Fairytale – Bitch Flicks

This guest post by Emma Thomas appears as part of our theme week on Violent Women.

When Once Upon a Time, ABC’s fairytale drama, premiered in 2011, the focus was on Ginnifer Goodwin, fresh off her success on Big Love, and Jennifer Morrison, of House M.D. fame. Yet, fairly quickly, Lana Parrilla became the breakout star.

Morrison plays Emma Swan, arguably the series’ hero, while Goodwin plays her mother, Snow White (it’s complicated). Parrilla plays the show’s antagonist, Regina Mills, otherwise known as The Evil Queen.

Parrilla’s character is like no other on television.

Once Upon a Time flashes back and forth between the characters’ fairytale background in the Enchanted Forest and their modern existence in Storybrooke, Maine.

In Storybrooke, Regina Mills is powerful and complex. With her short hair, power suit, and subdued make-up, she looks every part a business woman. It is not only her clothing that illustrates her control, but also her attitude. She is cold and collected and judgmental from the very moment the show begins.

Back in the Enchanted Forest, Regina Mills is certainly not an in-control business woman, instead she is a violent, sadistic queen, with costuming to match. We see her command mass murders, and even rip out hearts. Regina Mills earns her Evil Queen moniker.

In the present, particularly during the show’s first two seasons, Regina Mills could not be qualified as a “good person” (a title the show adores). She is still manipulative, and still seeking a way to gain control. However, it is important to note, that unlike her sometimes nemesis, sometimes mentor, Rumplestiltskin, it is not power she seeks but control. It is always about control.

This makes sense when one considers Regina’s past. Abused as a child, forced to watch her mother murder her lover, and ordered into a marriage with a king who she physically could not escape, Regina’s tendency toward violence seems almost excusable.

Yet, interestingly enough, the show rarely addresses the connection between Regina’s past and her tendency toward violence. Her background is introduced slowly, and the audience is left to form their own conclusions.

In the past, Regina’s path to control is lined with dark magic. Dark magic is fueled by her anger, and the two intersect endlessly until it is hard to tell whether Regina is controlling the anger, or the anger is controlling her. What is definitive is that the more her power grows the more violent she becomes. With the only person who offered her a loving future dead, there is no one to rein her in.

The one person she has a connection with is her father, a kind man who did nothing to stop her mother’s abuse, but ultimately Regina’s increasingly violent nature wins out — and she murders her father in an attempt to gain more control.

In the present, Regina Mills finally finds inspiration to curb her violent nature. Her adoptive son Henry begs her to become ‘a good person’, and she tries her hardest to make him proud.

At face value Once Upon a Time is a very black and white show, and characters are either “good” or “bad.” Is it possible to change sides? Ultimately, yes, if we believe Captain Hook’s rapid ascension into the good guy club. But, Regina’s journey has not been so easy. Perhaps this is partly due to the fact that Regina herself would state that she is unequivocally bad.

Normally, the bad characters are hated, or at least seriously disliked, by viewers. Just look at William Lewis on Law and Order: SVU or Walder Frey on Game of Thrones. Generally, viewers love to hate evil characters.

Yet, on Once Upon a Time, most viewers love to love Regina Mills. Her violent past is excused by many as just that, the past. Interestingly enough, her violent present certainly exists. In the first season alone she murders a man, she kidnaps a woman, and she (accidentally but still) poisons her own son. Her behavior gradually change as the show progresses, although her acts do not become less violent. Instead, Regina begins to focus less on what she wants internally, and more on what is she, and most notably the good guys, deem is best for the greater good — but even when she’s being good she continues to fight, manipulate, and scheme. Somehow, this behavior is now acceptable, because she is helping the heroes and not the villains.

Why do we, as viewers, accept Regina Mills when her violence is partnered with good characters, but deem her evil when we are told, by the series’ writers, that she is bad? Of course, there are some differences. She hasn’t ordered a mass murder since she became “good.” But, could that be due more to a difference of time period? When the army of flying monkeys was attacking (yes, this show is often weird), the good characters considered it perfectly acceptable for Regina to murder them — and yes, it was murder, because we’d learned that the flying monkeys were human beings placed under a spell. So, mass murder is acceptable when it is in support of good.

Although Once Upon a Time itself does not directly address the complex questions of morality, it does raise them. Why is it acceptable for Regina Mills to kill at all? What is the true differentiation between good and bad? What makes someone evil? Regina was subjected to years of abuse, does that mean her attempt to murder her mother is justified?

And, when years later, Snow forces her to murder her mother, is that OK?

Presumably when she was forced into a marriage with Snow’s father, King Leopold, she was truly forced, likely sexually (this is one of many intense arguments within the fandom). Does that mean it was acceptable to orchestrate his murder?

Why is that worse than attempting to fight, presumably to the death, her own sister. Does the fact that she was was trying to harm Henry and Snow’s baby son make it acceptable?

In many ways, Regina Mills’ path of violence is an unanswered question.

Emma Thomas is a freelance writer, media development associate, and independent producer. Her musings can be found on Twitter (@EmmaGThomas), while her newest film projects can be found at Two Minnow Films.

This is a guest post by Brigit McCone.

Pretty Woman has already been reviewed negatively by Bitch Flicks as “one of the most misogynist, patriarchal, classist, consumerist, and lookist movies ever to come out of Hollywood” and by sex workers for portraying prostitution unrealistically and romanticizing the patronizing “Captain Save-a-Ho” client’s rescuer fantasy. There is justice to these criticisms, but I would like to examine the film more positively from another angle. Pretty Woman consistently shows greater respect for the bodily autonomy of its heroine, Vivian (Julia Roberts), than most traditional portrayals of romance and most feminist portrayals of prostitution. The debate whether Pretty Woman should be considered a feminist classic cuts to the heart of feminism itself: is it a liberation movement that prioritizes the freedom and agency of women above all, or a dogma that dictates gender roles to women? To explore this question more fully, I’d like to address the most common criticisms leveled at Pretty Woman:

Pretty Woman Glamorizes Prostitution!

It says something about our common perception of sex work that the film most often accused of glamorizing prostitution should open with a “dead hooker in a dumpster,” before our heroine is punched in the face and sexually assaulted by a creep who screams, “She’s a whore, man!” when challenged. Would a film be accused of glamorizing accountancy if it opened with a bankrupted accountant leaping to his death from the upper window of an office block? If anything, Pretty Woman may be accused of glamorizing the exit from prostitution, by making a future of monogamy with a patronizing rescuer-john into an unrealistically attractive option. The glossy, Hollywood production values of the film may glamorize prostitution, but only in the sense that Apocalypse Now glamorizes warfare, or Wall Street glamorizes capitalism. I suspect that those who claim to be disturbed by Pretty Woman‘s “glamorizing” of prostitution are actually more disturbed by these key assertions: that a prostitute is an individual, that prostitution is work comparable to other forms of labor and that abuse of a prostitute is the sole responsibility of the abuser.

Vivian’s individuality is shown in Pretty Woman as she proves stereotypical assumptions wrong. She does not do drugs; her backstory involves some bad relationships but no explicit sexual trauma; her intelligence repeatedly surprises listeners. Arguably, this marks Vivian as the exceptional “tart with a heart” cliché, who deserves to be loved and rescued because she is “special” and “not like the others.” I would argue that the treatment of Kit de Luca complicates this reading. Through Vivian, we are encouraged to sympathize and feel solidarity with Kit, a streetwise prostitute and drug addict. Vivian gives Kit a large sum of money at the end of the film, respecting her right to choose whether to spend it on her drug habit. Vivian never dictates life choices to Kit, only supports her self-esteem and encourages her to regard herself as having potential to define her own dreams. Through Vivian’s attitude to Kit, the viewer is encouraged to extend their respect for Vivian’s agency to the agency and individual potential of all sex workers.

Sex worker advocacy groups have long claimed (and it’s now being discussed by Amnesty International and the World Health Organization) that the most effective way to combat trafficking, abuse, and other hazards of prostitution is by decriminalizing it and recognizing it as work, entitled to the same health and safety protections as any other labour. By repeatedly comparing Vivian’s work as a prostitute with Edward’s (Richard Gere’s) corporate work, Pretty Woman reinforces this message, albeit in cutesy Hollywood style. Vivian’s backstory also notably emphasizes that her reason for becoming a sex worker was her desire for financial autonomy and her struggle to pay rent.

Finally, virtually all cinematic depictions of sexual assaults on sex workers fall into one of two categories: those that pay no attention to the abuser’s character and treat him (almost always “him”) as a faceless “symptom of prostitution,” reinforcing the victim-blaming narrative that the heroine attracted inevitable assault by her choice of profession, or those that center the abuser as an “anti-hero” while treating the sex worker as disposable. Pretty Woman does neither. When Stuckey assaults Vivian at the climax of the film, we are already well-acquainted with both characters and understand the assault as a direct expression of Stuckey’s insecure manhood, repulsive entitlement and poisonous resentments, while the assault’s impact on Vivian is sympathetically centered. By allowing us to know both would-be rapist and intended victim, Pretty Woman succeeds in resisting victim-blaming and suggests that the assault of sex workers is an unjust and inexcusable act that reflects the character of the abuser. For that alone, Pretty Woman should be considered a feminist classic.

Pretty Woman Is Materialist!

As a film in which the monetary value of sex and companionship is negotiated, Pretty Woman is inevitably about materialism. But this does not necessarily mean that it is uncritically materialist. The film makes a point of highlighting how impersonal wealth is: “Stores are never nice to people, they’re nice to credit cards.” Vivian’s famous, triumphant confrontation with the shop assistants – “You work on commission, right? Big mistake!” – might be read as glorifying her newfound superiority as rich woman, but it satisfies because it allows Vivian to confirm that the shop assistants were judging her credit card all along. The scene shows Vivian that her personal worth is irrelevant to society’s hostile treatment of her, building her self-esteem. Since Vivian empowers herself in other scenes by implausibly rejecting cash payment to assert personal worth, this anti-materialist interpretation of her shopping triumph feels correct. Pretty Woman repeatedly highlights ironic contradictions between the performance of wealth and the personal self. Edward performs wealth by purchasing the penthouse as status symbol, but he cannot enjoy it as he’s personally afraid of heights. His elite peers can purchase opera tickets as status symbols, but Vivian can appreciate opera as personal taste – by choosing “La Traviata,” an opera about a sex worker, the film also highlights the ironic contrast between society’s mindless appreciation of sex worker pathos in elite entertainment and their mindless hostility to sex workers in life.

Elements in Pretty Woman satirizing materialism, and exploring the hazards of prostitution, are hangovers from the original script, $3000, in which Vivian was a drug addict and discovered Kit overdosed at the film’s end. That version might seem “edgier,” but is it truly edgy to echo and reinforce society’s dominant narrative of prostitution? By adapting $3000 into a commercial romcom, Disney accidentally spawned something far more challenging: a film in which prostitutes aren’t necessarily doomed, and men are individually responsible for their treatment of them. Wealth, likewise, is not presented as automatically good or bad in the film. It is his over-investment in wealth and status that drives Stuckey to become a vengeful would-be rapist. Money can destroy lives, or build “great, big boats.” Kit’s final choice, whether to spend her “scholarship fund” on her dream or her drug habit, shows that money has empowering potential but is no guarantee of happiness. If Pretty Woman‘s beautiful clothes and jewels distract from this message, that is a reflection of the viewer’s attitude to luxury, not the film’s.

Pretty Woman Is Patriarchal!

There can be few images more patriarchal than a white knight riding up to rescue his (usually comatose) princess, claiming her love as his inevitable reward. This is not, however, the ending of Pretty Woman. Pretty Woman ends with Edward role-playing Vivian’s explicitly requested fantasy, and thereby indicating willingness to comply with the conditions she laid down for their relationship. In fully accepting Vivian as his romantic partner, rather than conditionally accepting her as a mistress or object of pity, Gere echoes the “I like you the way you are, so what do I care how you got that way?” philosophy of Marilyn Monroe’s Bus Stop, another underrated affirmation of the bodily autonomy, emotional complexity, and romantic viability of promiscuous women. Whether we believe Vivian’s “white knight” fantasy is cheesy is besides the point; a film in which a woman explicitly negotiates the terms she wants for her relationship, and displays willingness to pursue her goals independently if those terms aren’t met, cannot be considered patriarchal. Whether we believe Edward is a slime-ball who looks like a peeled prawn in the bathtub is equally irrelevant; female emancipation must include the right to have questionable taste in men, or it is no true freedom. Gere serves here as a metaphor for sex work itself: whether one personally finds him icky should not distract from crucial issues of consent and agency.

Vivian displays her willingness to leave Edward and set boundaries on multiple occasions: when he embarrasses her by outing her sex worker status at a social gathering, she dictates the way she wishes to be treated; when he offers her the status of a mistress, she dictates the status of a full equal. Let us never forget that, when the prince rescues her, she rescues him right back. Pretty Woman should also be celebrated as one of the only romances to include explicit negotiation of condom use, initiated by the female sexual partner. By ultimately suggesting that a sex worker’s ethos of “we say who, we say when, we say how much” is the key to success in romantic relationships, Pretty Woman is deliciously subversive. A romantic “happy ending” only serves patriarchal goals if it is a reward, conditional on female compliance and chastity. If it becomes just an individual dream, that any hooker can define and negotiate for herself, then its coercive power collapses. That is the real reason why conservatives howl about the “glamorizing of prostitution” in Pretty Woman. That is why millions of women love and laugh with Pretty Woman worldwide. That is why Pretty Woman deserves to be considered a feminist classic.

Pretty Woman Is Heterosexist, White Supremacist, and Lookist!

Pretty Woman is about straight, white, conventionally pretty people, but it is not derogatory to other groups. While the film’s villain, Stuckey, is indeed short and balding, and this may fuel his competitive resentment toward Edward, Hector Elizondo’s hotel manager, Barney, is also somewhat balding, yet serves as the moral core of the story. Though nominally a supporting character, Elizondo delivers a master class in creating fully realized humanity with a few brushstrokes – subtly suppressed frustrations and resentments that co-exist with, and complicate, his character’s warmth and dignity, leading to a well-deserved Golden Globe nomination for the role. At the film’s end, an unnamed African-American demands the audience’s recognition for his humanity and dreams, while challenging them to define their own. Pretty Woman certainly marginalizes its minority characters, but it does not dehumanize them. For Hollywood, sadly, that remains a minuscule achievement.

Pretty Woman is not a realistic portrayal of prostitution; it is a Hollywood fairy tale and never claims to be otherwise. At the same time, the values that it embodies as fairy tale are both progressive and feminist: recognition of the agency and bodily autonomy of sex workers; categoric rejection of victim-blaming in assaults on sex workers; positive endorsement of a woman’s negotiating boundaries within romantic relationships; positive endorsement of the romantic potential of promiscuous women as life partners; positive endorsement of personal worth as founded on ethics, independent of wealth, education or sexual history. Pretty Woman is a beautiful freak; an accidental anarchy spawned from commercial compromise. To describe Pretty Woman as “anti-feminist,” or to fail to celebrate its feminism, is to prioritize the sexist surfaces of “whores” and “white knights” over real issues of agency, desire and consent. Big mistake. Big. Huge.

Brigit McCone always thought Vivian should have chosen Barney the hotel manager, but recognizes he’s probably married. She writes and directs short films, radio dramas and “The Erotic Adventures of Vivica” (as Voluptua von Temptitillatrix). Her hobbies include doodling and taking romcoms ridiculously seriously.

Tag: Fairytale

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Why ‘Pretty Woman’ Should Be Considered a Feminist Classic