Classics – Bitch Flicks

Colonialism in ‘The King and I’ and Related Media

‘The King and I’ promotes colonialist and “white savior” attitudes. … Adding romantic interest to the story, showing King Mongkut as exceedingly admiring of Anna and portraying her influence in the court as more than it was, paints Western values and morals as superior to others, justifying colonialism by making it seem as though Eastern countries “need” the West.

Written by Jackson Adler as part of our theme week on Interracial Relationships.

“Is the King and I racist, and is it time it was put to rest?” [sic] asks Dee Jefferson of The Sydney Morning Herald. While his article is inconclusive, I strongly believe that the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical as it exists now, and other Western media telling the same story, should be “put to rest.” The way that the story of Anna Leonowens teaching at the court of King Mongkut of Siam (now Thailand) in the mid 19^th century is told in the West needs to be completely redone if it is to be told, because the way it is presented is both inaccurate and harmful. There is a reason The King and I (staged on Broadway in 1951 and adapted for film in 1956) and many other adaptations of the same story such as Anna and the King of Siam (1946) and Anna and the King (1999) either are or were banned in Thailand – because they are extremely insensitive to Thailand’s history and culture, and promote colonialist and “white savior” attitudes.

To say that The King and I and related media is racist is missing the point. This is because racism is a product of colonialism, often being an afterthought justification for stealing and controlling another peoples’ wealth, labor, and resources, or as a propagandist rallying cry to begin the colonization of another people and their land. Anna Leonowens is painted as the “white savior” in these adaptations, and shown inaccurately as the main influence behind the reforms implemented by Mongkut and his son Chulalongkorn.

Though Mongkut and Leonowens did respect one another and worked closely, a romance between them does not seem to have existed, and the invention of it in the media is a tool to better depict Leonowens “civilizing” Mongkut to the extent that he might be a “gentleman” and a romantic interest – albeit in a bittersweet “it would never work” way. Interracial relationships (however problematically written) are themes in Rodgers and Hammerstein’s work, such as in South Pacific, as interracial marriage was a hot button issue at their time, not nationally legalized until 1967. Under the guise of being “progressive,” these works actually do an incredible amount of harm.

Mongkut hired Leonowens (who was ethnically English and East Indian, but claimed to be Welsh) to teach his children “English language, science, and literature, and not for the conversion to Christianity.” He himself already knew English (and Latin) and was well versed in Western culture. The image of Mongkut in the media is a stereotypical “barbarian” and “foolish” despot, despite the efforts of talented actors such as Chow Yun-Fat and Ken Watanabe to show a complex and thoughtful human being and leader. Women’s rights were improved under his reign. For example, unlike the story of Tuptim in the musical suggests, he outlawed forced marriages and released a large number of concubines to marry whom they chose. He respected the minds and wishes of his wives. When they met, Mongkut and his family treated Leonowens with kindness and respect, while she was often rude, condescending, or sarcastic to them. She strongly believed herself superior to the Thai people due to her being (part) English and a Christian, even telling members of the royal family to their faces, “I am not like you.”

The myth of she and Mongkut emotionally having a romance is quickly debunked due to various instances and examples of her enacting and making plain her biases and self-righteousness. One such instance was when she was asked by some female members of the royal family which prince she would find more desirable to marry were she to choose. She replied, according to her first autobiography, that they “are pagans” (Buddhist) and as such, “An English, that is a Christian, woman” such as herself “would rather be put to the torture, chained and dungeoned for life, or suffer a death the slowest and most painful you Siamese know, than be the wife of either” [sic]. The words “you Siamese” naturally show her condescending tone and attitude towards Thai people, insulting their intelligence and knowledge of the world.

Aspects of Leonowens’ autobiographies have proved to be exaggerated or fabricated, and seem to have been made to make herself look better and Mongkut look cruel. Various members of the Thai royal family, from Chulalongkorn himself to more to the present, have spoken out against both the inaccuracies in Leonowens’ works as well all media representations. One example of this is the alleged execution of Tuptim, featured in many adaptations (though she is whipped in the musical). Much of Tuptim’s story was fabricated, and she in fact was not executed, but became one of the wives of Chulalongkorn. Indeed, according to Mongkut did not believe in executions, considering them not in line with Buddhism.

However, Western adaptations have been more than ready to depict the Thai as “barbarians” or as “foolish” and Anna as the epitome of Western graciousness and, indeed, womanhood. Adding romantic interest to the story, showing Mongkut as exceedingly admiring of Anna and portraying her influence in the court as more than it was, paints Western values and morals as superior to others, justifying colonialism by making it seem as though Eastern countries “need” the West. Of course, Anna and Mongkut never kiss and hardly ever physically show their romantic interest, as to do so would “corrupt” Anna, the white woman, and put someone “lesser than” above her due to gender norms.

The fictionalized versions of this story are not only problematic in how they are written, but also problematic in terms of casting. As of 2014, white men are still being cast as King Mongkut, showing little has changed since Rex Harrison played the role in 1946. When an Asian man is cast, even in film adaptations, it is an actor who is not Thai, playing into the Western myth that all Asians and Asian cultures are the same. Except for Korean-American actress Anna Sanders, who played Anna on Broadway for a total of three performances in two days, the role of Leonowens has exclusively been played by white women, and often portrayed as blonde or redhead, despite the historical figure being part East Indian and having dark hair. This whitewashing is ridiculous, and shows how little white Westerners have changed in their self-righteousness and feelings of entitlement toward other lands and cultures.

All in all, the story of Anna Leonowens teaching at the Siamese court, as it has been told by Western media, remain colonialist and otherwise harmful. Even if Leonowens and Mongkut had a particularly deep and romantic relationship, which they did not, Leonowens’ white savior attitudes and Mongkut’s (historically inaccurate) verbal and physical violence would make that relationship a terribly abusive and volatile one. This would not be the kind of relationship to be valued, making even the most redeeming qualities of these adaptions problematic at best. I am not advocating that Leonowens’ and Mongkut’s stories be silenced and untold, but instead that they be told with honesty. This was a king actively working to keep his country free from colonialism, and this was a woman whose colonialist attitudes — which kept her from interacting well with those who treated her with respect — were probably due to internalized racist biases and fears regarding her East Indian heritage (a heritage she worked hard to hide). This is in fact a story that needs to be told, and hopefully many more (and more accurate) adaptations will be made in the future.

Jackson Adler is a transguy with a BA in Theatre, a Bitch Flicks staff writer, and is a writer, activist, director, teacher, dramaturge, cartoon lover, vegan boba drinker, and proud Gryffindor. His day job is at a theatre (live, not movie), and he uses a pen name as a precaution, since he’d rather not risk getting fired. He is white and middle class, and has to remember his privileges. He is also aromantic bi/pansexual, and has an Auditory Processing Disorder and a Weak Working Memory (which does not excuse when he forgets that he has lots of privileges). You can follow him on twitter at @JacksonAdler, and see more of his writing on representation and discrimination in the media at the blog The Windowsill.

Jo March’s Gender Identity as Seen Through Different Gazes

The male gaze either holds Jo back from the start, or else shows an “educational” transformation from an “unruly” female into a “desirable” young woman who knows her place.

Written by Jackson Adler as part of our theme week on The Female Gaze.

(Note: Louisa May Alcott’s novels Little Women: Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy and Good Wives, published in 1868 and 1869, respectively, are often combined into one volume as Little Women Part 1 and Little Women Part 2. Henceforth, when I refer to Alcott’s novel Little Women, I refer to the combined novel as a whole.)

Many girls and women have loved Little Women and seen their ambitions, drive, or love of reading and writing reflected in Josephine “Jo” March. Harry Potter author J.K. “Jo” Rowling told the New York Times, “My favorite literary heroine is Jo March. It is hard to overstate what she meant to a small, plain girl called Jo, who had a hot temper and a burning ambition to be a writer.” In a world that privileges men and censors women, the largely female cast of Little Women and its main character Jo have naturally been a relief and an inspiration for women, serving as a feminist narrative to many. However, the male gaze has been applied to most of the film and TV applications of the story, despite the scripts often being at least co-written by women. The male gaze tends to twist the romantic ending to use as a weapon against female viewers – reminding them of their “place” in society, and the expectation for them to marry and become housewives. Gillian Armstrong’s 1994 film, as previously pointed out by Jessica Freeman-Slade on Bitch Flicks, is far superior to these adaptations in maintaining the female centric integrity of the story, allowing the characters dignity and freedom of expression, and emphasizing Jo’s choices and self-determination. In my research, I have only come across one lonely paper and one recent play that address the possibility that Jo could be transgender. However, I think the case for this view is strong, and that discussion of Jo’s gender and how it is and isn’t seen and represented is important.

Little Women follows four Massachusetts siblings coming of age during and directly after the American Civil War. The four siblings (and I cannot be the only person on Earth who has sorted them into Hogwarts houses) are: Margaret “Meg” March (the sensible Ravenclaw), Josephine “Jo” March (the brash Gryffindor), Elizabeth “Beth” March (the loyal Hufflepuff), and Amy March (the ambitious Slytherin). (Note: Amy and Slytherin both get a lot of haters, but Amy and many Slytherins are wonderful and sweet people, truly.) Though each sibling is allotted a fair amount of attention, the story mostly focuses on Jo, the “tomboy,” for whom I will henceforth use male pronouns. One of Jo’s first lines in the novel, and one repeated in many adaptions, is “I can’t get over my disappointment in not being a boy…”

At 15 years old, and the start of the story, Jo hates his “rapidly” developing body. His “one beauty” is his “long, thick hair,” and yet he “usually bundle[s] [it] into a net, to be out of [his] way.” The word “boyish” is often used to describe Jo, his preferred name (he hates when his aunt calls him “Josephine”), the habits he uses, and the activities he enjoys. He loves using “boyish” slang and exhibiting “gentlemanly” and “boyish” habits, such as keeping his hands in his pockets and whistling. He even says that he does these things for the very reason that they are “boyish.” Jo’s father (a reverend) and his mother (whom the children refer to as “Marmee,” which in their Eastern Massachusetts/Boston dialect is pronounced as the more common “mommy”) require each of their children strive to fix their bad habits, described as their “burdens” or “bundles” to bear. Meg has her vanity, Beth has her shyness (so great she often has difficulty voicing her own opinions or standing up to others), and Amy has her selfishness. As for Jo, he is heartbreakingly required to try to be more “ladylike” and “womanly.”

This includes some useful habits, such as learning to control his temper so as to treat his siblings (namely Amy) better. However, while Laurie is allowed “Byronic fits of gloom,” Jo is encouraged to be “pleasant” because, as Amy herself states, “women should learn to be agreeable” so as to be “better liked” by society. Far from just Jo’s expressions of everyday emotions, Jo is pressured to police his words and actions every day, such as only barely resisting talking sports at a party. To please his family, Jo tries to adopt “ladylike” behavior, but often fails so miserably that he causes his family (especially Meg and Amy) embarrassment. Jo often feels “lonely” and misunderstood, even when surrounded by people who love him, and sometimes becomes “irritable” because of it. Jo finds some relief in his friendship with Theodore “Laurie” Laurence, with whom he skates, flies kites, goes rowing, and runs races. Laurie even often calls Jo “fellow” and other masculine terms of endearment. When Jo and Laurie feel particularly confined and restricted by their families and by societal expectations, they almost run away to be cabin boys together for the “adventure,” and only stop themselves due to their feelings of responsibility and love for their families. However, even Laurie’s friendly view and boyish treatment of Jo is limited. Laurie uses “sentiment” (flirtation) and is “wheedlesome” (manipulative) when pressuring Jo to marry him, proposing in large part because “everyone expects it.”

At the end of the novel and in the sequels Little Men and Jo’s Boys, Jo and his husband Professor Friedrich “Fritz” Bhaer found a school and a college for diverse pupils, giving a home and love to children who would otherwise be overlooked or even discriminated against. These institutions are open to both boys and girls, include biracial students (one a quarter Black and one part Native-American), and students with mental and physical disabilities. One of his students is another “tomboy” who ends up becoming a doctor and never marrying. Jo is particularly close with the male students and the “tomboy,” as he “sympathize[s]” with boys more than girls.

Out of the many portrayals of Jo March, I think June Allyson’s comes closest to being the “tomboy” of the novel, particularly evident when Allyson emphasizes the line about how “disappointed” Jo is at not “be[ing] a boy.” Not that Allyson’s goal was to portray the character as a transboy (the term didn’t even exist yet!), but a specific kind of heartbreak and frustration come through nonetheless. Katharine Hepburn’s (1933), Allyson’s (1949), and Susan Dey’s (1978) Jos were sadly glamoured up by their male directors. Susan Dey’s Jo feels especially constricted, as if Dey wasn’t permitted to express the character as she saw fit because directors David Lowell Rich and Gordon Hessler were constantly holding her back from showing Jo’s fire and rambunctiousness. While the TV movie still retains some feminist moments, Jo is often grabbed and physically held back by male characters, especially Laurie. Winona Ryder’s (1994) is less objectified or confined under the female gaze of director Gillian Armstrong. Though the characters of Jo’s sisters and mother are more developed and allowed room to breath under the female gaze, Ryder’s Jo is a spirited young woman who merely wants to express herself in whatever way she wants. This is somewhat comparable to director Gaby Dellal of About Ray, stating that she didn’t cast a transgender actor as the title character because that “isn’t what [the] story is about” and problematically refers to the character as “a girl who is being herself.” Ryder’s Jo does not have the same kind of yearning, heartbreak, anxiousness, and irritability that comes with being forced to hide from others (as well as oneself) one’s own true gender.

The male gaze either holds Jo back from the start, or else shows an “educational” transformation from an “unruly” female into a “desirable” young woman who knows her place. Under the male gaze, Laurie is often made into a combination of undesirable nerd and total creeper in order to justify Jo’s decline of his marriage proposal. It is implied in the 1949 adaptation that Laurie continues to have feelings for Jo, while in the 1978 TV movie it is implied that Susan Dey’s Jo realizes she has feelings for Laurie only after hearing of his marriage to Amy, I guess because the director wanted Jo to learn a lesson about how turning down men is bad? (Yeah, I was yelling at the screen.) Interestingly, this version has one of the best set-ups of Laurie’s and Amy’s relationship (Amy and the other sisters often being denied the screen time they deserve in other adaptations). However, this is because Laurie overcoming his feelings for Jo and realizing his love for Amy is used to punish Jo in this adaptation. Ironically, one of the most positive portrayals of Laurie is under Armstrong’s female gaze. This is because a more complex and autonomous Jo lends to more complex reasons for her turning down the love of his best friend. It’s not that he isn’t a good person, or that she isn’t fond of him, it’s just that she doesn’t love him as anything other than a friend, and she’s not going to commit to an-other-than-blissful relationship just because society thinks that grown men and women can’t be “just friends.”

While I think an adaptation of Little Women that portrays Jo as transgender is incredibly needed, providing representation and history for a marginalized and often silenced group, it would require a transmale gaze, ideally in the form of a transmale director. As Hollywood is so averse at diversifying its behind-the-camera positions in any way, it will probably take some time before a project such as this can be made. However, a historical drama featuring a leading trans character would make a big difference in the lives of young trans people. I know that Jo has made a huge difference in my own life as a transman. Jo and his creator Louisa May Alcott (who went by “Louis” as a young person) often feared being alone. But Jo, myself, and others like us, are not alone – and it’s important for us to know that.

The Male Gaze and ‘Gigi’

However, the film musical is very different, dividing the women and telling the story from a male gaze, making it a romance instead of a story of female survival.

First made as a film musical in 1958 and then flopping as a stage musical in the 1970s, the revival of the Lerner and Loewer’s Gigi just opened on Broadway on April 8 with Vanessa Hudgens in the title role. This revival has brought more attention to the original film musical, which starred Leslie Caron as Gigi. The story Gigi, originally written as a novella in 1944 by Colette, takes place in Paris in the year 1900 and follows a girl coming of age while being pressured into becoming a courtesan to upper class men. Though her age was raised for the current stage adaptation, in Colette’s novella, Gigi starts the story at 15. At 15-and-a-half, her “lessons” in womanhood are completed, and she is expected to be a mistress to an old family friend – the wealthy and mustached 33-year-old Gaston. Instead of taking her on as his mistress and being her introduction to life as a courtesan, he asks for her hand in marriage. The novella ends there, and it is left up to the audience as to whether Gaston’s request was granted.

Colette’s novella focuses almost entirely on the domestic and “female” space of Gigi’s apartment, which she shares with her mother and grandmother (whom Gigi calls Mamita), and where her great-aunt (Aunt Alicia) often comes to visit. Her mother became a courtesan and then an actress/singer, and while she is often home late, she nonetheless cares deeply about her daughter and her future. She contributes to the income of the family, and is largely supported in her career choice by them. Alicia and her sister were courtesans, have since retired, and they are the ones who look after Gigi while her mother is working. Gigi’s full name is revealed in the novella to be Gilberta, a family name and one passed down by the women in her life. These women are independent due to having been courtesans, one of the very few ways a woman could be independent in France at that time. Yet, their independence has not kept them from being crushed and controlled by patriarchy. Another layer is that Gigi’s great-aunt and grandmother are Spanish, having immigrated to France. It is implied that their “dark” features resulted in their being othered, exoticized, and fetishized by French patriarchy.

Gigi’s older female relatives collaborate in deciding what is best for Gigi, and sometimes have one-on-one talks with Gaston about the family and Gigi. When Gigi has her own one-on-one talk with Gaston, it is evident that she is afraid of growing up into a woman, afraid of being sexually objectified and, even in the more independent choice of being a courtesan, having to constantly keep up a sexually gratifying façade to please the male gaze. Gaston felt out of place with his family and at his home, where everything felt cold and often just for show. He developed real friendship with Gigi’s family, who were always kind to him, and it is perhaps not just out of fondness for Gigi but also out of loyalty to Gigi’s family that Gaston proposes marriage, because by marrying Gigi he can personally and permanently help support the women who have been so kind to him. This story about women by a woman about female autonomy and the often lack of it ends with a man stepping forward to help support women. It is left up to the audience to decide whether Gaston should be trusted, and whether marriage under a kind master is or isn’t preferable to heartbreaking independence. This story is female-centric, pro-women’s empowerment, shows women supporting women, a man wanting to help these women’s well-being in the only way he knows how. However, the film musical is very different, dividing the women and telling the story from a male gaze, making it a romance instead of a story of female survival.

Gigi getting fitted for a dress, while her Aunt Alicia and Mamita examine.

While the novella shows women working together and supporting one another, the film divides them and shows them criticizing each other from afar and face-to-face, and competing and arguing with one another. The film musical removes Gigi’s mother almost entirely from the story (we hear her singing, but never see her), and it is implied that she is not a good mother because of her desire to pursue a career instead of staying home/marrying. The scenes often takes place in public and more “masculine” spaces, whether at nightclubs, barber shops, or in the streets of Paris. It also focuses more on Gaston (played by Louis Jourdan), as well as the new character from whose perspective the story is told – Gaston’s uncle, Honoré (played by Maurice Chevalier), who is around the same age as Gigi’s grandmother Madame Alvarez (played by Hermione Gingold). Through the male gaze, the complexity of Aunt Alicia (played by Isabel Jeans) and her warmth toward her family is largely taken away, making her into a cold stereotype, while her sister suffers a similar fate but in the opposite direction – becoming the stereotypical domestic mothering type always available to comfort and feed Gaston/men.

The film also adds the character Liane (played by Eva Gabor), a courtesan who starts the story as his mistress. When Gaston realizes that she is having an affair with her ice skating teacher, she slut-shames her, has his men forcefully escort her lover off of the premises of the hotel at which she is staying, and dramatically dumps her. This leads her to attempt suicide. This entire story line is played for laughs, with the moral that men can sleep around all they want but women have to be faithful to one man (even if they are a courtesan) and let their men control them. However, this was not a relationship or a marriage, but a business relationship. Though Liane violated her contract, she had few choices in life open to her. She became a courtesan, assumedly to be independent. Being a courtesan was her career, and then she fell in love (or lust) with a man who was not rich. She kept her career with Gaston and then had a fulfilling relationship with an ice skating teacher. She fulfilled Gaston’s sexual fantasies, as it was her job, but he did not fulfill hers, nor was he contractually supposed to, so she got her fulfillment elsewhere. Gaston then publicly shames her for it, she attempts suicide, and the entire catastrophe is in the papers the next day. Liane’s attempt at suicide is implied to be a mean of vying for attention, and once again she is shamed. Gaston is then comforted, even by Gigi and her grandmother, over the break up, even though Liane is the one who is most hurt. Liane was a victim of a patriarchal society and who could not find self-fulfillment in even the most independent life choices that patriarchy allowed her due to its narrow confines.

The film even undermines the experiences of its own heroine. Gigi (played by Leslie Caron) has some character-driven songs in the film (many of which were originally cut for the musical, and then put back in for the recent revival), but these are still largely from the male gaze in order to show Gigi as “amusing” or beautiful. Though Gigi’s lessons in female etiquette are mocked by the film, it is far from a commentary of how women and girls are oppressed by what patriarchy demands of them. The story establishes these “lessons” in how to dress, speak, and act as necessary by showing in a positive light how Gigi eventually succeeds in being seen as a desirable woman by the men in her life.

Gigi being instructed by Alicia as to how to sit like a lady.

Gigi, though being trained to be a courtesan and a mistress, has been told very little about sex, fitting in with the standard of women remaining even mentally virginal and “pure.” However, in a scene that could have been feminist, Gigi finds this unfair. When Gigi and Gaston have their first talk about the possibility of Gigi becoming his mistress, and Gigi brings up sex; Gaston says, “You’re embarrassing me,” and tries to avoid the conversation. However, Gigi demands that she has a right to know what is expected of her. When Gaston tells her that he is in love with her, Gigi becomes horrified and calls Gaston cruel. She thought that the plan for her to become his mistress was made because it was just what was expected of them, just business. “You say you love me,” she says, but he would willingly have her sexually objectified and her every move criticized, and would dump her when he was done with her, leaving her like his last mistress to contemplate suicide. Gigi runs out of the room, crying. Instead of this being a commentary of how patriarchal expectations cause men to hurt the women they claim to love, the film ends up criticizing Gigi’s grandmother. Gaston turns to Madame Alvarez and yells at her for not making life as a courtesan seem more appealing to Gigi, then storms out.

Gigi as Gaston's wife and arm candy — Gigi as Gaston’s wife and arm candy

Gigi later decides she would rather be “miserable with [Gaston] than without [him].” She behaves elegantly on their first date, receiving many appraising stares. Gaston’s uncle proclaims that Gaston chose well, and that Gigi will keep Gaston “entertained for months.” It is this comment from his uncle that makes Gaston question the choice to have Gigi be his mistress. Gaston was raised to be a playboy, but he finds himself wanting more than just “months” with Gigi. He drags Gigi back to her home without explanation, putting her and her family into a panic, afraid of scandal and the ruin of Gigi’s reputation before it started. Gaston, after a long self-reflecting walk, proposes marriage and his request is granted. In the last scene, Gigi is shown in what must be a very uncomfortable outfit as Gaston’s permanent arm candy. While Colette leaves the ending up to us, asking us to reflect on patriarchal treatment of women and what the solution to it might be, the film gives the harmful message that marriage with the man in control and the woman looking pretty and being “entertaining” is the best life choice for all parties.

Heidi Thomas, who adapted the revival of the stage musical, has put more of the story’s focus back on the title character; the choreographer and the director of the revival are both men. As the character Gigi and the actress Vanessa Hudgens have been sexualized by men, and their careers often controlled by men, it seems an odd choice thematically to have men be the ones telling Vanessa Hudgens as her character Gigi how and where to move and working with the actress on how to express what Gigi is feeling. The release of semi-nude and nude photographs of Vanessaa Hudgens in 2007 and 2009 were sexual assaults, yet she was made to apologize for them and to feel ashamed and embarrassed by Disney, her publicists, and various journalists. Now here she is playing Gigi, whose sexuality and sexual expression are tightly controlled while she tries to fight for her own autonomy. Is this really something that the cismale director and choreographer can fully understand? As a transmale who grew up being told by society that I should try to fit myself into a narrow definition of femininity, empathizing with Gigi when she felt uncomfortable during her “lessons,” I still have trouble understanding female perspectives sometimes. Female perspectives are, of course, incredibly varied, which Colette attempts to explore in the novella. However, I am also not female or attempting to live as one anymore, and don’t as many shared lived experiences. Hopefully, an adaption of Gigi will eventually be made which is more fully from the perspective of women.

‘Pygmalion’ vs. ‘My Fair Lady’

If the story is a gay man attempting to make over a straight woman, it simply emphasizes that all men of all sexualities in a male-dominated society need to respect women, and women should feel free to and be able to express confidence in themselves.

Written by Jackson Adler.

Last year, and 100 years after George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion premiered on London’s West End, film producer Cameron Mackintosh announced that his remake of the Lerner and Loewe classic musical My Fair Lady, and its subsequent 1964 film adaptation starring Audrey Hepburn and Rex Harrison, which are based off of Bernard Shaw’s play, was being shelved after “various things that happened with the rights and the studio and everything like that.”

Emma Thompson had written the screenplay for this new adaptation, and it was supposedly to have been truer to Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion. The same reason I was excited about Emma Thompson’s screenplay was probably the main reason the project was shelved. I say this because aspects of Pygmalion, especially its ending, have been under fire for what is now over a century. Pygmalion is a play on the Greek myth in which a sculpture falls in love with his own creation of a beautiful female statue. In Bernard Shaw’s 1914 story, a phonetics professor Henry Higgins and his new friend Colonel Pickering make a wager that Higgins can give a makeover in speech, manners, and dress to flower girl Eliza Doolittle and successfully pass her off as a duchess. However, it is Eliza’s efforts that win Henry his bet, and when she isn’t praised for it, she learns to stands up for herself, and eventually Henry learns to respect her for it. Unlike in the Greek myth, there is no romance at the end.

Eliza confronts Henry of his mistreatment of her in Pygmalion (1938) starring Wendy Hiller and Leslie Howard. — Eliza confronts Henry of his mistreatment of her in *Pygmalion* (1938) starring Wendy Hiller and Leslie Howard.

Bernard Shaw, though not always a great ally, was a feminist, and his play was only adapted into a musical after his death. He had refused to allow a musical adaptation of his play, afraid the relationships between his main characters Eliza Doolittle and Henry Higgins would be romanticized and the ending, in which they do not enter a romantic relationship or marriage, would be changed, something the 1938 film adaptation of Bernard Shaw’s play had already done, with Eliza pretty much crawling back to Henry at the end. Bernard Shaw did not want a musical version to do the same. His feelings were completely ignored after his death, and lyricist and librettist Alan Jay Lerner and composer Frederick Loewe stuck on a conventional Hollywood ending to the story and created My Fair Lady, with an ending similar to the 1934 film.

Hollywood still likes its romantic and “happy” endings, and no doubt there were disagreements over how Thompson’s and Mackintosh’s My Fair Lady should depict Eliza’s and Henry’s relationship. Bernard Shaw wrote an entire epilogue to his play to emphasize that, no, the characters did not nor never would marry each other or have a romantic or sexual relationship. This is not tragic or sad, it’s just that they don’t belong together, but still respect each other and continue to be friends long after the events of the play.

Hollywood still struggles with the ridiculous question “Can (cis and heterosexual) men and women be just friends?” even though common sense and observation have always proven that, yes, they can, many are, many always have been, and many will continue to be so. As Henry Higgin’s mother tells him, in what seems to be every incarnation of the play and musical, Eliza is not an “umbrella” – not an object or a piece of property that can be owned or mistreated or thrown aside. Yes, women are people, and do not merely exist to support men. Both Henry and Eliza live in a world in which close friendships between men and women are discouraged, and marriage encouraged. That they each defy this, refuse to marry each other, and continue to be friends regardless of their other friendships or romantic partnerships, is wonderful – and, seemingly, something Hollywood still refuses to see as a valid choice. Whether its When Harry Met Sally, or No Strings Attached, or Friends With Benefits, Hollywood still teaches us that close relationships between (cis and hetero) men and women should ideally only be close if they are romantic, though occasional exceptions can be made if one of them is “taken,” such as in the case of How I Met Your Mother’s Ted and Lilly.

Though the argument can certainly be made that Higgins is homosexual (he and Colonel Pickering move in together at the start of the story, and continue to live together the rest of their days, despite both being financially independent) or asexual, and many have claimed that Bernard Shaw himself was closeted, Henry’s sexuality is perhaps not as important in the overall story as Eliza standing up for herself and Henry respecting her for it. This is emphasized in the 1983 TV adaptation of Pygmalion in which Peter O’Toole, who had previously and famously played gay or bisexual Henry II of England in Becket and The Lion In Winter, plays Henry Higgins, and Higgins’ mother knowingly states that “I should be uneasy about you and her if you were less fond of Colonel Pickering.” While this line was also added in the 1981 TV adaptation with Robert Powell, and also knowingly states, O’Toole’s reply of “nonsense” in regard to himself and Pickering is less adamant than Powell’s. If the story is a gay man attempting to make over a straight woman, it simply emphasizes that all men of all sexualities in a male-dominated society need to respect women, and women should feel free to and be able to express confidence in themselves.

Rex Harrison as Henry and Audrey Hepburn as Eliza in My Fair Lady (1964) — Rex Harrison as Henry and Audrey Hepburn as Eliza in *My Fair Lady* (1964)

Hollywood has loved and still loves the story of the makeover, whether shown in the newest Cinderella, or in the recent film Kingsman (in which My Fair Lady is referenced, a move all the more insightful since Colin Firth had supposedly been set to play Henry Higgins in the now shelved adaptation), in 1999’s She’s All That, or in various episodes on various Disney channel shows throughout the years. As Pygmalion points out, issues of class, gender, sexuality, and beyond cannot be solved overnight, or even in a few months, and certainly not just by a change of clothes and habits. In Bernard Shaw’s story, respect for one another is of vital importance, more important than romance. Eliza does find romance, but it is on her own terms and with someone who has shown her more “kindness” than Henry. Though she and Henry have multiple scenes together, assist each other, and clearly care for each other in their own way, they have no obligation to enter into a romance with each other, a message that, hopefully, Hollywood will remember the next time they choose to adapt Pygmalion or My Fair Lady.

Male Mask, Female Voice: The Noir of Ida Lupino

Lupino then struck out from the studio system to direct three noirs of her own: ‘Outrage,’ ‘The Hitch-Hiker,’ and ‘The Bigamist,’ the only classic noirs made by a female auteur. Each uses a different strategy to challenge the empathy gap between spectators and female characters, and to subvert the femme-fatale trope.

This is a guest post by Brigit McCone.

The IMDb page of Woody Allen’s Match Point (2005) offers the following summary: “at a turning point in his life, a former tennis pro falls for a femme-fatale type.” The plot of Match Point: Jonathan Rhys Meyers’ former tennis pro aggressively pursues Scarlett Johansson’s sexually confident actress, begins an affair that only she expresses guilt over (though she is single, breaking up with her fiancé after her first hook-up with Meyers, while he remains engaged), then he plans and executes the cold-blooded murder of Johansson to cover his adultery. In other words, Meyers plays a classic, manipulative “psycho killer bitch” in all but gender.

The fact that Johansson’s character is nevertheless judged as a “femme-fatale type” and Meyers’ character excused as being “at a turning point in his life,” points to the real underpinnings of the femme-fatale: the assumption that female sex appeal is responsible for male violence. Her manipulative behavior may confirm the femme-fatale’s evil, but her responsibility for male violence is the core of her role, rooted in a victim-blaming lack of empathy for women. If that remains true even in 2005, it was certainly true of the ’40s and ’50s heyday of film noir.

Few people understood the logic of the femme-fatale better than Ida Lupino. Her looks, confidence and intelligence saw her typecast as a seductive “vamp” from the age of 14. Lupino became one of the iconic femme-fatales of the 1940s, breaking out as crazed villainess of They Drive By Night, followed by genre classics High Sierra, The Hard Way, and Road House. Lupino then struck out from the studio system to direct three noirs of her own: Outrage, The Hitch-Hiker, and The Bigamist, the only classic noirs made by a female auteur. Each uses a different strategy to challenge the empathy gap between spectators and female characters, and to subvert the femme-fatale trope.

Rape Culture As Ultimate Noir: Outrage

The first cinematic examination of what feminists now call “‘rape culture,” 1950’s Outrage introduces Ann Walton (Mala Powers), a character whose wholesomeness is emphasized from the film’s start. She is liked by co-workers and says of her fiancé, “I found the right one,” showcasing her mental monogamy. In a tense, expressionist sequence of shadowy yards and deserted streets, Ann is stalked by a sexual predator and caught when she swoons; it is her traditional femininity that makes her vulnerable, not transgression. Ann is constantly watched: chatting to her fiancé, she is smirked at by an old lady; when talking with a co-worker, the clenching hands of her future attacker are visible in the foreground, making the audience uncomfortably aware that we share his gaze. We, too, will be asked to watch and judge Ann throughout the film.

This surveillance of chivalry offers Ann no protection. As her future attacker insistently flirts with her, to her visible discomfort, bystanders are blank-faced and avoid eye contact. As a vulnerable woman alone at night, taxis refuse to stop for her. As her attacker closes in to rape her, the camera pulls back to a neighbor firmly shutting his window. After the rape, we are shown the averted eyes of former friends and the everyday intrusions of men, who casually grab her flinching shoulder or invade her space, an entitlement to the female body that is weaponized by Ann’s trauma. When Ann is finally triggered into striking a blow, she does not get revenge against her rapist, but attacks a random stranger who is stroking her hair and pestering her for a kiss. This sends a clear message that such pushy violations of a woman’s boundaries collectively create a triggering environment that normalizes rape. The conventions of noir, which condition the audience to accept that society is hostile and unjustly disbelieving the protagonist, are used by Lupino to shape the audience’s interpretation of rape culture.

Ann finally finds redemption through the friendship and support of Rev. Bruce Ferguson. It is visiting him alone at his house at night, and driving with him into the countryside unchaperoned, that allows him to counsel her. The fact that she is healed by ignoring society’s proprieties, and victimized when swooning in conventional feminine panic, demonstrates the irrelevance of woman’s transgressions to man’s actions. Rev. Bruce’s authority as man and as cleric is invoked to justify Ann. In the film’s climactic trial of Ann for attacking the harassing flirt, the authority of the legal system is used to hold male sexual aggression responsible for female violence, neatly reversing the “femme-fatale” formula. Rev. Bruce’s mansplaining authority presents his blistering condemnation of chivalry’s failures as an act of chivalry itself: his courtroom speech establishes rape as an epidemic social problem, “a shameful blot on our towns and cities,” excuses Ann’s actions (Rhys Meyers’ tennis coach might have been “at a turning point in his life” when he gunned down Johansson’s “femme-fatale type,” but Ann had “been suffering in her mind a long time” when she clobbered a flirt with a wrench), and indicts society for the assault – “it’s our fault, all of us” – appealing to the judge “as a man.” Of course, Rev. Bruce is not speaking “as a man” at all, but “as Ida Lupino.” Society’s dismissing of woman’s testimony as “hysterical” required Lupino to dress female perspective in a male mask for it to be heard.

Outrage is fascinating as a direct appeal from the suppressed female voice. It exposes the hypocritical underbelly of traditional chivalry, and its human cost, but it is not a fully satisfying drama. The very victim-blaming that Lupino condemns, forces her heroine into one-note wholesomeness to dodge femme-fatality. Ann often irritates viewers with her “damsel-in-distress” manner, but this only highlights how inhuman a woman had to be, to be chivalry’s “justified” victim. At the same time, the need for Rev. Bruce to project authority makes his character smug to the point of creepiness. In her next film, The Hitch-Hiker, Lupino would banish women from the screen entirely and reveal herself capable of sharp psychological subtlety.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FCRemHI0usY”]

Why Didn’t They Just Leave Him? The Hitch-Hiker

1953’s The Hitch-Hiker opens with a bold declaration: “what you will see in the next seventy minutes could have happened to you.” We hear a woman’s scream and gunshots. A lady’s purse falls to the floor at the attacker’s feet. This opening scene establishes the villain as a killer of women, but his victim is not shown. To give her any character would be to expose that character to scrutiny. Why was she traveling alone? Why would she pick up a hitch-hiker? Why didn’t she just leave him? To convince the audience that it “could have happened to them,” the faceless woman must be replaced by all-American Roy and Gilbert, on their manly hunting trip. A man can be everyman; a woman represents only herself. Roy and Gilbert, then, must walk in the shoes of the female victim; we will experience her terror through their male masks. The film is a master class in suspense and claustrophobia, making maximal use of both cramped car and empty Mexican desert. The hitch-hiker has one eye permanently opened, so the captives can’t tell whether he is asleep or watching, piling on the paranoia as the pair squirm under his peering panopticon, until they internalize his surveillance. Roy and Gilbert are as minutely scrutinized by the hitch-hiker as Outrage‘s Ann is by society.

One of the film’s harsher comments on IMDb complains that “the two captive men are presented with innumerable opportunities to outsmart or overpower their captor, but fail to do so out of apparent cowardice or stupidity,” which actually points to the film’s central strength. Under crushing pressure, the group evolves the psychological dynamic of an abusive family. The captives’ loyalty to each other becomes an exploitable weakness that prevents them from fleeing. Roy and Gilbert gradually grow complicit in the hitch-hiker’s schemes, as they adapt to his demands and learn to anticipate and appease his rages. They miss opportunities to appeal for outside help, as they are blackmailed into silence. The Hitch-Hiker is one of the rare films that realistically captures the psychology of intimidation, letting the audience witness the group’s toxic dynamic develop over time. The intimate violence of emotional abuse emerges as an ideal subject for noir. George Cukor’s Gaslight is a strong example, but Lupino’s choice of protagonists, all-American hunting buddies, explores the dynamics of abuse as universal human psychology rather than female vulnerability. In her next film, The Bigamist, she would exploit the audience’s higher tolerance for flawed and complex male protagonists, to promote empathy for complex women.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XIeFKTbg3Aw”]

Woman Humanizes Man Humanizes Woman: The Bigamist

On the surface, 1953’s The Bigamist presents a classic narrative of infidelity: Harry is driven, by the neglect of his careerist wife Eve, into an affair with a brassy, smart-mouthed broad, Phyllis. But Lupino’s film humanizes the stereotypes into sympathetic individuals. In the process, she demonstrates that the ideology of male unfaithfulness depends on the dehumanizing of women to make them disposable; it must be justified either by condemning the wife as cold, castrating harpy, or by dismissing the mistress as calculating femme-fatale. The climactic trial of the bigamist becomes a trial of society, just like that of Lupino’s Outrage. In the authoritative voice of the male judge, the film spells out the irony that it is no crime to commit adultery, but a crime to recognize and protect both women by marriage.

Like its hero, the film refuses to demonize either woman or to imply that they deserve to be abandoned. Joan Fontaine’s Eve is a workaholic, but she is also loving and supportive. Ida Lupino’s Phyllis reveals layers of loneliness and fragility under her brash, defensive surface. She is not trying to trap Harry, giving him the opportunity to leave even after she falls pregnant. Refreshingly, the women do not turn on each other when the bigamy is revealed, but turn their looks of hurt onto Harry at his trial. The script was written by Collier Young, Lupino’s ex-husband and professional collaborator, who was married to Fontaine at the time of shooting. Lupino’s collaboration with Fontaine, and her sympathetic portrayal of Fontaine’s Eve, is thus an act of solidarity that puts its money where its mouth is, radically rejecting cat-fight logic between women who have shared a man.

Ida Lupino exploits the audience’s willingness to identify with a male protagonist, to encourage them to see both women from the hero’s sympathetic viewpoint. Lupino herself takes the role of a woman pregnant from unmarried sex, then uses the hero’s voiceover to empathize with her character and avoid moral judgment; yet another male mask for the defense of female worth. Defying double standards, Harry takes full responsibility for his choice to sleep with Phyllis, marrying her to support their child. He is flawed, against the standard of a fully committed husband, but noble when compared with the casual exploitation of women tolerated by Lupino’s society. The result is a morally complex and ambiguous portrait of polyamory, which affirms that no human is disposable and that no “femme-fatale” is without her humanity.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1eUmFS7ww5s”]

Ida Lupino’s career as director is an intriguing example of an actress seizing power to rebut the misogynist traditions of her own genre. In the process, she reveals noir’s natural potential to explore female psychology and experience. When her company, “The Filmmakers,” folded, she went on to be a prolific director in television, then directed 1966’s The Trouble With Angels, a sympathetic portrait of a Catholic convent school. As the only female director working in ’50s Hollywood, and as a striking artist in her own right, Ida Lupino deserves a fresh look.

Brigit McCone over-identifies with Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard. She writes short films, radio dramas and “The Erotic Adventures of Vivica” (as Voluptua von Temptitillatrix). Her hobbies include doodling and making bad puns out of the corner of her mouth.

‘The Seventh Seal’: A Skull is More Interesting Than a Naked Woman

‘The Seventh Seal’ was released in Sweden in 1957. The title is a reference to the Book of Revelation (Rev. 8:1): “And when the Lamb had opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour.” Ingmar Bergman’s 17th film examines the big question: where is God? Set in Sweden in the 14th century during the Black Plague, the film documents the travels of the knight Antonius Block (Max von Sydow) and his squire, Jöns (Gunnar Björnstrand), as they return home from the Crusades (this is one of many useful anachronisms in the film, just go with it). Block is literally pursued by Death (Bengt Ekerot). Along the way, Bergman also muses on love, isolation, and death.

Written by Andé Morgan.

The Seventh Seal was released in Sweden in 1957. The title is a reference to the Book of Revelation (Rev. 8:1): “And when the Lamb had opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven about the space of half an hour.” Ingmar Bergman’s 17th film examines the big question: where is God? Set in Sweden in the 14th century during the Black Plague, the film documents the travels of the knight Antonius Block (Max von Sydow) and his squire, Jöns (Gunnar Björnstrand), as they return home from the Crusades (this is one of many useful anachronisms in the film, just go with it). Block is literally pursued by Death (Bengt Ekerot). Along the way, Bergman also muses on love, isolation, and death.

This film is a classic. If you think you haven’t seen it, you are wrong. You have seen it by way of parody in The Colbert Report, Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey, Last Action Hero, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and others. Bergman’s mastery of dialogue and symbolism is on constant display in the film. While not typically considered Bergman’s best work, it was a critical success and solidified his position as a leading director and screenwriter of the post-war era. Continue reading “‘The Seventh Seal’: A Skull is More Interesting Than a Naked Woman”