duke out on her sudden transformation and Duke, now embracing her power, demands, “Why are you pulling my dick?” fully adopting that masculine bravado we saw from Chandler. Duke harshly informs Veronica that anyone would want to be popular, no matter the cost.

McNamara, the final Heather, sees her power shift travel in the opposite direction. McNamara’s friendship with Chandler was rooted in control. Chandler’s death relinquishes the hold she had over McNamara but leaves her little ground to stand on. Gone are McNamara’s bright and sunny yellow outfits, replaced with heavy blacks and gray, accessorized only with a single yellow belt or yellow socks. Her turmoil culminates with a failed, but real, suicide attempt. In the film’s rare display of genuine friendship, it is Veronica who saves McNamara from death. It’s a sweet exchange as Veronica offers her shoulder for McNamara to lean on with understanding and solidarity.

The power Chandler and Duke portray is not something to aspire to, Veronica’s inner dialog provides that moral compass, but it is groundbreaking to see female power portrayed in a completely different and masculine light on film.

The girls don’t talk about clothes or boys; McNamara introduces J.D. in a derogatory fashion: “God Veronica, drool much?” making it un-cool that she has a crush. Their resistance to fall to on-screen female friend stereotypes is admirable. At the very least, Heathers succeeds in this area. Whereas other teen high school movies like Clueless (1995) end with finding a boyfriend and the bulk of Mean Girls (2004) conveys one female character taking down another, Heathers ends with Veronica finding and harnessing her power.

Veronica takes control

Veronica’s transformation springs from her friendship with Chandler. The transition from friend to foe sets off the chain of events for the rest of the film and sparks Veronica’s own journey to owning her power. Veronica is at first reluctantly popular, therefore reluctantly powerful. But her hatred for Chandler leads to her irreversible acts with J.D. and she starts to see herself and her actions with horror.

Veronica continuously returns to the idea that Betty Finn (Renée Esteves) was a true friend who she foolishly ditched for Chandler. But when she invites Betty over to play croquet, a game she played with the Heathers, instead of playing nice, Veronica doesn’t hesitate to be mean for mean’s sake and take the same knockout power shot Chandler did previously. Even Veronica succumbs briefly to power at the cost of her friend. In one of J.D.’s final lines to Veronica he tells her: “You got power, power I didn’t think you had,” a shaky admission to the once reluctant character now able to stand her ground.

Veronica realizes that she can’t allow herself to be used as a pawn in other people’s games, albeit Chandler’s, Duke’s, or J.D.’s. She’s aware that her actions are “teen-angst bullshit.” She takes matters into her own hands and not only does Veronica stop J.D. from blowing up the school, she asserts herself as the “new sheriff in town,” symbolically ripping the red scrunchie from Duke’s head and donning it herself as she struts down the hallway. With her new can’t-mess-with-me power, she vows to do right as the new school leader and offers an olive branch to a previously bullied student, officially clearing the slate for change.

Veronica’s realization that seeking out genuine friendships is more important than popularity is the real takeaway from Heathers. The importance of having female friends that build each other up instead of tear each other down is paramount. We as women should strive to buck the status quo of mainstream movie frienemy friendships and seek out ones that are rooted in respect and support. But as a whole, the message of the film is clear: Don’t be a Heather; find a Betty Finn.


Alize Emme is a writer/director living in Los Angeles. She holds a B.A. in Film & Television from NYU and tweets at @alizeemme.