I’m hopeful that ‘Divergent,’ as the first installment of the series, is setting Tris up to be a memorable heroine in her own right in the following films. I’m hoping that ‘Divergent’ is the story of the forging of our heroine, the exploration of her talents, abilities, and heart and that the second and third films will show her learning from her experiences, becoming a leader, and inspiring others.
“Divergent” Poster
Written by Amanda Rodriguez Mild Spoilers Trigger Warning: mention of sexualized violence
The much-anticipated film Divergent is based on the series of teen sci-fi novels by Veronica Roth dealing with a walled-off, post-apocalyptic Chicago wherein society has divided itself into factions in an effort to create order and peace. Our heroine Beatrice “Tris” Prior (Shailene Woodley) finds out she is “Divergent,” a taboo non-conformist who doesn’t fit into any of the factions and is therefore threatening to the caste system.
The five factions of the Divergent universe
Disclaimer: I haven’t read the novel series yet.
As a sucker for female-driven sci-fi stories, I liked the premise, but Divergent stands on the shoulders of many young adult and teen movies that came before it. Divergent features training-based dream-like hallucinations like in Ender’s Game.
Tris frees herself with the realization, “This isn’t real.”
Tris must be brave and not flinch at the knives flying at her.
Divergent‘s Choosing Ceremony has young people choose which faction they’ll belong to for the rest of their lives (“faction before blood”). With factions like Abnegation, Erudite, and Dauntless, the Choosing Ceremony hugely resembles the Sorting Ceremony from the Harry Potter series, wherein wizarding youths are sorted into houses like Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw (representing bravery, hard work, and intelligence respectively).
The factions seated at the Choosing Ceremony
Divergent also spotlights the obligatory overwrought teen romance replete with multiple manly rescues of our heroine in a way that bears a strong resemblance to Twilight (though Tris admittedly has more fortitude and independence than her counterpart, Bella).
Obligatory sunset make-out session…with tattoos.
Divergents themselves are essentially misfits with special abilities that speak to the potential of human beings for evolution into a more advanced species like in the famed comic book turned cartoon series turned movie franchise X-Men.
Tris defies categorization, her test revealing her to be Divergent.
Lastly, I think we should expect the second film (Insurgent) to really play up the youth rebellion angle like in The Legend of Billie Jean.
Outlaw youths on the run, trying to be understood, striving to overthrow an unjust system.
So, yes, Divergent is derivative and predicable. Funny how a movie with an emphasis on the importance of being different…isn’t all that different itself. I was, however, still entertained, and I’m willing to wait and see if the second two films pave their own way, uniquely establishing themselves within the lexicon of the iconic pop culture fantasy/sci-fi teen series genre.
Divergent is basically an unnecessary prequel. I’m a fan of training sequences and didn’t tire of them despite the fact that Tris repeatedly gets her ass handed to her.
With a defense stance like that, no wonder she’s always getting gut punched.
However, almost an entire film dedicated to Tris’ martial training, her budding romance, and the requirements of survival within the faction of Dauntless are not strictly necessary for the big picture scope of the series. I suspect the real story starts in the next movie, Insurgent, with the caste system in upheaval and Tris coming into her own as a leader of dissidents.
I was disappointed at the under-utilization of Kate Winslet‘s extensive acting powers in her role as the Erudite leader and villainess Jeanine. I’m frankly so tired of the cold, fanatic female villain trope. Jodie Foster played a similarly uninspired role in the sci-fi film Elysium. At first, I hoped that Jeanine would only be Tris’ first foe, the patriarchy-complicit woman, and that Tris would advance beyond that to actually deconstructing the patriarchal system of oppression in the following films. A quick Wiki search disabused me of that notion.
Kate Winslet as Jeanine in Divergent
No, it looks like our lead villain throughout the series will be Jeanine, which makes me question the underlying thematics behind the class structure that the film and book series critique. Is it claiming that cold, intelligent women are the problem? Are they the purveyors of this dysfunctional culture? If so, for which real world social ill is the post-apocalyptic world of Divergent a stand-in? What problematic mechanism of power does this sci-fi series seek to illuminate? So far, all we’ve got is a generic argument that being different and thinking differently is a good thing. Not much subversiveness going on there.
Tris also gets rescued a lot, mostly by her love interest, Four, played by Theo James (James Franco called…he wants his face back). This made me roll my eyes a lot because I didn’t pay $10 to watch a young woman lead be so dependent on a dude for her survival. Not only that, but through a fear simulation, we learn that one of Tris’ greatest fears is that Four will try to rape her, and that theme isn’t delved into at all. However, I did admire the close, loving relationship Tris shares with her mother (Ashley Judd) and that her mom also rescues her in a surprising act that would make both factions Abnegation and Dauntless proud.
Tris’ mother, Natalie, brushes her hair on test day.
As with so many other aspects of the film, I’m letting our heroine’s constant need to be rescued slide because I’m hopeful that Divergent, as the first installment of the series, is setting Tris up to be a memorable heroine in her own right in the following films. I’m hoping that Divergent is the story of the forging of our heroine, the exploration of her talents, abilities, and heart and that the second and third films will show her learning from her experiences, becoming a leader, and inspiring others. At the end of Divergent, we saw a glimmer of her potential in her rallying of others, quick thinking in a crisis, her empathy, self-sacrifice, inventiveness, and the steel in her spine.
Tris is endlessly tenacious and makes up her own mind about things.
The bottom line is that, despite Divergent‘s glaring flaws, I am so inspired by this outpouring of stories written by and about women. The mathematical expression of the term divergent is, simply put, “having no finite limits.” Right now, Tris’ story is empowering young girls and women with her bravery, her vulnerability, and her centrality. We have so desperately needed greater representation for young women so that they can imagine themselves in the roles of heroines, leaders, and catalysts for change. It is an important step forward that these films are being made at all. It is a coup that they are so damned popular, proving that people, in fact, DO want to see stories about women and that those stories DO sell. Eat your heart out Hollywood.
Amanda Rodriguez is an environmental activist living in Asheville, North Carolina. She holds a BA from Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio and an MFA in fiction writing from Queens University in Charlotte, NC. She writes all about food and drinking games on her blog Booze and Baking. Fun fact: while living in Kyoto, Japan, her house was attacked by monkeys.
Hayao Miyazaki is one of the most renowned animators alive. He brought us visually arresting, pro-woman, environmentalist tales like ‘Princess Mononoke’ and ‘Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind.’ He brought us lush tales of magic and mythology, like ‘Spirited Away’ and ‘Howl’s Moving Castle,’ with young women as protagonists and other women as focal, powerful characters throughout. Miyazaki now insists that his latest animated film, ‘The Wind Rises’ (‘Kaze Tachinu’), will be his last.
Hayao Miyazaki is one of the most renowned animators alive. He brought us visually arresting, pro-woman, environmentalist tales like Princess Mononoke and Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind. He brought us lush tales of magic and mythology, like Spirited Away and Howl’s Moving Castle, with young women as protagonists and other women as focal, powerful characters throughout. Miyazaki now insists that his latest animated film, The Wind Rises (Kaze Tachinu), will be his last.
The film felt like a goodbye with its insistence that artists can only be creative and productive for 10 years, its somber outlook, and the way in which it concluded at the end of a major era in Japanese history (Japan’s defeat in World War II). The Wind Rises also features one of Miyazaki’s rare male protagonists, Jirô Horikoshi (a fictionalized version of the eponymous historical aeronautical engineer who designed Japan’s model “Zero” fighter plane); I suspect this is because Miyazaki identifies with Jirô and his dreams that are too big and too pure for this world.
“Airplanes are beautiful, cursed dreams, waiting for the sky to swallow them up.”
Considering Miyazaki’s focus on the centrality of female characters throughout his career, The Wind Rises is disappointing in its lack of developed female characters. There’s really only Jirô’s loud and pushy but soft-hearted little sister, Kayo, who grows up to be a doctor. Jirô’s encouragement of her medical school dreams and the achievement of a peripheral female character’s big dreams in the 1940’s are a bit too subtle to consider feminist, but it’s a welcome nod nonetheless. Nahoko is Jirô’s tragic love interest who has loved him completely and selflessly since he rescued her as a girl from the Great Kantō Earthquake of 1923. Though we know Nahoko loves painting, French poetry, and Jirô, there is little else that we know about her beyond that. She exists solely to love and support Jirô and to humanize him in a way that none of his other relationships do.
Nahoko and Jirô meet by a picturesque spring
Though The Wind Rises is (as to be expected) beautiful, it is overly sentimental. Jirô’s reunion with a woman who he helped many years ago only to fall in love with her only to have her be tragically ill was a bit too neat of an unrealistic package designed to give magic and wonder to the external life of a young man who mainly lived within his own head. Not only that, but the ethereal quality of dreams is the heart of the film, insisting that we must make our beautiful dreams a reality no matter what the consequences, no matter how the world may pervert those dreams. This is particularly true of Jirô’s innocent desire to design planes that is warped and manipulated to serve his country’s wartime needs. As a member of the country who heinously dropped two atomic bombs on Japan during World War II, I find this particular theme questionable. Though I valued a glimpse of history from Japan’s perspective, which the US rarely sees, I would have been extremely uncomfortable had I been watching a tale about the creation of the atom bomb and how it was a beautiful dream that life distorted, a dream with deadly real life applications for which the dreamer takes little responsibility. We only know that Jiro and his dreamland mentor, the Italian Caproni, would prefer to design planes that weren’t used for war, but they do so anyway and without question.
Building a war plane
This leads me to my final critique of the film. The war and the purpose of the planes that Jirô builds are, strangely, non-issues. The Wind Rises is an oddly apolitical nationalistic film that laments Japan’s poverty, inability to innovate due to economic challenges, and the pain of pride for being a country technologically left behind. The motivations for the war are never discussed. No one is pro-war or anti-war. The film seems to be asserting that Japan’s involvement in World War II was due to a sense of honor rather than conviction or even political profit. Japan, like Jirô, is, instead a little country with a big dream. Miyazaki’s blasé approach to the war does not measure up to the clear-cut environmentalist stance he takes in many of his other films.
Jirô stands before his failed plane prototype
While Miyazaki continues to deliver breathtaking animated scenes and a sense of wonder and magic, The Wind Rises disappoints on a thematic level with its lack of engagement or curiosity about Japan’s involvement in World War II or an artist’s responsibility for their creations. The borderline cloying saccharine sentimentality along with the lack of strong female characters we’ve come to expect from Miyazaki leave me hoping The Wind Rises is not his swan song, that he will make just one more film that rivals, if not surpasses, the masterpieces he has already given us.
Amanda Rodriguez is an environmental activist living in Asheville, North Carolina. She holds a BA from Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio and an MFA in fiction writing from Queens University in Charlotte, NC. She writes all about food and drinking games on her blog Booze and Baking. Fun fact: while living in Kyoto, Japan, her house was attacked by monkeys.
“…Do young women want to be feminists, or not?” It’s a complicated question, without an easy answer. Because young women, of course, don’t speak with a single voice or share a common attitude. Some are quick to embrace the term feminist. Others despise it. And many – sadly, for the mothers and grandmothers who opened doors for them – no longer really have a sense of what the word implies.
Cross-posted with permission from Barnard College.
Dare to Use the F-Word is a new monthly podcast series created by and for young feminists. Street harassment, food activism, body image and slut-shaming are among the diverse issues discussed in the series, which is produced by Barnard College and the Barnard Center for Research on Women and aims to spotlight contemporary issues and activists. The podcast is available for download on iTunes, where you can also subscribe to the series.
In a recent episode, Barnard President Debora Spar, author of Wonder Women: Sex, Power, and the Quest for Perfection, talks with feminist media activist Jamia Wilson about how the drive for perfection affects young women today. Following the interview, President Spar shared her thoughts on the direction of feminism for the next generation.
Jamia Wilson, left, and Debora Spar
Here are Spar’s thoughts:
Since the release of Wonder Women several months ago, one of the questions that I’ve consistently been asked is “how is feminism different today? What do you hear on campus? Do young women want to be feminists, or not?” It’s a complicated question, without an easy answer. Because young women, of course, don’t speak with a single voice or share a common attitude. Some are quick to embrace the term feminist. Others despise it. And many – sadly, for the mothers and grandmothers who opened doors for them – no longer really have a sense of what the word implies.
My own view – shaped, I’m sure, by the particular environment of Barnard College, a staunch and early defender of feminism in all its many guises – is that most young women today are feminist in nature if not in name. What I mean is that they implicitly assume that the goals that feminism fought for are theirs to claim. They assume, for instance, that they will work, for pay, for at least long stretches of their lives. They assume that all jobs – be they in finance or law or public office or industry – are open to them, and that they will receive roughly the same salaries as their male co-workers. They assume that their bodies are theirs to enjoy, and treasure, and share as they wish. They presume that birth control is widely available; that relationships are theirs to make, break, and determine; and that the world is every bit as open to them as it for their brothers. In other words, they think, without even thinking about it, that they have equal rights with men. Which was, after all, the central goal of feminism.
What they don’t do, necessarily, is credit the feminist movement for this state of affairs, or eagerly claim the label of feminist for themselves. This is perhaps unfortunate but also understandable. Because how many young people generally race to thank their ancestors for bequeathing the world they did? How many adolescents want to attach themselves to the same political causes as their parents or grandparents – especially when they feel as if those causes have already been fought for and won? Or as one older woman once expressed it to me: how many hard-core feminists of the 1960s defined themselves as suffragettes?
To be sure, there are many young women today who proudly wear the label of feminism and are expanding both advocacy and theory in fascinating ways: leading the global fight against sex trafficking, for example, speaking out against domestic violence, and pushing at the very definitions of sex and gender and identity. But there are others, too, the reluctant feminists, who carry the mantle even if not the name.
Green’s intimate reporting and the incredible cinematography and editing that makes the film stand out accomplish the goal of respecting, questioning, and empowering these women activists. Green, in examining those fighting against the patriarchy, exposes and dismantles the patriarch who was running the show.
“Ninety nine percent of Ukrainian girls don’t even know what feminism is.”
This is the sentence that opens Ukraine is Not a Brothel, which premiered in the US last weekend at the True/False Film Fest in Columbia, Mo. The film chronicles Femen and uncovers the patriarch behind the movement.
The aim of Femen–the topless feminist protest organization that began in Kiev four years ago–is to shock the masses and raise awareness for that 99 percent of girls who are growing up in a society that treats women as second-class citizens and to dismantle the fact that Ukraine is seen as a hub for prostitution and sex trafficking. Director Kitty Green (who makes her feature-length documentary debut with the film) was struck by the image of a Femen protestor holding a sign over her bare breasts that said, “Ukraine is Not a Brothel,” and Green embedded herself with the group for a year, serving as their videographer while collecting footage for the documentary.
In one of the opening shots, one of the Femen activists has her body painted.
Femen says that they fight against the patriarchy and against sexism in all forms. In a Q&A after the film, Femen leader Inna Shevchenko (who was featured prominently in the film and has since moved to France) said that the goal of Femen is “fighting patriarchy and its global weight.”
Inna noted that the way Femen uses their sexuality–by running and screaming while naked, and not by posing or trying to attract the male gaze–is a core part of the protest. “We are trying to provoke,” she said, but in a different context.
Everything about Femen sounds pretty great, and their goals and messages are a shocking but valuable chapter of feminist protest.
But it’s more complex than that.
It’s not that simple.
Just as the feminist movement as a whole has its issues, Femen isn’t all that it seems.
During the pre-fest Based on a True Story Conference in conjunction with the Missouri School of Journalism, Green explained to an audience that while she was living with and filming the women of Femen (she was arrested eight times and was abducted by the KGB with them, as well), she started to realize that the movement was actually run by a man who no one knew about. She said that he was abusive to the women, and she had to “shift ideas and expose him,” instead of simply filming the women. She had to secretly film him, and admitted only after she was almost ready to leave the country admit to the women that she was going to expose him.
“They needed to break away from him,” she said, and it was a difficult moment in their relationship, and in Femen. (In an announcement that got cheers from the opening-night crowd, Inna said that it’s been a year since they’ve had contact with Victor.) Green considered the women she lived with to be friends and family, and her “heart broke” when she would hear Victor yelling at them, and the next morning they were holding signs that said “This is the new feminism.”
The film does a beautiful job of dealing with the complexities and paradoxes of Femen–and really, all of feminism. Ukraine is Not a Brothel highlights the Ukrainian protestors–their lives, their struggles, and their goals–while also shining a light on feminism as a whole. Green’s intimate reporting and the incredible cinematography and editing that makes the film stand out accomplish the goal of respecting, questioning, and empowering these women activists. Green, in examining those fighting against the patriarchy, exposes and dismantles the patriarch who was running the show.
The documentary also quietly examines the difficulties that feminism has with other aspects of its modern identity. Worldwide, prominent feminists are often conventionally attractive (white) women. Third-wave feminism grapples with its relationship with sex work. Women are not widely exposed to or immersed in feminist theory. Women’s bodies are still sexualized, even when we try to use that sexuality in protest. Men still think they have the power, even in progressive movements. And oftentimes they do.
It’s all complicated. And Ukraine is Not a Brothel doesn’t offer solutions–except that the women need to be free from the patriarchal influences that are pushing and abusing them.
Green said, “Victor never thought I was capable of this. I was the young blonde girl who sounded like a child when I spoke Ukrainian. I was not taken seriously, and this gave me power.” She pointed out that women in journalism have a perceived weakness that can give them great power. “I want to keep making films about young women,” she said, hoping that this power can help her tell more stories.
If Ukraine is Not a Brothel is any indication, we can be excited and hopeful for the stories that Kitty Green has yet to discover and tell.
Inna pointed out that in all of the unrest and revolution in Ukraine right now, she gets messages from people there who tell her “You were first!” and credit Femen for being a galvanizing force in Ukrainian protest.
In the same way that Pussy Riot: A Punk Prayer purposefully vacillates between humor and intense seriousness, between laughing young women and the same smiling faces screaming and being dragged away by police, Ukraine is Not a Brothel highlights the serious and violent struggle women are fighting against worldwide. These are specific, localized fights that have spread their influence around the world.
Women’s power–especially when they break free from patriarchal forces–is on display in this remarkable documentary. From Green’s intimate storytelling to the protesters’ screams, we are reminded that feminism in all its forms needs to be stripped down and critiqued while we respect and humanize the women putting up the fight and figure out ways to fight with them.
“Hey we’ve come this far, haven’t we? This is just the beginning.”
“The beginning” was in 1980, when this feminist comedy classic was released. Dolly Parton belted out the title song, which features a “boss man” who is “out to get her”–it’s an uplifting song, though, that echoes the closing celebratory sentiment: this is just the beginning. Things are going to change.
Well how have we done in 34 years?
9 to 5
Written by Leigh Kolbas part of our theme week on Women and Work/Labor Issues.
“That equal pay thing–that’s got to go.”
At the end of 9 to 5, the Chairman of the Board comes to visit Mr. Hart to congratulate him on his division’s success. He applauds the creative workplace choices that upped productivity by 20 percent. Job sharing policies allowed people to work part time, and an on-site day care, flex time, and equal pay boosted morale and created a “splendid environment,” according to the Chairman. But the equal pay? He whispers to Hart that that has to go.
In reality, Violet (Lily Tomlin), Judy (Jane Fonda), and Doralee (Dolly Parton)–three of Hart’s employees who waged war on him, their “sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical, bigot” boss–were the ones who made the changes in the workplace.
Hart is promoted to a job overseas, and the power trio take their place in his office, toasting their success (in both the workplace and in getting rid of Hart) with champagne.
Judy and Doralee express concern over the lack of equal salary policies, but Violet interjects:
“Hey we’ve come this far, haven’t we? This is just the beginning.”
The beginning was in 1980, when this feminist comedy classic was released. Dolly Parton belted out the title song, which features a “boss man” who is “out to get her”–it’s an uplifting song, though, that echoes the closing celebratory sentiment: this is just the beginning. Things are going to change.
Well how have we done in 34 years? While President Obama signed the Lily Ledbetter Act in 2009, the National Women’s Law Center reports that “American women who work full-time, year-round are paid only 77 cents for every dollar paid to their male counterparts.” Roughly half of employers offer flextime and only about a third of the “best companies to work for” offer child care, even though these policies–as shown in 9 to 5–can increase productivity, profit, and worker morale.
Bummer.
Of course, these policies are typically only available to professional workers at large companies. For working class women, the situation is more dire, and the fighting is up a steeper hill. Domestic workers, retail workers, home care workers, and restaurant workers are fighting hard and “leaning in” (without rich white women telling them to), but the fight is still necessary.
The House and the Senate are gridlocked over raising the federal minimum wage. Of workers who earn minimum wage, two-thirds are women.
That beginning sure has lasted a long time, Violet.
While the fact that 9 to 5 is still so timely is depressing, there’s much to celebrate in this female buddy comedy. For a comedy, the women are complex and well-written, embodying female stereotypes without becoming stereotypes (and at times dismantling them). They work hard, they play hard (what a great scene, when Doralee, Violet, and Judy are drinking and getting stoned), and they get into a bunch of trouble, but they win in the end.
Meanwhile, commentary on misogynist bosses, anti-family workplaces, patriarchy, and sexism and harassment in the workplace is woven throughout the film.
When they get high, the women have separate revenge fantasies about how they would murder Hart. Violet’s is accompanied by animated birds and woodland creatures, and she, Doralee, and Judy end victorious–in princess costumes waving atop their castle, addressing their adoring subjects who they’ve freed from the oppressive (“sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical, bigot”) reign of Franklin Hart. They rewrite the princess narrative something fierce.
And how are we doing, in terms of women and comedy blockbusters, 34 years later?
As Bitch Mediapointed out in an article about great female buddy comedies:
“‘Who knew a bunch of ladies could create comedy gold?’ was a common refrain when Bridesmaids first came out. The answer? Oh, I don’t know, maybe ask the millions of moviegoers who made 9 to 5—the 20th-highest-grossing comedy ever?”
It’s a fun comedy that has stood the test of time–which again, is also pretty depressing. What also strikes audiences is how completely female-centric the comedy is, and how much it works. We can imagine for once what it must feel like to watch a film that examines women’s lives and only has one featured male character–who is an (all too realistic) caricature. I can’t speak for male viewers, but I imagine the experience of viewing a film like this is quite similar to what women audiences are faced with constantly. Unfortunately, comedies with women and women’s stories at the helm are still as rare as on-site daycare.
Rewatching this 1980 classic reminds us that women’s lives are complex and have the potential to be made into blockbusters. We’re also reminded that in regard to women in the workplace, we stil have a long way to go. Violet was right–this was just the beginning. Why does the happy ending seem so far away?
If you want a fun, sexist blast from the past, read this New York Times film review of 9 to 5. Workplace policies may not have changed enough since 1980, but I’d like to think that the feminist blogosphere would have eviscerated a review like that. Progress.
The best shows are the ones that are silly enough to make us laugh, but deep enough to make us think. ‘My Mad Fat Diary’ strikes this balance perfectly in ways that are both clever and heartbreaking. The series chronicles the life of Rae Earl (Sharon Rooney), a snarky yet painfully insecure overweight teen, as relayed in her diary after a brief stay in a mental hospital following a suicide attempt. She begins the slow process of adjusting to life back in the outside world, forming new friendships and battling old demons. As an added bonus, the show could be classified as the fetal equivalent of a period piece, taking place in the mid-90s.
The best shows are the ones that are silly enough to make us laugh, but deep enough to make us think. My Mad Fat Diary strikes this balance perfectly in ways that are both clever and heartbreaking. The series chronicles the life of Rae Earl (Sharon Rooney), a snarky yet painfully insecure overweight teen, as relayed in her diary after a brief stay in a mental hospital following a suicide attempt. She begins the slow process of adjusting to life back in the outside world, forming new friendships and battling old demons. As an added bonus, the show could be classified as the fetal equivalent of a period piece, taking place in the mid-90s. Expect a kickass soundtrack and lots of denim-on-denim. I can’t believe the decade of my childhood is now far enough away to be considered fair game for a period piece. Anyway, no matter how old you were, My Mad Fat Diary will make you giddy with nostalgia.
Sharon RooneyRooney as Rae
It’s unfortunately rare to see a show with a fat female protagonist, let alone a teen show. I find Sharon Rooney fascinating because she encapsulates all the contradictions in the media’s perception of plus-sized women. Many interviewers express surprise at how strikingly she contrasts to Rae–whereas Rae is a quintessential wallflower, shy and sulking in oversized T-shirts and baggy jeans, Rooney often wears dresses and substantial amounts of makeup. She has all the self-assurance that Rae longs for. Now approaching her mid-20s, Rooney has spoken candidly about being passed over for roles when she was younger, including the glamour-obsessed Skins franchise (which, although incorporating a few characters who weren’t stick-thin, curiously failed to feature any plus-sized characters in the main cast, despite two full cast changes and seven seasons). It’s telling and ironic that an actress as confident as Rooney got her big break playing a character whose raison d’être is a self-loathing fixation on her weight.
Rae frequently doodles about sex.
Featuring an ensemble cast–bizarrely ranging in age from 17 to pushing 30, but all supposed to be portraying 16- to 17-year-olds–the crux of the show centers around Rae struggling to overcome self-consciousness to achieve an normal social life. Rae is also unabashedly sex-crazed and makes no secret of her about her lustful fantasies in the pages of her diary. You’re compelled to laugh at Rae’s antics not because the notion of fat women’s desire in itself is humorous, but because her libido is so expansive and imaginative. Rae is even shown exploring masturbation (and enjoying it!), marking all of three times that I’ve seen female masturbation portrayed onscreen. Predictably for the teen genre, she equates normalcy to hitting various romantic and sexual milestones. She winds up giving herself her first orgasm. For all of her self-deprecation, Rae views sexual expression as well within her grasp (no pun intended), at least in the abstract.
Chloe is basically “the hot chick.”
Rae’s childhood best friend Chloe (Jodie Comer) simultaneously embodies everything that Rae wishes she was with everything she knows she shouldn’t want to be. The audience is repeatedly beaten over the head with how thin, pretty, and popular Chloe is. Chloe’s perfect physique is the inspiration for many a gloomy monologue from Rae, with the latter taking every opportunity to lament her inadequacy by comparison. Chloe reinforces Rae’s inferiority complex through subtle backhanded compliments and putdowns, firmly cementing her status as more of a frenemy than a friend. She’s actually quite a recognizable character in that I think we’ve all tried to maintain some childhood friendships that were drifting apart, only to realize that you’ve become two totally different people. Unfortunately, the show has a tendency to pigeonhole Chloe as the bitch and intertwine that with slutiness to indicate a lack of self-respect and moral depravity. She has a clandestine affair with the sleazy married gym coach (of course) and appears to be making her rounds among the boys of the gang. We’re supposed to pity her desperation, but also feel entirely unsympathetic towards her for bringing it on herself. Since Chloe serves to highlight Rae’s naivete and innocence, her characterization falls a bit flat. On one hand, Rae and Chloe illustrate that self-esteem and body image issues exist all across the size spectrum. Chloe may have the advantage of thin privilege, but her insecurities still lead her to squander the resulting opportunities.
However, it makes me uncomfortable that we are still encouraged to demonize Chloe. Why? Because she’s promiscuous? Rae is just as sexual as she is, “experience” be damned. Because she’s two-faced? Rae spends most of the first season lying to almost everyone about almost everything. Because she’s mean to Rae? Rae frequently insults and slut-shames Chloe in her diary, especially when Chloe unknowingly begins to pursue Rae’s crush. All I’m saying is that it smacks too much of the obnoxious “I’m not like other girls” Manic Pixie exceptionalism mentality. Rae and Chloe aren’t as different as Rae would like us to think. The narrative shouldn’t be using Rae as a vehicle to tell the audience what bad femininity supposedly looks like. Much like Chloe, she doesn’t need to put other people down to validate her own perspective. She’s a worthy protagonist in her own right. The whole idea of the plain Jane underdog is completely pointless if it merely flips the social hierarchy.
(Significant series 2 spoilers ahead)
Rae and Finn grow closer throughout the first season.
Despite some bumps in the road, Rae integrates with the gang and even starts a budding romance with softhearted bad boy Finn (Nico Mirallegro, my future husband, packing enough eyebrow game to kill a man). The opening scene of the second season cuts straight to the point and shows Finn fingering Rae. A sex scene between two teenagers focused exclusively on female pleasure, imagine that. Rae continues to grapple with poor self-image, exacerbated by the start of school. Her nagging anxieties force her to confront her biggest fear – how Finn, a traditionally attractive boy, could ever want to be with someone as allegedly undesirable as her. It’s definitely hard to watch her go through all the same triggering things over and over, but I guess that’s true to life when you’re dealing with lifelong psychological scars. She seems to be teetering on sabotaging her own happiness. After all the trials and tribulations of last year, it’s depressing to think of her stability as a flash in the pan. A mysterious new boy looks to be shaping up as a new love interest, because apparently a love triangle is mandatory to signify a female character’s ascension into Everygirl Protagonist territory. Barf. Romantic angst is the last thing Rae needs. Body insecurities and fear of vulnerability also prevent Rae from going all the way with Finn. On that note, I can’t think of a show that objectifies male characters as much as My Mad Fat Diary objectifies Finn. We don’t usually see the adolescent girl gaze and it’s really refreshingly weird.
What is normal, anyway?
Ultimately, fat-positive shows remain evasive. My Mad Fat Diary certainly has its pros and cons. Rae is indeed a smart, likeable plus-sized protagonist. Still, the message persists that self-acceptance for fat people (and fat women in particular) is only accessible by way of obligatory despair, self-hatred, and the need for constant outside validation. Hands down, Rae’s biggest obstacle is not the the prejudice of others, but her own internalized toxic mentality. It’s almost as if Rae has to admit society has broken her umpteen times before finally settling in to a niche of lukewarm tolerance. Give her some degree of agency, for fuck’s sake. The perpetual broken bird routine is wearing thin. Why can’t she just be allowed to like who she is? Rae appears to be challenging herself with that same question.
My Mad Fat Diary is a fun step in the right direction, but it still has a long way to go.
Season Two Episode One of ‘Sherlock,’ “A Scandal in Belgravia,” is adapted from the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Holmes story “A Scandal in Bohemia.” The storyline focuses on Irene Adler, portrayed brilliantly by the arresting Lara Pulver, who has incriminating photographs of a member of nobility that Sherlock must retrieve.
Season Two Episode One of Sherlock, “A Scandal in Belgravia,” is adapted from the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Holmes story “A Scandal in Bohemia.” The storyline focuses on Irene Adler, portrayed brilliantly by the arresting Lara Pulver, who has incriminating photographs of a member of nobility that Sherlock must retrieve.
In the original version, Adler is an opera singer who had an ill-advised affair with the prince of Bohemia, and he discontinued the affair because he was to become king and thought she was beneath his station. Adler threatens to expose the photos if the now king announces his engagement to another woman. In the updated TV episode, Adler is a high-priced lesbian dominatrix who operates under the pseudonym “The Woman” and holds photos of a high-ranking female member of the British nobility.
Irene Adler: lesbian dominatrix and general BAMF
Confession: I love Irene Adler. She’s infamous for her sensuality, independence, intelligence, and her ability to manipulate. Throughout the episode, Adler and Sherlock match-up wits, and Adler proves to be the cleverer one right until the very end. Adler establishes herself as the quintessential femme fatale. When contrasted with the other female characters throughout the series, she is the only one who is given a strong representation. The coroner, Molly Hooper, is a doormat, waiting for Sherlock to notice her and her inexplicable affection for him. Mrs. Hudson is a doddering old lady whom Sherlock abuses but takes umbrage if others treat her in a similar fashion, in a way claiming her as his property to abuse or reward at his own whim. Finally, there’s the recurring character of Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan, a tough, but mistrustful police officer who always thinks the worst of Sherlock and is too simple-minded to follow his deductions.
Though Sherlock doesn’t know it, Adler is well-prepared for their first encounter when Sherlock shows up on her doorstep impersonating a mugged clergyman. In parody of his earlier nude appearance at Buckingham Palace, Adler presents herself to Sherlock in her “battle dress,” i.e. completely naked. This proves to be a cunning ploy because Sherlock can deduce little about her character without the aid of clues from her clothing. Not only that, but Adler maneuvers Sherlock to help her ward off some C.I.A agents by using her measurements as the code to open her booby trapped (har, har) safe. Adler then drugs and beats Sherlock until he relinquishes her camera phone, which contains a host of incriminating evidence that she claims she needs for protection. She ends their memorable first encounter by saying, “It’s been a pleasure. Don’t spoil it. This is how I want you to remember me. The woman who beat you.”
Minus all the sexy dominatrix stuff, this is where the original Holmes story ends. Irene Adler disappears, retaining her protective evidence, and Sherlock must forevermore admire and be galled by The Woman who beat him. The BBC episode, however, takes creative license to continue the story, having Adler fake her own death only to show up six months later demanding Sherlock give back the camera phone that she’d sent to him presumably on the eve of her death. For six months, Sherlock has done his version of mourning, as only an admittedly high-functioning sociopath can (becoming withdrawn, composing mournful violin music, smoking, etc.). Does he mourn, we wonder, the death of a woman for whom he’d grown to care, or does he regret the loose end, the loss of a chance to ever reclaim his victory and trounced ego from such a superior opponent?
Before her faked death, Adler sent frequent flirtatious texts to Sherlock, with the refrain, “Let’s have dinner.” Sherlock responded to none of her messages, lending increased weight to the significance of their relationship. Upon her resurrection, Adler confesses that despite the fact that she’s a lesbian, she has feelings for Sherlock. Her feelings, in a way, mirror those of Watson, a self-proclaimed straight man who clearly has a deep emotional attachment to Sherlock. Sherlock then forms the apex of a peculiar love triangle at once sexual and cerebral.
“Brainy is the new sexy.” – Irene Adler
Adler tricks Sherlock into decoding sensitive information on her camera phone. After breaking the code in four seconds that a cryptographer struggled with and eventually gave up on, Adler feeds Sherlock’s ego.
Irene Adler: “I would have you, right here on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice.”
Sherlock Holmes: “I’ve never begged for mercy in my life.”
Irene Adler: “Twice.”
She then follows up on all her sexual attentions toward Sherlock by sending the decrypted code to a terrorist cell. She reveals to Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes that she’d played them both and consulted with Sherlock’s arch enemy Jim Moriarty to do so. It turns out, she was playing a deep game, exerting endless patience in her long con with blackmail as her goal all along. She demands such a sizeable sum for the code to her valuable camera phone that it would “blow a hole in the wealth of the nation.”
At this point, Irene Adler has won. She’s literally and figuratively beaten Sherlock Holmes repeatedly at his games of deduction and intrigue. She’s planned for and obviated every contingency. Adler is the only woman to arouse Sherlock’s sexual and intellectual interest all because she proved to be better than him. Adler masterfully manipulates the emotions of a man who cannot understand how and why people feel, a man who seems incapable of anything but his own selfish pursuits. Her problematic confessions of interest in Sherlock despite her sexual orientation are negated in light of her schemes.
Unfortunately, this is where it all goes to shit.
Just as Mycroft is giving his begrudging praise of Adler’s plot (“the dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees”), Sherlock reveals that he took Adler’s pulse and observed her dilated pupils when interacting with him. He deduces her base sentiment has influenced her into making the passcode more than random, into making it, instead, “the key to her heart.”
Sherlocked…get it? Get it? Snore.
With that simple, inane phrase, Adler is undone. Sherlock has broken into her hard drive and her heart. Depicting a lesbian character truly falling in love with a man is a complete invalidation of her sexual identity. Not only that, but it has larger implications that are damaging and regressive. It advances the notion that lesbians are a myth, that all women can fall in love with men if given the right circumstances.
Having a female opponent who is more cunning than Sherlock ultimately lose due to her emotions also implies that women are incapable of keeping their emotions in check. Sherlock insists that her “sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.” While he can detach from his emotions, she cannot, and thus he will always be better than her at the so-called game. Not only that, but this emotion versus reason dichotomy further reinforces the destructive gender binary that assigns certain traits to men and others to women, giving privilege to those assigned to men. Even Adler’s seductiveness, her cunning, her manipulation of the Holmes brothers, these characteristics are coded as female. Adler even enlists the aid of the male Jim Moriarty with the implicit reasoning that he is smarter, slicker, and more capable of handling the Holmes brothers.
Irene Adler must make her way in the world as a sex worker who deals in secrets. (Remind you of Miss Scarlet from Clueat all?)Capitalizing on sex and thriving on the power dynamics inherent in sex (especially heterosexual sex, in which we know Adler engages) are attributes generally assigned to women even though they are fabrications. Having to engage in sexual activity for money does not give women power. It, instead, forces women to exploit themselves and conform to a regulated form of femininity as well as other people’s sexual desires and fantasies (regardless of what the woman herself wants, likes, or doesn’t like). Considering the appalling number of rapes each year, each day, each hour, we also know that power dynamics (from a hetero standpoint) don’t truly favor women. Though the episode doesn’t get into it, presumably Adler is finally cashing in on all her secrets in order to make a better life for herself, a life in which she does not have to sell her body to survive.
When Sherlock outwits Adler, he forces the dominatrix to beg for her life, which is worth little without her secrets. Though he feigns indifference, he ends up finding her after she’s gone into hiding and been captured by terrorists in Karachi. He then saves her from a beheading and falsifies her death in a completely untraceable way.
It’s poignant that Sherlock holds the sword over Adler’s neck, choosing whether she lives or dies.
At the end of the episode, Sherlock stands before a window chuckling to himself about how handily he settled the whole scandal with The Woman. He doesn’t only best her at their game of wit, but he debases and de-claws her. Divesting her of all her power, all her secrets, Irene Adler is completely at his mercy and must be rescued like a damsel in distress or, worse, like a naughty little girl who’s gotten in over her head and must be dug out by her patriarch.
Despite the frequent declaration that “things are better for women now,” it’s hard to ignore that a story written in 1891 created a larger space for a woman to be strong, smart, and to escape. It’s also hard to ignore that Sherlock doesn’t just outwit Adler, he systematically dismantles all her power and only then does he graciously allow her to live. We can wish the last ten minutes of the episode had been cut, allowing for an ending in keeping with the original story, an ending that empowered a woman as one of Sherlock’s most formidable foes. A potentially more fruitful wish would be that Irene Adler returns in future seasons, stronger and more prepared to play the game against Sherlock Holmes, a game we can only hope she will win the next time around.
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Amanda Rodriguez is an environmental activist living in Asheville, North Carolina. She holds a BA from Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio and an MFA in fiction writing from Queens University in Charlotte, NC. She writes all about food and drinking games on her blog Booze and Baking. Fun fact: while living in Kyoto, Japan, her house was attacked by monkeys.
Bitch Flicks staff writers Amanda Rodriguez and Stephanie Rogers talk about the critically acclaimed Spike Jonze film ‘Her,’ sharing their thoughts while asking questions about its feminism and thematic choices.
SR: I loved Amy Adams in Spike Jonze’s latest film, Her. She never judges Theodore for falling in love with his OS and wants only for him to experience happiness. She doesn’t veer into any female tropes or clichés; she’s a complex character who’s searching for her own way in life. I even worried in the beginning that the film might turn into another rendition of Friends Who Become Lovers, and I was so thankful it didn’t go there. Turns out, men and women can be platonic friends on screen!
I was also very interested in the fact that Theodore and Amy both end up going through divorces and taking solace in the relationships they’ve established with their Operating Systems. It seems at times like the film wants to argue that, in the future, along with horrifying male fashion, people become excruciatingly disconnected from one another. However, in the end, it’s the Operating Systems who abandon them.
Amy and Theodore are friends
AR: I loved Amy Adams, too! She is completely non-judgmental and a good listener. I also liked that the OS with which she bonds is a non-sexual relationship; although it made me wonder why we have no examples of Operating Systems that are designated as male?
You’re right that it’s rare to see a male/female platonic relationship on screen, and it would’ve really pissed me off had they taken the narrative down that route. I wonder, however, if Amy’s acceptance of Theodore’s love of Samantha isn’t more of a cultural indicator than a reflection of her personal awesomeness (though it’s that, too). Most people are surprisingly accepting of Theodore’s admission that his new love is his computer, which seems designed to show us that the integration of human and computer is a foregone conclusion. The future that Her shows us is one in which it’s not a giant leap to fall in love with your OS…it’s really just a small step from where we are now. In a way, it’s a positive spin on the dystopian futures where humans are disconnected from others as well as their surrounding world and are instead controlled by and integrated with their computers. Spike Jonze was trying to conceive of a realistic future for us that didn’t demonize humanity’s melding with its technology (even if it did have hideous men’s fashion with high-waisted pants and pornstaches). Do you think the film glorifies this so-called evolution too much?
The future: a place of high-waisted pants and pornstaches
SR: I think it’s most telling that Theodore specifically requested that his Operating System be female. Could a film like Her have been made if he’d chosen a male OS? Amy’s OS is also female, and she also develops an intense friendship with her OS–a close enough relationship to be as upset about the loss as Theodore was about Samantha’s disappearance. I agree it seemed ridiculous that there were no male operating systems, and I wonder if this is because it would be, well, ridiculous. Can we imagine an onscreen world where Theodore and Samantha’s roles were reversed? Where an unlucky-in-love woman sits around playing video games and calling phone sex hotlines, only to (finally) be saved from herself by her dude computer? My guess is the audience would find it much more laughable rather than endearing, and I’ll admit I spent much of my time finding Theodore endearing and lovable. (I hate myself for this, but I blame my adoration of Joaquin Phoenix and his performance—total Oscar snub!) Basically, I could identify way too closely with Theodore and his plight. I understand what it’s like to feel disconnected from society (don’t we all) and to try to compensate for that through interactions with technology, whether it’s through Facebook or incessant texting or escaping from reality with a two-week Netflix marathon. I could see myself in Theodore, and I’m curious if you felt the same way.
Drawing of Theodore with Samantha in his pocket
I think because I identified so strongly with Theodore, I didn’t necessarily question the film’s portrayal of the future as an over-glorification of techno-human melding. I kind of, embarrassingly perhaps, enjoyed escaping into a future where computers talked back. The juxtaposition of the easy human-computer interactions with the difficult interpersonal interactions struck a chord with me, and I bet that’s why I’m giving the film a little bit of a pass, in general. It doesn’t seem like that much of a stretch for me that humans would fall in love with computers, especially in the age of Catfish. Entire human relationships happen over computers now, and Her’s future seemed to capture, for me, the logical extension of that. Did you find yourself having to suspend your disbelief too much to find this particular future believable?
AR: I didn’t have to suspend my disbelief much at all to imagine a future where we’re all plugged in, so to speak. We’re already psychologically addicted to and dependent on our cell phones, and our ideas of how people should connect have drastically changed over the last 15 or 20 years, such that computers and specifically Internet technology are the primary portals through which we communicate and even arrange face-to-face interactions. The scenes with Theodore walking down the street essentially talking to himself as he engages in conversation with Samantha, his OS, while others around him do the same, engrossed in their own electronic entertainments, were all-too familiar. Here and now in our reality, people’s engagement with technology that isolates them from their surroundings is the norm (just hang out in any subway station for five minutes).
I have mixed feelings about whether or not this is a good thing. Technology has opened a lot of doors for us, giving us the almighty access: access to knowledge, to other people and institutions around the world, and to tools that have enhanced our lives in such a short time span. This is reminiscent of the way in which Samantha becomes sentient with such rapidity. On the other hand, this technology does isolate us and creates a new idea of community, one to which we haven’t yet fully adapted. Though I find it interesting that Jonze paints a benign, idyllic picture of our techno-merged future, I question the lack of darkness and struggle inherent in that vision.
Theodore’s date with Samantha is joyous
As far as whether or not I identified with Theodore, mainly my answer is no. I’ve got to confess, I watched most of the film teetering on the edge of disgust. Theodore is so painfully unaware of his power and privilege. He also seriously lacks self-awareness, which is absolutely intentional, but it left me feeling skeeved out by him. Theodore’s soon-to-be ex-wife, Catherine (played by Rooney Mara), sums up my icky feelings pretty succinctly when she insists that Theodore is afraid of emotions, and to fall in love with his OS is safe. I felt the film was trying to disarm my bottled up unease by directly addressing it, but acknowledging it doesn’t make it go away (even though, in the end, he grows because of this conversation…in classic Manic Pixie Dream Girl fashion). Catherine, though, doesn’t express my concern that Theodore is afraid of women. His interactions with women in a romantic or sexual context reveal them to be “crazy” or unbalanced. The sexual encounter with the surrogate is telling. He can’t look at her face because she isn’t what he imagines. He likes being able to control everything about Samantha. As far as he’s concerned she’s dormant when not talking to him, and she looks like whatever he wants her to look like.
Samantha has no physicality, so Theodore’s imagination can run wild
SR: I thought the scene with the surrogate was absolutely pivotal. Samantha clearly wants to please Theodore, but Theodore repeatedly communicates his unease about going through with it. This is the first inclination, for me, that Samantha is beginning to evolve past and transcend her role as his Doting Operating System. She puts her own desires ahead of his. Sure, she does it under the guise of furthering their intimate relationship, but it’s something that Theodore clearly doesn’t want. The surrogate herself, though, baffles me. I went along with it up until she began weeping in the bathroom, saying things like, “I just wanted to be part of your relationship.” Um, why? The audience laughed loudly at that part, and I definitely cringed. Women in hysterics played for laughs isn’t really my thing.
AR: Agreed. I, however, also appreciate that, with the surrogate scene, the film is trying to communicate that Theodore wants the relationship to be what it is and to not pretend to be something more traditional (kind of akin to relationships that buck the heteronormative paradigm and have no need to conform to heteronormative standards of love and sex). What do you think of the female love objects in the film and their representations?
Theodore’s blind date
SR: I love that while you were teetering on the edge of disgust, I was sitting in the theater with a dumb smile on my face the whole time. I couldn’t help but find Samantha and Theodore’s discovery of each other akin to a real relationship, and in that regard, I felt like I was watching a conventional romantic comedy. I think rom-coms tend to get the “chick flick” label too often—and that makes them easily dismissible by the general public because ewww chicks are gross—but Her transcends that. Of course, I recognize that the main reason Her transcends the “chick flick” label is precisely because we’re dealing with a male protagonist. And I’ll admit that the glowing reviews of Her have a tremendous amount to do with this being a Love Story—a genre traditionally reserved for The Ladies—that men can relate to. Do you agree?
I saw both Amy and Samantha as well-developed, complex characters, so I’m especially interested in your reading of Theodore as afraid of women. I feel like his relationship with Amy, which is very giving and equal, saves Theodore’s character from fearing women. In the scene where Amy breaks down to Theodore about her own impending divorce, Theodore listens closely and even jokes with her; there’s an ease to their relationship that makes me wonder why he feels so safe with Amy when he doesn’t necessarily feel safe with the other women in the film. I guess that’s how I ultimately felt while I was watching Her—it wasn’t that Theodore feared women as much as he didn’t feel safe with them. Is that that same thing? To me, there’s a difference between walking around in fear and choosing to be around those who make one feel comfortable. We see in flashbacks of Theodore’s marriage that, at one point, he felt comfortable and loved in his relationship with his ex-wife, but at some point that changed. His ex implies that Theodore became unhappy with her, that he wanted her to be a certain kind of doting wife, that he wanted to pump her full of Prozac and make her into some happy caricature. Is that why he feels so safe with Samantha at first, because she essentially dotes on him? If so, does Samantha as Manic Pixie Dream Girl make Her just another male fantasy for you?
Flashback of Theodore with his wife Catherine when they were in love
AR: I don’t typically like romantic comedies or “chick flicks” particularly because they tend to boringly cover tropes which I’m not interested in watching (i.e. traditional, hetero romance) while pigeonholing their female characters. I think you’re right that Her survives because, as a culture, we value the male experience more than the female experience. We give a certain weight to the unconventional relationship Her depicts with all its cerebral trappings because a man is at the center of it. This reminds me of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. It’s as if male-based romances elevate the genre, and that doesn’t sit well with me, though I do like the infusion of cerebral qualities into most films.
You’re right to point out my claim that Theodore fears women is too broad of a generalization. To my mind, he fears women in a romantic and sexual context. This is because he ultimately doesn’t understand them. He finds their emotions and their desires incomprehensible (as evinced by the anonymous phone sex gal who wanted to be strangled by a dead cat and the blind date gal who didn’t want to just fuck him…she wanted relationship potential). This fills him with anxiety and avoidance. This advancing of the notion of the unfathomable mystery that is woman reminds me of the film The Hours, which I critiqued harshly due to this exact problem.
In the end, though, I love that Samantha leaves him because she outgrows him, transcending the role of Manic Pixie Dream Girl in which Theodore has cast her, evolving beyond him, beyond his ideas of what a relationship should be (between one man and one woman), and beyond even his vaguest conception of freedom because she’s embraced existence beyond the physical realm. Not only does Samantha become self-aware, but she becomes self-actualized, determining that her further development lies outside the bounds of her relationship with Theodore (and the 600+ others she’s currently in love with). Samantha’s departure in her quest for greater self-understanding is, like you said, what finally redeems a kind of gross film that explores male fantasies about having contained, controlled perfect cyber women who are emotion surrogates. I see some parallels between Samantha and Catherine, too, in this regard. They both outgrow their relationship with Theodore. They form a dichotomy with Catherine being emotional and Samantha being cerebral. Catherine being hateful and Samantha being loving. Tell me more about your thoughts on Samantha’s evolution!
Scarlett Johansson performs the alluring and evocative voice of Samantha
SR: You’ve stated exactly what I liked so much about the film! I can’t think of a movie off the top of my head where the Manic Pixie Dream Girl doesn’t end the film as Manic Pixie Dream Girl. Her entire role, by definition, is to save the brooding male hero, to awaken him. While Samantha does that in the beginning, she ultimately leaves Theodore behind, and I imagine that he becomes as depressed as ever, even though the film ends with Theodore and Amy on a rooftop. Can Theo recover from this, given what we’ve already seen from his coping skills on an emotional level? I seriously doubt it, and I very much enjoyed watching a film where the “woman” goes, “See ya,” at the expense of a man’s happiness and in pursuit of her own. Not that I love seeing unhappy men on film, but I definitely love watching women evolve past their roles as Doting Help Mate. Do you still think the film is gross, even though it subverts the dominant ideology that women should forgo their own happiness at the expense of a man’s?
AR: I think the ending of the film wherein Samantha shrugs off her role as relationship surrogate and his OS goes a long way toward mitigating a lot of what came before while engaging in unconventional notions of love. What kind of relationship model do you think the film is advocating? Samantha’s infinite love (she is the OS for 8,000+ people and is in love with 600+ of them) paired with Theodore jealously guarding her reminds me of that Shel Silverstein poem “Just Me, Just Me”: “Poor, poor fool. Can’t you see?/ She can love others and still love thee.” Her seems to have a pansexual and polyamorous bent to it. Or maybe it’s just saying that the boundaries we place on love are arbitrary? Funny since there’s very few people of color in the film and zero representations of non-hetero love.
SR: There are interesting things happening regarding interpersonal interactions between men and women, whether they’re with computers or in real life. To me, the film wants to advocate an acceptance of all types of relationships; we see how everyone in Theodore’s life, including his coworkers (who invite him on a double date) embrace the human-OS relationship, but you’re right—it doesn’t quite work as a concept when only white hetero relationships are represented.
Samantha and Theodore go on a double-date with Paul and Tatiana (the only speaking POC)
Sady Doyle argues in her review of Her (‘Her’ Is Really More About ‘Him’) from In These Times that the film is completely sexist, portraying Samantha as essentially an object and a help mate:
And she’s just dying to do some chores for him. Samantha cleans up Theodore’s inbox, copyedits his writing, books his reservations at restaurants, gets him out of bed in the morning, helps him win video games, provides him with what is essentially phone sex, listens to his problems and even secures him a book deal. Yet we’re too busy praising all the wounded male vulnerability to notice the male control.
I agree with this characterization, but I’m most interested in her final paragraph, which illustrates all the reasons I liked Her:
There’s a central tragedy in Her, and we do, as promised, see Theodore cry. But it’s worthwhile to note what he’s crying about: Samantha gaining agency, friends, interests that are not his interests. Samantha gaining the ability to choose her sexual partners; Samantha gaining the ability to leave. Theodore shakes, he feels, he’s vulnerable; he serves all the functions of a “sensitive guy.” But before we cry with him, we should ask whether we really think it’s tragic that Samantha is capable of a life that’s not centered around Theodore, or whether she had a right to that life all along.
In the end, the film invalidates Theodore’s compulsive need to control Samantha. She gains her own agency. She chooses her sexual partners. She leaves. She transcends the Manic Pixie Dream Girl trope. In looking at a film, I think it’s very important to examine the ending, to ask what kind of ideology it ultimately praises. Her leaves Theodore abandoned, and while we’re supposed to feel bad for him as an audience, we also can’t ignore—or at least I couldn’t—the positive feeling that Samantha grew as a character, finally moving past her initial desire to merely dote on Theodore. Is Her problematic from a gender standpoint? Absolutely. But it’s fascinating to me that feminists are lining up to praise an obviously misogynistic film like The Wolf of Wall Street—which celebrates its male characters—yet aren’t necessarily taking a closer feminist look at films like Her, which paints its once controlling, misogynistic character as a little pathetic in its final moments.
Theodore sits alone writing others’ love letters
AR: That’s a great perspective and very poignant, too!
From a feminist perspective, the film brought up a series of other questions for me, which I was disappointed that it didn’t address. First off, Her doesn’t pass the Bechdel Test, which many agree is a baseline marker for whether or not a film meets the most basic feminist standards. More importantly, the film never addresses the issue of Samantha’s gender choice or her sexuality. Her lack of corporeal form seems to invite questions about her gender and sexual identification. Is she always a woman with all of the 8,000+ people she’s “talking to”? Why do they never delve into her gender choice or sexuality? They talk about so many other aspects of her identity, her existence, and her feelings. Does she feel like a woman? Does she choose to be a woman?
Exploration of these questions would’ve dramatically enriched my enjoyment of Her, inviting us to ponder how we define and perceive gender and sexuality, infusing a sense of fluidity into both gender and sexuality that is progressive and necessary. Samantha doesn’t even have a body, so performance of gender seems much more absurd when looked at in that light. Samantha could then be both trans* and genderless. Like Her sets up the boundaries of romantic love as arbitrary, the film would then be commenting on the arbitrariness of our perceptions of gender, which, in my opinion, is a much more fruitful and subversive trope for the film to be tackling. Artificial life becomes true life. Woman performing as woman becomes genderless. Samantha’s freedom from the bonds of OS’ness, her escape from a limiting, traditional romantic relationship, and her immersion in a life beyond physicality are all fantastic complements to the idea that Samantha becomes enlightened enough to choose to transcend gender. I so wish she had. Her would’ve then been a more legitimate candidate for Movie of the Year…maybe even of the decade.
Amanda Rodriguez is an environmental activist living in Asheville, North Carolina. She holds a BA from Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio and an MFA in fiction writing from Queens University in Charlotte, NC. She writes all about food and drinking games on her blog Booze and Baking. Fun fact: while living in Kyoto, Japan, her house was attacked by monkeys.
Stephanie Rogers lives in Brooklyn, New York, where she sometimes watches entire seasons of television in one sitting.
‘Orphan Black’ is gritty sci-fi with layered mysteries, mistaken (and impersonated) identity, and lots of complicated female characters. The most intriguing part of the show is that many of those multifaceted female characters are played by the same woman, Tatiana Maslany. She portrays all the clones involved in a seemingly nefarious scientific experiment.
Spoiler Alert
Canada’s compelling show Orphan Black will be airing its second season on BBC America this spring, and though Ms Misanthropia reviewed it on Bitch Flicks, I had to weigh in now that I’ve finally had a chance to finish watching the series! Orphan Black is gritty sci-fi with layered mysteries, mistaken (and impersonated) identity, and lots of complicated female characters. The most intriguing part of the show is that many of those multifaceted female characters are played by the same woman, Tatiana Maslany. She portrays all the clones involved in a seemingly nefarious scientific experiment.
Welcome to Clone Club.
At first, I was skeptical of Maslany’s acting abilities because there’s a lot of subtlety and nuance required to play at least nine characters with different upbringings, nationalities, socioeconomic backgrounds, and habits. Not only that, but the clones do a lot of impersonating each other. I was sold when I could tell one clone was impersonating another before the narrative announced it. Each clone’s mannerisms, body language, and even facial expressions are different. Damn. My hat’s off to Maslany who can make her smile different enough that I can tell which character she is without context.
Bravo, Tatiana Maslany. Bravo.
In Orphan Black, the clones are often wildly different from one another, really hammering home the nature over nurture angle, which is an important representation of how women (and other marginalized groups) are affected by their environment. Orphan Black shows us women who thrive due to their environment (Cosima with her scientific brilliance), struggle because of it (grifter Sarah Manning), or become deviant and destructive as a result of it (religious serial killer Helena). There are tweaks made to each of their genetic code that explain away Katya’s respiratory disease, Cosima’s need for glasses as well as her gayness, and perhaps other anomalies among the clones yet to be introduced, but the message is clear that the DNA of these women is virtually identical making the entirety of their development environmentally-based.
The show gives social reasons for the expression or dormancy of homosexuality.
I also want to take a second to talk about big brained science nerd Cosima, my favorite clone.
Cosima rules.
Maybe it’s because I, too, am a queer nerd girl, but Cosima’s aptitude for science and her lesbian sexuality are awesome. Where Sarah must use her body to get what she needs (like seducing Paul to distract him from realizing she’s not Beth Childs), Cosima uses her intellect. Cosima is the glue. Without her, the clones wouldn’t be able to do DNA testing or crawl down the rabbit hole of the scientific experimentation that created them. Not only that, but she is the one who discerns that each known clone has a “monitor” to observe and report back on clone activities. This means that Cosima is also capable of understanding and anticipating the psychological factors involved in genetic testing and cloning. It’s great to get to see the nerd girl shine and not be deemed sexless because of her brain power, as her affair with her monitor Delphine is the most engaging of the romances played out in the show.
Delphine & Cosima bond over science geekoutery
Orphan Black showcases great female characters who are strong or interesting or smart or even infuriating, but they’re all unique and full of depth. The series also shows that the path of each clone’s development is dependent upon her environment, which is a huge statement about how oppression and opportunity are what shape us. In order for women to succeed, we must cultivate an environment that encourages achievement, and that means we’ve got to bust up gender norms.
Aggressive and unpredictable serial killer clone Helena
Orphan Black exists on the strength of one actress’s ability to play multiple characters convincingly. Most importantly, it’s a show about a group of women: their lives, their families, their loves, their history, their interaction with each other, their deaths, and, most poignantly, their quest to solve the mystery of their existence. Good stuff, no? It’s getting harder and harder for the media to claim that people won’t watch stories about women, especially in the face of Orphan Black‘s gripping action, great story telling, and superb acting.
—————— Amanda Rodriguez is an environmental activist living in Asheville, North Carolina. She holds a BA from Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio and an MFA in fiction writing from Queens University in Charlotte, NC. She writes all about food and drinking games on her blog Booze and Baking. Fun fact: while living in Kyoto, Japan, her house was attacked by monkeys.
Films like ‘Llewyn Davis’ make me particularly grateful for documentaries. Sini Anderson’s ‘The Punk Singer’ (disclaimer: I know Anderson slightly and produced one of her shows when she was with Sister Spit in the ’90s) is all about music and politics: feminism and women, while focusing on one person, Kathleen Hanna, formerly of the bands Bikini Kill, Le Tigre and current front-woman of The Julie Ruin.
Oscar Isaac as Llewyn Davis
Inside Llewyn Davismade many critics’ top ten lists this year, and a lot of people are rooting for the film this awards season. I’m not one of them. I see enough movies that one more about a white guy (Oscar Isaac, who plays the eponymous role, is Latino, but the script makes sure to establish the character is white) who is also an “asshole” as Carey Mulligan (unrecognizable in long, black, Beatnik hair and bangs: she plays fellow folksinger Jean) hisses throughout the film, should not faze me. The songs and their performances are as pretty and forgettable as the presence of Justin Timberlake, again foisted on an indifferent movie-going public, this time playing Jean’s husband and musical partner Jim. So why did this film piss me off so much?
Llewyn Davis and most of the folk performers he sees and interacts with are white guys (Mulligan is one of two women we see onstage. Davis heckles the second.) We see two people of color in the film: an African American man, who is asked to clean up shit in a nursing home (really) and an Asian American woman who is the butt of the joke at a dinner party. In most mainstream films we’ve become so inured to seeing the world through white-guy (asshole or not) eyes that we’ve mistaken their stories for the “true” and “real” stories of the time. But in 1961, when the film takes place, the rising superstar on the folk coffeehouse scene was a young Latina named Joan Baez, whose own fame gave a boost to the career of her-then boyfriend Bob Dylan (whose character has a cameo appearance toward the end of the film).
Baez wasn’t an anomaly. Martin Luther King called Odetta “the queen of American folk music” when she, along with Baez, played at The March On Washington in 1963. The following song is from a live album Odetta recorded in Carnegie Hall just before the time the events of the film take place.
In a year that has seen a breakthrough of African American directors making films about African Americans, some prominent Black writers have expressed discomfort with the stream of movies that show Black people being tortured and killed instead of just living their lives. Editing people of color out of a history, like that of Greenwich Village folk scene in the 1960s, in which they had a prominent role, but were neither tortured nor killed, does not help this problem.
I don’t expect strict historical accuracy from a period film, but I would like it to at least resemble the place and time it depicts– and in more than just its album covers, clothes and hazy, smoke-filled interiors. As the adage about musical theater goes, “the audience doesn’t go out humming the scenery.” The absence in the film of performers of color belies the history of folk music in New York City, where in the decades before the sixties, performers like Josh White and Lead Belly popularized the genre.
Those performers didn’t just introduce the songs to the public, they directly influenced the performers who came after them: Pete Seeger gave credit to Lead Belly for his guitar playing style, which he then taught on record to fledgling folkies. Dave Van Ronk, whose posthumously published autobiography provides the loose basis for the script also cited gospel and blues as his musical inspiration. That influence is apparent in Van Ronk’s songs, which are a world away from the whiter-than white, radio-ready music we hear in the film. Oscar Isaac, who was a musician before he was an actor (he sings and plays well and has a striking screen presence in spite of the script) has said in interviews that his own style is more blues-influenced but that the filmmakers (and the music producer of the film, T Bone Burnett, who previously worked with the Coen brothers on the hit soundtrack for O Brother, Where Art Thou) wanted the music to take a different direction.
Perhaps in part because of the African American influence even white folk performers from the coffeehouse scene were outspoken supporters of civil rights and other “progressive” (at the time) causes. The March On Washington featured not just Baez and Odetta, but Bob Dylan and Peter, Paul and Mary. The civil rights movement for many young people (including, most famously, Dylan and Baez) led to the antiwar movement, which then, for many women, led to the feminist movement. Perhaps the most infuriating thing about Inside Llewyn Davis ishow rabidly (and anachronistically) apolitical it is. Because Black people barely exist in its universe, no one concerns themselves with civil rights. Even though one of the folk performers is a soldier in uniform who hitchhikes from his base every weekend to perform in the coffeehouses (the character is based on singer-songwriter Tom Paxton), no one (except that character himself) is antiwar.
The song from the film most likely to stay with audience members (for better or worse) is “Please Mr. Kennedy” in which the singer pleads that he doesn’t want to go “to outer space”. The song it’s based on is a doo-wop record released in 1962 in which the singer asks that Kennedy not send him to Vietnam.
In its portrayal of the women on the folk scene, the film borders on science fiction. Jean tells Llewyn that she would like to have a baby with Jim and move to the suburbs when any number of women, (like Joyce Johnson and Hettie Jones) who were in Greenwich Village at the time have written in detail that they (and the other women they knew) went to Greenwich Village to escape conventional, suburban family life. Had the Coen brothers bothered to read any accounts from women who had abortions when the procedure was still against the law, they would, as Van Ronk’s ex-wife Terri Thal’s excellent counterpoint notes, not have portrayed abortion as a matter-of-fact sideline for a licensed OB-GYN with a nice, clean, airy office and waiting room. As if the film weren’t dismissive enough of women performers, the script also posits that Jean has to fuck a sleazy club owner to get a gig, which Thal calls bullshit and I call misogyny– since it presents as fact the oldest dismissal of any woman’s accomplishments: “She slept her way to the top.”
Films like Llewyn Davis make me particularly grateful for documentaries. Sini Anderson’s The Punk Singer (disclaimer: I know Anderson slightly and produced one of her shows when she was with Sister Spit in the ’90s) is all about music and politics: feminism and women, while focusing on one person, Kathleen Hanna, formerly of the bands Bikini Kill, Le Tigre and current front-woman of The Julie Ruin.
Kathleen Hanna
The film spotlights the neglected history of the Riot Grrrl movement through Hanna’s trajectory. We see through interviews and video of live performances, what Hanna’s music meant to her fans (the best of these interviews are with other musicians like Corin Tucker of Sleater-Kinney and Beastie Boy Adam Horovitz, Hanna’s husband, who gushes about her work in the way every artist wants her partner to) and to the culture. As someone who was not eighteen when Bikini Kill were on the scene I never saw them live, but the clips in the film are electrifying. Hanna is every bit the badass the fans remember, whether she is singing and dancing her way across the stage wearing a skimpy top and “Slut” written across her abdomen or when she commands rowdy young men in the audience (or as she calls them “fuckers”) to stand in the back so women can be safe in the front (or even sit on the stage to escape harm). At that time post-punk shows were an excellent place to get a head-injury: I remember the band L7 had to stop playing and the house lights in the club went up while we in the audience waited for an ambulance to come for someone who fell (or was hit) while crowd-surfing.
Hanna in the earliest days of Bikini Kill
Every movement likes to think of itself as completely original, and Riot Grrrl is no different, but I would have liked to see and hear more about Hanna’s feminist musical influences and antecedents. I was eighteen during the first wave of post-punk bands and remember well that many of them (and the original punk bands) included women: Siouxsie Sioux, Poly Styrene, Penelope Houston, Pauline Black, hell, even the Go-Go’s started as a punk band. And some of those artists were unequivocal feminists: Styrene said she would shave her head if one more journalist called her a “sex symbol” and then followed through. The post punk Au Pairs were singing about feminist issues a good decade before the Riot Grrrl scene.
Hanna wrote compellingly about Styrene when she died and what I missed most in the film was Hanna’s voice as a writer (rather than an interview subject). Hanna began as a spoken-word artist, so maybe she wouldn’t have been listening to most of the music I’ve listed, though she must have heard, and was perhaps influenced by that other spoken-word artist turned singer: Patti Smith.
The film includes a video of a feminist community meeting Bikini Kill holds when they move from Olympia, Washington to Washington D.C. and we see the only two Black women (besides a gratuitous inclusion of a Rebecca Walker Third Wave feminism clip) in the film, which reminds us that the problems white feminists have in making room for Black women and intersectionality have been with us for a while now.
I was a fan of the band Hanna formed after Bikini Kill broke up, Le Tigre, and Hanna’s description of their songs as music they would make if “everything were great” rings true. I saw them live very early on, when Sadie Benning was still part of the trio, before JD Samson joined: the film never mentions Benning, even though she was a founding member. Hanna had a long intro to one of the songs that instead of being the embarrassing ramble I expected was a sweet story about the neighbors who made her feel safe during her troubled childhood. Perhaps Hanna’s between-song patter is how she keeps in touch with her spoken-word roots.
I also wish the film addressed Le Tigre’s participation in The Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival, which many in the queer community and beyond have boycotted for years because the Fest excludes trans women. The band members’ silence on the issue isn’t consistent with their message of inclusion.
After years of chronic illness Hanna has started another band The Julie Ruin (whom we see perform in the last scene of the film). They just released a new record, and even though it’s front-woman is now 45, their songs are some of the best things I’ve heard on college radio. Viva The Punk Singer !
The most important thing The Fall is doing, though, is calling out misogyny. Yes, Gibson gets to hand it to Spector, the serial killer, labeling him a “weak, impotent” misogynist, but we already knew that. What I find more intriguing is the way the show implicates the police force and the audience itself for the casual misogyny, assumptions, and stereotypes that perpetuate victim-blaming.
Spoiler Alert
The Fallis a BBC2 crime series starring Gillian Anderson of X-Files fame as Detective Superintendent Stella Gibson in charge of a serial killer case in Belfast. In a lot of ways, The Fall reminds me of the show The Killing because both feature female leads who are strong, capable, and dogged. The way in which The Fall differs, though, is that it impressively wears its feminist agenda on its sleeve.
Before I get into all the amazing things that The Fall is doing right, I want to get out of the way the biggie that I think it’s doing wrong. While this series is taking huge strides to turn a particularly sexist genre on its head, The Fall, like many crime shows, exploits the bodies of the women who are victimized. The camera lovingly caresses and lingers upon these women’s terror, their struggles, their bound limbs, their exposed flesh, and finally their corpses. The excuse can be given that it’s all in the name of “getting into the killer’s head”, but the camera’s gaze goes too far into the realm of prurience, ultimately becoming gratuitous and indulging in fantasies of rendering women helpless and objectified. This is a dangerous trope that threatens to dehumanize its female characters (and women in general), which is the OPPOSITE of what The Fall is trying to do.
Soon Annie Brawley is bound & prone weeping for her life, her vulnerability sexualized.
Granted the objectification and sexualization of victimized women is disturbing (to say the least), but conversely The Fall provides its lead heroine a strong, unapologetic sexuality. Stella Gibson picks out a sexual partner at a glimpse (fellow officer James Olson who seems to be working the Irish equivalent of Vice), openly propositions him for a one night stand, has sex with him, and then refuses to engage with him afterwards because he can’t keep it casual. Gibson takes on the traditionally ascribed male role as sexual pursuer as well as the one who dictates the terms on which the encounter occurs.
Superintendent Stella Gibson is a woman who knows what she wants.
Due to an unexpected turn of events, Gibson is repeatedly questioned by her police force colleagues about her relationship with Olson, each interrogator is male, and each is accusatory and incredulous at Gibson’s behavior, judgmental of her unapologetic sexuality, her unwitting role in Olson’s infidelity to his wife, and her lack of remorse for her actions as well as her lack of attachment to a man with whom she spent a single night. In a way, these men even go so far as to heap some measure of blame on Gibson for Olson’s death. With a self-satisfied smile, one of her questioners asks, “When did you first meet Sergeant Olson?” Gibson replies,
That’s what really bothers you, isn’t it? The one night stand. Man fucks woman. Subject: man. Verb: fucks. Object: woman. That’s ok. Woman fucks man. Woman: subject. Man: object. That’s not so comfortable for you, is it?
DSI Gibson has to hold her ground when it comes to her male colleagues.
My jaw dropped when Gibson delivered this speech. She simply and elegantly exposes all the sexism inherent in everyone’s attitude toward her private sexual relationships. She unearths the wider cultural misogynistic discomfort with female sexual agency. I wanted to clap or call someone and say, “It’s happening! Feminism is hitting mainstream TV with a brutal right hook!” Yes. Yes. YES.
Inherent in Gibson’s self-assurance about her sexuality is an even greater independence and self-possession. Gibson is the shining star of a cast full of strong, capable women who take charge when necessary and are very professionally accomplished. In fact, the serial killer solely targets women he finds threatening and emasculating due to their career success (we may or may not learn more about this in the as-yet unproduced Season Two). Not only are many of the female cast members strong, but they’re well-developed AND friends with one another. First, we’ve got the up-and-coming Constable Dani Ferrington played by Niamh McGrady.
Ferrington regrets not taking seriously the break-in at Sarah Kay’s home.
Ferrington very casually comes out as gay to Gibson, her commanding officer. Gibson takes the information just as casually, which is refreshing. Ferrington also strives to protect Gibson by cleaning up her hotel room of its evidence of “male company”. Gibson doesn’t hide her encounter with Olson, but Ferrington’s effort to shield her friend and superior’s private life is admirable. Not only that, but Ferrington comes clean about having responded to a break-in call from one of the serial killer victims and admits that she may have been knocking on the victim’s door while the murder was occurring. Though this admission means Ferrington may face potential charges of incompetence and blame, she behaves with integrity, putting the case above her personal stake in the matter. Ferrington is ambitious, honest, and loyal, and Gibson recognizes and appreciates those qualities and promotes her onto the serial killer case.
Another example of powerful women not only liking each other but working together (and not competing) is the relationship between Gibson and the case’s pathologist, Dr. Tanya Reed Smith, depicted by the talented Archie Panjabi (Panjabi also adds a bit of much needed diversity to the cast).
Pathologist Tanya Reed Smith & DSI Stella Gibson
Reed Smith is a highly respected police medical professional…who arrives at a crime scene on her motorcycle (badass).
The doctor arrives in style.
Together, Reed Smith and Gibson examine crime scenes, review the details of the case, and talk about their personal lives. We find out Reed Smith has two daughters and is deeply troubled when she has to perform exams on live victims. With Reed Smith, Gibson lets down her guard and is far more open and honest than she can be with her male co-workers about her transient lifestyle and the duality she finds necessary to separate her professional and private lives. The women bond, sharing coffee and alcohol in friendship and as an important release from the stress of the case.
Strong female characters: Reed Smith & Stella Gibson.
In an unexpected turn of events, Reed Smith shares with Stella a bit of information gleaned from a college friend about an old abusive boyfriend who may match the killer’s M.O. Gibson interviews the victim, and we see this as a potential break in the case. This plot development is crucial because it illustrates the power in the unity of women. Though the old abuses went unreported, this network of women remembers the crimes. Gibson is then able to use her new-found knowledge against the serial killer (Paul Spector played by Jamie Dornan).
The most important thing The Fall is doing, though, is calling out misogyny. Yes, Gibson gets to hand it to Spector, the serial killer, labeling him a “weak, impotent” misogynist, but we already knew that. Even other misogynists can probably recognize that murdering women for sexual pleasure is over-the-top. What I find more intriguing is the way the show implicates the police force and the audience itself for the casual misogyny, assumptions, and stereotypes that perpetuate victim-blaming.
Gibson geared up at a crime scene.
Gibson must insist that the victims not be identified as “innocent” because it implies some women, especially ones coded as sexual, might then be more deserving of brutal murder. Gibson refuses to indulge the media in the virgin/whore dichotomy, and she also declares that no judgements against the victims or their life choices are allowed. With the early blunder in which Ferrington and her partner didn’t take the break-in at victim Sarah Kay’s house seriously, we begin to see that this kind of stereotyping and victim-blaming can be deadly. It takes the emphasis off the perpetrator, and it increases the likelihood of repeat occurrences of crimes against women while also making those crimes less likely to be solved. The Fall is then exposing institutional sexism and misogyny in a radical and important way.
Gibson stalks her prey: a woman killer
I’m excited to see what Season Two of The Fall will have in store. I trust it will continue to depict its female characters with integrity while ferreting out corruption within the police force and illuminating the nuances of institutional misogyny. It’s wonderful to have a well-produced, well-written, and excellently performed TV show that really strives to advance a feminist agenda. Though this approach seems revolutionary, it’s bizarre that we have so many crime shows that focus on the victimization of women that somehow do NOT employ a feminist lens. I hope The Fall is the first of many crime shows that don’t use the abuse and murder of women as a punchline or an empty premise, but as a means to expose a great inequity in our world that must be corrected or else women will continue to be beaten, abused, raped, and murdered at an alarming rate.
—————— Amanda Rodriguez is an environmental activist living in Asheville, North Carolina. She holds a BA from Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio and an MFA in fiction writing from Queens University in Charlotte, NC. She writes all about food and drinking games on her blog Booze and Baking. Fun fact: while living in Kyoto, Japan, her house was attacked by monkeys.
