Feminism – Bitch Flicks

Why, as an Intersectional Feminist, I Can’t Get Behind the TV Land ‘Heathers’ Reboot

The television reboot will give marginalized people power that they don’t have in real life. As a result, they cast cis straight white people as the oppressed underclass. This misrepresentation of the real world will ultimately work to reinforce the fallacious idea that marginalized groups are “taking over” and gaining power over white, cis, straight, or otherwise privileged people. … I am not at all against a ‘Heathers’ reboot, but I want one that is progressive and intersectional, one that expands on the feminism of the original rather than scaling it back.

This guest post written by Emily Scott appears as part of our theme week on Unpopular Opinions. | Spoilers ahead.

The cult classic status of the 1988 black comedy movie Heathers is firmly cemented in modern culture. The particular combination of high school hierarchy and gallows humor has struck a chord with millions of teenagers throughout the decades. The advent of Netflix has exposed the film to a whole new audience, and its campiness lent itself well to a highly popular Off-Broadway musical adaptation. Maybe most importantly, its portrayal of the power of young women has made it a favorite of many smart and self-aware girls, from its creation to today.

As with most cult classics, Heathers is ripe for a television reboot, and TV Land jumped at the opportunity. The network ordered a pilot for an anthology series based on a script by Jason Micallef and executive produced by Tom Rosenberg and Gary Lucchesi of Lakeshore Entertainment. But those who were hoping for a modern update to a dark, goofy, yet empowering story remain disappointed. The announced concept of the TV series adaptation makes extreme changes to the premise of Heathers, and not in a good way.

The original Heathers follows the top tier of the high school hierarchy, a group of three wealthy girls all named Heather and one girl named Veronica. Veronica (Winona Ryder) is somewhat of an outsider; she likes the benefits and privileges of being popular, but she has conflicted feelings about their treatment of those they consider beneath them. She starts to divulge her disillusionment to J.D. (Christian Slater), a mysterious, trench coat-clad new kid. After a fight with Heather Chandler (Kim Walker), Veronica decides to play a prank on her by serving her a mug of milk and orange juice. But when J.D. pours a mug of liquid drain cleaner, ostensibly as a joke, Veronica accidentally takes it to her instead, inadvertently killing Heather. Panicked, J.D. convinces Veronica to help him stage her suicide by forging a note. Throughout the rest of the film, it begins to become clear to Veronica that J.D. is orchestrating these killings because he feels disenfranchised by the system of power; he is trying to shake up the social hierarchy by destroying everyone in it.

Heathers represents a certain set of feminist ideals that makes it an empowering experience for young women. While the film engages heavily in the “mean girls” trope, the inclusion of the protagonist (Veronica) in the antagonistic group (the Heathers) subverts the standard popular vs. unpopular dichotomy. But even though Veronica originally believes the Heathers to be evil and worthy of punishment, she comes to realize that there is a bigger threat – J.D. The Heathers are mean girls, but they are just that. They don’t deserve to die. In this way, the movie allows Veronica to condemn the practices of the Heathers while still acknowledging their humanity.

Ultimately, the feminism of the film is centered on Veronica’s journey to finding and reclaiming her own power. As Alize Emme discusses in her Bitch Flicks article, Veronica is initially unable to stand up for anyone, even herself, against the Heathers. But at the end of the movie, she literally saves their lives. By the time she finishes with J.D. — the greater evil — Veronica has the strength to denounce the conniving, judgmental ways of the Heathers. She goes on to engage in friendships with Martha Dunnstock (Carrie Lynn) and Betty Finn (Renée Estevez), girls who were considered beneath the Heathers. By saving the Heathers, but rejecting their hierarchy and condescension towards other women, Veronica proves to have grown as both a person and a feminist.

The television adaptation of Heathers, however, presents a set of competing, feminist ideals that, if the show progresses in the way the film does, will send a message of exclusivity and non-intersectionality in feminism. In this new version of Heathers, the TV series will portray a world that does not exist in reality. In the updated Westerburg High School, the popular crowd, including the Heathers, will be made up of marginalized people. The new Heather Chandler (Melanie Field), the queen bee, will be a plus-size woman. The new Heather Duke (Brendan Scannell), the bookish turned diabolical one, will be “Heath,” who identifies as genderqueer. The new Heather McNamara (Jasmine Mathews), the cheerleader, will be a Black lesbian. And if they are the oppressors in this new world, then who will be the oppressed? White, thin, cis, straight people.

In fact, the new Veronica is Grace Victoria Cox, a talented young actress who fits very much within the white, thin, stereotypically feminine beauty ideal of Hollywood. James Scully, the new J.D., looks more like Kurt and Ram, the football players from the original movie, than the murderous high school outcast that Christian Slater once embodied. In the world that the TV series is creating, the diverse members of the Heathers will seek to torment and tear down these vulnerable, pretty white kids, leading them to stage their murders.

While this premise was likely chosen because it seemed edgy, this restructuring of the power dynamic between marginalized people and privileged people is ill-advised and, frankly, irresponsible. The writers and producers (who, notably, all appear to be white men) have used this concept to give marginalized people power that they don’t have in real life. As a result, they cast cis straight white people as the oppressed underclass. This misrepresentation of the real world will ultimately work to reinforce the fallacious idea that marginalized groups are “taking over” and gaining power over white, cis, straight, or otherwise privileged people.

If the television adaptation follows the plot of the original movie, then Veronica and J.D. will be killing and staging the suicide of at least one of the Heathers, as well as other members of the popular crowd. J.D. enacts this plot because he feels oppressed by the high school hierarchy, and he seeks to destroy all those who have power within that system in order to gain power himself. In the original film, which is virtually devoid of identity politics, this notion is extremely troubling, but realistic, as proven by real-life cases of high school shootings. In the world of the TV Land Heathers, this plot makes J.D. into, at best, an internet troll, and at worst, a violent alt-right vigilante. J.D. perceives the Black, queer, non-thin Heathers as having too much power, more than they deserve. His plot to kill them reads as an effort to take them down a notch, to put them in their place as marginalized people, so that he, a privileged white boy, can rise to his rightful place at the top. In the television adaptation of Heathers, J.D. is not just a messed-up kid. He’s a misogynist, homophobic, white supremacist. In a world where such rhetoric is becoming increasingly common, the idea that a purportedly comedic television show would represent such a character is disturbing and endlessly problematic.

Additionally, this restructure of the hierarchy causes Veronica’s journey to become problematic as well. One could argue that J.D.’s implicit racism, sexism, and homophobia will not be an issue, as he is clearly set as the antagonist, and because the protagonist (Veronica) ultimately rejects his ideas and plans. But again, if the plot of the TV adaptation is parallel to the film, Veronica’s rejection of J.D.’s extremism will only result in a more insidious form of white supremacy. As mentioned previously, Veronica ultimately saves the Heathers but rejects their cruelty, choosing instead to befriend the kind but unpopular Martha. In the series adaptation, Veronica’s decision will act as an affirmation of White Feminism. Even as Veronica rejects J.D.’s racism, sexism, and homophobia, her ultimate choice will be to ditch her marginalized friends for the other privileged white kids of the adaptation’s false underclass. Veronica can claim a lack of prejudice because she didn’t want them to die, but she doesn’t want to include them in her personal life. She, like many white feminists, doesn’t seek to understand what they may be going through or how their experiences may have differed from her own. Instead, she decides that she would just rather hang out with people like her — cis, straight, white, and thin. In the original film, her decision to befriend Martha, who’s plus size, was a way of confirming the value of every person, regardless of their outward appearance or social standing. In the adaptation, it will act as an exclusion of marginalized people from Veronica’s conception of worthiness.

When a movie becomes as iconic as Heathers, remakes and revivals are inevitable. Any production company that takes on such a project has a responsibility to take the current sociopolitical climate into account. It appears that TV Land and Lakeshore Entertainment have attempted to do so with the inclusion of people of color, LGBTQ, and plus size characters. But the concept of the Heathers television adaptation uses these characters to give legitimacy to false ideas about the power of minorities and marginalized groups, as well as giving credence to the idea of White Feminism. Though the original Heathers features all white characters and largely avoids commenting on race or sexual orientation (although it does feature the deaths of two homophobic jocks, staged as the suicides of gay lovers), it culminated in a feminist, inclusive shake-up of the social order. But the ill-conceived premise of the TV Land reboot will only serve to reinforce power structures and harmful gender and racial dynamics that already exist everywhere. By restructuring Westerburg High School’s social order, the Heathers series will only solidify the inequality of our social order. The one that sets minorities and marginalized folks beneath cis, straight, white people; the one that perpetuates hate and intolerance; the one we all live with everyday.

While a pilot is currently being filmed, the television adaptation of Heathers has not yet been ordered to series. Hopefully, the studio will take the sociopolitical context into account when choosing whether to continue with the adaptation. I am not at all against a Heathers reboot, but I want one that is progressive and intersectional, one that expands on the feminism of the original rather than scaling it back. Ideally, the ill-advised concept behind the TV Land adaptation will be abandoned, and then the world can have the new, forward-thinking, inclusive Heathers that it deserves. This time, let’s make Veronica a Black lesbian.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

“I’m a Veronica”: Power and Transformation Through Female Friendships in Heathers

Veronica Decides Not to Die — Heathers: The Proto-Mean Girls

Cult Films that Changed Cinematic History

Teenage Girl Gang Movies Through the Years

Emily Scott is an actress, writer, and filmmaker currently living in the Bay Area. In addition to freelance work, she writes regularly for Culturess. You can find her on Twitter @Emascott92 or at http://emily–scott.weebly.com.

‘Parks and Recreation’: Leslie Knope’s Problem with Women

For Leslie, feminism means, rather simplistically, that she admires women who are in power, believing that gender should be no barrier for achievement. Unfortunately, despite Leslie’s determination to highlight her dedication to furthering the feminist cause, her understanding is not only crude and rather rudimentary, but can, frequently, be damaging. Her identification as a feminist is, much like Tina Fey’s Liz Lemon on ’30 Rock,’ hugely lacking in intersectionality. This is even more frustrating considering that three of the four female cast members are women of color.

This guest post written by Siobhan Denton appears as part of our theme week on Unpopular Opinions.

Leslie Knope, the much loved and indulged protagonist of Parks and Recreation, is by her own account, a feminist. For Leslie (Amy Poehler), feminism means, rather simplistically, that she admires women who are in power, believing that gender should be no barrier for achievement. Unfortunately, despite Leslie’s determination to highlight her dedication to furthering the feminist cause, her understanding is not only crude and rather rudimentary, but can, frequently, be damaging.

Her identification as a feminist is, much like Tina Fey’s Liz Lemon on 30 Rock, hugely lacking in intersectionality. This is even more frustrating considering that three of the four female cast members are women of color. Leslie is a feminist when it comes to her own interests, or encouraging other women who resemble her. She is more than willing to actively encourage April Ludgate (Aubrey Plaza) in her pursuit of career success, but works hard to distance herself from women that are not aligned with her own personal beliefs. While she does advocate for comprehensive sex education and contraception access, Leslie’s version of feminism is entirely reliant on her own morals and desires. She never truly wants to further the feminist cause, but applauds her own personal efforts as achievements for the movement.

Leslie often finds herself threatened by other women, despite no reasonable impetus. Regularly, this threat is manifested into jealously. Take, for example, her numerous interactions with Shauna Malwae-Tweep (Alison Becker). Shauna, a journalist, is regularly critiqued by Leslie. Her initial issue stems from Shauna’s romantic interactions with Mark Brendanawicz. Mark has shown no romantic interest in Leslie, and in fact, seems to find her relatively irritating at the start of the series. Despite this, Leslie places blame on Shauna, and attempts to question her professionalism and worth.

Meeting Shauna again in a similar scenario, when Leslie observes Shauna speaking to and flirting with Ben, Leslie immediately pits herself Shauna. She perceives her as a rival, rather than a fellow professional woman.

Perhaps Leslie’s disdain for other women is highlighted the most when it comes to her interactions with Brandi Maxxxx (Mara Marini). Leslie has made her views on sex workers clear from the start of the series. Spending time in a strip club, she questions the women’s life choices without recognizing her own privilege as a white, educated, middle-class woman.

Leslie would rather silence Brandi during a public forum than be associated with her. Brandi offers Leslie her support, but Leslie consistently attempts to distance herself. Her character is held up to be a figure of humor, derived both from her occupation and her perceived lack of intellect.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zoDV7iacqg8″]

Take the scene in which both Leslie and Brandi are discussing the concept of hard work. Brandi, in recognizing Leslie’s work ethic and clearly admiring it, attempts to draw parallels between them. She states that, like Leslie, she too works hard. Rather than commend Brandi’s hard work, or thank her for her praise, Leslie is clearly horrified.

Leslie is not on Brandi’s side, and we, the viewer, are also told to treat Brandi in the same way. She should be laughed at, and ridiculed, not applauded.

The viewer, in looking at both women and their physical similarity, is effectively instructed to draw comparisons between the two. Brandi is clearly presented as an example of a vacuous woman who should be treated with disdain. While Leslie, thanks to her privilege and education, should be commended for her intellectual approach.

Notably, much of the praise surrounding Parks and Recreation has surrounded Leslie and Ann’s (Rashida Jones) friendship. Yet, as has been noted, for Leslie, Ann is never really her equal. Ann, rather than fulfilling an equivalent role, is content to act as Leslie’s sidekick, cheering on her aspirations rather than necessarily fulfilling her own.

Leslie’s friendship with Ann originally stems from her personal desire to further her career, rather than truly helping Ann’s plight. The dynamics of their friendship is entirely uneven. Leslie clearly holds power, and even in her hyperbolic praise, focuses more on Ann’s physical appearance than her intellect. When she does praise her career abilities, she does so in such an exaggerated manner, that it becomes supercilious, forcing Ann to downplay her skills and in turn, undermine her own ability and qualifications.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H5qUg6DQBeg”]

Many of her hyperbolic compliments are used to obscure Leslie’s real intention; asking Ann to support her without question or judgement, to be silent and supportive.

As the series progresses, Ann, under pressure from Leslie, begins to work at City Hall, despite being happy in her current occupation as a nurse. Leslie does not consider Ann’s feelings in this decision, but rather focuses on the benefits that it will bring her. Ann is a sounding board for Leslie; a compliant friend who will readily allow Leslie to offload with little in return.

Fans of Leslie will note that she is regularly applauded by other characters in the series for her kindness and consideration. She regularly provides friends with elaborate, carefully thought-out gifts, but these gifts, rather than being given selflessly are, too often, a means for Leslie to feel valued. Leslie revels in her ability to provide these presents, and gains much satisfaction from doing so. Ann and Ben both note in one episode, that they feel immense pressure to provide Leslie with a similarly thoughtful present. If Leslie’s habit of purchasing such gifts were to be truly selfless, it would not leave her loved ones feeling so despondent.

Leslie’s version of feminism is entirely informed through her own privileges and limited life experiences. Certainly the series is intentionally “small-town” in its approach, using this central conceit as the source of much of its idiosyncratic humor. Yet, when a show is going to be broadcast to such a large audience, and a character’s perceived feminism is so ingrained in character construct, it is damaging and short-sighted to allow this character to espouse the virtues of feminism when she displays so little interaction or understanding of wider intersectional issues.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Parks and Recreation: How Fat Phobia Is Invisible

Shirley, Donna, and Lana: African American Women in Thursday Night Sitcoms

Ann Perkins and Me: It’s Complicated

Why We Need Leslie Knope and What Her Election on Parks and Recreation Means for Women and Girls

Are You There, Hollywood? It’s Me, the Average Girl

What Baby Daddy Can Learn from Parks and Recreation

I Want to Establish the Ron Swanson Scholarship in Women’s Studies

Parks and Recreation Seasons 1 and 2

Emmy Week 2011: Leslie Knope

Siobhan Denton is a teacher and writer living in Wales, UK. She holds a BA in English and an MA in Film and Television Studies. She is especially interested in depictions of female desire and transitions from youth to adulthood. She tweets at @siobhan_denton and writes at The Blue and the Dim.

The Ironically Iconic ‘Wonder Woman’

With D.C. superheroine Wonder Woman recently named UN honorary Ambassador for the Empowerment of Women and Girls and her forthcoming feature film building hype, her profile could hardly be higher as a feminist symbol. Yet Wonder Woman, who the U.N. hopes will focus attention on women’s “participation and leadership,” is an image entirely created by men. She represents, ironically enough, male domination of the struggle against male domination. … Far from a step forward, ‘Wonder Woman’ is worse than more simply offensive chauvinism, because it insidiously exploits the female audience’s desire to identify with Wonder Woman’s empowerment.

Written by staff writer Brigit McCone, this post appears as part of our theme week on Unpopular Opinions.

William Moulton Marston, who created the ironically iconic Wonder Woman, was an outspoken male feminist who seduced his own student, Olive Byrne, and used her as unpaid domestic labor while living off his feminist wife’s (Elizabeth Holloway Marston) wages. Though feminist cartoonist Lou Rogers has been identified as an inspiration for Wonder Woman’s imagery, it was the male cartoonist Harry G. Peter that Marston selected to draw her adventures. Marston’s disconnect, between the theory and practice of female autonomy, seems reflected in his comic strip’s disconnect between its ideal woman of “Paradise Island” and the real world; it was left to Alice Marble to write a “Wonder Women of History” feature that linked Wonder Woman to the historical achievements of women.

After Marston’s death, a takeover bid by his widow Elizabeth Holloway Marston was snubbed by D.C. Comics, and the strip was handed instead to the sexist stewardship of writer Robert Kanigher, who demoted Wonder Woman from warrior and presidential candidate to babysitter and love advice columnist. Following journalist/activist Gloria Steinem’s promotion of the “Original Wonder Woman” as a feminist icon, a television series — The New Original Wonder Woman (later shortened to Wonder Woman) — was developed by writer Stanley Ralph Ross and producer Douglas S. Cramer (Dynasty).

On his DVD commentary to the pilot, Cramer seems defensively aware of the disconnect between Wonder Woman’s fictional autonomy and her lack of actual female authorship:

“There were very, very few women on the set. The hair, the make-up and the clothes were all done by men… we never had a woman director. There weren’t many women directors out there in those days.”

Yet, back in 1916, Grace Cunard wrote, directed, and starred in the popular adventure serial The Purple Mask, as the swashbuckling Purple Mask who “robbed from the greedy to give to the needy.” Though producer Cramer presents Wonder Woman as progress, claiming, “There really were not a lot of women that were carrying their own shows, and after Bionic Woman and Wonder Woman, that’s when Charlie’s Angels was cast,” it is important to recognize that it is a step backward from a time when Grace Cunard and Alice Guy wrote and directed female action heroes. Are the subtly undermining distortions of a pacifying male-authored feminism not more harmful than an open chauvinism that provokes resistance? Though D.C. courted women directors for their Wonder Woman movie and hired Patty Jenkins, the departure of Michelle MacLaren over “creative differences” suggests that the female director has only limited control. Certainly, she is working within an established legacy that women have not created. Should such semi-liberated sex symbols really be celebrated as ambassadors and stepping-stones to female authorship?

“All Our Hopes Are Pinned Upon You” — Symbolism of the Super-Smurfette

The opening season of Wonder Woman — starring Lynda Carter in the superhero role — is set during World War II, an era of immense importance for women’s rights. While men fought on the frontlines, the women exemplified by Rosie the Riveter proved that they were capable of excelling even in heavy industry, and that factories could accommodate their childcare needs if motivated to do so, with women also serving in military units such as WAVES and WACS. World War II, then, offers Wonder Woman an unparalleled opportunity to ally her efforts with the ongoing triumphs of women across America. Instead, the show is at pains to reduce all other female characters to idiots (the ableist slur “idiot” here describes characters who are themselves stereotypical, ableist caricatures) or deviousness.

In the pilot episode, the on-screen representative of WACS is Marcia (Stella Stevens), depicted as a stereotypically vacant blonde and openly sexual flirt, who reacts to the news that Nazis are planning to bomb the continental U.S. with: “Will that be all, Steve? I have a chiropodist’s appointment this afternoon.” The revelation that Marcia is a Nazi double-agent seems calculated to authorize the beating of this stereotype of brainless blonde sluttishness (again, “slut” here refers to characters negatively depicted as caricatures of devious promiscuity). Cramer hails the pilot’s extended catfight as “a historic moment on television, ’cause I can’t remember any other moments with women fighting women,” citing it as inspiration for equally popular catfights on Dynasty. Other antagonists in the pilot include an older lady with a machine gun and a female taxi driver, while there are no female allies. In later episodes, WACS will be represented by Etta Candy (a feisty ally in the source comics), now a rolling-eyed fool whose incompetence and eating habits are presented as comic relief. Meanwhile, Steve Trevor’s continuous sexist quips are endorsed by Diana’s sighing that he is a “perfect gentleman.”

Wonder Woman constantly struggles to “balance” their positive portrayal of Wonder Woman by viciously misogynistic portraits of all remaining women. The result implies that women have failed to achieve equality only because of their own deviousness or foolishness. Wonder Woman’s heroism is also marked by unattainably extreme perfection, which Lynda Carter admits in her commentary to being concerned by: “People want to be her and they want to be able to identify, and if she’s too perfect…” All women who fail to meet Wonder Woman’s punishing standards are reduced to the level of the catty and unlikable chorus of girls dismissed as “a herd of sheep” in “Miss G.I. Dreamgirl.” Wonder Woman is therefore the ultimate Super-Smurfette, a living embodiment of the Smurfette Principle‘s urge to isolate female achievement. The fact that a television show which encourages girls to feel mocking contempt for all of its female characters, apart from a literal Amazonian goddess, should be hailed as a feminist milestone is as ludicrous as it is tragic.

Margaret Armen, the only woman credited with writing an episode in the first season, introduced the coolly intelligent, highly competent, and villainous Baroness von Gunther as Nazi antagonist. Though she too has a climactic catfight with Wonder Woman, she is notable for not embodying a stereotype of female incompetence or sexual promiscuity. Compare the male-authored episode “Fausta: the Nazi Wonder Woman,” who is yet another evil blonde without detectable personality. Fausta (Lynda Day George) is finally converted to Wonder Woman’s cause, which arguably shows superficial sisterhood but also implies that Fausta has been serving the Third Reich simply because the concept of female bonding had never, ever occurred to her, until she was exposed to the revolutionary banalities of Wonder Woman. The only other female authorship on the show’s first season is that of Barbara Avedon and Barbara Corday, credited with devising the story for Jimmy Sangster’s script of “The Feminum Mystique,” the two-part episode which introduces Wonder Girl (played by a young Debra Winger) to showcase genuine female mentorship. Comparing its female and male authors thus reveals that the male-authored feminism of Wonder Woman is consistently, farcically compromised by its compulsion to isolate its heroine and undermine her female allies.

“In Your Satin Tights, Fighting for Your Rights” — Suffering Sexualized Suffragettes!

Wonder Woman is not only a Super-Smurfette, she is the original Fighting Fuck Toy (FFT). The essence of the Fighting Fuck Toy is her superficial empowerment through “kicking ass,” while being deprived of deeper agency and continually serving as a sexual object for the Male Gaze. Nowhere is this tendency more clearly shown than with Lynda Carter’s Wonder Woman (Diana Prince), a character defined by her hypersexualization from bullet breasts to hot-pants, yet rendered unthreatening to male viewers by her total absence of sexual agency.

The titillation begins with Diana’s introduction, running along the beach with a female friend, giggling in extremely short and gauzy negligees. As Diana later declares to her mother, the Amazon Queen Hippolyta (Cloris Leachman), “There’s something missing, mother. When I look at Steve Trevor, I feel things. Things I’ve never known before,” it is made clear that lesbianism is an unknown pleasure on Paradise Island. It’s wonderful that a Latina woman played the role of a superhero, yet this is an unfortunate missed opportunity for LGBTQ representation, especially with the recent confirmation of Wonder Woman as a queer character in the comics. This means that these women and girls are running around in a state of hypersexualization, not as an expression of any personal sexuality, but in permanent readiness for the arrival of a male viewer. For whom, then, is Paradise Island a paradise? Certainly, male viewers are amply served by the Amazons’ tournament to determine who will accompany Steve to America, an alleged athletic spectacle filmed almost entirely through upskirt shots.

Producer Cramer makes clear not only that Wonder Woman’s sexy appearance was integral to her role, but that the Fighting Fuck Toy’s “ass-kicking” should not be convincing: “If they were a wonderful actress, they approached the job like a lady truck driver.” By “lady truck driver,” he surely refers to the actresses’ ability to appear credibly violent, ruining their titillation by making their empowerment uncomfortably real. The Queen Hippolyta rants against the “barbaric, masculine behavior” of men with comical lust. Yet, Diana’s own lust for Steve will remain demurely unvoiced, as she waits entirely passively for him to take the sexual initiative. This suggests that women’s traditionally presumed passive sexuality is natural and not socially enforced, if even a super-powered and invulnerable woman would never openly express her desires. Furthermore, Diana actively corrects Drusilla (Wonder Girl) when Drusilla comments on a man’s attractiveness. That is, Diana is pointedly shown schooling a younger, sexually outspoken girl into proper passivity and self-suppression, which is enforced by the show as hallmarks of the “good” femininity that distinguishes Wonder Woman from blonde Nazi “sluts.” Lynda Carter expresses regret over Wonder Woman’s lack of sexual fulfillment in the DVD extras: “She didn’t have love in her life and she didn’t have children. I would hope that that story would be told. That’s such a huge part of womanhood.”

“Make a Hawk a Dove, Stop a War with Love” — Make Love, Not Legislation

At the heart of Wonder Woman is the concept that women are essentially different from men, and that female power resides in their essential qualities of love and pacifism. William Moulton Marston went further, and posited submission itself as an integral feminine virtue. In the words of Diana: “On Paradise Island there are only women. Because of this pure environment, we are able to develop our minds and our physical skills, unhampered by masculine destructiveness.” That is, the superpowers of the women of Paradise Island are suggested to be the direct result of their total absence of heteronormative sexuality, and to be incompatible with the presence of men, rooted as they are in a traditional concept of femininity that has historically facilitated male domination. After centuries of disenfranchisement, segregation into the domestic sphere, and being traded as property, male-authored feminism suggests that women can empower themselves by being traditionally feminine harder.

Actual women’s liberation, however, involved riots, incarceration, hunger strikes, occupation movements, clenched fists and even, on occasion, an unattractive shrillness resembling that of a lady truck-driver. Actual liberation involved the collective organization that the Super-Smurfette pointedly avoids. Far from a step forward, Wonder Woman is worse than more simply offensive chauvinism, because it insidiously exploits the female audience’s desire to identify with Wonder Woman’s empowerment. As Lynda Carter puts it: “There’s something about the goddess within, that secret part that resides in every woman, that is a Wonder Woman, that yearns for that independence and strength.” That “secret part” is harnessed by Wonder Woman to push female viewers into aspiring to a failed model of womanhood, one characterized by its hostility to other women, its punishing perfectionism, its sexual passivity and its self-sacrificing submission. Our goddesses within deserve so much better.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M_blOQEu9ws”]

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Wonder Woman Short Fan Film Reminds Us to Want This Blockbuster

Wonder Women and Why We Need Superheroines

Top 10 Superheroines Who Deserve Their Own Movies

Brigit McCone‘s campy superheroine of choice remains Xena until further notice. She writes short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and defending her unpopular opinion that Bloodhound Gang are a witty pastiche of masculinity.

‘The Faculty’: Gender, Dialogue, and Naked Alien Space Monsters

How did these male filmmakers make a movie marketed to men full of female characters who actually get the majority of the dialogue? I’m about to crack the code and share the secret — are you ready to become enlightened? Here’s how they did it: They included female characters and gave them lines. WHAT. Yes, it’s that simple.

Written by Mychael Elaine.

Do you love feminism and space monsters? This essay is for you!

A note to my non-binary readers: This essay takes a super reductive approach to gender. In order to address systemic sexism in the film industry, I’m using charts that graph dialogue spoken by characters listed either as “Male” or “Female,” and I’m using language like “men” and “women” as though there were nothing outside of that binary. It is not my intent to erase you. It is my hope that soon we will experience such a proliferation of non-binary representation that graphs like these become outdated because they don’t include you.

A note to my binary readers: Are you wondering what this “non-binary” thing is all about? Here are some links to resources that will help you understand what it means and why it’s important.

In The Faculty, six teens grapple with angst and aliens at their small town high school. The film was released in 1998, way before smartphones, when movie-teen research happened in makeshift garage labs and movie-teen scientific conclusions were drawn from classic works of literature. (#oldmillennial #oregontrailgeneration)

Eighteen years later, women are shattering glass ceilings all over the place, but men still talk way more than women, at work and in films. From a Time article titled “Why Women Talk Less Than Men at Work” published last month:

“Study after study has shown that women are interrupted (by both genders) more than men; that men speak significantly more in meetings than women do (one study found they account for 75% of conversation); that even when women speak less they are perceived to have spoken more…”

Here’s how this all plays out in the dialogue breakdown of high-grossing, blockbuster films:

Data courtesy of Polygraph — click here to visit the site and explore their data.
I’ve made slight modifications to my screenshot of Polygraph’s site for clarity.

Like the Bechdel Test, Polygraph’s analysis brings beautiful, cold, hard data to aid in discussions about representations of gender in popular culture. It isn’t surprising to look at this data and see how much men obviously dominate film dialogue, but boy is it depressing. So how do we fight against it?

Enter the space monsters.

A quick glance at The Faculty might lead you to believe that male characters speak the majority of lines in the film. Here are three reasons why:

The Faculty’s key creators are men: director, Robert Rodriguez; story, David Wechter and Bruce Kimmel; screenplay, Kevin Williamson.
The cover of the DVD and the movie poster both feature male characters most prominently.
There isn’t much dialogue in the trailer, but the three people who speak are all men. (A woman gets to scream, though! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAREPRESENTATIONAAAAAA!!!!)

All signs point to a film made by men, for men. (Of course, ostensibly the film was made for all genders. Thank you, patriarchy!)

But look at where The Faculty lives on this graph:

I’ve made slight modifications to my screenshot of Polygraph’s site for clarity.

How did these male filmmakers make a movie marketed to men full of female characters who actually get the majority of the dialogue?

I’m about to crack the code and share the secret — are you ready to become enlightened? Here’s how they did it:

They included female characters and gave them lines.

WHAT.

Yes, it’s that simple.

There’s a scene in the film where the teens are wondering why on earth aliens would be on earth in their little town in Ohio:

Stan (mocking): Alright Casey… let’s go alien for a second… Why here? Why Ohio?

Casey: If you were going to take over the world, would you blow up the White
House, Independence Day style, or sneak in through the back door?

Women don’t speak in The Faculty’s trailer and aren’t featured prominently in the movie’s promotional materials – instead, they sneak in through the film’s back door.

Am I arguing that we should purposefully exclude women from promotional materials to “trick” men into watching films filled with ladies? Absolutely not. But in 1998, women couldn’t blow up the cinematic White House, Ghostbusters 2016 style.

And let’s face it, it’s 2016 and this happened…

In a perfect world, men would never fall prey to the mindset that if a story is about women then it is exclusively for women, but they still do. And they’re still being raised to do so. One tactic to combat the disparity in women’s representation in films is to make like a parasitic alien and get sneaky.

How do women infiltrate this movie? The Faculty makes it look easy.

First of all, there are lots of great lady side characters: Salma Hayek as Nurse Harper, Bebe Neuwirth as Principal Drake, Famke Janssen as Ms. Burke, Piper Laurie as Mrs. Olson.

Then, of the six main characters, three are women and three are men. And, as an added bonus, the women aren’t damsels in distress – they are afforded agency and impact on the film’s plot.

Delilah (Jordana Brewster) is confident and competent and takes no shit:

Stokely (Clea DuVall) is intelligent and insightful and brave:

Stokely also takes no shit

Mary Beth Louise Hutchinson (Laura Harris) is charismatic to the max and also the powerful evil space alien intent on taking over the planet:

Ah yes, Mary Beth Louise Hutchinson. We’ve talked about gender and dialogue, now let’s get to the naked space alien.

Some might argue that this is yet another needlessly exploitative display of the female body in film, perpetuated by yet another group of male filmmakers. And those who would argue this are not wrong – women’s bodies are exploited pretty much everywhere and all the time.

But here’s why I dig Mary Beth’s naked alien scene. Naked women in horror films are often victims of horrible atrocities. This time it’s the naked woman who wields all the terrifying power. When tough-guy Zeke first sees her in the locker room walking around naked, the teenage boy is not filled with lust, but with fear. You can hear the horror in his voice when he asks, “Mary Beth…why are you naked?”

Her nudity is terrifying: her nakedness is out of place; she is out of place – she is a powerful and dangerous adversary. And even though ultimately she morphs into a giant worm-blob and Casey smashes her with gym bleachers, this moment — the scary naked woman moment — is a subversion I always enjoy.

Despite all of the above, The Faculty is not perfect. Here are a few issues:

Lack of Diversity: The DVD and poster might lead you to believe that Usher is the only character of color in the film. Other than Salma Hayek, this is pretty much true. This movie is full of white people. White people space aliens.

Don’t invest time in this movie if you are looking for characters of color, characters with disabilities, or queer characters. (Stokely is briefly identified as a lesbian, but it turns out she’s faking it to make people stay away from her, so…)

Yucky Masculinity: The film suffers from some pretty standard icky representations of men. It glorifies the asshole with a heart of gold (Zeke loves science!) and romanticizes the Nice Guy ™ (Casey loves Delilah!).

Plus What’s With the Ending? I can’t wrap my head around it. Everyone is coupled up all happily and heterosexually, like it’s the end of a Shakespeare comedy and time for everyone to get married. Zeke is on the football team? He and Ms. Burke are a… couple? Stokely is wearing lavender?!

Maybe the message is that only when you defeat naked parasitic space aliens will you achieve self-actualization. But part of me wants to believe that there’s something more sinister going on here. Does the teens’ conformity to societal norms mirror the conformity of those infected by aliens? Are socio-cultural expectations the true mind-controlling parasite?

Probably not.

Anyway, here’s my conclusion: The Faculty isn’t a feminist masterpiece, but it proves that it is possible for men sell a film to a male audience and fill it full of women who get to take up time and space. Women should get to take up space. All marginalized people should get to take up space.

We need to pay attention to who gets to speak, and how often they speak, and for how long. We need to be cognizant of the disproportionate allocation of dialogue to men and to women, to white people and to people of color, to the privileged and the oppressed. We need to make space for all minority groups, on our movie screens and at our places of employment. We can’t do that if we don’t pay attention to who gets to speak.

Mychael Elaine is a Bitch Flicks staff writer and writes about representations of gender in horror films at Vagina Dentwata.

The Unvoiced Indigenous Feminism of ‘Frida’

Frida Kahlo’s sense of kyriarchy, in which the tension between Indigenous culture and European imperialism is a core aspect of her multi-faceted narratives of oppression and resistance, is simplified in Julie Taymor’s film ‘Frida’ towards a more Euro-American feminism, focused on Kahlo’s struggle for artistic recognition and romantic fulfillment as a woman, to the exclusion of her ethnic struggle.

Written by Brigit McCone as part of our theme week on Indigenous Women.

The Tzotzil Mayan activist Comandanta Ramona has become an iconic figure in the struggle for Indigenous women’s rights, as an officer of Mexico’s Zapatista National Liberation Army (EZLN), which was one-third comprised of women, and as a drafter of the Revolutionary Women’s Law which set out an uncompromisingly feminist agenda for self-determination, equality, and reproductive rights on behalf of the Indigenous women of Chiapas. Comandanta Ramona was also a founder of the National Indigenous Congress of Mexico, and led an EZLN delegation to the First National Congress of Indigenous Women in Oaxaca. In San Cristóbal, dolls of Comandanta Ramona are sold, while posters of her are a shorthand for revolutionary Indigenous feminism, comparable to the use of Che Guevara as the shorthand for wider revolution.

The iconic image of Ramona seems, from a Euro-American perspective, unusual: the combination of a revolutionary’s balaclava with a long, floral, traditional dress. In Euro-American culture, the floral dress tends to be viewed as a symbol of traditional femininity, alluding to female submission and domestic dependence. To find a long, floral dress combined with a militant image like a balaclava, representing a feminist ideology like the Revolutionary Women’s Law, may seem contradictory from other cultural perspectives. It declares that Indigenous feminism is an evolution and reclamation of Indigenous culture, not a revolution against it. Ramona’s floral dress expresses the traditions of a specific Mayan culture whose women had their extensive agency undermined by Spanish colonization. The costume is political; it is the visual shorthand and physical embodiment of Ramona’s Indigenous feminism.

If that is true of the iconic image of Comandanta Ramona, it is equally true of the even more iconic image of another famous wearer of Indigenous clothing: Frida Kahlo.

Granddaughter of the Indigenous Purépecha photographer Antonio Calderón Sandoval, daughter of a mother who befriended and aided Zapatista rebels, Frida Kahlo joined with her husband Diego Rivera in the Mexicanismo movement, which sought to reintegrate Indigenous culture and pre-Columbian heritage into the national identity of Mexico. Kahlo, probably the most significant female representative of Mexicanismo, focused on embodying the philosophy through her wearing of Indigenous clothing, particularly Tehuana dress, and its celebration in her painting. This was not merely an aesthetic choice or desire to be “exotic”: writers such as Brasseur de Bourbourg, and the Mexican educator José Vasconcelos had declared Tehuantepec to be a matriarchal society, and Frida’s choice of dress thus serves as a visual shorthand for her support of the matriarchal values that the Tehuana were famed for. Although Tehuantepec is no longer considered a true matriarchy, as its women were traditionally excluded from political power, Tehuana women did achieve a large degree of economic independence as market-traders, and were celebrated for their outspoken and sexually liberated manner. At the start of the 20th century, the Tehuana Juana Cata Romero became a revered power broker, entrepreneur, landowner, and a sexually liberated woman known for her affair with the Mexican president Porfirio Diaz, all while promoting traditional Tehuana costume.

With such precedents, Frida Kahlo’s decision to wear Tehuana dress makes a political statement of Indigenous feminism: the embodiment of female emancipation as a natural evolution of reclaimed Indigenous culture, rather than as a colonial import. It is a gesture stripped of its vital meaning if removed from the context of Tehuana (Zapotec) culture, reduced to flowery exoticism when interpreted from a Euro-American viewpoint.

For that reason, it is unfortunate that the most famous and Oscar-nominated cinematic account of Frida’s life, 2002’s Frida by the Euro-American director Julie Taymor, revels in the colorful Tehuana costumes of Salma Hayek’s Frida without providing a single line of dialogue to address their significance or the matriarchal values that they represent.

Kahlo’s Mexico was a culture of assumed hierarchies: the superiority of the European over the Indigenous, of the rich over the poor, of the masculine over the feminine. In her specific choice of peasant garb from a matriarchal Indigenous culture, Kahlo wordlessly resists each of these hierarchies simultaneously. She is, as Andre Breton described her, “a ribbon around a bomb” against a complicated, interconnected kyriarchy of oppressions.

Kahlo’s sense of kyriarchy permeates her work. “Two Nudes in the Forest” is a queer-positive work that visualizes nature as a space of lesbian eroticism, but it is equally and simultaneously a representation of solidarity between Indigenous people and cultures and European people and cultures. In “Portrait of Lucha Maria, a Girl from Tehuacan,” an Indigenous Tehuacan girl, whose very name means “struggle” in Spanish, clutches a military plane as her toy, suggesting she must be raised in preparation for battle rather than domesticated with dolls. By her military plane’s juxtaposition with her traditional costume, Kahlo’s “Lucha Maria” resembles the iconic image of Comandanta Ramona. In “My Dress Hangs There,” a chaotic collage of the decadence of Euro-American civilization is dominated by Kahlo’s Tehuana dress, hanging as a flag of mute resistance. In her most famous work, “The Two Fridas,” Kahlo celebrates the strength and wholeness of her Tehuana self, in contrast to an alternate self in colonial dress who is bleeding and has her heart torn open, associating European values with romantic weakness and dependence. The image of the empowered Tehuana, either as a disembodied dress or as an aspect of Kahlo’s dual self, continued to evolve throughout her art.

Kahlo’s sense of kyriarchy, in which the tension between Indigenous culture and European imperialism is a core aspect of her multi-faceted narratives of oppression and resistance, is simplified in Taymor’s film towards a more Euro-American feminism, focused on Kahlo’s struggle for artistic recognition and romantic fulfillment as a woman, to the exclusion of her ethnic struggle. Frida’s communism is acknowledged, but not her admiration for Stalin’s cultural nationalism, which formed the subject of several of her paintings. The political beliefs of Kahlo, and of Mexican communists generally, are left largely unexplored by Taymor’s film, or reduced to a naive admiration for the imported ideals of foreign revolutionaries such as Leon Trotsky (Geoffrey Rush).

Another major Indigenous aspect of Kahlo’s work is its integration of Aztec and Mayan cosmology into artistic landscapes defined by the mythic Aztec struggle between light and dark, and peopled by a pantheon of pre-Columbian gods and heroes. Here again, feminism plays a key role in the emphasis that Kahlo lays on the pre-Columbian female divinities, in contrast to the wholly masculine trinity of the Christian worldview. The snake-headed Aztec goddess of birth and death, Coatlicue, sits atop the pantheon of heroes and deities in “Moses,” while in “The Love Embrace of the Universe, the Earth (Mexico), Myself, Diego, and Señor Xolotl” the motherhood and fertility goddess Cihuacoatl cradles Kahlo, mirroring Kahlo’s own maternal pose like a universal alter-ego.

Indigenous mythology serves as a source of strength and inspiration to Kahlo, through which she envisions a distinct feminine life-force within a complementary parity of male and female energies. This aspect of Kahlo’s art is entirely absent from Taymor’s film, though it does depict a visit by Kahlo and Trotsky to pre-Columbian pyramids. For a filmmaker with Taymor’s brilliant visual sense and gift for surreal sequences, this is surely a missed opportunity. What might Taymor not have achieved with a vision of a scarred earth transforming into the heaving bosom of Cihuacoatl, or a moon that shelters a sacrificial Mayan hare, or a writhing and devouring goddess of skulls and snakes who embodies the fearful ordeal of birthing life from death? There is no doubt that Taymor’s film is vivid and captivating, but could it not have been more so, if it had delved deeper into the brutally beautiful mytho-poetry of Kahlo’s painted world and the richness of the Indigenous heritage that informs it?

Paul LeDuc’s 1983 film Frida Naturaleza Viva, starring Ofelia Medina, is slow in pace and bleak in tone, more a collage of impressions and immaculately posed images than a coherent account of the artist’s life or work. Nevertheless, it does place Kahlo and Rivera at gatherings of Indigenous Mexicans, commemorating Emiliano Zapata through folk song and celebration, and thereby representing the political roots and ideological leanings of the artists themselves.

Julie Taymor’s 2002 work is a far more satisfying film, dramatizing a coherent account of Kahlo’s life, and a vibrant portrait of her will to succeed as a bisexual woman with a disability. Frida is saturated in Mexican music and the beauty of Mexican culture, and filled with visual references to Kahlo’s art that are a treat for fans to spot. It fails, however, to provide any context for Kahlo’s political convictions as a Mexican cultural nationalist, her identification with folk art, or her profound interest in pre-Columbian culture. Surely, the purpose of an artist’s biopic is to explore the beliefs and experiences which have shaped their work, to give voice to what was silent on the canvas? Kahlo’s images live in Taymor’s film, but the animating beliefs and Indigenous feminism behind them remain unspoken. In the opening sequence, Kahlo with a mobility disability is carried to her final exhibition in her bed and she’s accompanied by her sister Cristina and an Indigenous peasant woman, who smiles at Kahlo in affection but whose relationship with her will never be explored, and who will never even utter a line of dialogue. Her voicelessness seems to sadly typify the film’s continual use of the Indigenous as silenced accessory.

On one of the film’s posters, Kahlo’s painting “The Two Fridas” is restaged with dual Salma Hayeks clasping hands, one in a male suit and one in a Tehuana costume. The duality is now between her masculine and feminine selves, a tension of gender identity and sexuality, rather than the original painting’s tension between European and Indigenous models of womanhood, that is a distinctly Mexican cultural tension. The alteration appears to reflect the film’s wider purpose of universalizing Kahlo’s story of love and physical suffering. Are Mexican struggles to decolonize really so threatening or so difficult for international audiences to relate to? By reinforcing the impression that a “universal” and relatable story of a woman’s struggle must be a story in which specifically Indigenous concerns are silenced, Frida perhaps unwittingly contributes to the marginalization of Indigenous feminism, depriving it of a potent international icon. While an excellent film in many aspects, it could have been much more. It remains to us as viewers to put back the meanings that are left unsaid.

See also at Bitch Flicks:

Biopic and Documentary Week: Frida

Brigit McCone has a passion for all things Frida Kahlo and Salma Hayek. She writes and directs short films and radio dramas. Her hobbies include doodling and memorizing lists of underrated female artists. Brigit McCone is an extremely boring dinner party guest.

How Feminist Is ‘Beauty and the Beast’?

Belle saves the Beast – not just physically by breaking the spell, but emotionally and psychologically by changing his behavior and smoothing his sharp edges. … Both of them begin as loners and societal misfits, but they end as the perfect fit in each other’s lives. However, this nice, mushy message comes at a cost: Belle’s agency as a character. …When we are introduced to Belle she has no more growing left to do in this film other than learn to be less judgmental and find a suitable husband.

This guest post written by Hannah Collins is an edited version that originally appeared at Fanny Pack. It is cross-posted with permission.

Based on the classic French fairy tale and the 1946 French film, Le Belle at la Bete, Disney’s Beauty and the Beast (1991) is one of the most critically acclaimed and universally loved in the Princess catalogue. The story revolves around the titular ‘Beast’ – a vain and selfish Prince who is transformed into a monstrous animal by an enchantress as punishment for his flaws – and Belle (the ‘Beauty’), a kind and intelligent girl whom he imprisons in the hope that she might help break the spell put on him. Despite his poor anger-management skills (and inability to use cutlery) Belle slowly begins to tame the Beast’s temperament and work her way into his heart. But, before she can return his feelings and make him human again, an angry mob from her village led by the villainous Gaston – desperate for Belle’s hand in marriage – threaten to destroy everything.

As usual, I’ll be using six key questions to filter the film’s feminist/anti-feminist messages through and ultimately give it a ‘Positive,’ ‘Neutral,’ or ‘Negative’ stamp on it at the end. So without further ado, let’s see how Disney’s sixth official Princess movie holds up.

Belle
Mrs. Potts
The old beggar woman/enchantress
The feather duster maid (called ‘Babette’)
The Wardrobe (called ‘Madame de la Grand Bouche’, which translates to ‘Madame Big Mouth’. Nice.)
The Triplets (called the ‘Bimbettes’… Hmm.)

Total: 8 principle female characters (with speaking parts) compared to 11 principle male characters (with speaking parts).

In a word, no. And this is a good break with tradition, as nearly every Princess movie so far from Snow White, to Cinderella, to Sleeping Beauty, to The Little Mermaid have had female villains motivated solely by vacuous jealousy.

Although the Prince/Beast is the perceived villain to begin with in Beauty and the Beast, the real villain is Belle’s relentless pursuer, Gaston – clearly the more beastly of the two, personality-wise.

Apart from Mrs. Potts, who acts as a surrogate matriarchal figure to just about everyone, Belle disappointingly has very little interactions with any other female character. All of her close allies – her father, the Beast, Cogsworth, and Lumiere – are male, through a combination of circumstance and choice.

This serves subliminally to reinforce Belle’s ‘otherness’ as she seems unable and/or unwilling to maintain relationships with others of her gender. Unfortunately, this is also reflected across the rest of the film’s female characters, with the tightest bonds of friendship being between men: Gaston and LeFou; and Lumiere and Cogsworth.

For the final two-thirds of the film the answer to this is Belle, with her father, Maurice, keeping things barreling along through the first act. Yet, even when Belle does become the driving force of the plot, she doesn’t actually attract the majority of the viewer’s emotional investment. That’s because most of this investment is funneled into the Beast’s quest to regain his humanity instead.

At the start of the film, Belle flitters around a field belting out a song about “wanting so much more than this provincial life,” yet her unfalteringly charismatic character doesn’t develop one bit throughout the story. Geographically-speaking, she also only ends up living what can’t be more than a few miles away from the home she dreamed of travelling far away from. Meanwhile, the Beast’s character enjoys a dramatically shifting arc that also bears the weight of the entire story’s moral as an added bonus. In this respect, Belle – the eponymous princess of this supposed Princess-oriented movie – is effectively side-lined in her own film.

If toxic masculinity took cartoon form, it would look like Gaston. While Belle is a flawed but emphatically feminist heroine, Gaston is a perfect send-up of laddish, brutish, and gross chauvinism. His interactions with her are all deliberately sexist, offensive, vile, and stupid – i.e. the perfect counter-balance to Belle’s pragmatism, wit, and intelligence. Gaston’s attraction to Belle is based firstly on her obvious good looks, and secondly because her constant rejection of him turns his failing courtship of her into a game, and as a proud hunter who “uses antlers in all of his decorating,” you know that Gaston basically just sees her as little more than another deer to chase, shoot, sling over his back, and carry home to become another trophy over his fireplace.

[youtube_sc url=”https://youtu.be/wNlpuD42_BM”]

During his solo song (sung in that flawless baritone), we’re given a handy checklist of things to have and achieve before any self-respecting ‘man’s man’ can be counted as worthy:

Body hair. A lot of it.
Spitting. Be good at it.
Hunting. Do it often.
Using animals as decoration. Everywhere.
Eating 4 dozen raw eggs to become the “size of a barge.”
Drinking. All the time.
Chess (although because being smart is basically useless, the only way to win is by slapping the board away from your oppenent.)
Stomping around in boots. No, really – go out and buy some, now.

With his square jaw, bulging muscles, and operatically-deep voice, Gaston is kind of like a Disney prince gone wrong. And Belle, with all her well-developed intellect, seems to be the only person to call this out. Even her father says that he “seems handsome” and suggests Belle should give him a chance in the romance department. The rest of the town – especially his loyal lackey, LeFou, and the horny triplets – treat Gaston like the village hero, never questioning his judgment, and happy to attend an impromptu wedding for he and Belle (before she’s even agreed to it) or sing an ode to his chest hair in the tavern, or later on be led blindly on a witch hunt to kill the Beast he showed them in a “magic mirror.”

The Beast on the other hand, with his anger problems, selfishness, and emotional unavailability is someone who starts off in a similar place to Gaston – albeit minus the gushing self-confidence. He doesn’t even call Belle by her name to begin with, just “the girl.” The difference between he and Gaston is that rather than forcing himself upon her, the Beast allows himself to be changed for the better by Belle, thus turning himself into a man worthy of her love. As Gaston becomes more and more incensed and frenzied to the point of trying to blackmail Belle into marrying him, the Beast learns to control his anger and becomes more docile and open to the needs of others until he earns rather than wins her affections.

The ultimate proof of his transformation comes when he allows Belle to leave the castle to attend to her sick father at the expense of him being able to break the spell. (Although, seeing how close the town and castle seem to be, there’s no reason he should have assumed Belle couldn’t have popped back to the castle later on…)

Most of Belle’s characteristics fit the usual wish list for Disney Princesses we’ve encountered so far: beauty, charm, kindness, a good set of pipes, and a touch of wistful longing for “something more” than the life they’re trapped in. But Belle has another trick up her puffy dress sleeves: intellectualism. Like our previous heroine, Ariel, Belle is curious about the world around her. The difference here is that Belle has been able to satiate her curiosity with books, turning her into an imaginative, ambitious, sharp-witted, and worldly heroine.

As I mentioned previously, the downside to all this glowing perfection is that Belle seems to have done all her character development off-screen, but she also has another severe weakness: Her heightened intelligence has given her one hell of a superiority complex.

At the start she sings about her “little town, full of little people” and is bored by the routine of everyone else’s lives. She laments that no one reads and imagines more like she does. Similarly, the rest of the town look down on her for being intellectual and “weird.”

During this opening number we see a woman struggling with a comical amount of children – literally juggling babies in her arms – while desperately trying to buy some eggs. Meanwhile, Belle sails past on the back of a cart, smiling and singing about the joy of reading – unburdened by the troubles of being a working-class mother. This is the best insight we get into Belle’s P.O.V: All sweetness and pleasantries on the outside, but internally judging the other women around her who have slavishly “given up” on any hope of independence or self-empowerment.

Belle’s quest for self-betterment is both her greatest strength and weakness. She is presented to young girls watching the film as a woman ahead of her time – a model early feminist, before the term was even invented, who dreams of living life beyond her designated place in society. Yet, by doing so, she can’t help but dole out pity to the other women around her who were not able to choose to live their lives in the way that she has so luckily been able to. In some ways, Belle is the epitome of some of the feminist movement’s problems: white, elitist, and judgmental. And also kind of a hypocrite – after all, let’s not forget that the only two books we see Belle actually engaged with are romance stories – one (pictured below) she reads a passage from referencing “Prince Charming” and the other is Romeo and Juliet. Maybe her desires aren’t quite as wildly different from everyone else’s as she might wish.

Yes, I know. How can one of Disney’s foremost feminist heroines be merely a ‘Neutral’ in terms of gender representation? Hear me out.

The core philosophy of Beauty and the Beast is to love what’s inside of someone rather than just what’s on the outside. This makes it the first time a Disney Princess film has broken the nonsensical ‘love at first sight’ BS that has been at the heart of every previous story – and this is where most of its plus points come from. Belle saves the Beast – not just physically by breaking the spell, but emotionally and psychologically by changing his behavior and smoothing his sharp edges. He begins as a self-loathing, literal monster, and ends up as a well-rounded man who literally and figuratively reclaims his humanity thanks to Belle. Belle, meanwhile, is rewarded with the one thing she (secretly) always longed for: someone who truly understands her. Both of them begin as loners and societal misfits, but they end as the perfect fit in each other’s lives.

However, this nice, mushy message comes at a cost: Belle’s agency as a character. As I’ve established, when we are introduced to Belle she has no more growing left to do in this film other than learn to be less judgmental and find a suitable husband. In fact, I was left feeling a little cheated by the end. The opening, uplifting number makes us anticipate the journey of a modern woman ready to go globe-trotting… only to lead down the same well-trodden path of her finding the nearest castle and Prince to hook up with and stay put in his library for the rest of her life.

In the end, Belle is actually demoted to the usual passive ‘Prince’ role – a one-note hero who swoops in to save the day in the nick of time, leaving the Beast fulfilling the lead, active ‘Princess’ role. This, ultimately, is why what should have been a ‘Positive’ film for gender representation, has sadly balanced out into a ‘Neutral’ one instead.

Hannah Collins is a London-born writer and illustrator fascinated by the intersection between pop/visual culture and feminism. On the blogging scene, Hannah has attracted over 1 million readers to her blog on gender representation in pop culture. By day, she is currently a freelance illustrator for children’s books and comics, and by night (and any other available hour) she contributes to the Cosmic Anvil and Fanny Pack blogs, as well as her own.

‘Contact’: The Power of Feminist Representation

‘Contact’ remains a singularly astute portrayal of a woman combating the oppressive confines of institutional sexism, as well as a reminder of how deeply mainstream cinema still needs progressive feminist portrayals that contradict gender clichés. … How refreshing that a woman’s personal arc is considered important enough to be entwined alongside the movie’s core theme of discovering meaning in our seemingly meaningless universe.

This guest post written by Kelcie Mattson appears as part of our theme week on Women Scientists.

For half my life I planned to be an astrophysicist.

You can credit the mental implantation of that idea to the 1997 film Contact. I was eight years old, and recognition clicked when I saw Eleanor “Ellie” Arroway. Her love for space exploration coalesced with my own in a way I hadn’t known was possible, and I thought, clear as a pinpoint — I want to be that.

Ultimately, that passion translated into writing stories about science rather than living them myself, so I’m not a successful case study. But Contact remains a singularly astute portrayal of a woman combating the oppressive confines of institutional sexism, as well as a reminder of how deeply mainstream cinema still needs progressive feminist portrayals that contradict gender clichés.

Based on the novel by the late astrophysicist Carl Sagan, Contact follows Dr. Ellie Arroway (Jodie Foster), a leading member of the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence (SETI) program, as she strives to prove the existence of alien life. After she discovers a radio signal transmitting from a seemingly uninhabited star system, the governments of the world unite with NASA to decode what the mystery alien message means for the future of humanity.

Contact makes waves just by existing. Although the science fiction genre is peppered with extraordinary portrayals of pioneering women, it’s rare for them to actively serve as the protagonists of any major motion picture, let alone a multi-million dollar sci-fi blockbuster. Instead of maximizing the endless possibilities inherent in the genre to their fullest potential by liberating and diversifying, the majority of women take a narrative backseat to a revolving door series of leading white men. They’re lucky to do something other than fulfill the tired role of token love interest. Dr. Martha Lauzen’s “Celluloid Ceiling” report for 2015 confirms this: women comprised only 22% of movie protagonists in the top 100 highest grossing films of last year.

Contact breaks down common cinema barriers by not only featuring a complex, layered female protagonist, but a brilliantly capable, talented female scientist — a concept still lacking adequate female personification and normalization within modern narratives.

As a woman in a male-dominated profession, Ellie Arroway endures a belligerent stream of ingrained sexism. She is overruled, questioned, ignored, and derided by the men surrounding her, particularly by David Drumlin (Tom Skerritt), the Scientific Advisor to the President and quasi-antagonist. He removes the funding from Ellie’s SETI research site in Puerto Rico and threatens to do the same four years later at an observatory in New Mexico because he’s convinced the effort is a waste of resources — NASA’s and Ellie’s. Not only is “looking for E.T.” a laughable venture, he argues Ellie’s squandering her talents in the department and won’t accomplish anything of note with her career. If she’s going to be a scientist, she should at least be the kind he approves of. It’s an example of paternalistic control masquerading as concern that Ellie is quick to challenge.

During a White House press briefing about the contents of the alien message, Ellie is scheduled to speak but government officials pass her over without warning in favor of Drumlin — despite the fact Ellie leads the project responsible for discovering the extraterrestrial communique. He even surpasses her by committee vote (and exploitative manipulation) to become humanity’s ambassador to the alien race, again in spite of Ellie’s enormous qualifications.

There’s also Ellie’s on/off again love interest Palmer Joss (Matthew McConaughey), a religious philosopher who condemns her on national television for her lack of belief in a Christian God. Most damning of all, when Ellie can provide no proof of her successful meeting with the alien race, National Security Advisor Michael Kitz (James Woods) interrogates her to the point of gaslighting. She’s a delusional, hysterical woman; how can they believe a word she says? How can she believe herself?

While the pushback against Ellie’s stalwart belief in extraterrestrial life isn’t necessarily gender specific (think the mockery Fox Mulder faces in The X-Files for a male equivalent), Ellie is still infantilized and dismissed in a frighteningly recognizable way. Drumlin, Kitz, and Joss make decisions “for” her, without her, and against her, even going so far as to steal credit for her work to amplify their professional status. Despite her contributions (she discovers alien life, people), she’s summarily overlooked without question or hesitation. There are no explicit declarations of hatred, belief in female inferiority, or use of gendered slurs — just a reactionary, bone-deep confidence in their own authority as men. It’s a quieter, more insidious form of misogyny permeating all sections of society.

Because of this constant litany of sabotage, Ellie is forced to move through the world by working around the biased structural institutions. The only way Ellie can overcome those limitations, however, is through the aid of men. Reclusive billionaire S. R. Hadden (John Hurt) funds not only Ellie’s research after all other prominent institutions have rejected her, but reveals the existence of a backup spacecraft after the first is destroyed by a suicide bomber. Interestingly, Ellie is both active instigator and passive reactor in these scenarios — Hadden provides financial backing because she implores it from his company, and he’s impressed by her fiery determination. The revelation of the secondary spacecraft, though, as well as a clue that solves the coded alien message, come from Hadden’s goodwill, not an intellectual triumph of Ellie’s. Without Hadden’s money and influence, Ellie would be helpless to progress. One can even argue the suicide bomber (Jake Busey), a disgusting, religious radical responsible for innocent deaths, makes Ellie’s journey in the machine possible by causing Drumlin’s death in the explosion.

It doesn’t matter how unquestionably skilled Ellie is or how vocally she protests — her talents aren’t enough to break past the systematic barriers imposed by powerful men and the society that implicitly favors them. Her avenue for advancement isn’t dismantling the system, but sneaking through the cracks. Aliens exist; equality does not.

It’s a disappointing view of the STEM field, but not an inaccurate one. Case studies have found many women face hostility, harassment, and sexual assault from male colleagues. The script’s co-writer, Ann Druyan, experienced “huge amounts of sexism” during her career with NASA:

“I remember routinely being dismissed, interrupted — I’d say something and people at a meeting would turn to Carl [Sagan] or someone else and say, that was a really great idea you had.”

Although Ellie’s experiences occur within the framework of a semi-fantastical context, the messy convergence of religion, science, and gender serves as a reflection of the oppressive situations real women experience. She is no fainting damsel weakened by conflict, but a symbol of female resistance, her personhood achieved in non-traditional ways that challenge the status quo of masculine privilege and assumed gender divisions. She pursues her chosen scientific track to the disapproval of her colleagues. She raises her voice. She’s compassionate and filled with ideological wanderlust, as well as career-driven, aggressive, and angry. She’s lonely but rejects romance in favor of a one-night stand without considering it a sacrifice to the altar of her career, and when she does choose a relationship, it’s not a corrective act that fulfills her life. She’s an independent, sexual being who fits within the heteronormative standards of female beauty without being sexualized, yet can still wear a “really great dress” to a party. Ellie’s absolute disregard for prescribed stereotypical characteristics coded as “male” and “female” frees her to be a whole, multi-layered character in pursuit of her own kind of individuality.

Ellie even breaks the known limitations of the universe. From a narrative standpoint, she grapples with the biggest philosophical questions plaguing our existence: are we alone? What’s our purpose? Her desperation to make first contact mirrors a psychological need to cure her loneliness, an echo of the themes seen in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Interstellar, and more. How refreshing that a woman’s personal arc is considered important enough to be entwined alongside the movie’s core theme of discovering meaning in our seemingly meaningless universe.

The fact there are no other on-screen female scientists seems a deliberate choice to further highlight Ellie’s isolation, but it’s still an unfortunate oversight by the writers. (Ellie’s mother in particular is a presence sorely lacking; she’s barely mentioned except to note she passed away during childbirth.) Given that Ellie is only one of two women with an on-screen speaking part, all of her major interactions are with men. If Drumlin and his ilk represent the sexist hegemony, the handful who support her can be classified as male allies. This is especially true of Ellie’s father, who fully encouraged his daughter’s interest in astronomy and helped advance her curiosity, rather than shut it down in its infancy as something inappropriate for a young girl. Ellie and her fellow SETI scientist Kent Clark (William Fichtner), who is blind, share a passion for their study as well being overlooked minorities. By the film’s end, even Palmer Joss overcomes his biases to accept Ellie’s differences and proclaim his belief in her story to the world; he doesn’t speak for her, but uses his influence to support her voice.

It’s worth mentioning the alien emissary that Ellie meets assumes the form of her father in order to “comfort” her. It’s a pretty blatant example of the daddy issues cliché, and compounds the realization that in addition to another species, Ellie spent her entire life searching for a paternalistic replacement (she sleeps with Joss after he unintentionally quotes Ellie’s father, a move that’s way too Oedipal for me). Although the reliance on a lost-father trope in order to give Ellie depth is irritating, it doesn’t undermine her progression or strengths as a character. Her interests weren’t defined by her father, and neither is she diminished or restricted by her grief over his loss. She’s allowed to weep at the sight of “him,” even if the alien’s attitude is infantilizing.

Ultimately, Ellie triumphs over the sociopolitical forces conspiring against her. The secure knowledge of Ellie’s own truth is what matters more than the government’s approval, and thousands of strangers stand in solidarity of belief with her. She achieves her goal of advancing scientific understanding by initiating first contact, as well as finding personal peace, without compromising her autonomy or personality. Radios, telescopes, space, math, physics — these passions were born entirely from herself, and they flourished because of her drive. There’s no question of how or why or she’s an exception. Ellie just is. She’s passionate, level-headed, exacting, devoted, optimistic, courageous, unapologetic, and full of glorious wonder.

That’s what girls need to see: the normalization of women as protagonists, as professionals, as figureheads of heroism. Viable, easily seen examples that women belong in the worlds of science and technology, that the fields aren’t exclusive boys’ clubs. A woman can achieve breakthroughs in math and physics. A woman can raise her voice and fight for her beliefs. A woman can serve as representative for the best of humanity.

More than anything, she can succeed in the face of overwhelming societal pressures trying to undermine her choices — just like social norms dictate what young women can and can’t do. Pink is for girls, blue is for boys; you play with dolls, not trucks. It’s impractical to be a scientist, or an engineer, or a radio astronomer.

Contact shows women can be protagonists, women can be scientific geniuses, and women can inspire. It compounds the deep-seated necessity for identification through representation, if nothing else than through my own experience as a young girl looking for confirmation that I wasn’t abnormal at the same time I was looking up at the stars.

If Ellie Arroway can do those things, so can we.

Kelcie Mattson is a multimedia editor by morning, aspiring critic by afternoon, and tea aficionado 24/7. She’s been a fangirl since birth, thanks to reruns of Star Trek and Buffy. In her spare time she does the blogging thing on feminism, genre films, minority representation, comics, and all things cinephile-y at her website. You can follow her on Twitter at @kelciemattson, where she’s usually overanalyzing HGTV’s camerawork and sharing too many cat pictures.

The Feminisms of ‘Born in Flames’

It’s no coincidence to me that three years later Lizzie Borden would direct ‘Born in Flames,’ a film that depicts a collection of different feminist voices all aligned in a common goal of resisting what bell hooks terms the white-supremacist-capitalist-patriarchy.

Written by staff writer Heather Brown, this re-post appears as part of our theme week on Ladies of the 1980s.

What is the role of difference in feminism? When in doubt, ask Audre Lorde. In 1980, she delivered a lecture entitled “Age, Race, Class, and Sex: Women Redefining Difference” (later published in Sister Outsider) in which she states, “There is a pretense to homogeneity of experience covered by the word sisterhood that does not in fact exist.” It’s no coincidence to me that three years later Lizzie Borden would direct Born in Flames, a film that depicts a collection of different feminist voices all aligned in a common goal of resisting what bell hooks terms the white-supremacist-capitalist-patriarchy.

The film takes place 10 years after a social revolution in the United States (!). However, despite the political structure of a socialist democracy, social, and economic justice for the historically marginalized is still a long way off. Filmed in cinema verité style with non-professional actors and against the backdrop of Reagan-era New York City, the post-revolution future looks appropriately gritty, unflinching, and chaotic — much like the film’s narrative. So, too, are the voices of feminist activists that structure the film. First, we meet Adelaide Norris (Jean Satterfield) an African American woman who, along with Hilary Hurst (Hilary Hurst), a white woman, leads the Women’s Army. Both are disenfranchised by the government’s “work-fair” program, and we see them work to mobilize their respective communities across racial lines. And most importantly, we see them disagree about how to do it. Adelaide, influenced by her mentor Zella (played by the late feminist activist Florynce Kennedy), weighs the necessity of the Women’s Army to take up arms against the state, which has only ever perpetuated militarized violence toward women, lesbians, communities of color, and the poor in general. Zella tells Adelaide, “All oppressed people have a right to violence.”

In addition to seeing women converse with and debate one another, we also see them speaking from dedicated feminist platforms on pirate radio. Isabel (Adele Bertei), the DJ of Radio Ragazza, is an outspoken critic of the Women’s Army. She and her community represent the white, anarchist-punk perspective that promotes creative resistance through art. Then there’s Honey (Honey) of Phoenix Radio, a DJ who Adelaide seeks as an ally by extension of overlap of their membership in Black communities. Yet another voice is the Socialist Youth Review, a liberal magazine whose reporters (white women, including a young Kathryn Bigelow) occasionally weigh in to critique the Women’s Army for its agenda and question the need for it to exist at all, given the social gains achieved by the revolution. And finally, a distinctly anti-feminist perspective that provides a counter-narrative to the action unfolding is the voiceover of FBI agents, who aim to take down the Women’s Army, starting with Adelaide Norris. We hear them remark, “We don’t know who to find out who is charge” and “it’s not clear how they function.” These statements reveal just how confounding it is to the very centralized government that a social movement could share authority amongst its members.

One of the ways that the Women’s Army shares this authority is shared is through collective anti-street harassment activism and anti-rape squads. In a harrowing but triumphant scene, a woman is being assaulted by two women on her way to the subway, and out of nowhere appears a fleet of women on bicycles, blowing whistles and circling the men. The men leave the scene and the Women’s Army come to the aid of the attack victim. What is particularly important about this scene is not just how little things have changed when it comes to the endurance of street harassment and violence against women, but that the Women’s Army creates its own policing solutions to these problems. Instead of acting out carceral feminism, which relies on law enforcement and state violence to combat violence against women, the feminisms of Born in Flames create justice rather than restore “order.”

Though much is made of the differences between the activist groups, one thread runs through the film: the shared experience of work. There are several montages — set to the soundtrack of Red Krayola’s “Born in Flames,” which will get lodged in your brain for weeks — in which close-up shots of hands and all kinds of bodies are engaged in all kinds of labor. From bagging groceries, to child care, to sex work, each act is equated as valuable in its own right. One of the acts of resistance occurs after Adelaide, like many other women who are lower in the social caste, is laid off from her construction job and organizes a demonstration to fight for jobs that have the potential for growth.

The film’s rising action occurs when Adelaide is detained by the FBI on suspicion of arms trafficking — a fabrication intended to stamp out her and the Women’s Army. Without spoiling the film, let’s just say that the different feminist subgroups are called to combine their efforts and create Phoenix Regazza Radio to stand in solidarity as they enact a final act of terrorism. While this particular act is a bit chilling to watch post-9/11, it powerfully symbolizes the danger that will befall society should the marginalization of women and the white-supremacist-capitalist-patriarchy persist.

Heather Brown is a Bitch Flicks staff writer. She grew up in Connecticut but hopes that having lived in Virginia and North Carolina — and being married to an Arkansan — gives her occasional license to have a Southern accent. She recently fled a full-time job as a professor in central New Jersey, where she taught classes in gender studies, feminist theory, linguistics, and rhetoric. Long story short, she decided to leave the ivory tower to have more fun on the outside. Now she teaches online part-time, works as a freelance writer and instructional designer, and is currently pursuing professional coach certification training in Chicago, Ill., where she moved at the end of 2013 with her partner and cat, Edie. She lives for live music, road trips, and good movies. She blogs sporadically at PhDilettante.

10 of the Best Feminist Comedies of the 1980s

10 feminist comedies from the 1980s that focus on women and their careers, friendships, families, relationships, and journeys of self-discovery. Also, a look at how well these films do (or don’t) pass the Bechdel Test.

This guest post written by Jessica Quiroli appears as part of our theme week on Ladies of the 1980s.

9 to 5

If I may, this is the greatest women’s comedy of all-time. So perfect on every level, it’s hard to know where to begin; but how about with the three main characters? These are women on the verge: Judy, a woman in the middle of a painful divorce, is a bundle of raw nerves and professional inexperience. Rosalee is boss Franklin Hart’s secretary, experiencing his sexual harassment on a regular basis that she dutifully smiles through, while also putting a firm foot down. She’s also misjudged by women in the office about her relationship with Hart. Her story shows a side of women in the workplace that was too often kept secret, when women couldn’t freely report their superiors’ behavior without risking unemployment. And then there’s Violet, the woman who trained Mr. Hart, and is now his “right hand.” She’s so in control, so sharp, that it only makes sense that she’s who accidentally sends them into a madcap adventure of unintentional crime. Played by Jane Fonda, Dolly Parton, and Lilly Tomlin, this wild ride is a classic in any era, but a rare, feminist gem of the 80’s.

Bechdel Test Check: Of course! It’s a comedy about working women, workplace sexual harassment, fair pay, and a good old crime caper they alone must solve. First, they discuss matters of business, lamenting Mr. Hart’s horrible sexism and incompetence; then they band together to get out of hot water. They talk survival in the first half, then literal survival, and avoiding prison, in the second half. These women have a lot more to discuss than romance.

Private Benjamin

One of the best, if just for the ending alone. Goldie Hawn stars in this unique story about a young woman, Judy Benjamin, who seeks a challenge to her otherwise nice life by joining the U.S. Army. She quickly realizes the reality of that decision, but forges ahead. Judy rises to the challenge, bonds with the other women, and eventually has to decide what life she’d rather live. The other awesome thing about this movie: Hawn co-produced it with Nancy Meyers, who also wrote the screenplay.

Bechdel Test Check: Many conversations with the awesome Eileen Brennan, who plays Captain Doreen Lewis, including on arrival, when Judy explains she’s looking for the Army with “the condos.”

Desperately Seeking Susan

A buddy comedy without the buddies meeting until the very end. Susan, (pitch-perfect Madonna), is the exciting, perhaps dangerous woman leading an unapologetically carefree life. Rosanna Arquette’s Roberta is a woman married to a man she’s dissatisfied with, living a life she’s uninspired by. Reading about Susan’s life via a personal ads chain sparks Roberta’s imagination and she begins to follow Susan. All the action revolves around them; the men in their lives are the baffled bystanders. The women create the action, tension, and fun. Ultimately, we get two (!) heroines who’ve succeeded in the world by pursuing individual happiness they’ve refused to sacrifice.

Bechdel Test Check: Susan and friend Crystal discuss the working life. Crystal has a great monologue about feeling disrespected and being “legally blind.” Susan and Roberta’s sister-in-law Leslie chat, with Roberta’s husband Gary in the mix, about Roberta’s diary and how little they really know about her.

Fast Times at Ridgemont High

Stacy Hamilton isn’t waiting for the boys to find her. The high school girl Stacy, played by Jennifer Jason Leigh, embarks on a sexual awakening of her own design. She’s unsure, of course, but that doesn’t stop her. Stacy’s on a personal mission to achieve a rite of passage, a high school senior who’s sexually curious. She seeks advice from her experienced friend Linda (Phoebe Cates), hoping for tips and confidence. This movie’s viewed as a sex comedy for teenagers, but the subject matter’s depth, and how it’s portrayed, gives the film an emotional center with a genuinely sensitive, sometimes sad element. Yes, Jeff Spicolli, famously played by Sean Penn, is likely the most memorable character in most people’s minds (even IMDB lists him as the top billed-star). Stacy, however, is the heart and soul of the story. Her character is one we don’t see often enough: a teenage girl, discovering sex, sexual politics, and her own resolve to grow up and treat herself better.

Bechdel Test Check: There’s really nothing. If she’s talking to another girl, it’s about sex with boys.

Working Girl

Tess McGill’s devotion to her career is motivated by her desire to prove her self-worth, to no one else but herself, then to the corporate world. She has ideas, and plenty of intelligence and creativity to realize them. But her boss, Katherine (played by Sigourney Weaver) isn’t interested in helping her climb the ladder. The premise of a woman not wanting to help another woman is unfortunate, but realistically speaks to an earlier time in corporate America when it was even harder for women to succeed. Tess is fair, energetic, ambitious, and sexy. She doesn’t sacrifice anything to be loved, accepted, and successful. It’s inspiring and so fun to watch her emerge.

Bechdel Test Check: Tess and best friend Cyn, played by Joan Cusack with the most Brooklyn accent you’ve ever heard this side of a Joe Pesci movie, discuss Katherine’s absence and business meetings. Also, toward the end, Tess calls her friends and colleagues to make a huge professional announcement.

Baby Boom

J.C. Wyatt’s clocked countless hours, challenging the male-dominated corporate world so relentlessly, she’s nicknamed “The Tiger Lady.” She’s close to being made partner when baby Elizabeth comes along, after a cousin leaves her to J.C. for reasons that baffle her. Her colleagues and boss begin treating her differently. And the man she’s in a relationship with (played by everyone’s favorite, Harold Ramis) politely opts out. J.C. eventually takes her baby and business sense to Vermont and due to a dose of cabin fever, she creates a lucrative baby food company called “Country Baby.” The natural baby food achieves national success and her old company comes crawling back to her. J.C. also meets a veterinarian played sweetly and seductively by Sam Shepard, who respects her as she is, loves her, and loves her child. The story isn’t run-of-the-mill, but women everywhere can relate to juggling all the plates.

Bechdel Test Check: Really only one and it involves discussion about Elizabeth, just not a man. When Elizabeth is handed over to her by the woman from the adoption agency, Diane Keaton hilariously stumbles from impatient, to confused, to stunned, becoming completely unhinged by the circumstances.

Broadcast News

This powerful comedy/drama about a female news reporter, starring Holly Hunter, is perfectly imperfect. The story, the characters, the choices, and the ending are raw reality, rather than the gift-wrapped stories Hollywood, and audiences, love. Of course we love them! But we also love the messy, relatable truth. Jane’s a highly-respected news-producer, handling the egos of news-men Albert Brooks and William Hurt, who compete professionally, and for her affections.

Bechdel Test: Joan Cusack again! Very, very briefly, Jane and Blair exchange words about a segment that needs editing. Cue the most famous scene in the movie.

Heartburn

There’s no way to omit a woman’s story that’s both legendary in literary and journalistic circles, and one relatable to many women. While many of us are merely observers of what it was like for female professionals in the 80’s (and 90’s) who were trying to balance family and career, writer Nora Ephron lived through all the societal stages. But this is a very personal story, with some really raw ugly stuff that you can easily judge, but are better off staying out of the way of, as Rachel Samstatt’s (played by freaking perfect Meryl Streep) friends and colleagues learn. Food writer Rachel has such intense doubt on the day of her wedding to Mark Foreman (played also horribly perfect by Jack Nicholson) that her friends and family, and finally Mark, have to convince her to marry him. There’s a lot to laugh at, and a lot to boil the blood, as we watch Rachel figure out who she is and what she needs to be happy.

Bechdel Test Check: One absolutely killer scene. Rachel returns to New York, after leaving Mark, and she runs into an old friend named Judith (played by Doctor Marsha from ‘Sleepless in Seattle’!). Rather than tell Judith about her husband’s affair, Rachel lies and says that her mother died. Judith tells her that she’s learned that the death of one’s mother can actually be “a blessing.” There are worse things, Judith tells Rachel. “I know, Judith. I know.”

Beaches

This is a love story between two lifelong friends. There’s no replacing the relationship, as C.C. Bloom (Bette Midler) tries explaining to husband John, played by the underrated John Heard. That might be because the friendship began when she and Hillary Whitney (Barbara Hershey) meet in early adolescence, before boys, before adult life pulls them in many directions. They’re each other’s foundation, the one thing that they can count on. Hershey plays Hillary so understated in the light of Midler’s raw, over-the-top performance, that when she falls apart, her meltdowns resonate. When they finally meet again as adults, Hillary flips a switch for a minute, announcing she’s “Free at last!,” prompting C.C. to recoil, uncertain about a person she knows to her core, but is getting to know in a whole new way. This ranks high in all-time great female friendship movies, because, mostly, they aren’t competing for a man’s attention. They’re most hopeful to receive each other’s love and acceptance.

Bechdel Test Check: Their first meeting is as young girls, but we sure need more of those girlhood stories. C.C introduces herself, as if in Technicolor, to the refined Hillary. A lot is revealed quickly about what these girls know, want, and need. Hillary hangs her head sadly, and in hardened monotone, explains that her mother died when she was a little girl. C.C. proudly announces she’s a singer, disappointed that Hillary hasn’t heard of her. C.C. also smokes, calls her mother by her first name, and attempts to calm her mother’s emotions. Hillary talks about her aunt and her concerns that she’s getting into trouble. In a sense, they’re already business women trying to meet their families’ expectations. They harbor too much responsibility, and they talk like the old friends they’ll become. In a later, pivotal confrontation they argue about envying each other.

Terms of Endearment

Essentially about two women obsessed with each other, Aurora Greenway and her daughter Emma spend their lives loving, fearing and fighting each other. Men are in their orbit, flying as close as they can, never fully understanding or appreciating them. The mother and daughter (played by Shirley MacLaine and Debra Winger) love one another in an indescribable way, and determine their purpose and happiness. They take what they can and they own it, unapologetically. When Emma begins her affair with Sam (John Lithgow) she proceeds simply and fearlessly. When Aurora talks about sex and stringing men along, or becoming a grandmother (more accurately yells like she’s been wounded), she’s confronting uniquely female experiences. Full disclosure, Emma Greenway Horton is my all-time favorite female fictional character. Created in the Larry McMurtry lab, she’s first introduced in early books as a background character. This story, in case you don’t know, ends badly. But, until then, you’ll be laughing a lot.

Bechdel Test Check: Emma’s best friend Patsy takes her to lunch with her sophisticated New York friends. After lunch, Patsy admits she told them about Emma’s illness and they argue. Later, Patsy tells Emma why their friendship is so meaningful to her.

Jessica Quiroli is a minor league baseball writer for Baseball Prospectus and the creator of Heels on the Field: A MiLB Blog. She’s also written extensively about domestic violence in baseball. She’s a DV survivor. You can follow her on Twitter @heelsonthefield.

Feminism and Classism in ‘The Legend of Billie Jean’

‘The Legend of Billie Jean’ addresses questions of gender and class that are as real today as they were in 1985 and sets its story within the struggles against the patriarchy and the ruling wealthy class by people who all too often fall victim to those oppressions. … She wants dignity, and respect – truly, what she is after is equality.

This guest post written by Horrorella appears as part of our theme week on Ladies of the 1980s. | Spoilers ahead.

[Trigger warning: discussion of sexual assault]

The Legend of Billie Jean is a film that I found my way to only recently; a year ago, in fact. It wasn’t one of the 80’s teen classics that was endlessly rerun on cable every weekend throughout my high school and college years, so I didn’t have the opportunity to get to know the great Billie Jean Davy the way I got to know Samantha and Farmer Ted, Andie, Bender, or any of the other John Hughes characters. On the one hand, I wish that Billie Jean had been a character that I would have found in my teenage years. Her strength, her unwillingness to be beaten down, and the way she stands up for herself would probably have had a positive impact on my confused, teen self. But on the other hand, I’m glad I discovered her exactly when I did – in my 30s as I am surrounded by a new feminism and as women are beginning to be heard in new and exciting ways. I resonate with this character much differently than I would have at the age of fifteen, and even now, she has given me a new role model.

Though thirty years old, The Legend of Billie Jean speaks to me in a very real way, and mirrors issues that are still at the forefront of our conversation. It addresses questions of gender and class that are as real today as they were in 1985 and sets its story within the struggles against the patriarchy and the ruling wealthy class by people who all too often fall victim to those oppressions.

The film tells the story of Billie Jean Davy (Helen Slater), a teenager living in a Texas trailer park with her mother (Mona Lee Fultz) and her brother Binx (Christian Slater). At the opening of the film, the siblings drive Binx’s Honda scooter to a secluded river area to swim and try to escape the oppressive Texas summer heat. On their way, they cross paths with Hubie Pyatt (Barry Tubb) and his gang of teenage miscreants. Refusing to succumb to both his forceful advances on Billie Jean and his desires to push Binx around, the pair flee, but not before Binx splashes Hubie’s face with a milkshake as a means of distraction. Thinking they are safe, Billie Jean and Binx relax. Their respite is all too short, however, when Hubie and his boys track them down and trash the scooter in an act petulant of revenge.

Billie Jean reports the incident to the local police department, but finds the detective (Peter Coyote) to be less than helpful. She then goes to visit Hubie and his father (Richard Bradford) to claim the money necessary for the repair work: $608. Instead of simply paying up (oh, and maybe apologizing), Mr. Pyatt attempts to assault Billie Jean, telling her that she can earn the money through sexual favors. She is able to flee when Binx enters the store and threatens Pyatt with a gun, believed to be empty. The gun goes off (much to Binx’s surprise) and wounds Pyatt, offering an opportunity for escape. Knowing the magnitude of their situation and with little faith in the fact that anyone would take their word over Pyatt’s, the pair hit the road.

In the days that follow, the story of a young woman who just wanted fairness, equality, and a fair shake spreads. She becomes a hero figure to teenagers across Texas when she cuts her hair (inspired by Joan of Arc), dons a particularly inspired warrior look and makes a video decrying the harshness of a world that would believe Pyatt over her because of his money and his status as a man. All she wants is payment from Pyatt for the money owed for the scooter, decreeing, “Fair is fair!” It would become a rallying call that would be echoed by teens across the state and the theme of Billie Jean’s mission.

Through Billie Jean’s story, we see the harsh reality of a world where being affluent and male is everything that you need to survive. Pyatt never has any intention of just owning up to his son’s behavior and paying for the scooter repairs. He assumes he can take what he wants from Billie Jean (here, in the form of both money and sex) and nobody will protest or stop him because she’s a woman and poor. His status as a male figure protects him from any repercussions to his actions. He has no fear throughout this process that his story will ever even be questioned, and is free to proceed as he wishes. He has full control, and she can either bend to his will, or abandon her quest entirely. Even when Billie Jean fights back, she is forced to flee because her recent attempt at getting help from the police went unanswered. The world has proven that no one will believe the truth of the story — that Pyatt started the altercation and that Binx never had any intention of shooting the man, as he believed the gun to be empty.

As the story progresses, Billie Jean’s flight becomes more than just the desire to escape from a situation that sees her and her friends unfairly on the wrong side of the law. She wants wrongs to be set right. She wants Pyatt to pay the $608 he owes for repairs on the scooter – no more, no less. Fair is fair. She wants what she is rightfully owed and for Pyatt and Hubie to own up to what they have done and make it square. She wants dignity, and respect – truly, what she is after is equality.

Pyatt refuses to give her that equality. The reason the situation goes as far as it does it because he won’t admit that Billie Jean is entitled to the same treatment hat he would give someone male and of higher income were the situation repeated. Billie Jean is a trailer park girl and is of little value in his eyes. She is simply an object; someone that he can take advantage of, force himself on, and someone who nobody would believe even if she did make the truth known. His maleness and his wealth make him untouchable.

The film utilizes the Male Gaze throughout to allow us to see how Pyatt and his ilk view women. It is always used as a means of making women feel small, trying to force some sense of ownership on them. The first instance occurs during the initial altercation between the Davys and Hubie’s group of friends. Throughout all of it, one of the young men is photographing Billie Jean – her movements, her reactions, and most importantly, her body as she her climbs out of the pond and tries to prevent the group from taking the scooter, scantily clad and dripping wet. While she is on the offensive in that moment to try to prevent any harm from coming to her brother or to his property, he captures the sensual nature of the image and uses that shot as a means of holding power over her. She is in his sights – an object of prey. He can see her and thus, she is vulnerable.

Later, that photo becomes an iconic image of Billie Jean when it is released to the public and sold as posters at Pyatt’s beachfront pop-up store. He has assaulted her, he has refused to own up to his role in the altercation, he has refused to pay her what it owed, and now he is selling her. His final attempt at owning her by any means necessary. He has her image and he is profiting off of it.

Billie Jean serves as an icon to both feminism and to an ongoing class struggle. As her legend grows, kids and teenagers begin to look up to her and to see her as a hero figure. Even though most of the stories surrounding their exploits have been fabricated (often for the benefit of male businessmen who want the notoriety of having been held up by the notorious Billie Jean Davy), the teen populace of Texas identifies with her as someone bucking the system. Someone who refuses to play by the rules of the status quo when those rules are meant to benefit and serve a select few, rather than the downtrodden many. If the story were set today, Pyatt would be the 1% and Billie Jean would be the rest of us.

These themes of a class struggle are further illustrated by the inclusion of the scooter as a plot device. That scooter is Binx’s most prized possession. He was only able to afford it thanks to some insurance money that their father left behind when he passed away. This is a luxury item to them; something that Binx cherishes not only for its practical uses, but also because it represents a life he can only dream of. It is the one instance that he has been able to grasp of a life beyond the trailer park. And Hubie ripped it apart in a childish rage — not only as revenge for the milkshake incident (hardly a fair trade, mind you), but because doing so put Binx and Billie Jean back in their place. The destruction was a reminder and a warning against trying to rise above their roots and to invade the sacred space of those wealthier.

Within the film, Billie Jean’s story grows to make her something of a combination of a Robin Hood figure and a Bonnie and Clyde story. Her deeds are greatly exaggerated, but she represents something that resonates strongly with the community. She stands up and refuses to let a wealthy male figure walk over her. In a world where feminist issues are still prevalent (though thankfully, also a part of the conversation), Billie Jean remains a hero that we can all look to for inspiration. She demands the very definition of feminism – equality. She wants no more and no less than what is owed to her. Fair is fair.

Horrorella has written about film for Ain’t it Cool News, the Women in Horror Annual and on her blog at horrorella.com. She geeks out incessantly over movies, television, comics and kitties. You can gab with her on Twitter @horrorellablog.

Feminist Survivorship in ’10 Cloverfield Lane’

The protagonist Michelle immediately establishes herself as a survivor of domestic abuse as well as an impressive quick-thinker; she embraces her womanhood both as an essential act of character development and as a means to survive. … Tasha Robinson at ‘The Verge’ posits that the entire film is a metaphor for domestic abuse, as Michelle strategizes, endures, and eventually decides to keep on fighting.

This is a guest post written by Bill Ollayos. | Spoilers ahead.

[Trigger warning: discussion of domestic abuse and violence]

Dan Trachtenberg’s 2016 directorial debut 10 Cloverfield Lane builds a claustrophobic, apocalyptic narrative from the survival tactics of its three main actors. Tense silences, enclosed spaces, and slow-building suspense artfully construct the piece produced by J. J. Abrams and Lindsey Weber. As the trio works to outlast a mysterious threat that has supposedly overtaken Earth, issues of power and gender simmer throughout the performances of this narrow cast. While I appreciate the overall compactness of the premise, I wonder what footholds exist for feminism in such an intentionally economic work. Can a film of majority male leads and an ensemble of white actors truly receive the “feminist” stamp of approval?

The recent deluge of superhero movies has furthered the critical discourse around sexist tropes in film, a discussion tied closely to the #OscarsSoWhite movement during the 2016 Academy Awards. While Hollywood’s handling of Black Widow throughout the Marvel Cinematic Universe continues to fuel and frustrate feminist scholars, 10 Cloverfield Lane strikes me as more akin to the feminism of Buffy Summers: authentic, gritty and unabashedly feminine. The protagonist Michelle immediately establishes herself as a survivor of domestic abuse as well as an impressive quick-thinker; she embraces her womanhood both as an essential act of character development and as a means to survive.

In 10 Cloverfield Lane, Mary Elizabeth Winstead stars as Michelle, a young woman fleeing from her fiancé, Ben. While distractedly driving away from their home, Michelle crashes her car and falls unconscious, awakening to find herself imprisoned in the underground bunker by Howard (played by John Goodman). Howard describes a global attack that overwhelmed their planet and how he brought Michelle to the bunker to keep her safe. The audience also meets Emmett (John Gallagher, Jr.), a simple yet endearing man who claims to have witnessed the attack before seeking shelter in Howard’s bunker. Michelle does not buy their tales of an alien invasion, instead believing that Howard ran her off the road and then kidnapped her. The audience watches as Michelle wrestles with her distrust of Howard, her uncertainty about the supposed annihilation of humankind, and her residual trauma from the relationship with her fiancé. Tasha Robinson at The Verge posits that the entire film is a metaphor for domestic abuse, as Michelle strategizes, endures, and eventually decides to keep on fighting.

And so enters the essential question – can we consider Michelle a feminist hero? Her feature film barely passes the Bechdel Test, stars only white actors, and was predominately written, directed, and produced by men. If we do accept Michelle’s portrayal of gender as feminist, then does 10 Cloverfield Lane land more solidly in the realm of “white feminism,” or should the narrowness of its premise exempt it from any broader expectations around diversity?

The first ten minutes of the film simultaneously establish Michelle’s victimhood and survivorship, a multifaceted identity that she builds over the next hour and a half. After Michelle tearfully packs her belongings into her car, we see her abandoned engagement ring and overhear a phone call from Ben. “Michelle, please don’t hang up,” he says, “Look, we had an argument, couples fight, that is no reason to just leave everything behind!” When Michelle awakens in Howard’s bunker with her broken leg chained to the wall, only moments pass before she starts using the metal rod holding her IV to reach for her cell phone. When Howard arrives to give her food and crutches, Michelle sharpens the tip of one crutch to a nasty point, starts a fire in the vent to draw Howard’s attention, and attacks him as soon as he enters the room. When Michelle is cornered, she thinks quickly and acts with the self-reliance of one accustomed to overcoming.

The audience is allowed to understand Michelle’s tenacity before the full breadth of her trauma is clear. After another of her escape attempts, she confides in Emmett about the cycle of abuse that permeates her life. “When my dad got that way,” she recalls in reference to a memory from her childhood, “my brother Collin was always there to take the worst of it for me.” In keeping with the tidy nature of the narrative, Michelle’s experiences with domestic abuse are only alluded to, as the script rarely strays from the apocalyptic circumstances of the film. Indeed, the word abuse is never even used throughout the entire movie, with focus instead staunchly placed on the question of an alien invasion and Howard’s possibly murderous tendencies. However, Ben’s references to a “fight” combined with Michelle’s traumatic memories indicate a history to her character beyond what is featured in this plot.

The tightness of the film prevents an in-depth exploration of Michelle’s past. However, her identity as a survivor of abuse still appears through more subtle methods. Howard himself serves to further the abuse metaphor, as his domineering behavior, sensitivity to perceived slights, and commitment to traditional gender roles all match with documented techniques of an abuser. He states that Michelle will “learn to like cooking” and cries, “No touching!” when Emmett grazes her elbow. Additionally, a series of dark clues planted around the bunker indicate that he may have murdered a young girl from Emmett’s class. Howard’s lumbering stance and propensity for aggressive outbursts exude chauvinistic masculinity. Drawing from her resourcefulness and familiarity with such abusive men, Michelle utilizes aspects of her femininity to ensure her own survival.

Michelle’s gender becomes an essential part of her attempts to survive both literally from the apocalyptic context of the film, as well as metaphorically from partner abuse. At her first meal in the bunker, wherein Howard sternly reminds them to “watch [their] language at table,” she hatches a plan to steal the master keys from his belt. She plays off her experiences with similarly abusive men and, anticipating Howard’s jealousy, begins flirting with Emmett during their meal. She giggles, her demeanor suddenly flirtatious, and caresses Emmett’s hand, triggering an immediate explosion from Howard. As he throws himself into her face, asserting his dominance over Michelle, she covertly pilfers his keys. In demonstrating her most salient identity factor, Michelle’s commitment to survival, she tactically uses gender to manipulate her environment and pursue her freedom.

Michelle’s performance of her femininity actually yields the ultimate escape plan. Howard’s regime of traditional gender roles included badgering Michelle to give him stitches, exemplifying the “angel in the house” stereotype of women who sew, heal, and enact other domestic duties. Michelle embraces certain aspects of this socialized regard for womanhood, proudly admitting to her interest in fashion design and spending much of her time in the bunker drawing sketches of apocalyptically chic attire. Once again merging her gender identity with her commitment to survival, she masterminds a plan to sew a biohazard suit that would allow her to enter the supposedly toxic atmosphere beyond the bunker.

The cinematography of the entire film is arguably bent on giving tools to Michelle. The camera rests on a shot of the shower curtain that she will weave into her biohazard suit. Within the first few frames of the film, we see the bottle of alcohol that she will eventually detonate within the belly of an alien beast during the final battle. 10 Cloverfield Lane builds Michelle into a survivor across several planes: as a woman, a victim of abuse, and an Earthling. In the very last scene of the film, Michelle overhears a radio broadcast asking anyone with combat experience to join the remaining human forces in Houston. The audience watches as she turns her now stolen car around and drives toward the meeting point. Her decision allows the many poles of her identity to intersect. By heading to Houston, she is keeping herself engaged with the alien invasion (a symbol for the daily struggle faced by women survivors of domestic violence even after they escape their houses) and bringing her proven survival skills to the aid of the less powerful.

I find Michelle’s cunning nature and decided embrace of femininity as markers of feminism within 10 Cloverfield Lane. Although she only speaks to another woman for several seconds (when neighbor Leslie appears at the door of the bunker and dies after Michelle does not let her in), I believe that the economy of the narrative, which is so critical to the artistry of the film, excuses the underrepresentation of women. I also argue that Michelle’s repeated performances of her gender endorse an overall positive regard for womanhood and, thus, allow me to consider her a feminist hero.

However, I cannot express the same level of comfort when faced with the hegemonic Whiteness of the film. If we speak in terms of cinematic quizzes, though 10 Cloverfield Lane passes the Bechdel Test, it would certainly fail the DuVernay Test for its complete disregard for characters of color. 10 Cloverfield Lane is the second film in this franchise, and its predecessor Cloverfield undoubtedly features more actors of color. Cloverfield also takes place on a much larger scale (the streets of New York instead of an underground bunker), which allowed for the inclusion of more characters and the increase of racial diversity. While the premise of 10 Cloverfield Lane demanded fewer characters, I am not content with overlooking an all white cast. I also do not want to disparage the film with a label of “white feminism” – I wonder how a piece that so creatively handles gender in an intentionally tight script could have engaged race without losing the wonderful compactness. Besides casting people of color in the roles, of course.

I believe the character of Michelle to be a feminist hero. She renders a positive, complex portrayal of womanhood and survivorship. Roxanne Gay states in her 2014 book Bad Feminist that she “would rather be a bad feminist than no feminist at all.” Although the overall workings of 10 Cloverfield Lane deny intersectionality in feminism, I still want to appreciate the film for what it is: clever, suspenseful, and a smart testament to the trials of domestic abuse.

Bill Ollayos is a current Master’s student at the University of Massachusetts Amherst in the Translation Studies program. His research focuses on cultural power, gender studies, and critical race theory. Email him at william.ollayos@gmail.com for more information.

‘Neighbors 2’ May Not Be Feminist in Name, But It’s Feminist in Nature

‘Neighbors 2’ doesn’t explicitly state that sororities are misogynist, but the goal of the alternative sorority (essentially an all-female share house, right?) at its center to create a space where the women can make their own fun outside of the patriarchy — that wants them to be well behaved and perform their sexuality for men — is feminist, whether the movie states it or not.

This guest post is written by Scarlett Harris.

Andi Zeisler, founder of Bitch magazine and author of the new book We Were Feminists Once, criticizes “choice feminism” in which every choice women make is deemed feminist. This could also be extended to Neighbors 2: Sorority Rising and movies that marginally pass the Bechdel test: they don’t openly hate women, therefore they’re feminist, right?

The premise of Neighbors 2 centers on a trio of rebellious female college students played by Chloë Grace Moretz, Kiersey Clemons, and Beanie Feldstein who start their own, party-hardy sorority in the formerly vacant mansion next door to Mac (Seth Rogen) and Kelly (Byrne) with the help of the original antagonist, Teddy (Zac Efron). Much is made of the Greek system allowing frat houses to host parties while sororities need to remain chaste, which doesn’t fit with the increasingly progressive notions of today’s teens and, particularly, Shelby (Moretz), Beth (Clemons) and Nora (Feldstein). They are skeeved out by the obvious attempts of fraternities and their members to get young women drunk enough to possibly sexually assault at parties, invoking memories of the University of Virginia’s rape scandal and The Hunting Ground, amongst many other instances of rape on campus. To attend these parties, they are pressured to wear skimpy outfits instead of the hoodies they’re more comfortable in. Their male dorm supervisor berates them for smoking weed in their dorm rooms and if they can’t do it there, they sure as hell wouldn’t be able to if they successfully rushed a traditional sorority.

Neighbors 2 doesn’t explicitly state that sororities are misogynist, but the goal of the alternative sorority (essentially an all-female share house, right?) at its center to create a space where the women can make their own fun outside of the patriarchy — that wants them to be well behaved and perform their sexuality for men — is feminist, whether the movie states it or not. Mac and Kelly frequently utter the word sexism and ponder how hard it is to navigate being a woman in the world as they realize (spoiler alert) that taking down the sorority is antithetical to how they want their daughters to grow up in a world that already treats them differently from men. In addition to Neighbors 2’s central premise, these plot points add more checks to the feminist column. Could Byrne’s encouragement of hiring women writers for the sequel be to thank? Possibly. Although it’s awful that co-writers Amanda Lund and Maria Blasucci, as well as other women writers who worked on the film, are not even credited.

Furthermore, feminist principles are evident in the newly crowned sorority Kappa Nu’s party themes, such as sad movie night in which they cry into their jumbo sized tubs of ice cream, feminist heroines including Oprah, Joan of Arc, and Hillary Clinton (both Senator and future President iterations), and a celebration in honor of Shelby’s impending virginity loss, commemorating the shedding of something many young women see as a burden these days as opposed to a gift or virtue.

Neighbors 2 acknowledges femme feminism and that some women enjoy putting a lot of effort into their appearance while Shelby and her besties prefer a more relaxed style.

There’s also a scene in which Shelby, Beth, Nora, and their friends are so distracted and turned on by a dancing, oiled up Zac Efron (and if you’re attracted to men, who could blame them?) that they allow the large amount of weed they’re selling in order to raise money for their sorority to be stolen. While the celebration of young women’s sexuality isn’t seen in a lot of comedies (more often young women are portrayed as sex objects, not subjects), one of the opening scenes in which Shelby reveals she’s a virgin did feel like an excuse to get a joke in about “everything but” being about eating out a guy’s butt instead of being truly revolutionary.

In that way, why make it about sexual experience at all? The above-mentioned dancing scene was enough to establish that young women are sexual beings but, crass and overt sex jokes take priority. I suppose it could also be seen to be an effort to show that women can be just as badly behaved as men (which isn’t necessarily a good thing), but surely the selling of weed, the trashing of their neighbors’ home, and the trapping of Mac, Kelly, and Teddy in order to protect their right to party is testament enough to that. (In an earlier scene Teddy’s bestie and roommate Pete explains to him that there is no legal right to party.)

Speaking of Teddy, Meg Watson at Australian pop culture website Junkee writes, in her review of the movie, of the covert discomfort with showing male affection exhibited by Mac and the gay acceptance shown in Pete’s engagement and subsequent wedding:

“This same-sex relationship is used as an integral part of the plot and is never once exploited for an uncomfortable #nohomo joke. This shouldn’t be a big deal, but for a Rogen/[Evan] Goldberg production (which regularly use gay sex as a punchline), it’s enormous. At one point Mac’s mild anxiety around male intimacy is even diffused on-screen as Teddy explicitly asks for a hug because he ‘needs to feel valued’. The laugh isn’t on Teddy’s over-sentimentality; instead it’s on Mac’s initial reluctance. The hug is good! They feel better! It’s silly guys don’t do it more!”

So, while movies have been made about far more feminist things than creating a new sorority — an archaic, hierarchical relic in itself — Neighbors 2 is important because it introduces a different audience to a topic they may not have thought about before or, like Teddy, have noticed rumblings of gender inequality but don’t have the language to discuss. The Neighbors franchise is still created by and for men but it’s important to give praise where it’s due, and Neighbors 2 tries with all its might to address sexism and misogyny, almost painstakingly.

Scarlett Harris is an Australian writer and blogger at The Scarlett Woman, where she muses about femin- and other -isms. You can follow her on Twitter @ScarlettEHarris.