Tag: Carrie Nelson

Indie Spirit Best First Feature Nominee: Martha Marcy May Marlene

Martha Marcy May Marlene is nominated for three Independent Spirit Awards: Best First Feature, Best Female Lead (Elizabeth Olson), and Best Supporting Male (John Hawkes). It has received numerous other nominations and awards.
This review, by Carrie Nelson, first appeared at Bitch Flicks on November 17, 2011.

Martha Marcy May Marlene (2011)
Martha Marcy May Marlene is a story told in fragments. Interspersed in the narrative are flashbacks, dreams and hallucinations, so it isn’t always clear what events are happening when, and which ones are actually happening at all. But that’s part of the power of the film – the fragments set an uneasy tone, allowing the viewer to easily slip into the mindset of the heroine as her sense of self and reality slowly unravel.
When we meet Martha (Elizabeth Olsen), she is escaping from a cult in the Catskills. Once she contacts and reunites with her sister Lucy (Sarah Paulson), we learn that she has been out of touch with her family (and ostensibly living with the cult) for two years. The film chronicles Martha’s adjustment to life in a wealthy Connecticut suburb with Lucy and her husband Ted (Hugh Dancy), all while Martha privately reflects on the traumatic experiences she’s left behind.
Through flashbacks, we learn that charismatic leader Patrick (John Hawkes) gave Martha the name Marcy May when she first visits his wilderness compound. At first, Patrick’s home seems like a harmless hippie commune, with rotating chore lists, sustainable gardening and guitar sing-alongs. Soon, though, the façade disappears, and Marcy May is stuck in an ongoing cycle of abuse. At the risk of giving too much away, I will say that one of the more disturbing elements of the film is watching Marcy May transform from the abused to the enabler of abuse. She buys into Patrick’s manipulations so easily that by the time she realizes what’s happened, too much damage has already been done.

Guest Writer Wednesday: Review – Pariah

Pariah (2011)

This is a guest post from Carrie Nelson.
I enjoyed many films in 2011. All of my favorite films of the year, however, were the ones that unnerved me with their honesty, sticking in my thoughts long after the end credits rolled. One of those films was Martha Marcy May Marlene, which I’ve already written about, and another was Pariah.
Pariah, in its simplest terms, is a lesbian coming-of-age story. Yet it is unlike any other lesbian coming-of-age story I have ever seen, largely because the film is not about a young woman’s initial discovery or self-acceptance of sexual identity. When we meet Alike (played masterfully by Adepero Oduye), she already is well aware of and comfortable with her sexual orientation. The film does not start from a place of Gay 101; there are no scenes where Alike expresses sexual confusion or the desire to be straight. It operates under the assumption that our heroine is out (at least to her friends and high school English teacher) and proud. 
Alike and Laura
Instead of a traditional coming out story, Alike’s journey is about finding her place within her community. At home, her mother (Kim Wayans) encourages her to dress femininely and act ladylike. (One of the most heartbreaking scenes in the film involves Alike’s discomfort wearing a pink blouse that her mother was so excited for her to try on.) Outside of home, her friend Laura (Pernell Walker) teaches her how to convincingly present as butch and suavely seduce femmes. Alike is able to navigate both worlds, but she does not feel fully comfortable in either of them. The film follows her as she shatters the assumptions others make about her and determines what she needs to do to be truly happy.
What impressed me the most about Pariah was its ability to depict the uncomfortable awkwardness of being a teenager. Though the film is very specific in its geographic and cultural location, Alike’s need to find her place in her social circle is universal. When she accompanies Laura to clubs, she is unable to comfortably flirt with other women. She tries hard to adopt a butch identity, but it never feels right. Early on in the film, Alike experiments with packing, but she quickly determines that a phallus is not what she needs. It is not until she meets Bina (Aasha Davis, who I’ve loved since she played Waverly on Friday Night Lights), the daughter of her mother’s friend, that Alike finds herself in a situation where she can present her sexuality and gender identity in the most authentic way, without pretense or expectation. And although Alike’s relationship with Bina turns in a surprising direction, the experience is necessary for her to begin to see the variety of ways in which she can be a queer woman.
I appreciated the diversity of queer women depicted in Pariah. From women who self-identify as lesbians to women who simply enjoy being intimate with other women, from women who have masculine or feminine gender presentations to women who cannot be so easily labeled, Pariah shows that there is no single way to be queer. Mainstream depictions of gay identity tend to reinforce stereotypes, but while Pariah does feature women in traditional butch-femme pairings, such relationships are not the only ones presented, nor are they shown to be the “right” way to be gay. All of the characters and relationships in Pariah have flaws, but all are also beautiful in their own ways. I was continually struck by the film’s honesty as I watched it, and the diversity of women and relationships presented is an excellent example of that honesty.
Audrey and Alike
Audrey, Alike’s mother, is one of the most fascinating characters in the film. Rather than a one-note antagonist, as parents of gay teens are often depicted on-screen, Audrey struck me as a woman who truly wants to connect with her daughter but does not understand how. She seems to know all along that Alike is gay, but she believes that if she buys her enough feminine clothing, dictates her friendships and talks to her about boys, Alike will be straight. This behavior only distances Alike from her mother, and understandably so – it is not the behavior of a tolerant or accepting parent. But there is never a doubt that Audrey truly loves her daughter and wants what is best for her, a fact that makes the climax of the film so difficult to watch. I only wish the film had been able to flesh Audrey out more and spend more time with her character. One of my favorite scenes is one of Audrey sitting in the break room at her office, mutually ignoring the rest of her colleagues who are eating together and chatting. Audrey only breaks out of her shell when a friend approaches her and asks her about the new clothing she bought for her daughters. The implication seems to be that Audrey is materialistic and a bit of a snob, but we do not find out more about that. I wish we had – it might have provided more insight into why she adopts such a conventional view of female gender identity and sexuality.
One cannot discuss Pariah without acknowledging the fact that it is a film about queer women of color made by a queer woman of color. It’s rare that women of color are given the opportunity to tell their own stories, and in a year during which The Help is receiving enormous critical praise and attention, it is disheartening that a film like Pariah is receiving so much less notice. Pariah is a vitally important film, and its story and performances are as strong as you will find in any other film from 2011. At the time of writing this review, Academy Award nominations have yet to be announced, and I am hoping that, when they are, Pariah and its creator, Dee Rees, will receive their well-deserved recognition. Whether or not they do, I encourage you to seek the film out in theatres. It may not be the flashiest or most technically elaborate film of the past year, but it is without question one of the most honest. 
Carrie Nelson has previously written about Martha Marcy May Marlene, Precious, Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire, The Social Network, Sleepaway Camp, and Mad Men for Bitch Flicks. She is a Founder and Editor of Gender Across Borders and works as a grant writer for an LGBT nonprofit organization in NYC.

Movie Review: ‘Martha Marcy May Marlene’

Martha Marcy May Marlene (2011)
This is a guest post from Carrie Nelson.
Martha Marcy May Marlene is a story told in fragments. Interspersed in the narrative are flashbacks, dreams and hallucinations, so it isn’t always clear what events are happening when, and which ones are actually happening at all. But that’s part of the power of the film – the fragments set an uneasy tone, allowing the viewer to easily slip into the mindset of the heroine as her sense of self and reality slowly unravel.
When we meet Martha (Elizabeth Olsen), she is escaping from a cult in the Catskills. Once she contacts and reunites with her sister Lucy (Sarah Paulson), we learn that she has been out of touch with her family (and ostensibly living with the cult) for two years. The film chronicles Martha’s adjustment to life in a wealthy Connecticut suburb with Lucy and her husband Ted (Hugh Dancy), all while Martha privately reflects on the traumatic experiences she’s left behind.
Through flashbacks, we learn that charismatic leader Patrick (John Hawkes) gave Martha the name Marcy May when she first visits his wilderness compound. At first, Patrick’s home seems like a harmless hippie commune, with rotating chore lists, sustainable gardening and guitar sing-alongs. Soon, though, the façade disappears, and Marcy May is stuck in an ongoing cycle of abuse. At the risk of giving too much away, I will say that one of the more disturbing elements of the film is watching Marcy May transform from the abused to the enabler of abuse. She buys into Patrick’s manipulations so easily that by the time she realizes what’s happened, too much damage has already been done.
We never learn much about Martha’s life before she became Marcy May, but the lack of information does not take away from the audience’s ability to connect to the character. Through her conversations with Lucy, we understand that Martha spent much of her adolescence without close family ties. Lucy was in college when Martha needed a support system, but the sisters never had a close bond. The viewer gets the sense that Martha did not have much of a plan after graduating from high school – not college, not job prospects, not reuniting with her sister. She was drifting, looking for a purpose, which is how she falls in with Patrick. She has nowhere else to go and no one else to turn to – why wouldn’t she connect with such a group? Though we don’t know the specifics of Martha’s history, she is developed strongly enough that her actions are plausible, believable and even disturbingly realistic.
One of the strengths of the film is the emphasis it places on female relationships. The core of the film is Martha’s relationship with Lucy at home and Marcy May’s relationship with Zoe (Louisa Krause), Sarah (Julia Garner) and Katie (Maria Dizzia) at Patrick’s. Much like Margaret Atwood’s brilliant dystopian novel The Handmaid’s Tale, these relationships take place within the confines of patriarchal communities. In Ted and Lucy’s marriage, Ted is the head of the household. He takes issue with Martha moving in with them, and his actions – and the stress he puts on both Lucy and Martha – strain the already tenuous relationship between the sisters. In the cult, the male members are overtly privileged over the female members. In the opening scene, we see that the women in Patrick’s house are not allowed to eat dinner until the men have finished. Chores appear to be segregated by gender, with the men chopping wood and the women sewing, cooking and childrearing. There’s also an incredibly creepy moment when we learn that the children born on the compound, all fathered by Patrick, are all male. The audience never learns what happens to the female babies, but the insinuation is horrifying.
And still, in both of these environments, bonds between women flourish. Martha and Lucy have their differences, but it is clear that they both want to have a relationship again, and they are determined to do whatever they can to make that possible, even while Ted makes Martha feel threatened and unwelcome. Meanwhile, Zoe takes Marcy May under her wing and eases her into the community; this relationship is mirrored later in the film, when Sarah joins the cult and Marcy May transitions from initiated to initiator. Despite the traumas witnessed and experienced by these women, their relationships stay strong. They share support, laughter and strength in the face of abuse, time and time again. Complex relationships between women aren’t commonplace in film these days, so Martha Marcy May Marlene is a refreshing change of pace in this regard.
I’ve heard Martha Marcy May Marlene repeatedly compared to last year’s Winter’s Bone; both films feature beautiful young blondes in breakout roles, playing tough, dynamic characters, opposite creepy performances by John Hawkes. I love both films, but Martha Marcy May Marlene is sticking with me in a way that Winter’s Bone has not. Though Winter’s Bone is a challenging and emotionally difficult film, its protagonist, Ree (Jennifer Lawrence), has closure at the end of her journey. The chilling, ambiguous ending of Martha Marcy May Marlene, however, does not give Martha any sense of closure. No matter how one interprets the ending, it’s clear that it represents the beginning of her horror, rather than her escape from it. The ending of Martha Marcy May Marlene offers no comfort, and its power is still felt long after the credits roll.
I don’t know if Martha Marcy May Marlene can be called a feminist film, per se. None of the underlying messages are inherently feminist or socially progressive; the politics aren’t what make this film interesting. But I do know that this film contains more strong, developed female characters than one typically sees in films today, and the relationships between those women are the backbone of the movie. In particular, Olsen’s performance as Martha/Marcy May is stands out as one of the best I’ve seen this year. Martha Marcy May Marlene is one of the best films you will see this year, featuring some of the most dynamic female characters to appear on-screen this year. Check it out.
Carrie Nelson has previously written aboutPrecious, Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire, The Social Network, Sleepaway Camp, and Mad Men for Bitch Flicks. She is a Founder and Editor ofGender Across Bordersand works as a grant writer for an LGBT nonprofit organization in NYC. 

Horror Week 2011: Sleepaway Camp

Sleepaway Camp (1983)
On the surface, Sleepaway Camp isn’t much different than your average 1980s slasher movie. The comparisons to Friday the 13th can’t be ignored – Sleepaway’s Camp Arawak, much like Friday’s Camp Crystal Lake, is populated by horny teens looking for some summer lovin’, and is the site of a series of gruesome and mysterious murders that threaten to shut down the camp for the whole summer. But unlike Friday the 13th and other slasher films, the twist in Sleepaway Camp isn’t the identity of the murderer, and the final girl isn’t exactly who you’d expect.
(Everything that follows contains significant spoilers. Read at your discretion.)
The protagonist of Sleepaway Camp is Angela, the lone survivor of a boating accident that killed her father and her brother, Peter. Years after the accident, her aunt Martha, with whom she now lives, sends her to Camp Arawak with her cousin Ricky. Angela is painfully shy and refuses to go near the water, which leads to the other campers tormenting her incessantly. Ricky’s quick to defend her, but the bullying is relentless. One by one, Angela’s tormenters are murdered in increasingly grotesque ways (the most disturbing involves a curling iron brutally entering a woman’s vagina).
So come the end of the film, when it’s revealed that Angela is the murderer, there’s no particular shock – after all, why wouldn’t she want to seek revenge on her tormentors? But the fact that Angela is the murderer isn’t the point, because when we find out she’s the murderer we see her naked, and it is revealed that she has a penis. We quickly learn through flashbacks that it was, in fact, Peter who survived the boat accident, and Aunt Martha decided to raise him as a girl. The ending is profoundly disturbing, not because Peter is a murderer or because he is a cross-dresser (because his female presentation is against his will, it isn’t accurate to call him transgender), but because he has been abused so deeply by his aunt and his peers that he can’t find a way to cope.
Unlike most slasher movies I’ve seen, I wasn’t horrified by Sleepaway Camp’s body count. Rather, I was horrified by the abuses that catalyze the murders. Peter survived the trauma of watching his father and sister die, only to be emotionally and physically abused by his aunt and forced to live as a woman. At camp, he’s terrified of the water, as it reminds him of the tragic loss of his family, and he’s unable to shower or change his clothes around his female bunkmates, as they might learn his secret. But rather than being understanding and supportive, the other campers harass Peter by forcibly throwing him into the water, verbally taunting him and ruining his chance to be romantically involved with someone who might truly care for him. Not to mention, at the start of camp, he is nearly molested by the lecherous head cook. Peter may be a murderer, but he is hardly villainous – the rest of the characters are the real villains, for allowing the bullying to transpire. 
The problem, of course, is that the abuse of Peter isn’t the part that’s supposed to horrify us. The twist ending is set up to shock and disgust the audience, which is deeply transphobic. Tera at Sweet Perdition describes the problem with ending as follows:

But Angela’s not deceiving everybody because she’s a trans* person. She’s deceiving everybody because she’s a (fictional) trans* person created by cissexual filmmakers. As Drakyn points out, the trans* person who’s “fooling” us on purpose is a myth we cissexuals invented. Why? Because we are so focused on our own narrow experience of gender that we can’t imagine anything outside it. We take it for granted that everyone’s gender matches the sex they were born with. With this assumption in place, the only logical reason to change one’s gender is to lie to somebody.

The shock of Sleepaway Camp’s ending relies on the cissexist assumption that one’s biological sex and gender presentation must always match. A person with a mismatched sex and gender presentation is someone to be distrusted and feared. Though the audience has identified with Peter throughout the movie, we are meant to turn on him and fear him at the end, as he’s not only a murderer – he’s a deceiver as well. But, as Tera points out, the only deception is the one in the minds of cisgender viewers who assume that Peter’s sex and gender must align in a specific, proper way. Were this not the point that the filmmakers wanted to make, they would have revealed the twist slightly earlier in the film, allowing time for the viewer to digest the information and realize that Peter is still a human being. (This kind of twist is done effectively in The Crying Game, specifically because the twist is revealed midway through the film, and the audience watches characters cope and come to terms with the reveal in an honest, sensitive way. Such sensitivity is not displayed in Sleepaway Camp.)
And yet, despite its cissexism, Sleepaway Camp has some progressive moments. Most notably, the depiction of Angela and Peter’s parents, a gay male couple, is positive. In the opening scene, the parents appear loving and committed, and there’s even a flashback scene depicting the men engaging in romantic sexual relations. Considering how divisive gay parenting is in the 21st century, the fact that a mainstream film made nearly thirty years ago portrays gay parenting positively (if briefly) is certainly worthy of praise. 
Sleepaway Camp is incredibly problematic, but beyond the surface-layer clichés and the shock value of the ending, it’s a fascinating and truly horrifying film. Particularly watching the film today, in an era where bullying is forcing young people to make terrifyingly destructive decisions, the abuses against Peter ring uncomfortably true. Peter encounters cruelty at every turn, emotionally scarring him until he can think of no other way to cope besides murder. Unlike horror movies in which teenagers are murdered as punishment for sexual activity, Sleepaway Camp murders teenagers for the torment they inflict on others. There’s a certain sweet justice in that sort of conclusion, but at the same time, it makes you wish the situations that bring on the murders hadn’t needed to happen at all.
Carrie Nelson has previously written about Precious, Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire, The Social Network and Mad Men for Bitch Flicks. She is a Founder and Editor of Gender Across Borders and works as a grant writer for an LGBT nonprofit organization in NYC. She thanks her husband, a horror aficionado, for teaching her that not all horror movies are regressive in their gender politics (even if Sleepaway Camp happens to be).

"Limit Your Exposure": Homosexuality in the Mad Men Universe



This post contains spoilers about the first four seasons of Mad Men.

1960s America saw its share of emerging social and political movements—the civil rights movement, second wave feminism and anti-Vietnam activism, just to name a few. And in June 1969, the modern gay liberation movement was born. The Stonewall riots resulted in gay people rushing out of the closets and into the streets in the hopes of gaining equal rights. For the first time, gay men and lesbians were able to express their attractions openly, build communities and mobilize activist efforts. None of the recent advances in LGBT equality would have happened over the last four decades were it not for the bravery and chutzpah of the Stonewall Inn’s patrons on that fateful summer evening in 1969.

Unfortunately, in the world of AMC’s Mad Men, it is still the first half of the decade. There was no gay liberation movement between 1960 and 1965, the years during which the first four seasons of the series take place. On the contrary, homosexuality was still considered a deviance by mainstream society and an illness by the medical community. There was certainly no such thing as gay pride—the great majority of closet doors were locked tightly. This makes it harder for Mad Men to address the experiences of gay people than to address those of women and people of color, as it’s a challenge for such a dialogue-driven character drama to address a topic that was rarely discussed openly. But that doesn’t mean that the effort isn’t made.

Despite the complete lack of visibility of gay people in the early 1960s, there is a surprisingly high amount of explicitly queer characters on Mad Men. Only one—Salvatore Romano, Sterling Cooper’s Art Director—is substantially developed, but a half dozen gay characters have passed through the Mad Men universe over the course of four seasons. All of the characters are unique, with distinct personalities and significantly different approaches to navigating same-sex desire in a hostile climate. And while Mad Men steers clear of making profound statements about the nature of gay identity in the 1960s, the characterizations it does present do have a few interesting things to say about gender identity and the ability to out oneself.

To discuss the depiction of homosexuality on Mad Men, one first needs to look at Salvatore. To the 21st century viewer, Sal reads undeniably as gay, yet no one at Sterling Cooper seems to notice this. Certainly, he isn’t out, nor does he intend to be. In season 1, he is a bachelor; in seasons 2 and 3, he is married to Kitty, a sweet and completely naïve woman who is either unaware or in denial of her husband’s internal struggles. Though Sal is an outwardly confident, charismatic and good-looking man, one who attracts the attention of men and women alike, he constantly lives in fear of his identity and the possibility that someone might discover it.

Salvatore and the bellboy

For the most part, the only people who catch on to Sal’s secret are other gay men. He is sexually propositioned by men on three separate occasions: by Elliott, a representative from Sterling Cooper client Belle Jolie Cosmetics; by an unnamed hotel bellboy in Baltimore; and by Lee Garner Jr., the owner of Lucky Strike, Sterling Cooper’s most lucrative account. Only in the case of the unnamed bellboy does Sal decide to give in to his desires. In that instance, he is with a man who he doesn’t know in a professional context, in a city he is only visiting for one night. The stakes are minimal, and his arousal is palpable, so when the bellboy leans in for a kiss in the privacy of Sal’s hotel room, he gives in. The scene is short—Sal is only granted a steamy make-out session and a crotch grab before the hotel fire alarm goes off— but it serves an important purpose. It is the only moment in the series when the audience is able to see Sal authentically satisfied. As the bellboy removes Sal’s clothing, a leak from an exploded pen is visible on Sal’s shirt—as blatant a symbol of unabashed excitement and premature ejaculation as one is likely to get past network censors. As the bellboy kisses and caresses his body, Sal emits heavy, hiccuped breaths and repeated moans of “Oh, God” and “Oh, Jesus.” The intense degree of passion he exhibits makes it clear to the viewer that this is his first sexual experience with a man. Though we never see Sal in an intimate situation with a man again, this scene represents a clear turning point in Sal’s comfort with his own identity.

A layer of complexity is added to Sal’s tryst when Don Draper, evacuating the hotel after the alarm blasts, runs down the fire escape, makes eye contact with Sal and notices the bellboy putting his clothes back on. Sal quickly looks away, ashamed and perhaps even scared of losing his job. Don doesn’t fire Sal on the spot, nor does he even directly broach the topic with him. Instead, he proposes a new campaign for London Fog raincoats that uses the slogan, “Limit Your Exposure.” When Don says this to Sal, his message is clear. And, ultimately, it becomes his undoing.

Lee Garner, Jr. propositions Sal

Sal’s interactions with Elliott and Lee are less fruitful than his night in Baltimore. In both instances, as soon as Sal realizes that he is being propositioned, his body tenses, a look of terror and sadness crosses his face and he declines the gesture. With Elliott, there are no consequences—Sal merely excuses himself from the bar where they had been sitting together. With Lee, though, the rejection costs Sal his job at Sterling Cooper. Lee’s proposition to Sal is abrupt, almost threatening; when Sal bristles at being grabbed around his chest, Lee just smiles and says, “I know what I know.” Still, Sal rejects the overture; embarrassed by the rejection, Lee sees to it that Sal is fired. He meets with Don to try to win back his job, appealing to the fact that Don knows his secret. But it doesn’t work because, in Don’s mind, Sal has violated the only piece of wisdom he was able to give him.

After Don fires Sal, we see him talking to Kitty from a phone booth, telling her not to wait up for him. We are to infer that Sal is going to go off on a night of cruising in the park, and this ultimately reads as more troubling than liberating. We know Sal has only had one sexual experience with a man before, and he certainly doesn’t have the language for discussing his sexual desires, let alone his identity. He is taking Don’s advice to limit his exposure, but at what cost? This is the last time we see Salvatore, and it’s an unsatisfying ending for such a beloved, complex character.

Joan and Carol

Though Sal is the gay character with which the audience spends the most time, the two (briefly appearing) lesbian characters are just as nuanced as he. Those characters are Carol, Joan Holloway’s roommate in season 1, and Joyce, Peggy Olsen’s friend at Life Magazine in season 4. Unlike the gay male characters, who, with one exception [i], only voluntarily come out to other gay men, Carol and Joyce both come out to straight women. Carol confesses her love for Joan in a beautiful monologue before they go out on the town for a night to meet men. As they dress and put on jewelry and make up, Carol confides in Joan, “I did everything I could to be near you, all with the hope that one day you’d notice me…Just think of me as a boy.” Joan pretends not to understand what Carol is talking about, and she gently brushes her words off. As hurtful as that may be for Carol, it’s certainly not as negative a response as it could have been, given the era. And it’s clear by Joan’s soft, attentive facial expressions and the look of compassion in her eyes that, even if she doesn’t acknowledge it, she appreciates what Carol is telling her. It may confuse her, but it doesn’t scare her, and she won’t let it change her relationship with Carol, someone who has been her friend for years. Though sad, there is a bit of sweetness in Joan’s rejection of Carol.

Joyce and Peggy

Joyce and Peggy have a similar, if far less dramatic, exchange. After meeting in the elevator of the building where they work (Joyce works for Life Magazine), Joyce visits Peggy at Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce and invites her out to a party. At the party, Joyce kisses Peggy on the side of her face. Peggy giggles and backs away, leading her to tell Joyce that she has a boyfriend. Joyce responds, “He doesn’t own your vagina,” but Peggy counters, “No, but he’s renting it.” Joyce laughs—she takes this as a perfectly reasonable response, even if she did have designs on Peggy. Although Peggy rejects Joyce, it is not (or, at least, not directly) because she’s a woman. Peggy might very well be willing to reciprocate Joyce’s interest, but not while she’s in a relationship.

Both Carol and Joyce are able to say things to their straight love interests that Salvatore can’t say to his. In season 2, Sal develops a crush on Ken Cosgrove, going so far as to invite him for dinner in his home. Though he spends dinner hanging on to Ken’s every word and completely ignoring Kitty, Sal never dreams of explicitly coming out to Ken (or coming on to him). By contrast, Joyce is a blatant flirt. In addition to crushing on Peggy, she loiters by secretary Megan’s desk, chatting her up just like any of the men in the office would do. And during the season 4 finale, she visits Peggy’s office with another friend—a beautiful model named Carolyn. Though they aren’t a couple, Joyce and Carolyn have a definite butch/femme dynamic, as evidenced by the way they sit together and the way Joyce chivalrously puts her arm around her. It doesn’t matter to Joyce if it’s obvious what she’s doing— she is self-confident enough to own her sexuality, even if it isn’t socially acceptable for her to do so. Joyce hasn’t been a part of Mad Men for very long, and I certainly hope she’s back in season 5, continuing to make straight women blush wherever she goes.

It remains to be seen how far into the 1960s Mad Men will travel. Perhaps it will go all the way through 1969. Perhaps we will see a Stonewall episode, in which Peggy and Joyce are caught up in the riots, and Peggy sees Sal with another man somewhere in the crowd. Perhaps we’ll see less gay content, and homosexuality will take a backseat to other social issues, particularly as the Vietnam War heats up. But if the first four seasons are any indication, we’ll continue to see gay characters pop up every now and again, and while their full political and social histories may not be documented, we will continue to see the ways in which they limit—or, in some cases, enhance—their exposure.

[i] That character is Kurt, a member of Sterling Cooper’s art department during season 2. The scene in which he comes out in front of the likes of Ken Cosgrove and Harry Crane is rather funny, but due to space constraints I won’t get into it here.

Carrie Nelson has previously written about Precious, Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire and The Social Network for Bitch Flicks. She is a Founder and Editor of Gender Across Borders and works as a grant writer for an LGBT nonprofit organization in NYC. Her favorite Mad Men character is Sally Draper.

Best Picture Nominee Review Series: The Social Network

The Social Network (2010)
This is a guest review from Carrie Polansky.

There are two ways to read women in the universe of The Social Network:

1.    As unnecessary set dressing, existing solely for the aesthetic and sexual pleasure of men; or
2.    As vital to the invention of social networking and, by extension, to the progression of the film’s plot.

The first reading is actually the one I prefer. The truth is, the female characters in The Social Network are so poorly written that it is easy to ignore them entirely. They are relegated to the roles of girlfriends, ex-girlfriends, one-night stands, groupies and lawyers out to destroy Mark Zuckerberg’s empire. None of them are directly involved in the creation of Facebook or any other social networking site – they are the scenery that accompanies the male protagonists (and antagonists) as they go about reinventing human communication. In fact, if you removed the women from the story entirely, nothing would really change.

My fiancé, who also writes movie reviews, likes to refer to this as “superfluous woman syndrome.” He points out the fact that such treatment of women has become a standard film cliché, and I tend to agree. I think that’s why it didn’t take away from my enjoyment of The Social Network. Yes, it’s maddening that so many films lack positive, three-dimensional roles for women, but perhaps there just wasn’t room for women in The Social Network. It’s based on a true story, after all – could it just be that no women played important roles in the real-life creation of Facebook? If that is indeed the case, I can’t fault Aaron Sorkin or David Fincher for leaving three-dimensional women out of the film.

And this brings us to the second potential reading of women in The Social Network. I typically hope that women fill vital roles in movies, but in the case of The Social Network, that reading is incredibly troubling. The film is bookended by Mark Zuckerberg’s relationship with his girlfriend, Erica. The first scene depicts Mark and Erica on a date, during which Mark is particularly rude and dismissive to Erica, and she, deciding she’s had enough of this treatment, dumps him. This leads Mark to write a highly inappropriate blog post about his ex-girlfriend, which leads him to create a website comparing the attractiveness of Harvard co-eds…which ultimately leads him to create Facebook. Which, by extension, means that Mark Zuckerberg created Facebook because his girlfriend broke his heart.

Again, this would be fine, if it was really how Facebook came into being. Except it wasn’t. Mark Zuckerberg has had the same girlfriend since 2003. And this brings us back to the first reading of The Social Network. The fact that no women do anything significant aside from giving Mark Zuckerberg motivational angst doesn’t mean that no women played significant roles in the creation of Facebook, because we already know that the truth has been altered in the transition to celluloid. All it means is that the filmmakers could not think of anything interesting for any woman to do, other than provide the male leads with enough angst to fuel the film’s action. And that’s the most horrifying reading of all.

Carrie Polansky is one of the Editors and Founders of Gender Across Borders. She graduated from Emerson College in 2008 with a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in Visual and Media Arts (and a minor in Women’s and Gender Studies). Her review of Precious: Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire appeared in last year’s Bitch Flicks’ Best Picture Nominee Review Series. She vows to produce films with much, much better roles for women than the roles in The Social Network.

Movie Review: Precious, Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire

*This guest post also appears on Gender Across Borders.

Last week, I saw the much-anticipated film Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it all week. Not because I’m in shock, though the film does depict a number of truly horrific and violent situations. And not because I’m blinded by completely uncritical love, because the film is far from perfect, and I recognize that. The reason Precious has stuck with me is because it is, by all accounts, an extremely well-made film. The acting is tremendous and the visuals feel authentic. And, best of all, the film is filled with strong, nuanced, and interesting female characters. In a time when women are often relegated to forgettable romantic comedies and bit parts in “male-centric” films, and when plus-sized women and women of color barely star in mainstream films at all, Precious is a welcomed break from typical multiplex fare.

I want to start by addressing the criticisms of Precious, because many of them are valid. The material is bleak — at times, perhaps, too bleak. Considering the lack of decent portrayals of people of color in film today, do we really need another film that highlights all the most negative things that might happen to a young woman of color?

From Racialicious:

So when I found out Push was being adapted for the silver screen, I cringed at the prospect of revisiting Precious’s bleakly rendered world. I dreaded watching in technicolor all the awful things I’d imagined while reading. And I reeeally didn’t want to return to the hollowness that haunted the ending. What possible reason would Hollywood have for further dramatizing an existence as heinous as Precious’s?

It was certainly something to think about. Black American dramas have the tendency to pull their viewers into dark corners and assault them. The grittiest ripped-from-the-headlines realities and the woes so commonplace the news doesn’t bother covering them at all bogart their way into our fiction. Push will be no exception and I wasn’t sure if I should be pleased about that.

And, at the same time, the response to the film, though overwhelmingly positive, has tended to be superficial. As Latoya writes:

While Precious puts forth an array of issues, these are not engaged with by the reviewers. Is it because of the heaviness of the subject matter? Perhaps. But I find it interesting that I have seen more discussion of Mariah Carey appearing without make-up than any discussion of the underlying issues in the film.

Finally, there is the significant issue of colorism. Though Precious Jones has dark skin, the women of color who help her have light skin. While this is problematic all on its own, it’s even more of an issue when one considers that this casting doesn’t actually reflect the character descriptions in the book Push. Feministing has more:

In the book, the description of Blue Rain, the half-messiah, half-educator that delivers Precious from the bondage of illiteracy and abuse is as follows: “She dark, got nice face, big eyes, and…long dreadlocky hair.” (39-40) This character in the movie is played by Paula Patton, a light-skinned African American woman with straightened hair. By no means do I doubt the talent of Patton, but it means something that the directors chose to cast one of the most central characters of the film against Sapphire’s original description.

None of these issues can be ignored in discussing this film. And, sadly, these are the problems that will prevent Precious from being a great film, rather than just a very good film. In particular, I wonder why the decision to cast Paula Patton and Mariah Carey was made. While both women deliver fantastic performances, it’s hard to believe that there weren’t any actresses of equal talent who fit more closely to Sapphire’s descriptions. Though I haven’t read Push, it is my understanding that Blu Rain (the character played by Patton) is meant to be the positive embodiment of everything Precious dislikes in herself and her mother. The casting of a light-skinned woman makes this point much less clear, and it’s disappointing that Lee Daniels and the others involved in the casting of Precious didn’t do more to be true to Sapphire’s intents.

All that being said — Precious is still a very, very good film. Both Gabourey Sidibe and Mo’Nique deliver career-defining performances; this was Sidibe’s first film, and I hope we’ll be seeing much more of her in the coming years. And all of the female characters, including Precious, her mother, Blu Rain, Mrs. Weiss (a social worker, played by Carey), and the other girls in Precious’ GED class, are well developed and complicated. For instance, though Precious’ mother is characterized as a villain, I don’t think she can be seen in such polarizing terms. Though she commits horrible acts of violence and abuse against Precious throughout the film, we learn that there’s more to her than meets the eye and that her actions (as horrifying as they may be) are motivated by her own fears and insecurities. She may be a villain, to some degree, but she isn’t evil — much like Precious, she’s a victim of her own circumstances, and she is forced to make difficult choices. A similar character in another film may be depicted as completely one-dimensional, but Mo’Nique’s performance shows us that there is more to this woman — and to all of the women in the film, for that matter — than what initially appears on the surface.

Another strength is the way in which Precious handles its subject matter. Certainly, all of the issues addressed in the film — including (but not limited to) rape, incest, teen pregnancy, poverty and illiteracy — have been addressed before by other films, and when addressing such topics, it’s all too easy to come off sounding preachy or melodramatic. Precious does not fall in to this trap. Precious addresses these topics honestly and directly, never undermining the horror of it all but still making it clear that these are real aspects of life, and that they aren’t death sentences. Though the character Precious is forced to deal with a huge number of issues that no young woman should ever need to face, the audience is not supposed to pity her. Precious is too strong a character for that. Though the film ends on an ambiguous note, I left the theatre confident that she would go on and do well in life, because I had just spent the past two hours watching her face incredible odds and constantly surviving them with grace. We don’t want to see Precious experience all of the terrible situations she encounters, but we never fear or doubt her. She is clear-headed and determined, and she is a fantastic role model for all young women, from all walks of life. And we ultimately feel empathy, not pity, for her.

If you haven’t had an opportunity to see Precious, I highly recommend checking it out. It’s a flawed film, and it’s not something that will appeal to everyone. But for all its faults, Precious remains a strong film that addresses a wide variety of issues that need to be discussed candidly in film more often. And, if nothing else, it’s bound to be one of the most feminist movies you see this year.

Carrie Polansky is one of the Editors of Gender Across Borders. She graduated from Emerson College in 2008 with a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree in Visual and Media Arts (and a minor in Women’s and Gender Studies). Today, she works for an LGBT nonprofit organization in NYC and continues to be passionate about media and feminism.