Emanuela Betti – Bitch Flicks

Women with a Camera: How Women Directors Can Change the Cinematic Landscape

What I saw… was the problem women have faced for centuries: the popularity of woman as art subject, not as creator. What critics and award judges seem to love are not so much women’s stories, but women’s stories told by men. Stories in which women’s agency is strictly and safely in the hands of a male auteurs. … We need more women filmmakers — not as a way to fill quotas, but because women’s stories are different, unique, and need to be told.

This guest post written by Emanuela Betti appears as part of our theme week on Women Directors.

The Oscars came and went, lacking (as usual) women nominees in the Best Director category. As a teenager I decided that I wanted to be “the first woman to win the Oscar for Best Director.” Every year, as one man after the other won the coveted award, I also started questioning if my goal had any possibility of materializing. Then Kathryn Bigelow won Best Director in 2010, and (while I obviously had to modify my original plan of being the “first woman”), Bigelow’s victory gave me hope that it could be done — that young, aspiring girls could dream of being outstanding movie directors.

But then again, when I considered that Bigelow had won for The Hurt Locker, I also secretly dreaded that the only way for me to gain any recognition was to make what’s perceived as a “dude” movie: male-centric, revolving around masculine themes, and downplaying women and their personal perspective. “A female perspective will never win,” I thought, and unfortunately I’m still right. Throughout the history of the Academy Awards, only four women have been nominated for Best Director: Lina Wertmüller in 1977, Jane Campion in 1993, Sofia Coppola in 2003, and Bigelow in 2010. The difference between the three women nominees and Bigelow is that their movies were about women. Not to downplay Bigelow’s victory, but as Melissa Silverstein points out:

“When [Bigelow] makes a movie about men at war she gets the win, but when she makes a movie about war with a central female character she gets snubbed.”

Women get awarded for making movies about men, while movies about women — or featuring a female lead — typically receive an award or nominee if they’re directed by men. But this phenomenon (or I could say “tendency”) happens almost every year, and it’s not simply restricted to Hollywood.

When asked to name 5 female directors, Tom McCarthy (director of Spotlight) defended himself by saying, “I don’t want to play that game. There’s a gender gap everywhere … so to put it on the Academy or Hollywood is ridiculous.” McCarthy is right. The Oscars are not the problem; the industry is the problem. While rightly criticized for lack of diversity, the Oscars (or any award shows) are the end of the line, where all the discrimination and prejudice propagated by the industry puts on a gala, and gives itself a little golden statuette. The Academy Awards are simply the symptom of a much bigger cultural problem, in which women’s input or perspective is downplayed, stifled, or treated with lesser importance than its male counterpart. But more so than other art forms, cinema has a huge gender (and race) problem.

As Silverstein pointed out, movies about women directed by men seem to receive higher praise and recognition. Look at the praise surrounding Paweł Pawlikowski’s Ida, Abdellatif Kechiche’s Blue Is the Warmest Colour, or Christian Petzold’s Phoenix. These grand, critically-acclaimed art films, which give off airs of being “important” films about women’s stories and their inner lives, unfortunately left me empty and disappointed. What I saw was a discrepancy between the fabricated victories on screen, carefully crafted stories by men that pulled at our heart strings — stories of women rising from the ashes, or undergoing a sexual reawakening — victories that did not reflect what is happening off screen, where the voices of women directors are often downplayed, ignored, or told to calm down. It’s a hollow victory to celebrate a fictional character’s triumph on screen, while overlooking all the women directors who are relegated to the dusty file cabinets of cinema history. What I saw, when I watched Ida or Phoenix, was the problem women have faced for centuries: the popularity of woman as art subject, not as creator. What critics and award judges seem to love are not so much women’s stories, but women’s stories told by men. Stories in which women’s agency is strictly and safely in the hands of a male auteurs.

I’m not suggesting that men shouldn’t make movies about women, since some of my favorite women-centered films were directed by men, like Robert Altman’s 3 Women (1977), or Stuart Heisler’s Smash-Up: The Story of a Woman (1947). But what’s the deal here? If movies about women sell, and get rave reviews, why aren’t more women making them? If men are capable of giving us such nuanced and complex portraits of women’s lives, imagine what women directors (if they were given more opportunities) could contribute to the discussion. In cinema, revolutionary change does not begin on the screen, it starts with the people behind the camera — change stems from the creators, and when there are so few female creators, there is not much change either. Leigh Janiak, director of Honeymoon (2014), gave a succinct response to the lack of female directors:

“We are influencing culture, which is why it’s so dangerous, I think, not to have more women making movies.”

It’s not the movies, but the filmmakers, who have the power to chance the direction of our cultural narrative.

Producers don’t hire women directors because they assume they either can’t direct an action flick, or that they’ll cry on set. But why push for a woman to direct the next Superman or James Bond film? Why waste female talent on mindless formula movies that cater to teenage boys, when there are many more interesting stories to tell. But that’s one issue with the film industry, which is constantly comparing and trying to hold women up to men’s standards. So who cares if a woman didn’t direct Apocalypse Now or the next Superman. I don’t see any male director giving us Chantal Akerman’s Jeanne Dielman…, Věra Chytilová’s Daisies, Jane Campion’s The Piano, Julie Dash’s Daughters of the Dust, Sofia Coppola’s The Virgin Suicides, Kelly Reichardt’s Meek’s Cutoff, Céline Sciamma’s Girlhood, Ana Lily Amirpour’s A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night, Ava DuVernay’s Selma, or Claire Denis’ Chocolat. A true victory in cinema would not entail women competing with men, or trying to gain membership to the “boy’s club,” but in being able to celebrate women’s stories — their strengths, and their uniqueness — on and off screen. We need more women filmmakers — not as a way to fill quotas, but because women’s stories are different, unique, and need to be told. The female perspective is capable of challenging the dominant point of view, and that’s why women’s contribution matters. No quota or female superhero will fix the gender issue if female agency is not given the focus and respect it deserves.

The Oscars and all the glitzy film awards, then, are not the problem, and they may never matter. What’s more important: joining a club of mostly white dudes, or creating and experiencing art that changes the cultural landscape? Why conform, or downplay women’s creative force and imagination to match the dull guidelines of boring older white men? And most of all, why seek their approval. If we try to infiltrate the system, we run the risk of conforming to it; and when we seek the approval of the system, we become part of it. It may be a while before we see gender equality in the Academy, or even at Cannes. But 10 or 20 years from now, what influences minds and culture will be the artwork, not the awards, or even the critic’s praise. And the art that will be remembered is not chosen by the Academy, but by us.

See also at Bitch Flicks: #OscarsSoWhite: The Fight for Representation at the Oscars

Emanuela Betti has an M.A. in Cinema Studies. She’s a cinema aficionado, part-time astrologer, and occasional eccentric. You can follow her on Tumblr and Twitter @EmanuelaBetti.

Bad Girls Go to Heaven: Hollywood’s Feminist Rebels

Gene Tierney in Leave Her to Heaven (1945) — Gene Tierney in *Leave Her to Heaven* (1945)

This guest post by Emanuela Betti appears as part of our theme week on Unlikable Women.

Hollywood has produced some of the most memorable bad girls and wicked women on-screen—from silent era’s infamous vamps to film noir’s femme fatales—but bad women do more than just entertain, particularly if we’re talking about the sweepingly emotional and excessively dramatic world of woman’s melodrama. The bad girls I will be discussing are different from the exotic vamps of the ‘20s and the dark femme fatales of film noir; while both these types have their own essence of “badness,” it’s the women in melodramas, specifically the woman’s film sub-genre from the 1930s through the 1950s, where you’ll find some of most unapologetic bad girls in cinema.

I will first explain why the vamp and film noir’s femme fatale are not as interesting, or at least not as groundbreaking compared to the bad woman in woman’s film. Although I’m personally fascinated by both archetypes, the vamp and femme fatale are “creatures of prey,” and that prey is always and inevitably a man. The femme fatale is in essence a selfish creature (this is most evident in the vamp, short for “vampire”) and their function is to extract every penny or remnants of a soul from the male character; in short, the purpose of the femme fatale is to cause a man’s downfall. Nothing wrong with that—but in this perspective, these female archetypes can hardly exist if not in relation to, or in the context of, a male-dominated world.

Olivia de Havilland as the twins in The Dark Mirror (1946) — Olivia de Havilland as the twins in *The Dark Mirror* (1946)

The femme fatale also exists in the woman’s film, but due to the nature of the genre, the archetype is in a very different position. The woman’s film is a sub-genre of the melodrama, and is strictly centered around women. The genre takes place within a woman’s world, and the bad woman exists in relation to other women. A common trope is the “double woman,” which manifest as a look-alike or as a sister/twin: a good example are the twins in A Stolen Life or The Dark Mirror. Whether they’re rivals or friends, sisters or twins, the trope of the “double woman” implies that femininity is split into two sides, and the bad woman embodies the negative side of that spectrum.

While film noir tells us that women are dangerous flytraps, the woman’s films give us insight into how Hollywood spoke to women. Specifically in the case of “double woman” films, in which we are presented with a good character and a bad character, the good one always prevailed. Evil or fallen women were not permitted to win, and by the movie’s end, they were subjected to punishment either through death or abandonment. The woman’s film was a genre that allowed female spectators to live vicariously through a bad woman—Bette Davis, Gene Tierney—but by the end, female audiences were taught that being bad doesn’t pay. The path of the good woman was the most prosperous, and only those who submit and surrender get the man. Basically, the “negative” side of femininity was associated with women who did not submit or conform, and Hollywood eagerly discouraged any identification with them.

I am always disappointed and sad when the bad woman, who I usually root for, is finally subdued or destroyed. Yet, the act of being punished brings up a lot of questions: why is she punished, and what for? Not all bad women were murderers, criminals—and most often, they’re biggest fault was just stubbornness.

Jeanine Basinger describes woman’s films as a genre of limitations: the typical environments that these women inhabit are department stores, prisons, but most often these films take place in the home. Although the women may inhabit a woman’s world, they were restricted on every side. Their personality, their environment, and their success are all dictated by a male-governed ideology: women’s place is in the home, and their only career is love and marriage. The bad woman breaks out of these imposed limit: Gene Tierney in Leave Her to Heaven plays Ellen Berent—a sporty, outdoors type—completely defying the convention of a woman relegated to a domestic setting; Dorothy Malone plays Marylee, a promiscuous heiress in Douglas Sirk’s Written on the Wind, dressed in hot pink and flirting with the confidence of a playboy. These characters are punished because according to a male-governed system they go against what is deemed “acceptable” in a woman: they’re aggressive, stubborn, and active (compared to the good girls—Ellen’s sister, Marylee’s romantic rival—who are passive, submissive, and compliant).

Dorothy Malone as Marylee in Written on the Wind (1956) — Dorothy Malone as Marylee in *Written on the Wind* (1956)

Another important aspect of these bad women is the fact that men cannot understand them, which makes them harder to pin down and subdue. It’s not uncommon to see the inclusion of psychoanalysis in woman’s films, with characters described as “mad” or “hysterical.” To pin down unexplainable behavior is an attempt to subdue and control it: we see this in Leave Her to Heaven, in which Ellen’s doctor attempts to understand her lack of maternal instincts; in Cat People, Irena’s aggressive sexuality is described as a supernatural occurrence. The medical gaze, in which a doctor attempts to ascribe a woman’s bad or unusual behavior as a result of mental illness, is very close to the idea of the male gaze. When a woman defies the male gaze, the medical gaze may attempt to explain and understand her, in an effort to “fix” her. As much as on-screen psychiatrists and analysts try to “help” the women, they always seem to fail, never able to pin-point why a woman would want to live outside a male-dominated system. So wanting to go horseback riding instead of cooking dinner meant the woman was evil. But was she, really? Or maybe she was just a woman who somehow managed to dodge every attempt at being domesticated.

Finally, bad girls in woman’s film are similar to femme fatales in some ways: they enjoy men, want men—but don’t really need men. Men often play marginal roles in the woman’s film, usually a romantic interest who is too often overwhelmed by the women’s personalities, and often fail to control the woman. In Jezebel, Bette Davis calls off her engagement numerous time, and always due to the fact that she’s too stubborn to submit to her fiancé’s idea of an “acceptable” idea of femininity. Jezebel, and Ellen, and Marylee are full-flesh women, and their existence is not defined by men—instead, their biggest conflict lies between maintaining their identity or giving it up for their man.

The “bad girl” in woman’s film is not so much a wicked or evil person, but simply a woman who unapologetically inhabits her world, and the belief that she is ruler of that world is her biggest crime. In the end, her defeat is really a victory: she cannot exist in a world in which the rules are set by men. Her final demise leaves the men bitter, because they could never control the bad woman, and she never gave them the chance.

Emanuela Betti is a part-time writer, occasional astrologer, neurotic pessimist by day and ball-breaking feminist by night. She miraculously graduated with a BA in English and Creative Writing, and writes about music and movies on her blog.

Best Frenemies Forever

This guest post by Emanuela Betti appears as part of our theme week on Female Friendship.

Can women be friends? Or, most importantly, can two women who share the same man be friends? The depiction of genuinely loving and caring female friends has found its way onto many movies and TV shows, but when it comes to the idea of a more complex situation—the “frenemies”—it’s harder to find characters that do it justice. There is a shallow notion that when two women want the same man, they turn into hair-pulling, catfighting brats. Some movies, such as Mean Girls, present a world of two-faced friendships and passive-aggressive competitiveness, and although girls and women that act that way do exist, it’s refreshing to see a different take on the “frenemies” trope.

Female characters gain more depth when we realize that, despite their hatred for each other, they are still capable of maintaining a glimmer of respect for their enemy. In the past years, Scandal has been building up two of the most interesting frenemies on TV—Olivia Pope and Mellie Grant. Both women want the same man (President Grant), and both women have a different type of relationship with him—but Mr. President aside, throughout the show the two women develop a complex rapport with one another: one which undoubtedly has many instances of resentment and bitterness, but also a slowly developing sense of respect for the other person. It’s startling to watch Mellie’s resilient self-dignity—yet also vulnerability—when she asks Olivia to help with her husband’s campaign; there is also a sense of empathy on Olivia’s side when she discovers that Mellie was assaulted. If we really have to watch two women fight over the same man, it’s at least a relief when the two women are smart, self-reliant, and civilized beings.

The idea of complex female frenemies is not exactly new to cinema. Two superb foreign thrillers have managed to portray women who are sharing or have shared the same man, but they don’t succumb to the stereotype of the hair-pulling, backstabbing brats. Henri-Georges Clouzot’s Les Diaboliques (1955) and Kim Ki-young’s The Housemaid (1960) present a world in which women are not squealing for a man’s affection, but develop an interesting and emotionally complex alliance with the “other woman.”

Les Diaboliques is a French movie about a wife (Christina) and her husband’s mistress (Nicole) teaming up to murder the husband (Michel). Christina owns and runs a boarding school where Nicole teaches, and Michel exudes his authority as if he ran the place. The story begins as a simple murder story with two intriguing female protagonists, but halfway through it becomes a different movie—a creepy thriller in which the wife, Christina, is haunted by her dead husband’s ghost.

Despite the exciting twists and turns, it’s not so much the murder that drives the film, but rather the strange friendship between the two women. Christina is the typical mousy wife who allows her husband to beat and condescend to her; Nicole, on the other hand, is the typical femme-fatale bombshell, a hybrid between Betty Rizzo and Catherine Tramell from Basic Instinct (and I wasn’t surprised that the role was played by Sharon Stone in the 1996 American remake). The relationship between the women is rather intriguing, if not strange: Nicole was having an affair with Christina’s husband, but that is also what brings the two women together. Both get tired of the husband’s cocky and manipulative ways, so they decide to plan his murder.

During moments of calm, we watch Christina and Nicole discuss like old friends, complaining about him, and coolly remember how they hated each other—how a jealous Christina used to carry a knife around, and how Nicole might have wished for Christina’s death. There is a startling sense of dignity and respect for the other, which is often lacking when we’re faced with two women who competed for the affection of a man. Christina is often depicted as physically and emotionally weak, leading Nicole to affectionately treat her like a younger sister—even maternally, when for example she tells Christina not to bite her nails, in order not to give away her nervousness about the murder. Nicole is the only person that defends and consoles Christina when her husband degrades her in public, and during those moments we observe an unspoken yet mutual understanding between the two women who have been abused and mistreated by the same man.

Housemaid is a South Korean thriller about a young woman who is hired as a housemaid and ends up feuding with the woman of the household. To sum it up, The Housemaid is a long and twisted cautionary tale about the dangers of having an attractive and seductive young woman in the household, and how a casual affair can turn into a deadly game of manipulation. Events escalate dangerously and gruesomely, and even the innocent and sickly wife reveals an evil side. One of the interesting aspects of the story is the twisted relationship between the housemaid and the wife: the housemaid, despite her psychotic nature toward the husband and children, shows nothing but fear and submission in front of the wife. The wife strategically allows the other woman to remain in the household as a means to keep an eye on her and avoid a scandal.

The most twisted part is halfway though the movie, when both women “share” the husband. They’re not exactly friends, but it would be too easy to label them enemies; both women have an unspoken mutual understanding that the husband “belongs” to them, and they manipulate him to get at each other. Both women appear to know what limits the other woman can go to, and that kind of character relationship goes beyond the simple backstabbing teenagers in Mean Girls, or the comic strips in which Betty and Veronica are both tugging at Archie’s arms.

Better Than Two: Female Power Trios in Children’s TV

Power Trios in children’s TV, like duos, are still composed of oversimplified types and characters, yet they also suggest that femininity is not so black and white. Three character ensembles introduce characters types than are on a greyer scale than the polar-extremes of the Light/Dark Feminine trope. In the case of female Power Trios, the formula consists of three characters that respectively represent beauty, brains, and strength. Characters representing beauty are usually ditzy and childish, but they are also sensitive and the mediators (so if they happen to be “dumb” they’re at least depicted with a good heart); characters representing brains are sometimes the group leaders, but also rational without being distant or cold; finally, characters representing strength are usually impulsive and hot-headed, but their rash tendencies are balanced out with a loyal nature.

This guest post by Emanuela Betti appears as part of our theme week on Children’s Television.

One of the oldest tropes in children’s TV is the use of characters that fight or solve crimes as an ensemble. Most notably, the Power Trio, or the three character group, is a popular formula in numerous cartoons and TV shows, from Sailor Moon to the Powerpuff Girls. There are very distinct differences in the depiction of female characters between the two-girl tag-along formula, which you can see in The Archie Show or Scooby-Doo, and the three girl ensemble formula in shows such as The Powerpuff Girls.

One of the most recognizable female duos in children’s entertainment are the iconic frenemies from the Archie comic books and The Archie Show, Betty and Veronica. Despite their mutual adoration of Archie, the two girls are almost polar opposites: Betty is the tomboyish, girl-next-door blonde, while Veronica is the sultry, high-maintenance brunette; Betty is sensitive and caring, while Veronica is often depicted as cold-hearted and manipulative. Female duos in cartoons and children’s TV, such as the Betty and Veronica duality, play on the Light Feminine and Dark Feminine trope: the idea behind the Betty and Veronica duality implies that a woman is a tomboy or a bitch, a sweetheart or a vixen—but never both. The Betty and Veronica duality could be interpreted as safe female vs. dangerous female: the stereotype that the “safe female” (laid-back, tomboy, funny) is un-dateable, while the “dangerous female” is a guy-magnet but incredibly uptight. Another popular female duo in children’s TV can be seen in Scooby-Doo: Velma is the unattractive but intelligent female, while Daphne is the dumb beauty queen. The stereotype is obvious: smart girls are unattractive, and pretty girls will never be smart. When it comes to children’s TV and cartoons, the oversimplification of characters and character traits is usually excusable, but a simplified character doesn’t necessarily have to be a (mostly negative) stereotype.

The problem with dualities—for the sake of contrast—leads to broad generalizations. Mad Men’s “Maidenform” episode, in which the men point out women in the office and classify them as either a Jackie or a Marilyn, is a great example of how women can be easily placed in distinct categories; but generalizations are not accurate, and they imply that the Jackies can’t share any traits with the Marilyns, and vice versa—but Jackie Onassis was a fashion icon, and Marilyn Monroe used to write poetry, so categorizing women is not always that simple. This either-or depiction of femininity is, to say the least, very limiting. Female duos imply that a girl or a woman cannot favor both beauty and brains, but must choose between one of the two. In a sense, the “duo” (as the word implies) is a two-dimensional representation of the feminine: a woman is either intelligent/safe, or dumb/sexy. What is missing is a gray area.

There are countless TV shows and cartoons that feature three girl ensembles, not to mention five girl ensembles, which are an almost different story. Although the trope is typically reserved for children’s entertainment, it has leaked into teen and adult movies and TV shows as well, such as Charlie’s Angels and Charmed. Female Power Trios are extremely prominent in anime, with Sailor Moon paving the way for color-coded magical warriors or witches, and Western animation following suit with shows such as Powerpuff Girls and Totally Spies.

Anime has countless examples of power group/ensemble series. The Power Trio in female-oriented anime was widely popular with the Magical Warriors anime subcategory, most notably with Sailor Moon. While the completed Sailor Senshi group is composed of five girls, the majority of the first season focuses on the trio composed of Usaki/Moon, Amy/Mercury, and Rei/Mars—respectively, they represent beauty, brains, and strength. The last two girls to join the group, Makoto/Jupiter and Minako/Venus, represent a blend of two of the three traits: Sailor Jupiter is a tough fighter, but at the same time also sensitive and easily infatuated; while Minako is similar in appearance to Usagi, but is more level-headed and rational. Several other anime series, some inspired by the Sailor Moon craze, feature color-coded female Power Trios (some turn into five character ensembles): Futari wa Pretty Cure, Tokyo Mew Mew, and Ojamajo Doremi, to name a few. Western animation has its own good share of female Power Trios. Josie & the Pussycats, Totally Spies! and The Powerpuff Girls all follow the same structure: sassy redhead as group leader, tough no-nonsense brunette, and childish but sensitive blondes. Even Australian TV with H2O: Just Add Water features a milder version of the Power Trio with three teenage mermaids who each represent one of the three traits.

The Power Trio females typically feature characters with abilities that are valued in their own distinct forms, rather than basing their personal advantage (beauty/brains) through comparison with their opposite (dumb/ugly). In that sense, Power Trio are better than the two-girl formulas, since trios rely on teamwork and collaboration, rather than rivalry. Unlike the female duos, Power Trios suggest that female characters can possess a larger spectrum of abilities than simply the generalized smart/dumb notion.

Girl Gangs Are Mean: Teenage Girl Gang Movies Through the Years

While most teen movies revolve around coming-of-age stories, gang movies reveal the extreme side to adolescence—the misfit, criminal, and violent side. Gang movies are rather simple, either focusing on episodes of gang debauchery, or revolving around rivalry and jealousy. Usually the viewpoint is that of the ring leader, or the “new girl,” who is initiated into the gang but is still an outsider. Yet, among the plethora of girl gang movies, every decade has produced stories involving specific issues and specific types of teenage girls.

This guest post by Emanuela Betti appears as part of our theme week on Child and Teenage Girl Protagonists.

One of Roger Corman’s first films, Swamp Women, was a 1955 crime story revolving around a gang of female convicts. There has hardly ever been a lack of female gangs in films — in particular, teenage girl gang movies became increasingly popular starting in the 50s, which led to numerous movies on the subject that span different generations. If there is a genre in which teenage girls have never been lacking representation, it’s gang movies.

Yet, that representation has varied and changed throughout the decades, ranging from high school delinquents to outlaw bikers. While most teen movies revolve around coming-of-age stories, gang movies reveal the extreme side to adolescence — the misfit, criminal, and violent side. Gang movies are rather simple, either focusing on episodes of gang debauchery, or revolving around rivalry and jealousy. Usually the viewpoint is that of the ring leader, or the “new girl,” who is initiated into the gang but is still an outsider. Yet, among the plethora of girl gang movies, every decade has produced stories involving specific issues and specific types of teenage girls.

The 50s and the Rebellious Years

An abundance of films and B-movies related to gangs and juvenile delinquency was released in the 1950s. The films produced at that time reveal a growing anxiety about teen rebellion. While Reefer Madness was a propaganda film about the dangers of marijuana, movies such as The Violent Years and Girl Gang were propaganda films about the threat and danger of rebellious teenage girls, and the dramatic consequences of being part of a female posse. The girls were portrayed as violent criminals, on par with their male counterparts — driven by teen angst and restlessness. Gang movies in the ‘50s were heavily moralistic: films such as The Violent Years and High School Hellcats blamed juvenile delinquency on parental neglect and dysfunctional families, while teenage gang members usually suffered a tragic fate. The Violent Years (written by Ed Wood) was particularly exaggerated in its tragic ending: Paula, leader of the gang, becomes pregnant, is jailed for murder, and finally dies in childbirth — yet, still has the insolence to look at the screen and ask, “So what?”

The 60s and Biker Gangs

Girl gang movies of the ‘50s were particularly judgmental, until the 1960s rolled in with the biker film craze. Three all-female motorcycle gang movies were released in the same year: The Mini-Skirt Mob, She-Devils on Wheels, and The Hellcats in 1968. Compared to ‘50s gang movies, female biker movies of the ‘60s indulged in the gang fantasy rather than pressing moral lessons on the viewer. There are no schools or parents in biker movies—the gang is the family. The girls in biker gangs are a tight-knit posse, led by an Alpha female who bosses and uses men to her liking; the idea of assertive and domineering girls has carried on from the ‘50s, but without judgment. Despite the popularity of the biker genre, the depiction of adolescence in biker films was essentially unrealistic, and indulged in a fantasy rather than a truthful portrayal of teenage girls.

70s and Switchblades

In the 1970s, gangs ditched their motorcycles and stocked up on switchblade knives, moving back into an urban setting instead of the open road. Probably one of the most iconic gang movies, Switchblade Sisters, is about the Dagger Debs, an all-female city gang led by Lace. The story revolves around the arrival of new girl Maggie, who joins the Dagger Debs and slowly begins to take over leadership. For a gang movie, Switchblade Sisters has a complex storyline, filled with power struggles between characters — Lace becomes increasingly jealous of Maggie, Patch is a sly manipulator, and Maggie goes from a quiet girl to a cold-hearted leader. Although the world of Switchblade Sisters is also unrealistic, the political turmoil of the ‘60s and ‘70s is strongly evident in the darker tone of the story and the characters’ actions. At one point, we are introduced to a Black Panther-inspired gang, which we also see in another popular gang movie, The Warriors.

Although The Warriors focuses mainly on male gangs, there is one female gang in the movie known as the Lizzies. They are also armed with switchblades and knives, and they lure gang members by seducing them. Again, female gang members retain the exaggerated image of the Alpha female that they have been given since the ‘50s.

Teenage Royalty

From the 1980s on, “gangs” become high school “cliques” led by the popular girls. We first see high school girl cliques in the Pink Ladies from Grease, which was a throwback to ‘50s teen gang movies. In 1988, Heathers presents us with yet another elite girl clique (the Heathers) who are the most popular and envied girls in school. Although Heathers is a humorous take on teen movies, Veronica (Winona Ryder) is the closest depiction to an “actual” teenage girl since the biker and switchblade girls: she vents her hate for the Heathers on her diary, and has a teen romance with the typical bad boy. Jawbreaker and Mean Girls are both told through the point of view of the new girl. They begins as a socially awkward outsiders but slowly (like Maggie from Switchblade Sisters) take over the spotlight of the original queen bee.

While previous gang movies were driven by gang rivalry and dominance for territory, the modern high school girl gangs are at war for social status. Teen angst is present, but rather than expressing it through vandalism and crime, it’s expressed through different means — they ditch the switchblades, and their weapons are gossip, manipulation, and backstabbing.

Notorious Teens

After a long period of “teenage royalty” girl gangs, in the 2010s, two movies tackled girl gangs in a different light: Spring Breakers and The Bling Ring. The stories still revolve around beautiful and privileged girls, but instead of fighting for high school popularity, they gravitate toward a criminal lifestyle. The girls in Spring Breakers commit armed robbery, while the members of the Bling Ring steal expensive goods from celebrities’ homes. Modern girl gang movies are not indulgent fantasies or exaggerated portrayals of high school life — the new girl gangs embody a sentiment among many teenage girls: the desire for material things, and most of all, notoriety. The girls in Spring Breakers feel entitled to wealth, while The Bling Ring girls follow their desperate obsession for celebrity status.

Revenge of the Pussycats: An Ode to Tarantino and His Women

Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction — Uma Thurman in *Pulp Fiction*

This guest post by Emanuela Betti appears as part of our theme week on Male Feminists and Allies.

I’ve often considered Quentin Tarantino the new Russ Meyer for various reasons: bringing exploitation cinema to mainstream screens, their unconventional humor and unique storytelling, and in particular for their celebration of women. Roger Ebert called Russ Meyer a feminist filmmaker, and although Tarantino never openly called himself a feminist, many of his films place women at the center of the story. Just like Russ Meyer’s films, Tarantino’s women are the stronger sex: they are sharp-minded, better fighters, and always outsmarting their male counterparts. The men, on the other hand, often underestimate women, like Ordell in Jackie Brown or Stuntman Mike in Death Proof, resulting in them being the butt of the joke.

Watching a Tarantino movie is like watching the 1973 Battle of the Sexes tennis match, in which Billie Jean King defeated Bobby Riggs, proving that women are just as equally skilled and able as men. In many Tarantino movies, the idea of gender equality is prominent in many ways—take for example the two screenplays written by him before his directorial debut: True Romance and Natural Born Killers. Both stories revolve around a Bonnie-and-Clyde outlaw couple; however, the female characters are not merely ornamental girlfriend, but “partners in crime,” as in both genders are equally involved in the story. Later, we see the theme of outlaw partnership between Jackie Brown and Max Cherry, when at the end Jackie tells Max, “I never lied to you … we’re partners,” and also with Pumpkin and Honey Bunny in Pulp Fiction. A partner is a more respectable role, because she’s not there for the male protagonist, but is a protagonist with him. The idea of equality is present in another way, taking for example Kill Bill and Death Proof. In these two movies, the main characters are doubles: Beatrix and Bill are both equally able fighters, while Zoe Bell and Stuntman Mike are both professional stunt performers, and are equally prepared to react to a dangerous situation.

In a recent Natalie Portman interview, the actress shed some light on the fallacy of Hollywood’s idea of a feminist character, saying that a woman kicking ass is not necessarily feminist, it’s “macho.” I agree, and projecting male qualities onto women is not about celebrating women’s strengths. When looking at Tarantino characters, we see female characters with strong motives and personal qualities, who are strong, smart, yet still very complex. I will focus on his most women-centric films: Jackie Brown, Kill Bill, and Death Proof.

Jackie Brown

Like Pulp Fiction, Tarantino’s follow-up movie Jackie Brown was a love letter to cinema (Blaxploitation) and its icons (Pam Grier). The opening sequence is a reference to The Graduate, in which we see a character “gliding” through LAX. Like the movie it references, Jackie Brown is a story about age—getting older, and dealing with that stage in life. While The Graduate is about entering adulthood, Jackie Brown is about middle-age, or entering middle age. We see the theme of aging in Max Cherry, but mostly in its female title character and protagonist. Jackie Brown was an homage to Pam Grier and her character Foxy Brown, and although we still get a glimpse of Foxy Brown’s nerves of steel and fierceness, in Jackie Brown she is an older version, worn down by age and a lousy job as an airline stewardess. Her gender is not so much an issue though–Detective Dargus mocks Jackie not so much for being a woman, but her age, and her less-than-impressing accomplishment in life. Yet she still possesses a sharp mind and infallible instincts, which is why she’s one step ahead of every other character.

Jackie’s main antagonist is Ordell, who underestimates Jackie and women in general. Tarantino has the ability to surprise, not only with story, but also with character development. We begin with a middle-aged black woman working at a small airline against a gun dealer who has big money and no scruples; but Jackie’s toughness begins to unfold, while Ordell’s “cool” and control begin to unravel–even Melanie, a minor female character–sees through Ordell’s pompous attitude and tries to outsmart him by plotting to steal his money. At the end, Jackie comes at the top, while Ordell becomes the butt of the joke.

Kill Bill

Tarantino has said that his movies belong in two different universes: the real world (such as Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction, and Jackie Brown), and the “film world.” The Kill Bill movies are the first Tarantino stories to take place in the “film world,” which is a universe based on Tarantino’s adoration for past genres. Every Tarantino movie is a love letter to cinema, and just like Jackie Brown was an homage to Blaxploitation, Kill Bill was a love letter to the Shaw Brothers, samurai and yakuza movies, Sergio Leone and spaghetti westerns. Beatrix Kiddo/The Bride is one of the toughest female fighters in cinema, but in contrast to Hollywood’s one-dimensional kick-ass female characters, she defies the stereotype of the “macho-feminist.” She is a very tough fighter, she is cold-blooded, but at the same time she is also a very complex woman. With a strong female lead, Tarantino could have easily relied on her as the sole woman in the story, but the movie is packed with interesting female characters. There’s Vernita Green, who is almost a parallel of the protagonist: she quit her job as an assassin and has a daughter, but is still a cold-blooded fighter when confronted with the Bride. There’s Gogo Yubari, the teenage bodyguard, who is more lethal than all the Crazy 88 put together. O-Ren, a female yakuza leader, is given a tragic backstory, which is also tainted in revenge, and offers a compelling view into her character’s development. Despite being a woman and leader of the Tokyo yakuza, her gender seems to hardly be an issue–the only complaint she receives is about her mixed heritage, not her gender. In the world of Kill Bill and Tarantino’s narrative style, women are not “the Other,” and the fact that a woman could lead a yakuza army or be the best fighter in the world is not unusual, and maybe even expected.

Volume 1 is about the Bride’s rage, while Kill Bill Volume 2 is about the emotional development of the characters: we are shown the desires and vulnerabilities of the protagonist and her enemies. While initially presented as a deadly killer, we finally see the Bride’s complex development: she begins as a naïve pupil, blushing at Bill’s every word, but begins building a tough skin under Pai Mei’s teaching. The main female villain in Volume 2, Elle Driver, is also another parallel to the Bride–they’re both blonde, they were both Bill’s girl–but at the same time, they’re opposites. Elle Driver has all the negative aspects of a female killer: she’s a back-stabbing, dirty fighter. Elle Driver is also obsessively clingy about Bill; she is based on Patch from Switchblade Sisters, who was a second-in-command character, just like Elle Driver feels like second-best in the eyes of Bill, and her desire to kill the Bride is a competition fueled by her jealousy.

In Volume 2 we see most of the Bride’s development and emotional complexity. The various interactions between the Bride and Bill, during the dress rehearsal and at his home, reveal her conflicting feelings for him; at times she has nostalgic affection for Bill, but she never allows those feelings to sway her goals. While being a cold-blooded assassin, the Bride is also capable of strong maternal instincts when it comes to her daughter, especially when she fears for her child. The Bride is a complex character who can balance toughness and vulnerability, resisting stereotypes or clichés. She is a woman who undergoes multiple symbolic deaths–first, on the eve of her wedding, and then when she is buried alive, but she is reborn stronger and more determined.

Death Proof

Death Proof was criticized heavily, and some considered it Tarantino’s worst movie. The movie was protested by Scottish women’s groups, including the Scottish Women Against Pornography (SWAP) and Scottish Women’s Aid, due to the portrayed sadistic violence against the female characters. In Tarantino’s response to the backlash, he admitted that slasher films do have a bad reputation for being misogynistic, but slasher/horror movies also have the Final Girl trope, or the “investigative gaze,” which is often overlooked. Slasher movies are the Big Mac and fries of cinema—they’re fast, cheap, and give you what you ask for. However, the Final Girl is the most redeeming trope in a mostly misogynistic genre. We see this trope of the “investigative gaze” used twice in Death Proof: first with Arlene, when she spots the suspicious Stuntman Mike, and then with Abernathy. It’s easy to assume that the protagonist of the movie is Stuntman Mike, since he is present throughout the story, but the true protagonists (or heroines) don’t show up until half-way through. Tarantino starts the story with the first trio of women (Jungle Julia, Arlene, and Shanna), who are brutally killed by Stuntman Mike after a night of drinking. The violence exerted on the first group of women is what you can expect from a typical slasher—violence and gore—but it also served as a plot device to establish the merciless and dangerous antagonist. Stuntman Mike’s reason for finding sadistic enjoyment in mutilating women is never explained, but it’s well depicted that he is the embodiment of the male gaze: creepy voyeuristic tendency, stalking and finding pleasure in objectifying his victims.

The second half introduces us to a new group of women—the heroines of the story. The “three girls” device is very typical of Russ Meyers (which he used in Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! and Beyond the Valley of the Dolls). In Death Proof, Abernathy, Kim, and Zoe are the new pussycats. Like the previous women, they are also targeted by Stuntman Mike, and subsequently chased and attacked. But this time, the women are on par with their aggressor—they can drive just as fast, and they’re just dangerous as him. The car chase between Stuntman Mike and the women is incredibly exciting, because now the roles have been reversed—the women are the ones chasing Stuntman Mike, creeping up on him the same way he stalked and crept up on the previous women, and when they catch up they’re not forgiving. As much criticism this movie has received, when you watch the women exulting at the end, there’s no doubt that this is a movie for women, and not against them.

Tarantino has created dynamic and interesting female characters throughout his cinematic career, celebrating their strengths, personalities, and never presenting gender as an obstacle—instead, being a woman in his stories is often an advantage. Tarantino’s portrayal of women is based on developing them as characters and individuals, rather than focusing on their gender and their weaknesses.

‘Slumber Party Massacre’: Deconstructing the Male Gaze

Slumber Party Massacre came up while I was searching for female directors in the exploitation genre. Although it came off as yet another sensationalistic and gory 80s slasher, it stuck out, mainly due to its ridiculous title or the fact that most of the characters were female. Upon viewing it, what shocked me was not so much the gore and violence, but I was surprised by the clever humor, the funny characters, and most of all the incredibly veiled feminist satire.

The women of Slumber Party Massacre in the locker room — The women of *Slumber Party Massacre* in the locker room

This guest post by Emanuela Betti appears as part of our theme week on Cult Films and B Movies.

Slumber Party Massacre came up while I was searching for female directors in the exploitation genre. Although it came off as yet another sensationalistic and gory 80s slasher, it stuck out, mainly due to its ridiculous title or the fact that most of the characters were female. Upon viewing it, what shocked me was not so much the gore and violence, but I was surprised by the clever humor, the funny characters, and most of all the incredibly veiled feminist satire.

The movie was written to be a mock parody of exploitation movies, as well as a satire of masculinity in the slasher genre. However, the movie was marketed as a straight slasher movie, which ended up causing a lot of mixed opinions: while reading through reviews, some critics brushed off the movie as a boring slasher with gratuitous T&A, while others actually caught the humor and satire, and revered its feminist perspective. Slumber Party Massacre is actually a very feminist movie, and it’s a biting satire of the male gaze that exists in cinema. Through its witty and clever humor, the movie deconstructs the prevailing sexism and masculinity in the slasher genre, offering one of the most entertaining feminist exploitation movies ever made.

Slumber Party Massacre is very women-centric: both in the characters and the women behind the scenes. The film was directed by Amy Holden Jones, one of the few female directors to delve into the exploitation genre, and written by feminist Rita Mae Brown. This fact alone should make you want to pay attention to the small details, which in this movie are actually not that small but thrown right into your face.

The story revolves around Trish, a young high school girl who throws a slumber party at her house, and Valerie, Trish’s neighbor, who doesn’t attend the party and spends a boring evening at home. As you can already guess, the girls at the slumber party are eventually harassed by a silent killer. The movie begins in a typical suburban neighborhood, and we are introduced to Trish’s bedroom. Trish is the stereotypical image of innocence and femininity: her bedroom is full of plush toys and fluffy pinkness. We then move to a school setting in which we are introduced to Valerie, who is somewhat of an outsider to the popular group of girls led by Trish, but is an essential character in the story.

She doesn't see the dead body — She doesn’t see the dead body

One of the first scenes that made me raise an eyebrow was the shower scene: after gym class, the girls are in the school showers, where we see a lot of T&A, and not even in a clever or artistic way. That scene confused me—I couldn’t understand why a movie directed and written by women would objectify the female body in such a demeaning way. Maybe, at the end of the day, the director just wanted to make a buck? And didn’t really care? I later realized that nudity (and objectification) is actually a very important element in the story, along with sexual innuendos. An example is the killer’s weapon of choice, a 12-inch drill which he sometimes holds in suggestive places (like his crotch, as a phallic metaphor). Also, there are countless instances in which boys from Trish’s high school, or the killer himself, are staring, spying, or quietly watching the girls. I realized that the gratuitous nudity was not so much for the gratuity, but to directly point out how this group of girls is the target of a voyeuristic threat, and are purposely being objectified through these male character’s gazes to show that they are in fact the victims of the killer’s drill, but also of the male gaze. There is a scene that says it all, in which the kids walk past a dumpster where the body of one of the victims is lying in the trash, unnoticed. The movie is about what we see and what we don’t see, or more specifically, knowingly watching and unknowingly being watched. This is the basis for the concept of the male gaze in cinema, which is finding pleasure in looking at a person as an object, who becomes the unwilling or unknowing victim of the gaze.

What makes this movie such a clever satire is the twist placed on the male gaze, which we see in Valerie. The objectification of Trish and her friends is emphasized by the contrast with Valerie and her younger sister Courtney (probably the most interesting female character in the whole movie) who are actually the ones doing the objectifying. During the evening, Courtney pulls out an issue of Playgirl from under her sister’s bed, and later on, both girls casually look at full-page spreads of naked men. Trish and Valerie are opposites, not only in their personality and social life, but also in their role with the gaze. Throughout the movie, we never see Valerie naked, and there’s a good reason why; while Trish is the passive victim of the gaze, Valerie is the bearer of the gaze, she enjoys looking at pictures of naked men and is immune to the killer’s gaze. Valerie is the true heroine of the movie, and she saves the day by finding an equally phallic weapon (a machete) and “chopping off” the killer’s drill, basically castrating him metaphorically.

If there were are any doubts on whether Slumber Party Massacre is an intelligent feminist satire or just a regular slasher, all questions are answered when finally, after the killer goes on a bloody rampage without speaking a single word, he finally utters some of the most horrifying lines: “All of you are very pretty… I love you,” and “you know you want it, you’ll love it.” Those seem like the words of a rapist, and although the killer didn’t rape any of the girls, he did violate them: just like a rapist victimizes a woman by violating her body, the male gaze, which roams rampant in Hollywood cinema, violates women on the screen by turning them into objects.

Along with sharp satire and sharp commentary, Slumber Party Massacre is full of clever humor. There’s the scene where Valerie is relaxing at home, watching an old slasher movie while she’s a character in one herself (and the events on TV seem to sync up with what’s happening next door). Then there’s Courtney grabbing a drink from the fridge without noticing a dead body inside, or one of Trish’s friends eating a slice of pizza over the delivery boy’s dead body. Amy Holden Jones and Rita Mae Brown do a wonderful job at providing entertainment and humor, alongside a refreshing and sharp feminist viewpoint. If there’s any movie that made me respect cheesy exploitation movies, it’s this wonderfully cheesy slumber party slasher full of pizza, nudie magazines, and girls chopping off metaphorical penises.