Crime – Page 5 – Bitch Flicks

In Praise of ‘The Fall’s Uber Cool Feminist Heroine: Gillian Anderson’s Stella Gibson

The Fall is one of 2013’s television success stories. The five-part BBC crime drama is a compelling, well-crafted production with a fine cast and a terrific lead performance by Gillian Anderson. Set in present-day Belfast–and also shot on location in the Northern Ireland capital–The Fall chronicles the police hunt for a serial killer of attractive, professional women in their thirties. It is created and written by Allan Cubitt–who scripted Prime Suspect 2 (1992, UK)–and directed by Jakob Verbruggen.

Detective Superintendent Stella Gibson (Gillian Anderson)

Written by Rachael Johnson

The Fall is one of 2013’s television success stories. The five-part BBC crime drama is a compelling, well-crafted production with a fine cast and a terrific lead performance by Gillian Anderson. Set in present-day Belfast–and also shot on location in the Northern Ireland capital–The Fall chronicles the police hunt for a serial killer of attractive, professional women in their thirties. It is created and written by Allan Cubitt–who scripted Prime Suspect 2 (1992, UK)–and directed by Jakob Verbruggen.

Anderson plays Detective Superintendent Stella Gibson, an Englishwoman called in from the London Metropolitan Police to review a high profile PSNI (Police Service of Northern Ireland) investigation into the murder of an architect. When another woman of similar looks and background is found murdered, Gibson takes charge of the investigation. The Fall is not a whodunit like Forbrydelsen (2007, DK) or The Killing. We know the identity of the murderer, a certain Paul Spector, from the very first episode. The viewer’s interest lies instead in studying the killer and watching Stella pursue the case.

The serial killer’s personal and professional lives are “normal”: Spector is a young man in a caring profession with a hard-working wife and two small children. He is a bereavement counselor. She is a neonatal nurse. Capably played by Jamie Dornan, Spector is slender, good-looking and athletic. A good family man, he seems to have a loving relationship with his children. His sweet, sensitive daughter adores him. Spector’s wife, Sally Anne (Bronagh Waugh) does not know that she is sleeping with a killer of women. He does not reveal violent, misogynist tendencies in his family life. Nor does he show evidence of any psycho-sexual hang-ups in his marital relations. Returning home from violating the domestic space of a potential victim, he falls into bed and makes love with his wife. Possessing, it seems, a split personality, Spector leads two very different lives. At times, these lives are sustained simultaneously. In one unnerving scene, he stalks a potential victim in a park with his young daughter in tow. At first, Dornan’s Spector struck me as a little too normal to be credible but there is an intensity and arrogance to his character that suggests a darker side. There have been serial killers from very average backgrounds and the makers of The Fall consistently underline Spector’s chilling ordinariness in their observational study of the killer. The writer Allan Cubitt has created a man–not a monster.

As a writer of a series that introduced the world to Helen Mirren’s Detective Chief Inspector Jane Tennison, Allan Cubitt is, of course, well-acquainted with strong female characters. His Stella is a particularly striking, commanding protagonist. Clad in pencil skirts, silk blouses and stilettos, she cuts an elegant, glamorous figure. Amusingly, Stella’s silk shirts have become a fashion column and pop culture talking point in the UK. The character’s ultra-feminine looks, it must be said, aim to signify authority rather than slavishness to an ideal of femininity. Stella is self-governing and goal-oriented. The English outsider has, in fact, an almost patrician manner at times. Her leadership style cannot be characterized as either buddy-buddy or maternal. Stella is a cool rather than cold woman, however. This is apparent when we see her calmly help a male co-worker recover from a traumatic incident. We admire her poise and intelligence. Stella also shows interest in the lives of her female co-workers. Most importantly, she possesses a feminist consciousness: she exposes misogyny while combating male violence against women.

Murderer and Family Man, Paul Spector (Jamie Dornan) — Murderer and family man, Paul Spector (Jamie Dornan)

Entirely at ease in her skin, Stella is, also, very much a sexual woman. One scene in particular stands out. Spotting a good-looking cop at a crime scene, Stella asks her female companion, police constable Danielle Ferrington (Niamh McGrady) to introduce her to him. When he asks her how long the review will take, Stella tells him point-blank: “I’m staying at the Hilton. Room 203.” It is an impressive, amusing display of female sexual sway. They enjoy their night together but when he makes the mistake of texting a sexy selfie the day after, Stella breaks off contact. She has no interest in pursuing a relationship. Stella is also unafraid of exposing sexual double standards. The one night stand becomes a potentially compromising issue for her male co-workers as the plot develops. Stella, however, detects the underlying reasons for their unease. She puts them in the picture: “That’s what really bothers you, isn’t it? The one night stand. Man fucks woman. Subject man, verb fucks, object woman. That’s ok. Woman fucks man, woman subject, man object. That’s not so comfortable for you, is it?”

Police Constable Danielle Ferrington (Niamh McGrady)

Stella is a rational, self-directed, sexual woman. What is unfortunate is that this particular combination of characteristics in a female protagonist is still rare in mainstream film and television. Unusually, the makers of The Fall have not given Stella a troubled back story or a comforting vulnerable side. She does not appear to be haunted by her past and there is no evidence of alcoholism or other psychological problems. Happily, the script does not seem to support the outdated, bogus belief that successful, professional women can only attain real happiness by marrying and having children. Stella does not seem to be mourning a lost love. Nor does she seem to ache for a child. These tendencies, it must be said, invariably surface in Hollywood and mainstream US television’s characterizations of strong women and it is commendable that The Fall does not take that route.

Stella Takes Charge — Stella takes charge

The Fall could be said to exhibit strong feminist principles. Of course, makers of serial killer dramas risk aestheticizing sexualised violence against women. Although they arguably represent an attempt to get into the mindset of the killer, some may find The Fall’s scenes of voyeurism and violence as suspect as those in more plainly exploitative productions. The Fall is, however, manifestly feminist in its refusal to portray Spector as a monstrous other and in its remarkable characterization of its heroine. It is also evident in the direct way it tackles the issue of victim-blaming. In a conversation with Jim Burns, the Assistant Chief Constable of the PSNI (John Lynch), Stella questions the use of the word ‘innocent’ in describing the killer’s victims:”‘Let’s not refer to them as innocent…What if he kills a prostitute next or a woman walking home drunk, late at night, in a short skirt? Will they be in some way less innocent, therefore less deserving? Culpable? The media loves to divide women into virgins and vamps, angels or whores. Let’s not encourage them.” There are other independent, resourceful women in The Fall and other instances of female solidarity. Stella has a good rapport with pathologist, Paula Reed Smith (played by Archie Panjabi) as well as PC Danielle. We see the latter stung with guilt that she was not able to save a potential victim. Danielle’s sisterly camaraderie even extends to removing the tell-tale signs of Stella’s one-night stand on an errand to her hotel room.

Stella with Pathologist Paula Reed Smith (Archie Panjabi) — Stella with pathologist Paula Reed Smith (Archie Panjabi)

The Fall is not without derivative elements and devices but it is a stylish and quite gritty series. A deeply engrossing thriller, it unsettles, frightens and moves its audience. The Fall’s setting is also interesting. Belfast provides a somewhat tense, moody backdrop. Sectarian conflict is not a distant memory and politics shapes everyday lives. While we may ask whether The Fall provides a particularly pioneering or remarkable study of male violence, it is admirable that its creators are not afraid to emphasize the killer’s normality and masculinity. Most importantly, The Fall has given us a new, über cool feminist heroine. The good news is that there will be another season.

Female Identity and Performance: An Appreciation of Alan Pakula’s ‘Klute’ (1971)

Klute is one of the key American films of the 1970s. Engaging with themes of surveillance and voyeurism, Alan Pakula’s masterpiece is, first of all, an absorbing, suspenseful thriller. It owes its intimidating ambiance, in great part, to Gordon Willis’s extraordinarily skillful and innovative photography. Klute, however, transcends the genre in the many ways it addresses contemporary gender politics; the New York-set neo-noir is both a character-driven study of female identity and sexuality as well as an unsettling portrait of misogyny. Starring Jane Fonda and Donald Sutherland–two of the most interesting cinematic icons of the day–Klute is also an actor’s film. Fonda won a richly deserved Best Actress Oscar for her outstanding central performance.

Written by Rachael Johnson.

Klute is one of the key American films of the 1970s. Engaging with themes of surveillance and voyeurism, Alan Pakula’s masterpiece is, first of all, an absorbing, suspenseful thriller. It owes its intimidating ambiance, in great part, to Gordon Willis’s extraordinarily skillful and innovative photography. Klute, however, transcends the genre in the many ways it addresses contemporary gender politics; the New York-set neo-noir is both a character-driven study of female identity and sexuality as well as an unsettling portrait of misogyny. Starring Jane Fonda and Donald Sutherland–two of the most interesting cinematic icons of the day–Klute is also an actor’s film. Fonda won a richly deserved Best Actress Oscar for her outstanding central performance.

Sutherland is John Klute, a Pennsylvania-based private investigator searching for a missing friend, executive Tom Gruneman. Fonda plays Bree Daniels, his most important lead in the case. Bree, a high-class call-girl with modeling and acting aspirations, has apparently been receiving obscene letters and phone calls from Gruneman. She does not, however, remember meeting him. Bree is also being stalked. The detective offers her protection and their relationship deepens. They soon become lovers. As Klute pursues the case, another prostitute is found murdered, and it is not long before the killer targets Bree.

It must be said that it is not the plot of Klute that stays with you but rather the characters and performances. Equally, the story’s most interesting themes relate to gender and sexuality. Unusually for a mainstream film, Klute is graced with a complex female protagonist. Bree is shown to be a self-determining, self-reliant woman. She seeks out modeling gigs, goes on acting auditions, and makes regular visits to her female therapist. Bree claims that her current work has given her real independence. She is no longer controlled by a pimp and considers her transactions with her ‘johns’ empowering. Early on in the film, we witness Bree negotiate with a nervous commuter client from Chicago. Supremely self-assured and entirely in control of the situation, she is sexually assertive in a dominant, almost maternal fashion. On the city streets, with her seventies ‘shag’ hairstyle, mini skirt and thigh-high boots, she radiates sexual charisma and power. We also learn that Bree used to work full-time on Park Avenue but now only tricks when she wants to. She further maintains that prostitution, on her own terms, has given her a certain psychological autonomy and control. When she tells Klute that she never climaxes with her clients, it comes across as a boast of personal sovereignty. But as Bree falls in love with the investigator and experiences a kind of sensual rebirth, she feels increasingly overwhelmed and disempowered by her feelings. Making love with Klute, she says, is ‘a baffling and bewildering experience’. What is evident, from her sessions with her therapist, is that her insensibility is a mask for mere numbness. Bree, in fact, tells her that she fundamentally wants to be ‘faceless and bodiless and left alone’. Sucked back into the vortex of her old life, she begins to unravel. At one unsettling point, she attacks her lover with scissors. There are also indications that Bree wants to stop turning tricks. In an early scene, we see her angrily ask her therapist why she is still drawn to the life.

Giving a truthful picture of prostitution on the screen is a thorny issue, of course. Many Hollywood films have prettified and sanitized prostitution and the stereotype of the whore with a heart of gold is one of the oldest in the business. Klute has a relatively complex take on prostitution. What it shows is that the prostitute remained a scapegoat for society’s sexual hypocrisies in the 1970s- an era of progressive change regarding gender and sexuality. Bree herself is fully aware of the double standards but she does not see herself as a victim. When she claims that she is very much in charge when she tricks on her own terms, the viewer is confronted with the suggestion that there are women who are not victimized by the profession. Our response to Bree’s statement, of course, depends on our individual attitude toward prostitution. It may be argued that Bree is too articulate and too bourgeois to be a believable call girl but they should remember that there is not one type of prostitute. Klute even shows that the life has an absurd and amusing side. We learn about a wealthy client who visits Bree’s old Park Avenue workplace not to ‘party’ with the girls but to clean the bathroom. Bree’s profession is, however, depicted as a dangerous one and, as specified above, she is evidently psychologically troubled. Klute is not a polemic on the dangers of prostitution but it indicates the omnipresent threat of sexual violence- and homicide- in the profession while pointing out its associations with drug culture. Klute’s stance on sex work may be interpreted in a variety of ways. Does the characterization of Bree as sexually and emotionally disengaged reflect an accurate understanding of the psyche of sex workers or does it represent a disavowal of female sexuality? Does Klute’s associations of prostitution with danger reinforce Victorian ideas of ‘fallen women’ as vulnerable and passive? What is clear is that the watchful, taciturn Klute is intended as a potential savior for Bree.

Klute does not solely offer a portrait of prostitution. It is also an allegory of the female condition in patriarchy. Klute explores the objectification and exploitation of women through the symbolic figure of the prostitute. We are encouraged to see Bree as an embodiment of female sexuality in a hypocritical, sexist society. In this sense, it is actually irrelevant whether she is believable as a call girl. Although drawn as a highly individualistic, complicated character, Bree is manifestly intended to represent universal femininity. There is a feminist consciousness exhibited in the film. It is apparent in an early scene when we see Bree apply for a modeling job. The female applicants are lined up in a row before being openly and cruelly objectified. The way the scene is framed seems to indicate that the aspiring models are treated in a fashion not too dissimilar from women in a brothel. Klute also uses the theme of surveillance to explore society’s objectification of women. Bree is being watched constantly- by her stalker, clients and protector. The practice and metaphor of acting further points to a feminist awareness. Acting is not just an aspiration for Bree but a means of personal and professional expression. It, also, however, masks fragility and emptiness. These psychological weaknesses are not unique to Bree but represent the fractured psyches of women alienated from a still-patriarchal society. Her dilemma is, effectively, an existential one: she is searching for an authentic social role. The character of Bree fuses Actress, Prostitute and Woman. These identities, as we know, have been interchanged throughout Western history. Klute shows how sexually liberated and economically independent American women were objectified, exploited and abused after the so-called sexual revolution of the sixties.

Klute, moreover, offers a sharp, disturbing portrait of misogyny. The villain is not the classic weirdo or social outcast of most movies and crime reports. Played with a reptilian venomousness by Charles Cioffi, the thriller’s sadistic psychopath is an esteemed man of wealth and power. His heart contains an ocean of hate for women and prostitutes are accessible, serviceable targets for his fathomless misogyny. In his final confrontation with Bree, he tries to justify his actions. They are worth quoting in full: ‘You make a man think that he’s accepted. It’s all just a great big game to you. When you’re all too obviously lazy and too warped to do anything meaningful with your lives so you prey upon the sexual fantasies of others. I’m sure it comes as no great surprise to you when I say that there are little corners in everyone which were better off left alone- sicknesses, weaknesses which should never be exposed. But that’s your stock and trade, isn’t it- a man’s weaknesses and I was never fully aware of mine until you brought them out.’ His character, it is quite boldly suggested, illustrates the hypocritical, perverse aspects of heterosexual masculinity.

In the closing moments of Klute, we see Bree leave her New York apartment with her lover. As the outcome seems to fulfill the imperatives of a conventional Hollywood ending, it may arguably be seen as a sell-out. The good, traditional man saves the troubled, wayward woman. Of course, the romantic in us believes that happiness lies with this man of honor and compassion. For the first time in her life, Bree has experienced genuine sexual intimacy and joy with a man. In a wonderfully understated performance, Sutherland gives the quiet Klute a gracious, self-effacing masculinity. Nevertheless, Bree’s closing voiceover seems to cast doubt over a permanent future for the couple. She is perhaps too complex a character to be rescued and her fate remains ambiguous.

Ultimately, what makes Klute most memorable is Fonda’s multi-layered, full-blooded performance. She invests Bree with a remarkable intelligence and plays her with a singular openness and bravery. With her would-be lover Klute, she is alternately satirical, seductive and mocking. In her therapy sessions, we witness Bree’s quest for self-definition in articulate, questioning observations and emphatic hand gestures. Fonda’s performance is equally rich in empathy. Bree’s acting endeavors are shown to be sincere and enterprising. As noted, the character’s worldliness is countered by deep apathy and despair. Her capacity for self-destruction is revealed in an especially striking party scene where she regresses perilously into her old life. To a deafening funk soundtrack, we see a stoned, sweaty Bree weave her way through a crowded club, stop to make out with a stranger and embrace an old girlfriend before surrendering to the throne of her former pimp, Frank Ligourin (a sleazy-handsome Roy Schneider). Fonda’s expressions in this riveting episode are a pitch-perfect blend of brazenness, revulsion, discontent, despair and defiance. Bree’s final confrontation with the murderer is equally unforgettable. Forced to endure the recorded screams of a fellow prostitute being tortured and murdered, she bows her head and silently cries. Terrified yet still trying to maintain her dignity, we watch her wipe away the snot now dripping from her nose. Few Hollywood actresses of any era have been allowed to be as real and raw as Fonda in this scene. In her autobiography, My Life So Far (Random House, 2005), the actress explains that she was crying for all female victims of male violence in these moments.

Klute is a classic that deserves to be revisited again and again. An involving, atmospheric thriller and politically-aware study of female identity, it boasts one of the most original and emblematic heroines in the history of American cinema and features one of the greatest screen performances of all time.

‘Runner Runner’ Runs on Empty

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

Runner Runner promotional poster. — *Runner Runner* promotional poster.

Written by Erin Tatum.

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

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

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

Rebecca spends a lot of time looking glamorous and contemplative.

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

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

LGBTQI Week: The "Q" Stands for What?

This is a guest review by Ashley Boyd.

Note: I use the term queer as an umbrella term for all sexual and gender minorities with an acknowledgment that queer is a historically pejorative term.

SPOILER ALERT! This article includes spoilers for Season 7 of TNT’s The Closer.

The cast of The Closer

As The Closer’s Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson (Kyra Sedgwick), a tough Southern Belle from Georgia, returns to LAPD headquarters this coming July, she will be joined, again, by new and popular recurring character Gavin Q. Baker III (Mark Pellegrino), a lawyer Johnson hired after falling into legal trouble over the murder of a gang member in her custody. The Hollywood Reporter describes Gavin as a “gay, former city attorney-turned-partner in a private law firm.” Pellegrino, known for his work on Being Human, Lost, and Supernatural offers a skillful portrayal of the intelligent yet arrogant lawyer, which fans have positively reviewed.

Mark Pelligrino

The Closer Creator, James Duff, has been a vocal advocate for LGBT representation on television. At a Power Up dinner in which he was honored, Duff had the following words to say:

I know how hard it is to get stories about gay people, lesbians, and transgender and bisexual people on the screen, and people need to see these stories. Not just young gay people, not just young people in the LGBT community but straight people need to see these stories too. They need to know—they need to know that we are a part of America.

According to GLAAD’s Where We Are On TV 2011-2012 Report an annual report about diversity on television, there are 28 LGBT series regulars on mainstream cable and 26 recurring characters. GLAAD credits TNT with three LGBT characters with The Closer having one recurring character: Dr. Morales played by Latino gay male Jonathon Del Arco. Despite its low visibility count, several producers and actors of the series support LGBT rights.

The Closer began with a definitive statement in the pilot episode in which a lesbian living as man is murdered by her unsuspecting girlfriend. The writers frame homophobia as a negative attribute and position Brenda as a supporter of LGBT equality. Throughout its seven seasons, the series has included gay characters, gay actors, and gay-themed storylines that include issues of homophobia, anti-gay violence, and gay activism.

The cast created a PSA about GLSEN’s Safe Space Campaign in response to the high number of gay teen suicides. Prominent gay male actors like Peter Paige (Queer as Folk) and The Closer’s own Phillip. P. Keane who portrays Buzz Watson (character’s sexuality is unknown) appear in the series. Most importantly, The Closer Creator, James Duff, is gay. The last fact makes Gavin’s introduction all the more interesting.

Despite being likeable, Gavin is a problematic character. Because Gavin has never verbalized his sexuality, viewers must rely on clues to decipher his sexual orientation. This is not a difficult task because the series gives quite obvious (and stereotypical) markers of Gavin’s sexuality.

Since the writers do not have Gavin specifically state that he is gay, the question becomes, how do we as viewers understand Gavin as a gay man? Dr. Morales speaks of his boyfriend on several occasions, but Gavin is more of a mystery. How do we know that he is, in fact, gay at all? If one did not read news stories about Pellegrino joining the cast and the introduction of his character, how would we even know? Do we all know a gay person when we see one? Of course not. We may think we do, but really we don’t. More often than not we draw these conclusions based on assumptions that derive from stereotypes about gay people and gender assumptions.

When I say that we rely on stereotypes I mean that we associate certain behaviors, attributes, and characteristics with different genders, like women like to shop and men like their tools (very simplistic, I know). Women and men act (or perform) their gender through how they dress, how they walk, how they converse with others, and so on. These gendered ways of living become expectations for those in the gender group and lead to assumptions about those who present as one gender or another. For lesbians and gay men, the assumptions are reversed. For example, one assumption—albeit a stereotype—about gay men is that they’re feminine. Because we rely on stereotypes to inform our opinions of others, especially groups in which we do not belong, we begin to expect members of this group to behave in the way we assume.

For television and film, we rely on writers to tell us who these people are, and we rely on actors to embody them and to make their experiences believable and relatable. As socialized creatures in an increasingly visual culture we have learned how to read people and to read characters. It’s become second nature that we don’t even realize we’re doing it. We learn at a young age how to differentiate between genders, races, and ages. Granted, this is becoming increasingly more difficult and complicated, but we still do it.

Gavin

Viewers first meet Gavin in the episode “Home Improvement” when Brenda and her husband, Fritz, meet him for a consultation. Gavin presents as a confident, no-nonsense lawyer with a great knack for interior office design (see hand sculpture). His charm and wit are as attractive as his tailored suits. Pellegrino provides the character with deliberate hand gestures and feminine mannerisms along with a slow and snarky speech pattern.

Thus far, Gavin performs stereotypical gay male cues that are so recognizable that they’ve become cliché. It’s almost like they’re saying “We don’t need to tell you that he’s gay because it’s written all over him!”

After a tense yet humorous exchange among the characters about Gavin’s $10/minute fee and $25,000 retainer, Brenda and Fritz rush out of the office with Brenda angrily quipping to Fritz, “Gavin Q. Baker. The “Q” stands for quick!” Although I usually like double entendres, this one is quite puzzling because of its potentially derogatory insinuation. (“Q” as in “quick” OR “Q” as in “queer?”)

Interestingly, there is a concerted effort to physically create this character. Greg La Voi, the series’ costume designer describes, in detail, on his Fashion File blog the inspirations for Gavin’s attire and accessories, such as his signature brooches, diamond pinky rings, and fashionable scarves (as suggested by Duff). La Voi does put a significant amount of work in each of The Closer characters, but Gavin is of particular interest here in that his dress marks a sense of femininity.

As much as I like Gavin I can’t help but be critical of this portrayal. My skepticism about the progressive nature of this character grew larger after the episode “Star Turn” in which a popular teen idol’s (obviously inspired by Miley Cyrus) father dies. The teen pop star’s hit song “Daddy, Say Yes” rises in the charts after her father’s death. Gavin stops by Brenda’s precinct for a visit and fawns over the case:

Gavin: Oh, wait, wait, wait. You’re still working on that case? [singing] Daddy, say yes!

Brenda: Yes.

Gavin: [excitedly] Oh my God. Is that not the worst video ever? I’ve watched it fifty times.

Sigh. A gay man giddy over a teen pop star is so stereotypical that I don’t even know why they did it.

Let’s recap, how do we know Gavin is gay? He uses feminine hand gestures. Check. Sometimes he wears traditionally feminine accessories. Check. He likes teen pop stars. Check. Said that he’s gay? Don’t recall. If a gay man equals an effeminate man than how are we progressing in our understandings of gender and sexuality? This is not to say that effeminate gay men do not exist or that effeminate gay men on screen (and in real life should) “tone it down.” What I am essentially critiquing are associations: the automatic association between gender performance and sexual orientation.

Maybe we’ve evolved as viewers. Do we not need clues anymore? Maybe LGBT people have been fully accepted into U.S. society? Are big announcements such as Ellen DeGeneres’ no longer necessary? On the other hand, are small clues enough? Is it possible to be too subtle?

We all want to come to a place in which a person’s sexual orientation (and gender, race, class, nationality, age, ability, etc.), does not determine their status in society. However, what clues have we grown comfortable with that might actually prevent us from reaching our goal?

Those in the dominant group are often comfortable with these types of characters because they fit the box. We like the box. The box is our safe place. We know what is in the box and the box does not talk back. But when marginalized group members do not fit, we question their authenticity (e.g. “You don’t look gay? Are you sure you’re gay?”). What if a gay person doesn’t fall into a stereotype and never discloses? What do you do then as a viewer? Assume they’re straight? Hold assumptions?

Nevertheless, this characterization is compelling considering that Duff is gay and strongly advocates for LGBT visibility. Why would Duff introduce a character like Gavin that reinforces preconceived notions about gay men? This reminds me of the brouhaha about Will & Grace’s Jack McFarland, a character heavily criticized for his flamboyancy, but interestingly, portrayed by gay male actor, Sean Hayes. Some gay men might be annoyed with yet another feminine-performing gay male on television while others may find empowerment and positive visibility in a character like Gavin. Who knows! Representations of marginalized groups are always a double-edged sword. Everyone wants to be depicted “accurately” and without prejudice or stereotypes, yet when attempts are made, there’s still criticism (like this article).

I began this essay with a strong criticism of Duff’s decision to create this character, but now I am actually quite intrigued about the possibility of queer characters on television that never say they’re queer.

As the final 6 episodes of the series premieres in July, we will see more of Gavin as Brenda’s legal troubles continue. I wait with excitement to see how The Closer says goodbye to its lovely gay lawyer.

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Ashley Boyd has an MA in Women’s Studies. Her thesis focused on the representations of reproductive justice, race, and violence in the reimagined Battlestar Galactica series. Currently unemployed, Ashley spends most of her time applying for jobs, watching television, reading, and writing. She is currently working on publishing chapters of her thesis and landing that dream job!

LGBTQI Week: “All the Pieces Matter:” Queer Characters of Color on ‘The Wire’

(L-R): Detective Kima Greggs (Sonja Sohn) and Omar Little (Michael K. Williams) on The Wire

The Wire is the greatest TV series of all time. Period.

Now, I know I’m not really making some bold claim as many, many, many, many criticshave professed their unabashed love for the crime drama. No other show has painstakingly depicted the complexities of racism, the inner city and the lives of the underclass. It’s a grandiose statement “about the American city, and about how we live together” and how institutional inequities fail social justice.

When people talk about The Wire, usually with awe and reverie, they discuss the sharp dialogue or the nuanced characters or the statement on race and the criminal justice system. And all of that is amazing. But I think what gets lost is that people forget The Wire’s depiction of queer characters and ultimately its statement on LGBTQ rights.

The Wire portrayed complex, fully developed queer characters, something you don’t typically see in pop culture. With my absolute two favorite characters, Detective Kima Greggs and Omar Little – a black lesbian woman and a black gay man – The Wire confronted assumptions and stereotypes of heteronormativity.

Played by Sonja Sohn, an African-American and Asian-American black woman, kick-ass Detective Kima Greggs was a hard-working, smart, compassionate and loyal. Possessing integrity and earning the respect of her colleagues, she’s a fiercely shrewd and efficient police detective working in narcotics and later homicide. And she’s openly lesbian. From her very first scenes, we witness Kima better at her job than many of the men around her. She’s an indispensable member of the Major Crimes Unit. Outside of work, we see Kima with her partner Cheryl, a journalist. Later in the series, we see how work stress (especially after Kima is shot), conflicting goals, infidelity, parenthood and alcohol strain their relationship. After they break up, we see Kima and Cheryl come together to raise their son, as well as Kima’s fantastic “hustler” version of Goodnight, Moon.

The Wire‘s Detective Kima Greggs (Sonja Sohn)

With his signature trench coat, shotgun and trademark whistle, Omar (portrayed by the effortlessly charismatic Michael K. Williams) was a badass stick-up man who everyone in the hood respected, even those who wanted him dead. And he was a proud gay black man. Intelligent, brave, sensitive and funny, he abided by a strict moral code. He loved Honey Nut Cheerios and Greek mythology, loathed profanity and dropped nuggets of wisdom on the similarities between lawyers and thieves and says things like, “Ares, same dude different name” and “You come at the king, you best not miss.” The media is littered with tropes about gay men. Yet here was Omar – a tough, fearless, modern-day Robin Hood robbing drug dealers – who just happened to be gay and broke every stereotype.

The Wire showed both Kima and Omar’s romantic relationships. We witness them laugh, kiss, have sex, and fight. In short, complete relationships. It was great to see to see a gay and a lesbian relationship amidst all the heterosexual relationships. When queer relationships are depicted on TV, they’re often sanitized and peppered with chaste kisses, when the straight relationships are not. Queer characters may be clothed or the relationships are put on the back burner, not in integral part of the characters’ lives. With The Wire, we see queer characters having sex. We see Omar naked. Passion, raw sexuality, and tenderness abound in the queer relationships. We shouldn’t be plagued by heteronormativity and just see straight relationships as the default and queer relationships as peripheral. Queer relationships were entrenched in the series.

It’s also interesting to see how other Wire characters treat homosexuality. When asked by Carver, “If you don’t mind can I ask you when was it that you first figured you liked women better than men?” To which she replies, “I mind.” Detective McNulty praises Kima, telling her the only other competent female detective he ever worked with was a lesbian (ahhh a back-handed, sexist compliment…thanks, Jimmy!) Omar is often referred to with gay slurs like the F-word and C-sucker. When drug kingpin Avon Barksdale finds out from his crew that Omar is gay, he quadruples the bounty on him.Many of the characters seem to view lesbians as masculine, the desired gender, and gay men as effeminate, denigrating the feminine. The portrayal of Kima and Omar question, challenge and subvert these stereotypes.

The Wire‘s Omar Little (Michael K. Williams)

Now, it’s great we’re starting to see more and more queer characters on-screen (Modern Family, True Blood, Grey’s Anatomy, Will & Grace, Glee, The L Word, Queer as Folk, Buffy, Roseanne). Although I desperately wish we were seeing more bisexual (although thank you for Callie Torres, Grey’s Anatomy!) and transgender characters. But usually when we see queer characters, we see white, upper class/upper middle class characters. As if no queer people of color or queer people who are impoverished or even working class exist.

Class and race are so often erased in our media (one of the many reasons Roseanne was so groundbreaking and amazing). Not every queer person lives in Park Slope or West Hollywood attending art gallery openings and having nannies. The Wire depicts financially struggling and impoverished queer women and men of color.

Stereotypes plague queer characters on sitcoms. And yes, sitcoms differ from dramas. Kima and Omar (while Omar does seem too badass to be an actual person) both seem very real. They exhibited foibles and weaknesses along with their strengths. But their relationships didn’t define them. Rather, they were an integral component of their lives. Kima and Omar weren’t beholden to these stereotypes that alert us to “Oh, this is a gay character!” Fully developed and fleshed out, they didn’t fall prey to common tropes.

But Kima and Omar weren’t the only queer characters. Major Rawls, a gay-slur-spewing jerk, is a closeted gay man as we see him briefly at a gay bar. Snoop (Felicia Pearson), the frighteningly ruthless, gender non-conforming soldier in Marlo’s crew (sidebar, my fave scene with her is when she goes to Home Depot), is a lesbian as we learn after Detective Bunk tells her he’s thinking about some pussy and she replies, “Me too.” Both Rawls and Snoop, along with Greggs and Omar, challenge gender and heteronormative assumptions.

The Wire‘s Snoop (Felicia “Snoop” Pearson)

Despite my adulation, The Wire is far from perfect. (Say what??) The Wire boasts strong, complex female characters (Kima Greggs, Ronnie, Beadie, Brianna Barksdale, Snoop) Yet it sadly suffers from a woman problem. As progressive as it is, sexism taints it. Just because a film or TV series contains a “portfolio of ‘strong women’” doesn’t automatically deem it feminist.The Wire often focus on the male characters. While we see myriad perspectives from the male characters, the women aren’t typically offered the same screen-time or scope, often existing peripherally. David Simon himself admitted that his female characters could be called “men with tits.” Ugh. While based on a couple lesbian officers he knew, Simon wrote Kima Greggs “like a man.” We often witness how institutional racism and classism oppress the male characters and how gendered notions of masculinity harm men. Yet we rarely see how sexism impacts the women from their perspective. But the flaws in its depiction of women doesn’t unravel the tremendous good The Wire has done.

As DarkMatter’s Hillary Robbie asserts:

“The characters on The Wiredemonstrate a departure from heteronormative assumptions in television complicated by race. The prospect of seeing homosexual minority couples has remained largely untouched by major media outlets and it is therefore worth applauding. While the series may lack a strong female presence to challenge traditional heterosexual gender roles, the work that it has done involving homosexual partnerships serves as one of the sole examples of normalized homosexuality.”

When asked why he created an out lesbian and a gay stick-up man, creator David Simon responded, “Because gay people exist.” Is there any more perfect reason than that? He went on to say that he knew lesbian detectives and openly gay stick-up men in Baltimore. Whatever failings Simon suffered from not knowing how to write about women, he knew to include gay characters. It shouldn’t be so surprising or groundbreaking. And yet it is for the media too often erases queer (and queer people of color’s) perspectives. And that’s just one of the many reasons why The Wire should be celebrated.The Wire‘s routine depiction of gay and lesbian characters conveyed queer individuals and queer relationships as normal, loving and valid. The Wire refused to make heterosexuality the default sexual orientation.

Weaving diverse voices and social justice issues together in a compelling, thought-provoking, passionate way — that’s what The Wire did best. Too often the media silences and erases queer people of color. The Wire brought those perspectives to the forefront. Quoting Detective Lester Freamon, evolving into the show’s unofficial mantra, “And all the pieces matter.” And so do all the various genders, sexualities, races and identities of the characters involved. Just like real life…or at least how real life should be.

P.S. Michael K. Williams (Omar), who’s incredibly gracious and charming – yes, I’m going to brag for a moment…I was lucky enough to meet him (!!!), as well as Andre Royo (Bubs) and Jamie Hector (Marlo) who were also super nice – filmed a PSA for marriage equality in Maryland. If you’re an Omar fan, you should totes watch it. Oh, indeed.

LGBTQI Week: Swoon

Daniel Schlachet and Craig Chester in Swoon

This is a guest review by Eli Lewy.

Richard Loeb (Daniel Schlachet) and Nathan Leopold (Craig Chester) are enamored with each other. Yet their life is complicated. For one thing, they are two men engaging in a homosexual libidinous relationship in the 1920s, and secondly, they are burgeoning sociopaths. Richard and Nathan desire to commit the perfect crime together and murder an innocent young boy in cold blood for sheer unadulterated thrills.

Tom Kalin’s Swoon is based on a true event, a case that has been adapted by Hitchcock in Rope and Richard Fliescher in Compulsion. However, these two films focus on the psychological makeup of the couple and the court proceedings while purposefully omitting the couple’s homosexuality. Swoon is heralded as one of New Queer Cinema’s triumphs, a film movement that arose in the early 1990s and was lead by openly gay filmmakers like Todd Haynes, Gus Van Sant, and Greg Araki. The transgressive subgenre sought to question heteronormative notions and address queer issues in an explicit way. Kalin chooses to focus on the pathologizing nature of legal and medical institutions and the anti-gay sentiments that were pervasive in the past. Swoon makes use of the transcription of the actual court case, in which it was argued that Richard and Nathan committed the heinous crime because they were deranged perverts filled with unnatural lusts. This is Kalin’s focus, and he proceeds to deconstruct society’s deeply ingrained attitudes.

Swoon’s first scene is a visual whirlwind, a collection of historical footage, gender-bending narrators, and destructive behavior. Richard and Nathan’s romance is invigorated by their petty crimes, but their goal is to take a life, an act they believe will bind them forever. The two privileged men, clearly influenced by Nietzche’s Superman theory, (which in hindsight is most troubling because the pair was Jewish) believe they are above the law and the morals which society is built on. They are constantly in search of something beyond intelligence, something they claim is more pure. Viewers spend a lot of time with the couple, both in their intimate and their despicable moments; so much so that their actions seem uncomfortably real and close.

Swoon reassesses history and the demonization of minorities by dissecting the identity politics of the 1920s, juxtaposing it with anachronistic elements belonging to a different era, like dial up telephones and remote controls. The point of this cinematic device is clear, though Swoon is set in crime-ridden Chicago of the 1920s in crisp black and white, the issues at hand are timeless. Gayness is still seen as something abnormal, an intrinsic default, by many. However, the modern-day parallel is too on the nose at times. The interspersed appearance of several drag queens falls flat, for example. In the 1920s it was unclear what was worse, being a murderer or a homosexual, and Kalin delves into this social frame of mind in a chillingly astute way.

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Eli Lewy is a third culture kid and Masters student studying US Studies. She currently resides in Berlin. She is a movie addict and has a film blog which you can find under www.film-nut.tumblr.com

LGBTQI Week: The Problem with GLBT Representation in True Blood and Lost Girl

This is a guest post by Paul and Renee.

When it comes to GLBT representation in the media, unless a television show is targeted specifically at the community, erasure continues to be the norm. Urban fantasy has moved from a small die hard audience to the mainstream and though we can regularly see shows about vampires, werewolves, fae, and ghosts, there are few GLBT characters and a dearth of decent representation.

HBO’s True Blood and Showcase’s Lost Girl have the most visible GLBT characters on television in North America, in terms of the urban fantasy genre. Though both shows have GLBT characters who have extremely high profiles and a reputation of being extremely GLBT friendly, there are certainly many problematic elements.

True Blood is based on The Southern Vampire Series written by Charlaine Harris. In the novels, Lafayette is killed off quite early and is shamed for participating in a sex party. Thankfully, the character of Lafayette in True Blood has become a staple of the show. Despite being a fan favourite, Lafayette is a character that inarguably fulfills a lot of stereotypes that are aimed at same gender loving men of colour. Lafayette is a cook but he moonlights as a sex worker and a drug dealer. Though he is routinely given some of the best lines to say, he too often falls into the sassy best friend role.

Nelsan Ellis as Lafayette and Kevin Alejandro as Jesus in True Blood

In season three, we learned that Lafayette only started dealing V and doing sex work to pay for the hospitalisation of his mentally ill mother and though the reason is understandable, no other character on True Blood has been forced into this position though they are all working class.

If Lafayette is dogged by several stereotypes, Talbot revels in them. The lover of Russell Edgington (who is an awesome villain but also personifies the depraved, psychopathic homosexual trope), Talbot is a 700-year-old vampire who squeals at the sight of violence. He throws epic temper tantrums over the interior decorating. Someone stamp a rainbow on him and call his unicorn, he’s done. But to quickly fill his shoes we have Steve Newlin – get yourself another trope bingo card because he’s a) a gay man trying to force his attentions on a straight man b) a closeted homophobe, c) a closeted, bigoted preacher and d) getting campier by the episode – have you hit bingo yet? Bet you will by the end of the season, this was just 2 episodes!

The women aren’t free from stereotyping either; Tara finds her love for women and with it an interest in kick boxing – did she get some free dungerees and power tools with that?

I do have to say that not all the portrayals are stereotyped – Eddie subverts many (albeit he exists to serve and help Jason grow) and Jesus more – we don’t see enough about Pam and Nan to see what they fit. But except for Pam, they all fit one trope – GAY DEATH. Yes, there’s a drastic amount of “gay death” on this show. It’s a sad trope that GBLT people rarely live long on the television screen and their sexualty is often the cause of their deaths – and with Talbot (who actually died during gay sex! And to hurt his gay lover), Jesus (at the hands of his gay lover!), Eddie (found by his killers because he hired a gay prostitute), Sophie Ann and Nan were racking up the body count.

But, perhaps the most glaring flaw in True Blood is how the GBLT romances compare with the straight counterparts. True Blood is not a show that is shy about nudity or sex scenes – it is pretty unusual for episodes to go by without at least someone humping someone wearing very little. Eric, Sookie, Jason, Bill, Sam – we have seen them naked and going at it hammer and tongs. But Lafayette and Jesus? The contrast is blatant – even most of their kisses are in low light conditions. They go to bed wearing multiple layers of clothing (in Louisiana, no less) and their scenes together commonly have them sitting pretty far apart and lacking any real physical (or even emotional) intimacy. The emotional distance is very telling in what should be some of the most poignant scenes between them – when Jesus is grieving over his dead friend, when he is risking his life going into Marne’s shop, when Jesus emerges from that shop injured (Lafayette actually ran to hug Tara while Jesus bleeds); you’d expect some emotional angst here. But throughout season 4, you could have mistaken them for roommates, not lovers. This sanitisation is sadly prevalent with gay and bi male couples in television in general – their sex lives are considered more obscene than their straight counterparts, in need of censorship and “toning down.” True Blood’s straight explicitness makes this extremely blatant – with Lafayette and Jesus and even with Sam and Bill’s “Water in Arkansas” dream sequence (that cuts out just before a kiss). The closest we get to any explicit scenes is with Eric and Talbot – again with low light kissing, no nudity and, of course, saved for straight audiences by including the dreaded gay death.

We contrast that with the lesbian relationships and, if anything, we see a different story. But is this putting them on the same explicit level as the straight relationships or is it an attempt to pander to the straight male gaze? If anything, the scenes between women are more sexualised than between straight couples – not because they’re more explicit, but because they are less personal. Nan Flannigan and Pam both have sex (oral sex that doesn’t smudge their perfect make up, no less) with nameless, characterless women. The only actual relationship we have seen between two women is Tara and Naomi – and again, we saw them make out and have sex almost before we knew Naomi’s name. She appeared in exactly five episodes – and not for much of them at that – and in that time they were either having sex or fighting over Tara’s deception. She has now disappeared. Tara and Naomi’s relationship seemed to exist more to show sex and provide Tara with conflict than to be an actual relationship. All of these sex scenes feel even more gratuitous than the majority of the straight sex scenes because they add precious little to plot, story, development or any relationship – they’re there for the sake of the sex.

Rutina Wesley as Tara Thornton in True Blood

I love that True Blood goes out of its way to include so many GBLT characters – yet at the same time they make me cringe. Inclusion of many characters is great – but we shouldn’t be able to go through TV Tropes, ticking off the stereotypes, the tropes and the unfortunate prejudiced portrayals.

In Lost Girl, we move from having a GLBT character as a sidekick to the protagonist. Bo is a succubus – a being which takes life force from others through sexual contact. At first she is only interested in taking energy from evil doers because she has absolutely no control over her abilities. When she discovers that she is actually a member of the fae, and not some sinful freak, Bo begins a relationship with Dyson – a male werewolf. Vying for her attention is also the beautiful human doctor Lauren.

Essentially what develops is a love triangle and, as to be expected, it is far from simple. Bo has good chemistry with both Dyson and Lauren and in the end engages in sex with them separately. The problem then becomes a question of who does Bo really belong with. It is clear from the outset that though she cares very deeply for Lauren, her real love is Dyson. Dyson even goes as far as sacrificing the most important thing in his life – his love for her at the end of season one, in order to save Bo’s life. When they do have a break in their relationship, it is because he is temporarily unable to feel passion for her. It is during this period that Bo explores further possibilities with Lauren, which rather makes Lauren look like second choice.

Lauren is heavily attracted to Bo, but she is searching for a cure for her comatose girlfriend Nadia, who has been in stasis for five years. The first time that Lauren and Bo have sex, it is because Lauren has been ordered to do so by The Ash – the leader of the light fae. This amounts to sex through deception. Unfortunately, this isn’t the last time that sex between women happens at the behest of a man, which reads like cheap titillation. In a break from both Lauren and Dyson, Bo briefly dates the dark fae Ryan and he initiates a threesome, but what the camera focuses on is Bo’s interaction with the woman he procured. Clearly this was a sexual performance meant to please the straight male gaze.

The cast of Lost Girl

One of the most frustrating aspects of same sex love on Lost Girl is its treatment of the relationship between Nadia and Bo. After spending five years looking for cure for Nadia, Lauren is finally successful. However, after Nadia is infected by The Garuda, a few short episodes later, Lauren quickly assents to her desire to die. How are we to believe that Lauren held this faithful love for all of these years and then so quickly agreed that her partner should die? Nadia and Lauren’s feelings for her were determined disposable for the sake of furthering a love story which has clearly already been decided.

Even when Bo learns to control her desire to drain life energy during sex, there are still only two instances of sex between her and Lauren, which pales to the numerous times that Bo engaged in sex with Dyson. Lauren is the fragile human that Bo can potentially hurt, whereas Dyson literally represents everything that is good in terms of protection, strength and healing.

This of course places a premium on the heterosexual relationship over and above the gay one.

And this is perhaps the cornerstone of GBLT depictions in media in general – and certainly in these shows specifically – GBLT relationships are nearly always depicted as secondary to relationships of straight people. They can be there, but they have to take a back seat to the “real” relationships and depictions. Too often this backseat results in characters that are fraught with tropes and are frequently laden with stereotype after stereotype.

We’re happy, after so much erasure, that we’re actually seeing GBLT inclusion – and these programmes certainly do a lot right – but there’s still a lot dogging these characters.

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Paul and Renee blog and review at Fangs for the Fantasy. We’re great lovers of the genre and consume it in all its forms – but as marginalised people we also analyse critically through a social justice lens.

Motherhood in Film & Television: MOTHER

Mother (2009)

This is a guest post from Tatiana Christian.

This review contains some spoilers.

For the past few years, I’ve been slowly immersing myself in international cinema; specifically France, Korea and Japan. So when Bitch Flicks did a call for reviews on films about mothers, I immediately thought of MOTHER (also known as Madeo), a Korean film made in 2009, directed by Bong Joon-ho. Bong Joon-ho is also the mastermind behind another Korean classic, The Host. So naturally, I HAD to watch it, and writing a review for Bitch Flicks offered me the perfect opportunity!

Categorized as a drama, MOTHER centers about a mother, (who is played by Kim Hye-ja) who lives with her 27-year-old son, Do-joon (played by the luscious Won Bin) in the countryside. The film chronicles Hye-ja’s search, after her mentally challenged son is convicted of murdering a local girl, as she attempts to find the real killer.

As expected by the title, MOTHER focuses extensively on Hye-ja’s journey — in the opening of the film, we see her wander out into a field and start dancing. In the next scene, we watch as she’s chopping medicinal herbs, observing her son across the street as he plays with a dog. Her gaze never shifts from him, even as we’re being led to believe that she’s going to cut herself if she doesn’t pay attention.

When Do-joon is hit by a speeding Benz, his mother rushes out to see if he’s okay – even though he’s alright and doesn’t appear to have any bruises or scratches. Even when she’s having her cut treated, she’s obsessive about finding her son, and making sure that he’s okay. And this type of concern is portrayed through the film; such as in the scene where he’s peeing outside and she holds the bowl for him to drink his medicine. This particular scene struck me as rather intimate, as she stares down at his penis for a moment or two before encouraging him.

I found this relevant because in a later scene when Do-joon comes home intoxicated, he crawls into bed with his mother (presumably the only bed in their small apartment), and immediately rests his hand on her breast. She murmurs that it’s “too late” and eventually he withdraws his hand. MOTHER never delves much deeper into the potentiality of incest, and aside from another character teasing Do-joon by suggesting that they’re having sex – that’s it.

However, I can’t really suggest that their relationship is necessarily codependent, as Do-joon demonstrates his independence several times (such as telling his mother to go to sleep when she calls because he’s out late at the bar or confronting her when he remembers that she attempted to kill him as a child). Hye-ja is shown caring and worrying more about Do-joon than he does for her, and he seems not all concerned with the fact that he has confessed to a crime he didn’t commit.

MOTHER is driven more by Hye-ja’s desire to save her child, to protect him based on the belief that he is innocent. (Portrayed as a mentally challenged character, there’s an air of innocence — or general ignorance — to him. For example, when he’s taken to the crime scene and there is a crowd of spectators, he looks out to someone he knows, takes off his mask and begins to wave while smiling — seemingly oblivious to the severity of what‘s happening.)

So Hye-ja takes on the burden of caring; trying to locate a lawyer who will take on Do-joon’s case, trying to convince a police officer who is a family friend to investigate further, sneaking into Jin-tae’s (played by Ku Jin) cabin to search for clues, approaching the friend of the girl Je-Moon (played by Je-mun Yun) who has died, and so on. It’s all rather impressive actually, watching Hye-ja commit to discovering the real story behind the murder, and enlisting the help of Jin-tae (who proves invaluable in her quest) and having no qualms about getting involved, lying or impersonating someone.

Without giving away too much of the ending, she discovers who the real killer is and commits yet another crime in response to the truth she learns. At the end of the film, we see her taking a type of bus retreat with other mothers, and she’s the only person sitting as the others dance in the aisle. In her lap is her acupuncture kit, and she inserts a needle into her upper thigh in an effort to open her heart and let her emotions flow. Soon after she begins to dance with the other mothers, perhaps finally free. But this time, her dancing is more expressive, versus when we see her in the beginning of the film.

According to Horrornews.net: “She is absolutely riveting and roles like this, especially for women, are almost never found in American cinema.”

This quote ultimately summarizes my experience with MOTHER – a film about a mother willing to do whatever it takes to save her child. In many American films, mothers are often portrayed as deranged (such as the biopic Mommy Dearest) or some kind of superhero (based entirely on tropes) mom who does everything for everyone else but nothing for herself (such as I Don’t Know How She Does It, starring Sarah Jessica Parker).

In MOTHER, Hye-ja is a full-fledged character with both flaws and strengths; she’s unafraid, determined and single-minded in her purpose. In the film, we see her attend the wake of the murdered girl to insist that her son is innocent. Expectedly, the family violently confronts her, dragging her off the premises, while cursing both her and her son. In the very next scene, we see the mother has wandered into a nearby graveyard, looking into her compact and applying lipstick so that she can meet up with the lawyer who will help her son’s case.

MOTHER isn’t about the ideal or perfect depiction of a mother and her relationship with her children; MOTHER is about one individual in her search to save her son.

Tatiana loves watching foreign cinema, and thanks to Netflix, she’s definitely gotten to watch a bit more of it too! Currently, she’s the Marketing Director for Side B Mag (an awesome lit mag!), always on the search for literary magazines to submit to and has recently continued her self-study to help her become more proficient in French. Merci beaucoup!

Motherhood in Film and Television: Mothers of Anarchy: Power and Control in the Feminine Sphere

This is a guest review by Leigh Kolb.

The ancient idea that men and women inhabit different spheres based on their biological makeup is rooted deeply in Western culture. In the Nineteenth Century, however, when the Victorian era dictated behavior and the Industrial Revolution changed work, scientists and civilians defined and embraced this idea of True Womanhood. Men’s and women’s spheres were separate—his was public and political, hers was inside the home and maternal. This is certainly not an argument that has died, and one would be hard-pressed not to find the same rhetoric at houses of worship and houses of legislation today. Many representations of women in media reiterate this ideology.

Motherhood is firmly rooted in the feminine sphere—inside the womb to inside the nursery. In the critically acclaimed television drama Sons of Anarchy, the gendered spheres are clear and present. Sons of Anarchy is oftentimes dubbed “Hamlet on motorcycles” since the plot line bears a strong resemblance to Shakespeare’s Hamlet (which is an important note for feminist analysis, considering Shakespeare’s own subversive feminism). As in Hamlet, Sons of Anarchy’s audiences and critics often focus on the protagonist, the “ghost” of his father, his nefarious stepfather, and the men who surround him. The excitement of politics, public tension, violence, and man’s inner struggle always trumps the inner-workings of the home and child-rearing. The power is in the public sphere.

Gemma threatens Wendy. She makes it clear that no one will hurt her son or grandson.

The Mothers of Anarchy, on the surface, have no control. In reality, they have all of the control.

The matriarch “old lady” (the endearing term club members give to their partners) of the California motorcycle club is Gemma (Katey Sagal). She is the Gertrude-inspired character who has married one of the original members of the club, after her husband was killed. Her first husband helped found the Sons of Anarchy motorcycle club after Gemma became pregnant with their son and wanted to settle in Charming, where her parents were from. She may not ride, but her instincts and desires steered the club from its inception. The town’s police chief refers to Gemma as “leaving Charming when she was sixteen and showing up 10 years later with a baby and a biker gang.”

This original group, which spawned numerous Sons of Anarchy chapters after its founding, is referred to as Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club Redwood Originals (SAMCRO).

Tara and Gemma together saved baby Abel’s life, and Jax, his father, holds him.

In the pilot episode, there are explosions, murders, gun runs, back room decisions, and motorcycles tearing up the streets. Of course, one doesn’t need to analyze too much to see the clearly phallic representations of masculinity in motorcycles and firearms. It is also clear that the women in the episode are revolving around the hallmark of True Womanhood—motherhood.

Gemma’s son Jax (Charlie Hunnam) has a pregnant ex-wife, Wendy (Drea de Matteo). As Gemma is driving to check on her, Wendy is in the kitchen injecting herself with a syringe-full of meth. The camera pans out to a very pregnant Wendy with her hand on her belly, relaxed. This is a fallen mother. Gemma finds her in a pool of blood, curses at her, and rushes her to the hospital. At the hospital, Tara (Maggie Siff), a surgeon and Jax’s ex-girlfriend, is tending to Wendy and Abel, who was delivered via emergency c-section ten weeks premature. Immediately the audience is presented with the powerful mother and matriarch, the bad mother (and few things are worse in our society than a bad mother), and the professional mother, who is responsible for keeping Abel alive since his biological mother could not.

Gemma’s maternal instincts are fierce and stinging.

These three pivotal female characters revolve around a baby, and they are portrayed inside—literally and figuratively. The women are inside when introduced to the audience—Gemma is in her car, Wendy is in her kitchen, and Tara is in the hospital. When Gemma wields her knowledge of and power over the club to Clay, they are in the bedroom. The male characters are largely outside—riding their bikes, working on cars, and scoping out new property.

Toward the end of the episode, the men of Sons of Anarchy are engaged in club warfare, and commit brutally violent crimes (involving guns, explosives, and vehicles) as they navigate the changing waters of their club’s purpose and see their territory shifting to guns and drugs.

Tara and Jax have a son, Thomas, and they together raise him and Abel.

Spliced into this plotline are the scenes from the hospital. Gemma has slipped Wendy a syringe with an order to commit suicide (she puts the syringe in a Bible after they pray—religion and piety is also in the feminine sphere). Tara is operating on Abel, inside of him, and starts his heart after it stops.

The masculine sphere is powerful, aggressive, and largely superficial. The feminine sphere, while perceived as less important and less powerful, deals in matters much closer: giving life, manipulating life, and sustaining life. When Jax comes to the hospital to visit his son, he is beat up and bloodied from his duties outside. Tara tells him to clean himself up, and then he can see his son. Tara—who gave Abel his heartbeat, not Wendy—is in control. It’s simply a matter of time before she and Jax are in a relationship and she is clearly an old lady in training.

Gemma looks at an old photo of her and John, Jax’s father and the co-founder of SAMCRO.

While the pilot episode can be examined by itself through a feminist lens, the entire series follows its women with the same watchful eye. What may sound like one-dimensional stereotypes in simple plot descriptions are actually nuanced female characters and plot lines.

Possibly the most obvious mother archetype in Western culture is the Virgin Mary. Sons of Anarchy does a commendable job of avoiding the virgin-whore dichotomy so prevalent in matters of femininity and motherhood. Gemma is a sexual creature and desires sex (one episode even deals with her battling vaginal dryness after menopause), but that isn’t problematic. The show manages to avoid the all-too-often inferred Oedipal nature of Hamlet and Gertrude in the Shakespeare original, showing that a woman can be sexual, and be a mother, and that’s OK.

In season two, Gemma is brutally raped by enemies of the club to divide and destroy SAMCRO. She is lured into the enemy’s hands when a young woman stops her on the road and begs her to check on her baby, who’s not breathing. Lured by her maternal instincts, Gemma rushes out of her car and into the woman’s van where there’s just a baby doll, and she’s knocked unconscious and taken to a warehouse where she’s assaulted. The way that she deals with the assault—secretive and ashamed, yet helped by Tara medically and emotionally—is painful and realistic. Tara was a victim of domestic violence, and the two come together not as victims, but as allies and survivors. When Gemma finally tells her family about the rape, they come together and are more united, not divided. As she explains the assault to Clay and Jax at the family dining table, Patty Griffin’s “Mary” plays softly in the background, conjuring the image of that original suffering mother; however, she is not the pure and perfect image of virginity; she is real, damaged, and whole. This is the True Womanhood, not that of silence and submissiveness. In this depiction, it’s clear that Gemma gains and keeps control and is not the one being controlled.

In an excellent piece at Yes Means Yes, a feminist blogger notes that “The strong women characters are not terminators with breasts, they’re real humans with full inner lives and complicated problems. The plots often explore women’s lives in ways that mainstream shows overlook. And the show humanizes women, like sex workers, who are too often presented as one dimensional.” Indeed, even the porn stars are human in Sons of Anarchy—not just human, but capable of mothering, and mothering well.

SAMCRO becomes affiliated with a porn production company, and club member Opie’s girlfriend (and eventual second wife) is one of its stars. Lyla has a son, and is compassionate in her role as step-mother to Opie’s children. Lyla is a caring mother, and also serves as a catalyst for conversations surrounding the topics of abortion and birth control. For motherhood shouldn’t just be about mothering children, but also about making choices about what’s best for the entire family (which sometimes means not having more children).

In season three, Lyla becomes pregnant and does not want to be (her relationship with Opie is not solid, and pregnancy would end her career in the porn industry, and she wants to work a few more years). Tara offers to take her, and she also is pregnant and decides she wants to schedule an abortion. The entire scene is without judgment or negativity—it’s a clean clinic, and a simple procedure. Tara references having an abortion at six weeks in her previous abusive relationship and that it was “not a baby” at that point. Rarely is abortion presented as realistic in popular culture. Feministing says of the episode, “Most TV shows won’t even present abortion as a viable option and if they do, it’s usually stigmatized and quickly discarded in favor of adoption or keeping the unintended pregnancy.” Later, when Opie discovers Lyla had an abortion and is taking birth control pills even though getting pregnant is her only way “out” of porn, he is angry. But it’s clear that the audience isn’t supposed to be.

Tara ends up not having an abortion, but not because of a moral awakening. She is abducted and almost killed by SAMCRO enemies, and is able to escape by telling the abductors she’s pregnant. After the ordeal, she and Jax see the unharmed baby on an ultrasound, and reconcile. At first, Tara appears to be more submissive after being held captive and choosing to have the baby. As the series progresses, however, viewers see her coming to power in the club by her own choosing. She will mother SAMCRO sons—adopting Abel and giving birth to Thomas—and she will become the matriarch.

Tara is poised to take over Gemma’s position as matriarch.

As central as motherhood is to the various story arcs of Sons of Anarchy, one can’t help but notice that these strong female characters lack mother figures themselves. While Gemma had a mother growing up, she died from the family’s “fatal flaw” (a genetic heart condition). Tara’s mother died when she was young, and she inherited her father’s house and car. Father-son relationships are central to many of the storylines (certainly the relationship between Jax and his father’s letters, a.k.a. his “ghost,” and his relationship with his stepfather Clay; Opie’s relationship with his father, SAMCRO’s other founder; and Jax’s relationships with his young sons). In fiction, male protagonists are often driven by their relationships with their fathers—away from them or toward reconciliation. However, while audiences continue to see more female protagonists, those characters often have no mothers or are more influenced by their fathers or male mentors (The Killing and Homeland on television, for example, or Twilight and The Hunger Games in text and on film).

Of course this is not a new phenomenon. In Shakespeare’s works, “Fatherhood appears in full gamut, but motherhood, especially in the relationship of mother and daughter, is almost, though by no means quite, absent.” Hamlet’s Ophelia just had a father and brother to guide her (tragically), and no mother. Strong women are often portrayed as being on their own.

These reminders of the gendered spheres—men are in public, in politics, connected to their ancestors and to the world around them while women are inside, working in the home and raising another generation to fulfill these same gendered roles—continually romanticize the role of father and downplay the role of mother. So when modern women emerge on screen, even the most complex and nuanced characters such as those in Sons of Anarchy, there’s still the trouble of True Womanhood, at its core, not being rooted to power in connection. Instead, these women are lone wolves, seeking power where they can and how they can, because their mothers could not or chose not to—or perhaps because it’s simply not a narrative that’s at all woven into our culture.

In an interview, Sagal said of Gemma, ”At the core of her, she is a mother to all of these men. As tough and dark as she is – and she will slit your throat for the right reasons – she is big-hearted.” The undertone of this quote is that Gemma cooks big meals, cleans up, and protects her “men.” Tara also grows into the role, serving as an on-call doctor for the club, bringing men back to life who would have otherwise died or been arrested. They are biological mothers to their sons, and mothers to the Sons. While the spheres are in place, the reality of the series is that these mothers may be perceived as being without power behind closed doors while the boys are killing, being killed, and making business decisions, but the power the mothers yield is monumental. Gemma has orchestrated the club from its beginning, and the fourth season ends with Tara standing over Jax at the head of the SAMCRO table. The audience knows the mothers’ roles, but the men often seem oblivious. The same can be said for Shakespeare’s mothers (it’s widely believed that Gertrude had a part in King Hamlet’s death plot). The audience will have to wait, however, to see if Western culture ever gets it right and removes the spheres that give the perception that motherhood lacks the power and strength of a twin-cam Harley.

———-

Leigh Kolb is an English and journalism instructor at a community college in rural Missouri, and has an MFA in creative nonfiction writing. She lives on a small farm with her husband, dogs, chickens, and garden, and makes a terrible dinner party guest because all she wants to talk about is feminism and reproductive rights.

Biopic and Documentary Week: Monster

Monster (2003)

This is a guest post from Charlie Shipley.

“Well, I’ve walked these streets / A virtual stage it seemed to me / Makeup on their faces / Actors took their places next to me”
-Natalie Merchant, “Carnival”

We know the mass-culturally-sanctioned narrative about Patty Jenkins’ directorial debut, Monster: Charlize Theron got “ugly” and delivered a tour de force turn as serial killer Aileen Wuornos that was hailed by Roger Ebert in an effective, rare use of Travers-esque hyperbole as “one of the greatest performances in the history of the cinema.” That quote made it to countless one-sheets and adorns the DVD cover of the film, and perhaps rightly so; Theron’s performance (or “embodiment,” as Ebert puts it) so overwhelms the mise-en-scène and soundscape of the film that Christina Ricci’s stern gaze on the DVD packaging seems little more than a futile attempt to market the film visually as a buddy film gone terribly wrong. Thelma & Louise, this is not.

As is so often the case with art films that reach a wide audience, these cultural metanarratives surrounding the film as a consumer object threaten to overwhelm our consideration of the film itself. For that reason, I’m less concerned with the well-documented “bravery” of Theron’s transformation than I am with the question of whether this film does justice to Wuornos, or if that’s even possible.

It’s not difficult to argue against that possibility. Anytime there are agents in positions of relative privilege attempting to dramatize the life of a person at society’s margins, it’s so easy to colonize and reimagine those lives without regard to their complexity. Even with that enormous caveat, though, Jenkins does a remarkable job here of letting Wuornos the character speak for herself using canny structural and sonic devices to centralize her experiences; we can interpret her opening voiceover – “I always wanted to be in the movies” – as both a wish we know will be fulfilled and a bitterly ironic reminder of the aphorism “be careful what you wish for.” This and other voiceovers serve as a latticework within Monster, lending structure and even beauty to the narrative while allowing us to get a glimpse of Wuornos’s inner life.

This distinction between voiceover monologues and spoken dialogue is crucially important because Wuornos speaks in a desultory, often self-contradictory way that conceals a labyrinthine underlying psychology driven by the opportunism of someone in a literal and emotional fugitive state. In a powerful scene late in the film when Selby (Ricci) finds out the extent of Wuornos’s crimes and tries to plead ignorance, Wuornos makes the seemingly contradictory claims within the span of a few minutes that “you don’t know my life” and “you know me.” The first quote is Wuornos’s attempt to claim that her killings were justified, the second an appeal to Selby to trust her. In this dramatic context and in the context of the biopic genre generally, this distinction (knowing the events of a life vs. knowing a person’s “essential self”) is a subtle but important one. In the world of this film, when spoken dialogue resists clear meanings as in this scene, voiceover serves not to explain away the ambiguity but provide the emotional context for it.

Charlize Theron and Patty Jenkins both gave interviews implicitly confirming that both of these modes of narrative – factual reportage and emotionally honest characterization – were of paramount importance in telling this story about Wuornos. In a way, the titular epithet, “monster,” bridges this gap by taking a label that many undoubtedly applied to Wuornos and giving her the agency within the film to choose the identification for herself in the voiceover at the Fun World carnival.

Just as voiceover provides a fantastical cinematic refuge for Wuornos to articulate her feelings and meanings without worrying about the judgment of others, so too does pop music provide a visual and temporal escape hatch into the realm of fantasy. There is an instrumental score for the film that is used in a somewhat traditional way to heighten dramatic, dialogue-driven scenes, but these music cues are used more often in the latter part of the film. By contrast, the film’s opening and the first meetings between Aileen and Selby are characterized by a deep sense of naïve wonder, culminating in their first kiss at a roller skating rink set to Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing.”

Selby (Ricci) and Wuornos (Theron) at the roller rink

This scene subverts the traditional biopic form by supplementing documented events in Wuornos’s life with a scene that would just as easily fit into a more traditionally feminine-identified genre, romance. It’s placed in the narrative before Wuornos has killed anyone, so the dream of class mobility and migration away from small-town life is especially bittersweet in light of what the viewer knows is to come. This is a theme of Aileen’s pledges to Selby throughout the movie; the promises-turned-fantasies of a better life “far, far away” echo the escapism promised by “a midnight train going anywhere.” There are elements that stretch the bounds of plausible reality as well. To give one example, women participating in a couples’ dance in 1980s Florida and openly kissing in an iconically “family-oriented” space such as a skating rink would presumably not be met with the same level of indifference as it is here. Furthermore, while the songs before “Don’t Stop Believing” are 100% diegetic – that is, coming from within the world of the film – “Don’t Stop Believing” begins as a song being played in the skating rink but continues as the film cuts to Selby and Aileen passionately kissing against the outer wall of the building. Just like Wuornos’s voiceovers provide relief from the naturalistic tension of the more narratively straightforward scenes, the pop music that plays here widens the bounds of what is possible.

These liberties – voiceover and pop music – are often derided as lazy narrative fillers by film critics and screenplay-writing guides alike, but in the case of Monster, they give Wuornos’s character a space within the otherwise relentless film to express herself clearly and put words to her desires.

A powerful intertext to Monster is the song “Carnival” by Natalie Merchant, which is used to great effect in the documentary Aileen: Portrait Of a Serial Killer and which Wuornos requested to be played at her funeral. (It also, if only by association, brought to my mind Bakhtin’s concept of the “carnivalesque,” which one can find in Monster’s elements of interclass contact and vernacular speech but not in its tone.) Merchant’s lines “Makeup on their faces / actors took their places next to me” eerily and concisely summarize the dilemma we face when asking whether a film like Monster can do justice to its subject. I think it can, and I think it does, for while Charlize Theron has indeed “taken her place” next to Aileen Wuornos in the collective consciousness, her commitment along with that of Patty Jenkins to giving center stage to Wuornos and channeling a conscientiously rendered version of her truth leaves us with a complex characterization – deeply flawed, and deeply human.

Charlie Shipley has a B.A. in English with a minor in Women’s and Gender Studies from the College of Charleston. He blogs about mental health, fat acceptance, feminism, and all the things at A Mind Unquiet.

Guest Writer Wednesday: One for the Money

One for the Money (2012)

When I asked my friend to see One for the Money with me, I warned her that critics had not been kind — as of then it had a 0% on Rotten Tomatoes. That’s right, ZERO critics thought it was worth seeing.

Wow, up to a whole three percent!

Why are we seeing it, then?” she asked. “Because the audience liked it.” I told her, “and I don’t fucking care what the critics think because they’re sexist morons about this stuff. Also, we are supporting a female-directed, female-authored movie on an opening weekend.”

Actually, it’s amazing I knew about the movie at all, given how little it had marketed. But I’d been watching Roseanne reruns on Oxygen at the gym and, seeing some ads, I thought it looked fun. It was fun. I would even go so far as to it was “pretty good,” given its clearly limited budget. Not mind-blowing. Not Oscar material. Not Great Art. But well-executed for its genre. Okay, so what’s the dealio with the critical vitriol?

The movie became an excuse for yet another round of Katherine Heigl bashing, including reviews that complained about her being “annoying.” Way to be objective, critics! Now, a few admissions are in order. First, I’ve never read any of the Janet Evanovich books the movie is based on, or been to Trenton, New Jersey. I can’t tell you anything about how accurate the movie is in regard to either, and I don’t really care. I was just looking for an amusing hour and a half, and that’s exactly what I got. The opening title sequence was unappealing, like Sex and the City had thrown up on a James Bond montage : lipstick being shot out of guns and stilettos superimposed over money and such. I didn’t like it, wondered if that was something to do with the book’s aesthetics, and worried that I’d made a terrible mistake.

As the movie progressed, the worst criticism I could come up with was that it was a little dated, with family comedy strongly reminiscent of an Everybody Loves Raymond episode. But Debbie Reynolds was funny as Stephanie Plum’s Grandma, so whatever. And you know what? I started to enjoy the absence of über-irony at every turn. I liked that this wasn’t some unbelievably slick production where everybody lives in patently unaffordable apartments. I loved that Stephanie Plum had a shitty place with a bathroom cabinet that could only hold a single stick of deoderant. I particularly enjoyed the fact that I didn’t have to look at any breasts, but the mancake/suspect dude Plum was chasing took off his shirt. Thumbs way up!

As for Katherine Heigl as Stephanie Plum, she was fine. I repeat, fine. This was never going to be an Oscar-winning performance, but I thought she did a creditable job portraying Plum’s transformation from rookie bounty hunter to tough professional. The mancake dude was good, too, playing it impressively abrasive at first, but letting us (and Stephanie) warm up to him. And there was a cute sidekick guy who showed her the ropes. All fine. A little pat? Sure, but I’m betting the books were too. Such is the genre. In all honesty, I’m still trying to figure out what, exactly, set the critics off. Is it because once she’s got her act together, Stephanie Plum shoots someone, unapologetically? Or because, if she’s going to do that, she’s supposed to be scantily clad and ready for sex at any moment, a la Angelina Jolie in any action flick? But in addition to not taking off her shirt, she also doesn’t squeal cutely while she’s learning to shoot, or do any of the other things women in “chick” flicks are supposed to do. And Plum needs the money, so she turns the suspect in at the end instead of sleeping with him. Maybe, since the movie was fluff, it simply wasn’t airbrushed enough — I mean, we actually see people’s pores! Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because Stephanie Plum is was so much the main character that I can’t really remember the other dudes’ names? No, really, somebody tell me what was so objectionable, without whining about predictability or how “annoying” Katherine Heigl is.

Now, of course, feminists are apt to look to indie flicks for progress, and that’s fair enough; however, popular movies are an important litmus test, too, because, like advertising, Hollywood has enormous budgets that create an enormous influence on society’s gender perceptions. If the movie didn’t get a decent marketing budget, or have production values as slick as (e.g.) RED, or produce the strong opening weekend an action movie would have, it’s still fair to ask how and why and gender and genre play into that. The answer, I suspect, is because it wasn’t an action movie, by traditional standards. Had it been the “chick” flick it was advertised as, I think the critics were fully prepared to bash it anyway (cf. the ridiculous scapegoating of Bride Wars) but I think the movie had it worse, because it didn’t act enough like a “chick” flick. Look, if you don’t like pat genre movies, nobody’s going to force you to see them – unless you’re a critic, in which case, I defy you to look me in the eye and tell me that this movie was worse than any other mainstream action-comedy out there. If this had been Bruce Willis and not Katherine Heigl, I suspect the critics would have been willing to put up with all manner of unbelievable crap – oh, look, they already are! Female-centered movies like this one get bashed enthusiastically, while (e.g.) the fourth installment of the Indiana Jones series – which was actually BAD in most respects – gets kind of a shrug/free pass from critics. Yeah, okay, now they’re willing to have low expectations. Or maybe the explosions counted towards artistic merit.

Disagree.

If you go around demanding that everything in life be Great Art, you’re going to make yourself miserable anyway. But if you claim that’s what you’re doing, and then inconsistently apply the standards, you’re also a hypocrite and, in this case, a sexist twit. A lot of people took it badly that this movie wasn’t pre-screened for critics. But I don’t blame them one bit. Without a big-name male star, the movie was bound to get exactly the treatment it did anyway. But if the definition of equality is that mediocre women’s movies get the same treatment as mediocre men’s movies, we’ve still got a long way to go, baby.

Amanda Krauss is a former professor and current writer/speaker/humor theorist. From 2005-2010 she taught courses on gender, culture, and the history of comedy at Vanderbilt University, and in 2010 was invited to present a course entitled “Humor, Ancient to Modern” at the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute. While she is focusing on her current blog (Worst Professor Ever, which satirically chronicles issues of education and lifelong learning) some of her theoretical archives can be found at risatrix.com.

Oscar Best Actress Nominee: Rooney Mara in ‘The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo’

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is up for four Academy Awards in addition to Rooney Mara’s nomination for her portrayal of Lisbeth Salander: Cinematography, Film Editing, Sound Mixing, and Sound Editing. It has received numerous other awards and nominations.

This piece, by Megan Kearns, first appeared at Bitch Flicks on January 10, 2012.

Lisbeth Salander (Rooney Mara) in The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

Lisbeth Salander consumes my thoughts. I’ve spent the last year and a half reading, writing, analyzing, debating and discussing the punk hacker. As a huge fan of the books and the original Swedish films, I was NOT excited to see The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Hollywood remake.

Plagued by sexist marketing that seemed to focus solely on Mikael and depict Lisbeth as a sexpot damsel in distress, I feared Hollywood would wreck one of the most unique female protagonists in pop culture. With trepidation, I watched David Fincher’s take on Stieg Larsson’s epic. While some gender problems arose, I’ve got to admit I was pleasantly surprised. And it all hinges on Rooney Mara’s performance.

For those who don’t know, The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, the first part in the global phenomenon of The Millennium Trilogy, features disgraced crusading journalist Mikael Blomkvist (Daniel Craig) and brilliant researcher Lisbeth Salander (Rooney Mara) who unite to solve the mystery of a woman who disappeared 40 years ago. The gritty, tense plot fuses with social commentary on violence against women, sexuality and gender roles.

Do we really need an American remake? Fincher, a notoriously obsessive and detailed filmmaker, creates a gorgeous film evoking a macabre ambiance. Trent Reznor’s eerie and haunting score punctuates each slickly stylized scene perfectly. Phenomenal actors fill the screen: Craig, Robin Wright (who I will watch in absolutely anything), Christopher Plummer, Stellan Skarsgaard, Vanessa Redgrave. While everyone does their best, the remake isn’t quite as compelling as the original. I never really felt invested in any of the characters. Except for Lisbeth. The sole reason to see the film is Mara’s stellar portrayal.

Click here to read the full piece.