‘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.

What’s Missing from the ‘Gone Girl’ Debate? Privilege!

‘Gone Girl’ has been called misogynist, an amalgamation of negative stereotypes of women, a text that perpetuates rape culture, and a narrative that fuels Men’s Rights Acivtists’ ugly depiction of the gender equality feminists are trying to achieve.

Putting the talent of the author aside – because I do think Gillian Flynn is an incredible writer – I want to address this feminist ire directed at ‘Gone Girl.’

To an extent, I agree with it. Yet, what is missing from the discussion is a focus on privilege.

This guest post by Natalie Wilson previously appeared in a shorter version at the Ms. Blog and is cross-posted with permission.

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WARNING: THIS PIECE CONTAINS SPOILERS!

Gone Girl has been called misogynist, an amalgamation of negative stereotypes of women, a text that perpetuates rape culture, and a narrative that fuels Men’s Rights Acivtists’ ugly depiction of the gender equality feminists are trying to achieve.

Putting the talent of the author aside – because I do think Gillian Flynn is an incredible writer – I want to address this feminist ire directed at Gone Girl.

To an extent, I agree with it. Yet, what is missing from the discussion is a focus on privilege.

Amy Elliot Dunne, the protagonist of Gone Girl, is white, wealthy, heterosexual, and conventionally attractive (many privileges which her creator, Gillian Flynn, shares).

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Yes, Amy is a female, but she is an EXCESSIVELY privileged one, so privileged, in fact, that she has the necessary funds, skills, know-how, and spare time to concoct a near iron-clad story in which she convinces the media, the law, her community, and her family that she has been raped, abused by her husband, kidnapped, imprisoned, and possibly murdered.

Flynn, even given the worldwide success of her writing, is, I would guess, not nearly as privileged as Amy. Plus, if details at the author’s website are correct, she worked odd jobs throughout high school; Amy is not the type of female that had to work in high school, and especially not at anything where she would be made to dress up as a cone of yogurt.

In addition to her privilege, is Amy in fact a compilation of the evils MRAs spout on about in relation to “strong” women? In ways, yes. But this is just it – she is able to be strong – and, yes, to be evil – because she has the privilege to do so. As the saying goes, idle hands make the devil’s work.

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Amy is narcissistic, vain, and shallow – and has enough time on her hands to fill her calendar with carefully labeled, color-coded post-its with details of her murder plot. And, once the plot is set in motion, handily has secured enough cash to buy a car, a new wardrobe, and keep her going for who knows how long. When that falls through, there is the very rich former boyfriend Dezi, who will put her up in his “lakehouse” – a spare house that makes many mansions look shabby.

Yes. This is fiction. Yes, it’s a dark, twisted, mystery. It is obviously meant to be. The author herself made it clear that she “wanted to write about the violence of women” after her first book, Sharp Objects. And this is not a problem – not at all – but what is vexing with Gone Girl is at the heart of its narrative is a woman that falsely accuses several men of rape and assault – and tries to frame one of them for murder. This story is a fiction. But rape and assault are at epidemic levels in our society – along with the horrible statistics is a pervasive narrative often called “blaming the victim.” At the heart of this narrative is the myth that females lie about rape. Not once in a blue moon. But often.

This is not what I want to focus on though – what I want to focus on is how privilege allows the fictional Amy to get away with all the atrocities she commits. If she “cried rape” (as MRAs and the media often suggest women do), would she be as readily believed if she were a woman of color? What if she were a prostitute? What if she committed murder and tried to convince the cops of her innocence via mere words? Would she be believed if she were, say, a young Black male? If she accused her partner of physical abuse and adultery would she become America’s media darling if she were not cisgender?

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The story of Kalief Browder, featured in The New Yorker, who served three years at Ryker’s Island, most of it in solitary confinement without trial before he was deemed innocent; of Renisha McBride; of Ferguson; is proof that innocence does not mean much for people of color in a society that frames those with non-white skin as born guilty (to borrow Dorothy Roberts claim made in her classic Killing the Black Body).

Gone Girl is not making a critique of privilege though, nor of how Amy’s whiteness and wealth – at least in ways – puts her above the law. Instead, Amy’s ability to frame others for crimes they did not commit and become America’s media darling has been acclaimed as a wonderfully concocted mystery by a talented author. As for Amy’s ability to pull off her fictive story within a story in the novel and the film adapation, this ability is never overtly linked to her privilege – unless you count the fact the film nods toward how wealthy she is, given her cat has its own bedroom. Rather, her success at framing others is presented as a very well-planned revenge plot carried out by a very smart, very malicious woman.

Admittedly, there are things the story does well in terms of critiquing societal problems. A key area in this regard is the portrayal of the media. As with the novel, the film delves into the media circus, giving us talking heads that spin hypotheses about Amy’s whereabouts and who is to blame for her disappearance – hypotheses that quickly lead to the narrative Amy intended: that her husband Nick is guilty, and she is the innocent, abused spouse all America should be routing (and praying) for.

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Amy clearly knows how to play straight into the hands of the of “The Ellen Abbot Show” – a fictionalized version of the likes of Nancy Grace. Amy notes, while concocting her plan, that “America loves pregnant women,” and, indeed, Ellen plays up Amy’s pregnancy to garner sympathy for her – and ire for her husband Nick. However, had Amy been a pregnant Latina, or working class, or a single woman, would she still be framed in this way by the real Ellen Abbots of the  world? Doubtful.

In fact, if Amy’s accusations of rape against not one, but three men, were to be reported in the real world media, it is likely she would blamed, interrogated, and have her reputation besmirched, especially if she lacked many of the privileges Amy’s character has. As noted in “Gone Girl and the Specter of Feminism,”

“Our society makes real-life survivors of rape into villains every single day. We assume ulterior motives. We invade and question their sexual history as if it’s relevant. We make rape survivors into whores and sluts, into evil, evil women who are only out to hurt and punish men. And that’s if we don’t ignore them altogether, or if they can summon the courage to report the rape at all.”

And though only 2 to 8 percent of reported rapes are determined to be unfounded, it is, as #2 reports, a “norm of the media to question the authenticity of rape victims that dare to step forward and seek justice.”

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In the film, Tanner Bolt , the big-shot lawyer defending Nick, is portrayed as particularly media savvy. He says of Amy, for example, that “she is telling the perfect story.” And though his race is not highlighted as a factor, his know-how of the media and the key role public perception plays can be read as shaping the story he tells the world in public appearances.

Tanner advises Nick to do the same, telling him, “This case is about what people think of you,” and emphasizes the need for a huge re-alignment of public perception. Tanner knows this, and Nick should (especially given his former work as a journalist). Read through the lens of race, however (a lens, let me emphasize, the narrative itself does NOT interrogate), one can argue Tanner has to be more savvy than Nick and that Nick is allowed to live in a privilege bubble, one that leads him to assume people are going to believe him.

What people think of Amy – and Nick – is largely determined by their privilege. They live in a huge house, she is a “housewife,” they are both former writers, they are attractive, white, heterosexual, and have the requisite pet – as well as aspirations –  on Nick’s part at least – to have children. They are the picture-perfect American couple.

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But, this image is a fiction. And the fact the story plays around this fictive construct of what perfection is – and what a perfect marriage is – is one of its most intriguing features. Amy’s diary, a mixture of truth and fiction, is key here. In one telling scene, Detective Boney (my favorite character by far, perhaps as she has the most feminist gumption) goes through Amy’s diary, now being used as police evidence, and asks Nick what is true and what is fiction. The mixture of lies and truth within the diary, and within the entire narrative, make it hard to discern any reliability.

As argued in “The Misogynistic Portrayal of Villainy in Gone Girl,” Amy makes a magnificent unreliable narrator. Sadly though, she is believed – by the media, by the community, even by us, the audience.

If only her believability was tied to her privilege, Flynn could have had a narrative that did something feminists could applaud – a narrative that pulled back the sham of “perfect femininity” and showed the ugly undersides of unfair societal dictates.

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Instead, Flynn gives us a character that shares her own privileges – and her own penchant for spinning fictions – rather than one who lays bare the injustices that make the likes of Ellen Abbott believe her, that have lawyers running to defend Nick pro bono, that result in a media machine feeding off this one tragedy while ignoring wider injustices – injustice the camera actually lingers on at the start of the film, making the Missouri of Gone Girl remind one of the Detroit featured in Michael Moore’s Roger and Me.

While the narrative condemns what director David Fincher calls the “tragedy vampirism” of the media, it never takes the next step of pointing out how the poverty and homelessness of the community in which the story takes place plays a role in why Amy becomes a media darling and allows her husband to plausibly suggest the “homeless” are to blame for Amy’s disappearance.

The narrative also never takes any step toward addressing the reality of widespread sexual violence and domestic abuse, instead using this device as just one more piece of grist for its suspenseful, plot-twisting mystery.

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In one scene, Amy creates the “proof” of her rapes via thrusting a wine bottle inside herself as she icily gazes in the mirror (a scene also in the book). This comes after we learn she has destroyed the life of a completely innocent man by also framing him for rape, merely because he lost interest in her. And, in the most fraudulent, unbelievable plot point, this man tells us he was about to be put away for 30 years on a first degree felony. Guess how often rapists are put away for 30 years? Not often.

So, yes, Amy is a villain, some suggest a sociopath, but I heartily disagree that her horribleness could only come from a “female mind” – which is exactly what the actress who plays her – Rosamund Pike  – claims, that “the way her brain works is purely female.”

Instead, Amy’s villainy, and the fact she gets away with it, can be linked to her substantial wealth, her Ivy League schooling, her full immersion into the culture of “cool girls” and personality quizzes and, perhaps most of all, her sense of entitlement, revealed particularly in the way she expects to be treated, especially by Nick. In a key passage from the novel (also used in the film), Amy embodies the faux-feminism that defines her character, condemning constricting expectations of femininity on the one hand, but, on the other, hinting at  the narcissistic darkside of her anger:

“I hated Nick for being surprised when I became me. I hated him for not knowing it had to end, for truly believing he had married this creature, this figment of the imagination of a million masturbatory men, semen-fingered and self-satisfied. He truly seemed astonished when I asked him to listen to me. He couldn’t believe I didn’t love wax-stripping my pussy raw and blowing him on request. That I did mind when he didn’t show up for drinks with my friends… Can you imagine, finally showing your true self to your spouse, your soul mate, and having him not like you?

In ways, we want to applaud Amy for condemning the “cool girl” and demanding females deserve to be listened to – as this seems a feminist message. But, ultimately, Amy is far more like Ann Coulter than Amy Poehler.

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Though some might argue Amy is fully aware of and even using her privilege, I disagree. She is aware of being attractive, wealthy, and powerful, yes, but not any feminist way that questions or denounces or even deliberately deploys her privilege. One of the most telling parts of the narrative to display this is in her interactions with Greta, a working class character Amy assumes to be stupid and inept. Greta sees through Amy’s disguises though, and craftily separates her from her wad of cash (which is when Amy is forced to call on Desi to rescue her). The stark difference in the scope of their crimes can be linked to privilege – Amy’s excess verses Greta’s lack. Their experiences and attitudes toward violence are also telling, Greta is familiar with how common male violence against women is, where Amy is not – the violence she accuses men of is actually violence her privilege has protected her from. This is not to say priviledged women never experience violence – but Amy does not, at least not physical violence. Though this strand of the narrative has much feminist potential, the narrative overall does not offer a feminist critique of privilege, let alone violence.

Further, as argued in a post at Interrogating Media, there is a discernible backhanded attitude towards feminism littered throughout the novel. Amy condemns post-feminist men afraid of sexual roughness, for example. But, more than actual comments from Amy, there is a sort of post-feminist cheerleading in the narrative, one that is in keeping with Flynn’s discussion of why she is drawn to writing about the violence of women::

“Isn’t it time to acknowledge the ugly side? I’ve grown quite weary of the spunky heroines, brave rape victims, soul-searching fashionistas that stock so many books. I particularly mourn the lack of female villains — good, potent female villains. Not ill-tempered women who scheme about landing good men and better shoes (as if we had nothing more interesting to war over), not chilly WASP mothers (emotionally distant isn’t necessarily evil), not soapy vixens (merely bitchy doesn’t qualify either). I’m talking violent, wicked women. Scary women. Don’t tell me you don’t know some. The point is, women have spent so many years girl-powering ourselves — to the point of almost parodic encouragement — we’ve left no room to acknowledge our dark side.”

This passage seems to come from within a privilege bubble – one that allows the author to suggest that “fashionistas” or “WASP mothers” or “soapy vixens” – and of course “brave rape victims” – are rather dreary and boring, and that what is needed is to do away with this annoying “girl powering” so we can fill libraries with stories of generations of brutal women (something Flynn seems to envy about male stories). And, don’t get me wrong, like Flynn, I agree we need wicked queens and evil stepmothers and villainous women.  It is her reasoning I don’t agree with, that “women like to read about murderous mothers and lost little girls because it’s our only mainstream outlet to even begin discussing violence on a personal level.” Hello? Gillian? Have you heard of this little thing called feminism? Perhaps the phrase “the personal is political” rings a bell?

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You see, Flynn’s version of “girl-powering” feminism leaves out actual feminism. Like the stuff of an Ann Coulter dream, it points a finger at Amy, a “girl who has it all” and says, “look at what that women’s lib stuff has wrought!” What it does not point a finger at, not even give a quick passing glance, is those working in sweat shops to make the shoes the “fashionista” covets, the thousands of rapes that go unreported, not due to lack of bravery, but to do the complicated realities of living in a rape culture, the girls who don’t have access to the “parodic encouragement” of any sort of girl-power because they are poor, they are undocumented, or, to use Flynn’s fictive idea, they are nothing like the “Amazing Amys” of the world.

To be clear, I am not suggesting that all narratives need to pack a social justice punch. However, given that Flynn’s novel explores an extremely hot button issue, and created quite the intense feminist debate, it seems odd Flynn never directly addresses the key critique lobbied at Gone Girl, but instead made widely publicized claims the ending of Gone Girl would be changed in the film adaptation–suggesting the changes to the narrative would reframe the very things that angered readers. Though the screenplay is altered from the book, the ending remains the same overall – Amy is not arrested or even blamed – instead, she has manipulated Nick into staying with her and keeping mum about her guilt by impregnating herself with some of his semen she handily stored away. Ah, the privilege of access to sperm banks!

Such tales are not by any means unique in Hollywood – nor are they bad per se. Rather, Flynn’s keenness to defend her work while naming herself a feminist seems off somehow – at least – what seems missing – is a recognition of her own partial, and very privileged, viewpoint. Some women do in fact have  to discuss and think about violence all the time in order to survive, not to write bestselling novels. And I want her to keep writing – she is a great writer – but it would be wonderful if at some point she could address – specifically – some of the realities of the rape culture of our society in an interview or public appearance. Not addressing feminism is fine, but to do so in the vein of being so burnt out on “spunky heroines” and “brave rape victims”? Well, that doesn’t sit so well with this feminist.

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Perhaps the “parodic encouragement” Flynn refers to as defining feminism is her experience of feminism. Maybe this is partly what fueled the plot point in Gone Girl wherein Amy’s parents made their fortune via “Amazing Amy” books – a series whose main character is much like the real Amy, but better. In a sense, these books are parodying Amy’s life and encouraging her to be more amazing. A woman who has and does it all. A real go getter. This fact serves as an explanation as to why Amy “has never really felt like a person, but a product” (Gone Girl).

But, again, the story falls short of condemning this type of “you go girl” faux-feminism or the notion women can (and should) have it all. It also is not critical of celebrity, fame, and fortune – even though the fortune of Amy’s family comes at the expense of her happiness and sanity. Yes, at one point Amy notes that her parents exploited her childhood and she does seem bitter about this. But this exploitation, from parents she interestingly defines as feminist, is partly what leads to her ability to constantly be playing at being Amy – to live the role of cool girl, good wife, battered wife, and so on. We are not instructed to condemn Amy’s parents exploitation of her – instead we are encouraged to be angry at her parents for mismanaging their money and having to borrow from her trust fund – leaving poor Amy to survive in a Missouri mansion rather than a Manhatten brownstone.

Though much has been written about Flynn’s comments about feminism, her portrayal of women, and her writing, I have not come across her ever mentioning privilege being something she was interested in exploring, even though her characters and  her own discussions of why she chooses the focus matter she does drip with privilege.  Flynn comes from a privileged background herself, and perhaps this partly explains Gone Girl’s failure to own up to the role Amy’s privilege plays in her “success” in any overt way. Who knows. What I do know is this: not addressing Amy’s privilege directly – and Nick’s, and Dezi’s and Margot’s –  has the effect of making the novel seem to be – as argued in the “Gone Girl and the Specter of Feminism,” a piece that serves as a “crystallization of a thousand misogynist myths and fears about female behavior” as if we had “strapped a bunch of Men’s Rights Advocates to beds and downloaded their nightmares.”

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In The Guardian piece, “Gillian Flynn on her bestseller Gone Girl and accusations of misogyny”, Oliver Burkeman writes “This is a recurring theme in Flynn’s life: the psychological bungee-jump that permits an author to plunge into barbarity precisely because she’s securely moored in its opposite.” Detailing how Flynn locks herself away in her writing basement for hours, Burkeman notes that “In the early afternoons, she surfaces from the gloom into daylight, to play with her son for an hour or two.” Then, in Flynn’s own words, “It’s back down through the basement again, to write about murder.” Ah, the joys of a post-feminist life!

So, to wrap up this privileged take on Gone Girl: is it a good film? Yes and no. Fincher is great director and Flynn is a great writer – they both tell dark stories well. The movie is compelling and Pike is great as Amy, as is Kim Dickens as Detective Boney, the most feminist character of the film and the one I would most like to see a spinoff series about!

It is good as a film, but it is not a feminist film.

As Esther Bergdahl asks rhetorically in her post, “Is a film feminist if a female character vindicates every men’s rights activist on Reddit?” Of course not. But, just as obviously, this doesn’t mean feminists shouldn’t see it – and discuss it – in fact, just the opposite.

 


Natalie Wilson, PhD is a literature and women’s studies scholar, blogger, and author. She teaches at Cal State San Marcos and specializes in areas of gender studies, feminism, feminist theory, girl studies, militarism, body studies, boy culture and masculinity, contemporary literature, and popular culture. She is author of the blogs Professor, what if …? and Seduced by Twilight. She is a proud feminist mom of two feminist kids (one daughter, one son) and is an admitted pop-culture junkie. Her favorite food is chocolate.

 

Remake A Better, Bi-er ‘Chasing Amy’

‘Chasing Amy’ is a complicated movie for a feminist fan. There’s the initial terror that it’s an “air-quotes ‘lesbian’ just needed to find the right guy” romcom. This fear is dissuades despite the film’s obtuse refusal to use the word “bisexual,” as we get to know more about would-be erstwhile lesbian Alyssa (Joey Lauren Adams). And there’s some really poignant criticism of straight men’s fear of and failure to understand women’s sexuality, as we see that Ben Affleck’s Holden prizes Alyssa’s lesbianism because he conflates it with sexual purity. And while this is a fascinating, under-explored facet of sexual politics, it does mean the movie ends up being about Holden’s hurt fee fees more than Alyssa’s actual sexual identity and choices.

When a movie has so much promise but such big problems, especially a movie so dated by the ebbing flannel tide of the late 1990s, there’s only one reasonable option: A REMAKE.

Ben Affleck as Holden and Joey Lauren Adams as Alyssa in 'Chasing Amy'
Ben Affleck as Holden and Joey Lauren Adams as Alyssa in Chasing Amy

Chasing Amy is a complicated movie for a feminist fan. There’s the initial terror that it’s an “air-quotes ‘lesbian’ just needed to find the right guy” rom com (see Katherine Murray’s piece for BF: “When It Seems Like the Movie You Are Watching Might Hate You”). This fear is dissuades despite the film’s obtuse refusal to use the word “bisexual,” as we get to know more about would-be erstwhile lesbian Alyssa (Joey Lauren Adams), and see that even though no one ever uses the word in the film, she is bisexual. And Chasing Amy levels some really poignant criticism of straight men’s fear of and failure to understand women’s sexuality, as we see that Ben Affleck’s Holden prizes Alyssa’s lesbianism not because of a fetish or the pride of a challenge, but because he conflates it with sexual purity. And while this is a fascinating, under-explored facet of sexual politics, the movie ends up seeming to be more about Holden’s hurt fee fees more than Alyssa’s actual sexual identity and choices.

When a movie has so much promise but such big problems, especially a movie so dated by the ebbing flannel tide of the late 1990s, there’s only one reasonable option: A REMAKE.

And in this remake, I humbly submit the following suggested improvements upon the original:

1. Make Holden less (or more) horrible (preferably less)

Holden McNeil: The Worst
Holden McNeil: The Worst

Holden is one of those movie protagonists who is so abjectly hate-able I really doubt you’re supposed to like him. I mean, his name is Holden. He’s played by Ben Affleck at the height of his smug uselessness. He’s too cool for his own improbable success as a comic book writer and artist, refusing to sell out to producers who want to adapt his title into an animated series. He rolls his eyes at his friends more than he listens to them. He assumes Alyssa wants his D because she talks to him. He wears oversized cardigans over ratty white undershirts in public. (Plead 90s all you want, ‘Fleck. I won’t hear that defense in my court.)  And he breaks up with his girlfriend because she’s encountered other penises before his, and absurdly insists the only way for her to make this up to him is to have a threesome with him and his best friend (more on that later).

Holden’s awfulness makes it harder to feel sorry for him when his total failures as a human being bite him in the ass, which takes up a lot of the third act. The remake could get around this problem by owning Holden’s The Worstness and framing the outcome as just deserts. But Holden’s awfulness also calls into question Alyssa’s character judgment. When she says she didn’t want her gender preference to stop her from being with someone who “complements [her] so completely”, you have to wonder what kind of person would feel that way about this knob. So if Holden is more likeable, so will be Alyssa, and the entire movie.

I would start by giving him a name other than Holden.

2. Explicitly address bisexuality.

Gif of Alyssa by Film Fatale
Gif of Alyssa by Film Fatale

Alyssa is certainly within her rights to identify as lesbian despite having had sex with men and dating a man. But the total absence of the word “bisexual” makes the viewer worry that the concept isn’t in the filmmaker’s worldview. And given media’s track record with bi-erasure, that’s very troubling. Chasing Amy actually has interesting things to say about biphobia, shown in both the hetero- and homosexual sides of Alyssa’s social circles. But it is impossible to really appreciate them in a movie that may itself be so biphobic as to deny its central bisexual character that label.

Especially because Alyssa is probably not the only bisexual character in the film! Which leads me to…

3. Deal with male sexuality beyond male ignorance of female sexuality.

Holden and Banky (Jason Lee)
Holden and Banky (Jason Lee)

The weakest part of Chasing Amy is the subplot about Banky’s alleged repressed attraction to Holden, mostly because the actors are so uncomfortable with it there might as well be a flashing “no homo” chyron. That palpable discomfort really muddles what the film was trying to say about the potential for homoerotic tension in close male friendships. I honestly don’t know if we’re supposed to think Banky is really gay or bi or just in love with Holden, and to what extent Holden returns those feelings (for what it’s worth, he’s the one who kisses Banky and proposes they have group sex with Alyssa).

So the remake has got to clear all this up, and cast some actors who can handle the material.

And because our culture is currently obsessed with “bromances,” this kind of deconstruction will be all the more topical.

And speaking of topical, it’s 2014. The fluidity of female sexuality is not particularly fresh subject matter, and male sexuality is rarely depicted as anything less than concrete. Digging deeper into Holden and Banky’s relationship has a lot of potential. It would be even better to see trans and/or nonbinary characters in this mix so it’s not a lot of “men are from monosexual Mars women are from bisexual Venus” hooey.

4. Centralize Alyssa

Joey Lauren Adams as Alyssa
Joey Lauren Adams as Alyssa

Even if the male characters are made more likable and interested as outlined above, Chasing Amy would still have the problem of making Alyssa the object and not the subject of the story. Why does Alyssa obscure her history with men to Holden? How does Alyssa feel about her gay friends feeling betrayed when she dates a man? What does Alyssa think about the potential sexual layer of Banky and Holden’s relationship? Chasing Amy hardly deals with any of this because it is really only about Holden’s wants, needs, and feelings. Which is silly, because who’s having the more interesting story here: “I thought I was a lesbian but I fell in love with a guy?” or “I thought I was straight and I fell in love with a girl.”? Obviously those are gross over-simplifications of Alyssa and Holden’s arcs, and would hopefully be even moreso in this new-and-improved remake. But seriously, it seems pretty clear the only reason Holden is the main character here is that he’s the white dude.

You’re welcome, Hollywood. With these four easier-said-than-done steps you can remake a problematic minor classic into a perfectly awesome MEGA CLASSIC. Or at least another staple of queer media studies syllabi.

 


Robin Hitchcock is an American writer living in Cape Town.

‘Runner Runner’ Runs on Empty

In terms of plot and character, Runner Runner leaves a lot to be desired. Justin Timberlake plays Richie Furst (Rich First, come on), an online gambler who has to risk it all to earn enough tuition to complete his master’s degree at Princeton. After realizing the scam behind a suspicious loss, he finds himself sucked into the seedy poker underbelly of Costa Rica and under the thumb of his ruthless American boss, Ivan Block (Ben Affleck). They get territorial over shared one-dimensional love interest Rebecca (Gemma Arterton) to add some manliness. An FBI agent (Anthony Mackle) tries to blackmail Richie with exile in order to take out Block. Eighty percent of the movie is Justin Timberlake looking confused or angry while other people monologue at him. We are supposed to really care about whether or not Richie makes it out of there before the house of cards comes crashing down, despite the fact that he has little to no character depth. Block really likes alligators. Conclusion: Internet poker is even more of a snooze fest than I originally thought.

Runner Runner promotional poster.
Runner Runner promotional poster.

 

Written by Erin Tatum.

In terms of plot and character, Runner Runner leaves a lot to be desired. Justin Timberlake plays Richie Furst (Rich First, come on), an online gambler who has to risk it all to earn enough tuition to complete his master’s degree at Princeton. After realizing the scam behind a suspicious loss, he finds himself sucked into the seedy poker underbelly of Costa Rica and under the thumb of his ruthless American boss, Ivan Block (Ben Affleck). They get territorial over shared one-dimensional love interest Rebecca (Gemma Arterton) to add some manliness. An FBI agent (Anthony Mackle) tries to blackmail Richie with exile in order to take out Block. Eighty percent of the movie is Justin Timberlake looking confused or angry while other people monologue at him. We are supposed to really care about whether or not Richie makes it out of there before the house of cards comes crashing down, despite the fact that he has little to no character depth. Block really likes alligators. Conclusion: Internet poker is even more of a snooze-fest than I originally thought.

Richie tries to play it cool.
Richie tries to play it cool.

 

Given the recent media frenzy around the series finale of Breaking Bad, I started to really think about about America’s obsession with (white) white collar crime. It’s no secret that many of our movies and television shows revolve around white guys pulling off meticulous financial schemes or smoothly sauntering their way through government corruption and drug rings. Part of the intended fascination with Runner Runner is the idea that Richie would have to resort to such desperate measures even as a Princeton man. Audiences (particularly white middle-class audiences) are captivated by the idea that all the privilege and power of whiteness and white masculinity sometimes isn’t enough to give you everything you want out of life or, shockingly, control fate. “Turning to the dark side” definitely has a racialized element. Since crime is almost always explicitly coded as nonwhite, especially in media, writers will often go to great lengths to differentiate their protagonist from your run-of-the-mill criminal. As a result, white characters are usually only involved in crimes that are highly cerebral and require an incredible amount of power networking and/or a ridiculously esoteric skill set. Weirdly, Richie represents the epitome of this mindset in his lazy execution. Who needs solid plot or a relatable cast when you get to watch an upper-middle-class white boy throwing his money and future around? Instant scandal!

Block propositions Richie.
Block propositions Richie.

 

The film takes this philosophy and runs with it (har har) in almost laughably stereotypical ways. Upon discovering that he lost all his money in a fixed online poker game, Richie immediately drops everything and flies straight to Costa Rica to confront Block. Block easily seduces him into staying by offering him a hefty salary. If only it were literal seduction, this film would have been a little more interesting. Within three months, Richie is living a comfortable life as Block’s right-hand man. Never mind that he went there not speaking a word of the language and specifically to get the money to pay for his degree. I guess we’re just supposed to assume that his exams and diploma are frozen indefinitely until he decides to return to New Jersey. Welcome to white boy land, where reality can be shaped to cater to your every whim! People of color, both male and female, are used to personify Costa Rica as the nexus of sex and sin. Every other shot shows Richie navigating through substance fueled parties, conversing with greasy, potbellied honchos as they halfheartedly grope gaggles of prostitutes teetering around with champagne. Notably, Richie resists all offers of indulgence with the exception of Rebecca (conveniently a white upper-class woman), designating himself as “pure” and leaving everyone else to be consumed by their own vices. The hypocrisy inherent in such a sentiment is best exemplified when Richie’s father, a doomed gambling addict, nobly offers to sacrifice himself to the bookies so that Richie no longer has baggage preventing his escape. In contrast, the vast majority of people of color who have their lives ruined by similar schemes are portrayed as getting their just desserts.

Rebecca spends a lot of time looking glamorous and contemplative.
Rebecca spends a lot of time looking glamorous and contemplative.

 

Women are also given the short end of the stick, to the point where there is almost nothing to analyze to begin with. Rebecca is the most watered down high-stakes damsel in distress that I’ve seen in recent memory. She may as well be a figment of Richie’s imagination because she only seems to float in and out when he needs advice or encouragement. They have sex once after a flurry of coy banter and beyond that share a few private conversations about the impending implosion of the scam while looking seductive. There is no basis for any alleged emotional connection between them at all. We’re told that Rebecca can’t leave Block and we are meant to feel sympathetic towards her plight, but the narrative never bothers to give her any background, motive, or ambition. Her sole purpose is to reinforce the hero/villain dichotomy between Richie and Block by exaggerating feminine vulnerability. It makes it hard to cheer when Richie and Rebecca finally escape Block’s clutches and fly off on a private jet into the sunset. This couple is about as compelling as a pair of used napkins.

If the film had actually taken the time to examine the inner workings of online gambling, it may have been suspenseful or at the very least informative. Instead, we are forced to contend with lukewarm machismo and endless male posturing from start to finish. Director Brad Furman really should’ve known when to fold.

 

2013 Academy Awards Diversity Checklist

Written by Lady T

I want to talk a little about the Oscar nominees this year. (“But, Lady T, you talk too much about the Oscars.” “Oh yeah? Your MOM talks too much about the Oscars!”)

Seriously, she can’t shut up about him.

 
Mostly, I want to talk about the Oscars in terms of diversity. We all know that the Academy Awards are usually all about white dudes recognizing other white dudes (and women, in the acting categories). How did the Academy fare this year in terms of recognizing women in non-acting roles, and people of color in general? Let’s take a look.

Number of Men Nominated for Best Director: 5/5

Commentary: Kathryn Bigelow was infamously snubbed for a directing nomination for her work on Zero Dark Thirty. Was this a deliberate act of sexism on the part of the Academy? I would say yes, except for the fact that Ben Affleck was also overlooked for his work on Argo, and they were both considered frontrunners in this category. (Bigelow won almost all the precursor awards prior to the announcement of the Oscar nominations, and Affleck has won all the precursor awards after the announcement.) I think Bigelow and Affleck were overlooked simply because everyone underestimated the appeal of Amour and Beasts of the Southern Wild, the two little movies that could. The backlash against Bigelow in the press, however, certainly reeks of sexism.

Whatevs, she already has two.

Number of People of Color Nominated for Best Director: 1/5

Commentary: Ang Lee is nominated for his work on Life of Pi. This is good news, because Ang Lee is an excellent director and deserves every nomination that comes his way.

The “A” in “Ang” stands for “Awesome.”

Number of Best Picture-Nominated Films With a Person of Color as a Protagonist: 4/9

Number of Best Picture-Nominated Films With a Person of Color as a Protagonist, Played by a POC Actor: 3/9

Commentary: Beasts of the Southern Wild, Django Unchained, and Life of Pi have all been nominated for Best Picture, and their films all have POC actors/protagonists (Quvenzhane Wallis, Jamie Foxx, and Suraj Sharma, respectively). Argo technically has a POC protagonist, but the role played by a white actor (Ben Affleck). I don’t know whether Affleck cast himself out of vanity, an understandable desire to perform and direct at the same time, fear that the racist film industry wouldn’t stand behind and promote a film without a famous white actor in the lead role, or all of the above.  

Jamie Foxx as Django in my favorite movie of the year

Number of Best Picture Winners With a Person of Color as a Protagonist, Played By a POC Actor: 5.5/84

Commentary: In the history of the Academy Awards, 5.5 films with POC as protagonists have won the Best Picture award – In The Heat of the Night, Gandhi, Driving Miss Daisy, The Last Emperor, Slumdog Millionaire, and Crash. (I said 5.5 because Crash is an ensemble film without a clear protagonist, and also because it’s not well-written and barely counts a movie.) It’s also worth noting that two of those films – In the Heat of the Night and Driving Miss Daisy – have white co-protagonists who share an equal load with their POC co-leads.

So, this year’s crop of Best Picture nominees have almost as many POC leads as all Best Picture WINNERS in history. Does that make this year awesome or previous years really, really white? Make of that what you will.

The unbelievably cute kids in Slumdog Millionaire

  
Number of Best Actor Nominees From Best Picture Nominees: 3/5

Number of Best Actress Nominees From Best Picture Nominees: 4/5

Commentary: Last year, exactly one Best Picture nominee out of nine (The Help) had a female protagonist, and only one Best Actress nominee was from a Best Picture nominee. (Three of the Best Actor nominees were from Best Picture nominees.) This year, the number of Best Actress nominees from Best Picture nominees actually outnumber the number of Best Actor nominees from Best Picture nominees.

Now, it’s worth mentioning that two of these Best Actress nominees – Jennifer Lawrence in Silver Linings Playbook and Emmanuelle Riva in Amour – are co-protagonists to their male leads, played by Bradley Cooper and Jean-Louis Trintignant. But Quvenzhane Wallis in Beasts of the Southern Wild and Jessica Chastain in Zero Dark Thirty are unquestionably the leads in their films.

Quvenzhane Wallis in my other favorite movie of the year

Is the Academy finally starting to recognize that movies starring women, about women, are worthwhile films, films that tell universal stories about the human condition, films that are not just “women’s films?” Let’s hope so.

Did you notice anything about the diversity, and lack thereof, in the Academy Award nominations? Have at it at the comments!
  
Lady T is an aspiring writer and comedian with two novels, a play, and a collection of comedy sketches in progress. She hopes to one day be published and finish one of her projects (not in that order). You can find more of her writing at The Funny Feminist, where she picks apart entertainment and reviews movies she hasn’t seen.

2013 Academy Awards Diversity Checklist

Written by Lady T

I want to talk a little about the Oscar nominees this year. (“But, Lady T, you talk too much about the Oscars.” “Oh yeah? Your MOM talks too much about the Oscars!”)

Seriously, she can’t shut up about him.

 
Mostly, I want to talk about the Oscars in terms of diversity. We all know that the Academy Awards are usually all about white dudes recognizing other white dudes (and women, in the acting categories). How did the Academy fare this year in terms of recognizing women in non-acting roles, and people of color in general? Let’s take a look.

Number of Men Nominated for Best Director: 5/5

Commentary: Kathryn Bigelow was infamously snubbed for a directing nomination for her work on Zero Dark Thirty. Was this a deliberate act of sexism on the part of the Academy? I would say yes, except for the fact that Ben Affleck was also overlooked for his work on Argo, and they were both considered frontrunners in this category. (Bigelow won almost all the precursor awards prior to the announcement of the Oscar nominations, and Affleck has won all the precursor awards after the announcement.) I think Bigelow and Affleck were overlooked simply because everyone underestimated the appeal of Amour and Beasts of the Southern Wild, the two little movies that could. The backlash against Bigelow in the press, however, certainly reeks of sexism.

Whatevs, she already has two.

Number of People of Color Nominated for Best Director: 1/5

Commentary: Ang Lee is nominated for his work on Life of Pi. This is good news, because Ang Lee is an excellent director and deserves every nomination that comes his way.

The “A” in “Ang” stands for “Awesome.”

Number of Best Picture-Nominated Films With a Person of Color as a Protagonist: 4/9

Number of Best Picture-Nominated Films With a Person of Color as a Protagonist, Played by a POC Actor: 3/9

Commentary: Beasts of the Southern Wild, Django Unchained, and Life of Pi have all been nominated for Best Picture, and their films all have POC actors/protagonists (Quvenzhane Wallis, Jamie Foxx, and Suraj Sharma, respectively). Argo technically has a POC protagonist, but the role played by a white actor (Ben Affleck). I don’t know whether Affleck cast himself out of vanity, an understandable desire to perform and direct at the same time, fear that the racist film industry wouldn’t stand behind and promote a film without a famous white actor in the lead role, or all of the above.  

Jamie Foxx as Django in my favorite movie of the year

Number of Best Picture Winners With a Person of Color as a Protagonist, Played By a POC Actor: 5.5/84

Commentary: In the history of the Academy Awards, 5.5 films with POC as protagonists have won the Best Picture award – In The Heat of the Night, Gandhi, Driving Miss Daisy, The Last Emperor, Slumdog Millionaire, and Crash. (I said 5.5 because Crash is an ensemble film without a clear protagonist, and also because it’s not well-written and barely counts a movie.) It’s also worth noting that two of those films – In the Heat of the Night and Driving Miss Daisy – have white co-protagonists who share an equal load with their POC co-leads.

So, this year’s crop of Best Picture nominees have almost as many POC leads as all Best Picture WINNERS in history. Does that make this year awesome or previous years really, really white? Make of that what you will.

The unbelievably cute kids in Slumdog Millionaire

  
Number of Best Actor Nominees From Best Picture Nominees: 3/5

Number of Best Actress Nominees From Best Picture Nominees: 4/5

Commentary: Last year, exactly one Best Picture nominee out of nine (The Help) had a female protagonist, and only one Best Actress nominee was from a Best Picture nominee. (Three of the Best Actor nominees were from Best Picture nominees.) This year, the number of Best Actress nominees from Best Picture nominees actually outnumber the number of Best Actor nominees from Best Picture nominees.

Now, it’s worth mentioning that two of these Best Actress nominees – Jennifer Lawrence in Silver Linings Playbook and Emmanuelle Riva in Amour – are co-protagonists to their male leads, played by Bradley Cooper and Jean-Louis Trintignant. But Quvenzhane Wallis in Beasts of the Southern Wild and Jessica Chastain in Zero Dark Thirty are unquestionably the leads in their films.

Quvenzhane Wallis in my other favorite movie of the year

Is the Academy finally starting to recognize that movies starring women, about women, are worthwhile films, films that tell universal stories about the human condition, films that are not just “women’s films?” Let’s hope so.

Did you notice anything about the diversity, and lack thereof, in the Academy Award nominations? Have at it at the comments!
  
Lady T is a writer with two novels, a play, and a collection of comedy sketches in progress. She hopes to one day be published and finish one of her projects (not in that order). You can find more of her writing at www.theresabasile.com