“Why,” you ask, “are you writing about Veronica Mars, a TV show that’s been off the air for years?” A few reasons. Mainly because the show is, was, and ever shall be kickassly awesome. The premise always sounds silly: teenage girl detective solves cases and fights crime, but it’s so much more than that. Veronica (embodied perfectly by Kristen Bell) is wicked smart and a wicked smart-ass. She’s an independent, dogged, talented, funny, intelligent, perpetual underdog with an enviable fashion sense (I always wanted to dress like her) and a knack for getting into and out of trouble. My other reason for writing this review is because creator/writer/director Rob Thomas is fulfilling every V Mars fan’s fantasy and making a movie that follows up on the canceled show.
Veronica Mars movie poster
It’s hard to say whether or not the movie will be any good. It takes place at Veronica’s 10-year high school reunion where she’ll be, once again, solving a murder. I think it’s worth checking out because the show itself was smart, funny, and engaged in important social issues with its strong female protagonist. Now, you might be asking, “If I’ve never seen the show, why should I care?” Answer: Because the show Veronica Mars is simply put great television. I admit, I’m something of a hater. Even the shows I like, I usually find a lot to critique. While Veronica Mars isn’t perfect, it tackled big issues with wit, compassion, and ovaries, such as class, race, the intersectionality of class and race, homosexuality, trans parenting, adoption, suicide, abuse, abandonment, addiction, animal cruelty, the stigma surrounding female teen sexuality, and on and on. In Season One, the two major mysteries that Veronica is trying to solve are:
Who murdered her best friend?
Who raped her?
Veronica taking seedy pictures for a surveillance job.
How many shows have you seen where the heroine is a struggling rape survivor? How many shows have you seen where the heroine is hunting down her rapist to make him pay (because Veronica doesn’t just believe in justice…she believes in revenge)? The theme of Veronica’s rape is on-going, continuing into Season Two when she finally solves the crime, and painful feelings and memories are dredged up in Season Three when she sets out to catch a serial rapist on her college campus, truthfully representing the fact that sexual assault survival isn’t something people just “get over”; it’s something they must deal with in multiple ways throughout their entire lives. I love the way Veronica refuses to be silent. Despite being humiliated at the sheriff’s office when she reports the crime, despite the fact that she can’t remember who her assailant is because she was drugged, Veronica’s doggedness allows many of us who were cowed into silence to vicariously live through her strength and perseverance. In Season Three, Veronica shares her power with the survivors of the serial rapist (who shaves his victims’ heads to further humiliate them). She shares her story with them and repeatedly declares herself to be their advocate and champion when no one else seems to care whether or not justice is served. For that alone, I love this show.
I also admire the relationship she has with her father.
Keith giving Veronica a directive that he knows she’ll ignore.
Keith Mars (another case of perfect casting with Enrico Colantoni) is raising his very smart, independent (read: defiant) teenage daughter on his own. Together, they joke and laugh and communicate. Keith may give Veronica too much freedom and may trust her a bit too much, but, in the end, we always know he’s doing the best he can, making all of his choices with her best interest at heart. What really gets me is that they unabashedly love each other. Veronica chooses her father over her unsupportive so-called “friends” and peers. Keith doesn’t stifle his daughter, while teaching her that hard work and tenacity is what sets her apart from her wealthy classmates. It’s rare to see a single father scenario on TV, and it’s even rarer to see it done half as well as Veronica Mars does it.
I also adore Veronica’s friends. Her best friend Wallace Fennel (portrayed by Percy Daggs III) is so sweet and so genuine. He proves time and time again that he’s a much better friend to Veronica that she can ever be to him. Veronica is humanized as we see her flaws when she takes advantage of Wallace’s friendship, but Wallace is so good-natured that he that he usually just goes along for the ride (though he does call her on her selfishness from time to time). I think it’s great that there’s NEVER any sexual tension between them. They are friends and neither of them wants or seeks more EVER. This is a good example of realistic friendships and Rob Thomas knowing there’s a line between drama and melodrama.
Veronica and Wallace plot and scheme.
Then there’s Mac, played by the adorable Tina Majorino. Cindy Mackenzie is known as “Mac,” in part, because of her last name, but mostly because of her badass computer skills. When Veronica and Mac team up, it’s like fireworks of awesome gooey brains just flying all over the place. I love that these two smart gals find each other, and they talk about waaaaay more than just boys (another instance of the show passing the Bechdel Test), for starters: hacking databases and email accounts, setting up remote surveillance, and dealing with Mac’s discovery that she was adopted. Their relationship is pretty great because they’re encouraging of each other, supportive, and they have complementary skills, all of which make them an awesome sleuthing team.
Veronica and Mac aren’t afraid to get goofy.
There’s a lot to love about this show. Its plethora of cameos, quick wit, and hilarious pop cultural references are part of the amazing package deal. If you’re a V Mars fan, you’re probably wondering why I haven’t mentioned the Duncan and Veronica vs. Logan and Veronica vs. Piz and Veronica deal. I guess it’s because most shows geared towards women and young girls have a love triangle scenario. Though I got sucked into the love triangle like everyone else did, I think what’s so special about Veronica Mars is that its heroine isn’t defined by her romantic relationships. She is so much more. She’s a daughter, a friend, a spy, a scholar, an excellent snickerdoodle baker, a photographer, a dog lover, and, above all, a confident, sassy young woman who lives by her own rules and has an amazing, unlimited future ahead of her. Do I even need to say it? We need more role models like Veronica Mars in film and on television, and we need them STAT.
At its heart, this film is about how young Wadjda, played by newcomer Waad Mohammed, navigates her culture and adolescence as a Saudi girl, her relationships with other girls and women, and what seems to be the changing attitudes of her country
I’ve been waiting for Wadjda to come to my local Fine Arts Theatre for months so that I could review it for Bitch Flicks! Wadjda is noteworthy because it’s the first Saudi Arabian film to ever be directed by a woman, Haifaa Al-Mansour. At its heart, the film is about how young Wadjda, played by newcomer Waad Mohammed, navigates her culture and adolescence as a Saudi girl, her relationships with other girls and women, and what seems to be the changing attitudes of her country (more on all that later).
Personally, though, I was intrigued by the storyline of her new-found passion and desire for a bicycle.
Some background: I’m a late bloomer. I learned how to drive a car and ride a bicycle at the ripe age of 28. As a woman in my late 20’s, I became obsessed with learning to ride because of the freedom and exhilaration that the bicycle promised. The speed, the control, the sexiness of the road bike, the hint of danger, and the allure of the new experience all kept me riding clumsy circles around my parking lot with a neighbor friend holding the saddle (and therefore keeping the bike upright). For me, learning to ride a bike was not a matter of course as it was with most of the people I know, so I could identify with that longing for the unattainable that Wadjda embodies. Eventually, I learned to ride and became obsessed with it, pedaling my Bianchi 30, 40, 80 miles at a time. I also got really into following professional cycling (more on that later, too…I promise it’s relevant).
Director Monsour, herself, knows a thing or two about doing that which seems impossible. Though she had the permission of the Saudi government to make her film, she was forced to hide in a van for most of the outdoor filming, as it would be unseemly for a woman to give direction, especially to her male actors.
Monsour’s heroine also defies convention with her insistence on buying a bike to race her male friend, Abdullah.
Wadjda also wears brightly colored hair clips, Converse sneakers with green laces, and listens to American music. I find it somewhat troubling that Wadjda’s markers of rebelliousness are primarily associated with her exposure to Western culture, but her mother (a generation older) is a complex mix of culture and gender role compliance as well as rebelliousness: her daily work commute is three hours because her husband doesn’t want her working with men, she scolds one of her friends for not wearing a veil with her abaya, she claims Wadjda’s Western music is evil and that girls can’t ride bicycles because it will affect their childbearing abilities, she threatens frequently to marry Wadjda off, and when Wadjda must don a full abaya at the command of the school headmistress, she looks on with glowing pride as it is a treasured rite of passage.
On the other hand, Wadjda’s mother values her daughter’s happiness and ability to dream, she wears a nose stud, and she rejects the idea of her husband taking a second wife, willing to face drastic consequences if he doesn’t respect her wishes. This shows that over the generations, Saudi women are changing, with mothers imparting traditional values to their daughters while still giving them an increasing measure of freedom and autonomy. Monsour says of her own parents, “They are very traditional small-town people but they believed in giving their daughters the space to be what they wanted to be. They believed in the power of education and training. They taught us how to work hard.” Monsour also asserts that, “[P]eople want to hear from Saudi women. So Saudi women need to believe in themselves and break the tradition.”
I admit that when I saw all the women in the streets and in cars wearing full abayas, I was shocked at the imagery. I immediately perceived them as ghosts flitting through the public sphere with heads down, trying to escape all scrutiny, all notice. As a feminist, I bristled against these uniforms that hide the female form, declaring it taboo and the property of her husband. As the women sat waiting in a hot van with only their eyes visible, I realized, though, that the plight of women in Saudia Arabia isn’t that different from that of women in the US. It is a spectrum, with the US on the opposite end. Saudi culture insists women be completely covered, whereas US culture demands skin, cleavage, form-fitting clothing, and sexiness while simultaneously judging the women who do and those who don’t conform to that standard of femininity. Both cultures insist that the female body is a matter for public debate with the dominant patriarchy making the final judgment (as is apparent in US culture with the current backsliding on reproductive rights due to conservative male decision-making). The female body in both cultures then does not belong to individual women.
The strangely similar treatment of the female body in both US and Saudi culture brought up another intriguing comparison for me: women and bicycles. Abdullah (among others in the film) declare to Wadjda that, “Girls can’t ride bikes.” Now, you might think in the US we get off the hook because most little girls (unlike myself) do, in fact, learn how to ride bikes at an early age, and nothing is thought of it. However, how many of them are encouraged to become professional cyclists? Though there are plenty of American women just like Wadjda who won’t take no for an answer, who follow their dreams to become competitive athletes and cyclists, what does the cycling world look like for them? They’re grossly underpaid, under-represented, and there’s hardly any media coverage of their events. Female cyclists (and, in most cases, female athletes in general) aren’t taught to dream big like their male counterparts, and if they do actually achieve success in their sport, where does it leave them? Mostly, it leaves them in anonymity (do you know the name of the most acclaimed female cyclist in the word? doubt it, but I bet you know the name Lance Armstrong) without nearly the recognition, range of events in which to participate (there is NO female equivalent of the Tour de France), and their rate of pay is a mere fraction of that of male professional cyclists. In essence, US culture is telling us that girls can’t ride bikes. Think about that whenever you want to get all righteous on the Saudi gender inequality issue because we sure as hell haven’t gotten it figured out here in the States.
If there is one theme in Wadjda that cannot be overstated, it’s: The personal is political. In Wadjda, the story of a young girl learning to ride a bike has profound cultural, religious, and gender implications. Her stand is powerful and brave, but more importantly, she never questions the rightness of it. Wadjda never once doubts that she should be able to own and ride a bike. It takes many, many small, personal commitments and triumphs like Wadjda’s to build the foundation of a movement for change.
Amanda Rodriguez is an environmental activist living in Asheville, North Carolina. She holds a BA from Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio and an MFA in fiction writing from Queens University in Charlotte, NC. She writes all about food and drinking games on her blog Booze and Baking. Fun fact: while living in Kyoto, Japan, her house was attacked by monkeys.
Birth of the Living Dead is Rob Kuhns’ documentary of the making of George Romero’s 1968 cult horror genre game-changer Night of the Living Dead. Bitch Flicks writers Max Thornton and Amanda Rodriguez discuss both the documentary (BOTLD) and the original film itself (NOTLD).
Bitch Flicks writers Max Thornton and Amanda Rodriguez discuss both the documentary (BOTLD) and the original film itself (NOTLD):
MT: I spent my teens as an ardent fan of all things zombie (and I have a lot of theories about what this says about my relationship to embodiment as a trans person, but that’s another discussion). I went on a zombie walk in London for the 40th anniversary of NOTLD in 2008. I skipped a college class to go meet George Romero when he was doing a signing for the Creepshow re-release. My first academic publication is a chapter on zombies (and queerness, and Jesus, because those are my other favorite things). My cred as a Romero fan is well established, and I’m guessing yours is, too. Do you think someone who’s less of a zombie nut — or perhaps even someone who hasn’t seen NOTLD — could enjoy Birth of the Living Dead?
AR: I am a huge horror and zombie fan, but I didn’t start out life that way. I saw NOTLD when I was 4. I can empathize with Ebert’s observations of the younger children who didn’t have the resources to protect themselves from the fear and dread engendered by the film. I refused to watch NOTLD again until I’d graduated college because it was so formative and so terrifying. Perhaps in large part because of NOTLD, I have always been fascinated with what frightens us and why. The deep psychology of fear and what that fear represents within a larger cultural context have been the subjects of much of my critical analysis and fiction writing. I love the idea that horror, in particular the zombie, is a physical manifestation of our societal fears.
Karen cannibalizes her father, illustrating society’s fear of the brutality of youth.
That said, I’ve only properly seen NOTLD once, so I think the documentary can be interesting to people who aren’t as entrenched in zombie culture; although who isn’t these days, considering they’re such a popular horror subgenre? I found Romero’s continued enthusiasm for the film all these years later to be quite endearing. Film nerds and aspiring indie filmmakers could find value in this documentary. People interested in history, particularly the civil rights movement and the Vietnam war could benefit from seeing this documentary, as it and NOTLD deal with those huge cultural landmarks from a different angle than we’re used to seeing. I also really appreciated the way the documentary casts NOTLD as a meta-narrative of the actual making of the film: the DIY approach and guerrilla tactics the crew used despite the huge filmmaking machine that is Hollywood. The process of making the film becomes its own protest against the Hollywood status quo, the insistence on professional actors, the elitism of art and entertainment. In a way, this is exactly the function of zombies; to disrupt the normalcy and complacency of institutions.
MT: Is this documentary perhaps a little too much of a hagiography? Does it give Romero too much credit for inventing the zombie as we know it, provide too little contextualization of the Haitian origins of the zombi, and thus perhaps whitewash the racism, colonialism, and cultural appropriation inherent in our cultural enthusiasm for the zombie?
Haitian Zombi in ‘I Walked with the Dead’
AR: Though I thought Romero was a sweet man, and as a fan, I couldn’t help but gobble up his nostalgic reminiscences, the documentary underscored for me the importance of the concept of the death of the author and the fallacy of the notion of authorial intent. It is clear that Romero had no idea what he was making. This film is considered a cult classic and of cinematic significance in spite of him. He makes it clear that he didn’t intend to comment on race by casting a black protagonist, and I doubt he had any idea he was critiquing the Vietnam war or truly upsetting the horror genre in a profound way. I think the film does all those things in a compelling way, which is why it withstands the test of time and is infinitely imitable. Without divesting him of his agency completely, the documentary shows that film experts and filmmakers today understand the important work he created more than Romero himself does.
You’re right that the documentary seems to gloss over the true origins of the zombi, which does divorce it from its racially-charged roots. However, I always thought the movies that predate NOTLD featuring Haitian zombis were painfully racist. Romero zombies are different from the Haitian zombi and speak to our culture in a different way…probably because the Romero zombie is versatile and can morph into any of our greatest fears. It would have made sense, though, to have the documentary further explore the origins of the zombi. Since BOTLD is so racially aware, I would have enjoyed seeing it tackle the implications of colonialism and appropriation. Do you think Romero’s so-called reinvention of the zombi is ultimately racist? Does his malleable notion of zombies only address first-world fears and insecurities?
George Romero Portrait
MT: I think this is something that deserves more interrogation than it tends to receive — consider the fact that he always cites I Am Legend as a huge influence, and not the Haitian voodoo roots or even the massively racist earlier zombie films like White Zombie — but then NOTLD doesn’t actually use the term “zombie.” As well as getting more credit than he deserves, perhaps Romero gets more flak than he deserves when we criticize his appropriation of the zombi, because, as you point out, he doesn’t necessarily know quite what he was doing. (I would note that some people are attempting to balance out the deification of Romero as inventor of the modern zombie: the editors of my zombie chapter, for example, were very insistent on giving Romero’s co-writer Russo equal credit.)
I really enjoyed the film’s emphasis on the social context of the late sixties and how that shaped much of the imagery and message of NOTLD: race riots, Nam, anger, disillusionment with the hippie movement’s failure to elicit major structural change. Are we currently in a comparable period of crisis and distrust in institutions, reflected in the renewed zombie boom of the past decade? And yet is the profound social consciousness of NOTLD largely missing from zombie stories today? For example, I rage-quit The Walking Dead at the end of Season One because it seemed to me so profoundly the white men’s story, with the female characters and characters of color remaining firmly secondary to the almighty White Man. I think maybe I find this particularly disappointing in zombie stories because I want more out of a genre rooted in a movie that was so far ahead of its time in its attitude toward race.
‘Night of the Living Dead’ hero Ben played by Duane Jones
AR: I think zombies will always appeal to us because our society is a house of cards. Zombies remind us of a life without the comforts of technology, safety, and structure. The more complicated and reliant we become on institutions and corporations, the more relevant dystopian fantasies like zombies become because we are one global crisis away from that house of cards collapsing on us, leaving us weak, reeling, and unable to fend for ourselves.
I think zombie movies are being made left and right because they’re a hot item, but a zombie movie isn’t truly great unless the zombies are a compelling metaphor. The last zombie movie I remember adoring was 28 Days Later because it explored the terrifying fear of pandemics, the brutality of the military, and the rage that exists inside us, constantly questioning whether or not human nature is really as pure and good as we’re led to believe. Though Naomie Harris’ Selena was its secondary protagonist and her characterization falters at the end, she is a majorly badass, smart Black woman who kicks some serious keister with a machete. (However, I didn’t love the sequel 28 Weeks Later because I thought that was some misogynistic bullshit.)
Selena slays first and asks questions…not at all.
I, too, have been struggling with the TV show version of The Walking Dead. I even wrote a Bitch Flicks article comparing the superior graphic novel series to the show. You’re totally right; the show is reactionary, racist, and sexist. It’s not doing much new or interesting with its post-apocalyptic material, which has vast potential to make meaningful commentary about what day-to-day life looks like when you’ve stripped our society away. There are questions ripe for the asking, such as: What do morals look like? How do you raise children? Can we work together against a common enemy (as touched on in the BOTLD), or are we inherently self-motivated?
What do you think the zombie trope “means”? Why do you think it’s still got such a stranglehold on us after over four decades?
Are zombies then not really a horror subgenre but a dystopian subgenre? Maybe the words “zombie” and “apocalypse” always go together. Can you think of any zombie film examples where the threat of utter human and societal annihilation were not issues?
MT: I wonder — and this is highly speculative, and clearly born out of my perspective as a theologian with seminarian friends who worry a lot about the decline of mainline Christianity in the US — if the zombie’s place as a monster of the 20th and 21st century is intertwined with secularism. Is it a manifestation of a certain cultural anxiety related to the “rise of the nones” — that is, a cathartic expression of a fear of being swallowed up by materialism (in both the philosophical and the economic senses of the term)? As mindless masses of rotting flesh whose only drives are the basest physical urges, zombies represent the logical extreme of pure materialism, and I suspect it’s not a coincidence that our cultural psyche is obsessed with them in a time when global capitalism is engulfing everything while traditional channels for religious/spiritual sensibilities are on the decline — among the young westerners who are the primary audience for zombie culture, at least.
Zombies gravitate to the mall in ‘Dawn of the Dead’, capitalist consumers even in death.
It’s an odd and frustrating paradox that zombie stories are always these grand-scale, global apocalypses, and yet they always focus on your straight-white-male protagonists. This piece does a grand job of addressing this issue. I’d take World War Zas an example of the paradox: the book actually does take on the geopolitics of the zombie apocalypse on a truly global scale, whereas the film is a by-the-numbers Hollywood disaster flick where the global disaster is mere backdrop to the story of whiterocis dude hero and his perfect(ly passive) white family. I think that’s perhaps symptomatic of the increasing polarization of mainstream and independent content in our age of digital distribution, and I suspect that mainstream pop culture zombie tales are only going to get more anodyne and more unthinkingly supportive of the heteropatriarchal status quo, while we’ll have to look to non-traditional channels of production and distribution for interesting stories. I haven’t yet watched Ze, Zombie, a queer zombie film, but I’m deeply intrigued — not least, I admit, because the top update on the website is currently an apology for the film’s excessive whiteness…we’ve a long way still to go, it seems.
For all its social consciousness, though, does NOTLD (and BOTLD – only one of the talking heads is a woman; African-American men are interviewed, but African-American women are not) fall into the trap of so many progressive social movements, both in the sixties (e.g. black power) and still today (e.g. movement atheism): failure to properly include, address, and account for women? Do you know of any actually feminist zombie films (I can’t think of any)? Why is this such a cultural lacuna? Other movie monsters have been reinterpreted in explicitly feminist ways: vampires (Buffy the Vampire Slayer), werewolves (Ginger Snaps) — doesn’t the zombie have feminist potential as a movie monster?
In ‘Ginger Snaps’, werewolf Ginger revels in her new power.
AR: I’m totally with you on your critique of World War Z the film vs. the book. We’re like E.T. and Elliott here because I wrote a Bitch Flicks review critiquing the film: its narrative choices that narrowed the scope of the book until it was unrecognizable, the way it cast Gerry as a messianic figure, and its under-development of its potentially fierce female characters, rendering them as nothing more than symbols to reflect back upon Gerry’s manly manliness.
I’ve always thought that NOTLD wasn’t feminist when I consider all the female characters in the movie. I wish someone would have commented on the flat female NOTLD depictions in the documentary, but I guess the movie wouldn’t come out looking so well…the documentary does kind of lionize NOTLD.
They were coming to get you, and they got you, Barbara.
I think Jennifer’s Body could maybe be categorized as a female zombie flick, but it’s debatable whether or not its feminist. Return of the Living Dead 3 was kind of a big deal because the protagonist was a woman and a zombie, and she became a sexual icon for teenage boys everywhere. I think part of the problem with associating zombies and women is that zombies aren’t usually sexy, and it seems like a requirement that women and sexuality are linked in cinema whether it’s in a feminist or a non-feminist way. So, I’d say that the lack of feminist zombie films speaks to a larger issue, in which our culture insists on associating women and sexuality.
Sexay zombie in ‘Return of the Living Dead 3’
There’s no real reason, however, why a woman can’t be the zombie killing heroine, though it happens so infrequently. We’ve got shitty examples like the Resident Evil series, but I think there’s a lot of potential to critique the patriarchy in a film that sets up a lone woman (or a small group of women) working against the never-ending onslaught, the plague of patriarchy. Wow, now I’m stoked to see that movie! Think it’ll ever get made?
Romero identifies as “Spanish” as per his Sharks vs. Jets anecdote in BOTLD, but he’s of Cuban & Lithuanian descent. He’s never represented as a director of color (I bet his last name, as he mentions, is often mistaken for Italian), and I wonder if that has an effect on the distribution and reception of his films? Would horror films directed by a POC known to have an underlying social and political commentary be shunned by the mainstream or turned into an even more exclusive niche (i.e. something like “politically-charged cult horror films by people of color”…ugh)? I also wonder if that’s why he’s well-known for casting characters of color in his films without sort of thinking about it: because he views race differently than, say, his white director counterparts?
Romero contextualizes his sense of his race using ‘West Side Story’
MT: Your point about Romero and race is really interesting, and I hadn’t considered that before. The idea that he’s a POC who’s never read that way does go a long way to explain the use of race in his films. The history and theory of the “passing” POC is too often elided or overlooked in a lot of critical race discussions, and perhaps this element nuances the question of misappropriation of zombi above? It definitely merits more analysis!
And I think Romero’s engagement with both race and gender does get more explicit in his later films, notably Day of the Dead (clearly a heavy influence on 28 Days Later) and the very underrated Land of the Dead. It’s not an accident that Land‘s Big Daddy, the first zombie to develop a sense of consciousness, is African-American, and Land‘s whole narrative of class warfare is extremely relevant. (Now I kind of want to have future discussions about each of Dawn, Day, and Land of the Dead, looking at the evolution of Romero’s social consciousness over the years and films!)
AR: I’m in complete agreement about Romero’s evolution as a socially and politically conscious director in his later films. Dawn of the Dead‘s critique of consumerism is probably the reason that I insist upon socially relevant zombie interpretations. I also find it fascinating and a bit depressing that the 2004 Dawn of the Dead remake was lazy in that it eschewed the critical commentary inherent in a mall-based zombie flick, proving once again that we’re not necessarily getting better or more self-aware as a people. Romero’s Diary of the Dead I also thought was an interesting engagement on the notions of the viral connection of online media and the viral nature of information, despite its ultimate disappointment as a film. Although Land of the Dead wasn’t as commercially successful nor as engaging as some of Romero’s other films, I, too, was impressed by its class critique and some of its underlying racial commentary. However, I think the Black man emerging from the water with his new sense of self-awareness is a problematic depiction, putting Africans and African Americans on a slower time line for evolution than white people, claiming (perhaps unintentionally) that their consciousness is nascent, which is a disturbing paternalistic attitude.
Zombie leader, Big Daddy, emerging from the water.
This is one of my long-held issues with the horror, sci-fi, and fantasy genres. In order to tell these socially and politically charged stories, they embody the Other in monster flesh: think the apartheid conversation in District 9 with the grotesque alien bug people or Oz, the werewolf, along with Angel, the vampire, in Buffy and even more so in the Angelseries or the way all the Star Trek series are rife with the creation of Othered alien species to elucidate the plight of an oppressed people (not to mention the racism inherent in the vicious warrior Klingons as stand-ins for Black people or the antisemitism of the greedy, urbane Ferengi as stand-ins for Jewish people). While the metaphor comes across, it often dehumanizes and further Others those it is attempting to bolster.
I could talk about this stuff for days and days! Count me in for future convos on the rest of the Romero zombie films! I’m planning to watch his Survival of the Dead, the last of Romero’s zombie series, for a Halloween-y treat since I’ve shockingly never seen it before.
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Thanks for joining us for this conversation between Max Thornton and Amanda Rodriguez on ‘Birth of the Living Dead’ and ‘Night of the Living Dead’. Keep an eye out for Max’s upcoming interview with Esther Cassidy, producer of ‘Birth of the Living Dead’.
A friend of mine turned me onto the show Hit & Miss, which is a six episode British series currently streaming on Netflix. Hit & Miss follows Mia, played by the ever-talented Chloë Sevigny. Mia is a transgender hit woman who finds she has an 11 year-old son, Ryan.
A friend of mine turned me onto the show Hit & Miss, which is a six episode British series currently streaming on Netflix. Hit & Miss follows Mia, played by the ever-talented Chloë Sevigny. Mia is a transgender hit woman who finds she has an 11-year-old son, Ryan. When Mia’s ex-girlfriend and Ryan’s mother dies unexpectedly, Mia must balance the demands of her brutal, secretive work while trying to build a family with her son and his three other siblings of whom Mia is also now the guardian.
My strongest critique of the series is that the producers did not choose an actual transgender woman to play the role of Mia. Sevigny is, no doubt, an ally and advocate for trans rights as is evinced by her involvement with Hit & Miss as well as Boys Don’t Cry, and while her rendering of Mia is nuanced, strong, and sensitive, it’s just not enough. On Homorazzi.com, Sevigny is quoted as saying, “I was worried people would be angry that they didn’t cast a real person who was transitioning, I asked why they didn’t, and the producers said they didn’t find the right person. It’s a big responsibility toward that community, and I wanted to do them right.”
All I have to say is: bullshit. Bullshit they couldn’t find a capable transgender actress to give authenticity to the character and agency to the transgender community. Look at how amazingly gifted Laverne Cox is as Sophia on the women’s prison series Orange is the New Black. Cox’s portrayal has been successful, breathing life, humanity, and humor into Sophia, proving that there are plenty of transgender actors who are not only talented, but who audiences will receive positively. It’s time to give another under-represented and marginalized group the freedom to represent themselves. Blackface is offensive and is generally accepted as grotesque and hateful. In 20 years, how will people view our insistence that no transgender actors are capable of representing their own lives, struggles, weaknesses, and triumphs?
Chloë Savigny as Mia on a job.
My second major critique of the series is that the camera is obsessed with Mia’s body. Her penis is shown in every single episode. She is often nude or getting dressed, and the audience is encouraged to stare at her body. The camera is fascinated with the incongruity between the curves of Mia’s female form and her (prosthetic) penis. It feels gratuitous and exploitative, objectifying an already marginalized character. The camera’s obsession with Mia’s body tells us two things: 1) Mia is her body; her body is her most important and defining attribute, and 2) Mia is abnormal. The way the camera lingers on her breasts and penis echoes carnival freakshows that insist audience members pruriently gaze at the Other. This isn’t a humanizing, inclusive technique. The camera should not internalize the judgements that Mia and much of the world put on her body because we, the audience, are effectively the camera, it guides our gaze, which should be one of acceptance of the integrity and beauty of its heroine.
Mia nude montage
My third major critique is the show’s rendering of Mia’s sexuality. She identifies as a straight woman trapped in the biological body of a man. That would be fine, but she also insists to the kids that she loved Wendy, their mother, and that they were happy together, claiming, “We’d probably still be together if I weren’t a transsexual.” (The use of the word “transsexual” makes me cringe…maybe it’s a British thing?) The idea seems to be that Mia was a straight man, and now she is a straight woman. That decomplicates human sexuality, not to mention trans sexuality, in a disappointing way. Why can’t Mia’s sexuality be fluid? The underlying assumption seems to be that it would make her less of a woman to be attracted to both men and women. That is deeply problematic not only to queer sexuality, but to trans sexuality.
I appreciate that Hit & Miss, however, allows Mia to be more than a gender stereotype. Though she is a very feminine woman (wearing make-up, dresses, lingerie, and cute cowgirl boots), Mia is skilled in weaponry and hand-to-hand combat. Some of the most touching sequences in the series are when Mia and her son, Ryan, work out together, bonding as she teaches him the discipline of fitness and boxing for self-defense.
Mia teaches her son, Ryan, to defend himself from bullies.
Not only that, but Mia is gratifyingly self-possessed when it comes to threats against her person. Watching her beat the ever-loving shit out of the waste-of-space, misogynistic, pedophile, rapist, dumb fuck landlord, John, as he threatens her and the kids is one of the most satisfying scenes of all time. He soooo had it coming.
Mia fucks John’s shit up. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.
Mia’s new lover, Ben, accuses her of still having “too much man left in” her because of her penchant for violence. She rightly tells him to fuck off. Her life is fraught with violence because of her profession and because of her dark, abusive upbringing on the carnival Fairgrounds. I also wonder if the show is saying that violence is inherent in transitioning. It is true that many transgender people face violence and the threat of violence as part of their daily lives. Being who they are is, for some reason, perceived as a threat to hegemony, and fear, aggression, and hate are all too common responses. Hit & Miss also, though, plays with the metaphor of rebirth, and the violent struggle that accompanies it. In a montage sequence, as the children don their sleeping bags (reminiscent of cocoons) to play their favorite game, a butterfly flits across Mia’s sniper rifle scope, causing her to miss her target, which changes her life forever. Mia is in the process of being reborn from a man to a woman, a loner to a family member, and a father to a mother.
Her new lover, Ben, struggles with his own sexuality and masculinity as they relate to Mia’s transition. To prove his straightness, masculinity, and capacity for intimacy, Ben cheats on Mia. He makes a point of performing oral sex on his fling; the significance of which is obvious, but it is also important because Mia isn’t comfortable with Ben touching her penis (understandably so because Mia doesn’t feel her penis is part of her identity). On the morning after the woman has left, Ben finds a handful of hair extensions in his bed. This moment was very compelling for me as a feminist because it is saying that to some degree femininity is a performance even for cis women. This posits the query, “What makes a real woman?” This scene questions the validity that any such creature exists. It subtly asserts that genitalia is as arbitrary as hair length for determining who is and who is not a woman.
Mia and Ben have sex for the first time.
“Family’s got fuck all to do with blood.” – Mia
That is the best quote of the entire series, and it is one of the major themes of the show. If I had to pick one word to describe the series, it would be: bleak. Hit & Miss is full of violence, trauma, and despair. These are highly damaged people, but together they form a unique family and a new life. Mia pulls them together with her strength, her vulnerability, and her love. By the end of the series, Mia has drawn all the wounded characters together. She senses their need for love and safety, and she gives it freely, in spite of how many curses and slurs they hurl her way. In the depths of darkness, Mia’s indomitable spirit is a beacon, guiding all of them towards hope.
Mia’s new family
This show has a lot going on; I even question whether or not it’s got too much going on. The primary characters have complex inner lives with myriad painful issues that stem from poverty, neglect, and abuse. A fledgling family getting to know and learning to love each other while navigating these landmine issues; a trans woman learning she has a son, owning her identity, finding romance and family in unexpected places; a hitwoman balancing her seedy career with a desire to give, belong, and build a wholesome life for her family…each of these could be its own storyline. Is it too much to make Mia a hitwoman? Is it purposely sensationalist in order to draw attention to the meat of its tale: family and identity? Is making Mia a hitwoman underscoring Chloë Sevigny’s sentiment that, “There’s a lot more going on with her than just her gender”? Or is an ambitious, often contentious, and always thought-provoking short series like Hit & Miss that’s packed with meaning, metaphor, and depth exactly what we need?
Gravity survives on the merit of its spectacle. It’s beautiful, terrifying, and gripping. The characters, while feeling real, are underdeveloped. The story itself is one big metaphor for Stone’s journey into isolation and despair after suffering personal tragedy. It is an epic allegory about the journey toward life, toward connection with the earth. I couldn’t tell you what kind of card player Stone is, though, or what made her want to become a doctor. Her life is a blank because she’s not an individual; she’s an archetype.
Alfonso Curon’sGravity is primarily an experience. It’s an edge-of-your-seat survival tale set in the vastness, the darkness, the solitude of space. I was eager to review this film because I love sci-fi, and I love women in sci-fi flicks. I can take or leave Sandra Bullock (mostly leave her), but her performance in Gravity‘s opening sequence sold me:
It’s silent in space. Astronauts are working on the exterior of a space satellite. George Clooney as astronaut Matt Kowalski is floating about making pleasant conversation. We can hear the labored breathing of Dr. Ryan Stone (Sandra Bullock). Her heart rate is elevated, and she’s not taking in the majesty of space because she’s too focused on her work, too focused on keeping herself under control. Dr. Stone is not an astronaut. She’s a civilian medical engineer who’s designed some special program that NASA wants to use. Trained solely for this mission, she’s fighting not to have a panic attack while perched outside the world, and then she is violently wrenched from that perch, from that narrow margin of the illusion of safety into…chaos.
Sandra Bullock as Dr. Ryan Stone desperately holds on as a debris storm wreaks havoc.
No other film has communicated to me the desolation of space the way that Gravity does. Dr. Stone’s vulnerability and lack of awe translate into a visceral feeling within this audience member of the true terror and anxiety of being in space, the smallness of the human animal, and the rawness of her grip on survival.
Gravity‘s cinematography is stunningly beautiful. The film is shot with such a unique style, and its zero gravity environments faced so many challenges that the movie’s innovations are being lauded as “chang[ing] the vocabulary of filmmaking.” They used puppeteers for Christ’s sake! How cool is that? Some shots did seem indulgent, perhaps trying too hard to convey Cuaron’s metaphor. The best example being when Stone makes it into a damaged space station that still has air. She disrobes in slo-mo from her suit, and the exactness of her body’s poses are anime-esque in their echoing of the fetus in the womb and birth metaphors.
Though in booty shorts, Stone is never stripped to only her bra & panties.
I liked Ryan Stone’s vulnerability and her constant battle with blind panic (that she sometimes loses). It made her and her experience more accessible. It’s iffy whether or not Gravity, though, manages to be a feminist film. Gravity certainly doesn’t pass the Bechdel test, but to be fair, there are very few characters at all in the movie. The only personal detail we’re given about Stone is that she was once a mother who lost her daughter to a tragic accident. This irks me because it casts Stone as the grieving mother archetype. Boooorrriiiinggg. It too simply explains her unhappy adventure beyond the ends of the earth. It forgives her for being a woman who would give up familial ties to go into space because she, in fact, has already lost those ties. Because her loss consumes her, Stone’s despair and lack of connection, in fact, justify her trip.
Clooney’s Kowalski calmly tows an oxygen deprived Stone to safety.
Veteran astronaut Kowalski is a bit too perfect, too in-control, and too optimistic. When we contrast his cool command with Stone’s panic attacks, freezing up, and bouts of giving up from which he must coax her, Kowalski seems like more of the hero. That leaves Stone to be the basketcase woman whom it is Kowalski’s chivalrous duty to rescue. Stone finally encounters a situation that seems unbeatable, and she resigns herself to death. She hallucinates Kowalski comes to rescue her and gives her the information lurking in the back of her memory that she needs to save herself. He is her savior even within her mind. Not only that, but as she rouses herself from her hallucination, she says something like, “Kowalski, you clever bastard.” This leaves open the interpretation to spiritual types that she may not have, in fact, hallucinated; instead she may have had a supernatural experience in which her friend’s ghost did save her life from beyond the grave deus ex machina style. Frankly, that is just poop. Either way, Clooney as the noble, infinitely calm and self-sacrificing astronaut dude is just spreading it on a bit too thick for my taste.
Kowalski helps a flustered Stone speed up her slow work.
Gravity survives on the merit of its spectacle. It is beautiful, terrifying, and gripping. The characters, while feeling real, are underdeveloped. The story itself is one big metaphor for Stone’s journey into isolation and despair after suffering personal tragedy. It is an epic allegory about the journey toward life, toward connection with the earth, which is a poignant, compelling story, but I couldn’t tell you what kind of card player Stone is or what made her want to become a doctor. Her life is a blank because she’s not an individual; she’s an archetype. If Gravity could have accomplished its visual feats, told its epic story about survival and rediscovering the self all the while giving us rich characters, I would have loved this movie. Instead, I merely like it for its grandness of vision and its ideas; I like it in spite of its tepid storyline and lukewarm characterizations.
Two out of the three female characters are women of color: Melinda May played by Ming-Na Wen and Skye played by Chloe Bennet. They’re both of Asian descent, which leaves me wishing there were also prominent Black and Latino characters, but maybe more will be introduced over time. I’ve got to say that the Asian hacker and the Asian martial arts expert are pretty stereotyped roles, but I’m living on faith in Joss that he’ll flesh those characters out in a way that takes them beyond their trite origins into fully rounded characters to whom we’re heartbreakingly attached.
Wow, the title of Marvel’s Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D is a mouthful. It doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. That said, I’m a huge fan of Joss Whedon. I should clarify, though. I loved Joss Whedon’s Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Firefly, Serenity, Much Ado About Nothing, and The Cabin in the Woods. I did not love DollhouseORThe Avengers. My critique of Dollhouse was that it really underplayed the slavery and prostitution implications of the “dolls” who must do whatever they are commanded to do, never truly acknowledging that the Dollhouse was, in reality, a very high-priced brothel of sorts. As far as The Avengers go, frankly, I was just disappointed. It was better than, say, Thor, but that’s setting the bar a whole lot lower than I tend to expect from the smart, feminist, socially conscious Whedon. However, I’m always game and will always watch with an open mind a TV show with Whedon at the helm.
We’ve now got two episodes of the new Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D under our belts, so we have a bit of a base to gauge whether or not this show will be everything old-school Joss Whedon fans are looking for or if it’ll be superhero comic book fans’ hearts’ desires, or both (as the two are not necessarily mutually exclusive). As far as gender and diversity go, we’ve got three women and three men on the team (that’s right, Coulson is back), so there’s more of a balance than Whedon struck on his first go around in The Avengers with its lone female superhero, Black Widow.
His resurrection bears untold secrets that will doubtless unfold over time.
Two out of the three female characters are women of color: Melinda May played by Ming-Na Wen and Skye played by Chloe Bennet. They’re both of Asian descent, which leaves me wishing there were also prominent Black and Latino characters, but maybe more will be introduced over time. I’ve got to say that the Asian hacker and the Asian martial arts expert are pretty stereotyped roles, but I’m living on faith in Joss that he’ll flesh those characters out in a way that takes them beyond their trite origins into fully rounded characters to whom we’re heartbreakingly attached.
Melinda May is a veteran operative with a past to be reckoned with. Her asskickery is fluid and natural.
Melinda May getting it done.
Skye is a brilliant and gifted hacker who values information, truth, and humanity above all else. She’s also quick-witted and sharp-tongued.
Coulson and Agent Ward discover Skye broadcasting from her seemingly secret mobile base…the van out of which she lives.
Episode one was a little lackluster. With too much going on, too many characters being introduced, too many techno gadgets, too much CGI, and too many awkwardly placed Joss Whedon signature jokes, I was left feeling the show was trying too hard, and I was longing for the character depth and subject matter substance that Joss tends towards. The episode’s final speech is delivered by Gunn, I mean J. August Richards playing, Mike, the artificially enhanced unemployed ex-factory worker, and it refocused the show into what is important:
“You said if we worked hard, if we did right, we’d have a place. You said it was enough to be a man, but there’s better than man—there’s gods. And the rest of us? What are we? They’re giants. We’re what they step on.”
Mike performing a rescue using superpowers borrowed from
alien technology that will most likely kill him.
This isn’t just a speech about superpowers. This is a speech about our society, about the lie of the American dream. It’s saying that it’s no longer enough to work hard and be a good person. It’s a critique of the disparity of wealth and power, of our healthcare system, and our employment system (as Mike was fired for a workman’s comp back injury, which led him to undergo such drastic experimentation). This is a speech about the 99%. Having a Black man deliver it makes it all the more potent, referencing the deeply embedded racism in our country that insists upon assimilation but offers little reward or acceptance. Bravo, Joss.
Pilot episodes are notorious for trying to cram too much into an hour, and the trajectory of shows often change after that pilot, once they get their bearings. So how did Episode two, “0-8-4”, fare? It’s still a bit too flashy and gimmicky with too many explosions and frenetic fight sequences, but I enjoyed the use of the fancy-pants, newly commissioned S.H.I.E.L.D plane that seems as if it may serve as home base for the group…not unlike a certain ship helmed by the indomitable Malcolm Reynolds.
S.H.I.E.L.D’s apolitical mission with its interest in artifacts amongst a guerrilla war-torn Peru create a nice tension between its objectives and Skye’s very political, underdog/rebel sympathizing tendencies. I hope she will continue to put these missions in perspective, not allowing the group to forget the geopolitical ramifications of their actions as well as the history and context of the places in which they practice resource extraction.
Coulson and his former colleague/lover Camilla Reyes make a deadly team fighting off rebels in Peru.
Episode “0-8-4” is really about one thing, though: teamwork, a specialty of Joss Whedon’s. Kelly West of Television Blend even dubbed the episode “Smells Like Team Spirit”. Right you are, Ms. West. I easily grow bored of overwrought gun fights with CGI that just won’t quit. Don’t get me wrong, I love the action genre with kickass fight choreography and heart-pounding do-or-die situations where characters must make impossible choices, but it’s got to have a soul. The team-building aspect of this episode, while a bit cheesy, gave the characters time to bond and to reveal snip-its about themselves, which had a generally humanizing effect and gave the audience an opportunity to warm to them.
Am I sold on Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D? Not yet. Do I think it has promise? Quite possibly. Will I keep watching? You bet your keister.
Bitch Flicks writer and editor Amanda Rodriguez is an environmental activist living in Asheville, North Carolina. She holds a BA from Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio and an MFA in fiction writing from Queens University in Charlotte, NC. She writes all about food and drinking games on her blog Booze and Baking. Fun fact: while living in Kyoto, Japan, her house was attacked by monkeys.
Ecuadorian Sebastián Cordero’sEuropa Report is a new kind of movie. The film centers around an unprecedented trip to one of Jupiter’s moons, Europa, based on evidence that the moon could perhaps support life. The movie does blend a documentary style with thriller, science fiction, and even horror genres in an interesting, gripping manner, but the narrative itself is differently constructed, which is what makes Europa Report such a unique pleasure to watch.
Though not tremendously racially diverse (the male captain is Asian and one of the male mission control scientists is Black), the film treats its female characters not only as equals, but as elite scientists and essential components of perhaps the most important space exploration humans have ever undergone.
We have three strong, smart, respected female characters. There’s Dr. Samantha Unger, portrayed by the talented Embeth Davidtz. Dr. Unger is the primary mission planner. Her on-the-ground/mission control perspective is the one that has the most narrative cohesiveness and authority. Europa One is her opus, and its success or failure along with the lives of its crew are her responsibility.
Dr. Samantha Unger contemplates the loss of communication with Europa One.
Then there’s science officer Dr. Katya Petrovna played by Karolina Wydra. Dr. Petrovna has a background in marine biology, which is crucial considering the life that the crew seeks on Europa would be in the water beneath the moon’s ice-encrusted surface. She is not only excellent at her job, but she is compassionate, brave, and full of wonder as the first human being to set foot on Europa’s moon surface. That’s right, a woman takes the greatest leap in science and exploration for all mankind.
To ensure the success of the mission, Katya risks her life on the unstable icy and radiation-flooded surface to collect vital samples.
Lastly, there’s the ship’s pilot Rosa Dasque played by Anamaria Marinca. She is drawn to the glory of the mission: a true explorer, seeking out the unknown, desirous of stretching the boundaries of human knowledge and experience. She, too, is strong and self-sacrificing with an admirable rationality and sense of her place and scope within the universe. My favorite line in the movie is when Rosa says, “Compared to the breadth of knowledge yet to be known, what does your life actually matter?” Heavy shit, no?
In a way, Rosa is our Ripley on Europa One.
So, except for one scene in which Jim Corrigan (played by District 9‘s Sharlto Copley) sexistly jokes that the female crewmen weren’t allotted enough outfits and shoes, Europa Report takes its female characters quite seriously, giving their expertise, ideas, and opinions the respect they deserve, not only as women but as fellow explorers whose lives and knowledge are every bit as valuable as their male counterparts.
Europa One crew posing for its last picture all together.
This, however, isn’t where the film’s innovative approach ends. In fact, the non-issue of female worth and sexuality aboard this space vessel is actually a small part of the bigger picture that Europa Report is trying to foster. At first, I was surprised that the crew all gets along. Despite that we are given few personal details about the explorers, I still developed a sense of empathy towards them, but it’s important that our understanding of them develops almost entirely within the context of this mission. Though there is wonder, comradery, fear, loss, and chaos, this isn’t a story about human drama. The elements for that kind of drama are there, but they are intentionally underplayed.
The point of the film is that this crew is doing something bigger than themselves, perhaps bigger than all of us. None of the crew ever forgets that, and we, as the audience, are never allowed to either. As they resign themselves to bad situations and make noble decisions, the film tells us that in the face of this “cosmically astounding” experience and opportunity, they could do nothing else. It all comes back to Rosa’s words, “Compared to the breadth of knowledge yet to be known, what does your life actually matter?” The crew’s unity in its genuine quest for discovery simply for the sake of knowledge is inspiring, reminding us of the universe’s wonders beyond our human smallness and pettiness, beyond our current scope of understanding.
Katya’s breathtaking view of Jupiter from Europa’s moon surface.
I loved this movie. Europa Report‘s elegant cinematography and unique approach in the telling of a simple story are refreshing, intellectually interesting, and posit more about humanity than seems possible on the film’s surface. I can’t wait to watch it again.
***If your local theater isn’t showing Europa Report, it’s rentable on iTunes***
The documentary20 Something is a labor of love for its creator Lanze Spears.With a non-existent budget while sleeping on floors as he filmed, Spears followed and actualized his dream, which is exactly what 20 Something is about.
20 Something trailer.
The documentary follows a handful of early “twenty somethings” who are struggling to “make it” in the world. Spears isn’t documenting any aspiring teachers, accountants or chefs, though; his subjects’ dreams are of fame, fortune, stardom and critical acclaim. We’ve got a model, a painter, an actress, an indie filmmaker and an artist working through communication and digital design.
I was disappointed that the two women Spears followed were interested in professions that placed a very high premium on physical appearance (the model and actress), and I kept thinking even the inclusion of a dancer would mix things up a bit because, despite the fact that her carefully sculpted body would continue to be paramount, she would be using hard-earned physical prowess, technique, and discipline. It turns out that Spears’ follow-up in his series is 20 Something New York, following a trio of, you guessed it, dancers, all of whom are women! Though more limited in its exploration, I’d definitely be interested in seeing Spears’ take on the New York dance scene, the struggles of female dancers to make it in that business, and get a chance to see how accurate Black Swan‘s depictions of ballet life really is.
(To be fair, the model, Clare, like the male communications specialist and graphic designer Taylor, finds her passion in advertising and graphic design with a more nuanced perspective on success in the “real world,” unlike her foundering starlet cohort Anastasia.)
The documentary stylistically reminded me of a more compassionate version of MTV’s The Real World. It was a bit too hip, didn’t always delve deep enough, and had some painfully artistic shots and stomach-turning use of camera filters. I wanted the film to critique the American Dream more than it did because success isn’t out there for everyone. Everyone can’t be rich and famous. Sometimes how hard you work doesn’t make a dent, and that is just how life is.
However, 20 Something very much captured that bittersweet 20 something feel, caught between dreams and the real world, one’s perception of one’s potential and the cold need to earn money to survive. Some of our stars compromise their dreams (Anastasia gives up on LA, deciding to teach English as a second language, hopefully in France in order to get involved the French film scene) while others expand their vision (Sean begins to imagine curating art, his and others, in a gallery dedicated to medium inclusivity as well as human diversity). The cast’s slowly dwindling naivete made me sad for them, forced me to roll my eyes at their self-absorption, lingering like baby fat, and inspired me a bit to dream again, as it reminded me what it was like when I was that age and the future held so many possibilities.
I was completely in LOVE with Ron Howard’s 1984 film Splash when I was little. I was then and continue now to be obsessed with mermaids. My child brain even thought that in the way hair color changes as you get older, I could become a mermaid as naturally as all that. It’s probably even why I like swimming so much. For a brief moment while doing the butterfly, I can pretend I’m Madison diving into the ocean. Too bad my dolphin kick is for shit.
Jeepers, mermaids are cool.
When I thought about reviewing Splash, I latched onto some of its more surprising, potentially feminist qualities, but upon rewatching it, I found it was a more deeply layered film than I’d realized. One feminist aspect of the movie is that Daryl Hannah’s mermaid Madison overcomes her inability to speak (as dictated by Hans Christian Anderson’s original The Little Mermaidstory) through her remarkable intelligence and adaptability.
We watch Madison fall in love with the human world, and her innocent joy humanizes a potentially exotic character while making the audience take another look at many of the things we take for granted: speaking, dancing, ice skating, the gritty beauty of urban landscapes,
“What’s that? Pretty.” – Madison
the satisfaction of a fine meal,
“That’s how we eat lobster where I come from.” – Madison
and the luxury of a hot bath.
For fins: Add water, table salt, and land-legged mermaid.
Most interestingly, though, Madison shows us how influential media is in our perception of who we are and how we fit into our culture. Her first word is “Bloomingdale’s.” A saleswoman (Madison’s first interaction with another woman) even says of an outfit Madison touches, “I couldn’t get one leg in there. My daughter, on the other hand, is lucky; she’s anorexic.” Madison’s first internalization is of society’s definition of femininity, and that internalization goes hand-in-hand with commerce and capitalism. She proceeds to spend the entire day at the mall, buying things, learning English, and aerobicizing with Richard Simmons, using the televisions at an electronics studio. Madison’s first day as a human woman shows us that media dispenses our culture’s expectations, and we must buy into them literally.
Another feminist aspect of Splash is that she doesn’t give up her world to be with a man, though she nearly does (because Tom Hanks’ Allen Bauer character refuses to let her go gracefully, he instead yells at her and derides her). Instead, Allen joins her underwater paradise, and Madison gets to be herself, fishtail and all, which I find intriguing because they make much of her sexual appetite and of how frequently she and Allen have sex…don’t see that happening anymore in the usual way.
Underwater makeout scene.
Most importantly on the feminist front, Madison repeatedly rescues Allen. He is generally the damsel in distress, a complete novice in her world where he faces drowning without her. She rescues him twice from drowning and once from his sickhearted loneliness coupled with the complicatedness of a human world where he never really belonged. From Allen’s youth, he’s shown as a romantic, a dreamer. His adult life and the obligations of being a small business owner have distracted him from the simplicity of love and his soulmate, Madison. Even the way he talks about marriage is all about sidestepping immigration regulations and blood tests; the institution itself is just another symbol of the bureaucracy regulating his life. In the end, Madison frees him from that when she gives him an underwater kiss that allows him to breathe and be “safe.” Yes, it’s problematic to have a woman symbolize a lifestyle or quality of life toward which a man gravitates at the end of the film.
Madison and Allen look on at her underwater civilization.
Do I think the film was intentionally critiquing consumerism and the capitalist, American ideal of femininity? Probably not. Ultimately, the film showed us the wonders of our world through fresh eyes, while drawing attention to its glaring faults (for example, the military force that studies Madison against her will and plans to dissect her). Madison’s goal throughout the film may have been love and a man, but it’s important to note that she began her journey to land only planning to spend a single week with him, valuing her life and home under the sea more than love. Even in love, she was always the strong one, never angry, hurtful, or vindictive as Allen was. Madison is a heroine. She saves people. She’s kind, sensitive, intelligent, motivated, and strong enough to rescue a man or fend off military attackers in scuba gear. She is most definitely not the perfect female heroine, but our heroines should be flawed and can be vulnerable. Regardless, Madison is hands-down the best mermaid EVER depicted on-screen, and that makes her my hero.
Francois Ozon’s In the House (or Dans la Maison) is actually quite good. It’s an intelligent film with brilliantly portrayed, complex, interesting characters along with pathos and moments of poignant humor. The film is very aware of social class dynamics, showing the interplay of working class, middle class, and the intelligentsia. Germain is a jaded teacher who sees the writing talent in his student Claude, a smart, working class kid with a sadistic streak. As Germain nurtures Claude’s “gift,” both their lives spiral out of control. Using an engaging meta-narrative to show the story-within-the-story through its chapters and revisions as Claude integrates Germain’s instruction, Germain becomes obsessed with his student and the story he writes. We begin to wonder about the potential maliciousness of Claude’s manipulations, not only of the family “in the house,” but of Germain himself. Who is really the teacher and who is the pupil? Where is the line between fantasy and reality?
Though I enjoyed the smart plot and fine performances, I found myself on the fence about the female characterizations. First, there’s Esther (played by Emmanuelle Seigner), the matriarch of the Artole family.
Esther sleeps while Claude voyeuristically writes about her feet. Women, he finds, are easier to admire when they’re asleep and can’t challenge him or make him feel inadequate.
Claude is sexually attracted to her, longs for her as a replacement for the mother who left him, and resents and envies her for her class status. Claude mocks her as stupid, painting her in his narrative as coarse and frivolous. Germain isn’t too concerned with the lack of sophistication Claude’s writing exhibits as it turnsEsther into little more than an object of desire (albeit the desire itself is rendered as complex and multifaceted). Germain, instead, insists that the key to the story is the fleshing out of the young Rapha character.
Claude derides and inwardly sneers at Esther for her obsession with the house. She constantly flits through home magazines and goes on about the drapes and building a veranda. Esther’s identity is reduced to the house. Claude never really sees or appreciates her loneliness and the deep, abiding unhappiness in the objective correlative of the house.
Esther folding laundry, noticing Claude staring at her from a park bench.
Claude never realizes that the house is every bit as much a symbol for him as it is for her, though the permutation is different for each of them. For Claude, the house is an escape into another, better life with inhabitants who he’s free to toy with and manipulate to manifest his own desires. For Esther, it is a prison and a life preserver that she continues to beautify in the hopes that she won’t have to keep staring at the bars. Not only that, but Claude never recognizes that Esther is the keeper of this house that he desires so much; she is the one who lovingly cares for its physicality while internally sacrificing much to keep its inhabitants happy and together (even, in the end, giving up the house itself so that her husband can follow his dreams).
Then we have Jeanne (played by Kristin Scott Thomas), Gillam’s intelligent, insightful wife who operates an art gallery.
Jeanne sits in bed contemplating the tale Claude weaves as well as the nature of the weaver himself.
Germain shares young Claude’s chapters with Jeanne, and while Germain becomes engrossed in the boy’s story and writing talent, Jeanne constantly reminds us to think of the troubled boy crafting the tale. Jeanne also observes the way this obsession is affecting Germain, the only one outside the story enough to keep bringing reality back into play. She cites Germain’s loss of sexual appetite, postulating that he may be attracted to his student; Germain’s prioritizing Claude’s writing over the desperate situation at her art gallery where her job is in jeopardy; and Germain’s losing his moral compass as he helps Claude and Rapha cheat in order to keep Claude within the house and writing. She is the one who breaks the fourth wall by inviting the Artole’s to an art opening at her gallery.
Germain is horrified that Jeanne has invited the Artoles, as he’d prefer to imagine them as fictitious.
To Claude, Germain mocks the art Jeanne curates as pretentious. Germain is threatened by her intelligence and effortless insight into the human psyche as proven by her astute grasp of Claude and the characters he portrays. Claude ends up weaving Jeanne into his narrative, ending their encounter with sex, a scene that is dubious in its veracity. This non-consensual representation is a violation of her personhood. Her agency disappears with her as we never find out what becomes of her after Germain murderously chokes her after reading Claude’s rendering of his meeting with Jeanne. Germain’s vicious attack is borderline absurdist in its ferocity, and I was left wondering if the scene was intended to be humorous … I assure you, it was not. Germain’s assault seems more about the loss of another thing that belonged to him (his wife is to his job is to his reputation) due to Claude’s story as well as his own obsession.
Not only does Germain become completely unsympathetic to me in that moment, but the female characters are revealed to be little more than narrative devices. The ending of In the House makes it clear that the film was always and only about the relationship between Germain and Claude. As the two sit together on a bench bereft of everything but each other’s company and their stories, it becomes clear that the narrative was always about the power play between instructor and pupil. Other people were merely obstacles that stood between them to be maneuvered like chess pieces until these two men were on equal footing, a sort of stalemate with only the kings left standing on the board.
At first, I hoped the film was calling attention to the way that both Germain and Claude don’t really see the women in their lives, don’t allow them to be full human beings, but upon further analysis, it becomes apparent that the film itself only uses the female characters as convenient props to help elucidate the male narrative replete with its masculine struggles.
As someone who read and enjoyed Max Brooks’ novel World War Z, I confess that I was doubtful that the film version (also entitled World War Z) could do the complex, multiple perspective, international, decade-long “oral history” justice. Turns out, I wasn’t wrong. The sociopolitical commentary alone, not to mention the strong critique of U.S isolationism, was completely lost in the film version. Though more convenient from a narrative perspective, the film loses much of the novel’s integrity with its choice to only follow the Lane family while making American Gerry Lane (played by Brad Pitt) the sole hero of the tale. The richness of the multiple nationalities, generations, genders, educational backgrounds, etc of the perspectives represented in the novel is totally lost. The comic website The Oatmeal gives us the best film/novel comparison to date:
The Oatmeal film/novel comparison hits the old nail on the head.
The prominent female characters in World War Z, while notably few, are intriguing, as they’re simultaneously strong and compelling, but ultimately traditional in their depiction. First, we meet Karin Lane, hero Gerry Lane’s wife, portrayed by the talented Mireille Enos (best known for her leading role on the acclaimed series The Killing).
Enos’ character Karin shields her daughter as she anxiously awaits her husband’s return along with an inevitable zombie onslaught.
Prior to New York’s zombie infestation, we meet the Lanes in all their domestic bliss. We find stay-at-home dad Gerry making pancakes, presumably designating Karin as the sole breadwinner. Later we learn that this is because his job with the United Nations was so über important and he was super über valuable but walked away from it to be with his family. This undermines the unconventionality of the couple’s marital arrangement because the “man called out of retirement for one last world-saving job” is a tired, overplayed Hollywood trope.
However, when chaos breaks loose in the city, Karin is remarkably calm and self-possessed. She is effective in a crisis, quick-thinking, solution-oriented, and follows direction well. Karin never belts out the quintessential zombie flick chick-scream despite the fact that her entire world is devolving into terrifying, incomprehensible mayhem. It’s a pleasure to see such a strong leading lady mastering her emotions, taking action, and protecting others.
On the other hand (a hand that is unfortunately much bigger than its counterpart), Karin is much in need of Gerry’s protection. After escaping the zombie outbreak in the heart of the city, Gerry and Karin along with their kids join a civilian looting of a grocery store where Karin is attacked by two men who attempt to rape her. We could’ve lived without this attempted rape, as it does nothing to complicate the plot since there are few, if any, other instances of commentary on post-apocalyptic human-on-human violence. No, this is an excuse for Gerry to save his wife and expose her as a symbol of female vulnerability that must be protected in the face of this great crisis.
It’s amazing how many scenes show the two useless daughters sleeping…still better than the ones where they’re awake and jeopardizing everyone’s safety.
This symbolism builds as Gerry leaves behind Karin and their two irritating daughters (who cause nothing but problems) on a secure military ship while he goes off to save the world. He barters his family’s safety for his services. We watch the couple each programing their satellite phones through which they communicate while Gerry is on his mission; Karin types “GERRY,” while Gerry types “HOME.” Throughout history and especially war narratives, women, particularly wives, have been symbols for home. Men typically pine for and seek to protect these women because of the cultural continuity they embody. Women shelter and raise children, instilling in them their culture’s values while ordering the home and keeping/creating peace. Though his country and world’s infrastructure has collapsed along with any semblance of civilization as he’s known it, Gerry seeks to protect HOME as embodied by his vulnerable wife and irritating daughters. Karin houses inside her this symbol of “home” replete with its comforting memories and the subtextual notion that through her and her daughters the human race can continue via their reproductive capacities as well as the cultural legacy they can advance.
The other noteworthy primary female character is Segen, a young soldier in the Israeli military charged with protecting Gerry and spiriting him to his plane to escape as zombies infiltrate and destroy Jerusalem, the last stronghold of civilization. (I’m not even going to touch the religious implications of that one.)
Segen, charged with Gerry’s safety, winds her way through the labyrinthine city.
Make no mistake, Segen (depicted by Daniella Kertesz), is a hardcore badass. She’s a brave soldier who does not succumb to the feverish panic that overtakes her home during the zombie attack. She skillfully wields a big-ass gun and does her duty to protect Gerry and guide him to safety. Unfortunately, Gerry ends up saving her (of course because this guy has got to save everyone, especially if there’s a vagina involved). When Segen is bitten, Gerry cuts off her hand at the wrist, saving her life. She (understandably) begins screaming uncontrollably, and he drags her onto the last plane escaping the city where he dresses her wound. To her credit, Segen never loses consciousness and bears it all without painkillers.
Gerry protects and cares for the young female soldier: the paternalistic attitude of the film on full display
Later, she is instrumental in Gerry’s plans to thwart the spread of the virus at a research outpost of the World Health Organization, using her military skills in stealth and weaponry, but we know nothing about her. We only have the name “Segen,” with no idea if it’s her first/last name or a nickname. Though she’s a major character who survives to the end, we learn nothing of her background, who she’s lost, or even how she feels about her military conscription. I confess; I find her military conscription to be her most interesting quality. Women are required to serve in the Israeli military for at least two years, and Segen seems to embrace her role naturally, her fearlessness and aggressiveness serving her well at the end of the world. It made me curious whether or not she’d chosen to stay enlisted beyond her two years. Had she chosen the life of a career military officer? What were her hopes and dreams before the world went to shit? Apparently, it’s not important for her to be three-dimensional despite the fact that we learn much more intimate details about much more minor characters…who happen to be male.
Drawing of Segen as she scours a W.H.O facility for deadly diseases while dodging zombies.
Though she, like the young Tomas, only lives because Gerry saved her, Segen is not enfolded into the Lane family at the film’s close. The Lanes adopt Tomas because he’s lost everything, and they feel responsible for him. Though the same is true of Gerry’s attitude toward Segen, she is not invited to join the extended post-apocalyptic family with ties that are more than blood. Perhaps it’s because the filmmakers can’t imagine Karin not being jealous of the fierce, beautiful young woman whom Gerry’s taken under his wing. Perhaps they thought it too non-traditional to have two women of sexual maturity living together because of potentially polyamorous implications. Instead, Segen just disappears. We don’t know where she goes after the film has ended much like we don’t know where she came from before the the movie began.
Though both Karin and Segen are strong, admirable women, we didn’t get to know them outside their relationship to Gerry. The film chose not to develop them as individuals separate from Gerry because they’re both designed to reflect back upon him, his intelligence, perseverance, and morality. Gerry is a messianic figure, and who are the Virgin Mary or Mary Magdalene without the narrative of Christ? They, like our two World War Z female characters, are props on our hero’s journey, illustrating more about him and his qualities than exuding any sort of well-rounded individuality. Though I’m surprised and pleased that I liked the women of World War Z (not the female children, though; them I abhorred), the film left me wishing it had bothered to develop its badass female characters.
Confession: as a child of the 80’s, I refused to watch cartoons that didn’t have a significantly visible representation of women in them, and the more visible and the more badass, the better. GI Joe and Transformers were out, but Jem and the Holograms, Thundercats, and He-Manmade the cut (don’t ask me to explain my little girl logic). Though Jem had a ton of women in it and I loved the series obsessively, She-Ra: Princess of Power was my favorite because, not only did the show have tons of women in it, but they were all kickass warriors. I still think about and talk about the show more than is probably considered “normal” (whatever that bullshit word means). Now as an adult looking back, I’m compelled to figure out why that show has been so prominent in my consciousness then, as an impressionable young girl, and now, as a feminist grown.First, we’ve got to compare He-Man and She-Ra, twins with magical, transformative, empowering swords. He-Man’s non-magical alter ego is Prince Adam, while She-Ra’s is Adora. Prince Adam takes on the persona of the lazy, whiny, spoiled, conceited prince who is generally a coward, while Adora is the smart, organized, capable, and charismatic leader of The Great Rebellion. While He-Man had to spend half his time pretending to be a fuck-up and to this day people mock Prince Adam (I strongly advise you to watch the video below for some serious yucks), Adora was an example of a tactically astute, benevolent leader who included the talents and ideas of others.
When the twins transform into their superhero selves, both have equally unmatched physical strength (though She-Ra is more prone to doing flips and super sweet spin kicks while shouting “Hee-Yah!”). The jewel in She-Ra’s sword isn’t the only difference between her and He-Man’s swords of birthright. Her sword can transform into nearly any physical object she commands (a shield, a lasso, a ladder, even a helmet that lets her breathe underwater).
She-Ra: “Sword to ice-maker.” Great for making ice cream or freezing over lakes to go skating on warm summer days.
She-Ra also has innate powers that are denied He-Man. She can communicate via telepathy with animals. Not only that but she can heal the injured with a good old-fashioned laying on of hands. It’s easy to see some of her additional powers as the writers attempting to feminize the character. Her empathic communication with animals and healing powers could certainly be coded as “nurturing” and therefore more traditionally feminine, but at the same time, She-Ra is just as strong as He-Man. Let’s face it, with her extra abilities, she’s an even bigger badass than he is.
Then we’ve got to consider the sheer number of female heroes in She-Ra.
From left to right: Glimmer, Angella, Castaspella, She-Ra, Frosta, and the villainous Cat-Ra
Like most shows geared toward young girls around that era, there were a lot of female characters and a notable dearth of male characters. In fact, Bow was She-Ra’s only regularly featured male hero to be included in The Great Rebellion. I also remember She-Ra more consistently involving and more fully featuring its wide range of female characters than, say, My Little Ponies or Rainbow Brite.
In part because of the huge female cast, She-Ra also showcased tons of Bechdel test-passing female friendships.
From left to right: Perfuma, Castaspella, Mermista, She-Ra, Glimmer, Angella, Frosta
These women all work as a team for a noble common cause under a female leader, Adora. Glimmer and Angella are even an inter-generational mother-daughter duo with a profoundly strong connection as shown in the He-Man/She-Ra feature-length film The Secret of the Sword wherein She-Ra is introduced to the He-Man universe and must rescue Queen Angella from a minion of The Evil Horde. Glimmer is also clearly Adora’s best friend. In all actuality, the general lack of female rivalry should be attributed to the pre-sexualized nature of the show’s target audience. Though there are some crushes throughout the series, they are all harmless and never consummated (even with a kiss).
Unlike many superheroine mythologies, She-Ra isn’t the only one with astounding abilities. In fact, her friends possess a plethora of mystical qualities that make them assets to The Great Rebellion. Though the female characters are not diverse in their race or in their slim and buxom builds, they are diverse in their talents. Flight, clairvoyance, teleportation, creation of energy shields, spell casting, uncanny aptitude for disguises, power over frost, and physical transformations are just a handful of the amazing strengths She-Ra’s friends possess. To a woman, they are all brave, leaders in their own right, and capable of working as part of a collective.
She-Ra: “Ladies…um, and Bow, let’s kick some ass!”
Let us not forget that The Great Rebellion is a predominantly female rebellion from its leaders to its foot soldiers to the monarch they hope to enthrone. Glimmer’s mother, Angella is the Queen of Bright Moon and is considered the “rightful ruler of Etheria”. A benevolent matriarch, She-Ra and The Great Rebellion fight the evil Horde in order to restore Angella’s kingdom. All these women have joined together to fight Hordak who is a symbol of the tyranny and oppression of the patriarchy. Don’t believe me? Just think about it: in the film The Secret of the Sword when we meet Adora, she is known as Force Captain Adora, and Hordak is a father figure to her. He has indoctrinated her into the Horde, leading her to believe that the Horde is just and the rebels evil. Hordak also surrounds himself with patriarchy-complicit women like Cat-Ra, Entrapta, Scorpia, and even the mother figure, Shadow Weaver who casts her spells to subdue Adora to the will of Hordak. Essentially, Hordak has lied to Adora about reality. Once she becomes aware of his lies, Adora turns against Hordak, discovers her true, empowered identity as She-Ra, joins a band of women, and fights to supplant him with a matriarchy.
She-Ra…for…the…win…
Yes, all the women of She-Ra are white (except for a handful of obscure cameos by Netossa), and they’re all scantily clad, thin ladies with big boobies. Yes, She-Ra is a calculated He-Man spin-off designed to bring in a female audience and sell more toys in the never-ending quest for more money. And, yes, it’s probably an accident that the girl power vibe and transparent anti-patriarchy theme are so strong. Whatever the studio’s reasoning, the end result is a network of powerful women who not only like each other, but they support each other, organize a rebellion against an oppressive patriarchal regime, and get shit done. The example this powerful group of women set for impressionable girls like myself is tremendous. In the 80’s, I had a glittery She-Ra sword that I felt completely justified in swinging around because I, like She-Ra, was the heroine of my own story.
