Fatherhood – Bitch Flicks

Frankenstein and His Bride: Mapping Maternal Absence

However, Whale challenges Shelley’s automatic association of the maternal with the absent female: the Bride’s rejection of Frankenstein’s monster shows that the maternal can be absent even when the woman is present, while the blind man’s nurturing care suggests that man can embody the noblest maternal impulse.

As the daughter of pioneering feminist Mary Wollstonecraft, Mary Shelley inherited radical ideas about the intellectual abilities and sexual freedoms of women. She learned these ideas from her mother’s books rather than her presence, however, because Wollstonecraft died soon after her birth. Anne Mellor points to compelling evidence that the undated events of Frankenstein are set over the nine months of Mary Shelley’s own gestation, in 1797, with the date of Victor Frankenstein’s climactic death coinciding almost exactly with Mary Wollstonecraft’s. Created lovelessly as a theoretical experiment, Frankenstein’s monster is the ultimate icon of the unmothered child. Mary’s own beloved father, philosopher William Godwin, would disown his teenaged daughter when she became pregnant by married poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, a deeply personal betrayal that contradicted his theoretical conviction in anarchy, and motivated Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin to rename herself Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. Mary Shelley was thus shaped by the trauma of parental rejection as a result of her sexuality, an experience common to girls of the 19th century and queer youth of the 20th.

How appropriate, then, that the greatest screen adaptation of Frankenstein should be the work of a gay man, James Whale, whose own identification with Shelley’s monster is explored in fictionalized biopic Gods and Monsters. Though there have been adaptations more technically faithful to the novel, none has been truer to its central pathos of maternal absence. It was because Whale acknowledged him as the film’s emotional core, that we now associate “Frankenstein” with the abandoned monster rather than his egoistic creator. Where Mary Shelley’s monster rapidly acquires educated speech, while his stigma is a physically undefined “ghastliness,” Whale’s monster evokes intellectual disability by his realistically slow learning, and his distorted physique equally provokes the audience’s ableism, luring them into complicity with the persecuting mob and challenging them with their own temptation to reject the “monster.” In sequel Bride of Frankenstein (whose very title suggests the monster as “Frankenstein”), Whale demonstrates his sympathetic understanding of Shelley’s emotional identification with her monster, by casting Elsa Lanchester in the dual role of Mary Shelley and the monstrous Bride. However, Whale challenges Shelley’s automatic association of the maternal with the absent female: the Bride’s rejection of Frankenstein’s monster shows that the maternal can be absent even when the woman is present, while the blind man’s nurturing care suggests that man can embody the noblest maternal impulse.

Elsa Lanchester as Mary Shelley and as Bride

“The Body,” the acclaimed episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer‘s fifth season that portrays the death of Buffy’s mother, features a symbolic art class in which Dawn is instructed to draw the negative space around an object, rather than the object itself. In art teaching, drawing negative space is a recognized technique for breaking preconceptions and allowing the viewer to perceive with fresh accuracy. In a society that chronically undervalues the labor of motherhood, drawing its negative space is one technique for reassessing its worth. Opening with the narrative of a polar explorer who has abandoned his loving sister for territorial conquest, Frankenstein portrays the execution of a girl falsely accused of infanticide, the destruction of the monster’s bride and the murder of Victor Frankenstein’s own bride in vengeance. It may well be claimed that Shelley’s entire novel is a mapping of the negative space surrounding female nurture.

By choosing to bring forth the Bride (in the novel, Victor destroys the Bride before she’s completed), Whale develops Shelley’s theme from woman’s absence into her rejection, touching on painful legacies of maternally rejected queer and disabled youth. Frankenstein’s monster is created with a brain labelled “abnormal,” raising issues of inborn and predestined sinfulness, yet his violence is always directly provoked by cruel treatment and maternal absence. In Bride of Frankenstein, Whale conflates Mary Shelley with her monster through their joint embodiment in Elsa Lanchester, insightfully converting the Bride’s climactic rejection of Frankenstein’s monster into the author’s rejection of herself. To become adult is to assume responsibility for self-parenting. Because adults instinctively base their self-care on the model of their own parents, many suffer for life from absent nurture in youth. Frankenstein’s monster seeks a Bride-mother-lover to supply his lack of parenting, but the new monster is as lacking as himself. Though women are often imagined as unlimited sources of nurture, rather than humans wrestling their own psychologies, James Whale allows his Bride to be broken. Those to whom nothing is given, have nothing to give. Bride of Frankenstein should be celebrated for powerfully reclaiming the maternal as a learned capacity and a voluntary commitment, rather than an automatic quality of womanhood.

Elizabeth (Mae Clarke) rejects Boris Karloff’s “monster”

From its eerie opening of grave-robbing, Frankenstein cuts straight to the rejection of the female, as Henry Frankenstein (Shelley’s Victor Frankenstein is renamed Henry, while friend Henry is inexplicably Victor) writes to his fiancé Elizabeth, instructing her to wait for him: “My work must come first, even before you. At night the winds howl in the mountains. There is no one here.” In its howling winds, the film evokes Shelley’s endless polar wastes, visualizing fields of masculine achievement as deserts of desolation. Though his own father assumes that Henry must have abandoned Elizabeth for another woman, his scientific research is a substitute for all women, perhaps echoing William Godwin’s substitution of philosophical theories of liberation for personal support of his daughter’s freedom. As Henry successfully animates the monster, he cries out, “In the name of God! Now I know what it feels like to be God!” As Christianity teaches that we are sons and daughters of God, so Henry’s assumption of the divine role is surely the ultimate assuming of responsibility for self-parenting, leading to catastrophe precisely because of the deep flaws in his internalized parental model. Boris Karloff’s monster is justly iconic, his sinister appearance contrasted with the mute yearning in his eyes, his palms spread and beseeching for warmth, whether of companionship or simple sunlight. The instant that his monster becomes burdensome, Henry’s first impulse is abandonment: “Leave it alone! Leave it alone!,” displaying an assumed freedom to disengage that is typical of society’s model of fatherhood.

Shelley and Whaley question whether a man who has abandoned family for science can successfully parent his scientific creations, as Shelley’s prologue describes herself parenting the novel Frankenstein. Where Dr. Frankenstein understands public work and domesticity to be in opposition to each other, a patriarchal logic that segregates male and female, Shelley and Whale suggest rather that maternal care is demanded inseparably of both public and domestic spheres. It is Henry Frankenstein’s assistant Fritz, a hunchbacked “dwarf,” who viciously torments the monster with a burning torch, perhaps acting out his own parental model of hostility and rejection. Unlike Shelley’s novel, in which the monster kills as calculated punishment for Victor Frankenstein’s abandonment, Whale presents the monster’s first killings as justifiable self defense. Escaping the tortures of Frankenstein’s laboratory, the monster encounters Little Maria, a young girl who accepts him as a playmate. Through Little Maria’s moving acceptance, in the absence of parental supervision, Whale implies that intolerance must be learned from parental models. Little Maria shows the monster how flowers float, and he accidentally drowns her in compliment to her flower-like beauty. Meanwhile, Henry Frankenstein is driven back to his fiancée by revulsion at what he has created. Leaving Elizabeth at the monster’s mercy, by protectively locking her into her room, illustrates how counterproductive Henry’s efforts to control life have become. The film ends with the iconic image of a mob with burning torches, united to persecute the outsider and avenge the death of Little Maria. As the mob sets fire to Frankenstein’s windmill, Whale dwells on the monster’s agonized screams, panic and isolated death. He then cuts to Henry Frankenstein’s being tenderly nursed by a flock of maids and his loving fiancée, ending his masterpiece with harsh contrast between the abandoned and the cherished.

Meeting the maternal man: “Alone: bad. Friend: good!”

Bride of Frankenstein opens with Mary Shelley narrating the sequel to her tale to Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley, in a setting of elegant luxury–a choice that foregrounds the story’s female authorship. Marvelling at Mary Shelley’s youth and femininity, Byron booms: “Can you believe that bland and lovely brow conceived of Frankenstein?” Yet, though Byron postures in his grinning celebrity as “England’s greatest sinner,” it is the woman, Mary Shelley, who has truly suffered for unsanctioned love. When Byron brands her “angel,” she smiles enigmatically: “You think so?” Whale’s portrait of Mary Shelley revels in her dainty, feminine appearance and twinkling grin, before unveiling her secret kinship with the monster through her reincarnation as his Bride. Fading from Shelley’s luxury to Frankenstein’s burning windmill, from which the monster makes his improbable escape, we witness two women in the persecuting mob: one who weeps at the “terrible” sight, and another who gloats that she is “glad to see the monster roasted to death.” What sharper illustration that woman is “naturally” neither merciful nor cruel, but individual? Henry Frankenstein is lured back to science by the amoral Dr. Pretorius, who has grown life “from seed” to create a menagerie of shrunken authority figures. In this empowerment fantasy, the overbearing, lecherous king can be plucked from his targets with tongs, while the squeakily disapproving bishop may be bottled in a jar. By shrinking authority figures to ludicrous insignificance, Dr. Pretorius is giddily liberated from the constraints of social conditioning: “Sometimes I have wondered whether life wouldn’t be much more amusing if we were all devils, with no nonsense about angels and being good,” recalling Elsa Lanchester’s skepticism, as Mary Shelley, when described as an angel.

By introducing a second creator figure rebelling against nature (Dr. Pretorius and his menagerie are not in the novel), Whale allows the procreation of two men: “Together, we will create his mate!” Meanwhile, the wandering monster shows self-loathing inability to nurture himself, by attacking his own reflection in a pond, before finding kinship with a compassionate, blind man in the forest. The blind man welcomes the monster, assuming a maternal role: “I shall look after you, and you will comfort me.” Through the excellence of his care, and the rapid progress of the monster under his tutoring, we understand that the maternal is a nurturing quality independent of sex. Men like Dr. Frankenstein do not lack maternal nurture as a fact of their maleness; they willfully reject it in their pursuit of fortune and glory, the social rewards for masculine achievement. In Whale’s ending, it is those who have found mutual nurture – Henry Frankenstein and his fiancée Elizabeth – that Frankenstein’s monster chooses to spare, while those who are unable to care for others – Dr. Pretorius, Frankenstein’s monster and the Bride – “belong dead.” Though they center male characters, Shelley’s novel and Whale’s films reverse male priorities, elevating the maternal to reign supreme.

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein is credited with inventing science fiction, while her follow-up, The Last Man, founded sci-fi dystopia. After more than a century of male-dominated authorship, science fiction continues to obsessively echo Shelley’s themes of fatherly inadequacy and the vain hubris of the inhumanely over-rationalizing man. Like the persistence of Ann Radcliffe and Lois Weber’s Final Girl in the male-dominated horror genre, or the inability of female creators like Kathryn Bigelow to rewrite the masculine conventions of action film, this persistence of female themes in male-dominated sci-fi demonstrates the power of a genre’s original creators to fix its conventions and shape its expectations. The cultural contributions of female creators like Mary Shelley may be undervalued by society but, like mothers and maternal fathers, they’d leave one hell of an absence.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AkSbwiKP3mo”]

Brigit McCone covets the Bride of Frankenstein hairdo, writes and directs short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and hanging out with her friends. Friends: good!

‘I Am Ali’ : An Intimate Look At an American Icon

Ali was not, it seems, an uneasy, distant patriarchal figure. His masculinity was characterized by deep emotional expressiveness. Lewins’s employment of beautiful family photos, home movies and those engaging recordings serve to reinforce the impression.

Poster of I Am Ali — Poster of *I Am Ali*

Written by Rachael Johnson.

Only children should have heroes and heroines, but if there is a hero worthy of worship it is Muhammad Ali. Ali was not only a supreme boxer; his extraordinary charisma granted him enormous celebrity outside the ring and he transcended his profession to become one of the most important cultural figures of the ’60s and ’70s. Ali was, and remains, a symbol of Black pride and consciousness in both the United States and abroad. Even today, young people from Cuba to Ghana are familiar with his name and achievements. Ali was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease in the early ’80s but it has not prevented him having an active public life. He became an advocate for those with the condition and devoted himself to humanitarian work. Ali is now a revered figure in the United States but this was not always the case. Many in the white establishment and mainstream media hated him. They saw Ali’s conversion to Islam as a threat and despised him for refusing to fight in the monstrosity that was the Vietnam War. The boxer was punished for refusing military service: his heavyweight title was taken away from him and he was banned from boxing for four years from 1967 to 1971. On the sorrowful day Ali leaves us, hypocrites who reviled him will, no doubt, express condolences and the mainstream media will try to depoliticize and deradicalize him like they did with Mandela.

There have been numerous narrative and documentary films devoted to Muhammad Ali. The most well-known biopic of this century is probably Michael Mann’s Ali (2001) starring Will Smith in the title role. There have also been several excellent documentaries on the boxer. The recently released documentary, The Trials of Muhammad Ali (Bill Siegel, 2013) examines the political fight Ali had outside the ring when he refused to fight in Vietnam. Note that the television film Muhammad Ali’s Greatest Fight, also released in 2013, deals with the legal battle. Many documentaries have studied his legendary fights inside the ring. When We Were Kings (Leon Gast, 1996) examines Ali’s celebrated 1974 fight against George Foreman in the Central African nation then called Zaire (the present-day Democratic Republic of Congo) although it does so much more than anatomize the bout. It is a stirring portrait of an epoch-defining cultural and political event. Although it also examines the public, political Ali, Claire Lewins’s I Am Ali (2014) focuses on the boxer’s private self.

I Am Ali features interviews with people close to Ali, among them his former manager, Gene Kilroy, trainer, Angelo Dundee (who died in 2012), brother, Rahaman Ali and son, Muhammad Ali Jr. Crucially, the documentary gives voice to Ali’s ex-wife, Veronica Porsche, and daughters Hana and Maryum. There are not many profiles of male boxers that feature female public and/or private voices. Lewins has also greatly benefited from access to taped recordings of conversations Ali had with his children. Intended as childhood audio journals, they lend an incalculable poignancy to the film. I Am Ali is, in fact, extremely moving. Hearing the boxer singing Mamas and the Papas songs with 3-year-old Hana makes you cry. Commentary by his daughters indicate that Ali was a great father despite his hectic travelling schedule. Maryum and Hana describe a playful, loving personality. Ali was an inspirational man to his loved ones too. We hear him asking Maryum when she was little: “If everyone’s born for a purpose, what do think you were born for?” Ali was not, it seems, an uneasy, distant patriarchal figure. His masculinity was characterized by deep emotional expressiveness. Lewins’s employment of beautiful family photos, home movies and those engaging recordings serve to reinforce the impression.

As a husband, the younger Ali was, reportedly, more complicated. Although an intimate portrait of the man, the documentary does not examine his marital and romantic life in depth. Lewins, however, rightly allows a tearful Veronica to describe her “fairy tale days” with Ali and more painful ones: “He’s a really good-hearted person, very sensitive, and I guess I’m crying because of his situation now. You know, and I’ll always love him, I mean not like ‘in love’…we’ve always been friends. It became hard to live with him because, everyone knows, the whole world knows, he wasn’t faithful as a husband. There’s a story to that too, but I think but he’s an incredible human being. He has a beautiful heart…” Is I Am Ali hagiography? Perhaps. What is clear, though, is that Ali was, and is, much loved by people close to him.

Clare Lewins not only incorporates private, female voices in her documentary; I Am Ali also features an interview with a boxing fan, Russ Routledge, from Newcastle in the North East of England who once stayed with Ali in his home in the States. In doing so, she exhibits both a feminist and populist consciousness in her portrait of the boxer. The British director, further, examines Ali’s warm relationship with the United Kingdom. Lewins tells the improbable tale of his visit to South Shields (also in the North East of England) where his marriage to Veronica was blessed in the local mosque. This is of personal interest to me as it is the town where I was born.

Although it focuses on the private Ali, the documentary also addresses the public and political aspects of the man. I Am Ali is graced with fantastic iconic shots of the boxer and remarkable archival footage of powerful old interviews and speeches. Ali spoke out against racial injustice and the documentary features a potent, witty speech on white supremacist indoctrination by the boxer. It examines his growing political awareness and chronicles his conversion to Islam as well as his refusal to fight in Vietnam. Ali’s refusal to fight, in my mind, remains the most courageous thing he has ever done in his courageous, wonderful life. I Am Ali features the boxer’s memorable statement about his decision: “Why should me and other so-called negroes go ten thousand miles away from home here in America to drop bombs and bullets on other innocent brown people who’s never bothered us and I will say directly no I will not go ten thousand miles to help kill innocent people.”

I Am Ali is, perhaps, not the finest documentary about the legendary boxer. The fascinating and thrilling When We Were Kings remains a personal favourite. It is is, nevertheless, an insightful and tender exploration of both the public and private Ali. Giving voice to the man himself and those closest to him, it is a deeply emotional ode to both family love and noble ideals.

The Volatility of Motherhood in David Cronenberg’s ‘The Brood’

For Cronenberg, Candy represents the symbolic order and influence of the father, precisely what Nola wishes to eradicate. Candy is supposed to come “home to mommy” and have no fatherly influence. The characters in the film are defined by rigid gender constructs, or alternatively, through their attempts at living up to them.

This guest post by Eli Lewy appears as part of our theme week on The Terror of Little Girls.

The association between women and reproductive activities is a common theme in horror films. Female genitals have been perceived as mysterious and uncanny by men during the course of Western history. In Canadian film director David Cronenberg’s 1979 film The Brood, Nola, a wife and mother, is in a psychiatric institution where she uses Dr. Raglan’s methods of psychoplasmics to manifest her emotional and psychological troubles physically. Nola has failed in her role as a nurturing mother to her daughter Candy, and being a loving stable wife to her husband Frank, a leading cause of her psychological fragmentation. Nola’s inner rage and pain causes her to form an external womb-like sac that gives birth to evil children with whom she shares a telepathic bond. Nola’s ability to give birth parthenogenetically[1] is what constructs her as “monstrous.” Her womb, one of the primary symbols of biological womanhood, is constructed as being a volatile space filled with danger.

In The Brood, Frank, Nola’s husband, attempts to act as the protector of his daughter Candy against the evil mother, Nola. For Cronenberg, Candy represents the symbolic order and influence of the father, precisely what Nola wishes to eradicate. Candy is supposed to come “home to mommy” and have no fatherly influence. The characters in the film are defined by rigid gender constructs, or alternatively, through their attempts at living up to them.

Frank, who has recently separated from Nola, is discriminated against in the judicial system even though his wife is far from capable of nurturing Candy. When Frank attempts to take steps against Nola and get full custody of his daughter, his lawyer plainly tells him that he has no legal rights to deny Nola of her mothering responsibilities as “the law believes in motherhood.” The filmmaker suggests that even unfit mothers are preferred over fathers. The criticism of the supposed female dominance over the realm of the family in the film is clear once the audiences realize what kind of a mother Nola really is. The horror occurs when the father is powerless, rendered irrelevant by a “monstrous” mother.

Nola is in desperate need of feeling loved and accepted by Frank, who in turn, is disgusted by her. The Brood broaches the idea of a hereditary female cycle of abuse and evil: Nola’s mother was emotionally and physically abusive toward her which, in turn, caused Nola to be abusive toward her young daughter Candy. The Brood complies with the ancient sexist notion that maternal desire is the source of monstrosity (Creed 46). Most of Dr. Raglan’s patients’ rage manifests itself in boils and lesions, unlike Nola, whose rage comes in the form of an external womb capable of birthing deformed beings. Not only is her body and mental state in shambles, she has incorporated the brood children into the mix who bring harm to others. This conveys a message that Cronenberg returns to frequently: females who dare to be aggressive and expressive destruct others. Nola’s rage is seen as something that the women in her family inherited, but there is no attempt at understanding why this has happened.

During Candy’s stay with her grandmother, she sees a picture of her mother as a child in the hospital. Nola looks a lot like Candy; in fact, she is played by the same young actress. This is the first instance in which Candy shows some sense of presence, interest, and involvement in the film as she is usually catatonic and detached. The traumatic events she has lived through are reflected in her blank stare. Candy is one of the main victims in the film; she witnesses her grandmother’s death, gets viciously beaten by the brood, and is constantly under threat.

Candy could easily be mistaken for one of the brood children with her straight blonde hair and the almost identical red parka. In fact, even her own father mistakes Candy for a brood for a fleeting second. The brood children know that she needs to come with them to the institute; they are the same in some way. However, once Nola commands her brood to attack Candy, their blood ties no longer matter and they intend on killing Candy.

Candy in peril after Nola orders the brood children to kill her

When Frank attempts to save the kidnapped Candy, he comes face to face with Nola for the first time in the film. A primal birthing scene ensues. She is sitting on a platform in a regal manner. Nola questions Frank’s love for her and confidently explains that “what’s been happening to me is too strange, too strange to share with anyone from my old life.” She then proceeds to raise her arms to reveal what lies underneath her white nightgown: her external womb. The whiteness of Nola’s robe is juxtaposed with the “monstrosity” that lies beneath. The camera switches between Nola’s confident, queen-like posing and Frank’s pure and utter disgust for what his eyes are seeing.

As though the sight of this hideous sac were not enough, Nola proceeds to bend over, bite the sac, and take out her bloodied brood fetus. However, the epitome of Nola’s “freakishness” is yet to come. Nola licks away the blood and amniotic fluid, irrevocably propelling Nola to an abject being completely comfortable with her animalistic maternal instincts, reproductive functions, and disfigurement. We see all this unfold though Frank’s eyes – we are him in this scene, disgusted and disbelieving. Nola changes from human to monster. She was unaware of the fact that the brood children are murderous, but once Frank tells her she does not change her demeanor and smiles maniacally, condoning her progeny’s actions. Rage and psychoplasmics have sucked the humanity out of her. Once Frank tells her the truth, which is that he is there to take their daughter away from her, Nola coldly says, “I’d kill Candice rather than let you take her away from me.” Frank then proceeds to leap and strangle his wife to death. He begs her to make the brood children stop what they are doing to Candy, but Nola is too far gone, her humanity has been stripped away. Nola’s plea to “kill me, kill me” is masochistic; she is letting Frank give into his urge to destroy the maternal (Beard 85). Frank is full of rage while killing Nola, which is the only effective thing he does throughout the picture. However, this does not prevent Candy from being exposed to the disease; he has not saved her. We then see the boil on her arm at the end of the film, implying that Candy will carry on the dubious honor of the clan’s “female legacy.”

Works Cited

Beard, William. The Artist as Monster: The Cinema of David Cronenberg. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. 2006.

Creed, Barbara. The Monstrous Feminine: Film, Feminism, Psychoanalysis. London and New York: Routledge. 1993.

Eli Lewy is a third culture kid, burgeoning filmmaker, and Master’s student studying US Studies. She currently resides in Berlin. You can read her film review blog here: www.film-nut.tumblr.com and follow her on twitter at @scopophiliafilm

[1] Reproduction that occurs with the ovum only.

The Notion of “Forever and Ever and Ever” in ‘The Amityville Horror’ and ‘The Shining’

The nightmare that Jack and George share signifies their innate fear—the possibility of destroying the family they, as men, have built.

This guest post by Rachel Wortherley appears as part of our theme week on Demon and Spirit Possession.

Two families in search of fresh start move into new homes: the Torrance family to the “Overlook Hotel” in Denver, Colorado, and the Lutz family to a beautiful Dutch-Colonial home in Amityville, New York. Unbeknownst to them, they will encounter horror in the form of demons and evil spirits attempting to destroy their “traditional” family dynamic.

Stuart Rosenberg’s The Amityville Horror and Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining focus on the prospect of renewal. Rosenberg’s film focuses on newlyweds George and Kathy Lutz (Josh Brolin and Margot Kidder) as they move into a new home with their three children and dog, Harry. There is one catch. The home’s previous inhabitants (two parents and their children) were killed by their son and brother. Audiences were also being presented a “tweaked” version of the nuclear family being that George is the children’s stepfather. It is noted that they have only recently begun to call him “George” rather than “Mr. Lutz.” George’s wish is for them to address him as “Dad.” The new marriage and their determination to make new memories inside a tainted house is George and Kathy’s attempt at growing closer as a family.

The Shining also begins similarly. Jack Torrance (Jack Nicholson), a schoolteacher turned writer, moves with his wife Wendy (Shelley Duvall) and son Danny (Danny Lloyd), to the “Overlook Hotel” where he is hired as the winter caretaker. While this is Jack’s opportunity to write in solitude, it is also an opportunity for their family to start anew–at least in the eyes of Wendy. Wendy reveals to Danny’s pediatrician that Jack, a recovering alcoholic, accidentally dislocated Danny’s shoulder in an attempt to pull him away from ruining important school paperwork. This unfortunate incident prompts Jack to quit drinking. As a result, Wendy forgives him and attributes it to being “just one of those things.” While the Lutz family in Amityville wants to create new memories, the Torrances want to erase their pasts. However, the memories within the walls of their respective households become imbued in the minds of the families, leading to madness and terror.

It should be noted that children and fathers appear to be greatly affected by the supernatural beings in their homes. Because of the innocence of children, the spirits readily reveal themselves. For example, seven-year old Amy Lutz in Amityville is seen conversing and playing with “Jody,” her imaginary friend who lives in the house. There is one pivotal moment when Amy sings “Jesus loves me” as her and Jody’s chairs rock back and forth. This suggests that the spirit is not evil, but in search of a companion. Jody also wants Amy to stay in the house “forever and ever,” presumably in the same ghostly state that Jody has taken. While Amy’s brush with the afterlife is playful and innocent, the same cannot be said for Danny Torrance.

Danny is a seven-year old boy who has the capability described as “shining.” He has terrifying premonitions and can telepathically communicate with others who “shine,” specifically the hotel chef, Dick Hallorann, who enlightens Danny to their capabilities. Danny’s gift materializes in the form of his imaginary friend Tony who Danny describes as “the little boy who lives in my mouth.” Tony appears to be a being that fosters Danny’s gifts, yet encourages him to conceal it from others, for fear of no one believing him. When Danny’s first premonition of blood cascading through the hallways of the Overlook Hotel occurs, Danny is unable to remember. Tony also appears when Danny is attacked by the demonic figure of the woman in the bathtub in the forbidden “Room 237.” It is also Tony who communicates the infamous word, “redrum” (murder spelled backward) to Danny to warn his mother of the pending murder that Jack wants to inflict upon their family, as well as the gruesome murders from the past. Wendy recalls that Tony made his first appearance after Danny’s incident with Jack. This suggests that Tony exists as a source of protection for Danny to shield his innocent consciousness.

While these otherworldly figures engage with children in a mild manner or as a scare tactic, they react entirely different with the fathers in the respective films. Rage and violent behavior are triggered within George and Jack. George, who desperately wanted the children to call him “Dad,” exclaims that Kathy needs to “discipline her children.” George’s physical appearance goes from strong to sickly. He sweats profusely, incessantly chops wood, and neglects work. The process of George’s descent into madness is a slower process whereas Jack’s descent appears to occur immediately. He also appears angrier than George. Kubrick goes from a casual scene when Wendy brings Jack breakfast in bed and he jokes about the ghosts in the hotel to a penultimate scene where Jack rages at her to never disturb him when he writes. This further suggests that while Jack wants to be with his family, he does not want to be “with” them. Sane Jack in the beginning of the film looks forward to the isolation of a large, empty hotel, yet this is impossible because his family is present.

The distance between Jack, his wife, and child is noticeable before his descent. Jack has minimal scenes with Danny and when sharing scenes, Danny is glued to Wendy. Jack barely interacts with him apart from instilling fear into Danny while in a trance-like state. In this scene, he simultaneously assures Danny that he would never hurt him while leering at him in a murderous manner. In comparison to George and Kathy’s marital bliss and passionate love scenes, Jack and Wendy appear too casual with each other. They almost seem like strangers. There is a sense that Wendy distrusts Jack. A scene that supports this occurs when Jack, screaming and crying in his sleep, awakens from a nightmare in which he murders and chops Wendy and Danny into pieces with an axe. As Wendy comforts him, a disheveled and traumatized Danny walks in with bruises on his neck–bruises inflicted by the ghostly woman in room 237. Remembering Jack’s drunken rage three years prior, Wendy immediately accuses him of abusing Danny.

As a result, Jack retreats in anger to the hotel bar where he encounters the ghost of Lloyd, the bartender. There he is satiated by alcohol while commiserating to Lloyd the complications of his marriage, specifically Wendy’s inability to forgive him for something that occurred “three goddamn years ago.” Unspoken anger and resentment clouds their marriage. In Amityville, George has the same nightmare and confesses it in tears to Kathy. The nightmare that Jack and George share signifies their innate fear—the possibility of destroying the family they, as men, have built.

The Lutz family manages to escape physically unscathed in the aftermath of their battle with the forces embedded within their house, whereas Wendy and Danny are the only two who escape their haunted home. A murderous Jack, wielding an axe, attempts to find his wife and son and ultimately succumbs to the bitter cold of Denver. Wendy is officially a single mother to Danny. However, a photograph from the Overlook Hotel in the 1920s depicts a smiling Jack with partygoers. He has found his new family.

Stuart Rosenberg’s The Amityville Horror (1979) and Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining (1980) are films that are released around the same time as family-centric films; specifically films that deal with the subject of divorce and single parenting. In Robert Benton’s 1979 film, Kramer vs. Kramer, audiences witness how a single father deals with raising his son in the absence of a mother, almost losing his child to the mother, and the mother ultimately granting him full custody. The parents also become civil toward each other. Audiences who are rooting for the father, played by the likeable Dustin Hoffman, gain a sense of satisfaction in the end. Meanwhile in its predecessor, Paul Mazursky’s An Unmarried Woman (1978), we watch how Jill Clayburgh’s character deals with a multitude of events: her husband divorcing her for a younger woman, teaching her teenage daughter to feel empowered, and having to start her dating life from scratch. While these images were progressive in its time, audiences were not shown the other perspective; the sometimes horrific nature of broken homes.

In Rosenberg and Kubrick’s respective films, outside forces attempt to help keep the nuclear family alive. In Amityville this materializes in the form of Father Delaney, who attempts to warn them about the house, yet is quelled by being struck mute and blind by the supernatural forces. This is reminiscent of the Catholic Church’s strict laws against divorce in favor of marriage counseling. In The Shining Dick Hallorann acts as a guardian to Danny. He comes to their rescue only to be cut down by Jack’s axe. Outsiders are not allowed to interfere. The family must deal with the uncomfortable and painful feelings within their household, as well as the aftermath. There lies the true test and the meaning of “forever and ever” as a family.

Rachel Wortherley is a graduate of Iona College in New Rochelle, New York and holds a Master of Arts degree in English. Her downtime consists of devouring copious amounts of literature, television shows, and films. She hopes to gain a doctorate in English literature and become a professional screenwriter.

Father Archetypes in Guillermo Del Toro’s Films

There are patterns in Guillermo del Toro’s dark fairy tales, one of the obvious ones being the ease with which he puts children in harm’s way, some of their trials being so painfully harsh that one can’t help suspecting that he puts them in his stories just to tear at our heartstrings. Thankfully, the stories of childhood loss are balanced with protective Nurturer figures, some women, some men, but I’ll be focussing purely on the men because of the clichéd figure of the female nurturer.

This is a guest post by Rhea Daniel.

The Father archetype takes the form of king, tyrant, judge, doctor, executioner, devil, god, priest, take your pick, anything that traditional male roles offer. In real life as on reel, if their characters slip into the feminine role of nurturer (which should not be mistaken for saviour) we gush with praise, because he’s done something so contrary to his nature. On the other hand, we hold up the Mother to some very exacting standards, and are less likely to let her deviate from her primary role. While I’ve examined women’s roles in movies (because I felt there was such a dearth of complex ones), it jumped out at me how many men in Guillermo del Toro’s movies fit into archetypal Fatherhood roles, their characters too being complex, sometimes contradictory.

: : : SPOILERS AHEAD!! : : :

Vidal and Ofelia in Pan's Labyrinth — Vidal and Ofelia in *Pan’s Labyrinth*

The Tyrant

Captain Vidal from Pan’s Labyrinth (2006)

Vidal fits perfectly into the role of The Tyrant. Part of Ofelia’s trial is escaping his oppressive clutches and trying to save her mother at the same time. The Tyrant is your model patriarch; as a fascist, he represents the worst of the Patriarchy. He values sons over daughters, females are only valued as hosts to create the next generation of tyrants. In fact, the entire movie is ridden with imagery and subtexts of the oppressed feminine battling the militaristic autocracy of the despotic tyrant. While he was willing to allow his wife to die if it allowed his son to live, his Nurturer side, though selective, surfaces when the child is born.

A patriarch deigns to give his name only to those he prizes as legitimate offspring, the age-old system of the patriarchy wields its power as long as its descendants hold its dynastic title, and by being denied the right to perpetuate his name just before his death, The Tyrant is truly defeated.

The Faun and Ofelia in Pan's Labyrinth — The Faun and Ofelia in *Pan’s Labyrinth*

The Mage

The Faun in Pan’s Labyrinth (2006)

The Faun’s role is significant because his character displays the duality of the Mage/Trickster archetype. As an ancient being, with “old names that only the wind and the trees can pronounce,” he occupies the noble archetypal roles of the Mage– a Magician, for he is capable of magic; Holy Man for his ancient wisdom; Guide–because he helps Ofelia find her way home; Nurturer–for the advice, comfort and help he gives her when she needs it.

When Ofelia bungles at her tasks, however, he shows his ugly side by turning into Tyrant, and finally when the time arrives for the final test, he turns Trickster by posing a moral dilemma to Ofelia: if she allows her brother to be harmed she would gain entry to her father’s kingdom, if she doesn’t she will lose that chance forever.

Ofelia proves her worth and gains access to the fairy kingdom through unintentional sacrifice. In the real world children might be rewarded for their bravery but not for their innocence, and the director sure rubs that in.

Trevor Bruttenholm and Hellboy in Hellboy II: The Golden Army — Trevor Bruttenholm and Hellboy in *Hellboy II: The Golden Army*

The Alchemist*

Trevor Bruttenholm in Hellboy (2004)

The Alchemist can be wizard or scientist, he represents transformation and change. In a negative context, he nurses an destructive ambition to exploit the natural world for profit. Trevor Bruttenholm as the occultist is the positive Father-Nurturer, transforming a demon child, a monstrous thing born of another dimension, into a force for good. Rasputin on the other hand represents the other side of the Alchemist’s persona, destruction and change for the sake of personal gain.

Dr Casares and Carlos in The Devil's Backbone — Dr Casares and Carlos in *The Devil’s Backbone*

The Sage

Dr. Casares in The Devil’s Backbone (2001)

This movie is also set in a militaristic background, the orphan children are again victims of tyrants. Dr. Casares plays a true Nurturer figure in The Devil’s Backbone. As a man of science, he is a rationalist who denies the existence of Santi, the ghost child that tries to warn them of a coming disaster, emphasized by the unexploded bomb in the courtyard of the school.

His impotency might portray him as half a man, since virility is a necessary part of the Patriarchy, as it symbolizes power and regeneration. Casares is anything but a cold rationalist. When he takes a sip of the panacean Devil’s Backbone elixir, at first glance it’s a half-hearted attempt to cure his impotency, but by being teacher, guide and saviour to the fatherless children, he ultimately sacrifices his life while performing the role of Father-Nurturer, a role that requires the strength and willingness to put oneself in harms way to make sure one’s progeny survives.

Stacker Pentecost and Mako Mori in Pacific Rim — Stacker Pentecost and Mako Mori in *Pacific Rim*

The Knight

Stacker Pentecost in Pacific Rim (2013)

The Knight is a warrior with a code. He fights for justice, for the innocent, for the weak. He is chivalrous and stoic and that chivalry contributes to his sexism. While the argument between blind obedience and freeing oneself of the Father-Tyrant is shown several times, there are two fathers who let go of their children in the story. The ability of the Knight is limited, he can’t always protect his children, so to avoid becoming the hated archetypal Tyrant, the Knight has to free himself of the glory of his saviour role and acknowledge his limitations. Stacker Pentecost learns to let go, his eventual acknowledgment of Mako’s maturity shows his growth. He does not have to let go of his gallantry however, to “clear a path for the lady,” so she can make her own choice whether to risk her life in the battle.

* Going purely by the movie.

Rhea Daniel got to see a lot of movies as a kid because her family members were obsessive movie-watchers. She frequently finds herself in a bind between her love for art and her feminist conscience. Meanwhile she is trying to be a better writer and artist and you can find her at rheadaniel(dot)tumblr(dot)com.

Wedding Week: ‘Father of the Bride’ Values Relationships With Women

Steve Martin and Kimberly Williams-Paisley in Father of the Bride

This is a guest review by Mab Ryan.

Father of the Bride (1991) is aptly named, as its focus is not on the wedding itself or the couple involved but on the titular character’s neuroses and journey to maturity. The wedding is the backdrop and the incident that provokes growth in the main character; it follows the wedding script in toto, so if you’re unfamiliar with any of the conventions of a traditional US wedding, this movie is a great primer. It’s an outrageously expensive, white wedding for thin, wealthy, white folks. People of color and gay men exist as support staff and magical queers. But the movie’s take on gender roles is constructive. Despite its focus on a male character, the movie is really about the affection a father feels for his daughter. He’s always recognized her as an individual person; now he must recognize her as an individual adult person.

The opening credits roll over champagne bubbles, flower petals, and the flotsam of a finished wedding strewn about the house, before honing in on George Banks (Steve Martin), the narrator and protagonist. He speaks directly to the camera, rubbing his weary feet, sitting in a floral armchair, surrounded by pale pink and ecru, a color scheme prevalent throughout the movie. Weddings are womanish, the décor screams. But that’s okay, because femininity is never portrayed negatively.

George narrates amidst girly wedding décor

George reminisces about his daughter Annie (Kimberly Williams), now 22, as a little girl, then refers darkly to her first signs of adolescence. He engages in a little gender essentialism, stating that boys are only after one thing because it’s the same thing he was after at their age; and the only thing worse than a daughter meeting the wrong guy is her meeting the right guy. That sentiment could come off as creepy if it wasn’t followed quickly with: “Because then you lose her.”

George hates change, he tells us, expounding lustfully on his comfortable, familiar life. Banks is not a misnomer; from my vantage point it’s difficult to tell the difference between middle class and rich, but this family falls somewhere in between. Annie has been studying architecture in Rome, George owns his own athletic shoe factory, and the family resides in a large home in Los Angeles. The factory is full of smiling (mostly) white people, so I guess we should think of George as a good guy, keeping jobs in America rather than opening sweat shops in Malaysia, though I don’t know that the filmmakers thought any more deeply about it than indulging in our shared fantasy that the materials we consume are the product of happy white labor, rather than deleterious off-shoring.

The Banks’ million-dollar house

Annie has come home with news she can’t quite figure out how to say. It is just so awkward to come out to your parents as … engaged … in a heterosexual relationship. Sorry non-heteros! If you want a movie that hits closer to home, feel free to imagine that fiancé Brian is a lady. Honestly, it feels like the movie was written about a gay couple, but they couldn’t sell it unless they changed one of the characters to a different gender. (I’m thinking it’s time for an update on this movie, but considering that Behind the Candelabra couldn’t land a theater release, I’m not holding out much hope.)

Despite cleaving to traditional wedding customs with sexist origins, the characters show signs of social awareness. “I thought you didn’t believe in marriage,” George says to Annie, “I thought it meant that a woman lost her identity.” He’s obviously repeating a line of thought she originated. Annie’s feelings have evolved to accept an egalitarian marriage, which is fine. It’s great that she’s thinking about this stuff and that she’s developed in an environment supportive of her aspirations and self-worth.

Supportiveness has its limits, apparently. After a fight in which George declares that Annie is not getting married and that’s final, the two make peace over a game of basketball. As a girl who grew up shooting hoops, it is this scene, more than any other, that I find redemptive of George. Rather than treat sports as a “boy thing,” George has obviously spent years playing with his daughter. Each performs a goofy dance when they score a goal, and slow-mo high fives are de rigueur. It feels real and comfortable.

Annie and George come together by facing off in basketball

Brian scores a good first impression with Annie’s mother Nina (Diane Keaton) when he declares his desire to marry and produce children and grandchildren. Nina is predictably thrilled with his promise to follow a normative script. Annie points out that he’s willing to move wherever her career takes her. Score one, Brian.

If you think the Banks are well off, wait ‘til you meet the new in-laws in Bel-Air. “We could have parked our whole house in the foyer,” George narrates. Yet, he refuses to accept contributions from this family in paying for the wedding because it is traditionally the duty of the bride’s father to pay for everything, including flying some of the groom’s family in from Denmark, one of whom is large enough to require two seats. “She can lop into the aisle for all I care,” says George. This cousin later lifts him off his feet in an unexpected hug. Fat people: always disrespecting peoples’ boundaries, amirite?

George meets the groom’s family in a dark sport coat, while the décor and everyone else’s clothes are pale, muted pastels, making it obvious how out of place George and his feelings about the wedding are. Brian’s father conveniently lays out the lesson that George must learn by the end of the movie: “Sooner or later you have to just let your kids go and hope you brought them up right.” Hijinks ensue as George does some snooping and winds up chased off a balcony by the resident Dobermans. The dogs are deep black, the only other dark color like George’s coat, drawing a parallel between their snarling reaction to an intruder and George’s reaction to this wedding.

Franck is flamboyant

No wedding movie would be complete without an over-the-top, flamboyantly gay character. This movie features two as wedding consultants. Howard Weinstein is actually played by gay Chinese-American actor BD Wong and is the only person of color with a speaking role (and he’s just the assistant to the help). Franck (Martin Short) has an indeterminate European accent that the women have no difficulty penetrating but that George finds unintelligible. Foreign people are so funny! Gay people are also so funny! Of course, neither character’s sexuality is explicitly stated. In 1991 it was perfectly acceptable to laugh at quirky gay people and let them help accessorize us so long as we don’t have to consider them as real people with feelings or desires or (shudder) romantic lives.

The cost and the hassle of preparing for the wedding drives George to freak out and wind up in jail. Nina bails him out but not before reasoning with him to act his age. She has a huge smile on her face and speaks to him patiently, when most women would be rightfully furious. But this isn’t her movie. She exists to coax George along his journey to maturity.

Good news, George! Annie calls off the wedding because that sexist asshole Brian bought her a … blender? Maybe it’s because I never really used a blender until after age 21 that I don’t understand this as an allusion to a 1950’s housewife mentality. All it says to me is daiquiris, and I’d be thrilled to receive a functioning model (Do all of your blenders also break after two uses? Just me?), but Annie has to be reassured that Brian didn’t mean this in a regressive get-thee-to-the-kitchen-wench kind of way before we’re back on again. The highlight is that this is not a bitches-be-crazy message. Instead it’s explicitly portrayed as a character flaw she inherited directly from her father, while Brian provides emotional stability like Nina does. That’s actually a fantastic message, separating personality traits from gender.

The night before the wedding, George shares a moment with his son, apologizing for ignoring him the whole movie. It’s definitely a reversal to see the relationship between father and daughter receive the emphasis over father and son. I think this placing of the (non-sexual) relationship with a woman as central—rather than the wedding theme—is what makes a movie a “chick-flick” and therefore unsuitable for Manly Men™

Wedding in Father of the Bride

George once again daydreams about Annie as a small child, but this time it launches into a montage of her growing into a teen, and then a woman. She’s grown up, and he’s finally recognizing that. But that doesn’t mean their special parent/child relationship is over, which is delightfully represented by Annie walking down the aisle in the pair of wedding sneakers her father designed for her.

Has George grown up as well? It’s hard to say. At the actual wedding, he cares only about being there for his daughter (though events conspire to keep him away). We never do see him return to the chair from which he began narrating the movie as a flashback. But every snide and petulant remark was made after the events of the movie occurred. Perhaps George was just being honest about his feelings at the time. I’m not convinced he’s really changed but merely suffered through one life-altering event. The existence of a sequel seems to confirm this. But if the sequel continues this trend of showcasing the value of relationships with women, I might have to dig up a copy.

Mab Ryan is a fat, geeky, queerish, rainbow-haired feminist currently studying Art and Creative Writing at Roanoke College.

When Life Gives You Infertility, Make Your House Fly: Found Family in ‘UP’

Carl and Ellie in their home

This is a guest post written by Talia Liben Yarmush for our theme week on Infertility, Miscarriage, and Infant Loss.

Pixar’s UP begins with young Carl, an adventure-admiring, imaginative boy meeting his match in young Ellie. The two hit it off instantly with their shared interest in everything adventure, and the first eleven and a half minutes are an ode to their lifelong mutual devotion to each other. They become fast friends; they fall in love, marry, and build a life together. The only thing missing? After Ellie suffers a miscarriage, the two are immeasurably saddened by the loss of this baby. In an attempt to fill the void, Carl establishes an “Adventure Fund,” so that together they may one day be able to live what they always dreamed. However, with each passing year comes a new obstacle, requiring them to deplete their funds over and over again. Until one day, Ellie, old and weak, dies. And Carl is left alone with sadness and regret at not giving Ellie her big adventure. When I saw UP in the theater, I was sitting next to my husband, a man I met when I was 14, became best friends with, married, and was now going through infertility treatments with. So, this intro hit pretty close to home.

As I see it, the two infertility themes in this story are miscarriage and living childfree. Despite my vast experience with infertility, I am not personally familiar with either of these. I have, thankfully, never had a miscarriage (although during one very painful episode of endometrial bleeding, my husband and I were sure that I was in the midst of one), and thanks to IVF, I now have two sons. I can tell you that the first theme, miscarriage, is shown in only seconds, and it is a scene that will remain with you throughout the entire film. In thirty seconds, this animated family film is able to portray the loss in such a visceral way that even if you have never had an experience like it, you will be brought to tears. And I can tell you that the second theme, living childfree, is complicated and filled with mixed emotions. Carl, tormented by his inability to give his wife what she wanted, finally realizes by the end of the film that Ellie’s life with him was her adventure, and that she was happy with it. Many couples must make the difficult decision whether to keep trying, to continue fertility treatments, to hope that the next cycle works, that the next pregnancy sticks, to attempt adoption, or to somehow find a way to come to terms with a life without children. Some couples make this decision. But for some, the decision is made for them.

Carl and Ellie prepare the nursery for their baby

The question is what to do once that decision has been made. Once an infertile couple mourns the loss of a life without children and finds peace with their new reality, can the void ever be filled by something or someone else? Ellie, as we learn, was happy and satisfied with the life she lived with Carl. But once Ellie died, Carl was left alone. No children. Just memories and unfounded regret. Until he meets Russell. Russell reminds Carl of the boy he once was, and of the girl he married. He reminds him of the family he wanted with Ellie, and of the adventures they’d hoped to go on. Some view Russell as the child that Carl never had. In fact, we find out that Russell himself has an absent father, so Russell was searching for a father just as much as Carl was searching for a son. But I don’t see it in those terms. Russell is a friend, he is a companion, he is a playmate. Russell is Carl’s family. Because we don’t always get to live the life that we had planned. But we do get to choose a great many things. We can choose to keep on fighting for what we want. Or we can choose to make peace with the lives that we have. And, most importantly, we can choose our family, even if we can’t create them ourselves.

———-

Talia Liben Yarmush is a freelance writer and editor. She is also an infertile mother who writes her own blog, The Accidental Typist.

‘What to Expect When You’re Expecting’: Unexpected Gem

Elizabeth Banks and Brooklyn Decker in What to Expect When You’re Expecting

What to Expect When You’re Expecting was [excuse the hack writing here, it’s unavoidable:] not what I expected. I expected it to be another He’s Just Not That Into You: an insipid, generally obnoxious star-studded ensemble piece loosely inspired by a bestselling cultural touchstone of a nonfiction book. Instead, it is an entertaining, surprisingly touching star-studded ensemble piece loosely inspired by a bestselling cultural touchstone of a nonfiction book.

One of the best things about What to Expect is that it never attempts to universalize pregnancy or parenting. The five semi-connected expecting couples in the film all have different conception stories (from an oops one night stand, to getting lucky after years of infertility, to choosing adoption) and pregnancy experiences (from Brooklyn Decker’s walk-in-the-park pregnancy with twins to lactation advocate Elizabeth Bank’s hormone-fueled emotional breakdown to [spoiler alert!] an astonishingly sensitive depiction of miscarriage). While the film unfortunately depicts an Atlanta that knows no gays and is largely white, it at least partway makes up for its lack of demographic diversity by exploring a rich diversity of experience.

“Dudes Group” of fathers in What to Expect When You’re Expecting

I was also very happily surprised by the depiction of fatherhood in What to Expect When You’re Expecting, especially after seeing the bit in the trailer where a group of dads pushing strollers slo-mo walk to Biggie’s “Big Poppa.” I expected this plotline to be another iteration of “men doing ladywork: HILARIOUS!” But the “dudes group” is celebrated, not mocked, for embracing fatherhood, and while the group has a code of “no judging” when they share such parenting mishaps as “last week, my kid ate a cigarette”, the dads are not depicted as incompetent impostors in a woman’s world. They’re equal partners in parenthood.

And best of all, What to Expect When You’re Expecting is genuinely funny and emotionally affecting. It’s sort of unfortunate that the movie features a lot of humor bizarrely specific to the 2012 zeitgeist, from food truck rivalries to autotuned remixes of public breakdowns; because the movie could be, like the book of the same title, something of a perennial classic for expecting parents. But What to Expect When You’re Expecting makes up some points by also including some of the best things about the 2012 cultural moment: scene-stealing Rebel Wilson and shirtless Joe Manganiello.

Shirtless Joe Maganiello is one of the best things about living in 2012.

Listening and the Art of Good Storytelling in Louis C.K.’s ‘Louie’

Louis C.K.’s Louie

“I remember thinking in fifth grade, ‘I have to get inside that box and make this shit better’… It made me mad that the shows were so bad. People have a right to relax and watch theater about themselves that makes them reflect and feel and have a good time doing it.” – Louis C.K.

The subversive feminism of a show is most striking when it is underneath, not necessarily a part of, the writing. From season 1 of FX’s critically acclaimed Louie, it has been clear that Louis C.K. isn’t trying to make some grand commentary on gender or social norms. He’s simply weaving stories out of life.

Louie–starring C.K. as Louie–is one of those shows that doesn’t leave a feminist audience balking at stereotypes or scrambling to celebrate its female empowerment (although C.K. is, in general, a feminist darling). In fact, its power lies in its ability to allow us to not think too much about gender; instead, we are focused on the stories and the sheer humanity of the characters.

Louie is a single father co-parenting two daughters in New York City and working as a comedian. The obviously semi-autobiographical sitcom is wrapping up its third season next week. A TV auteur, C.K. produces, writes, directs, edits, and stars in each episode. He has been nominated for three Emmy awards for the series (for acting, directing, and writing).

Early on, audiences felt there was something different about Louie. The best way to describe the ebb and flow of comedy and dramatic genius would be intensely human. Everyone is flawed (not just Louie, and not just his love interests and friends), and his relationship with his on-screen daughters is particularly moving in its stark honesty. We worry, panic, yearn, laugh, and cry along with our protagonist.

Parenting–a subject most often reserved for the action and commentary of mothers–is central to C.K.’s stand-up and to Louie. In the show, Louie is consistently shown as a capable father who loves and is loved by his daughters. He’s no heroic single father, but we see him as a parent, nothing less. On the subject of gender roles in parenting, C.K. has said, “Roles have all changed. There’s a lot of fathers who take care of their kids, there’s a lot of mothers who have careers. But in culture, those roles are still the same. When I take my kids out for dinner or lunch, people smile at us. A waitress said to my kids the other day, ‘Isn’t that nice that you’re getting to have a little lunch with your daddy?’ And I was insulted by it, because I’m like, I’m f**king taking them to lunch, and then I’m taking them home, and then I’m feeding them and doing their homework with them and putting them to bed. She’s like, Oh, this is special time with daddy. Well, no, this is boring time with daddy, the same as everything.” This philosophy is clear in Louie.

Louie eats dinner with his two on-screen daughters.

C.K.’s stand-up acts frame the plot(s) of each episode, which are usually independent to what has happened in previous episodes. This season alone, Louie has dealt with being sexually assaulted on a date (although some bloggers problematically downplayed the assault in semi-celebration of the challenged double standard), wrestling with a friendly attachment to a young handsome man on a trip to Miami, and experiencing awkward encounters with women as flawed as he is. He is frequently depicted as having the more stereotypically feminine role in relationships (emotional, needy, and looking for serious companionship). Previous seasons have featured him having sex with (and being inspired by) Joan Rivers, dealing with childhood issues surrounding religion and sexual awakening, and being an adequate son and brother. His daughters are continually portrayed as empowered and fully realized (including one episode in season 2 in which his youngest daughter helps scare off some teenage thugs on Halloween). As the girls grow up, their character traits become more pronounced and realistic.

Parker Posey plays one of Louie’s love interests in season 3.

Season 2’s critically acclaimed “Duckling” was an hour-long episode that followed Louie on a fictional USO tour to the Middle East. According to C.K., it was an accurate depiction of his real experiences on a USO tour to Afghanistan, and the idea for the episode came from his daughter, who was four at the time.

And for his show in general, C.K. says, “I just like listening. I try to take people who are way far away from what I think or understand and put a representative of them on my show.”

Indeed, one of the aspects of C.K. as a comedian, producer/director/writer/actor, and person that makes him who he is and Louie what it has been is that he listens. He listened to a four-year-old little girl and created a television show that is up for an Emmy. It’s also clear that he spent his original trip doing a great deal of listening to his fellow USO performers and the soldiers he met. That is what leads to great storytelling.

C.K. used his own experiences and inspiration from his daughter to create “Duckling” in season 2.

Outside of the television show, C.K. has also made it clear that listening is key to everything he does. After Daniel Tosh’s rape joke went viral earlier this summer, C.K. was brought into the spotlight after tweeting a complimentary tweet to Tosh (which he said he sent not knowing about the rape joke or the backlash). In an interview with Jon Stewart, C.K. addressed the fact that he listened to the bloggers–feminists, comedians, feminist-comedians–and altered his thoughts about the situation. He said, “I think you should listen when you read – If somebody has an opposite feeling from me, I wanna hear it so I can add to mine. I don’t wanna obliterate theirs with mine; that’s how I feel.” He went on to say that in being enlightened to the true ramifications of rape culture: “Now that’s part of me that wasn’t there before.”

In an interview with NPR last winter, C.K. was asked about his thoughts on those who identify as “right-wing” (after a discussion about Christians often stumbling across his stand-up after seeing a mild clip and asking him to “clean up” his comedy): “There’s been a lot of simple vilification of right-wing people. It’s really easy to say, ‘Well, you’re Christian, you’re anti-this and that, and I hate you.’ But to me, it’s more interesting to say, ‘What is this person like and how do they really think?’ Do I have any common ground with people like that who find me really, really offensive? Do I have common ground with them? It’s worth exploring.” C.K. clearly explores every piece of life he encounters, and that seeking, that analysis, makes all of the difference.

It’s no secret that listening to others’ stories leads to better storytelling (listening well pretty much leads to better everything). However, it’s rare that we witness that kind of storytelling on half-hour TV sitcoms. On the surface, a show produced, written, directed, and edited by one man (who also stars as the protagonist and is a comedian) doesn’t sound like it would be the panacea for three-dimensional storytelling. But as C.K. continually shows his audiences, episode after episode, listening to others and thinking about life critically has led him to accurately tell stories in a fully human way.

In an interview with the New York Times last summer, C.K. said, “An uphill battle is just more interesting to me.” Choosing to not rely on tropes and recycled story lines and stock characters is an uphill battle, but as Louie demonstrates, what’s on top of that hill is well worth the climb.

—

Leigh Kolb is a composition, literature and journalism instructor at a community college in rural Missouri.

Reagan as a Role Model in ‘Bedtime for Bonzo’

Diana Lynn and Ronald Reagan in Bedtime for Bonzo

I believe the GOP is using Bedtime for Bonzo as a template for how to govern the U.S.

The Republican National Convention brought out the best of the “we built it” catch-phrase slinging moralists. And they – in front of a crowd that was comprised of a high proportion of restrictive-gender-norm-appreciators– sought to influence a constituency by pushing the idea that “traditional values” and laissez-faire capitalism are inextricably connected.

This is how I get to Bedtime for Bonzo. It involves both the god of trickle-down economics and a fictional experiment that proves traditional gender roles are necessary for raising a good human being. Or, raising a good ape for that matter.

Bedtime for Bonzo is one of those antic-filled flicks where the protagonist inevitably yells out the name of the main pet/animal/kiddo in a prolonged agonized tone. It was released in 1951 and starred Ronald Reagan. That means, among other indignities in the movie, our 40th president is featured whining angrily at a chimpanzee, “Bon-zo!”

Mr. President Protagonist, Peter Boyd (Reagan), is a psychology professor at Anytown University. To impress his should-be father-in-law he aims to prove that nurture has more sway than nature by teaching an emotionally distraught chimpanzee, Bonzo, the difference between right and wrong.

And, boy does he. Through lessons in table etiquette and much finger-wagging, Peter helps Bonzo becomes a good upstanding citizen. But, implicit from the beginning is that Bonzo needs a “mama” to make the shift between unruly depressive (we first meet Bonzo trying to commit suicide by jumping off a building) to a healthy contributing member of society.

The “mama” that Peter finds is pretty-young-thing, Jane (Diana Lynn). She maintains a peppy version of the maternal ideal while also swinging her impressive bust-waist-hip ratio into the role of romantic (can you say Fa-Fa-Freud?) interest.

Through Jane’s sensual domesticity and Peter’s academic masculinity – the pair manages a successful experiment and domesticates the ape by the power of traditional values.

Which brings us back to the RNC.

The conservative agenda remains consistently exclusive to Leave it to Beaver norms. This maintains a strong unified base that continues to vote in an obviously broken economic system. To keep up the agenda and unity, the GOP needs to also keep up the myth of “tradition=virtue” and make that appealing to women voters.

This year both parties knew they would have to talk about those notorious “women’s issues.” The Democrats lined up an obviously pandering (but still appreciated) group of women speakers highlighting the values of equal pay and reproductive rights. Republicans did not go the same direction. But, Ann Romney did speak on behalf of her husband. And she delivered a cozy message about how women are super important. As long as they have reproduced.

“It’s the moms who always have to work a little harder, to make everything right. It’s the moms of this nation – single, married, widowed – who really hold this country together. We’re the mothers, we’re the wives, we’re the grandmothers, we’re the big sisters, we’re the little sisters, we’re the daughters,” Romney said.

This does at least two things: reiterates the conservative narrative of women as relational beings (existing only as supporting characters) and pushes the notion that motherhood itself is more effective in its traditional state.

See, the GOP needs a “mama” to keep its base complacent and well-behaving. And “mama” is just the outmoded ideal of motherhood and womanhood.

The Descendants: Oscar Best Picture and Indie Spirit Best Feature Nominee

The Good Patriarch: The Descendants, directed by Alexander Payne

This is a guest post from Stephanie Brown.

The Descendants is a movie about patriarchy, about husbandry and fatherhood as verb and action rather than noun and abstraction, about stewardship and responsibility. It implies that being a responsible and engaged and aware man is the key to being a responsible citizen and human being. It’s an important film that is very much of the current zeitgeist, but its ease and perfection and touches of comedy (very much like the persona of George Clooney himself) may mean that its depth is missed amid the excellent casting and the light touch of director Alexander Payne. The film is based on the book of the same name by Kaui Hart Hemmings, who was raised in Hawaii by her mother and step-father.

In The Descendants, Clooney’s character, Matt King, is the key decision maker for his family’s trust. Their family has lived in Hawaii for generations, part native Hawaiian and part white. They own a large undeveloped tract of land on Kauai. As the movie begins the family is in the process of selling the land to a developer and the group is poised to profit handsomely. His many cousins, also heirs, are portrayed as decent people, “good guys” who like to drink and hang out: contemporary landed gentry, enjoying their wealth and comfort in paradise. As decision maker for the fate of the fortune for a whole slew of cousins/subjects scattered around the islands and mainland, Matt is aptly named “king,” and he is affable, fair and aims to please. At the same time his wife, Elizabeth, has been in a water skiing accident and is now in a coma. Like many fathers and husbands, he is not very involved in his children’s lives and doesn’t know them very well, and is not really that knowledgeable of his wife’s life either. Soon after he retrieves his older daughter from her private boarding school (she is drunk when he finds her) to return home with him, he discovers from her that his wife has been having an affair. The movie is about the slow unfolding of this secret that has been kept from him by friends and family, and the slow strengthening of his bond with his daughters, especially his oldest daughter, Alex, played by Shailene Woodley. It’s a great performance by Woodley, who is utterly believably as an intelligent and strong but betrayed and angry teenager. She alone knows the exact nature of both her parents’ flaws but is powerless to make them change. Instead she causes problems as school and acts bratty and disagreeable. She is also shown schooling her younger sister in teenage survival skills, and while her methods and language are crude, one knows that this is likely the only practical advice the younger daughter has gotten from anyone. The movie is taken up with a road trip of sorts, actually jaunts between islands and neighborhoods therein, with Alex, the younger daughter Scottie (Amara Miller), and Alex’s friend Sid (Nick Krause) providing the comic relief. Matt and Alex search for and find the man with whom Elizabeth has had an affair and end up awkwardly befriending him and his wife (Matthew Lillard and Judy Green) as they move toward the conclusion—to finalize the sale of the land, and to see if Elizabeth will live or die.

Recent radio ads for The Descendants are comparing it to Terms of Endearment. I’m not sure Alexander Payne’s subtly crafted movies, Election, About Schmidt, and Sideways, while critical favorites, have become all-time-favorite-movie blockbusters in the way that Terms of Endearment has. I’m betting that the strategy of this comparison is to try to push it into the blockbuster box office realm. Will it ‘play in Peoria,” though? The Descendants does have an emotional death scene, where George Clooney says what is in his heart to his comatose and dying wife, but, like Payne’s other films, scenes such as this are restrained and Clooney’s soliloquy never veers into melodrama. By this point in the film, I didn’t like the wife and I was not sorry to see her die. I did not feel that the scene’s intention was to make me cry in an emotionally cathartic way. I don’t think the comparison between films works, and I think viewers who are expecting a Terms of Endearment will be disappointed. They may, however, see the powerful film that it is and come away awakened by its point of view. Think of the difference between Jack Nicholson in Terms of Endearment and Jack Nicholson in Payne’s About Schmidt. Schmidt’s character’s sad, reticent and somewhat baffled personality is naked and embarrassing to his daughter, and it’s a fine and restrained performance from Nicholson, who, like Clooney, is a masterful comedic actor. Both have elastic faces and trademark voices, and Payne’s direction keeps them true and honest in these depictions that move from comedic turns to profoundly honest portrayals of wounded American men.

The Descendants has many facets, touching on wealth and its effects on people and the history of the islands of Hawaii themselves, among other things, but to my mind, the most interesting theme in the film is the examination of fatherhood and manhood that is revealed via the relationship of Elizabeth to her father, Scott Thorson, played with frank ferocity by Robert Forster. Like a God, like Thor, Mr. Thorson has thunderous opinions and never wavers in them. We also know that he is wrong and pigheaded and the kind of person who is impossible to live with. He is certain that his daughter was a perfect wife and mother and that her accident could have been prevented if only Matt had bought her a safer boat to use rather than have her rely on her friends’ boats. Like his daughter, Mr. Thorson’s wife is shown as non compos mentis. She is in the throes of dementia and unaware of her surroundings. I do not think this is a coincidence. The only way to endure a man like this is to retreat into silence and passivity symbolized here as states of dementia and coma. His wife never speaks but she smiles. Mr. Thorson is an archetype of a Korean War-era father, all manliness, certainty and uncomplicated self-assurance. He has indulged his daughter and rejected his son—and he is not fond of his son-in-law. It is also clear that Mr. Thorson does not even know his daughter beyond superficial platitudes that he can shout about her being a good wife, mother and athlete (that she might be too much of a risk taker is ignored). He extols that she was a faithful wife when she was not. His fulsome praise has probably inflated his daughter’s ego and created a monster. Mr. Thorson is the figure of a crippled manhood that can exist only by rejecting deep feelings and hard truths about people, a style of fathering that may extol specialness, but rejects complexity and imperfection. Matt resembles him, unfortunately, in his own benign neglect of his children. Matt, whose style is more graceful and contemporary than Thorson’s, is of the generation that seeks to be seen as a “good guy” like his cousins—happy to take a profit and enjoy life, happy to live as a detached “back- up” parent (as he calls himself) who can easily just not pay much attention and not see any pain and suffering his children are feeling. They live in paradise and are quite wealthy, after all. It would never occur to the cousins or Matt to preserve the land for future generations; it is seen as inevitable that it must be sold and profit shared today. Benign neglect.

In the end, Matt decides not to sell the land but to preserve it. It is not a popular decision with the cousins. It is, however, the right decision. Matt uses his power for the first time and he risks not being popular, affable, or liked, and he is not. That is what it means to be a father and a steward and a patriarch, however. It means thinking about the future beyond current gain and comfort. It means thinking of future generations, accepting responsibility and using it reasonably and well. It means choosing not to be part of the rather dissolute landed gentry and not encouraging your children in this direction either. As I watched the film and saw him choose to preserve the land for future generations, it occurred to me that this decision would not have been believable if the film were released ten or twenty years ago. I don’t think I myself would have agreed with the decision. I would have thought, development is inevitable so why not let these decent people profit from it? But it has been released in a very different economic and social climate, where we are questioning the realities of profit and gain run amok. What is the result of all the wealth that we acquired and lost in the last twenty years? The culture tried to live like landed gentry. We exported our jobs and we exported our pollution in order to create our crap without regulations, and we sought to live like the cousins, expecting a good deal to come our way and to continue to come our way. The Descendants got me considering these truths. If one is a patriarch, one should accept it and be a responsible one. One should father and husband as a verb. And that goes the same for matriarchs and mothers and wives. If Mr. Thorson was our father, we need to wake up and pay attention and change the traits that resemble his. We need to be stewards of our families and of the earth for our descendants.

I was talking to friends one night and I mentioned that I had seen this movie and Lars Von Trier’s movie Melancholia during the same weekend, and that I liked both of them. Von Trier gets at the gnawing dread that I think we all feel about the world being destroyed. I felt grateful that an artist had made this film, because it forced me to think about my own hopelessness in the face of that destruction. But I added that I felt that The Descendants was just as powerful of a film and just as profound, even if the tone is lighter. In the last scene, Matt and his two daughters are shown sitting on a couch together, eating ice cream and watching TV. We can hear the movie’s narrator, Morgan Freeman, and after a while one realizes that they’re watching March of the Penguins. As my husband pointed out to me as we walked out of the theater, the male penguin is the one who cradles the egg, who protects it and keeps it safe from danger until it hatches. Like the father who has learned to father in film.

Stephanie Brown is the author of two collections of poetry, Domestic Interior and Allegory of the Supermarket. She’s published work in American Poetry Review, Ploughshares and The Best American Poetry series. She was awarded an NEA Fellowship in 2001 and a Breadloaf Fellowship in 2009. She has taught at UC Irvine and the University of Redlands and is a regional branch manager for OC Public Libraries in southern California.