Female Sexuality – Page 3

Reading Mae West’s ‘Sextette’ as a PUA Manual

Watch and learn, average frustrated chumps

PUA (pick-up artistry) is a strange beast. Its core technique relies on teaching men to dehumanize women as “targets” in order to numb themselves to rejection, making it psychologically easier to approach larger numbers of women and therefore, statistically, to enjoy greater sexual success, though at the cost of emotional connection. PUA thus represents the art of maximizing sexual success by minimizing sexual satisfaction. Mae West’s 1978 film Sextette is also a strange beast, and a fascinating film. When I say that it’s fascinating, I don’t mean to suggest that it’s good. Sextette is a car crash of a film, a head-on collision between a lavish MGM musical and Tommy Wiseau’s The Room. It is a perfect candidate for interactive midnight screenings and ironic appreciation, which should be mandatory at every festival of women’s film.

The usual responses of male reviewers label Mae West as “delusional” and “grotesque” for her iron conviction in her own seductive power at the age of 84 (minimum). West was Billy Wilder’s original inspiration for the aging, predatory narcissist Norma Desmond in Sunset Blvd., while reviewer Nathan Rabin says of Sextette, “stick in a coda revealing that the whole thing was a ridiculous fantasy by an impoverished washerwoman nearing death, and the whole film would take on an unmistakably bittersweet, melancholy dimension.” Yes, the guy who invented the “Manic Pixie Dream Girl” label, to criticize self-centered male sexism, suggests that female fantasies of lifelong desirability are only valid if they are affirmed to be impossible in real life. The irony. It burns.

Real life, however, differs from such critics’ expectations of “realism.” Far from ending her life as a sex-starved, “impoverished washerwoman,” Mae West actually had a flourishing relationship with the ruggedly handsome wrestler Paul Novak, almost 30 years her junior, who remained devoted to her for 26 years in one of show business’ greatest romances, nursing her at her death but discouraging her from including him in her will.

We may squirm at Sextette, to see an 84-year-old lady claim irresistible attractiveness without the apologetic, self-deprecating irony that we demand of older women’s sexuality, but Mae’s claims are securely grounded in her proven track record of seduction. If you will it, Dude, it is no dream. If Mae had listened to dominant culture’s messages about the female sell-by date, she would never have dared to play a sex-bomb in her late 30s, her age in her Hollywood debut, or selected a much-younger and undiscovered Cary Grant for her co-star. We owe Cary Grant’s career to Mae’s “denial,” while her selection of a young Timothy Dalton for the leading man of Sextette shows a similar eye for star potential, the film prophetically comparing him to 007.

I don’t necessarily recommend Mae West’s narcissistic seductress as a role model for all women, but I strongly recommend her as Laverne Cox’s definition of a “possibility model”; Mae is a reminder that we define our own roles and culture is created partly by our consent. Mae West’s Sextette is the most perfect illustration that the values of dominant culture depend on its male authorship, while female authorship (Mae insisted on writing or co-writing all her films, dictating to directors on set) can just as easily create images of octogenarian vixens commanding the lustful worship of entire “United States athletic teams” of half-naked musclemen, and brokering world peace through their irresistible sexual power (why haven’t you seen this film yet?). Sextette uncomfortably tears down the curtain and reveals the balding wizard behind the Great and Powerful Oz of cinema’s “realism,” just as Singing In The Rain exposed the artificiality of Lina Lamont’s glamour by swapping the sex of the voice behind the curtain. Here lies Sextette‘s true countercultural anarchy, and the reason it deserves midnight screening immortality. But the film also represents, as we shall show with our trusty pualingo.com, a classic PUA manual.

Abundance Mentality

Abundance mentality is defined by PUA lingo as “the belief and life perspective that there is no shortage of hot girls to meet in any man’s lifetime.” This principle is continually reinforced within male-authored culture, from the female disposability fantasy of James Bond to the geriatric desirability dreams of Woody Allen, which influential New York Times critic Vincent Canby might have considered “a poetic, terrifying reminder of how a virtually disembodied ego can survive total physical decay and loss of common sense” if he hadn’t already said that about Sextette. Conversely, our culture constantly depicts narratives of female anxiety over their “biological clocks” and their “last chance for love,” reinforcing a scarcity mentality whose psychological impact is dramatized with wincing accuracy by the desperation romcom of Bridget Jones’s Diary. Mae West, however, modeled an abundance mentality throughout her life, in defiant immunity to cultural pressures. Though acknowledging her life partner, ruggedly handsome Mr. Baltimore, Paul Novak, was a “good guy,” she quipped in her mid-80s “course there’s 40 guys dyin’ for his job!”

The filmmakers originally intended West’s character, Marlo, to weep over Timothy Dalton’s abandonment, while goth-rock legend Alice Cooper (with tangerine tan and poodle perm, naturally. Why haven’t you seen this film?) serenaded her with piano ballad “No Time For Tears,” but Mae insisted that her character would not cry and forced Cooper to perform the jazzy, uptempo “Next, Next” (“he blew his chance with you! Next, next! Lost you to someone new!”), maintaining her character’s positive vibing so that the film’s advocacy of abundance mentality would not be compromised. West and Dalton’s final reconciliation suggests that this was only a soft next on Marlo’s part, however. Male critics interpret such abundance mentality as delusion, in a woman who resembles a macabre apparition and the monster from beyond time, but West’s track record of sexual success suggests that such protests be understood as token resistance.

Midnight screening suggestion: bring a loud buzzer to hit before yelling “next!”

DHV: Demonstration of Higher Value

Marlo's target, acknowledging her higher value — Marlo’s target, acknowledging her higher value

While male sexual value peaks between the ages of 21 and 30 (as clarified by Sextette‘s “happy birthday, 21!” anthem and Mae’s criticism of Tony Curtis as an unsuitably elderly screen lover, only 30 years her junior) and is largely dependent on the man’s rugged looks and muscle-tone, a woman may increase her sexual market value (SMV) at any age by a canned routine of humorous quips, positive vibing, displays of wealth and willingness to walk away or “soft next,” as Mae demonstrates throughout the film. The best technique for a DHV is to avoid direct bragging (which can actually read as desperation, and thus a demonstration of lower value, or DLV), through the use of wings to praise you on your behalf. In Sextette, the role of “Marlo’s wing” is played by Everyone Who Is Not Marlo. Before the central couple arrive, Regis Philbin brands Marlo “the greatest sex symbol the screen has ever known,” while an obliging crowd sings her DHV anthem “Marlo! The female answer to Apollo! As lovely as Venus De Milo! A living dream!” the press corps laugh at her every word and even ex-husband Ringo Starr shows willingness to wing for her: “You know when your wife was my wife? Your wife was some wife!” Such consistent DHV naturally provokes Timothy Dalton’s target into the production of expensive diamonds as well as verbal IOIs, in this clearly approval-seeking ballad (click. I dare you). Claims by male reviewers that this moment is like “gazing upon one of H. P. Lovecraft’s Old Ones, something so momentously and unimaginably monstrous that even perceiving the edges of it threatens one with madness” are best interpreted as manifestations of their bitch shields (BS).

Midnight screening suggestion: wing for Marlo by wolf-whistling and dangle bracelets of sparklers whenever she mentions being turned on.

NLP: Neuro Linguistic Programming

Neuro-linguistic programming is the art of conditioning the target‘s responses through ambiguity and anchoring. In an NLP context, ambiguity is the use of normal, innocuous words that sound like sexual terms, to unconsciously stimulate a man’s sexual senses. Mae West reveals herself a grandmistress of this art, with statements such as “I’m the girl who works at Paramount all day and Fox all night,” referencing her busy schedule as an actress, but subconsciously suggesting sexual stamina to the receptive male mind. “Everything goes up for Marlo!” literally refers to a pink cassette trampolined into a statue’s mouth (don’t ask) but on a deeply subtle and subconscious level could be regarded as sexually suggestive, while “when I’m good, I’m good, but when I’m bad, I’m better” might conceivably be associated with a sexual “bad girl” rather than with theft or arson. After this ingenious technique has made all men uncontrollably aroused by the octogenarian West, she is free to select her targets at will from their superabundance. Next!

Anchoring, meanwhile, is the art of associating gestures with emotional states through their repetition. In Sextette, Mae uses her anchors, such as trademark hair-patting, to elicit Pavlovian arousal by evoking her earlier performances, while groping her own breasts is a classic point to self (PTS) to anchor her feeling of success. A related art is kino, the regular touching and stroking of the target that prevents octogenarian actresses from ending up in his friend zone, which Marlo can be observed demonstrating on Ricky, the 21-year-old team mascot, throughout Sextette‘s gym scene. When male commentators describe the film as “like watching your grandmother at a gangbang,” the key is to reframe that observation, for example by cocking an eyebrow and purring “does that excite you?”

Midnight screening suggestion: Recognize NLP Ambiguity by clicking fingers and barking “you’re under!” in the style of Little Britain’s Kenny Craig, while all PTS maneuvers should be mimicked.

Peacocking

By wearing something showy, like a huge feather headdress or semi-transparent gown, a PUA is able to differentiate herself from her competition. Peacocking is a term derived from the biological behavior of peacocks and from Darwinism, not from the ginormous plumes crowning Mae West like a kooky cockatoo. Peacocking lures the PUA’s targets into starting conversations with her, offering her openings such as “what is that thing on your head? You look like a kooky cockatoo!” By wearing something completely ridiculous, the PUA also opens herself up to shit tests from men, such as New York Times critic Vincent Canby’s claim that Mae resembles “a plump sheep that’s been stood on its hind legs, dressed in a drag-queen’s idea of chic, bewigged and then smeared with pink plaster.” By demonstrating that she can deal with this social pressure, Mae shows her irresistibly alpha characteristics. It must be admitted that, in the striking costumes of legendary, eight-time Oscar-winner Edith Head, Mae looks like a damn chic sheep dressed as sexy lamb.

Midnight screening suggestion: the most ridiculous feather boas and fascinators you can get your hands on, for regular stroking throughout the screening.

So what’s the moral of this study? Should we be inspired by Mae’s conquests of the screen and of ruggedly handsome wrestler, crowned Mr. Baltimore, Paul Novak, to endorse the indomitable positivity of PUA philosophy (go West, young woman)? Or point to the reactions of squirming male viewers to finally prove that PUA is creepy, once and for all? Or does the truth lie somewhere in between, in cultivating a confident independence and immunity to cultural pressure, while still respecting the consent of others? Who knows? Only one moral is certain: never, ever play a drinking game in which you do a shot for every sex pun in this movie. Seriously. You could die. [youtube_sc url=” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nH_j-DNJwZA”]

The trailer alone would get you bombed

Brigit McCone over-identifies with Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard. She writes short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and making bad puns out of the corner of her mouth.

The Sublime Sadism in ‘Breaking the Waves’

Her role as sexual martyr is better suitable for Bess than the role that is expected of her: the patriarchal role of the woman. The religious community in which Bess is brought up is stifling and oppressive, in which male domination prevails in both the personal and public life of the community (the household and the entire commune is dominated by the elderly male church leaders).

This is a guest post by Giselle Defares.

The relationship between faith and love, the religious experience that is love, suffering and sacrifice, are themes that frequently recur in our pop culture. For some, love can be seen as the most powerful emotion we know, an emotion that can entail spiritual forces. In Breaking The Waves love and faith appear, despite the spiritual connotations, as matters proposed in a very earthly and physical manner. However, the age-old trope of the suffering woman who sacrifices herself so that the man triumphs is nothing new.

The Danish director Lars von Trier follows the beat of his own drum. Von Trier can be called many things: neurotic, shit stirrer and allegedly misogynist. In 2011 he was declared persona non grata after his ridiculous remarks in Cannes during a press conference for Melancholia: “I really wanted to be a Jew, and then I found out that I was really a Nazi… What can I say? I understand Hitler.” He took a “vow of silence” after this debacle. Not only did von Trier make various headlines in his career via his questionable, controversial statements, it’s also the result of the themes portrayed in his films. In most of his films the female characters are placed in violent and sexual situations. In an old interview with The Guardian, Von Trier said “Basically, I’m afraid of everything in life, except filmmaking.” Right.

Breaking the Waves centers round a strict Calvinist community in rural Scotland. Bess McNeill (Emily Watson) is a young woman who expresses her piety by cleaning the church. Here she holds various conversations with God. When Bess wants to marry Jan Nyman (Stellan Skarsgård), an outsider who works on the oil rigs, the church elderly are hesitant. Nevertheless, the first weeks of their marriage are successful. When Jan needs to get back to work at the rig, Bess becomes emotionally unhinged and begs God to bring him back. As a result of a fatal accident on the rig, Jan is brought back to the mainland. He is completely paralyzed, and his life is uncertain; both Bess and “God” blame themselves for Jan’s situation. When she asks God for help, he answers with the question: “Who do you want to save, yourself or Jan?” Bess then makes the fatal decision to save Jan.

Whether or not it was the intent of von Trier, Bess is frequently compared to the Christ figure in a modern tragedy. Her sacrifice was for a higher purpose and “not in vain.” In Bible and Cinema: Fifty Key Films, Adele Reinhartz gives two basic criteria that a movie character must meet in order to be seen as a Christ figure: “That there be some direct and specific resemblance to Christ and that the fundamental message associated with the possible Christ figure has to be consistent to the life and work of Christ, and contrary to his message about liberation and love.”

On the basis of these two criteria Bess can be seen as the female representation of a Christ figure. Her love, like that of Christ, is selfless and knows no boundaries. Bess commits herself entirely to sacrifice her being for this selfless love, even if it leads to death. However, this form of sacrifice is soon to be regarded as a specific element in her life. Bess is easily persuaded by Jan, because “God” commands her to fulfill his wishes. Jan’s requirements are so also God’s requirements. Bess is obedient and submissive to the male power, which forces her to place herself in unpleasant situations trying to save a man.

A representation of this point can be seen in the middle of the film when Bess prays directly to a hospitalized Jan. Bess exclaims, “I love you, Jan.” Jan answers, “I love you too, Bess. You are the love of my life.” Both Jan and God have the same voice, thereby Jan and God are put on the same pedestal. The masculine is the divine, the women must be submissive therein.

The female suffering in Breaking the Waves is deemed more important than the female existence. Her role as sexual martyr is better suitable for Bess than the role that is expected of her: the patriarchal role of the woman. The religious community in which Bess is brought up is stifling and oppressive, in which male domination prevails in both the personal and public life of the community (the household and the entire commune is dominated by the elderly male church leaders).

The position of the women in this patriarchal community is determined by the male counterparts. The imposed position of the wife doesn’t sit well with Bess; in the first chapter she goes against the grain by marrying Jan in the church, then she speaks in the church, which is forbidden for women. They also ask the women in the community that they remain calm and adhere to their men. Not the whimsical Bess: she beats Jan as he arrives late to their wedding, and is hysterical when he leaves her to work on the rig. This latter characteristic, hysteria, is considered as one of the “weakest” properties of a woman. Alyda Faber, a theologian, states in Redeeming Sexual Violence? A Feminist Reading of Breaking the Waves: “Von Trier creates the image of Bess as sexual martyr through a peculiar valorization of feminine abjection as madness, formlessness, malleability, hysteria. This common reiteration of femininity as weakness.”

Although Bess has more difficulty with the role of sexual martyr, she fulfills the role better than the imposed patriarchal role of a woman. Von Trier uses Bess as a sinner and as a martyr; archetypes that enable that Bess – from a feminist theological approach- is seen as a Mary Magdalene. Von Trier also literally refers to Mary Magdalene in Bess. This happens in the dialogue in which God speaks to Bess: “Mary Magdalene had sin, and she is my beloved.” Bess is caught between the two paradigms where Mary Magdalene was stuck as the virgin and the whore.

Her character begins as that of a virgin, which fits into the mold created by the church until she persists throughout the film and turns into a “whore.” It starts with her sexual relationship with her husband, where she learns to give her love of God over to Jan. Her faith and love into “the word” God has been replaced by the belief in carnal love. Bess at one point states: “You cannot love words. You cannot be in love with a word. You can love another human being.” Her faith for the greater good is stronger than the word of God; this faith in love has led her to sexual freedom–from virgin to whore. Despite Bess being often compared to Mary Magdalene and represented as a Christ figure she remains an ordinary woman who only has to offer her goodness.

Watson is phenomenal in her role as Bess and she deservedly received an Oscar nomination. She truly carries the film and has great chemistry with Skarsgård in the first chapters. Her suffering is stretched throughout the film causing pain and simultaneously pity for her character. Admittedly, the plot is very thin and at times feels illogical. The other characters feel like cardboard cutouts but the film is saved by Watson as the whimsical Bess.

Von Trier styled the film almost like a documentary while using the handheld camera work of cinematographer Robbie Müller. The images are grainy, gray and pale in color, and there’s almost no use of a musical score. At first, the angular camera work doesn’t seem to work with the emotional storyline nor the strict and rigid community in which it takes place. Only with the announcement of a new chapter in the film are images shown that almost resemble moving paintings in beautiful, vibrant colors. As if the gaze of God descends on rural Scotland.

Breaking the Waves is, in essence, just an good old fashioned melodrama. It’s captivating and moving, but there’s no room for false sentiment.

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

Giselle Defares comments on film, fashion (law) and American pop culture. See her blog here.

Vintage Viewing: Alice Guy, Gender-Bending Pioneer

‘Bitch Flicks’ presents Vintage Viewing – a monthly feature for viewing and discussing the films of cinema’s female pioneers. Where better to start than history’s first film director, Alice Guy?

Alice Guy: she's the man — Alice Guy: she’s the man

Written by Brigit McCone, this post is part of Vintage Viewing, our series exploring the work of women filmmaking pioneers.

When discussing opportunities for women and minorities created by new media, Kathleen Wallace highlighted the explosion of female directors at the birth of cinema, later squeezed out by the studio system. The list of vintage female directors is long, varied, and multinational. Yet, theorists like Laura Mulvey define feminist cinema by its resistance to the Male Gaze™, virtually ignoring the precedent of the female gaze. When was the last time we watched vintage female-authored films and discussed their art or meaning? Bitch Flicks presents Vintage Viewing – a monthly feature for viewing and discussing the films of cinema’s female pioneers. Where better to start than history’s first film director, Alice Guy?

Alice Guy may be compared to Ada Lovelace, who published the original computer program and first predicted the wider applications of computing. Like Lovelace, Guy was the pioneer who envisioned the future of her field. Like Lovelace, her legacy is only now being reappraised after decades of neglect. Though Guy’s memoirs indicate she may have directed the world’s first fiction film, her massive output, estimated at almost 1,000 films, is really more remarkable for its overall grasp of film’s potential, both technical (hand-painting color film, pioneering the close-up, synchronized sound, and special effects such as superimposition) and in establishing tropes from melodrama to comedy to action to suspense.

Click here to watch an excellent youtube documentary.

Alfred Hitchcock once cited two thrilling early influences: D. W. Griffith and Alice Guy. But Guy wasn’t simply an influential pioneer who happened to be female; she repeatedly challenged gender stereotypes in her work. Though sexologist John Money only coined the concept of a “gender role” in 1955, Alice Guy’s cross-dressing films were interrogating gender’s socially constructed nature 50 years earlier.

Pierrette’s Escapades – 1900

“We have often turned away from the exploration and consideration of the erotic as a source of power and information, confusing it with its opposite, the pornographic.” – Audre Lorde

Pierrette’s Escapades is one of the hand-painted demonstration films that Alice Guy produced for Gaumont in France, before her move to America. This film is particularly interesting for probably containing cinema’s first lesbian kiss. Guy recognized the power of representation, not only for queer visibility, but with 1912’s affirmative Jewish narrative A Man’s A Man, and cinema’s first Black cast in that same year’s A Fool and His Money, a story of hustling and hard luck inspired by blues narratives. Within a lushly tinted, escapist sensuality, the women of Pierrette’s Escapades play roles from anarchic Commedia dell’Arte and carnival traditions. As such, their flirtations and kisses can be explained by the established relationships between these stock characters, but Guy has taken conventionally heterosexual love scenes and reimagined them with an all-female cast.

The femme Pierrette, in her throbbing pink dress, resembles a coquettish Columbine, the trickster wife of sad clown Pierrot, and mistress of witty Harlequin (the 16th century’s Bugs Bunny). As rivals, Harlequin and Pierrot represent the two faces of love, its triumphs and disappointments. The film opens with Pierrette reveling in her costume and powdering herself for Harlequin. A figure sidles into frame, in the traditional costume of Pierrot. Pierrot’s baggy clothes and white-powdered face make it difficult to identify the figure’s sex, who clumsily moves to embrace Pierrette, while she dodges impatiently, before Pierrot steals a kiss on her bare shoulder. Pierrette angrily orders her husband/wife to bed and primps for Harlequin. In the skintight, checkered costume and hat that identify the character, Harlequin is unmistakably feminine. In contrast to her coerced affection with Pierrot, Pierrette blossoms with female Harlequin, swooning and spinning before melting into her arms. Guy cuts the film at the moment of their kiss, leaving it open-ended and suggestive.

Pierrette’s low-cut bodice and the raising of her skirts mark this film as teasingly erotic for the time. Records indicate that Guy filmed cinema’s first striptease three years before Pierrette’s Escapades. Since the forced hypersexuality of women on film has become an expression of male control, modern feminists often read such images as objectifying. It’s worth remembering that a female director, Lois Weber, filmed the first female full-frontal, while Mae West provoked the paternalist Hays Code with her sexual frankness. The eroticism of Pierrette’s Escapades is a reminder of the liberating power of playful, sexual self-representation. Like the suffragettes, who wore lipstick as a symbol of defiance, it challenges sexless definitions of feminist orthodoxy. Isn’t viewing female bodies only from the imaginary perspective of an objectifying Male Gaze™ itself oppressive? Soundtrack suggestion: Cyndi Lauper, “Girls Just Want To Have Fun“ [youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xeByzgJFLMs”]

Walk in the sun

The Consequences of Feminism – 1906

“Femininity, if one still wants to call it that, makes American women a target and a victim of the sexual sell.” – Betty Friedan

Alice Guy’s work regularly explored the status of women. She moulded Vinnie Burns into cinema’s first action heroine, and depicted women in traditionally male professions such as magicians and dog-trainers. In 1912’s Making an American, “Ivan Orloff and his unhappy wife” represent a caricature of East-European cultures of wife-beating – Orloff’s wife is yoked to his wagon as a beast of burden. When the couple emigrate to America, Guy shows Americans constantly intervening to correct Orloff’s treatment of his wife, presenting resistance to domestic abuse as an American value fundamental to the “Land of the Free.” 1914’s The Lure was a sympathetic examination of the forces pressuring women into prostitution. Nevertheless, many feminist viewers struggle with Guy’s 1906 farce, The Consequences of Feminism, an apparently reactionary nightmare in which feminism creates a world of “sissified” men, who rebel by reclaiming their clubhouse and toasting the restoration of patriarchy. Discussing Pamela Green’s Guy documentary Be Natural, Kristen Lopez concludes this film depicts “the bad side” of feminism, before apologetically suggesting “the very idea that a woman was exploring social issues in a time when women weren’t allowed to vote is astounding”. Is this really all that can be said? That it’s cool to see a woman having enough of a voice to argue against women having more of a voice?

The Consequences of Feminism does not depict a society on the verge of collapse, it depicts straightforward role reversal. In her lost 1912 film In The Year 2000, Guy also reverses gender roles, with Darwin Karr playing the objectified “Ravishing Robert”. This anticipates later female authors who used sci-fi to interrogate gender, such as Charlotte Perkins Gilman with 1915’s Herland, or Ursula LeGuin with 1969 Hugo and Nebula prize-winner The Left Hand of Darkness (off topic: am I the only one shipping the Wachowski siblings to adapt?). Compare “Turnabout Intruder,” the genuinely reactionary 1969 finale of the original Star Trek series, which used role reversal to attempt to discredit second-wave feminism. In “Turnabout Intruder,” Dr. Janice Lester voices feminist grievances: “your world of starship captains doesn’t admit women,” before swapping bodies with Captain Kirk and attempting to command. Kirk shows calm authority in Lester’s body, while Lester is emotionally incapable of handling Kirk’s command and “red-faced with hysteria.” As “Turnabout Intruder” shows, discrediting feminism through role reversal requires a demonstration that women are incapable of performing male roles.

The Consequences of Feminism, by contrast, uses a farcical depiction of feminist rule to demonstrate that, while women thrive in male roles, men could not endure Friedan’s “sexual sell” of trading desirability for loss of power. Male viewers are confronted with a vision of themselves as passive “Ravishing Roberts” who must feign sexual resistance to preserve their reputation, laboring in domestic servitude while women supervise at their leisure. Society’s devaluing of domestic labor is shown by the women ridiculing their clubhouse’s sole washerman and pelting him with linens. If male viewers are relieved by the ending, in which a father revolts against a woman who disowns her child, and leads the men in storming the women’s clubhouse, they must acknowledge that collective rebellion against oppressive female roles is justified. Guy’s tongue-in-cheek film is the opposite of stereotypical, humorless feminism, but it demolishes the illusory power of “feminine mystique” just as effectively, as relevant for today’s MRA as for the chivalry of Guy’s own era. Soundtrack suggestion: Missy Elliott, “Work It”

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bIPMbkHQO3w”]

Put my thang down, flip it and reverse it

Algie The Miner – 1912

“We’ve begun to raise daughters more like sons… but few have the courage to raise our sons more like our daughters.” – Gloria Steinem

As a subversive populist, Guy was a master of the bait-n-switch. In 1913’s Officer Henderson, she offers audiences macho police officers dressing as women to catch crooks, the joke being the ridiculous juxtaposition of their fighting skills and feminine image. Then, at the end of the film, Guy substitutes the police officer with his wife, who reveals equal skill in tackling the crook. Officers watch and laugh at their supposed crony brawling in drag, but Guy’s real joke is revealed to be on the men themselves, for assuming that women are incapable of violence or self-defense.

Algie the Miner‘s IMDb entry lists Guy as “directing supervisor” and producer to Edward Warren’s director, at a time when the distinction between producer and director was ill-defined. Her fingerprints are all over the film, however, which she’s often credited as directing. Algie the Miner offers the joke of a flamboyant “sissy” man, contractually obliged by his future father-in-law to “prove himself a man” in rugged Western pursuits, but this is only the bait-n-switch for Guy’s critique of toxic masculinity and homophobia. Rugged pioneer Big Jim gives Algie directions to a frontier town and Algie kisses him in gratitude, leading to an explosion of violent insecurity from Jim. After discovering how non-threateningly puny Algie’s gun is, Jim thaws and agrees to become his mentor in manhood, settling into a cohabiting relationship whose separate beds recall Sesame Street‘s Bert and Ernie. Despite Algie’s female fiancé/beard, Algie the Miner is celebrated as a milestone in the history of gay cinema. When shown his separate bed in Big Jim’s cabin, Algie appears to lean into Jim suggestively before being rebuffed, giving grounds to view him as bisexual. As such, Algie’s final empowerment is gay-affirmative, as well as vindicating feminine values.

Though the rugged pioneers howl with laughter and ridicule Algie’s tiny gun, his willingness to kiss larger men demonstrates an effortless physical courage greater than that of his sexually insecure cowboy hosts, anticipating Marvel’s Rawhide Kid. Over the course of their relationship, Big Jim will teach Algie manly skills, but Algie will rescue Jim from ruinous machismo, nursing the alcoholic through his delirium tremens, saving Jim’s life from robbers and bravely defying the macho peers who pressure Jim to drink. Algie’s resistance to peer pressure, as well as his self-sacrificing nurturing instinct, vindicate feminine courage in the face of macho weakness. When Algie plans to return and claim his bride, Jim is visibly downcast until offered the chance to accompany him. Every Big Jim needs an Algie. The film ends with Algie “proving himself a man” by forcing his future father-in-law to bless his marriage at gunpoint. Closing with the father-in-law’s terror, the viewer must question whether such stereotypical masculinity is truly superior. In all, Alice Guy’s Algie the Miner offers cinema’s most affirmative portrait of male femininity until Billy Wilder’s Some Like It Hot. Soundtrack suggestion: Hole, “Be A Man” [youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FCYYa0WxLXA”]

I’m potent, yeah

After almost single-handedly inventing the language of narrative cinema, Alice Guy mentored director Lois Weber, whose blockbusting success ushered in the golden age of female filmmakers in Hollywood. Next month’s Vintage Viewing: Lois Weber, Blockbusting Boundary-Pusher. Stay tuned!

Brigit McCone may now officially be an Alice Guy fangirl (Guynocentric?) She writes short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and making bad puns.

Blurred Lines: The Cinematic Appeal of Rape Fantasy

While Whore stigma is gradually declining, kinky desires remain stigmatized, especially in women. By vocally disowning that desire, “Madonna” Anastasia Steele qualifies herself to serve as an avatar for readers who struggle to acknowledge and integrate their sexual urges. The “displaced consent” model of rape fantasy may be recognized, and distinguished from the “sexual assawwwlt” model, by its masterful Ice Prince hero, whose full control is essential to eliminating the heroine’s responsibility.

Trigger Warning: Detailed discussion of rape apologism (and some explicit reference to Robin Thicke)

The Myth Of Male Power by Warren Farrell (PhD, of course) is arguably the intellectual foundation of Men’s Rights Activism (MRA). It is also notorious for its rape apologism, using female fondness for fictional rape fantasy to argue that men should not be prosecuted for date rape, as long as they are “trying to become her fantasy.” For the record, I don’t believe rape fantasies cause rape. In the real world, desire is not so easily misunderstood. What rape fantasy does feed, as Farrell illustrates, is rape apologism. Our cultural models of “romanticized rape” shape the excuses of rapists and encourage their general acceptance. We might respond by pointing out that women consent to rape fantasy automatically, just by imagining it, by turning the pages as they read or by opening their eyes to watch on-screen. Since rape fantasy is consensual, it has nothing in common with the violation of actual rape. But with the often coercive “romance” of Fifty Shades of Grey set to rule the box office, now is a good time to ask: what actually is the cinematic appeal of rape fantasy?

Gone With The Wind: Putting the “awww” in Sexual Assawwwlt

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Rhett Butler threatens to crush his wife’s skull, declares “this is one night you’re not turning me out” then carries her upstairs, visibly struggling. Cut to Scarlett awakening the next morning with smiling pleasure. Her husband threatened to kill her, declared his intention to rape her while she protested, yet she is shown waking up happy the following day. Like Fifty Shades of Grey, this is an adaptation of a female author’s book, cited as sexual fantasy by many female viewers. What’s going on?

Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With the Wind mirrors classic interpretations of Wuthering Heights‘ romance – like Linton, Ashley represents the heroine’s social aspirations, while Rhett mirrors Heathcliff as her primal, resisted passion. This must be understood within a wider tendency by female-authored texts to reject their primary object of desire, which I’ve previously examined for Jane Austen’s Unsuitable Suitor and the “Wolf” of SARCom. In response to such rejection, Twilight‘s Jacob Black forces a long kiss on heroine Bella Swann. Buffy‘s spurned “Wolves,” Spike and hyena-possessed Xander, both attempt to rape Buffy.

This rape-as-romantic-desperation trope echoes the emotional vulnerability of Rhett Butler’s marital rape, where he finally confesses jealousy and desire for Scarlett. As Rhett threatens to crush Scarlett’s skull, the gesture emphasizes his powerlessness to control her thoughts and emotions. Though his role is brutal, supposedly excused by drunkenness, the scene actually affirms Scarlett’s emotional power: he attempts to intimidate her, but cannot; he acknowledges his craving for her emotional approval and his inability to secure it. Treating sexual assault as emotional surrender is the defining feature of this category of rape fantasy, the “awww” in the “sexual assawwwlt.” Because Rhett is the primary love interest, Scarlett’s resistance is a demonstration of emotional power, not lack of desire, as her satisfaction the following morning demonstrates. She is the avatar of female viewers, who both desire Rhett and desire power over Rhett. Our culture views sex as male conquest and female surrender, but “sexual assawwwlt” flips that script: it is female conquest through emotional withholding, provoking a rape that affirms male emotional powerlessness.

The cultural concept of “female sexual power” was born in 411 B.C., with the sex boycott plot of Aristophanes’ comedy Lysistrata. At the time, this was amusing partly because women were understood to have ten times the lust of men. The female fertility cults of Demeter practiced ritual obscenity, the first known sex manual was authored by Philaenis, daughter of Okymenes, and Sappho wrote nine volumes of lesboerotic poetry, all acknowledged literary classics. These expressions of female-authored sexual culture were wiped out by patriarchs of the early christian church. However, the male-authored Lysistrata‘s model of empowerment-through-sexual-resistance survived. “The Rules of Love,” laid down by Eleanor of Aquitaine’s Courts of Love in the 12th Century, included “an easy attainment makes love contemptible” and “jealousy is absolutely required by love.” Eleanor’s influential “Rules of Love” represent an aristocratic female response to social powerlessness, diverting frustration into a sadistic model of love as gratifying empowerment, rather than as emotional fulfillment. Margaret Mitchell’s depicting Scarlett as empowered by her own rape thus reflects over 2,000 years of ideology promoting sexual resistance as an expression of female power. This “female power” of sexual resistance is a poisoned chalice: by separating resistance-as-power from resistance-as-reluctance, it justifies rape as the only way to satisfy female desire, while diverting women from actual social empowerment. “Female sexual power” thus feeds rape apologism and demands male telepathy – a practice best confined to fiction.

Fifty Shades of Grey: Madonna’s Like A Virgin

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If “sexual assawwwlt” represents female sexual conquest, then the “displaced consent” of Fifty Shades of Grey represents disowned responsibility. In E. L. James’ book, Anastasia Steele expresses unwillingness and reluctance to engage in BDSM with Christian, while her consent is detached and embodied as the infamous “inner goddess.” Again, a key to understanding can be found in Jane Austen. Writing at a time of intense Whore stigma, where expressions of female sexuality were harshly punished by the withdrawal of social protection, Austen repeatedly created plots in which the heroine resists her attraction to the Unsuitable Suitor while another woman, usually a female relative, abandons social protection and elopes with him. This constant repetition suggests that the “Whore” relative represents the displaced sex drive of the “Madonna” heroine, an “inner Lydia” comparable to Anastasia Steele’s “inner goddess.” While Whore stigma is gradually declining, kinky desires remain stigmatized, especially in women. By vocally disowning that desire, “Madonna” Anastasia Steele qualifies herself to serve as an avatar for readers who struggle to acknowledge and integrate their sexual urges. The “displaced consent” model of rape fantasy may be recognized, and distinguished from the “sexual assawwwlt” model, by its masterful Ice Prince hero, whose full control is essential to eliminating the heroine’s responsibility. The classic “Ice Prince” of teen SARCom is emotionally intense, but sexually unavailable; E. L. James titillates readers by adapting Twilight‘s sexually unavailable “Ice Prince” Edward into the emotionally unavailable, but sexually intense, Christian Grey.

Compare the earlier Secretary, Erin Cressida Wilson’s adaptation of Mary Gaitskill’s story: the heroine Lee actively requests and provokes the domination of her boss, Mr. Grey, and is depicted in solo acts of masochism and masturbation that clarify her independent desire for BDSM. In BDSM practice, it is the submissive who ultimately controls the play through safe-words and consent, an ironic “paradox of power.” In Fifty Shades of Grey, however, the book’s BDSM negotiations are utterly undermined by Anastasia’s inability to sign or renegotiate Christian’s contracts, due to her disavowal of kinky desire. For sharp analysis of the book’s resulting abusive elements, from the perspective of a practising submissive, see Cliff Pervocracy’s reviews, while E. L. James’ own interviews exemplify covert desire and reinforce norms of respectability politics: “I am fascinated by BDSM, and fascinated as to why anyone would want to be in this lifestyle. Don’t get me wrong – I think it’s as hot as hell, and find Doms hot as hell. I met this guy recently who is a Dom… well… ‘nuff said about that – but he was fucked-up.”

Female director Sam Taylor-Johnson is apparently trying to minimize the book’s disavowal of desire, by emphasizing Dakota Johnson’s lustful facial expressions as nonverbal cues for Jamie Dornan’s Christian. His line “I like to see your face. It gives me some clue what you might be thinking” is prominent in the official trailer. But fangirls now rushing to pre-book tickets are expecting, and will demand, faithfulness to the source novel, including Anastasia’s open reluctance to enter a D/s relationship and her refusal to sign or renegotiate Christian’s contract, which deny her power of consent. E. L. James’ book also shares Gone With The Wind‘s trope of using a sexually aggressive, non-white man to provoke white male heroic protectiveness, suggesting a correlation between mainstream rape fantasy and conservative ideology. How will Taylor-Johnson tackle that? Should we support female directors regardless?

Culture’s association of sexual resistance with (white) respectability, and with (white) entitlement to social protection, acts to detach sexual resistance from lack of desire. Yet, just as Austen’s heroes cannot actually marry both the girl of their dreams and the random female relative who represents her sex drive, a hero’s being justified in forcing himself on an unwilling woman, because her consenting inner goddess is hovering like a sexual Great Gazoo, is equally unrealistic. The seduction of Anastasia may be compared to the seductions of Brad and Janet in The Rocky Horror Picture Show, a rare example of the “displaced consent” trope being unisex, as Brad and Janet’s desire is clear in their visible pleasure at “giving in,” while their vocal resistance reflects social inhibitions and fear of losing status. Janet is shown to be liberated by her coercive seduction, embracing her desires in sex-positive anthem “touch-a, touch-a, touch me,” while Brad caresses his fetish gear and croons, “I feel se-exy!” However, Rocky Horror‘s flamboyant absurdism helps to underline the fantasy aspect of this rape fantasy, as a hypothetical mental experiment in gender and sexual fluidity. Kids, don’t try this at home.

“Blurred Lines”: Male Readings Of Rape Fantasy

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Like its female equivalent, mainstream male rape fantasy centres on forcing the acknowledgement of suppressed female desire. The fact that dominant culture continues to interpret women’s sexual resistance as unconnected to any lack of desire, may be seen in the huge popularity of Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines.” While Thicke’s lyrics include consent-positive lines like “go ahead, get at me,” the feminist backlash highlights the damaging impact of invalidating sexual resistance, not to mention Thicke’s creepy delivery (catchy hook, though).

There is no denying that degrading porn (porn focussed on humiliation rather than pleasure) appeals to misogynist men and to sexual predators, but is that all it does? Can its full popularity, dominating the ratings of porn aggregate sites, really be explained only by a widespread sexual hatred lurking in most men? I suggest that comparison with the female model of “sexual assawwwlt” offers a more complex reading. The male porn performer, like Scarlett O’Hara, is not a direct expression of desire but an avatar of sexual frustration. Popular porn is shaped by commercial pressure; to cater to the male viewer’s resentment of the female performer’s unavailability (to him personally), the male performer must paradoxically punish that sexual unavailability while having sex with her. Compare Gone With The Wind‘s urge to punish Rhett Butler’s emotional unavailability, while he’s being emotionally vulnerable. I suggest that cinematic sexual fantasy can only be understood through this contradictory duality: performers represent their characters’ sexual fulfillment, while simultaneously being avatars for the viewer’s conflicting sexual frustration. These dual pressures shape dysfunctional models for imitation.

As long as the performers are willing and comfortable, there is nothing wrong with a purely cinematic rape fantasy, or with the intense trust of consensual BDSM power exchange, that confront inhibitions while cathartically venting sexual frustrations. However, we must recognize the roots of rape fantasy in a toxic sexual culture that stigmatizes female lust and imagines female consent as disempowering surrender. Fantasy is as good a way as any to explore the resulting tensions between power and desire. But punishing female inhibition with bodily violation, when that inhibition stems from punishing female sexuality, adds injury to insult before rubbing battery acid on the wound. Films become toxic when they blur the lines of fantasy and reality, leading viewers to mistake expressions of frustration for models of fulfillment.

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Brigit McCone is semi-apologetically Team Wolf, writes and directs short films and radio dramas.

Manawee, ‘Mansfield Park,’ and the Limitations of Compulsory Spunkiness

If Austen’s earlier ‘Pride and Prejudice’ and ‘Sense and Sensibility’ (both written by age 23) seem to represent “unnatural prudence” by justifying and approving the Madonna’s inhibitions, then her later Emma and Persuasion both defend “natural romance.” Between proper “prudence” and regretful “romance” hovers ‘Mansfield Park’; every avenue is intolerable and every gate locked.

Written by Brigit McCone.

In the 2007 biopic Becoming Jane, Jane Austen’s relationship with Tom Lefroy is turned into a period romance, ending with Austen refusing to elope with Lefroy for the noblest of reasons and vowing that her heroines will get the happy ending she has been denied. There is a problem with that theory. James McAvoy’s passionate, mischievous Lefroy resembles Austen’s early hero Henry Tilney, of Northanger Abbey, but is otherwise far closer to the archetypal Unsuitable Suitor: Willoughby, Wickham, Crawford and Churchill. If, as the tag-line of Becoming Jane claims, “their love story was her greatest inspiration,” this suggests not the wish fulfillment of “happy endings,” but intense conflict over the Unsuitable Suitor’s incompatibility with social approval.

In Clarissa Pinkola Estés’ female spin on Jungian psychology, Women Who Run With the Wolves, she chooses the African tale “Manawee” to represent the psychological challenges of romantic union. In the story, a man’s dog must discover the names of twins before the man can marry them, avoiding distractions of the flesh to deliver the names to his master. In Estés’ reading, the dog represents the man’s instinctual self; only by recognizing (“naming”) the civilized and wild aspects of woman as dual but inseparable (“twins”), while avoiding the temptations of instant gratification (“flesh”) in favor of deep knowledge, can man qualify himself as woman’s enduring mate.

The Madonna/Whore complex defines as “Madonna” any woman who wins social approval by conforming to convention, and as “Whore” any woman who violates social convention to act on desire (capitalized to distinguish the concept from sex workers). Patriarchal ideology demands that the Whore be rejected and the Madonna rewarded, to discipline female behavior. By contrast, Jane Austen’s writing has the logic of Estés’ “Manawee” fable: the inseparable duality of Madonna and Whore. Marianne Dashwood loves Willoughby, therefore Brandon must win Marianne by protecting his Whore ward who elopes with Willoughby; Elinor Dashwood loves Edward Ferrars, therefore Ferrars must prove his loyalty to the Whore, Lucy Steele, to win Elinor; Elizabeth Bennet falls for Wickham, therefore Darcy must protect her Whore sister who elopes with Wickham; sibling-doubles Henry and Mary Crawford are dismissive of Whore Maria, therefore must be rejected by cousin-doubles Fanny and Edmund; Frank Churchill loves loyal Jane, who Whorishly defies propriety with their secret engagement, therefore Churchill appreciates Emma; Knightley loves Emma, therefore he is protective of Jane and urges Emma to stop distrusting her; Captain Wentworth shows his love for Anne Elliot by appreciating Louisa Musgrove, whose Whorish passion Anne has suppressed. The pattern is too consistent for coincidence: no hero in any Austen novel wins the heroine without protecting her Whore counterpart. The intense resistance to sexual double standards that this implies is often unappreciated, because of the propriety of its expression.

Sense and Sensibility‘s Marianne is particularly fascinating in this light. Her binary with Brandon’s Whore ward establishes Marianne as Madonna, and therefore entitled to count as heroine. Her binary with super-Madonna sister Elinor, however, establishes Marianne as Whore, flaunting social conventions by writing to Willoughby and flirting openly. By centering dual Madonna and Whore heroines, Austen foregrounds the internal conflict over the love plots. Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick’s “Jane Austen and the Masturbating Girl“ points to convincing parallels between Marianne’s characterization and the symptoms of female masturbation pathologized as “hysteria” by that era’s medical literature. I’m skeptical, however, of Sedgwick suggesting eroticism in the tension between Marianne and Elinor, rather than drama of the divided self. Elinor’s romantic pain over Ferrars is exactly equal to Marianne’s over Willoughby; she attacks Marianne for daring to express what she herself suppresses, then mourns over Marianne’s fevered body as an inseparable part of herself. As Austen’s final completed novel, Persuasion, declares: “one half of her should not be always so much wiser than the other half.”

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Emma Thompson gets this book

Andrew Davies, one of the most successful adaptors of Austen, has stated repeatedly that he believes elements of sex and love, even when pushed to the background by propriety, are always important (and faces Janeite wrath for this insight, as in this post dismissing the Whore as an irrelevant “bratty teenager.” As if women were all fine ladies, instead of rational creatures) Davies famously modernized the sexual tension of Pride and Prejudice by adding scenes of Colin Firth bathing and fencing. His version of Northanger Abbey explores the sexual overtones of Gothic horror to portray Catherine Morland’s craving for thrill and exploration as basically sexual curiosity, while JJ Feild’s Henry Tilney does justice to the ideal hero as playful liberator (is there a petition for JJ Feild, James McAvoy or Tom Hiddleston to play all future incarnations of Willoughby, Wickham, Crawford, and Churchill?).

Austen’s own relationship to the Whore is conflicted: Lydia Bennet is foolish for eloping with Wickham, but we’re encouraged to despise Mary’s smug moralizing over woman’s irretrievable virtue. Austen’s early Lady Susan stars a wickedly anarchic Whore, who flaunts society’s ageism and sexual propriety, like a slightly tamer Marquise de Merteuil but without real punishment (summon Diablo Cody to adapt!). Emma marks the full repentance of the Madonna for her self-righteous enforcement of social values. Persuasion lets the Unsuitable Suitor hold the Madonna accountable: “I could think of you only as one who had yielded, who had given me up, who had been influenced by anyone rather than by me.”

We prefer our Austen heroines spunky but not subversive. Elizabeth Bennet is the fan favorite, a spitfire Madonna, mistaken in her judgments but never “one who yielded” to social pressure, nor one who “forgot herself” (i.e. forgot social pressure) by eloping. In Becoming Jane, Anne Hathaway plays Austen herself as just such a spunky tightrope-walker. She would never just “give Lefroy up,” but martyrs herself nobly for his starving siblings. That Lefroy went on to marry elsewhere (whether he named his daughter after Jane or not), rather than waiting until he had independent means to win her, thus reflects poorly on his faithlessness alone. Our heroine is above reproach. The problem with such spunkiness, and the fantasy of social immunity it represents, is that it trivializes social pressure. Spunky heroines suggest any female failure be blamed on their lack of bootstrapping pluck, rather than on crushing social systems. From a patriarchal perspective, Pride and Prejudice, which Austen herself considered “rather too light,” is the most comforting of her novels: dominant ideology is never confronted because the patriarch just happens to be wryly wise, the Eligible Suitor just happens to be desirable and the Unsuitable Suitor just happens to be “one of the most worthless young men in Britain” (though it’s made clear that Elizabeth would heed Aunt Gardiner and reject him regardless).

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Andrew Davies presents ‘The Strange Case of Lizzy Jekyll and Lydia Hyde’

Replace noble Darcy with foolish Rushworth, cynical Wickham with impulsive Crawford, and you have the brooding beast that is Mansfield Park, Austen’s most conflicted masterpiece. Instead of Dashwood duality, there are three sisters in the older generation: Lady Bertram married for prestige and became a pointless, pampered shell; Mrs. Price married for passion and became enslaved to her husband in crushing poverty; childless widow Aunt Norris is a nightmare spinster, channeling sexual frustrations and social resentments into interference in others’ lives. Against this universal failure, the younger generation struggles for happiness. Maria tries to choose Rushworth’s prestige, but revolts and pursues passion with Henry Crawford, before being dumped and joining Aunt Norris in hellish spinsterhood. Fanny is paralyzed by danger on all sides and favors her safely protective cousin, who actually craves Mary Crawford’s rebellious fire. Mansfield Park’s romance cannot be dismissed as insipid cousin-love; it offers real passion with the Crawfords, before tearing it apart through inhibitions and internalized whorephobia (if you liked Pride and Prejudice, you’ll LOVE Inhibitions and Internalized Whorephobia!). Though Henry has been amusingly described as the “original Nice Guy” for refusing to acknowledge Fanny’s lack of interest, what fascinates is Austen using her full powers to make us root for Henry, before mercilessly ripping him away. Henry is the hero who fails; he has “the open-hearted, the eager character” so prized in Persuasion, but he fetishizes a purity he cannot possess and disdains the love that sacrificed everything for him. Henry tantalizes with the promise of mental and sexual liberation, but his double standards turn his promise into Dead Sea fruit.

One of the most symbolic scenes occurs with Fanny stuck on a bench, watching Maria strain for liberation from fiancé Rushworth’s grounds. Rushworth runs for the key to properly release her, but Henry proposes dodging the iron gate: “I think it might be done, if you really wished to be more at large, and could allow yourself to think it not prohibited.” A locked garden was a medieval allegory for virginity. We can read similar symbolism into Louisa Musgrove’s ruinous leap in Persuasion, which says of heroine Anne: “she had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older: the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning.” If Austen’s earlier Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility (both written by age 23) seem to represent “unnatural prudence” by justifying and approving the Madonna’s inhibitions, then her later Emma and Persuasion both defend “natural romance.” Between proper “prudence” and regretful “romance” hovers Mansfield Park; every avenue is intolerable and every gate locked.

Bringing us to Patricia Rozema’s 1999 adaptation, Mansfield Park. In the book, the patriarch Sir Thomas’ trip to the West Indies is an excuse for his family to flirt freely, but Rozema confronts the implication that Sir Thomas is a slaver; his character is given a darker edge, while his eldest son is not feckless but traumatized by flashbacks of slavery. Rozema’s Mansfield Park can thus be compared to Mira Nair’s Vanity Fair, which uses Bollywood influences to foreground the colonized India merely mentioned in the book, or Andrea Arnold’s confrontation of racism in Wuthering Heights. It is notable that Austen chose to make her patriarch a slaver, particularly since the novel is commonly read as defending the Park’s “traditional values” against the modernizing Crawfords. In the book, Fanny’s question about the slave trade meets “such a dead silence,” while the estate shares the name of Lord Mansfield, the 18th century Lord Chief Justice who set a legal precedent for abolition. Rozema’s choice to highlight slavery’s implications is bold and refreshing, but her film frustrates with its compulsory spunkiness.

Rozema admits that she finds Fanny “annoying” and was trying to empower her by making her a “wild beast” and witty writer. Giving the lower class heroine a satirical tongue must have seemed like a good strategy for criticizing patriarchal values. But the spunky woman is gender’s Uncle Tom; her psychological immunity to suffering ultimately lets viewers off the hook. If you’re going to confront slavery in your radical Austen adaptation, you must equally confront the psychosexual torture of the Madonna/Whore complex. Instead, Rozema offers a stale reheating of Pride and Prejudice‘s comfort food: Fanny’s a smirking Elizabeth, Edmund’s a duller Darcy and Maria’s a bitchier Lydia. A really radical adaptation would treat Maria’s passion and confusion with the sympathy of Kate Winslet’s Marianne. A really radical adaptation would make Crawford the sexually magnetic center, giving Fanny the painfully paralyzed inhibition of Celia Johnson in Brief Encounter.

Mira Nair, Andrea Arnold, and Patricia Rozema are pioneering re-imaginings of classic literature, that confront our colonial past. But there can be no definitive adaptation of Mansfield Park, or confrontation of our patriarchal past, until we’re ready to get uncomfortable about sexual repression. Couldn’t Emma Thompson and Ang Lee take a crack at it?

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Patricia Rozema does not get this book.

Brigit McCone was Team Crawford in her naive youth. She writes short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and promising this will be her last Austen article.

Alarming Innocence: The Terror of Little Girls in ‘The Crucible’

Miller’s examination of the Salem Witch Trials, held in the Province of Massachusetts Bay from 1692-3, depicts the internal, secretive drive of a New England witch hunt, and how paranoia quickly escalates to devastate a marriage, a family, neighbors, and eventually, to cripple an entire community. The actions of little girls set it all in motion.

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

When I first saw Arthur Miller’s The Crucible as a child, I found it utterly terrifying; why could this crowd of girls see and feel things that no adult could? Later, studying it in school and learning about its allegorical references to McCarthyism in the 1950 s, I appreciated this American theatre classic at a deeper level. Miller’s examination of the Salem Witch Trials, held in the Province of Massachusetts Bay from 1692-3, depicts the internal, secretive drive of a New England witch hunt, and how paranoia quickly escalates to devastate a marriage, a family, neighbors, and eventually, to cripple an entire community. The actions of little girls set it all in motion.

The Crucible had its premiere on Broadway in January of 1953. In his 1987 memoir Time Bends: A Life, Miller describes a 1952 flash of understanding of “the Puritan cult” upon viewing etchings and woodcuts on the walls of the Historical Society Witch Museum: “Portrayed were the afflicted innocent girls pointing in terror at some farmer’s wife who was secretly persecuting them and yet stood in proud contempt of their Christian accusations” (p. 42).

Much as been written about Miller’s “fictionalization” of the Salem trial accounts, e.g., the conflation of characters, and the changing of characters’ ages. For example, accuser Abigail Williams was around 11 years old during the actual trials, not 17. John Proctor was about 60, not a youthful man. In 1996, Miller responded to some of this, as quoted in the New York Times: “My job as a dramatist is to create a drama, not documentary history—any more, if I may say, than Shakespeare had in mind when he created his kings and characters who had very little resemblance to the real people.”

When I saw the 1996 film of The Crucible, penned by Miller and directed by Nicholas Hytner, I was struck by its depiction of the condemnation of female sexuality in the Puritan world. The theme of “the witch as female scapegoat” is applicable to the film. Miller mentions female sexuality perceived as horror in a 1996 NY Times op-ed entitled “Salem Revisited”: “Witch hunts are always spooked by women’s horrifying sexuality awakened by the superstud Devil. In Europe, where tens of thousands perished in the hunts, broadsides showed the Devil with two phalluses, one above the other. And of course mankind’s original downfall came about when the Filthy One corrupted the mother of mankind.”

In “Salem Revisited,” Miller describes Puritanical views of race and sexuality related to Tituba from Barbados, who was enslaved to Reverend Samuel Parris at the time of the trials. As one of the few people of color in Salem Village, Tituba was abused and treated as Other. Miller notes: “Tituba was tortured into naming women she had seen with the Devil, thus starting the hunt on its way. The conflation of female sexuality and blackness in a white world is an old story, and here it had lethal result.”

Due to space limitations, I’ll narrow my analysis to three key scenes in the film: the opening dancing scene in the forest, the first accusation scene near Betty’s bed, and a courtroom “yellow bird” scene near the end, involving the condemnation of Mary Warren (Karron Graves), who works for John (Daniel Day-Lewis) and Elizabeth Proctor (Joan Allen).

In a marked difference from the play’s opening, the movie begins at night as teenaged Abigail Williams (played by Winona Ryder) awakens a young girl named Betty Parris (Rachael Bella). Together, they sneak out of the house, lit by a full moon, and head into the dark woods; other girls join them. The group of giggling Puritan girls, ranging in ages from about 6 to 17, tramp through the wild forest together until they reach a ceremonial campfire. When they’ve gathered in a circle, Tituba (Charlayne Woodard) asks: “What’d you bring me?” The girls each put something into a boiling cauldron at the fire’s center–an herb or toad, and a boy’s name is uttered as part of a spell. Young Betty, notably, says nothing but puts something into the pot. Abigail supplies a live black chicken for the brew. Tituba twirls the animal above her head as part of a ritual, and sings in another language. The girls dance and sway to Tituba’s music, and express their longings for certain young men or boys, by name. Although Abby says nothing, the other girls volunteer that Abby wants John Proctor for her love match. Then suddenly, Abby takes the chicken from Tituba, smashes its head, and is splattered with blood. She smears it onto her face. This inspires the other girls to scream, and a few of them disrobe, dancing in “hysteria.”

Suspicious Rev. Parris (Bruce Davison) comes upon their gathering. Someone yells, “It’s the minister!” The girls run. Parris’ daughter Betty, held by Abigail, shouts, “I can’t move, I can’t move.” Alone by the fire, Parris discovers a toad in the pot. The next morning, back at Parris’ home, where his niece Abigail resides, too, Betty can’t move or speak. Eventually, an exploration of Betty’s catatonic condition leads to conjuring charges against Abigail and Tituba. As Betty begins to “wake up,” she says she was trying to contact her dead mother in the ritual and wants “to fly” to her. “Keep still, you little devil,” someone replies, already setting the tone for the demonization of the girls. Alone with the girls later, Abigail cruelly threatens them to keep quiet about what really happened that night.

This opening ritual scene establishes the adolescent girls as a group, a collective, or as a female chorus found in ancient drama. Ringleader Abigail and servant Tituba stand out in the first scene, as well as young Betty and Mary Warren, but the other girls are part of a pack, expressing an ardent interest in magic to woo young men: they exhibit a supernatural interest in romance, an eagerness to “short-cut” courtship with a spell. The wild young girls in the woods, with exceptions noted above, are established as monolithic, secretive, lusty, rule-breaking, and unfazed by the use of spells–or in other words, in league with the Devil. Their charm contributions to the boiling cauldron, which could be seen as a fiery womb symbol, are indicative of their acceptance of the dark arts; their spontaneous wanton disrobing, seemingly for Satan, signifies the magnitude of their repressed lust. This moonlit spectacle depicts the “horror” of budding female sexual desire from a Puritan perspective.

Abigail, in an early scene with Proctor, forces a kiss on her former lover, even as he calls her “child” and says he’ll cut off his hand before he becomes involved with her again. This short exchange reinforces the concept of “female as sexual aggressor” in the film.

By night, the Salem girls are presented as believers in conjuring, but by day, we find them seated together in a church space for questioning by the newly arrived demonology expert Reverend Hale (Rob Campbell). The girls are costumed in a rainbow array of solid colors, each a different hue; the rainbow imagery visually associates them with “light” and iridescence. The shadow/light dichotomy of the girls is highlighted here, for, in daylight, the group reflects innocence and purity—and in this scene, even a love of Christianity.

Abigail, under questioning, accuses Tituba of magic. This leads to another sequence that presents the Salem girls as terrorizing: after tortured Tituba blesses the Lord, she begins to name Salem women as witches, to appease her brutal owner Parris. Abigail suddenly declares: “I want the light of God! I want the sweet love of Jesus! I did dance with the Devil. I saw him. I wrote in his book. I go back to Jesus. I kiss his hand.” And then she adds: “I saw Sarah Good with the Devil!” The other girls take up this refrain, supplying the names of myriad local women—and a man. They name Bridget Bishop, George Jacobs, Goody Howe, Goody Sibber, Goody Pike, and many more, as “with the Devil.”

Seeking revenge on Salem adults who’ve wronged them, the girls line up on a stairwell and function as a chorus of young female accusers. Reverend Hale yells: “Hallelujah! Glory Be to God! It is broken. They are free!” The adults who witness this scene believe the girls’ accusations, even though there’s no proof; a jailer is summoned to imprison the accused. Abigail’s reaffirmation of her love of Christ makes her “pure” again in the eyes of the adults. The fickle nature of the girls is established in this scene; opportunistically, they accuse innocent people in order to save themselves from the soul-damning charges of witchcraft. They have their scapegoats; they will not be blamed. Their volatile swing from “Satan to Jesus” helps to launch the witch trials that will claim 20 lives: 19 hangings, and one man pressed to death.

Their impenetrable solidarity is also what makes the girls so scary. Perhaps because they’ve been threatened by Abigail, or perhaps because they’re truly part of a groupthink mentality focused on self-preservation, the girls, except for Mary, follow Abigail’s lead through most of the film. They become alarming again in a courtroom scene in which Proctor accuses Abigail: “This is a whore’s vengeance now.” After Elizabeth is questioned about Abigail and Proctor’s affair, Hale pronounces Abigail “false.” But Abigail abruptly screams and points to the ceiling of the court: “Why do you come, yellow bird? You cannot want to tear my face.” The girls, huddling together, “see” the yellow bird, too. Abigail identifies it as Mary’s evil spirit; they begin to repeat everything Mary says. Judge Danforth (Paul Scofield) asks Mary why they parrot her. After more screaming, the girls run out of the courtroom, to escape the predatory “yellow bird”; they sob as they run into the sea, a baptismal visual reference. Eventually, in the water, Mary recants her support of the Proctors, calling John “the devil’s man.”

In this sequence, female sexuality and jealousy (“a whore’s vengeance”) are identified by Proctor as the key motives driving the witch hunt. The vindictive girls accuse one of their own as a conjuror to save Abigail, and thus, saving the group as a whole. Loyalty to community, family, and Christian morality are not girlish attributes in The Crucible. Instead, the girl accusers seek only their own safety as the film nears its climax; there’s no more talk of romance or lust. The terrorizing little girls who offer no real proof of their accusations in The Crucible watch the community hangings as a gleeful ensemble; we see their happy faces for the first few executions. Eventually, as time goes on, they become saddened. One wonders what might happen to them in the near future, as Abigail runs away from Salem for good.

The Puritan condemnation of budding female sexuality—a rejection of mysterious girls who long for love and lust—is mined by Miller and director Hytner for all dramatic effect in The Crucible. Females are both scapegoats and accusers in this world. In a final nod to a view of women as weak and sexually complex, Elizabeth accepts blame for Proctor’s adultery in the final moments, saying she “kept a cold house.”

In The Crucible, ruthless fickle girls propel paranoia; they are able to turn on a whim from the Devil to Jesus, and accuse their elders to save themselves. They are truly terrifying because they have no loyalty to conventional mores or religion, only to each other—a taboo sorority founded on nocturnal sexual secrecy, a presumed purity based on pretense. They are portrayed with a “pack” mentality, easily lead by a jilted teenager with a cruel streak. And the scariest aspect of all: they are so “innocent” that their accusations require no true evidence, thus upending an ideal of basic justice in the modern world. But they have an undeniable agency throughout most of the film; as a force, they are one. A communal suspicion of young girls proves fatal in The Crucible, as the last image in the film makes plain: a close-up of the hangman’s rope.

Laura Shamas is a writer, mythologist and film consultant. Her previous writing on witches is: ‘We Three’: The Mythology of Shakespeare’s Weird Sisters. Website: LauraShamas.com.

The Best Mates You’ll Ever Have: ‘Misfits’ the TV Series

I caught up on the series and decided that hands down, it’s one of the best genre TV shows around. It’s a success not because of the kooky Sci Fi aspects of the show, but because of the diversity of the characters in race, class, and language, and also the engaging representation of women. The characters all start off as archetypes in the beginning of the series, but slowly over the course of the first season, layers are revealed and the audience grows to love each misfit for being the messy and vulnerable people they really are.

I was introduced to the British TV show Misfits by accident in 2012. In the parlance of my inner voice, the show became “my shit.”

I couldn’t believe I’d never heard of the Misfits show before. Moi, who was so on top of the smart Sci Fi British flick Attack the Block the previous year. Yours truly who was always looking for cool Sci Fi movies and TV shows from other countries–especially if they had people of color in them. I was kinda miffed with myself, especially since Misfits had been around since 2009. Not only had I missed it, but my ass was really late on the come up too. The shame!

Alisha (Antonia Thomas), Curtis (Nathan Stewart-Jarrett, Kelly (Lauren Socha), Nathan (Robert Sheehan), and Simon (Iwan Rheon)

At the start of the series, Curtis (Nathan Stewart-Jarrett), Alisha (Antonia Thomas), Kelly (Lauren Socha), Simon (Iwan Rheon), and Nathan (Robert Sheehan), all have committed minor offenses that have made them delinquents who must perform community service for a local community center. Forced to wear loud orange jumpers, they are required to serve out a term of about three months under the guidance of a probation officer. Most of their service work is picking up dog shit from the streets, helping elderly citizens, or collecting trash and debris at various assigned locations. Most times the misfits sit around bitching on the roof of their community center, trying to figure one another out. It becomes clear who the archetypes are early on.

Curtis is the local track star, accustomed to getting girls with his athletic prowess. Alisha is the typical gorgeous girl who every guy wants, and spends a lot of time fluffing her curls, or putting on make-up. (What isn’t typical about her from my Black American perspective is that this Black girl is the ultimate hottie for all the boys and men near her, Black, white, Indian, Asian,etc). Kelly is the tough girl from the wrong side of the tracks, ready to fight anyone who she thinks makes fun of how she talks (a class giveaway) or infers she’s just a chav. Simon is a socially awkward introvert. Nathan, the comic relief of the series, has a “live for today” attitude that annoys everyone. They are truly misfits among themselves, and in normal circumstances, would never choose to be around one another.

While performing their community service outdoors, they are assaulted by a freak thunderstorm that hurls fist-sized hail stones down upon them. Unable to reach the indoor safety of the community center, they are all zapped by lightening. Surviving the preternatural lightening strike, the crew discovers that they each have developed unique powers. They have to master them quickly because as the show progresses, these powers will help save them from other victims of the freak storm. Victims who become antagonists. Victims who use their unusual powers to bring crisis, chaos, and even death for some of the misfits.

And talk about powers.

Curtis, who has deep regrets about his failed track career, now has the ability to go back in time and change history.

Alisha, known for having casual sex without regards to the feelings of her partners, has the power to make anyone desire her sexually by simply touching them. Even if she isn’t attracted to them. She can no longer experience the joy of human contact in any form.

Kelly, who was always conscious and on edge about how she thought people viewed her, can now read minds. She gets to hear exactly what people think about everything.

Simon, who already felt invisible and overlooked by people, literally becomes invisible at will.

And Nathan, the class clown and bothersome trickster who lived in the moment? He doesn’t have a power. Envious of the others, he spends the entire first season trying to figure out what his power could be. Eventually he dies at the end of the season. No worries though. We learn with Nathan that he’s an immortal. Great. The most annoying character will last for eternity.

The rest of the series and consecutive seasons (five in all), follow their trials and tribulations, and if this had been a lesser show, probably wouldn’t have held my interest after a couple of episodes. But the characters are so rich. And there’s lots of sex, drugs, dance raves, fantastic background music, and the best romantic pairing of two unlikely people. There’s no way this show could fail me. And did I mention lots of sex?

Kelly (Lauren Socha) and Alisha (Antonia Thomas) share a little girl time.

My favorite aspects of the show (besides the sex positivity) are the growth of the characters and the depictions of the women. What intrigues me about Kelly the tough girl, and Alisha the hottie, is the reversal of the depiction of white and Black female characters. Know this: had Misfits been an American show, Kelly, the white female, would have been the desired woman with the apex standard of beauty. Alisha would be portrayed as the toughie, the strong black woman from the wrong side of the tracks. It is so refreshing to see a Black woman centered as beautiful to all men on TV. (I must point out that Alisha walks a thin tightrope of the Jezebel trope that haunts Black women in the media. But her character arc supersedes my Jezebel concerns later in the series.)

Misfits introduces a lot of Black female minor characters who we meet in various episodes, all of them (except for one who has beef with Kelly in an early episode) are centered as beautiful and desirable by all men. To white women, and non-Black women of color, this may not seem like a big deal, mainly because white female beauty standards across the globe are heavily touted as the ideal—straight hair, thin lips and nose, slender body, and light-colored eyes. Black women the world over spend billions trying to attain a white standard of beauty. (Hair weaves and relaxers, skin bleaching creams, rhinoplasty etc.) On Misfits, Black British women of all hues, body types, and hair textures, are treated as equally desirable as their white counterparts. I watched the show thinking, “Man, the creators of this show have love for the sisters.” This was happening in 2009 when Misfits debuted. In America, it was not until Scandal came on the scene in 2012, that there was a sexy lead Black female being fought over by men (especially non-Black men) on a major TV network. Sleepy Hollow and Gotham have joined the mix in 2014 bringing much attention and centering the beauty of actresses Nicole Beharie, Lyndie Greenwood, and Jada Pinkett-Smith. But Misfits was doing this on the regular since 2009.

Black Girls Are Magic. Alisha (The Flawless Antonia Thomas)

Kelly is a treat for me also because for one thing, she is what the old-timers call a broad. Not necessarily a lady, or a bitch, but a woman who can handle her own. Kelly is bawdy, boozy, and will knuckle up on a dude with a quickness. She’s a working-class plain Jane on the surface, but will curse you out with English slang, break into a building if she needs to without skipping a beat, and smoke you out with some herb if you need to talk it out. She’s built like a Rubenesque Goddess, and yeah, her bra may not fit properly with all that thickness, but she cleans up swell when she needs to, and she’s loyal to her mates. A boss chick who will ride or die for the misfit crew. And I love her for it. Her beauty comes from inside and through her actions. She’s not a Mary Sue, nor side-kick babe. Both Kelly and Alisha are treated as equals among the male characters, and their leadership at various times has saved them from the bad guys. As Season 3 commences, Kelly and Alisha are unlikely friends for life. Their bond is genuine. And the men grow from viewing them as possible sexual conquests to one of the homies.

My Gangster Goddess, Kelly (Lauren Socha)

My favorite Misfits. Alisha, Kelly, and Simon. — My favorite Misfits: Alisha, Kelly, and Simon.

Misfits plays with gender roles in Season 3. The crew loses their powers, but are given the opportunity to acquire new powers from a “power dealer.” After losing his time-traveling skills, Curtis gains the power to change his sex at will. He uses it to run track again, but this time on a Women’s team. He names his female self “Melissa” and strikes up a friendship with a fellow female runner. After having sex with the female teammate, as a man (and as a woman later) he soon discovers that the sexual prowess he thought he had was really bad self-serving sex. He also learns inadvertently as Melissa, that he’s a whiny chap that needs to grow up and get over is track star past. What’s a guy to do? He starts self-pleasuring himself as a woman to learn how to really make love to a woman as a man. When Simon asks Curtis if he’s a lesbian, Curtis replies, “I don’t think there’s an official term for this shit.” I want to tell him, “Yes love, it’s called being free and genderfluid.” There’s an honesty here that is refreshing. We are a part of Curtis/Melissa’s discovery of non-gendered sexuality. Curtis masters autoerotic pleasure to become a better lover. And much like Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie, Curtis becomes a better man by being a great woman. Of course, things get a little wonky when Curtis gets himself pregnant!

Venus as a Boy. Curtis is about to gender swap.

I'm coming out! Melissa, a.k.a Curtis (played by Kehinde Fadipe) — I’m coming out! Melissa, a.k.a Curtis (played by Kehinde Fadipe)

With all the fun, zany, and often poignant things that happen to all the characters on Misfits, my favorite character out of the bunch is Simon. Simon has the most dramatic character arc, literally doing a 180 degree turn from when we first meet his shy, bullied, and often sketchy behavior in Season 1. He has a good heart, but lacks the confidence to be the true leader he really is deep inside. Hands down, he has the best genre love story I’ve seen in awhile. His transformation and how it happens is based on his love affair with Alisha. Trust me when I say, you will root for these two unlikely lovers to be together forever. Simon sees Alisha’s inner beauty, and Alisha sees his inner strength of character. It is real true love, and how it’s handled in Misfits is brilliant.

My boo. Simon (Iwan Rheon) — My boo: Simon (Iwan Rheon)

True Love, Simon and Alisha. (Iwan Rheon and Antonia Thomas) — True love: Simon and Alisha (Iwan Rheon and Antonia Thomas)

Sadly for me, there were major cast changes in Seasons 4-5. All my favorite characters were gone, replaced with new faces and new powers. The fun continued, but it was harder for me to enjoy because I was so invested in the original cast. I missed the sisterhood of Kelly and Alisha, and I especially missed the surprising and sweet Simon/Alisha romance. With mates like these, you want to hand out at the pub forever. Trust me. Go watch it now. You won’t regret it.

Freak lightening storm that started it all.

I even learned to love snarky Nathan (Robert Sheehan)

Why ‘The Babadook’ is the Feminist Horror Film of the Year

Firstly, ‘The Babadook’ complicates the depiction of women as primarily victims by presenting Amelia as a complex and multi-faceted figure. For one, she is a not a young big-breasted girl but a mother and fully grown woman. This is not necessarily groundbreaking in itself.

Written by Sarah Smyth.

“If it’s in a word, or it’s in a look, you can’t get rid of the Babadook…”

The poster for 'The Babadook' — The poster for *The Babadook*

So begins the bedtime story read by Amelia (Essie Davis) to her son, Samuel (Noah Wiseman) in the hit Australian horror film, The Babadook. The story focuses on Amelia, a single mother whose husband died in a car crash on their way to the hospital to have Samuel, as she struggles in her role as a parent to her difficult, troubled, and increasingly erratic son. Samuel is afraid of monsters, believing them to be waiting to get him come nightfall. He frequently sleeps in bed with Amelia, and makes his own contraptions to protect both of them. His behaviour becomes so disruptive, however, that he is kicked out of school. One night, Amelia and Samuel read the story of the Babadook in a creepy pop-up book which Amelia has no recollection of owning. The Babadook, a sinister and scary ghoulish figure, will never leave after its presence becomes known. After they read the book, strange occurrences take place, and the rest of the film follows their terrifying encounters with the Babadook.

Amelia and Samuel read the creepy book about the Babadook together

The main strength of the film, in terms of both narrative and gender politics, is the role of Amelia. Before we even consider how women are represented on film, the fact that women are represented on film, particularly by taking on the central role, is an achievement. Not only did only 30 percent of the top-grossing films of 2013 have lead female characters, but a huge number of films still fail the Bechdel test. In terms of race, the picture gets even worse as 73 percent of female characters are white. However, simply making female-led films and passing the Bechdel test is not enough. Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, Transformers: Dark of the Moon and Transformers: Age of Distinction all pass the test, yet the film’s treatment of women on (and apparently off) screen is atrocious. After Megan Fox quit the franchise, apparently likening Michael Bay, the films’ director, to Hitler, Shia LaBeouf commented that Fox developed “this Spice Girl strength, this woman-empowerment [stuff] that made her feel awkward about her involvement with Michael, who some people think is a very lascivious filmmaker, the way he films women.” The Transformers franchise makes apparent that, in order to get a more accurate look at the role women play and the impact women have in the film industry, we must look at how women are represented on screen as much as whether women are represented at all.

The 'Transformers' franchise demonstrates why the Bechdel test doesn't always cut it... — The *Transformers* franchise demonstrates why the Bechdel test doesn’t always cut it…

Horror films, in particular, demonstrate this case. Although women are often the lead character in this genre, the representation of women as a whole is often problematic at best. When filming The Birds, Alfred Hitchcock famously claimed he always follows the advice to “torture the women!” something which apparently happened as much off-screen as on-screen. As Sydney Prescott noted in the horror-parody franchise, Scream, horror films often depict “some big-breasted girl who can’t act who is always running up the stairs when she should be running out the front door.” Both Hitchcock and Sydney’s comments demonstrate women’s twofold role in the horror genre: victim and sexual object.

Firstly, The Babadook complicates the depiction of women as primarily victims by presenting Amelia as a complex and multi-faceted figure. For one, she is a not a young big-breasted girl but a mother and fully grown woman. This is not necessarily groundbreaking in itself. The Others, The Ring, and Dark Water all depict their central characters as mothers. However, none so brilliantly present their central character as complicated as Amelia in The Babadook. Amelia is not only a victim and a mother but a colleague, potential lover, sister, neighbor, and grieving widow. The strength of the narrative is the way in which the film meshes the difficulties of being a mother to a troubled child with the haunting of the Babadook, and the way in which this complex combination strains all Amelia’s relationships. It also causes her to lash out at her neighbor, miss days at work, refuse advances from potential partners, and fall out with her sister. But whether it’s the stress of being a mother or the terror of the Babadook remains ambiguous as the film presents her identity, relationships and experiences as layered and complicated.

Secondly, The Babadook consciously subverts the conventional depiction of female sexuality in horror films. Broadly speaking, female characters are either presented as “virgins” or “whores,” where they are punished “appropriately,” or female sexuality is presented as something excessive, disgusting and monstrous. In her authoritative and brilliantly titled book, Men, Women and Chainsaws: Gender in Modern Horror Films, Carol Clover outlines the trope of the Final Girl in the slasher film. The Final Girl, she claims, is the films lead character, who, as both the victim but also the only survivor in the film, serves as both the site of the audience’s sadistic fantasies, and the anchor for the spectator’s identification. Primarily aimed at young heterosexual men, the Final Girl must be “masculine” enough so that this (assumed) spectator can identify with her; she is often androgynous or tomboyish in appearance and sometimes in name. More crucially, she must be sexualised but never sexual; she must provide the fleshy site for the heterosexual male’s voyeuristic fantasies but she must never have autonomy over her own body and sexuality. In fact, she is often virginal. If a woman does have sex in these films, she is branded a “whore” so quickly gets killed off. Examples of films which conform to these tropes include Halloween, Friday the 13^th, A Nightmare on Elm Street, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and, more recently, You’re Next. Post-modern pastiche horror films including Scream and The Cabin in the Woods also play on the trope. On the other hand, as Barbara Creed discusses in her book, The Monstrous Feminine: Film, Feminism and Psychoanalysis, female sexuality is also presented as grotesque and terrifying, reflecting, she claims, male anxieties over female sexuality. Examples include The Exorcist, The Brood, and Carrie.

Laurie in 'Halloween' is a typical example of the Final Girl trope — Laurie in *Halloween* is a typical example of the Final Girl trope

The Babadook subverts these conventions by presenting woman in possession of (healthy) sexual desire and needs. In one scene, Amelia watches a romantic film alone before going up to her bedroom and taking out her vibrator. Her night of pleasure is ruined, however, after Samuel interrupts her claiming he is terrified of his own room and so cannot sleep in it. Her disappointment is evident; motherhood, it seems, can be as much frustrating as it can be difficult. Crucially, however, the film not only radically foregrounds female sexuality and desire, something which horror films, as I demonstrate, conventionally dismiss. It also links the terror of the Babadook with Amelia’s frustrated lack rather than an excess of grotesque and monstrous sexuality. At moments, the Babadook manifests itself in the form of her late husband. When Amelia first sees him, she passionately hugs and kisses him, clearly missing the affection and sexual intimacy offered from a romantic partner. Only after the Babadook, disguised as her husband, asks for her to bring him the child does she realise that this is a trap. Her husband cannot and will not come back to fulfill the needs she so desperately craves. The Babadook, like the grief she feels for her husband, will continue to haunt Amelia forevermore, serving as a constant reminder of the loss of sexual desire and intimacy which the death of her husband so tragically caused. The terror of the Babadook, then, is as much about the loss of a treasured presence as well as the intrusion of an unwelcome presence.

The Babadook offers a hope for feminist horror fans who are tired of cliché-ridden depictions of two-dimensional, victimised, hyper-sexualised female characters. A film which not only passes the Bechdel test, but presents a complex, multi-layered, sexually autonomous central female protagonist, The Babadook offers hope that the horror genre will shift its depiction of lead female characters to create more compelling, engaging and accurate representations of women onscreen.

___________________________________

Sarah Smyth is a staff writer at Bitch Flicks who recently finished a Master’s Degree in Critical Theory with an emphasis on gender and film at the University of Sussex, UK. Her dissertation examined the abject male body in cinema, particularly focusing on the spatiality of the anus (yes, really). She’s based now in London, UK and you can follow her on Twitter at @sarahsmyth91.

She’s Possessed, Baby, Possessed!

When Phoebe is taken over by the deadly sin lust in “Sin Francisco,” she sexually assaults her professor and has sex with a policeman on the job, while Piper dances on her bar during her high school reunion when she’s possessed by an evil spirit. And almost all the evil women in the show are sexualized: the succubus, shapeshifter Kaia, the Stillman sisters in “The Power of Three Blondes,” the seer Kyra, etc.

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

It seemed like one Halliwell sister or another was possessed by demonic forces every week on Charmed.

There was Phoebe and the Woogeyman, the Banshee and the ghosts of Lulu and Grams, as well as Cole’s demonic spawn; Piper was possessed by the evil spirit of Terra in “Coyote Piper,” as well as the Valkyries and Hindu goddess Shakti (who ever said possession had to be evil?); Paige was overcome by her boyfriend Richard’s dead fiancée Olivia’s ghost (phew!), the Evil Enchantress from her childhood fairytale fantasies, and by a witch doctor’s voodoo magic; while Prue gets turned into a fairy, an empath and embodies the deadly sin, pride. Not to mention all manner of innocents who get taken over—mostly—by evil.

It also seemed like whenever a possession occurred, the sisters’ clothing went the way of Prue in season 3’s “Look Who’s Barking”: to the dogs. While the Charmed Ones’ sartorial choices were minimal at the best of times (perhaps a side effect of living in one of the most sexually progressive cities in the world, San Francisco) this is not necessarily done with the male gaze in mind.

Being a show that focused on women’s lives, Charmed was screened on the WB network to a primarily young female audience, many of them raised by second-wave mothers. Stereotypes tell us that these young women were probably brought up to believe in free love and the burning of the bra, both of which the Halliwell sisters certainly subscribed to. And in the ’90s, “girl power” and “having it all” were the terms du jour which Charmed played in to. If you believe it shouldn’t matter what you look like to be able to do your job, Charmed offered that up in spades: the Charmed Ones could kick (mostly male) bad guys’ butts and look like they were heading to the club doing it. (Oftentimes they were, as Piper owned the club, P3.)

The episode “Blinded by the Whitelighter” explicitly addresses this lack of practicality in the Halliwell Manor’s presumably shared wardrobe: Natalie, Leo’s whitelighter colleague, puts the sisters through boot camp, which includes a demon-fighting makeunder with appropriate support for both their ankles and their breasts.

But back to possession. Charmed is not the first piece of pop culture to sexualize possession. Jennifer’s Body, Ghostbusters, and the modern remake of The Exorcist come to mind, whilst io9 rounds up another seven films that do much the same. This is probably because sexuality, specifically a woman in charge of her sexuality, is deemed evil or, at the very least, uncouth. We see it when it comes to famous women, such as Rihanna, Miley Cyrus, and even Beyoncé’s recent self-titled musical ode to married sex, and Charmed is no exception. When Phoebe is taken over by the deadly sin lust in “Sin Francisco,” she sexually assaults her professor and has sex with a policeman on the job, while Piper dances on her bar during her high school reunion when she’s possessed by an evil spirit. And almost all the evil women in the show are sexualized: the succubus, shapeshifter Kaia, the Stillman sisters in “The Power of Three Blondes,” the seer Kyra, etc. We seldom see the same—both in Charmed and pop culture at large—when men are on the receiving end of possession. It’s more likely to be framed in humorous or serious ways, such as when Leo succumbs to the sin of sloth or Cole’s numerous evil turns. Even when the spirits that possess the sisters aren’t evil per se, the Halliwells are still scantily clad; take, for example, Phoebe as a mermaid, genie, fairytale character, Lady Godiva, Mata Hari… so pretty much Phoebe in general! The show does take pains, though, to show the Charmed Ones being sexy and sexual in their normal lives, not just as the means to an end of an evil plan (in “The Devil’s Music,” for example) or becoming part of that evil plan themselves. It seldom shames them for their desires, either.

While Charmed doesn’t always get it right when it comes to sex, gender politics and morality, it makes an effort to show the sisters four in all elements of their lives, including sex. Maybe the myriad “sexy possessions” the Charmed Ones succumb to are part of a wider “protest statement” of the objectification of women? We can dream.

Scarlett Harris is a Melbourne, Australia-based freelance writer and blogger at The Scarlett Woman, where she muses about feminism, social issues, and pop culture. You can follow her on Twitter.

The Coolest of Them All: An Ode to Marlene Dietrich

What modern cinema audiences should be interested in is his or her place in Hollywood history, and socio-cultural significance. Dietrich is a radical, and progressive cultural figure in terms of her sexual and gender identity. On and off screen. Her off-screen identity was also subversively androgynous and was often signified by her masculine attire.

Written by Rachael Johnson.

Marlene Dietrich (1901-1992) was one of the most captivating, ground-breaking movie stars of the 20^th century. There were more talented Hollywood contemporaries, but perhaps none of them had that heady combination of characteristics that made up her extraordinary screen persona: supernatural beauty fused with transgressive, gender-subversive sexual magnetism. Dietrich challenged traditional definitions of femininity, and bourgeois notions of respectability in her own life too. Biographical accounts reveal that the German-born star had numerous affairs with both men and women. But Dietrich was not solely an uninhibited sexual non-conformist. She was also a woman of considerable political courage. A committed anti-Fascist, the actress denounced Hitler’s Germany, and worked actively, and unstintingly, against the Nazi regime. (She became a US citizen in 1939.) Dietrich was a fearless, resilient woman who entertained throughout most of her life. She became a cabaret singer in her fifties, and toured the world into her seventies, soldiering on despite injury, illness and addiction. Was Dietrich a feminist movie star? Yes, and no. Although it seems that she was ultimately imprisoned by heterosexist Hollywood ideals of feminine beauty (she was a recluse in her later years), she should, nevertheless, be appreciated as an iconic figure of female sexual independence, individuality, and strength.

As Amy Jolly in Morocco — As Amy Jolly in *Morocco*

Hollywood marketed Dietrich, from the start, as an expressly seductive, “exotic” European star. Time and again, she portrayed scandalous lovers, and glamorous femme fatales. Dietrich did not embody the modern, professional American woman on screen. She never played a lawyer or reporter like Katherine Hepburn. Many of her films are about the pleasures, and dangers of romantic and physical love. They deal with obsession, sacrifice, and betrayal. Dietrich’s heroines are, also, of course, invariably ultra-glamorous. The star first caught Hollywood’s attention in The Blue Angel (1930), a German production directed by the Austrian-American filmmaker, Josef von Sternberg. In The Blue Angel, Dietrich plays cabaret singer, and femme fatale, Lola Lola. The Blue Angel secured her a contract with Paramount and she made six other films with von Sternberg: Morocco (1930), Dishonored (1931), Shanghai Express (1932), Blonde Venus (1932), The Scarlet Empress (1934), and The Devil is A Woman (1935).

As Shanghai Lilly in Shanghai Express — As Shanghai Lilly in *Shanghai Express*

The glamorous, dreamy Dietrich look is at its most iconic in von Sternberg’s atmospheric, stylish films. In The Blue Angel, Dietrich is plumper, and more voluptuous, but in Morocco, she becomes slender and more angular. She would remain so. Von Sternberg, with whom the actress was romantically involved, has been described as a Svengali-like character. A maestro of light and shadow, influenced by German expressionism, the director is credited with sculpting the face of Dietrich on the screen, and shaping her mystique. The nature of Dietrich’s role in their personal, professional partnership will always be subject to debate but it was, ultimately, a creative union. It is also important to note that Dietrich gained knowledge during this period that would be employed throughout her career. It is said that she greatly understood lighting and was an inventive make-up artist.

Dietrich was not a traditional Hollywood star although she looked like a perfect example of constructed feminine beauty. Her beauty, in fact, transcends conventional glamour in its unearthliness. It’s also remarkable, and considerably subversive, that she frequently played economically independent women living, and working, outside the domestic space, and prescribed bounds of sexual propriety. In von Sternberg’s films, Dietrich plays cabaret entertainers (The Blue Angel, Morocco, and Blonde Venus), a courtesan (Shanghai Express), a prostitute-spy (Dishonored), an adulterous queen (The Scarlett Empress), as well as a predatory “vamp” (The Devil is a Woman). She also plays a saloon singer in the George Marshall-directed Western Destry Rides Again (1939), and a Baroness brothel owner in her final film, Just A Gigolo (David Hemmings, 1978). But the most unique aspect of Dietrich’s screen persona is her sexual presence. The modern viewer is, perhaps, most intrigued by her androgynous aspect and sexually subversive behavior.

As Catherine the Great in The Scarlet Empress — As Catherine the Great in *The Scarlet Empress*

In Morocco, Dietrich provides one of the most radical sexually charged moments in Hollywood history when her cabaret singer character, Amy Jolly, sings “Give Me The Man Who Does Things” in French. She appears on stage elegantly dressed in a tux, and top hat, with a cigarette between her lips. Stopping at a table after the performance, she downs a glass of champagne, takes a flower from the hair of a female customer, and kisses her directly on the mouth. She then throws the flower to a male admirer (Gary Cooper as a French legionnaire). It’s a deeply seductive display of bisexuality, and Dietrich’s performance is fluidly, and perfectly, executed.

Dietrich was also the star of a scene that can be only be described as both sexually “out there,” and racist, in terms of its setting and images. I refer to the “Hot Voodoo” number in Blonde Venus where Dietrich’s character, once again a seductive cabaret entertainer, wanders around in a gorilla costume, slowly emerges from the suit, dons a blonde Afro wig, and starts to sing imperiously and suggestively, with hands on hips, in front of accompanying “native girls.” It’s a both bizarre and unsettling number.

As Lola Lola in The Blue Angel — As Lola Lola in *The Blue Angel*

Von Sternberg’s films are set, for the most part, in “exotic,” worlds such as 1920s China (Shanghai Express) and imperial Russia (The Scarlett Empress), and his depiction of non-American places is simultaneously ultra-stylized, and offensive. The audience is, also, at times encouraged to associate Dietrich’s heroines with “otherness.” The end of Morocco is quite interesting in that it shows a European woman rejecting domesticity, stasis, and marriage for love, and a nomadic existence. In pursuit of her great love, Amy Jolly eventually heads off into the desert and joins the North African women who shadow the legionnaires.

Dietrich made her most celebrated, and extraordinary films with von Sternberg but there were at least a couple of other good, and remarkable films. A riotous energy and charisma are evident in Destry Rides Again where she plays a sassy saloon singer called Frenchy. She also puts in a fascinating, idiosyncratic performance in Orson Welles’s astonishing, and greatly stylized Touch of Evil (1958) as an outlandish cigar-smoking madam, and fortune-teller. She radiates personality, and insolence in the role. Dietrich moved away from the movies, and remade herself as a cabaret singer in the 50s. She worked with Burt Bacharach, and toured extensively for decades, before retiring in her 70s. The entertainer was the ultimate show business survivor.

In A Touch of Evil — In *A Touch of Evil*

Dietrich also had an interesting, unconventional private life. She did the conventional thing early on in her career by marrying a fellow German, director Rudolf Sieber, and bearing a child (a daughter named Maria) but soon took a radically different track. Although she remained married to her husband until his death in 1976 (as well as good friends), she separated from him, and reportedly had many affairs with both men and women. Which brings us briefly to the intimate Dietrich.

Characterizations of public personalities by the people who know them are often contradictory, and human beings are, of course, different people to different people. Biographical accounts attest that Dietrich was both deeply flawed as a mother, and hugely sympathetic as a friend. No doubt Dietrich’s bed-hopping must have caused pain to some of her lovers too. The function of film criticism, particularly star studies, is, however, not to marvel at, or judge a star’s number of partners. Leave that to biographers and the Daily Mail. What modern cinema audiences should be interested in is his or her place in Hollywood history, and socio-cultural significance. Dietrich is a radical, and progressive cultural figure in terms of her sexual and gender identity. On and off screen. Her off-screen identity was also subversively androgynous and was often signified by her masculine attire. There is, in fact, no overstating Dietrich’s modernity as fashion and erotic icon. Both the star’s bisexuality and sexually independent lifestyle, challenged patriarchy and she helped change the way 20^th century women looked and behaved. In light of this, it is all the more baffling and maddening that the star slammed feminism in her later years. Her views are expressed in Maximilian Schell’s 1984 documentary, Marlene, which features interviews with an unseen Dietrich eager to preserve her glamorous persona. Nevertheless, the star’s spirit of sexual autonomy and freedom remains extraordinary, a spirit which, no doubt, had its roots in the sexually liberated Germany of the 1920s. During this creative, volatile period, Dietrich had been a chorus-girl and theatre actress who also took boxing lessons. A product of the Weimar Republic, Dietrich was, indeed, the living antithesis of the puritanical, patriarchal Nazi regime.

Dietrich exhibited backbone and a principled, political consciousness during World War II. She not only condemned her own homeland’s nefarious government but also vigorously campaigned against it. The star raised war bonds, recorded music for the OSS (Office of Strategic Services), and toured with the USO (United Service Organizations). She even entertained troops near the front. Both Hitler and propaganda minister, Goebbels, tried to get woo her back to Germany but she refused to be a Third Reich star. The Nazis responded by defaming her, and banning her movies. Dietrich was recognized by both the US and France for her war work. She was awarded with the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 1945 and the French Legion of Honor. The star regarded this work as “the only important work I’ve ever done.” It is perhaps worth noting that both her father and step-father had been military men. There were German citizens who considered Dietrich a traitor– she received hate mail, and was once even spat at when she returned to her native land during post-war visits–but her anti-Nazi stance was also appreciated at home, and in 2002, the city of Berlin made her an honorary citizen.

The global screen star was a modern cosmopolitan woman who had friends, and lovers of many nationalities and backgrounds. She was a buddy of Asian-American actress Anna May Wong, and reportedly had affairs with legendary French singer, Edith Piaf, Cuban-American writer, Mercedes de Acosta, French actor, Jean Gabin, German writer Erich Maria Remarque, as well as American stars John Wayne, Gary Cooper, and James Stewart. It is also said that she had a romantic relationship with Greta Garbo. Dietrich moved to Paris in her later years, after touring the world as a cabaret artist. She died in the French capital in 1992 at the age of 90.

Dietrich has endured as a cultural icon because she was, simply, way ahead of her time. Her chic, sexually ambiguous screen, and star personae have remained hugely influential in popular culture. Madonna, who somewhat resembles the actress, has, famously, paid homage to her style in her performances, most memorably perhaps in her 1993 Girlie Tour. But Dietrich’s name is not only immortalized in “Vogue”; she haunts Suzanne Vega’s very different track “Marlene on the Wall” too. Interestingly, Indiewire reported earlier this year that Megan Ellison is planning a TV show about Dietrich and Greta Garbo. It sounds like an exciting project but we can only hope the filmmakers will fully appreciate Dietrich’s sexual, and gender non-conformity, cosmopolitan lifestyle and anti-Fascist spirit. The star deserves no less. She was, after all, the coolest of them all.

Meg Griffin vs. Tina Belcher: A Feminist’s Take on Beanies and Butts

The primary difference between Meg and Tina is that Tina comes from a loving and supportive environment, whereas Meg does not. Tina’s parents accept her unconditionally, despite her displaying much of the same repressed eroticism as Meg. She writes “erotic friend fiction,” eagerly shares fantasies of dating an entire zombie football team at once, and does little to hide her attraction to the family dentist. Hell, her defining characteristic is an obsession with butts, an obvious manifestation of tween lust that has inspired a spectacular increase in pro-butt artwork across the internet.

Written by Erin Tatum.

One of my favorite things about fall is watching the majority of my favorite shows come back from hiatus. I’ve been a loyal viewer of Fox’s Animation Domination Sunday night lineup for years. Naturally, I was excited when I heard that Family Guy was doing a crossover with The Simpsons for their season premiere.

I watched it and I was underwhelmed for the same reasons that I was surprised that the crossover was happening in the first place – the tonal discord between the bumbling yet endearing Simpsons and the aggressive and insensitive Griffins was palpable. What followed was a particularly uncomfortable 45 minutes of television.

Lisa encourages Meg to find her hidden talent by offering to let her play her prized saxophone.

I was especially bothered by the decision to pair Meg with Lisa for a cringe-inducing B plot. Basically, Lisa takes pity on Meg after witnessing her rock-bottom self-esteem and spends the episode trying to convince her that she’s good at something. It turns out Meg is an even better saxophone player than Lisa, causing Lisa to feel threatened and dismiss Meg’s talent in a moment of uncharacteristic cruelty.

Lisa is a much more three-dimensional character than Meg will ever be. She has incredibly well formulated views on feminism and politics at the age of eight, whereas Meg is more or less a human punching bag for just about everyone in the Family Guy universe. There’s really no comparison, so the plot fell flat.

I’ve been debating breaking up with Family Guy for quite a long time. The jokes are offensive, the plots are merely filler in between cutaway gags, and every single character is terrible. I remember thinking it was cutting-edge satire as a young teen and being absolutely thrilled by it, mainly because it was by far the raunchiest show that my mother (begrudgingly) allowed me to watch. But times have changed. Above all, the one thing that has consistently repulsed me as an adult is the show’s treatment of Meg.

Lois, Meg's mother, shows little sympathy or patience when dealing with Meg, who often turns to drugs and self-harm to cope. — Lois, Meg’s mother, shows little sympathy or patience when dealing with Meg, who often turns to drugs and self-harm to cope.

Meg is a 17-year-old girl who’s not conventionally attractive. That’s the entire punchline, which creator Seth MacFarlane apparently thought was substantial enough to make Meg’s abuse the most prominent running “joke” season after season. Oddly, her character started out as a pretty generic teenage girl, but I guess it’s not funny without misogyny! Meg is belittled by not only her family, but the entire town. Her sense of self worth is frequently eroded by negative remarks about her appearance and weight. Most notably, her sexuality is treated with absolute disgust. You can count on anything related to Meg and sex or romance to be handled as gross-out comedy.

Meg kidnaps Brian after becoming infatuated with him following a drunken make out at prom. — Meg kidnaps Brian after becoming infatuated with him following their drunken make out session at her prom.

While we’re on the subject, let’s talk about more of Meg’s lowlights. It’s implied that she uses hot dogs to masturbate. She makes out with Brian (yes, the dog) and briefly becomes his deranged stalker after he refuses her further advances. She has a short-lived boyfriend that’s committed to abstinence, only to have him dump her at the end of the episode after seeing her naked body. Peter, her own father, attempts to molest her during a cutaway gag and it’s played for laughs. Meg even unknowingly makes out with Chris (her brother) during a costume party. Following the revelation, Meg plays up the previous night to her oblivious parents, saying that she hopes the boy will call. Standing next to her, Chris unenthusiastically replies “Don’t count on it.”

Meg is horrified to realize she's been making out with chris. — Meg is horrified to realize she’s been making out with Chris.

Haha! Because it’s an insult that even your brother wouldn’t want you sexually! Bizarrely, incest is routinely used to highlight just how undesirable Meg is. Why? Who knows. Meg is supposed to represent even lower standards than incest, I guess.

The Griffins' creepy pervert neighbor, Quagmire, repeatedly attempts to seduce an unwitting Meg with various acts of kindness. — The Griffins’ creepy pervert neighbor, Quagmire, repeatedly attempts to seduce an unwitting Meg with various acts of kindness.

The audience is encouraged to mock Meg for being an insecure teenage girl. She is the only female character who can’t be treated as a traditional sex object, which invalidates her right to be treated with respect. Plus, you know, that whole perception of teenage girls as emotional and frivolous and silly and therefore that makes it fair game to trivialize their thoughts and feelings for like seven years. Too bad Meg is permanently stuck in adolescence.

This already paperthin premise is further validated by the fact that everyone else is an awful human being with no motive for any of their actions beyond their own self absorption. It makes no sense to put so much effort into treating Meg like shit when all they care about is getting whatever they want. There’s nothing to gain in keeping her down. And, barring several neglect fueled outbursts of depravity, Meg arguably has the greatest sense of empathy and compassion out of the entire cast (albeit that the bar isn’t high) due to her low self-esteem. It’s misogyny for misogyny’s sake.

Tina takes a part in 'Working Girl' in the S5 premiere to try and get closer to her crush. — Tina takes a part in ‘Working Girl’ in the S5 premiere to try and get closer to her crush.

I watched Bob’s Burgers premiere the following Sunday and was, as usual, charmed and utterly delighted by the Belcher’s 13-year-old daughter, Tina. I realized that Tina finally offered me a framework to articulate all the things that were wrong with Meg and how she’s portrayed.

Unlike Lisa, Tina’s characterization is fairly similar to Meg, at least on the surface. Tina is socially awkward, frumpy, and uncomfortably sexual on occasion. She’s voiced by a man (Dan Mintz) who makes no attempt whatsoever to make his voice more feminine. If this were Family Guy, that alone would be the catalyst for an onslaught of sexist and probably transphobic jokes. However, about 97 percent of the women on Bob’s Burgers are voiced by men. Baritone is clearly en vogue for the ladies. It’s never used as a punchline and the show pretty much naturalizes it. By the end of an episode, I forget that almost all the women have male voice actors because no one is gunning to designate them as less feminine.

And there’s the kicker: everyone in Bob’s Burgers acknowledges that everyone is weird! Femininity or female sexuality is not a source of shame because gender isn’t a spectacle! They’re all quirky for their own reasons that have nothing to do with how well they conform to gender expectations or the way they express themselves sexually. Bob is friends with a number of transgender escorts and takes their flirting in good stride, even enjoying the attention. He’s propositioned by a male grocery store worker at Thanksgiving and bashfully declines, adding that he’s “mostly straight.” There’s not a superiority hierarchy among characters because they all know that they aren’t in a position to judge anyone else, nor do they have any desire to.

Linda cheers Tina's decision to write erotic friend fiction. — Linda, Tina’s mom, cheers Tina’s decision to write erotic friend fiction.

The Belchers never shame Tina for her desires or try to bully her into changing her behavior. She’s not grotesque, it’s just who she is and her family embraces her regardless. They respond to her momentary teenage dismay and heartbreak with gentle encouragement. If anything, her idiosyncrasies make them stronger as a family. They gather strength from the individual uniqueness of each family member, rather than seek out a black sheep to vilify and take focus off everyone else’s flaws. Tina feels comfortable in her own skin and has an incredible sense of confidence for a 13-year-old.

It is a little disheartening to compare her to Meg because that’s when you really see all of the latter’s wasted potential. Meg could have and arguably should have been Tina, but MacFarlane was too easily seduced by the promise of cheap laughs. Tina is certainly a source of comedy, but in a way that’s endearing. She reminds you of middle school awkwardness and the time you felt like your heart “pooped its pants” because your crush didn’t like you back. Whenever Meg comes on screen, I feel like I’m either about to witness harassment or a sex crime.

Forget mingling with the Simpsons. Once Meg turns 18, she should get the hell out of Quahog and move in with the Belchers.

...and they all live happily ever after. — …and they all lived happily ever after.

_________________________________________________________________________

Erin Tatum is a recent graduate of UC Berkeley, where she majored in film and minored in LGBT studies. She is incredibly interested in social justice, media representation, intersectional feminism, and queer theory. British television and Netflix consume way too much of her time. She is particularly fascinated by the portrayal of sexuality and ability in television.

‘Sin City: A Dame to Kill For’ Review

There is so much violence both toward men and women in the movie, but it is so over the top that teamed with the beautiful highly stylized cinematography it is hard to take seriously. This time around, the world of Sin City has a very ethereal dream-like quality that tempers its grittiness a little.

If you are thinking that it’s been a long time since the first Sin City movie came out, you would be right. It first hit the screen in 2005, meaning it has nearly been a full decade before they have graced us with the sequel. A lot has happened in nine years; Brittany Murphy, who was in the original, passed away under mysterious circumstances. Devon Aioki’s brief reign as “Asian It Girl” has faded from our memories and people like Clive Owen and Josh Hartnett have found better things to do.

Despite myself I loved the first Sin City and on re-watching it I still do. I know it is deeply problematic–the lack of agency of the women in the movie, their constant portrayal as victims who must be rescued by big tough violent men, and their overt objectification are all things that drive me nuts. The movie isn’t particularly kind to men either, the vast majority of whom are portrayed as greedy, callous, vicious lechers. Even the good guys are mostly anti-heroes. Overall however, the snappy dialogue and visually interesting hyper-stylized cinematography captured me, and I couldn’t help but love the sex workers of Old Town. They are tough broads, ruled over by Gail played by Rosario Dawson, who live the way they choose, selling what they want and organizing and running their own turf where not even the dirty cops of Sin City can enter without their permission. If there is going to be a third Sin City movie, can it please center on the sex workers of Old Town? I feel like there could be many interesting stories to be told there.

Unfortunately Sin City: A Dame to Kill For woefully underutilizes the prodigious talents of Dawson. There are two core female characters: firstly, Ava Lord, played by Eva Green, who is the titular “dame to kill for” and Nancy Callahan, with Jessica Alba reprising her role from the first movie. Both women, unsurprisingly (this is Frank Miller after all) are highly sexualized. Nancy still works as a dancer at the diner although she is no longer as wholesome as she once was having developed a drinking problem and dreams of revenge following the death of detective Hartigan. Ava on the other hand is a classic femme fatale who uses her body and Dwight’s complete intoxication with her to further her own murderous ends.

One could argue that there are some positives for women’s representation compared to the first movie. Nancy is no longer a passive victim; she turns herself into an avenging demoness in a very dramatic transformation scene and with the help of Marv manages to finally take out the overarching villain of both movies (something no man has ever been able to do despite plenty of trying). I think the whole Joseph Gordon Levitt storyline exists purely to illustrate just how untouchable Roark is and yet there he is, killed by little old Nancy Callahan, former victim of his son and current exotic dancer in the very diner where he plays his high-stakes poker games.

Ava Lord manages to manipulate all the men around her to get exactly what she wants by pretending to be what they want her to be–a fragile woman who needs rescuing from her terribly sad life, someone who needs to be protected from the filth of Sin City. Eva Green is masterful in her handling of the material and manages to bring tonality to what would otherwise be a two-dimensional caricature of a traditional noir vixen. Ava Lord is a woman who is tired of living in a man’s world and so seeks to carve out a place of her own in it through any means necessary. She is also pretty twisted and appears to take much pleasure in the pain of others and is eventually punished for her sins. As far as wicked women go I’m pretty OK with Ava Lord.

We can all agree that Frank Miller is a misogynist toad, but I think Robert Rodriguez has managed to interpret the source material in a way that is not terrible, helped at least in part by his excellent casting decisions. It’s definitely not going to win “most feminist movie of the year,” but for a big budget action movie, a genre that is notoriously terrible for the ways in which it depicts women, I found it to be pretty watchable.